He felt warm air upon his neck. “Didn’t you know?” whispered a woman’s voice. “It’s a madhouse.”
The speaker was Miss Queen. She was looking at him through eyes luminous with compassion. “You poor boy, she said.”
Crane got the hell out of there. He got out on the porch. He wished he were back in New York. He thought about Mr. Pittsfield, trying to have his mind fasten upon someone as the murderer. His mind was no good at this, and he tried it out on the missing box. It was no good on this, either; although he realized that one of the three doctors might have taken it. For the money, anyone could have taken it. Still thinking, he walked off the porch and into the garden, but as he reached a small cluster of trees someone seized him from behind. He struggled and was struck heavily on the head with something hard and blunt. He fell forward on the gravel path, his face against the pebbles, and someone knelt on his back, choking him strongly.
A man growled, “What did you do with that box?”
Crane tried to get his face out of the ground so that he could answer, but the fingers tightened on his throat. He reached out an arm and seized a leg. It was thin and covered with sheer silk. Someone stepped sharply on his wrist. He let go. The fingers released his neck, and there was a noise of running. He discovered he couldn’t get up.
Light from an electric torch fingered him and in its reflected rays Crane saw that a number of persons surrounded him.
“Is he dead?” asked a voice. It sounded hopeful.
A hand was laid on Crane’s breast. “No, his heart is beating.”
Crane decided he was among friends and struggled to his feet. Dr. Buelow was holding the flashlight. Around him were the patients, their faces opalescent in the milky light of the moon. Miss Twilliger peered into Crane’s face. “What happened?” she asked.
“I don’t know.”
“I heard a woman scream,” Miss Twilliger said accusingly.
“I didn’t,” Crane said. He found he had a nose bleed.
“You go to your room, Mr. Crane,” said Dr. Buelow. “I’ll get some dressings for your cuts. You can tell us what happened later.”
Followed at a respectful distance by the patients, Crane went up to his room. He got a towel, wet it, and applied it to his nose. He stretched out on the bed with his head hanging over the side so that the bleeding would stop.
The bleeding had stopped when Dr. Buelow arrived with Miss Clayton. He dressed the cuts made by the gravel on Crane’s race with precise gentleness and felt around his head for a possible fracture. There was none, but the place where he had been hit was tender.
“Never mind,” Dr. Buelow said. “See, I do not hurt you.” He washed the spots with alcohol. “So, I do not need even to bandage it.”
Miss Clayton deftly pulled the covers over him. She arranged the pillows comfortably.
“Can you tell us what happened?” asked Dr. Buelow.
“Somebody hit me from behind. Somebody tried to choke me. I grabbed somebody’s leg, and I guess somebody screamed. That’s all I know.”
Miss Clayton asked, “But why did they do it?”
“I don’t know.”
“Have you any idea who could have done it?” asked Dr. Buelow.
“I have a clue,” said Crane.
“What is it?”
Crane held out his wrist. “Somebody stepped on that with the high heel of a shoe. See the mark?”
“But what good is that?” asked Miss Clayton.
“To catch the criminal,” said William Crane very solemnly, “all I have to do is to find out the heel that made this mark.”
Chapter VII
NEXT MORNING it was colder. The sun shone bravely enough, but it didn’t seem to do any good. It was windy, and the air smelt of snow and of the usual pine and of wood-fire smoke. There weren’t enough covers on the bed and, after an internal struggle, William Crane forced himself to get up and close the windows. Then he went back to bed and lapsed into a comfortable doze.
About an hour later Miss Clayton knocked, entered, and looked at him severely. “Do you. know what time it is?” She had a bottle marked “alcohol” and some cotton.
Crane modestly pulled the blankets up to his chin. “No,” he said.
“It’s after eleven o’clock.”
He made a clicking noise of surprise and regret.
“We decided to let you sleep after your … unfortunate experience with that lady last night.”
“That lady?” asked Crane. “Do you know who she is?”
“You should ask who she is!” Miss Clayton wiggled her nose.
“You don’t think I assaulted her?”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“If I decide to assault anybody it won’t be a lady wrestler.”
Miss Clayton laughed. “I’m going to bathe your battle scars.”
“By the end of the week I’m not going to have any face left. There’ll just be pebbles.”
The alcohol pin-pointed the cuts, but soon the skin felt better. Miss Clayton was gentle.
“Do you know, they say poor Mr. L’Adam did it.”
“Beat me up?”
“No, you silly! Killed Mr. Pittsfield.”
“Why don’t they keep him chained up?”
“They do. But he gets away every now and then. They think he crept into the guest house and killed Mr. Pittsfield.”
“Who thinks that?”
“Dr. Eastman and Dr. Livermore.”
“Well, maybe he did.”
“I don’t think so,” said Miss Clayton. “He might bite somebody, but he wouldn’t strangle them with a cord.”
“That sounds logical.” He sat up a little higher in bed. “But who did it, then?”
Miss Clayton’s face was tense with concentration. “I’ve tried to think, but I can’t figure it out.”
“Did Pittsfield have any particular enemies?”
“I don’t think so. He was kind and good. He thought he was Abraham Lincoln.”
“Ah!” said William Crane. “I know who did it.”
“Who?”
“John Wilkes Booth!”
Miss Clayton dabbed some of the alcohol into his eye. He said, “Ouch!—Ow!”
Miss Clayton said, “You’ll have to get up now. Dr. Livermore wants to see everyone in the living room at noon.” She dropped the wet cotton in the waste basket and put the glass stopper in the bottle. “He wants to question you.”
“Me?”
“He thinks the attack on you can be explained in connection with the murder … if there was an attack.”
“He must think I am a circus contortionist if he believes I did this all by myself.”
A smile dimpled Miss Clayton’s face. “You can hardly expect him to believe you would resist a woman as vigorously as you say you did.”
Miss Clayton had a nice way of making her exits.
Crane was so astonished at his raffish reflection in the mirror that he took several extra minutes shaving to admire himself from all angles. The bruises of last night were still fresh and crimson, contrasting well with two earlier blobs of purple on the side of his face and the mournful aspect of his eye. His nose had a skinned place on its bridge, and his neck was blue at the points where fingers had pressed it.
He finished the rest of his toilet, splashed in the tub, and dressed. When he reached the living room, he found Miss Van Kamp seated in front of a lazy fire in the stone fireplace. She motioned him to sit beside her.
“How do you feel after your unpleasant encounter last night?” she asked. She was knitting, and she did not look up.
“Pretty bad.”
Miss Van Kamp leaned toward him. “So do I,” she said. “I hardly slept a wink.”
“I pretty nearly froze to death.”
“It was quite cold. There was such a sudden change that they decided not to give me my bath.”
“Your bath?”
“I have a special steam bath three times a week in the large bathroom upstairs. It’s g
ood for my nerves.”
“Oh!… I see now.”
Miss Van Kamp rested the gray, loosely knit material on her lap. “Do you know who killed Mr. Pittsfield?”
“No.”
“Will this make any difference in your looking for my strong box?”
“I don’t think so.” He stretched his legs toward the fire. “What was it he had to tell me?”
The knitting needles stopped. “I’m not sure. I think it was about Dr. Livermore. I think Mr. Pittsfield saw him in the corridor late on the night my box disappeared.”
“That might be a help.” Crane leaned over toward the old lady. “What do you wear when you are given your bath treatments?”
“Young man, don’t you think that’s a bit personal?”
Crane disclaimed being personal. “I mean the key you have. The one the holder of the other key would need before he could open your safety-deposit vault in New York. You don’t wear that around your neck when you are having a bath, do you?”
“No, but I have a perfectly safe hiding place for it.”
“I don’t think hanging it by a string out the window is so hot. Anybody can see those thumb-tack holes on the window sill.”
“You’ve been in my room.” Miss Van Kamp became unyielding and isolated. “When were you in there?”
“Last night.”
“When Mr. Pittsfield was killed?” Her voice was accusing.
“After he was killed. After you found him. Didn’t you see me?”
“Oh, yes!” Miss Van Kamp drew a long breath. “I’m a suspicious old lady. Did you find anything else there?”
“We found the cord that killed Mr. Pittsfield.”
“Where?”
“Under the bed.”
“Who has it now?”
“Dr. Eastman, I suppose.”
“If we can find who owns the cord, we’ll have a clue, won’t we?”
“Sure.”
“I don’t see why he doesn’t show the cord to everybody. Maybe someone might know to whom it belongs.”
“That’s probably why Dr. Livermore wants to see us all here at noon.”
“Oh! I forgot to tell you. He has decided to have us meet him here before dinner instead. About four o’clock.”
“All right.” Crane stood up. “Would Pittsfield have any reason to be in your room while you were away last night?”
“None at all.”
“When do we have lunch?”
“We don’t eat together. Just ask Maria. She’ll get you what you want.”
Maria was one of the two colored maids who had served dinner the night before. Crane had orange juice, coffee, soft-boiled eggs, and toast. On his way out of the dining room he met Dr. Eastman.
“How’s your face, Crane?” asked the doctor.
“Pretty bad.”
“We have suspended all treatments for today,” Dr. Eastman said, “so you can do whatever you please.”
“Swell.”
Crane went out onto the porch and walked down the path to the point where he had been attacked. Someone had carefully smoothed the gravel all around there. At the entrance to the closed part of the garden where he and Miss Van Kamp had met, he found the old guard seated on a stool and whittling. His hair blew in the wind sparsely. There was a bald place on the top of his head. He looked up at Crane with no smile of welcome.
“Hello,” said Crane. “A little cool?”
“Some would say so,” said the old man.
“Where were you last night? Lots of excitement at the house.”
“I was tending my own business.”
“So was I,” said William Crane, “and I got a sock in the head for it.”
The old man said, “I was busy watching Her.”
“Oh, Her!” Crane said. He nodded his head. “Her, eh?”
“She don’t like it,” said the old man. Saliva dripped from his mouth, and he looked suddenly at Crane with electric-blue eyes. “She’s possessed. She’s got the devil hanging around her, urging her on to sin. I seen him, too.”
The old man stood up and pushed his face close to William Crane.
“I’ll catch her, harlot and daughter of wickedness that she is. They tried to stop me by having me transferred, but it won’t do them no good.”
“Transferred?”
“I have to work at nights now. I kin no longer watch her for the Lord. Work at night!” He clenched his bony hands. “O Lord! How they persecute Thy servant!”
Crane bent over the old man. He said, “Therefore also said the Wisdom of God, ‘I will send them prophets and apostles, and some of them they shall slay, and some they shall persecute.’”
“Glory! Glory!” shouted the old man. His lips trembled and his blue eyes stared toward the sky. “Will you watch in my place?”
“Verily,” said William Crane.
“She comes at night by the garage. But I’ve never been able to catch them.”
“Them?”
“She meets him there.”
“Who? The devil?”
“That’s what I bin tryin’ to find out.” The old man spoke disappointedly. “But they always disappear, and now I kin watch no more.”
“What does She look like?” Crane asked.
“She has hair of gold.”
“Fear not, then,” said Crane. “I will gird my loins and watch with eyes sharper than the swords of Damascus.”
The old man’s face was cunning. “And when we catch them in their unholy intercourse, we’ll smite them in righteous wrath.” The old man rubbed the back of his hand against his nose. “You take the devil and I’ll ’tend to Her.” He chuckled.
“O. K.,” Crane agreed.
He moved away toward the garage and the servants’ quarters. It was colder now, and the wind was blowing quite hard. The elm and oak trees flickered in the bright cold sunlight like early motion-picture films. Flowers bent convulsively toward the ground, and the pool below the fountain, as he passed, shook itself until its surface bristled with tiny waves.
The servants’ house was of frame, painted a dull gray and adorned with square green shutters. Past it and a little to the side was a stone two-car garage. He walked into the garage. Inside there were two automobiles: the ambulance and a large Packard sedan. The sedan was dark blue, and on the right rear door were the initials, “W. L.,” stenciled in gold paint. The garage was filled with oily tools and rubbish and boxes, and he was examining these things when he heard voices. He climbed into the back of the ambulance.
“I got it here,” said a voice he recognized as that of Charles. He heard a heavy object being moved. “It’s potent stuff.” Charles laughed. “This is the commission on some I got for a guy.”
“That’s just what I need.” The voice was Joe’s. “I don’t go in for wrestlin’ with loonies. I can’t get used to them.” He drank noisily.
“Don’t take it all.” This was the driver. “I can use some, too.” Charles said, “There’s plenty.” There was the noise of another drinking.
“What kind of a joint is this, anyhow?” Joe asked. “Do they kill a lot of ’em off up here?”
“This is the first that died in nearly a year,” the driver said.
Charles said, “They think that wolf guy killed him.”
“Don’t you?” asked the driver.
“I don’t know,” said Charles. “I don’t think he’d do it that way if he was to murder someone.”
“If they are satisfied, I am,” said the driver.
“You ought to be,” said Joe.
“Why?”
“I see you back here with a nice babe last night.”
“Aw,” said the driver. He giggled embarrassedly.
“Ho!” Charles said. His voice was sharp. “Who was it?”
Joe said, “That nurse with the big deze and doze.” He sounded as though he were talking over a bottle.
“That’s Miss Twilliger,” said Charles. “She’s really got ’em.”
“How is she
?” asked Joe.
The driver giggled again. “Now, boys, I’m a married man.”
“Sure you are,” said Joe. “But that don’t answer my question.”
“We’re just gettin’ acquainted,” said the driver defensively. “She came out to get some air while the movies was going on.”
“I’d like to get acquainted with her,” Joe said.
“She’s a nice girl,” said the driver.
“Just another frail,” said Joe. He and Charles laughed again. “It’d take a piano mover to throw her over.”
“Never mind, ol’ pal, ol’ pal,” said Charles. “Let’s have another drink.”
There was a moment of silence as they had another drink.
The driver said, “It don’t feel so cold outside.”
“It don’t feel so cold inside,” Joe said.
“Say,” said Charles, “what the hell are you supposed to do around here?”
“Damned if I know,” said Joe. “The doctor keeps me by him ever since I gets here and then he says about half hour ago, ‘You may take an hour rest, my man.’ If he’s afraid someone’s goin’ to bump him off, why don’t he keep me around all the time?”
“Unless the guy he’s afraid of is busy,” said Charles.
Joe said, “If he knows who he’s afraid of, why don’t he tell me?”
“That’s a tough one,” said the driver.
“I’d better put this stuff away,” said Charles. “I got to go get L’Adam and put him indoors”
“Alone?” asked Joe.
“He don’t make any trouble in the daytime. It’s only at night he gets wild.” Crane could see Charles deposit the bottle in back of a box, which he pushed close to the wall. “I got to be going,” Charles said.
“Don’t forget, the boss wants us all in the guest-house living room just before supper,” said the driver as they moved away.
“I’ll be there,” Charles said.
Their voices faded into the rustle of leaves and the asthmatic breathing of the wind, and Crane got out of the ambulance and walked over to the box by the wall. He picked up the bottle, pulled the cork, and tried its contents. It was the same kind of moonshine he had in his room. He took a long drink and sat down on the running board of the ambulance.
He decided that cleared the big nurse, the driver, and Joe. This was nice because it narrowed the number of suspects down to fifteen or so. He thought that ought to be a cinch for C. Auguste Dupin. He looked at his watch. It was nearly five. He took another drink and put the bottle away. He noticed on his way back to the guest house that it was warmer.
Murder in the Madhouse Page 7