The Key to Nicholas Street Read online

  “But you have no idea who it was?” Morten persisted.

  They were all sitting up straight and staring at me now, all except Matthew Chaves, and he sat back on the sofa cool as a cucumber, a little smile showing on his lips, and his eyes narrow as a cat’s while he lit a cigarette. He was wearing one of Richard’s sport shirts because he knew I disliked his habit of sitting down to meals in that eternal tee-shirt of his, and while I looked at him the picture of the tee-shirt and the way he lounged there started to blow up bigger and bigger like a bubble in my mind so that I could almost see it getting ready to go pop.

  “Lucille,” Morten said, “I asked you if you had any idea who this man was.”

  “Maybe I do,” I said.

  Morten looked ready to explode. “Then who was it!”

  Matthew blew out a big cloud of smoke. “I suppose,” he said very softly, “Mrs. Ayres hates to disoblige a guest, but I imagine she is referring to me. Isn’t that so, Mrs. Ayres?”

  “Maybe it is,” I said, sickened by him, “and I’ll thank you to remember that you were the one to say it.

  “You mean,” Morten said in a hard voice to Matthew, “you were with the lady when she drove in last night?”

  “Does that surprise you?” Matthew asked.

  Morten thought about this, and then shook his head slowly. “Mister,” he said, “I don’t know much about you, but from what I do know I can’t say I’m very much surprised. I’m only surprised that you don’t understand what this means or how serious it can be.”

  I half expected Matthew to flare up at this, but his voice was calm and controlled.

  “All right,” he said, “I was with Miss Ballou when she drove up. I met her when she came across in the ferry, and she offered me a lift. But I didn’t go into her house with her. We talked a while in the car, and then she put the car into the garage and went into the house alone.”

  “Alone?” Morten asked, and Matthew said, with a little edge in his voice now, “Quite alone.”

  “Well now,” said Morten, “it’s too bad the lady isn’t here herself to verify that. Though, of course,” he added, “if she was, all this wouldn’t be necessary, would it?”

  “If what you’re getting at,” Matthew said, “is that it would be better for me all around to suddenly pull a witness out of my hat I suppose I’ll have to oblige.” He leveled his eyes at Bettina, who sat rigid. “Betty, have I been telling the truth?”

  I’ve seen pictures in the newsreel of how a crowd looks when it watches a tennis ball hit across the net, everyone’s head swinging around as if they were all hypnotized. And that is how we must have looked there with everyone’s head turning at the same time toward Bettina.

  She looked at Matthew and then looked away from him as if hating the sight of him, and finally she said, so that you could hardly hear her, “Yes.”

  I could imagine Morten’s feelings. He had been going along very nicely, and now here he was being pulled up short by Bettina again.

  “You mean you saw the lady go into the house alone?” he prodded, and Bettina nodded her head.

  He huffed and puffed away on that pipe of his for a few seconds, and then suddenly said to Bettina, “Where were you when this was happening?”

  “In the kitchen.”

  “At twelve o’clock midnight?”

  “I,” she stopped short and you could see Morten’s suspicions fairly simmer. She cleared her throat. “I was hungry. I had gone down for a bite.”

  “And you saw the car come in?”

  “Yes.”

  “And the lady and the young man here, they were talking?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well now,” said Morten uncomfortably, “maybe you could hear what they were saying.”

  Bettina sat up sharp at that. “I don’t know what they were talking about,” she said angrily.

  You don’t bring up a child for twenty-two years without getting to know her pretty well, and Bettina was never a girl who could tell a lie without having it written all over her.

  “Bettina!” I said.

  The look she gave me was like a slap in the face. “Stay out of this!” she said furiously. “Just stay out of this!”

  I had barely opened my mouth to tell her what I thought of her carrying on like this when Morten waved his hand.

  “So you didn’t hear what they said,” he told Bettina. “But then what happened?”

  “Matt—Mr. Chaves—got out of the car, and Miss Ballou drove it into the garage.”

  “Yes?”

  “Then she came out of the garage, and they talked a little more, and then she went into the house.”

  “Her house?”

  “Yes.”

  “And the young man?”

  “He came into the kitchen. Our kitchen, I mean. I let him in.”

  “Oh?” said Morten, and gave me a quick look as if warning me, as well he might.

  “I called him,” Bettina went on in a rush. “While they were standing there just before she went in I leaned out of the window and called his name. So he came in.”

  Which meant, I saw on the spot, that he must have spent the night right there under my own roof. It wasn’t the first time, of course, but it certainly was the first time he had dared do it without even a by-your-leave from me. And then I found myself facing the dreadful thought that maybe there had been other times like this, times I hadn’t known about. He was capable of anything, and Bettina had been acting so unlike herself lately that it was hard to tell what she was capable of.

  Well, there was no misreading the look on Morten’s face, and no doubt about what was ticking away behind those pale eyes of his, knowing the way he and May brought up theirs. So I quickly said, “Mr. Chaves is always welcome here, Morten. I told him he could drop in any time he wished,” hoping Morten would understand the difference between that and a young man’s calmly walking in to be alone with a girl at all hours of the night.

  Morten’s expression was that of a man who had been handed some kind of queer new dish to try at the dinner table and doesn’t know whether he should or not.

  “This is all very interesting,” he said to Bettina doubtfully, “but you don’t mind my saying, Bettina, it sounds a little …” He waved his hand around, hunting for a word, “A little neat. A young man is in a very serious position, and then it turns out here is someone to tell the story which makes everything good for him.” He leaned forward toward her. “You know, Bettina, sometimes we think we are doing a favor for someone …”

  “If you mean that she’s lying, Morten,” Harry said suddenly, “I can tell you that she isn’t.”

  Morten looked at him. “No?”

  “No. I came home a little after this, and when I put the car away I could see quite clearly that she and Matthew were talking together at the kitchen table. There couldn’t be any question about it.”

  “Oh,” Morten said, and there was disappointment written all over him. For my part, I was furious at Harry. Rather than let his daughter be accused of a simple lie he had to step in and make sure her reputation would be torn to rags. That was the Ayres way, all right, using a scythe to trim your whiskers.

  “Well now,” Morten finally said, “maybe we can go ahead and look into this from a different angle. We’ll let it go now that no one went into the house with the lady, at least so that we know. But maybe we can find out if somebody knocked at the door or rang the bell, and she let him in.”

  There was such a silence at this that I could feel it singing in my ears. Morten waited for a long time, and then took a deep breath. “Then maybe,” he said, “we’ll have to go to the last possibility. Somebody could have a key and let himself in. At least one key I know about,” he nodded at Junie, “and that is the one the lady gave you.”

  Junie’s eyes opened like a china doll’s.

  “I never!” she yelped. “I didn’t set a foot out of the house all night! Why, I swear …!”

  “And you had the key with you all the tim
e?”

  “If you think I gave that key to somebody, Mr. Ten Eyck,” Junie said very indignantly, “so that he could go out and murder that poor woman, I can tell you I did not! Why, I …”

  “Are you the only one who has a key?” Morten said sharply, and Junie seemed to shrink right down in her chair while I looked at her. No wonder, the way he barked at her.

  “Morten,” I said, “why you expect the girl to be able to answer that, I don’t know. If Miss Ballou felt obliged to give her house key to anyone else that would be Miss Ballou’s business ….”

  “Oh,” he snapped, very sarcastically, “maybe I ought to go ask Miss Ballou about it?”

  “If you’re going to act like that,” I told him, but I was sick inside. In that Dutch stubborn way he had his teeth in something and wasn’t going to let go until he was good and ready.

  “Is there anyone here who knows about other keys to that door?” he said grimly, and waited.

  There was another one of those ear-ringing silences, and then Matthew Chaves reached into his pocket, pulled out a key chain, and slipped a key from it.

  “I have one,” he said, and held it up. “But I don’t suppose I’ll be needing it any more,” he said, so callously that it would make your blood run cold, and then he tossed the key to Morten.

  Morten’s jaws set like a trap. He looked down at the key, and then up at Matthew. “Interesting,” he said. “Very interesting.”

  “I’ve had it since the first time I visited Miss Ballou last year,” Matthew said. “It hasn’t been used since then.”

  “Do you think I should believe that?” Morten asked softly.

  Matthew smiled that hard little smile. “Yes,” he said, “I think you should believe it. But to tell the truth, I don’t think it matters very much whether you do or not.”

  “You don’t?” Morten said as pleasantly and politely as if this were just some nice little discussion he was holding. “Why not?”

  “Because,” said Matthew, “I think you’re a man who starts with a conclusion, and then fits in the details to justify it. In that case, I can’t see where one little detail, more or less, is going to bother you.”

  Morten’s face was beet-red, but he controlled himself admirably.

  “Mister,” he said to Matthew, “sometimes a man feels that people are always stepping on his toes. Sometimes he might even be right about it. But if he’s smart he’d know that all he has to do is stop shoving his legs out in everybody’s way.”

  “I’ll bear that in mind,” Matthew said.

  Morten paid no heed to that, but held the key up so that we could all see it. “I would like to know,” he said, “if there are any more of these around.”

  My mind was going round and round then like a squirrel in one of those treadmill things. There was another key to Katherine Ballou’s door, all right. It was the one on Harry’s own key chain, the one I found after I knew how things were between them. And from the look on Harry’s face, and the way he was dragging his fingers across his forehead as if to straighten out his thoughts I could tell he was torturing himself wondering what to say or do.

  If he had an ounce of the sense every human being is supposed to be born with there wouldn’t have been any question in his mind. Just mentioning that key could lead to questions and talk that would spill the whole filthy business into the town’s lap, the very thing I had dreaded all these months. Maybe, I thought, if I spoke up and said that she had given me the key to look in on the house now and then while she was away, and I had turned it over to Harry for safekeeping, well, it might steer Morten off that particular track. But then I knew I couldn’t. I’d just open my mouth, and Morten might have me so twisted and tangled in a minute that it would be worse than ever. All I could do really was just pray for a miracle that would stop Harry from popping right out with it, and maybe because it was Sunday, and because the prayer poured right out of my heart with such feeling, the good Lord answered it.

  The front door slammed open so hard we all jumped, and Richard walked in looking bewildered and furious.

  “People walking all over our lawn as if they owned it,” he said, “and sitting on our front steps like a town meeting. What’s going on here, anyhow!” he demanded.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  It was Morten who spoke first before any of us could get a word in. He has always had a great fondness for Richard, even going so far as to tell me once how much he thought of Richard’s good manners and the way he knows his place around adults. It is ironic that he then went on to attribute this to Harry’s good work in bringing up the boy, because if anything marked their relationship it was the fact that with every passing year Harry drew further and further away from his son. Luckily, Richard did not have the sort of high-strung, moody nature that Bettina had, or he might have suffered from this a good deal. As it was, he was always a quiet, placid child, content to be with his books and music or whatever else was his interest of the moment, always a good student, and always conscientious about whatever little household duties I assigned him. What with a household to care for, I never had much time for reading myself, but I was never at a loss to find some little topic to discuss with Richard, or some little adventure to share with him, and, as my sister, Edna, once remarked, “Lucky for the boy he’s got someone to play both father and mother to him, Lucille. And a crying shame that Harry is willing to let it go at that.”

  Well, a crying shame it was, and even more so that the one time Harry showed consideration for his children had to be when his own guilty secret came out. “They mustn’t know, Lucille,” he told me. “They mustn’t ever know!” As if he had the right to even mention them to me at that moment!

  And did he think I’d go right out and blab to them something that made me sick to even think about? If Bettina had not forced me to it she would never have known, and Richard never did know. Would not have known about that woman’s death next door, either, if I could have had my say, although that was clearly impossible, what with the excitement stirred up, and with the way Morten was acting up.

  “Well now,” Morten said to Richard, “where have you been all morning?”

  “Where?” Richard said. “Right after breakfast I went for a walk, that’s where. And then I went straight to church, but nobody here showed up, so I came back to find out what was wrong. And what is wrong?” he demanded of Morten.

  So Morten told him. And though it couldn’t have taken more than three minutes to tell the whole thing, it could not have sounded uglier. Richard dropped numbly into the chair next to mine, and then got paler and paler as Morten talked so that I was sure he was going to faint away right at my feet.

  “Dick,” I said to him, “if you’d go right upstairs …”

  “No,” he said, and turned to Morten. “But there was a strange man outside Miss Ballou’s side door last night,” he said. “And I know, because I saw him.”

  Morten’s eyes lit up. “A strange man?” he said eagerly. “You saw him?”

  “I was in the garage. My record player broke down so I went to get some tools and stuff to fix it with, and while I was hunting around for them I heard some footsteps right outside. When I looked out I could see somebody, a man, right by Miss Ballou’s side door, monkeying around with it. So I stepped out and just started to say something to him …”

  “Who was he?” Morten said impatiently, and Richard shook his head.

  “I don’t know. He just took one look at me and ran. Left me standing there wondering what it was all about. Then I took a look at the door to see if he had broken it open or anything, and it was all right. The only thing to notice was that a note was shoved into the door, but I figured it was none of my business so I left it alone.”

  “Did he put the note there?” Morten asked.

  “Maybe he did, but I couldn’t say for sure. It was dark, around ten o’clock, and I couldn’t see what he looked like or what he was doing very well. All I could see was that he was big, and that he could run like a st
reak. I’m a good runner, Mr. Ten Eyck, but just watching the way he took off I knew there wasn’t a chance in the world of getting near him, so I didn’t even bother.”

  “And thank God for that,” I told him.

  Morten suddenly snatched up the piece of paper he had laid on the floor with the other stuff when he first sat down.

  “But could this be the note you saw in the door?” he demanded, holding it up.

  Richard frowned. “I don’t know, Mr. Ten Eyck. I don’t see how I could tell for sure. I didn’t read it, or look at it very closely, and from where I was I guess one piece of paper would look pretty much like any other piece of paper.”

  Morten shoved the paper at him. “Here,” he said, “you read it now. Maybe something about it, maybe the handwriting, will tell you for sure who wrote it.”

  Richard studied the paper carefully, and then shook his head. “I’m sorry, Mr. Ten Eyck, it doesn’t mean a thing to me.”

  Morten looked disappointed, and then, as if a startling thought had hit him, turned to Matthew.

  “You say you saw the lady go into the house. Was this paper on the door then? Did you see her take it out of the door when she went in?”

  “I wasn’t near that door,” Matthew said. “I told Miss Ballou good night in the middle of the driveway.”

  Morten took the note from Richard and handed it to Matthew. “Or maybe,” he said grimly, “you know this handwriting?”

  Matthew barely looked at it, and shrugged. “It isn’t mine,” he said.

  “Then pass it around,” Morten said sharply, waving his hand toward the rest of us. “And I ask you all, please, if you have any idea who wrote it, say so right out.”

  Harry glanced at the note as quickly as Matthew had, shook his head, and held the paper out to me. It was cheap paper, and looked as if it had been torn carelessly out of a pad. The bottom edge was ragged, and the two lines of writing on the sheet were done in a clumsy, backhanded script that looked as if it were dug right into the paper.