“Why didn’t you go in?”
“I’m allergic to dead people. I break out in goose pimples.”
“You were satisfied that he was dead?”
“I accepted it, but I can’t say that it gave me any satisfaction. He is dead, isn’t he?”
“Oh, he’s dead, all right.”
“Then I can’t see why we have to keep going over and over it,” said Brother Brady crossly. “Do we have to circulate a petition to make it legal?”
“If Dr. Appleton’s right,” said Grundy grimly, “you people will need all the legality you can get.”
“And if Dr. Appleton is not right,” piped Aunt Lallie spitefully, “I shall sue him for one million dollars.”
The little old doctor walked over to Aunt Lallie, laughed in her face and walked back again.
“Let’s not start the suing talk,” said Grundy, “not before we do a little more spadework. For instance: I want everyone here to tell me where he or she was and what he or she was doing this afternoon as nearly as he or she can remember it, which had better be the way it actually was if he or she knows what’s good for him or her. And we’ll start with... you!” and his forefinger speared Aunt Lallie, who went very nearly blue as she jumped.
This was the auspicious beginning of the most inauspicious interrogation thus far. No one, it seemed, had had anything significant to do, and no mnemonically linked place to do it; as a consequence, everyone had been all over the premises at one time or another during the day, and no one could be more specific than that. But Lieutenant Grundy persisted. Gradually he elicited a few statements that might vaguely be considered facts.
Aunt Lallie had spent most of the afternoon in her room, she was sure of that, but she had been out of it once or twice for reasons that had slipped her mind. Cousin Peet had lain in the sun on the terrace, which Twig, Brady and Prin could verify; but then she had gone upstairs after talking with Prin. She had not the least idea what time that had been, time never having had any particular significance for her; and there was only her word that she had showered and admired her luscious nude self in her pier glass, for so far as she knew she had seen, and had been seen by, no one. Brady, after itchily leaving Peet on the terrace, had gone around back and knocked some golf balls around, which may have had something symbolic about it; and later, after sitting a while in the sun contemplating his navel (Prin thought it had much likelier been Peet’s), he had trudged upstairs and talked to Prin in her room before going to his own room and biting his fingernails for an hour or so (he placed his fingertips in evidence). Twig had been out of sorts, he said. He had considered going into town to a movie, but he had decided against it because neither feature was a horror picture; and all in all he had just drifted around the premises, in and out and downstairs and upstairs. He had noticed Peet, yes, and Brady, too — Peet on the terrace and Brady swatting golf balls, but he had avoided them (as too obvious targets for his malice). Prin told about faking the little-girl’s lunar complaint shamelessly and coming home and the rest of it, some for the second and third time.
It was Lieutenant Grundy’s opinion that they had all had plenty of opportunity to abridge Uncle Slater’s constitutional right to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness; and he said so snidely.
“With your permission, Lieutenant,” said Coley Collins, “I should like to make a point, to wit: There is absolutely no evidence to indicate that Uncle Slater’s constitutional right to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness was abridged.”
“No evidence to prove it, maybe,” said Grundy, “but plenty to indicate it.”
“Is that so?” said Prin with interest. “Would you be kind enough to tell us what? And you listen, Coley — maybe you’ll learn a thing or two about the science of detection.”
“Of course,” said Coley. “It is always instructive to pay heed to the words of a professional.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Lieutenant Grundy handsomely, “we make our mistakes. But I would have you note — if my understanding of the point is correct — that anyone who dies while awake, with his eyes open, will be found after death with his eyes still open. Slater O’Shea died with his eyes shut. From this we may conclude that he died while asleep or in a comatose condition. And this leads us to the crucial question: Was he naturally asleep or unnaturally unconscious at the time of death? I would doubt the former, since it seems extremely unlikely that Mr. O’Shea enjoyed lying down on the floor for his nap when there was a bed available a foot away for the purpose. Unconscious — let us say from simple overindulgence in spirits? That will be determined by the percentage of alcohol found in his blood measured against his normal capacity, and other scientific considerations. But it is my preliminary view that mere overindulgence will not explain his position on the floor. Because there is something very rotten in the state of this bourbon we found at his bedside, or I miss my guess.”
Until Lieutenant Grundy had launched into his analysis, Prin had thought of him as a small-time cop of nasty personality and mere brute intelligence. It seemed to her the grossest deception for him now to prove himself otherwise.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” said Prin.
“Someone here will,” smiled Grundy, “if I’m not mistaken. However! I’m through for the present, although it’s likely I shall see you all again after the autopsy. Boatner, phone for an ambulance and then join me upstairs. We’ll wait on the scene of the suspected crime till the meat wagon comes.”
The lieutenant turned to follow Boatner out when Cousin Twig stopped him. “Excuse me, Lieutenant,” he said. “I understand why you want to take Uncle Slater’s bottle of bourbon with you — after all, if it’s full of poison it isn’t any good to us anyway — but why are you taking the glass?”
“Because,” said Grundy, “it’s the connecting link between the bottle of bourbon and your uncle’s tummy. Not an indispensable point, perhaps,” he said modestly, “but we like to be thorough.”
“Well,” said Cousin Twig glumly. But then he brightened, if a lesser darkness could be called brightness. “If the glass turns out all right, or anyway when you don’t need it any more, would you make a note to return it to us? We’ve got to start economizing around here.”
7
With Lieutenant Grundy and Detective Boatner waiting upstairs with Uncle Slater for the meat wagon, they all had to agree that the situation looked pretty grim. Everything considered, they agreed to a surprising degree. The conviction was voiced by everyone that Uncle Slater had not been murdered by anyone present, because none of them would have been fool enough to kill the lovely golden goose. So if it had been murder the obvious explanation was that an unknown somebody had slipped into the house at considerable risk and poured a shot of something deadly into Uncle Slater’s bourbon bottle for no reason anyone present could think of. It all made so little sense that the longer they discussed Uncle Slater’s death the surer they were that he had not been murdered at all. Still, Grundy and Dr. Appleton had seemed so positive that something would be found in the bottle and in Uncle Slater.
“But can they just go ahead and autopsy Uncle Slater without permission?” Cousin Peet wanted to know.
“We’ve been all through that, Peetie,” said Prin kindly.
“They’ve got to have the permission of the next of kin,” said Coley, “or evidence of an unnatural cause. If they find poison in the bottle of bourbon that’s all they’ll need to go right ahead and autopsy Mr. O’Shea on their own.”