“Martin,” Cynthia shrieked, “you said ‘cat and hoat’!”
“What is so amusing about that?”
“‘Cat and hoat’!”
“Ah, I see. It was silly of me. I never wear a cat. Very diverting error, Mona. Now if you will await me here till I get my hoat and—”
“Do not mind,” Mona said calmly. “Mr. Boritsin has a car and will drive me home. If you wish to come with us, you may; but I do not want to spoil your fun.”
And she left the room.
The next thing that Martin remembered at all distinctly, as he attempted the next morning to review events, was a very loud chorus of Tavern in the Town, with Mary at the piano. Then there was a shadowy recollection of Alex looking pained and unhappy, and a picture of the terrific blush on the face of a girl Martin had never seen before as she came down from a session on the balcony with Dr. Leshin.
Then, too, there was the astounding moment when Martin and Cynthia, stumbling into a passage off the main room, saw Mrs. Leshin being kissed with unmistakable vigor. Dr. Leshin’s roving black eyes had by now discovered an object which interested him more than his jealousy of his own wife; and she had apparently decided to have a little fun on her own. At first Cynthia sniffed, seemingly in disgust at anyone who could find amorous pleasure in a peasant of Swabia; and then she gasped, as did Martin, to recognize in Tanya’s partner the ordinarily staid Paul Lennox. His pipe was nowhere to be seen, and he was quite evidently entering whole-heartedly into the spirit of the occasion.
It was some indefinite time after this vision that Martin found himself on the balcony with Cynthia. It was a very different matter from his first balcony scene of the evening. This time there was no abstract discussion of love; there was nothing but lusty kisses and warm caresses. Martin’s head was swimming through an uncertain ocean of bourbon; but he realized that he was discovering a marked taste for decidedly un-Swabian pomegranates.
As Martin’s caresses grew even more intimate, Cynthia sighed luxuriously. “Darling …” she moaned, running her fingers through his rumpled hair. “Paul darling … Paul.…”
For one instant Martin was, in his astonishment, completely sober. Paul.… Paul’s name was Cynthia’s unconscious and automatic response to the warmest love-making. Martin’s hands ceased to wander and his lips grew unresponsive as he tried to piece this together with other things. Dozens of other things. Cynthia’s tirades against Tanya Leshin … the brief conversation earlier in the evening between Paul and Alex … Cynthia’s two visits to the doctor in San Francisco. Cynthia, finding herself suddenly quite uncaressed, began to express her chagrin in purest Billingsgate.
Alex was standing at the entrance to the balcony and saying something about time to go home now. Martin was glad. He was frightened and could no longer remember why.
It was Chuck Withers, he discovered later, who drove them all home, and Alex who helped him to bed. And no one realized, least of all Martin, that he had established a new precedent by showing how drunkenness and its consequent lechery may prove invaluable to the incipient Watson.
CHAPTER VI
The Superfluous Alibi
All this was on Saturday. Sunday was, as a natural result, as dismal a day as Martin had ever passed. He awoke in the early afternoon with a head of fabulous proportions. His alarm-clock, he discovered, had run down completely without in the least disturbing his sleep. He had missed Mass, and his mouth—none of the conventional similes involving birdcages or motormen’s gloves were in the least adequate to describe his mouth.
Things were very confused in his mind as he dressed. The one clear idea was that he owed Mona an apology. He rehearsed several possible openings while he steadied himself with vast quantities of black coffee and tomato juice (with Worcestershire sauce), only to find that Mona had left for San Francisco—probably to see Lupe, he thought—and would be gone all day.
On his way to the library he ran into Paul, who looked almost equally low, and Alex, who made unpleasant remarks about people who had to be put to bed. At last, in absolute desperation, he lost himself in the stacks and read a complete novel by Gutzkow at one sitting.
Since he had gone that far, he determined to cap the wretchedness of the day by attending the Sunday Supper at International House. He even sat through the speeches, and then hurried to bed and a mercifully quick sleep.
He felt better on Monday. Even the dullness of Hagemann’s course on Young Germany, for which he had gobbled the Gutzkow, did not particularly disturb him, and by the time he had reached Dr. Ashwin’s class he was his own bright self.
When the translation from the Mahabharata had been concluded (and none too successfully, for he had not prepared it well), he entered into a spirited discussion concerning the relative merits of the imperishable Master of Baker Street in novels and in short stories, and decided to look upon Saturday night and Sunday as simply not having been.
As the hour drew to a close, Dr. Ashwin glanced at his watch and said, “I regret that I have an appointment, Mr. Lamb, or I should ask you to lunch with me. I wish, frankly, to pick your brains for certain specialized information. Could you come to see me this evening?”
“I’ll be rehearsing. The show goes on Friday, you know, and I’ll be busy as the devil all week.”
“Come after rehearsal for a half hour or an hour.”
“It’ll be late.”
“That is all right. If it will not be too inconvenient for you?”
“Oh, no.”
“Good. And please, Mr. Lamb—come alone.”
Martin nodded, a trifle puzzled.
The rest of the day was a busy one. Dr. Leshin’s class—wherein the doctor cast at Martin several knowing and reminiscent glances, of the one-man-of-the-world-to-another sort, which were rather embarrassing—then most of the afternoon in conference with Drexel and his costume designer; a hurried dinner hour, mostly spent in a vain search for Mona; and then the rehearsal. It was the first rehearsal with sets and props, and as confusing as such occasions usually are. Its one redeeming feature was the fact that Paul Lennox at last was good in his death scene.
Dog tired but persistent, Martin climbed the stairs to Dr. Ashwin’s room. He sank into a chair without a word and gratefully accepted the whiskey glass which Ashwin had already filled for him.
“You look tired,” Dr. Ashwin observed.
Martin emptied the glass at a gulp. “I know you love to enunciate the obvious,” he said, “but that’s even a little too much so.” He lit a cigarette and half-closed his eyes.
“I am sorry to bother you when you are so busy,” Ashwin continued, “but my mind has kept itself too much occupied with this problem of murder. Your presenting me with that problem, Mr. Lamb, was as though I should offer a glass of this Scotch to a teetotaler who had within him the potentialities of an extreme dipsomaniac. You have corrupted me.”
“Mea culpa …” Martin murmured.
“I have no work to do at present, beyond my familiar teaching routine, which is light. I am working on no translation, as I have generally been in the past, for there is nothing left in Sanskrit at once worthy of translation and suited to my abilities and limitations. Thus this problem of murder has furnished me with something to work at, and I cannot stop.”
Martin made a wearily inarticulate questioning noise as Ashwin paused.
“You wonder then why I have insisted on your visiting me tonight? It is because I need facts concerning people, and I think that you can give them to me.”
“‘Who’s Who in Berkeley, or, The Traveler’s Compendium of Fascinating Facts.’ Go on.” Martin settled himself more comfortably.
“You must also forgive me,” Ashwin resumed, “if I employ you as an accessory to my reasoning, in the Socratic method. I feel the need of—shall we say, a Watson?”
“A stooge,” Martin emended.
“Your alternations, Mr. Lamb, between the diction of the eighteenth century and that of the theatrical periodical, Variety, which you o
nce showed me, never cease to astound me. But to continue: We agreed, I believe, on the occasion of your last visit, that the murdered Dr. Schaedel was in all likelihood a mere innocent bystander. Do you still think that plausible?”
“Quite. So does Alex. He was very much impressed, and got into quite an argument with Paul about your theory.”
Dr. Ashwin was markedly interested. “So? Mr. Lennox does not think my theory tenable?”
“Not in the least.”
“Now that, Mr. Lamb, is an example of the sort of fact which I hope to elicit from you. But to resume the logical course of discussion—If Dr. Schaedel was indeed the wrong man, the next step would be to decide who was the right man. It should be far simpler to find who the murderer was once we know who was the intended victim.
“There are, in this murder, three separate possibilities in explaining the confusion of victims. Let us be methodical and letter them. A: The murderer, having long since resolved to kill his victim, accidentally encounters Dr. Schaedel coming from Miss Wood’s door and does the deed then and there. B: The murderer is deliberately shadowing his victim with murder in mind; but the victim’s evening wanderings cross those of Dr. Schaedel and the murderer follows the wrong man. C: The murderer is lying in wait for his victim in front of Miss Wood’s home. Can you suggest any further possibilities?”
“No,” Martin admitted. “But I can make objections to those, which is, I suppose, what you want me to do.”
“Go on,” Ashwin prompted.
“Well … As to A, it’s too damned improbable. I grant Dr. Schaedel looked very ordinary at night and might be taken for anyone, but only if you had a definite reason for thinking he was someone else—such a reason as knowing that your intended victim would be in that place at that time. Just a chance encounter won’t do.”
Ashwin nodded. “And you see, of course, that something the same objection applies to B. If the murderer had lost the trail unwittingly, he would not have killed at that precise moment unless Dr. Schaedel was doing something which the real victim would have done.”
“In other words,” Martin interposed, “what you’re getting at is this: Whoever the intended victim was, he was someone whom the murderer might expect to see coming out of Cynthia’s house at that hour.”
“Exactly. And now you see, Mr. Lamb, why I wish to question you. Who would fulfill that condition and at the same time resemble Dr. Schaedel sufficiently?”
Martin pondered. “Let’s see … Of course, the most frequent male visitor to Cynthia’s is Alex Bruce. And he’s about the right height. In fact, Kurt told me that he thought for a moment his uncle was Alex, seeing him go into Cynthia’s.” Dr. Ashwin noted down the name. “No one else goes there regularly, but lots of us drop in, even at late hours. Paul Lennox, if I remember aright, is even closer Dr. Schaedel’s height than Alex. He and Cynthia aren’t exactly friendly, but—” He stopped abruptly. Cynthia’s unconscious revelation on the balcony he had forgotten completely up to that moment. Now it leaped suddenly and dominatingly into his mind.
“Go on.” Dr. Ashwin held his pencil ready. “Who else?”
“Several other men—but all the wrong build. Worthing’s too small; anyway he scarcely knows Cyn. Kurt and Chuck are both tall and heavy. Boritsin is tall and thin. Of course there’s me.”
“Mr. Lamb,” said Ashwin reprovingly, “I am not such a purist as to object to your grammar, but I do object, and strongly, to your habit of dragging yourself into every discussion. Nonetheless, I suppose that I should write down your name.” He did so reluctantly.
“One thing, though,” Martin went on undaunted, “it couldn’t very well have been me—I—whatever—because I never wear a hat. Dr. Schaedel did. Paul and Alex both wear one about half the time.”
“A good point, Mr. Lamb, and one which spares me the necessity of asking why anyone should bother to kill you. Can you think of any other likely candidates?”
“Cyn’s father comes to see her once in a while. He’s about the right height, but much heavier. Anyway, I don’t think he’d ever come at that hour of the night or on foot.”
“The list, then, seems to consist solely of Alex Bruce and Paul Lennox. I am glad that they are both men whom I have met. Now, Mr. Lamb, please tell me everything you can about these two.”
Martin paused and refilled his glass. “Well,” he began, “first we have, in this corner, Alex Bruce. Age: twenty-six. Nationality: American of Scotch descent. Political affiliation, if that means anything in these days: Democrat. Religion: Presbyterian, but never does anything about it. Profession: research fellow in chemistry, University of California. Degrees: B.S., M.S. Character: quiet, but determined. Sports: swimming, tennis. Rumored engaged to Cynthia Wood. Satisfactory?”
“Not precisely helpful,” Ashwin commented, “but continue.”
“Next, Paul Lennox. Age: twenty-eight. Nationality: American, of vague antecedents. Political affiliation: none. Religion: none. Profession: instructor in history, University of California. Degrees: B.A., M.A. Character: sardonic, reserved, a little cryptic. Sports: hiking, chess.”
“For statements of succinct fact, Mr. Lamb,” Dr. Ashwin observed, “these brief biographies are no doubt admirable, but they scarcely aid in determining why either man should be killed. Have they money?”
“None so far as I know, beyond their respective salaries.”
“No marked enmities, I take it, or you would have mentioned them. Once more we seem forced back upon Miss Wood as a starting point. Tell me something about their relations with her.”
“As I said, Alex is with her a great deal and there seems to be some sort of an understanding. In public, she and Paul don’t get on at all well.”
“In public?”
Martin hesitated a moment, and then told the story of Saturday evening—as much, that is, as seemed pertinent and he could remember.
“From that, then,” Dr. Ashwin mused, when he had finished, “we may conclude with some certainty that Miss Wood is deceiving Bruce with Lennox, and that Lennox in turn is carrying on some slight affair with this professor’s wife—you were doubtless right, Mr. Lamb, to withhold the professor’s name.”
“That seems to sum it up,” Martin agreed.
“And there we have a plentiful supply of motives. Sexual jealousy dictates so many crimes—even the Twin Peaks Murder,” Ashwin admitted regretfully. “Either Bruce or your nameless professor might wish to kill Lennox out of jealousy, as might also Miss Wood herself.”
“But Mary Roberts was with Cynthia at the time of the killing,” Martin objected.
“True. If I remember correctly, Miss Wood herself summoned Miss Roberts to her home that evening for reasons which were never fully explained. Is that not true?”
“Yes.”
“There we have the first example of what might be termed the Incident of the Supererogatory Alibi. But I shall return to that later. The set of facts which you have just given me suggests also that Mr. Lennox may have had his reasons for killing Mr. Bruce.”
“Paul kill Alex? Why? If Paul is enjoying Cynthia’s favors and at the same time carrying on an affair with a married woman, why should he want to kill Cynthia’s public lover? Alex is too good and useful a blind for him to dispense with.”
“There, Mr. Lamb, I am tempted to toy with a theory unsupported by any known facts, and yet logically enough arrived at. I am, unfortunately, possessed of sufficient natural vanity to desire not to appear ridiculous, but not enough to make me feel omniscient and infallible as a detective. For that reason, I do not care as yet to state the theory, for fear that the facts may prove it absurd. But let me direct your attention to two facts concerning Miss Wood’s father: He is extremely rich, and he is a fanatically strict converted Catholic.”
Martin nodded with an appearance of intelligent comprehension, although the two facts conveyed no theory to his mind.
“I have evolved this theory,” Dr. Ashwin continued, “because to me it seems almost inevitable that
Mr. Lennox is the criminal and Mr. Bruce the intended victim. For one thing, you will remember telling me that Alex Bruce expected to be at Miss Wood’s on that Friday evening, but forgot the appointment because of his laboratory work. Anyone knowing of that engagement, as you said that Paul Lennox knew, would naturally expect him to be leaving the house somewhere around the hour of the crime.”
“But look,” Martin broke in. “If you’re casting Paul for the murderer, it simply won’t do. I can give him a perfect alibi.”
“That, Mr. Lamb, is why I suspect Mr. Lennox.”
“What do you mean?”
Dr. Ashwin, despite his occasional sarcastic references to Martin’s love of the theatre, fully appreciated the value of dramatic pause. Before he answered the question, he emptied his glass, refilled it, and lit a cigarette. Then he said, “An alibi, Mr. Lamb, is in ordinary existence an extremely rare event. We are generally quite unable to prove where we were at a particular hour. Let us take, for an example, the exact moment of Dr. Schaedel’s murder—eleven-thirty P. M., Friday, April sixth.
“I shall not use your shoddy device of personal reference, for it chances that I do have a relatively satisfactory alibi. At ten o’clock, I left Elizabeth’s home to go to my hotel; to have reached Berkeley from San Rafael in an hour and a half, unable as I am to drive either an automobile or an aeroplane, would have been little short of a miracle. But observe that even that is not an alibi to the minute. Now let us take the other persons involved:
“You, Mr. Lamb, were sitting alone in your room, drinking bourbon (I have never been able to understand your strange preference for that liquor) and finishing The Boat Train Murders. You are utterly unalibied. Kurt Ross was wandering alone in the hills. Alex Bruce was walking across campus from the chemistry laboratories to International House. Any one of you might have been at Panoramic Way (Mr. Ross, indeed, was there) for all that you can prove to the contrary.
“But one person is accounted for, to the very minute, and that person is Paul Lennox. When you first told me of that evening, I jotted down the times and have them here. Are you sure of your watch on that occasion?”
The Seven of Calvary Page 10