Ma started for the door and then stopped. She put her hands up to her eyes, but she couldn’t cry. If she could only bawl or— But she couldn’t talk to Gram. She couldn’t share her troubles, even.
“You take your tonic, Elsie?”
“Yeah,” said Ma dully. Slowly she went to the table and sat down before it. She took a deck of cards from its drawer and began to pile them for a game of solitaire. She knew there was no use her even thinking about trying to go to bed until Eddie came home. No matter how late it was.
Gram came back and went over to the window.
Sometimes she’d look out of that window for an hour at a time. When you’re old it doesn’t take much to fill in your time.
Ma looked at Gram and envied her. When you were old you didn’t mind things, because you lived mostly in the past, and the present went over and around you like water off a duck’s back.
Almost desperately, Ma tried to keep her mind on beating the solitaire game. There were other games you didn’t know how to try to beat.
She failed. Then she played out a game. Then she was stuck without even an ace up. She dealt them out again.
She was putting a black ten on a red jack, and then her hand jerked as she heard footsteps coming up the stairs. Was Eddie coming back?
But no, not Eddie’s footsteps. Ma glanced up at the clock before she turned back to the game. Ten-thirty. It was about Gram’s bedtime.
The footsteps that weren’t Eddie’s were coming toward the door. They stopped outside. There was a heavy knock.
Ma’s hand went to her heart. She didn’t trust her legs to stand on. She said, “Come in.”
A policeman came in and closed the door behind him.
Ma saw only that uniform, but she heard Gram’s voice:
“It’s Dickie Wheeler. How are you, Dickie?”
The policeman smiled briefly at Gram. “Captain Wheeler now, Gram,” he said, “but I’m glad it’s still Dickie to you.”
Then his face changed as he turned to Ma. “Is Eddie here, Mrs. Murdock?”
Ma stood up slowly. “No — he—” But there wasn’t any answer she could make that was as important as knowing.
“Tell me! What?”
“Half hour ago,” said Captain Wheeler, “four men held up the Bijou box office, just as it was closing. Squad car was going by, and — well, there was shooting. Two of the men were killed, and a third is dying. The other got away.”
“Eddie-”
He shook his head. “We know the three. Butch Everard, Slim Ragoni, a guy named Walters. The fourth one— They were wearing masks. I hoped I’d find Eddie was home. We know he’s been running with those men.”
Ma stood up. “He was here at ten. He left just a few minutes ago. He—”
Wheeler put a hand on her shoulder. “Don’t say that, Ma.” He didn’t call her Mrs. Murdock now, but neither of them noticed. “The man who got away was wounded, in the arm. If Eddie comes home sound, he won’t need any alibi.”
“Dickie,” Gram said, and the rocker stopped creaking.
“Eddie — he’s a good boy. After tonight he’ll be all right.”
Captain Wheeler couldn’t meet her eyes. After tonight— well, he hadn’t told them quite all of it. One of the squad-car cops had been killed too. The man who got away would burn for that.
But Gram’s voice prattled on. “He’s just a little boy, Dickie. A little boy lost. You take him down to headquarters and he’ll get a scare. Show him the men who were killed. He needs a lesson, Dickie.”
Ma looked at her. “Hush, Gram. Don’t you see, it’s—
Why didn’t I stop him tonight, somehow?”
“He had a gun in his pocket tonight, Elsie,” said Gram.
“When he came out of his room I heard it hit the door. And with what you said about Johnny Everard—”
“Gram,” said Ma wearily, “go to bed.” There wasn’t any room left in Ma for anger. “You’re just making it worse.”
“But, Elsie. Eddie didn’t go. I’m trying to tell you. He’s in his car, right across the street, right now. He’s been there.”
Wheeler looked at her sharply. Ma wasn’t quite breathing.
Gram nodded. There were tears in her eyes now. “I knew we had to stop him,” she said. “Those sleeping powders you have, Elsie. I put four of them in that sulphur ‘n’ molasses I gave him. I knew they’d work quick, and I watched out the window. He stumbled going across the street, and he got in his car, but he never started it. Go down and get him, Dickie Wheeler, and when you get him awake enough you do like I told you to.”
Whistler's Murder
THE ANCIENT but highly polished automobile turned in at the driveway of the big country house. It came to a stop exactly opposite the flagged walk that led to the porch of the house.
Mr. Henry Smith stepped from the car. He took a few steps toward the house and then paused at the sight of a wreath on the front door. He murmured something to himself that sounded suspiciously like, “Dear me,” and stood for a moment. He took off his gold-rimmed pince-nez glasses and polished them carefully.
He replaced the glasses and looked at the house again.
This time his gaze went higher. The house had a flat roof surmounted by a three-foot parapet. Standing on the roof behind the parapet, looking down at Mr. Smith, was a big man in a blue serge suit. A gust of wind blew back the big man’s coat and Mr. Smith saw that he wore a revolver in a shoulder holster. The big man pulled his coat together, buttoned it shut, and stepped back out of sight. This time, quite unmistakably, Mr. Smith said, “Dear me!”
He squared his gray derby hat, went up onto the porch, and rang the doorbell. After about a minute, the door opened.
The big man who had been on the roof opened it, and frowned clown at Mr. Smith. He was well over six feet tall, and Mr. Smith was a scant five-six.
“Yeah?” said the big man.
“My name is Henry Smith,” answered Mr. Smith. “I would like to see Mr. Walter Perry. Is he home?”
“No.”
“Is he expected back soon?” asked Mr. Smith. “I… ah…have an appointment with him. That is, not exactly an appointment. I mean, not for a specific hour. But I talked to him on the telephone yesterday and he suggested that I call sometime this afternoon.” Mr. Smith’s eyes flickered to the funeral wreath on the open door. “He isn’t… ah—”
“No,” said the big man. “His uncle’s dead, not him.”
“Ah, murdered?”
The big man’s eyes opened a little more widely. “How did you know that? The papers haven’t—”
“It was just a guess,” Mr. Smith said. “Your coat blew back when you were on the roof and I saw you were wearing a gun. From that and your… ah… general appearance, I surmise that you are an officer of the law, possibly the sheriff of this county. At least, if my guess of murder is correct, I hope that you are an officer of the law and not…ah—”
The big man chuckled. “I’m Sheriff Osburne, not the murderer.” He pushed his hat back farther on his head. “And what was your business with Walter Perry, Mr… uh-?”
“Smith,” said Mr. Smith. “Henry Smith, of the Phalanx Insurance Company. My business with Walter Perry concerned life insurance. My company, however, also handles fire, theft, and casualty insurance. We’re one of the oldest and strongest companies in the country.”
“Yeah, I’ve heard of the Phalanx. Just what did Walter Perry want to see you about? Wait, come on in. No use talking in the doorway. There’s nobody here.”
He led the way across the hall, into a large, luxuriously furnished room in one corner of which stood a mahogany Steinway grand. He waved Mr. Smith to an overstaffed sofa and perched himself on the bench of the piano.