What? Nobody could figure it out. His widow didn’t have it. Mr. Freddie didn’t gamble. He wasn’t a show-off. Why, he didn’t even drive a carriage—just a common buggy. And his sleigh coat was plain wool—not fur lined like the big nobs wore.
Uncle Bill said:“By George, if Freddie was so successful at robbing the bank, why did he put a rope around his neck?” He said: “It’s my guess that Conscience walked into his private office and gave him thatlook.”
Did they ever find the eighty thousand?
What? … That old lady is hollering again. What time is it?
Three o’clock, ma’am. Was the mystery ever solved?
What? … I don’t know. I’m getting tired. I know Matt up and quit. Went to Chicago or somewhere. Something else happened, too. I don’t want to tell it.
It’s all right to talk about it, ma’am. It’s history.
Well … I don’t know … . Poor Conscience! … They found her out in the barn behind the bank. Stiff as a poker! Someone twisted a wire around her neck.
Did Matt do it?
I’m tired. I don’t want to talk anymore. I never told anybody the rest of it. I wish I had some chocolates. Do you have any chocolates?
No, ma’am, but I’ll send you some. Won’t you tell the rest of the story? You’re a good storyteller.
I don’t remember. I want my nap.
What kind of chocolates do you like?
Chocolates? … I like those little opera creams. Abigail always got opera creams when she went to Chicago.
Who was Abigail?
She got heaps of things in Chicago: silk waists, kid gloves, fancy high-buttoned shoes. Folks in Gattville talked about her. She was over twenty-one, and she didn’t have a husband. But she didn’t care … . She was the prettiest girl in town. Everybody said so.
Excuse me, ma’am. Who was Abigail?
Why, she was the stenographer at the bank! She could typewrite and everything. She knew what happened, but it was a secret.
Did she know what happened to the eighty-thousand dollars?
I promised not to tell, but … I don’t know. She never comes to see me. We were good friends, but she never comes to see me.
Did Abigail get the money?
Abigail? … No, Abigail didn’t get the money … .That Matt got it. He was the bank clerk. Mister Freddie gave it to him.
Why? Can you remember?
Remember? Of course I can remember! Matt threatened to tell everything if Mister Freddie didn’t pay him. Just a little bit at first. Matt told Mister Freddie he could fix it so nobody would find out … . What time is it? I’m getting tired.
Please, ma’am, what did Matt threaten to tell? It’s all right to tell the secret. It happened a long time ago.
I don’t know. I don’t remember … . It was about Chicago. They werecarrying on, the two of them.
Abigail and Mister Freddie?
Abigail told me … . She would go to visit her grandmother. Then she’d skip away and meet Mister Freddie in a hotel. He bought her nice presents. And they did funny things.
What to you mean by“funny things”?
You know!Funny things! Abigail told me … . She knew it was wrong, but she felt sorry for Mister Freddie. Her mother wasn’t nice to him. She was sickly.
Do you mean that Mister Freddie was married to Abigail’s mother? Then—he was Abigail’s stepfather.
I don’t know. You ask too many questions.
What happened to Abigail after the funeral—and after they discovered the bank shortage?
I don’t know. She went away. I don’t know where she went. She never came to see me. We used to be very good friends … . She shouldn’t have hurt Conscience. I’m sorry about what she did to Conscience … . Go away now. I’m tired. Where’s the nurse? … I can hear her coming—squinch-squinch …
Oh, you naughty girl! You’ve been talking too much and tiring yourself. We have to put you to bed now. Say goodbye to your visitor, Abby. Wake up and say goodbye. Abigail! Abigail! Wake up!
SUSU AND THE 8:30 GHOST
“SuSu and the 8:30 Ghost” was first published inEllery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, April 1964.
When my sister and I returned from vacation and learned that our eccentric neighbor in the wheelchair had been removed to a mental hospital, we were sorry but hardly surprised. He was a strange man, not easy to like, and no one in our apartment building seemed concerned about his departure—except our Siamese cat. The friendship between SuSu and Mr. Van was so close it was alarming.
If it had not been for SuSu we would never have made the man’s acquaintance, for we were not too friendly with our neighbors. The building was very large and full of odd characters who, we thought, were best ignored. On the other hand, our old apartment had advantages: large rooms, moderate rent, and a thrilling view of the river. There was also a small waterfront park at the foot of the street, and it was there that we first noticed Mr. Van.
One Sunday afternoon my sister Gertrude and I were walking SuSu in the park, which was barely more than a strip of grass alongside an old wharf. Barges and tugs sometimes docked there, and SuSu—wary of these monsters—preferred to stay away from the water’s edge. It was one of the last nice days in November. Soon the river would freeze over, icy winds would blow, and the park would be deserted for the winter.
SuSu loved to chew grass, and she was chewing industriously when something diverted her attention and drew her toward the river. Tugging at her leash, she insisted on moving across the grass to the boardwalk, where a middle-aged man sat in a most unusual wheelchair.
It was made almost entirely of cast iron, like the base of an old-fashioned sewing machine, and it was upholstered in worn plush.
With its high back and elaborate ironwork, it looked like a mobile throne, and the man who occupied the regal wheelchair presided with the imperious air of a monarch. It conflicted absurdly with his shabby clothing.
To our surprise this was the attraction that lured SuSu. She chirped at the man, and he leaned over and stroked her fur.
“She recognizes me,” he explained to us, speaking with a haughty accent that sounded vaguley Teutonic. “I was-s-s a cat myself in a former existence.”
I rolled my eyes at Gertrude, but she accepted the man’s statement without blinking.
He was far from attractive, having a sharply pointed chin, ears set too high on his head, and eyes that were mere slits, and when he smiled he was even less appealing. Nevertheless, SuSu found him irresistible. She rubbed against his ankles, and he scratched her in the right places. They made a most unlikely pair—SuSu with her luxurious blond fur, looking fastidious and expensive, and the man in the wheelchair, with his rusty coat and moth-eaten lap robe.
In the course of a fragmentary conversation with Mr. Van we learned that he and the companion who manipulated his wheelchair had just moved into a large apartment on our floor, and I wondered why the two of them needed so many rooms. As for the companion, it was hard to decide whether he was a mute or just unsociable. He was a short thick man with a round knob of a head screwed tight to his shoulders and a flicker of something unpleasant in his eyes. He stood behind the wheelchair in sullen silence.
On the way back to the apartment Gertrude said:“How do you like our new neighbor?”
“I prefer cats before they’re reincarnated as people,” I said.
“But he’s rather interesting,” said my sister in the gentle way that she had.
A few evenings later we were having coffee after dinner, and SuSu—having finished her own meal—was washing up in the downglow of a lamp. As we watched her graceful movements, we saw her hesitate with one paw in midair. She held it there and listened. Then a new and different sound came from her throat, like a melodic gurgling. A minute later she was trottingto our front door with intense purpose. There she sat, watching and waiting and listening, although we ourselves could hear nothing.
It was a full two minutes before our doorbell rang. I went to open the door and was somewhat unhappy to see Mr. Van sitting there in his lordly wheelchair.