Dal had been acting strangely all day. Once,
early in the evening, when I had doubled no trump,
he led me a club without apology, and later on, during
his dummy, I saw him writing our names on the back
of an envelope, and putting numbers after them.
At my earliest opportunity I went to Max.
“There is something the matter with Dal, Max,”
I volunteered. “He has been acting strangely
all day, and just now he was making out a list—names
and numbers.”
“You’re to blame for that, Kit,”
Max said seriously. “You put washing soda
instead of baking soda in those biscuits today, and
he thinks he is a steam laundry. Those are laundry
lists he’s making out. He asked me a little
while ago if I wanted a domestic finish.”
Yes, I had put washing soda in the biscuits.
The book said soda, and how is one to know which is
meant?
“I do not think you are calculated for a domestic
finish,” I said coldly as I turned away.
“In any case I disclaim any such responsibility.
But—there is something on Dal’s
mind.”
Max came after me. “Don’t be cross,
Kit. You haven’t said a nice word to me
today, and you go around bristling with your chin up
and two red spots on your cheeks—like whatever-her-name-was
with the snakes instead of hair. I don’t
know why I’m so crazy about you; I always meant
to love a girl with a nice disposition.”
I left him then. Dal had gone into the reception
room and closed the doors. And because he had
been acting so strangely, and partly to escape from
Max, whose eyes looked threatening, I followed him.
Just as I opened the door quietly and looked in, Dallas
switched off the lights, and I could hear him groping
his way across the room. Then somebody—not
Dal—spoke from the corner, cautiously.
“Is that you, Mr. Brown, sir?” It was
Flannigan.
“Yes. Is everything here?”
“All but the powder, sir. Don’t step
too close. They’re spread all over the
place.”
“Have you taken the curtains down?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Matches?”
“Here, sir.”
“Light one, will you, Flannigan? I want
to see the time.”
The flare showed Dallas and Flannigan bent over the
timepiece. And it showed something else.
The rug had been turned back from the windows which
opened on the street, and the curtains had been removed.
On the bare hardwood floor just beneath the windows
was an array of pans of various sizes, dish pans,
cake tins, and a metal foot tub. The pans were
raised from the floor on bricks, and seemed to be
full of paper. All the chairs and tables were
pushed back against the wall, and the bric-a-brac was
stacked on the mantel.
“Half an hour yet,” Dal said, closing
his watch. “Plenty of time, and remember
the signal, four short and two long.”
“Four short and two long—all right,
sir.”
