Hanged for a Sheep

by Frances Lockridge

  “Well,” she said, “why doesn’t one of you speak up? Eh? Tell the truth and shame the devil. Alden?”

  The major had, apparently without knowing it, started to eat his soup. His spoon clattered as he put it down. He met his mother’s eyes and for a moment their gazes held.

  “Drop it, mother,” he said. “You’ll not get anywhere. Drop it, I say!”

  After he had spoken, he continued to stare at her. It was as if commands were clashing between them, and then Pam realized that the major—miraculously she thought—was winning. It gave you a new idea of the major. It was Aunt Flora who broke the passage between them, suddenly looking down and taking up her spoon uncertainly. It was as if, suddenly, she had become afraid—afraid to look any longer at Major Alden Buddie, afraid to look at any of those around her. And Pam, watching the others, saw that each of them seemed similarly affected. It was as if each were embarrassed among the others, and afraid to catch the eyes of the others because of what might be in them, whether of guilt or accusation or, possibly, fear. It was as if each feared the dreadful embarrassment of finding disclosure in the eyes of one of the others. And after that no one spoke—literally, so far as Pam could remember, slipping on a” robe and going to a window to watch the snow—literally, after that, no one spoke. Or spoke only, as it became necessary, to Sand, or the maid, Alice, waiting on them silently. Even Sand, Pam thought, had been a little odd, but perhaps he had merely felt the strain so palpable around the table.

  And after the meal had been finished, the family had melted away. Dr. Buddie and Chris had, Pam thought, left the house, going to their own apartments—the doctor’s a few blocks up Park Avenue, Chris’s in a shambling old building in one of the Forties. The others apparently had gone to their rooms and closed their doors after them, as Pam herself had done, and perhaps found in being alone some of the lifting of weight Pam herself had found.

  Pam had found also the two cats, indignant at being so long deserted by the human society they prized. They had been all over her; Toughy had climbed to her shoulders, as he so often did to Jerry’s. He crouched there now, looking out with her at the snow; now and then making the small sound of a cat asking attention. Pam reached up and stroked his head idly, and felt Ruffy tugging at the cord of her robe. It was snowing as hard as ever; snow was pouring down through the cones of light made by the street lamp opposite; snow was scratching faintly at the window. A car went along the street with snow thick in the beams of its headlights. It seemed to be groping.

  Pam turned away and walked across to dump Toughy on the bed. He clung and was dislodged; he voiced mild protest and was diverted by the alarming vision of his own tail. He jumped at it and revolved madly, his tail swelling. Toughy was pretending to be greatly alarmed by this unknown which pursued him as he pursued it. Ruffy jumped up on the bed and regarded Toughy with evident disdain. She began to wash herself.

  And then there was a tiny knocking at the door of the room—a secret knocking. Pam heard it and stiffened and she could feel her heart beat suddenly faster. She waited and did not move, and heard the knocking again. It was a little louder this time and gave the impression of urgency. Pam told herself, fearfully, that there was nothing to be afraid of and went closer to the door. But she did not move to open it.

  “Who is it?” she said. “What do you want?”

  The voice was low and secret, too—low and hurried and frightened.

  “Harry,” the voice said. “Harry Perkins. I’ve got to tell you—”

  Pam did not wait for him to finish. She recognized the voice and quickly drew the door toward her. But she let it stop against the toe of one foot after it was open only a little, and looked out. She could not have told why it seemed safer, but it did seem safer.

  The light was dim in the hall. On each floor a small bulb burned throughout the night, and now only the small bulbs were lighted. But there was enough light for Pam to see that it was Harry Perkins. He stood very close to the door, as if he had been flattening himself against it.

  The light fell on him from above and behind, so that it fell on his thin, disordered gray hair and his narrow, old shoulders. Somehow the light made him even thinner, and more frail than Pam remembered him—more frail and more helpless. His voice was thin, too, and he was trying to keep it low. But it had a penetrating sound, as if excitement lifted it in spite of Harry Perkins’s efforts.

  “I’ve got to tell you something,” Harry said. “I know—”

  Then he broke off and looked back over his shoulder, and the light caught his thin, gray face. It was the face of a man utterly exhausted and desperately frightened.

  “Did you hear anything?” he demanded, after a moment of listening. “I thought I heard something.”

  “No,” Pam said. “Come in, Harry.”

  Harry shook his head.

  “Not here,” he said. “I think I heard something. They’ll come after, me. I—”

  While he talked he had thrust out his hand. There was a small package in it and his eyes told her to take the package. He moved it toward her urgently, and after a second she took it. The eyes thanked her. Then Harry stood for a moment listening.

  “Maybe I was wrong,” he said. Now he was whispering. “Maybe there’s nobody. But I can’t take a chance. I’ve got to tell somebody.”

  Pam was whispering too, she found.

  “What, Harry?” she whispered. “What do you know?”

  But Harry was listening again. His whole body concentrated on listening. The hand which had held the package motioned her to silence. She listened, too, and heard only Harry’s hurried breathing.

  “There’s nobody,” she told him, her voice low. “Nobody. You’ll be safer here, anyway. For what you want to tell me.”

  Harry turned back to her, but there was still fear in his face. He leaned close.

  “Upstairs,” he said. “They won’t get me there. In my room?”

  The last was a question. Will you come to my room, where we will be safe?

  “But—” Pam began. But there was no use pointing out the obvious. Harry was not listening to her—he was merely listening. He has lived in the room a long time, Pam thought. It’s the place he’s safe in.

  “All right,” she said. “You go on. I’ll come.” It was drafty in the hall. “I’ll put some clothes on and come,” she said. “You go on and wait for me.”

  There’s really no danger, Pam told herself. But if there is any, it is in the hall. In his room we can lock the door. I’ll have to go to his room.

  Because there was no doubt in her mind that Harry had something to tell her—something to tell someone. Bill had promised to leave a man in the house. But if he had left someone, the man he had left would be hard to find in the dark house, and while she searched Harry might slip away again. Because there could be no doubt that, whether he had reason or not, Harry Perkins was terrified.

  The old man nodded to show he had heard her, and then in a moment he had slipped away. She could hear him going along the hall toward the foot of the next flight of stairs; she could imagine how he was going, creeping, close to the wall, looking around him wildly in the half light.

  She closed the door and was conscious only as she started to take off the robe that she was holding something in her left hand. She put it down and zipped off the robe. She fumbled through the larger of her bags for sweater and skirt and pulled herself into them. Somewhere she had crepe-soled walking shoes, but there was no time to look for them. Slippers would do. She had caught from the old man at the door some of his desperate urgency.

  The cats stared at her. When she went to the door and through it, they tried to follow her. But she pushed them back and pulled the door closed behind her. The hall was empty now, and silent; it was dim and cold. She was shivering, partly from cold.

  She looked back over her shoulder, as the old man must have done, when she went toward the stairs leading up. There was nothing—nothing but shadows and emptiness. She went up the wide stairs,
still looking back and along the hall above. She was halfway to the last flight leading to the top floor when she heard an odd, scuffling sound. It came from above, and was beyond description. It was a sound of something rubbing against something else; a soft sound, as of cloth rubbing. For a moment she stood still, gripping the rail that ran along the side of the stair well. It was above her head—almost directly above her head.

  Something was moving above her and, as she sensed it, Pam North threw herself back against the wall. She stood there, her arms out and her hands lifted level with her shoulders, instinctively in an attitude of defense. And then she looked up. Her neck muscles seemed to resist the movement.

  For a moment, in the half darkness, she saw nothing. Something was between her and the light. And then, horribly, she saw that she was looking at the bottoms of a pair of shoes! They were half a dozen feet above her head, and they were moving slowly in a kind of circle—a kind of awkward dance. A dance upon the air.

  And then, sickly, Pam knew. Somebody had said that about a man hanged! She was looking up at a man hanging!

  She made herself go on—go on along the hall, and part way up the last flight. Then she was almost level with the hanging man. The head was twisted to one side, and the body was turning slowly in a circle. She knew when she saw the back of the head, but she could not move, or cry out. She was held there, helplessly—staring helplessly—until the body turned so that it faced her. The face was distorted; it was hard to recognize the frightened, gray face of Harry Perkins.

  The body hung quietly and from the twist of the head Pam thought the neck was broken. The rope, or whatever it was, was taut from the neck upward, and Pam followed it with her eyes. It was knotted to one of the balusters at the head of the stairs. The body hung down into the stair well.

  The rope was dark and irregular. Then Pam, after a moment, knew what it was. It was dark because it was green and the light was dim; it was irregular because it was braided. Nemo’s lost leash had been found.

  And then the light on the landing above her, and the lights on the landings below, went out together. And Pam, for the second time, threw herself back against the wall, with hands raised, and waited. And now she heard movement above her.

  She wanted to run, but she was afraid to run. The darkness was too complete; the stairs pitched too sharply downward. But whoever was above her would have to be cautious too, at least until his—or her?—eyes were adjusted to the dim light which came through the skylight above. Pam began to slip down the stairs, her back to the wall and her hands against it, steadying her.

  As she moved, waiting for her own eyes to adjust to the darkness which was already not quite so complete, she tried to get her feet out of the slippers. On the carpeted stairs she could run, barefoot, and not fall. She could make herself small and run. One slipper came off. The other caught, half on and half off.

  Balanced precariously, one hand groping for support on the smoothness of the wall, she reached for the slipper. She lost balance as she tugged, swayed perilously for a moment, and got the slipper off. There was reassurance as her feet felt the carpet. But now whoever was above was visible as a darker shadow—now there were two dark shadows at the same height. But only one of them was swaying in the air. That was the body of Harry Perkins—hanging in the darkness, turning slowly, making a shadow against the pale light from above. The other shadow was moving down toward her. It moved with a horrible, slow sureness.

  The other shadow, as she looked up at it, seemed enormous. And by now whoever made the shadow could see her—not so distinctly as she could see, perhaps, because the light was behind whoever was creeping down the stairs toward her. But clearly enough, perhaps, to risk a shot. Pam North made herself small against the wall, and went down from step to step. The shadow followed. The shadow, too, was afraid to run down the steep stairs.

  And perhaps there lay safety, if the shadow did not have a gun, or could not risk the alarm of a shot. Now—if she ran!

  She was only a few steps from the bottom of the flight when she started, crouching as well as she could but not looking back. She ran down stairs and stumbled when the stairs suddenly ended before they should. She stumbled and fell to her hands and knees, and scrambled on until she could regain her feet. The shadow was running too, but there was no shot.

  She could almost see where she was going, now, as she ran on along the hall to the next flight, her left hand touching the rail for guidance. She was halfway down the flight when she heard running steps in the hall she had just left. She went headlong down, half falling, clutching at the carpet with her bare feet, clinging with the hand that slid down the rail. But the shadow was gaining.

  She would not have time to open the door of her own room, she realized—the murderer who had hanged Harry at the end of the dog’s green leash would catch her as she tugged at the door or, if she got the door open and got inside, would force in after her before she could grope for and use the key. So she ran on past her door, and along the third floor hall and then, blindly, along the hall of the second floor. She might have stopped there, and hidden somehow in the library, but she could not think. She could only run down flights of stairs which seemed to have no end.

  But they did end in the entrance foyer, and here there was more pale light coming in through the panes in the heavy doors. She started for the doors, hesitated and turned back. Perhaps the murderer wanted her outside the house—out in the whirling snow, where he could hit her down and leave her in the snow and the cold for them to finish—to finish and conceal! She ran, gasping for breath, into the drawing room. There was a little light there, too; furniture loomed around her.

  Pam was not thinking, now. She was thinking only that she had to get behind something, or under something, and that was not thought. That was instinct—the instinct in peril to be hidden by something, and protected by something; to put some barrier up. Pam ran across the room; a low table caught one of her legs and sent sharp pain through it and she fell. And then she crawled on, on hands and knees, until she was behind the larger sofa. And there she crouched, trying to quiet her gasping breath.

  And then sanity came back, and she thought she had done precisely what the pursuer would have chosen to have her do. She had trapped herself, limited her freedom. When he found her there she could not run, but only look up at death and shudder away from it and try to scream. Whereas, she could have screamed as she ran—ran past occupied bedrooms in which her screams would have been heard. But she had forgotten to scream—or been afraid to scream, or had too little breath to scream. It was afterward you screamed, or when you had only a scream left, not while you were running.

  Pam crouched and waited and stared at the door leading from the hall, where the shadow would appear. But the shadow did not appear; the door remained a gray blankness against the darker walls. Pam cowered, terrified, and nothing happened. She listened, and she did not hear anything but her own drawn breaths. Miraculously, she was no longer pursued.

  But perhaps the pursuer was wily; perhaps he was waiting for her to move—waiting just outside the door. Pam waited—and waited. And nothing happened. She began to notice that she was cramped and cold, and nothing happened. There was not even any sound.

  And then the idea came to her that she might creep, if she were careful, back across the drawing room and into the foyer, and across it to the coat closet by the stairs and to the telephone there. If she could get into the closet and close the door without being detected, she could use the telephone and get help. She could get Weigand and Mullins, and they would take care of her—they might even catch the person who had hanged Harry Perkins before he got back into his bedroom, if he had come out of a bedroom, and pretended sleep and innocence.

  Pam waited a little longer—five minutes, ten minutes, there was no way of knowing. She waited, crouched behind the sofa, and listened and heard nothing. And finally, with infinite slowness and care, on hands and knees, she began to creep across the room toward the door. Halfway across
she stopped, because she thought she heard someone in the hall, and waited. But it was only the wind, she decided, tugging at the house, battering against the closed doors which shut it out. She crept on.

  Not until she reached the door did she stand, and then she clung to the side of the door to steady herself against the darkness. At first she thought the foyer was empty and then something moved. A man moved away from the door of the coat closet—moved silently and carefully, and stood at the foot of the stairs, apparently looking up. Pam shuddered back and she did not know that she gasped, or made any other sound.

  But she must have made some sound, because the figure moved; moved slowly, it seemed stealthily, as if the man did not want his movement detected—as if he were tensing his muscles to leap toward her. And then Pam knew that she had fatally miscalculated; that the man had been waiting in the foyer, knowing that if he waited long enough she would come creeping toward him. As she had.

  And now, she thought, I can’t turn my back to run! Now he’s got me, and if I turn—

  And then she remembered the heavy vase on the table near the door. If she leaped first, with the vase grasped by its narrow neck; if the surprise was hers, and the weapon, these might be enough. It was a chance—

  Pam had the vase in her right hand and was swinging it up as she half jumped, half ran, toward the figure at the foot of the stairs. Water was draining out of it as she lifted the vase, and cascading into her face; she could feel it cold through her sweater and down her body. And she was, ridiculously, showered with yellow daffodils as she leaped toward the threatening figure, which was turning, now.

  If the water and the flowers had not so ridiculously blinded her, Pam might have realized sooner. Even as it was she realized in time to let out a small, horrified, “Oh!” as the vase began its descent on the unprotected head in front of her. But she did not realize in time to deflect, or greatly retard, the blow.

  The bulbous end of the vase descended with a crack upon the head of Gerald North, home at last from Texas to the arms of his loving wife. It hit and broke, and Jerry North went down under it, shards dropping from his head and water showering around him. And Pam, at almost precisely the same moment, went down beside him.