Fire Will Freeze

6

“I feel it,” Mrs. Vista said again, while Crawford’s snoring rose to a crescendo and died into an echo. “We’d better wake him up. Rap on his door.”

“You come with me,” Paula said.

For a full minute neither of them moved. Then Paula took a long breath. “Are you coming? Someone’s life may be in danger.”

She walked out and Mrs. Vista, trembling inside her huge coat, followed her.

Paula rapped on Crawford’s door. Almost instantly the snoring ceased and a sharp alert voice called out, “Who’s there?”

“Open the door,” Paula said.

When Crawford came to the door he was wearing his overcoat and one hand rested in his pocket. His hair was tangled from sleeping but his eyes were wide awake and bright.

“What’s up?” he said.

“We heard a scream,” Paula said. “Someone screamed and we don’t know what to do about it. We thought — we thought perhaps you could...” She stopped because Crawford was looking at her with such a dry, unconvinced smile.

“Yeah?” he said.

“We both heard it separately,” Mrs. Vista said shrilly. “If you don’t intend to do something I’ll wake the others.”

She opened her mouth and began to shriek. “Help! Help! Murder!”

Crawford was too late in putting his hand across her mouth. He cursed at her softly when the doors started to open along the hall.

Mrs. Vista took a deep breath, put her hands on Crawford’s chest, and pushed. Crawford landed ungracefully on one hip. There was a sharp clink of metal as he hit the floor.

He picked himself up, wincing. He said, “You bitch,” so Mrs. Vista began to shriek again and the hall came alive with lamps and people and resounded with the screams of Maudie and Mrs. Vista, and the roar of Miss Rudd pounding on the locked door.

Mr. Goodwin came leaping up the stairs like an overgrown gazelle, for he had recognized Mrs. Vista’s voice, and poet or no poet he knew a good thing when he saw it and fifty thousand dollars a year must not perish. When he saw that Mrs. Vista was not perishing he decided to go back downstairs. But it was too late. Mrs. Vista had spied him and was flinging herself at him. Since Mrs. Vista weighed nearly two hundred pounds, Mr. Goodwin wisely propped himself against the brass banister railing and closed his eyes.

The impact came. Mr. Goodwin fancied he heard the crunch of bone. “There goes a vertebra,” he muttered, and patted Mrs. Vista’s shoulder.

The tumult gradually died down except for Miss Rudd’s pounding, and Paula was able to explain what she had heard.

“But we’re all here,” Isobel said in a puzzled voice. “Nothing happened to any of us. We’re all here.”

“Except,” Mr. Hunter said, “Floraine.”

There was an uncomfortable silence. Then Isobel said, “Nothing could happen to Floraine. I mean, she’s probably in Miss Rudd’s room.”

“That’s easy to find out,” Gracie said. “Just go in and look.”

“She’s locked in.”

“We could smash in the door,” said Herbert, who liked the idea since it was always being done in the stories he read.

“The doors are oak,” Mr. Hunter said.

“Well, pick the lock,” Gracie said with a shrug. “Or yell. Yell Floraine. Like this. Floraine!”

Miss Rudd also began to yell “Floraine!” evidently with a great deal of enjoyment.

After a couple of minutes of this Crawford went to the door and snarled, “Shut up in there!” Then he took out a pocket knife and pried at the lock.

The door swung open and revealed Miss Rudd in her grey flannel nightgown holding a chair over her head.

“Put that down,” Crawford said.

Miss Rudd said nothing, but glared at him balefully.

“Put it down. I won’t hurt you. I want to find Floraine.”

The chair started to descend. Crawford stepped back and the chair crashed at his feet. He thrust the door shut and held his hands against it.

“She’s strong as hell,” he said through clenched teeth. “Somebody help me. Hunter. Put your back against it while I slip the lock back.”

Mr. Hunter did as he was told. Crawford said, “The rest of you, get the hell back to your rooms.”

The hall began to empty. Only Isobel remained, as if her feet were too heavy to move. She heard the lock slip back in place and felt herself trembling with relief.

Crawford turned from the door and saw her. “What are you doing here?”

“Admiring your versatility,” Isobel said evenly. “And waiting to see Floraine.”

Crawford smiled slightly. “I’d like to see her myself. I don’t get along well with Miss Rudd.”

Mr. Hunter said, “It’s very queer she didn’t hear this racket if she’s around. You don’t think she’s had an accident?”

“I intend to find out,” Isobel said.

“Because a couple of women imagined a scream?” Crawford said. “Go ahead and find out then. Search the house.”

“If we’d had any men around with any courage we’d have searched it some time ago,” Isobel said. “And if it’s of any interest to you, Mr. Crawford, I already have done a little searching.”

“With my flashlight?” Crawford said dryly. “Watch those light fingers, Isobel.”

Flushing, Isobel continued. “And the driver did come here. I found parts of his clothing. And if you want to hear the rest of it, I think he’s dead, do you understand? I think they killed him and you stand there raising your silly eyebrows and...” She broke off in a sob.

“Dear, dear,” said Mr. Hunter. “Tut, tut. Don’t cry.”

“She’s putting it all on,” Crawford said in a hard voice. “I don’t know what her game is...”

“Crawford, you’re a brute,” said Mr. Hunter.

“He’s scared,” Isobel said huskily. “He’s scared silly.”

“Oh, for God’s sake,” Crawford said. “All right. You want to search, all right let’s search. What in hell you expect to find I don’t know. Where’s my flashlight?”

“I lent it to someone,” Isobel confessed weakly.

“You are beginning,” Crawford said gently, “to annoy me intensely.”

He walked towards the staircase. Mr. Hunter hung back and looked wistful.

“Why don’t you come, too?” Isobel said. “Heaven knows we can’t have too many.” She raised her voice. “And I can’t spend the whole night trying to persuade Mr. Crawford to put one foot in front of the other.”

“Nuts,” Crawford said. “Make it snappy. I’m tired.”

“Tired?” Isobel said. “You’re moribund.”

“Mightn’t it be a good idea to examine the third floor first?” Mr. Hunter suggested. “Make sure it’s really shut up, I mean, a sort of process of elimination.”

Isobel said, “Mr. Crawford, if you’re not too tired, think that over, will you?”

“Sure,” Crawford said. He turned around and led the way to the back staircase. It was enclosed, and the door was shut and padlocked. Mr. Hunter held his lamp directly over the padlock.

“Rusted,” Isobel said. “Hasn’t been used for years.” She bent down and examined the sides of the door. The cracks had been filled in with putty.

“Nobody could get through here without a battering ram,” Crawford said. “Now what? More eliminations? What, no suggestion from the little lady?”

“You talk too much,” Isobel said coldly. “Obviously the next step is to go through all the bedrooms. She may be simply hiding. Had that occurred to you?”

“Last year,” Crawford said. “How do you go about searching bedrooms?”

“Let’s try yours first, shall we?”

“Sure,” Crawford said. “Welcome, I’m sure.”

Crawford’s bedroom was small and without a clothes closet or fireplace. There was obviously no place anyone could hide except under the bed. And there Isobel looked, her face reddening under Crawford’s exaggerated leer. He said, “T-t-t-t. Sorry, Isobel. Better luck next time.”

Nothing of interest came to light in the bedrooms except Maudie Thropple’s beautiful bridgework which had been removed to prevent her swallowing it while in a faint.

There remained Miss Rudd’s bedroom but no one seemed eager to tackle it, least of all Crawford who said it would upset all his favorite ideas of how he was going to commit suicide some day. So they went downstairs.

Mr. Goodwin was giving his insomnia a workout in front of the fire.

He said, “Well?” rather aggressively.

“We want to search this room,” Isobel explained. “Mr. Crawford, could you take that side and I’ll take this side with Mr. Hunter.”

“What about me?” Mr. Goodwin said.

“All we ask from you is a cozy silence,” Crawford replied. He began to creep around the room, patting the chesterfield cushions and peering behind the drapes saying, “Ah!”

Isobel gritted her teeth and tried hard not to pay any attention, but Crawford’s “Ah’s!” became too loud to ignore.

“Stop your clowning,” she said sternly.

“Hell, I was just getting into the spirit of the thing,” Crawford said.

“If you think this is a joke you’d better not come with us.”

“I do think it’s a joke. If I ever saw a woman better able to take care of herself than Floraine...” He stopped and shrugged. “Oh, come on. You lady detectives kill me.”

He went out first. Mr. Hunter, after whispering something soothing but inaudible in Isobel’s ear, followed him.

The room across the hall turned out to be a library. It hadn’t been used for years, evidently, as the furniture was covered with dust sheets and the sheets themselves were grimy. Only one shelf of books remained. Isobel picked one out and opened it, closing it hastily when a couple of bookworms stirred themselves and started to move across the page. The binding of the book was mildewed. Isobel replaced it on the shelf and looked at the titles of the rest of them. Historical books, mostly, with one or two on local geography and a vast tome on how to recognize and cure your own ailments. Isobel would have liked to sit down and pick herself out a couple of ailments and worry over them; but business before pleasure, she told herself firmly, and began swatting at the dust sheets in the faint hope that Floraine would be underneath one of them.

But Floraine was not in the library. Nor, it developed, was she in the dining room. In the hall closet Mr. Hunter turned up a pair of old snowshoes and in the kitchen Crawford found a bottle of brandy, but Floraine remained elusive.

Crawford wanted to open the brandy on the theory that it would provide inspiration for all. Isobel objected. Mr. Hunter wavered, then catching Isobel’s cold eye, he also objected. Crawford put the bottle in his pocket.

“Are you sure you have room for it?” Isobel said sweetly. “Sure it won’t load you down when you’re carrying your arsenal?”

“I’ll put it in the other pocket,” Crawford said.

Mr. Hunter looked from one to the other. “I don’t quite follow...”

“That’s all right,” Crawford said. “Nobody can keep any secrets from our Isobel.”

Mr. Hunter was beginning to show signs of strain. He kept pulling violently at his mustache.

“I wish she’d turn up some place,” he said. “I mean to say, there’s only one more floor, and if she’s not in the house, where is she?”

They looked, simultaneously, out of the kitchen window. There was nothing to be seen but the snow beating on the window.

Isobel swallowed hard and said, “She wouldn’t have gone out. She’d die in this blizzard. She must be here some place.”

“Miss Lashley said the scream was very faint,” Mr. Hunter said. “That might mean it came from the cellar.”

“Well, let’s go,” Crawford said, and opened the door into the cellar.

In the main room Isobel’s eye fell on the two trunks that Joyce had said were empty. She opened the lids of both and found that Joyce, as usual, had been right. She examined the floor — solid concrete, impossible to bury a body here — and then followed Crawford into the furnace room.

She saw that Crawford was staring intently at the furnace and that he was no longer amused.

“She put the cat in there,” Isobel said weakly. “You don’t suppose...”

“Take a look at the size of the door,” Crawford said roughly. “You couldn’t get a body in there unless you cut it up into steaks.”

Mr. Hunter looked green and said, “Really. I must ask you...” His voice faded.

“Try cutting up somebody and you get blood,” Crawford said. “And there’s no blood.”

“Please,” Mr. Hunter bleated.

“There’s only one other place,” Isobel said. “Under the coal.”

Crawford eyed her grimly. “Yeah? And that means?”

“I’m afraid it means,” Isobel said in a small voice, “that you shovel.”

Crawford flung his arms around. “Oh, hell. This is too much. This is what I get for treating you civilly...”

Mr. Hunter unexpectedly took his side. “I do think it’s a bit drastic. Must be six or seven tons of coal here. Devilish job. And what — what if we find something?”

Isobel’s mouth tightened. “This is exactly what I expected from both of you. You are a pair of incompetent, ineffectual, muddling little sissies.”

“Oh, come, come,” said Mr. Hunter feebly.

“I should bat you around,” Crawford said, “but I’m too damn tired. Good night, all.”

He moved to the door.

“You mean to say,” Isobel spluttered, “you mean to say you’re actually going to bed? You’d leave me to shovel six or seven tons of coal, you cad?”

“Let them as wants to shovel, shovel,” Crawford said. “I’m C.I.O. and can’t work after midnight.”

“All right, I will!” Isobel shouted.

Crawford’s voice floated back from the other room. “Scab.”

They heard him go up the steps, whistling. Speechless with rage, Isobel swung around and faced Mr. Hunter. Mr. Hunter, recognizing the symptoms, started to back away from her with a sickly smile on his face.

“This,” Isobel said at last, using the illogical reasoning powers of her sex, “is all your fault.”

“Oh now, Come. I didn’t do a...”

“Hand me that shovel.”

“No, I couldn’t, really...”

“Hand me that shovel!”

Mr. Hunter wisely handed her the shovel and backed away again.

“And now, if you don’t mind,” Isobel said, “you may go upstairs. I have no intention of shoveling coal in front of a witness.”

“I couldn’t leave you here,” Mr. Hunter protested. “If there’s any kind of danger I’d like to share it with you. And I can shovel a bit, too, I suppose.”

It was not a tactful speech. Isobel shouted, “Go away!” and hurled herself at the coal pile.

Mr. Hunter went away and crept guiltily back upstairs.

Ten minutes later Isobel removed her coat and fifteen minutes after that she took off the jacket of her suit. Her nose and throat smarted from the coal dust, and when she put her hand up to wipe the sweat from her forehead it left two long black streaks. But she kept on shoveling, driven by her anger, and eventually she had the satisfaction of seeing that the small pile was growing even if the large pile didn’t appear to be decreasing.

She rested on the shovel a moment. When she straightened up pains shot through her back and her hands were starting to blister, and, what was worse, she was beginning to flag mentally. The whole thing was preposterous, even if two people had disappeared. There might be a secret door or something... something...

She straightened up once more. A little avalanche of coal slid from the big pile and touched her feet. When the cellar was quiet again a voice spoke directly behind her:

“How are you doing?”

She gasped and dropped the shovel and turned around to meet Crawford’s eyes.

“Tsk, tsk,” Crawford said. “Still mad.”

“Not mad,” Isobel said coldly. “Disgusted.”

“Here. Give me the shovel. You’ve had your workout.”

“No, thank you. I’ll do it myself. You’re far too delicate for this kind of work.”

“Don’t be proud,” Crawford said. “Your face is dirty.”

“Well, it’s good, honest dirt!” Isobel shouted.

“Dirt,” said Crawford, “is dirt,” and he gave her a handkerchief and took the shovel out of her hands.

He started shoveling very blithely. Isobel sat on the workbench and watched gloatingly for the first signs of tiredness.

Now and then she called out encouragement: “Oooh! That was a big one! My, aren’t you strong?”

After a time he stood up and said, “Isobel. You still think this is a good idea?”

“I do.”

“All right. I just wanted to know.”

Half an hour later he said, “Isobel, you’re a woman of iron determination. How about let’s compromise? We’ll go to bed now and finish up in the morning.”

“Put some coal on the fire while you’re at it,” Isobel said calmly. “It’s getting chilly in here. Or don’t you think so?”

Crawford, already down to his shirt, said no, he didn’t think so.

It was two o’clock when he laid down the shovel. The two piles were even now. The rest, Crawford said, could be prodded with a poker.

Sometime later they went upstairs together. Neither of them said anything. Isobel was pale and close to tears. Over Crawford’s one arm hung a coat of heavy tan wool with a strip of cloth sewn to the underside of the collar. On the cloth was printed in India ink: “Maurice Hearst. Chateau Neige, Quebec.”

There was no sign of Floraine.