A Puzzle for fools

by Patrick Quentin

  As we gathered up the bandages and hid them temporarily under his mattress, I noticed the handkerchief which had been used to gag him. It was lying on the floor by the bed. I picked it up and then gave a little grunt of surprise. The white cotton was stained with blood.

  "You've been bleeding," I said.

  Geddes moved forward and took the handkerchief from me swiftly. There was a puzzled frown on his forehead.

  "That's not my handkerchief," he said slowly. "I always use brown silk ones. Bought them in India for about ten cents each."

  "But there's blood on it, anyway."

  "I wonder—" Geddes turned to face me. "Take a look at me, Duluth. See if I've been bleeding anywhere."

  I examined him carefully. His throat was still red, but there was no sign of any cut or abrasion inside or outside his mouth. We stared at each other blankly.

  "He couldn't have been such a fool!" exclaimed Geddes at length. "He'd never have used his own handkerchief to gag me."

  "It's just possible," I said excitedly. "He'd have been in a hurry and—"

  "But the blood!"

  "Exactly." I exclaimed. "It looks as though we've been given a break. Don't you see? That's most likely Laribee's blood. That handkerchief must have been used to wipe the fingerprints off the knife."

  We were still staring at each other like a couple of kids who have discovered buried treasure.

  "We'll have to tell the police," said Geddes at last. "This is too important to hold back."

  "Okay. We'll tell Clarke. He's a good fellow and an old pal of mine. We'll need his help tonight if anything comes of our little act. I'll give him the handkerchief and ask him to find out who it belongs to."

  "Fine." Geddes had turned to the mirror and was surveying his crumpled appearance despondently. "That settles everything except my trousers. I suppose you couldn't get your friend Clarke to press them, too!"

  23

  IT WAS ALMOST TIME for dinner when we broke up our conspiratorial conclave and I returned to my own room. Discipline seemed to have returned almost to normal. Both Miss Brush and Mrs. Fogarty were bustling around as though day and night had joined forces to dispel the clouds of unrest. The patients were still speculating about the supposed fire, some of them declaring that by now the theatre must be a charred ruin, but their healthy appetites prompted them to appear punctually for the evening meal.

  Clarke was standing outside the dining room in his attendant's white coat. When he saw me, he grinned confidentially and whispered:

  "Boss says business as usual tonight."

  "Anything new?"

  "Nope. They're combing the theatre and they've examined the knife. Green was right. There's no prints there except the Brush woman's and a few of Miss Pattison’s."

  "How is Miss Pattison?" I asked anxiously.

  "All right." His face was sympathetic. "She's in her room and Lenz won't let the chief see her, not yet."

  I felt in my pocket and produced the bloodstained handkerchief. "I've found something," I said quietly.

  He took it and examined it.

  "There are three full cases of Johnny Walker in my apartment," I went on. "I won't be needing them when I get out. They're yours if you'll find out who that handkerchief belongs to."

  He looked at me doubtfully.

  "You don't have to keep anything from Green," I urged. "Only just hold it until I give the word."

  Clarke nodded and put the handkerchief in his pocket. **Okay, I'll do it this evening. Anything else?"

  "Yes. I'm hoping for a show-down later on. If I ask you to watch a certain person, will you stick onto him like a leech while I go to Green?"

  "For three cases of Scotch," said Clarke cheerfully, "I'd spend the evening watching old man Lenz himself."

  He was moving away when a sudden thought seemed to strike him. "Listen, Mr. Duluth," he said hesitantly. "That show-down of yours—you'd better make it snappy. Dr. Eismann's coming at ten o'clock and they're going to take Miss Pattison away."

  "You mean take her away from the sanitarium?"

  "That's what Green's planning to do right now."

  He must have guessed my feelings from the expression on my face, for he added with some embarrassment, "Maybe I could fix it so's you could see her for a minute or two."

  Clarke was one of those men you meet so seldom that you almost forget they exist. They restore your belief in the essential decency of people in general, and the police force in particular.

  "It's pretty much against orders, of course," he was muttering. "But Mrs. Dell's a good sport."

  "Listen," I said brokenly, "someone ought to give you a golden halo."

  He grinned. "Three cases of Scotch will do for the time being."

  He told me to follow him at a discreet distance and led me along back passages whose existence I had never before suspected.

  The women were all at dinner so their wing was more or less deserted. But my sense of guilt peopled the corridors with terrifying female monsters who, at any moment, might spring out on me and apprehend me for this most cardinal of sanitarium sins. Once there was an actual rustle in the passage ahead. Instantly Clarke signaled me into a lavatory and I stood there, holding my breath, as official heels clattered past the closed door. Those were some of the most harrowing moments in my life.

  But at last we reached our destination. With mock caution, Clarke stationed me in a small alcove while he went to dicker with Mrs. Dell. They had, of course, locked Iris up. He had to get the key.

  Waiting seemed depressingly like eternity, but at last he reappeared.

  'Three minutes exactly," he whispered. "And if Moreno comes, hide under the bed or Mrs. Dell says there'll be a couple more murders."

  He unlocked the door and with a grin closed it behind me.

  Iris was sitting by the window, gazing across the somber evening parkland outside. When she saw me, she rose, moved impulsively toward me and then paused.

  "You ... !" she whispered.

  My heart was beating so loud that I felt everyone in the building must be hearing it. I tried to say something, but I couldn't think out the words. I only knew that I loved her and that she was there.

  Then she moved again and somehow she was in my arms. Neither of us spoke. We just clung together like a couple of mutes.

  And so passed the first of my precious three minutes.

  At length Iris drew away and I could see her face. I was amazed and delighted that the tormenting sadness had left her eyes. They were shining now with a bright, healthy indignation.

  "Do you know what the police are going to do about me?" she asked bluntly.

  I hesitated and her fingers tightened on my arm.

  "You've got to tell me. None of the others will. Mrs, Dell treats me like a baby, keeps stalling me off. Don't you see? I've got to know the truth."

  There was an eager new determination in her voice—a determination which elated me beyond words.

  "They're sending for someone to talk to you," I said guardedly. "He's coming about ten o'clock tonight."

  "You mean a police doctor?"

  "Why—er…"

  "So they do suspect me!" Iris tossed her head indignantly, and once more the anger blazed in her eyes. Then her shoulders moved in a slight shrug. "But I don't really blame them. There was that knife—and I acted so foolishly. But it all seemed like some horrible nightmare. I didn't know what I was doing or what I had done."

  "Of course, darling."

  "But I know now," she said suddenly. "I can see it was all a frame-up. That's why they scared me with those voices. They tried to make me so confused and miserable that … that when it all actually happened, I'd be crazy enough to take the blame. It almost worked but not quite."

  She turned her head away and when she spoke next her voice was perfectly calm. "You'll think this is the maddest thing of all, but somehow I can see everything straight now; see how dumb I've been, worrying over things that really were so unimportant. Something happened t
o me today. I know there's danger. Maybe the police will take me away, even arrest me, and ..."

  "They're not going to," I cut in, feeling absurdly lightheaded. "I'm hardly athletic enough to escape with you down the drain-pipe, but I'm going to move heaven, earth and the sanitarium to see that that man doesn't get to you tonight."

  "Let him come," said Iris with a slow smile. "Let them all come. I'm ready to fight back now. I don't know whether Lenz would call it good psychiatry, but what I needed to snap me out of it was a pretty violent shock. Well, I've had the shock, and I'm grateful, whatever the consequences."

  We stood there, smiling at each other. I never thought things were going to break that way. It seemed too grand to be true.

  "Good girl!" I whispered. "Give'em all you've got. And I'm launching a little attack of my own tonight. Between us, we'll lick them all."

  "You and I," said Iris softly. "What could be crazier?"

  She was very near. Her lips were warm when they touched mine. That was the first time I had ever really kissed her.

  When she drew away, her eyes were still smiling.

  "By the way," she said, "I don't think I ever caught your name."

  "Peter," I said. "Peter Duluth."

  "Peter Duluth!" She looked blank for a moment. "So you really are Peter Duluth and all that you said about the theatre—"

  "—was on the level," I cut in. "I told you from the start I wasn't screwy. At least, not that screwy."

  She stood there, looking at me. Gradually the smile faded from her lips; and a faint expression of fear crept into her eyes.

  "You'll do what you can, won't you, Peter?" she asked pleadingly. "I'm trying to be the ingénue with a stiff upper lip, but it's not going to be any too pleasant if—if they take me away."

  That brought me violently back to earth, reminded me that, in spite of the seeming miracle of Iris' recovery, the situation was as serious as it had ever been. I was going to reassure her, tell her that everything would be all right, when the door burst open and Mrs. Dell appeared with a tray of supper.

  She scolded me roundly, and she scolded the absent Clarke. She scolded herself, Moreno, and everyone else in the institution. But she didn't scold Iris. In fact, she treated her as kindly as if she had been her own daughter.

  I could have kissed her.

  I was shockingly late for dinner, but I did manage to whisper my thanks to Clarke when I got back to the dining room.

  "Forget it, Mr. Duluth," he muttered, smiling. "I saw you get one tough break two years back. I don't want to see you get another. I thought you'd like to have a minute or two with her before they take her away."

  Take her away! Now that I was back in the world of cold facts, eating my rapidly cooling liver and bacon, I realized how horribly near the climax we were. Once the police had Iris to concentrate on, they would slacken their activities and, unless I overestimated our adversary, he would be covering his tracks pretty quickly. It seemed as though the situation would take a distinct turn for the worse unless the lunatic plan conceived by Geddes and myself bore fruit.

  As the liver was removed to give way to some artistic contraption of ice cream, I discovered a fundamental fact about myself. If anything happened to Iris now, it would mean the end of me. Clarke would never get those three cases of Scotch. My expensive cure would be utterly wasted. The last stage of Peter Duluth would be infinitely worse than the first.

  24

  ONE HAS HEARD often of the bright smile that masks the aching heart, the dainty shoes that hide pinched feet. But these well-worn clichés seemed to have been freshly invented to describe the members of Dr. Lenz’ staff when we all assembled in the main lounge that evening. Jove had nodded and there was to be business as usual. The patients' routine must go on.

  It wasn't one of the formal evenings, but Miss Brush's dress was almost indecently gorgeous. It was a sort of tiger color. At least, it made her look like a magnificent, if somewhat tired, tigress. Her smile was as bright and professional as ever, but I noticed that it went on and off at regular intervals, revolving like a lighthouse beacon. Once or twice I saw her smiling at no one at all.

  Moreno was very smartly dressed and he had obviously determined to be affable if it killed him. The women patients seemed thrilled by his unusual attentions, and I heard my little schoolmistress say he looked exactly like George Raft. He smelled like an excellent brand of Scotch when he came near me. Apparently he had been working on the interesting bottle I had seen the night before in his office.

  Warren had put on a clean white coat and pomaded his hair down to a festive flatness. His smile seemed a little more genuine than the facial contortions of the others. Perhaps he felt that Laribee's death freed him once and for all from any suspicions with regard to Fogarty's "accident."

  Even poor Mrs. Fogarty had turned up trumps. Like Queen Elizabeth, she had donned her best in the hour of deepest need. Her best was a rather faded mauve, which suited neither her face nor figure; and the blobs of rouge on her high cheek bones only threw into relief the dark lines beneath her eyes. Though so recently a widow, she knew her duty. The patients’ routine must go on.

  And for the patients, things were going on very happily. They seemed surprisingly cheerful and normal. The fire-alarm had given them something to talk about, had been an exciting incident in their uneventful lives. None of them, I felt sure, knew that Laribee's dead body was lying somewhere not fifty yards away, and that the place was still full of policemen. And none of them seemed to care that Iris was up there alone in her room. None of them except myself.

  The thought of Iris brought me back to the business in hand. And my business was with Miss Powell. She was the first link in the chain, and without her nothing could be accomplished. Our plan could not even begin until I found out the whereabouts of the musical place.

  The Boston spinster was dressed rather daringly in red and yellow. A tribute, perhaps, to the flames which might have destroyed us all. She was easy enough to see, but hard to get alone, for she flitted from group to group, discussing fire insurance and the enormous premiums one had to pay on the houses in Commonwealth Avenue. She was as fickle and frivolous as her costume. I was beginning to be seriously alarmed lest the shock of the afternoon had cured her kleptomania and made her as normal as the others seemed.

  "The danger of fire in Boston slums—" I began enticingly when finally I had her cornered between the victrola and a radiator.

  That got her. There was no more difficulty now in luring her away to the couch where we had first sat together. She came like a lamb and treated me to a brilliant discourse on slum clearance, housing problems and social reform in general.

  I had one bad moment when I heard Miss Brush suggesting a bridge game and saw her looking expectantly m our direction. No one showed interest, luckily, and I was able to concentrate on Miss Powell.

  Not once did she appear to look at the ring on my finger, although I twiddled it invitingly, and even pulled it over the knuckle so as to make her work more simple. At last I became so carried away by the torrents of her garrulity that I found myself staring at her in a kind of horrified fascination. I had tried to hypnotize her, but she had succeeded in hypnotizing me. The well-bred voice flowed smoothly on. Her eyes, I swear, never left my face.

  "So you see, Mr. Duluth, the overwhelming problems which the new administration will have to face."

  I saw them only too well. I saw also to my astonished relief that at last my ring was gone Her gaze had not faltered. I had not felt so much as the touch of a butterfly wing on my finger. But the ring was gone. I swore that if ever I got back to a world of sanity, I would promote this woman, make her a limited company, and her fortune and mine would be assured. She was a genius.

  "... Bostonians gibe at their obligations to society."

  And I was gibing at mine. She had the ring. Now I would have to make her hide it in the musical place. I knew her predilection for cushions as a means of concealment. I am afraid I was ungentlema
nly enough to put my feet up on the couch so that it would be impossible for her to slip the ring underneath. She was far too much of a lady to comment upon my rudeness.

  And then I started to work on her, trying somehow to throw a message from my mind to hers.

  "The musical place," urged my brain. "Put it in the musical place."

  Apparently I was neither psychic nor hypnotic. Her loquacity went on unabated. It was something about teachers' salaries being disproportionate to their responsibilities.

  At length I realized that I would have to resort to something more crude. I turned my head away from her.

  "The musical place," I mumbled.

  Then deliberately I looked down at my denuded finger.

  At last! An expression of alarm had crept into her eyes. She did not stop talking, but her hands shifted uneasily toward the cushions. I pressed my foot more firmly against them.

  As the look of alarm in her eyes grew more intense, I felt thoroughly ashamed of myself. It was a vile thing to exploit the frailties of this poor bewildered creature, to capitalize the weakness of my fellow patients. But the murderer had done so, and had forced me to imitate him. That was another score I had against him.

  I glanced anxiously at the clock. It was eight We had only two hours before that State alienist arrived.

  "The musical place," I muttered again desperately. Miss Powell had risen to her feet, and, though her voice went mechanically on, the sentences were halting, jumpy.

  "Our—only—Republican—hope—is—"

  She had turned and was almost running across the room. Once again I noticed that haunted look in her eyes as she saw me following.

  She made straight for the piano. I couldn't catch the movement of her hands, but I knew instinctively when she had disposed of the ring. Her face brightened and she even continued her sentence where it had broken off. I was afraid I was in for another discourse, but luckily she decided upon solitaire and left me.

  The identity of the musical place, this mysterious cache where Miss Powell must have concealed, first the knife, and now my ring, was absurdly simple. And yet it was exactly the kind of place where no one would think of looking—underneath the ornamental cloth which covered the back part of the piano. It could have been used only for thin objects. Even my ring betrayed its presence by a slight bulge. There was another bulge, too, and I thought for a moment that I might be on the brink of an important discovery.