by Craig Rice
Chapter Twenty-Six
“Flanagan probably heard a hoot owl,” Sergeant O’Hare said.
Mother beamed at him and at Bill Smith. “Well, you got your Mr. Sanford, anyway. Now, how about some fresh coffee? I can make some in about two seconds.”
“I’ve made some a’ready,” Dinah called from the kitchen. “Bringing it right in.”
She carried in the tray. April and Archie came along, ostensibly to carry sugar and cream, but really to look the situation over.
Mother’s hair was a trifle disheveled, and the rose in it was sadly askew. But her cheeks were pink, and her eyes were shining. Bill Smith looked breathless and a little worried, Sergeant O’Hare looked perfectly serene. He beamed impartially at the three young Carstairs, looked approvingly at Dinah’s and April’s aprons, and said, “Helping Mother, eh? That’s the way to do.” He turned and beamed at Mother. “That’s the right way to bring up kids. I’ve—”
“You’ve probably raised nine of your own,” Mother said, “and you know.” She tried to rearrange her hair and only succeeded in making it worse.
Bill Smith grinned. “Either you’re psychic,” he said, “or he’s already told you about them.” His face grew sober. “I really should have gone on down to headquarters. As soon as I finish this coffee—”
Sergeant O’Hare took in the candlelit room, Marian Carstairs’ rose house coat, and Bill Smith’s new haircut. “Forget it,” he said. “Let him wait till morning. He ain’t hurt bad, and he’ll talk better after a good night’s sleep. You caught the guy, so you might as well relax and celebrate.”
“But—” Bill Smith began, frowning.
Dinah said, “He couldn’t have shot Mrs. Sanford. Because, then, who shot him?”
“And someone tried to lure the police away from the body,” Mother said.
“Those yells,” Archie said, with pardonable pride, “didn’t sound to me like no hoot owl I ever heard, so there.”
“Besides, we heard the shots,” April said. “Dinah had just gone to see if it was time to put the potatoes on—”
Bill Smith said just one word, under his breath. The three young Carstairs didn’t hear it and it was probably just as well.
“Come, now,” Mother said. “Let’s forget about it for the time being. Sergeant O’Hare’s right, Bill, you probably will do much better questioning Mr. Sanford after he’s had a night’s rest. And how about some more coffee? And where did I put that box of chocolates? And, Sergeant O’Hare, I do, think there’s one piece of lemon pie left from dinner.”
Archie went to get the pie. April poured more coffee. Dinah passed the chocolates. Then the three young Carstairs sat in an ornamental row on the sofa, Archie in the middle.
Sergeant O’Hare praised the pie in lavish terms. It was almost as good, he declared, as Mrs. O’Hare’s pie. “But,” he added, “you just ought to taste her devil’s food cake sometime!”
The three young Carstairs kept their faces straight. Mother and Bill Smith carefully avoided each other’s eyes, but Mother’s cheeks turned a shade pinker. Sergeant O’Hare rose to go. He looked over the scene, the candlelit room, Dinah and April in their white dresses with the blue sashes, and Marian Carstairs in her rose house coat. He sighed heavily, turned to Bill Smith, and said, “Too bad you haven’t got a wife and family. It must be pretty lonely, living in a hotel room. Well, g’night, everybody.”
Dinah, April, and Archie silently blessed him.
Bill Smith put down his cup and said, “Marian—”
“April,” Dinah said hastily. “We’ve got to finish the dishes.”
They were halfway across the dining room, and Bill Smith’s voice could be heard saying, “Marian—I want to tell you—” when the telephone rang.
Dinah and April raced for the phone. It was for Mother. The voice sounded frightened, almost frantic.
Mother took the phone and said, “Yes—yes? Oh! Oh, I’m so sorry! Yes, I’ll be glad to come right up.” A pause, and then, “Smith? It happens that he’s here. Yes. Yes, I will. Right away.”
By the time she hung up the three young Carstairs and Police Lieutenant Bill Smith were hovering around the phone desk.
“Mr. Cherington,” Mother said. “He’s had another heart attack, and she’s all alone there with him. And for some reason he wants to talk to you, Bill.”
“Oh,” April said. “Oh, no!” She turned white. “It must be true, but I didn’t want it to turn out that way.”
“April!” Dinah said aghast.
April waved her aside and said, “Mother. You covered the Bette LeMoe kidnaping. Tell me. What was Bette LeMoe’s real name?”
Mother looked puzzled. “Why—why, it was—Rose—something. I don’t remember.”
“I knew it,” April wailed. “I knew it! And the ransom money was exactly fifteen thousand dollars, and that’s what he embezzled. And he was in the army once, so he probably would have a forty-five revolver. And besides, Mrs. Cherington’s eyes aren’t brown, they’re blue.”
“Baby!” Mother said anxiously, feeling April’s forehead. “Are you all right? Is your throat sore?”
“My throat isn’t sore,” April said, “and I haven’t got a fever. But Mr. Cherington’s name used to be Chandler, and he was an officer in the army. And they had a daughter named Rose, and she went on the stage and changed her name to Bette LeMoe. And she was kidnapped, and he stole fifteen thousand dollars to pay the ransom, and then she was murdered anyway, and he got caught and got kicked out of the army, and went to jail and everything. And I bet you ever since he’s been trying to find the kidnapers and that’s why he moved out here and rented that house, and—”
“Slow down,” Dinah said.
“Well,” April said, “it’s all mixed up with Frankie Riley getting out of jail. Because he helped with the kidnaping. But she must have gotten all the money because he had to do a robbery, and that’s what he went to jail for. Then he got out of jail and came here, and that was prob’bly the proof Mr. Cherington—I mean, Colonel Chandler—was waiting for. So he shot Mrs. Sanford because she’d murdered his daughter and ruined his life, and then he shot Mr. Frankie Riley for the same reason, and he prob’bly was strong enough to cart Mr. Frankie Riley to the old swimming pool, because he wasn’t really very old, he was really only in his fifties, and then he trailed Mr. Sanford and tried to shoot him tonight, but he didn’t murder him and I’m glad, because Mr. Sanford really wasn’t mixed up in the kidnaping, and that’s what must of brought on his heart attack, and, anyway that’s what happened, and go on up and get his confession.” She burst into tears.
Mother gathered April into her arms and said, “My darling child!”
“The picture in the hallway,” April sobbed. “It looks like Mrs. Cherington, but it has dark eyes. And it’s signed Rose. And it looks like the picture of Bette LeMoe.”
Dinah and Archie just looked on, wide-eyed.
Mother stroked April’s hair and said, “Don’t cry, baby. He did have a bad heart, and—”
“Marian,” Bill Smith said hoarsely. “Mrs. Carstairs. Did you know this? Was that why—you wouldn’t help, when I—asked you?”
“I guessed it,” Marian said. “I saw that picture, too.”
April lifted her head and caught the look that passed between Mother and Bill Smith. She stood up and said, “You’d better get up there and talk to—Mr. Cherington.”
“She’s right,” Bill Smith said.
“She’s right—about everything,” Mother said. She kissed April on the forehead.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
It was four o’clock before the three young Carstairs went to bed, and by then Bill Smith had to carry a soundly-sleeping Archie up the stairs. But Dinah and April were still wide awake.
Mother went into the kitchen and made cocoa. The hair-do was a wreck, her face was tired and pale, but Bill Smith still couldn’t keep his eyes away from her face.
Mr. Cherington had confessed, and his confession tallied w
ith April’s theory. He’d been taken to the hospital in a police ambulance, and the doctor in charge doubted if he’d ever come to trial. Mrs. Cherington had been brave and, somehow, almost—well, relaxed. She’d told the whole story, now that everything was over.
Yes, he’d stolen the money for his daughter’s ransom. Then when she was murdered, it was as though he’d been murdered, too. He hadn’t cared much what happened after that, save for burying his daughter where roses could grow around her sleeping place. He couldn’t claim her body because to do so would be to reveal his theft. But then the theft was discovered anyway, and he went to prison.
When he was released, he was a sick old man, and he lived for only one thing. He’d accomplished it, and—that was the end.
“Now, he’ll die happy,” Mrs. Cherington said.
Mother told it to them while she was making the cocoa. Then she said, “And, you kids. How and why did you get mixed up in this?”
“For you,” Dinah said sleepily, “for the publicity.”
“We wanted you to solve a real-life murder,” April said, nodding over her cocoa. “But you were too busy, so we thought we’d solve it for you. Hey—Archie—”
That was when Bill Smith carried Archie up to bed.
He came downstairs again, looked at Dinah and April, and said, “You go to bed now, before I have to carry you up, too. And—Marian—Mrs. Carstairs—”
“Yes,” Mother said.
“It’s late now, but—I do want to talk to you about—something important. I know you’re very busy but—may I call on you tomorrow night?”
Mother blushed like a schoolgirl and said, “Please do.” She walked to the door with him, came back, and told Dinah and April, “Stay home from school tomorrow, and sleep as late as you want to.”
They slept till past noon. By that time, reporters were at the door. Bill Smith had let it be known that Marian Carstairs, mystery writer, had solved the Sanford slaying practically singlehanded. The reporters wanted interviews and photographs. Dinah, April, and Archie saw to it that they got them. Marian protested, but the three young Carstairs were firm. After they’d gone to all this trouble, proper advantage was going to be taken of it!
“By this time tomorrow,” April said cheerfully, “you’ll probably have offers from the movies.”
“And think what this is going to do for your new book,” Dinah said.
“Perfect nonsense,” Mother said. But she didn’t have a chance against the three young Carstairs.
They managed everything. April did Mother’s hair, and Dinah cleaned the living room and put fresh flowers everywhere. Archie brushed Jenkins, Inky, and Stinky, and coaxed them into going to sleep on the living-room floor.
Inky and Stinky leaped into Mother’s lap just as the Gazette photographer was aiming his camera, and that made everything perfect.
April led Dinah and Archie out onto the front porch and left Mother alone with the interviewers.
“April,” Dinah said. “All that stuff. You know. The stuff we found at Mrs. Sanford’s. We ought to burn it up.”
“I know,” April said. She scowled. “Let me think.”
“Quiet, everybody,” Archie said. “April’s thinking.”
She slapped at him absent-mindedly. “It’s serious. All those people. I mean, like the schoolteacher who thought she went to a restaurant and got in a gambling raid, and the guy who don’t want his folks to know he works in a saloon, and all the rest of them. They’ve been worrying plenty since Mrs. Sanford was killed, wondering when somebody would find all that stuff.”
“We could mail letters to all of them,” Dinah suggested, “and send back the evidence and pictures and everything.”
“Too many stamps,” April said. “We’re broke again.” She gazed solemnly at the landscape for a minute and then brightened. “I know what to do! You catch the next reporter that comes out the door.”
They waited fifteen minutes or more. A photographer went out. Another photographer went in. Finally a fat man in a gray suit came out, stuffing a folded paper into his pocket.
“Hey, you,” April said.
He looked at her, his round face brightened, and he said, “Well! Little Miss Reliable Witness!”
April blinked, stared at him, and said, “I know you! You hide in ice-cream parlors and overhear conversations! How would you like another story from a—a reliable witness whose name cannot be mentioned here?”
“I’d love it,” the fat man said. He drew the folded paper out of his pocket.
“Well,” April said, “you know already Mrs. Sanford was a blackmailer. So—” She went on and told him at great and convincing length about the fact that a horde of blackmail material had been found in Mrs. Sanford’s house. “Including,” she said, “innocent people like schoolteachers and—and stuff.” The police, she went on, didn’t want any of this material to be made public, because it would cause so much Unnecessary unhappiness. So, every scrap of it had been burned. “Right here in our own incinerator,” she added forcefully.
The fat man made a note and said, “Is this straight goods?”
“It certainly is,” Dinah said. “We saw it.” She didn’t add whether she’d seen the stuff in question or seen it burned.
“You know,” April said confidingly, “the police weren’t even going to let anybody know it had been found. Because, after all, they got the murderer. But we’ve been right here watching everything all the time, and we learned about it. So I guess this is what you’d call a real tip, isn’t it?”
“You bet,” the fat man said happily.
“Only,” April said earnestly, “don’t tell where you found out about it. Or—or”—what had that character in Mother’s last book said?—“we’ll deny everything. So there.”
“It was stated,” the fat man said, grinning, “by a reliable witness whose name cannot be disclosed at this time—” He turned and started down the steps.
“And by the way,” April called after him. “You might stop in at Luke’s and tell him we’ll be in later for a malt apiece. On you.”
The fat man stared at her for a minute and finally said, “If you hadn’t been correct on that other story, I’d tell you to go to blazes. O. K., a malt apiece.”
“Chocolate,” April called after him. “With cream.”
“You don’t like chocolate malts,” Archie reminded her in a whisper.
“I can take two comic books and a package of gum instead,” April told him.
Dinah frowned. “What other story?”
“Oh, nothing important,” April said airily. “Now, I guess we really had better burn up all that stuff. If I know that guy, he’ll make a big story of it, and all the people who’ve been worrying about their reputations are gonna feel a lot better.”
“Let’s have a bonfire,” Archie said. “It’s no fun burning stuff in the insinuator.”
“The last time we had a bonfire,” Dinah reminded him, “Mrs. Williamson’s cat got its tail singed, and Mother threatened to send us to reform school.”
“She wouldn’t, really,” April said dreamily. “You know, Dinah. Mr. Holbrook.”
“What about Mr. Holbrook?” Dinah asked, remembering the lame ankle and the cat-and-dog chase around the house.
“I think we ought to give his daughter’s picture back to him in person. With the letters.”
Dinah gasped. “Are you lul-o-cash-o?”
“In the first place,” April said, “he’d probably like to have his daughter’s picture. In the second place, he might not see the story in the newspapers, and he’d keep on worrying. Yes, I think we ought to deliver it to him.”
Before Dinah or Archie could say a word, she’d scooted around the house and gone in the back door.
“Hey,” Archie said. “Y’know what? Y’know what?”
“I know, Archie,” Dinah said gloomily, “and shut up.”
April came back, five minutes later, with an ornately wrapped package in her hand. “We’ll tell him it’s j
ust a little present,” she said. She led the way down to the sidewalk, and added, “And since he’ll know we saw the picture and letters, I bet it’ll be a long time before he calls me a bright little girl again!”
There was silence all the way to Mr. Holbrook’s house. The cross white cat was sitting on the steps. It spit at them and fled.
“Cordial welcome,” April muttered. She rang the bell.
A tall, handsome woman with gray-blonde hair came to the door, smiled at them, and said, “Yes?”
April stared at her, turned pale, and said, “Oh!”
A voice from the hall said, “What is it, Harriet?”
“Miss Holbrook—” April gulped.
The woman lifted her eyebrows. “How—”
There was no turning back. “May-we-see-your-father-please?” April said in a very small voice.
Henry Holbrook appeared at the doorway. The pallor seemed to have gone from his face. He was smoking a pipe, and he was smiling.
“Well, well, well,” Henry Holbrook said. “My little friends. This is my daughter. Harriet. Better known as Ardena the famous designer.”
“Golly!” April gasped. “You mean the one who makes all those super costumes for all those super musicals!” She recovered herself and said, “I bet you’re proud of her, Mr. Holbrook!”
“I certainly am,” Lawyer Holbrook said, beaming. “She gave me a big surprise. I didn’t know anything about it until she came to visit me.”
April glanced quickly at the handsome woman. Yes, she was the one who’d worn the three peacock feathers and the string of beads.
“She’s a daughter any man would be proud of,” Mr. Holbrook said. He put an arm around her shoulders. “What’s that you’ve got, little girl?”
April winced at the “little girl,” but this was no time to bother about it. “It’s a little hard to explain. Circumstances—well—somehow, we just happened to find this. Which had been hidden in Mrs. Sanford’s house. We thought that because—well, we thought perhaps—” For once in her life, she was at a loss for words.