I had a strong feeling that I didn’t agree.
The man with the gray trench coat seemed to have lost interest. I saw him ahead of us, moving away down the lounge toward the main door of the hotel.
I went back to the Opal Room and paid my check. I peered through the dancers, looking for the wretched Beard who had started the trouble. I couldn’t see him.
When I got back to Iris, she had unchecked her silver fox cape and had it over her shoulders. She looked exactly the way a girl in a silver fox cape should look—slender and beautiful and distinguished. We started toward the swinging doors leading to the street.
Iris said, “You noticed that man in the gray trench coat, Peter? I—I didn’t like him.” Her expression was rather odd. “The way he looked at me. Almost as if he knew me and…”
“And what?”
But she didn’t say any more about it, because at that moment we got tangled up with a large, liveried doorman who started calling us a taxi. We got into it and I gave Eulalia Crawford’s address.
II
It was raining—a slight drizzle spattering the windows of the taxi. Iris seemed remote, her thoughts like a thin layer of cellophane between us. Once she turned to look out of the rear window. She didn’t say anything. Then, later, as we swung off Fifth Avenue somewhere in the ’teen streets, she turned around again.
Softly she said, “I may be crazy, Peter. But I think we’re being followed. Look.”
I scrambled around and stared out through the rear window. I could see the bright headlights of a private automobile. It was just swinging off Fifth Avenue behind us.
“It’s been there ever since we left the St. Anton,” said Iris.
I protested strenuously. “Do we have to go through with this screwball idea?”
“It’s such a heavenly screwball idea,” said Iris. “And if someone is following us…”
“What?”
“Then it probably means the whole thing is serious. All the more reason to warn Eulalia.”
The taxi was crawling now in a dimly lit, deserted side street. The driver was peering out of his window at the house numbers. The other car was still behind us.
“Two-thirty-five,” said the driver. “Here we are.”
He had stopped in front of a house. There were lighted windows in it, and the door, white-painted, showed a brightly illuminated hallway. I paid the fare and we stepped out. The taxi drove off.
And then it all happened, like something in one of those artificially speeded-up movies.
The car which had been dawdling behind us suddenly accelerated and came roaring forward. We swung around. We stood there by the curb, hypnotized for a moment, watching the car zoom through the dead, dark street toward us.
And as we watched it, something hurtled out of it—something large and red, soaring through the air and splashing on the damp sidewalk at our feet. We both stared down at it. I felt a kind of amazement, teetering over into horror. Because the thing was a bouquet of roses—deep scarlet roses.
I was still staring stupidly at the roses when Iris gave a little cry, grabbed at my arm, and said, “Duck, Peter!”
I followed her lead, half collapsing to the sidewalk, and only just in time.
A split second later the sharp report of a gun snarled, once and then again. I heard bullets, whistling close to my ear.
“The door!” shouted Iris. “Get to the door!”
Quicker than seemed humanly possible, we both half ran, half scrambled to the outer, glass-paneled door of two-thirty-five. I tugged the door open and pushed Iris in. I dashed in behind her, slamming the door.
The second inner door was locked. We were trapped there in the little hallway. Outside in the street I could hear the car engine roaring at a standstill. What was to prevent the gunman getting out of the car and coming here?
I looked around wildly at the buzzers. I saw Eulalia Crawford’s name coupled with another woman’s name. I made a stab at the buzzer. I hit the wrong one.
I stared dazedly. The car engine was still roaring outside. Then an answering buzz sounded in the inner door. Like a flash Iris pushed the door inward. I didn’t know what was going on in the street any more. I think I heard the car drive away. But I didn’t care. I slammed the door behind us.
“Eulalia’s studio,” panted Iris. “The man on the phone said it was on the top floor.”
We started tumbling up the stairs. What sort of a wedding anniversary was this turning out to be?
Iris said breathlessly, “Did you see the man who shot at us?”
I hadn’t. I said so. “But you did?”
She nodded. “I saw him. Peter, he was wearing a gray trench coat and a gray hat. He was the man who bit his nails. The man who was in the vestibule of the St. Anton.”
That was a shock, and yet suddenly it gave a sort of sense to the fantastic thing that had happened.
“The man from the St. Anton,” repeated Iris. “And the bouquet of red roses! The red rose—and the white rose.”
* * *
—
We had reached the top floor but one, and were hurrying down a dimly lit hallway when a door opened and a woman in a pink wrapper peered out. In an uneasy moment I realized she was the woman whose buzzer I had pressed by mistake.
I muttered, “Sorry. A mistake. We want Miss Crawford.”
She slammed her door shut.
I joined Iris on the top landing. There was only one apartment up there. Its door had the elegantly painted legend: Eulalia Crawford, Dolls, Inc. Outside the door, propped against the wall, was a dainty red cellophane umbrella. There was a small puddle of water on the linoleum beneath it.
“See! Her umbrella’s still dripping, Peter. That means she hasn’t been in long.”
Iris looked radiant now. Her finger went forward to press the little buzzer in the doorframe. Shaken as I was, seeing her do that made me sensible again.
“Stop!” I said. “Don’t press the buzzer.”
Her hand remained poised. “Why ever not, Peter?”
“You’ve got to be sensible. The man at the St. Anton, he—he mistook you for Eulalia Crawford, the way the Beard did. He saw you reading The Onlooker. He followed us to this house. He was sure then, so he shot at you. He tried to kill you because he thought you were Eulalia.”
“Bright boy,” said Iris. “Go to the head of the class.” Her hand moved slowly toward the buzzer.
“Don’t, Iris. I’m not going to let you get into this any deeper.”
“Nonsense.” Iris looked determined. “Eulalia’s the only one who can explain. And if you think I’m going through life never knowing why I was shot at, you’re crazy.”
She rang the buzzer then, imperiously. We waited, but there was no reply.
“That’s funny.”
She rang again. After the drone of the buzzer stopped, a deep silence enveloped the top floor of two-thirty-five.
Iris stooped down then, so that she could see under the door. “The lights are on inside, Peter. And the umbrella’s dripping. She must be in.”
Her hand slipped to the doorknob. She turned it and, surprisingly, the door opened.
Iris stepped into the little hall. This was mad, crazy…I followed her, closing the door behind us.
It was an ordinary little hall. But I didn’t like the silence. I don’t quite know why. Possibly because, if Eulalia was there, she had no right to be so quiet. Ahead of us was the main room, the studio.
We could see only part of it, through the archway leading from the hall. But it was rather a weird sight—because of the dolls. There were dozens of them, sprawled over everything—life-size dolls, middling-size dolls, small dolls, dolls of women in evening gowns, and men in tuxedoes, dolls of different nationalities, dolls of clowns, ballet dancers, trap
eze artists in tights—every sort of doll. And somehow they were sinister.
Iris was almost on the threshold of the studio. Softly she called, “Miss Crawford.”
I tautened. Nothing happened.
Iris stepped into the studio. She made a sound—a sharp, choking sound.
“Iris! What is it? What—?”
I ran to join her. The swarm of dolls stared from their dozens of baleful, sightless eyes. All through those awful moments, I was conscious of them as a sort of horror background. But they were only a background. Because I saw at once what Iris had seen. Part of the studio had not been visible from the hall. It was visible now, all right.
There was a desk—a large, modernistic desk. It was, inevitably, strewn with dolls, little dolls. But it wasn’t the dolls. In a chair in front of the desk was a woman. She was wearing a lemon-yellow evening gown. I couldn’t see her face, because she was slumped forward, the little dolls clustering around her. But I could see her back. And I could see the knife plunged deep into the flesh between the shoulder blades.
“Peter—is—is she dead?” Iris ran toward the woman, her hand going out.
“Don’t touch her, Iris!”
I was at her side. I was looking down at the woman’s face. It was in profile, resting on her hands, gazing pointlessly at a little over-turned doll of a blonde woman in spangled tights. That was really the worst moment.
“Eulalia!” breathed Iris.
But I could only think—Iris. In those awful seconds the resemblance was like a blow on the mouth. Eulalia Crawford was older, yes. But she was terrifyingly like Iris—the hair, the lovely, serene profile, the way the cheekbones curved.
My thoughts were reeling. Just a few moments before, Iris had been shot at. Why? Because she was mistaken for Eulalia Crawford. That’s what I had thought. But…what about this? Hadn’t Eulalia been dead—even then when the bouquet of red roses was hurled at us from the car?
Iris’s voice came dimly: “Peter, the—the man who answered the phone. The man with the stammer. He must have murdered her. He urged me to come. He left the door open so we could get in. Because he wanted us to get in. He wanted people to think that we—” She had moved around the desk. Sharply she called, “Look, Peter! Oh, look!”
I joined her, numbly. She was pointing.
There behind the desk, strewn haphazardly across the carpet in a sort of nightmare canopy, were dozens of roses. But this time the roses were not red. They were white.
Iris’s hand went down to the desk, supporting her. There was a blue book lying there with gold lettering. She touched it, and it moved, revealing something beneath it—a piece of paper with writing on it.
Iris picked it up and stared at it. “Peter, she—she must have been writing this when it happened.”
Quaveringly, she started to read.
Dear Lina:
I have to write to you to warn you. Because there’s danger—mortal danger. The white rose—and the red rose—
Iris handed the letter to me. “There’s more. But I—I can’t read it.” She paused. “Lina! Eulalia—and now Lina, too.” She was very pale. Suddenly she said, “Peter, what are we going to do?”
What, indeed? Call the police? That was the normal thing to do when you discovered a body. But could we call the police? What could we say? We had broken into a strange woman’s apartment. Why? Because of the red rose and the white rose.
What were the red rose and the white rose? We didn’t know. Who had told us about them? A drunken black-beard. Who was the drunken black-beard? We didn’t know. Where could we find him to check our story? We didn’t know. Why hadn’t we, a reputable play producer and his reputable wife, called the police in the first place if we thought something criminal was afoot? We didn’t know. At least, we did know. It was our wedding anniversary, and we thought we’d have some fun. Fun!
The whole madhouse tale scuttled through my thoughts. Who on earth would believe that? Certainly not the hardheaded police.
I glanced at the front door. The sight of it decided me. It seemed to decide Iris too. Almost simultaneously we said, “Come on. Let’s get out of here.”
Together we ran to the front door. Iris’s hand went forward for the knob.
It was then that we heard the scratch of a key in the lock outside.
Wildly I thought, That other name by the buzzer—Eulalia’s roommate!
The door was pushed open inward. And a woman stood there. I shall never have more than the vaguest impression of that woman. A youngish woman with very blonde hair and very red lips.
She was just as startled as we. She came toward us, staring. Every possible sign of guilt must have been scrawled across our faces. Eulalia’s roommate went on staring.
“Who—who are you?” she asked.
Who were we? We stood there, stiff and lifeless as the dolls.
“What are you doing here?”
Then her eyes left us. She gazed into the room beyond. I saw the horror coming into her face. And then she screamed. “Eulalia!” And, with a rising hysterical crescendo, “You killed her! You murdered her!”
After that she wasn’t saying any actual words. It was just a long, animal scream.
We were beyond any reasonable process of thought then. The woman’s blind terror infected us, too. With amazing teamwork born of panic, Iris and I dashed toward the woman, pushing her aside, and bolted along the landing outside to the stairs. In a split second we were stumbling downward.
III
We were out on the dark street, out in the drizzle—running. And, miraculously, there was a taxi. I hailed it. By a supreme effort we managed to change ourselves into a languid couple in evening dress who nonchalantly needed a taxi.
“Where to?” said the driver.
“Where to?” echoed Iris. “Oh—uptown. Somewhere gay and expensive. The Continental, I think. Yes, the Continental.”
That was smart of her. I would have given our home address. Now that we were fugitives from justice that might well have been fatal.
After the horror of two-thirty-five, the impeachably upper-crust atmosphere of the Continental was soothing. We were taken to a table. The lights were dim and the orchestra was playing a dreamy waltz. Everyone was dancing. Dancing seemed a very sensible thing to do. We danced.
I loved it—having Iris close in my arms. For a few misguided moments I really started thinking this was a nice wedding anniversary after all. Then, inevitably, Iris brought us back to reality.
“Running out like that!” she said softly. “We were crazy, Peter. We lost our nerve.”
She was soft and warm in my arms. “Yes,” I said. “We did.”
“That girl who broke in on us, that roommate of Eulalia’s,” said Iris. “Of course, she thinks we killed Eulalia.”
“Yes,” I said dreamily. Iris waltzes divinely.
“And when the police come, she’ll be able to give them a perfect description of us. So will the woman whose buzzer we rang. And the two taxi drivers—the one who took us there and the one who brought us here. It oughtn’t to be hard for the police to catch up with us.”
“True,” I agreed, worried.
Suddenly I didn’t want to dance any more. I wanted a drink. We had the waiter bring highballs to our table. Mine didn’t help my mood any. Iris’s romantic adventure!
Iris was clasping her drink in both hands, looking ethereal. Slowly she said, “You know, Peter, we’ve done everything but confess to that murder.”
“Exactly.”
“Probably the police are after us even now. And it’s not only that. The man with the gray trench coat shot at us once. Maybe he wants to shoot at us again.”
“Goody,” I said dourly.
“And I don’t see how we can possibly exonerate ourselves unless—”
“Unless—what?”
“Unless we find out the truth. I mean the truth about the red roses and the white roses. Then we could go to the police and make a clean breast of it.”
“And how could we find out the truth?”
“I don’t know,” Iris confessed helplessly, and then opened her pocketbook. “Maybe this! This letter Eulalia had started to write.”
She pulled it out and handed it to me.
I groaned. “So you stole valuable evidence, too! That’s another ten years on our sentence.”
“I’m sorry, darling,” Iris looked rueful. “I just forgot to put it down.”
I stared with a jaundiced eye at the brief, cryptic scrawl.
Dear Lina:
I have to write to you to warn you—
Iris leaned over and looked too. “We know that—about warning Lina of the red rose and the white rose. But that other line I couldn’t read. Can you make it out?”
I stared at the sprawling, indecipherable script. “ ‘The white rose and the red rose are out,’ ” I read. “ ‘And the—something…The—the crocus is opening.’ ”
The note broke off there. We stared at each other. “The crocus!” exclaimed Iris. “The red rose—the white rose—the opening crocus.”
“The whole damn’ botanical garden.”
“Lina would know,” said Iris. “There’s danger for her—just the way there was danger for Eulalia. Lina would be able to tell us everything.”
“Lina—U. S. A.,” I said. “She’s going to be a cinch to locate.”
Iris wasn’t listening. Suddenly her eyes lit up. “The Beard!” she exclaimed.
“To hell with the Beard,” I said.
“But, Peter, the Beard knows everything. He could prove our story was really on the level. If we took the Beard to the police, everything might be all right.”
“I might remind you that we don’t know the Beard’s name. We don’t know where he lives or what—”
“That doesn’t matter.” Iris was her old, enthusiastic self again. “There aren’t so many black beards in New York.” She rose, wrapping her silver fox around her. “Come on. We’re going to find the Beard.”
The Big Book of Female Detectives Page 121