It did not make sense.
Coley knew that it did not make sense. Knew it — not wished it, or guessed it, or heard it on the wind. Coley knew that it did not make sense because he had had very specific information to the contrary straight from the horse’s mouth.
So he lay in the dark and brooded.
And after a while he stopped brooding and listened for Winnie Whitfield’s breathing. When Winnie Whitfield was asleep his breathing sounded like a cage full of terrified birds trying to get away from a tiger-striped cat, with a dog on the floor near the cage trying to get at the cat. Winnie was not sleep-breathing. Winnie was awake-breathing.
“Winnie,” Coley said.
“What?” Winnie said.
“About Prin,” Coley said.
“What about her?” Winnie said.
“I know she gets on your nerves. She does, doesn’t she?”
“Yes,” Winnie said.
“All right, then. If she should come around again when I’m not here, don’t talk to her. Don’t even let her in. Just tell her I’m not here and slam the door.”
“Hard?” asked Winnie, his voice brightening.
“Hard as you can.”
“Oh, boy,” said Winnie.
“Satisfied, Winnie?”
“Oh, boy,” said Winnie.
“Now try to get some sleep.”
That being taken care of, Coley went back to brooding again. And in the other room the snakes kept doing whatever snakes do at night.
14
Lieutenant Grundy was hot, damp and irritated. Office fan notwithstanding, his collar sawed at raw neck and his shoes nipped at swollen toes. He unbuttoned the collar and slipped off the shoes, leaned back in his swivel chair and sighed, and he closed his eyes.
Grundy had just returned from Slater O’Shea’s funeral. His attendance had been a compromise between attending and not attending; that is, he had avoided the service at the church, but he had trailed along to the cemetery. He had not gone to the cemetery out of respect or grief. He had gone to the cemetery because that was what the book prescribed. Of course, the book prescribed it on the theory that the murderer cannot stay away from the funeral of his victim, and in this case the murderer was bound to be there anyway, as a member of the family; but perhaps the aberrant O’Shea character would manifest a guilt he could seize on.
So, naturally, they behaved impeccably. Damn contrary crew! Aunt Lallie had stood with bowed head, a scrap of black cambric pressed to her eyes, and it was actually moist afterward. Twig, who looked as if he prowled cemeteries at night for the fun of it, on this daylight occasion looked almost human. Brady O’Shea had seemed distressed. Peet had been pertly interested. And Prin, slim and grave, had presented an appearance chaotically at odds with Grundy’s suspicions of her. The tearlessness of her eyes was contradicted by the pinched set of her lips; there was a touch of suffering gallantry about her. Grundy had not known whether to be sorry or glad.
He sighed again. He was not feeling as a police officer should in the prevailing circumstances. Now that Slater O’Shea had been laid to eternal rest on his subterranean couch, the wickedness that had put him there seemed not very important. Whereupon Lieutenant Grundy thought: Damn all O’Sheas to hell and back!
That was when the sergeant came into the office. “Say, Lieutenant, some young twerp name of Collins is out there, real brass monkey. Says he’s got to see you in person, no stand-ins.”
“Coley Collins?” Grundy sat up straight. Princess O’Shea’s boy friend had been at the cemetery, too, supporting her elbow. “You send that monkey in!”
Coley entered scowling. It was the same expression, Grundy remembered, that he had worn at the cemetery, as if in dying Slater O’Shea had imposed unreasonable demands on him, Coley Collins.
“What can I do for you?” Grundy snapped.
“It’s not what you can do for me that counts,” Coley said, “it’s what I can do for you.”
“That so? And just what is it you can do for me?”
“I can tell you who knocked off Slater O’Shea.”
Grundy glared with resentment. “Oh, you can, can you?” he said. “All right, sit down.”
Coley sat down calmly. Grundy rocked back in his swivel. The resentment persisted; and this was ungracious, he knew, inasmuch as Coley’s information, if it could be supported by evidence, would end a case that for Grundy could not end soon enough.
“That’s a pretty big hunk of real estate you’ve just bitten off, young fellow,” Grundy said. “Maybe you’d better think about it before you say any more.”
“I’ve thought about it,” Coley said. “Look, Lieutenant. Do you want to crack this nut or don’t you?”
“Can you substantiate what you’re going to tell me?”
“That’s your job, not mine. I can only tell you what to look for.”
Grundy braced himself. “Shoot. Who murdered O’Shea?”
“His sister Lallie.”
Grundy experienced disappointment. He had half hoped for someone outside the area of his suspicions. That is, he had half hoped for a Twig or a Brady.
“Miss Lallie O’Shea is indicated by circumstances,” he said, to lead Coley Collins on.
“You mean because of the will?”
“Yes.”
“Well, that brings me to someone else who may surprise you. Aunt Lallie is guilty, no question about it, but she’s not alone in this. No, sir.”
Here comes my little Princess, thought Grundy, killing Coley Collins with his glance. It was made all the worse by the identity of the informer. What kind of crum was this, to betray his girl friend — especially a girl friend like Princess O’Shea?
“Well, speak up,” Grundy barked. “Who is it?”
“Selwyn Fish.”
Grundy’s mouth assumed a fishlike character for a moment. “Selwyn Fish? The lawyer?”
“I thought that would jar you,” said Coley Collins, smacking his lips. “Yes, sir, that slimy shyster is right in it with Lallie, and you can bank on it.”
“Fish... Where does Fish come into it?”
“With Slater O’Shea’s last will and testament, that’s where.”
“Which will,” Grundy asked cautiously, “would that be?”
“The one allegedly leaving everything to Lallie O’Shea.”
“Allegedly?” Grundy shot up in his chair. “What do you mean, Collins? Talk plain English, will you?”
“All right, here it is: The will that Fish claims gives everything to Lallie O’Shea is a fraud, with a forged signature.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because it has to be. Because I know as a matter of absolute fact that Slater O’Shea didn’t leave a plugged quarter to his sister Lallie. Because I know as a fact that he left everything to his niece Princess O’Shea.”
“Wait a minute, wait a minute,” said Lieutenant Grundy, passing a hand over his forehead. “How do you know that?”
“Because,” said Coley Collins simply, “Slater O’Shea himself told me.”
“Slater O’Shea himself told you.” Grundy got a grip on himself. “Collins, you’re going to have to tell me a hell of a lot more than that before I stop suspecting you’re an escaped psycho. When did O’Shea tell you this? Where? And why — why would he tell you?”
“One at a time, Lawman,” said Coley, unruffled. “When? About ten days, maybe two weeks, before I even laid eyes on Princess O’Shea for the first time. Where? At the bar in the hotel taproom, one night when I was on duty. And why? Because old Slater was aslosh to the guards that night with bourbon Manhattans. It was a slow night and I had plenty of time to listen. And also he’d taken a shine to me, from hanging around my bar so much. And most of all because I was a bartender... None of it meant a thing to me at the time, because I’d never laid eyes on any of the O’Sheas except the old boy. All I knew about them was what he’d confided in me. Next question?”