“I knew you’d understand. I’m only sorry you’ve wasted nearly a week like this. . .
“Not all wasted.”
She smiled. “That’s right. You got several stories out of it, didn’t you?”
Miss Lung chimed in. “Thrillingly presented, Mr. Sargeant! I can’t wait to see what your account of the murderer at bay will be like.”
“Tense,” I said, “very tense.”
“I can hardly wait! Though Heaven knows any reminders of what we've just gone through will be unpleasant, to say the least. Rose, we have been tested, all of us, in the furnace of experience.”
“And emerged bloodied but unbowed,” said Mrs. Veering who could scramble a saw with the best best of them. I asked to be excused, pleading work.
“Certainly.” Mrs. Veering was amiable. “By the way, Mr. Graves or whatever his name is, called me this morning to say he’d like us all to stay together, in Easthampton, that is, until after the Special Court. I hope it won’t inconvenience you; you’re welcome to stay here of course til! then.”
I said that was fine by me.
I went to my room and telephoned my secretary, Miss Flynn.
“The Case has broken Wide Open,” she said in the tone of one who follows crime at a careful distance.
“Looks like it." I had no intention of saying anything over that phone which would give anyone listening in an idea of my private doubts. ‘Til be back Friday afternoon. Any news?"
She gave me a precise summary of what had happened in my absence. I told her what should be done for the various clients. I then asked her to check a few things for me
Though they sounded odd she was, as usual, reticent; she made no comment.
“I shall, as you know, exert every effort to comply with these Requests,” she said formally. “Incidentally, a Mr. Wheen has been calling you every day. Has he attempted to Contact you yet?"
I said no and she said he hadn’t stated his business so that was that.
My next move, after hanging up, was strategic.
In the room next to me, Miss Lung’s, I could hear a mild vacuuming. The entire second floor was empty, except for the one maid. Stealthily, I left my own room, crossed the hall, and entered Dick Randan’s room.
It was a fair duplicate of my own. He hadn’t bothered to unpack and his suitcase lay open and full of rumpled clothes. I went through everything quickly. Aside from the fact that he wore Argyle socks with large holes in them, there was nothing unusual to be found. I was looking for nothing in particular, which naturally made my search all 95
the more difficult. I did want to get the layout of the rooms clear in my mind though.
I cased the bathroom and found the usual shaving things: I also found a woman’s handkerchief with the initials R.V. It was wadded up and stuck in a glass on the second shelf of the medicine cabinet. R.V. was Rose Veering but why Randan had her handkerchief in his bathroom was a mystery. It was unmarked ... no blood stains or anything interesting, just a lace-type handkerchief, as they say in bargain basements. Puzzled, I put it back. Could he be a kleptomaniac? Or a fetishist? Or had Mrs. Veering made love to him in the night, leaving this handkerchief as a token of her affection? Or had he just happened to find it and picked it up and stuffed it in the nearest receptacle which was, in this case, a drinking glass? I decided I was going out of my mind, ascribing significance to everything.
I went back into his bedroom and looked at the two windows, both of which were open. Being a corner room he had two views: one of the dunes to the north with a half glimpse of beach, the other of the terrace directly below and the umbrellas; the sea was calm, I saw. On this side, directly beneath the window, the roof of the first-floor porch sloped. The window screens, I noticed, were the permanent, all-year-round kind.
Then I opened the door between Randan’s room and the next bedroom, Mrs. Veering’s. This was the largest of all the rooms with three windows overlooking the ocean. It was expensively furnished, very pink and silken and lacy. It was also full of bric-a-brac, clothes . . . too much stuff to do more than glance at.
I did find something fairly interesting in her bathroom. On a metal table was a small autoclave on which was placed several hypodermic needles and vials of medicine, all neatly labeled with her name and the contents. Two of the vials contained strychnine which, I knew vaguely, was the stuff to be given a failing heart in an emergency. Obviously Mrs. Veering was prepared for anything...
The door to what had been Allie Claypoole’s room was unlocked. It smelled like a hospital. Her clothes were still there, all neatly arranged in the closet and in the drawers of the bureau. If there was anything remotely like a clue the police had doubtless found it by now. I skimmed hurriedly through everything and then went on to Brexton’s room. It was a mess with the mattress on the floor and the sheet and pillows scattered around on the floor. Someone had come for his clothes apparently; and there was no longer any sign of his residence. I found nothing . . . except that the window to his room, the windw which looked east on the ocean, was directly above the metal swing beneath which I’d found the body of Fletcher Claypoole. Since there had been a full moon that night. Brexton could have seen the murderer if he had looked out that window . . . his view was the only one from the second floor which allowed an unobstructed view of the swing; the others had their view of it blocked by umbrellas and awnings.
Not much to go on but still a possibility . . . and it might explain Brexton’s seeming confidence: he had actually witnessed the murder of Claypoole. Yet, if he had, why had he kept silent? It was a puzzle. I had no idea the solution was already at hand.
2
I waited around until eleven thirty for Greaves to show up but it developed that he was about the state's business in Riverhead, and wallowing in a sea of official approbation. The legal machinery was now being set in motion by the District Attorney’s office and the doughty Greaves could, rest on his laurels.
When I was sure that he wasn’t going to pay us a visit. I asked Randan if I could borrow his car. He was gracious
about it, only asking me if I was sure I had a driver’s li
cense. I said I was and I took the car.
The day was crisp and clear, more autumn than summer.
Along the main street of Eastharnpton the elms had begun to
yellow a bit at the edges. Winter was near.
I drove straight to the Hospital of St. Agatha where I knew Allie Claypoole had been taken.
With an air of confidence which I didn’t feel, I walked into the gloomy Victorian brick building, told the receptionist that I was Dick Randan, Miss Claypoole’s nephew, and that I wanted very much to see her.
To my surprise, after a few minutes of whispering into telephones, I was told that I could see her, for ten minutes but that I must not in any way excite her. She had been, it developed, conscious and collected for some hours.
She lay propped up in a hospital bed, her face white as paper but her eyes clear and bright. She was completely rational. She was startled to see me. “I thought Dick . . .” she began.
I interrupted her quickly. “Wanted to come but sent me instead. I wondered if I could talk to you alone." I glanced at the nurse who was fumbling efficiently with various sedatives on a tray.
“Against doctor’s orders. And police's orders,” said the nurse firmly. “Don’t worry; I won’t listen.”
Allie smiled wanly. “I'm afraid we’ll have to obey orders. Why do you want to see me, Mr. Sargeant?”
I sat down close to her bedside, pitching my voice low.