Mr Splitfoot (Dr Basil Willing)

by Helen McCloy

  “You’re sure you remember the card you picked?” Lucinda was saying.

  “Oh, yes, it’s the—”

  “Don’t tell me! That would spoil the trick. I’m not supposed to know what card it is.”

  “But you do?”

  A giggle. “My clairvoyant powers . . . Oh, here’s Dr. Willing.”

  “Don’t let me interrupt.” Basil drew up a chair.

  “It’s an old trick Daddy taught me,” said Lucinda. “You probably know it already.”

  “I do indeed.” Basil smiled. “It was old when I was a young man in the Navy. But go on. Let’s see if you know all the refinements.”

  She didn’t. After five minutes, Basil said: “The first time you go through the pack you must pass the card you know he picked.”

  “Why?”

  “That’s when you give the audience a chance to double their bets. They think you missed that card because you didn’t recognize it. They think the trick is failing. It never occurs to them that you are so diabolical that you miss that card deliberately, knowing that if you do, they’ll double their bets. As soon as they have, you say: ‘I’ll just go through the pack once more . . .’ And that time of course you pause triumphantly and say: ‘Here’s the card you picked. How did I miss it that first time?’ ”

  “You must have won a lot of bets when you were in the Navy,” said Vanya.

  “Not at first. I was the sucker who lost until someone let me in on the secret.”

  “It’s all misdirection and bluff, isn’t it?” said Lucinda. “Like poker and sleight of hand and—”

  “And murder,” said Basil quietly.

  Lucinda dropped a card, recovered it. Vanya took the pack from her and began to reshuffle it. Lucinda sat still as if she were afraid to speak.

  Vanya set the pack down on the table with a little snap and threw himself back in his chair. “Are you accusing us?”

  “No,” said Basil. “Not of murder.”

  “Of something else?”

  “Of concealing some evidence and falsifying other evidence. Those are serious charges. Why did you write that silly letter and leave it where the police were sure to find it?”

  Vanya and Lucinda looked at each other. It was Lucinda who spoke.

  “Are you going to tell the police?”

  “It will be better for you if I do. It won’t do either of you the slightest good to get off with a thing like that scot-free.”

  Vanya cut the deck, drew a card and turned it over. It was the Queen of Spades. “Ugh!” Hastily he thrust it back into the pack and shuffled again.

  “I’m waiting for an answer to my question,” said Basil.

  “We were trying to help, really.” Lucinda sighed. “I suppose you won’t believe this, but we were. You see I’d overheard a conversation the afternoon before David Crowe was killed. A conversation between him and his wife.”

  “You were in the attic?”

  “Yes. It was the first time I’d been there. I knew Vanya had a hiding place, but he wouldn’t tell me where it was. I was in the upper hall that afternoon sort of looking around for it and I was lucky. I found it. Vanya hadn’t said anything about the eavesdropping part of it. He didn’t know about that because he’d only been in the attic when the house was empty. So it was a real surprise when I heard the voices.”

  “You’re sure it was David Crowe and his wife?”

  “Oh, yes. I’ve known them for years and I’d have known their voices anywhere. Quite distinctive, you know. His sort of round and resonant and hers nasal and whiny. They were speaking quite loud. He was angry and jealous. He practically accused her of having a lover. I heard the whole thing and then, when he was killed, I realized that no one else knew anything about that situation, except Mrs. Crowe, and she wasn’t going to talk about it for obvious reasons. Yet it might have a lot to do with his murder. At the very least, it gave her motive. I didn’t think the police would pay much attention if I just told them about it. I kind of hated to admit to them that I’d been eavesdropping and I didn’t want to tell them or anyone else about the attic. If it were no longer a secret, Vanya and I couldn’t use it as a hiding place any more.

  “So I told Vanya and he had this marvelous idea. Instead of just telling the police, why didn’t we write a love letter and leave it where the police would find it? They’d have to question everybody about a love affair. We thought, since Mrs. Crowe was guilty, she’d break down under questioning and tell the police all about her love affair. Only she didn’t.”

  “The guilty don’t always confess.”

  “I suppose not, but I was surprised when I overheard her telling the police so calmly that she loved her husband and he loved her and they had a beautiful relationship and she never even thought about another man after she married him, when all the time I knew—”

  “You overheard all this when you were in the attic this morning?”

  “Yes, and I was shocked!”

  Basil smiled. “Suppose she was telling the truth?”

  “But how could that be? I heard Crowe accusing her.”

  “And you heard her denying his accusation. Suppose she was telling the truth then?”

  “But then what made him so jealous?”

  “That’s an important point.”

  They waited for Basil to elaborate, but he didn’t.

  “How did you guess we wrote that letter?” asked Vanya.

  “Guess?”

  “Well—deduce. . . .”

  ‘The letter was immature, almost burlesque. Of all the people here, only you two could possibly have written it. When I realized that Mrs. Crowe was probably not involved in any love affair—”

  “She wasn’t? How did you find out?”

  “Let’s say I guessed it. The fact that the letter was left where the police were sure to find it was significant. It suggested a clumsy attempt to incriminate someone with forged evidence. Who would do such a thing so clumsily but the very young?”

  “We didn’t want to incriminate her,” insisted Lucinda. “We didn’t think she’d murdered anybody. We weren’t even sure there’d been a murder then. But we did think that the situation between Mrs. Crowe and her husband might have something to do with his death and that the police ought to know about it.”

  Vanya was watching Basil’s face. “You don’t think our letter had anything to do with her death, do you?”

  “No, she would have died anyway. But let this be a warning to both of you. It might have had something to do with her death. Don’t play with murder, ever.”

  “So it was murder?”

  “Yes. We have the weapons now. Needle-sharp lengths of fine steel thrust into the head at the base of the skull under the hair, silent and quick.”

  “They were both killed?”

  “And by human agency. You can forget all about death from shock and Mr. Splitfoot. He exists, but he’s not disembodied. He’s in human shape with human attributes, and he’s a murderer. I hope I’ve convinced you of that. It’s important that you should not conceal evidence any longer.”

  “What makes you think we are?”

  “Aren’t you?” Basil tossed the little ivory elephant on the table. “Do you know what that is?”

  There was a whistle of indrawn breath from Lucinda. “I think I know. It’s the head of a hatpin, isn’t it? There were a lot of old-fashioned hatpins in a trunk in the attic with various handles. I remember ivory elephants. There should be two. They were all in pairs.”

  “There were. Two murders and two weapons. Each time the little elephant was broken off short under the victim’s hair, so the weapon might have escaped notice altogether if the autopsy had not been so thorough. This ivory elephant was found in the fireplace in this room where the murderer must’ve tossed it, hoping it would not be noticed with the ashes and other debris in the fireplace. An ivory elephant is just the sort of fancy ornament ladies indulged themselves in before 1914, when they wore big hats on top of high coiffures and had to p
in the hats in place. I am quite sure that when Captain Marriott gets here with the steel shaft found in Crowe’s body we will find that the broken end of the shaft fits the tiny rusted hole in the elephant’s side.

  “The police found the elephant in the fireplace the morning after Crowe died. The murderer may have hoped it would burn. Even if it didn’t, there was a good chance it would escape notice in the ashes and other debris there. No murderer can risk being caught with evidence like that on his person. If something must be disposed of quickly, a fire is the logical place. But there should have been something else there. I looked for it in the ashes when the police found the elephant, but it wasn’t there. I think one of you two had found it already and removed it. Inexperience often apes nerve. People with more experience than you two would have been afraid to keep quiet about a thing like that. Where is it?”

  Still they hesitated.

  “Oh, really!” said Basil impatiently. “I can tell you what it is. A piece of thin, flexible metal with a hole in it and possibly a screw to match.”

  “Well, I’ll be—” Vanya dug down into his hip pocket and dredged up two small objects and tossed them on the table.

  “How did you know?” Vanya no longer used the word guess.

  “There had to be some explanation for Mr. Splitfoot.”

  “And this explains him?”

  “Partly. A piece of it is missing, a plastic piece that probably melted in the fire or turned into a shapeless blob that was unrecognizable.”

  “What is it?”

  “A clicker. Haven’t you ever been in one of those large city hotels where size and efficiency are more important than style or comfort? Haven’t you noticed that once you’ve registered, the clerk summons a bellboy to take your bags by making a sharp castanet sound with one hand? It’s louder than a snap of the fingers and not quite so loud as a bell and much more distinctive in a lobby where telephone bells are ringing most of the time. It’s loud enough to attract attention without being loud enough to disturb anyone. Some, like this one, are made of flexible metal fixed with a screw inside a sort of plastic cap, so small it can easily lie hidden in the palm of a man’s hand.

  “I thought of it when I remembered that Mr. Splitfoot’s raps had had a castanet sound. Those raps had to be made by someone in the living room. Vanya was at home, as his telephone call proved, and there was no one else in any other part of the house except Martha in the kitchen, and so she was too far away to make the raps.

  “How could such sounds be made in full view of everyone else without any apparent movement on the part of anyone? A clicker was the only way. It was small enough to be palmed, and invisible while it was being used. The only movement needed was a slight contraction of one hand, which would not show. It would most likely be tossed into the fire afterward when no one was looking to make sure that it wouldn’t be found on the person who used it in case Crowe’s death did not pass for a natural death and there was a search for a weapon as soon as his body was found.”

  “But . . . but . . .” Lucinda was gasping. “The sound did seem to come from outside the room. Don’t you remember?”

  “Of course. Nothing is harder to determine than the direction of a sound when there is no visual clue to it. Only this afternoon I was startled by Tobermory’s voice and I had no idea where it was coming from because I couldn’t see him. This is something that has been tested many times in psychological laboratories. The night we heard Mr. Splitfoot, the idea was already planted in our minds that the sound was not coming from among us, and there was no visual clue to contradict this. We couldn’t have seen a hand move as slightly as this hand must have moved. So we all felt the sound was coming from outside the room or at least outside our own group.”

  “Then it was all planned?” said Lucinda.

  “Not all of it. Some of it was swift and brilliant improvisation by an opportunist who seized upon any raw material at hand the way some birds will weave any chance met thread or string into the texture of a nest.”

  “Are you going to tell us who it is?”

  “What makes you think I know? I’ve told you a little of what was done and how it was done, but I haven’t said that I know who did it or why.”

  “Do you know?”

  “I can guess, as you would put it, but I may be wrong. You can’t expect me to tell you until I’m sure. Why don’t you ask Martha to get you something to eat now?”

  “I’m not hungry,” said Lucinda.

  “I am!” Vanya rose with alacrity.

  “I don’t want to bother Martha if no one else is eating,” objected Lucinda.

  “We don’t have to bother her,” retorted Vanya. “We can make sandwiches ourselves.”

  Lucinda managed a rather pale smile. “You know something that has always bothered me? In books, especially mystery stories? When the author’s forgotten what time it is and suddenly realizes that his characters haven’t eaten anything for hours, he sets them all to making sandwiches or ‘cutting’ sandwiches if it’s an English book, but the author never tells you what kind of sandwiches and I always want to know. Cucumber or chicken or what? I get to wondering so much about the kind of sandwiches that I lose the thread of the story. What sort of sandwich would people have in the middle of a crisis? Something very French and fancy like creamed foie gras on pain au lait? Or just ham on rye?”

  “How about a club sandwich?” said Vanya.

  “Oh, all right. Isn’t it odd how the word sandwich all by itself suggests something rare and delectable, but the moment you specify what kind of sandwich it seems commonplace and uninteresting.”

  “No sandwich is uninteresting if you’re as hungry as I am now,” said Vanya. “I said club sandwich because it’s the heartiest.”

  “But it means we’ll have to go to all the trouble of cooking bacon.”

  “I’ll do that if you’re too lazy.”

  They had reached the swing door into the pantry when Lucinda paused. “Dr. Willing, there’s a lot you haven’t explained yet. Suppose the raps were made by a clicker and suppose David Crowe was stabbed at the base of the skull with a hatpin, you still haven’t explained how or why he rang that bell upstairs just before he died when all the other men were downstairs. Are you going to say that they mistook the direction of sound a second time? That the sound didn’t come from upstairs where Crowe was?”

  “No, I shan’t say that because I’m convinced that it did come from the haunted room where Crowe was.”

  “Can you tell us how?”

  “I’ve already told you more than I should. Run along and get your sandwiches.”

  Lucinda went on through the swing door. As it swung back, Vanya stopped it and looked at Basil penetratingly.

  “You’re making things easy for Lucinda, aren’t you? Is this going to be rough on her at the end?”

  “Probably. If you can think of any way of getting her over to your mother’s house, do so. If not, stay with her and stay close to Martha.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  BASIL DIALED the number of the garage in Catskill. “Is my car ready?”

  “Been ready half an hour. You can pick it up any time now.”

  Next he called the garage in the village. “I would like a taxi to drive to Catskill so I can pick up my own car there. . . . Yes, I understand I’ll have to pay for the trip over though I’m coming back in my own car—”

  “Dr. Willing! You mustn’t!” The door to the hall burst open and Folly flowed into the room. “I’ll drive you to Catskill.”

  “I couldn’t think of putting you to all that trouble.”

  “No trouble at all. When you get your own car, you can follow me back here. It’s so easy to get lost on those mountain roads after dark, as you found out the other night.”

  “I’ll never hear the end of that, will I?”

  “It’s a tricky road. I’ll show you a short cut from Crowe’s Clove to this house.”

  “But I hadn’t planned to come back to this house,” sai
d Basil. “I thought it would be better for everyone if Gisela and I went on to the ski lodge tonight. If the police want me, you can tell them where we are. I’m sure you understand.”

  “Then I’ll show you the way to the ski lodge. My car’s white and easy to follow after dark. Do me good to get out of the house for a while. I’m getting claustrophobia here. Let me talk to those taxi people.”

  She reached for the telephone and Basil surrendered it. “Mr. Gregg? Never mind this call. I’ll be driving Dr. Willing. That’s all right. Good night. . . . You want to go now?”

  “The sooner the better.”

  “Just wait till I get my coat.”

  She came back enveloped in oatmeal tweed lined with beaver. There was a hood that protected her head and framed her face in the soft brown fur. Boots of supple brown leather that looked Italian came up to her knees. She was drawing on fleece-lined gloves to match.

  At the door she flipped a switch and floodlights shone on the path to the garage. Basil followed her into the numbing cold of a winter night in the mountains. Always aware of ancient hills, and even more ancient stars above the hills, a human being could not help feeling uncomfortably small and temporary in this landscape.

  “I’ll back the car out.”

  Her voice only emphasized surrounding stillness as the floodlights emphasized surrounding darkness. Basil waited ankle-deep in snow as she backed the car out of the garage and halted it. He got into the seat beside her. The car backed and turned and he heard the jingle of tire chains.

  “You think chains better than snow tires?”

  “Up here I use both! Chains for a snowfall like this. Snow tires for ordinary weather. It won’t be bad once we get to the county road.”

  “It was well plowed and sanded this morning.”

  “After today’s sun a little snow may have melted and re-frozen as ice after sunset. The only place you really have to watch is that corkscrew pass over the mountain where you have cliffs rising on one side and a bottomless pit on the other for several miles.”