I had tracked down most of the alibis. Anyone could have put sleeping pills in Mildred Brexton’s coffee except Randan who was in Boston that day. The two Claypooles and Brexton knew where the sleeping pills were located. Miss Lung could not have known. Mrs. Veering might have known since she was undoubtedly one of those hostesses who enjoy snooping around their guests’ possessions.
Alibis for the second murder were all somewhat hazy, excepting Allie’s and Brexton’s; if they had really been together at the time of the murder, it either ruled them both out as murderers or, worse, ruled them in as joint killers for reasons unknown … at least in her case. Mrs. Veering had no alibi nor did Miss Lung. Randan did; he was at the Club. Who then, logically, was in the best position, motive aside, to have committed both murders, allowing of course that all alibis were truthful?
The answer was appalling but inevitable: Mrs. Veering.
I dropped the soap and spent several minutes chasing it around the bathtub while my mind began to adjust to this possibility.
Of all the suspects she alone had no alibi for either murder … other than a possible claim of ignorance as to the whereabouts of the various bottles of sleeping pills. If Brexton and Allie were not joint murderers, then the only person left who might have killed both Mildred and Claypoole was Mrs. Veering who, as far as I knew, had no motive.
The thought of motives depressed me. The “how” of any murder is usually a good deal simpler than the “why.” These people were all strangers to me and I had no way of knowing what tensions existed between them, what grievances were hidden from the outside world. But at least Greaves and I were in the same boat. He didn’t know any more than I did about the people involved. He had the advantage though of a direct mind: Brexton was quarreling with his wife. Brexton killed his wife. Claypoole threatens to expose him out of love for the dead woman. Brexton kills Claypoole, using his own knife which he thoughtfully leaves beside the body to amuse the police.
At that point. I ruled Brexton out. He hadn’t done the murder. I had a hunch, though, that if anyone knew who had done it, he did. Meanwhile, there was the problem of motives to sort out and Mrs. Veering was now my primary target. She would be a slippery customer since, even at best, she didn’t make much sense.
I was just pulling on my trousers when Mary Western Lung threw the door between our two rooms open and stood before me, eyes burning with lust and bosom heaving. I realized too late that the bureau which I had placed between our connecting door had been moved to its original position by some meddling servant.
With great dignity I zipped my fly. “You were looking for me, Miss Lung?”
She pretended embarrassment and surprise, her eagle eyes not missing a trick. “I don’t know what I’m doing, honestly!” She moved purposefully forward. I pulled my jacket on and shoved a chair between us, all in one dazzling play.
“Sit down, Miss Lung.”
“My friends call me Mary Western,” she said, sinking disappointedly into the chair. “I was so immersed in ‘Book-Chat’ that, when I finished, instead of going out of the door to the hall I just barged.” She gave a wild squeak which was disconcerting … it was obviously intended to reproduce a ripple of gay laughter at her own madcap derring-do: it was awful.
I mumbled something about the perils of authorship.
“But of course you would understand. By the way I read with great interest your account of our tragedies in the Globe. I had no idea you were a past master of the telling phrase.”
“Thanks.” I tied my tie.
“But I think you should have consulted some of us before you went ahead. There are wheels within wheels, Mr. Sargeant.”
“I’m sure of that.”
“Yes, wheels within wheels,” she repeated relishing her own telling phrase.
Then she got to the point. “I must tell you that I do not altogether agree with your diagnosis of the case.”
“Diagnosis?”
She nodded. “It was perfectly clear from your piece in the Globe … between the lines, that is … that you feel Brexton did not kill either his wife or Fletcher.…”
“And you feel he did?”
“I didn’t say that.” She was quick, surprisingly so. “But, in the light of what evidence there is, I don’t see any basis for your confidence.”
“I’m hardly confident … anyway, it was, as you say, between the lines.”
“Perfectly true but I thought I should talk to you about it if only because you might, without meaning to of course, make trouble for the rest of us.”
“I don’t.…”
“I mean, Mr. Sargeant, that if Brexton did not do the murders then one of us must have … it’s perfectly simple.”
“That’s logical. I had even thought that far ahead myself.”
She was impervious to irony. “And if it is one of us, we are all apt to be dragged very deep into an unpleasant investigation which might seriously affect us all, personally and professionally. You follow me?”
I said that I did. I also said that I could hardly see what the famous author of “Book-Chat” had to fear from an investigation.
“No more perhaps than the rest of us who are innocent … and no less.” She was mysterious. She was also plainly uneasy.
“I’m afraid we’re all in for it anyway,” I said, sounding practical. “I don’t think my reporting makes much difference one way or another. We’re all in for some rough questioning … that is, if Brexton doesn’t confess or something dramatic happens.”
“Why make it worse? I’m convinced he killed Mildred.…”
“You weren’t orginally.”
“Only because I couldn’t believe that such a thing had happened, could happen. Now my only hope is to see this thing quickly ended and Brexton brought to justice. He was tempted … God knows: I know. Mildred had not been herself for a year. She was becoming simply impossible. The night before she died she got hysterical … at darling Rose, of all people, and attacked her with a knife … the very same knife Brexton used to kill Fletcher. Oh, it was terrible! Her attacking Rose I mean. Rose screamed: it woke us all up, remember? and then of course Brexton came rushing in and stopped.…”
I was now listening with, I must confess, my mouth open with surprise. I didn’t want to arrest her incoherent flow for fear she might clam up; at the same time I knew that what she was saying was extremely important.
When she paused for breath, I asked with affected calm, “That’s right, Mildred and Mrs. Veering stayed in the drawing room after we went up to bed, didn’t they?”
“Why yes … that’s when the quarrel started. Rose told me about it later. Brexton had gone to bed and I suppose Rose was scolding Mildred about her behavior when Mildred just lost her head and rushed at her with a knife … poor darling! Rose was out of her mind with terror. She screamed and Brexton came rushing in and slapped Mildred. It was the only thing to do when she was in one of her passions. Then he took her off to bed and Rose came upstairs, telling us not to worry … you remember that.”
“I wonder how Mildred happened to have the knife … it’s a kind of palette knife, isn’t it … in the drawing room?”
Miss Lung shrugged. “With a madwoman, you never know. Rose of course was positive Mildred wanted to kill her. She has been like that for years about many people and we’ve always humored her … I mean you know how Rose is: impulsive, and of course her little vice doesn’t make for one hundred per-cent rationality, does it? But it seems that this time Rose was right and Mildred did attack her.…”
“Why?”
“That is none of our business,” said Miss Lung coldly. “But I will say that they were great friends before her breakdown. Rose was loyal to her afterwards when many people didn’t want to have her around. She even invited them here for the week end so that Mildred might have a chance to relax and get a grip on herself. Then of course the girl attacks her. It’s hardly fair. My point is that things like that are no one’s business but Rose’s … they shou
ldn’t be written about by gossip columnists, especially since I’m convinced the whole terrible thing is really very simple. I only hope the police act quickly before.…”
“Before another incident? another murder?”
She looked almost frightened. “No, I didn’t mean that exactly.” But she wouldn’t go on. “I hope we’re not too late for dinner.” She made a production out of studying the heart-shaped gold watch she wore on a chain over her heart. Then, talking “Book-Chat,” we went downstairs and joined the other guests.
Greaves sat in the center of the sofa, looking like an unsuccessful experiment in taxidermy. He had changed to a blue serge suit which smelled of mothballs and was strewn with lint like snow upon a midnight clear. He was being a member of the party tonight, not a policeman and he was, figuratively speaking, watching every fork. The others played along as though he were an old friend. No mention was made of the murders. The conversation was forced but general. Brexton was in excellent form which, considering the fact his head was well in the noose, was surprising. I wondered if he was saving up a surprise or two.
I found out one significant bit of news right off; Mrs. Veering, over the martini tray, said: “Poor Allie is still unconscious. I’m sick with worry about her.”
“Hasn’t she come to at all?”
“Oh yes, regularly … it’s only the dope which keeps her out. You see, when she comes to, she starts to rave! It’s simply horrible. We’re so helpless … there’s nothing anyone can do except pray.”
“Have you seen her?”
“No, they won’t let anybody in except the doctor, and the nurse. I have demanded a consultation and I think perhaps they’ll have to have one. Mr. Randan’s agreed of course as the next of kin.”
“Consultation?”
“To see what’s wrong with her.”
“You mean.…”
“She may have lost her reason.” And on that cheerful note, we went in to dinner.
I remember looking about the table that night with some care. The odds were that the murderer was among us, quietly eating stewed tomatoes and lobster Newburg. But which one? Brexton was the calmest, no doubt banking heavily on that perfect alibi: if he was telling the truth, and we’d soon know from Allie Claypoole herself, he would be safe … unless of course the business was even more bizarre than any of us suspected and the two of them, like the Macbeths, had together done in her beloved brother for reasons too lurid for the family trade.
Just as the dessert was brought in, Mrs. Veering, with a strange bland smile, got to her feet and pitched head forward onto the table.
There was a stunned silence. Her tumbler landed on the thick carpet with a hollow sound. Flowers from the center-place splattered everywhere.
Miss Lung shrieked: a thin pale noise like a frightened lovebird.
The rest of us sat frozen in our chairs while Greaves leaped from his chair and pulled her chair back from the table. “Don’t anybody move,” he said.
II
But this was not the crisis he or anyone had anticipated. The butler came rushing in with digitalis and Mrs. Veering recovered sufficiently to say, with a ghastly parody of her social smile, “I’ll be all right … heart … bed.”
She was carried upstairs and the trained nurse undressed her while Greaves ordered a doctor.
Our ever diminishing party then sat rigidly about the drawing room, drinking brandy and waiting for Greaves who, with one of his plain-clothes men, was investigating Mrs. Veering’s glass, her food, the table, the servants.
Miss Lung was the most affected. I was afraid she might have a stroke herself. “Poor Rose! Knew it would … told her … never listens … the strain, the awful strain … can’t be helped … everything possible, always, from the very beginning … alcohol.…”
Greaves joined us within the hour. He seemed genuinely puzzled. “Mrs. Veering is all right, we’re happy to report. She has a cardiac condition, a chronic one. She had an attack and.…”
“Drugged!” Miss Lung looked at him, her eyes wide and glassy. “I know she was drugged … like poor Mildred, or worse: poison!”
This is what we had all been thinking.
Greaves, without hesitation, went to the table where the whisky was kept and, regulations or no regulations, poured himself a stiff drink.
Then he joined our tense circle. “She was not drugged and she was not poisoned. She is resting comfortably. Her doctor is with her now. She may have to stay in bed a day or two but that’s all.”
There was nothing for us to say. Miss Lung obviously did not believe him. The rest of us didn’t know what to think. “No one can see her until tomorrow,” said Greaves just as Miss Lung got purposefully to her feet.
“Rose is my oldest friend and when she is in her hour of need I must go to her, come what may.” The authoress of Little Biddy Bit looked every yard a heroine.
“I’m sorry but I can’t allow it.” Greaves was firm. Miss Lung sat down heavily, her face lowering with anger. Greaves looked at the rest of us thoughtfully.
“This is going to be a difficult night,” he said. “I will tell you right off that we’re waiting for Miss Claypoole to recover and give us her story of what happened the night of her brother’s murder. Until we have her testimony, we can do nothing but wait.”
Awkward silence greeted his candor. Everyone knew what he meant. No one said anything: no one dared look at Brexton who sat doodling with a pencil on a sketch pad. I half expected him to say something out of line but he ignored Greaves.
“Meanwhile,” said Greaves with an attempt at heartiness, “you can do anything you like. We’d prefer for you to stay here but we can’t force you, exactly. Should you want to go out, please check with me or with one of the men on duty. I know all this is unusual procedure but we’re in an unusual situation without much precedent to go on. It is my hope, however, that we will be able to call a special court by Friday.”
“What is a special court?” asked Brexton, not raising his eyes from the sketch pad on his knees.
“It’s a court consisting of the local magistrate and a local jury before whom our district attorney will present an indictment of a party or parties as yet unknown for the crime of murder in the first degree.” He gathered strength from this legal jargon. It was properly chilling.
Then, having made his effect, he announced that if anyone needed him he could be found in the downstairs bedroom; he went off to bed.
I went over and sat down beside Brexton, feeling sorry for him … also curious to find out what it was that made him seem so confident.
He put the book down. “Quiet week end, isn’t it?” This wasn’t in the best of taste but it was exactly what I’d been thinking, too.
“Only four left,” I said, nodding. “In the war we would’ve said it was a jinx company.”
“I’m sure it is too. But actually it’s six surviving, not four, which isn’t bad for a tough engagement.”
“Depends how you reckon casualties. Has Mrs. Veering had heart attacks before? like this?”
“Yes. This is the third one I know of. She just turns blue and they give her some medicine; then she’s perfectly all right in a matter of minutes.”
“Minutes? But she seemed really knocked out. The doctor said she’ll have to stay in bed a day or two.”
Brexton smiled. “Greaves said the doctor said she’d have to stay in bed.”
This sank in, bit by bit. “Then she … well, she’s all right now?”
“I shouldn’t be surprised.”
“But why the bluff? Why wouldn’t Greaves let anybody go to her? Why would he say she’d be in bed a few days?”
“Something of a mystery, isn’t it?”
“Doesn’t make any sense.”
Brexton sighed. “Maybe it does. Anyway, for some reason, she wants to play possum … so let her.”
“It’s also possible that she might have had a worse attack than usual, isn’t it?”
“Anything is possible with R
ose.” If he was deliberately trying to arouse my curiosity he couldn’t have been more effective.
“Tell me, Mr. Brexton,” I spoke quietly, disarmingly, “who killed your wife?”
“No one.”
“Are you sure of this?”
“Quite sure.”
“Then, by the same reasoning, Claypoole hit himself on the head, dragged his own body through the sand and cut his own head half off with your palette knife.”
Brexton chuckled. “Stranger things have happened.”
“Like what?”
“Like your knocking yourself out the other morning in the kitchen.”
“And what about that? That I know wasn’t self-inflicted.”
Brexton only smiled.
“Your wife killed herself?”
“By accident, yes.”
“Claypoole.…”
“Was murdered.”
“Do you know who did it?”
“I didn’t.”
“But do you know who did?”
Brexton shrugged. “I have some ideas.”
“And you won’t pass them on?”
“Not yet.”
I felt as if we were playing twenty questions. From across the room came the high squeal of Miss Lung appreciatively applauding some remark of our young historian.
I tried a frontal attack. “You realize what the police will think if Allie Claypoole testifies that she was, as you say, with you when her brother died?”
“What will they think?” His face was expressionless.
“That perhaps the two of you together killed him.”
He looked at me coolly. “Why would they think that? She was devoted to him. Look the way this thing hit her. The poor child went out of her head when they told her.”
“They might say her breakdown was due to having killed her own brother.”
“They might, but why?”
“They still think you killed your wife. They think Claypoole had something on you. They think you killed him. If Allie says you were with her then they’ll immediately think she was involved too.”