Cornell Woolrich - Nightwebs (A Collection of Stories)

“Same one it’s open at now. You want to find the exact joke he was reading when he passed away, that what you’re aiming at, son?” More of that paternal condescension.

Traynor evidently did, or at least an approximation of what type of killing humor this was. He stopped doing anything else and stood there stock-still for five minutes, conscientiously reading every joke on the two open pages, about a dozen altogether. The first one read:

Pat: Were you calm and collected when the explosion occurred?

Mike: I wuz calm and Murphy wuz collected.

The others were just about as bad, some even staler.

“Do me a favor, doc,” he said abruptly, passing the booklet over. “Read these for yourself.”

“Oh, now, here—” protested Johnson, with a rueful glance at the still form in the chair, but he went ahead and did what Traynor requested.

Traynor watched his expression closely. He’d only just met the man, but he could already tell he was full of a dry sort of humor. But not a gleam showed, his face never changed from first to last; it became, if anything, sort of mournful.

“D’you see what I mean?” was all Traynor said, taking the booklet back and tossing it aside.

Johnson shook his head. “No two people have the same sense of humor, remember that, son. What’s excruciatingly funny to one man goes right over another’s head. Likely, these jokes were new to him, not mossbacked like they are to you and me.”

“Did you know him at all, doc?”

“Just to say howdy to on the road.”

“Ever see him smile much?”

“Can’t say I did. But there’s nothing funny about saying howdy. What is it you’re driving at, son?”

Traynor didn’t answer. He went over to the corpse, unbuttoned its shirt, and scrutinized the under arms and ribs with exhaustive intentness.

The doctor just stood looking on. “You won’t find any marks of violence, son. I’ve been all over that.”

Next Traynor squatted down by the feet, drew up one trousers leg to the knees, then the other. Johnson by this time, it was plain to see, considered him a bad case of dementia detectives. Traynor seemed to see something at last; he smiled grimly. All Johnson could see were a pair of shanks encased in wool socks, supported by garters. Patent garters, sold by the million, worn by the million.

“Found something suspicious?” he asked, but without conviction, it was easy to see.

“Suspicious isn’t the word,” Traynor murmured low. “Damning.

“Damning whom — and of what?” said Johnson dryly.

Again Traynor didn’t answer.

He hurriedly unlaced both of Hunt’s shoes, dropped them off. Then he unfastened one garter and stripped the sock off his foot. Turned it inside out and peered at the sole. Peered at the sole of the foot itself too. He stripped the other one off and went through the same proceeding. Johnson, meanwhile, was shaking his head disapprovingly, as if his patience were being overtaxed.

“You are the most peculiar young fellow I ever hope to meet,” he sighed.

Traynor balled up the two socks, and thrust one into each pocket of his coat, garter and all. They were black — fortunately. He flipped the sheet back over the bared feet, concealing them. A little wisp of something rose in the air as he did so, disturbed by the draft of his doing that, fluttered, winged downward again. A little bit of fluff, it seemed to be. He went after it, nevertheless, retrieved it, took an envelope out of his pocket, and thrust it in.

Johnson was past even questioning his actions by now; he was convinced they were unaccountable by all rational standards, anyway. “Would you care to talk to Mrs. Hunt?” he asked.

“Yes, I sure would,” Traynor said curtly.

Johnson went out to the hall, called respectfully up the stairs:

“Mrs. Hunt, honey.”

She was very ready to come down, Traynor noticed. Her footsteps began to descend almost before the words were out of the doctor’s mouth. As though she’d been poised right up above at the head of the staircase, waiting for the summons.

He couldn’t help a slight start of surprise as she came into sight; he had expected someone near Hunt’s own age. She was about twenty-eight, the buxom blond type. “Second wife,” Traynor thought.

She had reached the bottom by now, and the doctor introduced them.

“This is Mr. Traynor of the sheriff’s office.”

“How do you do?” she said mournfully. But her eyes were clear, so she must have stopped crying some time before. “Did you want to talk to me?”

“Just to ask you the main facts, that’s all.”

“Oh. Well, let’s go outdoors, huh? It — it sort of weighs you down in here.” She glanced toward the partly open parlor doors, glanced hurriedly away again.

They went outside, began to stroll aimlessly along the front of the house, then around the corner and along the side. He could see Fears out there in the sun, beyond the poultry yard, hoeing the vegetable patch. Fears turned his head, looked over his shoulder at them as they came into sight, then looked down again. Hunt’s widow seemed unaware of his existence.

“Well,” she was saying, “all I can tell you is, I went upstairs to bed about ten o’clock last night, left him down there reading by the lamp. I’m a sound sleeper, and before I knew it, it was daybreak and the roosters woke me up. I saw he’d never come up to bed. I hurried down, and there he was just like I’d left him, lamp still lit and all, only the book had fallen out of his hand. He had this broad grin on his face and—”

“He did?” he interrupted.

“Yes. Isn’t it spooky?” She shuddered. “Did you see it?”

“I did. And spooky,” he said slowly, “is a very good word for it.”

If he meant anything by that, she seemed to miss it completely.

She wound up the little there was left of her story. “I tried to wake him, and when I couldn’t, I knew what it was. I called to Fears, but he was out back some place, so I ran all the way down the road to Doctor Johnson’s house myself and brought him back.”

“Did he usually stay down alone like that, nights, and read?”

“Yes. Only in the beginning, when I first married him, he used to read things like mail order catalogues and such. Well, I’d tried to liven him up a little lately. I bought that joke book for him and left it lying around, tried to coax him to read it. He wouldn’t have any part of it at first, pretended not to be interested, but I think on the sly he began to dip into it after I’d go upstairs at nights. He wasn’t used to laughing and he got a stitch or something, I guess. Maybe he was ashamed to have me catch him at it and tried to hold it in — and that’s what happened to him.”

They were lingering under the parlor windows. He’d stopped unnoticeably, so she had too, perforce. He was gazing blankly around, eyes on the treetops, the fleecy clouds skimming by, everywhere but the right place. He’d seen something on the ground, and the job was to retrieve it right under her eyes without letting her see him do it.

“Do you mind?” he said, and took out a package of cigarettes. It was crumpled from being carried around on his person for days, and in trying to shake one out, he lost nearly the whole contents. He bent down and picked them up again one by one, with a fine disregard for hygiene, and each time something else as well. It was very neatly done. It went over her head completely.

They turned around and went slowly back to the front of the house again. As they were rounding the corner once more, Traynor looked back. He saw Fears raise his head and look after them at that moment. “Very allergic to my being here,” Traynor thought to himself.

Johnson came out of the door.