Halfway House (2 page)

Bill slowed down as he passed a long bulky mass of buildings on the riverside, the Marine Terminal. It was not far from here, he thought. According to Joe’s instructions… He knew the road well; he had often taken it in traveling by automobile from Philadelphia to Trenton by way of the Camden bridge. In the vicinity of the Marine Terminal there was nothing but dreary dumping-ground; the Sewage Disposal Plant on the east had effectively spoiled the section for housing development, and there were no dwellings in the neighborhood. The directions had been specific: a few hundred yards past the Marine Terminal, reckoning from Trenton. …

He trod on his brake. To the right, toward the river, on the narrow shore between Lamberton Road and the water polished to sullen steel by the quarterlight of deep dusk, stood a building with dimly glowing windows.

The Pontiac snuffled and stopped. Bill examined the scene with fixity. The structure, black against the river, was little more than a shack—a random, dilapidated affair of weather-beaten clapboards, with a sagging roof half-denuded of its shingles and a crumbling chimney. It was set well back, approached in rather grotesque grandeur by a semicircular driveway which led from Lamberton Road past the house in an arc and back to the road. In the shadows of near night, there was something repellent about the place. An empty roadster of huge dimensions stood directly before the closed door of the shack, almost on its stone step. The snout of the silent monster faced him. Bill twisted about like a suspicious animal, searching the thick dark blue murk for other details. That car… Lucy ran a small car; she’d always had a runabout for herself—Joe was considerate enough, and he seemed to realize how much alone she was; and Joe himself ran an ancient but serviceable Packard. But this was overpowering, a magnificent sixteen-cylinder Cadillac with, he thought, a special body. Oddly, for all its bulk, there was something feminine in its appearance; it seemed in the murk to be the color of cream, and he could just make out its multiplicity of chromium gadgets. A rich woman’s sporting car…

Then Bill spied his brother-in-law’s Packard drawn up to face the side of the shack nearer him; and for the first time he noticed a second driveway, this one an unkempt dirt lane, branching off Lamberton Road a few feet in front of his car. The lane, a welter of mud, did not touch the exit of the semicircular drive, but skirted it and curved slightly inwards to lead to a second door in the side of the house. Two drives, two doors, two cars …

Bill Angell sat very still. The night was pacific, its silence accentuated by the sawing of crickets, the faint chug of a motor on the river, the hum of his own engine. Except for the Marine Terminal and a small watchman’s house facing it Bill had passed no dwelling since leaving the outskirts of Trenton; and as far as he could see beyond the shack stretched flat deserted country. This was the meeting-place.

How long he sat there he did not know; but suddenly the evening quiet exploded, touched off by a horrible sound. Bill’s heart convulsed in warning before his senses became conscious of the nature of the cry. It had been a scream, and it had been torn from a woman’s throat: a single protest of outraged vocal chords released from the paralysis of fear all at once, like a plucked string let go. It was short and sharp, and it died away as unexpectedly as it had been born. It came to Bill Angell, sitting in the Pontiac frozen to the wheel, that it was the first time he had ever heard a woman scream. Something inside him responded with a quiver, and he felt it with a sensation of pure astonishment. At the same moment, and for no conscious reason, his eyes went to the watch on his wrist and he read the time in the light of his dashboard. It was eight minutes after nine.

But he glanced up quickly; the light before him had subtly changed. The front door had flown open; he heard the bang as it struck against the inner wall of the shack. A prism of light bathed the side of the roadster before the stone step. Then it was partially blotted out by a figure. Bill half-rose behind his wheel, straining to see. The figure was a woman’s, and her hands were before her face as if to shut out the sight of something obscene. She stood there for only an instant, a silhouette the details of which were indistinguishable. With the light behind her and her figure in darkness, she might have been young or old; there was a slenderness about her that was ambiguous. He could make out no details of her dress. This woman had screamed. And she had fled from the shack as if sick and blind with loathing.

Then she saw the Pontiac, and sprang toward the big roadster, clawing at the door. She was in the car in a flash. The Cadillac roared forward toward him. It swept along the curve of the semicircular drive; it was only when it was almost upon him that his muscles came to life. He jerked the Pontiac into first speed and twisted the wheel to the right. The Pontiac plunged into the muddy lane leading to the side of the house.

Their hubs rasped against each other. The Cadillac swung out, careening on two wheels. For the sheer instant that the two drivers were side by side Bill saw that the woman’s gloved right hand was clutching a handkerchief, and that the handkerchief covered her face. Her eyes were wild and wide above the fabric. Then she and the roadster were gone, roaring down Lamberton Road toward Trenton and in a twinkling swallowed by the darkness. It would be futile, Bill knew, to follow her.

Dazed, he drove the Pontiac along the muddy side-lane and brought it to rest beside his brother-in-law’s old Packard, conscious that his hands were clammy with sweat. He shut off his motor and stepped from the running-board to a small wooden-floored porch at the side of the shack. The door was slightly ajar. He braced himself and pushed it open.

Blinking in the light, he made out only the general features of the interior. He stood in a low-ceilinged room with discolored walls from which the plaster had in many places dropped off. He became aware of an old-fashioned telescopic clothes-rack on the opposite wall, draped with men’s suits, of a dingy iron sink in a corner, of a naked and crypt-like old fireplace, of a round central table with an electric lamp on it from which the only light in the room emanated. There was no bed, no bunk, no stove, no closet. A few decrepit chairs and one overstuffed armchair which sagged badly… Bill stiffened.

A man was lying on the floor behind the table. He could see two trousered legs, crooked at the knees. There was something about those two legs that suggested death.

Bill Angell stood still where he was, just inside the side door, slowly thinking things out. His mouth was hard. It was very quiet in the shack. He felt the overwhelming loneliness of his position. People who breathed were far away, and laughter was a remote and inconceivable luxury. The curtains at the windows rustled a little in the breeze from the Delaware… One of the legs moved. Bill watched it move with a dull and impersonal surprise. He found himself moving, too, across the carpeted floor of the shack to the table and beyond.

The man was lying on his back, glassy eyes staring up at the ceiling. His hands, peculiarly gray, scratched at the carpet like talons in a slow and patient digital exercise. His tan sack-coat was open and the white shirt above his heart was almost gaily splashed with blood. Bill dropped to his knees and with the same surprise heard his voice, which sounded unfamiliar to his ears, say: “Joe. For God’s sake, Joe.” He did not touch his brother-in-law’s body.

The glaze was drowned in the man’s eyes. They crept sidewise in a stealthy manner until they came to rest.

“Bill.”

“Water—?”

The gray fingers scratched more quickly. “No. Too… Bill, I’m dying.”

“Joe, who—”

“Woman. Woman.” The broken voice stopped, but the mouth continued to move, lips curling and closing, tongue rising and falling. Then the voice succeeded again: “Woman.”

“What woman, Joe? Joe, for God’s sake!”

“Woman. Veil. Heavy veil—face. Couldn’t see. Knifed me… Bill, Bill.”

“Who in the name of hell—”

“Love—Lucy. Bill, take care of Lu. …”

“
Joe!
”

The mouth stopped moving, the lips uncurled, the tongue trembled and was still. The glaze returned to the eyes, which continued to stare at Bill with the same savage wonder and agony. Then Bill was conscious that the fingers had stopped scratching. He got stiffly to his feet and walked out of the shack.

Mr. Ellery Queen was sprawled comfortably under a palm in the lobby of the Stacy-Trent, eyes closed over his fuming brier, when he heard a voice bellowing his name. He opened his eyes in astonishment to find a boy in the forest-green and maroon livery of the hotel shuffling past. “Boy! Here.”

The lobby was jammed, and a peacock’s tail of eyes regarded him with curiosity. His name had rung through the verdant room, and he beckoned the attendant in some annoyance. “Mistuh Queen? Telephone.”

Ellery tossed the boy a coin and made his way, frowning, to the desk. Among the heads that had jerked up at the attendant’s bawl was that of a red-haired young woman in a brown tweed suit. With a queer quirk of the lips she rose and quickly followed Ellery. Her long legs flashed noiselessly over the marble floor.

Ellery picked up the telephone. The young woman took up a position a few feet behind him, turned her back, opened her handbag, extracted a lipstick, and began to paint her painted mouth.

“Bill?”

“Thank God.”

“Bill! What’s the matter?”

“Ellery… I can’t go back to New York with you tonight. I— Could you possibly——?”

“Bill, something’s happened.”

“God, yes.” The lawyer paused for a moment, and Ellery heard him clear his throat three times. “Ellery, it’s simply—it’s a nightmare. It can’t have happened. My brother-in-law… He’s been—he’s dead.”

“Good Lord!”

“Murdered. Stuck in the chest like a—like a damned pig.”

“Murdered!” Ellery blinked. The young woman behind him stiffened as if she had received an electric shock. Then she hunched her shoulders and applied her lipstick furiously. “Bill… Where are you? When did this happen?”

“Don’t know. Not long ago. He was still alive when I got there. He said… Then he died. Ellery… these things just don’t happen to your own people. How am I going to break it to Lucy?”

“Bill,” said Ellery insistently, “stop wool-gathering. Listen to me. Have you notified the police?”

“No. …No.”

“Where are you?”

“In the watchman’s house across the road from the Marine Terminal. Ellery, you’ve got to help us!”

“Of course, Bill. How far from the Stacy-Trent is this place?”

“Three miles. You’ll come? Ellery, you’ll come?”

“At once. Tell me how to get there. Shortest way. Clearly now, Bill. You’ve got to get a grip on yourself.”

“I’m all right. I’m all right.” Over the wire came the sound of his breath, a shuddering inhalation like the lung-filling gasp of a newborn infant. “Easiest way… Yes. You’re on the East State and South Willow now. Where are you parked?”

“In a garage behind the hotel. Front Street, I think.”

“Drive east on Front for two squares. You’ll hit South Broad. Turn right, go past the courthouse, right again into Center Street one square south of the courthouse. Two on Center and turn right into Ferry. One on Ferry brings you to Lamberton. Turn left there and keep going south on Lamberton until you hit the Marine Terminal. You can’t miss it. The shack… is a couple of hundred yards beyond.”

“Front to South Broad, to Center, to Ferry, and into Lamberton. Right turns all the way except into Lamberton, which is left. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes. Wait at the watchman’s place for me. Bill, don’t go back. Do you hear me?”

“I won’t.”

“Call the Trenton police. I’m on my way.” Ellery dropped the telephone, jammed on his hat, and ran like a fireman. The red-haired young woman stared after him with a light in her hazel eyes that was almost lustful. Then she snapped her bag shut.

It was twenty minutes to ten when Ellery slammed his brake on before the watchman’s house opposite the Marine Terminal. Bill Angell was sitting on the running-board of his Pontiac, head between his hands, staring at the damp road. A knot of curious men thronged the doorway of the house. The two men gazed briefly into each other’s eyes. “It’s rotten,” choked Bill. “Rotten!”

“I know, Bill, I know. You’ve called the police?”

“They’ll be coming along soon. I—I’ve called Lucy, too.” A spark of desperation glittered in Bill’s eyes. “She’s not home.”

“Where is she?”

“I’d forgotten. She’s always downtown seeing a movie on Saturday nights when Joe… when he’s away. No answer. I’ve sent a wire telling her to come, that Joe’d had an… accident. The wire will get there before she will. We—there’s no sense in not facing facts. Is there?”

“Certainly not, Bill.”

Bill took his hands out of his pockets and looked at them. Then he raised his head to the black sky. It was the night of the new moon, and only the stars were visible, small and brilliant after their wash in the rain. “Let’s go,” he said grimly, and they climbed into the Pontiac. He turned his car around and retraced its trail south.

“Slowly,” said Ellery after a moment. His eyes were on the shimmering cones of the headlights. “Tell me all you know.”

Bill told him. At mention of the woman in the Cadillac roadster, Ellery glanced at his companion’s face. It was dark and dangerous.

“Veiled woman,” murmured Ellery. “That was fortunate, Bill; I mean poor Wilson’s living long enough to tell you. Was this woman wearing a veil?”

“I don’t know. It wasn’t over her face when she passed me. But she might have slipped it up over her hat. I don’t know… When Joe—when he died I went out to the car, backed it out of the side-lane into the road, and drove to the Terminal. Then I called you. That’s all.”

The shack loomed ahead. Bill began wearily to turn the wheel. “No!” said Ellery sharply. “Stop here. Have you a flashlight?”

“In the door-pocket.”

Ellery got out of the Pontiac and nosed the flash about. In a few sweeps of the beam he fixed the scene indelibly in his mind; the silent shack, the muddy lane leading to the side, the semicircular drive before the front door, the weed-grown segments of ground bordering the drives. He turned the light on the mud of the side-lane, crouching a little. So far as he could see there were no man-made marks in the soggy earth except tire tracks, of which there seemed to be several sets. He scrutinized these closely for a moment and then returned to the Pontiac. “Bill! We’ll walk from here.”