“Cut it out,” I said boredly. “I’ll confront your ladylove.”
“She’s not my ladylove!” Day shouted.
“All right. She’s not your ladylove. She’s just another suspect. But if I do it, I want to do it my way.”
“Sure, Manny,” he said, relieved. “Any way you want.”
“Then I want everyone involved in this thing out to the Lawson estate this afternoon. That means Jonathan Mannering, Gerald Cushing, Abigail Stoltz, and Arnold Tate. I’ll get Grace there, and the rest are already there.”
“You mean you’re going to jump Mrs. Lawson in front of everybody?” he said in astonishment.
“I mean I want everyone there.”
“What you intending to pull?” he asked suspiciously.
“Nothing,” I said, rising. “Go beard the lady yourself, if you don’t like my way of doing it.”
“I like it fine,” he said hurriedly. “Don’t be so touchy. I’ll have everybody lined up in the drawing-room at three p.m. How’s that?”
“Make it the veranda,” I suggested. “It’s cooler out there.”
Since it was nearly noon, my two female satellites and
I took a cab to El Patio and had lunch there. Grace hardly ate a thing, being too concerned over the identity of whoever had been trying to kill her.
“Is it one of the servants?” she asked for the fifth time, then added quickly, “I mean besides Maggie or Edmund or Jason?”
“That leaves Kate and Karl,” I said. “Stop asking questions and eat. You didn’t have any breakfast to speak of, either.”
Just before three we had Mouldy Greene drive us over to the Lawson house in his convertible. I left him on guard over the several cars parked in the garage and on the courtyard, in the remote event that our killer might try an escape by automobile.
“Don’t let anyone at all drive out of here without an okay from me first,” I instructed him.
“Check,” he said, eying the police car parked in front of his convertible dubiously.
“Except Inspector Warren Day,” I added quickly.
We found Inspector Day, accompanied by Hannegan, impatiently awaiting us on the front porch. All the people I had requested were gathered there, also.
Ann Lawson and Douglas Lawson sat side by side on the canvas porch swing. Abigail Stoltz reclined in one of those canvas lawn chairs which let back until you are lying nearly horizontal. Gerald Cushing and Jonathan Mannering sat on straight canvas-backed chairs with wooden arm rests. Arnold Tate was seated on the railing, facing inward, but jumped to his feet when he saw Grace.
The four remaining servants stood, as did the inspector and Hannegan, also, though there were two more canvas chairs and a wicker settee still vacant.
“We’re not late, are we?” I asked, glancing at my watch.
“Not very,” the inspector said sourly. I glanced around at the group, noting nothing but polite curiosity on any of the faces except that of Gerald
Cushing. Cushing seemed to be impatient, glancing at his watch twice in rapid succession, as though the first time he looked by habit, but forgot to note the time.
“Well, get on with it,” Day said testily. To the group he explained, “Moon here is temporarily in charge.” His eyes touched Ann, then shifted to the space between her and Doctor Lawson, and his tone disclaimed responsibility for anything which might now happen. “I don’t know what Moon intends to do, but for the moment he has the backing of the police department.”
Arnold Tate had led Grace over to the wicker settee, and they were seated together holding hands. I partially seated myself on the veranda rail, with my feet still flat on the floor, and Fausta perched on the rail by my side.
I said, “We’ve called this gathering for a specific purpose. Inspector Day and I finally know who is responsible for young Don’s death and for the attempts on Grace.”
From the corner of my eye I could see the inspector flush, then his expression faded into a strained grimace of agreement.
“However, we haven’t any proof,” I went on. “If we made an arrest, I have no doubt the criminal could successfully beat the case in court, for there isn’t a shred of evidence. The whole solution is based on logical deduction—largely by Inspector Day.”
No one said anything. Twelve faces were merely attentive. Hannegan’s was inscrutable, and Warren Day’s indicated a struggle between a desire to take a bow and the wish that his name had been left out of things entirely.
“Also, if we made an arrest, undoubtedly we would be sued. After consulting on the matter, we felt the wisest course was to gather together this group and explain what the criminal’s motive and method of operation has been. Once all of you understand everything, the whole carefully built plot falls apart, for this has been a peculiar series of crimes, and the most peculiar thing about them is that the criminal will be unable to reap any benefit from them the minute you all understand what the crimes actually are.
“That is the sole purpose for which we called this meeting. If we brought the guilty person to trial, there is little doubt in my mind any jury would render a verdict of acquittal on the grounds of insufficient evidence. There is also little doubt in my mind that even though acquitted by a jury, the killer would be convicted in the minds of all of you here. Therefore by airing the whole matter among this select group, we accomplish the same thing as we would by an arrest, but escape the probability of being sued.”
Inspector Day blurted, “Will you get on with it, Moon!”
I glanced at him and continued without hurry. “In the first place, practically nothing in this case was what it at first seemed. The attempts on Grace Lawson, for instance, were not attempts at murder at all. She was never in the slightest danger.”
“What?” Arnold Tate half shouted.
Twelve faces swiveled at Arnold, then turned back to me. Hannegan remained expressionless, and Warren Day’s suddenly furious eyes were fixed unwaveringly on my face.
I continued at a leisurely pace. “Going backward, Don’s death was neither suicide nor murder, but a combination of both. Legally I suppose it was suicide, but morally it was murder.
“And going all the way back to the beginning, Donald Lawson Senior’s death was not an accident, but deliberate murder.”
Ann Lawson emitted a gasp which drew everyone’s eyes to her.
“This is a complicated story,” I went on, “and I’m not much of a storyteller—“
I paused at a sardonic snort from Warren Day, then picked up the narrative.
“You must understand everything I intend to tell you is based on hypothesis. It wouldn’t stand up in court for a minute. But we know certain facts, and by combining them in proper order, we can arrive at a series of logical conclusions I’m sure you’ll all agree with.
“First for the facts. Donald Lawson Senior was killed last August in an auto accident during which both the chauffeur, Vance Logan, and Doctor Douglas Lawson were injured. Six months ago Vance Logan began receiving an income in excess of ten thousand dollars a month, though he had no apparent means of support. The logical conclusion is that Logan was blackmailing someone. An off-the-record check of the resources of all those present showed some interesting things.” I paused and looked at Ann Lawson. “For instance, how does it happen your total resources are only three thousand dollars, when you have income from a half million?”
Jonathan Mannering sat up straight sputtering. “Young man,” he said. “In the first place you had no business prying into Mrs. Lawson’s affairs. In the second place, if you employed the logic you seem to be so proud of, you would realize the will was probated only about six months ago. Mrs. Lawson’s trust fund has been safely invested at an average of three-and-a-half-percent interest, but there hasn’t been a dividend payment yet.”
“And also, Mrs. Lawson,” I said, ignoring the interruption, “some time back you invested a hundred thousand dollars in Marsh Chemicals and sold out for a hundred and ten thousand. Mind telling what
happened to that money?”
“Mr. Moon,” Jonathan Mannering said ominously, “as Mrs. Lawson’s attorney, I want to warn you any further inferences that my client has been paying blackmail will get you a suit for defamation of character.” He glanced around at the group, then added, “However, I feel this should be clarified right now, before wagging tongues do any damage. That Marsh Chemicals transaction took place more than a year ago, just before Donald Lawson’s death. Donald didn’t want to appear in the matter, so he bought the stock in his wife’s name, a quite common business procedure. Ann never even saw the money.”
Warren Day’s mouth had fallen open. He snapped it shut, glared at me, and opened it again to speak, then changed his mind and watched me with dawning suspicion.
“Thank you,” I said gravely. “That clears that up. Getting on to the next fact, two professional killers named Dude Garrity and Harry Sommerfield murdered Vance Logan. Yesterday both were killed in a gun battle, as you may have read in the paper. They also had attempted to murder me, presumably because I was endangering the main criminal’s security. However, they showed a marked antipathy to harming Grace Lawson, which indicated they had definite instructions to let her alone.”
Suddenly I turned my attention to Gerald Cushing. “If you wanted to hire two professional killers, Mr. Cushing, how would you go about it?”
At first he looked startled, then puzzled, and finally faintly indignant. “I’m afraid I don’t follow.”
“I’m not trying to involve you in anything,” I said. “Just take it as a hypothetical question. Where would you contact professional killers?”
“I haven’t the slightest idea.”
“Exactly,” I said. “Would you, Mrs. Lawson?”
Ann looked at me puzzledly, then shook her head.
“Or you, Mr. Mannering?”
“Of course not,” the lawyer said, outraged.
I said, “I won’t bother to complete the circuit. The point I’m trying to make is that the average person couldn’t get in contact with two killers such as Dude Garrity and Harry Sommerfield even if he had the desire. For a time we thought Kate Malone was the underworld contact, and was somehow tied in with this, but apparently her reason for skipping was fear of serving out a sentence for parole violation. We suddenly realized who the killer was when we discovered Dude Garrity had a two-week-old gunshot wound. And that is what puts the finger on our killer. Only one person here could possibly have come in contact with the pair.”
Now I still had twelve expressions puzzled, but Warren Day’s had changed. A light was beginning to replace the suspicion in his eyes.
“June twenty-eighth,” I said, “Dude Garrity and Harry Sommerfield unsuccessfully tried to rob a bank in Peoria, Illinois. Garrity was wounded. The bandits headed in this direction and were lost track of not twenty miles from here. Somewhere Garrity managed to get his wound dressed, and when his companion was subsequently wounded last Sunday, he also managed to get medical attention without the treatment being reported to the police.”
After a moment of strained silence, all eyes focused on Dr. Douglas Lawson.
Ann rose and said in a choked voice, “What are you getting at?”
“Just what you think,” I said. “Garrity needed medical attention. He probably got it while his companion held a gun on the doctor. And sometime while the doctor was patching the patient up, he suddenly realized the two gunmen were an answer to his problem. All reputable doctors report to police the treatment of gunshot wounds. Instead of making a report, Dr. Douglas Lawson made a deal with his patient and his companion.”
XXVII
DR. LAWSON SAID CALMLY, “That’s a pretty strong statement, Moon. You may get yourself a defamation of character suit yet.”
I shook my head at him. “That would force us to bring you to trial. My bet is that you won’t make a move that might spread the story of your guilt beyond this group here.”
Ann moved away two steps, clasped her hands in front of her and stared down at her brother-in-law.
“You didn’t, Douglas! Say you didn’t!”
“But he did,” I put in before the doctor could speak. “Here’s another fact for you. Your husband’s death certificate shows a broken neck—no other injuries! Anyone whose head hit a windshield hard enough to break his neck would almost certainly have at least a brain concussion.” I turned my eyes on Douglas Lawson. “On the spur of the moment you took advantage of a perfect situation and killed your brother, didn’t you? I suppose you thought the chauffeur was unconscious, until he approached you a few months later and started nicking you for everything you had. Was that about how it happened?”
“How much can I sue this nitwit for, Jonathan?” Doctor Lawson drawled.
But Jonathan Mannering had his attention concentrated on me, and seemed unwilling to divert it.
“Your big brother was your father and childhood hero rolled into one, was he?” I shot at the doctor. “Or was he the overpowering guy who refused to let you work as he had, who sent you to medical school because he wanted you to go, who planned your life and thought he was being kind to his kid brother, but was only building within you a hate that ended in murder?”
I paused for breath. “After you started in practice you never saw much of your brother until he married the second time, did you? But when Ann became the hostess, you were a regular week-end guest. Your brother not only ran your life from infancy, he married the only woman you ever wanted, didn’t he? And when the opportunity was suddenly thrown in your lap, you murdered him.”
Doctor Lawson’s lips were still mocking, but his face was dead white. Every eye was turned on him. With an effort he lifted his own eyes to Ann, then swung them back to me.
“Go on with the rest of it,” he said softly.
“Probably you only wanted Ann at first. No doubt you knew the terms of the will, being so close to your brother, and figured the money was beyond your reach, anyway. Then Don started coming to you for treatment of imaginary ailments, and you recognized he had a psychotic personality. When the inspector and I interviewed you after the discovery of Don’s body, you made the statement that you were not a psychiatrist. Technically I suppose you’re not, but you had a year’s graduate work in psychiatry at your brother’s expense.
“About the same time Don started coming to you, Grace approached you with her marriage plans, and you suddenly saw a way to get both Ann and the money. Deliberately you encouraged the marriage, and you told Don he had an incurable disease—probably leukemia, since Don mentioned that disease to Arnold Tate.
“There’s no way of finding out how you worked on Don’s sensitive mind, but you managed to destroy it, and he plunged to his death. No court could convict you of murdering your nephew, but morally it was just as much murder as when you snapped your brother’s neck. You changed the suicide note because it pointed to what you had done. Would you like to hear what Don actually wrote before you cut half the note off with a pair of scissors?”
I produced Professor Quisby’s transcript and read it slowly. When I finished, the doctor’s sardonic smile had faded and sweat stood out upon his upper lip.
“You didn’t have to kill Grace,” I hammered at him. “All you had to do was expose her secret marriage. But if you exposed it yourself, Grace would never forgive you, and you were too fond of her to risk that. You mentioned it to Ann and found you were on delicate ground there, too, for if Ann suspected you were being unfair to Grace, she would have dropped you like a hot potato. This would have ruined your whole chess game, for your final move in getting your hands on the Lawson estate was to have been your marriage to Ann. And you couldn’t run the risk of exciting Ann’s suspicion that you were trying to make her an heiress.
“So you went to work on Arnold Tate. Mysterious attempts were made on Grace’s life, but strangely enough you were always around to block them. The first time, when the saddle girth broke, you even pointedly suggested someone had tried to kill her, a thought that ha
dn’t occurred to Arnold or Grace until you mentioned it. The falling flowerpot conveniently missed her by several feet, and as I remember, it was you who first noticed the strong odor of her milk, making sure she didn’t taste it.
“Then came the cut steering mechanism. Knowing Grace’s jolting method of leaving the garage, you assumed it would break immediately and no one would be hurt, but just to make sure you came along for the ride, so you could control the situation.
“But the swimming-pool incident was the masterpiece. Had she actually been thrown into the pool unconscious, Grace would have been bound to absorb some water, particularly if she were floating halfway to the bottom when you arrived, as you claimed. What really happened is that you simply dipped her in long enough to get her wet, pulled her out again, then yelled and dived into the pool.
“The clincher,” I went on, “is your bank account. You have twenty thousand dollars to your name. Yet you’ve had a large income from your practice for eleven years, and six months ago inherited fifty thousand dollars. I imagine your original deal with Garrity and Sommerfield was only to murder Vance Logan and stop the draining of your resources, but once you had them lined up, you decided to use them for miscellaneous purposes, like ridding yourself of troublesome bodyguards.”
Running out of words, I took a deep breath and asked, “Any important points I’ve left out?”
Dr. Lawson rose to his feet. His face was pale and his hands trembled, but his voice was still steady when he spoke.
“I think you’ve covered everything admirably, Mr. Moon. The only criticism I have to make is that it’s all hypothesis, just as you yourself admitted before you began.” His voice rose slightly. “And it’s all hogwash! You haven’t the faintest bit of evidence.”
“Never said I had,” I told him. “If I had evidence, you’d be in jail now.”
The doctor mustered a deprecating smile and turned to Grace. “You haven’t swallowed any of this rot, have you, honey?”
Gallows in My Garden Page 21
