“What kind of car was it, Mr. Peterson?”
“Foreign job. A Jaguar.”
“I see.” Jessie’s heart was beating faster.
“Like the one run by Mr. Humffrey’s nephew — what’s-his-name — Mr. Frost. Matter of fact,” the guard said, “I thought it was Frost. He’d been off and on the Island all weekend.”
“Oh, then you’re not sure.”
The guard said uncomfortably, “I can’t swear to it.”
“Well.” Jessie smiled at him. “Don’t you worry about it, Mr. Peterson. I’m sure you do your job as well as anyone could expect.”
“You can say that again!”
“Good night.”
“Good night, Miss Sherwood,” Peterson said warmly.
He went back into the gatehouse, and Jessie began to retrace her steps, frowning.
“Nice going,” a man’s voice said.
Jessie’s heart flopped. But then she saw who it was.
“Mr. Queen,” she cried. “What are you doing here?”
He was in the roadway before her, spare and neat in a Palm Beach suit, looking amused.
“Same thing you are, only I beat you to it. Playing detective, Miss Sherwood?” He chuckled and took her arm. “Suppose I walk you back.”
Jessie nodded a little stiffly, and they began to stroll along beside high fieldstone walls clothed in ivy and rambler roses, with the moon like a cheddar cheese overhead and the salty sweet air in their nostrils. How long is it, she wondered, since I last took a moonlight stroll with a man holding my arm? The last one had been Clem, on leave before shipping out...
The old man said suddenly, “Did you suspect Ron Frost all along?”
“Why are you so interested?” Jessie murmured.
“Let’s say I don’t like cases involving nursery windows.” He sounded gruff. “And if I can lend a hand to Abe Pearl...”
Some tireless patriot out at sea sent up a Roman candle. They stopped to watch the burst and drip of fireballs. For a few seconds the Island brightened. Then the darkness closed in again.
She felt his restless movement. It was like a dash of cold sea.
“I’d better be getting back,” Jessie said matter-of-factly, and they walked on. “About your question, Mr. Queen. I suppose I shouldn’t be saying this while I’m taking the Humffreys’ money, but I like threats to babies even less than you do. Ronald Frost quarreled with Mr. Humffrey over Michael yesterday.” And she told him what she had overheard from the nursery.
“So Frost expected to be his uncle’s heir, and now he figures the baby’s queered his act,” Richard Queen said thoughtfully. “And Frost was tanked up when he left, you say?”
“Well, he’d had quite a bit to drink.”
“He was nursing a beaut of a hangover this morning, and there was an empty bourbon bottle on his bureau. So he must have worked himself up to a real charge by late last night. Could be...”
“You saw him?” Jessie exclaimed.
“I dropped over to his place in Old Greenwich. Sort of as a favor to Abe Pearl.”
“What did Frost say? Tell me!”
“He said he came straight home last night and went to bed. He lives alone, so no one saw him. In other words, no alibi.”
“But did he actually deny having driven back here?”
“Would you expect him to admit it?” She knew he was smiling in the darkness. “Anyway, he’s had a good scare — I’ll guarantee that. If Frost was the man who tried to climb in through that window, I don’t think he’ll try it again.”
“But what could he have been thinking of?” Jessie shivered.
“Drunks don’t make much sense.”
“You think... ransom? He told Mr. Humffrey he was badly in debt.”
“I don’t think anything,” the Inspector said. “Whoever it was wore gloves — there wasn’t an unaccounted-for print anywhere in the nursery or shed, and smudges were evident on the ladder. We have nothing on Frost but a questionable identification by Peterson. Even if we had, I doubt if Mr. Humffrey would press a charge, from the way he talked to Abe Pearl on the phone today. The best thing for you to do is forget last night ever happened, young lady.”
“Thank you.” Jessie felt herself dimpling, and it made her add tartly, “Young lady!”
He seemed surprised. “But you are young. Some people never age. My mother was one of them. You’re very much like her—” He stopped. Then he said, “This is it, isn’t it? It’s so blasted dark—”
“Yes.” Jessie hoped fiercely that the guard from the Bridgeport detective agency would have the decency to remain behind his bush and keep his finger off the flashlight button. “You were saying, Mr. Queen?”
“It wasn’t anything.”
There was a silence.
“Well,” Jessie said. “I must say you’ve relieved my mind, Inspector. And thanks for walking me back.”
“It was my pleasure.” But from the way he said it, it sounded more like a sadness. “Well, good night, Miss Sherwood.”
“Good night,” Jessie said emptily.
She was standing there in the dark, listening to his footfalls retreat and wondering if she would ever see him again, when the light suddenly blinded her.
“Who was that with you, Miss Sherwood?” the private detective said.
“Oh, go away, you — you beagle!” Nurse Sherwood said, and she ran up the driveway as if someone were after her.
So that seemed the end of a promising friendship. The weeks went by, and although during little Michael’s nap times on the Humffrey beach Jessie kept glancing up at passing small craft, or on her Thursdays off found herself scanning the crowds on Front Street or the Taugus public beach, she did not catch even a glimpse of that wiry figure again.
What children men are! she thought angrily.
If not for the baby, she would have given notice and quit Nair Island. She was desperately lonely. But little Michael needed her, she kept telling herself, trying not to feel the old jealous twinge when Mrs. Humffrey took him from her arms and exercised her proprietary rights.
Sometimes Jessie thought she ought to leave for the baby’s sake, before he became too attached to her. But she kept putting it off. In the gloom that had suddenly set in, he was the only sunny thing. Besides, she told herself, there was always that disturbing incident of the night of July 4th. Suppose the attempt should be repeated and she weren’t there to protect him?
So the weeks passed, and July drew to a close, and nothing happened. On the 31st, almost four weeks to the day from the date of the nursery incident, Alton Humffrey dismissed the three private detectives.
The following Thursday morning Jessie bathed and dressed the baby, fed him his gruel and bottle, and turned him over to Sarah Humffrey.
“You’re sure you’re up to it?” Jessie asked her anxiously. Mrs. Humffrey was sniffling with a slight summer cold. “I’ll gladly forgo my day off. I can make it up some other time.”
“Oh, no.” Mrs. Humffrey peered at Michael through her white mask. Jessie privately wished she wouldn’t insist on wearing a mask at the least provocation; the baby didn’t like it. Besides, Jessie held the unprofessional view that the more an infant was shielded from common germ and virus infections in his early months, when he still had certain immunities, the more susceptible he became later. But Mrs. Humffrey went by the book, or rather by the books; she had a shelf full of them over her bed. “It’s not the least bit necessary, Miss Sherwood. It’s just a little head cold. We’ll be fine without Nursey, love, won’t we?”
“Maybe I’d better plan on coming back tonight, though,” Jessie said, setting herself for squalls. Michael was staring up at the white mask with apprehension, and his little mouth was beginning to droop at the corners.
“I won’t hear of it.” Mrs. Humffrey took this moment to tickle his abdomen. “Kitchy-kitchy! Come on, darling, laugh.”