“I suggest a mass napping period,” I said. “Suppose you let Miss Chambers have your bed, and I’ll put Mrs. Madigan in mine. The rest of the guests can distribute themselves on couches and the daybed while you carry Mr. Straight into the guest room.”
Sedalia nodded agreeably, rose and heaved the gaunt-faced lawyer into her arms as she would a baby. I started to lead Monica into the hall when Sedalia called after me.
“Don’t stay too long, Hank. I think Mrs. Madigan is after you.”
Refusing her the satisfaction of a reply, I led the sleepy woman to my room, let her sink back on the bed and removed her shoes. Her eyes stared up at me dreamily.
“Why’d you get me drunk, Henry?”
I said stiffly, “It was Sedalia’s idea.”
“But now that I’m drunk and practically helpless you take me to your bedroom. You didn’t have to get me drunk, Henry.”
I felt myself blushing furiously. Rising from my seat on the bed, I strode to the door. As I pulled it shut behind me Monica emitted a mocking little laugh, and I realized she had deliberately been amusing herself by teasing me. For some reason the thought made me furious. Not that I would have expected a woman as attractive as Monica to seriously throw herself at a man a quarter-century her senior, but no man likes to have a woman laugh at him. At that instant I would have been glad to learn Monica was the killer.
In Sedalia’s apartment I discovered Irene Chambers and Jerome Straight had been safely bedded down. Alvin Christopher lay on the daybed in the front room, and Gerald Rawlins was stretched full-length on the couch. The assistant district attorney was already asleep, but Rawlins was puffing on an unlighted cigarette and making a desperate effort to look sober. When I entered the room, the cigarette dropped from his hand, he smiled at me foolishly and closed his eyes.
“Think I’ll run along,” Inspector Home said in a ponderous tone. “Wife expecting me for dinner, you know.”
He moved toward Sedalia, weaving slightly, started to make a slight bow, thought better of it and walked out into the hall to obtain his coat, brushing the door jamb on one side as he went out. Accompanying him to the front door, I found his coat in the hall closet, held it for him and handed him his hat.
“Are you all right, Inspector?” I asked.
“Quite,” he said with dignity, unsuccessfully fumbling with the door knob.
Reaching past him, I opened the door, took his arm and guided him to the elevator. I pressed the signal button and waited with him as the car rose ten stories.
When the elevator door opened, I asked, “You’re not driving, are you?”
He shook his head. “No. Perfectly capable if I was though. Took a taxi.” He peered at me suspiciously. “Don’t think I’m drunk, do you, Henry?”
“Oh no,” I said.
“Never been drunk in my life.”
He entered the elevator, carefully pushed the down button, and stared at me owlishly as the door closed between us. Feeling mild relief at having disposed of at least one intoxicated guest, I returned to Sedalia’s apartment.
At first I didn’t see her, because I did not glance down at the floor. I walked right past where she was lying, glanced in her bedroom and saw Irene Chambers sleeping on her bed, walked through the dining room and peered into the guest room where Jerome Straight slept, checked the sun room and finally the kitchen.
When I found her none of these places, I called, “Sedalia!”
There was no answer. Perhaps she had gone up to my room for some reason, I thought, or into the study. I was puzzled rather than worried when I went back into the front room.
But this time the moment I entered the room, I saw Sedalia. She was stretched out face down just to one side of the front door, and I had walked right past her. My heart stopped for an instant as I saw the bright red staining the massive golden coils of her hair and forming a minute pool on the floor next to her head.
One glance at the heavy fire tongs next to her body explained what had happened. With a sickening sense of realization, I knew one of our five guests was shamming drunkenness and. was actually as sober as I. The instant Sedalia had turned her back, the murderer had struck her with the first weapon handy, then reassumed the appearance of being in a drunken sleep.
Moving to Sedalia’s side, I felt her pulse and was amazed to feel it beating strongly. Immediately I ran to the door, intending to phone the house doctor from the hall, but I stopped when it occurred to me this would put Sedalia beyond my line of vision.
Grabbing her by the ankles, I dragged her face down out into the hall. Anyone trained in first aid would have frowned at this procedure, but I considered it less dangerous than leaving her out of sight, where the murderer might decide to employ the fire tongs once more and make sure of the job. Then I picked up the tongs so as to have a weapon in case I needed it and dialed the switchboard.
“Send a doctor to Miss Tweep’s apartment at once,” I said. “It’s an emergency.”
The house doctor, a fussy little man with horn-rimmed glasses arrived within five minutes. He removed bobby pins carefully and unwound the two long braids which reached to below Sedalia’s waist when they were not coiled around her head. Gingerly he felt the gash he found underneath all the hair.
“Probably only a mild concussion,” he said. “She’d be dead if it weren’t for all that hair. It made as good protection as a football helmet. I don’t think she’s in serious danger, but I’d suggest we play safe and get her to a hospital.”
Sedalia picked that moment to groan, sit up and clutch her head with both hands.
“Are you all right, Sedalia?” I asked inanely.
Her eyes opened but remained pinched with pain. Dazedly she looked at the tongs I still held.
“Hank!” she said in amazement. “Did you clout me?”
“Of course not. Are you all right?”
She smiled bitterly. “Course I’m not all right. My head is split wide open and I think I’m going to die.” Struggling to her feet, she stood swaying. “But first I’m going to make somebody pay for this headache.”
“You shouldn’t be standing,” the doctor said. “We’re going to get you to a hospital.”
“Nonsense,” Sedalia said in a stronger voice. “I’ll be all right soon as I eat a few aspirin. Hank, let’s find out which of our guests is playing possum.”
But we were unable to find out. We even had the doctor examine them all, but his only conclusion was that all of them could either be unconscious or shamming. We did find proof that one of them was sober, however, though which one it was impossible to tell. A vase on the end table which had been between Jerome Straight and Irene Chambers contained the contents of at least two punch cupsful. And since this end table also contained a cigarette box on which all our guests had drawn freely, I recalled everyone had been near it at some time or other with a cup in his — or her — hand.
We were right back where we had started, with five suspects.
Three aspirins and a small strip of adhesive tape were all the medical attention Sedalia would accept. The aspirin apparently eased her headache, but it had no effect on her disposition. When the house doctor insisted he would not be responsible if she refused to go to a hospital, she growled that he did not look very responsible anyway, and shooed him out of the apartment.
When the doctor had gone, I said fearfully, “Now we’re alone with the murderer again. The minute we relax there may be another attempt to kill you.”
“Who’s going to relax?” she snapped at me. “I have no intention of turning my back again, and if any killers want to get tough, they’ll end up without an unbroken bone in their bodies.”
“Why did you turn your back in the first place? What happened anyway?”