Give Up the Body (14 page)

“When Willow reached the living room, Hilton and Mrs. Willow were there. While Hilton was greeting you at the door, Daisy and Frew came in from the French doors at the rear. That is, by way of the garden. Willow noticed nothing out of the ordinary except that Frew seemed a little glummer and mixed himself an even stronger drink than usual. Willow attributed this extra sullenness to a spat between Frew and Daisy and mentioned it to Mrs. Willow. She declined to comment.”

“Fine,” I said, when Jeff had finished. “If Willow did go by the road, he’s in the clear.”

Jeff shrugged and continued:

“Arthur Frew, having finished dinner, asked Daisy if she would like a walk in the twilight. She agreed, and went to change her clothes. Frew killed a few minutes by going to the garage and examining Delhart’s assorted automobiles. Then Daisy came down in slacks and they set out. Neither knew what time it was but they saw Delhart coming into his study as they passed by the windows. He went immediately to the phone, so it must have been eight o’clock. They walked in the direction of the ponds, past the first one, in fact, when Daisy ran away. He chased her through the woods.”

“How coy!” I muttered. “Dryads.”

Jeff grinned. “Nymph and satyr. It seems Frew admitted that in his usual fashion he had been quarreling with Miss Willow. Getting no place, he tried to make up with her. This involved a kiss or two. The just rights of a fiance, you understand. (Frew was vehement about this.) Daisy didn’t want to be kissed, so she ran.”

“Get on with it,” I said. “I’m all a-twitter to know if he caught her.”

Jeff clucked his tongue at me and went on with Frew’s statement.

“The woods were darker than the paths, it seemed. What had been twilight was now night under the trees. Frew kept tripping in the brush. He shouted to Daisy once and got no answer. He was getting madder and madder. He couldn’t see her at all and finally decided he was lost. Just about the time he was ready to go completely crazy he reached the river and the little beach where he had stumbled onto her and Delhart. This didn’t improve his temper but it did let him know where he was. He followed a definite path back from there. It brought him onto the gravelled path alongside the ponds, about midway down the lower one. It was quite darkish now and he noticed nothing.

“He was nearly to the house, at the near edge of the forest, to be exact, when Daisy called to him. She was in the trees, peeping out.”

“Oh, divine,” I said.

“Listen,” Jeff said sternly. “This is the way the conversation went after that:

Frew: Oh, there you are. Where have you been?

Daisy: You don’t have to sound so mean. I’m in trouble. Arthur. I need help.

Frew: Who is it this time?

Daisy: Oh, you’re vile, Arthur. Please, I—I got my slacks dirty and mama will be furious. Run up and get my yellow ones, will you?

Frew: What did you do to them?

Daisy: I fell in a muddy place and got them all covered with mud. And besides, they tore.

Frew: All right. But I shouldn’t after the way you acted. Daisy: You’re a dear, Arthur.”

“I’d hate to be tied to that guy,” I said. “Such a brilliant conversationalist!”

“Daisy doesn’t seem to think very much of him,” Jeff said. “Or maybe that’s the way young love goes these days.”

“Frew (Jeff went on) slipped upstairs and found Daisy’s slacks and took them back to her. She had him stand guard while she changed. At the time he was upstairs he took a moment to change his own torn clothing. After hiding the dirty slacks they went into the house.”

“It leaves both of them open to suspicion,” I said. “Did the police take their dirty clothing for analysis?”

“I don’t know,” Jeff said. “It’s a good point. But I’m not through. After Tim Larson confessed Frew amended his story.

“He claims he really had seen something when he reached the edge of the pond after finding himself again. But he had kept quiet due to a surprising and newly acquired delicacy. He didn’t know the time but estimating the length of his subsequent actions decided it was close to eight-thirty.

“He saw Tim Larson (he knew it was he by his size) across the road. He wasn’t alone but Frew couldn’t make out the other party. Yes, it could have been Glory Martin. Anyway, they were half running and half walking toward the dam. And though it was quite dark and they were some distance away he could see their motions. They plunged off the path into the trees. A moment later a third figure appeared from the direction they had come and followed them. Yes, it could have been Delhart. Frew saw no more.

“The last I heard,” Jeff said cheerfully, “was that Tiffin was prowling those trees for blood. The scene of the crime.”

“And that nasty Frew will probably swear on the stand it was Delhart, Glory, and Little Swede,” I said.

L
ET’S GO TO THE OFFICE
and swipe Jud’s whiskey,” I said. “You can tell me the rest of it there. I do have to work now and then.”

Jeff was agreeable so we walked the block to the Pioneer office. The town was dark except for a few night lights here and there, and one brightly lighted building. That was the office. Repentance struck me as I realized tomorrow was Friday. Tonight was the night the paper went to press. And while I was entertaining Jeff my boss was doing both my job and his own.

I rushed in, all apologies. Jeff trailed me. Bosco came up and rubbed against my leg, opening her mouth in greeting. No sound ever came out of her when she opened her mouth but I thought it was nice of her to try. I picked her up and handed her to Jeff.

“This is Bosco,” I said. “Snuzzle her.”

I left him holding her as if she were a wet baby. I could hear the old press machine staggering through its weekly effort as I ran to the back of the shop. I snatched off Jud’s little paper cap and kissed his bald head and started apologizing.

He grinned at me and rolled a cigar from one corner of his mouth to the other. “Addy,” he shouted over the noise of the press, “you get back. That’s no dress to come to work in. Anyway your friend Cook gave me the copy I needed.”

I was relieved. So that was why Jeff had talked so long to Jud over the phone. “And,” Jud was shouting, “the story about you and the corpse is a piperoo.” He looked up and saw Jeff in the doorway. “Hi, there. Can I use your name on that story?”

“Sure,” Jeff bellowed back. “And give O’Hara credit for the other one.”

I didn’t care for the way Jeff was grinning. I had a sudden feeling of suspicion. “What other one?” I demanded.

Jud handed me a sheet of paper. It was a front page story and he had already stuck my name on it. The head was:

And there followed exactly the same lead I had given The Press to be used under Jeff’s by-line!

“You knew all the time,” I sputtered at him.

“Sure,” Jeff said airily. “They had me verify the story when I called in. I passed on it, O’Hara.”

I couldn’t say anything. I was defeated, and rightly so. I felt ashamed of myself now for not having confessed sooner. I could only stand there and feel myself flush, not looking at either of them, but knowing they were getting a big kick out of it.

“Give me those notes of yours,” I said finally. “You and Jud can put baby to sleep. It may teach you the business.” I took Jeff’s sheaf of copy paper and stalked indignantly into the other room. But my scene fell flat. I heard their infuriating laughter as I sat at my desk.

I got up and went back into the pressroom and took Bosco out of Jeff’s arms. “Her morals are still in the formative stage,” I announced grandly.

At my desk again, I put Bosco on my lap and read through the rest of the notes. I made a copy and a carbon on the typewriter for myself.

Jeff had finished reading Frew’s statement so I passed on to Potter Hilton’s.

He had put through Delhart’s phone call and then had left the study. He met Mrs. Willow in the hall and she asked him to show her the garden. He did so and while they were out there he saw Delhart going toward the servant’s quarters. Shortly after that Mrs. Willow left, saying that she was getting chilly. She went into the house. Hilton strolled about the garden for a while and then decided to go for a walk.

That, I decided, was evidently a universal craving. Walking seemed to be a compulsion to the ranch guests. At least on that night.

Hilton walked along the path to where the ponds were joined by the little creek. He crossed over the bridge and followed the path up the far side of the first pond and so back to the house. He arrived a moment or two before Titus Willow came in. Mrs. Willow had just come from upstairs, entering the living room as Hilton did.

The police queried him carefully on this point. She had, according to Hilton, all the appearance of a woman ending the descent of a flight of stairs. The police were not amused.

His statement went on to say that he had seen nothing. He cautiously admitted the possibility of hearing a disturbance down in the direction of the dam but he attributed it to night sounds. He gave his answers very carefully.

Mrs. Edna Willow was questioned next. She substantiated Hilton’s story to the point where she had gone in from the garden. Being chilly, she had gone upstairs for a wrap. And, like her husband, she had eaten too well. The bed looked too inviting to ignore and so she had lain down for a nap. The maid had been in the upper hall and Mrs. Willow had instructed her to awaken her shortly before nine o’clock. She took her nap but woke by herself. In fact, she was combing her hair when the maid knocked. Then she had gone downstairs and met Hilton coming into the living room.

Mrs. Willow had seen nothing nor had she heard anything. I was relieved to find someone who had not taken a long stroll. I was beginning to think it a phobia.

Daisy Willow’s statement followed that of her mother. She corroborated Frew’s story to the place where she had coyly dashed away. He had, in Daisy’s words, “Not only been horrid and nasty but had tried to kiss me by pushing me against a tree.” Figuring, I suppose, that he could do a better job by propping her up. Or, he might have decided that she needed some help in the line of a backbone.

And then Daisy made an astounding statement. It brought back to my mind the strained relations between herself and her mother, and I wondered if those not-too-well-chosen words could have been the cause of that. And of those bruises on Daisy’s shoulders as well.

“Arthur,” Daisy was quoted, “acted crazy-like. He accused me of trying to marry Mr. Delhart for his money and he accused daddy of making me do it for that old charity. He was horrid. So I slapped him and ran.”

After giving Frew this choice motive Daisy went on about her running. She got lost, too, only when she came out of the trees she was on the road and nearly to the covered bridge. She followed the road back toward the driveway. But she was so dirty from a fall and so torn in a strategic spot she didn’t dare let herself be seen. So she slipped along the edge of the trees and hid near the house and wondered how she could sneak upstairs. It was then she saw Frew and called out to him. He kept on being horrid but he did get her slacks. It took him quite a while and she was detailed regarding her miserable wait.

I could sympathize with her. I knew only too well the sensation of being alone in the woods at night, of having that awful sense of oppressiveness weighing down on me. And to spend some of that time in panic of being lost … I shuddered. Anything Daisy had done after even her short ordeal I was willing to forgive her for.

I finished her statement. It said that upon the receipt of her fresh slacks she had put them on and then gone into the house with Frew. Then I leaned back and sighed. No one had seen anything. Unless young Frew’s agenda could be counted. And it seemed to me that he was jumping at conclusions in trying to identify people in near darkness a pond’s width away. I had a suspicion that Tiffin would think himself clever to have planted the suggestion in Frew’s mind as to who had been doing the running. And it was just like Frew to get on a witness stand and make the statement and not be turned from it.

I thought of Tim Larson in jail and it made me a little sick to my stomach. And again I felt the urgency, the necessity to hurry. I could not explain why, not even to myself. Tim’s trial would be a long time away, yet there was that feeling pressing on me.

I propped my elbows on the desk and rested by head in my hands. With my eyes closed the sounds of the press in the back room came to me muted. The smells of dust and old paper and printers ink were strong in my nostrils but as my mind drew more and more away in my concentration those odors faded. For a moment I was completely disassociated from the office. It was as if I were on the edge of sleep, floating, half conscious of myself but of nothing else. And in that moment a spear of terror thrust itself into me. I jerked my head up, and opened my eyes. I blinked into the light and swivelled in the chair to peer at the shadowy corners of the room.

I relaxed, shaking a little. I realized now why I had felt such a need for hurry. I did not believe Tim Larson guilty of murder. And since he was not, then the murderer was still loose. Someone had killed and he had not been caught. And if there was the possibility of anyone knowing anything that could connect the murderer to the crime then might he not strike again? Even with Tim Larson in custody and the police relaxed, wouldn’t that desire for self preservation be strong enough for the killer to make sure of every detail?

And here I was openly proclaiming my belief in Tim Larson’s innocence. Openly and vociferously. Someone might get the idea that I thought I knew something the police didn’t. Someone might want to make sure of that. A little nauseated, I wondered how it would feel to be slashed as Delhart had been.

To get a hold on my nerves, I picked up the remaining statements and began to read. Those of the servants followed. The first was, “Vina Norman, Housemaid.”

She, it seemed, was irked at Mrs. Willow. She had gone upstairs at Mrs. Larson’s request to check on the clean towels in the bathrooms. When Mrs. Willow found her and asked her to be sure and waken her before nine o’clock, she was planning to hurry through her share of the dishes so she could get to her room and hear Chapter 57, Book 43, of a radio serial. Here she had lumbered into a plot synopsis that began at Book One. It petered out at Book Seven. I didn’t know whether the detective who had taken the statement had given up or if they had quieted the girl. I skipped the biggest part of it.