Эд Макбейн: Hail, Hail, the Gang’s All Here

“Yes, that’s right,” Gorman said, and nodded. “This happened once before, Detective Meyer.” He was facing Meyer now, his head tilted quizzically, the sightless eyes covered with their black reflecting glasses. When he spoke, his voice was like that of a child seeking reassurance. “But you did hear them, didn’t you, Detective Meyer?”

“Yes,” Meyer said. “I heard them, Mr. Gorman.”

“And the wind?”

“Yes, the wind, too.”

“And felt them? It... it gets so cold when they appear. You did feel their presence, didn’t you?”

“I felt something,” Meyer said.

Van Houten suddenly asked, “Are you satisfied?”

“About what?” Meyer said.

“That there are ghosts in this house? That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? To ascertain...”

“He’s here because I asked Adele to contact the police,” Gorman said.

“Why did you do that?”

“Because of the stolen jewelry,” Gorman said. “And because...” He paused. “Because I... I’ve lost my sight, yes, but I wanted to... to make sure I wasn’t losing my mind as well,”

“You’re quite sane, Ralph,” Van Houten said.

“About the jewelry...” Meyer said.

“ They took it,” Van Houten said.

“Who?”

“Johann and Elisabeth. Our friendly neighborhood ghosts, the bastards.”

“That’s impossible, Mr. Van Houten.”

“Why is it impossible?”

“Because ghosts...” Meyer started, and hesitated.

“Yes?”

“Ghosts, well, ghosts don’t go around stealing jewelry. I mean, what use would they have for it?” he said lamely, and looked at the Gormans for corroboration. Neither of them seemed to be in a supportive mood. They sat on the sofa near the fireplace, looking glum and defeated.

“They want us out of this house,” Van Houten said. “It’s as simple as that.”

“How do you know?”

“Because they said so.”

“When?”

“Before they stole the necklace and the earrings.”

“They told this to you?”

“To me and to my children. All three of us were here.”

“But I understand the ghosts speak only Dutch.”

“Yes, I translated for Ralph and Adele.”

“And then what happened?”

“What do you mean?”

“When did you discover the jewelry was missing?”

“The very instant they were gone.”

“You mean you went to the safe...”

“Yes, and opened it, and the jewelry was gone.”

“We had put it in the safe not ten minutes before that,” Adele said. “We’d been to a party, Ralph and I, and we got home very late, and Daddy was still awake, reading, sitting in that chair you’re in this very minute. I asked him to open the safe, and he did, and he put the jewelry in, and closed the safe and... and then they came and... and made their threats.”

“What time was this?”

“The usual time. The time they always come. Two forty-five in the morning.”

“And you say the jewelry was put into the safe at what time?”

“About two-thirty,” Gorman said.

“And when was the safe opened again?”

“Immediately after they left. They only stay a few moments. This time they told my father-in-law they were taking the necklace and the earrings with them. He rushed to the safe as soon as the lights came on again...”

“Do the lights always go off?”

“Always,” Adele said. “It’s always the same. The lights go off, and the room gets very cold, and we hear these... strange voices arguing.” She paused. “And then Johann and Elisabeth come.”

“Except that this time they didn’t come,” Meyer said.

“And one other time,” Adele said quickly.

“They want us out of this house,” Van Houten said, “that’s all there is to it. Maybe we ought to leave. Before they take everything from us.”

“Everything? What do you mean?”

“The rest of my daughter’s jewelry. Some stock certificates. Everything that’s in the safe.”

“Where is the safe?” Meyer asked.

“Here. Behind this painting.” Van Houten walked to the wall opposite the fireplace. An oil painting of a pastoral landscape hung there in an ornate gilt frame. The frame was hinged to the wall. Van Houten swung the painting out as though opening a door and revealed the small, round, black safe behind it. “Here,” he said.

“How many people know the combination?” Meyer asked.

“Just me,” Van Houten said.

“Do you keep the number written down anywhere?”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“Hidden.”

“Where?”

“I hardly think that’s any of your business, Detective Meyer.”

“I’m only trying to find out whether some other person could have got hold of the combination somehow.”

“Yes, I suppose that’s possible,” Van Houten said. “But highly unlikely.”

“Well,” Meyer said, and shrugged. “I don’t really know what to say. I’d like to measure the room, if you don’t mind, get the dimensions, placement of doors and windows, things like that. For my report.” He shrugged again.

“It’s rather late, isn’t it?” Van Houten said.

“Well, I got here rather late,” Meyer said, and smiled.

“Come, Daddy, I’ll make us all some tea in the kitchen,” Adele said. “Will you be long, Detective Meyer?”

“I don’t know. It may take a while.”

“Shall I bring you some tea?”

“Thank you, that would be nice.”

She rose from the couch and then guided her husband’s hand to her arm. Walking slowly beside him, she led him past her father and out of the room. Van Houten looked at Meyer once again, nodded briefly, and followed them out. Meyer closed the door behind them and immediately walked to the standing floor lamp.

The woman was sixty years old, and she looked like anybody’s grandmother, except that she had just murdered her husband and three children. They had explained her rights to her, and she had told them she had nothing to hide and would answer any questions they chose to ask. She sat in a straight-backed squadroom chair, wearing a black cloth coat over bloodstained pajamas and robe, her handcuffed hands in her lap, her hands unmoving on her black leather pocketbook. O’Brien and Kling looked at the police stenographer, who glanced up at the wall clock, noted the time of the interrogation’s start as 3:55 A.M., and then signaled that he was ready whenever they were.

“What is your name?” O’Brien asked.

“Isabel Martin.”

“How old are you, Mrs. Martin?”

“Sixty.”

“Where do you live?”

“On Ainsley Avenue.”

“Where on Ainsley?”

“657 Ainsley.”

“With whom do you live there?”

“With my husband Roger, and my son Peter, and my daughters Annie and Abigail.”

“Would you like to tell us what happened tonight, Mrs. Martin?” Kling asked.

“I killed them all,” she said. She had white hair, a fine aquiline nose, brown eyes behind rimless spectacles. She stared straight ahead of her as she spoke, looking neither to her right nor to her left, ignoring her questioners completely, seemingly alone with the memory of what she had done not a half hour before.

“Can you give us some of the details, Mrs. Martin?”

“I killed him first, the son of a bitch.”

“Who do you mean, Mrs. Martin?”

“My husband.”

“When was this?”

“When he came home.”

“What time was that, do you remember?”

“A little while ago.”

“It’s almost four o’clock now,” Kling said. “Would you say this was at, what, three-thirty or thereabouts?”

“I didn’t look at the clock,” she said. “I heard his key in the latch, and I went in the kitchen, and there he was.”