Murder in the Madhouse Page 8

  He went to his room and washed and changed his shirt. He had a leisurely drink. Then he went down to the living room. Everyone was there except Dr. Livermore and Joe. On one side were the patients, seated on the couches and on easy chairs. Richardson was standing behind Mrs. Heyworth, who smiled at William Crane as he hesitated by the door.

  Miss Van Kamp, Nellie, and Mrs. Brady sat on a couch; Blackwood was slumped in an armchair. Miss Queen sat in another. Mr. Penny was perched on the arm of a couch. Opposite them, by the door, stood Charles, the driver, Dr. Buelow, and Dr. Eastman. The three nurses leaned against a long table. Crane looked at Miss Evans. It was the first time he had seen her since the opening night. She had on a white nurses’ costume, and her hair was the color of Bass’s ale. Her face was pale, and her lips, full and turned down sultrily at the corners, were red. She was very seductive. Crane crossed the room and sat down close to Richardson and Mrs. Heyworth.

  He said, “Cold, isn’t it?”

  Richardson stared at him dubiously. “I suppose so.” His heavy face was impassive. “You’ve been out?”

  “Took a little walk,” said Crane.

  Richardson asked, “You didn’t get beat up again?”

  Crane tried to smile, but it hurt, and he compromised by screwing up his face into what he thought was a humorous look. “This must be my day off,” he said.

  Mrs. Heyworth smiled and looked up at Richardson. “I’m cold, Dick,” she said. “Will you get my coat? It’s on the bed in my room.”

  Richardson moved away eagerly, and when he had left the room Mrs. Heyworth leaned toward William Crane. Her face was a lovely tan, the skin firm and smooth and soft over delicate bones. She was quite patrician and he thought of newspaper photographs he had seen of society girls at Palm Beach and Bermuda. She was looking at him with wide brown eyes.

  “I’m so sorry you were hurt,” she said.

  “It was nothing.” Crane was gallant.

  “You must take care of yourself.”

  “I always do when I can. Things seem to get out of hand around here, though.”

  “Yes, they do, don’t they?” She bent closer to him, her eyes compassionate. “You’ll let me help you, won’t you, dear?”

  Crane had trouble swallowing. He blushed. He coughed. “Sure,” he said. He saw with relief that Richardson was returning with the coat. He stood up.

  Richardson helped Mrs. Heyworth on with her coat, tenderly as with a child. He brought up a straight-backed chair and sat down on the other side of Mrs. Heyworth. His face was suddenly pleasant.

  “What do you think about Pittsfield?” he asked.

  “You mean who do I think killed him?” Crane noticed Miss Queen’s melancholy eyes upon him.

  “You don’t think L’Adam did it?”

  “No.”

  “Neither do I.”

  “Nor I,” said Mrs. Heyworth. She was looking at Crane, too.

  “Who was it, then?” Crane asked.

  Richardson said, “Blackwood. I still think he did It.”

  “But he said he didn’t leave the movies.”

  “I know he did leave them.” Richardson spoke fiercely. “I remembered this morning. He was in a different seat when the movie was finished than he was when it begun.”

  Crane nodded his head. He looked across the room. Miss Evans was regarding him intently, her face triangular with scorn. Richardson said, “You don’t change seats in a show like that. The view is the same from all over.”

  “Maybe his seat was broken.”

  “I looked them all over this morning. They’re all the same.”

  “Just because he went out doesn’t prove his guilt, Maybe he had to … get a drink,” said William Crane delicately. He looked at Mrs. Heyworth. She smiled into his eyes. She had not been listening to what they were saying.

  Richardson said, “No, but if he had an innocent reason for being out, why did he lie?”

  “He didn’t want to bring any attention on himself.”

  Dr. Livermore, followed by Joe, came into the room. He had a paper parcel in his hands.

  “Listen,” whispered Richardson. “Suppose you ask Blackwood about it. You can do it.”

  “All right,” said William Crane.

  Joe remained with the driver and Charles, while Dr. Livermore strode to the center of the floor. He put the parcel on the table. He said, “Ladies and gentlemen, I am sorry to have inconvenienced you, but there are several things I want to tell you. One of these is that we have solved the misfortune of last night.”

  He paused dramatically.

  “We found that L’Adam had secreted a key to his door in the detention building under his bed. It was found there this morning. With this he released himself last night, entered here while all you were at the movies, and made his way upstairs.”

  Crane noticed that the three women on the couch were leaning forward breathlessly. Miss Van Kamp and Nellie had their hands clasped.

  Dr. Livermore continued: “Outside Miss Van Kamp’s room, Mr. L’Adam encountered Mr. Pittsfield. What went on there I shall not attempt to describe, but when L’Adam came out of that room he left the dead body behind him.”

  Crane said, “Boloney.”

  Dr. Livermore turned and looked at him. “What was that?” he asked. “What did you say?”

  “Boloney.”

  Dr. Livermore looked away from him. “Mr. Pittsfield’s body will be removed in a day or two. You need have nothing more to fear from L’Adam.” Dr. Livermore pulled at his beard. “He will be kept locked up in a safe place. Dr. Eastman will have personal charge of him.”

  Everyone looked at Dr. Eastman. He did not appear pleased.

  “Aren’t you going to call the police?” asked Crane.

  Dr. Livermore said, “That won’t be necessary.” He looked at Dr. Eastman. “Don’t you think so?”

  “They won’t be any help,” said Dr. Eastman.

  Dr. Livermore said, “I have just one more thing to bring to your attention. This was found in Miss Van Kamp’s room last night. It is undoubtedly what caused Mr. Pittsfield’s death.” He picked up the package and unwrapped it and displayed the bathrobe cord with the purple ends which Mr. Penny had found under the bed. “Does anybody recognize this?”

  For a moment there was silence. Slowly Nellie rose from her place beside Miss Van Kamp, hoisted upward by a force utterly outside her own volition. She gasped, “Oh, my God! It’s mine!”

  It was the first time Crane had heard her speak.

  Chapter VIII

  AFTER NELLIE, sobbing with restraint and embarrassment, had been convoyed to her room by Miss Clayton and Miss Twilliger, Richardson stepped over to Dr. Eastman and whispered something. Dr. Eastman looked sullenly surprised and nodded his head reluctantly.

  Dr. Livermore held up his hand. He said, “I think we can do nothing further until we question Miss Paxton about the bathrobe.”

  “Just a moment,” said Dr. Eastman. His voice was harsh. “I’d like to ask a question.”

  Dr. Livermore nodded benevolently.

  “You say none of you left the movie.” Dr. Eastman scowled at the patients. “I know at least one of you did.”

  The patients stared at the doctor’s menacing figure in silence.

  Miss Van Kamp straightened in angry defiance and cleared her throat. Miss Queen fingered her neck with nervous hands. She glanced at Crane, and her lips fluttered.

  Dr. Eastman demanded, “Which one of you left the room last night?” He moved closer to the huddled group. There was no answer.

  “It will be better to tell,” he said with ominous restraint.

  Those at Dr. Eastman’s back watched interestedly: Joe with cynical approval, the driver with awe, and Charles with an oblique snicker. Miss Evans’s face was a delicately carved mask: composed, inscrutable, and cruel. The room was noisy with apprehension.

  Dr. Eastman repeated, “One of you went out.”

  William Crane had a conviction that the attention of
the doctor was centered on him. He wondered who could have seen him.

  “So you won’t talk?” Dr. Eastman’s black eyebrows met in the center. “All right. Blackwood, I know it was you.”

  Blackwood started convulsively, as though he had been cut with a pair of Mexican rowels. He cried, “No! No one saw me!”

  Dr. Eastman said, “I know you left.”

  “No!” Blackwood squirmed fatly in his chair. “No! No! No!”

  Dr. Eastman looked at him with disgust. He turned to the attendants. “Boys, take him down to the hospital and see if you can get him to talk.”

  Joe and the driver moved toward Blackwood. Joe was contained and grimly pleased; the driver reeled and hiccoughed gently. He was drunk again. They seized Blackwood’s arms and pulled his flour sack of a body to its feet and started it toward the door. Joe called to Dr. Livermore, “All right, boss?”

  Dr. Livermore nodded.

  Blackwood cast an agonized glance of appeal at Crane. “Please,” he said. “Please.” Then, as he was pulled forward, “Oh no, oh no, oh no!” His voice was a child-like treble. The three disappeared out the door.

  “Now we may get somewhere,” said Dr. Eastman.

  Crane asked, “Why bother with all this when you are sure Mr. L’Adam did it?”

  “I didn’t say I thought L’Adam did it,” Dr. Eastman said.

  Dr. Livermore was bothered with his hands. There seemed to be no place for them. He clasped them behind him; he held them in front of him; he put them in his beard. He said, “Everything points to L’Adam.”

  “Nothing points to L’Adam,” Dr. Eastman said. The two nurses who had gone upstairs with Nellie returned. Dr. Eastman looked at them questioningly.

  “We put her to bed,” said Miss Twilliger.

  Miss Clayton supplemented, “She’ll have to stay there for a while. She is quite hysterical.”

  In the distance, faint and muffled, there was a slender noise of screaming. Everyone listened, but it was not repeated.

  Dr. Buelow broke the silence: “Somebody ought to ask Miss Paxton about the cord. She might be able to remember who took it.”

  Dr. Eastman swung toward him. “No,” he said. “Wait until she has time to calm down.”

  Dr. Livermore said, “Yes, indeed. There is plenty of time to question her.”

  “I think we ought to ask Crane about the attack on him,” said Dr. Buelow.

  “All right,” said Dr. Eastman. He faced Crane. “Who attacked you?”

  Crane said, “I wouldn’t know.”

  “What motive would they have for an attack?”

  “I wouldn’t know that, either.”

  “Have you made any enemies here?”

  “Enemies? I should say not.”

  As Crane shook his head he heard a noise in the hall. He saw Joe, the driver, and between them Blackwood. His puffy face was a map of crimson splotches. His nose was bleeding slightly; there was a nasty cut under his right eye; his right ear was oddly twisted, as though it had been torn off and carelessly pasted back on. His breath was coming in sobs, and his eyes wavered crazily.

  Joe announced, “This guy came through all right.” He daintily wiped sweat off his brow with a silk handkerchief stained with blood. “He spilled his guts.” He thrust Blackwood forward. “He’s soft.”

  “He admits he left the movie,” said the driver. He blinked drunkenly at his audience. “He was out for half an hour.”

  “But that ain’t all, by God,” Joe said, giving Blackwood’s arm a pull. “He’s got something else to tell you.” Blackwood quivered in terror and looked apprehensively at Crane. Joe pulled his arm again. “Ain’t you got something to tell them, buddy?”

  Blackwood forced himself to nod. He raised his free hand and pointed a finger at Crane. He swallowed with an effort.

  “Go ahead and tell them, buddy,” Joe said. His hands tightened on the arm. The driver pressed close on Blackwood’s other side. He said, “Don’t be scared.”

  Blackwood spoke with difficulty. “It … was him … Crane … I saw him upstairs.” He tried to draw back, but Joe held him firmly. “I saw him, really,” he said. He shuddered and wrenched his arms free and covered his eyes.

  “That’s what he told us,” the driver said. He let go of Blackwood’s shoulder and backed toward the door. Blackwood sprawled heavily on the red-and-brown carpet.

  “My God!” said Dr. Buelow. “What did you do to him?”

  “Aw,” said Joe. He smiled whimsically and made a horizontal and depreciatory gesture with his hands. “We just cuffed him around a little.”

  Once again in his room and with only a few minutes before supper, Crane sipped yellow moonshine and reflected upon the developments of the afternoon. He decided ruefully that he had not been as careful in slipping out of the movie as C. Auguste Dupin would have been. However, he now knew of three others who had also slipped out: Miss Twilliger, Blackwood, and Dr. Livermore. That was something. He wondered what questions the three doctors would have for him tomorrow. Dr. Livermore had said there was no time to question him now. Dr. Eastman had wanted to lock him up, but the other two had decided against it.

  It was still cold outside, and he went to close his windows. It was noisy, too: trees yammered under the blows of the wind and branches roared approval. It was almost dark, and storm clouds raised hostile heads on the horizon. In the garden he saw a trace of sunset gold on the water in the pool. A smart gust of wind sent chill air into the room, and he slammed the two windows. He returned to the bed and picked up his drink.

  It still seemed to him that almost anybody might have killed Pittsfield, but he thought of those who would have been likely to do it. There were, first on his mental list, Blackwood and Dr. Livermore. Blackwood could have done it for hatred; Dr. Livermore because he had said nothing about leaving the movies. Then came Dr. Eastman and Dr. Buelow: because of the box. William Crane felt certain that the box and Pittsfield’s murder were connected. After all those, he decided, came Joe, Charles, and the driver. He felt that probably the proud nurse and the driver had a good alibi, but he wasn’t so sure that Joe couldn’t have seen them and still committed the crime. Two others, he felt, were excellent possibilities. These were L’Adam and the religious guard. This made ten high-grade suspects, and he added Richardson for good measure.

  As for the women, he decided that none of them were strong enough to have strangled Pittsfield with the woolen bathrobe cord.

  His thinking and his liquor finished, Crane slid off the soft bed with a groan and reluctantly washed his face and hands. His bruises were no better, but all were darker and more the same color than they had been in the morning. He looked at his watch. It was nearly time for dinner, and he hurried with his washing and took out a clean shirt from the dresser drawer. The soft broadcloth felt good against his skin, but it still hurt where the collar pressed the bruises on his neck. He selected a dark blue tie and fastened it loosely. He put on his coat and opened the left-hand top drawer of the bureau for a handkerchief. On top of the neatly folded linen squares in the drawer was a white envelope. On it was printed in ink:

  MR. NOSEY

  Crane lifted the envelope cautiously and turned it over. There was no writing on the other side, and the flap was not glued down. He opened it and pulled out a piece of writing paper. It read:

  If you got any sense you will pack up get out a here quick. There are some folks who dont like the way you do your hair and they are thinking of parting it in the middle with a 38. They are people who dont miss. You take that box and put it under the front steps of the help building. There is a loose board on the third step and no one will bother you further if you lam out right after you leave that box and whats in it.

  A FRIEND.

  He thoughtfully put the letter on top of the glass he had wrapped up in a newspaper. He poured himself a long drink and finished it without haste. He had another, and then he had a glass of water. He felt pretty good.

  He thought, This is a hell
of a restful place. He put the bottle away and crept out into the hall. Miss Clayton was just emerging from a room near the stairs.

  She said, “Miss Paxton seems to be better.”

  “Fine,” said Crane heartily. “How’s Blackwood?”

  “He’s asleep in his room.”

  As Crane started down the stairs, Miss Van Kamp came out of the same room as had Miss Clayton. She paused at the door.

  “I’ll send you up some tea and toast,” she said to someone in the room.

  A feeble wailing came up from inside. It was Nellie. She moaned, “Don’t leave me.” Miss Van Kamp snorted. “Nonsense!” She started to close the door. “Somebody will bring your food in a few minutes.”

  “I’ll bring it up,” said Miss Clayton. She and Miss Van Kamp and Crane descended the stairs together.

  Mrs. Heyworth, slim and brown and athletic in an informal evening dress of printed material, left Richardson on the couch by the crackling fire and came over to Crane.

  “I believe in you,” she said simply. She took his right hand and pressed it and looked into his eyes.

  Crane blushed. “Thanks,” he said. He looked at his feet.

  Mrs. Heyworth pressed his hand again and returned to the couch.

  Crane was conscious that Richardson was inspecting him furiously. He turned and bumped into Miss Queen. He seized her waist to support her.

  “Ooo!” Miss Queen’s mouth was only a few inches from his. “Oh!” She panted and pushed his arm away and backed off.

  “I’m sorry,” said Crane. Miss Queen did not reply. She sidled to a seat by Mr. Penny, her startled eyes on William Crane.

  Crane thought, What the hell? He felt for his tie and found it was there, and he could see that his pants were still on. He sat down in a corner. Dr. Buelow appeared at the dining-room door. “Dinner will be ready in a minute.” He caught sight of Miss Van Kamp, placidly knitting under a lamp. “How’s Miss Paxton?”