But He Was Already Dead When I Got There (20 page)

“Well, it seemed to me as if someone had deliberately tried to make the place look as if there'd been a burglary. All those papers everywhere, the desk drawers emptied and turned upside down, the broken glass from the terrace doors—it looked
staged
, Lieutenant.”

“That's what I thought too,” Gretchen said. “A real burglar wouldn't take that much time—to make such a mess, I mean. Real burglars like to get in and out fast, don't they?”

“So why did you move him?” Toomey asked, a bit dazed.

“To help,” Lionel said frankly. “To make it look like more of a struggle. Well, look, Lieutenant—I was there to find the note. The only thing I could think of was that somebody else had had the same idea but got there before I did. I thought that whoever'd killed Uncle Vincent had the note—which was good news for me, in a gruesome sort of way.”

Toomey smiled wryly. “Which one did you suspect? Dorrie or Nicole?”

“Now that is something I'm
not
going to tell you, Lieutenant,” Lionel said with determination. “So okay, I'm guilty of attempted burglary and maybe meddling with evidence, but I didn't kill Uncle Vincent. I didn't even take anything out of the room—I meant to take that broken statuette, but I stepped on Godfrey Daniel's tail and he let out a howl to wake the dead. I got spooked and ran.”

Toomey remembered the cat's brief hostility toward Lionel the previous day. “Ran where? How'd you get in in the first place?”

“I used Gretchen's extra key to get in. But I went out over the terrace wall. There was a table—”

“I saw it,” Toomey said. “So that's your scuff mark on the surface. And that's how you got your limp? Jumping off the wall?”

Lionel shrugged. “It seemed quickest.”

Toomey thought a moment. “When you moved the body, was there a blotter on the desk?”

“Oh yeah, the desk blotter—I burned it in the fireplace. It had blood all over it.”

“Ugh,” said Gretchen.

“Anything else?” Toomey sighed.

“Yeah—I tucked the gun under Uncle Vincent's body. Let's see,” said Lionel, thinking back and enumerating, “I turned on the lights, saw the mess, looked at each of the papers, moved Uncle Vincent, moved the gun, burned the blotter, stepped on Godfrey, and ran. That's all.” That wasn't quite all, but Lionel was not going to mention burning the private investigator's report unless he had to.

Interfering with evidence and withholding evidence
—
both felonies
, Toomey thought. “The lights were off when you got there? You're sure?”

Lionel nodded. “I remember looking to see if there was any light showing under the library door before I went in. That's an old house, Lieutenant, and some of the doors don't fit tight against the floor. The lights were off.”

“Now this next question isn't going to be pleasant, but I have to ask it. When you moved Uncle Vincent, what condition was the body in? I mean—”

“He was stiff as a board,” Lionel said bluntly.

“Ugh,” Gretchen said again.

So by five-thirty or so, rigor was well advanced
. “All right, Mrs. Knox,” Toomey said, “it's your turn. What time did you go into the study?”

“I guess right after Lionel left,” Gretchen said. “I heard Godfrey scream and went down to see what was the matter. It must have been around six.”

“And?”

She shrugged with one shoulder. “It was the way Lionel said. The library was a mess and Uncle Vincent was lying on the floor. So I straightened up—”

“Why? Why did you do that?”

Gretchen bit her bottom lip. “I was mad at my husband, Lieutenant. I wanted to cause trouble for him. It was stupid and I shouldn't have done it, but I thought if I could make the room look as if a robbery had
not
taken place—well, I thought the police would give Lionel a hard time. I didn't think he'd be
arrested
or anything like that. But I just wanted him to, you know, suffer a little?”

Nice
, thought Toomey. “So tell me what you did.”

“Well, I picked up the papers and put them back in the file—it took me the
longest
time. Then I gathered up the stuff from the desk drawers.”

“Missing a couple of things along the way,” Toomey told her. “There was one page of a letter still under the sofa, and your uncle's Infralux was over in a corner.”

“Oh dear.” Gretchen smiled tentatively and said in a soft voice, “I don't have much experience with murder scenes, Lieutenant.”

Toomey waited for her to bat her eyes but she didn't. “What about the ivory owl and the other things? Did you put them around the room?”

“Yes, I did. I thought the jade horse and the rest had been taken just to make it look like robbery. A real burglar would have taken the Degas, or at least the mantle clock. So I fetched a few knick-knacks to fill in the empty spaces.”

“Anything else before you left—no? Did you turn off the lights?”

Gretchen thought back. “Yes. I turned off the lights, closed the door, and went back up to my room.”

“How?”

“How what?”

“How did you go back up to your room? By the stairs?”

“Oh—no, I took the elevator. I mean, Uncle Vincent wouldn't be using it, would he?”

Toomey grunted; one more loose end tied up. “What time was it when you got to your room?”

“About six-thirty.”

“And Mrs. Polk called us at seven forty-five. Yes, that works out. Now. Have you two told me everything?”

“Oh, absolutely!” Lionel exclaimed.

“Uh
-huh
,” Gretchen nodded vigorously.

“Because if I find you haven't, I can still charge you with interfering at the scene of a crime. The courts don't take that offense lightly, let me tell you.”

“We've told you everything, Lieutenant,” Lionel said in his most earnest manner.

“I hope so. I want you both to come into the station sometime today and dictate your statements to one of our stenographers.” They nodded reluctantly and Toomey got up from the table. “Thanks for the coffee. By the way, what are you going to do with Uncle Vincent's house? Sell it?”

Lionel just shrugged but Gretchen said, “No, I thought we'd keep it and live in it. We'll sell this one instead.”

Lionel's eyebrows shot up. “We will? Well, that's a nice surprise! Thanks for talking it over with me first, Gretchen.”

“The house
is
in my name, Lionel.”

“As you never tire of reminding me.”

Toomey beat a hasty retreat.

Dorrie Murdoch reached out her racquet—but not far enough and not fast enough. The ball thudded against the wall behind her and fell to the floor. Furious, Dorrie hurled her racquet after the ball.

Malcolm Conner picked up his sister's broken racquet. “I'd say that ends the game for now. What's the matter with you today, Dorrie? You can't keep your mind on what you're doing.”

“Nothing!” she screeched. “Nothing's the matter!”

Malcolm knew his sister better than that. “Let's have some orange juice,” he suggested.

They went out and sat at a small table on the club's glassed-in terrace. When the waiter had brought their juice, Malcolm said, “All right, Dorrie—let's have it. What's wrong?”

Dorrie stared into her orange juice a moment as if looking for an answer there and then blurted out, “Simon and I almost got arrested last night!”

“Arrested! What happened?”

Dorrie had been thinking about it ever since she woke up that morning, and she could see no way to explain last night's episode without telling him everything; Malcolm would no more believe that airline bag had contained tax records than Lieutenant Toomey had done. So she took a deep breath and plunged in. She told about the way she and Simon had redecorated the murder scene, about how Toomey had found her hiding in Uncle Vincent's closet during her second frustrated attempt to steal the promissory note, and about how she and Simon had thrown the incriminating evidence from the library into the river—only to discover that that police sergeant had been
following
them! She looked at her brother's horrified face and finished limply, “I think I need a lawyer.”

“What you need is to have your head examined!” Malcolm snapped, as soon as he'd recovered enough to speak. “What on earth possessed you, Dorrie? Just about everything it was possible to do wrong, you've done! Of all the irresponsible, feather-headed—”

“Now you stop that, Malcolm Conner!” Dorrie exclaimed, just as she'd done a hundred times as a child. “Don't you think I'd
un
do it all if I could? My hindsight is just as clear as yours! Don't fuss at me, Malcolm, please.”

He gave her hand a little squeeze. “All right. No point in crying over spilled milk,” he said, heartily wishing she'd not confided in him. “Fortunately, we can consider what you told me as privileged information—I'd hate to have to take
that
story to the police. You actually interfered with the evidence at a murder scene? And Simon too? I thought he had better sense.”

“Don't blame Simon, it was my idea. He didn't even want to go back to look for the note. Oh, he was marvelous last night, Malcolm! Even when that wretched sergeant dragged us into the police station, Simon never lost his cool. The Lieutenant tried to rattle him, but you know Simon—he just won't rattle.
I
would probably have spilled out the whole story, if I'd been there alone. Simon says that was the whole idea, to prod one of us into letting something slip. He says they'll try it again. Simon says they're not finished with us.”

Simon says hands on hips; Simon says hop on one foot
. “He's probably right,” said Malcolm. “They didn't have anything solid.”

“But the police suspect us now, especially me. Now I want you to tell me—is there something
legal
I can do to protect myself?”

Malcolm thought a moment. “It depends on what the police do next. They'll probably send divers into the river to look for that airline bag—”

“Oh dear!”

“And if they find it, you're in trouble. But until then, just sit tight—do nothing, say nothing. Don't talk to the police. If they ask you more questions, simply don't answer. Have you got that, Dorrie?
Do not answer
.”

“I got it.”

“Tell Simon to keep quiet too. And from now on, you are going to be the very model of law-abiding decorum. Go to work, go home, do absolutely nothing to attract further attention to yourself. Become a
mouse
. Don't spend any large sums of money, don't even go shopping. Don't go away for the weekend. Be open and obvious in all your actions. Don't—”

“Malcolm,” Dorrie interrupted. “I get the picture.”

“And for god's sake, forget about finding that promissory note. Don't you see, whoever has that note is going to be the police's number one suspect? Now that they know about the note, they're not going to keep on looking for nonexistent burglars. They have to know that the killer was one of the six of us there at the meeting. The last thing in the world you want is to be found with that note, Dorrie.”

She agreed. “I guess that lets out Lionel, too. He doesn't have the note.” She hesitated, and then went on, “We think Nicole has it. Somebody took it out of Uncle Vincent's safe, and it wasn't either Lionel or I.”

Malcolm was shocked. “Dorrie, you don't know what you're saying! Nicole might talk about stealing the note, but she'd never actually do it. She doesn't share your larcenous impulses.”
Like hell she doesn't
, he thought to himself. Malcolm didn't like lying to his sister, but he couldn't see any way around it. “Besides, she would have told me if she had it.”

“Are you sure about that?”

“Of course I'm sure! You know what you're saying, don't you? You're saying Nicole is the killer! That's absurd. Personally, I'd be more inclined to suspect Lionel.”

“He was my first choice, too,” Dorrie said, “but now I'm not so sure. If the person who has the note is also the killer—”

“Now wait a minute—I said that's what the
police
would think. It doesn't necessarily follow that whoever took the promissory note also killed Uncle Vincent. There could have been any number of people looking for that note. That doesn't make them murderers.” He was beginning to get upset; Nicole suspected Dorrie, and had in fact tampered with the evidence to protect her. And now Dorrie was shifting her suspicions from Lionel to Nicole. Malcolm was as sure as he could be that neither woman was guilty. It had to be Lionel. He attempted a laugh. “The only happy solution I can see is for one of the servants to turn out to be guilty.”

“Or Gretchen,” Dorrie smiled wickedly. “None of us would mind that, particularly. I'm going to ask Nicole straight out if she has the note. I tried to get hold of her yesterday—and you too. But you both seemed to have vanished off the face of the earth.”

“We were out all last evening. Dinner and theater—we both felt in need of distraction. But you are
not
going to ask her about the note, Dorrie. You are going to do
nothing
out of the ordinary, remember?”

“But who would know—”

“
Nothing whatsoever
, is that understood? I don't think you realize how much you have to live down, Dorrie. You broke into somebody else's house, you discovered a dead body, you failed to notify the police, you tampered with the evidence—”

“I know, I know,” she said with irritation. “
You
would never do anything that dumb—do you have to rub it in?”

Malcolm shifted his weight uneasily. “Well, what's done is done. Just forget about the note. Be completely passive. Don't even get a traffic ticket.”