Ellery Queen's Magicians of Mystery, page 2
My first warning of something amiss came from the sheep—from the sudden sound of their bells clanging wildly and then a baa-ing which suggested an assault by a whole pack of wolves. I heard Hugh say, “Damn!” loudly and angrily, and I opened my eyes to see something more incongruous than wolves. It was a large black poodle in the full glory of a clownish haircut, a bright red collar, and an ecstasy of high spirits as he chased the frightened sheep around the lawn. It was clear the poodle had no intention of hurting them—he probably found them the most wonderful playmates imaginable—but it was just as clear that the panicky ewes didn’t understand this, and would very likely end up in the river before the fun was over.
In the bare second it took me to see all this, Hugh had already leaped the low terrace wall and was among the sheep, herding them away from the water’s edge, and shouting commands at the dog who had different ideas.
“Down, boy!” he yelled. “Down!” And then as he would to one of his own hounds, he sternly commanded, “Heel!”
He would have done better, I thought, to have picked up a stick or stone and made a threatening gesture, since the poodle paid no attention whatever to Hugh’s words. Instead, continuing to bark happily, the poodle made for the sheep again, this time with Hugh in futile pursuit. An instant later the dog was frozen into immobility by a voice from among the aspens near the edge of the lawn.
“Asseyez!” the voice called breathlessly. “Asseyez-vous!”
Then the man appeared, a small, dapper figure trotting across the grass. Hugh stood waiting, his face darkening as we watched.
Elizabeth squeezed my arm. “Let’s get down there,” she whispered. “Hugh doesn’t like being made a fool of.”
We got there in time to hear Hugh open his big guns. “Any man,” he was saying, “who doesn’t know how to train an animal to its place shouldn’t own one.”
The man’s face was all polite attention. It was a good face, thin and intelligent, and webbed with tiny lines at the corners of the eyes. There was also something behind those eyes that couldn’t quite be masked. A gentle mockery. A glint of wry perception turned on the world like a camera lens. It was nothing anyone like Hugh would have noticed, but it was there all the same, and I found myself warming to it on the spot. There was also something tantalizingly familiar about the newcomer’s face, his high forehead, and his thinning gray hair, but much as I dug into my memory during Hugh’s long and solemn lecture I couldn’t come up with an answer. The lecture ended with a few remarks on the best methods of dog training, and by then it was clear that Hugh was working himself into a mood of forgiveness.
“As long as there’s no harm done,” he said—
The man nodded soberly. “Still, to get off on the wrong foot with one’s new neighbors—”
Hugh looked startled. “Neighbors?” he said almost rudely. “You mean that you live around here?”
The man waved toward the aspens. “On the other side of those woods.”
“The Dane house?” The Dane house was almost as sacred to Hugh as Hilltop, and he had once explained to me that if he were ever offered a chance to buy the place he would snap it up. His tone now was not so much wounded as incredulous. “I don’t believe it!” he exclaimed.
“Oh, yes,” the man assured him, “the Dane house. I performed there at a party many years ago, and always hoped that someday I might own it.”
It was the word “performed” which gave me my clue—that and the accent barely perceptible under the precise English. He had been born and raised in Marseilles—that would explain the accent—and long before my time he had already become a legend.
“You’re Raymond, aren’t you?” I said, “Charles Raymond.”
“I prefer Raymond alone.” He smiled in deprecation of his own small vanity. “And I am flattered that you recognize me.”
I don’t believe he really was. Raymond the Magician, Raymond the Great, would, if anything, expect to be recognized wherever he went. As the master of sleight of hand who had paled Thurston’s star, as the escape artist who had almost outshone Houdini, Raymond would not be inclined to underestimate himself.
He had started with the standard box of tricks which makes up the repertoire of most professional magicians; he had gone far beyond that to those feats of escape which, I suppose, are known to us all by now. The lead casket sealed under a foot of lake ice, the welded-steel strait jackets, the vaults of the Bank of England, the exquisite suicide knot which noosed throat and doubled legs together so that the motion of a leg draws the noose tighter around the throat—all these Raymond had known and escaped from. And then at the pinnacle of fame he had dropped from sight and his name had become relegated to the past.
When I asked him why, he shrugged.
“A man works for money or for the love of his work. If he has all the wealth he needs and has no more love for his work, why go on?”
“But to give up a great career—” I protested.
“It was enough to know that the house was waiting here.”
“You mean,” Elizabeth said, “that you never intended to live anyplace but here?”
“Never—not once in all these years.” He laid a finger along his nose and winked broadly at us. “Of course, I made no secret of this to the Dane estate, and when the time came to sell I was the first and only one approached.”
“You don’t give up an idea easily,” Hugh said in an edged voice.
Raymond laughed. “Idea? It became an obsession really. Over the years I traveled to many parts of the world, but no matter how fine the place, I knew it could not be as fine as that house on the edge of the woods there, with the river at its feet and the hills beyond. Someday, I would tell myself, when my travels are done I will come here, and, like Candide, cultivate my garden.”
He ran his hand abstractedly over the poodle’s head and looked around with an air of great satisfaction. “And now,” he said, “here I am.”
Here he was, indeed, and it quickly became clear that his arrival was working a change on Hilltop. Or, since Hilltop was so completely a reflection of Hugh, it was clear that a change was being worked on Hugh. He became irritable and restless, and more aggressively sure of himself than ever. The warmth and good nature were still there—they were as much part of him as his arrogance—but he now had to work a little harder at them. He reminded me of a man who is bothered by a speck in the eye, but can’t find it, and must get along with it as best he can.
Raymond, of course, was the speck, and I got the impression at times that he rather enjoyed the role. It would have been easy enough for him to stay close to his own house and cultivate his garden, or paste up his album, or whatever retired performers do, but he evidently found that impossible. He had a way of drifting over to Hilltop at odd times, just as Hugh was led to find his way to the Dane house and spend long and troublesome sessions there.
Both of them must have known that they were so badly suited to each other that the easy and logical solution would have been to stay apart. But they had the affinity of negative and positive forces, and when they were in a room together the crackling of the antagonistic current between them was so strong you could almost see it in the air.
Any subject became a point of contention for them, and they would duel over it bitterly: Hugh armored and weaponed with his massive assurance, Raymond flicking away with a rapier, trying to find a chink in the armor. I think that what annoyed Raymond most was the discovery that there was no chink in the armor. As someone with an obvious passion for searching out all sides to all questions, and for going deep into motives and causes, he was continually being outraged by Hugh’s single-minded way of laying down the law.
He didn’t hesitate to let Hugh know that. “You are positively medieval,” he said. “And of all things men should have learned since that time, the biggest is that there are no easy answers, no solutions one can give with a snap of the fingers. I can only hope for you that someday you may be forced with the perfect dilemma, the unanswerable question. You would find that a revelation. You would learn more in that minute than you dreamed possible.”
And Hugh did not make matters any better when he coldly answered: “And I say that for any man with a brain and the courage to use it there is no such thing as a perfect dilemma.”
It may be that this was the sort of episode that led to the trouble that followed, or it may be that Raymond acted out of the most innocent and esthetic motives possible. But, whatever the motives, the results were inevitable and dangerous.
They grew from the project Raymond outlined for us in great detail one afternoon. Now that he was living in the Dane house he had discovered that it was too big, too overwhelming. “Like a museum,” he explained. “I find myself wandering through it like a lost soul through endless galleries.”
The grounds also needed landscaping. The ancient trees were handsome, but, as Raymond put it, there were just too many of them. “Literally,” he said, “I cannot see the river for the trees, and I am one devoted to the sight of running water.”
Altogether there would be drastic changes. Two wings of the house would come down, the trees would be cleared away to make a broad aisle to the water, the whole place would be enlivened. It would no longer be a museum, but the perfect home he had envisioned over the years.
At the start of this recitative Hugh was slouched comfortably in his chair. Then as Raymond drew the vivid picture of what was to be, Hugh sat up straighter and straighter until he was as rigid as a trooper in the saddle. His lips compressed. His face became blood-red. His hands clenched and unclenched in a slow, deadly rhythm. Only a miracle was restraining him from an open outburst, but it was not the kind of miracle to last. I saw from Elizabeth’s expression that she understood this, too, but was as helpless as I to do anything about it. And when Raymond, after painting the last glowing strokes of his description, said complacently, “Well, now, what do you think?” there was no holding Hugh.
He leaned forward with deliberation and said, “Do you really want to know what I think?”
“Now, Hugh,” Elizabeth said in alarm. “Please, Hugh—”
He brushed that aside.
“Do you really want to know?” he demanded of Raymond.
Raymond frowned. “Of course.”
“Then I’ll tell you,” Hugh said. He took a deep breath. “I think that nobody but a damned iconoclast could even conceive the atrocity you’re proposing. I think you’re one of those people who takes pleasure in smashing apart anything that’s stamped with tradition or stability. You’d kick the props from under the whole world if you could!”
“I beg your pardon,” Raymond said. He was very pale and angry. “But I think you are confusing change with destruction. Surely, you must comprehend that I do not intend to destroy anything, but only wish to make some necessary changes.”
“Necessary?” Hugh gibed. “Rooting up a fine stand of trees that’s been there for centuries? Ripping apart a house that’s as solid as a rock? I call it wanton destruction.”
“I’m afraid I do not understand. To refresh a scene, to reshape it—”
“I have no intention of arguing,” Hugh cut in. “I’m telling you straight out that you don’t have the right to tamper with that property!”
They were on their feet now, facing each other truculently, and the only thing that kept me from being really frightened was the conviction that Hugh would not become violent, and that Raymond was far too level-headed to lose his temper. Then the threatening moment was magically past. Raymond’s lips suddenly quirked in amusement, and he studied Hugh with courteous interest.
“I see,” he said. “I was quite stupid not to have understood at once. This property, which, I remarked, was a little too much like a museum, is to remain that way, and I am to be its custodian. A caretaker of the past, one might say, a curator of its relics.”
He shook his head smilingly. “But I am afraid I am not quite suited to that role. I lift my hat to the past, it is true, but I prefer to court the present. For that reason I will go ahead with my plans, and hope they do not make an obstacle to our friendship.”
I remember thinking, when I left next day for the city and a long, hot week at my desk, that Raymond had carried off the affair very nicely, and that, thank God, it had gone no further than it did. So I was completely unprepared for Elizabeth’s call at the end of the week.
It was awful, she said. It was the business of Hugh and Raymond and the Dane house, but worse than ever. She was counting on my coming down to Hilltop the next day; there couldn’t be any question about that. She had planned a way of clearing up the whole thing, but I simply had to be there to back her up. After all, I was one of the few people Hugh would listen to, and she was depending on me.
“Depending on me for what?” I said. I didn’t like the sound of it. “And as for Hugh’s listening to me, Elizabeth, isn’t that stretching it a good deal? I can’t see him wanting my advice on his personal affairs.”
“If you’re going to be touchy about it—”
“I’m not touchy about it,” I retorted. “I just don’t like getting mixed up in this thing. Hugh’s quite capable of taking care of himself.”
“Maybe too capable.”
“And what does that mean?”
“Oh, I can’t explain now,” she wailed. “I’ll tell you everything tomorrow. And, darling, if you have any brotherly feelings you’ll be here on the morning train. Believe me, it’s serious.”
I arrived on the morning train in a bad state. My imagination is one of the over-active kind that can build a cosmic disaster out of very little material, and by the time I arrived at the house I was prepared for almost anything.
But, on the surface, at least, all was serene. Hugh greeted me warmly, Elizabeth was her cheerful self, and we had an amiable lunch and a long talk which never came near the subject of Raymond or the Dane house. I said nothing about Elizabeth’s phone call, but thought of it with a steadily growing sense of outrage until I was alone with her.
“Now,” I said, “I’d like an explanation of all this mystery. The Lord knows what I expected to find out here, but it certainly wasn’t anything I’ve seen so far. And I’d like some accounting for the bad time you’ve given me since that call.”
“All right,” she said grimly, “and that’s what you’ll get. Come along.”
She led the way on a long walk through the gardens and past the stables and outbuildings. Near the private road which lay beyond the last grove of trees she suddenly said, “When the car drove you up to the house didn’t you notice anything strange about this road?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“I suppose not. The driveway to the house turns off too far away from here. But now you’ll have a chance to see for yourself.”
I did see for myself. A chair was set squarely in the middle of the road and on the chair sat a stout man placidly reading a magazine. I recognized the man at once: he was one of Hugh’s stable hands, and he had the patient look of someone who has been sitting for a long time and expects to sit a good deal longer. It took me only a second to realize what he was there for, but Elizabeth wasn’t leaving anything to my deductive powers. When we walked over to him, the man stood up and grinned at us.
“William,” Elizabeth said, “would you mind telling my brother what instructions Mr. Lozier gave you?”
“Sure,” the man said cheerfully. “Mr. Lozier told us there was always supposed to be one of us sitting right here, and any truck we saw that might be carrying construction stuff or suchlike for the Dane house was to be stopped and turned back. All we had to do is tell them it’s private property and they were trespassing. If they laid a finger on us we just call in the police. That’s the whole thing.”
“Have you turned back any trucks?” Elizabeth asked for my benefit.
The man looked surprised. “Why, you know that, Mrs. Lozier. There was a couple of them the first day we were out here, and that was all. There wasn’t any fuss either,” he explained to me. “None of those drivers wants to monkey with trespass.”
When we were away from the road again I clapped my hand to my forehead. “It’s incredible!” I said. “Hugh must know he can’t get away with this. That road is the only one to the Dane place, and it’s been in public use so long that it isn’t even a private thoroughfare any more!”
Elizabeth nodded. “And that’s exactly what Raymond told Hugh a few days back. He came over here in a fury, and they had quite an argument about it. And when Raymond said something about hauling Hugh off to court, Hugh answered that he’d be glad to spend the rest of his life in litigation over this business. But that wasn’t the worst of it. The last thing Raymond said was that Hugh ought to know that force only invites force, and ever since then I’ve been expecting a war to break out here any minute. Don’t you see? That man blocking the road is a constant provocation, and it scares me.”
I could understand that. And the more I considered the matter, the more dangerous it looked.
“But I have a plan,” Elizabeth said eagerly, “and that’s why I wanted you here. I’m having a dinner party tonight, a very small, informal dinner party. It’s to be a sort of peace conference. You’ll be there, and Dr. Wynant—Hugh likes you both a great deal—and,” she hesitated, “Raymond.”
“No!” I said. “You mean he’s actually coming?”
“I went over to see him yesterday and we had a long talk. I explained everything to him—about neighbors being able to sit down and come to an understanding, and about brotherly love and—oh, it must have sounded dreadfully inspirational and sticky, but it worked. He said he would be there.”
I had a foreboding. “Does Hugh know about this?”
“About the dinner? Yes.”
“I mean about Raymond’s being there.”
“No, he doesn’t.” And then when she saw me looking hard at her, she burst out defiantly with, “Well, something had to be done, and I did it, that’s all! Isn’t it better than just sitting and waiting for God knows what?”
Until we were all seated around the dining-room table that evening I might have conceded the point. Hugh had been visibly shocked by Raymond’s arrival, but then, apart from a sidelong glance at Elizabeth which had volumes written in it, he managed to conceal his feelings well enough. He had made the introductions gracefully, kept up his end of the conversation, and, all in all, did a creditable job of playing host.
