We All Killed Grandma

by Fredric Brown

  I stood up and my knees felt weak. I put money on the table and said, “Please pay the check with this, Doctor, and excuse me. I’ve got to call someone right away.”

  He tried to push the money back to me and then shrugged and left it. He said, “All right, I’ll let you pay for my dinner and won’t bill you for the checkup.”

  “To hell with the checkup,” I told him. “But you can bill me for anything I’ve got for the information you just got for me and it’ll be cheap.”

  I didn’t use the phone in the hallway of the restaurant; I wanted a few minutes to think first. Maybe I was about to make a damn fool of myself, maybe my deductions weren’t right. But I had to try.

  It was starting to rain but I hardly noticed. I walked a block and then I couldn’t wait any longer—and I was afraid to think any more—so I went into the lobby of the hotel I was about to pass and went to a phone booth.

  I called Robin.

  I heard her calm, grave voice. “Yes?”

  “This is Rod, Robin. I’ve got to talk to you, right away. It’s important, too important to try to be diplomatic about. Are you going to be home?”

  “Rod, whatever it is, we—we just shouldn’t see one another, ever. Please believe me. I should never have asked you in, the time you came around.”

  “I’ve got to tell you something,” I said. “If you don’t trust me to come there will you meet me somewhere else? Anywhere we can talk? Even a hotel lobby where there are lots of other people around. Anywhere.”

  “Please don’t ask me to.”

  “You’ve got a chain on the door of the apartment. Just open the door on the chain and I’ll talk to you that way, from the hall. Any way except over the phone.”

  She didn’t say anything for seconds and I just waited; there wasn’t anything more that I could say.

  Finally, “All right, Rod, come on around.”

  Not cordially, but it was as much as I could expect.

  I went to the parking lot and got my car. It was dusk by now and the rain was coming down a little harder. Cars slithering through it with their parking lights on.

  I parked the Linc and crossed the sidewalk through the rain. Into the apartment building and up, and I knocked on the door.

  It opened, not on the chain. Robin said, “Come on in, Rod.” I went in. She said, “Sit down, Rod. I didn’t want you to come and this has got to be the last time, but—whatever it is you want to tell me, we might as well be civilized about it. Shall I make us each a drink?”

  I didn’t want a drink but I knew how much difference it would make in the atmosphere if we each had one. I said, “Yes, Robin, thanks.” I sat in the chair while she went out into the kitchen. She came back with drinks, handed me mine and then sat on the sofa across from me.

  I had to begin, somehow.

  I said, “Robin, did or didn’t I tell you about my mother?”

  She looked puzzled. “About your mother? What about her? She died when you were a baby, didn’t she?”

  That made it a little harder to explain. I said, “I’ll have to start over from a different angle and get back to that later and tie it in. Robin, you wouldn’t tell me why we were divorced. I think I know now. You wanted children and I didn’t. Is that right?”

  “Well—that was part of it.”

  “I think it was a large part and that most of whatever other resentments you might have had against me came from that. Listen, Robin, even though I haven’t my memory back I learned tonight that I was wrong about something I thought was true before.

  “Listen, sometime during the first year of our marriage I learned—or thought I learned—that my mother had died insane. I thought I had a hereditary tendency to insanity and must have—obviously would have—decided that I shouldn’t ever have children for that reason.”

  “But—all right, tell it your own way. I don’t understand yet what you’re getting at, Rod.”

  I said, “Obviously I didn’t tell you the reason why I didn’t want children. I can only guess why I didn’t, but I’ll try to guess. I saw that you wouldn’t be happy without them—and probably that you wanted a child or children of your own so badly that adopting would be a poor solution—and I must have decided that the only fair thing I could do was to step out of your life while there was time, while you could still find—and damned easily—another man who could give you the fulfillment you wanted. I must have known that if I’d told you the truth—or what I then thought was the truth—about why I didn’t want children of my own, you’d stick to me in spite of it. But you’d never have been happy yourself.”

  She stared at me. “You might have reasoned as quixotically as that. You fool, you might have.”

  “I must have, otherwise, I’d have told you. But Robin, tonight I learned—and beyond doubt—that Arch had been wrong. He was too young to know or understand all the facts; my mother’s apparent insanity was from a physical cause, a brain tumor. I’m not tainted by heredity. I can have children.”

  She took a sip of her drink and the ice tinkled in the glass. Then her eyes looked at me across the top of it. “Is that what you wanted to tell me, Rod?”

  “No,” I said. “That’s only the build-up, what makes it possible for me to say the rest. I love you to hell and back, and I want you to marry me again.”

  “I’m sorry. No. And if you feel that way then I was definitely right in saying this is the last time we should ever see one another.”

  “But Robin—why? Please tell me why. Wasn’t that the reason—at least the main reason—for our divorce?”

  “Please don’t let’s talk about it any more.”

  “Robin, you’re not being fair. I’ve got a right to know. You’re taking unfair advantage of the fact that you remember what happened between us and I don’t. This is the most important thing in the world for me. If I lose out, may I not knowwhy?”

  Her eyes met mine and held. After seconds she said, “Maybe you have the right to know, at that. Maybe it would have been better if I’d told you right away. Rod, I’d never suspected your sanity, even thought of it, until a week ago last Monday night.

  “Rod, I was there that night, at your grandmother’s. And you killed her.”

  CHAPTER 14

  FOR some reason it didn’t throw me at all. Perhaps because I’d feared it, almost believed it, for so long. I’d lived with that idea by day and slept with it by night, despite all logic, so now it didn’t throw me at all.

  I asked quite calmly. “Did you see me kill her, Robin?”

  “No, but you must have. I heard the shots and got there just after. And you’d gone in the house just before that and there was no one else there and—”

  I interrupted. “Will you start at the beginning, Robin? Why were you there?”

  “Because—I hate to tell you this, now that it’s all over, now that it’s hopeless, but the night before our divorce I—I almost changed my mind, Rod. I guess I wanted to be talked into changing it, anyway. I telephoned you early in the evening and you weren’t home. I didn’t want to stay there and keep phoning; you might be out all evening. So I borrowed Dad’s car and drove here. I left Halchester at seven and got back here at about eleven. I phoned again from the edge of town and you still weren’t home so I drove to that place you’re staying, four-something Cuyahoga and parked in front. I phoned once more from a place across the street from there and then I sat in the car thinking I’d see you when you came in.

  “But I sat there only a little while when I got the idea that you might have gone to your grandmother’s. To see her or to see Arch; I remembered that they both stayed up late. And it was better than sitting there waiting so I drove there. I got there—I didn’t notice the exact time—somewhere about midnight. But just as I turned into that block I saw you going into the gate and up onto the porch of the house.”

  “Had I come in a taxi or was I walking?”

  “I—I think you were walking. At least I didn’t see a taxi and you were still outside the g
ate, on the sidewalk, when I saw you as I turned the corner. And by the time I pulled up in front you were inside the house.

  “I—didn’t go in right away. I sat in the car for a few minutes, thinking maybe you’d just dropped in there on some brief errand and that you’d be coming out again right away. I hoped you would because I didn’t want to go in and see you for the first time there in front of your grandmother and Arch, if Arch was there. But then I heard the shots and I ran up to the door and—”

  “Wait,” I said. “You heard shots, plural, around or after midnight?”

  “It sounded like two shots, just a few minutes after you went into the house. I ran up to the door and you’d left it ajar. I rang the bell and called out, both, and nobody answered. I went on back along the hall toward the room Grandma used as her study; I could see there was a light on in there. And there she was, lying on the floor dead, with a bullet hole in her forehead. And your gun lying on the floor.”

  “Robin, that wasn’t my gun. Grandma had one like it; she was killed with her own gun. They proved that by comparing bullets. Besides, my gun is in my apartment—and it hasn’t been fired since I bought it. Walter Smith checked it to make sure. You can check with him on that.”

  “I thought it was yours, Rod. But even if it wasn’t—if you shot her with another gun—”

  I said, “If I killed her it was with her gun, not mine. But that’s one reason Walter Smith thinks I didn’t do it. The gun was gone; whoever killed her took it away with him. Or—wait a minute. You say you saw her dead and the gun lying there. But it wasn’t there when I phoned the police and they came.”

  “I took it, Rod.”

  “You took it? Why?”

  “Because—I thought it was your gun. And you’d just gone in there and I’d heard the shots and—well, I took it. I picked it up to take it away because I didn’t want you arrested for murder and it went off in my hand and made a hole in the wall—and then I ran out with it and got in my car. I slowed down when I was crossing a bridge on the way back to Halchester and threw it out of the car window, over the railing.”

  I couldn’t sit there any longer; I put down my almost untouched drink and stood up. I began to pace the length of the rug.

  “I—I still don’t understand why you took the gun, Robin. If you thought I’d committed a murder—”

  “Women sometimes do funny things,” Robin said.

  I tried to keep my mind away from what could have been Robin’s only reason for trying to protect me by removing evidence.

  I said, “You say the gun went off when you picked it up?”

  She nodded. “I picked it up just like you’re supposed to pick up a gun and I guess my finger just automatically rested on the trigger. But I didn’t pull it, Rod. It just went off.”

  I said, “It was a hair-trigger gun so that’s understandable. But, damn it, there are too many shots. There were two empty cartridges found on the floor. But Henderson—Grandma’s friend next door—heard one at around eleven-thirty. You heard two after I went into the house around midnight and then fired one accidentally yourself while you were picking up the gun. That’s four shots and only two cartridges. And, for that matter, only two bullets found. The one that killed her and the one they found in the wall—and you fired that.”

  I paced some more.

  I said, “It’s more confused than ever, Robin. I was sure I hadn’t killed her and now it’s messed up again. Because, with you having taken away the gun, I could have. But where would I have been when you found her? And how come twice as many shots were heard as were fired? With you yourself hearing two and firing one! That’s going to knock hell out of Walter’s reconstruction of a simple burglary, however he tries to explain it.”

  “You’re going to tell him?”

  I stared at her. “Sure, I’m going to tell him. Don’t you think I want this thing solved? Even if they decide I did it, I want it solved.” I had a sudden thought. I said, “I’m sorry about one thing, Robin. It’s going to put you in a spot. Not too serious a one, I’m sure. Your running off with that gun because you thought it was mine was illegal, but they won’t have any reason to want to prosecute you for it. And definitely they won’t want to give it publicity.”

  She sat there looking down into her glass, saying nothing.

  I said, “But they’ll bawl you out, I’m afraid. Let me work it this way; I’ll get in touch with Walter personally, as soon as I can, and tell him. He’ll want to talk to you, of course and you’ll probably have to tell your story three or four times but—well, he won’t be rough on you. He’s a good guy.”

  She looked up then and there was the shadow of a smile on her lips. She said, “You’re a good guy, Rod. Here I’m telling something that may implicate you in a murder and all you worry about is how gentle the police will be with me when I tell them.”

  “There’s nothing to worry about, about me,” I said. “I either did it or I didn’t. If I did, it was for no sane reason, at least no adequate one; I should be locked up so I don’t kill again. If I didn’t do it, I’ve got to know—and be able to prove it to you.”

  I looked around until I saw the phone. “Shall I call Walter now, from here? And shall I have him come here? Or would you rather I made a date to talk to him somewhere else first, before he starts heckling you?”

  “You’re sure you want me to talk to him at all?”

  “I’m sure,” I said.

  “Then you might as well ask him to come here.”

  I picked up the phone. I gave Walter’s home number and while the phone was being rung I explained to Robin, “He isn’t on duty yet, not until midnight. But he’ll come when I tell him it’s important.”

  Nobody answered the phone. I said, “Damn, probably means he took his wife out for the evening. We might catch him around eleven; he’ll probably bring her home then and be around a while getting ready to go to work. Or we may have to wait till midnight to catch him.”

  She nodded listlessly. “All right,” she said.

  “Only, Robin, I’m not going to inflict myself on you by waiting here. It’s only seven o’clock; we might have to wait five hours. And besides I want to drive or to walk, so I can think. I can’t look at you and think at the same time.”

  “All right, Rod. I’ll stay up and dressed till I hear from you.”

  “I’ll keep trying Walter’s phone,” I said. I went to the door and opened it and I said, “So long, Robin,” without fully turning to look at her. I didn’t want to look at her because if I did I’d ask her if she still thought I was a murderer—and I didn’t want to know that, not until I knew myself whether I was or not. And I had a feeling that I was going to know soon. With the new information, Robin’s story, Walter Smith would be able to figure things out if I couldn’t.

  She said, “So long, Rod,” and all I could tell from her voice was that she was holding something in; what it was I couldn’t tell.

  I went down the stairs and outside. It was starting to rain harder, but I had a waterproof trench coat in the car and decided to walk anyway.

  I put on the coat and walked through the rain.

  Nowhere. Just walking. After an hour I phoned Walter’s number from a drugstore phone and again no answer. I walked some more.

  I looked up and I was in front of the apartment house Vangy lived in. I kept on walking; I thought I might as well make my next call from the tavern where Harry Weston had taken me when I’d gone to his place after leaving Vangy.

  I went there. I tried phoning Walter again. Then I sat down at the bar. I ordered a beer to have something in front of me.

  Here, at this tavern, something had started. Until I’d been here with Harry for a while I’d been simply bent on getting drunk. I’d got my “big idea” and had left Harry, without explaining what it was, and had headed for Grandma’s, trying to sober up en route.

  Suddenly I remembered.

  I knew why and how I’d gone to Grandma’s and what had happened when I got there. And
I knew I hadn’t killed her. I knew now what the shock had been that had caused my amnesia—and it had been a shock a thousand times worse than finding Grandma’s body. And I knew, too, why I could remember now when I hadn’t been able to remember before.

  And it all made sense, except for one missing piece. I still didn’t know who the murderer was. And that didn’t matter.

  I got up and walked out of there like a sleepwalker. Into the rain again.

  I walked some more blocks, fitting disconnected bits of my memory back into a consistent whole. I got to thinking about and remembering my life with Robin and I had to pull my mind away from that and get to thinking about the night of the murder. Because it did matter who the murderer had been; until I knew that and could prove it, Robin could never be absolutely sure about my part in it. She might believe what I could now tell her, but there’d always be a doubt.

  I went over it and over it in my mind, from the time I’d left Harry Weston at the tavern until the moment at the telephone when the police operator had asked my name and I hadn’t known it. I fitted the pieces this way and that until I knew. I didn’t know why, but I knew who and how.

  And another drugstore came along and I went in and phoned Robin.

  I said, “This is Rod. I’ve got my memory back. I know what happened that night. I didn’t kill her, Robin. I can prove it to you, tonight, if you’ll go somewhere with me.”

  I heard her gasp a little. “Where are you?”

  “On the other side of town, afoot. I’ve been walking; my car is in front of your place. I’ll grab a taxi and get there as fast as I can. Will you be ready?”

  “All right, Rod. I’ll be ready. Did you get Walter Smith?”

  “No.” I had a thought. “Listen, Robin, do you want to wait until I can get him to go with us? I mean, if you’re still afraid—”

  For all she knew, I might be lying. I might have just remembered that I did kill Grandma; I might be taking her out to kill her somewhere before she could tell her story to Walter.