Black Cat Weekly #10

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 4IT WASN’T easy to take. I don’t mean Nolan’s continued suspicion. I could take that all right. Nothing could be done about it anyhow. But this business of the cop hit on the head knocked my discovery galley-west, knocked all significance out of it.

Nolan started to move away. I stopped him. “There’s something I’d like to point out,” I said. “Could you assume for a moment that I’m not guilty of killing Cantrell?”

He looked at me detachedly. “Just for the sake of argument?”

“Yes. Exactly. Suppose I’m not guilty. Now, if I didn’t kill Cantrell, and if I didn’t hit your cop on the head last night, then somebody else did. And if last night’s criminal was Cantrell’s murderer, he was pulling off something because he didn’t get what he wanted when he killed Cantrell. It follows?”

“Mmmmm,” said Nolan. “I see the point.”

“And if,” I said, “he still didn’t get what he was after, what’ll he do next?”

“You tell me,” said Nolan.

“He’ll figure that I must have pulled off something for you to suspect me so frankly,” I told him. “He’ll figure that somebody had to pull off something, or he’d have gotten what he wanted. So he’ll think I’ve got what he killed Cantrell for. And his next victim is apt to be me; I’ll be the next corpse.”

“Interestin’,” said Nolan. “If somebody murders you, I’ll start thinkin’ maybe you didn’t kill Cantrell; that’s fair enough. But what was Cantrell’s killer after? An’ you still mighta wanted to kill him just to get outa a jam, guy!”

“I suggest one more bright thought,” I said. “If I’d killed Cantrell to keep him from putting on his show—as you’ve hinted more than once—what would I gain by crashing Houlihan?”

Nolan shrugged. “The argument that it couldn’t ha’ been you, because you wouldn’t gain nothin’ by it—nix, Mordent I’ll tell you, honest, that all I need is the murder-weapon an’ the proof that somebody was in Cantrell’s study between the time he went in an’ the time the folks found him dead. Gimme those two things, an’ I’ll close the case an’ be dam’ glad of it.”

His manner was convincingly matter-of-fact; he seemed to mean exactly what he said. He spoke without enmity, but like somebody talking to an antagonist in a contest of supreme importance. So I scowled at him.

“I thought crime-detection was a science,” I said with heavy irony. “Why not get a lab man out and get your proofs?”

“Fella,” said Nolan, “the doc said that Cantrell’s eyes were rolled back in his head like he was already dead or out cold when he was murdered. Y’know why he was out cold?”

“Thanks,” I said sarcastically, “for assuming I don’t know!”

“That was a slip,” he admitted. “Forget it. But I’ll tell you anyhow. There was sand in the ashes of the fireplace this mornin’. Get it? Cantrell was socked first with a sandbag. A sandbag knocks you out, cold. Handled right an’ hit hard enough, a sandbag kills, too. Y’know that, huh?”

I growled.

“The—murderer,” said Nolan, “expected Cantrell to conk off from bein’ socked with a sandbag. It woulda looked like a heart-attack or maybe apoplexy an’ no murder at all. He was old enough. Only he didn’t die; he just passed out. His heart kept on beatin’. So the murderer socked him again—an’ again. He musta known who was in there with him. He hadda die, or he’d tell. So the murderer went kinda crazy when he didn’t die from bein’ hit with a sandbag, an’—made sure. The killin’d be known as a murder, then, but it just hadda be done! An’ then the murderer threw the sandbag in the fireplace. The cloth got burned up. There was just some extra sand in the ashes. If Cantrell had just seemed to’ve kicked the bucket from a heart-attack, nobody woulda noticed sand in the ashes.”

Nolan spread out his hands. “Somebody smart like that, even if his trick didn’t work just right, ain’t goin’ to leave any evidence around. It’ll come out another way; but it’ll come out!”

He spoke detachedly, but I felt sick. “Good Lord!” I said thickly. “If it was like that—”

“It was,” said Nolan. “An’ all I need is proof that somebody I know was in the room when it was done, an’ what kinda thing made that funny sorta hole in Cantrell’s skull. I got to have those two things or just knowin’ the murderer ain’t worth a damn. For instance, this ain’t any good.”

He flipped me my cigarette-lighter. I stared at it.

“I found it in the study,” said Nolan; “it proves you’ been there. It don’t prove you were there the time I gotta prove, so you can have it back.”

He turned and walked away.

I went on to the dining-room.

I was shaky. I’d undoubtedly lost my lighter when I found Cantrell dead, when I was struggling to raise him in his chair to—as I thought—revive him.

It was not a happy morning hour. Jermyn served me coffee, and I wanted a lot of it. He looked as if he’d aged fifteen years overnight. He spilled my coffee when he poured it.

“You’re in a state of nerves, Jermyn,” I observed. “What’s the matter?”

“I expect to be arrested, sir,” he told me. “For the murder of the master if not of the policeman, sir.”

“Nonsense,” I said sourly. “I’m the official suspect.”

“I might as well tell you, sir,” said Jermyn. His face was haggard. “Mr. Nolan will undoubtedly find it out, sir. I’m an ex-convict, sir. It will be only natural for me to be arrested on suspicion, sir. I’m afraid it will he— rather bad. Especially after the policeman, sir.”

“It might depend,” I told him, “on what you served time for.”

“For robbery, sir,” said Jermyn. “With violence. When I was quite a young man, sir. Mr. Cantrell knew all about it; it rather pleased him to have someone with a criminal record in his employ.”

I could believe that. It fitted right into Cantrell’s character. The only strange part was that he hadn’t boasted of it.

“It would please him,” I agreed grimly. “He had his hobbies. The whole matter of his murder, in fact, probably hinges on one of them ... What sort of spectacle did he plan to show us last night, Jermyn? What was he up to?”

“I couldn’t say, sir, but he was very much pleased with the new desk in the study, sir. Very proud. I was serving him and Mr. Purcell drinks, sir, while Mr. Purcell was taking photographs of it, and I heard him saying proudly that it had belonged to one of the greatest scoundrels in the French Revolution, sir. He said the person helped criminals steal things and then caught them for the police, sir.”

Poisson. That checked with the theory I’d had to discard. But I said with elaborate casualness, “By the way, Jermyn. I notice the pewter platters are gone from the hutch cabinet in the study. Those South American platters. —Very fine pieces.”

“I couldn’t say, sir,” said Jermyn apologetically. “I never paid much attention to the collection-items, sir. Running the house proper, sir, has been more my line.”

No help there. Twelve platinum platters, worth more thousands than would sound at all probable, received no attention from the servants in Cantrell’s house, because only Cantrell and myself knew what they were worth. They might merely be put away, or they might be stolen, or the murderer in our midst might still be hunting for them—witness l’affaire Houlihan. And by every rule of decency they belonged to Adele, since the price she received for them was an outrageous swindle.

Jermyn went away. I drank my coffee. Through a window I could see a man in a business suit on the lawn. He was down on his hands and knees outside the window of the study where Cantrell had been killed. He’d be looking for the murder-weapon, perhaps, or for something else that Nolan needed in order to pin the murder on me. A pleasant thought.

There was a little clicking of heels behind me. Adele came into the dining-room. She looked as if she hadn’t slept well. She caught her breath at sight of me. “I—I wanted to see you,” she said awkwardly. “I want to apologize, I think.”

I looked blank. I had thought more steadily about her in the past twelve hours than about any other girl in my life.

“You see,” she explained, “I told Mr. Nolan last night that I thought you were in the library when the murder took place, but I did admit that when—Mr. Purcell and I looked in there for you when the discovery was first made, the library was empty.”

“Now why,” I asked mildly, “did you say that?”

It was undoubtedly the truth, but I was in trouble enough.

“Because we thought it was so!” she said unhappily. “We did look in and didn’t see you. But we didn’t actually go inside the room; I thought it over later and there are alcoves there formed by the bookshelves, and if you were standing in one of them ...”

I picked up the idea in my stride, as it were. “Oh! I see now! As a matter of fact, I did refer to a shelf-book once, to verify an idea about a chair I think is a Meissonier. You might have looked in then.”

Her expression lightened. She waited almost breathlessly.

“The book,” I added convincingly, “is ‘Chair-makers of the Regency’ It is on a shelf in an alcove. I was looking up a certain type of rocaille decoration that’s on the chair.”

She drew a quick breath. “There! That explains everything! I’m so glad! That will cancel everything I said to Mr. Nolan!”

“I’m afraid not,” I told her wrily. “He may consider only that it proves I know where a certain book is kept on the library shelves. And, strictly speaking, he’s right.”

Her face fell; she looked acutely uncomfortable. “I’m so sorry!” she said anxiously; “is there anything I can do to fix it? I hardly slept, for worrying that I might have thrown suspicion on you without real reason.”

That was irony. There was reason to suspect me, all right.

“You might talk things over with me,” I said. “I might get some good out of talk that wasn’t exclusively reasons for thinking I slaughtered Cantrell, plus my increasingly feeble rejoinders.”

She managed a quick little smile, but the anxiety didn’t leave her features. “Let’s walk outside.”

We went out-doors. It was a singularly fine morning, and everything did look quite incredibly serene and peaceful. But I did get a nasty turn when I saw some men coming up one of the back walks toward the house with one of those gruesome wicker baskets that only undertakers use. The murder had only happened last night; it seemed longer.

I led Adele in the opposite direction.

Then, almost immediately, we came upon Purcell taking pictures of two men in business suits, doggedly turning over each leaf and grass-blade in an area they had marked off with string. I’d only seen one before. They were hunting for anything that might have been thrown out of the study window. For a weapon, perhaps.

Purcell said cheerfully, “If you two will let me get a picture of you watching them hunt, it might come in handy.”

“Guests at the Murder-Party,” I suggested unpleasantly, as a caption, “Watching the Search for Clues Which May Convict Them of Murder. Is that it?”

He grinned happily. “Maybe .... D’you know, if Nolan comes through with a solution and a conviction on this, I might make it into a regular book—all pictures! No text except captions! Rather neat, eh?”

“Except,” I suggested, “that Nolan may not be able to get a conviction. Maybe a burglar or a prowler is responsible. Someone Nolan won’t be able to find.”

Purcell aimed his camera. “Not likely,” he said blithely. “Not after the cop was hit on the head and everything ransacked last night. The murderer’s still on the premeses.”

I raised my eyebrows. I felt Adele trembling, beside me.

“How do you know?”

He pressed the camera-shutter. The picture, if it turned out, must have showed me scowling ferociously. “Guards all around the place,” he said happily. “Nobody could have gotten in or out.”

“Then who do you think it was?” I asked.

“I rather credit the official view,” he said affably.

“Meaning me?”

He grinned. I turned and walked away. After a moment Adele came after me.

“What did he mean when he said a policeman was hit on the head and—everything turned upside down?”

* * * *

I told her as much as I knew, which was no more than the bare fact. Then I walked on grimly. I was haunted by the fear that Houlihan’s assailant had been hunting for the platters. I’d have tried a slight case of assault myself, if I’d thought I could get the platters and turn them back to Adele.

She looked up at me. “Are you trying to get rid of me? If you want to be by yourself, I won’t mind; but if you’ve got the idea that you’re disgraced because Mr. Nolan is silly enough—”

“I’m surely going to be tried for a cold-blooded murder,” I told her wrily. “I might even be convicted. That ought to excuse a certain reserve of manner.”

She said with conviction, “No! You won’t even be tried! Why should you be?”

“Why not?” I asked.

We’d arrived at the sculptured faun that once had belonged to Cagliostro. The landscaping here was very good, but I paid no attention to it. I halted and looked down at Adele.

“Well ... After all,” she said restlessly, “I got you into this by saying you weren’t in the library when you were. I could get you out, say that I was mistaken. That I looked in the library again and I realize that what I thought was a shadow in an alcove was you. That I distinctly remember seeing the shadow and it isn’t there new so it definitely was you.”

I stared at her.

“But why He like that?” I demanded. “I’ve had girls lie to me before, but never one offer to lie for me!”

“Why should it be a lie?” she demanded indignantly. “Weren’t you there?”

I hesitated for a long moment. Then I said with that insane confidence that makes men tell women things that get them hanged—saved, depending on the woman. “As a matter of fact, I wasn’t. I’ve not been truthful about it, because it would look damned bad.”

She stared up at me. It was still fairly early in the morning, and all the world seemed fresh and new. Adele was a very pretty girl. Now, looking at me startledly, she was a lot more than merely pretty.

“You weren’t in the library when the murder took place? Where were you?”

“I’m not sure,” I said, with what should have been completely fatal imprudence, but without any doubts at all. “Perhaps I was, at the moment of the actual killing. What would be awkward to admit is the fact that I was in Cantrell’s study about five minutes after the murder, and probably ten minutes before anybody else knew anything about it.”

She looked at me steadily, and hard; she even swallowed. Then she made up her mind, apparently. She gave me a quick little smile. “In that case,” she said, “it looks like you really do need somebody to do some fibbing for you, doesn’t it?”

The thing that came into my mind just then was that if Adele was actually like this, then having even unwittingly been the cause of Cantrell’s cheating her was more than usually a crime. Which I would not now add to.

“I’m afraid,” I told her, “you’d better step aside. This affair is really bad! For an extra item, I was downstairs last night. I saw Houlihan, the cop, asleep in a chair. And you just heard that somebody hit him on the head, later.”

I think a little color went out of her cheeks. “But why do you tell me?” she asked protestingly. “You didn’t really kill anyone, did you?”

“Not a single murder,” I admitted grimly. “Not even part of one. But if the real murderer isn’t turned up I’m going to have to substitute for him, apparently. So you want to get out from under. You don’t want to become involved. You’d better simply cut me dead from this moment on— unless or until the real murderer is found.”

She looked at me with the same steady, speculative regard.

“But if he’s ever found,” I said unhappily, “I’d like to know how to get in touch with you. I have ambitions to go places and do things with you if happier times should ever come.”

Then she grinned at me. “That’s silly! I shan’t cut you. I’m a poor relation. In fact, I’m a poor relation of a poor relation. It doesn’t matter if I associate with the criminal classes. Especially when they aren’t criminal. Let’s go on walking.”

“But—” I began.

“I’ve had passes made at me before, but you’re the first man who ever acted like he liked me and tried to chase me away at the same time. Isn’t that reason enough? Your technic interests me. Let’s let it go at that! I think this is going to be fun!”

Her grin was pretty good, but I stood my ground doggedly. After a moment the grin began to fade at the edges. “Of course, if you think I’m simply an officious nuisance and you’d like to—bust me on the nose, that’s different. If I’m mistaken in thinking you need somebody to believe in you—as I do ...”

“I don’t want to bust you in the nose!” I said angrily. “As a matter of fact, I want like the devil to kiss you!”

She jumped. Literally. Then she stared at me. And then the grin came back, slowly, first as the beginning of a smile and then something warm and mildly wondering and a little bit mocking and altogether very satisfactory.

“My dear man!” said Adele. “Your technic is unprecedented,—and very effective.” Then she put her head on one side. “Even that might be arranged,” she said meditatively, “if you were very persuasive and—and told me the whole story, every bit of the truth about how you got into such an awful mess.”

But I shook my head; I certainly wouldn’t tell her about those damned platters now.