I heard the door flung open and feet pounding on the stairs. I could not tell from the sounds whether the feet were running up or down or both, whether Betty was pursuing Eddie or vice versa, or if each had gone separate ways.

  I waited a decent interval and then emerged from the bathroom. The hall door of Room 13 was still open. I went out and closed it behind me. I started down the stairs when I saw McKay and his shock troops coming out of the dining room. I held back until they had deployed onto the veranda en route to field headquarters in the bar. Then I resumed my descent.

  I had barely reached the dining room floor when I was tackled around the knees by Tommy, who emerged from nowhere and immediately began shinnying up my right leg. He chinned himself on my shoulder, dropped to the ground, and executed two backward somersaults. Then he declared in a stage whisper: “Jim! I got a secret message for you. Follow me.”

  I followed him, after a fashion. I did not slide down the banister of the outside stairway, nor did I hurdle the hedges on my way to the clump of willows by the lakeside which the swift and agile Tommy had chosen for our rendezvous. But I did stroll after him because so many crazy things had happened in less than twenty-four hours that I rejected nothing as impossible—not even the improbability that Tommy actually had a message for me.

  When I caught up with the boy in the willows, I said: “Okay, Tommy. We haven’t been followed. You can spill it now. What’s the secret message?”

  Tommy reached for the back pocket of his trousers—and his face went blank.

  “Gee!” he said. “I must have lost it.”

  “What did you lose, Tommy?”

  “The envelope,” Tommy said. “It had the secret message in it.”

  “Who gave it to you, Tommy?”

  “Alma. She said I should give it to you as soon as I could. Only I couldn’t find you right away.”

  “Where were you when she gave it to you?”

  “In the kitchen. But I came right out in the dining room looking for you.”

  “Did you talk to anybody after you got the message?”

  “Sure. I was asking people if they’d seen you. I talked to a lot of people. Captain McKay said you were in jail but he was kidding. I knew he was kidding.”

  “Did Captain McKay take the message away from you?”

  “No. Anyhow I don’t think so. I didn’t feel anybody take it. I guess I just lost it.”

  “When did Alma give it to you, Tommy?”

  “About twenty minutes ago. Or thirty minutes. Not long.”

  “Let’s go look for it,” I said.

  We headed back for the inn, with Tommy retracing every step of his acrobatic steeplechase, looking for his lost envelope. I didn’t really need the note, because I thought I knew what it said. Alma will get word to you when she can see you alone, Karl had said. This was no doubt the word. If Tommy hadn’t been quite so careless, I would have known where and when. But the possibilities did not have such a wide range.

  I left Tommy with his nose to the ground under the veranda and climbed the outside stairs to the dining room. Alma was not there. The ratty, adenoidal scullery maid was serving lunch, aided by the paunchy, puffy-eyed proprietor who tried to preserve his dignity by looking bored and slapping down plates of fried chicken in front of his guests as though he were tossing bones to a dog.

  I went into the kitchen. Through a pungent blue haze of frying I saw the elderly woman with the Frau Katzenjammer topknot dropping dismembered parts of chicken into sputtering grease. Still no sign of the waitress.

  “Where’s Alma?” I asked.

  “Alma iss not good ge-feeling,” the woman said without looking up from her skillet. “A nose-bleeding Alma iss havving. To lying down she hass gone.”

  I thanked the cook, and escaped through the dining room. I noted idly that Grace and Henry Pennington were not there, and remembered that they had not been there when I came through a few minutes earlier. It had not taken them long to finish lunch.

  I stepped into the hall and walked toward the lobby, which consisted of a desk and two chairs between the outside door and the foot of the stairway. There was nobody sitting at the desk. I had covered about half the distance from the dining room when I heard someone coming down the stairs.

  I stopped to listen. The tread was light and the steps hesitant, broken by frequent pauses, like an errant husband trying to make a quiet nocturnal entrance without waking his wife. I could almost hear him swearing silently at the tell-tale creak of the stairs.

  I waited until I saw Bob Stewart come out of the Stairway. He did not look back, but went out directly through the front door without seeing me.

  I hurried upstairs to the top floor and knocked gently on the door of Room 29. “Alma, this is Jim Lawrence.”

  There was no answer. I knocked again, a little harder.

  “Alma.”

  Still no response.

  I twisted the knob and the door swung open with a little moan. At first I thought Alma was not in the room. My eye quickly caught the familiar details of the mean little cubicle—the peeling wallpaper, the worn rug, the wash-bowl and pitcher, the chromo over the bed. Then I noticed a shapely leg hanging over the edge of the bed.

  I stepped across the threshold and kicked the door shut behind me. It was two steps to the foot of the bed. I looked down at Alma Frazer and something very cold turned over slowly in my stomach. Alma was lying on her back, with her dress above her knees. One leg was folded grotesquely under her, and the other dangled off the bed. Her mouth was open in a frozen grimace of horrid surprise, and her eyes were glazed and bulging. Her face was a dark mottled purple.

  I moved quickly to the side of the bed and touched her hand. It was still warm, but it wouldn’t be for long. I didn’t have to feel for her extinct pulse to know that Alma Frazer was dead.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Walking in unexpectedly on a corpse had always been an unpleasant shock to me in my newspaper days. Even wholesale contact with the untidy dead scattered by German bombs among the wreckage in London had not changed my sensitivity to violent death; twice during the past twenty-four hours I had been reminded of this fact. I suppose I shared a little of the superstitious fear of death and the unknown common to most of us. Or it may be something of the subjective “There but for the grace of God” feeling.

  Finding Alma Frazer dead, however, was not just an impersonal reaction. The discovery hit me hard, right between the eyes. Although I had known her only a few hours, I didn’t want her to be dead. I liked Alma. I liked her love for Tommy and her post-mortem devotion to Dr. Norman, who had done her a favor. I wanted her to live and marry Karl and open a bar-and-grill of their own. And instead she had been killed—probably because of something she wanted to tell me, something that would help clear up the murder of Norman H. Norman. I started to choke up. Then I realized this was not the time or place for sentimentality. I had to get out of Room 29—and quick.

  I took a hurried look around. There was a pillow on the floor near the head of the bed, and it was smudged with lipstick. Probably it had been used to smother Alma.

  A green toothbrush lay on the floor near the pillow. I checked an impulse to pick it up. Suppose it was Norman’s toothbrush? How had it got to Room 29 from Room 13? And what good would it do me to carry it away? I didn’t see how it fitted into the picture. Anyhow I wasn’t going to touch anything in this room.

  I took out a handkerchief and wiped the footboard of the bed and the inside knob of the door. I opened the door and looked out. The hall was clear, but I thought I saw a flash of blue on the stairway landing of the floor below. At the same time I heard a door close. I shut the door to Room 29 and hurried down the steps.

  I stopped briefly on the landing to examine the door through which I thought I had seen a blue dress disappearing. The door was marked “Ladies.” I toyed with the idea of pulling the door open with profuse apologies, just to see if Conchita was inside, but I dropped it quickly. After all, Conchita was not the only woman in the world with a blue dress. And even if she had been snooping, I had no way of knowing whether or not she saw me coming out of Alma’s room. And if she hadn’t, I would only be making matters worse. I went on down the stairs.

  Crossing the veranda to the outside stairway, I saw. Grace sitting under a tree by the croquet court. She was alone and she had a book in her hand, but I could tell she wasn’t reading. When she saw me on the veranda she got up, smoothed her skirt and started walking rapidly in the direction of the garden. I knew it was my cue to follow.

  As I passed the entrance to the bar I looked in. McKay and his general staff were in conference. I hesitated. I thought of going in and telling McKay about Alma, then changed my mind. I couldn’t have Karl get the news second hand, by overhearing me tell McKay that Alma was dead. And if I told Karl first, McKay would jump me. Besides, I didn’t want to be around when they found Alma. They would give me the works again for hours, maybe hold me, and that would interfere with my plan.

  I found Grace sitting on the bench we had warmed before. She put out her hand to me as I sat down and I could feel she was trembling. Her eyes were as worried as I have ever seen them. Before Grace could say anything, Dr. Hurley came strolling out of a side path, smoking a panatela that trailed a wisp of expensive Havana fragrance. He came toward us with a smile that promised a long, leisurely, friendly chat—something I desperately didn’t need at the moment.

  “Good afternoon,” he said, sitting down on the other side of Grace. He carefully sharpened the knife creases in his trousers before he crossed his legs. “Beautiful day, isn’t it? Brisk. I haven’t had so much fresh air in months. We city folks don’t get enough of it. It’s unfortunate that it takes a murder to keep us in the air. Enjoy your lunch?”

  “No,” I Said, hoping Hurley would understand I wasn’t looking for small talk.

  “The chicken wasn’t bad,” Dr. Hurley said, puffing on his panatela. “Well prepared, I thought. And tender. That old harridan is a pretty good cook—for a dump like this, anyhow.”

  Grace’s eyes were dark with anxiety. She wasn’t just having the fidgets. She had something to tell me which was not for Hurley’s ears. I wondered if it could be the same thing I wanted to tell her. Whatever it was, it was obviously important and urgent. I decided to get rid of Hurley by taking the offensive.

  “I suppose you’re looking for Mrs. Hurley, Doctor,” I said. “I saw her coming out of Room 13 a little while ago. Is that your room?”

  Dr. Hurley took his cigar out of his mouth and gave me a bizarre look. “No,” he said. “It’s not our room. You must be mistaken.”

  “I’m positive it was Room 13,” I insisted. “What makes you think I could be mistaken? Is Mrs. Hurley super-stitious?”

  The doctor replaced his cigar and gave Grace a coy sidelong glance. “I think everyone in this part of the country knows that the management of the Lakeside Inn reserves Room 13 for—well, a certain type of transients.”

  “Really?” I said. “I thought Dr. Norman occupied Room 13 night before last. Do you know anything about that, Grace?”

  “I believe he did.”

  “Probably some Freudian quirk of his.” Dr. Hurley emitted one of his bedside chuckles. “Or perhaps it was just poor old Norman’s usual contrary cussedness. He’d insist on having the very room they wouldn’t want to give him. He was like that.”

  “But what would Mrs. Hurley be doing in there today?” I asked.

  “I’m sure I don’t know.” Hurley’s cigar seemed to have lost its flavor. He tossed it away. “Probably just morbid curiosity. Betty’s a great one for poking her nose into public or private catastrophes. You’ll always find her in the crowd that gathers around a street accident.”

  “Is Eddie Westerford a patient of yours, Doctor?”

  “No.” I was at last succeeding in making the doctor uncomfortable. He stood up. “Where did you get the idea that Eddie was a patient of mine?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe because your wife came out here in the Westerfords’ car. Or perhaps because I saw you feeling Eddie’s pulse on the croquet court before lunch.”

  “Oh that.” Hurley chuckled again. “That was a joke. Eddie looked as though he’d been up all night. I was kidding him. I prescribed sleep. Well, I’d better be getting along to find Betty.”

  In ten seconds I decided the doctor was out of earshot. I turned to Grace. “Alone at last,” I said.

  “Jim, we’re in trouble.” Grace’s voice was as tight as a violin string.

  “You’re telling me? You know about Alma, then.”

  “I’m not talking about Alma. I’m talking about you—and me.”

  “What did Pennington tell you at lunch?” I asked.

  “Henry didn’t tell me anything. Jim, they’re going to hold you and me—both of us. Everybody is being released but you and me.”

  I felt strangely, incongruously elated. I didn’t say so, but I thought it was fine, as long as they hadn’t actually arrested me yet. Releasing my fellow suspects not only fitted in with my plan, but it would make things much simpler—as long as I could maintain my freedom. But I would have to hurry—if what Grace said was true.

  “How do you know they’re holding us?” I asked.

  “I overheard Captain McKay talking to the D.A.’s men in the bar,” Grace replied. “The acoustics in the bar are perfect. From the powder room I could hear every word they said. McKay is satisfied with everybody else’s alibi. The woman at the Blue Falls Flower Shop confirmed Henry’s story that he was buying roses at the time McKay thinks Norman was killed. Karl the bartender now swears he saw Bob Stewart drive up the road without turning off to my cabin after Norman left the inn. McKay has checked Eddie’s phone call to New York, and that’s all right for time, too. Dr. Hurley was buying gas at a service station twenty miles away, and McKay is convinced he could not have got here in time to kill Norman.”

  “So that leaves just you and me?”

  “Yes. My butcher simply doesn’t remember what time I bought those steaks. He honestly thinks it was an hour earlier. And since nobody in Blue Falls knows you, nobody remembers seeing you in the village when I said we were there.”

  “The guy in the liquor shop certainly wouldn’t remember me out of all his Saturday afternoon customers,” I said.

  “So McKay is convinced that he can get a conviction on the ballistics evidence and your prints on Bob’s gun. He’s sure now it was a crime of passion. He’s going to ask for a homicide indictment for you, and he’ll hold me either as an accomplice or a material witness. As soon as I heard this, I came out to find you. There’s an exit from the powder room which doesn’t lead through the bar, so McKay doesn’t know I was listening.”

  “When will they pick me up?” I asked.

  “At any minute. As soon as they finish shuffling their legal papers. They’re giving back the keys to all the cars except mine.”

  “I’ve still got your duplicate keys you gave me last night,” I said. “I guess I’d better get going.”

  “Jim! What are you going to do?”

  “I’ve got to take a little trip to New York. McKay can pick me up just as well in New York, if he wants me. And if he’s going to arrest me for murder, I’ll need a few hours to prepare my defense—and yours. I really don’t think you killed Norman, and I know I didn’t.”

  “Don’t go, Jim.”

  “You can stop me without half trying,” I said. “You can get to McKay in the bar long before I’ve reached your car.”

  There was a hurt silence. Grace stood up. “Why did you say that?” she asked.

  I stood up too. I wanted to make a crack about the papers I had seen her burning in her fireplace that morning, but I didn’t. Instead I said: “Do you want your duplicate keys back?”

  “Of course not. It’s just that—Jim, if they think you’re running away, they’ll shoot to stop you. I don’t want you to get hurt.”

  I put my arm around Grace. “I thought you’d given up being nursemaid to bright young fools,” I said. “I thought you were through wiping noses for grownup little boys.”

  Grace leaned her head against my shoulder. Her forehead pressed hard against me, and I could feel a tremor run through her taut body. I thought for a moment she was going to cry, but when she raised her head she had herself under control.

  “Take my car if you want, Jim,” she said. “And good luck. But before you go I want you to know that I’m—I’m not going to marry Henry Pennington.”

  This was of course my cue to kiss her, but I didn’t. Not only was I a little stunned by the unexpected announcement, but I was so keyed up by the urgency of my getting away before I was stopped by McKay, before Alma’s body was discovered, that the full impact of her words didn’t register. I merely said: “When did you make this decision?”

  “Just now,” Grace said.

  “Look,” I said, “you may want to change your mind, because I’m playing you a dirty trick, and you may need Pennington to look after you while I’m a fugitive from justice.”

  “You’re not playing me a dirty trick,” Grace said.

  “I sure am,” I insisted. “I’m leaving you in the damnedest mess you can possibly imagine. Alma Frazer is dead.”

  “Oh Jim! No!”

  “I just left her room a few minutes ago. She’s been smothered—or strangled. Anyhow she’s dead of asphyxia. She’s blue in the face. When they find her, McKay is going to pin it on me, sure as hell. Somebody saw me coming out of her room. I think it was Conchita, but I’m not sure. And Karl, the barman, will probably blame me because he didn’t want Alma to get mixed up in this, but she crossed him up by sending word by Tommy that she wanted to see me. She knew something that whoever killed Norman had to suppress. Grace, you must find Tommy and stay with him. He mustn’t be the one who finds Alma.”

  “That would be too awful,” Grace agreed.

  “And try to keep them from finding Alma before I get a decent start. I don’t know how you can do that and look after Tommy, too, but please try.”

 

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