The inspector’s eyes went first to the dead girl’s father, who was in his armchair by the grate. He looked frail and tired, his skin the color of alabaster, his eyes squinted as if the light were painful. Miss Celia Devon, her lips compressed, rocked back and forth opposite her brother-in-law. Steel needles on which she was knitting a dark-blue sock flashed and clicked in her fingers.
“Well, Lieutenant, do you know anything we haven’t already been told?” she asked.
“Not a great deal,” said Bradley cheerfully.
Johnny and Pat sat side by side on the couch. George Pelham stood by the sideboard, highball glass in his hand. He seemed to be trying to read on Bradley’s face the answer to some secret question.
“I’ve told them about the letter,” said Linda Marsh, “and why I failed to do anything about it sooner.” She was seated in a wing chair, her head tilted back, the full skirt of her black dinner dress spread out around her. For a moment Bradley’s eyes lingered there, almost against his will.
“While the subject is fresh in your minds,” he said, moving farther into the room, “perhaps we can simplify things. We have come to certain tentative conclusions. One, that the murderer must have visited Miss Marsh’s office during the last two weeks. If those of you who haven’t been to the office will tell me now …” He looked around the ring of tense faces. The fire settled in the grate, and in the curious silence it sounded like an avalanche.
“I don’t know whether it’s worse luck for you or for us, Lieutenant,” said Celia Devon. “Linda gave a cocktail party at her office last Friday … the night before the Horse Show opened. We were all there.”
“And about fifty others,” said Johnny.
Bradley rubbed the faint bristle on the side of his jaw. “It isn’t hard to reconstruct the second phase,” he said. “The disposal of the body, I mean. The murderer knew the time Miss Prayne would be riding in the Jumping Championship tonight and that everybody connected with her would be at the ringside, watching. He could slip down to the tack room and take the car keys without being seen. He did, and drove the car to the place where he had hidden the body, put it in the rumble, and came back to the Garden.”
Douglas Prayne covered his eyes with a hand on which heavy blue veins stood out.
“It was easy to return the keys,” Bradley went on. “The tack room must have been crowded. Almost easier to return them than to take them. Now, obviously, the murderer had to be at the Garden tonight. You were all there. The murderer also had to have visited Miss Marsh’s office. You have all done that. And, finally, the murderer must have had access to this apartment. You all qualify for that, too. But in this last instance outsiders are almost nil. Miss Prayne says there was your groom, a cleaning woman, and Dr. Englehardt.”
“Jarvis Englehardt!” said Celia Devon. “How thoroughly comic!”
Bradley’s eyes rested on her flying fingers. “Can you tell us of any other visitors in the last two weeks. Miss Devon?”
“I take it you include Linda, Guy, Johnny, and George in your little home grouping,” she said. “In which case, I cannot think of anyone else … excepting, of course, Jarvis Englehardt.” She smiled thinly to herself. “Just what are you driving at, Lieutenant?”
“He’s telling you very politely,” snapped Mr. Julius, “that one of this precious bunch is a murderer. And he is an inspector, not a lieutenant.”
Douglas Prayne roused himself. “We are fortunate to have you in charge, Mr. Bradley,” he said. “Julius has spoken of you so often. And of your discretion.”
“Thank you,” said Bradley. “My job, however, is to lay a particularly brutal murderer by the heels.” His glance circled the room.
“Of course,” Douglas Prayne said quickly. “I want to apologize for not having put myself at your disposal the moment you arrived. But you will appreciate what this dreadful business means to me … to my family. I … well, I’m no longer young, Inspector.”
“I quite understand,” said Bradley.
“Having someone less friendly to deal with the situation could be very dangerous to all of us.”
“Dangerous!” Bradley looked up. “You recognize there is danger, Mr. Prayne?”
“Certainly I do,” said Douglas Prayne. “You see, sir” — and he lifted a pale hand — ” the Praynes have come upon evil times. My business … then this. I know what this kind of thing can do to people’s lives.”
“Oh?” said Bradley.
“There will be reporters, photographers … prying, snooping. Our privacy, our human- rights, our future happiness are in your hands, Bradley.”
A strange, choking noise came from Mr. Julius’ throat, and he turned and walked to the far end of the room. Bradley remained looking at Douglas Prayne with something like clinical interest.
“In your investigations,” said Prayne, “you will naturally unearth a great many facts about us. I urge you, Inspector, to keep them private unless they have some vital connection with the case.”
“What sort of facts?” Bradley asked. His voice was cold.
Prayne stirred restlessly in his chair. “Well, sir, my business has failed. At the moment I am in the awkward position of being supported by my daughter Patricia.”
“Father!” Pat said.
“I still have important deals pending, Inspector,” said Prayne. “If the gravity of my finances was made public … well when a man’s down, you know, people are inclined to kick him. That’s human nature. So, if it’s possible, I feel I have a right to keep my present position to myself.”
Bradley did not reply.
Celia Devon’s fingers were still. “An interesting point of view, don’t you think, Inspector?”
“Then, of course,” said Douglas Prayne, “there’s Gloria.”
“Yes,” said Bradley, “there is certainly Gloria.” He looked at Pat. The girl had taken her eyes from her father, and her cheek touched the sleeve of Johnny’s dinner jacket.
“Gloria was harum-scarum, Inspector … always getting herself involved in … well, unpleasantnesses. You will come across these matters. Need they be made public?”
“Mr. Prayne, it is not my job to supply the newspapers with gossip. What they get will have to come from you or your family and friends.”
“Thank you. Thank you very much,” said Prayne.
“Is that all you wanted to say to me, Mr. Prayne?”
“Why, yes … I think it is.”
“You haven’t any information that will help us to discover your daughter’s murderer?”
“Good God, no!”
“You’re positive? You know of no one who was her enemy? No one who might benefit by her death?”
“Gloria didn’t have anything to leave anyone!” Prayne objected.
“I wasn’t thinking of money,” said Bradley. “I wonder if you’ve quite taken this in, Prayne. Your daughter has been murdered, deliberately and in cold blood.”
“My dear fellow!” It was a protest against a piece of bad taste.
“Nuts!” said Mr. Julius suddenly, from the end of the room.
“You must get the situation clearly, Prayne,” Bradley said. “The murderer had a reason for killing, and he doesn’t mean to be caught. If any of you know anything that menaces him, you are, yourselves, in real danger.”
“I don’t think I follow you,” said Douglas Prayne.
“If any of you can help me, do it now before the killer has a chance to silence you. If you keep it back … if you yourselves decide what is important to tell me and what is not … you may never get the chance.”
Douglas Prayne sat up. “You mean we are in actual physical danger?”
“You are. If you’re withholding information.”
“But good God, man, we certainly have a right to protection!”
“You’ll get what I can give,” said Bradley. “But I cannot have men following you about from room to room in your home. And your danger lies here. Here in this house! Here among your friends!”
> Pat Prayne spoke up angrily. “Mr. Bradley, you can’t go on with the insane theory that one of us is a murderer. You’ve overlooked something … missed something.”
Bradley held her look. The sympathy that should have been in his eyes was not there. “Something I haven’t missed,” he said. “Your sister was calling on someone. She had settled down in a chair or on a couch. Sitting relaxed and unafraid, just as Miss Marsh is at this moment! She had thrown off her coat. Her host went out of the room, perhaps to mix a drink. When he came back, he walked up behind her. She was wearing a silk scarf around her throat. Her friend leaned over her, took hold of that scarf, and yanked it tight. She struggled. I can see her hands tugging desperately at the noose. I can see her face turning dark … her eyes protruding … I can see her — ”
“Stop it!” George Pelham shouted. “For Christ’s sake!” He took a step toward Bradley. The highball glass slipped with a thud to the thick carpet as he sank into a chair and buried his face in his hands, his shoulders shaking.
Then Linda Marsh was across the room. She dropped on her knees and put an arm around him.
“George! Darling! You mustn’t let it throw you! You mustn’t!”
Bradley looked back to Pat. “I’m sorry, Miss Prayne. I want you to see why I can’t give up simply because the people involved are your family and your friends. I want you to see why you mustn’t build a wall around them.”
After an instant Celia Devon said, in her dry, cutting voice, “I had no idea the police were so talented. The stage has lost a superb actor, Inspector.”
“But I bow to the talent of the murderer, Miss Devon. I talked with him tonight, yet I have no notion of his identity.”
“Inspector,” Douglas Prayne interrupted, “if there’s a murderous maniac here, you must protect us. It’s your duty.”
Bradley’s eyes fastened on Prayne. “If you care for your safety, Prayne, give me the facts. Facts about these people and their relationship with Gloria.”
“But I have told you everything I know. The whole thing is incomprehensible to me. I can’t …”
He was stopped by the sharp ringing of the telephone. Pat went to the handset on a side table.
“If it’s reporters, Pat, say nothing!” said Prayne.
Pat had picked up the receiver and answered in a flat voice.
“For you, Inspector.”
Bradley took it from her. “Yes. Yes, Monahan. What! Well, where the devil are you now? … Yes. Well, how do you like that for apples! … Uh—huh … Go back to the starting point and wait there. That’s your only bet. If you make contact, call me here, my place, or headquarters.”
He put the phone in its cradle. Everyone was eyeing him. “I thought you told me,” Bradley said to Johnny, “you left Severied passed out cold?”
“I did.”
“Well, he went out ten minutes after you did. And was sober enough to give one of the smartest tails on the force a complete run-around. He’s skipped.”
“Well, I’m damned!” said Johnny. “If he wasn’t out like—”
“Any of you an idea where Guy Severied would be likely to go at this time of night?” Bradley snapped, looking from one to the other.
Something that passed for a laugh came from Celia Devon’s tight lips. “When you’ve known us longer, Inspector, you will lose some of your refreshing optimism. Or have you already begun to notice a faint lack of co-operation?”
Chapter 9
George Pelham slipped from under Linda’s arm and stood up. He stood very straight, with the ramrod back of an ex-cavalry officer.
“You have made grave charges against us, Bradley,” he said. The nerve beside his mouth would not stop twitching, and he kept fiddling with his mustache as camouflage.
“I haven’t made any charges against anyone.” Bradley was calm again. “I have shown you the situation — one that should make you realize that this is no parlor charade.”
“But a quick solution would be quite a feather in your cap!”
If Bradley was angry, he didn’t show it. “There are two unfortunate facts about murder, Captain Pelham. You always have a murderer. And he can only hang once.”
“Are you trying to frighten us?” Pelham said.
“Not at all, Captain. I had hoped to make it plain that it would be a feather in my cap if I solved this thing before someone else walked stubbornly into death.”
“And does that give you the right to browbeat and intimidate us?”
“Mercy,” said Bradley, “have I been browbeating you?”
“We are all very delicately adjusted, Inspector,” said Miss Devon. “We have nerves, and it is very unkind of you to play on them.”
“Shut up, Celia!” said Pelham. “It’s time we understood our position. Are you going to make an arrest tonight … or rather, this morning, Bradley? Because it is morning. It’s after four.”
“There will be no arrest,” said Bradley, “unless one of you chooses to give.”
He looked hopeful.
“Give!” snorted Mr. Julius. “The only person in this outfit who ever gives anything, Bradley, is Pat, The rest are takers!”
“Julius!” Douglas Prayne’s indignation was feeble.
Pelham went on doggedly. “Because if you’ve no evidence against anyone and you’re not proposing to arrest me, I’m leaving.”
Bradley looked about mildly. “I see no storm troopers guarding the doors, Captain. If you have no information to give me, I haven’t much interest in what you do or where you go.”
Pelham seemed taken back. “You don’t insist on my staying?”
“Right, Captain. Of course, I could ask you if you know who murdered Gloria Prayne.”
“Naturally I don’t.”
“I could ask you if you saw anyone borrow the car keys from your tack room at the Garden.”
“I didn’t.”
“I could ask you if you put that substitute letter in Miss Marsh’s desk or saw anyone else do it?”
“Of course not.”
“And you don’t know where I could find the interesting Mr. Severied?”
“Don’t go off half-cocked about Guy,” Pelham warned. “Perhaps he doesn’t like police persecution either.”
“You see, Inspector,” said Celia Devon, “how touching is everyone’s grief over Gloria’s tragic death and how deep is our concern to lend every assistance in avenging it.”
“My dear Celia,” said Prayne, “I hardly think this is a moment to appreciate your witticisms.”
Miss Devon gave her brother-in-law a hard look. “I wasn’t aware, Douglas, that I had said anything even remotely amusing.”
“Can I see you home, Linda?” Pelham asked.
Linda glanced at Bradley. “If the inspector doesn’t need me any longer.”
“All right, Miss Marsh. We’ll give up for now. Some quiet reflection may help you all decide that it would be the course of wisdom and safety to play on my team. Good night.”
Pelham and Linda went out together, the captain still looking a little deflated.
The rest of them remained uneasily where they were, waiting for a move from Bradley. At last Celia Devon put down her sock, which had advanced materially in the last half-hour.
“Are you fond of coconut layer cake, Inspector?”
Bradley’s face broke into a grin. “With milk?”
“With milk,” said Celia Devon.
“Miss Devon, I love you!”
“Then come into the kitchen.” She was already on her way. “I believe that is the traditional setting for romantic policemen.”
“Julius should make an excellent chaperon,” said Bradley.
“Julius is going home!” said Mr. Julius. “I had intended to supply you with a little biographical material, but Celia will probably do a good job. And enjoy it,” he added maliciously.
“It’s too bad, Julius,” said Miss Devon, “we can’t involve you in this affair. I should relish seeing you squirm.”
�
��After observing the reactions in this house,” said Mr. Julius, “I’ve done enough squirming to last me a long time, thank you. Good night!” He looked at Bradley pityingly. “The police have gone soft along with the rest of society. If I’d been you I’d have sweat the bejeesus out of this mob!” He stalked out into the hall, and a moment later the front door banged.
***
Douglas Prayne retired to his room. Pat and Johnny stayed huddled on the couch, talking in low voices. Bradley sat on the kitchen table, swinging his legs, and holding a badly damaged piece of layer cake in one hand and a glass of milk in the other.
“Like it?” asked Miss Celia Devon. She stood opposite him, an apron over her black lace dress.
“Wunnerful,” said Bradley indistinctly.
“Made it myself,” said Miss Devon. “Surprising what talents one discovers when it becomes necessary.”
Bradley swallowed enough of his cake to become articulate. “Don’t discover that you’re a detective at heart, Miss Devon. I have trouble enough with my trained assistant. Monahan, for instance. Imagine his letting that souse get away!”
Miss Devon sat down in a plain chair by the table. “I owe you an apology,” she said.
“So?”
“Accusing you of acting,” said Miss Devon. “We all do to an extraordinary degree. We develop a mental picture of the person we’d like to be, and then try to behave like that person. Only when we come up against a crisis like this does the paint wear thin. Sometimes what shows through is not pleasant. Take me, for example.”
“What’s your picture of yourself, Miss Devon?”
“Cool, competent, witty, utterly self-sufficient,” said Miss Devon without hesitation. “Marvelous powers of analysis. But if you scrape off the paint …” She shrugged. “I’m a sour, disappointed old maid, Mr. Bradley, irked by the fact that I have no family of my own and have to take care of this one. Any wit that I possess is not kindly. I make wisecracks to varnish an unflagging self-contempt for having allowed myself to drift into the situation here.”
“Do you have other revelations?” Bradley asked.
The 24th Horse Page 6