“Sure. But who were the two that got killed?”
“A fellow named Pittsfield was strangled on the second night I was here. Last night somebody stuck a knife in an old girl named Nellie Paxton. They were both patients, and they were both friendly with Miss Van Kamp.”
“Who are they goin’ to pin the murders on?”
“I think they got me in mind.”
“So what?”
“So what,” said Crane.
“I better give the sheriff a call.”
“That’s a good idea. But before you go I want to give you these things.” Crane brought out the glass he had wrapped up in a newspaper. “There are some prints on the glass,” he said. “They belong to an ex-con who works here. I’d like to get his record and anything else you can find out about him. His first name is Charles. I think he’s a New York boy.”
He also handed the letter to the electrician, who read it quickly. He said, “Nobody seems to like you around here.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Crane. “Anyhow, you might have Doc Owens look that over. He ought to be able to tell us something about the person who wrote that. He’s pretty good with handwriting.”
“O. K.,” said the electrician. “How about another drink?”
William Crane had filled one glass and was emptying the bottle over the other when he became tense. He put the bottle down and leaped for the door and swung it open. There was nobody in the hall.
“Kinda jumpy, aren’t you?” said the electrician.
“Who wouldn’t be in this place?” Crane filled the glass. “They got me thinkin’ I’m daffy.”
“You may be right,” said the electrician. He held up the glass. “Here’s how.” They drank.
The electrician said, “Look here.” He pulled a thick red stick with a piece of fuse on the end out of his kit bag. “Me and Tom Burns are in one of those tourist trailers about a mile up the hill. That was the Colonel’s idea. He said we were to stick around if you seemed to be in trouble. And you seem to be in plenty.”
Crane accepted the red stick gingerly. “What’s this for?”
“It’s a Roman candle. It shoots out balls that explode with a hell of a bang in the air. You can hear them for miles around. If you want us, just shoot it off, and we’ll be along in no time at all.”
“The Colonel is full of good ideas,” said William Crane. “If they lock me up, all I got to do is to ask a guard to get my Roman candle for me because I want to call my friends. Or else I carry it everywhere with me. I suppose the best place is in my mouth, like a pipe.”
The electrician did not seem disconcerted. He grinned. “It’s the Colonel’s idea, and we got to do it.” He closed up his bag. “His ideas are pretty good. He was the one who thought of having you put the lights on the blink and us tapping the phone wires so we’d know when they called for an electrician. That got me in here, anyway.” He moved toward the door. “I’ll be back either tomorrow or the next day.”
Crane said, “You’d better fix those lights before you go.”
“What d’you do to them?”
“I stuck a penny in the light at the head of the stairs. All you got to do is to remove the bulb and then go down and put in a new fuse.”
“You’re not so dumb.” The electrician elaborately admired William Crane. “Say, who beat you up?”
“A couple of guards on the first night. On the second night I don’t know.”
“Got any ideas?”
“Plenty. It was probably the same guy that wrote the letter I gave you. At least, they both think I swiped the little tin box, and both would like to get it.”
The electrician scanned Crane’s face. “He did a very artistic job.” He cocked his head, closed one eye. “I think the color scheme is swell.”
“Nuts,” said William Crane. “You’re drunk.”
“Can’t have too much color,” repeated the electrician. “Can’t have too much liquor, either. Too bad it’s all gone.”
Crane produced the full bottle from behind the dresser.
The electrician put down his kit bag again. “If you insist …” He accepted another drink. He had a whole tumbler full. Crane had another drink. Then they both had another drink.
“Where does the doll that was in here sleep?” asked the electrician.
“I don’t know,” William Crane said.
“What! You been here three days and you don’t know where she sleeps?” The electrician located his kit bag with some difficulty. “What have you been doing with yourself?” He edged up on the door and seized the handle. “What have you been doing with yourself?”
William Crane said, “Aren’t you going to fix my lamp?”
“Fix it yourself,” said the electrician. “Remember, if you need us, just light that candle. I’ll be back in a couple of days anyway.” He opened the door, stepped into the corridor.
A few minutes later, as he was putting his dismantled lamp together, William Crane heard the electrician’s voice in the hall. “These rural lighting systems are lousy,” he was shouting. He was apparently carrying on a conversation with someone downstairs. “Always out of order, by God!”
There was a silence, and this was followed by the crash of a heavy object at the head of the stairs and the report of an exploded bulb. There was a muffled cursing.
“Hey! You down there,” the electrician suddenly bellowed. “Send up another bulb, this one was defective as hell.”
Crane could hear doors in the hall being opened, and from the sound of conversation downstairs he judged that a crowd had assembled. After a moment someone climbed the stairs.
“That’s the kind of a bulb, old boy,” the electrician announced to his audience and to whoever had brought it. “We’ll have everything fixed up now, ole boy, ole boy.”
Crane suspected the electrician was addressing Dr. Livermore.
“Now,” the electrician hollered, “some of you mugs put a new fuse in the box down there.”
After another interval the lights in Crane’s room gleamed palely.
“Hey! Hey!” The electrician was jubilant. “If Williams can’t fix ’em, they can’t be fixed.”
Crane heard the electrician march down the stairs, win a brief and bitter argument over his pay, and then, outside, he heard him noisily and affectionately bid his audience good-bye. Finally a car roared out of the driveway with a series of metallic whoops and climbed up the hill past the part overlooked by one of Crane’s windows. As silence frightenedly crept back into the house he watched the black touring car disappear and reappear around bends in the gravel road.
It was now very warm, and the noise of the birds had diminished to sporadic cheeping. The day was poised and assured, its maturity untroubled by wind. William Crane was admiring the sky as it was reflected in the pool, when Dr. Livermore and Miss Evans strolled by toward the trees in the north end of the garden. Through some obscure metallurgy, the sun was pale in Miss Evans’s hair. She walked with a feline undulance that was not quite feminine. Dr. Livermore was talking to her with great earnestness. Watching them with interest, Crane was surprised to see Dr. Eastman come around the corner of the house and, with elaborate indirection, start after them. His face was sullen. Crane felt he did not like Dr. Eastman.
“Hi, Doc,” he called from his window. “Swell day, isn’t it?”
Dr. Eastman started and looked up at Crane. He did not answer, but he reversed his direction and returned around the corner he had just left. Crane tittered and went to get another drink. As he wavered in front of the dresser mirror, pouring the liquor into a tumbler, he winked at himself. It was really excellent liquor.
Chapter X
CRANE APPEARED at the luncheon table quite blithe with optimism and whisky. He found a number of others seated at the table. “It’s certainly a nice day,” he announced.
Dr. Livermore, in his place at the head of the table, nodded. “It’s more like summer than fall,” he said pontifically.
“Indian su
mmer,” Crane said.
“St. Martin’s summer,” Dr. Livermore said.
“St. Raphael’s summer,” Crane said.
Miss Van Kamp was buttering toast at the other end of the table. She said in a sepulchral voice, “Who is to be next?”
“St. Christopher’s summer,” William Crane said.
The others regarded him furtively. He suddenly realized they were no longer friendly, with the possible exceptions of Mrs. Heyworth and Mr. Penny. And it was certain none of them thought him funny any longer. Miss Van Kamp regarded him with grim distaste.
“This is no time for humor,” she said. “There is a murderer among us.”
Miss Queen said, “Who knows but one of us is about to go!” She avoided looking at Crane.
Mrs. Brady’s face was flat and lifeless above an orange frock. She said, “Isn’t there something we can do?” She spoke to Dr. Livermore.
“Won’t you call the police?” asked Miss Queen.
“They certainly should be notified,” Miss Van Kamp said. Her voice was harsh, but it was appealing.
Dr. Livermore coughed in his beard. “That is out of the question.” He broke a piece of toast between his fingers. “Dr. Eastman and I have the situation well in hand.”
There was a defeated silence, and Crane felt a surge of sympathy for the patients.
“Listen,” he said. “None of you are involved in these things unless it is the Doc here.”
Richardson asserted, “It’s Blackwood.”
“Oh, I wish my husband were here,” said Mrs. Brady, Her eyes were moist, and she trembled violently.
Crane said, “It’s not Blackwood. It’s not one of you. I know that.”
“Sure,” Richardson said. “You’re C. Auguste Dupin, the great detective. Why don’t you tell us who did the murders, then?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then what makes you so certain it wasn’t Blackwood?”
“Please, Mr. Richardson,” Dr. Livermore said, “don’t excite Mr. Crane on the subject of detection. Let him have his little opinions.”
Crane said, “I’ll keep my little opinions to myself until the proper time.”
“I am sure Mr. Crane could catch the murderer if he wanted,” said Mrs. Heyworth. He looked at her suspiciously, but her brown eyes were sympathetic. She smiled at him. Richardson explosively pushed back his chair.
“Thank you,” said Crane.
Mrs. Brady’s hands jerked at the neck of her dress. “They strangled Mr. Pittsfield, and now they’re going to strangle me.” She lurched to her feet, ran unsteadily from the room.
All through the luncheon, Miss Van Kamp and Miss Queen were strained and fearful. They left together. William Crane didn’t blame them for being afraid. Now that the whisky was beginning to wear off, he didn’t feel any too good himself.
Mr. Penny followed the two ladies out. He seemed chastened. He tried to wink at Crane, but as an expression of confidence it was a failure.
“Where is Blackwood?” asked Crane of Richardson as he and Mrs. Heyworth prepared to leave.
“Still in bed,” Richardson snarled. “The coward! He knows they will get the truth out of him when he recovers from his sudden illness.” He escorted Mrs. Heyworth to the door, but she halted him there.
She said, “Mr. Crane, you know you are the image of my husband?” She watched him intently with her brown eyes.
“Is that so?” said Crane politely. Mrs. Heyworth seemed disappointed. She turned and pulled Richardson out of the room.
Dr. Livermore was dipping his nervous hand into a green finger bowl when Dr. Eastman came in from the living room. “The sheriff is here,” he said without emphasis.
Dr. Livermore rose abruptly. He forgot to dry his hands.
“Dr. Livermore?” boomed a deep voice.
Dr. Livermore stepped out into the living room. He held the napkin behind his back.
“I’m Sheriff Walters, Peter Walters,” said the deep voice. “This is my boy, Cliff. We heard you had some trouble up here.”
Dr. Livermore had stopped just inside the living room, and William Crane could still see him.
“Sit down, gentlemen.” Dr. Livermore put his napkin in his hip pocket, but a part of it hung out. “I see you have already met my assistant, Dr. Eastman.”
“You bet we did,” said Sheriff Walters heartily. “He wouldn’t let us in at first. But we fixed it up all right.”
Dr. Eastman said, “Purely a misunderstanding.”
“Shorely,” Sheriff Walters said. “But what about this trouble up here?”
“What have you heard?” Dr. Livermore was diplomatic.
“I heard something about a fellow named Pittsfield. You got a patient here by that name?”
“Yes, we did have. But he’s dead.”
“That’s just what I heard. But wasn’t there something funny about the way he died?”
“Strictly speaking, yes,” said Dr. Livermore. “He was strangled by another patient.”
“That’s murder,” said the sheriff severely. He sounded like a large man. Crane wished he could see him. “You know you can be held as an accessory after the fact for failing to report a murder.”
Dr. Livermore’s voice was alarmed. “But, Sheriff Walters, it was done without malice. I fail to see any necessity for a report. The crime, if it can be called a crime, was committed by an insane man. There is no way he could be punished.”
“Well, I don’t want to have any trouble with you, Dr. Livermore. I am willing to overlook that, but how about this other death?”
Crane could see Dr. Livermore’s back straighten. “What other death?”
“The woman. That Mrs. Hackstone.”
Crane decided that Mr. Williams must still have been drunk when he called the sheriff.
“Oh,” said Dr. Livermore. “You must mean Miss Paxton.”
“I don’t know who I mean, but have you or have you not got a murdered woman here?”
“Yes,” Dr. Livermore said wearily.
“Who killed her?”
“I don’t know. I suppose another patient.”
“You suppose another patient?” The sheriff’s voice was sharp. “Do you know the law of the state of New York, Dr. Livermore?”
“More or less.”
“Do you know you are supposed to notify the coroner every time there is a death which you cannot certify is natural?”
“Yes.”
“But you didn’t. Do you realize you have committed two very serious offenses?”
“I’m afraid I have, but I assure you——”
“Never mind. I don’t suppose I’ll be forced to arrest you.” The sheriff’s voice was not unfriendly. “I want to know who you think did the first murder?”
“Mr. L’Adam must have done it. He is very violent at times. He was found loose immediately after the body of Pittsfield was discovered.”
“So! And the dead woman?”
“Just a moment, please,” Dr. Eastman interrupted suavely. “I must disagree with my colleague. I believe both murders were committed by the same person.”
“Who is that?”
“I’d like to have you look the patients over first before I tell you. I wouldn’t want my opinion to influence you in any way.”
“You think it was a patient?”
Dr. Livermore said, “Oh, yes. It must have been. No one employed here would have anything to gain by killing the patients.”
“This is a good case to work on,” said Sheriff Walters. “As soon as we catch the murderer, we got to let him go because he is insane.” He chuckled. “That’s about all the reward a sheriff gets anyway.”
“I imagine the work is not always pleasant,” Dr. Livermore said.
“It’s not so darn bad. How about talking to some of these patients?”
“All right. Should we have them in here?”
“Good a place as any.”
Dr. Eastman moved over to Dr. Livermore and into the square of Crane’
s vision. He bent over and whispered to Dr. Livermore, who nodded enthusiastically. While they were standing together, William Crane heard the screen door close with a thud.
It was Miss Van Kamp. Her voice said, “I beg your pardon. I believe I left my knitting here.”
“Are these little ladies patients here?” asked the sheriff.
Dr. Livermore said, “Miss Van Kamp has been here more than a year. Miss Van Kamp, this is Sheriff Walters. And this is our chief nurse, Miss Evans.”
Sheriff Walters added, “And this is my boy Cliff.”
“How de do,” said Cliff without enthusiasm. His voice was reedy.
“I was taking Miss Van Kamp up to the steam room for a shampoo,” explained Miss Evans. Her voice sounded nice.
“Why can’t we begin on these ladies?” asked the sheriff. “They look very intelligent indeed.”
“You can,” said Dr. Livermore.
“Miss Evans,” said Sheriff Walters, “have you any idea about these—aha—deaths?”
Miss Evans said, “None.”
“Where were you when they occurred?”
“I was with Miss Clayton, listening to the radio, when Mr. Pittsfield was killed. Last night I was in the servants’ house.”
Dr. Eastman said, “That was when Miss Paxton was killed.”
“Was there anyone with you last night?” asked the sheriff.
“I’m afraid not. I did see Charles. He went into the men’s bathroom for a bath as I passed him in the corridor. I heard him in there for almost an hour.”
“And that’s all you can tell us about these—aha—deaths?”
“That’s everything I know.”
“Well, thank you, miss.” The sheriff’s voice sounded very friendly. “That certainly eliminates you—and Miss Clayton and Charles, whoever he is, for that matter.”
“He’s one of the attendants,” Dr. Eastman said.
“Now about this other lady.” The sheriff’s tone was forcedly gallant. “I’m sure you can tell us something of these terrible crimes, can’t you, Miss Van Kamp?”
Miss Van Kamp said, “I certainly——”
Murder in the Madhouse Page 10
