Ellery Queen's Eyewitnesses Read online

  Altogether, Mr. Barrow had the feeling that everything he was accustomed to had undergone a profound transformation while remaining in appearance quite the same as before. It was this treachery of the familiar that disquieted him. He believed that he was lucid in his mind, and that his basic sensory equipment was no longer impaired. Why, then, was there this troubling repetition of routine actions which surely for the most part he was imagining?

  He did not want to think about it, and, as was his habit, he reminded himself that the world was a rational world by taking stock of certainties—in this case, he again counted the figured squares in the wallpaper and was gratified to find that there were still fourteen rows between the ceiling and the top of the dresser. But then he realized that he could not count the rows unless he were lying in bed in his waking position, whereas surely he was sitting on the edge of the mattress looking at his wife in the doorway.

  To cover his confusion, he said the first thing that came into his mind: “Is it time for my medicine?” Immediately he was overtaken by doubt, for his question evoked no answer from his wife, nor did the expression on her face alter in any way, which indicated either that he had not spoken aloud, or that she hadn’t heard him—or that she was not where she seemed to be.

  Furthermore, even as he sat (or seemed to sit) on the edge of the bed, he was imagining himself standing at the dresser, buttoning the cuffs of his shirt and idly examining the keys and change that he would shortly slip into his trousers pocket. He was able to count the change: three quarters, a dime, and a penny. At the same time he was aware of his wife in the doorway. She was holding the usual tray, with two slices of toast, a small glass of orange juice, and a saucer on which rested his anti-coagulant capsule.

  Mr. Barrow knew that one of these two visual effects was false. Undoubtedly it was the one at the dresser—and yet why hadn’t his wife answered his question? And why was she still poised in the doorway? It seemed to him that she had been standing there far too long.

  As a lawyer, Mr. Barrow was accustomed to analyze difficult problems by proceeding from one undisputed fact to the next, discarding whatever was irrelevant. But in his present circumstances, there seemed to be no undisputed facts—or rather, there were far too many of them—and he found himself in a tangle of contradictions, unable to determine what was relevant and what was not. He thought of asking his wife to answer the immediate question—what part of the bedroom did he happen to occupy?—and yet he realized that she was apparently part of the illusion problem, so he could not rely on her testimony.

  The key to the matter, he reasoned, must be a distortion in his reckoning of time. All those glasses of water—he could very well have drunk every one, not in a matter of minutes (as he had supposed) but over an entire day. Likewise, the remarkable succession of meals and pills could be explained if the period involved were several days instead of the mere hour he had erroneously believed to be the case. Thus, time was slipping by him unnoticed.

  On the other hand, his wife’s immobility in the doorway suggested a contrary distortion, in which time had slowed or even stopped. Indeed, it seemed to him that her left shoe was very slightly raised off the floor, as though she were completing a step, although his observation of this detail was impaired by the fact (if fact it were) that he was also looking at his slippers to be certain that his feet were properly inside them. This, if true, indicated that he had not yet raised his head or smiled, or even seen his wife in the doorway. To wit, while in some instances he might be losing time, and in considerable quantities, in other cases time seemed to be stationary or, indeed, inching in reverse.

  Disquieted by such reflections, Mr. Barrow tried to turn his thoughts to something that would soothe or distract him, and ease his mind. It was a pity he’d stopped collecting stamps. He couldn’t even leaf through his old albums, for he’d given them to his nephew. Apart from pottering about in the yard on weekends, he had done nothing with his leisure time except read or watch television or think about his work.

  On Sundays he and his wife had gone to church, where by habit he counted the number of fellow-worshippers and estimated the money in the collection plate when it came by. He paid little heed to the sermons except once when the word “judgment” had alerted him professionally, although of course the minister had been talking about the judgments of the Lord.

  He was getting dressed again, apparently. There he was, buttoning his cuffs and examining the change and keys he would shortly put into his trousers pocket—except he never did manage to reach the point at which the change and keys were in fact pocketed. Instead, he would find himself back in bed counting the rows of wallpaper squares, or drinking that eternal glass of water, or smiling at his wife, or looking at his slippers, or taking his medicine, or doing all these things more or less simultaneously. It was, quite frankly, irritating in the extreme, and he finally closed his eyes to shut it out.

  Thus shielded, Mr. Barrow decided to leave the bedroom, not in a physical sense—which seemed too risky—but in his thoughts, and so he pursued in his imagination the routine he had followed every workday morning for 33 years. He would pocket his change and keys at last, give his suit jacket a quick smoothing, walk out of the room, and descend the seventeen steps to the front hall. In the dining room, his wife would have his breakfast ready, the morning paper neatly folded beside the coffee cup. He always read while he ate.

  At 8:23 on the dot he would go out to the curb, where the taxi he shared with a businessman down the block would be waiting. By nine o’clock he would be entering his office building. There were 83 steps through the lobby. He counted them every day in his mind (whenever he found that he took a step more or a step less, he adjusted the count on the next occasion). The elevator would take him sixteen stories up, and then there would be 21 steps along the corridor, fifteen more from the outer door past the switchboard girl to the desk where his secretary sat, and a final twelve paces into his own office.

  Having thus abstractly arrived at work, Mr. Barrow proceeded to imagine his normal business day. He examined his mail, already sorted by his secretary, and called her in to dictate responses to the most important items. He then made and received telephone calls, studied various documents, dispatched his clerk to the law library for research, saw clients by appointment, ate his lunch in the little restaurant across the street, circled the block for exercise, and returned to his office for further dictation, telephone calls, and appointments. At 5:37 he presented himself at the corner for the taxi and his return ride home, where he ate supper, watched television, took his bath, and read a book until 11:15, when he turned off his bed lamp.

  This evocation of his daily round afforded Mr. Barrow a certain relief. He opened his eyes, found himself lying in bed under the covers, imagined that he had just awakened, and proceeded to count the rows of figured squares in the wallpaper pattern again. There were fourteen rows, as expected, but his satisfaction at having confirmed this unvarying number was qualified by doubt. Hadn’t he already awakened—and hadn’t he already counted those rows?

  He sat up and with slow deliberate movements swung first one leg and then the other over the edge of the bed and down to the floor, but as he inserted his feet into his slippers, he was perturbed by the recollection of having done that very thing just a few seconds before.

  Either I was dreaming then or I am dreaming now, thought Mr. Barrow—but he didn’t think he was dreaming.

  Raising his head, he saw his wife in the doorway. “Is it time for my medicine?” he asked. But his wife was beside the bed now, and he had the glass of water in his hand. He drank it down. His wife had gone, and he was sitting on the edge of the bed again, putting his feet into his slippers.

  This will not do, thought Mr. Barrow. Once more he closed his eyes, and in his mind he dressed, turned and left the room, and went down the seventeen steps to the front hall, and so into the dining room for his breakfast, following which he repeated his imaginary progression from taxi to office, pacing o
ff the 83 steps across the lobby, rising the sixteen stories in the elevator, walking the 21 steps along the corridor, and arriving in the usual manner at his desk, where he again examined his mail, called in his secretary for dictation, and went through the other ordinary business of the morning as before.

  This second conjuration of his working day was less soothing to Mr. Barrow, although it was exactly like the first, which was to be expected, as he never departed from his established routine. Still, he was vaguely disturbed by it, for he did not have the impression of controlling matters voluntarily. That is, he would have preferred to speed his progress from taxi to office, but it appeared that he had to take those 83 steps through the lobby, just as he felt obliged to remain at his desk until his regular lunchtime.

  Mr. Barrow chafed under these apparent restrictions, which seemed excessive, as he was at work only in his imagination, and should be free, therefore, to do as he pleased—to go out to lunch early or fly to the moon, for that matter. He considered attempting to assert his independence, but caution forestalled him. Suppose he sought to leave his desk but could not do so? A pretty kettle of fish that would be, reflected Mr. Barrow. Better not try.

  And so he remained where he had imagined himself to be, dutifully completing the rest of the day, which seemed to require hours, even though he supposed it was accomplished in a few seconds, for according to his best reckoning, in the space of time necessary for him to sit up in bed, swing his legs over the edge, put on his slippers, and smile at his wife, he had, in fantasy, drunk a gallon of water, got himself dressed six or seven times, and put in two full working days at the office.

  He reopened his eyes. Yes, he was sitting on the edge of the bed, putting his feet into his slippers. He closed his eyes again—and immediately imagined himself pocketing his change and keys, ready to go downstairs for another breakfast. Mr. Barrow began to feel considerably vexed. Was he to have no peace from this? He wondered again, with some irritation, if he were dying—or if, in fact, this were his last instant of consciousness, in which shifting images were contending for his fading attention.

  Unlikely, thought Mr. Barrow. A dying man would surely experience some sort of emotional profundity—awe, joy, perhaps terror—whereas he was more annoyed than anything else by the repetition of the trivial actions which he was (or was not) engaged in.

  Besides, if he were dying, he would probably recall scenes of his formative years—his home, his parents, his childhood—and all he could force into his mind was a recollection of himself as a boy walking to school, counting the paces from one block to the next, being careful not to step on the cracks in the sidewalk. Mr. Barrow remembered that there were 137 steps on Grove Avenue between Pine and Walnut, and that in the middle of the block he had had to execute a complicated maneuver where the damaged pavement presented a network of cracks. In front of the church the sidewalk was paved with brick, so he’d had to do a sort of toe-dance there. Cracks were bad luck, especially in front of a church. Judgments of the Lord. And then from Walnut to Oak, there were 83 steps—no, it was 83 across the lobby, which he now seemed to be pacing off.

  He was going to work again.

  Mr. Barrow opened his eyes. His wife was no longer in the doorway. She was beside the bed, preparing to remove his tray. “Am I still alive?” Mr. Barrow said. He could hear his voice. It sounded fussy, as if he were asking why she hadn’t brought the morning paper.

  She didn’t answer him. She was gone, and he was flexing his left leg the way the doctor had instructed him to do. He was walking around the room in his bathrobe. His wife was in the doorway with the tray. “Is it time for my medicine?” Mr. Barrow asked. He was at the dresser, buttoning his cuffs, and idly examining the change and keys that he would shortly slip into his trousers pocket. He closed his eyes, and descended the seventeen steps to the front hall.

  “Am I still alive?” he asked. “Am I still? Am I?”

  He sought to think of eternal things. Where was the awe, the terror? The taxi came at 8:23 every morning without fail. He stepped off the curb with care, look before you leap, avoid the cracks, the judgments.

  He reached out for the glass of water on the bed table his wife was in the doorway he was at the dresser 21 steps along the corridor his slippers were as usual pointed in the proper direction swung first one leg and then the other over—drank the glass of water—called in the secretary for dictation—dispatched the clerk—sat up in bed and with slow deliberate the judgments of the Lord swung first one through the lobby to the elevator descended the seventeen sat up in bed the doorway the dresser the steps the judgments of the Lord of the Lord of the of

  Mary McMullen

  Her Heart’s Home

  At ten o’clock on the sunny morning of that terrible day in March, Miss Rounce felt herself more than justified in taking ten minutes to relax at her desk with a cup of coffee.

  Her world was in perfect order. Mr. Caudrey’s great teak desktop was immaculately clear of papers, his telephone was serenely silent. He had flown off to his week in the sun in Jamaica—Miss Rounce smiled to herself as she mixed metaphors—on greased rails.

  She had not only made all his travel arrangements, managed to get him in at his favorite hotel even though they said at first they were full; she had also, over a quiet lunch, made up Mrs. Caudrey’s wavering mind for her.

  Yes, much wiser to skip Jamaica this time, the sun did such disastrous things to the skin; better a week at that luscious spa in Texas. . .why, Mrs. Caudrey wouldn’t know herself, and certainly Mr. Caudrey wouldn’t know her, when they met again.

  She had canceled and rebooked dentist’s and doctor’s appointments, as he had only made up his mind to go away last week. She’d had the lock on his alligator suitcase repaired, tracked down a pale-peach broadcloth shirt to replace the one with the collar just beginning to fray where it rubbed against his tie. She had filled his office flask with Canadian Club, from the hidden swinging bar in the teak paneling, and tucked it into his attaché case along with four paperbacks by his favorite mystery novelists, titles he hadn’t read before. She had checked over his pills, added a big bottle of Vitamin E. And had deliberately not minded, had given him a brave cheerful smile, when he said a peculiar hasty goodbye, hardly even looking at her.

  Excuses for this came readily to mind. He was being pressed on all sides. Philip Caudrey was president of Hope & Hayes Pharmaceuticals, still young, mid-forties, handsome, vital, popular. But being pushed, nevertheless, by that blowsy-haired boy Alec Mortimer, who was making such a big thing of the cosmetics division. And under attack from the board because of business conditions which certainly Mr. Caudrey had no control over. No wonder he wanted to get away, rest a bit, and regather his forces.

  We’ll get through, Miss Rounce thought, sipping her coffee. She had been his secretary for the past 13 of her 25 years with the company. Up with him, from District Sales Manager, to Vice President in charge of Sales, to President, the office he had held now for five years.

  Perhaps another cup of coffee, and then the boy would be around with the 10:15 mail.

  The door of Mr. Caudrey’s office opened and two strange men walked in, one dark, one fair, both in Miss Rounce’s opinion rather peculiarly dressed. She sat in her own small comfortable room off the big sunswept office. There were folding doors between, but he liked them kept open.

  “Can’t close the doors on my eyes and ears and memory, Maria, now can I?” he would say.

  Feeling a little as if the privacy of her own home had been invaded, she rose from her desk and went over to the men.

  “Yes? Can I help you?”

  The dark one gave her an abstracted glance and continued in mid-sentence.

  “—I see a magnificent dark-cave effect, aubergine vinyl walls, no daylight whatever—”

  “I beg your pardon!” Miss Rounce commanded. She was a compact woman of medium height; her upright stance made her seem taller. Her pink face, going a bit to jowl, was pinker with indignation. “I am
Mr. Caudrey’s secretary. Will you please tell me what you are doing here?”

  “Larrup Design Consultants, ma’am,” the fair one said. “Doing over the office. Didn’t your boss tell you? And your little room there”—he walked into it and looked over his shoulder at the other man—“all white? Crazy contrast? Think of it as a surprise extension of his office? A mirrored wall maybe with an etagère, tons of gorgeous green stuff, almost a conservatory effect?”

  Her office. Her office, her place of being, bandied between these two strangers. Something began to beat in Miss Rounce’s throat like a misplaced heart. The fair man’s eyes, resting on her horn-rimmed glasses, gleaming little beaked nose, crisp curly graying hair, no doubt accurately figuring her age as 50 or thereabouts, thinking, You don’t go with the mirror and the etagere. . .

  It was a relief in a way when one of her two assistants, Minnie-May, who was in charge of the files, poked her lavender-blonde head in at the door.

  “Mr. Fenelli would like to see you, Miss Rounce. At your earliest possible convenience, he said.”

  At any other time Miss Rounce would have said, “Indeed? Then tell him he knows where to find me.” But better, for the moment, to get away from this upsetting silliness and try to sort things out. Would Mr. Caudrey have arranged for redecorating without consulting her?

  Hardly. Fenelli might be able to enlighten her.

  She glanced over her shoulder as she left, a loving look that stabbed her, at the fine old ivory and gold Kirman, the glow of teak, the soft rose brocade at the windows, the motionless swift white model under glass of Mr. Caudrey’s sloop Valkyrie, the photographs in silver frames, one of them, the youngest girl, named Elizabeth Rounce Caudrey for her godmother. Was it all, then, to be violated, her heart’s home?

  Or maybe—with a delightful secret surge of feeling as she strode upright down the long bright corridor and around the corner—maybe he meant it as a great big marvelous surprise for her.