Ellery Queen - The Lamp of God

“Milly,” said the fat man.

“Yes, Herbert, I’m going,” said Mrs. Reinach instantly, and she crept up the stairs and out of sight.

“Well, Mr. Queen, what’s the answer? Or is this riddle too esoteric for your taste?”

“No riddle is esoteric,” muttered Ellery, “unless it’s the riddle of God; and that’s no riddle — it’s a vast blackness. Doctor, is there any way of reaching assistance?”

“Not unless you can fly.”

“No phone,” said Keith without turning, “and you saw the condition of the road for yourself. You’d never get a car through those drifts.”

“If you had a car,” chuckled Dr. Reinach. Then he seemed to remember the disappearing house, and his chuckle died.

“What do you mean?” demanded Ellery. “In the garage are—”

“Two useless products of the machine age. Both cars are out of fuel.”

“And mine,” said old Thorne suddenly, with a resurrection of grim personal interest, “mine has something wrong with it besides. I left my chauffeur in the city, you know, Queen, when I drove down last time. Now I can’t get the engine running on the little gasoline that’s left in the tank.”

Ellery’s fingers drummed on the arm of his chair. “Bother! Now we can’t even call on other eyes to test whether we’ve been bewitched or not. By the way, Doctor, how far is the nearest community? I’m afraid I didn’t pay attention on the drive down.”

“Over fifteen miles by road. If you’re thinking of footing it, Mr. Queen, you’re welcome to the thought.”

“You’d never get through the drifts,” muttered Keith. The drifts appeared to trouble him.

“And so we find ourselves snowbound,” said Ellery, “in the middle of the fourth dimension — or perhaps it’s the fifth. A pretty kettle! Ah there, Keith, that feels considerably better.”

“You don’t seem bowled over by what’s happened,” said Dr. Reinach, eying him curiously. “I’ll confess it’s given even me a shock.”

Ellery was silent for a moment. Then he said lightly: “There wouldn’t be any point to losing our heads, would there?”

“I fully expect dragons to come flying over the house,” groaned Thorne. He eyed Ellery a bit bashfully. “Queen... perhaps we had better... try to get out of here.”

“You heard Keith, Thorne.”

Thorne bit his lip. “I’m frozen,” said Alice, drawing nearer the fire.

“That was well done, Mr. Keith. It— it— a fire like this makes me think of home, somehow.” The young man got to his feet and turned around. Their eyes met for an instant.

“It’s nothing,” he said shortly. “Nothing at all.”

“You seem to be the only one who— Oh!”

An enormous old woman with a black shawl over her shoulders was coming downstairs. She might have been years dead, she was so yellow and emaciated and mummified. And yet she gave the impression of being very much alive, with a sort of ancient, ageless life; her black eyes were young and bright and cunning, and her face was extraordinarily mobile. She was sidling down stiffly, feeling her way with one foot and clutching the banister with two dried claws, while her lively eyes remained fixed on Alice’s face. There was a curious hunger in her expression, the flaring of a long-dead hope suddenly, against all reason.

“Who— who—” began Alice, shrinking back.

“Don’t be alarmed,” said Dr. Reinach quickly. “It’s unfortunate that she got away from Milly... Sarah!” In a twinkling he was at the foot of the staircase, barring the old woman’s way. “What are you doing up at this hour? You should take better care of yourself, Sarah.”

She ignored him, continuing her snail’s pace down the stairs until she reached his pachyderm bulk. “Olivia,” she mumbled, with a vital eagerness. “It’s Olivia come back to me. Oh, my sweet, sweet darling...”

“No, Sarah,” said the fat man, taking her hand gently. “Don’t excite yourself. This isn’t Olivia, Sarah. It’s Alice — Alice Mayhew, Sylvester’s girl, come from England. You remember Alice, little Alice? Not Olivia, Sarah.”

“Not Olivia?” The old woman peered across the banister, her wrinkled lips moving. “Not Olivia?”

The girl jumped up. “I’m Alice, Aunt Sarah. Alice—”

Sarah Fell darted suddenly past the fat man and scurried across the room to seize the girl’s hand and glare into her face. As she studied those shrinking features her expression changed to one of despair. “Not Olivia. Olivia’s beautiful black hair... Not Olivia’s voice. Alice? Alice?” She dropped into Alice’s vacated chair, her skinny broad shoulders sagging, and began to weep. They could see the yellow skin of her scalp through the sparse gray hair.

Dr. Reinach roared: “Milly!” in an enraged voice. Mrs. Reinach popped into sight like Jack-in-the-box. “Why did you let her leave her room?”

“B-but I thought she was—” began Mrs. Reinach, stammering.

“Take her upstairs at once!”

“Yes, Herbert,” whispered the sparrow, and Mrs. Reinach hurried downstairs in her wrapper and took the old woman’s hand and, unopposed, led her away. Mrs. Fell kept repeating, between sobs: “Why doesn’t Olivia come back? Why did they take her away from her mother?” until she was out of sight.

“Sorry,” panted the fat man, mopping himself. “One of her spells. I knew it was coming on from the curiosity she exhibited the moment she heard you were coming, Alice. There is a resemblance; you can scarcely blame her.”

“She’s— she’s horrible,” said Alice faintly. “Mr. Queen— Mr. Thorne, must we stay here? I’d feel so much easier in the city. And then my cold, these frigid rooms—”

“By heaven,” burst out Thorne, “I feel like chancing it on foot!”

“And leave Sylvester’s gold to our tender mercies?” smiled Dr. Reinach. Then he scowled.

“I don’t want father’s legacy,” said Alice desperately. “At this moment I don’t want anything but to get away. I–I can manage to get along all right. I’ll find work to do— I can do so many things. I want to go away. Mr. Keith, couldn’t you possibly—”

“I’m not a magician,” said Keith rudely; and he buttoned his mackinaw and strode out of the house. They could see his tall figure stalking off behind a veil of snowflakes.

Alice flushed, turning back to the fire.

“Nor are any of us,” said Ellery. “Miss Mayhew, you’ll simply have to be a brave girl and stick it out until we can find a means of getting out of here.”

“Yes,” murmured Alice, shivering; and stared into the flames.

“Meanwhile, Thorne, tell me everything you know about this case, especially as it concerns Sylvester Mayhew’s house. There may be a clue in your father’s history, Miss Mayhew. If the house has vanished, so has the gold in the house; and whether you want it or not, it belongs to you. Consequently we must make an effort to find it.”

“I suggest,” muttered Dr. Reinach, “that you find the house first. House!” he exploded, waving his furred arms. And he made for the sideboard.

Alice nodded listlessly. Thorne mumbled: “Perhaps, Queen, you and I had better talk privately.”

“We made a frank beginning last night; I see no reason why we shouldn’t continue in the same candid vein. You needn’t be reluctant to speak before Dr. Reinach. Our host is obviously a man of parts — unorthodox parts.”

Dr. Reinach did not reply. His globular face was dark as he tossed off a water-goblet full of gin.

Through air metallic with defiance, Thorne talked in a hardening voice; not once did he take his eyes from Dr. Reinach.

His first suspicion that something was wrong had been germinated by Sylvester Mayhew himself.