Calamity Town

Hallowe’en: The Scarlet Letters

When Jim and Nora came up on the porch after dinner, Nora was quite gay.

“Pat told me about that silly mask, Jim Haight,” said Hermy. ”Nora dearest, you’re sure you’re all right?”

“Of course, Mother. All this fuss over a scare!”

John F. was studying his son-in-law in a puzzled, secretive way. Jim seemed a little sheepish; he grinned vaguely.

“Where’s Carter, Pat?” demanded Hermy. ”Wasn’t he supposed to go with us to Town Hall tonight?”

“I’ve a headache, Muth. I phoned Cart to say I was going to bed. Night!” Pat went quickly into the house.

“Come along, Smith,” said John F. ”There’s a good speaker¯one of those war correspondents.”

“Thanks, Mr. Wright, but I’ve some work on my novel. Have a nice time!”

When Jim’s new car rolled off down the Hill, Mr. Ellery Queen stepped off the Wright porch and, by the light of the pumpkin moon, noiselessly crossed the lawn.

He circled Nora’s house once, inspecting the windows. All dark. Then Alberta had already left¯Thursday night was her night off.

Ellery opened the kitchen door with a skeleton key, locked it behind him and, using his flashlight sparingly, made his way through the hall to the living room. He climbed the stairs making no sound.

At the landing, he paused, frowning. There was a luminous line under Nora’s bedroom door!

He listened intently. Inside, drawers were being pulled open and pushed shut. A thief? Another Hallowe’en prank?

Gripping the flashlight like a club, Ellery kicked the door open.

Miss Patricia Wright screamed as she sprang from her stooped position over the lowest drawer of Nora’s vanity.

“Hello,” said Mr. Queen affably.

“Worm!” gasped Pat. ”I thought I’d die.” Then she blushed under his amused glance. ”At least I have an excuse! I’m her sister. But you . . . you’re just a plain snoop, Mr. Ellery Queen!”

Ellery’s jaw waggled. ”You little demon,” he said admiringly. ”You’ve known me all along.”

“Of course,” retorted Pat. ”I heard you lecture once on The Place of the Detective Story in Contemporary Civilization. Very pompous it was, too.”

“Wellesley?”

“Sarah Lawrence. I thought at the time you were very handsome. Sic transit gloria. Don’t look so concerned. I shan’t give your precious incognito away.”

Mr. Queen kissed her.

“Mmm,” said Pat. ”Not bad. But inopportune . . . No, please, Ellery. Some other time. Ellery, those letters¯you’re the only one I can confide in. Muth and Pop would worry themselves sick¯”

“And Carter Bradford?” suggested Mr. Queen dryly.

“Cart,” said Miss Wright, flushing, “is . . . Well, I just wouldn’t want Cart to know anything’s wrong. If it is,” she added quickly. ”I’m not sure anything is.”

Ellery said: “Yes, you are. Delicious lipstick.”

“Wipe it off. Yes,” said Pat damply, “I am . . . Why didn’t Nora say what was in those letters?” she burst out. ”Why did she come back to the living room tonight without them? Why did she chase us all out of her bedroom? Ellery, I’m . . . scared.”

Ellery squeezed her cold hands. ”Let’s look for them.”

* * *

He found them in one of Nora’s hatboxes. The hatbox lay on the shelf of Nora’s closet, and the three envelopes had been tucked between the tissue paper and the floor of the box, beneath a little flowered hat with a saucy mauve veil.

“Very clumsy technique,” mourned Mr. Queen.

“Poor Nor,” said Pat. Her lips were pale. ”Let me see!” Ellery handed her the three letters.

In the upper right-hand corner of each envelope, where a stamp should have been, appeared a date written in red crayon.

Pat frowned. Ellery took the envelopes from her and arranged them in chronological order, according to the crayoned dates. The dates were: 11/28, 12/25, and 1/1.

“And all three,” mused Pat, “are addressed to ‘Miss Rosemary Haight.’ She’s Jim’s only sister. We’ve never met her. But it’s queer there’s no street or city address . . . ”

“Not necessarily,” said Ellery, his brows together. ”The queerness lies in the use of the crayon.”

“Oh, Jim’s always used a thin red crayon instead of a pencil¯it’s a habit of his.”

“Then his sister’s name on these envelopes is in Jim’s handwriting?”

“Yes. I’d recognize this scrawl of Jim’s anywhere. For Pete’s sake, Ellery, what’s in them?”

Ellery removed the contents of the first envelope, crumpled a bit from Nora’s clutch when she had fainted.

The note was in Jim’s handwriting, too, Pat said, and written in the same red crayon:

Nov. 28

Dear Sis: I know it’s been a long time, but you can imagine I’ve been rushed. Haven’t time to drop you more than a line, because my wife got sick today. Doesn’t seem like much, but I don’t know. If you ask me, the doctor doesn’t know what it is, either. Let’s hope it’s nothing. Of course, I’ll keep you posted. Write me soon.

Love, Jim

“I can’t understand it,” said Pat slowly. ”Nora’s never felt better. Muth and I were just remarking about it the other day. Ellery¯”

“Has Nora seen Dr. Willoughby recently?”

“No. Unless . . . But I’m sure she hasn’t.”

“I see,” said Ellery in a voice that told nothing. ”Besides, that date¯November twenty-eighth. That’s a month away, Ellery! How could Jim know . . . ?” Pat stopped. Then she said hoarsely: “Open the second one!”

The second note was shorter than the first, but it was written in the same red crayon in the same scrawl.

December 25th Sis: I don’t want to worry you. But I’ve got to tell you. It’s much worse.

My wife is terribly ill. We’re doing everything we can.

In haste, Jim

“In haste, Jim,” repeated Pat. ”In haste¯and dated December twenty-fifth!”

Ellery’s eyes were clouded over now, hiding.

“But how could Jim know Nora’s illness is worse when Nora isn’t even sick?” cried Pat. ”And two months in advance!”

“I think,” said Mr. Queen, “we’d best read the third note.” And he took the sheet of paper from the last envelope.

“Ellery, what . . . ?”

He handed it to her and began to walk up and down Nora’s bedroom, smoking a cigarette with short, nervous puffs.

Pat read the note wide-eyed. Like the others, it was in Jim’s hand, a red-crayon scrawl. It said:

Jan. 1

Dearest Sis: She’s dead. She passed away today.

My wife, gone. As if she’d never been. Her last moments were¯

I can’t write anymore.

Come to me if you can.

Jim Ellery said: “Not now, honey child,” and threw his arm about Pat’s waist.

“What does it mean?” she sobbed.

“Stop blubbering.”

Pat turned away, hiding her face.

Ellery replaced the messages in their envelopes and returned the envelopes to their hiding place exactly as he had found them. He set the hatbox back on the shelf of the closet, closed the vanity drawer in which Pat had been rummaging, straightened Nora’s hand mirror. Another look around, and he led Pat from the room, switching off the ceiling light by the door.

“Find the door open?” he asked Pat.

“Closed,” she replied in a strangled voice.

He closed it.

“Wait. Where’s that fat tan book¯the one the envelopes fell out of this evening?”

“In Jim’s study.” Pat seemed to have difficulty pronouncing her brother-in-law’s name.

They found the book on one of the newly installed shelves in the bedroom Nora had converted into a study for her husband. Ellery had switched on the mica-shaded desk lamp, and it threw long shadows on the walls.

Pat clung to his arm, throwing glances over her shoulder.

“Pretty fresh condition,” said Ellery in a mutter, plucking the book from the shelf. ”Cloth hasn’t even begun to fade, and the edges of the pages are clean.”

“What is it?” whispered Pat.

“Edgcomb’s Toxicology.’’’’

“Toxicology!” Pat stared at it in horror.

Ellery sharply scrutinized the binding. Then he let the book fall open in his hands.

It broke obediently to a dog-eared page¯the only dog-eared page he could find. The book’s spine showed a deep crack which ran parallel with the place in the book where it had broken open to reveal the dog-eared page.

The three envelopes, then, had been lying between these two pages, thought Ellery. He began to read¯to himself.

“What,” said Pat feverishly, “what would Jim Haight be doing with a book on toxicology?”

Ellery looked at her. ”These two facing pages deal with various arse-nious compounds¯formulae, morbific effects, detection in organs and tissues, antidotes, fatal dosages, treatment of diseases arising from arse-nious poisoning¯”

“Poisoning!”

Ellery laid the book down within the brightest focus of the lamp. His finger pointed to the words in bold type: Arsenious Oxid (AS2O3).

His finger moved down to a paragraph which described arsenious oxid as “white, tasteless, poisonous,” and gave the fatal dosage.

This paragraph had been underlined in light red crayon.

In a quite clear voice that emerged from between wry, unwilling lips, Pat said: “Jim is planning to murder Nora.”

PART TWO