Hall of Secrets (A Benedict Hall Novel) (22 page)

She didn’t answer. She tensed her muscles, then spun on her uneven shoes to dash away. His hand shot out, seized her arm, and wrenched her back against him. “I told you, don’t bother,” he snarled.

She struggled now with everything she had. She shouted, but there was no one to hear. She kicked, and fought his hands, but he was as cold as he was hideous. Though she waged her battle until her strength gave out, until her throat hurt from screaming, it was useless.

When she was limp with fatigue, her breath coming in little sobs, he said, “That’s better.” He gripped her elbows and rattled her until she felt her bones crack. “I meant it, you know,” he said, very close to her face. “I like this. Love it, actually.” He gave a little shrug. “It’s the way I am. The more you resist, the better it is.”

Allison, looking into those lashless blue eyes, believed him.

Margot refused to let Blake drop her in front of the house, though he tried to insist. “I’m not having you maneuver your cane in and out of the damned automobile any more than you have to!” she snapped, and then said, “Oh, I’m sorry, Blake. I’m so tired, and I’m worried.”

“It’s all right, Dr. Margot,” he said mildly. “This has been a hard evening.”

“Awful. Just awful. I want to blame it all on Aunt Adelaide, but I suppose Allison bears some responsibility.”

They left the Essex in the garage and walked together across the lawn to the back porch. Blake said, “I know it’s not for me to have an opinion, but Miss Allison seems far younger than nineteen. A child, in many ways.”

Margot glanced up at him. “I agree, Blake,” she said. “I suppose it’s not unusual, in a family like hers.” He held the back door for her to pass through. She walked ahead of him, through the darkened kitchen, on into the hall. It was dark there, too, but the door to the small parlor stood open, and light spilled out. Margot hurried toward it, with Blake limping behind her.

Empty cups rested on the piecrust table, and a pot with a ladle on a sideboard. Ramona, still in her dressing gown, but now with her hair combed and a thick shawl around her shoulders, jumped up from the divan. There was no one else in the room. The fire had died down, and the air felt chilly. “Margot! How is Aunt Adelaide?”

“She’ll be all right, I think,” Margot said.

Blake said, “Mrs. Ramona, why are you alone, and the fire dying out? Three maids in the house—four, if you count Ruby—”

She shook her head. “It’s all right, Blake. I sent the twins and Thelma to their beds. And Hattie. There wasn’t anything else they could do tonight.”

He said, “But Ruby, at least—”

“Ruby is out with Uncle Henry and Father. Searching.”

Margot said, “Searching? Ramona, you can’t mean—Allison hasn’t come back?” She glanced at the onyx corner clock and exclaimed, “It’s two in the morning!”

“I know,” Ramona said. “She’s been gone for hours, with no coat, no gloves—and it’s freezing outside.”

Margot began stripping off her own gloves. “I don’t know what to do,” she said. “I was so taken up with Aunt Adelaide!”

“Where is she? Still at the hospital?”

“I admitted her. Her arm is set, but I don’t think she’s well in general, and I want Dr. Creedy to give her a full examination in the morning. And, Ramona, you need your rest. You should be in bed.”

“I couldn’t possibly sleep,” Ramona said. She pulled the shawl tight around her shoulders and worried at the fringe with her fingers. “I’m afraid for Allison, poor little thing. If she knows her mother’s hurt, or thinks she was responsible—”

“She should have been back hours ago,” Margot said. “I would have thought the cold would drive her back, if nothing else.” She had begun taking off her coat, but she stopped with one sleeve on and one off. “I wonder if I should join Father and Uncle Henry.”

“No,” Blake said firmly. “I’ll get the Essex out again, and see if I can help. You two ladies should both rest, but I suppose you won’t be able to. I’ll just put some wood on this fire.”

Margot pulled her arm out of her other sleeve and took her hat off. “You’re right, Blake. Ramona, lie down on the divan, at least. Put your feet up.” Ramona did this, and Margot arranged the shawl to cover her. Blake disappeared briefly, and limped back with both his arms full of small logs. “Blake, your cane!” Margot said.

“I’ll get it in a moment.”

“I think I’ll make coffee,” she said. “We’re going to want it.”

When she reached the kitchen, though, she found Hattie already there, with an overcoat over her nightdress and thick knitted slippers on her feet. “Hattie, I thought you were sleeping.”

“Oh, I couldn’t, Miss Margot. I just couldn’t, not with poor Miss Allison out there somewhere in the dark!” She was filling the percolator at the big sink.

“I can understand that,” Margot said heavily. “I can’t sleep, either. I admitted Aunt Adelaide to the hospital, and do you know, Hattie—” She hesitated, knowing her mother wouldn’t approve, then rushed ahead just the same. Hattie and Allison had established a relationship of their own, and Hattie would understand. “Do you know that Aunt Adelaide never once asked about Allison? Just went on whining about her broken arm, and then, when she had an injection for the pain, rambling on about whatever it was Allison was supposed to have done. ‘Ruined,’ she said. What on earth could the child have done that was so awful? I don’t even know if a girl can be ‘ruined’ anymore.”

Hattie was scooping coffee grounds into the top of the pot. “She didn’t tell me about it, Miss Margot, but that girl was awful unhappy. Bored, of course. Lonely, too. She took to arranging your little party like a duckling takes to water. Sat here at my table afterward and actually ate something!”

“She was looking so much better,” Margot mused. She pulled out one of the aluminum chairs and sat down, kicking off her shoes and stretching her legs out with a sense of relief. The percolator began to bubble, and she thought what a comforting sound that always was in the morning, the promise of a full day to come. It was strange to hear it in the wee hours.

Hattie said, “I just don’t know why a young girl like that would go off her eats like she did. She was better, eating a bit every meal. Then, the minute she knows her parents are coming, she goes off again. That ain’t right.”

“No. I agree, Hattie.”

Hattie took the bottle of cream from the icebox and laid cookies on a plate. She had started her Christmas baking, and the cookies were shaped like Christmas trees and angels. They made Margot feel sad, such gay little sweets in the midst of a night of crisis.

When the coffee stopped bubbling, Hattie said, “There now. You go on in the small parlor, Miss Margot. I’ll bring this in.”

“I could wake one of the twins,” Margot suggested.

“Better they get their sleep, if you ask me. We don’t know what tomorrow will be like.”

The truth of this chilled Margot to her bones. She shoved her feet back into her shoes and started into the hall. The front door opened just as she passed it, and the searchers trooped in, red-nosed and tousle-haired. She saw that Blake had returned with the Essex, but had left it parked in the street. She said, “Father? No luck, I gather?”

“None. It’s strange. I don’t see how she could have gotten very far.”

“The streetcar,” she suggested.

“But would she know where to go?” Uncle Henry demanded. “Has she gone off before?”

“No,” Dick said in a tight voice. Margot saw that he, too, was angry. She hadn’t realized how much Allison had become part of the household—part of the family—until that moment. “No, Uncle Henry. She hasn’t gone off before.”

Dickson said, “I think it’s time to call the police, Henry.”

“No! That will mean publicity. Surely the silly girl will come home in the morning.”

The other Benedicts—Margot, her brother and sister-in-law, her father, and Blake and Hattie—stared at him. He turned his back to stamp away up the stairs, leaving the rest of them standing in the hall.

C
HAPTER
20

Allison wished she had long sleeves so she didn’t have to feel the ridges of Preston’s burn scars. They seemed to have no circulation. They felt like the cold claws of an animal, without feeling or flexibility, and her skin prickled with revulsion at their touch.

As he forced her toward the door of the tower’s south entrance she said, “That’s locked at night. You can’t go in.”

He barked his ugly laugh. “Always hated people telling me what I can’t do,” he said. He held her arm with one hand while he dug an enormous iron key from the pocket of his disreputable coat. She tried to seize the moment, to wrench her arm free, but only succeeded in making him grip her more tightly. Her arm would be covered in bruises, she knew, when there was light enough to see it.

He had the door open a moment later, and he pushed her through it, closing it behind them with his foot. She heard the heavy lock click into place.

She said, for the tenth time, “What is it you
want?
If it’s something from the family, why not just ask?” but he didn’t answer.

He drove her ahead of him to the stairs. They were steel, faintly shining in the darkness, and slippery. Preston’s breath whistled in his lungs as they climbed. The exertion briefly warmed Allison. “Where are we going?” she panted.

“Climb,” he gasped. “One hundred six steps, and we’re going all the way.”

“Why?”

“Because I say so.”

She didn’t ask again. She saved her breath for the ascent, and watched him warily for any sign he meant to make her fall. It would be easy in the dark stairwell, and there was real danger in these hard, icy steps. She couldn’t think what it would gain him to throw her down the curving staircase, but he wasn’t in his right mind, which she feared meant it didn’t have to make sense. It was obvious he had no qualms about hurting her. He might even do it just for pleasure. For kicks, as Tommy Fellowes might have said. She placed her feet carefully in the dimness, as he propelled her higher and higher. When they reached the top, he released her, but he stayed close, and she had no doubt he would seize her again if she tried to bolt.

They were in an observation deck, a great circular space surrounded by arched windows. Ironwork grates barred the windows, but there was no glass, and they were open to the icy night air. Allison hugged herself against the cold, the warmth of the climb draining swiftly away. “I’m going to freeze to death,” she said.

The laugh again. “So much more pleasant,” he said, “than death by burning. I know all about that!”

“You really are my cousin, then,” she said sadly.

“Yes, I really am.”

“Isn’t there something the doctors can do for you? For your face, I mean?”

“No. Soon enough it won’t matter, anyway.” He turned away from her, leaning his elbows on one of the windowsills. She cast a glance at the stairwell, wondering if she dared to dash down those slick steel steps. He said, without looking at her, “Don’t try it. You’ll just slip and fall, and the door’s locked at the bottom anyway.”

“What are we doing up here, Cousin Preston?”

He said, gazing out into the mist, “We’re waiting.”

“For what?”

“For them to really get the wind up.”

“I d-don’t know what that m-means.” Her teeth began to chatter again, and her words came out in staccato bits that felt like crushed ice between her teeth.

He turned his head to speak over his shoulder, readjusting the scarf when it slipped. “It means I want them all to get good and worried about you. To be frightened.”

“Wh-why?” She was rubbing her arms now and stamping her feet.

He said, “Christ,” and slipped off his overcoat. He held it out to her. “Put this on, but don’t mistake it for kindness. I just don’t want to listen to you stutter for hours.”

The coat was noisome and greasy, but she put it over her shoulders anyway. The pockets were heavy with things she had no wish to explore, and she kept her hands away from them. An automatic thanks for the coat rose to her lips, but it died unspoken. He didn’t deserve gratitude. It was his fault she was freezing, after all. “Tell me why you want the family frightened, and I’ll tell you they probably don’t care what happens to me.”

He spun to face her. “What do you mean, they don’t care? Precious little cuz, I’m sure they’ve all got their knickers in a twist, thinking you’ve run off or been abducted for ransom!”

“
Have
I been abducted for ransom?” she snapped. Part of her knew she should be afraid, but another part of her—a larger part—found the whole situation absurd. And after what she had done this evening, after hearing her mother squalling about her broken arm, none of this seemed to matter much. Nothing mattered much.

“No. Money can’t help me now.”

“Then what? If you wanted to hurt me, you would have done it by now.”

The ghastly chuckle. “Not necessarily. Although, the more you seem like
her
—thinking you know everything—the more I feel like hurting you.” He took her earlobe in one of his cold, disfigured hands and tweaked it, hard. It hurt, but she bit back her cry. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. Goose bumps ran down her neck and across her shoulder, but she thrust out her chin and glared at him.

“Why aren’t you afraid of me?” he demanded.

She shrugged inside his big, disreputable coat. She wandered away from him, walking to one of the windows to peer out through the grate. There was nothing to see but a cloud of fog, but she supposed, when the sun rose, the view was very nice. “You don’t know me,” she said.

“Oh, but I do,” he said sourly. “Pretty little deb, downy chick getting all plumped up for the market! Parents sparing no expense or effort!”

“You don’t know anything about it.” Her tone was every bit as sour as his. “The market part is right. Not the rest.”

“Poor little cuz. The heart breaks.” He coughed and spat. “See those lights down there? They’re looking for you. Searchlights, the Essex rolling around the streets, no one getting any sleep.”

She peered through the fog and saw that he was right. Lights bobbed here and there around the park and along the street. She could just see, through the mist, that lights still burned in Benedict Hall, though it must be nearly three in the morning.

“What happened there tonight?” Preston asked. “What did you do?”

She turned to face him, putting her back to the brick wall. “I broke my mother’s arm.”

He made a sound that might have been a gasp of surprise or a chuckle of amusement. “You amaze me, little cuz. I suspect you’re trying to shock me.”

“No. It’s true. We had an argument, and I—I didn’t mean to hurt her, but I—” She raised both hands in a gesture of surrender. “You might just as well toss me down these stairs, Cousin Preston. They’ve been threatening to put me away in a sanitorium. Now they’ll do it for sure.”

 

Margot watched in astonishment as Henry started up the staircase, undoing his tie as he went. She said, “Uncle Henry! Allison went out with no coat, no gloves—it’s freezing out there.”

He didn’t pause. “She’ll remember them next time, then,” he said, and stripped his tie from his shirt. As he reached the landing, he was already at work on the buttons. “Ruby, you go to bed, too,” he ordered. “I’m not paying you to walk the streets in the middle of the night.”

Margot turned back to face her family and found Hattie with tears in her eyes. “Miss Margot—Mr. Dickson—you won’t just leave her out there? That poor little mite—”

Margot said briskly, “Of course not, Hattie. If Uncle Henry won’t telephone to the police, I will.”

Her father moved toward the telephone resting on its pedestal in the hall. “Let me do it, daughter. I’ll call Searing directly, and he’ll know how to keep it out of the newspapers.” He rummaged in the little drawer below the telephone and came up with a city directory. He started thumbing the pages.

Ramona said, “I don’t know what to do to help.”

“Ramona,” Margot said, “I really think you should go to bed. Dick, she shouldn’t get overtired.”

At this both Hattie and Blake turned to look at Ramona, and Ramona colored and gave a small, embarrassed wave of her hand. “I’m sorry, Hattie. I was going to make the announcement soon—that is, we were, Mr. Dick and I.”

Hattie exclaimed, “Mrs. Ramona! It’s a baby, isn’t it?” She gave a small sob and pressed her hands to her plump cheeks. “Just as I thought, just what I was suspecting! Oh, my lands, that’s just the best news I’ve heard in such a long time! Go on now, you and Mr. Dick, you go off to bed. You hungry, Mrs. Ramona? Some warm milk, maybe?”

Ramona denied wanting anything but sleep, and Dick shepherded her up the staircase. In the hall, Dickson leaned against the wall, the earpiece of the telephone in his right hand, the base in his left, speaking in a low voice. Blake said, “Shall I go out again, Dr. Margot? Have another look?”

“I’m gonna go with you!” Hattie said, which at another moment might have made Margot laugh. Hattie was notorious for avoiding the Essex whenever she could. Funerals, weddings, and sick calls, she had always declared, were the only reasons for climbing into that motorcar.

“Hattie, that’s not necessary,” Margot said. “You should go to bed, too.” As Hattie began to protest, Margot put up her forefinger, but she took care to speak gently. “We’ll need you in the morning, Hattie. Blake and I will go out and search again, I promise.”

“Oh, Dr. Margot—but you have the hospital, and the clinic—”

“First things first,” Margot said firmly. “We need to find Allison.” It was true, she had rounds to make in the morning, but fortunately no surgeries. She glanced outside at the heavy fog roiling over the shrubs and curling around the bare trunk of the camellia, and thought of Frank. He wouldn’t try to fly in this, surely!

Her father strode back to the foot of the stairs, jamming his hat on his head and beginning to search his pockets for his gloves. “Searing’s sending two officers,” he said. “I’ll meet them outside. If Henry comes down, tell him—oh, tell him to go to the devil!”

Margot said, “With pleasure, Father, but I suspect he’s already enjoying the sleep of the just.”

“What kind of father is that?” Dickson muttered, stamping toward the front door. “Little girl like that, out in the dark with no one to protect her. . . .” He was already on his way down the walk, still grumbling.

“We’ll leave the door unlocked, in case she comes back while we’re out.” Margot was putting her coat on again. “Hattie, please. Try to sleep.”

Reluctantly, Hattie made her way toward the kitchen and her own room. Like Dickson, she muttered to herself as she shuffled past the staircase, untying her apron as she went. “Poor little mite,” Margot heard her say. “What is this world coming to? With parents like that!”

Moments later, Margot and Blake were in the Essex, prowling through the foggy streets with the headlamps turned low. Margot sat in the front, beside Blake, and for once he didn’t demur. They crept through the mist, the lights from the automobile stabbing at the gray fog, reflecting uselessly back at them. Margot wondered if it wouldn’t be better to just extinguish the lamps altogether.

“By now she could have walked quite some distance,” Blake said gravely as he turned out of Fourteenth Avenue and started down Aloha.

“I know,” Margot said. “I thought of the streetcar, but I doubt she has any money.”

“She could make her way down to Broadway.”

Margot said, “I should tell you, Blake. She did slip out once, though I promised I wouldn’t tell anyone. She went out with a young man she met on her crossing. They went to a speakeasy—” She felt, rather than saw, his sidelong glance. “She was sick under the roses,” she said drily, watching the sides of the road for any sign of a shivering girl in a short-sleeved dinner frock. “But she never mentioned the name of the place.”

“I wouldn’t know it even if you told me,” Blake said. “I’ve never had occasion to drive to a speakeasy.”

“Nor have I, Blake. Nor any inclination.”

“No indeed.”

She searched the foggy street. On Broadway, nothing moved at this hour except the occasional stray cat and, once, a dog rising from a shadowed doorstep, its hackles lifting. They drove slowly to the very end of Broadway and back again. Misty streetlight halos illuminated the fog here and there. Alleyways melted into gray dimness. Margot peered into the mist until her eyes ached, and tried to imagine Allison somewhere safe and warm.

 

She looked fragile, he thought, though she acted tough. Her neck was as slender as a child’s, and her ankles, hidden now by the drooping panels of his overcoat, looked as if they could barely hold her upright. Her eyes were huge above her little pointed chin. It occurred to him that those eyes were the same blue as the sapphire, and he liked the synchrony of that. It seemed a good omen. A promise that he would, at last, complete his purpose.

When he held out his hand and said, “I’ll need the coat for a few minutes,” she didn’t protest or question him. She slid out of the coat, but she dodged his hand, letting the coat fall in a puddle to the floor of the observation deck. The pockets, heavy with his special treasures, clanked on the hard floor. Allison, stepping out of the folds, looked like a chick emerging from its broken eggshell. She hobbled on her uneven shoes to one of the arched windows, where she stood hugging herself against the chill.

“I’ll give it back soon,” he found himself saying, which was ridiculous. What the hell did he care if she froze to death? Surely he had learned by now that being softhearted was a waste of his time.

He shrugged into the coat, avoiding her eyes as he felt in his pockets. Just touching the stone, even disguised as it was, encouraged him. From his other pocket he drew the straight razor. Turning so she could see him, he opened it. Even in the dimness, its polished blade glimmered. Her eyes grew even wider, the whites gleaming in the darkness. He supposed her face went pale, though the light was too poor to show it. She fell back a step, her bravado gone. It was utterly gratifying, and his loins stirred in answer to her fear.