For the first time, Mr. Tennant showed signs of nervousness. He seemed embarrassed. He leaned back against the wall, so that his face was in shadow, and said: “This is going to be difficult, but I’ll try to get it over with. To make matters worse, I’m talking about a cousin and I have little to go on but logic and suspicion.”
“And a long-barrelled .38. Let’s hear it.”
“I’ll try to put it briefly. There’s a man in town named Cushman Mapes—”
“Not T. J. Mapes, the well-known auctioneer and baby photographer?”
“No, indeed. Colonel Jimmy is his brother. They’re as different as day and night. Jimmy scrapes along the best he can in that remodeled little cabin out by the trestle, and Cushman resides in that elaborate brick-and-stucco mansion just out of town on Oak Hill. Colonel Jimmy likes people, Cushman doesn’t. Cushman is middle-aged, not wealthy but fairly prosperous. He’s considered extremely rich, however, by local standards. No one seemed to wonder about his money, no one but me. Then I got to thinking about his peculiar housekeeper trouble.”
“Housekeeper trouble? You mean he can’t get housekeepers?”
“I mean he gets them, in a rather strange way, but can’t hold on to them. They come from out of town, stay a few days at the most, and then leave. No one knows where they come from, no one sees them depart. They all appear to be fairly prosperous in their own right. The first came six years ago, stayed three days. The second showed up three years later; she stayed thirty-six hours. Just recently he’s taken on a third, a local widow with a small income. That’s why I called you.”
“You mean Cousin Cushman is murdering and robbing his servants? That’s a new one!”
“Not so new at that. And perhaps they weren’t his housekeepers. Perhaps, actually, they were his wives!”
McGavock was thunderstruck.
“Poisoners are creepy people to have in the same town with you,” Tennant said quietly. He fumbled around, produced a small brown book, weather-stained and old. “Harper and Brothers, 82 Cliff Street, 1846,” he read. “Narratives of Remarkable Criminal Trials.” He turned the crisp pages with the affection of a bibliophile. “Let me read you about a poisoner. Anna Maria Zwanziger... Mixing and giving poison became her constant occupation, she practiced it in jest and earnest... with a real passion for the poison itself, without reference to the object for which it was given... She grew to love it... That’s what happens when a poisoner gets started. She had a rather impressive score, — too. Sixteen known victims.”
“You mean your Cousin Cushman is a male Zwanziger?”
“I don’t know. Even Landru had to start in a small way, no doubt. Before it was over, he’d attracted two hundred and eighty-three women, by official count. Guillotined February 25, 1922.”
“Is that so?” McGavock asked with interest. “I mean about the number of dames, not the guillotine-ending—?” He got to his feet. “Well, I’ll take a look around tomorrow, and see what’s what. And don’t talk this over with anyone. From here on in, give me an even break.”
Outside, in the starlight, McGavock cleared his throat. “Watch yourself. And don’t go down any dark alleys.”
“I won’t,” Mr. Tennant replied amiably. “Goodnight.”
The courthouse, in a grove of sparse magnolias in courtsquare, was of yellow brick, cheap and garish and harsh in the glare of the lonesome arclight; a frugal building, in a shabby town, in an impoverished county. A single light shone from a window at the rear of the ground floor. McGavock mounted the pink cement steps, his hand on the gaspipe railing, and strode down the echoing hall. The smell of sweat emanated from the plaster walls, the smell of whiskey and cut-rate cigars. He opened a door marked OFFICE OF THE SHERIFF, Ogden F. Finney, and entered.
The walls were immaculate in new yellow paint and the brown linoleum was scrubbed and gleaming. There was a new filing cabinet in the corner and a row of kitchen chairs just inside the door, by the window. A young man sat behind the desk taking apart and assembling a doorlock, instructing himself. He was tow-headed and slender, dressed in a quiet tropic weight gray suit, and his eyes, as he lifted them to McGavock’s entry, were penetrating and thoughtful. McGavock with disbelief in his voice, asked: “Sheriff Finney?”
The slender young man nodded. McGavock introduced himself and pulled up a chair. He laid out his credentials. Sheriff Finney glanced at them, went back to his tumblers and bolts. McGavock said: “Sheriff Finney, about an hour ago a man who I’ve since identified as one Railroad Brantner lured me into an alley and took four shots at me. I’d never seen him before but he tried to give me the works.”
Sheriff Finney laid down a tiny screwdriver. He laid it down very thoughtfully, very carefully. His pale eyes met McGavock’s. He said: “Thank you, sir. I’ll take care of it.” The way he said it froze the blood in McGavock’s veins.
After a moment, Sheriff Finney explained. “My father, the sheriff, died in office. I’ve been appointed to fill his unexpired term. I’m trying to do the job the way he’d like it done.” He smiled mildly. “I’m trying to discourage law-breaking.”
McGavock gave him a long, hard stare. He said respectfully: “Well, son, you’d discourage me, if I was a law-breaker.” He paused, asked: “Will you trust me, Sheriff?”
“Yes.” He said it quietly, carelessly, without reservation. Sheriff Finney formed steel-spring judgments.
Painstakingly, and in detail, McGavock brought him up to date on the case. Sheriff Finney made no comment, he seemed hardly to listen. At last, McGavock asked: “What do you know about this Cushman Mapes?”
“Not too much.” Sheriff Finney frowned slightly. “Ever since I was a kid I’ve known him as a man who stayed pretty close to home. I don’t imagine he’d ever had any publicity at all if it hadn’t been for that picture.”
“Publicity? What picture?”
“About six years or so ago he went to Nashville and had a portrait of himself painted by a retired art teacher. It cost him seventy-five dollars, I hear. He’s always fancied himself as an old-style Southern gentleman, and told the painter just how he wanted it done. It was fixed up to suit him, linen suit and shoestring tie and all, standing before an imaginary white-pillared old-style mansion, feeding a racehorse. All made up out of his head. The painting itself was godawful and childish but some newspaper caught scent of it and published a reproduction of it. Called it an American primitive. Then other papers bagan to carry it—”
“And then he got letters from women? Letters of proposal?”
“Possibly. There’s no way now of our ever finding out.”
McGavock arose and picked up his hat. “There’s something pretty devilish going on in this sleepy little town, Sheriff. Will you do me a favor?”
“Yes, Luther.” Sheriff Finney nodded almost imperceptibly. “Anything in reason, of course.”
“First, keep this under your hat. Second, pick up Railroad Brantner. Right now.”
“I intend to, Luther.”
“Wait a minute. I want it done a certain way. Pick him up with yourself and at least two deputies. Search him. You’ll find a long-barrelled .38 on him. Pass it around among you, so each of you boys has a look at it, and then hand it back to him—”
“Hand it back?”
“That’s right. Hand it back and say, ‘There you are, Railroad, you’re armed. If anything happens to you, it’s all fair and square. You’re armed.’ Then laugh and walk away.”
At the door, McGavock said: “Goodnight, Ogden.”
Sheriff Finney said: “Ogden was my father. I’m Ira.” He smiled. “Goodnight, Luther.”