He sipped his coffee. “But I’ll be snug in bed by ten tonight. You can bet on that.”
It was nine o’clock when I got to Eileen’s house.
There was eagerness in her voice. “How did it go?”
“We got the confession,” I said. “It covered all fourteen of the explosions.”
Eileen smiled slowly. “You must have been persuasive.”
I tossed my hat on the couch. “Stuart jumped out of the window a little while after he signed the confession. I was the only one there when it happened.”
She was pleased for a moment and then she frowned. “Maybe it’s not all over yet. There’s Pete. I don’t think he’ll be satisfied. He’s a pryer. He’s the type who likes to be sure of the answers.”
I took her in my arms. “Don’t worry about it, honey.”
She met my eyes. “Oh?”
“I made another package,” I said. “And let myself into Pete’s apartment while he was gone. The first time his phone rings, he’ll be blown to there and back.”
At eleven o’clock I dialed Pete’s number.
Just to make sure.
The Forgiving Ghost
C. B. Gilford
Not all ghosts, I assure you, are friendly or forgiving or translucent. Some are ghostly. Others are just plain ghastly — and give ghosts, generally, a bad name.
The murder — although Claude Crispin, the murderer, was the only one who knew that that’s what it was — occurred in broad daylight, in bright sunshine. But not, of course, within view of any casual spectators. Nobody saw it; so everybody took it for what Claude Crispin said it was, an accident.
The first that any outsiders knew of it was when Claude Crispin raced his motor boat in from the center of the lake, and started shouting and waving his arms at the nearby joy riders and water skiers. He told them something about his wife’s falling in the water and his not being able to find her.
Immediately, all the boats — some with their skiers still dangling behind them — raced for the spot. They found it when they found the swimming dog. Momo was the belligerent little Pekingese which had belonged to Mrs. Crispin. Claude babbled something to the searchers about how the dog had fallen into the water, and Mrs. Crispin had jumped in to save her. Here was the dog still swimming, of course, but there was no sign of the mistress.
Somebody apparently thought that as long as they were there, they might as well save the dog. So Momo was pulled aboard one of the boats, where she showed her gratitude by shaking the water out of her fur rather indiscriminately and snarling at her rescuers. Claude looked especially askance at that part of the operation. Now that the Pekingese had provided the visible reason why Mrs. Crispin, a poor swimmer, had been in the water at all, he would really have preferred to let her drown.
Meanwhile, nearly all the other occupants of the boats had jumped into the water and were doing a lot of diving and splashing around. Claude, watching them, wrung his hands, wore an anguished expression, and generally gave the appearance of an anxious, worrying, tragic husband.
They were at it for some twenty minutes. But at the end of that time everyone was pretty well exhausted, and even the most enthusiastic divers were ready to admit that they weren’t going to find Mrs. Crispin either dead or alive. When they related this fact to Claude, he burst into tears and started to shake so violently that a stranger had to climb into his boat and steer it back to shore for him.
Thereafter, it became an official matter. The sheriff was summoned and he came out to the lake with a couple of his deputies. Preparation got underway for a dragging operation. The sheriff himself, a kindly, sympathetic man, sat down with Claude and got the whole story from him.
Yes, the Crispins were city folks, Claude said, and they’d vacationed for several summers at this lake. One of their favorite pastimes had been to rent a motor boat and cruise aimlessly around. Claude was a pretty fair swimmer, though he didn’t get much practice these days. Mrs. Crispin wasn’t afraid of the water, but she’d been a very poor swimmer.
“Why didn’t she wear a life jacket, like the rules say?” the sheriff demanded, but without too much harshness.
Claude shrugged his shoulders helplessly. “You know how women are,” he answered. “My wife had a very good figure, looked fine in a bathing suit. So she was always interested in getting a tan. If she’d worn one of those jackets, it would have covered her up and she wouldn’t have gotten the tan. So she just left the jacket in the bottom of the boat. Vanity, I guess you’d call it.”
The sheriff nodded sagely. “And you say she jumped in on account of the dog?”
Claude let himself sound bitter. “She loved that dog as much as if it had been a kid. Took it with her everywhere. Don’t ask me how the dog fell overboard, though. Usually my wife carried it around in her arms. But this time she was letting it ride up front by itself. I don’t know whether it fell or jumped. The thing never seemed to have much sense. But there it was in the water suddenly, and my wife started screaming. Now, I’d have stopped the boat and jumped in after it myself, but my wife didn’t wait even to ask me. The next thing I knew she was gone too. I slowed the boat down and did a U-turn, but by the time I got back to the place, my wife had already disappeared. I cut the motor and went in after her, but I never did see her. I don’t know what happened. She was just gone.”
The sheriff seemed to understand. “Sometimes,” he said, “when a poor swimmer jumps into deep water, gets a cramp or something, he just sinks to the bottom and never does come up. I guess it was one of those cases.”
And that was the verdict. Probably because the idea never once crossed his mind, the sheriff didn’t even mention murder.
Though he’d gotten rid of his wife, Claude Crispin still had his wife’s prized possession, Momo. Sometime later that same afternoon Momo’s rescuer returned her to Claude, clean, dry, but in no better humor.
The instant the dog was brought into the one-room cottage, she began an immediate sniffing search for her mistress. When the mistress couldn’t be found, she set up a mournful, yelping wail. Claude, alone now and able to vent his true feelings, aimed a kick which almost landed, and which was close enough to send the animal scurrying into a safe corner to cogitate upon what had gone wrong with the world.
“Alvina is dead,” Claude explained happily and maliciously.
The dog blinked and stared.
“I guess for the moment,” Claude went on, “I’ve got to endure you. I’m supposed to be so broken up about the accident that I’ve got to pretend that I’m cherishing you as my remembrance of my poor dead wife. It won’t last though, I can promise you that. Your days are numbered.”
Momo whined softly and seemed to be looking around for a route of escape.
Claude smiled. He felt good, very satisfied with himself. “Ought to be grateful to you though, oughtn’t I, Momo? You were a very convenient gimmick. But don’t think that’s going to do you any good once we’re away from this place. You swim too well, Momo, so I won’t try a lake on you. Some little something in your hamburger maybe, and then you can fertilize my garden. As soon as we get home, Momo.”
The dog cringed and lay down with her head between her paws. She’d endured unkind remarks from Claude before, and now the threat in his tone was unmistakable.
Claude lay back on the bed and closed his eyes. He had really and truly had a hard day. There’d been the strain and excitement of planning, the deed itself, and then the display of grief all afternoon. It had been rewarding, but quite wearing, too. He felt like sleep.