“If we’re going to start this again, I think I’d better go,” Sherry answered quietly.
Graffer opened his eyes and laughed. “You’re a good girl, Sherry,” he said. “You know what you want and you’ve got the courage to stick to it. You’re kind enough to come to see your old grandfather because the idiot doctors say he’s dying. But you’re strong enough to hold on to what you believe, and no pampering of an old man who might cut you out of his will. You’re all right, Sherry. And I like your uniform.”
Sherry stood still for an instant of amazement. Then she moved swiftly and gracefully to the side of the bed, leaned over, and kissed the old man.
“I’m glad,” she said simply. “I’ve prayed that we could love and understand each other again.”
They were silent for a moment. Liz smiled and felt good—the kind of feeling that leaves your eyes not quite dry.
“Intolerance is a bane of good times,” Graffer said slowly. “I’ve been pig-headed in my day. I’ve been proud of it, and declaimed that tolerance is the limp virtue of the feebleminded. But I was a fool. Emotions run high. Hatred runs high. What might have been mere irritable prejudice ten years ago now can turn to vicious hate. We’ve got to watch ourselves. We’ve got to understand—and to love.”
He paused and then barked out a loud laugh. “How the boys down at the Hall of Justice would enjoy this! Old Tim Cain turns soft! But Sherry understands.”
“Yes, Graffer.”
There were noises in the hall—the clumping of heavy feet.
“Sherry, now that we’re friends again, maybe you’ll tell me what the hell goes on out there?”
“What do you mean, Graffer?”
“Why are the bulls here?”
“Bulls?”
“Or do you forget such words in the convent? The harness bulls, the cops. After ten years in the district attorney’s office and twenty on the bench, do you think I don’t know a policeman’s footsteps when I hear them?”
He was leaning forward from his pillows, his old blue eyes aglint.
“I’ll go see, Graffer,” Liz said. “You stay here, Sherry.”
Miss Kramer was in the hall. “I thought he wanted to see you alone,” the nurse said to Liz. “That’s why I didn’t interrupt you.”
Liz nodded. “Thanks. But please go in now and see if you can calm him down. He knows something’s going on and he wants to hear all about it.”
The nurse went into Graffer’s room, while Liz followed the sound of loud bass voices to the room that had been Homer Hatch’s.
Dr. Frayne was there, and Sister Ursula, and two men in uniform. They paid no attention to Liz. The short and wiry policeman was talking to the doctor.
“And nobody around this place ever seen this Joe before today?” he asked.
“No one,” Dr. Frayne said. “It was pure chance that the Housing Bureau should have sent him here.”
The officer turned to the nun. “And you still insist this ain’t no suicide?”
“I do,” said Sister Ursula firmly.
“Look, Sister. Accordin’ to you, inside an hour after he gets a room here, he makes a total stranger mad enough to kill him. The mysterious stranger has strychnine somewheres, and this dope obligingly ups and drinks it. Now I ask you does that make sense?”
“Patience is one of the seven cardinal virtues,” Sister Ursula answered with a sigh. “In this instance, I fear time will show I am correct.”
“Huh?”
“I was simply reminding myself. Let me tell you again, officer, when I saw the man this afternoon there was no liquor on his breath. When I saw him dead there was a pronounced smell of whisky. Dr. Frayne will corroborate me.”
“So what? He took one to give himself some Dutch courage.”
“And what did he drink it out of? There is no glass here.”
“Look, Sister. Not everybody’s so polite they got to drink out of a glass.”
“Then where is the flask or bottle or whatever he had?”
“Maybe he got really good and mellow and heaved it out the window.”
“Better search for it before you dismiss this as suicide. If you don’t find it, admit that someone must have been drinking with him, and that someone carried away the flask or glasses. No one in this house confesses to having visited Hatch.”
The policeman was heavily patient. “Sister, you been reading stuff they hadn’t ought to let get into convents. This poor sap comes here to bump himself off in peace and quiet. So let him. Leave him alone. Chuck, you go phone the coroner’s office and let ’em cart him to the morgue.”
The doorbell rang just as Sister Ursula started to speak. Liz thought hastily of where the others were, and concluded answering doorbells was her job. She turned toward the hall.
“I should warn you that, with the family’s permission, I intend to report this death to the proper authorities,” she heard Sister Ursula say as she left the room.
CHAPTER VI
Descending the stairs, Liz reached the front door and opened it. The man there promptly kissed her.
“Good evening, darling,” said Detective-lieutenant Ben Latimer.
“Oh, Ben! My! I am glad to see you!”
Ben looked at her upturned face, smiled, and kissed her again. Then he released her reluctantly.
“Fun’s fun, but what’s been going on here?” he asked.
“I don’t know. It’s all so confused. But maybe you can help me. Mother went and told the Housing Bureau that we could rent a room to a defense worker. Then she forgot all about it and today, in the midst of everything, he showed up, and now he’s dead and—my, it’s even got me talking like Mother.”
“Dead? Uh—naturally?”
“We don’t know. Sister Ursula was talking about notifying Homicide, but now you’re here, there’s no necessity for that.” She stopped short.
“What’s the matter?”
“You’re here.”
“Yes?”
“But why? It’s marvelous and just when we need you; but how could you know?”
Ben grinned. “Fine chance for an act, isn’t it? I could spin you a nice convincing story about a detective’s intuition. But no mirrors are needed, darling. It’s all perfectly straight-forward. My men, who were watching the house, saw the patrol car drive up and thought I ought to be told about it.”
“Your men, of course! I almost forgot them. Did they see any strangers around?” Liz had a crawling premonition of what their presence might disclose. “But come on upstairs. Now that you’re here I feel as if everything’s going to turn out all right.”
The two men in uniform were leaving Hatch’s room. The short policeman recognized Latimer and stopped.
“Nothing for you, sir,” he said. “Suicide, even if that good Sister in there does insist—”
Ben interrupted him. “Come on back inside with me while I take a look.”
Liz tried to keep her eyes from the bed as she made introductions. “Sister Ursula, this is Lieutenant Latimer. Dr. Frayne, you know Ben?”
The doctor nodded. “Of course. Glad you came, my boy. We need the professional mind.”
“Sister Ursula?” Ben repeated musingly. “Sister, do you know Terence Marshall, on the Los Angeles force?”
“Very well. In fact, I’m his daughter’s godmother.”
Ben turned to the men in uniform. “I think you might pay some attention to what she says. I met Marshall while I was down south on the Rothmann matter. He told me that the two toughest cases in his entire career had been broken by his friend, Sister Ursula.”
The short policeman’s eyes boggled.
“Sister Ursula—Jeeze!” he said. “So it’s her! Yeah, I know.”
“Please, Lieutenant,” said Sister Ursula.
“I’ve simply taken an interest in Lieutenant Marshall’s cases because my father, God rest his soul, was a chief of police back in Iowa. There was a time when I almost became a policewoman myself and naturally I was interested. It also made it impossible for me to remain silent when I knew there was something very wrong.”
“Of course,” Ben said. “Now will somebody give me a clear idea of just what happened?”
He listened to Dr. Frayne’s terse, clear account, occasionally nodding or frowning. At the end he said:
“To sum up—pending the findings of an autopsy, we can assume that this man died of strychnine poisoning. Natural or accidental death is therefore out. Suicide and murder remain, but are equally unlikely. Until we investigate his past, we can’t speak of motives, but renting a room through the Housing Bureau for the purpose of having a place to gulp down strychnine doesn’t seem plausible. Yet as to murder—he’s a stranger to everybody here, and his coming was purest chance, unless some enemy had trailed him to this house.
“But he’s dead. So murder or suicide it must be. And the one piece of evidence pointing either way is the fact that he had a drink of whisky from a vanished container.”
“That’s what I told you, Lieutenant,” the shorter man in uniform persisted. “There ain’t a thing to show it was murder.”
“But there isn’t a thing to let you write it off so easily as suicide, either,” Ben answered. “Further investigation is indicated. I want a look. Would you like to leave Sister, or Liz?”
Liz couldn’t move. She stood rooted—fascinated—while Ben Latimer walked over to the bed. He pulled down the sheet, and her throat went dry as she saw Hatch’s sardonic smile again, those stringy locks of hair, those yellow teeth. Ben stooped over the bed, then abruptly straightened up, with something in his hand.
“I don’t think there’s much doubt of murder, now,” he said slowly. “This is a case for the Homicide Department, all right. Doctor, you examined the body?”
“Yes. When I thought it might be tetanus—looking for a wound—focus of infection.”
“And did you notice this?” Ben held up what he had found so all could see it. It was a small rumpled oblong sheet of white paper.
“There was a scrap of paper like that on the bed, yes,” Frayne said. “The body was partly rolled over on it. Didn’t notice what it was. Thought it was a farewell note.”
Ben turned the paper so Liz and Sister Ursula could observe it. It bore nothing but the outline of a clenched fist, with the index finger extended.
Liz looked up at Ben Latimer. For years he had been a friend, and for almost a year he had been the man she loved and was going to marry. Now he was a detective, working on a case. His lips, his eyes, the set of his jaw—everything about him was new and unfamiliar to her.
This strange Lieutenant Latimer turned to the short policeman. “You’ll relieve him until I can get more men out here. You,” he added to the other officer, “round up all the people in this house and take them to the drawing-room, downstairs.”
“But Ben,” Liz protested. “You can’t go sending a man around into all these rooms. Graffer’s sick, and the shock might be fatal. And I don’t know if Mother’s come to yet. She found the body.”
“Very well. I’ll give you that job, Liz. Round everybody up.”
“Miss Kramer will have to stay with her patient, Judge Cain,” Dr. Frayne broke in authoritatively. “I will not permit him to be left alone.”
“All right.” Ben gave his assent impatiently. “Officer, I’ll leave you here with the body until the boys come. Dr. Frayne, Sister—you will please go down to the drawing-room and wait for me.”
He left the room. Liz followed him. She felt helpless, caught up in something vast and stern and machinelike. An hour earlier domestic life had been chaotic, but at least it had been familiar. Now a stranger had died, and everything was changed. The police were in charge and they were giving orders, and she had her job to do. Round them up, he had said, as though her people were so many cattle.
But it would keep her occupied. It would be something which might efface the haunting memory of Hatch’s bared teeth and grotesque smile.
Liz received two surprises during the roundup. The first came when she found Uncle Brian visiting in Roger Garvey’s room. This was totally unexpected and a complete reversal of Uncle Brian’s ideas of social propriety. He had never bothered to conceal his dislike and distrust of Graffer’s secretary. The antagonism between the two men was evident even now, when Liz opened the door to their call and delivered her message.
They had been talking—Liz could see that. Brian Cain had been chewing on a cigar and glowering, while Roger Garvey was looking pale and distraught. It was the first time Liz had ever seen the secretary when he didn’t seem sure of himself.
“In the drawing-room?” Uncle Brian said, rising to his feet. “Sure. I’ll come with you, right now.”
“I’ll be along in a minute or so,” said Roger.
It was Uncle Brian who closed the door. As he walked down the hallway with Liz, he muttered aloud:
“I can’t see how Father tolerates that young upstart. His ideas are all twisted.”
“I don’t think he talks much about them to Graffer.”
“The nerve of him—asking me for a job! Why is he so anxious to get out of this house all of a sudden? I don’t understand it.”
The second surprise Liz was to remember came when she stopped to tell Miss Kramer to remain with Graffer until relieved. Sherry was also in the room, so Liz took her down the hall to sit for a while with Mrs. Cain.
“You’ll watch after Mother, won’t you, Sherry?” Liz said. “Later, when she wakes up, you can bring her downstairs to the drawing-room, if you feel she’s up to it. Ben Latimer wants to question her.”
Sherry nodded. Then she said slowly, “So Ben is here.”
Liz said, “Yes.”
“You said ‘Ben Latimer wants’ as though it were—oh, just anybody.”
“That’s the way he is now. He’s different, all of a sudden.”
“But he’s there. Ah!”
Sherry turned away, crossed the room to the window, and stood looking out with her back to Liz.
CHAPTER VII
Slowly Liz walked downstairs to the drawing-room. There she found Dr. Frayne, Sister Ursula, Roger Garvey, and Uncle Brian gathered in a group, waiting for Ben Latimer. They did not talk much. They were silent and nervous. And all the time the golden hands of the marble clock, on the huge old-fashioned mantel, kept ticking noisily along, just as if nothing at all were happening.
“But why here?” Liz thought, and was amazed to discover she had spoken aloud.
Dr. Frayne jumped. “What do you mean, Liz?”
“I mean, whoever killed Hatch. Why should he follow Hatch here?”
“Nobody killed Hatch.” It was Uncle Brian who spoke. He was still skeptical.
“But if someone did, why did he choose this house? It’s strange, with Graffer so sick and Sherry arriving on a visit.”
Sister Ursula said, “There was a reason.” It was hard to tell whether it was a theoretical remark or deduction.
Ben came in then. Or rather Detective-lieutenant Latimer came in.
“I’ve talked to Sergeant Verdi,” he said. “There isn’t much else I can do until the squad gets here, except talk to you. Perhaps I may be able to turn up something that will give the squad a lead. That room used to be Judge Cain’s, didn’t it?”
“Until this morning,” Liz said.
“So that anything we find there, from prints to the traditional gold cuff links, might reasonably belong there. They are either his or those of visitors who called on your grandfather?”
“Lieutenant!” said Brian Cain, suddenly.
“Yes, Mr. Cain?”
Uncle Brian had a sudden light in his eyes. “If that poor devil Hatch was in my father’s room, perhaps somebody made a mistake—a perfectly natural one, under the circumstances. The Judge changed his room only today.”
Liz uttered a gasp. “I see what you mean.” She looked at Ben Latimer. “It was the Fist, Ben. Remember those threatening notes? It fits. They thought Hatch was Graffer.”
“Ingenious,” Ben said dryly. “And it might make good sense if Hatch had been, say, shot through the window. But a murderer who could get close enough to Homer Hatch to poison him and still be unable to distinguish him from your grandfather must be a curious individual. I’d like to meet him.”
“How did the poison get into the room?” Uncle Brian asked.
His question aroused a doubt in Liz’s mind also. It was odd about the poison. How had it gotten into the room? The more she thought of it, the more puzzled she became.
“That’s right,” she said. “It is mysterious. How was the poison put into Hatch’s room? Was it by some strange method? You read about poison wallpaper, pillows, and things like that. Could it have been something similar?”
Dr. Frayne emitted a snort of disgust.
“No.” Ben shook his head at Liz. “Strychnine gas doesn’t explain it either. Hatch was poisoned in the normal manner. Somebody gave him poisoned whisky. Which means, in all likelihood, that he knew and trusted his murderer and would accept a drink from him. You still maintain that none of you knew him?”
The silence was sufficient answer.
“And no one recognized him after Mr. Cain showed him to his room?”
Again there was silence. Liz happened to be watching Roger Garvey. She wondered what that quick puzzled contraction of his features meant, and whether Ben also had noticed it.
Dr. Frayne said, “Then you’re sure that it’s murder?”
“Not sure, no. But sure that it deserves investigation. If my man can’t find a whisky bottle within throwing range of that window, I’ll be morally certain he didn’t kill himself. Then again there’s the Fist. That we should find that symbol of death and revenge beside a suicide is asking too much of coincidence.”
The Big Book of Female Detectives Page 129