Abraham Merritt - Burn, Witch, Burn!

He answered, patiently: "I wasn't here when he was killed—if that's what you're getting at. If you want to know the time, it was two o'clock. Mollie got me on the 'phone about an hour ago an' I come straight up."

"She had better luck than I had," I said, dryly. "Ricori's people have been trying to get hold of you since one o'clock last night."

"I know. But I didn't know it till just before Mollie called me. I was on my way to see you. An' if you want to know what I was doing all night, I'll tell you. I was out on the boss's business, an' yours. For one thing trying to find out where that hell–cat niece keeps her coupe. I found out—too late."

"But the men who were supposed to be watching—"

"Listen, Doc, won't you talk to Mollie now?" he interrupted me, "I'm afraid for her. It's only what I told her about you an' that you was coming that's kept her up."

"Take me to her," I said, abruptly.

We went into the room where I had seen the woman and the sobbing child. The woman was not more than twenty–seven or –eight, I judged, and in ordinary circumstances would have been unusually attractive. Now her face was drawn and bloodless, in her eyes horror, and a fear on the very borderline of madness. She stared at me, vacantly; she kept rubbing her lips with the tips of her forefingers, staring at me with those eyes out of which looked a mind emptied of everything but fear and grief. The child, a girl of no more than four, kept up her incessant sobbing. McCann shook the woman by the shoulder.

"Snap out of it, Mollie," he said, roughly, but pityingly, too. "Here's the Doc."

The woman became aware of me, abruptly. She looked at me steadily for slow moments, then asked, less like one questioning than one relinquishing a last thin thread of hope:

"He is dead?"

She read the answer in my face. She cried:

"Oh, Johnnie—Johnnie Boy! Dead!"

She took the child up in her arms. She said to it, almost tranquilly: "Johnnie Boy has gone away, darling. Daddy has had to go away. Don't cry, darling, we'll soon see him!"

I wished she would break down, weep; but that deep fear which never left her eyes was too strong; it blocked all normal outlets of sorrow. Not much longer, I realized, could her mind stand up under that tension.

"McCann," I whispered, "say something, do something to her that will arouse her. Make her violently angry, or make her cry. I don't care which."

He nodded. He snatched the child from her arms and thrust it behind him. He leaned, his face close to the woman's. He said, brutally:

"Come clean, Mollie! Why did you kill John?"

For a moment the woman stood, uncomprehending. Then a tremor shook her. The fear vanished from her eyes and fury took its place. She threw herself upon McCann, fists beating at his face. He caught her, pinioned her arms. The child screamed.

The woman's body relaxed, her arms fell to her sides. She crumpled to the floor, her head bent over her knees. And tears came. McCann would have lifted, comforted her. I stopped him.

"Let her cry. It's the best thing for her."

And after a little while she looked up at McCann and said, shakily:

"You didn't mean that, Dan?"

He said: "No, I know you didn't do it, Mollie. But now you've got to talk to the Doc. There's a lot to be done."

She asked, normally enough now: "Do you want to question me, Doctor? Or shall I just go on and tell you what happened?"

McCann said: "Tell him the way you told me. Begin with the doll."

I said: "That's right. You tell me your story. If I've any questions, I'll ask them when you are done."

She began:

"Yesterday afternoon Dan, here, came and took me out for a ride. Usually John does not…did not get home until about six. But yesterday he was worried about me and came home early, around three. He likes…he liked…Dan, and urged me to go. It was a little after six when I returned.

"'A present came for the kid while you were out, Mollie,' he said. 'It's another doll. I'll bet Tom sent it.' Tom is my brother.

"There was a big box on the table, and I lifted the lid. In it was the most life–like doll imaginable. A perfect thing. A little girl– doll. Not a baby–doll, but a doll like a child about ten or twelve years old. Dressed like a schoolgirl, with her books strapped, and over her shoulder—only about a foot high, but perfect. The sweetest face—a face like a little angel. John said: 'It was addressed to you, Mollie, but I thought it was flowers and opened it. Looks as though it could talk, doesn't it? I'll bet it's what they call a portrait–doll. Some kid posed for that, all right.' At that, I was sure Tom had sent it, because he had given little Mollie one doll before, and a friend of mine who's…whose dead…gave her one from the same place, and she told me the woman who made the dolls had gotten her to pose for one. So putting this together, I knew Tom had gone and gotten little Mollie another. But I asked John: 'Wasn't there a note or a card or anything in it?' He said, 'No—oh, yes, there was one funny thing. Where is it? I must have stuck it in my pocket.'

"He hunted around in his pockets and brought out a cord. It had knots in it, and it looked as if it was made of hair. I said, 'Wonder what Tom's idea was in that?' John put it back in his pocket, and I thought nothing more about it.

"Little Mollie was asleep. We put the doll beside her where she could see it when she woke up. When she did, she was in raptures over it. We had dinner, and Mollie played with the doll. After we put her to bed I wanted to take it away from her, but she cried so we let her go to sleep with it. We played cards until eleven, and then made ready for bed.

"Mollie is apt to be restless, and she still sleeps in a low crib so she can't fall out. The crib is in our bedroom, in the corner beside one of the two windows. Between the two windows is my dressing table, and our bed is set with its head against the wall opposite the windows. We both stopped and looked at Mollie, as we always do… did. She was sound asleep with the doll clasped in one arm, its head on her shoulder.

"John said: 'Lord, Mollie—that doll looks as alive as the baby! You wouldn't be surprised to see it get up and walk. Whoever posed for it was some sweet kid.'

"And that was true. It had the sweetest, gentlest little face… and oh, Dr. Lowell…that's what helps make it so dreadful…so utterly dreadful…"

I saw the fear begin to creep back into her eyes.

McCann said: "Buck up, Mollie!"

"I tried to take the doll. It was so lovely I was afraid the baby might roll on it or damage it some way," she went on again quietly, "but she held it fast, and I did not want to awaken her. So I let it be. While we were undressing, John took the knotted cord out of his pocket.

"'That's a funny looking bunch of knots,' he said. 'When you hear from Tom ask him what it's for.' He tossed the cord on the little table at his side of the bed. It wasn't long before he was asleep. And then I went asleep too.

"And then I woke up…or thought I did…for if I was awake or dreaming I don't know. I must have been a dream—and yet…Oh, God, John is dead…I heard him die…"

Again, for a little time, the tears flowed. Then:

"If I was awake, it must have been the stillness that awakened me. And yet—it is what makes me feel I must have been dreaming. There couldn't such silence…except in a dream. We are on the second floor, and always there is some sound from the street. There wasn't the least sound now…it was as though…as though the whole world had suddenly been stricken dumb. I thought I sat up, listening… listening thirstily for the tiniest of noises. I could not even hear John breathing. I was frightened, for there was something dreadful in that stillness. Something living! Something wicked! I tried to lean over to John, tried to touch him, to awaken him.