“We’ve been trying to locate the combination of her safe.”
He whistled and looked back at Jan’s door.
“I wouldn’t tell her that, Miss Adams,” he said. “It might upset her.”
He declined to elaborate, and Hilda had that to puzzle over during the evening, as well as Ida’s continued absence. At eight o’clock William had sent a wire to her people in the country, and he and Maggie were waiting in the kitchen for an answer. Young Brooke, having eaten his dinner, left for his office hours and came back at nine. Marian went to bed, and Carlton and Susie were in the library. Hilda, not needed anywhere, sat in her room and watched the twilight turn into night. She had gathered up a lot of odds and ends, but where did they take her? She was no nearer the solution of the crime than she had been before.
Ida? What about Ida? She could have discovered the opening into Mrs. Fairbanks’s room; the panel not entirely closed, and Ida on her knees, washing the floor of the closet. She could even have slipped the bats into the room. She had been a country girl. She would not be afraid of such things. But why? What would be her motive?
She went back to the morning of the murder; Ida in her room by the window, her hands folded in her lap and a queer look on her long thin face as she and the inspector entered. She had been afraid, so afraid that she tried to rise and could not. And now she was missing.
In the next room the young people were talking. Hilda got up and moving carefully went to the front hall. Above her the third floor loomed dark and empty, and the long passage to Ida’s room was ghostly. As the evening cooled the old house creaked, and Hilda, remembering the figure she had seen at the top of the stairs, felt small goose pimples on her flesh.
Once back in the girl’s room, however, she felt better. She turned on the light and looked about her. There was no indication that she had intended to leave. A pair of washed stockings hung over the back of a chair, a discarded blue uniform lay on the bed, and a battered suitcase stood on the closet floor.
The wastebasket was empty, except for a newspaper, but under the pine dresser she found a scrap of paper. It was part of a letter, and it contained only two words. On one line was the word “sorry” and below it “harmless.” Nowhere could she find any other bits, and at last she gave it up and put out the light.
She went quietly forward and down to the second floor. To her surprise the door into Mrs. Fairbanks’s room was open, and she stepped inside. Young Brooke was there. He had opened the drawer of the table and had taken something out.
He started violently when he saw her. Then he grinned.
“Looking for cards,” he said. “Jan and I want to play some gin-rummy.”
He showed her the cards, but Hilda held out her hand for them.
“I’ll take those,” she said. “My orders are that nothing is to leave this room.”
“Oh, have a heart. A pack of cards—”
“Give them to me, please. There are cards downstairs.”
He gave them up reluctantly.
“And what will you do with them?” he inquired.
“Put them back where they belong,” she said stiffly, “and lock this door.”
She waited until he had gone out. Then she locked the door and took the key.
At midnight the telegram came. Ida had not gone home. And Hilda, getting Marian some hot milk to enable her to sleep, found the servants still there, Maggie and William and, smoking a pipe by the door, Amos. They were, she thought, both worried and watchful. And Maggie was convinced that Ida was dead.
“She was a good girl,” she said tearfully. “A good Christian, too. And she minded her own business.”
Amos shook the ashes out of his pipe.
“Did she now?” he said. “Sure of that, are you? Then what was she doing in my place yesterday, after the old lady was killed?”
“You’re making that up.”
“Am I? I found her in my bedroom, looking out of the window. She was a snooper. That’s what she was. I never did trust her.”
“You never trusted anybody,” said Maggie scornfully. “What would she want in your room anyhow?”
“That’s what I asked her. She said she had brought me some blankets. I’ve been here thirty years and she’s been here ten. It’s the first time she’s been interested in my bed.”
He seemed to think that was humorous. He grinned, but Maggie eyed him disdainfully.
“You might at least be grateful.”
“Grateful? For blankets at the beginning of summer? Them blankets were an excuse to get in my room, and don’t tell me different.”
That night Hilda discovered why Susie had fainted a few days before.
Jan had sent her to bed, and she went gladly enough. All she wanted, she thought, was a hot bath and sleep, and tomorrow she could go home, to her bird and her sunny sitting-room. She had done all she could. She had not solved the murder, but she had solved one mystery. She locked the bit of paper from Ida’s room in her suitcase, got out a fresh nightgown, and after some hesitation put the key to Mrs. Fairbanks’s room under her pillow. Then she undressed and reached into the closet for her bedroom slippers. Curled up in one of them was something cold and clammy, and as she touched it it slithered out across her feet and under the bed.
She was too paralyzed to move for a moment. Then she put on her slippers and going across the hall rapped at Susie’s door. Susie was in bed, the usual cigarette in one hand, the usual lurid magazine in the other.
“You might tell Mr. Fairbanks,” Hilda said coldly, “that the thing that scared you into a faint the other night is under my bed. I believe it’s harmless.”
“Harmless!” Susie said. “I put my hand on it in that damned peephole, and it nearly scared me to death. It’s a—”
“Yes,” said Hilda calmly. “It’s a snake. It would be nice to know who put it there.”
Chapter 21
OFFICE OF CHIEF MEDICAL EXAMINER REPORT OF DEATH
Name of deceased: Unknown
Last residence: Unknown
Date and time of death: June 17, 1941. One a.m.
Date and time examiner notified: June 17, 1941. Two a.m.
Body examined: June 17, 1941. Eight a.m.
Reported by: City Hospital
Body found: At Morgue
Pronounced dead by: Dr. Cassidy
Sex: Female
Age: Approximately 40
Color: White
Notes:
Woman reported discovered in great pain in rest room of Stern & Jones department store at 4 p. m. Store physician called and gave treatment for shock. When taken to City Hospital (see police report) was in state of collapse. Reached hospital 5:10 p.m., June 16th.
The body is that of a thin but sufficiently nourished female. From condition of hands believe worked at domestic service, office cleaning, or similar occupation. Clothing revealed nothing. There was no sign of violence on body.
There was no suicide note to be found. That the deceased was not anticipating death is possible, as a small paper bag containing darning silk was found in her purse. Also the report of the maid in said rest room, who states that the deceased was conscious when found, and said that she had been poisoned.
In view of the circumstances I am of the opinion that the cause of death was:
Administration of arsenical poison by person or persons unknown: Homicide.
(Signed) S. J. Wardwell
Chief Medical Examiner
AUTOPSY
Approximate age: 40 years
Approximate weight: 115 lbs.
Height: 5’3”
Stenographer: John T. Heron
I hereby certify that on the 17th day of June, 1941, I, Richard M. Weaver, made an autopsy on this body eight hours after death, and said autopsy revealed:
No injury on body, which is that of a white female, apparently 40 years of age. Examination of viscera revealed characteristic symptoms of arsenical poisoning. Due to use of stomach pump impossible to tell time of last
food taken. Possibly twelve hours before death.
Arsenic present in considerable amount in viscera.
(Signed) Richard M. Weaver
Assistant Medical Examiner
It was noon of the day after Ida disappeared before she was found at the morgue. The autopsy was over by that time, and Ida’s tired hands were resting peacefully on a cold slab in the morgue when Carlton was taken there to identify her.
He gave one look and backed away.
“It’s Ida, all right,” he said hoarsely. “For God’s sake, inspector! What’s happening to us?”
“I imagine Ida knew too much,” said the inspector, motioning the morgue master to push the body out of sight. “It’s a pity. It’s a cruel death.”
He eyed Carlton thoughtfully.
“I’ve seen the reports,” he said. “She went out yesterday without eating her lunch. At three o’clock or somewhat later she bought some darning silk at the notion counter of Stern and Jones. The saleswoman says she looked sick, and complained of cramps. The girl advised her to go to the rest room. She did. She sat in a chair at first. Then the maid got her to a couch, and called the store doctor. He says she didn’t give her name or address, and by the time she got to the hospital she wasn’t able to. It looks as though some time between the time she left the house and when she was found in the rest room she got the poison.”
With Carlton looking on, he examined the clothing Ida had worn when taken to the hospital. It revealed nothing. Her bag, however, provided a shock. It contained no lipstick or powder. The coin purse had only a dollar or two. But tucked in a pocket behind a mirror were five new one-hundred-dollar bills.
The two men stared at them incredulously.
“You don’t pay her in money like that?”
“Good heavens, no. Where did she get it?”
The notes were in series, and the inspector made a record of their numbers. Then he sealed them in an envelope and ordered them put in the safe. Carlton was still unnerved when they reached the street. He lit a cigarette with shaking hands. But he was still fighting. He drew a long breath.
“At least this murder lets us out,” he said. “None of us would kill the girl. And as for that money—”
“I suppose you were all at home yesterday afternoon after the inquest?”
Carlton flushed.
“You were there. You saw us. Except my sister. She was out shopping. But she would have no reason—You can’t suspect her of this. She—”
The inspector cut in on him.
“Where does she usually shop?”
“At—I don’t know. All over town, I imagine. What difference does it make? She was in Atlantic City when Mother died. And she was fond of Ida. You can’t go on like this,” he said, raising his voice. “You can’t suspect all of us. It’s damnable. It’s crazy.”
“We have had two murders,” said the inspector stolidly. “There’s a restaurant in Stern and Jones, isn’t there?”
“I don’t know. Marian ate her lunch after she left.”
They parted there, Carlton stiffly to hail a taxi and go home, the inspector to go back to his office and call up certain banks. He found the one Carlton Fairbanks used, and asked them to check his account. After a brief wait he got the figures.
“Balance is three hundred and forty dollars. He drew out seventy-five in cash last week. That’s all. Not suspecting him, are you, inspector?”
“No record of a withdrawal of five hundred in one-hundred-dollar bills in the last month or so?”
“No. He never has much of a balance.”
It was one o’clock when he reached the Fairbanks house again. He interviewed the servants first. They were subdued and frightened. Even Amos had lost some of his surliness, and when they learned that Ida had been poisoned with arsenic there was a stricken silence. But they had nothing to tell him. Ida had taken Mrs. Fairbanks’s death hard. She had eaten nothing in the house the day before after her breakfast, “and little enough of that.” Asked where she kept her savings they agreed that she had an account at a downtown bank.
None of them believed for a moment that she had committed suicide.
“Why would she?” said Maggie practically. “She had a steady job and good pay. She wasn’t the sort anyhow. She sent money every month to her people in the country. This will just about finish them,” she added. “They’re old, and farms don’t pay any more. I suppose they’ve been notified?”
“Not yet. I want their address.”
He took it down and asked for Hilda. William said she was in her room, and led him upstairs. She was sitting in a chair with her knitting in her lap, and he went in and closed the door behind him.
“I suppose you know?”
“Yes. There’s a family conclave going on now in Marian’s room.”
“Overhear any of it?”
“I didn’t try,” she told him primly.
They went up the back stairs to Ida’s room. Save for the preparations for lunch going on below the house was quiet, and Ida’s room was as Hilda had seen it the day before. He searched it, but he found nothing of any importance. When he had finished Hilda handed him the piece of paper she had discovered.
“‘Sorry,’” he read, “and ‘harmless.’ Part of a letter, isn’t it? What do you suppose was harmless?”
“I think,” said Hilda mildly, “that it was a snake. You see, the bats and the other things hadn’t worked, so she tried a snake.”
“Who tried a snake?”
“Ida.”
“What on earth are you talking about? If you can make a snake out of the word ‘harmless’—”
Hilda smiled.
“I didn’t. I found one in my closet last night.”
He was startled.
“Good God! How do you know it was harmless?”
“Well, there was that piece of paper, of course. And I saw it myself. Just a small garden snake. I wanted to take it out to the yard, but Carlton Fairbanks killed it. With a golf club,” she added.
He inspected her, standing there in her neat white uniform, her face sweet and tranquil, and he felt a terrific desire to shake her.
“So it’s as simple as that,” he said caustically. “Ida puts it in your closet and Carlton kills it with a golf club.” His voice rose. “What the hell has a snake got to do with two murders? And stop grinning at me.”
“I’m not grinning,” said Hilda with dignity. “I don’t think Ida put it in the closet. I think it escaped from that hole in the wall, and it nearly scared Susie to death. But I do think Ida brought it here; it and the other things.”
“Why?”
“Well, she was a country girl. She lived only thirty miles out of town, and she went there once a month or so. I was wondering,” she added, “if I could go there this afternoon. They may know of her death, but they are old. It will be hard on them.”
He gave her a suspicious look.
“That’s all, is it? You wouldn’t by any chance have something else in your mind?”
“It wouldn’t hurt to look about a little,” she said cautiously. “I think Doctor Brooke would drive me out.”
He went to the window and stood looking out.
“Why would she do it?” he asked. “She had little or nothing to gain by the will.”
“Oh, I don’t think she killed Mrs. Fairbanks,” Hilda said quickly. “She hated the house. The work was too heavy, for one thing. She may have wanted to scare her into moving.”
“But you don’t believe that?”
“I don’t believe she killed herself. No.”
Before he left he saw Carlton.
“In view of what has happened,” he said, “I’d like to keep Miss Adams here for a day or two longer. You need not pay her. I’ll attend to that.”
“So we’re to have a spy in the house,” Carlton said bitterly. “What can I do about it? Let her stay, and the hell with it.”
Chapter 22
Old Eliza Fairbanks was buried that afternoon from St. L
uke’s, with a cordon of police to hold back the crowd and photographers, holding cameras high, struggling for pictures of the family. Her small body in its heavy casket was carried into the church, and in due time out again. A long procession of cars drove up, filled, and drove away.
“What is it, a wedding?”
“Sh! It’s a funeral. You know, the old woman who got stabbed.”
Marian came out, her face bleak under her mourning. Carlton and Susie, Susie unashamedly crying. Jan, wan and lovely, but keeping her head high, and Courtney Brooke holding her arm. Nobody noticed Frank Garrison. He sat at the rear of the church, thinking God knows what; of his wedding perhaps in this same church, with Marian beside him; of Jan’s christening at the font, a small, warm body in his arms; of Sunday mornings when he sat in the Fairbanks pew, and a little old lady sat beside him.
He got out quickly when it was over.
It was five o’clock when the family returned from the cemetery, and six before Hilda had got Marian to bed and was free. She went quietly out the side door and past the stable to Huston Street, to find Courtney waiting for her in his car.
“I hope we make it,” he said. “The old bus does all right in town. When it stops I can have somebody fix it. But a trip like this—”
Hilda got in and settled herself.
“We’ll make it,” she said comfortably. “We’ve got to make it.”
Yet at first there seemed nothing to discover. Two elderly people, stricken with grief, Ida’s parents were only bewildered.
“Who would want to do that to her?” they asked.
“She was a good girl. She minded her own business. And she was fond of the family, miss. Especially Mrs. Garrison, Mrs. Marian Garrison. That’s her picture there.” Hilda looked. On the mantel was a photograph of Marian taken some years ago. “She was pretty then,” the mother said. “Ida used to help her dress. She—”
She checked herself abruptly, and Hilda thought the father had made a gesture. She got nothing further from them. They knew nothing of any bats or other creatures, and Hilda, watching their surprise, was sure that it was genuine. They sat in the old-fashioned parlor, with an organ in the corner and a fan of paper in the empty fireplace, and denied that Ida had ever carried anything of the sort into town. “Why would she?”
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