Hanged for a Sheep

by Frances Lockridge

  Pam, remembering back, didn’t think he had. But he had said something—surely it was something he had said?—which she could not now remember.

  “If he did,” she told Weigand, “what happened afterward chased it out of my head. Finding him and being chased and hitting Jerry and all.”

  “I wish people wouldn’t talk about heads,” Jerry said from his chair. Nobody paid any attention to him. Encouraged by Weigand, Pam told her story in all the detail she could remember. It was clear now, she thought, that whoever had been chasing her—and was presumably Perkins’s murderer—had quit chasing her when she fled down past the door of her bedroom. Instead, the murderer had abandoned her, no doubt being sure that he had not been recognized, and instead ransacked the room.

  “And you didn’t recognize whoever it was,” Weigand said. It was not a question, but Pam shook her head. “He turned off the lights,” she pointed out. “There is a switch on each landing which controls all the lights or, if you prefer, only part of them. So that people can go up in the light and turn off from the top of the stairs. Only the lights usually bum all night.”

  Weigand nodded. He rubbed fingers down Toughy’s spine, as the cat sat on his lap. The fingers were abstracted, but Toughy purred in ecstasy. Weigand turned to Jerry North.

  “I got in by train,” Jerry told him. “I checked everything but a small bag and came up here. Everybody had gone to bed, apparently. So I started to ring.”

  But he hadn’t rung, because there was snow on the bottoms of his shoes, and in the tile-floored vestibule he had slipped as he reached out toward the bell. Clutching wildly, he had grabbed the nearest knob of the double doors and saved himself. And, more surprisingly, felt the knob turn in his hand. The knob turned and the door opened and Jerry, surprised but grateful, went into the warmer foyer.

  “I supposed Pam had pushed the little thing-a-ma-jig,” Jerry explained. “So that I could come in without waking people. But she says she didn’t.”

  Pam shook her head.

  “The button, he means,” she explained. “The thing that makes it not lock. You know?”

  “Yes,” Weigand told her. “But you hadn’t?”

  Pam hadn’t. Weigand was interested. Because evidently somebody had, which opened up new avenues. There had been an arrangement which would let somebody, but presumably not intentionally Gerald North, come into the house that night without ringing the bell or using a key. Evidently because the person expected didn’t have a key and did not want, or was not wanted, to ring. Which let in outsiders. Weigand made a note of it and heard the rest of Jerry’s story, which was brief.

  Jerry had been surprised to find the hall lights out, but there had been enough light from the door to show him the coat closet, and he had hung his wet overcoat and hat in it. Then, with the small bag on the floor at his feet, he had suddenly become doubtful as to which was Pam’s room. Normally, he had decided, it would be the front guest room on the third floor, and he had been speculating about it, making up his mind to chance knocking on the door of that room, when he had heard a noise behind him.

  “Pam was flying at me,” he said. “Like a mad cat. And before I could say anything I was all covered with flowers and water and pieces of vase. And had this.” He fingered the bump on his head. “A hell of a greeting,” he added, but he smiled at Pam.

  “I don’t think you ought to call me a cat,” Pam said. “And I’ve said I was sorry. But you wouldn’t want me just to let him kill me, and not do anything, would you? I mean, if you had been the murderer, instead of you.”

  “All right,” Jerry said. “You did fine. If it had been the murderer, you’d have had him. You certainly had me.”

  Somebody knocked at the door. It was Detective Stein, with word of the arrival of the assistant medical examiner. It wasn’t Dr. Francis, this time, Weigand found, but a crisp young man the lieutenant knew only slightly. The physician’s interest was distant and professional. The conditions were what one would expect if a man were hanged—with a drop.

  “About what you’d get in a legal hanging,” the doctor agreed. “Cervical spine fractured or dislocated. Spinal cord crushed.” He was kneeling beside the body.

  “Feel the jaw,” Weigand suggested. The medical examiner felt the jaw. He nodded.

  “Hit first,” he said. “Probably knocked unconscious. There’s not much swelling—wasn’t time, evidently. But you can just feel it. Is that what you expected?”

  “It would have been easier that way,” Weigand said. “And quicker. And also silent. The murderer was in a hurry.”

  “Was he?” The assistant medical examiner did not seem much interested. He got up and dusted the knees of his trousers. He said Weigand could send the body down whenever he wanted. They’d take it apart for him. Weigand nodded, abstractedly, and watched the doctor go down the stairs without seeing him.

  The murderer must have been in a hurry—either in a hurry or extremely lucky. It looked as if he were in a hurry. If he were in a hurry, it would be because he knew Pam North was coming up to hear what the old man had to tell her. And that meant that he had heard the conversation between Pam and Perkins outside the bedroom door. It would mean that he had followed Perkins to the top of the house, passing Pam’s door while she was dressing; come up behind Perkins, struck him brutally on the jaw—he’d have had to whirl him around to do that, and Weigand thought of the final terror of the old man, only a few feet from what he thought safety, when a hand had suddenly wrenched at his shoulder, turning him to face death—struck him on the jaw, knocking him out, and then hanged him.

  But why, if you were in a hurry, bother with hanging? You had the leash, presumably picked up and secreted with its purpose in mind, and almost certainly the plan had been to strangle. Why had the plan been abandoned? Presumably because hanging served the turn better. Then Weigand realized why.

  Assuming, you knew you would not fumble with knots, it was literally quicker—quicker if you wanted to be sure. Strangulation, with its slower death by suffocation, took time if you wanted to be sure you had finished the job. And you had to wait until the job was finished, which was risky, but no riskier than leaving the job half done. But if you resorted to hanging, your part was finished quickly. Perkins might still have died of strangulation, if the drop had not broken his neck. But you did not have to wait for him to die. You could leave that to the leash, and the old man’s slight weight, which would nevertheless be enough. Hanging, Perkins did half your job for you.

  It had seemed bizarre at first glance. But it was not intended to be bizarre. It was merely intended to be effective. As it had been.

  With the hanging attended to, the murderer was cut off from going down the stairs by the fact that Pam was presumably coming up them. So he had stepped out of sight, perhaps in Perkins’s own room, and waited. Perhaps Pam would be frightened when she saw the body and run without waiting to investigate further. In that event, the murderer could count on the confusion to shield him, and, if he were a member of the family, appear later with the others, as sleepy and disheveled and horrified as any of them. Presumably, however, if Pam had gone on it would have been necessary to do something about her. It was lucky she hadn’t gone on.

  When she retreated without screaming, the murderer had followed her down, but probably not really in pursuit. Probably he had merely wanted to get away from the top floor, which indicated he was not sleeping on that floor. (And hence “he” was not either Judy or Clem?) When Pam had gone on past her room, the murderer had proved himself an opportunist and had searched the room. For what? Something Pam had and had forgotten she had, presumably; something she had got since she came to the Buddie house, probably. But what?

  11

  THURSDAY

  1:15 A.M. TO 2:35 A.M.

  Pamela North had told Jerry what had been happening in the old house, but she had told it in fragments, breaking off now and then to look around the disordered room.

  “And the major paid this Brack creature fi
ve thousand—” Pam said. “Jerry! I don’t understand it. What could he have been looking for?”

  “Well,” Jerry said, “something small. Something small enough to be in the bottom of a bag, under other things.”

  He was looking at one bag. The contents had been strewn around it; the searcher had gone at the bag with both hands, like a dog digging. And then he had moved on to the other bag. He had searched the clothing which Pam had unpacked, and tossed it aside; he had stripped the covers from the bed and thrown them over the foot, so that they dragged disconsolately on the floor. He had broken the string which held a hat box closed, and grabbed at the hat, crashing it. He had, it was evident, been in a hurry.

  “I can’t think,” Pam said. “There must have been something. Because it couldn’t have been the cats.”

  The cats sat on the disordered bed and looked at the Norths. Toughy started to scratch an ear, became bored on the instant, and sat ridiculously with his leg cocked up. Ruffy looked at him and decided that something was biting her tail. She bit her tail angrily, seeking the marauder. Then, with no interval, she pretended that there was something of fascinating importance between the spring and the side board of the bed. She lay flat and reached a long forearm down, hooking at it.

  “I wish her tail were bigger,” Pam said, thoughtfully. “Toughy’s got a much better tail.” Toughy, hearing his name, pranced to the end of the bed. He walked on tip-toe and his hind legs advanced more rapidly than those in front, so that his body curved. It was a kind of dance. His tail stuck straight up and twisted at the end and grew rapidly in circumference. Toughy was scaring himself, making up terrors for amusement.

  “You’re crazy,” Pam told him. “There’s nothing there.”

  Toughy advanced, gingerly, and batted at something. Then he sat down, his tail subsided and he fell to washing his chest. One would have thought, watching him, that he had had, for hours, only chest washing on his mind.

  “You know,” Jerry said, interestedly, “I sometimes think he’s a little crazy, don’t you?”

  Pam said, somewhat indignantly, that she thought he was very sweet.

  “He does distract easily,” she admitted. “But they all do.”

  Ruffy was not proving that. Ruffy was still angling for the prize between the mattress and the side board of the bed. She would almost have it, apparently, and then it would get away. It was a long way down, evidently; perhaps it was lying on the end of a slat which helped support the springs. She wriggled closer and dug deeper. Then she flicked.

  She had it now. It was on the bed. Ruffy went around it in a circle, reached out one slender paw and tossed it again. Then she jumped over it; then she pawed it under herself and sat on it and laid her ears back. Then she leaped away and pretended to look at Toughy and not to remember that she had trapped her prey. Toughy abandoned chest washing and advanced. Ruffy laid back her ears, leaped and tossed her own—her own, so personally captured, so infinitely desirable—prey to one side. Toughy sat down.

  Ruffy advanced again and flicked the prey delicately. Then she crouched over it and got it between her teeth and, with her mouth full, growled warningly at Toughy. Toughy stood up, regarded her intently and sat down again. He seemed to have nothing in mind; he looked at Pam with an air of boredom, indicating that he was not being taken in. Probably, his look said, she hasn’t anything; certainly she had nothing an intelligent cat would want.

  Ruffy dropped her prey, drew back and, unexpectedly, tossed it toward Toughy with a flick of her forepaw.

  “Did you ever notice that they’re usually left handed?” Jerry inquired, interestedly. “They usually strike with the left paw, by preference. What do you suppose she’s got?”

  “Whatever it is, she hasn’t got it now,” Pam told him. “Toughy’s got it.”

  Toughy was heavier in play than his sister. His paws were heavy at the ends of sturdy legs. Where Ruffy had whisked the prey, Toughy cuffed it. He knocked it to the floor and fell headlong after it. He landed in a heap, and rolled.

  “Anybody else would look awkward,” Pam remarked. “And he does, beside Ruffy. But I wish I could do it.”

  “Fall out of bed and roll?” Jerry enquired. “I don’t see where it would get you.”

  “Anything,” Pam said. “Not necessarily out of bed. But do everything—oh, all of a piece. We gangle. Who was it said we should have started out as cats? Instead of monkeys, I mean.”

  Jerry said he didn’t know. Clarence Day had speculated about it, he thought. It would have had advantages.

  “For instance,” he said, “paws couldn’t get hold of vases.” He sobered. “Or tie knots in ropes,” he added. “It would have had its points.”

  “Yes,” Pam said. She watched Toughy, who had rolled back toward the prey and was lying on his back and reaching for it. Ruffy had come to the edge of the bed and had her head stuck over and was staring down at him in evident amazement. She couldn’t, it was clear, imagine what he was up to. “We made a mistake back there, somewhere. Jerry! What have they got?”

  “Anything,” Jerry said. “Probably a piece of mattress. Or a piece of the bed. I wouldn’t put anything past them.”

  Toughy reached the prey and knocked it across the floor. It hit a leg of the bed and clinked.

  “Probably your fountain pen,” Jerry said. But Pam was staring.

  “Oh!” Pam said. “That’s what it was!”

  She dropped to her hands and knees and brushed Toughy from his plaything. It was a small plaything, twisted in newspaper and hard and round.

  “Jerry!” Pam said. “It’s what Perkins gave me! I’d forgotten. And it’s a”—she felt it—“a bottle!”

  She was up with it, now, and had begun to strip off the haphazard wrapping, already loosened by the play of the cats. Then Jerry was beside her, holding out his hand.

  “Don’t touch it!” Jerry said, quickly. “Or only the paper.”

  He took it from her, holding it gingerly. Carefully he pulled the paper down from the small bottle, exposing the neck with the cork half pushed in. He stripped the wrapping further until, still not touching the bottle, he could read part of the label. There was, just where the bottle started to swell from the neck, a blue crescent pasted on the bottle and on the crescent, in white, the words: “Professional Sample.” Below that was another label. This one was white, with black letters, and the first word was “Folwell’s.” Jerry peeled the wrapping down until he could read the next line: “Fruit Salts.” The bottle was of green glass and Jerry tilted it. There was some sort of powder inside, filling about half the bottle.

  “Arsenic!” Pam said, excitedly. “It’s half full of arsenic! That’s where Aunt Flora got it!”

  Jerry nodded. He admitted that it seemed probable; there was a bottle missing—a bottle which had appeared mysteriously and disappeared overnight. It was a fair guess that, arsenic or not, this was the bottle. And it was a fair guess that there was arsenic in it. Jerry held the bottle gingerly and said to Pam, “Come on.”

  They found Bill Weigand in the library, with Mullins and Aunt Flora. Aunt Flora wore a remarkable garment of purple with decorations and her wig was pushed back perilously from her forehead. The makeup was undisturbed, confirming Pam’s suspicion that she kept it on day and night. But the blue eyes did not snap. They were clouded. For the first time she could remember, Pam was seeing Aunt Flora in tears.

  “Of course I was fond of him, dearie,” Aunt Flora was saying. Her voice was little changed by emotion, and she still spoke with authority. “I was used to him. We remembered—the same things.” Aunt Flora had hesitated for a moment and gone on. Then she saw Pam and Jerry.

  “Gerald!” she said. “What happened to you, dearie?”

  “What?” Jerry said. “Why, Aunt Flora?”

  “Bump.” Aunt Flora said. “Bump, dearie. I didn’t even know you were here.”

  “Oh, that,” Jerry said. “Pam hit me. It doesn’t matter. I’ve got to talk to Bill for a minute, Aunt Flora.”r />
  “Why don’t you?” Aunt Flora said. She turned to Bill Weigand. “You through with me, dearie?” she enquired. “If you are, I’m going back to bed.” She looked around at the others. “Tired,” she said, firmly. “Old women get tired, eh? Nobody remembers I’m an old woman.” That, it was evident, pleased her. “Don’t coddle myself, that’s why,” she said. “But all this—” she broke off. “Poor old codger,” she said. She was not talking to them now. “Such a long time ago,” she said. “Such a long time.”

  “Right,” Weigand said. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Buddie.” He stood up, and Mullins stood up. At a nod from Weigand, Mullins moved beside Aunt Flora, his hand hovering near her elbow. She looked at him and smiled faintly. It was an odd smile—an odd, touching smile.

  “That’s right, dearie,” she said. “I’m an old woman.”

  Mullins’s hand came under her elbow, supporting her. Weigand and the Norths watched them to the door.

  “The poor old thing,” Pam said, softly. “The poor—They were young together, Bill. She and Harry. And remembered the same things.”

  “Yes,” Weigand said. “However—” He seemed a little on the defensive, and turned back from the door, his manner dismissing the moment. “What have you found, Jerry?”

  “The cats,” Pam answered for Jerry. “They found it—what I’d forgotten. What Harry gave me, and I forgot all about it. And must have dropped when I was by the bed, changing. And it fell down the side—inside. Before he said anything, he gave it to me.”

  Jerry held “it” forward, touching only the paper. Weigand took it from him and stared at it and after a moment said he’d be damned.

  “So this was it,” he said. “And you didn’t remember it, Pam!”

  “Listen,” Pam said. “With all that’s been going on. And being chased. And Jerry. You’d have forgotten, too. And, after all, you’ve got it now. Is it the bottle?”

  Certainly, Bill Weigand told her, it was a bottle. And if its contents held arsenic, the bottle. And Harry Perkins had risked his life to bring it to her, and it had remained for the cats to find it.