“Even though he was leaving you in the lurch in your financial difficulties?”
“What difficulties?”
“You were moaning something in that beer joint about living up to acquired tastes.”
“Was I? Oh, I could use more money. Hell, who couldn’t? But it’s nothing serious. No, Lucas was damned decent to me by and large.”
“Queer man,” Fergus mused. “He struck me as a silent and unscrupulous old bandit, but somehow with an integrity of his own.”
“I think you’re right. It’s hard to judge your own family, and doubly hard to judge a man like Uncle Lucas who never let anybody get close to him, but—”
“Nobody?”
“Well, Herndon, oddly enough. I never did understand that relationship, but he could probably tell you as much about Lucas as anybody.”
“Excepting Alys.”
Tom’s face was sour. “Yes. Excepting Alys.”
“She won’t be an heiress now. And you will be an heir.”
“At the moment, Fergus, I’m damned if I find even that bright thought very cheering.”
“You will in time. Inheritances have their points. And my only uncle is a priest at the Maryknoll Mission in China … Hell, I picked the wrong family.”
“Money …” Tom began.
“… isn’t everything and you can’t take it with you. Sure. I know. But let’s get ahead with the questions and let me earn a little of that vile and contemptible stuff. Maybe. You didn’t see a thing?”
“I told you no.”
“How did it happen?”
“I thought I heard a noise in the bathroom. It bothered me, because I thought everybody was in his room but you and Alys. I got up and was facing that way when crack …! The next thing I knew I was coming halfway to in Dr. Arnold’s room. I saw Ramirez stretched out on the bed, and I decided that was my corpse. I was outside it now, and I could watch myself all stretched out. That almost felt good. It was like a release, a new birth of freedom. Then you and Janet came in and—”
“O. K.,” said Fergus. “That’s that. Result, nil. Maybe Herndon’ll have a glimmering. And there’s still some hope from Corcoran or Ramirez, if the doctor’ll ever let me talk to them, but not too much. I doubt if even Quincy knew who got him.”
“I hope not.”
“And why not?”
“If it was one of his old friends, and it must have been, he’d be happier not knowing.”
Fergus looked at him curiously. “For a rational psychologist, Dr. Quincy, you can be the goddamnedest sentimentalist. More Home Remedy?”
“Not right now.”
“O. K. You can go out and send our cocky host in. Maybe if I take him first it’ll help appease his strutting vanity.”
“Sound idea. You, sir, have the makings of a psychologist yourself.”
“Strictly of the applied variety. I couldn’t tell an Electra from an electron. But get along with you. We’ve got a long hard night ahead of us still.”
“I’m getting.” Tom started to pick up the bone-handled revolver.
Fergus laid a protecting hand on the weapon and shook his head. “Uh uh. You’ll be in a group out there. Safety aplenty. But at least at one point in the next few hours, I’m going to be alone in this aborted library with a throat-slitter. Somehow I think I’ll keep this.”
Chapter 9
Horace Brainard had dressed himself hastily. His tie was askew, and his carelessly slung-on coat looked a size too large for his drooping shoulders. “Well, O’Breen?” he snapped. He had recovered most of his cockiness; he was no longer the craven suppliant he had been in the upstairs hall. The tone was a reasonable facsimile of his usual brusque commands; but his eyes shifted nervously from the bone-handled revolver to the whisky bottle.
“Sit down there, if you please, Mr. Brainard,” Fergus began politely. “I’m sure that with your shrewdness you already understand the double purpose of this inquisition. It’ll serve to get the facts straight while they’re still clear in our minds, and God knows that’s a lot; but more than that, it’ll keep us all occupied for the rest of the night. No time to brood and worry. As a businessman, you’ll see the wisdom of that.”
Brainard began to expand under this buttering. “Of course. Of course, O’Breen.”
“That’s why I had you in first. Set an example for the others.”
“Naturally. Glad to.” Horace Brainard twisted his mustache and tried to look like an example; but his eyes did not leave the whisky bottle.
“Care for a drink?” Fergus suggested. “Go right ahead. After all, it’s your liquor.”
“Thank you. Not that I’m a drinking man, you understand. Never had time for that sort of thing. But under the circumstances …”
Repressing a grin, Fergus watched his host drink and splutter. He was obviously unused to taking it straight from the neck of a bottle. “And by the way, Mr. Brainard, what is your business? That’s never been very clear to me.”
“Retired at present, young man.” Mr. Brainard hesitated, overtaken by a belated shudder. “Of course still busy with my income properties and the market.”
“And before that?”
“Various lines. Never believed a man should tie himself down. It’s business itself that’s the career, O’Breen, not the line of business you happen to be engaged in. A good drygoods manufacturer could run an aircraft factory, I’ve always said.”
“Producers aren’t so open about it,” said Fergus, “but you’ve just pronounced one of the guiding principles of Hollywood.”
“Wish it was a principle of Washington. A good businessman could show them a thing or two about running this country.”
“You were in drygoods, sir?”
“For a while. And in drugs. In dye-tools. Even turned my hand to investment broking.”
“Banking too?”
“Briefly.”
Fergus nodded to himself, and made the mental note that each of these fields was one in which Lucas Quincy had at one time played a major role. “Now, Mr. Brainard, I’m sure you won’t object to the formality of a few questions. Make matters much simpler for the police if we get all this down now.”
Horace Brainard blenched at the word police, but said nothing.
“First of all, tonight. When did you go to bed?”
“As soon as you went out to tend the bonfire.”
“And then?”
“What should I do then? I went to sleep. No patience with these fools who sit up reading half the night. A man has to conserve his energy.”
“How true. And nothing woke you?”
“My wife coming back from the bathroom, and some fantastic business of young Quincy’s about singing rounds to prove she was herself. Pretended to think I was afraid she might be the murderer. Nonsense!”
“Of course. And after that you slept until … ?”
“Until I heard my wife’s scream.”
“You didn’t hear anything before then?”
“No.”
“You didn’t—forgive the leading question—you didn’t hear me rattle the doorknob and your wife call out, ‘Who’s there?’?”
“I sleep very soundly.”
“Under the circumstances, I envy you. Now as to this afternoon: Where were you for, say, an hour before we arrived?”
“Dressing.”
“Take you that long to dress?”
“Damn it, O’Breen, am I being grilled?”
“Sorry. It simply seemed a long time.”
“Never guess it from your present costume, but you conceivably may know the difficulties of getting into evening clothes with a helpless wife cluttering up the room.”
“Not the wife part, no; but I live with a sister in a small bungalow. I can get the picture. And you and Mrs. Brainard were together all that time until you came downstairs and met me?”
“Yes.”
Fergus made marks on his paper. “When’d you come to the island, Mr. Brainard?” he asked without looking up.<
br />
“About nine years ago. Some poor devil had put it up as security. Had to foreclose. Never would have advanced so much if I’d known the damned nuisance it was. But since I own it …”
“Yes. But I mean when did you come out this time?”
“Wednesday. Late afternoon.”
“With your wife?”
“And Corcoran. Servants in town won’t come to this God-forsaken spot. Can’t say I blame them now. Got him at an agency. And I’ll tell them what I think of them.”
“For sending you a potential murderee? How did you come?”
“Drove to Santa Eulalia, left the car there. That damned fool Mex brought us over.”
“And why so early?”
“Catherine. She wanted to spend Thursday getting everything shipshape for the party.”
“Hm … Then you weren’t at Miss Paris’ dinner on Wednesday?”
“God damn it, O’Breen, do you suspect me of having an astral body?”
Fergus’ green eyes grew hard. “Mr. Brainard, you’re accustomed to using that snarling tone with your servants. It isn’t a nice habit, but still it is your habit. Just let me remind you, however, that I’m not yet on the salary list.”
Horace Brainard looked down, almost shamefaced. But his downward gaze hit the collection of knives, and he lifted it quickly. “Mr. O’Breen,” he protested, “I didn’t mean to—”
“O. K. Just remember I’m a human being too. You might even try holding that thought on Ramirez and Corcoran. Or is that asking too much?”
Brainard rose jerkily to his feet. He glanced at the whisky bottle, but rejected the idea. “Mr. O’Breen,” he burst out, “I haven’t room for more than one thought: Get us off of here!”
“I’m trying.”
“You were trying before Lucas was killed. And how do I know who’ll be the next? How can I trust anybody, even my own family? How can I walk through a door without wondering what I’ll meet on the other side? You’ve got to find this man and get us off of here. I’ll do anything for you. I’ll …” He paused and took a deep breath. “I’ll give you a blank check.”
“Signed?” Fergus asked cynically.
“Signed.”
“Greater love,” Fergus murmured, “hath no man than this, that he should lay down his checkbook for his life.”
“Then you will? You’ll get us off of here and you’ll find this man who … ?”
“As to finding the man, I’ll do my goddamnedest. And I guarantee that we’ll get off of here tomorrow.”
The plane descended toward the landingfield of the Las Vegas airport. Detective Lieutenant A. Jackson checked his service automatic (he knew this Campetti bastard) and felt in his pocket for the warrant. His fingers met another piece of paper there.
And what could … ? But of course. That note the desk sergeant had handed him as he left. He might as well see …
A gentle bump shook him. The plane had landed. His fingers thrust the note back. Nothing could be so urgent as finding Campetti before he could locate a minister and invalidate that girl’s testimony.
Horace Brainard giggled nervously. “Good man,” he said. “Knew you wouldn’t let us down.” The giggle grew louder, more insistent. Fergus sat still and coolly watched the man’s half-relieved fear spend itself in hysteria. He glanced down at the slowly growing chart of scribblings and then up again.
“Mr. Brainard,” he said sharply.
“Yes?” Brainard gasped in the midst of a giggle.
“Better take another shot before you go back to the family. You’re a little nervous.”
“Yes. Yes, afraid I am a little. Shock, you understand.” He drank, and the giggles gave way to choking guggles. “Lucas was very near to me. Very dear.”
“Of course. Ask Tom to send in Miss Trent, will you?”
“Alys? Certainly. Certainly.”
“Oh, and Mr. Brainard?”
“Yes?”
“Where did you spend your honeymoon?”
“My honeymoon?” Brainard’s earlier pallor began to return, and his hand clinked the bottle against the table as he set it down. “Why, at the Hotel de I … Yes. Yes, of course. The Hotel del Monte. That’s it.”
“Up north on the peninsula, you mean? Near Monterey?”
“Yes.”
“Start the honeymoon there? Wedding night, I mean?”
“Yes. So of course you can see that Catherine and I can’t have had anything to—”
“Quite,” said Fergus, and then was Irishly annoyed with himself for using a Britishism. “But have you any idea who could have?”
“None whatsoever. Everybody liked Martha.”
“And no changes in that period before the wedding? Nothing in particular that happened then that might have caused anybody to—to stop liking Martha?”
“Not a thing. Is that all now?”
“That’s all. Thank you, Mr. Brainard.”
‘Not a thing,’ Fergus repeated to himself. But Horace Brainard’s smug self-sufficiency could have blinded him to events strong enough to motivate a dozen murders. This was a point for further checking. … He cached the bottle and the knives under the table and kept his hand on the revolver. This next was not an interview that he was looking forward to.
ii
Alys Trent came in quietly, shut the door softly behind her, and stood leaning against the jamb. She had clothes on now, a dark green sports skirt and sweater ensemble. Her hair went every which way and her blue eyes were bleary. She looked like the Spirit of the Hangover.
“You bastard,” she said.
“That’s starting the scene off with a bang, that is.”
“You bastard,” she repeated.
“Come, my sweeting. A little more imagination. Can’t you think of anything more colorful?”
“I can think of plenty,” she said flatly. “You bastard.”
Fergus shrugged. “Interesting use of the formal refrain. When I’ve got the time, I’ll work out a ballade on it. Hell of a word to rhyme, though. But look, belovèd. This is no time to waste on our personal grievances. Things have been happening. Or hadn’t you heard?”
She came closer to the table. “I’ve heard all right. They got Lukey. You were supposed to be guarding him. And while you were trying to make me, they got him.”
“While I was … ? O. K., that’s one way of putting it. But they got him, as you say; that’s the chief point. And that’s why I’m going through this routine. I want to know who got him, and I’m damned well going to see to it that Lucas is the last. Now how’s about sitting down like a nice child and answering a few questions?”
“You bastard,” said Alys Trent.
“You remember me? I’m the man that’s a detective and mustn’t that be just too exciting! Well, detectives ask. questions; and here goes.”
“You socked me,” said Alys sullenly.
Fergus let the observation pass. “First the routine stuff. Where were you this afternoon? Before we saw the spots on the sand?”
“You bastard.”
“Thank you. Just what I needed to know.” He looked down at his paper. “Now as to the other crucial points: Martha Stanhope you’re out on, and I know where you were when they got Quincy, God help me. And when Ramirez was socked … Let’s see; the party sort of split up after my exit, but I’ll make it five, two, and even that you stuck in the livingroom by the decanter. Right?”
“You bastard.”
“Quite the little conversationalist, aren’t you, toots? All, the flashing steel of vivid repartee! All right. This stuff doesn’t go for much. Just filling in the chart. But on this next question I want an answer. So does Lucas. Maybe it was O. K. to hold out before, I won’t argue. Maybe you didn’t know what might happen or how you could prevent it. But now you do know, and I think you’d better talk.”
Alys opened her mouth. “You bastard,” Fergus said in unison with her. “You know,” he went on, “we could work this into an act. Get the timing down just right and we’d ha
ve ’em in the aisles.”
Alys glared in silence.
“Now there’s one essential point, my fairest fair, that you know more about than anybody else but the murderer himself. And that’s Valentino. As long as you keep your rosebud mouth shut, you’re a menace to our throat-slitter. Tell me about it, and you’re safe. Keep it quiet, and you may end up with sometiling a damned sight worse than a sock on the jaw.” He paused, then added hastily, “You bastard.”
Alys opened and shut her mouth speechlessly.
Fergus’ voice grew quiet. His manner was earnest and insistent. “Sorry. We’ll cut the clowning. The time’s past for that. It’s past for a lot of things: clowning and necking and … And silence. No more silence now. Truth’s got to be shouted. ‘The truth shall make you free.’ Sure, but only if you use the truth, use it strong and loud. So out with it, my heart’s delight: What did you see on Stella Paris’ back porch?”
She said nothing.
“Who did you see?”
She rose and stood beside the table. She did not open her mouth. She put one hand on the neckline of her sweater and ripped straight down.
“Nice,” Fergus commented abstractedly. “They looked better in the firelight maybe, but still very nice. Thanks. Now who did you see on that porch?”
Alys returned to her leitmotif. “You bastard.”
“Uh uh,” said Fergus. “I’ve got an alibi.”
“Not for this you haven’t.” Her voice was slurred but nonetheless intense. “I’m going to yell. They’re all going to troop in here. And how much trust are they going to put in a detective that tries to lay the murdered man’s fiancée?”
“Nice games,” said Fergus. He was not quite so self-assured as he sounded. “Run away, little girl. Papa doesn’t want to play.”
“You thought you could sock me and get away with it. Well, we’ll see about that.” She lifted her skirt, tore off a scanty bit of lace-trimmed black, and threw it on the floor. “Now, you bastard, you’re through.” She opened her mouth wide.
“Sorry,” said Dr. Arnold. “Your mistake, Alys.”
She whirled and stared at the man who had just come in, contriving to look quite as distinguished in his rumpled dressing gown as he had in full evening regalia.
The Case of the Seven Sneezes Page 15