Calamity Town

“Famed Author to Live in Wrightsville”

“I’ll tell Mr. John you’re callin’,” sniffed Ludie, and she stalked out, her apron standing to each side of her like a Dutch cap.

“Guess Ludie knows we’re here to rent Calamity House,” grinned Mr. Pettigrew.

“Why should that make her look at me as if I were a Nazi Gauleiter?” asked Mr. Queen.

“I expect Ludie doesn’t think it proper for folks like the John F. Wrights to be renting out houses. Sometimes I don’t know who’s got more pride in the family name, Ludie or Hermy!”

Mr. Queen took inventory. Lived in. There were a few aged mahogany pieces of distinction and a beautiful fireplace of Italian marble. And at least two of the oil paintings had merit.

J.C. noticed his interest. ”Hermione picked out all the pictures herself. Knows a lot about art, Hermy does. Here she is now. And John.”

Ellery rose. He had expected to meet a robust, severe-faced female; instead, he saw Hermy. Hermy always fooled strangers that way; she’s so tiny and motherly and sweet-looking.

John Fowler Wright was a delicate little man with a brown country-club face. Ellery liked him at sight. He was carrying a stamp album with practiced care.

“John, this is Mr. Ellery Smith. He’s looking to rent a furnished house,” said J.C. nervously. ”Mr. Wright, Mrs. Wright, Mr. Smith. A-hrmm!”

John F. said in his reedy voice that he was mighty proud to meet Mr. Smith, and Hermy held out her hand at arm’s length with a sweet “How do you do, Mr. Smith,” but Mr. ”Smith” saw the iced gleam in Hermy’s pretty blue eyes and decided that in this instance, too, the female was deadlier than the male. So he was most gallant with her. Hermy unbent a little at that and poked her slender lady’s fingers in her sleek gray hair, the way she always did when she was pleased, or fussed, or both.

“Of course,” said J.C. respectfully, “I thought right off of that beautiful little six-roomer you built next door, John¯”

“I don’t at all like the idea,” said Hermione in her coolest voice, “of renting, John. I can’t imagine, Mr. Pettigrew¯”

“Maybe if you knew who Mr. Smith is” said J.C. quickly.

Hermy looked startled. John F. hitched forward in his wing chair near the fireplace.

“Well?” demanded Hermy. ”Who is he?”

“Mr. Smith,” said J.C., throwing it away, “is Ellery Smith, the famous author.”

“Famous author/” gasped Hermy. ”But I’m so bowled over! Here on the coffee table, Ludie!” Ludie clanked down a tray bearing a musical pitcher filled with ice and grape-juice-and-lemonade punch, and four handsome crystal goblets. ”I’m sure you’ll like our house, Mr. Smith,” Hermy went on swiftly. ”It’s a little dream house. I decorated it with my own hands. Do you ever lecture? Our Women’s Club¯”

“Good golfing hereabouts, too,” said John F. ”How long would you want to rent for, Mr. Smith?”

“I’m sure Mr. Smith is going to like Wrightsville so well he’ll stay on and on” interrupted Hermy. ”Do have some of Ludie’s punch, Mr. Smith¯”

“Thing is,” said John F., frowning, “the way Wrightsville’s shooting up, I’ll probably be able to sell pretty soon¯”

“That’s easy, John!” said J.C. ”We can write in the lease that in case a buyer comes along, Mr. Smith is to vacate pending reasonable notice¯”

“Business, business!” said Hermy gaily. ”What Mr. Smith wants is to see the house. Mr. Pettigrew, you stay here and keep John and his poky old stamps company. Mr. Smith?”

Hermy held on to Ellery’s arm all the way from the big house to the little house, as if she were afraid he’d fly away if she let go.

“Of course, the furniture’s protected by dusteovers now, but it’s really lovely. Early American bird’s-eye maple and brand-new. Just look, Mr. Smith. Isn’t it darling?”

Hermy dragged Ellery upstairs and downstairs, from cellar to peaked attic, exhibited the chintzy master bedroom, extolled the beauties of the living room with its maple pieces and art-filled niches and hooked rug and half-empty bookshelves . . .

“Yes, yes,” said Ellery feebly. ”Very nice, Mrs. Wright.”

“Of course, I’ll see you get a housekeeper,” said Hermy happily. ”Oh, dear! Where will you do your Work? We could fix over the second bedroom upstairs into a study. You must have a study for your Work, Mr. Smith.”

Mr. ”Smith” said he was sure he’d manage handsomely.

“Then you do like our little house? I’m so glad!” Hermione lowered her voice. ”You’re in Wrightsville incognito, of course?”

“Such an impressive word, Mrs. Wright . . . ”

“Then except for a few of our closest friends, I’ll make sure nobody knows who you are,” beamed Hermy. ”What kind of Work are you planning, Mr. Smith?”

“A novel,” said Ellery faintly. ”A novel of a particular sort, laid in a typical small city, Mrs. Wright.”

“Then you’re here to get Color! How apt! You chose our own dear Wrightsville! You must meet my daughter Patricia immediately, Mr. Smith. She’s the cleverest child. I’m sure Pat would be a great help to you in getting to know Wrightsville . . . ”

Two hours later Mr. Ellery Queen was signing the name “Ellery Smith” to a lease whereunder he agreed to rent Number 460 Hill Drive, furnished, for a period of six months beginning August 6, 1940, three months’ rental paid in advance, one month’s vacating notice to be given by lessor in event of a sale, at the rental of $75 per month.

“The truth is, Mr. Smith,” confided J.C. as they left the Wright house, “I kind of held my breath in there for a minute.”

“When was that?”

“When you took that pen of John F.’s and signed the lease.”

“You held your breath?” Ellery frowned. ”Why?”

J.C. guffawed. ”I remembered the case of poor old Hunter and how he dropped dead in that very house. Calamity House! That’s a hot one! Here you are, still fit as a fiddle!”

And he got into his coupe still overcome by mirth, bound for town to pick up Ellery’s luggage at the Hollis Hotel . . . and leaving Ellery in the Wright driveway feeling irritated.

When Ellery returned to his new residence, there was a tingle in his spine.

There was something about the house, now that he was out of Mrs. Wright’s clutches, something¯well, blank, unfinished, like Outer Space. Ellery almost said to himself the word “inhuman,” but when he got to that point, he took himself in hand sternly. Calamity House! As sensible as calling Wrightsville Calamity Town! He removed his coat, rolled up his shirtsleeves, and sailed into things.

“Mr. Smith,” cried a horrified voice, “what are you doing?”

Ellery guiltily dropped a dustcover as Hermione Wright rushed in, her cheeks flushed and her gray hair no longer sleek. ”Don’t you dare touch a thing! Alberta, come in. Mr. Smith won’t bite you.” A bashful Amazon shuffled in. ”Mr. Smith, this is Alberta Manaskas. I’m sure you’ll find her most satisfactory. Alberta, don’t stand there. Start the upstairs!” Alberta fled.

Ellery murmured his gratitude and sank into a chintz-cloaked chair as Mrs. Wright attacked the room about him with terrifying energy.

“We’ll have this in apple-pie order in a jiffy! By the way, I trust you don’t mind. On my trip into town to fetch Alberta, I happened to drop into the Record office¯whoo! this dust!¯and had a confidential chat with Frank Lloyd. The editor and publisher, you know.”

Ellery’s heart scuttled itself.

“By the way, I also took the liberty of giving Logan’s a grocery and meat order for you. Although, of course, you’ll dine with us tonight. Oh, dear, did I forget . . . ? Electricity . . . gas . . . water . . . No, I attended to everything. Oh, the telephone! I’ll do that first thing tomorrow. Well, as I was saying, I knew that no matter how hard we tried, sooner or later everyone would know you’re in Wrightsville, Mr. Smith, and of course as a newspaperman, Frank would have to do a story on you, so I thought I’d better ask Frank as a personal favor not to mention in his write-up that you’re the famous author¯Patty baby! Carter! Oh, my darlings, I have such a surprise for you!”

Mr. Queen rose, fumbling for his jacket.

His only coherent thought was that she had eyes the color of brook water bubbling in the sun.

“So you’re the famous author,” said Patricia Wright, looking at him with her head cocked. ”When Pop told Carter and me just now what Mother had snagged, I thought I’d meet a baggy-pantsed poet with a hangdog look, melancholy eyes, and a pot. I’m pleased.”

Mr. Queen tried to look suave and mumbled something.

“Isn’t it wonderful, dearest?” cried Hermy. ”You must forgive me, Mr. Smith. I know you think I’m terribly provincial. But I really am overwhelmed. Pat dear, introduce Carter.”

“Carter! Darling, I’m so sorry. Mr. Smith, Mr. Bradford.” Shaking hands with a tall young man, intelligent-looking but worried, Ellery wondered if he were worried about how to hold on to Miss Patricia Wright. He felt an instant sympathy.

“I suppose,” said Carter Bradford politely, “we must all seem provincial to you, Mr. Smith. Fiction or nonfiction?”

“Fiction,” said Ellery. So it was war.

“I’m pleased,” said Pat again, looking Ellery over. Carter frowned; Mr. Queen beamed. ”I’ll do this room, Muth . . . You won’t be hurting my feelings, Mr. Smith, if after we’ve stopped interfering in your life, you change things around again. But for now¯”

As he watched Pat Wright setting his house in order under Carter Bradford’s suspicious eye, Ellery thought: May the saints grant me calamities like this each blessed day. Carter, my boy, I’m sorry, but I’m cultivating your Patty!

His good humor was not dispelled even when J. C. Pettigrew hurried back from town with his luggage and flourished the last edition of the Wrightsville Record.

Frank Lloyd, Publisher and Editor, had kept his word to Hermione Wright only technically.

He had said nothing about Mr. Smith in the body of the news item except that he was “Mr. Ellery Smith of New York.”

But the headline on the story ran:

Famed Author to Live in Wrightsville!