101 Mystery Stories

74 The Blue Wash Mystery Anna Katharine Green

One summer day, several years ago now, a gentleman was walking down Broadway, when he encountered Mr. Hardy of the firm of Hanson, Gregg & Hardy, House Painters and Decorators. Being friends, they both stopped.

“Well met,” cried the former. “I am just on my way to spend a couple of weeks with my family at Lake George, and your face reminds me of a pleasant surprise I can give my wife upon our return. Our front parlor needs to be freshly frescoed and painted, or so she has been saying for the last six months. Now if it could be done while I am gone, her wishes would be gratified and I would escape a confounded nuisance. What do you think about it? Can you manage to do it at such short notice?”

“Yes,” was the sturdy reply, “if you let us into the house today. I have two men on hand waiting for orders this morning. If I could make use of them I think there would be no difficulty about the matter.”

“But I haven’t the key — I gave it to Henry, who is going to sleep in the house while I am gone, and he went to Newark this morning and won’t be home till midnight. Won’t tomorrow do? Or stay, I have an idea. Our house is a corner one as you know, and my room looks out on G-Street. If your men will put a ladder up on that side of the house, they can get in through the farther window on the second floor. I left it up this morning with injunctions to Henry to close it when he came home tonight. Won’t that do? The furniture you can put in the back room, the carpet you can cover up — anything so my wife gets her surprise.”

“Well, we’ll try.”

And the gentlemen parted.

Now to you lady readers, the mystery will be that any man in his sane mind would dare to order his parlor furniture removed and the ceiling torn over a first-class axminster carpet, without warning his wife of the destruction that loomed over her favorite property. But that is not the mystery of this tale. The mystery of this story is one that a man can comprehend, even a boy, I think. So listen and be patient while I relate a few further facts.

Well, then, Mr. Hardy, who was of a prompt and energetic disposition, went immediately to his store and notified his two men of what he wanted done. Being fully engaged that morning, he could not go with them himself, but he told them expressly where the house was and by what means they were to enter, adding that he would be with them by noon when he hoped they would have the walls scraped and the blue wash on, ready for whatever final coloring he should decide upon employing.

“Remember,” said he, “the large double-house on the northeast corner of G-Street and Seventh Avenue. You cannot mistake it as there is but one house of that sort on the block.” And conscious of having displayed the efficiency of his character, he left the store to attend to the business more immediately demanding his attention.

The men started. Pushing before them their hand-cart with its long ladder, they proceeded slowly uptown, and arriving at G-Street, turned down toward the Seventh Avenue. Soon they came to a corner on which was a large double-house. Looking up, they saw it was closed, all but the one window on the second floor which they had expected to find open.

Stopping, they put up their ladder, entered the house, made their way unmolested to the parlor, carried out the furniture into the back room, tore up the carpet and laid it in a heap in the center. Then they scraped the walls and having put on the blue wash as had been ordered, went upstairs to look out of the window by which they had entered, in order to see if Mr. Hardy was coming. He was. He was just passing the corner. Without a glance in their direction, he was going quickly by, when one of the men whistled. That made him stop. Astonished, almost aghast, he looked up.

“What are you doing here?” cried he, coming hastily to the foot of the ladder.

“Scraping the walls as you ordered,” exclaimed the man, alarmed at the expression on the face that met his gaze from below.

“But this is not the house!” cried Mr. Hardy. “I told you the large double-house on the corner of Seventh Avenue. This is Sixth!”

It was true. The men, misled by the appearance of things, had failed to notice what avenue they were on and had stopped one block short of their real destination.

Shaking the ladder in his wrath, Mr. Hardy cried, “Have you scraped the walls?”

The man nodded.

“Good heavens! And put on the blue wash?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Thunder and lightning! — and I don’t even know the name of the man who lives here. Is the house empty?”

“Yes, sir, empty, and ready to be swept,” said the workman. “Sweep it then, you idiots, and put things back in their place, while I go and see what can be done.”

He went to one of the neighbors, a man he knew, and told him of the mistake his men had made, and asked who lived in the house thus invaded. He was told:

“A Mr. Crippens, sir. The bitterest old curmudgeon and the worst man to irritate you ever saw. Once let him know that anyone has dared to invade his premises and do what you have done, and no amount of apology — no, nor damages either — would ever appease him. He would hound you and hinder you and get into your way all the rest of your life. Nothing is too mean for him to do, nothing too much trouble. You might as well rouse the Evil One himself.”

“But what is to be done, then?” exclaimed Mr. Hardy in dismay.

“Nothing. Take off your men, shut up the house, and keep quiet. The neighbors are all away but myself and you may be sure he will learn nothing from me. Let him stamp his feet and howl over the matter if he will. ’Twill ease his mind and do him just as much good as if he spent time and money in ruining the business of a respectable man.”

And Mr. Hardy partially followed this advice. He had the carpet put back and the furniture restored to its place, left a suitable sum of money on the mantel, but beyond that did nothing by way of explanation or remedy for the havoc he had caused.

And now what is the mystery? The mystery is this. What did that same old curmudgeon and his family think when they returned to their home and found the walls of their parlor denuded of every particle of paint? What explanation were they ever able to make to themselves of this startling occurrence? And if any of them are living yet, what do they think today when they remember the surprise of that moment and how the long years have passed without offering them any solution to the enigma?