Murder in the Madhouse

by Jonathan Latimer

  “I wonder if I could leave,” Miss Evans’s voice interrupted her. “I have so many things to do.”

  “Why, certainly, miss,” said the sheriff. “Though we’ll be sorry to lose you, miss, won’t we, Cliff?”

  “Sure,” said Cliff.

  After the screen door had closed, Miss Van Kamp said, “It’s about time they called the authorities. I can tell you a great deal.” She spoke rapidly. “Both Mr. Pittsfield and Miss Paxton were friends of mine. My only friends. Through them the murderer hoped to get my key.”

  “What key?” asked the sheriff.

  “The key in my box. You know they stole my key when they stole my strong box.”

  The sheriff’s voice was bewildered. “Strong box?”

  “The box with the four hundred thousand dollars in it.” Miss Van Kamp spoke sharply. “Somebody stole it from my room. And now they are trying to kill me.” Her voice quavered.

  Crane saw that the sheriff must have glanced at the two doctors. Dr. Eastman pointed his finger to his temple and shook his head significantly.

  “Miss Van Kamp, you’ve been a mighty great help to us,” Sheriff Walters said. “Don’t worry about being killed; we’re here to protect you, aren’t we, Cliff?”

  “Sure,” said Cliff.

  Miss Van Kamp said, “But my box with——”

  “If it can be found, we will find it,” said the sheriff.

  Cliff said, “Sure.”

  When Miss Van Kamp had gone, protesting bitterly, the sheriff wanted to know who else he could question. “Let’s get somebody with more sense,” he said. “We won’t get anywhere with them as batty as that.”

  “You’re quite right,” agreed Dr. Livermore.

  “We got to get at the bottom of this,” the sheriff asserted. “Cliff, you go tell Ty and Tom to wait outside. The doc here will get us another witness to question.”

  Presently Dr. Eastman brought in Richardson.

  “I told the others to stay in their rooms alone until we sent for them to question them,” Dr. Eastman said. “I was afraid they might talk to each other. I have one of our nurses watching in the corridor.”

  “That’s good,” boomed the sheriff. “Where’s that Cliff at? Hey, Cliff! We got another daffy to question.”

  “All right, all right, Pa. I was jest talkin’ to Ty out here.” The screen door banged petulantly.

  Sheriff Walters said, “What is your name?”

  “Richardson.”

  “What is your address? I mean, where do you live on the grounds?”

  “I have a room in the south wing of this building, near that of Miss Van Kamp.”

  “What do you know about these crimes?”

  “Nothing.” Richardson’s voice was morose. “But I got a good idea who did them.”

  “Who?”

  “A patient named Blackwood.”

  Dr. Livermore said, “I am sure Blackwood could have had nothing to do with the murders.”

  “Never mind what you’re sure of,” said the sheriff. “I want to hear this fellow.” Sheriff Walters cleared his throat. “What makes you think Blackwood killed these people?”

  “He had the opportunity and the motive. He killed Pittsfield because he hated him. They were always quarreling. And he killed Miss Paxton because—well—because he did not like her either.”

  “What do you think, Doc?” asked the sheriff.

  Dr. Eastman replied, “I think he’s wrong.”

  “Richardson, where were you at the time the first murder was committed?”

  “I was with Mrs. Heyworth. She can verify that.”

  “Cliff.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Take a note of that.”

  “Yeah.”

  “All right, Richardson. We’ll look into this Blackwood angle.”

  “Aren’t you going to arrest him?”

  “Not just now.”

  Richardson’s disappointed footfalls receded heavily.

  Sheriff Walters asked, “How about another man? We’ll save the women for dessert.” He chuckled again.

  “There is Mr. Penny,” Dr. Livermore said, “but he doesn’t talk.”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “He can hear, but he doesn’t talk at all. He hasn’t uttered a word since he came here nearly four years ago.”

  “He isn’t much use to us, then. Who would you suggest?”

  “We might call Miss Queen.”

  “All right. Bring her in.”

  Dr. Eastman again left the room.

  “Pa,” said Cliff, “what’s the good of questioning all these bats? You can’t bring nothing they say into court: it ain’t admissible as evidence.”

  “Now, Cliff,” said the sheriff. His voice was placating. “We got to get at the bottom of all this. If a loony done these murders, we had best see them all before we decide which one.”

  Cliff said, “It would be smarter to question some of the help around the place. If you want me to ask some of those nurses we saw when we came in——”

  “You stay right here by me. We’ll question them nurses later.”

  Footsteps descended the stairs.

  “This is Sheriff Walters: Miss Queen,” said Dr. Eastman. He walked into William Crane’s narrow field of vision and sat down beside Dr. Livermore.

  Sheriff Walters said, “Miss Queen, I wish you would tell us what you know of these murders.”

  “Oh, Mr. Sheriff, they are so tragic. I can hardly bring myself to talk about them. Two people well and happy on one day and on the next—dead. It is terrible! As Mrs. Brady said, which of us is doomed to be next?”

  “Now, now, Miss Queen. Everything is all right. We are here to take care of you.”

  “Oh, Mr. Sheriff.” Miss Queen’s voice was opened at the tremolo stop. “We women do so need the help of a fine capable man like you. You can’t imagine what we have been through.”

  “Miss Queen!” The sheriff sounded pleased. “I guess I have the reputation of being a real man. Don’t you worry. Just help us out by giving us anything you know about these deaths.”

  “I think I know who did them.” Miss Queen spoke with hushed importance. “It was a newcomer among us.”

  “Who is that?”

  “It’s Mr. Crane. Everything was all right until he came. He is such a strange man, too. The way he looks at me. I am sure he has marked me for death.”

  “Who’s this Crane?”

  “He’s one of the patients,” said Dr. Livermore. “He’s been here only three days. He came very well recommended.”

  “What’s the matter with him?”

  “I’m not altogether sure. He suffers from delusions. He has a fixation that he’s a great detective. He becomes quite violent when he is doubted.”

  The sheriff said, “Miss Queen, what makes you think he had something to do with these crimes?”

  “When Mrs. Paxton was killed, Mr. Crane was upstairs getting a handkerchief. He could easily have killed her, and Mr. Blackwood admitted seeing Mr. Crane out in the hall on the night poor Mr. Pittsfield met his end.”

  “Hm,” Sheriff Walters meditated. “He’s a good prospect. But what about motive?”

  Miss Queen suggested, “Perhaps he did the murders so as to have the fun of pretending to try to solve them.”

  “He’s the one I suspect,” Dr. Eastman said. “He has been acting very mysteriously all the time he has been here.”

  “I think Mrs. Brady knows something about him, too,” Miss Queen said. “Why don’t you ask her?”

  “Send for her,” Sheriff Walters ordered.

  “I’ll get her,” said Dr. Eastman.

  His feet hurried up the stairs, and after a moment Crane could hear him loudly pounding on a door.

  “Mrs. Brady, we want you below.” Dr. Eastman’s voice easily carried downstairs.

  There was another pause. Dr. Eastman pounded on he door again.

  “Mrs. Brady? Can you hear me?”

  The voice of Miss Twil
liger mingled with his. “Mrs. Brady, they want you to come downstairs.” The knocking on the door was redoubled.

  Dr. Livermore said, “I know she’s in there. She went up to her room during lunch. She couldn’t have gone out.”

  Miss Queen glided into the part of the living room which William Crane could see. She clasped her hands prayerfully in front of Dr. Livermore. Her long face was tragic.

  “She’s dead,” she said. “She’s dead.”

  The sheriff said, “Now, Miss Queen.”

  Upstairs the din grew. Somebody was now kicking on the door.

  “Mrs. Brady,” called Dr. Eastman. “Wake up.”

  Dr. Eastman essayed again.

  “MRS. BRADY! WE KNOW YOU’RE THERE.”

  “Hell,” said Cliff. “That guy could win the county hog-calling contest in a whisper.”

  “Now, Cliff,” said the sheriff.

  “SAY, DR. LIVERMORE.” Dr. Eastman’s voice echoed down the stairs, “HAVE YOU THOSE PASS KEYS? MRS. BRADY IS EVIDENTLY ASLEEP, AND WE SHALL HAVE TO OPEN HER ROOM.”

  Dr. Livermore entered into the gala spirit of the occasion. He replied:

  “I’LL BRING THEM RIGHT UP.”

  The windows in the dining room rattled.

  Dr. Livermore stood up and bowed to the sheriff. “You will excuse me for a moment?”

  He nodded to Miss Queen and moved toward the door but halted as there came a sound of feet pounding on the porch. The screen door slammed, and there was a noise of heavy breathing in the living room.

  “Jesus, Sheriff,” said a strange male voice between gasps. “There’s a neked woman getting ready to jump from a window out here in the front yard …” The man’s voice apparently gave out.

  “What’s that?”

  “A woman … window … jump.”

  Cliff asked: “A naked woman?”

  “Neked as hell.”

  Cliff departed through the front yard on the run.

  “That must be Mrs. Brady,” said Dr. Livermore. He wrung his hands.

  “Don’t make no difference who she is,” said Sheriff Walters. “Somebody’s got to catch her.”

  “Ty’s still out there,” said the strange male voice. “But I don’t reckon he’ll catch her. She’s past the squab stage.”

  Sheriff Walters said, “Come on! We better get out there and figure some way to stop her, if she ain’t already jumped.”

  The party, including Miss Queen, hurried to join Ty and Cliff in the front yard. Crane followed.

  Chapter XI

  IN THE GARDEN Cliff and a tall elderly man with an unshaven red face and an Adam’s apple were gazing skyward. In a vine-bordered window above them stood Mrs. Brady. The reports about her had been accurate. She was quite naked. She was grasping the edge of the window behind her, and her body was leaning outward, as if she were poised for a dive. The sun was high overhead, and the shadows of the ivy were patterned on her white skin. Her face was calm. A diamond-and-ruby pin gleamed in her hair.

  “Lady,” the sheriff shouted, “don’t jump. Nothing is going to happen to you.” The sheriff was a stocky man. He had cobalt-blue eyes, and a straw-colored mustache stained with tobacco juice. There was an Elk’s tooth hanging from a gold chain on his vest, and his pants were too big for him.

  Mrs. Brady gave no sign of having heard him. Her face seemed to express a secret and tranquil satisfaction: perhaps at the fine audience she was drawing. This expression changed suddenly as the knocking on her door was resumed. Her eyes appeared startled and she leaned farther out over the window ledge.

  “Mrs. Brady,” called Dr. Eastman from inside, “wake up!”

  “Hey, you,” shouted Sheriff Walters. “Cut out that damn knocking.”

  Crane could not tell whether they heard each other by way of Mrs. Brady’s windows, or whether their voices went back and forth by way of the living room and the stairs.

  Dr. Eastman shouted, “We got to get this door open.” He knocked defiantly.

  The driver, Charles, and Miss Clayton arrived at a run.

  “Whooee!” said the driver. “Nekid, eh?”

  Dr. Livermore said, “I’ll take the keys to Dr. Eastman. We’ll open the door and hold her.” He turned toward the house.

  “Tell him to cut that knockin’ out,” said the sheriff. “Somebody down here get a ladder and we’ll climb up to her.”

  “I’ll get it,” said the driver.

  As he ran off, Dr. Buelow, Joe, and Miss Evans arrived. Miss Clayton moved over to Crane. “What’s the matter with her?” she asked.

  “I think she’s afraid they want to murder her,” he said. “She’s been funny all day.”

  “Poor thing.”

  William Crane said, “Whoever tries to catch her will be a poor thing, too.”

  Presently the driver returned with a ladder. He placed it under Mrs. Brady’s window and stepped back.

  Sheriff Walters asked, “Who’s going to climb up there?”

  No one volunteered.

  “She wouldn’t hurt nobody,” said the sheriff.

  The pounding on the door resumed and then stopped. Dr. Livermore had arrived.

  The sheriff said, “How about you, Ty?”

  “No, sir,” said Ty. He was the man who had reported the presence of Mrs. Brady in the window. He was firm about it. “No, sir.” He was a sawed-off man, and his back muscles bulged under a shiny blue coat that did not match his pants.

  “She’s just a harmless old lady,” said the sheriff. “She won’t hurt nobody.”

  “She’s not so old,” said Cliff.

  “Now, Cliff,” said the sheriff.

  “I got eyes,” said Cliff.

  Joe Kassuccio swaggered before the sheriff. “Coppers are all alike.” His mouth was an ugly scar. “They’re all yellow. I’ll go up and get that dame.”

  He started ponderously up the ladder, but before he was halfway up the window Mrs. Brady, with an agility surprising for her size, stepped inside. She slammed the window and fastened it. She disappeared within the room. There was a concerted movement toward the guest house, with William Crane and Miss Clayton well in the lead. In front of Mrs. Brady’s door stood a group which included the two doctors, Miss Twilliger, Mr. Penny, Miss Van Kamp, and Richardson and Mrs. Heyworth. They looked at the approaching rabble with startled eyes.

  Dr. Livermore stepped back of Dr. Eastman. “What’s the matter?” he asked. “Has she jumped?”

  “She’s back in her room,” said the sheriff. “We got her blocked from the outside.”

  Dr. Eastman said, “All we have to do is open the door, then.” He took a bunch of keys from Dr. Livermore and tried the lock. The fourth key fitted. The door swung open. Crouched in a corner by the windows was Mrs. Brady. Her hands were crossed over her breasts, and her eyes were like nickel lollipops.

  “Who’s going in to get her?” asked the sheriff.

  “You’re the one who wants her,” Dr. Eastman said. “Don’t you think you ought to get her yourself?”

  “Not me,” said Sheriff Walters. “I’m a married man.”

  Deputy Tom Powers moved up to the door and took off his cap. “Lady,” he said, “we don’t mean no harm. We jest wanta talk with you.”

  “That’s right, lady,” Sheriff Walters supplemented. “We’re here to help you.”

  Mrs. Brady crouched farther back in her corner. “No!” she said. “No! You want to kill me like the others. I know.” She began to scream in a subdued manner.

  “Oh, my God!” said Sheriff Walters. “Tom, you better go in and fetch her out.”

  “All right,” said Tom. He had to bend his long body to get in the door.

  He advanced into the room and gingerly took hold of Mrs. Brady’s fat arm. She shrieked and leaped at him. There was a swirl of figures, and the door was knocked shut, and there could be heard sounds of pounding, running feet, slaps, and breaking furniture. Finally the door was opened and Deputy Tom Powers staggered out. His face was red and scratched, his sh
irt was torn, his ear was bleeding, and he was nursing a hand in which Mrs. Brady had left the imprint of her teeth.

  “What’s the matter?” asked the sheriff.

  “Did you ever try to grab a greased pig?” asked Deputy Powers bitterly. “Well, this dame is a greased tiger.”

  He retired with Miss Twilliger to have his wounds dressed. Mrs. Brady had resumed her crouching position in the corner of the room. Around her was the wreckage of two chairs. The bureau was tilted against the wall. The rug had slipped under the bed, exposing brown hardwood floor.

  Dr. Buelow made his way through the crowd. “I have an idea,” he said. “Miss Evans, haven’t you a portable phonograph in your room?”

  Miss Evans nodded her blond head.

  “Could we have it for a moment?”

  “Certainly.” Miss Evans was bewildered. “I’ll send for it, if you want it. Charles, will you get my phonograph?”

  Charles made off at a dead run.

  “What’s the idea?” asked the sheriff suspiciously.

  “You’ll see,” said Dr. Buelow.

  In a few minutes Charles returned with a red leather case. He handed it to Dr. Buelow.

  “If everybody will please stand back,” said the doctor. He placed the phonograph on the hall floor in front of Mrs. Brady’s door, cranked it, and placed the needle on the record. “Please be quiet.”

  Someone clasped William Crane’s hand. It was Mrs. Heyworth. She pressed up close to his side, but her eyes were intent on the scene in front of the door. William Crane did not know how to move away.

  The phonograph emitted a few grating noises and then began to play the “St. Louis Blues.” Dr. Buelow stood beside it.

  “I hate to see that evenin’ sun go down, That evenin’ sun go down,”

  sang a negroid voice.

  Dr. Buelow moved slowly into the room. The voice sang on:

  “I’ve got forty-nine women, and all I need’s one more.

  I’ve got forty-nine women, and all I need’s one more.”

  Dr. Buelow moved a step further. Mrs. Brady huddled against the wall, her back toward him. Her buttocks were smudged with dirt.

  “If you don’t like my peaches, why do you shake my tree?

  If you don’t like my peaches, why do you shake my tree?”

  Dr. Buelow waited. Over her bare shoulder, Mrs. Brady’s eyes were bright.