Shandy didn’t go much for Porble’s suggestion that Trevelyan Buggins had committed murder and suicide merely to get back at his nephew-in-law for chewing him out. The man would have had to be completely around the bend for that. Nobody else had portrayed him as anything but a garrulous old coot and a fairly artful conniver. Would a wily chatterbox kill himself and his wife without at least dropping a few pregnant hints about the man he wanted to frame?
Furthermore, would Trevelyan find it necessary to die? Why couldn’t he have drunk just enough of some noxious substance to make him sick, plant the seeds of suspicion and perhaps strengthen his case with regard to the lawsuit, then stay alive to enjoy Porble’s downfall and collect his winnings? Maybe Trevelyan had intended to do so, but habit had got the better of him and he hadn’t been able to resist pouring too generous a slug of anything that came from a bottle.
“Tommyrot,” Shandy snorted aloud, to the distress of his young waiter, who thought he meant the Tuna Surprise. So he had to reassure the student that he’d only been talking to himself about something else, as absentminded professors were wont to do, and leave a bigger tip than usual to cover his confusion.
After this small contretemps, Shandy decided to soothe his nerves by strolling down to the police station and finding out what, if anything, had been learned about the Woozles. He found he’d timed his visit well. Officer Dorkin was back at the desk, sharing a hot fudge sundae with his friend Edmund.
“How did you make out at the Seven Forks?” Shandy asked him. “Great Scot, what’s wrong with that cat? He’s foaming at the mouth.”
“Nah,” said Dorkin. “That’s marshmallow stuck to his whiskers. He’ll lick it off sooner or later. Ed likes to save the marshmallow for last. Haul up and set. The chief’ll be back in a while. He’s gone to get a haircut.”
“In the middle of the week?”
“Yeah, I guess he figures he might be getting his picture in the paper again. He was talking to Cronk Swope.”
“Ah, then Swope’s on the road to recovery?”
“I guess he’s still got the cold, but his mother’s going to let him out tomorrow if it doesn’t storm because he’s driving her nuts. She wanted to make a bunch of calls about the Friends of the Library book sale, but Cronk’s got the telephone in bed with him, interviewing everybody he can think of. Hey, Edmund, quit hogging the fudge sauce.”
Dorkin extracted a paw from his sundae, then resumed his report through a mouthful of ice cream. “Cronk’s got his typewriter in bed with him, too, and he keeps getting the bedclothes caught in the roller. He typed half his lead article on a pillowcase Mrs. Swope’s cousin Lucy embroidered for their twenty-fifth anniversary. His mother came in and saw what he was doing, and they had a big fight. Cronk wanted to get the story over to the paper, and Mrs. Swope wanted to get the pillowcase soaking in bleach before the ink got too set and wouldn’t come off. She wishes to heck he’d get married and move out.”
“God help the woman who gets him,” said Shandy. “I gather you’ve completed your stint at the Seven Forks. Did you detect any Woozles?”
“Oh, sure. They’re all present and accounted for. Mike’s the only one I didn’t see. He’s in the slammer, you know. Working in the machine shop, his mother tells me. He learned a lot about mechanics holding up all those filling stations. Anyway, they don’t any of them look like the Bugginses. Mike and Zack’s grandmother was there, and she claims Corydon was more talk than action. She says Arbolene got sick of having to listen to all that poetry when she wanted to get down to the nitty-gritty, so she gave Corydon the mitten after a while and ran off with a tar-paper salesman from Schenectady. Want me to get hold of the FBI and see if they can put a tracer on her?”
“No, let’s save the FBI for a rainy day. Good work, Budge,” said Shandy, trying to hide his chagrin. Like the late Corydon, he’d been building false hopes on Arbolene Woozle.
“There is one thing, though.” Dorkin didn’t sound happy. “I don’t know if you’re going to like it much.”
“I haven’t liked anything so far. Don’t try to spare my feelings. What’s the matter?”
“Well, see, there’s this Marietta Woozle who’s married to Mike’s brother Zack. She’s a proofreader at the Pied Pica Press over in Clavaton, right next to the county courthouse. “
Shandy said he knew the place and what if she was?
“I’m establishing the credibility of the witness,” Officer Dorkin replied stiffly. “What I mean is, Marietta has to check all the wedding invitations and Masonic installations and stuff like that to make sure they don’t mix up the dates or anything, so she’d be the last person to read a number plate wrong, right?”
“Whose number didn’t she read wrong?”
“Dr. Porble’s.”
“What?” Shandy yelped, then caught himself. “And when is she alleged not to have made this mistake?”
“At twenty minutes past nine night before last, namely February first. See, Marietta and Zack live in that red house with the white and blue trimmings, just as you turn into Second Fork. She’d been late getting home from work because the Pied Pica Press is printing the warrant for Hoddersville’s annual town meeting. Marietta says there’s an awful lot of proofreading in a town warrant.”
“No doubt. Go on.”
“So anyway, that meant she’d missed the start of the bingo. Marietta says she kind of shilly-shallied about should she go late or should she stay home and do a load of wash because she’d been looking at figures and letters all day and was pretty sick of them. But she knew her friend Ruthie would be there because Ruthie wouldn’t miss the bingo if they had to carry her into the hall feet first.”
Dorkin scooped out the last of the fudge sauce and gave Edmund the container to lick. “The thing was, Marietta’d flubbed up on Ruthie’s birthday last Monday. She’d bought one of those cards with a turtle on it and a rhyme about being a little slow on her lunch hour, and she wanted to give it to Ruthie, so after she’d had some supper and rested her feet awhile, she pulled herself together and went.”
“At twenty minutes past nine on the dot?”
“That’s right. She says she looked at the clock on the dashboard as she was pulling out of the driveway, and she hadn’t any more than turned when she saw this big black car with no lights on whiz out of First Fork and take a left turn toward the Junction. Marietta says she thought that was pretty strange because this was an awfully classy-looking car to be driving around First Fork in the dark. So as it slowed down for the turn, she flashed her high beams and got a good look at the number plate.”
“Did she write it down?” Shandy asked unhappily.
“Oh, sure, right away. That’s how she knew. She had a grocery-list pad in the car. Proofreaders have to be very methodical, she says. Anyway, she was going in late today on account of having worked overtime last night, which is how I happened to catch her home. So she gave me the number on the grocery pad and when I brought it back here, the chief called up the registry. So that’s how we know it was Dr. Porble’s car. I’m sorry, Professor Shandy.”
Shandy was sorrier. “What did the chief say?”
“Well, first he said, ‘Jeez,’ then he said, ‘I’ll be damned,’ then he said he was going to get his hair cut. I don’t know why he isn’t back yet.”
At the word yet, Dorkin’s voice dropped noticeably. Chief Ottermole was back. With him was Dr. Porble. Their hands were linked, but not in amity.
Chapter 12
DR. PORBLE WAS NOT a happy man. “Was this your idea, Peter?” he demanded nastily.
“No, it was not my idea,” Shandy snapped back. “Drat it, Ottermole, are you out of your mind?”
Ottermole was the unhappiest of the lot and furious to be so. “Look, Professor, I got a duty to my job. Here’s a guy who goes out an’ picks a big fight with Trev Buggins. That same night, his car’s seen sneakin’ out o’ First Fork with the lights out while the folks are upstairs an’ Miss Mink’s at the bingo. Next morni
ng, both the Bugginses are found poisoned to death, an’ ten minutes ago I find this in the trunk of the car, stuck down inside a box that said Tennis Balls on it.”
Awkwardly because of the handcuff that still held him to the librarian, Ottermole reached inside his leather jacket, hauled out a longish tube, unscrewed the lid, and shook out the contents on top of the desk where Edmund was now sitting, washing the marshmallow off his whiskers. “See?”
Shandy saw. Lying beside the empty ice-cream carton was a small bottle with a dingy label that still read Carbon Tetrachloride.
“I s’pose you’re goin’ to tell me he never seen this bottle before in his life,” snarled the chief.
“How the flaming perdition do I know whether he ever saw it before?” Shandy snarled back. “I may have seen the thing myself, or dozens like it. Why don’t you handcuff me, too?”
“Because I got no witness that says she seen you comin’ out o’ First Fork night before last, because you never had a fight with Trev Buggins, an’ because it wasn’t your car I found the bottle in.”
“But great balls of fire, man, can’t you see it’s a frame-up? Dr. Porble is an intelligent man. There are a good many miles of woods between here and First Fork. If he’d had his hands on that bottle, don’t you think he’d have had sense enough to chuck it out the window on his way home?”
“Yeah, an’ the bottle would o’ made a hole in the snow an’ somebody would o’ seen it an’ dug it out an’ maybe started wonderin’ who threw it there, an’ why. See, Professor, that’s the trouble with bein’ smart. You think ahead to what might happen. Mike Woozle, now, he’d o’ just heaved the bottle to hell an’ gone an’ never thought twice about it till he landed back in the slammer.”
“Or not, as the case might and probably would be.”
“Yeah, but Dr. Porble wouldn’t see it that way. He didn’t want anybody gettin’ suspicious about what Mr. an’ Mrs. Buggins died from, so he wouldn’t want even the name carbon tet mentioned where it might get back to me. He was countin’ on me bein’ dumb enough to accept what ol’ Doc Fotheringay put on them death certificates instead of orderin’ an autopsy like I done. Did.”
“M’yes,” said Shandy. “Viewing the matter objectively, Phil, you must see that Ottermole has a certain amount of logic on his side.”
“Viewing the matter subjectively,” said Porble, “would you mind explaining to Grace that I’m being detained on suspicion of having murdered her relatives and shan’t be home for dinner? I don’t suppose she’ll have time to whip up a cake with a file in it, but she might be kind enough to pack an overnight bag with my pajamas and shaving things. Assuming I’m allowed a razor, that is. What’s the protocol around here, Ottermole?”
“I got an electric one you can borrow,” growled the chief.
“I am overwhelmed by your consideration, though I must say I’ve never been able to get a decent shave with one of those contraptions.”
“You have to hold it sort of head-on. I’ll show you.”
“Er, h’m,” said Shandy. “Might we interrupt this discussion of setal severance for a moment? Phil, just for the record, would you mind telling us what you were doing at First Fork at twenty past nine on the night of February first?”
“Nothing. I’ve already told Ottermole I wasn’t there. My wrangle with that old poop Trevelyan took place early in the morning, about half past eight. Grace had finally broken down and told me about this asinine lawsuit scheme the night before. I’d have gone straight out then and tackled Trevelyan, but I knew he’d be in bed and there’d be no point in waking him up because he’d be too drunk to talk straight. Hence the early morning row, which I freely admit to you now as I’ve already done before, and which Minnie Mink has doubtless told you a good deal more about than actually happened.”
Porble rubbed the wrist from which Chief Ottermole had by now removed the handcuff. “I hadn’t intended to lose my temper. I’d meant to discuss Trevelyan’s chances of pulling off his insane plot in a dispassionate manner and try to make the damned jackass see reason, just as I tried to do with Ottermole here when he showed up at the library waving his handcuffs in my face.”
“At least I didn’t put ’em on till we got outside,” Ottermole reminded the librarian.
“True enough, you refrained from making me a hissing and a byword in front of my staff, a circumstance for which I suppose you think I ought to be grateful. However, I’m not sure that being made to ride in that infernal machine you erroneously refer to as a police cruiser doesn’t constitute cruel and unusual punishment.”
“Yeah? Then maybe you’ll remember what it felt like when you get to town meeting in April an’ everybody starts yammerin’ about how we can’t afford a new one ’cause we got to keep the budget down.”
“Sorry, Ottermole. Convicted felons aren’t allowed the franchise,” Porble replied with a certain degree of satisfaction. “You’ve just lost yourself a vote.”
“You’re not convicted yet, Phil,” Shandy reminded him. “We might avoid your felonization if we could please stick to the facts. Since you say you weren’t at First Fork during the time in question, would you mind telling us where you were?”
“I was at home, naturally.”
“With whom?”
“Cicero.”
“Cicero who?” said Ottermole.
Dr. Porble looked pained. “Marcus Tullius Cicero.”
“Jeez, why didn’t you say so? How can I get hold of the guy?”
“You might try the library. I suggest you start on the Tusculan Disputations, notably Book Four, which explains how wisdom frees the mind from disquietude and thus keeps small-town cops from making stupid mistakes. What I’m endeavoring to convey, Chief Ottermole, is that I was reading a book. Alone. Solus. By myself. My wife was out. I have no alibi. You may as well put the handcuffs back on.”
Ottermole could be a bastard, too. “Oh, that Cicero. I used to read Cicero’s Cat in the funny papers myself. Budge, you slide on over to the house and ask Edna Mae for that roll-away cot we use when the in-laws come to stay. And some blankets and a clean sheet. She’ll know. Tell her we got distinguished company at the lockup. Professor, when you see Mrs. Porble, why don’t you remind her to put in the Cicero book?”
“Why don’t we first see if we can arrive at some explanation as to how Dr. Porble’s car might have been seen out at First Fork without him in it?” said Shandy. “I’m sure you realize, Phil, that Chief Ottermole’s stretching things in your favor here by keeping you at the lockup instead of shipping you over to the county jail.”
“I also realize that even Chief Ottermole may have some dim awareness that it’s possible to be sued for false arrest,” said the librarian. “Is there a bathroom, by any chance?”
“Sort of,” said Ottermole. “Say, Budge, you better ask Edna Mae for a towel an’ a cake o’ that fancy soap she puts out when we’re havin’ company, too. And a can of Dutch Cleanser. Can you wait till we get the place fixed up a little, Dr. Porble?”
“No rush,” said the librarian. “I’m simply trying to familiarize myself with the amenities in my new home away from home. Getting back to the subject of my car, Peter, I have no idea how it came to be seen at First Fork on the night when carbon tetrachloride assumed rightly or wrongly to have come from the bottle found in my car trunk was allegedly added to the jug from which either Trevelyan or Beatrice Buggins may or may not have poured the drinks that are supposed to have effected their joint demise. Are you with me thus far?”
“All the way.”
“Good. Then I may go on to remind you that I keep my car down at Charlie Ross’s Garage, as you yourself do on account of the lack of parking facilities around the Crescent, and that Charlie closes up and goes home whenever he feels like it, which is generally quite early these nights. I myself have no skill with machinery, but I’m told it’s possible to perform some relatively simple operation that enables a car to be started without using the ignition key. Am I correct, Chief
Ottermole?”
“Yeah,” said Ottermole unhappily, “it can be done.”
“Thank you. I might also mention that I leave an extra key with Charlie in case the car has to be worked on. Anybody not possessing the skill to finagle the wires might thus alternatively have broken into the station and stolen the key as a prelude to borrowing the car. As a third hypothesis, some miscreant merely took the number plate off my car and attached it to a car that looked like mine but in fact was not. No doubt our vigilant police chief can explain how any of these feats may have been accomplished and the car returned without attracting unwanted notice.”
“I wasn’t on duty that night,” said the vigilant chief. “It was Clarence Lomax’s boy Frank’s turn. Frank got a call about a quarter of nine to bust up a disturbance over in front o’ the Meat-o-Mat. Some kids lit a fire in the parking lot an’ made believe they was going to barbecue a groundhog. Didn’t amount to anything, but one o’ the neighbors got all hot an’ bothered an’ phoned in the alarm, so Frank had to go. Can’t blame a man for not being in two places at once, can you?”
“I blame nobody for anything without due and sufficient cause,” Porble replied, “and only regret that the same courtesy hasn’t been extended to myself. However, I’m endeavoring to respect your line of reasoning, if such it can be called, Chief Ottermole, and to accept what I trust will be my brief incarceration with what equanimity I may possess. Once released, I shall interest myself in town politics, as you suggest, and see what can be done about having you replaced by somebody who knows which end he’s standing on.”
The Corpse in Oozak's Pond Page 11
