At any rate, he and Larry Temple had come here direct from the Lowndes estate, both in the patrol car, leaving Sondgard’s Volvo back by the gate where the murder had taken place. Sondgard had seen the mess on the kitchen table, had questioned Mel Daniels and Mary Ann, got both their stories, and then had them rouse everybody else out of bed. They were all given time to wash and dress, and then they were assembled in the rehearsal room. They all knew about what was on the kitchen table, but none of them — except the killer — knew about the murder of Eddie Cranshaw.
Sondgard had made them wait in the rehearsal room, while he sat gazing gloomily at the kitchen table, not so much as a bit of tactical psychology but because he hadn’t been sure exactly what he would say to them or what he would ask of them. But now that they were in front of him, half-ideas and embryonic schemes were suddenly filling his head.
But one thing at a time. He began by saying, “You all know what’s happened. Someone last night smeared jam on the kitchen table and then wrote, ‘Bobby did it,’ in the mess he’d made. We can only assume that what was meant was that somebody named Bobby is the one who killed Cissie Walker. We’re also assuming that the same person was the one who left us that message. Are we wrong about that? Did the same person kill Cissie Walker and then leave us that message? Or is there someone here who knows who the killer is, or thinks he has evidence to prove who the killer is, and who left us that message because he or she is afraid to make an open accusation? If so, if whoever you are who left that message you are not the same person who killed Cissie Walker, you haven’t helped us. In fact, you’ve only served to confuse us. So I’ll ask you to come forward and straighten out the confusion. And if you’d rather not get up in front of everybody, I’ll be around here the rest of the day and you can come to me at any time.”
Only silence answered him, and an uneasy rustling and shuffling of feet. Sondgard took a deep breath, and went on to step number two. “In the meantime,” he said, “we’ve decided it’s necessary to make a thorough search of this house. That means, of course, a search of your rooms as well, and your possessions. If necessary, I can go to a judge and get a search warrant, but that would take time I’d rather not spend. I’d like your permission instead. Does anyone object to his room and possessions being searched? I promise you nothing will be disarranged, and certainly nothing will be stolen.”
Again, only silence.
“Then I have your permission, is that right? No one objects?”
Faces were turning, they were looking at one another, waiting to see if anyone would object, because who would object other than the killer? But no one spoke.
“All right,” said Sondgard. “Now, there’s one more point.” He hesitated, because what he was planning now was dangerous, could backfire badly if it didn’t work. And he hadn’t had time to think it out beforehand, since it hadn’t occurred to him until he was standing right here in front of these people.
Well, it was sink or swim.
“There’s one more point,” he said again. “We have what we believe is one good fingerprint. It’s a right-thumb print, and we got it from the cake of soap the killer used when he wrote, ‘I’m sorry,’ on the mirror. We’ve photographed the print and sent it down to the state capital for enlargement and copying. At the time, we still couldn’t be sure whether Cissie Walker’s killer was someone living in this house or not, so we asked that the thumb print simply be run through the normal check in the FBI files in Washington. But now, because of what happened last night, there’s no longer any doubt. So I’ve called the state police at the capital, and I’ve asked their assistance. They will be here at three o’clock this afternoon, with equipment and personnel to take the fingerprints of everyone living in this house. All we’ll have to do after that is match our thumb print against the prints we take this afternoon. I believe, therefore, that I can assure you that this whole business will be over by this afternoon, but between now and then none of you are to leave this building without my express permission.”
He paused, thinking over what he’d said, and preparing what he was to say next. The obvious flaw in his little lie was the fact that he intended to search the house. If they had such a great clue, and it was going to give them the killer at three o’clock this afternoon anyway, why bother to make the search? It was a question that might occur to the killer, and it had to be answered now. Also, in case this didn’t work out, it would be nice if Sondgard had left himself an out. So he proceeded to kill two birds with one stone:
“I told you that I believe this whole business will be finished this afternoon. But we can’t as yet be sure. I don’t know if any of you know much about fingerprints and their detection, but they are far less useful and far less frequent than detective stories might lead you to believe. The killer, as a matter of fact, left prints all over Cissie Walker’s room, but they were all smeared and smudged and useless, all except this one print on the cake of soap. Now, that looks like a good print to the naked eye. And it looks like a good print in a small negative. And it looks like a good print in a contact print from that negative. But we won’t really be able to tell if it’s a good print or not until we get the answer from downstate, until after the enlargement has been made. I would say right now that the chances are ninety-ten that it is a good print, and that we won’t need any more. But there is, I must admit, that one chance in ten that it won’t be a good print. Just in case, I intend to go ahead as though we had no print at all. We are dealing with a madman, and I don’t want to waste time, I don’t want to sit around an entire day waiting for one clue, if there’s even the remotest chance that the clue won’t turn out as good as we’d expected.”
Again he paused, and again he looked over what he had said. It sounded good to him, and he was a little surprised at his ability to lie extemporaneously. Maybe he’d chosen the wrong professions, maybe he should have been a lawyer. Or a politician; he could do television debates with the best of them.
He was pleased with his lie. It had a fullness to it. It was so full with details and facts, so ringed around with secondary truths, that he couldn’t see how anyone could challenge the primary lie.
It should work.
If it worked, someone would make a run for it before three o’clock this afternoon.
If it didn’t work, Sondgard had no idea what he’d try next.
Then he remembered The Three Faces of Eve again, his Jekyll and Hyde theory. What if Jekyll were in control right now, and he was standing up here threatening Hyde? Jekyll might not even know there was any reason to make a run for it.
But didn’t Eve’s secondary personalities have contact with the primary personality? As he remembered it, the primary personality knew nothing about the second and third faces, but they did have knowledge of her, and did have some awareness while she was in control.
It didn’t matter. Maybe the killer was a Jekyll and Hyde, and maybe he wasn’t. Maybe he knew what was going on, and maybe he didn’t. But at the moment it just didn’t matter; Sondgard had already committed himself.