The Black-Headed Pins

by Constance Little

  We both scrambled up and went out into the hall to see the men just disappearing into the sewing room. Freda stopped and suddenly clutched at my arm.

  "Don't tell them," she said fiercely. "You're not to tell them that I know who moved him. I'll tell them myself, but first there's something I must do. Say you won't tell them, please, Leigh. I promise, on my word of honor, that I'll go to them myself after I've done what I have to do."

  I promised reluctantly and tried again to get her to tell me what she knew, but she closed her mouth in a thin, straight line and said "No, not yet."

  The others began to drift out of their bedrooms, and presently we were all congregated near the door of the sewing room, with the exception of Mrs. Ballinger, who continued to sleep under the influence of her tablets.

  It was just four o'clock.

  Dr. O'Beirne and the others came out of the sewing room, and the doctor asked about the undertaker. I said I expected him in the morning, and he shook his bead in an annoyed fashion and declared that he should have come last night.

  Rhynda spoke up suddenly. "Was he dead?" she asked painfully. "I mean, the first time? Could he—could he have moved himself?"

  "Definitely not," O'Beirne said shortly.

  He asked us if we would come downstairs, because he wanted to question us. He said it could wait if we wanted to go back and sleep, but we all followed him down almost eagerly.

  Richard went down to jack up the furnace, and Berg began to build a fire in the open fireplace. When he had got it started, he said to me, with something of his old wheedling charm, "Smithy, would you be a boy scout and make us some coffee? This may be a long session, and we're all out on our feet. I know you are too, but you're the only one can make coffee that isn't garbage."

  It was always nearly impossible to resist Berg, so I agreed and asked the others to say which of them wanted coffee. There was not one dissenting voice, and as I turned to go Amy added, "Personally, I feel like a poached egg."

  "Not at all surprising," I said coldly, "because you look like one, too."

  I hurried off before she could think of the right answering insult.

  Dr. O'Beirne did not keep us very long, after all. Richard showed him the scaffolding, and he wanted to know why it had not been mentioned on his first visit. Richard, Berg and I had quite a bit of trouble convincing him of our innocence in the matter, and I think I was under separate and particular suspicion because of my subsequent nocturnal trip to the sewing room. He listened to my story in silence and then turned away and went to the telephone, where he had a few words with the local police.

  He told us all to go back to bed after that. We trailed off upstairs, and Freda came back into my room with me. I did not feel sleepy and was about to try and pump her again when she peered out into the hall and reported that O'Beirne was seated on a chair directly in front of the sewing room door. She declared that everything would be all right now and that she wasn't frightened any more, and she went off to her own room.

  I decided to have a look too, and I tiptoed to the door and opened it to a crack. The chair stood in front of the sewing room door, but Dr. O'Beirne was not there. I opened the door a little wider and caught a glimpse of him disappearing into the bathroom.

  I started to close the door, when a faint sound caught my attention and I looked out again.

  Freda was walking swiftly down the corridor. As I stared at her with my mouth open, she went straight to the door of Donald Tait's room and, without knocking, opened it and went in.

  CHAPTER 8

  I stood staring for some time after the door had closed. There was no doubt about the room. It belonged to Donald Tait, and there was no doubt that Freda had walked straight in without so much as a preliminary tap to announce herself.

  Dr. O'Beirne came out of the bathroom just then, so I closed my door and went back to bed.

  I was completely puzzled. There did not seem to be any reasonable explanation. I wondered how Freda was going to get back to her own room. She could not possibly make it without being seen by Dr. O'Beirne, and it seemed to me that the only alternative was to stay in Donald's room all night. I decided at last that I did not really care and dozed off into a badly needed sleep.

  Doris woke me at eight o'clock and announced, with arms akimbo, that the cop was here.

  "What cop?" I asked sleepily.

  "The town cop."

  "Is there only one?" I asked. "What do they do with the taxpayers' money?"

  "There's a couple others," said Doris, "but Joe's the boss, see?"

  "Yes," I said. "I see."

  "He's my cousin," she admitted reluctantly, "but I ain't to be blamed for that. He's a nagger and a nosy parker. He's been naggin' me all morning to get you folks up so he can ask you a lot of questions that ain't, rightly speaking, none of his business."

  I yawned and dragged myself away from the pillow. "I'll get dressed right away, Doris."

  "Better hurry," she agreed comfortably. "I routed all the others out first, and they're all dressin'. Breakfast's at eight-thirty sharp."

  She turned to go, and I called after her, "Wait a minute. Was Freda in her own bedroom when you went in to wake her up?"

  She looked at me in blank surprise that changed slowly to a scornful chuckle. "Sure. You'll never find that one in any bed but her own, poor soul," she observed and closed the door firmly behind her.

  I knew there would be no chance at the bathroom, with them all dressing at once, so I threw my clothes on and went down to wash at the kitchen sink.

  Joe was seated at the kitchen table downing a hearty breakfast. He was a round fat fellow with very little hair on his head and a sour expression on his face. Nearly all the food that was to have been our breakfast that morning was piled on the plate in front of him. There were three eggs, a heaping mound of bacon, and six pieces of toast. I knew that we had been due for half an egg each, scrambled and proportioned evenly, and one strip of bacon each, and I looked at Joe and his steadily champing jaws with a feeling of sheer panic.

  Doris came over to me and jerked a thumb at her relative. "I had to feed him. He's been nosing around since twenty of six , and his mother would put it all over town about me if I didn't do it decent."

  I thought Joe might take offense at this frank statement, but he continued to shovel food into his mouth as though neither of us existed.

  "Not only that," Doris continued, "but I had to dish up breakfast to the Doc—that feller, O'Beirne—and he's as greedy as Joe here, so that took three more eggs and the rest of the bacon."

  "My God!" I said hollowly. "What are we going to do?"

  She shrugged and turned back to the stove. "Pancakes," she said briefly.

  As I went off, I heard Joe say, "Which one is that?"

  I plunged into the housework and got through quite a lot of dusting and sweeping before the breakfast bell rang. It went off at nine o'clock, exactly, and I knew that Doris had planned it for nine and had told everyone half past eight so that they would be down in time.

  I had hoped that Mrs. Ballinger might sleep late, but to my disappointment she sailed into the dining room with the rest of them. I knew it meant an immediate explanation regarding the pancakes.

  Everyone seemed quiet that morning and vaguely uneasy, with the exception of Mrs. Ballinger, who talked too much. She started off by saying icily, "And what, may I ask, has been done with bacon and eggs this morning?"

  I was too tired for any more diplomacy where she was concerned. I said shortly, "They were fed to Dr. O'Beirne and Joe, the cop."

  Richard raised his head and looked at me. "Joe, the cop?"

  "In the kitchen," I explained briefly. "He's number one boy on the town police force. The force consists of three in all, but the other two are used only for parades and to help old ladies across the street, because Joe can do it all with one hand tied behind him."

  "Leigh," said Mrs. Ballinger, in a deadly voice, "will you stop that stupid nonsense, so that I can get a word in e
dgewise at my own table? You are to tell Doris that she is not to give those people another mouthful! I don't see that I should be called upon to feed them, and I won't have it. It's bad enough for them to trample through my house and upset everything!"

  She continued to whine shrilly through the entire meal. When we had finished, we went to the living room, and she gave voice to a fresh complaint. She looked around her, sniffed, and remarked that the room was not particularly well-cleaned.

  I was so angry that I dared not answer her. I felt that I had done everything humanly possible to keep the house fairly presentable.

  Richard said easily, "It's nice and tidy, but of course it could do with a bit more spit and polish. But I don't believe anyone would dream of blaming you, Mrs. Ballinger, after what you have been through. Leigh, of course, has been doing more than her share, and I'm sure that she'll continue to try and make up for what you are unable to do while you're still so upset."

  I smiled at him gratefully. Mrs. Ballinger gave him a long, cold stare. She knew impertinence even when it was garnished, but she eventually decided to let it pass.

  "I don't quite understand what that policeman is doing here," she said instead. "Will someone kindly tell me?"

  Apparently no one would. I was watching Richard and Rhynda, who were deep in a low-toned conversation—there seemed to be no doubt that they knew each other very well—and I was busy trying to explain to myself an inexplicable feeling of pique.

  Freda and Rosalie sat together on a couch and talked desultorily. I looked at Freda at regular intervals, to see if she were exchanging glances of any sort with Donald Tait, but there was nothing. Her manner to him was as to a stranger whom she hardly knew. Amy, of course, was hanging on to his arm. Berg sat beside me, and it suddenly occurred to me that he had been paying me a little attention just recently. I felt oddly pleased about it.

  I think Mrs. Ballinger was about to make a second demand for an explanation when Policeman Joe appeared suddenly in the doorway. He stood looking us over impersonally and picking his teeth. Mrs. Ballinger turned a mottled red with indignation at the sight of this intruder calmly picking out of his teeth her good bacon and eggs.

  "What are you doing here, my man?" she asked sharply. "If you are a friend of Doris's, you must confine yourself to the kitchen."

  It was obvious that she knew perfectly well who he was. He ignored her, and after completing his casual survey of us, suddenly waved his arm in a large gesture and shouted, "Everyone be seated."

  We all came to attention with startling promptness. There is nothing like a loud raucous voice to get a crowd under control.

  He pinned us down with his eyes, and while we sat silent, he stood rocking backwards and forwards on his heels and toes, hands in his pockets and the toothpick sprouting from one corner of his mouth. When he was good and ready, he started to speak.

  "Someone," he rumbled, "cut the rope on Mr. John Ballinger's scaffolding and glued it together again, and someone moved his dead body to a chair last night. One of youse."

  We stared at him in fearful silence.

  "Doc O'Beirne has taken the body for an autopsy," he continued, "and while I'm waiting for the report, I'm going to question you."

  "Youse," Berg corrected with dignity. "Plural, you know."

  Mrs. Ballinger said shrilly, "By what right?"

  "It's a matter of law and order," Joe deigned to explain. "When it's a case of murder, I have to investigate. That's what they pay me for."

  "I'm glad to know that," Berg said amiably. "I'd been wondering."

  Mrs. Ballinger rose up from her seat and stared before her like a blind person.

  'John," she whispered. "Murdered! Oh no! That isn't possible!"

  The rest of us watched her uncomfortably. We all knew by this time that John had been murdered, or at least we were pretty sure of it.

  I wondered why they bothered to do an autopsy. It seemed quite unnecessary to me. After all, they knew why he died—he had hit the ground too hard.

  I found myself shaking with silent laughter at this point and realized with a shock that I was hysterical. I rested my head against the back of my chair, closed my eyes, and tried to think of ordinary, everyday things.

  Joe started to ask his questions, but I concentrated fiercely on whether I would buy a pink collar or a white collar for one of my dresses. I never decided it, for I heard Freda say clearly, "I know Amy cut that rope, because I saw her do it."

  CHAPTER 9

  The stunned silence that followed Freda's declaration did not last very long, and it was succeeded by a miniature riot.

  When Amy found her voice, she used it long and shrilly, and all the other people who were trying to get a word in were merely chorus. She shouted at Freda, berated us in general, and then blazed at Freda again.

  "How dare you tell a wicked lie like that?" she stormed. "Just for the sake of revenge—don't think I don't know, you vicious shrew!

  Joe yelled, "Miss Perrin!"

  She abandoned Freda and turned on him.

  "Don't you start trying to ask me any questions! I won't have anything to do with it, and I won't be made the victim of a sour woman. I'm through with the whole business. I'm going home at once, Donald!"

  Donald stirred and said uncomfortably, "You can't go now, Amy."

  She flounced out of the room, and Joe watched her stolidly, his eyes speculative and the toothpick still tucked into the corner of his mouth. He made no effort to stop her, but when Donald started after her, he waved him back with a peremptory gesture.

  "Just a minute, young feller, I want to talk to you. Are you engaged to that dame?"

  Donald colored and said, "No," with faint emphasis.

  "Just the boyfriend?" Joe suggested frankly.

  Donald hesitated, glanced around uneasily, and gave a brief nod. Freda flicked her eyes at him and said suddenly and tonelessly, "He has no right. He's married."

  Donald shot her a malevolent glance and said irritably, "Good Lord! Amy knows I'm married—my wife knows that I go out with Amy occasionally. We are just friends."

  Berg nudged me and murmured, "How about being just friends with me, Smithy?" and I choked down a desire to giggle.

  Mrs. Ballinger had assumed an expression of high moral indignation. I could see that she thought she had found an excellent opportunity to get rid of some of her unwanted guests. She dove right in.

  "How dare you, a married man, accompany a young girl like Amy to a houseparty! I won't have anything of the sort under my roof. You'll have to leave at once."

  Donald bowed, murmured, "Glad to," and turned towards the door, but Joe stopped him.

  "No soap, brother," said the Law. "Nobody's leavin' here until I get this thing cleared up."

  He suddenly turned on his heel and left the room, and almost immediately there were sounds of battle. He apparently won out in the fracas and returned presently with Amy in tow. She wore a hat and coat and clutched a purse that did not match either and she had no gloves or suitcase. She must have come down the stairs quietly, for I had not heard her, and I decided that Joe took in more than given him credit for.

  Amy's belligerence had died down and she looked definitely frightened. I knew that she did not frighten easily, and I wondered if Freda's bald statement could possibly be true. And if so, why? It did not seem to make much sense. I think Joe figured that he had broken the back of the morning's work by subduing Amy and he plunged into the investigation without further ado. He brooked no fooling when he asked a question. You answered him, or else.

  We were all putty in his hands but Freda. He stubbed his toe on Freda. She refused steadily to say anything more about Amy or about anything else. She merely passed the remark that Joe could put her on the torture rack but she still would say no more than she had.

  Joe, the iron man, began almost to plead. "Just a few little details, lady," he wheedled. But Freda set her mouth obstinately, and he was forced to give up. He turned his attention to Amy.


  Amy had pulled herself together. She spoke clearly and with something of her usual imperious manner. She denied emphatically a knowledge of John's scaffolding. She had not known that he used one and was only vaguely aware, in any case, that he had intended repairing the roof. She turned on Freda at last and said haughtily, "You had better prove your statement pretty quickly, or I shall sue you for libel."

  Berg chuckled quietly, and I giggled into my handkerchief. Freda ignored everyone and continued to sit like a graven image.

  Joe gave indication that he had finished with Amy, and she swept over to a chair beside Donald and took one of his hands in her own He tried quietly to disengage himself, but she hung on tightly.

  Mrs. Ballinger reared her head and leaned forward excitedly in her chair. "Amy, I will not tolerate your sitting there and brazen holding that man's hand. My only excuse for you is that you probably do not know that he is married."

  Amy looked up quickly and frowned in annoyance. "Who told you that?"

  Joe cleared his throat. "You ladies'll have to quit scrappin'. I can't hang around here all day—I've gotta find out what happened.

  He bore down on us like a steamroller then. He was an inexhaustible questioner, and he insisted on having your entire life's history before he came down to what actually happened. As time went on, I found that I was learning more about the people around me than I had ever known before.

  I believe I was under fire for a longer time than any one of the others, and the only memory I had of it afterwards was that I had told all about my affair with Bill Turner. I had practically forgotten Bill, but by the time I had finished telling it, it sounded as though he had been my grand passion, and since he had gone out of my life I was merely waiting for merciful death to end my suffering.

  Joe had prefaced the inquisition by explaining, "I like to know the whole dope— everything—and then I can tell better if a person is lying or not."

  I reflected bitterly that Joe practically forced you to lie. Bill Turner had been nothing more than an escort to me, but as the appalling saga went on, I found myself the target of a good many sympathetic and pitying glances.