by Jack Iams
“That must be it,” said Tim.
“Darling,” said Sybil, “let’s go right straight back to that pub.”
“And let down your Mr. Magruder?”
“I’m sure Mr. Magruder had nothing to do with sending us to a place like this. This is the work of leprechauns.”
“I only hope a good, reliable leprechaun has turned on the light and heat,” said Tim.
“You mean we’re going through with it?”
“Don’t you want to?”
“No,” said Sybil, “but I suppose we have to. I’ve got the gollywobbles. Don’t mind me.”
They had reached the outskirts of the community, whose pattern lay as stark as a wintry tree’s in the moonlight. The road which had brought them across the marshland became the main street, parallel with the coast, lined with shuttered buildings, some of which appeared to be shops, tearooms, and such, while nearer the ocean, apparently fronting on the beach, rose the dark shapes of deserted houses. They were houses of an old-fashioned stateliness, with rambling porches crouched in shadows, with cupolas and turrets jutting weirdly against the pale sky.
“Try to imagine striped awnings,” said Tim, “and children running around with buckets and shovels. That’ll cheer you up.”
“The only child I can imagine hereabouts,” said Sybil, “is the one who to the dark tower came. Child Whosit.”
“Child Roland,” said Tim. “Next thing is to figure out which of these dark towers is ours.”
“Ours, all ours,” murmured Sybil. “How blissful that would sound—to a couple of banshees.”
“I wish you’d keep those gollywobbles to yourself,” said Tim. “They’re catching.” He slowed the car almost to a halt. “Let’s see now. The war-bride lady said to keep straight through the town till we come to a bridge across an inlet. First turn to the left beyond the bridge is us. Sounds simple enough.”
“Too simple. You must have it wrong.”
“We’ll soon see.” He sent the car forward through the empty street, past half a mile or so of silent houses. The pounding of the sea was loud in their ears. So, for that matter, was their breathing. A white, wooden bridge loomed out of the mist, crossing what seemed a sandy creek but which, seaward from the bridge, widened between gently rising bluffs until it met the phosphorescent surf that licked at the sandbar guarding its mouth.
On the two tips of land above the sandbar’s foam, there sat like glowering twin fortresses two big and barnlike houses of the same general architecture as those they had passed. On the porch of the one on the far side of the inlet a yellow lamp was burning.
“I guess that’s the place,” said Tim. “And I’d judge from the light that the leprechaun’s been there.”
“Look,” said Sybil. “Isn’t that a light in the other house, too?”
Tim peered through the car window, squinting. “It might be reflection,” he said.
“Looks like two lighted windows to me,” said Sybil. “Funny. Mrs. War Bride gave me the impression the place was deserted.”
“How about those aborigines you mentioned?”
“Natives? Seems unlikely in a house of that sort. Anyway, it’s nothing to worry about.”
The car rattled across the loose planks of the bridge. Some fifty yards beyond, between two stone posts, a sandy drive curved away through rolling dunes toward the bluff.
“Here we are,” said Tim and swung the car into it. A quarter of a mile ahead of them, the big roof and chimneys of the house were barely visible above the dunes, dark-patched with catbriars and bayberry among the rippling beach grass.
“Darling,” said Sybil suddenly, “I’m scared. I feel the way I did the night the buzz bomb missed us.”
Tim reached for her hand. “If it turns out as well as that night did,” he said, “I’ll have no complaints.”
The car crunched to a stop under an antique porte-cochere spreading from the porch whose ornate railings and columns curled around the brown shingled walls of the house. The light they had seen came from an old lamp dangling on an iron chain in front of the entrance.
Below the house, the dunes dropped to a strip of beach that lay silvery in the misty light. A little way along, a hundred yards perhaps from where they sat, the dim outline of a pier extended a good distance into the dark water that churned itself into angry white around the pilings. Still farther along, there thrust itself above the dunes a huge and fantastic openwork structure that looked like some gigantic toy left to rust on the sands. It took Tim several uneasy seconds to realize that it was a Ferris wheel.
From somewhere in the direction of the pier came a scream.
“What’s that?” cried Sybil and seized Tim’s arm.
It came again, raucous and shrill. A moment later, a great bird rose from the dunes and sailed with heavy grace across the beach.
“Sea gull,” said Tim.
“More like a vulture,” said Sybil.
“A nice, cheerful thought with which to enter our connubial bower,” said Tim. “Shall I carry you across the threshold?”
“Maybe you’d better. My knees are shaking.”
“I’m willing to try,” said Tim. He jumped out of the car, went round to the other side, and lifted her from the seat.
“I’m a pretty big girl,” said Sybil.
“Light as a feather,” said Tim. “A vulture feather.”
He carried her up the wooden steps to the porch, trying not to wheeze audibly. At the front door, embedded in a border of stained glass, he paused. “Look,” he said. “There’s a note pinned to it.”
“I know just what it says,” murmured Sybil. “It says, Don’t enter this house if yon value your life. And underneath is a crudely drawn skull.”
“At least, it’s in pencil and not in blood,” said Tim. He set Sybil on her feet and reached for the bit of paper with an assurance he didn’t quite feel. He read the message aloud:
“Mr. Ludlow. I been over today and got the burner going and the water and lights turned on. Also brung up some wood for the fireplace there is plenty more in the cellar. Left you some beer and cans of beans and stuff in the icebox in case you need same. Key is under the mat. Hope everything is satisfactory. Yours truly, Elias Whittlebait.”
Sybil leaned against Tim and began to laugh. “Darling, I’m such a fool,” she gasped. “I really thought there’d be a crudely drawn skull.”
Tim put his arm around her and kissed her. Then he found the key under the mat, opened the door, and carried Sybil into the house. The first thing of which they were conscious was a grateful and pervading warmth. Tim kissed Sybil again, put her down, and felt for the light switch. They found themselves standing in a broad hallway from which rose a majestic, if slightly sagging, staircase. The woodwork was dark and there was a rather frightening hatstand with intricately carved serpents twining around a long mirror.
To their right, through green portieres, a doorway opened into a big and comfortable-looking living-room. It was papered in a deep yellow that bore signs of a long-faded pattern. Green curtains hung at its many windows. The furniture was a hodgepodge of solid old pieces and flimsy summery items. There were a couple of black leather easy chairs, a black leather davenport, and an oak table with a green glass-shaded lamp on it. There were also a number of wicker chairs and a wicker settee, all heaped with cushions that once must have been bright but were now a genteel neutral.
The cheeriest feature of the room was a great fireplace of ruddy brick with a log fire neatly laid. Above it hung an overcast seascape in oil, framed in gilt, and on the opposite wall a stuffed tarpon was mounted on a board with printed data regarding its demise, also in gilt.
Beyond the living-room, through French doors, was a library, considerably smaller and lined with glass-doored bookcases. It contained a roll-top desk.
Across the hallway was the dining-room with
big curtained windows and paintings of dead fish and rabbits and ducks that looked down on a heavy oval table and chairs of oak.
“Darling,” said Sybil, looking around her, “I have been a goose. It’s going to be lovely. I knew Mr. Magruder would take care of us.”
“Mr. Magruder and his leprechauns,” said Tim. “I must admit it’s a darned sight better than anything I expected. Shall we explore upstairs?”
“I’d like to explore a bathroom,” said Sybil. She glanced toward the staircase, from the head of which came the faint sound of windows rattling in the wind. “Wonder if there’s one on this floor,” she added with a sheepish grin. “I’m not quite ready to go poking upstairs.”
Tim tried a door under the staircase. “Here’s a lavatory,” he said. “I’ll be bringing in the bags.”
It took him several trips to bring in all of Sybil’s trim airplane luggage and his own collection of old suitcases and duffel bags, which he piled in the hallway for the time being. Sybil emerged from the lavatory and said, “Damn. The w.c. doesn’t flush.”
“We’ll put the leprechaun on it tomorrow,” said Tim.
“How would that help?”
“I mean on the job of fixing it.”
“Oh,” said Sybil. “I wondered. What was his name again?”
“Elias Whittlebait.”
“Lovely name. Must be a lovely little man. And how about a lovely little dry martini before we unpack?”
“Fine. Let’s see, one of these duffel bags has the drinkables in it.”
He found the right bag, by ear, and carried it into the kitchen. Sybil, following, gave a little cry of womanly pleasure at its shiny whiteness. “What beautiful things I’ll cook for you here,” she exclaimed. “Beginning with the martinis. You can be lighting the fire while I mix ’em.”
Tim went back to the living-room and knelt in front of the fireplace. He touched a match to the wadded paper under the logs and watched with enjoyment as tiny shoots of flame burst upward, gathering momentum until the fireplace was full of crackling light.
“Tim!” He heard Sybil’s voice across the hall, sharp and taut. “Tim!”
He turned on his haunches to see her coming toward him from the dining-room. Her face was white.
“There’s someone moving around on the porch,” she said.
“Must be the wind.”
“No,” said Sybil. “Look!” She pointed toward the dining-room window. Unmistakably, against its dark pane, was pressed a man’s face.
“Probably Elias Whittlebait having a look around,” said Tim. Even to him, the words sounded hollow.
“Why wouldn’t he come to the front door?”
“Don’t know. I’ll soon find out, though.” He started toward the door.
“Wait,” said Sybil. “Take this.” She picked up the poker from its rack by the fireplace and thrust it at him.
“What would I do with that?” asked Tim.
“I don’t know,” said Sybil, “but it’ll make me feel better.”
“All right,” said Tim, trying to smile at her. He took the poker and went to the front door. The wind thudded against it as he turned the knob, as if it had been wailing for a long time to get in. The comfortable solidity of the house dissolved suddenly into the eerie loneliness that had hung over it when they arrived. Tim gripped the poker and pushed the door open.
“Who’s there?” he called.
For a moment, there was only the rush of the wind and the roar of the surf. Then a thickset figure emerged from the shadows along the porch and, in the thin glow of the lamp overhead, Tim saw a pistol pointed at him.
Chapter Six
No Fourth For Bridge
“Better drop that poker,” said the man with the pistol.
Tim thought he better had, too, but he also thought he should show some gumption. “Why?” he asked.
“Because I have you covered with a thirty-two automatic, son, and I’m in a position to give orders.” The man’s voice was gruff and businesslike, but not unfriendly. Tim could see him more clearly now. He appeared to be past middle age and he was wearing a buttoned-up windbreaker and a soft hat.
“Guess you’re right,” said Tim, and let the poker fall.
“That’s better,” said the man. “Suppose you tell me just what you’re doing here?”
“I’m living here,” said Tim.
The man’s eyes seemed to be gauging him for a moment, then, as if he’d reached a decision, he put the automatic into his pocket. “If you live here, son,” he said, “then I’m probably trespassing. Are you the veteran with the English bride?”
“Yep.”
“In that case, I owe you an apology. Never dreamed you’d get here so quick.” He stepped forward and thrust out his hand. “My name is Squareless. John Squareless. I live in the house across the inlet.”
“Glad to meet you,” said Tim, shaking his hand.
“I saw your lights and thought something queer was going on. Didn’t expect you for another week. So I rowed over for a look.”
“On horseback?”
“Rowboat. Quicker than walking around by the bridge and better exercise. Well, sorry to have disturbed you.”
“Don’t mention it,” said Tim. “Won’t you come in?”
Squareless hesitated. Tim got the curious impression that he wanted to come in very much but that something was holding him back. Just then Sybil appeared in the doorway’s square of light. “Hullo,” she said, “what’s up?”
“Turns out to be a neighborly call,” said Tim. “This is Mr. Squareless, from across the way.”
“Delighted,” said Sybil. “It must have been your lights We saw.”
“No doubt,” said Squareless. He was staring hard at Sybil, so hard that it became embarrassing, as he finally seemed to realize. “Excuse me,” he said. “I couldn’t help thinking for a moment that I’d met you before.”
“It’s not impossible. I’ve knocked around.”
“So’ve I,” said Squareless. “But I was mistaken. It was someone you reminded me of. Sorry. Well—”
“Do come in,” said Sybil. “I was just mixing a cocktail.”
“You’re very kind,” said Squareless. Again he hesitated and again he seemed to reach a decision. “All right. For a few minutes.”
He walked into the hall and hung his hat and windbreaker on the serpentine coat-stand. Tim saw now that he was a man of perhaps sixty, built so solidly as to seem shorter than his five feet nine or ten but with an easy grace to his movements. He looked like someone who had lived robustly and well. His face was a rounded, ruddy, outdoors face with a blunt nose and a mouth that was slow to smile but smiled thoroughly when it did. His hair was sparse and grizzled. It struck Tim that he bore a close resemblance to Winston Churchill; close, but no cigar.
“Take the easy chair by the fire, Mr. Squareless,” said Sybil. “I’ll fetch the martinis.”
Squareless lowered himself comfortably into one of the black leather chairs and looked around the room. “Place hasn’t changed much,” he said. “First time I’ve been inside it in more than twenty years.”
“Really?” said Tim.
Squareless nodded, broodingly. “Twenty-four years, to be exact.” He reached in the pocket of his tweed coat and brought out a pipe and tobacco pouch. “Think your wife’ll mind if I smoke this? Or don’t you know her that well yet?”
“I think we can risk it,” said Tim. He waited a moment, but Squareless was silent. “I don’t mean to pry, sir,” said Tim, “but I’m a bit curious about this house to begin with, and I can’t help wondering why you should have boycotted its owner for twenty-four years.”
“Its owner?” repeated Squareless. “I’m its owner.”
Sybil had just entered the room with an amber pitcher and three glasses on a tray. “What!” she exclaimed. �
�You’re our landlord?”
“I’m not quite sure what my status is,” said Squareless. “You see, I was approached some time ago by this outfit that calls itself the British-American War Brides Association which was getting together a list of available houses in the state. Particularly along the coast here where a lot of furnished houses stand empty all winter. Most of ’em, of course, don’t have any heating, but even the few that do aren’t in any great demand. Too godforsaken for most people.”
“Quite,” murmured Sybil.
“Anyway,” went on Squareless, accepting a martini, “this bunch of old gals, who as I understand it were war brides themselves of an earlier day, got the idea that some of these houses might come in handy in the pinches, so they bulldozed a lot of sentimental old duffers like me into turning our houses over to ’em. Seemed sensible enough and it’s no trouble. The gals handle all the details. For instance, they arranged for a handy man to look alter the place. They take care of the rent, too. Which leaves me a landlord in name only.”
“Good,” said Sybil. “If you don’t mention the rent, I won’t mention the w.c. that doesn’t flush.”
“Agreed,” said Squareless.
“I suppose you let this house in summer, normally,” said Tim.
Squareless nodded, puffing on his pipe. “Both these houses have been in my family for a good many years,” he said. “As a matter of fact, this one was intended for me. But—well, things didn’t turn out that way. If you don’t mind, I’d rather not talk about it. This house has some very unhappy memories for me. Let’s let it go at that.”
There was a moment of rather strained silence, then Sybil asked, “Were the arrangements—the arrangements for us coming here, I mean—made by a Mrs. Barrelforth?”
“Some such name,” said Squareless. “It was all done by correspondence. Whoever it was didn’t bother to tell me when to expect you.”
“Somebody expected us,” said Tim. “A Mr. Whittlebait.”