The Case of the Crumpled Knave

by Anthony Boucher

  Warriner’s intelligence seemed to be coming back, slowly. He sat up, rubbing his head in a manner which brought painful memories of the past night to Colonel Rand. “Gentlemen,” he said, “I fear that you have discovered my shame.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I, sirs, am a victim. I cannot always be held responsible for my actions.”

  “You mean you’re nuts?”

  “No. I—I mean that I have required an artificial stimulus to pursue my work. You will recall perchance those delightful lines of the silver-tongued John Day—

  Gold, music, wine, tobacco, and good cheer

  Make poets soar aloft and sing out clear.

  That may suffice for poets; they are an unaccountable tribe. But for myself I have found gold—what little I have ever possessed—music, wine, tobacco, and good cheer quite insufficient to keep myself singing clear. I needed more.”

  Fergus snorted. “So you took up snuff. So what?”

  “Not snuff, sir; but my snuffbox.”

  Camilla Sallice, possibly because of her varied past life, was the first of them to understand him. “You mean, you’ve been taking—”

  “I believe, madam, that the colloquial word is dope. It has been a help—No, those words are too mild; it has made life worth living. And the eccentric habits of an old gentleman make it seem plausible that I should bring out my enameled death in the most proper gatherings. But occasionally I find myself driven, almost without my own knowledge, to strange actions. I fear that you surprised me in one of my … ah, less rational moods. It took the staunch trunk of this eucalyptus to drive some sense back into my poor head.”

  Fergus frowned and viciously uprooted an innocent tuft of grass. “Which makes this,” he announced, “beyond any doubt the Goddamnedest first murder case that any promising young detective ever tackled. It’s got everything in it but a sinister Oriental, and I expect him to open the door when we get back to the house.”

  “We?”

  “Come along, Mr. Warriner. I’ll keep your secret dark; but I hope to the saints you’ll never tear loose on me again, in your own quaint irresponsible way. God knows what will become of the future of the O’Breens if much more of this happens.”

  “I am not sure that I can accompany you, young man—”

  “I think you’d better,” Rand said with quiet authority.

  It worked. He was by no means so out of practice at commanding as he had thought.

  “About these cards,” Fergus resumed as they started hack to the car. “We’ll just skip all that’s happened since I thought of them. But you said that the jack of diamonds used to have several other names beside Hector. What were they?”

  Warriner reflected. “Let me see … I can recall a very early French deck, around 1490, in which the knave of diamonds—accompanied there by a dog—is known as Rolant. I believe he was also called Roger, sometimes the Valet de la Chasse—he occasionally bore a hunting horn—and some curious—ah, yes, Capitan Fily. Then there is an eighteenth century English pack in which he is known as Jack Sheppard. As you may have noticed, that particular knave is a card often associated with crime and, if I may be pardoned the pun, knavery; the name of the great highwayman is not surprising, nor, indeed, is its connection with this shocking case.”

  Fergus had not heeded the last part of this learned discourse. He was murmuring to himself, “Rolant … Roger … Fily … Jack Sheppard … No, I must be right ….”

  It was then that it happened. The curator’s long thin leg moved with the rapid vigor of a whip. It seemed almost to curl as it snapped between Fergus’ ankles. The young Irishman went down in a sideways plunge which brought Camilla toppling over him. Rand had no time to think of their unofficial prisoner. A car was speeding down the street headed straight for the two tumbled forms.

  Fergus was on his feet almost at once, but the fall must have stunned the girl. Between them they half helped her, half dragged her to the curb. She clung to Fergus dazedly.

  But the detective’s mind was not on clinging brunettes. “The keys,” he groaned. “I left them in the car. …”

  The automobile which had threatened them had now drawn up sharply beside them with agonized brakes. The driver thrust out a red-veined face coming to a climax in a glowing cigar and growled, “What goes on here? Playing games?”

  “Yeah,” said Fergus, looking mournfully after the bright yellow roadster. “And we lost.”

  Fifteen minutes later they neared the Garnett house. Resolute trudging had left them tired and hot and not in the most peaceable of tempers.

  “At least,” Camilla observed after a long silence, “you can row a boat.”

  “I know. I know. Don’t rub it in. I’ve slipped up badly, but how could I help it? God knows there’s enough going on without an academical hophead to ball things up a little more.”

  “So you think that’s what he is?” The girl sounded dubiously reflective.

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve been around. I’ve run into funny customers in my time—”

  “Customers is right.” Rand noticed resentment in the tone of the young man who had so calmly accepted Camilla’s story of her career only that morning.

  “Don’t start that,” she snapped back. “My foul past is no secret from you, my fine broth. But I’ve known hopheads—”

  “You can’t just say broth.”

  “And why not?”

  “You have to say broth of a something.”

  “All right. My fine broth of a Hawkshaw—how does that sound to you, my mad meddler?”

  “I am but mad north-northwest,” Fergus murmured. “When the wind is southerly I know a hand from a Hawkshaw.”

  Camilla stopped very deliberately, bent over a choice garden plot by the sidewalk, and scooped up a handful of nice soft soil. There was no doubt of her intentions; that polo shirt was so yellow.

  Rand had been smoking quietly and wishing that he were not an elderly gentleman of military caste who wore a coat on all occasions. Now he summoned authority back to his voice and spoke.

  “I know,” he said, “that our tempers have been grievously ruffled by the heat and by the walk and by our singular misadventure; but need we be so childish?”

  “After a pun like that …” Camilla began; but she thought better of it and dropped the soil.

  “And I liked that car,” Fergus added wistfully. “It’s served me faithfully, man and boy. …”

  “That worry at least need no longer concern you, O’Breen,” and Colonel Rand gestured ahead of them.

  There, in front of the Garnett house, stood the empty O’Breen roadster.

  XIX

  Lieutenant Jackson Accepts an Ally

  It was rand’s old friend Number One who greeted them at the door. Camilla shivered and seemed to grow small as she looked at the uniform, and even Fergus was a bit subdued.

  “Look,” he said. “Has a man named Warriner come in here—a tall, thin, stooped old man?”

  Number One looked down on him scornfully. “I don’t see old men with beards when I’m on duty; but if your name’s O’Breen, you’re coming in here to see the Lieutenant, and right away too. No, not you!” He waved the others aside.

  “That’s all right, Colonel,” said Fergus with calm assurance. “I’m certain the lieutenant wants to see you too. Come right along. See you later, Camilla—and thank you.” His voice was sincere.

  Rand looked back as they went down the hall. Camilla Sallice’s spurt of temper had deserted her; she now seemed terribly alone and forlorn in this house of death. With pity for her in his heart, he turned to see Number One glaring at him. “Well, at least you’re sober this time,” the policeman said.

  Jackson was in the study again. He was alone and badly worried. He looked up as the men entered and snapped, “You’re O’Breen?”

  “Lieutenant, I am The O’Breen.”

  Jackson disregarded the correction. “All right. Now we’ll get somewhere.” />
  Fergus smiled. “Anything you say, Lieutenant.”

  “Where have you been?”

  “The Sallice girl moved out this morning. I remembered some questions I had to ask her, so I went and asked them. I persuaded her to come back here with me.”

  “How did you know where she’d gone? Nobody in this house seemed to have the least idea.”

  “I found a piece of paper beside the telephone with a number jotted on it in what looked like her handwriting. I thought she might have been calling a hotel about reservations, so I checked it.”

  “And pocketed the paper just to make things easier for us?”

  “How was I to know you’d be coming out here? Which reminds me, Lieutenant, that I still don’t know what brings you here—unless it’s revisiting the scene of the crime.”

  Jackson looked at him shrewdly. “I’ve heard of you, O’Breen—heard quite a bit, in fact. That was good work you did in that arson case, and I’ve heard rumors about the way you put a stop to Rita La Marr’s blackmailer. I wish to God I knew just where you stood in this business—with us or against us.”

  Fergus was pacing at a relatively temperate rate—apparently a partial concession to the presence of authority. “I’ll be frank with you. I think you picked the wrong man when you arrested Vinton, and I’m trying to prove him innocent; maybe you’ll call that working against you. But on the other hand, I’m trying to find the real murderer; and the saints know that ought to be working with you. You can call it either way. It might be simplest to flip a coin.”

  The Lieutenant leaned back. “All right. I’ll be frank too. Supposing I tell you we’re together on both counts.”

  Colonel Rand started. “On both?”

  “Yes, Colonel. Vinton was released on bail this morning. He’s here in the house now—got here just after we did. And I can tell you in confidence that there’s very little danger of the charges being pressed unless we can learn something new and startling. That fingerprint business alone would give a good defense attorney—and Max Farrington is that—one honey of a chance to poke holes in our case. It’s too risky.”

  Fergus paused in mid-stride. “All right. If we’re working together, why not tell us just what’s happened to bring you here?”

  Jackson regarded him for a long minute. “I wish I knew,” he said slowly, “whether I needed to tell you this. But here goes. Arthur Willowe has been murdered.”

  For Rand’s taste, Fergus’ reaction of surprise was just a trifle overplayed. The Colonel himself made no attempt at bluffing; Jackson’s sharp eyes weren’t on him.

  “Yes, Mr. O’Breen, murdered.”

  “But how, Lieutenant? When?”

  “As you probably know, Willowe took a nap every day at eleven o’clock on the cot on his balcony. That’s where Miss Garnett found him. He used to sleep in the room itself; that cot was used only by him and only for these morning naps. It seems an odd arrangement, but nothing surprises me any more in this household. Anyway, the point is, everybody knew about this habit of his. While he was sleeping there this morning, somebody stuck a needle dipped in curare into the back of his neck.”

  “Just a minute, Lieutenant. Are you certain it was curare?”

  “I admit that’s hard to analyze. But it was one of the alkaloid poisons, and curare is the commonest. We’ll have a definite report later.”

  “And was there curare—or any of the other alkaloids—in Garnett’s laboratory?”

  The Lieutenant groaned. “There was everything in that laboratory, O’Breen. I never saw such a hellish collection. And in a way this second death is my own fault. I should have sealed up that laboratory yesterday. But Harding insisted that he had some work to do, and I let him go ahead.”

  “You really think sealing it would have done any good?”

  “Of course.” Jackson looked suspicious. “What do you mean?”

  “Nothing. Just that the murderer might have laid in his stock in advance. But as long as we’re being frank, Lieutenant, do you know who killed Willowe?”

  “I’m hanged if I even know why he was killed, let alone who did it. Unless, of course, he knew something damning about Garnett’s death. He seems to have been the most inoffensively useless man I’ve ever encountered. And who was in the house? His niece, who seems devoted to him; the laboratory assistant, who had nothing at all to do with him; the cook, who’s out of the question; and you two.” He checked himself. “When did Miss Sallice leave?”

  “A little after eleven.”

  “And Miss Sallice then, possibly. Though the Lord knows where she comes in. It looks as though this death must tie in in some way with Garnett’s, but still—”

  “And Vinton?” Rand asked.

  “Vinton’s accounted for. He left the jail with his lawyer, went straight on to Farrington’s office, and got out here after we did. Even if Farrington’s pulling a fake alibi for him, which isn’t likely, the time element lets him out. He couldn’t possibly have got here before Miss Garnett’s call came through to us.”

  “One more frank question, Lieutenant.” Fergus paused dramatically. “Were you ever center on the U. S. C. basketball team?”

  Jackson jerked back in amazement, then let out a lusty shout. “Good God! Fergus O’Breen, the Fighting Forward—the man who made thirteen baskets in the U. S. C.-Loyola game!”

  Fergus stretched out his hand. “Hiya, Andy!”

  For a moment Rand was afraid the conference was going to turn into a contest of sporting memories. He was relieved to find that he was wrong. Both men were still deeply concerned with the business in hand.

  “The personal touch helps,” Jackson grinned. “I’d just about resolved to pool information with you anyway; and now that I remember the time you were practically a one-man team and licked the living bejesus out of us, that decides me. Which wouldn’t make any sense officially, but that’s the way it works. Now get me straight, Fergus. I want you to play ball with me.”

  “OK by me, Andy.”

  “We’ve each got an advantage. I have the force of authority and the efficiency of routine behind me. You’re on more or less of a personal footing with all these people and have a confidential in. Between us, we ought to get some place. Now if we could—”

  Fergus caught his sideways glance. “Brush up on your mystery novels, Andy. What’s a detective without a faithful Watson? Colonel Rand’s been in on this with me from the start. He might as well stay on.”

  Jackson turned to Rand. “I must admit, Colonel, that I took the trouble of checking your arrival at the airport. Since that definitely eliminates you as a possible suspect, why then, if you’re interested in sitting in on our conference—”

  “I most assuredly am.” Rand’s head was worse, and he knew he presented an absurd figure with his bandage; but he was not going to miss a conference which might prove so vital to Kay—and to the memory of Alicia.

  “Very well. Now perhaps the first point I ought to mention—you see I really am trusting you, Fergus, and going ahead with our own information first—is the will. Mr. Harding tells me that he showed you the carbon copy. If you’ve been reasoning from that, forget it. The thing’s all wrong. The true terms of the final will—”

  A knock on the door broke into the Lieutenant’s speech. He turned and called “Come in.”

  This was a policeman Rand hadn’t seen before. “We’re having trouble, Lieutenant,” he explained. “One of ’em’s up and got plastered, and he’s raising merry hell. Wants to talk to you right away, and says he’ll tear the place down if he can’t. What do we do with him?”

  Before Jackson could answer, the problem solved itself. There was the noise of a hearty scuffle outside in the hall, and two men burst into the room. The first was Number One, red-faced and furious. The other, the vigorous belligerent drunk, was the mild Will Harding.

  XX

  Will Harding Is Spectacular

  Even before the young assistant spoke, it was clear to Rand that he was very drunk ind
eed. This came as a surprise; he had seemed such an abnormally respectable young man—not even a smoker, much less an early afternoon drunkard. The drinks had given him strength; the way he dragged the husky Number One around with him showed that.

  The two men spoke at once, Harding in drunken indignation and Number One in apology for disturbing his superior.

  “Let him go, Hinkle,” Jackson said sharply. “As long as he got in here, we might as well hear what he has to say for himself. Well, what’s it all about, Harding?”

  Released from the official grasp, Harding subsided abruptly. “It doesn’t marrer,” he mumbled thickly. “There isn’t a Goddamn thing that marrers any more.”

  “Come on. Out with it. You forced your way in here to tell me something. What is it?”

  Harding leered with bacchic cunning. “You wouldn’t he underested.”

  “Underested?”

  He shook his head slowly. “You wouldn’t interstand.”

  Fergus laughed. “Go on, Andy. He wants to he coaxed.”

  “I’ll coax him all right enough. Would you sooner have the boys take you outside and talk it over?” Jackson demanded abruptly. Number One looked as though the idea appealed to him.

  Harding shook his finger waggishly. “Ah-ah, Lieutenant! That’s naughty. That’s the third degree, that’s what that’s what that is. The courts don’t like that. No-o-o-o-o! But you’re a nice fellow. I’ll tell you. Only the trouble is, you like him.”

  “Like who?”

  Drinking had brought out fresh aspects of Harding only dimly hinted at by his limericks of the day before. He now launched forth into a frank description of Richard Vinton couched in terms which would have made Jeeter Lester blush. It was not, perhaps, an edifying spectacle; but it somehow increased Rand’s respect for the young man. He wasn’t just milk and water after all; there was guts to him.

  He paused finally, and Fergus broke into loud applause. The display, Rand admitted, deserved it.

  But Jackson wanted something more specific. “Well, what about Vinton?”

  “I’ll tell you wharrabout Vinton. You turned him loose again, didn’t you? You think he’s a nice sweet airy-fairy Good Lillie Boy, don’t you? Christ I Well, I’ll tell you wharrabout Vinton! I’ll—” He pulled a folded newspaper out of his pocket and stood for a long moment brandishing it in the air. He looked at once terribly dramatic and painfully ludicrous. Then in an instant all his force seemed to desert him. “Aw, the hell with it,” he muttered, dropped the newspaper on the floor, and left the room, followed by the still badly perplexed Number One and his unidentified companion in uniform.