by Q. Patrick
Mrs. Middleton seemed less chary of her own maiden presence than that of her daughter. I could tell immediately that she suspected me of having some fresh and calamitous news. She agreed to my suggestion almost with eagerness, but added that, whereas she was quite willing to talk with me, her daughter must be left undisturbed for the rest of the day.
When I stepped into her immaculate living-room, she was waiting for me, her small, beady eyes alight with foreboding.
“Well, what is it now? Has there been another—er—tragedy? So many dreadful things have happened, so much horror!”
“No, Mrs. Middleton,” I replied, with a persuasive smile. “I’m still trying to clear up the old ones. I came to you in the hope that you’d be able to help me discover the murderer!”
Mrs. Middleton started, and her eyes opened wide.
“Murderer! How could I help?”
“I must tell you in strict confidence,” I continued, “that one of our neighbors is going to be arrested. I am convinced of his innocence, but unless we can find some fresh evidence, he’ll have a hard time proving it.”
Mrs. Middleton was full of shocked curiosity which I would satisfy no further. I assured her that I was in earnest and pleaded with her to let me know whether there was not something, however trivial, that she had been holding back from the police. At first she seemed injured that I should suspect her of hindering justice, but I was almost certain she was not speaking the truth. After several minutes of tactful intimidation on my part, she began to grow nervous. Her bright eyes turned evasively from mine.
“If there was one little thing,” she faltered, “do you suppose that …”
She broke off, flushing deeply.
“Never mind how unimportant it is,” I persuaded. “It may help.”
“Well, if I tell you, is it necessary—I mean, will the police and everybody get to know?”
“Bracegirdle may have to be told. I assure you it will go no further.”
Mrs. Middleton smiled feebly and fingered the brooch on her bosom.
“I should not like anyone else to be accused for something I did,” she began in a low voice. “Of course, I’ve been miserable for days, but I think you’ll understand when I tell you. I wouldn’t exactly say that I hate him, although he’s done such terrible things to me. But still, however Christian one may cry to be, one can never quite forgive a person for causing the death of one’s husband, can one?”
I nodded.
“And for all you may say,” she went on, “I still think he has something to do with it. But I should never have done what I did. Now, if I had had the courage to sign my name, it would have been different. But, an anonymous letter—”
“Anonymous letter!” I exclaimed. “So you sent it to Mr. Alstone!”
Mrs. Middleton looked very woe-begone.
“I regret it, Dr. Swanson. I really do. But for the moment my feelings got the better of my taste. I swear I would never do such a thing again.” She had taken out a handkerchief and was twisting it in her hand like a naughty but contrite schoolgirl. “Can I ask you to keep this to yourself? Of course, I suppose the police should be informed, but …”
I assured her that the maximum of secrecy would be observed and rose to take my leave.
But, after my experience with Roberta, I should have learned that confessions come not single spies. On the porch Mrs. Middleton took hold of my sleeve and stared up at me with an important expression on her face.
“You say they’re going to arrest someone else?” she said. “Does that mean that Mark will be released?”
“Why, yes. If Bracegirdle’s theory is correct, Mark had nothing whatsoever to do with it.”
Mrs. Middleton’s mouth moved into a sly smile.
“I’m very glad to hear that,” she said. “And if it’s really true, I can tell you something else.”
“Something else?”
“Yes.” She was staring out across the bare strip of lawn. “You remember that face at the window the night Sancho was hurt?”
I nodded.
“Well, it was Mark.”
“Mark?”
“I was far too startled to recognize anything at the time. But later, when I thought it over, I remembered having seen that dark lock of hair that hangs over his forehead. I recall it vividly. Of course, the face was distorted by the glass, and I thought the lock was some sort of scar. But now I am positive it was he!”
“Why didn’t you tell the police”
Mrs. Middleton’s eyes twinkled.
“I am very fond of the boy, and he’s done wonders with our garden,” she said. “Besides, I was convinced he had nothing to do with the murders. And you know how the police are—always ready to put the worst implication on everything.” She took my hand and squeezed it. “You can tell Bracegirdle about the letter. But I think we should keep the other little matter to ourselves.”
I departed, feeling that I had always underrated Mrs. Middleton.
Once in the lane I started to consider my next move. I seemed to have developed quite a talent for acquiring useless information. Castles fell at my knock, but, unfortunately, they were not the right castles. It was interesting to know that Mrs. Middleton’s spleen against Seymour had gotten the better of her, and that it had been Mark who had stared at us through the window. But, after all, neither of these discoveries had anything but a negative bearing on the case. For positive information, there were still the Goschens, Peter, Seymour, Edgar, Mrs. Franklin Alstone and Mark Baines. Each of them would doubtless be ripe for confession—each of them but the murderer.
Deciding, for the moment, to rest on my scanty laurels, I returned home in the hope of finding my room-mate.
Toni was in the living-room when I arrived.
“Well, Doug,” he exclaimed, grinning over the top of the morning newspaper, “have you got a bloodhound, too? I’ve had a big flatfoot following me around all day. He waited _ two. hours outside the hospital this morning and seemed to thrive on it. I’m expecting him to peer furtively through the window at any moment!”
“Listen, Toni,” I began, “there’s something I’ve got to tell you—”
But, as I spoke, Lucinda came in and interrupted me with the announcement of lunch.
For a man with a potentially guilty conscience, I must say that Toni ate with remarkable appetite. Being hungry myself, I avoided all controversial subjects until after we had finished eating.
“All right, Doug,” said Toni as soon as we had lighted our pipes and kicked aside the Sunday newspaper. “Let’s hear you pour out your soul:”
“This is serious, Toni. For God’s sake, listen.”
“I’ve been wanting to listen for about two weeks.” His eyes were slightly mocking.
Without waiting for any more I burst forth into an account of my talk with Bracegirdle. He did not interrupt me until I came to the reconstruction of his movements on the night of Gerald’s death. Then, to my surprise, he started to roar with laughter. It was the healthiest sound I had heard in the house for several weeks. In fact, I had never seen Toni so cheerful. His hot southern nature, which, like Vesuvius, usually lay dormant, now seemed on the verge of unexpected eruption.
“And you listened to that yarn, Doug? Knowing what you know, you let Bracegirdle—hell’s bells, man, but you’re an old fox.”
He laughed again.
“Of course I know he must be wrong,” I replied, “but you see, his men found you behind the stable looking for the gun yesterday morning. How did you know where it was?”
“I didn’t, but I had a little theory of my own. Well, what else have they got against me?”
I went on to describe my visit to Roberta. If Toni had laughed before, this time he bellowed.
“Oh, my God, Doug! How Roberta must have enjoyed making heavy drama out of our cock-eyed little affair. I’d have given a lot to have been a fly on the. wall at that interview! Roberta playing the fallen woman all over the room and you very thin-lipped and Sunday school teacher.”
“But, don’t you see, Toni—at least she gives you an alibi.”
“I’m not at all interested in my own alibis. What tickles me is the ones she gives herself. Franklin … that human hairpin! And we both thought it was the old man!”
He was still chuckling when I went on to tell him of Mrs. Middleton and her disclosures. It was not until I mentioned the piece of rope that he seemed really interested.
“Damned decent of her, Doug. It means a whole lot when a girl like Valerie suppresses material evidence. Incidentally, we’d better throw it in the fire.”
So saying, he snatched it from my hand and shoved it deep among the blazing logs.
“Toni,” I expostulated. “You can’t get rid of things like that. We’ve got to take this business more seriously. It’s two o’clock now and in eight hours Bracegirdle’s coming around to serve that warrant. You do know something, don’t you?”
My room-mate’s mouth twisted into a queer smile as he turned his dark eyes on my face.
“Sure, I know something,” he said slowly. “I know just about as much as you do. I’m waiting for you to begin the girlish confidences.”
“You goddamn fool,” I said irritably. “I know as much about it as—as Lucinda. And I’m sick of your hints and half-statements. If you want to be arrested, well …”
“You mean,” he said incredulously, “that you really don’t know who shot Gerald Alstone and dumped him in our backyard?”
“No, of course not. If I had the faintest idea, I wouldn’t be sitting here bellyaching at you.”
“Well, Doug, if you don’t know, then I don’t either. Let’s start considering a few possibilities, shall we? Personally, I vote for Roberta.” He seemed excited, and his hair had fallen over his forehead. “She’s destroyed many a young man in her time.”
“No sale, Toni. How could she have killed Baines?”
“All right. How about Edgar? I like the little colonel even though he is a snub-nosed gelding. It’s rather piquant to think of him playing the werewolf at night times—tying little girls up in trees, disembowelling Queenie, the wages of his wife’s sin.”
“It doesn’t fit,” I remarked. “Nothing seems to fit.”
“Well, then, the old man himself. Perhaps he can’t satisfy his lust for power any longer. No one to bully except the bald Franklin and the blear-eyed Gerald. Whoops and off we go! Over the hills and far away to find a dog, a cat or a goose. Hunting’s been lousy this year, by the way.”
“Much more likely to have been Franklin,” I said joining against my will in Toni’s mood. I was still considerably surprised to hear my room-mate talking like this. For one usually so calm and monosyllabic, this outburst seemed to verge on hysteria.
“Yes, or Peter Foote. For a young man who’s travelled widely this must be a very dull neck of the woods. Why shouldn’t he have thrown away his plaster cast and flown to Grindle on the night of the coon-hunt? Dropped Polly in the tree and then lassoed Gerald on his way to tell the police. A little skilful piloting and anyone could pitch a corpse into our garden. Has the idea of an aeroplane occurred to anyone, Doug?”
“Listen, you ass—”
“Or Mrs. Baines—in the intervals of parturition I expect she rides forth on a broomstick, possibly accompanied by Mrs. Middleton. Oh, boy, what a headline. HARPIES HARRY VALLEY. It’s worth proving it just for the story.”
“Well, there are enough crazy people around Grindle for anyone to prove anything.”
“Yes, Doug, and that’s why I think that you did it. The one sane man amongst us. You—with the possible connivance of Bracegirdle. I don’t see why we should leave him out, poor fellow. He has to do something to relieve the tedium of sleuthing.”
I rose from my seat. “Listen, Toni, you must be sensible. Let’s get down to it and admit that there’s not a single person in this valley who’s capable of doing these things.”
Toni had stood up, too, and his eyes were shining with uncanny brilliance. “As you say, Doug, my boy, not a single person was capable—” He broke off. “You give me an idea, Doug. A positive inspiration.” He hurried out into the hall and started to pull on his overcoat.
“Hey, where are you going?”
Toni smiled. “I’m going to ask my shadow to give me a lift to Rhodes. It’ll be more fun for him than standing out there in the cold.”
“To Rhodes—again?”
“I’ve been the silent partner long enough. I want action. I’m going to work up the idea you’ve just given me. And, by the way, is the library open today?”
“Sunday—good Lord, no.”
He paused and I noticed that his face fell. “Damn, damn, damn,” he muttered. Then another idea seemed to strike him.
“Is young Foote in Rhodes, by the way?”
“I think so. Why?”
“He’s got some books I want—some medical books. Saw them on his bed table at the hospital the other day. So, if I can’t get into the stacks, I’ll borrow his.”
“But—?”
Toni had opened the front door, and a gust of cold wind blew into the house.
“Don’t worry about me, Doug—and don’t worry about yourself. I’ll be back in plenty of time for Bracegirdle. Now go finish your knitting and no more prying into the private lives of your fellow citizens. Good-by.”
He slammed the door and was gone.
Chapter XV
Dinner had been waiting almost half an hour when Toni finally returned. With him came Peter Foote, and between them, they carried five or six medical books, some of which were Peter’s, some of which, they explained, had been borrowed from the Professor of Neurology and Psychiatry. As Peter limped upstairs to wash for dinner, Toni ordered me quite peremptorily to mix a big shaker of dry martinis and to have Lucinda lay another place for dinner. It was obvious from his manner that something important was about to happen. In his eye there was a strange, almost triumphant gleam. He was an utterly different man from the mocking sceptic who, that morning, had treated the whole matter of Bracegirdle’s warrant with such indifference. I could tell that now he was taking the situation in deadly earnest. Peter, too, seemed eager and garrulous. He gulped down his cocktails and smoked ferociously.
The drinks were potent. Although I had no clue as to what was brewing, I found myself caught up into the prevailing mood of suppressed excitement.
Dinner was one of the tensest meals I have ever sat through—and, incidentally, one of the most alcoholic. Lucinda, disapproving and late for her church meeting, was constantly ordered to bring more and yet more whiskey highballs. Over his third, Toni announced mysteriously that he and Peter had been engaged all the afternoon in a very interesting piece of research. He steadfastly refused to reveal anything further. Peter, I could tell, was dying to talk, but, under the eagle eye of my room-mate, he was obliged to control himself. We all sat around the table chatting stupidly about anything but the topic which was uppermost in our minds.
At last the pumpkin pie was polished off, and Lucinda stumped away to church. Clasping our glasses, we removed to the living-room. I had not been accustomed to this fast and furious drinking, and my brain was rather muzzy as we pulled up the chairs and grouped ourselves round the blazing fire. Peter, whose leg was still a little stiff, chose a hard ladder-back chair. Lighting my pipe, I sank down into the arm chair, while Toni, with his usual passion for undressing, pulled off his coat and vest, unloosened his tie, and sprawled down on the settee.
Above us, Toni’s Swiss cuckoo-clock ticked arrogantly on. The wooden hands pointed to eight forty-five. It brought back to me the astonishing circumstances of this assembly. In seventy-five minutes the police would arrive with a warrant. And here was Toni, bright eyed and half-drunk as though the whole affair were some strange, hectic farce.
“Well, prisoner at the bar,” I began, “spill the beans if they’re not too half-baked.”
“Don’t rush me, Doug.”
My room-mate reached over toward the books which Pet
er had arranged by his chair and jerked one from the bottom of the pile. For a moment none of us spoke; then, in a mocking imitation of his classroom voice, Toni started his oration.
“Gentlemen, as you know, I am only a poor pathologist. But this afternoon I have had the privilege of delving in the realms of morbid psychology and psychiatry. And, before going any farther, I wish to acknowledge the invaluable assistance of my friend and colleague, Mr. Peter Foote, who is still young and optimistic enough to attach some importance to what is commonly termed the weak sister of medicine. Who, in short, not only has a good library at his command, but also shows all the symptoms of having taken Professor Meyerhof’s extremely dull course on applied psychiatry both seriously and intelligently.”
“What’s he talking about?” I asked, turning to Peter. “Is it all hooey?”
The boy was leaning forward, his elbows on his knees.
“Gosh, no, Dr. Swanson. He’s got a theory—a perfectly stunning one.”
“And here,” continued Toni in the same serio-comic tone, “I have to thank and to acknowledge the suggestions of my colleague and room-mate, Dr. Douglas Swanson, who, by a chance remark, helped me to a scientific and brilliant explanation of the most unreasonable and, at the same time, the most amusing series of incidents …”
“It’s almost nine o’clock,” I broke in, “and hot air won’t warm you when Bracegirdle takes you out into the cold, cold night.”
Toni laughed and, pouring some whiskey into his glass, handed me the bottle.
“You seem very eager to get rid of me, Doug. Well, we shall see what we shall see. I’m quite prepared to be serious, but I warn you that you’ll have to listen to a very dull spiel first. Foote, produce the data.”
He threw the book he had been holding at Peter who opened it at a marked page and handed it back.
“You will remember, Dong,” my room-mate went on, “that in our little talk this morning we agreed that the perpetrator of our local crimes must be suffering under some form of insanity. Furthermore, being less tolerant than you, I suggested that almost anyone of our neighbors was screwy enough to be the criminal. You agreed in part. And then—and then, oh, Doug, you made your profound, your illuminating remark which gave me the idea.”