Black-Eyed Stranger by Charlotte Armstrong Page A

was interested, too. As I had been in Charles’ business. In the biscuit business. He said something about a warehouse. I gathered that he wrote fiction. I don’t remember why.”
    â€œWarehouse?” Alan frowned.
    â€œYes. He said … I remember the words …‘somebody watching over them night and day.’ It was a strange thing to say.”
    â€œWatchman,” cried Salisbury. “Wait. I remember that word.”
    Alan’s held breath demanded more.
    Salisbury dredged it up. “Something about visiting the sins of the employees upon the boss—”
    â€œAn employee? A watchman?” Alan jumped up. “Must mean something. Who is your night watchman at the warehouse?”
    â€œI don’t know. Have no idea.”
    â€œCan you find out.”
    â€œYes, of course I can. Wait.” Salisbury turned from the phone. “The name is Perrigrine. He is on duty now. Had the job only a week, since the old man died.”
    â€œThe old man died?”
    â€œYes, in an accident.”
    â€œWait,” said Alan. “How long was the old man there, sir?”
    â€œI can ask.”
    â€œNo, wait. There was some kind of shooting affair, last year. And your watchman testified. Remember? He saw something suspicious. Wait, I’m recalling it. He called the police before the thing happened. That was it. It was the time Ambielli was nearly killed. A gang thing. Classical underworld feud. Everyone knew that Emanuel was behind it. Ambielli was pretty well ruined. He left town.”
    â€œBut this … what has this to do—?”
    â€œAmbielli,” said Alan thoughtfully.
    â€œWhat about Ambielli?” snapped Salisbury.
    â€œIs back in town.”
    To Salisbury the thought came, in sequence, quietly. And the old man died. It came so quietly that he began to say it. “And the old man …” Before he came to the end of the phrase his mind ran ahead of his tongue and he stopped.
    He heard Alan asking, “What kind of an accident did the old man die in?”
    Salisbury shook his head. He didn’t know. He was wondering. He wanted to ask when Ambielli had come back to town, but he didn’t dare. He sat, looking at it. The hideous idea. An old man, on duty, saw something. Dutifully, called the police. Now, died. Now. Months later! “Oh, no, ridiculous!” he said loudly.
    â€œIf Lynch was hinting,” Alan mused, “he couldn’t have meant Emanuel. No reason for him to carry a grudge against you.” Alan chewed his fingernail. “Can’t be. It is ridiculous.”
    Charles Salisbury lifted his hands. “What grudge against me?” Such a grudge, he thought, as killed an old man, months later. “How could I be held responsible? I had nothing to do with it.” Reason protested. But, all the same, his mind reached outside a strict and reasonable order and he thought, no, it wasn’t a grudge exactly. But it was a way, almost a whimsical, an accidental way for me to have been heard of, known about, and chosen for this. Since I have a daughter. Salisbury’s eyes winced.
    â€œAmbielli is back in town,” Alan said, “I’ve heard as much.” His pupils slid sideways. “I don’t believe it, ‘visiting the sins …’ That’s sensationalism. Must have been Lynch’s idea of a réd herring.” His mouth curled.
    â€œBut if Mr. Lynch were honest,” Martha said gravely, “and if it were this man he overheard, then where is Lynch?”
    Salisbury thought to himself, if Lynch were honest, he may be dead. As the old watchman is dead. He didn’t speak. He moistened his lips.
    â€œOh, lying low,” said Alan contemptuously. “Keeping out of the way. So much is plausible. People like Lynch have an exaggerated dread of the Ambiellis. Part admiration, of course. But I don’t think he was honest. If so, why not name the