by Lionel White
“So good for you, my dear,” shesaid. “Much better than coffee, don’t you know.”
After a few shghtly embarrassed remarks—how was the Ettle boy and so forth—Allie realized that the old couple were much too reserved to ever bring up the subject of the murder. If she was going to find anything out, she ti have to start the baU rolling herself.
PoEtely, refusing a scone, she looked directly at Mrs. Kitteridge.
“You know that Len, my husband, has been arrested and is going to be held for the girl’s murder,” she said.
Reginald Kitteridge coughed and half covered his face with his linen napkin. Mrs. Kitteridge put her tea cup down quickly.
'‘A terrible thing, ’ ’ Martha Kitteridge said.1 ‘A really terrible thing. I am sure that Mr. Neilsen had nothing to do with it at all. ”
“Police make some awfully stupid blunders, you know,” Mr. Kitteridge said. “Really, quite stupid.”
They continued to protest and Allie had the sudden realization that finally she had found two persons who were not thoroughly convinced that Len was guilty. On the other hand, she quickly reflected, they didn’t necessarily think he was innocent, either. It was just that the entire thing was out of their realm
of comprehension. A murder which had nothing in the world to do with them I and about which they knew nothing. They didn’t know who did it; they did
n’t want to know. They probably didn’t even care—just so long as that sort
of thing didn’t happen again.
“I’m talking to people,” Allie quickly said. “Talking and trying to find out anything I can which may help to find who really did commit the crime.
Reginald Kitteridge was first to speak up.
“There’s nothing,” he said, “nothing at all we can tell you. Like to help of course, and all that, but we know nothing. Told the police as much already. ”
“ I was just wondering if perhaps, the night that the girl was killed, you may have heard anything. You know, noises of people walking around, or anything at all.”
“Nothing, my dear,” Kitteridge said. There was a note of finality in his voice. “Like to help, but we heard or saw not a thing.”
“Not until I saw that poor unfortunate child's body,” Mrs. Kitteridge began, but her husband cut her off shortly.
“No point in covering all that again,” he said. “None at all. Frankly,” he turned to Allie and tried to speak in a kind and understanding manner, “frankly, my dear, we would much prefer to keep out of the limelight.”
Allie nodded. She started to rise, and then, once more settled back in her seat.
“There’s just one thing,” she said. “The hat and the glasses which were found by the juniper bush. The papers said a little boy found them. They must have been there when you looked under the bush. ”
“I have already said,” Reginald began, only to be interrupted by his wife.
“Now that is an odd thing,” Martha Kitteridge said. "The fact is, I didn’t see them. I’m sure I would have if they had been there, but I certainly didn’t see them.”
Reginald looked at his wife with the faintest trace of irritation on his normally shy and polite face.
“Nonsense, ” he said. “Sheer nonsense. The child must have come by early in the morning and found them. And then you came out later and found the body after he had already taken them.”
Martha Kitteridge looked relieved and Allie Neilsen looked disappointed.
“Yes—yes, of course. That must have been it.”
“May I ask just one more question?” Allie said. “What time did you first go out on Saturday morning?”
Mrs. Kitteridge thought for a moment.
“Well, I was in the yard at around nine o’clock. Yes, just about nine, right after Mr. Kitteridge had left the house. I remember quite clearly.”
“And the boy couldn’t have come and taken them after that without your
having seen him, could he?” Allie asked.
"No, he couldn’t.”
Allie got up then and thanked both of them. Martha Kitteridge took her to the door.
“Anything I can do, my dear,” she said. “Anything at all. Just let me know.”
Allie thanked her.
Two minutes later and for the first time in the forty married years of his life, Reginald Parson Kitteridge spoke harshly to his wife.
“You’re a damned busybody, Martha,” he said. “I told you to stay out of this matter. I have already had more than enough publicity.”
Martha Kitteridge stared at her husband wordlessly for a full minute. Her face suddenly took on a firm and defiant expression.
“Reginald,” she said, “if there is anything I cando to help those poor children, I’ll gladly do it. They are more important than your privacy or the dignity of the entire British Government.”
Mr. Kitteridge looked at his wife with shocked disbelief. He couldn’t have been more amazed if she had thrown a cup of tea in his face.
Mrs. Patrick Doyle, standing at the sink in the kitchen and peeling the potatoes which would go into the Irish stew which she planned for that evening’s dinner, had a sour expression about her usually good-natured mouth. She was thinking of the difficulty a parent encountered who faced the problem of raising an only child. The fact that Peter was an only child was not a biologically planned phenomenon; it was simply the result of an unfortunate physical inability on her own part to bear more children after the birth of her first-born. But Mrs. Doyle, unfairly enough, seemed to blame Peter rather than herself or sheer caprice. Peter was an easy child to blame for almost anything. Especially was this so during these last few days. Peter’s sudden overnight elevation to a pinnacle of fame since the discovery of his prominent part in the Julio case by the tabloid papers had so affected the boy that he’d become almost unbearable.
Not only did he seem to live in more of a fog than ever, but the whole thing had so gone to his head that he was no longer manageable.
“Peter, you are already late for school. You’ll miss that bus for sure,” Ann Doyle suddenly said, turning to where her offspring sat engrossed in the pages of the morning newspaper, his elbows resting on the kitchen table and the bowl of cereal untouched in front of him. “Eat that food and eat it now.
Peter looked up blankly at his mother.
“The News," he said, “says right here that me, Peter Doyle, has probably supplied the one most significant clue in the entire case.
“Drop that paper and eat your breakfast!”
Peter turned back to the cereal, but continued to read as he tentatively dipped his spoon in the bowl.
The cereal was still unfinished several moments later when the doorbell rang and Ann Doyle quickly reached for the dish towel to dry her hands before going to answer it. A moment later and she returned to the kitchen, Allie Neilsen walking in front of her. Allie was talking.
“And I really do hate to bother you, but you see I must find out everything I can, ” she was saying.
Mrs. Doyle had never met Allie, but she knew all about her as a result of the stories in the papers. She was extremely embarrassed, but, basically a kindly woman, she felt sorry for the girl. After all, Mrs. Neilsen was little more than a girl. This morning, even with the dark shadows under her eyes and the pale, drawn face which all too plainly showed the strain of the last few days, she still looked young enough to be Mrs. Doyle’s own daughter, had she ever had one. Mrs. Doyle felt very sorry for her.
“Please do have a cup of coffee,” she said. “I do understand what you must be going through and...” her voice faded away and Allie smiled weakly at her.
“Thank you,” she said. “But I’ve already had too much coffee. But may I smoke?”
“I’ll sit right here and have a cigarette with you,” Mrs. Doyle said. “Move a chair up for the lady, Peter. ”
Peter, somewhat grudgingly, did as he was told; his mother at the same time surreptitiously reached over and took the newspaper from the table.
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“This is Mrs. Neilsen, Peter,” Mrs. Doyle said.
For a moment it didn’t penetrate. Then the boy quickly looked up and openly stared at Allie.
“Gee,” he said. “'You’re—why it’s your old man who’s...”
Mrs. Doyle's hand darted out and boxed him on the ear.
“Shut up and finish that breakfast,” she said.
Allie sat down and was reaching for a pack of cigarettes in her bag when the other woman offered her own.
“Take one of these, dear,” she said.
Allie took one and lighted it.
“I wanted to ask about Saturday morning,” Alliesaid.
Mrs. Doyle looked just the slightest bit defensive. “Yes?”
“Well, about Peter here. He found the hat and glasses you know.”
“I know all right,” Mrs. Doyle said.
“Would you mind if I asked Peter to tell me about it?”
Mrs. Doylenodded. “Certainly not,” shesaid. “Peter, tell the lady what she
wants to know.”
Peter looked up and blushed.
“Aw, I already told the cops. Itol’ ‘em everything.” Quickly he looked down again, avoiding Allies eyes. He began furiously attacking the cereal.
“You tell Mrs. Neilsen what she wants to know.”
Peter half shook his head.
“The cops told me not to talk to anyone. Noone at all.”
Mrs. Doyle’s mouth drew in sharply.
“Peter,” she said. Her arm reached out and she half shook the boy. “Peter, you just stop that now. My gawd, all you’ve done is talk about it. For three days, that’s all you have talked about. I don’t care what the cops told you. You answer Mrs. Neilsen’s questions.”
Peter looked stubborn and unhappy, but he turned and faced Allie.
“What you want to know?”
“I want you to tell me just how you happened to find the hat and glasses. What were you doing? When was it? Just the way it happened, if you will.”
“I was just walkin’ along and there they were and I saw 'em and picked ’em up. That’s all there was to it.”
"All there was to it!” Mrs. Doyle was indignant and again reached over and shook her son. “You explain now the way you been telling us for the last three days. Goon, explain.”
Allie interrupted.
“You found them on Mrs. Kitteridge’s lawn, by the bush in the side yard?”
Peter looked her straight in the face. His voice was defiant.
“My gosh,” he said, “sure I found ‘em there. Everybody knows that. You can read all about it in the papers.”
“What were you doing in Mrs. Kitteridge’s yard, Peter?” AUie asked.
For a moment the boy looked startled, but quickly recovered himself.
“I was chasin’ a ball,” he said.
His mother suddenly looked at him in surprise and started to speak, but then thought better of it and closed her mouth sharply. But she continued to stare at her son.
“Peter,” Alliesaid, “just what time did you find them? What time were you in Mrs. Kitteridge’s yard?”
“I don’t know. Sometime Saturday morning. After the murder, that s all I know.”
“Was it before nine o’clock?” Allie asked.
Peter shook his head.
“I don’t know, I told you,” he said.
Mrs. Doyle suddenly looked at Allie.
“It couldn’t very well have been,” she said suddenly. Yousee, thatwasSat
urday morning. We let Peter sleep late because he's allowed to stay up on Fri-I day nights for the television. No school the next day so we let the boy stay up.
Then he sleeps late on Saturday because Pat, that’s Mr. Doyle, and myself, we like to sleep late too. We get up around nine and have breakfast and then Peter goes out to play. That is,” she added, “when I can get him out of the house. He don’t like...”
“Are you sure he wasn’t out before nine?” Allie said.
“I’m sure. I remember he was playing in the house and I made him go out. All he ever wants to do.
Again Allie cut in. This time she turned directly to face the child.
“Peter,” Allie said, “I talked with Mrs. Kitteridge. She was in her yard from nine o’clock on. She remembers it very definitely. And she is quite sure that she didn’t see you. She also has no memory of seeing the hat or the glasses. ”
Mrs. Doyle turned to stare at her son.
Peter stood up suddenly and stamped his foot. His face was a fiery red and his voice was pitched inordinately high when he spoke. The words came out in a childish sort of half scream.
“I don’t care what that old woman says. I tell you I found them in her yard, right next to the body.”
“Next to the body?” Allie said quietly. “I thought you said...”
Peter turned and ran from the room.
Mrs. Doyle started to get up.
Allie also stood up.
“I’m afraid I’ve...” her voice was apologetic.
“Don’t you worry,” Mrs. Doyle said. “Don’t you worry, dear. If Peter has been lying, I’ll find out about it. Don’t you worry a bit. I’m his mother and I’ll be able to tell. ” She hesitated a moment, as though to get her breath. When she spoke again, her voice was controlled.
“He isn’t a bad boy, understand, Mrs. Neilsen. He just has that crazy imagination. I think it comes from all these comic books and detective stories and what not. He isn't really a bad boy and I know he doesn’t mean to hurt anyone. I’ll talk to him.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Doyle, ” Allie said. “I think I had better go now. Perhaps later...”
“I’ll talk to him. I’ll tell you if there is anything. Don’t you worry. I’ll tell you.”
Allie found her own way to the door as Mrs. Doyle went in search of her son.
That morning Peter Doyle received the worst thrashing he had ever had in his life. In a sense, it was a little unfair. The thrashing came after Peter had already confessed to his mother that he hadn’t really found the hat and the glasses under the juniper bush in Mrs. Kitteridge s yard.
But by this time Mrs. Doyle, a rather imaginative woman herself, was so completely shocked and upset to learn of the possible damage her son had caused, and the possible repercussions, that she went ahead and gave him the licking anyway. After it was all over and Peter was left in his room alternately crying and feeling the sore places on his bottom, Mrs. Doyle called the police. She thought vaguely of calling her husband at his office first, but finally decided against it. Patrick Doyle had an ungovernable temper and she was really afraid of what he might do to his son and heir.
Allie Neilsen went home. She wanted to think. Think what to do next.
One thing she was sure of. The child had been lying. But did it really matter? Did it make a great deal of difference?
Chapter Twelve
The thought of deceit, of concealing her true identity, never occurred to Allie Neilsen until the very moment Kathleen Julio opened the front door of her home and spoke the words. The words came even before Allie herself could make the little speech which she had so painfully prepared.
“Thank God—oh thank God you have come!” Mrs. Julio said. “The agency said you wouldn’t be here before noon but I am so glad you could get here early.”
Mrs. Julio reached out and took Allie by the arm and almost literally pulled her into the front hallway.
The next two or three minutes were so totally confusing that later, when Allie tried to remember them and put the various incidents in any sort of order, the only thing she was able to recall was a sort of mad, insane kaleidoscope of hysteria and general confusion, punctuated by Kathleen Julio’s screaming voice and the sounds of what seemed to be dozens of children yelling back and forth.
Mrs. Julio was a large woman and greeting Allie as she did, faded bathrobe thrown across her shoulders and open down the front so that it exposed huge breasts covered only by a torn brassiere, her face flushed a
nd eyes streaked with mascara and deeply shadowed, she seemed almost monstrous.
Allie remembered being rushed through a room filled with half-dressed, yelling children. There was a small, immaculate, dark-complexioned man standing somewhere in the room and he was busy knotting a bow tie around the neck of a ten-year-old boy who was a smaller image of himself. And then in a moment they were through the room and Allie had been propelled into a bedroom which looked as though a cyclone had struck it.
“Come in here with me while I finish dressing and I’ll give you your instructions,’’ Mrs. Julio was saying. She hadn’t lowered her voice and Allie could detect the hysteria in back of the high-pitched tones.
“God, oh God, what I’ve had to go through!” Mrs. Julio slumped at a cluttered dressing table.
“You know, of course. You know about my poor baby, my poor murdered baby. Today’s the funeral. That’s why I had to have the agency send someone. We are leaving the smaller children home and someone has to stay with them. And everything is so confused. Poor Mister Julio has gone all to pieces. And we’re moving—we only rented this place, thank God! We’re getting out of this terrible neighborhood. Murderers—that’s what they are—murderers!”
She turned and stared at Allie. Her eyes looked insane and Allie was glad that she had not introduced herself, as she had originally intended. She sensed at once that this woman, ridden by grief and bitterness, would never answer her questions. Already she was figuring a way of getting out of the house—regretting that she had come in the first place.
“You know about my poor baby? ” Mrs. Julio said. She didn’t wait for an answer.
“They killed her. A poor defenseless baby. They all got together and killed her. Those McNallys, they were the ones. They should have brought her home. A young girl like Louisa, they should have seen that she got home safely. But no. Why that McNally slut! She even told me her husband was too drunk to bring the child home. It’s this neighborhood. Drunken parties, goings-on...”
Allie had backed to the door and her hand had reached for the knob. Suddenly she hesitated.
“I read about it in the papers,” she said. “You say that the McNallys were drunk? I didn’t read about that.”
