“Of course.”
“Well, look. I suppose the police took it off with, them, but do you know which pack it came out of?”
Harding looked at the decks. “I think it was that one.” He pointed at one with a design of unusual crossed flags on the back.
“The Stars and Bars,” Rand murmured with surprised interest.
Fergus examined the pack. It had not been shuffled, but was still arranged in suits. He laid aside the clubs, the hearts, and the spades, and took up the diamonds.
“Ace,” he said. “My old man—the card-playing Irishman that he was—always used to call that card the Earl o’ Cork. ‘It’s the worst ace and the poorest card in the pack,’ he’d say, ‘and the Earl o’ Cork’s the poorest nobleman in all Ireland.’ Funny how some cards have names like that.”
“I used to know a sailor,” Rand put in, “who called the four of clubs the Devil’s Bedposts. I never knew why.”
Fergus laughed. “You sounded just like a character out of Chekhov then, Colonel. King of diamonds. … Queen of diamonds. … Ten of diamonds. … You’re right, Mr. Harding. The jack is missing.” He looked much more elated than you would have expected from such a simple discovery.
Once he had indicated the pack, Harding had returned to the desk. Now he came back to them with a sheet of paper. “Here you are.”
“Just a minute first. These cards—do you remember if they were stacked like that when you found Mr. Garnett?”
“I think so. I couldn’t say for certain.”
“What I mean is—if a pack had been disarranged—scattered around—you’d have been hound to notice it, wouldn’t you?”
“Why yes, I must have. I do remember noticing especially how orderly the whole room was.” Harding seemed a bit puzzled by these questions.
Fergus’s attention returned sharply to the will. “Nice simple little document. It starts off with several research institutions—bequests to carry on specific work. That doesn’t help us much. Then the card collection—that’s to go to the James T. Weatherby Memorial Museum, Providence, Rhode Island. I never heard of that.”
“Mr. Garnett admired it greatly,” Harding explained. “He said it possessed a finer collection even than that of the United States Playing Card Company; and he himself had a great many specimens that just filled in the gaps in the museum’s exhibit.”
“Thanks. But that isn’t much help either. Now the personal bequests. Hmm—Ten thousand to Arthur Willowe. Not bad. And to you, Colonel, the library and the table and pieces for four-handed chess.”
“Good,” said Rand gruffly, and turned away for a moment.
“And Kay, of course, is residuary legatee. Will that mean very much?”
“I should say,” Harding replied, “it will mean a fortune.” There was an odd note of regret in his voice. “Is that all?”
“That’s the whole shooting match.”
The laboratory assistant looked crestfallen. “I had hoped,” he said, “that Mr. Garnett might have left me in a position to carry on his—our work.”
“I don’t blame you, Harding. Whatever the Colonel may say, as a practical military man, I’m all for you, as a common human being. It’s a splendid idea, this gas, and I’d like to see you put it over.”
“It doesn’t really matter so much—the will, I mean. I think one of the foundations might help me.”
“Good. That’s an intention worth lighting a candle for.” Fergus folded the carbon copy and slipped it into his pocket. “We’ll have to check with Garnett’s lawyer, of course, to see if the original has any codicils, or even if there’s been a new will; hut this is something to go on with. Thanks, Harding. And if you’ll excuse us now—Come on, Colonel. I think our next step is Arthur Willowe.”
Rand left the room slowly, with a backward glance at the many shelves of books. It was good that his friend had remembered him.
VIII
Arthur Willowe Is Not Helpful
They found arthur willowe in his upstairs room.
As they approached the door, Rand could have sworn he heard the clicking of typewriter keys; but when they entered the room, there was no trace of a machine. The Colonel was puzzled. At a time like this, the most trifling details seem significant. Was his normally acute hearing deceiving him at last, or was there some other sound which might be confused with that of a typewriter?
Willowe’s was a pleasant little room, neat as a woman’s and bright with sun. While Fergus made his explanations, Rand strolled over to the window and looked out at the fair Los Feliz hills, green even in winter. Magnificent country for walking; he must investigate it. There was a little balcony outside the window, with a cot on it. This, he supposed, was where Willowe took his naps.
“So you see,” Fergus was saying, “anything you can say to help us would be a great boon to Kay. Now take for instance this business of all the doors being bolted. You know this house well—do you think anyone from outside could have got in?”
Arthur Willowe fumbled aimlessly with a deck of cards. “I realize that it would, as you say, be a great boon to Kay if you could prove that someone from outside came into this house last night; but I doubt if what I have to say could help you in the least. In the first place, Humphrey led a very retired life for the past year or so. Save for his trips to the east, he practically never saw anyone outside of the household. Except Vinton, of course. I cannot think of a soul from outside who might be a candidate even for suspicion.”
“Nobody can know all of another person’s life, Mr. Willowe,” Fergus objected. “He could have had other contacts; you can’t be so positive as all that.”
“I am sorry, Mr. O’Breen, but I can. The doors were all bolted on the inside this morning, as you have been told. I am an orderly man, sir, if I am nothing else.” He smiled bitterly. “I thought to check that as soon as Kay told me what had happened. So either Kay or Will Harding took pains to cover up for the murderer—which is ridiculous—or else the man never left this house—unless, of course, you are one of those fabulous detectives who perform miracles with locked doors.”
“Miracles aren’t my line, Mr. Willowe; hut look. Supposing it was someone Mr. Garnett wanted to see privately. Garnett lets him in after the family has retired. They confer. Mr. X slips poison into the glass. Garnett lets him out, bolts the door after him, returns to the study, and drinks the poison. Wouldn’t that be possible?”
Willowe gestured toward the window. “You see that balcony, Mr. O’Breen? You will notice that it overlooks the front door. I was sitting out there last night thinking over a—that is, simply meditating. I was there until midnight or a trifle past, and no one came or went. The medical evidence, I believe, shows that Humphrey must have been dead by then.”
“How about the back door?”
“There is no bell there. In order to secure Humphrey’s attention, your fabulous Mr. X would have had to make enough racket to rouse the whole household.”
“But supposing it was someone scheduled to come at an appointed time? Then Mr. Garnett would simply go there and let him in.”
Willowe automatically shuffled the cards in his thin white hands. “A possibility, I will admit. However, until you find any indication of the identity of your Mr. X, I think that you may disregard it.” He began the layout for Canfield.
Fergus stopped pacing for a moment. “Then you think the murderer is one of the people in this house?”
“Is or was.”
“What do you mean?” He resumed his pacing with fresh spirit.
“I mean that the man with the strongest motive is no longer here.”
“The strongest motive … Then you know of others who have motives, even if not so strong?”
“Please stop that frightful pacing, Mr. O’Breen. No, I do not.”
“Sorry, but I think better this way. None whatsoever?”
“Of course, I know nothing about Miss Sallice. She returned with Humphrey from one of his trips east while I was … ill. Beyond that n
one of us knows anything about her.”
“Sallice … Sallice … Damn it, I’ve heard that name somewhere else recently.” He paused a moment in silence, then turned sharply. “And how about you?”
“What about me, Mr. O’Breen?”
“What are you afraid of? Why were you hysterical this morning? In short, Mr. Willowe, just what’s eating you?”
The cards slipped from Willowe’s trembling fingers. “All right. I’ll tell you what’s ‘eating me.’ Your stupid slang phrase means something here. It is eating me—devouring me, if you will. Gnawing away like something fantastic and horrible and …” He checked himself, and concluded with terrible simplicity, “I am afraid of Humphrey.”
Rand stared at the quivering little man. “Don’t be an ass, man. Garnett’s dead.”
“That’s just what I’m afraid of. His hate can be so much stronger now. And he did hate me. I think he kept me on here just so he could torture me—could keep referring to cars and hydrants and accidents and” (his weak voice all but broke) “Alicia.”
“This is nonsense, Willowe. You weren’t to blame for Alicia’s death. An accident like that on a slippery road—it could happen to anyone.”
“I don’t know, Colonel. It was so—so like me. To do everything wrong. Maybe I am to blame, after all. But that wouldn’t make any difference—whether I really was or not. Humphrey thought that I was, and he hated me. For a bit I thought it had changed. But now his hate is free of his body, free to return to me, and I’m afraid.” He stooped over to pick up his cards, murmuring like a litany, “… afraid … afraid … afraid …”
Fergus turned away with a gesture which clearly said the hell with this. But as Rand and the investigator neared the door, Arthur Willowe straightened up. He seemed to have recovered himself, and spoke clearly.
“Very well, gentlemen. I shall tell you exactly why I am so afraid. I do not choose to be sniggered at as a mewling weakling. I have good cause; I had foreseen this murder.”
Fergus whirled. “You knew it was going to happen?”
“To be more exact, sirs, I had foreseen the murder—but not its victim.” And Willowe went on to tell all the cumulative little details of the day before, and how he had formed his theory that the life of Richard Vinton was in peril.
“I was wrong,” he concluded. “Absurdly wrong. I can see that now. Vinton is alive, if in prison; and Humphrey Garnett is dead. But when I think of the power that he has attained through death, I …”
Rand clapped a friendly hand on the old man’s trembling shoulders. “You’ll pull out of it, Willowe. Be strong. We’ll be worthy of Alicia—both of us.”
Arthur Willowe looked at him strangely. “That is what the dark girl said,” he murmured.
IX
Camilla Sallice Remembers a Motive
And what did you learn there?” Rand asked the A detective as they came down the stairs.
Fergus shook his head. “I don’t quite know. That strange hatred of Garnett’s for Willowe gives us another motive—maybe. And that’s a curious story about yesterday and Willowe’s true-false premonition. But I don’t know …”
They found Camilla Sallice on the sun porch. Her back was toward them, and it was hard to be sure; but Rand suspected her of wiping away tears at the sound of their approaching footsteps. He could not understand this girl; she seemed more affected than anyone else, almost more than Kay, by the death of Humphrey Garnett. It was as though this were the last of many sorrows and the hardest of all to bear. But why? he wondered. She had youth and beauty and a curious exotic charm; why had she seemingly found her role in life a tragic one?
“Miss Sallice,” he said, “this is Mr. O’Breen. No doubt Kay has told you about him.”
She rose and faced them with a half-smile. “Of course. Please let me help you.”
She seemed frankly ready to answer anything; and Rand expected the young detective to take up the offer promptly. Instead he stood still, staring at her intently until the silence grew uncomfortable.
“I beg your pardon, Mr. O’Breen,” Camilla said gently, “but just what is this pantomime act? Love at first sight?”
Fergus waved the gag away. “No. At least, I won’t be rash about the first part—”
“Mr. O’Breen! And in front of the Colonel!”
“But the point is,” he went on as though she hadn’t interrupted, “it isn’t at first sight.”
She laid a hand dramatically between her agreeably full breasts and heaved such a sigh as only a contralto could deliver. “You know my past?” she murmured. “And you look such a nice young man, too.”
“I don’t get it.” Fergus shook his head. “The past I mean is respectable enough—even a little too much so. But look. You sing, don’t you?”
“Why, yes.”
“I knew the name was familiar, but I wasn’t sure till I heard you speak. That recital Maureen dragged me to—”
“Oh that. It was rather frightful, wasn’t it? But they maintain clubwomen are very helpful to the Aspiring Young Artist.”
Fergus grinned. “When Maureen told me it was a contralto, I expected something that looked like Schumann-Heink; and instead I got you. It was the one break I’ve had out of Maureen’s club work; that black evening gown of yours saved me my weekly trip to the Follies Burlesque.”
“I hope,” Camilla added with a smile at the Colonel’s modestly purple countenance, “that you noticed my voice a little.”
“Oh yes. You were good—though the little people know I’d sooner have heard a good rousing come-all-ye than those dirges you sang.”
“Thank you, Mr. O’Breen. Perhaps some time you might teach me some—what was it you called them?”
“Come-all-ye’s. You know—”
For a moment Rand feared that Fergus was about to give a brief vocal demonstration, but Camilla cut him short. “I’ll remember,” she said hastily. “And isn’t there something that you should be remembering, Mr. O’Breen?”
“What?”
“Why, that you’re a detective and that I, presumably, am a suspect. Shouldn’t we do something about it?”
She seated herself gracefully on the wicker chaise longue and waved the gentlemen to seats. Rand accepted; but Fergus indicated his preference to stand.
“Very well, if you wish.” She busied herself with a cigarette and an overlong holder. “Now I’m afraid you’ll have to ask me questions. I’ve been thinking as hard as I can, and I can’t recall anything about Uncle Humphrey’s death that might seem to help you. I went to bed as soon as we left him and fell asleep directly. But perhaps if you ask questions, I might know something I don’t even know that I know—if you can follow that.”
Fergus seemed to have recovered from his temporary interest in Camilla the Woman and his full attention had reverted to Sallice the Suspect. “All right,” he said, pausing a moment from pacing. “I’ll ask questions. Who are you?”
“I don’t understand you.”
“I said, in simple colloquial American, Who are you?”
“Why, I’m Camilla Sallice. Don’t you remember? Colonel Rand just introduced us, and you went to a concert with Maureen. Which reminds me, if we must ask questions, Who is Maureen? Is she pretty?”
“Please, Miss Sallice.” His voice held an unwonted note of authority. “Maureen is my sister, and let’s not play games. Everyone I’ve talked with so far has admitted that he has no idea who you are, why you are here, or what your relation to Humphrey Garnett was. Now I want you to tell us.”
Camilla laughed. There was a faint touch of bitterness to her laughter. “Is that all? I was his protégée.”
“Which means just what?”
“A year ago I was singing in a night club in Washington. No, I’m afraid night club flatters it a little. A detective’s accuracy might call it a dive. And singing didn’t pay so well unless you made a percentage on drinks, too.”
“A B-girl,” Fergus commented.
“Exactly. Please don’
t look shocked, Colonel Rand. After all … Well, Uncle Humphrey was there one night, and he was much impressed by my voice. He thought it was far too good for such a place.”
“He was right,” Fergus admitted grudgingly. “But I’d like to hear you in a torch number.”
“He thought I should have a chance at a real career, and he offered to help me. I was a little suspicious at first—any girl would be—but he finally convinced me of his sincerity. I came out here with him, and he’s been paying for my lessons with Carduccini. I think I’m almost ready to make a real start now.”
“And all this was just for the love of art and your beautiful voice?”
“Mr. O’Breenl”
“Please, Miss Sallice. Don’t give me that. Any minute now I’ll expect you to go into ‘My mother was a lady.’”
Camilla smiled. “She was, you know.”
“That’s better. After all, a night club isn’t a nunnery. You know the facts of life—birds and bees and stuff and things—and you know you’re a damned attractive girl, in your cryptic way. And Humphrey Garnett wasn’t a eunuch.”
This time she laughed aloud. “I suppose, Mr. O’Breen, you’re being complimentary in your own fantastic fashion. It’s a bit hard to recognize, but I’ll try to be grateful.”
“Go on.”
“All right. I quite see what yon mean; I shan’t play innocent. But I swear that there was nothing of the sort between Uncle Humphrey and me. I can’t explain this to you or prove it; you’ll have to believe me. But it would have been impossible. We—we felt so differently about each other.”
“If you say so—” Fergus seemed only half convinced.
“I don’t wonder that you’re a little suspicious. I know Kay was, and even that poor dear old Mr. Willowe. But that’s really all there was to it.”
“You’re fond of Arthur Willowe?”
“Yes. I suppose I am. He’s so—so helpless. He feels he can never do anything well. He failed in business—he tried to write once—he couldn’t even play chess with Uncle Humphrey. But he’s been good to Kay, and he was good to his sister—at least, they tell me he was. And isn’t that something in life—just being good to people?”
The Case of the Crumpled Knave Page 7