Murder in the Madhouse

by Jonathan Latimer

  The others received the news in silence. They were doomed indeed.

  “I want everyone to stay here.” Sheriff Walters’ expression was fierce, and he barked his orders. “Ty, you and Tom go out and take the body into the hospital and then bring everybody back here. Cliff, maybe you’d better help them. Get that wolf fellow, too.”

  Crane asked, “What happened?”

  “Miss Clayton was stabbed from behind, in the neck. The poor girl died just as I found her,” said Dr. Buelow.

  “I told you so,” said Miss Queen. She wreathed her face in a melancholy smile. “Another murder.” She nodded her head up and down. “And who will be next?”

  “Shut up, you,” said the sheriff savagely. “There ain’t going to be any next. I’ll catch the guy that done this one if it takes me all my life.”

  William Crane moved beside Dr. Buelow. “Have you got any idea who could have killed her?” he asked.

  Dr. Buelow shook his head. He looked ill. “The poor kid. She was the only decent nurse we had.”

  “Where was she killed?”

  “Out in the garden just in front of the detention building … I nearly stepped on her.” His voice trembled. “I’m sorry I’m like this, but it really takes you sometimes.…”

  “I know,” said Crane. “She was a swell girl.”

  “If I’d only come by an instant sooner … she was still alive when I found her … I might have got hold of the fellow who’s doing all this.…” Dr. Buelow’s strong fingers opened and closed. “I tell you he wouldn’t be alive now.” His voice became louder. “It’s so unfair … a knife in the back of the neck.…”

  Crane asked, “What kind of a knife was it? Was it like the one used on Miss Paxton? One with a bone handler?”

  “By God! It was! Identical!”

  Dr. Buelow gazed tragically and hopefully at William Crane.

  “I don’t know who did it,” said Crane, “but I’m getting warm.” He squeezed the doctor’s arm. “What nurse took care of Miss Paxton?”

  “Miss Clayton.”

  “One more question,” said Crane. “Did she say anything to you before she died?”

  “She was stabbed in the neck. She tried to tell me something, but the blood poured out of her mouth … I couldn’t make out what it was.”

  “Couldn’t you hear anything?”

  Dr. Buelow was apologetic. “She said something that sounded like cleaning, but it didn’t make sense. That’s the only word I could distinguish.”

  “Cleaning?” said Crane. “Cleaning? Hmm … cleaning.”

  It took Cliff and the two deputies nearly fifteen minutes to find everybody. Dr. Eastman and Charles came in with Mr. L’Adam, whose black eyes shone with such a preternatural brilliance that even the sheriff drew back from them. The old white-haired guard came in by himself and smiled knowingly at Crane.

  “The Lord’s got ’em together,” he observed.

  “It’s easier to smite them this way,” said Crane.

  “True,” said the old man. “True.” He sat down with folded hands to wait for the Lord to smite them.

  With Dr. Livermore and Deputy Graham came Joe Kassuccio, his face, below his angry eyes, white with gauze and adhesive tape. Back of them was the driver, and bringing up the rear were Cliff and Deputy Powers.

  “Now get them two colored ladies,” said the sheriff.

  Maria and Ulah, their eyes rolling, were brought in. Their plump figures shook visibly.

  “Where you two been for the last hour?” Sheriff Walters demanded.

  “Right here in this kitchen,” Ulah said. Her voice was shrill.

  “Doing what?”

  “Cooking dinner.”

  “You haven’t been out of the kitchen at all?”

  “No sir!”

  The sheriff looked questioningly at Maria.

  “No sir,” she said.

  “Did anybody come in through your kitchen, like Miss Evans here?”

  “Nobody been through our kitchen but her.” Ulah was positive about it.

  “All right.” Sheriff Walters was pleased. “You can go back and get dinner.” The two women vanished like a sleight-of-hand trick. “Now, before we question these people who have been outside, I want to know if any of you other people left this house within the last hour.”

  Miss Evans casually watched Crane. There was a faint air of triumph about her.

  “How about you, Crane?” asked the sheriff. “Have you been out?”

  Crane said, “The deputy can answer that.”

  “He didn’t move an inch,” Deputy Graham assured the sheriff. “I had my eye on him every second.”

  There was no change in Miss Evans’s expression, but a film seemed to slide over her blue eyes. Crane winked at her.

  “Sure none of you others have been out?” asked the sheriff.

  The others were all quite sure.

  The sheriff turned to Joe Kassuccio with interest. “How’d you get that?” he demanded, pointing a finger at the damaged face.

  “You ought to know,” Kassuccio said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Either you or one of your smart guys give me the heel. An’ I want to know what’s the idea, see?” His voice was a rasp. “Nobody can get away with that stuff, even if they are hick dicks. When I find out who done this, I’ll …”

  “Wait a minute,” said the sheriff sternly. “What makes you think I done that or one of my boys?”

  For a moment Kassuccio was silent. “I know,” he said after a time.

  “Did you see him?”

  “Naw. I would have conked him if I had.” Joe’s voice was hard with hatred. “He didn’t give me no warning. But I heard him speak. I’ll know him again.”

  “What did he say?”

  “It was in the garden, he walked up to me in the dark and says, ‘Sheriff’s office,’ and then he bashes me. What kind of a guy is that?”

  “Whew!” the sheriff stared at Cliff and Deputy Powers. “Did either of you do that?”

  “Don’t be a damn fool,” said Cliff. “Nobody’d be apt to say who they were just before they slugged somebody. It was the murderer who hit him. He’d probably killed that nurse and was making a getaway.”

  He turned to Kassuccio. “It’s a lucky thing he didn’t kill you.”

  “By God!” said the sheriff. “Maybe you got a clue as to who the murderer is.”

  “You’re all nuts,” said Joe sullenly. “Miss Clayton was alive then. She helped Dr. Livermore put these bandages on me.”

  “That’s right,” added Dr. Livermore. “She left us about five minutes before Dr. Buelow found her body.”

  “What did you two do?” asked Cliff.

  Joe said, “I went back to my room to wash off my hands.”

  “How about you, Dr. Livermore?”

  “I stayed in my room.”

  “You did like hell,” said Dr. Eastman. “I saw you leave by the back door. You went out in the garden.”

  “I don’t intend to have my word contradicted,” Dr. Livermore said sullenly. He pulled nervously at his beard. “I said I stayed in my room.”

  “You said you stayed in your room.” Dr. Eastman imitated his tone. “But I followed you out in the garden.”

  The two doctors glared at each other. “Why did you follow him?” Sheriff Walters asked Dr. Eastman.

  “I followed him because he’d been acting strangely for the last few days. I think he knows something about these murders. I wanted to see what he was going out for.”

  “Well, what did he go out for?”

  “I don’t know. I lost him in the garden.”

  Dr. Livermore said, “You lost me in the garden, did you? That means you were there when Miss Clayton was killed.”

  “So were you,” said Dr. Eastman.

  “It looks to me like all three of you got some explaining to do,” said the sheriff.

  “Not me,” said Joe. “The driver here seen me come in my room.”

&n
bsp; “That’s so,” said the driver. “He was in there at least ten minutes before the deputies come and got us.”

  “That leaves you two doctors in kind of a mess,” said the sheriff. “Either one of you might have bumped her off. Did you ever have any trouble with her? Either of you?”

  “No,” said Dr. Livermore. “She was a model nurse.”

  Dr. Eastman nodded his head. “A nice girl.”

  The glass doors to the dining room were opened, and a smell of tomato soup and roast beef invaded the living room. “Supper is served,” said Ulah.

  Sheriff Walters said, “I guess we’d better eat.”

  “How many places have you set, Ulah?” Dr. Livermore asked. “The sheriff will eat with us.”

  “Plenty of places,” Ulah said. “Plenty for everybody.”

  “Cliff and me’ll eat here,” said Sheriff Walters. “Ty and Tom can eat with the help in the servants’ hall.”

  “How about Mr. L’Adam?” Dr. Livermore spoke to Dr. Buelow. “Do you think it will be all right for him to eat with us?”

  “I suppose so,” said Dr. Buelow dubiously.

  Mr. L’Adam’s brilliant black eyes sparkled. “It would be a pleasure. It is very tiresome eating alone.” His yellow teeth were bared in a smile. “I’d like some nice fresh meat.”

  Chapter XIV

  IT WAS VERY SILENT at dinner. Night sounds, the calls of birds, the wind breathing through the dry trees, an occasional and distant howl from a dog drifted in through the windows to mingle with the civilized tinkle of glassware and silver. Quantities of roast beef and mashed potatoes and bread disappeared down Sheriff Walters and his son, but no one else ate much. There was a feeling of apprehension about the table, and of distrust. At the head sat Dr. Livermore, his face worried and white above his black beard. Opposite him was Dr. Eastman, flashing red glances at the others from sullen eyes. Dr. Buelow had gone to eat with the nurses and deputies in the servants’ building.

  Crane drank two cups of black coffee and wished Mrs. Heyworth would look at somebody else. Her eyes affectionate and lonely, hungry and sympathetic, never left him. They were maternal, and they made him uneasy. He wondered what had happened to her husband and her child. Every time he glanced at her to see if she was looking at him, Richardson’s pouty mouth would droop into a warning. The rest of the time Richardson watched Blackwood, who did not touch his food. Miss Queen, Mrs. Brady, and Miss Van Kamp whispered among themselves. Next to them was Mr. Penny, in serious thought. It was Mr. L’Adam, after the coffee had been poured by an unsteady black hand, who finally broke the silence.

  “When do you expect to arrest the murderer, Mr. Sheriff?” he asked. He was seated next to Dr. Eastman, and he spoke mincingly over long yellow teeth.

  Sheriff Walters abruptly halted a large piece of bread halfway to his mouth. “Huh?” He laid the morsel on his green plate with resignation. “Well, now, that’s something I’d like to know.”

  “I once knew a detective,” Mr. L’Adam volunteered. “He always maintained that the first thing to search for was the motive.” Mr. L’Adam’s bright doggish eyes sparkled with sinister politeness. “Have you found a motive, Mr. Sheriff?”

  “No.”

  Mr. L’Adam’s lips curved into a smile that pulled his skin tight over Indian cheek bones. “I should search for a motive, if I were you.”

  Richardson loomed over the white tablecloth. “He’s got a motive, but he doesn’t know it.”

  “So?” Mr. L’Adam arched fine eyebrows, and Crane discovered with some horror that the whites of his eyes were golden brown and interlaced with threads of blood.

  Richardson continued: “He hasn’t heard about Miss Van Kamp’s box and her bonds.” He avoided looking at Miss Van Kamp. “I think someone ought to tell him.”

  “I did,” Miss Van Kamp said. Her teeth clipped each word. “But he was too stupid to listen.”

  Sheriff Walters had difficulty in speaking. “Wait a minute. Wait a minute.” He looked like a rooster. “You watch your language, or I’ll send you upstairs.”

  “You and who else?” Miss Van Kamp wanted to know.

  Crane so far forgot himself as to laugh.

  “I really think the box is the clue to all this.” Richardson was serious. “Anybody would like to get hold of the four hundred thousand dollars in bonds.”

  “The sheriff wouldn’t,” snapped Miss Van Kamp. “Not if it was a clue in a murder case.”

  Sheriff Walters appealed to Dr. Eastman. “What is this all about, anyway?”

  Dr. Eastman did not answer.

  “Ask old Doc Livermore,” said Crane. “He knows all about the box and its contents—don’t you, Dr. Livermore?”

  “I suppose … in a way … I believe I do.” The doctor’s beard trembled. “But I can’t see——”

  Sheriff Walters interrupted him angrily. “Do you know there was a box?”

  “Miss Van Kamp told me about it.”

  “Did you ever see it?”

  “I don’t recall …” Dr. Livermore closed his eyes in reflective pain.

  “Oh, you don’t, eh?” Each of Miss Van Kamp’s words had the velocity of a shot from an elephant rifle. “You don’t remember handling those bonds? You don’t remember saying that I must have had very good advice on my investments?” Her voice became mellow and unctuous. “You don’t remember: ‘My dear Miss Van Kamp, I really think you should let me care for all these valuables. This box seems so—insecure.’ You don’t remember saying that?” Miss Van Kamp’s bitterness was at high flood. “And then, because I wouldn’t give it to you, you stole it and then murdered these people to cover up your crime.”

  Dr. Livermore’s fingers fluttered in agony.

  “You stole my box.” Miss Van Kamp was calmer now. “But you’ll never get anything more. I was going to leave most of my money to this sanitarium, but now I won’t. Nobody here will get a cent.”

  “Now, wait a minute,” said the sheriff.

  “Let me talk to her,” said Cliff. His licorice eyes were alert. “How did you come to show the bonds to the doc, Miss Van Kamp?”

  “I wanted to let him know he needn’t worry about the future of the sanitarium. He’d been troubled over the scarcity of patients. I felt grateful to him for what he had done for me (he made me feel so much better) and I thought I’d let him know I was going to leave him something to carry on his work. I’d have been glad to give him some if he’d come and asked me for it, but the coward had to steal it.”

  Crane intercepted an agonized glance sent by Dr. Livermore to Dr. Eastman and swung around in time to see the other nod perceptibly.

  Dr. Livermore spoke hurriedly: “You must be careful what you believe, Sheriff Walters. You know Miss Van Kamp is naturally upset.”

  “She’s been worried over the loss of her box for a long time,” Dr. Eastman explained. “But I think we can find another for her, just as good.”

  “What do you mean, ‘just as good’?” demanded the sheriff.

  Cliff asked, “You mean she didn’t have bonds in the box?”

  Dr. Livermore tugged at his beard with nervous fingers. “I don’t like to say this, but I feel I must, in fairness to you.” He paused for a jerky breath. “Miss Van Kamp’s wealth is a delusion.”

  “You lie! You are a thieving liar.” Miss Van Kamp pointed a bony finger at Dr. Livermore. “This proves you stole my money. You wouldn’t try to lie, if you didn’t. You are a murderer and a thief and a——”

  Swiftly the blood fled from Miss Van Kamp’s face, leaving it the color of Holstein milk. Her distended eyes gazed in a frightened stare, and she slumped over on the table. Her face wallowed in her butter plate, and the hand that had been pointed at Dr. Livermore fell into a silver platter of cheese. A tumbler spewed water onto the linen, making a circle of damp grayness that widened and widened.…

  “Oh, my God!” said Miss Queen. “She’s been murdered under our very eyes.”

  Dr. Eastman was beside the limp body. His
blunt fingers felt for her pulse, and he was tense for a second, his head held at a listening angle.

  “She’s only fainted,” he announced. “Give me a wet cloth, somebody.” He attempted to unloosen the tight neckpiece to her black dress.

  Crane stood over him. “Keep your hands off her neck,” he said. “Let Miss Queen undo that collar.” He reached down and took Dr. Eastman’s right thumb and twisted it back until it touched the wrist bone. At the same time he shoved the doctor away from the table. Dr. Eastman groaned with pain and hit Crane on the face with his left hand.

  The sheriff stepped between them. “What the hell’s the idea?” he demanded.

  “That’s what I’d like to know.” Dr. Eastman was furious. This dastard’s going to get it.” He moved toward Crane. His jaw was rigid.

  “Cut it out,” roared the sheriff. “You two behave, or I’ll lock you both up.”

  Crane turned his back on Dr. Eastman. Under Miss Queen’s ministrations, Miss Van Kamp was regaining consciousness. A blue vein squirmed in her temple, and moisture flecked her pallid lips. She looked ninety years old.

  “We’d better send her upstairs,” said Dr. Livermore. “Would you mind getting Miss Twilliger, Dr. Eastman?”

  Dr. Eastman left, pulling at his right thumb. “I’ll see you later,” he said to Crane. “You’ll answer for all this.”

  “Sure,” said Crane.

  Dr. Livermore held a glass of water to Miss Van Kamp’s mouth. She pushed it away. “Leave me alone,” she said. “I’m all right.”

  “Mrs. Brady and I will take her to her room,” said Miss Queen. Her long face was almost cheerful. “We’ll get her ready for bed. She may die yet.”

  Dr. Livermore said, “I’ll go along.”

  Miss Van Kamp was able to walk slowly with the two women holding her arms. Dr. Livermore followed them out.

  “See here, you.” Sheriff Walters squinted blue eyes at Crane. “What’s the matter with you? Trying to keep the doc from helping that old lady. Do you want to see her die?”

  “No, I don’t,” said William Crane. “That’s why I pushed him away.”

  Sheriff Walters appealed to his son. “What do you make of all this?”