“What are you going to do now?” I asked him.
“I don't know. I suppose I'll have to stash those boxes and hike out.”
“Look,” I said, “I'm bound for the Einar Observatory. Come on with me, and you can get a lift from there back to town the first time a car makes the trip. How much was that donkey worth?”
“I'll take the lift,” he said, “and thanks. But losing Archimedes was my own damn fault. I should have seen that was going to happen. Say, better get that car moving before it gets stuck again.”
It was good advice and just in time. The car barely started. I kept it inching along while he tied the boxes on back and then got in beside me.
“Those boxes,” I said. “Are they really rattlers, or was that off the same loaf as the Big Chief Wahoo accent?”
He smiled. “They're rattlesnakes. Sixty of them. Chap in Scardale starting a snake farm to supply venom to pharmaceutical labs hired me to round him up a batch.”
“I hope the boxes are good and tight.”
“Sure. They're nailed shut. Say, my name's Charlie Lightfoot.”
“Glad to know you,” I told him. “I'm Bill Wunderly. Going to take a job up at Einar.”
“The hell,” he said. “You an astronomer, or going on as an assistant?”
“Neither. Sort of an accountant-clerk. Wish I did know astronomy.”
Yes, I'd been wishing that for several years now, ever since I'd fallen for Annabel Burke. That had been while Annabel was taking her master's degree in math, and writing her thesis on probability factors in quantum mechanics.
Heaven only knows how a girl with a face like Annabel's and a figure like Annabel's can possibly be a mathematics shark, but Annabel is.
Worse, she had the astronomy bug. She loved both telescopes and me, but I came out on the losing end when she chose between us. She'd taken a job as an assistant at Einar, probably the most isolated and inaccessible observatory in the country.
Then a month ago Annabel had written me that there was to be an opening at the observatory which would be within the scope of my talents.
I wrote a fervid letter of application, and now I was on my way to take the job. Nor storm nor mud nor dark of night nor boxes of rattlesnakes could stop me from getting there.
“Got a drink?” Charlie asked.
“In the glove compartment,” I told him. “Sorry I didn't think to offer it. You're soaked to the skin.”
He laughed. “I've been wet before and it hasn't hurt me. But I've been sober, and it has.”
“You go to Haskell, Charlie?”
“No. Oxford. Hit hisn't the 'unting that 'urts the 'orse; hit's the 'ammer, 'ammer---”
“You're kidding me.”
“No such luck.” I heard the gurgle of liquid as he tilted the bottle. Then he added, “Oil. Pop's land.”
I risked an unbelieving look out of the corner of my eye. Charlie's face was serious.
He said, “You wonder why I hunt rattlesnakes. For one reason, I like it, and for another--- Well, if this was a quart instead of a pint, I could show you.”
“But what happened to the oil money?”
“Pop's still got it. But the third time I went to jail, I stopped getting any of it. Not that I blame him. Say, take it easy down this hill. The bridge at the bottom was washed out four years ago, last time there was a big storm like this one.”
But the bridge was still there, with the turbid waters of a swollen stream swirling almost level with the plank flooring. I held my breath as we went across it.
“It'll be gone in an hour,” Charlie said, “if it keeps raining this hard. You haven't another bottle of that rye, have you?”
“No, I haven't. How do you catch rattlers, Charlie?”
“Pole with a loop of thin rope running through a hole in the end. Throw the loop over a snake and pull the loop tight. Then you can ease the pole in and grab him by the back of the neck.”
“How about the ones you don't see?”
“They strike. But I wear thick shoes and I've got heavy leather leggings under my trousers. They never strike high, so I'm safe as long as I stay upright on level ground.” He chuckled. “You ought to hear the sound of them striking those puttees. When you step in a nest of them, it sounds like rain on a tin roof.”
I shivered a little, and wished I hadn't asked him.
Then, ahead of us, there were lights.
Charlie said, “Take the left turn here. You might as well drive right up to the garage.”
I turned left, around the big dome on the north end of the building. Apparently, someone had heard us coming or seen our headlights, for the garage doors were opening.
I said, “You know the place, Charlie?”
“Know it?” His voice sounded surprised. “Hell, Bill, I designed it.”
Chapter 2
The Thud of Murder
Annabel was more beautiful than I had remembered her. I wanted to put my arms around her then and there, despite the presence---in the hallway with us---of Charlie Lightfoot and a morose-looking man in overalls, who'd let me in the garage and then led us into the main building.
But I had a hunch I wouldn't get away with it, besides I was standing in the middle of a puddle of water and was as wet as though I'd been swimming instead of driving.
Annabel looked fresh and cool and dry in a white smock. She said, “You should have waited in Scardale, Bill. I'm surprised you made it. Hello, Charlie.”
Charlie said, “Hi, Annabel. I guess Bill's in safe hands now, so I'm going to borrow some dry clothes. See you later.”
He left us, managing somehow to walk as silently as a shadow despite the heavy, wet shoes he was wearing.
Annabel turned to the man in overalls. “Otto, will you take Mr. Wunderly to his room?”
He nodded and started off, and I after him. But Annabel said, “Just a minute, Bill. Here's Mr. Fillmore.”
A tall, saturnine man who had just come in one of the doorways held out his hand. “Glad to know you, Wunderly. Annabel's been talking about you a lot. I'm sure you're just the man we need.”
I said, “Thanks. Thanks a lot.” I guess I was thanking him mostly for telling me that Annabel had talked a lot about me.
I remembered, now, having heard of him. Fergus Fillmore, the lunar authority.
A minute later I followed the janitor up a flight of stairs and was shown to the room which was henceforth to be mine. I lost no time getting rid of my wet clothes and into dry ones. Then I hurried back downstairs.
A bridge game was in progress in the living room. Annabel and Fergus Fillmore were partners. Their opponents were a handsome young man and a rather serious-looking young woman who wore shell-rimmed glasses.
Annabel introduced them.
“Zoe, this is Mr. Wunderly. Bill, Miss Fillmore. . . . And Eric Andressen. He's an assistant, as I am.”
Andressen grinned. “This is an experiment, Wunderly. Annabel thinks she can apply Planck's constant h to a tenace finesse.”
There was a cheerful crackling fire in the fireplace. I stood with my back to it, behind Annabel's chair. But I didn't watch the play of the hand; I was too interested in studying the people I had just met.
Eric Andressen had a young, eager face and was darkly handsome. He could not have been more than a few years out of college. Something in his voice---although his English was perfect---made me think that college had been across the pond. Scandinavian, probably, as his name would indicate.
Zoe Fillmore, playing opposite Andressen, looked quite a bit like her father. She was attractive without being pretty. She seemed much less interested in the game than the others.
She caught me looking at her and smiled. “Would you care to take my hand after this deal, Mr. Wunderly? I'm awfully poor at cards. I don't know why they make me play.”
While I was trying to decide whether to accept her offer, a man I had not yet met came into the room. He said, “You were right, Fillmore. I blink-miked that corner of the plates aga
in and---”
Fergus Fillmore interrupted him. “You found it, then? Well, never mind the details. Paul, this is Bill Wunderly, our new office man. Wunderly, Paul Bailey, our other assistant.”
Bailey shook hands. “Glad to know you, Wunderly. I've heard a lot about you from Annabel. If you're as good as she says you are---”
Annabel looked flustered. She said, “Bill, this sounds like a conspiracy. Really, I haven't talked about you quite as much as these people would lead you to think.”
Fillmore said, “Zoe has just offered Wunderly her hand, Paul. Would you care to take mine?”
Bailey's voice was hesitant. As though groping for an excuse, he said, “I'd like to---but---”
He paused, and, in the silence of that pause, there was a dull thud overhead.
We looked at one another across the bridge table. Bailey said, “Sounds like someone---uh---fell. I'll run up and see.” He ran out the door that led to the hallway and we heard his swift footsteps thumping up the stairs.
There was an odd, expectant silence in the room. Eric Andressen had a card in his hand ready to play but held it.
We heard Bailey's footsteps overhead, heard him try a door and then rap on it lightly. Then he came down the stairs two steps at a time. Andressen and Fillmore were on their feet by now, crossing the room toward the doorway when Bailey appeared there.
His face was pale and in it there was a conflict of emotions that was difficult to read. Consternation seemed to predominate.
He said breathlessly, “My door's bolted from the inside. And it sounded as though what we heard came from there. I'm afraid we'll have to---”
“You mean somebody's in your room?” Zoe's voice was incredulous.
Her father turned and spoke to her commandingly. “You remain here, Zoe. And will you stay with her, Annabel?”
Obviously, he was taking command. He said to me, “You'd better come along, Wunderly. You're the huskiest of us and we might need you. But we'll try a hammer first, to avoid splintering the door. Will you get one, Eric?”
All of us, except Eric---who went into the kitchen for a hammer---went up the stairs together. Almost as soon as we'd reached Bailey's door, Andressen came running up with a heavy hammer.
Fergus Fillmore turned the knob and held it so the latch of the door was open. He showed Andressen where to hit with the hammer to break the bolt. On Eric's third try, the door swung open.
Bailey and Fillmore went into the room together. I heard Bailey gasp. He hurried toward a corner of the room. Then Andressen and I went through the doorway.
The body of a young woman with coppery red hair lay on the floor.
Bailey was bending over her. He looked up at Fillmore. “She's dead! But I don't understand how---?”
Fillmore knelt, looked closely at the dead girl's face, gently lifted one of her eyelids and studied the pupil of the eye. He ran exploratory fingers around the girl's temples and into her hair. Turning her head slightly to one side, he felt the back of the skull.
Then he stood up, his eyes puzzled. “A hard blow. The bone is cracked and a portion of it pressed into the brain. It seems hard to believe that a fall---”
Bailey's voice was harsh. “But she must have fallen. What else could have happened? That window's locked and the door was bolted from the inside.”
Eric Andressen said slowly, “Paul, the floor's carpeted. Even if she fell rigidly and took all her weight on the back of the head, it would hardly crack the skull.”
Paul Bailey closed his eyes and stood stiffly, as though with a physical effort he was gathering himself together. He said, “Well---I suppose we'd better leave her as she is for the moment. Except---” He crossed to the bed on the other side of the room and pulled off the spread, returned and placed it over the body.
Andressen was staring at the inside of the door. “That bolt could be pulled shut from the outside, easily, with a piece of looped string. Look here, Fillmore.”
He went out into the hall and the rest of us followed him. At the second door beyond Bailey's room, he turned in. In a moment he returned with a piece of string.
He folded it in half and put the fold over the handle of the small bolt, then with the two ends in his hand he came around the door. He said, “Will you go inside, Wunderly? So you can open the door again, if this works. No use having to break my bolt, too.”
I went inside and the door closed. I saw the looped string pull the bolt into place. Then, as Andressen let go one end of it and pulled on the other, the string slid through the crack of the door.
I rejoined the others in the hallway. Bailey's face was white and strained. He said, “But why would anyone want to kill Elsie?”
Andressen put his hand on Bailey's shoulder. He said, “Come on, Paul. Let's go find Lecky. It'll be up to him, then, whether to notify the police.”
When they'd left, I asked Fergus Fillmore, “Who is---was---Elsie?”
“The maid, serving-girl. Lord, I hope I'm wrong about that head-wound being too severe to be accounted for by a fall. There's to be a bad scandal for the observatory, if it's murder.”
“Were she and Paul Bailey---?”
“I'm afraid so. And it's pretty obvious Paul knew she was waiting for him in his room. When he heard that thud downstairs, you remember how Paul acted.”
I nodded, recalling how Bailey had hurried upstairs before anyone else could offer to investigate. And how he'd gone directly to his own room, not looking into any of the adjacent ones.
Fillmore said, “Mind holding the fort here till Lecky comes? I'm going down to send Zoe home.”
“Home?” I asked. “Doesn't she live here?”
“Our house is a hundred yards down the slope, next to Lecky's. There are three houses outside the main building, for the three staff members. Everyone else lives in the main building.”
When Fillmore had left I walked to the window at the end of the hallway. The storm outside had stopped---but the one inside was just starting.
Bailey and Andressen returned with a short, bald-headed, middle-aged man. Abel Lecky, the director.
He and the others turned into Bailey's room and I went back downstairs.
Annabel was alone in the room in which the bridge game had been going on. She stood up as I came in. “Bill, Fergus tells me that Elsie's dead. He took his daughter on home. But how---?”
I told her what little I knew.
“Bill,” she said, “I'm afraid. Something's been wrong here. I've felt it.”
I put my hands on her shoulders.
She said, “I'm---I'm glad you're here, Bill.” She didn't resist or push me away when I kissed her but her lips were cool and passive.
Chapter 3
The Murderer's Guide
There were heavy footsteps. Annabel and I stepped apart just as the door opened. A short, very fat man wearing a lugubrious expression came into the room. Pince-nez spectacles seemed grotesquely out of place on his completely round face.
He said, “Hullo, Annabel. And I suppose this is your wonderful Wunderly.” Without giving either of us a chance to speak, he held out his hand to me and kept on talking. “Glad to know you, Wunderly. I'm Hill. Darius Hill. Annabel, what's wrong with Zoe? I passed her and Fillmore out in the hall. She looked as though she'd seen ghillies and ghosties.”
Annabel said, “Elsie Willis is dead, Darius.”
“Elsie dead? You're fooling me, Annabel. Why, I saw her only a few hours ago, and--- Could it have been murder?”
The italics were his. He took off his pince-nez glasses and his eyes went as round as his face.
I said, “Nobody knows, Mr. Hill. It might have been accidental. Probably she fainted and fell.”
“Fainted? A buxom wench like Elsie?” He shook his head vigorously. “But---you say fell? That would imply a head injury, would it not? Of course.
“But what a banal method of murder---with a garage full of rattlesnakes at hand. And with Bailey a chemist, too. Or would Zoe have done it? I fear
she would be inclined to direct and unimaginative methods but I didn't think she harbored any animosity---”
“Please, Mr. Hill.” Annabel's voice was sharp and I noticed she addressed him by his last name this time, not his first. “If it was murder, neither Paul nor Zoe could have done it. They were both in this room, right here, when she died. We all heard her fall.”
“Ah---then the scene of the crime was upstairs? And right over this room. Let's see---of course. She was in Bailey's room, waiting for him.”
“Apparently. Paul had been sent to check plates on the blink-mike and he was passing through here on his way to his room when---when it happened. If you'll both pardon me, I think I'd better go tell the housekeeper about it. She should know right away.”
Hill and I both nodded. Hill said, “I'd like to talk to you, Wunderly. Come on up to my room and have a drink.
“This way---” He was taking my acceptance for granted, so I could do nothing but follow.
Hill's room was just like the one that had been assigned to me, save that one entire side of it was made up of shelves of books. While he hunted for the bottle and glasses, I strolled to the shelves and looked them over. The books were in haphazard order and they concerned, as far as I could see, only three subjects; one of which didn't fit at all with the other two. Astronomy, mathematics---and criminology.
When I turned around, Hill had poured drinks for us. He waved me to a chair, saying:
“And now you will tell me about the murder.” He listened closely, interrupting several times with pertinent questions.
When I had finished, he chuckled. “You are a close observer, Wunderly. If I am to solve this case, I shall let you be my Watson.”
“Or your Archie?”
He laughed aloud. “Touche! I grant more resemblance, physically at least, to Nero Wolfe than to the slender Holmes.”
He sipped his drink thoughtfully for a moment, then said, “I'm quite serious, though, about solving it. As you've undoubtedly deduced from your examination of my library, murder is my hobby. Not committing murder, I assure you, but studying it. I consider murder---the toss of a monkey wrench into the wheels of the infinite---the most fascinating of all fields of research.
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