The Tightrope Walker

by Dorothy Gilman

  Joe, following my line of thought, smiled. "Has it the reputation of being haunted maybe?"

  Mr. Tuttle looked shocked as he braked beside the front steps of the house. "Lot of nonsense," he said indignantly. "We've long winters here and people like their gossip. You get just one person saying a thing like that and soon it's gospel truth. You can't believe everything you hear."

  "I never do," I said innocently as he brought out a huge circle of keys with tags hanging from them. "Although as a matter of fact Joe and I adore haunted houses."

  "Do you now," he said warily, and, having separated a group of keys from the others, he opened the car, door and climbed out. The three of us stood a moment on the circular graveled drive, a copse of birch trees to the right, a long flow of lawn on the left. The sun was shining and there were all kinds of delicious earth smells; spring was late up here but it was on its way, no doubt about it. Through the trees on the right I caught a glimpse of river flowing below the house.

  We walked up wooden steps, crossed a wooden porch that crackled dryly under our feet, and entered a very cold house to begin a tour of its rooms.

  Every house has its own personality but this one was curiously neutral. Too many people in too few years, I guessed, but the wainscoting in the dining room was freshly painted and the kitchen was modern except for a very old wood-burning cookstove in one corner. That would have been Hannah's, I decided. There were fireplaces everywhere: in the long living room, in the dining room, in the kitchen, and one upstairs in the master bedroom, Mr. Tuttle said, but Joe announced that he'd like to see the basement first. "To have a look at the foundation and the sills," he said firmly. This earned him a look of such respect from Mr. Tuttle that from then on he addressed all of his remarks to Joe and ignored me.

  The door to the cellar opened at the end of a very long hallway, which I found interesting. It was a hallway that began at the front door and ended at the cellar door, where one turned sharply right into the sunny kitchen behind the dining room. Set into this long hall were closets and a dumb-waiter. Mr. Tuttle turned on lights as we walked, and when he turned on the light to the cellar I was startled to find the stairs built of wood, not cement; somehow I had expected cement. These steps marched down at a moderately steep angle, but there was a handrail and nothing unusually dangerous except for the cement floor waiting at the bottom. I followed Joe and Mr. Tuttle down, feeling a little queasy, and stopped at the last step, staring at the floor where Hannah had been found lying unconscious. Of course there was nothing there. I turned and looked back up the stairs. The accepted story, as I understood it, was that Hannah had been carrying a handful of checks, had turned on the light, started down the stairs, lost her balance and fallen to the bottom. But there was something missing here, I thought, and the word was trajectory. The stairs were narrow and they were as steep as the usual basement staircase, laid out to conserve space, but still....

  "But still," I thought, "how could a body fall down wooden steps and be killed unless she was moving at some terrific speed when she approached the cellar stairs, or was hurled down?"

  I was thinking even then of that long approach to the basement door, the hallway running almost the length of the house.

  While Joe and Mr. Tuttle examined beams I went up and descended the stairs again, trying to imagine falling from this step or that one. If I lost my balance near the top, I thought, or from anywhere on the stairs, I would automatically throw out my hands to protect myself, wouldn't I? I'd stumble, bump against a step or two, grope for the handrail, hit a few stairs and possibly break an arm or a shoulder bone when I hit the cement but I couldn't understand anyone's being killed by the fall unless by some unimaginable fluke. I tried it again, climbing the stairs and this time closing the cellar door behind me, approaching it from the hall, reopening the door, pretending to turn on the light and then descending. Stopping for all these things made it even more impossible, unless a person were pushed. Or hurried down the hall blindfolded? Or dead before they went down?

  "Let's go upstairs please," I said in a sudden, panicky voice. "Please. Now?"

  Joe shot me a glance that included the stairs and up we went.

  "This railing," I asked as we ascended. "Is it new?"

  Bob Tuttle shook his head. "Old as the house and still sound," he said, tugging at it. "They knew how to build in those days. Mahogany, I'd guess."

  A sound old railing, too. Why hadn't the doctor wondered about the trajectory and that sort of thing?

  The staircase we mounted to the second floor curved in a lovely line. We inspected four bedrooms and two baths with interest before we moved on to the door of the attic. Here the arrangement was curious: the door opened on five shallow stairs and a landing, at which point the stairs turned abruptly right to continue up to the attic. At this landing there was a door.

  "What's that?" I asked, pointing.

  "What they used to call a box room," said Mr. Tuttle.

  I let him lead us on up the stairs to the attic, where we found two maids' rooms, a lavatory, and walk-in closet smelling of mothballs, but I knew I wanted to see the box room.

  "It's locked," said Mr. Tuttle.

  "Just give me the key then," I told him, holding out my hand. "While you and Joe discuss price," I added brightly to make it worth his while, "because we plan a very large family. I have to see all the rooms."

  After he'd gone through all his keys again I left them, and as soon as I unlocked and opened the door of the box room I knew; I knew in my bones and with every cell in my being that this was where Hannah had been held prisoner. In the first place it was the only room in the house without a window: there was just a metal vent high up near the ceiling with a tiny fan set into it. A solitary light bulb hung from the ceiling without a shade, and there was a rusty iron cot along one slanting wall that looked as if it had been there forever. The room measured roughly 12 by 14 except that the slanted ceiling made it look even smaller. It was empty except for the cot and an old bureau tilted on one leg that nobody had cared about enough to remove. The walls were plaster and had been painted not too long ago.

  I sat down on the iron cot and looked around me at what Hannah would have seen, because I was sure now. A box room would have been where they stored trunks in Victorian days; there would have been one or two of those, I guessed, plus the hurdy-gurdy, and perhaps a few other pieces, possibly a rocking horse kept for Robin and Nora to play with when they were young. One of the trunks would have been filled with costumes—what made me know this?—for dressing-up fun on a rainy day. But I didn't think it would be a good place in which to be trapped: there would have been no daylight, and the mattress—if it was the same one— was filthy and full of lumps and holes. At times the room must have been stifling—it had been July, after all—and it must always have been claustrophobic.

  I sat there and I said softly, "Hannah?" and then, "Hannah Gruble?"

  I've never believed in ghosts, although I do believe that we leave something of ourselves behind us, some imprint of personality or essence, in all the places we live. I believe that people also affect us in this way by their vibrations. This is my only explanation for what happened to me after I spoke Hannah's name. I mean, if I didn't explain it in this way I would have to believe in ghosts, wouldn't I? But a sense of peace, of absolute calm—such as I'd experienced only in the presence of Amman Singh—flowed through me and transfixed me as I sat there. It was a feeling of unbelievable tranquility, almost of communion with someone, and it lasted until I heard Joe and Mr. Tuttle descending the stairs from the attic.

  The sound of their footsteps brought me back to the moment with a start, and I remembered why I was here. Wondering if Hannah might have attempted any other messages I walked over to the bureau and examined it but the drawers were empty except for two dead flies and something stuck to the top of one drawer. I had just pried it loose when Joe and Mr. Tuttle walked in.

  "Nice house, don't you think, Joe?" I said. Glancing down into my
hand I discovered that all I'd unearthed was a petrified wad of chewing gum.

  Joe looked around with interest, lifted an eyebrow and nodded. "But it's four o'clock already, Amelia, I think we'd better go back to town and talk about it. Mr. Tuttle feels the owners are ready to come down in price quite a bit. It's all very tempting."

  "Yes, isn't it?" I said eagerly. "Put a window in here and it would make a lovely little sewing room."

  We moved out into the hall and I noticed that Bob Tuttle forgot to lock the box room. Joe was saying deliberately, "Mr. Tuttle tells me that Dr. Cox is dead but your mother's old friend Jane Morneau still lives in Anglesworth."

  "Wonderful!" I exclaimed—we were turning into a regular vaudeville team, Joe and I—and remarking on the coincidences of life, of which the most amazing one Mr. Tuttle would never know, we walked out on the landing, down the several stairs to the second-floor hallway, followed it to the staircase, and thus left Hannah's house behind us.

  Parting with Mr. Tuttle, however, proved less easy. He wanted to give us a good many judicious suggestions about the house, he wanted to counsel us on a possible price offer and to explain the attitude of the Keppels, while we in turn wanted to inquire about Hannah's will before the courthouse closed. It made for a tight squeak; in fact, it was precisely four-fifty when we raced up the stairs of the courthouse again. We ran down long hallways following signs of a flat yellow hand, with index finger pointing and the word probate under them, until we reached a room that was high-ceilinged and cool, with a long counter and desks behind it, and walls lined with legal volumes. I was glad to stop running and catch my breath.

  Joe asked the young woman who approached us if we might see the will of Hannah Meerloo, who had died on July 25, 1965. I had the terrible feeling that the clerk would say we needed a court order to see someone's will but she nodded in a matter-of-fact way, asked us to write the name on a piece of paper for her, and then disappeared into an adjoining room where I could see row upon row of records in drawers and on shelves. I looked at Joe and saw that he was fighting down his suspense. Presently the young woman returned and placed before us a single-page document with a signature at the bottom.

  "You've just time to photostat it if you'd like," she said politely. "We close in two minutes. There's a machine behind you."

  "Yes," I said, incredulous at its being so easy. "Yes, thank you."

  We made two copies, handed back the original and hurried out of the building in a stream of departing clerks. We began our reading of the will seated outside on the steps in the fading sunshine.

  "Joe, look at the date," I gasped. "July 2, 1965, only twenty-three days before she was killed."

  "I'm looking," he said grimly.

  The single sheet was neatly typed, with the signatures of three witnesses at the bottom. I read:

  Let it be known that this is the last Will and Testament of Hannah Gruble Meerloo, and that being of sound mind and body I, Hannah Gruble Meerloo, appoint as co-executors of my estate my nephew Robert Gruble of New York, and my attorney Garwin Mason of Anglesworth.

  Since the Greenacres Private Psychiatric Hospital has already been endowed by me with a permanent Trust Fund, and other charities of mine are now self-sustaining I bequeath to my loyal housekeeper Jane Whitney Morneau the sum of $35,000, and, renouncing all previous wills, ask that the remainder of my estate, once taxes have been removed, be divided equally in three ways: one-third of the residual to my niece Leonora Harrington of Boston, one-third to my nephew Robert Gruble of New York, and one-third to my protégé John Tuttle of Carle-ton, with the hope that he may see fit to continue contributions when necessary to the support of the Jason Meerloo Orphanage in Anglesworth, in which he spent his early years.

  Signed on this 2nd day of July 1965,

  Hannah Gruble Meerloo witnessed by: Daniel Lipton Hubert Holton Leonora Harrington

  We finished reading at the same time. Joe said, "John Tuttle's the name of the young man who was driving for her summers."

  "Enter chauffeur," I said, nodding. "Enter a witness named Daniel Lipton. Re-enter Hubert Holton."

  "And Nora witnessed the will, too," mused Joe.

  "I see that," I said, and I stared down at this innocent sheet of paper, wishing I could shake it until its secrets tumbled out. "Joe, I think we've got to see this man Garwin Mason next, don't you? Hannah's attorney, I mean, to see what he says about this will. If he's still alive," I added.

  "Let's find out," said Joe.

  We drove two blocks to a public phone booth where I found Garwin Mason's name listed in the directory under Mason, Gerard and Tuttle. It was after five o'clock but I telephoned anyway, and was surprised to hear a live secretary answer. I asked if we might see Mr. Garwin Mason. The secretary said that he'd already left, and she was just leaving, that Mr. Mason had to be in court the next morning at ten o'clock but that I could see him before then at half-past eight. I made the appointment, gave her my name, and hung up.

  It was now half-past five. I looked up Jane Morneau in the directory and found that she lived at 23 Farnsworth Road; I put in a call to her too but there was no answer and so Joe and I decided to have dinner next which, considering that we'd had no lunch, seemed a reasonable thing to do.

  "And what do we use as bait for Mr. Garwin Mason at half-past eight tomorrow morning?" asked Joe pleasantly.

  We were seated in the coffee shop of the Golden Kingfisher Motel, where thirty minutes earlier we had checked into unit 18. We each had a seafood platter in front of us, a milk shake, and a copy of Hannah's will.

  "I think," I said firmly, having already considered this, "that I should visit him alone and tell him I'm writing a biography of Hannah Gruble, author."

  Joe grinned. "Your inventiveness astounds me, Miss Jones."

  "It does me, too," I admitted, "but in a sense it is like research for a biography, Joe, so it's not an outright lie. Lawyers don't thaw easily."

  "You make him sound like a frozen steak."

  "Well," I said vaguely, "there's client confidentiality and all that, isn't there? Joe, this will has to be the paper Hannah was forced to sign before she died, don't you think?"

  "The date's wrong," he pointed out. "The will was drawn up the second and she died the twenty-fifth. We can't suppose otherwise until you've seen Mr. Mason tomorrow, because if he drew up that will for Hannah—"

  "I don't for a moment believe that he did," I told him flatly. "She wrote in her note that whatever she signed the night before was her death warrant. I can't think of anything else a person would sign that could be sç damning."

  "Okay," said Joe, relenting, "suppose Garwin Mason didn't draw up the will for her and it's a phony, or was drawn up by the people who killed her. Remember Hannah's note? She'd signed whatever it was the night before she was killed, and she was killed the twenty-fifth."

  "It could have been typed up the twenty-second or twenty-third of July but dated earlier to avert suspicion."

  Joe said patiently, "But Nora's signature is on it, and Nora wasn't in Carleton until a few hours before Hannah's death. She'd just 'come back,' remember?"

  "Damn," I said, and thought about this. "Then suppose somebody typed up the will on July 2, using Hannah's typewriter to be certain just in case, persuaded the witnesses to sign it, and sometime after that Hannah was locked into the box room until she herself signed it."

  "That sounds better."

  "Oh Joe."

  "Steady there."

  "Yes, but think of the kind of mind that could conceive of this," I said, tears rising to my eyes. "To take an unprotected woman and lock her up in a room in her own home, Joe, until her spirit is crushed—and the worst of it, people coming to the house, tradesmen, neighbors perhaps, and never suspecting. The coldblooded ruthlessness of it, Joe!"

  He nodded. "All the more important we find who did it, Amelia."

  I glanced down at the will in front of me. "We have to find out what's different in this will from any other wills she made. D
o you think Garwin Mason will tell me? I can already hazard a guess."

  Joe, reading my mind, shook his head. "You have to keep your mind open in this sort of thing, Amelia, not leap to conclusions or let preconceived ideas spring up too early."

  "Of course," I said politely, "except I do think it's very odd, her leaving one third to this John Tuttle, who's not related at all."

  He grinned. "Okay, so why don't you look in the directory and see if there's still a Jason Meerloo Orphanage here in Anglesworth?"

  "I already did," I told him quietly. "After I called Mr. Mason's office and before I looked up Mrs. Morneau's number. Which reminds me that I'd better try her number again."

  "Great," said Joe dryly as I got up, "and was there, or was there not, an orphanage listed?"

  "No orphanage," I told him. "John Tuttle did not keep it afloat as she hoped in her will."

  Joe looked at me with an odd smile on his lips. "But Amelia, aren't you forgetting that if our suppositions are correct Hannah didn't write that will?"

  I dropped back into my chair again, neatly floored by this jab. I said helplessly, "But that makes it a very strange will, Joe. I can't believe Nora's involved, she must have loved her aunt—"

  "But her signature's on the will," Joe reminded me.

  "I'm betting it was forged or gotten under false pretenses, but if she was involved," I pointed out, "that makes it even stranger because she cut herself off from one third of a lot of money. And if John Tuttle was involved he tied himself to supporting an orphanage with his money. Quite publicly, too."

  "Wait—be patient," said Joe. "Tomorrow we make absolutely certain that Hannah's attorney did not draw up this will. We verify."

  "That word again," I said indignantly, and left him and went to the telephone. I dropped a dime in the slot, dialed Mrs. Morneau's number, and after listening to it ring and ring I replaced the receiver. I dug out my spiral notebook and consulted names again and then looked up Daniel Lipton in the directory. There was no Daniel listed but there was a Mrs. Daniel Lipton living at 13VÍ2 Pearl Street