‘Oh, unquestionably,’ replied Dr Finkelbaum. ‘That handle will name the guilty party even if he wore a glove. The new method, you know.’
‘So I thought,’ said Dart. ‘Well, on your way?’
‘Yep. I’ll get him downtown and let you have a report first thing in the morning. See you later, gentlemen.’
‘I’m afraid you will,’ murmured Dr Archer.
Dr Finkelbaum departed. Dr Archer and the detective conferred a brief moment in inaudible tones, then entered the living-room.
‘Mr Dewey,’ said Dart. ‘do you deny having committed this crime in the face of the circumstances?’
‘What circumstances?’
‘The existence of ample motive, as testified by Red Brown, here, and of ample opportunity, as testified by your wife.
‘What do you mean, opportunity?’
‘She corroborated your statement that at about ten o’clock you went out for a few minutes on the pretext of getting a pack of cigarettes.’
‘I did go out and I got the cigarettes.’
‘The time when you say you went out happens to correspond with the time when the doctors say the crime was committed.’
‘And if I was out, how could I have done it?’
‘You couldn’t. But suppose you weren’t out? Suppose you went down the hall, opened and shut the front door, crept back silently into Sonny’s room—only a few steps—did what you had to do, and, after the proper lapse of time, crept back to the front door, opened and shut it again, and walked back up the hall as if you had been out the whole time? Your wife says that you went out. But she can not swear that you actually left the apartment.’
‘Of course I can!’ said Letty sharply.
‘Yes? Then, Mrs Dewey, you must have been in the hallway the whole time Mr Dewey was out. You can not see the length of that hallway from any room in this house. The only way you can swear there was nobody in it throughout that time is to swear that you were in it throughout that time. Could you swear that?’
Letty hesitated only a moment before answering hotly, ‘Yes!’
‘Careful, Mrs Dewey. Why should you stand idle for ten minutes alone in an empty hallway?’
‘I—I was measuring it for wallpaper.’
‘Strange. I noted that it had recently been re-papered.’
‘I didn’t like the new paper. I was planning to have it changed.’
‘I see. Then you insist that you were in that hallway all that time?’
‘Yes.’
‘And that Mr Dewey was not?’
‘Yes.’
‘And that no one else was?’
‘No one.’
‘Madam, you have accused yourself.’
‘Wh—what?’
‘You have just accused yourself of killing your brother-in-law.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘I’ll make it plainer. The only doorway to Sonny’s room is on the hall. Assuming that the doctors are right about the time of death, and assuming that the killer used the only door, which is on the hallway you so carefully kept under observation, no one but yourself was within striking distance at the time Sonny was stabbed. You follow my reasoning?’
‘Why—’
‘Therefore by your own statement—which you are willing to swear to—you must have killed him yourself.’
‘I never said any such thing!’
‘You wish to retract your statement?’
‘I—I—’
‘And admit that your husband may have been in the hallway?’
Completely confused and dismayed, the woman burst into tears.
But disloyal or not, this was Ben Dewey’s wife; he came to her rescue:
‘Wait a minute, officer. At least you had a reason for accusing me. What would she want to do that for?’
‘I’d rather not guess, Mr Dewey. But it shouldn’t be hard.’
Only Letty’s sobs broke the next moment’s silence. Finally Ben said in a dull, low voice:
‘She didn’t do it.’
‘Did you?’ asked Dart quickly.
‘No. I didn’t either. It’s—it’s all cockeyed.’
The man’s change of attitude from arrogance to humility was more touching than the woman’s tears.
‘Are we under arrest?’
Dart’s answer was surprising. ‘No.’
‘No?’
‘No. You are free to go about as usual. You will all hold yourselves ready for questioning at any time, of course. But I shall not make an arrest until this knife is examined.’
Letty stopped sobbing to follow the general trend of eyes toward the gauze-wrapped knife in Dart’s hand.
‘Here’s the answer,’ said the detective, looking about and raising the object. ‘Of course—a confession would save us a bit of time and trouble.’
Nobody uttered a word.
‘Well—in the morning we’ll know. Dr Archer put this in your bag, please. And do you mind keeping it for me until morning? I’ve got a bit of checking up to do meanwhile.’
‘Not at all.’ The doctor took the knife, placed it carefully in a side pocket of his bag. ‘It’ll be safe there till you come for it.’
‘Of course. Thanks a lot. We’ll be going now.’
The two started out. Dart halted as his companion went on toward the outside door.
‘I might say before going, Mr Dewey,’ he remarked, ‘that anything that happens to Red Brown here will make things look even worse for you and your wife. Both of you threatened him, if I remember.’
‘I can take care of myself,’ said Red Brown coolly.
‘I’m glad to know that,’ returned Dart. ‘And—oh yes. I’d like to see you all here in the morning at nine. That’s all. Good night.’
‘From your instructions to your men,’ observed Dr Archer, as he and the detective rode back toward his office, ‘I gather the purpose of not making an arrest.’
‘It’s the only way,’ Dart said. ‘Let ’em go and keep an eye on ’em. Their actions will always tell more than their words. I hadn’t got anywhere until Red Brown looked at brother Ben. Yet he didn’t say a word.’
‘And,’ Dr Archer continued, ‘I gather also that Exhibit A, which rests enshrouded in my bag, is to be a decoy.’
‘Sure. That was all stuff—about prints and the new method. Probably not a thing on that knife but they don’t know that. Somebody’s going to try and get that lethal weapon back.’
‘But—’ the doctor’s words disregarded the detective’s interruptions—‘what I fail to gather is the reason for dragging in me and my bag.’
‘You dragged me in, didn’t you?’
‘I see. One good murder deserves another.’
‘No. Look. The thing had to be planted where the guilty person figured it could be recovered. They wouldn’t attempt to get it away from me. But you’re different.’
‘Different from you?’
‘Exactly.’
‘It’s a relief to know that.’
‘You’re no happier over it than I am.’
‘You’ll be nearby, I trust?’
‘Under your bed, if you like.’
‘No. The girl might come for it.’
‘That’s just why I’ll be nearby. Leave you alone and she’ll get it.’
‘Shouldn’t be at all surprised. Lovely little thing.’
‘But not too little.’
‘Nor too lovely.’
‘Aren’t you ashamed of yourself?’
‘Not at all. You see—’
‘Yea, I see. Never mind the long explanation. Adam saw, too.’
‘Ah, but what did Adam see? An apple. Only an apple.’
‘Well, if it’s the girl—which it won’t be—she’d better bring an apple along—to keep the doctor away.’
‘Sergeant, how you admire me. What makes you think it won’t be the girl?’
‘You don’t think she killed her brother, do you?’
‘I hope not. But I wouldn’t—er
—express an opinion in cash.’
‘Couldn’t you just say you wouldn’t bet on it?’
‘Never use a word of one syllable, sergeant, when you can find one of six.’
‘Why wouldn’t you bet on it? She’s just a kid. A rather nice kid.’
‘How did you find out?’
Dart ignored him. ‘She screamed. She telephoned for you.’
‘Nice girls of nineteen have been known to do such things.’
‘Kill their sweethearts, maybe—their ex-sweethearts. Not their brothers.’
‘True. Usually it is the brother who kills his sister’s sweetheart, isn’t it? Whereupon the sweetheart is known as a betrayer.’
‘Yea. Family honour. Course I’ve never seen it, but—’
‘Cynic. Here we are.’
But Dart drove on past the doctor’s apartment.
‘Whither, pray?’
‘Get smart. They may recognize the detective’s licence-plates. Around the corner’ll be better.’
‘And me with no roller-skates.’
Shortly they returned to the apartment on foot, and soon were engaged in smooth hypotheses, well oiled.
‘One of these things is going to fool us yet,’ meditated the physician between sips.
‘They all fool us.’
‘Modesty ill becomes you, Perry. I mean the party who obviously did the thing from the outset sometimes does it.’
‘The party is always obvious from the outset—when it’s all over. What I’d like to see is a case in which the party who is obvious from the outset is obvious at the outset.’
‘The trouble is with the obviousness—the kind of obviousness. One person is obviously guilty because everything points to him. Another is obviously guilty because nothing points to him. In the present case, Ben is the one example, Red the other.’
‘You’re drinking. How can a man be guilty because nothing points to him?’
‘Because, of course, too perfect an alibi is no alibi, just as too perfect a case is no case. Perfection doesn’t exist. Hence the perfect thing is false.’
‘This is false whiskey.’
‘May it continue to deceive us. Consider this: Can you imagine a lad like Red Brown living in a house with a girl like Petal and not being—er—affected?’
‘So what?’
‘I was thinking of the brother-sweetheart complex you suggested.’
‘With the brother getting the worst of it? But Letty said Red had been out all day. How could Red—?’
‘Just as you said Ben could. Only he didn’t slam the front door.’
‘Of course Letty was lying about being in the hall all that time. Maybe Red could have sneaked in and out, at that. But that’s taking it pretty far. Nothing that we know indicates Red.’
‘Nothing except that he’s altogether too un-indicated.’
‘Well, if you really want to get fancy, listen to this.’
‘Go ahead.’
‘Red knows that Letty is two-timing.’
‘Yes.’
‘Ben doesn’t.’
‘No.’
‘If Ben finds out, it’s her hips.’
‘Yes.’
‘She’s rather partial to her hips.’
‘Naturally.’
‘A blab from either Sonny or Red—and bye-bye.’
‘Hips.’
‘So, tired of Sonny and afraid of Red, she decides on what is known as murder for elimination.’
‘Murder of Sonny?’
‘No. Of Red. With Sonny implicated by his knife.’
‘Go on. How’d she get Sonny and Red mixed?’
‘She heard Sonny come in—’way down the hall where she couldn’t see. But Sonny, having developed bad habits, never comes in so early. She believes this is Red. When Ben steps out, she slips into the dark room and hurriedly acts in self-defence.’
‘Hip-defence.’
‘M—m. Only it happens to be Sonny. Well, what about it?’
‘Utterly fantastic. Yet not utterly impossible.’
‘O.K. Your turn.’
‘You leave me the most fantastic possibility of all.’
‘The old lady?’
‘No. The mother.’ The doctor paused a moment, then said, ‘There’s quite a difference. Can you imagine anything that would make a mother kill her son?’
‘That smell you mentioned, maybe.’
‘No. Seriously.’
‘I don’t know. It’s pretty hard to believe. But it could happen, I suppose. By mistake, for instance. Suppose the old lady thought it was Red—just as Letty might have. Red—leading her child down the road to hell … That would explain why she said, “God forgive me!”’
‘Let’s forget your “mistake” for a while.’
‘Well then, look. When I was walking a beat, a woman came to me once and begged me to put her son in jail. He was a dope. She said when she saw him like that, she wanted to kill him.’
‘But did she?’
‘No. But why can’t mother-love turn to hate like any other love?’
‘I guess the fact that it doesn’t is what makes it mother-love.’
‘What about those hospital cases where unmarried girls try to smother their kids—and sometimes succeed?’
‘Quite different, I should say. Those girls aren’t yet mothers, emotionally. They’re just parents, biologically. With a wholly unwanted and recently very painful obstruction between themselves and happiness. Mother-love must develop, like anything else. It grows as the child grows, becomes a personal bond only as the child becomes a person.’
‘All right. But mothers can go crazy.’
‘Yes. There are cases of that kind.’
‘That old lady acted kind o’ crazy, I thought.’
‘Probably just grief. Or concern over the whereabouts of Sonny’s soul.’
‘Maybe. I wouldn’t press the point. But as long as we’re guessing, I don’t want to slight anybody.’
‘I did have a case once where, I believe, a fairly sane mother would have killed her son if she’d been able. He was a lad about Sonny’s age, with a sarcoma of the jaw. It involved half his head—he suffered terrifically. Death was just a matter of time. She repeatedly begged me to give him an overdose of morphine.’
‘What prevented her from killing him?’
‘I sent him to a hospital.’
‘Well—’
‘Yes, I know. Sonny could have had a sort of moral sarcoma—eating up his soul, if you like. The sight of him going down and down might have been more than his mother could bear. But unless she was actually insane at the moment, she’d keep hoping and praying for a change—a turn for the better. That hope would prevent any drastic action. After all, sarcoma of the soul is not incurable.’
‘The only way it could be his mother, then, is if she went temporarily off her nut?’
‘Exquisitely phrased, my friend. Have another drink.’
Dr Archer’s apartment, which combined office and residence, was on the ground floor of a five-story house. Its front door was immediately within and to one side of the house entrance, off a large rectangular foyer at the rear of which a marble staircase wound upward and around an elevator-shaft. At this hour the elevator was not running.
Inside, the front rooms of the apartment constituted the physician’s office—waiting-room, consultation-room, laboratory. Beyond these were a living-room, bedroom and kitchen.
It was agreed that Dart should occupy the bedroom for the rest of the night, while Dr Archer made the best of the living-room couch. Dart could thus remain behind the scene for any forthcoming action, observe unseen, and step forward when occasion demanded.
Neither undressed, each lying down in shirt-sleeves and trousers. In the event of a caller, Dart agreed that, barring physical danger, he would not interfere unless the doctor summoned him.
‘Still hoping it’ll be the girl, hey?’ grinned the detective.
‘Nothing would amaze me more,’ returned Archer. ‘Go on�
��lie down. This is my party.’ He stretched his considerable length on the couch. Dart went into the adjacent bedroom, leaving the intervening door ajar.
As if some unseen director had awaited this moment, the apartment bell promptly rang, first briefly, timidly, then longer, with resolute determination. ‘I didn’t want to sleep anyway,’ murmured the doctor. ‘Keep your ears open. Here goes.’
He went through the office rooms to the front door, cracked the little trap-window designed against rent-collectors and other robbers, snapped it to with a gasp of astonishment, unlocked and opened the door.
His preliminary glance was corroborated. Before him stood Petal, bare-headed, with a handbag under her arm.
‘I know it’s late,’ she was saying, a little breathlessly, ‘but—’
‘Not at all. Come in.’
‘Thank you.’ She looked behind her.
He closed the door quickly. ‘Someone following you?’
‘I—I thought so. Just—nervousness I hope.’
‘Come back this way.’
She followed him through the waiting-room into the consulting office. He slipped on an office coat from a rack.
‘Who would be following you at this hour?’ he asked, giving her a chair and seating himself at his desk.
‘Detectives, maybe.’
‘Hardly. You’re the last person suspected in this affair.’
She was silent a moment. Her eyes rested on the doctor’s bag, which sat conspicuously on top of his desk. Then she began still breathlessly to talk. She leaned forward in her chair, dark eyes wide and bright, gentle breasts rising and falling, small fingers moving restlessly over the flat handbag on her lap.
‘Are—are we alone?’
He smiled. ‘Would you care to look about?’
She accepted this with a feeble reflection of his smile.
‘I came here to—to warn you. About Ben.’
‘Ben?’
‘He’s—wild. He blames you. He says if you hadn’t brought in that detective, he wouldn’t be in a jam.’
‘But that’s ridiculous. The thing couldn’t have been covered up. The same facts would have been brought out sooner or later.’
‘I know. But he—he’s a little crazy, I guess. Finding out about Letty and everything. He thinks he could have managed.’
‘Managed—what?’
‘Keeping the thing quiet.’
‘Why should he want to keep it quiet?’
The Conjure-Man Dies Page 27