An ear-splitting noise erupted suddenly over his head and he jumped, his eyes shooting upward to the flying-saucer-like contraption on a telegraph pole by the side of the track. The banshee screamed for a minute and died away with a sobbing wail, and when his pulses had stopped jumping he correctly diagnosed it as the noon whistle for the village of Masuit. Lunchtime! He looked about him for a good spot for his alfresco break; lunch by a babbling brook or, in this case, a babbling irrigation ditch appealed to his budding writer's mind. He would sit by the brook and think great thoughts.
He skittered down the embankment toward the larger bog, cheerfully ignoring the large signs, keep out —
NO HUNTING OR TRESPASSING DIMOLA ENTERPRISES, On it.
When he got down to the stone culvert that allowed the water to run underneath the railway embankment from the other bog, he found a depth of only a few inches, scarcely in the babbling brook category. In addition to this he was on the windward side of the embankment, and the breeze though soft was still chill. It found its way through his old football wind-cheater and his patched blue jeans and cut to the bones of his thin, lanky frame. Changing his mind, he scrambled up the embankment again and down the leeward side to the smaller bog. Here, with a sigh of satisfaction, he unhitched his rucksack and, taking out his sandwiches and thermos, settled himself comfortably against the faint warmth of the stones in the stoutly built culvert. He munched away on his lunch, staring idly at the quietly running water and waited for the great thoughts to come. Something nibbled at his mind: the water on this side of the embankment was a lot deeper than on the other —why should that be?
His curiosity aroused, he tested the water with the probe; it was almost two feet deep. There was a pretty star-shaped green weed floating at the entrance to the dark hole of the drain. He stirred it with his hand. Was this the cause, or was something blocking the drain? Maybe he should put that in his report too. He parted the weed and probed within the dark mouth. The probe struck something solid and then yielded, so that he almost pitched face forward into the water. When he withdrew the probe, there was something sticking to the spike. He brought it closer; it was greenly blanched and rotting, but its shape was unmistakable—it was a human ear. When his shocked mind accepted this fact he turned blindly away and quietly vomited up his lunch into the already contaminated stream ...
"Good Heavens! What do you make of this?" Penny had just opened a letter out of which had fallen an airline ticket, two newspaper clippings, three $100 bills and a letter. Sir Tobias Glendower, who was hunched over a road map of Italy, merely grunted. She read the clippings and the letter twice with little gasps of horror. 'Toby, it's a murder!"
He looked up reluctantly and she thrust the papers at him. "Read them! It's incredible!" MURDERED man found IN MASUIT CRANBERRY BOG, ran a headline. "Today the naked and partly decomposed body of an unidentified man was found by a railway worker in a stone culvert of a bog on the Dimola estate in Masuit. The police say that a preliminary examination revealed the man had died of an occipital skull fracture and that his face had been mutilated post-mortem. They have no clues as yet to the victim's identity."
The second clipping was headed, boo murder mystery. "An autopsy performed by the state pathologist reveals that the still unidentified man died of repeated blows to the back of the skull and that the body was subsequently further mutilated by repeated blows to the face. It is estimated from the decomposed state of the body that it was placed in the bog between six and seven months ago. The Masuit bog in which the body was accidentally discovered is the property of Rinaldo Dimola, the still-ailing multimillionaire, who is m residence at his Masuit estate. No member of the Dimola family has been available for comment."
The letter in Zeb's spiky hand read starkly: "Please forgive me and come back. This is a matter of life and death. Vital that you come at once. I will tell you all, but in God's name help me. You can stay with Ann Langley. The same arrangements as before. Tell no one. Zeb."
Toby read, his round blue eyes rounder than usual, his round little mouth pursed in a silent whistle. "Hmph," he said when he had finished, "well, it rather looks as if the missing contents of the grave you saw finally turned up— remarkable!"
"What luck it's vacation time—I wonder if we can get a
plane tonight," Penny said excitedly.
"You're going! Knowing what happened last time?" Toby looked at her in amazement. "And what do you mean we?"
"But, Toby, of course I'm going—it's murder and he needs my help. And I naturally thought, well, that you'd want..."
"My dear Peony," Toby broke in with heavy emphasis, "I made it quite clear to you after the Pergama affair that once was quite enough for me. I have absolutely no intention of haring off unasked to the wilds of America to succor a batty ex-boyfriend of yours. I have planned, as you well know, a perfectly civilized Easter vacation. I'm committed to go and look at Cipoletti's excavation near Bologna and then will potter around Tuscan sites for the rest of the time."
"Not to mention Tuscan vineyards," Penny said with venom.
"That too. I've always enjoyed the Tuscan vintages," he agreed with a certain smugness. "And if you had any sense you'd ignore this and join me, as I fully expected you would. I had it all fixed."
"But he says it's a matter of life and death, and I may need help!" she appealed. "Besides, think of all the American wines you've never even tried. New York state, California—why, they've even got wine from Martha's Vineyard now."
Toby shuddered. "Thank you, but no, I'll defer that pleasure. Count me out, right out!"
"Well I think it's extremely selfish of you, though I don't know why I should expect otherwise, knowing you so well," she snapped.
"And I think it is extremely stupid of you to get involved," he returned. "Frankly I think it is most unbecoming for a middle-aged widow like you to go careering off across the Atlantic at the behest of an old beau on an affair which is no conceivable concern of yours and which you are not qualified in any shape, manner or form to handle."
They glared at one another and Penny fumed. "Well, there's no sense in arguing with you about humane considerations when you're in this pigheaded state," and flounced out of the room in a fury. Toby shook his head sadly, sighed, and went back to studying his road map.
On her way to London airport that night she admitted a few qualms of doubt herself. Zeb's actions y/ere downright peculiar. Remembering the telephone, she had tried to phone him she was coming, only to be told after much delay by the overseas operator that no such phone existed. Baffled, she had compromised by phoning him a cable as to her flight number and time of arrival, but wondered uneasily again about his absurd passion for secrecy despite the apparent urgency of the situation.
Her unease increased when she got to Boston. She had half expected to see him waiting at the customs barrier, but there was no sign of him and no message waiting for her at the arrivals desk either. Grumplly she rented a car at the airport and commenced the drive to the Cape. The rented car seemed sluggish after the zippy zest of Everett's Triumph, and the journey interminable enough to increase her feeling of gloomy doubt.
Oh well, she comforted herself, even if this is another bust, so long as I'm on this side of the Atlantic I can nip down and have a few days with Alexander—it won't be a dead loss. But by the time she had reached the tiny confines of Masuit and drew up before Chase's Variety Store her apprehensions were once again in full flood.
They were in no way allayed by Mr. Chase, who still stood behind his cash register looking more like a sad basset hound than ever. "Oh," he said lugubriously, "Dr. Spring, isn't it? So you're back again."
"Yes. Did Mr. Grange leave a message for me?"
He considered the question. "No, can't say he did. Was in this morning though to pick up some groceries. Would you be wanting Albert again? 'Cos I'm afraid he's off somewhere ... Never around when you need him," he added with a doleful sigh.
"No, that's all right, I think I know my way now"
— Penny was nettled—"but do you know Ann Langley?"
He nodded and a guarded expression came into his sad eyes. "Well, if she comes in, will you tell her I've arrived and that I'll be at Zeb Grange's?"
"If you say so," he agreed, and looked disapproving.
The Grange house seemed silent and unwelcoming as Penny drew up in the clearing. As the sound of the engine died away the silence of the woods closed around her and still there was no sign of movement from the house. "Really, this is a bit much!" Penny muttered, and stomping across the porch pressed the button for the bell by the front door. She could hear the faint chime within, but there was no movement in answer. She battered on the door in growing anger; it gave beneath her onslaught and she saw the Yale lock had been snubbed open. The first thing she spotted on the small hall table was her cable, open beside its yellow envelope and standing by the enigmatic telephone. "Zeb!" she called, and went in.
There was a faint thump from one of the upstairs rooms and she went to the staircase and started up it. "Zeb?" A very large orange cat appeared at the head of the stairs, yawned widely at her, and then settled himself with his tail curled tidily around his front paws, watching her with impassive amber eyes. "Where the hell is he?" She skirted the enormous cat and made a hasty survey of the upstairs rooms: the large front room a combined study and Indian museum with glass cases that lined the walls crammed with Indian artifacts; the medium-size back bedroom, obviously Zeb's own; the small room next to the bathroom, equally obviously the spare bedroom and general catchall. Everything was neat, characterless, and slightly depressing. A similar survey of the downstairs rooms revealed the same picture: colorless, neatness and emptiness.
Penny went back out on the front porch and looked about in baffled fury. The large cat, who had accompanied her, catching her hostile mood, looked about him with equal interest to see what was disturbing this strange creature beside him. Then, after scenting the air with twitching whiskers, he started off with a purposeful lope toward the barn just visible in the distance amid the budding foliage. "Why not?" Penny said bitterly, and set out after him. "Maybe he knows where Zeb is."
She had already made up her mind what she was going to do. She was determined to find Zeb and after his cavalier treatment would give him a tongue-lashing of the first order. The nerve of him! To drag her across the Atlantic like this on God knows what fool's errand and then to disappear. Well, enough was enough. Alter the dressing down she would go back to Boston, spend a few pleasant days in Baltimore with Alex and then join Toby in Italy. So what if she had to eat humble pie. At least Toby wasn't the I-told-you-so kind. As for Zebediah!—"Don't call me, I'll call you," she fumed at the empty air, and tried the door of the barn. It was locked.
The cat had disappeared and Penny walked around the barn looking for a window through which to peer. She reached the front of the building and found herself looking out across a vast flat expanse of purplish red interspersed by the darker slashes of ditches; the barn was perched on the very lip of the cranberry bog. A flash of orange down on the bog to her left caught her eye, and she saw the cat gingerly sniffing at something by a stone culvert. There was a slight rustling in the bushes that edged the bog, and the cat looked up startled, sprang away and was gone in great leaps into the underbrush. A prickle of unease ran up Penny's spine and she found herself holding her breath, but the rustling died away and the calm silence reasserted itself.
"Zeb?" she called tentatively, and looked down to see what the cat had been after. When she saw what it was a cold hand clamped around her heart: a substantial boot, with about an inch of Argyle sock showing above it, was sticking out of a ditch.
She skittered down the bank and hurried, dry-mouthed, to the ditch. Lying on his back, his eyes gazing unseeingly up at the gray March sky through a mask of mud, lay Zebediah Grange, a thin trickle of blood coming from one nostril into the comer of the flaccid mouth. Kneeling down, she tried to wipe away the mud with her handkerchief. His clothes reeked of whisky and there was a smashed whisky bottle at his side. Her other hand groped at his neck for the sign of a pulse. It was there, shallow and thready but definitely there—Zeb was still alive! She put a hand under his head, trying to ease him away from the trickling water in the ditch, and encountered sticky wetness. Drawing the hand away with involuntary repugnance, she saw it was red with blood. Ail her former fury evaporated in a flash to be replaced by sick realization. Now it was very clear why Zeb Grange had not been on hand to greet her or to reveal what had so tormented him all this weary time. Someone had made a very determined effort to shut his mouth forever.
But they had not quite succeeded, and, by God, if she had anything to do with it, they wouldn't. She leaped to her feet and became aware of a figure staring down at her from the barn, its hands clapped to its mouth, a frail, well-remembered figure with a shining aureole of golden hair. "Is he dead?" Ann Langley asked with a quaver.
"No! Ann, get hold of yourself," Penny cried. "Go telephone the rescue squad and the police. I'll stay here and do what I can. Someone has just tried to murder Zeb, but, by the grace of God, they have not succeeded, and they won't.'"
CHAPTER 4
Zeb, like an oversize broken doll, had been loaded into the rescue squad ambulance, which had screamed away to the Cape Cod Hospital in Hyannis. Now a short, stocky man, his muscles bulging under the dark blue uniform of the Barnstable police, was looking at Penny with a very unfriendly expression. "I know it's not easy to keep your head in an emergency, but you shouldn't have moved him," he reproved.
"I didn't!" Penny's tone was indignant "I only tried to ease his head away from the water and it was then I found someone had tried to bash his head in—after that I didn't touch him."
EQs eyes narrowed. "Then how come his face was all over mud?"
Her own eyes widened. "Wait!" she cried, and clutched her forehead with a mud-begrimed hand, leaving it streaked like an Indian in war paint. 'This doesn't make any sense at all! His attacker obviously left him face down in the bog. I didn't turn him over, but somebody else must have before I got here."
"Two people? Then why didn't the second one call for help?" His tone was incredulous.
"Maybe whoever it was didn't have time..." She told him about the rustling in the bushes and the scared behavior of the cat.
"Mighty funny way for anyone to behave," he muttered dubiously.
"But why should his attacker first try to kill him and then save him from suffocation by turning him over? That would be even stranger."
"To go through his pockets—it's hard to get into a man's pockets when he's lying on his face," the policeman said smugly. "That's how I see it—a simple case of robbery by some hippie or junkie who saw an easy mark in a lonely place. There was nothing in his pockets but some keys, a penknife and a couple of Indian arrowheads—no wallet"
"Just a moment," Penny cried again, as something flashed on her memory screen, "it's not that simple—Fm pretty sure I saw his wallet when I went through the house."
"You were in his house?" His suspicion was marked.
"Well, yes—the door was open, and I just couldn't understand why he wasn't there to meet me, so I looked all over for him. He'd sent for me, you see, and he knew I was coming—the cable I sent was right there in plain sight."
"We'd better get back there then and you can show me," he growled. They trailed back along the dirt track, collecting a pale and shaken Ann Langley into their train. She had almost passed out when she had come back with the rescue squad, and they had hastily ministered to her and left her propped against a tree.
In the house Penny led the way upstairs and pointed mutely to the wallet that stood on the night table beside Zeb's narrow bed. The policeman examined it, his brow furrowed. "It has over a hundred dollars," he said sadly. "Well that certainly seems to rule out robbery; still, "he brightened, "that doesn't mean robbery wasn't the motive —the attacker may have been disappointed and then just left him like that."
Something else clic
ked in Penny's mind. "Tm afraid it's nowhere near that simple," she said slowly, "because unless it has been put away somewhere, there is something missing from the house." She led the way downstairs again to the small dining room and pointed to the chest of drawers.
"When I was here last there was a large photo of Mr. Grange with Mr. Dimola on that—In fact, if you look closely you can see where it stood in the dust."
The policeman stared at it and at her. "You were here before?"
"Yes, briefly, last fall. Mr. Grange showed me the picture then."
A light seemed to dawn on him. "What kind of frame was it in?"
"Silver," she said reluctantly.
"Aha!" He was triumphant. "Can you spot anything else missing?"
"I'm afraid apart from that I just wouldn't know." She looked a little helplessly at Arm. "Do you know?"
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