Authors: Louis Trimble
“I’m halfway there,” I said. I could have kissed Jeff Cook right then. Here was an ally. I knew by reputation that he was a clever, even brilliant police reporter. A good one is over half bloodhound too. I jumped up and tossed a grin at him. “I want to see Mrs. Larson for a few minutes and then go to town. And I’ll trade you a few choice items for a dinner.”
“In Teneskium?” he asked.
I gave him a haughty look. “We have seven hundred people and two cafes,” I stated. “What’s more, there are six beer parlors.”
His laugh followed me as I went out the back door. I wanted to skip like a kid. Jeff’s help made everything look different to me. It was like lifting the weight of centuries from my mind.
I
didn’t skip but I did trot as I followed the gravelled pathway from the house to the Larson’s quarters. Together with a lone maid they occupied a rambling log house near the big garage. The Larson family had the big north end and the maid used a room at the south. Mrs. Larson and Big Swede stayed all year but the maid came and went with Tim and Delhart.
I knocked on the door and Big Swede let me into their living room. It was comfortably filled with old overstuffed furniture. Photographs of Tim hung all over the walls and lined the mantel. There were pictures of Little Swede in various stages of growing up, in high school. In his football and baseball uniforms, in swimming trunks, in the army. These people lived in a world of Little Swede. It hurt to think of him as they must be: sitting abjectly in a jail cell or being bullied in an inhumanly public trial.
“Damn them,” I said to Big Swede.
“Now, Addy, Tim is all right.” His broad Scandinavian face smiled for me. “You’re like Ma. They’ll see it’s wrong before long.”
“It’s stupid,” I said. “Can’t we find an alibi for him? I know he made that confession for Glory.”
He patted my shoulder. “No alibi, Addy. He came in here just before nine and I asked him where he had been and he said, ‘Out to kill that …’ You know what, Addy.” He blushed a little at even hinting profanity to a woman. “And then,” he went on, “Tim said, ‘But someone beat me to it!’ He looked all upset. But he’s all right now. He’s only worried what they’ll do to Glory.”
“They’ll do plenty,” I told him. “Tiffin will. Big Swede, did you tell the police what Tim said?”
“He made me promise not to.” Big Swede patted me again. “And don’t you worry none about Glory. I didn’t think much of her until lately. I guess I was wrong. She’s for Tim.”
Even though I found myself liking Glory Martin I couldn’t make sense out of such people as the old-fashioned Larsons condoning Tim’s choice of Glory Martin. But this was no time to discuss the subject; I said:
“Can I see Ma?”
“She’s sleeping until I fix supper, Addy.”
“I’ll trot off then,” I said. “I’ll be back though.” I hesitated, my hand on the doorknob. “Do you have any ideas? Did Tim say anything else or—well, just any ideas?”
He was surprisingly voluble. “When Tim went to Portland to get the Willows he told me there’d be trouble. Delhart was all excited about their visit. That ain’t like him. Tim said there’d be lots of trouble. He said that young fellow, Frew, would cause trouble. Looks like he did.”
“It’s a good bet,” I agreed. “What else?”
Big Swede’s volubility disappeared. I knew he had something to say and yet he was cautious about saying it. “You know me better than to think I’d violate a confidence, Big Swede,” I said. “Especially if it would hurt you folks or Tim.”
“I wouldn’t want this to get out,” he said slowly. “I mean I ain’t sure, and it might hurt someone. Only I was diggin’ up old bulbs around the house yesterday, there under the study window, and I couldn’t help hearing. I didn’t listen on purpose.”
I nodded.
He said, “It was that Mrs. Willow. I don’t like her much, Addy, but I wouldn’t want to be unfair and hurt her any. She and Delhart was in the library. She was carrying on.” He stopped, looking worried again. It was my turn to pat him. But since I couldn’t reach his shoulder I compromised on his arm.
“She said, real mad-like, ‘You’ve forgot a lot, ain’t you?’ And he said, in that cold way he’s got, ‘? got the power now, Edna.’ ”
I didn’t think that Delhart and Mrs. Willow would talk quite that way but I didn’t stop to correct Big Swede’s grammar.
“Then,” he said, “Delhart shut the window. But I could hear them. She was talking loud and mad and he was quiet. I couldn’t get the words. I didn’t try.”
“I wish you had,” I said. “But you tell Ma not to worry.”
“You bet, Addy.” Big Swede seemed relieved now that the conversation was duly reported and in my hands. I opened the door and he said, “Say, if you see that Willow fellow before I do tell him I found that old hat he was raising Cain about. Only I lost it again.”
I could only gape at him. He went on rapidly: “And I wish he’d bring back my chopping knife. I need it.”
“Your what?”
“Chopping knife, Addy. You know, a big, heavy cleaver. I use it to cut the pond weeds with here in the upper pond. Willow borrowed it the other day. Don’t know what for.”
“Sure,” I managed to say. And I fled.
I
DROVE
N
ELLIE
back to town. Jeff followed in his own car. I pushed Nellie along at a fair rate of speed. Evening was coming down and I was anxious to get away from the forest. I wondered if ever again the trees would be lovely and fragrant for me, and if the Teneskium would ever be anything but a reminder of my awful experience.
I didn’t know how weary I was until I parked Nellie in front of my little house. Then the whole of the previous day and night and this dragged-out day hit me at once. I was glad to lean on Jeff when we went inside.
When the door had closed he sauntered for the couch. I pointed toward the kitchen door. “In there is a bottle, lemons and such. Go mix us a drink.”
He went obediently and I staggered into the bedroom. I stripped off my heavy wrinkled clothing and took a quick, hot shower. I followed it with a cold one. I was beginning to feel refreshed, a little lighter in spirit.
I was selecting a dress when Jeff knocked at the door. I opened it a crack and thrust out a bare arm. Jeff put a pint beer mug into my hand. I withdrew my loot and took a grateful swallow. He had made the drink stout as well as big. And I certainly felt I had earned it.
“Now,” I called out to him, “Call Jud at 214 and ask him how Bosco is getting along.”
He didn’t answer but I heard him at the phone. Finally I yelled, “Well?”
In a minute he called back, “Jud says your kid ate three ice cream cones and drank a can of milk and is doing fine.” There was a pause and then an explosive, “What!” I heard a chair crash over. “Hey, O’Hara, she caught two mice!”
I collapsed on the bed, nearly spilling my drink. I was shaking so with laughter my sides hurt. When I could talk again I got up and leaned against the door and gasped at him, “Bosco is a cat!”
There was an eloquent silence from the living room. But in a moment I heard him talking chummily with Jud. I went back to my dressing.
The shower and the drink and the laughter set me up. I began to think again. I rejected anything frilly in the way of clothing. I had an idea this night might not yet be over. But I was tired of bulky trousers and shoes and a heavy shirt. I compromised.
I chose a soft green dress I had bought since my discharge. It highlighted my hair so I took special pains with that. And with my makeup as well. With green suede pumps, sheer hose, and my grey topcoat and hat to match I felt better and better. And I decided I looked darned nice. To play safe I tucked my old slacks, shirt, and shoes into a zippered beach bag and took it into the living room.
Jeff had finished his conversation and was working on his drink. “Nice guy, that Jud,” he commented. “Knew my father from his old Portland days.” He finished his drink and grinned sheepishly. “You had me going on that Bosco thing,” he admitted. “I thought it was your child.”
“As far as I know,” I said, “I haven’t any. I’m unheralded, unsung, and unwed.” Jeff looked at me but kept silent. I was getting madder by the minute. “Shall we go?” I demanded icily.
He glanced at me with masculine uncomprehension. “Sure,” he said. “I’m hungry.”
We reached the door before I broke down. “Damn it, don’t I look different?”
A smile of understanding hit his face. “Why, O’Hara, I hardly recognized you. Left me breathless.” He stood back and surveyed me critically. “You look swell. Good enough to kiss.” And he kissed me, bouncing out of reach before I could do anything.
I felt better and better.
We went to the Chinaman’s. He ran a laundry and for some reason known only to himself had added a cafe to it. The cafe was a good deal better than the laundry; people came from as far as Salem and Oregon City to eat there but I had never heard of anyone out of town bringing their wash to Teneskium.
I explained this to Jeff. He seemed skeptical of our local eateries and had some absurd idea of driving twenty miles away to a steak house. He was such an indifferent creature that I had a desire to impress him with the town as well as with myself. And the cafe came through. Jeff stuffed himself on pork and rice, fried shrimp and chicken almond, and then condescended to notice me again.
“All right, O’Hara,” he said, “where do we go from here?” He offered me a cigaret, lit it for me, and then filled his pipe for himself.
“Back to the ranch,” I said firmly. “I have to show Tiffin up—and soon.”
Jeff lifted his eyebrows at my vehemence. Hoping it was true that a man is more tractable with a full stomach, I confessed what I had done.
“So,” I said into a steady silence, “that story lead will come out under your by-line.”
“I could call you names, of course,” he said thoughtfully. “Or make a passable attempt at cutting your throat.” He paused to smile pleasantly at me. “But I’ll save it—a more fitting punishment will come in time.”
“That’s nice,” I said. I was relieved he had taken it no worse than this. “But I am right, Jeff. Listen to this!” And I told him all I had learned from Glory and Mrs. Willow and Daisy. And from Big Swede as well. Jeff’s eyes began to glow a little as I talked. His nostrils flared like a bloodhound on the scent.
“This weed chopper. Do you think Delhart was cut with it?”
“Don’t you?”
He nodded. Taking a sheaf of copy paper from his pocket he waved it at me. “And here, my dear, is a condensed version of the police proceedings as given us by our obliging Tiffin. Statements and all.”
“Gimme,” I said.
“I’ll read them to you,” he said. “Here’s the summary first.”
The doctor, Jeff stated, put the time of death at about nine-thirty at night. From the type of wound it seemed that Delhart had lived perhaps an hour after being struck. Surely, not much more. So the police put the time of attack at approximately eight-thirty. They traced Delhart’s evening so as to come as close to this time as possible.
At eight p.m. he was having brandy and cigars in his living room with Titus Willow. Willow was certain of the time because Hilton came into the room and told Delhart it was eight and his call was through to Portland. The call was to his attorney and Hilton did not stay to hear it.
At eight-fifteen Hilton saw Delhart leave the house. Hilton was showing Mrs. Willow the prize rose bushes in the garden at the time. And Delhart seemed to be heading toward the servant’s quarters.
Big Swede said that Delhart called him outside and gave him instructions to clean out the near end of the upper pond. There was too much weed growth in it. Big Swede then returned to his living room and Delhart went toward the ponds. It was 8:20. Big Swede remembered because he was annoyed at having missed five minutes of his favorite radio serial which began at eight-fifteen.
Delhart had asked Big Swede of Tim’s whereabouts. Big Swede had not known and Delhart seemed impatient and irritable. But he said that it made no difference.
Jeff glanced up at this point. “So we have Delhart going off toward the ponds at eight-twenty, O’Hara. I timed a walk from the servant’s quarters to the dam and it took me ten minutes at a steady clip.”
“He was probably killed after eight-thirty,” I said. It surprised me to find I could regard Delhart so objectively now after my hideous contact with his mutilated body. Or perhaps it was because of that contact. I said, “All we really know is that it was nine-thirty when Glory came into the house. It took her at least ten minutes to get there from the dam. The doctor could be wrong and Delhart could have been attacked anywhere between eight-thirty and nine-twenty.”
“Sure,” said Jeff, jumping at my arguments, “only at nine you walked into the house and everyone was there but Glory and the Larsons. So unless it was Little Swede the time is cut to a period between eight-thirty and eight-fifty. Less than that, O’Hara. The murderer had to make his attack and then get back into the living room. Also, there must have been some blood on his clothing. Or water or dirt. That had to be got rid of.”
I agreed. “Go to work on everyone’s statements,” I said, “and we’ll see how they fit that idea.”
“I’ve barely glanced at them myself,” Jeff admitted. “In order received, here they are:
“Titus Willow, having finished his coffee and cigar, became annoyed. Delhart had been discussing a future charity donation with him and Willow thought it poor taste for Delhart not to return from his phone call and finish the discussion.
“When Willow had waited around approximately twenty minutes he left the house. He strolled around, hoping to run across Delhart. He found no one, in the garden or elsewhere. Being slightly uncomfortable from too much food, he decided to walk off both the effects of the meal and his annoyance.
“He followed a gravelled path that led him through the wood-lot in front of and to one side of the house. The path took him onto the road. Since it was getting deep dusk he turned around and followed the same path back to the house. As he entered the front door he heard the sounds of an old car laboring across the bridge. He went directly to the living room, and a few minutes later you came in. He judged the time of his arrival to be shortly before nine o’clock.