A Pint of Murder

by Charlotte MacLeod

  “What money?” roared the father.

  “Yours or his, we don’t care which,” Janet told him sweetly. “Surely you wouldn’t want to start talk around town that your son was being supported by a couple of women? If Elmer wants to pay his share and behave himself, he’s welcome enough. If not, as you say, a person could always go down to Fred Olson and swear out a warrant.”

  Marion stuck out her jaw. “Yeah, that’s right. And don’t think I wouldn’t.”

  “Now, look here, Paw,” stammered Elmer, “I’m not about to stick my nose in where I’m not wanted.”

  “Who’s not wanted?” Gilly had appeared in the doorway, cradling a dachshund in her arms. “Oh hi, Elmer. I thought you were Dr. Bottleby.”

  “Hi, Gilly. How’s the pup?”

  “Perking up a little, I think. Come and have a look, eh?”

  The pair of them drifted off together. The rest hardly noticed their leaving; they were too busy wrangling over who was going to pay how much to whom. At last the old man wrenched a ten and a twenty off the wad he took from his hip pocket and stamped out, fuming.

  “I hope I did right,” said Marion, looking nervously down at the serene profile of Her Gracious Majesty on the uppermost bill.

  “I don’t know what else you could have done, short of calling out the Mounties,” Janet replied. “Anyway, at least Elmer’s got a car.” The Bains must have arrived in separate vehicles, for a tidy-looking Ford was still sitting in front of the Mansion.

  “I just hope to God that patent turns up soon,” Marion sighed. “What with Bain pestering me and Elizabeth chewing my ear about the estate, I’m ready to fold up. Ah the hell with it. At least we’ve got grocery money now. Maybe I can get Buffalo Bill there to drive me down to market and back.”

  “Tell him he’ll have to if he expects to be fed. Speaking of food, I’ve got to get home. That’s our last loaf of bread I gave you, and Bert will be in for his dinner before I’ve even made the beds, at the rate I’m going.”

  As Janet crossed the yard, a scrap of schoolyard gossip she hadn’t thought of for years floated back into her mind. Hadn’t Elmer been sweet on Gilly once, and didn’t Mrs. Druffitt raise the roof about it? That wasn’t so hard to understand. What respectable family would want to get tied up with old Jase? Elmer must take after his mother. Mrs. Bain had died some time ago, probably in order to shuck her husband. She’d been a schoolteacher, as Janet recalled, and some said she’d taken him in desperation, after having given up any other hope of getting “Mrs.” on her tombstone.

  The Bains must have been awfully old to start a family when Elmer was born. If the father had been in any kind of partnership with Charles Treadway, he must have been a grown young man then; in his twenties, anyway; and that would put him up around seventy now. Why hadn’t he laid any sort of claim to this patent before? Even if Mrs. Treadway did hold a lifetime interest in the thing, couldn’t he at least have tried to force her to put it into production? What good was a patent unless something was done about it?

  Maybe something had been done, and Mrs. Treadway never knew. What if by some miracle Charles Treadway had managed to think up an invention that actually worked, and Bain had been collecting royalties or whatever they called them for years without ever giving the widow her rightful share? What if she’d finally found out, and demanded that he pay what he owed her? Over a span of maybe forty years, even a small annual sum could mount up to a lot of money. Enough to commit murder for, if a person was as attached to his dollars as Jason Bain appeared to be.

  Sam Neddick might know, assuming this wasn’t all moonshine in the first place. Sam was closer than anybody else in the area to being a crony of Bain’s. Sam was clever and Sam was quite possibly buyable. Janet had already faced up to the fact that Sam was as likely a suspect as any when it came to doing the two murders. If he hadn’t a reason of his own, would he turn down a good offer from Bain? Who could say?

  Marion’s decision to stay on at the Mansion after her aunt’s funeral must have surprised Sam. He’d no doubt taken it for granted, as the Wadmans had, that she’d either return to her job or at least settle up whatever affairs she might have in Boston before coming back to the Mansion. That would have left him alone here as caretaker, free to rummage for the patent and get it back to Bain. Instead, she’d let everything else drop and stuck to the house like glue. If Sam Neddick was in fact Bain’s agent, Marion Emery might very well count herself lucky that he hadn’t found a way to get rid of her, too.

  CHAPTER 6

  THE WADMANS WERE SITTING down to a noontime dinner for which Janet had little appetite when Gilly and Elmer came to the back door wanting to borrow Bert’s posthole digger. Bobby was tagging behind them.

  “How long do you need it for?” Bert asked. “Don’t tell me you’re planning to dig for the buried treasure?”

  Young Bain flushed crimson. Gilly laughed. “Marion’s handling that end of the show, thanks. We left her on the phone trying to persuade Mama to come up here after the funeral and help hunt for that idiotic patent of Great-uncle Charles’s. I wish Marion would take her up on the roof and shove her off.”

  “Now, Gilly,” said Elmer to everyone’s surprise, “that’s no way to talk in front of the kid.”

  “I’m sorry,” she replied meekly. “I should know better than to make rotten jokes about people. Shouldn’t I, Bobby?”

  Gilly was wearing a pair of worn canvas shoes and a stiffly starched cotton housedress that had been her great-aunt’s instead of her usual tarty getup. Her face was scrubbed clean of makeup, and her hair was slicked back under a ribbon. Janet hadn’t realized she could look so pretty.

  “Grandma wouldn’t come anyway,” the boy piped up. “She says she won’t set foot in the Mansion as long as Elmer’s here. You’re not going, are you, Elmer?”

  “Poor Elmer’s getting it right and left,” Gilly laughed. “Between Mama throwing tantrums over the phone and Marion counting every bite he eats, I’ll bet he’s sorry he came. Aren’t you, Elmer?”

  She slid one of her thin hands over the young giant’s sleeve and smiled up at him. Elmer looked anything but sorry.

  “Elmer thought if you’d lend us the posthole digger for a few hours, we could build a run for the dogs,” she explained. “He found a roll of chicken wire out in the barn.”

  Bain struggled with his Adam’s apple for a while, then muttered, “Let ’em run loose and some darn fool Yankee’s apt to shoot ’em for deer.”

  Bert chuckled and went to get the tool. Janet was bringing out the cookie jar for Bobby when yet a fourth visitor arrived. This one was Fred Olson.

  “Howdy, folks. What you doin’ over here, Elmer? I heard you’d moved into the Mansion.”

  Elmer stammered something about “Paw’s idea.”

  “How come you ain’t workin’?”

  “Got a week’s holiday.”

  “Still foreman over at the lumber mill?”

  “Yep.”

  “Goin’ to make your million, eh, even if it’s only a million toothpicks?”

  “Elmer does all right,” said Gilly belligerently.

  “Never said he didn’t. Might as well scratch for yourself, boy. Ol’ Jase is bound to figure out some way to take his wad with him when he goes. He give you any idea what that patent’s worth?”

  “Nope.”

  “Did he say what it’s for?”

  “Said I’d know it when I seen it.”

  “How?”

  Elmer shrugged. “Dunno. Ain’t seen it yet.”

  The marshal grunted. “Gilly, how about you tellin’ me real careful what happened last night?”

  “About what?”

  “The fire, o’ course. What else?”

  “Well, there was that little business of my father, in case you hadn’t remembered.”

  She swallowed hard. “All right, Fred. I didn’t mean to be nasty. I was down at Ben Potts’s place with Mama. Visiting hours weren’t supposed to be till tonight, but people
started dropping in. What with one thing and another, we didn’t get out of there till after ten o’clock. I was beat right down to the ground by then, and I guess my mother was, too. Anyway, she went straight along home, and so did I. I just looked in on Bobby to make sure he was all right, then I shucked my clothes and fell into bed.

  “I’d already dropped off to sleep when the dogs started kicking up a racket. I thought it might be Schnitzi having her pups, so I jumped up. Then I heard a roaring noise and smelled smoke, and realized the front room was on fire. I ran and woke Bobby and got him and the dogs out of the house, then I think I went in once more to grab a few clothes. I think Bobby started to follow me, but I yelled at him to stay back and get the dogs away from there. He’s a good kid,” she added defiantly.

  “Then what happened?” Olson prompted.

  “To tell you the truth, Fred, I can’t remember much. I know people were yelling at us to get away from the walls, and there was one great big bang that was probably my car blowing up. The dogs kept yapping and I couldn’t seem to think about anything but Schnitzi and her puppies. Then I got soaked with the fire hose and the cold water sort of brought me to my senses. I saw Bert with the firemen, and went over and asked if he’d drive us up to Aunt Aggie’s. I—I think I forgot she wouldn’t be here any more. Anyway, Marion’s been as nice as anybody could want, and Schnitzi had her pups and they’re doing fine. Gosh, Bert, I hope she didn’t mess up your car’s upholstery too much.”

  “Don’t worry, it’s plastic,” Wadman assured her.

  “You got any idea how the fire might have started, Gilly?” the marshal persisted.

  “All I can think of is what I said last night: Somebody must have thrown a cigarette or something into the smoke bush out by the front door.”

  Olson shook his head. “I don’t think so, Gilly. Seems to me I recollect seein’ that bush go up in one big puff as we was runnin’ toward the house. Can you remember, Bert?”

  “Come to think of it, yes I can, a great ball of flame that died right down. I thought it must be the gas tank on the car, but that went later, just before Gilly spoke to me. I remember the bang well enough. So the bush couldn’t have had anything to do with it. The fire was already going great guns when we spotted it from the Owls’ meeting room.”

  “Then I don’t know what to tell you,” said Gilly. “All I know is that it started in the front part of the house, because if it hadn’t we wouldn’t be standing here now.”

  “You didn’t leave a cigarette burning in the parlor?”

  “I couldn’t afford to smoke even if I wanted to, which I don’t. Anyhow, I was always careful about fire. The place was such a cracker box.”

  Her voice shook. “I don’t think anybody set foot in the front room all evening. Bobby went to bed right after supper, and as I told you, I was over to Ben’s with Mama.”

  “How come your mother never showed up at the fire? I never seen her, an’ neither did anybody else I’ve asked.”

  “No, that was my one lucky break. She told me over the phone this morning that she’d taken three aspirins as soon as she got home, and slept like a log till I woke her up saying Bobby and I were here with Marion. If she’d known about the fire, she’d have dragged me off to the family tomb while I was still too numb to fight back. Now all she can say is, ‘Well, dear, maybe it’s worked out for the best.’”

  “Maybe it has,” said Janet.

  That aspect of the matter didn’t interest Olson.

  “Does the boy smoke?” he barked.

  “Not in front of me, he doesn’t. I expect he’s tried it once or twice, like any boy his age.”

  “Bobby, was you smokin’ or playin’ with matches in the house last night after your mother left?”

  The boy shook his head.

  “I told you he was asleep the whole time,” Gilly protested.

  The marshal grunted. “You didn’t have none o’ your chums in?”

  “No. I was asleep,” the boy repeated doggedly.

  “Gilly, you said folks started droppin’ in. Anybody come to the house before you left?”

  “Only Mama, to make sure I was ready.”

  “How long did she stay?”

  “Only a couple of minutes.”

  “What did she do?”

  “Stood and jawed at me to go wipe off the makeup, and hurry.”

  “You didn’t see nobody hangin’ around outside?”

  “Not that I can recall. I suppose there must have been somebody or other, there always is. But most of the usuals were over at the Owls’ meeting, weren’t they?”

  “Had close to a 100 per cent turnout,” Olson answered with pride in his voice. “How come you never joined the Owls, Elmer?”

  “Nobody ever asked me to.”

  The marshal reddened a little. “Didn’t realize you was waitin’ for a hand-engraved copperplate invitation. Where was you last evenin’, since we’re on the subject?”

  “Bowlin’.”

  “Whereabouts?”

  “Over to the Fort.”

  “Who with?”

  “Nobody.”

  “See anyone you knew?”

  “Nope. Bunch o’ Yanks.”

  “What time did you get there?”

  “Half-past eight, thereabouts.”

  “How long did you stay?”

  “Long enough to bowl four strings an’ drink a can o’ that bellywash they call beer over there. About eleven, I guess.”

  “Where was you before that?”

  “Home paintin’ the house.”

  “Can you prove it?”

  “Go look at the house.”

  Janet had begun to feel sorry for Fred. What was a country marshal who knew nothing about sophisticated police work supposed to do in a situation like this? Fred knew Gilly’s house hadn’t burned by accident. Either she’d set it herself, which would have been flirting with suicide and child murder, or else somebody else had, quite likely with the intention of killing both her and Bobby. It was only by the grace of God and the barking of two little dachshunds that they hadn’t gone to join Dr. Druffitt.

  “Fred,” she blurted out, “you’ve absolutely got to—”

  “Thanks,” he interrupted loudly, “but I can’t stay. Molly’s got my dinner all ready an’ waitin’ on the table, like as not.”

  The fat old fool! A cold-blooded murderer and arsonist running loose, and all he could think of was his own paunch. Now why was he making faces at her behind everybody else’s back? Casually, like any proper hostess, Janet followed him out to the doorstep.

  “Janet,” he hissed, “can you get down to the shop this afternoon? We got to talk private.”

  That would teach her to judge not. “That’s sweet of Molly,” she said aloud. “And tell her how much Annabelle enjoyed all those lovely cards from the Sunshine Circle. She’s going to drop a note to the minister’s wife when she feels a little more like sitting up. By the way, I might be down to see you myself. The handle on one of our old iron skillets is working loose and I thought maybe you could rivet it or something.”

  “Why don’t you give it to him now, eh, and save yourself a trip?” Bert called out like a typical older brother.

  “Because I stuck it away somewhere so I wouldn’t make the mistake of using it and dumping your supper on the floor,” she lied, “and can’t recall offhand where I’ve put it. What’s the sense of keeping Fred standing here missing his dinner while I go hunting? Sit down and eat your own, can’t you? It must be ice cold by now.”

  Gilly took the hint and shepherded her party back to the Mansion. They made a cute trio, Janet thought, the woman so little and the man so big and the elflike Bobby skipping beside them. She only hoped none of the three had got into the habit of killing people, or was related to someone who had. A person could be guiltless as a newborn babe and still be used as an accomplice, and be charged as one when the case came to trial.

  But what if the case did not come to trial? What if the killer was ne
ver found? What if he or she or possibly they simply went on living in Pitcherville with nobody the wiser? Would anybody in town be safe then? Wouldn’t the murderer feel confident that he could do away with anyone he chose, any time he took the notion?

  Janet gave the tea kettle a nervous jerk at the wrong moment, and sent a stream of boiling water coursing across her hand.

  “For God’s sake, watch what you’re doing!”

  Bert grabbed his sister’s arm, gazing in horror at the rising blisters.

  “Let go, Bert. That hurts.”

  It did more than hurt. The pain was making her sick. Her knees felt wobbly. Janet walked very carefully to the rocking chair by the window and sat down.

  “There’s some salve in the medicine chest.”

  That was what she meant to say, but she had trouble forming the words. The next thing she knew, Bert was sloshing at her face with a wet dishrag. She tried to push his hand away.

  “Stop it! What are you doing that for?”

  “You almost passed out on me. Jesus, what a time for the doctor to die!”

  “I’m all right. It was just the shock of it.”

  It was too many shocks in too short a time, but how was she to explain all that now? Bert was rummaging in the first-aid supplies, bringing ointment and bandage, trying to cover up the burn and making a ham fist of it.

  “I’d better get Gilly back here.”

  “What could she do?”

  “How do I know?” He was sweating and yelling, angry at his own helplessness. “She’s a doctor’s daughter, isn’t she? She must know what to do in an emergency.”

  “Simmer down, Bert. I’m not going to die of a scalded hand. Eat your dinner so you can get back to work.”

  “You don’t expect me to leave you here alone all afternoon? What if you should faint again? You could fall and crack your skull like Doc Druffitt.”

  That was definitely the wrong thing to say. Janet felt the wave of nausea again, then that wet dishrag slopping her face. Bert scooped her out of the rocking chair, carried her into the front room and plunked her down on the chesterfield.