Crime is Murder (14 page)

A Martini, an idol, and an adversary. Just three things could make a tiger out of mild little Miss Oberon. Well, if not a tiger, at least a cat. The extravagance of her claim went unchallenged. Miss Oberon wasn’t the type to be impressed, for instance, by Shostakovich. Ruth Graham probably didn’t know him from an Armenian stew.

“Be that as it may,” she insisted, “when a man marries for money he should at least have moral if not financial values. He should be expected to give something in return for what he’s getting—loyalty at the very least!”

A long silence followed Ruth’s words. Tod sat glaring at his plate. The blithe spirit with which Miss Oberon had opened the conversation had wilted into a dismal ghost. Somebody had to say
something
.

“What a lovely necklace you’re wearing, Mrs. Graham,” Lisa remarked. “I’ve been admiring it all evening.”

It was the first thing she could think of to break that morbid silence, although avoiding would have been a more honest word than admiring.

“Thank you,” Ruth said. “I’ve had it for many years. My father bought it for me when we were in Switzerland. That was before my marriage, of course.”

Boost Bellville. Lisa was beginning to understand.

“A lovely country, Switzerland,” the doctor said.

And it was nice to hear from the doctor. Nice to know he wasn’t asleep.

“Oh, have you been to Switzerland?” Lisa asked.

“I’ve seen pictures,” the doctor said.

He sounded very sad about it, and Lisa was still trying to avoid those fruitless silences.

“But I’m sure you’ve had a more interesting life than you might have had globe-trotting,” she said. “Your profession must give you a great deal of satisfaction, Doctor. You must have served nearly every family in Bellville at one time or another.”

“And know all of their secrets,” the professor added. “What a wonderful profession for a blackmailer.”

“Professor Dawes!”

Agatha Watts was shocked. Agatha was the type who shocked easily, but blackmail seemed to be even more offensive than Martinis.

“After all,” she added, “this is Bellville!”

“Exactly,” the professor said. “This is Bellville.”

An edging of silence wove its way around the table. The professor was smiling. He was doing his part to make the evening a success. And then Johnny plunged in.

“I know what you mean,” she said. “I’ve never seen such a town for unsolved mysteries! No wonder Lisa wanted to take this house. The place is crawling with characters.”

Seven characters, plus Lisa, stared at Johnny. But Johnny wasn’t one to be downed by a small
faux pas
. Quickly, she added, “Like the one in our kitchen—Carrie Hokum.”

“Oh, how is poor Carrie?” Ruth cried. “I heard that Marta Cornish tried to kill her.”

“Ruth!”

Tod was having nothing but trouble tonight. The chairman of the committee was hardly recognizable in this atmosphere. But it was Stanley who came to his assistance with the story of Nydia’s visit to his office the day after Marta’s tantrum.

“I’m sure you got the story wrong, Mrs. Graham,” he said. “Mrs. Cornish made no attempt to hide the incident. I was present when she apologized to Miss Bancroft and promised to pay for Dr. Hazlitt’s call. Surely she wouldn’t have mentioned the incident in a public place if it had been of a serious nature.”

“The incident,” Johnny remarked caustically, “sure left a lump on Carrie’s head. I’m inclined to agree with Mrs. Graham. Even if Marta was merely limbering up her arm, the fact remains that she
could
have killed Carrie. Am I right, Dr. Hazlitt?”

The doctor looked miserable. His fingers worked at that watch chain again. He muttered something in answer of which only one word was clearly audible: “Unfortunate.”

Miss Oberon giggled.

Ruth Graham smiled.

“I think everybody talks entirely too much about that girl,” Tod said. “I think she’s darned attractive, myself.”

“Tod!”

Ruth wasn’t smiling any more, but that didn’t impress Tod. Apparently he believed it was time to change spokesman in the Graham family.

“Darned attractive,” he repeated. “She’s high-spirited, that’s all. What’s wrong with that? I wish a few more people in this town had her spunk. I wouldn’t have to beat my head against a stone wall every time I try to get consideration of a new idea.”

Good boy, Tod. Steer the conversation away from Marta. Everything said at this table is going to get back to Nydia by one route or another. Don’t let your wife’s jealousy spoil a good thing. Lisa was beginning to love Tod Graham. He was so easy to read.

“New ideas are fine,” Stanley Watts said in a cold voice, “but your ideas are usually expensive.”

“Of course they’re expensive! You have to gamble to get anywhere in this world. And don’t tell me that you’ve never gambled, Stanley. Some of those gold-brick stocks you buy would scare off a riverboat card-sharp. And what’s more, I’ll wager you think Marta’s darned attractive, too!”

Agatha Watts sat directly across the table from Tod. Lisa saw her begin to puff up like a ruffle-necked hen preparing to protect her nest. Stanley refused to answer.

“Darned attractive,” Tod reitered. “Your nephew’s a lucky man, Professor. There isn’t an honest man in Bellville who doesn’t envy him.”

“I only hope he isn’t heavily insured,” Ruth said.

It was a losing battle. Tod should have known. Ruth Graham wasn’t a woman to be sidetracked so easily. Not after those three Martinis. Lisa smiled happily at the performance of her circus, and Miss Oberon, who, of all the guests around her table, had not lost her festive mood, giggled again.

“I’m sure this year’s festival,” she exclaimed, exactly as if nothing had been said since her initial remarks, “will be the most exciting of all!”

And then it was over, and the thank-yous and the good-byes all said. A change of topic had detoured the storm brewing over the dinner table, but the clouds lingered over coffee and small talk in the study. Seeing off her guests, Lisa had the distinct impression that lights would burn late in the Graham domicile tonight, and, quite likely, in the Watts’s home as well. But Miss Oberon, save for her one outburst in defense of an idol, had remained serenely happy throughout the evening, just as Dr. Hazlitt had remained characteristically dour.

All over—but still Professor Dawes lingered in the study, a calculating question in his eyes. When they were alone, except for an equally inquisitive Johnny, he asked the question.

“Did it go well, Miss Bancroft? Were your guests as entertaining as you had hoped?”

The question wasn’t surprising. He’d known from the first what the purpose of the dinner must be. It was his game originally; he’d merely invited her to participate that rainy afternoon in the tearoom. Lisa sat down in one of the lounge chairs and smiled.

“It went quite well,” she answered. “People are so obliging, Professor. We all love to talk about ourselves, even when in the guise of talking about someone else. Mrs. Graham, for instance. Her concern over Martin Cornish’s fidelity to his wealthy wife is quite touching, don’t you think?”

“Wait a minute,” Johnny said, “I’m beginning to see the light. That’s why you wanted to know Ruth Graham’s maiden name—to know if Tod married for money.”

Lisa frowned. “That’s putting it rather crudely,” she said, “and unnecessarily so. For all I know, or care, Tod Graham may be madly in love with his wife. The fact remains, however, that he’s also madly in love with the career of Tod Graham. Not that I condemn him for that. I don’t look down on the Tod Grahams of the world. We need them. We need their energy and their daring, just as we need Stanley Watts’s conservatism and Professor Dawes’s intellectual skepticism.”

“Thank you,” the professor said. “I’m delighted to be included.”

Lisa was quite comfortable in the chair now. She could smile at the professor with more warmth.

“You’re much more than included, Professor,” she remarked. “You’re the guest of honor. All of this has been for your benefit. But getting back to Tod, my interest in his wife’s background was simply to find a motive for any of his endeavors that may be beyond the bounds of legitimate self-improvement. And don’t jump to any conclusions, please. I said
may
be. Keeping up with his wife’s background could be that motive.”

The professor looked puzzled. Puzzled, tired, and impatient.

“I suppose all of this has some bearing on my concern for my nephew’s happiness,” he said.

“A great deal of bearing,” Lisa agreed. “You see, Professor, I haven’t been idle these past weeks. You invited me to solve the mystery of the ‘Cornish curse,’ as Carrie so colorfully phrases it; but I don’t believe in curses, and I don’t like gossip. We could have gotten down to cases a lot sooner if you hadn’t been so coy, but that’s just as well. I’ll admit that I like learning things for myself.”

“The hard way,” Johnny observed, “like going to Granite to see if the old gardener really is crazy.”

“Exactly,” Lisa said. “And that’s just what we did, Professor. For your information, he is.”

“I never doubted that he was,” the professor said.

“But I did. That’s because my training isn’t academic. I consider every possibility within the realm of the imagination.”

Lisa paused. That was a very large realm. Reasoning with the professor, she would do better to stick to the facts.

“The facts,” she continued, just as if he had read her thoughts and would follow without effort, “the bare facts, stripped of the colorful additions of rumor, are that three people who were in some manner connected with Marta Cornish have died within the past ten years. Now there’s certainly nothing incriminating in that. If these deaths had occurred in any other household in Bellville nobody would so much as recall the circumstances.”

“They would recall Howard Gleason’s suicide,” the professor protested, “and, because of his similar relationship with Marta, Duval’s fatal fall.”

“And the insurance policy,” Lisa added.

“And the insurance policy,” he agreed.

“Of which Marta knows nothing. Now there’s an important item for your consideration, Professor. I don’t know if I’m supposed to tell you this or not, but the reason Marta’s counting so heavily on winning the award this year has nothing to do with her musical aspirations. She wants to get away from Bellville, far away, and marry your nephew. Now, I ask you, if the girl had at least fifteen thousand dollars hidden away somewhere—ten thousand from Duval’s insurance and at least five thousand from Gleason—what possible reason would she have to wait for a mere scholarship to take her away from all that she hates?”

It seemed a perfectly logical question. Lisa expected the professor to be impressed; Johnny seemed to be. But Curran Dawes didn’t respond according to plan. Instead, his skepticism manifested itself in a grim smile.

“You make the poor girl’s plight sound tragic,” he said, “but I’m still not convinced. In the first place, she may not be so intent on getting away from Bellville as she’s led you to believe; secondly, she may have the money but simply can’t touch it until her birthday in September.”

“But she doesn’t even know anything about insurance policies!”

Lisa’s protest was futile. She had only the word of a girl hardly noted for trustworthiness. The professor’s face reminded her of that.

“All right, just for the sake of argument, let’s give Marta the benefit of the doubt,” she said quickly. “Her age is a good point. As a minor, her financial affairs would be handled for her, presumably by the man who handles the Cornish estate.”

“Tod Graham,” Johnny said. “The boy with ambition.”

“Very likely. Or, possibly, the Cornish banker, who, as treasurer of the award committee, countersigned that check of Gleason’s.”

“And buys risky stocks,” Johnny added.

The professor had exchanged his grim smile for a frown. “That’s just hearsay,” he protested. “After all, we could all see that Tod was annoyed and trying to get off the hook.”

“Granted, it’s hearsay,” Lisa agreed. “So is the talk about Marta. Now, getting back to our facts, there’s also a certain Dr. Hazlitt who must have signed Duval’s death certificate. Gleason’s, too, quite likely. He could have filed those insurance claims as well.”

And deposited the money in the bank at Granite. Lisa didn’t say everything she thought. This suspicion was too nebulous, and too dangerous. And the professor was still skeptical.

“But the claims were paid to Marta,” he insisted. “I checked with the companies involved.”

“Good heavens, Professor, have you never heard of a signature being forged?”

“But insurance companies—”

“Aren’t infallible any more than anyone or anything else. What’s more, knowing Marta, I’d say there was every chance that she could have been tricked into signing almost anything without too much difficulty. In any event, it seems to me that our problem always comes back to that insurance and award money. Find it and we’ve laid the ghost of the Cornish curse.”

It was all so very logical, Lisa couldn’t understand why the professor wasn’t convinced. She’d stuck to the facts. Maybe that was the trouble. Facts without imagination were nothing after all.

“Ghosts,” she repeated, “has a special connotation in my profession. In this instance it could be somewhat less than the unknown author of tales; it could be simply the unknown factor of gossip. Hasn’t it occurred to you, Professor, that there are two peculiar coincidences in the deaths of Howard Gleason and Pierre Duval? In addition to that alleged relationship with Marta, I mean.”

The professor seemed preoccupied. He was listening to Lisa, but he was also listening to something on his own mind. She had to spell it out for him.

“Neither one of these young men had any near relatives—next of kin, I believe the phrase goes. In addition, they were both what I would consider fatality prone.”

“Fatality prone?” Dawes echoed.

“Why not? We know there are people who are accident prone; but in Duval’s case, as Dr. Hazlitt explained to us the night Carrie was injured, a certain type of accident was almost certain to be fatal.”

“And in Gleason’s?”