Puzzle in Purple

When Connie Blair goes to art school she enters an

exciting new world in which glamour and mystery mingle.
Connie expects to meet unusual and colorful personalities,
and she is not disappointed. But she hasnt bargained for a
skeleton named Adam who turns up in a purple cloak at the
midwinter fancy dress ball and leaves his signature scrawled
across the ceiling!
From that moment on, tension mounts in the stately old
Philadelphia mansion that houses the art school. Who is
back of the debacle of the masked ball? Eric Payson, the
shy, sensitive young painter whose mural was the only one
not defaced? Roby Woodward, irresistible young dilettante
who despises Eric for his ability? Fritz Bachman, sharp
faced and sardonic, and determined to win the Fairchild
Prize by fair means or foul? Sensing the impending
catastrophe that later dwarfs the episode of the ball, Connie
tries feverishly to fit into place the scattered pieces of the
puzzle. How she accomplishes this, and what she sees when
the picture finally becomes clear is told in a thrilling
mystery story set against the fascinating background of art
school.

The CONNIE BLAIR Mystery Stories

The Clue in Blue
The Riddle in Red
Puzzle in Purple
The Secret of Black Cat Gulch
The Green Island Mystery
The Ghost Wore White
The Yellow Warning
The Gray Menace
The Brown Satchel Mystery
Peril in Pink
The Silver Secret
The Mystery of the Ruby Queens

A CONNIE BLAIR MYSTERY

Puzzle
in Purple
By
BETSY ALLEN

Grosset & Dunlap

PUBLISHERS

NEW YORK

 1948 BY GROSSET & DUNLAP, INC.

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

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8.
9.
10.
11.
12.
13.
14.
15.
16.

The Student and the Skeleton

Missing: A Purple Cloak
The Fairy Tale Ball
Sabotage!
Hospital Interlude
The House on Queen Street
Something Really Evil?
In Erics Locker
X Marks a Pattern
The Criminal Will BE Found!
Miss Charlottes Will
Return Visit
Through the Broken Grating
The Knife
Connie Takes a Chance
Reunion in Meadowbrook

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CHAPTER

The Student and the Skeleton

To Connie Blair the art school looked impressive,

even forbidding. It loomed, a grime-streaked stone
mansion, behind a high iron fence, a relic of the
mauve decade in downtown Philadelphia.
This the School of Design, miss?
A voice spoke at Connies shoulder in the early
dark and she turned, her taffy-colored hair swinging
on her shoulders.
Yyes. I believe so.
Oke. The truckman who had spoken picked up
a long, coffin-shaped box and half pulled it, half
carried it to the gate, which he backed into and held
open for Connie.
You comin in?
Connie nodded. She felt a little shy, as she had
the first morning at Reid and Renshaws, the
advertising agency where she worked. She was
standing on the threshold of another new experience,
1

and she wanted to take her time.

But she politely walked across the cement
courtyard with the deliveryman and let him tell her
how much he disliked working late. After all, he
couldnt know that this was her very first night at art
school, and that she really was much too early,
because excitement had lent wings to her feet.
The massive door, threaded with grillwork,
swung open on oiled hinges, and the truck driver
heaved his cumbersome package into the vestibule
and pushed it from there into a huge, dim entrance
hall. Connie knew that she was entering the former
Fairchild mansion, yet she hadnt expected anything
quite so grand.
The driver, unimpressed, stopped and pushed
back his cap. Nobody home, he muttered, then
shouted, Hey!
Connie jumped as the call echoed and re-echoed
in the empty hall.
Scare ya? asked the deliveryman, chuckling.
But before Connie had time to answer, a gray-haired
man opened the door of an anteroom on one side of
the entrance door.
Bring him in here, said the man in the doorway
after a glance at the package.
Him? Connie blinked and frowned, not quite
believing her ears.
But the deliveryman was already dragging his
2

package forward. Gotta have a signature for this,

he bawled.
Ill sign, the older man said briefly. Im the
superintendent here. Then he turned to Connie.
Anything I can do for you?
Ohyes, Connie breathed. But Ill wait until
youre finished. She felt a little abashed at having
bumped right into the superintendent himself, and
she eyed the man more carefully as he signed the
slip.
He had good hands, long-fingered, but they
looked misused, not like the hands of an artist. There
was dirt under the fingernails, and his shirt cuffs
didnt seem quite clean. Meanwhile a strange
conversation was taking place.
This slip says to check condition while you
wait, the superintendent said.
The deliveryman sighed and muttered something
like Cripes! Definitely annoyed, he added, Well,
get a move on, then.
Connie was shocked. She expected an explosion,
but the superintendent simply gave the fellow a cold
stare from his narrowed, steel-gray eyes and said,
Youre tellin who?
More puzzled than ever, Connie waited while he
leisurely untied the cord that bound the box, which
was standing upended and which was decorated with
two big red-bordered labels marked Fragile and
3

Top.
Finally the two men edged the cover off, and
inside Connie saw a great mass of white tissue paper
bound round and round, in the shape of a human
figure, with green twine.
The truck driver suddenly caught a glimpse of her
incredulous face and began to laugh. Its a
skeleton, miss, he explained.
A skeleton?
They use them in anatomy classes, the
superintendent added for her benefit.
The truck driver, who probably had never heard
of anatomy, said, Sure, and are they some
expensive babes!
Meanwhile the superintendent was unwinding
yard after yard of the green twine, rolling it, as he
did so, into a methodical ball. Connie watched with
interest, amused now at her own navet. Gradually
the tissue began to float down, falling away from the
frame to the floor. First the cavernous skull stood
revealed, then the shoulder bones and the dangling
cartilaginous framework of the arms.
In spite of herself a shudder of repulsion swept
Connie, and this increased the truck drivers
amusement. Indicating the skeleton with a jerk of his
thumb, he said, Hes a good-natured guy. He wont
bite cha.
Nevertheless Connie was glad that the street door
4

opened just then to admit another student, a tall boy

in his late teens, who wore a pork-pie hat at a jaunty
and self-confident angle on his dark hair.
The boys merry eyes darted from the skeleton in
the office doorway to Connie and he whistled softly.
Pretty cute, he said.
Misunderstanding, the superintendent muttered,
Yeh? and added, No parts missing, either, to the
deliveryman, who pulled the visor of his cap down
and said, Okay, then. Ill get goin.
The boy, meanwhile, approached Connie. Im
Roby Woodward, he introduced himself. Youre
new here.
Very new, Connie admitted. I havent even
registered. Ive just been waiting for the
superintendent Her voice trailed off.
For some reason Roby Woodward laughed. You
mean Mr. White? You dont want to see him. You
want to see Mr. Jenkins. He took her by the arm
authoritatively and led her toward a door across the
hall. Mr. Whites the building superintendent, he
bent to whisper. A sort of glorified janitor.
Oh! Connie hoped that Mr. White couldnt
hear. She glanced back toward the little office, but
the gray-haired man was just putting his ball of
twine into a desk drawer, oblivious to their
conversation. Im terribly stupid, I guess.
Youre not stupid at all, contradicted Roby
5

gallantly. Ill introduce you to Mr. Jenkins, if you

like.
Connie thanked him with her eyes, and nodded. It
always made things easier to have the way paved. In
the next half-hour of preliminaries her thoughts kept
turning back to him. He certainly was attractivelooking.
Meanwhile, however, she answered questions.
She told Mr. Jenkins that she had come to
Philadelphia only recently, from her home town of
Meadowbrook, and that she was a receptionist in an
advertising agency, and that she hoped someday to
do art work and write copy.
Both? Mr. Jenkins smiled.
Connie nodded. I know its a large order. Ive
got to begin at the beginning in art school first.
Then she told him how she happened to be able to
take this night course, and how much she
appreciated Miss Marvilles gift of her tuition, for
her help in solving the mystery of The Riddle in Red.
Mr. Jenkins took her on a tour through the fine old
building which housed the school, and showed her
the various classrooms and the little store where she
could purchase charcoal and paper for her first
assignment, which would be drawing from classic
plaster casts.
In the second-floor hall they came upon a group
of students who were gathered around Mr. White
6

and the skeleton which had matriculated with

Connie. Roby Woodward was in the group, and he
hailed her when Mr. Jenkins excused himself and
left the new girl alone.
Heres your side-kick, he said. He followed
you upstairs.
There was a general laugh, and Connie grinned
unself-consciously. Rattling his bones all the way, I
suppose? she asked. Rather timidly she moved
toward the group. They looked so jolly, young
people in their late teens or early twenties, with
drawing boards or stretched canvases tucked under
their arms. This was art school as she had imagined
it, informal and colorful. The skeleton, even, had
lost his gruesomeness, now that he was the center of
a crowd.
A slender boy with bright blue eyes and a face as
sharp as a knife took a couple of steps forward and
the end of his paintbrush clicked against the
skeletons ribs as his mouth moved in soundless
count.
Somebody chuckled. Hes got the same number
you have, Fritz, another student said.
But Fritz moved around the skeleton without
replying and began counting again. No, he hasnt,
he said in a minute. He has thirteen ribs on one side
and twelve on the other.
There was a whoop of laughter from the group
7

and Roby called, Well have to call him Adam, I

guess.
Another boy moved forward, amusement glinting
in his candid gray eyes. At that rate, well have to
make sure he has the proper number of fingers and
toes, he suggested, reaching for the intricately
wired bones of one fleshless hand.
Connie could see that the boys own fingers were
stubby but expressive, and her glance moved up to
the young mans square shoulders and to the broad,
intelligent forehead, crowned by a cap of closecropped light hair.
Drop that!
She wasnt prepared for Mr. Whites reaction to
the students gesture. Others in the group had been
toying with the skeleton and he hadnt reprimanded
them. But now the superintendent hoisted Adam by
the waist and moved on with him. The group began
to break up as Fritz shrugged and said, Well, for
Petes sake, Eric, what have you been doing?
Putting arsenic in Mr. Whites tea?
For some reason this engendered a laugh, though
Connie didnt quite like the way Fritz raised his
eyebrows when he made the joke. Why doesnt he
like Eric, she wondered briefly? Somehow the spirit
of camaraderie had disappeared from the group.
Eric, puzzlement creasing his forehead, looked
after the superintendent without animosity. Maybe
8

its just a rule, he said, in the manner of a person

who has encountered many rules and is accustomed
to respect them. Then, about to turn away, he saw
Connie standing alone.
For a moment he said nothing, but Connie was
acutely conscious that his gray eyes were measuring
her with admiration. It wasnt a boy-meets-girl look;
it was the impersonal admiration of an artist. Then,
suddenly, as though he realized he might be seeming
rude, the boys expression changed.
Hello, he said, almost shyly. Then he repeated
words Roby Woodward had used earlier in the
evening. Youre new here.
Connie smiled, trying to put him at ease. Yes, I
am, she said. She knew that the art school wasnt
large, and that any student entering at mid-term
would be remarked.
Youd make an even better Rapunzel than
Sandra, he said thoughtfully, cocking his head
slightly to one side. Then, in a tone that apologized
for being ambiguous, he added, Im doing a panel
for the fancy dress ball. Id like you to see it, if you
could stop by the studio sometime. Then, as though
he were surprised at his own invitation, he jerked his
head in a nod of good-bye and hurried off.
Studio. Connie puzzled over the word as she went
to the classroom to which she had been directed by
Mr. Jenkins. Did Eric mean a studio of his own or a
9

part of this building? Shed have to find out.

But for the next two hours she was so completely
absorbed in making a charcoal drawing of the head
of Hermes, reproduced in plaster from the famous
original by Praxiteles, that the subject didnt cross
her mind. Light and shade absorbed her, along with
the contour of the firm Greek head, the set of the
chin, the strict proportion of the nose.
Im going to work, Connie promised herself,
far from pleased with the progress of her first
sketch. Im going to work as Ive never worked
before. But the time sped so rapidly that it didnt
really seem like work. It had always been that way
during art class in high school. It had seemed the
shortest period of all.
For the rest of that first evening Connie saw
nothing of either Eric or Roby Woodward. She did
discover, however, that they were both advanced
students, in the graduating class of the school, and
that Roby, besides this superior status, had another
claim to fame. He was chairman of the coming Fairy
Tale Ball.
One of her own classmates vouchsafed this
information, a short girl with pinkish curls who
approached Connie as she was putting away her
drawing board.
Im selling tickets for the ball, she said, and
quoted prices. Outside guests are invited. Would
10

you like to buy any?

I dont know. Connie hesitated. This is my
first night here. Could I let you know later?
Oh, sure. The little girl didnt appear rebuffed.
It isnt for two weeks, anyway. Then she said, I
saw you talking to Roby Woodward in the hall. Hes
chairman, you know. Isnt he simply super, dont
you think?
Connie was a trifle nonplused at such kittenish
enthusiasm. She smiled and said, Hes very goodlooking, but not quite as handsome as Hermes,
here.
Oh, Hermes! The girl dismissed all Greek gods
with a toss of her curly head. Roby Woodward is
the most popular boy in school.
Connie chuckled about the remark all the way
back to her Aunt Bets apartment, which was a fourblock walk from the school. She was glad she
wasnt living alone in Philadelphia but had the
companionship of her young and attractive aunt to
look forward to in the evenings, and she shared her
amusement with Elizabeth Easton the minute she
reached home.
I was thinking I might ask Kit to come down for
the week end of the ball, Connie added after a
while. She missed her twin sister more than she
liked to admit. Kit was at home running their dads
hardware business during his illness of many
11

months, but the clerks, Connie thought, could take

care of things for one day.
That would be a fine idea, Aunt Bet agreed.
One of us could bunk in the living room on the
couch.
I could, Connie said at once. I can sleep
anywhere. She began to plan. Maybe I shouldnt
put the cart before the horse, she cautioned herself.
I havent even got a date.
Two evenings later, however, she began to hope
that detail might be remedied. Connie again was
early for her art class, and on the steps leading to the
second floor she met the blond young man called
Eric, whose last name she had not yet heard.
Hello, she said cheerfully.
The boy smiled, shyness mingling with obvious
pleasure at seeing her. Ive been hoping he said
with a rush, then hesitated, a trifle abashed.
Yes? Connie tried to help him out.
Ive been hoping youd stop by the studio. He
stopped again.
But where is the studio? Connie asked matterof-factly.
Right upstairs, over the ballroom. The room with
the skylight. Didnt you know?
Connie smiled and shook her head. Im new
here, she told him. Just as you said.
Come on. Ill show you.
12

Eric, on his way downstairs, turned and started to

retrace his steps. Connie, by his side, thought that
there was something about this lad that was rather
endearing. He was like a clumsy puppy who wants
to make friends but doesnt quite understand the
technique.
She tried to help him out. I hadnt forgotten
about your Rapunzel, she said. You said you were
doing aa panel?
Yes. Twelve of us are doing big paintings of
fairy tale characters for ballroom decoration, Eric
explained. And Sandra Scott has been posing for
me in Miss Charlottes purple cloak. Its a
wonderful cloak, lined with squirrel belly. Just the
thing, really. And Sandra makes a good model, with
her long, blond braids. Only her expression isnt
right. She hasnt the ingenuousness He broke off
and regarded Connie quizzically. I wonder if youll
know what I mean.
Connie wondered too, rather astonished at this
turn of the conversation. The minute Eric started to
talk about his work he seemed a different person,
intense, full of urgency. They had climbed a short
flight of steps into a back hall, and Eric was pushing
open a door into a big studio.
There.
Standing on the threshold, Connie said, Oh! It
wasnt a word, really. It was a breath let out slowly.
13

Directly opposite her, suspended from the wall with

tacks, stood Erics partially completed panel, a lifesize painting, in brilliant show-card color, of a girl
with long, blond braids, leaning from a tower
window, and around her shoulders and trailing over
the sill was a purple cloak.
Connie didnt see the other panels which lined the
walls. She saw only the Rapunzel, and she walked
toward it slowly, remembering again the
enchantment of the old fairy tale. Its lovely, she
breathed.
You really like it?
Oh, I do!
Then the spell was broken by a querulous voice,
and Connie whirled to see the model herself
standing in the doorway she had just entered.
Eric, said Sandra, somethings happened to
the purple cloak. I put it in my locker, and now it
isnt there. She sounded extremely annoyed. It
simply isnt there!

14

CHAPTER

Missing: A Purple Cloak

Not there? But it must be! Consternation lifted

Erics voice.
It isnt.
Youre sure you put it in your locker?
Positive. Sandras voice was crisp.
Crisp, Connie thought, and surprisingly out of
character with the medieval costume she wore, a
flowing dress, braided around the low neck, and
girdled in gold. But she was beautiful as she stood
there arguing with Eric, beautiful in an arrogant way
that Connie knew she herself could never achieve.
Yet she understood what the young artist meant
about Sandras expression. She looked too
sophisticated for the fairy tale heroine, not
ingenuous enough.
Golly, Eric was saying, seeming more boyish
than ever. Thats Miss Charlottes cape. I wouldnt
want anything to happen to it. I mean its just a loan,
15

you know.
I know. Sandras voice sounded weary, almost
unsympathetic. But it really isnt my
responsibility. She glanced from Eric to Connie,
without much change of expression. I dont believe
weve met.
Oh. I beg your pardon. Sandra Scott Then
Eric looked at Connie and flushed in
embarrassment.
Connie Blair, Connie supplied, and came
forward with a smile. Ive just been admiring Erics
painting. She used the boys first name because she
didnt know his last. You make a marvelous
model.
Thank you. Sandra thawed slightly, pleased
with the compliment. Posing can get to be a bore,
though. It takes so much time!
Eric looked disturbed. Sandras been awfully
generous, he said to Connie. She has been coming
half an hour early, nearly every night.
Connie wondered whether Sandra came out of
generosity or out of vanity. She probably knew that
her portrait would cause quite a stir.
About the cloak, Eric continued. We might
ask Mr. White
Ill go ask him, Sandra offered and then added,
I want to see Roby Woodward, anyway, and I
know he has an appointment with Mr. White to see
16

about lights for the ball.

All right, Eric murmured. After Sandra had left
the room he turned to Connie a little helplessly. I
cant understand-, he began, then he seemed to
see her afresh. I wish you could pose for the face in
my panel, he told her with the disarming frankness
which supplanted his shyness when he talked about
his work. Youd be just right.
Connie laughed. Dont tell Sandra that, she
cautioned him. Shell walk out on you. Any girl
would.
I dont believe you would.
Connie wondered. I might!
Connie Blair, Eric said slowly. Thats a nice
name. Forthright. No, I dont believe you would.
Connie wanted to change the subject. Who is
Miss Charlotte? she asked, living up to Erics
judgment of her.
A shadow crossed the boys face. A very sweet
little lady Ive known ever since I was knee-high to
a grasshopper, he said. She lives just around the
corner from here, in Queen Street. Youd like her, I
think, and I think shed like you.
It seemed an odd thing to say, but Connie was
discovering that this young artist said little that was
routine. Queen Street is darling, isnt it? All those
little houses and the brick sidewalks. Like
something out of a painting of old Philadelphia. It
17

must be fun to live there.

A voice behind Connie said, Oh, I beg your
pardon. I didnt mean to interrupt. She turned to see
Fritz, the boy who had counted the skeletons ribs,
standing in the doorway.
Eric unaccountably flushed. Youre not
interrupting anything, Fritz, he said. Come on in.
Then, to Connie, he added. Fritz is doing a panel
you must seeThe Emperors New Clothes. He
gestured to the opposite wall and Connie turned to
laugh out loud at a very amusing painting.
It brought the famous Andersen fairy tale vividly
to life. The Emperor, attended by henchmen in full
regalia and sheltered by a canopy rich in crimson
fringe, was marching with crown and scepter,
ludicrously unaware that he was appearing in his
shirt-tails.
Its marvelous! Its so funny! Connie chortled,
but she knew as she spoke that it was even more
than funny. It waswhat was the word Ken Cooper,
one of the artists at the agency, sometimes used?
Connie remembered suddenly. Its really slick.
Fritz bowed from the waist. Thank you.
Youd make a marvelous advertising artist,
Connie praised him.
I hope, Fritz admitted. Thats my aim.
Connie turned back to Erics painting. They were
utterly different, the two panels. She knew she was
18

seeing, on the one hand, the brisk style of a

commercial artist, and on the other, the tender touch
of a painter. Though she appreciated Fritzs talent,
she liked Erics panel better. She wished she could
tell him so.
Id better go now, she said inadequately. I
hope you find the cloak.
I hope so too, Eric said fervently as he walked
to the stairs with her. It would be hard to fake the
colorits a purple with a lot of crimson in itif
you know what I mean.
Connie nodded. It must be very dramatic.
It is! Miss Charlotte had it made in Paris, she
was telling me. Years ago. Its hard to imagine her
wearing it, now.
Sandra Scott came running up the stairs toward
them, holding her full skirt up with both hands. Mr.
White doesnt know a thing about the cape, she
announced breathlessly. And, Eric, Roby says
youre positively not allowed to let anybody but
members of the decorating committee into the
studio. She glanced at Connie. He says that was
announced.
Eric bit his lip. I forgot. Then he brightened.
But Connie wont talk about the panels, will you,
Connie?
Of course not! Connie smiled, faintly amused
at all the to-do and secrecy connected with plans for
19

the ball. Since she had been working for Reid and
Renshaw, she felt that she had left such school-day
complications behind her. And now here she was,
back in the midst of it all again!
Yet art school was far different from high school
in many ways. For one thing, most of the students
were more mature. Some of the first-year pupils
were college graduates. Many held daytime jobs
more important than her own. Fortunately, too, most
of the young men and women she had met were very
sincere in their striving for an art education. Their
eyes were on the future and they hadnt come to art
school to waste time.
Interrupting such serious thoughts came Roby
Woodwards voice. Id pay a pretty penny he
offered.
Connie responded to his teasing tone.
I was thinking, she fibbed, that now Id
probably be black-listed.
Roby looked puzzled. For why?
For being caught out of bounds.
Oh, youre the girl Eric Payson had in the
studio! Fie and for shame!
No shame at all, Connie shot back. Eric just
forgot it was forbidden ground. After all, such
secrecy does seem a little childish, dont you think?
For an instant Roby stiffened; then he relaxed and
shrugged. Have you ever been to an art school
20

ball? he asked her in return.

No, Connie admitted. Then she laughed and
said, Touch! and turned into the door of her
classroom before Roby had time to say more.
It was two evenings later that Connie met Eric
Payson again. On her way home from the office she
stopped in at an art supply store on Walnut Street
and there was Eric, at the counter, buying big jars of
show-card color in purple and vermilion.
Hello, Connie greeted him. Did Sandra find
the cloak?
Not yet. Eric looked troubled. Im going to
have to try to fake the color after all.
They walked together, down to the corner in the
waning winter light. Eric seemed unusually quiet
and thoughtful, his shyness accentuated by this
unexpected encounter. Connie didnt press him into
conversation. As the red light changed to green she
prepared to turn down Sixteenth Street.
I leave you here, she said. Bye.
Wait a minute. Erics tone was abrupt.
Connie, Id like to ask you something. You dont
have to give me an answer now, but I wish youd
think it over. Will you let me take you to the ball?
It was far from a gracefully spoken invitation, and
before Connie had time to catch her breath the boy
was gone, dodging downtown between traffic, as
though he had gathered his courage, then spent it in
21

a rush that had alarmed him into flight.

Connie smiled to herself as she crossed the street.
Eric certainly didnt seem to know much about girls.
She thought it was flattering to be invited to go to
the big art school party with an upperclassman. She
wondered whether Aunt Bet would feel that she
should know a little more about Eric before she
accepted. Well, that would be easy. She could ask
some discreet questions at school.
Leaping this minor hurdle, Connie began to plan.
At her first opportunity shed mention to Eric the
thought that Kit might come for the week end. She
could get Kit a date with Ken Cooper, a young artist
employed at Reid and Renshaw, and the four of
them could go together. That is, if Eric was
agreeableand Connie thought he would be. Aloud
Connie said, Itll be such fun!
She arrived at school that night a trifle late. Aunt
Bet had an evening engagement and Connie had
offered to wash and dry the supper dishes alone. In
the great center hall Roby Woodward and Fritz
Bachman were having a heated argument over
something. Fritz was gesticulating and talking in a
high-keyed voice while Roby stood with his hands
in the pockets of his tweed sport coat, sullen and
glowering.
Theyve got to be lighted from above, not
below, Connie heard Fritz say. Any fool would
22

know that!
And Roby replied, his deep voice dropping to a
growl, Whos running this show, Fritz, you or me?
Connie tried to edge past them silently and get
upstairs to her second-floor classroom. But Fritz
suddenly whirled and stamped away, and Roby
caught at the sleeve of her coat, his voice returning
to its normal lighthearted level effortlessly.
Hi, beautiful! Got a sec?
Im awfully late, Connie said, glancing up at
the clock on the landing.
What Ive got to say wont take long. Roby
grinned down at her. Got a date for the ball?
Well, I Connie began.
Id be proud to take you! Arrogant, halfclowning, Roby bowed from the waist. If youll
dress as Snow White and let me go as your Prince,
that is.
But
No buts, said Roby firmly. This is my party.
Please?
It was small wonder, Connie thought, as she
looked up into Robys dark, mischievous eyes, that
he was the most popular boy in school. He knew just
how far to carry his audacity before he capitulated
with a word like Please?
Connie knew, too, that it was a real honor to be
asked by the chairman of the ball. For a new girl,
23

like herself, it was an enviable invitation. Gossip

had reached her that Sandra Scott was usually Roby
Woodwards girl at school parties. Up until now
Yet she forced herself to shake her head, because
Eric had asked her first, and because she found his
very awkwardness, somehow, more appealing than
Robys self-confident charm. Im sorry
Roby frowned. Now, look here. Take my word
for it. Youll be a perfect Snow White. With that
hair
It isnt that, Connie gasped. Its that I cant go
with you, Roby. Im sorry. But I had another
invitation first.
The tall boys eyes darkened. Whose?
Connie was so surprised by the direct question
that it didnt occur to her to dissemble. Eric Payson
asked me to go with him.
For an instant Robys eyes narrowed. Then he
laughed and, tucking his arm through Connies, led
her on up the stairs. Dont tell me! Our Eric got up
enough spunk to ask a gal for a date?
Connie didnt like his tone of voice. Whats
wrong with that? she shot back.
Im just amused. But Roby didnt sound
amused. Ill take care of Eric, beautiful. Youre
going to the ball with me.
Suddenly Connie was furious. She jerked away
from Roby and on one of the rare occasions in her
24

life, anger made her voice quiver. Oh, no, Im not!

she said. Im going to the ball with Eric, Roby, and
thats that.
Sharpening her charcoal a few minutes later,
Connie rubbed the stick against the sandpaper so
hard that it broke. She was still astonished and angry
at Robys presumption. Who did he think he was?
Who is Roby Woodward, anyway? She put the
question a little differently to the short girl with
pinkish-red curls who had been trying to interest her
in some tickets to the ball.
The girls eyes widened. Roby Woodward?
Why, hes the son of the man who owns Republic
Plastics. Gard Woodwardyouve heard of him.
They live in a big house up above Rittenhouse
Square.
Connie had heard of Republic Plastics. It was one
of Reid and Renshaws advertising accounts.
The Woodwards are supposed to be wonderful
people, Connies classmate continued as she
hitched her chair closer to her drawing board. Very
public-spirited and all. And Mr. Woodward has been
just wonderful to Eric Payson, you know.
No, I dont know, Connie said, remembering
the animosity that had glinted for a second in Robys
eyes when she had told him that Eric was taking her
to the ball.
Well, I cant see any harm in telling you.
25

Everybody in school knows that Eric is sort of

whats the word for it?Mr. Woodwards protg.
Eric? Connie was truly surprised.
The girl nodded. He works in Mr. Woodwards
factory, and he boards at his house. It was Mr.
Woodward who helped him get a scholarship here at
school. Mr. Woodward and Miss Charlotte, of
course. From what I hear, it really looks to me as if
hes poaching on Robys preserve.
Students! The voice of the instructor cut into
the conversation. You have a difficult problem this
evening, and there really isnt time for idle talk.
Connie blushed, and murmured an apology,
ashamed of being caught gossiping. She settled
down to work in earnest, but her curiosity was
whetted. She wanted to know more about the rivalry
which apparently existed between Eric and Roby.
Well, at the Fairy Tale Ball, she decided, she
might have an opportunity to ask a subtle question
or two.

26

CHAPTER

The Fairy Tale Ball

It was all arranged! Kit was coming to Philadelphia

for the week end of the ball, and Ken Cooper was
going to make the fourth in the party with Connie
and Eric.
In an
extravagant telephone call to
Meadowbrook, Connie and her twin made plans.
Mother says we can have that bolt of white plush
that has been up in the attic for so many years, Kit
said. How about going as identical Snow Queens?
Dont you think that might be fun?
Marvelous! Connie agreed. But wholl make
our costumes?
Ill cut them out, and Mother says shell run
them up on the sewing machine.
Tell her from me shes an angel, Connie cried.
Ill make the crowns!
Eric was agreeable to anything Connie suggested.
He seemed proud and pleased that he was to be her
27

escort but otherwise was a little detached. Connie

knew that he was working hard on the panel, which
was still unfinished, and therefore excused him. Part
of his difficulties, she knew, arose from the fact that
the purple cloak still had not been found.
Roby Woodward was very busy these days.
Besides final arrangements for the ball, he was
working with Fritz, Eric, and a girl named Beth
Chandler on an exhibition of paintings to be hung in
the great hall. Connie thought privately that they
formed an odd committee, because it was becoming
more and more apparent to her that there was intense
rivalry between the three boys, a rivalry of which
Fritz and Roby were acutely conscious but which
Eric seemed to discount.
One morning Roby turned up at the agency where
Connie worked, and his surprise when he saw her
behind the receptionists desk was so overwhelming
that it made her laugh.
I didnt know you worked here, he blurted out.
I do, Connie told him, smiling. She was glad to
be able to break the ice that had incrusted their
relationship since the night when she had so bluntly
turned down his invitation to the ball. And what
may I do for you, sir?
Im here to see the art director, Mr.?
Mr. Canfield, Connie prompted. Her eyes
began to twinkle. Are you thinking of selling him
28

some art work?

Heaven forbid! Roby ejaculated as though he
were scandalized, and Connie laughed again,
because she knew that Robys reputation at school
was built more on his ability as an organizer than his
aptitude with brush or pencil. Reid and Renshaw is
loaning us an exhibition for the Fairy Tale Ball. Or
hadnt you heard?
It was Connies turn to be surprised. Nary a
word, she told him. Then her eyes widened. You
dont meanthe Tarabochia series?
Roby nodded. I do indeed.
But theyre worth a fortune! The Tarabochia
paintings, large and impressive oils of scenes from
Hansel and Gretel, Snow White, Sleeping
Beauty and other fairy tales famed in song, had
been made for a nationally known recording
companys anniversary campaign, and were valued
at five thousand dollars apiece.
Roby grinned and nodded again. Your Mr.
Canfield is a loyal alumnus of the School of Design.
Thats the only reason were getting the loan
exhibition, he said.
Goodness, Connie breathed, I hope nothing
happens to them.
Roby was confident. Nothing will. He added, I
think we are in luck, though. They make a
wonderful theme to build the masked ball around.
29

Then, as though mention of the ball reminded him

that he was not on especially friendly terms with
Connie, he said abruptly, Will you please tell Mr.
Canfield Im here?
Connie plugged in the call. Mr. Woodward to
see you, Mr. Canfield.
Mr. Gard Woodward?
No, Connie said. His son. She turned to
Roby. Hell be right out.
Roby looked at her quizzically. How did you
know my fathers name? But before she could
reply the art director strode into the reception room.
Morning, Roby, he said in friendly fashion.
Come right along in.
Connie was so busy at the switchboard when
Roby again came through the reception room that
she had time to do no more than wave a brief goodbye. She wondered whether he worked, as she had
been told Eric did, at Republic Plastic. It was hard to
imagine Roby Woodward working very hard at
anythingexcept, perhaps, plans for a party which
he could organize and direct.
Then Connie chided herself, fearing that she
might be unfair. After all, she didnt know Roby
well enough to pass judgment.
The next few days passed with whirlwind speed.
Connie was busy both at the agency and at school,
where only the classes for beginning students
30

seemed to retain a modicum of organization. The

older students seemed to be concerned primarily
with plans for their big party. The ballroom doors
were kept closed, and Connie heard via Eric that the
last of the panels had been finished and hung. The
walls of the big central hall were cleared for the loan
exhibition, and students who were not working on
the various party committees ran busily around
collecting costume accouterments and being very
secretive about their plans for disguise.
On Thursday, the night before the ball, Connie
awoke and lay sleepless from sheer excitement.
Moon whiteness lay like linen on the roof outside
Aunt Bets bedroom, and far away a siren screamed,
punctuating the night. Connie shivered and hugged
herself, beneath the down puff. Tomorrow Kit
would come, and tomorrow night they would dance
in an enchanted setting that would do credit to the
Brothers Grimm.
Until our shoes are full of holes, like the slippers
of the Twelve Dancing Princesses, she murmured
to herself. My, but its fun to be young!
When Connie hurried home from work the next
day Kit had already arrived. She threw her arms
around her twin and cried, Wait until you see our
costumes! Theyre simply divine.
They were indeed. Kit and her mother had
outdone themselves, sewing rhinestones around the
31

low necks to give the costumes sparkle, and lining

the short flared skirts with the ice-blue satin of an
old evening gown.
Connie had made intricate crowns from giltwrapped wire, and had purchased two dainty white
masks. Nobody will be able to tell us apart! she
said gleefully as she stood with her sister before the
mirror. Not even Eric or Ken, Ill bet.
After a hasty supper, the girls made a ceremony
of dressing, arranging their hair in identical style and
even using the same lipstick, so that there would be
no discrepancy in shade.
Elizabeth Easton watched them in affectionate
amusement. Look, she said as she wandered from
the bedroom to the living room, where she was
nursing a feeble fire, even the weather is cooperating. Its beginning to snow!
By the time the boys arrived the rooftops were
white and the ground was fast being covered. It was
a mild, gentle snowfall, the flakes drifting down like
flecks of whipped cream, unhurried by any wind.
Ken came as the Steadfast Tin Soldier, looking very
earnest and rather dapper in his uniform. He looked
in astonishment from Connie to Kit, whom he had
never met, and said immediately, I give up!
The girls both laughed. Better not tell either of
us anything you dont want the other to know,
Connie warned him.
32

Dont worry. I wont!

Eric, with his fair Scandinavian coloring, had
assembled an unusual costume. He was dressed as
the North Wind, from Andersens Garden of
Paradise, and he wore ski pants, a bearskin jacket
and an old sealskin gunning cap pulled down over
his ears. Around his waist was an embroidered belt,
for color, but Aunt Bet insisted that the really
ingenious part of his disguise was his beard,
fashioned by Eric himself of plastic icicles, which
tinkled with an eerie sound when he moved.
Dont go near the fire! Connie warned him
gaily. Youll get chilblains.
Eric apparently knew his fairy tale, because his
eyes crinkled with amusement and he replied at
once, Chilblains! Why, theyre my greatest delight.
What sort of feeble creature are you?
Careful! Elizabeth Easton warned, a finger
raised. The Snow Queen, if I remember correctly,
can strike ice to your heart with a single kiss.
Everyone laughed at her nonsense, and then there
was the usual flurry of leave-taking, the girls
donning boots and long coats, because they thought
it would be fun to walk the few blocks from Aunt
Bets apartment to the school. The snow had driven
most of the city folk indoors, so they had the street
largely to themselves. Only an occasional hurrying
man or woman stared briefly at their strange
33

costumesKens visored hat, Erics cap and the

girls crowns, shining beneath wrapped scarves.
Halloween in January! Kit murmured, and
Connie cried, Isnt it fun?
Ken, although he was older than the other three,
seemed to catch just the right spirit of gaiety, and
Connie was glad that she had asked him to
accompany Kit. Eric was rather too quiet, as though,
after his one effort at the apartment, he were too shy
to enter into the play. A stranger, Connie was afraid,
would think him sullen, and she did her best to draw
the boy out.
I cant wait to have Kit see your panel, she told
him. Im sure its the best of the lot.
Eric shrugged. Roby apparently doesnt think so.
He gave it a poor position. Then he said abruptly,
Miss Charlotte will be here. Shes a patroness. I
havent had the nerve to tell her about the purple
cloak.
Behind them, before Connie had time to reply,
Kit said, But this doesnt look like a school
building.
It used to be a private home, Eric told her,
turning. Wait till you see the ballroom! Its quite
something. Its fun to imagine the parties that must
have been given there.
Kit was impressed, not only with Erics
description of the ballroom, but with the big, stone34

paved entrance hall, hung now with the brilliant

Tarabochia oils and swarming with fairy tale
characters, masked and chattering like a hundred
magpies.
It was like walking into a scene out of an
operetta, Connie decided, standing still for a
moment and absorbing the color of the imaginary
stage set. Cinderellas, Bluebeards, Big Claus and
Little Clausshe could pick them out with ease.
Some of the costumes were quaint and clever, others
truly magnificent, and, like a knight in shining
armor, through the group strode Roby Woodward,
wearing a plumed hat and because of his position as
chairman of the ball, disdaining a mask.
Only a few of the guests were in dinner clothes.
Connie could see one or two older women,
apparently chaperons, and their escorts, who had not
dressed in costume. Then her eyes caught sight of a
familiar younger face above a black tie. Fritz
Bachman! It was like him, Connie thought, to
disdain a disguise. Kid stuff, hed call it.
Come on, Connie. Stop dreaming. Eric, smiling
gently, was at her elbow, ready to propel her toward
the girls cloakroom. With Kit by her side she went
in to take off her long coat and her boots.
Lets pretend youre me and Im you! Connie
whispered to her twin as they came back to the hall
together.
35

Kit, always ready for a lark, agreed, and when

Ken and Eric came toward them she walked over to
Eric. Look at the Puss in Boots, she said Isnt he
wonderful?
But Eric was looking at her. In this crowd,
Connie, he said, you and your sister look more
alike than ever. Youll fool them all.
More than one eye was turned toward the
identical Snow Queens, but Roby Woodward
recalled the crowds attention when he stood on the
broad steps to the second floor and announced that
the ball would be opened by a grand march. He and
Sandra, who wore her Rapunzel costume, were
ready to lead, and the couples assembled behind
them, waiting for the doors of the ballroom to be
thrown open.
Kit, forgetting that she was pretending to be
Connie, whispered to Eric, Whos the boy dressed
as Prince Charming? Hes handsome enough for the
role, which is rare.
Eric stared at his companion for a moment in
astonishment. Why, you know Roby! Then he
recognized the hoax the girls were playing, and
made a great show of exchanging partners with Ken.
Youd better tag your girl, Ken warned him.
These two arent to be trusted.
What would be the use? Eric asked. Theyd
only exchange tags.
36

We used to have a lot of fun on Halloween when

we were kids, Connie told him. Only Mother and
Dad could tell us apart.
I can believe it, Ken said. The resemblance
between the twins was truly astonishing. Even their
voices had the same timbre. Only their laughter was
different, Connies light and gay, Kits more throaty
and chuckling. He made a mental note to remember
that.
Because of the position in which they found
themselves when the line of march assembled,
Connie and her party were close behind Roby and
Sandra, who glanced at the group curiously but
without recognition.
Eric, after a few minutes, began to fidget. I wish
theyd hurry, he said in an undertone, and get this
over with.
Dont you like the grand march? Connie asked
him.
I never like to feel conspicuous.
I always think its fun, sort ofgala. She
couldnt understand his nervous restlessness, until
she remembered he might have an artists
exaggerated concern over the success of his panel.
Then her attention swerved to Roby, who had
turned the great brass key with a flourish, and who
now had his hands on the knobs of the carved
double doors. A ripple of excitement stirred the
37

waiting couples as, with a sweeping gesture, he

threw them open.
Then Sandra Scott started back with a scream.
Connie gasped, and clutched Erics arm.
In the center of the ballroom floor, lit by a
spotlight shining upward at the grisly figure, stood
the skeleton which had matriculated with Connie,
draped grotesquely in Miss Charlottes purple cloak.
For a moment Connie was conscious of nothing
but the light shining with gruesome brilliance
through the empty sockets of the eyes. Then her own
eyes lifted to the dim walls of the ballroom and she
f.aw that the long, colorful panels that decorated the
hall were scarred and defiled by great crosses of
purple paint!

38

CHAPTER

Sabotage!

Shocked silence lay on the revelers for a long

second. Then it was cut like a soft cake by the thin,
knifelike voice of a diminutive, white-haired lady
who had broken away from the group of chaperons
and come to peer under Robys shoulder through the
door.
Good gracious, thats my purple cloak!
Eric took an impulsive step forward, then
stopped, for Miss Charlottes eyes had left the
draped skeleton and were scanning the walls.
Roby, she said incisively, I consider this a very
poor sort of practical joke. Vandalism is never
funny.
Roby Woodward had lost his usual aplomb in the
minute that had passed. Well, good grief, Aunt
Charlotte Connie heard him say. You dont
think I
But the straight-backed little lady had turned
39

away, and as Roby spread his hands in a helpless

gesture all the lights in the ballroom clicked on and
the orchestra, hidden behind palms in a balcony,
began to play.
Connie saw Roby gesture to the second couple in
line and say something softly. Then he drew Sandra
out of the head position and started across the floor
toward the skeleton at the same time that the
building superintendent, Mr. White, hurried from
another direction.
It was the work of a few seconds to remove the
offending figure, and meanwhile a nervous spate of
talk broke out among the party guests, its tempo
heightened by the music. Connie caught sight of
Fritz Bachman, looking at the walls in supercilious
contempt, and then her eye was caught by something
she had missed before.
Of all the fairy tale panels, the one of Rapunzel,
leaning from her high tower to let down her braids
to the old witch, was the only one which had been
left untouched.
Connies glance jerked to Eric, and she saw that
he had remarked it too. He was looking at his panel,
brilliant and effective, and Connie thought for a
second she could read a certain pleasure in his eyes.
Then his expression became undecipherable, and he
fell into step to the music without speaking, his lips
set in a thin line.
40

Now she realized that more than one student was

gesticulating toward the unscarred panel. Eric, she
thought, must be thankful for his temporary
disguise. It was such a strange thing! Had the vandal
been interrupted in the act? It looked too obvious for
such a conclusion. And the purple cloakthe lost
purple cloak. For whose nefarious purpose had it
been discovered and used?
How anyone could do such a contemptible
thing! Connie murmured as the two leading couples
started down the ballroom four abreast. She could
see Mr. Jenkins with the little group of chaperons,
huddled in conversation. Then Roby Woodward
joined them and a decision was apparently reached,
because when the march ended Roby, standing on
the steps to the balcony, clapped his hands.
His poise was restored. He was his usual urbane
self. We didnt expect a skeleton in our midst to
greet you! he called. We usually keep our
skeletons in a closet. He waited for the responsive
ripple of laughter he knew hed get.
Nor did we expecthe made a sweeping
gesture toward the panels which lined the walls
for X to mark the spots where so many beautiful
bodies of fairy tale heroes and heroines are found.
We didnt know it was Mischief Night, but then
anything can happen at a Fairy Tale Ball!
He paused, then shook a finger, and said, half
41

playfully, half seriously, But mark my words, the

villain will be brought to justice. Mr. Jenkins has
promised us that. And, meanwhile, please dont let
this incident spoil your evening. He turned to the
orchestra, barely visible through the palms, and
called out, On with the ball!
Leave it to Roby Woodward, Connie heard a
student in the blackface of a chimney sweep say.
Hell pull the fat out of the fire if anyone can.
The girl with him nodded. Hes certainly
smooth. But Ill bet Jenkins is boiling mad, and I
dont blame him. Its a crying shame to have all
those panels ruined.
Connie thought it was a crying shame too, and
she was even more disturbed because she heard
frequent whispered comments on the glaring fact
that Eric Paysons contribution was untouched.
Coupled with praise of Robys tact and finesse, this
was the subject which dominated the conversation of
partners she chanced to get in the Paul Jones which
preceded the giving out of costume prizes and the
unmasking.
With one exchange Connie found her hand in
Robys, and he swept her into his arms with a
flattering smile. But Connie wasnt interested in
compliments as much as she was interested in
discussing the happenings of the night.
Letting him guess her identity she asked, Who
42

could have done such a thing, Roby? How could it

have happened? Was the ballroom unlocked?
Roby shook his head. I locked it myself and had
the key in my pocket.
The balcony door?
That was locked too, Mr. White says. It opens
off the studio upstairs, you know. Thats the way he
let the orchestra in. Because of the palm screen and
the fact that we had planned to keep the room
darkened until the first bars of music, the musicians
never suspected what was up. Jenkins is really in a
snit. He says the student who did the job will be
expelled.
Connies sense of justice told her that this was
only right, but Robys next remark made her gasp.
Better be more careful of the company you keep,
after this.
Before she had a chance to reply, the whistle
blew again and Roby was gone from her, lost in the
pattern of the dance. Yet as she forced a social smile
she shivered. Roby must really hate Eric, to say a
thing like that. If he meant what she thought he
meant, that is. And what other interpretation could
she draw?
Sandra Scott, as Rapunzel, won first prize for the
best girls costume, and the Snow Queens, as a pair,
won second. After the unmasking, Connie and Kit
found themselves the center of more attention than
43

they had bargained for. They were such identical

twins that not a single one of their partners could
honestly tell them apart, and to dance with each of
the Snow Queens in turn and hazard a guess became
a gay and amusing game.
Finally Connie appealed to Eric. Im breathless!
I cant dance another step.
Come on over and Ill introduce you to Miss
Charlotte, Eric suggested. Its time I went and
tried to make my peace.
Did I hear Roby Woodward call her aunt?
Connie asked him as they dodged across the floor.
Yes. Shes his aunt. Didnt you know?
Then they were in front of the seated chaperons,
and Eric was pausing before the erect little lady in a
lavender dinner dress.
Miss Charlotte, may I present Miss Connie
Blair?
The introduction was so stiff, so ceremoniously
correct, that it sounded strange on the lips of as
young a man as Eric, and Connie wondered, as she
had wondered more than once, where he had
received such formal training.
Miss Charlotte put out a fragile, thin-fingered
hand, on which a cluster of diamonds flashed with
white brilliance. My dear! Ive been admiring your
costume. But have I been seeing double, perhaps?
Connie laughed. My twin sister is a guest here
44

tonight, and we thought it would be fun to dress

alike.
Oh, I see! Miss Charlotte pretended to sound
relieved. Im sure you must be having an amusing
time.
Then she turned to Eric. I have missed you, she
said rather sharply. Yet as she spoke Connie thought
she detected a hurt expression in her faded blue
eyes.
Eric looked ill at ease. I know, he said, without
meeting her glance. Ive been terribly busyat the
factoryand here.
I cant saythough your panel is very
handsomethat otherwise I admire the use that has
been made of my purple cloak.
Eric raised his head slowly. Im terribly sorry,
Miss Charlotte, he said, and to Connie he sounded
completely sincere. It was really because of the
cloak that I didnt come to call on you. It
disappeared from Sandra Scotts locker a couple of
weeks ago, and I just couldnt bear to tell you it had
been lost.
Connie saw the elderly woman and the young
man search each others eyes. So? Miss Charlotte
said, as though she were thinking. Then she added in
a kindlier tone, Never shirk responsibility, Eric. It
concerns me to think that you could ever be afraid of
me.
45

Oh, but that wasnt it! In a rarely impulsive

gesture Eric stooped and covered Miss Charlottes
clasped hands with his own. I just didnt want to
hurt youand I knew you treasured that cloak.
Miss Charlotte turned to Connie and her face had
regained its serenity. I had it made in Paris, she
said, twenty years ago.
Yes, I know, said Connie softly. She felt that
she was looking at a daguerreotype for an instant.
Then Miss Charlotte spoke again.
I think a lot of this young man, she said
forcefully. Hes going to be a great artist
someday.
Im sure he is, Connie murmured politely and
quite honestly, because from what she had seen of
student work she recognized that Eric had real
talent.
If he doesnt get into trouble, Miss Charlotte
added.
Trouble? Eric repeated a few moments later, as
he led Connie back to the dance floor. Now what
did she mean by that?
Connie couldnt tell him, but as Miss Charlotte
had spoken a cold wind seemed to blow across her
shoulders. She had a presentimenta hunch her
father always called itthat not everyone held Eric
in such high regard as did the little lady in lavender.
She wondered whether he were equipped to cope
46

with jealousy and greed and suspicion. She had an

idea he might need more worldly qualities, in time
to come, than he now appeared to possess.
Then she shrugged off the mood of morbid
conjecture and looked around to find Kit. She saw
her across the floor, dancing with Roby Woodward,
and suspected from the intimate way in which Roby
was talking, with his head bent toward Kits ear, that
he had mistaken her twin for herself.
Just to test the theory she persuaded Eric to lead
her in their direction. I think this is a wonderful
party, Connie, she called. When no surprise crossed
Robys face she knew she had been right. Kit
winked at her solemnly over her partners shoulder,
and Eric smiled as Connie winked solemnly back.
I must remember, Connie thought as they danced
away, to ask her what Roby was talking so seriously
about. If hes been undermining Eric and thinks Im
taking it
But then Ken Cooper cut in, and her train of
thought was lost. Its a marvelous party, isnt it?
he asked. The macabre touch doesnt seem to have
spoiled anybodys fun.
No, indeed. But as Connie agreed with him she
wondered. If the malicious vandalism was an inside
job, as it certainly must have been, somebody in the
room must be pretty uncomfortable right now.
An hour later the melancholy strains of Good
47

Night, Ladies, slowed the pace of the dancers and

brought the ball to a close. Miss Charlotte, Connie
noticed, had already left, along with some of the
older chaperons. Only the younger teachers and Mr.
Jenkins remained to see that the party ended more
smoothly than it had begun.
In the girls dressing room tired Cinderellas and
Red Riding Hoods pulled on galoshes and bundled
themselves into wraps.
Its still snowing, somebody announced. Its
getting really deep. We should have hired a sleigh!
Kit had lost one of her boots, and in the crush was
making poor work of finding it. Connie tried to help,
but with no immediate success.
Ill tell the boys well be a while. They must be
waiting, she said after ten minutes of fruitless
search. As this place empties, it will turn up.
It did, but by the time Kit had unearthed it from a
dark corner under the long dressing table most of the
party guests had left the building and Mr. White was
standing by the big entrance door, waiting wearily to
lock up.
He followed Connie and her party out to the
steps, which had been cleared of snow during the
evening and were now covered by only a light film.
Real blizzard were having! he said
conversationally.
Connie agreed. The sidewalks, unshoveled in the
48

midnight hours, were hidden beneath six inches of

snow.
You got far to go?
Only a few blocks. Around the corner and up
Locust Street.
Do you think we should try to get a taxi? Eric
asked.
Oh, no! Lets walk. Itll be fun! Kit was a
country girl.
The side gates open, if you want to go out that
way, suggested Mr. White. Save you a few steps.
Connie thought, fleetingly, that no adult ever
seems to understand that young people dont mind
extra steps. Often they even welcome them. But she
didnt want to offend the superintendent. Thank
you! she called.
Her arm in Erics, she started across the snowy
courtyard. The big white flakes, drifting down,
settled on her forehead, her nose, her lips. Suddenly
she felt like a child again, playful and free, anxious
to run through the powdery whiteness and laugh and
shout.
Impulsively, she broke away from Eric and
touched him lightly on the arm. Last tag! she
called, and was off, snaking quickly through the
snow.
Eric followed, more heavily.
The Snow Queen has wings! Ken called from
49

behind. Youll never catch her.

Wont I? You wait! Eric quickened his pace
and Connie took a quick look over her shoulder,
laughing.
Then, without warning, there was a sharp snap, as
of a twig breaking, and Eric was on his knees in the
snow, a mixture of surprise and pain on his face.
Eric! Are you hurt? Connie was by the boys
side in an instant, along with Ken, who tried to help
him to his feet.
I dont think so. Then Eric cried, Ouch!
Wait! and sank back to a sitting position. Its my
leg.
Careful, Ken. Theres a hole there, Kit warned
from behind, and Ken kicked away the snow to
disclose a broken grating.
There should have been a warning light on this.
Connie looked back toward the art schools steps,
where Mr. White was still standing, hands in
pockets, looking toward them. With the light from
the hall behind him, his face was in the shadow, and
he must not have suspected an accident, because he
made no move toward them.
Want to try standing again? Ken asked Eric.
Connie could see that the young artists face was
white, his lips taut with pain. I dont think I can,
doggone it, he said, trying to be a good sport. I
broke my left arm once. It feels the same way.
50

Connie hesitated only an instant longer, then

hurried back toward the building. Mr. White, she
called through cupped hands, can you come here a
minute? Weve had an accident.
Mr. White didnt seem unduly concerned. He
came toward the group at a fairly leisurely pace. But
Roby Woodward, one of the last to leave, left
Sandra and hurried across the snow toward the
group.
Whats happened here?
I think, Connie told him, that Eric has broken
his leg. He stumbled on a broken grating. Suddenly
she was sorry for her lightheartedness. It might not
have happened if Id been acting my age.
It wasnt your fault at all, Eric called to her, as
Ken and Roby made a basket of their hands and
helped him to get a grip on their necks.
Hell need a doctor, Ken said, but at this time
of night
Better call a hospital, Roby suggested sensibly.
Get them to send an ambulance.
Golly, Im not about to die. That seems like
Eric started, but Roby interrupted.
You shut up.
Connie wished Roby wouldnt be so gruff, but
she ran to call the hospital he suggested, knowing
that it was the wise thing to do. When she got back
to the steps, Roby had everything organized. Ken
51

was going to the hospital with Eric and he, Roby,

was going to take the three girls home.
Connie would have arranged things differently.
Dont you think she started.
But the siren of the hospital ambulance, sounding
in the distance, interrupted whatever suggestion she
might have made.

52

CHAPTER

Hospital Interlude

In the first pink flush of dawn Connie talked with

the hospital for the third time.
I want to inquire about Mr. Eric Payson. He was
brought in shortly after midnight with what looked
to be a broken leg.
I beg your pardon?
A broken leg. Connie tried not to shout. She
didnt want to awaken Aunt Bet, because she knew
that Saturdays at the store were always especially
busy, and Aunt Bet needed her full quota of sleep.
Huddled in her bathrobe by the living-room
telephone, Connie experienced the chill, lonely
trepidation that always seems to go hand in hand
with unaccustomed activity at night. She rubbed the
skin under one eye with a nervous forefinger. She
was very sleepy and more than a little cold.
Who?
Connie repeated, making her voice very distinct.
53

Mr. Payson. Eric Payson. P-a-y-sno, S as in

Samuel, -o-n.
Oh. Just a minute please. Ill connect you with
Second Floor.
Connie waited, wishing she didnt have such a
sense of responsibility for the accident. If only she
hadnt started to play that silly game If only she
had gone to the hospital in the ambulance with
Eric If only
You are inquiring about Mr. Payson? This was
no sleepy switchboard operator. This was a nurses
brisk voice.
Yes. Please.
He had a simple fracture of the left fibula. Dr.
Anderson set the bone, and the patient is sleeping
quietly in Ward Three.
Will he be in the hospital tomorrow? Connie
asked.
Probably. But not longer than a few days.
May he have visitors?
From two to four, said the nurse briskly.
Thank you very much. Even as she said the
words she heard the click of the receiver at the other
end of the line.
Connie slept. Her concern assuaged, she slept so
soundly that she didnt hear her aunt tiptoe through
the living room and leave for the department store
where she worked as a stylist. Kit aroused her about
54

ten in the morning, saying, Come on, Connie.

Wake up! I have orange juice and coffee and
scrambled eggs all ready to eat.
Five minutes later the twins were seated opposite
each other at the table in the window alcove, happily
munching on toast and orange marmalade. Connie
told Kit about her conversation with the hospital and
her sister was as relieved as she.
I do think we should go see Eric this afternoon,
Connie suggested.
I do too. Kit was immediately agreeable. We
could take him some magazines or something.
Thats a good idea.
So, laden with new magazines and a box of
candy, which was an afterthought of Connies, the
girls started out for the hospital through streets that
were rapidly being cleared of snow. The hospital
was a full mile from Aunt Bets apartment, but
because the air was brisk and the sun was bright on
their heads, they decided to walk.
Kit brought Connie up to date on all the family
news. Their father, who had been in bed for four
months following a heart attack, was feeling a great
deal stronger and was even planning to come down
to the store for an hour or two each day. The
window displays Connie had designed were
boosting sales at Blairs Hardware Store and Kit
confessed that she really would hate to leave the
55

business she had entered so inadvertently. Toby, the

twins younger brother, was full of Scout lore and
Scout doings.
His latest hobby, and is he riding it! Kit said.
And Mother?
Fine, as usual. Sewing for the church on top of
everything else.
The only member of the family unaccounted for
was Ruggles, the red cocker spaniel, and Connie
also had to know about him.
Mother has a new campaign. Keep-Rugglesoff-the-furniture. Kit laughed. Toby says its her
theme song, but it isnt making much of a hit.
The girls walked along in silence for a few
minutes, then began to discuss the happenings of the
previous night.
You certainly got more excitement than Id
bargained for, Connie told her twin ruefully. Not
all of it pleasant.
I didnt mind. It was interesting, Kit said. Then
she added, as though she were puzzled, Roby
Woodward certainly doesnt like Eric, does he? I
wonder why?
Eric lives at the Woodwards, Connie told her.
Hes a sort of protg of Robys dad. Hes brighter
than Roby, at art work anyway, and I suppose
theres a sort of natural jealousy there.
Still, I think its strange that Roby let Ken go to
56

the hospital with Eric instead of going himself. Ken

had never even met Eric before last night.
Connie nodded. I know. I didnt like that either.
Robys spoiled and selfish. I think he just did the
thing that was more pleasant for him.
Kits eyebrows drew together. Connie, you dont
thinkshe said after a minute you dont think
that Roby might hate Eric so much that hed want to
frame him?
Frame him? Connie was shocked.
I mean Roby had a golden opportunity to set the
scene in the ballroomand make it look as though
Eric might be guilty, because his panel was the only
one untouched.
And run the risk of ruining his own party?
Because it was Robys party, you know. He was
chairman of the ball. Oh, no, Kit! I cant think
But who would do such a mean and vicious
thing?
I dont know, Connie said in a troubled voice.
I cant imagine.
You certainly dont suspect Eric?
No, I dont suspect Eric, Connie said slowly.
Yet she knew from experience how important it was
to keep an open mind. But I dont really know very
much about any of the crowd at school, she told her
sister. Ive been there such a short time. There are a
lot of things Id like to find out.
57

Such as?
Id like to know something about Erics family.
Ive never heard him mention them. Id like to know
how Miss Charlotte feels about Roby. Hes her
nephew, you see. And Id like to know whether Fritz
Bachmans blas manner is just a pose, or whether
he really has a mean streak Her voice trailed off
and she added, just above a whisper, Oh, Kit, I
dont like to be suspicious of people. I dont like it
at all!
It was on the tip of Kits tongue to tell Connie
somethingsomething that Roby had told her when
they had been dancing together last night. But she
felt, suddenly, that her twin was becoming overconcerned about the affair at school, and she didnt
want to add fuel, at this particular moment, to an
already hot fire. The story would keep.
Its time to change the subject, she said briskly.
Its too beautiful a day to brood.
They were approaching the hospital, anyway, and
a few minutes later, tiptoeing along its antiseptic
corridors, they sought out Ward 3.
The nurse on duty announced that Mr. Payson
already had two visitors, and that only three were
allowed to visit a patient at one time.
You go in, Connie, Kit said immediately. Ill
wait in the anteroom.
Connie started to protest, thought better of it, and
58

followed the nurses starched back, while Kit went

into the near-by sun porch and picked up a
magazine.
Seated at Erics bed was a middle-aged woman in
a beaver coat and a stocky, square-shouldered man
whose black hair was salted with gray. Connie
approached rather timidly, but when Eric saw her he
put out his hand and a smile broke over his face.
Connie! It was swell of you to come!
In bed, Eric looked younger than usual, his blond
hair rumpled, his cheeks a little flushed. He turned
quickly from the girl to the older couple. Id like
you to know Mr. and Mrs. Woodward. Connie
Blair.
Mrs. Woodward nodded and murmured a polite
Good afternoon, but Mr. Woodward came around
the foot of the bed and put out a big, capable hand.
So youre the young lady who caused Erics
downfall? he boomed.
Quite literally, Im afraid, Connie admitted
with a rueful grin.
Mr. Woodward patted Connies shoulder. Dont
you worry about that. Erics going to be right as rain
in a couple of weeks.
Itll take a little longer than that, Im afraid,
Eric said with concern darkening his eyes. But as
soon as I get a walking cast I ought to be able to go
back to work.
59

Great Scott, boy, forget the factory! Mr.

Woodward said with a wave of his hand. Nobodys
indispensable, you know. Not even me!
But will they keep me here until I can get
around? I wouldnt want to be a trouble to you, Mrs.
Woodward.
Gard Woodward was apparently in the habit of
replying for his wife. You stop fretting. Youll be
no trouble to anybody. Then he glanced at his
watch. Got to get going, Emily. All right?
Mrs. Woodward drew her beaver coat about her.
All right, she acquiesced, and smiled at Connie.
You know my son, Roby, too, I understand? she
said as she arose.
Oh, yes, indeed. Everybody at school knows
Roby, Connie replied with a complimentary nod.
But not for his application, Ill vow, grumbled
Mr. Woodward. Roby didnt even show up at the
shop this morning, Em. Where was he? Dont tell
me. I know. Stayed in bed till noon. He turned to
Eric again and inquired sharply, Has he been to see
you yet?
No, but hell get here, sir, Eric said with
confidence.
In an aside to Connie, Emily Woodward
murmured, Cards too hard on the boy.
Connie was relieved when they finally left the
ward. She gave Eric the candy and magazines and
60

told him that Kit was waiting in the anteroom. Ill

run out and get her, she said.
It was not only with Kit, but with Miss Charlotte
also, that Connie returned. Today the elderly little
lady looked more than ever like a miniature or a
daguerreotype, dressed as she was in a longish gray
coat with a squirrel collar, and wearing a matching
squirrel hat and muff.
Gard called me, she told Eric at once, and from
the way her birdlike glance swept the room Connie
doubted that she had ever been in a hospital ward
before. Are you going to be comfortable here?
Yes, indeed, Eric assured her. And its only a
simple fracture, Miss Charlotte. It isnt really serious
at all.
Connie seated Miss Charlotte in the chair Mrs.
Woodward had just vacated while Kit greeted Eric
brightly. Thats quite a handsome cast, she said,
but entirely too pristine and new-looking. What
you need to give it real style are a few autographs.
Eric snapped his fingers. Never occurred to me.
Got a pen?
I have one, offered Miss Charlotte, and looked
on in smiling puzzlement while Connie and Kit
signed their names.
Its a fashion, Miss Charlotte, Connie
explained, understanding her perplexity. Or maybe
I should say a fad.
61

Miss Charlotte was a good sport. Then I should

sign, too, I think. And she did just that, to Erics
shy amusement.
Thank you very much, he said, raising himself
on an elbow to inspect the result.
When Connies wrist watch showed ten minutes
to four she suggested to Kit that they leave. Ill be
out again, she promised Eric. Ill leave you my
office telephone number. Get the nurse to give me a
call if theres anything I can bring.
Then she turned to Miss Charlotte and said her
good-byes. It was so nice to have a chance to really
talk to you, she said.
But it has been too brief, Miss Charlotte replied
graciously. Why dont you bring your sister to call
on me. Have tea with me tomorrow, perhaps.
Connie glanced at Kit and read acceptance in her
eyes. I think that would be lovely, she said.
At four?
Splendid. Kit was taking the six oclock back to
Meadowbrook. There would just be time.
Ill expect you, then. Miss Charlotte nodded
and smiled as they turned away to leave the room.
That will be fun! murmured Connie in an
undertone as soon as they had reached the corridor.
Eric says she has a perfectly charming house.
Shes a sweet little person. Like something out
of Lavender and Old Lace.
62

But I suspect theres a vein of iron in her

character, Connie replied. Have you noticed the
set to her chin?
Hey! Youre going the wrong way! Roby
Woodwards laughing voice stopped them as the
girls turned from the corridor into the main lobby.
Oh, no, we arent, Connie told him. Weve
been to see Eric, and were on our way home.
Roby glanced over his shoulder at the clock
above the entrance door. Wait five minutes and Ill
drive you uptown, he said. Four oclock is finis
around here, I understand.
Connie hesitated, and Roby was off down the
corridor at something close to a sprint, giving her no
chance to refuse. She shrugged as she looked after
him. Guess wed better wait, she said with a wry
smile.
Roby was as prompt as his promise. Aunt
Charlottes no respecter of hospital rules, he said as
he joined the girls. I offered her a ride, but she said
she didnt intend to leave for fifteen minutes yet.
Connie glanced at Kit. What did I tell you about
that jaw? she chuckled.
The car to which Roby ushered them was a low,
black convertible, obviously a late model. He held
the door gallantly for Connie and Kit, then rounded
the car and slid his long legs under the wheel.
There, he said as he started the ignition. My
63

Boy Scout deed for the day!

Helping us into the car?
No. Going to see the fair-haired boy.
Why did you come if you didnt want to?
Connie asked.
Roby shrugged. Expected of me and all that. Pop
would raise Rome if I neglected the favorite child.
His infectious grin flashed, and he seemed to be
sorry hed opened the subject. Dont mind me. I
just get a little sick of teachers pets. Between Dad
and Mother and Aunt Charlotte and the art school
staffwell, you know how it is. He chuckled, as
though to himself. Ive got one person on my side
though. Uncle Francis doesnt think hes so hot.
Whos? Connie began, but Roby interrupted.
Lets quit talking about Eric, now, and talk
about you.

64

CHAPTER

The House on Queen Street

The street where Miss Charlotte lived was tucked

away from Philadelphia traffic and hidden beneath
the towering bulk of office buildings. Like the old
Fairchild mansion which housed the art school, it
was a relic of more leisurely days.
Once, Connie suspected, the brick-paved little
street had been very fashionable, and now it was
becoming fashionable again, in a vaguely Bohemian
way. The brick facades of the houses were being
repainted by new owners in shades of gray and soft
pink and even black. Marble steps were scrubbed
and iron railings were freshened. It had become
smart as well as quaint. In downtown Philadelphia it
was a charming place to live.
Oh, it is delightful, isnt it! Kit, turning into
Queen Street from the main thoroughfare, glanced
about her in pleased surprise.
I especially like the trees, Connie said,
65

gesturing toward the branches of four Norway

maples, black against the snow. There are so many
little streets like this in Philadelphia, streets people
who dont know the city never even see.
By the way, Kit asked her twin, what is Miss
Charlottes last name?
I dont even know, Connie admitted in some
surprise. It could be Woodward, I suppose, but
everybody just calls her Miss Charlotte. Eric even
introduced her that way.
It fits her. Kit smiled. Ill just call her that.
Connie was beginning to look at the numbers of
the houses they were passing. It must be across the
street, and up a way, she said. Number Twentythree.
Let me guess! Kit cried. She narrowed her eyes
against the sun. Ill vote for the red brick.
I will too, Connie agreed. It was the most
elegant little house on the street, the old brick pink
with age, the shutters black, the door boasting a
decorative fanlight. A brass knocker gleamed in the
sunshine, and the black iron handrail which ended in
a spiral at the foot of the steps was surmounted by a
brass finial. Serene, sheltered and livable, though
situated in the very heart of town, it seemed a
symbol of a more dignified way of life.
Were right! Connie cried when she could read
the number. Look, Kit, at the shadow pattern the
66

handrail makes in the snow. The artist in her was

speaking, and she paused admiringly before she ran
up the steps and lifted the old brass knocker,
scorning the recessed bell.
A maid, conventionally garbed in Sunday black,
opened the door and admitted them to a narrow hall
from which double doors led to the living room or
parlor, as it must once have been called. In a basket
on the fireplace hearth a bed of cannel coal was
glowing, and from a tall wing chair beside the fire
Miss Charlotte arose to greet them, looking more
fragile than ever in pale-gray silk.
Will you take the girls upstairs, Anna, Miss
Charlotte said after she had greeted them. You may
put your wraps in the guest room, she added,
turning to Connie, and ended with quaint formality,
if you please.
Connie and Kit followed the maid and became
more enchanted by the house with every step they
took. Furnished entirely in antiques, which were
waxed to a warm glow, it had both style and
aristocratic charm.
The girls laid their coats on a canopied bed with
slender, fluted posts, and inspected their hair before
a Queen Anne mirror which could have been a
museum piece.
No wonder Eric adores this house, Connie
breathed. Theres something about the lines of
67

really fine old furniture

And the feel of the wood, Kit added softly as
they walked together down the stairs.
Weve been admiring your home, Connie told
Miss Charlotte with disarming frankness. Its
perfectly beautiful.
I love it! Miss Charlotte smiled from her wing
chair. Everything in it has a special meaning for
me. Her glance strayed around the firelit room,
from the faded pastels of the fine old Aubusson
carpet to the inlaid walnut tables and the long, lined
draperies of mauve damask which shut out the
street.
The whole room was done in shades of purple
and gray, with the sharp contrast of a bowl of yellow
daffodils lighting the alcove where a secretary-desk
stood.
Do you ever think of people in terms of color?
Connie asked her hostess suddenly. I mean
certain colors just fit certain people, the way
lavender fits you.
Miss Charlottes laugh was like the tinkle of a
thin silver bell. Its interesting, she said, that Eric
once said the same thing to me, when I first knew
him, as a little boy. Her mind seemed to be
retracing the years, and Connie knew that her
visitors were momentarily forgotten. She waited,
and after a minute Miss Charlotte continued.
68

Youre a lavender kind of lady, he said.

Where does Eric live? I mean, where is his
family? Connie gathered courage to ask.
Family? Eric has no family, said Miss Charlotte
as Anna entered with a large silver tray of tea things.
He was raised in an orphanage. Didnt you know?
No, I didnt. Im sorry. I didnt mean to pry.
Connie was shocked and her confusion was explicit
in her words.
Theres no secret about it, my dear, Miss
Charlotte said. I used to do some social-service
work, and it took me into several of our city
institutions. Eric was a sensitive child, and we struck
up quite a friendship. I found him an extremely
appealing little boy.
Connie could imagine that Eric had been just that,
shy and rather wistful, for all his sturdy good looks.
I used to bring him home with me, once in a
while, for lunch or supper, when he was only about
nine years old, Miss Charlotte continued. Youve
never seen a child so responsive to beauty. The way
he used to go up to a piece of furniture and let his
fingers trail over the wood She sat a little
straighter, her own hands touching the tea tray
descriptively. I tried not to be sentimental, but you
can imagine that the atmosphere of an orphanage is
often a littleutilitarian.
Connie could well imagine, and she nodded
69

sympathetically, as did Kit.

Sugar? Miss Charlotte asked her. And lemon
or cream?
Sugar and lemon, please. Connie wished that
the serving of the tea, in flowered Limoges cups,
had not created a distraction. She wanted to know
more about Eric. With every word Miss Charlotte
spoke he was becoming more interesting.
After Kit had been served she ventured to reopen
the subject. Eric surely does think the world of you,
Miss Charlotte, she said.
A cloud seemed to cross the little ladys eyes. i
used to think so, she said. Now, sometimes, I
wonder.
Kit, startled, asked bluntly, Why, what do you
mean?
The delicate lift of Miss Charlottes shoulders
could hardly have been called a shrug. She was
about to reply when a knock sounded on the hall
door and Anna came into the room to announce,
Its Mr. Francis, Miss White.
Connie glanced at her twin. This must be the
Uncle Francis to whom Roby had referred.
Ask him to come in, Anna, Miss Charlotte was
saying, and bring another cup and saucer, please.
For a fleeting moment Connie didnt recognize
the tall, gray-haired man who crossed the room. She
knew his face, of course, but she fought to place
70

him.
Then Miss Charlotte said, with her usual gentle
graciousness, You know my brother, Mr. White,
Connie, of course. Francis, may I present Miss
Katherine Blair?
Here again was the quaint formality Connie had
remarked in Eric, and she knew that Miss Charlotte
must have had a great influence on his life. As this
thought flitted through her mind, she was watching
Mr. White greet Kit.
Of course! she cried impulsively. Youre the
building superintendent at school!
The moment the words were out she regretted
them. She could feel Miss White stiffen
instinctively, and Mr. White acknowledged her
recognition with a short, curt nod. Connie hadnt
intended to be rude. She flushed in embarrassment.
Did Mr. White consider the job too menial for a
gentleman? What sore point had she unwittingly
touched?
Miss Charlotte covered the uncomfortable pause
with a natural gesture. Sit down, Francis. Youll
have a cup of tea? She took the cup and saucer the
maid brought and poured tea for her brother, adding
with more courtesy than warmth, Its nice to have
you drop in.
As Mr. White took the tea Connie again noticed,
as she had noticed on her first night at school, that
71

he had the slender hands of an aristocrat. Then it had

surprised her, but now she recognized the similarity
to Miss Charlottes hands. As her grandmother had
often said, Breeding will tell.
Yet it was curious to note that Mr. White held the
china teacup awkwardly, as though he had not
oftenor perhaps not recentlybeen included in a
party such as this. He seemed a little uncomfortable
in the presence of the girls, and Connie felt that he
must be in the house for a reason; otherwise he
would have made his excuses and left.
She did her best to be courteous. It must be a big
job to run such an establishment in winter weather
like this, she said chattily while Kit and Miss
Charlotte were talking together for a moment. How
many furnaces are there at the school?
Three, besides the ceramic kiln, said Mr. White
shortly, and turned away.
Now Ive put my foot in it again! Connie chided
herself. Why dont I stay off the subject? But then,
with a man who was practically a stranger, what
could she find to talk about?
Kit and I went out to the hospital to see Eric
Payson yesterday, she said hopefully. It certainly
is lucky that he has only a simple fracture. That
could have been a really nasty accident.
Mr. Whites reply was intercepted by Miss
Charlotte who said, It seems to me, Francis, that a
72

broken grating like that should be marked by a red

lantern. Its a very great accident hazard, Im sure.
There was a short, constrained silence; then Kit
said brightly, It certainly was a nice party, at the
school. The incident at the beginning was too bad,
but Roby certainly pulled everybody out of the
doldrums with a great deal of finesse.
Mr. White grunted in assent. Robys quite a boy.
Hes bound to get to the bottom of this thing. He and
Mr. Jenkins.
Connie was surprised. Roby hadnt mentioned the
affair on their ride from the hospital yesterday. She
thought he was the sort of person who was inclined
to let bygones be bygones.
Dont you think it might be better, she asked
timidly, for everybody just to forget the whole
thing?
That precipitated quite an argument, in which Mr.
White firmly took the stand that the culprit should
be discovered and brought to justice. Miss Charlotte
looked disturbed. But who could have done such a
thing? she murmured, with a slight frown. It
seems incredible that any student
It must have been a student, her brother said.
It was an inside job. It doesnt look so good for
young Payson, Id say. Hell be hauled on the
carpet, you can bet, when he gets around again.
Oh, but, Francis, Eric couldnt have She
73

waved one of her slender hands as though the

sentence werent even worth the trouble of finishing.
Yes, he could. You might as well face it,
Charlotte. Im not saying he did, mind. But hes
Number One suspect, at least in Mr. Jenkinss eyes.
Connie wanted to jump into the conversation with
a hot protest, but she didnt see how it would help
Erics case. Furthermore, Mr. White was just stating
facts as he saw them, she supposed.
Its a strange thing, youll admit, that young
Paysons panel was the only one untouched. And the
fact that your purple cloak, that youd loaned to the
boy, was used
But the cloak was taken from Sandras locker a
couple of weeks before the ball! Connie could be
still no longer.
And who took it? Mr. White asked, and Connie
wondered whether it was her imagination that made
his voice sound insinuating. Thats what we dont
know. In any event, Charlotte, Ive brought it back
to you. Its on a chair in the hall. No use having a
fine, fur-lined cape lying around where nobody
takes the trouble to take care of it. Might as well be
up in your closet, where it belongs.
Thank you, Francis. A definite frown appeared
between Miss Charlottes eyes. It was good of you
to take the trouble. She seemed suddenly to want to
change the subject, and turned to Kit. Will you
74

have another of Annas little cupcakes, dear?

Theyre only bite-size.
Thank you. They are delicious. But Ive been
watching the time, and I really must run. I have a
train to catch, you see.
Goodness, Kit! I hadnt realized that it was
getting so late. Miss Charlotte, it has been lovely!
May I drop in sometime again, to pay a party call?
But of course! Miss Charlotte smiled up into
Connies vivid face. Now run right along. Dont let
me keep you. Kit, I hope well meet again.
The twins hurried upstairs, and, nagged by the
march of time, they didnt linger after they had put
on their wraps. As she ran lightly down to the lower
hail, Connie caught a glimpse of the purple cloak
being whisked away by Anna to a closet under the
stairs.
Somehow, though it was a lovely and dramatic
thing, the sight of the ill-fated cape made her
shudder. She had a feeling that in using it to drape
the skeleton someone had tossed a pebble into a dark
pool. In ever-widening ripples the water it had
disturbed might eventually reach some dim and
frightening shore.

75

CHAPTER

Something Really Evil?

So firmly did this idea grip Connie that she found

herself dreaming over the switchboard at Reid and
Renshaws the next morning, and in that busy
agency girls, to be popular, kept their minds on their
jobs.
When Connie connected a call for Mr. Renshaw
with one for Miss Cameron and got her lines in a
glorious snarl she came back to earth and the front
office in a hurry, and with a considerable jolt.
Connie prided herself on her efficiency. Im sorry,
sir was a phrase she didnt often have to use.
With every passing month Connie was becoming
more and more certain that advertising was the
business for her. She liked all its phases, copy, art,
production, and was even beginning to think that
someday it might be lots of fun to learn something
of the radio end of the game.
It pleased her to think that no longer was she
76

considered a routine receptionist. Her duties and

responsibilities were increasing day by day. And
both Mr. Reid and Mr. Renshaw were interested in
the fact that she was going to art school. They
thought that she had an eye for design and color, and
they told her so.
Hows the double life going? asked Mr. Reid
this morning, as he came through the reception room
on his way to an outside appointment.
Fine! Connie grinned. I love it.
Doesnt tire you out?
No, indeed!
Mr. Reid shook his head and sighed. Must be
wonderful to be young, he muttered with pretended
annoyance, for his own dark hair showed only a
thread of gray.
Ken Cooper sauntered up to Connies desk as the
elevator door opened for Mr. Reid. He wagged a
finger at her in admonition. Mustnt flirt with the
boss.
I wasnt doing anything of the sort! Connie was
indignant.
No?
No!
All right, but you cant blame a guy for being
jealous, can you? Ken stopped teasing abruptly and
said, Ill buy you a hamburger and a milk shake for
lunch.
77

Thanks, that would be lovely! smiled Connie

promptly. Im stony broke until payday. Spent my
all on art materials last week.
They can eat up the pennies, admitted Ken out
of personal experience. Then his expression
changed, and he looked at Connie sharply. Say, am
I being a meal ticket? I thought I was loved for
myself alone.
Until Connie saw the twinkle in his eyes she was
contrite. Oh, Ken, you know
Ken shook his head. Devious, like all the girls. I
thought you were different, Connie Blair.
I am different, Connie replied promptly. Ive
got a mystery, not a man, on my mind.
Now the young artist really looked disturbed. He
held his head and groaned. Not again! he wailed
in a pleading voice. Please, not again!
Ill tell you about it at lunch, Connie promised.
I was afraid of that.
Connie turned back to her switchboard, which
was beginning to look insistent again. Now, Ken,
do run along. Im busy.
Sure, youre busy! retorted Ken, shuffling off.
I suppose the art department just loafs.
Connie smiled at his retreating back. She loved
his nonsense. He and his side-kick in the art
department, Dick Travis, made Reid and Renshaw
not only an interesting but an amusing place to
78

work.
The next hour and a half passed with whirlwind
speed, because the number of callers was far above
average. Connie left her switchboard and desk at last
with a sense of anticipation. It was always nice to
have a luncheon date.
A thaw had melted the remains of the Saturday
storm, but overhead, as she and Ken walked a block
across town to a little luncheon place called the
Hamburg Hearth, the sky was gray with the promise
of more snow. Ken glanced up and, making
conversation, said, It certainly looks threatening,
doesnt it? Connie nodded, and could feel an
involuntary shiver trace its way up her spine.
Threatening, she repeated, but she wasnt
thinking of the sky.
Ken sighed, interpreting her murmur correctly.
Might as well tell Mr. Cooper all, he said when
they were seated opposite each other at a postage
stamp-sized table. Whats humming inside that
busy little brain? But before you tell me, understand
one thing. Im not climbing to any more third-floor
windows nor am I rescuing any more damsels in
distress nor jimmying any locks. My days as crimebuster ended with the solving of The Riddle in Red.
Connie giggled, but she believed him. Ken really
meant what he said. All right, she promised, and
with a forefinger traced a cross over her heart.
79

Ken settled back, satisfied. Okay. Shoot.

I think somebodys trying to frame Eric
Payson, she said, and I dont know why and I
dont know whoor is it whom?
Take your choice, offered Ken politely. Your
grammars as good as mine.
Ken, be serious.
Are you talking about the prank at the ball?
It was more than a prank, youll have to admit.
Yes, said Ken more soberly, it was.
And you dont think Eric would do such a
thing?
I cant see why. Hes on the quiet side, but he
seems like a good enough gent.
Yet everything was arranged so that suspicion
would point his way. I think somebody wants to get
him into trouble, and I dont think weve seen the
end of this thing yet.
Now, Connie
Theres Roby Woodward, Connie was
continuing. Eric and Roby have never hit it off.
Eric boards with the Woodwards and works in
Republic Plastics. I met Mr. Gard Woodward at the
hospital yesterday and he thinks a lot of Eric. I could
tell.
But a man doesnt throw over his own son for a
stranger, Connie.
No-o, Connie admitted. But if I were in
80

Robys shoes Id be afraid he might.

I suspect Robys the spoiled-son-of-a-wealthyman type, admitted Ken. That little dodge of
getting me to ride to the hospital with Payson, while
he went kiting off with three pretty girls
Connie looked at Ken and grinned. I rather
imagined you werent too pleased. She told him,
then, in detail, about the Woodwards conversation
at the hospital, and about Mr. Whites insinuations
at Miss Charlottes house on the previous day.
I wouldnt take too much stock in Whites talk,
Ken said. He sounds to me like a neer-do-well
younger brother, who has taken a fancy to Roby
because Robys cut from the same piece of cloth.
Maybe Roby did the trick himselfhed have had
perfect opportunityand then slipped Uncle Francis
a few bucks to cover for him. Theres a neat theory
for you. How do you like that?
Not too much, Connie said, but Ill put it on
file.
She sipped her milk shake thoughtfully for a
moment, then said, Id like to know a little more
about Fritz Bachman.
Whos he?
The boy in the dinner jacket. The one who
thought it was all too childish and couldnt be
bothered to dress in costume.
Ken grinned. Thats descriptive. I know him
81

now. The haughtily contemptuous type.

He doesnt like Eric either.
My, my! Im beginning to wonder about Eric
myself!
A shadow slid across Connies eyes, although she
knew Ken was teasing. She mustnt let prejudice in
Erics favor destroy her sense of proportion. Sandra
Scott was telling me that its nip and tuck between
Eric and Fritz as to who will get the Fairchild prize,
she said.
Really? Kens eyebrows shot up. He was
obviously impressed. Thats the big prize, isnt it?
So I understand. Connie nodded. Its the
traveling fellowship willed by the man whose house
is now our school building. They say the
competition for it is really stiff, and an unscrupulous
person might take any means She hesitated. Oh,
I dont know. I may be very unfair even to suspect
that Fritz might want to beat Eric out for the prize,
by fair means or foul.
Ken leaned forward. Look, Connie, why do you
worry your pretty little head? Why make a mountain
out of a molehill? If I were you, Id just forget the
whole thing.
I would, Kenhonestly I would, if I could. But
I have a feeling that theres something more to all
this than meets the eye. Connies voice dropped to
a mere whisper. I have a feeling that theres
82

something really evil stirring in the school.

Ken snorted and pushed back his chair with the
air of a man who has little faith in womans
intuition. For Petes sake, Connie, snap out of it!
he said. Come on, lets get out of here.
He maintained his air of affronted masculinity all
the way back to the office. Connie had to trot to
keep up with his long-legged stride, and when he
left her he said, Next time Im going to have lunch
with Medea. It would be more relaxing.
Whos Medea? Connie was always curious.
The villainess of a Greek melodrama who
murders her husband and two kids, Ken hissed.
And on that note he disappeared, tipping his hat with
a roguish grin.
The afternoon, in contrast to the morning,
dragged. The chief executives had luncheon dates
that kept them away until three oclock and the art
and production departments were both very quiet.
Finally the art director, Mr. Canfield, emerged
from his office yawning openly. Feels like a
morgue around here, he said to Connie. Where is
everybody?
Connie smiled at him. Out to lunch.
Recovering from the week end, you mean. He
came over and leaned against the curving reception
desk. Did young Woodward get that exhibit of
Tarabochias hung down at school?
83

Oh, yes! It was up in time for the costume ball

last Friday.
Mr. Canfields hazel eyes grew dreamy.
Costume ball! Gosh, that takes me back. We had a
Venetian ball once, when I was in school. I can
remember doing a backdrop for the Grand Canal.
The Vendramini Palace. It still has a romantic
sound. Then, as though he were afraid of seeming
foolishly sentimental, he chuckled and added, Of
course my costume was terribly original. I went as a
gondolier.
Connie laughed with him. Ours was a fairy tale
ball, she said, because of the Tarabochia exhibit,
partly. There were beautiful panels of fairy tale
scenes, only
Only what?
Because Mr. Canfield seemed interested and
more sympathetic than Ken, Connie suddenly found
herself telling him about the unexpected picture
which had greeted the eyes of the party guests on the
opening of the ballroom door. The art director,
gratifyingly, looked troubled.
A nasty trick if I ever heard of one, he said.
Somebody has a perverted sense of humor down
there. He frowned, and pulled the lobe of one ear in
a gesture Connie had often seen him use when he
was disturbed. Its a mighty good thing nobody
tried any funny business with the Tarabochias, he
84

muttered.
Oh, no one would dream of touching those!
Connie assured him confidently. There isnt a
student at school who doesnt realize how marvelous
they are!
And valuable, mused Mr. Canfield. Twentyfive thousand on the hoof. He paused and his eyes
narrowed shrewdly. Might be just as well to get
them insured. With a kid down there who would pull
a lunatic prank like that

85

CHAPTER

In Erics Locker

While Mr. Canfield was talking to the Reid and

Renshaw insurance representative about a fine arts
floater on the Tarabochias, Connie had a call come
in from the hospital.
Reid and Renshaw, she said as usual into the
mouthpiece.
May I speak to Miss Connie Blair, please.
This is Miss Blair.
Hi. This is Eric Payson.
Eric! Connie cried. What are you doing up?
Im not up, Eric replied. This is a very modern
hospital. They have plug-in phones in the wards.
Connie asked how he was feeling, and Eric said,
Fine, but a little bored. I called to ask you a favor,
he continued. Remember, you said
Of course! Connie returned. I told you to call
the office if there was anything at all I could do.
Id sort of like to have my sketchbook, Eric
86

said shyly. Its in my locker, but if its any

trouble
It wont be any trouble at all! Connie said at
once, glad to be of some service. I could drop in
with it tomorrow evening after schoolthat is, if its
allowed.
The night nurse is very nice, Eric replied. I
asked her and she said it would be all rightfor just
a few minutes. He sounded, Connie thought, full of
happy anticipation. It was flattering that he should
seem not only anxious to see his sketchbook but also
to see her.
But wheres your locker key, Eric? she asked.
Do you have it with you?
No, its at the Woodwards. I thought Id ask
Roby to bring it along tonight.
Fine. That makes it easy. Want any pencils or
crayons?
Yes, a few. Eric described his needs. He
wanted to do the rough drawings for a design project
that was due in one of his classes. Its awfully nice
of you, Connie, he ended. I hate to ask Roby,
because His voice trailed off.
I understand, Connie said with an effort not to
seem to understand too much. And it isnt nice of
me at all. I practically put you in the hospital. Its
certainly up to me to see that youre entertained
while youre there.
87

From work that evening Connie went directly to a

Walnut Street cafeteria for dinner. It was a place the
art students frequented, and on nights when Aunt
Bet planned to be out Connie was falling into the
habit of eating there, because usually she found
someone with whom she could sit and chat.
This evening there was a full table of students, all
chattering like magpies about the ball, but there
obviously wasnt room to squeeze in another chair,
so Connie by-passed them and took her tray to an
empty table some distance away.
She was just shifting her dishes from the tray to
the table when a voice at her shoulder startled her.
Is the Queen engaged?
Connie didnt have to turn to know that it was
Fritz Bachman speaking. It wasnt what he said; it
was the way he said the words. Another person
might have made of the question a natural,
lighthearted joke, remembering Connies party
costume. But Fritzs tone was insolent, almost
scornful. He was so consciously superior, so anxious
to belittle everyone and everything which did not
meet his strict approval.
Hello, Fritz.
Connies tone was not exactly warm. With her
mind she felt that she should encourage him,
because only this noon she had told Ken shed like
to know more about him, but her entire nature
88

rebelled from that tone of voice.

Fritz balanced his tray on the table, unrebuked.
Am I invited to sit down?
If you like.
I do like. Fritz moved a frugal meal from tray
to table. He looked at Connies supper. Youll be
fat long before youre forty if you keep on eating
like that, he offered with a raised eyebrow.
Do you really think so?
Connie refused to be prodded into an offended
retort. She suspected that Fritz was defending his
position, that he ate lightly not because he wanted to
watch his waistline but because he had exceedingly
little money to spend.
Instead of saying mean things to each other, lets
say nice things, she suggested with a laugh. It
might be fun, for a change.
All right, Fritz said glumly, you begin.
I think, said Connie thoughtfully, that if I
could draw as well as you do Id be perfectly happy.
I think, Fritz, that youre going to be a great success
someday.
As she said the words, she meant them. She really
believed that Fritz would go far in the world of
commercial art. He had a ruthless determination
about him, a brash, brilliant ability that could carry a
man to the top.
You do? With a rising inflection Fritz admitted
89

that Connie had touched his weak point, vanity.

You really do? Because what I want to do more
than anything else is to be a big-name advertising
artist. None of this art-for-arts-sake stuff for me. I
want to make a pile of dough and then I want to
make some more.
You will, said Connie shrewdly, but she
shuddered involuntarily. Such crass commercialism
sickened her.
Fritz leaned forward across the table, and it was
as though her praise had suddenly unleashed a pentup desire for self-revelation. Ive never had a red
cent, he said, and neither has my pop. Have you
ever been in the mining towns of West Virginia? Do
you know what its like there?
Connie shook her head silently.
Theres a place called Cotters Run, Fritz said,
his eyes and his voice hard. Its not many miles
from a university town but darned few kids who
grow up there ever get to college. He bit savagely
into a roll, paused a minute, then went on.
I was born in a company house, gray and
weather-beaten, with a sagging front porch just like
a dozen others that marched up the same hillside.
Mom papered the walls with newspaper so the coal
dust wouldnt sift through. Fritz laughed grimly. It
was swell.
Connie could see the picture, and it wasnt a
90

pretty one.
I had four brothers and a sister. Two of the boys
got typhoid and died within a week of each other.
You read about things like it in the newspapers,
under headings like, Coal Miners Out on Strike.
Sure, because their families are undernourished, and
they cant afford to pay the prices at the company
store. Of course, with the strike on, they really begin
to starve. Then theres an epidemic Fritz stopped
suddenly and passed a hand over his eyes, which
had grown dull with pain. Why am I telling you
this?
Connie said, just above a whisper, I dont
knowbut go on, if it helps. For the first time she
was seeing tragedy, not arrogance, in the eyes of the
young man opposite her. It was the sort of tragedy
that can dwarf and cripple a boy, that can distort his
aims and his ambitions. She was afraid it had done
this to Fritz.
But the desire to unburden himself had apparently
passed. He shrugged, as though he wanted to shrug
off the memory of squalor. So I got out of it, he
said. It doesnt matter how. And Im staying out,
forever. He pounded the table fiercely. Forever,
understand? And theres only one way to do that.
Keep fighting for one Fritz Bachman. Keep shoving.
Keep on making certain that Im the oneIm the
onethat gets ahead.
91

Connie shrank back. The eyes she searched were

dull no longer; they were fanatical, thirsty for
power. They made her afraid.
Fritz seemed to recognize the emotion, for a grin
quirked the corner of his mouth. Skip it, he said.
Im not trying to scare you. Only sometimes when I
meet a girl like you, whos always had it soft, and
you fall for a sucker like Paysonthe Academyexhibit typeI see red.
Why do you . . . dislike Eric? Connie asked.
She had been going to use the word despise
because she felt that it was closer to the truth, but
she didnt want to put Fritz on guard.
The young man opposite her stretched and leaned
back, relaxed as a panther is relaxed, the moment
before he readies himself for a spring. For one
thing, I suppose Im jealous, he admitted. Hes
picked himself a nice spot under old man
Woodwards wing. But besides that, I think hes too
stupid to take advantage of his opportunity. The way
hes going, hell never be a success. Why, he could
pick Republic Plastics right out from under Roby
Woodwards nose.
Maybe, suggested Connie, you and Eric mean
different things by success.
Theres only one way to spell that word, Fritz
retorted with certainty, and thats mine.
Connie decided abruptly that shed had enough.
92

She glanced at her watch, pushed back her chair and

stood up. Ive got to get to school early, she
murmured, because I have an errand to do. She
was thinking of Erics sketchbook, but she didnt
mention this to Fritz. And she turned and hurried
across the room before he could offer to accompany
her, anxious to be alone, anxious to try to unravel
the tangle of her thoughts.
Outside, it had not yet started to snow, but wind
whipped the city dirt up from the sidewalks and
threw it in Connies eyes. This was one of the rare
times when she did not like Philadelphia, when she
would have traded it gladly for Meadowbrook,
where the air was clean and sweet and where the
wind did no more damage than to whip a girls skirts
around her knees.
But as she walked along, head tucked down and
eyes narrowed against the swirling dust, Connie
came to a sorrowful conclusion. Fritz could have
done it. Fritz could have played that nasty trick and
be willing to let Eric take the blame. Connie didnt
know how he could have done it, but she felt
morally certain that he could have held such malice
in his heart.
As she turned the corner by the art school,
Connies thoughts were interrupted by a cinder
which became lodged, irretrievably, in her eye. It
was a large cinder, and it cut like a miniature saw
93

into the pupil. By the time she gained the entrance

hall of the school she was wiping away a flow of
sympathetic tears.
Why, Miss Blair, whats the matter?
Superintendent White, catching sight of her from the
door of his office, showed polite concern.
Im not crying. Connie managed a smile. Ive
just got a lump of Philadelphia coal in my eye.
Try shutting your eyes and blowing your nose.
Sometimes that helps.
Connie followed directions, with great vigor but
no success. It wont budge.
Mr. White looked around a little helplessly, as
though he were wishing somebody would appear to
take this weeping girl off his hands. But the hall was
empty and silent, so he said finally, Come on in my
office. Ill see if I can see anything.
He sat Connie down in his desk chair and turned
the light so that it shone full in her face. Then he
opened a drawer and took out a clean linen
handkerchief. Now let me see
It wasnt the work of a moment, nor was Mr.
Whites the technique of a professional, but he
finally stepped back, relieved and triumphant, and
displayed, on the twisted tip of the handkerchief, a
minute speck of black. There!
Connie thanked him profusely, and blew her nose
again. She gathered up her bag and gloves from the
94

desk, which was as neat as a pin, and was just

starting across the hall when Roby Woodward came
running down the broad stairs that led to the second
floor, where most of the classrooms and locker
rooms were situated.
Roby, youre just the person I want to see!
Connie cried. Eric said youd bring me his locker
key.
Roby snapped his fingers, and for a fraction of a
second he looked as guilty as a misbehaving pup.
Doggone it! I forgot. Then he turned contrite. Ill
remember it tomorrow, sure.
Connie shook her head and made a clicking
sound with her tongue. Cross your heart and hope
to die?
Roby grinned down at her, his dark eyes
twinkling, knowing that few girls could resist him.
Cross my heart.
So Connie had to be satisfied with that. She
called the hospital in the morning and explained the
situation to Eric, who took the delay philosophically
enough. She didnt tell Eric that Mr. Jenkins was
really rampant concerning the incident of the ball,
and determined to discover and punish the culprit.
While Eric was in the hospital Connie knew he was
safe, but as soon as he returned to school, he was
bound to be one of the students who would be called
to the deans office and questioned concerning the
95

affair of Friday night.

The next evening Roby sauntered into the supply
room while Connie was buying charcoal and
dangled Erics locker key pridefully before her eyes.
Never break a promise to a pretty girl, he said
gaily.
Better late than never, you mean, Connie said
with a smile that should have put him in his place
but didnt.
She still had ten minutes before the beginning of
her class, so she went at once to Erics locker for his
materials. Fritz Bachman, who used the neighboring
locker, was just taking off his coat.
Looked for you tonight, he said in a rare
admission that human companionship meant
anything to him. Where were you?
Usually I eat at home, Connie said briefly.
Wheres that?
At my Aunt Bets apartment. She thought his
prying was rude, but now that she knew something
of the boys background, she was loath to hurt his
feelings. As she spoke, she was turning the key
unsuccessfully in the lock. These things always
stick, she murmured as she worked
Here. Maybe I can help.
Fritz knelt and used the key more adeptly. In a
few seconds he was able to pull the door open. Over
his shoulder Connie saw, on the second shelf of
96

Erics locker, a large jar of show-card color, nearly

empty. The color positively screamed at Connie.
Purple! Almost intuitively, she wanted to shut the
locker and turn the key again, but Fritz was picking
it up and turning it in his hand with a malicious grin.
Well, well! What have we here?

97

CHAPTER

X Marks a Pattern

As she stood looking down at Fritz, crouched before

Erics locker with the jar of paint in his hand,
Connies thoughts flashed back to the evening she
had met Eric in the art supply store on Walnut
Street, when he had been buying just such a jar.
Purple and vermilion. She could see the colors
still, vibrant in the fading light, as the double-size
jars had stood together on the counter. Where was
the vermilion now? She glanced again inside the
locker, but all the other jars were small. She bit her
lip and frowned.
Only last evening Mr. Jenkins had posted a notice
on the bulletin board: Any student discovering
circumstantial evidence which might lead to the
apprehension of the student who played the
unfortunate prank on the night of the ball is morally
bound to report such evidence to the deans office.
Connie could have repeated the admonition word for
98

word.
Yet, had she been alone, her instinctive reaction
would have been to shut the locker and get away
from the spot until she could thinkuntil she could
decide just how much this meant.
One thing was apparent to her quick mind. The
amount of color Eric must have used to paint the
purple cloak on his Rapunzel would be far short of
the amount of color emptied from this jar. She could
see, with alarming clarity, the great purple crosses
on the fairy tale panels, crosses daubed on with a
house-painters brush, vandalistic and odious.
I think, came Fritz Bachmans jeering voice,
cutting into her reflections, that Mr. Jenkins will be
very much interested in this.
Give it to me! Connie spoke impulsively,
stretching out her hand for the bottle.
But Fritz pulled his hand back. Dont tell me
youd like to play accessory? Or that youd risk
being found guilty of suppressing evidence?
Connie dropped her eyes.
It is our bounden duty to refer this to a higher
court. One finger pointed heavenward, but Fritz
sounded far from high-minded. He sounded almost
gleeful, Connie thought.
But its fantastic, utterly fantastic to think
Fritz waited. Yes?
Connie was ready to clutch at a straw. Wheres
99

the paintbrush that was used? She peered again into

the locker. If Eric Payson had had anything to do
with it, the paintbrush would be here! She felt,
momentarily, as though she had stopped the hole in
the dike with her little finger.
But Fritz laughed shortly, and said in his
irritating, low-pitched voice, Erics stupid, I admit,
but that stupid? I doubt it.
Somebodys been tampering with the lockers,
Connie cried as a feeble last resort. Somebody has
a master key. Look, Fritz, dont you see? The purple
cloak disappeared from Sandras locker, didnt it?
And now this!
Suddenly Connie clapped a hand over her mouth.
She was remembering something. She was seeing
Roby Woodward on the stairs, last night, snapping
his fingers and telling her hed forgotten Erics key.
Supposesuppose he hadnt forgotten it?
What now, my little pigeon? came Fritzs
voice.
Losing her temper, Connie stamped her foot.
Oh, Fritz, youre impossible! Stop talking like a
character in a dime novel. If you insist on taking
thisthis paintto Mr. Jenkins, Im going with
you. Im not going to wait outside while your
insinuations get Eric into real trouble.
Real trouble? Fritz Bachmans lip was curled
contemptuously. What do you call this?
100

Fortunately, Connie thought, Mr. Jenkins greeted

their find without histrionics. He seemed more
perturbed than irate. Ill ask you not to mention this
to the other students, he said soberly. It would be
unwise to sully a reputation before the proof is
secure.
Connie was thankful to him, and she was glad
that Fritz seemed a little disappointed at the outcome
of the interview. But she was profoundly disturbed.
She went into her classroom without her usual high
sense of anticipation, and she found, when she had
set up her drawing board and sharpened her
charcoal, that her hand was shaking. Whether from
nervousness or from alarm, her hand was shaking so
badly that she could hardly draw.
Later, after class, she went to Erics locker again
and got out his sketchbook and the other materials
he had requested. When she took the things to him
the next night she couldnt bear to tell him of Fritzs
discovery and consequent action. She felt
treacherous, because she believed so firmly that he
was innocent. And yet?
Whats happening at school? Eric asked her.
Nothing much. I hear that during anatomy class
Adam fell over and broke a rib. Hes the most
unlucky skeleton I ever saw.
Eric chuckled. So now I suppose theyll send
him back to the factory and even him up on both
101

sides?
I doubt ituntil summer vacation anyway. Hes
needed too badly around there.
Imagine ending up as a badly needed skeleton!
Eric chuckled again.
Then he told Connie, with satisfaction, that he
was to be released from the hospital by the week
end. Wait until you see me rocking into school on
my walking cast! he bragged. Im going back to
work next Monday, if I can possibly make it, and Ill
try to get back to school the same night.
Dont rush things, Eric, Connie warned, and a
chill swept over her at the thought that he might
return before he was cleared of the suspicion which
now hung over his name. She didnt want to see Eric
hurt. She wanted to protect him from people who
were shrewd and ruthless like Fritz Bachman, and
from people who were selfish and callow like Roby.
She thought of Miss Charlottes faith in him, and
she wanted to see it justified. He looked so very
vulnerable, lying there in bed.
Sorry, miss, but Im afraid Ill have to ask you to
leave now. Visitors are really not allowed after
hours,, you know. The nurses starched voice
reached Connie and she murmured, Good-bye,
Eric, and turned reluctantly away.
The rest of the week passed quietlytoo quietly,
Connie thought. Things were rather slow at the
102

agency. Mr. Renshaw called it a midwinter slump.

All the big boys are in Florida or off on some
island cruise, he grumbled one day to Miss
Cameron in Connies hearing. And we sit around
twiddling our fingers until they decide theyve
soaked up enough sun.
There was little enough sun in Philadelphia these
days. The streets were soggy with snow and slush
and the temperature held not the faintest hope of
spring. The world seemed perpetually gray, and
matched Connies spirits precisely. The only thing
that ever made her despondent was inaction, and
inaction was something she was having a lot of.
Ungrammatically but descriptively, that was the
way she expressed it to herself. Though she kept her
eyes and ears open, no hint of fresh evidence that
might point to someone other than Eric reached her
ears. If only the paintbrush would turn upif only
Eric were more popular with the people who
counted
Oh, the whole things so childish! Connie
grumbled to herself.
Even the prank itself had been childisha silly,
nasty, practical joke that a vicious ten-year-old
might have pulled. But it seemed incredible to
Connie that an art school student in his late teens or
early twenties could have such a perverted sense of
humor. Of all the group Connie knew, only Sandra
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Scott seemed to have been even vaguely amused by

the joke.
Sandra? Connie stopped and repeated the name to
herself, punctuating her thought with a question
mark. Sandra, she had discovered to her dismay, was
really a rather silly girl, for all her Dresden china
prettiness. She seemed absorbed by clothes and boys
and petty jealousies, and the more serious art
students found her shallow and untalented. They
never discussed class problems with her, and she
spent as little time as possible on her assignments,
contrary to the general rule.
Sandra, Connie knew, had been more than
annoyed at the time Roby Woodward had spent with
the new girl, as she frequently called her. Whether
she suspected that Roby had asked Connie to the
ball first was impossible to guess. But if Sandra ever
dreamed that she were playing second fiddle!
Connie could imagine her indignation, her fury, her
determination to get even. Might she have gone so
far as to want to spoil the party of which Roby was
chairman? Connie cocked her head to one side and
frowned.
She frowned because her intelligence said, No.
Why, then, would Erics panel alone have remained
untouched? This was such an unsatisfactory puzzle.
Some of the pieces were missing and others just
didnt fit at all.
104

Along with several others of her classmates,

Connie worked out at the Philadelphia Zoo over the
week end, doing quick pencil sketches of various
animals. The monkey house was smelly and the
elephant house was cold, but the tropical birds
needed warmth and sunshine, and it was with them
she spent most of her time, shifting, on Sunday,
from pencil to colored crayon, just for fun.
On Monday night, when Connie brought the
drawings to her instructor, two were accepted for the
weekly gallery of student work, and Connie felt as
though she were treading on air, she was so
encouraged by the praise.
Yet Eric and his problems did not fade from her
mind. She loitered in the big lower hall after class,
hoping to meet him, and was rewarded by seeing
him come from Mr. Jenkinss office and start to
hobble across the hall to the stairs.
Connie started toward him, but when she saw his
white face and set lips she hesitated. She knew only
too well what his session with the dean had brought
forth.
Slowly she turned away, pretending to gaze with
interest at one of the Tarabochia canvases, which
were still on exhibit in the great square hall. She
wished she could help him. She wished she could
comfort him. But Connie felt, rightly, that this was
something that Eric had better work out for himself.
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Roby Woodward, thumbtacking a notice to the

bulletin board in the alcove, interrupted Connies
contemplation. Gaze long and lovingly, he
advised. Im just posting word that theyre coming
down the end of the week.
Oh, are they? Connie said. Ill miss them.
Roby nodded. Very handsome. But the Exhibit
Committees not going to find them much fun to
pack.
The Exhibit Committee, as Connie knew,
consisted of Beth Chandler, Roby, Eric and Fritz.
Roby, as usual, was the leading light, chosen more
for his executive ability than for his art appreciation.
The others were the brains of the team. Beth was a
thin, unprepossessing girl with magnificent dark
eyes and a fine Italian sense of color values. She and
Eric, Connie suspected, probably did most of the
actual work.
They are rather bulky, Connie agreed. But her
mind wasnt on this desultory conversation. Her
thoughts were with Eric, dumfounded by the
suspicion cast upon him. She wondered if Mr.
Jenkins had told him the part she had played in
bringing to light the accusatory jar of paint.
How could she ever explainif this were the
case? How could she make him understand that she
was his friend, that she believed in him?
Waiting for someone? Roby asked.
106

No. Connie turned away and walked slowly out

of the door and homeward in the darkness. Shed try
to see Eric tomorrow night.
But whether from intent or from accident, Eric
avoided Connie for the rest of the week. She made
every effort to encounter him, even loitering in the
costume room during the long rest at midevening,
knowing that he often came there to browse around.
One night, finding herself completely alone there,
she yielded to the impulse to try on a pair of wooden
shoes which had caught her eye, and was parading
back and forth in front of the wall mirror when a
chuckle behind her made her turn. Roby Woodward
was leaning against the doorjamb laughing at her,
and suddenly, his dark eyes twinkling, he stooped
and caught up the slippers she had negligently
kicked off.
Lets see how fast you can run in those things!
he teased, and was gone before she could do more
than cry his name.
Connie clip-clopped to the door with as much
haste as possible, but he had completely
disappeared. Roby Woodward! she called after
him. Come back here!
But he didnt return, and Connie eventually had
to shuffle along in the absurd wooden shoes in
search of him. She found him in the hall at the top of
one of Mr. Whites stepladders, chuckling to himself
107

and tying her slippers to a branch of the big

chandelier.
Practical jokes arent funny! she told him
sternly. You should have outgrown that sort of kid
stuff.
Practical jokes!
Connie, who had been half amused, caught her
breath suddenly. Could Roby conceivably have
sabotaged his own party, just to discredit Eric?
No, she murmured to herself when she finally had
retrieved her slippers and returned to replace the
wooden shoes on the storeroom shelf. No, no, no.
Friday came and went, as did Saturday, and still
Connie hadnt seen Eric to talk to. She had caught a
fleeting glimpse of him on his way through the
studio door, but that was all. It was on Sunday, as
she walked home from church with her Aunt Bet,
that Connie next saw him, on the street. He had just
alighted from an eastbound trolley car and was
walking jerkily across Spruce Street when Connie
hailed him.
Eric! Eric Payson!
But another trolley lunged between Connie and
her quarry, drowning her voice, and Eric, apparently
preoccupied, was half a block away when she caught
sight of him again. He must be going to the
school, murmured Connie, noting his direction.
On a Sunday . . . thats odd.
108

She had reason to remember this remark she had

made to her aunt. She had reason to wish she had
never seen Eric that Sunday morning. The
recollection of his square-shouldered figure, moving
with a grotesque, shuffling motion down the
Philadelphia street, was to be something she could
not wipe from her mind. Yet she would have done
soas she would have cleaned a slatehad that
been possible. For the next day, at the agency, came
the climax of the strange drama in which Connie,
until now, had been playing an extras part.
Monday started out as a perfectly ordinary day.
Connie appeared at her desk on time, wearing a new
copper-colored flannel dress that made her hair
shine like spun gold.
There was the usual slow awakening of the office
after the week end, the usual straggling late-comers
among the executives, the usual delivery boys
bearing drawings finished for Monday delivery, the
accustomed gush of mail.
About eleven oclock a trucking company arrived
with the bulky Tarabochia canvases, returned from
the School of Design, and the driver was instructed
to stack them against the wall of Mr. Canfields
office. Connie signed the slip for their delivery,
since Mr. Canfield was out, and forgot all about the
incident until after lunch.
Then she spoke to the art director on his way past
109

her desk. The Tarabochias are back. I signed for

them.
Oh, thanks, mumbled Mr. Canfield. Ive got to
unpack them, because General Recording wants
Number Three back for a
The closing of his office door shut off the rest of
the sentence, but two minutes later a muffled cry of
horror reached Connies ears.
A second later Mr. Canfields door was flung
open, and the art director stood against the light
from the windows, gesticulating wildly.
Connie! he cried in a choked voice. Come
here! Look!
Connie, later, could not remember crossing the
floor to stand by Mr. Canfield in his office doorway,
but she did remember that in a single second her
hands turned to ice. Everything in his call presaged
disaster, yet Connie was still unprepared for the
sight which greeted her stunned eyes.
Against the wall of the office, partially
unwrapped, leaned two of the great, glowing
Tarabochia canvases, slashed in an X pattern, from
corner to corner, by a criminals knife.

110

CHAPTER

10

The Criminal Will Be Found!

For a long moment Connie was so aghast that she

was speechless. Involuntarily her hand rose to cover
her mouth. Then, with a small, hurt cry she ran
forward to drop on her knees in front of the nearer
painting, and she touched the torn edges of the
canvas with infinite compassion and tenderness, as
though she wanted to bind up the wound.
She had felt no worse when, years ago, she had
knelt beside the mutilated body of a beloved family
pet. The paintings were so alive, so vibrant and
warm, that their mutilation was especially
despicable. Connie thought of the days and weeks
and months of labor that had gone into their making,
the long years of training that had educated the mind
to conceive them, the genius that no yardstick could
measure, which was their very soul.
Yet none of this could she put into words. Oh,
Mr. Canfield! Inadequately, this was all she could
111

say.
II cant believe it. The art director was as
shocked as Connie. He kept staring at the great
gashes as though they must certainly melt together
and mend, setting him free from this nightmare
illusion that the paintings were irretrievably
destroyed.
Connie looked from one to the other of the
unwrapped canvases, identically damaged without
hope of salvation. In a whisper she wondered, Are
they all like this?
Well soon see.
Angry, now, Mr. Canfield tore at the wrappings
on the other paintings, cutting at the cord which
bound them, tearing down the heavy paper that hid
the vandals work.
He stood back. All.
Then he turned to Connie and asked the very
question that was already ringing in her ears with a
sirens scream. Who could have done such a
thing?
Mutely, Connie shook her head. Her eyes were
full of something more than dismay; they were dark
with sorrow. This, she knew in a flash of
understanding, was what she had feared. Not this act
exactly, but something equally dreadful, something
that would relegate the incident of the ball to the
classification of childs play. A really criminal act!
112

For it was a crime! The word was on the lips of

every advertising agency employee within an hour.
People tiptoed in and out of Mr. Canfields office as
to a funeral, and the eyes of everyone who viewed
the destruction were shocked and sad.
Connie, tied to the switchboard, put through calls
to the art school and to the insurance people. Mr.
Jenkins arrived, with white face and set lips, and
was closeted with Mr. Reid, Mr. Renshaw and Mr.
Canfield for the rest of the afternoon. Insurance
representatives joined the group, and the atmosphere
of the office was grim indeed.
Everyone in the agency was cautioned not to
touch the paintings. Fingerprint tests would be made
by the insurance company investigators. Connie
calculated rapidly. Twenty-five thousand dollars
worth of insurance was probably involved. But the
money seemed less important to Connie, somehow,
than the fact that something which, just yesterday,
had been vibrantly alive, was dead.
Yesterday.
Without willing it, without even wishing it,
Connies thoughts flashed back to Eric Payson. If he
had, indeed, been on his way to school, might he
not, in some way, become involved?
Suddenly Connie felt that she had to see Eric. She
had to talk to him before he reached school tonight.
She had to find out for herself, before Mr. Jenkins or
113

Mr. Canfield or the insurance companys detectives

could reach him, what he had been doing, where he
had been going yesterday morning when she had
seen him on the street.
She spoke into her switchboard operators
mouthpiece in a low voice.
Pennypacker 1483.
Republic Plastics, came the routine response.
Id like to speak to Mr. Payson. Can you connect
me with the shop?
Factory employees are only allowed emergency
calls, said the operator on the other end.
Connies voice was pitched just above a whisper.
This is an emergency, she said.
The minutes were like hours until she heard
Erics Hello.
Eric! This is Connie Blair. Ive got to see you.
Its important. Can you eat supper with me
somewhere?
At another time Connie might have wondered
whether this urgency sounded forward, but this
afternoon she was beyond caring. She was beyond
caring, too, that Erics voice was puzzled and
uncertain. He named the cafeteria where the school
crowd usually ate, but Connie said, No, not there!
Where, then?
Frantically, Connie searched her mind for a
hidden place, and finally remembered a little oyster
114

house tucked into an alley behind one of the Market

Street motion-picture theaters. She gave Eric the
name and the address. Dont fail me! she warned.
You sound as though something was wrong.
Connie admitted, Something is.
Then, because she could see Mr. Reids door
opening at the end of the corridor, she said a hasty
goodbye.
Mr. Jenkins was so perturbed when he came
through the reception room on his way out that he
didnt recognize Connie as one of the art school
students, and this, Connie felt, was just as well. She
didnt want to be associated any more closely with
the Tarabochia paintings than she already was.
The time from four until five rarely dragged at
Reid and Renshaws, as it did in many other offices,
but this afternoon Connie found herself watching the
clock. She had arranged to meet Eric at five-thirty,
and she hurried to the little oyster house, then paced
up and down outside the door for fifteen minutes,
until Eric limped up.
Inside, they both ordered oyster stews and a
salad. Then Connie said abruptly, I called to you on
the street yesterday, Eric, but you didnt hear me.
Where were you going?
For a fraction of a second Eric hesitated. I was
going to the school, he said.
Connie leaned forward. She looked at the boy
115

directly, her brown eyes intense. Can you tell me

why?
Therethere was something I had to do, he
replied lamely, without meeting his companions
eyes. Some work I had to make up.
At best, Connie felt that this was only a half truth.
It wasnt like Ericas she understood himto be
evasive. There was a hard, dry lump in her throat.
Suddenly she knew that she had been wrong in
following the impulse which had led her to call him.
She mustnt tell him about the destruction of the
Tarabochias. Much as she liked him, she must play
fair with the rest of the students at the School of
Design. Eric Payson must sink or swim on his own.
Yet the very manner in which she pulled her hand
back from the table to her lap told the boy she was
disappointed in him. He looked up at her now, his
expression truculent.
I was looking for something, he muttered, as
though Connie had forced him to this admission
against his will.
Looking?
For a paintbrush, if you must know. For an
ordinary, two-inch paintbrush from a hardware store
or dime store that was used to cross up the panels on
the night of the ball. Eric waited while the waitress
put a bowl of steaming stew in front of him.
Then, before he could go on, Connie told him
116

something she had been holding back. I know

about the paint, she said softly. Fritz was there
while I was getting your sketchbook. I went along
with him to Mr. Jenkins. There was nothing else I
could do.
Hurt dismay clouded Erics eyes. You?
Connie nodded. Im sorry, Eric. I truly am!
Cant you see the position into which I was put?
Eric looked as though he were trying to
understand. He attacked his soup in silence,
thinking.
Ive been trying to see you, but youve been
avoiding me.
Ive been avoiding everybody, Eric confessed.
I havent felt too good about being under suspicion
for a job like that.
But surely you can prove that you had nothing to
do with it? Connie hoped she sounded more
confident than she felt.
I hope so, Eric said with a rueful grin. In the
first place, the paint was a plant. It wasnt my paint
at all. Id used up the whole jar trying to get just the
right shade for the purple cloak. It was a purple with
a lot of vermilion in it, remember?
I remember.
The paint you found was pure spectrum
purplejust as it comes from the store.
Connies eyes brightened. And?
117

The paint with which the panels were daubed

was pure spectrum purple too.
Connie let out her breath in a sigh of relief.
Youve told Mr. Jenkins this?
Not yet, Eric said. I wanted to take a look for
that paintbrush. Not that I think theres much hope
that whoever did the job would leave it lying
around.
Oh, cried Connie impulsively, I wish youd
told him beforebefore tonight!
Eric, grinding two Trenton crackers together
between his palms, looked up. Whats so important
about tonight?
But Connie stuck to her recent decision. I cant
tell you, she murmured. I asked you to come here
to tell you, and then I knew I couldnt. It wouldnt
be fair.
Eric, unlike most of the boys she knew, didnt
press her. Connie finished her supper and they
walked together, slowly, to the school. Eric,
characteristically, didnt bother to make small talk,
and Connie trudged along in brooding silence, far
from her usual cheerful self.
At the gate she paused and turned to the young
man at her side. Eric, just remember this. If theres
anything I can do to help Then, knowing that he
must think her overdramatic, she attempted a laugh.
I mean, Id like you to feel that Im your friend.
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Eric looked down into Connies face, highlighted

by the street lamp on the corner. Very earnestly,
with real feeling, he said, I do.
Inside the building, with quick perception,
Connie sensed a subtle change. Two men in dark
suits talked together under the stairs and darted
glances at each student who entered the big front
door. Mr. White bustled around looking busy and
sober and self-righteous, and the door to Mr.
Jenkinss office, which usually stood ajar, was
closed.
The tension in the atmosphere communicated
itself to the student group, and the talk and laughter
of the classroom seemed to Connie unusually
nervous and high-pitched. Then, when the call came
through from the deans office for a general
assembly, a hush settled over the room.
Mr. Jenkinss face was strained and anxious when
he addressed them, but his voice was stern.
In clipped, precise accents he laid the bones of
the bleak story before the young artists, and a
whisper of shocked dismay swept the group. Connie
sat with her hands clenched in her lap, twisted
slightly in her chair so that she could see Eric
Paysons face. And what she saw there gave her
comfort and purpose, because he looked as
genuinely horrified as she had felt when she had
viewed the destruction in Mr. Canfields office that
119

afternoon.
The criminal will be found and punished, Mr.
Jenkins said, but the blot on this schools good
name can never be erased.
A pin could have been heard to drop as he paused
for a long moment, then continued, To me the
individual who destroys a thing of beauty deserves
to suffer more bitterly than an embezzler or a thief.
This crime cannot be measured in terms of dollars
and cents. It has to do with the soul.
Connie felt as though she had been holding her
breath for a long time. Her glance flickered from
Erics face to Roby Woodwards. Roby was
frowning, his brows drawn together and his forehead
puckered into knobby bumps.
Insurance company detectives will call some of
you in for questioning, the dean was saying. I
hope, as you value your own innocence, that you
will help them to discover the truth.

120

CHAPTER

11

Miss Charlottes Will

Constance Blair.
Connie started at the sound of her own name, and
jumped up from the straight chair on which she had
been seated outside Mr. Jenkinss office.
Will you come in, please?
The detective stood in the doorway, his back
against the jamb, to let her pass, and Connie nodded
to him with a slight inclination of her head. At the
deans desk sat the second of the two dark-suited
men whom she had remarked in the hallway of the
school earlier that evening. He looked up at her and
said, Sit there.
Then, with professional absorption, he studied
some notes on a sheet of paper before him. You
work for Reid and Renshaw, Miss Blair? he asked
without looking up.
Yes.
And you started art school at the beginning of
121

the term?
Yes.
How well do you know Eric Payson?
The question startled her, as did the sharp eyes of
the man, raised suddenly.
Quite well. I mean, as well as any other student
at school, or better. II came to a party with him

Have you any reason to believe that there is a

connection between the destruction of the
Tarabochia paintings and the marking up of the
panels at the Fairy Tale Ball?
This thin, black-eyed man had put his finger on
the question that had been haunting her ever since
afternoon. No real reason, she murmured
hesitantly, except
Except what?
In each case the pattern is the same. Her
forefinger traced a letter on the desk.
The detective nodded. A giant X. Then he shot
another surprise question. Were you in this
building yesterday?
Connie said, No.
Do you know of any other student who was
here?
Connie squirmed. I prefer not to answer that
question, she said in a barely audible voice.
I beg your pardon?
122

Connie repeated, and the detective sighed. We

need your help, Miss Blair, he said, and the help
of every innocent student. Perhaps it would make
these questions seem more essential if I told you a
few facts you may not know.
Connie looked up and met his eyes, waiting.
The Tarabochias were wrapped on Saturday
afternoon by a student committee. He glanced
again at the papers on the desk. Robert Woodward,
Beth Chandler, Eric Payson, Fritz Bachman. This
committee and Mr. White can testify to the fact that
the packages were stacked against the rear wall of
the hall awaiting the call of the trucking company
which delivered them to the Reid and Renshaw
offices Monday. You were there when they arrived,
werent you?
Connie nodded. Why, yes.
And the packages seemed intact?
II didnt really look, but I suppose so.
Then it is obvious that the mischief was done
between the time the committee wrapped the
paintings and the time of delivery, when they stood
in the hall over the week end. That is why it is
important that you conceal nothing you know.
I understand.
To your knowledge was any student in this
building yesterday, Miss Blair? repeated the
detective in a weary voice.
123

Connie was thinking rapidly. If I dont tell them

Eric was here, Mr. White will. Theyll think Im
concealing something. Theyll be more suspicious
than ever.
She said, in as matter-of-fact voice as she could
muster, Eric Payson told me he was here.
There was a very slight lift to the detectives
eyebrows, and he made a pencil mark on the paper
before him. There must have been quite a party,
he said, half to his associate, half to himself. That
makes three.
Connie would have given a great deal to have
turned the tables at this point and herself asked a
question, but she didnt dare. At a nod of dismissal
from the man at the desk she got up and left the
office. On the bench outside, waiting, was Eric, and
it took every bit of self-control Connie possessed not
to warn him. Dont try to conceal anything! she
wanted to shout. These men arent dumb. Theyll
catch you up. But all she did was to smile
encouragingly in the boys direction, then go back to
her class.
Later that evening Connie made a pact with
herself. Standing before the dressing-table mirror in
Aunt Bets apartment she determined to find out
the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth
about the strange happenings at art school. She even
repeated the solemn words aloud.
124

And as she did so she remembered a remark Kit

had made the day after the ball, as they had been
walking through the snow toward the hospital. You
dont think Roby might want to frame Eric? her
sister had asked.
Connie was not quite as ready to deride such a
suggestion as she had been that day. Not that she
was sure the guilty person was Roby, but she was
feeling with increasing alarm that something of the
sort might be the case. If not Roby, perhaps Fritz
could be torn by such jealousy that he might have
committed the crime. She could still see the fanatical
light in his eyes as he had told her of his greedy
ambition. She could even hear him
Keep fighting for one Fritz Bachman. Keep on
making certain that Im the oneIm the one that
gets ahead.
There was the coming award of the Fairchild
prize, and Connie knew that Fritz wanted it, at this
moment, more than anything else on earth, because
it marked the first rung on his hypothetical ladder to
success.
Oh, I dont knowI dont know. Connie
brushed a hand across her tired eyes. Suddenly she
wanted to see Kit, to curl up in bed beside her twin
sister and pour out the whole incredible story of the
happenings at the School of Design. Kit was always
so sympathetic, so ready to listen, so wise.
125

I think Ill call her up, Connie decided aloud.

Her aunt wasnt in yet from an evening engagement,
and the weight of being alone tonight was too
oppressing. Connie went into the living room and
picked up the phone.
It was Kit herself who answered, and she sounded
both surprised and pleased. I was just going to call
you! she cried. It must be telepathy. Im coming to
Philly tomorrow on a buying trip for the store, and I
wondered if we couldnt meet for lunch.
I should say we can! Connie cried. Oh, Kit, I
have so much to talk to you about! I can hardly
wait.
The following day the two girls lunched at a
restaurant near Connies office, and drew many
interested glances from other business people dining
there because they were so identical in height, in
feature, and in the blond fall of hair on their
shoulders. But they were too absorbed in each other
to notice that they were being remarked. Connie
talked a mile a minute, as Toby always put it, and
today Kit was listening with such intentness that she
almost forgot to eat.
The school is in a perfect dither, Connie
finished. You can imagine, Kit. Detectives all over
the place. Everybody being questioned. I have no
idea where it will all end up.
It looks to me, said Kit without mincing words,
126

as though somebody would end up in jail.

A shudder lifted Connies shoulder. She looked at
her sister with pain in her eyes. But, Kit, she
whispered, I just cant believe that any one of those
boys She was thinking of the three, Eric, Roby
and Fritz, all of them on the Exhibit Committee, all
of them known well enough by the building
superintendent to be allowed the run of the school.
Kit knew just where her thoughts were leading
her. Youre absolutely sure, Connie, that it was an
inside job?
The detectives are working on that assumption.
It seems to be the only logical one.
Of course, fingerprint tests may prove
something, Kit said.
They may. But somehow, Connie didnt
believe theyd find fingerprints, except possibly
those of the handlers of the picturesthe
deliveryman and perhaps Mr. White. She thought
the person who had destroyed the paintings was too
clever to have left such obvious evidence of his
identity, and she said so.
The thing that confuses me, Kit went on, is
that there doesnt seem to be any rhyme or reason
for doing such a dreadful thing. Who would want
?
Connie shook her head. I just dont know.
Kit leaned her chin on one hand thoughtfully.
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Remember the night of the ball?

Yes?
Roby told me somethingit might not have any
bearingbut Roby told me something you ought to
know.
Connie edged forward on her chair, her dessert
forgotten.
It was while we were dancing, Kit continued.
He thought he was dancing with you. He kept
calling me Connie, and I let him, just for fun.
Connie nodded. She remembered dancing past,
aware of Robys confusion, and calling out Hi,
Connie! and winking at Kit.
He was talking about the practical jokeif you
want to call it thatthe skeleton and the purple
crosses on the panels.
Yes.
He said it looked bad for Eric Payson, and he
wasnt very pleasant about it. He said it would serve
him right if Miss Charlotte cut him out of her will.
Out of her will? Connie was astonished.
But?
Kit looked her twin straight in the eyes. I was
surprised, too. And I said so. In fact, I think I said
just about what you said to me just now. Roby
shrugged, and gave that sort of one-sided smileif
he werent so attractive you could almost call it a
leerand said, Dont tell me you havent heard?
128

Go on, Connie urged.

Roby said, Miss Charlotte is leaving Eric her
house on Queen Street and all the money thats left
from her fathers fortuneabout eighty thousand
dollars. At least she was, up until tonight.
Eric? Connie skipped the innuendo in the final
sentence.
Kit nodded. Roby said she was convinced that
Eric would be a great artist someday. He said that
she didnt believe in impersonal charity, and that
well, Ill put it the way he put itshes been sold
on the kid ever since he was in knee pants.
Did he say anything more?
Slowly Kit lowered her head. He said that if
Miss Charlotte thought Eric was capable of doing
anything really nasty oror dishonest, shed be
through.
Connie nodded. Miss Charlotte is the soul of
integrity, she said.
But you dont really think Eric
No, Kit, I dont. I like Eric, and because he
seems so forthright, somehow I believe in him. But
suppose the destruction of the Tarabochias and the
incident at the ball can be tied together, and the
blame shifted to Eric?
Kits brown eyes were dark and thoughtful. Her
brows drew together in an uncertain frown. As
though she were talking to herself, she murmured,
129

But Roby isnt bad. Hes selfish and hes arrogant

and hes spoiled, but he isnt bad. Just because he
might take Erics place in Miss Charlottes scheme
of things, I cant think
I cant either, Connie said suddenly, and
pushed back her chair. Kit, there are a lot of
angles, she remarked as she reached for the check
and pulled on her gloves. We havent explored the
possibilities in Fritz Bachmans warped mind, and I
dont even know anything much about Sandra Scott.
Dont lets jump to conclusions.
But during the long afternoon, while Connie
manned the switchboard and the receptionists desk
at Reid and Renshaw, it was difficult not to jump to
the pat conclusion that Kit had offered her. It would
be so logical to suspect Roby. It would be such a
neat, tidy way to work out the puzzle. Roby had
reason and Roby had opportunity. Connie began to
wish she could have a talk with Miss Charlotte. She
began to wonder whether Roby had seen his aunt
since the discovery of the Tarabochia slashing. If he
had
After work, Connie found herself walking, almost
involuntarily, toward the red-brick house on Queen
Street. The winter days were lengthening, and there
was an early evening twilight which spoke of spring.
Icicles hung like fringe to the sloping roof of the
White house, but still it looked sheltered and cozy.
130

She hoped that the atmosphere of comfort was more

than skin deep.
Anna opened the door, and let Connie into the
hall grudgingly. The living-room doors were closed,
but behind them Connie could hear voices, and she
hesitated. If Miss Charlotte is busy
The maid said, Shes been in there with Mr.
Lytton half the afternoon. Its time they stopped
talkin anyway. She moved toward the door,
mumbling under her breath, Talk, talk, talk.
The door opened to reveal the back of a portly
gentleman in a conservative dark-blue suit. All
right, Miss White, Connie heard him say, Ill get
the papers drawn up by the week end. Do you want
to sign them in my office or here?
Here, Miss Charlotte murmured as though she
were very tired. And thank you, Charles.
Miss Connie Blair to see you, mum. Anna
pitched her voice high enough to be heard.
There was only a slight hesitation before Miss
Charlotte said, Thank you, Anna. Show Mr. Lytton
out, please, and ask Miss Blair to come in.

131

CHAPTER

12

Return Visit

Miss Charlotte rose from the wing chair by the

fireplace and stood with her back to the glowing
coals in the iron basket on the hearth. Not until
Connie was very close to her could she see her eyes,
which were usually the youngest part of her delicate,
lined face. Now they were tired and sad.
Good afternoon, Connie. Politeness was a
lifelong habit with Miss Charlotte, but her voice
lacked its bright, hospitable ring.
Connie came forward with her hand outstretched.
She had planned to treat this as a casual social call,
but abruptly she changed her mind. Oh, Miss
Charlotte, I had to see you! This was no time to
mince words.
Apparently her hostess appreciated her frankness,
because she signaled to the maid to close the livingroom door. Sit down, my dear, she said kindly. I
suppose I need not ask what is troubling you. I am
132

as heartsick about the destruction of those beautiful

paintings as everyone else.
Then you know?
Miss Charlotte nodded. Mr. Jenkins called me
this morning. She began pacing up and down in
front of the fire. It is impossible for me to conceive
how warped and twisted a persons mind must be
toto plan such a thingto deliberately destroy
She stopped and spread her hands, palms upward,
eloquently.
Connie nodded, her own eyes clouded. I know.
In a voice curiously flat Miss Charlotte said, I
tried to get in touch with Eric, but they told me at
the plant that he had been called out. Then I called
the school and learned that the detectives have been
questioning him all afternoon.
Oh, but Miss Charlotte, that doesnt mean!
Connie couldnt go on. The news came as too great
a shock.
The little lady passed a hand across her eyes. I
dont know, Connie, she said wearily. I just dont
know. She paused and stared at the fire, then
continued. Im getting old, you see. My judgment
may have been failing, for some time, without my
realizing it.
Connie shook her head. Her hands were clasped
tightly in her lap. Oh, no!
But Miss Charlotte looked at her with eyes full of
133

concern. Genius, you know, is often very close to

madness, she said.
Connie didnt have an answer. She seemed
devoid of any words at all. She sat in the low chair
facing the hearth and stared into the fire, and after a
while Miss Charlotte began to speak, telling a story
softly.
I wanted so desperately to believe in Eric, she
said. He seemed to me to be everything Francis, my
own younger brother, was not. Francis was always a
disappointment. He ran away from school when he
was fourteen and went to sea. He always had a hand
for machinery, and I suppose he made out well
enough, drifting from port to port, seeing the world
in the way he liked best.
Suddenly her voice hardened. But it killed my
father. He died without ever seeing Francis again, or
ever wanting to see him. He was a sensitive man,
and he had always dreamed great dreams for his
son.
She shrugged delicately. I suppose, when I first
met Eric, he reminded me of Francis as a boy. There
were fifteen years between us, you see. Francis
always seemed a child to me. And Eric had his
childish sturdiness, his little-boy shyness. But he
had something else toosomething more appealing
to me than anything my own brother ever hadEric
was very sensitive, like my father, and deeply
134

artistic, and sincereat least, I thought he was

sincere.
Im sure he is, Connie put in.
Miss Charlotte looked at her sharply, and perched
on the edge of the wing chairs seat. Dont fall into
the error of passing hasty judgment, Connie. You
may become as disillusioned as I.
But, Miss Charlotte!
The little lady lifted a hand. Eric was always an
odd child. Ill have to admit that now. He was extra
quiet, but I thought it was a peaceful sort of stillness,
and I liked him for it. He seemed to love coming
here. We seemed to understand each other. Do you
know what Im trying to say?
Connie nodded. She knew exactly what Miss
Charlotte wanted to convey. Eric wasnt run-of-themill, not at all. But in the short time she had known
him, Connie had found him sympathetic and
endearing. He could be moody, like most artists, but
for a woman of Miss Charlottes taste and
perception, he must have had unusual appeal.
Even as a child, there was no doubt of the fact
that Eric had talent, artistically. It was the most
natural thing in the world that I should help him get
a scholarship at art school and a daytime job in
Cards factory. Later, I thought I might do more. If
he should need to study in Europe, it might be
arranged.
135

Youve been a wonderful friend to him, Connie

murmured.
Suddenly, with a tightly clenched fist, Miss
Charlotte pounded the small lamp table by her chair.
And Eric seemed to be justifying the faith I placed
in him! He was honor material, from the beginning.
Mr. Jenkins told me last year he was one of the most
remarkable students who had ever studied at the
school. He said there was no doubt of his future, if
he had the means to continue studying. It was then
that I did what I knew my father would want me to
do.
Abruptly, Miss Charlotte stopped. Although
Connie already knew that she had made Eric her
heir, she wanted to hear it from Miss Charlottes
own lips. She drew in her breath, sharply, but she
didnt speak.
There was a long pause, during which Miss
Charlotte apparently decided to leave her decision
unspoken. Disconnectedly, she continued, Gard
seemed to share my affection for the lad, but Roby
never liked him. And they say boys can size up each
other better than
But Robys jealous of Eric! Connie broke in.
He always has been.
Miss Charlotte shook her head, as though
unwilling to argue the point.
Miss Charlotte, Robys loafing on the job, down
136

at school. He isnt really trying, and even if he did, I

dont think he has an artistic bone in his body. Hes
got other abilities, though. Hed be a good salesman
and a good organizer. Mr. Woodward ought to see
that! Hes making his son compete with somebody
like Eric Payson, and it really isnt fair. Roby hates
Eric, and why? Because Erics cutting him out in his
fathers esteem, without really wanting to at all.
Again Miss Charlotte made the small gesture of
weariness, trailing her fingers across her eyes. It
isnt only Roby who dislikes the boy, she
murmured. Francis says he is far from popular
among his classmates, down at school. That, in
itself, is some indication that my judgment may have
been wrong.
Connie dropped her eyes, because what Miss
Charlotte said was close to the truth. Fritz didnt like
Eric, nor did several of the other boys. But Connie
had always felt that their scorn was rooted in envy.
Eric was different, Eric was brilliant; therefore he
was suspect.
Then there was the unfortunate prank on the
night of the ball, and the purple paint found in his
locker, Miss Charlotte continued.
Incensed, Connie jumped up from her chair. A
half-empty jar of paint that wasnt even the purple
used to mark up the panels! Impulsively she
dropped on her knees beside Miss Charlottes chair.
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Oh, please dont believe all these things until you

have proof. Something is terribly wrong at school, I
know. Someone is doing these dreadful things, and
that person deserves to be punished. But it isnt
Eric! Im sure it isnt Eric. Wont you give me a
chance to find out who it can be?
A chance? There was a gentle lift to Miss
Charlottes eyebrows. Do you think you have a
better chance than the insurance company
detectives, Connie? They are men trained to
recognize the curious facets of the criminal mind.
But theyll be swayed by circumstantial
evidence, Connie said, as though she were thinking
aloud. And somehow, in this case, I honestly
believe that circumstantial evidence will be wrong.
She stopped, almost as surprised as Miss
Charlotte at what she had just said. Then she forced
a chuckle. I dont know what made me say such a
thing, she confessed. My dad used to tease me
about my hunches. I guess it was just one of those.
But Miss Charlotte was staring back at her
without smiling. The knuckles of her hands were
white as they gripped the chair arms, and she said,
just above a whisper, Connie, theres something I
think you ought to know.
Yes? Connie waited, her heart pounding.
In the fall, Miss Charlotte said slowly, I gave
Eric a knife that Francis had brought to me. An
138

ordinary seamans knife, about this long, in a leather

case. He said he could use it for something at
schoolcleaning palettes or somethingIve
forgotten what. But if they should ever find it among
his things . . .
Sitting back on the floor and looking up at Miss
Charlotte, Connie now laughed spontaneously. The
students at school have all sorts of odd knives, she
reassured her. You could open a locker at random
and find anything from a bowie to an ordinary
paring knife. I dont think well have to worry too
much about that.
The relief in Miss Charlottes eyes was so
apparent that Connie could have shouted for joy.
Suddenly she knew that Miss White hadnt entirely
succumbed to the scandalmongering tales she had
heard about Eric. Miss Charlotte was troubled, and
she mistrusted her own emotional judgment, but she
wasnt finally convinced that Eric was the criminal
type.
Connie got to her feet and stood looking down at
her hostess, her hands clasped before her in an
attitude of supplication.
Oh, please, Miss Charlotte, dont let anyone
persuade you She paused. Miss Charlotte was
looking down at her own hands folded in her lap.
The pause became awkward, and at last the lady in
gray raised her head and spoke.
139

Yes, Connie, what were you going to say?

Oh, Miss Charlotte, cried Connie, I dont
know how to express what I think and feel so
strongly. Eric loves beauty. He lives for beauty. He
could no more destroy anything beautiful than he
couldthan he could In a gesture of sincerity
that was so spontaneous and appealing that it
brought tears to the eyes of the elder woman Connie
dropped to her knees beside Miss Whites chair.
Gently Miss Charlotte placed her hand upon the
young girls shoulder.
Connie, Im going to tell you something very
personal and very confidential. I know that you will
keep my secret. The gentleman you saw when you
came in was Mr. Lytton, my legal advisor. He was
my fathers lawyer, too. I asked him to come to see
me about my will. Some time ago I made a will
leaving everything to Eric. Does this seem strange to
you? It seemed so right to me. He was as dear to me
as my own son could have been. If my father were
living I am sure he would have wanted me to make
Eric my heir.
Miss Charlotte paused, and for a moment seemed
lost in thought.
In a voice scarcely above a whisper Connie said,
I knew about Eric, Miss Charlotte. I knew that you
had made him your sole heir.
Miss Whites face blanched. What are you
140

saying, Connie? she whispered. How could you

know? No one knows but Mr. Lytton.
Connie flushed. She wished that she had not been
so impulsive. But she had to go on. Roby told Kit,
she answered in a voice that trembled. And Kit told
me. It was the night of the dance.
Suddenly Miss White rose to her feet. One hand
supported her against the chair and the other
clutched at her throat.
But nobody knows! she said hoarsely. Not
even Eric. It was my secret. I wanted to do it,
without being thanked for it. Her voice rose
perilously, and she came forward a few tottering
steps. How could Roby ever have found out?

141

CHAPTER

13

Through the Broken Grating

The week that followed Connies interview with

Miss Charlotte was anything but a satisfactory one.
For that matter, the interview itself had left her mind
filled with confusing thoughts. Had she been too
brash in espousing Erics cause? Should she have
kept quiet about Roby Woodwards careless
revealing of Miss Charlottes secret to Kit? And
how had Roby learned of it? Was Miss Charlotte
going to change her will? If not, then why had Mr.
Lytton been there at her request? Was there anything
she could do to restore the old ladys faltering
confidence in Eric?
Just when she wanted to talk to him badly, Roby
Woodward was laid up with a case of virus-something-or-other which Sandra Scott described as
being good, old-fashioned grippe. Sandra seemed to
know a lot about Roby these days. She discussed
him and championed him at the slightest
142

provocation, and claimed that he was worried into

sickness by the Tarabochia affair.
Julius Tarabochia, Connie knew, had been told of
the fate of his paintings. It took a committee of three
from Reid and Renshaw to get up courage to call on
the artist at his studio, and the men came back to the
office with relief written large on their faces. George
Renshaw even went so far as to toss his hat in the
air.
Whew! he cried, as he gained the comparative
privacy of the reception room. He took that like a
jolly good sport.
Even the most successful artists can always use
money, said Mr. Canfield thankfully. Tarabochia
looked pretty glum until the matter of the insurance
came up.
The men passed out of Connies hearing, but she
could imagine that now it was the insurance
companys turn to feel pretty glum. Detectives were
still turning up at odd hours at the school, and it was
common gossip that at least three students had been
positively identified as having been in the building
on the Sunday when the crime was committed.
Connie knew the three. Eric, Roby and Fritz.
Fritz, it was rumored, had been characteristically
brazen when questioned, Roby had been frank, and
Eric had been sullen and truculent, far from his
usual candid self.
143

All this came to Connie as hearsay, but it was so

widely reported that it smacked strongly of the truth.
At art school she kept her eyes and ears open, but
no fresh clue seemed to present itself. Fritz
swaggered around the corridors, quite ready to talk
about what he told the cops, but behind his air of
braggadocio Connie thought she detected a glimmer
of fear. It would be the finish of Fritzs elaborately
planned career if he should be convicted of a crime.
Eric came and went like a wraith. On the few
occasions when she encountered him in the hall
Connie noticed that his eyes were sunken with
sleeplessness and that he was losing weight. She
knew that both he and Fritz were supposed to be at
work on their paintings for the Fairchild
competition, and she couldnt help wondering how
he could conceive anything adequate in his present
mood of resentment. Either the shadow of suspicion
would have to be lifted soon, or he would lose his
excellent chance to win the prize, she felt sure.
On Friday evening, encountering Eric at the door
to the studio, Connie approached him with what
casual friendliness she could muster. Are you
painting at the zoo tomorrow morning with the rest
of us? she asked.
Eric shook his head. Im working out at the
plant.
But I thought the factory was closed on Saturday
144

mornings.
It is.
Then?
Im trying to do a sketch of men and machines
for thefor an assignment, Eric said grudgingly.
He sounded depressed and disturbed.
Are you really? Connie tried to sound lightly
interested. What fun to work thereso nice and
quiet She wrinkled her nose. And less smelly
than the zoo.
She hoped against hope that Eric would ask her to
join him, but he turned away, and she had to make
the suggestion herself. I wonder if youd mind if I
came along? Im doing an assignment on
composition, and it might be interesting to use
machines instead of animals for a change.
If Connies smile had been less winning Eric
might have been able to say a firm no. But as it
happened he shrugged his shoulders and murmured,
All right.
It was all Connie wanteda foot in the doora
chance to talk to Eric, uninterrupted and alone.
She walked home that night humming happily,
but the next morning Connie appeared very docile
and quiet when she met Eric at the plant. She took
her sketchbook to a stool at some distance from the
spot where Eric had set up his easel, and tried to
decide what to draw.
145

The factory, empty now except for the watchman,

had an eerie feel in the gray morning light. The
machines, idle and enormous, were meaningless to
Connie, and she took none of Erics interest in the
patterns they made against the cement floor.
Thats a press, he told her, pointing to a giant
black beast with open jaws, and thatspointing
to a smaller satellitea molding machine.
Connie thanked him, and wondered at the
fascination all men seemed to find in such industrial
phenomena. She tried to get interested in the
shadows cast by the molding machine, but her mind
was much busier than her pencil in the next hour.
She wanted to get Eric to talk, and she didnt know
quite how to manage it. If she were to help him,
shed have to know everything he knew.
But Eric, squinting up at the great press and
measuring distances with his crayon, was oblivious
to Connie, some distance away. It was well toward
noon when he stopped abruptly and turned toward
her.
Do me a favor? Stand in for a workman for a
sec. I want to use a figure in this composition. He
walked forward and showed her. Right here.
Connie was quite ready to oblige. She closed her
sketchbook, not wanting Eric to see how desultory
her drawing had been, and took the required
position. Eric worked in silence for a while,
146

frowning at both the model and his easel.

Connie was getting a little tired of holding the
pose, and was smitten by an increasing desire to
stretch and yawn, when Eric unexpectedly turned
and threw his sketching crayon viciously across the
room. Then, with an unintelligible expletive, he
leaned back against a factory worktable and covered
his face with his hands.
Why, Eric! Connie ran forward impulsively,
but the minute her hand touched the boys arm he
shook her off.
Leave me alone! he cried. Then, Look at that
thing! A finger shaking with rage indicated the
sketch on the stretched canvas. Its lousy. Yes, I
said lousy! I cant paint any more. I cant even draw.
Oh, if theyd only leave me alone!
He started to pace up and down the room like a
caged animal, while Connie waited in silence for the
burst of emotion to subside. Her eyes were full of
sympathy when she said at last, Let me try to help
you, Eric. Talk to me about it. Youll go crazy,
keeping everything to yourself this way.
Crazy! He shouted the word. Thats just it.
Thats what theyre trying to prove. They keep at
meand at meand at mewith their endless
questions, until I get to thinking maybe theyre right,
that Ive got a screw loose somewhere and that my
right hand doesnt know what my left ones doing.
147

Connie tried to make her smile reassuring.

Youre no Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, Eric. I know
that. But I think somebodys trying to frame you,
and weve got to find out who.
For the first time a gleam of hope lit Erics gray
eyes. He strode toward Connie and grabbed her
hands, pressing them hard. You really think that?
Ive thought the same thing, many times. But then I
try to imagine whywhat for? And my mind starts
going round and round because it doesnt make
sense. He shrugged wearily. And then I get to
thinking maybe the detectives are on the right track
after all.
Stop saying that! Connie managed to shock the
boy with her vehemence. You and I are going out
for lunch, and were going over this whole mess,
step by step, again. And then were going to go into
a little action on our own hook, understand?
She didnt know quite what that action would be,
but she wanted to sound confident in order to give
Eric courage. More than anything else in the world,
Connie felt, he needed a friend.
Fifteen minutes later, seated opposite each other
over steaming plates of spaghetti and meat balls in a
little Italian restaurant, Eric told her the essence of
the detectives inquiry. Like Connie, the men had
tied together the incident of the masked ball and the
slashing of the Tarabochias, and since Eric was the
148

plausible suspect for the first, and lesser, act of

vandalism, they considered him an interesting
possibility for the second. The discrepancy in the
color of the paint found in Erics locker and the
color used for Rapunzels cloak they seemed to
discount.
But thats important! Connie protested.
Of course its important, agreed Eric, but
theyre not artists, theyre detectives. They dont see
it our way. Purple is purple to them.
Connie sighed. If you only had found that dimestore paintbrush
Even if I had, what would it prove?
It might have fingerprints.
There were no distinguishable fingerprints found
on the Tarabochias, were there? Eric asked
astutely. The person who did the job is too clever to
leave evidence like that around.
Unless it were evidence that would incriminate
you, said Connie slowly, pursuing the train of
thought that had always appealed to her most.
Suddenly she leaned forward. Eric!
Yes?
Do you remember Miss Charlotte giving you a
knifea seamans knifefor a present?
Eric looked at Connie in surprise. Why, yes.
Where is it?
In my locker, I suppose. I hadnt thought of it in
149

weeks. How did you know?

Never mind. It isnt important. Miss Charlotte
told me. Words spilled over each other as Connies
busy mind raced ahead. Eric, I think we ought to
get that knife out of there. I think it might be used to
incriminate you, like the paint. She felt an uneasy
compulsion. I think we ought to get it now
today.
Today? But todays Saturday. There isnt
anybody at the schoolnot even Mr. Whiteon
Saturday afternoons.
I know. Connies foot tapped the floor
impatiently, and she caught her lower lip between
her teeth. But couldnt we get in, somehow? She
snapped her fingers as an idea occurred to her.
Theres that broken grating you stumbled into. I
dont think it has ever been fixed.
Eric frowned, feeling none of Connies sense of
urgency. I dont see
But Connie raced on, anxious to enlist his
enthusiasm. And while were there we could have
another look for that paintbrush. You cant tell. It
just might be stuck away somewhere.
Eric made objections. It looked like snow again
and if the going got slippery hed be uneasy,
hampered by his walking cast. But Connie was very
insistent, and in the end he agreed to accompany her
to the school.
150

When they emerged from the little restaurant,

however, he hesitated again. The sky was a dark,
gun-metal gray, promising the storm Eric feared.
The wind tore at the trash in sidewalk ash cans and
whipped Connies scarf against her face. It was a
wild day, menacing, no day to set out on ill-advised
adventure.
I think were being silly, Connie. Lets skip the
whole thing.
But Connie felt the need of action, any action at
all. She felt baffled and unsure of each step she took,
but at the same time she felt that if she could get to
the scene of the crime some new angle might open
up. Just standing by had gotten Eric and herself
nowhere.
If you wont go with me, Eric, she said, Ill
take your locker key and go alone.
So Eric acquiesced, limping along beside Connie
to the southbound subway and descending to the
dark underground tunnel with its dimly lighted ticket
booth and its roaring, rumbling cars.
The ride suited their mood, and Connie and Eric
emerged a square away from the school feeling as
turbulent as the weather. Connie tried to dispel the
gloom by raising one hand in a mock salute and
laughing, Horatio Alger. Sink or swim! but Erics
replying smile was thin.
The black sky, the wind and the first fine rain of
151

snow were in their favor, because the street in front

of the school was quite deserted. As a precaution,
Connie went up and boldly rang the bell, but as they
expected there was no answer.
I think Mr. White generally shoots pool with his
pals on Saturday afternoons, Eric said.
Connie shook her head. Miss Charlottes
brother! To what are the mighty fallen, she
murmured, half to herself.
Its a shame, Eric agreed, though he had never
mentioned the subject to Connie before. I think it
hurts her more than anyone knows. You see, hes all
she has left in the world.
Not quite all! Connie said to herself, and
renewed her determination to save Eric for Miss
Charlotte if she could.
Meanwhile, they moved together toward the
broken grating, which led to a cellar window
through which coal for the big furnaces was usually
shot. Connie looked to right and to left along the
deserted street; then like a conspirator she
whispered, All clear.
Eric tugged at the grating, and placed it to one
side of the rectangular opening. The hinged window
raised easily. This is too good to last, he told
Connie. The cellar door will be bolted from
above.
Dont be a pessimist, Connie warned with a
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nervous giggle. Here. Let me go first. On account

of your leg.
She let herself through the window with athletic
ease, but Eric didnt wait for her to help him. He
was right on her heels. Together they slid down a
coal pile, which rumbled and rolled beneath them,
making a terrific racket. Eric, in spite of his
forebodings, was beginning to enjoy himself.
Quiet! he warned Connie. Youll disturb the
rats.
Rats? Connies voice rose to a shrill feminine
squeal before she realized Eric was teasing.
Sure, there are always rats in these old buildings.
You should know that.
But Connie, though she couldnt see his face in
the darkness, heard Erics chuckle. Phooey! she
said indignantly, and began feeling her way past the
glowing coal furnaces toward the stairs.
These should lead to the superintendents
office, Eric told her as the steps loomed before
them. There are back stairs to the ballroom, in case
this door is locked.
How do you know so much? Connie asked in
astonishment.
Men notice things like that, Eric told her with a
certain pride. Ill bet any boy in school could tell
you as much.
Connie ran up the steps lightly, and tried the door,
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She didnt really expect it to open, and when the

knob turned in her hand she looked back in surprise.
Were in luck!
Eric hobbled quickly after her, into gloom
scarcely less intense than the darkness of the cellar.
With the lights out, he mentioned, this isnt
exactly a cheerful joint.
Shall I turn on a light?
No, dont. It could be seen from outside.
Lets get up to the locker room, then. Theres no
use hanging around here.
They made their way to the square, stone-paved
hall, and up the broad, winding stairs. Eric fumbled
for his key as he limped along, the metal base to his
walking cast clacking with each step.
I feel as though I were about to rob a bank,
Connie confessed over her shoulder. Its strange
what a sense of guilt a perfectly innocent person can
get.
I think I know what you mean, Eric confessed
with a wry smile. Then he added, But were not
perfectly innocent, you know. Were housebreakers,
at the very least.
Before were through, we may be more, said
Connie grimly. I want to find that knife.
With a precise, artists hand, Eric fitted the key to
the locker and opened the door. Here, he said,
Ive got a tool, and took out of his pocket a pencil
154

flashlight which threw a thin beam on the contents.

Used to use it in my old safecracking days.
Connie chuckled, appreciating his attempt at
humor, but actually she was feeling a little
apprehensive, as she had been all day.
Eric rummaged around for a few moments, then
began systematically turning things out. It was
here, he muttered, frowning. Im sure I didnt take
it home.
The palms of Connies hands felt cold and damp.
If it isnt there, she said finally, it might be in one
of the other lockers. I wonder if Mr. White has a
master key. Im going to look!
She was flying downstairs before Eric could stop
her, and by the time he caught up with her, at the
door of the building superintendents office, she was
rummaging through the drawers of the desk.
Not a thing! she complained. Not a key in the
place. He probably keeps a key ring on his watch
chain or something. Then, suddenly, as she dived
into the bottom drawer, she gave a strange, startled
little cry.
What? Eric started.
For Connie straightened, and an expression of
astonished comprehension dawned in her brown
eyes. In her right hand she held a very small, neat
ball of strong, thin, green twine.
155

CHAPTER

14

The Knife

The skeleton! Adam! It was used to wrap the

skeleton.
Connie was almost panting with excitement,
because she wasnt actually seeing the skeleton in
her minds eye. She was seeing the Tarabochia
paintings, half unpacked, leaning ingloriously
against the wall of Mr. Canfields office, torn and
despoiled. And she was seeing the twine that had
bound the innocent-looking packagesthe same
green twine she held in her hand!
Eric looked at her in utter confusion. What are
you talking about?
But Connie returned question for question. You
were on the committee. What cord did you use to tie
up the Tarabochia paintings when you were getting
them ready to be returned?
Well, not that stuff. Eric looked at the twine.
A lightweight rope we found in the costume room.
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And, lady, we tied em! he added slangily. A flea

couldnt have slipped through one of those knots.
Thats just it! Dont you see? Whoever
unpacked and repacked them was in too much of a
hurry to undo your rope. They cut it off and then
used this string. I can prove it! The paintings and the
wrappings are still in our art directors office.
Theyve never been moved.
Eric didnt seem to share Connies excitement.
So what? he asked. Whoever did the job swiped
some twine from Mr. Whites desk. What does that
prove?
Connie felt a little deflated. To an outsidereven
to Ericshe could see that it wouldnt really prove
very much. But to Connie herself the discovery
meant everything. Suddenly the pieces of the
intricate puzzle had all fallen neatly into place. She
knewshe knew in her own heart and mind, even
though she couldnt yet prove itwho the criminal
was!
There was motive. There was opportunity. There
was everything! It had to be that way. It had to be!
Oh, Eric, dont you see? she cried, coming
around the desk. This is the answer. Let me tell
you! This is the way it must have been.
But just as she spoke, Erics hand, grabbing her
arm apprehensively, silenced Connie. And at the
same instant she heard a key turning in the lock of
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the big front door.

Hurry! The stairs!
The instinct of flight was too strong to resist.
Now, of all times, Connie didnt want to be caught
in an incriminating position. She took Erics hand,
pulling him after her, and made for the cellar door.
Eric was far less fleet than his companion,
hampered as he was by the bulky cast, but he shut
the door after himself as quickly and as quietly as
possible, groping his way downward into the
blackness. Above, Connie could hear the tramp of
feet. Her heart was pounding and she was breathing
in quick excitement.
I bet its Mr. White, back to fix the fires. Its
probably later than we thought, she whispered.
Eric stopped a second, listening. Sounds like
more than one man.
But Connie was hurrying toward the window
through which they had entered, and she didnt hear
him. We can get out if we hurry, she urged.
Then she heard a muffled exclamation behind
her, and looked back, barely able to detect, in the
gloom, that Eric had stopped.
Whats the matter?
I left my coat upstairs. Eric sounded both
sheepish and alarmed.
Your coat?
My gabardine raincoat. Its in the locker room,
158

on the bench.
Connie sighed. Oh, Eric!
For that matter, my lockers open, and my things
are strewn all around.
An idea flashed into Connies mind. We might
be able to get up there, she said, while Mr. White
is fixing the fires, if thats what hes here to do.
Eric peered into the furnace nearest him. Thats
what hes here to do, all right, he muttered.
Then lets try the ballroom door. If its open we
can get up the back stairs to the studio and through
there to the locker room. Come on!
Silently they crept across the labyrinthine cellar
to the other stairs. Silently they ascended. The
ballroom door opened softly at Connies touch, but
before they started for the balcony stairs she turned
back to Eric.
Have you got a handkerchief?
Yes. Why?
Tie it around the foot with the cast on it, so the
metal walking shoe wont click on the floor, she
whispered sensibly.
Eric followed instructions without a murmur, then
together they began the second lap of their perilous
journey.
Maybe I should have come alone, Connie
thought, as they hurried along. Im so much faster.
But there was both comfort and a feeling of safety in
159

Erics companionship, no matter how false that

sense of security was.
The ballroom was empty and resonant with every
footfall, though Connie and Eric both concentrated
on being as quiet as possible. Not a sound penetrated
from the other parts of the building, yet they knew
with frightening certainty that they were no longer
alone in the big old house.
The ballroom balcony led to the second-floor
studio, where the fairy tale panels had been painted,
and this room Connie and Eric gained without
mishap. But when they opened the studio door,
planning to cut across the upper hall to the locker
room, a voice fell on their ears like a rifle report.
It was Mr. White, calling down the echoing stair
well to someone in the hall below.
Come up here a minute. Theres something you
ought to see!
Connie shrank back, fingers to her lips. She
looked at Erics face, close to hers, and the light
from the hallway illumined its dismay.
Hes found the coat! Connies lips moved, but
the whisper was all but inaudible.
Erics reply was a muted groan.
Through the crack in the door Connie could see
someone hurrying up the stairs, but the mans face
was hidden until he passed the landing. Then she
turned back to Eric. Mr. Jenkins! she breathed.
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Eric waited until he heard footsteps turn into the

locker room. Well, he whispered, I guess the
jigs up. Where do we go from here?
Connie was trying to think rationally. No matter
what they did now, Erics clandestine visit to the
school had been discovered, and he would answer
for it, she knew, by additional hours of grueling
questioning from the insurance company detectives.
They didnt have anything on Eric, really, but they
were determined to find a whipping boy. Twentyfive thousand dollars worth of destruction couldnt
go unpunished, not by a long shot.
There were two courses open to Connie and Eric.
They could march boldly into the locker room or
they could get out the way they had come, and live
to fight another day.
Connies open, impetuous nature counseled the
former course, but reason told her that every bit of
time she could gain would count heavily on her side.
Will you freeze without your topcoat? she
whispered to Eric.
No, but
Then lets get out of here.
She gave him no time to argue. She was back
across the studio like lightning, and led her
companion quickly down the steps. They were in the
cellar again in a minute and a half, and Eric was
actually panting in the effort to keep up.
161

Hey, wait a minute! he whispered to Connie,

who was running ahead of him. Youre traveling at
the speed of supersonic sound!
Connie giggled, glad that in spite of everything
Eric hadnt lost his sense of humor. Then she was
brought up short by a bulky black mass in front of
her.
The coal bin! She wailed softly, Oh, Eric,
were bound to make the most awful racket. i
completely forgot the coal!
There was no doubt about it. Coal would slide
away beneath their feet and come tumbling down on
the cellar floor if they tried to reach the window.
This avenue of escape was effectivelyand
completelycut off.
Maybe we could get out the front door while
White and Jenkins are plowing around upstairs,
suggested Eric halfheartedly.
Its worth a chance. Connie was ready to risk
anything now.
Id rather be tired than the way I am, muttered
Eric, breathing laboriously, and prepared to follow
Connie once more up the first flight of steps.
Neither of them bothered, now, to be too
cautious. With fatalistic conviction, they knew that
they would either make their escape, or they would
be caught. Connie opened the door into Mr. Whites
office without hesitation. The overhead light was on,
162

making her eyes smart with its brilliance. She

blinked, trying to adjust her sight after the dark.
Then she stopped short as a man who was lounging
against Mr. Whites desk turned casually, wadded
the paper from the chewing gum he had been
unwrapping into a small ball and fired it into the
waste-basket.
Hi, said the insurance company detective,
apparently not in the least surprised. I thought
youd be showin up soon.
Eric was dumfounded, but Connie, after her first
momentary astonishment, had to laugh. It was such
a complete anticlimax to their frantic scurrying
through the building, to be apprehended with such
utter nonchalance.
Whats so funny? the detective asked, in turn
confused.
Connie bit her lip, but her eyes were still
twinkling. She couldnt explain, so she just shook
her head.
If it makes you feel any better, you couldnt
have gotten out through the grating anyway, the
detective said, biting off a generous piece of the
gum. Weve been casing the joint since two
oclock.
Connie looked at Eric. Well, thats nice to
know, she said politely. Coal can get you awfully
dirty.
163

Huh? said the detective. Oh, yeh. He took off

his hat and flung it neatly to the top of Mr. Whites
clothes tree, then listened to the sound of footsteps
hurrying downstairs. Get ready for the party. Here
they come.
Mr. Jenkins came into the room first, bearing
Erics raincoat. He was followed by Mr. White, who
looked very busy and important, and by the second
detective, who was far less casual and decidedly
more grammatical than his fellow.
The gum-chewing detective jerked a finger in the
direction of Connie and Eric. Didnt even have to
whistle. Just come up as nice as you please.
The three new arrivals were gratifyingly surprised
to see Connie. While Eric stood by in sullen silence,
they all started to fire questions at her at once.
Connie parried their queries as best she could.
She admitted they had entered the building through
the broken grating, admitted that they had been
searching for something in Erics locker, but she
stubbornly wouldnt say what they had been looking
for.
Eric stood it as long as he could. Then he came to
Connies rescue. Talk to me, he said bluntly,
limping to a position in front of the detective in
charge. Im the guy that was looking for
something, not Miss Blair. She just came along for
the ride.
164

Oh, she did, did she? the detective jeered.

Yes, she did! Belligerent, Eric stuck out his
chin.
Connie tried to catch his eye, tried to warn him
that this was a technique of questioning designed to
get the witness roiled. But he was concentrating on
the detective, and his hands were clenched at his
sides.
The detective sat back in Mr. Whites desk chair,
apparently determined to be patient. Then perhaps
you can tell us the object of your search? he
suggested in a silken tone.
Yes, I can. And I can also tell you I didnt find
it. I was looking for a knife.
At the last second Connie put out her hand, trying
to stop Eric, but the impulsive gesture came too late.
The detective and Mr. Jenkins glanced with shrewd,
quick eyes, from Eric to Connie, and back to the
young man again.
The detective raised his eyebrows. A knife? He
paused and asked gently, as though he were
humoring a child, What kind of a knife?
In that instant Connie remembered what Miss
Charlotte had said about genius being akin to
madness. They were treating Eric as though he were
feeble-minded orher eyes widened with horror
or insane!
But Eric was beyond such analysis. An ordinary
165

seamans knife, if you must know, he said

truculently. In a leather case. Somebody must have
taken it. I wish to heck people would leave my
things alone.
With a short, explicit nod of his head, the seated
detective gestured to his companion, and for the first
time in her life Connie saw a person frisked. Eric
stood for it sullenly, as though he were no longer
surprised at what they might do to him, as though he
didnt really care.
They found nothing that interested them in his
pockets, but Mr. White glanced toward the raincoat
hanging forgotten on the back of an office chair.
Eric intercepted the glance, as did Connie. You
wont find anything there, muttered the young artist
between his teeth.
Nevertheless the investigating detective slouched
over to the raincoat and picked it up. Mr. Jenkins
watched him as though the whole operation were
distasteful to him, and Mr. White watched with
beady, bright eyes.
Connie, in her turn, was watching the building
superintendent quizzically. Her active mind was
humming, but for once she felt as though she were
caught in a maze from which there was no exit. It
was incredible but true that right in her very grasp
she had the answer for which the detectives were so
diligently searching. She could speak up now, and
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reconstruct, step by step, what must have happened

on the night of the ball and on that tragic Sunday
when the beautiful Tarabochia paintings had been
ripped to pieces, then repackaged carefully and
bound round and round with green twine. She knew,
as she had known from the instant she pulled the
small ball of twine that remained from the desk
drawer, that her theory was right. But she also knew,
with sick apprehension, that it was only a theory.
They would laugh at her, ridicule her, these
cocksure adults, unless she had incontrovertible
proof.
Proof. Proof. Proof.
The word pounded in Connies head. Then
through the curdle of her thoughts cut a voice like a
whip lashing.
I thought you said, Payson, that you didnt find
any knife!
Connies head jerked around to see the inquisitor
fling to the desk an object taken from the inside
pocket of Erics raincoata short, blunt-pointed,
seamans knife.

167

CHAPTER

15

Connie Takes a Chance

There. You see.

The building superintendent was the first to
speak, as the detective at the desk picked up the
weapon and examined it thoughtfully.
See what?
The sharp question, from the man in charge, was
unexpected.
You cant get the right of the thing, mumbled
Mr. White. Payson always was a queer one.
Connie stiffened. It was insidious, this
undermining of Erics character. And the young man
himself looked so baffled and hurt that he was his
own poorest defense.
Mr. Jenkins came forward kindly and put a hand
on Erics shoulder. Look, boy, if youve got
something to tell us, wouldnt it be better to tell us
straight out?
But Eric jerked away, resentful of such coddling.
Connie, after the first sharp shock of surprise, knew
168

that this knife affair was a plant, as the purple paint

had been a plant, but she also knew that Eric was
becoming steadily more confused and therefore
more helpless.
The detective at the desk, meanwhile, was
examining the knife, turning it between two fingers,
one at the blunt point, the other at the handle. He
brought it closer to his eyes, peering at the juncture
of handle and blade, then delicately extracted what
looked to Connie like a long, thin thread.
There was a sheet of school stationery lying on
Mr. Whites desk and he placed the thread on the
white surface, considering it thoughtfully. Then he
motioned to Mr. Jenkins. Look at this.
Mr. Jenkins looked, bending low over the desk.
What, asked the detective, does that look like
to you?
It could be, said Mr. Jenkins, a thread of
canvas, with particles of paint clinging to it.
The detective said, It could indeed. He folded
the white paper over the evidence, enclosing the
thread in a sort of homemade envelope. Our
laboratory, he remarked, can soon tell.
Look, said Eric wearily, I dont suppose it
matters, but I havent seen that knife for weeks.
The detectives eyes were hard, but his voice still
purred. Can you remember when you used it last?
Eric frowned in apparent concentration. Connie
169

knew that he was really thinking back, but she also

knew that to the detectives it must look as though he
were stalling.
Finally he said, I remember using it the
afternoon we packed up the Tarabochias, to cut that
rope. Then I thought Roby took it back upstairs. Oh,
I dont know
Dont try to implicate Roby Woodward,
snapped Mr. White in defense of his nephew.
Only someone completely honest, thought
Connie, looking at Eric in sympathetic dismay,
would have said what Eric just did. Couldnt the
detectives see that?
I wasnt trying to implicate Roby! Eric looked
shocked. Roby had nothing to do with thisthis
affair. I know that.
The two insurance company men exchanged
glances, and the one standing beside Eric shifted the
gum in his mouth. Squirrely, he muttered, offering
his unvarnished opinion of the suspect. Then he
shook his head languidly.
The other detective sat forward in the desk chair,
which creaked lugubriously under him. Listen,
young man, wed save a lot of time if youd just
break down and tell us how and why you did the
job.
Connie could see Erics face stiffen again, and
she knew he would turn sullen and
170

uncommunicative under questioning. Unconsciously

she began to wring her hands, which were cold and
clammy. If there were only something she could say,
something she could do!
Once more she considered shocking them all to
attention with her private theory, but once more she
discarded the idea. The circumstantial evidence
against Eric was all too neat. These men would
never credit the story she could tell.
Then, suddenly, a possibility occurred to her.
There was a bare chance, if she could play the part
of an addled schoolgirl convincingly enough.
Connie was never one to delay. Bursting right
into the middle of the detectives next question, she
childishly stamped her foot.
Oh, I think youre all being too silly! she cried.
Suppose it is Erics knife. Suppose we did find it in
his locker. What of it? She avoided Erics eyes,
which she knew would be full of hurt and puzzled
indignation, and stepped forward to the desk,
literally grabbing the short-bladed knife from the
detectives hands.
Look at this thing! she continued excitedly,
jabbing at the palm of one hand with the blunt point.
It wont even cut my skin, let alone canvas. You
havent got a case against Eric. This knife simply
couldnt have done the job! In disgust she flung the
tool back on the desk.
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Her outburst did just what she had hoped it would

do. The argument gave the investigators pause. They
looked at each other, a question implicit between
them, and the gum-chewing detective stepped
forward and tested the knife, as Connie had, against
his palm.
Maybe the young lady has something there, he
offered, raising an eyebrow.
Of course I have! Connie almost screamed,
trying to seem quite beside herself with excitement,
although she had never felt more coolheaded and
calculating. She picked up the knife again and made
half a dozen short little strokes in the air. You cant
cut a tough piece of canvas to ribbons with a knife
like that! It hasnt even any point on it.
The face of the seated investigator puckered and
he sat back in his chair and scratched his head, when
quite unexpectedly Mr. White snatched the knife
from Connies outstretched hand.
Thats not the way the paintings were cut! he
shouted at her furiously. You cant handle a
seamans knife like that. Of course not! Youve got
to bring it down flat and pull. Illustrating his
contention he made a giant cross in the air, exactly
in the manner the Tarabochia paintings had been
slashed.
Connie started back in a little cry of surprise and
triumph, covering her mouth with the fingers of one
172

hand. Her eyes met the building superintendents,

and she saw muddled comprehension slowly
replaced by naked fear and rage. He would have
lunged toward her if one of the men hadnt caught
his arm. But she was beyond physical fear. She
turned to Mr. Jenkins and the detectives and almost
sobbed in her relief.
You saw that! You saw what he did. He knew
how the paintings were cutexactly!and yet hes
never seen those slashes. The paintings have been
right in Mr. Canfields office all the time.
Mr. White might still have saved himself, if he
had been canny. If reason had supplanted rage in his
twisted brain, he might have stood back and claimed
that he had been told by Connie herself of the
manner in which the canvases were slashed, or by
one of the insurance company men. But he was
beside himself with fury.
Youyou! he shrieked through clenched
teeth, hate in every hissing scream. It took both Mr.
Jenkins and one of the detectives to hold him. The
languid detective, Connie noticed, was far from
languid now.
Now Connie knew she could tell her story and get
a fair hearing. She appealed to the group before her
as to a tribunal, and said, clearly and calmly, Mr.
White is the guilty person. And I can tell you why
and how.
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Go ahead. The detective at the desk was ready

to listen, as were the rest. Only Francis White
snarled and spluttered ineffectually in his captors
grasp.
Connie drew a deep breath, and hoped that she
could keep her thoughts unconfused, and present her
case against the building superintendent clearly.
There were still a few missing scraps of information
that would have to be checked, but in her own mind
the structure was strong.
Mr. White, she said, keeping her voice low and
controlled, is the younger brother of Miss Charlotte
White, who is one of the trustees of this school. A
long time ago, when he was a young boy, he ran
away from school and went to sea, becoming a sort
of vagabond and disappointing his family very
severely. She hesitated. This all may seem beside
the point, but Ive got to tell the story in my own
way.
Go on, said the detective.
Some time later, when she was doing socialservice work in the city, Miss Charlotte met Eric
Payson, who was then a little boy inin an
orphanage. Connie glanced at Eric, hoping she
hadnt hurt him by this allusion to his background.
On the contrary, he nodded to her encouragingly.
Eric and Miss Charlotte became friends. Even
when he was quite young, Miss Charlotte tells me,
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Eric was very artistic and very sensitive. He used to

come to the little house on Queen Street, where she
lives, more and more often as the years went on, and
I believe he began to replace her brother, from
whom little or nothing had been heard, in her
affections. Connie tried to explain the kinship of
spirit. You see, Miss Charlotte is very artistic too.
Now I have to tell you something you dont
know. Connie turned to Eric directly. And Im
sorry, because in a way it is a breach of confidence.
Some time agoI dont know whenMiss
Charlotte made you her heir.
Me? Erics ejaculation was full of
astonishment.
Connie nodded. I think it must have been after
Mr. White turned up again, she mused, almost to
herself. He came back a year or so ago, I believe,
having drifted around the world for a good many
years. I cant imagine that he was a very appealing
character, but still, he was Miss Charlottes brother,
and she helped him to get this job.
Then somehowand here again I cant tell you
howMr. White discovered that his sister had made
her will in Erics favor, and that hed been wasting a
good deal of time cottoning up to Miss Charlotte in
the hope that hed get what was left of the family
fortune on her death. Hed been wasting time, that
is, unless he could get her to change that will and
175

reinstate him as her heir.

Connie couldnt force herself to look at Francis
White during this explanation. It wasnt because she
felt pity for him. She didnt. But he seemed to her
contemptible and too low even for scorn.
The only way to do this was to discredit Eric in
her eyes. If he could make Miss Charlotte feel that
she had made a mistake in placing such high hopes
in Ericif he could shake her affection for her
protghed have a chance.
The detective at the desk nodded briefly. His eyes
were alert and interested, but Connie felt that he
would withhold judgment until he had heard her
through. Go on.
I dont know how he started, Connie confessed,
but I suspect that it was by dropping little
innuendoes, because I know Miss Charlotte has been
concerned about Eric for some time.
Then, when Mr. White discovered that his sister
would be a patroness on the night of the ball, he
took great pains to set up that nasty practical joke,
with the purple cloak and the mutilation of the
panels.
It wasnt a very clever ruse, because it was a tenyear-old trick, no prank that an art school student
would conceivably have played.
Mr. Jenkins nodded slowly, and said, Miss Blair
has a point there. From the beginning, I never could
176

quite see one of our students, no matter how vicious,

setting up the thing that way.
Connie took another deep breath. It wasnt very
clever, either, to leave Erics panel untouched. It put
him loo obviously under suspicion, dont you
think?
Nobody answered, so she went on. Meanwhile
Mr. White was courting his sisters favor on the
double-quick. I was at Miss Charlottes house on the
day he returned the purple cloak and insinuated
plainly that Eric was irresponsible and probably
quite wildmentally, I mean.
Still, Miss Charlotte didnt seem to be
completely convinced. Even after the purple paint
was discovered in Erics lockerit would have been
so easy for Mr. White to put it there!she couldnt
quite credit the boy she knew with such a warped
sense of humor.
Connie sighed, and clasped her hands childishly
in front of her. This wasnt easy for her, this
reconstruction of an ugly story, particularly with the
culprit in the room.
Mr. White must have realized this, and it must
have been right then, she continued in a voice
trembling with horror and disgust, that he decided
to mutilate the Tarabochia paintings and somehow
pin the deed on Eric. He must have seen that nothing
short of a real crime would shake Miss Charlottes
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faith sufficiently to make her change her will.

From the beginning I felt that Eric was being
framed, but I kept looking for a motive among the
other students. I honestly never suspected Mr. White
until today.
But why today? the detective asked.
Just this afternoon, Connie told him, in Mr.
Whites desk drawer I found the remains of a big
ball of green twine that had bound Adam, our
skeleton.
The detective at the desk leaned forward and a
knowing glance flashed between him and his
associate.
Go on! he told Connie. What has the twine got
to do with the case?
Well, you see its this way, Connie tried to
explain. Adam and I arrived at school together, and
I watched Mr. White unwrap him and put a great big
ball of twine away in his desk drawer. She
indicated with cupped hands the size of the ball.
The detective muttered, Uh-huh.
When I happened, continued Connie, to find
the twine today, there was only a little tiny ball.
With thumb and forefinger she drew a circle not
much larger than a marble.
The twine is green, a special shade of green.
Look! I can show you. Connie rounded the desk
and tugged at one of the drawers, opening it with a
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squeak and taking out the remainder of the twine.

It was when I saw this that I remembered
something that hadnt made an impression on me at
the time. When the Tarabochia paintings were
returned to the advertising agency where I work,
they were wrapped round and round with this same
twine.
She paused, then added slowly, And it occurred
to meall of a suddenthat Id been overlooking
the one person with both motive and opportunity. It
just had to be Mr. White!
A very pretty story, growled the man himself,
pretty fantastic.
Not so fantastic, murmured the detective, with
a quirk of one eyebrow. Weve been interested in
the twine that bound the Tarabochias. But then he
picked up the knife and balanced it in his hand,
looking directly at Connie. How do you explain
this?
Connies eyes were honest and wide. Youll
have to believe me when I say it wasnt in Erics
locker when we went through it this afternoon. I
think Eric is telling the truth when he says he hasnt
seen it since the day they packed the drawings. He
may have given it to Roby, or he may have just left
it lying around. Or Mr. White may have used his
master key and taken it from Erics locker. It must
have been his originally She turned quickly.
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Didnt you give it to Miss Charlotte, Mr. White?

What if I did? The superintendent didnt look at
Connie. That doesnt prove anything.
Mr. Jenkins put in a remark. White couldIm
not saying he did, mindbut he could have put the
knife in young Paysons pocket this afternoon. He
was up in the locker room a good two minutes
before he called me. If Miss Blairs theory proves
correct, he may have been waiting for just such an
opportunity.
Exactly! Connie thanked Mr. Jenkins with her
eyes.
The detectives head was bent over the desk. He
was making what looked to Connie like doodles on
another piece of school stationery, which he had
pulled toward him.
Silently, the little group awaited the verdict,
Connie prayerfully, Mr. White with malice in his
beady eyes.
Finally the man at the desk looked up at Connie
and nodded. There are some holes to be plugged,
he said with forthrightness. Ill want to talk to Miss
White and to Roby Woodward and possibly to you
again, Miss Blair. But for the moment Im satisfied.
He pushed back his chair harshly, reached for his
hat, jerked his head toward Francis White and spoke
to the other detective.
Well take him along.
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CHAPTER

16

Reunion in Meadowbrook

Before a crackling fire, in the Blairs comfortable

old house in Meadowbrook, Connie and Kit and Eric
sat on the floor, eating buttered English muffins and
drinking hot cocoa in small, tentative sips.
When we were little, we always used to have
animal crackers with our cocoa, remember? Kit
asked Connie with a grin.
Certainly I remember. I always used to save the
lions till the last.
Eric Payson chuckled. What did you save, Kit?
The lambs. Im a lot milder than Connie, you
see.
Connie wrinkled her nose at her twin. Dont
believe her, Eric.
But I do believe her! Eric insisted, glancing at
Connie with unconcealed admiration. Ive just seen
you in action.
Id have given a good deal to have been there.
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Kit put down her cup and changed position so that

she could lie on her stomach and stare at the fire.
Eric and Connie had just told her the story of Mr.
Whites apprehension and she was still bemused by
the strange manner in which the puzzle finally had
been solved.
I feel sorry for Miss Charlotte, she murmured
after a while. Imagine having a brother like that
Connie, thinking of her own younger brother
bubbling,
irrepressible
Tobynodded
with
understanding. I dont think I could have told her,
myself. Im glad that Mr. Jenkins was the one.
Then she added, But, Kit, she was marvelous when
she phoned me. She didnt mind a bit my telling
about the will. And she was soso joyous about
Eric. She glanced at the young artist and smiled.
Miss Charlottes a wonderful person, Eric said
slowly. Youve no idea what shes done for me.
Not in material things, especially. But in just being
therein letting me come to her housein
understanding the way I felt about things. You
seehe paused, and made a sweeping gesture to
indicate the room in which they were sittingI
never had a home like this.
Quick tears of sympathy stung Connies eyelids.
I think, she told Kit, that it means more to Miss
Charlotte to have her faith in Eric restored than to
find that her brother is a criminal. You see, she
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always believed in Eric and she never believed in

him.
Then, feeling that they were treading on
dangerously sentimental ground, Connie changed
the subject abruptly. What I cant get over, Kit, is
that we ever could have suspected Roby Woodward
or Fritz Bachman. Why, I wandered around for
weeks trying to convince myself that either one or
the other was a thoroughly reprehensible character.
Kit chuckled. I voted for Roby, remember?
Connie nodded. Roby really helped us out,
without realizing it, by telling you about Miss
Charlottes will.
How did Roby ever find out? asked Eric.
Mr. White told him, replied Connie promptly.
Roby was telling me just yesterday that he and his
Uncle Francis, through no wish of his, had been
getting quite clubby since quite a while back. He
said that Mr. White just happened to see the will on
Miss Charlottes desk one day, andbeing Mr.
Whitehe promptly read it. Then he must have
realized that Roby could make a fine ally. Mr. White
was certainly shrewd enough to realize that there
was no close affection between his nephew and
Eric.
Ive always been sorry that Roby didnt like
me, murmured Eric with a frown. Hes a good
fellow, really, but his dads got him all wrong.
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Connie, who had been lounging against the legs

of a chair, sat up abruptly. I know. Eric, we ought
to talk to Mr. Woodward about Roby. He doesnt
belong in art school, and you and I know it. He
belongs in the sales department at the plant.
Eric grinned at Kit and indicated Connie with a
jerk of his thumb.
Little Miss Fixit!
I dont care
Connie, youre right, said Eric firmly. I like to
tease you, but youre right. Well go to Mr.
Woodward as a committee of two.
Connies eyes began to sparkle. Do you mean it,
Eric? Youre a dear!
That, said Kit, staring into the fire, takes care
of Roby. Now is there any little thing youd care to
dream up to do for Fritz Bachman, or doesnt he
come into the picture at all?
He doesnt, really, Connie confessed, at least
not so far as our puzzle in purple is concerned. But
Im worried about Fritz. Hes a strange boyso
anxious to prove himself different and superior. You
know, he must have rented that tux he wore to the
ball, and then scrimped on food for a couple of
weeks.
Kit, so thoroughly normal in her reactions that
she couldnt understand, said, But why?
Eric tried to explain, indirectly. Fritz and I both
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come fromwell, rather stern backgrounds. Except

that Ive been luckier than Fritz, lots luckier. Hes
never had a person in his life like Miss Charlotte or
Mr. Woodward. Hes had to scrap every inch of the
way.
And hes determined to go on scrapping,
Connie said.
I know. I think, too, that I know what Fritz needs
more than anything else in the world.
What? asked Connie.
Very gently Eric said, Friends.
Connie dropped her eyes, ashamed that she had
not been as discerning as Eric. Then she looked up
and faced the grave young man squarely.
I think youre right, she said. Shall we work
on that, too?
Eric held out his hand and smiled at her. Shake!
Kit rolled over and sat up. Now that youve got
your lives planned for the next few months, would
you like some more cocoa? Theres some on the
stove.
I would, said a voice from the door, and Mrs.
Blair, snow spangling her hat and coat, came into
the room. Id like some, I mean.
Eric scrambled to his feet hastily, and the older
woman came over and gave him her hand. I dont
have to be introduced, she said with the warm
hospitality that made her so attractive. Youre Eric.
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Connie has written me reams about you.

Connie blushed. Oh, Mother! But Eric seemed
pleased.
It was awfully good of you to let me come for
the week end, he said to Mrs. Blair.
We wanted you!
Connie went over and kissed her mother. And
we needed a Meadowbrook week end. She looked
into the hall from which Mrs. Blair had entered the
room. Wheres Dad?
I couldnt pry him away from the store, the
twins mother said, sighing and smiling
simultaneously.
Saturday afternoons are his time, you know, Kit
explained, picking up the old Minton china cocoa
pot that Connie remembered from childhood. When
the doctor said he could go downtown one afternoon
a week he chose Saturdays, because thats when all
his cronies drop in.
Youll have to see Blairs Hardware Store. Its
quite a place, Connie told Eric.
Kit chuckled. Advertising by Blair and Blair.
I want to see the store. Eric turned to Kit.
Connie tells me youve done a marvelous job,
taking over during your fathers illness.
I love the business, Kit confessed. But I
havent been running the show singlehandedly.
Connies been my window-display designer. And if
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you dont think shes good, you should see our sales
records.
Bragging, Connie teased. Always bragging.
But she was pleased nevertheless.
Mrs. Blair had let Eric take her coat to the hall
and was seated in a barrel-backed chair near the
hearth, toasting her hands and feet. She smiled up at
the young people warmly, and put in a word after
Kit had gone out to the kitchen.
Maybe you and Eric can dream up some ideas
for spring windows, she said to Connie. February
is almost over, and I know Kit has been a little at a
loss
Connie bit her lip contritely. Ive been letting
her down! she realized. With all the excitement in
town Then her eyes grew dreamy and she said,
Spring. Wheelbarrows and garden tools and seed
packets.
And fertilizer and mole traps and chicken wire,
chanted her mother out of long experience.
Eric laughed. Lets make it an amusing
window, he suggested. Gay and foolish.
Like a spring lamb, Connie crooned. We
might have lambs for a background. Cut out of
cardboard and painted. Gamboling on the green, sort
of.
Kit, coming back to the living room in time to
hear the last remarks, cried, Hey! Were running a
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hardware business, not a stock farm.

But Connie was oblivious to her sisters protest.
Lets do it now, Eric. This week end! We can get it
all ready for Kit before we leave. Because you
know, she continued with a change of tone, after
we get back to town were not going to have a
minute. Youll be working on your drawing for the
Fairchild prize, and I
What Connie was most concerned with in her full
life she didnt at that moment say, because Toby and
Ruggles came bursting into the room, both spraying
snow over the rug with blithe disregard for the
amenities. Both the boy and the dog had to be
introduced to Eric, who greeted them cordially, then
came back to the subject they had interrupted.
You know, he said to Connie, Ive been
thinking that Id give up my idea of doing a factory
scene for the competition. Ive got another idea.
Connie was immediately interested. What is it?
Erics gray eyes were wide and alight with a
special dream. Id like to do a portrait of Miss
Charlotte. Not a conventional portrait of a lady
seated in a chair, but a picture of her in the gray coat
with the little squirrel muff, coming briskly up to the
steps of her house in Queen Street.
Eric rubbed his hands gently together in
anticipation, and Connie noticed again how square
and workmanlike were the fingers. Stubby, artistic
188

hands.
That faded pink brick for a background, the
young artist continued, now talking almost to
himself. And the black iron railing, with the brass
finials, the polished knocker, the white marble
steps.
Connie could see the pictureMiss Charlotte as
she should be painted, active and busy, part and
parcel of old Philadelphia and yet, contradictorily,
young in spirit.
Oh, Eric, do it! she cried.
Then she turned to her mother. You must meet
Miss Charlotte, she told her. Ill ask to bring you
co call someday. Shes like something out of a
period movie, and yet shes the sweetest, brightest
little lady
Toby, with the complete oblivion of boyhood to
the importance of adult conversation, cut in, Say,
Connie, did you know Moms a Cub mother?
A what? Connie shrieked with laughter.
A Cub mother. Thats important. For our Scout
troop. Its quite a job.
It is quite a job, admitted Mrs. Blair. And right
now it seems to involve baking a batch of cookies.
So if you young people will excuse me
We have to go down to the store, anyway,
Connie remembered. And when we come back
well bring Dad with us.
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Fine!
Come on, Eric! Connie urged happily. Come
on, Kit. She pulled her twin to her feet with both
hands, smiling. Just think! she cried. Someday
well be able to say that the internationally famous
artist, Eric Payson, once designed and painted a
window for Blairs Hardware Store.
Eric took Connie by the shoulders and gave her a
playful shake, but when she turned and looked up
into his eyes she knew that he enjoyed the
affectionate teasing. And she also knew that there
was more truth than fiction in what she had just said.
Someday they would all be very proud of Eric.
Someday he would be truly great.

190