I made my concoction late in the evening before you arrived, after Robert and Mrs. Benson had gone to bed. Then I soaked the paper wrapping of the bachelor’s button in it, so that it would seep into the surrounding pudding—and of course I made sure that Robert would get it.
It was only after his death that the doctor told me that the wrong dose could have killed him.
I confess I hoped against hope that one of you might have tried to poison him, which is why I questioned you all so closely just now; but I can no longer escape the fact that I killed Robert myself.
At least, you and Anne will now get your father’s money. There is nothing else I can do for you. Whether or not you decide to sell the house, please destroy the clump of foxgloves near the gate. And tell Mrs. Benson to throw away the small copper saucepan.
With all my love,
Mother.
EVELYN E. SMITH - MISS MELVILLE REJOICES
Evelyn Smith .claims a rare distinction. She’s one of those exotic few who were actually born and have lived their whole lives in New York City. And so, moreover, is her cat Christopher.
Unvaried as her physical surroundings have been, Evelyn’s writing career has taken her all over the galaxy. It’s said that her early science fiction and fantasy stories earned rave reviews on Alpha Centauri. Coming down to earth, she began working on and writing for women’s magazines, winding up as Features Editor on Family Circle. During that period, she was also writing Gothic novels, plus books and articles on witchcraft and mail order under the pen name Delphine C. Lyons.
Then, out of the everywhere into the here, came Miss Susan Melville, another New Yorker with a unique approach to community service, and Evelyn Smith was again relaunched as a mystery novelist. This is Miss Melville’s first appearance in a short story; we rejoice to have her.
Darkness had fallen and a light snow was beginning to come down as a dim figure swathed in a voluminous raincoat crept furtively down the short flight of steps that led into the sunken yard of a white limestone-fronted building on a quiet, expensive street on New York City’s quiet, expensive East Side. The dim figure disconnected the alarm system attached to the grille beneath the front stoop, unlocked the grille and swung it open, passed through, re-locked the grille and swung it shut, reconnected the alarm, disconnected the alarm attached to the inner door, unlocked the three locks with which the inner door was fastened, opened the door, entered the basement, closed the door, relocked the three locks, and reconnected the alarm.
On the upper floors of the building there were lights and movement. Later there would be feasting and merriment, for it was Christmas Eve and the Melville Foundation for Anthropological Research was giving a party in honor of the deposed dictator of Mazigaziland, the infamous Matthew Zimwi, the man for whom Time magazine had established the category of Monster of the Year.
Inside the basement all was dark and had been quiet until the furtive figure entered and, stumbling into a sawhorse—on which, for some unaccountable reason, a bucket of small metallic objects had been balanced—knocked down a group of boards propped against it. There was a crash, followed by a ladylike oath, for the furtive figure was a lady and not only a lady but Susan Melville, world-renowned artist, en-dower of the Melville Foundation, and owner of the building she had so surreptitiously entered.
And why had Susan Melville entered her own building so surreptitiously, over four hours before a party which, she had informed Dr. Peter Franklin, director of the Melville Foundation, not even wild horses would compel her to attend? She had arrived this early because in half an hour the catering staff, and then the security guards without whom no New York social occasion would be complete, were due to arrive, considerably diminishing her chances of getting inside the building without being seen. The reason she did not wish to be seen was that she was planning to kill the guest of honor and wanted to be as unobtrusive about it as she could.
Matthew Zimwi would not be the first person Susan Melville had sent to his last reward, nor would he, unless she was unlucky, be the last. Like so many of the other old New York families, the Melvilles had a long tradition of public service. They had founded some institutions, served on the boards of others, contributed to charity, and lent their names to causes they deemed worthy. A few of the most zealous had even performed hands-on community service, though none quite so hands-on as Susan’s.
Her line of good works consisted of executing individuals of bad character who were beyond the reach of the local law. Over the last few years, in her own quiet way, Susan had been very successful at this; and one of the secrets of her success had been that she prepared very thoroughly for each sortie. Never before, however, had she been forced to make such elaborate preparations as she had for this one, but never before had she been required to strike so close to home.
Susan didn’t dare turn on a light in the basement, for, although the windows were covered with ornamental ironwork, this was designed to protect the interior from unauthorized entry, not to shield it from public view. The feeble beam of the pencil flashlight she had brought along was of little help in lighting her way through the shadowy masses that loomed up ahead of her. It had been a mistake, she thought, to give the workmen carte blanche to store their effects down here over the holidays. She had not realized there would be so much, or that the individual pieces would be so large and have so many painful protuberances. Each time she kicked something or tripped over something, she halted, fearful that someone on the floor above would hear the noises below and come down to investigate.
But no footsteps clattered down the narrow winding stairs; no creak came from the elevator. Not that it could creak, she recalled, because it was not there. Some days before, the elevator had been condemned by the building inspector and one of the last things the workmen had been supposed to do before they knocked off for the holidays was to eviscerate it. She had hoped that this mischance would put a stop to Peter’s party plans; however, he pointed out, as the Foundation officially occupied only the first two floors of the building, the elevator was seldom used and did not enter into those plans.
Probably it was the elevator’s innards that were taking up so much room, she thought. She noted with approval as she passed the elevator door that a notice saying “Out of Order” had been affixed to it. She had issued instructions that such notices were to be placed on all elevator doors—indeed, she believed that safety-code regulations required them—but workmen didn’t always follow instructions (or safety-code regulations, either).
Just beyond the elevator door was the door to the back stairs, and beyond that, another door. Susan unlocked the third door, went inside, and relocked it behind her. An earlier tenant who went in for orgies had had this room soundproofed and the windows blocked, so she could safely turn on the light and breathe freely. She did both; then sat down on an old couch and relaxed. If she wished, she could read, listen to the radio, even have a bite to eat, for she had previously stocked her retreat with the wherewithal for all these activities. Now all she had to do was wait.
At this point in her life, Matthew Zimwi was not a person she would normally have chosen to kill. Once she might have considered an ousted tyrant an appropriate subject for her gun, but time and economic independence had mellowed her. Why bother with fallen tyrants who were unlikely to be in a position to commit any more atrocities when there were so many miscreants in power committing one atrocity after another? Furthermore, it was a long-standing custom of hers not to kill anyone over the Christmas holidays. Susan was not a conventionally religious woman, but she did feel there were certain things that should be kept sacred, even if you didn’t believe in them.
However, Peter had forced her to put Zimwi at the top of her hit list. She and Peter had been together in the apartment they shared, preparing for quite another kind of party—the Fitzhorn Foundation’s Winter Gala to benefit something or other; she went to so many affairs of that kind, she lost track of what they were for—when, casually, as if it were the most n
atural thing in the world, Peter told her he was planning to give a Christmas Eve party for Matthew Zimwi at the Melville Foundation Building.
Susan could not believe her ears. “You want to give a Christmas party for Matthew Zimwi—the Monster of Mazigaziland? Peter, either you’re joking or you’re crazy.”
“I fail to see that either term applies, Susan. He was very hospitable to me when I went on that expedition to Mazigaziland back in ‘85. That’s when he presented me with that beautiful tapestry that’s hanging temporarily on the third floor until I can find a suitable place for it downstairs. It seems to me only fitting that I should try to repay his kindness.”
“He’s a sadist, a murderer, a cannibal. And that tapestry, as you call it, is an eyesore.”
“Different cultures have different norms. You mustn’t judge either the Mazigazians or their art by our standards.”
“Apparently he was judged unworthy even by Mazigaziland standards: They threw him out, didn’t they?”
“That was just politics,” Peter scoffed.
“Politics or not, I’m sure, when you think it over, you’ll see for yourself that it would be most inappropriate for you to give a party for him,” Susan insisted. And when he opened his mouth, she added, “We’ll talk about this after we come back from the gala. We’re late already.”
The subject of Matthew Zimwi inevitably came up at dinner, as subjects one is trying to avoid so often do. No one had a kind word for him. Tony Turtle, the fashion designer, told the other guests at the table that he’d wanted to visit Mazigaziland some years back to study native dress. “... But the State Department strongly advised against it. They said, off the record, because Mazigaziland is one of our country’s good friends and allies, that I stood a good chance of being eaten if I went.”
“Well, you are a succulent little thing,” said Mimi von Schwabe, who had been born a Fitzhorn, hence was hostess not only of the table but of the whole event. “I could eat you myself.”
Everyone laughed dutifully, except Susan, who felt that she had done enough by paying two thousand dollars for the tickets, and Peter, who stuck up for all cultures except his own. “I don’t see why everyone keeps harping on the Mazigazians’ alleged cannibalism,” he said testily. “Yes, they were cannibals once—as most peoples were if you go back far enough—but they gave it up generations ago. I know there’s talk that Zimwi still went in for it, but nobody was ever able to prove a thing.”
“How could they?” said a pudgy man whose name Susan hadn’t caught but whom she’d seen on television either being let out of prison for insider trading or being put in prison for outsider trading. “The evidence was eaten.”
“Whatever became of this Zimwi person?” Mimi asked. “Did they put him in the pot or did he get away?”
“He got away just in the nick of time,” someone obscured from view by the floral centerpiece said. “He’s said to be hiding now. Anyhow, nobody knows where he is.”
“Hard for someone who’s—what did Time say?—six feet, six inches tall and weighs three hundred pounds to hide,” Tony Turtle observed.
“I understand there’s quite a substantial price on his head,” the financier added wistfully. Financiers were always in need of capital. Besides, everyone could use a little extra cash at Christmas.
“I gather you know where Mr. Zimwi is,” Susan said to Peter after they’d gotten back to the apartment; “otherwise you wouldn’t have thought of giving him a party. Don’t you see, though, that if you give him a party, everybody will know his whereabouts. There will be curiosity seekers, reporters, bounty hunters.”
“I haven’t told—I mean, I’m not going to tell—the guests whom the party is for. Afterward Zimwi’s going directly to Washington—he’s come here to seek asylum, you know—so let the reporters and curiosity seekers and bounty hunters bay at the Foundation’s door; he won’t be here for them to harass.”
But you will be, she thought, and I will be. Not here, of course; I’ll be sure to stay away for the next couple of weeks or months, but there’s nothing to keep the reporters—she didn’t worry about curiosity seekers and bounty hunters—from baying outside my apartment house. Over the years she had grown used to publicity, which was the natural concomitant of a successful artistic career; but, even if she was no longer able to keep her low profile, she had at least been able to keep her elevated image. The presence of Matthew Zimwi in the Melville Building would not enhance that image. Of course she could say she had nothing to do with inviting Zimwi, but people would either think she was lying, or that she was repudiating Peter.
She sighed. “Is Mr. Zimwi in New York at the moment?”
“Well, I don’t suppose there’s any harm in telling you—yes, he is.”
“Where is he staying? I can’t believe any hotel would have him, especially after what happened at the Mazigazi Hilton the year before he was thrown out.”
“He’s staying at a friend’s apartment.”
“I didn’t know he had friends in New York. Or anywhere, for that matter. Anyone I know?”
Peter avoided her eye. “If you must know, he’s staying in that old apartment of Roland’s on the third floor of this building. I told the workmen to keep away from that floor until after the holidays. They have enough to do on the other floors. You’ve never objected to my letting guests stay there before, so I was sure you wouldn’t mind now.”
She’d never objected to his having guests there; she’d never objected—at least verbally—when he stayed there the night himself on occasions when he said he had to work late. The truth was, Susan had always suspected that he was dallying with his assistant, Dr. Katherine Froehlich, celebrated ethnologist and bimbo. She was furious but naturally she did not show it. “This is just a little different, Peter. Matthew Zimwi is not an ordinary guest.”
Peter assumed his martyred look. “Of course it’s your building and your Foundation. As director, I’m merely your employee, so to speak. If you’re absolutely set against my letting him stay, there’s nothing I can do. In the morning—I assume you won’t mind if I wait until morning—I’ll tell him he has to go.”
That effectively stopped her, as he had known it would. He was an anthropologist; he knew the customs of her tribe. If she had been married to him, she could have put her foot down, but he was her lover— had been her lover for more years than most marriages endured in her circle—and so she had an obligation to him that would not have devolved upon a wife. “No, Peter, you’re the director of the Foundation. Yours is the final authority. Although, strictly speaking, the apartment is not part of the Foundation. Remember, that’s why we’re renovating the place, so we can put the upper floors to use. And, speaking of renovations, I don’t see how you can possibly think of giving a party with the place in such a mess.”
“It isn’t in nearly as much of a mess as it looks. All they’ve really done downstairs is dump that stuff in the foyer, and I’ve told them to put it down in the basement when they knock off for the holidays. That is, if I have your permission to tell them to put the stuff in the basement; that isn’t part of the Foundation either, strictly speaking.”
“Don’t be silly, Peter. You know you’ve always been free to use the basement.”
All except the back room. From the start Susan had reserved the back room as hers. In it she’d stored some bits and pieces that no longer fitted in her apartment but that she was reluctant to throw away. Mostly she’d wanted it as a place where she could keep her guns. The locked suitcases on the closet shelf in the apartment had become inadequate, not only for security reasons, but because one suitcase, or even two, would no longer be enough to contain them. Once she had discovered how easy it was to get guns in the South, she had found herself picking them up whenever she traveled, the way other people picked up antique napkin rings. In order to explain the maximum-security lock she’d had installed on the door, she’d let it be known that she kept some of her paintings there. Since Susan Melville’s paintings sold w
ell into the six figures, that was explanation enough.
She kept on trying to dissuade Peter from his ill-advised project. “How can you possibly expect to get a party organized at such short notice?”
He smiled in a superior sort of way. “This will be a quiet little private party, not one of those elaborate affairs you’re always going to. I haven’t even—I’m not going to send out invitations. I’ve—I’m just going to call up a few friends and colleagues—no more than thirty or forty or so—and ask them informally.”
“Won’t people already have made plans for Christmas Eve?”
“Not people like these—scholars, academics, intellectuals—simple folk, not your jet-setters and-social butterflies, who make their plans weeks, even months, in advance. And most of the people I’m asking would jump at the chance to attend a party at the Foundation.” Peter seemed very confident. But of course he was. He had already made sure of his guests before he sprang the party on Susan.
She sighed. “I can’t stop you from giving your party,” she said, which was not quite true, but she was reluctant to have a showdown with Peter, especially at Christmas. “But don’t expect me to act as hostess.”
“That will be a great disappointment, but I wouldn’t want you to do anything that goes against your conscience. I’m sure Dr. Froehlich would be happy to act as hostess.”
Susan went to bed and dreamed that she was chopping Dr. Froehlich into very small pieces with one of the primitive weapons with which the Foundation’s offices abounded. When she awoke she found that Peter had already gotten up and was in one of the guest rooms contemplating his Oupi warrior outfit, which he had laid out on the bed. “It’s getting to look a bit grungy,” he mused. “I wonder whether I dare send it to the dry cleaner’s.”
“It has always looked grungy. Don’t tell me you’re planning to wear it again somewhere?” A dreadful suspicion hit her. “This party of yours—it isn’t going to be a costume party, is it?”
Christmas Stalkings Page 15