In Nora’s bedroom, she is lying in bed reading, with Nick Jr. sleeping beside her. She turns her head once to smile in the direction of MacFay’s office, then goes back to her reading.
In the office, Nick’s collar is open and he has taken off his coat. A tray on a table near the desk holds the remains of their dinners. The desk is piled high with papers now.
MacFay is saying: “. . . showing a consolidation net profit of thirty-one thousand, eight hundred sixty-four dollars and twenty-two cents after all charges and normal federal income taxes, but before provision for surtax, equal, after preferred dividend requirements, to fifty-eight cents a share on the combined class A and B common stock.
Nick, trying to prop his eyes open: “I wouldn’t’ve believed it.”
MacFay: “But, production in August showed a substantial decline, though part of the sharp July increase was retained, and the average for the two months is well above that for the second quarter.”
Nick: “Wait till Nora hears that!”
STREET IN HARLEM, NIGHT
Dum-Dum walks briskly up the street, looks around, then goes into the dark entrance of a building. He takes a pint bottle from one of his pockets, drinks from it, and sits down comfortably on the vestibule floor, legs sprawled, back against the wall, chin down on his chest, cap down over his eyes. After a little while, a man comes out of the building, glances timidly at him as he passes, goes on, then returns cautiously to fumble at Dum-Dum’s pockets.
Dum-Dum remains motionless except to raise one foot and kick the man in the face. The man tumbles out of the doorway, jumps up, and hurries off. Dum-Dum takes another drink from his bottle, then slumps there as before.
AT MACFAY’S
Nick is lying in bed with his eyes shut, his back to Nora’s bed.
Nora: “Aw, stop sulking.”
Nick: “You’ve no loyalty. There isn’t another wife in the world who would have left her husband in there to be seasonally adjusted like that.”
Nora: “What do you suppose ‘seasonally adjusted’ means?”
Nick: “I wouldn’t tell you. But if you’d stuck around a little longer you would have met ‘adverse long-run consequences’ and ‘major cyclical downswing.’ There’s a sweetheart!” He repeats, softly and fondly: “Major Cyclical Downswing. Can’t you see him? A little threadbare and shiny at the elbows, but still hale and hearty, with a booming, if somewhat whiskey-roughened, voice, and a contemptuous snort for those bounders who want to know what army he was ever in. Dear old fellow!”
He tries to go to sleep again.
Nora: “It’s too early to go to sleep, Nick.”
Nick: “What time is it?”
Nora, looking at the clock beside the bed: “One o’clock.”
Nick: “Sh-h-h! Colonel Both-Inclusive MacFay will hear you. No numbers are that simple. It must be one point three one six two at least.”
Fingers tap lightly on the door.
Nora: “Come in.”
Lois enters. She is wearing nightgown, robe, and slippers.
Lois: “I saw your light and wondered if you couldn’t sleep, too.”
Nick: “Some of us could and some of us couldn’t.” He gets out of bed saying: “Old Major Cyclical Downswing Charles has just the thing for you.” He pours her a drink.
Nora says: “I don’t think there’s anything to worry about now, dear. They—”
Lois says: “Oh, it’s not that. I’m not worried. I—” She laughs. “I guess I’m too happy to sleep.” She goes to the window and looks out. “It’s lovely out. Dudley and I took a long walk over by the lake, and then I couldn’t get to sleep for thinking about—” She goes over to Nora’s bed, sits down, and hugs her. “I guess you think it’s silly to be this happy about getting married, but Dudley really, really is so marvelous.”
Nick, starting to offer Lois her drink, quickly gulps it down himself.
Nora pats the girl’s shoulder and asks: “When are you getting married?”
Lois says: “The first of the month.”
There is the sound of a shot and the lights go out. There are distant sounds of doors slamming, of a man’s voice calling out in alarm, of a piece of furniture being upset, and of a body falling.
Nick strikes a match and lights candles on a dressing table. Nora is sitting up in bed clutching Nick Jr., who does not wake.
Lois gasps: “Papa! See if he’s all right.”
Nick says: “Stay here.”
He goes out into the hallway carrying one candle. From the other end of the hall, Horn, barefooted, in pajamas, is approaching with a flashlight. Freddie, dressed, comes out of his room with a candle. There are sounds of people moving in other parts of the house. The three men come together at MacFay’s bedroom door.
The door is ajar. Horn pushes it open and throws the beam of his flashlight on the bed. MacFay’s bare legs protrude from a wadded pile of blankets that cover the rest of him, except his right arm, which, grotesquely bent, dangles down to the floor.
Nick goes to the bed, lifts enough of the covers to look at MacFay’s face. Freddie and Horn look over his shoulder. They stare at the dead man in horror for a moment; then Nick puts the covers back gently over his face. He touches the dangling hand to feel its temperature and straightens up as the housekeeper comes into the room.
Mrs. Bellam is fully dressed and carries a small Bible with one finger marking her place in it. Her face and manner are placid as ever.
Freddie says: “I’m going to be sick,” and goes out of the room hurriedly.
The housekeeper says with no sign of excitement: “I heard the noise.”
Horn says hoarsely: “MacFay’s been murdered.”
Mrs. Bellam says quietly, as if to herself: “‘The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away.’ Do you want me to phone the sheriff?”
Nick says: “Yes.”
She goes out as Lois comes in.
Just inside of the doorway, Lois halts and stands trembling with fear and grief. She says: “Dudley, is he—” She breaks off and tries again: “Is he—” but still cannot finish the sentence.
He goes to her, puts his arm around her, keeping his body between Lois and the bed. He says gently: “Yes, he’s dead.”
She tries to go past him to the bed, but he holds her, saying: “Not now, darling. You can’t look at him now.”
Horn leads Lois out.
Nick, left alone in the room, tries the light-switch beside the door, and the wall-lights go on as Freddie returns.
Both windows are open. The bedside lamp is lying on the floor with the wire torn out of it. Neither of its light bulbs is broken. On the bedside table a glass has been upset, spilling water on the table and on the crumpled newspaper, telephone, cigarette box, matches, etc. on the floor below. In one corner of the room an old-style Frontier model .44-caliber revolver lies on the floor. There is a bullet hole high in one wall.
Nick asks: “Ever see the gun before?”
Freddie says: “Yes, it’s Colonel MacFay’s.” He points to an open drawer at the bedside table. “He kept it there.”
By this time there are three or four partially dressed servants crowded in the doorway, looking into the room with excited faces.
One of the servants says: “He went out the front door.”
Nick asks: “Who?”
The servant says: “I didn’t see nobody. I just seen the front door was open when I went down to fix the fuse.”
Nick: “What fuse?”
The servant: “The one that was blowed out.”
Nick: “How did you know it was blowed out?”
Servant: “I didn’t know nothing. I was just doing what Mrs. Bellam told me. When she come out of here she told me to see if any fuses was blowed out and I went down and there was and I put in a new one and that’s when I seen the front door was open.”
Freddie: “Here’s Mrs. Bellam now.”
The housekeeper comes in carrying a tray with two cups of coffee and some toast on it. She says
: “I don’t suppose you’ll be getting back to sleep again tonight, so maybe you’ll feel better for this.” She puts the tray down, looks at the bed, shakes her head, and says mildly: “Poor soul—seems he always expected to be murdered like this.”
She goes out, driving the servants away from the door as she goes.
Horn comes in.
Freddie asks: “How’s Lois?”
Horn says: “She’ll be all right. I left her with Mrs. Charles.” He looks at the bed. “That’s a mean way to die.”
Nick asks: “Know any good ways?”
The sound of cars and motorcycles arriving comes through the open windows.
The arriving party consists of the assistant district attorney, the examining physician, three deputy sheriffs, a photographer, a fingerprint expert, and three state troopers on motorcycles. From time to time more troopers, deputies, etc., come until there are altogether some fifteen or twenty of them. These are well-trained men who go to work immediately with a minimum of noises and confusion. Floodlights are turned on the grounds around the house and men afoot and on motorcycles set off to examine every part of the estate. Servants and outer guards are rounded up for questioning.
The assistant district attorney, followed by a deputy sheriff, photographer, medical examiner, and fingerprint man go up to MacFay’s room.
VanSlack, the assistant district attorney, is a tall, stooped, colorless young man with a vague face; the same vagueness characterizes his words and manner.
He looks uncertainly around the room and says: “I am Assistant District Attorney VanSlack.”
Horn says: “How do you do. This is Nick Charles, Freddie Coleman, and I’m Dudley Horn, and here is—” He finishes the sentence by motioning with his hand toward the bed.
The photographer, setting up his camera, says to the medical examiner: “You can have it in a minute, Doc.” He asks Horn: “Anything been moved?”
Horn looks at Nick, who says: “Only this doesn’t belong here.” He takes up the tray with the cups of coffee and toast on it.
VanSlack says: “If you gentlemen will, eh—” and steps back out of the room.
The others follow him out into the corridor. Nick puts the tray on the floor.
VanSlack asks: “Do you know who found him?”
Nick says: “The three of us. We met at the door.”
VanSlack, clearing his throat again, says: “I don’t suppose you saw anything.”
Nick says: “Just what you see in there now.”
VanSlack asks: “Was there any special reason for you three meeting here? I mean had you heard anything—perhaps—”
Nick answers: “A shot.”
VanSlack says: “Oh—there was a shot? Did it—do you mind telling me where you were when you heard it?”
Nick says: “I was in my bedroom at the other end of the hall with my wife and MacFay’s daughter.”
VanSlack says: “That is MacFay in there, isn’t it?”
Nick says: “I’d hate to think anybody was playing that kind of joke on us.”
Horn says: “I was asleep.”
VanSlack looks at Freddie, who says: “I was in my room. I was—” he hesitates “—writing.”
This dialogue is punctuated from time to time by the flare of the photographer’s flashlights through the open bedroom door.
VanSlack says: “I don’t suppose any of you know who saw him last?”
After a moment of hesitancy, Freddie says: “I guess I did. I was in there a little after midnight, to have him sign some mail.”
VanSlack asks: “Did you happen to notice what he was doing when you left?”
Freddie says: “Yes, he was reading the afternoon paper. That is—he picked it up as I went out.”
VanSlack asks: “Was he in bed?”
Freddie says: “Yes. I turned off all except the bedside light when I left.”
The photographer looks out to say: “It’s all yourn, Doc.”
The doctor goes in to the bed and starts to examine the body.
VanSlack says: “If any of you gentlemen happen to think of anything that might help us, just tell one of the boys, will you? I oughtn’t to be very long in here.”
He, the deputy sheriff, and the fingerprint man go into the bedroom and shut the door behind them.
Horn says: “He’s not exactly my idea of a human bloodhound.”
Nick says: “Maybe that’s nothing against him.”
VanSlack opens the door and says: “Mr. Charles, eh—could you—that is, have you a minute?”
Nick says: “Sure.”
He goes into MacFay’s room and VanSlack shuts the door.
VanSlack says: “I thought perhaps—of course everybody knows your reputation—perhaps you wouldn’t mind sort of looking at things with us. It’s pretty confusing, isn’t it?”
Nick says: “I’ll be glad to do anything I can, but the way you people are going at it, it doesn’t look as if you need much of anybody’s help.”
He looks around the room. The deputy sheriff and photographer are measuring the height of the bullet hole from the floor, the distance of the gun from the bed, etc.; the fingerprint man is at work on the window sills, and the examining physician is busy with the body.
VanSlack says modestly: “Well, we try to keep up to date. You see, not having very much of this sort of thing ourselves we have plenty of time to keep in touch with what progress crime detecting agencies are making in other places. Of course that doesn’t take the place of practical experience.” He points to the gun. “You don’t happen to know who that belongs to?”
Nick says: “The secretary said it was MacFay’s. He kept it in the drawer there.”
VanSlack says: “I thought maybe it would be.”
The medical examiner turns from the bed and says: “Throat cut from ear to ear with a fairly large, heavy blade. Death instantaneous. Bruise on left temple, blunt instrument. Right wrist broken. That ought to be enough to go on. If there is anything else, I’ll give it to you after I go over him more thoroughly tomorrow. Been dead half an hour.” He looks at Nick. “Does that check with the time you found him?”
Nick says: “Check.”
VanSlack says: “Thank you, Doctor.”
The medical examiner goes out.
VanSlack looks worriedly at the bullet hole, at the gun, at the bedside lamp, glass, etc., at the dead man, and then at Nick, and says uncertainly: “We’ll say, for instance, that MacFay heard the murderer—he could have come in through either the door or the window—we ought to be able to find out which—and grabbed the gun.” He turns to the deputy sheriff and says: “From the looks of that hole, Les, where would you say the bullet was fired from?”
Les says: “I figure it had to come from pretty close to the floor there alongside the bed.”
VanSlack: “Then the murderer was already bearing down on his arm when MacFay got the shot away; or it could be, with one of those old guns, that it went off when it hit the floor after the murderer had broken his arm and made him drop it.” He says to Nick: “I hope this sounds reasonable to you.”
Nick says: “It does—and a paraffin test would tell you whether MacFay pulled the trigger or the gun went off after it hit the floor, if that point’s worth bothering about.”
VanSlack says: “Well, we always try to be as thorough as we can. So next, our murderer would have knocked MacFay back on the pillow with that blow on the temple, perhaps stunning him, and then cut his throat, pulling the bed-clothes over him to keep the blood from spurting around. Now we’ve got to try and figure out how he entered and left. What do you think on that point, Mr. Charles?”
Nick says: “One of the servants said the front door was open.”
VanSlack says: “But if you and the other gentlemen came as soon as you heard the shot, wouldn’t you have seen or heard, or—you know what I mean?”
Nick says: “This room’s right at the head of the stairs. I didn’t get here that quick. The lights were out, you know, and I ha
d to stop to find a candle.”
VanSlack says vaguely: “Oh, the lights went out.”
Nick says: “Yes, the servant says a fuse blew out. An electrician ought to be able to tell you whether it could have happened when the wires were torn out of that upset lamp.”
VanSlack says: “Oh yes—an electrician. Certainly.”
Nick says: “You know about Sam Church?”
VanSlack says: “Yes—and the Negro. We’re doing everything we can to catch them, of course. But sometimes it’s so hard to find people. Now there are a couple of other things I’d like to ask your help on.”
Nick, imitating VanSlack: “My help—oh yes—certainly.”
Elsewhere in the house, other members of the household are being questioned separately.
In the living room a uniformed trooper is saying to Dudley Horn: “So you were asleep, huh? How long had you been asleep?”
Horn, who has put on some clothes, answers: “Half an hour—maybe three-quarters.”
The Trooper asks: “What were you doing before that?”
Horn says: “Miss MacFay and I had taken a walk.”
The Trooper says: “Miss MacFay, huh? The daughter?”
Horn says: “Yes. But if you’d stop wasting time here and start looking for Church—”
The Trooper interrupts him: “I got a lot of time to waste. Did MacFay know you and his daughter were out walking?”
Horn says: “Of course. I don’t know. What different does that make? Miss MacFay and I are engaged.”
Trooper: “Oh! So you’re marrying the heiress? She is the heiress, isn’t she?”
Horn says: “I suppose so. I don’t actually know.”
The Trooper says: “Hmm! A while back you said you used to work with this fellow Church. Are you and he still pretty close?”
Horn says: “We were never pretty close.”
The Trooper says: “Oh! You didn’t like each other much, huh?”
Horn says: “That’s right.”
The Trooper says: “Well, are you unfriends enough that it wouldn’t make you mad to see him go back to the can or maybe to the chair?”
Horn stands up, saying indignantly: “If you’re suggesting that I would frame him—”
The trooper puts a hand on Horn’s chest and pushes him back into his chair, saying: “Don’t get sore over a little thing like that. Wait’ll you hear what I’m really going to suggest.”
Crime Stories Page 120