The Devil's Cook (9 page)

“I'm talking about the Personal ad that appeared in Thursday evening's
Journal.”

“What Personal ad?”

“It was addressed to ‘T.M.', and it was signed ‘O.' It arranged a meeting for a certain time and place.”

“What time and place?”

“Three o'clock Friday afternoon. Apparently at the university library.”

Otis stared into his cup. Then he shrugged and looked up.

“It's absurd. In Terry's case, what's more, completely unnecessary. In spite of the initials, I don't believe it was meant for her at all.”

“That settles the matter very neatly, doesn't it? Case closed, eh?”

“Didn't you expect me to deny that it was ‘O.' for Otis? Very well, I deny it. All right, I've been a fool, but not so big a fool as to engage in any damn foolishness like this. Why should I? I could have spoken directly to Terry whenever I chose.”

“So, for that matter, could O'Hara.”

“That's the point. The Personal wasn't meant for Terry at all.”

“You can dismiss such coincidence if you care to. I'm not prepared to do so.”

He stared at her with a thoughtful expression, as if his mind, having dismissed one consideration, had gone off on another tangent.

“How do you happen to know about the Personal? I can't recall anyone's mentioning it.”

“I read it when it appeared.”

“I didn't know you read the Personal columns.”

“This time I did.”

“Interesting. And you thought of me the first thing, didn't you?”

“Not without cause.”

“There's nothing quite so exhilarating as a wifely faith. I'm wondering what, suspecting me of a clandestine meeting in advance, you would be capable of doing to prevent it.”

“Nothing. I doubt that you're worth it.”

“Wouldn't you even spy a little? Just out of curiosity?”

“Not when I had a migraine headache. Friday afternoon, you'll remember, I had one.”

“I know you said so.”

“And so I had. I came home early and took a sleeping pill. I was here in the apartment all afternoon.”

“At the scene, so to speak.” He laughed without humor and rose abruptly. “Are you actually offering explanations, Ardis? It's not like you.”

They looked at each other with the closest thing to understanding that they had achieved for a long time.

“More coffee?” he said.

“Yes.” She held out her cup. “Please.”

10

Later that same Sunday morning—the second day after the disappearance of Terry Miles—two boys were discussing seriously a problem of importance. They were in a sparsely settled neighborhood on the eastern edge of a city that was growing westward. No new construction had gone on there for a long time. The houses, all of aging vintage, were for the most part separated by one or more vacant lots; there was plenty of open space for the antics of boys. A short distance eastward the plumbing ended and the open country began. There were no suburbs here. The planners, speculators, and builders of the city of Handclasp concentrated their interests and investments on the other side of town.

The two boys, crossing a vacant lot, had stopped to settle their problem between them, the problem being what to do. They had lately escaped the horror of Sunday school; now, after changing into appropriate clothes, they were determined to salvage what was left of the day. Being of the age that both remembers toys and has premonitions of girls, they earnestly sought an adventure that would include the excitement of the one and the apprehension of the other. As they examined and discarded a number of possibilities, their breath escaped between them in frosty clouds. They were bundled against the cold morning in heavy jackets. Whatever they were called by their peers, they were soon to enter certain official records as Charles and Vernon—names which do not have, among small boys, a greatly used sound.

“I'll tell you what,” said Charles.

“What?” said Vernon.

“Let's go explore the old Skully place.”

“We can't do that. People live in it.”

“Not now, they don't. Nobody's lived in it for over a month.”

“Somebody will, though. Some real estate company downtown rents it.”

“What difference does that make? Nobody's living in it right now. That's what counts.”

“What do you want to explore the old Skully place for?”

“Wait'll I tell you what I saw there the other night.”

“What?”

“I saw a light in an upstairs window.”

“You're just making that up.”

“I am not. It was a little light, like a flashlight. It kept moving around.”

“What night was it? What time did you see it? Come on, make it good.”

“It was Friday night. Real late. It must've been one o'clock, maybe more.”

“What were you doing at the old Skully place that late?”

“I was coming home in the car with Mother and Dad. We'd been downtown to a late movie. I just happened to look up and saw the light in the window as we went past. I told Dad about it, but he said I was imagining things.”

“You were.”

“I wasn't. I bet you I wasn't.”

Faced with such conviction Vernon, the skeptic, began to waver.

“Who do you think it was?” he asked in an awed tone.

“How should I know? I'll bet he didn't have any business being there, though. Are you game to have a look?”

His courage challenged, Vernon agreed, beginning to share Charles's excitement. Even if they didn't actually come across anything, the old and empty house would inflame the imagination to any boy's satisfaction. As they traveled the long two blocks to the house, they convinced each other that they were performing a necessary—and dangerous—service to the community.

The Skully house, named for its orignal owner—a widower who had died there harassed by the unfounded suspicions of other imaginative youngsters like the pair now approaching through unkempt grass from the rear—was two stories tall, but so narrow in construction that it seemed taller. It had a high screened back porch; small windows in the foundation indicated the presence of a basement. Although old and ugly, it was kept in repair by the real estate agency that owned and rented it.

The two young trespassers, after crossing the back porch and finding the rear door locked, retreated and found a basement window that wasn't. Charles first and Vernon behind him, they scrambled through and dropped.

The basement reeked of mustiness and junk and dust and rats and spiders. There was a coal bin, and a storage room for home-canned fruits and vegetables, its shelves still holding a supply of dusty Mason jars and a litter of rusted lids. Near the ancient furnace stood a workbench with a vise attached; a flight of ladder-like steps ascended to the kitchen door. Charles and Vernon, still in that order, climbed the steps and tried the door. It was unlocked, and they entered and crossed the kitchen, unconsciously walking—for no reason except the cold menace of the silent house—on tiptoes.

The first floor revealed no ghastly secrets; nor did their intrusion invoke old Skully's ghost, which was said to loiter about the place. Relieved and disappointed, they went up a narrow stairway to the upper floor, now side by side for company. There were two doors on each side of a hall, and a fifth at the end. They walked straight back to the end door and found that it opened into a bathroom; the high old-fashioned tub had feet shaped like eagle claws clutching round balls. Reversing themselves, they began to open the other doors on empty rooms. Not speaking for fear of affronting the silence, they communicated with each other through a system of gestures and grimaces.

Now Charles conveyed to Vernon the information that the last room, deliberately withheld for the purpose of climax, was the one in which he had seen the mysterious moving light.

Crossing to this door, he pushed it inward.…

11

“Sundays,” said Farley, “last forever.”

“They only seem that way to you,” said his sister Fanny, “because they give you an uneasy conscience.”

“Are you speaking from experience?”

“My conscience
never
bothers me.”

“Maybe that's because you don't have one. Let it go, however. It so happens that I am living quite comfortably with my conscience at the moment. Why shouldn't I be?”

“That's for you to say.”

“Tell me, little sister, why should my conscience kick up on Sundays in particular? Rather, that is, than on Mondays or Tuesdays or any other day of the week?”

“It seems to me difficult to rest easy on a day of rest when one never does anything else, whatever the day is. As for me, I work hard earning my living, and therefore I have nothing to reproach myself with.”

“Well, what the hell would you call studying law? I'd call it work, that's what I'd call it! And damn hard work, too, between you and me.”

“It all depends on who's doing it, and how much is being done. You want me to be honest, don't you? I haven't seen you crack a book all weekend.”

“Thanks to you, I've been compelled to do other things.”

Sprawled on the sofa in Fanny's apartment, Farley eyed her sourly. If it had not been contrary to his best interests, he would have said something insulting and stalked out. His best interests could best be served, however, by hanging on, even if it mean submitting to harassment. In short, he had eaten very little for almost two days, and he was badly in need of nourishment. He had realized this about four o'clock, ten minutes ago, and he had simultaneously remembered that Fanny, if she had Sunday dinner in, usually had it around five. So Farley had come up to see if anything edible was under way, and luckily something was—a piece of beef tenderloin in the oven that was adequate for two. But Fanny had as yet extended no invitation to stay. Worse, she was looking at him in a manner that did nothing to feed his hopes.

“That reminds me,” she said. “I've been wanting to ask if you called the taxi companies, as I told you to.”

“I considered not doing it, but I knew you'd devil the devil out of me if I didn't. So I did.”

“What did you find out?”

“Just what I expected. Nothing. There's no record of anyone's picking up a passenger here, or near here, any time close to the time Terry left.”

“Are you sure you inquired, or are you just saying so?”

“Of course I'm sure. Do you think I'd lie about it?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Well, I'm not going to take an oath on it. Believe me or not as you please.”

She was distracted from whatever response was on her tongue by a knocking on the door, and she went over and opened it to reveal Jay Miles. He was wearing his topcoat and was obviously either just going out or just coming back from having been out. The two wedges of flesh below his eyes, behind the thick glasses, were dark smudges.

“Hello, Fanny.” He peered over her shoulder at Farley. “Oh, there you are, Farley. I thought you might be up here.”

“I came up to have dinner with Fanny,” Farley said, “but she hasn't asked me yet.”

“Fat chance,” said Fanny. “Come in, Jay. Whither away, or where from?”

“I'm just going.” Jay stepped inside far enough to allow Fanny to close the door. “As a matter of fact, that's why I was looking for you, Farley. I thought maybe you might go with me.”

“That's a good idea!” Fanny said. “Farley, get yourself cleaned up and go with Jay. While you're out you can have dinner together somewhere.”

“Not I,” Farley said. “I don't want to go.”

“How do you know you don't? You don't even know yet where he's going.”

“Wherever it is, I don't want to go.”

“Don't be contrary. Where are you going, Jay?”

“To the police. I've finally made up my mind.”

Farley sat up at Jay's quiet declaration. Fanny backed her eat little stern onto the arm of a chair and studied Jay as if she were trying to make up her own mind about something. Oddly, although she had been urging action, she did not seem enthusiastic about Jay's proposed visit to the police.

“I don't know about that,” she said. “Have you made certain that she didn't run off to Los Angeles?”

“Yes. I called Feldman yesterday afternoon. He hasn't seen or heard from her.”

“I hate to be bitchy, but another suggestion was made.”

“Brian O'Hara? I went to see O'Hara after talking with Feldman. Last night. Terry wasn't at his place and hadn't been there.”

“Do you think for an instant he'd admit it if she had been?”

“I'm convinced O'Hara was telling the truth.”

“Perhaps so, but it doesn't do to be impetuous in, an affair of this sort. There's such a thing as going off halfcocked, you know.”

“Well, I'll be damned!” Farley was staring at Fanny in amazement. “You have been running all over the place doing things and forcing others to do things, and now all of a sudden you start dragging your heels. What's the matter with you?”

“Nothing's the matter. We have delayed going to the police this long, and it will do no great harm to delay a little longer, that's all. Ben can be expected back soon, if his word can be relied upon, and he may know something that will be helpful.”

“Ben?” Jay sounded confused. “Oh, I don't think so. What in the world could Ben know about it?”

“You never know,” Fanny snapped. “He's a deceptive little bugger.”

“She persists in suspecting Ben of dark, doleful deeds,” Farley said. “She's absolutely irrational about it.”

“That's not true! I am only trying to keep an open mind.”

“It doesn't make any difference one way or the other,” Jay said. “I've made up my mind, and I'm going. I'm a great deal more worried than I was at first.”