“You mentioned them when you opened the door.”
“I mention them to everyone who comes to the house. You see, I do not know what they look like and I do not want them to think I am not on my guard.”
I watched her. She might have looked like a silly spinster with a bee in her bonnet. She didn't. She looked nice and quite sane, only scared.
“Oh, they are not good people. Not at all. There is nothing they would not stoop to. Back in Glendale, I found pieces of meat in the front yard. Poisoned meat, I know. And on a lonely road, they shot at Poppy. Oh, the police laughed at me. A car backfiring, they said. But I know differently. I know they won't stop till Poppy is dead.” She threw her little hands up to her face. “I ran away from them in Glendale. That is why I came to La Jolla. But they have caught up with us. I know. Oh, dear, poor Poppy who is so sweet without a nasty thought in her head.”
Poppy, hearing her name mentioned, smiled and panted.
“But this nephew and his wife from Ogden Bluffs, why should they want to murder her?” My wife's eyes were gleaming with a detective enthusiasm I knew of old. “Are they after her money?”
“Of course,” said Miss Crump passionately. “It's the will. The nephew is Mrs. Wilberframe's only living relative, but she deliberately cut him off and I am sure I do not blame her. All the money goes to Poppy and – er – Poppy's little ones.”
“Isn't the nephew contesting a screwy will like that?” I asked.
“Not yet. To contest a will takes a great deal of money –lawyers fees and things. It would be much, much cheaper for him to kill Poppy. You see, one thing is not covered by the will. If Poppy were to die before she became a mother, the nephew would inherit the whole estate. Oh, I have done everything in my power. The moment, the – er – suitable season arrived, I found a husband for Poppy. In a few weeks now, the – the little ones are expected. But these next few weeks ...”
Miss Crump dabbed at her eyes with a small handkerchief. “Oh, the Glendale police were most unsympathetic. They even mentioned the fact that the sentence for shooting or killing a dog in this state is shockingly light – a small fine at most.
I called the police here and asked for protection. They said they'd send a man around some time but they were hardly civil. So you see, there is no protection from the law and no redress. There is no one to help me.”
“You've got us,” said Iris in a burst of sympathy.
“Oh ... oh ...” The handkerchief fluttered from Miss Crump's face. “I knew you were my friends. You dear, dear things. Oh, Poppy, they are going to help us.”
Poppy, busy licking my stomach, did not reply. Somewhat appalled by Iris' hasty promise but ready to stand by her, I said:
“Sure, we'll help, Miss Crump. First, what's the nephew's name?”
“Henry. Henry Blodgett. But he won't use that name. Oh, no, he will be too clever for that.”
“And you don't know what he looks like?”
“Mrs. Wilberframe destroyed his photograph many years ago when he bit her as a small boy. With yellow curls, I understand. That is when the trouble between them started.”
“At least you know what age he is?”
“He should be about thirty.”
“And the wife?” asked Iris.
“I know nothing about her,” said Miss Crump coldly, “except that she is supposed to be a red–headed person, a former actress.”
“And what makes you so sure one or both of them have come to La Jolla?”
Miss Crump folded her arms in her lap. “Last night. A telephone call.”
“A telephone call?”
“A voice asking if I was Miss Crump, and then – silence.” Miss Crump leaned toward me. “Oh, now they know I am here. They know I never let Poppy out. They know every morning I search the patio for meat, traps. They must realize that the only possible way to reach her is to enter the house.”
“Break in?”
Miss Crump shook her tight curls. “It is possible. But I believe they will rely on guile rather than violence. It is against that we must be on our guard. You are the only people who have come to the door since that telephone call. Now anyone else that comes to your apartment or mine, whatever their excuse ...” She lowered her voice. “Anyone may be Henry Blodgett or his wife and we will have to outwit them.”
A fly settled on one of Poppy's valuable ears. She did not seem to notice it. Miss Crump watched us earnestly and then gave a self–scolding cluck.
“Dear me, here I have been burdening you with Poppy's problems and you must be hungry. How about a little salad for luncheon?
I always feel guilty about eating in the middle of the day when Poppy has her one meal at night. But with guests – yes, and allies – I am sure Mrs. Wilberframe would not have grudged the expense.”
With a smile that was half–shy, half–conspiratorial, she fluttered away.
I looked at Iris. “Well,” I said, “is she a nut or do we believe her?”
“I rather think,” said my wife, “that we believe her.”
“Why?”
“Just because.” Iris' face wore the entranced expression which had won her so many fans in her last picture. “Oh, Peter, don't you see what fun it will be? A beautiful St. Bernard in peril. A wicked villain with golden curls who bit his aunt.”
“He won't have golden curls any more,” I said. “He's a big boy now.”
Iris, her body warm from the sun, leaned over me and put both arms around Poppy's massive neck.
“Poor Poppy,” she said. “Really, this shouldn't happen to a dog!”
The first thing happened some hours after Miss Crump's little salad luncheon while Iris and I were still sunning ourselves. Miss Crump, who had been preparing Poppy's dinner and her own in her apartment, came running to announce:
“There is a man at the door! He claims he is from the electric light company to read the meter. Oh, dear, if he is legitimate and we do not let him in, there will be trouble with the electric light company and if ...” She wrung her hands. “Oh, what shall we do?”
I reached for a bathrobe. “You and Iris stay here. And for Mrs. Wilberframe's sake, hang on to Poppy.”
I found the man outside the locked front door. He was about thirty with thinning hair and wore an army discharge button. He showed me his credentials. They seemed in perfect order. There was nothing for it but to let him in. I took him into the kitchen where Poppy's luscious steak and Miss Crump's modest hamburger were lying where Miss Crump had left them on the table. I hovered over the man while he located the meter. I never let him out of my sight until he had departed. In answer to Miss Crump's anxious questioning, I could only say that if the man had been Henry Blodgett he knew how much electricity she'd used in the past month – but that was all.
The next caller showed up a few minutes later. Leaving Iris, indignant at being out of things, to stand by Poppy, Miss Crump and I handled the visitor. This time it was a slim, brash girl with bright auburn hair and a navy–blue slack suit. She was, she said, the sister of the woman who owned the hacienda. She wanted a photograph for the newspapers – a photograph of her Uncle William who had just been promoted to Rear Admiral in the Pacific.
The photograph was in a trunk in the attic.
Miss Crump, reacting to the unlikeliness of the request, refused entry. The red–head wasn't the type that wilted. When she started talking darkly of eviction, I overrode Miss Crump and offered to conduct her to the attic. The girl gave me one quick, experienced look and flounced into the hall.
The attic was reached by the back stairs through the kitchen. I conducted the red–head directly to her claimed destination. There were trunks. She searched through them. At length she produced a photograph of a limp young man in a raccoon coat.
“My Uncle William,” she snapped, “as a youth.”
“Pretty,” I said.
I took her back to the front door. On the threshold she gave me another of her bold, appraising stares.
“Yo
u know something?” she said. “I was hoping you'd make a pass at me in the attic.”
“Why?” I asked.
“So's I could tear your ears off.”
She left. If she had been Mrs. Blodgett, she knew how to take care of herself, she knew how many trunks there were in the attic – and that was all.
Iris and I had dressed and were drinking Daiquiris under a green and white striped umbrella when Miss Crump appeared followed by a young policeman. He had come, she said, in answer to her complaint. She showed him Poppy; she babbled out her story of the Blodgetts. He obviously thought she was a harmless lunatic, but she didn't seem to realize it. After she had let him out, she settled beamingly down with us.
“I suppose,” said Iris, “you asked for his credentials?”
“I ...” Miss Crump's face clouded. “My dear, you don't think that perhaps he wasn't a real police ....?”
“To me,” said Iris, “everyone's a Blodgett until proved to the contrary.”
“Oh, dear,” said Miss Crump.
Nothing else happened. By evening Iris and I were back in our part of the house. Poppy had hated to see us go. We had hated to leave her. A mutual crush had developed between us. But now we were alone again, the sinister Blodgetts did not seem very substantial. Iris made a creditable Boeuf Stroganov from yesterday's leftovers and changed into a lime green négligée which would have inflamed the whole Pacific Fleet. I was busy being a sailor on leave with his girl when the phone rang. I reached over Iris for the receiver, said “Hello,” and then sat rigid listening. It was Miss Crump's voice. But something was horribly wrong with it. It came across hoarse and gasping.
“Come,” it said. “Oh, come. The French windows. Oh, please ...”
The voice faded. I heard the clatter of a dropped receiver.
“It must be Poppy,” I said to Iris. “Quick.”
We ran out into the dark patio. Across it, I could see the light French windows to Miss Crump's apartment. They were half open, and as I looked Poppy squirmed through to the patio. She bounded toward us, whining.
“Poppy's all right,” said Iris. “Quick!” We ran to Miss Crump's windows. Poppy barged past us into the living room. We followed. All the lights were on. Poppy had galloped around a high–backed davenport. We went to it and looked over it.
Poppy was crouching on the carpet, her huge muzzle dropped on her paws. She was howling and staring straight at Miss Crump.
Poppy's paid companion was on the floor too. She lay motionless on her back, her legs twisted under her, her small, grey face distorted, her lips stretched in a dreadful smile.
I knelt down by Poppy. I picked up Miss Crump's thin wrist and felt for the pulse. Poppy was still howling. Iris stood, straight and white. “Peter, tell me. Is she dead?”
“Not quite. But only just not quite. Poison. It looks like strychnine. ...”
We called a doctor. We called the police. The doctor came, muttered a shocked diagnosis of strychnine poisoning and rushed Miss Crump to the hospital. I asked if she had a chance. He didn't answer. I knew what that meant. Soon the police came and there was so much to say and do and think that I hadn't time to brood about poor Miss Crump.
We told Inspector Green the Blodgett story. It was obvious to us that somehow Miss Crump had been poisoned by them in mistake for Poppy. Since no one had entered the house that day except the three callers, one of them, we said, must have been a Blodgett. All the Inspector had to do, we said, was to locate those three people and find out which was a Blodgett.
Inspector Green watched us poker–faced and made no comment. After he'd left, we took the companionless Poppy back to our part of the house. She climbed on the bed and stretched out between us, her tail thumping, her head flopped on the pillows.
We didn't have the heart to evict her. It was not one of our better nights.
Early next morning, a policeman took us to Miss Crump's apartment. Inspector Green was waiting in the living room. I didn't like his stare.
“We've analyzed the hamburger she was eating last night,” he said. “There was enough strychnine in it to kill an elephant.”
“Hamburger!” exclaimed Iris. “Then that proves she was poisoned by the Blodgetts!”
“Why?” asked Inspector Green.
“They didn't know how conscientious Miss Crump was. They didn't know she always bought steak for Poppy and hamburger for herself. They saw the steak and the hamburger and they naturally assumed the hamburger was for Poppy, so they poisoned that.”
“That's right,” I cut in. “The steak and the hamburger were lying right on the kitchen table when all three of those people came in yesterday.”
“I see,” said the Inspector.
He nodded to a policeman who left the room and returned with three people – the balding young man from the electric light company, the red–headed vixen, and the young policeman. None of them looked happy.
“You're willing to swear,” the Inspector asked us, “that these were the only three people who entered this house yesterday.”
“Yes,” said Iris.
“And you think one of them is either Blodgett or his wife?”
“They've got to be.”
Inspector Green smiled faintly. “Mr. Burns here has been with the electric light company for five years except for a year when he was in the army. The electric light company is willing to vouch for that. Miss Custis has been identified as the sister of the lady who owns this house and the niece of Rear Admiral Moss. She has no connection with any Blodgetts and has never been in Utah.” He paused. “As for Officer Patterson, he has been a member of the police force here for eight years. I personally sent him around yesterday to follow up Miss Crump's complaint.”
The Inspector produced an envelope from his pocket and tossed it to me. “I've had these photographs of Mr. and Mrs. Henry Blodgett flown from the files of the Ogden Bluffs Tribune.”
I pulled the photographs out of the envelope. We stared at them. Neither Mr. or Mrs. Blodgett looked at all the sort of person you would like to know. But neither of them bore the slightest resemblance to any of the three suspects in front of us.
“It might also interest you,” said the Inspector quietly, “that I've checked with the Ogden Bluffs police. Mr. Blodgett has been sick in bed for over a week and his wife has been nursing him. There is a doctor's certificate to that effect.”
Inspector Green gazed down at his hands.
They were competent hands. “It looks to me that the whole Blodgett story was built up in Miss Crump's mind – or yours.” His grey eyes stared right through us. “If we have to eliminate the Blodgetts and these three people from suspicion, that leaves only two others who had the slightest chance of poisoning the hamburger.”
Iris blinked. “Us?”
“You,” said Inspector Green almost sadly.
They didn't arrest us, of course. We had no conceivable motive. But Inspector Green questioned us minutely and when he left there was a policeman lounging outside our door.
We spent a harried afternoon racking our brains and getting nowhere. Iris was the one who had the inspiration. Suddenly, just after she had fed Poppy the remains of the Stroganov, she exclaimed:
“Good heavens above, of course!”
“Of course, what?”
She spun to me, her eyes shining.
“Barney Thtone,” she lisped. “Why didn't we realize? Come on!”
She ran out of the house into the street. She grabbed the lounging policeman by the arm.
“You live here,” she said. “Who's Barney Stone?”
“Barney Stone?” The policeman stared.
“He's the son of the druggist on the corner.”
Iris raced me to the drugstore. She was attracting quite a crowd. The policeman followed, too. In the drugstore, a thin young man with spectacles stood behind the prescription counter.
“Mr. Stone?” asked Iris.
His mouth dropped open. “Gee, Miss Duluth. I never dreamed ... Gee, Miss
Duluth, what can I do for you? Cigarettes? An alarm clock?”
“A little girl,” said Iris. “A little girl with sandy pigtails and a brace on her teeth. What's her name? Where does she live?”
Barney Stone said promptly: “You mean Daisy Kornfeld. Kind of homely. Just down the block. 712. Miss Duluth, I certainly ...”
“Thanks,” cut in Iris and we were off again with our ever growing escort.
Daisy was sitting in the Kornfeld parlor, glumly thumping the piano. Ushered in by an excited, cooing Mrs. Kornfeld, Iris interrupted Daisy's rendition of The Jolly Farmer.
Detective Duos Page 31