I wasn't trying to panic him. I wasn't even going to touch him. And I had the Marley.38 in my pocket, and Saul had one too, so if he had tried to start something he would have got stopped quick. But using a gun, especially in a crowd, is always bad management unless you have to, and he was twelve feet away from me, and I got up and moved merely because I wanted to be closer. Saul had the same notion at the same instant, and the sight of us two heading for him, with all that he knew that we didn't know yet, was too much for him. He was out of his chair and plunging toward the door as I took my second step. Then, of course, we had to touch him. I reached him first,– not because I'm faster than Saul but because he was farther off. And the damn fool put up a fight, although I had him wrapped. He kicked Saul where it hurt, and knocked a lamp over, and bumped my nose with his skull. When he sank his teeth in my arm I thought, That will do for you, mister, and jerked the Marley from my pocket and slapped him above the ear, and he went down. Turning, I saw that Dick Vetter had also wrapped his arms around someone, and she was neither kicking nor biting. In moments of stress people usually show what is really on their minds, even important public figures like TV stars. There wasn't a word about it in the columns next day.
I have often wondered how Paul Rago felt when, at his trial a couple of months later, no evidence whatever was introduced about fingerprints. He knew then, of course, that it had been a treek and nothing but, that no prints had been lifted from the tape by Saul or anyone else, and that if he had kept his mouth shut and played along he might have been playing yet. I once asked Wolfe what he would have done if that had happened.
He said, “It didn't happen.”
I said, “What if it had?”
He said, “Pfui. The contingency was too remote to consider. It was as good as certain that the murderer had untied the tape. Confronted with the strong probability that it was about to be disclosed that his print was on the tape, he had to say something. He had to explain how it got there, and it was vastly preferable to do so voluntarily instead of waiting until evidence compelled it.” I hung on. “Okay, it was a good trick, but I still say what if?” “And I still say it is pointless to consider remote contingencies. What if your mother had abandoned you in a tiger's cage at the age of three months? What would you have done?”
I told him I'd think it over and let him know.
As for motive, you can have three guesses if you want them, but you'll never get warm if you dig them out of what I have reported. In all the jabber in Wolfe's office that day, there wasn't one word that had the slightest bearing on why Philip Holt died, which goes to show why detectives get ulcers.
No, I'm wrong; it was mentioned that Philip Holt liked women, and certainly that had a bearing. One of the women he had liked was Paul Rago's wife, an attractive blue–eyed number about half as old as her husband, and he was still liking her, and, unlike Flora Korby, she had liked him and proved it.
Paul Rago hadn't liked that.
Kelley Roos
pseudonym of
Audrey Roos (1912–1982)
William Roos (1911– )
Kelley Roos is the pseudonym of a husband–and–wife writing team, William Roos and Audrey (née Kelley) Roos. As is the case with the Lockridges' Mr. and Mrs. North, Kelley Roos's Jeff and Haila Troy are an attractive, sophisticated New York City couple; he works in a photography studio, while she, a former aspiring actress, tends the home fires. The Troy novels, beginning with Made Up to Kill (1940), are typical of the subgenre in the 1940's and 1950's: amusing, bloodless, spiced with witty dialogue, and often relying on the formula of the imperiled wife being saved at the last minute by her husband. Their adventures are set against such diverse backdrops as the theater (Made Up to Kill); model yachting (Sailor Take Warning,1944); and a strange snowbound lodge in Westchester County, New York (Ghost of a Chance, 1947). Four films were inspired by the Roos novels, the first and best being A Night to Remember (1942), starring Loretta Young and Brian Aherne, based on the 1942 title The Frightened Stiff. In addition to their full–length adventures, the Troys appeared in a number of novelettes, three of which are collected in Triple Threat (1949). While the Troy novels were somewhat superficial and conformed to the conventions of the time, their carefree good humor and refreshing characterization made them popular with readers, and the Roos team proved that they were willing to try other types of collaborative detective fiction. In 1956 they broke away from their main series to present another detecting duo, Steve and Connie Barton, who appeared in only one novel, The Blond Died Dancing. They also made forays into psychological suspense and intrigue, with such novels as Cry in the Night (1966), What Did Hattie See? (1970), and Bad Trip (1971). Even the final Troy novel (One False Move, 1966) was a departure: The setting is not New York, but a small Texas town, and the couple have recently beenivorced – although they do reconcile at the end. In “Two Over Par,” the couple are at their amusing best as they solve a mystery on the golf links.
TWO OVER PAR
JEFF AND HAILA TROY
LONG ISLAND, NEW YORK 1949
Jeff stepped back from teeing up my ball and handed me the family driver. I kept my head down and swung. The ball, obviously a faulty one, curved into a thicket not far away. Jeff teed his ball, kept his head down, and swung. His ball sliced into the same thicket. The Troys, as they say around the club, were in the rough.
“Are you sure,” I said, “that you're really supposed to keep your head down?”
“I don't know,” Jeff said dismally. “But I couldn't raise mine now even if I wanted to. I'm too ashamed.”
“Those are our last two balls.”
“Yeah.” Jeff picked up our bag, slung it over his shoulder. “If we didn't spend so much money on balls we could afford a caddy.”
“Couldn't we alternate? Hire a caddy one day, use balls the next?”
“Women,” Jeff said, “shouldn't be allowed on a golf course.”
We trudged toward the thicket and plunged into it. We separated and began looking for our balls. It wasn't very interesting work. Perhaps I had done too much of it in this week since we had taken up golf. I kicked aimlessly at the thick grass as I walked around, I – “Jeff!”
“Did you find your ball?” Jeff yelled.
“No,” I said. “No, I – I found a caddy!”
Then Jeff was at my side. He saw what I had seen. He crouched down beside the young man, reaching for his wrist. But he didn't test his pulse; he didn't need to. As Jeff touched the arm, the body rolled onto its back and we saw the bullet hole in Eddie Riorden's head.
I turned away. “I'll go back to the clubhouse. I'll phone – ”
“Wait,” Jeff said.
He moved deeper into the thicket. I had taken one step after him when he stopped. I saw his shoulders go rigid. Then he turned and came back to me.
He took me by the arm and led me out onto the fairway.
“Jeff,” I said, “what is it? What did you see?”
“Eddie was caddying for Mrs. Carleton.”
“For Mrs. – Oh,” I said.
“Yes. Just like Eddie. Shot through the head.”
I never got it straight just what Joe Hinkle's official title was – chief of police, sheriff, constable, what? But when murder was committed at the Ocean Country Club on Long Island, Joe Hinkle was the man who represented the law. He was a pleasant, large–faced man. He seemed a little put out that there had been two murders; he seemed to feel that somebody had overdone it.
Joe talked to Jeff and me in a private dining room off the club's bar. He kept looking over our heads toward the bar. I got the impression that Joe would have liked to forget the whole thing and have a drink, then another, followed by a few more – even though it was still only nine–thirty in the morning.
Joe Hinkle sighed and put the palms of his hands on the bare dining table. He looked at us. “You found the bodies,” he said.
“We're sorry,” Jeff said.
“That's all right.” The policeman sighed
again. “If you hadn't, somebody else would have. You two play golf pretty early in the morning.”
“We're self–conscious about our golf,” I explained.
“Was there anyone else on the course while you were playing?”
“We didn't see anyone,” I said.
“What difference would that make?” Jeff asked. “It looked to me as though Mrs. Carleton and Eddie had been lying there all night long.”
“Yeah, that's right,” Joe said. “Doc Grandle says they been dead about twelve hours or so. That's what I figure, too. It gets dark around nine these nights. So Mrs. Carleton was playing her round of golf some time before then. I expect to set the time of the shooting pretty close by asking questions around the club. I wish whoever did it would confess.”
“I wouldn't bank on that,” Jeff said.
“No, I guess I shouldn't. If I killed two people, I wouldn't admit it.” Joe slouched down in his chair and closed his eyes. “Mrs. Carleton and Eddie Riorden – who would have a motive to kill them two? I figure nobody would. I figure that the killer shot Eddie, then had to shoot Mrs. Carleton, too, because she was a witness to Eddie's murder. Or vice versa. By that I mean, there is the alternative that Mrs. Carleton was the intended victim, and Eddie the innocent bystander. How does that sound to you, Troy?”
“Logical,” Jeff said.
“I'm glad to hear you say that. You've had some experience with murder cases, I understand.”
“A little,” Jeff admitted.
“Well, that's more than I've had. Thank the Lord.” Jeff said, “Did you find anything interesting in that thicket?”
“We found Eddie's cap. And Mrs. Carleton's golf bag. That's about all so far.”
“You must have found a lot of balls. Mrs. Carleton and Haila and I aren't the only ones with a slice around here.”
“You're right. We did find some balls.” Hinkle extracted three balls from his jacket pocket and rolled them across the table to Jeff.
“Maybe one of them belongs to you.”
“This one is Haila's. Mine isn't here.” Jeff looked closely at the third one. “This ball's monogrammed. L.K.”
“Yeah, probably Louis Kling. I'll see he gets it. All Mrs. Carleton's balls are initialed, too – J.T.C. We found two of them in her bag, still wrapped in tissue paper.”
Jeff said, “You didn't find the ball she was playing with?”
“Not yet. We haven't had much time to do any real looking around in that thicket. I'm having the place roped off for a hundred yards around the spot the bodies were. I plan to have the boys go through it with a fine–comb.”
“That's the idea,” Jeff said. “With a fine–comb.”
“I hope we find more than a bunch of golf balls.” Hinkle heaved another of his sighs. “I wish we'd find a gun with the killer's fingerprints on it. I'd like that – that'd be nice, wouldn't it?”
“It would even be rather surprising,” Jeff said. “Did you know Eddie Riorden?”
“Sure. Everybody knew Eddie. He was our high school football hero four or five years ago. Eddie must be about twenty–two now and as far as I know he never did a lick of work except enough to keep him in cigarette money. Caddying, pin boy – that kind of stuff. Nice kid, though, just lazy. Well, I got to go over and talk to Mrs. Carleton's husband. I want to get that over with. If there's anything you can do for me, Troy, I'll let you know.”
“Thanks,” Jeff said.
Jeff and I walked back to the cottage that was teaching us never again to rent a cottage for the summer. Automatically, with our minds still in a thicket on a golf course, we started on our morning chores. I made the bed while Jeff put fresh adhesive tape on the screen door. Jeff tried to talk the hot–water heater into justifying its existence while I spray–gunned the joint. I was about to start my daily campaign against the ants in the icebox when the girl slammed into the house.
“I'm Fran Leslie,” she said. “Where's your husband?”
“Jeff!” I yelled.
I had seen Fran Leslie around the club. She was a pretty girl, in a rather wild, excited way, who seemed continually to be in motion. I finally realized the reason for it. Fran considered herself too sophisticated for the younger set, but she found the older set a bit stuffy. So she spent most of her time shuttling between sets. This, however, seemed to be good for her figure. It was, in fact, developed far beyond her mind.
Impatiently, she said, “This is terribly important!”
I shouted for Jeff again. He came into the room, saw Fran Leslie inside our cottage, then looked at the screen door as if he were reproaching himself for having put adhesive tape in the wrong places. “Hello,” he said.
“Mr. Troy!” Fran said. “How much do you charge?”
“Different prices,” Jeff said. “Three dollars for fixing a flat, five for taking down an old Christmas tree, six – ”
“I mean for your services as a detective!”
“Is it you who needs a detective?” Jeff asked.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I'm going to be arrested for killing Janet Carleton, that's why! You've got to save me, Mr. Troy. I didn't kill Janet – or that caddy, either; but everyone on Long Island has thought for years that some day I would – kill Janet, I mean.”
“Sit down, Miss Leslie,” Jeff suggested.
“Please, Mr. Troy!” Fran turned to me in exasperation. “I'm practically on my way to the electric chair, and the man asks me to sit down!”
“All right,” Jeff said. “What's your motive?”
“Oh, I've got one – and a jury would just eat it up! I wouldn't stand a chance. Janet stole the man I love. I've been insanely jealous for ages.”
“A fairly good motive,” Jeff said unenthusiastically. “The man you love is Mr. Carleton?”
“Yes. Tom Carleton. Tom's always been my man, if you know what I mean. Then, four years ago, Janet came along – glamorous, exciting, beautiful Janet! You can see how much I hate her! She took Tom. He never looked at me again.”
“Fran,” Jeff said, “how old are you?”
“Seventeen. Why?”
“Then Janet took Tom Carleton away from you when you were thirteen.”
“Yes! That's how ruthless she was! She knew Tom and I couldn't get married right away and – ”
“I suppose,” Jeff said, “that your parents insisted you finish grammar school first.”
“I knew that I would mature quickly,” Fran said. She threw back her shoulders to prove it, and she did prove it. Jeff modestly lowered his eyes. “Tom is only twelve years older than I am,” she said, “and we have so much in common.”
“What?”
“Well, for one thing – ”
“Go on,” Jeff said.
“Well, for one thing, we both belong to the Country Club.”
“Oh,” Jeff said. “Frannie, could you see it in Tom's eyes that some day he would marry you?”
“He would have married me, he would have!” Fran cried. “And I've wanted to kill Janet for years! Everybody knows that! Mr. Troy, you've got to save me by finding the real murderer. I'll give you five hundred dollars!”
“Frannie, why don't you go to a movie or something?”
“If you won't take this case, you know what I'll do? I'll – ”
“Stop,” Jeff said. “Don't even tell me what you'll do. I'll take the case. I'll try to prove, Frannie, that you didn't commit two murders.”
“Oh, thank you so much!”
“Good–by, Frannie,” Jeff said.
She pouted. “Aren't you going to ask me about my alibi?”
“All right. Where were you at the time of the crime?”
“I was walking on the beach, alone.”
“Did anybody see you?”
“Not a soul!” Frannie said happily. “I absolutely cannot prove that it wasn't me who committed those murders! I have no alibi.”
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