“Oh, Denton, I must get away from here!”
“Harriet? Where is ‘here?’ You must tell me so I can understand. Where do you live?”
The question revived the memory of a smiling old lady in the pavilion by the lake.
“And what is your name, dear?” And she spoke the answer aloud, as if she were back there now, staring up into the lady’s face, “My name is Harriet Winger and I live at 82 Canterbury Drive.”
As if bemused by the childlike, singsong reply, Denton laughed softly. “That’s better, dear. You sound much calmer now. It must be terribly difficult for you, all alone with your Uncle Emil to take care of... and very expensive, I shouldn’t wonder?”
“Oh, he’s rich. He pretends not to be, but he doesn’t fool me. There’s ever so much money hidden around the house. And all those gold watches and gold coins. His precious collection. Always drooling over it, he is.”
“But what do you live on, dear?”
“The bank used to send a check every month,” she explained, warming to Denton’s interest. How wonderful it was to find a friend who understood! “But I never cashed them and now Mr. Hopson brings the money and puts it in the mailbox.”
Mentioning Mr. Hopson’s name suddenly brought the cottage to mind, reawakening an instinct of pleasure long forgotten. The cottage! It must still be there. She remembered dimly being pestered by some other creature from the bank who wanted her to sell it, but she had refused. And now it came to her as the answer to a prayer.
“I’ll move out to the cottage on the lake,” she confided to Denton. “Just Piper and I. It’s this house, I know it is. Piper will be his old self again once we’re at the cottage.”
She became aware that Denton was speaking. “...a perfectly divine idea, dear. But I can’t believe you’re really serious about — you know. A nice refined lady like you? How could you possibly kill Uncle Emil?”
“With his medicine! I’ll put something in his medicine.” She darted a look toward the bedroom door, then hugged the phone to her head, whispering softly, “It’s called arsenic. It’s in a glass jar in the cellar.”
“Now Harriet, you mustn’t do anything rash. Someone might come to the house—”
“I told you. Nobody ever comes.”
“Perhaps if I came to see you — we could talk about it.”
This provoked a panicky response. “Oh, no. Never. Uncle Emil would have a fit. The last man who came calling on me was all but thrown bodily out of the house.” Now what was his name? Gordon? George? She couldn’t even remember what he looked like.
“But didn’t you say your uncle is an invalid? I’m sure he couldn’t—”
“He just pretends not to be able to walk. He doesn’t fool me. I hear him at night when I’m in bed. Roaming all around the house. He just makes believe he’s helpless so I’ll wait on him hand and foot. He’s been doing it for years.”
Denton assured her that he understood her predicament but urged her not to do anything until they’d had more time to talk about it. “You sound awfully tired now, Harriet. Why don’t you try to get a good night’s sleep and then call me again tomorrow night.”
She was tired. Dreadfully tired. She had forgotten what a strain the most casual social intercourse could place on the mind. It had been so long since she had had an understanding friend to confide her troubles to.
Denton made himself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich for dinner the following night, which might have been barely palatable if good old Gary hadn’t balked at bringing any more beer into the house. Or food either, for that matter. Peggy’s bright idea, no doubt. “Starve the bum out,” was no doubt her advice. And to think it was he who had introduced Gary to her.
Now he was left with no choice but to move out. Only you can’t move out without somewhere to move in. Not that Gary cared about that. Fair-weather friends. They were all alike. Denton had relieved his boredom these last few nights by listening to Desperate Harriet but had not seriously given any thought to how he might exploit the situation. It was all too bizarre. But now he kept thinking about what she had let drop about all those gold watches, gold coins, and money hidden in the house. Could it be true? And was she really all alone there except for an invalid uncle?
Denton, to be fair, had never actually stooped to out-and-out thievery, but then he had never been quite so desperate himself. Besides, what good was money to a fruitcake like Harriet and her bedridden uncle? She’d no doubt be carted away once Uncle Emil was dead and whatever money there was would probably find its way into some crummy nursing home or crooked lawyer’s pockets.
He decided there was only one way to find out how much of Harriet’s blather might be true, and having scrounged enough change from Gary’s clothes and bureau drawers to cover cab fare, he set out for Canterbury Drive in a light rain shower.
He got out at the end of the street, turned up his coat collar, and proceeded to look for number 82. The area was one of once majestic old dwellings just east of Delevan Park which had been converted to doctors’ offices, headquarters for various charities, and apartments. Number 82 stood like a forgotten relic among all the others. An iron-railed fence supporting great raggedy clumps of overgrown rhododendrons bordered the property. It was an almost comically spooky old place and as Denton crept through the gate and along the winding sidewalk he would have sworn no one could possibly still reside there, it projected such a dismal air of decay and neglect. Even in broad daylight it would have presented a forbidding aspect with its vine-covered brick walls and tall arched windows.
That it was not in fact abandoned became clear when he spotted a dim light in one of the upper windows. He checked his watch. It was one hour past midnight. He circled the house and with the cautious use of his flashlight confirmed that all the doors were locked. Having done that he wasn’t sure what course to pursue. Had there been more than the one light visible he might have boldly rung the doorbell just to see what would happen. He could always say he was looking for some non-existent neighbor. But having observed the extreme neglect of the premises he was now inclined to believe Harriet’s story of living alone in the mansion with Uncle Emil.
A sudden increase in the rain’s force decided him. Discovering a broken windowpane in the enclosed back porch he managed to dislodge it, stick his hand in, and raise the window. Once inside he found the door into the house itself easy to jimmy open. He found himself in a sort of pantry and after listening for a minute or so he proceeded to explore.
Suddenly he froze. Tap-tap-tap. Tap-tap-tap. From somewhere in the rooms beyond he heard it and recalled Harriet’s bitter mimicking of this sound that had so disturbed her. And no wonder. It twisted his own nerves into a knot. But as it plainly came from the upper regions of the house he felt safe in progressing beyond the kitchen into a wide dark-paneled hall. He stifled a gasp as his foot collided with something bulky, and flashing his light downward he saw that it was an untidy bundle of faded newspapers, a number of which littered the floor; they struck a discordant note as his light glanced off tall gilt-framed mirrors and along the dusty surface of cold white marble. That the house could indeed be a treasure trove filled him with a nerve-tingling excitement.
He moved stealthily into the other rooms, occasionally recoiling as invisible cobwebs trailed wispily across his face, and gradually his nostrils grew accustomed to a pervasive odor of decomposition. Not the ripe, sickening aroma of recent decay but more a stale, lingering accumulation of years. Advancing into the dining room his light presently came to rest on the ornate birdcage.