by Craig Rice
April paused for dramatic effect, looked up at the sergeant, and whispered, “I was scared. It still scares me. I’m afraid I’ll dream about it.”
“Oh, no-no-no,” Sergeant O’Hare murmured soothingly. “Don’t be scared, little lady.”
Tears began to roll down her face. She looked about eight years old, and completely helpless. “Captain O’Hare,” she said in a tremulous whisper, “He said he’d kill her. And he said it as if he meant it. And she laughed, and said he’d better have the ten thousand dollars there, in cash, at four o’clock. And then he laughed, and said he’d see her at four o’clock, with a gun in his hand, not ten thousand dollars.” April pushed her glass away and said in a small, quavering voice, “I was scared.”
“There, there, there,” Sergeant O’Hare said warmly and soothingly. “Just tell me all about it, and then—well, just put it right out of your mind.” He lowered his voice. “You know, little lady, according to psychology, once you’ve told something like this, it won’t bother you again.”
“Oh,” April said. “You understand everything so well.” She gazed at him with wide, slightly tearful eyes. “I bet you’ve got children of your own.”
“I’ve raised nine,” the sergeant said, trying to sound as though he weren’t proud of it. “All turned out well, too. Finish your malt, little lady, it’s nourishing. And tell me. Didn’t you get a look at this man? Don’t you have any description of him?”
April shook her head, and reached for the malt. “I never saw him. I just heard him. I wouldn’t even have known his name, if I hadn’t overheard it.”
“Oh,” the sergeant said, “You know his name, then?”
April nodded. “She said—these are her exact words, Captain O’Hare—she said—” She paused. She had to think of a name for this guy. Persiflage Ashubatabul definitely wouldn’t do. She searched her mind for names. Mother’s new manuscript. She’d read all but the last twenty pages. There was a name. And a couple of lines of dialogue to go with it. April brightened, and smiled up at the anxious O’Hare.
“She said—‘Rupert,’ she said, ‘you’d be afraid to touch a gun, let alone aim and fire one.’ ”
“Rupert,” the sergeant repeated. He wrote it down, “And what did he say?”
“He said”—April hoped she could remember how Mother phrased it—“he said, ‘You think I’m a mouse, but I’ll show you I’m a man!’ Then”—she had to work the rest of the name in somehow—“then she said, ‘Quiet. Someone’s coming.’ And then there was a pause and then she said, ‘Oh, Wally. This is Mr. van Deusen.’”
“Van Deusen,” Sergeant O’Hare murmured. He wrote that down, too. “Rupert van Deusen.” He beamed at April. “Go on, little lady.”
“Well, that’s all.” April said innocently. “The man—Mr. van Deusen, I mean—said, ‘I’m delighted to meet you, sir,’ and Mr. Sanford said, ‘Won’t you come in and have a drink?’ And then they all walked away and I didn’t hear any more.” She smiled at the sergeant. “And after all that, it was Archie who found Henderson. In the laundry hamper.”
“Henderson?” The sergeant said, frowning.
“The turtle,” April reminded him. “Archie’s turtle. I told you. He ate through his rope and got away. We were looking for him, and that’s how I happened to hear this.”
“Oh, yes,” the sergeant said. He snapped his notebook shut and put it into his pocket. “I remember. Henderson. I’m glad you got him back. How about another double-chocolate malt, little lady?”
April concealed a shudder and said, “No, thanks, Captain.” She stood up. “I gotta go home and wash the vegetables.” A shadow crossed her face. “Promise you won’t tell anyone I told you. Because if Mother knew—”
She said it with such passionate vehemence that even the man in the gray suit who’d been dozing in the booth sat up and looked at her. “I’d be in terrible trouble if she found out,” April said. Her face was pale and worried.
“I promise,” the sergeant said.
“Oh,” April said, “thank you, Captain O’Hare.” She made a dramatically dignified exit.
After she’d gone, he took out the notebook and glanced through it again. She was a good, bright little girl. He’d raised nine of his own, and he ought to know. Captain O’Hare, she’d called him. Well—maybe—someday—
For instance, if he could just locate that Rupert van Deusen before Lieutenant Bill Smith made any foolish moves! He snapped the notebook shut, stuck it into his pocket, and strode out.
Fifteen seconds after he’d gone, the man in the gray suit bounded out of his booth, wide awake, and said. “Gimme a handful of nickels, Luke.”
He shoved nickels frantically into the wall telephone until he got his number. “This is Frank Freeman.” he said excitedly. “City Desk.” Then, “Hello, Joe? Listen—”
Five minutes later he was still pouring his story into the telephone, and the handful of nickels was almost exhausted. “I said—‘reliable witness.’ Got it? Okay. And it’s van Deusen. Rupert van Deusen. For Pete’s sake, why don’t you listen? R as in robber, U as in underworld, P as in petrified— Rupert. Got it? Rupert van— Listen. D as in detriment, E as in etymology, U— Don’t swear at me or I’ll resign. Rupert van Deusen. That’s right. Now. It was stated by a reliable witness whose name cannot be revealed—”
Chapter Six
“Well, for Pete’s sake, gosh,” Dinah said, “You certainly took time enough getting home.” She looked up from the potato she was peeling. “April! What’s the matter with you!”
April’s face had a definite greenish tinge. “Tell you later,” she said, and made a fast exit.
Five minutes later she returned, pale, but not greenish. “One malt is my limit,” she reported, “and I hate whipped cream, and chocolate always makes me sick. And three of them—”
Dinah dropped the potato and glared at her. “Well, my gosh. You didn’t have to order them.”
“It’s the most expensive thing on Luke’s menu,” April said indignantly. “You don’t think I’d let that O’Hare dope get away with a nickel root beer, do you?”
Dinah sniffed. She loved whipped cream and chocolate. “All right, Martyr,” she said coldly. “Scrub the carrots. And next time—”
“As far as O’Hare is concerned,” April said, “I bet there ain’t gonna be no next time.” She sighed, got out the brush and went to work on the carrots. “I—” She paused. Maybe it wouldn’t be wise to confide in Dinah and Archie about the unfortunate and wholly imaginary young man named Rupert van Deusen. Because Sergeant O’Hare might ask questions of them, and they might not be able to keep their faces straight. She was, after all, the only one who’d studied under Miss Grubee in Junior Drama Class.
“You what?” Archie demanded, looking up from his job of washing lettuce.
“I am I,” April said serenely. “And you are you, and we are we, and they are they, and ours are ours, and twenty-four hours is a day, and three hundred and sixty-five days are a year. Hand me the vegetable brush. Dopey Joe.”
“Oh,” Archie said, enraged, “Oh—yammer!” He pulled himself together and grumbled, “A’right, here’s the brush. Loonie-Lou!”
“Miss Loonie-Lou to you,” April said.
“Shut up, you kids,” Dinah said. “Mother’s trying to work upstairs.” She turned on the stove and put on the potatoes. “Now, listen. It’s been twenty-four hours—more than that— and we aren’t any farther.”
“You mean any nearer,” April said, holding a carrot under the faucet.
“Nearer to what?” Archie demanded.
Dinah slammed the lid on the potatoes. “Look. Yesterday. Mrs. Sanford was murdered. We’re going to find the murderer, remember? So if you two infants will just stop playing and —”
There was a sudden, shrill outcry from next door. April and Dinah looked at each other, and both turned pale. Archie started for the doorway. April dragged him back.
“If it’s another murder”—April gasped—“
We can catch the murderer on the scene—
“Wait,” Dinah said. “Mother—”
They could hear the typewriter going upstairs.
“We can tell her about it,” April said.
“Le’s go,” Archie said, loud.
They plunged through the bushes of the kitchen garden. Suddenly April grabbed Dinah’s arm.
It wasn’t another murder. Through the garden hedge they could see a neighbor from down the street, Mrs. Carleton Cherington III, garbed in violet chiffon and a wide violet hat, trying to pull her wrist away from the grasp of a young policeman, and blushing from her double chin to her plucked eyebrows. She managed to pull loose, and adjusted her hat, trying to adjust her poise at the same time. “I had no idea I was trespassing,” she said breathlessly. “I was simply taking a short cut home from a garden party—”
“You were simply trying to get in that house,” the young policeman said.
She laughed, not convincingly. “Ridiculous!”
“You’re darned right,” the policeman said. “Especially when you tried to climb in through that kitchen window.”
Mrs. Carleton Cherington III finally got her hat properly adjusted, and caught her breath. “Young man,” she said, “I’ll confess to you. I was trying to climb through that kitchen window.”
He wasn’t impressed. He said, “Sure. I pulled you out of it.”
“Everyone has a weakness,” she said confidentially. “I must tell you mine. Unfortunately, it is—souvenirs. I thought, perhaps—a wisp of fringe from a rug—a button from the upholstery. I assure you—”
“Burglary.” the policeman said.
“Nothing valuable.” she said. “Simply a souvenir.” She drew herself up to her full five four. “Young man. I am General Cherington’s wife. Mrs. Carleton Cherington III.”
A disturbance near the house staved off what was obviously going to be a rude remark on the part of the young policeman. He raced toward the source of the disturbance. Mrs. Carleton Cherington III stared after him for a moment and then ran like a rabbit toward the alley gate.
“That fat dame!” April said.
“I like her,” Dinah said. “We like her. Remember the time she made us the oatmeal cookies? Maybe she’s a puff-puff, but she’s nice. And what’s more she’s worried about something—”
“Pssssst!” Archie hissed. He pointed.
The three young Carstairs moved up through the foliage to the disturbance. They moved fast, and as silently as they could. A violent argument was taking place at the front door of the Sanford villa. Police Lieutenant Bill Smith was taking part in it. so was the young policeman, and a plain-clothes man. Their opponent was a mild-looking little man of sixty-odd, with a frightened, waxy face, white hair, and a neat blue suit. He carried a brief case in one hand.
“But I insist,” the man was saying. “I must insist. I am Mr. Holbrook. Henry Holbrook.”
“Why were you trying to get in the house?” Bill Smith demanded.
“Well,” the little man puffed, “I’m Mr. Holbrook. I am—I should say, I was—Mrs. Sanford—the late Mrs. Sanford’s—lawyer. As her lawyer, I felt it my duty—”
“To try and force the lock?” Bill Smith said. “That isn’t good enough.”
“Why—” He paused.
“Mr. Holbrook, as a lawyer you should know that the house cannot be entered without police permission.”
Henry Holbrook turned a shade paler. He mumbled, “Duty to my client—late client.”
“I assure you,” Bill Smith said, in a gentler tone, “your late client’s property is quite safe. These policemen aren’t standing around here just to decorate the landscape.”
“Is it—customary,” Mr. Holbrook stammered, “when there’s been a murder—”
“Under these circumstances,” Bill Smith said, “quite.” He added amiably, “However, if you would like to go through the house—with a policeman accompanying you, of course—”
“I—” Mr. Holbrook gulped. “I don’t think it’s necessary, really. I’m—quite sure everything is in good shape. I’m—so sorry I—disturbed you.” He turned and scuttled down the driveway toward his parked car.
April whispered, “There’s something funny about this.”
Dinah grabbed April’s arm and hissed, “Look! Pierre. Pierre Desgranges. The man who says he’s a painter.” She pointed.
A short, stocky man with a white beard was moving quietly and surreptitiously up the path on the other side of the driveway, pausing now and then to look around. He had on corduroy pants, a plaid shirt, and a beret. There was an unlighted pipe in his mouth. Suddenly he disappeared behind a bush. The children watched, breathlessly, for five minutes, ten minutes. He didn’t reappear.
Archie whispered (it was really what April called a whimsper, half whisper, half whimper), “I wanna go home now.”
Dinah grabbed his hand and held it, tight. April murmured, “Don’t be scared.”
But there was something scary about the scene. The pink villa, where a murder had been committed only the day before. Policemen all around the place. And three people—who couldn’t possibly have known each other—trying to break in. The shadow of an old sycamore tree began to throw its shadow over the villa, it looked like the shadow of some enormous hand.
“April.” Dinah said, “we really ought to finish with the vegetables.”
“We really should,” April agreed fast. “Carrots take a long time to cook.”
They ran quickly, like mice, along the sidewalk and up their own driveway.
Nobody said a word, not one word, until the carrots were cooking and the lettuce had been washed and put in the icebox. Archie not without protest, began setting the table.
“You know.” Dinah said at last, dreamily, “I’ve been thinking about Mrs. Sanford. And why all those people want to get in her house. They want to look for something. Because Mrs. Cherington certainly isn’t any souvenir hunter. And that lawyer, Mr. Holbrook, w-ouldn’t have tried to pick the lock if he’d had a proper reason for being there.”
“So?” April said noncommittally. She’d been thinking the same thing.
“And Mr. Desgranges. What would he be doing there?”
“Maybe he wanted to paint a picture,” April said.
Dinah snorted. “He doesn’t paint houses and trees. Mother said so. He doesn’t paint anything but water.”
Archie came out into the kitchen for the butter and said, “Paint water! Who ever heard of painting water!”
“Mr. Desgranges does.” April said. “He met Mother someplace and he told her he was a painter. Mother asked him, very politely, what he painted, and he said. ‘I paint water.’ ”
“Goony.” Archie said. He sniffed, and carried the butter into the dining room.
“I was trying to explain.” Dinah said, “that there must be some reason why everybody wants to get into that house.” She paused and scowled. “Something hidden in the house, that everybody who tries to get in the house wants to find. April—I think—”
Archie interrupted her, sliding into the kitchen with a whoop. “Y’know what?” he yelped. “Y’know what? People don’t paint water. They paint with water.”
April and Dinah looked at each other resignedly over Archie’s head. “Archie,” April said, “Mr. Desgranges doesn’t paint with water, he paints with oils. He paints with oils.”
Archie’s round face turned an ominous shade of pink. “Just because I’m littler’n you are—”
“Listen, Archie,” Dinah said, sternly and hastily. “And shut up. Mr. Desgranges paints pictures. With oil paints. Understand?”
“Sure, sure, sure,” Archie said impatiently.
“Well, he paints pictures of water. He goes and sits by the ocean and paints pictures. No beach, no boats, no people.”
“No sky, even?” Archie demanded incredulously.
“Nothing but water,” Dinah said firmly.
Archie snorted. “Why does he go all the way to the ocean?” he s
aid scornfully. “Why doesn’t he just sit home and look in a pail?” He gathered a handful of knives and forks and went back to the dining room.
Dinah drew a long breath. “As I was saying.” She paused again.
“Well,” April said. “Go on.”
“I think Mrs. Sanford was a blackmailer.”
For a minute April didn’t trust herself to speak. Finally she said, in her most casual tone, “I wouldn’t be surprised.”
“Why,” Dinah said, half surprised, “had you thought of that too?”
April decided to confess. She’d never in her life been able to keep secrets from Dinah, even about Dinah’s birthday and Christmas presents. “Listen, Dinah.” Dinah wasn’t going to approve of this, either. “This afternoon—”
“You know what I think?” Dinah interrupted. “I think we ought to give a party.”
April stared at her, aghast. “At a time like this!” she gasped. “You can think about parties?”
Dinah nodded, dreamy-eyed. “Tomorrow night. It’s Friday night. You can convince Mother. About ten kids. You invite half and I’ll invite half.”
“But, Dinah. A party—”
Archie burst into the kitchen. “You gotta let me come, too. Hey. You gotta let me come, too.”
“Sure you can,” Dinah said, “and invite the Mob.”
Archie jumped up and down and said, “Yipe!”
April shuddered. The Mob consisted of some ten or twelve small boys, aged from nine to twelve, all noisy, all dirty, and all disreputable. “Dinah, are you out of your mind?”
“A treasure hunt,” Dinah said. “That’s the idea. It’s bound to spill over into the neighbors’ yards. Maybe besides searching the grounds, you and I can break into the house.”
“I get it,” April said happily. “And the Mob—”
“If I know the Mob,” Dinah said, “they’ll keep the police too busy to bother about us. We’ll figure out who to ask, right after dinner. And what were you going to say when I interrupted you?”