by Q. Patrick
She did and returned, announcing that George Gruber would be waiting for them at Bainesville. Timothy had recognized the name at once as that of the friend in the newspaper clippings who had so emphatically stood by the sisters after the motor accident.
While the plane sped toward Bainesville, Pennsylvania, Madeleine Price sat in grim, impregnable silence. It was not until he had ordered sandwiches and coffee that Timothy attempted to talk to her. Then he said casually:
“You’re very fond of your sister and her daughter, aren’t you, Miss Price?”
“Of course.”
“It’s too bad Louise has the expense of an operation to face. Ten thousand dollars would make a lot of difference, wouldn’t it?”
Madeleine gazed at him over her ham sandwich. “Ten thousand dollars? What on earth are you talking about?”
“During your brief connection with Mrs. Van Heuten, Miss Price, did she ever mention a will to you?”
“A will? Why—good heavens no.”
Timothy was watching her with dangerous closeness. “You’re sure?”
“Of course. Why—why do you want to know?”
“Because Mrs. Van Heuten left your sister and niece five thousand dollars apiece in her will. You see, she wasn’t as mean as you imagined.”
“She left Louise ten thousand dollars?” Madeleine’s eyes sparkled with a pleasure she made no attempt to conceal; then they clouded. “So that’s why you asked if I knew about the will. You’re suspecting me of murdering her so that Louise could get that money.”
Timothy grinned. “That was my idea,” he said.
They lapsed into silence.
George Gruber, apparently, was as dependable now as he had been five years previously. He was waiting for them when they descended at the Bainesville airport; a short, cheerful man of about thirty-five with tousled hair and mechanic’s nails.
He greeted Madeleine exuberantly, congratulated her on her appearance, crushed Timothy’s fingers in a Rotarian clasp and led them to a sedan of uncertain age. His taxis, he explained facetiously, were brand new democrats and all on the job. His private car was a republican of the old school.
At first Timothy was suspicious of the vintage of the vehicle, convinced that Madeleine had deliberately chartered George Gruber in an effort either to keep him from her sister or to limit his time with her. But the car belied the age of its arteries, to the naїve delight of its owner, who kept up a running commentary on its excellence, sandwiched between news of Elaine’s health, local politics and the development of his business consequent upon the Bainesville airport.
Feeling enthusiasm required of him, Timothy ventured bromidically:
“I always say a car’s as good as its engine.”
“You’ve said it,” beamed the delighted George. “Why, I drove this old gal all the way to New York yesterday. And Louise said she ran as sweet as—”
Madeleine drew in her breath sharply. “You—you know Louise’s job’s gone now?” She cut in with exaggerated casualness.
“Louise’s job gone?” George broke into a gale of laughter. “Gee, that’s rich, Maddy.”
“You mean you don’t know—about Mrs. Van Heuten?”
But George was obviously not listening. He took a hand from the wheel and patted Madeleine’s knee affectionately.
“Here’s a piece of news for you, Maddy.” His whole face seemed to be twinkling. “Louise took on a new job yesterday. Full time job, too. She’s going to be Mrs. George Gruber.”
Madeleine stared at him blankly. For a second her eyes were completely off their guard. Timothy could read in them an almost desperate fear that this meant the end of her relationship with her beloved sister and niece.
“You mean …?” She forced a smile. “Why, George, I’m so terribly glad.”
“That’s the ticket, Maddy.” George threw a sidelong glance at Timothy. “Maybe you’ll be having some news for us soon, too.”
The car had rattled through the narrow, sleepy center of Terrabinny now and was drawing up before a small house adjoining a meadow. It was a pleasant house, smothered in late flowering roses and set in a garden bright with dahlias and chrysanthemums.
Chrysanthemums! thought Timothy. It was a far cry from this rural retreat to the modernistic offices of the Literary Advice Bureau with their sunlit chrysanthemums and their shadow of death.
Madeleine was hurrying out of the car.
“You—you’d better wait for us here, George. We’re taking the next plane back. We can’t stay long.”
She almost ran up the aster-bordered garden path with Timothy close behind. At the door, she turned and faced him squarely:
“You’ve got to let me see Louise alone first,” she said vehemently. “You can’t just break in on her. It’s cruel, it’s …”
“I’m sorry, Miss Price.” Timothy smiled apologetically. “With anyone else, perhaps. But not with you. I don’t trust you an inch.” He moved closer. “And there’s another little thing.” Gently but firmly he took her pocketbook from her and pushed it under his arm. “You won’t be needing this, will you?”
Madeleine’s cheeks were very pale. “Give that back to me,” she said fiercely. “Give me my pocketbook.”
“In just a little while.”
“Why, you—!” Her fingers flew out to grab it, but very solemnly Timothy put it behind his back.
At that moment the door opened. A pretty, rather tired looking blonde stood on the threshold. Timothy recognized Louise at once from the photograph in Madeleine’s apartment.
“Maddy!” she exclaimed. “What on earth are you doing here! Aunt’s out but …” She glanced curiously at Timothy.“—come in.”
Madeleine embraced her with awkward, almost rough affection.
“Louise, darling. How are you? And—and the baby?”
“She’s better, Maddy. There’s been good news. The specialist …” She broke off, glancing once again at Timothy. “But—but who’s this?”
“Mr. Trant,” snapped Madeleine. “From New York.”
“And Mr. Trant from New York would like to ask Mrs. Campbell a few rather dull questions,” said Timothy pleasantly. He turned significantly to Madeleine. “I expect you’ll be wanting to see your niece, Miss Price.”
Madeleine stared at him, her eyes bright and angry. She opened her mouth to speak. Then, squeezing her sister’s arm, she hurried blindly through an open door into an adjoining room. Timothy caught a brief glimpse of her face, suddenly softened and tender as she bent over a little girl, lying on a couch.
Louise had led him into a small, sunlit living-room.
“But—what do you want, Mr. Trant?”
Timothy sat down, balancing Madeleine’s pocketbook on his knee.
“I’m from the New York Homicide Bureau, Mrs. Campbell. I’m investigating the murder of Mrs. Van Heuten.”
Louise gave a little gasp. She glanced instinctively toward the door as though she were used to relying on Madeleine in all emergencies, as though she were hoping for her to appear now to protect her.
“Don’t be alarmed, Mrs. Campbell. There are just a few business details I was hoping you could check for me. You were Mrs. Van Heuten’s secretary for long?”
“Why, yes. Ever since she started the Advice Bureau.”
“Then you know all there is to know about it?”
“Mrs. Van Heuten always took me into her confidence.”
Timothy looked up quickly. “Was the Bureau a racket?”
“I don’t know what you mean.” Louise Campbell moistened her lips. “If you mean, was Mrs. Van Heuten dishonest—no. She was a very good employer and … well, all her clients were always more than satisfied.”
“Then it was a big surprise to you to hear she was murdered?”
“It—it was a terrible shock.” Louise Campbell lifted a hand to her eyes. “A terrible shock.”
“You can’t think of anyone who could have wanted to murder her? No one, for example, who might benefit i
n her will?”
Timothy watched that pale, pretty face closely, but he could detect no change of expression.
“A will? Mrs. Van Heuten never mentioned her will to me. That is—” she gave a nervous little laugh—“once she said something about remembering me in it. But—that was just a joke, probably.”
Mrs. Van Heuten’s secretary seemed calmer now. She answered his routine questions about the business in a steady impersonal voice. She had no light to throw either on Mrs. Van Heuten’s private life or her income. Timothy shifted his ground.
“You know a Mr. Tolfrey, Mrs. Campbell?”
“Dane Tolfrey?” Louise’s voice faltered. “Why, yes.”
“Was he connected in any way with the Advice Bureau?”
“You mean connected officially? No. He was just a personal friend of Mrs. Van Heuten’s.”
“Do you know if she ever gave him money?”
“I think she did.” Mrs. Campbell still seemed rather uneasy. “Quite often, in fact. Although she didn’t approve of his habits, I think she was rather sorry for him. And then, he knows so many people. He used to bring us a lot of new clients.”
Timothy produced Madeleine’s list of the people who had visited Mrs. Van Heuten on the day of the murder. Louise looked through it carefully. Yes, she knew Mr. Bristol. He had been a regular client for several years. Miss Kennet had written a testimonial for the Bureau but she had not been a client. Neither, she thought, had the Princess Walonska, Susan Hobart or Gilda Dawn, although she knew them as personal friends of Mrs. Van Heuten’s. She had not heard of Derek Muir.
“And how about John Smith? His real name happens to be Hobart.”
“You mean Mrs. Hobart’s husband?” Louise’s brow rippled. “I thought he was more Mr. Tolfrey’s friend than Mrs. Van Heuten’s.”
“Then as far as you know he wasn’t a client of the Advice Bureau?”
“No. I don’t think so.”
“Now, Mrs. Campbell,” said Timothy briskly. “I want to know about that back door behind the screen. Did many people know you could get in and out of the office that way?”
Louise said exactly what Madeleine had said; that Mrs. Van Heuten always kept the door behind the screen unlocked so that she could slip out of the office if any particularly tiresome client insisted on seeing her. She had been very positive about keeping it as a secret.
“I’ m sure only Mr. Tolfrey knew about it and that was just because he was an old friend and had helped settle Mrs. Van Heuten into the office when she started the Bureau.”
Timothy sat a moment in silence, looking thoughtfully at the girl’s small, delicate hands folded in her lap.
“You have very tiny hands, Mrs. Campbell,” he said softly. “Almost like a child’s.”
Slowly he opened Madeleine’s pocketbook and took from it the small gray glove which he had first noticed when the girl dropped it at Hobart’s house.
“I should think this would about fit you, Mrs. Campbell. Does it happen to be yours?”
Louise half rose and then sank back in her chair. The color had drained from her lips.
“Why, I …”
“Don’t answer him, Louise!”
The door had swung open and Madeleine was moving swiftly across the room. She stood directly in front of her sister, staring at Timothy with cold intensity.
“You’ve got no right to insinuate …”
“I wasn’t insinuating, Miss Price,” said Timothy mildly. “I was merely returning your sister’s property—the glove which you brought with you today because you guessed we were coming to Terrabinny—the glove which your admirable economy wouldn’t allow you to destroy.”
“What if it is my sister’s glove? Why should I want to destroy it?”
“Probably because you found it in the offices of the Advice Bureau—” Timothy glanced at the drawn, frightened Louise—“where your sister dropped it on the afternoon of the murder.”
Louise stared back at him blankly. “It’s—it’s George,” she whispered. “He told you I went.”
“Louise, what are you saying?” Madeleine turned and gripped her sister’s arm. “You’re mad.”
“You mustn’t blame George, Mrs. Campbell,” broke in Timothy. “He did let it slip out that he’d driven you to New York yesterday. But I’d had a shrewd suspicion some time before then. Your sister’s a very accomplished girl, but she rather overplays her hand when she tries to protect you.” He smiled at Madeleine. “I should have realized, Miss Price, that you went round to visit Tolfrey yesterday night because you knew your sister had been at the Advice Bureau and you were terrified he might have seen her when he went in through the back way.”
Beneath the faint touch of rouge, Madeleine’s cheeks were white. “You—you can’t prove anything.”
“And I’m not going to ask you to admit it,” put in Timothy, the smile still lingering in his eyes. “I think we already have proof enough that your sister was in the office about the time of the murder.”
From his pocket, he produced the photograph of the fingerprints which had been on the knife.
“If you like, I will take your sister’s prints and check them against the prints on the knife. But I think she’ll admit she was on the scene of the crime.”
“That’s absurd,” flared Madeleine.
“What’s the use, Maddy?” Louise’s voice broke in, soft and very small. “I’ll admit I was there, Mr. Trant. I ought to have told the police straight away. But I was afraid—afraid they’d keep me in New York when Elaine was so sick and needed me.”
She passed a hand wearily across her pale blonde hair. “When I remembered how I dropped my glove, I knew the police would come. I—I didn’t realize Maddy would find it. She shouldn’t have kept it back. But Mr. Trant, how did you know without—without the glove?”
“Once again I have your sister to thank.” Timothy smiled at Madeleine. “She told me that no one who figured in the case knew about the back entrance except you and Mr. Tolfrey. The prints did not belong to Mr. Tolfrey. There was only one conclusion. That you were the tenth visitor.”
Madeleine sat down slowly, very erect and alert, ready to spring to the defense of her sister.
“Perhaps it would be best if you told me about it in your own way, Mrs. Campbell,” continued Timothy softly. “But first of all I’d like to know what time you reached the office.”
“I don’t knew exactly. Ever since I read about it in the papers, I’ve been sitting here, thinking, thinking. I’m—I’m almost sure it was about half past four.”
“Just about the time of the murder.”
“You think I don’t know that?” Louise’s eyes blazed with a sudden indignation which was strangely reminiscent of her sister. “You think I don’t know what it means—what you’re suspecting? But it isn’t true. I didn’t murder Mrs. Van Heuten. I didn’t.”
Her hands fluttered out in a small, helpless gesture. “You’ve got to understand why I went to see her, Mr. Trant. It was the only way.”
“Yes?”
“It was my baby, Elaine. Perhaps Maddy told you how sick she’s been. Tuberculosis of the spine, they thought. That’s why I had to leave my job and bring her out here to the country. Well, I took her to the best specialist in Bainesville on Monday. He said it wasn’t tuberculosis, but she’d have to have a straightening operation right away and then spend six months in a sanitarium.”
Louise Campbell twisted a small white handkerchief. “I’ve saved a little, Mr. Trant. But the operation and the sanitarium expenses will be well over a thousand dollars. I—I just don’t have the money and I was desperate to raise it. So I decided to go to New York and plead with Mrs. Van Heuten to lend it to me.”
“Go on,” said Timothy slowly.
“I—I got George to drive me over to New York.” Louise’s voice was breathless. “I didn’t tell him why I wanted to see Mrs. Van Heuten. Said it was just business reasons. I went up to the Advice Bureau alone.”
“Exactly
why did you use the back entrance, Mrs. Campbell?”
Louise flushed and shot a swift glance at Madeleine. “I—I didn’t want Maddy to know I’d gone there. I was afraid that, if she heard about the operation, she’d—she’d starve herself to help pay for it. She’s always been so generous with her money. As it is, she doesn’t have any fun … goes without decent clothes.”
Timothy glanced at Madeleine’s shabby black costume. He thought of his remarks about the soup-plate hat and felt a little ashamed of himself.
“When you went in through the back door, Mrs. Campbell,” he said quietly, “you found Mrs. Van Heuten there?”
Louise did not answer for a second. Then she leaned impulsively forward.
“You’ve got to believe me, Mr. Trant. When I got there, Mrs. Van Heuten was—was dead.”
Instinctively Madeleine moved toward her. They made a striking tableau, those two sisters in that quiet, country room; Louise leaning back in her chair, a hand covering her eyes; Madeleine at her side, pale but protective, gripping her sister’s arm.
“Yes,” whispered Louise. “It was ghastly. I came in—in from behind the screen. I suppose I was pulling off my gloves, and there she was, leaning forward over the desk—the knife gleaming and the blood—I don’t really remember what I did. I must have gone to try to help her. Perhaps I did touch the knife; try to pull it out. I don’t know. I could only think how I had to get away, how no one must ever know I’d been there. Somehow, I got out on the fire-tower and started to run down.…”
The room was very quiet when she stopped speaking.
“I—I was there on the stairs when I heard someone—someone coming up toward me.” Louise let the hand drop from her eyes and stared at Timothy straight in the face. “Somehow that was the worst of all. I was trapped there with someone coming up and that—that awful thing behind me in Mrs. Van Heuten’s office. I just stood there. I couldn’t move. And then I saw a man coming around a corner.”
“A man?”
“Yes. It—it was quite dark there. I—I couldn’t tell at first who it was. Then, well, I saw the unsteady way he was walking, knew he was drunk. I realized it was Mr. Tolfrey.”