like me, either, who had been drunk and with another woman, when he had a wife and child. And Christy,^ who could have told them I had one pin, Christy was dead."
"I see," said Johnny. He thought he saw. This man was crazy. The story had no k)gic. "Where does Dick Bartee come into it?"
"He was supposed to be locked up for the night in that mihtary school. But he could get out. I'd seen him in the Baitee kitchen getting food after many a midnight." Johnny lifted an eyebrow.
"The safe wasn't forced, Mr. Sims. It was opened by someone who knew how. One of the family." Johnny just waited.
"Christy wouldn't have quarreled with a stranger or a burglar. She'd have screamed. So Christy knew whoever it was she found in there, by the open safe." Johnny conceded a thoughtful nod.
"But Cluisty wouldn't have quarreled with Nathaniel, who was fort>'-one years old and the Crown Prince in that house. No more than she would have quarreled with the old man himself. But she certainly would have questioned fifteen-year-old Dick Bartee if she'd found him in his grandfather's stud^ at midnight and the safe open. She'd' have threatened to call out.. He was rough and tough, that kid. He'd have hit her. I've thought about it all so long," said McCauley, "I can't tell you the feel—the fitting down—the choking in."
"And how did Nathaniel get the pin?" snapped Johimy. "Christy^'s pin?" said McCauley. "Dick gave it to him." Johnny found himself shaking his head. "What is this alibi?" he asked, turning to something else for kindness' sake. "Yes. Well the school—that's tlie Brownleaf School—says nobody leaves after lights out. Dick's roommate was a boy named George Rush, who said Dick was there. Edith-Emily tried to talk to him years ago, but he was just a kid and scared and she couldn't approach him in any way that would get him to tell her the truth."
"He lives in Oakland now," said the chaplain, "He has a radio-TV repair shop. If you could get this George Rush to say, without fear or pressure, whether Dick Bartee was really there in his room at the school that night . . ."
"I don't see how any roommate could guarantee . . .'' Johnny felt sorry for both these men.
"He might," said the chaplain. "He might be able to convince us. It's worth trying. If he could, it would settle everything."
"If you can't find him," said McCauley anxiously, "ask Mr. Charles Copeland."
"Copeland, the lawyer? Nan's boss, you mean?"
"Yes. Yes. He knows. He was my sister's lawyer, and he was the go-between. He'll know where Kate is, too. Kate CaUahan—if you wanted to talk to her."
"Go-between whom?" asked Johrmy.
"Between Edith-Emily and the Bartees. He took care of the money."
"What money?"
"The money old man Bartee sent every year for the baby," McCauley said. "The old man insisted when he and Emily made the agreement. He felt responsible, I suppose."
"You mean old Bartee supported Emily?"
"No, no," said McCauley. "Emily never touched it."
''Then where is it now?"
''It's a fund," the prisoner said.
''A fund! For seventeen years!"
"1 think it was five thousand dollars every year," McCauley said. "It belongs to my daughter."
"But ..." Johnny got up. "Look," he said with a bursting feehng. "Emily is gone. What happens about that money? Won't Nan have to know now?"
"Oh, my sister had that all arranged," McCauley said. "Nobody will know where it really came from."
"I went to see Geroge Rush myself, five years ago." said Father Klein, "but he wouldn't talk at all. I approached him directly and it didn't work. I'm afraid I have no guile."
"Too right," muttered Johnny Sims. "No guile." He stared at them.
Then he said abruptly, "111 see what I can do. I'll be in touch. I can call you on the phone. Father Klein?"
Johnny went away.
Five thousand a year for seventeen years, funded, perhaps invested, at least compounded! For heaven's sake, couldn't they see! When Dick Bartee met Nan Padgett and rushed her off her feet tvhUe Emily was out of the way
it might not have been a coincidence at all. It might have been a plan.
Johnny felt very grim and shaken. Lawyer Copeland ought to be shot. Copeland knew. But Copeland had introduced them. Was Copeland in on this?
On what?
CHAPTER 6
JoHisTNY PULLED UP in front of the building where the girls lived, just as another car pulled up ahead of him. Dorothy, then Nan, and finally a big blond man got out. Dorothy saw him first and hurried toward him.
Johnny saw her face and quickly put both arms around her. "Been to see about the funeral," she said miserably against his coat-
"Dick," Nan said, "this is Johnny Sims." Her face was solemn and strained.
Johnny did not shake the blond man's hand because he was holding Dorothy. "Glad to meet you," Johnny said, "although not under these circurhstances. Where's "Ma?"
"Upstairs," murmured Dorothy. "She's been wonder . . .''
Nan broke in. "Jolmny, will you please tell us something?"
Johnny marveled that Nan took the lead. It was usually Dorothy. He braced himself. He knew what was coming.
It crossed his mind that Dick Bartee could have inspired this attacking question. But Bartee was just waiting, just hstening. He was good looking, all right, a man with a stiong animal ptesence. His gray eyes watched, neither warm nor cold.
"The hospital says Aunt Emily called for you last night." Nan's brown eyes were cold. "Why haven't you told us?"
Johnny's arms tightened around Dorothy as his heart jumped. "I was ashamed to tell you," he said flatly, "because I'm sorry—I never did make it."
'DidTi't make iti You mean you didn't go when she asked!" Nan flared.
"I haven't got an excuse, Nan. I am just ashamed," Johnny said. "Only that the doctor and the nurse seemed to think she needed a night of quiet and I guessed this morning would do."
Nan's chin hfted. "I thought you were so fond of Emily." She looked away from him. She started towards the door.
Dorothy was also drawing away from him. He looked down. "I sure wish I had gone," he murmured. Dorothy gave him a troubled, searching look. Then she followed Nan.
Johnny stood beside Dick Bartee. He was out to discover whether this blond man, now looking at him speculatively with those gray eyes, was or was not a wrong one, phony, murderer. Johnny couldn't handicap himself before he started by announcing what he was up to. (Also, he had promised.)
Johrmy said, "What do you make of Emily's reaction to your name?" He made himself look with very blunt curiosity into those eyes.
Bartee smiled. His carved lips drew back from perfect teeth. "Misunderstanding is my guess," he said. "Over a transcontinental telephone, what else can you expect? I don't suppose we'll ever know what she thought Nan had said."
"Too bad," said Johimy Sims. "So you can't imagine what it might be, eh?"
Dick Bartee said easily, "Now see here. I've knocked around the world a bit and you know as well as I do evert/thing I ve done wouldn't necessarily dehght a maiden aunt. There is, just the same, no reason I know why Nan shouldn't marry me." His gaze was perfectly open and direct.
"That's good," said Johnny glumly.
"I never heard of a woman named Emily Padgett," said Bartee, "until I met Nan, of course."
Johimy realized with a tiny shock that if the man was innocent this could be true. I changed all the names—I had to, Emily had said. Johnny turned for the door.
Bartee said, "I never met her. I'm afraid I can't be altogether sorry she's left Nan and me alone in the world together. There's a confession for you."
He clapped Johnny on the back and then he followed Johnny up the stairs.
Johnny went up, seething. Either the man was innocent and super-honest. Or he was bold. He was very bold.
Upstairs Johnny's mother had everything under control. Food was at hand for the condolers who were coming and going. At least four of these were Dorothy's young men. Nan was in the big back room and Bart
ee went to her. Something about the way she stood then, with the big blond man behind her, where Johnny had so often stood himself, made him feel angry.
In a little while he ambled through the dining room into the kitchen. "Ma, I'm leaving. You O.K.?"
His mother said, "Go about your business, do," She looked sharp. "You were bom with brains, John Sims. Remember?"
"And thanky ma'am," said Johnny. "I try to use them." He knew he'd just been scolded for evasion or, to put it bluntly, lying about having been to see Emily. He couldn't help it.
He went back through the little pantry and there was Dorothy fiercely spreading crackers. Something about the bend of her fair neck made a sudden lump come into Jolmny's throat. "Ah, Dotty," he said, "couldn't you rest?" ^ "No," she s^d belligerently. "I'd rather do something.' "Me too," said Johnny sadly. He wasn't happy with his secret, that alienated him here. "You don't need me, I guess," he said gloomily.
"Nan's all right," she replied distantly. Johrmy went through to the big back room. Nan said, "Wait, we'll come to the door. I want to say something . , ."
So Nan, with Dick Bartee at her back, stood in the little hall and said, "I'm sorry if I sounded too cross dowoistairs, Johnny. Dick says I did."
Johrmy's eyes flicked up to the big man's face. "I only said you undoubtedly felt pretty terrible about not going when Emily called. No use to hit a man when he's down." The big man was smiUng.
'"That's right," stammered Johnny. "I do ... I do feel
pretty terrible." He slid out of the door, got away awkwardly.
"So that's your old boy friend," said Dick Bartee. In the
Httle passageway he put his arms around Nan from behind.
There was a mirror and he looked at her in it. "He never did shake my hand. Notice that?"
"Maybe it is hard for Johnny," Nan said.
"Lost you," he murmured. "Poor guy. It's not easy. Come home to Hestia with me, love? After Monday? On Monday?"
"Oh, I couldn't . . ."
"Yes, you could," he said sofdy. "You could, love." He watched her face in the mirror, saw the sadness changing to the dream.
"Perhaps I could," Nan said. "I've only got you, really. Except Dorothy."
"And I've got you," he murmured. "Let Johnny watch over Dorothy."
Dorothy, bringing a tray of crackers, came by. She heard her cousin Nan saying, "But he never did date Dorothy, you know. Johnny was mine." Dorothy turned around and went back into the kitchen.
"What is it?" said Johnny's mother sharply.
"It just—kind of hit me," said Dorothy thoughtfully. "Nothing is the way it used to be."
There was a George Rush in the Oakland book with two numbers listed, one a radio-TV Repair Shop, the other a residence. Johnny found the shop closed. He drove to the other address. This turned out to be shabby frame house which looked deserted.
The neighbor leaned over his fence. "Looking for Rush? He's gone down to the tavern. Two blocks east."
"Thanks."
"His TV's on the blink. Hee hee. Too lazy to fix his own, I guess. He's gone to catch the ball game. Hee hee."
Johnny perceived that he owed this helpful interference to the humor of it.
Johnny went into the tavern. Fortunately it was still so early in the afternoon that the bar, where the TV hung high, was nearly empty. Johnny had no trouble guessing, by age, which was his man. He took the bar stool next-but-one to the only thirty-ish looking customer.
Johnny intended to use guile. He began to watch the ball game, making sounds from time to time, until the other man through the back of his neck, seemed to accept him for a fellow fan.
"See that!" said Johnny, playing a deep finesse. "Same exact thing happened in a game we played way back in military schoool. St. Olaf's versus Brownleaf."
"St. Olaf's?" The man tmned his head so that for the first time Johnny had a good look at his profile. "That's right. We used to play you."
"Yoti did?"
"Brownleaf."
"Oh, for . . I When were you there?''
"Thirty-nine—forty-two."
"You were ahead of me," said Johimy, "but we lap. Forty— forty-four." (This was a lie.) "You ever know a Dick Bartee at Brownleaf?"
"Did I know him? I only roomed with him."
"Well, smaa-11 world."
They shook hands. Johimy said this called for a drink and he called for one.
"Where'd you run into Dick?" asked the man, who must surely be George Rush. His eyes were red-lined. His face was pale and morose.
"I wish I'd never" said Johimy, with a sudden change of manner.
Rush laughad. "A ring-tailed doozer, that one." He s65med' pleased.
Johnny had his line now. "Listen, if you are a good friend of his, let's drop the subject right now," he said gloomily.
George Rush turned all the way around on his stool (since the game to all intents and piirposes was-over). "We better have another one." The man's red-rimmed eyes half closed. "What did Baitee do to you, stranger?"
"Double-crossing rat," said Johnny. "Got my girl behind my back." It was easy to sound convincing.
"Standard Bartee procedure," said Rush promptly. "Gets away wdth murder, that Baitee. Always did."
Johnny found himself holding his breath.
"Somebody else's girl, that interests him. He was always that way," Rush went on. "You make a kind of rule, Bartee's got to break it or get around it. So he proves something to himself. I dunno." He ran down.
"You know where he is now?" Johnny said bitterly.
"Nope."
"Ill tell you. He's messing around with the vineyard."
''Oh ho! Say, I read that the old man is dead. Well, believe me, Dick will freeze out the whole rest of the family and I don't care who they are. Look at that guy. End up with a million dollar property probably. It'll fall in his lap.
"Probably. Say, remember the murder?"
"What mmder?"
"In the Bartee family? Dick was at Brownleaf then."
"Yeah."
"Somebody got into the safe?"
"Yeah." Rush was closing up.
But Johnny went on. "I'll bet you up to five bucks it was Dick Bartee who got into the family safe that night."
"You knew him that long ago?" said Rush suspiciously.
"I was bom knowing him," said Johnny with gloom. "My mother was a friend of his mother. One of those damn things. The little kiddies should be pals."
Rush laughed. In a moment he asked curiously, "What makes you think Dick opened the safe?"
"I can't prove anything,'' said Johimy challengingly.
Rush turned his glass. "He knew how to get in. That I know," he said with pleasure.
"It figures," Johnny drained his glass. He ordered more. Rush volunteered nothing. "I sure wish I could fix his wagon," Johnny said viciously.
"Don't kid yourself," said Rush bitterly. "Some people are like that. Get away with murder, all their lives."
"You said that before," Johnny looked up—drunkenly, he hoped.
y.K. I said it before."
"You mean . . . murder?"
"Do I?" Rush was smiling a rather nasty smile.
"We had a way of getting out of the school at night," Johnny said in a moment. "And nobody wiser. You probably did too."
"Could be," Rush admitted.
"You think he could have killed that woman?" demanded Johnny.
"What woman?" Rush stalled.
"In the Bartee house."
"If Dick had been there," said George Rush owlishly, "and she crossed him. This is a strictly unsentimental character. Wouldn't bother him, if he had, I'll tell you that." The
man shifted on the bar stool. "I'm just talking. Actually, they got the one who did it."
"Was Bartee out?" said Johnny xurgently.
Rush didn't answar.
"You still afraid you'll be expelled?" sneered Johnny.
Rush said, "For all I know, he was in his bed, like the Colonel said." He raised his glass.
"For all you know," Johnny pounced. "You can't swear ... ?"
"I'm swearing to nothing," said George Rush irritably, "and why don't you give up? Face it, this Bartee, he's got what it takes and poor slobs like you and me, we just haven't got what he's got. Just kiss her good-bye."
Johnny looked at the weak bitter face and wondered. He couldn't help remembering the big blond man smiling, saying the decent thing.
"How old was he? Fifteen? What would he do if he went out? Date? What girls did he know?"
"Try the phone book," said Rush. ''He was six feet already, and big. He dated. He had a car. His father Hed for him. You know that? The school didn't know about his car. That's what I mean, how he always got away with stuff. Catch my old man lying for me."
"Did you lie for him?" Johnny said. -' • '"
George Rush sHd off the stod. '^ope." he said. He swayed a httle. "I Hed for myself," he said. "My old man would have skinned me alive if I'd have been expelled."
Johimy said, "You were out that nightl Wait . , . Listen ..."
"I don't know you," Rush said. "But Dick Bartee, I know. So don't dream, brother." He leaned closer and his breath was bad. "If I could have proved he was out that night, his trouble might have been worth my trouble. See?" He showed his teeth. "Give up—that's my advice." He hiccupped. He went away.
Johimy sat in the bar a while longer. There was something wrong with Bartee's alibi? Or was there? This George Rush was mahcious, envious, about as untrustworthy a witness as Johnny could imagine. One thing he'd said Johnny believed. If Rush could have made trouble for Dick Bartee—seventeen years ago or now—he would have enjoyed it.
CHAPTER 7
Monday, just after noon, they buried Emily Padgett.
After the ceremonies, Johnny followed Charles Copeland out to the curb. The lawyer was putting a slim blonde, sun-tarmed woman into a car. She was rolling her eyes, seeming distressed, saying, "Please, Charles, don't be late tonight. Please?"
"I must go to the oflBce,'' he told her. "Have a good lunch. Forget it."
Johnny said, as he turned, "May I come back to yoiu: oflBce, sir?"
"You're John Sims, aren't you? Sad about Emily. Funerals upset my wife."
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