“I was just coming to get you,” said Charles. He led the way through the outer garden to the door of the detention home. He opened the door, signaled for them to go through, and then lingered to fasten the catch.
“One more question,” said Crane. “What does the box look like?”
“What does a box look like?” Miss Van Kamp marched off to her room with restored dignity.
Chapter IV
DR. LIVERMORE touched the tips of his fingers together, minister fashion, and leaned back in his chair. His long face relaxed; his manner became expansive.
“I think that will do for today,” he said.
William Crane sat and looked at Dr. Eastman, who was on a straight-backed chair beside the big desk. The room was angular with the amber rays of the afternoon sun. The splashing of the fountain, irregular and distant, mingled with the drowsy notes of small birds.
“Will he keep the same room?” asked Dr. Eastman. He scowled through black eyebrows.
Dr. Livermore turned to a large man at the opposite side of the room. “What do you think, Dr. Buelow? Same room?”
Dr. Buelow was youngish, with blond hair in a German pompadour, and a blond mustache. He looked as though he could have played on the Cornell football team in the days of the flying wedge. He took his time with the question. “I think not,” he said at last. “I think he should be with the others.”
“I don’t agree,” said Dr. Eastman. He thrust out his heavy lower jaw. There was a red mark on it where Crane had kicked him. “He’s violent. We’d better keep him where he is.”
“Now, Dr. Eastman,” said Dr. Livermore. He raised a long finger. “You know what our policies are.”
“Not to do anything sensible,” said Dr. Eastman. He swayed on the edge of his chair, ape-like with his short legs, long arms, and barrel chest.
Dr. Livermore ignored the remark. “We’ll give him the corner room. Eleven will do very well.” He pushed one of the buttons on his desk. “If you will take him over, I will have Charles bring his clothes.”
“All right.” Dr. Eastman submitted angrily. “I know your policies.” He stood up and looked at Crane. “Come on.”
“Wait!” Dr. Buelow waved a muscular arm. “Mr. Crane, will you have the goodness to repeat this after me?”
“Repeat what?” asked William Crane.
“This,” said Dr. Buelow. “The ragged rascal ran round the rugged rock.”
“The ragged rascal ran round the rugged rock.”
Dr. Buelow turned to Dr. Livermore. He said, “I don’t understand it.” His large face surrounded puzzled blue eyes.
Dr. Eastman led Crane to the large building he had seen across from the detention ward. They entered through the porch, passed a huge living room, and climbed stairs, sided by a wrought-iron railing, to a narrow corridor on the second floor. Room 11 had windows on two sides. There were a three-quarter bed covered with a peppermint-stick spread, an easy chair, a desk, a straight chair, and a low bureau with a mirror halfway to the ceiling. The rug was pale green and covered the entire floor. There was a bit of lint on the part by the foot of the bed.
“This is your room,” said Dr. Eastman. “Your clothing will be here in a minute.”
Crane sat on the bed. He jiggled up and down. “Not bad,” he said.
Dr. Eastman raised the two window shades. Sunlight engulfed the room. He walked to the door.
“You needn’t bother with ice water,” said Crane.
Dr. Eastman regarded him darkly. He said, “I wouldn’t be too funny, if I were you.” He slammed the door from the outside.
Crane went to the windows. One looked over the fountain to the detention building; the other over the large outside garden. He inspected the scenery until someone knocked on the door.
It was Charles. He had two bags and a bundle. His smooth face was covered with a fine perspiration, and his hair hung over his eyes. He put the bags down and pushed back his hair. “Anything else you want?” he asked.
William Crane took a five-dollar bill from his watch pocket. “I want a quart of that liquor they make up here.”
Stepping backward, Charles closed the door. “You want some liquor?” His face was crafty. “You aren’t allowed money here. How much have you got besides that bill?”
William Crane produced a handful of bills. “Sixty dollars.”
“Hand it over,” Charles demanded. “I won’t let the doc know about it.”
“What if I don’t?”
Charles edged closer, sliding black shoes along the green carpet.
“How would you like me to tell Dr. Livermore that you’ve been in jail?” said Crane conversationally. “He might be glad to learn he has a stir-bug around the place.”
Charles’s eyes glinted through narrow slits.
“He’d be glad to know how serious the last rap was,” said Crane. He held out the five-dollar bill. “Now, get me that stuff.”
For a moment Charles seemed undecided. Then he took the money. “A guy’s got a right to try to go straight,” he said.
“It doesn’t look as though you were trying very hard.”
Charles’s face attained the inscrutability, reposed and calm, of a choir singer during an intermission. He nodded and walked out.
Crane grinned at his battered reflection in the mirror over the dresser. “As a good guesser,” he said aloud, “C. Auguste Dupin had nothing on me.”
The closet was large, with hangers for his clothes, and he began to unpack his pigskin suitcase. He was putting a pair of rubber-soled golf shoes in the closet when there was a knock on the door. He closed the closet, pushed the suitcase under the bed, and walked to the window.
“Come in,” he said.
Miss Clayton entered with towels and two cakes of Palmolive soap in her hand. She put these on the dresser. “Anything else you need?” she asked.
“Some cracked ice and a bottle of White Rock.”
Miss Clayton showed her small regular teeth. “Have you anything to go with them?”
“Why should I tell?” asked William Crane. “You’re probably a G-girl.”
Miss Clayton was puzzled.
“G-girl,” he said. “Snooper, prohibition officer, revenuer.”
“Well, I like that.” Miss Clayton was really injured. “I don’t think there’s anything wrong with liquor.”
“Good girl,” he said.
“Of course, you are not supposed to have liquor in here.”
“I haven’t.”
“I advise you to keep it well hidden if you have some.”
“I haven’t any.”
“I said if you have some.”
“Do they send people around to look for it?”
“No,” said Miss Clayton, “but Miss Van Kamp is liable to find it. She’s always going through everybody’s things.”
“What’s her idea?”
“I told you last night. She thinks she has lost something. But she won’t tell anybody what it is.”
“It can’t be her virginity?”
“You’re nasty,” said Miss Clayton. “Nice people don’t say things like that.”
“Maybe that would account for Miss Van Kamp’s reticence.”
Miss Clayton mingled her indignation with a smile.
“I am just one of the local wits,” said Crane.
“Half-wits!” Miss Clayton moved toward the door. “Dinner is at seven downstairs.”
“Do you have to dress?”
“You really ought to wear something.” Miss Clayton started to leave.
“Wait a second,” said William Crane. “Did you happen to notice the fountain last night? I thought it stopped for a while after they locked me up.”
“I heard it stop, too. It was the first time it stopped since I’ve been here.”
“I just wanted to be sure I wasn’t beginning to hear things.”
The light from the afternoon sun was heavy bronze. There was already outside the faint haze of evening, odorous of leaves and
pine and smoke. The air was still and peaceful. Vines partially shaded the windows of the room, filtering the darkness with soft veins of metallic light. Crane removed his shoes, the candy-stick cover from the bed, and lay down. A moment later he got up, locked his door, and went back to bed.
He was awakened by a subdued but persistent tapping. He swung out of bed and opened the door. Charles stood there with a bundle of towels hung over his bent arm.
“I’ve got too many towels now,” said Crane.
“Not this kind,” said Charles. He stepped inside and pulled the towels off his arm and put two quart bottles on the dresser. The bottles were of white glass, and the liquor in them was a pale yellow, like medium-priced white wine.
“That’s good stuff,” said Charles.
“I didn’t expect you to get so much,” said Crane. “What did it cost?”
“Four bucks,” said Charles. He smirked disarmingly. “You got a dollar coming.”
“You didn’t have to spend that much,” said Crane. He drew another bill out of his pocket. “Here’s a fin. Keep it.”
“Thanks. Say, if you don’t like that stuff, I can take it back.”
“Let’s try it.” Crane got two glasses from the bathroom. He pulled the cork from one of the bottles and filled each glass to the brim.
“I got to work around here.” Charles made an alarmed gesture. “That’ll knock me.”
Crane handed him the glass. “Here’s how,” he said. He drained the glass.
He was all right for a moment, and then Crane thought he was going to die. He felt as though he had stepped under a cold shower and had swallowed a pint of molten iron at the same time. Then it was all right again.
Charles looked at him with awe. “God!” he said. “No wash?” He had taken a sip from his glass.
Crane waited until his vocal cords had stopped fluttering. “Not bad,” he said. He wedged the bottle behind the dresser. “Finish up.”
Charles slowly drank the rest of his liquor. “You certainly can take it,” he said.
“I don’t hate the stuff.”
Charles took his glass into the bathroom. Over the noise of running water he said, “You certainly started something between Dr. Eastman and the boss.”
“How do you mean?”
“I wouldn’t be surprised to see those two having a battle pretty soon.”
“Why?”
“Over Miss Evans.”
“So?”
“They’re all nuts about her,” said Charles. “Even that Dr. Buelow is gone.”
“How about you?”
“She ain’t a bad lookin’ dame,” said Charles, “but too skinny.” He cast a look at the bottles behind the dresser.
“All right,” said Crane.
They had another drink.
“That’s the McCoy,” said Crane.
Charles edged toward the door. “How’d you know I’d been in stir?” he asked.
“Nine by two. Three steps one way, one step across, three steps back.”
Swift comprehension lit Charles’s eyes. “You ain’t so dumb.”
“No,” said William Crane. “I’m not.”
He waited until the door had closed, and then he took the glass Charles had used carefully by the bottom and wrapped it in an old newspaper. He put the package in his suitcase
It was dusk when Crane awoke. The room was dark, and the windows emitted grayness through the loosely woven vines. An imperceptible movement of air, intermittent and impersonal, was gradually cooling the room. In the distance there was a sound of dishes being moved about and the steady rush of running water. He got up and switched on the lights. After a short drink, he washed and shaved, carefully avoiding the bruises on his chin and lips. He noticed with satisfaction that his eye was progressing from a gala red to a somber blue. He closed his good eye and experimentally regarded the effect in the mirror.
He descended the stairs into the huge living room. At the opposite end there were two divans at right angles to a large fireplace. Other comfortable chairs were around the sides, and a large mahogany table in the center was covered with magazines. There were filled bookcases built into the walls. Two men were talking in front of the fireplace.
“How do you do?” said one of these, advancing out of the gloom. He was a middle-aged man with steel-flecked hair and kindly wrinkles. “You’re the new guest?”
“Yes. My name is Crane.”
“Mine is Pittsfield. I’m a lawyer. And this is Richardson.”
Richardson moved slowly forward, approaching without pleasure. He was powerfully built, about forty years old, but still in good condition His face was tanned. His mouth drooped in a sullen pout. “Hello,” he said.
“I’ve been asleep,” said Crane. “Is dinner over?”
“It hasn’t started yet,” said Pittsfield. His blue eyes twinkled. “The invigorating air here gives one an excellent appetite. So much better than Washington.”
Crane nodded. He was surprised to detect a warning look from Richardson. “I hope the food is good,” he said.
“It’s really first rate,” said Pittsfield. “It is simple, but it is delicious.”
Crane nodded politely.
“My dear friend John Hay,” said Pittsfield, “had a fine taste for proper food. His perfect dinner was composed simply of a clear soup, a steak cooked over charcoal, a fresh vegetable, a touch of potato, a salad and cheese and biscuits. That, with a bottle of burgundy, and a port with the cheese, leaves a man ready for a bit of conversation.”
“You have quite spoiled my appetite with your talk of gourmandizing.” A large, flabby man with bad teeth and a yellow complexion stood regarding Pittsfield with a mocking smile. His small brown eyes glowed with a golden inner light. He had on a dress suit.
“Hello there,” said Pittsfield. “Blackwood, this is Crane. He’s planning to stay with us.”
“Delighted,” said Blackwood. He sank into a chair and put a fleshy hand on his hip. “I do hope you have some interests outside of football and law. Football, you know, is the resort of thugs who are afraid of compromising their gentlemanly position by following a career of saloon brawling.”
Richardson snorted and moved away.
Blackwood bared his yellow teeth. “But you haven’t told us what you are interested in,” he said, watching Richardson’s retreating back.
“Murder,” said William Crane.
Blackwood turned toward him and blinked his golden eyes. “Murder?”
“Murder,” said William Crane.
“Now you are joking,” said Blackwood.
“I am perfectly serious.”
“How are you interested in murder?” asked Pittsfield. “Actually or in the abstract?”
“Actually,” said Crane.
“You mean you commit them?” Blackwood asked. He watched Crane alertly.
“No. I catch those who commit them.”
“You mean you are a detective?” asked Pittsfield.
“That’s right.”
“I haven’t heard of you,” said Blackwood.
“You would have, if you knew my right name,” said William Crane.
“Ah, yes, you must have your alias,” said Blackwood. “An alias is to a sleuth what a nom de plume is to a third-rate author. It conceals his identity without hiding his mistakes.”
“Good-evening, gentlemen.” A deep, timbrous voice indited the words. Crane turned to see a tall, jeweled lady standing behind one of the couches She was poised, as if she had halted in the middle of a step. She was about fifty. She was dark, her face was long and tragic; her eyes were huge and heavily mascaraed.
“Ah, Miss Queen!” said Blackwood. He did not rise. “May I present—what did you say your name was?”
“Crane.”
Miss Queen moved majestically from the couch to Crane. She held out a hand covered with rings. “So pleased,” she said.
William Crane saw the jewels were imitations.
“We were talking of murders,”
said Pittsfield. “Mr. Crane investigates them.”
“How horrible,” said Miss Queen. “Can’t you talk of something more interesting—say, love?” She man aged to draw her long face into a coquettish smile.
“That’s just as illegal,” said Blackwood.
Pittsfield said, “In some cases.”
“I mean adultery,” said Blackwood. “That’s the only interesting form of love.”
“Oh, really now! Do you consider adultery such a crime?” asked Miss Queen. She unfurled a fan and peered over it at William Crane.
“Oh yes,” said Blackwood. “Much worse than murder.”
“Why?”
“You see murder only gives pleasure to one party. Adultery gives it to both. Therefore it is more reprehensible.”
“Mr. Blackwood, you are shocking,” said Miss Queen, tapping him delightedly with her fan. “In London, I should say to you——”
What Miss Queen should have said to Mr. Blackwood in London was never said. Miss Van Kamp marched into the room. With her was an even smaller lady of slightly less age. This lady had natural brown hair and soft white unwrinkled skin and blue eyes. She had on a black dress with a frilly white collar and cuffs. Miss Van Kamp had on a black dress without frills. Crane wondered if the Dolly Sisters would look like them in 1984. Miss Van Kamp made directly for his group.
“Mr. Pittsfield,” she said, “I would like to have a word with you.”
“Certainly. Pardon me, please.” Mr. Pittsfield moved off with Miss Van Kamp. The other lady followed.
“Have you been in London recently?” Miss Queen asked William Crane.
“Not since 1929.”
“That was a delightful year. Did you ever go to the theater?”
Crane nodded.
“What did you see?”
“I saw Tallulah Bankhead.”
“What sort of an actress is she?”
“She’s a stripper.”
“What do you mean?”
“She kept taking her clothes off in the show I saw. She finally got down to a negligee and a pair of black silk stockings. I expected her to take them off any time. But she never did. I went back three times.”
“You didn’t try going backstage, did you?” asked Blackwood.
“No.” William Crane saw Miss Van Kamp beckoning him. “Excuse me.”
Murder in the Madhouse Page 4