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  Luella Coatesnash did not rise. She sat before an enormous fireplace where two sticks of wood sizzled and sputtered, a stout woman past sixty, dressed in ancient taffeta, hair piled high in the style of a bygone day. Diamonds glittered on her fingers and encircled her throat. At her feet crouched an English mastiff, motionless as an animal carved in bronze. Behind her chair, pleased, eager and uneasy, fluttered Laura. She made the introductions. Mrs. Coatesnash inclined her head like an empress, served us weak tea and demanded three months’ rent in advance.

  “You’re getting the cottage very cheaply, Mr. Storm. Three months in advance is the usual arrangement.”

  “I’ve never paid more than two in New York.”

  “This is Connecticut.”

  Jack wanted to argue, but I frowned, and reluctantly he parted with the ninety dollars. Our hostess softened. A slippered foot prodded the mastiff.

  “Ivan, these are friends.”

  The dog oozed to thin, gray legs. This unpleasant animal was the darling of his mistress’s heart. He was also, I thought privately, probably better fed than Laura. I shrank as he advanced, and Mrs. Coatesnash smiled.

  “You don’t like dogs, Mrs. Storm?”

  “His size is a little alarming.” Mrs. Coatesnash stroked the dog’s huge head. “Ivan is the finest mastiff in this country. As he should be. Our family has been breeding mastiffs since the confederation of the states.” Jack took on the wary look common to males whenever a genealogical discussion looms. It didn’t save him, or me. Mrs. Coatesnash was a New Englander. She went firmly into both our families, and quickly satisfied herself that we were nobodies sprung from nowhere. Ohio, indeed! She seemed doubtful about the future of her cottage, and warned us to cherish the furniture, to watch out for cigarettes and to take care not to set down wet glasses.

  “I’m holding you responsible, Mr. Storm.”

  I got a little red, and Jack didn’t trouble to conceal his irritation. Laura was determined that the occasion go off well. She said breathlessly:

  “Mr. Storm will love your things, Luella. He’s an artist, you know. You remember my saying so. He paints.”

  “I collect,” said Mrs. Coatesnash.

  “How interesting,” said Jack in his blandest tones.

  Mrs. Coatesnash gave him a suspicious look, and then proposed a tour of her private gallery. As we assented, an interruption occurred. The doorbell rang with rusty violence, and Mrs. Coatesnash glanced hurriedly toward the corner clock.

  “If you’ll forgive me, we can see the pictures some other day. I’m expecting another caller.”

  This was cool enough, and I rose at once. A crisp, amused voice called from the foyer, “Nonsense, Luella, I won’t be treated as company. If you’re doing the gallery, I’ll trail along.” A moment later I had my first glimpse of Annabelle Bayne, and a surprising figure she presented in that somber room. She was slim, dark, vivid, around thirty. Her strange white face, her brilliant painted mouth, the restless peculiar manner which was so much a part of her, seemed startlingly out of place. Even the clothes she wore—the smart Harris Tweed suit, the modish but unbecoming hat, the green gloves which matched green shoes—seemed designed not for the village of Crockford but for the city of New York.

  As a matter of fact, the name of Annabelle Bayne was known in New York. I placed her immediately. Annabelle Bayne was a writer of a very specialized type. Her writing was drawn from life, yet was smartly, cruelly out of focus, and I’ve heard it said that her friends could not sleep easily until they had read her latest clever little piece and discovered whether or not they had escaped the acid bath. She was always poking fun at small towns and small-town people. She was heartily disliked in Crockford.

  I couldn’t imagine how it happened that she and Luella Coatesnash were on friendly terms. Yet friends they were. They embraced, and the old woman seemed honestly pleased with her visitor. Annabelle greeted us vivaciously enough, and even spoke vaguely of a future meeting. To Laura she was less pleasant.

  “Hurry my tea, please,” she said crisply. “I’ll need nourishment before I can look at pictures.”

  Laura said nothing, but her lips trembled, and I decided that I didn’t particularly like Annabelle Bayne. The tour through the gallery, which by this time neither Jack nor I wanted to make, was hardly a success. For one of Mrs. Coatesnash’s bulk, the walk along the drafty corridor beyond the drawing-room was a definite effort. She leaned heavily on a gold-headed cane, and on the other side Annabelle supported her. Beside the two women padded Ivan, silent and ghostly, eyes lambent in the gloom.

  Most of the pictures—Mrs. Coatesnash considered them all worthy of the Metropolitan—were frankly terrible, although the collection did include a Stuart of an early bewigged Coatesnash and a small very good Trumbull. As I paused before the Trumbull and stepped back to obtain a better perspective, Mrs. Coatesnash surprised me by saving sharply:

  “Stand still. Mrs. Storm. Just as you are.”

  I moved instinctively, and she tapped her cane against the floor in exasperation. “You’ve spoiled it. It’s gone now.”

  “What’s gone?”

  “For a moment I thought you resembled my daughter. I see it was only the way you were standing. Jane was much younger.” I am twenty-two, and even so I wasn’t pleased. Annabelle Bayne said then, quickly and in a voice queerly emphatic, “You’ve forgotten, Luella. Jane would be older now. By many years.”

  A look passed between the women, a look I could not comprehend, a look which made me uncomfortable in some dim way. Mrs. Coatesnash turned, limped back into the drawingroom. We were done with the gallery.

  Mrs. Coatesnash bade us a contained good-bye, and, in parting, observed that if anything went wrong with the cottage we must expect to shoulder the expense. She had done her share in turning it over in good condition.

  “What an afternoon!” said Jack, after we had escaped and started the car around the hill road home. “Thank God, my dear, I didn’t marry you for your ancestors. Thank God my own were honest shoe clerks.”

  “You didn’t like Mrs. Coatesnash?” I said innocently.

  “‘Didn’t like’ is much too mild! Of all the snobbish, disagreeable, money-hungry old harridans I’ve ever met, she’s undisputed tops. Did you notice how she grabbed the rent? I’ll bet that money never sees the light of day again.”

  “What do you think of Annabelle Bayne?”

  “She,” said Jack with a sly grin at me, “was better looking. And she’s a very smart girl—if you like that type. But Annabelle’s no problem of ours, and Mrs. Coatesnash is. That woman—mark my words—is going to be a sweetheart as a landlady.”

  “How can she bother us if we never see her?”

  I soon discovered. Luella Coatesnash seemed to be one of those women who never do anything for themselves which they can persuade, bully or coerce others into doing for them. Within a week and without our catching a glimpse of her, she managed to become a pretty definite part of the Storm regimen. We had hardly installed ourselves in the cottage before she began to entrust us with the commission of various small, profitless, troublesome chores. When we drove into the village to do our daily shopping, we were requested to buy for Hilltop House ten pounds of sugar or five gallons of oil—thus saving our land-lady the slight expense of getting out her own car. If we planned a day in New Haven there was invariably a letter to be posted for Mrs. Coatesnash—a letter which must make a particular train. Twice, when the old lady went to New York to consult with her lawyers. Laura Twining appeared to ask that we feed and exercise Ivan.

  “Luella thought you wouldn’t mind for a couple of days. We’ll be back Wednesday noon.”

  We did mind At best. Ivan and I regarded each other with a sort of armed neutrality, and I never quite persuaded myself that he remembered his mistress’s injunction to treat us as friends. Moreover, the dog required a special type of food, whi
ch we bought. Nothing was ever said about repayment.

  Recalling those days. I find myself wondering how it happened that Jack and I never rebelled. Probably because it is usually easier to say yes than to say no. Anyway, we never got around to refusing.

  This situation is recorded in detail because it became highly important later on. It explains why we were not surprised by the telephone call, a point on which we found it difficult to convince the police.

  In February we heard from Silas that our neighbors were going abroad. He had been hired to care for Mrs. Coatesnash’s three blooded cows, to do the gardening during her absence and to keep an eye on Hilltop House. He was to occupy a dingy servant’s lodge in the rear of the main dwelling, which had been opened, swept and sketchily furnished for his use.

  “Then you won’t be working for us,” Jack said.

  Silas shuffled his feet. “If it’s all the same. I figure on keeping my job with you.”

  “Won’t the work be too heavy?”

  “There’s only the cows and the gardening at the other place. I can get done by noon.”

  Jack had a sudden flicker of insight. “Silas, how much is Mrs. Coatesnash paying you?”

  Plainly the hired man didn’t wish to answer, but after the question was repeated, he said reluctantly, “Free use of the lodge and half the profits from the milk.”

  Jack was indignant.

  “Mrs. Coatesnash may be a little close,” Silas said defensively, “but she’s fair. She’s got too much sense to throw her money to the birds, which is more than you can say for some. In lots of ways she’s been awful good to me.”

  Since the matter wasn’t our concern, Jack shrugged and said nothing further.

  The day before Hilltop House was closed, Laura Twining dropped in to drink a final cup of tea. She wore a new dress, gray poplin trimmed with lace. It was chosen with her instinctive bad taste and she wanted reassurance as to its appropriateness for shipboard. Though talkative as ever, I thought she seemed depressed.

  “The packing has been a trial.” She aimlessly smoothed her lace. “I’m going to miss you two young people.”

  Somewhat conscience-stricken, we tried to cheer her up. Jack offered her a cigarette. She always declined, but she liked the gesture. I poured fresh tea and passed a homemade cake.

  “Aren’t you excited by your trip?”

  “I don’t care for Paris.”

  “Then you’ve been there before?”

  “Nine times.” Naturally we were surprised. Laura explained. It appeared that Mrs. Coatesnash’s long-dead daughter had been born in Paris in the month of February. Every February the bereft mother traveled across the ocean to spend a few sad weeks in the now unfashionable neighborhood where her only child had come into the world. “The neighborhood’s run down terribly, but Luella doesn’t seem to notice. I guess she thinks of the place as it used to be.”

  Jack disliked Mrs. Coatesnash too heartily to be sentimentally impressed. “Anyhow it’s a swell break for you,” he said. “You must know Paris like a book.”

  “The Paris I see is pretty much like Crockford. Luella hates sightseeing, so we never take in the museums or galleries. We go almost nowhere. We eat in the same restaurants every year, walk the same streets, play the same games of solitaire. It’s funny how I used to hope to get to a Paris theater.”

  This was Laura’s first admission that her life with Mrs. Coatesnash was not perfection. She was abashed by the little confidence and earnestly sought to temper her words. “There’s no denying Luella is difficult at times, but then I’m difficult too. Luella tells me I’m a dreadful bore. I’ve probably often been a trial to you.” Our denials weren’t quite quick enough. A small horrid pause occurred. Laura’s eyes filled. “I’m sorry if I’ve bothered you. I seem to bother everybody. Never mind—please don’t get up. It’s time for me to leave.”

  That was Tuesday. On Wednesday, as we set forth on our daily walk the Coatesnash car, a decrepit limousine, laden with baggage, swept upward at the bend and passed us on the road. A stern-faced important Silas sat behind the wheel. Luella Coatesnash, Ivan, Laura Twining and assorted suitcases crowded the tonneau. We waved: Mrs. Coatesnash nodded formally; Ivan barked, and the car sped off toward New Haven. I have never been certain whether or not Laura Twining actually saw us. She made no sign of recognition. At eight that evening the S. S. Burgoyne left New York for Cherbourg.

  “Shall we wire flowers?” I asked.

  “Flowers! Over my dead body we send flowers. Now if you suggested arsenic…”

  “I thought for Laura.”

  “I would rather,” Jack said, “buy myself a bottle of brandy.” I smiled and agreed with him. The two women had meant nothing to us. I was glad that they were gone. I had no way of knowing that the time was soon to come when I would vainly wish them back in the big white house on the hill.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Tall, Thin, And Ungracious

  Within a fortnight we were happily adjusted to the absence of our neighbors. It was pleasant to have no errands to run for Mrs. Coatesnash delightful to anticipate no little visits from Laura. Jack sang at his easel and I worked with a carefree mind. Silas proved to be the single flaw. Burdened with milking, planting, gardening, he became more inefficient than ever and harder to locate in times of domestic stress. However, as Jack put it, the gain undoubtedly offset the loss.

  We had not expected to hear from the travelers, nor did we, although some of the especially favored villagers had postcards to show. In the Crockford grocery store one afternoon we saw Elsie Crampton, a bustling village social light, displaying a trophy received from Luella. A hand-painted snapshot of the Tuileries, if you please! An admiring ring of female shoppers thought it wonderfully artistic, and from the high-pitched gabble we gathered that Elsie Crampton planned to have the postcard framed. She needed a spot of color to “brighten” her foyer.

  The incident at once amused and annoyed us. We never understood or quite appreciated the veneration in which the village held the Coatesnash family of Connecticut. The popular interest devoted to Luella’s foreign travels struck us as stupid and disgusting. We took care not to encroach on our landlady’s grounds, although we sometimes turned at the bend and scrambled along the hill road past Hilltop House, shuttered and silent in the twilight, white and forlorn against the gray skies of March. It rained a great deal that month.

  It was raining the day we received the telephone call. It was the 20th of March, about five weeks after Luella Coatesnash and Laura Twining left Crockford, and Jack and I had finished our stints in the morning. We were lingering over a late luncheon, plotting my next short story, when the telephone rang. Persons on a party wire soon accustom themselves to listening for a particular ring. Instinctively we halted the conversation.

  “That’s ours,” said Jack.

  “I thought it was only three rings.”

  Again we listened. The telephone emitted four short rings—our signal—and I rose, answered. For an instant a dull buzz sounded on the wire and then came an unfamiliar male voice, blurred and indistinct.

  “New York calling.”

  A long pause followed. I moved the hook up and down.

  “Hello. Who is it?”

  The pause spun out ended. A second time the deep breathy voice spoke, close to the mouthpiece now, imperative, “Let me speak to Jack Storm immediately.”

  Lifting an eyebrow, I handed over the instrument. Jack engaged in a short conversation which I reproduce as clearly as I remember it.

  “What?… Why?… But she is in Europe… What did you say your name was? Oh, I understand… All right then, I’ll be there.”

  Looking baffled, Jack replaced the telephone receiver, sat down. I was full of curiosity.

  “Who was it?”

  “A man named Elmer Lewis. I just promised to drive to New Haven to pick him up.”r />
  “Who in the world is Elmer Lewis?”

  “Apparently a friend of Mrs. Coatesnash’s. He’s leaving New York on the three o’clock express and has to be in Crockford by six.”

  “Suppose he does! Why should you drive to New Haven for him?”

  Jack shrugged philosophically. “Just what I’ve been wondering myself. Unfortunately, I didn’t think quickly enough to refuse. As nearly as I can make out, Mr. Lewis wants to save taxi fare. Mrs. Coatesnash probably told him that we run a free jitney service.”

  “Why is he coming to Crockford anyhow?”

  “He said he had some business to transact for the old lady.”

  “She’s in Europe.”

  “So I remarked. He said he had a letter from her this morning. No doubt she suggested in the letter that he get in touch with us. She knows we’re suckers.”

  I glanced toward the streaming windows. Rain gushed from the skies. I felt no premonition of danger, but I hadn’t liked the voice on the telephone and I was thoroughly irritated by this imposition upon our good nature.

  “Well, you aren’t going. Jack. Let Mr. Lewis whoever he is, hire a taxi if he needs transportation. It’s insane for you to drive fifty miles through this rain.”

  “I promised.”

  “I don’t care what you promised!”

  “Be reasonable, darling It I knew how to reach Lewis I might be able to call it off. But he is probably on his way to the train now. He might wait hours in the New Haven station.”

  “Let him!”

  Jack firmly declined, and at four o’clock, when he splashed out to the garage, I followed, still indignant but unwilling to be left at home. The trip was nerve-racking even at the start. The heavy downpour had washed out a section of the Boston Post Road and, as a consequence, our ordinarily peaceful back lane teemed with through traffic, bad drivers and confusion. Rain pounded down, brakes shrieked, horns blew, cars skidded at the curves. A high wind blew unceasingly. In wifely satisfaction I ventured a few false words of commiseration.