A rifle shot, fired from the hillside, and all things considered it was damn good shooting. He figured it unlikely that the marksman would follow it up in person, yet he played it safe.
He’d waited possibly six minutes when he heard footsteps on the flagstone walk outside, and on the porch, and the door opened.
Littleton Tennant’s scrawny form stood in the doorway, with the oblong of the pale blue night behind him. His hands were empty and he peered into the dark interior.
In a surprisingly powerful voice, Tennant called out: “Anybody here? Anybody hurt?”
“Come in,” McGavock spat. “And close the door. What in the hell are you doing here?” He got to his feet. “You live across town.”
Not across town, Tennant explained, but yonder, just over the fields. He’d been on his way to his appointment at Cushman’s when he’d seen a rifle flash in a clump of holly on the hillside, and had heard a window or something break. “I thought Mrs. Kirkland had dropped in for a moment, and someone had shot her.”
He paused. “And now I’ll ask you a question. What are you doing here?” He closed the door.
McGavock flicked on his flash once more, shielded it with his handkerchief. He didn’t answer. He said: “Let’s get this over with,” and went into the bedroom.
Client Tennant followed.
There were but two rooms in the cottage and Mrs. Kirkland’s bedroom was scarcely eight feet square. In all his life, McGavock had never seen such jumble and clutter. Most of the space was taken up by a huge old walnut four-poster bed and around its sides were chairs, a claw-and-ball table, a dresser, and a cumbersome oak wardrobe. Crayon enlargements, in gilt oval frames, of Mrs. Kirkland’s ancestors hung from the pine walls and pin cushions and doilies and antimacassars littered every square inch of space.
Tennant said: “I think I know now why the late Mr. Kirkland folded up his tent, and passed on. He felt crowded.”
Wordlessly, McGavock began a search. He examined multiple drawers, looked under the mattress, under doilies and antimacassars. At last he found them, Mrs. Kirkland’s private papers. He knew she must have some; she was the kind of careful old gal that stuck things away. They were in the false bottom of a mohair footstool, the deed to the cottage, a small insurance policy on Mrs. Kirkland’s life, a recipe for goosegrease ointment, and a flat manila envelope.
McGavock opened the envelope. “Well,” McGavock said with a grin. “A dossier on good old Cushman.” Tied with a red ribbon were a half dozen mildly amorous letters signed by Cushman, a clipping of the news item showing the Cushman portrait and giving a flowery picture of Mr. Cushman Mapes’ luxurious background, and a brief note dated six years previously, Nashville postmarked. The letter said simply, Dear Mrs. Kirkland: Everything is going remarkably well here. I’ve cashed in the bonds and should be home soon. I see no reason why James should be given any intimation that I have temporarily on hand a fairly generous fund of cash. In closing, I would like to say again, as I’ve indicated before, that my deep esteem for you, Mrs. Kirkland, at times borders very nearly on marital affection. Very truly yours, Cushman Mapes.
On the back of the sheet was a row of pencilled notes, in what McGavock took to be Mrs. Kirkland’s own handwriting:
Will be married in Chattanooga (I hope) Honeymoon trip to Mammoth Cave (1 day) then to Cincinnati (2 days) Cleveland (2 days) back home by way of Paducah. Arrive home two weeks later.
Little Tennant said quietly: “She’s been planning on marrying Cousin Cushman herself. For at least six years. I’d never have guessed it!”
McGavock returned the papers to the footstool and looked at his watch. “They’re waiting for us. In the big house, on the hill.”
They were indeed. The atmosphere was predatory and hushed, engulfing McGavock and his client, as they followed Mrs. Kirkland into Cushman Mapes’ great, dank parlor. Three kerosene lamps were going tonight and in the harsh glare the streaked, drab walls seemed shabbier than ever, and the gilt-and-plush chairs more funereal. Cushman Mapes, his little white goatee outthrust, his eyes sparkling hostilely, sat with Mrs. Jimmy Mapes, his sister-in-law, beneath his portrait on the mildewed loveseat. Colonel Jimmy, himself, stood talking, spluttering, to Sheriff Ira Finney. McGavock had rather expected the auctioneer and his pretty young wife to be on hand. Sheriff Ira said docilely: “Let’s finish this up, and get out, Luther. I don’t think we’re much welcome here.”
Littleton Tennant nodded pleasantly to his relatives, but they ignored him pointedly.
There was a long, tense moment of silence. Finally McGavock spoke. He said: “You bet we’ll finish this in a hurry, Sheriff. Arrest Cushman Mapes for murder.”
Mrs. Kirkland gasped. “Not Cushman! You’re making a terrible mistake!”
“And Mrs. Kirkland, too,” McGavock continued. “This was a partnership in murder, Sheriff Ira.”
Colonel Jimmy and his wife boggled. Client Tennant said ponderously: “History affords some extremely interesting joint crimes. One Joseph Antonini and his wife, early in the last century, murdered an English girl named Blankenfield in an inn near Augsburg. When the victim screamed a young brother-in-law named Carl covered up by running through the halls yelling that his father was beating him! I recall, too, another case where—”
But no one was paying any attention to him.
Colonel Jimmy Mapes finally regained his power of speech. “Explain yourself Mr. McGavock.”
“I intend to.” McGavock’s face was bleak and pale. “Three times since I’ve hit town Brother Cushman has tried to kill me, too, and I’d like to express myself. First, I want to say that of all the cases I’ve ever worked on, this turns out to be one of the meanest and most vicious.”
Sheriff Ira said: “So he and Mrs. Kirkland worked together, and killed the two housekeepers? Where are their bodies, Luther?”
“There weren’t any housekeepers, Sheriff Ira.” McGavock spoke slowly, softly. “That was the trick.”
Colonel Jimmy Mapes looked bewildered. “I don’t understand.”
“Of course you don’t. You weren’t supposed to understand.” McGavock grinned mirthlessly. “They killed Marie Dubois, and robbed her.”
Sheriff Ira blinked. “Who?”
“Marie Dubois. The old gal who painted his picture.” McGavock took down the portrait, examined it. Last night it had been signed in neat black letters: M. Dubois. Now the signature had been painted out with fresh green paint which almost, but not quite, matched the color of the grass in the foreground.
Mrs. Kirkland’s wrinkled face contorted in fear. “There ain’t a word o’ truth in it!”
He took a yellow paper from his pocket. “Here’s the answer to a wire I sent to Nashville. The spectacles you describe are similar to a pair made here for Miss Marie Dubois. Miss Dubois packed up life savings in cash and bonds six years ago and vanished.”
Sheriff Ira smiled. McGavock said: “We found her googs at Francy Scoggins’ cabin. I knew them as soon as I saw them. They make a special kind of bifocals for artists. A big lens for close-up work, for the painting, and a little distance lens set in like a little window, to see the model through. All we need to do now is to check on the prescription.”
Cushman Mapes said weakly: “I deny it, every bit of it!”
“I don’t know how you ran on to her, but when you did, you realized you had a good thing. An old gal, retired, who was a perfect setup for your dignified blandishments. I’ll bet Mrs. Kirkland helped you work out the details. By the way, Mrs. Kirkland is a widow. The death of her husband might be worth a bit of investigation, Sheriff. Well, you married her—”