7:45 P.M.
After dinner Crane went back to his room and got the perfumed note. The sheriff had appeared with a clean shirt for dinner, and he was now questioning all three of the doctors in the living room. Crane slipped out of the guest house unnoticed and made his way to the hospital building. He saw a man watching the front gate, but he was too far away to be recognized. He walked into the hospital building and down the hall and into Dr. Eastman’s room. There was a typewriter on the table. The black rubberized cover caught for a second and then jerked free of the space lever. William Crane opened the drawer, took out a sheet of white letter paper, and wrote:
“The quick brown fox jumped over the lazy dog.”
He compared what he had written with the perfumed note, and he had found several letters quite similar when Miss Evans came into the room.
“Well,” she said, “are you taking up housebreaking now?”
William Crane stood up abruptly, but she did not seem frightened. Her pallid skin made her lips scarlet. He thrust the note he had received at her and demanded, “Why did you write this?”
As she read the note, Miss Evans’s breasts moved evenly with her breathing. She looked wonderingly at him. “I never saw it before. You don’t think I would …”
“I’m liable to think anything. But this time I know. You wrote that.”
“What makes you think you know?” Miss Evans tossed the note on the table with a graceful turn of her wrist. “You think you know everything.”
“You didn’t wear gloves when you wrote it, did you?”
Miss Evans’s eyes narrowed in quick apprehension. She said, “Fingerprints! You didn’t show it to the sheriff?”
He took the note, folded it. “Look here, we’ve played ball so far,” he said: “why don’t you come clean?”
“How’d you know there were prints on it?”
“All it takes is a little powder and a magnifying glass.”
“But how did you get mine?”
He smiled triumphantly. “From your radio. It was covered with them.”
“So you’ve been in my room, too.” Miss Evans’s voice sounded like a phonograph becoming unwound. It got deeper and deeper. “But you didn’t find anything there to interest you, did you?”
“Not a thing besides some silk whachamacallems.” This was pretty safe, as everybody, even Miss Evans, Crane felt, occasionally wore something under a dress. “They were pretty nice, though.”
“Sometime I’ll walk over you in my bare feet,” said Miss Evans. “It’s more fun that way.”
William Crane ignored this. He said, “Are you going to come clean, or am I going to have to show this to the sheriff?” He held out the note.
Miss Evans was a scornful Max Reinhardt saint. “It won’t do any good to tell the sheriff, but I don’t mind saying that I did write the letter. My fiancé, Dr. Eastman, dictated it to me on this typewriter. He thought you came here as a bodyguard of Dr. Livermore, just like that man Joe. He was afraid you would do him harm.”
“So he tried to harm me first?”
Miss Evans did not bother to nod. She left the room, her hips provocative and fluid.
8:20 P. M.
In the moonlight William Crane climbed the front steps of the guest house. There was a froufrou of garments, and Miss Queen glided over to him and grasped his hand. Her dark hair hung over her shoulders.
“Oh, Mr. Crane!” she said. Her fingers had no warmth in them.“I’m so frightened! You must save me.”
“Why, Miss Queen!” Crane removed her hands. “What’s the matter?”
“It’s this place. I feel death all around. It’s hovering over everything. It’s terrible—terrible!”
In the distance there was the mocking call of a night bird, detached and impersonal and brooding.
4:20 A. M.
William Crane wished he had a watch, but he judged it to be well past three o’clock. He had been lying down fully dressed, and he got up, made sure the door was locked, and then pulled the sheets off the bed. The sheriff had again posted Cliff in the hall for the night. He partially filled the bathtub, soaked the sheets, squeezed them out, and knotted them. Sliding the bed over to the north window, he hooked the knot under one leg, allowing the two ends of cloth to hang out.
From under the bed he got the tools he had taken from the ambulance. He put the wrench and the pliers in his pocket and again tucked the hammer in his belt. From the closet he took out the Roman candle, and from his dresser a packet of matches. He resisted an impulse to take a drink.
Drops of water oozed between his fingers as he carefully lowered himself on the sheets. The sky was misty now, and the moon shone as through hospital gauze. Between his teeth the Roman candle tasted of gunpowder. Reaching the end of the sheet, he dropped five feet to the soft earth. Still damp and stringy, the sheet was hardly visible against the stucco wall of the building.
The garden smelled nice and clean and faintly perfumed. He stepped cautiously across patterned beds until he came to the edge of the pool. Goldfish and carp shied frantically as he bent over the water. His face was reflected obscurely on the surface, and nearer the center, where the white spray of the fountain descended, the moon was mirrored in futuristic angles.
He put the Roman candle on the grass, removed his shoes and socks, rolled up his trousers, and stepped into the pool. The water was cool and came up to his knees. Ripples clung to his skin as he waded out toward the cairn of rock around the fountain. A piece of pipe jutted up from the rock, and out of this flowed the water. There was a bolt about a foot from the end, and on this were fresh metal scrapings. He tried to turn it with his pliers, but it was too large to grasp. He was fitting the wrench to the bolt when there was a sound of feet on the other side of the pool.
“Who’s there?” a male voice called.
It sounded like one of the deputies, but Crane wasn’t sure. Splashing protesting waves of water up to his waist, he galloped to where he had left the Roman candle. A shot sent up a silver geyser of spray beside him and the report echoed crazily among the buildings. He crawled out of the pool, snatched up the candle, and started for the guest house. He was running cleanly when a figure rose out of the bushes five yards ahead and pointed an arm at him.
He swerved to the right; desperately put on speed.
Five times the gun barked in scarlet laughter. In the silence that followed, Crane’s feet pounded on the ground. He headed for the servants’ house.
“There he goes, men.” It was the sheriff’s voice. “Shoot the bastard.”
Another pistol coughed hoarsely, and Crane heard lead hiss over his head. He rounded the corner of the servants’ house and halted by the wall that ran behind the apple orchard. He remembered the glass on the top of the wall. The sheriff was gathering his men in the garden.
Crane saw that they had lost sight of him, and he took the Roman candle from between his teeth and stuck it in the ground. He shielded a match with his body and lit the fuse. There was an angry splutter of powder. He ran toward the garage, jerked the heavy sliding door across the front until only a small opening was left, and then leaned against the friendly wood, gasping for air. There was a smell of grease and gasoline. Through the opening he could see the sheriff and his men coming slowly through the garden.
A shower of golden sparks arose in the orchard, lighting clouds of blue smoke. The sheriff and his men halted and let go a nervous barrage of shots.
“It’s a bomb,” shouted the sheriff. “Quick, boys, we gotta get it.”
He and Deputy Powers advanced courageously upon the spouting stick and bent over it. Their faces were illuminated in the flickering light. Suddenly the Roman candle spat like a cat, and a brilliant blue star struck the sheriff’s neck and exploded with a terrific report. Part of the weird blue flame enveloped Deputy Powers’s face. He screamed, fell over backwards. Dr. Livermore and Dr. Eastman ran to him, lifted him between them, and started back to the hospital. Deputy Powers was still screaming. Sher
iff Walters tottered after them.
The two remaining members of the party had seen Crane outlined against the garage door, and from behind shrubs they potted at him. They shot more deliberately, and the bullets tapped on the sides of the garage and sliced splinters off the wooden door. The candle was still burning, and the sky was filled with noise and bursting stars and colored balls of light. There was also a strong smell of sulphur and gunpowder, and a pall of smoke curtained the garden. While Crane watched, two more blue stars emerged, and then the candle quivered, shook itself, and cast out a red ball of stupendous size. This soared high into the night and suddenly vanished in yellow flame. After several seconds the garage door rattled, and there was a tinkle of glass in the guest house. The sky was split by a thunderclap of an explosion. A woman shrieked thinly, and then there was no more noise.
In the mask silence put on the night, Crane climbed into the front seat of the ambulance. The timid light of a match showed him that the key was in place. He had switched on the ignition when a voice called:
“Bill? Are you all right?”
It was Williams. Crane turned off the ignition and walked out of the garage.
“I was afraid you weren’t coming,” he said.
Two men were with Williams. One was Tom Burns. He introduced the other. “This is Sergeant Wilson of the State Police. He was having a bite to eat with us when we heard your signal.”
Crane asked, “What did you do with those smart boys with the pistols?”
“They’ll be along with the sheriff in a minute,” Sergeant Wilson said. “What the hell has been happening here?”
William Crane told him.
5 A.M.
“I don’t care,” said the sheriff stubbornly. “He may be a private detective, but I don’t think he’s got a clean bill of health.” He looked belligerently at Crane. His neck was stiff with gauze. “He certainly stepped right into our trap. Everyone was supposed to be in their rooms, and naturally who ever went but was certainly the guilty party.”
Williams raised himself on his toes and pounded the palm of his left hand with his fist. “I suppose he did all of this so he could turn himself in and get a reward?”
“I don’t care,” Sheriff Walters said. “I don’t see why he won’t tell us what he knows. He hasn’t any right to raise hell like this. He might have killed somebody. If I can’t lock him up, I’m going to send somebody up to watch his room.”
“You’re a wrinkled-faced fool,” said Williams.
“See here,” said the sheriff. “Nobody can talk to me like that.”
“You’ll be lucky if you don’t have to go to jail yourself,” Sergeant Wilson said. He was almost as short and broad as the sheriff, but he was younger. His face was fresh and red and a little heavy at the jowls. He wore a blue uniform with a black Sam Browne belt. His shirt was clean. “Don’t you know enough to notify State Headquarters when there’s a murder?”
“I was going to——”
“You wanted to see if you could figure this out yourself,” said the sergeant. “That’s what they all do.” His voice was unfriendly. “I’ll take a look around in the morning, and then I’ll make a report.”
“Listen,” said Crane. “I’m tired. I’m going to bed. But I think I’ll have something for you this afternoon when I get up. Could you have everybody in the living room about three o’clock?”
“Sure,” said Sergeant Wilson. “We’ll have ’em.”
Crane went upstairs.
5:15 A.M.
William Crane had just put on his pajamas, when there was a knock at his door.
“Maybe you’d better leave it open a little,” Deputy Graham said apologetically. “I’m supposed to watch you.”
“O.K.” Crane pulled the spread off the bed. “How’s the fellow the Roman candle hit?”
“That was Tom Powers. He’s just burned a little. They say he’ll be all right in a couple of days. Them things are certainly handy to have around. They’re better than a revolver any day.”
“Have a drink?” Crane held up the bottle. The deputy shook his head. “Mind if I do?”
The deputy said, “Not a bit.”
The liquor tasted strong but good.
Chapter XVIII
IT WAS LIKE the grand finale of a musical comedy, in the living room. Everybody, with the exception of Mr. L’Adam, was there when William Crane and the faithful Deputy Graham walked into the room. Crane slouched to the long table with the magazines and sat down on it, smothering a yawn with his left hand. It was past mid-afternoon, and because of an uncertain drizzle the day was already on the dark side.
Sheriff Walters eyed Crane from the chair. “You’ve got some explaining to do,” he said. “If it wasn’t for these friends of yours, I’d toss you in jail and let you do your talking in court.” There was a crust of dirt on his bandaged neck.
The patients and the doctors were grouped in front of the brightly burning fireplace, while the guards and the two nurses stood by the door to the dining room.
“Look here,” Crane said. “Can’t you wait until tomorrow?” He rubbed his nose. “I’m not altogether straight on this thing yet. Maybe you have an idea?”
Sheriff Walters snorted. “You’re my idea, and you can start talkin’ right now. You won’t be here tomorrow.”
“All right.” Crane spoke wearily. “I’ll talk. He looked at Sergeant Wilson, who was standing by a window with Mr. Williams and Tom Burns. “You got any ideas?”
The sergeant’s puffy red face was apologetic. “This is a little out of my line. I might——”
“Never mind,” Crane said. He motioned vaguely to the door. “Mr. Williams, will you and Mr. Burns stand there?” While they were crossing the room, he turned to Sheriff Walters. “Have you a monkey wrench in your car?”
“I don’t know. I guess so.”
“Would you mind having someone get it?”
Cliff Walters, who had been standing beside his father, was sent for the wrench. Deputy Powers stepped in his place. His face was all bandages, with dark slits for eyes and mouth.
At the other end of the room Dr. Livermore stood up and asked: “Where’s all this mummery going to get us?” He nervously rubbed his long hands together.
Windowpanes shook in a sudden wind, and a puff of smoke backed out of the fireplace. “Sit down,” said William Crane, “and shut up.” He noticed that Joe Kassuccio was beside Dr. Livermore. The man’s nose was still bandaged, and his eyes were disagreeable.
“Where’s Mr. L’Adam?” Crane asked.
Dr. Buelow said, “He was so strange that I decided it was best to leave him locked up. I can get him if——”
“Don’t bother as long as—” William Crane caught Charles’s eye; Charles shook his head—“you’re sure he can’t get out.”
“I’m quite sure. He’s in a new room, one with a double lock on the door.”
The screen door slammed. “Here’s your wrench,” said Cliff. His voice was respectful. Crane did not take it from him. He said, “Will you and Sergeant Wilson go out and turn off the fountain and let the pool drain? Under the stones in the center you will find a box. It’ll probably be wrapped in oilskins. Bring it in.”
“O.K.,” said Cliff.
Crane paused until they had gone. “Do you mind if we wait until the box comes?” he asked the sheriff.
The sheriff grunted.
Against the windowpanes the wind rattled as though somebody outside were trying to attract their attention. Rain sifted through the chimney and hissed on hot coals. It was much darker.
” I don’t suppose anybody would like to say what’s in that box?” Crane asked. “I know some of you have seen it.” He glanced at Dr. Livermore. “Are you still sure it’s full of old papers, old newspapers?”
A quick fit of coughing shook Dr. Livermore’s beard. “I merely said that when Miss Van Kamp showed it to me it was full of old newspapers. Dr. Eastman will tell you——”
Dr. Eastman said, “I nev
er saw the box in my life.” His unshaven blue face scowled over Miss Evans’s shoulder. “I was told that it was full of papers.”
Speculatively, Sheriff Walters observed the two doctors. “That wasn’t what you two said at dinner. Dr. Eastman, you said you had seen it too.”
“You must have misunderstood me,” Dr. Eastman said. “I only said——”
Crane interrupted him. “Never mind. Wait until they come back.”
Miss Van Kamp was sitting on the couch with Miss Queen and Mrs. Brady. Her fingers moved quickly with her knitting. She was nearly through with the shawl. “It will be full of bonds,” she said reflectively. “My nice bonds.”
Bending down in front of the fire, Charles lifted a fresh log and threw it deep on the andirons. Red and écru flames raced up the chimney.
“How do you know that box will be in the pool?” asked Richardson. He was seated on the arm of Mrs. Heyworth’s chair. She had not looked at Crane once since he had come in the room. “Did you put it there?”
Crane said, “I don’t know it’s there; I just think so.” Mrs. Heyworth’s luminous brown eyes were lovely in the firelight. “Mr. Penny and I both came to that conclusion.”
“Why?” Richardson asked.
“The first night I was here somebody turned off the fountain. It was stopped for nearly half an hour.” Crane grinned at Mr. Penny, who was seated beside Blackwood on a carved wooden bench which had been pulled out from the wall beside the fireplace. “Why would anybody shut off the fountain at night?”
Sheriff Walters was becoming interested. “I don’t know,” he said. “Why would they?”
“They’d shut it off to drain the pool,” said Crane. “And the only reason they’d want to drain the pool is to hide something there. The only thing anybody’d want to hide around here is Miss Van Kamp’s strong box.”
“That sounds reasonable.” Sheriff Walters reached under his coat and scratched his ribs. “Who hid it there?”
“I’d like to see the box before I’d say,” Crane replied.
It was dark now, and colder. Charles and the driver snapped on some of the lights. At the north end of the living room, just within the sliding doors to the dining room, the two colored women, eyes and teeth white in the gloom, were perched on straight chairs. Miss Twilliger caught Crane’s glance, snorted audibly and contemptuously.
Murder in the Madhouse Page 19