There was a long pause, full of wonder, curiosity and befuddlement.
Homer scooted into the bathroom and returned with the tape measure. He stood away from his audience, in the manner of an amateur Houdini about to do a card trick.
“This is what I mean. I’m about to commit suicide. Do I do this with my rope?”
He wound the tape three times around his neck and began to tie a knot under his ear.
Bruck came alive.
“You mean the second and third time around the neck isn’t natural.”
Homer tossed him the tape. “Try it for yourself.”
Bruck stared at the tape measure for a moment. Then he looped it around his neck just once and tied a double knot.
“That’s the way I’d do it.”
“You know nothing at all about knots, Bruck?”
“Know a few surgical knots. But I haven’t used ’em in year’s now.”
“Yet you tied the simplest knot in the world on your neck just now.”
“I think I see your point,” said Bruck, and pointed to his throat. “You see, Jesse—this’d be the natural knot for the man to tie.”
Swink snorted. “Fiddlesticks! I admit he might have tied it that way. You’re splitting hairs, Bull. He might have shot himself, or stabbed himself, or drunk a bottle of iodine!”
“I love to split hairs, Swink. I’ve got another hair to split with you.” He held up the door key. “I found this in English’s robe.”
“Why not?” Swink was testy.
“What does it mean? Man wants to commit suicide. He locks the door, puts the key in his pocket and steps off the stool into paradise. How does that strike you?”
“It’s possible, ain’t it?”
“Of course it’s possible, Swink. But are we searching for the possible or the probable? Why not continue on the trail of things normal?”
“Well, then, ‘normal’,” snapped Swink. “Mebbe normal a couple of other ways, too. He might have left the hall door unlocked and locked himself in the johnny. He might have locked both doors. He might have locked the door to the hall and thrown the key out of the window.”
“Or left ’em both open,” Bruck suggested. “A man like this, killing himself early in the morning, isn’t afraid of any interference, now is he?”
“Variations of the same theme, Bruck. But I think you’re nearer the truth, at that. Can’t we rationalize and say that it would have been most normal for English to simply lock that hall door and leave the key in the lock?”
There was a flash of agreement in Bruck’s eyes. But Swink was stubborn.
“Look here, Bull. What’re you gettin’ at?”
“What do you think?”
“You think this man was murdered, mebbe?”
“I’m sure of it, Swink!”
CHAPTER 18
Artful Gavano
Homer displayed the burned notes, the charred scrap, the leaky fountain pen and the brief case.
“Somebody wanted us to think this a clear cut case of suicide,” said Homer. “But the evidence of suicide smells. We have all sorts of clues to suicide, pointing in several directions. The key is meaningless—all the locks are alike on this floor. But had Nicky left his key in the door, it would mean that nobody could have forced it out, even with another key that fitted the same lock. Number two is the rope. The rope is arguing that he hung himself, yet the knot betrays the possibility that he didn’t hang himself at all. Number three: the burned notes. Why did Nicky burn them? Are they trying to tell us that Nicky might have murdered Shipley? Did he? I’ve never suspected Nicky English of Shipley’s murder.”
Swink was incredulous.
“Are you saying you know Shipley was murdered?”
“I’m not sure yet.”
“But—but this here note business. Maybe in them notes Shipley knew all along that English was out to get him!”
“Perhaps. I can’t be sure of that either. Not yet. I’ll know for certain tomorrow whether English had such a reason. The burned papers tell us nothing about Shipley’s fears. How are we to know how many others among the guests Shipley feared? We’re assuming that Nicky was the only one. We may be wrong.”
“Hair-splittin’ again,” said Swink.
“You’re wrong, Jesse!” Bruck was annoyed with the sheriff. “Bull may be as right as rain. You’re being stubborn. I kind of feel now there’s a fifty-fifty chance this man here didn’t commit suicide after all.”
“If he didn’t, who in tarnation killed him?”
“I’m not quite sure,” said Homer.
“Then you suspect somebody already?”
“I suspect everybody, just now. But there’s only one way to find out, Swink.”
“Only one way? What’s that?”
“You must cooperate with me. I want you to keep this suicide quiet until I give you the word.”
The sheriff pulled at his mustache.
“Quiet? How in tarnation you want me to do that?”
“Easily. You must take the body away with you right now.”
“Why now?”
“Well, you understand that if English was murdered, only one person in this house knows it. I think it’s important to keep the suicide to ourselves for at least another day.”
“And then what?”
Homer chuckled. “If I’m wrong, what are you losing, Swink?”
Swink turned to the coroner. “All right with you, Hillary?”
“Right as rain!”
“Then let’s go,” said Homer. “I’ll give you the signal to come down from the foot of the stairs. Hank, you and Swink carry Nicky down. We’ll go out through the kitchen, into the garage. When you drive out, use the long way around, past the barn to the main road. I don’t want to risk your being seen from the front of the house.”
I held Nicky by the legs and backed into the hall. Over Swink’s shoulder, the first glimmer of dawn greyed the window at the far end of the corridor. I backed down slowly. My eyes hit the level of the top stair, and between Swink’s legs I saw something far down at the end of the hall. It was a white speck moving. Perhaps the leg of a man’s pajamas. Or a bit of a woman’s lounging robe. Then I was down below the floor line. The speck of white had moved toward the right, probably disappeared beyond the wall leading off to the attic stairs.
Once in the garage, the frosty morning air smacked me wide awake. Swink eased the big car out slowly and quietly, and they disappeared behind the corner of the garage.
“Sleepy?” asked Homer.
I yawned in his face.
We were standing at the foot of the stairway when we heard the noise. A dull padding. Footfalls. Homer beat me to the top, but the hall was empty. He opened Nicky’s door.
“I’ll be spending the night in here, Hank. Get up early. I’ll see you after breakfast.”
“Who do you suppose was snooping?” I whispered.
“Forget it. See you in the morning.”
I forgot it quickly. As soon as my head hit the pillow.
I decided to eat before visiting Eileen.
At eight o’clock I buttered another biscuit. That was number two.
Lester came in with a tray of dishes. He set things on the table slowly, in the manner of a trained ape with a set of toys. He couldn’t see me. I enjoyed watching him.
Lester was muttering. You know the type. Broadway is rich with mutterers, some young, others old; thin, fat, moronic and hare-lipped. You see one walking toward you on the street, his mouth working overtime in a monologue. “I’ll break his goddam head,” says the mutterer, almost in your ears. You come to a semi-halt and stare at him. For the next block you ponder his problem. Break whose goddam head? Must have caught his wife with the milkman, you deduce. Or maybe his boss didn’t come through with the raise he promised. You do not ponder l
ong. You reach the next corner and the wind blows a skirt away from a smooth leg, tightens the dress around a muscular rump. So you forgot the mutterer. He probably was talking nonsense, anyway.
Was Lester talking nonsense? I caught a snatch.
“… skunk … might have known …” he muttered setting the plates in place “… get even …”
His head shot up suddenly. I heard Mike Gavano’s low-pitched whistle from somewhere back in the living room. Lester grumbled, put down his last dish and disappeared into the next room.
I got up and buttered another biscuit. This time I put some jelly on it. I returned to the chair, drew out a slice of scrap paper and made a note of Lester’s mumblings. Maybe Homer would be interested. Little things seemed important after the session in Nicky’s room. Maybe a goon like Lester muttered snatches that revealed the vacuum of his subconscious, or whatever it is the psychologists call the void in a goon’s head.
I heard new voices, new whispers. They came from my left, just inside the living room.
A dame. Olympe!
A man. Who? I strained toward the screen until my head touched it, trying for his voice. It was low. Nevin? Or was it Cunningham?
I cupped my hand over my ear. That did it. Nevin’s voice came through the screen in a whisper, low but clear.
“But after it’s all over—” (He seemed to be pleading.)
There was a long pause. No answer from Olympe. Her answer must have been written in her eyes, or in the shake of her blonde curls.
Nevin went on, in the same tone.
“You can’t mean it, Olympe … It’s all past … forgotten …”
“Please … (Was she sobbing?) … Let’s not talk about these things … Let’s not talk about anything … not yet …”
She stopped abruptly. Somebody had interrupted them. A voice said: “Morning, folks!”
It was Cunningham.
Nevin and Olympe answered: “Hello” in almost the same breath, and they all moved off beyond earshot.
I reconstructed the dialogue on my piece of paper, trying for accuracy. I noted what I thought was most important—the fact that Nevin was pleading with Olympe. And Olympe—was she giving him the brushoff? What did he want? It would take a lot of something to make Nevin plead.
It hit me so suddenly that I almost laughed out loud. I wrote the word LOVE into my notes and put a, question mark after it. Then I rubbed it out. Impossible. Nevin didn’t seem the type to go for the imitation Dietrich. Or had I been seeing too many movies?
Somebody tapped me on the shoulder, and I ducked the notes away. Mike Gavano smiled his crooked smile, and the gold glittered in the sunlight. Mike was in a mood for fun.
“Playin’ puss in the corner?”
I didn’t answer.
“How’s your noggin, chum?” He made a playful pass at my head, but I hit his hand down hard.
“I wouldn’t hurt ya,” he grinned. “You got a bad temper, sonny boy. You play rough.”
I stood up and said: “I can play rougher.”
“A real fighter, ain’t you, MacAndrew?”
“You said it. I’ve got a cracked conk that’s sensitive to the laying on of hands. It annoys me, see?”
“Sure, sure. Oh, sure. How’s Hawkshaw’s dome? He all right?”
I nodded.
Gavano tapped my chest, right over the pocket.
“You been writin’ mush notes, pal? Or was them funny pictures you was drawing?”
“Funny pictures. I’m always doing homework, Gavano.”
“Now ain’t that dandy? Some day when I can afford the moola, you got to make my picture, pal. Ain’t never had my puss done before.”
His Stone Age profile was tempting. I pulled out a black litho pencil and a sheet of paper. Gavano stood as stiff as a tintype while I sketched in his contour in easy lines from the beetle brow to the jutting jaw.
Homer walked in and looked over my shoulder.
“An excellent beginning, Hank. I think you’ve captured the soul of your subject—the spirit of Pan on the loose.”
I said: “You mean deadpan.”
Gavano rolled his eyes our way, but held his pose.
There was the sound of voices from inside, and Olympe walked out on the terrace, followed by Cunningham, Nevin and Trum.
We moved in around the breakfast table, exchanging chit-chat.
Olympe parked opposite me. I couldn’t help noticing her this morning. She had the edge on Grace. She overflowed with sex in a tweed rust skirt and a white sweater some libidinous designer must have created for the brassiere trade. In spite of this curvilinear display, it occurred to me, suddenly, that the girl was really beautiful. I mean her face. The phoney makeup had been abandoned on her dressing table. Her face held me. She had on a palish lipstick, laid lightly on the natural arc of her lips. I didn’t mind the lips that way. I didn’t mind her eyes any more, either. Yesterday’s mascara had hidden the color in her eyes. They were important, now, set in an unvarnished face. They shone. They were cold blue green, yet soft and deep and lovely.
And today she matched her manner to her makeup.
Cunningham sat on her left, trying to talk with her, but the doll had changed, somehow. Her answers came low-pitched and hesitant. Something, some spark had gone out inside her. Why?
CHAPTER 19
The Ladies Speak Up
Eileen was glad to see me, and so was Nat.
“You’re just in time for Dad’s fourth cup of coffee,” she laughed. “We have a perpetual breakfast here, you know. We’re both fiends about coffee.”
“An old MacAndrew perversion. I’ve just finished my third up on the terrace. Never let it be said that a true MacAndrew spurned the fourth, fifth or sixth.”
“I’ll make another potful in a jiffy, Hank. Of course, you’ll have some more, won’t you, Dad?”
“Just one, Eileen. It’s a grand morning for chewin’ the fat over the coffee cups.”
When Eileen went out, he whispered: “Anything new up at the house?”
“Not a thing,” I lied. “Guess we’ll be leaving after tomorrow. That’s if Bruck’s satisfied.”
“Bruck’s a plenty smart man, son. Reckon he’s clever enough to know a suicide when he sees one.”
There was a silence, while Nat loaded his pipe. Then he leaned over the table. “What in tarnation ever brought him up to the house at four in the morning?”
“This morning?”
“Yep. Happened I couldn’t sleep. Saw his car pull into the garage.”
I whistled in feigned amazement. “That’s funny. But maybe he came up to talk to Bull—might have been about the inquest, you know.”
“Inquest?” There was a quaver in his voice. “What in tarnation for?”
“You’ve got me, Nat. Maybe I’m wrong.”
“Inquest,” he murmured. “Can’t understand it. That means more damned questions. Never could understand them things, anyhow. Legal business always was a mystery to me.”
Eileen answered the phone.
“It’s Mr. Bull, Dad.”
I heard Nat ask: “Right away, Mr. Bull?” and then he went for his coat. “Be back soon, Eileen; Mr. Bull wants to talk to me.”
Eileen filled my cup.
“What’s the first question, Hank?”
How could a girl be so smart and so pretty at the same time?
“What makes you think I’m going to ask questions?”
“Stop playing detective with me,” she smiled. “Didn’t Mr. Bull send you down here to question me?”
“You win. But that doesn’t mean I wouldn’t have come down here anyhow.”
She shook her head and I got a smile.
“I’ve only got a few questions, Eileen.”
“Go ahead, Professor Quiz!”
“Did
you know that somebody came down here last night? To the backyard?”
A shadow of fear darkened her eyes. “Down here? I don’t understand.”
“There were a couple of visitors to the Tucker yard last night,” I said. “I wondered whether you saw them hanging around.”
She seemed genuinely surprised. “No, I didn’t.”
“And just one more, Eileen—the last one, I promise you. Did you go out skiing yesterday afternoon?”
“Yes. Why?”
“Where’d you go?”
“I started down the road, toward Woodstock. Then I—let’s see—yes, I went over to the slope behind the house, by cutting across the big meadow. I stayed on the slope for about an hour or so. Then I skied back to the road and came home.”
“You didn’t go up on the big hill?”
“Which big hill?”
“The one with the precipice—you know.” I pointed the direction.
She got up petulantly. “I don’t get it, Hank! Don’t you believe me? The barn is in exactly the opposite direction, and you know it!”
“I’m sorry, honey. That one was purely a personal question, strictly off the record.”
She eyed me quizzically. “What do you mean?”
I leaned over the table until my hands touched hers. “Homer didn’t tell me to ask you whether you were skiing, honey.”
“Then why did you ask?”
This time I blushed. “It’s—well—I wanted to know whether you were up on that hill with a certain guy—somebody up at the house. I found a cigarette up there, with lipstick marks on it. I thought maybe you—”
Her laugh was low and sweet. “A fine detective you are, Hank. Didn’t you notice that I never use lipstick?” She paused. “Unless you think that I prettied myself up for Mr. Whatshisname?”
She had read my mind. I said: “MacAndrew is a dope.”
“MacAndrew is a funny man. Who did you think I might have met up on the hill?”
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