Crane said, “Better look in your bed—that’s where I’m more likely to be.” For the first time he felt an admiration for her.
“You have an evil mind,” Miss Evans said. “What did you really see in Dr. Livermore’s office?”
“Plenty.”
Miss Evans bent toward Crane and laid cool fingers on his hands. Her face was earnest in the subdued light. “You may not know it,” she said, “but a girl has to eat. If I hadn’t done what he wanted, I would have been dismissed. I can’t afford to be dismissed.”
“Why not?”
“Reasons … family reasons.”
“Why don’t you marry Dr. Eastman?”
“He won’t have me until he makes some money.”
“Doesn’t he get paid here?”
“Oh, certainly.” Miss Evans laughed again, bitterly. “But not as much as he thinks is necessary for a wife.” She withdrew her hand.
William Crane changed the direction of the conversation. “Do you think Dr. Livermore has the box back again?”
“I don’t know.”
“I wonder if the key is still in the box.”
“I don’t know that, either.”
“Have you ever seen the key?”
“No, I’ve just seen the box.”
“You’re sure Dr. Eastman has lost both the key and the box?”
“He said they were gone.” Miss Evans’s eyes were alert and bright. “You heard him yourself.”
“He might be trying to make you think they were gone.”
“I don’t think so.” Her lips were scornful. “He wouldn’t fool me.”
William Crane matched her tone. “You don’t think he would?” He leaned toward her. “Did you ask him what was in Miss Van Kamp’s New York vault?”
“He said there was just some old jewelry.”
“He didn’t mention there was cash worth eight hundred thousand dollars?”
Miss Evans pushed Crane’s knees aside. She climbed over him and out of the ambulance. “The son of a bitch,” she said. She marched off in the darkness.
Crane took a last drink from the bottle and put it back in its hiding place. He walked cautiously out of the garage and was slinking toward the guest house when a heavy figure loomed up a distance in front of him. Crane stepped back in the shrubbery. He felt a little giddy.
The figure was Joe Kassuccio. He emerged from the darkness cautiously and relentlessly. He was walking on the gravel path, and he stared suspiciously at the spot in the gloom where Crane stood.
“Who’s there?” he demanded gruffly.
“Sheriff’s office,” said William Crane. He stepped quickly out onto the path and hit the man with a roundhouse swing to the cheek bone. Mr. Kassuccio grunted and fell on his back, his head a dark blob on the white pebbles in the path. Crane put his right heel in the exact center of the upturned face and threw his entire weight onto his right leg. Then he spun clockwise. There was a cracking sound, and under his heel it felt juicy. He stepped off the face, rubbed his heel on the grass at the side of the walk, and then walked swiftly to the guest house. On the front steps of the porch the sheriff was sitting. He was obviously waiting for dinner, and he had a cigar between his teeth. He did not see Crane.
One of the windows in the colorama room was partially open and Crane slid through it and walked unobserved up the stairs. But, as he was a few feet from his door, Deputy Ty Graham moved slightly in his chair. He was not quite awake, but he was sleeping lightly. Crane retreated to the women’s steam bath near the other end of the hall. He picked up a small white enameled bath stool in one of the showers and carried it out into the hall and tossed it out the closed end window overlooking the front steps. As the pane of glass crashed, he uttered a piercing falsetto scream and stepped back into the ladies’ bath. Deputy Graham awoke from his stupor with his feet already in motion. He raced past the ladies’ bath and peered out the window.
“What’s the matter down there?” he bellowed.
Crane was already down to his room when he heard the sheriff’s indignant answer:
“What the hell’s the matter up there? You trying to kill me?”
A few minutes later a much chastened deputy peered into Crane’s room. From the tumbled condition of the bed it was clear that Crane had been asleep for some time. He was still asleep. He even snored slightly.
Chapter XIII
THE DEPUTY shook William Crane. He had been shaking him for some time.
“Huh?” Crane said. He pretended that he had been very deeply asleep. “Go away. I’m not well.” He buried his face in the pillow.
The deputy shook him again. “Sheriff wants you downstairs.” He turned Crane around. “You’ll feel all right when you get up.”
“Oh no,” said William Crane.
The deputy led him into the bathroom and filled the wash basin with cold water. “Stick your head in that,” he ordered.
Round his ears the water tingled, and in his nose and eyes it smarted. It was exceptionally cold, and it made William Crane’s head revolve dizzily for several seconds. He did not know whether he was going to be sick or not, and then, suddenly, he felt fine. He dried his face and head with a rough bath towel and combed back his hair.
“That isn’t such bad liquor,” he assured the deputy.
Deputy Ty Graham’s wrinkled face assumed an expression of injury. “You hadn’t ought to have let me drink so much of that bottle,” he said. “A little more and I might have fallen asleep. The chief don’t like his men to drink.” He looked at Crane intently.
“Neither does the doc,” said Crane. “We don’t have to say anything about it, do we?”
“I should say not. No sir! We’d best forget about it.”
William Crane put on his tie, pulled on his pants, and reached for his shoes. Blood was still fresh on the heel of his right shoe, but he put it on anyway.
“What does the sheriff want?” he asked.
“Somebody tried to kill him with a chair. They threw it at him from the front end of the hall here.”
“No!” William Crane was astonished. “Who was it?”
“That’s what the chief is going to find out. Somebody up here did it, and they have to be here still. We got all the exits blocked. He’s going to question everybody downstairs.”
As they stepped out in the hall, William Crane asked, “Didn’t you see who it was? You were out here in the hall, weren’t you?”
“I was watching you all the time, not the hall.”
“Oh!”
Sheriff Walters was seated in the living room. He was chewing tobacco vigorously, and his frosted blue eyes gleamed wickedly. Miss Van Kamp, Miss Queen, and Mr. Penny were perched on the edge of the lounge by the fireplace. There was a strained, frightened expression on their faces, and Miss Queen’s fingers clutched nervously at the fringe of her black dress. Richardson sat on the arm of a chair in which was Mrs. Heyworth. She smiled reassuringly at William Crane, her teeth white against her delicate brown skin. She did not seem especially afraid. Cliff stood at the foot of the stairs, and at the top was the lanky figure of Deputy Tom Powers.
“How many more?” he called down to Cliff.
“There’s that fellow Blackwood and your girl friend, Mrs. Brady,” said Cliff.
“No more dames for me,” said Deputy Powers. “I’ll get the fellow, and if you want Mrs. Brady, come and get her yourself.”
Sheriff Walters heard this mutiny without anger. “Get one of the nurses,” he told Deputy Graham. “She’ll get the lady down.”
Soon Deputy Powers marched down the stairs with Blackwood. The latter was plainly frightened; his face was distorted, and his eyes were wild. His lips trembled with protest that he was unable to voice. He collapsed into a seat under a blue shaded lamp, his appearance that of a trapped animal. A few seconds later Deputy Powers returned up the stairs with Miss Twilliger. The sheriff turned to the assemblage.
“Look here,” he said. “Somebody tried to kill me by throwing a ch
air from the window on the second-floor hall. That’s a serious matter. Now, what I want to know is: who done it?”
The patients looked surprised and faintly relieved. It was clear that the scream they had heard meant to them only one thing—murder.
“If nobody’s going to tell me,” the sheriff said darkly, “I’ll find out for myself.” He swept blue eyes bright with suspicion over the women. “It was a lady.”
Behind him Mrs. Brady arrived on the arm of Miss Twilliger. Mrs. Brady was dressed in an evening gown with gold leaves sewn over a web-like material of brown thread. Her face was powdered heavily, her lips were bright, her eyes mascaraed; but she had forgotten to do her hair. It hung in two pigtails over her bare back. She nodded graciously to the sheriff, who had turned to glare at her, and marched to a chair by the fireplace. She evidently intended to ignore the dancing incident of the afternoon. Crane was astonished at the repose of her heavily made up face until he saw her eyes, which were like two frightened prisoners staring out the peepholes of a white adobe jail; waiting for daybreak and a Mexican firing squad.
“Is that everybody up there, Cliff?” Sheriff Walters demanded.
Cliff said, “I guess so.”
“I’ll take a look,” said Deputy Graham. He looked slyly at Crane as he mounted the stairs. Crane remembered he hadn’t told him the liquor was all gone.
The sheriff said, “Now, let’s get back to business. Who let out that scream when the window broke?”
There was no response.
“It was a woman,” Sheriff Walters continued. “It must have been one of you four. Nobody’s come out of this house since that chair was throwed at me. Now, where were you, Miss Queen, when that window was broke?”
“I was with Miss Van Kamp,” said Miss Queen without looking up. She was twisting a handkerchief in her hands.
“Is that right, Miss Van Kamp?”
Miss Van Kamp nodded; then thought better of it. “I don’t see that it’s any of your business,” she said.
The sheriff took a deep breath. “You don’t think it’s any of my business to try to find out who’s trying to kill me?” His face grew red. “Miss Van Kamp, was or was not Miss Queen in your room at the time of the scream?”
“She was not.”
“She wasn’t?” The sheriff seemed to grow in triumph.
“No. I was in her room.”
“Didn’t either of you scream?”
“No.”
“How about you?” The sheriff scanned Mrs. Heyworth. “Where were you?”
“I was reading in bed.” Mrs. Heyworth’s voice was silky.
“Nobody with you?”
“Nobody.”
“Did you scream?”
“No, but I heard it.”
“How about you, Mrs. Brady?”
“I was dressing, and I didn’t scream, but I was alone.” Mrs. Brady spoke as though she were reciting a memorized piece. Her face did not change its effortful repose.
Sheriff Walters snorted. “Somebody’s lying. Whoever threw that chair screamed, and whoever screamed was a woman.” He turned savagely to Richardson. “What do you know about this?”
“Nothing. I was napping when I heard the scream, and by the time I got to the door there was …” Richardson’s voice fell away to a stop, and he peered at the stairs in astonishment.
Deputy Ty Graham and Miss Evans were self consciously coming down them, their arms locked affectionately together. Miss Evans was smiling, and her teeth gleamed under her full red lips. Her flat hips swayed as she stepped down each stair, giving her the exaggerated and bawdy walk of a honky-tonk lady. She was flower-like beside the blunt shrub of a deputy.
At the foot of the stairs they halted, and Deputy Graham reluctantly permitted Miss Evans to draw away from him. He addressed the sheriff:
“I found her upstairs.”
Sheriff Walters fastened his ice-blue eyes upon Miss Evans. “Well, well. What was the little lady doing up there?”
“Hiding,” said Deputy Graham.
“Where?”
Deputy Graham coughed embarrassedly. “She was … I mean … I heard her … it was in the …”
Miss Evans interrupted contemptuously: “Why don’t you tell them? You were bold enough charging in.” She looked haughtily at the sheriff.
“What were you doing upstairs? Why did you go up there?”
“I wanted to get things ready for Miss Van Kamp’s steam bath. She has it three times a week, always just before dinner.”
“Is that right, Miss Van Kamp?”
“Yes.”
Sheriff Walters stepped closer to Miss Evans. “Did you hear someone scream?”
“Why, no.”
“Did you hear the window break?”
“What window?” Miss Evans became indignant. “What is all this about?”
“You are upstairs,” said the sheriff; “somebody screams, somebody breaks a window and tries to kill me with a chair, and you don’t hear a thing.” He looked like a turkey cock. “Are you deaf?”
“No. Not a bit deaf. But I had the water in the tub running. You can’t hear much over that.”
“Was there water in the tub, Ty?”
“Yeah, it was about half full,” said Deputy Graham.
The sheriff looked suspiciously at Miss Evans. “It’s damn funny, anyway. You ought to have heard something.” He swung around again to Deputy Graham. “Ty, how near is that bathroom to the end of the hall?”
“Jest two doors.”
“Whose room is next to the window?”
“Mrs. Brady’s,” said Miss Twilliger.
“And then who?”
“Miss Van Kamp on the same side.”
“Who’s across the hall?”
Miss Twilliger said, “There’s Mr. Pittsfield and Miss Paxton … I mean there was.”
“So.” Sheriff Walters was lost in thought.
Cliff had been ogling Miss Evans from his place by the front door, and he moved closer to her. “Pa,” he said, “why don’t you find out where that chair came from?”
“That’s a good idea. Tom, you got that chair?”
Deputy Powers brought in the white pieces from the porch. Sheriff Walters took them in his hands and turned to Miss Twilliger. “Ever seen these before, Nurse?”
“Why, yes,” said Miss Twilliger. She looked happily at Miss Evans. “Those came from the ladies’ bathroom.”
“Aha!” Sheriff Walters scowled triumphantly at Miss Evans. “What have you to say to that?”
“Just because somebody took the chair out of the bathroom doesn’t prove I threw it.”
“No, but it makes it mighty likely.”
Miss Evans said, “Well, I didn’t throw it.”
“How did you get in this place, anyway? I was sitting on the front steps all the time, and nobody passed me,” said the sheriff.
Miss Evans smiled patiently. “I came in the back way, through the kitchen. There is nothing wrong in that, is there?”
“So you sneaked in?”
“I wouldn’t call it that. I’d say I walked in.” Miss Evans’s face was innocent. “I often come in that way.”
Sheriff Walters digested this, his eyes darkened by half-closed lids. “It was somebody upstairs,” he said, “and it was a woman. Now, Miss Queen and Miss Van Kamp have got a good alibi. So that leaves Mrs.—er——”
“Heyworth,” said Richardson angrily. “Mrs. Patterson Heyworth.”
“Mrs. Heyworth, Mrs. Brady, and our little nurse,” said the sheriff. “And I have no doubt that the same person who tried to dispose of me is connected with these murders.” He was pacing up and down the room, his face apoplectic in concentration. “I want all of you to understand that any deception will be taken as an evidence of guilty knowledge. You may be arrested as accomplices after the fact, and liable to very heavy punishment.”
Sheriff Walters glared at William Crane and then at Miss Evans. “At least two of you have considerable explaining left to do,�
�� he said. “You’d better straighten out your stories before the inquest.”
Dr. Buelow came into the room from the front porch. His face was a chalky background for eyes at once frightened and angry. “May I speak to you privately, Sheriff Walters?” he asked.
“Sure,” said the sheriff. They moved over to the front door. Dr. Buelow whispered something to him.
“My Gawd!” Sheriff Walters said. “Cliff! Come with me. Ty, you and Tom stay here. Don’t let anybody go.”
With Dr. Buelow in the lead, the sheriff and Cliff hurried clatteringly across the porch and out into the night. Everyone except Blackwood, who crouched in his chair, his hands covering his face, began to talk at once and to everyone else.
“What could have happened?” gasped Miss Twilliger.
“I’m going to leave this place in the morning,” said Mrs. Brady. “I think I’ll go to Louisville or New Orleans.”
“It’s another murder,” said Miss Queen. “I feel sure it’s another murder.”
“I hope it’s Dr. Livermore,” said Miss Van Kamp. “As long as it couldn’t have been that stupid sheriff.”
“It isn’t murder. It’s nothing of the sort,” said Richardson loudly. “Probably the coroner, or someone to see the sheriff.”
“It couldn’t be the coroner,” said Miss Twilliger. “He’s coming tomorrow.”
Miss Queen said, “I feel sure it’s another murder.”
Crane and the two deputies had been watching the front door. “We’ll find out in a minute,” said Crane. “Somebody’s coming back.” Three figures could be seen coming down the gravel path. One had a flashlight. It was directed first at one side of the path and then at the other. A hand touched Crane’s arm. It was Miss Evans. Her mouth was close to his ear.
“Are you going to play ball with me?” she said. “Or am I going to have to tell them you’ve been outside?”
Before Crane had time to answer, Sheriff Walters, Dr. Buelow, and Cliff came into the room. Their faces were grim.
Sheriff Walters announced, “Miss Clayton has been murdered.”
“I knew it!” Miss Queen moaned loudly. “We are all doomed. All of us.”
Murder in the Madhouse Page 14
