Episode of the Wandering Knife

by Rinehart, Mary Roberts;

  He was about to go when I called him back. He stood there blinking at me with the eyes which had needed spectacles for years—spectacles he refused to wear.

  “About the detective who was here last night?” I said. “Did he say why he wanted Mother or me when you couldn’t find me?”

  “No, miss.”

  “What was he doing when you came down?”

  “I think he was watching the fish.”

  “And the woman? The one who had been here that afternoon?”

  She too had stood by the pool while he looked for me again. But she had seemed uneasy, he thought. When he told her I wasn’t around she had hurried out. As for Mr. Leland, he had walked up and down the hall, refusing to go anywhere else. He had been there alone for some time. Then suddenly when Patrick reported that he could not find me he had clapped on his hat and stalked out.

  So it really came back to Tony King.

  I remembered sitting down and trying to follow the knife in its wanderings. Mother’s hiding it in the tank in her bathroom, the plumber’s finding it and sending it back. For that was the only explanation I could think of: that he had realized its import and sent it to us. Then my hiding it—first in my jewel case and then in the pool—and its disappearance from there. Only—why had the woman who had returned it come back again?

  Out of sheer exhaustion I picked up the newspaper and glanced at it. There was no mention of Larry’s car, but it said he was being held as a material witness. There was a full page of pictures of me, surrounded by flowers when I came out; of Mother in a low-cut dress and the high diamond collar she wears to hold her throat up; of the house, called “Suspected Millionaire’s Castle”; and even one, evidently sneaked by a reporter, of the hall and fountain. The only thing missing was the tank in Mother’s bathroom. By contrast a picture of the Barnes house was set in the center of the page and entitled “Home of Murdered Policeman.”

  All in all I wondered why the decent people of the town didn’t march out and burn us down. I tore it out and put it in the fire, but by that time I was in what amounted to a frenzy. I tried to read again. I saw that Barnes was to be buried the next day, with full Police Department honors: the Commissioner and his deputies, an honor guard of patrolmen and the department band. But there was another item which caught my eye and held it in frozen horror.

  A woman had jumped off one of the downtown bridges late the night before. Another woman who had happened to be near her had tried to catch her, but had failed. She had not fallen into the water, however. A barge was passing below, and she fell into it. She was critically injured, but was conscious when found. She had refused to give her name.

  She was about forty years of age, and she had been neatly dressed in a brown coat and a small purple hat!

  I had to know. I called Police Headquarters and asked for Inspector Welles, but he was out, and when I asked for Tony King nobody seemed to know anything about him. The officer at the switchboard had apparently never heard of him.

  It was impossible to settle down. At five o’clock I got my car again and drove to the hospital, only to be rebuffed. So far as the girl on duty in the office was concerned, there was no woman there who had worn a purple hat and jumped off a bridge. I was still standing, unwilling to leave, when Inspector Welles came down in the elevator. I turned my back quickly, but he saw me.

  He looked surprised and came over.

  “I was just inquiring for a sick friend,” I babbled. “They won’t let me see her. I do think it’s disgraceful. The money we give these places and—”

  The girl behind the grill looked up.

  “She was asking for the woman in Forty-Two,” she said.

  There was a queer little silence. The elevator came down again and Tony King got out. He looked even more surprised than the Inspector had.

  “Hello,” he said. “What are you doing here?”

  Well, there I was, with all three of them staring at me. You would have thought I had pushed the woman off the bridge myself. I couldn’t even speak. It was the Inspector who broke the silence.

  “Suppose we go into the reception room,” he said. “See that we aren’t disturbed, Miss Clark.”

  When we were inside he closed the door and confronted me.

  “Just what is your interest in this woman, Miss Shepard?” he inquired grimly.

  “I saw the description of her in the paper. A woman dressed like that came to the house yesterday. She asked for Mother or me, but we weren’t at home to anybody.”

  “How did you know how she was dressed?”

  “I saw her get out of the taxi. I suppose it was silly. There must be a thousand women around with clothes like that I just thought …”

  He made me sit down. I suppose I looked excited. He even offered me a cigarette, although he continued to watch me. As for Tony King, he had wandered to a window and stood there looking out. What his back said was that this was up to me. He was through. If I wanted to go on making a fool of myself …

  “Now let’s get at this,” said the Inspector. “Why did she call on you? Did she leave any message?”

  I suppose I hesitated. I could see Patrick holding the white parcel containing the knife and eyeing it curiously. He would tell them if I didn’t. But I couldn’t say it was the knife.

  “She left a small parcel,” I said. “Perhaps Mother has it. I haven’t asked her. She’s not well. Besides, dozens of packages come to the house.”

  I thought I had done rather well, but Tony King had turned and was looking at me, and the Inspector plainly didn’t believe me.

  “So you read the paper, and saw that a woman in a brown coat and a purple hat had been hurt, and rushed here to see her. Is that it?”

  “I didn’t rush. I simply came.”

  Behind the Inspector Tony King was shaking his head. I stopped, and the Inspector hitched his chair closer.

  “Are you sure that’s quite correct, Miss Shepard?” he said. “Suppose I suggest that it was exactly the reverse of what you say: that this woman came to your house, but instead of leaving this parcel it was given to her? What would you say to that?”

  “It isn’t true,” I said wildly. “You have to believe me. Nobody gave her anything.”

  His voice changed. He didn’t raise it. It simply became harsh and cold.

  “What do you know about this woman?” he said. “Who was she? What was she doing there? And what are you doing here, trying to see her?”

  It wasn’t any use. I saw that. I never even offered a protest when he got up and asked if I had brought my car. When I said I had, he told Tony to drive me into town. And even Tony King had little to say on the way. He had abandoned his cheerful grin entirely. He looked older and very tired.

  “What was the reason for that outburst of yours this morning?” he asked.

  “You ought to know.”

  He frowned over that.

  “I?” he said. “What had I done?”

  “Gone fishing in the pool last night. Don’t deny it. I saw it myself.”

  He raised his eyebrows.

  “I see,” he said thoughtfully, “and what did I find? It wouldn’t by any chance have been a knife?”

  “I thought you were helping us, and all the time you’ve been working against us.”

  To my surprise he took a hand off the wheel and patted my knee.

  “I am helping you, little Judy,” he said. “At least I’m trying to, but you make it so damned hard I’m thinking of giving it up.

  That was all until we got to the Inspector’s office. There was a man in the outer room waiting, and at a gesture from the Inspector he followed us in. He was a taxi driver, and he carried his cap in his hand. He stood in front of the desk while the Inspector questioned him.

  “You’re Johnson?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You’ve seen her?”

  The taxi driver nodded.

  “It’s the same woman. I’d know her anywhere. I saw her hat too. She’s the one.”r />
  “You waited for her?”

  “Yes, sir. The man at the door let her in. She wasn’t there very long. Only a couple of minutes.”

  “Where did you take her after that?”

  “I left her at Fifth Street, downtown. I think she went into the park.”

  He was sent out and told to wait. The Inspector picked up some papers and glanced over them. Then he took off his glasses.

  “I brought you here, Miss Shepard,” he said, “because I think it’s time you talked. You are not helping your brother by your silence. What about this woman? Did you know her? What was her name? Where did she live?”

  “I’ve told you. I never saw her before. I didn’t speak to her that day. I’d told the butler to say I was out. The only thing—”

  “Yes?”

  “Well,” I said desperately. “I told you I saw her when she was leaving. I thought—well, after Isabel’s death I found a snapshot in the magazine she had been reading that night. There was a woman in it, standing by a palm tree. She looked like her.”

  “Where is this snapshot now?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve looked for it. It’s gone.”

  “That was all it was? A woman and a tree?”

  “There were some children in it. I didn’t notice them particularly.”

  He looked at Tony King, who merely lit a cigarette.

  “What did I tell you?” he said. “Curiouser and curiouser, isn’t it?”

  The Inspector didn’t think that was funny. He sat still, apparently undecided about something. Finally he threw the something at me.

  “What about this knife of your brother’s? Was it you or your mother who smuggled it out of the house that night?”

  I didn’t answer. I couldn’t.

  “All right,” he said, “let that go. How did the woman who tried to kill herself last night get hold of it? Did you give it to her?”

  “Do you mean she had it?” I said wildly. “Then she did get it, after all!”

  “She had it,” the Inspector said. “She had it when she fell. It was in her bag. She is dead now, so she can’t tell her story. But I think you can.” He lifted something and held it out to me. “You might look at this.”

  I did. It was a greatly enlarged picture of me looking like a skinned rabbit and digging frantically at the hole under the hemlock. There was no question either of what I was digging with. It was a knife. Larry’s knife.

  XIII

  I knew then that it was over—all our struggle, the lies I had told for Larry’s sake, the fight we had put up to save him. When Tony King sauntered over to look at the picture, I was speechless.

  “Not bad, is it?” he said complacently. “Not that it flatters you any. But I told you I took pretty good pictures. Someday you’ll have to let me—Here, sit down!”

  I did sit down. I also, when I got control of my vocal cords again, told him what I thought of him, that under pretense of helping me he had thrown me to the wolves. I’m afraid I made it stronger than that, for I remember his saying that it was no language for a lady, and a young one at that. I must have got under his skin, for he put a not too gentle hand on my shoulder.

  “Listen,” he said. “You’re a pampered brat, but for some strange reason I don’t want to see you locked up, or your mother either. The beds are bad. Now come clean, or it’s going to be bad for both of you.”

  That was how I came at last to tell the story of the knife. It was dark by that time. Someone turned on the lights. A uniformed stenographer came in and sat at a table. A couple of detectives stood by. Tony King chain-smoked. And because there was nothing else for me to do I told it all, from Mother’s finding the knife under the stair carpet to my scratching her leg to account for the blood on her stocking; from my trying to bury it to Tony King’s discovering me; from my hiding it again in the bathroom tank to the plumber’s getting it out and taking it away; and from the woman’s bringing it back to my dropping it in the fish pool, and its disappearance from there.

  I stopped there except to add that the dead woman had come back to see me again the night before, and that she must have seen it and taken it.

  The Inspector sat back in his chair when I finished.

  “Has it occurred to you,” he said drily, “that if you had told this story sooner you might have saved at least one life? Maybe more.”

  “How could I? I didn’t know she had it.”

  “That’s what you say,” he stated unpleasantly. “How did she know it was in the pool, Miss Shepard? Granting that it was in the pool. And I will add something else. One of our men has been killed. That makes three deaths, all apparently connected. We don’t like our men being killed.”

  There was a sort of movement in the room, like a wave of anger. I could feel it. The men there were hostile, almost menacing. I think Tony King saw it, for he got up.

  “If that’s all, Inspector,” he said, “I’ll take her along.”

  So at least they were not holding me. I relaxed somewhat, and I managed to sign the statement. But once outside the building Tony stopped and looked at his wristwatch.

  “Time to eat,” he said. “How about a hamburger? Ever try one?”

  I hadn’t enough spirit left even to resent that. I nodded, and before long I was finding I was hungry. I ate four hamburgers and drank incredible amounts of coffee. I realized I had hardly eaten for three days. He watched me, looking kinder than he had before.

  “You’ve been carrying quite a load, haven’t you?” he said. “You’ll feel better, now it’s off your chest. How about a little apology? Since I didn’t take the knife.”

  “I feel like a heel,” I told him. “I’m sorry. But I told the truth. She got the knife herself. I never gave it to her.”

  He yawned and stretched.

  “I know it,” he said. “You weren’t there to do it. You were in your brother’s house with Scott.” He yawned again; then he grinned. “I hope to God you stay in bed tonight. I need some sleep.”

  “You don’t mean …”

  “Sure I mean it. How about the man who came looking for your brother’s hat? How about the knife? I couldn’t have you getting any more ideas about doing away with it in the dark of the moon. I’ve been practically living on your front lawn. Don’t worry. I can sleep tonight. The knife’s gone. Get someone else to find it.”

  “Find it?” I said. “I thought the Inspector had it.”

  “That’s just his little way. As a matter of fact, somebody got to the hospital ahead of us and took it.”

  He told me what had happened. At nine o’clock that morning a man—description, tall and thin, rather shabby—said he had seen the article in the paper and asked to see the woman. She was unconscious, but he had identified her as his wife, and had looked so faint that the nurse had gone to get him some aromatic ammonia. He had given the name of Johnson and an address which turned out later to be nonexistent. He had stayed an hour or two. Then he had gone, promising to come back. He had not done so.

  Beyond the usual inquiry and report the police had not been interested in the woman. Certainly no one had connected her with the case. But according to hospital routine the contents of her pocketbook had been listed at the office on arrival, before it was taken to her room. Among them was a hunting knife wrapped in a clean handkerchief. It was not until an alert young receptionist came on duty that afternoon that anyone took particular note of the knife. She thought it was odd. She went up to ask the nurse about it, and the knife was gone. She reported it at the office, but nothing was done about it.

  Then the nurse, interested by that time, came down to say that she had found a slip of paper in an inner pocket of the woman’s bag. It was folded very small, and on it were the words “Strathmore House, Linden Avenue bus.” The receptionist had read the papers. She knew of the search for the knife that had killed Isabel, and so she notified the police.

  “We got there too late,” Tony said gloomily. “The woman had just died. And the man hasn’t turned up
. But we got a full description of the knife from the night clerk who listed it. He even said the handle was damp, as if it had been in water. Now what’s the connection between this woman and Isabel Shepard’s death? There has to be one.”

  “I don’t know,” I said helplessly. “If I could find that picture—”

  “The snapshot?” he asked. “Did you really make a search for it?”

  So I told him about finding Don Scott in Isabel’s room and about hunting everywhere for the picture.

  “It had been left on the mantel?” he asked.

  “So Anna said.”

  “Then, if Scott saw it there and took it, why did he want it? And what else was he looking for when you found him?”

  “He said he was afraid she had kept some of his letters.”

  “Nice boy, your old pal,” he observed. “Getting out from under, wasn’t he? What’s scandalous about love letters seven or eight years old?”

  He paid the check and leaned back scowling and silent for some time. Then he got up abruptly.

  “Why the hell didn’t you tell me this before?” he said. “Come on. We’re going to the Lelands’. I want to speak to Andrew.”

  He refused to explain, although I protested. After all Isabel had been buried only that morning, and the family had a right to their decent grief.

  But to my surprise we were admitted to the house, and we found Andrew in his dismal library, sitting alone. He had apparently not even been reading. There was the dank smell of funeral flowers still in the room, and only one lamp was lighted. He had aged perceptibly. He looked stricken, and even Tony King saw it. He apologized.

  “I’m sorry to disturb you, Mr. Leland,” he said. “But certain things have come up. You ought to know them. My name is King. You know Miss Shepard.”

  He asked us to sit down. He didn’t like me; he never had, but he was civil enough. It was to Tony King, however, that he spoke.

  “What things? I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

  “Your daughter’s death. The murder of a policeman. And the suicide of a woman who jumped off a bridge last night.”

  “I have no knowledge of any except the first two, Mr. King.”