The Case of the Weird Sisters Page 8

Innes swallowed, as if he gulped down the heart that had been in his throat, and he looked at Alice, but they said nothing.

  Soon after Isabel came sidling in. Alice watched her eye. She seemed to be able to look at one straight with one eye while the other remained sly and shifty. Still, she wasn't cross-eyed. It was baffling and strange. It made Isabel elusive, not to be pinned down.

  She said anxiously, "Innes, my dear, are you comfortable?"

  "I guess so," said limes.

  "Have you much pain?"

  Alice Imew her anxiety was a habit. Isabel was always anxious about something. Just the same, she did seem more sympathetic than her sister Gertrude, whose precise good manners only made her more withdrawn and cold.

  "The pain's not so bad," Innes admitted.

  "I suppose the doctor gives him something?"

  "Yes," said Alice.

  "That's good," said Isabel. "I'm so glad you have no unnecessary pain."

  "I'll be all right," said Innes. "And I know it's a nuisance for you, Isabel . . ."

  With her usual whine, Isabel said, "After all, Innes, you are one of us." She put her claw on his brow. "AUce, dear, what a fine nurse you are. We are all so glad you're here." One eye smiled frankly, but the other had a secret.

  "Thank you. Miss Isabel," said Alice. "Good night."

  "Good night. Good night."

  It was Maud's turn.

  "Well, Innes!" Her bedside maimer was a kind of raucous hilarity. "You got everything, eh? Even the pretty nurse." Innes started to say something, but Maud went right along. "Nothing to do but take it easy. How's the bed? Soft, eh? Papa liked good springs. Best spring in the house." She nudged the mattress with her knuckles.

  "Don't, please."

  "What's the doctor doing for you, eh? What's he say?"

  Innes waggled his eyebrows.

  Alice said, "Just rest"

  "Eh?"

  Innes tapped Maud's arm and acted it out. He folded his hands and closed his eyes.

  "Sleep, eh? Does he give you dope?"

  Innes shrugged. Alice smiled, uncertainly.

  "Donald Follett is getting old," Maud said. "That's a good spring, that is." She punched the bed again, and Innes groaned.

  "Well, sleep tight. Don't let the bedbugs bite." Maud grinned and trundled off.

  Innes sighed.

  About ten o'clock Fred came in to do his turn as combination valet and male nurse. He'd taken upon himself the job of getting Innes ready for the night. Alice escaped. But when she was called back and Innes lay washed and smoothed out, she took her cue from Fred's eyebrow and began carefully.

  "Innes, about tomorrow and Mr. Killeen coming . . ."

  "Yes?"

  "Well, they know, I'm afraid."

  "Know? What do you mean? Who knows?"

  "Your sisters. They know he's coming and . . . and why, Innes. So Fred and I think we'll just keep an eye on everything all night tonight. Just so you won't have to worry."

  Innes said angrily, "Who told them?"

  "Isabel heard me talking to Fred. It was an accident"

  "Accident, hell," said Fred.

  "So we thought we'd watch," said Alice quickly, while Innes looked wildly from one to the other. "And I thought you ought to know." Detached, she could see his panic growing. "Would you like one of us to stay in here with you?"

  Innes said nothing.

  "I thought I'd just hang around outside the door, sir,'' Fred said. "I can sit on the backstairs and keep quiet."

  At that Innes seemed to melt with relief. "You're being awfully good to me, both of you," he said weakly. "But you must get some sleep, Alice."

  "It doesn't matter," she murmured.

  "Would you leave us a moment, Fred, please? But come back."

  Fred went out without a word.

  Innes said loving things. He said he appreciated her devotion. He thought she was wonderful. She was beautiful and good. He was a lucky man. He adored her. Did she know that? He hadn't said a great deal, all day, but he knew. He knew she was there. Her loyalty made him love her even more. He knew now, said Innes, that she must care for him. And it made him very happy.

  Alice listened miserably.

  It made him very happy because once, long ago, he had thought he was in love and beloved in return. He had had a rude awakening.

  "Oh, Innes, don't," she said. "Please go to sleep now."

  What a charming tyrant she was, said Innes archly. He would be good if she'd kiss him nicely.

  "Shall I call Fred now?" she begged.

  When Fred came in, Innes changed. He was a frightened man. "I hate to let you sit up all night," he fretted. "It's a great deal to expect." Still, it was perfectly plain that he did expect it, because he went on to say that such devotion warranted a reward and Fred would find him unable to forget this,

  Alice watched Fred squirm with malicious pleasure.

  "Alice, my dear, do you think you could find another blanket? The doctor said . . . And I am chilly." Nerves, she thought. "In the closet, I think. On the shelf." His voice directed her shrilly.

  Alice went in the closet. "I can't reach."

  Fred came.The closet was fairly smaU for two people to stand in. Fred stretched his arms up for the blanket. He

  could barely reach and as he yanked it tumbled down, landing on her head.

  "Oh, say. I'm sorry."

  Alice let out a muffled giggle. The blanket slipped back of her. Fred reached to grab it, and all of a sudden they both realized that his arms were an oval and she stood inside. Her mussed-up hair brushed his chin. For a moment she couldn't breathe. Neither was he breathing. Then Fred dropped his hold on the blanket, and Alice felt it fall around her heels. He backed into the hangers. She stepped out into the room as Innes said, "Can't you find it?" querulously.

  "We found it," said Alice, out of breath. "It fell on me. She smoothed her hair at the mirror, seeing Fred's reflection come forth with the blanket and stolidly proceed to drape it over the bed. He said, "Is that all, sir?" quietly like a servant.

  Innes said that was all, thank you, and good night Fred.

  When Fred had gone, Alice looked at her watch. "It's just after eleven," she announced, "so I think . . ."

  "Yes, do go to bed, dear. And sleep well."

  "Your pill?"

  "Perhaps I'd better."

  "If you want me, you yell," said Alice with sudden vehemence For the first time, she felt sorry for hun. She seemed to know how he must feel, hurt and helpless and atraid. It wasn't necessary to admire him. One could feel sorry.

  "I'll yell," promised Innes. Then faintly, "Good night, my darling."

  Fred was sitting on the top step, smoking a cigarette. He didn't look up. "Good night," he said.

  Alice looked down on his thick black hair. It had a wave. "I'm not going to sleep. It isn't fair. Let me take a watch or something, hm?"

  "I'm the bodyguard," he said.

  "Don t you want a pillow?"

  "Say, you don't want to be too comfortable at a time like this."

  "Well . . . " She hesitated.

  "Go on, scram," said Fred under his breath, irritably.

  Alice went off to her room, feeling pleased. Feeling quite pleased, she realized. And that was queer. Certainly, looking forward to a night spent in a house full of queer women bent on murder was no time to feel pleased. Nevertheless, stubbornly, she contmued to feel light of heart.

  She put on a negligee and tripped to the bathroom and back. Fred was sitting with his back stiff against the wall. He twisted his lips at her in a perfunctory smile, and she made a comradely little gesture with her toothbrush. Back in her room she did not quite close the door.

  She opened the window a htde crack. The room was small, and the dry heat pouring out of her register made her skin feel stiff and as if it might crack. The darkness held the threat of a storm. She thought she heard a mutter of thunder. Too early for thunder. Rain, though was beginning to beat down. She only half lay down on her hard bed. She
truly meant to keep awake.

  She woke with a start about twelve o'clock. She seemed to have been struggling with the mists of sleep for some time, as if whatever woke her had happened and been forgotten before she was awake enough to know what it was. She listened. She became aware of the storm in full blast. Rain slapped her window and spattered in. The wind shook her curtains, and they hissed along the floor. The old house complained as the wind and the rain drove against it. Surely, all she heard was the storm. But her heart beat fast, and she drew up the bed clothing carefully in order not to lose her listening check on the noisy night.

  Then in a windless interval she heard a sound. A small sound. Quite near. A rusty clearing of a throat, was it? Or a cough? Or a chuckle? An odd Uttle chuckle, almost a croon. The same queer little sound she'd heard once before. Whatever it was, it was surely the very same.

  Alice strained her eyes toward her door. It was still slighdy ajar. Just as she'd left it. Or was it? Did it swing? She listened, and her blood sang in her veins with fear.

  Wind raged outside. Honest wind. How much more sinister that strange little soimd was, and what was it doing in the night?

  What was it about to do?

  Nothing happened. There was no more, except the dying drive of the rain. Whatever had passed her door was past. She felt released, so she knew it had gone. It had passed by.

  A long, long time later, when the storm was over and the house wept rain water from its eaves and gutters, Alice put her feet cautiously to the floor and crept to look out ino the hall. It was quiet. The tiny night light near the head of the stairs burned lonesomely. She couldn't see Fred nor the place where he should still be. Walls along the stairs cut off her view. She could see as far as the corner of the old mahogany chest and the picture that hung over it.

  She could see, the other way, Maud's door, tight closed, impenetrable. She could see a Uttle way, through the railing, down the stairs, which descended into deep darkness. No one was there. Nobody. Nothing.

  She crept back to bed, and her heart subsided. Slowly she coaxed it back to normal. Her feet grew hot from its heavy work. Then slowly grew cold.

  She lay, scarcely thinkuig, eyes fastened on the door, lest it move. She lay for hours. Perhaps she dozed. But not long and not often. The necessity for watching the door would force her lids up. So she lay and watched in the dark.

  The house was chilly. It grew colder and colder. She shivered and pulled the covers closer. But it was cold.

  Really cold.

  She shivered and huddled there a long time before she thought to stir and feel of the register m her wall. It was cold. Strange. Last night hadn't been so cold. Was it going to snow? A freak snow? Or freeze?

  What a miserable night. Miserable. Miserable.

  She thought of Fred. He'd be stiff. He'd be frozen. She began to worry about it. The thought kept nagging at her, how cold he must be, sitting on the cold floor in that drafty hall. Suddenly she sat up and pulled her pillows together. She bundled them and all the bedclothes in her arms. She was going out there to sit with Fred. It would be better than this. Not any warmer, maybe, but better. They could whisper. Anyhow, she couldn't sleep.

  She went slowly along her side of the hall and turned

  the comer near the top of the stairs. Fred was still there. She could see him, motionless, his head still against the wall. Was he asleep? He sat so still. Perhaps he had fallen asleep. If so, it was a good thing she'd come.

  He didn't move as she drew closer, but he shivered, "Hello." His eyes were open, after all. He had just been sitting still.

  She dumped the bedding half upon him. "Aren't you cold?"

  "Yeah," he said.

  "I can't sleep. No use." She handed him a pillow and put the other on the floor to sit on, herself. "Anything?"

  "Nope," he said. "You hear the storm?"

  "It woke me."

  "Too bad."

  She forgot to mention the funny little sound. His hand touched hers, and they arranged the blankets.

  "Why, you're icy," she said. "What makes this house so cold?"

  "Betcha somebody let the furnace go out," he said sleepily. "Feels like it."

  Alice's nostrils dilated.

  "Fred"—she leaned closer and stared into his face—"you're dopey. What... ? Fred, don't you smell ... I"

  "Smell what?"

  "Coal gas," she said. She jumped to her feet. In a moment, painfully, Fred unbent himself and stood up, too.

  "Was I asleep?" he demanded.

  "I don't know. Can't you smell it now?"

  "Yeah, I smell it."

  "Oh, my God," said Alice out loud. She flew to Innes' door.

  The room was full of coal gas. The moment they opened the door it hit them and choked them. Fred blundered across the room to the windows. Alice flew to the bed. Innes was lying with his mouth open. He looked ghastly. She heard Fred kicking at the metal of the register in the floor.

  "Pouring up from the furnace," he shouted. "Fan him." Alice grabbed a pillow and fanned. Fred had every window open, on three sides of the room. Night air began to reach her, and she dared breathe.

  Innes lay with his mouth open. She didn't dare touch him.

  Fred said in her ear, "I'm going down cellar. Keep fanning."

  "Call the doctor," she choked. "Right away."

  "O.K."

  She heard doors open. Isabel appeared in a long-sleeved flannel gown, with the kid glove still on that inanimate hand.

  "What's the matter?"

  "Coal gas."

  Gertrude's voice called distantly.

  Alice thought frantically: His ribs are broken. You can't do artificial respiration. What can you do?

  Somebody took the pillow out of her weakening hands and began to beat with it. It was Mr. Johnson, an apparition in his trousers and winter underwear.

  Then Maud. "What's that smell?" she roared. "What's that smell?"

  The rest of it was a nightmare, until the doctor came.

  Alice leaned, shaking, against the window jamb and watched them mill aroimd. Maud, in blue satin with lace, was a terrible sight. Gertrude came in, neat and thin in a tan wool bathrobe. The Whitlock sisters braided their hair at night. Their old faces looked raddled and horrible under file girlish pigtails. Mr. Johnson's tremendous chest was as brown as his face. Josephine in pink, came timidly along. Her bosom sagged.

  And Innes lay with his mouth open.

  But he wasn't dead. Dr. Follett, fully clothed, came briskly in and told them so. He dispersed them. He sent Josephine to make coffee and make it strong. He sent Alice for a warmer garment for herself. He sent Mr. Johnson to the cellar to fix the furnace and get heat up, if possible. He sent the sisters nowhere, but they went. Maud stood before him in her blue and lace, as if daring him to look, but he didn't look. He went about his business, and she went away.

  But Innes was alive.

  It was four in the morning by the time the confusion was over, the room quiet, and Lmes able to smile at them weakly.

  "If I were you," the doctor said to Alice, "I'd get to bed. And you too, young man." Fred frowned. "You needn't worry. I'll stay right here until eight o'clock. I want to watch him."

  Alice staggered off and fell on her bed. It was stripped and bare, but she didn't care. She had her coat on anyhow, and the doctor was here until eight o'clock. The responsibility was his until then. A load gone. Time to sigh and forget it. It didn't occur to her to wonder where, in the course of events, she had got that load, or why it belonged to her. It was enough to feel it gone. She could sleep. Someone came and put some blankets over her. She murmured gratefully.

  Fred closed her door as softly as he could. He stood in the hall just outside, rubbing the back of his neck. Then he went along to his cot in the lumber room.

  11

  Susan Innes turned away from her telephone. "That was the doctor," she said.

  Her paying guest looked up from his breakfast of ham and eggs.

  "There's been more
trouble up there." Her soft mouth was trying to be grim. "Do you know, I begin to think something must be wrong."

  "How is Miss Brennan?" asked MacDougal Duff.

  "Oh, dear, I didn't ask. But then, he didn't say, either. It seems that something went wrong with the furnace last night and filled Innes's room with coal gas, and he was nearly overcome. But Fred—that's the chaufeur, a real nice boy, too—Fred and Alice or both of them found out about it in time. So Innes is all right now. And Alice must be all right, too, or the doctor would have said."

  Duff said, "I'll go up there with you, please."

  "Oh, yes," she said. "Of course, you must Besides, I told Isabel last night that I would bring you."

  "Isabel is the crippled sister?"

  "Yes, the youngest one. Oh, I ought to have insisted. But she said Alice was in bed and asleep and it was late. I hated to ask them to wake her.''

  "What time was it then?" Duff asked.

  "Well, they didn't send your wke up from the station for hours. They're so careless that way. As soon as it came, I called. It must have been eleven o'clock!" Susan's awed tone indicated that eleven o'clock to her was very late indeed. "I spoke to Isabel. She said AUce was quite aU nght and sound asleep in bed. So, of couree, I. . "

  "Don't worry about it," Duff said, smiling at her. "You did your duty."

  "Did I?" said Susan. "I thmk I ought to have waited up to you, or left a note. The wire said, Tlease find Alice Brennan and ask if she needs help.' Well, of course, I had more or less found her, smce I knew who she was, but..."

  "Why didn't they telephone the message to you? Do they insist upon delivering telegrams here?"

  "It's so stupid," Susan said. "They forgot I have a phone. I haven't had it for very long, you see, and people are so used to having to reach me by other means "

  From what you tell me," Duff said, "it's your son who seems to have had all the trouble."

  Susan looked very grave. "Yes. Yes, he does. First the big lamp fell off the upstairs hall table and just missed his head. And then they had an accident m the car, and he was injured. And now... It is a lot of bad luck, isn't it?"

  "I think I want to talk to Miss Brennan," Duff said, So, as soon as you're ready . . ."

  They walked up the hill together. Duff accommodating his long-legged stride to Susan's short one. They were a strange pair. The little old lady with the rosy face, in her dolman and old-fashioned hat, and the tall lean man whose clothes, in spite of their unstudied style, hung on his frame with a certain grace that marked him for a city guy.