by Craig Rice
“Malone, why did the little dude in the summerhouse say he was the motive?”
“Why indeed?” said Malone mildly.
“ ‘I’m the motive,’ he said, and then he laughed. What did he mean, Malone? He knew something about Holly. That was it.”
Malone took it up from there. “He knew something about Holly. Something that would queer her with her Aunt Alex. She was afraid to tackle him, but she thought she could get away with wiping out the old lady. No, it doesn’t work that way either. Because she knew she was going to be queered, and permanently, as soon as the news of her marriage was made public.”
“Maybe he knew something about Glen,” Jake suggested. “Glen and Maybelle Parkins.”
“No,” Malone said, “because the old dame knew about that anyway.”
“He said he was the guy who opened the window. Where was Holly while he was opening the window? Why did he open the window?”
“Maybe he wanted fresh air.”
“Maybe he wanted to lean out and catch birds,” said Jake in disgust. “Hell, I’m going to get myself shaved and cleaned up, if I can borrow Butch’s razor. This kind of life is wearing me down.”
Helene returned a little before ten, regal and spectacular in a deep green suit, with immense bands of thick brown fur, and a wide green hat that formed a frame around her pale face.
“Have you the dough?”
She showed them an envelope with ten crisp hundred-dollar bills. “The cashier at the bank believes I’m being blackmailed.”
They decided that Malone should accompany them to the fringe of trees that hedged in the old summerhouse and wait there, out of sight. If anything went wrong, they would signal to him from the window.
Jake and Helene walked on in silence. Snow had been falling in little flurries since early morning; now it was coming down in earnest, settling heavily on the leafless branches and dark bushes. She took his arm and held it, very tight.
“Scared?”
She shook her head. “Excited. Jake, what do you think he’ll tell us?”
“Everything, I hope.”
“Half an hour from now we’ll know what happened, and why.”
“And then,” Jake said, “and then—”
She pressed his hand.
They rapped lightly on the summerhouse door and waited. There was no answer. They rapped again, louder.
“Think he’s run out on us?” Helene whispered.
“I don’t know.” He tried the door, it was unlocked. He pushed it open, slowly.
“No one here.”
“Maybe we’re early,” Jake said.
Helene stood looking around her. “Everything looks just the way it did last night.”
“How the hell else did you expect it to look?”
“I mean, it looks as if he’s still living here.”
“Wait,” Jake said, “I’m going to look around a little.”
He pushed open the door that led into a little kitchen, looked around, came back shaking his head, and went into the long room that fronted on the lake. He was gone for only an instant, and when he returned he walked to the open door of the summerhouse and bawled loudly for Malone.
The little lawyer came puffing through the snow.
“What have you found, Jake?”
“Come in here—yes, both of you.”
They followed him into a bare, unfurnished room.
There on the floor, among the dust and the cobwebs, lay the body of the little dude.
Malone knelt beside the body, examined it hastily. “Dead for hours.”
“How?” Jake asked.
“Stabbed. And—yes, by God—there are three wounds. Three.”
They were silent for a moment.
“Look,” said Helene in a curiously flat voice. “Look, Malone. Has he a watch?”
“Yes,” Malone told her after a pause. “A wrist watch.” He rolled up the dead man’s cuff.
They bent over his shoulder to look, knowing, and yet not daring to believe, what they would see.
The dead man’s watch had stopped.
Its hands pointed to three o’clock.
Chapter 24
Helene’s face was very pale, but her voice was steady. “Who did it, Malone? Same guy that did in Aunt Alex?”
“Same guy,” said Malone, “or somebody trying to make it look like the same guy.” He looked up at them. “This affair seems to go by threes. Three wounds in each corpse. The clocks stopped at three. Maybe we’d better move fast.”
“Why?”
“Before there’s three murders.”
“Move fast,” Jake said, “when we’re right back where we started. This poor little guy isn’t going to tell us a thing.”
“Maybe he is,” Malone said.
He began a slow and systematic inspection. Wrapping a handkerchief around his fingers he examined the knife. It was an ordinary kitchen knife.
“Buy one at any hardware store,” Malone said.
He searched the dead man’s pockets. There was a package of papers; he flipped through them and struck them in his own pocket.
“We’ll look these over later.”
Then he came to the wallet. It was a new wallet, brand new. In it was a fat sheaf of bills.
Malone counted them. “Three hundred and fifty six dollars,” he reported.
“You know,” Jake said, “I notice something. All that guy’s clothes are new. Not just his suit and his overcoat and his shoes, but everything. Hat, shirt, ties, socks—probably his underwear too. Now that’s funny. A guy usually doesn’t buy all new clothes at one time.”
“Disguising himself,” Helene suggested.
“Much simpler than that,” said Malone; “he’d just come into money.”
“Selling his information to somebody else?” Jake asked.
“Much more likely that he’s been blackmailing somebody.”
“Who?”
“Probably whoever murdered Alexandria Inglehart,” Malone said. He finished searching the body, looked at it speculatively for a moment, then began systematically removing every mark of identification.
“What are you doing that for?”
“No real reason. Just giving the local cops something to do in their spare time.”
Finally he searched the little summerhouse, found nothing of importance, and indicated that he was ready to go.
“Did either of you touch anything in here?”
They shook their heads.
“Just as well. Someone may have told Blake County about fingerprints.”
They went out into the snow.
“But look here,” Helene said, “look here. What are we going to do about that guy? We can’t just leave him there.”
“We aren’t going to.”
“Are you going to tell the police?”
“No. But Parkins is.”
“Parkins?” she repeated stupidly.
Malone nodded silently. Helene turned helplessly to Jake.
“There’s no use talking to him when he’s like this,” Jake said.
She sighed. “I think we’d better go back to the garage and have a drink,” she said.
“I think you’re right,” Malone said.
Dick turned very white at the news they had for him. “Then you aren’t going to learn anything from him.”
“No,” Jake said, “but we’ve learned one thing that ought to make you feel better. This proves conclusively that Holly didn’t murder her aunt.”
“It doesn’t prove a damned thing,” Malone said indignantly.
“She couldn’t possibly have committed this murder,” Jake said. “And this man was killed by the same person who murdered the old woman.”
“Or, as I said, someone who wanted to make it look like the same person,” Malone said.
“Still, it makes sense. This little dude knew who had done the original crime. He was blackmailing the murderer. He was rubbed out in just the same way. That’s proof enough for me.”
> “As far as I’m concerned,” Dick said, “I don’t need any proof that Holly is innocent.”
“But you aren’t Blake County,” Malone said.
Jake muttered an impolite inquiry regarding Malone’s parentage.
Malone ignored him. “There’s someone,” he said after a pause, “someone who lured Glen and the Parkinses out of the house by a phony call from Holly, got Holly out of the house in a way that she doesn’t remember, stabbed Alexandria Inglehart, knocked Dick on the head just as the little dude was going to tell him a few things, and finally stabbed the little dude last night. And that someone is still running around loose, and we still don’t know who it is.”
“And things go by three,” Helene said, “and we’ve had two murders already.”
Malone nodded. It’s this way,” he said slowly. “Either it’s you, Helene, or Glen, or Holly, or one of the three Parkinses. Or else it’s someone we know nothing about.”
“I wish I knew what it was I thought of, but I’ve forgotten it,” said Jake sorrowfully.
“What are you mumbling about?”
“I thought of something. Night before last. Something important. And I haven’t been able to think of it since.”
“He had an idea,” said Helene, “but it went from him.”
They looked at him anxiously.
“Were you drunk or sober when you thought of it?” Malone asked.
“Drunk,” said lake.
There was a half bottle of rye on the table. He eyed it speculatively for a moment, uncapped it, picked up a glass, discarded it, and lifted the bottle to his lips.
Helene counted softly under her breath.
“Thirty seconds by the clock!”
He stared at her.
“By God,” said Jake, “by God, I do remember!” He wiped his chin.
A light broke over her face. “Wait. So do I. You muttered something about clocks.”
“That’s it!” He turned to Malone, his eyes flickering with excitement. “What stopped all those damned clocks?”
The lawyer looked at him stupidly.
“The clocks,” Jake repeated. “You know. Tick-tock, tick-tock. All of the clocks—stopped at three. You know what I’m talking about, damn you. The clocks.”
“Of course I know what you’re talking about.”
‘‘What made them stop? What made them stop all at once like that?”
The silence could almost be felt, like a cold wind in the room.
“I don’t know,” said Malone after a while.
“Clocks don’t just stop of their own accord,” Jake said.
“But these did.”
“Why? Malone, that’s something we’ve got to find out. It’s the most important thing. It’s the key to something. Perhaps the key to everything. We’ve got to find out what made all those clocks stop, every clock in the house, simultaneously, at three.”
“If we ever can find out,” said Malone slowly. “I mean, if it’s within the human power of finding out.”
“I don’t like the tone of your voice,” Helene said with a little shudder.
“There’s some things that can’t be explained,” Malone said.
“But surely,” Jake began, and stopped. “But surely!” again. “You don’t believe—I mean you, an educated man, certainly can’t think—well damn it all, Malone, you can’t ask us to believe any infernal nonsense like that.”
“It may be nonsense,” Malone told him, “but it sure as hell would be infernal.”
“Oh, no,” Helene said. Her face was pale. “Malone, it can’t be. Things like that simply aren’t.”
“All right. You explain it.”
“Thanks,” she answered, “I’d rather not. Clocks don’t stop all over a house when an old woman is murdered. Even if it’s true, I don’t believe it.”
“The grandfather’s clock—” Dick began, and stopped.
“What about the grandfather’s clock?” Jake asked.
“I was thinking of the song.”
“The man’s delirious,” Helene murmured.
“I am not delirious,” Dick said irritably. “I said I was thinking of the song, and I am. Grandfather’s clock.” He hummed a moment, suddenly sang, “But it stopped—short—never to go again—when the old man died.”
“That’s what I meant,” Malone said. “That’s it. There is a superstition about clocks stopping when someone dies.”
“And you believe it?” Jake asked incredulously.
“I didn’t say I believed it,” Malone said crossly. “I believe that there is such a superstition and that someone tried to take advantage of it.”
“What do you mean?” Helene asked. “Do you know what stopped the clocks?”
“Not yet,” Malone said, “not yet, I don’t. But,” he added grimly, “I’m sure as hell going to find out!”
Chapter 25
Parkins, looking haggard and pale, informed them that Glen had gone into town.
“That’s all right,” Malone said, “we just want to go over the house.”
“Of course, sir. If I can be of any help—”
“We’ll call you.”
They climbed the stairs to Holly’s room. It had been left just as it had been found the night of the murder. The narrow bed with its soft, peach-colored cover was smooth and neat. They searched the room, found nothing of interest, examined the closet, a dark, narrow slot of a room with an overhead bar for coat hangers. Nothing there. Nothing of meaning in the whole room save that smooth, unrumpled bed and the little onyx clock on the table.
Malone looked speculatively at the clock, slipped it into his pocket.
“Where did she go from here?”
“Glen’s room,” said Helene, “down the hall.”
They went down the hall to a neat, bare room where a silver-framed photograph of Helene occupied the central position on the dresser. Helene reflectively drew a small trim beard and mustache on the picture glass with her eyebrow pencil.
There was nothing of interest in Glen’s room either. Save the clock, the sturdy little leather clock. It had not been touched since that night, its luminous hands still pointed to three. Malone tucked it in his pocket and they filed silently out.
There was the clock in the hall, the old mahogany wall clock, standing just as it had stood when Holly looked at it. Malone examined it carefully.
“I hope he doesn’t try to slip that in his pocket,” Jake muttered. “Is the man a clocktomaniac?”
They trailed along the hall, up the narrow back stairs to the Parkins’ room. There was one more clock, the cheap alarm clock, the alarm clock that hadn’t rung. Malone hung its ring over the end of his finger and sauntered out.
There was a little enameled clock on a table in the hall.
“My God,” Jake exploded, “the place is alive with clocks.”
“Alive with dead clocks,” Helene said.
They paused for a moment at the door of the room that had been Miss Alexandria Inglehart’s.
The room was very still. Nothing stirred there, nothing was alive. Not even the gold clock in the bell glass, standing there on the greenish marble mantel, with its tiny wheel that stood so motionless, its fragile, filigree hands pointing to three.
The little French clock had ticked away the hours of Alexandria Inglehart’s life, hour and day and week and year. Then someone had plunged a knife three times into Alexandria Inglehart’s withered old bosom, and the clock had stopped, suddenly, dead still. At three o’clock.
And all the other clocks in the house.
“Let’s go downstairs,” Malone said in a strangely flat voice.
He led the way to the library, where they laid the clocks in a neat row on the table.
“I want one more. The electric clock.” Malone looked around. It stood on a table against the wall, its hands still pointing to three. He walked over and examined it.
“Jake, come look at this.”
“What?”
“See?” He point
ed to the wall plug. “It’s still hitched up. But it isn’t going. And the other electric fixtures seem to be going all right.”
“Judas!” said Jake, “that is crazy as hell. Because I know that make of clock. When they’re plugged in, practically nothing can stop them. But that clock is plugged in all right, and it’s stopped dead.”
Malone muttered something unintelligible, yanked the plug from its socket and added the polished-wood electric clock to his collection.
Then he settled down to a slow and painstaking examination.
First he looked at Holly’s little onyx clock, shook it, and made experimental motions among the keys at its back. Then with a satisfied grunt he laid it down and went on to the next clock.
Jake and Helene watched with silent impatience.
At last he had finished with all but the electric clock. He examined it with unusual care, ran his fingers back and forth on the length of electric wire, finally began loosening the screws of the wall plug.
“Jake,” he began slowly, “what happens when you wind a clock too tight?”
“It stops,” Jake said promptly, “and you have to take it to the repair shop to get it started again.”
“Exactly,” the lawyer murmured, still fiddling with the wall plug.
Jake picked up one of the clocks and tried to twist the winding key. It was stuck fast. He tried another, it was the same.
“What the hell?”
“Look at this,” Malone said. He held out the plug.
“It’s disconnected—inside the plug—where it wouldn’t show.”
Malone nodded. “I don’t know yet how the other clocks were stopped—that gilt contraption upstairs, or the hall clock—but I’ve no doubt that I’d make the same discovery—some little thing that would effectively stop a clock—as simple and as effective as winding these clocks too tight, or breaking the connection in a wall plug.”
He tossed the plug carelessly on the table. “No, it wasn’t any supernatural power that stopped all the clocks or the wrist watch on that poor little guy.”
“Someone stopped them,” Helene said. “On purpose. Deliberately. But who?”
“Probably the person who murdered Alexandria Inglehart.”
