“But maybe this man wasn’t a professional,” Father said. “Maybe he hadn’t thought all that out.”
Boyle shrugged. “Maybe not.” He inhaled on his cigarette, sat back, exhaled, and watched the smoke drift upward.
Mr. Slocum said to me, “You say that your stepmother usually took a small nap after breakfast?”
“After breakfast and after lunch,” I said. “She said her feet hurt her.” Guilt nudged me, and I added, “Her feet really did hurt, I guess.”
“And she usually took her naps in the guest room?”
“Yes, so she could hear the doorbell if anyone came.”
“You can’t hear the bell,” Father said, “from the back of the house, upstairs, where our bedroom is.”
Slocum nodded. To me: “And when you found her, did she look as though she might have been asleep when it happened?”
“I guess so. Yes.”
“She was lying on the bed,” Mr. Slocum said to Father, “and according to the police report, there were no signs of a struggle anywhere in the room. Presumably she was asleep. And Amanda was asleep as well. A burglar could have entered the house. How many keys are there to the front door?”
Father frowned. “The police asked me the same thing last night, you know.”
“I’m sure they did.”
“Well,” Father said, “I have one. Audrey has—Audrey had one. Mr. Cutler, the owner of the house, has at least one. And William has one. Four that I know of.”
“Where did Mrs. Burton keep her key?”
“On a nail in the kitchen.”
“When you went over the house with the police, did you notice if it was there?”
“No. It didn’t occur to me.”
“Did they ask you about it? Where it was kept?”
“Earlier, yes.”
He turned to me. “Amanda, you don’t have a key?”
“No.”
He sat back, his face thoughtful. No one spoke for a few moments.
At last Boyle said, “So what happens now?”
Mr. Slocum shrugged. “Amanda and Miss Borden give their statements to the police. And we try to locate your son, Mr. Croft. I’d like to speak with him before the coroner’s inquest. That’ll be on Monday. It’s basically a formality. Unless the police discover anything new, its findings are essentially a foregone conclusion.”
“Yeah,” said Boyle. “Doesn’t sound like she committed suicide.”
I astounded myself by producing an explosive giggle. Clapping my hand over my mouth, I blushed furiously.
No one spoke; Mr. Slocum was smiling his ironic smile.
Boyle glanced around the room. “Whoops,” he said. He held out his hands, palm up, to Father and Miss Lizzie. “Sorry.”
Father nodded abruptly. Miss Lizzie attempted to press her lips even more tightly together.
Boyle turned to Mr. Slocum and, evidently trying to get the conversation back on track, said, “So where do I fit in? You want me to sniff out the brother? This William?”
“That,” said Mr. Slocum, “is up to Miss Borden.”
Boyle looked at her.
“I should like you to stay close to hand,” she said, some resistance to the idea visible on her face. “Mr. Burton may wish to engage your agency in the search for his son, and I would suggest to him that he do so. But I believe you’d perform a more useful function conducting your investigations here in town.”
“Which investigations?” Boyle asked.
Mr. Slocum said, “Miss Borden feels that the local police, in their rush to judgment, may overlook something.”
“I have,” said Miss Lizzie, “placed an advertisement in the local newspaper today, offering a reward for information leading to the arrest and conviction of the person responsible for Mrs. Burton’s murder. If anyone comes forward with information that seems promising, I should like you to pursue it.”
“What kind of a reward are we talking here?” Boyle asked her.
“Five thousand dollars.”
Father shook his head. “Miss Borden, I really can’t allow you to—”
“I appreciate your concern, Mr. Burton,” she said, “but it is, after all, my money.”
“Yes, but surely—”
“Really, Mr. Burton. My mind is made up.”
“Miss Borden,” he said. “Please. At least let me contribute some part of it.”
She cocked her head, nodded it. “If you insist.”
Boyle said, “That’s a lotta cash, Miz Borden.”
She nodded again. “I am aware of that.”
“You’re gonna get a lotta loonies crawling out of the woodwork, they hear about it.”
“Possibly. But possibly we will uncover something that the police would not.”
“Probably uncover a lotta things.”
“That’s as may be.”
“And it’s an open case. Police aren’t gonna be too thrilled, I start poking around in it.”
“Does that bother you?”
He shrugged. “Not a whole lot.”
“And bear in mind,” she said, “that should you unearth any such information on your own, you will yourself be entitled to the reward.”
Exhaling smoke, Boyle shook his head. “Not allowed to take it. Against the rules.” He shrugged. “And besides, money like that, it just complicates things.”
Miss Lizzie raised both eyebrows now, in surprise or disbelief. “But can we count on you? Will you accept the job?”
Boyle smiled. “Dunno if you can count on me. But sure, I’ll take the job.”
I said to Mr. Slocum, “Will I have to tell them?”
“Tell whom, Amanda?” he said. “Tell what?”
“The police. About what William said. On the porch.”
“If they ask you, Amanda. Yes. I’m afraid so.”
“Try,” said Officer Medley. “Try to remember if the door was bolted.”
“I can’t,” I said. “I really can’t remember.”
Officer Medley and Chief Da Silva, when I mentioned Marge Grady and the cardboard box, had exchanged the same sort of quick complicit looks that Father and Mr. Slocum had. And they had seized upon, as I had feared they would, and they had made much of William’s parting words to Audrey, nodding and passing Dark Significant Looks. Now they hammered, stubbornly, at the front door.
“Come on, Amanda,” urged Medley, who had been doing most of the questioning. He demonstrated his winning smile. “Give it a try.”
“She’s already explained,” said Mr. Slocum with bland patience, “that she can’t remember.”
“It’s pretty important, sir,” Medley told him earnestly. Officer Medley was capable of a wonderful earnestness.
Across the room the police stenographer, a remarkably short young woman, to all intents a dwarf, sat poised in a gingham dress over her notebook. Her name was Miss Mullavey.
Chairs had been moved by Boyle, Medley, and Mr. Slocum from the dining room into the parlor. Few objects are as intractable as a dining-room chair; willful, it resists any major relocation. Even the usually adroit Mr. Slocum had seemed ungainly and comical (although endearingly so) as he wrestled his charge into position atop the Persian carpet. All eight of us were distributed around the room in an irregular circle; with cups and saucers on our laps we might have passed for a (fairly motley) afternoon tea.
I was desperately tired by now of all these questions. First from Mr. Slocum and then, with less tact (but heaps of earnestness) from Officer Medley. I tried again, however. I remembered tottering, almost tumbling, down the stairs, remembered that awful coppery stink in my nostrils. Remembered reaching out, seeing my hand move toward the door.…
“If she can’t remember,” Mr. Slocum said to Officer Medley, “she can’t remember.”
Fingers going for the bolt …
“She’s undergone an enormous strain,” he said.
“It was bolted,” I cried. And then, more calmly: “It was bolted, I do remember.”
Medley�
�s glance skipped to Da Silva, then back to me. He grinned. “That’s swell, Amanda. That’s terrific. You’re sure?”
“Yes,” I said. “I’m sure.”
Slowly, with an air of having achieved something of supreme importance, Officer Medley sat back.
Mr. Slocum was slouched down in his chair, hands in his pockets, the ankle of his lime-green sock perched atop his white linen knee. His brow furrowed, his lips in a reflective pucker, he mulled over this new development. Boyle blew slow streamers of smoke toward the ceiling. Da Silva was, as he had been throughout, expressionless.
Miss Lizzie had not changed her own expression, primly aloof, since the police arrived. Nor had she spoken. Now she said, “Was the door on the back porch latched?”
“Yes,” said Officer Medley.
“Do you have her key?”
Medley frowned. “What?”
“Mrs. Burton’s key to the front door. Do you have that?”
Medley glanced at Da Silva, then back to Miss Lizzie. “Mrs. Burton’s key.”
“I believe that’s what I said.”
“Well,” said Officer Medley, clearly hesitating.
“Ah,” said Mr. Slocum with a sudden smile. “So you haven’t found it.”
“Not yet,” said Medley, by his staunch tone implying that the thing would doubtless materialize at any moment.
“I see,” Mr. Slocum said, and nodded pleasantly. “And what about witnesses? Have any turned up?”
Officer Medley looked again at Da Silva, apparently uncertain whether he was permitted to answer questions as well as pose them.
Da Silva said flatly, “No.”
Mr. Slocum’s left eyebrow arched. “Really? Someone commits a murder in broad daylight and then goes marching merrily down the street, no doubt covered with gore, and no one sees anything?”
“We don’t know,” Da Silva said, “that the murderer went down the street.”
“Ah,” said Mr. Slocum. “Yes. Probably he lolled about on the beach for a time, and then swam away.”
“We don’t know what the murderer did,” said Da Silva. “The beach was deserted yesterday. For the same reason that everyone on the street was inside, with their shades drawn. The heat.”
“What about forensic evidence? Did you find anything in the house that might help?”
Da Silva produced his quick cold frown. “Nothing.”
“But there must be something, old man. I mean, you don’t commit a crime like that without leaving evidence about. In the room. On your person.”
“The drains,” said Miss Lizzie.
Everyone looked at her.
Over her pince-nez she asked me, “Is there a washroom upstairs? On the guest-room side of the house?”
I nodded. “A small one. Just a shower and a sink. And a toilet.”
She turned to Da Silva. “Have you looked in the drains?”
The chief glanced at Medley, who gave a small quick shake of his head. Da Silva turned to Miss Lizzie. “And why, exactly, would we do that?”
She said, “It’s obvious, surely. He was probably stained with blood. Wouldn’t his first thought be to wash it away before he went outside? Some it may have remained in the trap below the drain. If it did, I imagine there was very little he could do about it.”
Da Silva was smiling that hard small smile that was as cold as his frown. “He, Miss Borden?”
NINE
DURING THE INTERVIEW with Miss Lizzie, it was Chief Da Silva rather than Officer Medley who asked the questions. Once again, the rest of us became an audience. None of us spoke, except for Mr. Slocum, who interrupted from time to time, acting almost as a referee. And none of us moved, except for Mr. Boyle, who puffed quietly away, one by one, at a chain of cigarettes; and for the diminutive police stenographer, whose pen darted with swift metronomic efficiency across the pages of her notebook.
Chief Da Silva: Miss Borden, how long have you been residing at One-oh-two Water Street?
Miss Borden: Since the beginning of May.
Chief Da Silva: You rented the house for the summer?
Miss Borden: Yes.
Chief Da Silva: Did you know the deceased, Mrs. Audrey Burton?
Miss Borden: I did not.
Chief Da Silva: But you were aware, were you not, that Mrs. Burton resided at One Hundred Water Street, next door to you?
Miss Borden: Yes.
Chief Da Silva: Did you ever speak with her?
Miss Borden: No.
Chief Da Silva: Come now, Miss Borden. You expect us to believe that you lived next door to the deceased for several months and never once spoke with her? Not even to say hello?
Miss Borden: What you believe, or disbelieve, is of very little interest to me.
Mr. Darryl Slocum: Miss Borden has answered your question, Chief Da Silva. Perhaps we can go on.
Chief Da Silva: Miss Borden, you notified the police, by telephone, that Mrs. Burton had been murdered. Is that correct?
Miss Borden: Yes.
Chief Da Silva: How did you know this?
Miss Borden: Miss Burton, young Amanda Burton, her stepdaughter, came to my front door and told me.
Chief Da Silva: What time was this?
Miss Borden: About twenty minutes after twelve.
Chief Da Silva: At approximately twelve-twenty on the afternoon of August the second, is that correct?
Miss Borden: Yes.
Chief Da Silva: And what, exactly, did Miss Burton say?
Miss Borden: That someone was dead and that there was blood all over.
Chief Da Silva: Those were her exact words?
Miss Borden: As I recall them.
Chief Da Silva: Did you ask her who was dead?
Miss Borden: I did.
Chief Da Silva: And what was her reply?
Miss Borden: That it was her mother.
Chief Da Silva: How did she appear to you?
Miss Borden: She appeared to be in shock.
Chief Da Silva: Have you had any medical training, Miss Borden?
Miss Borden: No.
Chief Da Silva: Then what, exactly, qualified you to diagnose Miss Burton?
Mr. Slocum: Hold on, old man. You asked her how the girl appeared to her. It seems to me that she’s answered that question.
Chief Da Silva: What were the symptoms of this shock you diagnosed?
Miss Borden: She was quite pale. Her speech was disjointed.
Chief Da Silva: What form of treatment did you prescribe?
Miss Borden: Are you asking me what I did next?
Chief Da Silva: Yes.
Miss Borden: I took her inside and tried to comfort her.
Chief Da Silva: How?
Miss Borden: I wrapped her in a shawl and gave her some brandy.
Chief Da Silva: What is your relationship with Amanda Burton?
Miss Borden: She is a friend.
Chief Da Silva: Do you often give her brandy?
Miss Borden: No.
Chief Da Silva: Have you ever given it to her before?
Miss Borden: No.
Chief Da Silva: Are you aware, Miss Borden, of the Volstead Act?
Mr. Slocum: We’re wandering a little far afield, aren’t we? If you want to arrest everyone who’s got a spot of medicinal brandy in the cupboard, you’d have to arrest half the town, including, I daresay, most of the police department.
Chief Da Silva: We’ll leave it for the moment. Miss Borden, why would Miss Burton come to you?
Miss Borden: I am her neighbor and, as I said, her friend.
Chief Da Silva: She’s visited your house before?
Miss Borden: Yes.
Chief Da Silva: Often?
Miss Borden: Yes.
Chief Da Silva: On a daily basis?
Miss Borden: I shouldn’t say that often.
Chief Da Silva: Once a week? Twice a week? Three times a week?
Miss Borden: Perhaps three times a week. Perhaps four times.
Chief Da Silva: And what did th
e two of you do on these visits?
Miss Borden: We played cards.
Chief Da Silva: What sort of cards? Mr. Slocum: Surely that’s irrelevant?
Chief Da Silva: I’m trying, counselor, to establish the relationship between Miss Borden and the girl.
Mr. Slocum: You’ve established it. They’re friends and they played cards together. Whether they played gin or whist, or poker for that matter, has no bearing on the matter at hand.
Chief Da Silva: Thank you for your advice, counselor.
Mr. Slocum: Don’t mention it, old man.
Chief Da Silva: Miss Borden, what did you do after you comforted Miss Burton with your brandy?
Miss Borden: I went next door.
Chief Da Silva: You mean to the Burton residence?
Miss Borden: Yes.
Chief Da Silva: Why?
Miss Borden: To verify what Amanda had told me.
Chief Da Silva: I see. And what did you find?
Miss Borden: I found Mrs. Burton.
Chief Da Silva: What do you mean, you found her?
Miss Borden: I found her in the guest room, dead.
Chief Da Silva: How do you know she was dead? Did you examine her?
Miss Borden: It was obvious from the nature of her wounds.
Chief Da Silva: Did you touch her body?
Miss Borden: I did not.
Chief Da Silva: Did you touch anything in the room?
Miss Borden: No.
Chief Da Silva: But you did enter the room.
Miss Borden: I took a step into the room. It was obvious even from the doorway that the woman was dead.
Chief Da Silva: You found her in the guest room?
Miss Borden: Yes.
Chief Da Silva: You proceeded from your residence to the Burton residence and went directly to the guest room?
Miss Borden: Yes.
Chief Da Silva: How did you know she was there?
Miss Borden: Miss Burton had told me.
Chief Da Silva: But you say you went directly to the guest room. Had you ever been in the Burton residence before?
Miss Borden: No.
Chief Da Silva: Do you mean to say that while Miss Burton was in a state of shock, she gave you directions as to how to locate the guest room?
Miss Borden: No, I do not mean to say that. Had I meant to say that, I should have done so. Miss Burton told me some three weeks ago where the guest room was.
Miss Lizzie Page 8