Accent on Murder Page 5

  “We can’t help that,” Dorcas said, being momentarily distracted. “This is Northern Westchester. When in the afternoon?”

  It depended on the trains. He got a timetable out of his pocket and they looked at it by the map light. They made it 3:31—3:31 at Brewster.

  “I shall,” Alan said, “expect to be met.”

  It left her with a useless day—most of a useless day. A lovely day, with the sun doing everything the sun can do, but with a breeze to moderate its efforts. A day no good to anyone, until 3:31 at Brewster.

  And—a day alone. She drove the three of them—Caroline and Brady and Alan (Alan in uniform, and good-looking in it. The rat!) to Brewster for the 7:28. Caroline went, she said, to shop. She went, Dorcas thought, to have a slow and uncomfortable hour and forty-five minutes longer with Brady Wilkins—an hour and forty-five minutes retrieved from empty hours. She would come back with Alan. She would go to the club with them? Perhaps. Which meant she would not.

  A whole long morning, much of an afternoon, to twiddle thumbs in. Oh, she could wash stockings. She could wash underthings. (After she had done the breakfast dishes.) She could sweep the terrace; she could walk down and admire the neatness of the stone fence Joe Parks had repaired for them in early spring. (Even on rented property, a stone fence which is only a heap of rubble is unbearable.) She could make her bed. (And was tempted to lie in it.) She could dust the living room. She could—

  She could, she decided at about noon, go down to “the place,” the sheltered saucer of sunlight, and sun-bathe. If she could not bring Alan money, she could be brown for him. He said he liked them brown.

  She wore a white robe, and beach shoes; she carried, bulky and recalcitrant, a beach mattress under her arm. She went out through the back door and down the path, two hundred yards to “the place.” Some birds spoke of her intrusion. She stretched the mattress out in the sun, and took the robe off and stretched herself out on the mattress and put protective pads over her eyes, and felt the warmth begin—felt, too, the gentle touch of the moving air on her body. As she lay quiet, the birds accepted her, no longer quarreled with her. A bluejay sat on a branch of one of the young trees which surrounded “the place” and looked at her. He put his head on one side, to see if from that view she had a different appearance.

  I’m done on this side, Dorcas thought, sleepily. I must turn over. But it was several minutes more before she aroused herself enough to turn on the mattress and lie face down. She must, she thought sleepily, remember not to go to sleep. Even with the start she had, she could not take too much of it. Alan might like them brown; he would certainly not want them blistered. He—

  She did doze, nevertheless—lying brown and naked in the sun, with the gently moving air caressing her.

  But then, very abruptly, the birds began to talk again—to chatter, chirp angrily. “Be quiet,” she said. “There is sun enough for all of—”

  But then she was awake. The birds had accepted her. Why, then—

  She twisted, sat up on the mattress. Sat up and faced a man—a thin, small man with straggling white hair, and white stubble on a thin, contorted face. The man stood just within the shelter of the circling trees. The little shadows of stirring leaves danced on him. He stared at her. His staring eyes seemed unnaturally fixed.

  She reached for the robe, closed fingers on it, pulled it around her. And then the man began to talk. He did not talk loudly. His voice was harsh, jagged. Yet he spoke in a monotone.

  “Vile,” he said. “Vile—vile. Shameless. You—all of you—flaunting your bodies. The shameless ones. The—” He went on—horribly he went on.

  She tried to close her ears to what he said, as she clutched the robe around her body. But the ugly words—the vile words—slashed into her mind. It was almost as if the words—the unbelievable words—were whips on her body, tearing through the protection of the thin robe.

  For seconds she could only sit there, clutch the robe around her, cower under the words—the violation of the words hurled at her. For those seconds it was as if all innocence, and all brightness, had been driven from the world, and everything in it made as ugly as the ugly words.

  The man—an old, frail man she saw now—did not move toward her. And, as she recovered a little from the first shock of this awakening—this unbelievable awakening—she realized that the torrent of words was without real form; that, although the man did not raise his voice, he still shouted at her a denunciation which was essentially without meaning and—this came to her rather suddenly—not directed at her in any real sense, not at a person named Dorcas Cameron. The frail old man, the man with straggled white hair, was screaming (although still the harsh voice was a monotone) at some horrid thing which existed only in his mind. At—at sin. That was it. At the sin of—wantonness. But she was not wanton.

  It came back, then, into perspective. It was not the laceration of all innocence, the dimming of the sun, although momentarily it had seemed both. She was a young woman sun-bathing, as thousands did when the sun shone, in a secluded place—her own place of seclusion. And he—Why, he’s only a crazy old man!

  “Go away,” Dorcas said, and spoke gently, and spoke—and so surprised herself—without fear. “Go away now.”

  The old man stopped speaking. His eyes seemed to change; seemed to become only the weak eyes of age.

  “What did you say?” the man asked her, and the voice was only an old voice, and quavered a little.

  “You must go away,” she said. “You’re not supposed to be here.” He stood for a moment and looked at her, but now, she thought, he hardly saw her. “You’ve no right to be here,” she said. “You must go away, now.”

  “No right,” he said. “No right.” He spoke as if he were learning new words. “You say I’ve got no right?”

  “No,” she said. “None. You’re not supposed to be here.”

  For a second longer he looked at her, and then he shook his head a little, jerkily. And then he turned and went away—went through the trees and the brush beyond, moving slowly. He went down the overgrown slope toward the brook below; the brook which marked the limit of the land which belonged with the old Adams house. After a little time she could no longer see the man but could still hear the sound of his progress through the bushes. Then she could hear nothing.

  She put the beach shoes on, then, and got into the robe she had held over her and rolled the mattress up—doing all these things quite methodically—and walked back up the path to the house.

  What an awful thing, she thought; what an awful thing to happen. But already the shock was gone. The poor crazy old thing, she thought.

  But all the same, she thought, after she had showered, dressed, I can’t just forget it. He’s harmless and he’s—sick. But all the same, he shouldn’t be wandering around. He should be taken care of, somehow. I ought to call—

  I know, she thought. I’ll go over and ask the professor what I ought to do. Perhaps the old man is known, known as harmless, tolerated. The professor will know. I can drive by and if he is sitting on the terrace, I can drive up and ask him what to do about the crazy—but certainly nasty—old man.

  Walter Brinkley was sitting on the terrace. When she drove up he bounced out of his chair and bounced toward her, and smiled and said, “How nice. How very nice.” But then he looked at her and said, “Is everything all right, my dear?”

  “Well—” she said.

  He took her to the terrace; he said, “Harry?” and, when Harry appeared, “Bring Miss Cameron a drink.”

  Harry said, “Yassuh,” at his broadest. He said, “ ’Noon, ma’am,” and went away.

  She told Walter Brinkley. His round pink face sobered; he shook his head.

  “Poor old Ash,” he said. “Everybody thought he was all right again. I suppose—” But, then, he spoke reluctantly. “Can’t have him bothering people,” he said. “I suppose he was—very unpleasant?”

  “Yes,” she said. “Said—all sorts of things, Mr. Brinkley.”
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br />   “But—didn’t do anything? Threaten you?”

  “I told him to go away,” she said. “That he didn’t belong there. And—he went away. Like a child.”

  “Yes,” Brinkley said. “He does. There’s no harm in him. Not that kind of harm, at any rate. Still—”

  Again he hesitated. Then Harry Washington came out with a frosty glass and a frosty shaker and poured a daiquiri.

  “Old Ash is having spells again, Harry,” Brinkley said. “Showed up and—said unpleasant things to Miss Cameron.”

  “No,” Harry said. “That’s a shame, miss. That’s a real shame. He’s got a screw loose, miss.” He turned to Brinkley. “They’ll lock him up again,” he said.

  He was no longer the old retainer; he was (Brinkley noticed) a man of the community, talking with another about a problem of the community.

  “Yes,” Brinkley said. “I suppose so.”

  Dorcas waited. He turned to her.

  “A neighborhood problem,” he said, and his smile invited her to join in solving it. “The man who—said unpleasant things—is Ashley Adams. In his late seventies. One of the family which owns the house you and your cousin are renting. A—I suppose one might say a lapsed member. Part of a lapsed branch. Been here since Revolutionary times, the Adamses have. Very much the usual story—a little inbreeding here and there, a bit of degeneration in spots. So—Old Ash has spells. They put him away from time to time—he’s got a son who’s a substantial enough citizen—Young Ash. He goes a long time between spells and they let him out again. The boy—I suppose Young Ash must be around fifty, Harry?”

  “About that,” Harry said.

  “Takes care of him,” Brinkley said. “For the most part, the old man merely putters around. Like any old man. Sits in the sun.”

  Professor Brinkley looked around his sunny terrace.

  “Like any old man,” he repeated. He was silent for a moment. “Now and then he wanders off,” he said. “Turns up odd places and—says odd things. With—biblical overtones, often enough. I suppose—”

  “Not very,” Dorcas said. “Still—I suppose that was part of it. He did rather—call down vengeance.”

  “He’s against sin,” Brinkley told her. “Very much. And, when he’s having a spell, finds much that is sinful. He’s—never harmed anyone, my dear. And—the spells are usually quite brief. Often—usually, I understand—a quiet word or two, a reasonable word or two and—he’s just a doddering old man again. Telling him he didn’t belong there—that was just the right thing to say. Probably knew, more or less, where he was—on Adams land. And, that he didn’t belong there. However—I suppose it’s time to lock him up again, as Harry says.”

  But he looked at her and seemed to wait, and Harry, also, looked at her and waited. For a moment she was puzzled. Then she thought, Why, I’m being asked to—join. To be part of a community conspiracy to—to let an old man who only now and then has a screw loose stay free to sit in the sun.

  “The poor old thing,” she said. “Of course not.”

  “I could,” Brinkley said, “pass the word along to Young Ash. I shall do that. Suggest he keep his eyes open. But if you’d rather—”

  “No,” she said. “I’m glad you told me, Mr. Brinkley.”

  “You’re a nice child,” Brinkley said. “Will you stay and have lunch with an old man? Sit in the sun with him? And have—what, Harry?”

  “Crab-meat salad,” Harry said. “And I’ve—I’se got biscuits ready to put in, professor.” Brinkley waited, expectantly. “Suh,” Harry added.

  Alan did not like it, and said he did not like it. He said it on the clubhouse terrace, after two sets of tennis—she had taken three games in the second, which she privately regarded as a suspicious circumstance—over gins and tonic. He said that probably the professor knew what he was talking about; that the professor seemed to be the kind of man who would. He said that one should remember, however, that there was always a first time.

  “People keep saying that,” Dorcas told him. “In spite of the fact that there doesn’t have to be. Anyway—what could he do? He’s so frail. With one hand tied behind my back—”

  Alan still did not like it much. For one thing—“I don’t like blokes staring at my girl. Even blokes in their eighties.” He looked at her. “Admitting,” he said, “the considerable temptation. And—I gather the things he said were very unpleasant.”

  “Yes,” she said, and did not specify, and was not asked to. “And I said ‘boo!’ and he went away. Anyway, Caroline and I usually go to the place together.”

  “I must drop by some afternoon,” Alan said. He made a face of some sort. “How,” he said, “do you like my leer?”

  “I had a cat who could leer better,” she told him. “A black cat with white feet.”

  “Probably easier if you’ve got whiskers,” Alan said. “Another set. Or what?”

  “What,” she said. “I’ll drop you at the inn and you’ll change and I’ll go home and change, and then I’ll pick you up at the inn. And don’t try to get out of it.”

  “I look forward to years of not getting out of it,” Alan said. “With the greatest anticipation.”

  “We’ll have to leave her a car at the station,” Dorcas said, as they walked under big trees toward the club parking lot. “I’ll pick you up and take you back, and we’ll take both cars to Brewster and leave one and—”

  “We must,” he said, with gravity, “synchronize our watches. What if Carry hadn’t caught you before you left?”

  “There’s usually a taxi,” she said. “Or, she could have caught us at the club. But—she did catch me.”

  Caroline had “caught” her cousin, by telephone, just as Dorcas was leaving to drive to Brewster and the 3:31. She had caught her to say that she had run into Joan Francis and that she and Joan were going to have cocktails and dinner and go to the theater, because Teddy had got himself tied up and Joan had the tickets. And—was everything all right?

  “Fine,” Dorcas had said. “Have fun.”

  “Oh,” Caroline had said, “a ball, darling. The ball of the lone females on the town.”

  No point then, and no time anyway, to report on the misadventures of lone females who sun-bathed in “the place.” She must, of course, warn Caroline, but the morning would do. Caroline was not likely to go sun-bathing in the middle of the night, and it would certainly be that by the time she clunked to Brewster on the last train, which did wait for those who had gone to the theater—if they hurried—but made up for that by stopping everywhere. Quite possibly, Carry would decide to stay overnight in town, with Joan.

  Dorcas dropped Alan at the Maples Inn; she drove home and showered again and changed again and drove back and got Alan. They stopped at the house and got the other car—the commuting Ford—and drove (Alan in the convertible; the Ford needed understanding) to Brewster and left the Ford for Caroline and drove back, beyond Ridgefield, to Fox Hill, which is an inn on a hill. They sat on the terrace with the sun behind them, the shade of the converted mansion covering them, and what seemed half Connecticut stretched out in front, the late sun on its many hills. And afterward they had dinner by a window which looked out on the same hills, and after that they drove on winding roads—and got a little lost, which did not matter because all roads lead back to other roads—and parked to make their plans.

  It was one of those evenings without flaw, except that, finally, the convertible stopped in front of the Maples Inn and, after they had sat a moment, neither speaking, Alan Kelley said, “Well—” slowly, as if when the word ended time would end, and got out of the car. That was a flaw. Driving alone for the few miles from North Wellwood Center to Hayride Lane was a flaw, too.

  The Ford was not in the garage. But that meant only that Caroline had, as planned, gone to the theater and was catching the last train. Dorcas went to bed and thought, I’ll stay awake a little while and remember, and went instantly to sleep. After an hour or so she was awakened—partly awakened—by a sound and c
alled out sleepily and Caroline said, “Hi. Go back to sleep.”

  It was touch and go in the morning. It was always touch and go, but most that when she had not gone early to bed, as a commuter should. She had time to look into the “master” bedroom, now again masterless, and see her cousin sleeping; she had time for instant coffee. She was almost at the Brewster station when she realized she had not told Caroline about the old man.

  The diesel was hooting up the way when she jammed the Ford into a parking crack providentially available. She ran through the station, to the platform and was there when the train was, and Alan Kelley (not in uniform this time) was there already, one of a crowd of commuters, all of whom looked somewhat dazed. “Cut it fine, don’t you?” Alan said, and boosted. They found a seat together—Providence was working overtime this morning.

  They parted at the Grand Central and met again at lunchtime, but had no time for lunch—had time only to get to the Municipal Building and get a paper which granted Lieutenant Alan Kelley, USN, permission to marry Dorcas Cameron, spinster, after the due period of waiting and on completion of the required tests.

  She would need to get off Saturday, even though it wasn’t her day, she told them at the office, and told them why.

  “As I keep telling you,” the man she had told said to the man to whom he passed the word, “when they look like that it’s just a waste of time breaking them in.”

  They kept her very busy that afternoon—as if, in advance, to compensate for Saturday; too busy, until rather late for Dorcas to recall, again, that she had not warned Caroline about the old man. It didn’t really matter, she told herself. It was really trivial. Nevertheless, a little after four, she telephoned the house. There was no answer to the telephone’s ringing.

  Alan was at the gate of the 5:12 Pawling Local-Express. “You certainly do cut it fine,” he told her, as they ran down the ramp to the train. But again—how very well indeed Providence was co-operating—they found a seat together. She told him it was all right about Saturday and he said, “The whole day? Not just a long lunch hour? What I call damned decent.”