Home Sweet Homicide

by Craig Rice

  The bullet was reasonably clean by the time it was handed to Sergeant O’Hare. “Betcha he can’t tell what kind of a gun it came out of,” Slukey said skeptically.

  “Double-triple betcha he can too,” Archie said. “He’s a very smart detecative.” He looked appealingly at Sergeant O’Hare. “You can too tell what kind of a gun that there bullet came out of, can’tcha?”

  Sergeant O’Hare caught the appealing look. He glanced at the bullet, held between his thumb and forefinger, and said, “This bullet was fired from a .32-caliber revolver.”

  “See?” Archie said triumphantly. “What’d I tell you?”

  “I betcha he’s just guessing,” Slukey said.

  “I betcha he is not neither guessing,” Archie said. “He knows.”

  “How?” Flashlight demanded. “How does he know?”

  Sergeant O’Hare looked at Flashlight. He said, “If you had a ruler here, I’d show you how I know. You’ll just have to take my word for it. Thirty-two caliber means the bullet is thirty-two one-hundredths of an inch in diameter. When you’ve seen as many bullets as I have, you can tell without measuring them. This came out of a thirty-two.”

  “Golly!” Slukey said admiringly. “I betcha you’ve seen a lot of bullets in your life!”

  “Millions,” Sergeant O’Hare said casually. “Sometime I’ll have to tell you about the mad magician who was shot ninety-four times, and the ninety-fourth bullet was the one that killed him. Now, there was a study in ballistics—”

  “Tell it now,” Archie begged.

  “Well,” O’Hare said. “It happened this way.”

  They listened to him, breathless and wide-eyed. The story sounded suspiciously like one that had been in a last month’s comic book, but they managed to gasp, ask questions, and applaud at the right places.

  “And there you are,” the sergeant finished. “Ninety-four bullets, and every one of them could be traced to the gun that fired it. Easy, of course,” he added, “if you know how.” He beamed at the three small boys and wondered if they’d go for the werewolf story. No, anything after his latest invention of the mad magician would be anticlimax. He looked thoughtfully at the bullet he’d been bouncing in his hand. “By the way, where did you get this?”

  Archie nudged Flashlight. Flashlight said, “Oh, if you go down by the pistol range at the club you can find lots of ’em.” Archie nudged him again, and he said, “Gimme it back, please. It’s the only one I got.”

  Sergeant O’Hare handed it back. “I’ll never forget the time,” he began reminiscently, “when an enraged tiger escaped from a circus that happened to be in town.”

  Archie said hastily, “Hey, you know what? You know what? I betcha you know more about guns ’n’ bullets than anybody else in the whole world.”

  “Oh, no,” the sergeant said modestly.

  “Well,” Archie said stoutly, “a’ most. F’rinstance. Which is the biggest bullet and which is the littlest, and which is the dangerousest and which is the harmlessest?”

  The sergeant drew a long breath and said, “It’s like this.” He launched into a fifteen-minute lecture on ballistics, beginning with the science of projectiles, passing lightly over wounds of entrance, going deeply into identification of bullets, and ending with a story about the murder of a Brooklyn policeman which was solved simply and easily by someone with a knowledge of the subject.

  “He’s a very smart fella,” Flashlight said to Archie.

  Archie said, “You betcha my life.”

  “Gee,” Slukey said, “he knows ever-a-thing!”

  “A policeman has to,” Sergeant O’Hare said modestly. “You never know when you’ll need a piece of information. Just for an example. There was a wild man, carrying a lot of poisoned arrows he’d brought from Borneo—”

  “Hey,” Archie said. “Hey, Mr. Sergeant O’Hare.” He’d heard about the poisoned arrows before, and he suspected that Slukey and Flashlight were getting bored. A person could depend on those two guys just so far, and that was all. “Hey, tell me sumpin’, hey? Hey, tell me—”

  “Yes?” Sergeant O’Hare said, breaking off reluctantly. The poisoned-arrow story was one of his favorites.

  “Well,” Archie said, “what kind of a gun did what kind of a bullet come out of that killed the lady in that there house?” He jerked his head toward the Sanford house and looked hopefully at Sergeant O’Hare.

  “Her?” the Sergeant said. “She was shot with a forty-five. A service revolver. That’s the kind of a gun that means business.”

  “Golly!” Archie said. “Is that the kind of a gun you have?” He waited for the Sergeant’s nod and said, “Can we see it again?”

  “Oh, sure,” the sergeant said indulgently. He took out the gun and rested it on the flat of his hand.

  “That there is a real gun,” Archie said, almost reverently. “What I’d say, a real gun. I betcha, now, you couldn’t shoot no dinky little bullet like that one Flashlight’s got out a real gun like this, now could’ya?”

  “Of course not,” Sergeant O’Hare said. He slipped the gun back into his holster. “I don’t think you got the idea about the caliber of guns and bullets. Now, it’s like this.”

  He went back into his lecture on ballistics, and the three small boys listened respectfully. He’d gotten as far as “the spiral in the barrel of a gun has a certain pitch which is measurable” when Slukey looked up and said, “Hey—”

  There was a long, shrill whistle from somewhere down the road. It had been sounding, by arrangement, at fifteen-minute intervals since the three boys had arrived on the Sanford lawn, but, also by arrangement, no one had noticed it before.

  “That’s Deadpan whistling.” Slukey said apologetically. “It means I gotta go now. Ma wants me. G’by, Mr. Sergeant.” He vanished into the bushes.

  “Good-by,” the sergeant called cordially after him. He cleared his throat and resumed. “By a careful study of the bullet, the number of grooves in the barrel—”

  “Hey,” Flashlight said. “If Slukey’s ma had Deadpan whistle for him, that means I gotta get home quick for supper. G’by, you.” He waved, and raced down the path.

  Sergeant O’Hare waved back at him and went on.

  “So from a knowledge of the caliber of a bullet and the number and direction of the grooves it shows the—”

  “’Scuse me,” Archie said. “But Dinah’s calling. I better go set the table now.”

  “Go right ahead,” the sergeant said. “You’re a good boy, to help your sisters. And any time you want to know anything about guns—”

  “I’ll sure know who to ask,” Archie said. “You’re wonnerful! And I betcha I really am a p’liceman when I grow up.” He added, “See y’later—pal.” He disappeared through the arbor.

  Sergeant O’Hare sighed and gazed after him. He wished he’d had time to tell the story of the nine bank robbers. True, that little Carstairs boy had heard it once, but he could always put in a few variations and improvements. An X-ray machine, for example, that could see into a bank vault.

  “Since our guns were trained on him, he had to turn on the machine. We could see through the walls as though they were glass,” he improvised.

  Bill Smith’s voice, very weary and almost cross, came from behind him. “What are you muttering in your beard about? And who were you talking to?”

  Sergeant O’Hare nearly went on about the X-ray machine, and caught himself just in time. “I was questioning some children,” he said stiffly, “who might possibly have had some helpful evidence. Sometimes they can be very observant. I’ve raised nine kids of my own, and I know—”

  “I’m getting pretty darn sick and tired of your nine kids,” Bill Smith said. “Now, look. The fingerprint man says there’s nothing on either the oil painting or the knife.”

  Down beyond the bushes, Archie paid off to Slukey and Flashlight. Five cents apiece, two cokes, and a copy of New Comics. “If I’d hadda listen to one more o’ them stories,” Flashlight grumbled, “This�
��da cost ten cents. An’ you owe me a stick o’ gum for the one I stuck on the bullet.”

  “That gum had been chewed a’ready,” Archie said indignantly.

  Flashlight said, “Maybe it had, but it was good yet and I was saving it.” He glowered at Archie and said, “Or, you don’t get back the bullet back.”

  “You gimmie back that bullet back,” Archie said hotly, “or—” He paused. This was no time for trouble. He fished a slightly battered stick of gum from his pocket and handed it to Flashlight.

  Flashlight inspected the gum, said reluctantly, “It’ll do, I guess,” and handed Archie the bullet.

  There was a brief argument over whether to promise to bring back the coke bottles or to pay Archie the two cents apiece. It was settled by the cokes being drunk right then and there, on the spot, and the bottles being delivered back to Archie.

  There was another argument going on as Flashlight and Slukey went down the steps to the sidewalk. Slukey was saying, “Maybe it was you as stuck that gum on that bullet, but it was me found it under the stool at Luke’s, and b’sides, you’d chewed it twice as long as I had, and so—”

  Archie wasn’t interested. He walked slowly around to the back of the house, figuring his expenses. “Two cokes, a stick of gum—”

  Dinah was washing carrots. April was making butterscotch pudding. Both of them looked up and stopped work when he came in the back door.

  “Well?” Dinah said anxiously.

  “Five cents apiece,” Archie said, “two cokes, that’s ten cents, the New Comics is ten cents, and a stick of gum—altogether it’s thirty-one cents.”

  April said, “Archie, for Pete’s sake—”

  “Making a total,” Archie said, “of three dollars and sixteen cents which you owe me.”

  “You’ll get it,” Dinah said. “Look, about the bullet.”

  “Oh, sure,” Archie said in a lordly manner. “About the bullet.” He took it from his pocket and laid it on the kitchen table. “Seems like we got it a little dirty.”

  “Archie!” April said. “Did you—?”

  “Oh, sure, sure, sure,” Archie said maddeningly. He looked very casual and unconcerned. “It’s a thirty-two-caliber bullet which means it hadda be fired from a thirty-two caliber gun. And the gun which killed Mrs. Sanford was a forty-five service revolver. And in case you’re interested”— he drew a long breath—“the science of ballistics is—”

  “We’re only interested in the fact that this bullet and the bullet that killed Mrs. Sanford didn’t come from the same gun,” April said coldly.

  “And we practically knew that already anyway,” Dinah said loftily.

  “But,” Archie said desperately, “I went to work an’ found out the whole thing, all from Mr. Sergeant O’Hare. All about the bullets and stuff. Heck, don’t you even care?”

  Dinah took one quick look at his crestfallen face and said, “April was teasing you. We could hardly wait for you to get back.”

  “Dinah was teasing you,” April said hastily. “Did you honestly ask Sergeant O’Hare and what’d he tell you?”

  “Plenty,” Archie said. “Now, this here bullet—” He went onto a long and detailed explanation, omitting only the stories of the mad magician, the enraged tiger, and the murdered Brooklyn policeman. “So,” he finished, “scientifically speaking, either the murderer had two guns, two diff’rent kind of guns, or else there was two diff’rent murderers, each with his own gun.”

  “Oh, Archie, you’re wonderful,” April said. She kissed him on the nose.

  “Quit it,” Archie growled. “And don’t forget now. Three dollars and sixteen cents.”

  “Don’t worry,” April said. “You won’t let us forget.” She began scraping the butterscotch pudding into dessert glasses. “There must have been two of them. We figured that out before. So. Were they both shooting at her, or were they shooting at each other or what?” She shoved the glasses into a neat row on the kitchen table and began licking out the saucepan. Suddenly she put it down and said, “But there’s three guns mixed up in this!”

  Archie grabbed the saucepan quick and reached for a spoon.

  Dinah dropped a carrot. “Three?”

  “The gun that shot Mrs. Sanford. A—forty-five. The gun that shot the picture. A thirty-two. And the Cherington’s gun. He said—‘A twenty-two. A lady’s toy.’ ” Suddenly she noticed Archie. “Give me back that saucepan. I made the pudding tonight and it’s my turn—” She looked into the pan and said, “Oh, darn you, Archie Carstairs!”

  “Never mind,” Archie said consolingly, licking the last drop of butterscotch off his spoon. “Now you won’t have to wash the pan.”

  Dinah put the carrots on to cook. She turned away from the stove and said, “You know—I wonder what kind of a gun shot that man—that Frankie Riley.”

  April forgot the saucepan. She said, “I wonder too. If it was the same one—”

  “Leave it to me,” Archie said confidently. “Betcha nine million dollars I can find out tomorrow.”

  “Betcha the same amount you can’t,” April said.

  Archie looked at her speculatively. “What’ll you honestly and genuinely bet?”

  “Twenty-five cents,” April said promptly.

  “Uh-uh,” Archie said. “Oh, no. On account of if I win the bet you’ll borrow the money from me to pay it. I ain’t gonna bet money with you any more.”

  April sighed. “O-kuk-a-yum. You name it.”

  “If—” Archie paused, thinking. “If I find out tomorrow what kind of a gun shot that Mr. Frankie Riley, I don’t hafta carry down the garbage can for a whole week.”

  “Make it four days,” April said.

  “Oh, no. A whole week.”

  “Well—all right. It’s a deal.”

  “Now, if you children are all through playing,” Dinah said severely, “listen to me.”

  “Yes, Master,” April said, salaaming.

  “We obey,” Archie said very solemnly.

  “We know now about the kind of a hold Mrs. Sanford had on poor Mr. Sanford,” Dinah said, ignoring their antics. “We know why he ran away after the murder, and why he was hanging around trying to break in the house. Because we got what he was trying to break in after.”

  “Maybe,” April said, “we’d better run out and tell him we got it, and that we’ll keep it in a safe place until the real murderer is found and then give it back to him or burn it up. That ought to relieve his mind a little.”

  Dinah looked superior. “And maybe we ought to ask him what he knows about the Bette LeMoe kidnaping. Maybe he can tell us something that’ll give us an important clue.”

  “Brain!” April said admiringly.

  “What if he won’t talk?” Archie demanded.

  “We’ll make him talk,” Dinah said. “We’ve got a hold over him, now.”

  “What if he tells lies?” Archie said insistently.

  “Archie,” Dinah said, “you make too much noise. Shushu-tut u-pup, if you want to come along with us.”

  They took one careful look from the back porch to make sure no one was watching. Then they scooted up to the playhouse.

  Dinah stopped dead as they rounded the bushes and said, “Gosh!”

  The playhouse was empty. The blankets were neatly folded up on top of the bunk. The dishes were in an orderly pile on the table, the magazines tidily arranged beside them. The morning newspaper lay on top of the blankets, but the page-one picture of Frankie Riley and the accompanying story had been carefully torn out. And there was no sign of Wallie Sanford, not anywhere.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Archie was pounding at their door almost at daylight.

  “Hey, wake up,” he called softly. “Hey, wake up. It’s Mother’s Day.”

  April called drowsily, “Come on in.”

  The door opened quietly and Archie, already dressed and washed, tiptoed in.

  Dinah sat up, yawned, rubbed her eyes, and said, “If he did turn himself in to the police, it’ll be in
the newspaper. If he didn’t—”

  April yawned and said, “I’ve got a theory. I was thinking about it just before I went to sleep last night. Suppose that Bette LeMoe had a boy friend.”

  “She did have,” Dinah said. “Wallie Sanford. William Sanderson, he was then.” She reached for her bathrobe.

  “That isn’t what I mean at all,” April told her. “I mean a real boy friend. Somebody who was crazy about her. Like Pete is about you.”

  “Y’h, y’h, y’h,” Archie scoffed. “Then why didn’t Pete come over last night?”

  “Because he had to take his grandmother to the movies,” Dinah said with icy dignity. “Go on, April.”

  “Well,” April said half dreamily, “this guy was crazy about her. Prob’bly wanted to marry her. Then she was kidnapped and murdered. The police never find who did it. But this guy devotes his life to finding them and having his revenge.”

  “You got that out of one of Mother’s books,” Dinah said. “The Clark Cameron one where the guy spends twenty-five years trying to find who murdered his pal, and then—”

  “Sure I did,” April said. “But it fits. This guy finally locates Mrs. Sanford, and gets the evidence to prove she was mixed up in it. So he kills her. Then Frankie Riley turned up. Same guy kills him. And,” she added gravely, “he probably knows about the William Sanderson-Wallie Sanford deal. So—”

  Dinah stared at her. “I certainly hope he turned himself in to the police. He’ll be safe. Archie, run down and get the paper.”

  “Oh, boney,” Archie grumbled. “I hafta do everything. And I’m hungry.”

  “Git!” Dinah said. “And I’ll make waffles for breakfast.”

  “Yipes!” Archie said. He opened the door and dived for the stairs.

  “You find out if Mother’s coming down to breakfast or if she wants it brought up,” Dinah directed, washing her face. “And I’ll start the waffle batter.”

  Five minutes later they were down in the kitchen. Mother had announced her intention of coming down to breakfast and had promised to wear her blue house coat. Dinah started beating eggs and April plugged in the waffle iron. Archie came puffing up the steps with the Sunday paper.