Gail said absently: “I hadn’t thought of anyone following me. I’m trying to think of anyone who knows I’ve come here.”
“Yes. From among your literary club,” Miss Rachel suggested, jingling her dimes richly.
“Just before I left for Reno, while I was upstairs packing, someone called on the phone. I went to the top of the stairs and motioned for Florencia to tell them I’d gone—and as I walked away I think I heard her mention Reno. She didn’t know it was supposed to be a secret. You couldn’t make Florencia believe anyone would run away because of a letter.”
“I see. It might be anyone, then.”
Gail was taking out her key. “Anyone. Except … well, the person who didn’t keep in touch.”
They went into the room. Gail’s hotel was much the same sort of hotel as Miss Rachel’s. It was not elaborate, but it was clean and the furniture looked fairly new. Miss Rachel knew that Gail could not be by any means wealthy—no blackmail motive, therefore—for her parents had left her enough to finish college, probably enough for her to have lived on well into her thirties in some quiet inexpensive place, but no huge sum and not for the spot she had chosen for her home—the big adobe house with its wide broken galleries, fallen tiles, and total lack of plumbing. Fixing up the old place, which had once been a stage depot, had taken a lot of the slim inheritance. She painted desert landscapes and during the last few years had acquired an increasing reputation, probably also a small but adequate income. But the plainness of the room spoke of careful economy.
Gail went to the dresser and untied the scarf, and her hair, brown and shining, shook down into loose curls on her neck. Her figure seemed younger than Miss Rachel remembered it even in Gail’s teens, but it was thinness which gave this impression. Gail’s face was tired, the hollow under her chin gave her a look of exhaustion. “Take that chair nearest the window—it’s the most comfortable. Should I have tea sent up, do you think?”
Miss Rachel sensed the unwillingness, the wish to delay. So she said bluntly, “I’m still quite stuffed from dinner. Where is your letter?”
Gail folded the scarf neatly and slowly, opened a drawer, arranged the scarf inside. All at once her lips twitched, almost a smile. “I’m being silly, I know. It’s just that when a thing means what this does to me, it makes you feel … naked. Like being burned at the stake with your clothes off.” She looked at Miss Rachel briefly, then went to her suitcase and from its tray took out a square white envelope.
She held it out, looking at it. “Why do I keep it with me? I can’t imagine why I do.… Perhaps with a freakish subconscious idea of self-punishment.”
Miss Rachel didn’t try to tell her why she had kept the letter. She opened the envelope. Samantha stuck her head in between Miss Rachel’s eyes and the page and had to be removed firmly. The sheet of note paper was thick, expensive, impersonal. A man’s paper—or a woman’s. Someone used to good things, who wouldn’t send even a poison-pen note on anything cheap—or someone not at all used to good things and wanting to hide it. Pasted across the sheet in uneven lines was a series of words. Some words had been cut entire from another page, some were made up of individually clipped letters. The type, as Gail had said, was unusual. Long-legged, stark, giving the printed words the look of little groups of marching men.
Under the manzanita tree
Whom should you find but little HE
Tore it leaf and branch and roots
Made you kiss his big black boots
KACHINA
Gail was waiting in tight-strung silence.
“Not very well punctuated,” Miss Rachel said at last.
Gail brushed at her hair. “Aren’t you going to ask me what it means?”
“I can see what it means. Does the wording, the phrasing, bring anyone to mind among your literary companions? I presume you used to read each other’s stuff, and everyone writes a little differently.”
Gail sat down on the side of the bed. She had picked up her gloves to put them away; now she twisted them absently. “Bob Ryker always had a knack of making jingles. But he isn’t cruel. He drinks a lot now. I don’t think he’s been awfully happy, married to Christine—not that it’s any of my business.” Her eyes searched Miss Rachel’s face. “You see how it gets to be—you begin to wonder about everyone, about people you’ve trusted for years. And then you find you’re becoming … queer.”
“Yes. And the queerer you get, the more fun your letter writer has for himself.” She thought about it for a moment. “This Mr. Grubler whom you mentioned very briefly—the one the group seems rather cruelly to have nicknamed the Grub—interests me because one of the possible motives behind this rash of letters is revenge. Revenge, perhaps, for years of scorn. Tell me more about Mr. Grubler.”
Gail flushed slightly. “He used to be—he used to like me quite a bit. And I liked him, mildly, without feeling any emotion over it. He’s manager now for some of Christine’s mining properties.” Gail put the gloves down carefully on the counterpane. “I’d better tell you about the idea I had—the reason I was waiting in your hotel grounds for a chance to reach you.”
Miss Rachel put the letter on the small table between them and waited.
Gail looked steadily at the letter. “I know that you didn’t approve of my plan for the house party, but I—I have to know for sure, if I can, who sent this thing to me. It’s just something I have to get out of my system.”
“Then I think you had better go on with it.”
Gail showed a touch of surprise. “Then I thought—if you were willing to help, and since you were going to be in that part of Arizona anyway—that you might want to be at my place when these people arrived.” She drew a breath and hurried on. “I know that it’s asking a lot, that it would mean, skipping a part of your tour.”
Losing a part of the tour didn’t seem to worry Miss Rachel; she was frowning a little, though. “I’m trying to think of what to tell Jennifer.”
Gail lost a little of the bleak look. “You mean you’ll come?”
“Frankly, I had already thought of it. When I saw what had been done in our room. Of course, as I tried to make Jennifer believe, there could have simply been a stray, curious prowler. But I think not—too much care had been taken with my belongings to cover the search. It came over me suddenly that there was going to be more than just the letters.” She looked soberly at Gail.
Gail shivered all at once. “I hadn’t thought of danger. Perhaps it isn’t right, bringing you into the affair.” She took in Miss Rachel’s little figure, the white hair, the gentle air of innocence.
“I’m tougher than I look,” Miss Rachel reminded dryly. “You should ask Jennifer’s opinion sometime. By the way, for Jennifer’s information, you’ll be suddenly ill and want me to go home with you.”
Gail nodded in agreement. The cat, still curious about the paper which her mistress had held and examined, leaped to the edge of the bed and put forepaws on the little table. She sniffed delicately along the fold of the page. On the counterpane her shadow was flat and black, like a silhouette cat cut out for Halloween.
The green eyes slitted all at once, as though something were very funny.
Miss Rachel scolded: “Yes, we know—if we had noses like yours there wouldn’t be any secret about the letter.”
Gail picked up her gloves. The room seemed quiet, the breeze from the window dry and cold. Miss Rachel had a mental image of the desert, lonely and vast, stretching on through the dark to Gail’s house. The open gallery would be empty now, the big rooms silent, the garden rustling perhaps with this same wind. One light, maybe, all alone in Pedro and Florencia’s room. For the rest … ghosts, if you believed in them.
Or Kachinas, if you were Indian.
A week later, on a day breathless with heat, Miss Rachel and her cat stood in an arched doorway and looked out into Gail’s courtyard. A long, sleek new station wagon had just rolled to a stop.
Where the tires had passed, yellow dust spiraled up from the old
brick paving and hung motionless in the air. A lizard on the opposite wall seemed baked there from the original adobe. When the motor died there was a moment of intense hot silence.
Behind the wheel was a blond woman with a sharp, pale face and too much vivid lipstick. The man beside her had his head propped against the cushions, as if he had been asleep. His black hair was tousled and he wore sun goggles. Another woman, this one with a plain brown hat and a plain high-collared linen suit and no make-up at all, looked out from the back of the car with a perplexed timid air, as if already regretting she had come.
Gail slipped down the stairs into the hall and came to the door to stand beside Miss Rachel. “Well—this is the beginning. I’m quaking inside, like an idiot.” She brushed at the perspiration on her temples.
The blond woman slid out from behind the wheel, took off a pair of kidskin driving gloves, and spent a minute in plucking and tugging at her clothes. They were smooth, expensive-looking clothes. The black-haired man, opening the door on the other side of the car, seemed to experience a moment of being off balance, of almost falling. He had a kind of lethargy and uncertainty in his movements as he steadied himself against the car. The prim girl in the linen suit—she must, Miss Rachel thought, be Ilene Taggart—clung to a big brown handbag as if it were a shield.
Pedro, Gail’s houseman and gardener, had evidently heard the car. He entered the courtyard by another door and began to lift suitcases from the rear compartment. The blond woman turned on him irritably. “Leave those monogrammed bags where they are. I’ll take care of them.” She seemed suddenly to notice the other man’s difficulty with his legs. “For the love of Pete! That much already?”
The man ignored her. He removed the sun goggles, squinted as if plotting his course across the paving, then ambled over to bend towards Miss Rachel’s shoulder. “You’re real, then. D’you know, you look just like a little porcelain lady my mother used to keep on her mantel. You’re bigger, of course. But that white, white hair and such a little waist … Don’t ever change. Promise.” He waggled a finger at her. There was distinctly a hiccup.
Miss Rachel smiled at him. Under the apparent intoxication was friendliness and warmth. Oddly enough, he didn’t have any trace of a liquor odor. Just a faint spicy smell and a trace of onion—proving that he hadn’t forgotten the vodka cocktails in the literary club. “I’m too old to change now,” she assured him.
He shook his head. “Porcelain ladies never get any older.”
The girl in the linen suit came into the doorway. She stopped there, took a handkerchief out of the immense old-fashioned bag, and dabbed at her face under the brim of the hat. Then she took out a little bottle of smelling salts and had a sniff of it. She repacked the bag with care. Her face never changed from its expression of prim timidity.
Gail took them into the coolness of the hall to make introductions. “Miss Rachel Murdock—this is Bob Ryker. And Ilene Taggart.”
The black-haired man went on smiling at her vaguely, as if he were still imagining her as a porcelain ornament and didn’t want to wake up. Ilene Taggart stuck out her hand. Her palm was damp. One of her nails had a rough edge that scratched a little. “I’m pleased to meet you,” she murmured. Her voice was quiet and colorless.
The blond woman came in, still plucking at her clothes. She was thin and her bones were small. She made Miss Rachel think of a bird, a frail blond bird with a raucous voice. “Miss Murdock?” She didn’t offer her hand.
Gail said smoothly, “This is Mrs. Ryker. Christine.”
“I’ve heard of you,” said Christine Ryker. “You do something—you write, or something.” She stopped to frown.
Ilene filled the empty moment. “If I might have a glass of water, Gail, I’ll take an aspirin.” Her tone apologized for the trouble. She had, Miss Rachel saw, a habit of avoiding looking at people. Now she was staring sidelong at the underside of the stairs where the dark timbering made a pattern of shadow.
Gail said, “I thought we could all do with a tall, cold drink. Let Pedro take your bags up and Florencia will unpack for you.”
Ilene hesitated. Bob Ryker beamed at her wickedly. “You know you need something stronger than water, child.”
She fumbled with the catch of her bag. “No. No, I don’t at all.”
Christine was amused. “He’s tormented her during the whole trip. Naughty fellow.” She pinched his chin spitefully, so that the marks of her fingers showed on his skin. “But, Gail—not that I don’t trust your help, but I do like seeing to my own things. As perhaps you remember. I’ll have my drink when I come down. What room are you giving me?”
“The second door,” said Gail. “Do you want Bob with you?”
“I think not,” Christine said coolly, “if you have the room. Run along and douse Ilene with water before she passes out on us.” Her eyes paused on her husband. “And you take it easy, darling.”
She went back to the car, which she had, in Miss Rachel’s opinion, been careful to keep in sight, and returned quickly with two small calfskin suitcases ornately monogrammed in gold. She tripped upstairs as they were going out into the lower gallery. In a moment they heard her light steps overhead. The open gallery above led to the bedrooms. Down here next the garden it made a sheltered and shaded place to sit during the heat of the day. At the end next the kitchen was a space used for dining. On the rustic redwood table was a tray with cocktail shaker, ice, and bottles.
With a drink in his hand, Bob turned and surveyed the garden. Since Gail had not been there to encourage Pedro in the trimming, the flowers and vines were somewhat overgrown. “A bit rampant, but it’s nice,” Bob decided. “I’m always properly humble when I see what you’ve done with your old adobe.”
“It’s probably known far and wide as Dickson’s Folly,” Gail answered, but looking pleased at the praise.
Ilene and Miss Rachel were at either end of a long wicker seat. Ilene had gulped down her aspirin, put the aspirin box back into her purse, and now had taken out a small vial of cologne with which she was dampening temples and wrists. Miss Rachel was studying the handbag with some respect. Her cat had found a miniature green lizard under the rim of a potted plant and was sitting frozen and astonished.
The heat caused the garden to exude a junglelike fragrance, warm and flowery. The tinkle of ice, the tap-tap of Christine’s returning steps on the upper gallery, sounded small and drowsy. Afterward, something must have delayed Christine in the hall, for she was a long time coming. Miss Rachel found herself watching the door of the hall curiously. Beside the door was a cactus, blooming in a white stone crock. The blossoms were blood red against the rough white wall.
Miss Rachel thought that she heard the arrival of a car, but she could not be sure. There were a lot of bees in the garden, buzzing steadily. Suddenly they heard a man’s voice, a new voice, deeply masculine with a dry ironic note in it somewhere. Then Christine stepped into view, something about her unpleasantly smug and full of secret fun, and behind her was the newcomer. He was not very tall, but he was rugged and sturdy. He had rough yellow hair, his face looked wind-bitten, and the way he was dressed implied an outdoor bachelor existence.
He came forward and offered Gail his hand. “Did you forget me?”
Gail didn’t speak. She looked at him and shuddered.
Chapter 4
The man who had just joined them took a long, curious look at Gail. She didn’t meet his eyes; she busied herself with something on the table. He turned to the others with a confused expression, gradually changing to anger as he sensed that a trick had been played. Bob Ryker regarded him pleasantly, blankly; Ilene seemed stricken dumb; Christine was obviously hugging herself inwardly at the joke.
When the silence gave signs of becoming explosive, Miss Rachel got up from the wicker seat and came to the table. “I’m Miss Murdock. An old friend of Gail’s family.” She offered him her hand.
He took it gingerly, as if little old ladies were not usual with him. “I’m honored. Hal Emerson
is the name.” He bowed a little and gave her back her hand with care.
Gail thrust a drink at him, wordlessly, furiously, and still not looking into his face.
“Do you still write?” Miss Rachel wondered.
His lips twitched. He stared into the drink. “Sometimes—strictly from boredom. I’m a mining engineer, and when I get tired making out reports about the diggings I feel the urge to do verse. Stuff about burros and cactus and the sunset over the Superstitions. The sort of thing they use to fill up the page at the end of Western stories—pulp Westerns, that is.” He looked at the Rykers and at Ilene, as if daring them to sneer.
Ilene got her mouth open and blurted: “I told him about your house party, Gail. I thought you meant everybody—that maybe you didn’t know where Hal was—and that you’d gotten over that romance, or whatever it was—” She stopped, looked apologetic. There was another dead silence. Then Ilene drew a deep breath to go on—probably further to explain a situation that explaining couldn’t help.
But Bob Ryker cut in. “Lord love us! The Grub approaches the garden! Shouldn’t we have a touch of snail bait about?” He paused, shook his head, made a wry mouth. “That seemed funny when we were all together in school. What kind of humor did we go for, anyway?”
Christine glanced at the man who had come out upon the gallery and said slyly, “I’m sure Dave’s outgrown the Grub routine. He should use whatever name has seized his fancy, shouldn’t he?” She turned to Gail with mock contrition. She had a quickness of expression, an exaggeration too, though this last might have been the result of her overuse of cosmetics. “Dave brought Hal up—they came together in Dave’s car. But I just couldn’t resist bringing Hal in alone first. You two used to be so sticky about each other.” She giggled.
Dave Grubler looked washed out and tired, as all very pale people do. He was big in frame, heavily built, and he should have seemed husky. He might actually be as hard, as physically tough, Miss Rachel thought, as Emerson. But the white hair, the toadstool-colored skin, made him seem frail in spite of his size. Dave Grubler—how inevitably the callous students had called him the Grub.
The Cat Wears a Mask Page 3