Figure Away

by Phoebe Atwood Taylor

  “Poof, or boom. Honestly, you don’t mean you’ll keep quiet for a spell?”

  “Why not? If I phone up what I’ve found out, the whole pack’ll be here as fast as their cars’ll carry’em. What chance would I have? None. But if I can go home with the whole story – well, I really do think that I can afford to be a little charitable about Billingsgate.” Asey walked over to her and extended his hand.

  “It’s always a pleasure to meet a logical female. It’s an event.”

  She smiled. “And now, before I burst, will you fill in the cracks for me? Don’t I deserve to know?”

  Briefly, Asey told her all that had happened.

  “And so,” she said, “your obvious suspect bought a twelve gauge gun. That means that by tomorrow or the next day, you ought to have some sort of case, doesn’t it, really?”

  “It means nothin’ at all,” Asey replied coolly. “It don’t mean one single blessed thing.”

  “What? But you told Tertius – I mean, you said—”

  “Tertius was a fly in the ointment,” Asey said. “He was the excess baggage. The monkey wrench. What comes of tryin’ to keep things quiet. All I know is, he didn’t kill Mary, an’ I didn’t want him. Fast or loose, Tertius could have been just as nasty a burden as he promised. Just a white man’s burden. That’s that. Therefore Tertius is goin’ on a long, long journey, feelin’ valuable an’ virtuous, an’ a plainclothesman’ll tend him like a brother. At least, I hope he will.”

  “Then you did all that to get rid of him? Look, there seems to be a lot of things that elude me. What about the ballistics end of it? Is there one? I mean, there usually is a ballistics end to these things.”

  “Out of every ten shotguns sold,” Asey said, “probably nine ofem is twelve gauge guns. It’s like findin’ an arrow. Almost any bow might do, offhand. There’s one, an’ just one way of connectin’ any shotgun with this murder. That’s by findin’ a shell. An’ findin’ a shell in this vicinity that you could more or less prove was left there by the murderer last night. You could say, the only connection was if we had found a shell. Because we ain’t so far, an’ I can’t see how we will now.”

  Kay Thayer wrinkled up her nose. “But you have the ball – look, put it in words of one syllable, can’t you?”

  “S’pose,” Asey said, “someone shot Mary Randall with my gun here. We take the bullet, an’ we know it come from a forty-five. Now in our real case, we weigh the deer ball, an’ we know it’s a standard load for a twelve gauge gun. But – an’ this is an important but. But in our case of the forty-five, we corral every forty-five we can find, near or far. Sooner or later, we find a forty-five that shoots a bullet that’s got all the ridges an’ markin’s an’ whatnot of the bullet that killed our person. Got that?”

  “I’m plowing along.”

  “Then,” Asey continued, “get to our real case right here. The deer ball’s got no markin’s. It might have been fired from any shotgun in Christendom, providin’ it’s a twelve gauge. Everyone with the slightest connection with this case might own a twelve gauge gun. They might have collections of twelve gauge guns. We couldn’t do a thing. Not unless we find, or found, the shells in a place – well, like outside Mary’s window somewhere. Those shells would have the mark of the hammer. Then we could begin to hunt shotguns, an’ try to find the one that left the same mark on the shells as these did. See?”

  “Sort of.”

  “An’ mind you this. We’d have to prove the shells had some connection with this. That’s a nice joker.”

  “In brief, a shell you probably will never find is the only connecting link between shotgun, deer ball and murder?”

  “Just so. For fun, say we find the shell. Then we got to find the shotgun, which any sane person would have hove into the Atlantic last night after Mary was killed. Into somethin’, anyway. Then we got to prove the ownership of the gun. Then, maybe, with the grace of God an’ the hand of fate an’ such, maybe we might prove that the owner was the person who was here last night an’ killed Mary Randall. But you can see,” Asey added drily, “there’s some chance involved.”

  “In other words, even if Jane Warren bought a shotgun, and a twelve gauge, and even if she were here and had a motive, you still haven’t a clew, don’t expect to find any, and even if you did, they probably wouldn’t help?”

  Asey beamed at her. “That’s a fine summin’ up of this whole case. It’s the works in a thimble. Now ask me, what good can I do? An’ I’ll tell you the honest truth, I don’t see how in the world we can do a single thing.”

  “Then why do you keep on?”

  “Guess.”

  Kay stubbed out a cigarette. “Not for what you can get out of it, that’s a cinch. I – well, there are probably two reasons. One is that you’ve just stated the case from the official copper’s point of view, and it’s hopeless, but that you’ve got some ideas on the subject just the same, and you intend to work it out yourself. And the other reason – well, that you feel Mary Randall’s murder is incidental to something else.”

  Asey nodded. “An’ there’s a third thing. I got a sort of hankerin’ notion to find out who this clever feller is. I’d sort of like to meet him.”

  “Are you very sure,” Kay asked, “that it’s not a madman on the loose? There’ve been cases sort of like this. I’ve read about them.”

  “When everything else fails,” Asey said, “you lay it to a maniac. But just the same, I tie this up with the things Sara an’ Weston worried about. There’s a plan somewhere. I can’t tell where or what it is, or lay my hands on much of it, but it’s there. We got odds an’ ends an’ corners, but nothin’ to tell the shape of the thing. I wish to heaven this man’d make a move. He’d be a fathead to, because all he’s got to do is sit tight an’ say nothin’, an’ he’s all set. But Mary Randall was killed for a purpose, prob’ly to keep her from tellin’ somethin’. There is a plan here, I’m sure. I been hopin’ if we sat back, some more of it would filter out.”

  “There’s the Warren girl and Mike Slade. Perhaps they’re the planners. He’s connected with the town, and she’s connected with Mary. Personally I should dally with those two.”

  “They’ll be dallied with, never fear,” Asey promised. “An’ now, let’s get back to Sara’s. I’m tired. I—”

  “Oh, I see how you knew me. You’re staying there! Aunt Sara told you!”

  “Swami Mayo,” Asey observed. “Knows all, hears all, sees all. Let’s get back there b’fore anyone else pops in. You know, I took Slade for the hot-tempered kind that flies off the handle easy, an’ I thought he was tryin’ to help, in his way – put out the lamp, will you? But now I’m lookin’ forward to findin’ Comrade Slade at an early date. Tomorrow, probably, while you’re takin’ down governors’ speeches.”

  But his chance to dally with Mike Slade came much sooner than that.

  As Asey turned his roadster up the lane leading to the Leach house, he noticed that the house blazed with lights at every window.

  His headlights, as he shot the car forward, picked up the figures of three men on the front lawn. Four men. The place was swarming.

  Swinging his car so that the headlights illuminated the front of the house, he shut off the ignition and ran towards the group.

  It was Slade – Slade was fighting someone. Slade was fighting J. Arthur Brinley, and the trooper who’d been stationed by the garage was trying to separate them. Zeb stood there helplessly, watching, but not doing anything about it all. Just, Asey thought, the way he’d stood around when Jane fainted. No great shakes in an emergency, the baked beans heir.

  Suddenly Slade stopped pounding Brinley’s face and turned his attention to the trooper. J. Arthur hastily moved out of range and watched.

  “What is goin’ on – ” Asey began.

  “Thank goodness,” Sara appeared beside him. “And what a time I had getting out of that room! I hadn’t any idea where Jeff put the key, and he couldn’t remember, but luckily he had one on his key ring
that—”

  “Sara, what’s goin’ on? Hey, trooper, stop! Slade, cut it out – hold it, you two!”

  Slade and the trooper, rolling over and over in the grass, ignored his commands.

  “What happened?” Asey asked. “Sara, stop watchin’ them so avid an’ tell me what happened, will you?”

  “Oh, I don’t really know,” Sara said. “We just heard the screams, and then the fight. I don’t know who’s fighting who, or for what – really, I do think that the trooper is getting far the best of it, don’t you?”

  Asey strode over to Zeb.

  “What is this?”

  “I don’t know,” Zeb said. “Everyone’s all right, I guess. Jane and Eloise and Jeff are indoors. Eloise,” he added as an afterthought, “is having hysterics. Should I call the doctor, or—”

  Asey snorted and turned to Brinley.

  “See here, J. Arthur, what’s the meanin’ of this rumpus – oh, what’s the use?”

  Brinley was puffing and blowing after his tussle with Slade, making so much noise that he didn’t even hear Asey’s question. He was nervously dabbing a handkerchief at his lip, which was bleeding freely, and each time he saw the little spots of red, he puffed and blew more fervently.

  Kay Thayer, who had parked her little coupe next to Asey’s roadster, came over and stood beside him.

  “What’s the general idea?” she asked. “I mean, who’s the trooper spanking?”

  “Slade,” Asey said. “Don’t ask why. I don’t know. No one knows, I guess.”

  “Aren’t you going to take any steps?” Asey shrugged. “Everyone’s havin’ lots of fun. Maybe if we wait, someone’ll get bored with fightin’, or watchin’, an’ let us in on things. Nope, I guess I’d better not wait, at that. Slade’s stagin’ a comeback—”

  He marched in between the two men and did something – Kay couldn’t tell what because it all happened too quickly. Somehow, the trooper was on his feet, apparently none the worse for the scuffle, and Slade was flat on his back after a somersault through the air. Asey stood over him.

  “Shut up, Slade. Keep quiet or I’ll do it again. Trooper, what’s this about?”

  “Him.” The trooper pointed to Slade. “I heard someone, see, and I thought I heard that laugh you spoke about. So I sneaked around, but I couldn’t find anybody. Then after a while I heard someone moving, but I couldn’t find anybody. And then I heard footsteps—”

  “But you couldn’t find anybody,” Asey said impatiently. “I know. Get to the point, will you?”

  “Well, finally I heard someone in the house scream, and then everybody woke up, and people started moving around, and coming out, and then I seen this guy here, getting down the big maple. He’d been up the tree, trying to get into a window, and I guess some woman in the house seen him and screamed. And then this fellow,” he pointed to J. Arthur, “he come up out of nowhere, and he tackled the other fellow, and they were hitting it up and then I tried to stop ’em, and then he went for me. That’s all.”

  “It’s not,” Asey said, “the clearest explanation I ever heard, but – Sara, what’s your version?”

  “Someone screamed,” Sara said. “Eloise, it must have been, for she’s gone to pieces entirely indoors somewhere. I told Jane where the spirits of ammonia are, and she and Jeff are working on her. Jeffs awfully handy with hysterics. His mother had them regularly. Monotonous, I thought, but people always tore around and did things for her—”

  “Slade,” Asey said, “it looks like you had to provide the explanation yourself. What was the underlyin’ idea behind your human fly act?”

  “Oh, go to hell!” Slade said disgustedly. “You’ve busted my collar bone with your tricks! If I could move, I’d make hash of you—”

  “It shouldn’t be broken,” Asey said. “Just sort of wrenched. But you r’sisted, an’ I’m sort of stale at that stuff, an’ that all makes – Kay, what are you snickerin’ about?”

  “Don’t mind me, I’m the audience,” Kay said. “And I do think this is pretty funny – hey, look out! Slade’s trying to trip you!”

  Asey moved back. “Trooper, you an’

  Zeb cart this fellow into the house. Sara, l how about you take a hand with Eloise? I i never heard anythin’ so bloodcurdlin’ as . them screams! Kay, trail along, will you? i By the lord Harry, I don’t know what’s come over folks. Brinley, are you back to normal yet? Where do you come in?”

  “That man, that man is a menace!” Brinley spoke with difficulty. His lip was swelling and it gave him a slight lisp. “A menace. A maniac! He came to our house while we were all in bed—”

  If J. Arthur hadn’t looked so desperately miserable, Asey would have finished it up, “And you took a marrow bone and hit him on the head.” But he only nodded, and told Brinley to go on.

  “I was on the back porch,” Brinley said, “I’d just come back from the clothes yard – that’s where we keep our oil tank because it’s handy, but out of sight. Anyway, I’d forgotten the oil before I went to bed – really, it’s been a very tiring day! And I remembered it when I woke up, so I went out and filled the stove tank, because Mrs. Brinley likes plenty of hot water, and we have company anyway, so we had to have it, and Mrs. Brinley is particular about enough hot water when we have company. Madame – uh – the soprano, you know, is staying with us, and she—”

  “You was on the back porch,” Asey reminded him.

  “And it seemed to me I heard a noise. I looked around, but I couldn’t see anything, and—”

  “Didn’t happen to see any state cops, did you? No? Nice fellers, but not such hot guards. Go on.”

  “Well, I happened to look up, and there was this man, climbing down the Paul’s Scarlet! Down the trellis, I mean. Well, Mrs. Brinley would rather die than have anyone break her Paul’s Scarlet, you know. It’s – why, everyone knows about it! You must have heard about Mrs. Brinley’s Paul’s Scarlet!”

  “My fav’rite rose,” Asey said. “What did you do?”

  “Well, I thought rather quickly,” Brinley was quite pleased at the rapidity of his thoughts, “and I said to myself, if I stop him now, he’ll break the Paul’s Scarlet. And I didn’t want to wake Bessie, or Madame – uh – the soprano. They’ve had a hard day, too, and I knew Bessie would get worked up, and it’s so bad for her heart, to get worked up, so I waited until he got down on the ground, and then – well—”

  “Well, what? What happened?”

  “Well,” Brinley dabbed at his lip, “he seemed like quite a big man. And he didn’t seem to be carrying anything, and I looked up, and the screens were in place, so I knew he hadn’t got in, and besides, he hadn’t waked anyone, and he would have if he’d got in. Mrs. Brinley is a very light sleeper—”

  “So, you let him go?”

  “For all I knew,” Brinley said, “he might have been armed, and I only had the oil tank. And in my bedroom slippers, and just my pants on over my pyjamas, and my sweater, like I am now—”

  “Uh-huh. But you turned up here. Now let’s get into that side of it. Sort of wade on, Brinley.”

  “Well, I waited, and he slid around to the side of the house, and then I knew who it was. It was Slade, because he had a bicycle. Slade doesn’t have a car, you know. He’s against the car manufacturers. He says they exploit—”

  “Slade got on his bike,” Asey said, “and you did what, exactly?”

  “Why, Madame – the singer’s bike was there, so I followed. He came way up here, and left his bike, and I came after him and followed along. He cut through the woods, and then he came up to the house, and climbed the maple, and then that cop came, and—”

  “Thanks,” Asey said. “You done a nice job, an’ I should expect it took considerable courage. Now, the cop’ll attend to Slade, an’ I’ll take you home myself—”

  “Not,” Brinley said with a show of spirit, “until I know what’s going on here! not until I am sure that menace, that maniac, is properly restrained! Taken into custody! Mr. Mayo, what is going on?
”

  Asey sighed. If he told J. Arthur, Mrs. J. Arthur would know, and that was equivalent to telling the whole town of Billingsgate.

  “And this trooper here,” Brinley said. “A lot of funny things are going on! Troopers at the hall. I saw them with my own eyes. And—”

  “If you want to know,” Asey made a desperate stab, “it’s all on account of Slade. You know how he is. He wants publicity. That’s why Weston had me come over, so none of Slade’s stunts would get into the papers. Bad for the town. See that girl reporter? She knows, but she ain’t written a word—”

  He rambled on, and the more involved he got, the more inclined J. Arthur seemed to believe him. Just as Asey was beginning to feel that he had won, a car slewed up to the front walk, and Mrs. J. Arthur Brinley tumbled out and rushed up to her husband.

  “Arthur – Arthur – oh, thank God! Madame Meaux said that Mr. Mayo would know – where is she? Madame Meaux, come quick! Come, show him that letter! Let him see it, quick! It’s about a murder, and that awful Slade, he did it! He says so—”

  Chapter 9

  The ensuing quarter hour at the Leaches’ house was never entirely clear or coherent to any of the people who somehow lived through it. As Sara said the next day, it was the sort of thing you used to date things by, like the night the old ice house burned down, or when the big tide washed away all those cottages.

  Even when a comparative state of calm arrived, the confusion and uproar were considerable.

  Slade emerged from it tied hand and foot on the living room floor, with the state trooper and Zeb trying to silence his roars of rage and threats of what would happen when he was set free. Before he achieved his recumbent position, he succeeded in breaking three chairs completely, and in rendering three others quite unfit for occupancy. The excited Eloise had run the entire gamut of hysterics. She had screamed and sobbed and laughed and cried, separately and all at once, and now she showed every sign of beginning at the beginning and repeating the exhibition. Jane, whitefaced and tight-lipped, tried to soothe her. The process reminded Asey of old Barney Snowden, who decided one day that he disliked the Atlantic Ocean, and thereafter spent his time removing it, a teacupful at a time. Jeff, in a cambric nightshirt, with his whiskers askew, had appointed himself curator of the ice bags and cold cloths for Eloise. As fast as he got one in place, Eloise promptly threw it as far as she could send it. When she began to aim for the mantel, and Sara’s pet collection of Toby jugs, Sara had removed them to a place of safety. Then, rather grimly, she stood on guard between Eloise and the rest of her bric-a-brac.