The Indigo Necklace

by Frances Kirkwood Crane

  There was a step on my left. Another shadow appeared. A shadowy arm laid hold of Aunt Dollie. She let me go so quickly that except for Pat I would have taken a tumble. She jerked free from his clasp and whirled about and ran for the stairs. Her high heels caught on one of the uneven old steps near the top. She crashed, screaming, to the gallery below.

  XXI

  IT WAS nine o’clock. Captain Jonas, Patrick and I sat at a table in the main dining room at Antoine’s sipping a cocktail made of apple brandy and lime juice and grenadine, called Antoine’s Smile. The nice thing about this drink, Captain Jonas said, was that it had plenty of kick yet didn’t dull the palate. He gave Patrick a shrewd glance, as if he were trying to determine if Patrick knew enough about good food to have ordered the drink for that reason, or whether he had left it to the waiter.

  We were all glad to have the distraction of talking about a thing like a cocktail. The past hour had been pretty bad. Aunt Dollie falling down the spiral stairs. The family rushing out, except Aunt Rita, who was sleeping under an opiate. Doctors. Policemen. Aunt Dollie with her spine wrecked but living long enough to clear up any loose ends. Sergeant Callahan left in charge when we came away, with the only thing any longer doubtful the status of Ava Graham and Toby Wick, who had admitted knowing the body was hidden in the vault for several hours before it was found by the police. But it had been Aunt Dollie who moved the body to the chest. She had slipped in to do it during the hot after-luncheon hour when everybody was in his room, with the forlorn idea that, somehow or other, they could find a way to dispose of it once it was in the movable chest. They could have, too, Jonas said. If they had gone on sticking together. Would they have done it? We thought not. He said we didn’t know Creoles.

  The clean-tasting drink picked us up.

  Captain Jonas said, “I reckon we oughtn’t to talk shop during dinner but, tell me, Lieutenant, did you know Dollie did it? All the time?”

  “I certainly did not,” Patrick said.

  Captain Jonas seemed somewhat relieved. He looked spick and span. He had rushed us to his house, where he had quickly changed to a clean white suit. He wore a small pink rose in his lapel. We had arrived twenty-five minutes late to dinner, but the people who dined ahead of us had overstayed their allotted time, so it had worked out all right.

  “Whom did you suspect, Lieutenant?” Captain Jonas asked, and respectfully.

  “So help me,” Patrick said, “I thought to start with Aunt Rita was the one. She had the motive, the means, the determination and the opportunity. It was a swell idea. The cause of Helen’s death could never have been proved—if the nurse hadn’t come back.”

  “I couldn’t get Major Clary out of my mind,” Jonas said.

  I said, “Roger certainly acted guilty, Pat.”

  “I kept putting myself in his shoes,” Jonas said. “A crazy wife—rich—that pretty girl. How come you didn’t suspect him, Lieutenant?”

  “It somehow wasn’t in his character, Captain Jonas. Also, if he had sent the nurse away himself she wouldn’t’ve come back in the way she did. When Ava told us she came slipping back, stealthily, I was sure she suspected something was up and came back to make sure. Another thing, Roger wouldn’t’ve had to rush it, like that. He could have taken his time. He wouldn’t have pushed Helen down the steps. He would know that the woman would die quietly in bed with enough curare in her, and that a post mortem wouldn’t show it up. Roger is quick-tempered, but cool-headed in a crisis. If he did murder—which I doubt he could do—he wouldn’t bungle it.”

  “Old Sears planned it. A born crook, Lieutenant.”

  “He didn’t plan to kill the nurse, Captain Jonas. He planned to frame the nurse, lay the murder on her magic potions—if it was called murder.”

  “Yeah. Dollie admitted that. I feel kind of sorry for old Dollie.”

  “So do I,” I said. “She was nothing but a tool for Uncle George. She didn’t have any real meanness in her. Her brain was weak, that’s all, and she so adored Uncle George.”

  “He knew what she could do if filled full of absinthe,” Jonas said. “Bad stuff, that.”

  “I suppose Sears was desperate,” Patrick said. “He knew he couldn’t live long. The war was ending. He was crazy to get back to Paris. He counted on Roger’s kind heart to furnish the money—once Helen’s fortune was legally his. He knew he couldn’t kill her himself, couldn’t live through it maybe, so he made use of Aunt Dollie. She bungled it, of course.”

  “She would,” Jonas said bluntly. “Nothing upstairs there. Those Creoles intermarry too much. Well, old Miss Clary ought to say good riddance. And she tried to kill her, too!”

  “When Uncle George won the money,” Patrick said, “Aunt Rita suspected the truth. Aunt Dollie went up to her room to tell her about their luck. Aunt Rita questioned how they got the money to place the bet. Aunt Dollie ran for the hypo with the rest of the curare extract in it and forcibly bound and gagged Aunt Rita and gave her all of it in one shot. They were alone in that part of the house at the time, and Aunt Dollie would have little trouble in overpowering Aunt Rita, in any case.”

  “Where did they keep the curare?” I asked. I had missed Aunt Dollie’s confession.

  “They planted the hypo in Aunt Rita’s room. When things didn’t go the way they planned they decided there had to be a victim. They knew that Roger suspected Aunt Rita. After the house was searched by the police they planted the hypo in a drawer in her room and then Uncle George went to Roger saying he had seen Rita drag Helen from her room and push her down the steps. That’s how he collected five hundred dollars. But they left the hypo with the remainder of the curare in it in the drawer—just in case—so it was handy when Dollie went haywire when Rita accused her. The awful thing is that Rita will grieve for them both.”

  I said, “People are funny, aren’t they!”

  “You’re telling me!” Captain Jonas said.

  “Do you think another of Antoine’s Smiles would ruin our palates?” Patrick asked.

  “We could investigate it,” Captain Jonas said, broadmindedly.

  The drinks were brought round, smooth little numbers in their stemmed glasses, very pretty and very good.

  Jonas said, “It’s Ava I’m concerned about. I hate to see a girl with her looks mixed up in a public scandal. People never forget it. After all, she told us frankly that she intended to report the body’s being in the vault. Then it was moved to the chest and she was temporarily confused.”

  “Right,” Patrick said.

  I felt a twinge. Ava was a heel, but if I said so, they would think I was being female.

  “Wick’s a dirty jerk,” said Jonas. “He claims he wanted to tell us right away when they discovered the body this morning and that Ava wouldn’t let him. She said—he said—that she would be a suspect because it might be found out that she came through the vault in the night. Wick said he put it off on Ava’s account and then when Aunt Dollie slipped in and moved the body back to the chest while everybody was napping he couldn’t see why they needed to tell it had been in the vault at all. He didn’t think that could be proved. He didn’t know you had that chip off one of her beads, Lieutenant. Good joke on Toby Wick, that.”

  Patrick grinned. “I’ve got a confession to make, Captain Jonas. The bead chip didn’t come from the vault.”

  “What?”

  “I picked it up last night in Helen’s bedroom. I’ve never seen that vault. But I didn’t want a long argument to start about where the body was hidden and have the police wasting time again searching the house. What I did was crude, but it worked. Otherwise we never would have got to Antoine’s in time for this dinner.”

  Captain Jonas squirmed. “You oughtn’t’ve done that, Lieutenant.” At this moment the waiter brought the first course. Crevettes à la Marinière. Shrimps cooked in white wine, served with a sauce something like Newburg sauce. The policeman’s nostrils worked. He said, “I get your point, though. Yes. It would have been a pity to have missed it. Mont
rachet?” he said, a moment later, when the waiter brought the wine. “Can you beat that, Lieutenant? Where but in New Orleans after five years of France being under German occupation could you get a bottle of this particular Montrachet?” His smile spread across his heavy jowls. His eyes softened. The liverish pouches under his eyes looked less ominous. A little while later he said, “There’s not much point to bringing any charges against Wick and the girl. He’ll lay it on the girl and get himself a fancy lawyer to prove it. Smart of you to guess he belonged in the family, Lieutenant.”

  “In the family?” I asked.

  “That came out when we were trying to get a statement from Aunt Dollie “Jonas said. “The Lieutenant here asked Wick point-blank what relation he was and Aunt Rita said that his grandmother was her cousin. I might have guessed. I didn’t notice the family resemblance, though.”

  “It was something about the eyes,” Patrick said.

  “Oh, of course,” I said. “The shape, not the color.”

  “I just guessed it, really,” Patrick said. “Have some more wine, Captain Jonas. There’s another bottle where this came from, remember.”

  “Don’t mind if I do,” Jonas said.

  When the Pompano Pontchartrain was served, a glow came into the policeman’s voice as he narrated facts about the pompano, the finest fish in the Gulf. The salad, Salade Chapon à la Antoine, arrived. I went ecstatic over that. So many kinds of lettuce. Just the right amount of garlic.

  We had more wine.

  I said, “Even if it is shop, even if we are in the middle of this wonderful dinner, don’t forget that I missed hearing Aunt Dollie’s confession. I’m not quite straight on a lot of things. I think you ought to tell me everything. Begin at the beginning. With their plot, I mean.”

  “Sears hatched it up,” Captain Jonas said. “They all knew what Dr. Postgate planned to do in the way of treatments after he removed Helen Clary to the hospital. It had been thoroughly discussed. They knew she was quite likely to die under the shock treatment. They had access to Roger’s books on medicine and toxicology. They learned Postgate always carried the curare extract in his bag, because it was sometimes emergency stuff if a patient got fractious or went into convulsions. They watched their chance and stole the two small bottles from his case. They didn’t think that amount would be missed. Then they waited till a good time came to do the dirty work. It had to be a time when both Roger and the nurse were off the scene. Clary rang up—you were right about that, Lieutenant—shortly after he and Carol parted after meeting at the church. Aunt Dollie answered in the sitting room. He thought she was Aunt Rita, called her that. Their voices were something alike, when Dollie wasn’t showing off. So Uncle George filled Aunt Dollie full of absinthe and sent her to tell the nurse that Roger was coming right away and had said the nurse was to go home. The nurse obediently went. Uncle George gave evidence that he saw her leave. He sat at the window on purpose, so that he could give that evidence, so that when Helen was found dead later on he could say when the nurse left the house. Unfortunately he didn’t see her return. She came back and found Aunt Dollie murdering her mistress. Aunt Dollie grabbed up the book and struck her down.

  “In the medical books, they had read about the danger of the neck being broken when under the influence of the drug. In a panic, because she had been caught red-handed by the nurse, and because she couldn’t make out if Helen was dead or wasn’t, Aunt Dollie dragged her out and pushed her down the steps. That was where you came in, Mrs. Abbott. Aunt Dollie waited in Roger’s bedroom, again armed with the heavy book. Then after she knocked you out, she picked up the nurse and put her in that chest. That was as far as she got, because Major Clary came home. Aunt Dollie slipped across the carriageway from the hall and got into bed. Artful Uncle George stepped right out to see what all the rumpus was about. Then, when we called it murder, George took advantage of Roger’s thinking his Aunt Rita had answered the phone and touched him for five hundred dollars.”

  Patrick said, “And that started Roger behaving in a fashion that roused the suspicion of the police.”

  “Not to mention how he made us feel,” I said. “I wasn’t half as patient with Roger as Patrick was. So Roger did all that for Aunt Rita! That takes character, Captain Jonas.”

  The detective eyed me.

  “They had to have a goat,” he continued. “They meant to make the nurse the goat, but she was dead. So they ganged up on Aunt Rita. Funny about Aunt Rita thinking she was the only one who knew about that old vault.”

  Patrick said to me, “Aunt Dollie found out about the vault from Ava. Ava’s been having herself a time and slipping back home at all hours, and she needed somebody inside to cover up for her, in case she got caught, so she told Aunt Dollie about the vault. She and Toby had removed the special padlocks hidden under a detail of the gold frames. They haven’t been locked just lately. It was easy to open either mirror. The nurse was small, and the wall is thick, so there was no trouble in hiding her completely.”

  “Then it wasn’t basil I smelled in Roger’s room?”

  “Probably not. The nurse was struck down where I found the bead chip. Aunt Dollie retreated into Roger’s room when the girl came back. But Victorine had seen her, so she grabbed the book from that table, and went back to Helen’s room and knocked her out. When you showed up, she used the same blunt instrument. You did smell absinthe, Jeanie. My wife has a fine nose, Captain Jonas.”

  “It’s a nice shape “Captain Jonas said gallantly. “Also, she’s got guts, if you don’t mind my saying it that way. When that old hag was about to choke you there on the veranda tonight you didn’t say a word, Mrs. Abbott.”

  “My goodness! I was too scared. I’d no idea you were close by.”

  “The Lieutenant saw your light go out. He was right on the job, Mrs. Abbott.”

  “I have to be,” Patrick said, the eyebrow up.

  I made a face, and accepted another serving of the fish. There was a crab in the dish, which Jonas called a buster crab. A very special crab of some sort, probably a delicacy which would have gone entirely unnoticed forever if it weren’t for the Creoles of New Orleans.

  “If I were really bright,” Patrick said, “I would have looked in that vault before I did. The fact is—I admit it—I got so suspicious of Aunt Rita that I deliberately made a date to have her show me the house to see how she would behave. Before we got well started the nurse turned up in the chest.”

  “Clary knew about the vault,” Jonas said.

  Patrick shook his head. “No. He was lying.”

  I said, “Did you say what you did about having an autopsy on Uncle George to get Aunt Dollie worked up, Pat?”

  “I’m afraid I did.”

  “Too bad about that Ava,” Jonas said, presently.

  “She’ll never marry Toby now,” I said. “They hate each other. That’s the trouble with people like that. They get in a jam and then each goes out for himself. Because they don’t really love each other, the way Carol and Roger do.”

  Jonas eyed me. “You think that’s off?” he asked. “Between Wick and Ava?”

  “I’m sure of it,” I said.

  “My wife always knows about things like that,” Patrick told the detective. “I must say I do hate to see this case get a public airing, Captain Jonas. It won’t do any good. It will do great harm to the living. The people who did the murders are dead.”

  “We can still pin something on Wick. Fine him or something.”

  “He’ll wriggle out. He’ll just get a lot of free publicity for the Good Angel, and bless you for it. He’ll put it all on Ava Graham. Whatever else, you know darn well he’s smart.”

  Jonas nodded, grimly.

  It was when the Cherries Jubilee were served that Captain Jonas capitulated. The seeded lush black cherries were burned in brandy at our table. All the lights in the room were temporarily dimmed. The blue flames lighted up the faces, the old waiter’s, Patrick’s, so lean and good-looking, Captain Jonas’s, so dogged and s
hrewd. Vanilla ice cream was brought, and the cherries served thickly on top of it. I had never eaten anything so good in all my life.

  No more was said about the Clary case until, as we rounded off the meal with coffee and a Biscuit Cognac, Captain Jonas said he hated like all get out to spoil the chances of such a pretty girl. We were sure then that he wouldn’t. She didn’t deserve it, just the same.

  One night about a fortnight later, shortly before midnight, Patrick and I were on our way home from another fine dinner when, on turning into Royal, we noticed that another purplish ground haze was rising from the pavements. It was a queer, windless night. The haze rose only as far as the throats of the old-fashioned streetlamps. Their pale light, concentrated upward, threw the fantastic ironwork of old balconies into peculiar relief, making strange, grotesque shadows. I shivered and pressed close to Patrick.

  As we turned at St. Peter the Cathedral clock started sounding midnight. The silvery, eerie bells sounded the quarters. The harsher bell struck twelve.

  At the corner of Chartres a slim girl in a nurse’s-aide uniform appeared out of the haze and met a tall soldier waiting under a streetlamp. They kissed. They certainly knew that somebody was around, but they took no notice. They linked arms and started walking happily along Chartres in the direction of Dumaine and the Clary house. We trailed them at a proper distance.

  “Did you see what I saw?” I said.

  “Um-m,” Patrick said happily.

  “They’re so happy,” I said, very happily.

  Patrick kissed me. “New Orleans is a place where happiness comes first,” he said.

  “Um-m. Even with policemen.”

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