In another downstairs room, Mrs. Bellam, the housekeeper, is being questioned by a little, plump man in clothes that need pressing.
The Plump Man says: “Ain’t that pretty late for a lady your age to be up?”
Mrs. Bellam: “I don’t think so.”
The Plump Man: “What time do you mostly go to bed?”
Mrs. Bellam: “Not often before two o’clock, and sometimes it’s three or four.”
The Plump Man: “Got things on your mind that worry you, keep you awake?”
Mrs. Bellam: “No, it’s just that I don’t sleep very much.”
Plump Man: “What were you doing when you heard the shot?”
Mrs. Bellam: “Reading.”
Plump Man: “Reading what?”
Mrs. Bellam: “The Bible.”
Plump Man: “Oh!” then, after a pause: “Well, that’s all right. How long had you been in your room?”
Mrs. Bellam: “I went up there about eleven o’clock.”
Plump Man: “Were you undressed?”
Mrs. Bellam: “No.”
Plump Man: “And you were in your room all the time from around eleven till you heard the shot?”
Mrs. Bellam: “That’s right.”
Plump Man: “And you didn’t see or hear anything out of the ordinary till you got to his room and saw the others there?”
Mrs. Bellam: “Not a single thing except the shot.”
Plump Man: “What did you think when you found out the old man had been killed?”
Mrs. Bellam: “I was sorry.”
Plump Man: “You and the Colonel get along pretty well?”
She says: “Yes. I always know what to expect from Colonel MacFay and I never expected anything different.”
The Plump Man thinks that over for a moment, then gives it up and asks: “Who gets the old man’s money?”
She says: “I’m sure I don’t know except I always thought it would go to Miss Lois.”
He asks: “Will you get any of it?”
She answers: “I’d be mighty surprised if I did.”
He says: “You’ve been working for the old man a long time, haven’t you?”
Mrs. Bellam: “Sixteen years.”
The Plump Man: “And you used to know this Sam Church when he worked for the old man?”
Mrs. Bellam: “Yes, indeed, I knew him.”
The Plump Man: “All right, then, make yourself comfortable and we’ll have a long talk about what you know about him.”
In his bedroom, Freddie is being questioned by an elderly detective who from time to time jots down notes on pieces of paper he takes from various pockets, apparently never using the same piece twice.
The Detective says: “Now, son, when you left the old man in his room after midnight, what did you do?”
Freddie says: “I came here.”
Detective: “Straight here?”
Freddie: “Yes, sir.”
Detective: “You didn’t hear or see anything until the shot came?”
Freddie: “That’s right.”
Detective: “Where were you when you heard it—in bed?”
Freddie: “No, sir.”
Detective: “Where were you?”
Freddie: “Sitting at that table.”
Detective: “Undressed yet?”
Freddie: “No sir.”
Detective: “Well, you must have been doing something.”
Freddie: “I—I had some work to do. I was writing.”
Detective: “Writing what?”
Freddie stammers and finally says: “A play. I’m trying to write a play.”
Detective, in a tone of slight surprise, says: “Oh, go on!” Then: “What’s it called?”
Freddie: “‘The Minute-Hand.’”
Detective: “Yes? Let me see it.”
Freddie goes to the table and gives him a handful of manuscript pages written in longhand.
The Detective says: “You’re a private secretary—how is it you don’t write this on one of those typewriters?”
Freddie: “I only get a chance to work on it late at night and I was afraid the typewriter would disturb people. Besides, when you’re writing your first play, you kind of don’t like people to know about it.”
The detective, puzzled by this, looks at Freddie for a moment, then begins to read the play.
Presently, the Detective puts the manuscript down on his knee and says: “So you write about murders, huh? Do you think much about murders?”
Freddie says: “It’s a mystery play. Lots of people write mystery plays.”
The Detective says: “They do? You wouldn’t happen to make a hobby of what they call criminology?”
Freddie: “No sir.”
Detective: “Well, I’ll have to show this to VanSlack. He might think it kind of shows how your mind works—what they call psychology.” He looks down at the manuscript. “This isn’t all of it, is it?”
Freddie says: “No sir. I haven’t finished the second act.”
The Detective says: “Hmmm! And how many acts now would a play have?”
Freddie: “Three.”
Detective: “Maybe you can write the rest of it while VanSlack’s reading this. Who is MacFay’s lawyer?”
Freddie: “Floyd Tanner.”
Detective: “The one that’s always in some jam with the income tax people?”
Freddie: “I don’t know about that.”
Detective: “When’s the last time MacFay made a will?”
Freddie: “About seven months ago, I think.”
Detective: “Well, who gets the money?”
Freddie: “I don’t know whether I ought to—”
Detective: “This is a murder we’re trying to clear up, lad, and the more you can tell us the better. So don’t let’s hang up over who’s going to tell what.”
Freddie: “According to the memorandum I typed, Miss MacFay was to get everything except a hundred thousand dollars. That went to Mrs. Bellam, the housekeeper.”
Detective: “How much do you figure everything but a hundred thousand would amount to?”
Freddie: “I don’t know. It would certainly be several million, but I don’t suppose anybody but Colonel MacFay knew exactly what property he had.”
Detective: “Where do these Charles people fit in?”
Freddie: “Why, they—they have money invested in some properties with the Colonel.”
Detective: “And they never had any trouble with the Colonel over their money?”
Freddie: “No—nothing—nothing to pay any attention to. Of course not.”
Detective: “What was there not to pay any attention to?”
Freddie: “Nothing. It was just a joke. He was laughing tonight about their wanting to examine the accounts for the first time and how he kept Mr. Charles up to his neck in figures for eight solid hours without Mr. Charles being able to tell a decimal point from a debit.”
Detective: “How do you tell a—never mind. What came up that Charles wanted all of a sudden to examine the accounts?”
Freddie: “Nothing. It was just a joke. Even Colonel MacFay thought it was funny.”
Detective: “A sense of humor. That’s got men killed before.”
Freddie: “But you can’t—”
Detective: “Take it easy, lad. I’m going to give you a little rest now, but don’t be going out of the house.”
The detective goes down to the living room, where the uniformed trooper is still questioning Horn. The detective and the trooper whisper together for a moment in a corner of the room, then go back to Horn.
Trooper: “You been working for MacFay a long time; so has this Bellam woman. What’s the connection?”
Horn: “Between her and me? None.”
Detective: “She gets a hundred grand in his will.”
Horn: “What’s that got to do with me?”
Trooper: “You’re marrying his daughter who gets the rest of his dough.”
Horn: “What’s that got to do
with Mrs. Bellam?”
Detective: “It’s a coincidence.”
Trooper: “What makes Bellam rate a hundred gees?”
Horn: “It’s none of my business, but I’ll tell you. Years ago she was MacFay’s girl. Then they drifted apart and she got married, and then after her husband died and left her without a nickel the old man took her in as housekeeper.”
Trooper: “Just as housekeeper?”
Horn nods.
Detective: “That’s kind of sweet.”
Trooper: “He adopted this Lois: could she be Bellam’s daughter?”
Horn: “No. He took Lois from an orphanage. Her mother’s name was Shelley and she died when Lois was born. You can check that.”
Detective: “We will. What’s the tie-up between Charles and Church?”
Horn: “There’s no tie-up! Church had threatened him, too.”
Trooper: “Yeah? Well, do you think Charles is the type of man that might have killed the Colonel to frame Church?”
Horn stares open-mouthed at the trooper.
IN MACFAY’S OFFICE
VanSlack is keeping in touch with New York City and the surrounding country by telephone, meanwhile receiving information from and giving instructions to men who pass in and out of the room. Nick is sitting on a corner of the desk; a couple of VanSlack’s men are lounging by the window.
Nick: “Did you people have a man watching Church?”
VanSlack: “No. The sheriff’s office was keeping an eye on him in a way, but we didn’t have anybody actually watching him. I suppose there will be a lot of complaining about that now. People will be saying we should have covered Church day and night after Colonel MacFay came to us, but I didn’t see how we could have guessed it was going to turn out like this. You know yourself it was all pretty ridiculous in a way and could have turned out to be just a kind of bad practical joke. Couldn’t it?”
Nick nods.
VanSlack: “Did you have any special reason for thinking we had a man on Church’s tail?”
Nick says: “When I went down to see Church yesterday morning, there was a chap up on the hill keeping tabs on him with field glasses and, when I tried to strike up a conversation with him, he showed me a buzzer and told me to go chase myself.”
VanSlack: “Really? What kind of looking man was he?”
Nick describes Vogel.
VanSlack looks questioningly at the other men in the room. They all shake their heads.
VanSlack says: “That’s peculiar, because I don’t know of anybody around here who looks like that.”
Nick says: “I thought it was peculiar—I’d never seen a country cop with a new six-thousand-dollar coupe before, so I wrote the license number down.”
VanSlack says: “That’s splendid. Will you get it?”
Nick goes to his bedroom. Nick Jr. is asleep on one of the beds. Lois, sitting in a chair by the window, has recovered some of her composure. Nora is encouraging her to drink a cup of coffee.
They both turn to Nick as he comes in and Nora asks: “Have they found anything?”
Nick says: “They haven’t found Church or his black man yet, if that’s what you mean, but he can’t have much of a start.”
Lois says: “Do you suppose he did it?”
Nick looks at her in slight surprise, asking: “Don’t you?”
She says: “Oh yes—he must have. Don’t pay any attention to me.”
Nick has crossed to a closet and is hunting through his coat for the paper on which he wrote the license number.
He asks: “Did you have your session with the police?”
Nora says: “Yes. They were very sweet. I think detectives’ manners have improved since your day.”
He finds his piece of paper.
Lois asks: “Could I—do you think they’d let me see Papa now?”
Nick shakes his head at Nora, who begins to explain to Lois why it is best not to see her father now, as Nick escapes.
In the hall, at the head of the stairs, Nick meets Freddie.
Freddie: “Is she all right?”
Nick says: “Lois? I think so.”
Freddie: “Do you think she’d like to see me?”
Nick: “You could try.”
Freddie: “Will these policemen be here long?”
Nick says: “Most likely. They tell me they don’t often get a chance to play at being scientific detectives, so they’ll probably make the most of it. Why? Do they bother you?”
Freddie: “No, but I wish they’d clear out.”
Horn and the trooper who was questioning him come up the stairs together.
Nick, holding out the slip of paper with the license number on it to the trooper: “Will you give this to Mr. VanSlack for me and tell him I’m taking time out to dress?”
The Trooper, taking the paper: “Sure thing.”
Horn, going over to Lois: “How are you now, darling?”
Lois: “I’m all right.”
Freddie hovers over them, smiling an aimless smile that is meant to be cheering.
Nick moves between bedroom and bathroom, dressing.
Lois: “I think I would feel better if somebody told me whether Papa—did he die without—”
Horn: “There was no pain, dear; he died instantly.”
Lois: “Where—where was he shot?”
Horn: “Your father fired that, at the murderer. Don’t let’s talk about it now.”
Lois: “But I want to talk about it. I want to face it. I don’t want to baby myself. Do you think the police are enough, or should we get somebody to help them?”
Horn, bitterly: “From my experience with them, I’d say they were being thorough enough anyway.”
Lois: “Do you mean they questioned you?”
Horn: “They did everything but jail me, and that can still happen.”
Lois: “Don’t be unreasonable, dear. You know they have to suspect everybody.”
Horn grumbles: “I don’t know it. I think Church would be enough.”
Lois: “Did they question you, Freddie?”
Freddie: “Yes. They haven’t much respect for anybody’s privacy, but I really didn’t mind.” He sits down on the baby.
Nick, Nora, Lois, and Horn all yell warnings at Freddie, but too late. Nora runs over to pick up the baby. Nick Jr. does not cry, but scowls unpleasantly at Freddie, and says: “Drunk.”
Freddie: “I’m sorry! I’m—did I—”
The door bursts open and half a dozen detectives and troopers with guns in their hands come running in bawling: “What is it? What’s the matter? What’s going on here?”
Reporters try to crowd into the room behind the police.
Nora, indignantly: “How would you like somebody to sit on your baby?”
One of the troopers: “If you’re talking about my baby, it would do her plenty of good.”
The reporters, seeing Nick, begin to call: “There he is. Hello, Nick. These mugs didn’t want to let us see you,” etc.
The police herd the reporters out of the room as VanSlack comes in.
One of the detectives: “It’s nothing, Van. They’re just horsing around.”
VanSlack, vaguely: “Is that so?” Then to Nick: “That license number belongs to a man named Vogel, a gambler-racketeer, and his description seems to fit the man you saw. The New York police think they can get hold of him for us. Do you—that is, I’m going in to see him and that Smith woman you told me about. Would you care to go along?”
Nick: “If you think I’d be any help.”
Nora: “Then I’m going, too. I’m not going to keep Nicky down here with nothing but a lot of country pol—” She breaks off in consternation, staring at the country policemen around her, gulps, says, “country pol—” again while hunting desperately for an out, finds it, and finishes triumphantly “—country poultry to eat. You know he’s on a diet.”
Nick goes over and kisses her, saying: “Sweetheart, you are wonderful. I wouldn’t have believed anybody could get out of
that one.”
Nora, with mock modesty: “It was nothing really.”
One policeman to another: “How do you like them to do until a couple of real screwballs come along?”
VanSlack to Nora: “I can appreciate your feelings, Mrs. Charles. Naturally you think—with everything that’s happened—I understand. But—well—we’d like to get away without attracting the attention of the newspaper men and we’ll be in pretty much of a hurry. It might not be so comfortable for—and you’ll be perfectly safe here with—or if you want you can follow us in as soon as you’re ready and a couple of my men will ride in with you.”
Nick, imitating VanSlack: “Yes, dear, you can—I think it would give you time—there’s always another—and there you are.”
A trooper comes in panting: “There’s a dog running around outside with a knife in his mouth.”
Nick and Nora exclaim: “Asta!” together.
Outside it is still night. With the help of lights that range in size from searchlights mounted on automobiles to flashlights carried in hands, policemen are trying to corner Asta, who, holding in his mouth a knife similar to the one seen in Dum-Dum’s possession, dashes across an open space and disappears into darkness behind a row of shrubs.
At an upstairs window, Freddie and Mrs. Bellam can be seen looking down at the men chasing the dog.
As Nick and VanSlack come up, one of the troopers says: “We’re going to have to shoot that mutt; we’ll never catch him this way.”
VanSlack: “First we’ll see if Mr. Charles—it’s Mr. Charles’s dog—perhaps he can help us.”
Nick: “Where did he find the knife?”
Trooper, pointing: “We don’t know. He came around thataway with it.”
Nick: “Where is he now?”
Trooper, pointing in the opposite direction: “We don’t know. He went around thataway with it.”
Nick whistles and calls to Asta, with no result.
Trooper: “A guy that can’t make his dog mind ought to trade it in for goldfish or something.”
Nick, pretending he hasn’t heard the trooper, calls again, then says: “He’s not going to come running up to a lot of strange men with lights. What do you think he is, a moth? Call your men back and give me a flashlight.”
Crime Stories Page 121