Night Call and Other Stories of Suspense

by Armstrong Charlotte

  Don’t, Henry, she thought. Please stop talking . . . Go away . . .

  “Like so much sugar candy,” Henry said.

  “A flash flood can be pretty bad,” said the old man with a bit of relish. “Oh, I’ve seen them.”

  “I’ll bet you have,” said Henry. “Well, nice to see you feeling better, Mr. John. But I got to get along.” Henry rose. “Come on, Hallie. I’ll drive you home.”

  He sounded so casual and natural, as if she could get up out of the wing chair, go out of this house and walk away, living, beside a living Henry Green. She was tempted. Then the fabric of the old man’s shirt stirred.

  Hallie spoke in a voice so easily friendly that it astonished her. “No, thanks, Henry. I’d like to stay and talk to Mr. John some more.”

  Henry said, quickly, sharply, “You can’t walk home in the pouring rain!”

  All the little muscles in her body jumped. Her eyes darted to the windows, beyond which, as far as she could tell, the sun was shining as it had been shining. The light had not changed. There was no rain.

  She said, quavering in the bewilderment and even in fear, “I—I don’t . . . see any rain.”

  Then she knew that while her face was half turned Henry was winking at the old man. On the periphery of her vision she saw Henry’s fingers make the little circles near the skull that have one well-known meaning. She turned her face slowly. The old man sat still, gaping at Henry, who said to him quite openly now, as if she were not even in the room, “Hallie White is sick. You know that, Mr. John? She’s been seeing things and hearing things, and even smelling things that weren’t there. Oh, she’s real mixed-up, and her Ma’s mighty worried. I better take her . . .”

  The old man’s whiskery jaw trembled. He looked at her. “Hallie’s fine, seems to me.”

  She said, “I don’t know. I don’t understand . . .”

  Henry jerked his head at old John as if to say, without words, you come aside a minute. Then Henry walked away, not out of the house, but deeper into it. John Bryson got up and walked after him, and Bryson had the gun close to Henry’s back.

  Hallie was left, frozen, in the wing chair. What was happening? What was Henry doing? What was she supposed to do? Slip away? Get out the front door? Run? Or play sick, as one who could not trust her own senses?

  Out there the sun did shine and there was no rain. And Henry Green was nobody’s fool. Oh, no—nobody’s fool. Hallie stopped trembling. She got to her feet. The men had gone into the kitchen. She kicked off her shoes. She crept after them. It was wonderful to be moving. She felt no fear at all.

  She peered around the kitchen door frame and saw that Henry was opening the back door of the house. He stepped through it and the old man followed. Then they were standing under the wide eaves, out there. And the sun beat on the cactus and the rocks, and the bone-dry soil.

  Hallie tip-toed across the kitchen. She heard Henry say in a clear, calm voice, “I don’t like leaving her loose. Might have been the shock, when she killed your nephew. But I tell you, she can’t see straight or hear straight. Certainly is sad to see.”

  “Sad to see . . .” old John murmured. He was bewildered.

  “Didn’t you hear her yourself?” said Henry loudly. “Why, she can’t even tell that it’s raining, and look! Look at it, coming down! Henry took hold of the old man’s elbow. “Look how it’s washing the soil away from where you buried the stuff.”

  She saw the old man’s head jerk convulsively. Then she knew that Henry’s strong hand was on the gun. He said to the old man, “It’s over there, is it? By the big red rock? Well, that saves trouble.”

  The old man began to whimper like a dog that has pain. Henry looked back through the open door at her. “Call the station, Hallie,” he said without surprise to see her there, “and tell Sam Miller and Con Meloney to get right up here.”

  Hallie said, “Yes, sir.” She went stumbling back through the house, looking for the telephone.

  When the men came they dug in the walled cactus garden. Near the red rock they found Hallie’s beige top-coat, a man’s shirt and a man’s jacket, and all three garments were blood-stained.

  Hallie White and Henry Green were in her little car, parked high on the slope. Below, blue dusk crept in to fill the valley’s cup; across and high, there was rose and lavender, sliding through a clear and golden light that struck on the mountain tops.

  Hallie wasn’t watching the sunset. She had made Henry stop tooling her little car merrily up and down the streets like a boy with a toy. “Now, Henry, how did you know?”

  “Oh, I guessed.” Henry grinned at her.

  “Tell me how,” she insisted.

  “We—ell . . .” said Henry in a country drawl, “see, old John’s hair-tonic had a different smell in the morning from the smell it had in the night. In the morning it was same as Walter’s.”

  “Henry, you weren’t going to make me . . .?” She remembered the mortuary.

  Henry said, ignoring this, “Furthermore, in the dead man’s bathroom, in the morning . . . no hair gook whatsoever. Nor in his bedroom, either.” He looked at her slantwise. “The trained police mind asks itself why.”

  Hallie blew out breath in exasperation.

  “So,” said Henry, “it’s possible that I wondered whether old John, when he backed off from you in the night—as he did—was backing off from your nose.”

  “Oh, Henry, that’s ridiculous!”

  “We . . . ell, from the cracker-barrel angle, life’s pretty ridiculous. Ain’t that so?” (Hallie could have hit him). “Then old John, he made too many pious statements. Hammered in that he didn’t gain by Walter’s death. Hammered in that he hadn’t touched dear Walter’s things, having just helped himself to Walter’s hair-tonic . . . so I . . . er—deduced.”

  “Guessed,” said Hallie. “Oh, Henry, that isn’t enough! You’re not telling me . . .”

  He leaned back. “Suppose I believed what you said. Just suppose. Then, logically and to wit: the dead man we found on the side of the road with a broken neck was not the living man you’d talked to, and then covered with a coat (that wasn’t there) so that you got blood (he didn’t bleed) on the back of your hand.”

  Hallie said quietly, “There’s no blood on my hands, Henry, and I’m very thankful.”

  He said gently, “I believe you.”

  In a moment she said, “I finally turned on my vaunted brain and got that far—but not far enough. Henry, you absolutely could not have deduced that old John’s nose had been bleeding.”

  “We . . . ell,” said Henry. “You didn’t know about the red, red herring either. I could postulate that nose-bleed,” he went on, letting out a sudden reef in his vocabulary. “There’s such a thing as probability that mediates—wouldn’t you say?—between logic and intuition.”

  Hallie stared at him dumbly. Did she know, had she ever known, would she ever know this man?

  “Hypothesis,” said Henry. “For instance, blood and coat. We . . . ell,” he went back to his drawl, “you couldn’t hardly leave a coat over a non-bleeding corpse, once you’d got blood on it, now could you?”

  Hallie shivered.

  “He hadn’t burned your coat,” Henry went on cheerfully. “No smell of burning in that house this morning. Buried it, maybe? I sure hated to think of digging up the whole back yard,” sighed Henry. “Figured I might have to wait for rain.”

  “From the hills,” she murmured. She glanced up at the hills.

  There they stood. Just as they ever had.

  She looked at Henry quickly. “How did you happen to come up there?”

  “Because, as soon as I checked and knew it couldn’t have been the step-son-in-law—I went for old John. Naturally, you’d done exactly what you shouldn’t have done.”

  “But why didn’t you just tell me what you were thinking?”

  Henry’s fingers slipped up and down the steering wheel’s rim.

  “I made a mistake,” he said. “I always seem to go too far with y
ou, Hallie White—or else not far enough. I waited to check out the other man, when I should have trusted my intuition. I made a mistake, that’s all. And it was a bad one.”

  Hallie looked away. “At least, you didn’t have to wait for rain,” she said flippantly. “I thought you were c-crazy!” Something ailed her tongue. “How did you know he had a gun? Why didn’t you just walk out,” she demanded.

  “Why didn’t you have high-sterics?” he countered.

  “Because . . .”

  “Oh, good night,” said Henry disgustedly. “You think a mere male can’t have an intuition? The whole place reeked of his holding a gun.”

  “I thought I was putting on a very good act.”

  “Oh, you were,” said Henry. “Mad as a hornet at me. All of a sudden you’re sweeter than pie. Saving my life, obviously. What else?”

  Hallie giggled and turned her head. She saw the soft gray losing the rose, the purples deepening. Her giggle died and her hands came together tightly.

  Henry said, “You were pretty brave in the face of an insane old man with a gun. What scares you now?”

  Hallie swallowed. She said proudly, “I owe you an apology from way back. I was the worst kind of nasty little snob . . .”

  “No,” he said. “Shall I tell you the intuition I had, way back then? You weren’t a nasty little snob, Hallie. You were Juliet . . . only scared. So I—Romeo—wanted to get my arms around you and kiss you very truly, so that you would find out who you were and you’d know it was important . . . maybe even beautiful—”

  “We were just kids,” she said thinly. Her heart was jumping.

  “That’s right. ‘He was mad and she was mean, and Hallie White likes Henry Green.’ ”

  Hallie found herself weeping without sound. “You were right and the kids were right and the song was right,” she said. “ ‘Hallie White likes Henry Green.’ Of course I did. Too . . . importantly. It did scare me. So—I wasn’t too good . . . I was just—too small.”

  “Too young,” he said softly. “Never mind, Hallie.”

  But her tears ceased and she could see the mountains, standing in all the wondrous beauty that the child had found and kept for a secret.

  “I’m grown-up now,” she said clearly, “and I’m terrified.”

  “I’d like to be rid of you, too, Hallie,” said Henry very calmly. “Or else—not. It is scary.”

  She turned to him. She couldn’t breathe, but her lips parted. Her eyes spoke.

  His green eyes glinted. “Dare?”

  Hallie’s answered, “Must.”

  And there was a strong thing, still, and simply there, that she had once known, loved, feared, and run away from—but which remained.

  A SELECT BIBLIOGRAPHY OF SHORT STORIES, SERIALIZED NOVELS, AND NOVELS BY CHARLOTTE ARMSTRONG

  The following select bibliography represents our attempt to provide a publishing history for the short stories, novelettes, serialized novels, and novels of Charlotte Armstrong. In constructing it, we drew upon previous bibliographies and indexes—both print and Internet—as well as the collections and records of our own and those of colleagues and friends. Nonetheless, readers should note that this bibliography is not exhaustive. While we have included entries containing works published in a foreign language, assembled via WorldCat (OCLC FirstSearch), we would misrepresent Charlotte Armstrong’s international publishing record to suggest that these represent more than a fraction of the magazine and book publishing companies around the world, which translated and published an Armstrong story or novel. That said, these foreign language works catalogued via WorldCat (OCLC FirstSearch), are accessible in various libraries around the world for those readers interested in trying out an Armstrong story or novel in another language.

  Books of Short Fiction (Chronological)

  The Albatross. New York: Coward-McCann, 1957; London: Peter Davies, 1958; New York: Berkley (Medallion), 1973; abridged and published as Mask of Evil. Greenwich, CT: Fawcett Crest, 1973; and published as De albatros en andere detective-verhalen, trans., Hans Jacobs. Utrecht: Het Spectrum, 1959.

  I See You. New York: Coward-McCann, 1966; New York: Berkley Medallion, 1973.

  Night Call and Other Stories of Suspense; editors, Rick Cypert and Kirby McCauley. Norfolk: Crippen & Landru, 2014.

  Individual Stories and Serialized Novels (Alphabetical)

  “The Albatross.” McCall’s 84: 34–5, August; 46–7 September 1957. [Collected in The Albatross. New York: Coward-McCann, 1957.]

  “All the Way Home.” Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine [hereafter, EQMM] [US], Vol., 17, No. 88, March 1951, pp. 3–14. Reprinted in Ellery Queen’s Anthology Volume 1, ed. Ellery Queen, London: May Fair, 1959. [Collected in The Albatross. New York: Coward-McCann, 1957.]

  “And Already Lost . . .” EQMM [US], Vol. 29, No. 6, June 1957,

  pp. 3–15. Reprinted in EQMM [Australia] No. 122, August 1957, p. 1.

  Reprinted in EQMM [UK] No. 61, February 1958, p. 84. EQMM [Japan], August 1958. “E Ja Perdidos,” EQMM [Brazil], February 1958, p. 7. As “Miss Murphy,” Argosy [UK], Vol. 19, No. 9, September 1958, p. 13. Reprinted in The Fifties: Ellery Queen. New York: Davis Publications, 1978. Simply the Best Mysteries, ed. Janet Hutchings, Carroll & Graf, 1998. [Collected, with original title “Miss Murphy,” in The Albatross. New York: Coward-McCann, 1957, and I See You. New York: Coward-McCann, 1966.]

  “The Better to Eat You.” [novel] The Toronto Star Weekly, exact publication unknown. New York: Coward-McCann, 1954.

  “The Black Eyed Stranger.” [novel] The Toronto Star Weekly, October 20, 1950. New York: Coward-McCann, 1951.

  “Bo Peep.” Good Housekeeping, March 3, 1950.

  “Catch As Catch Can.” [novel] The Toronto Star Weekly, July 9, 1952. New York: Coward-McCann, 1952.

  “Chocolate Cobweb.” [novel] Saturday Evening Post, 220:15–17 May 1; 38–9, May 8; 44, May 15; 42, May 22; 41, May 29; 42, June 5; 42, June 12; 40, June 19; 1948. New York: Coward-McCann, 1948.

  “The Conformers.” Saturday Evening Post, Vol. 231, No. 15, October 11,

  1958, p. 26. Reprinted in READ (An American Education Publication-Columbus, OH), Vol. 14, No. 4, October 15, 1964,

  pp. 16–20. Saturday Evening Post Stories 1958. Ed. Anonymous. Garden City, NY: Doubleday, 1959.

  “The Cool Ones.” EQMM [US], January 1967, pp. 153–61. Reprinted in Ellery Queen’s Mystery Parade: 19 Stories from Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. New York: New American Library, 1968. [Collected in Night Call and Other Stories of Suspense, ed. Rick Cypert and Kirby McCauley, Crippen & Landru, 2014.]

  “A Cry in the Night.” Good Housekeeping, September 1964, p. 81. Reprinted in Woman [UK] 56:1461, June 12, 1965.

  “A Dram of Poison.” [novel] New York: Coward McCann, 1956.

  “A Dream of a Fair Woman.” [novel] The Toronto Star Weekly, August 25, 1965. Published as Dream of a Fair Woman, Coward-McCann, 1966.

  “The Dream Walker.” [novel] The Toronto Star Weekly, August 23, 1954. New York: Coward-McCann, 1955.

  “The Enemy.” (aka “Before Dark”) EQMM [US], Vol. 17, No. 90, May 1951, pp. 5–22. Reprinted in July 1969, pp. 67–86 and June 1991. EQMM [Japan], July 1960. Reprinted in Argosy [UK], Vol. 12, No. 10, October 1951, 117. Published as “El Enemigo,” EQMM [Spanish ed., Mexico] July 1954, p. 31. Published as “The Inexperienced Ghost,” Alfred Hitchcock Presents: My Favorites in Suspense. New York: Random House, 1959. Reprinted in Quintessence of Queen: Best Prize Stories from 12 Years of Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Ed. Anthony Boucher. New York: Random House, 1962. Best Detective Stories. Ed. Edmund Crispin. London: Faber and Faber, 1959. Third Mystery Bedside Book. Ed. John Creasey. London: Hodder & Stoughton, 1962. The Best Crime Stories. Ed. Anon. Hamlyn, 1984. The Best Crime Stories. Ed. Anon. Mallard Press, 1990. [Collected in The Albatross. New York: Coward-McCann, 1957, and

  I See You. New York: Coward-McCann, 1966.]

  “The Evening Hour.” As “In the Evening Hour,” The Philadelphia Inquirer, date
unknown, 1950. Reprinted in The Toronto Star Weekly, exact publication unknown. EQMM [US], Vol. 20, No. 105, August 1952, pp. 65–77. EQMM [Australia], No. 76, October 1953, p. 36. EQMM [Japan], May 1958. [Collected in The Albatross. New York: Coward-McCann, 1957, and I See You. New York: Coward-McCann, 1966.]

  “Fatal Lady” (published with The Three Fears by Jonathan Stagge). Two Complete Detective Books, No. 61, March 1950.

  “Fifty Cents Worth.” The Toronto Star Weekly, exact publication

  unknown.

  “For Sale: Wedding Dress, Never Worn.” Good Housekeeping, 137:56–7, July 1953.

  “From Out of the Garden.” EQMM [US], #292, March 1968, pp. 6–22. Reprinted in More Ms. Murder, ed. Marie Smith, London: Xanadu, 1991. [Collected in Night Call and Other Stories of Suspense, ed. Rick Cypert and Kirby McCauley, Crippen & Landru, 2014.]

  “The Gardener’s Daughter.” [novel] Chicago Tribune, September 25, 1967. Published as The Balloon Man. New York: Coward McCann, 1968.

  “The Girl with a Secret.” [novelette] Redbook, Vol. 112, No. 3, January 1959, p. 101. Reprinted in Woman’s Journal [UK] exact publication unknown. Published with Incident at a Corner in Duo, New York: Coward-McCann, 1959.

  “How They Met.” Woman’s Day, Vol. 16, No. 2, November 1952, p. 65. Reprinted in The Woman, June 1953. Mother [UK] ], exact publication unknown. [Collected in I See You. New York: Coward-McCann, 1966.]

  “In the Evening Hour.” The Philadelphia Inquirer, March 12, 1950. Reprinted as “The Evening Hour” in The Toronto Star Weekly, exact publication unknown. EQMM [US], Vol. 20, No. 105, August 1952, p. 65. Ellery Queen’s Anthology, 1963 Mid Year Edition. New York: Davis Publications, 1963.

  “In the Special Language of Women.” Good Housekeeping, 154:66–7, February 1962. Reprinted in Woman’s Journal, May 1965, pp. 28–31.

  “Incident at a Corner.” [novelette] Redbook, Vol. 109, No. 6, October 1957, p. 125. Published with “The Girl With A Secret” as Duo. New York: Coward-McCann, 1959.

  “Laugh It Off.” The Toronto Star Weekly, exact publication unknown. Reprinted in EQMM [US], Vol. 22, No. 119, October 1953, pp. 16–26.