The D.A. Breaks an Egg

3

Standing in her bedroom, after everyone had said those first good nights, and with the door safely closed, Dorothy, thinking back over the events of the afternoon, could not help feeling that the whole thing had been symbolized somehow by that first greeting — the cordiality of an icy hand, the kiss of hard, thin lips.

Dinner had been an ordeal of formality, as though the family, while consciously trying to put its best foot forward, made an attempt at polite small talk which sounded strained, coming as it did from a group where the intimacy of family life prevailed.

It was as though some politely decrepit old man had seated himself in front of a mirror, bowed to his reflected image, and from time to time engaged in attempts to interest his mirrored self in comments, lending a polite interest to his statements on current events, laughing with attempted spontaneity at his own labored jokes.

But all the time there had been peering eyes, an unremitting appraisal. Dorothy might have been a butterfly impaled upon the pin of an anxious curiosity. Had Horace chosen someone who would be able to carry on the family traditions? Watch — watch the way she picks up her fork, the way she handles that salad fork... “Yes, indeed, Dorothy, we’ve heard so much from Horace — and weren’t you terrified, driving alone? But of course you haven’t been sheltered as, say, Moana... You must get Moana to show you her heirlooms. Do have some more of the roast.”

And so the meal had finally drawn to a close, leaving Dorothy with an impression of Mrs. Lennox which was exactly what she had anticipated. Steve Lennox had possibilities, once he could break away from the cramped environment of that household. Moana was a puzzle to Dorothy, a green-eyed blonde who should have been vivacious and wasn’t. She might have been actuated by some inner mechanism which was wound with a key, guaranteeing so many times to lift the spoon or fork, so many cuts with the knife, so many smiles of polite interest.

With the door of her bedroom closed and locked, Dorothy suddenly began to wonder about Horace.

Dorothy Clifton hated artificiality. She loved spontaneity, natural reactions, and originality. Horace had been inducted into the Army at a time when he had been only a little older than Steve was now, and foreign service, the masculine life of the Army, the exacting requirements of aviation, had, or at least should have, torn his roots free from the family soil and enabled him to transplant himself to an environment where his individuality could find some way of expressing itself.

But, after all, Horace had been raised in this atmosphere, must have absorbed a large part of it. Dorothy knew now that his fondness for his family was partially a pride in its impregnable respectability. Despite the fact that he himself had warned her that his mother was one who lived in a little world of her own, and insisted that everyone who penetrated into that world should conform to the plan of architecture laid out by its creator, Horace himself must have absorbed a lot of that in his boyhood. Would it crop out when he had a home of his own?

The night was warm and balmy, drenched with moonlight, and, acting on some impulse, and because she felt far too apprehensive to sleep, Dorothy switched out the light and went over to sit by the window.

She was looking down on the driveway, a driveway blocked by her own car, almost directly beneath her window.

Mrs. Lennox had insisted that the car be left there. She had said no one was going out that evening, but on the slender chance that it might become necessary to remove one of the cars in the garage, Dorothy could leave her keys in the car so it could be backed out of the driveway. It was, she had explained, perfectly all right to leave keys in the car. There were never any thefts from Madison City driveways. Of course, a car left uptown might be “borrowed” for a joy ride, but there were no criminals who would steal cars from driveways. Fortunately, Madison City was thoroughly respectable, a nice place to bring up children. Here, houses were homes, not simply parking places. She did so wish Horace would have returned to the home town to open his office.

The moon, which was nearing the full, shone down on white stucco houses, turning them into silver, casting inky black shadows along the well-kept lawns. The air was warm but dry and clear. The night seemed romantic, mysterious and hushed.

Abruptly, Dorothy jerked to attention.

The house below-stairs was dark now, but a figure came gliding noiselessly out from the shadows of the house, a figure which seemed to have emerged from the house and which moved directly toward Dorothy’s automobile.

For a moment, swift contrition gripped Dorothy Clifton. She knew she shouldn’t have left the automobile there in the driveway, despite the fact that Mrs. Lennox had assured her no one would be going out.

Now someone wanted to go out, and her automobile was in the way and would have to be moved.

Dorothy decided she’d run down and move the car herself.

She rose from the chair and at that moment the figure below looked back toward the house, then up at the window of Dorothy’s room.

The moonlight which filtered through showed the face as only a white oval, not even blurred features. Dorothy could not even approximate a guess as to who the person was, but there was something about the furtive poise of the figure which caused Dorothy to halt the impulse to run down and back her car out into the street.

Apparently having become satisfied from the dark room that Dorothy was in bed, the figure opened the car door, cautiously slipped in behind the steering wheel, took off the brake and slipped the gearshift into neutral.

The car, due to the slight elevation of the driveway, began inching slowly back, a silent, noiseless, gradually accelerated retreat down the driveway.

Once as the person in the car touched the brake pedal, the driveway became flooded with red from the brake light, but it was only a brief flicker, then the brakes were released, and the car glided back to the street. The driver turned the steering wheel sharply, and then, but not until then, did a pressure on the starter throb the motor into life. The headlights were switched into brilliant streamers.

Dorothy, at first puzzled by the manner in which her car had been eased out of the driveway, suddenly laughed, said aloud to herself, “Don’t call the cops, goosie. Someone merely wants to be courteous and keep from disturbing you. It’s simply a matter of parking your car at the curb in order to get another car out, and...”

But the driver didn’t park Dorothy’s car at the curb. Instead, the clutch was slipped in and the automobile purred smoothly down the street in the direction of the business district.

Bewildered, puzzled, Dorothy gave frowning consideration to half a dozen possible explanations. In the end she settled herself in a chair by the window to wait and watch.

Perhaps Mrs. Lennox had merely gone out on some hasty errand, perhaps to a drugstore for some headache medicine and, considering Dorothy as one of the family, had not wished to go to all the trouble of backing Dorothy’s car into the street, then opening the garage and getting out one of the family cars.

By eleven-thirty, Dorothy decided that she’d go to bed. Even if her car had been stolen she couldn’t very well alarm the household now.

And then, just as she had put on her nightgown and was starting for the bed, she saw headlights dance for a moment on the driveway, and heard the purr of the motor.

She stood at the window looking down, saw that the headlights were extinguished as soon as the car had straightened into the driveway. She saw her car crawl up the driveway to the exact spot where she had left it, saw a woman open the door, slip cautiously to the cement, stand for a few moments listening, then, gently easing the door closed, glide back into the shadows of the house.

From below there was not so much as the sound of a closing door, or the tread of a footstep.

The big house was as quiet as the night.

Dorothy stretched out on the bed, tried to sleep, and with each passing minute felt more restless and more uneasy.

She wondered where this woman had taken her car. Had it been merely on a trip to town, or had she gone on some longer jaunt? Dorothy wished she knew.

Then suddenly she realized she had a means of finding out.

Dorothy had kept a log of her trip across the country and one of her reasons for stopping at the gasoline station, and filling the car with gas as she entered Madison City, was so she could tell exactly how much mileage she had been getting to the gallon on the cross-country run. She had started with a full tank and she would finish with a full tank. And so she had a speedometer reading accurate to within approximately one mile.

Impulse got the better of her. She arose, slipped on a housecoat and soft slippers, opened the door, and gently drifted down the wide staircase. A small pencil flashlight in her hand furnished sufficient illumination so that she could see where she was going.

In case she should disturb anyone, she could always say that she had forgotten something in the car.

The house had been massively built with the sturdiness of a prewar era, and had settled to a point where there were no creaking boards. Walking down the carpeted treads of the stairway was easy and noiseless. Then Dorothy crossed the hallway, opened the door to the living room, went through that to the library, and opened the library door which gave access to a side portico which opened directly on the driveway. A moment later she was standing beside the open door of her car.

The flashlight illuminated the face of the speedometer.

The car had only been driven four miles since she had taken the speedometer reading at the gasoline station. Dorothy turned the beam of the flashlight to the back of the car.

Reflected light glittered back from some metallic object on the floor.

Dorothy leaned over the back of the seat.

It was a woman’s purse.

Dorothy tucked the purse under her arm. Quietly as a shadow she re-entered the house, and was halfway up the stairs when she heard the first scream.

That first scream was followed by another and then another.

Lights clicked into brilliance on the upper floor. Dorothy could hear the sound of running feet coming toward the stairs. She realized she was trapped. The screams were coming from a room on the ground floor and on the other side of the house from the library and living room. Dorothy knew vaguely that there were two bedrooms on this side of the house, but hardly knew who slept there.

One more scream sounded from the lower floor, then Moana’s cry of, “Mother!”

Dorothy saw a shadow looming on the wall of the staircase. She turned toward the screams.

Mrs. Lennox, now on the stairway behind her, called out sharply, “Who’s that?”

Dorothy turned to look over her shoulder.

“Oh, Mrs. Lennox, did you hear the scream I... there it is again.”

“Yes,” Mrs. Lennox said. “Hurry. It’s Moana!”

Dorothy ran toward the bedrooms on the west.

Mrs. Lennox, more familiar with the house, rushed past her, clicked on lights, and flung her weight against a door which refused to budge.

“Moana, Moana!” she cried. “Open up! What’s the matter?”

A lock clicked.

Moana Lennox, attired in nightgown and slippers, pointed to an open window. “He must have got in that way,” she said.

“What is it?” Dorothy asked.

“Someone got in the window! See, the screen’s cut.”

“Good heavens, child, look at your room!” Mrs. Lennox exclaimed.

Moana nodded mutely.

Dorothy, in the doorway, surveyed the room, drawer contents dumped on the floor in a pile, the contents of a jewel case spilled on top of the bureau so that the lights glittered from costume jewelry.

“What happened?” Mrs. Lennox asked.

“A burglar!” Moana gasped. “I woke up — he was in the room. I screamed. He ran. I locked the door — and kept screaming, I guess.”

Lights were now coming on in adjoining houses.

“Tell me, my darling, did he hurt you? Did he...”

“He never touched me,” Moana said. “He must have heard me move when something aroused me and I wakened. I had been sleeping very soundly and couldn’t imagine what had awakened me, but I had the feeling someone was in the room... I had almost convinced myself it was just a dream when I heard him move. He was moving toward my bed. I screamed, and screamed again. He ran out through that door. I jumped up out of bed, ran to the door and bolted it so he couldn’t come back. I switched on the light — and then I realized for the first time that I’d been screaming all of that time. I felt like an absolute ninny.”

“Well,” Mrs. Lennox said, peering out of the window at the lights which had flashed on in the neighboring house, “I guess now we’ll have to notify the police. Dorothy, dear, would you mind going to the telephone and calling the police? Ask them to send out a radio car at once. Oh, I see you have a flashlight — and your purse.”

Dorothy said, lamely, “I heard the scream and...”

“You certainly must be a light sleeper,” Mrs. Lennox said, with a peculiar gleam back of the granite in her eyes. “You managed to get on a housecoat, slippers, pick up your purse, find a flashlight, and you must have been well ahead of me. I didn’t see you in the corridor or on the stairs.”

“I came down the stairs just ahead of you.”

“Indeed!” Mrs. Lennox said, acidly. “And now will you please notify the police?”