by Barbara Paul
“Went back!” Dorrie cried. “Why would I go back?”
“Suppose you tell me.”
“You’re making a mistake, Lieutenant,” she protested. “I didn’t go … why would I … and the Redi-Whip …”
Simon stood up. “Lieutenant, this has gone far enough. Either charge us with, ah, littering, or let us go. Well, Lieutenant?”
“What was in the airline bag?” Toomey asked softly.
Simon threw up his hands. “Tee, ay, ex, pea, ay, pea, ee, are, ess. Tax papers!”
Dorrie stood up quickly and took his arm. “Darling, don’t let him upset you. That’s what he wants.”
Simon smiled at her reassuringly. “Don’t worry, love, I’m not upset.” His smile disappeared as he turned to Lieutenant Toomey. “Are we under arrest?”
“No,” Toomey said blandly. “You’re free to go.”
“Ah!” Dorrie beamed her pleasure at all three men.
“There, darling,” Simon said smoothly. “I told you there was nothing to worry about.”
“Yes, I know. You were right, dear.”
“Then let us linger no longer in this bastion of law enforcement. Goodbye, Lieutenant … Sergeant. Come along, Dorrie-love.”
“Yes, darling, let’s go.” She waved goodbye and the two of them left.
Rizzuto grunted. “I bet they don’t talk like that when they’re alone.”
“I’ll bet they do.” Toomey sat down at his desk. “What do you think was in that bag?”
The Sergeant took the chair just vacated by Dorrie Murdoch. “The stuff that’s missin’ from Uncle Vincent’s study? Maybe they both went back. Could be they’re our burglars.”
Toomey picked up the can of Redi-Whip. “I wonder what this was for? Well, what’ve we got? Mrs. Murdoch snuck back into Uncle Vincent’s house this afternoon and either opened the safe or found it open. She looked through the papers and then hid in the closet when she heard us coming. She lied about looking for a lost earring. Then she and her matching blond husband claim to be in such a rush to get rid of some useless papers that they can’t wait until rush hour is over to go throw them off a bridge. And last but not least, the lovely Mrs. Murdoch all but claims ownership of a can of Redi-Whip that places her at the murder scene.”
“So what does it add up to?”
“What it adds up to,” Toomey smiled grimly, “is grounds for a search warrant. First thing tomorrow.”
10
The Knoxes’ house, Lieutenant Toomey thought as he looked about him, was oddly impersonal. A blank-faced maid had let him in and left him standing in the entryway while she went to tell the Knoxes he was there.
Toomey wandered into the living room. It was modern and expensive-looking and in apple-pie order, a layout for a fancy-living magazine. But there was nothing of Lionel or Gretchen in it he could see at all; they’d probably just called in a decorator and said go to it. His and hers facing sofas, covered with some sort of butternut-colored leather. Toomey ran his hand across the back of one of them; soft as a baby’s bottom. He was looking at some sort of Aztec plaque hanging over the surrealistic fireplace when the maid came back and led him to a cheerful, sunny breakfast room.
Lionel and Gretchen had just finished eating and were lingering over coffee and newspapers. Toomey turned down their offer of breakfast but accepted a cup of coffee. “Sorry to barge in on you so early,” he said, sitting down at the table, “but I have a full day ahead of me and I need to get going.”
Gretchen handed him his coffee. Lionel said, “Where’s your shadow, Lieutenant?”
“Sergeant Rizzuto? He’s got something to take care of this morning.” Rizzuto was, in fact, walking through the procedure needed to obtain a warrant to search the Murdochs’ apartment.
Gretchen asked, “How is your investigation coming along, Lieutenant? Any, um, clues to Uncle Vincent’s killer?”
Toomey wasted no time. “One or two interesting things have turned up. For instance, the housekeeper and the manservant moved your uncle’s body before they called the police. Mrs. Polk admitted it.”
Two pairs of eyes blinked at him but both Knoxes managed to keep their faces straight. “How extraordinary,” Gretchen murmured. “Why did they do that?”
Instead of answering her, Toomey said: “That must be a relief to you two. Knowing how the body got over to the desk, I mean. You both expected him to be found in the middle of the floor.”
They both started protesting vociferously. “Why would we expect him to be found anywhere?” Lionel demanded. “We didn’t know he was dead!”
“Yes, you did,” Toomey answered mildly. “You knew he was dead, and you knew he’d been murdered. You both went into the library long after that meeting was over and you found him there. You found him in the middle of the floor. Now I want you to tell me why you went back—although I think I know the answer to that one—and what you did when you got there.”
They both glared at him, said nothing.
Toomey sighed. “Look, you gave yourselves away yesterday morning. You were both surprised when I told you Uncle Vincent’s body was found at his desk. You,” pointing to Lionel, “expected to find papers strewn all over the floor. Sergeant Rizzuto discovered that all the papers in the file had been jammed in every which way, without regard to what papers went in what folders.” He looked at Gretchen. “You did that? Mrs. Polk swears there were no papers on the floor when she found your uncle, and I believe her. So that sounds to me as if you two went into the library separately, Mr. Knox first and then Mrs. Knox. You both lied about that.”
Still they said nothing, but they’d stopped glaring at him. Lionel was concentrating on his coffee cup while Gretchen’s eyes were taking on a glazed look.
“Also,” Toomey went on, “I know that Uncle Vincent refused to renew the Ellandy loan. He didn’t just put you off, the way you said he did. He told you no. Unequivocally. That’s something else you lied about.”
Gretchen’s eyes were closed. Lionel had slumped down until his nose was only a few inches above his coffee cup.
Toomey played his last card. “There’s still a question about the exact time of death, but it’s pretty clear Uncle Vincent was killed sometime during the period you were taking inventory at Ellandy Jewels, Mr. Knox. That means you’re in the clear. And if Mrs. Knox went into the study after you did, then she’s in the clear too. Do you want me to find the killer? Then help me.”
Lionel lifted his eyes from the coffee cup. “Are you playing straight, Lieutenant? Or is this a trick?”
Toomey smiled. “Tricks can’t substitute for evidence in the courts, Mr. Knox. That’s straight.”
Lionel looked at Gretchen; she nodded. “I did go back, Lieutenant,” Lionel said, “and you must have guessed it, I was looking for that promissory note.”
“What time was this?”
“Oh, I got there around five, a little after. It was close to one-thirty when I went to bed, and I spent three hours tearing up the sheets. I couldn’t sleep, thinking about that goddamned note. So I got to the point where I had to get up and do something.”
“So you went back to Uncle Vincent’s house. And what did you find?”
“I didn’t find the note, obviously. Uncle Vincent was sprawled out at his desk, and the room was a mess. I spent a lot of time looking at every piece of paper I could find.”
“Wait a minute—Uncle Vincent was at his desk?”
Lionel looked uncomfortable. “I moved him. I put him in the middle of the floor.”
The body was moved twice? “For god’s sake why, man?”
“Well, it seemed to me as if someone had deliberately tried to make the place look as if there’d been a burglary. All those papers everywhere, the desk drawers emptied and turned upside down, the broken glass from the terrace doors—it looked staged, Lieutenant.”
“That’s what I thought too,” Gretchen said. “A real burglar wouldn’t take that much time—to make such a mess, I mean. Real burglars like to ge
t in and out fast, don’t they?”
“So why did you move him?” Toomey asked, a bit dazed.
“To help,” Lionel said frankly. “To make it look like more of a struggle. Well, look, Lieutenant—I was there to find the note. The only thing I could think of was that somebody else had had the same idea but got there before I did. I thought that whoever’d killed Uncle Vincent had the note—which was good news for me, in a gruesome sort of way.”
Toomey smiled wryly. “Which one did you suspect? Dorrie or Nicole?”
“Now that is something I’m not going to tell you, Lieutenant,” Lionel said with determination. “So okay, I’m guilty of attempted burglary and maybe meddling with evidence, but I didn’t kill Uncle Vincent. I didn’t even take anything out of the room—I meant to take that broken statuette, but I stepped on Godfrey Daniel’s tail and he let out a howl to wake the dead. I got spooked and ran.”
Toomey remembered the cat’s brief hostility toward Lionel the previous day. “Ran where? How’d you get in in the first place?”
“I used Gretchen’s extra key to get in. But I went out over the terrace wall. There was a table—”
“I saw it,” Toomey said. “So that’s your scuff mark on the surface. And that’s how you got your limp? Jumping off the wall?”
Lionel shrugged. “It seemed quickest.”
Toomey thought a moment. “When you moved the body, was there a blotter on the desk?”
“Oh yeah, the desk blotter—I burned it in the fireplace. It had blood all over it.”
“Ugh,” said Gretchen.
“Anything else?” Toomey sighed.
“Yeah—I tucked the gun under Uncle Vincent’s body. Let’s see,” said Lionel, thinking back and enumerating, “I turned on the lights, saw the mess, looked at each of the papers, moved Uncle Vincent, moved the gun, burned the blotter, stepped on Godfrey, and ran. That’s all.” That wasn’t quite all, but Lionel was not going to mention burning the private investigator’s report unless he had to.
Interfering with evidence and withholding evidence—both felonies, Toomey thought. “The lights were off when you got there? You’re sure?”
Lionel nodded. “I remember looking to see if there was any light showing under the library door before I went in. That’s an old house, Lieutenant, and some of the doors don’t fit tight against the floor. The lights were off.”
“Now this next question isn’t going to be pleasant, but I have to ask it. When you moved Uncle Vincent, what condition was the body in? I mean—”
“He was stiff as a board,” Lionel said bluntly.
“Ugh,” Gretchen said again.
So by five-thirty or so, rigor was well advanced. “All right, Mrs. Knox,” Toomey said, “it’s your turn. What time did you go into the study?”
“I guess right after Lionel left,” Gretchen said. “I heard Godfrey scream and went down to see what was the matter. It must have been around six.”
“And?”
She shrugged with one shoulder. “It was the way Lionel said. The library was a mess and Uncle Vincent was lying on the floor. So I straightened up—”
“Why? Why did you do that?”
Gretchen bit her bottom lip. “I was mad at my husband, Lieutenant. I wanted to cause trouble for him. It was stupid and I shouldn’t have done it, but I thought if I could make the room look as if a robbery had not taken place—well, I thought the police would give Lionel a hard time. I didn’t think he’d be arrested or anything like that. But I just wanted him to, you know, suffer a little?”
Nice, thought Toomey. “So tell me what you did.”
“Well, I picked up the papers and put them back in the file—it took me the longest time. Then I gathered up the stuff from the desk drawers.”
“Missing a couple of things along the way,” Toomey told her. “There was one page of a letter still under the sofa, and your uncle’s Infralux was over in a corner.”
“Oh dear.” Gretchen smiled tentatively and said in a soft voice, “I don’t have much experience with murder scenes, Lieutenant.”
Toomey waited for her to bat her eyes but she didn’t. “What about the ivory owl and the other things? Did you put them around the room?”
“Yes, I did. I thought the jade horse and the rest had been taken just to make it look like robbery. A real burglar would have taken the Degas, or at least the mantle clock. So I fetched a few knick-knacks to fill in the empty spaces.”
“Anything else before you left—no? Did you turn off the lights?”
Gretchen thought back. “Yes. I turned off the lights, closed the door, and went back up to my room.”
“How?”
“How what?”
“How did you go back up to your room? By the stairs?”
“Oh—no, I took the elevator. I mean, Uncle Vincent wouldn’t be using it, would he?”
Toomey grunted; one more loose end tied up. “What time was it when you got to your room?”
“About six-thirty.”
“And Mrs. Polk called us at seven forty-five. Yes, that works out. Now. Have you two told me everything?”
“Oh, absolutely!” Lionel exclaimed.
“Uh-huh,” Gretchen nodded vigorously.
“Because if I find you haven’t, I can still charge you with interfering at the scene of a crime. The courts don’t take that offense lightly, let me tell you.”
“We’ve told you everything, Lieutenant,” Lionel said in his most earnest manner.
“I hope so. I want you both to come into the station sometime today and dictate your statements to one of our stenographers.” They nodded reluctantly and Toomey got up from the table. “Thanks for the coffee. By the way, what are you going to do with Uncle Vincent’s house? Sell it?”
Lionel just shrugged but Gretchen said, “No, I thought we’d keep it and live in it. We’ll sell this one instead.”
Lionel’s eyebrows shot up. “We will? Well, that’s a nice surprise! Thanks for talking it over with me first, Gretchen.”
“The house is in my name, Lionel.”
“As you never tire of reminding me.”
Toomey beat a hasty retreat.
Dorrie Murdoch reached out her racquet—but not far enough and not fast enough. The ball thudded against the wall behind her and fell to the floor. Furious, Dorrie hurled her racquet after the ball.
Malcolm Conner picked up his sister’s broken racquet. “I’d say that ends the game for now. What’s the matter with you today, Dorrie? You can’t keep your mind on what you’re doing.”
“Nothing!” she screeched. “Nothing’s the matter!”
Malcolm knew his sister better than that. “Let’s have some orange juice,” he suggested.
They went out and sat at a small table on the club’s glassed-in terrace. When the waiter had brought their juice, Malcolm said, “All right, Dorrie—let’s have it. What’s wrong?”
Dorrie stared into her orange juice a moment as if looking for an answer there and then blurted out, “Simon and I almost got arrested last night!”
“Arrested! What happened?”
Dorrie had been thinking about it ever since she woke up that morning, and she could see no way to explain last night’s episode without telling him everything; Malcolm would no more believe that airline bag had contained tax records than Lieutenant Toomey had done. So she took a deep breath and plunged in. She told about the way she and Simon had redecorated the murder scene, about how Toomey had found her hiding in Uncle Vincent’s closet during her second frustrated attempt to steal the promissory note, and about how she and Simon had thrown the incriminating evidence from the library into the river—only to discover that that police sergeant had been following them! She looked at her brother’s horrified face and finished limply, “I think I need a lawyer.”
“What you need is to have your head examined!” Malcolm snapped, as soon as he’d recovered enough to speak. “What on earth possessed you, Dorrie? Just about everything it was possible to do
wrong, you’ve done! Of all the irresponsible, feather-headed—”
“Now you stop that, Malcolm Conner!” Dorrie exclaimed, just as she’d done a hundred times as a child. “Don’t you think I’d undo it all if I could? My hindsight is just as clear as yours! Don’t fuss at me, Malcolm, please.”
He gave her hand a little squeeze. “All right. No point in crying over spilled milk,” he said, heartily wishing she’d not confided in him. “Fortunately, we can consider what you told me as privileged information—I’d hate to have to take that story to the police. You actually interfered with the evidence at a murder scene? And Simon too? I thought he had better sense.”
“Don’t blame Simon, it was my idea. He didn’t even want to go back to look for the note. Oh, he was marvelous last night, Malcolm! Even when that wretched sergeant dragged us into the police station, Simon never lost his cool. The Lieutenant tried to rattle him, but you know Simon—he just won’t rattle. I would probably have spilled out the whole story, if I’d been there alone. Simon says that was the whole idea, to prod one of us into letting something slip. He says they’ll try it again. Simon says they’re not finished with us.”
Simon says hands on hips; Simon says hop on one foot. “He’s probably right,” said Malcolm. “They didn’t have anything solid.”
“But the police suspect us now, especially me. Now I want you to tell me—is there something legal I can do to protect myself?”
Malcolm thought a moment. “It depends on what the police do next. They’ll probably send divers into the river to look for that airline bag—”
“Oh dear!”
“And if they find it, you’re in trouble. But until then, just sit tight—do nothing, say nothing. Don’t talk to the police. If they ask you more questions, simply don’t answer. Have you got that, Dorrie? Do not answer.”
“I got it.”
“Tell Simon to keep quiet too. And from now on, you are going to be the very model of law-abiding decorum. Go to work, go home, do absolutely nothing to attract further attention to yourself. Become a mouse. Don’t spend any large sums of money, don’t even go shopping. Don’t go away for the weekend. Be open and obvious in all your actions. Don’t—”
