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TO THE TUNE OF
MURDER





TO THE TUNE OF
MURDER
i
By Helen Mabry Ballard
M. S. MILL COMPANY and
William Morrow & Company
New York . . . . . 1952


To
Georgiana and Pat
Copyright 1952 by Helen Mabry Ballard. •
Printed in the United States of America.
All rights reserved.
Published simultaneously in the Dominion of Canada
by George J. McLeod, Limited, Toronto.
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 52-5786


PS3503
A55776
1952
MAN
THE little north room was pleasant on this
afternoon of early July. Sunlight from the sash window in
the west wall brightened dingy mustard walls to gold and
highlighted the Persian scarf which hid the shoddiness of a
Grand Rapids table. It spattered against an antique copper
pitcher on the whatnot, and, reappearing across the room,
touched white hair above the tea service and a comer of the
shabby chintz-covered armchair opposite.
The chair was comfortable, and full of inviting hollows.
Its occupant snuggled the end of his spine into one of them
and extended long gray-flanneled legs. He was a man in his
late thirties, with broad shoulders about which a tailored blue
coat fitted smoothly, and eyes that were startlingly blue
against a bronzed skin. A pleasant, cheerful expression went
with the ease of manner and charming friendliness that so
delights old ladies, reminding them of favorite nephews.
Jim Hampton usually awoke memories of favorite nephews
in elderly feminine breasts, though one notably unsuscepti-
ble dowager had once commented tartly on the incongruity
of winsome boyishness in a man who was nearly forty. (Jim
had overheard the remark, and, though pained, had forgiven
the speaker, for she was old and the prejudices of age are
more deserving of pity than condemnation. He was a kindly
man.)
M740762


"Have you been very busy, my dear? Do you find the new
work difficult?"
"Nothing that a green D.A. can't take in his stride." He
hesitated. “The county did have a bit of unpleasantness on
its hands but I've passed it on to the government men. It's
really their party and they can handle it better than I."
That, conveniently enough, was true; a small-town lawyer,
district attorney only by grace of being James Stewart Hamp-
ton V, could do little to aid those hard-headed experts, so let
them worry about Messrs. Francioni and Company!
Miss Corbett looked troubled. “Your father,”
"My father,” said Hampton lightly, "was a fighting D.A.,
worthy descendant of the militant, though humorless, Jimmie
the First. Or so they tell me. Which is probably why he died
of an over-worked heart before his son could know him very
well. Moral to fighting D.A.'s: Don't. These cookies are tops,
Miss Jennie. A most elegant tea party!"
He wondered why she had summoned him this afternoon
and why, having gotten him there, she was so long in com-
ing to the point. As he was a gentleman with few inhibitions
he asked.
“Why did you send for me, Miss Jennie? Legal troubles?"
"Oh.” Miss Corbett fluttered a little, avoiding his eye.
"Surely," she countered, “I may invite an old friend to have
tea with me?” She added, too hastily, “You have been com-
ing to this old house for a great many years, James. How
many?"
"Over thirty-five, I suspect.” He obligingly followed the
new path, idly amused by her obvious detouring. “I must
have been about four that Sunday afternoon when Mother
came to tea and brought me along. Remember? They put
me on the window seat with your brat of a half-sister, and she
pinched me and I howled. So you took me into the garden,


and we walked hand-in-hand through tall forests of larkspur
and pentstemon.”
"You," remarked Miss Corbett with dry lack of sentiment,
"beheaded the stocks I had been nursing for the flower
show."
"Did Corbettsville have flower shows even in those by-
gone days? . . . Anyhow, you moved me out of temptation
to a bench under a tree and told me fairy tales."
It had been an acacia tree. He could still recall the sweet
scent of the round yellow blossoms, and the sunlight that
filtered through the feather-like leaves, and the pattern of
shadow on the gravel walk. It had, he remembered, been a
green bench with paint flaking off here and there exposing
the wood. There had been the head of a nail, brown with
rust, buried in the seat near his left knee, and he had circled
it round and round with his finger while he listened. He
retained no memory of the stories she had told-just the in-
effable feeling of happiness which arose from the fusion of
a gentle voice and warm sunlight and the scent of acacia
blossoms.
"I must have been a susceptible kid. For a long time after-
wards I kept turning up on the judge's doorstep panting
with love and demanding his daughter. Ever-faithful Jimmie!
Or no, my allegiance strayed once when I was eight or nine.
There was a visiting cousin. Mary? Matilda?"
"Little Mabel Hinkson.”
"That's it-Mabel. A ravishing little six-year-old with
raven locks whom I briefly adored. But she went away-
probably Alicia pinched her, too—and I returned to my first
love. . . . What is on your mind, Miss Jennie?"
The old lady started, caught off guard. She looked at him
irresolutely and seemed about to speak, but instead, and to
his dismay, refilled his cup. She set the pot down slowly.
rave
4


me
Joman
The slender, beautiful hands trembled, and silver pot and tile
clicked together sharply. Jim watched her with a stir of un-
easiness. What on earth was bothering the poor dear and
why, he wondered blankly, was she afraid to come out with
it?
Afraid? His mind had selected the word unthinkingly,
and with a shock he realized that his subconscious had been
right. Miss Jennie was afraid.
Finally Miss Corbett spoke. "Alicia ..." she began.
A knock at the door interrupted. “Come in,” called the
old lady, and eyed inhospitably the dark-haired woman who
entered the room. “Yes, Mrs. Marpole?"
Alicia Dalrymple's secretary smiled briefly at the at-
torney and crossed with quick competent steps to her em-
ployer's half-sister. She was a tall woman of possibly thirty-
eight years, poised, self-assured, and very beautiful. The
brown linen frock she wore was lightened by a lovely rose-
bud of flame and gold pinned below the left shoulder.
She apologized smoothly. “I'm so sorry, Miss Corbett. I
knew that you and Mr. Hampton were engaged but Mrs.
Dalrymple insisted. It's this bill from Holman's. Mrs. Dal-
rymple believes that they have been over-charging her of
late. She would appreciate it if you would look into it.”
A flicker of annoyance crossed Miss Corbett's face. “I
hardly think that so reputable a firm . . . However ..."
Hampton thought, How she must loathe it. Straining her
old eyes over accounts, acting as buffer between decent
tradesmen and Alicia with her stupid suspicions; and all for
what? Two rooms and a gas plate in the home of her own
ancestors. In God's name why had the judge deeded Gladys
this fine old house? A grand gesture to offset the difference
between the Corbett bank account and the Hinkson mil-
lions? Or just the infatuation of an elderly bridegroom for


his young and handsome bride? Not that Gladys Corbett
hadn't been a decent sort and, plebeian grandfather not-
withstanding, more worthy of the famous old place than was
the daughter who had inherited it. But what a rotten deal
for poor Miss Jennie. ...
"Please leave the bill and a note calling it to my attention
with the other papers in my sister's desk,” said Miss Corbett.
She noticed the rose and her eye lighted with the gleam of
an experienced gardener. "What an exquisite talisman! From
Alicia's garden?"
“Yes.” The sleek dark head bent toward the bud. “Isn't it
a pet? I wheedled it out of old Macrae.” Impulsively her
fingers sought the fastening. “You do so love flowers, Miss
The hand of the other went up quickly in a gesture that
was less refusal than rebuff, though she answered courte-
ously enough. “It is very kind of you, very thoughtful, but
keep it. Fresh flowers are more becoming to the young."
"As you wish," said the secretary coolly. She picked up the
disputed bill, smiled again at Hampton, and quietly left the
room.
“A self-possessed female," commented the young man.
“And a remarkably handsome one."
"Very handsome.” Miss Corbett snapped, and Tim's eyes
widened at the sharp tone. Apparently the old lady had
heard echoes of the scandal over which Corbettsville was
still smacking its lips—the report that on a certain occasion,
when Mrs. Dalrymple's secretary was supposedly week-end-
ing with friends in New Jersey she had been seen leaving
a New York hotel in the company of Mrs. Dalrymple's hus-
band. He speculated as to whether Alicia had also heard,
decided that the extra-matrimonial affairs of Tom Dalrymple
were none of his business, and turned to a more immediate


problem. He set down his cup and straightened in his chair.
"Don't you think,” he remarked, "that it's time you told me
what's troubling you? Let's stop beating about the bush,
shall we? What is it?"
Miss Corbett twisted her hands in an uncharacteristic
gesture of helplessness. “I am afraid—” she began, and
stopped. Her face clouded and she looked tired and un-
happy. Jim leaned forward persuasively.
"Please, Miss Jennie. It's not like you to funk anything.
Out with it.”
The lovely hands strayed among the tea things, lifting
and setting down a cup, pushing aside a spoon. “Yes, of
course. You are quite right, my dear. There is something,
something important and—and quite dreadful.” Her eyes
appealed to him for patience. “I find,” she said simply, “that
it is more difficult to tell than I had anticipated," and then,
quite suddenly, the sweet old face crumpled, the faded brown
eyes overflowed, and two tears washed their way down her
cheeks through the light covering of face powder.
“Hey!" cried her alarmed guest. “Don't do that, Miss Jen-
nie, please! It can't be as bad as all that.”
Miss Corbett lifted a handkerchief and mopped her eyes.
She apologized tremulously. “I am so sorry, my dear. I am
not usually so weak.” She placed her trembling hands in
her lap, the left cradled loosely in the right, and deliberately
forced them to relax. “You see,” she said in a carefully con-
trolled voice, "someone is trying to murder Alicia."
Jim stared. “Would you," he asked with notable restraint,
"mind repeating that?"
"Someone,” repeated Miss Corbett in the same emotion-
less voice in which she might have said, “Please pass the
sugar," "is trying to murder Alicia. My half-sister," she


added, as she might have added in explanation, “The lump
те
sugar.”
S
&
The idea was preposterous. Jim opened his mouth to say
so, looked at his friend's desperately unhappy face, and
closed it again. Obviously she believed in the truth of what
she had said—and Miss Jennie, he reminded himself, was a
very intelligent and level-headed old lady.
"Go on," he said soberly.
The memory was too fresh, the horror too close. Miss
Corbett's carefully guarded self-control broke again and he
had to piece out the story from disjointed incoherencies.
It had happened on the afternoon of the previous day,
shortly before dinner. Alicia had been smoking a cigarette
on the brick terrace which stretched between the west wall
of the house and the rose garden, her chair drawn almost
directly below the balcony that opened off the Dalrymple
bedroom suite. One of the hanging baskets of fuchsia that
lined the balcony had torn loose and crashed to the ground,
narrowly missing Mrs. Dalrymple's expensively tinted golden
head. Alicia had fainted from shock, and on the whole Jim
didn't blame her. A highly unpleasant experience . . . But
why, he puzzled, talk of murder?
He said, “I don't see the picture. Let's go back and take it
slowly.” He drew a memorandum book and pencil from his
pocket, then looked sideways at the other. "It will not,” he
asked doubtfully, "upset you too much?”
Miss Corbett, who had regained her composure, flushed.
"Really, James, I am not a child!"
"You are a charming lady and my heart's love! First, we
make a floor plan. Thus." He sketched lines, elucidating
kindly. "Here's your door at the north end of the upper hall.
And the upper hall. Crooked but recognizable. On the right,
beginning at your end, first Tom Dalrymple, then bath, then


om
we
cause I was in Alicia's room making out the day's accounts.
I would have seen her."
He frowned at the floor plan. “Not necessarily. All of
those rooms open onto the balcony. You were in the sitting
room. She could have gone through Alicia's bedroom.”
"Impossible," said Miss Corbett stubbornly. “The desk
faces the bedroom door and the door was open. No one
could have passed through either room unseen.”
"Thomas, then. Though Mrs. Marpole could have done
it if she were already on the balcony. Then she could have
hidden behind that big swing beat until the coast was clear.
... No, on second thought, wash out Mrs. Marpole. She's
too efficient to commit murder practically in public.”
He whistled soundlessly and drew an ace of diamonds
over the floor plan, then changed it into a kite by the addi-
tion of tail and string. He remembered that masterless kites
sometimes tangle with power lines, and sketched a stick
figure holding the string.
“What's Alicia's reaction? Does she cry 'Foul play!?"
"No, no, everyone thinks it an accident. But, my dear,"
said Miss Corbett urgently, “that pot did not fall of its own
weight. It was pushed. You do understand, James?"
"No," replied the other flatly, “I certainly do not under-
stand.” He put away the notebook, lit a cigarette, and over
the smoke regarded Miss Corbett with frank curiosity. “Out
with it,” he commanded. “What's the rest of the story?"
"The rest, James?”
"Oh, Miss Jennie, light of my life and friend of my youth!
Just how much of an idiot do you think me? A rotten bracket
gives way and immediately the most non-hysterical female
in the state screams ‘Murder! It won't do."
"I never," said Miss Corbett, firmly and with truth,
"scream.” She was silent a moment. “Suppose I were to tell
LI
1ο


you that this is the second time Alicia's life has been threat-
ened?"
“I would find it at least thought-provoking. When, specifi-
cally?"
“Two weeks ago Alicia was shot at. We were staying at
our camp at Mountain Lake: Tom, Alicia, Mrs. Marpole and
myself, and Jane, Alicia's maid.”
"Any other campers?"
"The Reynolds cabin was occupied. Mary Reynolds was
there with her grandson, Nick, and that college girl he goes
with, Frances Hendley. Nick Reynolds and Alicia were
walking together along the suke shore when it happened.”
"And the others?"
“Here and there," said Miss Corbett vaguely. "No one
with anyone else except Nick and Alicia. He, at least, could
not have done it."
"He, at least, wouldn't," muttered Jim, who had his own
opinion of young Reynolds' infatuation for the aging Mrs.
Dalrymple. “Has it occurred to you that there are such things
as careless but non-murderous rabbit hunters? . . . No, no,
don't look so distressed! I didn't mean to be flippant, only
... Didn't any of you consider that perfectly natural ex-
planation?”
"We did. I even believed it,” said Miss Corbett drearily.
“But now . . . Oh, James, James, twice?"
"I'll admit some coincidences are difficult to swallow,"
acknowledged the other uneasily. He didn't like it. If her
suspicions were justified this promised to be a nasty mess,
and in Jim's philosophy the best thing to do with nasty
messes was to side-step them.
"Let's hand all this over to Dave Turner."
Miss Corbett bristled. “Take to the police a matter con-
cerning my own family? Certainly not!"
II


"You can't," the other pointed out, "call Dave just a cop.
He's a Princeton graduate even as I. Better. Cum laude,
which I certainly wasn't. His umptieth great-uncle helped
your ancestor to found this town. As he's police chief you'll
have to go to him anyhow if anything happens, so why not
now? I'll send him up-shall I?–and you can just dump the
whole thing in his lap.” He reddened under her reproach-
ful look and finished lamely, “Of course, if you'd rather, I'll
dig around first, just to see if anything really is wrong."
"Is it too much to ask of an old friend?" inquired Miss
Corbett gently. She closed her eyes momentarily and let out
her breath in a long sigh of relief. “I knew you would not
fail me, my dear. Oh, James, I have been so dreadfully
troubled and confused and frightened!”
"Bless its lovely white head, just shovel off your trou-
bles onto old Hawkshaw Hampton. Satisfaction guaranteed,
reduced rates for maiden ladies.” He pushed back his chair
and rose. “Thank you, ma’am, for a nice tea party, and now
excuse me while I go home and catch up on my sleuthing."
"Such nonsense,” sniffed Miss Corbett, looking almost
happy again. "Wait a minute, I have some delphinium
plants for Katherine. ..."
She hurried into the inner room to reappear in a minute
wearing a light-colored smock and a faded garden hat. She
opened a door in the east wall and led the way down steps
that slanted in gradual descent along the outside of the
building. The garden below was a riot of summer bloom. Jim
whistled appreciatively.
"How on earth do you do it, Miss Jennie?"
"One either has a green thumb or one has not. I," said
Miss Corbett complacently, "have. Here we are. You'll find
a trowel and a flat in the toolshed.” She stood over him while
he set out the plants and firmly packed the roots with loam
12


until the box was filled. "Better leave them in the flat for an-
other week . . . Oh, well, Katherine will know. Your wife
also has green thumbs.”
He replaced the trowel and picked up the box. Miss Cor-
bett laid a gently restraining hand on his arm.
"About Alicia—" she whispered.
He patted the hand reassuringly. “Don't worry. I'll poke
and pry and we'll find the whole thing a mare's nest.”
om the bottom of the steps as she slowly
climbed, and thought of other old ladies who cheerfully
toiled up those narrow outside stairs. Important dowagers
like Mary Reynolds and Sophia Marsham, bluebloods who
shattered Alicia with condescending bows but felt it an
honor to drink tea with the occupant of the shabby back
suite. He mused on the vicissitudes of fortune that had re-
duced a gentlewoman who had entertained governors and an
English ambassador to a couple of north rooms and a gas
plate for cooking.
You couldn't blame Gladys Corbett, except for procrasti-
nation in making the will by which she had intended to set
things right. However, she had procrastinated, and so when
she and the judge were killed in an automobile accident
Alicia had inherited not only her mother's fortune in oil
wells but the historic Corbett building as well. At first, this
had made little difference. Miss Corbett, though not rich,
had inherited a comfortable income from her own mother,
and when Alicia decided to move to New York Miss Jennie
had continued to occupy her old home as her half-sister's
tenant. Occupied it until the Depression so cut into her
estate that she had been unable to meet Alicia's terms and
was actually forced to find some means of self-support.
No one had been surprised when Alicia found a more
affluent tenant, but Corbettsville had expected that a portion
13


of the house would be reserved for the elder sister with, pos-
sibly, a paid position as manager of the property. When no
such arrangement was made it was concluded that Alicia
was unaware of her half-sister's plight and Miss Corbett
was too proud to inform her.
Miss Corbett sold as many of her personal treasures as she
could bear to part with and rented a room in a small boarding-
house. Then, at fifty-four, with unflinching courage but abso-
lutely no experience, she set out to find a job. She found
it on the staff of the town library, a minor position but one
which she filled successfully and with a contented sense of
accomplishment for a number of years. She resigned when
she realized that failing eyesight was beginning to interfere
with her duties. A sympathetic library board would have re-
tained her, but pride and a stern sense of honor forbade, so
she thanked the gentlemen for their kindness and reso-
lutely turned in the keys. She said her good-bys with her
usual gentle courtesy, and it was only months later that she
confessed to her closest friends how that evening in the
privacy of her own room courage had broken and she had
admitted to herself for the first time that she was old, lonely,
and desperately afraid.
Afraid, but not yet beaten, for there still remained a
Revere teapot and a set of gold apostle spoons. Rallying, Miss
Corbett had searched the pages of a New York directory for
the name of a reputable dealer in antiques.
It was at this crisis, and to the enormous relief of Miss
Corbett's friends, that Alicia had unexpectedly bought up
her tenant's lease and returned to the little town. At last,
thought Corbettsville, dear Jennie's troubles are over. Alicia
was asked when she expected her sister to "come home.”
Alicia, who had been investigating a certain retreat for
aged gentlewomen, bowed to the inevitable, though with ill
14


grace and with no intention of being bored by the compan-
ionship of an elderly spinster. Miss Corbett was installed in
the north suite, had her attention called to the gas plate, and
accepted the suggestion that, for the convenience of both
parties, she use the back stairs instead of the main entrance.
Without protest she had agreed to Alicia's proposal that in
return for free lodging she take charge of the household
accounts, and had thanked her half-sister for the offer of a
reading glass if the figures strained her eyes.
Jim, who was really fond of Miss Corbett, muttered
“Damn Alicia!" and swung about on his heel with unneces-
sary vigor. “Selfish little . . . Whoops! Oh, I am sorry, Mrs.
Reynolds!"
The old lady into whom he had careened slid a startled
gasp into a glacial "Really, James!" and surveyed the dis-
comfited attorney with an expression reminiscent of dow-
ager Queen Mary of England confronting an American
divorcée. There was, too, something Queen Mary-ish about
the plain mauve toque fitted closely over her white hair; but
the smart gray suit and the gray and mauve hand-painted
neckerchief were obviously Fifth Avenue.
"It is not,” reproached Mrs. Reynolds, eying him severely
over a prominent high-bridged nose, “as though you were an
impulsive child.” She pointed grimly to a dust-jacketed vol-
ume spread-eagled against the Shasta daisies. “My book,
if you please."
Jim retrieved it, babbling apologies. The old lady examined
the pages for damage and finding none thawed a little. “Tea
Roses and Their Culture. An excellent book. I am lending
it to Jennie.” She smiled quite charmingly and extended a
white-gloved hand. “It is three weeks since you took office
but not, I trust, too late to extend my best wishes. It is fitting
that the district attorney of Heald County should be a
auve
15


Hampton, and we know that you will equal the fine work
done by your father and grandfather.” Her voice sharpened.
"If I may make a suggestion it is that you start by closing up
that disgraceful tavern out on Bromley Road."
Hampton disguised annoyance with suavity. "If you
mean the Blue Ox, I assure you that we are attending to it.
See, Mrs. Reynolds, Miss Jennie is beckoning you from the
window, so I mustn't keep you. I am so sorry about my clum-
siness."
He walked out of the little enclosure, closed the gate be-
hind him, and made his way through the main garden to
the driveway where his car was parked. He was annoyed. All
this fuss about his father and grandfather, the expectation
that he, too, would rush around earnestly cleaning up the
county! The county was already clean-or would be when
the Federal men had finished with the Blue Ox. Nothing
else but petty violations, little things that the local officers
could handle. Unless ...
He frowned as a slight, fair-haired woman emerged from
a path in the shrubbery a few yards to his left. Alicia
Dalrymple, probably returning from the playhouse and a
dip in the indoor pool. Many people disliked self-willed,
egotistical Alicia Dalrymple. If Miss Jennie were right, one
of them ... No, that was nonsense.
The woman turned her head, gave him a brief nod of
recognition, and walked on without speaking. Jim followed
her with his eyes, still frowning and with a feeling of un-
easiness that he was reluctant to acknowledge.
16


At approximately two o'clock Macrae, Sr. began clipping
the shrubbery along the path leading to the playhouse. Al-
most immediately Alicia appeared and remarked in her
“nasty, uppity way" (Macrae's words) that it was about time
he trimmed those bushes, yesterday a branch had caught in
her hair, and went on her way.
Close on Alicia's heels came Mrs. Marpole. She was dressed
for town, even to a hat, but carried a business envelope in
her hand. She asked how long since Mrs. Dalrymple had
passed, and when told, remarked that she could catch her
before her swim, and hurried on. She returned three or
four minutes later and told Macrae that Mrs. Dalrymple
planned to meet someone in the playhouse later in the after-
noon and that as this was to be a private interview she wanted
Macrae to see that she was not disturbed. When the Scots-
man retorted that he had other work and couldn't hang
around all afternoon heading people off, Mrs. Marpole had
replied, never mind, she'd leave word at the house.
It was at this moment (possibly two-six) that the play-
house radio went on. Both noticed it, Macrae remarking that
that didn't sound like a swim. The secretary explained that
Mrs. Dalrymple sometimes did that, leaving the door to the
pool open to listen. Then she looked at her watch, said if she
didn't hurry she'd be late for her bridge club, and went back
to the house. . . . Yes, Macrae knew about the bridge
club. It met every other Wednesday on the secretary's day
off. A lot of darned fool women ...
At about two-eight Mrs. Marpole poked her head in the
kitchen door and delivered Alicia's message to the canasta
players. At two-fifteen she drove off in a taxi to her bridge club
meeting.
At approximately two-twenty Macrae went to the garage,
took the hose out of the hands of the chauffeur who was
-
18


washing the Chrysler, and drank deeply. Then he returned
the clippers to the toolhouse and joined his son in the rose
garden.
At three-fifteen Alicia's maid posted letters in the box at
the entrance to the driveway. She did not hear the radio, was
certain that it was not at that time turned on.
At three-forty-five Tom Dalrymple returned home.
At four-thirty one of the maids went to collect Alicia's
bathing suit and towels, saw what lay on the playhouse floor,
and ran screaming back to the house.
And at four-thirty-eight Jim Hampton answered his office
phone and listened to the tremulous appeal of a frightened
old woman: “James, my dear, dear boy, come at once. Alicia
is dead.”
A police car stood in the graveled driveway and before it
the blue Cadillac sedan of Dr. Marsham, the Corbett physi-
cian. Jim eased his Buick into place at the head of the line
and jumped out. He hurried up broad steps to the columned
portico, hurried down again when the policeman at the
door pointed, and said, “Playhouse.” The shrub-lined path
turned, ran straight, turned again, and ended at a low sprawl-
ing frame building. Jim stopped for a moment in the open
doorway to get his bearings. Before him stretched a long
room gay with brightly painted wicker furniture. There were
bookcases, a console radio, a sprinkling of card tables, and a
ping-pong set. An open archway pierced the right wall,
giving a glimpse of another room and the end of a billiard
table. The left wall was all windows, hung with draperies
that displayed improbable orange and turquoise parrots on
a cream background.
Tom Dalrymple sat on a wicker settee near the windows,
his elbows dug into his knees, his head buried in his hands.
19


Behind him stood an unhappy young policeman whom Jim
recognized as a rookie on the force. It was the man's first ex-
perience with violent death, and he kept his eyes carefully
turned away from the far end of the room, where Dave Tur-
ner and Gorton, the police surgeon, bent over a sprawled
figure on the floor.
Jim ignored the chief's “Here, Jim!" and beckoning finger.
He hurried to where Dr. Marsham bent over Miss Corbett's
chair, holding his fingers to her wrist. A frightened white-
aproned maid stood near, a small glass of amber liquid in her
hand. The old lady's face was contorted, her lips a pale lav-
ender.
Dr. Marsham dropped the wrist and reached for the glass.
“Drink this brandy, Jennie."
Across the room Tom Dalrymple lifted a haggard face.
"Brandy!” he cried hoarsely. "That's what I need!" He half-
rose, then sank back as the policeman touched his shoul-
der. "Oh, God!” he groaned. “Oh, great God!"
Miss Corbett drained the glass and her lips gradually re-
gained their natural color. She saw Jim and clutched at his
hand. “Alicia,” she said weakly. “My sister-” He patted her
shoulder gently, feeling inadequate and helpless.
Old Dr. Marsham straightened. “You'll do now. Just a
touch of heart.” He took the glass and handed it back to the
maid. “Lean back, Jennifer, and keep quiet for a while." He
turned to the younger man. "For God's sake, Jim,” he said
irascibly, “you and Dave go tie up your red tape. I want to
get Jennie to bed.”
Hampton disengaged his hand, gave her shoulder a final
pat, and walked down to the group at the end of the room.
Turner, a swarthy, heavy-set man with the bright eyes of an
intelligent crow, stood up. “Not pretty,” he said. “Not pretty
at all."
20


sm
1
Jim looked down at the untidy heap of clothes and out-
flung limbs that had been Alicia Dalrymple. It was the body
of a little woman, not much more than five feet in height,
small boned and beautifully proportioned. Once, she had
been graceful, but there was no grace now in the lolling head
or in the legs that sprawled out from the crumpled green
dress. The painted mouth, its hardness accentuated by death,
was a scarlet splash. Above it, the face was bloody and horri-
ble.
Jim felt sick. “Who ..." he began. His voice sounded
odd to his ears and he swallowed and tried again. "Who
called you?"
"Dalrymple. Doc Marsham first and then me, but it was
hours too late for Doc. She'd had her swim.” Turner's black
head jerked toward the room directly behind them. “There's
a wet bathing suit in the shower. She'd had time to dress and
put on make-up. The lipstick's smooth, and you can see
fresh rouge and face powder, there—and there-between the
blood streaks. ..."
"Here's Sylvia Marpole,” said Jim, grateful for the inter-
ruption.
She stood in the doorway, a striking figure in dark linen
suit and eggshell white blouse with softly rolling collar. A
scarlet ornament flashed below her right shoulder, and there
was another bit of scarlet on the small black hat. White-
gloved hands curved tightly about a black silk handbag.
Her eyes swept the room, turning from one to another of
the silent groups, then she moved to the settee. As she sat
down beside Dalrymple he said something in a low voice.
She glanced fleetingly at the cluster about the body, shud-
dered, and bent her eyes on the floor. It was evident that she
already knew of the tragedy.
Turner made wolfish sounds, discreetly muted. "Violet
21


of clues in a place like this. To a goof like me it's just a room
where a woman does things to her face.” Fortunately, it
didn't matter. Dave and his merry men would do the heavy
thinking. He went back into the other room.
Gorton was on his feet, now, and talking. “_Glancing
blow back of the right ear. That didn't count. Then a whole
shower of blows about the forehead and eyes that did. Nasty
ones. Almost any one of them could have done it.” An ex-
tended toe touched a cast-iron doorstop, which lay near the
body. "You won't have to hunt for the weapon.”
Turner punched the air experimentally, then nodded.
"Tried it first from behind but Alicia whirled in time. She
grabbed at the murderer, I know that.” He did not say how
he knew. “Then she got it full face. When, Al?”
"No later than three o'clock and probably earlier. The
autopsy should narrow it down. . . . Lunch," added Gor-
ton in explanation. A disturbance at the door drew his eyes.
Three men, one staggering under the heavy equipment he
carried, came into the room. "Here's the gang. Send her
down as soon as they're through. Make it early enough and
maybe I can do it this evening."
Dr. Marsham hurried up, brushing aside the newcomers.
“Look here, Dave, I want to give Jennie a sedative and get
her to bed. It isn't as if she'd seen anything. She'd just come
in when the maid came to her room and told her.”
Turner was contrite. “I'm sorry," he said sincerely. "I for-
got about her. Take her in and let the maid go along to help.”
Between them Jim and the doctor supported Miss Corbett
back to the house and through a large oak-paneled hall to a
curving stairway at the far end. Dr. Marsham looked doubt-
fully first at the stairs, then at his charge.
“There's a davenport in the library,” suggested Jim. "No,
ION
23


that won't do, it's full of people. There's a little room off the
pantry with a couch in it."
Miss Corbett, thoroughly annoyed, refused to lie down
anywhere except in her own bedroom. “I do not,” said the
outraged old gentlewoman, “loll about in public places.” In
the end (and with Miss Corbett indignantly protesting her
ability to mount under her own power) Jim carried her up-
stairs. Dr. Marsham followed and the white-aproned maid,
whose name, they learned, was Ellen, ran ahead to turn
down the bed.
Miss Corbett's bedroom opened off her sitting room. Orig-
inally, it had been the larger room of the two, but it had
been reduced in size by a partition which cut off the eastern
end. A dresser stood against one wall and opposite an old-
fashioned oak wardrobe. The bed was placed in the west
corner near the room's only window. There were rag rugs
on the floor and a ladder-backed chair which at the moment
held Miss Corbett's hat, coat and gloves. A sampler mounted
under glass-Abigail Corbett, Her Handiwork, 1823-hung
at the left of the dresser, and above the bed was suspended
an oval frame containing the photograph of a magnificently
bearded gentleman whom Jim recognized as Nathaniel the
Fourth, Miss Corbett's father.
He deposited his still-protesting burden on the bed.
"Naughty, naughty," he chided. “Mustn't argue with the
nice man.” Ellen shook out a long-sleeved nightgown and
Jim modestly wandered off behind the partition.
The tiny room which it formed contained a sink and a
long table, oilcloth covered, which held an asbestos mat on
which stood a double-burner gas plate. Beside this were a
bread box, a bottle of milk, a paper sack of vegetables, a loaf
of bread with the cellophane wrapper unbroken, and a can
of beef broth. Apparently Miss Corbett had just returned
24


from shopping when the maid brought word of her half-
sister's death. There was no ice box, but an air-shaft closet
filled the corner by the sink and served as a cooler. Jim found
a plastic vegetable bag and dumped into it the contents of
the paper sack. He stowed it and the milk in the cooler and
put the bread in the bread box.
Dr. Marsham stuck a white head around the partition,
"Well! Katherine's certainly trained you well,” he said in sur-
prise. He followed his head into the cubicle and looked
around with interest. “So this is Jennie's kitchen!" He
opened a cupboard above the sink and peered in at the neatly
stacked dishes, inspected the gas plate, and looked into the
cooler. “It's a lonely life for an old woman.” He kept his voice
low, mindful of the thinness of the partition. “Jennifer
should have married.”
"Why didn't she?" asked Jim, also lowering his voice. “I've
often wondered.”
"She nearly did, once. The boy died. . . . A pity. It'd
have been a pleasure to deliver another generation of Cor-
betts. It's good blood." The doctor propped himself against
the table. “Jim, what do the police think?".
The younger man swung himself onto the other end of
the table, pushing aside the bread box to make room. He
drew up a leg, pressing the heel into the edge of the table,
and wrapped arms about his knee. "What do you think?" he
countered.
"Tom?” suggested the doctor hopefully. "It'd save a lot of
grief if it could be Tom, who," said Marsham with candor,
“is a contemptible little worm anyhow.” He brooded. “A
nasty mess whoever did it. This sort of thing isn't good for
Jennie."
It wasn't too good for Alicia, thought the other, remember-
VOIMIT
25


ing the dreadful body in the playhouse. Aloud he said, “I
didn't know that Miss Jennie had a bad heart.”
"She hasn't, particularly. The shock would have been
hard on any woman her age.” The doctor's voice rose angrily.
“Damn Thomas Dalrymple! He let her see the body-that
head_"
"Good God!"
The maid slipped quietly around the partition. “Miss Cor-
bett is ready for you, Dr. Marsham.”
The physician pushed away from the table. “I'll be right
in. Run along, Sherlock, and measure footprints or something.
I'm giving Jennie a sedative and after that I want her left
alone.”
Jim followed him into the other room. Miss Corbett was in
bed, the covers drawn to her chin, her head propped on two
pillows to ease her breathing. She looked so fragile and so
pitifully lonely that Jim's heart twisted. He blew her a kiss
and tiptoed awkwardly out of the room, then proceeded at a
more normal gait down the stairs.
In the paneled hall beneath an oil portrait of Judge
Nathaniel Corbett the First, Tumer stood talking to the po-
liceman whom Jim had first seen guarding the door. Jim spoke
and the chief turned his head.
"Little Bright Eyes here has found something. I told him
to look around, and sure enough he looked!"
The policeman grinned and blushed. He was a hefty,
young six-footer with an ugly face and freckles. As his legal
name was Jake Swill, he probably had no objection to being
called Bright Eyes.
Turner held out a pair of bloodstained gloves. “Wadded
up and thrown under the bushes along the path.” He looked
at them more closely. "I've seen a pair like this somewhere.
Now, who . . . who? . . . Oh, damn, it's my own wife!"
as a
26


"Everyone has 'em,” volunteered Bright Eyes. "You buy
'em in the dime store and use 'em when you cut flowers and
things like that. There're a couple more pair on the back
porch here. Anyone could get at 'em."
His superior eyed him with disfavor. “You're so helpful!"
he cooed with false sweetness. “Why couldn't you have
found me a monogrammed handkerchief? Every decent
chief. Where're the keys?"
The policeman fished in his pocket and produced two.
"The Yale one's for the front door. The other's for out back,
opens into the pool room near the showers.” He handed them
over.
"Windows?"
"Locked 'em all tight.”
"And that's that. Look, Jim, I want a room where we can
talk to these people separately. You know this house better
than I do. What do you suggest?"
Jim considered. “There's a small study back of the library.”
Turner sighed happily. “I've always yearned for a small
study all to myself. Let's go.” He turned to Bright Eyes.
"You know shorthand, don't you? Bring your notebook and
come along. ... Or no, wait! Hang about upstairs until
Ellen comes out and then bring her down to me. We'll take
her first."
A door at the left opened to admit a lanky individual with
unkempt hair and a smudge on his nose. He carried a large
japanned box under one arm.
"Hello, Beattie," said the chief. “Any luck?"
The man shifted the box and rubbed his nose, adding
another black streak. “Depends on what's luck. The play-
house is lousy with prints, but why not? Everybody goes
there. Some old prints on the doorstop with smudges over
27


them. Gloves.” He pointed a thumb, hitchhiker fashion, at
the door. “Got everybody in there."
“Any squawks?"
The man grinned. "Sixty-four-dollar question! Yeah, one.
The good-looking dame, Marpole. No one else cared much,
but she yelped to heaven and back. Interested?”
"Could be," admitted Turner cautiously. “It depends why.
She's a tidy lady. Perhaps it was the mess.”
"Un-uh. Oh, she caught on to herself quick enough.
She's nobody's fool, that baby." Beattie wrestled with grudg-
ing admiration. "Did a fast double-take and talked about
the nasty dirty ink, but you do hundreds and you get to know.
Her prints are around here someplace where they've no
business being, or else they're on file. On file, I think.” He
shifted the box again and started for the front door. “Well,
that's your job, boss, not mine. Good luck!"
Turner's black eyes were bright. “The lovely Mrs. Mar-
pole, eh? Well, well, well! Let's get going.”
They entered a crowded room whose occupants regarded
them sullenly or with curiosity according to mood. A mid-
dle-aged, neatly dressed woman approached them from her
seat in the corner and said quietly, “I'm the cook, Mr. Tur-
ner. Would it be all right for me to get back to work?”.
"The idea,” explained Turner, “was to keep everyone to-
gether until we had time to talk to each separately."
“I know, but I was in the kitchen all afternoon, first play-
ing cards and then working. It's the dinner,” explained the
woman, respectful but firm. “If I don't get at it there won't
be any."
Turner took in her solid, unmistakable respectability and
yielded. “O.K., only stay in the kitchen, please. No running
upstairs."
28


in A tall, cheaply pretty girl pushed forward. “Me, too? I was
with her-most of the time anyhow.”
"No," said the chief, registering instant dislike. "Sit tight
and wait your turn. Come on, Jim, where's this study you
Mrr were prattling about?”.
h
S WISV
Rouge
grud
abor
nor
29


NICE place,” approved Turner, looking around
the pleasantly light and comfortably furnished study. "I'd
forgotten it. I was in here once or twice as a kid.” He ex-
amined the book-lined walls. “Don't tell me Dalrymple can
actually read!"
“Belonged to the judge,” said Jim absently. His eye had
fallen on a brown leather stool by the window, and forgotten
smells and sounds, long buried in the subconscious, welled
to the surface. He smelled roses in a copper luster bowl and
the pleasant odor of calf bindings; heard the scratch of old
Nathaniel's pen and the tap tap of a breeze-blown twig
against the windowpane. His thigh felt again the prick of
a headless tack poking through brown leather.
The window nook and the brown stool and the shelf filled
with books for boys had been “his.” “Any Sunday after-
noon," the judge had said. “Don't bother to knock. Just come
in by the terrace door and make yourself at home.” Kind old
Nathaniel, doing his old man's best for a fatherless boy!
He'd forgotten all about those Sunday afternoons when
young Jim had stalked the red deer with Robin Hood, or
seconded Hector on the Trojan plain while shadows crept
across the room and only the faint rustle of a page turned
broke the stillness, until Gladys Corbett burst in with her
warm, friendly, common voice, filled his pockets with cookies
and sent him home. Sometimes, if it was a cold wintry day,
30


she'd come earlier bringing hot chocolate and gingerbread,
and then Miss Corbett would join them. (Not Alicia; Alicia
had always been bored by intimate family gatherings.) Miss
Jennie'd been a brick. Sometimes Nathaniel had evidenced
an embarrassing curiosity about school grades, but she'd al-
ways managed to switch the conversation to baseball, flatter-
ing their masculine vanity by asking sensible questions and
remembering the answers.
"You're mooning," complained the chief. “Let's get going,"
and widened surprised eyes at his friend's suddenly balled
fists and hardened mouth. For the first time in his life James
Stewart Hampton V was being rocked by an enormous, soul-
filling rage. It had come with the jolting impact of an unex-
pected sock on the jaw. One moment he had been feeling
mildly sentimental, thinking about Robin Hood, and Nathan-
iel, and Gladys Corbett's gingerbread, and a kindly middle-
aged gentlewoman who had learned about baseball in order
to please a little boy, and then all at once, with no period
of transition, had come this shaking fury. Fury because of an
ugly heap which was the daughter of Gladys and Nathaniel
Corbett, and because of bleak staring eyes in the face of a
gentle old woman. Fury that the house where a child had
found security and happiness and sympathetic understanding
should be profaned by trampling policemen and the smell of
flash bulbs. If he ever caught up with the one responsible
for this desecration he would ...
"Snap out of it,” said Turner irritably. "We're sleuths,
remember?” He drew a chair up to the table and sat down.
“This furniture's Chippendale. Remind me to buy Chippen-
dale for my study when I'm rich enough to have a study.
Also, silver tops for my ink wells. My, my, how nice to be a
millionaire!"
"Or," grated the other, "the husband of a millionairess.”
31


"The husband of a millionairess.” Turner repeated the
words slowly. “I wonder ..." .
"Don't ask me. Alex Crawshaw's always been the Corbett
lawyer.”
Turner picked up the telephone book and turned the
pages. He drew the desk phone toward him and spun the
dial. After a brief conversation he replaced the arm. "Ap-
pointment at his house tonight at nine.”
"If that half-pint gigolo inherits Nathaniel's house," blazed
Jim, “I'll split him with an axe!"
“My deah Mr. Hampton! It would be a bit awful, though,
wouldn't it! If he took over, I mean."
“It would be ... Skip it. Dave, this may be my fault-
Alicia's murder. Perhaps, I don't know how, but perhaps I
could have prevented it.”
“Stop kidding, pal, I haven't time. You wouldn't know what
it means, but I have work to do."
“I'm not kidding. I never,” said Jim flatly, “felt less like
kidding in my life.”
He realized that the blaze of a few moments before had
been replaced by a low, steadily burning flame of anger. In
a curiously detached sort of way, as though he were analyzing
the emotions of someone else, he noted that though with the
first flare he had experienced exhilaration and a godlike sense
of omnipotence, now with quiet anger there was only a dull
gnawing ache. He was conscious of, on the one hand, extreme
weariness, and on the other of a desire to rush out and do
something, anything at all; a feeling that he and Dave by
merely talking, by employing words instead of action, were
wasting time, and the thought of wasted time was intolerable.
And finally it occurred to him (still thinking of himself in
that oddly impersonal manner) that strong emotion of any
е
32


kind was new to him and that that was why he now took
especial note of its effects.
He forced himself to sit down quietly at the table. He said,
"Listen, Dave.”
Turner heard him out in silence, not flippant now, listen-
ing intently, occasionally writing a word or two in his note-
book. Finally Jim stopped.
"All right,” prompted the other after a moment's pause.
“That's what Miss Corbett told you. What did you do about
it?"
"Not enough, as is obvious. Only, Look, Dave, I didn't
believe her. I should have; I ought to have known that Miss
Jennie wouldn't go off half-cocked, but I didn't, at least not
after I'd thought it over. Only, she believed it, and I'd prom-
ised, so I didn't brush it off.”
Turner, who knew his friend, raised skeptical eyebrows
and Jim reddened. “Well, maybe it wasn't entirely the prom-
ise-I might have broken that. The truth is, I could see that
Miss Jennie was afraid I wouldn't do anything, that I'd be
too lazy or indifferent to bother. That made me a bit peeved,
so I set out to prove-well, I suppose prove that I could be
depended upon. I went up to Mountain Lake, and talked to
the caretaker, and what did I find? It was a stray shot. It had
when a bullet splashed into the water. Alicia screamed, and
there was a great to-do, but the Hendley girl kept her head.
She dug up the caretaker and they found two small branches
which the bullet had clipped and from that traced its course.
It had missed Alicia by yards. It just couldn't have been meant
for her. No one could be that bad a shot.”
"The Reynolds and Corbett families," Turner pointed
out, "own all that land around Mountain Lake. It's private
property and it's posted.”
33


"And,” retorted the other, “families living back in the hills
trespass over it all the time, rabbit hunting. We both know
that. Then, take that business of the flower pot. I talked to
Macrae and he says the brackets have been there for over
fifty years and every one of them's rotten. He examined them
the next day. He says it's a wonder the whole lot didn't fall
down long ago."
"Only," commented the chief dryly, “they didn't. Just that
particular one at that particular time. No, it was attempted
murder, all right. What happened today says so.” He clutched
his head in a sort of desperation. “Why, oh, why didn't Miss
Corbett come to us, the police?"
"Because you are the police. A family friend, to be sure,
but emphatically the police. You know how proud she is.
Police and Corbetts—”.
"You're the district attorney."
"I doubt it she thought of that. I haven't,” said Jim wryly,
"done much to identify myself with my office. Dave, you
know how it is with Miss Jennie. All the Hill set are ancestor
worshipers, but with her it's more than that. Family pride is
all she has left, now. ..."
"Family pride," repeated the other, in so odd a tone that
Jim was startled. “Yes, pride in the old Corbett family. Poor
little Miss Jennifer! Well, that's nothing to the point here.
What do you make of this?”
He took an envelope from his pocket and tilted it over the
table. A plastic button spilled out. It was about the size of a
quarter but triangular, and in color white with a faint blue
tinge, like watery skimmed milk. “Ever see that before?"
Jim shook his head. "Where'd you get it?"
“Beside Alicia. See those broken threads? I told you she'd
struggled with the murderer. This got pulled off. Wish I
knew off what. A blouse? A coat? Someone's slacks?"
34


"Mrs. Marpole was wearing a blouse."
“It had all its buttons, and anyhow they're different. Tom's
were yellow to match that God-awful shirt.” Turner dropped
the button back into the envelope. “When we find the owners
we'll have the murderer.”
Jim tensed and half-rose. “Then in God's name why don't
we ..."
Bright Eyes poked his head through the door. “O.K., boss?"
He looked back over his shoulder. “All right, sister, in you go.
Don't be scared. The boss looks mean but he don't bite-
much."
“Sometimes," sighed Turner, “I wish I were the inspector
in a nice suave English whodunit. Their subordinates call
'em 'Sir.' Hello, Ellen, sit down somewhere and let's get
on with it.” He looked at his friend, shaking his head. Jim
hesitated, then slid sullenly back into his seat.
The young policeman withdrew into a corner and opened
his notebook. Ellen pushed a chair to the table and sat there,
her folded arms resting on the polished wood. She was a
sturdy, compact little person with a broad, pleasantly whole-
some face and a cheerful smile. Healthy and normal, she had
already thrown off the initial shock and fear, and the wide
blue eyes sparkled with excitement and curiosity. She was
delighted by her moment in the limelight and frankly showed
Or
Turner smiled at her. "Aren't you a Corbettsville girl?
Ellen Martin, the postmaster's daughter? I thought a New
York agency supplied the staff.”
The girl nodded. “They do. I'm because the under house-
maid left and they couldn't find another right away. Except
for me and the Macraes they're all agency. Snooty bunch,”
said Ellen candidly, and added without resentment, “They
35


1 um
bridge club and they had to telephone around to find out
which house and that's why she came late."
"Who told Miss Corbett?"
"Well,” said Ellen, almost apologetically, “I guess I did.
It wasn't any of my business but nobody seemed to think of
her and after all, it was her sister and I thought she ought to
know.”
Jim, who had been brooding, lifted his head. “I'm glad
someone in this house had the decency to remember her.”
Turner brushed aside the interruption. "Was Miss Corbett
in her room?"
"Just come in from shopping, I guess. She was sitting on
the bed but her hat and coat were still on the chair.” Ellen
squirmed. “I must of told her too quick. She was tired anyhow
and the news hit her hard. She should of lain down, but you
know Miss Corbett! When she thinks she ought to do some-
thing she does it. She stopped in the upper hall to phone
Mr. Hampton and then I helped her down to the playhouse."
"Where,” said Jim with suppressed fury, “Tom Dalrymple
allowed her to look at the body."
The girl nodded soberly. “That was crazy. He was acting
kind of crazy anyhow."
"What were you doing this afternoon?" asked Turner.
“Earlier, I mean."
Ellen told of the canasta game, of Ben in the rose garden,
and-enchanted by the sensation she caused-of Alicia's mes-
sage. “A mysterious visitor,” she elaborated.
The chief repressed this tendency to romance and asked
questions about Alicia. "Was she easy to work for? Kind?"
"Kind? Mrs. Dalrymple?" Ellen stared, then hooted in
genuine amusement. “Gosh, Mr. Turner, Mrs. Dalrymple
was mean! Always scolding the work wasn't done right, or
saying nasty things just to hurt. All of us hated her. Paid
37


lowered his voice. "You admit its importance, don't you?
Then why don't we do something?"
His friend looked at him. “Don't be a damned idiot,” he
said peaceably, and added with apparent inconsequence,
“Nathaniel used to be pretty swell to me, too."
Jim reddened, feeling ridiculous and infantile. Turner
cradled the back of his head between laced fingers and tipped
back his chair. “Let's take it easy,” he said. “The murderer
-call him X, it's simpler-had well over an hour to rip off
the remaining buttons and sew on new ones. Which if X
has any sense, is exactly what he-or she-did.”
"And swallowed the original buttons?" retorted Jim, heav-
ily sarcastic. “They have to be somewhere."
Jake, from the depths of experience, muttered, “Johnny,”
and Turner nodded. “As you say, undoubtably flushed down
the Johnny. And anyone who thinks I'm going to dig up
the city sewer system is all wet. Let's hope Ellen has a rush of
returning memory.”
“So,” fumed the other, “we just sit around here wasting
time, waiting for a kid ...".
"Oh, for God's sake—" Turner swallowed and went on
with admirable self-control, “No, pal, we don't. We look at
other possibilities. We think, maybe X didn't have any more
buttons, maybe he just slipped a fresh garment over the
other. So Jake and I look. At least we look over the gents,
not the others.” The front legs of the tilted chair thudded
softly down on the carpet, and the dial spun again. “Turner
speaking. Send up Matron, will you? . . . Yes, a strip
tease.” He pushed back the phone. “Or perhaps X was rushed
and just took the first convenient hiding place, so we tear the
house apart looking for shirtless buttons, and buttonless
shirts, and anything else pertinent. Chances are we won't
find anything, but it's the proper gesture.”
39


Jake slapped shut his notebook and stretched. “Want me
to do upstairs while they're shut up in the library?"
Jim said, “I'd rather go!" He saw Turner's eyes widen, saw
him exchange glances with the young policeman, and
thought, “Damn them, they don't take me seriously, they
treat me like an adolescent!” He repeated, too loudly, “I'll
go, I say! Let me have that button."
The chief hesitated, then with another glance at Jake
silently handed over the envelope. Jim hurried to the door
and wrenched it open.
In the library seven heads lifted as one. Sylvia Marpole's
brief, noncommittal glance returned immediately to the mag-
azine she was reading. Dalrymple glared.
The widower was a slenderly built man years younger
than his late wife, who had probably fallen in love with thick
brown hair and long lashes, and a neatly clipped moustache
above too red, too full, lips. He wore a startling combination
of canary yellow silk shirt, blue sport jacket, and orange
slacks. Jim, button conscious, stared at his fastenings. Yellow
buttons, blue buttons, orange buttons-all round and none
missing.
Dalrymple was angry. He bounced to his feet, spluttering.
“This is an outrage! Practically a prisoner in my own house!”
"Your house!” exploded Jim Hampton. He bit back
what else he might have said. Dalrymple could wait. He
brushed roughly past the man and strode across the room into
the hall. He hurried up the stairs, past the first landing, and
on to the servants' quarters above.
A narrow passage bisected the top floor, with three doors
on either side of it and at the farther end a stairway leading
to the kitchen. He opened the first two doors on the left,
found that they led respectively to a trunk room and a storage
40


place for odds and ends, and decided to leave them until
later. The third door led into a small bedroom
On the dresser, propped against a bottle of after-shaving
lotion, was a photograph of smirking beauty inscribed “To
Albert, with all my love." The valet was supposed to be in
New York, but he might have returned secretly. Perhaps
the whole story of his mother's funeral was a lie. Driven by
the feverish desire for action that had sent him upstairs, Jim
yanked out a drawer of the plain white dresser and poised
it on the end of the bed, only to have the contents spill out
in muddled confusion upon the counterpane. He lowered
the drawer with elaborate care as a feeling of frustration and
hopeless inadequacy replaced the sense of urgency.
"I am a fool,” he thought. “A blind conceited fool who has
grabbed off a job intended for experts. I don't know the first
thing about searching a room. I wouldn't know whether the
things I found were important or not."
He forced himself to sit down quietly and think through
the problem, to decide exactly what must be done and how
best to do it. Then, slowly and methodically he searched the
room, skimming through letters and bills, emptying pockets,
shaking out clothes and carefully refolding them in their
original creases. He found one of those useful flannel rolls,
the name for which is spelled housewife but unaccountably
pronounced hussif, and poured buttons from one of the
stitched compartments. All were dark in color and conserva-
tively round; none made of plastic.
A car rolled up the driveway, and he heard a door slam.
Sounds floated up the kitchen stairs. A girl's voice: "Gee,
Ellen, just like the detective stories!” A woman's indignant
protest: “I'll have you know I'm an honest, respectable cook!
Never in all my born days ...” The matron had arrived.
He stepped across the hall and started on the three remain-
41


ing bedrooms, which belonged, in order, to Mrs. Marsh, Jose-
phine, and Jane, Alicia's personal maid. Jane and the cook
each had round wicker sewing baskets, tidily arranged.
Josephine kept a messy collection of pins, needles, buttons
and snarled thread in the lid of a candy box. Jim examined
buttons of varying shapes, sizes and colors and was astounded.
He had always thought of a button as a round object, either
black or white or dark blue, and made of a substance which
he vaguely supposed was bone.
He was amazed, too, at the extent to which a bedroom
reveals the character of its occupant. Mrs. Marsh was old-
fashioned, unimaginative, devoted to the son whose framed
photograph stood on her desk and whose letters filled its
pigeonholes. Josephine was addicted to movie magazines
and boys, and (if she might be judged by her uninhibited
correspondents) by no means straitlaced. Jane was a Presby-
terian and read books like The Forsyte Saga.
It was in Jane's room that he first found something that
seemed to him of significance. He had finished with the
closet, returning the last dress to its hanger and leaving the
door a little ajar as he had found it, and had then pulled out
the long middle drawer of the dresser. (Middle drawers, he
had discovered, held the most promise. The little top ones
ran to gloves and handkerchiefs and lace collars, the bottom
ones to lingerie.) In Jane's he saw the usual array of blouses,
both dress and informal, and on the top a blouse of yellow
linen that made his pulse beat faster. It is true that the but-
tons were yellow, not bluish white, but they were triangular
and they were plastic. He took the envelope from his pocket,
shook the contents into the palm of his hand, and with fingers
made awkward by excitement laid it over one of the yellow
buttons, turning it until the angles coincided. In shape and
42


size the two matched as though both had been cut from the
same pattern.
His first impulse was to grab up his prize and rush with it
down to the study. Then he thought that in the meantime
the maid might come upstairs and find it gone and that per
haps Dave wouldn't like that. He wished he knew exactly
what Dave did want, wished again that he had not forced
himself into a situation which others were better fitted to
handle.
His palms were sweating and he scrubbed them dry on his
handkerchief. Then he lifted out the blouse, laid it on the
bed, and spread it open, although he was not at all sure what
good could be done by further examination. He found the
word Gabrielle printed in flowing script on the label inside
the neck, evidently a trade name, and copied it on the back
of an envelope on the chance that it might lead to some-
thing. Then he refolded the blouse, put it back in the drawer,
and, rather at a loss, wondered what the next step should be.
He finally decided that the information he wanted could
best be supplied by a woman, so he went downstairs to the
telephone in the upper hall and called his wife.
43


KATHERINE was unhappy. “Darling," she
mourned, “isn't this dreadful! What about dear Miss Cor-
bett? Is it true the shock nearly killed her? I've called the
hospital but ..."
“Why the hospital? Miss Jennie's down the hall here,
asleep in her own bed. Marsham says she'll be all right.”
A long sigh of relief floated over the wire. “Thank God!
The town's buzzing and you can hear anything. I must let
Mrs. Reynolds know; the poor soul's frantic. She hared down
to the house but one of Dave's men sent her back and ever
since she's rung me up every fifteen minutes for news.”
"Forget Queen Mary. This is important. Do you know
anything about goods put out under the trade name of
Gabrielle?"
He explained and found Katherine gratifyingly helpful.
"It's a line of women's blouses and sport shirts. Sport
dresses too, I think. I don't know who manufactures them
but they are carried by a number of stores."
“Can you get them in the stores here?"
"Not here, but lots of places in the city. They're quite nice.
I have one."
"What color buttons on yours?"
"Sort of rust red. It's that orangey-yellow blouse you said
you liked.”
“Do you mind looking and telling me the shape?"
44


"I don't have to look," said Katherine. “I already know.
They're miniature kegs, like the kind St. Bernards are sup-
posed to carry around their necks. Rather cute."
"Would Gabrielle use duplicate buttons-not necessarily
the same color but the same size and shape-on more than
one article?"
“Probably. They don't pretend to carry exclusive models,
just good stuff, well cut."
There was a pause while he tried to think up more useful
questions.
"Anything else?" asked Katherine finally.
"Not now, I guess. Tell Mrs. Reynolds I'll be up after
dinner and let her know about Miss Jennie."
He hung up and considered the two storage rooms on the
top floor. He decided that they would take too long for one
man to cover, and instead set to work on the Dalrymple suite.
He found there no products of the Gabrielle firm, but search
was not altogether fruitless, for the lining of Dalrymple's
traveling case yielded a small cardboard box. Jim carried it
to the light of the window and took out one of the four cig-
arettes it contained. The yellowish paper roll bore no trade
name. He pulled out a bit of the contents, thumbed it, sniffed,
and then with an expression of disgust flipped the wisp away.
The cigarette he put back, and wrapping the box in his hand-
kerchief dropped it into his coat pocket. Then he went across
the hall to Mrs. Marpole's room.
For a moment astonishment held him on the threshold.
The door stood wide on a stripped closet. Bureau drawers
were open and empty. A trunk stood in the middle of the
floor. Two hat boxes, one closed, the other spilling tissue
paper through a half-open lid, rested on a corded packing
box. Nearby stood two open wooden boxes filled with books.
On the bed were two fully packed suitcases with the lids
45


thrown back. Mrs. Marpole was leaving, and not, it was evi-
dent, for any week-end holiday.
The trunk was locked and must wait. He went through
the books and found them to be a mixture of best sellers and
standard classics, and a set of the Encyclopaedia Britannica.
The hat boxes contained hats and nothing else. He set them
on the floor and opened the cardboard box, precisely labeled
To Be Repaired, on which they had rested. Inside was a
bedside radio with clock attachment, an inexpensive model
whose bowels rattled loosely when he moved it. He put it
back and turned his attention to the suitcases, in one of which
he discovered the photograph of a middle-aged woman with
a resolute chin and kindly eyes. The inscription, "To my
dearest child,” explained a certain resemblance to the secre-
tary. Jim studied the face of Sylvia's mother and decided
that he liked it. He flipped over the cardboard and read on
the back, in blue-inked stamp, Howard & Sons, Clayville,
New Jersey. He replaced the picture beneath the pile of
handkerchiefs where he had found it; then, changing his
mind, took it out again and tucked it into his breast pocket.
Shouts and a crash of furniture sent him running down the
stairs and into a disordered library. Apparently the police had
finished with the servants, for of the former occupants of
the room there remained only Sylvia Marpole and Tom Dal-
rymple. The secretary knelt on the floor, picking up broken
glass from an overturned bridge lamp. Books and magazines
lav about her, cascaded from a table that tilted drunkenly
over the davenport. Tom Dalrymple leaned against a book-
case, mopping a bloody nose and keeping a wary eye on a
young man who struggled furiously in the arms of the per-
spiring rookie. The young man's fair hair was disheveled,
his handsome face twisted with rage and flushed with drink.
46


A uniformed figure ran past Jim and sprang at the intruder,
grasping his arm.
Turner had thrown open the study door and stood in the
entrance, Jake at his shoulder. “Reynolds!” he shouted. “You
drunken young fool!" He glared angrily at the policeman.
“I told you no one ..."
“He got past me,” the man panted. He tugged at the arm.
"Come along
"Leave him," snapped the chief. “Get back to your job.
Anyone else gets by and you'll be peddling papers. Now
then, speak up, somebody. What's the meaning of this?”
"He struck me.” Dalrymple's voice was shrill with fear
and anger. “I call Sylvia and Johnson to witness; he struck
me. Assault without provocation.” He wiped blood from the
front of his silk shirt. “He might have broken my nose.”
"Your nose!” stormed Nick Reynolds. “What about Alicia?
You murderer!" He wrenched himself free and lunged at
the other, avoiding Turner's clutching arms.
Sylvia Marpole, from her vantage point on the floor, neatly
grabbed a passing ankle and as the boy stumbled Turner
caught him by the shoulders and jerked him upright.
"Thank you," said the chief, rather taken aback. "Er-
thank you very much.”
"Not at all,” replied Mrs. Marpole graciously. She rose,
dropped the glass in a wastepaper basket, replaced the table,
and composedly sat down on the davenport. Her face ex-
pressed polite interest and no more.
Turner looked at her with something like respect, then
forced the boy into a chair and stood over him. “Now," he
said grimly, “if you're not too drunk to make sense, start ex-
plaining.”
Reynolds gave a shuddering sigh and buried his face in his
ms.
ole.
47


tov
hands. “The noblest woman in the world,” he groaned. “The
gentlest, sweetest ..."
Turner snorted. "For God's sake stop talking like East
Lynne!” He added, not unkindly, “How did you hear about
it, Nick?"
"It was at Joe's Place. Everyone was talking about how a
strange man'd broken into the playhouse and murdered, But
it wasn't a stranger, it was that ... that ... He killed
her, I tell you, he ..."
“Why?” Turner's fingers dug into the quivering shoulder.
"Pull yourself together. Why did he?"
“Because she was through with him. Because he wanted
her money for that woman of his,” Reynolds jerked his head
toward the secretary. “For her and because Mart,"
"It's a lie!' screamed Dalrymple. "I wasn't even here!"
Words tumbled from his mouth and he thrust his hands out-
ward as though to push back suspicion. “I was at . . . at
the billiard parlors, playing with Zeke Mathers. I didn't come
home until almost four."
The chief turned on the boy. "How about it? You've had
a lot to say; let's hear you back it up. Can you?"
Apparently not. Reynolds was in turn truculent, bluster-
ing, and sullen. He was free with charges but indefinite when
pinned down. Finally the chief, disgusted, ordered him to go
home.
"When you're sober we'll have another talk, young man.”
He lowered his voice to exclude Dalrymple and the woman.
“And keep out of that back room at the Blue Ox. I'm serious.
Keep out of it!"
Sudden panic stared from the boy's eyes. “I don't know
what you mean," he faltered, and added inconsistently, "It
was only twice, I swear it. I didn't even like them.” His face
Ome
Apparer
n
t
48


yellowed and he swallowed convulsively. “I think,” he an-
nounced, “that I'm going to be sick."
"Well, don't spit up your lunch in here," retorted Turner
001
Reynolds bolted. Jim, puzzled, looked at his friend inquir-
ingly, while Mrs. Marpole's eyebrows soared.
"You," commented the secretary, "certainly jarred that lad
down to his shoelaces! I wonder how. Mr. Turner, how much
longer do we have to stay here? I'm not trying to obstruct
justice but I've things to do."
Turner hesitated, then said O.K. and held the door open
for her to pass through. Dalrymple made a move to follow.
“Later," snapped the chief, and shut the door in the wid-
ecre-
and resumed his own seat while Jake returned to his corner
and his notebook. Jim walked over to the terrace window and
stood there, looking at them, and more especially at the secre-
tary.
Beneath an armor of self-control the usually poised Mrs.
Marpole was nervous, and showed it by the rigidity of her
shoulders and a certain wariness in the violet eyes. However,
she was not lacking in courage and came directly to the point,
“Let's have it over with,” she said. “Naturally, I am Suspect
No. 1."
“Naturally?"
She bit her lip. “Please, Mr. Turner, let's not play games.
Of course the servants have told you that Mrs. Dalrymple
dismissed me this morning. They certainly know—the fire-
ordered to be out of the house before night, that ..."
"Without notice?"
"With a month's salary. And Macrae will have reported
that I followed Mrs. Dalrymple to the playhouse. Actually,
49


I went to show her a letter that had been overlooked. She
planned some renovations ..."
"We found the contractor's letter. Why did Mrs. Dalrymple
dismiss you?"
For the first time the secretary hesitated. “Let's say that a
month or so ago I made a mistake. An unpardonable mistake,
instantly regretted and never repeated. Mrs. Dalrymple had
just found out about it. Will that suffice?"
"It will do for the present. You attended your bridge club
this afternoon. Under the circumstances wasn't that odd?".
“Why? I was packed and I had to wait for the nine o'clock
train. It was less awkward if I stayed out of Mrs. Dalrymple's
way.”
“Are you a New Yorker, Mrs. Marpole?"
“Kansan. From Ashville, a little town you probably never
heard of.”
"I've heard of it," said Turner. “A rather spectacular fire
put it in the headlines a few years ago. Among other things
all the city records were burned. You don't talk like a native
of Kansas.”
"When I came east people laughed at my accent. I don't,"
said Mrs. Marpole curtly, "enjoy being laughed at. I at-
tended night school and took lessons in voice culture."
Jake volunteered unexpectedly, “They sure must have
been swell lessons," and was frowned down by his boss.
"What did your people do in Ashville?"
“My mother died when I was born. . . . Yes, Mr. Hamp-
ton?"
“Nothing," said Jim. He came over to the table and sat
down opposite her. Mrs. Marpole looked at him uncertainly,
then went on, “My father was a lawyer. Roger Carstairs. He
died when I was nineteen. He didn't leave much, so I took
the advice of friends and came to New York and enrolled in
50


wav
a business training school. After that it was the usual things.
Jobs, marriage, divorce when we found we'd made a mistake,
back to work again. Three years ago I gave up office work for
a position as receptionist at the Brunswick in Miami. The
Dalrymples stayed at the Brunswick last year and I heard that
Mrs. Dalrymple was looking for a secretary. It sounded like
pleasant, well-paid work so I applied and she accepted me.
Mr. Turner, I–I wish you'd be frank with me. Do you con-
sider me Suspect No. 1?"
"I might,” admitted Turner. “Fortunately for you, you have
an alibi. According to. Macrae, Alicia turned on the radio
after you left the playhouse."
Relief flooded her face like a wave. "The radio," she half-
whispered. “Yes, it did go on.” Her shoulders relaxed.
“I'd forgotten.”
“You went back to the house," continued the chief, “and
spoke to the servants in the kitchen. At two-fifteen you drove
off in a taxi and were taken to Hazel Joplin's where you re-
mained the rest of the afternoon. Until two-twenty Macrae
covered the only path between the main building and the
playhouse. Where were you between the time you spoke to
the servants and the time the taxi came?"
“In my room finishing the packing."
“About seven minutes. You could have cut through the
shrubbery beyond the path, but you didn't. The bushes
there make a thick barrier and there's not even a broken
twig."
Mrs. Marpole looked startled. “You certainly are thorough.”
"It's our job. What can you tell me about Mrs. Dalrym-
ple's expected visitor?”
What she had to tell added nothing to what they already
knew. Alicia, said the secretary, had said that she had im-
51


portant and confidential business with someone whom she
did not name, and did not wish to be disturbed.
"Man or woman?” .
"She gave no hint. I'm sorry, but I've no idea.”
"If you can't tell us you can't," sighed Turner. He re-
quested that she postpone leaving for a day or two, and
politely opened the door for her.
Jake smacked his lips. "The lady's a looker."
“The lady," corrected Jim, “is a liar.”
"Probably," agreed Turner. He looked appraisingly at the
other and asked, “You feeling less woozy now?"
"Yes," said Jim, surprised to find that it was so. He remem-
bered things and was embarrassed. “I suppose,” he said awk-
wardly, “I've been making pretty much of a fool of myself.”
“Delayed shock. You've been most beautifully punch-
drunk. It happens sometimes. How do you know that the
lady was lying?"
Jim handed over the photograph. “Look at this. Her mother
did not die when she was born."
Turner crooned happily over the inscription and the blue
stamp and said with respect, “The things you dig up! I under-
estimated you.” He reached for the phone and dialed. “Sylvia,
Sylvia, who is she, that fingerprinting irks her? . . . Hello,
Hank? Check on the Marpole prints with the cops in Clay-
ville, New Jersey. C-l-a-y · .. Oh, you got it. . . . Right.”
He shoved back the phone. “Very nice indeed, Mr. D.A.
Consider your back patted.”
"She's got an alibi," reminded Jake. “Don't you believe
it?"
"How can I help believe it? But even if she isn't X there's
something fishy in her past and we might as well dig it out.
Did you notice her buttons? Almost the same color as Exhibit
A only diamond-shaped.”
52


"Speaking of buttons ...” said Jim, and spoke of them.
Turner groaned. “That means another chore in the city.
If only this flu epidemic hadn't left me short-handed!”
Rather diffidently, Jim offered himself. “I'm no detective,
but you could give me an idea of the sort of things to ask.”
Turner was dubious. It wasn't, he explained, only the
phone) and also of the co-ed.
"What co-ed, for heaven's sake?".
"Nick Reynolds' friend, Frances Hendley. She was here
yesterday a little after two-thirty, asking for Alicia. Josephine
answered the door.”
“Alicia's visitor!" cried Jim.
"Josephine thought so, anyhow. She directed her to the
playhouse. Personally, I can't see Alicia having important
and confidential business with a college kid, but it certainly
has to be looked into.” He swung out of his chair and prowled
restlessly about the room, hands dug deep in his pockets.
“The cook and the two housemaids are in the clear. Ben, too,
window. Anyone else could have done it."
“I heard the matron come. Did the search uncover any-
thing?"
Turner grinned. “Tom's shorts. They're yellow silk, taste-
fully monogrammed in blue. Nothing else.” He propped his
shoulders against the wall, lit a cigarette, and shook out the
match. “The visitor's our best bet, of course. However, it
could have been one of the household; they all hated her
guts. Or Dalrymple. Macrae had the best opportunity—”.
Jim was not listening. He had just remembered something.
“Dave, has young Reynolds taken to smoking reefers?"
The chief's face darkened with quick anger. “Why," he
53


demanded with violence, “don't you county people do some-
thing about that roadhouse? Don't you know what goes on
there? Drinks to minors, assignations ..."
“And a back room for marijuana jags. D'you think every-
one's asleep except the city police?" Jim was also angry. “I'm
sick of having the Blue Ox thrown in my face. Have you
thought that the marijuana angle brings in the Federal men
who are better equipped to cope than my office is? When
we learned about that back room ..."
"Who put you on to it?"
“All right, it was the government men who told us. Some-
one tipped them off. What's it matter who told who? It's
their job and they're handling it. They've been holding back
to get proof on the higher-ups in New York ..."
"The Francioni brothers," supplemented the other, and
Hampton, surprised, said, “You know about them?"
“I get around," said Turner dryly. “I have friends on the
New York force. And the Blue Ox may be out of our juris-
diction but when it sucks in local kids I," said the chief with
emphasis, “take an interest. Have they identified the one
they call Mr. Big?”
“Mr. Big?”
"Or Smith, or Jones, or What-have-you. Who knows? But
two years ago the Francionis were cheap, smalltime punks,
then suddenly they appear at the head of a big dope ring.
They didn't do that by themselves; someone set 'em up in
business. Mr. Big."
"Never heard of him," said Jim shortly. "You'd think that
as district attorney I'd be told. ... Anyhow, they brought
in the Francioni brothers yesterday, and the Ox'll be cleaned
up almost any time. Tonight, perhaps. That satisfy you?"
He was uneasily aware that this flare of anger was only
cover-up for a smarting conscience. "I take an interest,” the
- 54


chief had said, but he, James Hampton, had not. Perhaps
because of his negligence a damn-fool kid was now in a jam.
Turner was grudgingly apologetic. “I didn't know that
you and the Feds had done so much. I thought you just-
Oh well, forget it.” He came over to the table, dragged nearer
a crystal ashtray, and stubbed out the partially burned cig-
arette. “This thing tastes lousy for some reason. Like burned
coffee beans."
“You didn't answer about Nick Reynolds. Has he been
visiting that back room?".
Turner looked at him oddly. “Don't you know? Yes, twice
at least. And do you know who took him there? Alicia Dal-
rymple.”
"Alicia? Alicia wasn't an addict."
“Who said she was? Dalrymple's a regular hophead-that,
by the way, is the scandal Miss Corbett's trying to keep cov-
ered; why she didn't want to call in the police—but Alicia
wasn't. Oh, no, dear sweet Alicia didn't care about the reef-
ers herself; she was just out to corrupt a crazy infatuated kid
of twenty-one. First she taught him to drink, and now she
was trying to make a doper out of him. And why? Because,
by God,” roared Turner in sudden fury, “the boy's grand-
mother high-hatted her when she came back to Corbettsville,
that's why. Trying to get back at the old lady through the
kid she adores. It's—" he hunted for words, finished inade-
quately, “It's ugly.”
It was obscene. Shocked, Jim tried to clear his mind of the
clouds of loyalty and affection and to look at Alicia the in-
dividual rather than at Alicia the daughter of Gladys and
Nathaniel Corbett.
What did he know of her? At first hand, really very little.
In childhood the barrier of age had kept them apart, for the
path of a small boy will not often cross that of a girl seven
55


years his senior. Moreover, that malicious pinch to a four-
slowly. For many years Mrs. Hampton's son had avoided
little Miss Corbett with something like terror. Then, too, her
adolescent years had been spent at boarding school, and he
himself had been in his teens that year the heiress pocketed
her inheritance and moved to New York.
Naturally, however, he had heard much about her, as was
inevitable considering the close friendship between his fam-
ily and hers. She had been an exquisite child, graceful and
with the delicate features and spun-gold hair and blue eyes
of a fairy princess. Exquisite, self-willed, and abominably
spoiled. He remembered his mother: "Between them they'll
ruin that girl. Gladys is too easygoing, and as for the judge!
I suppose being the child of his old age makes a difference,
but it isn't fair to Alicia."
Beyond the family circle Alicia would have found less
tolerant indulgence. He wondered how she had reacted to
the rough-and-tumble discipline of her contemporaries.
“Dave, you were nearer Alicia's age than I, and your sister
was at boarding school with her. When she was a youngster
how did her friends feel about her?”
“She hadn't any–a few snobs bowled over by the combina-
tion of Corbett prestige and Hinkson money, but no real
friends. She'd no idea of give-and-take, and kids won't stand
who stood in her way. No vulgar hair-pulling, always sweet
on the surface, but she'd scheme and plot and maybe wait
months to get even with a smack below the belt. The same
after she grew up. Mrs. Reynolds got in her way and Alicia
couldn't take it. She comes back to Corbettsville- By the
way, why did she come back, do you know?"
Jim shook his head.
56


“Hmm, I wonder. Anyhow, she does come back, rich,
sophisticated, expecting to play grande dame in the old home
town. You know what Queen Mary did to that little dream!"
Everybody knew. Mrs. Reynolds who could socially make
or break anyone in Heald County; Mrs. Reynolds who had
unhesitatingly admitted lowly born Gladys Corbett into the
sacred fold, had slammed the gate on Gladys Corbett's daugh-
ter. At first, the old lady had withheld judgment. "Her
manner,” she had reported after the first courtesy call, “is
charming, but she is not, one suspects, in quite the true Cor-
bett tradition. We shall see.” When Alicia installed her sister
in the north rooms, denying her the privileges of the house,
condemnation had been swift and deadly. “Such conduct,”
pronounced the indignant autocrat, “is unworthy of either a
gentlewoman or a Christian. Corbett or no Corbett, the
woman is impossible.” After that, Alicia was finished.
“Does Mrs. Reynolds know,” Jim hesitated, unwilling to
admit certainty. “Does she know what you suspect?"
"About Alicia introducing Nick to marijuana? I don't
suspect, I know. . . . I'm not sure. I hope not; it'd break
the old girl's heart. He's not really a bad lad. Weak, and a
fool about Alicia, but not vicious. Too bad his parents died.
Boys shouldn't be reared by doting grandmothers.”
"If he should be caught in the raid_" .
"He won't go back again. I've just scared the pants off of
him. But,” said the chief, “I earnestly hope that they drag
in Dalrymple.”
"You can drag him in yourself. For illegal possession.”
Jim drew the cardboard box from his pocket and carefully
folded back the handkerchief. “There are four reefers in
this.” He explained where it had been found. “Would you
mind having your people try it for fingerprints? They may
lead to someone we don't know about. I want," said the dis-
ca
57


trict attorney with unexpected ferocity, "to see that every
last one of that gang get's what's coming to him.”
Turner accepted the box gingerly, and set it on the table.
"This is going to give me great pleasure," he remarked. “I've
always wanted to get my hands on that little twerp. Now
I can clap him in jail for illegal possession of dope, and I only
hope the cell we give him has feas. Bring him in, Jake, and
we'll work on him now.”


HAMPTON pulled open the French windows
and stepped out onto the terrace. The air was soft and warm.
He took a long breath, pulling it deep into the lungs and ex-
haling slowly, with slackened shoulders, trying to send out
with it the tension and weariness that dragged at his nerves.
The afternoon sun was still high above the western horizon,
but a light breeze that stirred the honey locust at the corner
of the terrace tempered the summer heat and brought from
the garden the smell of roses and the spicy fragrance of dian-
thus. A lawn mower whirred beyond the shrubbery, and from
somewhere came the droning of bees. It was a day for loung-
ing, for garden chairs, and magazines, and long cool
drinks. ...
He lit a cigarette, shook out the match, and turned to look
upward at the house. Shrubbery masked the building to the
height of the second floor, but above that the brick wall, for-
merly hidden by trailing fuchsia, was bare and ugly.
"Took 'em all doon," said a North Britain accent at his
elbow. “Rotted, the lot of 'em. Nasty, dangerous things!"
Hampton turned to the Scotsman, who scowled with habit-
ual ill humor. Macrae was a short, wiry man, with a leathery
face and grizzled hair. His chin and mouth were stubborn,
his blue eyes cantankerous. Garden loam crusted his hands
and clung to the knees of his worn corduroys; he smelled
strongly of sweat and freshly turned earth, and manure.
59


w
“I miss those fuchsias,” Jim confessed. “All my life I've :
seen them hanging down that wall. Did Dave talk to you?"
"He did. Wasting a busy mon's time!"
"He has to do it, you know," placated the other. “This is a
bad business, Mac."
“'Twas a judgment upon her.” Jim turned sharply at the
unnaturally deepened tone and saw the Scotsman's eyes sud-
denly fixed and blank looking. “She was a foul and evil i
woman,” boomed the man, “a snare unto the righteous. The
Lord hath struck her down in her iniquity.” With an abrupt
return to his normal voice he growled crossly, “I've got work
to do," and walked away.
Ye gods! thought Jim, I'd forgotten Mac was a religious
fanatic. . . . A religious fanatic with a foul temper. Could
he have, But how unlikely that Mac should be a murderer!
Why, Jim had known him all his life; people you'd always
known didn't suddenly commit unspeakable crimes. ...
He left the terrace and walked along alleys of clipped box
until he reached an ivy-covered wall on the opposite side of
the house, and pushed open the green gate which led into
Miss Corbett’s little garden.
As always, when entering from the main gardens, he was
struck by the contrast between the formal walks and artfully
contrived “vistas” of Alicia's neatly tailored grounds and the
colorful, impudently defiant disorder of Miss Corbett's little
enclosure. The old lady's reputation as a successful gardener
owed little to shears or pruning knife, and the uninhibited
jasmine that drooped long sprays from the side of the house,
and the tangle of honeysuckle over the toolshed matched in
their devil-may-care untidiness the crimson rambler that
sprawled against the inner side of Macrae's green-ivied wall.
Jim threaded his way among hit-or-miss beds of delphinium
and columbine, stocks, godetia and coreopsis, pushed aside a
60


flipped them over, and poked his head through the window
again.
"Did you ever see one of those Gabrielle blouses?".
"Gabrielle blouses?" Miss Corbett, not unnaturally, looked
astonished at this sartorial gambit but rallied politely. "I
know what you mean, of course. Yes, I think so.”
"Have you one? And if not, why not? Kath tells me they
are quite nifty.”
"If you must know," replied Miss Corbett, annoyed, "they
are beyond the range of my pocketbook. James, this conversa-
tion about my wardrobe is fascinating, but difficult to carry
on by screaming through a window.”
“I thought it romantic-sort of Romeo and Juliet."
The smell of scorched bread recalled him to his neglected
duties. He removed the overdone slices, absently measured
more tea into the pot, and poured in boiling water. He looked
doubtfully at the toast, then found a knife and scraped off
the blackest sections. He slapped on butter, set the tray, and
carried it outside.
Miss Corbett was a thoroughbred. She drank the bitter
liquid with no more than a slight quiver and gamely nibbled
at scraped toast. The hot drink, though unpalatable, did her
good, and a little color returned to the gray cheeks. Jim,
watching anxiously from his perch on the top step, was re-
lieved to see her eyes lose some of their haunted look.
"Where is David?" Miss Corbett asked.
"Talking to your unpleasant brother-in-law. Giving him
a nasty time, I hope.” Her look of distress made him add
hastily, if untruthfully, “Don't take me too seriously. It's
all just silly routine."
“James,” said Miss Corbett pleadingly, “must this go on?
Wouldn't it be possible for you and David to let the matter
drop?”
63


"You know better than to ask that, Miss Jennie.”
“But the publicity, the scandal! Oh, James, for generations
this has been an honorable and respected family; Corbett
has been a name one wore with pride. Why, why, has this
dreadful thing come upon us?"
“It was you,” he reminded, “who first suspected your sis-
ter's danger and asked us-me-to investigate."
“Before it happened. Hoping, desperately hoping, that
nothing would happen. But it did. Nothing can bring back
Alicia or undo what has been done, but other people, kind,
well-meaning people, may be hurt.” The beautiful hands
clasped each other tightly, squeezing until the knuckles
whitened. “I never,” cried Miss Corbett wretchedly, “real-
ized that murder could be so terrible, not only in itself but in
its consequences. All those whose lives ever touched Alicia's
will be harried and questioned. All their pitiful or shabby
little secrets will be exposed. Everyone has secrets of some
sort, James. They should be kept decently covered, not dragged
out into the open."
“Alicia,” said Hampton bluntly, “was murdered. You want
her murderer brought to justice, don't you?”
“I'm not sure.” Miss Corbett stared down into her garden,
lost in unhappy thought. The long summer day was drawing
to a close and the shadow of the house lay dark on the little
enclosure. The breeze had died down and the air was hot
and stifling. Jim lifted the tray from her knees and carried it
into the house, then came back and took a seat on the railing.
Finally Miss Corbett broke the long silence. She spoke
slowly, choosing her words with care. “It has been said that
women of my generation have never learned to face facts
squarely, that we live in a rosy-tinted world of sweetness and
light and delicate sentiment. Actually, we have never been
afraid to face the truth. We see quite as clearly as does any
64


661
S
young modern who boasts of her realism. The difference
is that we have been trained to reticence about whatever in
our lives is painful or ugly. Reticence based partly on pride,
partly on respect for what we consider good taste. A gentle-
woman, we have been taught, does not parade her emotions.
A gentlewoman does not disclose her private griefs or
pains or shame.” She withdrew her eyes from the garden
and looked without evasion into those of her young friend.
“James, my half-sister was a wicked woman. That is a fact
which I faced and recognized a long, long time ago."
Hampton said nothing. To him it seemed that not the least
pitiable consequence of Alicia's murder was that it had
forced this proud old woman to violate the code which had
kept her silent through the years.
"I do not mean that she was what we used to call a 'bad'
woman, immoral in the conventional sense. The evil lay
within her mind-in her vindictiveness, her spite, her ab-
normal desire to hurt others ...".
"Abnormal!” He seized on the word gratefully, finding in
it as much comfort for himself as he hoped it would give
her. “That's it, Miss Jennie. Alicia was abnormal, mentally
ill. She had-she must have had-a kink in her brain as some-
one else could have, let's say, a crooked spine. A good psy-
chiatrist might have straightened it out."
"Perhaps. I am old-fashioned enough to believe that the
choice of good and evil lies within the individual. Is it im-
portant? Twisted soul or twisted mind, the result is the
same, pain and unhappiness to others. That's what Alicia
brought to all about her, pain and unhappiness. To her first
husband, who deserted her. To her second, whom she drove
to suicide. To-others.”
She paused and her lips tightened. After a moment she
continued, “Even as a child Alicia did mean, spiteful things.
65


As she matured this tendency developed until it had grown
during these last years to frightening proportions. She de-
lighted in hurting others; she would go to infinite trouble
to thwart their perfectly harmless desires. With more money
than she could use she nevertheless was ruthless to those in
debt to her. I know of unfortunate families . . . But let
that pass. . . . James,” cried Miss Corbett in an agony of
shame, “my father's daughter, the child of my dear, kind
stepmother, was willing to ruin a young boy in order to sat-
isfy a private grudge!"
Her misery and humiliation were almost more than he
could bear to see.
"Don't worry about Nick, Miss Jennie. Kids will try any-
thing once, even marijuana. He tried it and didn't like it and
now he's off the stuff for keeps.” He added, “I wasn't sure
that you knew.”
"I saw from the first that Alicia had a bad influence on
Nick. I didn't know about this—this other until today. Mary
told me. Two weeks ago there was a letter ..."
An anonymous letter, explained Miss Corbett; a note
which informed Mrs. Reynolds that her grandson had been
seen going with Mrs. Dalrymple into a room reserved by the
management of the Blue Ox for marijuana smokers.
"What did she do?"
"What does any decent person do with anonymous letters?
She was incredulous and furious and burned it immediately.
But this morning when she was preparing one of Nick's
suits for the cleaners she found a cigarette in the coat pocket,
a queer one without any trade mark and that didn't smell like
tobacco. Then she remembered the letter. I am Mary's oldest
and closest friend. She brought it to me. We burned the end
and there was a peculiar smell that-that I recognized.”
Hampton did not ask her how she had known. Dalrymple,
66


after all, was addicted to marijuana. His sister-in-law would
have had ample opportunity to learn its distinctive smell.
“Mary was sick with horror. She has always been so proud
of Nick. Finally I persuaded her to go home and do nothing
until I had had a chance to speak to Alicia.”
“And did you speak to her?”.
She shook her head. “I waited too long. I didn't want to
act hastily. All the while I was buying groceries I planned
what I would say, trying to decide how I could best appeal
to her better nature. And I resolved”-Miss Corbett set her
firm chin-"that if I failed I would report the matter to you,
even though it would mean scandal for us all, perhaps Tom's
and Alicia's arrest. I could not allow such evil to continue.
I never talked to her. When I came home it was too late."
“That place is to be cleaned out, possibly tonight. Nick's
name will be kept out of it.”
Miss Corbett, lost in memories, was not listening. "Such a
pretty little girl," she sighed. “Great blue eyes and lovely
golden hair. Curly hair.” With an effort she wrenched
herself from the past. “James,” she said abruptly, "let's be
honest. You and I know that that beautiful little girl grew up
into a woman with an ugly warped soul. You and I know that
it is better for everyone, better even for my poor sister her-
self, that she is dead. There has been so much of misery and
unhappiness, James. Let there be no more. Surely you and
David can find a way.”
"Miss Jennie, my dear, dear friend,” cried the other aghast,
"you don't realize what you're saying! Even if it were possi-
ble-I assure you it is not, but even if it were possible to pass
this off as an accident, surely you don't want Dave and me
to conspire to conceal a murder? You? Nathaniel Corbett's
daughter!"
She flushed. “You are right, of course. Rigidly virtuous
67


non
much as she must have been hated by whoever beat her about
so brutally. And I'm sorry for her own unhappiness. She
must have been dreadfully unhappy, poor soul.”
"Alicia unhappy?"
"Oh, my dear, of course she was! How could she help but
be, eaten up with malice, hating everyone, knowing that
everyone hated her! Who did it, Jim?"
“I wish you'd tell me! Who's your choice, Kath?".
"Tom Dalrymple,” replied Katherine promptly. “Or any
of the servants-except Ellen Martin, of course. Or the
secretary.” She grimaced. “That's all frank prejudice. They're
none of them Corbettsville, so they're expendable. Anyhow,
it couldn't have been the secretary. That's my bridge club,
too, you know, and she really was there."
"I didn't know you knew Mrs. Marpole," exclaimed Jim
in surprise.
“Just in a bridge-y sort of way. Frankly, I can't stand the
woman; she gives me an inferiority complex, but fair's fair
and she certainly was at Hazel's from-oh, say two-twenty-
five until Tom phoned the news.”
"How about when she was dummy? She could have slipped
out, borrowed a car ..."
"She didn't. She never left the room. Jim, I've been think-
ing about that button. It needn't have been Gabrielle's at all.
It isn't as though they were one of those frightfully swanky
outfits that have all the trimmings made to order. I imagine
they buy their buttons from the same factory stock that is
sold to hundreds of other firms."
"But it's such an odd distinctive shape.”
“Triangular?" Katherine's laughter bubbled delightfully.
“Darling, surely you don't think we still wear those unin-
spiring things you used to find in your grandmother's work-
box?” She went on more seriously: “Actually, it needn't even
69


be a female. Some men have rather eyefilling sport shirts
with buttons in keeping. Triangles would be conservative.
Look at those frightful things Tom Dalrymple wears.”
Jim mentally looked and shuddered. "It's Tom,” he an-
nounced with conviction. "Anyone who wears clothes like
that is bound to be a murderer.” He pushed back his chair
and stood up. “I'll be late tonight. Dave and I have to see
Crawshaw about the will, and before that I want to talk to
Mrs. Reynolds about, Well,” said Jim thoughtfully, "on the ·
whole about quite a few things."
70


THE long living room had much of the stuffy
opulence once so admired by mid-Victorian households.
Heavy crimson curtains, manipulated by gold-tasseled cords,
were closely drawn against the windows, and fell in carefully
arranged folds almost to the floor. A carved teakwood table
holding books and a silver pitcher of magnificent red roses
stood against the lower wall, and near it was a glass-doored
cabinet in which a set of Satsuma ware and a dozen exquisite
Dresden figurines shared space with a china cat, a cracked
Toby mug, and a hideous cornucopia vase. From the top of
the cabinet the bronze head of Dante looked sourly across
the room at the Unknown Woman who sneered from a pedes-
tal in the opposite corner. There was one rather fine Queen
Anne chair between the windows and across from it a graceful
love seat. The rest of the furniture was strictly Victorian
and consisted for the most past of clumsy walnut chairs,
upholstered in old gold, with elaborately carved tops and
firm uncompromising seats. Two oil portraits in heavy gilt
frames dominated the side wall, the one of a black-browed
ruffian wearing scarlet uniform and sword, the other of an
anemic female in Empire dress carrying a basket of flowers.
Beside the black-and-gilt marble clock on the mantel stood
the miniature of an early Reynolds, a pink-cheeked gentle-
man with ruffled shirt and powdered hair. A Revolution-
ary War sword crossed its scabbard on the wall above.
71


“Horrible!” she shuddered. “Unspeakably horrible! Was
that necessary, James?”
"It is necessary that you realize this cannot be camouflaged
as accident. Not even at the command of the Hill. I think
you knew it was murder, Mrs. Reynolds."
"Perhaps I did. Perhaps I was acting on the old belief of
children that what is said with conviction will somehow
become true."
She was silent a moment, absently pleating a fold of her
dress between her fingers. It was a silk dress, subdued pink
with overtones of lavender, and the fichu-like collar was
fastened with an amethyst brooch. Mrs. Reynolds was partial
to those shades of faint pink or lavender so becoming to an
old-ivory skin and white hair.
"Very well,” she said at last, "it was murder. We must
accept that. After all, it is not surprising. Alicia was a detest-
able woman. No doubt many people have wanted to murder
her and now, apparently, someone has done it. What of it?
Why go out of your way to make trouble? Heavens, James,”
cried Mrs. Reynolds testily, "you are supposed to have in-
telligence. Use it! Alicia was a menace to society, so why
hound the public benefactor who put her out of the way?
Let the poor soul go!"
Jim, somewhat scandalized, realized that for the second
time within a few hours an eminently respectable old lady
was demanding that he hamstring Justice.
"What,” he inquired, “do you want us to do? Murder isn't
the sort of thing you can shrug off like a traffic violation.”
“No-o-o, there must be some explanation, of course. . . .
A tramp! Yes, that's it, a tramp will answer very well. Also,
I think,” said Mrs. Reynolds judiciously, “that David should
mention robbery. Some bit of jewelry missing.”
Lice.
73


She was incredible! Jim contemplated her with a mixture
of amazement and reluctant admiration.
“May I remind you that the taxpayers hire us to investi-
gate crime, not to hush it up?” he asked, uncomfortably aware
that he sounded like an earnest Boy Scout.
To his annoyance she laughed, heartily and with real
enjoyment. “You are getting stuffy, James! Portrait of a
righteous young man rebuking a wicked old woman. Per-
haps,” she added questioningly, “wondering if the wicked
old woman did it herself?”
"Did you?” he asked coolly.
"That, my young friend, is a very silly question. If I had
I'd never be stupid enough to admit it.”
She bent her head and for a moment thoughtfully studied
the hands folded in her lap. When she lifted her eyes there
was no mockery in them. She said, seriously, “Don't misun-
derstand me, James. I'm not entirely lawless; I just want you
to look at this realistically. Alicia was a corrupt and dangerous
woman who did much harm. Much harm," she repeated,
her voice hardening. “More, probably, than you realize. I
do not say that I killed her-if I did I am, I hope, clever
enough to keep you from finding me out-but I don't mind
admitting that I had good cause for murder. Alicia was a
threat to the homes of those normal, decent-living taxpayers
whom you represent. Remember that. Remember that in-
vestigation may unearth scandals better left buried. Remember
what scandal would do to the pride of dear Jennie Corbett.
Accept Alicia's death as the blessing it is and-do nothing.”
There was such earnestness in her voice that it almost
seemed as though she were humbling herself to plead with
the young attorney-but that, of course, was impossible. Mrs.
Reynolds never pleaded; she merely issued commands.
Her next words indicated that she was back in form again.
as &
74


“Take my advice," said Queen Mary with authority. “Drop
any further investigation and let this pass for the work of a
thieving vagrant, as, indeed, for all we know may be the
truth. Another thing: I understand that David has left one
of his men stationed at the house, just the sort of thing to
start rumors flying. He had better call the man home.”
Jim choked back rising anger with difficulty. “Have you,”
he inquired with elaborate politeness, “any further instruc-
tions for us?"
“I think not.” Mrs. Reynolds was impervious tó sarcasm.
"Be discreet and there will be no difficulty.” She held out
her hand. “So kind of you, James, to let me know about
Jennie. You should drop in more often. Bring Katherine to
tea next Sunday.”
He made no move and after a second the hand was with-
drawn and eyebrows lifted inquiringly.
“Mrs. Reynolds," said Jim harshly, “let me, at the risk of
being 'stuffy, make something perfectly clear. I am drop-
ping no investigation. Today, at the old Corbett place, Judge
Corbett's daughter was murdered. That means something
to me. I admired and respected Judge Corbett, respect the
sort of things that he and his family, back to old Nathaniel
the First, have always stood for. I intend to find out who
did that to his child, and if ..."
"James," interrupted Mrs. Reynolds-and she sounded
both surprised and disturbed—“you look exactly like your
father.”
"I am not my father. I lack his brains and his experience
and, I suspect, his guts. But in my own blundering, inef-
ficient way I am going to see this thing through, regardless
of whose toes get stepped on. Regardless, if you will pardon
me, of the sensibilities of the Hill. I think if you will you can
help me.”
75


1e
She looked at him warily and in silence.
“For instance, what do you know about Miss Hendley?"
“Frances? I think she is charming, but why not judge for
yourself? I've asked her down for a week's visit and she'll
be coming on the one o'clock train tomorrow.”
"Good. I have to be in New York tomorrow morning.
Would you mind phoning Miss Hendley and telling her
that I'll be happy to drive her down?”
It was order rather than request and Mrs. Reynolds, sur-
prisingly meek, accepted it as such.
She was altogether too meek. Jim eyed her suspiciously as
he put his next question. “Do you happen to own one of
those Gabrielle blouses?"
Either she was honestly perplexed or an excellent actress.
“My dear boy, what a peculiar question! Yes, as it happens
I do, a very pretty cream-colored one. Usually," confided
Mrs. Reynolds, “I prefer those put out by Moselle. You
know them? Katherine undoubtedly does. My suits– Now
there, I fear, I am scandalously extravagant. Saks Fifth Ave-
nue. However, I do believe that a really good suit ..."
Under a pretense of cooperation she mocked him. He
felt his ears redden.
"Would you care to see my Gabrielle?” asked Mrs. Reyn-
olds, brightly helpful.
"If you please.”
Obviously, that startled her, but she rose docilely. “I sent
my maid to bed—the poor child has flu-but it will only take
a moment to fetch it.”
Jim, conscious of lèse-majesté but determined, said, “For-
give me, it will be better if I go with you," and followed an
outraged back into an upstairs bedroom.
The blouse had its full complement of buttons which,
IS
76


her pedestal and evincing quite human exasperation. “Last
Thursday. At approximately three o'clock in the afternoon.
The price, Restrain your impatience while I find the charge
slip."
"It's quite unimportant, No, please, you have been very
patient,” Routed at last he stammered thanks and apologies
and fled.
Light from a pseudo ship’s lantern flooded the porch and
flowed across the drive to highlight the privet hedge on the
other side. Down the hill Corbettsville's few street lamps
glowed faintly, dimmed by a great summer moon that rode
the eastern sky. A red neon mortar and pestle went on and
off in front of the Elite Drug Store, and electric bulbs on the
façade of the movie house announced Gary Cooper in last
season's hit.
A figure detached itself from the side of the Buick.
"Hello," said Nick Reynolds, moodily. “I was waiting for
you.” He noted the other's expression and grinned faintly.
"You look sore. Has Gran been being feudal?"
"Your grandmother,” exploded the other, and swallowed.
"Yes, 'feudal' is a good word.”
“Gran means all right,” said young Reynolds, grudgingly
loyal. “She just got born into the wrong century. Gran,”
explained her grandson, “is an anachronism.”
“Anachronism" is a word the pronunciation of which re-
quires cold sobriety. Hampton looked at the other more
closely. The weak, handsome face was drawn, but the boy's
eyes were clear, and he snapped the lighter for his cigarette
with a steady hand.
He lifted his eyes from the flame, shut the lighter, and
with it made a wide gesture which included the hill and the
town below. “Ever think,” he asked, "that this whole darn
78


place is an anachronism? Feudal, I mean. Up here, the nice,
smug, well-bred families sitting on their fannies, mooning
over their ancestors, being kind and condescending to all
the decent folk down there who weren't so careful when
they picked out their grandfathers and grandmothers. And
the hell of it is, they let us get away with it. They let us be
patronizing and good old-squirish! They kowtow to the lot
of us, and to Gran most of all because Nicholas Somebody-
or other settled here 'way back when and was big guns in
the colonial government. It doesn't make sense.”
Hampton felt sorry for him. Life with that domineering,
ancestor-conscious old woman must be difficult for a normal
young man.
"Have you thought that those people down there may
not be so impressed with our silly airs as we like to think?
They're pretty level-headed. Probably they just find it good
business to humor us."
“You think so? Perhaps. Be a pretty good laugh on us,
wouldn't it?” The boy brooded a moment, then burst out
again, remembering more grievances. “We even number our-
selves, if you please, like royalty! The Corbetts, the Marsh-
ams . . . you do it yourself. I'm Nicholas Carith Reynolds
the Sixth. I'll fight anyone, even Gran, who calls me any-
thing but Nick, but that's what I am, Nicholas Carith Reyn-
olds the Sixth. I ask you! In America!"
He kicked viciously at the Buick's front wheel and Hamp-
ton was torn between sympathy for the frustrated democrat
and concern for his own worn tire. “Turner has sense,
though. He's supposed to have a number, too, but he won't
use it and he picked the job he wanted instead of a nice re-
fined one that his family'd have liked. I wish I_"
He lapsed into unhappy silence. At last he said, “That's
where Alicia was so swell. She never said, 'I think not, my
79


boy,' ”-he raised his voice in ludicrous imitation of his
grandmother's clipped tones-“ 'Great-grandfather Whoosits
would not have approved! Not on your life! She'd say, 'To
hell with old Whoosits! You're living now!' And then we'd
have fun. Do crazy things that would have shocked all the
moth-eaten ancestors.” He removed the cigarette from his
mouth and threw it on the graveled driveway. He looked
moodily at the stub and ground it round and round with his
heel. “It's queer to think of her as dead; she was such an
alive sort of person!"
Hampton looked at him curiously, for Reynolds showed
no trace of the hysterical grief which had torn him a few
hours before. He was depressed, as at the death of a dear
friend, but not overwhelmed. Apparently Alicia's spell had
been broken by her death.
The young man raised his head and looked sheepishly at
the other. “I forgot to say why I was waiting for you.” He
swallowed, then went on clumsily, “I wanted to say I was
sorry about this afternoon."
"I hope you are," retorted the other. “Take it all in all it
was a fairly nauseating exhibition. You behaved," Jim said,
perhaps venting on the grandson some of his rancor against
the grandmother, "like an ill-mannered, neurotic adolescent."
Reynolds flushed and muttered sullenly, “I said I was
sorry, didn't I? I'd just heard about it and the news rather
sent me off my head. You see, Alicia and I were going to be
married. I think,” he added as though suddenly doubtful,
then hurried on, “I mean, of course we were.”
Hampton was in no mood to bear with the maudlin bab-
blings of a thwarted lover. He opened the car door and started
to climb in. "Don't you know? And what, may I ask, did you
propose to do about her current husband?"
80


“That two-timer? She was through with him. Definitely.
As of three o'clock yesterday afternoon."
Jim lowered his foot, shut the door, and propped his back
against it. “Oh? What happened at three o'clock yesterday
afternoon?"
Reynolds thrust his hands in his pockets and lounged
against the hood. “It goes back to that time about three
months ago when Dalrymple spent a week end in New York
with Mrs. Marpole. Remember? He was supposed to be up
on business and she gave out that she was visiting friends,
only Harry Morton happened to be in the city stopping at
the same hotel and when he came back he spread the story
all over town. I guess Alicia was the only one who didn't
hear it. Well, yesterday Alicia and I were walking through
the rose garden and there were Dalrymple and Sylvia on the
terrace. He was talking about the swell time they'd had on
that week end and trying to date her for another one."
“Did they see you come up?"
“Un-uh. We were behind that big honey locust. Well, I
wanted to knock his ears off but Alicia pulled me back and
around the side of the house; she was so white it frightened
me, and shaking all over. She kept saying things like, 'No
man alive can do this to me,' and 'They'll curse the day they
ever met. I've never seen her like that. We went into the
house through the kitchen and the first thing she did was to
phone Crawshaw."
"What did she want with him?"
"A divorce, of course; what else could it have been? That's
why I thought about us getting married. . . . You know,
not at once but ..."
“Did you actually hear her talk to Crawshaw about di-
ard
ever
ver SE
vorce?"
"I didn't hear her talk about anything," said the boy a little
81


saw, and that's to atter
resentfully. “She noticed me standing there and said she'd
private business to attend to and for me to go home. So I
did, and that,” he finished soberly, "was the last time I ever
saw her.”
There was a moment of uncomfortable silence. With no
other thought than to break it Jim asked, "Were you at Joe's
Place all this afternoon?" and was startled by the effect of his
idle question. Reynolds' face flooded with color, then drained
to whiteness. Into his eyes shot a look of-what? Fear? Em-
barrassment? Shame? Jim was uncertain.
The young man took out another cigarette and this time
the lighter wobbled in an unsteady hand. “Snoopers,” he
said bitterly. “Damn snoopers!” He swung around on the
other. “All right, I wasn't at Joe's, not until late, anyhow. I
was-was taking a walk. Want to make something of it?".
"In the heat of the day? Walking where, for heaven's
sake?"
“I don't know; I don't remember. I-I was drunk. Yes,
that's it, if you must know, I was drunk. I was walking
about_"
"Why?"
"None of your damn business!" shouted Reynolds. “A
man can take a walk, can't he? A man has a right to privacy,
hasn't he? I walked along and I kept taking a pull at my flask
and by and by I was at Joe's Place."
It could be true, and his odd manner due to shame that he
had been swilling like a pig while his lady was being mur-
dered. Again Jim opened the car door and slid beneath the
wheel. "Were you going downtown? I can give you a lift as
far as Malvern Street.”
Reynolds hesitated, then muttered ungraciously, “Might
as well," and climbed in.
That section of Corbettsville known as the Hill followed
82


no orderly pattern of evenly spaced blocks and square-cut
corners. The streets wandered insouciantly hither and yon,
skirting the estates of long-dead early settlers, crossing each
other at impossible angles, dashing out their brains against
garden walls; sometimes, even, meeting themselves unex-
pectedly in tail-to-mouth loops. This informality of arrange-
ment was frustrating to delivery boys and people in a hurry,
but delighted out-of-town visitors who talked of old-world
charm. Hampton negotiated a tricky right turn, drove south,
then swung around in a wide half-circle. He came out of it
in front of the Dalrymple grounds and (such were the va-
garies of Hill streets) only about a hundred yards from his
starting point. Actually, the Reynolds and Corbett properties
touched each other at one side.
They drove on beyond the entrance driveway and past a
brown sedan parked against the curb. Suddenly Hampton
stopped the Buick and wrenched open the door.
"What's up?" asked his companion, pulling himself out of
a deep silence.
"Someone in the garden. Could be Johnson but it looked
too short. We'd better see.”
Under the low moon the garden was a tangle of white
light and ink-black shadow in which size and distance were
distorted and a half-dozen shrubs loomed like an impassable
thicket. The rectangle of lawn before the house was a calm
pale-green lake, the anemones by the steps colorless ovals on
ghostly stems. The night air was warm and still and heavy
with the fragrance of stocks.
Jim whispered, “Over there by the laurels," and they hur-
ried along the path, silently until Nick's shoes dislodged a
pebble which rolled and clicked sharply against another.
“That's done it,” Hampton muttered. “Listen!"
A low whistle, twice repeated, came from a clump of lau-
83


rels below the path. There was a pause, then a voice called
softly, “Over here, Dalrymple. Did you bring it?" A slen-
derly built man, olive-skinned and with sharp narrow fea-
tures like the head of a fox, stepped out from the shadows.
"Because if you didn't,” continued this individual ominously,
“it's goin' to be just too bad. This ain't a game of marbles, you
know!” The words were pure American, the accent richly
Italian.
“Luigi Martinelli,” ejaculated Reynolds in startled recog-
nition. "That damned ...".
The man, who had been advancing confidently, now for
the first time saw clearly the two figures on the path. He
stopped abruptly, hesitated, then with a strangled noise
whirled back into the shrubbery. Reynolds skimmed over the
low border and tore after him, plunging into flower beds and
over cherished seedlings. The less athletic attorney, one part
of his mind apprehensively anticipating Macrae's comments
in the morning, followed in unspectacular third place. Their
quarry twisted and turned, crashing into and over bushes,
and finally found an inviting opening and plunged into it.
“Brier hedge,” panted Hampton. "Got him now. Way
blocked."
An anguished howl indicated that the fugitive had in-
deed found the brier hedge. The next moment he flashed
past them, crouching low. Reynolds poised, shot through the
air, and with a magnificent flying tackle brought him down.
Jim grunted, "Good work!” and unscrambled them. He
said, “Stand still, you!" and gripped the man's elbows, pin-
ioning them firmly behind his back. “You know him, Reyn-
olds?"
“Just that he's a New York crook and that Alicia ..."
The prisoner continued to struggle, commenting obscenely
on the ancestry of his captors.
84


"You distress us,” Jim grieved. “We are so particular
about family in Corbettsville. What did you want with Dal-
rymple, Luigi? Not talking, eh? Grab him, Reynolds, while
I turn him out. Wallet, keys, handkerchief ... Oh, oh, a
nasty-looking knife. We'll hang on to that."
Gravel crunched under running feet. "What's up?" a
voice shouted. “What's going on down there?”.
"This way, Jake,” called Hampton. “Near the entrance.”
The young policeman pounded around the corner, gun
in hand. He stopped short and stared at the group.
"Trespasser,” explained Hampton. “He's"... Watch it,
Reynolds! Oh, damn!”
The prisoner had suddenly lashed back with his heel at the
boy's shin, writhed out of his coat, and disappeared into
the shadows. A motor whirred and the three pursuers reached
the street just in time to see a red taillight disappear around the
first curve.
Jake shrugged philosophically. “Hopped-up motor. No
use chasing that.”
"Get back to the house," ordered Hampton. "Phone Tur-
ner-at Alex Crawshaw's if he's not home. Get him to set
the state troopers watching for- Can you see by this moon
to take notes?-for a brown Packard sedan. Driver, Luigi
Martinelli. Height about-well, say about ..."
"Five foot five or six," contributed the policeman, scrib-
bling as he spoke. "Skinny. Narrow face, scar upper lip,
brown eyes, dark skin. A wop. Wearing dark pin-stripe
suit." He pocketed the notebook and grinned. “Don't look so
sore at yourself, Mr. Hampton; that's our job, noticing things.
There's other things, maybe, you can do better than me.”
"Maybe," said the district attorney, dryly. “Run along and
phone, anyhow. O.K., Reynolds, let's have it. What do you
know about Luigi Martinelli?”
85


The other hesitated. “Not an awful lot, I guess. Nothing
except that Dalrymple's afraid of him and Alicia isn't-
wasn't." .
"You recognized him, so you've seen him before. Where?”
“In the city, last Saturday. Tom and Alicia and I went up
to take in the new musical and stopped at a night club after-
wards. We had a table just a little way from the bar, and all
mean, really green. First time I'd ever seen anyone that
color and it sort of fascinated me. Then Alicia cried out,
'It's that crook, Luigi Martinelli,' and I turned around to look
and here was this man, up on a bar stool looking at us in the
mirror."
"Threateningly?"
"Just watching. When he saw us looking at him he fin-
ished his drink and left. Alicia said something like, 'He
won't bother me again,' and she meant it. So Dalrymple
made like a he-man and said, “I'll beat him up if he does,'.
but that was just talk, because actually the guy was terrified."
"Did they give you any explanation?”.
"Not exactly. Alicia said Martinelli'd come up to the
apartment once to make trouble-she didn't say what-and,
she'd had him thrown out. That was when they were living
in New York. She said she hadn't seen him since, and Tom
said he hadn't, either, but I got an idea he was lying; that
he'd seen him quite a lot. But,” said Reynolds, "one thing
I'm sure as hell of–Martinelli's got something on Dalrymple.
Maybe some dame Tom's mixed up with, maybe something
else, but whatever it is he's got Tom sweating.'
come
86


:
7
X CRAWSHAW refolded the stiff sheets
of paper, carefully smoothed down the creases with a
thumb knuckle, and placed the document on the library table
before him. He pushed a cigarette box before him, helped
himself, and leaned back in his chair. He was a sparely built,
middle-aged man with a guileless expression and deceptively
mild-looking blue eyes that peered out through gold-rimmed
pince-nez. Actually, as some had discovered to their sorrow,
he was neither guileless nor mild.
He said, “That's all I know. No explanations given, and
being Alicia no listening to reason either. I had hoped she
would leave the house to Miss Corbett with sufficient income
to keep it up, but,” He lit the cigarette, broke the match,
and laid the pieces neatly in an ashtray. “As I said, she called
me over yesterday afternoon to take instructions and this
morning I brought her the completed document. She signed
it, my secretary and I witnessed it, and here it is. Perfectly
legal and now ready for probate.”
"And the previous will, the one she destroyed yesterday,
left everything to Dalrymple?" asked Hampton
“Absolutely. Now, as you see, he gets nothing."
Turner stirred. “As a matter of fact,” he contradicted,
"he gets quite a bit considering the size of the estate. Hus-
band's share.”
“I pointed that out and she_” The lawyer broke off. He
87


rubbed his chin and asked cautiously, “Do you fellows mind
telling me just what's up? I want to cooperate but you un-
derstand—”
Turner explained. Crawshaw nodded without surprise.
"Murder, is it? That's what I'd heard, but I always like to
get my information straight from the horse's mouth. Pretty
rough on Miss Corbett, isn't it? ... Well, you're welcome
to what I know, but it isn't much. When I explained to Alicia
about the husband's share she was furious. Ever seen Alicia
in a rage? Not pretty, I assure you. She bangs furniture.
Banged, I should say. Well, anyhow, she finally calmed
down and said she had a solution in mind but wanted time
to think it over. That, you understand, was yesterday. This
morning when I went over with the will she'd made her
decision. She hadn't, she said, contemplated divorce at
first ..."
"So much for Nick's pipe dream," muttered Jim.
The lawyer paused inquiringly. Jim said no more and he
continued: “... Hadn't contemplated divorce at first be-
cause she disliked the attendant publicity, but was willing to
go through with it if that would prevent Tom from getting
any of the money. She told me to start proceedings at once,
naming Sylvia Marpole as corespondent."
"Let's get back to the will,” said Jim impatiently. "Why
on earth this cousin-this Mabel Hinkson? Why dump the
entire fortune in her lap? Were she and Alicia especially
friendly?"
“So far as I know they had not seen each other for over
thirty years. . . . If you ask me," said Crawshaw with un-
expected candor, “I'd say Alicia grabbed at her as an excuse
to be nasty to everyone else. It would be like her. Probably
thought it would annoy her nearest and dearest more if the
money went to an unknown relative than if it were turned
88


so she and my father cooked up a financial arrangement which
would give the young woman security while saving her pride.”
"You mean she settled money on the Hinksons?” asked
Turner.
“Not exactly. The whole thing was a pious fraud. You
see, Mrs. Hinkson's pride made her difficult to handle. She'd
accept a certain amount for the sake of the child; she had to
until the baby was old enough for the mother to go to work,
but there were limits. For instance, she refused to move to
Corbettsville because she didn't want to be the poor relation
in a rich family."
"The child came," said Hampton. “I remember her.”
"The mother let her visit them once, but it didn't work
out well. Alicia was about fourteen and Mabel not much
more than a baby, but even so Alicia chose to be jealous
and picked on the poor little thing unmercifully. Then, too,
young as she was Mabel sensed the difference in the two
households, and soft living with the Corbetts spoiled her
for her own home when she returned. Augusta, very wisely,
I believe, never allowed the visit to be repeated.”
"That financial arrangement,” suggested Turner, and the
lawyer smiled thinly.
“That,” he said, “was plain shenanigans. I never saw my
father's letter to Augusta Hinkson, but I understand that
without actually saying so-Father was too good a lawyer to
sign his name to a false statement-without saying so it con-
veyed the idea that before his death Thomas Hinkson had
put a sum of money in trust for the use of his nephew's
family. With Mrs. Corbett at the other end to interpret the
legal phrasing as she saw fit it wasn't hard to put over. It
seemed a good solution. Augusta Hinkson preserved her self-
respect, and Gladys Corbett had the assurance that her cousin
would draw a comfortable income for the rest of her life.
90


ma
a mur-
ago and dropped out of sight. We're trying to trace Mabel
now.”
The chief rose and held out his hand. “You've saved us a
lot of time, Alex, and we appreciate it. You might have been
stuffy. I walked down, Jim. Give me a lift home?"
"I'll lift you to my home instead. It's time for a putting to-
gether of heads."
Turner said, fine, only he had to see a man about a mur-
der so how about stopping at the Corbett place first?
The front windows of the old house were dark.
"Stop outside the entrance," said Turner. “No sense in
waking everyone up."
Jim parked and they got out of the car and walked into
the grounds.
"Jake says you ran into a prowler. Where was he?"
Jim indicated black splotches to the right of the driveway.
"Down near that clump of laurels. Want to hear more?".
“Lots more, but later. Right now I want to find Jake.”
They turned left and walked across a green triangle dotted
with ornamental trees and past a shadow-darkened fish pond.
A figure came toward them in the moonlight.
"Jake?"
“Hi, boss, I heard you talking. Want to come along to the
tennis court where there're benches to sit on?"
The tennis court was at a short distance from the play-
house and within sight of it. Jake slumped on one of the
green wooden benches and said he'd sure be glad when his
relief came, because this sort of job got him down. Though
Mrs. Marsh had been swell about dishing out coffee. Good
coffee. John wasn't a bad sort of guy, either, but that Jose-
phine! He blushed. “I already got a girl!"
"It's your fascinating personality,” explained his chief.
"It must be; it can't be your looks. Find out anything?"
92


"You can forget about John-he hadn't time. The same
goes for Ben Macrae. Nobody saw any visitor except the
Hendley girl, but they wouldn't if he cut across the bottom
of the driveway. They think Dalrymple did it and that's why
you put him in the hoosegow. It's O.K. with them; they
think he's a mess anyhow."
"Where are they all?"
"The Macraes went home at six, and Ellen after the dishes
were done. John's in his room over the garage; the rest went
upstairs ..."
"There's someone in the playhouse,” cried Jim. “There's
a light, No, it's gone now.”
Jake swung quickly toward the building. "It's locked,” he
protested. “Must of been the moon on the window."
“It looked like a flashlight,”
Turner was already running. Jake, younger and more
athletic, reached the building first. He tried the front door,
left it, and tore around to the back. “Open!" he shouted, and
then they heard him running up the path.
The back door stood wide with a key in the outside of the
lock. Jim reached in a hand to press the light switch, then
ran ahead into the front rooms while Turner banged in and
out of shower stalls and dressing rooms. No one was in the
building and nothing, apparently, had been disturbed. When
they went out Turner drew miniature pliers from his pocket
and applied them to the shaft of the key to turn the lock.
Then he removed the key and wrapped it loosely in his hand-
kerchief.
They made for the house and met Jake, trotting back
along the path. He shook his head and swung into step be-
side them.
“No luck. I beat up all that side but he'd already gotten
off the grounds."
93


"Or into the house," grunted Turner, striding rapidly.
"To wait a chance to slip out or because he-or she-belongs
there."
"Boss, I swear I locked that door."
"You did. It's a skeleton key; the kind you can pick up in
any hardware store and use on any cheap lock. That is a
cheap lock. Cover the back. The kitchen door and the little
one that leads to the service stairs. Come on, Jim.”
The house had been locked for the night and there was
delay before Josephine came to let them in. She was fully
dressed and explained that she had been in Jane's room play-
ing gin rummy.
"Go back to your room and wait,” ordered the chief. He
headed for the stairs, herding the girl before him. “Wait
down here, Jim. No one's to leave, understand? And check
up on that chauffeur.”
Hampton walked down the length of the hall to the tele-
phone stand in the stair well. He called the garage and the
chauffeur answered promptly.
"Out? Un-uh, been sitting up here reading. Picked up a
couple of pulps at the drug store and been looking 'em over.
Westerns. I like westerns."
It could be true and probably was. Jake had vouched for
the chauffeur and Hampton was beginning to have consider-
able respect for Jake's judgment. He hung up and was mov-
ing away when a thought came to him and he turned back
to dial another number. He heard the bell ring several times
and was about to give up when the receiver was removed and
clipped tones answered.
"Mrs. Reynolds? I hope I didn't wake you up."
"Who- Oh, is it James? No, I was sitting in the garden
enjoying the moonlight.”
OVE
94


The grandfather clock in the corner cleared its throat and
struck. "Ten o'clock! Where's that blasted relief man? I told
him,”
He came in while the chief spoke and was sent to go over
the back rooms with especial attention to doors and windows.
The other two walked out of the house and around to the
back to notify Jake who clattered off on a motorcycle. Turner
moodily kicked an over-full garbage pail and the lid fell off.
He picked it up and jammed it back in place.
“I'm sick of garbage pails,” he said crossly. "The me
we went through this afternoon looking for buttons! We'll
dust that key but there won't be any prints on it. Tomorrow
I'll padlock the playhouse, and a fat lot of good that will do.
Whoever wanted what has taken it or the key wouldn't have
been left behind.” He sneezed and blew his nose. “On top
of everything I catch a lousy cold. What a life!"
"Here comes Nick," said Jim. "I phoned them.”
He came down the path at a half-run and began speaking
almost before they could catch the words.
“Nobody up our way. I've looked up trees and under
stones.” He seemed so eager, so boyishly excited that Jim's
suspicions subsided. "If I'd come home up the street I might
have seen something but I walked up the back way. By the
way, chief, no more walking. I get back my license tomor-
row."
“And,” growled the other, “keep it until you wrap around
another telephone pole. We don't like drunk drivers.”
"The poles in this town are too flimsy. There ought to be
a law. Look, I've got my flashlight; shouldn't we rustle up
some more and do a real hunt? I mean, the guy could be
anywhere, in the shrubbery, or down by the laurels where
we got Martinelli, or ..."
The chief interrupted to say, not too politely, that any-
96 -


se
V
THE house was dark except for the bulb which
Katherine had left burning in the tiny entrance hall. Jim
snapped on lights and led the way through the dining room
into the little room at the back which it pleased him to call a
study.
Turner flung himself into a chair, legs out-sprawled, and
dragged a hard palm over his face. “I'm bushed,” he said.
He shook his head at proffered cigarettes. "I'm off smokes
for a while. If you want to be helpful, give me a shot of
whisky. I must have been bitten by this flu bug that's flying
around.”
"Oh, no!" cried Jim in something like a panic. "You can't
get laid up now, Dave; I need you."
"Your solicitude," replied Turner, “is most touching. I'm
not dead yet, just bad-tempered and full of unpleasant aches.
Ah, thanks! Here's to Mabel, the Missing Heiress!" He drank
and sighed gratefully. "Good stuff! Jim, what's this business
about Luigi Martinelli? Who is he, and what's he supposed
to have done? I've sicked the state cops onto him but I think
we were too late, and anyhow, I don't know what we'd do
with him if he were caught. The way I heard it, he had an
appointment with Dalrymple, so we can't call it trespassing.”
"Hold him for questioning. Tuck him in with Dalrymple."
“Question Luigi about what?"
"About why Alicia threw him out of her apartment last
no
99


“Can't you?" retorted the other. “I can. Suppose he came
down to the playhouse with this crazy idea of marriage and
Alicia laughed at him? Or worse. Reynolds may have been
only a worshiping Galahad, but a lawyer could make a pretty
scandal out of their relationship. Alicia wanted divorce,
but not counter-suit. Suppose she told him to step out of her
life entirely? There's your motive, double-plated and re-en-
forced. The trouble is, too many other people have motives.
just as good.”
He tore a blank page from his notebook and picked up the
pen again. “Let's get some of these times sorted out.”
He wrote, occasionally stopping to consult his notes, and
finally tossed over the page. Jim laid it on the table and read
it.
2:00 Alicia to playhouse, followed by Sylvia Marpole. Cook,
housemaids in kitchen, Jane upstairs; Ben in rose gar-
den, Mac on path.
2:06 (approx.) Sylvia and Mac on path. Radio goes on.
MURDER PERIOD: 2:08 to approx. 3:00
2:08 (approx.) Sylvia back at house, Mac still on path.'
2:15 Sylvia leaves in taxi. Cook, maids, Ben, Mac, as before.
Radio still on.
2:20 (approx.) Mac to garage, then rose garden.
2:35 (approx.) Hendley to playhouse.
3:15 Jane to mail box. Radio off.
3:45 Dalrymple comes home.
4:30 Body discovered.
QUERIES: Where were Miss Corbett, Dalrymple, Mrs. Reyn-
olds, Nick, Martinelli, during murder period?
How long was Alicia in the pool? Who turned off the radio?
Who was the so-called “visitor"?
101


"It's no good,” complained the chief. “Too many question
marks. No one's talked to Miss Corbett because she was ill.
Dalrymple says he was at the billiard parlors but we haven't
had time yet to check.”
"Anything more on the visitor?".
“I talked to Sylvia again. Alicia didn't actually use the
word 'visitor'-she said 'someone.' That could mean an in-
•terview with a servant or anything you like, but if X is the
murderer and Y is the 'someone,' then one gets you twenty
X equals Y."
"Perhaps there wasn't any Y. Maybe Alicia wanted to be
alone for some reason and invented Y.”
Turner said, “Blast!" He drained his glass and got up and
set it on the table. Then he went over and stood against the
wall, his hands thrust in his trouser pockets. “We've got to
narrow it down,” he said. “The timetable's no good until we
get rid of the question marks.” He rocked gently from heel
to toe, staring at the flcor. “Let's concentrate on why instead
of when. Take Dalrymple first. Motive?"
Jim considered. “For Sylvia. For the money if he didn't
know about the will, and if he did know, then to prevent the
divorce which would do him out of everything."
"I'll bet he knew about the divorce. I'll bet that Alicia
told him after lunch in the study. Nick?"
"You've already gone over that.”
"O.K. Old Macrae, then?"
"Perhaps he suddenly remembered about his sister and
got mad. More likely, to rid the world of an evil woman.
Religious fanaticism."
“And very nasty things religious fanaticism can lead to!
Mabel Hinkson?"
"Mabel! The best motive of all, only she wasn't here."
102


She picked it up and studied it. "Hmm. It eliminates Mrs.
Marpole, but you'd already done that. Eliminates Ben, too,
but not Frances Hendley, though that's nonsense. ...
Dave, what makes you think Alicia was in the pool?”
"The shower had been used, and her bathing suit and cap
were wet.”
“Oh. Well, she could have taken a quick shower, I sup-
pose. No, that's silly, because why put on a bathing suit
to shower? And anyhow, why not take it up at the house?"
Turner explained patiently, as to a backward child. “Peo-
ple take showers before a swim. Well-brought-up people,
anyhow. And she did swim; the tiling at the edge of the pool
was sloppy where she'd climbed out.”
"I don't," retorted Katherine, "care whether a whole tidal
wave slopped on the tiling; you can't tell me that Alicia un-
dressed, showered, took a swim, showered again, halfway
dressed, made up her face, It was made up?"
"Very much so."
"-Made up her face, tidied her hair, and finished dressing
all in less than an hour. If she was killed before three, then
she never went into the pool.”
"But ..."
"Listen, I've watched Alicia dress and you two haven't.
At least, I hope not! She was a middle-aged woman deter-
mined to look young, and that takes time. She'd spend half
an hour on her face alone, and ..."
"You're right," cried Jim. "I've just remembered. The
dressing room hadn't been used. No tissues in the waste
basket, no powder spilled on the dresser. But why?"
"That,” pointed out his loving helpmeet, “is your prob
lem, not mine." She yawned. “I really am going to bed.
Good night, Master Minds.” She flipped a hand at them and
departed.
105


"But why?" repeated the bewildered attorney. "Why
should Alicia make that elaborate pretense?”.
"She didn't, dolt; X did, to make it seem that the murder
happened later than it did. X needed an alibi. Let's see that
chart again.”
The chart brought no inspiration. Fifteen minutes later
Turner threw it down in disgust and rubbed his eyes. "I'm
going home. There's nothing there and my head's wuzzy
and I want bed."
Jim accompanied him to the front door. “Wait till I get
the car."
"Don't bother, maybe a walk'll clear my head. Ye gods,
look at that moon pouring down!"
106


-
TURNER dragged nearer the shrilling phone
and clamped the receiver to his left ear. He sneezed, trum-
peted into his handkerchief, then said with such dignity as he
could muster, “Police chief speaking.”
"Stiegler," announced the receiver. “'S matter, you caught
cold? About those alibis, there ain't any. Dalrymple left the
house in his car about one-thirty, right?"
"Right. We got that yesterday.”
"O.K. He comes into the billiard parlors at two-thirty to
two-forty-five, they're not dead sure when but after two-
thirty anyhow. He might of gone out to the Blue Ox, but I
can't find the guy who runs it.”
"He's a guest of Uncle Sam. The place was padlocked last
night. What about young Reynolds?”.
"Same story. Left home about one-thirty, headed down the
front street, walking. Dropped in at Joe's Place at around
three-thirty, and not a sniffle of him between.”
"Was he very drunk?"
"You mean when he got to Joe's? Un-uh. A little high
but not what you'd call drunk. He lapped it up pretty well
after he got there."
"Find out anything about the others?"
"Nothing definite. Martha brought Mrs. Reynolds her
lunch at noon. Afterwards she-Martha, I mean-helped the
cook with the dishes and then went up to her room, and
107


didn't come downstairs until after three. The cook took the
afternoon off and visited a pal. That gave Mrs. Reynolds
time enough to take the short cut to Corbett's place, only no-
body saw her do it. Perhaps she did, perhaps she didn't.
Then, take Miss Corbett. She was at Marsden's buying gro-
ceries around one-forty-five. She must of got home around
two-thirty because Mrs. Johnson saw her walking up the
Hill a little while before.”
· "What!
"Yeah,” snorted the receiver, misunderstanding. “You'd
think her sister'd let her use the car, an old woman like that.
Anyhow, that's all I got, boss, and none of it means much.”
“Keep looking. Don't phone in again; report in at the office
at noon."
"Roger," said the receiver cheerfully, and clicked.
Turer pushed back the phone and devoted a few min-
utes to cursing the heat, the City Hall's lack of air-condition-
ing, and his own head and back, both of which ached abomi-
nably. Then he pawed among the papers on his desk until
he found a list of names and stared at it morosely.
Even with four of the servants checked off the list was still
too long. Sylvia Marpole was clear for the murder, but there
was still the other business to clear up. He wished the re-
port from Clayville would come in. He wished he knew
what Jim was finding out in New York, and that Jim weren't
so inexperienced and irresponsible, but more like his old
man. Above all, he wished that he himself didn't feel so
God-awful lousy.
Jake poked his head in the door. “Albert's outside. You
know, the guy that buttons up Dalrymple's pants for him.
Want him?”
"Wait a minute," said the chief. He shook two aspirin
tablets into the palm of his hand, looked at them, added a
108


third, and tipped the lot into his mouth. He washed them
down with a drink from the water cooler, nodded, and said
hoarsely, “O.K., bring him in."
The valet was about thirty years old, a neatly dressed man
with a quiet manner and a cynical look in his eye. In a
pleasant voice that was not too blatantly British he gave his
name as Albert Parks and his birthplace as Brooklyn, but
asked that the last be considered confidential because a valet
got a better position if people thought he was English. “No
good reason, but that's the way it is.” By request, he gave
an account of his doings the previous day and the chief, who
had already communicated by telephone with a number of
persons, including a Baptist minister and an undertaker,
found him to be a reasonably truthful young man. Turner
said he was sorry about the valet's mother, but of course, you
had to face it, those things were inevitable. The preliminaries
thus disposed of, they got down to business.
"How long have you been employed by Mr. Dalrymple?"
"About two years, immediately after he married Mrs. Dal-
rymple.” Albert's tone implied that before marriage the state
of Dalrymple's pocketbook had precluded valets.
"Were they an affectionate couple?"
"Mr. Dalrymple,” said the valet cautiously, "was atten-
tive, he waited on her most devotedly. She Well, to be
frank,” said Albert, abandoning caution, "she was the boss
-naturally enough, because she had the money. She nagged
him quite a lot and made him watch his step, but she was
mad about him and crazily jealous. Well, that's natural
enough, too, because she was a good ten years older.”
"Any quarrels?”
"Not usually, though there was a hell of a fight once,
about six months after they were married. I don't know
what about. Look here, is it all right if I smoke?”
109


“By all means. Don't stand on ceremony with me; I put on
my own pants."
The valet took a package of cigarettes from his pocket,
selected one, and lit it in silence. Then he grinned and, as-
tonishingly, winked. “It is a fool sort of job, isn't it, but you'd
be surprised to know how well it pays. When I've saved
enough I'm going to buy a ranch and raise cattle. . . . About
that row a year and a half ago, That was when she changed
the bank account. It had been a joint account,all her money,
of course; he hasn't a cent-but after the blow-up she put it
back in her own name and put him on an allowance. Pretty
small one, too."
"Why did she come back to Corbettsville?"
"None of us knew. Just suddenly we were told that we'd
be going and we packed up and went. Dalrymple was sore.
He didn't want to leave the city but he didn't dare say any-
thing. You know,” said Albert thoughtfully, "you can sneer
at valets but they're a damn sight more self-respecting than
gigolos.”
“I didn't sneer, I just said I put on my own pants and I do.
What do you know about Luigi Martinelli? Italian, face like
a fox ..."
"I know who you mean. He came to the apartment once
to see Mrs. Dalrymple but he didn't last long. About five
minutes later she sent for the lot of us, even down to the
cook, so we all tramped into the living room and here was this
little-Luigi, you say?-scared out of his wits, and Mrs. Dal-
rymple looking at him like he was something fished out of a
cesspool. Dalrymple was there, too, looking about as scared
as Martinelli. 'You see this thing?' says Mrs. D. waving a
hand at the guy. That's what she called him, not a man or
a person, but a thing. 'Take a good look at it,' she says, 'and
IIO


if it ever comes near the place again call the police.' Then
she says to me, 'Throw it out,' so I did. Oh, I bet ..."
"Bet what?"
"I've just remembered. I'll bet that business with Marti-
nelli had something to do with her coming to Corbettsville.
Anyhow, it was right after that she bought up the tenant's
lease and we moved."
"That would be-let's see, about a year ago, wasn't it?
Hmm. I can't think Alicia'd have stuck out life in a small
town much longer, especially a small town that snubbed her.
I wonder where she planned to go next.”
“Southern France,” said the valet. “They say Mrs. Dal-
rymple was always like that; never stayed more than about
a year in any place.”
"Rootless sort of life," mused Turner. “I wonder whether
she came back here with any idea of finally settling down
in- No, childhood memories wouldn't mean much to Alicia;
she wasn't sentimental. Can you think of anything, any-
thing at all, that might bear on this murder?"
The valet pondered conscientiously but finally said he
couldn't. Turner sent him away and settled down to try to
make something out of what he had learned.
Martinelli had gone to the New York apartment to “make
trouble," and Alicia had thrown him out. Immediately after-
ward the Dalrymples had moved to Corbettsville. (Alicia's
decision, not Tom's, who didn't want to go.) A year later
Dalrymple sees Lugi in a night club and goes into a tail-
spin, turning quite green. And last night Luigi, addressing
a supposed Dalrymple, demands to know if he has brought
"it," because if not it'll be too bad as they are not playing a
game of marbles.
Add it up and what did you get? First, of course, a strong
probability that Luigi was blackmailing Tom. (Probability
III


ing unusual warmth of feeling, “that Miss Corbett was let
out of her little dark hole and given her proper place in this
house? . . . However, that's none of my business. Are you
on your way to see Miss Corbett? Perhaps you'll speak to her
about tomorrow. And don't think me officious, but you really
ought to do something about that cold. It's bad.”
The secretary continued on her way down the stairs, while
Turner, who had an unpleasant duty to perform, reluctantly
went to the north suite to keep the appointment he had
She called out in answer to his knock and he entered the
room to find her sitting by the window in the chintz-cov-
ered easy chair. An open book lay across her knees, but some-
* how he had the impression she had not been reading, just
sitting there staring out of the window. Her eyes were sunk
in deep shadows, and though she greeted her visitor with a
show of animation she was obviously unwell.
She immediately broached the matter of the funeral, and
when Turner explained why he could not serve showed
such kindly concern that the chief felt increased distaste for
what he had to do. Miss Corbett, gently fluttering, insisted
that he move his chair out of possible drafts and proposed
hot tea, which Turner, who wanted to get the interview
over with, refused.
There was nothing to be gained by delay so he plunged
directly in. “There's a question,” he began, “about the time
you came home yesterday. My information is that it was
about two-thirty, but Ellen had an idea that it was much
later."
"Did she?” said Miss Corbett, polite but apparently un-
interested. “I wonder why. I certainly didn't mention to her
when I reached home; in fact, I'm not exactly sure myself. Is
it important?"
115


wonderingly, “I fell asleep. Extraordinary! All that mental
agony and suddenly to go sound asleep like a baby!"
“Physical and emotional exhaustion,” explained the other.
"It's quite natural."
"Is it? Anyhow, I had just awakened when Ellen came.
David, my dear, I have no wish to be rude but I am quite
tired. If you are finished—”.
He was not finished, the part he most dreaded was yet to
come.
“Miss Corbett, I hate to say this but I have to search your
apartment.”
"Search my apartment?” The little figure stiffened and
an angry flush colored the old cheeks. “May I ask," demanded
Miss Corbett frostily, "just why you consider that neces-
sary?”
There was no reason why she should not know so he told
her.
"And if I assure you that I possess no such garment, no
such buttons? I see by your face that will not suffice. Really,
it is indeed a new experience to find that my word is
doubted!”
"I'm honestly sorry," said Turner, who was. He fervently
hoped that all future cases would concern hardened crim-
inals who knew what to expect and accepted it as a matter
of course.
To his astonishment the old lady suddenly relaxed. The
brown eyes stopped throwing sparks and looked at him with
what he could have sworn was a mixture of amusement and
genuine pity.
"Poor David,” said Miss Corbett, smiling but sympathetic,
"if you could see how miserable you look! I really believe
this is quite as difficult for you as it is for me and I must try
118


not to make it more so. I shall just sit quietly here in my easy
chair while you do whatever you think necessary.”
Turner, more unnerved by this unexpected cooperation
than by her sudden flare of anger, hid his discomfiture in the
bedroom where he rummaged among lavender-scented gar-
ments and, to his vast relief, found nothing incriminating.
Then he went back to the sitting room and Miss Corbett
slipped into the kitchen where he heard her filling the kettle.
He had just finished an equally unproductive search of
the front room when she returned, carrying a tray. On it
stood the famous Revere, breathing steam.
“Sit down,” said Miss Corbett firmly. “I simply will not
allow you to go back to the office with that dreadful cold
until you have had something to put a little strength in you.
It's not coffee,” apologized Miss Corbett. “I'm afraid coffee
is what you would prefer but I've found that in cases of flu
tea is more effective. And without cream or sugar if you can
bear to drink it so. Just think of it as medicine.”
oon
119


10
PERSONALLY,” pronounced Miss Hendley,
"I think it's decadent. Fried watches, for heaven's sake, and
women with messy bureau drawers where—"
Jim clutched the steering wheel more tightly and tried to
shut his ears. Football, Marian Anderson, and now modern
art. In God's name how could a man concentrate with that
voice going?
It was not, he conceded, a disagreeable voice. It was young,
fresh, and pleasantly pitched, but he wanted to think, not
talk. Not that there was, actually, much to think about. To
begin with, the blouse had been a wash-out, the depart-
ment store head whom he had consulted knowing only that
Gabrielles were manufactured by a Chicago firm which al-
most certainly bought buttons in wholesale lots from a button
factory, and that different models were often trimmed with
identical buttons. Not much help in that.
The city police had looked up Martinelli's record and
found that he had once served time for blackmail, but he
and Dave had already tagged Luigi as a blackmailer. As for
Dalrymple, the Law looked askance at Alicia's husband but
as yet had nothing on him. He had been orphaned young
and brought up by his only remaining relative, an elderly
aunt. At her death (from indisputably natural causes) he
had inherited a modest fortune which he had expended with
joy and rapidity on women, horses, and gaudy attire, and
120


since then had lived on his wits and the susceptibilities of
romantic middle-aged women who were more plentifully
endowed with money than with prudence. He had been
involved in a few dubious transactions, usually financed by
his feminine admirers, but apparently had always managed
to keep within the law. A gigolo certainly; a swindler prob-
ably. Not necessarily a murderer. Alicia ...
“Look," said the voice. “There's a long, long trail a-winding
ahead of us so let's get things straight now. Do you want me
to talk or don't you? For half an hour I've been straining a
blood vessel trying to be bright and amusing, because after
all when one's given a free ride one is properly grateful and
tries to repay. Either I haven't found the right topic or you're
one of those people who like to concentrate on driving, or
think deep thoughts, or something. If so, say the word and
I'll be as silent as Whoever-he-was upon a peak in Darien.
I probably will anyhow. I've just about run out of subject
matter."
Hampton tardily remembered that the voice box was at-
tached to a human being, who was also, in a manner of
speaking, his guest, and turned his head to look at her. Green
eyes met his with some amusement and no rancor. The
girl laughed and he noted with approval that it was really
a laugh and not a giggle.
She was no Powers model. Beauty was denied by a rangy
framework, freckles, and an unabashed carrot top, but in
compensation she had the freshness of youth, an obvious
sense of humor, and pleasant manners. Probably a nice kid.
Certainly one who had been doing her polite best with a
difficult and uncooperative companion. He apologized.
"It's your car," pointed out Miss Hendley simply. “You
“We talk," deo we talk or don't we.endley simply. "You
"We talk,” decreed Hampton, submitting to the inevit-
121


LC
was bug-eyed. And how that dame did show me up for whar
I am, a half-baked college kid that yells at football games
and goes starry-eyed over a campus dance! No, I don't blame
Nick, the damned moron, but I do blame her. She knew
what she was doing, all right-she should," snapped Frances
in vicious parenthesis; “she was old enough to be his mother!
And she deliberately led him on to make a fool of him. I didn't
like it.”
“I don't blame you.”
"Well, the happy little party broke up at last and I took
my battered heart back to New York. So far as Nick was
concerned I might as well have taken it to Darkest Africa.
No letters, no impulsive dashes up to the city to drag me off
to a show or a dance. Nothing. Simple little Frances was all
washed up. But that wasn't the worst. I had a letter yesterday
morning from a sorority sister of mine who lives somewhere
in your neighborhood.”
She twisted her hands together and stared hard at the
windshield. “Mr. Hampton,” she said in a tight little voice,
"my friend told me that Nick was drinking heavily and that
it was common knowledge that Mrs. Dalrymple encouraged
him in it. Not just a binge, the kind that nearly everyone
goes on once in a while, but really soaking it up every day,
half blotto most of the time. At twenty-one, Mr. Hampton!
And Nick's not naturally a drunk, I know he's not.
"Well, that news rather knocked me out. I gloomed over
it the rest of the morning and then all at once I made up my
mind what to do. I caught the afternoon bus to Corbettsville
and walked up from the station to have it out with Alicia
Dalrymple. Because," cried Frances with sudden fierceness,
“Nick may be weak and the biggest idiot God ever created,
but the fact is I love him and I wasn't going to stand back
and see him ruined by any middle-aged vampire with dyed
124


hair!" She beat on the arm rest with a doubled fist, sending
up a little puff of dust. “What's more," she went on a bit
hysterically, “I think that Alicia Dalrymple was a vile,
wicked woman. I'm glad she's dead; I'd be a hypocrite if I
pretended I wasn't!" She struck the arm rest again, then
added in a small voice, “Only, I do wish she hadn't been
murdered. Murder is so-so beastly.” She sniffed, then pulled
out a handkerchief and mopped her eyes frankly. "Oh, dear,
I'm all mixed up in my feelings. Oh, why does life have to be
so utterly awful!"
Jim tactfully stared at the road until the sound of a vig-
orous and obviously conclusive nose-blowing indicated that
Miss Hendley was about to put away her emotions along
with her pocket handkerchief. Then he asked, “What time
did you see her yesterday?"
“Mrs. Dalrymple? Oh, I didn't. Haven't I explained? No,
I suppose not. You see, I went down on a sudden impulse.
All at once it seemed a good idea so I caught the next bus
and went. It's my hair,” explained Miss Hendley. “It's always
making me do things like that. On the way down I planned
what I'd do. I knew I was no match for her in any give-and-
take, so I decided I'd just speak my piece, quietly but firmly,
and then make a dignified exit before she had time to talk
back. Well, actually I knew what would happen would be
that I'd whizz in, shout incoherently, and then whizz out,
but at least I hoped it might be the other way.
“At Corbettsville someone gave me directions and I started
to walk. Mr. Hampton, I've learned something-people with
red hair should be made to climb a hill before acting on any
of their wilder impulses. With every step the whole idea
seemed sillier and by the time I reached the place I was ready
to call it off. However, I suppose I'm stubborn, because I
125


limped up to the house, got directions from a maid, and fol-
lowed a path down to the playhouse ..."
“Just a minute, please. Did you hear the radio?"
"I certainly did, some awful tenor crooning through his
tonsils. I don't think much of Alicia's taste! Well, by this
time my enthusiasm was down to zero, so I wasn't a bit
disappointed to find that Mrs. Dalrymple had company and
I couldn't see her after all. I just sloped off and took the next
bus home.”
"Alicia had a visitor? Who? Anyone you recognized? A
man or a woman?"
"What? Oh, a woman–Mrs. Reynolds. . . . Goodness,
Mr. Hampton, what's the matter?”
"Sorry, that car was going to dart right in front of us. ...
You say you saw Mrs. Reynolds going into the playhouse?”
"Yes. At least,” the girl hesitated, “I think she was going
in. She might have been coming out. Her hand was on the
door, anyhow. Oh, look, Corbettsville already! What lovely
tree-lined streets! I hadn't half-appreciated them yesterday.”
Jim delivered his passenger to her hostess and then re-
quested of that lady a few minutes' private conversation.
Ten minutes later he and the old autocrat were facing
each other in the long living room. Once again a relentless
Victorian chair numbed his spine and once again the owner
of the chair, her feet resting on the embroidered footstool,
sat in the platform rocker, while the scarlet-coated ruffian
scowled from the wall and the lady beside him simpered and
dangled her basket. It was last night's scene unchanged ex-
cept that now the crimson curtains hung in folds against the
wall and the open window brought in the voices of Nick
and Frances bickering amicably in the garden.
Mrs. Reynolds neither scowled nor simpered. She looked
126


thoughtful, lips prettily pursed, and by words and manner
indicated that she was conscientiously trying to assist an
earnest but inexperienced district attorney. He knew she
was doing her best to diddle him and his fingers itched to
choke her.
"Let me go over it again,” he said, painstakingly patient.
rymple, the nature of which you refuse to state. You left here
shortly before two-thirty, took the short cut through the
gardens, and went to the playhouse. Alicia had an appoint-
ment with someone yesterday afternoon. Was it you?”
“Any appointment between Alicia Dalrymple and myself,”
remarked Mrs. Reynolds, annoyed, "would have been held
at my house. This, one might say, was an impromptu visit.”
“Then how did you know how to find her?"
Mrs. Reynolds laughed tolerantly. “My dear James, it is
common knowledge that Alicia was usually in the playhouse
at that time of afternoon. And of course as I neared the build-
ing I could hear the radio profaning the air.” She shuddered
delicately. “An execrable voice!"
"So you spoke to Alicia and she answered rudely ..."
"My dear boy, just a moment, please. If you must enter
my words in that little notebook of yours I beg that you do so
accurately. Had Alicia answered impertinently, that would
have been rude, but refusal to answer at all is worse than
rudeness—it is insufferable insolence. I spoke to Alicia and
was ignored. I am not accustomed to being ignored.”
"If the radio was on perhaps she didn't hear you. Where
was she standing?"
“She was near the door to the pool. Perhaps she did not
hear, but her eyes were on me and I have never heard that
Alicia was blind. I spoke more than once, I even moved to-
ward her, and was simply ignored! I do not suffer insolence
127


i
meekly, and I certainly had no intention of delivering a mon-
ologue. I left the playhouse and came home.”
"There was no possibility of mistake, no possibility that
Alicia was already dead?”
If a fastidious patrician could be said to snort, then Mrs.
Reynolds snorted. “My eyes are not so old that I cannot still
distinguish between a woman standing erect and unsup-
ported and one lying dead on the floor. Especially—" she
paled a little and for a moment lost her composure—“Es-
pecially as I understand the signs were unmistakable and
rather terrible.”
“They were. Did you turn off the radio?"
"I did not. Its revolting bleat pursued me down the path.
Well, James, that is my story. Does it help at all?"
“Yes,” he agreed, “that's your story.” He pocketed the
notebook and rose, standing over the intrepid little figure
in the platform rocker. She looked at him calmly and he
thought what a wonderful poker player she would make.
He spoke quietly. “Mrs. Reynolds, a short time ago a
young girl, a green kid, told me of her quarrel with an older,
experienced woman. The girl expected an interview with
this woman, and said in effect, I'm no match for her in any
give-and-take so the only thing to do would be just to say
my piece and leave.' I'm in the same position as that young-
ster; I'm no match for you and I know it. You're far cleverer
than I and you make a fool of me at every point, so I'll just
say my piece and then leave you. I'm convinced that you've
not given me the exact truth ..."
The black eyes flashed in sudden anger. “James Hampton,
I have never told a direct lie in my life!"
"Or deliberately presented a false picture? You had a just
grievance against Alicia. She had done a terrible thing. I
think that yesterday you went there to charge Alicia to her
128


TS &
2005
"Skip the booths,” warned Turner. “You never know
whose ears are flopping out in the one ahead.”
They chose a table at the rear of the room and when the
waitress had left them Jim reported. Turner listened without
enthusiasm and remarked ungratefully that none of it added
up to much. Jim argued that at least it put Mrs. Reynolds in
the right spot at the right moment and the chief snorted, so
what? It made her Suspect Number One but she was that
already.
He was surprised when the younger man shook his head.
"I think,” said Jim, thoughtfully spearing a bit of lettuce,
" that her story clears her. About the only thing Alicia had
in common with her half-sister was a good ear for music and
a detestation of the modern popular variety, especially croon-
ers. If that singer was as awful as both Frances and Mrs.
Reynolds say Alicia'd have tuned him out. She didn't, so she
was already dead."
“Then who turned off the radio? However, the autopsy
sets the death earlier, two-thirty or before, so probably you're
right and Queen Mary's a liar. What are you grinning
about?"
“About liars. Queen Mary'd scorn to tell a lie, but I
had a grandmother ..."
"Only one? I had two."
“Don't try to be funny; this is important. I had a grand-
mother who for a scrupulously truthful person could make
more misleading statements than anyone in history includ-
ing Ananias. Ask Grandma if she'd broken her diet and if
she gave you a forthright 'No,' then she hadn't. If she said,
with every appearance of honest indignation, ‘Am I a fool?
Why would I pay good money for a doctor's advice if I didn't
intend to follow it?' then you could be sure that she'd just
was
131


"Are you telling me? Tonsillitis, too, I think, just to com-
plicate. To go on . . . Grandma was an invalid. Had nurse,
but Mabel pushed wheel chair, patted hands, and so on.
Other servants didn't like it, called her hard-headed schemer,
getting solid with sick old woman. Maybe so, maybe not. Old
lady died suddenly, left Mabel five thousand dollars, reward
for unselfish devotion.”
"Do tell! Lucky Mabel!"
“Un-uh, unlucky. Clapped in bastille on murder charge.
Wait, you ain't heard nuffin' yet.” The chief reached for his
breast pocket and pulled out a long thick envelope. He
handed it over. “Read this.”
Hampton took the envelope, opened it, and drew out
three typewritten sheets. He looked at the heading and said,
“Oh, this. He gives you good measure, doesn't he?"
"He's interested. Was his first case. Read it, man.”
Jim read and his eyes bulged. “My God!” he said. He fin-
ished, replaced the sheets, and said again, "My God!”
Turner emptied his cup and got up. "Come on. I've sent
for Mabel. She'll be down at the station now.”
e
measure, doesn't ing and said,
interested.
W
133


11.
THEY entered the chief's office from the corri-
dor, avoiding the outer room. Turner waved his friend to a
seat, then produced from his pocket a bit of broken mirror and
moved into the light of the window to examine his throat.
The view obviously impressed him and he frowned as he
repocketed the mirror, and moved toward the inner door.
He opened it and thrust his head through. “In here, please,”
he said, and stepped aside to allow his two visitors to enter.
The newcomers started, and Alex Crawshaw voiced the
thought of both.
"What goes, Dave? You sound like a bullfrog with bron-
chitis."
· The invalid summarized his ailments briefly as flu with
extras and let it go at that.
"Find a seat, Alex.” He placed a chair before the desk.
“Here, please, Mrs. Marpole. Or is it still Miss Hinkson?"
"Marpole," quietly replied the secretary. Unsmiling violet
eyes studied in turn the faces of district attorney and chief
of police. Obviously, her intelligence recognized the serious-
ness of her position and refused to minimize it, but there
was no sign of either fear or guilt. She sat down in the in-
dicated seat, laid her bag on the desk, and stripped off her
wash leather gloves. “That, at least, is true. I am Mrs. Mar-
pole.”
"Divorced?"
134


"Divorced. That also is true.”
Crawshaw broke in quickly. “My client admits that she
was not quite frank with you. She was not under oath and
she had private reasons for withholding certain information.”
He shrugged off deceit as unimportant. “She realizes now
that in this case private considerations should be set aside.
She wishes to amend the statement she made yesterday.”
He removed his pince nez, misted by the hot moist air
of the little office, and polished them on his handkerchief.
“Mrs. Marpole is anxious to give the police all the assistance
that is within her power.” He half-twisted his body to ex-
amine the glasses through the light of the window and, satis-
fied, replaced them on his nose.
Hampton thought, It's an act. His client is in a tough
spot and he knows it.
The shadow of a smile broke the gravity of Mrs. Marpole's
face. “My lawyer,” she said with the faintest touch of mim-
icry, “is worried about me.” The shadowy smile disappeared.
She said briefly, “I'm worried myself.”
Jim Hampton looked at her. "An heiress should feel elated
rather than worried.”
"An heiress," retorted Mrs. Marpole, "would take more
pleasure in her legacy if she were sure she would not be
damned for inheriting it. Even the Hinkson fortune is not
worth the possibility of being electrocuted for murder.”
Crawshaw allowed himself a tolerant smile. "You're imag-
inative, Mrs. Marpole. Dave Turner's too experienced to
waste time over someone with a perfectly good alibi."
For a second her face brightened, then as swiftly clouded
again. She shook her head. “I'm not imaginative, merely
realistic. Too realistic to expect a conscientious officer like
Chief Turner to overlook all the things that seem to count
against me just because of the word of an old Scotch gar-
135


n
dener. Too realistic not to see how much there is against me.”
Elbows planted on the table, she grasped the fingers of
one hand with those of the other, prepared to tell off the
points.
"Alicia dismissed me, and you probably know why."
Thumb and index finger doubled, one for the dismissal, one
for the cause. "Three, I lied to you. It was an idiotic thing
to do and I apologize to both you and myself, but I did and
that's serious. I see an envelope there with the return address
of the Clayville Police Department, so by this time you know
why I lied, and innocent or not that old case is bound to hurt
me. That's four. Five, I was alone with Alicia in the play-
house." She bent the remaining finger, then held up her
hand, palm toward him. “Add to that the fact that I hated
my cousin, had hated her bitterly for many years ..."
Alex Crawshaw, jolted out of his pose of nonchalance,
wildly spluttered, “Stop!” and even Turner croaked a word
of warning. Then, suddenly, everyone stopped talking at
once in the way that happens sometimes, and there was a
wedge of silence which Mrs. Marpole finally broke.
“I seem," said the secretary dryly, “to have made a faux
pas. I don't see why. If Mr. Turner pokes into my past—and
I'm not so naïve as to suppose he won't-he's certain to find
out how I felt toward Alicia Dalrymple, so isn't it better if
I come out with it myself quite frankly?”
Crawshaw patted her arm and managed to look fatherly,
which, in view of his scant dozen years of seniority, was
quite an achievement. “It's just that it would be more help-
ful, my dear, if you would keep to matters that are relevant.
Your feeling toward Alicia would be of importance only if
you had murdered your cousin. And even if you had wanted
to there was no opportunity, so whether you loved or hated
her has nothing to do with the case. I think it will save time
136


if you confine yourself to answering Dave's questions, truth-
fully, of course, but-er-keeping to the point."
A wave of his hand said to the Law, "She's all yours, boys,”
but the sharp look accompanying it added, “And no shenani-
gans while I'm around if you please.”
Turner started to speak, raspingly cleared his throat in-
stead. He motioned to Hampton to take over and he, who had
just finished rereading the Clayville report, hastily collected
his thoughts.
"We won't distress you by raking over the Avery case,”
he began, magnanimously as he thought. “That's closed,
so ..."
"On the contrary," objected Mrs. Marpole, “I wish you
would talk about it; I'd be interested to hear the official ver-
sion.” The report lay on the desk with the printed heading
in plain sight. Very coolly the secretary reached over and
pulled out the bottom sheet. She turned it to face her, read
the signature, and tossed it back. “Still Chief Dawson, I
see. He was furious when I was acquitted. Yes, I should very
much like to hear the official version.”
Crawshaw said quickly, “If there's any question of prej-
udice you should,” and Turner grunted what might or might
not have been agreement. Jim interpreted it as the former,
said, “If you wish," and separating the pages spread them
out on the desk before him.
"If you wish,” he repeated. “But before coming to Mrs.
Avery's death I want to go over the background because
there's something that puzzles me.” He picked up the first
page, glanced through it quickly, and set it down. “In the
early twenties you and your mother went to Clayville where
she had been engaged as chambermaid in a newly opened
resort hotel. The project failed and before long the hotel
closed down. Mrs. Hinkson found employment as janitress
137


Avery about six months when the accident happened to the
little boy. There was nothing spectacular about the rescue;
you simply waded in the pool and picked him up, but your
presence of mind in giving immediate first aid was in ad-
mirable contrast to the fluttering incompetence of everyone
else on the scene. Later, when the baby nearly died, you
were helpful and apparently much concerned."
Mrs. Marpole raised her eyebrows. “Apparently? Oh,
yes, the servants.”
"Mrs. Avery was touched. She arranged to see more of
you, and your manner pleased her. She took you out of the
kitchen and made you her favorite companion. Before many
months it was common knowledge that she had altered her
will to include your name.”
Dawson had written, “For a girl of nineteen M.H. was
clever and far-sighted beyond her years. Fellow servants had
never liked her, after the accident distrusted her. All agreed
that Mrs. A was infatuated and that M.H. played on the old
lady's affections for her own ends."
“Mrs. Avery was partially paralyzed, able to walk but
with a leg that dragged badly. She had had two strokes and
frequently expressed dread of a third with subsequent mental
deterioration. This dread became an obsession. On the eve-
ning of her death and just before you went home, you
brought her a glass of warm milk. Later, the nurse glanced
in, found the patient sleeping, and retired to bed in the
adjoining room. In the morning Mrs. Avery was found dead,
and a penciled note on the night table read, 'Sleeping pills,
best way out. It was signed with her initials, 'G.A.' Test
of the remaining drops of milk showed them to contain an
excessive quantity of sleeping medicine. The old lady's
brother insisted that the note was not in Mrs. Avery's hand-
writing and that his sister was temperamentally incapable
139


of taking her own life. As a result, you were arrested for
murder. A few weeks before the trial your mother died.”
Mrs. Marpole said in a low hard voice, “Alicia murdered
her."
"Alicia murdered ..."
"Oh, not legal murder. The two never met in their lives.”
Jim looked at her doubtfully, then continued, “Public
opinion condemned you, but the case hinged on the authen-
ticity of the note and no expert would pass a definite judg-
ment on five words hastily scribbled in pencil. The jury
foreman asked whether the Scotch verdict of ‘not proven' was
allowable in the United States. It isn't, of course, so the
jury had no alternative but to acquit you. The verdict was
unpopular and you were booed as you left the courtroom.”
Mrs. Marpole said pityingly, “Yes, the boos. Poor Mabel!"
and instantly they saw the newly orphaned girl, bewildered,
frightened, and shamed, making her way alone through the
hostile crowd.
The room was unbearably hot. Jim went to the window and
pushed up the sash, slammed it down again as an oven blast
of outside air swept in. He went back to his seat and sat down.
“Poor Mabel,” repeated the secretary. “She died, then.
She had been a rather naïve girl, believing all the old-fash-
ioned mottoes like, 'Do your duty and God will take care
of the rest,' only it hadn't worked out that way. Her concern
over the little boy, her affection and sympathy for the poor
old invalid who had been so kind to her—these had been
twisted and warped to look like something ugly and horrible.
She couldn't understand at all, poor child."
The secretary sighed, then shrugged and spread her hands
in a gesture that was almost French.
"Oh, well, she was always rather a fool. She died, and
Sylvia Carstairs was born, and Sylvia was too wise to believe
140


Ow
in copybook mottoes. Sylvia knew that in a hard world you
have to be hard yourself or go under, so she was hard, and
remembered always to look out for her own interests, and on
the whole didn't do badly for herself.”
Jim's newborn sympathy for Mabel curdled into aversion
for Sylvia. “How?” he asked coldly.
"By investing her legacy in herself. Business college, but
that was only for a sheet anchor in case things went wrong,
for Sylvia had no intention of winding up as a gum-chewing
stenographer, much less a scrubwoman like Mabel's mother.
She hired people to teach her more important things-how to
talk and walk and recognize a salad fork, and what books to
read. She learned a little French and acquired a taste for good
music. She bought good clothes and learned how to wear
them."
Turner, who had apparently been immersed in contem-
plation of his personal woes, roused himself. “Object, rich
husband?”
She nodded, and they both smiled.
"Not Marpole,” said the chief. “Un-uh. Biters both got
bit.”
Their eyes met in understanding and simultaneously they
burst into laughter, Turner painfully, Mrs. Marpole with
a delightful ripple of pure amusement.
“How did you know?" she asked.
"Had him looked up,” croaked Turner, and relapsed into
silence.
Jim broke in crossly, “Will you two please tell me what
this is all about?” Without exactly realizing it he had been
rather basking in his importance as chief interrogator, and
it annoyed him to be pushed back into the role of uncom-
prehending bystander.
Mrs. Marpole was still laughing softly. “Only that Sylvia
141


was not so clever as she had thought, and her 'rich' husband
turned out to be just another adventurer like herself.” A
turn of the wrist dismissed Mr. Marpole. “The cultural
polish wasn't entirely wasted. I was always able to get good
positions, usually as hostess in first-class resort hotels."
“Like the Brunswick, where you encountered Alicia?"
“Like the Brunswick," repeated Mrs. Marpole in a voice
that was suddenly harsh, "where I saw my cousin for the first
time in decades, and deliberately wormed my way into her
household”—Crawshaw stirred uneasily—“because I wanted
an opportunity to make her sorry she had ever been born. It's
too late, Mr. Crawshaw, I've said it and feel the better for
it. And if it's any relief to you, murder never entered my
head.”
Jim said nastily, “No, you worked out your spite by steal-
ing her husband.”
To his astonishment, for he had thought her incapable of
such weakness, Mrs. Marpole crimsoned.
“No, no, that was spite, cheap and petty. Slimy. I was
ashamed at once; I am still ashamed.” She was silent a mo-
ment, then continued in carefully level tones: "I told you that
Alicia killed my mother. Let me explain.
“My mother was one of the truest, finest, Well, that's not
important. What you must understand is that she had tre-
mendous personal pride. You have to know that in order to
understand her reaction to that letter in which Alicia had the
audacity to call her a parasite. Augusta Hinkson a parasite!
She vowed then she'd never again write or speak to any
member of the Corbett family. But she did. When I was ac-
cused she wrote Alicia imploring her to help me. She put
away her pride and groveled. That unsupported case should
never have been brought to trial. A top-flight lawyer hired
Na
ot
wa
wever have been bu groveled. That her to help me.
142


one
V
one championed by a Corbett would have been publicly
booed.”
“And Alicia replied?”
"She did.” The secretary's voice grated. “I could quote that
damnable letter word for word, even today. Mother had a
weak heart and she had been under a strain. They found her
dead on the kitchen floor with the letter beside her. Now do
you understand why I jumped at the chance to have access
to Alicia's private papers, to be in a position to ruin her?
Such a woman would certainly have plenty to hide."
She flashed scorn at Turner's throaty, “Blackmail?"
"What would money mean to someone with millions? If
I'd discovered a scandal I'd have broadcast it, something
criminal and I'd have had her behind bars. Only it would
have had to be something big, more than ..."
"More than a casual and short-lived experiment with mari-
juana?” suggested Jim.
She nodded. “And not corruption of youth because the
young fool is of age, legally if not emotionally."
Raspingly, Turner intervened again. "Why you?”
She looked puzzled. "Why me? ... Oh, you mean the
will. Who was left? She had no personal grudge against
Mabel Hinkson, and she hated her sister. Oh, yes, definitely
my sweet little cousin hated Miss Corbett. With all her pov-
erty, she had something that Alicia wanted and couldn't buy
-Corbettsville's respect and acceptance by the Hill. Alicia
couldn't forgive that.”
“Did Alicia,” Jim asked, “ever suspect that you were Mabel
Hinkson?”
Her mouth twitched. “I'm quite sure she didn't or the
terms of the will would have been different."
“Did you yourself know the terms of that new will?”
"No. If I had I wouldn't have been worrying about where
cause
143


my next job would come from.” She picked up her gloves and
began putting them on. “Mr. Hampton, I've answered your
questions and been franker than my lawyer likes. If there's
nothing more I'd like to go home.”
Jim looked inquiringly at the chief, who nodded. He tried
to think of more questions, and not succeeding said, “Yes, of
course," and did the polite thing with the door.
He closed it behind them and turned eagerly to the other.
"What about it, Dave? Is she an honest woman or the world's
biggest liar?"
"Urr," replied the chief, shoving papers into drawers.
Jim fidgeted about the room, flinging words over one shoul-
der. "If she's X it's because of the mother. What a dirty rat
Alicia was! Did you realize it? I never did. Somehow, though,
I don't think she was lying, she was too outspoken. ...
Dave, where're you going?"
termined. “Home, hosp'tal, maybe. Bed, aspirin, whisky. Lotsa
whisky.”
The other wheeled in his tracks, horrified. “But you can't;
the deputy's a fool and you know it. What does he know
about the case?"
"Damn case," said, regrettably, Corbettsville's chief of
police. "Your baby now.” He handed over a padlock key. “For
playhouse back door.”
"But I don't know what ..."
“District attorney, aren't you?"
"Yes, but ..."
"Act like it."
"But ..."
"Use head. Think for self. Damn it,” rasped Turner in a
final croaking burst of exasperation, "grow up!" ...
144


ALTHOUGH James Hampton, spurred by
wrath, outraged pride, and a desire to show up his supercil-
ious colleague, had bawled for the Dalrymple file, when it
came and the door had closed behind the shaken Miss Min-
ton for a while he did little more than glare at the neat brown
folder, breathing fire and thinking blasphemous thoughts
about his erstwhile friend.
By degrees temper and blood pressure abated and reason
pointed out that as justification for the unholy row he had
raised to get the papers it was up to him to do something with
them. “Use your head,” Dave had said. “Think for yourself.”
All right, he would use his head, he would think, and, by
golly, make just as good a job of it as old Swellhead Turner
himself. He sat down at the desk.
First things first. Miss Corbett had told of two previous
attacks. Take 'em in order.
He drew a sheet of paper from the drawer and headed it
Mountain Lake. The talk with Frances Hendley had given
him a theory about this affair. Check it now, see if it holds
water.
He lit a cigarette and smoked it through, staring unseeingly
at the wall. When it had burned down to within singeing
distance of his lips he threw the stub in the clamshell that
served the office for an ashtray, and taking up the pen again
146


wrote out his version of what had happened that day at the
camp. He concluded:
If this reconstruction is correct there was no intent to harm
Alicia. However, shortly afterward there was a genuine attempt
at murder. Is this coincidence or is there a connection between
the two affairs? I believe there to be a connection, and that shot
innocently fired at the camp was indirectly responsible for the
pushed flower basket and later for Alicia's death.
Let us suppose X to be someone who had been holding mur-
derous thoughts about Alicia without realizing it—that is, sub-
consciously holding them. The shot brings this murder-wish into
the open, for the first reaction of X is, “If only it hadn't missed!”
and after that X knows. Is horrified, perhaps, but can't put the
idea aside, mulls over it, is obsessed by it, finally acts.
That, I believe, is the significance of the lake affair. It was the
spark which set off the explosion.
Pleased with this brave beginning, which he thought in-
dicated a nice flair for deduction, the amateur criminologist
headed a fresh sheet with the word Balcony and wrote with
confidence:
It's unlikely that X knew beforehand that Alicia would be on
the terrace, so this was probably a spur-of-the-moment affair.
The logical suspect is Dalrymple, who had perfect opportunity
and, with the old will in force, perfect motive. However, there
are others who might have had logical reasons for being on the
balcony (before Miss Jennie entered the sitting room) and who
could have hidden behind the swing seat later. They are:
1. Macrae. He had been told about the baskets; might have
gone to look them over.
2. Mrs. Reynolds. She was a frequent visitor at the house,
knew Miss Jennie's schedule, could have been waiting for
147


her on the balcony. (But doesn't the time schedule clear
Mrs. R. of the murder? Talk further with police surgeon.)
3. Mrs. Marpole ...
For a few lines more the pen flowed smoothly, then fal-
tered, and continued with frequent pauses and erasures as
Jim discovered that deduction was less simple than he had
thought. He finished, but reread what he had written with
no enthusiasm. He could guess what had happened, but the
identity of X was as dark a mystery as ever.
He wondered what Dave would think, and that reminded
him to call the invalid's home and inquire into his state of
health. Dave, reported Dave's wife, was in the hospital with
a combination of flu and tonsillitis.
"I'd nurse him myself," Janet explained, “but I couldn't
keep him from seeing all you eager beavers who'd want to
talk to him about the murder. He's better off in the hospital
with a hard-boiled professional riding herd on him."
Jim telephoned Corbettsville's only florist and ordered a
dozen tritoma delivered to the chief's bedside. He dictated a
card to read, “Enjoy their beauty now, for in the grim Here-
after-", and hoped that Dave would remember the other
name for tritoma, which is red-hot poker.
Refreshed by this rather puerile revenge he opened the
Manila folder and set to work in earnest, reading, scribbling,
and from time to time pausing to stare thoughtfully at the
ceiling and smoke.
Once he murmured, “Grandma Hampton!” and chuckled.
Later, when looking through another paper, he again said,
"Grandma Hampton?" but this time in urgent protest and
without smiling. That particular document he reread four
times, check-marking certain phrases. Then he put it aside
148


"Oh, she has, she has indeed! And how she must be bless-
ing the bug that put Dave out of circulation! What about
this person Alicia was supposed to have had an appointment
with?”
"Forget it. Miz Reynolds thinks that's just a story she put
out because she didn't want to be bothered. Maybe she wanted
to write letters, or think, or something. Doesn't matter why;
point is there never was no appointment.”
“There,” said Jim surprisingly, “I'm inclined to agree with
you and the Voice from the Hill.” He considered. It would be
a waste of time to argue the matter with Rogers. The deputy
was entirely honest, but stubborn in his unimaginative way,
and his respect for the great lady of Corbettsville was com-
plete and unquestioning. A number of vagrants would be
rounded up, and Queen Mary would see to it that they were
all released unscathed, probably with a bonus from the royal
coffers to compensate for inconvenience. Meanwhile—and
here was a point possibly overlooked by the wily old lady-
there was a chance that X, seeing the hounds of the law lop-
ing off after a false scent, would become over-confident and
careless.
"O.K.,” he said at last. "Have fun with your hobo. But
afterward there's something you can do for me. The funeral's
tomorrow afternoon at two o'clock. A Corbett funeral, so
everyone in town will be there in deference to Miss Jennie if
not out of grief for Alicia. Now, I want you to get a search
warrant-no, two warrants—and take someone with his head
screwed on the right way, like Jake, and turn both of those
houses upside down. I'm looking for two things specifically,
but you're naturally to keep your eyes open for anything that
would lead to the solving of this case. I want you to examine
every blouse, shirt or vest belonging to every man or woman,
employer, employee or houseguest, and find me the one with
150


handsewn buttons. You'd better take Matron. She's a sensible
woman and will know the difference. Don't skip laundry bas-
kets. Secondly, look for a cardboard box approximately twelve
inches high, eighteen inches long and nine inches wide.
There's no point in my telling you what I hope will be in it
because I could be wrong. Very, very wrong, and I don't want
that stupid, know-it-all jerk of a boss of yours having any.
more famous last words at my expense. Got it?"
Rogers was scandalized, and protested vigorously, but after
Jim pleaded, cajoled, and finally ordered, Rogers yielded.
Jim breathed a sigh of relief. “Thanks, Rogers, I know how
you hate treading on the Hill's toes. . . . Who d'you sup-
pose turned off that playhouse radio?"
"The tramp, I guess.”
Jim picked up his hat. “You have what is known as a sin-
gle-track mind. I'm off now to revisit the scene of the crime.
If I find traces of your hobo I'll send you word.”
“Do that,” said the deputy seriously. "I'd appreciate the
help.”
Thirty minutes later, Jim Hampton was poking about in
the playhouse. He let himself into the building by the back
door, passed beyond the line of shower stalls, and then hesi-
tated, uncertain where to begin. The glint of water decided
him, and he made his way to the pool. He squatted at the edge
and dipping in a cupped hand swooshed out water which, to
his annoyance, fell on his shoes. He mopped them off with
his handkerchief and tried again. This time the water landed
on the tile in a spreading puddle which Jim studied thought-
fully, backing off and circling around it to look at it from all
angles.
Satisfied at last, he left the pool and went through the
dressing rooms, pausing longest in the one which had been
reserved for Alicia Dalrymple. Here he rummaged through
151


моос.
the cleansing tissues and face creams that filled the dresser
drawer, and even ran a finger through the bristles of the ivory-
backed brush. Finally he pulled the dresser away from the
wall and carefully examined the floor behind.
He replaced the dresser, went into the front room, and
switched on the console. The lighted dial and following blast
of music dispelled any idea that the radio might have stopped
because of a burned-out fuse. He rolled the instrument far-
ther into the room and exposed a gray oblong of dust marked
by several clean furrows which the moving gliders had
plowed, and one startled spider. Jim peered into the back
of the radio, and poked hopefully at an apparently function-
less wire until he realized that it was probably only one of
those mystifying bits which the makers of radios, Mixmasters,
and the like put in seemingly for the bewilderment of lay-
men. The tubes glowed dully, the music blared. There was
nothing wrong with the console.
. “What this case needs,” thought Hampton gloomily, "is
not an ordinary guy like me but a combination electrician,
physicist, and expert in hydraulics.” He sneezed. “Also an
industrious maid with a floor mop.”
The room, he knew, had been gone over by more expert
men than he, but he conscientiously shook out cushions and
rugs in the hope of finding an overlooked clue left by the
night's intruder. An unjustified hope, as it turned out. After
an equally unrewarding detour through the shower stalls he
was ready to lock up and call it a day.
He walked across the grounds and through the little green
gate. Miss Corbett was leaving the toolshed, walking slowly
with drooping shoulders and listlessly hanging hands. He
hurried to meet her, scolding.
"What an impossible gal you are! You're supposed to be
upstairs resting, not down here gardening.”
Cover
ore
152


"Oh, yes, I . .. James,” inquired Miss Corbett, appar-
ently dashing off at a tangent, “what is your opinion of Sylvia
Marpole?"
He considered. What was his opinion of the late Alicia
Dalrymple's secretary? "Mixed,” he decided finally. "On the
whole fairly unflattering. Not Sylvia, by the way, but Mabel.”
He retold the saga of Mabel Hinkson. “It sounds like a dime
novel, doesn't it? One suspects the lady of coloring her ver-
sion but it's substantially true, I suppose.”
Miss Corbett was shocked and sympathetic. "Oh, the poor,
poor girl. What a dreadful experience! And to lose her mother
like that! How could Alicia- No, not colored, I believe, be-
cause it explains contradictory things, like that superficial
hardness. She is really very kind."
Hampton snorted inelegantly. “My dear, too-trusting
friend, the lady is hard-boiled all the way through including
the yolk. She is kind first, last and always to Mabel Hinkson
Marpole. I thought you didn't like her.”
“I don't. There is something about Mrs. Marpole- How-
ever," said Miss Corbett scrupulously, “one must be just,
and she is kind. She dropped in today to inquire—it was just
after I had discovered the condition of the milk–and really,
no one could have been more thoughtful. Such a nice
lunch,” crooned Miss Corbett with pleased reminiscence.
"Sliced cold chicken and green salad and tea, served in bed
on a tray. She insisted. ... That's quite enough about me.
What of yourself? Have you been very busy, my child?”.
“Don't," Jim implored earnestly, "call me a child. Dave
did-his parting shot before putting his influenza to bed.
'Want some advice?' he said. “Then grow up.' Of all the nasty,
insulting-ugh!"
Miss Corbett looked amused. “That was very naughty of
Dave. And did you grow up?"
154


"Et tu, Brute? A little, perhaps. About ten years, if seri-
ous effort brings adulthood. I've been rubbing my brains to-
gether trying to strike a light to throw on this murky busi-
ness.”
"Have you succeeded?" asked Miss Corbett after a pause.
“A glimmer. No, more than that-a good fat spark. Unless,
of course, I'm lost in a bog and it's only Will-o'-the-wisp's
lantern."
There was another and longer pause. “Ellen," insinuated
Miss Corbett at last, “tells me there was a tramp," and Jim
felt surprise that it was from the maid and not from her old
friend that she had heard the story.
He locked his hands behind his head and, heedless of Miss
Corbett's prejudices, stretched out his legs comfortably. “Let's
forget about murder; let's loaf and invite our souls. You might
turn back the clock and tell me a fairy tale. Would you tell me
a fairy tale, Miss Jennie?"
Miss Corbett sniffed. “I thought,” she retorted, “that you
had decided to put away childish things. No, James, it is very
pleasant here after the day's heat, but I think I shall go in-
side and lie down." She got up slowly, clutching at the back
of the bench for support. “Will you give me your arm up the
stairs, please? I feel a little unruly in the knees.”
He assisted her to the bedroom, deposited her in the lad-
der-back chair, and looked down at her sternly.
"Gardening! Bread and milk! You need a keeper. I'm going
to send someone up to look after you."
Miss Corbett, though weak, was still spirited. “Bread and
milk is an excellent dish. And I assure you, James, that I am
perfectly capable of attending to my own wants.”
“Lady, with the utmost respect for your white hairs I say
that you lie in your teeth. Who shall it be? Ellen? Mrs.
Marsh?"
155


Jim stopped at the top of the hill. Ahead, at the foot of a
short downward slope, rose a second grade steeper than the
one he had just covered. To his right the top of the hill flat-
tened into a wide tableland of brush and rock and stunted
oak, crossed by a half-obliterated weed-grown track. He
turned the car into the ruts of the trail and half a mile far-
ther on braked before the ruins of an old stone fence, be-
yond which stood, dilapidated and forlorn, a board-and-batten
cabin with broken steps and gaping roof.
It had been a snug enough place when Josh Mersen had
built it fifty years before, and planted corn within the en-
closure and a potato patch by the door. Two rainless seasons
had disgusted Josh with nature and her ways, and he had
drifted to the city to work for wages. Now, poison ivy trailed
over the rubble of stone, and weeds grew breast-high in the
clearing.
Jim picked his way amid nettles and ragweed, and around
the remains of an ancient plow. He mounted the cabin's two
steps, treading lightly on rotten timber, and pushed at the
sagging door. It opened unwillingly, dragging against the
floor and protesting through rusty hinges.
The single room was filthy with dust and the droppings of
rats. Gray ropelike cobwebs dangled from the rafters, sway-
ing slowly in the movement of air which drifted through the
glassless window. The only furnishings consisted of a broken
stool and, against the farther wall, a built-in bunk stripped of
covering. Jim kicked at an untidy heap of sticks and grass and
bits of rotten burlap, and flushed a rat which he killed with
the broken stool and flung by its tail through the door.
He went outside and around the corner of the house to
investigate the possibility of using the window opening as a
listening post, but he found that here the ground sloped away
so sharply that the bottom of the frame was at least a foot
159


She pulled an untidy package of cigarettes from the patch
pocket over her left breast, selected one, and bent her head
to Hampton's offered match. Her hand trembled a little and
he sensed nervousness beneath the casual manner.
"Thanks.” She drew in a breath, exhaled the smoke, and
leaned back in the chair. “I wanted to explain about some-
thing that happened up at the camp that week end. Murder
is too important to fool with, and I don't want you to waste
time over something that's nothing serious at all.”
"You're talking about the shooting at Mountain Lake?"
“That's it. You see, Nick and I were supposed to go rabbit
hunting that day but we had a blazing row, over Mrs. Dal-
rymple, of course, and I stormed off into the woods by my-
self, not even bothering to look for rabbits, just walking. Well,
after about an hour I'd cooled down into a fairly Christian-
like mood of forgiveness and tolerance and went back to camp.
And then I saw Nick and that female together down by the
lakeshore and got mad all over again. Good and mad!"
She stopped and gave a nervous laugh. “This is harder
than I thought it would be. It was so damnably childish."
“Let me guess,” suggested Hampton amiably. "You had
been ostensibly hunting rabbits, so you were carrying your
gun. You thought it would relieve your feelings to give those
two a nasty scare so you aimed a safe distance to the side and
banged away. Right?"
Frances lowered her cigarette and looked at him with re-
spect. “The man's uncanny,” she murmured. “So you knew
all the time and I might have saved my breath."
"It was just a guess; I couldn't be sure. Weren't you taking
rather a risk? You might have hit one of them.”
She shook her head vigorously. “No risk at all. I hit where
I aim and have two cups to prove it. However, it was petty
and infantile and I don't mind saying that I'm much ashamed.
163


Besides, it didn't work out very well because Alicia took ad-
vantage of it to stage a scene—though she must have known
there was no danger-and everyone hovered solicitously
with Nick positively asinine. Men are such imbeciles! Well,
there it is, and you can see why I wanted to get it over with
before Nick came. I mean, there'd be no sense in letting my
swain know that I'd been a nasty spiteful jealous tabby cat
with a vile temper. What I always say is, let the poor things
keep their illusions until after marriage.”
She grinned, and Jim, who was finding her a most refresh-
ing dish for a hot day, grinned back at her.
"You and my wife should get together. Or, better not, per-
haps. You say he's coming down here?"
"I talked him into it. It's nothing much, nothing that he
wouldn't have told you himself if he hadn't been shy and
self-conscious. I thought the sooner these odds and ends
were cleared up ..."
Miss Minton interrupted to announce, via office phone, the
arrival of “that Reynolds kid," and then the door opened
without ceremony and the kid in question stalked in.
here?" he demanded. "Frankie, if he's been bullying
you ..."
"I never bully women,” said Jim, indignantly.
"I never allow men to bully me," put in Miss Hendley
with spirit. “Anyhow, I won't have you saying mean things
about Mr. Hampton. He's a charming gentleman and we've
been having a delightful little chat!" She hung a languishing
eye on the astonished attorney, and, with an, “I'll be wait-
ing outside," vanished through the door.
"What's going on here?” asked Reynolds suspiciously.
"Relax," advised the other. “Translated, that means she
thinks you're worth hanging on to."
164


“Oh. Oh, you think so?” Nick turned over this attractive
idea. “Maybe. I hope you're right but I wouldn't know. Some-
times,” said young Reynolds, “I think women are sort of
hard to figure out.” He ran a tongue over dry lips. “Any hope
of a glass of water?"
Jim waved to the water cooler, frowning a little at the
boy's white face. “Did you walk down in this heat?"
“Un-uh, drove.” Reynolds gulped his drink, threw the
paper cup in the waste basket, and returned to flop down
untidily in a chair. “Oh, God,” he groaned, almost prayer-
"The funeral?”
"Yeah.” His long thin hand moved nervously over mouth
and chin. “I'm a pallbearer. Miss Corbett asked me.” 1
Hampton's first reaction to this news was shocked distaste,
but then he saw that Miss Corbett had met a delicate situa-
tion with shrewd wisdom. Better to ignore the equivocal
relationship between Nick Reynolds and Alicia Dalrymple
than to give emphasis to gossip by omitting a Reynolds from
the carefully chosen group of pallbearers. He could not help
wondering, however, whether this temperamental, over-taut
boy would be able to face up to the ordeal.
"You could drop out,” he suggested. “Find some plausible
excuse."
"I know, flu. I thought of pretending I had it. It's no go,
though; I'm stuck with the job.”
“Miss Corbett's quite understanding ..."
"It isn't that. You see,” explained the young man solemnly,
"it's not really me myself that she's asked. I'm only a symbol
-I stand for the Reynolds half of a six-generation friendship.
It's me representing the family. When a guy happens to be
the man of the family-the only man-he's sort of got to take
165


“I'm not so sure of that. Collect your girl friend; we're go-
ing for a ride."
They drove off in the Buick, all three on the front seat
with the young people frankly holding hands. Nick was
gloomy, Frances persistently optimistic.
"Of course there'll be something, idiot. No one can sit
in one place for two hours without leaving some sign. Any-
how, it doesn't matter; Mr. Hampton already believes you."
But she added, "Don't you?" and looked at the attorney anx-
iously for confirmation.
They stopped in a lane on the outskirts of town, climbed
through a rail fence, and plodded across a field toward an oak
tree, and a stile that led into another enclosure. The dried
grass slipped under their shoes and muggy heat enveloped
them. “Oh, Lord,” groaned Frances, “why couldn't you medi-
tate by a pretty babbling brook?” When they reached the stile
the three were sticky with perspiration and Nick's once white
face had turned to brilliant red.
“Cigarette stubs,” cried the girl, pouncing. “See? Six,
seven, nine of them. Nick's brand."
Hampton stooped and picked up a crumpled piece of
paper lying near the foot of the stile. He smoothed it out
and with Frances crowding his shoulder read the blotted,
lines.
you, lying? buried? standing like-sunflower? cornstalks
something??? she
phosphorescence
mt. top???
“As a poem,” said Miss Hendley frankly, “it stinks, but as
proof you really were here it's good. Here's another scrap.
168


'Sullen-glinted life and you you you.' The master's touch. No
one else could do it-I hope. Isn't that right, Mr. Hampton?”
"It's good enough for me,” acknowledged Jim, secretly
relieved. “You were here, all right."
He took them back to the courthouse parking lot and
Nick's cut-down Ford. As Reynolds prepared to climb in
under the wheel he caught his arm.
"Have you told your grandmother where you were that
afternoon?”
"No," replied the young man somewhat violently. “She
wouldn't understand, she couldn't understand. So what?
I’m of age; I don't have to run to Gran with every single little
thing."
"Even so,” said Jim, “I think I'd explain. I think it would
be an act of kindness to a very worried, rather miserable old
woman.”
He went back to the office where Miss Minton informed
him that police headquarters had been phoning and phoning
and that Deputy Chief Rogers, in the opinion of Miss Minton,
was about ready to blow his top. "Something happened up
at Corbett's; he didn't say what.”
"Where have you been?" wailed Rogers. “This is a mess. I
wouldn't want little Ellen Martin hurt; she's a nice kid. I've
known her since she was a baby and it's a damned outrage"
"What's happened to Ellen?"
“It wasn't any tramp. The boys say there isn't one in town,
never was any perhaps. If Ben Macrae' hadn't happened
along she'd be dead ...".
"What happened to Ellen Martin?”.
Ellen had been attacked, in broad daylight while cutting
flowers in the garden. Someone had come up behind, thrown
a sack over her head and a noose over the sack, and tried to
strangle her.
169


wa
"Only just then Ben came along, whistling, and the guy
was scared off. Dropped her and ran, in the bushes I guess,
before Ben got around the corner to see him. And Ben was
too busy getting the cord off her neck to do any chasing, and
Ellen hadn't been able to see because of the sack so they
don't know who."
Jim was frightened and sick. “But why little Ellen? Why?"
“It was the same one that did for Alicia, it must have been
because Ellen had been talking about remembering some-
thing..."
“About the button?".
“What button? Oh, that. I dunno. Just telling everybody
soon as she remembered something she'd forgotten she'd
have the case solved and maybe get her picture in the papers,
the crazy kid."
"Where is Ellen?”
"Home. I took her home and told her ma she had to stay
there, not even go out of the yard till we'd got that murderer
locked up. And not be alone with anybody, not anybody, be-
cause Jim "
"What?"
"I don't care a damn who says so—that wasn't any tramp,
it was somebody who'd been around and heard the kid brag-
ging. Someone who lives right here in Corbettsville. Maybe
someone who lives right up there in the Corbett house."
170


MAN that is born of woman ..."
In the flat, treeless cemetery the air was dead and oppres-
sive, the sun a steaming oven behind a film of gray cloud. Jim
felt sweat soaking the shirt under his dark coat and running
in little streams from his armpits. Beside him Dr. Marsham
surreptitiously rubbed moist palms on his trousers and whis-
pered, “Pretty soon, now. It's just symbolic. We go through
the motions but there's this gimmick for lowering ..."
Jim shrugged impatiently. He knew all that; he'd done
this before.
From the other side Alex Crawshaw nudged and said from
the corner of his mouth, "Look at Dalrymple.” Jim slid his
eyes to the trio of chief mourners: Jennifer Corbett, the old
friend to whose arm she clung so tightly, and, standing a little
apart from the two, Tom Dalrymple. Hampton was shocked
by the widower's appearance. His clay-colored face looked
like an incongruously moustached death's head with blank
staring eyes and mouth distorted into a meaningless grin.
"Suffer us not to ... fall from thee."
The eyebrows of the Reverend Thomas Morton beckoned
and the pallbearers moved forward self-consciously, too
aware of the eyes of assembled Corbettsville. Jim looked
anxiously at young Reynolds. The boy hesitated a second,
then set his jaw and walked to his place and laid a hand that
trembled only slightly on the broad canvas band. As they
171


OTS
stepped back Hampton touched his arm, but Nick drew it
away and leaving the group went to stand behind his grand-
mother.
"Merciful Father who hast been pleased to take unto thy-
self . . . forevermore. Amen."
The covers of the Book of Common Prayer closed noise-
lessly, and a sigh, faint as the ruffle of a passing breeze, stirred
the gathering. Then it broke as men and women walked away
from the grave, carefully avoiding each other's eyes, con-
strained by the mixture of shame and resentment which so
curiously overtakes Anglo-Saxons who have allowed them-
selves to be shaken by beautiful and moving words. They
drifted down the path, silently at first and self-consciously
apart, gradually converging into groups as embarrassment
lifted and unaccustomed emotions were replaced by such
everyday considerations as: Where was the car parked? Would
the stores, closed for the funeral, be open for afternoon shop-
ping? Who would want to eat anyhow in this dreadful
weather? Jim followed the crowd, peering over and around
heads for a glimpse of Katherine. He spotted her at last, far
ahead with Janet, making for the line of parked cars.
Mrs. Marpole fell into step beside him. He thought she
looked tense but her tone when she spoke was light.
"Home or office?" she inquired. “And with whom?"
"The office. With my wife if I can manage to grab her. I
came with Marsham but he had to get back to the hospital.”
Mrs. Marpole craned her neck. "You're too late, she's just
pulling out. I came in Alicia's roadster which the executors
graciously permit me to use. Better let me give you a lift.”
"But it's out of your way.”
"Four blocks,” replied the secretary dryly. “Actually, I'm
trying to kidnap you. I want to talk to you about something.'
If so, she was in no hurry to come to it. She piloted him to
172


Jim flung down the paper, maddened by the omission. Ar-
rest of whom? Where had Jake found the thing? He reached
for the phone.
Rogers was not at the City Hall. Nor was Jake. Jim hung
up, and after a moment of profitless cursing, the thought came
to him that there was as yet no proof that this was actually the
garment from which Alicia's dying hand had snatched the
button. Strong presumption, but not proof. He batted around
that idea for a while, then saw a way out. He talked into the
office phone and in a moment Miss Minton entered, warily.
"Look at that,” said Jim. “Never mind the buttons, because
they don't belong. Could you describe it well enough so that
the department head of a store that carries that line would
recognize it?"
Miss Minton looked, turned it over and looked some more,
and finally said, "Sure, that'd be easy."
He fumbled through papers and found a memorandum.
"Find the number of this store and ask for this name. Tell
'em the district attorney's office here wants to know what
kind of buttons originally.”
She obeyed, and soon began to speak of darts and gathers
and rolled seams and other matters which bewildered Jim
but apparently made sense to her other listener. After a while
there was a long pause—“Gone to look it up,” explained Miss
Minton-and then more talk from the other end while Miss
Minton made hooks and dashes in her notebook. Finally she
said into the phone, “Let me check back, please. An equilat-
eral triangle, sides about one inch long, plastic material, color
white with bluish tinge," and looked questioningly at her em-
ployer, who nodded.
"Thank you so much," said Miss Minton sweetly to the
phone. “The district attorney is most appreciative of your
179


help.” The last words were drowned out by a loud and pro-
longed peal of thunder.
"Closer,” said Jim. “Much closer. Lock up your desk and
beat it before the deluge. Do you walk?"
"Got a car," said Miss Minton, and dashed off.
He got up and walked to the window. The elms were rock-
ing violently now, whipped like saplings in the high wind.
Scraps of paper and tin-foiled gum wrappers scudded madly
up the street, or dropped in flattened clusters about the bases
of light poles and corner signs. Sudden light made him blink,
and while his ears still flinched from the answering clap, the
storm broke.
It came with no preliminary spatter of individual droplets
but all at once, in a roaring opaque sheet. The City Hall across
the street disappeared behind a wall of water and the elms
became tossing shadows. Outside the rain-battered window
the dusty sill turned into a dirty brown river.
Hampton returned to his desk and vainly tried to work
against the hammer of rain on the pane and the roll of thun-
der. He thought sadly of his car in the open parking lot and
tried to remember whether the windows were rolled up. He
also thought with uneasiness of the road to Mersen's shack,
and of the narrow grade which rain would turn into a potential
death trap of wet, greasy clay. Slides, too. Thunderstorms
usually brought slides to the Gap, fan-shaped mounds that
slithered down from the upper bank to reduce the road's
width to a dangerous minimum or even bar it completely. It
was going to be no picnic, driving at night to Mersen's shack.
At five-thirty the storm ended as suddenly as it had begun,
as though a tap had been abruptly turned. Jim waited for a
final desultory spatter, the last drippings from the faucet, and
then went out into a drenched but revivified universe of blue
sky and clean damp smells. After days of stultifying heat the
180


cool air acted like a tonic. His brain felt clear and invigorated
as, driving home in this sparkling new world, he planned out
the next steps to be taken.
Dalrymple, first. Ten to one the blackmailing business was
nothing but a side issue unconnected with Alicia's murder,
but it had to be cleared up if only that it might be tossed aside
out of the way. Tonight would take care of that. Then tomor-
row he and Rogers would put their heads together. Too bad it
couldn't be he and Dave, Dave with his experience, his keen
mind, and quick purposeful decisions. Rogers was a nice guy,
but woolly-minded; too slow, too lazily tolerant.
But when Rogers telephoned later in the evening his voice,
sharp with anger, carried no hint of either laziness or toler-
ance.
"You're needed at Corbett's,” he snapped. “That dope-eat-
ing misfit, that crazy excuse for a man ...'
181


HAMPTON slammed down the receiver, piv-
oted, and snatched up his hat, all in one fluid movement. He
made the door in long strides, flinging over a shoulder inade-
quate explanation.
“Dalrymple's blown his top, attacked Miss Jennie."
His long legs ate up the garage driveway. Behind him Kath-
erine called, “Wait!" and by the time he had snapped the pad-
lock and thrown back one of the doors she was there, pulling
at the other one.
"The man's dangerous," he warned, but she said, “Not with
the police there. If Miss Corbett's hurt I can help," and
jumped into the front seat of the Buick as he slid under the
wheel.
He gunned the motor and they plunged down the drive-
way and out into the road.
"Marijuana?" Katherine asked.
“Maybe. Or maybe the funeral and losing the money, and
the heat, all that at once, were too much. Made something
snap."
The Buick two-wheeled a corner and roared up the slope.
"He's been getting queer lately,” said Jim, and Katherine said,
“Yes, I noticed at the funeral this afternoon," and then re-
lapsed into silence.
Light blazed in every window of the Corbett house. A po-
lice car stood in the driveway, and behind it Dr. Marsham's
182


blue Cadillac sedan. They tumbled out of the Buick to run
up the steps, and a policeman moved aggressively toward them
from the columned portico. Jim, caught in the unreality of
what seemed like recurrent nightmare, paused, half-expecting
to be gestured again toward the playhouse.
"Oh, you,” said Stiegler, and relaxed.
"Where's Dalrymple?" Jim demanded.
"Gone," said the policeman succinctly. "Flown the coop.”
Katherine hurried inside. Jim waited for more. “What hap-
pened?"
"Dead as the morgue all evening and then, suddenly, all
hell breaks loose. I take over from Johnson at seven o'clock,
see”
The first part of the evening, Stiegler said, had been quiet
enough, with Mrs. Marsh in her room on the third floor, Al-
bert and the maids playing cards in the kitchen, and Mrs. Mar-
pole closeted in her bedroom off the upper hall. Dalrymple,
restless as a cat on the tiles, had prowled and fidgeted but
finally come to rest in the study. Stiegler himself had patrolled
the grounds at intervals, but for the most part occupied a chair
in the big hall where he could watch both the stairs and the
front door. He had been there when Dalrymple came into
the hall to telephone, and had at once sensed something
wrong.
"His face give me a start. He'd been queer-acting before
but this was different. I think, That gent's high, so I go poke
my head into the study, and sure enough. No stubs, nothing
you could pick up for evidence, but the room was stinking
with the reefer smell.”
He had returned to the hall to hear Dalrymple cry despair-
ingly, “It's no good, Crawshaw, tomorrow'll be too late," and
to see him leave the telephone and rush up to the second floor.
Standing at the foot of the stairs he had followed the widow-
183


white on the broken wall, and within the enclosure the wet,
storm-battered weeds were a silver sea that lapped at the
foundations of the old shack. Dalrymple's car stood near the
entrance, but there was no sign of its owner. Jim crouched
low beside the wall and listened. Somewhere a night bird
squawked. A dog's bark, muffled by distance, came faintly
over the hills. There was no other sound.
He rose and looked doubtfully at the bright, moonlit yard.
The door of the shack was closed and the only window, as he
knew, faced the side. He moved swiftly across the space, then,
clinging to the shadow of the building, he rounded the corner
and found the pile of rock. Carefully, testing each step before
trusting his weight, he mounted to the top and peered through
the opening.
The moon hung on the opposite side of the building, but
the brightness outside threw grayish light on the floor beneath
the opening and lightened the gloom of shadowy corners. At
first Jim thought the room deserted. Then he detected move-
ment in the semi-obscurity of the farther end, and straining
his eyes made out Dalrymple sitting on the bunk. The move-
ment he had seen came from the man's hand as it flickered
in and out of shadow to worry his face, plucking at the mouth
and chin, kneading the right cheekbone. Mouth, chin, and
cheekbone, without interruption and always in that order.
Hampton dropped to the ground and looked at his watch.
Ten-forty-nine. Luigi would be coming soon and the troopers
were overdue. He walked out of the enclosure and looked
down the trail. The throb of a car's engine sent him ducking
behind a bush, but the sound passed the summit and finally
died behind the second grade. Not Martinelli, but some farmer
coming home from the second show.
He returned to the window opening, took another look at
the ceaselessly moving hand, then stepped down and propped
187


his back against the building. His thoughts were not pleasant.
That man sitting on the bunk, waiting in the shadows, was
obviously unbalanced. Drugs, the prolonged heat wave, dis-
appointment and frustration-something had sent him over
the edge. He was armed and dangerous. If things got out of
hand, if the troopers failed to arrive ...
Yellow headlights overlaid white moonlight. They swerved,
stopped, and then went out. A motor died. Moments later
footsteps sounded on the broken steps and there was the scrape
of the sagging door as it was pushed open. Martinelli's voice
came through the window opening.
"What a damn stinking hole! Never thought to bring can-
dles, huh? Lucky I did." There was the rasp of a scratched
match and a flare of light followed by a flickering glow. “God,
but you look lousy! Whyn't you lay off that stuff? Were you
high when you croaked your old woman?"
Silence. Then: “So you think I murdered my wife?"
"Sure you did, though it beats me how you found the guts.”
"Yes, it takes courage to murder.” The voice was purring
and Jim had a sudden mental picture of the man licking his
lips like a cat. “You didn't know I had so much courage, did
you, Luigi?"
"O.K., so you're Superman. Aren't there any chairs in this
dump? Get up and let me have that bunk.”
“There's room here for the two of us."
“Get up, I tell you.” From the deliberate insolence of the
tone Hampton could visualize the man flicking a contemptu-
ous thumb over his shoulder, sneering down at the craven lit-
tle worm.
But Dalrymple was no longer a worm. He was dangerous,
charged with venomous hatred.
"Get up unless you want my feet in your face. I'm going
to stretch out.”
as
a worm
.
188


Jim held his breath for a long moment, let it out again when
Dalrymple, oddly passionless, said quietly, “You may have it;
I'd rather stand.”
"You're damn right I can have it." There was movement
within the cabin, the sound of one man getting up and walk-
ing nearer to the window, a creaking of the rough bed as the
other one settled down. Then Luigi's voice came again,
sharper now and calculating.
“Let's get down to business. You're in the dough, now, so
we make a new deal. A grand now ...".
"I haven't got it.”
"The lawyers'll advance it to you. A grand now, and when
the estate's settled twenty grand for the letter and the photo-
stat."
"You don't say anything about the negative. But I haven't
got it, I tell you; I tried tonight and was turned down.”
Luigi snarled angrily, “Don't give me that baloney, you
crazy hophead. When a man's just inherited ten million dol-
lars ..."
"I haven't inherited anything." Dalrymple spoke quietly,
almost, it seemed, with indifference. “Alicia left everything to
Sylvia Marpole. Sylvia's her cousin.”
"You're lying.”
"Oh, no, it's perfectly true. Ask Alex Crawshaw; he's one
of the executors.”
"You're– No, by God," cried Luigi, “maybe you are tell-
ing it straight, maybe that's why you're acting so queer to-
night. Lemme think.”
There was a pause, then Luigi said thoughtfully, “If things
are that way—and don't kid yourself I won't check-if you're
playing me for a sucker ..."
"Im not.”
189


T
“As I said, I'll check. If things are as bad as you say, you'll
find I'm a reasonable fella. Put it on a monthly basis.”
“I haven't got that much, not even for monthly payments."
"You'll get some as widower, borrow on that. Or work it
out any way you want; just get it, that's all.”
Dalrymple said, still with that unnatural calm, "Suppose I
won't?"
Martinelli laughed unpleasantly. “My God, you are high!
Have you forgotten that the Feds are still looking for the man
who gave the Francioni brothers their start? They know damn
well those punks never had the dough to set up a dope ring
covering two states. Suppose I told them that you was the guy,
that you used the money your loving bride gave you to get
the boys going and were to take a split of the take for pay.
ment? Suppose I gave them proof? How about that, Mr. Big?"
The listener beneath the window whistled soundlessly. So
this was the Mr. Big the Federal officers were so patiently
searching for. Tom Dalrymple—the man behind the New
York racketeers.
“That,” said Dalrymple with a hint of pride, "was a clever
scheme."
"Yah, it was crazy! You were bucking the G-boys and they're
dynamite. Your wife knew that; she was a smart cookie no
matter what else she was. She found you out, and yanked
you out of the business in a hurry, and then tied up the purse
strings so you couldn't play any more funny games. Yes, and
when she knew I'd gotten wind of the deal, hid you out in
this one-horse town. Only I found you quicker than you
liked, didn't I? But the cops are still looking for you, so how'd
you like me to go to them with my story, huh?"
"You won't take that story to anyone."
Something deadly in the low, flat voice brought Hampton's
190


Besides, thought Lieutenant Trumbell savagely, I hate shov-
eling.
Sergeant Peevey plodded back around the turn, opened the
car door, and climbed into the driver's seat. Trumbell studied
the road and decided it would do now. He stowed away the
shovel and joined the other. “Let's go,” he said.
As they turned into the trail at the top of the grade Peevey
said, “I suppose we park somewhere and sneak up on 'em?"
and then both men heard the shot and the accelerator hit the
floor board.
The police car roared up to the clearing and stopped with a
screech of brakes. The troopers raced to the figures that
experience hauled them apart. One of them—the one with the
battered mouth and puffed-up eye and streaming nose-clung
gratefully to the support of Trumbell's pinioning arm. The
other man, less docile, fought and plunged and blasphemously
demanded "another chance, just one more chance, to sock that
blankey-blank woman-beating son of a so-and-so."
"Good Lord!" cried Trumbell, staring. "You know who
you've got there? It's Hampton himself, the D.A.!"
The sergeant tightened his grip, at the same time side-step-
ping a vicious kick. “It's not only the D.A. himself, but he's
bleeding like a stuck pig and don't even know he's been hit."
193


heard. “Then Dalrymple couldn't have—then he isn't the
murderer!"
“He's a murderer. There's a nasty little Italian blackmailer
on a slab at the morgue to prove it. But he didn't murder
Alicia.” Hampton paused, then said with an effort and ob-
vious reluctance, “I know who did.”
Turner looked sharply at the other's unsmiling mouth and
his eyes that were suddenly and curiously bleak.
"You do? You don't," said the chief, "seem very happy
about it.”
"Perhaps I'm not. Does it matter? It just so happens I've
just seen Rogers. We know who the murderer is. And,” Jim
reached for his hat and started toward the door, “there is now
an arrest to be made."
“Jim!” protested the chief in agitation. “You're not going
to leave without telling me!"
His only reply was the blank face of the door as it closed
softly.
Jake, prewarned, was waiting in the graveled circle in front
of the steps, and walked forward as Jim parked the Buick. He
thrust his head through the driver's window, leaning his arm
on the top of the door.
"So,” he said, "this is it, huh?"
"This,” Jim agreed without elation, "is it. You have the
warrant?"
The policeman slapped his pocket. “In here. The point is,
can you find that other thing?"
"I know where by every rule of logic and common sense it
ought to be. If I'm wrong we'll go ahead anyhow."
Jake frowned, rubbed his nose thoughtfully and, uncon-
vinced, said, “It's your funeral, not mine. I only take orders.
ommon sen
198


see
Just the same, if you don't find it you won't have much to
make an arrest on."
“Humph,” snorted Jim, “Acting-Chief Rogers seemed to
think it was sewed up in a bag. But I'm inclined to agree
with you, and here's what I want you to do."
He talked and the other listened. Finally Jake said, “Might
work at that," and withdrew his head from the car.
"Not immediately," the other warned. "First I have a debt
to pay.”
“Right,” said Jake. “About ten minutes, say?" He flipped
his hand in salute, said, “I'll be seein' ya," and sauntered to
the back of the house. Hampton left the car and slowly
walked up the steps.
Josephine-an immaculate Josephine, freshly combed and
brushed-answered the bell. The visitor asked for Miss Cor-
bett.
"I'll call her," said the maid. "She's in the kitchen going
over the menus with cook. Will you wait in the library?"
Jim shook his head. "No, don't bother her now. Would it
be possible to see Mrs. Marpole?"
Josephine said she'd run up and find out, and hurried up-
stairs. Hampton wandered to the other side of the hall and
stared morosely at the portrait of Nathaniel the First.
Josephine, returning, reported that Mrs. Marpole was rest-
ing in bed. “She's been ill, you know. She says to tell you that
if you'll please come up she'll be happy to receive you."
“Very kind,” said Jim, and thought cynically of Madame
Récamier. “No, don't trouble, I know the room."
He took the stairs in quick steps, and turning right at the
head of the flight rapped on the first door. The familiar, full-
throated voice beyond it bade him enter and, obeying, he
stepped for the third time into Mrs. Marpole's bedroom.
She sat up high in the bed against a bulwark of pillows,
199


her shoulders covered by a jacket of lace and daffodil-yellow
ribbon. There were smudges under the violet eyes and a
pinched look about the mouth, but she waved him cheerfully
to a chair, and laughed when he made polite inquiries into
the state of her health.
"It's laziness," she confessed. She stirred comfortably under
the covers, like a cat in a warm basket. “Laziness plus indul-
gence of a long-suppressed desire. All my life I've dreamed
of lying in bed and being waited on. . . . But what about
you? How are you feeling after last night's fracas?"
Jim admitted that he'd never felt better in his life and ob-
viously needed a fist fight once a day to keep him in trim.
She ran one hand down the sleeve of her bed jacket. “Real
lace,” she crooned. “It was one of Alicia's. Oh, blessed be the
power of money! They put rosebuds on my tray, and tumble
all over themselves to give service. Even Josephine practi-
cally kowtows, the horrid little toadeater."
She was the delighted child who has been given the angel
from the Christmas tree. No, not the child, he corrected him-
self-the woman who has waited without hope and now, with
all the appreciation possible to intellectual maturity, savors
the unexpected gift.
He said, “I'd half-expected that you would have moved into
Alicia's quarters.”
“I have that suite earmarked for Miss Corbett. So far she's
refused to move, but eventually I'll persuade her. This room
isn't too bad. Don't you like it?”
"Much better today than the other times.”
She looked at him sharply. “The other times?"
"Twice, to be exact. The first time I had quite a shock-I
was convinced you were about to take flight with a guilty
conscience for company. My mistake, but a natural one what
with suitcases all over the place, a stripped closet and an
200


ICON
Hampton closed the hall door behind him and groped
through semi-darkness to pull a dangling chain. The ceiling
light flashed on and amorphous blocks emerged as trunks,
suitcases, leather bags, hat boxes, and rough wooden cases. He
stood in the center of the room looking in turn at each of the
neatly stacked piles, and wondered in which he would find
a box that was approximately twelve inches high, eighteen
inches long, and nine inches wide.
It would be hidden, certainly, for X could not risk the
chance that someone seeing it would recall what the murderer
hoped had been forgotten, and by association of ideas leap to
a dangerous conclusion. It might be at the bottom of that pile
of heavy boxes against the window, or in the lower of those
two trunks, or- He fingered his useless arm and thought
that despite boastful words it might be necessary to call in
Jake after all.
Then he reflected that it would not be deeply buried, that
it would have been placed close at hand, ready for disposal at
the first relaxation of official vigilance, out of sight but easily
accessible. He began going through the top trunks of each
pile without bothering about the ones beneath.
Eventually he found the box on the floor in a dark corner,
partially concealed by two large suitcases. He shoved it out
into the open and looked about for something with which
to pry off the lid.
A stir of air at the back of his neck warned of an opened
door, and he swerved to one side in time to avoid the blow.
He swung about to face the intruder, and grasping her wrist
twisted ruthlessly until the heavy candlestick fell from her
hand to the floor. It rolled a few inches and came to rest
against a Gladstone bag.
Her free hand darted upward, then slowly and with an
204


obvious effort of the will she lowered it. “You are hurting my
wrist,” she said quietly.
He admired her self-control but was not surprised by it, for
he was aware of her ability to mask emotion behind an impas-
sive façade. Circumstances and training had schooled her in
control, and he had seen her reserve broken only once-that
day, such a short time since, when she had spoken of Alicia.
He dropped her wrist and she rubbed it with the other
hand, waiting silently.
“I think," said Hampton “that you had better sit down. And
please don't do anything rash, because this time I brought a
gun.” He took it from his pocket and, almost apologetically,
showed it to her.
Deliberately, and with a certain fastidiousness, she dusted
a space on the top of the nearest packing box with her hand-
kerchief and, still silent, sat down. Jim looked at the gun as
though uncertain what it was for, then slipped it back into
his pocket.
.. "I wonder,” he said thoughtfully, “just how you intended
to get away with this. After all, a corpse was going to be a bit
difficult to explain, so how did you plan to account for it?"
Probably she had not intended him to know, but her eyes
darted involuntarily toward the window and betrayed her.
“I see. The district attorney, looking among those boxes
for God-knows-what, upsets the pile, and of course with a
crippled arm . . . Yes, it's plausible. Some of those boxes
are quite heavy enough to kill a man if they hit the right spot.
And what about this little prize that I found in the corner?
Naturally, you'd move it somewhere else-your bedroom,
probably-until everyone had finished tramping around up
here. But after that, what?”
She gave no answer so he supplied his own. "Back here, I
suppose, the safest place in the house after the cops had fin-
205


ished with it.” He touched the little box with his shoe. "You
know what this proves, of course. Premeditation. You may
have been acting under a sudden impulse when you pushed
the fuchsia basket, but not in the playhouse. That was de-
liberately planned murder. ... I wish with all my heart
that it didn't have to be you. I'm sorry, because, Perhaps you
can understand why."
His sincerity drew a spark of emotion, briefly apparent,
quickly repressed. She remarked dryly, “You seem very cer-
tain that it was I, a point which I might dispute. As I would
certainly dispute the term. Justice, retribution, even, if you
will, justifiable homicide, but not murder."
"Murder. In the eyes of the law ..."
"Oh, the law!" Fingers of one hand beat a sharp tattoo on
the packing box. She looked down at them, seemingly discon-
certed by their breach of discipline, and drew them back to
rest quietly in her lap. She continued more calmly, “There
was no law to cover the evil that Alicia did, the evil that she
was. No protection for the innocent and helpless except in
her removal."
“Are you certain that Alicia was really evil? She had
faults ..."
"Faults!"
The fingers strayed again. He watched them covertly.
“The faults of a spoiled, over-indulged child. That's all poor
Alicia was, really; a spoiled child who had carried over into
maturity the exaggerated idea of her own importance which
had been fostered in earlier years. In spite of that she could,
when she wished, be charming. Intelligent, still beauti-
ful ..."
Not now rapping out a tattoo, but doubled up and beating
insistently into the palm of the other hand. He hunted for
206


the buttons on your blouse. I suppose you flushed the original
ones down the toilet?"
“Very clever of you, Mr. Sherlock Holmes! Yes, I did.”
"It was Jake's guess, not mine. And suppose Mac hadn't
happened to be in that very convenient spot at that very con-
venient time?”
“Then,” said Mrs. Marpole, scornful of his stupidity, “I'd
have seen to it that Ben was.”
“Jake!" called Hampton.
Jake emerged from the shadows of the hall. "All written
down. You've got too much conscience, Mr. D. A. Just for a
minute there I thought you were going to warn her off and
spoil the show." He stuffed his notebook into a pocket and
advanced firmly upon the secretary. "Come along, baby, come
with Papa.”
Jim followed them out and closed the door. Then, remem-
bering something, he opened it again and went back to pull
off the light as Miss Corbett had requested.
208


There was one of those silences now. He looked up and met
the wise old eyes across the table.
“You are absolutely right,” said Queen Mary, exactly as
though he had spoken. “Bottling it up is poor sense and poor
psychology. We must take it out and look at it.”
Miss Corbett stirred unhappily. "Must we? We could be
so pleasant,” She set her chin. "No, you are right. We have
been cowards."
Jim said vaguely, “Ghosts,” and won a quick, appreciative
look from his wife.
Mrs. Reynolds pounced upon the word. “Ghosts! Precisely.
They will haunt us until we find the courage to lay them, and
one lays a ghost by intelligent examination. Take James,”
She thrust out her beak at that startled gentleman and ac-
cused, “You are plagued by a sense of guilt.”
"Horribly so."
"Why? No, don't tell us, because your answer would
probably be the wrong one. The true reason is because you-
and you, too, Jennie-know that you have only abhorrence
for someone that you believe deserves pity and sympathy.
Therefore, you feel guilty, which," said Queen Mary, with
more candor than courtesy, “is completely idiotic of you be-
cause as a matter of fact you should abhor her. She deserves
no pity, and real understanding by any decent person would
be anything but sympathetic."
“That,” said Katherine with energy, "I have always
sensed,” but Jim and Miss Corbett babbled protests. Mrs.
Reynolds overrode them.
“Of course she is not entirely black; no one ever is. She gen-
uinely loved her mother, and from what I've heard of Augusta
Hinkson the woman deserved it. She had a similar, though
much less intense, affection for Jennifer, and was prepared to
show it in various ways that cost her little, and once did show
2IO


"You can't know that," objected Mrs. Reynolds. “It is only
supposition."
"It's more than that. You see, she had to transfer the clock
mechanism from her own model to the console ..."
“I don't see how,” interrupted Katherine. “I mean, they
aren't just gadgets that you move around; they're part of the
radios they're made for. I shouldn't think they'd work on
anything else."
"You'd be surprised. Hinkle says some of them can start
the coffee and turn on the toaster. No, it can be done all right,
but certainly not by a layman without a lot of preliminary
practice and experimentation. In the first place, you'd have to
know some simple basic principles of electricity. Mabel had
been through high school and probably studied it in physics
class, but if she'd forgotten she could have looked it up in the
encyclopaedia. She had a set of the Britannica; I saw it when
I searched her room. After that, it'd be a matter of intelli-
gence, of which the lady had plenty, and attention to detail.
She'd have to study the mechanism of her radio clock, mem-
making a diagram. Then, take the clock's innards to the play-
house and fit them into the console. It'd take a lot of experi-
menting, especially as she couldn't have the clock face or the
hands for a guide in setting the alarm.”
Miss Corbett looked puzzled. “Really, my dear, I don't see
why not. I should think she would find them such a help.”
"Empty space," Katherine explained, not too lucidly, and
Jim nodded.
“Right. Leave on the dial and no one would know that the
clock's insides were gone. I didn't when I saw the radio. As
a matter of fact, in that particular model she couldn't have
taken off the dial face anyway because it was separate, fast-
ened to the edges of the hole under the glass. Of course, if it
213


had been a question of setting the radio to go on at a given
moment she probably couldn't have done it, but it didn't have
to be so exact. It was convenient that it went on while she was
talking to Mac, but ten or fifteen minutes later wouldn't have
mattered. However, the point is, there was only twenty min-
utes between the row with Alicia and lunch-she was on
time for lunch; I asked—and after lunch she was in her room
packing. I defy any layman to do that job for the first time in
twenty minutes. She must have practiced a lot to have made
the transfer and adjustment so quickly. Many days, prob-
ably ..."
"No," corrected Mrs. Reynolds. “Many nights. When the
rest were in bed and she wouldn't be disturbed. Undoubt-
edly that is why she had the key to the back door of the play-
house."
“Deliberate," murmured Miss Corbett. "Cold-blooded
deliberation. How she must have hated my poor, unhappy
sister."
“Don't,” dryly interposed Mrs. Reynolds, "forget the Hink-
son fortune. Or the trusting old lady in Clayville and the five
thousand-dollar legacy."
Hampton said nothing. He was remembering dreadful
words, spoken not in remorse but in exultation. “I ... beat
in the still-beautiful face. . . . It wasn't beautiful any more,
but bloody and battered, and horrible.” Queen Mary was
right. Mrs. Marpole deserved no pity.
"I think," said Katherine, “that you've really been rather
clever. How did you guess?"
"She had her alibi, so when Jake found the blouse in her
room he thought it was a frame-up. But before then I'd been
wondering if that console could have been doctored in any
way, and I'd been to the playhouse and looked it over. There
were dust marks that showed it had been shoved out from the
214


Miss Corbett took her time to decide. She dispensed an-
other round of tea and buttered herself a muffin. Then she
said calmly, “There is no mystery about it. I turned it off, as
James obviously knows, though I fail to understand how."
His grin was partly for her, partly for the memory of the
late Grandma Hampton. “There was a gap in the story you
told Dave. You were very tired when you came home from
town, so tired that you decided to rest even before setting away
your purchases. You dropped into an easy chair, you remained
there for some twenty minutes, you got up from it. Fine. So
far, all quite normal. But then-you would have us believe-
then after twenty minutes' relaxation in an easy chair, you
are suddenly thrown into a condition of such extreme nervous
excitement that you pace the floor and eventually collapse on
the bed."
"I did not say ..."
"I know. You wouldn't. But that was the idea that you tried
to convey, and it didn't make sense. Something had happened
after you got up from that chair, something which had enor-
mously shocked you, and it wasn't difficult to guess what. You
had gone to the playhouse to have that postponed talk with
Alicia and had found her body."
“Oh, my poor, dear Miss Jennie!” Katherine seldom used
the affectionate diminutive which came so naturally to her
husband. She reached out her hand and Miss Corbett clutched
it gratefully.
"It was horrible-her face—and that dreadful crooner on
the radio. I could not bear that; Alicia would have hated it
so."
Mrs. Reynolds shut her eyes. She, too, had seen that bat-
tered face, heard that final insult of syrup-dripping banalities.
“I knew that she was dead-it was unmistakable-but after-
wards I began to worry that perhaps she hadn't been, that
216


"Oh, Miss Jennie! You might, you just conceivably might
work yourself up to a pitch when you'd commit murder ..."
"Really!"
"... But if you did you'd go into that chin-setting act of
yours and accept the consequences. You'd be very gallant,
very dignified, very much à la Marie Antoinette in a tumbrel.
Even the maddest imagination couldn't picture you trying to
cover up by strangling an innocent youngster.”
Mrs. Reynolds had been following out her own line of
thought. She voiced it now, though cryptically.
“A rotten tree, with rotten branches.”
They stared at her.
“I am referring to the Hinkson family. There must have
been a black spot somewhere, a taint passed down through
generations. Mental unbalance, perhaps. Or a deficiency in
whatever gland it is that makes us decent, normal people. An
undeveloped soul. It must be true, because Hinkson blood
was all that Mabel and Alicia had in common, and yet those
two were so dreadfully, so tragically alike. And then there was
old Thomas, who could not spare a thought for his brother or
his brother's family ..."
Protests assailed her. From Miss Corbett, who pointed out
that her stepmother had been a Hinkson, “And I assure you
dear Gladys was not tainted! The very idea!”—and from Jim
who insisted that the theory of a possible succession of Juke-
like degenerates was pretty well discredited.
"Unless there's been a lot of inbreeding, and not always
then. Anyhow, the Hinksons weren't inbred."
"Besides," Katherine reminded, "we don't know why
Thomas didn't help his brother. Perhaps he tried to and Mat-
thew refused."
“Refuse aid from his own brother? Nonsense! Very well,
Jennie, I concede you Gladys. It's quite possible that this sort
218


of thing skips a generation occasionally which would account
for her being an exception, but you cannot,” said Mrs. Reyn-
olds firmly, “convince me that there was not corruption in
the Hinkson bloodstream. However, the point is not worth an
argument.” She turned to Hampton with one of her rare and
very charming smiles. "We are proud of you, James. Do you
not agree, Jennie, that we have reason to feel proud of
James?"
Miss Corbett gravely nodded. “Very, very proud. I confess
to having had doubts when poor David Turner was forced to
drop out, but I truly believe, my dear, that you carried on
quite as well as he himself could have done."
"David?” Mrs. Reynolds dismissed Corbettsville's efficient
police chief with undeserved contempt. "James has done
better than that; he has been close to equaling his own father!
-Reasonably close. One must not exaggerate- A worthy son
of our most outstanding public servant."
He had received the accolade, and from the queen herself!
He tried to shrug it off with sophisticated nonchalance. He
knew that, instead, he was grinning like a delighted school-
boy.
219


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