The Big Book of Female Detectives

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

  “Go on. Go on,” the doctor said.

  I know how to make them believe me, too. This will be neat! I’ll tell Uncle John first, and I’ll mix into the story I tell him all the little bits I got from her that he doesn’t know I’ve been told. So, since they’ll be true, he’ll be fooled, and think I really remember. Then I’ll go to her, but in the story I tell her, all I have to do is mix in the bits I got from Uncle John that she doesn’t know I’ve been told. It’ll work! Ha, they’ll never catch on to the trick of it. They’ll believe me! Then they can get together, if they still want to. I’m not worried about telling a kind of lie about it. If anybody official starts asking questions I can always shudder, and be too young and tender, and clam up.

  Get it exactly right. Make lists.

  Russell looked up. “Meredith’s good at math, I suppose?”

  “A plus,” her uncle groaned. “She scares me.”

  Russell nodded and began to read again.

  List No. 1. For Uncle John. Things she told me.

  1. Warm night. Full moon.

  2. The elm tree that used to be there.

  3. The gun was found in the hedge.

  4. Harry didn’t yell.

  Now, put all these points in. Future dialogue. By Meredith Lee.

  M.L.: Oh, Uncle John, I do remember now!

  Uncle John: What?

  (Whoops! Since this is in the future, I better not write his dialogue. It might confuse me.)

  M.L.: I was up in my room, thinking, and I began to hum that tune. That Danny Boy. It made the whole thing come back to me like a dream. Now I remember waking up on my cot and hearing that whistling. I peeked out between my railings. The moon was very bright that night. It was warm, too, real summer. I could see the elm tree by the Corcorans’ walk. (Pause. Bewildered.) Which elm tree, Uncle John? There’s none there now. Was there an elm tree, seven years ago?

  (Ha, ha, that’ll do it!)

  I saw a man come up their walk. I must have heard the shot. I thought somebody had a firecracker left over from Fourth of July. I saw the man fall down but he didn’t make any noise, so I didn’t think he was hurt. I thought he fell asleep.

  (What a touch! Whee!)

  Then I saw there was another man, down there, and he threw something into the hedge. The hedge crackled where it landed. Then this man jumped through their gate and ran, and then you came out of this house…

  (By this time the stuffing should be coming out of Uncle John.)

  I’ll say I don’t know who the stranger was. “But it wasn’t you, Uncle John,” I’ll say, “and the widow Corcoran’s been thinking so for seven years and I’m going to tell her…”

  Then I’ll run out of the house as fast as I can.

  He’ll follow—he’ll absolutely have to!

  Russell looked up. “Was it anything like that?”

  “It was almost exactly like that,” said John Selby, lifting his tired, anxious face. “And I did follow. She was right about that. I absolutely had to.”

  “Smart,” said Chief Barker, smacking his lips, “the way she worked that out.”

  “Too smart,” the doctor said, and then, “Nurse? Yes?” He went quickly through the door.

  “My sister will skin me alive,” said John Selby, rousing himself. “Kid’s had me jumping through hoops. Who am I to deal with the likes of her? Looks at me with those big brown eyes. Can’t tell whether you’re talking to a baby or a woman. Everything I did was a mistake. I never had the least idea what she was thinking. You’re smart about people, Russell—that’s why I need you. I feel as if I’d been through a wind-tunnel. Help me with Meredith. I feel terrible about the whole thing, and if she’s seriously hurt and I’m responsible…”

  “You say you don’t understand young people,” began Russell, “but even if you did, this young person…”

  “You take it too hard, John,” said Chief Barker impatiently. “Doc doesn’t think she’s hurt too seriously. And she got herself into it, after all. Listen, go on. What did she say to the widow? That’s what I need to know. Is it in there?”

  “It must be,” said Russell. “She made another list.”

  List No. 2. For the widow. Things Uncle John told me.

  1. Harry was whistling Danny Boy.

  2. He came in the direction that passed this house.

  3. He was drunk.

  4. He dropped his key.

  Not so good. Yes it is, too. What woke her? She doesn’t know, but I do! Future dialogue:

  M.L.: Oh, Mrs. Corcoran, I think I’m beginning to remember! I really think so! Listen, I think I heard a man whistling. And it was that song about Danny Boy. And he was walking from the east, past our house. Would it have been your husband?

  (Ha! She’s going to have to say Yes!)

  And he…it seems to me that he didn’t walk right. He wobbled. He wobbled up your walk and he dropped something. Maybe a key. It must have been a key because I saw him bending over to hunt for it but…

  (Artistic pause here? I think so.)

  Oh, now I remember! He straightened up. He couldn’t have found it because he called out something. It was a name! It must have been…Oh, Mrs. Corcoran, could it have been your name, being called in the night, that woke you up?

  (Betcha! Betcha!)

  Well the rest of hers goes on the same. Stranger, throws gun, runs away, just as Uncle John comes out. “So it wasn’t you,” I’ll say, “and I can prove it! But poor Uncle John has been afraid it was.”

  Then what? I guess maybe I’d better start to bawl.

  Yep. I think that will do it. I think that’s pretty good. They’re bound to believe me. Of course, the two stories are not identical, but they can’t be. They’ll never notice the trick of it. They’ll just have to be convinced that it wasn’t either one of them who shot Harry Corcoran. I can’t wait to see what will happen. What will they do? What will they say? Oh-ho-ho, is this ever research! I better cry soft enough so I can hear and memorize.

  When shall I try it? I can’t wait! Now is a good time. Uncle John is in the library and she’s home. I can see a light upstairs in her house. Here goes, then.

  (N.B. Would I rather be an actress? Consider this. M.L.)

  The lawyer closed the book. “That’s all.” He put his hand to his eyes but his mouth was curving tenderly.

  “Some scheme,” said Barker in awe. “Went to a lot of trouble to work up all that plot…”

  “She had a powerful motive,” Russell murmured.

  “My romance,” said Selby bitterly.

  “Oh, no. Research for her,” the lawyer grinned.

  “Whatever the motive, this remarkable kid went and faked those stories and she had it wrong,” growled Barker. “But she must have got something right. Do you realize that?” He leaned into the light. “Selby, as far as you were concerned, you believed that rigmarole of hers. You thought she did remember the night of the killing and she had seen a stranger?”

  “I did,” John Selby said, sounding calmer. “I was considerably shaken. I had always suspected Josephine Corcoran, for reasons of my own.”

  “Lots of us suspected,” the Chief said dryly, “for various reasons. But never could figure how she managed, with you rushing out to the scene so fast and the maid in the upstairs hall.”

  “What were your reasons, John?” Russell asked.

  “In particular, there was a certain oblique conversation that took place in the course of a flirtation that appalls me, now. It seemed to me, one evening, that she was thinking that the death of her husband might be desirable—and might be arranged. I can’t quote her exactly, you understand, but the hint was there. She thought him stupid and cruel and intolerable, and the hint was that if he were dead and gone she’d be clean. The shallow, callous, self-ri
ghteous…the idea! As if her life should rightfully be cleared of him with no more compunction than if he’d been…well, a wart on her hand.” He held his head again. “Now, how is a man going to explain to his fifteen-year-old niece just what makes him think a woman is wicked? The feeling you get, that emanates from the brain and body?” He groaned. “That little talk pulled me out of my folly, believe me. That’s when I shied off and began to let the hedge grow. When you realize that not long after that he did die, you’ll see how I’ve lived with the memory of that conversation for seven years. Wondering. Was I right about what she had in mind and did I perhaps not recoil enough? Had I not sufficiently discouraged the…the idea? There was no evidence. There was nothing. But I’ve had a burden close to guilt and I’ve stayed on my side of the hedge, believe me, and begun to study to stuff a shirt.” He groaned again and shifted in the chair. “When I thought the child had really seen a stranger with that gun, I was stunned. As soon as I realized where Meredith had gone…”

  “You followed. You saw them through the widow’s front door?” The Chief was reassembling this testimony.

  “Yes. I could see them. At the top of the stairs. Mrs. Corcoran standing by the newel post and Meredith talking earnestly to her.”

  “You couldn’t hear?”

  “No, unfortunately. But if Meredith had rehearsed it, if she stuck to her script, then we must have it here.”

  “If it’s there, I don’t get it.” Chief Barker passed his hand over his face. “Now, suddenly, you say—in the middle of the girl’s story—the widow yelled something that you could hear?”

  “She yelled, ‘I told you to keep out of this, you nosy brat!’ And then she pushed Meredith violently enough to send her rolling down the stairs.” Selby began to breathe heavily.

  “And you got through the door…”

  “By the time I got through the door, she was on the girl like a wildcat. She was frantic. She meant to hurt her.” John Selby glared.

  “So you plucked the widow off her prey and called us for help? Did Mrs. Corcoran try to explain at all?” Russell inquired.

  “She put out hysterical cries. ‘Poor dear! Poor darling!’ But she meant to hurt Meredith. I heard. I saw. I know. And she knows that I know.”

  “Yes, the widow gave herself away,” said Russell. “She was wicked, all right.”

  “So we’ve got her,” the Chief growled, “for the assault on Meredith. Also, we know darned well she shot her husband seven years ago. But she won’t talk. What I need,” the Chief was anxious, “is to figure out what it was that set her off. What did the kid say that made her nerve crack? I can’t see it. I just don’t get it.”

  The doctor had been standing quietly in the door. Now he said, “Maybe Meredith can tell us. She’s all right. Almost as good as new, I’d say.”

  John Selby was on his feet. So was Chief Barker. “Selby, you go first,” the doctor advised. “No questions for the first minute or two.”

  The Chief turned and sighed. “Beats me.”

  Russell said, “One thing, Harry Corcoran never called out his wife’s name in the night. Selby, who heard a whistle, would have heard such a cry.”

  “Do I see what you’re getting at?” said Barker shrewdly. “It shows the kid didn’t get that far in the story or the widow would have known she was story-telling.”

  “She certainly didn’t get as far as any guilty stranger, or the widow would have been delighted. Let’s see.”

  “There was something….”

  “Was it the tune? No, that’s been known. Selby told that long ago. Was it Harry’s drunkenness? No, because medical evidence exists. Couldn’t be that.”

  “For the Lord’s sakes, let’s ask her,” the Chief said.

  They went through the door. The nurse had effaced herself watchfully. Four men stood around the bed. Doctor, Lawyer, Merchant, Chief…

  Young Meredith Lee looked very small, lying against the pillow with her brown hair pressed back by the bandages, her freckles sharpened by the pallor of her face, her big brown eyes round and shocked.

  “How do you feel, honey?” rumbled the Chief.

  “She pushed me down.” Meredith’s voice was a childish whimper.

  Her Uncle John patted the bed and said compulsively, “There, Meredith. There now…”

  “Don’t say that,” the Chief put in with a chuckle. “It just annoys her.”

  The girl saw her notebook in Russell’s hands. She winced and for a flash her eyes narrowed and something behind the child face was busy reassessing the situation.

  “Miss Lee,” said the lawyer pleasantly, “my name is Russell. I’m a friend of your Uncle John’s. I’m the one who ferreted out your notes. I hope you’ll forgive us for reading them. Thanks to you, now we know how wicked the widow was seven years ago.”

  “I only pretended,” said Meredith in a thin treble. “I was only eight. I don’t really remember anything at all.” She shrank in the bed, very young and tender.

  Her uncle said, “We know how you pretended. I…I had no idea you were so smart.”

  “That was some stunt,” the doctor said.

  “Very clever,” the lawyer said, “the two stories as you worked them out.”

  “You’re quite a story-teller, honey,” chimed in Chief Barker.

  On the little girl’s face something struggled and lost. Meredith gave them one wild indignant look of pure outraged intelligence before her face crumpled. “I am not either!” she bawled. “I’m not any good! I got it all wrong! Didn’t get the plot right. Didn’t get the characters right. I guess I don’t know anything! I guess I might as well give up…” She flung herself over and sobbed bitterly.

  Chief Barker said, “She’s okay, isn’t she? She’s not in pain?”

  The nurse rustled, muttering “shock.” The doctor said stiffly, “Come now, Meredith. This isn’t a bit good for you.”

  But Selby said, to the rest of them, “See? That’s the way it goes. She’s eight and she’s eighty. She can cook up a complex stunt like that and then bawl like a baby. I give up! I don’t know what you should do with her. I’ve wired my sister. She’ll skin us both, no doubt. Meredith, please….”

  Meredith continued to howl.

  The lawyer said sharply. “That’s right, Meredith. You may as well give up trying to be a writer if you are going to cry over your first mistakes instead of trying to learn from them. Will you be grown-up for a minute and listen? We seriously want your help to convict a murderess.”

  “You do not,” wailed Meredith. “I’m too stupid!”

  “Don’t be a hypocrite,” snapped the lawyer. “You are not stupid. As a matter of fact, you are extremely stuffy—as this book proves to us.”

  Meredith choked on a sob. Then slowly she opened one brown eye.

  “The average young person,” hammered the lawyer, “has little or no respect for an elder’s experience and nothing can make him see its value until he gets some himself. But even a beginning writer should have a less conventional point of view.”

  “Now wait a minute,” bristled John Selby. “Don’t scold her. She’s had an awful time. Listen, she meant well…”

  Meredith sat up and mopped her cheek with the sheet. The brown eyes withered him. “Pul-lease, Uncle John,” said Meredith Lee.

  So John Selby raised his head and settled his shoulders. “Okay.” He forced a grin. “Maybe I’m not too old to learn. You want me to lay it on the line? All right, you didn’t mean well. You were perfectly vain and selfish. You were going to fix up my life and Josephine Corcoran’s life as a little exercise for your superior wisdom.” His stern voice faltered. “Is that better?”

  Meredith said, tartly, “At least, it’s rational.” She looked around and her voice was not a baby’s. “You are all positive the widow is a murderess,” she said flatly.

  Chief Barker
said, “Well, honey, we always did kind of think so.”

  “Don’t talk down to her,” snapped John Selby, “or she’ll talk down to you. I…I get that much.”

  “Who are you, anyhow?” asked Meredith of the Chief.

  He told her. “And I am here to get to the bottom of a crime. Now, young lady,” the Chief was no longer speaking with any jovial look at all, “you jumped to a wrong conclusion, you know. She was guilty.”

  “I don’t see why you’ve always thought so,” said Meredith rebelliously.

  “I guess you don’t,” said Barker. “Because it’s a matter of experience. Of a lot of things. In the first place, I know what my routine investigation can or cannot turn up. When it turns up no sign of any stranger whatsoever, I tend to believe that there wasn’t one.”

  The Chief’s jaw was thrust forward. The little girl did not wince. She listened gravely.

  “In the second place, as you noticed yourself, there’s nobody else around here to suspect. In the third place, nine times out of ten, only a wife is close enough to a man to have a strong enough motive.”

  “Nine times out of ten,” said Meredith scornfully.

  “That’s experience,” said Barker, “and you scoff at the nine times because you think we forget that there can be a tenth time. You are wrong, young lady. Now, somebody shot Harry Corcoran…”

  “Why don’t you suspect Uncle John?” flashed Meredith.

  “No motive,” snapped Barker.

  “Meredith,” began her Uncle, “I’m afraid you…”

  “Speak up,” said Russell.

  “Yes. Right.” Selby straightened again. “Well, then, listen. I’d no more murder a man as a favor to a neighbor than I’d jump over the moon. Your whole idea—that Josephine Corcoran would think I had—is ridiculous. Whatever she is, she’s too mature for that. Furthermore, I never did want to marry her. And your mother may skin me for this but so help me you’d better know, men sometimes don’t and women know it.” Meredith blinked. “Also, even if I had,” roared her Uncle John, “Barker knows it might occur to me that there is such a thing as divorce. Just as good a way to get rid of a husband, and a lot safer than murder.”