Calamity Town

Pat’s eyes opened wide.

“You told me how she retreated from the world when Jim left her on their scheduled wedding day several years ago. There’s a deep streak of small-town pride in your sister Nora, Pat. She can’t abide being talked about. If this ever came out?”

“That’s it,” said Pat in a wondering voice. ”I was stupid not to have seen it before. She’s ignoring it, like a child. Close your eyes and you won’t see the bogeyman. You’re right, Ellery. It’s the town she’s afraid of?”

* * *

The Monday evening before Christmas, Mr. Queen was sitting on a stump just beyond the edge of the woods, watching 460 Hill Drive. There was no moon; but it was a still night, and sounds carried crisply and far.

Jim and Nora were at it again.

Mr. Queen chafed his cold hands.

It was about money. Nora was shrill. Where was he spending his money? What had happened to her cameo brooch? “Jim, you’ve got to tell me. This can’t go on. It can’t!”

Jim’s voice was a mutter at first, but then it began to rise, like lava. ”Don’t put me through a third degree!”

Mr. Queen listened intently for something new, a clue to conduct. He heard nothing he had not already learned. Two young people screaming at each other on a winter’s night, while he sat like a fool in the cold and eavesdropped.

He rose from the stump and, skirting the fringe of woods, made for the Wright house and warmth. But then he stopped. The front door of Calamity House?how much apter the phrase seemed these days!?had slammed.

Ellery sprinted through the snow, keeping in the shadows of the big house.

Jim Haight was plowing down the walk unevenly. He jumped into his car.

Ellery ran to the Wright garage. He had an arrangement with Pat Wright: she always left the keys of her convertible in the ignition lock for his use in an emergency.

Jim’s car sloshed down the Hill at a dangerous pace, and Ellery followed. He did not turn on Pat’s headlights; he could see well enough by the lights of Jim’s car.

Route 16 . . . Vic Carlatti’s . . .

It was almost ten o’clock when Jim staggered out of the Hot Spot and got into his car again. By the weave and lurch of the car Ellery knew Jim was very drunk. Was he going home?

No. The turn-off to town. Going into town!

Where?

Jim skidded to a stop before a poor wooden tenement in the heart of Low Village. He reeled into the dark hallway.

A 25-watt bulb burned drearily in the hall; by its light Ellery saw Jim creep up the stairs, knock at a door with a split, paint-blistered panel.

“Jim!” Lola Wright’s exclamation.

The door closed.

Ellery slipped up the stairs, feeling each step for its creaky spot before putting his full weight on it. At the landing he did not hesitate; he went swiftly to Lola’s door and pressed his ear to the thin panel.

“But you got to,” he heard Jim cry. ”Lola, don’ turn me down. ‘M a desp’r’t man. ‘M desp’r’t . . . ”

“But I’ve told you, Jim, I haven’t any money,” said Lola’s cool voice. ”Here, sit down. You’re filthy drunk.”

“So I’m drunk.” Jim laughed.

“What are you desperate about?” Lola was cooing now. ”There?isn’t that more comfortable? Come on, Jim, tell little Lola all about it . . . ”

Haight began to weep. His weeping became muffled, and Ellery knew that his face was pressed to Lola’s breast. Lola’s maternal murmur was indistinct.

But then she gasped, as if in pain, and Ellery almost crashed through the door.

“Jim! You pushed me!”

“All ‘a same! Goo-goo. Tell Lola. Oh, yeah? Take your han’s off me! I’m not tellin’ you anything!”

“Jim, you’d better go home now.”

“Gonna gimme dough or you gonna not gimme dough?”

“But Jim, I told you . . . ”

“Nobody’ll gimme dough! Get in trouble, his own wife won’ shell out. Know what I oughta do? Know what? I oughta?”

“What, Jim?”

“Nothin’. Nothin’ . . . ” His voice trailed. There was a long interval. Apparently Jim had dropped off. Curious, Ellery waited. And then he heard Lola’s faint cry and Jim’s awakening snort.

“I said take your han’s off me!”

“Jim, I wasn’t?you fell asleep?”

“You were s-searchin’ me! What you lookin’ for? Huh?”

“Jim. Don’t . . . do that. You’re hurting me.” Lola’s voice was beautifully controlled.

“I’ll hurt you plen’y! I’ll show you?”

Mr. Queen opened the door.

Lola and Jim were dancing on a worn patch of carpet in the middle of a poor, neat room. His arms were around her, and he was trying drunk-enly to bend her backward. She had the heel of her hand under his chin. His head was far back, his eyes glaring.

“The United States Marines,” sighed Mr. Queen, and he plucked Jim from Lola and sat him down on a sagging sofa. Jim covered his face with his hands. ”Any damage, Lola?”

“No,” panted Lola. ”You are a one! How much did you hear?” She straightened her blouse, fussed with her hair, turned a bit away. She took a bottle of gin from the table and, as if it didn’t matter, put it in a cupboard.

“Just a scuffling,” said Ellery mildly. ”I was coming up to pay you that long-overdue visit. What’s the matter with Jim?”

“Plastered.” Lola gave him her full face now. Composed. ”Poor Nora! I can’t imagine why he came here. Do you suppose the idiot’s fallen in love with me?”

“You ought to be able to answer that yourself,” grinned Ellery. ”Well, Mr. Haight, I think you’d best say nighty-night to your attractive sister-in-law and let your old pal take you home.”

Jim sat there rocking. And then he stopped rocking, and his head flopped. He was asleep doubled up, like a big rag doll with sandy hair.

“Lola,” said Ellery quickly, “what do you know about this business?”

“What business?” Her eyes met his, but they told nothing.

After a moment Ellery smiled. ”No hits, no runs, one error. Someday I’ll fight my way out of this unmerciful fog! Night.”

He slung Jim across his shoulders; Lola held the door open.

“Two cars?”

“His and mine?or rather Pat’s.”

“I’ll drive Jim’s back in the morning. Just leave it parked outside,” said Lola. ”And Mr. Smith?”

“Miss Wright?”

“Call again.”

“Perhaps.”

“Only next time”?Lola smiled?”knock.”

* * *

With unexpected firmness, John F. took command for the family.

“No fuss, Hermy,” he said, waggling his thin forefinger at her. ”This Christmas somebody else does the work.”