Skeleton Key (4 page)

The golden lady must have been ravishingly pretty, ten years before. The beauty was still there, but beginning to go soft around the edges like an ice-cream shape left too long on the plate. Georgine thought she looked wistful, as if anxious for people to like her; and this impression was carried out when Mrs. Gillespie, sitting down beside Georgine on a large chesterfield, was distantly greeted by the woman on the other end.

“Couldn't you call me Mimi, Mrs. Devlin?” she asked with rather touching shyness. “I mean, all we neighbors know each other so much better, now there's a war on.”

Politely, but with no enthusiasm, Mrs. Devlin repeated “Mimi,” and thereafter returned to the formal mode of address. She was a large bony woman with the face of a saintly horse, and for the first few minutes she was surprisingly cordial to Georgine.

“You're the Professor's temporary secretary, Mrs. Wyeth? How very interesting. Rather eccentric, isn't he?”

The check rustled in Georgine's pocket. She felt constrained to say nothing, but to smile vaguely.

“How boring for you,” said Mrs. Devlin, “to be dragged to this utterly pointless meeting. We've been perfect martyrs to Mr. Hollister's whims. Don't you think this talk about air-raids is a pack of nonsense?”

“Not quite that,” Georgine said. “If there really were an air-raid it'd be a big help if we knew what to do.”

Mrs. Devlin lost interest in her at once, and turned aside to get the best light on a large square of needlepoint work. “Mrs. Wyeth, this is my little boy,” she murmured.

The little boy, who was about six feet tall and looked at least seventeen, flushed painfully at this title. He hastily told Georgine that his name was Frederic, only everyone called him Ricky. “I'd just as soon get 'em started on Fred, or something like that,” he added. “Ricky sounds pretty juvenile.”

Georgine smiled up at him. She did like these teenagers, so nice and easy without being fresh; they simply acted their age. And what a handsome young sprig this was; he must resemble his father.

Ricky Devlin, having impressed her with his maturity, now suddenly looked about twelve years old. “Are you typing the Professor's stuff, Mrs. Wyeth?” he demanded, his eyes shining. “Gee, listen, is it really a Death Ray?”

“Ricky,” Georgine said, “between us, I don't understand a word of it.”

His face fell. Probably he was still secretly devoted to Superman comic books. He was about to say something more when a clear, languid young voice sounded at the door, and his head involuntarily turned. “Hi, Claris,” he said, elaborately offhand.

“Hi, Rick,” the slim creature answered, lowering extravagant lashes over hazel eyes. She might have been sixteen or twenty-two; there was just one word to describe the red-gold hair in its long bob, the little swing of the skirts, the soft mouth as brilliant with lipstick as an enameled cherry on a hat:
luscious
, Georgine thought. What was her name, Claris Frey? Well, Claris was a dish, and no mistake. Somehow, Georgine's generalities about young people didn't quite fit, here. The child looked as if she were trying to be older than her age, an attitude which Georgine thought had died with the post-war flapper.

Just behind her came a tall, graying man with curiously intent eyes and a gentle, deprecatory smile. He might at one time have resembled the gorgeous infant he had fathered, but something had drawn deep lines of patience in his face, pulling it into a brooding mask.

“Claris,” Mrs. Gillespie called, “bring your dad over and introduce him. This is Mrs. Wyeth, who's going to be with us a few weeks.”

“Just in the daytime,” Georgine explained, as the man crossed the room with a graceful light step, and held out a hand with a smudge of green paint near the wrist. Claris had stood directly in front of him, speaking softly but with great precision, and Georgine realized that this must be the “stone deef” gentleman who had not heard his own doorbell; but it scarcely prepared her for the loud bellow with which he greeted her. “I am glad to welcome a new neighbor,” bawled Peter Frey, into a sudden silence.

Georgine was horrified to hear herself shouting in return, though she knew it was useless. She wasn't moving into the Road, it was only by chance that she—in fact, she'd rung Mr. Frey's bell that very afternoon—

His eyes followed her lips with desperate concentration, and halfway through her stumbling speech he began to shake his head. “I'm sorry,” he said, this time almost inaudibly. “I started too late to learn lip-reading. You have to go very slowly for me—or maybe you'd write it?”

He was actually pulling out a pocket pad when Georgine's violent head-shakings stopped him. She was crimson and smiling with embarrassment. Peter Frey also smiled, slowly and painfully. He made an abortive gesture, bowed, and left her, standing with his back to the room and looking out the window.

Mrs. Gillespie at once began to talk airily about something else. “Aren't we a funny lot, up here? I'd always wanted to live in one of these hill houses, with a view, you know, and where there were nice people so we could sort of neighbor back and forth.” She cast a dubious glance at Mrs. Devlin, and lowered her voice. “They don't seem to do it as much as I'd thought, though. We've been here for nearly a year and a half, longer than Roy Hollister or the Freys, but I never got to know any of 'em except Roy until these meetings began. My brother Ralph that lives with us, he says they're just a bunch of dopes, but I think,” said Mrs. Gillespie courageously, “some of 'em would be real nice if you got to—”

She broke off and sat with parted lips, listening. The buzz of general conversation died; from the open street-door down the hall a man's voice sounded, strident, authoritative: “What in the hell have I got to do with it? I pointed out your position, and that was all.”

“That's all?” The answer came in a higher key, unsteadily. “You—you keep me on the rack, you won't lift a finger to—”

Mrs. Gillespie half rose from her seat. “Ralphie!” she breathed, and then caught her husband's eye and sank back reluctantly.

“Shut up,” said the first voice, in a lower tone, “and come on in to the meeting. If I think of anything I'll let you know, so you can quit doggin' at my heels.”

“Ralphie,” Mrs. Gillespie whispered again, her hands twisting nervously. “Oh, why will he—”

Abruptly a man appeared in the living-room door, and stood surveying the company. You knew at once that his was the strident voice; he was a stocky man with a florid, unremarkable face, the felt armband of Civilian Defense prominently displayed on his sleeve. It was a good entrance, effective as the sharp rap of a gavel. The audience froze to attention.

Warden Hollister opened his lips to speak; and, sudden and loud as a gunshot, the front door violently slammed.

Everyone in the room gave a nervous start, and Peter Frey swung round from the window. That shattering noise had had in it all the fury that taut nerves could produce.

Mr. Hollister recovered himself and laughed shortly. “Come in and sit down, Stort,” he said over his shoulder. After a moment a lean man, somewhat resembling Mimi Gillespie, passed him with averted, twitching face. He sat down wordlessly in a dim corner, beside a man whom Georgine hadn't yet identified, and remained throughout the meeting in the same position, gazing down at his knees, a lock of blond hair falling over his eyes.

“Now,” Hollister said, looking around swiftly, “Are we all here? Where's Devlin?”

“Out of town,” said Mrs. Devlin shortly. Her son added, “Sure, didn't you notice the Jeep was off the street? I can't keep her in the garage when Dad's home.”

“The Carmichael ladies?”

Several voices told him that the ladies were in Carmel, opening their cottage so they could go down for the weekend of the Fourth.

“When they knew there was to be a meeting?” Hollister scowled. Somebody chuckled softly. “Well, damn it, I don't hold these get-togethers for my health, you know! I've got information to pass on, and you're supposed to come here and listen, all of you.”

“Heil Hitler,” said Mr. Gillespie, just audibly.

The Warden ignored this with an effort, and glared into a corner. “Is Professor Paev absent,
again?
”

Mrs. Blake's organ tones answered him. She would pass on anything important, having been sent as deputy for an employer who never left home if he could possibly help it. “Anyhow,” she added, “come some bombs, it'll be my job to attend to 'em. I guess the P'fessah couldn't be bothered.” She retired again into her dignified silence.

“Maybe you're right,” said Hollister with a grudging smile. He flipped open a notebook. “Now, will you all attend carefully, please. There's a new method of treating incendiary bombs—”

Mrs. Devlin sighed audibly.

The meeting progressed with remarkable efficiency. Georgine found herself thinking that these hill-dwellers were making very heavy weather of their defense measures. In her section, the householders perfected their preparations and then relaxed; up here, everyone was in a state of tension, as if expecting a bomb to drop.

It was the warden himself who was producing the tension. She became increasingly sure of that as he talked. The man was terribly in earnest, everything he said was quite true, but he was scaring people instead of reassuring them. “I want to speak about carelessness in leaving lights on,” he said heavily. “You have all been asked to remove the bulbs from your illuminated street numbers. Don't you know that those can be seen for miles in the air, and that an enemy airman is instructed to bomb any light that's showing? If Grettry Road is blown to bits, it might be the fault of just one of those numbers.”

“Well, why tell us about it?” said Harry Gillespie defiantly. “We've all fixed ours. It's the Carmichaels you're talking about, as we—”

“The Carmichaels?” Peter Frey burst in obliviously. His eyes had been going from face to face, desperately trying to catch up with moving lips. “Are you talking about them? They're to be away for a few weeks, and they asked me particularly to see that their flowers were all picked; so please take any you want, everybody.”

“Daddy!” Claris shook his arm and he subsided, lowering patient eyelids. “If the Professor doesn't have to come,” she added, “I don't see why Dad should.”

“I appreciate it,” said Hollister sharply. “Anything that's done in the way of coöperation is a little bit of help to me. Lord knows I don't get much. Now I've got to watch for the old ladies to come back, and go speak to them about that light. I'm the fall guy. I'm the only one available up here to do the dirty work, and I'm rushed to death as it is.”

“Listen, Mr. Hollister,” Ricky Devlin said eagerly, “you could use me any time, you know I told you that.”

“Now, son,” said Hollister impatiently, “we've been over that before. The grown men would all have to be out of the way before they could use you.” He added slyly, “You've got business of your own at night, anyhow.” Ricky gave him a swift look.

“Yes, Ricky darling,” said Mrs. Devlin fondly, “you're far too young, you're just a baby yet.”

An agonized silence followed this remark. Everyone mercifully avoided looking at Ricky, but from the corner of her eye Georgine saw his clasped hands tightening until the knuckles glistened. He caught his breath sharply as if to say something, but Mrs. Devlin, all unaware, went on, “And certainly it won't ever be necessary. We haven't even had a blackout for months, and I do think this hysteria is bound to die down soon. We work ourselves up over something that can't happen at all!”

“But it can, Mrs. Devlin,” said Hollister grimly, “That's what I keep tellin' you—any night, any minute. What's more, the next blackout is like as not to be the real thing. And let me tell you, when it comes I want every one of you to get in his refuge room and stay there. None of this hoppin' out into the street to look up at the pretty planes, none of this standin' by uncovered windows where you can get glass splinters through your eye.”

Without lifting his head from his chest, Ralph Stort said, “Oh, for Chri'
sake
, Hollister.”

Roy Hollister's face grew a shade more florid. “Good God, what you people need is to have a few bombs dropped on you! I hope they do fall. You'd obey orders fast enough then. And we've got to be ready. Lord, we're not half covered, up here. We ought to have a day warden, and there's nobody to serve; Gillespie needs his sleep after he's been at the shipyards all night—”

“Damn' good of you to be so considerate,” said Mr. Gillespie, in a tone so nasty that Georgine was startled. She began to ask herself,
What goes on in this place?
Wasn't there something more than war nerves—?

“I could serve temporarily, if you like,” said the quiet voice of the man sitting beside Ralph Stort. He bent forward as he spoke, and his face came into the light so that its angles stood out like those of a bold carving: eyes deep-set between sandy brows and high cheekbones, flat planes of cheeks, firm jaw. The face looked as if it would be hard to the touch. During the minutes just past Georgine had been watching him as he looked from one person to another, with such a total lack of expression that she'd thought he must be inwardly amused. At this moment their eyes met briefly, and she was sure of it.

“Well, thanks, McKinnon,” Hollister said dubiously. “You're night warden in your own district, aren't you? That might do, for as long as you're up here. When are the Cliftons coming home?”

“I don't quite know,” said Mr. McKinnon. “I'm not hurrying them, it's very convenient for me to work there daytimes.”

“See me after the meeting, then. I guess that's all, folks. If you'd stay a minute, Mrs.-uh-Wyeth? Like you to fill out one of these slips.”