The houseman had not returned with the Mercedes after taking the twins home, but there were three other cars. She climbed into the Rolls; it would not start. The Caddy was equally dead. So was the Jeep.
Something, she thought, is mysteriously wrong. The houseman would blame it on the KGB or acid rain.
Resolutely she marched back to the house and confronted her husband in his study, where he was locked in with computer, briefcase, and dictating machine. He listened to her incredible story, sighed, then went to inspect the situation, while Mrs. Hopple did a few deep-breathing exercises to restore her equanimity.
“Nothing wrong,” he said when he returned. “The cars start, and the doors open. I think you need a change of scene, sweetheart. We’ll go out to dinner tonight. Wear your new Saint Laurent, and we’ll go to the club. Suzette can give the boy his dinner.”
“We can’t, darling. We’re having strawberries Chantilly, and I promised Donald.”
So the Hopples stayed home and enjoyed an old-fashioned family evening. Dinner was served on the terrace, followed by croquet on the lawn and corn-popping over hot coals in the outdoor fireplace. Donald made no mention of Whiskers, and his parents made no inquiries.
Early Sunday morning, when the June sunrise and chattering birds were trying to rouse everyone at an abnormal hour, the telephone rang at Hopplewood Farm.
Mr. Hopple rose sleepily on an elbow and squinted at the digital clock radio.“Four-thirty! Who would call at this ungodly hour?”
Mrs. Hopple sat up in bed.“It’s five twenty-five by the old clock on the mantel. There’s been another power failure.”
Her husband cleared his throat and picked up the receiver.“Yes?”
“Hi, Mr. Hopple. This is Bobbie Wynkopp. Sorry to call so early, but you told me—if I saw anything …”
“Yes, Bobbie. What is it?”
“That place in the meadow that was burned—how big was it?”
“Hmm … as well as I could estimate from the air … it was … about ten feet in diameter. A circular patch.”
“Well, there’s another one just like it.”
“What! Did you see any trespassing?” Mr. Hopple was fully awake now.
There was a pause.“Mr. Hopple, you’re not gonna believe this, but last night I woke up because my room was all lit up. I sleep in the attic, on the side near the meadow, you know. It was kind of a green light. I looked out the window … . You’re not gonna believe this, Mr. Hopple.”
“Go ahead, Bobbie—please.”
“Well, there was this aircraft coming down. Not like your kind of plane, Mr. Hopple. It was round, like a Frisbee. It came straight down—very slow, very quiet, you know. And it gave off a lot of light.”
“If you’re suggesting a flying saucer, Bobbie, I say you’ve been dreaming—or hallucinating.”
“I was wide awake, sir. I swear! And I don’t smoke. Ask anyone.”
“Go on, Bobbie.”
“The funny thing was … it was sosmall! Too small to carry a crew, you know, unless they happened to be like ten inches high. It landed, and there was some kind of activity around it. I couldn’t see exactly. There was a fog rising over the meadow. So I ran downstairs to get my dad’s binoculars. They were hard to find in the dark. The lights wouldn’t go on. We were blacked out, you know … . Are you still there, Mr. Hopple?”
“I’m listening. What about your parents? Did they see the aircraft?”
“No, but I wish they had. Then I wouldn’t sound like some kind of crazy. My mother works nights at the hospital, and when Dad goes to bed, he flakes right out.”
“What did you see with the binoculars?”
“I was too late. They were taking off. The thing rose straight up—very slow, you know. And when it got up there … ZIP! It disappeared. No kidding. I couldn’t sleep after that. When it got halfway daylight I went out to the meadow and had a look. The thing scorched a circle, about ten feet across. You can see for yourself. Maybe you should have it tested for radioactivity or something. Maybe I shouldn’t have gone near it, you know.”
“Thank you, Bobbie. That’s an extremely interesting account. We’ll discuss it further, after I’ve made some inquiries. Meanwhile, I’d consider it classified information if I were you.”
“Classified! Don’t worry, Mr. Hopple.”
“Was that the stableboy?” his wife asked. “Is anything wrong? …Darling, is anything wrong?”
Mr. Hopple had walked to the south window and was gazing in the direction of the meadow—a study in preoccupation. “I beg your pardon. What did you say? That boy told me a wild story … . Ten-foot diameter! He’s right; that’s remarkably small.”
There was a loud thump as a six-year-old threw himself against the bedroom door and hurtled into the room.
“Darling,” his mother reminded him, “we always knock before entering.”
“They’re gone! They’re gone!” he shouted in a childish treble. “I wanted to say good morning, and they’re not there!”
“Who’s not there, darling?”
“The Gang! They got out the window and climbed down the waterwheel!”
“Donald! Did you leave the window open?”
“No, Mother. The window’sbroke. Broken,” he added, catching his mother’s eye. “The glass is kind of …melted! I think Whiskers did it. He kidnapped them!”
She shooed him out of the bedroom.“Go and get dressed, dear. We’ll find the Gang. We’ll organize a search party.”
Mrs. Hopple slipped into a peignoir and left the suite. When she returned, a moment later, her husband was still staring into space at the south window.“Donald’s right,” she said. “The glass has actually beenmelted. How very strange!”
Still Mr. Hopple stared, as if in a trance.
“Dearest, are you all right? Did you hear what Donald said?”
Her husband stirred himself and walked away from the window. He said:“You can organize a search party if you wish, but you’ll never find the Gang. They’re not coming back. Neither is Whiskers.”
He was right. They never came back. The two smartest kittens in the stable also disappeared that night, according to Donald, but the rabbits were found in the greenhouse, having the time of their lives.
Life at Hopplewood Farm is quite ordinary now. Garage doors open. Cars start. Television reception is perfect. Only during severe electrical storms does the power fail. No one lets the rabbits out of the hutch. The tractor is entirely reliable. Nothing tries to sneak down the chimney. Window glass never melts.
And little Donald, who may suspect more than he’s telling, discusses planets and asteroids at the dinner table and spends hours peering through his telescope when his parents think he’s asleep.
THE SIN OF MADAME PHLOI
“The Sin of Madame Phloi” was first published inEllery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, June 1962.
From the very beginning Madame Phloi felt an instinctive distaste for the man who moved into the apartment next door. He was fat, and his trouser cuffs had the unsavory odor of fire hydrant.
They met for the first time in the decrepit elevator as it lurched up to the tenth floor of the old building, once fashionable but now coming apart at the seams. Madame Phloi had been out for a stroll in the city park, chewing city grass and chasing faded butterflies, and as she and her companion stepped on the elevator for the slow ride upward, the car was already half-filled with the new neighbor.
The fat man and the Madame presented a contrast that was not unusual in this apartment house, which had a brilliant past and no future. He was bulky, uncouth, sloppily attired. Madame Phloi was a long-legged blue-eyed aristocrat whose creamy fawn coat shaded to brown at the extremities.
The Madame deplored fat men. They had no laps, and of what use is a lapless human? Nevertheless, she gave him the common courtesy of a sniff at his trouser cuffs and immediately backed away, twitching her nose and showing her teeth.