AHMM, July-August 2009
Page 25
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12.
Standing by the sink, Mrs. Leroy said nothing. For a fleeting moment, she fixed a cold eye on her accuser, then stared away.
He did not let up. “In that period between Clarence exiting the house and Nina finding him, three members of the party were playing cards, while two others were together in the den. We have, in fact, only one person unaccounted for..."
"Mrs. Leroy.” Nina finished for him. “Right, she was alone in the kitchen."
"Using my method of bridges and leaps, here is how I believe the events played out.” Mr. O'Nelligan took a deep breath to fill his sails, then voyaged on. “Mrs. Leroy had, at some earlier point, procured, by stealth, Mr. Browley's key ring. A copy was made and the original replaced. Knowing that Browley did not sleep in the Roost when he hosted his glory tables, the cook instructed her confederate, Groom, that such a night would be best for the purpose of stealing the shield. Since the canine would be released at midnight, the robbery needed to be accomplished before that hour."
I looked over at Mrs. Leroy. She stared blankly ahead, not reacting at all to the unfolding account.
"And so, we arrive at the night of August the eighteenth,” Mr. O'Nelligan said. “Groom has snuck onto the grounds, probably leaving his car below, and uses the copied keys to enter the Roost. He begins to unfasten the shield from the wall. Meanwhile, Clarence Browley, in the attic of the house, notices Groom's flashlight below and decides to confront the intruder. A minute later, Mrs. Leroy, like the others, sees an agitated, sword-wielding Browley leave the house. She surmises that her employer has seen something in the Roost. Fearing that Groom will be discovered and her own complicity in the robbery revealed, she grabs something from the kitchen to use as a weapon."
Mr. O'Nelligan walked over to a rack on the wall and removed the meat pounder. “Although I don't know for certain, I have a feeling this tool would serve as a sufficient bludgeon. Detective, I believe there are determining tests that might be applied?"
As he handed over the pounder to Handleman, I thought, I'll never eat chicken cordon bleu again.
"Now, Mrs. Leroy has a room just off the kitchen.” Mr. O'Nelligan pointed to a door near the refrigerator. “Right through there. I took note today that her room possesses its own exit. She can pass to and fro, unnoticed by the rest of the household. And that is what she does on that night, as, meat pounder in hand, she follows Browley down to the Roost. He is standing at the entrance of the building. Perhaps he has already confronted Groom, or is just about to. Mrs. Leroy creeps up behind him and strikes hard to the back of his head. Browley falls to the ground, then rolls over on his back and sees that it is his cook who has assaulted him. Mrs. Leroy then viciously delivers what she believes to be the death blow to the front of his skull."
Nina let out a low groan.
"Forgive me, madam.” Mr. O'Nelligan allowed a long moment to pass before resuming. “Though appearing dead, Browley will linger more than a half hour, long enough to indicate to his wife that his killer came from the house. The fact that Browley was found facing upward suggests that, of the two blows, the one from behind was delivered first. This leads me to believe that it was not Groom who waged the attack. He would probably have been confronted face-to-face by Browley and would not have had the opportunity to strike from behind. Am I correct, Mr. Groom?"
Jojo broke his silence. “Yeah! You got it, mister. You got everything right. I'm a thief, sure, but I'm not a murderer. I don't have the ice in my veins for that. But she does!” Here he pointed his handcuffed hands toward Mrs. Leroy. “Believe me, that one's cold as Alaska!"
The cook merely smoothed her apron and stared away.
"And so, the crime is done,” Mr. O'Nelligan continued. “In the aftermath, Groom, shaken by the turn of events, remains at the Roost to complete the robbery. Mrs. Leroy, a steadier hand, returns directly to her room, changing any blood-splattered garments, then enters the kitchen. Here, she perhaps even washes her weapon, for when Mrs. Browley and her guests barge in, the cook is observed ‘cleaning up.’ Soon, Groom, expecting only Mrs. Leroy to be attendant, taps on the kitchen window to inform her that his task is complete. The rest we've covered—"
"You sure know your racket!” Groom seemed so taken by Mr. O'Nelligan's account, I thought he might applaud. “Especially the part about me being shaken up. This murder stuff isn't my line, y'know? But, that one over there ... You know who she is, don't you? Who she used to be?"
"I was getting to that. Earlier today, I made some calls and accessed some pertinent records. I discovered that ‘Dorothy Leroy,’ while legally this woman's current appellation, is neither her original nor her married name. Born Dorothy Ritz, she became Mrs. George Carroway upon her marriage to a man better known as—"
"King Carroway!” I stole my cohort's punch line.
"Precisely. The storied bank robber who died in a hail of gunfire some nineteen years ago.” He indicated the unflinching Mrs. Leroy. “Yes, this woman was his wife. Captured shortly after her husband's death, she turned state's evidence against several of his associates in exchange for an abolished sentence. Later, to avoid notoriety, she took a name which, while inconspicuous, still cryptically honored Carroway. Having learned of her inclination toward French, I've been able to decode her little riddle. The name Leroy is derived from the French le roi meaning ‘the king.’ Mrs. Leroy is literally King's wife."
I looked at the aging cook with new eyes. In her younger days, this woman had escaped a gun battle perched naked on a bicycle.
"A last question remains,” Mr. O'Nelligan said. “How did Mrs. Leroy and Groom become partners in crime? Here I have no solid bridge, but I will make a leap. At an earlier glory table this summer, the ex-police detective encounters the Browleys’ cook, whom he recognizes from years before. This is, after all, the wife of the man who put four bullets in him. At some juncture, Groom perhaps threatens to reveal her unsavory past unless she pays him a certain fee. Perhaps she then makes an offer—why settle for a handful of cash when something as precious as a gem-studded shield can be obtained with her help and guidance? In this way, Mrs. Leroy turns her would-be blackmailer into her accomplice."
"You pretty much got it,” Groom admitted. “I tell ya, that witch can make a guy jump through hoops. You wouldn't know it to look at her."
Mr. O'Nelligan now walked over to Mrs. Leroy and locked eyes with her. I wondered what was going through his mind. Only days ago, these two had been trading flirtations; now he was accusing her of murder. “Tell, madam, what do you say to all that I have laid at your door?"
Mrs. Leroy never said a word, but her eyes turned to fire. Then it all happened. She let out a high, animal scream, and a butcher's knife appeared in her hand. It flashed across the Irishman's chest, dropping him to the floor.
"Mr. O'Nelligan!” I knelt beside him, quickly joined by Audrey.
Mrs. Leroy ran into her adjacent room, and we heard a lock click. Handleman slammed his sizable girth against the door, splintering it open on the third try. Guns drawn, he and his men rushed in.
Audrey undid the top buttons of Mr. O'Nelligan's shirt to reveal a thin red line across his chest. “She barely marked me,” he told us. “I'm all right.” We helped him to his feet.
I heard Handleman curse. Moments later, he stepped back into the kitchen. “We found her on the bed. She drove the blade through her own heart. One cool customer."
We all just stood there, saying nothing. Then Mr. O'Nelligan walked over to the doorway of Mrs. Leroy's room and looked in. After a moment, he recited something no doubt by Yeats:
"I balanced all, brought all to mind,
The years to come seemed waste of breath,
A waste of breath the years behind
In balance with this life, this death."
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13.
The next morning, I felt well enough that Audrey agreed to leave me and return home for work. I would drive back later that day. After tying up a f
ew loose ends with Handleman, who grumbled something at us that may have been a thanks, Mr. O'Nelligan and I stopped by Nina Browley's one last time. We found her outside at a little table with Paige and Pobenski, who, I noticed, sat together with their fingers intertwined.
Polecat nearly fell over himself with his apologies for hitting me. I accepted them rather graciously, I thought, considering he darn near decapitated me. Nina presented me with a wildly generous check, then walked us to my car.
"This is my last day here,” she said. “I'm selling the place directly."
I nodded. “I can understand why."
"And, of course, I'll need to find another cook. Who would ever have believed ... Well, thank you both for all you've done. We did avenge Clarence, didn't we?” She spun away from us and headed back toward the house, whistling cheerfully.
“A rare creature, indeed,” observed Mr. O'Nelligan.
We drove home through a light, windy drizzle, the chatter of the radio in the background as we talked.
"We never actually learned what made Browley tick,” I noted. “What did his glory tables really mean to him? What did he and Nina mean to each other?"
"No, we never learned. But then, in the end, we did not need to. Let him rest with his secrets. The hearts of other men are oft a mystery."
As is yours, Mr. O'Nelligan, I thought. I wondered how the heart of this old scholar-warrior was faring in the wake of what it had just passed through. I wanted to ask at what moment he began to suspect Mrs. Leroy. And had that moment overlapped with their playful banter? I wanted to ask, but I didn't.
Mr. O'Nelligan continued. “We were here to solve a crime, not judge a man. As he would have wanted it, Clarence Browley perished like a knight, sword in hand. Ironically, he was slain by a king's wife while defending his own castle. Still, to each man his glory."
"Well, you certainly earned yours,” I said. “I owe you everything. All our success there was because of O'Nelligan, not Plunkett."
"What are you saying, Lee?” He looked aghast. “Are you not the man who took the blow of a middleweight boxer and lived to tell? Are you not the man who put pen to paper to chronicle this case so undauntedly? Are you not the very man who dragged me from my melancholic life into this grandest of adventures? It is I, dear friend, who owe you."
To Mr. O'Nelligan's delight, a familiar voice rose again from the radio.
This time Elvis informed us that we were nothing but hound dogs. Hound dogs ... aren't they trackers? Well, then, damned if I didn't agree.
Selections from “The Lake Isle of Innisfree,” “An Old Song Resung,” and “An Irish Airman Foresees His Death” by William Butler Yeats.
Copyright © 2009 Michael Nethercott
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Department: SOLUTION TO THE MYSTERIOUS CIPHER
He goaded everyone with nasty little things that he knew, or thought he knew, about them. I wouldn't blame anyone here for wanting, at least theoretically, to kill him.
—Leslie Charteris
From “The Arrow of God"(1949)
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Department: COMING IN SEPTEMBER 2009
Real Men Die by John H. Dirckx
The Incense Murder by I. J. Parker
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ALFRED HITCHCOCK'S MYSTERY MAGAZINE (ISSN:0002-5224), Vol. 54, Nos. 7 and 8, July/August 2009. Published monthly except for combined January/February and July/August double issues by Dell Magazines, a division of Crosstown Publications. Annual subscription $55.90 in the U.S.A. and possessions, $65.90 elsewhere, payable in advance in U.S. funds (GST included in Canada). Subscription orders and correspondence regarding subscriptions should be sent to 6 Prowitt Street, Norwalk, CT 06855. Or, to subscribe, call 1-800-220-7443. Editorial Offices: 475 Park Avenue South, New York, NY 10016. Executive Offices: 6 Prowitt Street, Norwalk, CT 06855. Periodical postage paid at Norwalk, CT and additional mailing offices. Canadian postage paid at Montreal, Quebec, Canada Post International Publications Mail, Product Sales Agreement No. 40012460. © 2009 by Dell Magazines, a division of Crosstown Publications, all rights reserved. Dell is a trademark registered in the U.S. Patent Office. The stories in this magazine are all fictitious, and any resemblance between the characters in them and actual persons is completely coincidental. Reproduction or use, in any manner, of editorial or pictorial content without express written permission is prohibited. All stories in this magazine are fiction. No actual persons are designated by name or character. Submissions must be accompanied by a self-addressed stamped envelope. The publisher assumes no responsibility for unsolicited manuscripts or artwork. POSTMASTER: Send changes to Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine, 6 Prowitt Street, Norwalk, CT 06855. In Canada return to: Quebecor St. Jean, 800 Blvd. Industrial, St. Jean, Quebec J3B 8G4. GST #R123054108.
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