by Craig Rice
“April,” Archie said in a small voice, “don’t!”
“Stop scaring your brother,” Dinah said. “And stop quoting from Mother’s first book. She says herself that it wasn’t a very good one.”
April sniffed indignantly. “Since you’re so smart, think this over. Mr. Sanford said he was the only man in love with Bette LeMoe.”
“I know it,” Dinah said. “That’s why I get confused.” She was silent for a minute. “Or maybe there was someone else in love with her, and he didn’t know about it.”
“If he was in love with her himself,” April said, “he would have known about it.”
There wasn’t any answer to that. The three young Carstairs sat in silent thought for a while. Suddenly Archie pitched his apple core neatly through the nearest hydrangea bush, and stood up. “Someone’s coming up the steps,” he announced.
Dinah automatically fluffed out her hair, in case it might be Pete. April just as automatically adjusted her hair bow, regardless of who it might be.
It was little Mr. Holbrook. He was puffing as he climbed the steps; he paused for breath once or twice. He had on a neat gray business suit and a carefully knotted dark-blue tie. His face was pale, and tired, and worried, but his white hair was carefully brushed. The black leather brief case, which seemed to go with him everywhere, was in his hand. April found herself wondering if he took it to bed with him at night. Suddenly she imagined a picture of Mr. Holbrook in an old-fashioned flannel nightshirt and carpet slippers, still holding the brief case, and she hastily smothered a giggle.
Mr. Holbrook climbed the last step, gasped, and said, still breathless, “Good morning, children. Is your mother at home?”
Dinah said, “She’s home, but I’m afraid—well, she’s busy.” Instinctively she looked up toward Mother’s windows, and Mr. Holbrook’s eyes followed hers. The typewriter was going like a riveting machine.
“Mother writes books,” April said. “And when she’s working, she just can’t be disturbed. You know how writers are.”
Mr. Holbrook took out a clean white handkerchief. “Yes, I know your mother is a writer. Very interesting. I have a nephew who occasionally contributes poems to the Madison State Journal. No money for them, of course.” He mopped his brow with the handkerchief. “I read one of your Mother’s books once. Published under the name of J. J. Lane. Enjoyed it very much. Contained a number of legal inaccuracies which I should have liked to discuss with her.” He folded the handkerchief neatly and put it into his pocket. He caught his breath again and looked up toward the window. “You’re sure—she can’t be disturbed?”
“I’m terribly sorry,” Dinah said. She looked at him and said impulsively. “It’s awfully hot, isn’t it? Won’t you come in and have a coke, or some ice tea, or something?”
“Thank you,” Mr. Holbrook said. “Thank you, yes. Yes, I will. As you say, it is hot. And these steps are—rather steep.”
They escorted him into the living room. He sank down in the most comfortable chair and looked as though he would like to take off his shoes. He put the brief case in his lap. “I would enjoy a glass of water.”
“Nonsense,” Dinah said. “I’m going to bring you some lemonade. Much better for you than water on a day like this.” She fled into the kitchen.
April tried not to stare at him, but she couldn’t help it. This was the man whose daughter did a dance attired in three peacock feathers and a string of beads, while the cash customers rose up and cheered, according to the letters the unfortunate Vivienne had written to Mrs. Sanford. It was hard to believe. But it was easy to understand why he’d been willing to handle Mrs. Sanford’s legal affairs for nothing, rather than have it known.
Dinah came back with the lemonade, in the biggest glass she could find. “I didn’t put any ice in it,” she said, “just very cold water. Ice isn’t good for you when you’ve just come out of the sun.”
“Thank you,” he said, “thank you. You’re very kind.” He took a sip of the lemonade and closed his eyes for a moment. Then, “You’re absolutely sure your mother is too busy to disturb?”
“I’m afraid so,” April said. “But—could we help you?”
“I thought—I wanted—it’s really very important,” Mr. Holbrook said. He looked a little frightened, and very unhappy. “You see—you live right next door. And once or twice I’ve seen that police lieutenant—that Bill Smith— coming up to your door. I thought—possibly he might have mentioned something—to your mother—”
Dinah gave April a signal that means, “You handle this.” April nodded.
“Oh, he came to see us,” April said earnestly. “Because we’re important witnesses. We heard the shots.”
“You—what? Oh, yes, yes, of course. But that isn’t exactly —h’m—I thought possibly—he might have talked about the case to—your mother.”
“She’s been very busy,” April said, “but he confides in us. We know all about the case.”
Lawyer Henry Holbrook looked at her searchingly, with anxious gray eyes. No one could distrust a face like April’s, with its wide, long-lashed eyes, and friendly, innocent smile. He cleared his throat again and said, “Tell me, little girl—”
April stiffened slightly. Little girl! The idea! But she gazed at him, and said, encouragingly, “Yes, Mr. Holbrook?”
“Do you happen to know if—in the course of their investigation—the police happened to find any of—Mrs. Sanford’s private papers?”
Dinah opened her mouth to speak, and shut it again. April said hastily, “Why?”
“Because—” He paused. “I was the late Mrs. Sanford’s attorney. Naturally, her papers ought to be placed in my hands. The police take a very unfortunate view of the matter. However—quite understandably—I would like to know if the police have succeeded in finding them.”
“Succeeded in finding them?” Dinah repeated, curiously. “What do you mean?”
Mr. Holbrook cleared his throat again and took a gulp of the lemonade. “Mrs. Sanford appears to have hidden them,” he said.
“Oh,” April said. She gazed at him and said very innocently, “Did you look everywhere?”
He nodded and said hoarsely, “Everywhere I could think of looking.” Suddenly he realized what he’d just admitted, and added hurriedly, “As a lawyer, you understand—my duty to my late client—” He finished off the lemonade, put down the glass, took out the neatly folded handkerchief, and wiped his face again.
Archie said, “Say, how did you get in?”
“There was—it just so happened—Friday evening, I believe—a fire down the street drew the police away from the house. I happened to be in the neighborhood at the time—” He paused again and said stiffly, “I had no intention of breaking the law. I considered that I was quite within my rights, as the late Mrs. Sanford’s attorney. The police have been uncooperative, most uncooperative.” He began folding up his handkerchief.
“And you didn’t find anything?” Dinah asked.
“Nothing,” he said. “Absolutely nothing.”
“Not even any murder victims lying around on the floor?” April asked.
He tucked the handkerchief into his pocket, and glared at her. “Little girl,” he said severely, “this is distinctly not a joking matter.”
April said nothing. She reflected that the murder of Frankie Riley, on that particular Friday night, hadn’t been any joke.
“My little sister has an unfortunate sense of humor,” Dinah said smoothly, and trying to sound very grown up. “But if it will make you feel any better, the police haven’t found Mrs. Sanford’s private papers.”
“Then—” He stared at her. “Are you sure?”
“Absolutely sure,” Dinah said.
“Honest,” April said. “We know”
Mr. Holbrook drew a long breath of relief. “Then they must still be in the house,” he said. “And in that case—” Suddenly he looked unhappy and worried again. “In that case, the police may find them any time.”
“If they’re still there,” Dinah said.
He stared at her. “What do you mean?”
April spoke up quick. “I have a theory,” she said. “Remember, our mother writes detective novels, and we have a certain amount of knowledge about the science of crime detection.” That speech, she thought, ought to impress Lawyer Holbrook, but good!
“Darned right we have!” Archie said.
April pinched him, and he shut up. “Our theory is that Mrs. Sanford might have had something among her private papers which would incriminate somebody, if you know what I mean. So that individual, whoever he or she is, may have snuck into the Sanford house and found those papers, and destroyed them. If that happened, that individual would have had to carry all the papers out, because with the police watching the house, naturally he couldn’t stop to sort them out. So then he’d have to burn all of them up, because he couldn’t keep the ones that weren’t any of his business, because if he did someone might find them, and that would incriminate him, do you see?”
“You’re a very bright little girl,” Mr. Holbrook said approvingly. He rose, walked to the door, and went through the business of taking out the handkerchief, mopping his brow, folding the handkerchief neatly, and putting it back into his pocket. “Thank you very much for the lemonade. It was very refreshing.”
“No trouble at all,” Dinah said politely.
They walked out to the porch with him. He paused there, brief case in hand, and looked speculatively at the Sanford villa. “If I could only be sure,” he said.
“Make another search,” April suggested.
“The police,” he said. “They’ve been most uncooperative. The house is being watched. I couldn’t—”
“There’s a trellis on the north side of the house,” April said. “It’s really very easy to climb. There’s a little roof, and then a window opening into the upstairs hall.”
“There is?” Mr. Holbrook said. Suddenly he scowled at her. “I trust you’re not suggesting that I climb a trellis and break into the late Mrs. Sanford’s house! That would be distinctly against the law!”
“Of course it would,” April agreed. “Why, it would actually be illegal!”
“Exactly,” Lawyer Holbrook agreed. Then he looked at her suspiciously, and his eyes asked, “Are you making fun of me, by any chance?” One long look at April’s face, and his eyes softened. He smiled impartially at them all and said, “Thank you so much for the lemonade. Good-by.”
They called good-bys to him. Dinah and Archie started back into the house. April whispered, “Psst! Wait!”
They waited. Mr. Henry Holbrook got halfway down the steps before he paused, looked up, climbed back a few steps, and called, “Oh—you—, little girl?”
April leaned over the railing and said in a deceptively sweet voice, “Calling me?”
“Yes. I, I wondered.” He hesitated and began to reach for his handkerchief again. “That trellis. Which side of the house did you say—”
“The north side,” April said. She practically chirruped it. “Oh. Yes. The north side. Thank you again. And good-by.”
This time he went all the way down the steps, stopping just once for a speculative look at the Sanford villa.
Dinah waited until he was out of hearing, and then let go.
“April! Of all things! If he goes and tries to climb up that trellis and get in the house, the police will catch him for sure! They’ll arrest him.”
“I wouldn’t be at all surprised,” April said.
“But, April. He’ll be put in jail!”
“I hope!” April said. “The idea! ‘Bright little girl!’ ‘Hello, little girl!’ ‘Thank you, little girl.’ ‘Good-by, little girl.’ I’ll fix him!”
“H’ya there, little girl,” Archie called out mockingly.
April made a dive for him. He ducked quickly behind Dinah.
“Please, kids,” Dinah said, “cut it out. In the first place, you’ll bother Mother, and she’s working, and in the second place, we really have got to stick together.”
April said very gravely, “We’ve got to stick together or we’ll all be stuck.”
“Apologize to April,” Dinah said severely.
Archie called, “Hey, I’m sorry I called you a little girl, little girl.”
“Apologize to Archie,” Dinah said, still severely.
April said, “I’m sorry I missed you, Archie. Next time, I’ll beat your ears off.”
“Y’h, y’h, y’h,” Archie said.
“Kids,” Dinah said. “Please.”
“We’re still friends,” April said. “And while we are still friends, let’s walk down and see if Luke will trust us for a malt. It’s been an hour since breakfast.”
“Yipes!” Archie said. He dashed out from behind Dinah and was halfway down the stairs before Dinah could say, “Well—I guess so.”
An hour later they strolled leisurely back up the road. Luke had trusted them for two malts apiece, a bag of peanuts, and three candy bars. The market across the street had trusted them for a bunch of grapes, a bag of plums, three peaches, and a package of chewing gum.
There was nothing left now but the chewing gum. There had been the usual argument over the dividing of five sticks of gum into three equal portions. It had ended unusually amiably. After the malts, the peanuts, candy bars, grapes, plums, and peaches, none of the three young Carstairs were in a fighting mood.
Archie was half a block ahead, kicking stones against the trees. Dinah was walking slowly, gracefully, and with great dignity, just in case Pete should happen by. And April was deep in thought.
“There wouldn’t be any reason, though,” April said suddenly, “for Mr. Holbrook to have murdered Frankie Riley. Mrs. Sanford, yes. But not Frankie Riley.”
Dinah started. “Funny,” she said. “I was thinking exactly the same thing.”
“But just the same,” April went on, “we can’t dismiss him from our list of suspects. We can’t dismiss any suspect, not at this stage. Remember what the detective always says in Mother’s Clark Cameron books. He—”
There was a whistle from somewhere up the hill. Archie stopped, listened, and whistled in return. Then he raced back to the two girls. “It’s the Mob,” he said. “I’ll be back soon.” He scrambled up the hillside and was out of sight.
April sighed. “As I was saying. Everyone who might be involved is—”
“H’lo there,” Dinah called cheerfully.
The familiar figure of Pierre Desgranges was across the street, walking briskly down toward the ocean, carrying easel, camp stool, and painting kit. He paused, made them a courtly bow, wished them a good morning, sent his regards to their mother, and went on.
“To go on,” April said. “Everyone who—” She stopped suddenly.
“What’s the matter?” Dinah asked anxiously.
“Nothing,” April said. “I just thought of something.” She turned around and looked back in the direction from which they’d come, knowing that Dinah would turn around too, before she had time to see the roadster parked in front of the driveway, and Rupert van Deusen sitting in it, waiting.
Something had to be done, and quickly. If Dinah walked up there with her, and the man who pretended to be Rupert van Deusen hailed both of them, she’d be in the soup. Oh, if only she’d told Dinah before—but it was too late now.
“Dinah,” she said. “I wish—I wonder—I mean, I think—”
“Stop yammering,” Dinah said, “and tell me what you think.”
“Mr. Desgranges,” April said. “He’s a very suspicious character. He’s gone down by the ocean, to paint. I think you’d better go and talk to him.”
“Me?” said Dinah. “Why?”
“Well,” April said, “there was all that stuff Mrs. Sanford found out about him. He had plenty of reason for murdering her. And if she told Frankie Riley about him, he’d have had a reason for murdering Frankie Riley.”
“Well, sure,” Dinah said. “But why me?”
“Be
cause,” April said, “he likes you. He thinks you’re talented. Remember how he praised that poster you made for art class? You can just go and sit by him and ask if he minds you watching him paint, and tactfully engage him in conversation.”
Dinah frowned. “Why can’t we both go?”
“A person usually talks more freely to one person than to two persons,” April said. “I read that somewhere. And you’re the one of us he likes best.”
“Well,” Dinah said hesitantly. “I suppose—but what shall I ask him?”
“My gosh,” April said. “Don’t ask him anything. Just bring the conversation around to the murder, and let him do all the talking, and remember what he says. Be tactful, and maybe you’ll find out something.”
“Such as?” Dinah asked. Her face was worried.
“Such as, did he murder Mrs. Sanford,” April said.
“But—” Dinah paused. “Why don’t you come with me, April? I don’t know what to say—”
“Positively not,” April said. “Investigation is a one-person job. It’s your turn. I investigated the Cheringtons, and Archie investigated the bullet. Now this is up to you. Go on now. Don’t you be scared.”
“Don’t talk nonsense,” Dinah said stiffly. She turned and started down the street. After a few steps, she paused. “Hey, April. Suppose it turns out he did murder Mrs. Sanford. What do I do then?”
April groaned. “Call a p’liceman,” she said, “or get him to put it in writing. Or just scream.”
Dinah glared at her. “You’re a gug-o-squared-fuf!” she said in high indignation. She turned and marched down the street.
April watched until Dinah was safely out of sight around the corner. Then she strolled up the walk, slowly, and with a convincing air of nonchalance.
The man sitting in that car might be the murderer of Mrs. Sanford and Frankie Riley. He might be planning other murders, if he had to destroy any evidence against him. He might be sitting right there with a concealed gun within easy reach, waiting for her to get into range. Maybe she ought to turn around and run. Maybe she ought to yell for Dinah. Maybe she just ought to yell.