Crime is Murder (7 page)

“Miss Bancroft, I’m offended,” he said, swinging the door open before her. “You come to visit our high school and fail to call on me.”

“I’ve been catching up on my music research,” Lisa said. “And I might have called on you if you didn’t have such an annoying habit of leaving your stories unfinished.”

The professor laughed. Once outside the building, he donned his hat. The line of dark clouds across the horizon had risen to the distant rooftops across the athletic field, and the wind that had sprung up seemed to foretell a need for that raincoat before long. The professor squinted at the sky thoughtfully and took Lisa’s arm. The steps to the sidewalk were easier that way.

“I don’t mean to be annoying,” he explained as they descended. “I mean to be fair. If I were to tell you all I know—” he let go of her arm at the sidewalk: he needed it to anchor his hat against a gust of wind—”all I
think
I know,” he corrected, “you would merely inherit my opinions. When one enlists the aid of a consultant on a diagnosis it seems only wisdom to allow that party a free rein for investigation.”

“A consultant,” Lisa repeated. “So that’s what I’m supposed to be. And the diagnosis in question is a matter of Marta’s sanity.”

“All the world is mad but me and thee …”
Lisa remembered her own words and poised on the verge of a question She felt reckless and asked it.

“Incidentally, professor, you never did tell me why you left the university to teach in Bellville.”

“Why I left—?”

Across the street, another truck was pulling onto the athletic field. It was easy to read the lettering on the side: Cushing Construction Company. The professor followed the truck’s progress with his eyes.

“Politics, Miss Bancroft. It exists even in universities. My contract wasn’t renewed, that’s all.”

“And Bellville?”

“It’s a pleasant community.”

And then the professor faced her again. By this time he understood. There was just a twinge of tension in his voice.

“I believe you’re insinuating that I came here to be near my nephew. As a matter of fact, that may be true. He preceded me here by several months. But that doesn’t mean that I’m just a meddling old fool. There’s nothing wrong in being concerned for the happiness of a loved one.”

Nothing at all. Lisa couldn’t argue that. But she was still puzzled, and the professor was still protesting too much.

“Of course, if you’ve found nothing of interest—”

“Oh, I have!” Lisa interrupted. “I’ve found very much of interest. Let’s see now, how the bodies do pile up! There’s Howard Gleason who committed suicide—that’s damaging evidence against Marta, I’m sure. And then there’s Pierre Duval who fell downstairs. Or was he pushed, Professor?”

The professor was losing his poise. Lisa hated herself for what she was doing, but there must be some way to make the man declare himself.

“And then there’s old Alistair Hubbard who couldn’t find his medicine.”

“Now, that’s going a bit too far,” the professor protested. “I’m not concerned with backstairs gossip.”

“But why not, Professor? Very interesting things occur backstairs. If we’re going to diagnose this case together, let’s consider all the symptoms. But we can’t consider them all if you continue to hold out on me.”

It was a straight, flat statement and Lisa was glad she’d said it. She expected a straight answer, too. She expected it for all of five seconds while the professor was making up his mind, and then something happened that sent her expectations scattering with the wind. It began with a scream, a woman’s scream, and then such a din of falling lumber and masculine shouts that nothing could be remembered then but that something of a drastic nature was occurring on the athletic field across the street. The professor whirled about and made as if to run toward the scene. Then he stopped and glanced back at Lisa.

“Go ahead,” she cried. “I’m coming, too. I’m right behind you.”

She was—all the way. By the time they reached the source of the clamor, it had all but died away. But the evidence remained. An erstwhile truckload of evidence spilled haphazardly across the ground—planks, two-by-fours, and heavy beams. The shouting was over, but not the grumbling.

Joel wasn’t hurt. Lisa saw him at the same instant the professor did. Both slackened their pace. Joel wasn’t hurt, but he was angry.

“What the devil happened here?” he demanded. “Who’s loading that stuff down at the yard? Do I have to do everything myself?”

And then he saw Lisa and the professor, and left the crew to start the clean-up job.

“Sorry,” he said, trying to muster up a grin. “You caught me in a bad mood.”

“What happened?” the professor demanded.

“Nothing important. A little bad luck, that’s all.”

“Bad luck? You might have been killed!”

Lisa had been thinking the same thing. It was not only a natural thought after the recent topic of conversation; it was all too possible. A truckload of spilled lumber wouldn’t land like a caress. And then she remembered.

“Where’s Marta?” she asked.

“Marta? Was Marta here?”

Gone now the professor’s calm and poise. Gone his quiet self-control. Joel noticed, too. He seemed to sense trouble.

“She was,” he admitted, “but she’s gone now. She left some time ago.”

The professor looked suddenly relieved. Much too suddenly for camouflage.

“Thank God,” he said. “At least you haven’t made over your insurance to her the way the others did.”

It had finally happened. The professor had blurted out what was on his mind, and in a bombastic way. Lisa was almost stunned for a moment, and then she wanted to grab onto the coattails of that moment and demand an explanation. Joel beat her to it.

“What do you mean?” he choked. “What dirt have you been digging up now?”

It was crude and rather terrible. Curran Dawes wasn’t the man for this kind of talk.

“Nothing,” he said hastily. “Nothing at all. I’m sorry, Joel. I was upset, that’s all.” He looked sorry. More than sorry. The textbooks were shifted from one arm to another. “I really must be getting along. Final exam papers to check, you know. Will you be home for dinner tonight, Joel?”

Timidly he asked. The anger was still in Joel’s face.

“I’m not sure,” he said. “I’ll have to hang around until this mess is cleaned up.”

“Well, I’ll leave something in the refrigerator if you’re late.”

It was pitiful. Lisa preferred the professor with his pride riding high and a sly smile playing at his mouth. His goodbye was barely audible as he scurried off. The moment was gone and it had netted Lisa nothing but another puzzle.

“Miss Bancroft—”

Joel stopped her when she started to turn away. He didn’t seem so angry now as troubled.

“Don’t pay any attention to my uncle. He’s been listening to a lot of town gossip.”

Lisa looked at Joel Warren. He was young and strong. He looked as if he would be able to meet a matter head on.

“As a matter of fact, so have I,” she said. “Some of it is most interesting.”

The technique worked. When Lisa started to turn away, Joel was at her side instantly. “I want to talk to you,” he announced.

“My car’s at the curb,” Lisa said.

“Good. We can talk there quietly.”

Someone in Bellville would speak directly. Someone wouldn’t talk in riddles, or hide behind the subterfuge of being fair-minded. Joel Warren was too young to have learned to hide. He helped Lisa into the station wagon and crawled in beside her. One work-callused hand shoved a lock of wind-blown hair out of his eyes. He sighed.

“That was a pretty display you just witnessed,” he said. “You must think we’re all a pack of neurotics.”

“What happened?” Lisa asked.

“With the truck? Oh, I suppose it was improperly loaded and the lumber unbalanced when the men started to take it off. That’s not what I meant. I meant the way I flew off the handle at Uncle Curran. He’s harmless, you know.”

“He loves you,” Lisa said.

Joel grinned. “I’m aware of that, Miss Bancroft, and I love him, when it comes to that. But I love Marta Cornish more.”

“And she loves you?”

“I’ve asked her to marry me. I didn’t twist her arm when I did it, but she seemed to like the idea.”

“And she still does?”

Joel’s face was as changeable as the overcast sky. Now a smile of sunshine, now a cloud of darkness.

“I haven’t heard otherwise,” he said.

“Forgive me,” Lisa murmured. “I might as well confess. I overheard the tag end of what seemed to be a first-class quarrel when I parked here about an hour ago. Perhaps I was wrong.”

The sunshine came out of the clouds again.

“Oh, that,” Joel said. “Sure, we were having words, but nothing serious. I was just trying to encourage Marta to finish her concerto. Say, maybe you could talk to her, Miss Bancroft. She might listen to you.”

I doubt that, Lisa thought. Martas seldom do. Aloud she said, “What am I supposed to say to her?”

“Anything. Anything that’ll make her go ahead and try. She gets cold feet. She thinks her work isn’t good enough to enter in the competition.”

“Do you think it’s good enough?”

Joel began to play with the glove compartment. The catch was loose. Lisa almost expected him to pull a screwdriver out and fix it on the spot.

“I guess I’m prejudiced,” he said at last, “but I think it’s great. And it has to be, Miss Bancroft. Marta needs to win that competition. She needs the confidence.”

“And the money?” Lisa suggested.

Joel didn’t seem to mind the question. “It would help,” he admitted, “but what she really wants is to take the scholarship and go to Paris to study. I’m all for that, too. I have a few dreams of my own. I’d like to be a real architect someday, have my own office. If I’m entitled to my dream, Marta’s entitled to hers. Everyone has a right to an identity. We all have to feel that we are somebody.”

“Especially if we’re not sure,” Lisa mused.

‘That’s it,” Joel said. “That’s it exactly. Marta’s caught in a vise in this town. She’s Martin Cornish’s daughter, or she’s old man Bell’s granddaughter. She can’t be herself at all. But the Cornish Award is the answer to everything. I have about thirty-five hundred left from my parents’ insurance. I could take Marta away from here tomorrow, if that was the only question; but I don’t want her to just run away. I don’t want her to change her father’s identity for mine. Neither of us could be happy long that way.”

It was wonderful. It was absolutely wonderful to find someone in Bellville who could make sense. And Marta needs it, Lisa thought. She needs this young man more than she knows.

But what of the ghosts of Howard Gleason and Pierre Duval? When Joel talked they vanished; when he fell silent they were still there—the grim unmentionables.

And the best way to get rid of unmentionables is to mention them.

“I’m sure Marta’s told you about her other suitors,” Lisa suggested.

The glove compartment slammed shut with enough force to dislodge a few more screws.

“She has!” Joel answered. “Honestly, now, you haven’t been taken in by all that talk, have you?”

“They’re both dead,” Lisa said.

“Sure they are. And there’s a cemetery out at the edge of town filled with several thousand other dead bodies; but none of them are any more Marta’s responsibility than Gleason and Duval. An accident’s an accident. Don’t you suppose the authorities investigated when Duval fell down the stairs?”

Insurance, Lisa remembered. If the police had investigated, surely the insurance companies would as well.

“What do you suppose your uncle meant about insurance?” she asked.

“How should I know? Some more malicious nonsense he’s picked up, I suppose. Good Lord, Miss Bancroft, if either of those men had left Marta any insurance money, do you think she’d still be in this town? She hates Bellville. She lives here because she has to, that’s all.”

There was something wrong with what Joel was saying, something that didn’t quite add up. Lisa thought about it a moment, and then, “Do you mean that Marta has no money of her own?”

“Not until she comes of age,” Joel said.

“But isn’t that this September?”

Joel looked exasperated. He’d had a hard day and all of these questions weren’t making it any easier.

“What difference does that make?” he demanded. “Do you think I want Marta for her money, or her grandfather’s money, to be exact? I want her to be well. I want her to be free of this nonsense about a Cornish curse. This town’s practically driven her crazy with vicious talk. Gleason’s suicide, for instance. What if he was in love with her? What if he did give up his scholarship so he could stay in Bellville and make a play for her? He failed, that’s all. You can’t blame Marta for that. A girl doesn’t have to marry a man just because he’s in love with her. She’s entitled to her feelings, too! But there’s no use in me wasting any more of your time.”

Joel opened the door and stepped out of the car. The wind was much wilder now. The rain wasn’t far away, and his eyes took cognizance of the fact.

“I’ve got to see that the lumber gets covered,” he said. “And I’m sorry to have bothered you with my troubles, Miss Bancroft. I really am. I just had the crazy idea that you might be able to talk to Marta and help her to get straightened out. But then, it’s not your responsibility, is it?”

He didn’t wait for an answer. He turned and stalked off across the athletic field, tall, broad, and troubled. Lisa watched him go, and all the way back to Masterson House she could ponder the subject of responsibility.

It was almost dusk when Lisa reached the house. The clouds were in dark council over the lake, and all of the little boats with their handkerchief sails had scurried for safe harbor. The rain was on the way, due by nightfall at least, and she had every excuse to sleep on Joel’s request that she talk to Marta. First of all, she had to fill in Johnny on the new developments. Two suitors, both dead. They had them catalogued now in chronological order.

“And both musicians,” Johnny mused. “Maybe she didn’t like their technique.”

“Johnny, be serious!”

“I am serious. I still don’t like this, Lisa, and I don’t like the idea of you horning in. Let Joel What’s-his-name patch up his own love life.”

Lisa walked over to the French windows and threw them open. The house was sheltered by the pines, but the wind was still strong enough to make a small flurry of the papers on the desk. The coolness felt good after the heat of the day. Lisa left the windows open and stepped outside.

“You’re not going to that house now?” Johnny protested.

“I’m just going for a walk,” Lisa said. “I want to think things out.”

Now that she knew the way, there was no need to pick out the path so carefully. And she did want to think—of many things. Why had Joel told his uncle that Marta had left the athletic field some time before that disaster with the lumber truck? Lisa had distinctly heard a woman scream just before the din. Not one of the work crew, certainly. For some reason this thought intrigued her more than the others she’d heard expressed today—except one. And that one was still nagging at her mind when she reached the studio ruins.

Gray, the sky was always gray when she came here. Always threatening. She tried to picture the scene in sunlight, but it didn’t seem possible. This was a tomb.
“I’m not interested in the dead; I’m interested in the living.”
Lisa forced her mind away from contemplation of the ruins. Facts, that’s all that mattered in this practical, ruthless world. Facts.

Fact number one: The professor hadn’t lied that first day in the tearoom. Marta Cornish had had two previous suitors, and they were both dead.

Fact number two: Alistair Hubbard had left his estate for a Martin Cornish memorial ten years ago.

Fact number three: Almost two years later the first Cornish festival was held, the first award given.

Fact number four:

But Lisa didn’t get that far. Fact number four was interesting, but not so interesting as what suddenly began to come to her across the grassy slope. Out of the pines, the sound carried well on the wind. The piano again. That same music, that same theme. This time she was prepared for it. She listened carefully bar by bar. There was no mistaking it. It wasn’t the wind or a trick of the mind.

“Lisa!”

She heard Johnny calling on the path. She could have answered, but she didn’t want to break the spell.

“Lisa, where are you?”

Let Johnny find out for herself. The music was too wonderful to lose. Johnny came toward her from the path, heard but not seen. Lisa’s eyes were only for that huge house on the hilltop. It was the same as before. No light showing. Only the music.

“Lisa! Why didn’t you answer me? You’ve got a caller—”

One hand waved Johnny to silence.

“Do you hear it?” Lisa asked.

Johnny had to hear. Save for the wind, there was no other sound.

“It’s pretty,” she said. “What is it?”

The question was left unanswered. It was Johnny’s response that was important.

“You hear it, too,” Lisa mused. “That makes three of us.”

“Three?”

Johnny looked about suspiciously. She couldn’t understand, of course.

“You, Carrie, and me,” Lisa said. “We’ve all heard the music that nobody plays.”

“What?”

“Because Marta won’t work on her concerto. Nydia told me so the day of the board meeting. And Joel—”

And then the music stopped, unfinished just as before. It was painful to have it stop that way. So much promise, so much soaring hope, and then silence. Complete silence. Not even the angry crashing of chords this time.

Johnny shivered. “What are you trying to do, scare me?” she demanded. “The music nobody plays! Between you and the professor—”

“The professor?”

The unfinished concerto was over now. There was no need to strain the ears any longer.

“Is the professor here?”

“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. He’s up at the house now, and he insists on seeing you right away. What’s up, Lisa? What could have happened to put that nice little man in such a terrible state of nerves?”