The Big Book of Female Detectives

by The Big Book of Female Detectives (retail) (epub)

  “Are you suggesting there were two victims in the same house?” Liz exclaimed in shocked tones. “I mean two persons condemned to death by the Fist?”

  Uncle Brian started. “What on earth are you driving at, Liz? Two? Has someone else here had trouble with the Fists?” He seemed to understand abruptly. “Oh!”

  Ben nodded. “Today your father sent word to me by Liz that he’d been threatened. He asked me to put a guard on the house. And that brings me to the most important point in this case.”

  He paused. At that moment the door slid back and Sherry appeared, helping Mrs. Cain into the room.

  They stood near the doorway for an instant. There was a lamp on a low table beside Sherry, throwing its light upward at an oblique angle, giving that oval face a quality at once both ethereal and human. Yes, Sherry was beautiful.

  Ben turned and faced her. For a terrible moment Liz held her breath. They’d met again now, under strange and frightening circumstances. What would Ben do? What would he say?

  Lieutenant Latimer spoke curtly. “Good. Now we’re all here. Sit down, please.”

  Uncle Brian hardly waited for his sister-in-law to settle herself. “Well, Lieutenant? What is this important point you mentioned?”

  “I complied with your father’s request for protection,” Ben said slowly. “I sent two good men out here. They’re experts, both of them, and this house is simple to watch from a spotter’s viewpoint. The two of them have had it constantly covered.”

  “Yes?”

  “They got here shortly before Hatch arrived. Verdi saw him go up the steps and was preparing to intervene when Mrs. Cain apparently welcomed him. They’ve been on guard ever since. No one has entered or left this house.”

  The clock ticked very loudly while the group assimilated that explanation. It was Dr. Frayne who summed it up.

  “That shows that the murderer got here before Hatch and was here waiting for him?”

  “Yes,” Ben said.

  “And he’s still here?”

  “He’s still here,” Ben replied.

  Uncle Brian was on his feet. “Then we’ve got to search this house from top to bottom. We’ve got him trapped. If he tries to sneak out, your men will get him. He hasn’t got a chance.”

  “We’ll postpone the searching party till my squad gets here,” Ben said.

  His voice, however, told how slight was his hope of their finding anything.

  “I’ll take the women first,” Ben continued. “After that they can go to bed and get some rest. Mrs. Cain, will you come to the library with me? Sergeant Verdi can remain with the rest of you.”

  He paused in the doorway and added, “Maybe you’d better come with us, Liz.”

  Liz smiled to herself. She understood the suggestion; anyone interviewing her mother would need an interpreter.

  But there was nothing to interpret. Out of all the blithe chaos of her mother’s remarks, out of all the dissertations on domestic problems and all the questions from Mrs. Vansittart on the Housing Situation, there emerged not a single fact beyond what was already known. Mrs. Vansittart had been responsible for Hatch’s arrival. Apparently it was purest chance that he, rather than any other stranger, should have been sent by the Housing Bureau.

  “So you see, Ben, it was all just fate,” Mrs. Cain concluded. “Why don’t you go home, take a hot bath and get a good night’s sleep? Because you can’t arrest fate, can you?”

  Ben nodded to himself as Mrs. Cain left. “The damnedest thing is that in a way she’s right. Call it fate, call it circumstance, call it the pure cussedness of things, but too many times a detective discovers a criminal is almost guiltless of his own crime. Since you can’t arrest the true causes, you nab some poor dope because there has to be an arrest. Now tell me what you know, Liz.”

  Liz found that she was hardly more helpful than her mother. A stranger had come to the house and died there. That was all she knew.

  When she had finished her futile contribution, she studied the face of the detective-lieutenant.

  “Ben,” she said.

  “Yes?”

  “Will you tell me what you think about this?”

  Ben hesitated. “If it wasn’t for that Fist, I might ignore even Sister Ursula’s point about the bottle,” he admitted. “The whole situation is unique—such an unlikely set-up for murder. But I can’t disregard the Fist. And I can’t get what we know to make sense either. Poisoning Hatch by mistake for your grandfather is impossible, but the Fist angle positively connects Hatch’s death with these threats. I’ve got to plow through this until I turn up the explanation.”

  There was a knock at the door, and Sergeant Verdi came in. He was tall for an Italian, and his body was built along generous lines. Now, obviously, he found it awkward to maintain a professional attitude in front of Liz whom he had met a dozen times before as the “Loot’s” girl friend.

  “The squad’s here,” he said. “You want to talk to ’em before they start in?”

  Ben rose. “I guess that’s all we’re apt to get out of you, Liz. Go catch yourself some sleep while the search goes on.”

  “What about Graffer?” she said. “Hadn’t I better look in his room myself? If the squad goes bursting in there, he might get excited.”

  “Right. I’ll send a man with you to stay outside within easy earshot. And here. You might need this.” He handed her his service automatic.

  CHAPTER VIII

  The men from Homicide were waiting in the front hall. Ben gave them their instructions briefly. They were to search every inch of hiding place in the house. But before they could set off, Sister Ursula entered the hall from the drawing-room.

  “Lieutenant!” she called out sharply.

  Sergeant Verdi had followed her in. His sheepish face and his clumsily gesticulating hands seemed to say, “I know I should’ve stopped her, but you can’t lay hands on a nun, can you?”

  Ben grinned at him. “All right, Sergeant,” he said. “What is it, Sister?”

  “Are you sending your search party into old Mr. Cain’s room?”

  “No. Miss Cain thought of that; she’s taking that room herself.”

  The nun sighed with relief. “Thank God! And thank you, Felicity.”

  “Hooker, you go with Miss Cain, and do whatever she says,” Ben said. “And since you’re here, Sister, I’ll take you next.”

  The lanky, gangling Hooker talked cheerfully as he and Liz went upstairs.

  “Want some gum, Miss? Always helps me concentrate when I’m working and I ain’t supposed to smoke. Used to buy gum by the carton, I did, until we got into this here shortage. Got this pack from a soldier. Give him a lift across the bridge and he says to me, ‘Guess a pack of gum is the least we can do to help the morale on the home front!’ ”

  Liz hardly heard him. The automatic she was still holding seemed to weigh tons. It felt awkward and strange in her left hand. Because of her interest in aviation, she understood engines, and her hands had developed a knack with machines, but firearms were something else again. If she had to use this weapon, she wondered what she would do.

  Also, her mind fretted over Sister Ursula’s sudden appearance in the hall. Of course, it was important that Graffer shouldn’t be disturbed or shocked. But the nun had seemed to lay more importance on it than simply that. There had been worried tension on her usually smooth face. The nun had thought of something. It was not obvious. It was some new and perilous reason why the police must not penetrate the bedchamber.

  She reached Graffer’s room. Here there was peace. Outside the door Hooker took his post, a living symbol of the new strangeness that had invaded the house. Across the hall was the room where Homer Hatch still lay grinning. But here there was only an old man calmly asleep and a nurse seated under a shaded reading lamp. Miss Kramer looked
up and said, “Sh!” to Liz.

  Yet this peaceful room was somehow the focus of all that new strangeness. For the threat of the Fists had been directed at this room, and the sign of the Fists had tied into Hatch’s death. With her body Liz shielded the automatic from Miss Kramer’s eyes, but she held a firm and ready grip on it.

  Searching the room was simple. There were only a couple of places to look—the closet and the window recess. Both were empty. The nurse watched Liz curiously, but her sleeping patient kept her from asking questions.

  The bed was a low one. There could be no hiding place underneath. This room was safe.

  Liz returned to the hall, thanked Hooker, and went downstairs again. Catch some sleep, Ben had said. But who could sleep while murder stalked near at hand?

  Liz saw Sister Ursula come out of the library, and hurried toward her. She had questions to ask.

  “Sister, why were you so worried about having the squad search Graffer’s room?”

  “How are you fixed here for cocoa?” the nun replied.

  “Why, I think we have some.”

  “One never knows, nowadays, if anyone has anything. Would you like to join me in the kitchen for a hot cup? We can talk better there,” she added.

  “Thanks. I think I’d better give this gun back to Ben first. See you in a minute.” She knocked on the library door and went in.

  She made a left-handed mock salute and said, “Special Agent Cain reporting, sir. No one in Graffer’s bedroom. And here is the sidearm issued to me.”

  Ben took it and held it tentatively in his hands. “You wouldn’t like to keep it?”

  “Why?”

  “You’re the most sensible and capable person I know here.”

  Liz could not conceal her astonishment. “But why should I need it?”

  “If the squad flushes this murderer, there could be trouble,” Ben said. “He mightn’t like being arrested. And if they don’t flush him, you might feel better if you have it.”

  He hadn’t said what he really meant. He didn’t need to. “If they don’t flush him, then you’re living with a murderer,” was his implication.

  Liz shook her head. “Thanks. I’ll make out.”

  “As you please.” He looked down at three almost blank sheets of paper before him. “I’ll take Sherry next, and doubtless will continue to learn precisely nothing. Will you please send her in?”

  Out in the kitchen with Sister Ursula, the cocoa was hot and rich and soothing.

  “You’re wise, Sister,” Liz said. “You know what people need.”

  “I’m afraid I know very little,” said Sister Ursula. “But I must confess, to avoid the appearance of false modesty, that my guesses have a very high average of success.”

  “Sister,” Liz began, then stopped in embarrassment.

  “Yes?”

  “What is a novice?”

  The nun looked surprised. “I thought you were going to ask me about the murder.”

  “Later. But what is a novice?”

  “Why, I suppose you might say a novice is an apprentice nun, an undergraduate of the Order.”

  “Just—just in training for it? Not really one yet?” Liz felt her face flush. Also, to her mortification, she had stumbled over the words.

  “Not really, no.” Sister Ursula’s eyes had begun to twinkle. She was shrewd, clever. How much had she guessed? How much did she know? How well did she understand?

  “And if she changes her mind?” Liz went on.

  “Then she does as her changed mind indicates.”

  “But I thought novices had to go through with it.”

  Sister Ursula smiled. “I’m not surprised. You’ve heard stories of the unwilling novices and bitter frustrated lives, to say nothing of the juicier tales of immurings. But girls who become nuns against their will are forced into it by their parents or by circumstances, certainly not by the Order. It wouldn’t make sense. The Army exempts conscientious objectors and neurotics and others, not so much out of kindness, but simply because they’d make very bad soldiers. We feel the same way. A woman who became a nun against her will would be useless to the Order.”

  “Then Sherry can still change her mind!” Liz took a deep breath and sipped more cocoa. “Now, please tell me about Graffer.”

  “There isn’t anything to tell. I don’t know anything. But I did think of a possible new motive for the death of poor Mr. Hatch.”

  “Why was he killed?”

  “Suppose he was murdered by the Fists, as their trademark indicates. Why should they kill Hatch for revenge, and not your grandfather? Could killing him have been a device—a step in an elaborate plan? What was the result of Hatch’s death?”

  “I don’t know. We don’t know anything about Hatch.”

  The nun smiled. “I realize that. But what is the one result that we know? Something went wrong. The police found out about it too quick. His death brought the Homicide Squad into this house and gave them unlimited access to every room.”

  She paused. Liz slowly assimilated the nun’s meaning, though her mind was still distracted by earlier thoughts. “But what was their plan, in the first place?”

  “I know my theory leaves too much unexplained. It isn’t even, I’m afraid, one of my better guesses. But outside enemies must be taken into consideration, and guarded against.”

  Liz nodded. But she kept thinking, “Ben and Sherry are alone together. And nothing is irrevocable.”

  Roger Garvey came in just then. The secretary had changed even in the brief time since Liz last had seen him. His fine regular features looked drawn and pale, and his fingers were twitching.

  Liz looked up and said, “Hello.”

  “Sergeant Verdi said I might come out here.” He seemed nervously anxious to justify himself. “Your uncle wants a drink and I was the only one who knew where to get the liquor.” He crossed the room to the cellar door and hesitated. “Did they—have they made certain the cellar is all right?”

  “I believe the usual routine is to start at the top of the house,” said Sister Ursula. “I doubt if they’ve searched the cellar yet.”

  “Oh!” Roger’s hand faltered on the knob. But at last he gathered courage and went clattering down the cellar steps.

  “It isn’t comfortable, living in a house with murder,” Liz said. “I’ve never seen Roger so nervous.”

  Sister Ursula frowned. “That young man isn’t nervous. He’s mortally afraid.”

  Roger Garvey soon came back with a bottle of whisky. “Would either of you care for some?”

  The women shook their heads, so he poured himself a good four ounces and gulped them with a haste that was an insult to the label on the bottle. He stood still a moment and let the shudder run through him. Then he straightened up.

  “Sister Ursula,” he said, “you know a great deal about murder, don’t you?”

  “I have had a little experience.”

  “Then tell me. Tonight, in this house, is there going to be another killing?”

  The nun framed her words cautiously. “It is hard to say. The pattern is thus far so unclear that it’s impossible to tell what the murderer’s next step must be. It is conceivable, perhaps even possible. Why?”

  “I’ve got to get out of here,” he said, almost to himself. “Because there will be another. I didn’t even need you to tell me. I knew it all the time. But I wanted to hear you say so.”

  “What do you mean?” Sister Ursula demanded. “You assert you know all this?”

  “Of course. Because you see, I’m to be the victim.” He poured another quick one, gulped it, and hurried from the room, paying no attention to the nun’s attempt to detain him.

  “I don’t understand why he said that,” Liz mused. “Earlier this evening, Uncle Brian was
telling me how anxious Roger seemed to get out of this house. But why should he think he’s in danger?”

  The kitchen extension of the phone rang. At the second ring, Liz rose to her feet.

  “With everybody tied up maybe I’d better answer it,” she said. She crossed the room.

  CHAPTER IX

  Someone else on another extension in the house got on the phone just as Liz picked up the receiver. She was about to replace it, then curiosity prevented her, for she had heard an official-sounding voice say, “Latimer?”

  “Speaking,” Ben answered.

  “We’ve collared Vitelli,” the voice said. “Rather, the Feds grabbed him. Jumping parole and sending death-threats don’t count for much, but he forgot to notify his draft board of his new address. So the Feds moved in and tracked him down, and he tried to shoot it out. That was a mistake.”

  She heard Ben say, “Dead?” There was disappointment in his voice.

  “Dying, maybe. If you want his statement about those notes, you’d better hustle down to the hospital pronto.”

  The vocabulary of Ben’s comments indicated that the novice Sherry was no longer in the room.

  “All right,” he concluded. “Be there in fifteen minutes.”

  Liz heard the wire click and hung up, too. She found Sister Ursula looking at her reproachfully.

  “Murder has a shocking effect on the character, as De Quincey pointed out,” the nun said. “And you’re reduced to eavesdropping?”

  “I’m glad I did. Now I know what to do next.”

  Sister Ursula paused a moment. “I shan’t ask you,” she said. “But from what I’ve seen and heard of you, Felicity, I know that inaction is the most unbearable of tortures for you. If you’ve found something to do—do it and God bless you.”

  “Thanks, Sister.” Liz smiled, and felt a little more like herself.

  The only way to do this was openly, so openly that nothing could be suspected.