Crime is Murder (15 page)

“Temperament,” Lisa said.
“There was a weakness in him. Sooner or later he would have destroyed himself …”
The suggestion she’d given to a terrified girl who wanted to believe in her own innocence wasn’t enough for present company. She’d have to do better than that.

“You told me yourself that Gleason’s spirit was killed,” she added. “And his dramatic choice of suicide tells me even more. Gleason may not have had a head injury, but he was still fatality prone. Anyone with any sort of power of observation could have recognised the weakness in both men.”

“And used it,” Johnny mused, “just as the gossip about Marta was used as a cover. Lisa, do you realize what you’re intimating?”

Lisa knew. So did the professor now. He answered the question for her.

“It seems to me we discussed this same matter the last time I was in this room,” he said. “Then we merely had the motive for the crime, which, I believe, was then Marta’s. Now we have shared it with—how many others? Tod Graham, Stanley Watts, Dr. Hazlitt? Are there any other suspects, Miss Bancroft? Have I missed anyone?”

The professor knew, but Lisa didn’t like his tone. She hadn’t even dented that wall of disbelief.

“How about Nydia?” Johnny suggested. “She seems to be the one so anxious for Marta to win that prize.”

Lisa had to bite her lip to keep back the protest. It was all going wrong. Johnny was serious, but not the professor.

“Of course, Nydia,” the professor said. “The queen of Bellville. Perhaps her throne isn’t as secure as it used to be so she’s taken to knocking off her daughter’s fiancés for profit until little Marta can scale the heights and renew the family prestige. Oh, there may be any number of possibilities. Fifteen thousand dollars is a good incentive. Speaking as a low-salaried schoolteacher, I might even have been tempted myself. But there’s one glaring flaw in your employer’s theory, Miss Johnson. The crime—the crime we were discussing at my previous visit—simply doesn’t exist. We can’t have murder without an act of murder.”

At least someone had spoken the word. It had been lurking, like the gossip of Bellville, at every twist and turn of events since that afternoon in the tearoom. It was good to have it said at last, even if the professor’s negative position were all too true.

But that wasn’t the important thing after all. Not retribution, not vengeance. Let the dead bury the dead.

“I’m not trying to prove an act of murder!” Lisa protested. “I’m trying to prove that Marta Cornish is innocent of all the vicious lies and innuendoes that have engulfed her since childhood. I’m trying to set her free—”

It was horrible to have the professor smile at her then—not openly, just with a slight twist of his mouth and a slight brightness of his eyes. He came to his feet. He wasn’t even going to listen any more.

“That’s a very kind thought, Miss Bancroft,” he said, “and I admire the sentiment. But I’m puzzled, frankly puzzled. If your appraisal of Marta is correct—if she’s entirely innocent of any kind of implication in those two deaths or of any profit therefrom—if all she honestly desires is to win the Cornish Award with her concerto and go off to Paris with my nephew, as you say—”

One of the professor’s hands was reaching into the inner pocket of his coat even as he spoke. He brought it out again, and now it held the folded width of a long Manila envelope.

“—then I must confess,” he added, “that I am one of the many of the local gentry who simply can’t understand the girl. Perhaps you can enlighten me.”

The hand was extended now. Lisa accepted the envelope with misgivings.

“What’s this?” she asked.

“Marta’s concerto. Miss Oberon and I have been opening entries all week and then forwarding them to Sir Anthony. We came across this one yesterday.”

It was wrong—that was Lisa’s first thought. The professor shouldn’t be carrying Marta’s entry about with him. It should have been forwarded like the others. She opened the fold, properly dated, properly stamped with the committee’s seal.

“Go ahead. Open it,” the professor said.

She did. She opened the envelope and withdrew the entry upon which hung a desperate girl’s chance of escape—and then stared at what was in her hand in utter dismay. It must surely be the neatest entry in the competition. There was absolutely nothing on any one of the several sheets of music paper.

For a few minutes Lisa was too stunned to do more than stare dumbly at the object in her hands—a concerto without music, every sheet untouched.

“What is it?” Johnny demanded. “What’s wrong?”

Johnny could look for herself. Johnny could look, fall silent, and then utter a strained, “It must be a mistake.”

“Do you really think that’s possible, Miss Johnson?” the professor asked quietly.

He didn’t have to explain. All the months, all the years of preparation and study that had gone into Marta’s work couldn’t be lost just because of a careless oversight. But Johnny couldn’t accept the obvious.

“She was probably excited. She could have put the wrong sheets into the envelope.”

“And not have discovered her mistake later?”

“Then she must have lost her nerve.”

Lisa could hear them talking. They might have been in another room, or on another planet, but she could hear them talking. All the time her mind was busy putting together little bits and fragments of unrelated knowledge that somehow became related when one had, or at least sensed, the key. But now it was time to return to this room and this planet. The professor was staring at her quizzically. He seemed to have asked a question. She waited for its repetition.

“What do you make of it, Miss Bancroft?”

It was thoughtful of him to ask, particularly since he’d made his own conclusions.

“You must forgive me,” Lisa said, “for having detained you so long with my irrelevant tale.”

The professor frowned. His triumph hadn’t made him happy. He seemed almost disappointed at not receiving an argument.

“Hardly irrelevant, Miss Bancroft. I found it very interesting and logical, but this—this isn’t logical!”

“Rational is a better word,” Lisa suggested. “This isn’t the act of a rational person, that’s what you mean, isn’t it?”

“I merely asked your opinion.”

“Than you have it. I agree, Professor. Substituting blank sheets in the place of a contest entry isn’t the act of a rational person. Are you satisfied?”

He wasn’t. He was more than disappointed; he was troubled. Lisa had cut him off, he knew that. He was adrift in a sea of incomprehensibility and he’d have to get ashore by himself. Lisa got up from the chair, the envelope and the empty sheets still in her hand, and walked to her desk. It was like a sign of dismissal, but the professor still lingered. She placed the papers on her desk.

“Have you notified Marta of this error?” she asked.

“Not yet. I thought perhaps you—”

And then Lisa laughed. She turned around and looked at the professor. Both he and Johnny were staring at her.

“I was thinking of Miss Oberon,” she explained. “No wonder she was so gay tonight. ‘I’m sure this year’s festival will be the most exciting of all!’ She despises Marta, you know. She as much as told me that the girl had no talent.”

“If you’re suggesting that Miss Oberon might have had anything to do with this,” the professor said, “I can assure you that you’re mistaken. We were together when this entry turned up. She was just as surprised at the contents as I was.”

“Oh, I’m not suggesting anything. Not any more. It’s too late for that.”

Lisa fell silent and for a little while no one disturbed that silence. It had been a long day. A long, weary day. Lisa was tired of talk.

But there was still something to be said. The professor cleared his throat.

“I can leave it to you to notify Marta, then?”

“Why notify her,” Lisa asked, “if she already knows?”

He couldn’t offer an answer. Johnny couldn’t offer an answer. They could only continue to stare in that puzzled, troubled way, because Lisa didn’t fight back any more. She leaned on her stick, a battle-scarred warrior, but she didn’t fight back.

“No,” she announced, “I won’t notify Marta, and neither will you, Professor. I saw her this morning, and she seemed quite happy. Let’s play out the game with her. An act of carelessness, a lost of nerve, an act of resentment to hurt someone she hates— The possibilities are endless. But let’s not spoil the game now. This is our secret. All we have to do now is wait for the final night of the festival and see who is the most surprised.”

With the arrival of Festival Week, all of Bellville took on the exuberance of a throng of Miss Oberons. The bunting was all hung along Main Street, the new bleachers at the athletic field were finished as promised, there wasn’t a vacant room or motel unit within a radius of fifty miles, and every business in town was doing a volume of trade comparable to Christmas, Easter, and Back to School seasons combined. Sir Anthony Sutton had arrived, amid fitting fanfare, and was deep among the manuscripts in his office at the Memorial Auditorium. For seven days, the nights would be filled with music as various artists ran through the repertoire of the Martin Cornish legacy, and on each night one new addition to musical literature would be made in the rendition of an honorable mention in the award competition. The prize composition, known only to Sir Anthony and—at rehearsal time—an orchestra sworn to secrecy, was reserved for the gala final night of the festival.

The weather held fair. At the final meeting of the Award Committee, Tod Graham remarked on the fact with all the self-satisfaction of one personally responsible for such favors of nature.

“Don’t count your chickens before they’re hatched,” Stanley Watts warned. “We’ve got a whole week to go, and a big overhead to meet. Do you realize what it cost to import that Sir What’s-his-name?”

“And do you realize what his name adds to the drawing power of the festival?” Tod countered. “I tell you, this is going to be the affair nobody ever forgets! Now, does everybody have everything straight? Does everybody know what to do?”

Watching Tod, Lisa had difficulty remembering this was a cultural affair dedicated to the memory of a great artist. He had all the mannerisms of a bead coach briefing the squad on the eve of the big game. And the tension. Beneath that too obvious optimism, Tod’s nerves were razor-thin. Was it merely the strain of managing this huge affair? Had it anything to do with a brief conversation she’d shared with him the day after her dinner party?

They’d met on the sidewalk in front of his office. Stanley Watts had just left as Lisa was approaching. Head down, he hurried off without seeing her. Tod was more observant. He delivered the customary thanks for the previous evening and then, with assumed indifference, asked, “By the way, Miss Bancroft, have you given any further thought to that donation you mentioned one day?”

And Lisa answered, “Have you given any further thought to letting me see the books on the Memorial Fund expenditures?”

“I’m afraid that’s rather a lengthy procedure.”

“Oh, well, any day you’re not too busy.”

She started to move on, but Tod Graham was a big man to have standing in the way.

“It’s just that—well, there are always last-minute expenses. You know how hard it is to keep on a budget. I thought, if you really wanted to give—”

“But surely Nydia Cornish can take care of anything that arises.”

“Nydia!”

For a moment Tod’s guard dropped, that very careful guard by which he made his way in life.

“Nydia doesn’t control the estate! The bulk of it was left in trust—”

And then Tod remembered his guard. It went up again, and with it a cold air of pique.

“Forget it,” he said. “There’s no problem anyway. Everything’s under control.”

And now Tod’s voice was like an echo.

“Well, I guess everything’s under control,” he concluded. “Now let’s get out there and put it over!”

Exactly like a head coach on the eve of the big game. The meeting broke up. The members made their way downstairs. It may have been only chance that made Tod avoid Lisa’s eyes. Tod was a very busy man. Sir Anthony was his house guest now, and it wasn’t every week that a man like Tod Graham had a title in his guest room. Wide-eyed and open-mouthed, Miss Oberon hung onto his every word about the great man. Miss Oberon with her secret smile and air of triumphant anticipation. Lisa left them and joined the others in the lower hall.

Downstairs, there were two interesting additions to the gathering. Joel Warren had dropped by. Marta was with him. It was the first Lisa had seen of Marta since that morning in the garden, and her immediate thought was of those empty sheets in the Manila envelope. But Marta betrayed no sign of deception. Nothing but normal anxiety.

“I don’t know which of us is serving as ballast for the other,” Joel said, clinging to her arm, “but I have to hang onto something to keep my feet on the ground, and I think Marta feels about the same. Think you can hold out a whole week, honey?”

“Golly, I don’t know,” Marta said. “I’ve got butterflies already.”

Nydia Cornish laughed. It was a rather startling sound to one who had never heard Nydia Cornish laugh, but this was Festival Week and anything could happen. “Her one splash of glory.” Tod had said it, and Tod should know. The queen was at her reigning splendor. She laughed. She smiled. She spoke to the peasantry. She had a strange, glowing warmth that made the woman of that tragic tea at Bell Mansion seem an entirely different person. There were so many Nydia’s. Cataloguing them was a fascinating occupation.

Now Nydia took Joel’s free arm and clung to it like a child.

“I think I need ballast, too,” she said. “Honestly, I’ve never been so nervous about anything in my life!”

“Now, Mrs. Cornish, I can’t image you losing control in any situation,” Joel remarked.

She looked up at him, beaming.

“You flatter me, Joel. Is he always this charming, Marta? Is he always this strong?”

Lisa felt the professor’s presence at her elbow. Without looking about, she murmured, “And still nobody knows, Professor?”

“Well, Miss Oberon does, of course. And you and Johnny. Just the four of us,” he said. “And Marta.”

“Does she look as if she faked that entry?”

“Have you ever made a study of schizophrenia, Miss Bancroft?”

Lisa walked away.

The museum room was quieter. Quieter and less crowded. It was a refreshing change from that too gay, too strained atmosphere in the hall. What’s more, Lisa didn’t feel up to verbal sparring with the professor this morning. Someone, it seemed, should be remembering the founder of the feast.

And then, surprisingly, she found that she wasn’t alone in this silent asylum. The rounded back, the sagging shoulders, could belong to only one man. Lisa approached the mantel where old Dr. Hazlitt stood staring up at the bronze plaque.

They were quite alone in the huge room.

“And soon another name will be added to the plaque,” Lisa said softly. “What name shall it be, Doctor?”

He must have heard her come in. The tapping of her stick was identification. Without turning he said, “I’m not a prophet, Miss Bancroft.”

“Nor am I, and yet sometimes I feel very certain about a thing—”

“Nothing in life is certain,” the doctor broke in, “except death.”

“And you’ve seen so much of death, haven’t you, Dr. Hazlitt? Mr. Hubbard, who once owned this house; Pierre Duval, who was too reckless; Howard Gleason—”

Now the old man looked away from the plaque. He looked at Lisa. He looked hard so that his tired eyes seemed to be searching for something half-remembered, half-forgotten. But he didn’t speak.

“‘The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away,’” Lisa murmured. Then she smiled vaguely. “The Lord is blamed for so many things, isn’t he? By the way, I didn’t have a chance to tell you the night of my dinner party, but I paid a visit to one of your charities not long ago.”

Half-remembered, half-forgotten. The old man’s fingers began to work at his watch chain again.

“One of my charities?” he echoed.

“The sanitarium at Granite. I was told that you’re a member of the board. I was told by a gentleman at the National Trust and Savings Bank.”

The long, searching stare was beginning to reach the end of its quest. A sudden brightness, a sudden awareness, told Lisa that.

Quickly she added,

“Such a pitiful place—a mental institution. And such a fragile instrument—the mind. Without a stabilizer, just a little pressure here, a little pressure there, add a dosage of propaganda—”

“Propaganda?” the old man repeated.

“Oh, we live in an age of propaganda, Doctor. It’s a miracle there’s any sanity left at all with all this dedicated meddling of the mind. Adjust or die—that’s the new commandment. Fortunately for the soul of man, there are always those who will prefer to die.”

Lisa looked up at the portrait of Martin Cornish. A man forgotten by that exuberant group in the hall. The founder of the feast.

“How did he die, Dr. Hazlitt?” she asked.

She didn’t even receive a protest.

“Was it Claude Humphrey? Is that why he’s so afraid of fire?”

The question was never answered. The old doctor had other matters on his mind.

“I should have known—”

His voice was hollow. It seemed to come from as great a distance as time. Lisa looked away from the portrait and smiled at him.

“Yes, you should have known. But it wouldn’t have made any difference, would it? Some things just have to happen. We picked up a magazine—we start packing. We don’t know why, but suddenly everything that is going to happen has already happened before. One day, when it’s all over, we sit back and say, ‘Oh, yes. That’s how it was. I remember now.’”