The Rotary Club Murder Mystery

by Graham Landrum

  At last I got down to what I really wanted to know.

  “Darling, I hope you won’t be offended,” I began, “but when we had our chat before, I believe you said you were not the cause of your husband’s divorce. Still, I can’t believe you were never intimate with Holly until after he separated from his wife.”

  “We had a relation,” she said, “but Linda did not know about it until later.”

  I had my doubts about this, but I let it stand. “And did you ever spend the night with him in a motel? I mean, before you were married?”

  She almost laughed in my face.

  I put my hand on her knee and said, “I have a reason for asking the questions in this way. The next thing is—after you had your little ‘relation,’ did he take a sleeping tablet, roll over, and go right to sleep?”

  Her eyes flashed. “How did you know?”

  “There, there,” I said, “just tell me if I am right.”

  “Yes. It used to hurt me the way he suddenly lost interest. Then it made me mad. He laughed at me—said I ought to be practical—that he had to have his sleep, because so many people make a racket leaving a motel in the morning.”

  “And would you think the same thing would happen if he took some other woman to a motel for a ‘relation’?”

  “Yes.”

  Well, there I had it. He took sleeping pills whenever he spent the night in a motel—with or without a mistress. And any woman who had had very many rendezvous with him at motels would know all about his little habits.

  I was very pleased with this brief interview. On the way back to Maud’s house, in my mind I went on to the next thing. It was only a guess, but I thought it was a reasonable guess. You see an operator—a sexual operator—but then I’m not supposed to know about that sort of thing.

  Anyhow, it was most fortunate that Jay Bradfield had been an insurance man—very successful. And the gentleman who has the agency now—Pelham Stafford is his name—was Jay’s partner.

  So Maud knew a lot about the insurance office, and we talked it all over and put two and two together and got the right answer. Maud called Pel on the phone at his home that evening and explained what we wanted. He knew the answer right off. Of course, it was office information and confidential, but when Maud explained the situation to him, he gave her the information.

  Then Maud put me on the phone. It was a little difficult explaining what I wanted him to do, but he finally saw what I was up to, and he gave me an appointment for ten o’clock the next morning.

  When I went into the insurance office, I announced myself in a good strong voice. “I am Mrs. L. Q. C. Lamar Bushrow,” I said. Everybody on the block could have heard me.

  Mr. Stafford was ready for me, and the young woman escorted me to his office.

  “Mrs. Bushrow,” he said apologetically, “I can’t imagine Nellie Penn letting out confidential information. But as you explained it, it is very suspicious. And as you say, your little scheme will prove whether she did or did not do it.” With that, he called his secretary on the office intercom.

  “Nellie, will you please bring the complete file on the Hollonbrook policies.”

  He released the button, and immediately Miss Penn’s voice came on. “All of them?”

  “Yes, all of them.”

  Within seconds, the office door opened and a somewhat nondescript person came in. I saw immediately that her eyes were apprehensive, although that may have been my imagination. “Miss Penn,” he said, “this is Mrs. Bushrow, the lady who solved the DAR murder mystery. I am sure you have heard of her.”

  “How do you do,” she said none too cordially as she handed the file to Mr. Stafford.

  “Mrs. Bushrow hopes to prove that Chuck Hollonbrook was murdered.” He paused and gave his secretary an inquiring look. “That would allow Mrs. Hollonbrook to collect on her policy.”

  There was a brief but awkward silence. Then Miss Penn was dismissed and left the room.

  Mr. Stafford did not open the file but laid it on the desk. “The information that I gave you on the phone yesterday is correct, Mrs. Bushrow,” he said. “I’ll lock this file in my desk drawer. I have the only key.”

  I left Mr. Stafford’s office about 10:20. That would give Nellie Penn an hour and forty minutes in which to stew before her lunchtime. I was very pleased with myself. I thought I had baited a trap pretty well.

  But a baited trap does not always spring on its prey immediately. In fact, two days went by. Then on Friday, the phone rang for me.

  It was a muffled voice. I was not sure whether it was a man trying to talk like a woman or a woman trying to talk like a man, but I was betting on a man rather than a woman.

  The voice, of course, wanted to know whether I was Mrs. Bushrow. And when that was out of the way, there were only two sentences—and I’ll remember them till I die—which won’t be very far off now. The voice said, “If you want to learn who killed Mr. Hollonbrook, meet me at the bandstand in the park on Black’s Mill Road tonight at eight o’clock. Come alone.” That was all.

  Black’s Mill Road.

  Maud explained that the city had a park at the edge of town. They never really took care of the park very well, but there was a baseball diamond out there, where the church teams and all that practiced and played their games. But more recently, the Dad’s Club had put in lights on the field at the high school because the effluent from Featherstone Plastics has so polluted Black’s Creek that the old ball field is no longer popular.

  So the park would be deserted by eight even though it wouldn’t be quite dark then.

  “You must not go over there,” Maud said.

  “I’d like to know why not!” I said.

  She said there was a road on the back side of the park that was used for access, but that with the pollution and chug holes in the Black’s Mill Road hardly anybody ever used it unless absolutely necessary. And all along the creek, the banks are grown up in brush and trees and weeds.

  “Why they could grab you and drag you into those bushes and no telling what they would do to you.”

  Well, that made me stop and think. I wanted the man—yes, it would have to be the man—the one with that blasting gelatin—to make some kind of move so I could identify him and connect him with what had happened to my car, which would also connect him with the murder. And here he had made his move. Now that I was face-to-face with the thing I had been hoping for—don’t you see—it was just too scary.

  I had thought about the danger before I left home, and I had taken Lamar’s revolver and some shells out of the right-hand drawer of my secretary bookcase. So I had put that in my suitcase.

  Well, I had this opportunity to identify the man, and I just couldn’t let it slip through my hands. I told Maud about the pistol. I would have it right there in my purse, which was a good-sized purse, and I felt sure I still knew how to shoot if I found it necessary.

  She wouldn’t have any of that. She wanted to call the police.

  I said, “Absolutely not!”

  She wanted to know why not.

  In the first place, the police would never believe an old woman who said there was somebody lying in wait for her down by the creek. And in the second place, they wouldn’t let me go down there if they believed it. And in the third place, if a police car came anywhere near the park, the man wouldn’t show up and the officers would just laugh at us. And there wasn’t a fourth place, because I wasn’t going to call any police.

  If there had ever been any chance that I would back down and not be at that park at eight o’clock, by the time I got through with all those first, second, and third places, that chance was gone and the matter was settled.

  Dinner was not very pleasant that night. Maud was just sure I was eating my last meal. She didn’t say so, but I knew that was what she thought. And the fact is, I wasn’t very hungry myself.

  Well, I got out there. The sun had already sunk below the big old dark trees along the creek. It was about the dreariest place you ever wa
nt to see.

  There was a parking lot for the cars—none there, of course—weeds coming up through the gravel except where oil had leaked. I pulled my car in and got out.

  Should I lock it or not? It was not the place to leave an unlocked car, and I wasn’t sure the Baker Street boys would be best pleased if I lost this Buick. But on the other hand, I might want to get into the car in a hurry. So I left it unlocked and put the keys in my purse, taking the opportunity to look at my revolver, just for comfort. I said, “Lord, if you’ll see me through this one, you can do as you please next time.”

  Isn’t that awful!

  Well, to go on about that park. Over to the left were some ramshackle bleachers by the baseball diamond, and over in the other direction I could see some swings and slides for the children. Directly ahead of me was the bandstand, and not too far from that was a small brick building.

  I saw no sign of the man I had come to meet. But there were some benches around the bandstand and some bushes, so I couldn’t see whether the benches were all empty or whether someone might be sitting there hidden by one of the shrubs.

  The man had said I was to meet him by the bandstand, which meant, I supposed, I would have to go over there if I expected to see him.

  So I started out walking over the grass toward the bandstand. I’m sure my heart was beating faster than it had done in a long, long time.

  I was about halfway to the bandstand, I suppose, when I felt I just had to look behind me. And there, crossing the road, was the big old lumbering figure of a heavyset man. Yes, it was the man I had seen throw that blasting gelatin under my DeSoto.

  It’s all very well to be brave when you are sitting in Maud’s living room telling her you don’t want the police, but when you’re alone in that huge, vacant park with a creature like that behind you, it’s different.

  I quickened my pace. After all, I had done what I had wanted to do. I had seen the man clearly enough to identify him. But now I was not quite sure I knew what to do.

  I quickened my pace still more and looked back again. Then I realized why the man had such a lumbering walk: He was lame.

  Well, that gave me hope. An old lady eighty-eight years old can’t run very fast, but maybe she could keep ahead of a lame man. So I began to run.

  I got almost to the bandstand when I thought I had better take my gun out of my purse. I was fumbling around with that and not paying enough attention to where I was going, and suddenly my foot went into a rabbit hole and I fell to my knees. Fortunately, my fall was softened by the thick grass, and I didn’t break anything. But the man gained on me as I scrambled to my feet again—scared to death.

  I got past the bandstand. Ahead of me was the little red brick building. I could see now that it was a public toilet. If I could just get in there and close the door!

  My knee was hurting me, but I was paying no attention to that. My chest was heaving and I was huffing and puffing and constantly looking over my shoulder. You’ll never know how happy I was when I reached that door with L-A-D-I-E-S painted on it.

  In an instant, I was inside, leaning against the closed door, panting and wondering what I must do next.

  The man might be lame, all right, but he was much stronger than I was and he could force the door in mighty short order.

  High on the far wall was a window that let in enough of the failing light so that I could see what was there. Well, there wasn’t much—two stalls, two basins, and a big mirror with most of the silver gone, a rickety old chair, and a large plastic garbage can under the paper-towel dispenser. I thought maybe I could prop the chair under the doorknob. But the back of the chair looked like it was ready to come off.

  Then I thought of my revolver. What a smart thing it was to have brought that revolver! I looked down at the purse hanging from my arm. My purse was open.

  And the revolver—was not there. It was back at that confounded rabbit hole!

  All for the want of a horseshoe nail!

  It’s the little things that betray us. Why had I not had presence of mind enough to check on that revolver when I struggled to my feet and began to run again?

  By this time, I could hear the man outside. He stopped at the door. Then I heard him walking back and forth, and it occurred to me that he, the same as I, was trying to decide what he would do next. Poor man! He was only trying to protect his daughter—but I can’t explain that now.

  Well, thank God the man was hesitant for just that little time. It gave me a moment to think what I would do. And right away I saw how to do it.

  I put the chair so that it would be more or less hidden until the man opened the door all the way. Then I emptied the wadded-up paper towels out of the plastic garbage can.

  As for the next part, I’m glad there was nobody there to see me. Because I climbed up on that wobbly old chair, and, being wobbly myself, I must have been quite a spectacle. But no matter!

  Anyhow, I got up there and got hold of the plastic garbage can and lifted it up and waited for the man outside to make up his mind to come through that door.

  Finally, he did. First, he pushed the door open a little bit—very timidly—and looked in. Then he pushed the door open farther and was already inside before he knew where I was. Because, you know, it was fairly dark in there.

  Then he took a little step toward me, and I had him.

  I brought that plastic garbage can down over his head and pressed on it with all my might. Being somewhat flexible, the garbage can came down neatly over his shoulders, down past his elbows, pinning them tightly against his side. In fact, the garbage can came down over his great big belly and made a very snug fit, thank you.

  I could hear muffled noises coming through the plastic and the garbage can was gyrating about in a very energetic way, but he would not be able to get it off very easily without help.

  I’m afraid I laughed at the poor man.

  Well, I was in a most unusual situation. The man was my prisoner, but I was at a loss to know how to keep him that way. I couldn’t just go off and leave him. Sooner or later, he would wiggle free of the garbage can and get away if I didn’t prevent it.

  While he was threshing around—couldn’t see anything, you know—I got down off that old chair, stepped around my prisoner, gave him just a little push out of the way, went outside, and closed the door.

  The door was sort of ramshackle and not at all strong. Someone had put a hasp-and-staple arrangement on it—maybe to keep transients out of it at night—there was no padlock now. But if I could jam something through the staple, that would hold my prisoner until I could get the police.

  I was trying to figure out what on earth to do, when who should show up with his rifle but Robert Smith!

  “Bless Patsy!” I said. “How did you get here?”

  “My grandmother told me to come and keep an eye on you.”

  The dear boy had been hidden behind the bleachers on the baseball field. He had been expecting me to come from the other side of the park and had not spotted me or my assailant until that man pushed open the rest room door. Then Robert had come on the run.

  It was just wonderful. I felt like Daniel delivered from the lion’s den. Everything was working out perfectly. Mr. Brazille was in the ladies’ room, where he shouldn’t be; and when the police came, there was no way he could pretend he hadn’t been about to—kidnap me?—attack me?—kill me? Anyway, he had “attempted” something and the police ought to be able to bring some kind of charge against him.

  If they could find his old van hidden out there somewhere in the weeds and the bushes, and if there was a cut in the right rear tire, and if the tire matched the track that was found after my dear old DeSoto was blown up—if all those things—and I was pretty sure the van would be there and the tire would be the one that made the track—well, in that case—don’t you see—I had him.

  And if he was Mr. Brazille, as I had no doubt he was, then that daughter of his would have to explain a lot. But more about that later.

 
“Robert,” I said, “let me have your rifle, and I’ll stay here while you go and call the police.”

  He didn’t argue. He handed over the rifle, and skedaddled. As soon as he got away, I slipped the muzzle of the rifle through the staple, effectively locking Brazille in the rest room. Thank goodness the thing didn’t go off, for I certainly did not wish to endanger poor Mr. Brazille’s life. I wanted him for evidence. And no matter how undignified my use of Robert’s rifle may have been, it did its job just fine.

  In about ten minutes, I heard the police siren—such a beautiful sound! I never before appreciated it properly.

  Well, the police took Mr. Brazille in for questioning. I don’t think he was at all happy about it. They put him in the police car. As soon as I recovered my revolver, I got into my car and followed them down to the police station, while Robert came along after me.

  At the station, I made a preliminary statement, and while I was talking to the chief, one of the officers came in and said they had found the van and that the tire had a cut just like the track they had found after my old DeSoto was destroyed.

  “Well,” the chief said to me, “you certainly caught your man.”

  “Robert helped me,” I insisted. “He saved my life.” And I patted the boy on the shoulder and embarrassed him.

  They said I would have to talk with the district attorney the following day. They also said I would have to be a witness and testify in court there in Stedbury. Poor Maud would have me for a houseguest for quite a while in that case.

  Maud!

  I hadn’t thought about her. She would be beside herself thinking something awful had happened to me—and even worse—to Robert! So I called her and let her know it was all right and made Robert call his parents.

  Then a reporter came in and interviewed us and took a picture of Robert and me.

  It was 10:30 before I got back to Maud’s house. I don’t know when I’ve been so tired, and my knee was hurting. I soaked in a lovely tub of hot water, went to bed, and slept the sleep of the just—even if I didn’t deserve it.