Calamity Town (2 page)

‘And the house?' murmured Mr Queen.

J.C. drove his car to the side of the road and shut off the motor. ‘Wedding was called off. We all thought Jim'd turn up, thinking it was just a lovers' spat; but he didn't. Whatever broke those two up must have been awful important!' The real estate man shook his head. ‘Well, there was the new house, all ready to be lived in, and no one to live in it. Terrible blow to Hermione. Hermy let out that Nora'd jilted Jim. But people did keep jawing about it, and after a while…' Mr Pettigrew paused.

‘Yes?' prompted Ellery.

‘After a while people began saying Nora'd gone…crazy and that that little six-roomer was jinxed.'

‘Jinxed!'

J.C. smiled a sickly smile. ‘Funny how some folks are, isn't it? Thinking the house had anything to do with Jim and Nora's breaking up! And of course ain't nothing wrong with Nora. I mean, she's not crazy. Crazy!' J.C. snorted. ‘That wasn't the whole of it. When it looked like Jim wasn't coming back, John F. decided to sell that house he'd built for his daughter. Pretty soon along came a buyer—relative of Judge Martin's wife Clarice, man named Hunter of the Boston branch of the family. I was handling the deal.'

J.C. lowered his voice. ‘Mr Smith, I give you my word I'd taken this Mr Hunter over to the house for a last inspection before signing the papers, and we were looking around the living room and Mr Hunter was saying, “I don't like the sofa just there,” when he gets kind of a scared look all of a sudden and grabs his heart and falls down right in front of me! Died on the spot! I didn't sleep for a week.' He swabbed his forehead. ‘Doc Willoughby said it was heart failure. But that's not what the town said. The town said it was the house. First Jim ran away, then a buyer dropped dead. And to make it worse, some smartaleck of a cub reporter on Frank Lloyd's
Record
wrote up Hunter's death and he called the house “Calamity House” in his yarn. Frank fired him. Frank's friendly with the Wrights.'

‘Of all the nonsense!' chuckled Mr Queen.

‘Just the same, nobody'd buy,' muttered J.C. ‘John offered to rent. Nobody'd rent. Too unlucky, people said. Still want to rent, Mr Smith?'

‘Yes, indeed,' said Mr Queen cheerfully. So J.C. started his car again. ‘Family seems ill-fated,' observed Ellery. ‘One daughter running off and another's life blasted by a love affair. Is the youngest daughter normal?'

‘Patricia?' J.C. beamed. ‘Prettiest, smartest filly in town next to my Carmel! Pat's going steady with Carter Bradford. Cart's our new County Prosecutor…Here we are!'

The real estate man steered his coupé into the driveway of a Colonial-style house sunk into the hillside far off the road. It was the largest house, and the trees on its lawns were the tallest trees, that Ellery had seen on the Hill. There was a small white frame house close by the large one, its windows shuttered.

Mr Queen kept looking at the blind and empty little house he intended to rent all the way up to the wide Wright porch. Then J.C. rang the bell and old Ludie in one of her famous starched aprons opened the front door and asked them what in tarnation.

3

‘Famed Author to Live in Wrightsville'

‘I'll tell Mr John you're callin,' sniffed Ludie, and she stalked out, her apron standing to each side of her like a Dutch cap.

‘Guess Ludie knows we're here to rent Calamity House,' grinned Mr Pettigrew.

‘Why should that make her look at me as if I were a Nazi
Gauleiter?
' asked Mr Queen.

‘I expect Ludie doesn't think it proper for folks like the John F. Wrights to be renting out houses. Sometimes I don't know who's got more pride in the family name, Ludie or Hermy!'

Mr Queen took inventory. Lived in. There were a few aged mahogany pieces of distinction, and a beautiful fireplace of Italian marble. And at least two of the oil paintings had merit. J.C. noticed his interest. ‘Hermione picked out all the pictures herself. Knows a lot about art, Hermy does—Here she is now. And John.'

Ellery rose. He had expected to meet a robust, severe-faced female; instead, he saw Hermy. Hermy always fooled strangers that way; she's so tiny and motherly and sweet-looking. John Fowler Wright was a delicate little man with a brown countryclub face. Ellery liked him at sight. He was carrying a stamp album with practised care. ‘John, this is Mr Ellery Smith. He's looking to rent a furnished house,' said J.C. nervously. ‘Mr Wright, Mrs Wright, Mr Smith. A-hrmm!'

John F. said in his reedy voice that he was mighty proud to meet Mr Smith, and Hermy held out her hand at arm's length with a sweet ‘How do you do, Mr Smith,' but Mr ‘Smith' saw the iced gleam in Hermy's pretty blue eyes and decided that in this instance, too, the female was deadlier than the male. So he was most gallant with her. Hermy unbent a little at that and poked her slender lady's fingers in her sleek gray hair, the way she always did when she was pleased, or fussed, or both.

‘Of course,' said J.C. respectfully, ‘I thought right off of that beautiful little six-roomer you built next door, John—'

‘I don't at all like the idea,' said Hermione in her coolest voice, ‘of renting, John. I can't imagine, Mr Pettigrew—'

‘Maybe if you knew who Mr Smith
is
,' said J.C. quickly.

Hermy looked startled. John F. hitched forward in his wing chair near the fireplace. ‘Well?' demanded Hermy. ‘Who is he?'

‘Mr Smith,' said J.C., throwing it away, ‘is Ellery Smith, the famous author.'

‘Famous
author!
'
gasped Hermy. ‘But I'm so bowled
over!
Here on the coffee table, Ludie!' Ludie clanked down a tray bearing a musical pitcher filled with ice and grape-juice-and-lemonade punch, and four handsome crystal goblets. ‘I'm
sure
you'll like our house, Mr Smith,' Hermy went on swiftly. ‘It's a little dream house. I decorated it with my own hands. Do you ever lecture? Our Women's Club—'

‘Good golfing hereabouts, too,' said John F. ‘How long would you want to rent for, Mr Smith?'

‘I'm sure Mr Smith is going to like Wrightsville so well he'll stay on and
on
,' interrupted Hermy. ‘Do have some of Ludie's punch, Mr Smith—'

‘Thing is,' said John F., frowning, ‘the way Wrightsville's shooting up, I'll probably be able to sell pretty soon—'

‘That's easy, John!' said J.C. ‘We can write in the lease that in case a buyer comes along Mr Smith is to vacate pending reasonable notice—'

‘Business, business!' said Hermy gaily. ‘What Mr Smith wants is to
see
the house. Mr Pettigrew, you stay here and keep John and his poky old stamps company. Mr Smith?' Hermy held on to Ellery's arm all the way from the big house to the little house, as if she were afraid he'd fly away if she let go. ‘Of course, the furniture's protected by dust covers now, but it's really lovely. Early American bird's-eye maple, and brand-new. Just look, Mr Smith. Isn't it
darling?
'

Hermy dragged Ellery upstairs and downstairs, from cellar to peaked attic, exhibited the chintzy master bedroom, extolled the beauties of the living room with its maple pieces and art-filled niches and hooked rug and half-empty bookshelves…'Yes, yes,' said Ellery feebly. ‘Very nice, Mrs Wright.'

‘Of course, I'll see you get a housekeeper,' said Hermy happily. ‘Oh, dear! Where will you do your Work? We could fix over the second bedroom upstairs into a study. You
must
have a study for your Work, Mr Smith.' Mr ‘Smith' said he was sure he'd manage handsomely. ‘Then you do like our little house? I'm so glad!' Hermione lowered her voice. ‘You're in Wrightsville incognito, of course?'

‘Such an impressive word, Mrs Wright…'

‘Then except for a few of our
closest
friends I'll make sure nobody knows who you are,' beamed Hermy. ‘What kind of Work are you planning, Mr Smith?'

‘A novel,' said Ellery faintly. ‘A novel of a particular sort, laid in a typical small city, Mrs Wright.'

‘Then you're here to get Colour! How
apt!
You chose our own dear Wrightsville! You must meet my daughter Patricia immediately, Mr Smith. She's the cleverest child. I'm sure Pat would be a great help to you in getting to know Wrightsville…'

Two hours later Mr Ellery Queen was signing the name ‘Ellery Smith' to a lease whereunder he agreed to rent Number 460 Hill Drive, furnished, for a period of six months beginning August 6, 1940, three months' rental paid in advance, one month's vacating notice to be given by lessor in event of a sale, at the rental of $75 per month.

‘The truth is, Mr Smith,' confided J.C. as they left the Wright house, ‘I kind of held my breath in there for a minute.'

‘When was that?'

‘When you took that pen of John F.'s and signed the lease.'

‘You held your breath?' Ellery frowned. ‘Why?'

J.C. guffawed. ‘I remembered the case of poor old Hunter and how he dropped dead in that very house. Calamity House! That's a hot one! Here you are, still fit as a fiddle!'

And he got into his coupé still overcome by mirth, bound for town to pick up Ellery's luggage at the Hollis Hotel…and leaving Ellery in the Wright driveway feeling irritated.

When Ellery returned to his new residence, there was a tingle in his spine. There
was
something about the house, now that he was out of Mrs Wright's clutches, something—well,
blank
, unfinished, like Outer Space. Ellery almost said to himself the word ‘inhuman,' but when he got to that point he took himself in hand, sternly. Calamity House! As sensible as calling Wrightsville Calamity Town! He removed his coat, rolled up his shirt sleeves, and sailed into things.

‘Mr Smith,' cried a horrified voice, ‘what are you
doing?
' Ellery guiltily dropped a dust cover as Hermione Wright rushed in, her cheeks flushed and her gray hair no longer sleek. ‘Don't you dare touch a thing! Alberta, come in. Mr Smith won't bite you.' A bashful Amazon shuffled in. ‘Mr Smith, this is Alberta Manaskas. I'm sure you'll find her most satisfactory. Alberta, don't stand there. Start the upstairs!' Alberta fled. Ellery murmured his gratitude and sank into a chintz-cloaked chair as Mrs Wright attacked the room about him with terrifying energy.

‘We'll have this in apple-pie order in a jiffy! By the way, I trust you don't mind. On my trip into town to fetch Alberta, I
happened
to drop into the
Record
office—whoo! this dust!—and had a confidential chat with Frank Lloyd. The editor and publisher, you know.' Ellery's heart scuttled itself.

‘By the way, I also took the liberty of giving Logan's a grocery and meat order for you. Although of course you'll dine with us tonight. Oh, dear, did I forget…? Electricity…gas…water…no, I attended to everything. Oh, the telephone! I'll do that first thing tomorrow. Well, as I was saying, I knew that no matter
how
hard we tried, sooner or later everyone would know you're in Wrightsville, Mr Smith, and of course as a newspaper man Frank would
have
to do a story on you, so I thought I'd better ask Frank as a personal favour not to mention in his write-up that you're the famous author—Patty baby! Carter! Oh, my darlings, I have
such
a surprise for you!' Mr Queen rose, fumbling for his jacket. His only coherent thought was that she had eyes the colour of brook water bubbling in the sun.

‘So you're the famous author,' said Patricia Wright, looking at him with her head cocked. ‘When Pop told Carter and me just now what Mother had snagged, I thought I'd meet a baggypantsed poet with a hangdog look, melancholy eyes, and a pot. I'm
pleased
.' Mr Queen tried to look suave, and mumbled something.

‘Isn't it wonderful, dearest?' cried Hermy. ‘You must forgive me, Mr Smith. I know you think I'm terribly provincial. But I really
am
overwhelmed. Pat dear—introduce Carter.'

‘Carter! Darling, I'm so sorry. Mr Smith, Mr Bradford.' Shaking hands with a tall young man, intelligent-looking but worried, Ellery wondered if he were worried about how to hold on to Miss Patricia Wright. He felt an instant sympathy.

‘I suppose,' said Carter Bradford politely, ‘We must all seem provincial to you, Mr Smith. Fiction or nonfiction?'

‘Fiction,' said Ellery. So it was war.

‘I'm
pleased
,' said Pat again, looking Ellery over. Carter frowned; Mr Queen beamed. ‘I'll do this room, Muth…You won't be hurting
my
feelings, Mr Smith, if after we've stopped interfering in your life you change things around again. But for now—'

As he watched Pat Wright setting his house in order under Carter Bradford's suspicious eye, Ellery thought: ‘May the saints grant me calamities like this each blessed day. Carter my boy, I'm sorry, but I'm cultivating your Patty!'

His good humor was not dispelled even when J.C. Pettigrew hurried back from town with his luggage and flourished the last edition of the
Wrightsville Record
. Frank Lloyd, publisher and editor, had kept his word to Hermione Wright only technically. He had said nothing about Mr Smith in the body of the news item except that he was ‘Mr Ellery Smith of New York.' But the headline on the story ran:—
FAMED AUTHOR TO LIVE IN WRIGHTSVILLE
!

4

The Three Sisters

Mr Ellery ‘Smith' was a sensation with the
haut monde
on the Hill and the local intelligentsia: Miss Aikin, the Librarian, who had studied Greek; Mrs Holmes, who taught Comparative Lit at Wrightsville High; and, of course, Emmeline DuPré, known to the irreverent as the ‘town crier,' who was nevertheless envied by young and old for having the miraculous good fortune to be
his neighbor
. Emmy DuPré's house was on Ellery's other side. Automobile traffic suddenly increased on the Hill. Interest became so hydra-headed that Ellery would have been unmoved if the Wrightsville Omnibus Company had started running a sightseeing bus to his door. Then there were invitations. To tea, to dinner, to luncheon; and one—from Emmeline DuPré—asking him to breakfast, ‘so that we may discuss the Arts in the coolth of a Soft Morning, before the Dew vanishes from the Sward.' Ben Danzig, High Village Rental Library and Sundries, said he had never had such a rush on Fine Stationery.