I glanced up into my wife’s haunted face.
“Peter,” she whispered, “is—is she—”
“Yes,” I said. “That’s exactly what she is. Mimi’s dead. It looks as if the era of accidents is over. This time it’s murder, plain, honest-to-goodness murder with no question about it at all.”
PART FIVE
LORRAINE
XVI
That thought nagged at me like an abscess as we stood in the starkly lighted garage. The rock which had crushed Mimi’s skull was lying by her side for all the world to see. There had been no attempt to conceal the fact that her suitcase had been rifled. Dorothy … Janet … Fleur … Mimi…. Four of the six women in the Pleygel mansion had been murderously attacked in three days. The sequence of deaths was hurtling on with ever-growing momentum. But that wasn’t the worst part.
The worst part was that the murderer had come out into the open at last. He didn’t care any more who knew that he had killed three women, tried to kill a fourth, and was probably planning to kill more. He was shouting it from the housetops.
That was what made the whole thing so terrible—and so mad.
Iris was standing close to me, not saying anything. I put my arm around her. There was something ominous about Mimi Burnett’s dead, smirking face staring up from the oil-stained floor, something ominous about the dank smell of axle-grease and dust.
In a voice that sounded jarringly loud, my wife said, “Mimi dead! Peter, isn’t it ever going to stop?”
That’s what I was thinking, too. Even before Mimi’s death, it had been impossible to find any reasonable motive to cover all the crimes. Now the whole picture had become as wild as a madman’s dream. There would surely be no pattern to a holocaust that involved killing Dorothy, Janet, Fleur, and Mimi unless it was the pattern of a homicidal maniac intent upon snuffing out all the women in our party.
Lorraine and Iris were the only two as yet unscathed. From that moment on, I had but one modest ambition—to keep my wife alive.
“At least we won’t have to call the police,” Iris was saying. “Inspector Craig must be almost here.”
As she spoke, I noticed for the first time that my toe was nudging against something on the floor. I bent to pick it up. It was a small, leather-bound book with arty gilt lettering. I read the gilt lettering which said, Selected poems of Edna St. Vincent Millay. I had always thought of Mimi’s poetry reading as just another aspect of her fake intellectual pose, but there was something pitiful about that book now. Poor Mimi, she no longer needed the spiritual uplift which Miss Millay could provide.
I slipped the book into my pocket.
My wife turned to the suitcase which lay by the open door. She was bending over it. I joined her.
“Don’t touch anything. We’ve got to leave it for the police.”
“I know.” My wife threw a glance over her shoulder at Mimi. “We won’t have any trouble now convincing Inspector Craig that there’s a murderer on the loose.”
“Exactly,” I said.
Women are funny people. I who had lived and eaten and slept with death in the Pacific was still horribly conscious of Mimi Burnett’s body lying there behind us. I wanted to get away from it. But my wife, now that the first shock was over, seemed to be taking the realistic point of view that what was done could not be undone, and the presence of a corpse did not faze her. She was staring at the suitcase in a businesslike manner.
“It’s maddening not being able to touch things. Whoever killed Mimi obviously wanted something she had in her suitcase. If only we could find out what it was, then maybe we could make some sense out of this. Maybe we could link it up with Fleur, Janet and Dorothy.”
I wished Inspector Craig would hurry up and come. “You can’t link anything up with anything,” I said morosely. “And you can’t expect any sense from a maniac. Someone’s crazy and someone’s killing women. Let’s leave it at that and hope to heaven he won’t get the chummy idea of killing you.”
“Nonsense.” Even in the brash light from that bald ceiling bulb Iris looked lovely enough for a publicity still. “I don’t believe in maniacs who manage to masquerade as normal people twenty-three hours out of the twenty-four. They only come in books. Be reasonable. Someone in the house must have done it. We know that. And we know them all. Frauds and phonies they may be, but which of them could possibly be a maniac?”
“I wouldn’t put anything past any of them.”
“I suppose you think that, come sunset, Lover transmogrifies himself into a plump werewolf, or little Fleur Wyckoff’s teeth sharpen and start quivering for jugular veins. No, Peter, you can’t shrug it off as easily as that. Some one person made four deliberate attacks for a very deliberate reason. It all seems idiot fringe to us simply because we haven’t stumbled on that reason yet.”
Iris was still beating the same old gong. Nothing seemed to discourage her. She turned to me. “Peter,” she began.
“What?” I said.
“I was just thinking. Now Mimi’s dead, the course of true love should run quite a lot smoother for Chuck and Lorraine.” She broke off and I felt her hand on my arm. “Listen,” she breathed, “someone’s out there in the yard.” We stood perfectly still. Trailing in from the darkness outside came the soft crunch of footsteps on gravel. At first I supposed it was Chuck or Lover coming from the house to see what had happened to us. Then I realized that the footsteps were not coming from the front door. They were approaching from the other direction.
Someone was slipping in from the garden.
I was in a condition then to sense danger in everything. Whispering to Iris not to move, I stepped out into the yard. The moonlight was strong enough for me to make out the stooped figure of David Wyckoff hurrying towards the arch which led to the front door.
I don’t know what I had expected, but the sight of Wyckoff allayed my undefined fears. Of all Lorraine’s heterogeneous guests he was the one I trusted most. Sooner or later he’d have to know about Mimi. He might as well know right now.
I called, “Hey, Wyckoff!”
He sprang round, peering through the darkness.
“Who is it? Is it you, Lieutenant?” He started towards me. “Fleur’s asleep. I thought I’d take a little exercise while I had the chance. D’you want anything?”
“Yes,” I said grimly. “I’ve got something to show you.”
He came up to me. I could make out his eyes, faintly questioning. I turned into the garage. He followed, almost stumbling over Mimi’s suitcase.
“Watch out,” I said. “Don’t disturb anything.”
Wyckoff blinked at the light. He shot Iris a mechanical smile. Then the smile faded as he saw Mimi.
“My God!” he said.
It hadn’t been fair, throwing him into it cold like that, but he took it on the chin. He did not say anything else. Very much the doctor, he dropped to his knees at Mimi’s side. He didn’t even touch her. I suppose he didn’t have to. At length he looked up, his face bleak.
“She’s dead,” he said. “But I guess you know that already. This thing—isn’t it ever going to stop?”
He had said exactly what Iris had said.
What else was there to say?
He got up. He glanced at the suitcase and then at me. I couldn’t tell what he was thinking. He didn’t have that kind of a face. In the methodical manner in which he might have extracted a patient’s case history, he started to question us on the few facts we knew. I was still outlining the details when we heard the sound of a car coming up the drive towards the house.
Excitedly Iris cut in. “That’ll be Inspector Craig at last.”
I glanced quizzically at Wyckoff. “The whole thing’s going to break now, you know. You’re going to ask for an autopsy on Dorothy, aren’t you?”
His mouth was grim. “Yes.”
“And you’ve got your story straight? You think you’ll be able to make your original diagnosis seem plausible enough to keep you out of trouble?”
“I hope so.” I could tell that he was steeling himself for the difficult ordeal that lay ahead. “You two had better stay here. I’ll go and bring Craig over. After all, Dorothy’s old history.” He glanced down at Mimi. “This is what’s going to interest the police right now.”
He hurried off to intercept the approaching car before it reached the front door.
Iris looked thoughtful. “You’re not going to tell the police anything about Wyckoff’s affair with Dorothy, or Fleur’s stealing that letter?”
“I promised I wouldn’t,” I said. “Wyckoff obviously thought Fleur killed Dorothy and Fleur obviously thought Wyckoff did. I still think that cancels them both out. They’ve had a tough enough time, both of them. We can at least spare them something.”
“I guess you’re right,” said Iris noncommittally.
Soon Wyckoff reappeared with a short, brisk figure moving at his side. Apparently Inspector Craig had come alone. They joined us outside the garage. I could see something of Inspector Craig in the moonlight. He seemed youngish, with steady eyes.
“Dr. Wyckoff here tells me a woman has been murdered since Chuck Dawson called me,” he said. “You two discovered the body?”
“Yes.” I introduced myself and then Iris. Craig’s eyes moved appraisingly over my wife.
“Iris Duluth,” he said. “I’ve seen you in the movies. Good, too. Delicate thing for a movie actress getting mixed up in murder. We’ll have to do our best to keep your name out of this as much as possible.”
Iris said impetuously, “I don’t care about my movie career. I’m bored with Hollywood, anyway. I’m only interested in getting this thing solved. My husband and I helped on some murder cases in the East and we’ve done a little investigation on this already. We’ve got quite a lot to tell you.”
It seemed to me that a faintly sardonic smile passed over the Inspector’s face as he watched my wife.
“Well, well.” He turned to me and jerked his head towards the garage. “Wyckoff tells me nothing has been touched in there?”
“No,” I said.
Craig started towards the garage door with Wyckoff behind him. He said over his shoulder, “Don’t go, you two. I’ll want to talk to you later.”
The two men disappeared into the garage. They were gone quite a while. We could hear them speak to each other every now and then, but most of the time Craig seemed to prefer to work in silence. There was a telephone in the garage. There was a telephone in every room, nook, and cranny of Lorraine’s mad house. At length I heard the Inspector using it. He was calling to have his regular homicide squad come up—and quickly.
After that, he and Wyckoff emerged again into the white Nevada moonlight.
The garage padlock was hanging on its metal catch. Craig pushed the door shut and snapped the lock, pocketing the key. He was obviously a man of few words and, equally obviously, he was not going to waste them. He said nothing about what he had or had not observed from his examination of Mimi’s body. He turned to us, the steady eyes watching both our faces intently.
“I understood from the Reno police that a woman in Miss Pleygel’s party died of a heart attack at the Del Monte two days ago. I also know from the Genoa City police that another woman was drowned here in the pool last night. I wasn’t exactly surprised when Chuck Dawson called.”
He just threw that out flatly, leaving the rest up to us.
Wyckoff blurted. “The woman at the Del Monte was a patient of mine in San Francisco. She had a—a serious heart condition. I was the one who diagnosed her death as heart failure. At the time it seemed logical enough, but I am no longer satisfied with my own diagnosis, particularly since Lieutenant Duluth here—” He was not doing a very good job with his apologia. “It’s our belief now that Dorothy Flanders was poisoned. There’s some reason to think curare was used. That’s why Dawson called you.”
Inspector Craig just stood there without offering any comment.
Iris, looking eager and enthusiastic, broke in. “We think Dorothy Flanders was murdered by some sort of poison trap fixed in her pocketbook. We have her pocketbook and some other things for you upstairs.”
Once again I traced a distinctly sardonic expression on Craig’s face. Very quietly, he said, “If you had all these suspicions, it seems to me you might have come out with them before. Presumably you believe that Mrs. Laguno was murdered, too. There was an inquest on her this morning. No one from here seemed to quarrel with the verdict of accidental death.”
“We didn’t say anything because we weren’t sure,” I explained. “Both the deaths looked innocent though. We had nothing to go on except our suspicions.”
“That is,” said Iris, “until this afternoon.”
With a slight lift to his voice the Inspector said, “And what happened this afternoon?”
Wyckoff told Craig about the insane episode of Fleur and the station wagon.
The Inspector permitted himself the luxury of a comment. He gave a little grunt and murmured, “You certainly have been getting yourselves a time around here.” His voice became blunt and impersonal again. “Well, we won’t be able to take a look at that station wagon until morning. My men should be here pretty soon, but meanwhile—we’d better get in the house and see what we can find out about Miss Burnett.” He glanced at Iris. “You say you have Mrs. Flanders’ pocketbook and some other things? P’raps you’d be good enough to get them.”
I said, “There’s something else, too. Some Indian blow darts tipped with curare. Miss Pleygel has them in her trophy room. We think one of the darts has been tampered with. We’d like you to see them.”
The Inspector looked at me with something akin to approval. “You seem to be keeping your eyes open, Lieutenant. Guess we’ll take in those darts before we do anything else.”
The four of us crossed the gravel yard, navigated the white stone arch, and headed towards the great front door. No one in the house seemed to have heard the Inspector’s arrival. The columned porch was deserted. So was the wide, unfriendly hall.
When we reached it, Iris started for the stairs to get the things from our room. As I watched her small figure being swallowed up by the vast staircase, I felt an absurd fear for her.
I said to Wyckoff, “Go with her, will you? I don’t fancy the idea of her running around alone in this house.
Wyckoff gave me a brief, understanding smile.
“And while you’re about it,” I added, “the Inspector will want to see everyone, I guess. Lorraine’s in her room—at least, I think she is. You might tell her that the police have come.”
“Yes, Doctor.” Craig was watching Wyckoff. “And I’d like to speak to your wife, too.”
Some of the old wariness had slid into Wyckoffs eyes. Rather stiffly he said, “As my wife’s physician I am afraid I must refuse to let anyone talk to her tonight. She’s had a very bad shock.”
The Inspector was still watching him. He gave a shrug. “Okay. Then that’ll have to wait until tomorrow morning.”
Wyckoff started up the stairs after Iris.
I led Inspector Craig to the trophy room. It, too, was empty. The house seemed to be as dead as those dead animals looking down at us from the walls. While elephants and alligators and zebras and the repellent portrait doll of Lorraine watched us glassily, I showed the Inspector the trophy cabinet that housed the three fan-groups of darts. I told him of the sixth dart which had been missing from the third group and had then reappeared. I pointed out the dart whose tip seemed to have been covered with some substance slightly different in colour from the others. The glass top of the cabinet was locked. We would have to get the key from Lorraine before we could make a closer examination.
Craig was bending over the cabinet. It was the first time I had a chance to see him in a full light. He looked no more than thirty, with blunt, sensible features. I had been right about his eyes. They were the steadiest I had ever seen. Every now and then, as he stared at the darts, he blinked, but there was nothing indecisive about the blink. His
lids flicked up and down as though with each flick some mental cash register recorded another observation.
“Doc Brown will be up with the boys,” he said. “I’ll have him take all the darts down for analysis. We’ll know soon enough whether you’ve got anything here.” He looked up at me. “You’re certainly on the beam, Lieutenant. I’d appreciate it if you’d go along with me in this for a while. I think you’ll be useful.”
Preening myself somewhat, I said, “My wife and I will be glad to help all we can.”
Inspector Craig smiled. It was a disturbing smile. “You,” he said, “not your wife. I’ve no doubt she’s a right smart girl. But she’s a woman. I tell you frankly, Lieutenant, I don’t go for women meddling around in men’s jobs.”
He said that amicably enough, but I could sense in him a stubbornness that rivalled that of my wife. I was glad that he was old-fashioned enough to think of Iris as an ornament rather than a detective asset. From now on, any kind of sleuthing was going to be dangerous. I welcomed the Inspector as an ally in my campaign for preserving my wife.
Craig was staring with slightly awed astonishment at the Lorraine doll when Iris and Wyckoff came in. My wife announced that Lorraine would be down and gave the Inspector Dorothy’s pocketbook and Janet’s last minute will.
It was not without satisfaction that I explained to Craig the unattractive role that Count Laguno had played in the activities to date. Iris, Wyckoff, and I let the Inspector know pretty much everything we knew about everything and everybody involved. We steered clear of Wyckoff’s entanglement with Dorothy, however, and I made no mention of Chuck’s marriage to Lorraine or of Lorraine’s scene with Mimi on the front steps. I had promised Chuck to leave his marital explanations up to him. It would all be bound to come out soon enough anyway.
The Inspector listened quietly. It was a picture complex enough to make the soberest brain reel, but Craig took it in his stride—as if the seemingly motiveless murder of three women with an attack on a fourth was something that happened every day in Nevada.
Puzzle for Wantons Page 15
