Hanged for a Sheep

by Frances Lockridge

  And at the same time, Mullins had Brack. But Mullins had him with a small, heavy blackjack and was lowering him into a chair. Brack wasn’t out, but he looked dazed for a moment. The hard eyes filmed. Then they cleared and he stared at Mullins. Then he said a few words to Mullins, and the voice was still without inflection.

  “Yeah?” Mullins said. “Try it, mug. Any time.”

  Major Buddie quit struggling. He made no objection when Weigand took from his pocket the automatic he had been reaching for. Weigand let him go.

  “All right,” the major said to Weigand. He stared across at Brack.

  “I’d like to kill you, Brack,” he said. “You lousy, small-time crook!”

  Brack answered unexpectedly.

  “You’ve got it wrong, Major,” he said. “I didn’t see her. I was stalling the copper here. Thought maybe it would be useful if I had seen her.” He stared at the major. “What the hell,” he said. “She’s jail bait anyway, the little bitch. I’ll stay bought, Major.” The last was still without inflection. But there seemed to be irony in it.

  The major looked puzzled, and the anger faded a little from his choleric face.

  “She went to meet you,” he said. “I saw her.”

  “Could be,” Brack said. “But I wasn’t there. What the hell? You paid off. You didn’t see us together, did you?”

  The major shook his head.

  “No,” he admitted. “I—”

  “Right,” Weigand said. “Take him out, Mullins. And have the boys hold on to him.” He looked across at Brack. “Assault, Brack,” he said. “We saw you jump the major.”

  Brack said one word. It made Pam jump.

  “Without provocation,” she said. “We all saw it.”

  Brack stood up.

  “It won’t stick,” he said. “You know that, copper.”

  Weigand said he didn’t know. Maybe it would stick.

  “If we need it,” he said, easily. “We’ll just keep it in mind for a while. And keep you around. Maybe we’ll want to ask you some more questions, after we talk to the major here.”

  He nodded to Mullins. Mullins took Brack out. He did not touch him. He merely stayed very close to him, with one hand in a pocket. Brack went without looking back.

  7

  WEDNESDAY

  10:55 A.M. TO 12:45 P.M.

  Weigand told the major to sit down. Weigand sat too. He still held the major’s automatic, and now he turned it in his hands, abstractedly.

  “Well, Major?” he said, after a moment.

  The major looked at him. The major was not so confident as usual; he looked, on the whole, embarrassed.

  “Made a damn fool of myself, eh?” he said, after a moment. “Spilled the beans.”

  “Yes,” Weigand said. “Although it’s understandable, I suppose—under the circumstances. How long have you known about Brack and your daughter, Major?”

  The major moved his thick body in what might have been a shrug. He stared commandingly at the lieutenant, who did not wilt.

  “This is all damned nonsense,” the major said. He said it a little hopefully. The expression on Lieutenant Weigand’s face apparently did not sustain the hope. “Nothing to do with all this,” the major said, decisively. Weigand nodded.

  “That’s quite possible,” he said. “It is also something about which the police will have to make up their own minds. If it doesn’t mean anything, in the end, we’ll forget it. But it’s something that’s come up. So—”

  The last syllable was final, demanding.

  “All right,” said Major Buddie. “Months—three or four months. But the girl don’t know it.”

  So, Weigand said, he had gathered. So—?

  “Tried to stop it,” Major Buddie said. “Naturally. Can’t have Clem going around with a fellow like Brack, can I?”

  “Right,” Weigand said. “I wouldn’t. In your place.”

  But he hadn’t, the major explained, gone directly to Clem herself. He didn’t know whether Weigand would understand. “Know these young people, do you?” he demanded. “Who does?” Weigand answered him. The major approved. The point was, he said, that anything he said to Clem would make her more difficult than ever. Stupid old parent interfering. “That sort of thing.” So he went, instead, to Brack.

  “After I’d tried other things,” he admitted. “Tried to interest her in some young officers at the post. Fine young fellows, as the young ones go. In uniform, too.”

  That should, the major’s tone implied, have decided it. But Clem was incomprehensibly immune to fine young fellows, even in uniform. The major had tried sending her away—South. She had come back. And when these things failed, he had gone to Brack.

  “Nasty customer,” he said. “Didn’t want to listen; couldn’t talk to him, y’know. So it came to money.”

  Brack had listened when it came to money. The major had—and in his own mind Weigand echoed it—a shrewd suspicion that the affair was of no real importance to Brack. Brack could, the major intimated, take Clem Buddie or leave her alone. In spite of everything, this thought clearly infuriated the major.

  “Damned guttersnipe,” the major commented. Weigand nodded. Brack was all of that.

  So, with Brack only casually concerned, the money tipped the scale. Brack promised to avoid the girl.

  “Just a flirtation, anyway,” the major interjected, and his voice seemed to seek reassurance. “Nothing in it—really. Eh?”

  “Possibly,” Weigand said. The major looked at him.

  “You don’t think so, eh?” the major demanded.

  “If you will have it,” Weigand said, “no. But I don’t know. I’m only telling you what I think. It wouldn’t—well, necessarily make any difference to Brack’s attitude. He wouldn’t feel—obligated. Not particularly.”

  “He’s a swine,” the major said. “A——swine.” Then the major noticed that Pam was still there. He got very red.

  “Sorry, Pam,” he said. “Not responsible, eh?”

  “But he is,” Pam reassured him. “He’s worse than anything you can say about him. It’s—it’s what he is I mind.”

  Weigand broke in. He said there was no use, now, trying to make up their minds precisely what sort of object Brack was. There were other matters. For example—

  “How much money?” Weigand said.

  The major hesitated.

  “A lot,” he said. “For me.”

  “How much?” Weigand was insistent.

  “All right,” the major said. “Five thousand. We had—we had a damn auction. Better have shot him and had done with it. Might have known he wouldn’t stay bought. Nothing to do with men like that but shoot them. Eh?”

  Weigand said he could see the temptation.’ But he could not, obviously, approve the major’s suggested cure. And, in any case, what reason had the major to believe that Brack had not stayed bought?

  “How long ago did you give him the money?” Weigand added.

  “Three days or so,” the major said. “Wait a minute. Last Saturday night.”

  “And he’s been seeing your daughter since?”

  “Well,” the major said, “where else did she go?”

  That, Weigand said, brought them to the next point. Suppose, in view of new events, the major revised his story about the night before. The major looked a little surprised.

  “You weren’t in your room around midnight, or a little after,” Weigand told him. “We know that. Neither was your daughter Clementine. Presumably that’s what you meant when you wondered where else she would go than to Brack. Now—let’s start with that.”

  The major tried the quelling stare on Weigand again. Weigand smiled faintly and shook his head.

  “Let’s have the story, Major,” he said.

  The major gave the story. It began, so far as he was concerned, with his going up stairs to his room after visiting Pamela and the cats. He had not, as he had insisted earlier, gone at once to bed. “Wasn’t sleepy,” he said. “Damn coffee at dinner.” He
had read for a time, but he had been worrying about Clem. He had been suspicious when she had been delayed the night before by a reported meeting with some girl. Judy’s effort to explain had not, it appeared, fooled her father. His voice softened when he spoke of Judy. “Good girl, she is,” he reported. “Tries to help everybody.”

  It was a little after 11 o’clock when he heard someone going downstairs past his door. It could only be one of the girls, or Perkins. It hadn’t sounded like Perkins. On an impulse, prompted evidently by his uneasiness about his younger daughter, he had gone to a window of his bedroom—a window facing the street. Because the house was set back from the sidewalk, he could easily see anyone who left the house as the person leaving reached, the walk. And he had seen Clem.

  She came down the steps leading from the house, hesitated a moment on the sidewalk, and turned west toward Fifth Avenue. The major, watching, decided instantly that she was going to see Brack—that the five thousand had been thrown away, serving no purpose. It was clear, even through his clipped description, that many emotions had taken hold on the major—fear for his daughter’s safety and her future, rage at Brack for leading her on, the normal fury of a self-confident man who finds himself cheated. He had decided to go after Clem and find her with Brack and—

  “You had this with you?” Weigand inquired, shifting the automatic in his hands. The major looked at him.

  “What do you think?” he asked.

  “Right,” Weigand said. “I thought you had. And I gather you didn’t find them?”

  The major hadn’t. He had been in uniform and realized he must change. Changing took time, finding his coat and hat in the hall closet downstairs took other moments. Getting to the corner of Fifth Avenue, he had found no sign of Clem.

  But he knew the place Brack frequented—an odd, dark place, half old-fashioned saloon, half night-club, altogether sinister, beyond Eighth Avenue in one of the Forties. On the chance, he had gone there and, after a drink at the bar, he had asked for Brack, not seeing him. There was a stairway in the rear of the barroom, leading up to what were evidently other rooms of the “club,” and he had started for them. But “a couple of thugs” had barred his way, unobtrusively but finally. The major, saving his temper for Brack, had pretended to be looking for the men’s room. After that he had waited around for perhaps a quarter of an hour and left.

  He had not returned to his mother’s house immediately, however. It occurred to him that Brack and Clem might have gone somewhere else and he had tried a few of the better known and more likely spots. He had had a drink at the bar in each and then, cooler, had realized the futility of his search. Clem and Ross Brack might be anywhere in the city, up town or down, east-side, west-side. The major, finishing a final night-cap at a final bar, gave it up. He went back to the house and let himself in.

  “And,” Weigand said, “went on to bed?”

  “Naturally,” the major said. “Two o’clock by then. Late for me, eh?”

  “Not,” Weigand insisted, “stopping anywhere?”

  “Obviously,” the major said, sounding a little puzzled. “Oh, I see what you mean. Bathroom, of course.”

  “Nowhere else?”

  The major started to shake his head and stopped. Then, slowly, he said, “My God!”

  “I went into the breakfast room,” he said. “Through it, anyway—to the pantry. Sand leaves cheese out for us. And things.”

  “Yes,” Weigand said. “And you saw the body?”

  “So help me,” the major said. “There wasn’t any body. There wasn’t anything. I just went through the room, which was dark, went into the pantry, lighted a light, got a sandwich, turned out the light and went back through the breakfast room and—went up stairs.” He stared at Weigand.

  “You believe that?” he challenged. “Better. I didn’t kill Anthony. Why should I?”

  “I don’t know,” Weigand said. “There might be several reasons, Major. Perhaps he was going to get too much money under your mother’s will. Because, Major, somebody tried to poison your mother. And, perhaps, after that attempt failed, remembered—or found out—that Stephen Anthony would get a large part of the estate if she died. And then decided to kill Anthony first, before having another trial at Mrs. Buddie. Does that sound reasonable, Major?”

  “Not to me,” the major said. “Damn nonsense. Sounds like the theory of a fool.”

  Weigand was unperturbed. He said there could be other theories. Then he spoke quickly.

  “By the way, Major,” he said. “Wasn’t it Anthony who first told you about your daughter and Brack?”

  The major stared at him.

  “What if it was?” he said. “You don’t kill a man for doing you a service.”

  “Right,” Weigand said. “You don’t kill a man for doing you a service. If it is a service. And if he doesn’t want to be paid too much for it.” Weigand leaned forward suddenly, intentionally dramatic. “What was Anthony blackmailing you about, Major?” he demanded.

  The major’s face was not normally expressive. It was hard, now, to tell what he thought. But to Pam, watching, it seemed that the eyelids blinked over the blue eyes, as if protecting them from a threatening hand. But when the major spoke, his voice was quiet—almost too quiet.

  “Blackmailing me, Lieutenant?” he repeated. “Damn nonsense. He wasn’t blackmailing me.” There was the faintest possible emphasis on the last word, as if the major’s mind had tricked his voice. Apparently he heard it. “Or anybody,” he added, quickly. “So far as I know.”

  Weigand looked at him for long seconds. Then he leaned back in the chair.

  “All right, Major Buddie,” he said. “That will be all, now. Thank you.”

  The major stood up. He looked down at Weigand.

  “How about my gun?” he said. “Do I get it back? It’s an issue gun.”

  Weigand looked up at him and slowly shook his head.

  “Not right now, major,” he said. “Eventually—I hope. But right now the boys in ballistics will want to look it over.” He paused. “You see, major,” he said. “Right now it’s the only gun we’ve come across. And Anthony was shot.” He looked at the gun. “With a .45, probably,” he added. “Like this. We’ll know more when we find the bullet.”

  The major stared at him.

  “That’s not the gun, Lieutenant,” he said. He said it in a tone of finality. But Weigand’s face revealed nothing.

  “I hope not, Major,” he said. “For your sake, I hope not.”

  Weigand and Pam and Mullins watched the major turn on his heel and march to the door. There was a faint smile on Weigand’s face.

  “I do hope not,” he said. “I like your cocky little cousin, Pam. I’d rather pick on someone else.”

  He continued to gaze after the major. Then he brought his attention back.

  “And so I must,” he added. “Get Miss Clem Buddie, Mullins, will you?”

  Mullins said, “O.K., Loot,” and rumbled off. Weigand laid the automatic on a table nearby. He looked at Pam and half-smiled and shook his head. She misinterpreted the gesture and started to get up.

  “No, Pam,” he said. “Stick around. You may be useful.”

  Pam stuck around.

  Clem came and she was lovely and all bravado. She had seen Brack in the house, or had been told about him, and she was armed against questioning. Her first remark was to prove her confidence and indifference.

  “Lieutenant,” she said, standing in the door. She was wearing slacks, now, and a pale green sweater and she looked as if she were masquerading in the clothes of a little girl. “Lieutenant, I think it’s absurd with all you policemen around. But somebody’s gone off with Nemo’s leash. His new leash.”

  Weigand looked at her, as if she had made a reasonable and expected remark.

  “Come in, Miss Buddie,” he said. “Sit down. Perhaps we can find it for you. I gather Nemo is a dog?”

  “Definitely,” Clem Buddie assured him. “A cocker. And the leash is green and made of
braided leather. Judy just got it for him the other day, and it’s gone.”

  “Well,” Weigand said, “we’ll let you know if we come across it. We probably will. Meanwhile, there are one or two other things.” He paused and looked at her, saw her get ready. She was not as poised as she thought she was, he decided. “About Ross Brack, of course,” he said.

  She was ready for that.

  “Ross Brack has nothing to do with any of this,” she said. “Or with you. He doesn’t like policemen.”

  “No,” Weigand said, “I don’t suppose he does. But that isn’t the point, Miss Buddie.” He broke off, began again. “I won’t pry into anything, Miss Buddie,” he told her. “Not unless it becomes necessary. All I want now is to know where you and Brack were last night. And don’t tell me you were here in the house, because we know you weren’t.”

  “I went out,” Clem said. “By myself. Not with Ross.”

  “You left the house some time after eleven,” Weigand clarified. “You went by yourself. You were not with Brack. Where were you, Miss Buddie? Who were you with?”

  “Whom,” Pam thought to herself. But it was no time to bring it up.

  “I wasn’t with anybody,” Clem Buddie said. “I—I just went for a walk. I couldn’t sleep.”

  Weigand looked amused. She didn’t like him to look amused, and showed it.

  “Try again, Miss Buddie,” he suggested. “Make it better, this time.”

  “I may have dropped in some place,” she said. “To get warm. I wasn’t out long.”

  “A drug store?” Weigand suggested. “A lunch counter? Or a bar, perhaps?”

  “What difference does it make?” she demanded. “What business is it of yours?”

  There was a man dead, Weigand explained, as if to a child. She didn’t like that, either. He had been killed somewhere around one o’clock, earlier or later. He was investigating the murder. He had to find out where everyone was.

  “You’re old enough to appreciate that, Miss Buddie,” he said. “You’re not a little girl. And I doubt if you’re a fool—enough of a fool not to understand that you have to account for your time. Or enough of a fool to go walking around New York in the middle of the night without reason. Where did you go? And why?”