Bud’s room at home was directly across the hall from hers. The blast of the pistol shot indoors must have made a terrific noise. Why hadn’t the boy awakened? Also, why hadn’t Betty immediately called Dr. Derring, who lived only two doors away, instead of merely phoning the police and leaving the cryptic message that someone had been shot? Could it have been to give her time to set the scene, not to cover herself, but to cover young Bud?
If that was what had actually happened, it would explain every perplexing angle of the case: the planted evidence of the cat burglar’s presence, Bud’s strange lack of resentment toward his mother for killing his father. Thinking back to the way Bud had clung to his mother the next day, he wondered if the boy hadn’t been seeking protection rather than solace.
He tried to visualize how it might have happened. According to Betty’s testimony at the preliminary hearing, she had known of Bruce’s infidelity for months, so the boy must have known there was trouble between his parents. Perhaps, siding with his mother, he had gradually developed hate for his father. Suppose the boy had been awakened by a loud argument that night and looked out of his room to see his father berating his mother — perhaps even threatening her with violence.
No, he thought, bringing himself up short, the gun was under Betty’s pillow. She had told him she was keeping one there, hours before the shooting. But the boy could have been sleeping with his mother. In fact, if she had been worried enough about the cat burglar to keep a gun under her pillow, it was unlikely that she would leave Bud alone in his room. He could almost imagine the scene: Bruce coming to the bedroom door, flicking on the light and starting to berate his wife; Betty sitting up in bed, requesting him to leave so that Bud wouldn’t be subjected to the spectacle of his parents fighting; Bud, snaking his hand beneath his mother’s pillow, where he knew she kept the gun, bringing it out and firing before either Betty or Bruce knew what was happening.
He said quietly, “I know you’re innocent of murder, Betty. But is there something in this affair you’re covering up?”
Her eyes widened and her already pale face whitened even more. “I don’t know what you mean.”
She did know, he thought. Perhaps his wild guess wasn’t the answer, but she had held something back about the events of that night and was terrified that someone would discover it.
He said, “Are you in some way trying to protect Bud by not telling the complete story of how Bruce was shot?”
He expected her expression to tell him he had struck home, but she had gained full control of herself again. In a tone of puzzlement he was almost certain was assumed, she said, “I haven’t the faintest idea of what you’re trying to get at, Kirk.”
He saw that even if he had guessed right, nothing was ever going to make her admit it. He had no intention of allowing her to sacrifice herself to protect her son, though. There wasn’t the slightest possibility that at his age Bud would be punished for murder, particularly if he thought he was protecting his mother. If that was the answer, he intended to bring it to light, even if it caused Betty to reject him forever. He resolved to have a heart-to-heart talk with young Bud.
Meantime, there was no point in making her uncomfortable by pursuing the subject.
He said, “Getting back to Bruce — if it’s really that important to you I’ll sit on the story, for the moment at least. But I’m not going to be scooped on it. I think I can arrange to find out the moment any other reporter gets hold of it, and if that happens, I’m going to print it. If the story hits print, it will be in the News, but we’ll only break it just before it would have been printed anyway.”
“That’s fair enough,” she said in a tone of relief. “We’ll hope no other reporter gets hold of it.”
He got back to the newspaper at five of twelve. Just as he started into the city room his father emerged from his office. Marshall paused and the editor gave him an inquiring look.
“I have to make a phone call, Dad,” the reporter said. “I want to try to catch my party before he goes to lunch. Can you wait a minute?”
“Sure,” Jonas said.
Marshall continued on to his desk. The editor followed along and stood waiting as his son dialed the operator.
“I want a person-to-person call to Mr. Wesson of the Wesson, Wesson and Masters law firm in Philadelphia,” Marshall said into the phone. “I don’t know the number.”
He heard the operator call Philadelphia information and get the number. A few moments later he was connected with the elderly lawyer.
“This is Kirk Marshall, Mr. Wesson,” he said. “I wonder if you’d do me a favor?”
“Why certainly, if I can, Mr. Marshall,” Wesson said courteously.
“For certain ethical reasons we’ve decided to sit on the story you gave me. But we would hate to be scooped on it by some other paper. Eventually some other reporter may get to you. I’m not going to ask you not to reveal the story to anyone else, because that would be presumptuous. But I would appreciate it if you would phone me collect in the event another reporter interviews you on the subject.”
“I see. If I called you, you’d have a chance to release the story first. Is that it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“That seems fair, since you got it first. I’ll be glad to go along, Mr. Marshall. What’s your number?”
When Marshall had given it to him and had hung up, he looked up at his father.
“I guess that takes care of the conference I suggested,” Jonas growled. “What’s your reason?”
“Betty thinks it would hurt young Bud. She practically begged me not to print it. I finally promised her I’d handle it this way.”
Jonas glowered down at him for a moment, then said, “All right. A promise is a promise. But if we get scooped on this, I’ll dock you a week’s pay. You going to lunch with Lydia?”
“Not today.”
“Then you can take me. I forgot to bring any money with me this morning.”
Marshall grinned at him. “I’ll stand you up to the eighty-five-cent special at Ward’s. Anything over that you can sign a tab for. They know you there.”
Chapter XVII
After lunch Marshall drove out to Rexford Bay. But to his disappointment, Bruce Case, Jr. was off on a weekend camping trip with the Cub Scouts.
“Max Lischer, Bud’s troop master, phoned just after you did this morning,” Audrey Reed said. “He called to check if Bud was going to the Scout camp at Bear Lake with the troop. It was the first I had heard of it, but when I checked with Bud, he nearly had a conniption fit. Seems this was something planned a month ago and for which he had Betty’s permission. He’d forgotten all about it, and of course she’s had too much on her mind to think about such things. I had one hour to get him packed, into his Cub Scout uniform, and downtown to the chartered bus.”
“When will he be back?” Marshall asked.
“Not until late Sunday night.”
“He’ll probably be pretty sleepy then,” he said. “I’ll drop by to see him Monday morning.”
As he drove back to the office, he thought again that children certainly recovered fast from tragedy. He was sure that Bud loved his mother, and probably missed her, but he obviously wasn’t allowing worry over her predicament to interfere with his social activity.
At two o’clock the following morning the phone blasted Marshall out of a sound sleep. Quickly he picked up his bedside extension after the first ring in order not to disturb his parents. His father purposely had never had an extension put in the master bedroom, so that he and his wife wouldn’t be awakened by middle-of-the-night calls for their son. There was an upper hall extension they could hear, and which usually awakened Jonas if it rang long enough, but ordinarily they weren’t disturbed by his occasional late calls.
“Hello,” he said sleepily.
“Kirk?” a male voice asked. He recognized the voice of night-desk Sergeant Pat Sullivan and came fully awake. “Yeah, Pat. What’s up?”
“Thought you like to k
now that we just caught the cat burglar. I called the chief just before I phoned you and he’s on his way down to question him. Want to sit in?”
“I certainly do,” Marshall said. “Who is the guy?”
“Hold your hat,” Sullivan said. “It’s Herman Potts.”
“Herman!” the reporter said incredulously. “You’re kidding.”
Herman Potts was a local mental defective who spent most of his time seated on the bench in front of City Hall, amiably smiling at passers-by and engaging anyone who would listen in conversation. He was generally regarded as harmless, an obviously mistaken label if he was the cat burglar, for there was nothing harmless about a burglar who prowled through occupied houses carrying an axe, prepared to use it on anyone who surprised him.
“That was my first reaction when Nat Thorpe brought him in,” Sullivan said. “But there don’t seem much doubt he’s our boy. Nat caught him red-handed pulling a job.”
“I’ll be right down,” Marshall said.
Chief Barney Meister was already at headquarters when he arrived. Herman Potts was seated on the long bench stretching the full length of the booking and complaint room along the wall directly opposite the desk. He was a tall, slender man of about twenty-eight, not unhandsome, but with the vacuous expression of the mentally retarded. Marshall had known him all his life, but he had never before taken a really close look at him. He realized now with some surprise that the man had an unusually muscular and wiry build.
The burly chief was standing before the man, and Patrolman Nat Thorpe stood next to the chief. The grizzled desk sergeant leaned his elbows on the complaint counter, listening to what was going on.
“‘Morning, Pat,” Marshall greeted the desk sergeant. “Hello, Nat. You really think you’ve got the right man, Barney?”
Meister gave his head a slow but definite nod. “Nat caught him hanging from a rope in front of a second-story window at the Clark place out at Rexford Bay. Nat’s been pulling right into the driveways out there when he makes his rounds, and he caught Herman square in his headlights. Before Herman could climb back up the rope, Nat jumped out of the car and ordered him to come down or he’d shoot. The rope only reached a little below the window sill, but Herman let loose and dropped fifteen feet. Didn’t seem to hurt him.”
“He landed like a cat,” Thorpe said. “I never saw anything like it. Didn’t even jolt him.”
Herman Potts smiled. “I can jump clear from a roof onto grass,” he said modestly. “I land on my feet and roll. I wouldn’t try it unless there was grass to land on, though. Hello, Mr. Marshall.”
“Hello, Herman,” the reporter said. “You’ve been kind of a bad boy, haven’t you?”
“He had a Boy Scout hand axe stuck in his belt,” Thorpe said. “Show it to him, Pat.”
Pat Sullivan reached under the counter and held up a short-handled axe. The blade had been ground down to such thinness that it looked as sharp as a razor.
“This is what he whacked poor Mrs. Ferris with,” the desk sergeant said. “He’s got it ground so you could shave with it. I imagine it’s what he used to cut screens with, too, because there wasn’t another blade on him. How do you like that? Using an axe to cut wire screens.”
The chief said, “He’s been cheerfully admitting every job we’ve asked him about so far. Including chopping Mrs. Ferris.” His tone became a trifle aggrieved. “I think he would have confessed any time we asked him, even if Nat hadn’t caught him cold. Here the guy’s been sitting on the bench right in front of this building day after day. All some cop would have had to do was walk out and ask him if he was the cat burglar. Herman would have admitted it.”
“I’ll point that out in my news story,” Marshall said.
Meister gave him a sharp look, then realized he was kidding and grinned a little sheepishly.
“Have you asked him about being out at the Cases’ that night?” Marshall asked.
“I was waiting until you got here so you’d know it wasn’t rigged.” The chief turned to the suspect. “Now, Herman, you’ve admitted to entering nine different places out at Rexford Bay. Are there any more we haven’t covered?”
Herman Potts corrugated his brow in thought. “I guess that’s all there is,” he said apologetically.
Marshall said, “Were there any places you started to enter, but were scared off for some reason or other?”
Herman considered this for some time before saying, “Well, there were places I watched for a while, but the people never got around to going to bed, so I got tired of waiting and went home.”
“I don’t mean that,” Marshall said. “Did you ever get up on the roof of a house, then hear some noise inside that frightened you and made you decide not to break in?”
Herman shook his head. “I never climbed up on no roof until I figured everybody was asleep. And nobody ever heard me. I don’t make a sound when I walk. I got these. See?” He held up one foot to show the crepe sole of his shoe.
Marshall had a sinking feeling in his stomach. Thinking back over the various burglaries, he couldn’t recall a single victim ever reporting hearing a sound made by the burglar. Even Mrs. Ferris had heard no noises on the roof or in the house. According to her story, she had awakened more because she sensed another presence in her bedroom than because she heard anything.
But Betty’s story was that she had heard noises on the roof, and later from the direction of the hall window. If she had, she was the only person who had ever heard the cat burglar make any noise.
Chief Meister said, “Let’s pin it right down. Benny, do you know the old Runyon place?”
“Sure. That’s where Mr. and Mrs. Case live. Old Man Runyon and his wife used to live there, too, but they’re both dead. He drowned a couple of years back and she had a heart attack a while later.”
“I guess you know the place,” the chief said. “Did you ever try to break in there?”
“Oh, no. I wouldn’t do that. Mrs. Case was always real nice to me. He’s all right, too, I guess, but I don’t like him as much as her.”
Marshall’s discouragement at the reply was mixed with surprise at his reference to Bruce Case. “What do you mean, you don’t like him as well as her? Don’t you know he’s dead?”
“Is he?” Herman asked with raised brows. “Nobody told me.”
Marshall looked at Meister and the burly chief said, “He can’t read, so he wouldn’t have seen it in the paper. He doesn’t even have first-grade intelligence. And nobody talks to him about anything serious. His folks don’t talk to him at all, except to give him orders, mostly to stay out of the way.”
Marshall tried once again, more out of desperation than hope. “Think hard, Herman. One Sunday night, or early Monday morning, a couple of weeks ago, weren’t you on the roof of the old Runyon place?”
Herman gave his head a definite shake. “No, sir, Mr. Marshall. Like I told you, I like Mrs. Case. I wouldn’t rob her.”
In a last-ditch effort, Marshall said, “Are you just saying that because you wouldn’t want her to know and think bad of you, Herman? Because if you are, she wouldn’t get mad. As a matter of fact it would help her if we could prove you were on her roof that night.”
“Well, I’d certainly like to help Mrs. Case,” Herman said. “She’s a nice lady. But I know she wouldn’t want me to lie. Once when she stopped to talk to me out front I was telling her about Mr. Koontz the hardware man saying he heard I was going to be drafted. She said it was a lie and it was very cruel of Mr. Koontz to lie like that. So I know she doesn’t like lies.”
The reporter let his shoulders sag wearily. That should tie up the prosecution’s case, he thought. Herman Potts would be absolutely convincing on the witness stand. All you had to do was look at his vacantly smiling face when he spoke and you knew he was no more capable of lying than a three-year-old child.
Chapter XVIII
It was nearly three a.m. when Marshall left police headquarters. In his despondency at the devastating effect he knew H
erman Potts’ testimony would have on Betty’s defense, he was in no mood for sleep. Instead of turning toward home, he drove down Center Street in the direction of the dock, intending to park there and gaze over the water while he tried to think of some way to counteract Herman Potts’ story.
As he passed the newspaper office he had a sudden whim and turned left at the next corner to drive past Lydia’s apartment building. He had no intention of stopping, meaning only to drive by and glance at her darkened windows. But to his surprise, there was a light burning in her front room.
All at once he had an overwhelming desire to see her. At that time of night there were no news-hungry reporters around to observe whom he was visiting, he told himself, pulling over to the curb. He entered the building, mounted the stairs and softly rapped on her door.
A little time passed before Lydia’s voice whispered from the other side of the door, “Who is it?”
“Kirk,” he said, keeping his voice down so he wouldn’t be heard by other tenants.
He heard the lock turn and the door opened. Lydia was wearing a filmy black nightgown which showed the outline of her white body beneath it. She looked at him in surprise.
“I just happened to drive by and saw your light,” he said. “What are you doing up?”
She closed and locked the door behind him. “Having some warm milk. I thought it might make me sleep. What are you doing up?”
She didn’t offer him his customary peck of hello, he noted, wondering if she was a bit resentful about his recent avoidance of her.
He said, “I was called down to the police station.”
Slipping off his suit coat, he draped it over a chair and sat on the sofa. There was a nearly empty glass of milk on the cocktail table before the sofa.
“Has something happened?” she asked.
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