Williams made a “tsk” noise three times with his tongue and his teeth. “How do you figure that out?” he asked.
“You’d never guess. Of course, she was Charles’ alibi for the murder of Miss Paxton—she said she saw him go into the bathroom. But that didn’t prove anything against her. We later figured out he could have climbed out the window and fooled her by leaving the water running. Another thing was that she helped Dr. Eastman steal the box from Dr. Livermore, then helped Charles steal it from Dr. Eastman. She must have had a hand in that second theft, because she was the only person who knew Dr. Eastman had the money box. Then she almost had me believing that Dr. Eastman hadn’t told her about the eight hundred thousand dollars in Miss Van Kamp’s vault. But those things aren’t what gave her away.” Crane swung around to the sheriff. “Do you remember when Mrs. Brady was trying her nudist act?”
Sheriff Walters nodded. “That’s something I’ll never forget.”
“Do you recall Dr. Buelow asked Miss Evans if she still had her phonograph? She replied, ‘Certainly. Charles, will you get it?’ I found out from Maria that Miss Evans kept her phonograph under some things on the top shelf of her closet because she used the radio most of the time.” Crane rubbed the bruises on the back of his neck. They felt better. “I also found that Charles, in the ordinary course of his work, would never have an opportunity to go into Miss Evans’ room, much less her closet. Maria told me she was very particular about her things. It seemed strange Charles should be familiar enough with her room to get the phonograph without being told where it was.”
The sheriff strode toward the door in sudden determination. “I’m not going to take any more chances with that pair. They’re too slick.” He opened the door. A cool stream of air poured into the room. “I’m going to take them to the jail, rain or no rain.” He started to go out, then paused. “Say, who was it that threw the chair at me?”
“Miss Evans,” Crane lied.
“I knew it.” For the first time the sheriff was indignant. “The two-faced bitch.” He slammed the door.
“Are we going to bed, or are we going to leave?” asked Williams.
“Let’s leave,” said Crane. “I want to get home.”
Sergeant Wilson said, “I should think you’d want to go to a sanitarium for a week’s rest after all this.”
William Crane paused at the door. “Christ, no!” he said. “That’s the last place in the world I’d go for a rest.”
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1935 by Jonathan Latimer
Cover design by Jason Gabbert
ISBN: 978-1-4804-8607-2
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Murder in the Madhouse Page 22