The Opening Door

by Helen Reilly

  © Phocion Publishing 2019, all rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted by any means, electrical, mechanical or otherwise without the written permission of the copyright holder.

  Publisher’s Note

  Although in most cases we have retained the Author’s original spelling and grammar to authentically reproduce the work of the Author and the original intent of such material, some additional notes and clarifications have been added for the modern reader’s benefit.

  We have also made every effort to include all maps and illustrations of the original edition the limitations of formatting do not allow of including larger maps, we will upload as many of these maps as possible.

  THE OPENING DOOR

  By

  HELEN REILLY

  The Opening Door was originally published in 1943 by Random House, New York.

  * * *

  All of the characters and incidents in this novel are entirely imaginary.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Contents

  TABLE OF CONTENTS 4

  Synopsis 5

  CHAPTER ONE 6

  CHAPTER TWO 15

  CHAPTER THREE 20

  CHAPTER FOUR 31

  CHAPTER FIVE 37

  CHAPTER SIX 44

  CHAPTER SEVEN 50

  CHAPTER EIGHT 55

  CHAPTER NINE 62

  CHAPTER TEN 66

  CHAPTER ELEVEN 70

  CHAPTER TWELVE 75

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN 82

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN 88

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN 99

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN 105

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN 111

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN 120

  CHAPTER NINETEEN 127

  CHAPTER TWENTY 133

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE 139

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO 142

  REQUEST FROM THE PUBLISHER 149

  Synopsis

  “It was a child of five in pursuit of a bouncing ball who made the gruesome find, with an assist by Patrolman Crothers...A woman was lying on the ground in the middle of the miniature thicket. One leg was doubled under her and her arms were flung out crazily. Her hat had fallen off. Her face, in profile, plowed the damp earth. Her eyes were open. Yellow leaves covered her with a light blanket. The wind blew and the leaves danced, some of them. Others were held in position by the varicolored stickiness that was blood from a wound in her breast...

  “Above the wind, a siren wailed and two radio cars swung out of Lexington at a smart clip...

  “Shortly thereafter that call went streaming out from the golden bowl at the top of police headquarters on Centre Street: ‘Homicide in Henderson Park...‘”

  Thus Inspector McKee is faced with one of the most baffling cases of his long career with the New York Police Department. Incidentally The Opening Door is Helen Reilly’s best mystery. As a serial in the Saturday Evening Post it attracted widespread attention and made her many thousands of new fans.

  Here is a story in which the lovely Eve Flavell is caught in a net of suspicion and heartbreak, where the evidence of murder points clearly to the man she loved and renounced. McKee, as always, is able to go beneath the surface, and his investigation is a brilliant reconstruction of old wrongs and family intrigue.

  CHAPTER ONE

  The murder didn’t take place until after 7 p.m. on the night of December 2nd. At twenty minutes past four on the afternoon of that day, Eve Flavell reached the house that had once been her home on Henderson Square. She looked at her watch as she went round the corner. It had turned cold in mid-morning and fog had come sweeping in from the sea. The Square was full of it. The tops of the trees in the private park about which the Square was built stood up out of the fog faintly golden or black-branched against grayness; the leaves still clung tenaciously to the oaks and beeches. The lighted windows that in other days would have begun to surround the Square on all four sides like colored lanterns hemming in a lovely wood were practically non-existent because of the dim-out.

  Most of the children in the park had gone home. Those that were still there behind the high iron fence and the concealing shrubbery weren’t making any noise. A sparrow chattered and a taxi honked. The wind was bleak. Eve Flavell shivered and flattened her shoulders under the raspberry tweed of her coat. Almost there now, she thought. How long was it since the last time—two months, three? She couldn’t remember.

  She paused opposite the house she had come to visit, the house in which she had lived for a good many years.

  It was her half-sister Natalie’s. The family had come here from the country when Nat was five, so that she could go to Miss Grant’s kindergarten on Henderson Place, where her mother, long since dead, had gone as a child. It was a beautiful house, of warm red brick with blue shutters and a white fan-light door. It had a groomed, cared-for, a washed and brushed and combed look, was prosperous, graceful, benign. It stood on the west side of the Square between two less ornamental neighbors and the anonymous and soaring bulk of an apartment hotel.

  Eve stared at the brass knocker glimmering through the dusk. In a moment she would cross the street, mount the steps and use the knocker. It would rap with a brisk thud, the door would open and that would be the end—of one part of her existence, at least, a part for which she had fought hard and that she hated to relinquish. She put out a narrow arched foot in a red calf sandal, drew it back and remained on the curb, asking herself for the twentieth time in the space of an hour whether it wouldn’t have been just as well to phone. The news would be the same over the wire as if she delivered it in person. She told herself angrily that she was being a fool. What difference did it make how the thing was done as long as it was finally accomplished? Sooner or later she would have to meet them all face to face, and there were generally people to tea and it would be easier in a crowd. Or would it? The matter was taken suddenly out of her hands.

  “Eve, hello.”

  A woman was calling to her from inside the park. Eve turned. It was Alicia, her brother Gerald’s wife. She was coming down the path between bushes beaded with moisture. Alicia walked stiltedly on high heels, her hips swaying. Eve wondered how long she had been there, whether she had been watching her own imbecile indecision. Alicia’s eyes were bright and inquisitive as she opened the tall iron gate, let it fall to behind her with a clang and joined Eve on the pavement. She began to talk in her soft, clear, mannered voice when she was ten feet away.

  “Eve, dear, this is wonderful. It’s ages since we’ve met, centuries, practically. Why didn’t you come to my Thanksgiving party? I was sorry I was out when you called or I wouldn’t have taken any excuse. Work’s all very well but you can run it into the ground. What a perfectly stunning hat, my dear—but then you always look marvelous.”

  Eve knew she looked nothing of the kind. You couldn’t fight your way through a mental knothole for forty-eight hours and come out on the other side unscathed. She was unpleasantly conscious of her pallor, her burning lids, although she had done what she could with pancake lip stick and rouge.

  Alicia was examining her with large brown eyes that appeared to operate on ball bearings. They were slightly protuberant and exceedingly acute. Eve was afraid of them. She asked hurriedly after her brother, her five-year-old nephew. “How is Gerald, Alicia? How’s Bunny?”

  Gerald and Bunny were fine, simply fine. Gerald was worried about the war, of course—and business. The investment market was shot. But definitely. And nurses—Alicia threw up her hands—they were practically impossible to get. She’d had three in as many weeks; she’d just been in the park checking up on the latest gem, a woman with ho teeth and a jaw that ought to be tied up in a rag. She said with a thin ribbon of bitterness under her vivacity, “It’s funny, isn’t it, Na
talie’s grown richer and richer because of the war and we’re getting poorer and poorer? Well, that’s the way it goes.”

  Her meaningless laugh grated against Eve’s ears. The silver fox jacket Alicia had on was a present from Natalie and probably the hand-sewn shoes and the alligator bag. Eve said flatly, “Natalie can’t help it if her money’s invested in a factory that turns out airplane gauges, can she?”

  Alicia gave a cry. She looked resentful, hurt. “Of course not, don’t be silly, Eve. That’s not what I meant at all. You do manage to twist things. Are you coming or going?”

  “I’m on my way in.”

  The two women crossed the street together and mounted the steps. Eve thought, It’s coming closer. Alicia kept on talking. “Aunt Charlotte’s back, you know. Her stay on the farm doesn’t seem to have done her the slightest bit of good. She looks worse than when she went up to Vermont in July. She looks frightful, really. Wait until you see her.”

  Eve said quietly, “I have seen her. She stopped in at the shop the day before yesterday.”

  Alicia showed her surprise. “Then you’ve made it up. Oh, my dear, I’m so pleased. Feuding’s silly.” Her tone was cordial, her eyes were probing. “She isn’t looking well, is she? I was horrified when I first saw her. Of course she isn’t getting any younger...So you’re friends again.”

  Eve and Charlotte Foy, the aunt who had brought up the three of them—her brother and Natalie and herself—could never be friends. They were as far apart as the poles, had absolutely nothing in common, except a vast mutual distaste and their mutual love for Natalie. Her aunt had disliked and distrusted Eve since she was a child. It was to prove Charlotte wrong, to keep her from hurting Natalie, that Eve was there. She wasn’t going to tell Alicia that.

  She said aloud, smiling lightly, “We were never anything but friends, underneath. It was simply that we didn’t understand each other. But one grows older and wiser—we’ll hope. .

  The door was opening. Eve tried to relax tight muscles and followed her sister-in-law over the threshold. The staircase rose gracefully at the right and swung up across the rear wall. A great clump of rust-colored chrysanthemums bloomed on the Pembroke table beneath an old mirror that reflected the exquisite lines of the red chalk drawing Cheverin had done of Natalie’s mother as a bride. The clock ticked on the landing; it was around Eve again, untouched, unchangeable, the atmosphere from which she had fled, orderly and gracious and serene and, to her, at least, completely poisonous. It pressed up against her stiflingly. Almost, then, she made a movement of retreat. It was too late. The maid closed the front door behind them, shutting out the fog and the cold December air. As she did so, Eve’s young half-sister, Natalie, came through an archway on the left.

  Natalie wasn’t pretty but she was ineffably smart. She was tall for a girl, five feet six, with a narrow, fine-featured face set in a frame of hair the color of unbeaten flax. It was cut in a long bob that swept her shoulders. Her eyes, big and brown and shining under a convex forehead, gave her the air of a serious child. Everything about her was long and narrow, her straight nose, her wide delicate-lipped mouth, her arms and legs and hands and feet. Blue veins showed in her slender wrists below the bracelet sleeves of a brown wool dirndl with a swinging skirt. She wasn’t really frail, but Charlotte had fussed over her health from babyhood. In Eve’s opinion, if her young half-sister had been flung out into the Maine woods with a rusty tin cup to forage for herself, she would soon have put on the weight her bones called for. Her expression was aloof and a little haughty. It changed to one of quick pleasure when she saw Eve.

  “Darling...I didn’t know you were coming,” she exclaimed. “I expected Alicia but not you. I’m so glad...How did you manage to get away? Never mind—you’re here now anyhow. Come on in to the fire.” She linked an arm through Eve’s with one of her quick impetuous movements. “There are some people, but they’ll go soon and we can talk. I was going to call you. I was thinking we might all go up to the country for a weekend ‘ when Bruce gets back. He’s in Washington, you know.”

  Bruce Cunningham, to whom Natalie was engaged, was a lieutenant in the Air Force. Wounded in an engagement in the Pacific he had been invalided home and was in New York on convalescent leave.

  Eve said she couldn’t stay long. She noticed with a flicker of uneasiness that Natalie looked tired, that she was thinner, more vibrant, that her laugh was too brittle, her voice too gay. Her very white skin, skin that went naturally with her fair hair, had a faintly sallow tinge, and the spatter of freckles across the bridge of her straight nose was in evidence—always a sign that she wasn’t her usual self.

  When she was little, when she was growing up, it was the first thing that people—nurses, governesses and tutors, Charlotte—always said, “You’re freckles are showing, Nat.”

  Alicia said it now. She was extremely observant. “Freckles, Nat, darling...What’s the matter? Have you been overdoing it with your countless aid things? You’ll wear yourself out. You shouldn’t...”

  Natalie said with a touch of impatience—she could be imperious when she wanted to—“I’m all right. I wish you wouldn’t, Alicia. I mean...don’t say anything in front of Charlotte, for heaven’s sake. She worries so—and she’s not well.”

  The three women entered the big sunken living room, to the left of the hall and down a shallow flight of steps. The sea-green draperies at the windows were drawn. Lamplight drew gleams from the fine pieces of old furniture rubbed to a mirrorlike smoothness, shone tranquilly on low bookcases, gaily colored satin chairs and the few good pictures punctuating the ivory walls. Natalie had done the room over in April, on her twenty-first birthday. It was a decided improvement. Men and women stood or sat about in groups, talking in the muted well-bred way in which the Flavell parties were always conducted. Alicia darted off to join friends and Eve nodded to several people she knew distantly and followed Natalie to the fire.

  Sofas flanked the white mantel under which flames leaped cheerfully. Eve’s father Hugh Flavel and her aunt, Charlotte Foy, were on one of the sofas; Charlotte sat upright behind the tea things, her capable hands busy. Hugh lounged beside her, tall and thin, with his slight scholar’s stoop, his eyes palely blue behind pince-nez, his receding hair brushed smoothly back from the high forehead of his handsome aquiline face. His serenity, his savoir faire, his air of being able to command any situation under the sun were contradicted and betrayed by a small neat mouth under a clipped mustache that pouted in repose and was stubborn.

  He looked younger and more alive than Eve could recall. Charlotte, on the contrary, looked older and stonier, yet there was very little difference between their ages; Huge was fifty-one and Charlotte fifty-four.

  “Dad, Charlotte, look who’s here,” Natalie said gaily. She came of her own accord, I swear it.”

  If Eve’s unsolicited presence in the house from which she had voluntarily and drastically separated herself a long while ago caused either her father or her aunt any surprise, there was no evidence of it except, perhaps, in an overlong glance from Charlotte.

  Hugh said, “Ah, Eve, my dear. How are you? You’re looking well.” There was courtesy but no pleasure in his greeting. Eve didn’t expect it. Her father and she had never been close, and after some of the things she had said in her young violence, four years earlier, they probably never would be. Hugh was not a forgiving person. She could hardly blame him. Charlotte produced words as though she were measuring spoonfuls of sugar. She now said in her measured tones, “Nice to see you here, Eve. Sit down. Tea? No? You’ll probably want a drink.”

  Eve had wanted tea. She settled herself in the corner of the opposite sofa and smiled at her aunt. “A drink, please, Charlotte—but I do wish you’d get over the horrid habit of being right. You know me too well—and all my sins.”

  The moment the remark was out she regretted it. Charlotte flushed and drew in her breath and Hugh’s brows rose humorously. Natalie, who had turned aside to beckon to one of the maids, looked distresse
d. Eve knew she was being a fool, but for the life of her she couldn’t help it. The very sight of Charlotte rubbed her the wrong way. It always had. She was so correct, so wrapped in rectitude; if only she wouldn’t thrust it down your throat, Eve thought, and reminded herself that she hadn’t come to quarrel; she had come for another and very definite purpose. Once it was accomplished she could go and not return.

  Nevertheless, sitting there in the familiar room, a sudden childish lump rose in her throat and for a moment she found herself wishing that she had had a more normal youth, that her mother had lived, that her father hadn’t married again, into money, even that her stepmother hadn’t died—in which case Charlotte would never have appeared on the scene. She and Eve’s own mother had been sisters but the love Charlotte had for Gerald, Eve’s brother, had skipped Eve and had fastened on Natalie, Hugh’s daughter by his second wife.

  Stop being maudlin, you’re accumulating a genuine complex, she told herself. Charlotte was a good woman, as honest as the day, just, never deliberately unkind and about as imaginative as a flagpole. It wasn’t her fault. It was the way she was made. Her position as the keeper of the keys, the manager of the household she ran on velvet had added to a bump of authority already too well developed. It was a pity she had never married. She was still good-looking, her black dress was smart, her iron-gray hair becomingly arranged. She turned to speak to a guest and a start went through Eve. Alicia and Nat were right. There was something wrong with Charlotte, something terribly wrong. Firelight flared. In its momentary brilliance she looked frightful. Her skin was a bad color and she obviously wasn’t well, but it wasn’t only that. There was a queer fixity to her, as though within the ramparts of her substantial body her spirit had crumpled and was dead, or dying.

  Eve felt it then for the first time but not for the last time while she was in the room, the house, on that December afternoon: a sense of strangeness, of something wrong, twisted, that had no connection with her own private problem.