Murders for Sale Page 18

  “Why did you feel you had to get his permission?”

  “I don’t know exactly,” Fredericka said slowly. “I guess it was just that he had told me about it—well, he didn’t really say anything more than that he’d found some curious oddments about the place. But I thought when I found Margie’s junk that that was what he meant. I suppose it’s because I’m Watson, well trained by Holmes, that I didn’t want to get rid of it just because he did know about it. It could have been a plant or something.”

  “Good girl,” he muttered. He looked at his watch. “Your nurse gave me one hour and I think I hear an ominous starched rustle outside, so I’m going before I’m chucked out.” He stood up and then leaped over and kissed her lightly on the forehead. “I repeat,” he said softly, “good girl—but perhaps just a little silly, my dear Watson.”

  Fredericka again turned away toward the wall to hide the tiresome tears. Then at the door, Peter stopped in his flight to say: “Fredericka, you must rest and sleep and eat. Your arm and leg will slow you up for a bit but you’re absolutely O.K., and we hope to get you back to work in a day or two. I ought to say ‘Forget this nightmare,’ but I know you can’t forget it, and so, selfishly, I want to say just the opposite. Try to remember everything. Think of every damn little incident. When you remembered Chris’s stamps and those letters, you gave me a most valuable clue. So, as you lie here, please think over every moment of every day since you’ve been here. And think especially of last Sunday night—every miserable inch of it.”

  “I will, Peter,” Fredericka said quietly. “Anyway I’ll try.” Then a sudden thought occurred to her. “That clue. Did you find out anything in Washington?”

  “Yes, something, but not enough. I know who murdered Catherine Clay—who probably murdered Margie, and who attacked you and Philippine. Oh yes, I know all right. But I haven’t proof. It’s there you can help me.”

  “Peter. If you know, why don’t you tell me? I could think it out much better if I knew what I was trying to find.”

  “No. I don’t think so. You’d invent things—not intentionally, but because you’d be cutting off toes to make the slipper fit, like Cinderella’s sisters. Besides, you haven’t got a poker face, my dear Fredericka, and I don’t want you to be attacked again. Another time it might be more successful. Anyway, we’re going to keep you here under guard just in case. You see, the murderer must feel, just as I do, that there’s probably something important you might remember. I’m sorry, but the rule is NO VISITORS.”

  “What are you, then?” Fredericka asked, a little crossly. All her annoyances seemed suddenly to be of major importance. This secrecy, her own tendency to tears, her helpless heavy arm and foot, and now her imprisonment, and all this officiousness.

  “I’m Police, and very special.” Peter grinned: “And I’ll probably bother you a lot. If you have any inspirations, though, please get the nurse to call the station, and they’ll have instructions to relay the good news to me. And I—wherever I am—will come loping over here with all possible speed—”

  “Now that’s something to look forward to,” Fredericka grumbled. She was still annoyed with Peter and the world, and her head had begun to ache again.

  Peter Mohun made no attempt to reply. But he was still smiling as he turned quickly and disappeared.

  Fredericka lay still listening to the hollow sound of his footsteps as he walked away down the corridor. Hasn’t got on his Silent Sleuth shoes today, she thought. But no less pleased with himself, and mysterious. Well, he can do his own thinking…

  An hour later Fredericka opened her eyes to see the nurse bending over her.

  “You’ve had a nice little sleep. And now a good wash and then I’ll bring your lunch.”

  Fredericka’s head still throbbed dully, but she managed, with the nurse’s help, to raise herself to a sitting position. Then, as the woman bustled around and fussed over her she began to feel better.

  “You’ve washed away my headache, and, I hope, my bad temper,” Fredericka said at last.

  “You’ve a right to headache, bad temper, whatever you like,” the nurse said surprisingly. “I guess the town’ll stop their silly gossip now. Or perhaps they’ll say you bashed yourself over the head and threw yourself down the well. I wouldn’t put it past them. Well now, I’ll just get you some food. Hungry?” When Fredericka nodded a little uncertainly, the woman whisked off and Fredericka watched her wide retreating back. Then she leant back on her pillows feeling spoilt and grateful. Murders, South Sutton, even the bookshop seemed very far away.

  “Miss Sanders,” the woman announced as she put down the tray, on her return.

  “I’m Fredericka Wing.”

  The nurse laughed. “Oh, you don’t need to tell me that. Now you just eat your lunch. Here, I’ll cut up your salad for you. Not very ladylike, perhaps, but it’s easier that way until you get used to managing with one hand, or perhaps I should say a hand and a half.”

  Fredericka made no reply because all at once she had begun to think. The murders, South Sutton, the bookshop—and Peter—had come back into the quiet room. She frowned down at her food in her abstraction. When at last she looked up again, Miss Sanders had turned away from the bed and was straightening things in the room.

  “I’m sorry, Miss Sanders, I never said a word of thanks and you are so very kind. I’m supposed to try to remember everything that’s happened to me and, all at once, I began to—”

  “It’s a lucky thing you are alive to remember,” the woman said firmly. “No thanks to the police that you are,” she added darkly. “I can’t think what they were up to, leaving you unprotected like that.”

  This reminded Fredericka of the woman’s earlier disapproving remarks and she asked: “There was something you said a while ago about people in the town. Is it true then that they thought I was the murderess?”

  “Oh yes. And the stories they told. You wouldn’t believe it. Just because you didn’t happen to be a native.”

  “I should think that there were plenty of people who would answer to that description. The students, the faculty, Catherine Clay herself—and Philippine and Roger Sutton, for that matter.”

  “The students and the teachers don’t count. Catherine Clay and Philippine and Roger—they’re all attached to the Sutton family whether they live here or not. They’re rated as natives all right—but you are a real outsider.”

  “Oh—dear—”

  “Now don’t fret yourself. No one suspects you now unless they’re all lunatics. And I expect when you’re up and about again, you won’t even feel like an outsider any more. It usually takes more time, but I daresay all this fuss has speeded things up a bit.”

  “Aren’t you a native, then?” Fredericka asked.

  “Good gracious no. I’ve only been here five years next March.” They both laughed and then, when Fredericka again became silent and thoughtful, Miss Sanders picked up the tray quietly and started for the door. Suddenly Fredericka sat bolt upright and started to put her foot out on to the floor until its heaviness reminded her that she couldn’t. Then she fairly shouted at the retreating figure. “Nurse. Oh, Miss Sanders.”

  The woman turned round and the china on the tray clinked ominously. “Good gracious, you startled me. Whatever is the matter?” she asked a little abruptly.

  “Please will you telephone the police station and ask them to get a message to Colonel Mohun. It’s most important. I want him to come and see me at once. I—I’ve just thought of something.”

  For a moment Miss Sanders struggled with an overwhelming desire to know what that something could be. Then training and character won, and she said, quietly, “Yes, Miss Wing. Right away as soon as I can drop this tray and get to the telephone.”

  “Thanks—oh, thanks,” Fredericka said, and then couldn’t resist adding: “You will hurry, won’t you?” But fortunately Miss Sanders had already left the room.

  Chapter 15

  As Peter Mohun walked away from Fredericka’s ro
om down the long corridor that smelt of soap and disinfectant, the smile disappeared and a look of concentration took its place. Outside, he stopped for a moment in the shade of a giant maple to light a cigarette—then he walked on slowly and climbed into his car. As he drove back toward South Sutton, the sun beat down on the canvas top of the old Ford and beads of perspiration stood out on his forehead. He kept his right hand on the wheel and fished for his handkerchief with his left. Then he absently mopped his head and neck, but the look of concentration did not leave his face.

  It was just as he was approaching the town along Beech Street and was about to stop at the police station that the inspiration came to him. He did not stop. Instead he went on at breakneck speed to Miss Hartwell’s bookshop, drove the car around into the alley, and parked it quietly. He noted with satisfaction that there was no one else about as he got out quickly, walked along until he found Margie’s foxhole, eased his large body through the gap, and went straight to the old greenhouse.

  Inside it was very hot. The sun’s rays were now directly overhead and the nearest tree offered little shade. Peter went back to prop open the door with a stone and then began systematically to explore every inch of the floor and walls. Finding nothing of interest except a large collection of empty jars, he picked up each of the two bottles and the jar on the shelf, observed the name on the label, then opened and smelled each one, and returned it to its place. They were all standard brand products labelled and heavily perfumed. He stood still and stared at the shelf. Between the two bottles was a greasy ring that showed plainly in the dust. Peter took the jar and found that it was smaller than the ring. His look of concentration increased as he searched about for the right jar and found none. He then looked at the makeup kit which was also revealing. Finally he dispensed with the pile of comics and the letters. They were all much alike. One was headed “Perfection Beauty Creams Company,” with an address in Chicago. He read:

  Dear Miss Hartwell

  In reply to your recent inquiry, we judge from what you say of your case, that our cream number 43 is exactly what you need. We are sending a small sample jar under separate cover but beg to advise that in a serious condition, as you describe yours to be, you will need a large jar and constant application. We shall be happy to send this at once post free on receipt of check or money order for three dollars.

  Yours very truly,

  The signature was obviously a rubber stamp and very blurred.

  “Poor kid,” Peter said aloud, as he put the letter down and glanced through the other similar ones.

  “Oh, it’s you-all, Colonel Mohun.” A soft voice spoke behind him and Peter turned quickly to see Chris peering in at him. “I’m sorry, suh, I seen the door standing open and I thought it might be them kids.”

  “Nothing to be sorry about, Chris. I’m just having a look around.” He took out his cigarettes and offered one to the old man. “It’s hot as hades in here. I’m about ready to get outside.”

  They walked up the back path toward the house and Peter asked: “Did Margie use that shed much, Chris?”

  “She sure did. Come in and out that little hole back there night and day she did. Pore chile.”

  “Even last week, Chris?”

  The old man took off his hat and scratched the back of his head. “Yes, sir. I remembers now. She was here jes’ before she was took sick. I told Jim not to take no notice of her. Miss Hartwell she let her have that place for playin’ in. Didn’t make no harm.”

  “No, of course not.”

  “I never did tell no one about it whatsoever. Her Mom got real mad about her puttin’ those potions on her face so Miss Hartwell and I we kep’ it in strict secrecy until those policemen had a look round and foun’ out about it. But they didn’t take nothin’ away and that chile come right along day and night like I told you. She did love that little hidey-hole.” He sighed heavily.

  As they approached the house Connie heard them, and came out the back door.

  “Hi, Peter,” she greeted him. “Had any lunch? And what about you, Chris?” she added.

  Both men approved this implication that she could supply it and sat down on the edge of the porch. Connie went back into the house.

  Peter stared down at an ant tugging away at what appeared to be an enormous egg. He moved a stick out of the way of its progress without realizing that he had done so. Then suddenly he stood up. “Look here, Chris,” he said, and a note of eagerness had come into his voice.

  “Yes, sir,” Chris answered, getting to his feet with obvious reluctance.

  “I want you to help me. I think—yes, I’m as good as dead sure that somebody has buried something around here. I want you to do a search of the grounds with me—every inch.”

  Connie reappeared. “All right, sleuth, but first you both eat.” She put down a tray with a plate of sandwiches, and two large cups of coffee.

  “O.K.,” Peter said, “oh and—thanks. I say, what about you?”

  “Fat chance. Even at lunch time I’ve got half a dozen customers.”

  The screen door slammed on her retreating back. The two men finished off the sandwiches and coffee quickly and then Peter said, “We’d better start out back by the shed and work our way up toward the house.”

  “Excuse me, sir, but jes’ what am you fixin’ to find buried in these here grounds?”

  “That’s the devil of it, Chris, I don’t know, but I think it’s a medium-sized round box or jar, but even at that I’m just guessing.”

  Again Chris removed his hat and scratched his head. “I jes’ remember seein’ a place near that sycamore back there where I thought a dog must have buried hisself a big ole bone—all scuffed up like.”

  Peter placed a heavy hand on Chris’s shoulder. “Good man,” he said quietly, but there was no mistaking his excitement.

  A few moments later they were digging away at a spot well hidden in the shrubbery and about midway between the shed and the old well. Before long the trowel that Chris was using hit something solid.

  “Careful. Here, let me have a try now,” Peter said quickly. He dug with his bare hands and unearthed a small broken jar from which oozed a large amount of thick face cream, now covered with earth, but still unmistakably pink.

  “Well, I never did,” Chris said.

  Peter stared at the bits of glass and pasty liquid for a moment. Then he took out his handkerchief and lifted it out of the earth without touching it with his hands. “So that’s what it was. My God!” he said. He wrapped the treasure in his handkerchief, dropped it in his pocket and dashed off toward the back gate. A second later, Chris, who was still standing with his mouth wide open, heard the sound of a car backing out of the alley. It roared away into the distance and then silence returned to the garden. Chris scratched his head once more and went back to his work.

  Peter drove straight to the police station where the sergeant in charge told him that Thane Carey was at the Farm. “Good,” Peter said. “I’m heading there, too.”

  “There’s a message for you, Colonel—just come in. It was Miss Sanders over at the Hospital. Miss Wing would like you to go over there as soon as you can.”

  For a second only, Peter hesitated. Then he said, “Can’t do. Must get to the Farm.”

  “Shall I give her a ring and let her know?”

  “No, I don’t think I’ll be long. Better leave it.”

  “O.K.”

  Peter started to go and then turned back. “Where’s Jim Brown?” he asked.

  “Just gone home for a late lunch. He’s been at the Farm. When the boss went out there just now, he sent Jim back.”

  “And the other men?”

  “Oh you mean those guys from Worcester. Gone back.”

  It was evident that there had been no love lost between the town and country police. Peter grinned. “O.K.,” he said “I hope Jim’s had time for his meal. I’m afraid I need him.”

  The sergeant opened his mouth to speak but Peter, sensing a question, hurried out in the hot su
nshine. A moment later Peter stopped at Jim’s house, a small bungalow a few hundred yards beyond the station. Jim’s wife came to the door, in answer to Peter’s loud knocking and went to call her husband with obvious reluctance. But a second later, Jim was beside him in the car.

  “Fireworks at last?” Jim asked as they started up.

  “I think so.”

  “How’s Miss Wing?”

  “Busted arm and foot—some shock—otherwise O.K.”

  “I say, Colonel Mohun, I’ll never forgive myself for that.”

  “As it turned out, Jim, it solved the case for us so—just forget it, kid.”

  They drove on in silence until, as they approached the Farm, Peter said: “You’re armed, of course?”

  “Yes. I’d just taken off my belt to make room for my dinner when you came. But reached for it automatic-like when I saw you through the window.”

  “Good. Sorry about that meal.”

  “It’ll keep.”

  They were now moving slowly up the driveway. “I’m going to stop short of the last curve and out of sight of the house. And I’m attempting to make our approach a quiet one but perhaps you hadn’t noticed.”

  Jim laughed. “These old flivvers can go but they sure do make a row about it. Saw your new buggy down at the garage. Nice job.”

  Peter smiled. “Funny how news gets around in South Sutton, Mass.,” he said. “It’s a lucky thing I’ve got that car in hand. Look here—this is what I want you to do.” He stopped the Ford in the middle of the drive just before the wide curve that led up to the front door. Then the two men sat quietly for a few moments while Peter outlined his plans.

  As Peter walked alone up the road to the house there was no sound except the shrill notes of the crickets and the subdued crunch of his own feet on the gravel. Midsummer peace, he thought, and peace it might have been if Fredericka’s devil hadn’t decided to have them all for—how long had it been? She’d sneezed on that first Sunday, a week later she’d found Catherine Clay dead in her hammock, after another week Margie Hartwell had died. No wonder South Sutton had taken a dim view of the advent of Fredericka. And yet, if it hadn’t been for her there would still have been the deaths and, quite likely, no solution. There was no doubt about it, South Sutton owed a great deal to Fredericka Wing and her warning sneeze. And Peter Mohun—there was no doubt about that, either.