The Black House

by Patricia Highsmith

  The matter of what to do with the fingers was put aside for that morning, as the Herberts had laid on a drive to Cambridge, followed by lunch at the house of a don who was a friend of the Herberts. Unthinkable to cancel that because of getting involved with the police, so the fingers did not come up that morning in conversation. They talked of anything else during the drive. Michael and Gladys and Eddie had decided, before taking off for Cambridge, that they should not discuss the fingers again in front of Phyllis, but let it blow over, if possible. Eddie and Phyllis were to leave on the afternoon of Wednesday, day after tomorrow, and by then the matter might be cleared up or in the hands of the police.

  Gladys also had gently warned Phyllis not to bring up “the cat incident” at the don’s house, so Phyllis did not. All went well and happily, and the Herberts and Eddie and Phyllis were back at the Herberts’ house around four. Edna told Gladys she had just realized they were short of butter, and since she was watching a cake . . . Michael, in the living room with Eddie, heard this and volunteered to go to the grocery.

  Michael bought the butter, a couple of packets of cigarettes, a box of toffee that looked nice, and was served by Mary in her usual modest and polite manner. He had been hoping for news from her. Michael had taken his change and was walking to the door, when Mary cried: “Oh, Mr. Herbert!”

  Michael turned round.

  “I heard of someone disappearing just this noon,” Mary said, leaning toward Michael across the counter, smiling now. “Bill Reeves—lives on Mr. Dickenson’s property, you know. He has a cottage there, works on the land—or did.”

  Michael didn’t know Bill Reeves, but he certainly knew of the Dickenson property, which was vast, to the northwest of the village. Bill Reeves’s initials fitted the W.R. on the ring. “Yes? He disappeared?”

  “About two weeks ago, Mr. Vickers told me. Mr. Vickers has the petrol station near the Dickenson property, you know. He came in today, so I thought I’d ask him.” She smiled again, as if she had done satisfactorily with Michael’s little riddle.

  Michael knew the petrol station and knew how Vickers looked, vaguely. “Interesting. Does Mr. Vickers know why he disappeared?”

  “No. Mr. Vickers said it’s a mystery. Bill Reeves’s wife left the cottage too, a few days ago, but everyone knows she went to Manchester to stay with her sister there.”

  Michael nodded. “Well, well. Shows it can happen even here, eh? People disappearing.” He smiled and went out of the shop.

  The thing to do was ring up Tom Dickenson, Michael thought, and ask him what he knew. Michael didn’t call him Tom, had met him only a couple of times at local political rallies and such. Dickenson was about thirty, married, had inherited, and now led the life of gentleman farmer, Michael thought. The family was in the wool industry, had factories up north, and had owned their land here for generations.

  When he got home, Michael asked Eddie to come up to his study, and despite Phyllis’s curiosity, did not invite her to join them. Michael told Eddie what Mary had said about the disappearance of a farmworker called Bill Reeves a couple of weeks ago. Eddie agreed that they might ring up Dickenson.

  “The initials on the ring could be an accident,” Eddie said. “The Dickenson place is fifteen miles from here, you say.”

  “Yes, but I still think I’ll ring him.” Michael looked up the number in the directory on his desk. There were two numbers. Michael tried the first.

  A servant answered, or someone who sounded like a servant, inquired Michael’s name, then said he would summon Mr. Dickenson. Michael waited a good minute. Eddie was waiting too. “Hello, Mr. Dickenson. I’m one of your neighbors, Michael Herbert . . . Yes, yes, I know we have—couple of times. Look, I have a question to ask which you might think odd, but—I understand you had a workman or tenant on your land called Bill Reeves?”

  “Ye-es?” replied Tom Dickenson.

  “And where is he now? I’m asking because I was told he disappeared a couple of weeks ago.”

  “Yes, that’s true. Why do you ask?”

  “Do you know where he went?”

  “No idea,” replied Dickenson. “Did you have any dealings with him?”

  “No. Could you tell me what his wife’s name is?”

  “Marjorie.”

  That fitted the first initial. “Do you happen to know her maiden name?”

  Tom Dickenson chuckled. “I’m afraid I don’t.”

  Michael glanced at Eddie, who was watching him. “Do you know if Bill Reeves wore a wedding ring?”

  “No. Never paid that much attention to him. Why?”

  Why, indeed? Michael shifted. If he ended the conversation here, he would not have learned much. “Because—I’ve found something that just might be a clue in regard to Bill Reeves. I presume someone’s looking for him, if no one knows his whereabouts.”

  “I’m not looking for him,” Tom Dickenson replied in his easy manner. “I doubt if his wife is, either. She moved out a week ago. May I ask what you found?”

  “I’d rather not say over the phone . . . I wonder if I could come to see you. Or perhaps you could come to my house.”

  After an instant of silence, Dickenson said, “Quite honestly, I’m not interested in Reeves. I don’t think he left any debts, as far as I know, I’ll say that for him. But I don’t care what’s happened to him, if I may speak frankly.”

  “I see. Sorry to’ve bothered you, Mr. Dickenson.”

  They hung up.

  Michael turned to Eddie Phelps and said, “I think you got most of that. Dickenson’s not interested.”

  “Can’t expect Dickenson to be concerned about a disappeared farmworker. Did I hear him say the wife’s gone too?”

  “Thought I told you. She went to Manchester to her sister’s, Mary told me.” Michael took a pipe from the rack on his desk and began to fill it. “Wife’s name is Marjorie. Fits the initial on the ring.”

  “True,” said the Colonel, “but there’re lots of Marys and Margarets in the world.”

  “Dickenson didn’t know her maiden name. Now look, Eddie, with no help from Dickenson, I’m thinking we ought to buzz the police and get this over with. I’m sure I can’t bring myself to bury that—object. The thing would haunt me. I’d be thinking a dog would dig it up, even if it’s just bones or in a worse state, and the police would have to start with somebody else besides me, and with a trail not so fresh to follow.”

  “You’re still thinking of foul play?—I have a simpler idea,” Eddie said with an air of calm and logic. “Gladys said there was a hospital twenty miles away, I presume in Colchester. We might ask if in the last two weeks or so there’s been an accident involving the loss of third and fourth fingers of a man’s left hand. They’d have his name. It looks like an accident and of the kind that doesn’t happen every day.”

  Michael was on the brink of agreeing to this, at least before ringing the police, when the telephone rang. Michael took it, and found Gladys on the line downstairs with a man whose voice sounded like Dickenson’s. “I’ll take it, Gladys.”

  Tom Dickenson said hello to Michael. “I’ve—I thought if you really would like to see me—”

  “I’d be very glad to.”

  “I’d prefer to speak with you alone, if that’s possible.”

  Michael assured him it was, and Dickenson said he could come along in about twenty minutes. Michael put the telephone down with a feeling of relief, and said to Eddie, “He’s coming over now and wants to talk with me alone. That is the best.”

  “Yes.” Eddie got up from Michael’s sofa, disappointed. “He’ll be more open, if he has anything to say. Are you going to tell him about the fingers?” He peered at Michael sideways, bushy eyebrows raised.

  “May not come to that. I’ll see what he has to say first.”

  “He’s going to ask you what y
ou found.”

  Michael knew that. They went downstairs. Michael saw Phyllis in the back garden, banging a croquet ball all by herself, and heard Gladys’s voice in the kitchen. Michael informed Gladys, out of Edna’s hearing, of the imminent arrival of Tom Dickenson, and explained why: Mary’s information that a certain Bill Reeves was missing, a worker on Dickenson’s property. Gladys realized at once that the initials matched.

  And here came Dickenson’s car, a black Triumph convertible, rather in need of a wash. Michael went out to greet him. “Hellos,” and “you remember mes.” They vaguely remembered each other. Michael invited Dickenson into the house before Phyllis could drift over and compel an introduction.

  Tom Dickenson was blond and tallish, now in leather jacket and corduroys and green rubber boots which he assured Michael were not muddy. He had just been working on his land, and hadn’t taken the time to change.

  “Let’s go up,” said Michael, leading the way to the stairs.

  Michael offered Dickenson a comfortable armchair, and sat down on his old sofa. “You told me—Bill Reeves’s wife went off too?”

  Dickenson smiled a little, and his bluish-gray eyes gazed calmly at Michael. “His wife left, yes. But that was after Reeves vanished. Marjorie went to Manchester, I heard. She has a sister there. The Reeves weren’t getting on so well. They’re both about twenty-five—Reeves fond of his drink. I’ll be glad to replace Reeves, frankly. Easily done.”

  Michael waited for more. It didn’t come. Michael was wondering why Dickenson had been willing to come to see him about a farmworker he didn’t much like?

  “Why’re you interested?” Dickenson asked. Then he broke out in a laugh which made him look younger and happier. “Is Reeves perhaps asking for a job with you—under another name?”

  “Not at all.” Michael smiled too. “I haven’t anywhere to lodge a worker. No.”

  “But you said you found something?” Tom Dickenson’s brows drew in a polite frown of inquiry.

  Michael looked at the floor, then lifted his eyes and said, “I found two fingers of a man’s left hand—with a wedding ring on one finger. The initials on the ring could stand for William Reeves. The other initials are M.T., which could be Marjorie somebody. That’s why I thought I should ring you up.”

  Had Dickenson’s face gone paler, or was Michael imagining? Dickenson’s lips were slightly parted, his eyes uncertain. “Good lord, found it where?”

  “Our cat dragged it in—believe it or not. Had to tell my wife, because the cat brought it into the living room in front of all of us.” Somehow it was a tremendous relief for Michael to get the words out. “My old friend Eddie Phelps and his American niece are here now. They saw it.” Michael stood up. Now he wanted a cigarette, got the box from his desk and offered it to Dickenson.

  Dickenson said he had just stopped smoking, but he would like one.

  “It was a bit shocking,” Michael went on, “so I thought I’d make some inquiries in the neighborhood before I spoke to the police. I think informing the police is the right thing to do. Don’t you?”

  Dickenson did not answer at once.

  “I had to cut away some of the finger to get the ring off—with Eddie’s assistance last night.” Dickenson still said nothing, only drew on his cigarette, frowning. “I thought the ring might give a clue, which it does, though it might have nothing at all to do with this Bill Reeves. You don’t seem to know if he wore a wedding ring, and you don’t know Marjorie’s maiden name.”

  “Oh, that one can find out.” Dickenson’s voice sounded different and more husky.

  “Do you think we should do that? Or maybe you know where Reeves’s parents live. Or Marjorie’s parents? Maybe Reeves is at one or the other’s place now.”

  “Not at his wife’s parents’, I’ll bet,” said Dickenson with a nervous smile. “She’s fed up with him.”

  “Well—what do you think? I’ll tell the police? . . . Would you like to see the ring?”

  “No. I’ll take your word.”

  “Then I’ll get in touch with the police tomorrow—or this evening. I suppose the sooner the better.” Michael noticed Dickenson glancing around the room as if he might see the fingers lying on a bookshelf.

  The study door moved and Portland Bill walked in. Michael never quite closed his door, and Bill had an assured way with doors, rearing a little and giving them a push.

  Dickenson blinked at the cat, then said to Michael in a firm voice, “I could stand a whiskey. May I?”

  Michael went downstairs and brought back the bottle and two glasses in his hands. There had been no one in the living room. Michael poured. Then he shut the door of his study.

  Dickenson took a good inch of his drink at the first gulp. “I may as well tell you now that I killed Reeves.”

  A tremor went over Michael’s shoulders, yet he told himself that he had known this all along—or since Dickenson’s telephone call to him, anyway. “Yes?” said Michael.

  “Reeves had been . . . trying it on with my wife. I won’t give it the dignity of calling it an affair. I blame my wife—flirting in a silly way with Reeves. He was just a lout, as far as I’m concerned. Handsome and stupid. His wife knew, and she hated him for it.” Dickenson drew on the last of his cigarette, and Michael fetched the box again. Dickenson took one. “Reeves got ever more sure of himself. I wanted to sack him and send him away, but I couldn’t because of his lease on the cottage, and I didn’t want to bring the situation with my wife to light—with the law, I mean, as a reason.”

  “How long did this go on?”

  Dickenson had to think. “Maybe about a month.”

  “And your wife—now?”

  Tom Dickenson sighed, and rubbed his eyes. He sat hunched forward in his chair. “We’ll patch it up. We’ve hardly been married a year.”

  “She knows you killed Reeves?”

  Now Dickenson sat back, propped a green boot on one knee, and drummed the fingers of one hand on the arm of his chair. “I don’t know. She may think I just sent him packing. She didn’t ask any questions.”

  Michael could imagine, and he could also see that Dickenson would prefer that his wife never knew. Michael realized that he would have to make a decision: to turn Dickenson over to the police or not. Or would Dickenson even prefer to be turned in? Michael was listening to the confession of a man who had had a crime on his conscience for more than two weeks, bottled up inside himself, or so Michael assumed. And how had Dickenson killed him? “Does anyone else know?” Michael asked cautiously.

  “Well—I can tell you about that. I suppose I must. Yes.” Dickenson’s voice was again hoarse, and his whiskey gone.

  Michael got up and replenished Dickenson’s glass.

  Dickenson sipped now, and stared at the wall beside Michael.

  Portland Bill sat at a little distance from Michael, concentrating on Dickenson as if he understood every word and was waiting for the next installment.

  “I told Reeves to stop playing about with my wife or leave my property with his own wife, but he brought up the lease—and why didn’t I speak to my wife. Arrogant, you know, so pleased with himself that the master’s wife had deigned to look at him and—” Dickenson began again. “Tuesdays and Fridays I go to London to take care of the company. A couple of times, Diane said she didn’t feel like going to London or she had some other engagement. Reeves could always manage to find a little work close to the house on those days, I’m sure. And then—there was a second victim—like me.”

  “Victim? What do you mean?”

  “Peter.” Now Dickenson rolled his glass between his hands, the cigarette projected from his lips, and he stared at the wall beside Michael, and spoke as if he were narrating what he saw on a screen there. “We were trimming some hedgerows deep in the fields, cutting stakes too for new markings. Reeves and I. Axes an
d sledgehammers. Peter was driving in stakes quite a way from us. Peter’s another hand like Reeves, been with me longer. I had the feeling Reeves might attack me—then say it was an accident or some such. It was afternoon, and he’d had a few pints at lunch. He had a hatchet. I didn’t turn my back on Reeves, and my anger was somehow rising. He had a smirk on his face, and he swung his hatchet as if to catch me in the thigh, though he wasn’t near enough to me. Then he turned his back on me—arrogantly—and I hit him in the head with the big hammer. I hit him a second time as he was falling, but that landed on his back. I didn’t know Peter was so close to me, or I didn’t think about that. Peter came running, with his ax. Peter said, ‘Good! Damn the bastard!’ or something like that, and—” Dickenson seemed stuck for words, and looked at the floor, then the cat.

  “And then? . . . Reeves was dead.”

  “Yes. All this happened in seconds. Peter really finished it with a bash on Reeves’s head with the ax. We were quite near some woods—my woods. Peter said, ‘Let’s bury the swine! Get rid of him!’ Peter was in a cursing rage and I was out of my mind for a different reason, maybe shock, but Peter was saying that Reeves had been having it off with his wife too, or trying to, and that he knew about Reeves and Diane. Peter and I dug a grave in the woods, both of us working like madmen—hacking at tree roots and throwing up earth with our hands. At the last, just before we threw him in, Peter took the hatchet and said—something about Reeves’s wedding ring, and he brought the hatchet down a couple of times on Reeves’s hand.”

  Michael did not feel so well. He leaned over, mainly to lower his head, and stroked the cat’s strong back. The cat still concentrated on Dickenson.

  “Then—we buried it, both of us drenched in sweat by then. Peter said, ‘You won’t get a word out of me, sir. This bastard deserved what he got.’ We trampled the grave and Peter spat on it. Peter’s a man, I’ll say that for him.”

  “A man . . . And you?”

  “I dunno.” Dickenson’s eyes were serious when he next spoke. “That was one of the days Diane had a tea date at some women’s club in our village. The same afternoon, I thought, my God, the fingers! Maybe they’re just lying there on the ground, because I couldn’t remember Peter or myself throwing them into the grave. So I went back. I found them. I could’ve dug another hole, except that I hadn’t brought anything to dig with and I also didn’t want . . . anything more of Reeves on my land. So I got into my car and drove, not caring where, not paying any attention to where I was, and when I saw some woods, I got out and flung the thing as far as I could.”