by Scott Mackay
This revelation left me mystified for a moment. ‘He shot at you first?’
‘Dang right, he did. The man’s a quick draw, I’ll give him that. But his aim warn’t that great because his shot went way high.’ As examination of Mr Purcell’s hammerless revolver had revealed no discharged rounds, I quickly understood and could only conclude that the shot Billy had heard had been Mrs Swinford’s from the Wileys’ bedroom window, and that he had mistaken it for the old man firing. ‘Then, before I could figure out what was what, I heard another shot from the hotel roof, and I reckon he had one of his cronies up there from the Welland Street Club spotting for him, come down to the hotel to guard him because of all the ruckus I’d made at the club earlier. It sure warn’t no Marigold.’
Of course it was perfectly apparent to any reasonable man that it very well could have been Marigold, but Billy wasn’t a reasonable man at the present moment, and it appeared as if he couldn’t admit to that possibility.
I glanced at Stanley. He was staring at me. I turned back to Billy. ‘And when you heard the second shot, what did you do?’
Billy shrugged dismally. ‘I figured I was outgunned so I got plum out of there. Bullet fell out of my pocket but I couldn’t go back for it.’
Here, then, was the source of my live Henry round. ‘And what did Mr Purcell do once he had fired the first round?’
‘Took cover on the ground. He was in the Civil War, so knows his soldierin’.’
A man taking cover on the ground to Billy, at least that’s what he thought at the time.
‘Then you found out he was dead.’
‘I know, I know. But I didn’t kill him.’
‘So even though you thought it was one of his cronies up on the roof, it could have been Marigold?’
‘It warn’t no Marigold. She ain’t no killer.’ Yes, love was making this particular scenario impossible for him, even though I had told him it was Marigold’s rifle that had been used.
I left it for the time being.
‘What happened next?’
‘I ran. I spent the night out at the Allegheny caves, and let me tell you, it was a cold night because I didn’t want to light no fire in case somebody saw it. Then in the morning I came back to town and read about the whole thing in the Newspacket. I figured I was in trouble, even though I wasn’t the one who shot him. So I did what I could to protect myself. I sold my rifle to raise some money and holed up in the Pleasant Hotel.’
THIRTY-SEVEN
After I finished with Billy, the sheriff and I went for an evening stroll along Court Street toward the railroad tracks to talk things through. It was now dark, and there were hardly any buggies or carriages about, and only a few pedestrians.
‘So it’s Marigold after all,’ said Stanley. ‘Who’d have thunk?’
He took out his case of cheroots, gave me one, took one for himself, and we lit up. We turned east along North Railway Street, where the buildings on the south side couldn’t decide whether they wanted to be shabby or well-to-do, situated, as they were, on the border of Hoopertown. We passed the closed-down Fray smithy. Such a sad place now.
Stanley continued. ‘Here’s a girl who’s told both her best friend and her beau that she wants to kill her stepfather. We know her stepfather has pilfered her trust account. Now we hear he was putting his paws all over her. We have Flora Winters telling us she left the house. We have the tack. Daisy Pond saw her leave with the rifle. Then the test-fired bullet from her Henry matches the bullet that killed our victim.’ He shook his head. ‘I think we ought to make an arrest, Clyde.’
I took a meditative draw on my cheroot. ‘I’m not so sure, Stanley.’
Stanley kicked an ice chunk out of the way with mild irritation. ‘That second shot didn’t come from no club crony Mr Purcell put up on the hotel roof. That was Marigold up there. She could have easily gotten a key to that back door. She didn’t want a drunk Billy to make a mess of things so got on her bicycle to make sure he got the job done right. Then she turned around and blamed him for the whole thing.’ Stanley sighed and stopped. ‘Clyde, it’s nearly Christmas. I’ve finished my case in West Shelby and nearly done the one in Burkville, too. The town’s clamouring for a conviction. The mayor himself called me today about it. It would be mighty nice to get this one out of the way before December twenty-fifth. Why don’t you go over to Ray’s house, get him into his deputy’s gear, and the two of you ride up and arrest her? We’ll put her in the cell right next to Billy. That would be fit justice, wouldn’t it?’
‘I think it would be premature, Stanley.’
‘Premature?’ He puffed on his cheroot. ‘You’ve ruled out Isaac Jensen. You’ve ruled out the Swinfords. The bullet came from her rifle and she was seen riding down to the hotel at the time of the murder. She’s even admitted to riding down that way. She’s got that tack in her boot. What else could be holding us up?’
I took a pull on my cheroot and let the smoke out slowly. ‘The bridge, Stanley. The bridge.’
‘The bridge?’ He stopped. ‘What bridge?’
‘The Cherry Hill Road drawbridge.’
‘What’s the Cherry Hill Road drawbridge got to do with any of it?’
‘Daisy said Marigold crossed it.’
‘So?’
‘There weren’t any tacks down that way. The tacks were in front of Flannigan’s.’
Stanley paused. ‘What are you getting at, Clyde?’
‘Daisy said she saw Marigold cross the drawbridge. But Marigold says she crossed the span bridge at Tonawanda. And she’s got the tack to prove it. If Daisy’s innocent in all this, why would she lie about that, or at least be wrong about it? Plus Flora says Daisy was rummaging about the house after the phone call, just before she left. Was she getting the rifle? Was she getting the hotel key?’
It took Stanley a few moments to figure out what I was suggesting, but he soon caught on and he didn’t sound too pleased. ‘Yes, but, Clyde, what would Daisy stand to gain from shooting the old man?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You’re not thinking because of the assault thing back in October, are you? Seems like an awful slim reason to kill a man.’
‘There could be any number of reasons. Then you have Marigold giving up her rifle just like that. Why would she so easily surrender her Henry if she knew I was going to test it? A guilty person wouldn’t do that. Why would she even keep it? Any murderer with any sense would have gotten rid of it a long time ago.’
Wilmer Barner, the evening bridge-keeper, lived on my street, Culver, only further west, at the corner of Onondaga, a block away from the Cherry Hill Road drawbridge. As the bridge was now closed for the season, with both day and evening shifts suspended because of ice, I found the septuagenarian ensconced in front of his fire in his small but scrupulously tidy wood-frame bungalow. At one time an ensign in the Union Navy, he was spry, alert, with a bald head and a captain’s beard. His beard was white, bushy, like the froth of wind-whipped waves. The bungalow’s primary décor was ships in bottles.
When his wife led me into the parlor I saw him studiously working on another.
He looked up from his work, a slight frown on his face. ‘Dr Deacon, to what do I owe this unrequested pleasure?’ His frown deepening, he asked, ‘Am I sick?’
‘On the contrary, Mr Barner, I seem to find you in perfect health.’
With some exasperation, he said, ‘Then I can’t understand why you should come to this end of Culver Street when your end seems just as hospitable.’
‘Mr Barner, I come on a matter of bridge business.’
He grew abruptly worried. ‘Bridge business? Is there something wrong with it? Are the Cruishank brothers climbing the girders again?’
‘No, the Cruishank brothers aren’t climbing the girders again, Mr Barner. The matter I’m concerned with would be one of observation and record-keeping.’
He seemed immensely relieved that the young mischief-makers weren’t up to their simian antics again. ‘Ah. Well!
Have a seat, doctor. Audrey, get the man some coffee. He’s come on a matter of bridge records.’
Mrs Barner soon had me settled with my hot beverage.
By this time, the old man had taken down his logbook, a narrow leather-bound volume, and made room for it on the table. ‘Every freighter, barge, or boat that goes under that bridge you’ll find in here, doctor. In this column, the name of the ship, in this one the captain, in this one the time and date, and this last one, the toll charge. Of course, if it’s a day-time passage, you would have to check with the day-time fellows, and I’m sorry to report that I can’t vouch for the record-keeping of those young hooligans.’
‘No, it’s an evening record, Mr Barner. The evening of Saturday, November twenty-second. It would have been somewhere between eight thirty and nine.’
He flipped pages. ‘Let’s see, let’s see, a late one trying to get by before close. Ah, yes, here we are. A coal freighter, the Orland. What a night that was, I can assure you!’
My curiosity piqued, I asked, ‘In what way?’
He sat back, now comfortable with the unrequested pleasure of my company. ‘I heard the Orland blowing her horn from the Fifth Country Road just as she was entering the town. She was late because there was a problem down at the locks, and I’m thinking to myself, here she is at last. So I’m about to lower the barriers and raise the bridge when this girl comes along, riding her bicycle down Cherry Hill Road like fury. She doesn’t stop at Cattaraugus Avenue, but keeps coming right along, dodging around the barrier just as it’s going down, riding on to the bridge even though I’ve got the bells ringing and the lights flashing. I leave the tower-house and go out to the railing. I call to her to go back because I must start lifting the bridge immediately or the Orland will surely crash into it. But she keeps coming, right across the bridge, pedalling like mad, as if she were on her way to a fire. It was the most extraordinary thing I’d ever seen. I barely got the bridge up in time.’
I leaned forward. ‘And do you know who this girl was, Mr Barner?’
‘Know her? My wife, Audrey, used to babysit her when she was no more than a wee one. It was Miss Daisy Pond, of Finch Street, riding like she might take flight. And a rifle in her carrier to boot! I don’t know what’s happened to young people these days, doctor. They’ve become reckless, the lot of them. And in my opinion it’s because the schools don’t cane them soundly anymore.’
THIRTY-EIGHT
From Mr Barner’s bungalow, I rode Pythagoras across the exact same bridge after I had finished my interview with the old man and climbed the steep slope up Cherry Hill.
I soon reached the Purcell mansion.
By this time it was close to eight o’clock, and only a few lights burned in the house. I rapped on the door. Leach answered a minute later.
‘Can I help you, doctor?’
‘I must speak to Miss Reynolds at once. It’s urgent.’
Professor Herschel Purcell now came from the back. ‘Leach, who’s there? I’m expecting parcels from New York, but the devil take it if Hepiner delivers them this late.’
Leach backed away. ‘It’s Dr Deacon, sir. He says he has urgent business with your step-niece.’
The professor peered at me from above the brass rims of his pince-nez. He hesitated, then nodded. He looked worn out by the ordeal of his brother’s passing. ‘Yes, doctor, of course. I’ll fetch her directly.’ His brow rose wearily. ‘Is it in regard to Ephraim? I should so like to give him some peace before Christmas.’
‘All I can tell you, professor, is that I think I’m close to concluding my investigation.’
He stared at me, then nodded. He motioned at the bench under the full-length portrait of Mrs Purcell. ‘Please, sit, doctor. I’ll find her.’
Five minutes later, Marigold and her step-uncle descended the stairs.
Marigold’s red hair was down, and without its usual sophisticated Gibson-Girl style, she looked young, far too young to be pawed by her stepfather. Her eyes were cautious, and she came down the steps in a halting manner, staring at me all the while like I was a wild animal who might at any moment pounce.
‘Doctor, my Uncle Herschel says you’re close to concluding your investigation. I thought we had already established that Billy was my stepfather’s killer.’
‘You’ll be relieved to hear that Billy is innocent, Marigold. Of this we are now certain.’
Tears of relief glimmered in her eyes, and for a few seconds she couldn’t catch her breath. ‘That’s wonderful news, doctor! Absolutely splendid!’ But then her joy faded. Her face reddened, then blanched, and in a tentative tone, she said, ‘You don’t think it was me, do you?’
‘At this point, Miss Reynolds, I think you’ll serve better as a witness. In that capacity, I’m hoping you might help me with two outstanding items in my investigation.’
From tentative she became curious, then earnest. ‘I’ll do whatever I can to help, doctor.’
‘Good. Could you show me where you keep the key to the back door of the Grand Hotel?’
A knit came to her brow. Her step-uncle looked perplexed as well.
She said, ‘All the keys are in a special cabinet in my stepfather’s study.’
‘Could you show me?’
After a moment’s hesitation, she shrugged. ‘Right this way.’
Professor Purcell and I followed her along the corridor, and we soon entered her stepfather’s study.
The room was dominated by two large combination steel safes on either side of an expansive mahogany desk, each safe bolted to the floor. The walls consisted of trays and slots, with all manner of business papers, invoices, and receipts. It was singularly bereft of personal ornamentation – no photographs of any family members, no artwork, and certainly no parlor organ, such as the old man had in his office at the New York Emporium. To wit, the room was one big brain, a sad and lonely counting house for Ephraim Purcell’s many holdings and assets.
Marigold walked to a cabinet to the right and opened it. Within, I saw an array of keys hanging on hooks. The young woman inspected the keys, then grew still.
She turned to her uncle. ‘Did you take the hotel keys, uncle?’
The professor’s brow rose. ‘No, my dear. The hotel’s always open. Why would I need keys?’
Marigold glanced at the key rack again. ‘Strange. Very strange.’ She turned to me. ‘I’m sorry, doctor, but the hotel keys aren’t here.’
I had been merely trying to confirm that the keys were available for possible access. That they weren’t here raised the suspiciousness of the matter to a whole new level. ‘Would your stepfather put them anywhere else?’
Marigold shook her head. ‘No. He always said that as long as a man knows where his keys and pocketbook are, he’ll be as sound as a house. All keys were kept in this cabinet. He never varied in this matter.’
I now viewed the missing keys as a stroke of luck. The only puzzle was why they hadn’t been put back after the crime.
‘Very well, Miss Reynolds. If we could proceed to your studio.’
‘My studio?’
‘Yes.’
She scrutinized me, shrugged again, then led the way.
We exited her father’s study and soon came to her studio.
I walked over to the three French doors looking out on to the extensive snow-covered grounds. ‘Do you ever use these doors in winter, Miss Reynolds?’
‘No. And only the closest is used in summer. Those others with the curtains in front of them remain locked year round.’
I walked past the first two French doors to the last one and pulled the heavy damask curtain aside. I looked at the bolt-locks top and bottom. I observed that they had been slid into the unlocked position. I again remembered Miss Winters’s statement, how, after trying to ring the police, Miss Pond had mysteriously gone from room to room, looking for something. Turning the latch, I gently pulled the door open so that the cold night air crept into the studio. I turned back to Marigold and Professor Purcell, who were star
ing at me, stunned.
‘This door appears to have been unbolted by someone,’ I said.
THIRTY NINE
Early next morning, I visited the offices of the Fairfield Newspacket. In Fairfield, the news rarely got bigger than who was marrying whom, who was burying whom, and where the fish were biting at Silver Lake. So Ira Connelly, his recent editorially contrary opinions about me notwithstanding, greeted me like a dignitary of the highest order. Being a former presidential physician, I was news all on my own.
‘Mr Connelly, I wish to announce that we’ve made an arrest in the Ephraim Purcell murder case.’
‘You have?’ He pulled his pencil from his ear and jotted down some preliminary notes. At the end of this first feverish spate of scribesmanship, he looked up, and in his characteristic sibilant delivery, a verbal style much moulded by two front teeth that were as prominent as the White Cliffs of Dover, he said, ‘I thought you’d already made an arrest in the case, doctor. Isn’t Mr William Fray in custody?’
‘Mr Fray has been cleared of all charges. We have now arrested Miss Marigold Reynolds, the victim’s stepdaughter.’
Mr Connelly stared at me in astonishment, excitement, and perhaps unhealthy editorial ambition.
He then walked to his office door with a curious lurch, as if in his enthusiasm his blood pressure had begun playing tricks with his balance, and called out to the bull pen. ‘Felix, have Mr Cragg pull the front page. We’ve got bigger news than the Christmas bazaar.’
Daisy Pond, with a lover’s giddy smile, had her hand ensconced in the crook of Billy Fray’s elbow. They were about to enter Jensen’s Hat Shop. Daisy had no doubt read Ira Connelly’s lurid copy describing how the Newspacket had learned that ‘a most dastardly daughter had killed in cold blood her own innocent and noble stepfather.’ Stanley and I were in a room on the second floor of the Grand Hotel observing Daisy and Billy. The cement factory heiress had most obviously learned that the ‘gallant and assiduous Dr Deacon had untangled a most fiendish plot, and had put together a case against Marigold Reynolds the likes of which is unparalleled in the annals of criminal justice.’ Lastly, she must have read how ‘Mr William Fray, our esteemed and trusted smithy, has been released and absolved of all charges.’ Oh, yes, the poor dear was in heaven, and had no idea how I had laid this trap for her.