A Variety of Weapons. Rufus King

into the grate and stood up. She said, “Good night, my dear. Between now and Friday are five days.”

      “I’m certain I can do a good job on the ocelots before then.”

      Estelle dragged herself back from some thought that was obsessing her. Her eyes were faintly bewildered.

      “The ocelots?”

      “The pictures I’m here to do of them.”

      A flush started slowly at the base of Estelle’s throat and then rose until it colored the soft milk tones of her cheeks.

      “So stupid of me,” she said quietly. “The pictures. Of course.”

      CHAPTER V

      Estelle left behind her an unpleasant note which cooled the room and sifted it with doubts. It was odd, Ann thought, about the pictures. Estelle had unquestionably forgotten them entirely, which placed them in the category of being a device to get her up to Black Tor rather than a reason in themselves. The original charms of arrival were flitting, with the warm friendly welcomes and the swift induction into the status of a cherished old friend. In their place came a sense of oppression, an intangible smothering to snuff out a happy flame.

      The telephone rang.

      Bill said, when Ann answered it, “Ann?”

      “Hello, Bill.”

      “How are you?”

      “I’m fine.”

      “Are you sure?”

      “Perfectly, Bill. Why?”

      “I don’t like your being up there. I’ve wrung it out of Fanny that you knew nothing about the Marlows. The man is a dangerous nut.”

      “No, Bill. I like him. He’s friendly and he’s kind.”

      “So was that agreeable gent who gave his wives the bathtubs. The better to drown them in. His neighbors adored him.”

      “Bill, you’re crazy.”

      “I’m not crazy, but Marlow is. He’s been off his nut ever since his son knifed his wife twenty years ago. I don’t mean Marlow’s wife. She was dead. The son killed his own wife and was electrocuted for it.”

      “Bill!”

      “Marlow believed in his son’s innocence. He and nobody else. It knocked him for a loop and he’s still spinning. This pretty domestic tragedy took place right where you are, my dear. Have you seen the music room? ”

      “No. It’s just beneath me.”

      “The scene of the crime. She was playing Chopin on a spinet. The ivory keys ran red.”

      “Bill!”

      “A factual detail brought out during the trial. There were roads there at the time and gaiety and a happy, carefree social life. Marlow removed the roads after the electrocution and planted them with trees. I want you to know these things because I want you to snap the damned ocelots tomorrow and pack up and beat it.”

      “It still doesn’t make sense. About Marlow’s mania, I mean. Why wouldn’t he want to shut himself up from the world? I tell you he’s kind, Bill. Old, and sick, and kind.”

      “Let me shake your sweet faith with a couple of rumors about the joint. It’s a charnel house.”

      “It’s nothing of the sort.”

      “The Dame has it otherwise. Not only did Marlow believe in his son’s innocence, but he is still trying to prove it. The son’s wife was a Charing from Boston. It explains her fatal delight in spinets. The Charings are the sort who wear blinders against the present and use the past like vampires to nourish their blue anemia. This Alice Charing who got knifed had a corner on the family’s supply of good looks. She knocked men flat. There was nothing wrong about her. She was tops in every way, but unless she had gone about in a thick crepe veil she couldn’t prevent the lads from getting sunstroke. That’s what they claimed.”

      “Who?”

      “The prosecuting attorney. The motive for the crime. Fred Marlow went berserk in a jealous rage. The whole thing was foul, Ann. Alice was going to have a child, and they did a Caesarean and saved it. The mother was already dead.”

      “That’s terrible, Bill. Terrible.”

      “I know it is. It’s why Marlow went cuckoo. He fought like a tiger to clear his son right up to the execution. Then, off and on, things happened.”

      “What things?”

      “This isolation business and a couple of gents who died.”

      “Murdered?”

      “That’s what they whispered over the teacups. One was a boyhood flame of Alice’s, a Jerry Abbott. He’s the one the state claimed drove Fred Marlow into the deed. Abbott was staying at Black Tor at the time of the murder. Abbott came back to Black Tor as a guest of Marlow several months after Fred Marlow was electrocuted. Abbott left Black Tor in a coffin.”

      “Bill!”

      “Well may you exclaim. A hunting accident, my dear. Abbott tripped and blew the top of his head off. But I can promise you that tongues wagged.”

      “How about the other gent?”

      “That was more subtle. A Machiavellian touch. A Boston man by the name of Frank Lawrence. A basket of fruits and pâtés was delivered at his bachelor nest by a messenger boy on Christmas. He lived alone and ate alone, and a jar of foie gras did the trick. They said ptomaine, and he was cremated in jig time in accordance with his known wish. Later, when Lawrence was ashes and the remains of the foie gras sunk wherever it is that Boston dumps its garbage, it was recalled that Lawrence had also been a flame of Alice Marlow’s, as well as having been present at Black Tor on the day of her demise.”

      “It was all coincidence, Bill. Just gossip.”

      “Be that as it may. Black Tor abruptly stopped being considered an Adirondack health spot, especially in the opinion of the late Alice’s former circle of gentlemen friends. It got a Name.”

      “I gather that.”

      “The Abbott-Lawrence deaths bred later rumors, all unpleasant and, I must admit, unconfirmed—they’ve a peach of a lake there where two people were drowned—and the ultimate conclusion remains that Marlow is as crazy as they come.”

      “You ought to get a spot on NBC for bedtime stories.”

      “This is no bedtime story. You pack up in the morning, Ann, and get out of there.”

      “I’m beginning to think that I will. It was all right until Appleby came. More than all right. It was delightful.”

      “Appleby? Appleby!”

      “Yes, Ludwig Appleby.”

      “He’s one of them.”

      “One of what?”

      “One of Alice’s old crowd.”

      “He asked me whether I came from Boston. He asked me whether I knew the Charings.”

      “Ann—you get out tonight.”

      “I can’t!”

      “No, I suppose you can’t. And anyhow it would be Appleby’s neck that was in danger, not yours.”

      “Honestly, Bill! You’re such a comfort.”

      “Well, beat it in the morning. Ocelots or no ocelots. Just forget about it now, dear, and get a good night’s sleep.”

      CHAPTER VI

      Thunder aggravated the nervous and irritable edge of a night that had been divided between fitful sleep and hours of wakefulness in a house where murder and tragedy still left their bitter stamp.

      Ann’s