This time Dr. Appleton contracted asthma. He tried to say something, but nothing came out except a kind of shrill whinny that, without being intelligible, nevertheless contrived to sound profane. Coley, seeing that he had achieved a tactical advantage, remorselessly pressed it.
“You have no one to censure but yourself, Dr. Appleton,” he said evenly, “if I have felt compelled to conduct a preliminary investigation of the scene in defense of this defenseless young woman, whose very liberty may be threatened by your sly folly. It is my conviction, sir, that you are yelling copper in order to cover the tracks of your own professional incompetence. If I am in error, I tender you my apology in advance. In either case, the police will decide when they get here — which, unless my ears deceive me, is an event that is taking place right now.”
And so it was. They were out on the veranda ringing the bell, and by the time old Appleton and Coley and Prin got downstairs they were inside the house, all two of them.
6
The pair constituted precisely half of Cibola City’s plainclothes force. The one in charge was very tall and very lean, with squared-off shoulders and a square-jawed head that he kept cocking, first on one side and then on the other. This gave him a disconcerting appearance of continuous skepticism. As Prin learned later, his name was Sherm Grundy, his rank was lieutenant, and he was reputed to be as sour-souled as a stoat. Somehow, Prin doubted it.
At that moment, having just been admitted by Twig, Lieutenant Grundy looked as if he thought he were being made the victim of an impractical joke.
“What are you made up for?” Prin heard Lieutenant Grundy demand of Twig as she and Coley and Dr. Appleton came down the stairs. “Halloween?”
“I beg your pardon?” said Twig stiffly.
“Skip it. What’s your name?”
“Twig O’Shea. Mr. Slater O’Shea’s nephew.”
“Well, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing is wrong.”
“That’s what I thought!”
“I mean,” said Cousin Twig, “nothing is wrong in the lawful sense of the word. Our Uncle Slater has died in his room today, and that old fool Appleton insists on making a federal case out of it.”
“We’ll see who’s a fool,” shrilled Dr. Appleton, coming up on Twig from the rear and making him jump a foot. “It’s my professional opinion, Lieutenant Grundy, that there’s something very funny here, and I don’t mean funny. I might add that everything I’ve seen and heard since my arrival has only confirmed my suspicions.”
“Whoa, Doc, let’s take one thing at a time,” said Lieutenant Grundy. “Slater O’Shea is dead. Two-fisted drinkers like Slater O’Shea lead a risky life. They die all the time.”
“Damn it, you don’t need to tell me about two-fisted drinkers,” cried Dr. Appleton, “I know more about confirmed crocks than the rest of you put together! But they don’t die all the time, or any time except their allotted time, when they’ve got the constitution of a Slater O’Shea. Slater O’Shea is dead, all right, but not from drinking. Alcohol, anyway.”
“You mean—?”
“Certainly I mean! By God, do I have to spell out everything I say?”
“Not so fast,” said Grundy. “First things first. O’Shea is dead, you say. Now he died from either natural causes or unnatural causes, right? Right. So the first thing we have to do is find out which it is.”
“Exactly my point,” said the old doctor vigorously. “That’s why I called you in. I don’t want to tell you your business, Lieutenant, but I suggest you begin with these two here.”
The lieutenant looked around suspiciously. “Which two?”
Dr. Appleton stabbed his bony forefinger first at Coley Collins and then at Princess O’Shea. “I had locked the door of the death room. I pocketed the key. This precious pair sneaked upstairs while I was in the living room with the others and broke into the locked room. I caught them sneaking out a moment before you arrived.”
Lieutenant Grundy possessed a very snaky eye, and Prin felt herself immediately look guilty. “What’s your name?” he asked her softly.
“Princess O’Shea. Uncle Slater’s niece,” said Prin. “And I live here, which is more than Dr. Appleton does, though he acts as if he owns the deed to the place.”
“Never mind that,” said Grundy, directing his reptilian gaze upon Coley. “And who are you?”
“My name is Coley Collins,” said Coley with a little bow.
“And do you live here, too?”
“No,” began Prin, “but you see—”
“I’ll handle this, my dear,” said Coley. “No, Lieutenant, I do not have the good fortune to be entitled to claim this as my residence. However, Miss O’Shea and I have an understanding that, while not yet formalized, will soon culminate in a legal relationship, if I make myself clear—”
“If you’re going to marry the girl, why don’t you just say so?” snapped Grundy. “Anyway, is Dr. Appleton’s charge true?”
“It is not,” said Prin, snapping back, snake eye or no snake eye. “To charge that we broke into Uncle Slater’s room is a gross exaggeration. I’ll change that. It’s a damn lie. I got the key from my own bedroom door and we unlocked Uncle Slater’s door with that.”
“Point two,” said Coley. “We were not — I repeat — not sneaking. We simply went up there and went in and came out again. If you ask me, Dr. Appleton requires the immediate services of a geriatrician.”
“What’s that?” demanded the old doctor, who had been following the conversation between alternate attacks of apoplexy and asthma.
“You see?” said Coley sympathetically. “The old gentleman is so senile he can’t even remember a simple medical term. I doubt that anything he says can be relied on.”
“However you got into that room,” screamed Dr. Appleton, dancing a little, “and regardless of whether you were sneaking or walking on your hands, the fact is you two had no business going in there when I locked the door and told you — you, Miss O’Shea — that no one was to go in there and you knew I was calling the police but you went in anyway you and this young maniac and what I want to know is why why why!”
“Take it easy, old boy, or we’ll have to call a doctor for you,” said Lieutenant Grundy. “Just the same, the doc’s got a point. What were you doing in that room?”
“Prin,” said Coley, holding up his hand with dignity. “Allow me, since it was my idea entirely. Why, Lieutenant, this poor old fellow was making the wildest kind of accusations. Since my fiancée’s reputation, not to mention her safety from harassment, was vitally involved, I deemed it necessary to learn as much about the actual situation as I could while I still had freedom of movement.”
“We both did,” added Prin, and she clamped an armlock on Coley. “And don’t let him tell you different, Lieutenant.”
“I have no intention of interfering with Mr. Collins’s or your exercise of free speech,” replied Grundy, who seemed affected at last by the prevailing semantic elegance. “Inasmuch as you’ve both just admitted the doc’s charges are true. It will look even worse for you two if we find that he’s also right in suspecting that Slater O’Shea did not die of natural causes.”
“Yes,” piped Dr. Appleton, still doing his little dance. “And an autopsy will prove me right!”
Cousin Twig, who had been edging stealthily out of the line of fire, started with violence at the word “autopsy.” He coughed just a little and advanced a half step. “Excuse me,” Twig said. “We probably have never adequately expressed our appreciation for your unselfish devotion to the professional care of Uncle Slater, Dr. Appleton, but you have my word — speaking for our entire little family — that we are grateful, sir, grateful beyond words, which is why we never expressed it. What I mean is—”