Mr. Williams’s dissolute face assumed an expression of innocence. He said, “We’re from the Mirror. We’d like to get some pictures and find out what’s going on here.”
Sheriff Walters crossed his arms. “I have nothing for you now.” He nodded deferentially to the tall coroner. “Coroner Benbow and I are investigating. I can promise you speedy developments.”
“Nuts,” said Mr. Williams. “We want some stuff now.”
The sheriff lost some of his poise. “You can’t have it,” he said shortly.
Mr. Burns’s short figure thrust its way past Dr. Eastman. “So,” he said. “You’re going to keep off the press?” He sounded as though he were reading Shakespeare. “How’ll it look to have a front-page story saying, ‘Sheriff Walters and Coroner Benbow baffled. Helpless in the face of supercriminal. Citizens urge they be recalled.’”
Sheriff Walters was about to retort when the coroner put a hand on his arm. “Maybe he’s right,” he said. “It won’t hurt to tell them what we know. They’ll find out anyway.” He stared commandingly at Dr. Eastman. “Open that gate.” It did not matter that the gate was already open.
Dr. Eastman’s face twitched. His brows met above his nose. “This is an outrage,” he said to the sheriff. “Publicity will ruin our medical standing.”
Mr. Williams was already fidgeting with the black box. “You’ll get plenty of publicity anyway.” He wound up a screw at the right-hand side of the camera and pulled down the front and slid out the bellows along the nickel rails. “If you gentlemen would mind standing a little closer …?”
“Certainly not.” The coroner adjusted his tie with agitated hands. “Not if you think——”
A large fly, puppy-like in the warm sun, blundered about the black camera. Mr. Williams aimed a terrific blow at it. “The public will be eager to see who has charge of …” He snorted violently. “Get the hell out of here!” The camera jerked against the strap, and Mr. Williams made indignant motions in the air. The fly ridiculously and fatly spiraled up to safety. Mr. Williams continued: “… such competent law-enforcing officials.”
His brown teeth fixed in a smile, and his hat held against, his chest, Coroner Benbow posed for his photograph. Beside him, a stern silent man of the law, stood the sheriff. Mr. Williams got off at a distance and peered at them through the glazed glass in the box.
“Don’t you use one of them wooden stands?” asked Coroner Benbow. He spoke through his teeth without disturbing his smile. “I should think it would jiggle.”
Mr. Burns laughed easily. “Not him,” he said. “No tripod. For an ordinary photographer, yes. But not for him. He don’t need any help.” He twisted his neatly waxed mustache. “He’s the best photographer the News ever had.”
Suspicion flecked the sheriff’s blue eyes. “I thought you said you was from the Mirror?” He started to turn but thought better of it.
“I did.” Mr. Burns had a slight difficulty with his throat. “But Phil here used to be the ace photog for the News before he came over to us.” Mr. Burns laughed easily. “He’s been on some of the biggest stories—the Lindbergh kidnaping, the Starr Faithful …”
“What difference does it make whether they’re from the News or from the Mirror?” Coroner Benbow asked testily. “Go ahead and shoot.”
Mr. Williams took a last hasty look through the plate glass, closed the back of the camera, and pressed a small spring. There was a surprisingly loud click. Mr. Williams held out his left hand, palm forward, and said, “Gentlemen, one more, please. Hold your positions, please.”
Again the camera clicked. Sheriff Walters stepped away stiffly, as though he had a leg asleep. Coroner Benbow relaxed his face and said, “C. H. Benbow, That’s my name. I wish you’d put in that I’m also head of the Benbow Mortuary Service in Torytown.” Surprisingly, his Adam’s apple quivered, and he giggled. “Business is pretty dead, you know.” He jackknifed, slapped his knee.
Tom Burns laughed heartily too. “I’d like to ask the pair of you a few questions,” he said. The three moved together by the gate, and the driver and Deputy Powers drifted toward the office. Dr. Eastman held his ground.
Occupied in closing his camera, Mr. Williams didn’t seem to have seen William Crane until he had come quite close to him. “Which way is town from here?” he asked suddenly. He spoke in a loud tone of voice.
Crane walked a few steps further from the gate. He pointed an arm in the general direction of Torytown. “I didn’t know you could use a camera,” he said softly.
“I can’t,” Mr. Williams said. He carefully kept his voice low. “I didn’t have any films in it.” He leered at William Crane. “A dame wrote that letter to you.” He handed the camera to Crane. “Hold this. When I take it back, grab this bottle from my hand. The Colonel found perfume on the letter, checked the smell and bought a bottle like it for you. All you got to do is to find out who has the same kind here.”
“The Colonel’s too smart,” William Crane said bitterly. “He ought to be here with these monkeys and get smashed around a couple of times; then he wouldn’t know so much.”
Mr. Williams looked anxiously around. “Boy, he should hear you …” His eyes were alarmed. “You shouldn’t talk that way.” He took the camera back to Crane and slipped a vial in his hand. “Here’s the letter, too. No prints on it. Now about that other fellow, the one with his prints on the glass. He’s a small timer, sent up for two years on a con rap. He gypped a dame out of three grand with some phony stock. Used to be a vaudeville actor before that, juggled balls, tossed knives, shot things with a pistol, and did a little sleight of hand. Had a reputation as a heart-breaker. That’s all we could get on him.”
“O. K.”
“Look here, kid.” Mr. Williams affectionately regarded Crane. “If you get in any jams, you know how to signal us. We’ll be down in a couple of shakes.” Mr. Williams affixed the camera to the strap. “The Colonel says to hurry up. He says you should have finished a couple of days ago.”
“Nuts to the Colonel,” said Crane. “It was his idea to have me come up here as a patient, and now he can wait until I get through.”
Mr. Williams paled. “I don’t want any part of you when you talk like that,” he said vehemently. “The Colonel’s a smart man.”
“Sure,” said Crane. “He’s so smart he can get one of his employees killed every time he sends him on a job.”
Mr. Williams eyed him dubiously. “If it’s as bad as what, the Colonel can get somebody——”
“Never mind,” Crane said hastily. “I can take it.”
“I can see that.” Mr. Williams leered good-naturedly at him. “Mostly on your face.” He moved closer. “Any more of that panther spit around?”
“Not a drop. The panther died.”
“Oh, yeah?” Mr. Williams winked without moving a muscle in the rest of his face. “Well, so long.” Abruptly, he swung about.
“So long,” said William Crane. He moved slowly toward the guest house. From the front steps just inside of the shade thrown by the roof, he watched his friends shake hands with the sheriff and the coroner, climb into a car, and drive up the dirt road. Dust from the wheels flurried upward in tiny explosions and drifted diagonally upon the garden, covering green leaves with a film that glowed in the sunlight.
On his way upstairs he nearly bumped into Richardson.
“Where’s Mrs. Heyworth?” Richardson blocked his way. His face was pouty mad. “What did you do with her?”
Alarm unsettled Crane’s stomach. He wondered if Richardson knew about the night episode. “What do you mean?” he demanded.
“She went out a few minutes ago, I think to meet you.” He bulked above Crane. “She hasn’t come back.”
“I haven’t seen her.” Crane sidestepped and moved up two stairs, so that he was even with Richardson. “I’ve been standing by the front gate.”
“If anything happened …” Richardson trembled in fierce uncertainty. “If you hurt her … I’ll beat you within an inch
of your life.”
“Let me know when you decide to start,” Crane said. He went to his room, feeling things were very unpleasant and wishing Charles would come with the bottle.
Once inside, with the door locked behind him, he took out the vial of perfume and poured a few drops on a clean handkerchief. This he waved in the air twice before he held it to his nose. It did not surprise him to find that it smelled like Miss Evans. He felt it would not surprise him to learn that she had written the letter at the dictation of Dr. Eastman.
He went to the north window in his room. Vivid in the sun, the garden looked like a gaudy foreign postcard. Green was so fresh on grass and yellow and green on leaves that it seemed as though the paint was still damp. A line of gladiolus in a bed were an unreal pink-coated company of infantry. Below the window there were broken bushes and scattered twigs where he had fallen. It looked an appalling distance in the daylight.
Feet crunched on the gravel path, and he saw Richardson and Mrs. Heyworth, arms linked, coming toward the house. Richardson was saying something to which Mrs. Heyworth listened intently. Her face was tan and lovely, and there was in her eyes, even at a distance, a melting softness. She glanced upward, and William Crane ducked from the window and returned to the bed. There was a knock on his door.
Charles’s skin showed palely in the dark hall. He had the suit over his arm. He came inside, closed the door. “Here you are,” he said. He put a quart of liquor on the bed. William Crane took the suit from him. It smelled strongly of naphtha, but there was no dirt on the elbows or the knees, and it had been pressed. He hung it in the closet and gave Charles another five-dollar bill. “Want a drink?” he asked.
“Not now,” said Charles. He was polite about it. “I’ve got to see Dr. Livermore. If he smells anything, he’ll fire me.”
“Would that be so bad?”
“Jobs are hard to get now.”
Crane pulled the cork out of the bottle. “Did you tell me what you were sent up for?” he asked. The liquor smelled good.
Charles’s face was composed. “I didn’t, but I don’t mind.” He paused for a second, fingering the top button on his white coat. “It’s a funny business. I was going around with a woman, and I liked her pretty well. She liked me too. I was broke, and she wanted to give me some money. I didn’t want to take her money as a gift, but I needed it. I had some oil stock that I bought, so I said to her: ‘This is probably no good, but I’ll give it to you as security for the money. Then you can give it back when I pay you.’” Charles was speaking tonelessly. “That was all right with her until we had a quarrel. Then she had me arrested for operating a confidence game, and they gave me two years for it.”
The bottle was still in Crane’s hand. “That’s tough,” he said. “It ought to teach you never to get mixed up with women.”
“I haven’t since I got out of jail,” Charles said. He looked appealingly at William Crane. “You won’t tell the sheriff about this? He’s liable to arrest me on suspicion, and I’d lose my job.”
“He’s too dumb to arrest anybody,” Crane said, “but you don’t need to worry.”
“Thanks.” Charles opened the door. “If you want any more of that—cleaning fluid, just let me know.”
As the door closed, Crane secured a glass from the dresser. He had a drink. He refilled the glass and sat down on the bed to think about the murders. He finished the glass and placed it on the floor, and lay down so as to be able to think better. Presently he fell asleep.
Chapter XVII
5:45 P. M.
When Crane awoke a serene dusk filled the room. It was late afternoon; only a line of flushed clouds showed that there was still a sun. The chill of night was arriving leisurely but unmistakably. Swinging out of the bed, Crane kicked over the empty glass on the floor. It did not break, and he put it on the white strip of linen running across the dresser top. He took off his shirt, doused his head in the wash basin, looked at the bruises on his face unfavorably, and dried himself. Then he put on a clean white shirt and his tweed coat and opened his door. He went back and had a drink and then hid the bottle of applejack in the closet.
Dishes and silverware were clinking in the dining room when he came downstairs. It was Maria. She was setting the table. She displayed an incredible number of gold teeth. “Mistah Crane,” she said, “you is a sleepingest man I ever seen.”
William Crane tried a green olive. “Dinner about ready?” The olive was good. It made him think of a Martini.
“It won’t take more than fifteen minutes, Mistah Crane.”
“Where is everybody?”
Maria pulled open a drawer in the walnut highboy and brought out a handful of napkins. “I think they is out in the garden.” She placed one of the napkins at Dr. Livermore’s place. “The coroner’s gone to Tory-town. I reckon he’ll be back tomorrow.”
The celery was crisp and fresh. He shook some salt on the part of the stalk he hadn’t eaten. “Maria,” he said, “who cleans Miss Evans’ room?”
A brown hand held a napkin suspended over Miss Van Kamp’s place at the table. “Why, I does. Has there been any complaints?”
“You always clean it?”
“Yes sir! I’m the only one that has ever cleaned it since she come here.”
“Nobody else go in there?”
“No sir! She’s mighty particular. I’s the only one.”
The ripe olives were a trifle soft, but he ate three, anyway. “Good,” he said. “You can tell me if you’ve ever seen anything funny in the room.”
“Funny?” Maria’s dark face was puzzled.
“Has she got a typewriter? Somebody wrote me a note, and I think it might have been her.”
“No, she hasn’t got a writin’ machine. Both the doctors have, though. I mean Dr. Livermore and Dr. Eastman.”
“Hmm.” William Crane nodded his head impressively. “Ever see anything unusual in her room?”
“No sir. Nothing unusual.”
“Where does she keep her victrola?”
“Oh, she keeps that in her closet. On the top shelf. She don’t hardly ever use it.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know, unless’n it’s cause she’s got a radio.”
“What kind of a radio?”
“One of those portable kind. Just a little one. But it sure plays swell.”
“You don’t play it while you’re cleaning up, do you?” He waved his celery sternly. “You don’t play it?”
Maria rolled her eyes wildly. “Just once in a while, Mr. Crane. Just a little, so as not to hurt anything.”
Crane abruptly stuck the celery in his mouth.
“You won’t tell on me, will you, Mistah Crane?” said Maria. “She’d be awful mad.”
As soon as he was able to speak, Crane said, “Your secret is as safe with me, Maria, as if it were buried deep in the unfathomable tombs of the lost kingdom of Atlantis.”
Maria opened her mouth, said, “Yes sir.” She backed toward the kitchen. She had forgotten to put a napkin at Miss Queen’s place.
Crane went outside. There was still enough light to see, but everything appeared soft and hazy and smoky. The air, too, smelt of smoke, and he drew in long breaths as he walked to the garage.
Halting in front of the sliding door, which was partially open, he listened intently. There was the sound of voices inside the ambulance. An empty bucket stood at the corner of the building, and this he kicked over against the wall. A tousled head appeared out of the back door of the ambulance and scowled at him. It was the driver. “What in hell do you want?” he demanded.
“Nothing,” Crane said calmly.
“Then get the hell out of here.”
“I like it here.” Crane put his hands in his pockets and leaned against the door. “It’s nice here.”
“You get the hell out of here!”
“Oh no.” Crane’s voice was small. “You see, I like it here.”
The driver shoved shoulders and chest through the door
. “I’m coming down there and beat the ears off you.”
Crane pulled his right hand out of his pocket and scratched his shoulder. “You going to do this in front of Miss Twilliger?” he asked mildly.
Anger suffused the driver’s face, turning it purple in irregular splotches. “You leave her name out of this.” Crane saw he was drunk.
A hand appeared from behind the driver, fastened tenderly onto his throat, and jerked him back into the ambulance. “Yes, you leave me out of this.” Miss Twilliger appeared in the opening. She blinked at Crane. Her hair and her clothes were extremely disarrayed.
“Aren’t you losing something?” Crane asked.
Miss Twilliger hurriedly tucked her brassiere under her dress and fastened two buttons near her neck. “Get out of here,” she said. “You’re nothing but a moron.”
“Why, Miss Twilliger!”
Miss Twilliger took such a deep breath that her small eyes protruded from their sockets. She opened her mouth. She said, “You’re a zany.” She withdrew abruptly.
Crane heard the sounds of violent movement within the ambulance. “I’ll clout him with this, crank here,” said the voice of the driver. There was a banging of pieces of metal on wood. “This wrench is heavier,” Miss Twilliger’s voice suggested. Crane hurriedly made his way into the orchard, and from the obscurity of the last tree he stood and watched the garage.
Presently the two of them came out. The driver moved his feet highly, like a spirited horse. In one hand he had the crank and in the other he carried his shoes. They were quickly blacked out by the falling night.
Crane hurried to the garage and climbed into the ambulance. It smelled of powder and cheap perfume and whisky and cigar smoke. On the front floor board was a litter of tools, and from these he selected a pair of pliers, a monkey wrench, and a hammer. He distributed the tools about his person, slipping the hammer handle down under his belt.
On his way up the front steps of the guest house he met Dr. Livermore, who said, “Nice night.” Crane, passing, agreed: “Lovely.” He went to his room and shoved the tools under the bed and had a drink.
Murder in the Madhouse Page 18
