The Tragedy of Z (13 page)

We first learned of Dr. Fawcett's return from Elihu Clay at luncheon on Monday.

“My partner's back,” he announced breathlessly to father. “Showed up this morning.”

“What!” bellowed father. “Why didn't that big ape Kenyon, or Hume, let me know? When did you hear about it?”

“A few moments ago, which is why I've dashed home for luncheon. Fawcett telephoned me from Leeds.”

“What did he say? How'd he take it? Where's he been?”

Clay shook his head with a weary smile. “I don't know. He did seem to be broken up. He told me he was calling from Hume's office.”

“I want to see that bird,” growled father. “Where's he now?”

“You'll have the opportunity very soon. He's coming here this evening to talk things over. I didn't tell him who you were, but I mentioned your being a guest here.”

The subject of this discussion called at the Clay house shortly after dinner. He drove up in a handsome limousine that father sarcastically said represented “hunks of the taxpayers' money.” The chauffeur was a hard-looking customer with the battered ears and nose of a pugilist; I had no doubt, after one glance of him, that his function was as much to guard as to drive his employer.

Dr. Fawcett was a tall cadaverous man with a marked facial resemblance to his dead brother; with the added distinction of strong, yellow teeth, a horsy smile, and a spare black van-dyke beard. He exuded the odor of stale tobacco and disinfectant—an interesting but disturbing politico-medical aroma which did not enhance his charm. I took him to be older than his senatorial brother, and later I discovered this to be true. There was something distinctly unpleasant about him; and I thought it not improbable that a man of his type would turn out a small-town Machiavelli. Recalling even now the disagreeable impression exerted upon me by Rufus Cotton, the opposition political boss, I grieved for the good people of Tilden County, who were in the unenviable position of being between the hammer and the anvil.

Of one thing I was instantly certain, as Elihu Clay presented him to me and he eyed me thoroughly; and that was that I would not trust myself alone with this medical gentleman for all the gold in Christendom. He had a nasty habit of wetting the exterior of his lips with the tip of his tongue; it was, I had found from plaguy experience, an infallible sign of certain men's thoughts. And Dr. Fawcett was not a man to be easily handled even by the most adroit woman; he would press every advantage and allow no mere scruple to deter him.

I said to myself: “Patience Thumm, be careful. Change your plan.”

When he had finished X-raying me with his eyes, he turned to the others and again became the shocked relative of the deceased. He actually looked haggard. It seemed to me that he regarded father—whom Clay had introduced as “Mr. Thumm”—with suspicion, but my presence must have reassured him, for after a quick gleam his eyes clouded, and thereafter he addressed most of his remarks to his partner.

“I've spent the most fearful day with Hume and Kenyon,” he said, pulling his pointed beard. “You've no idea, Clay, how this thing has affected me. Murder! Why, it's barbarous——”

“Of course,” murmured Clay. “And you didn't know anything about it until you got in this morning?”

“Not a blessed thing. I should have told you where I was going last week, but I never dreamed—You see, I've been out of touch with civilization since I left here; didn't even see a newspaper. I can't imagine—This man Dow … why, he must be a maniac!”

“Then you don't know him?” asked father casually.

“Of course not. Utter stranger to me. Hume showed me the letter found on Joel's desk, or rather”—he bit his lip quickly, and his eyes shifted like lightning; he had made a mistake, and knew it—“I mean the letter found upstairs in Joel's bedroom safe. I tell you, I was shocked. Blackmail! Incredible, incredible. I'm sure there's a hideous error somewhere.”

So he knew Fanny Kaiser, too! I thought. The letter.… His mind had been occupied not with Dow's penciled scrawl, but with his brother's note to that fantastic creature. And now I sensed that not all of his emotion was false; his words had a spurious ring, of course, but something deep inside him was gnawing. There was a haunted look about him; as if he were sitting beneath the sword of Damocles and was watching the hair weaken.

“You must be horribly upset, Dr. Fawcett,” I said softly. “I can imagine how you feel. Murder …” and I shuddered delicately. He turned his eyes and examined me again, this time with a most personal interest. And he wet his lips again, quite like the mustachioed villain in the old melodramas.

“Thank you, my dear,” he said in a deep hushed voice.

Father shifted restlessly. “This Dow,” he growled. “Must have had something on your brother.”

The haunted look returned, and Dr. Fawcett forgot me. It was not difficult to see that the ghost in this case was the skinny old convict in the Leeds county jail. The Fanny Kaiser issue was something else again. But why was Dr. Fawcett afraid of Dow? What was the power that pitiful creature wielded?”

“Hume's been very active,” said Clay with narrowed eyes as he studied the tip of his cigar.

Dr. Fawcett's hand brushed the district attorney aside. “Oh, yes, of course. He doesn't bother me. Good man, Hume, if a little misguided in his political convictions. It's too bad that human beings have to make capital of the tragedies of others. I suppose it's as the papers say—he's taking advantage of my brother's murder to better his political chances. Votes have been got on less than murder.… But that's nothing, nothing. The important thing is this appalling crime.”

“Hume seems to think Dow is guilty,” ventured father, with the air of a man who merely repeats what he has heard.

The physician turned his bulging eyes on father. “Naturally! Why, was there any doubt of the man's guilt?”

Father shrugged. “There's been talk. I don't know much about it, but some of your local citizens think the poor sap's been framed.”

“So.” He bit his lip again, frowning. “That had never occurred to me. Of course, I insist on justice being done, you know; but at the same time we mustn't allow our baser instincts to abort justice.” I felt like screaming; this man mouthed stilted phrases with the glibness of a puppet-master. “I'll have to look into that. Talk to Hume …”

There were a score of questions on my lips, but something in father's glance stopped me from asking them. I was, his look commanded, to keep in the background.

“And now,” said Dr. Fawcett, rising, “if you'll excuse me, Clay old man. And you, Miss Thumm.” He inspected me lingeringly again. “I do hope I have the enormous pleasure of seeing you—
alone,”
he finished in an undertone, and he pressed my hand with caressing fingers. “You understand,” he continued aloud. “Dreadful shock. I must get back. There are a thousand details.… I'll be down at the quarries tomorrow morning, Clay, and we can talk then.”

When his car had thundered off, Elihu Clay said to father: “Well, Inspector, what do you think of my partner?”

“I think he's a crook.”

Clay sighed. “I was hoping that my suspicions were unfounded. I wonder why he came out here tonight. He said something over the 'phone about talking things over; and now he says he'll see me tomorrow.”

“I'll tell you why he came out here tonight,” snapped father. “It's because somewhere—probably in Hume's office—he got wind of my real job here!”

“You really think so?” muttered Clay.

“I do. He came out here to give me the once-over. Probably just a suspicion.”

“That's bad, Inspector.”

“It's going to be,” said father grimly, “a whole lot worse. I don't like that guy's guts. Not for a cent.”

I dreamed that night of nightmarish monsters climbing over my bed, and each of them—appropriately enough—possessed a vandyke beard and a horsy leer. I was glad when morning came.

After breakfast father and I made at once for the district attorney's office in Leeds.

“Say,” growled father before Hume could bid us a civil good-morning, “did you wise up this Fawcett bird to my real identity yesterday?”

Hume stared. “I? Of course not. Why, does he know who you are?”

“Listen. That guy knows everything. He called on Clay last night, and from the way he looked at me the cat's out of the bag.

“Hmmm. It's Kenyon, I suppose.”

“On Fawcett's payroll, eh?”

The district attorney shrugged. “I'm too much the lawyer to make any such statement even in private. But you can draw your own conclusions, Inspector.”

“Father, don't be nasty,” I said sweetly. “Mr. Hume, what happened here yesterday, if you've no objections to spilling state secrets?”

“Very little, Miss Thumm. Dr. Fawcett professed to be shocked at his brother's murder, didn't know anything about it, and so on. Didn't contribute a hoot to our investigation.”

“Did he tell you where he spent the week-end?”

“No. And I didn't press the point.”

I leered at father. “A woman, eh, Inspector?”

“Shush, Patty!”

“We had a rather stormy session,” remarked Hume grimly. “And I've been keeping tabs on him. He and his damnable gang of crooked shysters went into secret conference as soon as he got out of my office yesterday. I tell you, they're cooking up something dirty. With Senator Fawcett dead, they've got to work fast to mend the damage.…”

Father waved his hand. “Sorry, Hume, but I can't get excited over your political troubles, or his, either. Listen: did he know anything about that piece of box?”

“He said he didn't.”

“Did he meet Dow?”

Hume was silent for a moment. “Yes. Very interesting, too. Not,” he added hastily, “that it destroys or tends to invalidate our case against Dow. Rather strengthens it, in fact.”

“What happened?”

“Well, we took Dr. Fawcett over to the county jail for a look at Dow.”

“And?”

“And, despite what our estimable physician says,
he knows Dow.”
Hume banged his fist on the desk. “I'm sure of it. Something sparkled between 'em. Damn it all, you'd think they were in a conspiracy of silence. I got the definite impression that it was to the interest of both of them to keep quiet about something.”

“Why, Mr. Hume,” I murmured, “I do believe you're getting metaphysical.”

He looked uncomfortable. “Ordinarily, I don't put much stock in such things. But Fawcett hates Dow—not only knows him, but hates him. And what's more, is afraid of him.… As for Dow, I believe that short interview with the doctor gave him hope. Queer, isn't it? But he actually became cocky.”

“Well,” said father grumpily, “it's beyond me. By the way, what were the developments from Dr. Bull's autopsy?”

“Nothing new. As diagnosed the night of the murder.”

‘How's Fanny Kaiser these days?”

“Interested?”

“Damn' right I'm interested. That woman knows something.”

“Well,” said Hume, leaning back, “I've got my own ideas about Fanny. She's keeping mum, too—can't get a thing out of her. But I believe we're going to give Fanny the surprise of her life one of these days.”

“Digging into the Senator's papers, hey?”

“Maybe.”

“Well, you dig, younker, and you'll be President of the United States some day.” He climbed to his feet. “Let's get goin', Patty.”

“One question,” I said slowly. Hume clasped his hands behind his head and regarded me with smiling eyes. “Mr. Hume, have the details of the crime been checked?”

“What do you mean, Miss Thumm?”

“Well,” I said, “that toeprint in front of the fireplace, for example. Has it been compared with Senator Fawcett's own slippers and shoes?”

“Oh, yes! It wasn't the Senator's. Slippers are out altogether—too broad; and his regular shoes are too large.”

“I sighed with relief. “And Dow? Have you checked Dow's shoes?”

Hume shrugged. “My dear Miss Thumm, we've checked everything. Please don't forget that the toeprint wasn't too clear. It might have been Dow's shoes.”

I slipped on my gloves. “Come along, father. Before I become involved in an argument. Mr. Hume, if Aaron Dow made those two prints—on the rug and in the fireplace—I'll eat your hat on Main Street and like it.”

In looking back on the strange case of Aaron Dow, I see now that it fell roughly into three periods of development. And although at the time I could not tell in which direction the case was heading, we were at this point approaching the end of the first phase with a rapidity for which I could not have dared hope.

I cannot say, now that I look back at it, that what precipitated matters came as a complete surprise. As a matter of fact, subconsciously I was more than half prepared for it.

After that first night, when we all stood in the study of the murdered man, I had meant to question father about Carmichael. As I have already recorded, father betrayed enormous surprise when Carmichael first walked into the study; and I had received the definite impression that Carmichael, too, recognized father. Why I did not actually ask father about him later I do not know; perhaps it was the excitement of subsequent events that drove it from my mind. But now I realize that Carmichael and his true identity were important to father from the first; he was saving the secretary as an ace in the hole, as he would have expressed it, biding his time.…

The Carmichael nuance was brought sharply back to me several days later, when everything seemed hopeless and things were in a state of irritating muddle. Jeremy was mooning at my feet—I remember that he had hold of my ankle as we sat on the porch and was rhapsodizing about its slenderness in a very inane way—when father emerged in a state of high excitement, and wrenched me away from Jeremy's anklehold to speak to me aside.