“Indication? I don’t see any proof. There’s plenty of indication, but you already know that. The argument at the party, the amount of alcohol they’d drunk, all the rest of it.”
“But no proof.” Now it was Bray’s turn to wander the room, glowering at this and that. “There’s something here,” he said. “I know it, but I just can’t get hold of it.”
“I’m sorry I can’t help,” I told him. “I hate to spoil a perfect batting average.”
“You’re not spoiling it,” Staples assured me. Now that he was being vindicated his manner was bluff and hearty. “If there’s nothing here, and you find nothing, then you’re still batting a thousand.”
“Oh, no,” I said. “I’m not saying Sergeant Bray is wrong. I do know what he means, that there’s a certain something about all this that doesn’t feel just right. But I don’t know what it is any more than he does.”
That mollified Bray, without spoiling Staples’ pleasure, and soon afterwards they sent me off again to be driven home. Staples’ farewell to me was, “See you at three.”
“What? Oh, Gaslight.” That had entirely slipped my mind. “You and your wife at three. Absolutely.”
Bray being present for this exchange, it became necessary to widen the invitation to include him, and he thanked me and said he’d try to make it. But his mind was still on the death of Margo Templeton, and his vague conviction that something was wrong.
Well, he would find it or he wouldn’t. I’d done what I could for my fraternity brother.
Good luck, George.
Six
The Chainlock Mystery
I was rewriting my questions to match Big John Brant’s answers when Staples called again. “It looks like I’m going to be late,” he said. “We’ve had a new development.”
Poor George. “In the Templeton case?”
Not poor George. “No, as a matter of fact, it’s in the Laura Penney case.”
Why did my heart flutter? I was the one in the clear.
“A new development? That’s wonderful.”
“We’re not sure yet,” Staples told me. “It’s an anonymous letter with a tip in it.”
Edgarson! That son of a bitch, that rotten filthy bastard! Clutching the phone so tightly that my fingers hurt, I said, “A tip? What kind of tip?”
“It’s all very vague and roundabout. But it isn’t just some crank who read about it in the papers, because it’s got details in it that only an insider would know.” Then he dropped the other shoe: “Do you know any friend of Mrs. Penney’s with connections in Boston?”
“Boston? You mean, besides me?”
Staples said, “You? I thought you were a native New Yorker.”
“No, I’m a Boston boy.”
“Well, it can’t be you. Can you think of anybody else?”
“I’ll put my mind to it,” I promised.
“Fine. Anyway, the reason I called, I might be a little late for the movie. Patricia’s coming direct to your place and I’ll meet her there. If that’s okay with you.”
“Of course. No problem.”
“Fine. See you then.”
I was in the kitchenette, putting together a quick lunch prior to the screening, when it seemed to me I heard some scratching sounds at the front door. Stepping out to the living room, a piece of baloney in my hand, I saw the door partway open and a hand reaching through to poke at the chainlock.
“Hah!” I cried. “Hah, you son of a bitch, you won’t get in now!”
The hand withdrew and the door closed. He’d given up, the bastard.
Wait a minute. Was there something on the chainlock? Squinting, trying to see, I moved toward the door as the man on the other side gave it a sudden loud thump. The door shook, and the chainlock ball fell out of its slot. The chain swung free, and the door opened wide, and Edgarson came walking into my apartment.
“Yak!” I ran back to the kitchenette, exchanged the slice of baloney for my longest and sharpest knife — which was neither particularly long nor particularly sharp — and then I crouched in the doorway, snarling and at bay. “Don’t come any closer!”
Edgarson gave me a pitying smile. “Do you want to see how I’d take that knife away from you?”
“I’m serious about this,” I said.
So he came over and took the knife away and tossed it into the sink and released my arm. “Now we can talk,” he said.
I headed toward the door, but he didn’t follow. Instead, he stood in the kitchenette doorway and called after me, “It’s mighty cold out there.”
And I in my shirtsleeves. Hand on the doorknob, I looked back at him and saw he wasn’t behaving in a threatening manner. He was simply standing there by the kitchenette, watching me, waiting for me to settle down. Also, he hadn’t been more physical than necessary in disarming me of the knife. Hesitant, not sure what I should do next, I said, “What do you want, Edgarson?”
“You know what I want.”
“I have friends coming here pretty soon,” I told him. “Including two policemen.”
“I’ve noticed that about you, Mr. Thorpe,” he said, and crossed the room casually to sit on my sofa. “You’ve gotten real chummy with those two officers.”
“They told me about that anonymous letter you wrote.”
That produced a happy smile. “Oh, you know about that already, do you? I was going to mention it.”
Releasing the doorknob, I moved back into the living room, saying, “This isn’t fair, you know. It really isn’t fair.”
He spread his hands. “What isn’t fair, Mr. Thorpe? You owe me ten thousand dollars. You’ll pay me before twelve o’clock noon tomorrow.”
“I don’t owe you! The evidence is destroyed, you don’t have anything on me any more.”
“Oh, that little razzle-dazzle you pulled, about what story you’d tell.” He shook his head, his smile turning down at the corners. “Well, that’s in the past now, isn’t it, Mr. Thorpe? You’ve already told your story, haven’t you? And you can’t change your story any more than I can change mine.”
“So it’s a stalemate,” I said.
“Not quite.” His smile became happier again. “There’s still one difference between us,” he said. “I didn’t kill Mrs. Laura Penney, but you did. And I know you did.”
“But you can’t do anything about it. You just admitted as much, you can’t change your story.”
“That’s right, Mr. Thorpe. About the only way I can be a good citizen now is anonymously.”
“You can’t prove anything.”
“Well, sir, Mr. Thorpe, what proof do I have to have to write an anonymous letter? All I need do is attract their attention, wouldn’t you say so? And leave the rest to them?”
“You already did that.”
“Oh, that one.” Modestly he smiled and shook his head. “I could do a lot better than that, Mr. Thorpe.”
“Is that right? What could you say? How is an anonymous letter going to—”
The phone rang. I glanced over at it, annoyed, and then finished my sentence as I crossed the room to answer it. “—be more persuasive than I am? I know them now, they’re my friends. Hello?”
Staples: “Fred again, Carey. Listen, this is taking a while, I’m definitely going to be late.”
Glowering at Edgarson, I said, “I’m sorry to hear that, Fred.”
“Patricia’s on her way, though. And I’ll get there just as soon as I can.”
“We won’t start without you,” I promised.
“You know,” he said, “it’s amazing how many people don’t really come from New York.”
“Is that right?”
“Tell you all about it when I see you.”