“Oh, yes,” she came forward, hand outstretched. “I was expecting that.”
“I rather thought you were.” His voice was very soft and suddenly menacing. He held the cardboard book box high over his head with one hand, and with the other released the flap which closed it. The soft gleam of metal appeared in the light from the transom, and a service revolver crashed heavily to the parquet floor.
For a long minute there was utter silence. Even Kenny was too thunderstruck to swear.
Miss Smith appeared frozen in mid–air, her hands clawing at the box.
Then, most dreadfully, she began to scream.
A little over an hour later Kenny sat on a Trafalgar chair in a room which seemed to quiver and shudder with terrible sound. He was pale and tired–looking. His shirt was torn and there were three livid nail scratches down his face.
“God,” he said, breathing hard. “God, can you beat that?”
Mr. Campion sat on the priceless table and scratched his ear.
“It was a bit more than I bargained for,” he murmured. “It didn't occur to me that she'd become violent. I'm afraid they may be having trouble in the van. Sorry, I ought to have thought of it.”
The C.I.D. man grunted. “Seems to me you thought of plenty,” he muttered. “It came as a shock to me – I don't mind admitting it since I can't very well help it. When did it come to you? From the start?”
“Oh, Lord, no.” Campion sounded apologetic. “It was that remark of Woodruff's you quoted about the sun going down. That's what set me on the train of thought. Weren't you ever warned as a kid, Kenny, and by an aunt perhaps, never to let the sun go down on your wrath?”
“I've heard it, of course. What do you mean? It was a sort of saying between them?”
“I wondered if it was. They knew each other well when he was a child, and they were both quick–tempered people. It seemed to me that he was reminding her that the sun had gone down, and he showed her he could have smashed her precious bowl if he had liked. It would have broken, you know, if he hadn't taken care it shouldn't. I wondered if, like many quick–tempered people, they got sorry just as quickly. Didn't you think it odd, Kenny, that directly after the row they should both have settled down to write letters?”
The detective stared at him.
“She wrote to her solicitor,” he began slowly. “And he – his ”
“Good Lord! You think he wrote to her to say he was sorry?”
“Almost certainly, but we shall never find his letter. That's in the kitchen stove by now. He came back to deliver it, pushed it through the door, and hurried off looking just as your plainclothesman said, as if he'd got something off his chest. Then he could sleep. The sun had not gone down on his wrath.”
He slid off the table and stood up. “The vital point is, of course, that Mrs. Cibber knew he would. She sat up waiting for it.”
Kenny sucked in his breath.
“And Miss Smith knew?”
“Of course, she knew. Mrs. Cibber hadn't the kind of temperament one can keep a secret. Miss Smith knew from the moment that Mrs. Cibber received the initial letter that the nephew would get his way in the end – unless she could stop it somehow! She was the one with the bee in her bonnet about the furniture. I realized that as soon as you said the whole house was kept like a bandbox. No woman with a weak heart can keep a three–story house like a palace, or compel another to do it – unless the other wants to. Miss Smith was the one with the mania. Who was to get the house if the nephew died in the war? Mrs. Cibber must have made some provision.”
Kenny rubbed his head with both hands. “I knew!” he exploded. “The lawyer's clerk told me this morning when I rang up to find out if Woodruff was the heir. I was so keen to confirm that point that I discounted the rest. If he died the companion was to have it for her lifetime.”
Campion looked relieved.
“I thought so. There you are, you see. She had to get rid of them both – Woodruff and his new wife. With a young and vigorous woman in the house there was a danger of the companion becoming – well redundant. Don't you think?”
Kenny was fingering his notebook.
“You think she'd planned it for a fortnight?”
“She'd thought of it for a fortnight. She didn't see how to do it until the row occurred last night. When she found the gun on the window sill, where young Mrs. Woodruff left it, and Mrs. Cibber told her that the boy would come back, the plan was obvious.” He shivered. “Do you realize that she must have been waiting, probably on the stairs, with the gun in her hand and the book box addressed to herself in the other, listening for Woodruff's letter to slide under the door? As soon as she heard it, she had to fly down and get it and open the door. Then she had to walk into the drawing room, shoot the old lady as she turned to see who it was, and put the gun in the book box. The instant she was certain Mrs. Cibber was dead, she then had to run out screaming to her place between the lamp post and the mail box and – post the package!”
Kenny put down his pencil and looked up.
“Now here,” he said with honest admiration, “there I hand it to you. How in the world did you get on to that?”
“You suggested it.”
“I did?” Kenny was pleased in spite of himself. “When?”
“When you kept asking me where one could hide a gun in a London street with no wide gratings and no sandbins. There was only the mail box. I guessed she'd posted it to herself – no one else would have been safe. Even the dead letter office eventually gives up its dead. That's why I was so keen to get her to the top of the house – as far away from the front door as possible.” He sighed. “The book box was misguided genius. The gun was an old Luger, did you notice? Loot. That's why he never had to turn it in. It just fitted in the box. She must have had a thrill when she discovered that.”
Kenny shook his head wonderingly. “Well, blow me down!” he said inelegantly, “Funny that I put you onto it!”
Mr. Campion was in bed that night when the telephone rang. It was Kenny again. “I say, Mr. Campion?”
“Yes?”
“Sorry to bother you at this time of night but there's something worrying me. You don't mind, do you?”
“Think nothing of it.”
“Well. Everything is all right. Smith had been certified by three medicos. The little girl is very happy comforting her boy, who seems to be upset about his aunt's death. The Commissioner is very pleased. But I can't get off to sleep. Mr. Campion, how did you know what time the afternoon
post is delivered in
Barraclough Road
?”
The lean man stifled a yawn.
“Because I went into the chemist's shop on the corner and asked,” he said. “Elementary, my dear Kenny.”
Patrick Quentin
pseudonym of
Hugh Wheeler (1912–1987)
Richard Wilson Webb (1901– were Peter and Iris Duluth were another husband–and–wife detecting duo of the 1930's and 1940's, but with a difference: Neither they nor the mysteries in which they became embroiled followed a consistently established pattern. While such teams as Mr. and Mrs. North and Jeff and Haila Troy seemed to lead mostly pleasant, trouble–free domestic lives, the Duluths were beset by all sorts of personal difficulties. In the first novel in the series, A Puzzle for Fools (1936), Peter – a former Broadway producer with a serious drinking problem checks himself into an expensive private sanatorium to dry out. The ensuing murder muddle has him doubting his own sanity. In Puzzle for Puppets (1944), Iris, a glamorous stage and film star, and Peter are blamed for the killing of a maker of life–size puppets and spend much of the novel squabbling with circus folk and each other while on the run from the police. The couple is also plagued by the specters of infidelity and divorce, though the phantoms are eventually vanquished. Their investigations are not confined to New York City, their home base; they also do their amateur sleuthing in Mexico City, San Francisco, Reno, and in the following story, the southern California beach t
own of La Jolla. Nor are the tones of the six “Puzzle” novels the same; some are light, others much darker, as befit their various plots. The only constants throughout the series are expert plotting, well–drawn characters, and polished prose.
“Puzzle for Poppy” was the first short story featuring the Duluths, originally published in Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine in early 1946. It is one of the lighter series entries, called by Ellery Queen “a delightfully wacky yarn” in which a huge fortune is left to a fat St. Bernard whose life is then imperiled by jealous human heirs. As Iris Duluth says, “Really, this shouldn't happen to a dog!”
Patrick Quentin was the joint pseudonym of Hugh Wheeler and Richard Wilson Webb, who also wrote as Q. Patrick, Quentin Patrick, and Jonathan Stagge. From 1936 to 1952 the pair produced numerous series mystery novels; these include four featuring Lieutenant Timothy Trant of the New York City police, the best of which is probably Death and the Maiden (1939), and nine Jonathan Stagges starring Dr. Hugh Westlake and his bratty daughter, Dawn, the most noteworthy being The Scarlet Circle (1943). Prior to 1936, Richard Webb wrote four collaborative Q. Patrick novels, two each with Mary Louise Aswell and Martha Mott Kelley. One of these, the Aswell–Webb thriller The Grindle Nightmare (1935), is a harrowing and memorable tale of child murder that caused considerable controversy when it was first published. From 1953 until 1965, Hugh Wheeler wrote seven solo nonseries mysteries under the Patrick Quentin name; they include The Man in the Net (1956),filmed with Alan Ladd in what many consider his worst acting role, and Family Skeletons (1965).
PUZZLE FOR POPPY
PETER AND IRIS DULUTH
LA JOLLA, CALIFORNIA 1946
“Yes, Miss Crump,” snapped Iris into the phone. “No, Miss Crump. Oh, nuts, Miss Crump.”
My wife flung down the receiver.
“Well?” I asked.
“She won't let us use the patio. It's that dog, that great fat St. Bernard. It mustn't be disturbed.”
“Why?”
“It has to be alone with its beautiful thoughts. It's going to become a mother. Peter, it's revolting. There must be something in the lease.”
“There isn't,” I said.
When I'd rented our half of this La Jolla hacienda for my shore leave, the lease specified that all rights to the enclosed patio belonged to our eccentric co–tenant. It oughtn't to have mattered, but it did because Iris had recently skyrocketed to fame as a movie star and it was impossible for us to appear on the streets without being mobbed. For the last couple of days we had been virtually beleaguered in our apartment. We were crazy about being beleaguered together, but even Héloise and Abelard needed a little fresh air once in a while.
That's why the patio was so important.
Iris was staring through the locked French windows at the forbidden delights of the patio. Suddenly she turned.
“Peter, I'll die if I don't get things into my lungs – ozone and things. We'll just have to go to the beach.”
“And be torn limb from limb by your public again?”
“I'm sorry, darling. I'm terribly sorry.” Iris unzippered herself from her housecoat and scrambled into slacks and a shirt–waist. She tossed me my naval hat. “Come, Lieutenant – to the slaughter.”
When we emerged on the street, we collided head on with a man carrying groceries into the house. As we disentangled ourselves from celery stalks, there was a click and a squeal of delight followed by a powerful whistle. I turned to see a small girl who had been lying in wait with a camera. She was an unsightly little girl with sandy pigtails and a brace on her teeth.
“Geeth,” she announced. “I can get two buckth for thith thnap from Barney Thtone. He'th thappy about you, Mith Duluth.”
Other children, materializing in response to her whistle, were galloping toward us. The grocery man came out of the house. Passers–by stopped, stared and closed in – a woman in scarlet slacks, two sailors, a flurry of bobby–soxers, a policeman.
“This,” said Iris grimly, “is the end.”
She escaped from her fans and marched back to the two front doors of our hacienda. She rang the buzzer on the door that wasn't ours. She rang persistently. At length there was the clatter of a chain sliding into place and the door opened wide enough to reveal the face of Miss Crump. It was a small, faded face with a most uncordial expression.
“Yes?” asked Miss Crump.
“We're the Duluths,” said Iris. “I just called you. I know about your dog, but ...”
“Not my dog,” corrected Miss Crump.
“Mrs. Wilberframe's dog. The late Mrs. Wilberframe of Glendale who has a nephew and a niece–in–law of whom I know a great deal in Ogden Bluffs, Utah. At least, they ought to be in Ogden Bluffs.”
This unnecessary information was flung at us like a challenge. Then Miss Crump's face flushed into sudden, dimpled pleasure.
“Duluth! Iris Duluth. You're the Iris Duluth of the movies?”
“Yes,” said Iris.
“Oh, why didn't you tell me over the phone? My favorite actress! How exciting! Poor thing – mobbed by your fans. Of course you may use the patio. I will give you the key to open your French windows. Any time.”
Miraculously the chain was off the door. It opened halfway and then stopped. Miss Crump was staring at me with a return of suspicion.
“You are Miss Duluth's husband?”
“Mrs. Duluth's husband,” I corrected her. “Lieutenant Duluth.”
She still peered. “I mean, you have proof?”
I was beyond being surprised by Miss Crump. I fumbled from my wallet a dog–eared snapshot of Iris and me in full wedding regalia outside the church. Miss Crump studied it carefully and then returned it.
“You must please excuse me. What a sweet bride! It's just that I can't be too careful – for Poppy.”
“Poppy?” queried Iris. “The St. Bernard?”
Miss Crump nodded. “It is Poppy's house, you see. Poppy pays the rent.”
“The dog,” said Iris faintly, “pays the rent?”
“Yes, my dear. Poppy is very well–to–do. She is hardly more than a puppy, but she is one of the richest dogs, I suppose, in the whole world.”
Although we entertained grave doubts as to Miss Crump's sanity, we were soon in swimming suits and stepping through our open French windows into the sunshine of the patio. Miss Crump introduced us to Poppy. In spite of our former prejudices, Poppy disarmed us immediately. She was just a big, bouncing, natural girl unspoiled by wealth. She greeted us with great thumps of her tail. She leaped up at Iris, dabbing at her cheek with a long, pink tongue. Later, when we had settled on striped mattresses under orange trees, she curled into a big clumsy ball at my side and laid her vast muzzle on my stomach.
“Look, she likes you.” Miss Crump was glowing. “Oh, I knew she would!”
Iris, luxuriating in the sunshine, asked the polite question. “Tell us about Poppy. How did she make her money?”
“Oh, she did not make it. She inherited it.” Miss Crump sat down on a white iron chair. “Mrs. Wilberframe was a very wealthy woman. She was devoted to Poppy.”
“And left her all her money?” I asked.
“Not quite all. There was a little nest egg for me. I was her companion, you see, for many years. But I am to look after Poppy. That is why I received the nest egg. Poppy pays me a generous salary too.” She fingered nondescript beads at her throat. “Mrs. Wilberframe was anxious for Poppy to have only the best and I am sure I try to do the right thing. Poppy has the master bedroom, of course. I take the little one in front. And then, if Poppy has steak for dinner, I have hamburger.” She stared intensely, “I would not have an easy moment if I felt that Poppy did not get the best.”
Poppy, her head on my stomach, coughed. She banged her tail against the flagainstones apologetically.
Iris reached across me to pat her. “Has she been rich for long?”
“Oh, no, Mrs. Wilberframe passed on only a few weeks ago.” Miss Crump paused. “And it has been a gre
at responsibility for me.” She paused again and then blurted: “You're my friends, aren't you? Oh, I am sure you are. Please, please, won't you help me? I am all alone and I am so frightened.”
“Frightened?” I looked up and, sure enough, her little bird face was peaked with fear.
“For Poppy.” Miss Crump leaned forward. “Oh, Lieutenant, it is like a nightmare. Because I know. I just know they are trying to murder her!”
“They?” Iris sat up straight.
“Mrs. Wilberframe's nephew and his wife. From Ogden Bluffs, Utah.”
Detective Duos Page 30
