by Q. Patrick
Graves had stirred slightly in his seat, his eyes suddenly alert.
“‘I’m going to try to reconstruct it all as I think it happened. God knows, I might as well use my so-called literary gifts. I see it all starting in Salter’s office on the afternoon of the murder. Helen is there. I am there—and so is Graves. Helen is furious about Mrs. Van Heuten’s telephone call. She says she’s going around right away to see her. Impulsively she hurries out, leaving Graves and me together.
“‘I leave at once, but I see the expression on Graves’ face. I can see he is worried, anxious about something. And I can understand why. He loves Helen—just as I love her. And, although he doesn’t know why she’s mad at Mrs. Van Heuten, he knows she’s impetuous, liable to do something rash. He doesn’t want her to go off to Mrs. Van Heuten’s alone. He’s afraid of what she might say or do. For a moment he contemplates following and stopping her. But he would only make a fool of himself. Then, suddenly, he remembers Salter’s old office and the back entrance. He remembers that the Advice Bureau has a back entrance, too. The ideal way of getting up to the Bureau without being seen so that he can be there—ready in case Helen does anything rash. Call him stupid, if you like, but you must remember he’s in love. One’s apt to be stupid when one’s in love. I ought to know. He hurries around to the Advice Bureau. It’s easy enough for him to slip up the back way and get into the washroom. I’ve said I hate Graves, but I’ve got to give him his due. I don’t think he had any intention of murdering Mrs. Van Heuten then.’”
Bobby was still pacing up and down the room, tense and silent. It was a strange sight. Graves seemed startled into speechlessness. Helen’s face was cupped in her hand. She was gazing blindly in front of her as Madeleine’s voice went on, slow, deliberate.
“‘Think of him now—there in the washroom. He hears a woman’s voice through the door—loud and angry perhaps. But it isn’t Helen’s voice. He listens in growing surprise as the Princess Walonska accuses Mrs. Van Heuten of her disgusting traffic in husbands and wives. He is shocked, but not personally. This can have nothing to do with him—or with Helen. But, wait a moment, mightn’t that explain certain things he had never quite understood about Helen and her connection with him? Her bitterness about Mrs. Van Heuten—little hints dropped, perhaps, by Mrs. Van Heuten herself. And then, suddenly, it all dawns on him. Good God, is that why Helen married Bobby Bristol, the hopeless, ineffectual little would-be genius? And—and is that why she’s thrown him over now he’s lost his money? Is it conceivable that she’s trying to get him, a successful publisher, for the same reason? Helen, the girl he loves, the girl he thinks is perfect—Helen, an unscrupulous, immoral gold-digger. It’s incredible. And yet a lover is as quick to suspect the worst as the best.
“‘Can’t you see him waiting in that washroom while the Princess goes on talking—goes on torturing him now that each word she speaks applies to Helen? He’s there, stooped by the door, hating Mrs. Van Heuten more than he’s ever hated anyone in his life. That’s only logical, too—with a lover’s crazy logic. It wouldn’t be Helen he despised; it would be this woman who corrupted her, tempted her into her beastly racket. Mrs. Van Heuten is the woman that he wants to murder.’”
The room was utterly quiet now. Even Bobby had stopped moving. He stood by the wall, his eyes fixed on the floor, his breathing quick and jerky.
“‘At last the Princess and her friends have done their work. They have beaten Mrs. Van Heuten at her own game of bluff. They leave her, cowed, to write out that statement. They leave her. Mrs. Van Heuten is alone there in the office. There is nothing to prevent Graves going in—going in and … I can see that scene so vividly. Mrs. Van Heuten, gray-haired and motherly, is sitting at her desk. Possibly now that the Princess has gone, she’s begun to realize that things aren’t so black after all. Would those four women really risk their own reputations to expose her? Wasn’t it all bluff? Wasn’t she really safe? She hears a noise behind her. She spins round and there—thank God, it’s only Mr. Graves. For a moment she thought it might be someone she had reason to fear.
“‘“Why, Mr. Graves, have you come in about a manuscript?”
“‘She smiles and then her smile freezes as she sees the expression on his face. She sits there, pale and increasingly terrified as he tells her what he has overheard. He is beside himself with anger. At last he asks her the question she has been dreading. He loves Helen. Is it true that she, Mrs. Van Heuten, shamelessly sold Helen to Bobby Bristol, the helpless, useless young fool who had nothing to recommend him but the Bristol fortune?
“‘Can’t you see how fast Mrs. Van Heuten had to think? Here was real danger. If the Princess would be afraid to expose her, this man had nothing to fear. He himself was not involved. He could go straight to the police and tell them everything. It was really all up with her this time. But, wait, there was a way out. Suppose she did admit Helen had been in the racket. He had said he loved Helen. Wasn’t that her chance? If she told him Helen was involved, he might not expose her because he wouldn’t want to expose the girl he loved.
“‘“Tell me,” Graves insists fiercely, “did you sell Helen to Bobby Bristol?”
“‘“Yes,” she says. “Yes—I did.”
“‘Smart Clara Van Heuten—she has saved her skin by telling the truth for the first time in her life. But she’s made one fatal mistake. She forgets she’s dealing with a lover; she forgets the paper-knife gleaming so invitingly there beneath the golden chrysanthemums on her desk. Graves has heard what he wants to know. Mrs. Van Heuten has admitted the worst. Blind with rage, he picks up the paper-knife; he stabs—once, twice, three times and then again.…’”
“You can stop there, please, Miss Price.”
Even to himself, Timothy’s voice sounded strange as it cut into that oddly compelling story. Around him the others were sitting in shocked silence. Helen was gazing at Bobby; Bobby was staring back at her.
It was Graves who finally spoke. His large hands gestured in exasperated bewilderment.
“I have never,” he said, “heard so much unutterable nonsense.”
Timothy paid no attention. He was looking at Bobby.
“Well, Bobby, I congratulate you. Do you have an equally convincing explanation of Tolfrey’s murder?”
The boy shook himself and glanced at him rather dazedly.
“N-no. I hadn’t had—time …”
“All right. Here’s where I take over.” Timothy rose, his mouth very grim. “Miss Price, I want you to sit here at this desk.”
With frank incomprehension, Madeleine obeyed. She sat down, her arms stiff at her sides.
Timothy was smiling rather triumphantly now.
“I was right, Mrs. Bristol. Bobby has been the one who’s saved you. He’s given the true motive for Mrs. Van Heuten’s murder. I’m now going to show you why Dane Tolfrey was killed, too.”
“Before you continue with the merry-go-round,” snarled Graves, “I might as well let you know that I hadn’t the slightest idea Salter’s had a back entrance; that the Van Heuten Literary Advice Bureau had a …”
“I think that’s true, Mr. Graves. I’m going to show you just how you could have found out about that back door if you hadn’t know of its existence.” He pointed to Madeleine sitting behind the desk. “Imagine she’s Mrs. Van Heuten, Mr. Graves. You have no idea of murdering her; you have no idea about the back entrance.”
“But …”
“Wait.” Timothy disappeared behind the screen. They could hear the washroom door close after him. There was a pause, then he appeared again, lurching alcoholically around the screen.
“You see, Mr. Graves? I am Dane Tolfrey. You’re there talking to Mrs. Van Heuten about something perfectly ordinary. You look up. What do you see? Just a rather drunk man coming in from behind a screen. Doesn’t mean a thing at the time. But later, when things have happened and you want to get into Mrs. Van Heuten’s office without being seen, you remember that rather drunk man. You realize there’s a
back entrance and that the back entrance is presumably unlocked. That is how you could have discovered about the back door.”
“But, hell …”
“And that,” continued Timothy quietly, “is the real reason why Dane Tolfrey was murdered, why Madeleine Price was threatened over the phone. After the murder, you’d realized that the back door was going to play a very important part in the investigation. You were safe. No one knew you knew about it—no one, that is, except Tolfrey who saw you in the office with Mrs. Van Heuten when he himself came in through the back door. You would have suddenly realized that Tolfrey was a terrible menace to you. If ever he remembered that innocent little scene, he’d remember you knew about the back door; he’d tell the police and the game would be up. Tolfrey had to be killed. Not for his claimed discovery of the murderer, but for that one triviality.”
Graves rose; his great bulk towered over Timothy.
“But it’s not true,” he shouted. “I never was in Mrs. Van Heuten’s office and I never saw Tolfrey come in through any back door.”
Timothy looked rather apologetic.
“Of course you didn’t, Mr. Graves. By ‘you’ I was merely referring to the real murderer, and he knows that’s exactly the way things happened.”
He turned slowly and stared at the drawn, haggard face of Bobby Bristol.
“Don’t you, Bobby?”
There was absolute silence.
“I’ve had to go a very devious way around,” said Timothy softly, “but it seemed the only possible chance to prove that Robert Bristol murdered Mrs. Van Heuten and Dane Tolfrey.”
He glanced swiftly at Helen.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Bristol. I was extremely rude to you. But I knew the only way to get a case against Bobby was to convince him that I thought you were guilty. I—I knew that Bobby loved you too much to let you be arrested for a crime he committed himself.”
“But what …?” began Bobby.
“I apologize to you, too, Bobby. God knows, Mrs. Van Heuten wasn’t any angel. But I’m a policeman and I’ve got to do my job, even if it’s an unpleasant one. I knew you could write shorthand. I had you take those notes so that you’d find out how much I’d guessed. I eliminated everyone so carefully because I wanted you to think I really thought Helen was guilty. I left you alone to type up that case because—well, because I thought you’d realized the game was up and were going to write a confession. I never thought you’d try that trick of accusing Graves. But I’m afraid the case against Graves is almost as good as a confession. Needless to say, every shadow of motive you ascribe to him applies even more strongly to yourself. And even a jury will realize you couldn’t possibly have given such a very vivid picture of what happened and how the murderer felt—if you hadn’t been the murderer yourself. You have, in fact, written your own confession.”
“At least you seem to find my literary efforts convincing.” Bobby had drawn himself up to his full height. He looked rather pathetic but strangely dignified. “I presume your jury will need a little more proof.”
“They’ll get it. You gave yourself away in that rather hysterical letter you wrote to your wife.” Timothy took it from his pocket. “You wrote in it: ‘It’s better to be unsuccessful in selling your books than to be successful in selling yourself.’ That proves you knew about Mrs. Van Heuten’s racket and thought that Helen was involved. The only possible way you, the one genuinely literary client, could have learnt about the racket was by listening in the washroom while the Princess Walonska was exposing Mrs. Van Heuten—listening in the exact way you accused Graves of listening.”
“Very ingenious,” said Bobby mockingly.
“There’s another point, too. I might have figured it out yesterday. Tolfrey sent out telegrams to certain people to attend that party of his. No names had been mentioned in the papers—Tolfrey could have invited only the suspects whom he knew personally to have gone to the Advice Bureau on the afternoon of the murder. He knew Muir had been there because he, Tolfrey, had made the appointment. He knew the four women had been there because Muir had told him over the telephone. But he sent you a telegram, too, Bobby. How did he know you’d been here to see Mrs. Van Heuten? You yourself admitted you hadn’t told him. The only way he could have known was by seeing you here. You were the person in this room when Tolfrey came in through the back door earlier in the afternoon.”
“But …”
“And it was staring me in the face all the time. That accusation Tolfrey wrote against Louise—in it, he said: ‘If you don’t believe Mrs. Van Heuten was alive when I left her, ask Bobby Bristol.’ Bobby Bristol again.”
“All right,” broke in the boy quietly. “What if I admit I was in here when Tolfrey came. What does that prove?”
“Not much on its own. But I have a rather clinching piece of evidence. God knows, I don’t deserve it—I got it by the merest chance.” Timothy had taken from his pocket a long gray envelope. “On my last case, the murderer was convicted on evidence that came up after I got my cleaners to send his suit around to the analysis department. Apparently the cleaners took it for granted I wanted them to do the same thing with all unfamiliar suits that came in under my name. I had no idea you were guilty when I sent Oscar around to fix your apartment; I had no idea he’d offer to have your suits cleaned. I didn’t even guess what had happened when he left me a note saying the cleaners had telephoned. But that’s what happened. And the cleaners sent your clothes to the analysis department, Bobby.”
He took from the envelope a sheet of paper.
“This report is written out in my name. When I heard the analysts had found faint traces of blood, checking with Mrs. Van Heuten’s type, on my sleeve, I thought it was all a crazy mistake. It wasn’t. The blood they found was on the sleeve of your coat. That was very careless of you, Bobby.”
In the silence that followed Timothy nodded toward Madeleine Price who still held in her hand the sheets which Bobby had typed. “I’m going to ask Miss Price to change the name Graves to Bristol throughout, Bobby. When she’s done it, perhaps you’d sign it. After all, there is a great deal of influence involved in this case; things will be made far easier for you in the long run if you make a confession.”
Bobby Bristol stood absolutely still, the veins in his neck standing out livid against his pale skin. Suddenly his arms dropped limply at his sides.
“You’re really rather clever, Trant.” The old cynicism had returned to his voice. “You summed me up pretty well, didn’t you? You sensed I was the sort of sentimental sap who’d get worked up enough to murder a woman just because she’d shattered an ideal. I had my own—my own ideal of Helen. Mrs. Van Heuten destroyed it. I destroyed her. I suppose it was cheap, weak-kneed of me to kill Tolfrey just to save my skin. But it—it was so absurdly easy.”
He moistened his lips. “I got the knife at a five and ten. I went up early—before the party. He let me in. He thought he was so smart being mysterious. He even asked me into the bathroom to help put out towels for the guests. Of course, I was certain he suspected me when he mentioned the back door … he was bending over the tub. I—I took out the knife and stabbed …” He shrugged. “Strange as it seems, I don’t regret murdering those two particularly unpleasant people. There’s only—only one thing for which I can never forgive myself.”
He made a tentative, rather forlorn gesture toward his wife. “I can only say, Helen, that I’m frightfully sorry. I—I should have realized you weren’t deliberately part of that foul matrimonial racket. And—and it’s a comfort now to know that—that at least you were fond of me when you married me.”
Helen Bristol did not reply. That blunt, materialistic young woman had turned her head away to conceal, not anger or disgust—but the blur of tears in her eyes.
Timothy’s lips were very pale. Once again he nodded toward Madeleine Price. “The confession, Bobby.”
“Confession!” Bristol swung round with a harsh laugh. “Your whole case rests on that, doesn’t it, Trant? You depended
upon the meek inconspicuous Bobby Bristol being prepared to sign his life away with one meek, inconspicuous flourish of the pen. Well, that’s where your psychology falls down.…”
He sprang forward, flung open the door to the washroom and slammed it shut, clicking the lock behind him.
“He’s …!” began Madeleine Price.
“There’s a plain-clothes man on the fire-tower.” Timothy’s voice was very quiet. “He’ll bring him in soon.”
He turned to Helen Bristol.
“You see now,” he said drily, “why I wanted you to get that lawyer. I thought the least you and Mr. Graves could do was to pay for Bobby’s defense.”
Bobby’s wife had half risen. The green eyes were fixed on the washroom door, her fingers twisted a little white handkerchief.
“Poor Bobby,” she whispered. “It’s—oh, it’s all so beastly.”
“Yes, Mrs. Bristol. It is pretty beastly. I’m afraid I was fairly double-faced, too. But I was hoping for a confession.”
Graves had turned to Timothy. There was a faintly ironical gleam in his eyes. “I must admit that you and Bobby between you worked up a damn good case against me. There was only one thing the matter with it.”
“What was that?” asked Timothy.
“The ingenious motive. You see, I did know about Mrs. Van Heuten’s non-literary activities. Helen told me all about it ten minutes before she went to the Advice Bureau that afternoon.” He shrugged. “That’s where Bobby falsely applied his own psychology to me. I wasn’t shocked; I wasn’t incensed to the point of murder. I was only—amused.”
Timothy moved to the desk and lit a cigarette shakily.
“If someone had to murder Mrs. Van Heuten,” he said, “perhaps Bobby was the one who stood to lose the least. After all, life didn’t hold out much for him. His novels weren’t acceptable. His money was gone. And the wife he loved, didn’t want …”
