The Pleasant Assassin and Other Cases of Dr Basil Willing

by Helen McCloy

Genres: Mystery; Mystery Anthologies & Collections; Traditional Mysteries

Synopsis

From one of the best-loved authors of the Golden Age of detective fiction, this collection of short stories by Helen McCloy features psychiatrist-sleuth Dr Basil Willing.

Beginning with her classic, Through a Glass, Darkly, which she later expanded into a full-length novel, McCloy experimented with daringly imaginative concepts within the framework of the formal, fairplay detective story. From doppelgangers to flying saucers each story demonstrates the author's masterful combination of style, content and technique to produce some of crime fiction's finest work.

Release date: October 14, 2013

Publisher: Orion Publishing Group

Print pages: 256

Sample

In her own mind Mrs. Lightfoot thought of the whole matter as “that unfortunate affair of Faustina Crayle.” Characteristically she did not try to find out what had
actually happened. She showed little curiosity and no fear. Whether the peculiar gossip about Faustina Crayle was based on malicious lying or hysterical hallucination, its effect was equally
damaging to the Brereton School. That was the only thing that mattered to a headmistress as single–minded as Mrs. Lightfoot.

By the end of the week she was comfortably sure she would never hear the name Crayle again. And then, that bright October morning, when she was just settled in the study with her morning mail,
Arlene brought her that dreadful visiting card:

 

Dr. Basil Willing

Medical Assistant to the District Attorney

of New York County

 

The man, Willing, did not look like her idea of a man who held a political appointment in New York. He entered the room with easy, not ungraceful deliberation. He had the lean figure and
sun–browned skin that come from living outdoors. Yet the wide brow and deepset eyes gave his face a stamp of thoughtfulness. Those eyes were more alert, direct, and disturbing than any she
had ever seen.

“Dr. Willing?” Mrs. Lightfoot held his card fastidiously between thumb and forefinger. “This is Massachusetts, not New York. And I fail to see how anything at Brereton can
interest the district attorney or his medical assistant.”

“That happened to be the only card I had with me,” returned Basil. “I rarely use it. The district attorney’s office plays only a small part in my working life. I’m
a doctor of medicine, specializing in psychiatry. And I’ve come to see you because Faustina Crayle consulted me. My sister–in–law, Mrs. Paul Willing, employed her as a governess
two years ago.”

Mrs. Lightfoot could be blunt when necessary. “Just what do you want?”

Basil met this with equal bluntness. “To know why your art teacher, Faustina Crayle, was dismissed after five weeks’ employment, without warning or reason given, even though, under
her contract, you had to pay her a year’s salary for the five weeks.”

So Faustina hadn’t told him the truth. Or . . . could it be she didn’t know the truth herself?

“I’ve ruled out any defect in teaching method or scholarship, appearance or deportment,” Basil was saying. “My sister–in–law would not have employed Miss
Crayle if she had any fault so obvious and you wouldn’t hesitate to have called such a fault to her attention. What remains? Something libelous that you suspect and can’t prove. One of
our old friends dipsomania, kleptomania, or nymphomania. Lesbianism is always with us. And now there’s communism. Miss Crayle might have concealed any one of these gaucheries from my
sister–in–law since Miss Crayle did not live with the Paul Willings. She was only in their apartment for a few hours each day.”

Mrs. Lightfoot lifted her eyes. “It was none of those things.”

Basil saw with surprise that she was genuinely moved. He realized that it was a rare thing for such a woman to feel strong emotion. “What was it, Mrs. Lightfoot? I think you owe it to Miss
Crayle to let her know. You’ve made it almost impossible for her to get another position as a teacher. People talk. And then . . . two curious incidents occurred, just as Miss Crayle was
leaving, which she herself cannot explain. She met two pupils on the stairs, girls of thirteen — Barbara Vining and Diana Chase. She said their faces were ‘bland as milk’ and a
pair of light voices fluted demurely: ‘Good–bye, Miss Crayle!’ But when she had passed them, a sound followed her down the stairwell — a faint, thin giggle, shrill and tiny
as the laughter the Japanese attribute to mice . . . In the lower hall Miss Crayle passed one of the maids. Arlene Murphy. Her behavior was even more extraordinary. She shrank back, with dilated
eyes, as if she were afraid of Miss Crayle.”

Mrs. Lightfoot was beaten. “I suppose I’ll have to tell you.”

He studied her face. “Why are you afraid to tell me?”

Her answer startled him. “Because you won’t believe me. You’d better hear it from some of the eye-witnesses. We’ll start with Arlene.” She pressed a bell on the
wall beside her.

The maid was as young as the graduating class at Brereton — probably eighteen, at the most twenty. Under a white apron, she wore a gray chambray dress, high–necked, long sleeved,
full–skirted. Mrs. Lightfoot had won the battle for low heels and no cosmetics, but Arlene had carried two other hotly contested points — flesh–colored stockings and no cap.

“Come in and shut the door, Arlene. Will you please repeat to Dr. Willing what you told me about Miss Crayle?”

“Yes, ma’am, but you said not to tell anybody!”

“I’m releasing you from that promise, just this once.”

Arlene turned vacant, brown eyes on Basil. Her brows were hairless. This gave her face a singularly naked look. Some glandular deficiency, he suspected. She was breathing through her mouth and
that made her look stupid.

“I was upstairs, turning down beds for the night,” said Arlene. “When I got through, I started down the backstairs. It was getting dark, but it was still light enough to see
the steps. Those backstairs are enclosed, but there’s two windows. I saw Miss Crayle coming up the stair, toward me. I thought it was a bit odd for her to be using the backstairs instead of
the front. I says: ‘Good evening, Miss.’ But she didn’t answer. She didn’t even look at me. She just went on up to the second floor. That was kinda queer ’cause she
was always polite to everybody. But even then I didn’t think much about it until I went on down into the kitchen and . . .” Arlene paused to swallow. “There was Miss
Crayle.”

The girl’s hands were trembling. Her eyes searched Basil’s face for some sign of disbelief. “Honest, sir, she couldn’t have got back to the kitchen by way of the upper
hall, the front stairs, the dining room, or the pantry. Not in the little time it took me to finish going down the backstairs to the kitchen. She just couldn’t, even if she’d
run.”

“What was Miss Crayle doing in the kitchen?” asked Basil.

“She had some flowers she’d just got in the garden. She was fixing a vase with water at the table by the sink.”

“Were the two dressed exactly the same way? The one on the stair and the one in the kitchen?”

“Like as two peas. Brown felt hat. Bluish gray coat. Covert, I think they call it. No fur, no real style at all. And brown shoes. The kind with no tongues and criss–cross laces they
call ‘ghillies.’ And some old pigskin gloves she always used for gardening.”

“Did the hat have a brim?”

“Uh–huh. I mean, yes, sir.”

“Did you see Miss Crayle’s face on the backstairs?”

“Yes, sir. I didn’t look at her particular. No reason why I should. And the hat brim was down over her eyes. But I saw her nose and mouth and chin. I’d swear it was
her.”

“Did you speak to Miss Crayle in the kitchen?”

“Soon as I got my breath, I says: ‘Lord, miss, you give me a turn! I coulda sworn I just passed you on the stair, comin’ down.’ She smiled and said: ‘You musta been
mistaken, Arlene. I been in the west garden the last half hour. I only just come into the house and I haven’t been upstairs yet.’ Well, sir, you know how it is. Something like that
happens and you think: ‘What the —’ I mean: ‘Oh, well, I musta been mistaken.’ And that’s the end of it . . . if nothing more happens. But this time —
well, that was just the beginning. In a week or so there was stories going all over the school about Miss Crayle and —”

Mrs. Lightfoot interrupted. “That will do, Arlene. Thank you. And will you please ask Miss Vining and Miss Chase to come to my study immediately?”

“Goethe,” said Basil, as the door shut. “The gray suit with gilt edging. Emilie Sagée. And The Tale of Tod Lapraik. The doppelgänger of the
Germans. The ka of the Egyptians. The double of English folk lore. You see a figure, solid, three-dimensional, brightly colored, moving and obeying all the laws of optics. Its clothing or
posture is vaguely familiar. It turns its head and — you are looking at yourself. A perfect mirror–image of yourself, only — there is no mirror. And that frightens you. For
tradition tells you that he who sees his own double must die.”

“Only if he sees it face to face,” amended Mrs. Lightfoot. “The history of the doppelgänger legend is very curious. Lately I’ve begun to wonder if the
atmosphere could act as a mirror under certain conditions, something like a mirage but reflecting only one person . . .”

A light tap fell on the door. Two little girls about thirteen entered the study and curtsied to Basil when Mrs. Lightfoot introduced them as Barbara Vining and Diana Chase.

The drab masculinity of the Brereton uniform merely heightened by contrast the delicate, feminine coloring of Barbara Vining — pink and white skin, silver–gold hair, and eyes the
misty blue of star sapphires. The line of her lips was so subtly turned that even in repose they seemed to quiver on the edge of suppressed laughter.

The same uniform brought out all that was plain and dull in Diana Chase: the straight, mouse–colored hair; the pinched, white face; the forlorn mouth. Only the eyes, a clear hazel, showed
a sly spark of potential mischief.

They listened gravely as Mrs. Lightfoot explained what she wanted. “Barbara, suppose you tell Dr. Willing what happened. Diana, you may correct Barbara if she makes any mistake.”

“Yes, Mrs. Lightfoot.” The faint pink in Barbara’s cheeks warmed to rose. Obviously she enjoyed being the center of the stage. “We two were in the writing room on the
ground floor. I was writing my brother, Raymond, and Diana was writing her mother. All the other girls were down at the basketball field and most of the teachers. But she was outside the middle
window — Miss Crayle. It was a French window, standing open, so I could see her plainly. She’d set her easel up in the middle of the lawn and she was sketching in water colors. She was
wearing a blue coat but no hat. It was fun watching the quick, sure way she handled her brush.”

“You’ve forgotten the armchair,” put in Diana.

“Armchair? Oh . . .” Barbara turned back to Basil. “There was an armchair in that room with a slip–cover in Delft blue. We called it ‘Miss Crayle’s
chair’ because she sat there so often. I rather expected her to come in and sit in that chair when she was through painting and then — it happened.” Barbara’s voice faded,
suddenly shy.

Diana took over. “I looked up and saw that Miss Crayle had come in without my hearing her. She was sitting in the blue armchair, her hands loose in her lap, her head resting against the
back. She didn’t seem to notice me, so I went on writing. After a while, I looked up again. She was still in the armchair. But that time my eyes wandered over to the window and . . .”
Diana lost her nerve. “You tell him, Babs.”

“Miss Crayle was still sketching outside the window?” suggested Basil.

“I suppose Mrs. Lightfoot told you.” Barbara looked at him sharply. “I heard Di gasp, so I looked up and saw her staring at two Miss Crayles — one in the armchair, in the
room with us; the other on the lawn, outside the window. The one in the chair was perfectly still. The one outside the window was moving. Only . . .” Barbara’s voice wavered. “I
told you how quick and sure her motions were? Well, after we saw the figure in the chair, the figure outside the window was — slower. Every movement was sort of languid and weighted. Like a
slow–motion picture.”

“Made me think of a sleepwalker,” added Diana.

“What was the light like?”

“Bright sunlight on the lawn,” answered Barbara. “So bright the shades were drawn halfway down inside.”

“It was pretty awful,” went on Diana. “Sitting there, the two of us, alone in the room with that — that thing in the armchair. And the real Miss Crayle outside painting
in that slow, unnatural way. Afterward, I thought of all sorts of things we might have done. Like trying to touch the thing in the chair. Or calling to Miss Crayle from the window and waking her
from her — her trance or whatever it was. But at the time — well, I was just too frightened to think or move.”

“I sat there and told myself it wasn’t happening,” said Barbara. “Only it was. I suppose it only lasted a minute or so. It seemed like a hundred years. Then the figure in
the chair got up and went into the hall without a sound. The door was standing open and it seemed to melt into the shadows beyond. We sat there about three seconds. Then we ran to the door. There
was no one in sight. So we went back to the window but — Miss Crayle had gone . . .”

When they were alone, Mrs. Lightfoot looked at Basil.

“Was a practical woman ever confronted with such a fantastic problem? Six girls have been withdrawn from Brereton already. That’s why Miss Crayle had to go.”

“But Barbara and Diana are still here. Didn’t they write their parents about this?”

“Barbara has no parents — only a brother, a rather light–hearted young man of twenty–six who doesn’t take his duties as guardian too seriously. Diana’s
parents are divorced. The father lives with a second wife in California. The mother is chiefly occupied in nursing her grievances against the father and nagging the courts to increase her alimony.
Neither is greatly concerned with Diana. She’s been a pupil here since her seventh year. Barbara only came to us this Fall. She’s been going to a day school in New York.”

Basil studied the intelligent face under the sleek mound of dark hair flecked with gray. “What is your own opinion?”

A hint of defiance crept into Mrs. Lightfoot’s voice. “I am a modern woman, Dr. Willing. That means I was born without faith in religion and I have lost faith in science. I
don’t understand the theories of Messrs. Planck and Einstein, but I grasp enough to realize that the world of matter may be a world of appearances — that even our own bodies are a part
of this dance of electrons. What’s behind it, we don’t know. How does my mind act on my body when I decide to move my arm? Neither psychology nor physiology can tell me . . .

“By what trick could Faustina Crayle create the illusion of her double? And why? She gained nothing. It cost her a job. She may be an unconscious trickster — an hysteric with
impulses to amaze and frighten people, impulses that she can’t control because she is not aware of them herself. That might explain why she played such a trick, but not how.

“There is a third possibility. Suppose Faustina Crayle is . . . abnormal in a way that modern science will not acknowledge?”

If Mrs. Lightfoot feared an outburst of that outraged skepticism that is a sure sign of hidden credulity — the fool’s fear of being fooled — she had misjudged her man.
“Did anyone else see Miss Crayle’s double? Besides two girls of thirteen and a maid of nineteen or twenty?”

Mrs. Lightfoot caught the implication. “There was one other witness — middle–aged, sober, reasonably shrewd and observant. Myself.”

After a moment, she went on: “I had a dinner engagement outside the school that evening. I came out of my room about six. A pair of sconces are always lighted in the upper hall at that
hour. Each has a hundred–watt bulb under a small shade. Their light extends to the first landing of the fro. . .