Something the Cat Dragged In

by Charlotte MacLeod

  “You know President Svenson from the college? And this is Professor Shandy.”

  Hodger didn’t even turn his head in their direction. “What do you want out of me, Fred? A statement about last night?”

  “Yeah, that’s right. About last night. You had a meeting of the Balaclavian Society?”

  “We did.”

  “And Professor Ungley gave you a talk about penknives?”

  “He did.”

  “Was he okay during the talk?”

  “That would depend on what you mean by okay. If you refer to his physical condition, I suppose I’d have to say that to the best of my knowledge, not being a registered physician and not having examined Ungley more closely than one member of a fraternal organization might reasonably be expected to observe another during the course of a meeting, he appeared to be neither better nor worse than usual. If you’re asking whether he presented an interesting topic in an organized and informative manner, I prefer to reserve any statement on the grounds of de mortuis nil nisi bonum.”

  “Huh?”

  “No doubt your learned companions can translate for you. What else do you want to ask me?”

  “Well, uh, did Professor Ungley leave with you, or did he stay behind?”

  “It is my impression that we all left more or less in a group. I recall that I held open the door for Mrs. Pommell, then said good night and came directly across the street to my own quarters here. Ungley would have stayed on the museum side of the street, which is to say the opposite side from this to make myself perfectly clear. Assuming he meant to go back to his own dwelling place, he would then have walked right as far as the corner, then turned left.”

  “You didn’t turn around to watch him?”

  “No. Why should I have? It was late, and I wanted to get to bed.”

  “Can you think of any reason why Professor Ungley might have gone around behind the museum?”

  “I’m not in the habit of thinking up reasons, Ottermole. The law concerns itself with facts.”

  “Yeah, well, uh—”

  “I believe,” Shandy prompted, “you meant to ask Mr. Hodger about Professor Ungley’s will.”

  Ottermole brightened. “That’s right. I was just going to mention it. We figured you’d be the one to know.”

  “To know what?” asked that infuriating old man.

  “Whether Ungley made a will, like Professor Shandy just said. Did he?”

  “He did.”

  “Then how about giving us a gander at it?”

  “Whom do you mean by us?”

  “He means himself, President Svenson, and me,” said Shandy, who’d decided Hodger had been allowed to play cute long enough. “We’re assisting Ottermole in his investigation of Ungley’s death. Unless you have some reason to continue being obstructive, we assume you’ll wish to do the same.”

  “Is that supposed to be a threat?”

  “I don’t see how it can be construed as one, unless you know of some reason why you ought to feel threatened.”

  The lawyer’s face was, after all, capable of expression. Hodger performed a superb dramatic rendering of malignancy before he reached into his top desk drawer and fished out a document covered in faded blue paper.

  “Ungley’s will is a very simple one and will be filed for probate as soon as the necessary formalities are completed. Since it will then become available to the public, I see no reason why I cannot with propriety give you a summary of its contents now. Myself and Henry Pommell, president of the First Balaclava County Guaranteed National Trust, Savings and Loan, are the executors. One-third of whatever assets Ungley possessed at the time of his death is left to the college, to be used in setting up a department of Local History, a subject Ungley considered to have been grossly neglected during recent years. One-third goes to the Balaclavian Society, of which he was a past president and perpetual curator. The remaining third is left to his sole surviving relative, one Alonzo Bulfinch who is, if I am not mistaken, currently in the employ of Balaclava Agricultural College.”

  Hodger refolded the sheaf of papers and put it back in the drawer. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to get over to the county courthouse.”

  He began struggling out of his chair. Shandy hadn’t realized until then how badly the lawyer was crippled with arthritis. Seeing Hodger’s cane hooked over the edge of the desk, he reached to hand it over. Then he noticed its handle was of carved silver in the shape of a running fox and as disproportionately heavy as Ungley’s.

  “Would you happen to have another cane, Mr. Hodger?” he asked.

  “What business is it of yours?” the lawyer barked.

  “Well, you see, I think Chief Ottermole is about to impound this one as possible evidence, and I’m sure he wouldn’t want to leave you with—er—no visible means of support.”

  Chapter Eight

  ODDLY ENOUGH, HODGER DIDN’T make any great fuss over the cane. He did have another one, and got Ottermole to fetch it for him out of the umbrella stand beside the door. He then demanded a receipt and asked, not unreasonably, how soon his property might be returned to him.

  “That depends on what we find when we analyze the handle,” Shandy took it upon himself to answer.

  “Analyze the handle? For what, if I’m not out of order in asking?”

  “Not at all. We’re looking for bloodstains, bone slivers, fragments of brain matter, that sort of thing.”

  “Good God! And why should you expect to find them on my cane?”

  “Simply because yours happens to be identical with the cane found beside Ungley. That one is already being tested as the possible murder weapon. There’s the outside chance yours and his may have been switched.”

  “Why should they have been?”

  “That takes us into the realm of speculation, Mr. Hodger. Since you deal only in facts, any reply I could make at this time would not be germane to the issue.”

  “Umph. Have you then established what the issue is?”

  “Oh yes. The issue is that Ungley’s death was no accident as was at first supposed, but deliberate murder.”

  “Murder? That’s ridiculous. Who’d want to murder Ungley?”

  “You’re asking another question we can’t answer at this time. The murderer’s identity will be established on the basis of the evidence.”

  “What evidence?”

  “The evidence that will be presented at the trial. Thank you for your cooperation, Mr. Hodger. We’ll take great care of your cane.” Hodger himself did, obviously. His was in far better condition than Ungley’s. Another tidy man, drat it. “Er—would it be out of order to ask how yours and Ungley’s came to be just alike?”

  “They came to be identical because they were made that way. As to how I obtained mine, which I gather is what you’re attempting to ask, the answer is simple. I admired Ungley’s and he presented me with a mate to it. Where he got them, I am unable to say. As you leave, please tell my clerk I’m on my way out and to bring the car around. I don’t like to be kept standing.”

  Having been so adroitly given the bum’s rush, the oddly assorted posse could do nothing more than pass on Hodger’s message to the harried law clerk at the front desk—nobody ever knew who these wights were because he got them fresh out of law school and wore them out in no time flat—and go away. Once they were out on the sidewalk, Shandy turned to Svenson.

  “Who the hell,” he demanded, “is Alonzo Bulfinch?”

  “Security guard,” Svenson replied. “Just hired. Never said he was related to Ungley.”

  “Seemed like a nice enough guy when I met him,” Ottermole put in. “Just goes to show you never know, do you?”

  “Never know what?” said Shandy. “Where did you meet him?”

  “He’s an old army buddy of Silvester Lomax. They were in the MP’s together. Silvester’s wife had me and the missus and a few other people over night before last to meet him. He’s staying with her and Silvester till he can find a place.”

  Find
ing a place to live was no mean feat in Balaclava Junction. Most of the students lived in the dorms, but rooms and apartments were still at a premium because of the many comings and goings among staff and faculty, and because there weren’t many of them to start with. Mrs. Lomax probably had six or seven prospects already camped on her doorstep trying to rent Ungley’s flat.

  The logical person to have it would be Ungley’s heir, and maybe Alonzo Bulfinch had already thought of that. Surely, though, the new security guard hadn’t bumped off his uncle just to get himself a place to sleep.

  Ottermole was champing at the bit to do some more detecting. “Now what, Professor?”

  “We may as well take this cane of Hodger’s on up to Professor Joad, and let him test it along with Ungley’s,” said Shandy. “After that, it mightn’t be a bad idea to have a chat with Bulfinch, if we can find him.”

  “Yeah, we better nail that guy before he decides to skip town. Say, I wonder how much he stands to inherit.”

  “Plenty,” snarled Thorkjeld Svenson. The memory of that outrageous salary Ungley had milked from the college for so many years must still be rankling.

  Shandy decided a precise answer to Ottermole’s question mightn’t be such a bad idea, at that. “I expect Pommell will know how much Ungley had in the sock. Let’s go ask him. If he won’t tell, Ottermole can flash his badge and threaten to run him in for obstructing justice. I’d be surprised, though, if Hodger didn’t take time to give Pommell a fast phone call before going off to keep that urgent appointment.”

  “Come on,” said Ottermole. “Let’s move. Chemistry Department first, right?”

  The bank was only a few doors away, but they stuck to their original itinerary. Svenson was happy at getting to ride in the police cruiser. “Where’s the siren, Ottermole?” he demanded. “I’ll work it.”

  “Better not, President,” Shandy warned. “The students will think Ottermole’s running you in for disturbing the peace.”

  Svenson growled but subsided, perhaps reflecting on what Sieglinde would say if she found out. They got to the chemistry building without attracting undue notice. When Joad saw them coming, though, he ran to meet them, waving a full test tube with reckless abandon.

  “It’s blood, all right. Human, type AB negative. Minute traces definitely present on the cane handle, also in that iron rust you scraped off the harrow peg.”

  “What about the sample Goulson sent over?”

  “AB negative. I have to say also human, though coming from Ungley I must say I was rather surprised. I’ll break down the factors more precisely to remove all shadow of doubt, but I’d say you’ve got yourselves a murder weapon.”

  “Drat,” said Shandy, handing him the other cane. “I was rather hoping we might pin the killing on Henry Hodger. Test this one anyway, will you?”

  “Delighted. What happens to the evidence when I’m finished?”

  “I’ll impound it,” said Ottermole masterfully. “And I want a written report of what you just said. If you don’t mind,” he added in a meeker tone when he noticed Svenson’s eye boring at him.

  “Don’t mind in the least. Glad to oblige. We don’t get one like this every day.”

  Like Harry Goulson, Joad was relishing his part in the affair and making no bones about it. Well, why not? Ungley had afforded Balaclava little enough diversion during his lifetime. Maybe he was atoning by departing in a fashion so much more dramatic than his lectures could ever have been.

  That was a sobering thought. Shandy began to wonder if he might put a spot more zip and dash into his own classroom technique. He thanked Joad, watched with interest while the various exhibits-to-be were marked and wrapped, then followed Svenson and Ottermole back to the cruiser.

  “We got to pick up this Bulfinch, don’t forget,” Ottermole reminded them.

  “I never forget,” said Svenson. “Security office. Next left.”

  Ottermole didn’t have to be told where the security guards hung out. They were, so to speak, brothers under the badge although the campus police were a totally independent force from Ottermole’s; considerably larger, busier, and better managed now that Silvester Lomax and his brother Clarence were jointly in charge, neither of them being willing to assume precedence over the other.

  Being cousins-in-law of Betsy Lomax and both owning cats from the same litter as Edmund, they were of course in full command of the particulars by the time Ottermole and his distinguished escort arrived to inform them. They were, however, surprised to learn that Alonzo Bulfinch was Ungley’s relative and heir.

  “Lonz never said nothin’ to us,” Clarence grunted.

  “No reason why he should,” said Silvester, sticking up for his friend. “Still an’ all, a person might o’ thought—”

  “He never visited Professor Ungley since he got here?” Ottermole cut in.

  “Nope.”

  “You sure?”

  Both the Lomaxes gave him a look. How could they not be sure? The old man had been Betsy’s tenant, hadn’t he? And Lonz was staying at Silvester’s, wasn’t he? Fred Ottermole ought to know damn well by this time you couldn’t get much past the Lomaxes.

  The chief gave them a sheepish grin in return. “Yeah, well, where’s this Bulfinch guy now?”

  “Home asleep in our spare room bed, most likely,” said Silvester. “He was on duty last night.”

  “You don’t say? Now we’re gettin’ somewhere.”

  Ottermole didn’t exactly rub his hands and chuckle, but he did zip up his black leather jacket in a grim and purposeful manner. “So Bulfinch was roaming around up here on his lonesome. What were his hours?”

  “Ha’ past ten last evenin’ to ha’ past five this mornin’.”

  “And the meeting broke up around eleven. It’s a perfect setup. Bulfinch meets Ungley down at the museum so’s Mrs. Lomax won’t know they’ve been together, takes him around back on some pretext or other, whangs him over the head with his own cane, cleans up the handle, or thinks he does, then hightails it back up here to get on his rounds and punch the clock like he’s s’posed to.”

  “Having managed to search Ungley’s rooms very tidily and take away the contents of four file drawers en route?” said Shandy. “That would have taken some adroit footwork, Ottermole.”

  “He went back an’ did the searching later, that’s all. Hell, he had the whole night, didn’t he?”

  “Not so’s you’d notice it,” Silvester Lomax contradicted. “Look here, Fred, we don’t sit around on our backsides up here like you do down at the station. We’re on the go all the time, specially at night. The two guards on outside duty have their routes laid out crossways, kind of, so’s they can keep tabs on each other in case one of ’em runs into trouble. Besides, we got the signals rigged so the man in the office will know if they don’t punch in on the dot. That’s another safety measure. The guards carry them walkie-talkies, but if a man was grabbed from behind, say, he might not get a chance to use it. Purvis Mink was on with Lonz last night, an’ you know Purve. Nobody’s goin’ to try pullin’ nothin’ with Purve around. Not that Lonz would anyways.”

  “How do you know he wouldn’t?”

  “ ’Cause he’s a friend of Silvester’s,” said Clarence.

  Both Lomax brothers folded their sinewy arms over the chests of their neat green uniforms and stood there, firm as the bedrock under their feet and just about as persuadable. Ottermole gave up and took out his car keys again.

  “Okay, boys. Thanks. We better get movin’. You coming, President?”

  Thorkjeld Svenson regretfully excused himself on the grounds that he had a goddamn meeting to attend. Shandy thought of that pile of test papers still waiting for the slash of his tutorial pencil, of the seedling flats in the greenhouse he’d meant to have a look at, of seventeen other odd jobs he’d planned to get around to on this allegedly free afternoon, and said, “I’m coming.”

  “I figured there was no sense in us wasting any more time on that pair,” Ottermole grunted as he
and Shandy got back into the cruiser. “They’re stubborn as mules, both of ’em. Naturally they’re not going to admit Silvester made a mistake hiring Bulfinch. Hell, you can’t trust a man just because you had a few beers with him in the PX thirty or forty years ago.”

  Shandy made a noncommittal noise. Ottermole didn’t say any more. They drove out the back road to Silvester Lomax’s neat two-story Cape Cod house and hauled up in front of the driveway, blocking off an elderly but well-kept blue Chevvie.

  “That’s so if he tries to make a run for it, he won’t be able to get his car out of the driveway,” Ottermole explained.

  Shandy refrained from pointing out that it would be easy enough for the Chevvie to cut across the lawn, assuming it did in fact belong to Alonzo Bulfinch and not to Mrs. Silvester Lomax, who was even now emerging from the house dressed up and carrying a pie basket. He waited for the fur to fly, and was not disappointed.

  “Fred Ottermole, as I live and breathe! Come to pick up a few tips on how to do your job, have you? Too bad Silvester isn’t home just now. He could have told you for one thing that a grown man ought to know better than to block a person’s driveway. I’m due at the Churchwomen’s Tea, and I’ve got to be there early because I’m the one that has to start the water boiling, so you just move that tin lizzie fast or you’ll soon wish you had. Clarence’s wife, Maude, was saying just the other day you didn’t have the brains of a good-sized hen, but I stuck up for you. I said you did, just about. Now do I go over you or through you? Take your pick and make it snappy. Maude’s waiting for me to pick her up and I’m late already.”

  Growling, Ottermole went to move the cruiser. Shandy took the pie basket and walked Mrs. Lomax to her Chevvie, seizing his chance to tell her, “We really came to talk to Mr. Bulfinch.”

  “Lonz? Whatever for?”