The Ghosts' High Noon

by John Dickson Carr

  From the back of the room came a roll and rumble as sliding doors were thrown open. Glancing over his shoulder, Jim could see little more than the outlines of the large, dusky dining-room beyond, and little more than the outline of the squat, dwarfish figure standing there, right arm raised and back. There was a silver streak in the air as the knife flashed past Jim’s head and whacked point-foremost into the Meissonier duellist between the windows, pinning it to the wall.

  Though Flossie Yates cried out something, this seemed no time to hesitate. Despite the lightness in his chest, despite the hot-and-cold flush that ran over him, Jim plunged into the dining-room after somebody who had instantly turned and bolted.

  His assailant, a literal dwarf not much more than four feet high, dashed past a swing door into a modern kitchen that had been built out from the dining-room instead of the detached kitchen usually found behind such houses. He was tugging at a back door both locked and chained when Jim overtook him.

  The assailant, though so short, was thick-bodied and wiry, with heavy shoulders. He aimed a groin-kick that missed. He fought and clawed and tried to use his teeth. Jim gave him a hard left under the right ear, then lifted him bodily and banged his head against the wall, keeping the dwarf’s right arm locked up behind the back while Jim ran over him for weapons.

  The kitchen swam in dusky light. Presently, satisfied, the victor of the contest unfastened the door at leisure, bundled his captive out on a screened back porch, and booted him down some steps into the yard.

  “No more knives, Rumpelstiltskin!” he warned. “Don’t try anything else either, or you’ll get a good deal worse than a kick in the pants. Now mind what I tell you and clear out.”

  Locking and chaining the back door, Jim returned past a glimmer of silver in the dining-room to join his hostess.

  The knife that had pierced the picture was gone. The picture hung straight against the wall, with no mark of disarrangement except a slit across the duellist’s throat. Miss Yates, all composure again, sat poised behind the tea-urn.

  “Well, madam,” Jim reported, “that would seem to be that.”

  “What did you do to Pepi?”

  “Chased him off the premises. There seemed no need to carry it further.”

  Miss Yates looked at him.

  “How can any man on earth,” she asked, with an air of refreshed interest, “be one-half so nonchalant as you seem? You’re not even out of breath!”

  Jim’s cup and saucer remained where he had left them, on the floor beside his chair. He picked them up and put them on the table near his hostess’s left hand.

  “Your own nonchalance, madam, is a thing of sheer beauty. Do you often greet visitors like that? I was told I ran no risk of being clubbed over the head or getting a knife in the back. But I’m always being told or telling myself something which is falsified in the next two minutes. If some other retainer of yours keeps a club conveniently in the umbrella-stand, we may see interesting developments yet.”

  “You don’t think I planned that, do you? God save us, no! It was only Pepi, poor Pepi. So well-intentioned, so devoted to me, and yet so impulsive! He was not trying to hit you, you know: only to frighten you a little. If he had really been trying to hit you, pray credit me, you would be a dead man now. And a dead man in my house, Mr. Blake, would be even more awkward to explain than pubescent girls without their clothes. Speaking of pubescent girls…”

  “Yes?”

  “So often we hear,” Miss Yates explained, “that such half-grown nymphs are desired only by the worn-out roué or the man well past his prime. Experience shows it to be not altogether true. Quite frequently my nieces’ company has been sought by young men and personable men: as young and personable, sir, as yourself. But you are not here for that purpose, I take it?”

  “Frankly, I prefer them more mature.”

  “Then shall we clear up the question of why you are here?”

  “Yes, by all means.”

  “I knew you would call on me today; I knew it even before you communicated with me. I had no cause to doubt your good faith or to refuse my hospitality. That hospitality, I am sorry to say, you abused and violated at the first opportunity. Since you have acted out so elaborate a charade, sir, it can only be to preach sermons or to do me some irreparable harm?”

  Jim faced her earnestly.

  “Accept my assurance, madam, that it was neither to preach sermons nor to do you the least harm. I wished to prove or disprove a certain theory; it proved itself without much effort on my part. That being so, what happened here today may remain a secret between us. I have seen nothing and heard nothing. Are you satisfied?”

  His hostess seemed much in earnest, too.

  “Not entirely satisfied, no. According to my lights, Mr. Blake, I am an honest woman. I take no advantage of any man, and seek no advantage either. They may have as many nieces as I can recruit to my family; good luck to them all! Does it surprise you that a woman of admittedly doubtful past should try so hard for a façade of respectability, or even seek to be accepted by polite society?”

  “It does not surprise me. But I doubt it can be done.”

  “It can be done, sir. It has been done.”

  Once more Miss Yates rose and went to the left-hand window, where she turned to contemplate him.

  “If you are really a stranger to New Orleans, as you claim to be, can the name Yvonne Brissard possibly mean anything to you?”

  “Yes, Miss Yates. I have heard her mentioned more than once.”

  “Then you know who she is and what she has been. You may perhaps have heard that she is not received by the best circles here. You would not expect her, for instance, to call at the home of General and Mrs. Clayton just across the way, or to be a welcome guest if she did call?

  “And yet I must tell you,” pursued Miss Yates without waiting for a reply, “that on no less than two occasions last week I myself saw her call there, and be admitted without question or hesitation. On both occasions I was summoned away from the window before I had time to watch her departure. But she called on Wednesday afternoon and again on Friday evening, while her carriage waited in the street.

  “I can go even further, as proof that a woman’s past is no albatross burden around her neck. The villa Mademoiselle Brissard has been occupying since early spring is rented to her by old Mrs. Sam Laird, Mathilde de Jarnac Laird, a crustier aristocrat than any Clayton or any de Sancerre.”

  “I had heard that, yes. But—!”

  “For heaven’s sake, my dear sir, whatever can be the matter with you?”

  “Nothing. I was pondering another theory, that’s all.”

  “Then don’t shift from one foot to the other, I beg, and above everything don’t stand there making faces at me! If you doubt my word that New Orleans’s own Cora Pearl does indeed call on the Claytons, there are other witnesses besides myself. Or if there should be any question you would like to put, please do so.”

  “One question, if I may. How well do you know Leo Shepley?”

  It could not be said that so simple a query disconcerted the poised Florence Yates. But she seemed to look into the past before she answered.

  “I know him very well, as he himself must have told you. Poor Leo! Dear Leo!”

  “‘Dear’ Leo, if you insist. But why ‘poor’ Leo?”

  “It was his mood, Mr. Blake, when I telephoned him to verify your references.”

  “What was his mood?”

  “Shall I find, sir, that the tiger will spring again? Is this some new trap you have set for me?”

  “On my solemn word, madam, it is no trap for anybody. When I spoke to Leo on the phone this morning, he was disturbed but no more than that. Has there been any change? Now, you are articulate, Miss Yates; your worst enemy, if you had one, must acknowledge that you are very articulate. Can you describe Leo’s mood, perhaps in one word?”

  “I think I can, Mr. Blake: he was suicidal. And I don’t change or retract a single shade of meaning! The
poor man was definitely suicidal.”

  9

  AS NINE-THIRTY STRUCK FROM a clock in some nearby steeple, Jim Blake was still pacing the floor of his hotel room.

  He had obtained little more enlightenment from Florence Yates. Either she wouldn’t or she couldn’t say what had put Leo Shepley in the state of mind she called suicidal; Jim departed soon afterwards. It had been past six o’clock and dark when he returned to the St. Charles. Leaving the car in Common Street near the hotel’s side entrance, he went straight to his room. Alarmed, he looked up Leo’s number in the phone book and rang through. But he drew a complete blank.

  Because both Leo’s parents had died since the visit of Leo’s classmate fourteen years ago, the former football star had entrusted his well-being to the care of a widowed aunt who kept house for him. A nervous maid, answering the telephone, informed Jim that both Mr. Leo and Mrs. Penderel had gone out that afternoon and that neither had returned, Mr. Leo saying he probably wouldn’t be home for dinner.

  Jim had to make the best of it. He had promised faithfully he would be on hand for a message that evening. To be within literal reach of a telephone, he ordered dinner sent to his room, ate without much appetite, and glanced through the evening papers.

  Still no call from Leo, not even a message left at the desk downstairs: nothing.

  The minutes crawled, the hours crawled. Jim paced the floor and smoked, trying to think with reasonable coherence. A rumble of evening traffic rose from St. Charles Avenue. It was almost exactly on the stroke of nine-thirty that the phone did ring.

  But it still wasn’t Leo.

  “Mr. Blake?” began an unfamiliar if pleasant male voice. “This is the other Mr. Blake, Clay Blake. First, with your permission, I’d like to iron out one little problem at the start. We’re going to sound like a pair of cross-talk comedians if Mr. Blake solemnly addresses Mr. Blake and vice versa. I’ve heard so much about you from Leo Shepley I feel I know you already. Suppose you call me Clay, and I’ll call you Jim. Fair enough, Jim?”

  “More than fair, Clay. Where is Leo, by the way?”

  “That’s one of the things I want to mention. Now look here, Jim! We’ve arranged for you to interview me tomorrow, if I’ve got it straight. What if we just hold the interview tonight and get it over with?”

  “It won’t be necessary, Mist—Clay. Leo said you didn’t want to be fired on by strangers today, which is quite understandable. It’s very good of you to see me in any case. And it can easily be postponed.”

  “I’d prefer not to postpone it, if it’s all the same to you. I wasn’t up to much this morning; I’m my own man now. There’s very little I can tell you that’s not in the record-book. But you sound like the sort of fellow Leo described, and he says you’re discretion itself. Could you possibly come out here and see me now?”

  “I imagine so. Where are you?”

  “Place called the Villa de Jarnac, near Bayou St. John.”

  (Being consoled, no doubt, by a charmer whose talents had somehow endeared her not only to Clay Blake but to the household of a Civil War cavalry general from the past.)

  “Leo says you’ve heard of the place,” the voice continued, “though you may not know how to find it. Leo…”

  “Is Leo with you, by any chance?”

  “No; but he’s promised to be here before too long, and stand by as amicus curiae. When I saw him last…”

  “What was his state of mind when you saw him last? Did it strike you as being in any way suicidal?”

  “He wasn’t in very good shape, if the truth must be told. First he had to pull me together; then I had to pull him together. I think I’ve managed to do it, though I wouldn’t care to bet on anything where Leo’s concerned. What about it, Jim? Can you come out here now?”

  “Of course, if you’re sure Leo will be there, too?”

  “I’m sure, all right; I’m very damn sure of that much! Finally, about directions. If you just tell the cab-driver…”

  “A cab won’t be needed. I’ve got a car downstairs, and a map in front of me now. If I go straight out Esplanade Avenue, and start bearing left…”

  “That’s one way of approaching it, yes. But there’s a much easier and simpler way, one you can hardly miss. Got a pencil, too?”

  “At the ready.”

  “The Old Basin Canal runs from Rampart Street to Bayou St. John. There’s a rumor they’re going to fill in the canal and build over the district, which may mean changing street-names and wiping out landmarks. Never mind; let ’em worry about that in the future!

  “Take the road beside the canal; follow it straight out. Just before you reach Bayou St. John, past an intersection called Rouquette Avenue, the road forks left and right. Take the right-hand fork and follow that. There are street-lamps: at very long intervals, of course, but there are street-lamps. Count fourteen street-lamps on the right-hand side of the road beyond Rouquette Avenue. The gate of the Villa de Jarnac is just beyond the fourteenth lamp on the right-hand side. There’s no name on the gate-posts, but you can’t miss it. Is that clear?”

  “Very clear.”

  “It’s a fairly short drive, and an easy one bar the not-too-good road. If you start within the next five minutes or so, Leo ought to be here almost as soon as you are, red Mercer and all. Leo…You see, Jim, Leo…!”

  Suddenly the strong voice began to waver and falter.

  “What is it, Clay? Is anything wrong?”

  “There’s nothing wrong, I swear! It’s only that…that…”

  “That you’re more in need of moral support than you thought you’d be?”

  “Yes, I’m afraid so. I don’t want to sound like an old woman, Jim…!”

  “You couldn’t sound like an old woman if you tried. And I have a suggestion to make. Leo will be there almost as soon as I am, you say, and there’s a street-lamp near the gate? Would it ease everybody’s tension if I waited for him there and we arrived at the house together, instead of having me charge in like a leg-man after a four-alarm fire?”

  “I didn’t like to suggest it, of course. But if you could do that…?”

  “Oh, I can do it. There’s nothing to worry about; keep your chin up; see you soon.”

  Something of the other’s excitement or nervousness had communicated itself to Jim. He took up his hat and the motoring-goggles, hesitating over the dust-coat but deciding he’d better use it. He had just slung the coat over his arm, finding a second pair of goggles in its pocket, when the phone rang again. Again Jim snatched it up.

  “Leo…”

  And again it wasn’t Leo.

  “This is the desk, Mr. Blake. There’s a Miss Jill Matthews here to see you. What shall I tell her, sir?”

  “Ask her to wait, please. I’m coming down immediately.”

  He did not descend on the instant, but stood for a few moments rehearsing words he might say to her. And then, when the elevator had whisked him to the lobby, he spoke none of them.

  Jill stood by that part of the reception desk behind which rose the numbered ranks of boxes for keys and mail. With her light, fleecy tan coat over the tailored costume, in a small hat rather than a large one, she herself looked very nervous. But she also looked disturbingly, dangerously seductive.

  “I know,” she said, and would not meet his gaze; “I deliberately disappeared. I couldn’t help it; I had no choice! Are you going to accuse me of being mysterious again?”

  “You may not be so very mysterious, Jill, if one wild notion of mine turns out to have any truth in it.”

  “May I hear what this wild notion is?”

  “Not a chance, at the moment. Have you had dinner?”

  “Yes, ages ago! I’ve been arguing with somebody, which is why I’m not as composed as I might be. But I seem to have been arguing all day.”

  “So have I, in one way or another. Would you care to go for a drive in a rented car?”

  “Jim, I’d love to! A drive where?”

  “To the Villa de Jarnac. I’
ve just heard from Clay Blake, who insists I meet him there tonight. Yvonne Brissard, that talented femme du monde, seems likely to be in evidence. Or do you back away from the elegant Yvonne, too?”

  “I’m not frightened of her, and I’m not shocked by her either! But—”

  “But what?”

  “Nothing; it’s only a manner of speaking. Where’s the car?”

  “Just outside in Common Street. You’d better put on this dust-coat; you’ll find a pair of goggles in the pocket. By rights there ought to be a motoring-veil to tie over your hat and under your chin, but…”

  “I don’t need one a bit; I can use my scarf instead.” Jill gestured towards the side entrance. “We go out that way, don’t we?”

  “And there are some fairly elaborate directions. From Rampart Street we follow something called the Old Basin Canal. Past Rouquette Avenue we begin counting street-lamps on the right-hand side of the road. But just where to find the Old Basin Canal…”

  “It’s all right; I can direct you! And there’ll be no need to count street-lamps; I know where the villa is. This coat is miles too big, but it was thoughtful of you to provide one. If you’ll help me on with it, Jim…?”

  Leaving behind them the shuffle and murmur of the well-filled lobby, they went out into a night breezy but almost warm. And a sense of adventurousness went with them.

  Though it took some moments to kindle headlamps and sidelamps, the Chadwick’s engine fired up at the first heave of the crank. Common Street, Carondelet Street, then across Canal Street and on, under a pale dazzle of lamps, until Jill told him to turn.

  Six blocks along Rampart Street, in the old French Quarter again, they swung left. North Basin Street, the heart of a Storyville stealthily pulsing with night life, also fell away behind.

  It would not be true to say that they were soon in open country. But it began presently to feel like open country. Despite joltings from potholes, despite waves of dust sucked in, that sense of loneliness and remoteness seemed to deepen the farther Jim drove northwest through a wind-fretted night.

  Almost lost in the voluminous coat, her face behind masking goggles, Jill at first spoke very little. Yet he was intensely conscious of her physical nearness. And she gave certain indications, not covert glances alone but little movements too, that she was conscious of his.