Inside, Betty directed Sylvia to the kitchen and oriented her on the locations of cooking utensils and supplies. Despite her poor memory for faces, there was nothing vague about Sylvia when it came to cooking. She was perfectly at home in any kitchen. When Betty left her alone to go upstairs she was mixing a coffee-cake batter before Betty got as far as the entry hall.
Betty was gone a full half-hour. When she finally came back downstairs she had young Bud by the hand. The boy was dressed in jeans and a T-shirt. His face was expressionless, but his red-rimmed eyes showed that he had just stopped crying.
“Hello, Mr. Marshall,” he said formally.
“Morning, Bud.” He gave Betty an inquiring look.
“I explained exactly what happened,” she said. “He understands that it was just an unfortunate accident.”
Marshall said, “We’re all sorry about your father, Bud.”
“Thank you,” the boy said in the same formal tone.
Marshall’s heart went out to the youngster. It must have been a tremendous shock for a ten-year-old to be awakened with the news that his father was dead. After the first flood of grief, the boy obviously was attempting to prove he was a man by exhibiting no emotion whatever.
He wasn’t quite succeeding, despite his poker face, though. He was clinging so tightly to his mother’s hand, Marshall wondered if the grip was hurting her.
At least he seemed not to blame his mother for the accident. By the relieved look on Betty’s face Marshall realized she had dreaded that he would. It must have taken considerable courage to face him and frankly tell him everything.
Sylvia came from the direction of the dining room and said, “I’m all ready for everyone. We’ll just use the kitchen table.” She looked curiously at Bud. “Hello, young man.”
“Good morning, Mrs. Marshall,” Bud said.
Sylvia’s memory seemed to be working better than usual at the moment. After only momentary puzzlement at how the young man knew her, she said, “You’re Bud, Betty’s son, aren’t you? I’m sorry about your father.”
“Thank you,” Bud said.
Sylvia, who was a marvelous cook, had managed to turn out a delicious coffee cake during the half-hour Betty was upstairs. She offered to cook bacon and eggs also, but no one wanted any. Bud, who probably ate a substantial breakfast ordinarily, if he had a typical ten-year-old’s appetite, merely picked at a piece of coffee cake and drank a glass of milk. Marshall managed to eat two pieces and Sylvia had one, but Betty had only coffee.
By eight a.m. the breakfast dishes were done and they were all seated in the front room when the doorbell rang. Marshall went to answer it.
It was Chief Meister and a tall, unsmiling man in civilian clothes who carried a large square box by its handle. Beyond them, in front of the porch, Marshall could see a uniformed policeman seated behind the wheel of a squad car.
The chief introduced the unsmiling civilian as Harold Farroway of the state police crime lab. Inviting them in, Marshall re-introduced Farroway to everyone in the front room. When this formality was completed, the chief asked Betty’s permission to show Farroway around upstairs.
“Of course,” she said. “Want me to go with you?”
“I know the way around,” Meister said.
He left the lab man upstairs and returned alone.
“We’ll want to take a look at your roof,” he said to Betty. “Got a ladder around here?”
“There’s one already in place at the back of the house,” she said. “I’ve already been up there this morning. There’s a piece of rope tied to an air-vent pipe right over the window where the screen was cut.”
Meister frowned, apparently not appreciating amateur investigation in advance of police investigation, but he made no comment. Excusing himself, he went outside.
Marshall trailed after him, and after a moment Betty and Bud came outdoors, too. The boy was again gripping his mother’s hand tightly.
Marshall recognized the stocky, red-haired man behind the wheel of the squad car as a patrolman named Charles Graves. Chief Meister was leaning in the window of the car talking to him, and Graves was nodding his head understandingly.
The man climbed from the car just as Marshall reached the bottom of the porch steps and Betty and Bud came out the door.
“Hi, Kirk,” he said. “ ‘Morning, Mrs. Chase.”
He went around the side of the house to the rear.
Chapter VI
The chief retreated to the far edge of the drive, from where he could see upward to the front slope of the roof. Marshall waited for Betty and Bud to reach him, then walked with them over to stand next to the chief.
After a few minutes Charles Graves appeared on the peak of the roof and worked his way cautiously downward to the air vent. He bent over it for a considerable length of time, finally straightened with a length of rope in his his hand. Climbing back to the peak, he disappeared over it.
When the policeman came back around to the front of the house, he handed the rope to Chief Meister. It was about a two-foot section of half-inch hemp, a type of line commonly used in the area both as anchor line and for small-boat mooring.
“It was tied in a fisherman’s knot,” Graves said. “It had been pulled so tight I couldn’t slip it and had to pick the knot loose. No wonder he cut it, if he was in a hurry.”
Meister examined the cut end of the rope. “I guess this cinches it that the cat burglar was on the roof last night. This couldn’t have been tied there earlier than last night.”
“Why not?” Marshall inquired.
“Because it rained from ten to eleven last night. The rope would still be damp if it had been there before eleven p.m.”
Marshall, in bed at Lydia’s apartment, hadn’t even been aware that it had rained. He doubted that he would have made such a quick deduction even if he had known it, though. His respect for Barney Meister’s investigative ability climbed a notch.
They all went back inside except for Officer Graves, who climbed back into the radio car. As they entered, Harold Farroway came down the stairs carrying his laboratory kit in one hand and an empty screen frame in the other.
“I got a couple of good sets of prints from the window,” he said to Meister. “I’ll need the prints of all household members so we can eliminate their prints.”
“That will be just Bud and me,” Betty said. “Any time you’re ready, just set up your equipment.” She looked curiously at the empty screen frame. “Are you taking that with you?”
“Uh-huh. It’ll be returned.” The lab man leaned it against the wall next to the front door.
Farroway set up his fingerprinting equipment on the dining-room table and took Betty’s and Bud’s prints. Then he asked Betty what funeral parlor she had called, presumably because he planned to fingerprint the corpse.
“The Joyce Funeral Home,” she said.
“Anybody else you know who might have touched the window at some time or other?”
“Chief Meister did last night.”
“I used a handkerchief,” Meister said dryly. He turned to Farroway. “You have everything you need?”
“I think so.”
“Then I guess we’ll be running along,” the chief said to Betty. “Thanks for your co-operation. There’ll be an inquest, but I imagine it’ll just be a formality and you may not even have to appear. I’ll let you know.”
“All right,” Betty said. “It was nice meeting you, Mr. Farroway.”
“Same to you,” he said unsmilingly. “Good-by, Mrs. Marshall.”
“Good-by, Mr. — ah...” Sylvia said, and let it trail off.
Farroway nodded to Marshall and Bud, went over to the door and picked up the screen frame. Chief Meister held the door for him. Marshall followed them both out to the police car.