“Come,” he said gently, “we have laid her in the other bedroom. She looks very peaceful. You must remember that, except for that moment of terror when she saw the knife, she suffered nothing. It is terrible for you, but you must try not to give way. The police – ”
“The police can't bring her back to life,” said the man savagely. “She's dead. Leave me alone, curse you! Leave me alone, I say!”
He stood up, with a violent gesture.
“You must not sit here,” said Hartman firmly. “I will give you something to take, and you must try to keep calm. Then we will leave you, but if you don't control yourself – ”
After some further persuasion, Brotherton allowed himself to be led away.
“Bunter,” said Lord Peter, as the kitchen door closed behind them, “do you know why I am doubtful about the success of those rat experiments?”
“Meaning Dr. Hartman's, my lord?”
“Yes. Dr. Hartman has a theory. In any investigation, my Bunter, it is most damnably dangerous to have a theory.”
“I have heard you say so, my lord.”
“Confound you – you know it as well as I do! What is wrong with the doctor's theories, Bunter?”
“You wish me to reply, my lord, that he only sees the facts which fit in with the theory.”
“Thought–reader!” exclaimed Lord Peter bitterly.
“And that he supplied them to the police, my lord.”
“Hush!” said Peter, as the doctor returned.
“I have got him to lie down,” said Dr. Hartman, “and I think the best thing we can do is to leave him to himself.”
“D'you know,” said Wimsey, “I don't cotton to that idea, somehow.”
“Why? Do you think he's likely to destroy himself?”
“That's as good a reason to give as any other, I suppose,” said Wimsey, “when you haven't got any reason which can be put into words. But my advice is, don't leave him for a moment.”
“But why? Frequently, with a deep grief like this, the presence of other people is merely an irritant. He begged me to leave him.”
“Then for God's sake go back to him,” said Peter.
“Really, Lord Peter,” said the doctor, “I think I ought to know what is best for my patient.”
“Doctor,” said Wimsey, “this is not a question of your patient. A crime has been committed.”
“But there is no mystery.”
“There are twenty mysteries. For one thing, when was the window–cleaner here last?”
“The window–cleaner?”
“Who shall fathom the ebony–black enigma of the window–cleaner?” pursued Peter lightly, putting a match to his pipe. “You are quietly in your bath, in a state of more or less innocent nature, when an intrusive head appears at the window, like the ghost of Hamilton Tighe, and a gruff voice, suspended between earth and heaven, says, `Good morning, sir.` Where do window–cleaners go between visits? Do they hibernate, like busy bees? Do they – ”
“Really, Lord Peter,” said the doctor, “don't you think you're going a bit beyond the limit?”
“Sorry you feel like that,” said Peter, “but I really want to know about the window–cleaner. Look how clear these panes are.”
“He came yesterday, if you want to know,” said Dr. Hartman, rather stiffly.
“You are sure?”
“He did mine at the same time.”
“I thought as much,” said Lord Peter. “In that case, it is absolutely imperative that Brotherton should not be left alone for a moment. Bunter! Confound it all, where's that fellow got to?” The door into the bedroom opened.
“My lord?” Mr. Bunter unobtrusively appeared, as he had unobtrusively stolen out to keep an unobtrusive eye upon the patient.
“Good,” said Wimsey. “Stay where you are.” His ackadaisical manner had gone, and he looked at the doctor as four years previously he might have looked at a refractory subaltern.
“Dr. Hartman,” he said, “something is wrong. Cast your mind back. We were talking about symptoms. Then came the scream. Then came the sound of feet running. Which direction did they run in?”
“I'm sure I don't know.”
“Don't you? Symptomatic though, doctor. They have been troubling me all the time, subconsciously. Now I know why. They ran from the kitchen.”
“Well?”
“Well! And now the window–cleaner – ”
“What about him?”
“Could you swear that it wasn't the window–cleaner who made those marks on the sill?”
“And the man Brotherton saw – ”
“Have we examined your laboratory roof for his footsteps?”
“But the weapon? Wimsey, this is madness! Someone took the weapon.”
“I know. But did you think the edge of the wound was clean enough to have been made by a smooth stiletto? It looked ragged to me.”
“Wimsey, what are you driving at?”
“There's a clue here in the flat – and I'm damned if I can remember it. I've seen it – I know I've seen it. It'll come to me presently. Meanwhile, don't let Brotherton – ”
“What?”
“Do whatever it is he's going to do.”
“But what is it?”
“If I could tell you that I could show you the clue. Why couldn't he make up his mind whether the bedroom door was open or shut? Very good story, but not quite thought out. Anyhow – I say, doctor, make some excuse, and strip him, and bring me his clothes. And send Bunter to me.”
The doctor stared at him, puzzled. Then he made a gesture of acquiescence and passed into the bedroom. Lord Peter followed him, casting a ruminating glance at Brotherton as he went. Once in the sitting–room, Lord Peter sat down on a red velvet armchair, fixed his eyes on a gilt–framed oleograph, and became wrapped in contemplation.
Presently Bunter came in, with his arms full of clothing. Wimsey took it, and began to search it, methodically enough, but listlessly. Suddenly he dropped the garments, and turned to the manservant.
“No,” he said, “this is a precaution, Bunter mine, but I'm on the wrong tack. It wasn't here I saw – whatever I did see. It was in the kitchen. Now, what was it?”
“I could not say, my lord, but I entertain a conviction that I was also, in a manner of speaking, conscious – not consciously conscious, my lord, if you understand me, but still conscious of an incongruity.”
“Hurray!” said Wimsey suddenly. “Cheer–oh! for the subconscious what's–his–name! Now let's remember the kitchen. I cleared out of it because I was gettin' obfuscated. Now then. Begin at the door. Fryin'–pans and sauce–pans on the wall. Gas–stove – oven goin' – chicken inside. Rack of wooden spoons on the wall, gas–lighter, pan–lifter. Stop me when I'm gettin' hot. Mantelpiece. Spice–boxes and stuff. Anything wrong with them? No. Dresser. Plates. Knives and forks – all clean; flour dredger – milk–jug – sieve on the wall – nutmeg–grater. Three–tier steamer. Looked inside – no grisly secrets in the steamer.”
“Did you look in all the dresser drawers, my lord?”
“No. That could be done. But the point is, I did notice somethin'. What did I notice? That's the point. Never mind. On with the dance – let joy be unconfined! Knife–board.
Knife–powder. Kitchen table. Did you speak?”
“No,” said Bunter, who had moved from his attitude of wooden deference.
“Table stirs a chord. Very good. On table. Choppin'–board. Remains of ham and herb stuffin'. Packet of suet. Another sieve. Several plates. Butter in a glass dish. Bowl of drippin' – ”
“Ah!”
“Drippin' – ! Yes, there was – ”
“Something unsatisfactory, my lord – ”
“About the drippin'! Oh, my head! What's that they say in Dear Brutus, Bunter? `Hold on to the workbox.` That's right. Hold on to the drippin'. Beastly slimy stuff to hold on to – Wait!”
There was a pause.
“When I was a kid,” said Wimsey, “I used to love to go down
into the kitchen and talk to old cookie. Good old soul she was, too. I can see her now, gettin' chicken ready, with me danglin' my legs on the table. She used to pluck an' draw 'em herself. I revelled in it. Little beasts boys are, ain't they, Bunter? Pluck it, draw it, wash it, stuff it, tuck its little tail through its little what–you–may–call–it, truss it, grease the dish – Bunter?”
“My lord!”
“Hold on to the dripping!”
“The bowl, my lord – ”
“The bowl – visualize it – what was wrong?”
“It was full, my lord!”
“Got it – got it – got it! The bowl was full – smooth surface. Golly! I knew there was something queer about it. Now why shouldn't it be full? Hold on to the – ”
“The bird was in the oven.”
“Without dripping!”
“Very careless cookery, my lord.”
“The bird – in the oven – no dripping. Bunter! Suppose it was never put in till after she was dead? Thrust in hurriedly by someone who had something to hide – horrible!”
“But with what object, my lord?”
“Yes, why? That's the point. One more mental association with the bird. It's just coming. Wait a moment. Pluck, draw, wash, stuff, tuck up, truss – By God!”
“My lord?”
“Come on, Bunter. Thank Heaven we turned off the gas!”
He dashed through the bedroom, disregarding the doctor and the patient, who sat up with a smothered shriek. He flung open the oven door and snatched out the baking–tin. The skin of the bird had just begun to discolour. With a little gasp of triumph, Wimsey caught the iron ring that protruded from the wing, and jerked out – the six–inch spiral skewer.
The doctor was struggling with the excited Brotherton in the doorway. Wimsey caught the man as he broke away, and shook him into the corner with a jiu–jitsu twist.
“Here is the weapon,” he said.
“Prove it, blast you!” said Brotherton savagely.
“I will,” said Wimsey. “Bunter, call in the policeman at the door. Doctor, we shall need your microscope.”
In the laboratory the doctor bent over the microscope. A thin layer of blood from the skewer had been spread upon the slide.
“Well?” said Wimsey impatiently.
“It's all right,” said Hartman. “The roasting didn't get anywhere near the middle. My God, Wimsey, yes, you're right – round corpuscles, diameter 1/3621 – mammalian blood – probably human – ”
“Her blood,” said Wimsey.
“It was very clever, Bunter,” said Lord Peter, as the taxi trundled along on the way to his flat in Piccadilly. “If that fowl had gone on roasting a bit longer the blood–corpuscles might easily have been destroyed beyond all hope of recognition. It all goes to show that the unpremeditated crime is usually the safest.”
“And what does your lordship take the man's motive to have been?”
“In my youth,” said Wimsey meditatively, “they used to make me read the Bible. Trouble was, the only books I ever took to naturally were the ones they weren't over and above keen on. But I got to know the Song of Songs pretty well by heart. Look it up, Bunter; at your age it won't hurt you; it talks sense about jealousy.”
“I have perused the work in question, your lordship,” replied Mr. Bunter, with a sallow blush. “It says, if I remember rightly: `Jealousy is cruel as the grave.`” 135
Frances Lockridge
(1896–1963)
Frances Lockridge & Richard Lockridge
(1896-1963) & (1898–1982)
The husband–and–wife team of detecting duos is a particularly popular one, having reached its peak in the 1940's and 1950's. The prototype couple, Dashiell Hammett's Nick and Nora Charles, appeared in just one novel, The Thin Man (1934), and yet it so captured the public's imagination that it inspired a series of six Thin Man films starring William Powell and Myrna Loy (1936–1947). In 1940, another major couple arrived on the mystery scene: Frances and Richard Lockridge's Pam and Jerry North (The Norths Meet Murder), who were soon to rival the Charleses in popularity. Ironically, the pair first saw publication in a noncriminous book of amusing domestic sketches by Richard Lockridge, Mr. and Mrs. North (1936). Jerry, a publisher, and Pam, his intuitive and intrepid wife, lived and did the bulk of their crime–solving in New York City; more than a score of their adventures appeared between 1940 and 1963. The 1952–1953 television series Mr. and Mrs. North starring Richard Denning and Barbara Britton, earned the couple an even wider audience.
The Norths did not detect alone; they were often aided and abetted by such other characters as Bill Weigand and Sergeant Mullins of the New York Police Department. (In 1957 Weigand starred in a case of his own, The Tangled Cord.) It is characteristic of the Lockridges' work that individuals from one series appear in another, thus creating a highly realistic world of interlocking relationships. While their strength did not lie in plotting (Pam's intuitions are often far–fetched, and nearly every novel predictably ends with her being terrorized by the criminal and then saved by her husband), the Lockridges excelled at witty repartee, evocative description, and strong characterization. The Lockridges together, and Richard Lockridge alone after his wife's death in 1963, were extremely prolific writers who produced four series. While the Norths are their most enduring creations, their novels about Captain Inspector Merton Heimrich of the New YorkState Police are particularly good in terms of plotting and characterization. Heimrich first appeared in Think of Death (1947) as a single man, but as the series continued he matured and eventually married. His territory, PutnamCounty and the village of The Corners, are as much of a character in the sixteen–book series as Heimrich himself. Other series characters by the Lockridges are Nathan Shapiro, an NYPAID officer who works for Bill Weigand (Murder Can't Wait, 1964; The Old Die Young, 1980) and assistant New York City District Attorney Bernie Simmons (Squire of Death, 1965; Death on the Hour, 1974). In addition, Richard Lockridge wrote nonseries suspense novels, such as A Matter of Taste (1949) and Troubled Journey (1970).
In “Pattern for Murder,” the only Mr. and Mrs. North criminous short story, Pam attends a reunion of old schoolmates and is confronted by much more than mere memories. It has all the qualities of the duo's longer and more involved investigations.
PATTERN FOR MURDER
PAM AND JERRY NORTH
NEW YORK 1955
Fern Hartley came to New York to die, although that was far from her intention. She came from Centertown, in the Middle West, and died during a dinner party – given in her honor, at a reunion of schoolmates. She died at the bottom of a steep flight of stairs in a house on
West Twelfth Street
. She was a little woman and she wore a fluffy white dress. She stared at unexpected death through strangely bright blue eyes. ...
There had been nothing to foreshadow so tragic an ending to the party – nothing, at any rate, on which Pamela North, who was one of the schoolmates, could precisely put a finger. It was true that Pam, as the party progressed, had increasingly felt tenseness in herself; it was also true that, toward the end, Fern Hartley had seemed to behave somewhat oddly. But the tenseness, Pam told herself, was entirely her own fault, and as for Fern's behavior – well, Fern was a little odd. Nice, of course, but – trying. Pam had been tried.
She had sat for what seemed like hours with a responsive smile stiffening her lips and with no comparable response stirring in her mind. It was from that, surely, that the tenseness – the uneasiness – arose. Not from anything on which a finger could be put. It's my own fault, Pam North thought. This is a reunion, and I don't reunite. Not with Fern, anyway. It had been Fern on whom Pam had responsively smiled. Memories of old days, of schooldays, had fluttered from Fern's mind like pressed flowers from the yellowed pages of a treasured book. They had showered about Pam North, who had been Fern's classmate at SouthwestHigh School in Centertown. They had showered also about Hortense Notson and about Phyllis Pitt. Classmates, too, they had been those
years ago – they and, for example, a girl with red hair.
Detective Duos Page 19
