Episode of the Wandering Knife

by Rinehart, Mary Roberts;

  “Look,” he went on. “I was damned sure you people had that knife and would try to get rid of it. But that’s not why I was there last night. I had a fool idea that whoever hid your brother’s hat in that tree you were digging under might come back to get it and put it in a better place.”

  “Was that the tree?” I asked appalled.

  “It was. And I was right, too. He did come. Only that flash of mine scared him off. I heard him. I didn’t see him. He ran like hell.”

  I felt slightly dizzy, what with no food to speak of and the Scotch and trying to understand what was going on.

  “Why on earth did he want Larry’s hat?” I asked, feeling completely stupid.

  “Look,” he said, leaning forward. “Be reasonable, girl. Would your brother hide his hat in a tree? And don’t forget this. Somebody is pretty anxious to pin this murder on him. The knife, left where the police would ordinarily be sure to find it—why was that done? But nobody but Balaam’s ass would believe that Larry Shepard had any reason for hiding his own hat. What does it prove? Nothing.”

  “I see,” I said slowly. “If someone else wore it, pretending to be Larry …”

  He straightened and smiled.

  “A gleam at last!” he said. “Two minds that click as one.”

  He finished his drink while I watched him. He puzzled me. I had a feeling that under his flippancy he was pretty serious, that he was trying to talk what he thought was my language. And he didn’t look too well. Under what had once been a terrific sunburn, he lacked color.

  “I think I ought to tell you,” I said. “Mother’s secretary heard you fall last night And I’m sorry about the tooth.”

  He fingered the broken edge ruefully. Then he smiled.

  “Forget it,” he said. “There’s something else on my mind. Has it occurred to you that whoever left the knife where your mother found it knows darned well she has it? Or you?”

  “What does that mean?”

  “That somebody besides the police might want it found. In that case—well, you might try locking a few doors at night.” And seeing my face he went on: “It’s like this, Miss Shepard. People will go a long way to cover up after a murder. It’s the first killing that’s the hardest. Nobody likes to kill. But after the first time the bars are down. You can’t go to the chair—or hell—more than once. Just be careful. That’s all.”

  If it hurt him to talk that day, he certainly suffered plenty. He wanted to know all about Isabel, her character, her life. “Because that’s the real story, isn’t it? Why was she killed? Murder is an end, not a beginning. It’s what goes before that counts.”

  But my recital of poor Isabel’s short and simple annals disappointed him. She had gone to boarding school. She had made the usual debut in the Leland house, with her bouquets on a screen behind her and all over the big double parlors. She had gone to the usual dances, and had been neither more nor less popular than the other girls.

  “What about Scott?” he asked.

  “I think he was her one real love affair. Only he was nobody then. The Lelands wouldn’t have it.”

  “So she married Lawrence. Big wedding, of course. Red carpets, white orchids and a dozen bridesmaids. I’d like to have seen you that day, Judy Shepard. You must have been something.”

  “I wasn’t a bridesmaid. There weren’t any. It was very quiet. She didn’t even wear a veil.”

  He laughed.

  “I’ll bet Mother hated that,” he said, and got up.

  He insisted on taking me home. We rattled and banged along in his wreck of a car, but he didn’t talk much. He seemed to be thinking? I wasn’t very cheerful myself. All the talk about Isabel, as well as the inquest, had brought her back to me. Not the woman lying dead at the top of the stairs, but the living Isabel, sitting behind her tea table, coming up on Christmas Eve with her arms full of ribbon-tied bundles, tactfully giving Alma her beautiful clothes, and being lovely to Mother while she disapproved of so much she did.

  That was when I remembered Mac’s story about the man in the park, and told him. He whistled.

  “Sounds like blackmail,” he said. “Only as a rule blackmailers don’t kill the golden goose. Any idea who it was? Somebody out of her past?”

  “She didn’t have any past. I’ve just told you that.”

  “Everybody has a past.”

  He was still apparently thinking that over when we reached the house. I asked him to come in when we got there, but he refused. As I got out I saw him eyeing that hideous pile of ours with disapproval written all over him.

  “Gives me the pip just to look at it,” he said. Then to my intense surprise he reached into his pocket and brought out something, carefully folded.

  “With love, to Mother,” he said, and drove away.

  It was the monogrammed handkerchief I had left when he chased me.

  VIII

  When I went in it was clear that something had happened. Mother was standing at the foot of the stairs with stark desperation written all over her. She still wore her hat, and Alma beside her was making some sort of soothing noises. Sarah was on the balcony above, wiping her eyes, and Patrick and one of the footmen looked as if they were getting ready to duck behind chairs.

  Mother shoved Alma away as I went in, and if Alma hadn’t been a perfect lady she would probably have shoved back. She kept her temper, however.

  “Don’t maul me,” Mother shouted. “Someone was in my room and took it.”

  “You wore it yourself this morning,” Sarah wailed from the gallery. “I saw you. You had trouble getting your glove over it.

  “What in the world’s the trouble?” I asked. “What’s lost?”

  No one paid any attention to me. Alma seemed as puzzled as I was. She had evidently just come in. And then Mother turned a glittering eye on Patrick, who immediately began to shake.

  “What’s the matter with you?” she demanded. “I asked a perfectly simple question. Have you lost your voice? Who was in my part of the house this morning? And speak up so I can hear you.”

  I felt a cold shiver go down my spine. But there was something wrong with the picture. I couldn’t imagine Mother’s standing there with her hat crooked and shouting to all and sundry that someone had taken Larry’s knife from the tank in her bathroom. And what on earth did Sarah mean that Mother had worn it and had trouble getting her glove on over it?

  Patrick however had recovered his voice. He clicked his false teeth into place and stated that a number of people had been all over the house. The upholsterer who was doing over one of Mother’s boudoir chairs had delivered it and carried it up. There had been a man to read the meters, but he hadn’t been out of the cellars. And Sarah broke in to say that she had been in Mother’s bedroom all the time while the plumber had repaired the tank in her bathroom.

  Mother sat down suddenly.

  “What about my bathroom?” she said in a dreadful voice.

  “It wouldn’t work,” Sarah piped hysterically from the gallery. “I couldn’t let you come home and find it—”

  “Never mind about that,” Mother said hastily. “Why wouldn’t it work?”

  “The plumber said there was something disconnected. He was only there ten minutes. I never left the room. He hadn’t a chance to take it. Anyhow you wore it out. I saw you.”

  Like Patrick I had found my voice by that time.

  “Take what, Sarah?” I asked.

  “The madam’s star sapphire ring,” she wailed. “He never took it. I’ll swear to that.”

  “Did you know the plumber, Sarah?”

  “No, Miss Judy. It was a new man. All the plumbers have gone to the war, although why an army needs plumbers when all they have is—”

  She stopped there and burst into fresh tears. As for me, I could feel my legs wobbling. So Tony King had been right. Only it hadn’t been a window washer. It had been a plumber. But the police hadn’t sent him. We had sent for him ourselves. It didn’t make sense, unless they had our telephone wires tappe
d.

  “Who sent for him?” Mother asked.

  “I did,” said Alma stiffly. “I was on my way out when Sarah told me. It’s Saturday, and it was hard to get anyone.”

  Mother got up. She looked utterly defeated. I remember Alma’s asking what flowers we wanted sent to the Lelands, and Mother not even hearing her. She went into the library and closed the door. All the life had gone out of her.

  “It’s gone, Judy,” she said bleakly. “The knife. That plumber took it.”

  “What about your ring?”

  “I had to find out who had been upstairs. Judy, if the police have it what on earth are we to do?”

  All at once she was crying. She cried like a baby, with her poor face crinkled and her mascara running down her cheeks. I put my arms around her.

  “We don’t know that yet,” I said. “Perhaps he just found it and gave it to one of the servants. After all, he might not know.”

  “With every newspaper in town howling about it!” she said. But the idea cheered her. She got up. She still looked pretty well shot to pieces, but her mind was working again.

  “Go on upstairs and pretend to find my ring,” she said. “I don’t want Sarah to cut her throat. It’s inside the radiator by my chaise longue. I’ll try to think of something.”

  I went up. Sarah was on her knees turning back the edges of the carpet. I saved her throat by finding the ring, and later on we made a pretense of eating lunch. Alma was fairly cheerful, but Mother and I both knew we were about at the end of things. There was nothing to do about it, either. If the police had the knife, Larry was for it. And if either the plumber or one of the servants had it, we didn’t dare to inquire.

  None of us ate much lunch. Mother pushed away her plate warily.

  “I suppose cooks have to get a percentage,” she said. “But someday I am going to order tea and toast, and get tea and toast.”

  There was no word from Larry. We learned later that they had grilled him most of the afternoon. Had he any reason to believe that Isabel had—well, been friendly with anyone else? Had he known she was meeting a man in the park? Had he known her long before they were married? Had he himself any idea why she had been killed?

  Perhaps the thing that annoyed him most was the question of Isabel’s will. Who inherited the money she had received from Eliza Leland’s trust? It would normally have gone to her children, wouldn’t it? Larry said coldly that money did not enter into it. He had adequate means of his own. He knew nothing about the trust fund, and as to a will, she had never mentioned one.

  What really shocked him, however, was what followed all this. The Inspector leaned back in his chair and stared hard at him.

  “Now about this weapon. It was almost certainly your own knife,” he said. “Have you any reason to believe that some member of your family found it on the scene of the crime, and has since concealed it?”

  “For God’s sake, no,” said poor Larry. “Why on earth would any one do such a thing?”

  “There is such a thing as mother love, Mr. Shepard. If she thought she was protecting you—”

  “Bosh!” said Larry roughly. “There was no weapon there when my mother and sister arrived. I’ll swear to that. You heard my mother this morning at the inquest.”

  “I did,” said the Inspector drily. “I’ll read it to you.” He picked up a paper from his desk and put on his glasses. “She said: ‘No, there was no weapon by the body’ Then asked if she saw no weapon at all, she replied: ‘There are what you call weapons all over the house. How would I know which one killed her? If any one of them did.’ Is that your idea of a straightforward answer, Mr. Shepard?”

  “Perhaps not,” said Larry. “It’s my mother’s idea of my reply to any straightforward question, however.”

  He even smiled a little, and the subject was dropped for the time. They had, the Inspector said, gone over the entire list of the guests at the dinner. Comparatively few of them even knew Isabel, and none of them had left the house. They were now checking on the extra waiters and the orchestra. Then, without pausing for breath, he shot a question at Larry.

  “And now, Mr. Shepard, why did you give the officer, Barnes, fifty dollars that night?”

  Larry must have looked stunned.

  “Fifty dollars!” he said. “For what?”

  “That’s what I want to know.”

  “I never gave him anything. I never saw him except in the dark on the drive until you brought him back yesterday morning.”

  The Inspector picked up another paper.

  “I’ll read you this,” he said. “It is his wife’s statement, made here an hour or two ago.

  “Jim came home Thursday night after he had put up his horse at the police stable. It was about midnight. He didn’t act like himself. He said he had a headache and took some aspirin. Then he said he had a surprise for me. He reached in his pocket and took out fifty dollars, two twenties and a ten. He said: ‘Go and buy yourself something pretty. That’s the way the rich do things.’ I couldn’t believe it. Now and then he gets five or ten dollars for work like that when he’s assigned to it, but never fifty.

  “I was a little worried. I asked him if it was clean money. He looked funny but he said it was.

  “He went to bed, but he didn’t go to sleep. We were still both awake when the bell rang. He leaned out the window and someone said there was trouble at the Shepard place, and to come along. He acted queer about that, too. He told me not to mention the money. Then he dressed in a hurry and went out. There was a car waiting for him.

  “He came back an hour or two later. He looked terribly worried. He said young Mrs. Shepard had been killed. Someone had stabbed her. But he did not know anything about it. Only he did not go back to bed. He stayed downstairs walking the floor. I did not understand it. Then before daylight I heard another car stop, and Jim went outside.

  “I heard him go out to the car and it drove off. That is all I know. Only he has not been back since, and I am almost crazy.”

  Larry had listened, I gather, with his jaw dropped.

  “What have you to say to that, Mr. Shepard?”

  “What am I to say? You don’t think I would do away with my only alibi, do you?”

  “If Barnes was an alibi,” said the Inspector drily. “Where were you that night, after we left your house?”

  “At my mother’s. In bed.”

  “Can you prove that?”

  “Two of the men put me there. I wasn’t in very good shape. What do you think I did?”

  “I’m asking the questions. I want to know if later on toward morning you took a car out of your garage, or out of your mother’s?”

  “Certainly not. If you mean, was I the person who picked up Barnes? Certainly not.”

  “Your garage is on a grade. It would be possible, wouldn’t it, to get a car out without using the engine?”

  But Larry had had all he could take. He blew up at that. After all he is not Mother’s son for nothing. He told them quite a few things, mostly unpleasant, in what amounts to hysterics in a man. And he had just jammed on his hat and was leaving, willy-nilly, when the telephone rang. The Inspector shouted at him to wait. Then he picked up the receiver and listened. When he put it down he eyed him.

  “They have found Barnes, Mr. Shepard,” he said somberly. “He has been shot and killed.”

  IX

  We knew nothing of all this that afternoon. Mother was shut in her room, waiting helplessly to be arrested, at the very least. But if the police had the knife they were not telling, and if the plumber still had it he had apparently not done anything about it.

  Alma had gone back to the Lelands’. She said flowers were pouring in, and that Emily was completely helpless, poor creature. She borrowed my car again. She made plenty to keep one of her own, but as I may have said she never spent money if she could help it.

  I had a bright idea after lunch, and called the plumbers who usually did our work. But of course it was Saturday afternoon. Nobody answered th
e telephone. Nobody rang us, either. It was a bright October day, and I knew the golf course at the country club would be crowded—at least by the people who had gas enough to get there. I wondered if Don Scott was there. After all he couldn’t be really grieving for Isabel after all this time. Or could he? Wasn’t there something about men never forgetting the women they had loved and couldn’t get?

  The hours sagged along, like slow motion. Alma came back from the Lelands at four o’clock with a headache and went to bed. There was no word from Larry, or from Tony King, and I didn’t return Mother’s handkerchief. It would have involved telling her all the King man knew, and she was scared enough already.

  Isabel’s funeral was to be the next morning at ten o’clock. We would have to go, of course. I looked up some black clothes and had Sarah take some flowers off a black hat. But by four I was having an acute attack of jitters. I went down to the library and tried to read. All I could think of was Larry’s knife, wandering around somewhere, and Tony King’s having the picture of me trying to bury it. He was holding out on it for a while, but when or if the knife was produced …

  It was five o’clock when the totally unexpected thing happened. I was at a window when a taxi drove up and a woman got out. She was a small neat creature in a brown coat and a rather dreadful purple hat. There was something familiar about her, but I couldn’t decide what. She had a small white parcel in her hand. She kept the taxi, and I heard her ask either for Mother or me. We were not receiving casual callers, of course, and anyhow she was the sort Patrick would definitely regard as a person and turn away.

  He did just that. Perhaps she had not expected anything else. When she went down the steps, I had again the feeling that I had seen her somewhere. I went into the hall. Patrick was holding the parcel and inspecting it with interest.

  “A person just called, Miss Judy,” he said. “She said to give this to you or your mother.”

  I don’t know why I didn’t open it there, in front of him. I usually do. He loves parcels. I grinned at him and put it to my ear.