“Nothing,” said Cliff. “But I’m gettin’ some new ideas.” He blew his nose violently on a greasy handkerchief. “What makes you so sure the doc might want to kill the old lady?” he demanded of Crane.
“If you stole an old lady’s money and nothing but her word is keeping you under suspicion, you might want to get rid of her. Especially if you could slip her something while she was having a stroke. Then it would look as though her illness had carried her off.” Crane balanced a cheese knife on his hand. His face throbbed where Dr. Eastman had struck him. “And then, if you had one of the two keys to her safety-deposit box in New York, you might have a better chance getting the other with her dead than with her alive.”
The sheriff’s blue eyes expressed disbelief. “That’s interesting if true,” he said. He glanced around the table. “Say! Where’s that wolf fellow?”
Mr. L’Adams’s chair was empty, and his napkin was neatly folded in front of his plate. He had not touched his crackers, but his cheese was gone, all of it, even the rind.
“How’d he get out?” asked Sheriff Walters.
Blackwood shoved back his chair in panic, threw down his napkin, and half rose from the table.
Sheriff Walters turned a clammy eye on him. “Where you goin’?”
“Away.” Blackwood’s thumbs were bloodless against the table. “He may be under here, getting ready to bite somebody’s leg.”
The sheriff snorted, but he lifted the flap of linen. “Nothing there.”
“I don’t care.” Blackwood’s voice trembled. “I’m afraid. I’m going upstairs and lock myself in my room. Nobody can tell what will happen around here next.”
“Go ahead,” said the sheriff contemptuously. “But you needn’t worry. One of my men will sleep in the hall.”
Richardson stood up and stepped around to the back of Mrs. Heyworth’s chair. He said, “I’ll take you upstairs, too.”
“I don’t want to go to bed,” said Mrs. Heyworth. She smiled at Crane. “I think this is fun. I’m so anxious to see who the murderer is. Do you really think it could be that poor Mr. L’Adam?”
Sheriff Walters relaxed visibly. “Well, now, ma’m, I’d like to be able to show you, and maybe I will in the morning, when you have had your beauty sleep.”
Richardson said, “Come now, dear. It’s been a very long day,”
Mrs. Heyworth smiled at Richardson and then looked directly into Crane’s eyes. “Good-night,” she said. Her expression was tender and sad. She allowed herself to be led out of the dining room. Blackwood followed them at a discreet distance.
Cliff said, “Some bim!”
“Very pretty,” Sheriff Walters agreed.
“With her and that Miss Evans I could put on a show.”
The sheriff said, “Cliff!” He shook his head at his son. “We got to get to work.”
Dr. Livermore appeared at the door. With him was Dr. Eastman, his glance sullen on William Crane.
“We put her to bed,” said Dr. Livermore. “Her nerves were overburdened. Miss Twilliger will watch until she falls asleep.”
“What I want to know,” said the sheriff, “is how you happened to lie about that money box?”
Dr. Livermore’s beard shook in easy laughter. “I didn’t think it important. She’s been worried about that box for months. She hides it and then pretends it has been stolen.” He laughed again. “It wouldn’t make much difference if it were. It is filled with bits of torn newspaper and cloth that she has picked up around the grounds. The whole collection isn’t worth a penny.”
“The hell it isn’t!” said Sheriff Walters. “Why didn’t you tell us that at supper?”
“I didn’t want to speak before Miss Van Kamp. It always throws her into a violent rage when anyone openly doubts her word. It has a very harmful effect upon her, as you saw.”
Sheriff Walters absorbed these facts coldly.
“We should have told you all about the box before this,” said Dr. Eastman, “but neither of us thought about it. We believed you understood she was insane on that subject when she tried to tell you about the bonds before.”
“Then that clears it all up,” said Sheriff Walters. He appeared relieved.
“We still got to look for a murderer,” Cliff reminded his father.
Sheriff Walters brightened over the possibility of physical action. “That’s right,” he said briskly. “We’d better run down that L’Adam.”
“What happened to him?” Dr. Livermore asked.
“He got out somehow.”
“I suppose I’d better get Charles and somebody else to help me,” Dr. Eastman said. He glanced at Crane. “You wouldn’t care to help, would you?”
“No, I wouldn’t.”
“Do you want the others sent back from the servants’ house, Sheriff Walters?” Dr. Eastman paused at the door.
“Yes, might as well send them back. Take one of the deputies to help you, if you like.”
“Thanks.” The doctor was gone.
Crane tilted back his chair. “I don’t think it’s so smart to forget that box altogether,” he said. “Even if the doctors knew there was nothing in it, the help didn’t. One of them might have stolen it, thinking it was full of bonds.” He grinned ruefully. “You would, hearing her talk.”
“I won’t overlook anything,” the sheriff promised. “Least of all that Joe fellow with the broken nose. He looks like a bad actor to me.”
“I assure you he could hardly be responsible for these things,” Dr. Livermore said hastily. “He’s been here only three days.”
“It don’t take that long to murder anybody,” said Sheriff Walters.
A murmur of voices, first faint and then quite loud, reported the arrival of the group from the other dining room. Dr. Buelow, Miss Evans, and Deputy Powers were in front of the others. Sheriff Walters walked over to them.
“I’d like to have practically everybody stay in this building tonight,” he said. “Will there be room, Dr. Livermore?”
“Oh yes. Plenty.” Dr. Livermore coughed politely. “That is, Miss Evans, if the beds can be made up?”
“I’ll have Maria and Ulah do them at once.” Miss Evans was formal, too.
Ulah was brought in. She asked, “Does that mean me and Maria get to sleep in here?”
Sheriff Walters undid the cellophane wrapping around a cigar. “I guess you two needn’t sleep here. You make the beds, and then you can go back to your rooms.”
“Mistah Sheriff,” said Ulah, “we don’t want to go back to our rooms. We’d like to sleep here. We’ll sleep in the kitchen.”
Maria agreed fervently. “Yes sir!”
“All right. Go ahead and make up those beds.”
It was only a few minutes before everyone was settled. The sheriff decided that the doctors could sleep in their rooms in the main hospital building, and he delegated Deputy Powers to go with them as a guard. Dr. Eastman, his hand stained with dirt, arrived just as Dr. Buelow and Dr. Livermore were leaving. “We got him,” he announced. “He’s locked up in the detention building.”
“Who’s gonna’ watch him?” Sheriff Walters asked.
“He can’t possibly get out,” Dr. Livermore said. “No one need guard him.”
Sheriff Walters decided that was all right. “But where is that old fellow who guards the place at night?”
Dr. Eastman said, “He should be at the front gate. He’s supposed to watch it at night.”
“I’ll look him up.” Sheriff Walters motioned to Deputy Graham, who leaned against the screen door. “You find out about him. If he’s guardin’, let him be. Cliff, you’d better go upstairs in the hall. Set in front of Miss Evans’ room and don’t let her come out.”
Cliff picked up a pillow from one of the couches in front of the fireplace and started up the stairs. “Nobody’s going to come out tonight,” he announced from the top.
“I’ll roam around a little as soon as things get set,” Sheriff Walters said when the doctors and the deputies had departed. He stared d
isapprovingly at Crane and Mr. Penny, both of whom were sitting in front of the fire. “Don’t you two intend to go to bed?”
“Sure,” said Crane. “But we aren’t sleepy. We thought we might help you a little.”
“I don’t need any of your help. I got trouble enough, now.”
“Look here,” said Crane. “You might as well use your head about this before anybody else is killed.”
Sheriff Walters bristled. “What do you mean?”
Crane leaned forward in his chair. “Do you remember what I said about deduction? Well, there’s something just as useful in detective work as that.”
“Yeah?”
“It’s called elimination. You’ve heard of elimination?”
Sheriff Walters nodded angrily.
“Elimination is even more accurate than deduction,” said Crane. “Your wife has brown eyes, hasn’t she?” The sheriff started. “I was lucky there,” said Crane. “That was a deduction with the help of a gentleman named Mendel, who made up a law that blue- and brown-eyed parents have three brown-eyed children to one blue-eyed. Of course, I could have been wrong. That’s where elimination is so valuable. You’re never wrong with elimination.”
The sheriff listened silently.
“Now let’s take a try at some of this elimination.” Crane spoke softly. “If the murders have all been done by the same person, I think we will get somewhere.” He stood up and walked close to the fireplace. He leaned an elbow on the mantel and looked into the coals. “Who couldn’t have killed Pittsfield is what we must first determine.”
“I don’t know,” said Sheriff Walters. “I guess he couldn’t have killed himself.” He stared suspiciously at Crane. “But even if you tell me who couldn’t have killed him, I don’t know why I should believe you.”
“You don’t have to,” Crane said. “Mr. Penny will back up what I say, and if you don’t believe him, you can ask the others.”
The sheriff’s head nodded savagely in sudden decision. “All right, go ahead.” He drew out a notebook and a cracked yellow pencil and sat down on a straight chair.
“The way I figure it out there are just five persons who couldn’t have killed Pittsfield.” Crane was still intent upon the soft coals which glowed in the velvet darkness of the fireplace. “They are Miss Van Kamp, who held hands with Nellie during the colorama, Mrs. Heyworth and Richardson, who also held hands, I guess, because each was sure that the other had not left; and the driver and Miss Twilliger. She was with the driver in the garage. I don’t think a woman could have done it, anyway.”
Sheriff Walters stuck the pencil under his sandy mustache, wet it, and then wrote down the names. “I wish Cliff was here,” he said plaintively.
Lively points of light danced from unconsumed pieces of wood in the rear of the fireplace, but toward the front, in the beige and gray ashes, eyes of crimson and violet peered unwinkingly into the room. Away from the fire the air was cool and fresh.
“The second murder was that of Nellie Paxton,” Crane continued. “There are so many who could not have done it that we’d better look for those who had the chance to stick that knife in her.” He pushed a fresh piece of wood over the coal. “We won’t consider the five we eliminated in the first murder at all. That leaves Blackwood, Mr. L’Adam, Miss Evans, the guy with the bandaged face, myself, Miss Queen, Dr. Livermore, Dr. Eastman, and that old fellow who watches at night.”
Sheriff Walters wrote these names down. Crane continued:
“I’m not considering either of the two colored women because I am positive they are racially incapable of such purposeful crime. Charles is out because he was seen by Miss Evans going into the servants’ bathroom for a bath, and Dr. Buelow and the patients are out, too, because they were all eating dinner together.”
Sheriff Walters stuck the pencil into the corner of his mouth. “That sounds all right,” he mumbled. “But how about yourself and Miss Queen? Didn’t you have dinner with them?”
“I went up to get a drin—handkerchief,” said Crane. “And Miss Queen got sore at me and left the table too. We both had a chance to do it.”
“All right, all right,” said the sheriff. “What next?”
Crane leaned both elbows on the mantel. “Now for the last murder. Who can we eliminate from those eight?” He looked at the sheriff and raised his eyebrows.
“I suppose you could count Blackwood and Miss Queen.” Sheriff Walters was rubbing his neck. “We know they were both upstairs when Miss Clayton was killed.”
“Then you can eliminate me,” Crane said. “The deputy will vouch that I didn’t leave my room.” He smiled at the sheriff. “And if Miss Evans was the one who threw the chair at you, she could hardly have killed Miss Clayton.”
Sheriff Walters balled his right hand and struck his left palm. “You’re right. She couldn’t be two places at once.” He was quite pleased. “She’s too nice-looking a lady to be mixed up in a murder.” He reflected for a moment, his eyes closed. “Still, she might have thrown that chair anyway.”
William Crane returned to the subject. “Now you’ve got only five different suspects left. Dr. Eastman, Dr. Livermore, Joe, Mr. L’Adam, and the old guard.”
“I can’t arrest all of them.”
“No, but you have something to go on now.” Crane caught Mr. Penny’s attention and then glanced at the stairs. Mr. Penny blinked his eyes sleepily and nodded. “Of course, all the alibis may not be watertight. Particularly if the people are working together and one alibis the other. You better check over their stories and positions tomorrow.”
Crane and Mr. Penny were nearly halfway up the stairs when Sheriff Walters coughed.
“Say, Crane, you seem pretty smart,” he said. “What are you in for?”
“It was all a terrible mistake,” said William Crane. He continued on to his room.
Chapter XV
CRANE FELT very strongly that he should, as a detective, keep a careful watch all night, but he was sleepy. The bed was inviting, the room was cool for sitting, and so he undressed in the bathroom. Against his skin the pajamas were smooth, but in tying them he found a new sore spot on his right hip. He examined the discolored welt, but he was unable to remember how he got it. He wondered if it was one of the early ones or if it had come from a kick in the second beating. His face in the mirror was still quite colorful, and he admired it critically. The blow Dr. Eastman had given him at dinner had left a red mark above two livid bruises, like something out of the Cubist school. He washed his face tenderly, and as a concession to being a detective he propped the door open a fraction of an inch with a piece of wrapping paper so that he would be awakened by any events outside, if they were loud enough. Then he shoved the windows all the way open and climbed in bed.
But when he finally achieved a really comfortable position with his knees pressed up against the wall, he found he was unable to sleep. There was a hollow feeling in his stomach, and his heart beat more rapidly than usual, causing blood to pound in his ears at each stroke. He felt a slight nausea, and he knew that either he had had too much moonshine or he was frightened. He hoped it was the liquor.
The room was quiet, but there was a soft wind outside which intermittently brushed a tree branch against the stucco side of the guest house with a furtive scratching noise. It sounded as though someone were crawling up the wall with finger nails and toes. He caught himself watching the open windows apprehensively, half expecting to see outlined a black figure. Once the curtain blew in a sudden gust, and involuntarily he sat up in bed. “What the hell!” he said to himself. “What the hell!” He rolled into a tight ball, pressed his face into the pillow, and closed his eyes firmly.
This seemed about to get him to sleep until, at a great distance, he heard the roar of running water. At times it was loud; at other times it was faint; as though somebody were touring the gardens in a portable bathtub with both faucets open. William Crane climbed wearily out of bed, put on his bathrobe, and stuck his head out into the hall. The noise of
the water was clearer. At the other end of the hall, by the broken window, stood Cliff. His face was purposeful. He threw back his head and uttered an appalling scream. It started in a soprano’s high C, dropped into a baritone bray, and ended in a giggly falsetto. Crane ran down the hall toward him, but he was only halfway when the door to the ladies’ bath opened and Sheriff Walters emerged, red-faced and angry, amid a cloud of steam.
“Who the hell told you to scream like that?” he shouted at his son, who waited quietly, his face reposed as an opera singer’s after a successful aria. Sheriff Walters put his hands on his hips. “What’s the big idea?”
“Why, you told me to.” Cliff stood his ground. “You said …”
“I said for you to call me, not scream your damn head off.”
Cliff carefully rubbed his nose on his sleeve. “You found out what you wanted, didn’t you?” he asked. “You could hear me holler even though the water was running.” He grinned triumphantly.
Red in the sheriff’s cheeks slowly became pink. “I’ll say I did,” he said. “I’ll bet Ma heard you clear out the other side of town.” Reflective wrinkles creased his forehead. “That gal musta heard that scream if she was really in there. There’s something funny about her story. I’m glad we got her where we can watch her.”
The sheriff went back to turn off the water, and Crane started for his room. Only one other door in the entire hall was open. In it stood Richardson, wearing a wool robe and brown pajamas. He was looking at Mrs. Heyworth’s door.
“What happened?” he asked.
“More detective work.” Crane passed him without stopping and went into his room. He left the paper in the door to keep it open a crack, threw his bathrobe across the foot of his bed, and slid between the sheets. They were still warm.
It was about 3 A. M. when Crane awoke. He did not move, but he was quite awake, and the muscles in his stomach and legs were as tight as bowstrings. It was deathly quiet. The wind had passed away, and with it the clouds, and the moon stared coldly down through the left-hand window and made luminous a rectangle of floor a few feet from the foot of the bed. The silence had a quality of listening, as though something had stealthily disturbed it without actually having driven it away. Crane listened too.
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