by Craig Rice
“It was exactly half-past four,” April said. “I’d just looked at the clock to see if— Oh, I guess I told you that. If you don’t believe me, ask Dinah. Because I came back out on the porch and told her she didn’t have to fix the potatoes for fifteen minutes yet.”
Bill Smith looked anxiously at Dinah.
“That’s right,” Dinah said. “I remember. April went in to look at the clock to see if it was time to—”
Archie snorted. “You don’t fix the potatoes at four-forty-five. You fix them at five o’clock.”
“I did tonight,” Dinah said, “because we were going to have baked potatoes. They take longer than boiled potatoes.”
“We didn’t have baked potatoes tonight,” Archie said exultantly. “We had mashed potatoes. So there, you’re crazy!”
Dinah sighed. “That’s because we heard the shots, and we went over to see what had happened, and when we got back, it was too late to make baked potatoes, so we made mashed potatoes.” She dug a forefinger into Archie’s back, just below his left shoulder blade. It was a signal he recognized, and he calmed down. “The point is,” Dinah said authoritatively, “It was exactly four-thirty when April looked at the clock, and right after that, we heard the shots.”
“I’d just gotten back to the porch when we heard them,” April added.
“Are you sure?” Bill Smith said feebly.
The three young Carstairs nodded vigorously in unison, presenting a united front.
“Listen,” Sergeant O’Hare said. “You lemme handle this. I’ve raised nine kids of my own.” He advanced toward April, shaking a threatening finger under her nose. “Now you tell me the truth,” he roared, “or you’ll be sorry! What time did you hear them shots?”
“F-f-four-thirty!” April burst into tears, fled across the room, and buried her face in Marian’s lap. “Mamma!” she wailed. “He scares me!”
“Stop bullying my child!” Mother said angrily.
“You made April cry,” Archie howled. He kicked the sergeant on the ankle.
“I should think you’d be ashamed of yourself,” Dinah said disapprovingly. “I thought you’d had children of your own.”
Sergeant O’Hare’s face turned the shade of an uncooked beet. He said nothing.
“You’d better wait for me in the car,” Police Lieutenant Bill Smith said severely.
Sergeant O’Hare strode to the door, his broad face changing from red to purple. He paused for a moment and waved the forefinger toward Marian Carstairs. “You’re her mother,” he bellowed. “You oughta beat her ears off.” He slammed the door and went out.
“I’m so sorry he upset her,” Bill Smith apologized. “I can see that she’s a delicate child.”
“She is not a delicate child,” Marian said, stroking April’s head. “But this is enough to upset anybody. And if the children say they heard those shots at four-thirty, they heard them at four-thirty, and that’s that. Do you think for a minute my children would deceive the police?”
Her eyes met his for a long moment. Bill Smith tried to find a polite way to say he thought April was a liar, and gave up. He could picture her on a witness stand, weeping, and swearing that the shots had been heard at four-thirty. He could picture the jury’s reaction, too. “All right, it was four-thirty,” he said stiffly. “I appreciate the information, and I’m sorry to have troubled you.”
“I’m glad we could be of assistance,” Marian Carstairs said, just as stiffly. “And I hope it won’t be necessary to have any further discussion of the subject. Good night.”
Dinah felt a moment’s panic. She hurried to the door and held it open for him. “I’m so sorry you have to go,” she said brightly. “It’s been so nice, having you here. And do come again, soon.”
Police Lieutenant Bill Smith looked at her blankly. He felt confused and baffled. And, for some reason he couldn’t understand, he hated to go. He was going from here, after a brief report at headquarters, to an expensive, but lonely hotel apartment. Somehow, he wished he could stay just a few minutes longer. “Well,” he said, “well, good night.” He stumbled on the door sill, blushed, said, “Well, good night” again, and was gone.
April giggled. Marian Carstairs shoved her off her lap and stood, up. “I wish I knew,” she said, “whatever gave me the idea I liked children.” She stalked indignantly to the stairs. “You keep out of this affair,” she said firmly, “and keep me out of it.” She took two steps up and paused. “Just the same,” she demanded, “what were you saying in that heathenish jargon?”
“April said, ‘I’ll do the talking,’” Archie squealed triumphantly, before either girl could squelch him. “And then Dinah said, ‘Okay.’ You just take the first letters of— Ow!”
“I’ll fix you,” April whispered fiercely.
Marian Carstairs sniffed. “I thought so. I didn’t believe you, even if that stupid Smith person did. Remember, this is to be the last of it. I have no interest in who murdered Flora Sanford and I hate policemen.” She turned and went on up the stairs.
The three young Carstairs were silent for sixty stricken seconds. The purr of the typewriter began again from the. room above.
“Well,” Dinah said wistfully, “it was a good idea, anyway.”
“Was, nothing,” April said. “You mean is. If Mother won’t find out who murdered Mrs. Sanford, we will. And we’re just the ones who can do it, too. We won’t even have to ask her for help, we can just look things up in the J. J. Lane books.”
“Oh, that,” Dinah said. “I mean, him.” She pointed toward the door through which Bill Smith had gone.
Archie sniffled a little. “I like him,” he announced.
April said, “There isn’t a thing to worry about. As far as Mother and Bill Smith are concerned”—she drew a long breath— “conflict and antagonism on meeting are a sure sign of a successful courtship.”
“You read that in a book,” Archie said.
April beamed happily. “You’re darned right,” she told him. “One of Mother’s!”
Chapter Three
Weekday breakfasts at the Carstairs’ fell into two classes. There were the mornings when Marian Carstairs was already busy in the kitchen when the three young Carstairs came down. Usually she would have on a gay-printed quilted house coat, with a scarf tied around her head. Once in a while she’d have on her working slacks. Then there were the mornings when the three young Carstairs made their own breakfast and, just before taking off for school, carried a tray with coffee, a cup, and a clean ash tray to a sleepy-eyed and yawning Marian.
They could tell in advance which kind of morning it was going to be. If the typewriter had been clicking, loud and fast, when the last young Carstairs dropped off to sleep, it meant that Dinah would have to scoot downstairs after she turned off the alarm clock and start the oatmeal. This looked like one of those mornings. April and Dinah had stayed awake longer than usual, talking things over. The typewriter had still been going.
The morning started thoroughly badly. Everybody was cross. Absorbed in a discussion of the Sanford murder, Dinah had forgotten to set the alarm clock, and slept fifteen minutes too long. Archie, who’d wakened early, was absorbed in making a cardboard tank, and flatly declined to take any part in starting breakfast. April hung on to the dressing table for thirty minutes, trying four different styles of hairdos. By the time the three young Carstairs reached the kitchen only a half-hour was left before the school bus would go by, and a definitely strained situation existed.
“Archie,” Dinah said, “make the toast.”
“Oh, boney,” Archie said. “Oh, foo.” From Archie, that was the last word in profanity. He put on the toaster, though.
“April,” Dinah said, “get the milk.”
“Oh, barf,” April said. But she got the milk.
“And shut up,” Dinah said. “You’ll wake Mother.”
There was silence. When Dinah got That Tone in her voice—
“What’s more,” Dinah said, picking up a discuss
ion that had been temporarily interrupted, “we are not going to ditch school. You know what happened last time.”
April said gloomily, “By the time we get home, the police will have picked up all the clues.”
Dinah paid no attention. They’d been over that aspect of the problem before. “And,” she added, “we are not going to ask Mother for three excuses. In the first place, she’s asleep. In the second place, the superintendent was very difficult about all three of us going to the dentist the day the circus was in town, and if you get Mother in trouble with the superintendent again, it’ll waste a lot of her time.”
“Oh, all right,” April grumbled. “But the minute we get home—”
Dinah frowned. “I was supposed to meet Pete and go bowling with him after school.”
April put down the milk bottle with a bang. “If you think more of a date with that shot deal than you do of your mother’s career—”
“Shushup,” Archie said hastily.
“Don’t you shushup me.” April snapped. She slapped him. He squealed. “You barfer!” and lunged.
April yelled, “Ow! Stop pulling my hair down!”
Dinah made a dive for April, who, in turn, made a dive for Archie. April howled. Archie screeched, and Dinah tried to outyell them. The package of breakfast food landed on the floor with a resounding crash and spilled. Then Dinah said in a low voice, “Hey! Quiet!”
Silence fell.
Marian Carstairs stood in the doorway, pink-cheeked and sleepy-eyed. She had on the quilted house coat and the bright scarf. The three young Carstairs looked at her. She looked at them and at the breakfast food.
“Mother,” April said earnestly, “if you dare say ‘birds in their little nests agree,’ we’ll run away from home.”
Archie giggled. Dinah began sweeping up the breakfast food. Marian Carstairs yawned and grinned. “I overslept,” she said. “What are you eating for breakfast.”
“We were going to have that,” Dinah said, pointing to the dustpan. “We overslept, too.”
“Never mind,” Marian said. “It wasn’t very good breakfast food, anyway. Tasted like old hay. I can make scrambled eggs in four minutes. And is the morning paper here yet?”
Five minutes later they sat down to breakfast, and Marian Carstairs spread out the paper.
“Have the police found Mr. Sanford?” Dinah asked with elaborate casualness.
Marian Carstairs shook her head. “They’re still looking.” She sighed. “Who’d have thought a mild-mannered person like Wallie Sanford would have done a thing like that?”
Dinah glanced over her shoulder and read the front-page, column-two story. “You know, Mother,” she said, “it’s funny. Mrs. Sanford was only shot once. And the police haven’t found the other bullet.”
“What other bullet?” Marian said.
“There were two shots,” April reminded her.
Marian looked up from her coffee. “Are you sure?”
The three young Carstairs nodded in unison.
“That is funny,” she said, musing.
They pressed the advantage, fast. “You know, Mother,” Dinah said in a rush, “I bet you could figure this out a lot quicker than the police.” She remembered Mother’s statement of the night before about policemen, and added, “They’re all a bunch of dopes.”
“I probably could,” Marian Carstairs said thoughtfully. “In fact, almost anybody—” She stopped, tried to look stern. “I’m a busy woman,” she said, “and you’re going to miss the school bus if you don’t flee.”
The three young Carstairs looked at the kitchen clock, and fled. There was a hasty good-by kiss at the front door. April, the last to leave, glanced at the clock again and made a hurried calculation. If she took the short cut and ran all the way, she could spare sixty seconds. She clung to Mother and began to weep.
“For the love of Mike,” Marian said in surprise, “what’s the matter, baby?”
“I was just thinking,” April wailed, “about how awful it will be when we’re all grown up and married and gone away, and you’re left all alone!” She delivered a quick moist kiss on Mother’s cheek, turned, and ran like a rabbit down the hill. That ought to put a few ideas in Mother’s head in case she should run into Police Lieutenant Bill Smith while they were away at school.
Marian Carstairs walked slowly back to the kitchen. She picked up the dishes, stacked them in the sink, and let hot water run over them. She put the milk and butter away in the icebox. The house seemed very empty, very quiet now that the three young Carstairs had gone thundering and yelping down the steps. She felt lonely, incredibly lonely, and suddenly bored with everything. April was right. How awful it would be when they’d all grown up and married and gone away.
Upstairs in the typewriter the last line on page 245 read, Clark Cameron rose from examining the still form. “It wasn’t a heart attack,” he said slowly. “This man was murdered—like all the others.” Marian Carstairs knew exactly how the next line was to begin. There was a frightened gasp from the white-faced girl. She knew, also, that it was time for her to don the working slacks, and settle down to the next ten pages of The Seventh Poisoner.
Instead, she went out into the garden and walked restlessly through its graveled paths. It would be years before she was left alone. Ten, at the very least. But ten years could pass so rapidly. Could it have been ten years now since Jerry—Marian sat down on the bench April and Dinah used for shelling peas, and remembered it all, from the beginning, as she’d remembered it over and over before.
They’d met over the body of a machine-gunned gangster on a Chicago street corner. It was her first assignment of any importance, and she was still only nineteen, though she’d solemnly sworn she was twenty-five when she got the job. She was scared. Jerry Carstairs was tall; he had mussed-up brown hair and a grinning, freckled, homely face. He’d said, “Hello, kid. Forget everything you learned in journalism school? Look—” Ten minutes later he’d said, “How about a date for tomorrow night?”
They didn’t keep the date. That was the night of the warehouse fire. They didn’t meet again for a year, and then they met in a rowboat being tossed around by the muddy waters of the Mississippi flood. He proposed to her; right then and there in the rowboat. They were married in New York by a justice of the peace, the day Mayor Walker welcomed Charles Lindbergh. He deposited her at the front door of their hotel and went away with a couple of photographers. The next day he showed up, tired and unshaven, and said, “Look, kid, pack fast. We’re going to Panama, in about two hours.”
Dinah was born in a hot, dusty little Mexican town where there wasn’t any doctor, and where nobody but Marian spoke English—and she didn’t speak anything else. Jerry was thirty miles away, covering the revolution. April was born in Madrid, on the day King Alfonso fled. She was born in a Madrid taxi, in which Marian was frantically looking for Jerry. When Marian was completely awake, the next day, Jerry had gone to Lisbon, leaving a note saying, “Name her Martha for my grandmother.” Marian swore tearfully into the pillow and named the baby April.
Three weeks later she packed up the two babies and followed Jerry to Lisbon, to Paris, to Berlin, and finally to Vienna, always about two trains behind. At Vienna Jerry met her, his arms filled with all the flowers he’d been able to find, and she forgot that she was mad at him.
Early in 1932, Archie was born, on a Chinese freighter entering Shanghai harbor the day of the bombardment by the Japanese fleet. After that, the Carstairs decided to settle down.
There was a job for Jerry on a New York newspaper. There were a little house on Long Island, a maid named Walda, and furniture that was being paid for at so much per month. For the first month it was heaven, for the second month it was pleasant, and then Marian began to be bored. She went around humming Time on My Hands for a week or so, and then she began writing a mystery novel. She wanted to show Jerry the beginning of it, but he was away, covering the Hauptmann trial. She wanted him to read it; when it was done, he read it in a W
ashington hotel room and wired her, “Good girl!” She wanted him to read the letter from the agent she’d sent it to but he was down on the Florida Keys. He came back with a bad cold, and before he’d gotten around to reading the agent’s letter, Dutch Schultz had been murdered over in Newark, New Jersey. Two days later Jerry went to the hospital; pneumonia, the doctor said.
He lived five days, and on one of them he was conscious enough to listen to the letter from the publisher, accepting and praising the book, and suggesting another. He’d been pleased. Always. Marian had remembered how pleased he’d been. He’d said, “Nice going kid.” Then he’d gone back to sleep.
The contract and the check she found stuffed in her mailbox when she came back from the funeral.
The few years immediately following were a confused blur, as she looked back on them. There wasn’t any money. Jerry had always spent his salary the week before he earned it. The check from the publisher paid up the overdue rent on the house on Long Island, and moved the Carstairs family into a tiny Manhattan flat. Walda insisted on going along. Jerry’s newspaper offered Marian a job, and she grabbed at it. The next mystery novel was written in her free evenings at home, and on Walda’s evenings out, Marian sat typing with one ear cocked toward the nursery, in case one of the young Carstairs woke and cried.
All that seemed very long ago. The years between were vague, half forgotten. Oh, a few things stood out. Walda’s being married and, apologetically, leaving them. Her losing her job. Dinah’s having the measles. Moving from place to place, and finally finding this house. Ten years at the typewriter.
The three young Carstairs had made it worth it. They’d had a lot of fun together. But it was true, they were growing up. They’d grow up and leave her. They had to live their own lives. And she’d be a lonely middle-aged woman, writing mystery novels on a portable typewriter somewhere in a hotel room.
Marian Carstairs stood up and told herself, “Nonsense!”