by Craig Rice
“Any idea who might have damaged it?”
“None whatever, Mr. Malone.” There was a sudden puzzled look in Parkins’ mild gray eyes. “If I may ask, sir—”
The lawyer pounced on him suddenly. “You were on your way to the summerhouse when Mr. Justus stopped you last night?”
“Yes, sir. But after I—” Parkins stopped suddenly.
“It’s all right, Parkins,” Malone said soothingly. “You admitted it with the first words you spoke to me.” He pounced again, looking straight at the little man. “Tell me the truth, Parkins. Who is he?”
Parkins hesitated a moment, gulped, and was irretrievably lost. “The father of Miss Holly and Mr. Glen, sir. That’s who he is. Miss Holly and Mr. Glen’s father.”
Chapter 27
“His name is Lewis Miller,” Parkins said. “I don’t know where he comes from, but he’s an actor. Not a very good one, I’d imagine.”
“And he’s the father of Glen and Holly?”
“Yes, sir.”
“How do you know?”
“He told me so, sir.”
“He could have been lying to you, you know,” Malone said.
“Yes, Mr. Malone. I thought of that. But I know that he wasn’t. Because he showed me letters Miss Alexandria wrote him at the time the twins were born.”
Jake tried to make his mind stop whirling in dizzy circles. Where did the father of Holly and Glen fit into the insane picture?
“How long has he been living in the old summerhouse, Parkins?”
“Oh, several days, sir.” He took a long breath and plunged into the whole story. “It was the day after the murder, sir. I was that upset about it, Mr. Malone, as you can well imagine. And it did seem to me, sir, though goodness only knows I wasn’t the one to be saying so, that they were making a most terrible mistake in taking Miss Holly away to the jail. But you see, sir, it was either Miss Holly or Mr. Glen.”
“Glen?” said Malone casually.
Parkins was suddenly silent and miserable.
“It’s all right,” Malone told him, “we know about Glen and your daughter Maybelle.”
Parkins sniffed. “It was none of Mr. Glen’s fault, sir. But Miss Alexandria always kept him cooped up here pretty close, and Maybelle, sir, for all she’s my own child, has always been a headstrong girl and a downright wayward one.”
Jake felt an ache of sympathy for Parkins, with Maybelle for a daughter and Nellie for a wife.
“But I knew it couldn’t be either Miss Holly or Mr. Glen, sir, and so I knew it had to be someone else. Only I knew I couldn’t convince anybody it was a mistake arresting Miss Holly, unless maybe I could find out who really murdered Miss Alexandria.” He paused, seemed a trifle embarrassed. “I’ve always rather fancied, sir, that I should have made a fair detective, if I’d been started off differently as a boy. I’m a great reader of detective fiction, sir.”
Lies there a man with soul so dead, Jake thought, who doesn’t think he would have made a fair, or better than fair, detective!
“I quite understand, Parkins. Go on.”
“Well sir, after things had quieted down a bit, so to speak, and after they had taken Miss Alexandria away, I started making a most careful examination of the house. But I didn’t find anything worth while. I thought that perhaps if I could just find a coat button, sir, or something of the sort, it would give me a start. I did find a tiepin on the carpeting of the hall right outside the—the murder room, but it turned out to belong to Mr. Ahearn.”
Jake could imagine the little man’s disappointment.
“And then, sir, I concluded that I would extend my investigation to the grounds around the house. I went over them most minutely, Mr. Malone—for footprints especially. Only it had snowed that night, as you recall, and then so many people had been walking around and around the house, it was practically impossible to locate any footprints. Then I looked along the lake shore and while I was there I just happened to look into the old summerhouse.”
Jake had a fleeting vision of Ambrose Parkins sniffing along the lake shore, finally reaching the summerhouse and peering in the window.
“You can readily imagine my astonishment, sir.”
“We can,” said Helene with feeling.
“Why didn’t you tell the police?” Jake asked.
Ambrose Parkins all but blushed. “I wanted to make my discovery alone, sir. Of course I intended to tell the police everything, but not until I had discovered who murdered Miss Alexandria.”
“I see. But why didn’t you tell me or Mr. Justus?”
“I was afraid you might laugh at me, sir. So I decided to watch the summerhouse and see who entered it. It was a bit difficult, watching the summerhouse and tending to everything here at the same time, especially as Mrs. Parkins is a rather suspicious woman, sir. But I managed it, only I didn’t see anyone in the summerhouse until night. Then I saw a bit of light through the window, not much light, but enough that I knew someone was there.”
“And then?”
“Well sir, I put on my coat and muffler and went straight down there. I wasn’t sure of what to do, but finally I decided the wisest method of procedure was to walk straight in and confront the fellow. And that, sir, is just what I did do.”
“Were you armed?”
“Oh no, sir. Weapons of any kind have always made me extremely nervous.”
“Go on,” said Malone hoarsely.
Unarmed, Jake thought, and with the man in the summerhouse a probable murderer, Ambrose Parkins decides to walk straight in and confront the fellow!
“He was quite definitely surprised, sir, but he told me that he could explain everything. Then he showed me the letters Miss Alexandria had written him at the time the twins were born, and told me that he was their father. He told me that he knew who the real murderer was but that he couldn’t prove it yet, and that I must help him and not hinder him, for Miss Holly’s sake.”
“How did you help him?”
“Just by letting him stay on in the summerhouse, and not telling a soul that he was there, not even Mr. Glen. And by keeping a bit of a fire there when he wanted it. Only he warned me not to come to the summerhouse until he told me to. So I was most careful not to.”
Naturally, Jake thought. If Parkins had gone down to the summerhouse he would have discovered Dick—left there to die, or until the dapper man decided how to dispose of him.
“But you were going there last night anyway?”
“Yes, sir. I couldn’t help myself. What with Miss Holly escaped from jail and disappeared and her nice young man disappeared and no one knowing where he was and poor Mr. Glen nearly sick with anxiety, I was quite beside myself, Mr. Malone. I was indeed. I felt that I had to find out what was happening and I couldn’t think of anyone else who might know.”
Malone put a hand on Parkins’ shoulder. “Don’t worry, Parkins. I can tell you one thing for certain. Miss Holly is alive and well and safe, and her husband is alive and well and safe.”
“Oh, thank you, sir!” Parkins almost smiled.
Malone rose to his feet. “Well, I guess that’s about all, Parkins. Except that I have a nasty little job of work for you to do.”
“For me, sir?”
“Yes, Parkins. We’re going back to the Brand garage. After you see us drive away, I want you to phone to the police—Mr. Fleck’s office—and tell them there is somebody dead in the Inglehart summerhouse.”
For just an instant Jake thought the little man was going to faint. Then he regained his professional composure.
“Dead, sir?” with only the faintest trace of polite sunrise.
“That’s right, Parkins, dead. The man who’s been staying there. Tell the police you saw lights there last night and decided today that you’d go down and investigate, and found the body.”
“Yes, sir. Should I tell them anything more, sir?”
Malone actually smiled at him. “No, Parkins. Much better not. Don’t tell them a damned thing.”
&nb
sp; “Very well, sir.” It was as though he was receiving an order to serve Holandaise with the artichokes.
The three of them started back to the Brand garage.
“What time would you say the guy was killed?” Jake asked.
“I’m not a doctor, but I’d say roughly it was sometime before midnight.”
“It wasn’t before nine,” Jake said, “because he wasn’t there. That sets the time pretty well between nine and midnight.”
“That lets out Glen and both the Parkinses, if Nellie really was at her sister’s in Oak Park,” Helene said.
“And Holly’s out,” Jake said, “we know where she was.”
“I hope you do,” Malone said.
“Leave Holly out of this,” Jake said. “She’s your client, damn you.” He paused for thought. “It’s a good thing it’s been snowing all day, or the collection of footprints around that summerhouse would have the Blake County cops running hog-wild.”
Butch met them at the door of the garage, his face wrinkled with anxiety.
“Say, that guy is gone.”
“You don’t mean Dick?”
“I sure as hell do mean Dick. I just left him alone for a minute and he’s gone!”
Chapter 28
“For God’s sake, give me a drink,” Jake said hoarsely.
Helene found the bottle and handed it to him.
“Maybe,” Butch said unhappily, “maybe I shouldn’t of told him she was at Madam Fraser’s.”
“Oh,” said Malone, “so that’s where you’ve hidden her.”
Jake and Helene looked at him, startled.
“You could pretend you didn’t hear him,” Helene said.
“It’s all right now,” Malone told her, mopping his face. “It’s all right now.”
“He’s probably on his way there right now,” Jake groaned.
“It’s too late to stop him,” Helene said consolingly. “We’ll hope the cops don’t pick him up on the way.”
“With that photographed face of his, and with a bandage around his bean, he’s no more conspicuous than you would be at a W. C. T. U. picnic,” Jake said. “But there’s nothing to do about it now.”
“We’ll bawl him out when we get there,” Helene promised.
Jake sighed. “It’s the noble streak in him coming out,” he said. “I never saw such a musician in my life. That’s what comes of being brought up by an old-maid aunt in Grove Falls, Iowa. He looks like a blond angel and he damn near is one.”
“All this is very pretty,” Malone growled, “but no help.” He took a package of papers from his pocket. They were the papers he had taken from the pocket of Lewis Miller, the little dude. Jake and Helene eyed them curiously.
There were some unpaid bills, a suburban time-table, several letters written in violet ink, a yellowed newspaper clipping with a picture showing Lewis Miller doing a human-fly act in Pittsburgh, a folded document, and an empty envelope. Malone glanced through the lot; laid the last two aside.
“This is interesting,” he said, pointing to the document. “It’s the original agreement he signed and gave to Alexandria Inglehart in which, for the sum of fifteen thousand dollars, he agreed to relinquish any future claim on either of the two children.”
“But how could he get hold of that agreement?” Jake asked.
“I have a pretty good idea. Helene, where would this have been kept?”
“In the safe in Aunt Alex’s room,” she said promptly.
Malone nodded. “That’s why he was there on the night of the murder. He was doing a job of burglary.”
They thought that over for a moment. Suddenly Jake remembered something.
“Malone! He said—‘Do you want to know why the window was open? I opened it.’ That’s why the window was open!”
Malone nodded. “Holly said that when she went in the room, the safe was just slightly ajar. That’s why. But—” he frowned, “Nellie Parkins and Glen both said that when they went in the safe was closed.”
“Miller opened the safe,” Helene murmured. “But who closed it?”
“Is it possible,” Jake asked, “that there’s still another person involved in this—someone we haven’t discovered yet—and that person murdered the old woman, and closed the safe—and stopped the clocks, and made the beds, and—Holly Oh God,” he said, “I’m going insane!”
“But,” Malone said, “the old woman was dead when Miller went in via the window—unless he killed her himself—and in that case, why should this unknown make a second visit, to close the safe after Miller opened it?”
“I ask the questions,” Jake said, “I don’t answer them.”
“What’s the empty envelope?” Helene asked.
Malone handed it to her.
“Where’s the letter?”
“Lost or destroyed, I suppose. It doesn’t matter. The envelope is the item of interest to me.”
They examined it. It was addressed to Lewis Miller, at a New York address. There was a name and return address on the back. The return address was that of Maybelle Parkins. But the name above it was that of Nellie Parkins.
“And it’s her writing, too,” Helene said slowly, “I recognize it.”
“The postmark—” Jake said suddenly.
Malone nodded. “It was mailed nearly a week before the murder of Miss Inglehart. In other words, while we don’t know what that letter said, the chances are that Nellie Parkins knew about the man in the summerhouse.” In the pause that followed, Helene poured three drinks.
“I’ve got to have a drink,” she said. “I need a clear head to think this over.” Malone was buttoning his overcoat.
“I’ll drive you anywhere,” Helene offered.
“You’ll drive him anywhere,” Malone said, pointing to Jake, “to drink, probably. But not me, you won’t. Anyway, my car’s out here.”
“Where are you going now?” Jake asked.
“St. Louis,” said Malone calmly, looking for his gloves and finding them in his brief case.
“Wait a minute, damn you. What do you expect to find there? What are you going to St. Louis for?”
He grinned at them. “The murderer of Alexandria Inglehart,” he said, and started for the door. Suddenly he paused. “Forgot something. Helene, when the phone rings in the Inglehart house, can you hear it upstairs?”
She shook her head. “No. Damned inconvenient. Aunt Alex hated all telephones. So it was an especially soft hell that could hardly be heard outside the room.”
“Thanks. That’s all I wanted to know.”
Before they could ask another question, he was gone.
Jake and Helene finished the bottle gloomily.
“St. Louis. I wonder why he’s going there. I wonder if—” She stopped.
“Why? What’s about St. Louis?”
“It’s where Glen and Holly were born. It’s where that agreement was signed. Damn the man. Why couldn’t he tell us more?”
Jake sighed.
Suddenly there was the sound of footsteps coming up the stairs.
“Maybe he’s coming back—” Jake said hopefully.
The door opened and Hymc Mendel walked into the room.
Helene greeted him cheerfully. “Sorry we can’t offer you a drink.”
“I’m afraid I couldn’t accept it,” Mendel said stiffly.
Jake looked up curiously. Had the murder of the man in the summerhouse been discovered? No, that was impossible. There would have been police cars, sirens. And Parkins was not to call the police till all of them had left the Brand garage.
Then he saw that Helene was suddenly pale.
“Miss Brand,” said the young district attorney, “you’ve lied to me.” He sounded as though it were a personal affront. “It was later than you led us to believe when you came back to the Inglehart house that night. I’ve just been talking to the woman who saw you.”
Helene made no answer.
Hyme Mendel seemed deeply grieved. “It was late enough for you to have done the murd
er, in fact.”
Jake glared at him. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“I think I’m arresting Miss Brand.” Mendel took a long breath. “I’m not arresting her on suspicion of homicide, but as a material witness. She’s been concealing evidence, to say the least.”
“You’re just making a big play,” Jake said indignantly. “The papers are riding your tail because you let Holly Dayton get out from under your nose, and you think by putting another suspect in the can you’ll make the public think you’re getting somewhere.”
“Shut up,” Hyme Mendel said, “or I’ll take you along too.”
“At least give her a chance to explain,” Jake bawled at him.
“I wouldn’t explain the first principles of arithmetic to him,” Helene said nastily.
“Miss Brand—” Hyme Mendel began.
“You can’t arrest me and you aren’t taking me to any jail,” Helene said in a surprisingly loud and clear voice. “Can you get that through your fat head? You ought to be back at your job delivering coats and pants from the cleaners. Someday somebody’s going to take you to the cleaners. But if you think you can take me to jail, you’re full of hop.”
The district attorney turned white with rage.
“I am arresting you. Miss Brand—”
“You go to hell,” Jake muttered.
Downstairs he could hear the roar of Helene’s car being started.
“You keep out of this,” Hyme Mendel said to Jake. “She’s coming along with me.” He laid a hand on Helene’s arm. Helene slapped him with breathtaking swiftness.
It was too much for the harassed young lawyer. With a kind of growl, he grabbed at Helene’s wrist. At that moment Jake sent home one quick, well-directed punch that came all the way form his heels.
Hyme Mendel, district attorney of Blake County, collapsed in a little heap at their feet.
Helene grasped Jake’s arm, pulled him through the door and down the stairs. The big sleek car was waiting, half through the door, its motor running.
