Time to Die

by Hilda Lawrence

  Pansy congratulated Joey with a smile. Smart as a whip, she told herself. Fell on that picture like a hawk on a chicken. And you couldn’t ask for a better disposition. Good as gold, and never known a mother’s love.

  Outside, a car crept up the cemetery road and stopped silently. It was the only car there. On bright Sundays the cemetery was crowded with motorists and people on foot, bringing garden flowers to the graves. Today there was no one.

  Pansy whispered to the reliable little girl in her class, and the reliable little girl promptly moved into Pansy’s chair. Mr. Walters gave the room an admonishing look and quietly departed. Pansy took his place, flushing with importance.

  “And now,” Pansy said, “we’ll sing Joey Beacham’s hymn before we have the closing prayer. We sang Bubber’s in the beginning, you remember, and we did it very nicely, too. Now we’ll have Joey’s and we’ll do it just as well, won’t we? Joey’s leaving us soon and we want to give her a real good send-off.”

  “One, two, three,” the organist counted audibly.

  The voices rose and Joey’s led all the rest. An eavesdropper, hearing the tune and not the words, might think they were singing “Tramp, Tramp, Tramp the Boys Are Marching,” but it wasn’t that. It was the swell song with the sentiment Mark had so heartily approved. It was also a favorite of Pansy’s. She joined in with a will.

  “Je-sus loves the littul chil-drun,

  Loves the childrun of the world;

  Red and yellow, black and white,

  They are preshus in his sight,

  Jesus loves the littul childrun of the world.”

  They went through two verses.

  Unknown to the occupants of that hot and over-crowded room, there was an eavesdropper. A figure stood at the same window where Mark had watched the Sunday before, careful not to stand too close, careful not to be seen. It stood there, smiling. If Pansy had been in her own chair, surrounded by her brood, she would have felt that smile. Something would have drawn her to the window. But Pansy was up at the other end of the room.

  Joey’s hymn drifted through the same open windows that had released the faint Amen before Miss Cassidy was found.

  The smiling figure drew back. There was no hurry. They were going to pray next. Bow their heads and close their eyes and pray. That would be the time.

  Pansy, thinking how wonderful it would be if Floyd got the call and studied for the ministry, suddenly found herself singing on alone. The hymn was over and even the children had stopped. She flushed unhappily, and plunged into the closing announcement.

  “There are some library books overdue, and we can’t have that. There isn’t any excuse; you all know better. I want every single book back here next Sunday. Don’t forget. And I’d like to remind you that it’s going to rain. There’s a very bad storm coming up, and you’re all to hurry home as fast as you can. Anybody that wants to give somebody a lift will be appreciated.” She paused. “And now the Lord’s Prayer in unison.”

  Chairs scraped and knees hit the floor.

  “Our Father,” began Pansy.

  Joey felt someone looking at her. It was like the day Mr. East had come. She turned her head to the window and saw the smiling, beckoning figure. For an instant amazement crossed her face, and then she smiled too. Mr. East had probably needed Mr. Wilcox for his work. That was why Mr. Wilcox hadn’t come.

  She got up quietly, sent a disdainful look at the bowed head of the reliable little girl, and tiptoed out.

  Pansy saw her go. She had one eye open because she liked to look at the small, kneeling figures. Mr. East is outside, she thought vaguely.

  “And deliver us from evil,” she continued slowly. She loved to say the words and drew them out as long as possible. The children tagged dutifully behind.

  The organist struck another chord and they sang the doxology. Once again a straggling Amen floated out across the grass and hung in the trees. But before it had died away a furious clap of thunder rent the air and destroyed all that was left.

  Up on the mountain Mark was slouched over the table in the Beacham cottage. When the thunder rolled he raised his head. His watch said four o’clock. He went over to the door and looked out. The sky was livid. He was uneasy, thinking of Perley and Joey on the road.

  Perley drove up to the church and looked around. He was a little late; his wardrobe was responsible for that, but he knew Pansy and Joey would be waiting. As he went up the steps he saw a car leaving the far end of the cemetery. It moved out of sight as he watched.

  The vestibule was empty and the building silent. In the Sunday school room he found Pansy poring over her library list and frowning. She greeted him with, “Would you drive me out to Mama’s or is it too dangerous?”

  “Can’t take the time,” Perley said. “And nobody drives today unless they have to. Floyd’s all right if that’s what’s worrying you. Where’s Joey?”

  Pansy put a black mark beside a child’s name. “Mr. East came for her. Just before we finished. He’s always doing that.”

  “Must have come down to see somebody.” Perley was satisfied. “Can you get home all right by yourself, or do you want me to take you?”

  “I’ll manage. You run along. And do take care, Perley. And call me up when you—when you can. I declare I’m so nervous I could scream.”

  He patted her plump shoulder. “Nothing to worry about.” He started off. “Don’t count on any phone calls though. I’ll do what I can, but I’ve got a feeling that when she breaks the lines are going to come down.”

  He drove up the mountain slowly. The wind tore at the top of his car with ungovernable fury and the trees along the road lashed out as he passed. He listened with misgiving to the twanging wires overhead. If the wires came down they’d all be cut off. It was a bad thing to be cut off.

  He drove through the gates, parked the car, and went directly to Beacham’s cottage. Mark was poring over a sheet of paper in the living room.

  “No trouble?” Mark asked without turning.

  “Nope,” Perley said. He looked for signs of Joey. Then he remembered. Over in the hotel, playing checkers with Miss Pond. “Road’s in poor shape right now,” he went on. “And getting worse all the time. Some trees down and it won’t surprise me if the wires go too. When the rain comes it’s going to be terrible. I feel sorry for the farmers.”

  “Save your pity for yourself. I want you to listen to what I’ve lined up.”

  Perley drew a chair to the table. “Beulah Pond don’t like storms any too much,” he said. “I’ve heard rumors that she locks herself in a closet. I was wondering if maybe Joey wouldn’t be better off if—”

  “She’ll be all right where she is. Now—”

  Bittner sat in his kitchen window, surveying the road through his binoculars. It was a purely gratuitous gesture. When the storm began he had called the busses home like cattle; they’d been washed the night before at fifty cents a head. Let people use their own cars if they wanted to get killed and filthy.

  There was no traffic. The four o’clock branch train had trundled by fifteen minutes before, nearly empty. Two passengers. Bear River boys going up the line to see Baldwin girls. He polished his glasses and frowned.

  Ella May, shuffling from icebox to stove to table, was preparing his early supper. He had another at ten.

  “You want the cold chicken now and the cold ham later, or the cold ham now and the cold chicken later?”

  “Ham. Now.”

  “Bessy Petty has been over to the Caldwells’ for three days now,” she droned. “You know what that means. They got brandy. Beulah Pond’s going to have her hands full when she gets back. Serve her right, too. What’s she doing up the mountain?”

  Bittner didn’t answer. He had raised his binoculars again and was leaning forward.

  “Well?” asked Ella May. “What are you breathing about?”

  “Beacham’s back,” Bittner said. “His car just went by. He’s driving like a fool.”

  “That’s what he is.”
Ella May slapped half a ham on the table. “Come on and eat. You’ve no call to be watching Beacham. He’s got a right to the road, and it’s his murder.”

  Bittner sucked in his breath. “I thought he wasn’t coming back until tonight. He must have changed his mind or else he’s up to monkey business.” He turned the glasses toward Baldwin. “Out of sight now.” He started to wheel himself over to the table. Then, “No!” he said explosively.

  “No what?”

  “If he came in on the morning train that means he got by me, and nobody does that. And the only other train from New York isn’t due for five hours. How did he get here? His car’s been at the hotel all the time. How did he get down here in the first place, and why’s he going up north again?”

  Ella May started to reply.

  “Shut up,” he said. “I’m thinking.”

  He turned back to the window and peered at the road. That car. Beacham’s car. It went by like a bat out of hell, swinging from side to side. Beacham didn’t drive like that. He closed his little eyes and tried to remember something else about the car that didn’t look like Beacham. Finally he got it. It was the driver. Beacham always sat up straight, like he owned the world; this one was crouched over the wheel and—he fought down rising panic—this one was the wrong shape. He didn’t have any shape at all. He sat like a bundle, a dark, shapeless bundle, huddled over the wheel. . . . Bundle! There’d been a bundle on the seat beside him. A big one. Dark.

  He spun his chair around and shot over to the telephone. He was shouting Mark’s number before he had the receiver off. “Hurry,” he squealed, “hurry!”

  Overhead, the elements conspired. A thunderous peal shook the house and lightning ripped the sky. A tree crashed outside the window and took the telephone wires with it. The clouds opened and the rain came down.

  Bittner raised the screen and leaned out. He was gripping an old bus horn, the one he used for summoning Ella May. He blew a piercing blast in the direction of the station.

  “Amos!” he screamed.

  Mark and Perley bent their heads over the paper.

  “So much for Delaney,” Mark said. “Both Delaney and his daughter hated Cassie. Now file them away in your mind and go on to Murdoch. Louise Murdoch, age thirty-six. Who is she? Is she here?”

  Perley swallowed hard. “I don’t know what to think,” he managed to say.

  “You’re thinking about the same person I am, but you’re not sure. You can’t see why she waited all this time. I think we can get around that. Even though Cassie had known her for several years, had seen her almost every day, you must remember that the name wasn’t the same and the environment was different. Small details, but worth considering. And in the earlier days when she was in Cassie’s charge and known as Louise Murdoch, she had brown hair. Dye that, and see what happens to your mental picture. Her weight, when she was in the hospital, was one hundred and sixty pounds. Take away forty and you have an entirely new person. And what’s more, the record says she was an expert dissembler. On her goods days they’d take her up to the roof for exercise, and she’d charm the ordinary convalescents like birds out of a bush. I mean the men, of course. She never talked to the women. . . . Well?”

  “It could be.”

  “It isn’t far-fetched. She was never ordinary and never stupid, unless she wanted to be. I think she could change her personality if she needed to. Change that as well as her name.”

  “She could look older and she could look younger,” Perley said thoughtfully. “She could look any way she liked.”

  “And,” Mark went on, “she was only in the hospital six months before her brother took her away. She was only one, in a crowded ward. And a lot of things happened to Cassie between that time and the time she re-met Murdoch, if she did. The old life was far, far behind. She might have said to herself, as we all do sometime, ‘That woman reminds me of someone.’ No more than that. I mean, no more than that until later, when Murdoch did something that gave the show away.” He added, “If it is Murdoch.”

  Perley was silent. He was sunk in his chair.

  Mark went on. “Kelso. You can have a dozen guesses on Kelso, but I’m sure one of them is out.”

  “Beacham?” Perley said the name with difficulty. “I can’t help it, he keeps coming to my mind.”

  “I know he does. But Cassie had known him for nine years. There’s too little time between Kelso’s discharge and Cassie’s reappearance on the scene as Joey’s nurse. . . . Unless she thought he had straightened out. Unless she was sorry for him. She collected shorn lambs.” He put his head in his hands. “No, that’s wrong. That’s out. That’s got to be out. I can’t fit Roberta in. I don’t even know if Kelso was married.”

  “Stop driving yourself crazy!” Perley’s own voice was cracking. “You’ll find out tonight. All this talking isn’t doing any good. Wait for tonight.”

  “Tonight may be a flop. They may eat my food, listen to my music, and walk out under their own steam, unblemished. Then I’ll have to begin all over again. Or maybe I’ll do as Beacham suggests. Turn it over to you and let you hang it on a playful country lad.” He picked up the paper again. “Another pleasant feature is that every one of our suspects could be two other people. Peck, for instance, could be Kelso or Murdoch’s brother.”

  “And Delaney could be—”

  “Stick to Delaney for the moment. Do you remember what you said just before you and Joey left?”

  “I said I’d like a girl. You looked at me kind of funny.”

  “You also said that most men wanted boys and sometimes they acted mean about it.”

  “That’s the truth, too. They do.”

  “Apply that to Delaney. Delaney hated his daughter. Could that be why?”

  “Sure it could. I’ve seen it go that way.”

  “All right. Delaney hated his daughter. Remember that. And Kelso hated his mother. Remember that too. And Louise Murdoch hated all women. Their hatred was a part of their madness. So what have we? We have three people, or rather, we have six—Delaney and daughter, Kelso and mother, Murdoch and brother—six people, three of them hopelessly mad and three of them living in fear of madness. Three of them with definite, separate hates, and all six sharing one hate together. The one hate was Mary Cassidy.”

  Perley glowered. “You know what we’ve got to do? We’ve got to get authority to throw everybody in jail. Everybody we’ve got the slightest suspicion about. And keep them there until we have time to check their lives from the day they were born. We haven’t had enough time. The thing spreads out too far. Down south, out west, all over. That’s what we’ve got to do.”

  “Wait a minute. There’s more coming.” Mark spoke slowly. “That common fear of poor Mary Cassidy, that unreasoning hate, was strong enough to bring about her murder. But suppose there was an even stronger motive, a by-product, we’ll call it, that outweighed the original. If I’m right, Perley, it’s a woman we’re looking for.”

  “Delaney’s daughter?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe Kelso’s. Maybe Murdoch herself. We’re looking for a girl who should have been a boy. A girl whose mother, or someone, gave her a boy’s name, or a version of one. The way Cassie did with Joey. Trying to make amends, trying to give the kid a break. In Joey’s case it was successful, but in our case I think it failed. Wouldn’t that child, with a bad inheritance to start with, grow up with an ugly scar? Sure she would. And the frenzied love she had for her indifferent father would be so close to hate that you couldn’t tell the difference. So—she’d grow into a frightened, bitter, resentful woman, with the knowledge of insanity hanging over her head. Maybe with the knowledge of insanity already perceived. What would that woman do, or think, if she were suddenly faced with Mary Cassidy? If, after years of safe anonymity, she saw recognition slowly come to Mary Cassidy’s eyes? We know what she did. She killed her. And what would that woman do when, day after day, she saw Cassie’s best job, Joey? Joey, the little girl who made the grade, who wore her boy’s clo
thes proudly and happily. Do you see now why I worry when Joey—”

  Over in the corner the telephone shrilled. Mark got up and started across the room. The thunder rolled and the lightning struck.

  “That hit!” Perley gasped. “Keep away from the phone.” The wind tore at the curtains and the rain swept in. He struggled with the windows. “Keep away from the phone!” he shouted above the roar. “It’s dangerous!”

  Mark took down the receiver. “Hello,” he said. There was no answer. “Hello!” he said again, sharply.

  Perley watched anxiously from across the room.

  “Dead?” he asked.

  “Dead.”

  Beulah had reached the end of her tether. For the last half hour she had wanted to go up to her room and hide, preferably under the bed, but Perley hadn’t brought Joey. She didn’t dare leave the lobby again until he did. She had left once, but the switchboard operator had promised to keep an eye on Joey if she came. Perley was late. He was more than late. She told herself he must have stayed in town.

  When the storm finally struck she moaned loudly, but there was no one to bring her a reviving drink. Even the clerk had vanished. The operator was the only living soul in sight and she was half dead with fright. When the lightning hit, she’d clapped both hands to her head and screamed.

  Beulah went over to her. “Are you all right?”

  “I don’t know. My ears. I can’t hear a thing.”

  “You can hear me,” Beulah said. Her native curiosity compelled her to read the penciled lines on the record sheet. “What’s that you’ve got written down? It says East-Bittner.”

  “I have to keep a special record for Mr. East. He told me to. There was a call for Mr. East when the lightning struck.”

  “Were you cut off?”

  “I certainly was! Everybody’s cut off. Bear River. Crestwood, Baldwin, and heaven knows how many other towns. There’ll be no service for hours, you mark my words, and will they call it an act of God? No. They’ll call it carelessness, my carelessness.” She gave a pleased cackle. “You should have heard Mr. Bittner. So excitable. Life and death, he hollered.”