“Mom, this is ridiculous,” I broke in. “Are you saying that little Kenneth talked his Uncle Nelson into believing that he was a gangster, that a five-year-old kid scared a grown man into jumping off the roof?”
“Certainly I’m not saying this!” Mom drew herself up with dignity. “All I’m saying is — little children are so small and ignorant, they’ve got such a trust in people, such a willingness to believe anything you tell them, they’re like little delicate china knickknacks that you keep on the hall table. They’re so weak, and the rest of the world is so big and strong and clumsy, and cruel sometimes, that there’s practically a million ways to break them into a million pieces.”
“I still don’t get it—”
“What I’m saying is this, Davie. If you wanted to get rid of a five-years-old boy, if he was in your way or you didn’t like him, you wouldn’t have to kill him and take the chance you’ll get arrested for murder. You could be much smarter. You could work on him a little, tell him things, frighten him and confuse him, and eventually get him to do some crazy thing so he’d have an accident and get killed.”
This statement stunned me. I didn’t know how to take it. I felt there was a glimmer of meaning in Mom’s words, but I couldn’t quite see it.
“I’m talking, Davie,” Mom said, “about all that stealing which little Kenny did. Nowadays there’s so much talk from psychiatry, everybody you meet thinks he’s another Dr. Sigmund Freed. Somebody does something we don’t understand, so right away we say, ‘Ha, ha! It’s psychiatrical! It’s a Papa fixation! It’s an infra-red complex!’ But sometimes, Davie, things have got a simple, obvious explanation — if you only take a little trouble and look at them.
“This last week, before his Uncle Nelson gets killed, little Kenny spends all his time stealing his Papa’s things. So naturally you come to the conclusion, he wants to take his Papa’s place and get rid of his uncle. But one thing you’re forgetting — little Kenny didn’t just steal his Papa’s things, he stole only certain particular things. When he tore open the box in the closet for his Papa’s Opera cape, he didn’t touch his Papa’s books or papers. When he went through the storeroom for his Papa’s uniforms, he didn’t bother about his Papa’s civilian suits. When he opened up his Mama’s jewel case, he didn’t take away his Papa’s cufflinks, he only took his Papa’s medal. So isn’t this interesting that he only takes a certain type thing belonging to his Papa? His Papa’s uniform, his Papa’s insignia, his Papa’s medal — he only takes things which are connected with his Papa’s work as an Air Force pilot.”
“Yes, that’s true, Mom. But what does it prove? Besides,” I added suddenly, “he took the opera cape! What does the opera cape have to do with the Air Force?”
“The opera cape is the whole answer, Davie. A little boy is interested in stealing everything that his Papa used in the Air Force — but he also steals his Papa’s opera cape. He steals it once, twice, three times. Such anxiousness to get hold of this opera cape! What’s it so important for? A little idea comes into my head, and I ask you the question; what books does he read? The answer is like I expected. Comic books — but which comic books? Cowboy books? Detective books? Pirate treasure books? No. This little Kenny, he’s interested in other subjects. Space traveling, Superman, Batman. And Superman and Batman, when they go flying through the air, what is it that they’re always wearing, streaming away behind them, puffing out from the wind?”
“A big long flowing cape!” I cried — and the light dawned.
“What else? So it isn’t such a mixed-up kasha any more, is it? It’s as clear as a consommé now. A common, normal, boyish thing was going on in little Kenny’s head, a thing which-lots of little boys go through, a thing which causes plenty little accidents and some big ones every year. Little Kenny got it into his head that he was going to fly!”
“Of course,” I said, almost with a groan. “I should’ve seen it all along. I remember, one summer when I was six, three of us climbed a tree in Uncle Dan’s backyard — But we lost our nerve at the last minute.”
“This I never heard before,” Mom said, giving me a sharp look. Then she shrugged. “And such a natural thing for little Kenny. His Papa used to be an Air Force pilot. Flying was a regular topic of conversation in his house. And his Papa was a hero to him. And he’s a boy who don’t have many friends. A strong active boy, but too small to play with the other boys in the neighborhood. They laugh at him maybe. They tell him to go away, he’s a midget, what good could he be on the team? It’s a terrible torture to him. What else does he want in this world except a chance to show them how wrong they are, to do something absolutely wonderful even though he is small, so that from then on they’ll be happy to have him on the team?
“Yesterday morning was the big moment, like you say. He was looking determined when he went up to the roof — not because he was going to kill somebody, but because he was finally going to put on his long cape, and maybe also part of his Papa’s uniform and his Papa’s insignia, and fly off from the roof. This was why he wouldn’t eat breakfast or drink any water. Because he wanted to be as light as he could—”
“I get it, Mom. And then, just as he was about to climb up on the ledge, his Uncle Nelson realized what was happening. He tried to stop the kid. He rushed at him. Kenneth sidestepped. Nelson lost his balance and fell off the roof instead.”
“Almost,” Mom said. “Not exactly. You forgot the most important detail. A little boy gets a crazy idea in his head. ‘I can fly,’ he says. ‘I’ll go up to the roof and try it.’ But little Kenny didn’t get this idea all of a sudden. He got it over a week ago. He stole his Papa’s uniform because he knew his Papa could never fly without it, and he wanted its mysterious power to come to him. He stole Papa’s medal and slept with it under his pillow, the way little children sleep on a tooth — so he could have his wish to fly in the air like Papa. He stole Papa’s long opera cape for his wings. So clever, so psychiatrical — to me this means only one thing. Little Kenny didn’t get the idea all by himself.
“Oh, yes, he was ready for the idea. This I admit. He was lonely, he was full of imagination, his big hero was his Papa the Air Force pilot. You and the Homicide Squad was closer than you thought, Davie, when you said that the whole case depended on the little boy’s feelings for his Papa. What you didn’t see was that somebody had to work on these feelings. Stealing the uniforms, using the opera cape, sleeping on the medal — these are schemes which would appeal to a little boy, but which a five-years-old boy wouldn’t be able to think up himself. Somebody else—”
“But who is this somebody, Mom? Agnes Fisher herself? I can’t believe it. Such a pretty scatterbrained woman — and she really loves her son. One of the servants maybe? How about the cook, the one who suddenly quit a few days before the accident?”
Mom gave a snort. “Foolishness. A cook who ups and leaves, nowadays it’s a common occurrence. It would be a miracle if the cook didn’t up and leave. The answer isn’t so complicated, Davie. Look at it this way. The big day is here. Little Kenny is going to fly. He’s nervous. He eats no breakfast. He goes up to the roof like a criminal going to the electrical chair. Two hours he’s up there, but he can’t bring himself to get started. The person who’s put this idea in his head, he don’t dare go away until he’s sure little Kenny is really going to jump. So finally he says to the boy, ‘It’s very simple. Here, I’ll show you exactly how you begin. I’ll climb up on the ledge. I’ll flap my arms like a bird. I’ll do everything except fly — which I couldn’t do, because I’m too big and heavy—’ ”