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Home Sweet Homicide Page 12

by Craig Rice


  “She reads my comic books all the time,” Archie said. “And she borrowed all my Oz books and read ’em.”

  “Archie,” Dinah said, “you make too much noise.”

  Archie sniffed. “Well, if you ask me,” he said indignantly, “it was a dirty trick.”

  “Archie!” April said. “You ought to be ashamed of yourself. Mother can borrow your books and comic books any time she wants to, and if she wants to take a magazine away from me—”

  Archie jumped up and down and said, “Oh, corn, corn, corn! That ain’t what I mean. Those kidnapers. Taking the lady’s money and then not letting her go home okay. It was a dirty trick and besides they oughta of known better. Just lookahere. Suppose those kidnapers kidnap some other party. A’right, this party remembers about that lady not getting home okay. He figures out, why should he pay them his money when prob’ly he’s gonna be murdered anyhow, so then the kidnapers don’t make any profit off him. That’s no way to run a business.”

  “Archie,” April said gravely, “you’re a brain.”

  “Oh, sure, sure, sure,” Archie said. “And I. bet poor Mr. Sanford is just one great big empty stomach by this time.”

  Dinah and April looked at each other and Dinah said, “Not for long. April, run up and get that razor and stuff while I make some more pancakes.”

  “Listen, Dinah,” April said. “We’ve got to read that stuff we found in the Sanford house. We couldn’t read it last night after the party because it was too late. Maybe we’d better do it right now. For Pete’s sake, aren’t you even curious?”

  “Naturally,” Dinah said. “But it’s got to wait. My gosh! We’ve got nine million things to do in the next couple of hours, and that’s gotta be the nine million and oneth. C’mon now, April. Get going.”

  April salaamed. “Yes, Master,” she said. She ran up the stairs, quietly, in case Mother was already asleep.

  “Whaddya mean, nine million things?” Archie demanded. “What nine million things? Count ’em?”

  “I’m going to pull nine million hairs out of your head, one at a time, if you don’t shush-u-tut-u-pup,” Dinah said. “Now go get the laundry pail and fill it with hot water.”

  “Yes, Master,” Archie mocked. He started for the door. “How’d-ya know I have nine million hairs on my head?”

  “Count ’em yourself,” Dinah said, “and tell me if I’m wrong.” She got out a cake of soap, and a fresh towel. April came downstairs with the shirt, socks, and razor just as Archie finished drawing the pail of water. Dinah draped the towel around Archie’s neck, stuffed the cake of soap in one pocket, the razor in another, and the socks in a third. She put the neatly folded shirt under his arm and handed him the pail. “Take these over to Mr. Sanford in the playhouse,” she said.

  “Oh, foo!” Archie said in pretended fury. “I always have to do everything!” He took a firm grip on the pail and went out.

  Dinah fried more bacon and made a stack of pancakes. April heated up the coffee and poured it in a thermos bottle. A tray carried across the back lawn might attract attention, so the plate of pancakes and bacon plus a lavish hunk of butter and the sirup jug were put in an old cardboard packing box. A knife, fork, spoon, cup, and napkin were already out in the playhouse.

  “Get another package of cigarettes out of Mother’s carton,” Dinah directed.

  “O-kuk-a-yum,” April said. “But sooner or later she’s going to wonder where all those cigarettes are going. You don’t want her to think we’re a couple of weed-fiends, do you?”

  “I said get them,” Dinah said. She sounded cross, and she felt cross.

  “Yes, Master,” April said meekly. She got the cigarettes.

  “And bring along the newspaper,” Dinah said, picking up the box.

  “Suppose Mother wants to look at it when she wakes up?”

  “We’ll buy her another one downtown,” Dinah said. “Come on.”

  “Yes, Miss Simon Legree,” April said, tucking the paper under her arm. “Did you ever hear about the moron who went to college so he could get his Simon Degree?”

  “Did you ever read about the big sister whose little sister made too much noise?” Dinah said. “No? Well, if you live to read about it, you’re lucky.” She stepped carefully along the walk and said, “This box is darn hard to balance.”

  “My sister,” April muttered, as though talking to herself. “The unbalanced type.”

  They found Wallie Sanford shaved; bathed, and wearing the clean shirt. He was sitting on the edge of the bunk, tying his shoes over the clean socks. He looked up and half smiled at them as they came into the playhouse. His face was very pale, but he was nothing like the frightened, exhausted, and almost hysterical man who had been hiding in the underbrush and living on pilfered bottles of milk.

  “How about breakfast, chum?” Dinah said, setting down the box and beginning to lift out its contents.

  “Complete with coffee,” April added, putting down the thermos bottle. “The service in this hotel is wonderful. Look, the waiter even brings you the morning newspaper with cigarettes.”

  “If you’re as hungry as you look,” Dinah added, “we’ll turn our backs while you eat.”

  “I’m so hungry,” Wallie Sanford said, buttering the top pancake, “that I don’t even care if you watch while I eat.”

  When he got to the last pancake April reached for the thermos bottle and said, “Shall we ply you with more coffee?”

  “Ply me with coffee, bury me with roses,” Wallie Sanford said. He began to laugh wildly.

  “We’ll bury you with pleasure,” Dinah said sharply, “if you don’t stop that.”

  Wallie Sanford buried his face in his hands. “I’m going to the police. They’re looking for me. I’m going to give myself up. I can’t stand this any more.”

  “Just what, specifically, are you complaining about?” April demanded. “The food or the service?”

  “The”—he looked up—“the waiting. Hiding. Like a criminal. Suppose they do put me in prison. They can’t keep me there, because I’m innocent. They’ll find out that I’m innocent. They’ll find—whoever really did murder her and then they’ll let me go.”

  “And then you can sue them for false arrest,” April said. “Not a bad idea.” She paused, and said thoughtfully to Dinah, “You know, I think he’s got something there. Maybe he ought to give himself up.”

  “Huh?” Dinah said. “After all the trouble we’ve gone to hiding him here?”

  “Why don’t he grow a beard and go to South America?” Archie said.

  “Quiet,” April said. “I’m thinking.” She scowled. “Look. Suppose he does give himself up. The police figure he committed the murder. Once they get him, they’ll be satisfied. We’ll be able to go ahead and find the real murderer without any interference.”

  Dinah said slowly, “Yes, but suppose we don’t find the real murderer? Then what happens to him?”

  “We’d just have to take that chance,” April said. She added, “And, anyway. He’s got an alibi. He was still on the train when we heard the shots.”

  “That’s right,” Dinah said. “But it’s risky, just the same.”

  “I’ve got to do it,” Wallie Sanford said. “I’ve got to.”

  “Well—maybe—” Dinah began. Suddenly she remembered something. “No. Look. Wait until tomorrow. Tonight, maybe. Will you do that?”

  Wallie Sanford stared at her. “Why?”

  “Never mind why,” Dinah said. “Just trust us. We know what we’re doing. Just stay here out of sight until we get back.”

  “But—” He frowned. “You’re just kids. What do you think you can do?”

  “We can make sure,” Dinah said firmly, “that when you do go to the police, they won’t have any motive to pin on you. Any motive. Understand? You’ll have an alibi, and you won’t have any motive. They’ll have to let you go.”

  “But—can you?” Wallie Sanford said. “How can you?”

  “Never mind,” Dinah said confi
dently. “It’s in the bag.” At last he promised to remain in hiding until they returned. Dinah said, “I’ll have Archie bring out sandwiches and another thermos of coffee for your lunch. And something to read. Now, stay put.”

  They went back to the house, where Dinah made the last scraps of turkey into sandwiches and refilled the thermos bottle, and April collected an armful of magazines. Archie carried it all out to the playhouse while the girls stacked up the breakfast dishes.

  “Is he all right?” Dinah asked anxiously when Archie came back.

  Archie nodded. “Smoking a cigarette and reading the newspaper.”

  “He’ll be okay,” Dinah said. She added, “I hope!” Suddenly she paused in the middle of washing out the coffeepot and said, “It would be awful if it turned out—he did do it.”

  Archie, who’d been mousing in the cake box, said, “Who did what?”

  “Stole the dozen doughnuts that were hidden in the flour bin,” April said.

  “I did not,” Archie said in righteous indignation. “And anyway, they weren’t in the flour bin, they were in the potato bin, and besides there wasn’t a dozen, there was only two, and one of them had a bite took out of it.”

  “Skip it, you kids,” Dinah said. “Look. Suppose it turns out Mr. Sanford did murder Mrs. Sanford.”

  “But he couldn’t of,” Archie said. “He’s got an alibi. April went in to look at the clock to see if it was time to fix the potatoes—”

  “Archie!” Dinah said. He shut up.

  “Honestly, Dinah,” April said, “he couldn’t of been acting when he said he didn’t do it. And besides—”

  “Look,” Dinah said. “Suppose it should turn out he did do it. My gosh! We’d be—accessories.”

  Archie blinked and said, “You mean like Slukey’s father sells?”

  April said, “What?”

  “Automobile accessories,” Archie said in a hurt voice.

  “Oh, for Pete’s sake,” Dinah said exasperatedly. “Archie, carry out the wastebasket and dump it.”

  “Shambles,” Archie grumbled. He picked up the waste-basket. “I have to do everything.” He banged the screen door as he went out.

  Dinah turned around and said, “Honest, April, I’m sort of scared about this.”

  “Why?” April said, almost too casually.

  “Well, my gosh,” Dinah said. “We’ve been hiding him here. And suppose he did murder Mrs. Sanford. And suppose he did murder that other guy last night.”

  “He didn’t,” Archie’s voice said. He came in and banged the empty wastebasket down on the floor. “On account, of you told him he should stay in the cave while the party was going on. Only some of the mob stayed up by the cave, in case any p’licemen were around.” He stuck a finger in the maple-sugar jar and licked it off. “He couldn’t of got out of there last night on account of the Mob.” He stuck in another finger. “I didn’t tell ’em it was account of p’licemen, either.”

  “Keep out of that jar,” Dinah said. “And how do you know for sure he didn’t slip by them?”

  “The two best guys in the Mob?” Archie said indignantly. “Wormly and Flashlight? Are you loony?”

  “She’s only a little loony,” April said. “Don’t mind her. The thing is, what do we do now? Go downtown and buy a Mother’s Day present, wash the dishes, carry out the laundry, or go look over the stuff we got last night?”

  Dinah hardly seemed to hear. She frowned, and said, “Do you suppose that gangster really was killed in the Sanford house?”

  She and April looked at each other for a long moment. Then they walked to the window and gazed across the wide expanse of lawn. Everything was peaceful and serene at the Sanford villa. Just one policeman on guard, sitting on the back porch, a magazine on his lap.

  “We really ought to read that stuff,” April said, “after all we went through to get it.”

  Dinah shook her head. “This has to come first. Because, right now, I don’t think we’ll have any trouble.” She turned to Archie, who was petting Jenkins. “There’s a cop on the back porch of the Sanford house. Can you keep him so busy talking that we can climb up the trellis without being noticed?”

  Archie gave Jenkins a final pat, shoved him aside, and went to the window. “Is that the only cop around?”

  “As far as we know,” Dinah said.

  “And you wanna get in that house?”

  “That’s the general idea,” April said.

  Archie was silent for a moment. “Look,” he said, “do I hafta wipe and put away the breakfast dishes?”

  “You do not,” April said quickly.

  “Okuk,” Archie said. “An’ you might as well go in the back door, because that there cop ain’t gonna be there.” He paused in the doorway and added, “But ’member, I ain’t gonna wipe no breakfast dishes.” He vanished around the corner of the back porch.

  “Hope for the best,” April murmured. The two girls went out and crept up to the very edge of the arbor hedge, as close as they dared to get to the back of the Sanford villa.

  There was a shrill, sudden scream. The cop on the back porch dropped his magazine, jumped up, and ran outside. A small figure ran fast across the lawn. The cop intercepted him with an outflung arm. There was a moment’s dialogue, which April and Dinah caught only in pantomime. Then the cop began to run down through the Sanford garden, and over the Sanford lawn, in the direction of the shrubbery that hedged the house. Archie, pointing and yelping, led the way.

  April and Dinah ran quickly along the edge of the kitchen garden and up the back steps. The back porch was deserted. A copy of Baffling Detective Mysteries lay on the floor, face down, beside an overflowing ash tray.

  They went into the house. It was empty and still, almost too still. They crept into the living room, from which the staircase ran up to the floor above. Seen now, in daylight, it was a pleasant, sunny, almost friendly room. Expensive English chintz, fine furniture, beautiful rugs, a well-framed aquatint over the sofa, an oil painting—evidently a family portrait—over the fireplace. Nothing about the room now to indicate it had witnessed one murder and possibly two.

  April shivered. She took another step into the room and the oil portrait winked at her. She said, “Dinah!”

  “Sssssh,” Dinah whispered. “What’s the matter with you?”

  “Nothing,” April said. “Nothing at all. I just thought I saw Ashabatabul skipping rope.”

  Any other time, Dinah would have laughed. Ashabatabul was a family tradition. This time, she said, almost angrily, “Don’t-jabber-so-talky-much-not.”

  April took another step into the room. She glanced at her forearms, and reflected that it would be possible to grate carrots on the goose bumps. One more step. The portrait winked at her again.

  “If you’ve got the hiccups,” Dinah whispered, “go get a drink of water.” She paused at the foot of the stairs, caught April’s hand, and said, “There’s something wrong here.”

  “Wrong,” April said, shivering, “that’s right.” She looked in the direction Dinah’s eyes were following, and stiffened. “There is something wrong. That’s where we saw him fall—where we thought we saw him fall.”

  “Unless we dreamed it,” Dinah said. “There’s nothing there to show that—some guy—was—” She caught her breath. “Look, he could have been killed somewhere else, and dumped in the swimming pool. Maybe he didn’t have anything to do with this case at all.”

  “Except,” April said, “that that scatter rug wasn’t at the foot of the stairs where it is now. It was in front of the blue ‘ sofa.”

  Dinah was silent for a moment. “That’s right,” she said slowly. “Then somebody moved it. Why?”

  “Same reason we move scatter rugs in our house,” April said coldly. “If something gets spilled on the carpet, we move a little rug or something to cover it up. We did over-hear a murder last night. If you want to lift up that rose scatter rug—”

  “Never mind,” Dinah said hastily. She looked a little greenish. �
��That’s all we wanted to find out. Let’s get out of here.”

  “Just a minute,” April said. “Take a look at the picture of Uncle Herbert or whoever he was, over the fireplace.”

  Dinah protested, but looked. Uncle Herbert was a cross, bearded man, with a politician haircut and a frock coat. There was something strange about his face.

  “Funny,” Dinah said. “He’s got one blue eye, and one yellow eye. You wouldn’t think a painter—” April pulled her a few feet toward the sunlight. Dinah gasped. “April! The picture! It winked at me!”

  “You’re darned right,” April said grimly. “It winked at me, too. The way the light fell on it, I guess.”

  Dinah said tremulously, “April—gosh—”

  “There were two shots,” April said, “but only one murder.” She glanced up at Uncle Herbert; he looked, for a moment, almost amiable. “Only one bullet was found.” She drew a long breath and smiled up at Uncle Herbert. “And,” she finished, “we’ve found the other one!”

  Chapter Twelve

  “Look,” April said excitedly, “Look, Dinah. whoever shot Uncle Herbert in the eye must have stood over there. It’s the only way—”

  Dinah looked at the portrait. “It was a darned good shot,” she said.

  April snorted. “It was a darned poor shot, if you ask me. Look at that portrait of poor old Uncle Herbert. Would you want to shoot at it?” Dinah muffled a giggle and shook her head. “Well,” April said, “whoever fired that shot was aiming at something—somebody—else. And probably never had a gun in his—or her—hands before.”

  “Wait a minute,” Dinah said. She glanced at the chalk-drawn oval on the floor and closed her eyes.

  “What’s the matter?” April demanded anxiously. “Dinah, don’t you feel well?”

  “Shush-u-tut u-pup,” Dinah snapped. “I’m thinking.” She opened her eyes. “In that book of Mother’s. You know. Where the guy figures out who did the murder because he knows so darn much about geometry or something, and he works out the line of fire—”

  “Too bad you flunked second-grade arithmetic,” April said. “Or maybe you could find the murderer of Mrs. Sanford with an adding machine!”

 

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