Family Vault (28 page)

“I’m bearing, I’m bearing. What do you think I came for? Off with the old, on with the new, like it says in Shakespeare. Don’t try to kid me, Sarah. The guy was old enough to be your father, and there’s a very naughty name for screwing around with your old man. I’m sure you wouldn’t do anything naughty. No,” he wrapped an arm around her and puffed beer in her face. “You’re going to be nice. Aren’t you, Sarah?”

She wrenched her body out of his clutch and snatched up the poker. “I’m going to beat your ears off if you don’t get out of here and leave me alone. I was stupid enough to think you came simply out of kindness, but I shan’t make that mistake again. If you bother me any more, I’ll tell Harry Lackridge exactly what sort of person he has working for him.”

For some reason, Dee thought that was pretty funny. “Okay, Sarah, if that’s the way you want to play it. Don’t say I didn’t warn you. Thanks for the use of your john.”

Sarah slammed the door behind him and put the chain up. She was relieved he hadn’t turned ugly, but thoroughly disgusted with herself for having been such a fool as to let him in. That session with Edgar Merton should have warned her. Everybody thought she was about to fall into a huge fortune. She was going to be a target for every wolf in Boston.

That safe-deposit box full of bricks might turn out to be a blessing in disguise, at that. Once the word got around that Sarah Kelling was flat broke and about to be foreclosed on, at least she wouldn’t be bothered by the likes of Bob Dee. She thrust the empty pizza carton into the fireplace and took a savage pleasure in watching it burn. She gathered up the rest of the litter, took it out to the kitchen, filled the sink with hot water and detergent, and conducted a rite of purification. Getting the dirty dishes out of the way made her feel one degree less soiled herself. A hot bath did more.

Those dreadful curtains she’d meant to get rid of were still hanging in the boudoir. She’d have to attend to that tomorrow, and find some to hang in their place. Bare windows at the front of the house would look awful. Some of Aunt Caroline’s old pals would be sure to notice and wonder why the young widow was in such a hurry to change things. The less attention she attracted, the better for her.

If one were going to stay in the house, it might be fun to redecorate the boudoir for a sitting room. Then she could rent the rooms on the other floors and keep this suite for herself. It would be a way of getting money to pay the mortgage, and there would be people around.

Sarah turned the idea over in her mind. With half a dozen lodgers and what she could make out of freelance illustrating, she just might be able to scrape through. She’d need a certain amount of capital for mattresses, linens, things of that sort. Perhaps she could sell some of the furniture she wouldn’t be needing any more. There were still a number of good pieces in the house, probably because Aunt Caroline hadn’t dared get rid of them for fear people would start asking too many questions about the jewelry. That escritoire might fetch a decent sum. Perhaps Mr. Bittersohn would know how to market it so she wouldn’t get skinned.

And how did she know Mr. Bittersohn himself wouldn’t skin her? She mustn’t start thinking of him as Sir Galahad just because he hadn’t yet made a pass at her. Why should he? He knew she didn’t have any money. Sarah whacked at her pillows to plump them up, and reached for William James.

That incident with Bob Dee must have left her even more shaken than she realized. She read a full twelve pages before she managed to get to sleep. Punctually at midnight, she was awakened by the telephone on the night stand beside her bed. When she picked it up and said hello, nobody answered, but she could hear heavy breathing. Some drunk who’d got a wrong number, no doubt. She slammed down the receiver and tried to get back to sleep.

Fifteen minutes later to the second, the phone rang again. Again there was no voice on the line, only that same breathy sound. When it happened a third time at half-past twelve, she realized she was being deliberately harassed. She picked up the receiver to break the connection and put it back without answering.

This must have been what Bob Dee had in mind when he said, “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” It was exactly the sort of spiteful nonsense he’d think was funny. She’d take the receiver off the hook, set the phone outside her door so she wouldn’t have to listen to the telephone company making noises on the line, and let him entertain himself getting a busy signal.

But what if Mr. Bittersohn took it into his head to check up on her, and went into another swivet because he couldn’t get through? Late as it was, she’d better call and explain why the phone would be out of commission. Sarah turned on the light, read off the number he’d dictated to her, and dialed. To her relief, he answered right away.

“This is Sarah Kelling,” she said. “I hope I didn’t wake you.”

“No, not at all. I was sitting here reading. What’s up?”

“Nothing, really. Some pest is calling up every fifteen minutes and breathing at me. I’m going to take the receiver off the hook, but I thought I should let you know in case you tried to call for any reason.”

“How long has it been going on?”

“Since midnight. He’s done it three times so far.”

“How do you know it’s a he?”

“I don’t. It’s just that I had a—a rather silly experience with our mutual friend Bob Dee this evening, and I thought it might be his notion of a practical joke.”

“Mrs. Kelling, I don’t think you ought to take anything for granted, and I don’t think it’s a good idea to tie up your telephone. I’d like to come over, if you don’t mind, and be on hand when the next call comes in. Wait five minutes, then come downstairs and turn on the outside light. Don’t open the door till you make darn sure you know who it is. I’ll give five short rings. Okay?”

Sarah started to say, “If you really think—” realized he’d already rung off, and started putting on her bathrobe and slippers.

But what if it was Bittersohn himself who was making the calls so that she’d give him an excuse to come over—as she’d just done? Why on earth would he do a thing like that? She mustn’t get paranoid. She mustn’t be stupid, either. She wouldn’t go down there in her nightgown, and she would keep that poker handy, just in case.

Sarah put on slacks and a sweater, shoved her feet into woolly slippers because the floor was cold, and padded silently downstairs. It wasn’t five minutes yet, but her nerves wouldn’t let her sit up there cold-bloodedly watching the clock hands inch around.

A cup of hot coffee mightn’t be a bad idea. She was so wide-awake already that a little caffeine wasn’t going to make any difference. Not bothering to turn on a light because she knew the way so well, Sarah went out to the kitchen and was about to put the pot under the faucet when she heard a noise.

Of course one was always hearing things in the city: trucks and fire engines going by, students whooping it up on the sidewalk, drunks being sick in the alley. This noise was none of those. It sounded as if somebody was trying to take the cellar door off its hinges.

She didn’t know what put that notion into her head, but it was simple enough to check. The back entry was directly below the kitchen window. Thankful that she hadn’t put on a light or made any racket herself, she flattened her nose against the pane and looked down.

Yes, there was somebody, hard at work. She could see a dull gleam from the shaft of some long tool he was using, probably a big screwdriver. She thought it must be a man because he appeared to be working with no great effort, and it must take real strength to budge those rusted-in screws. All she was actually able to make out was a large dark blob and a couple of whitish oblongs perhaps ten inches high sitting on the pavement beside him. Were those his tool boxes? Why more than one?

Whatever they were, he’d better get them out of there fast. Moved by exasperation to recklessness, Sarah ran boiling hot water into a pail, eased the window open, and dumped the bucketful square on his head.

It must have burned, it certainly shocked. Whoever was there dropped whatever he had and took off like the proverbial scalded cat. She was filling the kettle again in case he came back for his tools when the doorbell rang five quick tings.

Before she cracked open the door on its chain, she made very sure it was Bittersohn. Even then, she wasn’t ready to let him in.

“Turn around slowly under the light so I can get a good look at your coat.”

“If you want,” he said in surprise. “Any special reason?”

“I want to see if you’re wet. I just poured a bucket of hot water on somebody who was trying to break in from the alley.”

“My God, woman, you’re dangerous! No, fortunately, I’m dry. I hope you’re not going to try any assault and battery on me.”

“Don’t push me, then. I threatened Bob Dee with a poker this evening.”

“Too bad you didn’t let him have it. What did he do?”

“I’d rather not say.”

“Okay, you don’t have to. What happened to the burglar?”

“He ran away. He left something, though, so he may have come back to get it by now.”

“Come on. How do you get downstairs?”

“I’ll show you.”

Sarah switched on the hall lights and led Bittersohn down through Edith’s deserted lair. The alley door was sagging half off its hinges; she’d been none too quick with her bucket. Bittersohn pushed it open. Those whitish oblongs were still sitting outside, in a steamy puddle. He picked one up, and sniffed at the top.

“The son-of-a-bitch! He was going to burn the place down. Smell that.”

He thrust what turned out to be a plastic jug under Sarah’s nose.

“It smells like paint thinner,” she said.

“It is paint thinner. A gallon or so of this and a book of matches are all any competent arsonist needs.”

“Then those phone calls—”

“Probably to make sure you were in the house and keep you busy so you wouldn’t go roaming around.”

“But I might have burned to death!”

“I don’t want to upset you any more than you’ve been already, Mrs. Kelling, but I’d say that was the general idea, that and getting rid of whatever evidence might be in the house.”

“Those draperies of Aunt Caroline’s! But why not just break in and take them down?”

“Because whoever wants to get rid of anything incriminating doesn’t know what to look for. You haven’t told anybody but me about them, have you?”

“No, not a soul. I see what you mean. Anybody who knew Aunt Caroline very well for a long time must have recognized that theatrical streak in her and guessed she wouldn’t be able to resist leaving some kind of diary about her great romance, but who could ever dream she’d choose the way she did?”

“Did you get a good look at the torch?”

“The what?”

“The guy with the jugs. The arsonist.”

“Oh. No, I’m sorry to say I didn’t. I thought it was a man, but I couldn’t be sure. Actually it was just a shape in the dark.”

“Big or little?”

“Big. Biggish, anyway. How tall are you?”

“Five eleven and a whisker. Say six feet with my shoes on.”

“Then I’d say this person was also about six feet and more heavy-set than you, though one can’t be sure in cold weather because people bundle up in extra clothes. I honestly didn’t believe it was you, I was just being overly careful because I’d made stupid mistakes about two other men this evening.”

“That’s okay, I don’t blame you a bit. Do you think you scalded the guy?”

“I hope so. It would serve him right.”

“It’ll also provide a means of identification if we can get to him before he heals. Let’s leave these jugs here and I’ll watch for a while to see if he comes back for them, though I doubt if he’d be fool enough to do that. There’s no way they could be traced because you can buy the stuff at any hardware or paint store, and I’m sure he wore gloves. You go back to bed. I’ll stick around down here, just in case.”

“Would you like some coffee? I was going to make some. That’s how I happened to be in the kitchen and heard him working at the hinges.”

“I’m surprised he kept at it once you turned on the light.”

“I didn’t. I’ve gotten into the habit of going about the house in the dark a lot, I suppose because everything was arranged for a blind person’s convenience. I can make a pot of coffee in the dark, fix it any way you like, and bring it down to you without spilling a drop. Want me to?”

“Just don’t break your neck.”

“I shan’t. Right now I’m mostly concerned to save it.”

E
DITH HAD MADE SUCH
a clean sweep of the basement that there wasn’t even a chair left for Bittersohn to sit on. Sarah unearthed a folding leather campaign chair that Alexander’s Great-uncle Nathan had nursed his gout in at San Juan while Teddy Roosevelt and the Rough Riders were storming the hill, and took it down to the cellar along with a pillow and an afghan.

She saw no reason to stay with the man, and he didn’t want her to. Still, she couldn’t face the thought of going back to bed. She compromised by curling up on the library couch with the velvet comforter from Aunt Caroline’s room, and napped fitfully until the traffic outside and the lumpiness of her improvised bed drove her to rouse herself.

Poor Mr. Bittersohn, what sort of night had he put in? Sarah took a shower to revive herself as far as possible, got into clean clothes, and went down to see if he’d survived his vigil. She found her guest sprawled in the campaign chair with his head bobbing backward over the top and his legs tangled strangely in the afghan. He was emitting an occasional choking snort, as well he might. When she touched him on the shoulder he jerked upright and said crossly, “I wasn’t asleep.”

“I’m sure you weren’t, but you must have been wretchedly uncomfortable. Did anything happen?”

“This damn chair folded up on me twice, and a mouse ran up inside my pantleg. Otherwise, it was a restful night. Are the jugs still there?”

Sarah took away the stick of wood he’d used to prop up the half-dismantled door and peered out. “Yes, still here. Oh, look, he’s taken off the alley door, too. I wondered how he got over the wall.”

Like so many of its Beacon Hill counterparts, the Kelling house had a tiny bricked courtyard behind it surrounded by a high brick wall with a wooden door that led to the alley behind. This door, which had been securely bolted the last time she saw it was also off its hinges and lying on the pavement. She walked over and kicked at it