The Grindle Nightmare

by Q. Patrick

  She thrust it toward me and stood staring into my eyes.

  “Here, Doug,” she whispered, and her voice was hoarse and unnatural. “You know what to do with this.”

  Before I could open my mouth to question her, she had brushed past into the dining-room.

  I fingered the length of rope foolishly. It was very light, not much thicker than sash-cord. One end was frayed and it was knotted and stained a dirty brown. I gazed at it in complete bewilderment and then, stuffing it in my pocket, I hurried after Valerie.

  She was standing by the window, talking to Toni, and there was an expression on her face I had never seen before. For the first time I realized that she could look hard-boiled.

  “Nice to have the snow gone, isn’t it, Toni?” she was saying.

  He offered her a cup of coffee, but she shook her head.

  “By the way, how much is the reward for finding Gerald?” she continued slowly. “Five thousand dollars, isn’t it?”

  We both nodded, staring at her stupidly.

  “I suppose you’re going to claim it, aren’t you?”

  Toni got up.

  “What on earth are you driving at, Valerie?”

  “So you don’t know where he is?”

  “Naturally not.”

  “Well, then, I suppose I shall have to tell you.” She turned and stared me straight in the eyes. “I’ve just found him. He’s lying out there in your backyard—not five feet from the garage door.”

  Chapter XII

  We stared at her in utter incredulity. “I just don’t believe it,” I said at last.

  “See for yourself.”

  Valerie turned abruptly to the door, and we followed her round the house to the patch of ground in front of the garage. There, wedged between a pile of rubbish and the little wall which skirted the yard, lay a body. It was half imbedded in the drift of dirty snow which still clung around the foot of the wall and it had obviously been there for some time. I bent down and peered at the face.

  Unquestionably, it was Gerald Alstone.

  “My God!” I exclaimed. “He must have been there ever since it started snowing.”

  Valerie’s eyes held mine in a long, level gaze.

  “Yes,” she said. “Ever since the coon-hunt—and you didn’t know anything about it!”

  I joined Toni in a cursory examination. The body was in an excellent state of preservation despite the fact that Gerald had probably been dead for almost two weeks. The shroud of snow must have arrested all traces of decomposition. The mouth was twisted in a strange, ironical smile, and the eyes protruded as though the boy had been under the stress of some strong emotion at the time of death. Toni was gingerly lifting the head which had been frozen into the hard mud at an unnatural and very ugly angle.

  “Hm,” he murmured. “Look at that mess!”

  On the right side of the head was a gaping hole round which one could make out dried fibers of sinew and brain.

  “Shot!” I exclaimed. “Clean through the skull.”

  Toni, who seemed to be unconscious of Valerie’s presence, had pulled a small magnifying glass from his pocket and was examining the edges of the wound.

  “Pretty close range,” he muttered. “Our friend was a bit more humane this time.” He looked up at me, a strange smile in his eyes; then he started to inspect the wrists and ankles of the dead boy.

  “Any funny business?” I asked.

  “What do you make of this?”

  As he spoke, Toni lifted the left leg of the body. There, twisted round the ankle was a piece of blood-stained rope. The replica, I noticed with, a sudden stab of apprehension, of the fragment just handed me by Valerie. My eyes swiftly turned to the garage, which lay open, revealing the broad backs of the two Plymouths; then they moved to Valerie, who was standing motionless, her lips tight closed. Could she have found that piece of rope attached to Toni’s car? Had she given it to me because she wanted to protect him? Whole vistas of strange, unbelievable suspicions opened up in my mind.

  “Look at the clothes, Doug.” Toni was speaking again. “Same old story. Ripped to pieces. Those scratches, too. Our murderer seems to be very regular in his habits. Only this time, he had his little joy-ride with a corpse.”

  “A corpse!” broke in Valerie. “So Gerald was dead when—he was dragged along!”

  “Looks that way. Can’t swear to it.”

  “Thank God!” She gave a sigh of relief and closed her eyes.

  I was the first to ask the obvious question.

  “How on earth did he get here?” I exclaimed.

  Of course no one replied. For a full minute, it seemed, the three of us stood there like dummies. It was Valerie who broke the silence.

  “Hadn’t someone better call Bracegirdle?” she suggested.

  I hurried to the house, and, having told the deputy of the discovery, rejoined the others in the yard.

  “He’s coming right over,” I said. “Told me not to touch anything.”

  If the whole affair had not been so tragic, there would have been something almost ludicrous in the picture of us solemnly standing by the rubbish heap in our own backyard, staring down at the body for which so long and exhaustive a search had been made all over the country.

  “Mother said that when the snow was gone, something would happen,” said Valerie with a shudder. “I never thought it would be—as bad as this.”

  The silence that followed this remark was tense. I felt an almost overwhelming desire to break it—to try and bring the three of us back into the realm of normal, commonplace life.

  “You’ll get the reward, Valerie,” I said, striving to be casual. “Five thousand’s a nice bit of money.”

  “Very nice!” Her tone was too calm to be healthy. “All the same, he was my cousin, you know. And now, if you don’t mind, I’ll go into the house. I believe I’m going to be sick.”

  Declining my offer to accompany her, she hurried away.

  Strangely enough it was with palpable relief that, a short time later, I saw the police car draw up outside the gate. Bracegirdle hurried toward us with the coroner and a small group of policemen. He was as business-like and unmoved as ever. Realizing, perhaps, how potentially awkward the situation was for us, he did his best to give the investigation a flat, impersonal quality. While the coroner was making his examination, I took the sheriff’s deputy into the house to interview Valerie. He asked the bare minimum of questions and then told her she could go home if she liked, but must hold herself in readiness to testify officially to the finding of Gerald Alstone.

  After Valerie had taken her leave, Bracegirdle and I returned to the garage. I noticed that a second car had driven up. The coroner had finished his examination and was talking with the district attorney and an old, white-haired man whom I recognized as the sheriff himself. The deputy approached them, and for a few minutes the four officials conversed together. Then Bracegirdle and his men began a thorough search of the yard.

  Throughout the procedure he made no reference to the strange fact that the corpse had been found in our garden, but every now and then I noticed his eyes travelling to the open garage and then back to the body. His conclusions were obvious.

  A short time later the “dead-cart” appeared from Rhodes. By now, I reflected grimly, I was getting quite well-informed in police technique. Gerald was carefully extricated from the narrow space behind the rubbish heap and carried to the hearse.

  “I’ll have to ask a few more questions later on, Dr. Swanson,” Bracegirdle was saying, “but I needn’t bother just now. I’m leaving several men here, and the yard will be roped off. I’m afraid you won’t be able to use your cars today.”

  He joined the sheriff, the coroner and the district attorney and started to move down the drive. Toni and I followed.

  At the gate, Toni turned to the coroner.

  “I’ll come down with you to the morgue if I may, Doctor,” he said. “There’s usually something for me to do, and Brooks and I often work together
.”

  The coroner flashed a look at the sheriff, then at the deputy.

  “If you don’t mind, Dr. Conti,” broke in Bracegirdle quickly, “I think Dr. Brooks had better see to this matter alone. In the circumstances—” he paused—“well, I leave it to your own good sense, sir.”

  Toni shrugged his shoulders.

  The rest of that Saturday was a nightmare I shall never forget. First of all our garage and yard were roped off and occupied by the police. Being unable to get at our cars, we were virtually prisoners. After mooning about the house for a while, however, Toni managed to escape through the back door and left me alone to face the barrage of photographers, pressmen and curious villagers.

  By one o’clock the thing must have got into the papers, for all the prurient sightseers of Rhodes and neighboring towns decided to spend a pleasant Saturday afternoon gaping openmouthed at the spot where the body was found. The number of cars parked in the lane outside our house suggested a royal reception.

  The telephone rang incessantly. “Dr. Swanson, is it true … your own back garden? …” “Miss Middleton found the body … do tell me if she’s really engaged to Dr. Conti.” The whole business was becoming insufferable. Finally I appointed Lucinda to play Angel with the Flaming Sword, and from then on, it was woe betide the hapless reporter or the casual inquirer who tried to crash through either in person or over the wire.

  Once and once only did I hear the maid’s voice soften. In the late afternoon she had gone to answer the telephone with her customary indignation, but immediately she thawed.

  “No ma’am,” she crooned, “he’s not here, ma’am. I don’t know, ma’am. All right, ma’am.”

  “Who’s that?” I called, as she put down the receiver.

  “Miss Middleton, sir. Calling Dr. Conti.”

  Lucinda pushed a beaming face round the door and then hurried off to the kitchen.

  For the hundredth time I pulled from my pocket the piece of knotted rope which Valerie had slipped into my hand so furtively that morning. What did it mean? Were those brown stains just dirt—or were they blood? Why had she been so reticent, so evasive in her manner? Could this be the explanation of Toni’s strange behavior since the night of the coon-hunt?

  I walked up and down the living-room racking my brains to find an answer to these questions. At last I could stand it no longer. I called Valerie on the telephone.

  Mrs. Middleton’s voice informed me—a little sharply—that her daughter was very unwell and could not come to the ’phone. It was obvious that they, too, had had their share of inquisition.

  Evening came, and still Toni had not returned. By this time I had started drinking and might have achieved a pleasant state of insensibility had not Lucinda interrupted me by summoning me to a more than usually excellent dinner. I believe that she, sweet soul, was thoroughly enjoying herself. All her protective instincts had been given full rein. Reporters, neighbors, sightseers—all of them had fallen before her resolute defense of the house. Even Bracegridle, when he finally arrived after dinner, had considerable difficulty in obtaining admission.

  I was alone with my coffee when I heard his voice—low and almost apologetic compared with that of the new Lucinda. I jumped up with relief and bade him enter.

  The deputy was pale and haggard. The constant strain of the past few weeks with their sleepless nights and monotonous trail of crimes was obviously taking its toll of him. I indicated a chair and, pulling out his inevitable pipe, he sat down heavily.

  “Well, Bracegirdle,” I asked, after a few moments of silence, “have you just dropped in for a chat or is there something to tell me?”

  The deputy glanced at me and then looked down at his toes.

  “The autopsy showed that Gerald Alstone was shot with a.32,” he said slowly. “The same type of gun that was missing from Mr. Alstone’s gun-room. He was, I should say, killed by someone standing close to him. Death was instantaneous. Apart from that we can only guess, but it looks as though he’d been tied on to a car and dragged along for quite a distance. His body was just like Baines’—all scratches and bruises. Only this time, according to Brooks, he was dead before it happened.”

  “That’s what Toni thought. Pity he isn’t here, by the way. He’d be terribly interested.”

  Bracegirdle cleared his throat. “Just as well he’s not,” he remarked suddenly. “I’m in a tough spot, Dr. Swanson and I’ve decided that you’re the only person who can help and advise me. Ever since you saved Mrs. Bracegirdle’s life last spring, I’ve felt—”

  “Can that,” I said laughing, “and have a drink.”

  Lucinda brought in two enormous mint juleps.

  Bracegirdle was fingering his glass as if unwilling to carry it to his lips. “I’ve got a great respect for you, Dr. Swanson, and you’ve been very white with me all through this wretched business. That’s why—” he broke off and took a long pull at his drink—“that’s why I hate to say what I’m going to say.”

  “Is it something about Mark?”

  “No—it’s worse.” Bracegirdle’s tone was deadly serious. “It’s Dr. Conti.”

  I laughed a little louder than was necessary, inwardly praying that my laughter sounded more spontaneous to him than it did to me. “Why, Bracegirdle, you’re crazy with the heat.”

  “Maybe I am, I hope so. That’s why I thought, perhaps—if we talked it over a bit, we might be able to figure out just where I’m wrong. You see, Dr. Swanson, I’ve always aimed at being a bit different from those policemen you read about in books—and in real life, too—who are pig-headed about their ideas and stick to a pet theory right or wrong. I’m open to correction—but, well, the D. A.’s been hauling me over the coals pretty badly today, and they’re all clamoring for action.”

  “Of course, it’s tough on you, Bracegirdle, but for God’s sake don’t go and make a big mistake. Dr. Conti—why, it’s fantastic.”

  For a moment there was no sound in the living-room except the suction of Bracegirdle’s pipe. Outside there was the distant noise of cars and men’s deep voices. They reminded me a little grimly that, while we sat and smoked, the machinery of the law was still grinding relentlessly on.

  “If I might tell you my reason, Dr. Swanson—” His voice was strangely humble.

  “Go ahead,—only don’t expect me to agree with you.”

  “All right. Now, first of all, let’s take the man himself. His father was Italian and, at one time, concerned in quite a bit of political trouble. A headstrong, violent man. Dr. Conti is a scientist, and everyone knows that they’re often a bit queer in the head—with all due respect to you.”

  I smiled. “Toni’s ‘queerness’ looks like getting him the Nobel prize next year. That is, if his work on carcinomatous tissue—but, never mind, go on.”

  I drained my glass and yelled out to Lucinda for two more juleps.

  “Of course,” the deputy continued, “I don’t make myself out to be one of those new-fangled psychologists, but I believe I’m right in saying that brilliant intellects often go hand in hand with a kind of warped outlook on life—”

  “Behavioristic complex coupled with maladjustment to externals,” I mocked. “Bracegirdle, you’ve been reading Freud!”

  “Well, forgetting character and background for the moment—” Bracegirdle’s mouth moved, but his eyes were not smiling—“Dr. Conti is the only person, apart from Mark, who has no really satisfactory alibi for any of the times that the outrages were supposed to have been committed. He was out somewhere the night Polly disappeared. No one knows where he was when Baines was killed. He didn’t go on the coonhunt, and his behavior that night caused a lot of gossip.”

  “That’s nothing,” I said hotly. “Toni can be far ruder than that. And, as for alibis, I haven’t got any either. Why not arrest me?”

  “Well, do you know where he was, Dr. Swanson? Does he tell you where he goes when he makes off at night?”

  “Bracegirdle,” I said, “Dr. Conti and I are grown men
. We’re not a couple of schoolgirls. I wouldn’t dream of questioning him about his private life any more than he would me.”

  “But the fact remains that he can’t give any very satisfactory answers. Every time I’ve questioned him, he’s been curt and rude. Not at all the attitude of a man who’s trying to help the police in the performance of their duty. And, since the night we found Polly Baines, he’s been even worse. You can’t fool me, Dr. Swanson. I know he’s holding something back—just the way Mark is!”

  All the time Bracegirdle was speaking, my mind had been working furiously. After all, there was a great deal of truth in what he said. Toni’s night movements had always been sporadic. His treatment of me recently had been decidedly odd. But the idea of Toni deliberately killing animals and mutilating little girls was beyond belief. My thoughts raced backward over all the circumstances, and then—suddenly—two facts detached themselves from this doubtful tangle of half suspicions.

  “Aren’t you forgetting about the night Mr. Alstone’s setter was lost, Bracegirdle? Toni was with me, you know, when we saw that car—and heard the cry of the animal.”

  The deputy looked at me closely. “No, I’m not forgetting that, Dr. Swanson, and I’m not forgetting how you told me the first time. If you recall, it was Dr. Conti who drew your attention to the cry—you admitted that you were not at all certain about it yourself. Don’t you see that if he was intending to kill that dog later on in the evening, the unlighted car gave him a marvelous chance to establish a phoney alibi. There’s a great deal in the power of suggestion.”

  “Well, there’s one suggestion you can’t make—that it was Toni whose face we saw at the window, or that it was he who fired the old man’s barn.”