by Ellery Queen
“I’ll hurt you plen’y! I’ll show you¯”
Mr. Queen opened the door.
Lola and Jim were dancing on a worn patch of carpet in the middle of a poor, neat room. His arms were around her, and he was trying drunk-enly to bend her backward. She had the heel of her hand under his chin. His head was far back, his eyes glaring.
“The United States Marines,” sighed Mr. Queen, and he plucked Jim from Lola and sat him down on a sagging sofa. Jim covered his face with his hands. ”Any damage, Lola?”
“No,” panted Lola. ”You are a one! How much did you hear?” She straightened her blouse, fussed with her hair, turned a bit away. She took a bottle of gin from the table and, as if it didn’t matter, put it in a cupboard.
“Just a scuffling,” said Ellery mildly. ”I was coming up to pay you that long-overdue visit. What’s the matter with Jim?”
“Plastered.” Lola gave him her full face now. Composed. ”Poor Nora! I can’t imagine why he came here. Do you suppose the idiot’s fallen in love with me?”
“You ought to be able to answer that yourself,” grinned Ellery. ”Well, Mr. Haight, I think you’d best say nighty-night to your attractive sister-in-law and let your old pal take you home.”
Jim sat there rocking. And then he stopped rocking, and his head flopped. He was asleep doubled up, like a big rag doll with sandy hair.
“Lola,” said Ellery quickly, “what do you know about this business?”
“What business?” Her eyes met his, but they told nothing.
After a moment Ellery smiled. ”No hits, no runs, one error. Someday I’ll fight my way out of this unmerciful fog! Night.”
He slung Jim across his shoulders; Lola held the door open.
“Two cars?”
“His and mine¯or rather Pat’s.”
“I’ll drive Jim’s back in the morning. Just leave it parked outside,” said Lola. ”And Mr. Smith¯”
“Miss Wright?”
“Call again.”
“Perhaps.”
“Only next time”¯Lola smiled¯”knock.”
* * *
With unexpected firmness, John F. took command for the family.
“No fuss, Hermy,” he said, waggling his thin forefinger at her. ”This Christmas somebody else does the work.”
“John Fowler Wright, what on earth¯?”
“We’re all going up to the mountains for Christmas dinner. We’ll spend the night at the Lodge and roast chestnuts around Bill York’s fire, and we’ll have fun.”
“John, that’s a silly idea! Nora took my Thanksgiving away from me; now you want my Christmas. I won’t hear of it.”
But after looking into her husband’s eyes, Hermy decided his command was not a whim, and she stopped arguing.
So Ed Hotchkiss was hired to drive the Christmas gifts up to Bill York’s Lodge on top of Bald Mountain, with a note to Bill from John F. concerning dinner, and lodgings, and “special preparations”¯old John was mighty mysterious about the whole thing, chortling like a boy.
They were to drive up to Bald Mountain in two cars directly after dinner Christmas Eve. Everything was ready¯the snow chains were on the rear tires, old Ludie had already left, released for the holiday, and they were stamping about outside the Wright house waiting for Jim and Nora to join them . . . when the door of Nora’s house opened and out came Rosemary Haight, alone.
“Where are Jim and Nora, for goodness’ sake?” called Hermy. ”We’ll never get to the Lodge!”
Rosemary shrugged. ”Nora’s not going.”
“What!”
“She says she doesn’t feel well.”
They found Nora in bed, still and weak and greenish, and Jim prowling aimlessly about the room.
“Nora baby!” cried Hermy.
“Sick again?” exclaimed John F.
“It’s nothing,” said Nora; but it was an effort for her to talk. ”Just my stomach. You all go on ahead to the Lodge.”
“We’ll do no such thing,” said Pat indignantly. ”Jim, haven’t you called Dr. Willoughby?”
“She won’t let me.” Jim said it in a lifeless voice.
“Won’t let you! What are you¯a man or a worm? What’s she got to say about it? I’m going downstairs this minute¯”
“Pat,” faltered Nora. Pat stopped. ”Don’t.”
“Now Nora¯”
Nora opened her eyes. They burned.
“I won’t have it,” said Nora through her teeth. ”I’m saying this for the last time. I won’t have interference. Do you understand? I’m all right.
I’m-all¯right.” Nora bit her lip, then with an effort continued: “Now please. Go on. If I feel better in the morning, Jim and I will join you at the Lodge¯”
“Nora,” said John F., clearing his throat, “it’s time you and I had an old-fashioned father-and-daughter talk . . . ”
“Let me alone!” Nora screamed.
They did so.
* * *
On Christmas Day, Ellery and Pat drove up to Bald Mountain, retrieved the gifts from Bill York at the Lodge, and drove back to Wrightsville with them. They were distributed in a distinctly unhallowed atmosphere.
Hermy spent the day in her room. Pat fixed a Christmas “dinner” of leftover lamb and a jar of mint jelly, but Hermy would not come down, and John F. swallowed two mouthfuls and dropped his fork, saying he wasn’t hungry. So Pat and Ellery ate alone.
Later, they walked over to see Nora. They found Nora asleep, Jim out, and Rosemary Haight curled up in the living room with a copy of Look and a box of chocolates. She shrugged at Pat’s question about Jim. Had another fight with Nora and ran out. Nora was fine . . . weak, but getting along all right. What does one do for excitement in this one-horse town? Wrightsville! Christmas! And, petulantly, Rosemary went back to her magazine.
Pat ran upstairs to satisfy herself about Nora. When she came back, she winked urgently, and Ellery took her outside again.
“I tried to talk to her¯she wasn’t asleep at all. I . . . almost told her I knew about those letters! Ellery, Nora’s got me frightened. She threw something at me!”
Ellery shook his head.
“She won’t talk. She got hysterical again. And she’s sick as a cat! I tell you,” Pat whispered, “the schedule’s working out. Ellery, she was poisoned again yesterday/”
“You’re getting to be as bad as Nora,” said Ellery. ”Go up and take a nap, Pat. Can’t a woman be sick occasionally?”
“I’m going back to Nora. I’m not going to leave her alone!”
When Pat had run back, Ellery took a long walk down the Hill, feeling unhappy. The day before, while the others had been upstairs with Nora, he had quietly gone to the dining room. The table had not yet been cleared of the dinner dishes. He had sampled the remains of Nora’s corned-beef hash.
It had been a minute sample, but the effects were not long in making themselves known. He felt extreme stomachic pain and nausea. Very quickly, then, he had swallowed some of the contents of a bottle he had taken to carrying about with him¯ferric hydroxid, with magnesia, the official arsenic antidote.
No possible doubt. Someone had mixed an arsenic compound into Nora’s corned-beef hash. And only Nora’s. He had tasted the hash on the other two plates.
The pattern was working out. First Thanksgiving, then Christmas. So death was scheduled for New Year’s Day.
Ellery recalled his promise to Pat: to save her sister’s life.
He plodded through the drifts. His mind was swirly with thoughts that seemed to take recognizable shapes, but did not.
Chapter 13
New Year’s: The Last Supper
Nora spent four days after Christmas Eve in bed. But on the twenty-ninth of December she appeared fresh, gay . . . too gay, and announced that she was through being sick, like some old lady; that she’d spoiled the family’s Christmas, but she was going to make up for it, so everybody was invited to a New Year’s Eve party!
Even Jim brightened at that and clu
msily kissed her. Pat, witnessing the embrace, choked up and turned away. But Nora kissed Jim back, and for the first time in weeks they looked at each other in the old, secret way of lovers.
Hermy and John F. were overjoyed by this sudden return of Nora’s spirits.
“A dandy idea, Nora!” said Hermy. ”Now you plan the whole thing yourself. I shan’t lift a finger. Unless, of course, you’d like me to . . . ”
“No, indeed!” smiled Nora. ”It’s my party, and I’m going to boss it. Oh, darling”¯and Nora threw her arms about Pat¯”you’ve been such an angel this week, and I was so mean to you . . . throwing things! Can you ever forgive me?”
“You mug,” said Pat grimly, “I’d forgive you anything if you’d only keep acting this way!”
“It’s a good mood for Nora to be in,” Ellery said to Pat when she told him. ”Who’s Nora inviting?”
“The family, and the Judge Martins, and Doc Willoughby, and Nora’s even going to ask Frank Lloyd!”
“Hmm. Get her to invite Carter Bradford, too.”
Pat blanched. ”Cart?”
“Now, now. Bury the hatchet. It’s a new year¯”
“But why Cart? The pig didn’t even send me a Christmas card!”
“I want Bradford here New Year’s Eve. And you’ve got to get him here if it takes crawling to do it.”
Pat looked him in the eye. ”If you insist¯”
“I insist.”
“He’ll be here.”
* * *
Cart told Pat over the phone that he would “try” to come¯nice of her to ask him¯quite a surprise, in fact¯but, of course, he had numerous other “invitations”¯he wouldn’t want to disappoint Carmel Pettigrew¯but¯well¯he’d “manage” to drop in. Yes¯yes, count on it. I’ll drop in . . .
“Oh, Cart,” said Pat, despite herself, “why can’t people be friends?”
But Cart had already hung up.
Editor-Publisher Frank Lloyd came early. He showed up in a vast and sulky unconviviality, greeting people in monosyllables or not at all, and at the first opportunity made for the “bar,” which was a makeshift affair off the kitchen, in Nora’s pantry.
One would have said Mr. Queen’s interest in matters culinary that evening was unnatural. He haunted the kitchen, watching Alberta, watching Nora, watching the stove and the icebox and who came in and went out and what they did in the vicinity of anything edible or potable. And he did it all with such a self-effacement and eagerness that when Alberta left for her own New Year’s Eve party at the home of some Lithuanian friends in Low Village, Nora exclaimed: “My goodness, Ellery, you are a homebody, aren’t you? Here, stuff some olives.”
And so Mr. Queen stuffed some olives, while Jim was busy in the adjacent pantry fixing drinks. From where Mr. Queen stuffed the olives, he had a perfect view of his host.
Nora served a sumptuous buffet supper, preceded by canapes and pigs-in-blankets and stuffed celery stalks and relishes and cocktails; and before long Judge Eli Martin was saying to Aunt Tabitha, who glared about her disapprovingly: “Come, come, Tabby, take a drink and oil that soul of yours. It creaks to high heaven. Here¯a Manhattan¯good for you!”
But John F.’s sister snarled: “Reprobate!” and read Clarice Martin a lecture on the dangers of old fools drinking. Clarice, who was drifting about like the Lady of the Lake, misty-eyed, said of course Tabitha was perfectly right, and went on sipping her cocktail.
Lola was not there. Nora had invited her, but Lola had said over the phone: “Sorry, sis. I have my own celebration planned. Happy New Year!”
Rosemary Haight held court in a corner, getting the men to fetch and carry for her¯not out of interest in them, surely, for she seemed bored, but more as if she felt it necessary to keep in practice . . . until Pat, watching good old Doc Willoughby trotting off to replenish Rosemary’s glass, said: “Why can’t men see through a woman like that?”
“Maybe,” said Mr. Queen dryly, “because they’re stopped by the too, too solid flesh.” And he strolled off to the kitchen again¯in Jim’s wake, Patty’s troubled eyes noticed. For the dozenth time.
Gala evenings in the “nice” homes of Wrightsville were not noted for their hilarity; but Rosemary Haight, the outlander, exercised an irresistible influence for the worst. She became quite merry on numerous Manhattans, to the pointed disgust of Aunt Tabitha. Her spirits infected the men especially, so that talk became loud and laughter a little unsteady, and twice Jim had to visit the pantry to concoct new delights with rye and vermouth, and Pat had to open another bottle of maraschino cherries.
And both times Mr. Queen appeared smiling at Jim’s elbow, offering to help.
There was no sign of Carter Bradford. Pat kept listening for the doorbell.
Someone turned on the radio, and Nora said to Jim: “We haven’t danced since our honeymoon, darling. Come on!” Jim looked unbelieving; then a grin spread over his face, and seizing her, he danced her madly off.
Ellery went into the kitchen abruptly to mix himself a drink¯his first of the evening.
It was fifteen minutes to midnight when Rosemary waved a dramatic arm and commanded: “Jim! ‘Nother drink!”
Jim said pleasantly: “Don’t you think you’ve had enough, Rosemary?” Surprisingly, Jim had drunk very little himself.
Rosemary scowled. ”Get me one, killjoy!”
Jim shrugged and made for the kitchen, followed by the Judge’s admonition to “mix up a mess of ‘em, boy!” and Clarice Martin’s giggle.
There was a door from the hall to the kitchen, and an archway from the kitchen to the butler’s pantry; there was a dining-room door to the butler’s pantry, too. Mr. Ellery Queen stopped at the hall door to light a cigarette. It was half open; he could see into the kitchen and into the butler’s pantry.
Jim moved about the pantry, whistling softly as he got busy with the rye and vermouth.
He had just finished filling a fresh batch of glasses with Manhattans and was reaching for the bottle of maraschino cherries when someone knocked on the back door of the kitchen.
Ellery became tense, but he resisted the temptation to take his eyes off Jim’s hands.
Jim left the cocktails and went to the door.
“Lola! I thought Nora said¯”
“Jim.” Lola sounded in a hurry. ”I had to see you¯”
“Me?” Jim seemed puzzled. ”But Lo¯”
Lola pitched her voice low; Ellery was unable to make out the words. Jim’s body blocked Lola out; whatever was happening, it took only a few moments, for suddenly Lola was gone and Jim had closed the back door, crossing the kitchen a little abstractedly to return to the pantry. He plopped a cherry into each glass.
Ellery said: “More fixin’s, Jim?” as Jim came through to the hall carrying the tray of full glasses carefully. Jim grinned, and they went into the living room together to be greeted by jubilant shouts.
“It’s almost midnight,” said Jim cheerfully. ”Here’s a drink for everybody to toast the New Year in.”
And he went about the room with the tray, everyone taking a glass.
“Come on, Nora,” said Jim. ”One won’t hurt you, and New Year’s Eve doesn’t come every night!”
“But Jim, do you really think¯”
“Take this one.” He handed her one of the glasses.
“I don’t know, Jim¯” began Nora doubtfully. Then she took it from him, laughing.
“Now you be careful, Nora,” warned Hermy. ”You know you haven’t been well. Ooh! I’m dizzy.”
“Souse,” said John F. gallantly, kissing Hermy’s hand. She slapped him playfully.
“Oh, one sip won’t hurt me, Mother,” protested Nora.
“Hold it!” yelled Judge Martin. ”Here’s the ol’ New Year rolling in right now. Yip-ee!” And the old jurist’s shout was drowned in a flood of horns and bells and noisemakers coming out of the radio.
“To the New Year!” roared John F., and they all drank, even Aunt Tabitha, Nora dutifully taking a sip and makin
g a face, at which Jim howled with laughter and kissed her.
That was the signal for everybody to kiss everybody else, and Mr. Queen, struggling to keep everything in view, found himself seized from behind by a pair of warm arms.
“Happy New Year,” whispered Pat, and she turned him around and kissed him on the lips.
For an instant the room, dim with candlelight, swam; then Mr. Queen grinned and stooped for another; but Pat was snatched from his arms by Doc Willoughby, who growled: “How about me?” and Ellery found himself foolishly pecking the air.
“More!” shrieked Rosemary. ” ‘Nother drink! Let’s all get stinking¯What the hell!” And she waved her empty glass coyly at Judge Martin. The Judge gave her a queer glance and put his arm around Clarice.
Frank Lloyd drank two cocktails quickly.
Jim said he had to go down to the cellar for another bottle of rye¯he was all “out” upstairs here.
“Where’s my drink?” insisted Rosemary. ”What kinda joint is this? New Year’s an’ no drinks!” She was angry. ”Who’s got a drink?” Nora was passing her on her way to the radio. ”Hey! Nora! You got a drink!”
“But Rosemary, I’ve drunk from it¯”
“I wanna drink!”
Nora made a face and gave her unfinished cocktail to Rosemary, who tossed it down like a veteran and staggered over to the sofa, where she collapsed with a silly laugh. A moment later she was fast asleep.
“She snores,” said Frank Lloyd gravely. ”The beaushous lady snores,” and he and John F. covered Rosemary with newspapers, all but her face; and then John F. recited “Horatius at the Bridge” with no audience whatever, until Tabitha, who was a little flushed herself, called him another old fool; whereupon John F. seized his sister and waltzed her strenuously about the room to the uncooperative strains of a rumba.
Everybody agreed that everybody was a little tight, and wasn’t the new year wonderful?
All but Mr. Ellery Queen, who was again lingering at the hall door to the kitchen watching Jim Haight make cocktails.
At thirty-five minutes past midnight, there was one strange cry from the living room and then an even stranger silence.