Something blue (9 page)

"The pins had been yours, ma'am?" asked Johnny.

"Yes, Francis gave them to me before we were married and that was surely a long time ago. I haven't thought of Frank—"

"Your first husband?"

"Yes. He was my first husband."

"And you gave the other pin to your stepson Nathaniel?"

"To Josephine. Nathaniel didn't realize . . ."

"Reahze what, ma'am?"

The old lady's face sagged. Her lids drooped. She seemed to have suddenly gone to sleep.

"What are you trying to do, Sims?" said Bart quietly. "It was all gone into thoroughly at the time. As you should know. You've evidently read up on it. I think you've got what you came for, haven't you? Thanks to my seventy-nine-year-old mother." His voice was cold.

"I'm tired," said the old lady crossly.

"Of course you are," said Blanche and sprang up to the handles of the chair.

Nathaniel didn't reahze," Johnny said, rising, "but you ... ?"

"I understood," the old lady said, openiag her eyes. "You come see me again, young man."

"I wiU."

Blanche's eyes said to him hostilely, No, yoti wont.

"Realize?" said Bart, after they had gone. "What was thatr

Johnny answered honestly, "I don't know."

"Tricks?"

The room was silent. Nan's eyes were round. "Years ago," said Dick to her comfortingly.

"But, really?" Nan said. "Killed in this house?"

"Poor Christy McCauley," Dick said. "I barely remember her."

Bart rose. "I don't like puzzles and tricks. I don't think you can expect any more, Sims."

Johnny rose also. "No, not here, sir."

"You are going to poke around this town?" Bart's voice was light, yet hostile.

"Yes, sir."

Dick had risen too. Nan said nervously, "Johnny, do you have to do this? If—if Bart doesn't want you to . . . and Blanche doesn't . . . ?"

Johnny said, "It's my job.''

"But, I told them you were a friend."

"I'm that, too," Johnny said with a grin. "I understand," he said to Bart, "better than you think I do. I've done such jobs before."

Bart gave him a crisp nod of dismissal.

"Good-night, Nan."

Nan's lips were pouting disapproval and did not say good-night.

Dick said, in a friendly way, "I'll see you to the door."

So they went together out into the red-floored hall and Dick opened a leaf of the front door. He stepped outside,^ himself, and JoJinny followed.

"Are you really going to stir up this old dust?" Dick asked him.

The hght was going and, with the trees so close, the porch was dim,

"A job," said Johnny. "I m supposed to talk- to people, get the local color, atmosphere, all that."

"I suppose you've heard," Dick said, "that there once was a flurry of suspicion that I had killed Christy McCauley? Or haven't you heard that?"

"I've heard that," Johnny said quietly.

"From McCauley himself?"

"No. Grimes told me." Johnny hed. His heart raced. He had almost made the mistake of admitting he'd seen Mcr-Cauley. This man would then know—or would he?—that Johnny must have foimd out from McCauley who Nan was.

"Going to see McCauley, I suppose?" Dick asked. "Strange to think that he is still alive."

"After I'm through here," Johnny said. (His thoughts raced. Was the man probing?) "I understand he's sick, right now. In the prison hospital," Johnny said carelessly.

The man beside him was looking oflF into the trees. "Are you thinking," said Dick in a moment, "that Nan ought to know about those suspicions of me?"

"What do you think?" said Johnny stiflfly.

There was a little silence. "They wouldn't make an awfully pleasant wedding present," Dick said softly.

"No." Johnny's head jerked up. "I agree with you on that.''

"It was all checked into at the time, you know."

^I presumed so," Johnny shrugged.

"But youTl check again?"

"I've already checked, a little. I saw George Rush."

"ReaUy? Old George? How is he?"

"He's fine. He—was out that night."

"I know." Bartee looked away. "Of course, I understand ^ you," he said.

"Understand?" Johnny's reason sank under the flooding of emotion.

"I got your girl, eh?" said Dick. "Well, have a go at it. I don't suppose I can stop you." The man was smiling.

Johnny conquered anger because one shouldn't be angry at what was true. He said, "Did ycni think McCauley was a no-good bum?"

"That was the consensus around here,'' said Dick. "I was just a kid." Then he added. "You put me in a spot. I don't know what to do."

yodor

"About telling Nan." The eyes came back. In the dusk Johnny seemed to feel them resting on him. "I suppose I must."

"WTiy don't you wait?" said Johnny, feeling sudden dismay. He made himself smile. "/ won't tell her, if I don't have to. I can probably make it sound too dull for Grimes."

"It is quite dull, as a matter of fact," said Dick Bartee in a moment. He sighed. "Maybe I've got you wrong. Maybe I do you an injustice."

"Injustice?"

"Nan's told me all about you. Tve been assuming you— resent me."

"Naturally," said Johnny with his best rueful grin. "I resent you."

The gray eyes smiled back. "Well, good hunting." Dick Bartee held out his hand. "Convince yourself."

Johnny took it. Couldn't stand on niceties. (He could hear Dorothy saying, "What do they matter, if Nan's engaged to a murderer?")

He heard himself say, "Thanks a lot," in a voice that sounded weak and confused. Then Johnny set out in his car, tr>ing to think.

The old lady. Maybe Clinton McCauley was an awful man who only dreamed that he was a saint. Maybe Dick Bartee was a killer and a fortune-himter. Maybe not.

The man had charm. He seemed straightforward. Johnny tried to imagine what he, himself, would say if he were Dick Bartee and innocent. It came out a lot like Dick Bartee.

He drove in and found a room at the first motel he came upon. Responsibihty and doubt were hanging heavily upon him.

What was it that Nathaniel Bartee had not realized? What was it Dick Bartee admitted when he said he knew that George Rush had been out? Why was Blanche Bartee so very eager to stop Johnny's inquiries?

How could he, J. Sims, discover the truth about a kijing seventeen yeaii old? How objectively could he judge? And by what right?

CHAPTER 10

In the parlor, Bart said, ''I wonder why my father took his gun that night. Do you know I never questioned that before?"

"If someone were in the house," began Dorothy.

Bart said, "If my mother woke him to say she heard Christy and Clint—The point is, Miss Dorothy, Clinton McCauley lived in the house."

"Oh?"

"I'm just ashamed of Johimy," Nan said in a low voice. "I'm awfully sorry, Mr. Bartee."

Dorothy said, "Probably Johnny thinks he can—well, protect everyone."

She faltered and looked up. Bart's smooth face was turned upon her. "Perhaps that's it," he said.

Blanche hustled in. She wore very high heels. Her legs were thin and sinewy, not pretty. "Has he gone?" she asked. "Bart, can't you stop this?"

Bart said, "No, I don't think so," not vehemently, but thoughtfully. Blanche, looking troubled, said no more. Dorothy perceived that Bart was the head of this house.

There was dinner. There was the evening. Dorothy was the gay girl guest. Dick was the happy lover. Nan the petted bride-to-be. Nothing was said about murder.

Finally, Dorothy and Nan were alone in the big back bedroom.

"Isn't it heavenly here?" Nan said. "Don't you like them?"

"Very nice." Dorothy began to whack light into her hair with the stiff brush.

"I'm glad you came. But I wish to goodness Johnny hadn't talked the way he did."

"A job," murmured Dorothy.

"I don't believe it," Nan cried suddenly. "I suppose he thinks / shouldn't be in a house where they once had a murder. As if it had anything to do with me." She shook her head as if to shake this ofiF. "Isn't old Mrs. Bartee cute. Dotty?" Nan hugged her knees. "Blanche is so nice. Dick's Uncle Bart is just a lamb."

Dorothy whacked with the brush. (But a man who lets his mother persecute his wife, she thought, is no lamb. No use for her to speak flash judgments about the Bartees. Nan was in the dream. These were going to be her people. She had dreamed they would be wonderful and so she saw them, in the dream.)

"What's this about a wedding?" she asked.

''0h, Blanche just insists we have it here." "I think a bride should be married in her own place," said Dorothy slowly.

"Oh, now, Dotty, don't be ofiFended. It won't be much of a fuss. Only the family. Very quiet." Nan squinned. "Dot . . . ?" "Yes?" ^Couldn't you do something about Johnny?"

"Me?"

"^Vell, you always liked him.''

(Johnny's for me? thought Dorothy. Now that you don't want him any more. Now that I don't have to let you have him, because he really was the only beau you had.) Dorothy bent her blonde head, and brushed the back of it violently upwards.

She heard Nan say shyly, dreamily, "Dick and I had our blood tests made this morning."

"This momingi"

"He said we might as well get that out of the way. You have to do it before you can get a marriage license.''

"I know," said Dorothy numbly. Then she pushed all her hair back with both hands. "Don't rush, hon," she pleaded.

"Tm not," said Nan rebeUiously.

"What are you going to wear?" said Dorothy with inspiration. And saw Nan's face change. "That'll take time,'' pronounced Dorothy grimly.

Lying abed in the dark, Dorothy felt twenty years older than her little cousin. It wasn't fair to be angry with Nan, when Nan hadn't been told what she ought to know. It wasn't kind to break the dream, but it wasn't kind to jtoave her in it, eithef! Dorothy did not believe that Dick Bartee had ever killed anyone. "But there were other things about i him . . .

Next morning, Johnny Sims was talking to a country lawyer named Marshall who had defended Clinton McCauley, seventeen years ago.

"I think I mishandled the business of those pins,'' the man said. "Grimes is going to write it up, eh? From what point of view?"

"I don't know yet," Johnny said. "McCauley says he is innocent."

"Maybe he is," the lawyer sighed. "Maybe he is. At least, I'm convinced that Kate Callahan had one of the pins, all right."

"How come you couldn't make the jury believe that?"

"Because I was a fool."

"How so, sir?" Johnny asked gently. The man before him had a head of hair that was streaked and rusty red and white. The flesh of his face hung in heavy folds. His hands were square, wide palms, short fingers.

''Well,'' the lawyer leaned back, "Kate Callahan convinced me that Nathaniel Bartee had given her a pin. I was surprised. You'd have thought the sight of a woman like Kate Callahan, in full health, would have withered Nathaniel. Well, I thought I was being foxy. I went to the Bartees about Kate's pin.'' "Whyr

'Well, I was going to make a kind of deal. I knew the family might fight admitting that Nathaniel had ever been— less than a Bartee ought to be. So I figured that rather than let the story about Nathaniel and Kate get out—when they realized the pin in his pocket was no evidence against McCauley, they'd be for truth and justice. I wanted the family on McCauley's side. I was going to propose that Kate's possession of that pin would not be explained or we could hint at some other explanation. Something like that. And they would stick up for McCauley, which would have mattered. So there I went, mealymouthed, doing them a favor. And I ran into a thorn bush." ''How so?"

"Saw Nathaniel first. He froze. Wouldn't even speak. I went to the old man and he took fiie. Mad as a hornet. Ready to disown Nathaniel, then and there. But the old lady jumped in. She swore this was a made-up story, to embarrass the Bartees. She said Kate was willing to lie, for the very purpose of making this deal of mine. It was a plot, she said. So old Bartee got his back up. Nobody was going to pressure him. I'd made a bad mistake. Took away surprise. They were all set for the business of the pin. It went smoothly for them. Nathaniel pulled the second pin out of his pocket at the inquest."

Johnny said, "Now, listen to me. If you believe this Kate, then tell me how Nathaniel could pull a pin out of his pocket? Did he take Christy's out of the safe, then?" "No, no. Nathaniel was covered by a perfect alibi." "Is that so?" said Johnny wonderingly.

"Right. The gardener, sleeping in the grounds—I forget just how it went, but it was perfect."

"But if Kate's pin was in McCauley's pocket, the one Nathaniel had must have come from the safe," cried Johnny. "How?"

"A good question," sighed the lawyer. "I've wondered myself if the old lady could have picked- it off the floor."

"And framed McCauleyl"

"Protected Nathaniel. She's—autocratic. And Nathaniel was her pet. His father couldn't abide him. But she—she mothered him to pieces. Sometimes I think she cared more for her stepson than she ever did for Bart, Jr., after he got bom. A funny thing. Nathaniel was a stiange bii'd. He always was a liar."

"Liar?"

"Scared to death of the old man. So he'd lie. In a way, he had to. The old man would have eaten him alive. The only way a soft-shelled creature like Nathaniel could breathe was to lie."

"So McCauley was framed by a coincidence and some lies?"

"I think somebody lied. But I don't say that McCauley was innocent. I don't know."

"What about the boy? Dick?"

"Oh that," said Marshall. "That was McCauley's sister's theory. Pretty hard to believe such a thing of a fifteen-year-old boy."

"What kind^of boy was he?"

"A wild one. Not that all wild kids turn out so bad. I remember I had to forbid my daughter seeing him."

"Why did you do that, sir?"

"Because he was wild. Ran around in a car as he shouldn't have been doing, at his age. Only time I ever did put a parental foot down. But Blanche was good about it."

"Blanche!" Johnny was startled.

"My daughter married Bart, Jr.," the lawyer said. "Didn't you know?"

"No, sir, I didn't."