by Q. Patrick
“Accident!” Doc Sanders snorted into his handkerchief. “We’re the Homicide Squad not an insurance company. Hope you told them that.”
“My dear doc, you don’t tell things to the Ruskin School.” Trant headed the car uptown. “It happens to be the most exclusive, the most—”
“Snobbish,” put in Sanders irritably. “Getting me out of bed at this hour for an accident.”
“It’s an accident with a very plush victim, if that makes you feel any better. Madeline Winters, daughter of Ambassador Winters, the man who’s over there holding Europe together for us.”
“Kenneth Winters’ daughter.” Sanders was impressed now. “Why this is headline stuff.”
“It isn’t,” replied Trant. “No headlines. No publicity.” He grinned. “And remember, accidents happen in the best of families.”
“But she’s dead?” asked Sanders.
“Yes. Apparently, there was a dance—graduation dance, I guess—at the school last night. Madeline Winters lives there at the school. She was missing after the dance. They found her early this morning. Miss Ruskin called in Dr. Harlan Graves.”
“Dr. Graves.” Sanders was even more impressed. “Graves is the biggest name in neurology in the country. Say, we’re certainly moving in high circles.” He threw Trant a faintly malicious glance. “That’s why they called you in, I suppose. Timothy Trant, the smoothie of the Homicide Squad—specialist in high-life slayings.”
Timothy grinned. Ever since he’d joined the force, he’d had to live down the fact that he’d graduated from Groton and Princeton.
“Well, here we are,” he said as he drove the car through imposing iron gates.
The Ruskin School for Girls was an impressive building, situated in spacious grounds on the elegant fringes of New York. The campus was formal and sleek as a debutante in a receiving line.
Timothy Trant was fascinated by contrasts. He had abandoned a career in law to enlist in the police force simply because crime offered so many intriguing paradoxes. Although he knew so little about Madeline Winters’ death, he was already sensing a paradox here. The daughter of a very famous man had died in a place which should have been as insulated against the perils of the world as a nunnery. It was unorthodox.
On the lawn, close to the main buildings, a large canvas marquee had been erected. Presumably, the dance had taken place out of doors. As they passed it, Trant glanced at it curiously. There is always something bleak about a marquee on the morning after a dance. But to Trant, who deliberately cultivated his imagination, there seemed something faintly sinister about this one. A trim maid answered their ring. “Yes, sir, Miss Ruskin is expecting you.”
She led Trant and Dr. Sanders through a wide hall into a broad, sunny office. A woman rose from behind a desk to greet them.
“I’m glad you have come, gentlemen.” She held out a steady hand to Timothy. “You’re Lieutenant Trant, aren’t you? Dr. Graves asked particularly for you when we decided to call the police. He’s waiting upstairs with—Madeline.”
Timothy studied Miss Constance Ruskin as he and Sanders accompanied her upstairs. She had an arresting face, too strong perhaps for beauty, but charming and serene. It was the face of a woman who knew what she wanted in life and got it, but who also knew the price of getting.
As if to contradict any notion that spinster headmistresses of girls’ schools were dowdy, she was dressed in perfect taste and the snow-white hair about her essentially young face was exquisitely set.
“Madeline is in her room.”
Miss Ruskin led them into a completely feminine bedroom, decorated in frivolous shades of pink. A tall, middle-aged man with stooped shoulders stood at the window with his back to them. Miss Ruskin introduced him as Doctor Harlan Graves and withdrew.
The celebrated neurologist nodded in reply to Doc Sanders’ greeting and turned dark, disillusioned eyes on Timothy.
“Your father is an old friend of mine, Trant. A fine physician.” He paused, adding rather jerkily: “It was I who asked Miss Ruskin to call you. Miss Ruskin is satisfied that Madeline’s death was accidental and I hasten to add that I am in complete agreement with her. I am perfectly prepared to sign the death certificate but—” he coughed and it was a rather pompous cough which did not seem to fit his personality— “but I realize it is orthodox to summon the police in cases like this.”
Dr. Graves turned to the pink canopied bed which stood in the corner. Timothy and Doc Sanders moved after him across the room and Timothy saw Madeline Winters for the first time.
Unlike his colleagues, Timothy had never become immunized to the sight of death, particularly when the victim was a beautiful girl. And Madeline Winters, lying on the bed in a white satin evening dress with her auburn hair gleaming against the pillows, was very beautiful.
Dr. Graves was saying: “Miss Ruskin found her and I prefer to have Miss Ruskin tell you the story herself. Suffice it to say she was found in the garage with the engine of a car running. Her death was almost certainly caused by carbon monoxide poisoning.”
“In a garage with a car running?” echoed Doc Sanders.
He gave a matter-of-fact grunt. “Suicide, maybe, yeah?” Dr. Graves’ face flushed its disapproval of this suggestion. He opened his mouth, obviously to refute it, but before he did so, Trant broke in. He had been gazing down at the girl’s hair.
“Hardly suicide, Sanders, with that blow on the head. Must have been struck pretty hard.” He indicated a marked contusion above the girl’s left ear to Sanders and turned his deceptively quiet gaze on Dr. Graves. “A blow like that would probably have knocked her unconscious, wouldn’t it?”
“Almost certainly.” Dr. Graves returned Timothy’s gaze unwaveringly. “That is why both Miss Ruskin and I are convinced that the death was accidental. Madeline had gone to the garage to get the car. Probably she tripped on the skirt of her evening gown and struck her head against something with sufficient violence to render her unconscious. The engine was running. Before she came to …” He gestured with his sensitive hands. “That is how Miss Ruskin and I explain the accident.”
Lieutenant Trant said nothing. It was possible, yes, that the girl had turned on the car engine, tripped, struck her head and rendered herself unconscious. But to Timothy, trained to suspect the worst, it was equally possible that someone else had followed Madeline into the garage, struck her on the head and then turned on the car engine.
Yet Timothy did not believe in voicing his thoughts, particularly when they involved murder. Dr. Graves was obviously doing his utmost to sell them on the accident theory. It might pay to let him think, for a while, that he was getting away with it.
As the three men gazed down at the body, Timothy noticed something else that sent a tingle of interest up his spine. Three distinct scratches shone red against the white skin of the girl’s left arm.
* * *
Trant prayed inwardly that Doc Sanders would not notice them and make some blundering comment. But, since he believed in prayer only up to a point, he drew Sanders away and managed to embroil the two physicians in a lengthy discussion of death by asphyxiation.
While the doctors were talking, Trant roamed around the room. At first it revealed nothing. Then he noticed a small object lying close to the bed, half hidden under the pink froth of the canopy drapes.
He picked it up and examined it. It was an irregular fragment of plaster about two inches long and there were workings on it as though it was a part broken off some figurine. There was a faint red stain on it, too. Another tour of the room convinced him that there was no visible object from which it could have been broken.
Carefully, he wrapped it in his handkerchief and put it in his pocket.
The doctors did not seem to notice as he slipped out of the room.
A girl was sitting at a reception desk in the anteroom to Miss Ruskin’s office, a girl with a sensational figure and slanting green eyes which appraised Trant cynically. She rose as he passed her and, when he moved on to the
door of Miss Ruskin’s office, called a monitory: “Hey!” But he paid her no attention and walked into the inner room.
Miss Ruskin did not hear him immediately. She was seated behind her desk, holding two framed photographs and studying them. When she noticed Trant, she made a move as if to conceal one of the photographs in a drawer. She must, however, have realized it was too late to do so without arousing suspicion. She put both photographs down on the desk and smiled awkwardly.
Trant joined her at the desk. One glance at the photograph was sufficient for him to recognize the handsome face of Kenneth Winters, Madeline’s illustrious father. Still flushing, Miss Ruskin picked up the other photograph and held it out for his inspection.
“Madeline’s mother.” she said softly. “She was my best friend. She died eight years ago. Since then I’ve thought of Madeline almost as my own daughter.”
“I’m sorry.” Trant’s voice was gentle. “A tragedy. She was so young. How old was she? Sixteen?”
“No, no. She was eighteen last month.”
“Rather old to be still at school, wasn’t she?”
“Madeline preferred to stay with me. She didn’t want to go to college until things were more—more settled.” She rose, standing very erect behind the desk. “Dr. Graves has told you about the accident?”
“Just the medical facts.”
“I expect you will want to see the garage where it happened.” Miss Ruskin picked up a key from the desk. “Let me take you there now.”
Together they left the building and crossed the campus. “Poor Madeline,” said Miss Ruskin. “Last night was to have been such a gala night for her. Harry, her brother, was here and her friend, Lane Stevens. They’re both just out of the Army.”
“They’ve been told?”
“Not yet. I have telephoned Harry to come. He should be here soon.”
They reached an area of gravel behind the central building. A line of white garages stretched in front of them. Miss Ruskin went to one of them and gave Timothy the key.
Timothy unlocked the rather flimsy door and swung it open. Miss Ruskin followed him inside. A black sedan was parked there. The door by the driver’s seat was open. Very pale now, Miss Ruskin pointed down to the stone floor beside the open car door.
“I found her lying there, Lieutenant. It was about five o’clock this morning. I awoke and heard a car engine running. I was worried. I thought perhaps that some straggler from the dance was in difficulties. I dressed and came down. I could see no car but I could still hear the engine. The sound came from this garage, but the door was closed. It is my personal garage.”
She turned her steady gaze on Trant’s face. “The door was closed, not locked. I opened it. I saw Madeline lying there in her white dress. I realized the danger from carbon monoxide. I dragged her out into the fresh air. I administered artificial respiration. I did everything I could, but I saw it was too late. I carried her in my arms up to her room. Then I called Dr. Graves.”
The controlled suffering on her face commanded Timothy’s respect. Quietly, he said:
“And there was a reason why Madeline should have been in your garage?”
“Certainly.” Miss Ruskin’s voice was severe as if she were coping with a foolish question from one of her students. “Madeline was one of the few girls at the school old enough to have a driving license. I let her use my car as her own. She had probably driven her brother or Lane to the station. I imagine she brought the car back into the garage and—”
Miss Ruskin moved to the garage door and swung it back and forth on its hinges.
“As you see, this door is light and loose on its hinges. The slightest breeze closes it. I had been meaning to have it fixed for some time.” She gestured toward a stylized figurine of an Egyptian cat about twelve inches in height which lay on its side by the open car door. “Normally I use that as a door stopper to keep the door from swinging to.”
Timothy looked at the cat and nodded. “So you think Madeline drove in. The door slammed shut behind her. The engine was still running. She opened the door to get out and maybe fainted?”
“Not fainted,” put in Miss Ruskin sharply. “You notice where the cat is standing. I think she opened the door to get out. I think she tripped on her long skirt and fell, striking her head against the cat. The blow rendered her unconscious.
The engine was running and the door was shut.” She paused. “Both Dr. Graves and I think it happened that way.”
Miss Ruskin and Dr. Graves had something else in common, reflected Timothy. They had their story precise to its last detail and they were determined to sell it to the police.
Miss Ruskin was hovering by the door. “You have seen enough?”
Timothy gave her a disarming smile. “Guess I should look around a little—just a matter of form, Miss Ruskin. But you’re a busy woman. I won’t keep you.”
“Yes, yes, of course.” She hesitated a moment and then started walking briskly toward the house.
Alone, Timothy searched the garage. Everything pointed almost too clearly to Miss Ruskin’s theory of the death. The garage door was light and could easily have blown shut. The statue of the cat lay exactly where it should have been lying if Madeline had tripped getting out of the car and had fallen against it.
Timothy picked up the cat. It was white and made from heavy plaster. Its thin Egyptian mouth smirked enigmatically beneath inscrutable eyes. But Timothy was not looking at its smile. He was looking at its right ear, or rather, at the place where the right ear should have been.
It had been broken off.
And, on the plaster head near the abrasure, was a faint red stain.
Whistling under his breath, Timothy drew his handkerchief from his pocket. He took from it the small piece of worked plaster he had found at the side of Madeline’s bed. He set it against the place on the statue where the ear had been broken off.
It fitted perfectly.
* * *
The girl with the sardonic green eyes was with Miss Ruskin when Timothy returned to the office, but a nod from Miss Ruskin dismissed her. The headmistress of the Ruskin School gave Trant a steady look.
“There is something else you want to know?” Timothy dropped into the chair opposite her.
“This boy you mentioned who was Madeline’s guest last night—Lane Stevens. Were they engaged to be married?”
Miss Ruskin’s mouth drooped in a sad smile. “They were both too young really to understand how they felt. They hadn’t known each other for long. Lane was a friend of my secretary, Miss Price. He and Madeline may have thought they were attracted.”
“There’d been no talk of marriage then?”
“Madeline was much too young even to consider marriage,” repeated Miss Ruskin with some sternness. “If the question had come up, I would have advised strongly against it. Besides, Lane—well, he’s a nice boy but he’s been overseas in the Army for three years and needs to adjust himself to civilian life before he’d make a fit husband for any one.”
“He’s wild?” Timothy returned her inflexible stare. “Wild enough to have done something—violent?”
“I don’t understand.” Miss Ruskin’s face was blank; then a look of extraordinarily undisciplined terror sprang into her eyes. “You can’t mean you think Madeline was … ?”
“Policemen are funny people, Miss Ruskin. They have to look on the worst side. I’m not suggesting, of course, that Stevens murdered Madeline. I’m not even suggesting she was murdered. I’m only covering a point that has to be covered.”
Miss Ruskin seemed reassured by this speech, but she insisted:
“How could a young girl whom everyone loved have any enemies?”
“She has a famous father and a famous man automatically has enemies. He is also a rich man. I believe the late Mrs. Winters was rich, too, wasn’t she?”
Miss Ruskin nodded stiffly.
“Do you happen to know, Miss Ruskin, how the late Mrs. Winters left her money?”
“I do.”
Miss Ruskin’s voice was even. “Marianne Winters left three trust funds. One for Harry, her son. One for Madeline.”
“And the third for her husband?”
“The third share,” said Miss Ruskin, “was left to me. I was Marianne’s closest friend. She wanted me to realize my life’s ambition—to start this school for girls.”
Timothy gulped. “I see,” he said. He hesitated. “And the disposition of Madeline’s trust fund now that she is dead?”
“I really couldn’t tell you that, Lieutenant. You would have to consult the family lawyer. I—”
She broke off as a young, slender boy with a mane of blond hair strode into the room. He was wearing a suit that was obviously new and there was an Army discharge button in his lapel. He approached the desk.
“I got your call, Aunt Connie. What’s the matter? Is it Maddy?”
Miss Ruskin rose and, crossing to the boy, put her hands on his arms.
“Harry, dear, we’ve got to be brave. There’s been an accident.” She nodded to Trant. “This gentleman may have some questions to ask you.”
Harry Winters’ eyes moved suspiciously to Trant. “An accident to Maddy?”
“You saw your sister at the dance last night?” asked Trant.
“Of course I saw her.”
“She was perfectly normal and happy, wasn’t she, Harry?” said Miss Ruskin quietly.
The boy stared, his face bleak with apprehension. “She seemed kind of strange. I didn’t see much of her. She was with Lane most of the time. But when it came time for me to leave I searched for her and asked her if she’d drive me downtown. She said she couldn’t. She seemed all het-up about something. I figured she and Lane must have quarreled. As I kissed her good night she asked if I had a drink on me.”
“A drink!” exclaimed Miss Ruskin. “Harry, you know Madeline never touched liquor.”
“I know she didn’t. That’s part of what worried me. I tried to make her tell me what was wrong, but she wouldn’t. She—” He broke off, swinging around to Trant challengingly. “What is all this anyway?”
