Calamity Town (16 page)

Someone laughed, someone groaned, and then, with a sort of outgoing-tidal shame, the mob ebbed away. Ellery, helping Pat with Jim, saw through the glass doors, at the curb, the big silent figure of Frank Lloyd. There was a bitter twist to the newspaper publisher's mouth. When he saw Ellery watching him, he grinned without mirth, as if to say: ‘Remember what I told you about this town?' and lumbered off across the Square.

Pat and Ellery drove Jim back to the little house on the Hill. They found Dr Willoughby waiting for them—John F. had phoned him from the bank. ‘Some nasty scratches,' said Dr Willoughby, ‘a few ugly bruises, and that's a deep scalp wound, but he'll be all right.'

‘How about Mr Smith, Uncle Milo?' asked Pat anxiously. ‘He looks like a fugitive from a meat grinder, too!'

‘Now, now, I'm perfectly fine,' protested Ellery.

But Dr Willoughby fixed up Ellery, too.

When the doctor had gone, Ellery undressed Jim, and Pat helped get him into bed. He immediately turned over on his side, resting his bandaged head on a limp hand, and closed his eyes. They watched him for a moment and then tiptoed from the room. ‘He didn't say a word,' moaned Pat. ‘Not one word. All through the whole thing…He's like that man out of the Bible!'

‘Job,' said Ellery soberly. ‘The silent, suffering Aramean. Well, your Aramean had better stay away from town from now on!' After that day, Jim stopped going to the bank.

17

America Discovers Wrightsville

The activities of Mr Ellery Queen during the trying month between January and February were circumambient. For, no matter in how straight a line he started, he invariably finished by finding himself back in the same place…and, moreover, with the realization that Chief Dakin and Prosecutor Bradford had been there before him. Quietly, quietly. Ellery did not tell Pat what a web was being woven in those secret investigations of the law. There was no point in making her feel worse than she felt already.

Then there was the Press. Apparently one of Frank Lloyd's vitriolic editorials had splashed heavily enough to deposit a drop in Chicago; for early in January, and shortly after Rosemary Haight's funeral, a smartly dressed woman with a thirty-eight waistline, silver-sprayed hair, and tired eyes got off the afternoon express and had Ed Hotchkiss drive her directly to 460 Hill Drive. The next day the readers of two hundred and fifty-nine large newspapers in the United States learned that good old Roberta was in there once again battling for love.

The leading paragraph of
Roberta's Column
, by Roberta Roberts, said:—

Today in a small American city named Wrightsville there is being enacted a fantastic romantic tragedy, with a Man and a Woman the tragic protagonists and a whole community playing the role of villain.

That was enough for the others. Roberta had her nose in something yum-yummy. Editors began to call for back numbers of the
Wrightsville Record
. By the end of January a dozen first-line reporters had arrived in town to see what Bobby Roberts had dug up. Frank Lloyd was cooperative, and the first stories that trickled back over the wires put the name of Jim Haight on the front page of every newspaper in America.

The out-of-town newspaper men and women swarmed over the town, interviewing and writing and drinking straight bourbon at Vic Carlatti's
Hot Spot
and Gus Olesen's
Roadside Tavern
and making Dune MacLean, next door to the Hollis Hotel, put in a hurry call to the liquor wholesaler. During the day they lolled about the County Courthouse spitting on Janitor Hernaberry's spotless lobby tiles, trailing Chief Dakin and Prosecutor Bradford for stories and photographs, and generally showing no decent respect for the opinions of mankind (although they wired same faithfully to their editors). Most of them stayed at the Hollis, commandeering cots when they could find no legitimate accommodations. Manager Brooks complained that they were turning his lobby into a ‘slophouse.'

Later, during sessions of the trial, they spent their nights either on Route 16 or at the Bijou Theater on Lower Main, where they ganged up on young Louie Cahan, the manager, cracking Indian nuts all over the theatre and catcalling whenever the hero made love to the heroine. On Grab Bag Night one of the reporters won a set of dishes (donated by A. A. Gilboon, House Furnishings, Long-Term Payments) and ‘accidentally on purpose,' as everyone said indignantly, dropped all sixty pieces on the stage while the rest of them whistled, howled, and stamped their feet. Louie was good and sore, but what could he do?

Bitter speeches about ‘those newspaper tramps' and ‘self-constituted privileged characters' were delivered to good effect at a special meeting of the Country Club Board by Donald Mackenzie, President of the Wrightsville Personal Finance Corporation (PFC Solves Your Unpaid-Bills Problem!), and Dr Emil Poffenberger, Dental Surgeon, 132 Upham Block, High Village. Yet there was something infectious in their cynical high spirits, and Mr Ellery Queen was saddened to observe how Wrightsville gradually took on an air of County Fair. New and shiny stock began to appear in the shop windows; prices for food and lodging went up; farmers who had never before come into town on week nights began to parade the Square and Lower Main with their square-toed, staring families; and it became impossible to find parking space within a radius of six blocks of the Square. Chief Dakin had to swear in five new policemen to help direct traffic and keep the peace. The unwilling author of all this prosperity barricaded himself at 460 Hill Drive and refused to see anyone but the Wrights, Ellery, and later Roberta Roberts. To the remainder of the Press Jim was adamant. ‘I'm still a taxpayer!' he cried to Dakin over the phone. ‘I've got a right to some privacy! Put a cop at my door!'

‘Yes, Mr Haight,' said Chief Dakin politely; and that afternoon Patrolman Dick Gobbin, who had been an invisible watcher in plain clothes for some time, on orders put on a uniform and became visible. And Jim went back to his cellaret.

‘It's getting worse,' reported Pat to Ellery. ‘He's drinking himself stupid. Even Lola can't do anything with him. Ellery, is it just that he's scared?'

‘He's not scared at all. Goes deeper than funk, Patty. Hasn't he seen Nora yet?'

‘He's ashamed to go near her. Nora's threatening to get out of bed and go over there herself, only Dr Willoughby said if she did he'd send her to the hospital. I slept with her last night. She cried all night.'

Ellery glumly surveyed his glass of Scotch, filched from John F.'s modest, little-used bar. ‘Nora still thinks he's an innocent babe?'

‘Of course. She wants him to fight back. She says if he'd only come over to see her she knows she could persuade him to stand up and defend himself from these attacks. Did you see what those damn reporters are writing about Jim
now?
'

‘Yes,' sighed Ellery, emptying his glass.

‘It's all Frank Lloyd's fault! That grump! Turning on his best friends! Pop's so furious he says he'll never speak to Frank again.'

‘It's better to keep out of Lloyd's way,' said Ellery with a frown. ‘He's a large animal, and he's thoroughly aroused. An angry beast with a hysterical typewriter. I'll tell your father myself.'

‘Never mind. I don't think he wants to talk to…anybody,' said Pat in a low voice. Then she burst out: ‘How can people be such vermin? Mom's friends—they don't call her any more, they're whispering the vilest things behind her back, she's being impeached by two of her organizations—even Clarice Martin's stopped calling!'

‘The Judge's wife,' murmured Ellery. ‘Which suggests another interesting Problem…Never mind. Have you seen Carter Bradford lately?'

‘No,' said Pat shortly.

‘Patty. What do you know about this woman Roberta Roberts?'

‘The only decent reporter in town!'

‘Strange what different conclusions she draws from the same facts. Did you see this?' Ellery showed Pat a Chicago newspaper, flipped back to
Roberta's Column
. A paragraph had been ringed, and Pat read it quickly:—

The longer I investigate this case, the surer I feel that James Haight is a misunderstood, hounded man, a martyr to what is at best a circumstantial case and the victim of Wrightsville's mobbism. Only the woman he is alleged by Wrightsville gossips to have tried to poison is standing by her husband four-square, with never a doubt or a backward look. More power to you, Nora Wright Haight! If faith and love still mean anything in this wretched world, your husband's name will be cleared and you will triumph over the pack.

‘That's a
wonderful
tribute!' cried Pat.

‘A little emotional, even for a famous
entrepreneuse
of love,' said Mr Queen dryly. ‘I think I'll explore this female Cupid.'

But exploration only confirmed the evidence of his eyes. Roberta Roberts was heart and soul behind the struggle to get Jim a just hearing. One talk with Nora, and they became fighters in a common cause. ‘If you could only get Jim to come up here for a talk,' said Nora urgently. ‘Won't you try, Miss Roberts?'

‘He'd listen to you,' Pat interposed. ‘He said only this morning'—Pat neglected to mention his condition when he said it—‘that you were the only friend he had in the world.'

‘Jim's a queer love,' said Roberta thoughtfully. ‘I've had two talks with him and I admit I haven't got anything but his confidence. Let me take another crack at the poor dope.'

But Jim refused to stir from the house.

‘Why, Jim?' asked the newspaper woman patiently. Ellery was present, and Lola Wright—a more silent Lola these days.

‘Lemme alone.' Jim had not shaved; under the stubble his skin was gray; and he had drunk a lot of whisky.

‘You can't just lie around the house like a yellow dog and let these people spit on you, Jim! See Nora. She'll give you strength, Jim. She's ill—don't you know that? Don't you care?'

Jim turned a tortured face to the wall. ‘Nora's in good hands. Her family's taking care of her. And I've done her enough harm already. Lemme alone!'

‘But Nora believes in you, honey.'

‘I'm not gonna see Nora till this is all over,' he muttered. ‘Till I'm Jim Haight again in this town, not some lousy hyena.' And he raised himself and fumbled for his glass, and drank, and sank back, and not all of Roberta's urging and prodding could rouse him again.

When Roberta had gone, and Jim was asleep, Ellery said to Lola Wright: ‘And what's
your
angle, my dear Sphinx?'

‘No angle. Somebody has to take care of Jim. I feed him and put him to bed and see that he has a fresh bottle of pain-killer every once in a while.' Lola smiled.

‘Unconventional,' said Mr Queen, smiling back. ‘The two of you, alone, in this house.'

‘That's me,' said Lola. ‘Unconventional Lola.'

‘You haven't expressed any opinion, Lola—'

‘There's been too much expression of opinion,' she retorted. ‘But if you want to know, I'm a professional underdog-lover. My heart bleeds for the Chinese and the Czechs and the Poles and the Jews and the Negroes—it's leaking practically all the time, and every time one of my underdogs is kicked, it leaks a little more. I see this poor slob suffering, and that's enough for me.'

‘Apparently it's enough for Roberta Roberts, too,' mumbled Ellery.

‘Miss Love-Conquers-All?' Lola shrugged. ‘If you ask me, that dame's on Jim's side so she can get in where the other reporters can't!'

18

St Valentine's Day: Love Conquers Nothing

Considering that Nora was bedridden as a result of arsenic poisoning, that John F. was finding his cronies shying away from him and transferring their business to Hallam Luck's Public Trust Co., that Hermione was having the lady-finger put on her, Pat was sticking close to Nora's bedside, and even Lola had been jolted out of her isolation—considering all this, it was wonderful how the Wrights kept bravely pretending, even among themselves, that nothing out of the ordinary had happened. No one referred to Nora's condition except as an ‘illness,' as if she were suffering from laryngitis or some mysterious but legal ‘woman's complaint.' John F. talked business at his desk in his old dry way—if he attended far fewer board meetings it was because he was ‘tied up'…obviously; and the fact that he quite disappeared from the weekly luncheons of the Chamber of Commerce at Ma Upham's was gravely excused on grounds of dyspepsia. As for Jim—he was not mentioned at all.

But Hermy, after the first emotional storms, did some calking and sail patching. No one was going to run
her
out of town. And grimly she began to employ her telephone again. When impeachment proceedings began at her Women's Club, Madame President astounded everyone by making a personal appearance, in her smartest winter suit, and acting as if nothing had happened whatsoever. She was impeached notwithstanding; but only after various abalone ears burned and the ladies grew scarlet under the lash of Hermy's scorn. And at home she took charge as of old. Ludie, who might have been expected to snarl back, instead went about with a relieved expression. And by the beginning of February things took on such an air of normality that Lola actually returned to her nun's flat in Low Village and, Nora being better, Pat assumed the task of cooking Jim's meals and straightening Nora's house.

On Thursday, February thirteenth, Dr Willoughby said that Nora could get out of bed. There was much joy in the household. Ludie baked a gargantuan lemon-meringue pie, Nora's favorite; John F. came home early from the bank with a double armful of American Beauty roses (and where he got them, in Wrightsville, in February, he refused to say!); Pat stretched as if she were cramped and then washed her hair and did her nails, murmuring things like: ‘My God! How I've let myself go!' Hermy turned the radio on for the first time in weeks to hear the war news…It was like coming out of a restless sleep to find yourself safely awake. Nora wanted to see Jim instantly; but Hermione refused to let her out of the house— ‘The first day, dear! Are you insane?'—and so Nora phoned next door. After a while she hung up, helplessly; there was no answer. ‘Maybe he's gone out for a walk or something,' said Pat.