The Case of the Crumpled Knave

by Anthony Boucher

  “Is somebody else in there?”

  Harding answered with a nod and a grin.

  “And who,” Fergus demanded wonderingly, “picks a laboratory for mating games?”

  “Molecules,” said Harding gravely. The word seemed to have much more than its proper endowment of l’s.

  “Nobody else?”

  Harding peered vaguely around the corner of the L-shaped room. “Notasoul,” he announced in something under one syllable flat.

  “Come on, then.”

  “Wherewegoin?”

  But Jackson was in no mood to humor drunks. “Watch him,” he said curtly; and Fergus and the Colonel resolutely watched the assistant while Jackson locked the door again and affixed sternly official strips of tape around its edges.

  “There,” said the Lieutenant. “Hinkle’s tending to the windows, and we’ve got this damned deathtrap sealed up for good and all—until, of course, the estate takes over.”

  Fergus surveyed the forbidding door. “Just tell me one thing, Andy. Are you locking out or in?”

  Jackson frowned. “What do you mean? This is just a piece of routine I should have seen to at the start. Confidentially, I’m getting careless in my old age—this could make trouble for me if the Captain decided to fasten on it. And that’s one more reason why I’ve got to crack this case damned soon.”

  “All I mean is, Andy, that it reminds me of the story my father used to tell about the room with the four-poster. But I wish you luck of it.”

  Jackson had started back down the hall, but he turned now. “And just what the hell does that mean? Is Mr. Vance cryptically enlightening the slow official brain?” He took no trouble to conceal his irritation.

  “Easy there, my bucko. All I mean is this: Come Hallowe’en, Dad used to sit by the fire, when we had one, and tell us stories; and the one we liked best, even though Maureen used to wake up howling later, went like this—Once there was a man who slept in a haunted room, with a big curtained four-poster bed. Before he went to sleep, he looked in all the cupboards and rapped on all the paneling and then he locked the door and pushed the dresser in front of it. Then as he stood there, thinking ‘Now nothing can happen to me,’ he heard a voice. It was thin and cracked and high, and it came from inside the four-poster, and it was saying, with great glee, ‘Now we’re locked in for the night!’”

  It was a simple story, and Fergus told it simply; but Rand was not ashamed to feel his back hairs stiffen. It was its very simplicity, there in broad daylight in that ordinary hallway, that made it horrible.

  For a moment Jackson stared at the door. Then he wheeled and burst out, “And so—”

  “—so what?” Fergus finished for him. “So when you lock a door you never know whether you’re locking in or out.”

  “Nuts,” said Jackson resolutely. “Come on.”

  Throughout all this, Harding had stood teetering back and forth, balancing the beaker precariously in a quavering hand. He grinned down at it foolishly; but as the moments passed that grin strengthened and hardened. It was a forceful and a bitter grin now. Suddenly he looked up at the others and seemed for a moment startlingly sober.

  “Gentlemen,” he said, “I give you the innocence of Richard Vinton I” At a gulp he drained the contents of the beaker.

  XXII

  Lieutenant Jackson Considers the Case Closed

  He’ll pull through all right,” the hastily recalled police doctor assured them. “Tricky stuff, that bichloride of mercury. A small dose can kill you, and a large one may make you just deathly sick. It acts as an emetic—cuts off its own toxic effect.”

  “Can we talk to him?” Jackson asked.

  “I’d go easy. He needs rest. I’m leaving a nurse with him; he’ll see that everything’s as it should be. You can ask questions if you must, but don’t let the man get overexcited.”

  “Well,” said Jackson after the doctor had left, “it looks as though we’re going to clear things up without your big scene, Fergus. We’ve narrowed it down to two men, and it isn’t hard to say which is the one. Of course we’ll keep up the search for your Dalrymple, Colonel; but just the same I think the case will be over as soon as Harding is well enough for a thorough grilling.”

  “I have always been amazed,” Rand mused, “by the extreme consideration of the State for the health of those whose lives it intends to take.”

  “Come now,” Fergus objected. “You can’t seriously think that Harding—”

  “It’s all obvious enough,” the Lieutenant replied. “In the first place, this was beyond any doubt a genuine attempt at suicide and not another murder. You were there yourselves; you saw it.”

  “Granted.” Fergus smiled almost patronizingly. “Go on, Andy.”

  “There’s nothing to go on about. Harding had all the motive you could ask for. Garnett’s death gave him ten thousand dollars, left him alone to gain all the renown and glory of their researches, and what’s more, according to his lights, freed the world of a monster who was creating war poisons.”

  “That, of course, is assuming that he knew about the second will and the secret notes.”

  “There’s no way of proving that one way or another; but he could have known, you’ll admit.”

  “All right, I’ll admit. On with the reconstruction.”

  “Incriminating Vinton, if that had worked, would have left Miss Garnett free for him. But it didn’t work, and that failure took all the glory out of his crime. When he learned we’d released Vinton, he went to pieces, drank himself practically out of his mind, made one last attempt at accusing Vinton to us, saw it didn’t go down, and gave up. But he was so drunk that he poured himself too large a dose, and we’ll have him on trial after all.”

  “The drunkenness, I suppose, had something to do with increasing the emetic effect?”

  “Yes, Colonel. That sounds likely.”

  Fergus was pacing like a resolute robot. “Look, Andy. Can you honestly believe, in your official heart of hearts and mind of minds, that the guy who worked out this beautiful complex scheme is going to commit suicide and blow the gaff just because one part of it goes wrong? You can see the way this thing was plotted. There’s a chess-problem mind behind it. There’s intellectual pride involved. All that means every whit as much to the murderer as the material results of the crime.”

  Rand nodded. “That makes sense, Lieutenant.”

  “Maybe.” Jackson was doubtful. “But to me this suicide attempt makes sense too; and I’m acting on it. I’ll admit you can make out a pretty good case against Warriner, and I won’t neglect that angle; but still—”

  “Warriner!” Fergus almost laughed. “Who said anything about Warriner? His part in all this is easy enough; I can explain that when the time comes. But if you’re going to close your eyes and ears—”

  Rand fingered his cigar thoughtfully. “Mind you, Lieutenant, I am not advancing this as my own theory; but simply in order to shake you in yours. Any conclusion is the better for a little stiff jolting before it is Teached. Can you be absolutely certain that Arthur Willowe did not commit suicide?”

  “Absolutely. The medical evidence clearly shows that a man couldn’t possibly have pricked himself in the back where that needle was found—unless, of course, he was a contortionist.”

  “That, Lieutenant, is the point of which I was thinking. I happen to know that Arthur Willowe, at least in the days of his youth, was something of a contortionist. Alicia—his sister, that is—has often told me of the acrobatic shows they used to put on as children; her brother, she used to say, was partially double-jointed, particularly in the shoulders.”

  Jackson frowned. “That is interesting, sir. I don’t see it myself as a serious possibility; but it might be useful to a defense attorney.”

  Fergus halted for an instant. “No it mightn’t, Andy. It’s physically possible, yes; but not mentally—psychologically, as Maureen would say. We know that Willowe was contemplating suicide last night. At that time he wrote a three-page le
tter explaining his action—probably chiefly so it’d lessen the shock for Kay. Then, after he’d talked with the Sallice, he changed his mind and burned the letter. Now if—and God knows for what reason—he changed his mind yet again, he certainly would have left us another letter.

  “No, Andy, Willowe was murdered; and that’s my chief objection to your nice easy little solution. I can see why Will Harding might have killed Garnett—I’ll admit he had at least three strong motives—and why he might have tried to frame Vinton for it; but I cannot see this second murder. Why did he kill Willowe?”

  “Damn it, Fergus, I can’t read the man’s mind for you. I suppose it was because of something Willowe knew that would have given him away. The old man might have seen him leaving the study late that night, taking the acid from the laboratory, reading the secret notes—anything.”

  “Come on, Andy. That’s out of a novel. Why did he kill Willowe?” The young investigator’s Irish brightness was gone. He was tense and earnest now; and if Gaelic trumpets sounded, they rang forth in serious and mortal challenge.

  “All rightl” Jackson thumped a lean fist on the desk. “I’ll tell you why he killed Willowe. He killed Willowe because the papers are on Captain Norris’ neck and Norris was on mine all morning. He wanted an arrest. Well, by God, here’s an arrest for him to put where it’ll do the most good.”

  Rand was patently shocked. “You mean, Lieutenant, that you would send an innocent man—”

  “Send him nothing! He’ll be detained for questioning as a material witness. That’s enough to quiet the papers—and Norris—and I can get on after Dalrymple. Once we’ve got him, this case will open up in our hands like a Japanese flower in water. But what we need now is immediate action, and this damned drunken young fool has given us the perfect lead. The D. A.’s office will go to work on him, but by the time they’re ready to ask for an indictment, I’ll have the whole mess sewed up just the way I want it.”

  Fergus’ pacing had assumed a regular, constricted pattern, as though he found himself confined within an invisible cell. “This is none of my damned business, I know,” he muttered. “Professionally, my job’s over with now. Vinton is cleared and all is rosy. But he’s cleared by the wrong answer, and I don’t like it.”

  “We’ll have the right answer within forty-eight hours—a week at the outside. We’ll put the F. B. I. on his tail if necessary.”

  “But in the meantime,” Fergus urged, “how about this poor dope? Do you think it’s going to do him any good? Do you think it’s going to help him land a job with a research institute if they know he was held on a murder rap—even if he is turned loose when you pull in Dalrymple?”

  “He asked for it,” Jackson said stubbornly.

  “But supposing—supposing, Andy, you could sew the whole thing up right here and now. No bluffing, no finagling—”

  Slowly Jackson relaxed. “All right, Fergus. I’m only human, after all. As far as my part in this house is concerned, this case is closed. From now on it’s up to Norris and the D. A. while I go after the lad with the snuff. But all the same I would like to hear just how you had it figured out.”

  “OK,” said Fergus. “On the sun porch.”

  “So you’re hack to that cockeyed idea? I thought before it might give me a lead; but now I don’t need it. You can spill your idea here and let it go at that.”

  “Look, Andy. Can’t you be a good guy? Give me just this one break. I mean, if I make a damned fool of myself, there’s nobody to blame but me, is there?”

  “I wouldn’t be so cocksure. False accusations can mean suits for malicious slander.”

  “And false arrests can mean suits too. I won’t point out that they can mean putting an end to an innocent man’s career or even to his life—that mightn’t make such an appeal to the official mind. I’d sooner gamble on the slander suit; better to have an. action against the O’Breen Agency than no damned action in it.

  “Come on. Let me go through with the scene the way we planned it. The nurse can come along too. Then if I lay an egg, you can take Harding off as soon as the doctor’ll let you and go merrily along on your chase and just plain forget about my fiasco.” His words were easy, but his voice was anxious and pleading.

  “Let him have his chance, Lieutenant,” Rand urged. “It’s giving Harding a square deal, and you don’t know—there may be something in O’Breen’s plan that could help you. If you could establish a definite case now—”

  Jackson was silent for a full minute. Rand could see him struggling between official rigidity and natural curiosity. “I guess,” he said at last, “that in a town where they make movies anything goes. Next thing, maybe, I’ll be drinking on a case, or smoking Régie cigarettes.”

  Fergus had stood stock-still awaiting the decision. “You mean it’s OK?” His voice was quietly jubilant.

  “Unofficially, yes. You can have your grand finale, Fergus. But I’m warning you—it had better be good.”

  Fergus said nothing. Somehow that was more impressive than the most confident assurances.

  XXIII

  Fergus Gathers the Threads

  Lieutenant jackson looked around the sun porch at the assembled company. “I warn you,” he began, “this is all strictly unofficial.”

  Rand, followed his gaze. Unless Fergus’ impetuous Irish brilliance had sorely misled him, here in this group was a murderer. It was not easy to believe. The Colonel noted, as he looked about him, how much these people had changed since the morning after the first crime. Kay looked pitifully older and much sadder. Camilla Sallice, despite her sorrow, seemed clearer and happier. Will Harding, tucked in on the chaise longue with the male nurse in dutiful attendance, still showed the shattering effects of his abortive suicide attempt.

  Rand smiled curiously as he looked from the invalid to Kay and recalled how Harding’s act had terrified her. In those first few minutes of uncertainty before the doctor’s arrival, it had seemed as though all the other horrors of the case had been wiped out for her by this. Now—such is the disquieting reality of anticlimax—she kept her eyes averted from him and sat close to Richard Vinton. The actor, of them all, had come out best from the ordeal. Freed at last from the cloud of suspicion, he seemed another man. It was not only his bravado now; he looked strong and right. Rand could find it in his heart to forgive the chap for being an artist.

  In this tense assemblage, only Max Farrington seemed out of place. The lawyer was as ever sleek and suave and confident—an abstractedly curious auditor at the session which was to mean life or death to one of the others present.

  It was Farrington now who answered the Lieutenant, in his best If-it-please-the-court manner. “Since the police seem inclined to regret their unfortunate error in arresting my client, I see no reason why we should not co-operate with you.”

  Jackson smiled—almost, Rand thought, with a touch of malice. “It isn’t so much a question of co-operating with me, Mr. Farrington, as with your boy detective here.” Fergus winced visibly. “Bringing him in on this case was your own idea, remember—though I’m not saying it wasn’t a good one. I don’t know myself what hand grenade of deduction he’s going to toss into your midst; I have my own ideas on the subject, but I’m giving him his innings before I take any action. And I request you—quite unofficially, I say again—to listen to whatever it is he has to say and to answer any questions he may ask you.”

  Fergus rose and resumed his walkathon. “With that formal introduction, I feel like an after-dinner speaker—which reminds me far too strongly that in all this fine hectic day we haven’t had any lunch. And I ought to start off with, ‘Unaccustomed as I am …’ Which, as a matter of strict fact, is quite true. I’m not accustomed to murders, and I know I haven’t got the right attitude. I don’t mean to be flippant; but that’s the way I am. It’s worked before in other things; I’ve been flippant as all get-out explaining to a plush dowager that she really couldn’t expect me to be much interested in chasing her paste emeralds when all the
time the real ones were inside a roll of cotton in the medicine cabinet. But this is different; and so, to use another formula from after-dinner speaking, ‘I ask your indulgence’ if I sound a little too light and breezy every so often. I’m really,” and his voice abruptly carried conviction, “sorry as hell that all this happened.

  “Now that those formalities are off my chest, I want to ask a few questions. Mr. Vinton.”

  “Yes?”

  “Did you at any time have in your hand the glass out of which Mr. Garnett … well, that glass,” he concluded quietly after a glance at Kay’s drawn face.

  “Often, I suppose. But not on that night.”

  “Did you return to the study at all that night?”

  “No.” He spoke simply and convincingly. Kay looked at him with warmth and relief; having her lover back with her seemed the only bright spot in her present life.

  “All right. I just wanted to make sure. You see, that could have provided another explanation. Now, Miss Sallice.”

  Camilla smiled at him; she appeared satisfied that matters were in good hands now. “Yes, Mr. O’Breen?”

  “Look, before we go on with this, would you mind telling all these people just what you told us in the rowboat this morning? Not if you’d rather not; but I think it might—well, ease their minds a little.”

  Camilla told her story briefly and calmly. The scene that morning had eased her overcharged emotions; she could view it all dispassionately now, and tell it simply as an interesting narrative. Farrington looked bored by the recital, Vinton somewhat relieved, as though he had at last placed a memory which had been puzzling him, and Kay deeply sympathetic.

  “You poor child,” she said when the other girl had finished. “Why didn’t you ever tell me?”

  “Uncle Humphrey didn’t want me to. He was possessive, you know; I think he wanted to feel that there was one part of his wife left that no one could share with him.”

  There was a little pause, quickly broken by Fergus saying, “Mr. Vinton.”