The Case of the Seven Sneezes

by Anthony Boucher

  Stella Paris blinked wet eyes. Mrs. Brainard and her brother exchanged a brief but most inexplicable look, a mixture of deep devotion and of something else that might almost have been hatred. Horace Brainard was silent (in itself doubtless a sign of the deepest emotion), and Lucas Quincy moved his impassive stare to his brandy glass, where he seemed to behold something familiar and lost.

  The glasses were raised. The toast was drunk in silence. There was, for that little instant, another person in the room, a stronger, a more dominant character than any in the visible cast.

  Then the door to the hall opened of itself, Mrs. Brainard screamed shrilly, and the other guest was gone.

  Fergus and the doctor reached the doorway at the same time and caught in their arms the stumbling figure of Jesús Ramirez.

  “The fool,” the doctor muttered with a certain tart sympathy. “He should be in bed. He needs rest after a blow like that.”

  Horace Brainard’s face was so red as to make Quincy look pale, and was rapidly nearing purple. He shook off Miss Paris’ restraining hand and shouted, “Get that damned greaser the hell out of here!” adding several reflections on the personal habits of Ramirez which implied an improbably high degree of corrupt sophistication.

  Alys giggled delightedly, Mrs. Brainard was girlishly horrified, and all in all there was a grandiferous hubbub. But over it all Fergus managed to shout, “Wait!” And amazingly enough it worked.

  “Doctor,” he went on urgently as the noise died, “is he conscious enough to talk?”

  “Yes,” Arnold admitted reluctantly. “Though he should be back in bed at once.”

  “But then you won’t let me disturb him for hours, and we’ve got to know tonight. Let me speak to him. Hokayl”

  Ramirez lifted a sodden head. “Señor?”

  “Hokay: Who hit you?”

  Ramirez shook his head fuzzily.

  “Hokay: You see all these people?”

  The Mexican obediently fixed his bleary eyes on each in turn. “Hokay,” he said.

  “Now: Who hit you?”

  Fergus was watching, not Ramirez, but the room. But there was nothing to learn there. There was equal tension, equal suspense on each face—all but that of Horace Brainard, who seemed to be building up to another purple outburst.

  “Who, Hokay?”

  Ramirez opened his mouth. Then abruptly it shut and his eyes with it, and he sank back fainting into Fergus’ arms.

  For that one instant the detective’s attention was distracted. He could hear, somewhere in the room, that minute sigh of relief; but from whom it came he could not know.

  ii

  As Fergus and the doctor returned to the diningroom, they could hear Tom’s voice saying, “But surely, Uncle Horace, we have a right to—” and Brainard snapping back, “Damn it, young man, this dinner is going to continue as I planned it.”

  Dr. Arnold smiled at Fergus, an ambiguous and elusive smile. “My room,” he said, “overlooks the back of the house.”

  “So?”

  “I saw you go out for a look at Corcoran.”

  “Curiosity.”

  “Curiosity? Hm. Useful trait.”

  “It passes the time.”

  “You know a good deal, don’t you, Mr. O’Breen?”

  “I’ve got something by the tail,” said Fergus. “But it’s going to take all of us to find out what.”

  “And that quickly, before it turns and bites you… But please have patience with poor Horace and let us conclude this ritual rigmarole. And if you know so much, young man, I’m certain that you will drink deep at the next toast.”

  He opened the door to the diningroom. Lucas Quincy was’ gravely refilling Alys’ glass. Otherwise there was no sound or motion in the room. Fergus slipped unobtrusively into his chair, and the doctor resumed his toastmaster stance beside the host.

  “I have given the unfortunate Ramirez a sedative,” he announced. “I think we need fear no further interruptions—or at least none from without. And now,” he raised his glass, “I give you the second and last of the toasts to our absent friends. I give you a fresh and lovely girl, with a kind heart that loved simply and clearly. (Need I borrow an idiom from the ghastly style of Lucas’ business correspondence and say that I speak ‘as of May, 1915’?) I give you the pure, the sweet, the doomed, the damned: Martha Stanhope.” His voice had an unwonted note of sincere emotion.

  Fergus understood this second toast all too well. He drank reverently, and to himself murmured, “May her soul and the souls of all the faithful departed …”

  “Now,” the doctor smiled, “a lighter touch. I give you the flower of Los Angeles society, the most eligible bachelor of 1915, that sterling young man of irreproachable income, that lazily budding young poet who soon learned the wisdom of savoring the fruits of others rather than suffering the laborious toil of his own orchard, that exquisitely gilded fainéant unperturbed by any inconvenient ambitions, that dearest friend of the dear departed, that quiet figure of grace: James Herndon.”

  That made the gentle Herndon clear enough, Fergus thought. Position, tastes, charm, and income; and no desire to do anything about it. Twenty-five years of that and you have just what he saw sitting across the table from him: a perennial bachelor, admirably well-preserved, pleasing and friendly and completely negative.

  “Next I give you a true Toast, the toast of Hollywood and the nation in those bright days when a star was a star, that slender ethereal figure whose slightest gesture of pathos wrung tears from strong men, that gallant and durable virgin who survived the advances of seventeen villains in thirteen pictures, that lovelier Gish, that more moving Pickford: Stella Paris!”

  Fergus, remembering that intense theatrical excitement which only a child can know, was half moved to applaud; but the effect was spoiled by an instantly choked but nonetheless raucous laugh from Stella herself.

  “Sorry, Hugh,” she added hastily. “But such a buildup, and then I look at myself now… It was too much. Couldn’t you toast me as a cook?”

  “Not,” said Dr. Arnold precisely, “as of 1915. I can still recall your culinary attempts of that period.”

  “Well …!” sighed Miss Paris. “You can’t have everything. And I think I still suits me better this way. Go on, Hugh.”

  “Lest it be thought that I am saving him for a position of unfair climax, I now give you one of the lesser members of this cast: a terribly earnest young man fresh from his studies, with a peculiar sort of world-savior complex; a dreadful young man who tolerated his friends and their intrusion on his priceless time, while he dreamed of the day when his name might ring with those of Koch and Ehrlich and Pasteur and other Warner Brothers contract players. I give you, though with a firm sense of deprecation, young Hugh Arnold.” He set down his glass and carefully refrained from drinking as the others acknowledged the toast.

  “You are more than tolerant,” he observed, “to drink to such an impossible young prig. But let us turn now to a far more worthy youth: a man who knew two driving forces, and two only. And one of these was the great American tradition of success. A man who had already tried four businesses, in each had doubled his once meager capital, and had in turn abandoned each because it promised no more than a hundred per cent return. A man who had just realized that war means uniforms, even as uniforms mean war, and who had wisely established himself in the cloth manufacture from which he was to reap such prodigious benefits in 1917. A man who knew what he wanted, took it, and held it secure until he no longer wanted it. I give you, in short: Lucas Quincy.”

  It was a cruel toast, and the doctor’s casually contemptuous tone did nothing to soften its impact. But Lucas Quincy merely nodded, and remained crimson and impassive as the others drank to him. Only Mrs. Brainard seemed to resent the toast. Her glass hesitated in her hand, and for a moment she appeared unwilling to drink. But she downed her tot resolutely, and looked again at Alys.

  “Now,” said Dr. Arnold, “to the youngest member of the bridal party, to th
at adorable and chubby tot of … but fortunately I do not recall the precise age; that delightful child who bore the flower basket and strewed the posies with pudgy fingers, that Romney infant of bright innocence: Alys Trent.” This toast was in its words as banteringly sardonic as any, but the voice was different. There was a serious earnest there, some deeper emotion which even the suave Hugh Arnold could not quite conceal.

  Alys spoiled the pause with a throaty giggle.

  “Like Miss Paris, you feel the contrast?” the doctor observed gently, and almost regaining his normal tones. “But as she has remarked, and how many other sages before her, we cannot have everything. And surely you could not have dreamed then how early in your young life you would be … blessed with the beauty of that white hair.”

  It would be a swell idea, thought Fergus, if somebody could persuade Alys to sit out the rest of the toasts. People can reach a point where they’re not even useful. But she drank even to herself.

  “And now we reach the heart of the matter.” Dr. Arnold indulged in a stage pause. “We have toasted the members of the bridal party, and even one who lamentably was not of that group. But now we come in our ritual to the pair themselves. What words of mine can describe their youthfulness, the fine absorption of their love? Should I dare to gild refined gold by painting in gross words their virtues and their charms? Can I portray to you Horace Brainard, sturdy and forthcoming, or Catherine Brainard, nearly as young and lovely then as she is now?

  “Friends, I accept defeat. I am no man to scale such heights. I may only say, tout court, I give you: Horace and Catherine.”

  The whole table rose to this and drank the toast standing. Mrs. Brainard simpered sweetly, and Mr. Brainard twitched his mustache and cleared his throat impressively for his acknowledgment.

  But Dr. Arnold forestalled him. “One moment, Horace,” he said, over the clatter of reseating. “We must not be so rude as to pass over the younger members merely because they were so unfortunate as not to be of our party. Heaven forbid such discourtesy. Now then I give you a vigorous and active boy of five, already a delight and a plague to his business-intent uncle, a child who foreshadowed clearly the athletic prowess if not the psychological eminence which he was to attain: Tom Quincy.”

  Mr. Brainard drank grudgingly, and Lucas Quincy too seemed a mite loath.

  “And another little boy of, I should guess, much the same age, wiry and redheaded and doubtless already distinguished by the unfading glint of curiosity in his green eyes. I give you (not recalling his first name): the infant O’Breen.”

  This time Mr. Brainard ostentatiously did not drink at all.

  “And lastly (and it is with a mingling of relief and regret that I say lastly), I give you a spark of life hidden in the womb, unformed and inchoate, a stirring, a quickening that was to grow to a loveliness to stir and quicken all. I give you: Janet Brainard.”

  “But Dr. Hugh,” Janet protested. “We must be accurate. If these toasts are as of May 10, 1915, why I wasn’t even unborn then. I can’t come into this at all.”

  Alys leaned forward with an eagerness that knocked over her empty brandy glass. “Oh goodie, Hugh. I didn’t know this. Was it a shotgun wedding?”

  “Not a shotgun …” said James Herndon vacantly, then suddenly caught himself and looked about apprehensive lest some one else might have understood him.

  Dr. Arnold gazed at Alys with a certain reproach and regret. “I referred,” he explained with mock primness, “to the womb of time. And since that ribald misunderstanding is cleared up, may we now drink this last and fairest of toasts?”

  They drank. Fergus saw Tom looking down directly into Janet’s gold-brown eyes. There was a question in that look, but her face gave no answer.

  “The comedy of toasts,” Dr. Arnold announced dryly, “is ended.”

  Catherine Brainard spoke for the first time since she had been rebuked over the roast. “Good,” she said. “Now we’ll all play games.”

  Upstairs lay a Mexican with a badly bruised skull. Outside was a man with a clumsily slit throat. Some place at that table sat an individual who understood throat slitting intimately. And Catherine Brainard, on her silver wedding anniversary, prattled on with her plans for parlor games.

  “… so you all go on into the livingroom now and we’ll all have some fun,” she concluded.

  “Right now?” Alys asked.

  “Of course, dear.”

  “But after so much brandy … I mean, I don’t know about some people, but …”

  Mrs. Brainard smirked. “Oh but of course. I suppose we might want to freshen up a little after dinner, mightn’t we? Very well then. We’ll all meet in the livingroom in ten minutes.”

  “What are we going to play?” Stella Paris wondered.

  “I don’t suppose,” said Fergus, “there’s any chance of Truth?”

  “Oh,” Alys burbled. “I know a wonderful game. It’s terribly exciting. It’s called—” She stopped sharply, looked around, and started to get up. Her coordination was not perfect. “Help me, Lukey,” she commanded.

  No one said a word. But there was not a person at the table who did not sense that the game Alys had almost suggested was that classic sport, Murder.

  iii

  Fergus stopped Stella Paris as she was leaving the diningroom. “I want to talk to you,” he said quietly.

  “Now?”

  “Right away. Unless you want to freshen up, as our hostess so genteelly puts it.”

  “Young man, I have always prided myself on my social bladder. Talk away.”

  “Not here. How would the library be?”

  “If we’re going into a private huddle,” said Miss Paris sensibly, “it’ll bother people a lot less if we seem to have a reason. Come on in the kitchen and we’ll tackle the dishes. I don’t think there’s the least danger of anybody offering to help.”

  Fergus scorned an apron. “Nothing,” he explained, “could make these clothes look more disreputable in this company.” He dumped a small pile of soap chips into the dishpan and sneezed once.

  “No cats here,” Miss Paris objected.

  “One sneeze doesn’t count. It’s only the mystic number that’s significant, and that—well, that’s why I’m here.” He worked up a fine sudsy foam and started in on the glasses. “I can prove it to you now. Nothing is extra.”

  “Corcoran … ?” Miss Paris asked hesitantly.

  “I saw him. The chief difference between him and Valentino is that this is a sloppy job; he’s alive. And so,” he added almost to himself, “is Ramirez. I don’t know … I don’t like murderers that leave living victims. Something abnormal about that; it worries me.”

  “I’m sure the victims prefer it.”

  “For the moment at least … But now, Miss Paris, will you answer questions? You can see I’m not trying just to rake up an old scandal. This is present and immediate.”

  Miss Paris looked with intense concentration at the glass she was drying. “I’m ready.” She held the glass up to the light and gave it an extra polishing flick.

  “Good. The Inquisition of the Soap Suds is now underway. And I hardly know where to start. There’s so damned much I want to know. And especially why people step out of character.”

  “Do we? I thought we were a rather self-consistent group.”

  “That makes it all the more striking when you’re not. And stepping out of character may be the key to it all. Look. Throat-slitting isn’t a normal part of any character. Whoever our friend is, these attacks are a deviation from his norm. All right. Look for the other deviations in the group, track those down to their sources, and you may draw a starting point for understanding … well, cats.”

  “I wish we were doing silver,” said Stella Paris. “I wouldn’t worry so much about keeping my hands steady … And what are these significant inconsistencies?”

  “For example: Horace Brainard is dominant and egocentric—or should I be more polite about your friend and our host?”

  �
��Politeness? Now?”

  “Thanks. He’s a petty Napoleon who thinks his slightest whim is an edict from above. He expects you to weep with delight when he gives you a smile, if ever, and certainly to tremble with fear at his frown. He’s ingoddamnedsufferably overbearing to his family and to you and to Herndon, and he’s tried his best on me. But one word from Lucas Quincy, and he folds up meek as a lamb. Out of character, and why?

  “Then take Quincy himself. He’s far more subtle in his dominance than Brainard. He doesn’t put on an act of demanding obedience. He simply and coldly goes his own way, and automatically exacts whatever obedience he needs. There’s a chill self-sufficiency about him, a calm acceptance of the fact that nothing matters but Lucas Quincy. And yet, though every one else is less than the dust beneath his chariot wheels, he shows the most touching concern and solicitude for James Herndon. Out of character, and why?

  “Herndon next. He’s futile and meek and rather sweet. He wouldn’t harm a tsetse fly. All he wants is peace and quiet and to be let alone. He makes helpless and pathetic attempts at pouring oil on all the troubled waters that his brother-in-law stirs up. And still he goes out of his way to be markedly rude and insulting to Alys Trent. That might be understandable enough in anyone else, but in the gentle Herndon it’s out of character, and why?

  “Or take Dr. Arnold. He—”

  “Whoa. Have mercy, sir. That’s more than enough to start with. The answer to your Brainard problem I can guess, but it’s random suspicion and nothing definite. The business about Lucas and James, I must confess, puzzles me as much as it does you. But James and Alys is simple enough; it’s merely a matter of family resemblance.”

  “Family resemblance?”

  “Of course. You see … No. It’s no use trying to explain things piecemeal. They don’t mean much all by themselves. You have to have the whole picture.”

  Fergus rinsed the last of the glasses and dumped a load of silverware into the sudsy water. “That’s what I want. Go back to 1915. That’s where it all is.”

  “Hugh gave you some idea in his toasts. But not quite all.” Miss Paris blew a speck of lint off the glass she was drying. “We were an odd group. It was a strange soil to grow friendship in. We were all so tied up with other things, so wrapped up in little preoccupations. We didn’t have time to know each other, to sense anything deeply. Each of us had his own world.