“Sam! You said you wouldn’t.”
But I got up anyway and went over to him. “Got a few minutes, Milt?”
“Sure. What’s up?”
“I just want to chat. Over in that empty booth would be best.”
He glanced toward Annabel at our table. “You shouldn’t leave her alone.”
“This won’t take long.”
He followed me to the booth and slid in the other side. “So what’s this all about?”
“Rusty Wagner.”
“God, I feel terrible about that! It’s as if I’d murdered him.”
“You did.”
He moistened his lips and gave a half laugh. “Well, not really. The gun had a blank cartridge in it.”
“What was it that made you move here, Milt? Did you know your brother had been murdered that day up at the Cloister?”
“He wasn’t-”
“Yes he was, Milt. I saw the snapshot of the two of you and even then I noticed the resemblance. Ten years ago you left Hartford and moved here, changing your name from the German Heck to its English meaning, stern. You suspected all along that Wagner had killed your brother. Perhaps he hinted at trouble between them in one of his letters. Once here you settled down and married. Somewhere along the line you saw the Cloister door that Felix Pond had rescued from the place, and recognized those little ‘wormholes’ for what they were. When you heard that Wagner would be coming here to take part in a war-bond drive, the idea came to you.”
“What idea?”
“You would suggest to Pond that he donate that old door for the war-bond auction. Then, when the mayor was discussing a clever way to bring Wagner on stage, you volunteered to dress in a Nazi costume and fire a blank pistol at him. You knew, of course, that he’d had rheumatic fever twice as a child. Perhaps your brother mentioned it or you read it in a movie fan magazine. Such a medical history almost certainly would have left him with a weak heart, probably the reason for his draft deferral.”
“He knew in advance I was going to fire a blank pistol at him,” Milt Stern said. “That wouldn’t have caused a heart attack.”
“Perhaps not alone. But when he came onto that stage what he saw was the friend he’d killed twenty-two years ago, aged a bit but still recognizable, standing in front of that same door and pointing a gun at him. In the instant the gun went off, his weak heart failed.”
“Do you really expect anyone to believe that?”
“No,” I admitted. “Certainly not a jury.”
Milt Stern smiled at me. “Then why are you telling me this? Who else have you told?”
“Sheriff Lens knows, and the mayor soon will know. They can’t bring any charge against you, but it might be better if you left Northmont, moved back to Hartford.”
He studied my face for a long time. “Don’t you understand it’s something I had to do? Whether he lived or died was out of my hands.”
“Whether you stay or go is out of my hands, too,” I told him.
“All right,” he said at last. “I’ll take your advice.”
I left the booth and went back to join Annabel. I’d done all that I could.
A Shower of Daggers by Edward D. Hoch
Susan Holt awoke with a start, wondering why her bed felt so hard. Then memory flooded back in a blinding instant of terror and she knew she was in a jail cell, accused of murder. She opened her eyes and saw a woman in the next holding cell staring at her through the bars. “You’re awake,” the woman said.
“What? Yes. Yes, I’m awake. What time is it, please?”
“Barely daylight. Quarter to seven.”
Susan groaned. She’d slept less than three hours and her mouth felt as if it was full of cobwebs. She glanced at the lidless toilet in one corner of the cell. “Do they give you anything to eat here?”
“Pretty soon now. They’ll bring something around seven o’clock. What you in for?”
“Murder, I guess. I haven’t been charged yet.” The other woman gave a low whistle of appreciation and Susan hastened to add, “I didn’t do it.”
“Have you called a lawyer?”
“Not exactly. I called someone who’ll get me a lawyer.” She had called Mike Brentnor, her coworker in promotions at Mayfield’s, Manhattan’s largest department store. He was hardly a friend, but in the middle of the night in a strange city she was feeling desperate. Considering that she’d awakened him from a sound sleep, he’d been both concerned and reassuring, promising to be on the first morning plane out of LaGuardia, a flight that would take less than an hour.
Presently a guard brought her a breakfast tray with some juice, coffee, and a hard roll. “You’ll be brought before the judge at ten o’clock,” he said, not unkindly. “Have you seen your lawyer yet?”
“No. I think someone’s on the way.”
Mike Brentnor arrived a few minutes before nine, looking just a bit flustered. He was slim and slyly handsome, around thirty, the sort of man Susan used to see by the dozen in Manhattan singles bars. She met with him now in one of the interrogation rooms. “I phoned Marx from the airport and he gave me the name of a good criminal lawyer up here,” he told her.
For an instant she was dismayed that he’d reported to their superior, but of course Saul Marx would have to know about it. She wouldn’t be flying back as planned this afternoon. She’d be in a jail cell in upstate New York. “What did he say?”
“That it must be a mistake. Who is this person you’re supposed to have killed?”
“Betty Quint. It’s a long story. I’d rather just go over it once when the lawyer’s here.”
“I left word at his office. They were going to try catching him at home so he could come directly here. Mayfield’s name carries some weight, I guess.”
“I’m glad of that!” The coffee had revived her and she was feeling a little more human.
“I’m pleased you phoned me, Susan. I heard you broke up with Russell and I can’t say I’m sorry about that. You know I’ve always had a fondness for you.”
“Fondness? Is that what you call it?” She decided to make things clear from the beginning. A night in a jail cell had intensified the anger she sometimes felt toward Brentnor, though she knew none of what had happened was his fault. “I phoned you because I didn’t want to wake Saul in the middle of the night, and yours was the only other Mayfield’s home phone number I had with me. I do appreciate your flying up here, but let’s not get the wrong idea.”
“All right,” he agreed, flushing at her harsh words. “Now tell me what-”
A guard came to announce that her lawyer had arrived. He bustled in looking like an upstate version of Mike Brentnor, though with more style. She had a sudden vision of him in a courtroom defending her on the murder charge.
“Hello, Miss Holt,” he said, holding out his hand. “I’m Irving Farber from the firm of Freeman and Farber. That’s my father in the firm name, not me.” A smile flashed across his face, then was gone. He was all business. “What happened here?”
“I’ve been arrested for murder is what happened,” Susan said, her anger rising again.
“Have you made a statement to the police?”
“I told them what happened. They questioned me for hours until I demanded a lawyer.”
“That’s good.” He took a yellow legal pad from his briefcase and started to make notes. “What about the assistant D.A.? Was he in to see you?”
She nodded. “After they photographed and fingerprinted me. I told him I wanted to phone a coworker to get me a lawyer. By that time all I wanted was some sleep.”
“All right, Susan. May I call you Susan? Suppose you tell me your story from the beginning.”
He glanced questioningly at Mike Brentnor and Susan said, “It’s all right if he stays. I have nothing to hide.”
“Let’s start at the beginning. What brought you to our city?”