Murders for Sale Read online

  Later, sitting in the living room with their drinks, Peter said quietly: “You asked, quite reasonably, why I’m in on this show. And just so that you will know I’m not the murderer in disguise, I’ll try to explain myself—though it isn’t easy.” He hesitated for a moment and then went on slowly as though choosing his words with care. “You know that I teach at the college and that I am trying to train bright young and not-so-young men to be better diplomats, or, shall we say, servants of their country in foreign parts. My actual subject is called “Military Intelligence.” What you don’t know, and neither do very many other people, is that, during the war, I was an O.S.S. officer, and, well, I’ve kept up my interests in crime detection on a peacetime level, ever since. Perhaps, since for some reason I feel I can trust you (and I trust I’ve learned to be a good judge of character, too), I can go as far as to tell you that I still am an army officer on the administrative side. I am technically on leave for this job which is considered by the government to be of considerable importance. And while I don’t somehow feel that our Catherine was an oh-so-beautiful spy, there is always the chance that murder so close to Sutton College could have serious implications. And even if this turns out to be a village affair, as well it might, Thane Carey doesn’t seem to mind my being in on it under the circumstances.”

  Fredericka looked at him directly. “I appreciate your confidence in me, Peter,” she said simply. “I—well, I do realize that I’ve not been much help to date, but I think I can honestly say that I’m far more afraid of uncertainty and black magic than I am of facts, no matter how horrible they are. I’m grateful to you for giving them to me and—well—for offering me the job of Watson to your Holmes. I’ll try to be of some use. And now I’m going to sleep on this—thanks again to you.”

  “Good girl.” Peter smiled and as she stood up, he did too. “Not scared of bears chasing you up the stairs, are you?” he asked.

  “Not when the army is within hail,” she answered, and then said: “What time do you want breakfast?”

  “Six-thirty.”

  “Good grief. Well, I’m not quite so sure now that I like being a female Watson, and you may have to thump on the ceiling at six.”

  “O.K. I want to get away from here before your Chris or friend Carey arrive. I’d never hear the last of this.” He fished in his pocket awkwardly. “I picked this up when I got my toothbrush.” He handed her a small book. “You can borrow it for a very limited time. It’s my bible but it—well, it sort of explains things.”

  Fredericka took the book from him, and sensing that he did not want to say more, muttered a quick “Thanks” and “Good night,” and started up the stairs.

  But, once more, Peter called her back. “What was worrying you so much when I found you and your pals in the drugstore?”

  “Oh that—I tried to tell you before—I had just decided that the box must belong to Catherine, but that’s ancient history now.”

  “Yes, but you score again for deduction. Good night.”

  “Good night,” Fredericka said once more and, this time, succeeded in leaving him.

  As she undressed slowly, the memory of her evening’s encounter with James faded. It was good to know that Peter was in the house and within call. So it was Murder. It was true that she had known it all along. She had felt it in the very atmosphere, even before she had seen Catherine’s face as she lay dead in the hammock.

  Fredericka got into bed determined not to take another pill—to think of nothing—to let her mind slip easily into unconsciousness—to feel secure and at peace for this blessed protected night. But when she had put out the light, her thoughts raced madly around the problems and strange happenings of this new life. How different it had proved from what she had expected and how different, too, from the apartment-to-library and library-back-to-apartment routine that had been her whole existence for the last ten years of her life. She tossed and turned, felt hot, then cold. And inevitably, she began to think about Peter Mohun—and to wish that it had been he who had wanted to kiss her. The thought embarrassed her and she blushed hotly in the darkness: Until this moment she had deliberately avoided all thought of him as a man. He had been her kind friend, he was now her Sherlock Holmes and, for the time being, her watch dog. She must not, must not, must not, think of him in any other way…

  There had been no one in her life since Stephen Good who had married someone else. She had always persuaded herself that Stephen had been the only love of her life—that there would never, could never, be anyone else. But she had been a child then, barely twenty. For fifteen long years since then, she had lived on this belief. But was that only because the men she had met afterwards had failed to “capture her imagination” as he had done? Somewhere she had read that it was this, more than anything else that turned friendship to love. And Peter Mohun—there was no doubt about it—Peter Mohun was a man to capture the imagination, and stir the sleeping heart. But how did Peter Mohun feel? Was he a man of steel and flint like the heroes created by her Victorian novelists? He had been married, she knew, and divorced, if one could count on town gossip. But she must not think of love. She must not allow herself to spoil a friendship that promised so much.

  This firm resolution taken, Fredericka turned over so that she could look out to the luminous night sky and its pinpricks of light, like the lovely star pattern of her quilt. She must do something about that quilt tomorrow. She turned her back on the night. But still sleep would not come.

  And then she remembered the book. She had carried it upstairs after Peter had given it to her and had put it on the bed table. But from that moment to this, she had forgotten it. She sat up, turned on the light, and opened the book to the title page. Spycatcher by Oreste Pinto. She turned the leaves slowly and presently came to a pencilled passage:

  The potential spy-catcher needs at least ten qualities, seven of which he must be born with and three of which can be acquired by his own efforts.

  1. Phenomenal memory.

  2. Great patience and regard for detail.

  3. Gift for languages.

  4. Knowledge of practical psychology.

  5. Courage.

  6. Baedeker-like knowledge of the capitals and important towns in Europe.”

  Beside this item Peter had scribbled, “or the U.S.A. for that matter.”

  7. Thorough knowledge of international law.

  8. Must be born actor.

  9. Gift of detection (in many ways this is a highly developed sense of logic).

  10. A practical experience of previous dodges.

  Fredericka studied this list with interest. Obviously to track down the murderer of Catherine Clay was well within the province of the spy-catcher and indeed could be considered essential training under several of these heads. As if to underline this, Fredericka came on another marked passage:

  “The task of counter-intelligence in peace or war is similar to that of the police. It is, first of all, to prevent spying and acts of treachery against the well-being of the state, and, secondly, if such acts are committed, to trace and arrest the person responsible.”

  Well, Fredericka thought, that seems to make everything crystal clear. No wonder Thane Carey lets him in on his local excitement. No wonder. She picked up the book again and went on through it carefully, giving especial attention to the marked passages. By the time she was ready for sleep, it was well after two A.M., and, as she reached to turn out the light one thought emerged from her reading. It was evident—more than evident, since this book was his bible, that Colonel Peter Mohun, U.S.A., was a dedicated man. It would be wise, therefore, for Fredericka Wing to remember this, and to stop romancing. From this sound, if somewhat sad, reflection, she was at last released by sleep.

  Fredericka was awakened by a curious thumping noise that for some moments set her heart beating wildly and made her sit bolt upright in the half darkness. Then she heard a muffled voice:

  “Fredericka, FREDERICKA WING—are you dead, too?”

  Pet
er. Of course. She reached over the side of the bed and banged on the floor with the heel of her bedslipper.

  Silence.

  Fredericka got up quickly and went to the head of the stairs to call down the advice that she would appear in ten minutes.

  She did it, too, and won a smile of approval from her self-appointed boss whom she found busy in the kitchen.

  “I didn’t read in your book that spy-catchers had to be cooks.”

  “Oh, but that goes without saying. Scratch meals under difficulties. And,” he hesitated, and then went on quickly, “as you may have gathered they have to do without wives.”

  Fredericka said nothing in reply to this. Since she had gathered as much from her reading, she didn’t think it necessary or even very polite to have it announced with a megaphone, and at such an early hour in the morning.

  She managed to say nothing, however, and, after a few moments, Peter went on cheerfully: “So you’ve read my bible? What did you think of it?”

  “I think, as the author himself suggests, that your job is: one, inhuman, and two, thankless.”

  “How right you are. Clever Fredericka. I’ll graduate you cum laude before I finish with you.”

  “Thanks. Am I allowed to fry the bacon?” Fredericka asked a little stiffly.

  “Granted.” Peter answered, darting her a quick sideways glance.

  A moment later she said: “I’ve learned lesson number one—the one contained in your bible—so you can take your book home now. If it’s so desperately important, you may miss it.”

  Peter began to whistle tunelessly and Fredericka’s annoyance evaporated. By the time they sat down at the table by the kitchen window, she was able to laugh happily, and to enjoy their early morning meal during which they did not once mention murder, marriage or allied subjects. For that hour they talked only of unimportant and pleasant things, and for that hour, they were both content.

  Chapter 10

  Promptly at nine o’clock on that Wednesday morning of the week following the death of Catherine Clay, Chief Carey put in his appearance at the bookshop. He was very official and businesslike and it was obvious that he had expected to have to rouse Fredericka as he had on his first visit. He was therefore somewhat taken aback to find her hard at work. And, for Fredericka, his arrival was a distinct anticlimax.

  It had been seven-thirty, or shortly after, when Peter had left, and the hour and a half since then had dragged away slowly. She had given Chris his coffee when he appeared at eight and had tried to talk to him but he had been quiet and uncommunicative. After several abortive attempts to find out what people were saying in the village, Fredericka decided that it would be best to give up this early morning attempt to be Dr. Watson and put Chris on to the attack on the shrubbery as a way to work off his obvious anxieties.

  Fredericka had then gone back into the house and wondered what to do next. Hours ago it seemed, she had washed the breakfast dishes and straightened the office so that all evidence of her night’s visitor had been removed. Now, with Chris at work in the yard, the long day lay ahead and the kitchen clock said definitely that it was only a few minutes past eight. Work had been the answer for Chris, very well then, she would take the medicine she had so readily prescribed. She would forget the whirling merry-go-round of evil happenings in which she had been caught, she would even forget Peter Mohun. Yes. She would tackle the last issue of the Publisher’s Weekly and check through it for orders.

  But though she managed to look busy, the medicine wasn’t working. The pages blurred before her eyes, a fly buzzed angrily against the window screen, and she was acutely aware that she was very short of sleep. If ever this wretched business was over—but she must get to work at something. Thane Carey would be coming. She couldn’t go back to bed at this hour. And then, scarcely aware what she was doing, she reached for a large pad of clean yellow paper. Her pencil hung over it for a moment and then wrote the word Suspects. After that the list of names followed easily. It began, inevitably with Catherine’s immediate family. Mrs. Sutton? Could anyone be less likely? And yet might she not have killed Catherine to save her from herself? Roger? Possible, and by his own evidence he had hated his sister and for good reason. Philippine? Equally possible, but why? She might have wanted to marry James and it had certainly looked that way. Yes, and James obviously had the same idea in mind, but Philippine would never have needed to murder Catherine to achieve this when James was as good as hooked already. James? As she wrote his name, she saw again his sensuous face. A very likely suspect but she mustn’t be prejudiced by her own personal feelings about him. In the bright light of day she was able to persuade herself that James Brewster had probably wanted nothing more than a little evening’s entertainment. Well, perhaps he got it with Philippine. Yes, he certainly had preferred Philippine to Catherine but surely a man like James could slip out of any entanglement—unless, of course, he was secretly married to Catherine. That was an interesting idea for Dr. Watson to suggest to Sherlock Holmes. Yes. And James had seen Catherine dead and had not told anyone. Mrs. Hartwell? Very unlikely. A gossip and a busybody—possibly as a cover-up, though, for the real Mrs. Hartwell. She could be spiteful and scheming. It showed in her face. But what motive except the universal hate? Margie?—

  Fredericka put down her pencil and stared at the backs of the books on the shelf over the desk. Margie had hated Catherine. This was an undeniable fact. Margie had been distraught and difficult all week. And, it was Margie who had given the warning on the night the body had been found. No one had paid much attention when she had fairly screamed it out during the bazaar supper but it was worth remembering now. Margie was emotionally unstable—the kind of girl who, when she was younger, must have run away from home; and who now in adolescence might do anything spectacular and theatrical in order to draw attention to herself. It was most likely Margie who had come snooping about the night before last. But murder. No. It wasn’t possible.

  Fredericka now shifted her gaze to the yellow pad and the list of names that she had written down. She could go on adding to it forever, of course, since anyone in the village had opportunity and Catherine Clay was not loved. No, it would not be difficult to find motives. She picked up the pencil and wrote Chris? It could be guilt or some secret knowledge or just plain fear, that had so changed him in these last few days. What motive could he have had unless Catherine had something on him? Something to do with her dope supply perhaps? But how in tunket could he get poison into vitamin capsules? No, it was more likely that Chris knew something that he was afraid to tell. She stared down at the block of paper before her. Yellow. “Yellow jessamine,” Peter had said. Surely that was a flower of some sort. And wasn’t that the kind of thing that one would find in the Farm laboratory? That meant—but did it? She’d have to ask Peter about this. Anyone could have gone into the lab when the place was deserted as it often was with Margie gallivanting about town and Philippine and Roger more often than not off after wild herbs. And it probably would take less skill than practice to get the poison into the capsules. Peter hadn’t said anything about yellow jessamine being a likely product of the Farm lab. But perhaps it had been too obvious to mention. Perhaps he had wanted her to think this bright thought for herself.

  It was at this moment that Thane Carey arrived. He walked in the front door quietly and without knocking. Fredericka tried to slip the telltale yellow pad under the open copy of the Publisher’s Weekly without being too obvious about it. Peter had given her specific instructions. She was not to let Thane Carey know that she had had advance information. Peter had said, moreover, that he wanted her position as Watson to be a secret one for the time being. Understandable. But Fredericka knew herself to lack one of the spy-catcher’s most essential qualities. She was not a born actor. Fortunately, on this occasion, Chief Carey did not give her a severe test. His suspicions and thoughts were elsewhere.

  “Good morning,” Fredericka greeted him. She swung around to turn her back on the desk.

  “Go
od morning,” he said quickly. “I’m sorry to barge in on you like this but we all got the habit with Lucy Hartwell who, for some reason, didn’t like knocking.”

  “It’s quite all right. I’m getting used to it now,” Fredericka answered, trying not to show the relief she felt at his lack of interest in what she had been doing.

  “I won’t keep you long. May I call you Fredericka, since everyone else does? It—well, it makes me feel less like the chief of police, and I’m afraid I’ve got to be just that, at any rate for the time being.” He coughed a little self-consciously.

  “Of course, do, Thane. But—but what do you mean?”

  “Catherine Clay was murdered,” he announced quietly.

  And, as he spoke, it was not difficult for Fredericka to look startled. Foreknowledge had not erased the grim fact. The fear and horror remained. She said nothing, but there was no need, and, after a moment, Thane went on to tell her about the poisoned capsules, the manner of death and all the other details which she had already learned from Peter. When he had summarized the facts, he stopped for a moment and then said a little sharply; “You’ve still got that box?”

  “Yes. It’s right here.” Fredericka opened the drawer a little apprehensively and, to her relief, found the box. She handed it to Thane.

  “This object itself isn’t much use to me. But there are so many puzzling things about it,” he said as if to himself.

  “Did you find any fingerprints before you gave it to me?” Fredericka asked.

  “Only Catherine Clay’s. My man picked it up with a handkerchief most carefully but there wasn’t even another smudge.”

  “Then you must have known it was Catherine’s when you gave it to me to find out—I don’t quite understand.”

  “We thought it must be hers but we were really looking for people’s reactions to the sight of the box,” Thane explained.

  “I see,” Fredericka said, “and you didn’t want to tell me too much just then…”