“Oh, Claude’s happy enough,” the attendant agreed. “He has his roses, as you can see, and his peonies and the zinnias, which are very fine this year. And in the winter he has the seed catalogues to study and plans to make for the coming spring. You don’t have to worry about Claude. He’s one of our most contented customers.”
“But he doesn’t remember anything about his past, anything that happened before he was sent here?”
“Not a thing. It was a long time ago.”
The man fished a crumpled pack of cigarettes from his pocket as he talked. Then he found a folder of matches.
“This is a good place, Miss Bancroft,” he added. “I’ve worked in some places where I wouldn’t commit a mad dog—dirty, overcrowded, sickening! But this is a good place. We never have any trouble.”
The match in his hand splintered into flame. It was a little match and a little flame, but the effect was startling. Claude Humphrey’s grin vanished.
“No, no!” he cried. “No fire! No matches! Everything will burn! I told you, everything will burn!”
Claude was backing away, the spray gun held behind him now. In place of that grin was stark terror.
“Oh, damn!” the attendant exclaimed in a half-whisper. “I forgot, Claude. I’m sorry. Here, see, the fire is out. The match is dead. There, it’s all ground out with my heel. It’s all right, Claude. It’s all right!”
“No fire. No matches,” Claude repeated. “I told you.”
“Sure you did, and you’re right. You go on with your spraying now. We won’t bother you any more. We’ll leave you alone now.”
Lisa wasn’t going to give the attendant an argument when he beckoned them to follow him back along the gravel path. One look at Claude’s wild face in a moment of panic had been enough to reassure her the causes for his commitment were genuine.
“It was my fault,” the attendant explained. “I should have remembered. Nearly every one of these inmates has some peculiarity. With Claude it’s fire. He goes berserk every time he sees a flame. It’s the insecticide, I guess. Some of that stuff’s highly inflammable. Claude’s afraid the whole place will go up in flames someday.”
“Has he said that?” Lisa asked.
“Sure. Just let him catch somebody burning leaves, for instance. He really gets wound up then. But he’s harmless. We have all kinds in a place like this. You just have to get used to them.”
“No thanks,” Johnny said. “I have enough trouble getting used to some of the varieties on the outside. If the tour is over, I’d like to go home.”
The tour was over. They went back to the station wagon and drove back through town, Johnny being quite vocal on her dislike of such unscheduled ventures, and Lisa being very thoughtful. As they approached the square she made a decision.
“It’s not yet three o’clock,” she said. “Park in front of the bank. I want to make another call.”
“The bank?”
For all her grumbling, Johnny was interested. She was just too wise to come right out and ask what was going on, knowing she wouldn’t get a direct answer. The reason for that was simple enough. Lisa didn’t know. She was gambling now, and a bank seemed a good place to get a stake.
The interior of the National Trust and Savings Bank of Granite differed little from the Merchant’s Bank of Bellville. It was no more active on a sultry afternoon, and no more difficult to gain the ear of an officer of some importance. Not another Stanley Watts, of course. There could be only one faceless Stanley. But someone with an eye to enlisting the patronage of a woman who sounded like an important depositor-to-be.
“Of course, I’m living in Bellville,” Lisa explained, “but I don’t like to keep all of my eggs in one basket, so to speak. Besides, I’ll be traveling about the countryside looking for locales. It will be convenient to have funds at various banks.”
The story seemed to be going well. She took it further.
“I inquired among my friends in Bellville for a reliable bank in this area. This one was recommended. I can’t remember at the moment just who it was—”
“Oh, we have many friends in Bellville,” the banker said.
“Unfortunately, I haven’t. I’ve been there only a little over a month. But I have met Nydia Cornish.”
“The widow of Martin Cornish,” the banker said. “Fine thing, the Cornish Festival. I always take the wife and children over. Don’t know much about music myself, but I’ve got a boy, only fourteen, who plays first cornet in the Granite High School band.”
Lisa had to help the banker glow over a young first cornettist before she could continue. She was still gambling and still drawing blanks.
“And, of course, I’ve met Tod Graham. In fact, he’s handling a property transaction for me.”
“First-rate man,” the banker said. “Wish we had leadership of his caliber here in Granite. He’s making a great thing of that music festival.”
“And Dr. Hazlitt,” Lisa added.
“Oh, of course. We’re old friends. Reid Hazlitt has had an account here for many years.”
Lisa sat still in a little well of silence.
“Comes over to the sanitarium, you know. He’s on the board of directors.”
“Of course,” Lisa murmured. “Well, I shan’t take any more of your time—”
“Oh, that’s all right, Miss Bancroft. It’s been a pleasure. And you be sure and ask for me when you decide.”
“I’ll do that. When I decide.”
Lisa went outside. Johnny was waiting in the car. She expected some kind of an explanation.
“Well?” she asked.
But what was there to tell? A few broken threads, a few nebulous ideas coming and then fading like indistinct faces in a fog. Lisa opened her handbag and took out the pad of paper over which she’d labored so much of late. She studied it thoughtfully.
“Fifteen thousand,” she murmured. “Fifteen thousand that we know of within the last three years. And the doctor mentioned that Alistair Hubbard had given more than his estate. There may have been a bequest as well. I wonder if Miss Winch was insured.”
“Whatever are you talking about?” Johnny demanded.
Lisa sighed. “Nonsense. Pure nonsense, at least, that’s what my rational nature tells me. But my fanciful side—”
“Fifteen thousand dollars!” Johnny exclaimed. “I get it now. That’s Duval’s insurance plus Gleason’s award money.”
“Exactly. Marta says she doesn’t know anything about it.”
“Marta says!”
“I have reason to believe she’s telling the truth. She wants to go away with Joel Warren and be married. That’s why winning the Cornish Award is so important to her. If she’d taken in fifteen thousand dollars in the past three years, why would she be so anxious for a mere award now?”
“It could be a hobby,” Johnny suggested. “Or maybe she doesn’t really want to marry Joel. Maybe he’s insured, too.”
Johnny could be most distracting. But Lisa refused to think about that now, knowing she would become hopelessly lost in confusion trying to follow two paths at once. Concentrate on the hard cash. Unless it was hidden away in some bank, it should show somewhere. If there had been profit from the deaths of anyone connected with Marta Cornish, look for the profit. Fifteen thousand dollars couldn’t just vanish.
“I could make it vanish,” Johnny said, when Lisa voiced the thought.
“But you would have something to show for it.”
They drove back to Bellville in the heat of a waning afternoon. It was too hot for conversation and Lisa was glad. The problem she’d posed was only one of many. The many broken threads, the many indistinct faces. It was good to get near the lake again. Better to climb the Pineview Road up The Bluffs. Here the wind came fresh off the water, and its coolness seemed to restore the mind.
“Ruth Graham’s maiden name,” Johnny said suddenly. “I forgot to tell you. It’s Wallace. I asked Carrie. She’s the last of an old Bellville family. Her father was some k
ind of partner with Walden Bell. Carrie says that’s one reason Ruth doesn’t like anything Cornish. Claims she’s as much social register as the queen of the mansion.”
“That’s nice,” Lisa murmured.
“It is? Why?”
“Because I’m planning a small dinner party. There’s nothing like entertaining the best people to make a stranger feel at home.”
CHAPTER 15
It had been a good many years since Masterson House prepared for guests. The formal dining room was a vaultlike hall filled with carefully covered furniture that had to be undraped, dusted, and set in order. The silver, china, and glassware were brought out of chests and cupboards to be washed and polished, and the windows were thrown open to bring in a bit of sunlight and freshness after the long abandonment to time.
“It doesn’t take long for a house to run down,” Lisa observed, “or to revive it again with just a little effort.”
“A little effort?” Wrist-deep in silver polish, Johnny looked askance.”I know all this sudden social consciousness has something to do with the ‘Cornish curse,’ “ she added, “but why leave out the main characters? Don’t you owe Nydia a return bout after the fracas you were invited to a few weeks ago?”
“Perhaps I do,” Lisa admitted, “but that would spoil all the fun.”
“The other guests wouldn’t talk about Marta you mean?”
Lisa smiled. “You’re a bright child,” she said. “You do catch on quickly. Now let’s see, what else do we need?”
A vaultlike room, much too large, much too formal, and formality seals tongues rather than loosens them.
“Flowers,” Lisa decided. “When you finish with the silver, Johnny, look in the lower part of the large buffet. There should be a bowl to use as a centerpiece—”
Lisa stopped. Johnny was looking at her strangely again.
“There should?” she echoed.
“Naturally,” Lisa said. “Where else would one keep such a bowl?”
And then she went out into the garden to cut some flowers.
It was the first of July. Flowers, unlike houses, managed to renew themselves; and the hardier of the plants in the garden still survived and blossomed. Lisa carried a basket, a shears, and a pair of cotton gloves. She was donning the gloves when Marta appeared at the garden gate.
“You look positively rustic,” Marta called. “You look as if you belong here.”
Marta was smiling. She had her flair back, but not so exaggerated as it had always been before. She’d exchanged that listless pastel dress of the mad tea party for a bright red blouse and a linen skirt, and there was a shining something in her eyes as if she were a child about to open a surprise package.
“And why shouldn’t I belong?” Lisa asked.
“In Bellville?”
Bellville was pronounced with such a tone of disgust that Lisa had to laugh. She’d found a rose, a beautiful specimen from one of the hardier climbers. “Look, isn’t it lovely?” she asked. “Do you know, I’ve clipped roses in the south of France that weren’t half so lovely!”
“That sounds like a story with a moral,” Marta said.
“Heaven forbid! There’s nothing duller than stories with morals—unless it’s understanding people. You know what I mean—people who are always rushing up when you’re in trouble to tell you how to solve your problem because they understand. If they did understand they’d have enough sense to keep their mouths shut.”
“I know what you mean,” Marta said.
“Of course, I never do,” Lisa added. “Keep my mouth shut, that is. Now, why are you hanging on my garden gate grinning like a cat who’s just consumed a warbler?”
It was Marta who laughed now. Lisa had never heard her laugh before. It was something that should happen more often.
“I’ve done it,” she announced.
“The concerto?”
“The concerto. I never really thought I would, but I did finish it and got it postmarked before the dead line.”
“Wonderful!”
“So I’m practically rich and famous and—”
Marta was still hanging on the gate. It was unlatched. It swung in and out and she swung with it, more like a child than a young lady and accomplished artist. Her glow faded.
“—and scared,” she added.
“Of course,” Lisa said.
“No, I mean really scared. I did my best. I tried. But it isn’t good enough, Miss Bancroft. It just isn’t good enough!”
First laughter, then despair. “Why don’t you let the judges decide that?” Lisa suggested.
“But you don’t understand how important it is. You don’t understand what it means if I don’t win. I didn’t even let myself think of that while I was working so hard to finish. I thought of Joel, mostly, and of Paris, and how everything would be different after I’d won. But the second after I’d left the post office, I wanted to grab back my entry because I knew it wasn’t any good.”
Marta looked so tragic something had to be said.
“For your information, that sensation isn’t exclusive to authors of musical compositions,” Lisa said. “It doesn’t mean a thing.”
“But it does! It means everything. That’s the trouble.”
A twinge of temper had returned to Marta’s voice. For a moment it was the old Marta again. The gate stopped swinging. She stood still, her feet wide apart, her eyes lowered.
“Oh, I know what you’re trying to tell me,” she said, “and if I really were determined to be a musician you would be right. I’d be excited and anxious about the judging, but losing wouldn’t crush me. It would just be sort of an incentive to go on. But it’s not like that with me. It’s not the music; it’s the award.”
“The escape,” Lisa suggested.
Marta looked up. She wasn’t angry any more—just troubled.
“And I’m not being understanding,” Lisa added quickly. “I just happened to have had a long talk with Joel one day.”
“All right, it’s the escape,” Marta agreed. “Can you blame me?”
“I try not to blame anyone for anything,” Lisa said. “Sometimes I even try not to blame myself. So far as I can see, you have every reason to dislike Bellville. But why is the award so important? You’re almost twenty-one, Marta. Soon you’ll inherit—”
“I don’t want that money!” Marta cried. “I don’t want anything that belongs to them!”
Them. The word stood between Lisa and Marta like a roadblock. Remove it and the way might be cleared.
“What do you mean?” Lisa demanded.
For a moment she was afraid Marta would turn on her heel and leave the question unanswered. She looked back off toward the direction from which she’d come. Beyond the trees, beyond the path, there was a house.
“Bell Mansion,” she said. “My great-grandfather’s house, my grandfather’s house, my mother’s house! No wonder my father built a little studio for himself. He had to have something for himself, didn’t he? He had to have something!”
“Is that why you go there when you’re troubled?” Lisa asked.
Martin Cornish’s daughter stood by the garden gate. Her eyes were dark and brooding, her mouth sensitive, her hands long and restless with the catch. She belonged in that portrait beside him. But she didn’t have the portrait. She didn’t have her father. She only had an old ruins.
“I don’t like that house,” she answered finally. “And I don’t want the money. She can have it—all of it.”
“Who can have it, Marta?”
“Nydia.”
And then the quiet tension that had superseded that one flare of temper gave way to a poor attempt at a smile.
“I’m behaving badly again, aren’t I?” she asked.
“Very badly,” Lisa agreed.
“And I always shall. The people who talk about me are right—”
“No, Marta. No—”
“But they are. Not what they say, perhaps, but just the same they’re right. I’ve been thinking abo
ut that ever since that day you found me down at the ruins. Do you remember what you said about Howard? You said that he was weak and would have destroyed himself one way or another anyway. You didn’t want me to think that I’d driven him to do what he did, and you did help me; but lately I’ve been thinking how right you were. Howard was weak. That’s why we were friends. We recognized one another. I’m liable to do just what he did one day.”
“Marta, you’re talking nonsense!”
The smile was even poorer now. “Am I?” Marta challenged. “You just wait and see. If I don’t win that award and get away from this town, you just wait and see!”
It was bravado, of course. It had to be. Marta didn’t wait for any further challenge. She did what Lisa had been expecting her to do all along—turned on her heel and strode off down the path. Bravado—and yet a little trouble had crept into Lisa’s eyes. She was Martin Cornish’s daughter, after all. The whole conversation made the dinner party all the more important.
The hostess of Masterson House sat at the head of the table feeling exactly like an animal trainer at a circus. Lisa had arranged the seating with care. At her left sat a smart, glittering Ruth Graham, easily the best-dressed woman in Bellville. The fact that her competition was negligible didn’t seem to discourage Ruth. She was conspicuously overdressed for the company, but being conspicuous seemed to fill some inner need. Of the men, only Tod had worn a dinner jacket. The Grahams, at least, were matched. At Lisa’s right, sat the reluctant Dr. Hazlitt. He didn’t have to announce his reluctance. It was there in every gesture, every word he didn’t speak. Why a man with such an obvious distaste for social functions hadn’t begged off on the grounds of his professional demands was a question to consider. Perhaps the doctor had gotten wind of that excursion to Granite and was curious.
Next to the doctor sat Miss Oberon. Miss Oberon had chosen organdy for the occasion, a soft flowing organdy quite appropriate to the sultry evening, but completely ineffective draped limply over her flat bosom. Violet organdy. Lisa smiled at Miss Oberon, and Miss Oberon smiled back. Her eyes were slightly glassy. It might have been the excitement of what was probably a most unusual occasion for her, or it might have been the effect of the one dry Martini she’d carefully sipped before dinner. Cocktails could make a dinner party interesting, particularly for a hostess who was a total abstainer. Already Lisa knew that Agatha Watts, the plump, matronly wife of the banker, didn’t touch liquor—nor did lips that touch liquor ever touch hers. With one eye on his wife, Stanley had refused a predinner drink. With the Grahams, on the other hand, the situation was reversed. It was Tod who gingerly accepted one cocktail while his wife polished off three. With these little footnotes absorbed and tucked away, Lisa could regard her menagerie with a modicum of understanding.
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