“That’s possible.”
“The murderer?”
Greaves shook his head. “Claypoole,” he said.
I was more surprised by his admission than by his choice. “Why? Did you find fingerprints or something?”
“Just plain horse sense,” Greaves was confident. “Claypoole suspected all along Brexton was the murderer. He 76
didn’t dare come out in the open and accuse him because of family connections, scandals, things which would affect him too. Sc he sent the note to give us a clue. Unfortunately, it gave Brexton a clue too and he was able to kill Claypoole before he could tell us the inside story of what went on between the three of them, or maybe even the four of them. A story which we're unraveling pretty fast right now.”
This left me breathless to say the least. “You realize you’re accusing Brexton of murder?”
“That’s right.” Greaves was almost frivolous. I wondered what new evidence the police had unearthed. Greaves enlightened me. “It seems that Claypoole was first knocked unconscious; then he was dragged up to the terrace where his throat was cut.”
“How do you know he was dragged? Were there any marks on the sand?”
“Sand in his clothes. The tracks, if there were any, got rubbed out by the tide.”
I didn’t follow his reasoning. “Why do you think this implicates Brexton?”
Greaves only smiled.
I thought of something. “If Claypoole was first knocked unconscious, it means that a woman could’ve done it, doesn’t it? Isn’t that what a woman would do? And since she wasn’t strong enough to carry him, she’d be forced to drag the body up to the terrace where she’d then cut his throat with . . . with . . .”
“A knife belonging to Brexton. A knife covered with his fingerprints.” Greaves looked at me slyly, his case nearly done.
CHAPTER SIX
1
I’M quite sure now that Greaves was bluffing. He suspected Brexton was the murderer and he had enough circumstantial evidence to turn the whole thing over to the District Attorney’s office but he knew that many a good minion of the law has hung himself with circumstantial evidence which a bright defense has then used to embarrass the prosecution. Greaves had no intention of moving for an indictment which would not stick. His bluff to me was transparent: he wanted to create in everyone’s mind a certainty of Brexton’s guilt; if this could be done, the case would certainly be strengthened psychologically . . . and Greaves, I’d already discovered, was a devoted if incompetent amateur psychologist.
I went up to my room and took a long bath, reconstructing the revelations of the day. There had been a number and none seemed to fit the picture which was slowly beginning to form in my mind.
I had tracked down most of the alibis. Anyone could have put sleeping pills in Mildred Brexton’s coffee except Randan who was in Boston that day. The two Claypooles and Brexton knew where the sleeping pills were located. Miss Lung could not have known. Mrs. Veering might have known since she was undoubtedly one of those hostesses who enjoy snooping around their guests’ possessions.
Alibis for the second murder were all somewhat hazy, excepting Allie’s and Brexton’s; if they had really been together at the time of the murder, it either ruled them both out as murderers, or worse, ruled them in as joint killers for reasons unknown ... at least in her case. Mrs. Veering had no alibi nor did Miss Lung. Randan did; he was at the Club. Who then, logically, was in the best position, motive aside, to hâve committed both murders, allowing of course that all alibis were truthful?
The answer was appalling but inevitable: Mrs. Veering.
I dropped the soap and spent several minutes chasing it around the bathtub while my mind began to adjust to this possibility.
Of all the suspects she alone had no alibi for either murder . . . other than a possible claim of ignorace as to the whereabouts of the various bottles of sleeping pills. If Brexton and Allie were not joint murderers, then the only person left who might have killed both Mildred and Claypoole was Mrs. Veering who, as far as I knew, had no motive.
The thought of motives depressed me. The “how” of any murder is usually a good deal simpler than the “why.” These people were all strangers to me and I had no way of knowing what tensions existed between them, what grievances were hidden from the outside world. But at least Greaves and I were in the same boat. He didn’t know any more than I did about the people involved. He had the advantage though of a direct mind: Brexton was quarreling with his wife. Brexton killed his wife. Claypoole threatens to expose him out of his love for the dead woman. Brexton kills Claypoole, using his own knife which he thoughtfully leaves beside the body to amuse the police.
At that point, I ruled Brexton out. He hadn’t done the murder. I had a hunch, though, that if anyone knew who had done it, he did. Meanwhile, there was the problem of motives to sort out and Mrs. Veering was now my primary target. She would be a slippery customer since, even at best, she didn’t make much sense.
I was just pulling on my trousers when Mary Western Lung threw the door between our two rooms open and stood before me, eyes burning with lust and bosom heaving. I realized too late that the bureau which I had placed between our connecting door had been moved to its original position by some meddling servant.
With great dignity I zipped my fly. “You were looking for me, Miss Lung?”
She pretended embarrassment and surprise, her eagle eyes not missing a trick. “I don’t know what I’m doing, honestly!” She moved purposefully forward. I pulled my jacket on and shoved a chair between us, all in one dazzling play.
“Sit down, Miss Lung.”
“My friends call me Mary Western,” she said, sinking disappointedly into the chair. “I was so immersed in ‘Book-Chat’ that, when I finished, instead of going out of the door to the hall I just barged.” She gave a wild squeak which was disconcerting ... it was obviously intended to reproduce a ripple of gay laughter at her own madcap derringdo: it was awful.
I mumbled something about the perils of authorship.
“But of course you would understand. By the way I read with great interest your account of our tragedies in the Globe. I had no idea you were a past master of the telling phrase."
“Thanks.” I tied my tie.
“But I think you should have consulted some of us before you went ahead. There are wheels within wheels, Mr. Sargeant.”
“I’m sure of that.”
“Yes, wheels within wheels," she repeated relishing her own telling phrase.
Then she got to the point. “I must tell you that I do not altogether agree with your diagnosis of the case.”
“Diagnosis?”
She nodded. “It was perfectly clear from your piece in the Globe . . . between the lines, that is . . . that you feel Brexton did not kill either his wife or Fletcher...”
“And you feel he did?”
“I didn’t say that.” She was quick, surprisingly so. "But, in the light of what evidence there is, I don’t see any basis for your confidence.”
“I’m hardly confident . . . anyway, it was, as you say, between the lines.”
“Perfectly true but I thought I should talk to you about it if only because you might, without meaning to of course, make trouble for the rest of us."
“I don’t . . .”
“I mean, Mr. Sargeant, that if Brexton did not do the murders then one of us must have . . . it’s perfectly simple.”
“That's logical. I had even thought that far ahead myself.”
She was impervious to irony. “And if it is one of us, we are all apt to be dragged very deep into an unpleasant investigation which might seriously affect us all, personally and professionally. You follow me?”