Dorothy had forgotten Blanche, Bart, Dick, every Bartee. "Emily—" she whispered to the empty hall.
She snatched the phone book to hunt for a number.
"Miss Callahan? Do you remember two girls who came with Johnny Sims?"
"You must be the blonde." Kate recognized her voice.
"Yes. Please tell me. Do you remember Clinton Mc-Cauley's sister's name?"
"First name? Edith, I think it was."
"Oh. Well, can you remember what she looked like?"
"That's kinda hard. She was shorter than me. Kinda thin. I can't see her face no more."
"Then—tell me, how old was the baby?"
"About three. Clint was sure crazy about that baby.''
"After the trial, the aunt took her?"
"She sure did."
"Do you know where?"
"No, dear, I don't. Nobody does. See, she was going to change their names . . ."
"Oh, she was?"
"And, you know, disappear? Give the little kid a chance, she said. Poor little thing. Of course," Kate said, "I guess Clint would know where she is. The baby's own father."
Dorothy saw movement through the glass of the front doors. "Thank you very much," she said and hung up quickly. She moved away from the phone. She didn't know what to think-
Dick Bartee came in. "Hi, beautifull Where's Nan?"
"Asleep."
"Blanche?"
"Blanche is upstairs, too. Your grandmother is resting.''
"Kind of the Enchanted Castle," he said, standing close. In the quiet of the big house, intuitions of many things began to pulse between them. Dorothy closed her eyes. "Dick," she said faintly, "please don't marry Nan tomorrow."
"Dear Dorothy," he said caressingly, in a moment. "But it is all arranged."
Her eyes flew open. She tested this man with every tendril for understanding she could send out of her brain or her heart. "Do you love Nan?"
His eyes shone. But they had no depth. "Sweet Dorothy." He touched her cheek with his forefinger, the hghtest tap. "Of course, I do. Why else would I be marrying her to-1 morrow?"
Dorothy, from some deep interior caution, now, willed ..her face to change, fo seem to awaken to a new thought. She put hands to her had. "OhI Dick, will you lend me your car?"
"But how can I?" he said. "Nan and I must go to the : doctor's office and then to the license place."
"Would Blanche? Would anybody?" Dorothy danced away.
"Why?" He pursued her.
Dorothy was into the guest-closet to snatch her coat.
"Where do you want to go?" he persisted.
She danced away and started for the stairs. "I'll ask Blanche. Oh, wait, here's Bart."
"What's up?" Bart said in his pleasant way. He smiled up at her where she stood on the third step.
"She wants a car," Dick said, '^but she won't tell why.''
"Take mine," Bart said, pulled out keys so promptly that it made a vote of confidence.
"I don't know what I've been thinking of all day," Dorothy cried. "Nan cant get married tomorrow." (She paused, on purpose. Without eyes, but with all her other senses, Dorothy inquired of Dick Bartee, his true reaction.) "I'm not
going to let her get married," cried Dorothy girlishly, "without a wedding present from me!"
She knew Dick Bartee now breathed, who had not been breathing.
"My purse," muttered Dorothy and flew up the stairs. (Now she knew there must be a terrible secretl She had to get to Johnny!)
Below, Bart turned. "That's right. Weddings mean presents. What would you like?"
Dick let out his breath in a sigh. "Oh, half the business will do."
"A bit difficult to tie in ribbons," Bart said genially. He went into the study. He sat down at his father's desk. When he was alone, his head bent into his hands.
Dorothy came flashing down again. "Oh, Dick, tell Blanche, will you please? If I don't make it back by dinner time, nobody worry?"
He didn't answer.
When she had gone, he went upstairs. Blanche was standing near the back bedroom door. "Who ran downstairs?"
"Dorothy."
"Everything is ready for tomorrow, I think." Blanche's manner was polite but not afraid. "Shall I call Nan for you?"
"What's wrong with Dorothy?" he asked her. Some animal sense had been touched to alarm.
"Nothing." Blanche was surprised.
"Yes, there is something."
"I suppose she tliinks the wedding is happening too soon. That's all I can imagine . . ."
'That's all?"
"Of course, Dorothy's confused about McCauley. That John Sims, you know. He believed some sob story McCauley told him. Of course, Dorothy did say—"
"McCauley told him?" Dick repeated.
"When John went to talk to him, I suppose John believed the man. That's been the whole trouble."
"Talked to him? To McCauley?"
"So Dorothy said. In the prison, of course."
Dick turned away.
"Nan may be napping," Blanche said. "Shall I see?"
"I'U wake her," Dick said.
'1t seems a shame to wake her."
"It will have to be done," he said, rather grimly.
Downstairs, Bart was on the telephone. "Mr. Harris? I believe my nephew was in to see you last week? About a rather laige loan? Could you tell me what security he was offering?"
"I don't think I can," said the voice. "Sorry. Ask him."
"I only wondered," said Bart smoothly, "whether he was proposing to raise money against his fiancee's inheritance, a month ago?"
Silence on the other end. The voice said finally, "Sorry, Mr. Baitee, but if I tell my cUent's business I'd soon have 1 no clients. You know that."
"Thank you," Bart said.
Late afternoon, Johnny's phone rang. It was Marshall. 'TL.ike I to talk to you," the lawyer said.
So Johnny went out to his car and drove to the lawyer's I office.
First, Marshall apologized again for nearly blowing Johnny
»
I up.
Johnny brushed this off. He had thought of one more check [ to make. He said, "The night that Christy was killed, you ^ were at home, weren't you?"
"Right. Until McCauley caUed me from the jail."
"He called you?" Johimy sat up. "When was that?"
"Oh, one-thirty. Close to. I went right down."
"Got up, did you? Went to see him?"
"Of course," said Marshall. "Although, I hadn't been to bed so I didn't have to get up."
"Wait," said Johimy. "Now, slowly. One-thirty a.m., and you were not in bed?"
"I'd got involved in a bogk," Marshall said. "My wife died many years ago. I sometimes don't sleep too well."
"You were reading?" gasped Johnny. "Not in the dark, then?"
"Hardly. What's the matter^'
"Where were you reading?"
"In my den."
"With the Hght on?"
"Of com-se."
"The door closed?"
"Door of my den? That's never closed."
Johnny said, "You'll swear to that?"
"Yes, I will. What's the matterr
"I think you just broke Dick Bartee's second-string alibi and broke it good."
So Johnny talked. A girl is awakened by sand on her windowpane. She sneaks downstairs in a dark house. Her father mustn't be aroused. She creeps out to the back porch. The boy shows her his watch. "Midnight," he says. Perhaps he says, "Only midnight, see?"
"But Blanche would have known if your den hghts were on?" Johnny demanded.
"She couldn't have missed them," Marshall said soberly. "Blanche—and quiet all these years."
"So Dick Bartee was not there at mignight!"
"My house wasn't dark until after one that night," said Marshall, "and I can swear to it."
So Johnny said, "He fooled her. If once, then possibly, twice." He talked about the breaking in to Kate's place.
Marshall said, "This . . . What are you going
to do?"
"Call San Francisco."
Johnny called Copeland's house. Mr, Copeland, a woman's voice told him, was not in and could not be reached, and the woman didn't like it, at all, because they had a social engagement.
Johnny eased himself oflF the phone.
Marshall said, "Come home with me now, and we'll eat and kick it around. The legal side. What can you take to a judge? You've got no proof 1"
In San Francisco in a bar. Grimes said, "Sol She saw a man with a hat on, coming out of Padgett's room. Fhie! Good!"
Copeland said, "She saw that. We've got that. And the time, seven-thirty or close to. Trouble is, she did not see the man's face. She can't identify."
"Listen," Grimes said, "/'tt get together with the pohce. You get down to Hestia."
"Me?"
"Right. Whatever sheriff is going to have to move on a Bartee to arrest him, may need his hand held."
"Listen, you haven't got liim. You've got six blue petals,
three letters on a license plate, a hat, and a red-haired woman who didn't see his face."
"Well, it piles up," said Grimes cheerfully. "You get down there."
"I'll either fly first thing in the morning or drive tonight. What about you coming along?"
"I am a coward," Grimes said. "I don't want to be anywhere near this kiUer."
"What about Sims?"
"He's too close. Makes me nervous."
"You don't care how close I get?" grumbled Copeland. "I'd better call home."
"Oh, Charles," his young wife wailed, "you are not going off anywhere tonight. We have a bridge date."
"I can fly first thing in the morning, then," he said.
"Oh, why?" she pouted. "Why must you leave me? What's happened?"
He had never told her much. She was sensitive and so young and so excitable. He felt he should keep the seamy side away from her—so young, so fair. If she were to get the notion that he was going near a dangerous killer—Charles Copeland would protect her. "Some sad news to break," he said. "About a death. I must, dear. I'm sorry."
"Anyone I kiiow?" she gasped. Her voice pleaded fxn: it not to be anyone she knew, because death upset her.
Copeland didn't see why she must be told that Emily Padgett had been murdered. So he said truthfully, and yet deceptively, "The name is McCauley, Just don't think about it, dearest. I'U come right home. I' won't leave until-^moming."
CHAPTER 18
Johnny came dragging into the motel at about 8 p.m. "He and Marshall had found no solace in the story of the two pins. Marshall had told Johnny about the man Harris and
the loan. "Nan wasn't to get the money 'til she was twenty-one," Johnny said. "But I suppose her prospects . . ."
"I suppose so, too," Marshall had said.
Neither of them had any doubt that Dick was not only a killer but a fortune-hunter. They had no proof.
Johnny was unlocking the door of his room when Dorothy Padgett materialized suddenly at his side. "I've been waiting for hours!"
"Where did you come from?" he said wearily. "Wait, 'til I try a phone call, can you? Then, I've got things to tell you."
"I have things to ask," said Dorothy ominously. "Do you realize the wedding is tomorrow morning at eleven?"
"Oh no, it's not." Johnny strode into the room, grasped the phone, put in a call for Roderick Grimes again. Dorothy had followed him. She stood with her hands in the pockets of her soft gray ulster, staring at his tired face.
The operator began to singsong up the coast.
Johnny said, "He did it, Dot. Dick Bartee killed Christy. I know it in my bones, as they say. I don't know how I'm going to prove it."
Dorothy said quietly, "Was our Aunt Emily's real name Edith McCauley?"
Johmiy reached out with his right arm and gathered her j close to him. "Now you know," he sighed.
Grimes was saying, "Hello? Hello?"
Johnny began to tell him about the ^^'inery incident, the alibi broken, the loan application. "So now I am convinced," j he woimd up, "and I am going to Nan, and make her listen. ' Where is Copeland? I want him down here."
"He's coming down," Grimes said. "What do you mean, i make her listen? You haven't told her!"
"I am about to tell her ."
"You better," said Grimes sharply, "and quick. If you don't want that girl to marry a lousy murderer. You go ; stop it. Work on the giil. That's all for you to do." 1
"Can you put any pressure on this man, Harris," said Johnny, "and fiiid out what security?"
"Yes, yes," said Grimes impatiently. "Listen, don't worry j what you have to do to make her stop this wedding. Say j you'll kill yourself or something. There's a time for scruples but this isn't it." Grimes hung up.
Johnny turned to Dorothy. Grimes had sounded frantic, i
Johnny's own mind was dark and his heart was heavy. "How did you know who Nan is?"
"How did you?" she countered. "Did Emily tell you?''
"Yes."
Dorothy began to draw away.
"Ah, Dotty, Emily gave up her identity to keep that secret," he said tiredly. "McCauley gave up the acquaintance of liis own and only child. An awful lot was sacrified, for seventeen years, to keep that secret and to keep it from Nan. How could I blurt it out in five minutes? McCauley, himself, asked me to make sure . . ."
"Sme of what?"
"Whether Dick killed Christy. He was willing to believe he might have been mistaken—for Nan's sake."
"For Nan's sake," Dorothy repeated slowly.
"How did you find out?"
"Oh, Blanche said there was an aunt. Then I talked to Kate. Kate says he was crazy about the baby." Dorothy was looking at events past with troubled eyes.
"McCauley? Yes, 'Polly McCauley' he used to call her. Silly pet rhyme."
"Polly McCauley." Dorothy tried to smile because she was beginning to feel like crying.
"McCauley isfi't psycho," Johnny said sadly. "He is saintly. What a comment on the times, that I couldn't tell the difference! He's worried himself sick over tlie whole thing. Knowing he didn't do it. BeHeving Dick did. And yet," Johnny hit one hand with the edge of his other palm, "having the incredible charity to remember 'about being in love, when you are young."
"Oh, poor mani Poor Emilyl Johnny, you ought to hava told us."
1 wasn t sure.
"It wasn't necessary to be sure," she flamed. ''Who elected you the judge? You can't be the judge! Johnny, she cant marry Dick, not knowing all of this. You must not let her break her father's heart all over again in ignorance!" cried Dorothy. "Johnny, that's wrong!"
He said grimly, "Poor Nan."
"Poor Clinton McCauley," said Dorothy, blazing.
Because Dorothy must return Bart's car, they went in it
together. On the way, Johnny told her about the old man having sent money for the baby, and the possibility that Dick had hunted Nan out.
Dorothy was neither surprised nor impressed. "I knew there must be something," was all she said.
"So he went for the money," Johnny said, "from the be-giiming. I think he must have been furious that the old man left him no part of the family business. If we could make Nan see that."
Dorothy shivered. "Johnny, Dick is a monster, isn't he?" "A ring-tailed doozer," Johnny muttered. "And not a drop of proof. The secret alibi was faked. We can't prove why. But I can't imagine why, unless he knew when Christy died. Can you?"
Dorothy said, "Didn't they put McCauley in prison without a lot of real proof, Johnny?"
"Seems so, now. Now, that the cUmate has changed." "Poor Chnton McCauley."
Johnny started to say, "Poor Nan" again, but he did not.
Bart himself opened the door. "Come in," he said cordially.
"I hope you've had dinner? We are all sitting meekly in the
study, because the parlor is not to be contaminated. Seems
it is ready for a wedding. Come on back."
Dorothy slipped off her coat and dropped it on a hall chair. They followed B
art. Neither had done more than make a polite sound in the throat.
In the small squaie room a fire was buj-ning, for other pleasure than its heat. The old lady was still up, stationed in the corner where Johnny had first laid eyes on her. She looked disgruntled. (She had been ordered out of the living room by Blanche and Bart.) Blanche was the hostess here. She greeted them with smiles. "Everything is ready as it can be. The corsages are coming early."
"Mayest hear the merry din," said Dorothy, in a strange voice.
There was a black leather chair to the left of the fire. In it, sat Dick Bartee and, on the black leather footstool, close to his knee, sat Nan. She hardly seemed to notice the newcomers. Her face wore a look of dreaming wonder. 'The guests are met, the feast is set, mayest hear the merry din,' " Bart quoted. " 'Held off, unhand me gray-
beard loon . . I' Sit down. Miss Dorothy. I'll fetch another chair."
"Don't bother," said Johnny. "I'd as soon stand for what I've got to say." Dick Bartee put his head back sharply. Nan didn't even seem to hear.
"I am the 'graybeard loon/ I guess," said Johnny. "Something has to be told, right now." He felt tense and determined. "Emily Padgett told me a secret."
''What's he saying?" the old lady mumbled. "What are you saying, young man?"
"You must listen to me carefully,'' Johnny said to her. "Chnton McCauley and his wife Christy had a baby girl."
"Yes," said the old lady. "Little girl. Mary was her name. Mary Christine."
"Nan is that baby girl."
Bart who had been leaning on the wall bent forward in surprise. Blanche bridled.
"Who?" said the old lady.
"This girl," said Johnny loudly and distinctly. "Nan is your great-granddaughter. Her real name is Mary McCauley."
The pair in the black leather comer had not moved at all.
''The man in prison is your father, Nan," Johnny said, trying for a gentle voice. "He didn't kill your mother. He beheves that Di^k did. Do you understand?"
"I know," said Nan dreamily. She leaned backward and Dick's torso came forward, and they were close.
"We figured that out this afternoon," Dick said, amiably. "It's the only explanation. Why Aunt Emily flew home, why Sims has been acting this w'ay. As soon as I^found out he had been to see McCauley, it all came to me." He kissed Nan's hair. "Well?" he inquired.
Johnny was absolutely stunned.
Dorothy said, "Nan, that is why Aimt Emily flew back. She had kept this secret since—since you were three. Then you gave her Dick's name, of all names, on the telephone. Do you understand?"
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