Death Takes a Bow (33 page)

“I've made up my mind too, Johnny. Unless you do, it's all—”

Then the girl had moved, apparently, and the rest of what she was saying was lost. Mrs. Pennock heard the man's heavier voice once more, and then a dull sound which she decided was a door slamming as he left the room, because after that she heard nothing more. But now she thought that perhaps it wasn't a slamming door.

“She couldn't hear a blow—I mean the poker,” Weigand said. “Not if she couldn't hear the voices more clearly.”

There could have been a scuffle, Armstrong pointed out. Perhaps the girl saw Elliot pick up the poker and come at her and perhaps she had time to try to run and—oh, knocked over a chair or something.

There wasn't, admittedly, a chair knocked over when the police got there, and Mrs. Pennock had denied anything was out of place—except the body of the girl itself—when she entered the room. But Elliot might have put the chair back on its feet for some reason. Or perhaps for no reason, abstractedly. People did funny things, Armstrong pointed out. Particularly after they had killed somebody. Weigand agreed. He also said that he would have to talk to Mrs. Pennock. For one thing, he would like to know why she had not discovered the body until late in the afternoon, twelve hours after the girl had died.

Armstrong could tell him that, or what Mrs. Pennock said about it. She had been waiting for the girl to ring and had not, because of the lateness of the party the night before, expected a ring much before two o'clock. She had been clearing up, which she had hot tried to do after the party, and the two maids had been helping her, and she had not noticed the time. When she did notice it, it was already three o'clock and, although Ann usually slept most of the day after a party, Mrs. Pennock had thought it odd. But it took her the better part of another hour before she decided to risk waking the girl. Armstrong, after explaining this, thought it over and wondered, audibly, if it didn't sound a little fishy.

Bill thought not; or not necessarily. Probably Mrs. Pennock was glad enough to have her mistress asleep and out of the way, if there was much cleaning up to do; glad not to have to fix breakfast, or whatever you called a first meal taken in the middle of the afternoon. Probably Mrs. Pennock, letting her preference control her reason, had not allowed herself to notice how late it was really getting. Armstrong agreed that it was possible. At any rate, there was nothing against it.

Mrs. Pennock had been sent to her kitchen and Detective Sergeant Stein summoned her out of it. She was broad and substantial in a black dress which suggested, but was not, a uniform. She stood solidly in the room and did not look at the chalked outline by the fireplace and did not look as if she had ever screamed. When she spoke, her voice was flat and heavy.

The story she told was much the story Lieutenant Armstrong had told in her behalf. She said she had gone up, after turning out the lights on the lower floor, about two-thirty. She must, Bill Weigand thought, looking at her, have gone up heavily—a tired, heavy woman in her middle years, up too late. When she had reached her own room she had dropped into a chair and for a time “just sat there.”

“I'm not as young as I used to be,” she said, solidly and flatly. It was fifteen minutes perhaps—perhaps almost half an hour—before she was rested enough to begin undressing. It was perhaps five minutes later that she had gone to the bathroom and walked in on the conversation of Ann and John Elliot. Her account of that conversation—of the overheard fragments of that conversation—might have been an echo of Armstrong's account. The girl had said “no” to something; and John Elliot had said, in a loud, angry voice, that it was a showdown. Ann had said that she had made up her mind. “Too.” She had said that, unless he did something, it was all—And then Mrs. Pennock had not heard the rest.

“All over, she was going to say,” Mrs. Pennock told them. “If she'd known that sooner, she'd be alive. I told her.”

“What did you tell her, Mrs. Pennock?” Weigand asked, his voice quiet and interested.

“Not to have anything more to do with him,” Mrs. Pennock said. “He's—no good. I told her he was after her money.”

What, Weigand wanted to know, had Ann Lawrence said to that?

“Told me not to meddle,” Mrs. Pennock said. “Naturally. Told me I was a fool. But I wasn't. He killed her.”

It was not an assertion. It was a routine statement of the obvious. In the same tone, after looking out the window, Mrs. Pennock might have remarked that it was snowing.

Why, Weigand asked, was she so sure? Mrs. Pennock looked at him without change of expression. She looked at him as if he, after watching the heavy flakes falling outside, had said it was not snowing.

“Why?” Weigand insisted. “You heard their voices raised, deduced a quarrel, heard a sound which may have been a door slamming. It needs more than that, Mrs. Pennock.”

Mrs. Pennock Said, flatly, that the other policeman hadn't thought so. The stout policeman. Lieutenant Armstrong made a muffled sound at the description of Inspector Artemus O'Malley. Weigand nodded and said probably the inspector was right. However—She spoke as if she had some other reason for her certainty.

“He's no good,” she said. “That Mr. Elliot. After her money. Whining around her. He's crafty. He'll fool you if you let him.”

“And kill you too?” Weigand said.

“Why not?” Mrs. Pennock asked. “He found out she was through with him and that he wasn't going to get her money. He got mad and killed her. He's no good.”

It occurred to Bill Weigand that Mrs. Pennock and Inspector O'Malley must have enjoyed an almost perfect meeting of minds. Both liked it simple. “Sing something simple”—Weigand just stopped himself from humming it. And probably they were right, at that. In any case, there was nothing to be gained by discussion. He led her to the other point. Why had she waited until so late in the afternoon to go upstairs to waken Miss Lawrence?

“She liked to sleep late,” Mrs. Pennock said. “She could, not like some people. And I had plenty to do as it was, with only the girls to help. And not much help.”

“But you must have wondered,” Weigand insisted. “After all, she had had more than twelve hours to sleep. That would have been a lot of sleep.”

Mrs. Pennock repeated that she had been busy. She hadn't noticed. Miss Lawrence didn't like to be waked up before she was ready. And, finally, she
had
wondered in the end.

“Right there she was,” Mrs. Pennock ended suddenly. “The poor, pretty thing. With her head all smashed in.”

She pointed. But still she was not emotional. The woman was, in what was probably an unimportant fashion, baffling. It was hard to guess what her attitude had been toward Ann Lawrence.

“You were fond of her?” Weigand asked, almost out of curiosity.

“Fond?” the heavy woman repeated. “I don't know about fond. She was all right. She was fair, in her way. The job was all right.”

Something didn't jibe, Bill Weigand thought. If it was no more than that, why had Mrs. Pennock tried to intervene against John Elliot?

“You tried to persuade her not to marry Mr. Elliot,” Weigand reminded her. “Wasn't that because you were fond of her?”

Mrs. Pennock seemed to be thinking it over.

“Maybe it was that,” she said, finally. “She was a pretty little thing and didn't know much. She couldn't see through your Mr. Elliot. But she didn't want my advice, it turned out. Might have saved my breath to cool my porridge.”

She had, Weigand decided, a talent for the familiar. She was altogether an odd person. But perhaps she was a very good cook, or a superior housekeeper, or both. She had not, he decided, been employed for her charm.

“Well,” she said. “Why don't you take him away? Now that you've arrested him.”

She was talking, clearly, about John Elliot. Weigand said that they hadn't arrested him yet. Mrs. Pennock allowed herself a facial expression. It apparently was contempt.

“Where's the stout policeman?” she said. “He'd tell you to.”

“Gone,” Weigand said. “He did, practically, Mrs. Pennock. He agrees with you perfectly.”

She nodded. That, her nod said, was foregone. It merely indicated that the stout policeman was in his right mind. Weigand watched her for a moment, half amused. Then he thanked her and told her there was, for the moment, nothing more she could do. He sent Stein downstairs for John Elliot. Stein went down casually, in no hurry. Weigand was looking around the pleasant room, waiting without anxiety, when Stein yelled. The detective sergeant's voice was angry and surprised and excited all together. But all he yelled was, “
Hey! Lieutenant!
”

Weigand ran down the delicate, curving stairs. In the middle of the spreading living room, a uniformed policeman was sitting on the floor, his head in his hands. Stein was leaning over him, cursing steadily. There was nobody else in the room. Mr. John Elliot, presumptive murderer, had gone away.

III.
Tuesday, 8:10 P.M. to 9 P.M.

Mr. North put his foot down. He did not think they had better help Sergeant Mullins. He was fond of Sergeant Mullins; he wished him well. But he did not wish him the assistance of Mrs. North. Mr. North ran a hand through his hair.

“For once, Pam,” he pleaded. “Just for once—no. We aren't private detectives.”

“Well—” Pam said, speculatively. “The baked apple is pretty subtle, Jerry. Isn't it, Dorian?”

Dorian was purposely non-committal. She said it was an odd thing to call a baked apple.

“Well,” Pam said, “obscure, then. Because there isn't, really, anything less subtle than a baked apple. Is there?”

“A boiled potato,” Jerry suggested. “Or anything with whipped cream on it.”

Pam said not on a boiled potato. She said Jerry had the oddest ideas. She looked at him with reproach. Nobody, he said, ever put whipped cream on boiled potatoes.

“Listen, Pam,” Jerry said.

“Even tea shops,” Pam said. “I don't think, anyway. Do they?”

“Probably,” Jerry told her. “They put it on carrots.”

“Jerry!” Pam said. “You're making it up.”

“Salads,” Jerry told her. “With shredded carrots
and
whipped cream. In tea shops. And women eat it.”

“Really, Jerry,” Dorian said. “Really. And how did we get here?”

Pam answered for her husband. She said because Jerry insisted on talking about whipped cream on boiled potatoes.

“Instead of Mullins,” she said. “He's just trying to change the subject, of course.”

Jerry tugged at his hair and looked around wildly. He looked at Pam, and, beseechingly, at Dorian.

“As a matter of fact, Jerry,” Dorian told him. “You did.”

“I—” Jerry said, a little desperately. “I—whipped cream on boiled
potatoes?
”

Both Dorian and Pam nodded contentedly.

“Because I wanted to help Sergeant Mullins,” Pam said. “Because baked apples are subtle. And Mr. Mullins isn't.”

“Never,” Jerry said. “Never did I say anything about whipped cream on boiled potatoes. I couldn't have.” He looked at them. “What
did
I say?” he demanded, urgently.

“That we shouldn't help Mr. Mullins,” Pam told him. “But you didn't mean it. Because you're just as fond of him as I am. And he'll never solve the baked apple. Come on.”

“Dorian!” Jerry said. “Do something!” It was evident that he was obscurely shaken. “Tell her Bill wouldn't want us to.”

“I don't suppose he'd mind, really,” Dorian said. “And it
is
sort of interesting. And it will confuse the sergeant, I'm afraid.”

“I—” Jerry said. Pam smiled at him.

“Just this one point, Jerry,” she said. “Bill didn't have time to explain, really. And if he has to leave it to Mr. Mullins, and gets all interested in this other one, everybody might forget all about it. And that nice boy would go to the chair.”

“Listen,” Jerry said. “I haven't the faintest idea whether he's a nice boy or not. Neither have you.”

“Of course I have,” Pam said. “He didn't commit the murder.”

“Therefore,” Jerry said, “he's a nice boy. Really, Pam.” He thought of more to say, but did not say it because Pam had suddenly gone into the bedroom and from it was calling to Dorian to come on. Then, apparently, she looked out the window, because next she called:

“Darling. You'll have to wear rubbers.”

Jerry went to the living room windows and looked out. Lights from windows on the floor below fell across snow in the backyard. It looked like deep snow. It was fine-looking snow and it was coming down heavily. He would have to wear rubbers, he decided, and only then remembered that his foot was down and he wasn't going anywhere. Abstractedly, he looked at his foot. It would be fun to go out in the snow, and probably they wouldn't be able to find Mullins anyway. It would be fun to go out in the snow and perhaps walk in it, and turn in to some warm bright place and steam a little and have a drink. That was probably what it would come to, when they couldn't find Mullins.

And it was fun in the snow, when they got into it, slipping and clutching at each other and laughing and seeing the snow plaster on their coats. For a while, too, it appeared that they would never find Mullins, because they could not even find a taxicab. But then one skidded up to them, its windshield wipers churning madly, and they got in and at once began to drip. And Pam appeared to know precisely where Mullins would be, because she gave the address of the Homicide Squad offices.

“You see,” she said, “he would have been at the precinct. But after Bill called him, he'd go back to the office to think about the baked apple. So that's where he is. That's where I'd be, anyway.”

It startled Jerry, somewhat, to discover that Pam's thought processes had, in fact, coincided with those of Sergeant Mullins. For some reason this made him reel internally; it suggested that the whole world was about to come apart. It suggested that the human mind was, not only as exemplified in the mind of his wife but universally, more strange and wonderful than he had ever thought. Mullins was sitting in Bill Weigand's office, at Bill Weigand's desk. He looked at them.