The Collection (118 page)

He laughed aloud.
“Touche!
I grant more resemblance,
physically at least, to Nero Wolfe than to the slender Holmes.”

He sipped his drink thoughtfully for a moment, then said,
“I'm quite serious, though, about solving it. As you've undoubtedly deduced
from your examination of my library, murder is my hobby. Not committing murder,
I assure you, but studying it. I consider murder---the toss of a monkey wrench
into the wheels of the infinite---the most fascinating of all fields of
research.

“Yes, I shall most certainly take full advantage of the fact
that someone has, figuratively, left a corpse conveniently in my very back
yard.”

I said, “But if you're serious about investigating shouldn't
you---”

“Study the scene of the crime and the
corpus delicti?
Not
at all, my dear boy. I assure you that I am much more likely to reach the truth
listening to the sound of my own voice than by looking at dead young women.”

“Why do you think that?”

“Isn't it obvious?
A
kills
B
---or rather, in
this case, kills
Elsie.
One could pun with the formula
X
kills
LC,
but that is irrelevant, not to say irreverent. My point is---would he leave
her body in such a manner that looking at it would inform the looker who killed
her? Of course not, and if a calling card is found under the body, it might or
might not be that of the murderer. . . . What do you think of
Andressen?”

“Eric?” The sudden question surprised me. “Why, I hardly
know him. Seems likable enough. He's Norwegian, isn't he?”

“Yes. He plays cello, too. Not badly. A brilliant, if
erratic chap. How do you like Fergus Fillmore?”

“I like him well enough. His main interest is the moon,
isn't it?”

“Right. Good old Luna, goddess of the sky. Thinks the others
of us waste our time with distant galaxies and nebulae. How about another
drink, Wunderly?”

“Thanks, no,” I told him. “I think I'd better look up
Annabel. She---”

“Nonsense. You're going to see plenty of Annabel from now
on. Right now we're talking about murder, or had we digressed? Are you
interested in murder, by the way?”

“Not personally. Oh, I like to read a good murder mystery
but---”

“Murder mysteries? Bah, there's no mystery in them. A clever
reader can always guess the murderer. I ought to know; I read them by the
dozens. One simply ignores the clues and analyzes the author's manner of
presenting the characters.

“No, Wunderly, I'm talking about real murder. It's
fascinating. I'm writing a book on the subject. Call it ‘The Murderer's Guide’.
If I say so myself---it is excellent. Superb, in fact.”

“I'd like to read it.”

“Oh, you shall, you shall. It will be difficult for you to
avoid reading it, I assure you. Here is the manuscript to date---first fifteen
chapters and there are two more to be written. Take it along with you.”

I took the thick sheaf of typed manuscript hesitantly. “But
do you want to part with it for a day or two? I doubt if I'll have time to read
it tonight, so may I not borrow it later instead?”

“Take it along. No hurry about returning it. Leave it in
your room and go seek your Annabel. Later, if you're not sleepy, you might want
to read a chapter or two before you turn in. Possibly you'll read something
that will come in handy within the next few days.”

“Thanks,” I said and stood up, glad to be dismissed. “But
what do you mean about the next few days?”

“The next murder, of course. You don't think Elsie is going
into the great unknown all by herself, do you? Think it over, and you'll see
what I mean. Who is Elsie to deserve being murdered? A scullery maid with red
hair and willing disposition. Nobody would want to kill Elsie!”

“But unless it was an accidental death after all,” I said, a
bit bewildered by this point of view, “somebody
did
kill her.”

“Exactly. That proves my point. The death of a scullery maid
would scarcely be the real desideratum of the murderer, would it?”

In my room, I put the manuscript down on the desk and leafed
it open to a random paragraph. I was curious merely to see whether Darius
Hill's style of writing matched his brand of conversation.

“The murderer”
I read,
“who is completely ruthless
has the best chance of evading detection. By ruthless I mean willing to kill
without strong motive which can be traced back to him, or, better still,
without motive at all other than the desire to confuse.

“Adequate motive is the murderer's
bête noire.
The
mass murderer, who lacks in each crime adequate motive therefor, is less
vulnerable to suspicion than the murderer of a single victim through whose
death he benefits.

“It is for this reason that the clever murderer, rather
than the stupid one, is led from crime to crime.
. . .”

There was a rap on my door. I said, “Come in.”

Eric Andressen opened the door. “Annabel's looking for you.
Thought you'd want to know.”

“Thanks,” I told him. “I'll be right down. Hill just loaned
me the manuscript of his book, by the way. Have you read it?”

He grinned wryly. “Everybody here who can read has read it.
And those who can't read have had it read
to
them.”

I flicked off my light and joined him in the hallway. I
asked, “Have the police arrived?”

“The police won't be here,” said Andressen grimly. “The
bridge is gone. Phone wires are down, too, but we notified them by shortwave.
There's a two-way set here.”

I whistled softly. “Are we completely cut off, or is there
another way around?”

“Yes, over the mountains, but it would take days. Be quicker
lo wait till they send men out from Scardale to replace the bridge. The stream
will be down by tomorrow night.”

Seven Times Death

Fergus Fillmore was just leaving the main room downstairs
when I entered. Lecky, the director, looking austere and thoughtful, was
standing in front of the fireplace.

I heard Fillmore say, “Here's Eric back. He and I can manage
Elsie between us. And if you can think of something for Paul Bailey to do,
he'll be better off out of the way.”

Lecky nodded. “Tell him I said to go to my office and wait
for me there.”

“Come on, Eric,” Fillmore said to Andressen. “Get your flashbulbs
and camera. We'll take pictures before we move the body.”

“All right. Where are we---uh---going to put her?”

“We'll use the crate that the cylinder of the star-camera
came in. We can turn it into a makeshift sort of refrigerator with some tubing
and Rex's help. We'll borrow this refrigerating unit out of the---”

Their conversation faded as they went up the steps.

Director Lecky said, “An unfortunate evening, Wunderly. I'm
afraid you're not getting much of a welcome but we're glad you're here.”

“When shall I start on my duties, sir?”

“Don't worry about that. Take a day or two to familiarize
yourself with the place and get to know the people you'll work with. Work is
light here anyway, in bad weather.”

“Shall I help Fillmore and Andressen?” I suggested.

“They'll do all right. Andressen's a bug on photography; got
enough equipment to set up as a professional. And Rex Parker will have the
refrigeration ready for them when they're ready for it. Have you met Rex?”

“No. Is he another of the assistants?”

“He's our electrician-mechanic. But---Lord, I nearly forgot
to tell you. Annabel went up on the roof and you're to join her there. In fact,
I've delegated her to show you around.”

I found Annabel looking out over the parapet at the edge of
the roof. Following her gaze, I saw a jagged, rocky landscape. Here and there
one could catch glimpses of the tortuous turnings of the swollen stream.

She asked, “Did Darius talk an arm off you, Bill?”

“It was dangling by a shred,” I told her. “He gave me the
manuscript of his book to read.”

“That book!” Annabel said. “It's horrible; let's not talk
about it. Darius is a bit of a bore, but he really isn't as bad as that book
would lead you to believe.”

“It's hardly bedtime reading,” I admitted. “But I've a hunch
I'm going to find it interesting. Annabel---”

“Now, Bill, don't start talking in
that
tone of
voice. Not tonight, anyway. Look, there's the dome down at that end of the
building. Tomorrow I'll show you around inside it. It's---”

“Sixty feet high,” I said, “and houses the thirty-inch
telescope, which is forty-six feet long. The dome is movable and the floor is a
great elevator whose motion enables the observer to follow the eyepiece of the
telescope without climbing ladders. I've read all about it, so let's talk about
us.”

“Not tonight, Bill, please.”

“All right.” I sighed. “But I'm more interested in people
than telescopes. Have I met everyone? Or let's put it this way: I've heard
about a few people I haven't met; a housekeeper, a cook, and an electrician
named Rex something. Are there any others?”

“Parker is Rex's last name. I guess that's all of us except
a handy man who helps Otto the janitor. You met Otto. And---oh, yes, there's
Mrs. Fillmore and Mrs. Lecky; you haven't met either of them. Neither were over
at the main building tonight. And there's a stenographer who'll help you, but
she's away on sick leave.”

“The three astronomers live in separate houses?”

“Lecky and Fillmore do. There's another house for the third
staff member, but it's vacant because Darius Hill is a bachelor and doesn't
want to live in it alone. So he rooms in, like the rest of us.”

I counted on my fingers. “Three astronomers; Lecky,
Fillmore, Hill. Three assistants; Paul Bailey, Eric Andressen, and you. Rex
Parker, Otto the janitor, and a handy man. Housekeeper, cook, wives of two
astronomers and daughter of one. Fifteen of us here, if I counted right.”

“And Charlie Lightfoot. Not a resident but he drops in
often.”

“Sixteen people,” I said, “and sixty rattlesnakes. I hope
they
don't drop in often. Say, about Paul Bailey. Is he---”

I never finished that question, for from somewhere below us,
and outside the building, came the sound of a scream.

There is something more frightening in the scream of a man
than that of a woman. Possibly it is because men, in general, scream less often
and, in most cases, only with greater cause.

At any rate, I felt a tingling sensation on my scalp---as
though my hair were rising on end. Annabel and I ran to the parapet on the
south end of the building and looked down.

A man was running from the garage, screaming as he ran.

We heard a door of the main building jerk open and slam
shut. Then Annabel and I were hurrying for the stairs that led down from the
roof.

“It was Otto,” she gasped. “Do you suppose that a snake---?”

That was just what I did suppose and I didn't like to think
about it. Because it was very unlikely that
one
snake had got
loose---and there were thirty in each box.

We pounded down the stairs and ran along the hallway. A man
in dungarees and a blue denim shirt almost collided with me. I guessed him to
be Parker, the electrician.

He hurried past us. “Stay out of there, Miss Burke.
Charlie's ripping Otto's clothes off. I'm getting ammonia.” Then he was past
us.

I said, “Wait in the living room, Annabel. I'll see if I can
help Charlie.”

I shoved her firmly through the door of the living room. Not
because I shared Parker's prudishness but because I had in mind doing something
Annabel would probably object to my doing.

From the roof I had seen that Otto had left the garage door
open. That door wouldn't be visible from the windows here and the others
wouldn't know about it. That door should be closed.

I pushed through into the kitchen.

Otto was stretched out on the floor there. Fergus Fillmore
and the cook held him down, while Charlie Lightfoot worked on him.

About each of Otto's legs, high on the thigh, Charlie had
tied a makeshift tourniquet.

Now he was busy with a sharp knife, using it with the cool
precision of a surgeon. I could see that there were several gashes from that
knife in each leg.

No one paid any attention to me as I sidled past. I looked
out through the pane of the door, and there was moonlight enough in the yard
for me to see something I didn't like at all---high grass.

But I opened the door and slipped out, closing it quickly
behind me. If I hurried, maybe I could get that garage door shut in time.

I held my breath as I headed for the garage building. My
eyes strained against the dimness and my ears against the silence of the night,
my muscles alert to leap back at the first sound of a rattle.

I'd almost made the garage before I heard it. A five-foot
rattler had been coming through the open doorway. He coiled and rattled.

I froze where I stood, six feet from him. I knew he wouldn't
be able to reach me from where he was; no rattlesnake can strike farther than
two-thirds of his own length.

Keeping a good distance from him, I began to circle around
lo put the open door between us. Now I was in double danger, for my course took
me off the path and into the high grass. If other snakes had already come out
of the garage, I'd probably slop on one without seeing it.

But I didn't; I got behind the door and I threw myself
forward against it and slammed it shut.

I'd have been safer walking back to the main building but I
ran instead. Even running, it seemed as though it took me thirty minutes to
cover the thirty steps to the kitchen door.

Then I was safe inside.

“Couldn't do a thing,” Charlie was saying. “Seven
bites---and one of them---
that
one---hit a vein. They die in three
minutes, when the fangs hit a vein.”