by Q. Patrick
Miss Ruskin glanced pleadingly at Trant. He nodded.
The headmistress took Harry’s hand. “Let’s go into another room for a while.”
Timothy said: “Perhaps you’d be good enough to ask your secretary to come here, Miss Ruskin.”
“Betty Price?” Miss Ruskin seemed startled. Then she added: “Very well.”
They left and almost immediately Miss Betty Price appeared from the outer office. In spite of her elegant hairdo, her craftily cut black suit and the faint fragrance of expensive perfume she brought with her, Timothy Trant was not impressed by Miss Price. Her personality and her curves had both been discreetly subdued to conform with the respectability of the Ruskin School, but he sensed that her spiritual home was a dime-a-dance honky tonk.
Miss Price seemed no more impressed with him than he was with her. The green eyes studied him imperturbably.
“Miss Ruskin says you want to question me about Madeline. I can’t imagine why.”
“You’re not meant to imagine, Miss Price. You just answer.”
“Okay,” drawled Miss Price. “Give with the questions.”
“Lane Stevens was quite a friend of yours, wasn’t he?”
“He was quite a friend and he still is quite a friend.”
Miss Price picked a cigarette from a box on the desk and leaned toward Timothy, indicating that he should give her a light. He did. She inhaled deeply.
“Lane Stevens met Madeline through you and they fell in love with each other. Right?”
Miss Price sighed. “So I, in a fit of jealous rage, murdered the girl who’d stolen my man? Is that the idea?”
“Come, come, Miss Price. No one’s mentioned murder.”
“Come, come, Lieutenant, they have.” Miss Price pointed her cigarette at a small box like contrivance on the edge of the desk. “That gadget works two ways. Miss Ruskin can switch it on to speak to me in the outside office. I can switch it on to speak to her. I switched it on—and listened.”
“Interested?”
“Just inquisitive. Like a policeman.” Miss Price smiled. “You don’t seem to have grasped my character. I think I should tell you about my character. I don’t know whether Madeline was murdered or not. And I don’t particularly care. But I didn’t murder her. If I wanted to get a man back, I’d use subtler methods.”
“And you wanted to get Lane Stevens back?”
“Really, policeman, it’s no concern of yours. But, since I’m so sweet and eager to cooperate—” She shrugged. “Lane and Madeline were both wild. They thought they were crazy about each other. Miss Ruskin was very much against any marriage. So was I.” She tapped ash onto the carpet. “For Madeline’s sake, of course. She was much too young.”
“So you employed subtle methods to do something about it?”
“I had a little girl-to-girl chat with Madeline at the dance.”
“Warning her against marrying Stevens?”
“My dear, I thought you were meant to be a particularly sensitive flatfoot. No, nothing so crude. As Miss Ruskin’s secretary, I naturally know a lot of things that are not common knowledge. Madeline and I talked about her future, her chances of happiness in general.”
“And?”
“And—nothing. That was that.”
* * *
Timothy as a man, would have enjoyed putting Miss Price over his knee and spanking her. As a detective, he took pains to appear naively bewildered.
Mildly, he said: “And you saw Madeline last night, after your girl-to-girl chat?”
“Naturally.”
“Notice anything interesting?”
“Frankly, I did.” Betty Price strolled to the window and pointed across the campus. “See that stone bench under those willows? It was about twelve o’clock. I’d come out for a breath of fresh air. There was a moon. I saw Madeline and Lane sitting together on the bench.”
“Being amatory?”
“Lane was. He was leaning toward her, talking his head off. I couldn’t hear what was going on, but he put his arms around her and kissed her.” Betty Price grimaced. “You can imagine my transports of love-sick jealousy. However, Lane didn’t appear to be getting any place.”
“Madeline didn’t let him kiss her?”
“For a moment in there they looked more like a couple of wrestlers than lovers. Madeline broke away from him at last. She got up, then she sat down again on the bench as if she felt faint. Lane seemed scared and bewildered. Madeline said something and he hurried off to the marquee. The moment he’d gone, Madeline slipped away behind the bushes.
“Lane came back soon. He had a glass of water. I went up to him. He said that Madeline wasn’t feeling well. Then he saw she’d walked out on him and he was sore as a bear; said she’d just put on an act to get rid of him.”
Miss Price looked dreamy-eyed. “I felt it my duty as an old friend to console him for a while. Later on, I saw Madeline again. She was perfectly happy, drinking with another boy. He had one of those antiquated pocket flasks.”
“The other boy was her brother?”
Miss Price looked surprised. “Oh, no, some red-headed kid. I’d noticed him at the dance.”
At that moment there was a tap on the door and a maid
came in.
“Lieutenant Stevens to see you, Miss Price.” Timothy looked at Betty Price. “Coincidence?”
“On the contrary. I knew someone would have to tell Lane. I decided it would be less painful for him to hear the news from me.”
“Thoughtful,” murmured Timothy. “As it happens, I’m afraid he’ll have to hear the news from me.” He turned to the maid. “Show Lieutenant Stevens in, please.”
As the maid slipped away, Betty Price’s face registered its first flicker of alarm.
“You don’t seriously think anything about Lane, do you? He couldn’t hurt a fly. He was terribly fond of Madeline. He wouldn’t have—”
“—harmed a hair of her head?” queried Timothy. “Lieutenant Stevens seems to bring out the cliché in you, Miss Price.”
Lieutenant Lane Stevens was a dark powerful young man who could easily have hurt a fly—or an elephant. He stormed into the room and his handsome face was haggard and in need of a shave. It was obvious that he’d had quite a few drinks.
He glowered at Betty Price. “What’s the idea dragging me up here?”
Betty Price put her hand on his arm. In the green eyes was a tenderness of which Trant had not suspected her capable. “There’s something you have to know, Lane. I thought
it would be easier for you to hear it from me but this—” she jerked her head at Timothy—” this policeman has other ideas.”
“Policeman!” Stevens swung round to Trant and stared at him blankly.
“I’m checking up on a couple of things that happened at the dance.”
“Why? What happened?”
“That can wait.” Trant watched the young lieutenant gravely. “I’d like you to tell me what happened between you and Madeline Winters.”
“Me and Maddy?”
“It’s all right, Lane,” put in Betty Price softly. “Tell him.”
Lane Stevens gave a harsh laugh “Well, policeman, if you want to know, I might as well tell you. She turned me down. That’s all.”
“You asked her to marry you?” said Trant.
“Sure.” The lieutenant was obviously perplexed and angry and a little apprehensive, too. “Maybe someone can dope out women. I can’t. I’ve been crazy about Maddy for months. I thought she was crazy about me, too. I’ve got my discharge. I thought last night would be a good time to ask her to marry me. I—” he shrugged “—I never dreamed she’d turn me down. But she did. Wouldn’t even let me kiss her. Struggled like a crazy thing and then went kind of rigid in my arms.
“I thought she was going to faint. She sent me off for a glass of water. When I came back with it, she’d gone.” He laughed again. “I guess I made pretty much of a sucker out of myself.”
Trant asked: “Did she give
you any reason for turning you down?”
“That’s the strange part of it. I’d known from the start that Miss Ruskin was against Maddy marrying till she was older. Maddy and I had kidded about it. I knew Maddy didn’t take it seriously. But last night she tried to dish it up to me as a serious reason. I got a feeling she was scared of something, something she’d done maybe, and was holding out on me. But I couldn’t get anything out of her.”
He found a cigarette with an unsteady hand and lighted it. “Guess I get riled pretty easy anyway. I was going to try to make her come clean, give her another chance. But when she sent me for that water and walked out on me, I saw red. I’ve got more to do than go down on my bended knees to a girl who’s slapped me in the kisser.”
Trant was not looking at him now. His eyes had strayed to the taut figure of Betty Price.
“See Madeline again after that. Lieutenant?”
“Me?” Lane Stevens shrugged. “No. I was kind of disgusted with life, and Miss Ruskin’s lemonade punch wasn’t quite the right remedy. I drove downtown and got good and tight.” He stared at Trant belligerently. “Now I’ve told you all I know, perhaps you’ll let me know what’s happened.”
Trant didn’t say anything. Lane Stevens’ gaze moved uncertainly to Betty Price.
“It’s bad, Lane,” she said. “It isn’t Maddy?”
Miss Price nodded. “I’m afraid it is. Hang on to yourself.
There was an accident. Maddy’s dead.”
Lane Stevens’ reaction was more dramatic than Timothy had expected. The young lieutenant stared. The color faded from his cheeks. He muttered: “Maddy” weakly. Then he crumpled sideways onto the floor.
Timothy wondered whether the young man had fainted because he had genuinely loved Madeline Winters or whether the collapse had been caused by a combination of shock and alcohol.
It was hard to decide. But as Betty Price ran, stricken, to Stevens and dropped to her knees at his side, one thing was certain.
Miss Ruskin’s secretary was indeed “a friend” of Lane Stevens and would never have given him up to another girl without a struggle.
* * *
Later that morning, after the wheels of the law had been set in motion, Timothy sat in the Chief’s office at the Homicide Bureau. He was staring at the indifferently smirking face of the one-eared plaster cat which sat on the desk between the two men. The broken ear was lying beside it on a piece of cotton waste. They had just been sent back from the police laboratory where it had been established by traces of blood and hair that the statuette had, at some time, been in violent contact with the head of the dead girl.
The Chief asked uneasily: “Are you sure it wasn’t an accident, Trant? They’re important people, you know. Things are going to be plenty rugged around here if we start something without being certain of our ground.”
“I’m sorry, sir.” Trant was still gazing at the cat. “It’s a difficult case and I don’t quite understand it yet. But it wasn’t an accident.”
“What makes you so positive?”
Trant patted the plaster cat’s smooth head. “Miss Ruskin’s theory about Madeline tripping as she got out of the car and hitting her head on the cat is a perfectly good theory, but unhappily things didn’t happen that way. You see, Madeline wasn’t hit on the head in the garage.”
The Chief stared. “She wasn’t?”
“I’m afraid not. Miss Ruskin tells me she carried Madeline from the garage up to her own room. Madeline was wearing a slippery white satin dress. She had no pockets, of course, and her hair was loose. At best, it would have been a grim job getting her up the stairs. Even if it had been caught in her dress or her hair to begin with, it couldn’t possibly still have been there by the time Miss Ruskin carried her into the bedroom.”
“It,” repeated the Chief blankly. “What do you mean by ‘it’?”
Timothy picked up the plaster cat’s ear and held it across the desk. “The ear, sir. Madeline was hit on the head with the plaster cat. The ear broke off. I found the ear on the floor in her bedroom. Since it couldn’t have been brought there with Madeline, it must have been there all the time.
“In other words, Madeline was hit on the head upstairs in her own bedroom. Presumably she was rendered unconscious. Presumably someone then carried her and the cat down to the garage and turned on the car engine.”
The Chief’s face creased with consternation. “Murder?”
“Looks that way on the evidence.”
“Any more definite ideas?”
“That’s the trouble. There are only two clues, and I can’t make much sense of either of them yet. We don’t have to worry about the scratches on Madeline’s arm. They were probably caused in the scuffle with Stevens. But we do have to worry about why she turned him down when she’d obviously been crazy about him. Was that some dirty work of Betty Price’s? And we certainly have to worry about the drinks.”
“Drinks?”
Timothy nodded. “Madeline never drank. What made her ask her brother for a drink and later go and bum one off a strange young man?”
The Chief seemed to find these questions too abstruse to interest him.
“What about motives?”
“Oh, there are motives all right. Rather hackneyed, I’m afraid. Although Miss Ruskin wouldn’t admit it, I’m pretty sure she and the brother stand to share Madeline’s trust fund. Stevens was wild and probably drunk. He might have sneaked back, had a quarrel and hit her with the cat. As for Miss Price, she’s one of those get-your-man babes, capable of anything.” Timothy’s gray eyes were unhappily reflective. “But why, oh, why the drinks? And, come to think of it, why Dr. Graves?”
The door opened to admit Doc Sanders. The dour little doctor tossed a sheaf of papers onto the Chief’s desk.
“Laboratory findings.”
The Chief glanced up at him “Hope you’re not dropping bombshells, too, Sanders. Trant here’s just proved the girl was murdered, hit on the head in her room and then carried down to the garage.”
Sanders looked at Timothy and smiled. It was a mysterious and definitely a malicious smile.
“Bright boy that Trant. Sometimes he must even impress himself.”
Trant said: “What about the findings? We’ve explained the scratches. I guess she died of carbon monoxide poisoning, didn’t she?”
“Sure,’’ said Sanders.
“And I imagine you found a high percentage of alcohol in the brain?”
“I told you Trant was a bright boy, Chief.” The sarcasm in Sanders’ voice was heavy. “Sure, there was quite a high percentage of alcohol in the brain.” His gaze moved to Timothy. “There’s something else, too, Trant. You know I hate to make you feel bad—you being so bright and all. But that pretty little theory of yours about the girl being hit on the head in her room and being carried to the garage? Remember that pretty little theory?”
“What about it?” cut in the Chief.
Sanders savored his moment of triumph. “‘Fraid our bright boy’s been just a little too bright. Autopsy shows the blow on the head was delivered post mortem. In case they don’t teach Latin in Princeton, post mortem means after death.”
The doctor watched Trant, waiting to see his face fall in disappointment and embarrassment. But Sanders was the one who was disappointed. Timothy’s face broke into a sudden, excited smile. He jumped up. He gripped the astonished Sanders’ hand and pumped it enthusiastically.
“Swell,” he said. “Just fine and dandy. The blow was delivered post mortem. That’s wonderful. That’s all I wanted to know.”
He picked up the plaster cat and made a dive for the
door.
“Hey,” called the Chief. “Where are you going?” Timothy grinned at him over his shoulder.
“I’ve just realized who killed Madeline Winters. And I’m a policeman. I’ve got to do something about it.”
* * *
In Dr. Harlan Graves’ booklined office, Timothy sat at the desk opposite the distinguished
neurologist. Dr. Graves was watching him from sad, impassive eyes.
Timothy said: “Only a very few questions, Doctor. In the first place, Miss Ruskin called you this morning even before she called the police because you’d been Madeline’s regular physician, a friend of the family. Right?”
The doctor nodded gravely. “That is correct.”
“My next question is rather awkward, Doctor. I guess I won’t ask it. I’ll tell you. You held something back from me this morning. Not for criminal reasons, of course. I realize that. But you know something about Madeline Winters that you didn’t tell me.”
Dr. Graves’ face darkened. “You asked me for my diagnosis of the death. I gave it you in all honesty. I am convinced the accident took place as I outlined it to you.”
“I believe you, Doctor. But this is something different, something terribly important and I’ve got to be sure. I think I’ve guessed the truth. I only ask you to confirm it. That won’t be breaking any trust. I’ll even tell you the facts that gave me the clue. You’ll be able to decide then whether I’m on the right track or not.”
Dr. Graves watched him steadily. “Very well, Lieutenant.
Tell me these facts.”
“In the first place, Madeline was eighteen and still at the Ruskin School. In the second place, Madeline did not drink. In the third place, Miss Ruskin was dead set against her marriage. Miss Ruskin knew something and you know something which explains all those three facts.”
The ghost of a smile showed in the neurologist’s eyes. “And your own explanation for those three facts?”
Timothy picked up a pencil from the desk. He pulled a prescription pad toward him and wrote on it a single word. He handed the pad to Graves.
“You don’t have to say anything, Doctor. If I’m right, just nod.”
Dr. Graves studied the prescription blank. He looked up, then nodded very slowly.
Timothy said: “Mr. Winters knew?”
“No one knew.” said Dr. Graves softly, “except Miss Ruskin and myself.”
“I’m afraid that’s not quite true.” Timothy rose to take his leave. His face was grim. “A third party found out about it, too. Someone who didn’t love Madeline. And that’s why Madeline Winters had to die.”
