“Oh, we’ll cover all that,” Lieutenant Peabody said easily and walked out of the room, leaving a kind of wave of surprise and apprehension behind him.
“What’s he going to do?” Doris said sharply.
Charlie adjusted his dark, knitted tie. Matt lighted a cigarette. Lieutenant Peabody returned with Sergeant O’Brien trudging along behind him. And unexpectedly, to Laura, the Sergeant proved to be an excellent and speedy shorthand writer. He hauled a fat, ringed pad from some pocket and settled down in a chair which creaked under his weight.
It was an orderly, queerly formal procedure; it took a long time, in spite of the Sergeant’s adroit and nonchalant fingers and Peabody’s equally adroit and ready questions. Doris, with a glance at Charlie, stuck to her story of the time when he left her apartment the previous night. When it came his turn, Charlie with a quick smile at Doris which was half indulgent, half apologetic, stuck to his story. It was perfectly clear that Doris had snatched at the notion of providing herself, and Charlie, with an alibi; it was clear that Charlie, as well as everyone else, saw through her swift little maneuver and rejected it. A small flush came up into Doris’ lovely face.
But then Charlie would have known that it was better to stick to the letter of the truth, even if he had had no regard for the truth as such. When Peabody had finished with Doris and then Charlie and then Matt, he told them they could go.
Doris sprang up; she went hurriedly to get her coat; she couldn’t get away fast enough. Charlie accompanied her and Laura heard him speak to Doris. “I’m sorry. But really, Doris—”
Doris twitched herself and her coat, which he was holding, away from him. Matt said to Peabody, “I’d rather stay.”
Peabody hesitated and then shrugged. “All right. If Miss March wants you to stay—as her lawyer.”
Matt’s eyebrows went up; he gave Laura a quick look. She said to the Lieutenant, “I do want him to stay.”
The door closed after Charlie and Doris. And Laura made her own statement, slowly, watching Sergeant O’Brien’s big red fingers make an irrevocable record in black and white.
It seemed to her that that took a long time, too; there were odd details. What time exactly was it that Cosden had arrived the night before? Was it his idea or hers that he should stay to dinner? How long exactly had it taken them to trim the tree? The tree stood beside the window; were the curtains drawn while they trimmed the tree? Were they drawn at any time? Had she looked down at the street? Was she sure she hadn’t? How could she be sure? What time had Cosden left? Well, what time did she think it was? Wasn’t there some way to be more exact? Hadn’t she looked at the clock? Hadn’t she turned on the radio? Well, then, had anybody telephoned to her after he had gone? At any time after he had gone, during the night? Had anybody visited the apartment? Had the doorbell rung at any time?
The Lieutenant went on and on, minutely, repeating the same question in different ways; Matt smoked and watched him, and once or twice started to speak and stopped himself.
“All right.” Peabody said at last. “You can sign that after it’s typed up.”
Sergeant O’Brien folded up his notebook and put it away. They were leaving; Matt went to the door with them. “See here, Peabody,” he said abruptly, “if you’re going to prefer charges I want to know it—”
“I’m sure you do,” Peabody said.
“What’s the answer?”
“I don’t know,” Peabody said, flatly and finally. “I really don’t know.” Sergeant O’Brien’s great bulk loomed up suddenly in the doorway; he gave Laura an odd look, severe, disapproving, yet with a kind of friendliness, too.
“That’s a nice little girl, miss,” he said. He vanished as if he’d been pulled on an invisible string by Peabody; the door closed with a hard bang. Matt came back.
“He’s not got any real evidence against you, Laura,” he said directly. “He’s not at all certain that this Miller woman’s murder has anything to do with any of us.”
“What do you think?”
“Well, I—” He hesitated, and then sighed. “Well, I think Peabody’s hunch is right. If you can call it a hunch—a better definition is trained observation and experience. Yes, I’m afraid he’s right. In any event, we’ll have to act on the basis that he’s right.”
She said slowly, “Matt, I meant it about a lawyer. You—”
“Nonsense!” He gave her a flashing, indescribably comforting grin. “You don’t need a lawyer! And—” The smile vanished. He said soberly, “And if I can do what I’m trying to do, you’re not going to need a lawyer.”
Hopelessness swept her like a wave. “What can you do?”
“I don’t know really. But for one thing I’d like to find Maria Brown.” He looked at his watch. “I’ll come in later this afternoon, if that’s all right. Early enough to go with you when you take Jonny out. Meantime if you want some legal advice”—again he took the edge from it by speaking lightly, smiling a little, his eyes very blue—“my advice is to do exactly what you’ve been doing. Just tell them the truth and stick to it.”
Just tell them the truth, Laura thought, as she cooked a late lunch for Jonny and herself, and listened to Jonny’s chatter, from which once the words Davy Crockett emerged with startling clearness. Observing the depleted supply of food in the refrigerator, Laura set herself to the task of making a list of groceries and ordering; it was a full and comprehensive list; she felt as if she were ordering for supplies for a desert island, to last a long time. That was because there would be, thus, only one delivery; only one boy from the store to identify, carefully, before she opened the door and let him deposit the packages. A desert island, she thought; it was more like a beleaguered post, set in the middle of enemy country. And the enemy, invisible, unidentifiable, had advanced from Koska Street to Lake Shore Drive, to strike with blundering but ruthless aim.
TWENTY-FOUR
JONNY WENT TO TAKE her nap, cheerfully, gaily, chatting with Laura, talking to Suki, going in to take a long admiring look at the Christmas tree before she trotted into her own bedroom and curled herself up under an eiderdown.
But who had murdered Conrad Stanislowski and then—if Peabody was right, because Catherine Miller wore a brown coat, because she had entered the apartment house where Laura lived —murdered Catherine Miller? Thinking she was Maria Brown, because the murderer knew that Maria Brown was dangerous?
Peabody had said that, if that were true, then Stanislowski’s murder had no political motive. And he believed that Catherine Miller’s death automatically cleared Maria Brown of suspicion of murder. Matt had argued about that, but it was a thin argument, something Matt himself had not, she was sure, accepted.
So if Maria Brown had not murdered Conrad—and had not murdered Catherine Miller, if Conrad’s murder was a result of neither a political intrigue nor a blood feud, arising from some long-ago quarrel perhaps, in far off Poland, then what was the motive for Conrad’s murder? Peabody frankly assumed it to be money, the Stanislowski fund. Suppose he was right; that led again to only one conclusion. There were three people, four if Matt were included, who were directly interested in the money, and in Jonny, and thus in Conrad Stanislowski’s life or death.
And that in its turn offered an inescapable conclusion. She hadn’t murdered Conrad. She loved Matt; she could not have questioned, seriously, in her own mind, whether or not he was a murderer; that was instinctive but it was strong, too. So that left Charlie and Doris, the only other people who had any sort of connection with the Stanley will and the money Conrad would have claimed if he had not been—quickly—murdered.
Doris? Who liked money and was determined to fight for it; who had an alibi for the time of Conrad’s murder.
Charlie?
Instinct again rejected it. But that was because there existed an almost impassable barrier to the postulatum that anyone who was a familiar acquaintance, a known friend, could possibly be a murderer. It seemed strange that murder did not leave a mark upon a murderer.
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If there were in fact only two suspects, Doris and Charlie, and if she had had to choose between them the more likely suspect, then it was Charlie. So what did she know of Charlie?
She knew everything there was to know about him, she thought wearily. She knew everything anyone knew about Charlie; his life was quite literally an open book.
But that wasn’t right either; nobody’s life was really an open book; there were always things that even close associates, intimate and old friends might not know. All right; what was there to know about Charles Stedman?
The yellow bird he had brought Jonny had stopped nodding and was leaning now at a jaunty but insecure angle on the tree. She went to the tree and adjusted it and absently straightened one or two bright, tinsel ornaments.
Her first recollections of Charlie were dim; he had gradually entered her small world because he was a friend of Conrad’s; occasionally, when she was with Conrad, Charlie was there, too— lunch or dinner or a baseball game; once she remembered an ice show, when Conrad had had to leave unexpectedly and rather than disappoint Laura he had asked Charlie to take her: she was then in her early teens; Charlie had been kind in his remote and impersonal way. Later, of course, she had seen more of Charlie; after Conrad’s marriage, Charlie was as frequent a guest in the lavish Stanley apartment as Laura and Matt.
But what really did she know of Charlie?
Well, then, he was a bachelor, younger than Conrad but it was difficult to say how much younger; Charlie was one of those men who perhaps grow a little thinner, a little more exact and precise, acquire merely a more perceptible sprinkling of gray hair, as years go on, but never seem to age. He owned and operated a factory for tools; he manufactured jigs, dies: Conrad had taught her the vocabulary; for years Conrad had done business with Charlie. He was, next to Laura’s father, Conrad’s closest friend. He had a quick and astute mind; he was innately conventional, he was not a man of a warm or impulsive nature; still he must have friends and associates of whom she knew nothing. After Conrad’s death, she and Charlie had worked closely together, in their position of co-trustees. He had not liked the Stanislowski fund and had said so frankly, but he had nevertheless been conscientious, cautious and conservative in his ideas and very helpful to Laura. There was no detail that Charlie overlooked; he was of inestimable value in the tedious legal minutiae connected with Conrad’s will, and with the no less onerous chore of the accounts involved. There was a yearly audit by a firm of accountants; Charlie insisted that Laura and Matt and Doris check the audits, as he did himself.
So, Laura thought suddenly, there was no question of any juggling of money. No question of Charlie—or Doris or anyone— having contrived illegally to tamper with the Stanislowski fund. She hadn’t thought of that before but probably Peabody had. And besides—even if any one had attempted any chicanery about the money (as no one could have done, for it would have been spotted at once)—the estate was to be settled in January. That meant a final, thorough accounting of every penny; any theft, embezzlement would have come to light then, whether or not Conrad Stanislowski were in America or in Poland, alive or dead.
And Charlie did not need money. He was successful; he had always been successful in a very solid way; his contracts with Conrad alone, Laura knew, netted him a very substantial income; he must be, indeed a wealthy man, not in the spectacular way that Conrad was rich, for millions had poured into Conrad’s pockets, but Charlie was rich just the same. He lived quietly and unostentatiously, but Charlie would have lived like that in any circumstances; yet he did not stint himself certainly; he had every comfort and every luxury that there was to have. No, Charlie had no need for money.
Unless, of course, he was in fact and secretly consumed with a money greed! It didn’t seem likely. Yet that happened sometimes, didn’t it? A third of the Stanislowski fund would have been considerable, and very attractive to a man who loved money.
Charlie?
Or Doris.
She was thinking that when the telephone rang. It seemed strangely apropos, almost as if some telepathic influence had reached out across the dark day and the towering apartment houses between to touch Doris, for she said when Laura answered, “I’ve been thinking about Maria Brown, Laura. I—I suppose she must have some evidence about Stanislowski’s murder. Did she tell you anything yesterday?”
“No. She only asked about Jonny and what the police were doing. That’s all.”
“And you didn’t ask her to come back to see you last night?” Doris asked.
“No!”
“Well—I only thought. Laura, if you do think of anything about her that you have forgotten or anything about the Stanislowski—or—or—well, tell me, will you, Laura?”
“There is nothing to tell.”
“I—” Doris said, “I—” There was a long pause. Then she said flatly, “Good-bye,” and hung up.
She’s frightened, Laura thought, her flare of anger dying out; and I’m frightened, too.
It roused her from her long and futile train of thought. She looked at the door to make sure that she had locked it and went back to Jonny’s room.
Jonny was napping quietly, a round hump under the eiderdown, one brown braid dangling down from the pillow. The kitten lifted his head, jumped down and followed Laura into her room; he leaped up to the window sill to observe the world at large, and gave a hoarse mutter of interest and surprise. It was beginning to snow. Huge white flakes were drifting lazily past the window. Suki crouched and made a dab at them and his dark paw struck the windowpane softly, so he gave an exasperated mutter and lashed his black tail in frustration.
Laura saw herself in the mirror, white and tired, still wearing the skirt and sweater she had snatched up in the darkness of early morning. There were blue shadows under her eyes; she’d forgotten lipstick; her short hair was in loose, disheveled curls; in the sweater and skirt she looked like a forlorn and uncertain child.
But she was not a child; and she had a heavy responsibility toward Jonny.
Suki made another dab and uttered so furious a Siamese curse that Laura laughed, and gathered him up under her chin where he instantly stopped being a jungle animal and snuggled down, purring with abandon.
There were too many questions. She was suddenly, desperately tired. She took a long, hot bath. She wrapped herself in a warm woolen dressing gown. And with Suki a warm, purring bundle on her shoulder, suddenly, as though she had been drugged with weariness, she fell asleep.
It was dusk when she woke. There were no lights in the room.
Gradually she became aware of a distant murmur of voices somewhere. Suki was gone, and her blue eiderdown had mysteriously got itself pulled up over her sleeping figure. She roused, drowsy and confused, and fumbled for the bedside lamp. As she did so Matt came to the door.
“Matt—”
“You were so sound asleep I didn’t want to wake you.”
Jonny came to stand beside Matt; her round face looked rather pale in the light from the bedside lamp; her blue eyes were sober.
“Matt, how long have you been here?”
“About an hour or so.”
She was still not fully awake, but the full significance of Matt’s presence struck her with sudden fright. “I never thought that Jonny would open the door!”
“That’s all right,” he said. “I never thought of it either. Don’t say anything more.” He pulled Jonny closer to him and twisted her braid around his finger. “I’ve explained it to her. She understands now.”
Jonny might have opened the door for anyone. Anyone could have come in. “She’s never done that before, Matt!”
“That’s all right,” he said. “Oh, a boy came with groceries. I put them away. Now then, Jonny, how about making some hot chocolate, while Laura gets dressed?”
“Matt, wait. Is there any news?”
“So far as I know, things are just the way they were this morning. There is an awful lot of investigation, cut and dried routine, they have to get through. It ta
kes time. And of course they have to investigate the possibility that Catherine Miller was murdered for some reason which has nothing to do with the Stanislowski affair.”
She pushed the blue eiderdown away and then looked at it. “Matt, did you put that over me?”
He nodded. “You were curled up tight as the kitten. I tiptoed in. It was cold and I pulled it over you.”
On some fringe of awareness Laura was conscious of the stillness in Jonny’s figure, pressing against Matt, her blue eyes very sober. It was a fleeting impression. “You looked about as old as Jonny,” Matt said, and the telephone rang.
“I’ll get it,” Matt said promptly and disappeared. Jonny gave Laura a grave look and edged into the room.
In the hall Matt said sharply, into the telephone, “What’s that?”
There was something in his voice that brought her hurriedly on her feet, pushing away the blue eiderdown, wrapping her dressing gown around her, running into the hall.
“Doris!” Matt said in almost an awestruck way. “For God’s sake—when?” Laura came so close to him that her white dressing gown touched his elbow. Jonny stood beside her. There was a long, jerky murmur from the telephone; Laura could not understand the words. Matt said suddenly, “We’ll be there right away. Sure, we’ll bring Jonny. Keep your shirt on, Doris. All right, all right. I know it’s not funny. It was in the cards. We’ll be there.”
He put down the telephone and turned to Laura, his eyes inexplicably blue and dancing. “The sky is raining Stanislowskis. Believe it or not, another one has turned up. Says he’s Jonny’s father. Has credentials galore. Tells the same story the first one told about his background and all that, I mean. He wants us to bring Jonny.”
“There can’t be another one—”
“Get some clothes on. Hurry—”
She dressed quickly; she put on red lipstick; she combed her hair. Matt was helping Jonny into her coat and hat and overshoes. She could hear his voice. “It’s snowing, Jonny. You can’t get your feet wet. Snow. That’s that white stuff out the window. See it? Coming from the sky? That’s snow.”
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