Yellow Room Read online

  “It will have to go to the War Production Board, chief. Make out your application and we’ll send it in.”

  “The hell you will,” Floyd shouted. “You get three or four instruments out of that shed behind the hotel where you’ve got them stored, or I’ll arrest the bunch of you for obstructing justice.”

  The instruments went in that afternoon, and Floyd walked around to where Bessie Content sat before her switchboard.

  “Listen, Bessie,” he said. “I want you to do something for me, and keep your pretty mouth shut. Make a record of all calls from the Spencer place, and—you don’t have to be deaf, do you?”

  Bessie smiled with her pretty mouth.

  “It gets awfully dull here sometimes,” she said, “and my hearing’s good, if I do say it.”

  After telling her to notify the night operator, Floyd went back to his office and again pored over the charred fragments on his desk. When he went home he took with him the fragment of red silk found under the body.

  “Ever see a nightgown this color?” he asked his wife.

  “No, and I never hope to.”

  She examined it carefully, going to a window to do so.

  “It’s good silk. That’s hard to get these days. It used to come from China, you know. And it’s sewed by hand,” she said. “It’s been expensive.”

  “From China, eh?” said Floyd, and lapsed into silence.

  Carol in the meantime had not been able to go to the hospital. By the time her car was ready the news had spread, and to a summer colony shrunken by the war, it came as a welcome excitement in what had promised to be a dull summer. Telephones buzzed, where there were any. At the club, usually deserted in the afternoons, small groups of people gathered, and at teatime a few who had know the Spencers well drove or walked up the hill to commiserate with Carol and—if possible—to get a glimpse of the closet.

  Carol received them as best she could, the elderly Wards, old-fashioned and solicitous, Louise Stimson, the attractive young widow who had built a smart white house near the club, Marcia Dalton, the Crowells, and so on. She managed tea and Scotch for them, looking young and tired as she did so, but she could tell them nothing.

  Actually the first real information she got came from Peter Crowell, a burly red-faced man with a mouselike wife.

  “Well,” he said. “I guess they’ve traced that corpse of yours, Carol. Part of the way anyhow.”

  The Wards looked pained, and Carol startled.

  “Got it from Floyd himself,” Crowell went on, enjoying the sensation he was making. “She got off the Boston train at six-thirty Friday morning and took the bus for here. Quite a looker, I understand. Quite a dresser too. White hat, silver fox coat, an overnight bag, and a big pocketbook. The bus driver says she acted queer when she got off. Looked sort of lost, he said. She asked for the drugstore. Said she wanted to telephone. He told her it was still closed, but the last he saw of her she was going that way.”

  Tell them about the bag, Pete,” said Ida, his wife.

  He took a sip of his Scotch and soda.

  “That’s funny,” he said. “The bus driver saw initials on it, only he can’t remember them. There were three, and I understand they didn’t find it in the closet. You didn’t see it, did you?”

  Carol’s voice was slightly unsteady.

  “I didn’t look, Peter. All I saw—”

  The Wards got up abruptly, and old Mrs. Ward took Carol’s hand and held it.

  “I’m sure,” she said, looking around the room, “that Carol would prefer not discussing what has happened.” She turned back to her. “I’m sorry, my dear. If you can to stay with us for the next few days we’d be delighted to have you. That is really why we came.”

  Carol felt grateful to the point of tears. She managed to smile.

  “You’re both more than kind. I’d love to, but the servants wouldn’t stay here alone. Not after what’s happened.”

  She went out to the door with them. A graveled path connected the two properties, broken only by the lane leading up the hill. She walked to it with them, asking about Terry, their grandson who was flying in the Pacific, and telling them about Greg. They looked much older, she thought, and rather feeble. The war was hard on people like that. She felt saddened, and this was not helped when on her return she learned that the telephones were in again.

  She would have to call Newport now. There was no longer any excuse.

  The others drifted away slowly, until only Louise Stimson and Marcia Dalton were left. Peter Crowell’s departing speech was characteristic.

  “Any objection to my looking at that closet?” he said.

  “The police have sealed it, Peter.”

  He looked annoyed.

  “Well,” he said, “soon as you can, get it opened and have it painted. Then just forget about it. What’s it got to do with you anyhow? A strange girl gets herself killed in it. You don’t know her. So what?”

  She went back to Louise and Marcia. They were smoking, and she lit a cigarette and sat down. She had a definite impression that each was determined to outstay the other, Louise with an amused smile, Marcia’s horselike face and tall thin body rather grim.

  “So you’ve met Jerry Dane,” Louise said. “Interesting type.”

  “I wouldn’t know. Is he?”

  “Definitely yes.” She glanced at Marcia. “A wounded hero, isn’t he? And good-looking too. Why on earth come here to recuperate?”

  “There’s no mystery about that,” Marcia said tartly. “The Burtons offered him their house. At least,” she added, glancing at Louise, “Carol has managed to meet him. That’s more than you can say.”

  Louise got up.

  “I didn’t have a body around,” she said cheerfully. “There’s still hope, of course. Most things come in threes, don’t they?”

  She left on that, but Marcia stayed, planted solidly in her chair, with her thin legs stuck out in front of her. Carol knew her well, and she relaxed somewhat.

  “What do you think of Jerry Dane?” Marcia asked abruptly.

  “I haven’t really thought of him at all. I haven’t had time.”

  Marcia shrugged.

  “Well, he’s definitely a mystery. We’ve all asked him to dinner. We’ve asked him for bridge. We’ve even, God help us, asked him for backgammon and gin rummy. But nothing doing. He’s still an invalid, and goes to bed early. An invalid! He climbs hills like a goat. I’ve seen him myself.”

  “Maybe he doesn’t like games,” Carol said indifferently. “I hope you don’t mind, Marcia, but I’ve had a long day.”

  Marcia got up, but she did not leave. She stood looking into the patio.

  “I suppose this house is an architectural bastard,” she said, “but I’ve always liked it. It’s queer Elinor never comes here, isn’t it?” She fixed Carol with shrewd eyes.

  “She likes Newport better. That’s all. It’s easier for Howard to get there for weekends.”

  But she realized that Marcia had dragged in Elinor’s name for a purpose, and she felt herself stiffening.

  “It’s queer,” Marcia said, still watching her. “I thought I saw her car about two o’clock last Saturday morning. I’d know that car anywhere.”

  “That’s ridiculous, Marcia.”

  “I suppose it is. I just thought I’d better tell you. Someone else may have seen it too, or thought so. It was going toward the railroad, and making sixty miles at least. I didn’t think there was another car like it in the world.”

  “There must be. She hasn’t been here. I know that. She was in New York.”

  “Well, if you’re sure of that—I’m a Nurse’s Aide, and I worked late at the hospital Friday night. When I got home I let that damned dog of mine out. He didn’t come back, so I went after him. That’s how it happened.”

  “It’s absurd, Marcia. You saw a car. You didn’t see Elinor in it, and she wasn’t in it. She couldn’t have been.”

  But she was not so sure. She knew the deadly sharpness of Ma
rcia’s eyes. She knew, too, how the story would grow if Marcia told it. It was Marcia herself who reassured her.

  “I suppose I was mistaken,” she said. “Anyhow no use starting talk. You know this place. Any summer colony, for that matter. I’m not telling it, Carol. You can count on me.”

  It was some time after she left before Carol could control her hands sufficiently to light a cigarette.

  7

  SHE CALLED ELINOR THAT evening, shutting herself in the library to do it. There was something reassuring in Elinor’s matter-of-fact voice.

  “Hello, Carol,” she said. “I hear you’ve had some trouble there.”

  “You know about it?”

  “The gentlemen of the press,” Elinor said lightly. “I’ve been trying to get you for some time, but you know what long-distance is nowadays. I hope it hasn’t been too bad.”

  “It’s been bad enough. Does Mother know?”

  “Not yet. Of course when the papers get it—Have they any idea who it is?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Her clothes ought to tell them something.”

  “They haven’t found her clothes. Look here, Elinor. I called you up to tell you something. Marcia Dalton says she saw your car here last Friday night, or Saturday morning. She’s just told me.”

  There was a brief pause. Then Elinor laughed.

  “Marcia’s seeing things,” she said. “Tell her I have a perfect alibi, and that I don’t go around murdering people in the middle of the night.”

  “You did go to New York?”

  “I hope the telephone operators along the line are enjoying this,” Elinor said coldly. “For their benefit I’ll tell you that I left my car in Providence on Friday, took a train to New York, stayed in our apartment that night, shopped all day Saturday, had dinner with my husband that evening and went to the theater afterwards.”

  “You stayed in your apartment?”

  “Why not? The club was jammed. So was every hotel. What’s the matter with you anyhow? Do I have to have an alibi?”

  Carol felt foolish as Elinor rang off with her customary abruptness. Of course Marcia had been mistaken. What possible connection could Elinor in New York have with a murder on the Maine coast? Or, granting there was one, would she possibly have risked everything she prized so highly on such an excursion? Yet there remained the puzzling question of why the dead girl had come to Crestview, and why Lucy—if she knew about it—had let her stay.

  Elinor could have made it. She could have come by car, arriving that night, gone back to Providence the same way, left her car there, and taken an early morning train to New York. Only why? Had the girl been Howard’s mistress? His money laid him open to that sort of thing. But even then she could see Elinor’s sheer disdain of a dirty business. She might leave him, demanding an enormous settlement, or she might choose to stay on and ignore the situation. But to connect her with a crime of passion was impossible.

  Carol was still in the library when Jerry Dane tapped at the terrace door. She admitted him, and he looked down at her gravely.

  “I’m afraid I was rude to you today,” he said. “My leg was hurting damnably, and—well, I’m sorry. I won’t do it again.”

  “It’s all right,” she told him. “I don’t blame you for calling me one of the cumberers of the earth. I just can’t help it, that’s all. I have to look after my mother.”

  “Don’t make me more abject than I am. I came to tell you I couldn’t see Mrs. Norton. Did you?”

  “No.” She recited her day while he listened, about being compelled to look at the body and the things on Floyd’s desk, and the fact that by the time her car was ready she could not go to the hospital. He had taken out a pipe and filled it, and as she talked she watched him. He was hard, she thought, the sort of man who in a war killed without scruple. But he was honest too. Honest and dependable, and she had to talk to someone or go mad.

  “There’s something else I ought to tell you,” she said. “It happened here this afternoon, and it has bothered me a lot. There’s no truth in it, of course, but it could cause trouble. Marcia Dalton claims to have seen my sister’s car here the night Lucy was hurt and this girl was murdered.”

  “Have you called your sister?”

  “Of course. She has an alibi. She was in New York that night. It’s ridiculous, isn’t it?”

  “Naturally.” His face remained impassive. “Is there anything else? Might as well clear the slate, you know.”

  “Well,” she said, her voice doubtful. “I suppose I should have told the police before this, but I couldn’t see Lucy, and the place has been full of people this afternoon.” She looked at him apologetically. “I don’t even like telling you, but I suppose I must.”

  “I see,” he said patiently. “Just what is all this about?”

  “It’s about the yellow room, the room over this. Somebody had been staying there, and taken a bath.”

  His voice sharpened.

  “Didn’t the police look over the house?”

  “I suppose they glanced in. They were looking for her clothes, weren’t they? They wouldn’t notice anything else. They probably thought Lucy Norton slept there. But the bed’s been used, there’s powder on the toilet table, and there are cigarette ashes on the floor. Lucy doesn’t smoke, of course, and she slept in the service wing.”

  “And her clothes?”

  “There were no clothes there when I saw it.”

  There was a longish pause. His pipe was dead, and he did not relight it.

  “They didn’t find her clothes,” he said at last. “I was here, you know. Mason came back empty-handed. But if she slept here she undressed here. The simplest answer is that whoever killed her took her clothes away so she wouldn’t be identified. That and the fire—See here, Miss Spencer, do you still maintain that you have no idea who she was? Or why she was here?”

  She shook her head.

  “No to both,” she said. “So far as I know I’ve never seen her before, or heard of her.”

  “Well, let’s put it another way. Who knew you were coming back, and when?”

  “Quite a lot of people. It was no secret.”

  “Isn’t is possible she was waiting here to see you?”

  “Why on earth would she? There’s a hotel in town. Lots of people rent rooms, too. To come here, with the house cold and empty—”

  “She did come, you see,” he said, still patiently. “She came, or she was brought here after her death. What you say about the yellow room seems to indicate that she came. When she came is another matter. If she slipped in at night after Mrs. Norton had gone to bed it might explain some things.”

  “Explain what?”

  “Explain why Mrs. Norton apparently knew nothing about her being here.” He got up. “Mind if I look at the yellow room? Unless you’ve had it cleaned.”

  “It’s the way I found it. The door’s locked.”

  He nodded his approval, and they went up the stairs together.

  The yellow room was as she had left it. She noticed that he touched nothing when he went in. He inspected the bed, where a spot of lipstick showed on one of the sheets. He bent over and looked at the cigarette ash on the floor. And he stood for some time at the bathroom door.

  “Was this left as it is?” he asked rather sharply. “Soap and towels, and so on, when you left last year?”

  “Soap? I hadn’t noticed. I suppose Lucy puts such things away when she closes the house.”

  “Then this girl seems to have known her way around pretty well,” he said grimly. “Either that, or Mrs. Norton knew she was here. What about these towels? Are they from the servants’ rooms?”

  “They’re guest towels. That’s queer. Lucy must have given them to her.”

  He turned to a window and stood there, looking out. There was still some light, and a breeze was covering the bay with small white-capped waves. Except for a few fishing boats the harbor was empty, and overhead an army plane was making its way to some inland field.
He was not thinking of the harbor, however, or even of the war at that moment.

  “Floyd is going to trace her further, if he can,” he said, without turning. “Whether anyone in the town saw her. Whether she made any inquiries to find this place. He’s a small-town policeman, but he’s nobody’s fool.”

  He was still at the window when they heard a car chugging up the hill. He put out the light quickly.

  “Sounds like his car,” he said. “Better get downstairs. And let me do the talking if you can.”

  They were in the library and Dane was filling his pipe when Nora announced the callers. They came in rather portentously, Floyd, Dr. Harrison, the state trooper, and still another man in plain clothes. Floyd was carrying a bundle under his arm.

  The chief introduced the strangers, Lieutenant Wylie and Mr. Campbell.

  “Mr. Campbell is the district attorney,” he said impressively. “Seems like we’re getting famous all at once.”

  “That’s hardly the word,” said Mr. Campbell dryly, as Floyd placed his package on the center table. “We don’t like to disturb you, Miss Spencer, but we’re trying to identify the—this woman. It seems likely that she had a reason for coming here. After all”—he cleared his throat—“there are a good many houses here not being opened for the summer. It seems strange her body was found in this one.”

  It was Dane who answered that. He was standing by the fire, looking interested but nothing more.

  “Probably most of them are boarded up,” he said. “This one happened to be open.”

  “With a caretaker in it,” said Mr. Campbell. “Why take a chance on a thing like that?”

  Carol asked them to sit down, and offered them cigarettes. Lieutenant Wylie produced a pipe and asked if she objected. Then Mr. Campbell cleared his throat.

  “I need not stress the need of identification of this woman, Miss Spencer,” he said. “I believe you have said you don’t know her.”

  “I didn’t say that,” she protested. “How can I tell? I hardly saw her, and when I did—I can’t think of anyone who would come here, or why they would be killed here. All I know is that she was here.”

  Her voice sounded strained, and the doctor smiled at her.