She said: “You... you—” She shook her head and took a long breath. “It’s a good thing I decided to get some live news in my social septic-tank for once and drove out here.”
The Bishop chuckled. “You came because you wanted to see if I was really making any profit out of your information about Miss Howell’s morals. You were jealous.”
“Of who?” Mrs. Good snapped. “Not of you, you bald-headed old—”
Chapter Five
The Final Motive
Lieutenant Browder, the Bishop, Mrs. Good, and I were in Nancy Howell’s kitchen. Miss Howell had departed with a couple of plainclothesmen. At the sink the Bishop poured two fingers of whiskey into a glass, added an equal amount of water, and with one swallow consumed everything but the glass.
I said: “Give me a drink, Bishop. I still feel a little shaky.”
“You’re slowing down, Eddie. The only reason I take you around with me is to do the crude work. And now you’re slowing down. You must be getting old.”
Browder cleared his throat and looked important and said: “I think I have all the details, but I’d like to know exactly how you figure this thing, Mr. Atticus.”
“I can tell you how he figured it,” Mrs. Good said. “He figured it because I told him.”
“The lieutenant is interested in the slower, more sordid method of reason, rather than feminine intuition,” the Bishop said. And to Browder, “I figure she was probably at Ralph McDonald’s office early last night, with Ralph, before the brawl at the Red and Black. I figure they quarreled and he said definitely he wasn’t going to marry her.”
“That’s what I explained to you,” Mrs. Good said.
I asked the Bishop if he thought that was the reason Nancy Howell had killed McDonald.
“That’s one of them. Outraged womanhood. A lot of women have shot men who tried to jilt them.”
“She had ten thousand other reasons,” Mrs. Good said, “that she got out of Ralph McDonald’s safe. She damn well knew about that money before she shot him.”
“She had already stolen it when she shot him,” the Bishop said. “She probably knew the combination to his safe, since she’s often visited him at his office. And she needed the money. She was flat broke — which didn’t matter if she was going to marry Ralph. But she’d always lived as a lady and she meant to keep on living as a lady. One of South City’s fairest examples of young womanhood” — Mrs. Good made a snorting noise — “wasn’t going to be reduced to poverty and doing her own house work — not if simply shooting a guy would keep her from it. The ten thousand would keep her two years, if she was careful. And by that time she’d have picked up some other man with plenty of money and have him headed down the aisle toward matrimony. But she would need a year to work in, if she was going to have any choice. And she had to live comfortably.”
“If she had simply stolen the money,” Browder said, “Mr. McDonald would have known who took it. So she had to get him out of the way.”
“Figure it that way if you want to,” the Bishop said. “I think she shot him because he turned her down.”
“But she didn’t seem to be much in love with him,” I objected.
“Who the hell said she was? She was in love with herself, like most women — God bless ’em! Ralph was going to soil her reputation, make her a publicly discarded woman. So she let him have it.”
Browder hemmed a couple of times and brought himself to a difficult admission. “I was almost certain of my killer, Mr. Atticus, but I have to thank you for discovering the gun, and the long glove she wore to prevent the paraffin test showing positive on her hand. I hadn’t been able to find any prints on the edge of the roof where the killer was supposed to have hung and dropped into the yard below. The only deep print in the earth such as a man would have made by jumping or falling was the one Eddie made.”
“Ai God! You should have heard him yowl! And you can thank Eddie for her using that glove. She read one of his articles in the paper about your methods. That’s where she got her idea.”
“It’s all clear enough now,” I said. “But I wonder why somebody didn’t think of it at the time, why somebody didn’t search her. She must have had that gun and glove on her person all the time.”
Browder looked shocked. The Bishop said: “You’re nuts. Of course she had ’em on her, and you know where she was carrying ’em. Or you should know.”
Mrs. Good said: “At my age, Eddie, do I have to show you?”
“All the searching of that kind done in South City,” the Bishop said, “is purely unofficial. There are no police women in this town. And imagine a cop, imagine our good Lieutenant Browder here, searching the secret regions of one of the fairest flowers of young womanhood in South City.”
Browder got swiftly to another subject. “All my checking indicates that Mr. Ben Steiner was in or near the hallway down which the murderer was supposed to have escaped. He must have suspected from the first that Miss Howell was guilty. I believe that he went from the Red and Black Club to McDonald’s office, and there found Miss Howell’s handkerchief, which showed she’d been there since the money was brought to that office in the afternoon. Then, I believe, he brought the handkerchief here to Miss Howell.”
“Yep,” the Bishop said. “I’ll bet she thought his was the face she saw outside the window. She could never be certain it was the monkey — and whoever it was knew she had killed Ralph. When he brought the handkerchief to her she was certain. I’ve got an idea Steiner was in love with the gal. I don’t believe he would have turned her over to the cops. But anyway, she made certain. She potted the guy. That’s one way to be sure they stay quiet.”
“It must have been almost morning by the time he got here,” I said.
“It was morning, or by the time they talked and she potted him it was morning. That’s why she had to keep the corpse in the house until tonight. She couldn’t go riding through town in daylight with a corpse. While you had her down at headquarters I came back to look for the gun — I sent the maid home — but all I found was poor Ben. So I thought if she had shot Ben once I might get her to produce the gun and shoot him again.”
“The key to that closet was in the drawer with the gun,” I said. “How’d you get in there?”
“Did you ever see a house where half the closets wouldn’t open with the same key? Soon as I found that one was locked I got the key out of another and looked inside. And there he was.”
After another drink we went outside and Browder looked up at the house. It was dark here and I couldn’t see the lieutenant’s face clearly. He said: “The way things have turned out I’m not going to take any official action, but it is strictly illegal to break into the office of a man who has just been murdered.”
The Bishop said: “Nuts, Lieutenant. And good-night. Eddie’ll give you a big spread in the paper tomorrow.”
Mrs. Good’s car was parked just behind the Bishop’s. We walked back with her and the Bishop handed her in. I asked the two of them what they thought would be done with Nancy Howell.
“Why she’ll give the money back,” the Bishop said, “and swear she was just keeping it for Ralph. And she’ll say she shot him because she had to defend her honor, and cook up the same kind of yarn about Ben. I wouldn’t bet the case will ever come to trial. Folks will discuss it only with their friends and nobody will remember that the city commissioner gave a party in a gambling house.”
“One other thing, Bishop. When did you first know she was guilty?”
“Ai God! I knew all the time. But you think I was going to tell anybody last night and let the Journal get the whole story? What kind of a newspaper man do you think I am?”