The Classic Mystery Novel MEGAPACK®. Hay James
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if you please! An admiring ring of female shoppers thought it wonderfully artistic, and from the high-pitched gabble we gathered that Elsie Crampton planned to have the postcard framed. She needed a spot of color to “brighten” her foyer.
The incident at once amused and annoyed us. We never understood or quite appreciated the veneration in which the village held the Coatesnash family of Connecticut. The popular interest devoted to Luella’s foreign travels struck us as stupid and disgusting. We took care not to encroach on our landlady’s grounds, although we sometimes turned at the bend and scrambled along the hill road past Hilltop House, shuttered and silent in the twilight, white and forlorn against the gray skies of March. It rained a great deal that month.
It was raining the day we received the telephone call. It was the 20th of March, about five weeks after Luella Coatesnash and Laura Twining left Crockford, and Jack and I had finished our stints in the morning. We were lingering over a late luncheon, plotting my next short story, when the telephone rang. Persons on a party wire soon accustom themselves to listening for a particular ring. Instinctively we halted the conversation.
“That’s ours,” said Jack.
“I thought it was only three rings.”
Again we listened. The telephone emitted four short rings—our signal—and I rose, answered. For an instant a dull buzz sounded on the wire and then came an unfamiliar male voice, blurred and indistinct.
“New York calling.”
A long pause followed. I moved the hook up and down.
“Hello. Who is it?”
The pause spun out ended. A second time the deep breathy voice spoke, close to the mouthpiece now, imperative, “Let me speak to Jack Storm immediately.”
Lifting an eyebrow, I handed over the instrument. Jack engaged in a short conversation which I reproduce as clearly as I remember it.
“What?… Why?… But she is in Europe… What did you say your name was? Oh, I understand… All right then, I’ll be there.”
Looking baffled, Jack replaced the telephone receiver, sat down. I was full of curiosity.
“Who was it?”
“A man named Elmer Lewis. I just promised to drive to New Haven to pick him up.”
“Who in the world is Elmer Lewis?”
“Apparently a friend of Mrs. Coatesnash’s. He’s leaving New York on the three o’clock express and has to be in Crockford by six.”
“Suppose he does! Why should you drive to New Haven for him?”
Jack shrugged philosophically. “Just what I’ve been wondering myself. Unfortunately, I didn’t think quickly enough to refuse. As nearly as I can make out, Mr. Lewis wants to save taxi fare. Mrs. Coatesnash probably told him that we run a free jitney service.”
“Why is he coming to Crockford anyhow?”
“He said he had some business to transact for the old lady.”
“She’s in Europe.”
“So I remarked. He said he had a letter from her this morning. No doubt she suggested in the letter that he get in touch with us. She knows we’re suckers.”
I glanced toward the streaming windows. Rain gushed from the skies. I felt no premonition of danger, but I hadn’t liked the voice on the telephone and I was thoroughly irritated by this imposition upon our good nature.
“Well, you aren’t going. Jack. Let Mr. Lewis whoever he is, hire a taxi if he needs transportation. It’s insane for you to drive fifty miles through this rain.”
“I promised.”
“I don’t care what you promised!”
“Be reasonable, darling It I knew how to reach Lewis I might be able to call it off. But he is probably on his way to the train now. He might wait hours in the New Haven station.”
“Let him!”
Jack firmly declined, and at four o’clock, when he splashed out to the garage, I followed, still indignant but unwilling to be left at home. The trip was nerve-racking even at the start. The heavy downpour had washed out a section of the Boston Post Road and, as a consequence, our ordinarily peaceful back lane teemed with through traffic, bad drivers and confusion. Rain pounded down, brakes shrieked, horns blew, cars skidded at the curves. A high wind blew unceasingly. In wifely satisfaction I ventured a few false words of commiseration.
Jack said in a kindly tone, “How would you like a sock on the jaw, my love?”
“I suppose you personally think this is dandy. It’s just the day for a drive, isn’t it? Nice and wet.” Jack laughed, I giggled and we were friends again. The rain diminished slightly, and by dint of various hair-raising maneuvers we succeeded in making up lost time. Jack disliked, he remarked with a sidewise grin, to keep Lewis waiting. Something occurred to me.
“How are you going to recognize Lewis?”
“He said he would know us by the car.”
“But he hasn’t ever seen the car.”
“That’s funny.” A tiny crinkle showed between Jack’s eyes. “That’s darn funny. He described the make, color, model, spoke of the rumble seat.”
I was blankly incredulous. “Surely Mrs. Coatesnash didn’t write him a detailed description!”
“She must have.” The crinkle disappeared. “If that lady is anything she’s thorough. Only, for a minute it struck me as being queer.”
It continued to strike me as queer. I was not alarmed—exactly. Indeed I vaguely scented a practical joke, and as I strove to remember that phone call in detail, it began to seem to me that the masculine voice might well have been disguised. I ran over the practical jokers among our acquaintances and arrived at no conclusions. Nevertheless, I retained a misty, teasing impression that I had heard the voice before and that it had been disguised.
We entered the outskirts of New Haven at a fast clip. The rain had lightened to a dreary drizzle but evidences of the storm lingered. Gutters rushed in miniature torrents, inch-deep puddles glistened in the streets, umbrellas bloomed at the crossings. Not yet five o’clock, it was already quite dark, and in the shadowy dusk ahead shone the railroad station, a brilliant spot of light. Laughing and talking, tweedy and gay, week-end people poured into the raw damp evening. At the end of a line of cars we parked while Jack got out to reconnoiter.
Several minutes passed before I observed a middle-aged man who had emerged from the station and who was slowly making his way along the curbing. Something arresting about his appearance caught my eye. He was extremely tall, extremely thin, and his walk and bearing suggested authority. His skin was an unpleasant gray-white, pallid with indoor living. His jaw was narrow, slashed by deep vertical lines, and his thin, taut lips bore the curve of arrogance. Even the manner in which he progressed along the crowded sidewalk, brushing others aside, affirmed that he was accustomed to demanding and getting his own way.
There remained his clothes. They were fantastically unsuitable. A long ill-fitting overcoat, very shabby, flapped at his heels, revealing a shiny blue-serge suit and a shirt with a celluloid collar. The collar was soiled. His hands, burdened with traveling bags, were gloveless; a battered derby hat rode uneasily on the back of his head.
This man moved along the curb, pausing to peer into every car in the long line. At length he reached our car. He stopped on the sidewalk directly opposite, stared, frowned, stared again. His eyes, an intense blue, glittered behind thick glasses. He set down his two traveling bags.
I realized at once that this must be Elmer Lewis and that he was puzzled by Jack’s absence. There was no reason why I should not have spoken to him. Still I did not. For one thing I disliked him instantly. Possibly I was prejudiced in advance, but Lewis’s appearance and manner, his strange apparel, did nothing to minimize the prejudice. For what