The Andre Norton Megapack

by Andre Norton

On Friday evening as she was washing her dishes and thinking dark thoughts, she suddenly flicked her towel furiously. Why did she have to care whether or not Peter Mohun was dedicated heart and soul to his spy-catching? Why did it matter if he didn’t come to see her?

  “As if I wanted him to…” she heard herself say out loud to the tall glass that she had been absently polishing for all of ten minutes.

  “Wanted who to do what?” A voice directly behind her spoke suddenly.

  The glass crashed to the floor and broke into tiny fragments as Fredericka swung round.

  “Oh, Fredericka, my dear, I am sorry.” This time Peter Mohun’s voice was wholly solicitous. He reached out his hand as if to give her reassurance, but she shrank away from him and leant back against the sink. “I am an unregenerate fool, a demon, a beast—whatever you like to call me, I shall accept with bowed and penitent head.”

  When Fredericka still made no reply, he blundered on helplessly: “It’s these crêpe soles. It’s useful sometimes to silence one’s approach, I confess it. But I should have knocked. That’s another thing. Lucy objected to the racket, so I and all the rest of the town, I expect, have developed the habit of walking straight in.”

  “It’s, it’s quite all right. Silly of me to be such a fool.” She felt an urgent need to make some move. “I’ll just get the dustpan and sweep up this mess and then—”

  “Then I hope you can spare me a little while to talk, to gossip, and maybe even to laugh.” He watched her intently as she walked across the room to the cupboard and fumbled nervously with the catch. When she came back he took the brush and dustpan from her and said: “My job. You go and set yourself down. It’s so hot, I suggest the porch. O.K.?”

  “O.K.” Frederick agreed gratefully. Anyway he seemed to have forgotten what she had been muttering when he came in. She must get over this trick of talking to herself. It came from living too much alone.

  “And now,” Peter said at once when he joined her, “who has failed to do what that he should do?”

  “Oh, Peter, I was just muttering away to myself about nothing.”

  “Oh no, you weren’t. You were making a solemn and serious pronouncement and I have a hunch, though perhaps it’s a little conceited of me, that the guy referred to was Peter Mohun.”

  “Well, I did think you’d have looked in to see how I was before now.” Fredericka was grateful for the half-darkness that hid her hot and flaming face.

  “I meant to, as a matter of fact, but I’ve been on the go every moment since I left this place so early of a morning—” He hesitated and then said slowly, “I tried to warn you that I’m an unreliable guy—”

  Suddenly Fredericka’S pent up anxiety and annoyance poured out in a quick rush of words: “Oh, you don’t need to tell me all that again. I read your bible, and I’m not stupid—”

  “Of course you aren’t stupid. But I am,” Peter said quietly. He reached across the space between them and took her thin hand in his large one.

  For a moment neither of them spoke and then Peter said slowly, “I’m a mug, and I’ve behaved like one. The trouble is that my marriage was a mess—my fault probably, but anyway it was; and when at last I got free of it, I took a deep breath and decided to stay free. The dedication to work is what I’ve put in place of love and marriage and I just wanted you to know that—I suppose because I—well—I like you so much, Fredericka, and I was scared something would happen to our friendship.”

  Fredericka sat up a little more stiffly but she did not take away her hand. “If I’m to be honest, I might as well confess that I—I like you, too, Peter, and perhaps I might have, well, come to like you too much. So really I’m glad you’ve been honest with me. It’s been a tough two days and I was peeved because I thought you’d abandoned me. So let’s call it quits and—and—well, carry on as Holmes and Watson, both dedicated to the case in hand.”

  She laughed shyly and Peter joined her. Then he said: “Yes, the case in hand. That’s the trouble. That’s why I’ve left you so severely alone. I knew Thane’s bodyguard was watching over you and I simply had to get to work. Frankly, Fredericka, I’m scared stiff. Even the air in this town is unhealthy, and on all sides I don’t like what I see.”

  “Could you be a little more explicit?”

  “I’ll try, and perhaps you can help me to think out loud. The obvious suspects start with the family—or rather with those who live at the Farm, but they don’t finish there.”

  “Yes, I know. After you left on Wednesday I made a list and tried to think of motives and opportunities. I’ve been thinking of them ever since.”

  “Good. Any results?”

  “Only that there are plenty of people who hated Catherine, that Philippine and Brewster seem thick as thieves, and Margie has something on her mind.”

  “Well I have two new clues for you and we’ll see if you can put them into their right places in the puzzle. One: A large supply of dope was found in that immense carryall bag that Mrs. Hartwell always carries everywhere with her.”

  “No! Not ‘Mom’ Hartwell!”

  “Oh, yes. When questioned she denied all knowledge of it, of course—goes around muttering darkly about being ‘framed.’ She puts the blame on Philippine and says she has considered all along that Philippine is a bad influence on Margie.”

  “That’s something quite new. First hint of criticism of Philippine.”

  “Not quite. Mrs. Williams has thrown out a lot of hints about her goings-on with our James. And that reminds me of item number two. James has bought that land behind the alley. What’s more, hidden away under some old prints in his desk, we found a whole set of architects’ drawings for the sweetest little house you ever saw. It was a Boston architect—our James is a cautious bird.”

  “And what does he say about that?”

  “I haven’t confronted him with it. I’m keeping it up my sleeve.”

  “Well, you have been busy.”

  “Yes, very.” He was silent for a moment and then he went on: “James is behaving strangely, I must say. I think the fact that he’s made his little half-confession has gone to his head. But he’s still trying to hush everything up. I suppose if it had been ordinary scandal and not murder, his behaviour would seem quite natural. He’s certainly doing his damnedest to keep the news out of the papers—to put the damper on and to make it into suicide for the benefit of the public.”

  “Yes, he tried that one on me.” She was going to say more about what James had tried on her. Instead she went on quickly: “But he can’t get away with it now, can he?”

  “Well, Thane’s backing him up. Oh, I know South Sutton is full of murder talk and burnt up with excitement on top of the heat, but it’s still a private affair and hasn’t got into the national headlines. None of us want that to happen—it would be bad for the college, for one thing.”

  “And I suppose the less fever and fuss, the less chance of another murder.”

  “Don’t say it, Fredericka. That thought’s never been out of my mind for one moment. Frankly, I’m worried sick about that kid, Margie.”

  “Margie?” Fredericka’s voice was sharp with anxiety.

  “Yes. You said a minute ago that she had something on her mind. What makes you think so?”

  “She came dashing in on Wednesday morning, not long after Thane left. She was looking for that box. Oh dear, I think I could have got something out of her if only I’d been patient and kind, but the fact is, Peter, it isn’t in me to be patient and kind with a girl like that who manages to be so maddening—”

  “I know.”

  “I don’t think you do. She doesn’t irritate you the way she does me. She took against me from the start and whenever she appears I can’t wait for her to go. She just has a gift for rubbing me the wrong way.” Fredericka paused, and when Peter said nothing, she added hurriedly: “I’m terribly sorry. In my better moments I really wish I could help the child.”

  “Well, I haven’t had any more luck with her than you h
ave. She shut up like a clam every time I tried to question her, and the worst of it is that what we took for fright is, in fact, illness. She’s in a very bad way.”

  “Oh, Peter, I thought she looked sick on Wednesday. I could kick myself for the way I behaved. Would it do any good if I went to see her now?”

  “No, I don’t think so. I’m afraid she’s too bad—Doctor Scott’s keeping her pretty well doped.”

  “Good heavens, Peter, can’t you do something? Is she being poisoned?”

  “The devil of it is, I don’t think she is. She doesn’t seem to have the symptoms of a poison case. It’s, well—it’s much more like ’flu—or some kind of an infection.”

  “Peter—we’ve got to get her to talk. She may die if we don’t.”

  Fredericka’s distress was so great that Peter again reached out for her hand in the darkness. “Look here, Fredericka, what do you think I’ve been doing these two days? I’ve been at the Farm damn near every minute. If she has been poisoned, she’s not getting any more now. We’ve got special nurses night and day who watch the liquids and medicines like hawks and she isn’t eating anything, of course.”

  “It’s—it’s that bad?”

  “Yes. I promise you that we’re doing all we can. I wanted to take her at once to hospital but her mother wouldn’t hear of it. Mrs. Hartwell was nearly frantic when we found the dope. Now, of course, she’s as near insane as makes no matter. Of course neither she nor anyone else at the Farm dreams of poison, or lets on, if they do. It’s only Thane and I and Dr. Scott and we think it quite possible that we’re madly imaginative on account of Catherine’s death.”

  “Is it wholly like an infection—or ’flu? What does Doctor Scott call it?”

  “Virus. But there are one or two odd things about her. She rolls her eyeballs wildly. I thought it was fear or panic at first but now the pupils are dilated all the time. Well, if she isn’t better this afternoon, Dr. Scott is going to insist that she go into hospital for tests.”

  Fredericka withdrew her hand and put her palm against her hot forehead. She couldn’t talk about Margie any more. “What about the others?” she said quickly. “Do they behave in a normal way?”

  “Oh yes. Perfectly. And they’re all angelic to Margie. Mrs. Sutton has moved her into the spare room and is paying all the bills—the Hartwells are terribly hard up. Margaret practically supports them. Of course we have an eye on the lot of them, but they’re perfectly normal in every respect. I suspect it’s the relief of not having Catherine around the place.”

  “Roger?”

  “Well, of course, he isn’t quite normal at the best of times. But do you know before Margie got so bad he spent a whole afternoon reading to her. He’s about to go back into hospital himself.”

  “Yes. He told me. It’s for another face operation, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. It’s been planned for weeks. There’s no question of doing a bunk or anything.” He stopped suddenly. “Look here, Fredericka, it’s time you went to bed. But before you do, just think over your list of suspects and try to remember anything—even the least important nothing—that might give us a glimmer.”

  Fredericka pressed both hands against her closed eyelids and made a great effort to think. Mrs. Sutton, Roger, Philippine, James, Mom Hartwell, Margie—Chris—

  Suddenly she sat up. “Have you and Thane questioned Chris?” she asked.

  “Yes. Both of us. But no results of any importance. Why?”

  “Oh, it may be my imagination, but I think he has something on his mind—or, at any rate, I think he’s scared. You see he knows them all at the Farm so well. He’s always doing odd jobs for them and he has a kind of dog-like devotion to them all—even Margie. He goes out there every day with the mail, you know.”

  “The mail—now there’s something to look into. I wonder…”

  “Oh, Peter, I do remember something now. When was it? Yes, I know. It wasn’t the Monday after the murder because Chris didn’t come that day. He was terrified, I think. No, it was on the Tuesday. He brought me the mail and asked for a French stamp on one of my letters. It seems he’s a collector. Then he told me with a certain lugubrious pleasure that he had a letter for Catherine Clay with a stamp just like mine—it was an airmail one, I think—and remarked with painful obviousness that she wouldn’t be able to get it because she was dead.”

  “I see. Interesting. A letter from France two days after her death. Very interesting.”

  “Yes. I was surprised. Could it be anything to do with her dope supply, do you think?”

  “Possibly. Anyway, it’s worth investigating. We’re on to the dope business—that is, we’re making efforts to trace it. I may have to go to Washington, but I hope not.”

  “I hope not, too,” Fredericka said, and then could have bitten her tongue out.

  “Well, it may not be necessary.” Peter stood up. “I must be off now, I’m afraid, but I can’t thank you enough for your help tonight. Just talking to you has been a comfort, and now Miss Doctor Watson has really given me a clue—bless her!”

  “There was another thing I thought of. Catherine and James couldn’t have been secretly married, could they? It would give him such a beautiful motive.”

  “I think you have designs on James. All the same it’s an interesting idea, but I think we’d have discovered it by now. Anyway, why hide it? And now, I’m off—”

  “Can’t you just stay for some coffee or—or—something stronger from Miss Hartwell’s cupboard?”

  “No, I’d like to, but I mustn’t. It isn’t too late to look in on Margie and have a word with Mrs. Sutton about that letter for Catherine.”

  “I’ve just remembered that it was Margie, not Chris, who took the letters out to the Farm that day. She came in and asked for them.”

  “Did she now?”

  When he said nothing more Fredericka waited for him to go on. But he seemed to have fallen into a deep study. At last she said: “Well, I’ll just walk around to the front with you, if you must go. I’d rather like to see where my protector is and whether he’d like an innocent police-like nightcap since you turn me down.”

  As they skirted the house, they saw that the reading lamp was on in the office, and that Sergeant Brown was sitting in the big chair with a pile of comics on the floor beside him.

  “It’s almost insulting in a bookshop, isn’t it?” Fredericka laughed.

  “Yes, with all those lovely volumes so handy,” Peter agreed. “Nevertheless it makes me feel good to see him there, comics or no comics.”

  “Me, too,” Fredericka agreed quietly.

  They walked to the gate in silence and then Peter said hurriedly: “Good night, Watson—and, again, my thanks and blessings.”

  “Good night, Sherlock,” Fredericka answered, and then: “Try to let me know about Margie tomorrow, if you can.”

  “I will. But I can’t promise. You do understand, don’t you?” When Fredericka muttered a half-hearted, “Yes,” he added quickly, “And now DON’T WORRY.” As he spoke, he disappeared into the darkness before she could answer.

  “Don’t worry, indeed,” Fredericka spluttered to herself, as she went inside to brew coffee for Sergeant Brown. But, in spite of herself, Fredericka was comforted by the fact that she had been able to help Peter. And, if Peter, then certainly Margie, too.

  That night she slept well.

  Saturday proved a busy day in the shop and Fredericka decided to keep open all day, mainly because she didn’t want to miss Peter’s half-promised call. But by late afternoon he had not appeared and she was contemplating escape to the inn for supper when there was a dismal shriek like a note of warning from the main road. Fredericka rushed down the front path and looked along Beech Street in the direction of the shops. As she did so a great white ambulance turned the corner and disappeared in a cloud of dust.

  Fredericka’s heart beat furiously and she felt choked with fear. It must be Margie. There couldn’t be any doubt. The ambulance had been coming down Spr
uce Street from the direction of the Farm, and it had turned into Beech which was the direct route to the County Hospital. She walked back to the house slowly and found Sergeant Brown standing by the door.

  “Ambulance?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “They say Margie Hartwell’s sick.”

  “Yes. Colonel Mohun told me last night that they might have to send her to hospital for tests.”

  All at once the thought of the inn and the gossiping people sickened her. She turned impulsively to Sergeant Brown and said that she was about to get her supper and wouldn’t he like to share it with her? He agreed with such alacrity that she was aware how much she had neglected him.

  “I’m afraid I’ve been too busy to pay attention to you until this moment,” she said apologetically, “and you are good to keep out of sight when the customers are around.”

  “They’d only talk their faces off,” he said cheerfully. “Besides, I take my time off during the day when Chris is here.”

  Fredericka realized suddenly how little thought she had given to his time off. He was now her guardian and she had come to take his presence for granted.

  He followed her into the kitchen and offered his assistance. “My wife says I’m not too bad at this,” he announced as he took off his coat and rolled up his sleeves. He had just started to make some ham sandwiches when the front door banged.

  Fredericka untied her apron and hurried out into the hall, hoping to find Peter. But it was Philippine and James Brewster who stood in the doorway.

  Philippine began to speak at once and without greeting.

  “Margie’s terribly ill, Fredericka. We’re worried sick, and now they’ve taken her off to hospital.”

  “Yes,” Fredericka said, and then added quickly, “but won’t you come in. Sergeant Brown and I were just getting ourselves some supper. We’d be glad to have you join us—both of you.”

  “Sergeant Brown?” James said.

  “Yes. He’s a sort of bodyguard,” Fredericka explained. She was sorry now that she had mentioned his presence. Perhaps they weren’t planning to stay, and she wouldn’t have needed to. It did seem silly.