Authors: Louis Trimble
“If you’re concealing evidence, Adeline …”
“Not at all,” I said. I put on the gay touch. “Only I happen to know that Tim Larson couldn’t have done it with the weed chopper. Because Mr. Titus Willow had it. Now give that to your coroner’s jury.”
Tiffin and Jocko looked at each other and then at me. Tiffin said, “Who told you that?”
“No statement,” I said, aping him. “You’ll have to subpoena me, Godfrey, to find out.” And feeling childishly triumphant I marched upstairs. I was surprised that they let me go so easily. Surprised and a little worried.
I found Daisy alone for once. She was lying on her bed, and trying to read. When I had been allowed to enter she folded her magazine and put it on the night stand. She said, “Are the police still here?”
“They are,” I said. I sat down. “I hear you had a prowler last night.”
She didn’t ask me how I knew. She nodded vigorously. “A man. In here!”
“How lucky,” I said. “Who was he?”
It went right over her head. “I don’t know who it was,” she admitted. Her eyes were big. “He said he was Arthur and he called me darling and he—he tried to touch me. He grabbed me and I screamed.”
“Maybe he grabbed you because you screamed,” I suggested.
Daisy looked doubtfully at me. “Wouldn’t that have made him run away? I was so scared, I really don’t remember.”
And this was the girl who was supposed to lure Delhart into marriage. I said, “Who do the police think it was?”
“Some thief,” she said. “It wasn’t Arthur, really. I think it was probably a souvenir hunter.”
“Probably,” I agreed. I switched the subjects. “You know there’ll be trouble at the inquest about that scene on the beach the other day.”
“Oh, no! That didn’t mean a thing, honestly.”
“The police don’t seem to think so.”
“It really didn’t,” she said. “I went there to swim. And he came along. And Arthur followed because he is so jealous.” She looked anxiously at me.
“It looked more as if you had run into the water to protect yourself,” I said. “Frew thought so.”
Daisy blushed. “I’ve never swum without a suit,” she confessed. She kept on blushing. “And it was so secluded I thought I’d try. I’d heard it was lots of fun. I didn’t know Mr. Delhart would come along. I really didn’t.”
“Did you tell anyone where you were going?”
“I told mother I was going to walk there. I didn’t tell her I was going swimming.”
“She probably sent Delhart down so he could talk to you alone.”
It was a shot in the dark but it hit home. Daisy nodded. “She did. I was so mad.” She looked as if she were going to cry, remembering it. “But she didn’t know I was going to swim,” she said hastily.
I said, “It wasn’t fair for her to try to make you marry Delhart.”
“Both mother and Daddy wanted me to,” Daisy said.
“And Delhart?”
“He—he wanted to marry me.”
“You’re old enough to say no.”
Daisy was silent. Evidently I was on a touchy subject. I tried a different angle. “The police will go into all of this,” I said. “Because Frew is jealous and—you know how they are.”
“They ask so many questions,” Daisy said.
“I know. And they’ll ask them over and over,” I said. “And if you don’t tell them exactly the same thing each time they’ll raise the devil.”
“They’re awfully mean,” Daisy said.
I suppressed a sigh and kept on trying. Daisy annoyed me. She was willing to talk, to a point. But when it came time to give me the answers I wanted she simply dried up. I didn’t believe she was smart enough to know when to quit talking and I hoped to frighten her into telling me something.
“They’re more than mean,” I said. “They can cause a lot of trouble for you and your mother …” Daisy nodded. “And,” I added, “your father too.”
“That isn’t fair,” Daisy said. “Just because it would have helped Daddy’s work if I married Delhart. It was mother anyway that kept telling me about him.”
“And did you accept him?”
“Yes,” Daisy said. “After that scene on the beach Arthur was so nasty I just told Mr. Delhart I would marry him.”
I repeated myself. “You’re old enough to say no. Even if your mother did want you to.”
“You don’t know mother,” Daisy said. “I had the nicest boy and she made me give him up for Arthur. And when Mr. Delhart got interested in me she wanted me to give Arthur up.” And in the same breath, she added, “Mr. Delhart was ever so much nicer than Arthur.”
I seemed to have her on the run so I pressed my advantage. “Did you tell all of this to the police?”
“No,” she said defiantly. “And I’m not going to. It was all a mistake. Arthur got awfully angry but he wouldn’t kill Mr. Delhart. Honestly.”
It gave Frew a fine motive, though, I thought. And if it had been Mrs. Willow who was killed I could see either Frew or Daisy doing the dirty work. After all, from the way Daisy talked her mother had practically made her give up Frew for Delhart. I wondered how Mrs. Willow felt now with her would-be in-law in the morgue. Probably, I thought, she would search around for someone with more money and prestige than Frew.
I knew I was being catty but I was pleased that Mrs. Willow had not got her way. I did not like the woman. It wasn’t very nice of me to feel that way when it was murder that had cheated her. Here she had held the perfect marriage (from her standpoint) in her hand and death had snatched it from her.
I turned my thoughts from Mrs. Willow to Tim. Certainly Frew’s motive was stronger than Tim’s. If Delhart had wanted to marry Daisy, he must have lost interest in Glory. That could be construed as a motive for Glory. Or Daisy. But it was hard to imagine Daisy killing anything. Not unless Mama told her to. And Mama was not one to egg Daisy into committing financial suicide. And that was what it was. A close relation of Delhart’s, by marriage or otherwise, would hardly have to worry about the next day’s groceries.
“Do you love Frew?” I asked Daisy in a nice, soft voice.
“I hate him! The big baby.”
“Why are you so afraid of your mother?” But I was pushing things too far. I hadn’t been quite subtle enough, evidently. Daisy stiffened like Queen Victoria in the neighborhood of a smutty story.
“You have no reason to say that!” And from then on I couldn’t get another word out of her. She shut her mouth tightly and looked hurt and mad and ready to cry all at once. I gave her my sweetest smile, a pat on the hand, and left.
I went on to find Mrs. Willow. Her room was empty and so I returned to the living room. I saw Hilton just going out through the French doors. I walked faster and caught up with him in the garden.
“Mr. Hilton!” He turned and stopped. There was no expression on his face. I might have been less than the flowers around us for all of the interest he showed. “I was looking for Mrs. Willow,” I said. “But you’ll do.”
“I have no statement,” he said in his dry voice. “I’ve been talking to the police again and I’m tired. I’d rather to be alone if you don’t mind.”
The polite brush-off. I used my most charming smile. It made no dent in him so I said, “But I do mind. I’m interested in your meeting with Glory today.”
Hilton looked as if I had given him a stiff blow in the solar plexus. And then the little anger lines drew down the corners of his mouth. “So you’ve found her!”
“No,” I said, “she didn’t tell me. I’m curious as to your meaning when you said, ‘I won’t do it again. You do your own dirty work from now on.’ ”
Hilton stared at me, and his breath was coming coarsely from his mouth as if he couldn’t control himself inside. I began to see what Frew had meant now. Hilton, angry, was a frightening person. But I didn’t believe he would hurt me. Certainly, not here in bright daylight, with the police all about. So I stood my ground, keeping my smile. It had changed from attempted charm to being plain inquisitive and it felt frozen on my face. My heart hammered so loudly it was drumming in my ears. I was frightened and having a hard time not to show it. Hilton’s anger was showing more plainly on his face as he worked himself to a pitch. For a moment I thought I was wrong and he would strike me.
But suddenly he turned his back to me. He didn’t walk off but stood motionless, his head bowed slightly, his shoulders rigid. When he faced me again he was the perfectly normal, expressionless private secretary.
“It’s a shocking experience to find that one’s most private affairs are going to be exposed to the public,” he said in a smooth apology. He gave a stiff little bow. “Shall we go where we can talk, Miss O’Hara?”
Not too far from civilization, Adeline, I told myself. I said, “The bridge between the ponds?”
Hilton nodded. We walked side by side but silently. From the rear we might have been a companionable couple going for a stroll. But seen face to face, even Tiffin would have sensed a definite restraint.
We came to the bridge and I didn’t stop until I was well in the middle of it and within a full view of the house. Now I could only hope someone was watching. I leaned on one peeled log rail and accepted a cigaret, trying to look at my ease. Hilton leaned alongside me, and it was about as chummy as being palsy with a buzz bomb.
“I won’t attempt to explain my position, Miss O’Hara,” Hilton began in his dry, secretarial voice. “My anger with Glory was purely a personal matter. It has no connection with Mr. Delhart’s death.”
“In that case,” I said, “why didn’t you tell the police where she is—or was?”
Hilton looked at me and smiled. It was a genuine, warm smile! “Have you ever been in love, Miss O’Hara?”
It wasn’t necessary for me to answer, and he didn’t seem to expect one. I understood him. I wasn’t satisfied but that subject was dead. After you’ve interviewed a certain number of people you get the feeling of meeting a blank wall and learn to know when to veer off.
Now I said, “You know, of course, that they’ll have to release Tim Larson tomorrow; no coroner’s jury will recommend he be held.”
“Mr. Tiffin doesn’t seem to agree with you,” Hilton said with a slight smile. Now that the subject was changed he seemed thawed a little. I didn’t know whether to attribute it to the smile of charm I had returned to my face or to the warm sunshine. Anyway, he became quite pleasant. “He’s counting on a quick conviction, I believe.”
“Stop believing,” I said. “Tiffin will find himself back here, starting all over again. Why, he knows he hasn’t enough evidence to convict even if Tim is guilty. Which,” I added, “he isn’t.”
“I reserve my opinion,” Hilton murmured.
I was trying to wriggle around to my subject. I said, “If jealousy is the motive, then Tim’s is weaker than Frew’s.”
“Tim Larson is supposed to have claimed he mistook Delhart for me,” Hilton said. He looked amused.
“It wasn’t that dark,” I said. “Have you read Tim’s confession? It’s a flimsy thing he concocted in less than a minute, I’ll bet. It doesn’t even hang together.”
“Why tell me all this, Miss O’Hara?”
“I’m getting at it,” I said. “I’m trying to show you that Tiffin will be hunting another victim pretty soon. I want to get the jump on him.”
Hilton threw his cigaret into the pond and straightened from the rail. “I see. For your silence on my—ah, shall we say, unfortunate meeting today, I’m to answer a few questions.”
“Let’s say that,” I agreed.
“I’ll do what I can,” Hilton said. No equivocation. He was grateful about it, to say the least; it almost upset my mental processes. I had been set for a little more persuading.
But I rallied and got the first question ready. “What were Mrs. Willow and Delhart arguing about?”
“You get around,” he said tritely but with mild admiration. “All I know is that they argued. It was a cropping up of the past, I think. Sorry.”
“So am I,” I said. “Well, just what did Delhart have on Willow?”
“I don’t quite see …” he began cautiously.
“Wasn’t Delhart trading his own silence for Daisy?”
Hilton attempted a stare of amazement with a bit of the hanging jaw touch. But it fell flat. He kept on trying though. “That would involve cooperation from a number of people,” he said.
“Daisy does what mama says,” I told him.
“I’m afraid their family affairs are not my concern. But Mr. Delhart
was
attracted to Miss Willow. When some men reach a certain age they feel called to, shall we say, recapture their youth?”
“Let’s say it,” I agreed again. “Delhart was forty-five, wasn’t he?”
“Chronologically, age means nothing, you know,” he said smugly.
“It seems to me,” I answered nastily, “that Glory was young enough.”
Hilton looked as if he would walk out on me. So I hurriedly put in my next question. I said, “I understand you and Mr. Willow were pretty thick.”
“You can’t believe what Glory tells you—she drinks a lot,” he said.
“Willow wouldn’t have been misappropriating charity funds by any chance?” I wasn’t shooting in the dark now. I was putting together a few sets of twos and getting fours. When people who handle large sums of money become involved in scandal there is usually one answer. And it isn’t the “X” unknown.
“Ask him,” Hilton answered me stiffly. “Mr. Willow has an excellent reputation.”
“So did a certain president of the Stock Exchange—once,” I said. “And a U. S. Secretary of the Interior. It seems to me,” I added, “this isn’t an even trade.”
“I’m doing all I can,” Hilton argued. He spread his hands to indicate his helplessness. “I was Mr. Delhart’s secretary, you know, and not his hired private investigator.”
“Did he have one?” I asked quickly.
He smiled. “Not that I know of.”
“He did make a will, I suppose?” I asked. I was tired of getting the runaround. This should be one question Hilton could answer.
“Yes,” he said, “he had a will.”
“Can you tell me what was in it—generally?”
Hilton leaned against the opposite railing and stared speculatively at me. “This is the ‘trade’, isn’t it? If I fail on this one my private life gets aired?”
“I always like my pound of flesh,” I admitted.
Hilton shrugged and straightened a little without removing himself from the railing. “Delhart appointed Willow to administer his major charity bequests—providing Delhart died first, of course.”