VanSlack says: “That is MacFay in there, isn’t it?”
Nick says: “I’d hate to think anybody was playing that kind of joke on us.”
Horn says: “I was asleep.”
VanSlack looks at Freddie, who says: “I was in my room. I was—” he hesitates “—writing.”
This dialogue is punctuated from time to time by the flare of the photographer’s flashlights through the open bedroom door.
VanSlack says: “I don’t suppose any of you know who saw him last?”
After a moment of hesitancy, Freddie says: “I guess I did. I was in there a little after midnight, to have him sign some mail.”
VanSlack asks: “Did you happen to notice what he was doing when you left?”
Freddie says: “Yes, he was reading the afternoon paper. That is—he picked it up as I went out.”
VanSlack asks: “Was he in bed?”
Freddie says: “Yes. I turned off all except the bedside light when I left.”
The photographer looks out to say: “It’s all yourn, Doc.”
The doctor goes in to the bed and starts to examine the body.
VanSlack says: “If any of you gentlemen happen to think of anything that might help us, just tell one of the boys, will you? I oughtn’t to be very long in here.”
He, the deputy sheriff, and the fingerprint man go into the bedroom and shut the door behind them.
Horn says: “He’s not exactly my idea of a human bloodhound.”
Nick says: “Maybe that’s nothing against him.”
VanSlack opens the door and says: “Mr. Charles, eh—could you—that is, have you a minute?”
Nick says: “Sure.”
He goes into MacFay’s room and VanSlack shuts the door.
VanSlack says: “I thought perhaps—of course everybody knows your reputation—perhaps you wouldn’t mind sort of looking at things with us. It’s pretty confusing, isn’t it?”
Nick says: “I’ll be glad to do anything I can, but the way you people are going at it, it doesn’t look as if you need much of anybody’s help.”
He looks around the room. The deputy sheriff and photographer are measuring the height of the bullet hole from the floor, the distance of the gun from the bed, etc.; the fingerprint man is at work on the window sills, and the examining physician is busy with the body.
VanSlack says modestly: “Well, we try to keep up to date. You see, not having very much of this sort of thing ourselves we have plenty of time to keep in touch with what progress crime detecting agencies are making in other places. Of course that doesn’t take the place of practical experience.” He points to the gun. “You don’t happen to know who that belongs to?”
Nick says: “The secretary said it was MacFay’s. He kept it in the drawer there.”
VanSlack says: “I thought maybe it would be.”
The medical examiner turns from the bed and says: “Throat cut from ear to ear with a fairly large, heavy blade. Death instantaneous. Bruise on left temple, blunt instrument. Right wrist broken. That ought to be enough to go on. If there is anything else, I’ll give it to you after I go over him more thoroughly tomorrow. Been dead half an hour.” He looks at Nick. “Does that check with the time you found him?”
Nick says: “Check.”
VanSlack says: “Thank you, Doctor.”
The medical examiner goes out.
VanSlack looks worriedly at the bullet hole, at the gun, at the bedside lamp, glass, etc., at the dead man, and then at Nick, and says uncertainly: “We’ll say, for instance, that MacFay heard the murderer—he could have come in through either the door or the window—we ought to be able to find out which—and grabbed the gun.” He turns to the deputy sheriff and says: “From the looks of that hole, Les, where would you say the bullet was fired from?”
Les says: “I figure it had to come from pretty close to the floor there alongside the bed.”
VanSlack: “Then the murderer was already bearing down on his arm when MacFay got the shot away; or it could be, with one of those old guns, that it went off when it hit the floor after the murderer had broken his arm and made him drop it.” He says to Nick: “I hope this sounds reasonable to you.”
Nick says: “It does—and a paraffin test would tell you whether MacFay pulled the trigger or the gun went off after it hit the floor, if that point’s worth bothering about.”
VanSlack says: “Well, we always try to be as thorough as we can. So next, our murderer would have knocked MacFay back on the pillow with that blow on the temple, perhaps stunning him, and then cut his throat, pulling the bed-clothes over him to keep the blood from spurting around. Now we’ve got to try and figure out how he entered and left. What do you think on that point, Mr. Charles?”
Nick says: “One of the servants said the front door was open.”
VanSlack says: “But if you and the other gentlemen came as soon as you heard the shot, wouldn’t you have seen or heard, or—you know what I mean?”
Nick says: “This room’s right at the head of the stairs. I didn’t get here that quick. The lights were out, you know, and I had to stop to find a candle.”
VanSlack says vaguely: “Oh, the lights went out.”
Nick says: “Yes, the servant says a fuse blew out. An electrician ought to be able to tell you whether it could have happened when the wires were torn out of that upset lamp.”
VanSlack says: “Oh yes—an electrician. Certainly.”
Nick says: “You know about Sam Church?”
VanSlack says: “Yes—and the Negro. We’re doing everything we can to catch them, of course. But sometimes it’s so hard to find people. Now there are a couple of other things I’d like to ask your help on.”
Nick, imitating VanSlack: “My help—oh yes—certainly.”
Elsewhere in the house, other members of the household are being questioned separately.
In the living room a uniformed trooper is saying to Dudley Horn: “So you were asleep, huh? How long had you been asleep?”
Horn, who has put on some clothes, answers: “Half an hour—maybe three-quarters.”
The Trooper asks: “What were you doing before that?”
Horn says: “Miss MacFay and I had taken a walk.”
The Trooper says: “Miss MacFay, huh? The daughter?”
Horn says: “Yes. But if you’d stop wasting time here and start looking for Church—”
The Trooper interrupts him: “I got a lot of time to waste. Did MacFay know you and his daughter were out walking?”
Horn says: “Of course. I don’t know. What different does that make? Miss MacFay and I are engaged.”
Trooper: “Oh! So you’re marrying the heiress? She is the heiress, isn’t she?”
Horn says: “I suppose so. I don’t actually know.”
The Trooper says: “Hmm! A while back you said you used to work with this fellow Church. Are you and he still pretty close?”
Horn says: “We were never pretty close.”
The Trooper says: “Oh! You didn’t like each other much, huh?”
Horn says: “That’s right.”
The Trooper says: “Well, are you unfriends enough that it wouldn’t make you mad to see him go back to the can or maybe to the chair?”
Horn stands up, saying indignantly: “If you’re suggesting that I would frame him—”
The trooper puts a hand on Horn’s chest and pushes him back into his chair, saying: “Don’t get sore over a little thing like that. Wait’ll you hear what I’m really going to suggest.”
In another downstairs room, Mrs. Bellam, the housekeeper, is being questioned by a little, plump man in clothes that need pressing.
The Plump Man says: “Ain’t that pretty late for a lady your age to be up?”
Mrs. Bellam: “I don’t think so.”
The Plump Man: “What time do you mostly go to bed?”
Mrs. Bellam: “Not often before two o’clock, and sometimes it’s three or four.”
The Plump Man: “Got things on your mind that worry you, keep you awake?”
Mrs. Bellam: “No, it’s just that I don’t sleep very much.”
Plump Man: “What were you doing when you heard the shot?”
Mrs. Bellam: “Reading.”
Plump Man: “Reading what?”
Mrs. Bellam: “The Bible.”
Plump Man: “Oh!” then, after a pause: “Well, that’s all right. How long had you been in your room?”
Mrs. Bellam: “I went up there about eleven o’clock.”
Plump Man: “Were you undressed?”
Mrs. Bellam: “No.”
Plump Man: “And you were in your room all the time from around eleven till you heard the shot?”
Mrs. Bellam: “That’s right.”
Plump Man: “And you didn’t see or hear anything out of the ordinary till you got to his room and saw the others there?”
Mrs. Bellam: “Not a single thing except the shot.”
Plump Man: “What did you think when you found out the old man had been killed?”
Mrs. Bellam: “I was sorry.”
Plump Man: “You and the Colonel get along pretty well?”
She says: “Yes. I always know what to expect from Colonel MacFay and I never expected anything different.”
The Plump Man thinks that over for a moment, then gives it up and asks: “Who gets the old man’s money?”
She says: “I’m sure I don’t know except I always thought it would go to Miss Lois.”
He asks: “Will you get any of it?”
She answers: “I’d be mighty surprised if I did.”
He says: “You’ve been working for the old man a long time, haven’t you?”
Mrs. Bellam: “Sixteen years.”
The Plump Man: “And you used to know this Sam Church when he worked for the old man?”
Mrs. Bellam: “Yes, indeed, I knew him.”
The Plump Man: “All right, then, make yourself comfortable and we’ll have a long talk about what you know about him.”
In his bedroom, Freddie is being questioned by an elderly detective who from time to time jots down notes on pieces of paper he takes from various pockets, apparently never using the same piece twice.
The Detective says: “Now, son, when you left the old man in his room after midnight, what did you do?”
Freddie says: “I came here.”
Detective: “Straight here?”
Freddie: “Yes, sir.”
Detective: “You didn’t hear or see anything until the shot came?”
Freddie: “That’s right.”
Detective: “Where were you when you heard it—in bed?”
Freddie: “No, sir.”
Detective: “Where were you?”
Freddie: “Sitting at that table.”
Detective: “Undressed yet?”
Freddie: “No sir.”
Detective: “Well, you must have been doing something.”
Freddie: “I—I had some work to do. I was writing.”
Detective: “Writing what?”
Freddie stammers and finally says: “A play. I’m trying to write a play.”
Detective, in a tone of slight surprise, says: “Oh, go on!” Then: “What’s it called?”
Freddie: “‘The Minute-Hand.’”
Detective: “Yes? Let me see it.”
Freddie goes to the table and gives him a handful of manuscript pages written in longhand.
The Detective says: “You’re a private secretary—how is it you don’t write this on one of those typewriters?”
Freddie: “I only get a chance to work on it late at night and I was afraid the typewriter would disturb people. Besides, when you’re writing your first play, you kind of don’t like people to know about it.”
The detective, puzzled by this, looks at Freddie for a moment, then begins to read the play.
Presently, the Detective puts the manuscript down on his knee and says: “So you write about murders, huh? Do you think much about murders?”
Freddie says: “It’s a mystery play. Lots of people write mystery plays.”
The Detective says: “They do? You wouldn’t happen to make a hobby of what they call criminology?”
Freddie: “No sir.”
Detective: “Well, I’ll have to show this to VanSlack. He might think it kind of shows how your mind works—what they call psychology.” He looks down at the manuscript. “This isn’t all of it, is it?”
Freddie says: “No sir. I haven’t finished the second act.”
The Detective says: “Hmmm! And how many acts now would a play have?”
Freddie: “Three.”
Detective: “Maybe you can write the rest of it while VanSlack’s reading this. Who is MacFay’s lawyer?”
Freddie: “Floyd Tanner.”
Detective: “The one that’s always in some jam with the income tax people?”
Freddie: “I don’t know about that.”
Detective: “When’s the last time MacFay made a will?”
Freddie: “About seven months ago, I think.”
Detective: “Well, who gets the money?”
Freddie: “I don’t know whether I ought to—”
Detective: “This is a murder we’re trying to clear up, lad, and the more you can tell us the better. So don’t let’s hang up over who’s going to tell what.”
Freddie: “According to the memorandum I typed, Miss MacFay was to get everything except a hundred thousand dollars. That went to Mrs. Bellam, the housekeeper.”
Detective: “How much do you figure everything but a hundred thousand would amount to?”
Freddie: “I don’t know. It would certainly be several million, but I don’t suppose anybody but Colonel MacFay knew exactly what property he had.”
Detective: “Where do these Charles people fit in?”
Freddie: “Why, they—they have money invested in some properties with the Colonel.”
Detective: “And they never had any trouble with the Colonel over their money?”
Freddie: “No—nothing—nothing to pay any attention to. Of course not.”
Detective: “What was there not to pay any attention to?”
Freddie: “Nothing. It was just a joke. He was laughing tonight about their wanting to examine the accounts for the first time and how he kept Mr. Charles up to his neck in figures for eight solid hours without Mr. Charles being able to tell a decimal point from a debit.”
Detective: “How do you tell a—never mind. What came up that Charles wanted all of a sudden to examine the accounts?”
Freddie: “Nothing. It was just a joke. Even Colonel MacFay thought it was funny.”
Detective: “A sense of humor. That’s got men killed before.”
Freddie: “But you can’t—”
Detective: “Take it easy, lad. I’m going to give you a little rest now, but don’t be going out of the house.”
The detective goes down to the living room, where the uniformed trooper is still questioning Horn. The detective and the trooper whisper together for a moment in a corner of the room, then go back to Horn.
Trooper: “You been working for MacFay a long time; so has this Bellam woman. What’s the connection?”
Horn: “Between her and me? None.”
Detective: “She gets a hundred grand in his will.”
Horn: “What’s that got to do with me?”
Trooper: “You’re marrying his d
aughter who gets the rest of his dough.”
Horn: “What’s that got to do with Mrs. Bellam?”
Detective: “It’s a coincidence.”
Trooper: “What makes Bellam rate a hundred gees?”
Horn: “It’s none of my business, but I’ll tell you. Years ago she was MacFay’s girl. Then they drifted apart and she got married, and then after her husband died and left her without a nickel the old man took her in as housekeeper.”
Trooper: “Just as housekeeper?”
Horn nods.
Detective: “That’s kind of sweet.”
Trooper: “He adopted this Lois: could she be Bellam’s daughter?”
Horn: “No. He took Lois from an orphanage. Her mother’s name was Shelley and she died when Lois was born. You can check that.”
Detective: “We will. What’s the tie-up between Charles and Church?”
Horn: “There’s no tie-up! Church had threatened him, too.”
Trooper: “Yeah? Well, do you think Charles is the type of man that might have killed the Colonel to frame Church?”
Horn stares open-mouthed at the trooper.
In MacFay’s office
VanSlack is keeping in touch with New York City and the surrounding country by telephone, meanwhile receiving information from and giving instructions to men who pass in and out of the room. Nick is sitting on a corner of the desk; a couple of VanSlack’s men are lounging by the window.
Nick: “Did you people have a man watching Church?”
VanSlack: “No. The sheriff’s office was keeping an eye on him in a way, but we didn’t have anybody actually watching him. I suppose there will be a lot of complaining about that now. People will be saying we should have covered Church day and night after Colonel MacFay came to us, but I didn’t see how we could have guessed it was going to turn out like this. You know yourself it was all pretty ridiculous in a way and could have turned out to be just a kind of bad practical joke. Couldn’t it?”
Nick nods.
VanSlack: “Did you have any special reason for thinking we had a man on Church’s tail?”
Nick says: “When I went down to see Church yesterday morning, there was a chap up on the hill keeping tabs on him with field glasses and, when I tried to strike up a conversation with him, he showed me a buzzer and told me to go chase myself.”