Skulldoggery (9 page)

A
FTER A
full month of devising ingenious schemes for slaughtering Brewster, who was hardly more guilty of any offense than Senorita Fogarty herself, Uncle Homer was full to his gills with furies and frustrations, as well as, most of the time, gin. During this time, he was posted sporadically on current events by Hester, who had apparently worked out a method of observing Crump and Senorita in the mornings, and by Junior, engaged in desultory espionage in the afternoons. It must be stated that there was, on the whole, very little to report, and practically nothing of an optimistic character.

According to Hester, Senorita Fogarty was, to all appearances, sustaining a state of disgusting health. The only cheerful note in this was the incidental intelligence that she was also sustaining an apparent state of maidenhood, if not chastity. Uncle Homer knew little about dogs in general and less about Chihuahuas in particular, but he supposed that Senorita’s temporary immunity to motherhood had something to do with periods of heat, which Senorita was presumably in and out of on a peculiar schedule of some sort. He also played hopefully with the idea of sterility, but he had no faith in it.

The afternoon espionage added little to Uncle Homer’s sum of knowledge. The period of Junior’s duty corresponded exactly to the time during which he had previously taken an after-lunch nap, and Uncle Homer soon began to suspect that he had merely transferred the practice from bedroom to garden house. The boy was as empty of pertinent intelligence as a bass drum.

Anyhow, fretting from ignorance and inactivity, a condition which did not ordinarily disturb him, Uncle Homer decided at last to do something on his own. After all, he was the head of the family, and it was his right, even his duty, to participate in family affairs. It was all well enough to put matters for the most part into the hands of clever youngsters like Hester, but they needed, in the long run, the stability and sagacity of age and experience. The only trouble was that Uncle Homer, like Junior, didn’t know what to do. On the basis of age and experience, supported by gin, he tried to decide, and the best decision he could reach, after serious thought, was to call on the Crumps and observe personally whatever was to be observed.

Having reached the decision, he prepared himself, along about the cocktail hour one afternoon, and went. He was uncertain of his reception, inasmuch as he had made himself
persona non grata
by his rash threats against Crump’s life, but he depended upon his family status to gain him admission and perhaps a drink, although he doubted the latter concession seriously, and was resigned to a brief draught. At any rate, polished and primed, he was shortly prodding the bell at the front door of Grandfather Hunter’s hideous stack, and so it came to pass, as the old tales have it, that it was no one but he, Uncle Homer Hunter himself, who encountered the first big break in the trying case, and carried away, in due time, the first stupendous news.

The door was opened to him, not by Crump or Mrs. Crump, but by a seedy little man, somewhat resembling a spider covered with cobwebs, who had a stethoscope hanging from his ears. This was, Uncle Homer knew, Sigmund Quinn, M. D., Grandfather Hunter’s personal physician for about forty years, and he removed the stethoscope from his ears and peered at Uncle Homer, whose heart had leaped with sudden hope, forgetful of the fact that Dr. Quinn was not a veternarian.

“Well, Dr. Quinn,” Uncle Homer said, “what brings you here? Nothing critical, I trust.”

“It’s Homer, isn’t it? Come in, come in. Don’t just stand there ringing the infernal bell. Come in.”

Uncle Homer entered, removing his hat and discarding his stick in the hall.

“Is someone ill?” he said.

“No,” said Quinn.

“I see. You are merely making a social call on the Crumps.”

“Don’t be an ass. People who are making social calls don’t presume to answer doorbells. Why the devil should I make a social call on the Crumps?”

Uncle Homer didn’t know and was forced to admit it. Curiosity demanded an explanation of Quinn’s presence, however, and Uncle Homer tried to phrase a discreet question that remained unspoken, being anticipated.

“Someone’s dead,” Quinn said.

Uncle Homer nearly staggered. Dedicated to the elimination of Senorita Fogarty, he assumed rashly that it was she who had died, stoked at last with cyanide peanuts. It would be just like the Crumps, considering Senorita’s position and importance, to insist upon the best medical attendant, and just like them, moreover, to assume that old Quinn was it, or anything like it. Thus deluded by hope, he was deserted by sagacity.

“Too bad,” Uncle Homer said. “She never quite recovered from Father’s death. Grieved constantly, you know.”

“No, I didn’t know. In fact, I don’t believe it. Not for an instant.”

“It’s quite true. Literally wasted away. Mrs. Crump, I believe, was considering a diet of sex and oatmeal.”

“Homer, you’re an unmitigated ass. Always were and always will be. Who in tarnation are you talking about?”

“Who’s dead?” said Uncle Homer, suddenly wary.

“Mrs. Crump.”

“Mrs. Crump!”

“Certainly. I keep telling you. Went instantly. Dropped over like that.” Dr. Quinn snapped his fingers to illustrate the way Mrs. Crump had dropped over. “She and Crump were having tea at the time.”

Uncle Homer, who had gone cold with the thought of an unfortunate possibility, felt himself warming up again. After all, one did not, whatever else one did with it, put oatmeal into a cup of tea.

“How sad,” he said. “And what a shock to poor old Crump, having her go just when they were having tea.”

“Tea,” said Dr. Quinn, “and oatmeal cookies.”

Uncle Homer, now having hot and cold flashes, wished desperately that he had his stick back to lean upon.

“Did Crump,” he said, “have oatmeal cookies too?”

“I think not. Crmup is a man of low tastes, admittedly, but he hardly shared Mrs. Crump’s depravity in such matters.” Dr. Quinn’s eyes narrowed and he leaned toward Uncle Homer as if he were going to ask him to stick out his tongue. “Are you suggesting foul play on Crump’s part?”

The last thing Uncle Homer wanted was to suggest foul play on the part of anyone, and so he made haste to deny it.

“No, no. Nothing of the sort Where is Crump, by the way?”

“In the library. I’ve been trying to talk some sense into him. The man’s a mule, that’s what. An absolute mule.”

“Crump’s an obstinate old devil. I’ve always said so. What’s got his back up now?”

“The autopsy. He absolutely will not listen to reason on the subject.”

“Autopsy!” The horror of that prospect was instantly discernible in Uncle Homer’s voice. “What’s this about an autopsy?”

“I want one. A woman drops dead, you want to know why. Especially if she’s as big as a circus horse and twice as strong. I suspect her liver. I’d give a farm for a good look at that woman’s liver.”

“Well, I’m not a doctor and have no professional opinion, but it seems to me that dropping dead over a tea cup would make you suspicious of her heart.”

“Nonsense! That’s just the kind of addleheaded assumption I should have expected from you, Homer. There’s far too much of that sort of thing. Everything’s blamed on the heart. Someone drops dead, blame it on the heart. Doctors are expected to scratch out a death certificate and forget it. Take the easy way out. I maintain that the heart is often innocent. Something else is frequently to blame. Frequently.”

“Crump refuses his permission?”

“Adamantly. He’s balking like a mule, I tell you. Do you think you could make him listen to reason?”

“No, no. No chance. Crump and I are not on easy terms.”

“Try. Come on in the library and give it a try. Weight of opinion, you know. It might have some effect.”

“My opinion would weigh on the other side.”

“What’s that? Homer, I hope you are not even a bigger ass than I thought.”

“Crump’s right. Why do you want to butcher the damn woman?”

“Damn it, Homer, an operating room is not a slaughter house. We’d patch her up as neat as hemstitching.”

“Nevertheless, I can’t see any justification for your morbid desire to go poking around inside of her. It’s abnormal.”

“I just told you. I want a close look at her liver.”

“Leave her liver in peace. That’s my advice.”

“You know what you can do with your advice, Homer. Why the devil am I standing here wasting time with you? What do you want? Tell me immediately why you are here.”

“I came to call on the Crumps, that’s why.”

“Nonsense. Why should you call on a dead woman?”

“How the hell would I know Mrs. Crump was dead? To the best of my knowledge, she was in top condition.”

“Did you come here to create trouble, Homer? I warn you that it won’t work.”

“Well, I can see that there is no use in talking any longer with you. You’re as obstinate as Crump himself. I’ll just go into the library and offer my condolences and be on my way.”

“You’ll do nothing of the sort. Crump is contrary enough without your support. I am in authority here, Homer. If you know what’s good for you, you will leave at once without causing further dissention.”

So saying, Dr. Quinn turned and scurried down the hall to the library, slamming the door behind him. Uncle Homer, relieved at having his escape forced upon him, recovered his stick and scurried the other way. On the street, he turned without hesitation in the direction of Hester’s apartment. There was no doubt in his mind that Hester’s cyanide peanuts had gone astray, winding up by way of Mrs. Crump’s oatmeal cookies in Mrs. Crump’s stomach, and it was therefore fair and imperative for Hester to be informed of events with all dispatch. He had a strong and uneasy feeling that things were getting out of hand. If old Quinn were allowed access to Mrs. Crump’s liver, he might decide in the process to have an incidental look at Mrs. Crump’s stomach, and that could be troublesome, to say the least. Everything depended, indeed, upon Crump’s mulish qualities. The man must be encouraged to stand firmly on his convictions, and that was all there was to it. Unless, of course, old Quinn could persuade the proper authorities to secure a court order or something. Uncle Homer had a vague notion that this was quite possible, but it seemed to him an extreme action just to insure a look at a liver, however unusual.

At Hester’s apartment building, he took the stairs and arrived panting at Hester’s door. The response to his imperious ringing was so long delayed that he was about to give up and go away when the door was opened to reveal Hester on the other side. It was immediately obvious why Hester had been so late in reaching the door, for she had had to wake up and put on something, though not much, before coming. It was also obvious that she was not in the best of humors.

“Is that you, Uncle Homer?” she said. “I’m all out of gin, and so you had just as well go away.”

She started to close the door, but Uncle Homer neatly inserted a foot in the crack.

“Let me in, Hester. Something dreadful has happened.”

“Don’t try any tricks, Uncle Homer. You are always exaggerating and upsetting people over nothing.”

“It’s no trick, Hester. Please let me in.”

“First, tell me what has happened.”

“Mrs. Crump is dead.”

“You see? You are exaggerating as usual. What is so dreadful about Mrs. Crump’s being dead?”

“She died,” said Uncle Homer, “while eating an oatmeal cookie.”

Hester peered at Uncle Homer closely, to see if this was just an elaboration of the trick, and then she stepped back from the door, making way for Uncle Homer to enter.

“That’s different,” she said, “and may justify prompt consideration. How do you know?”

“Because I’ve just come from Father’s house,” Uncle Homer said, clearing a chair and collapsing in it. “Old Dr. Quinn let me in and told me all about it. Is it true that you have no gin?”

“Never mind the gin, damn it. Just tell me about the oatmeal cookies.”

“Mrs. Crump was eating one with her tea, and she dropped over dead.”

“Well, if that’s not the most unpredictable and absurd thing I’ve ever heard of! Who would have expected her to share the damn dog’s oatmeal? How’s Crump?”

“Crump’s unscathed. Apparently he doesn’t care for oatmeal cookies.”

“Very sensible of him, I must say. Did you talk with him?”

“No. Old Quinn has him in isolation.”

“Whatever for? Cyanide peanuts may be fatal, but they are hardly contagious.”

“That’s not the point, Hester. Old Quinn doesn’t know anything about the cyanide peanuts. He suspects Mrs. Crump’s liver, and he wants to look at it.”

“You mean he wants to open her up and go snooping around inside?”

“Exactly. He’s been trying to bully Crump into giving his permission.”

“What’s Crump’s position?”

“He’s against it.”

“Quite rightly. Uncle Homer, you should have encouraged him.”

“I couldn’t get to him. Old Quinn doesn’t want him subjected to influence. He’s a tyrannical old scoundrel, Quinn is. We can only hope that Crump stands fast.”

“Uncle Homer, you might have tried a little harder. This could develop into a very serious business, if you ask me. Things could become unpleasant at least, even though everything is Mrs. Crump’s own fault.”

“Somehow, if things come to the worst, I doubt that that will be the official viewpoint.”

“Well, she had absolutely no business making cookies out of Senorita Fogarty’s oatmeal. I don’t suppose you made the slightest effort to steal the cookies and bring them away.”

“How could I? They were in the library with Crump, and I wasn’t permitted to enter.”

“In my opinion, you are far too easily intimidated. At least you could have slipped into the kitchen and appropriated the rest of the oatmeal.”

“To tell the truth,” said Uncle Homer,” I didn’t think of it.”

Hester curled up on the end of the sofa with her feet under her and her knees out. She was clearly thinking fiercely about developments, and Uncle Homer, uneasily aware that he had acquitted himself with less than distinction in a crisis, waited in silence and longed for gin.