“Twenty,” John said, as he descended the stairs. Either his toupee had escaped a soaking, or else he had put on a dry wig, for I noticed that his hair was perfectly dry. A light pull-over sweater replaced his tweed coat. “At least twenty. Why didn’t you side-step, Cary? I howled at you as I ducked.”
“I didn’t hear you,” Hobart grumbled. “You might have yanked me out of the way.”
“I tried to, but you wouldn’t be yanked. Hustle off, Cary.”
And with very bad grace, Cary left.
I looked inquiringly at Asey. He glanced at Hobart’s retreating figure, surveyed John a moment, then turned to me and grinned.
Phrone picked up her empty pail and started off to the kitchen.
“I’m goin’ up again in about five minutes,” she threw out over her shoulder as she left, “an’ you’d better all of you look out.”
“We will,” Denny said. “Lord, I’d pay her to do it again. I really would. I wouldn’t have missed the sight of that man gasping like a fish for worlds.” Asey winked at me, jerked his head toward the library, and Stephen and I followed him into the room. “Why?” Crump asked simply.
Asey stuck his thumbs in his belt. “Why what, Mr. Crump?”
“Why did you have Phrone throw water over Hobart? What did you expect to gain by it?”
“Don’t expect,” Asey informed him cheerfully. “Am sure. Am dum sure. Yessir.”
There was a knock on the door and one of his men came in, bearing a large English kitbag.
“Got everything all right?” Asey asked.
“Yes, sir. Everything. I put in both pairs of cufflinks and I couldn’t find only one blue shirt, so I put in one white an’ one blue.”
“Got the key?”
He passed over a key.
“An’ will you see that the Monster gets filled with gas an’ oil an’ has her tires pumped?”
“One of them chauffeurs looked it over yesterday, but I’ll give it the once-over.”
“Thank you kindly. I’ll want it in about half an hour.”
“What are you going to do?” Crump and I asked the question in perfect unison.
He picked up the bag.
“Goin’ to make sure I git the last trick, Miss Prue. I’m goin’ huntin’, but I can’t wear my duck-huntin’ clothes. These is the ones Bill made me git last fall, an’ I just had ’em brought over. I hate like fury to j have to git dressed up, but it ’pears like I’ll have to.”
“Where are you going?”
“Orleans, Brewster, Dennis, Ya’mouth——”
“You’re going to Boston!”
“Uh-huh. Shouldn’t wonder.”
“You’re going to leave us here alone? Why are you going to Boston?”
“You ain’t exactly alone, Miss Prue. I’m leavin’ plenty of men around, an’ the doc’ll stay up here. No need to worry none. I’ll be back t’-morrow. Right now I got to hurry.”
And before we could ask him another thing, he had picked up his bag and left.
“Stephen, what’s he after? And what’s he getting what he calls dressed up for?”
“I don’t know, Prue. But if he looks half as well as he did the last time I saw him in town, he’ll be doing well. Bill sent him to Forbes and Vail. Didn’t you see him at the wedding?”
“No, I didn’t see any one. Bill lost the steamer tickets and Betsey mislaid her traveling clothes.”
He laughed. “The reason why you didn’t see Asey was because he personally ironed out the ticket situation. In a cutaway, too.”
“Cutaway or no cutaway,” I said, “I wish he’d tell us what he’s after. Has he told you what this is all about?”
“Not a word. But he won’t get out of this house,” Stephen asserted, “until he has told us.”
In less than half an hour, Asey appeared. He was clad in a beautifully fitting blue suit, a blue shirt, and a tie that even Denny James would have been proud to own. His black oxfords were polished to just the proper degree, and as he caught my glance at them, he chuckled.
“Silk stockin’s, too. I’m c’mplete, all but the way I talk, an’ I mimicked Jimmy Porter’s accent so much that I can do it pretty well. I mean to say,” he clipped his words, “I’m able to speak as I should.” He laughed. “That’s the whole dum trouble about dressin’ up. You got to be so careful about grammar an’ all, an’ it’s an awful sort of strain. Mr. Crump, I want some letters. The to-whom-it-may-concern kind. Sayin’ that I’m A. A. Mayo an’ a worthy soul. An’ that I want things done in a hurry an’ a good cause.”
“Certainly.” Crump sat down at the desk and pulled out his fountain-pen. “I’ll give you a letter to Steve, too.”
“What’s the A. A.?” I asked.
“Asa Alden,” he confessed. “I don’t s’pose I ever used it all more’n three times in my life. But it kind of goes more with these clothes than just Asey. Thank you very kindly, Mr. Crump. I’ll be seein’ you tomorrow. Keep your weather eye peeled, an’ remember the Maine. An’,” he grinned at me, “you can have these to play with.”
“These” consisted of the letter Phrone had brought over, the false teeth he had taken from Stires’s pocket, and finally, the scrap-book.
“Asey Mayo,” I began disgustedly.
“Yup. I’m a mean sort. But you knew it—puzzle it out, you two. Keep it to yourself, an’ don’t burn no candles.”
“Asey,” Crump exploded, “tell us more. You can’t go off like this.”
“Okay. Miss Prue, whyn’t you tell me Kent was bald?”
“Why didn’t I tell you? What’s it got to do with all of this? Asey, what did you throw water over Hobart for?”
“What do all these—these exhibits mean?” Crump demanded. “Do you mean to tell me you know who did this,—from these things?”
“I’m discardin’ everything but my queen,” he announced. “It may be a wrong guess, an’ Lord knows it’s crazy, but there you are. Yup, I think I’m pretty sure, but I’ll be surer b’fore I tell you. I got everything but a leetle sounder basis’n what I need. G’-by.”
Crump and I stood at the window and watched him get into the Monster; he waved the neat felt hat which had replaced the rakish Stetson, sounded the musical horn and the Monster roared off.
We went back to the table and surveyed the “exhibits.”
“He,” Crump said, “is a better man than I am. I admit it. What do you think?”
“I agree,” I told him, “but if he can find a murderer out of that motley mess, so can we. Steve, I challenge you.”
Without a word he went over to the desk, took two small blocks of paper, an assortment of blotters and pens and pencils, and laid them on the table.
“I write better than I think,” he said. “And we’ll have to write this mess out. Go ahead, Prue.”
And we set to work.
We took time out for dinner, and went back again to our game.
It was evening before Stephen threw down his pencil.
“This,” he said, “is worse than making out an income tax. You always feel that there’s no reason why you should understand an income tax blank, anyway, but it seems that we should be able to get this. Are you done?”
“Done?” I echoed disgustedly. “Done? I was done before I started. I’ve been spending the last few hours trying to find an impregnable defense for Betsey’s method of playing tit-tat-toe.”
He laughed and passed me over his paper.
“This,” he said, “is the revised version. It’s my final idea.”
I looked at the first name. “Steve I You think it’s Rowena?”
“Don’t see how it could be any one else, Prue. Listen: her reason for coming down to the Cape is absurd, and you know it. It seems to me that she must definitely have known about Bert’s party and made up her mind to come. You were a good foil, so she got hold of you. You admit that she was the one who actually made the bargain of coming over here. And her motive was to get revenge for things that Stires had said about her.
You say she apologized, but that was undoubtedly a bluff. She had every chance of getting those candles. She has one, in fact, now. That is, she did have until Asey took it away. Remember, Prue, it’s the only actual poisoned candle that’s been found in its entirety. Now, she had every chance of shutting you up in the closet. It’s not been actually settled that she wasn’t the one who delayed the hunt for you. Then, there are those emeralds. She likes the stones; it’s possible that she may have seen more of Bert than any one realizes, possible that she knew Bert was going to give them to her, particularly if, as you seem to think, Bert was sweet on her long ago. Look at her present state; she’s only bluffing. I’m sure of it. And she’s tried desperately hard to put the blame on Hobart——”
“And Denny——”
“Yes.”
“Maybe that accounts for the teeth,” I said, “but what about the letter and the scrap-book?”
“That Greek e. Underneath that picture post-card is a dance program. When Bert was in college and used to go to an occasional dance. She’s written her name on it. She uses a Greek e.”
“But what’s that all got to do with the pail of water, and all that?”
Crump shrugged. “That may have been an accident after all. I don’t know. What d’you think of that?”
“You’ve made a case,” I admitted. “But——”
“But she’s a friend of yours? Remember Emma, Prue. She was a friend of yours, and she murdered a man.”
“I know it.”
“Well, who’s your number one?”
“Hobart. He was mad when he left Stires Tuesday morning. He fussed when Bert didn’t come. He saw him last Wednesday night. He deliberately gave Denny those pills. Then there’s that business of the ink-bottle top. And Asey doused him for some reason. He makes Greek e’s—or used to, once. He got the candles, went in after Denny, and took ’em, Tuesday at Mary’s. He could have substituted the marked ones. He’s behaved like a fool—getting mad and losing his temper, but there’s been something theatrical about it. He’s planned to act that way. He had a perfectly good motive, when you come right down to it. He could have locked us up—he could have planted the arsenic, and that candle on Rowena.”
“What about the teeth?”
“Can’t fit them in,” I said. “I simply can’t.”
“What about Denny?” Crump said thoughtfully. “He’s not guilty,” I said with some intensity. “Rowena’s tried to implicate him—that delay and the ink-bottle top——”
“I haven’t heard about that.”
I told him the story. “And a handkerchief, too, of his. She says she found it the day the arsenic was planted and that she didn’t show Asey on account of me I”
“Boomerang. It all goes back to Rowena, Prue.”
“There’s that e,” I said, “but I don’t see how Denny’s connected with the teeth. He hasn’t any real motive except Rowena thought that those college fights between him and Bert constituted one. I’m sure that he’s just been—been——”
“A victim of circumstance. Well, I rather agree. What about John?”
“That fight,” I said, “that’s sort of against him, though I’m sure I can’t reason out why. And I’m sure I don’t know what his false hair’s got to do with this, if it has anything to do with it at all. He gave a different reason for starting the fight than June did. And he was mentioned in that codicil, too.”
“So was June,” Crump added.
“Really, Steve,” I said, “I’m convinced that it must be June. He’s got absolutely nothing against him.” Crump laughed. “I’m just as convinced, really, that it’s William and his wife. After all, we’re not sure that that letter’s not genuine.”
“And Rowena said she thought it was Mrs. Boles that planted the candle.”
“And Blake—we haven’t touched on Blake. There’s all that candle business.”
“And then there’s Kelley. And Tom.”
“And the girl. And the cook.” Stephen got up and made a little ball of all his papers and tossed them into the fire. “There. I’m darned if I know or see any one’s who connected with the teeth and that scrapbook—I’ve looked it all through, even though you say that Asey didn’t look at anything but that picture— and the letter. I don’t see what Asey had Phrone hurl water around for. I’m sure I don’t understand about that fight, or what he’s after.”
Slowly I tore up my own papers and tossed them into the waste-paper basket. “We may be dullards,” I said, “but it’s beyond my feeble brain.”
The doctor came in, looked at us and smiled.
“Asey bet me that I’d find you here working over this,” he said. “He dropped in just before he left. Got any warmer?”
I shook my head. “Did he tell you? His clues, I mean?”
“Yes. I’m pretty well convinced, Miss Prue, that you and I did it. Or Phrone and Lyddy Howes. Have you seen the finished figure of Ginger and the black kitten, by the way? You ought to look at it. I’ve just been down in the game-room, and Miss Fible’s started to work on that Peke of the girl’s, now.”
“I’m going to bed,” I said, and quite unconsciously I went, not to the yellow room, but to the one I’d used the night before. Not that I agreed with Steve about Rowena, but somehow, well, I just didn’t want to be with her.
I’ve never really figured out how we worried along on Monday. Noon came and went and still Asey did not arrive. We went through some pretense of eating lunch, but it was a very weak pretense. Crump had put the teeth and the letter away in his pocket, and he told me that they were burning him like so many hot coals.
At one o’clock a car drove up before the house, but it was only reporters who had somehow got by the motorcycle cop. A roadster was sighted at three, but it was only some one who had lost his way. He was promptly sent back.
Denny finally decided that something had to be done.
“We might name the kitten,” I said in desperation.
“Call it Penrod,” Denny said. “I had a nice Scottie once named Penrod. He got pois——” he stopped.
“Maybe Penrod’s not such a fine idea.”
And we argued and made labored witticisms over the kitten’s name until tea-time.
At last we drew lots, and it was found that “Toxin” had won. It was the doctor’s choice, and he was very pleased.
“Call him ‘Tox’ for short and ‘Sin’ when he’s bad. I think it’s neat.”
“What time is it?” I whispered to Stephen.
“Four fifty-eight,” he replied instantly without looking at his watch. “He ought to be here.”
And he had no sooner got the words out of his mouth than the arrogant notes of the Monster’s horn floated out.
Asey walked in, cheerful and grinning. The circles under his eyes were deeper than they had been the day previous, otherwise he seemed as nonchalant and as amiable as ever.
“Tea?” I asked brightly.
“Nope,” he said with a twinkle, “glass of milk, if William’ll bring it. Been all right?”
“Fine,” Denny said without enthusiasm. “Good trip?”
“Real good. Made the trip down in somethin’ under three hours, not countin’ the half-hour I stopped off to see Burnett at Barnstable.”
William brought in a glass of milk and placed it on the little table by the side of Asey’s chair just as Ginger, for reasons best known to himself, jumped at the Peke.
After much running hither and yon, the Peke was removed, quite intact save for a scratched nose. We resumed our respective seats.
“Er—as you were saying, er—Asey,” Crump prompted him diffidently.
“Uh-huh.” Asey played with the black kitten. “Give this a name yet? Toxin, huh? Like anti-toxin or the sort of thing that rings an ’larm? Can I give it some of my milk?”
Blake was stirred at last from his calm. “Feed the whole animal kingdom, Asey, but get to the point 1”
Deliberately, Asey poured some of the milk from his glass into a plate.
“Have a drink on me,” he informed the kitten. “Well, some of you know it an’ some of you don’t. Maybe it’s got noised ’round, as you might say, that Stires died from inhalin’ pois’nous vapor from a candle that had Paris green in its wick. Mary Gross that made the candles, she died the same way.”
He stopped and reached for his milk, then changed his mind and bit into a sandwich. As he took a bite, his eyes strayed down to the kitten. Quickly, almost too quickly, he looked up again.
Curiously, I looked down. Ginger had slapped the kitten with his paw, pushed him away from the plate. Now he stood before it, his back arched, his yellow tail swelled double its size. He was hissing noiselessly with all his might and main at the plate of milk.
I looked at Asey and started to speak, but I caught the quick shake of his head. Leaning over, I picked up both cats and put them together on my lap.
“What with one thing V another,” Asey continued calmly, “I had a couple of funny ideas, an’ they sort of turned out to be right.”
He picked up the glass of milk, fingered it, turned it around and around in his hand. I wondered why he didn’t drink it, and I wondered, too, what had got into Ginger.
“I was right,” Asey repeated.
He set down the glass and got up from his chair. I watched him as he walked over to the windows and looked out. Every eye in the room was following him, but if he intended his announcement to cause any alarm, he was disappointed. No one, not even Rowena, looked particularly frightened or guilty.
Asey turned around.
“I think,” he said, “that we’ll end this here an’ now. That milk was the endin’. This p’tic’lar camel’s had ’nough. I don’t know what’s in the milk, but cats is awful canny. If they won’t eat somethin’, it ain’t fit to be et. An’ if they hiss at it, it’s bad. I’m right glad that cat was around. Now, June——”
I gasped.
“June,” Asey continued, “you just call in my strikers, will you?”
“Stop, June. You’re wrong, Asey. It’s just beginning.”
Death Lights a Candle Page 20