Presently Cliff and the sergeant came out of the rain. Water ran in rivulets from their hats and down their coats. Cliff handed an object wrapped in yellow oilskin to William Crane, who passed it on to the sheriff. “Open it,” he said.
While the sheriff’s thick fingers clumsily unwound the parcel, the old guard pushed his way to the front. He exclaimed, “Why, that there is my slicker!” His wrinkled face was surprised and interested.
Crane demanded, “How’d it get there?”
“Verily, I don’t know.” The old man’s hands were veined and trembling. “It was taken from me pretty nigh a week ago. I bin lookin’ for it.”
“We’ll give it back to you in a few minutes,” said William Crane. He saw that the sheriff had the box opened. “What’s in it?”
“Gosh!” Sheriff Walters fingered the box reverently, “It’s full of bonds.” He held up a neatly wrapped package. “Must be a million dollars’ worth. Here’s a key, too.”
Miss Van Kamp did not miss a stroke of her knitting. “They’re mine,” she said placidly. “They’re all mine.” Her wrists were busy, and the green ball of wool made convulsive jumps in the wicker basket on her lap. “I’m going to put them with my other bonds in New York.”
“You’d better,” said Crane.
Sheriff Walters closed the box and put it under his arm. “Who stole it?” he asked.
“You’ll grant we have a motive in the box, won’t you?” said Crane.
Sheriff Walters nodded vigorously. “I admit you are right there. A lot of people would like to have some of this dough.”
Crane said, “That’s just why Dr. Livermore took the box from Miss Van Kamp in the first place.”
Nothing moved about Dr. Livermore except his nervous fingers. He began, “I didn’t——”
William Crane cut him off with a wave. “You took the box to your room. You told Miss Evans about it. I know because she told me.” Dr. Livermore turned a stricken face toward Miss Evans. “But I’m not the only one she told,” Crane continued. “She told Dr. Eastman about it.” Dr. Livermore’s pale eyes were fixed upon Miss Evans. They were red along the rims.
Crane said, “So Dr. Eastman took the box from you.”
“What makes you think I had the box?” Dr. Eastman stepped around Miss Evans. His hand lingered on her arm. “You’d better be careful.”
“Miss Evans again,” said William Crane.
“You can’t prove that.”
“I can prove through Miss Evans you wrote me this letter.” Crane handed the note to the sheriff. “You dictated it to her on your typewriter. And the letter tells about the box.”
Dr. Eastman glared at Miss Evans. “I couldn’t help it,” she said. Her face was composed. “My fingerprints were on it.”
Having finished reading the letter, Sheriff Walters said, “Now we’re gettin’ somewhere.” His eyes gauged Dr. Eastman’s strength. “What did this guy do, hide it in the fountain?”
“No,” William Crane said. “Somebody else stole it from him.” He put the palms of his hands on the table and slid himself back so that his feet were clear of the floor. “It’s pretty involved.” He crossed his legs. “Am I right so far, Dr. Eastman?”
“You’ve made some damn good guesses.” Dr. Eastman chewed his thick lower lip. “I did take the box from Dr. Livermore’s room. It didn’t belong to him, anyway. Then somebody got it from me.”
“Miss Evans helped you get it, didn’t she?” asked William Crane. Dr. Eastman nodded. “And then you repaid her by not telling her about the eight hundred thousand dollars’ worth of cash and bonds in Miss Van Kamp’s vault. Were you going to double-cross her?”
Dr. Eastman’s mouth opened slightly. “Why, I told her everything.” His eyes blinked wonderingly at Miss Evans.
“Oh!”
Sheriff Walters asked, “What’s this got to do with the fountain and the murders?”
“Wait a minute.” Crane spoke thoughtfully. “What were you digging for in the garden that night I was running around in my pajamas, Dr. Livermore?”
“Miss Evans had an idea that whoever had taken the box from me had buried it somewhere. I found some signs of recent digging in the garden, and I thought that might be the place?”
“You suspected Dr. Eastman, didn’t you?”
“I thought of him.”
“You thought you could force him to give it back, didn’t you? That’s why you had that gangster come up from New York.”
Dr. Livermore’s beard moved sorrowfully up and down and he said, “I might have had some such idea in mind.”
“You also wanted to scare Dr. Eastman away from Miss Evans, didn’t you?”
Dr. Eastman squared his shoulders. “Leave her name out of this.”
“Sure,” said Crane. “It’s like trying to write a history of Egypt without mentioning Cleopatra.” He leaned one elbow upon the table and looked at the old guard. “Why were you digging?”
The old man’s blue eyes were startled. He shook his white head. “I heard Dr. Livermore say it was buried in the garden.” He mumbled his words. “I knew God would want me to find it.”
“What do you mean—‘it’?”
“The lost words of the Lord. I know they are around here somewhere.” He shook with excitement. “They’re wrote on tablets of gold.”
“Nuts,” said the sheriff. “Let’s get on with our business.”
Crane uncrossed his legs, admired his brown shoes. “I’ll tell you why the murders were committed. Somebody wanted the other key to the safety-deposit vault in New York. The key that would give its possessor eight hundred thousand extra dollars. Who wouldn’t murder for that?”
“Ain’t that the key in the box?” asked the sheriff.
“That’s one key, but it takes two to open the New York vault. The second key hangs around Miss Van Kamp’s neck.” Miss Van Kamp’s needles continued rhythmically. “She wears it there except when she’s taking a bath.”
The rain hurried down the glass windows and beaded on the screens. From the eaves water dripped noisily into pools. Branches swished wetly in the wind.
“The person who stole the box from Dr. Eastman and hid it in the fountain is the one who committed the murders,” William Crane continued. “He had one key, and he was looking for the other. He was looking for it when Mr. Pittsfield saw him going into Miss Van Kamp’s room while we were all supposed to be at the colorama show.” So savagely did the wind shake the panes that Crane was forced to pause for a moment. “The murderer strangled Mr. Pittsfield when he came in to ask him what he was doing in the room. The murderer was looking through the bureau, the next to the bottom drawer, when Mr. Pittsfield surprised him. He didn’t know the key was around Miss Van Kamp’s neck.”
Tiny scars of flame, like cat’s tongues after cream, lapped at the charred logs in the fireplace.
“Then, to cover the first murder, he was forced to kill the other two,” William Crane said. “In the second and third murder, you will remember, the knives were identical. That’s right, isn’t it, Dr. Livermore?”
“There was a certain similarity,” Dr. Livermore admitted. It was quite cool in the room, but his forehead was shiny with sweat. “It seemed that the same hand must have wielded both daggers.”
Sheriff Walters said, “Yes, but who in the hell’s hand is it?”
“It’s cold in here,” said Crane. He slipped off the table. “Charles, suppose you put another log on the fire and then tell us what made you kill all these people.”
Charles had started toward the wood basket. He stopped, his eyes wide with surprise. “What do you mean?” Everyone was looking at him in astonishment. He drew a gasping breath and cried, “Why, he’s crazy I don’t know anything about these things. He’s trying to get himself out of a jam by fastening it on me.” The rain in the bushes sounded as though somebody were wrapping bundles in tissue paper. “I’m innocent, I tell you. I swear I’m innocent.”
“Never mind, Buddy.” Williams was
beside him. “You’ll get a chance to talk later.”
“I’m God-damned if I——” Sheriff Walters’s face was very red. “Where does he come in this picture?”
Charles was standing, his face bloodless, with Mr. Williams on one side and Tom Burns on the other. “He stole the box on the day I got here,” said Crane. “Isn’t that right, Dr. Eastman?”
“I noticed it was gone that night.”
Crane lifted a log out of the basket, tossed it on the fire, and stepped back to dodge the shower of sparks. “After he had taken the box, Charles found out about Miss Van Kamp’s other key. Naturally, he wanted to get it from her; eight hundred thousand dollars is a lot better than four hundred thousand. He decided the key would probably be in Miss Van Kamp’s room, but he needed an excuse for being in the building if anyone should happen to see him. So he took Miss Paxton’s bathrobe, which he had just finished cleaning. He could say he was just returning it, if anybody asked. He went in to search the room while the patients were at the colorama show, but Mr. Pittsfield surprised him, and he strangled him with the cord on the bathrobe to save himself. That was a great mistake.” The crackling young blaze was pleasant and warm on William Crane’s legs. “You see, Charles is the only person who does any cleaning in the place. Miss Evans told me that.”
Richardson spoke from the arm of Mrs. Heyworth’s chair. “But how do you know Charles had the robe at all?”
“After Charles killed Pittsfield he realized the robe, if left on the scene, would incriminate him. So he hung it in Miss Paxton’s closet, but in his excitement, he forgot the cord. That had slipped under the bed with Mr. Pittsfield’s body, and that’s where we found it. Naturally, knowing the cord did the murder, I was interested in the robe. I examined it in Miss Paxton’s room and found the only noteworthy thing about it was a strong odor of naphtha. You couldn’t miss it.” Crane scratched his hair. “Poor old Miss Paxton may have realized the same thing after she found her bathrobe cord had killed Mr. Pittsfield. Anyway, Charles did. He was present when she identified the cord, and he knew sooner or later she’d remember she had given the bathrobe to him to be cleaned. So that evening, at dinner time, he crept up to her room and stabbed her to death.”
Sheriff Walters raised an objecting hand. He had a paper in it. “We figured out that Charles had an alibi in the second murder,” he said, consulting the paper. “He was taking a bath at the time. Miss Evans said she saw him.”
Crane asked, “Miss Evans, did you go in the bathroom with him?” She shook her blond head. Her eyes were amused and contemptuous. “You!” Crane spoke to the driver. “Isn’t there a window in that bathroom?”
The driver fingered his collar. “Sure.” His neck was dirty. “A big one.”
“People climb out of windows,” said Crane.
“But I heard the water running,” interposed Miss Evans.
“You could have the water running if you didn’t put the stopper all the way in and you turned the faucet up just fast enough.”
“That’s reasonable,” Sergeant Wilson remarked to the sheriff. “It would sound just about the same, particularly if it filled up a little way.”
Crane went on: “Charles climbed out of the window and came over here. He hung around outside for about half an hour before he had a chance to get in. Then he crept upstairs while we were at dinner and killed the old lady.”
“Wait a minute.” Sheriff Walters drew his eyebrows down in a frown. “How do you know he hung around outside?”
“We all got there a few minutes after Miss Paxton was murdered.” William Crane was patient. “I touched the knife. It was very cold. It was also cold outdoors. Therefore I came to the conclusion that the knife had been outdoors for some time.”
Cliff Walters’s brown eyes were intelligent. “Why couldn’t any of the doctors have carried in the knife and killed her?” he asked.
“There’d be no reason for them lurking around outside. They’d have a right to be in here, or in Miss Paxton’s room, for that matter. Any knife they’d carry would be warm.”
Charles cried, “That’s all a pack of lies. I didn’t——”
Williams held a fist in front of his face. He said, “Shut up. How’d you like me to shove this down your throat?”
“For a time Miss Paxton’s murder seemed to cover up everything.” Crane said. “Then Miss Clayton, who was Miss Paxton’s nurse, got wondering about the cord. She knew the robe had been given to Charles for cleaning. So she went and asked him about it.” Crane had to speak above the rumble of the wind. “So he killed her. He used the same kind of a knife, and she mentioned ‘cleaning’ as she died.”
Dr. Buelow said, “That’s right, I heard her.”
“You’re both mad,” Charles said. His boyish face was distorted. “You could build up as good a case against anybody.”
“Shut up,” Williams said.
“I noticed something about the knives, too; they are all Mexican and balanced for throwing—the kind they throw on the stage.” Crane was warm now, and he moved back to the table. “Charles used to be a vaudeville actor. He did tricks, and he threw knives! That’s where he got those two just alike.”
“How’d you know he’d been on the stage?” asked Sheriff Walters.
“We checked up on his fingerprints.”
“How’d you do that?”
“Mr. Williams here posed as an electrician. He came to fix the lights after I had put them out of order. I gave him a glass with Charles’ prints on it.”
Williams laid a friendly hand on Charles’s arm. “We also found out this mug had been in the pen for a spell on a confidence rap,” he said. “He tried to trim an old lady.”
“A jailbird!” Sheriff Walters eyed Charles with disfavor. “That looks bad.”
Crane brushed a spot of soot off his sleeve. “That’s all I know now,” he said. “Except that you ought to be grateful to us for calling you into this at all.”
Sheriff Walters asked, “What do you mean?”
“It was me that gave you the tip-off on the murders up here,” said Williams. “Don’t you remember my delicate voice?” He laughed hoarsely.
Sheriff Walters stared from him to Crane and then back to him. His blue eyes were cloudy; his lips twitched.
“Aren’t you going to lock him up?” Crane spoke gently, as to an invalid. “It might be a good idea.”
Sheriff Walters rubbed his chin with his fingers. “Cliff, you go and tell Clem to get a cell ready. Use the doc’s telephone.” He heaved his bulk to his feet. “I’ll be God-damned!”
Deputy Graham and the heavily bandaged Powers took Charles into their custody. They did not bother to slip handcuffs on him.
“I didn’t do it,” Charles said. His boyish face was sad; his eyes misty. “Before God, I didn’t.” He looked appealingly at the red face of Sheriff Walters.
In a moment Cliff returned, out of breath. “We got to stay here all night,” he announced. “The bridge south of town is washed out. They’re working on it, but Clem says it won’t be clear until tomorrow morning.” A drop of water ran down his nose and dropped to his chin. “What’ll we do?”
“Can’t you take him by way of Watertown?” Sergeant Wilson asked.
“That’s too far on a night like this,” the sheriff said decisively. “We’ll lock him up here and take him in tomorrow. Dr. Livermore, you got a room we can put him in?”
Dr. Livermore looked ten years younger. Tiny lines at the corners of his eyes were all that was left of his strain. “We’ll put him in detention,” he said.
William Crane asked, “Not in the old room Mr. L’Adam used to get out of?”
Dr. Livermore smiled, shook his beard. “Oh, no. We have the very room for him. He’ll never get out of it.”
With heads bent under the frigid impact of the rain they sloshed along the path to the detention building. Noises of the storm filled the garden; wet branches rattled an accompaniment to the splashing of water and the irregular music of the win
d. Somewhere in the distance a loose board was banging.
They stamped on the cement porch, kicking off mud, and then entered the hallway. Dr. Livermore led them upstairs, his shadow bulky in yellow electric light. “We’ll put him in here, right at the head of the stairs,” he said. “This room has a Yale lock on the door.”
It wasn’t a large room, and there was only a small window high up at the other end. Through the lower pane could be seen the waving limbs of a young tree. Crane noticed that the bed, the chair, and the desk were bolted to the floor. The walls were padded with mattress-like material.
Charles was searched for weapons and then pushed into the room. “I want a lawyer,” he whined.
The sheriff slammed the door shut and, stamping his feet, led the way down the stairs. He pointed to a bench in the lower hall. “You set there, Ty,” he said. “If he makes a move, plug him.”
William Crane saw that the door to Charles’s room was visible from the bench. “Don’t fall asleep,” he warned Deputy Graham. Outside, in the rain, he touched the sheriff’s arm. “How about that window? Do you think he could jump out?”
Sheriff Walters’s wet face glistened in the light from the window. “Naw,” he said, “he couldn’t. The only way he could get through that window would be head first, and if he come tumbling out of there head first he’d break his neck.” He squeezed water from his drooping mustache. “I’d just as soon he’d break his neck.”
They started for the guest house. Crane said, “It’s your funeral.” He stepped over a puddle dotted with specks of foam. “I think it would be smart to look for his collection of knives.”
“I’ll have Cliff make a search.” Sheriff Walters waded right through the puddles in deep concentration. “I wonder if dinner is ready?”
Chapter XIX
DESPITE THE STORM, which had moderated, dinner was a jolly affair. Even Miss Queen had gone to pieces and giggled when Williams politely refused his finger bowl, saying he’d had plenty to drink already.
Murder in the Madhouse Page 20
