The Classic Mystery Novel MEGAPACK®. Hay James
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shook his head. His hair hadn’t been combed for days. He looked like a very sick man. I saw desperation in his face and stark misery. He scuffed the dirt in the road, kicking it back and forth, not seeing it.
The situation had the unreality of a dream. It was one of those moments when an ordinary human being becomes possessed of an intense mental lucidity and insight, a sort of sixth sense that amounts almost to clairvoyance. I understood precisely what ailed Silas. The time Standish had predicted had at last arrived; Silas had reached his breaking point. And I didn’t know what to do about it.
I said, “Come in the house. You can talk to me.”
He grew suspicious. “Who said anything about talking? I want to see your husband—not you.”
“But Jack won’t be here until evening.”
“A few hours means nothing to me. I’ve had weeks of hell. Did you hear me? I said weeks.”
His voice was hysterical and he wasn’t quite sane. Whatever part he had played in our crimes I felt then that he had paid for it. I told him—and I was honest—that I was sorry. He didn’t seem to hear. I couldn’t reach him in any way. He had braced himself to speak to another man, and even in wretchedness he retained his contempt for the female sex. Sullenly, monotonously, he refused to talk to me. He said only one other significant thing.
“Is it true, Mrs. Storm, that someone broke in the cottage?”
“Yes, it’s true.”
His already pale face lost color. He was trembling. “You can put your mind at rest from now on. This thing is going to stop. And I’m going to stop it. I’ll see your husband tonight. No police—do you understand? No police. I’ll talk to him alone. I’ve done a lot of thinking and—and—he’s my pick of the lot.” With that Silas went away. Sick with disappointment, I crawled weakly into the car and drove downtown. At the Tally-ho Inn I stopped for cigarettes. While I waited at the cigar counter for change, Bill Tevis spied me and sang out cheerily from the desk.
“Your old friend is back in the hotel.”
I frowned, walked to the desk. “What friend do you mean?”
“Elliott, of course. He blew in about noon. He’s upstairs now.” Bill grinned. “Shall I tell him you’re calling?”
I looked at the clock. It said twenty minutes past two. I was lost in a sort of mental fog, compounded of physical illness and total bewilderment. “Elliott can’t be here,” I said. “He had an appointment with Standish in New York twenty minutes ago.”
“Then he broke it.”
“You’re joking!”
“I was never more serious in my life.” Bill’s voice sank. “Would you like to hear the dirt? Annabelle Bayne is with him. She’s been there an hour.”
I hung on to the desk. Things were happening too fast for my comprehension. I saw that Bill was alarmed by my condition—his face seemed blurred and queer—but it didn’t matter. I just hung there. The stairway was behind me, and it seemed eminently natural that Annabelle Bayne should appear at the head of the stairs, walk down, catch my arm and say in a shocked tone:
“Lola, you’re ill.”
“I felt a little faint. I’m all right now.”
Bill hopped around the desk. “You’d better lie down. I’ll open a room for you.”
“I’m going home.”
“At least let me call Jack. You aren’t fit to make the drive. What’s your number?”
“Jack isn’t home. I can make it all right. Let me go,” I said to Annabelle.
Her grip tightened on my arm. She shook me. “Jack not home! Do you mean to say you’re staying at the cottage alone? Are you crazy?”
“Please, both of you, let me alone. I’ve got to get home. I’m expecting a phone call. It’s important.”
“Then,” said Annabelle, “I’ll go with you. We’ll take my car and leave yours here. Bill, park Mrs. Storm’s car at the Inn garage. Lola, give him your keys.”
She swept me before her. Her assertiveness and determination and assurance overwhelmed me. I objected feebly, but not enough. Presently, in a state of dim wonderment, I found myself in her car, headed toward the cottage. She attended strictly to driving, and didn’t talk, except to ask if I were quite comfortable. She had handled me like a child and I knew it.
My head felt as though it would burst. I was exasperated beyond endurance. It was imperative that I reach Jack by phone, and Annabelle’s presence was the last thing I wanted. It had been made plain that she expected to spend the afternoon as my guest. I decided to get rid of her.
I said, “You’ve been extraordinarily kind, but you’ve done enough. Too much. When we get home I can manage nicely for myself.”
“You cannot remain another minute in that cottage by yourself. For one thing you’re ill, and for another it’s dangerous. You needn’t protest. I shan’t budge till your husband arrives.”
I knew that she wouldn’t. She turned the car off the Post Road and we started on the last lap home. A number of courses occurred to me, and I selected the course which seemed to offer the least in the way of conflict. I was too physically low to engage in a prolonged dispute, and anyhow I was doubtful of success. I decided to telephone Jack from the Olmsteads’. When we neared the brown clapboard house, I asked Annabelle if she would stop.
“I’ll be only a minute. I’ve an errand.”
She nodded. “Why don’t you stay in the car? I’ll hop out and do your errand for you.”
“I’m sorry, but you can’t.”
Annabelle looked a little hesitant as she pulled up beside the road. She got out and opened the door for me, and watched as I walked up the flagged path to the dwelling. April was in the air. A few yards beyond, the woods where Jack had lain bleeding and unconscious showed a tentative, exquisite green.
Henry Olmstead arrived at his door with a paint brush in hand. I cut short his welcome.
“May I use your telephone? Is it connected yet?”
“We keep it connected the year around. It’s cheaper that way. Hasn’t the company told you about the difference between winter and summer rates?”
He led me inside.
“Please, please where is your telephone?”
“In the hall behind you, Mrs. Storm. But first I have something to tell you. Your husband phoned you about half an hour ago.”
“Phoned me? Here! Why should he phone me here?”
My tone was probably intimidating. Henry Olmstead looked abashed. “He didn’t exactly phone you here. But we’re on the same line and I—I happen to know your ring—four short rings, isn’t it?” He glanced at me timidly. “When I heard your ring several times, I imagined you were away and I began thinking I should answer. To take a message, you see? Well, finally I answered. It was your husband. He was surprised, but glad to give me a message. Very glad. I hope I haven’t offended you.” Something stirred in my mind, a recollection, a memory—vaporous, unsubstantial. I stared at Olmstead. I shook my head. It hurt.
I said sharply, “So you answered a telephone call to me in this house! You could, of course, on a party line. Funny, but I’ve never in my life given any thought to the peculiarities of a community telephone.” I leaned against the wall. My hands were ice cold. I said, “Silas Elkins is on this line, isn’t he?”
Olmstead’s head bobbed rapidly. “Yes, he is. You must know that, Mrs. Storm. Three of us share the one fine—you folks, Silas and—and your humble servant.”
I must have presented a forbidding picture, for