by Craig Rice
JOE
“That guy shows good sense,” April said approvingly, putting the letter down. “Too bad he’s been doing Flora Sanford’s dirty work for her.”
“He didn’t know that he was,” Dinah said. “He thought he was just being friendly. She probably went out with him a few times once, and whenever she wanted to find out something she’d write him a perfectly innocent letter. Like, f’instance, ‘I met a charming lady named Marian Carstairs and I wonder if she could be the Marian Ward who—”
April nodded sagely. “And the way she pried the dope about poor Mr. Desgranges out of him.” She drew a long breath. “Maybe that story in Real Crime Cases told about Marian Ward and her getting fired and stuff, and that’s why Mother didn’t want me to read it.”
“Seems like,” Dinah said. Her eyes narrowed. “Mrs. Sanford’s murder has something to do with the Bette LeMoe business. She’s saved all this dope about it. She married Wallie Sanford, who used to be William Sanderson. And Frankie Riley was held for questioning after the kidnaping, and he was murdered in her house last night. And she was very anxious to find out if Mother was the reporter who wrote about the case.”
“Well?” April said.
“Well,” Dinah said. “Now, if Mother finds Mrs. Sanford’s murderer—I mean, if we do—and maybe solves the LeMoe business at the same time, it’ll really be swell for her. Think of the publicity.”
“Miss Carstairs,” April said admiringly, “you really are a brain!”
“Thank you, Miss Carstairs,” Dinah said. “Let’s get on with this stuff. There may be some more clues.”
There was one letter, on blue dime-store paper, unsigned.
Frankie gets out next Tuesday, so watch yourself. He may go to LeMoe’s father. Maybe you’d better go on a long trip. Good luck.
“That proves she was mixed up in the kidnaping,” Dinah said.
“As if we needed any proof,” April sniffed. “Look. She got this Frankie person to do it. Maybe others, too. But he didn’t get any of the money, or else he wouldn’t have been committing a robbery a year later, and going to jail.”
“Fifteen thousand dollars wouldn’t go very far, split up among a bunch of people,” Dinah pointed out.
April pointed to the letter. “There must be some reason why he was sore at her.”
There was a desperate note from the nurse-companion of a wealthy woman, begging Mrs. Sanford not to reveal the fact that she’d gotten the job with forged references, and promising to send “whatever I can spare.” There were letters from a worried youth who didn’t want his folks back east to know he was working as a bartender. There was an elderly bank clerk who’d once been convicted of forgery in another city, and under another name. And at the very bottom of the pile there was a page torn from a fan magazine—a picture and biography of the new star, Polly Walker—and a couple of letters attached to it.
The biography told about the orphan girl who’d grown up in exclusive boarding schools and summer camps, only to brave Broadway at eighteen, talk her way into a very minor role, and then go on to stardom.
The first of the letters was written on the engraved paper of an investment trust corporation.
MY DEAR MRS. SANFORD:
You are correct that I was Polly Walker’s guardian until she reached the age of twenty-one, a year ago. I am glad you wrote to me regarding these rumors, and I trust you will do what you can to squelch them, since you are such a good friend of Polly’s….
“But she wasn’t a friend of Polly Walker,” Dinah exclaimed. “She was just the opposite. She was—”
“Quiet,” April said. “I’m reading.”
… The rumor does, unfortunately, have its basis in fact, but is wrong in details. Polly’s father was not convicted of the murder of Polly’s mother. Polly’s mother died of pneumonia when Polly was less than a year old, and at that time her father placed her in my charge, not wishing her to grow up with the stigma of being Ben Schwartz’s daughter. You will remember him as the gambling and rum-running czar, now serving a life term in Leavenworth. At the time of his conviction he placed what money he had left in my hands, for Polly’s education and training.
I do indeed hope that you will do everything possible not only to quell the rumors, but to make sure that the truth will be kept secret. Not only would it be fatal to her career, but it would be a terrible blow to her, after all these years …
There were two notes, on thin, pale-gray paper.
DEAR MRS. SANFORD:
I will be delighted to call on you at two o’clock, Monday afternoon.
POLLY WALKER
The second:
DEAR MRS. SANFORD:
I have been able to raise the money and will bring it with me Wednesday.
POLLY WALKER
Dinah and April looked at each other. “Wednesday was the day of the murder,” Dinah said. “Polly Walker was out there two days before. Mrs. Sanford showed her this stuff and prob’bly offered to sell it to her. And then—Wednesday—”
“But when Polly Walker got there,” April reminded her, “Mrs. Sanford was already murdered.”
Dinah sighed and began stuffing the papers back in the big Manila envelope. “It all gets sort of mixed up,” she complained. “And there’s one awful funny thing. Remember that man we read about in the newspapers?”
“Frankie Riley?” April said.
Dinah shook her head. “The other one. The one who admitted Mrs. Sanford had been blackmailing him, like that reliable witness said, only he had an alibi. Rupert van Deusen. Why isn’t there anything about him in this collection?”
“Listen, Dinah,” April said. She drew a long breath, and began, slowly, “I want to tell you something—”
Before she could continue, there was a loud pounding at the front door downstairs. Dinah jumped up, stuffed the envelope back in the laundry bag, and headed for the stairs.
“That’ll wake Mother,” she said.
“Archie’s downstairs,” April said, close at Dinah’s heels.
They heard the front door open. Archie met them at the foot of the stairs. “The cops are here,” he reported.
Police Lieutenant Bill Smith and Sergeant O’Hare stood in the doorway. Both of them looked breathless and worried, and the sergeant was a trifle pale. “Where’s your mother?”
“She’s sleeping,” Dinah said. “She worked all night and went to sleep right after breakfast.”
Bill Smith looked bewildered, and then said, “Oh!”
“Listen, little ladies,” O’Hare said, “have you been home all morning?”
Both girls nodded solemnly, and Archie chimed in, “We ain’t been away one minute.”
“Have you—” Bill Smith paused, frowned. “We think there may have been someone prowling around the neighborhood. Someone who got into the Sanford house. Have you heard anyone—seen anyone?”
Dinah and April stared at each other and at the cops.
“Not a soul,” April said. “We haven’t seen anybody or heard anybody, except you.”
Bill Smith mopped his brow. “Well, thanks just the same. We were just checking up.”
As they turned to go, O’Hare muttered, “I tell you, I’m positive. The whole thing’s the work of a maniac. That’s the only way I can figure it out.”
April looked at Dinah and winked. Dinah hastily smothered a giggle. Archie bounced up and down and demanded, “What’sit? What’sit?”
“Oh, nothing,” April said with dignity. “Nothing but Uncle Herbert.”
Chapter Fourteen
“Hey, whad’ja get for a mother’s day present, hey?” Archie began to chant, meeting them at the door. “Hey, whad’ja get for a Mother’s Day present, hey? Hey—”
“You’re stuck in a groove,” April said.
“Hey,” Archie said. “Whad’ja get for a Mother’s Day present?”
“Archie,” Dinah said. “You make too much noise. Were there any phone calls?”
“Uh-uh,” Archie said. “He
y, whad’ja—”
“Listen,” Dinah said. “Didn’t Pete call?”
“Pete? Uh-uh,” Archie said. “Hey—”
Dinah looked stricken. She said, “But this is Saturday. He always calls me up Saturday.”
“Hey—” Archie began.
“Weren’t there any calls at all?” April said. “Or anything? How about the cops, and everything?”
“No phone calls,” Archie said cheerfully. “No cops. No murders. No houses burned down. No nothing. Hey, whad’ja get for a Mother’s Day present, hey?”
“All right, Dopey Joe,” April said wearily, “we got her a book.”
Archie stared. “A book! Heck! She writes books!”
“She reads them, too,” April said.
“And this is a very special book,” Dinah added. “We had to go all over town to find it.”
“Le’ me see,” Archie demanded.
Dinah took an ornately wrapped package out of a paper bag. “You can’t look inside. The lady at Crenshaw’s wrapped it up for us special. And we got a very elegant card to go with it.”
“Oh, boney,” Archie said. “I hafta stay home and listen to the telephone, and you go downtown and pick out some corny book. A’right. I got a very special Mother’s Day present, and I ain’t gonna show it to nobody until tomorrow, including you.”
“That’s wonderful,” April said. “What is it?”
“Ain’t gonna tell.”
“It’s a bunch of flowers,” Dinah guessed.
“It is not neither.”
“Something you made,” April said. “Maybe a birdhouse, or a desk calendar.”
“It is not,” Archie said, looking happy.
“G’wan,” April said. “You’re making the whole thing up.”
“Oh, I am, huh?” Archie said indignantly. “You c’mon with me and I’ll show you—” He paused just in time. “Oh, no, you don’t. You don’t fool me into making me show you my Mother’s Day present ahead of time.”
“All right,” Dinah said coldly. “We’re not even curious. But if it’s another turtle, Henderson may not like it.”
“And if it’s another jar of tadpoles,” April said, “I’m going to leave home.”
“And remember what happened to the white mice you gave Mother for a Valentine,” Dinah added, “when Jenkins saw them.”
“Oh, foo,” Archie said. He sniffed, and said, “This is not a turtle, and it is not tadpoles, and it is not white mice, and what it is nobody knows but me, and I ain’t gonna tell.”
He looked small, sweaty, dirty, and definitely on the defensive. Dinah reached out a hand and completed the job of mussing up his hair. “Whatever it is,” she said affectionately, “Mother’s going to love it.”
“Darned right,” April said with equal warmth, kissing him on his nose.
“Hey, cut it out,” Archie said, pretending unsuccessfully to be furious.
Dinah hid the ornately wrapped package under a cushion of the sofa. Then she announced, “I’m hungry. And we got stuff to talk about.”
There was a duet of “Me too” after the word “hungry” There was a rush for the kitchen. Dinah got out bread and peanut butter, Archie brought milk and a jar of jam from the icebox, and April dug behind the flour bin for a bag of potato chips she’d been keeping for emergencies. There was cream cheese, and some leftover ham, and three bananas, and a can of olives, and, miraculously, a fat wedge of cake.
“This is just a snack, remember,” Dinah said, spreading peanut butter, cream cheese, and jam on a slice of bread. “We’re going to have dinner pretty soon. And, April, cut that cake in three equal parts.”
“I get the biggest piece,” Archie announced, peeling a banana and reaching for a handful of olives. “Because I’m the littlest, and I gotta grow.”
“Archie,” April said severely, licking frosting off her fingers, “you are a swine.”
“I am not no swine,” Archie said. He spread peanut butter on his bread, dotted it with cream cheese and jam, added a piece of ham, and finally topped it with a wedge of banana. “Because a swine is two or more pigs, and I’m only one pig.” He added an olive to his masterpiece by way of garnish, and bit off a good quarter of it.
“A swine can be one pig,” April said. “And take your spoon out of the jam jar.”
Archie licked off the spoon and said, “Cannot.”
“Can too,” April said.
“My gosh,” Dinah said wearily, “look it up in the dictionary.”
Archie went for the dictionary while April went to the icebox for more milk and discovered that two cokes had been overlooked among the milk bottles. She was dividing the cokes into three equal portions when Archie returned, only slightly crestfallen, to admit that April had been right and to dispute the pouring of the cokes.
“I’m only a small swine,” he stated. “Hey, you’re pouring more in Dinah’s glass than you are in my glass.”
Dinah said, “For Pete’s sake.” She scooped a remnant of frosting off the cake plate and stuffed it into Archie’s mouth.
“Shush-u-tut u-pup.”
Five minutes later there wasn’t so much as a crumb of food on the kitchen table, and Archie was mousing around in the vegetable bin for apples. Dinah carried the dishes over to the sink and began rinsing out the milk bottle. “April,” she said slowly, “there’s something we’ve got to do. You’ve got to do.”
“I will not carry out the tin cans,” April said. “That’s Archie’s job.”
“Our whole family future is at stake,” Dinah said to the kitchen window, “and April worries about the tin cans. Listen.” She put down the dishcloth with a sudden slap. “You’ve got to go up to Mrs. Cherington’s and ask her for some roses for a Mother’s Day bouquet.”
April tossed her dishtowel onto the kitchen table. “And while I’m there,” she grumbled, “I suppose I’d better ask Mr. Cherington if he murdered Mrs. Sanford because she knew he’d stolen fifteen thousand dollars and been kicked out of the army.”
“Well, my gosh,” Dinah said, picking up the dishcloth again. “You don’t have to be tactless about it.”
“I’m the tactless type,” April said, “but I’ll do the best I can. And if Mr. Cherington looks pale and haggard, or if he looks very calm and dignified, what do I do, whistle for a squad car?”
Dinah wheeled around. “You’re scared.”
“I am not scared,” April said. Her cheeks turned pink. “Was I scared when I went up to the Cheringtons’ and asked her to make a cake for the PTA Garden Party?”
“That was before you knew Mr. Cherington might have murdered Mrs. Sanford,” Dinah said. She wiped her hands on the dishtowel. “Maybe I’d better go.”
“Never mind,” April said hastily. “I’ll come back with roses and evidence. Shall I take along the bullet we found, and see if it fits in Mr. Cherington’s gun, if he has one?”
Dinah dropped the dishtowel, said, “April!” caught her breath, and picked up the dishtowel again. “I forgot it—”
“It could be considered a clue,” April said. “A bullet fired at the scene of a crime often is. If we could find out what kind of gun it was fired from, and who owned that kind of gun—”
“Betcha I can find out,” Archie said shrilly. “Betcha and double betcha.”
“Triple-triple betcha you can’t,” April said.
“Gimme the bullet,” Archie said. “I’ll show you.”
“How will you?” Dinah demanded.
Archie looked insulted and said, “Heck. I’ll just ask a p’liceman. They know all about bullets.”
“My brother!” Dinah said bitterly. “What a brain!”
“Wait a minute,” April said. “Maybe he’s got something there.” She looked sternly at Archie. “Do you think you could get away with it?”
“What’dya suppose I’d do?” Archie said, looking even more insulted. “Go tell a p’liceman this here is the bullet you stole outa the picture in Mrs. Sanford’s house?”
�
��Maybe,” April said speculatively, “he could get away with it. It’s taking a chance, but—”
“Not with me it ain’t taking no chance,” Archie said.
April and Dinah looked at each other over his head. “Well,” Dinah said at last, “he’ll be sticking his neck out, not us. Just to be on the safe side, though, maybe I’d better dirty that bullet up a little.”
“I’ll do it,” Archie said. “Just leave everything to me. I know ’xactly what I’m gonna do.” He snatched the bullet out of April’s hand and said. “And don’t worry I’m gonna lose it, neither, because I ain’t.”
He grabbed a couple of soda crackers out of the box beside the cake bin and dived out the door. A second later he reappeared. “What’s more,” he declared, “I’m gonna take Slukey an’ Flashlight with me. I ain’t dumb.” He turned and vanished.
Dinah sighed. “Hope it works. If he gets in a jam—”
“He won’t,” April said confidently. “And if I’m going to promote a bunch of Mother’s Day flowers from the Cheringtons, I’d better get started.” She didn’t look particularly happy at the prospect. For a minute she lingered by the door. “What are you going to be doing?”
Dinah sniffed. “What do you suppose? You and Archie get the easy jobs. All I have to do is finish cleaning up the kitchen, hang out the dishtowels, and get dinner.” She looked searchingly at April. “Are you scared to go up there?”
“Don’t be insulting.” April said coldly. She marched out the kitchen door and across the back lawn.
You’re not scared, she told herself grimly. That funny feeling in your stomach comes from combining banana and dill pickle. The idea, suspecting that nice old Mr. Cherington of murder!
But he wasn’t old Mr. Cherington! He was middle-aged ex-Colonel Chandler, who’d stolen fifteen thousand dollars, gone to prison, and then changed his name. And Mrs. Sanford had known all about it. April shivered.
Across the wide Sanford lawn she could see Sergeant O’Hare seated on a garden bench, deep in conversation with three small boys who were hanging on his every word. Archie and Flashlight and Slukey. The sergeant seemed to be enjoying himself. April smiled to herself. Good ole Archie!
A narrow, weed-grown path, hidden from view by a thick mass of shrubbery, led up the hill from near the Sanford back gate to the tiny cottage where the Cheringtons lived. There was a longer and more formal way round, but the young Carstairs preferred the more adventurous path on their visits to the Cheringtons’.