The Listening House

by Mabel Seeley

  I’d just picked up the pencil when loud, peremptory knocks sounded on my door.

  It was Hodge Kistler.

  He closed my doors behind him and stood with his arms wide, the corners of his funny mouth almost hitting his eyes.

  “Aw, funny face,” he said. “So you do love me.”

  I wished I were the freezing unit of an electric refrigerator.

  “Only you could have an idea as ridiculous as that!” I put venom into it.

  “Well, baby, you got me out of jail, didn’t you? That’s a sign of true love, isn’t it? Look in any movie from here to Dallas, Texas.”

  “That was just a by-product. I was really out hunting for facts, and I happened to turn up one that cleared you.”

  “Madam, for that by-product I thank you.” He bowed like a courtier, but the impudence was still on his face. “Jail is a nasty place. My first time in, too. Who knows what vicious habits I might have picked up if I’d been in longer?”

  “A rather suitable place, I thought.”

  “Oh, now, sister! Look, baby, you sit there on the couch, so. I’ll sit way over here, so. And I’ll tell you about the facts of life. It was facts you were out hunting, wasn’t it? We’ll consider men first. Particularly unmarried men. I’m not married, am I?”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised.”

  “A nasty, suspicious nature. No, I am not married. I am a bachelor. I am thirty-four years old. Now let us consider bachelors. At twenty, say, one may be a bachelor because Mama has not yet untied the apron strings, or because one has a consuming passion for basketball, ice-cream sodas, communism, or the higher life. At thirty-four, not so. At thirty-four, there are only three types of bachelors. In group one, we have the bachelors who, in their carefree way, prefer a chorus to a solo. In group two, we have those who cannot make the economic grade—you will find those down by the railroad tracks if you would like a sample of the genus at its best. And then, we have group three, whose members were not very well equipped by God. Now, you wouldn’t want me to belong to either of the last two groups, would you?”

  He ended with a plaintive mournfulness which was completely ridiculous.

  “So you prefer a chorus,” I said coldly.

  “I like ’em all.” He spread his hands. “I like practically any girl, except the kind with minds like half-cold kettles of tar. They’re too hard to stir up.”

  “What, no brief for beauty?”

  “Why, afraid you’d be left out?”

  “You forget I’m not competing.”

  “Sorry. No, no brief for beauty. Did you ever notice what insignificant little twerps get the beauties? Natural-born bachelors from group three. I’ve got it all figured out. Here we have a guy with not much natural ability, and what does he hunt for? He hunts for a woman that’ll have other men saying, ‘What a guy, to get a girl like that!’ Or he hunts for a girl that packs enough sex appeal to strike sparks even out of him. But a man that’s good, and knows he’s good, doesn’t give a damn what the other fellows think about his girl. And he doesn’t go hunting for soul-stirring beauty, either. He just likes ’em all. They’re women.”

  “No charge for these lectures?”

  “No.” He turned, and I could see that he was serious, under cover. “I’m explaining, in my own roundabout and unrighteous way. Still mad?”

  “Mad? I had nothing to be angry about, personally.” I tried to keep up the remoteness, but my anger seemed to have evaporated more quickly than I had intended it should, and it was hard to whip it up again. “Not to change the subject or anything, but I don’t suppose you’ve learned anything more about the murder?”

  He leaned across the couch to kiss me enthusiastically but nicely.

  “So we do kiss and make up? You’re a nice kid.”

  “You’re an insufferable advantage taker.”

  He retired decorously to his end of the couch.

  “From now on I commit all my crimes in impenetrable secret. God help me from ever having you on my trail. Relentless, you are. But no, I have heard nothing more of the murder. No, I have just tucked a stray advertising manager of the P-X stores safely under a table. Never, never, so help me God, ever go into the Buyers’ Guide business.”

  “I’ll help God out of that. But I have been in the detective business. Listen.”

  I told him, then, everything I’d discovered during the day, with particular emphasis on the case against the Hallorans.

  “Nothing new against me?”

  “I’m sorry, no. But there are a few things I wondered if you’d find out; they’d be a little hard for me to dig into.”

  “Ah, now we get the reason for this rush of confidence.”

  “Exactly. I wish you’d find out about Mr. Halloran’s alibi. So we’d know how good it really is.”

  “Why not wait until after the inquest? Isn’t that supposed to reveal all?”

  “Even if he has to tell where he was that’s not proof. I leave things I forget out of evidence myself, and if I had anything to hide I’d certainly do a little plain and fancy lying.”

  “Well, an inquest’s pretty limited. What about the funeral?”

  “Mrs. Halloran says a cremation. She isn’t even going herself.”

  “There’s love and gratitude. What does Halloran say he was doing that Friday night?”

  “That’s virgin territory.”

  “Well, I’m against territory being virgin, on principle. I’ve got a proofreader who won’t be doing anything Monday. Maybe he’ll be a good detective; he’s a lousy proofreader. I’ll sic him on Halloran. Anything else?”

  “Then there are the Tewmans. They’ve been gone an awful lot. And Mrs. Tewman—her I.Q. is just enough to get her by in a big crowd—admits she suspected, or knew, that something was wrong in that kitchen. That’s why she left. Mrs. Garr was always snarling at Mrs. Tewman, and even worms turn. How about their alibis?”

  “Phooey. The police have done that.”

  “The police looked into Halloran’s alibi, too.”

  “But he has a motive. I’d rather put in the time on him.”

  “There’s Mrs. Halloran, too. What if she didn’t go to Chicago?”

  “That’s so easy to find out, even the police couldn’t muff it. Wait for the inquest on that one.”

  “If they don’t take it up I’d like to check it.”

  “Let it ride. But say, how about Buffingham? He’d be my pick if I was going to pick a murderer out of this bunch.”

  “The only thing I have on him is that he paid nine dollars a week for his room—I saw it on the receipt stubs.”

  “Whew! Nine dollars a week for that hole? That’s robbery! Mrs. Garr could have been jugged for that—why murder her?”

  “Miss Sands, too. Miss Sands pays five dollars a week. And the Wallers don’t pay anything! They said they hold a note of Mrs. Garr’s for two thousand dollars, and she let them have the interest in rent.”

  “Good God! What a ferret you turned out to be! Who’d have thought this old house was so seamy with mysteries? You certainly have everyone in the house lined up for this job. Somebody stupid, you say? The Hallorans and the Tewmans race neck and neck for that distinction. Good old Buffingham, papa of criminals, runs third. Mr. Grant, dark horse. Miss Sands, not any too bright. Wallers, ditto. Who’s left? Only us. I am much, much too gallant to place you, my sweet.”

  “I hope you’re gallant enough to say good night,” I said. “I’m tired.”

  He stood up to say good night with solemnity, shaking hands.

  “God bless and keep you from ever falling into the hands of bachelors from groups two or three,” he said.

  “You, I suppose, have a great deal for which to thank heaven?” I said, because it was practically irresistible.

  “Demonstrations on request,” he said. “Merely drop a
postcard.”

  14

  MRS. HALLORAN KNOCKED ME up bright and early the next morning, which was Sunday. She stood in my doorway with bills in one hand, a pen and Mrs. Garr’s receipt book in the other.

  “I guess nobody can’t take this money away from me,” she crowed triumphantly. “I’ll thank you for your rent money, Mrs. Dacres.”

  “But I’m paying in advance, you know. Are you sure you’ll want me to stay out my week?”

  She struggled, but four dollars in hand beat getting rid of me, in the bush.

  “I guess I can’t get you out of here in less’n a week, anyhow. You go ahead and pay.”

  Except for two one-dollar bills, I had only a ten in my handbag; I offered that to her.

  She gave me a five and a one in change; sat down with a fine air of business to write out my receipt.

  I thumbed my change idly while I waited; my little finger caught in a tear. It was in the five-dollar bill, right in the lateral crease.

  The bill was as familiar to me as a read newspaper. It was the same bill I had taken down to the cellar to pay my rent on the day before Mrs. Garr was to have gone to Chicago.

  I thought I had the Hallorans then. I debated with myself, wildly, whether I should call for the man in the hall, but the pleasure of facing Mrs. Halloran myself was too great. I spoke softly.

  “So you did find some of Mrs. Garr’s money.”

  She looked up, startled; my words had had intensity enough to make them noticeable.

  “No, I never did. Only what I found yesterday and the policeman took.”

  “Oh, I suppose Mrs. Garr gave you the money!” I made it insulting enough so she’d want to deny it.

  “Not a cent she didn’t give me for almost a month. Mr. Halloran give me the money to go to Chicago, except the ticket. He got his gov’ment money right on that Friday. His June money.”

  I wasn’t interested in her Chicago money; I couldn’t imagine her bringing back any she’d taken along. I laid the torn bill on the table before her; she stared at it with bewildered, frightened eyes.

  “I recognize this bill. It’s the bill with which I paid my rent last week. To Mrs. Garr.”

  “Oh my,” she whispered tremulously. “I must of got it offen somebody in the house. I didn’t bring no five-dollar bills with me when I come. All I had was my car tokens, and fifty cents, and two one-dollar bills. And maybe some nickels. All the rest I got goin’ around and askin’ everybody for their rent.”

  So that was it! Or was she lying? If her husband had given her the bill, she’d be as frightened as this, too. And she’d lie, of course. I tried again.

  “Can you remember who gave it to you?”

  “Lemme think. Mr. Kistler come down early wearin’ his fishin’ clo’es. A five and a one he give me. So then I waited till Miss Sands went down to light the heater; she give me a five, even. I had to go back up with her. So then I knocked for Mr. Grant, and I gave him three dollars change for his five. So then I went to the Wallers, but they said they wouldn’t, on account of the estate owed them money, so I said I would get the G-men, and I will, too; they can’t do me that way. I knocked a long time for Mr. Buffingham, I guess he was in bed yet, he’s got a funny alarm clock. He wouldn’t pay me nine dollars like it said in the book, he said it was just three dollars a week; I bet he owed her money; I’m going to look in her papers for that. All he had was a five, but I went to the Wallers and they changed it, and I gave Mr. Buffingham two dollars change. You was the last one.”

  After that, how much of a story did that torn bill tell? If it had been found by ransacking that kitchen downstairs, then any one of the people who had paid Mrs. Halloran with five-dollar bills would be suspect: Mr. Kistler, Miss Sands, Mr. Grant, Mr. Buffingham. It seemed to clear the Wallers.

  But I had paid that bill to Mrs. Garr on Thursday. She was in the house for most of two days after that. She might have paid out the bill in change to any one of the lodgers.

  It was maddening. Every time I thought I had a clue, it petered out like that. Anyone and everyone still suspect.

  I picked up the receipt book. Mr. Kistler normally paid on Mondays. Mr. Grant and Miss Sands normally paid on Tuesdays, Mr. Buffingham on Wednesdays. Yes, the bill was a clue. If any one of those four had paid it in, it was incriminating.

  “Can’t you remember? Think. Close your eyes. Imagine Miss Sands is paying you her rent again. She unclasps her handbag, she takes out money. She gives it to you. A five-dollar bill. You look at it. Is it whole and new, or ragged and torn?”

  “Well, it might be.” Mrs. Halloran was infuriatingly uncertain.

  I tried it for every one of the four, but all I emerged with was limpness and perspiration on the part of Mrs. Halloran. I still wasn’t sure she wasn’t lying; I tried again to suggest Mr. Halloran had given her the bill sometime during the past week. Denying that was the one thing she was certain about.

  From then on, whenever she saw me, Mrs. Halloran would shut her eyes, look blank for a moment, and then open them brightly on me, in indication that no, she couldn’t remember about that note—yet. But to all intents and purposes she really did try.

  I spent a peaceful day and night. I remember them very well.

  Hodge Kistler called me up just before twelve o’clock on Monday.

  “Well, here’s one more Guide started on its earthward journey,” he said. “And that proofreader has come across. The lazy bum. I knew he wasn’t putting himself into his job. I could buy you some lunch if you promise not to go over thirty cents. We could prepare for the inquest together. Meet me in the Wetmore Grill, one o’clock?”

  The cheapest lunch in the Wetmore Grill is eighty-five cents, so I set about the question of armament. I walked in looking blank and raised around the eyebrows, which is as snooty as I can look.

  “If you turn into one of those cold-tar girls,” Hodge Kistler said, meeting me, “you’ll eat lunch alone.”

  I lasted being snooty until we were sitting kitty-corner on the beige leather seats in one of the booths; we got a corner one.

  “What’d your proofreader find out?”

  “Wait until I get us something to eat, please, Mrs. Holmes.”

  He ordered pickled pigs’ feet, which I thought was a queer choice, but when they came they were jellied, in slices, with awfully good salads, and he told me how he’d been a reporter on a stockyards paper, once, and all the big meat men said pickled pigs’ feet were the biggest delicacy there was, in meats. He talked about stockyards for twenty minutes before he’d come around to Mr. Halloran’s alibi.

  “Okay, hold everything. This proofreader arrived at the Halloran ménage bright but not early; ten thirty to be exact. Mr. Halloran was still recumbent.”

  “As I’d expect.”

  “Sh-sh-sh. Am I telling this? So the proofreader told the little girl who opens the door that he is an American Legion buddy and he is working to get every veteran paid ten thousand dollars spot cash, and he would like to know could he get Mr. Halloran’s support. That brought him out like a shot.”

  “I can imagine.”

  “They sat in the parlor and communed. Halloran was wearing two-thirds of a pajama and bare feet. Little Hallorans scurried around the house, dashing their heads around doors, staring, and sort of whinnying. Entranced, my proofreader was.”

  “I’ve wondered how Mrs. Halloran kept her house. She isn’t there much.”

  “Kept, my dear lady? No, no, unkept, I gathered.”

  “Ugh.”

  “So then,” went on Mr. Kistler blithely, “the talk sort of shifted. To the trials and tribulations poor veterans suffered. To Mr. Halloran’s having been held by the police one night, and why. To how Mr. Halloran knew he didn’t murder Mrs. Garr. Did you ever ask Mrs. Halloran how many children she had?”

  “Why, yes. Seven, she said.”

  �
��Did you ever ask Mr. Halloran ditto?”

  “No.”

  “Ah, my proofreader did. And there, as one might say, was the rub. Or not, to be exact. Sorry, couldn’t help it. Opportunity knocked. Anyhow, Mr. Halloran, questioned, says five.”

  “Five? But—”

  “And he was out Friday night getting even.”

  “I see. A brother of yours.”

  Mr. Kistler shook his head sadly. “It dismays me to view my attitude toward Mr. Halloran. My proofreader—what the hell, his name’s Anderson—did better. He admired. And Mr. Halloran, sniggering, gave name and place. Which Anderson immediately checked, and sure enough, the proprietor says he can almost answer this question in his sleep—he is prepared to say Halloran, in company with a strawberry blonde, was at his place from nine o’clock that Friday night until four a.m., when they dumped him out, and that during practically all of that time, he was too drunk to commit murder or anything else.”

  “But it’s just got to be Mr. Halloran! Why would anyone else?”

  “Well, the only chance is that the proprietor is squared. Anderson’s out now, hunting the strawberry and two more gents the proprietor remembers having been present. But just remember, those hands on your neck weren’t drunk.”

  “Pooey, pooey, double pooey, and a couple of extra-super pooeys,” I said. “I’m disgusted.”

  “Cheer up. Who knows what the inquest will bring forth? And speaking of inquests, my darling, the hour is come. We’re late. It’s after two thirty now.” We hurried, almost running the two blocks to the city hall where the inquest was to be held. But when we got there, breathing hard, the coroner hadn’t even arrived.

  Information told us room 223 for the Garr inquest. Room 223 smelled hot and dry, yet woolly, as if a lot of damp winter clothes had dried in there. It was barer than any schoolroom, with Teacher’s desk on a raised platform, and rows of folding chairs facing the desk. One row of chairs at right angles to the others was up by the desk; it was filled; the jury, I guessed.

  Most of the folding chairs were full, too. All the residents of the Garr house. The Hallorans. The Tewmans. The ticket seller. A scattering of other people. And at the back, bedraggled hangers-on, with a reporter or two. A few policemen stood about the room.