“Well,” she said slowly, reaching for a cream tart, “What’s My Awful Secret’ isn’t on tonight — some silly talk about the atom instead, so you do have an idea there. But I wouldn’t dare go out alone,” she added sharply. “It’s four blocks down dark streets.”
“Of course not, dear,” he reassured her. Odd, how the old skinny ones who wouldn’t be molested on a desert island populated entirely by sex maniacs were the most afraid of assaults on their virtue. “I meant to treat you.”
“Hmph!” she snorted; and he read her mind easily enough. The treat would come from her own money, naturally — his ‘allowance’. Nevertheless, her face softened, and she agreed, not averse to being seen with a personable young man.
“I’m a poor substitute for the colonel,” Wilbur added slyly, “but I’ll do my best.”
She reddened. “Don’t talk nonsense, Wilbur. Colonel Valentine is only a friend.”
There was a banshee-like scream as a gust of wind shook the old house.
“My, it’s really blowing tonight,” she said.
“Remember,” he said lightly, “it’s an ill wind that blows nobody good.” He gave her a fond glance. At least the old girl would have a pleasant evening before going to the shades. And now and then he and the blondes would drink a memorial toast to the giver of the feast.
The movie was definitely a success. Aunt Grace chattered about it in a shrill, unending stream as they walked the four blocks back to the house, When they reached the last side street where Wilbur had noted the king size palm, he was keyed to concert pitch. Right in the middle of the block, with the towering tree swaying above, was a particularly shadowy stretch where a street light had burned out. Walking a short distance behind the old lady, Wilbur slipped the weighty mahogany stick from its holster, and struck a single shrewd blow over his aunt’s ear. Without a sound she crumpled in the middle and fell. Hastily he stooped and felt for her pulse. Nothing. He put one ear to her heart. Nothing there, either. Jumping up, he looked for a suitable frond. There were plenty around, the wind having been busy, but the first two were on the light side. The third had a heavier base. It would do. He pressed one rough edge against the wound. Mustn’t rub. A falling frond strikes just once, AM that was needed was a little blood on the base. He checked the old woman again. She was dead all right. And he was rich.
Wilbur took a deep breath, then tittered an inarticulate cry. He picked up his aunt’s body and stumbled towards the house. Inside he laid her on a couch and called first the family doctor, then the police. The latter came more quickly, and found Wilbur red-eyed, thanks to vigorous rubbing with his knuckles, and seemingly on the verge of tears. He explained the unfortunate accident; and the officer, obviously a conscientious type, went out with a flashlight and retrieved the very frond, still wet with blood, responsible for the death of Aunt Grace. As for the bludgeon, long before any suspicion was aroused, that would be hidden where nobody could find it even with a dowsing rod and a pack of bloodhounds. There would be questions, naturally, but he would be ready. The key point to remember, he kept telling himself, was that no matter how unlikely the accident might seem, nobody could prove it to be impossible. Yes, a perfect plan, executed without a flaw. All you blondes look out! Here comes Wilbur, a-bulgin’ and a-bilin’.
But the next day came a man from the District Attorney. He questioned Wilbur at some length about the accident, was shown the exact spot under a fifty foot palm, and expressed his sympathy. He seemed to know that Wilbur was now richer by one third of a million dollars; this disturbed the murderer, but only briefly. More annoying was the way the fellow hefted a frond.
“You’d never think this is heavy enough to hurt anybody,” he remarked, giving Wilbur a cryptic glance.
“Oh, I don’t know,” he replied calmly. “Don’t forget it fell about fifty feet.”
“That’s true,” the other agreed. “Nature is funny at times.”
“You said it.” Wilbur’s voice was full of relief.
So sure was he of his position, that when they arrested him a few days later, he repeated the story with great coolness to a police stenographer, and signed it with a steady hand, even smiling a little to show his conscience was clear, and that he couldn’t be panicked.
Then they brought in Sergeant Slater. He was carrying the fatal frond.
“This is the thing that killed your aunt, I believe,” the sergeant said gently. He was a big man with mild eyes. “It seems too light to cause a serious injury.”
But Wilbur was ready for him. It is true that he’d flunked physics in college, after flunking it in high school. So it was hopeless for him to try making sense out of the chapter on falling bodies in his aunt’s encyclopedia. But there was Danny Harris, who used to make all the night spots with him, and was now an engineer. Good old Danny had briefed him thoroughly on the subject. Yes, Wilbur was ready to take on Slater any time.
“Oh, I don’t know,” he said, with simple candor. “I felt the same way, so I checked up. A frond weighs about six to ten ounces. The tree was roughly fifty feet tall. An eight ounce object, falling fifty feet, has the same striking force as a twenty pound weight dropping a foot. When you put it that way, there’s nothing to wonder about.”
“That’s very good reasoning,” Slater said with approval. “Of course, you forget air resistance. That slows down a feathery frond quite a bit.”
Wilbur tensed a little. Damn that Danny; he’d goofed there. What a lousy engineer! Then he remembered another point.
“The wind might have had some downward force, too.”
“I guess it could have happened,” Slater said mildly. “At least, nobody could prove in court that it’s impossible. And so you maintain,” he added almost mournfully, “that this frond killed your aunt.”
“If it has blood, that’s the one. Otherwise, naturally, I couldn’t be sure. They all look just alike to me.”
“That was your mistake,” Slater said, his eyes not so mild now.
Wilbur paled.
“What do you mean?” he demanded hoarsely.
“I mean that we can’t beat you on physics — too much a borderline deal there. But you did show us exactly where your aunt was struck, presumably by this particular frond, since it does have her blood on it. Quite a windy night, they tell me.”
“You bet it was,” Wilbur snapped. He was tiring of this bull-dogging. “And that’s the way it happened, too.” They’d never shake his story. All he had to do was hang on. The sergeant had admitted a falling frond could kill somebody; at least, the theory couldn’t be disproved for a jury.
“Some wind that must have been,” the sergeant said. “It blew this frond about a block.”
“What do you mean?”
“You picked the wrong frond, fella. This one came from an entirely different kind of palm tree — and the nearest one is a block away from where you claimed this fell. Believe me, I know — plants are my hobby. As I said, your physics can’t be proved wrong, but your botany is lousy.”
“But how—?” Wilbur gulped. Then he closed his mouth and felt sick. Those damned kids, of course. Playing with the fallen fronds; carrying them from one street to another. How the hell could he tell the difference, and in the dark? One branch from a palm looked just like the next. Yet, obviously they weren’t really the same. And he had to draw a cookie cop with a thing for botany — what a lousy break.
The sergeant must have read some of these reflections on Wilbur’s face, for he said with a cold smile: “Not a big difference, but quite definite to the trained eye. Botanically, that is. Otherwise, the difference is greater — about one third of a million, I understand.”