Hanged for a Sheep (11 page)

He had not returned to his mother's house immediately, however. It occurred to him that Brack and Clem might have gone somewhere else and he had tried a few of the better known and more likely spots. He had had a drink at the bar in each and then, cooler, had realized the futility of his search. Clem and Ross Brack might be anywhere in the city, up town or down, east-side, west-side. The major, finishing a final night-cap at a final bar, gave it up. He went back to the house and let himself in.

“And,” Weigand said, “went on to bed?”

“Naturally,” the major said. “Two o'clock by then. Late for me, eh?”

“Not,” Weigand insisted, “stopping anywhere?”

“Obviously,” the major said, sounding a little puzzled. “Oh, I see what you mean. Bathroom, of course.”

“Nowhere else?”

The major started to shake his head and stopped. Then, slowly, he said, “My God!”

“I went into the breakfast room,” he said. “Through it, anyway—to the pantry. Sand leaves cheese out for us. And things.”

“Yes,” Weigand said. “And you saw the body?”

“So help me,” the major said. “There wasn't any body. There wasn't anything. I just went through the room, which was dark, went into the pantry, lighted a light, got a sandwich, turned out the light and went back through the breakfast room and—went up stairs.” He stared at Weigand.

“You believe that?” he challenged. “Better. I didn't kill Anthony. Why should I?”

“I don't know,” Weigand said. “There might be several reasons, Major. Perhaps he was going to get too much money under your mother's will. Because, Major, somebody tried to poison your mother. And, perhaps, after that attempt failed, remembered—or found out—that Stephen Anthony would get a large part of the estate if she died. And then decided to kill Anthony first, before having another trial at Mrs. Buddie. Does that sound reasonable, Major?”

“Not to me,” the major said. “Damn nonsense. Sounds like the theory of a fool.”

Weigand was unperturbed. He said there could be other theories. Then he spoke quickly.

“By the way, Major,” he said. “Wasn't it Anthony who first told you about your daughter and Brack?”

The major stared at him.

“What if it was?” he said. “You don't kill a man for doing you a service.”

“Right,” Weigand said. “You don't kill a man for doing you a service. If it is a service. And if he doesn't want to be paid too much for it.” Weigand leaned forward suddenly, intentionally dramatic. “What was Anthony blackmailing you about, Major?” he demanded.

The major's face was not normally expressive. It was hard, now, to tell what he thought. But to Pam, watching, it seemed that the eyelids blinked over the blue eyes, as if protecting them from a threatening hand. But when the major spoke, his voice was quiet—almost too quiet.

“Blackmailing me, Lieutenant?” he repeated. “Damn nonsense. He wasn't blackmailing me.” There was the faintest possible emphasis on the last word, as if the major's mind had tricked his voice. Apparently he heard it. “Or anybody,” he added, quickly. “So far as I know.”

Weigand looked at him for long seconds. Then he leaned back in the chair.

“All right, Major Buddie,” he said. “That will be all, now. Thank you.”

The major stood up. He looked down at Weigand.

“How about my gun?” he said. “Do I get it back? It's an issue gun.”

Weigand looked up at him and slowly shook his head.

“Not right now, major,” he said. “Eventually—I hope. But right now the boys in ballistics will want to look it over.” He paused. “You see, major,” he said. “Right now it's the only gun we've come across. And Anthony was shot.” He looked at the gun. “With a .45, probably,” he added. “Like this. We'll know more when we find the bullet.”

The major stared at him.

“That's not the gun, Lieutenant,” he said. He said it in a tone of finality. But Weigand's face revealed nothing.

“I hope not, Major,” he said. “For your sake, I hope not.”

Weigand and Pam and Mullins watched the major turn on his heel and march to the door. There was a faint smile on Weigand's face.

“I
do
hope not,” he said. “I like your cocky little cousin, Pam. I'd rather pick on someone else.”

He continued to gaze after the major. Then he brought his attention back.

“And so I must,” he added. “Get Miss Clem Buddie, Mullins, will you?”

Mullins said, “O.K., Loot,” and rumbled off. Weigand laid the automatic on a table nearby. He looked at Pam and half-smiled and shook his head. She misinterpreted the gesture and started to get up.

“No, Pam,” he said. “Stick around. You may be useful.”

Pam stuck around.

Clem came and she was lovely and all bravado. She had seen Brack in the house, or had been told about him, and she was armed against questioning. Her first remark was to prove her confidence and indifference.

“Lieutenant,” she said, standing in the door. She was wearing slacks, now, and a pale green sweater and she looked as if she were masquerading in the clothes of a little girl. “Lieutenant, I think it's absurd with all you policemen around. But somebody's gone off with Nemo's leash. His new leash.”

Weigand looked at her, as if she had made a reasonable and expected remark.

“Come in, Miss Buddie,” he said. “Sit down. Perhaps we can find it for you. I gather Nemo is a dog?”

“Definitely,” Clem Buddie assured him. “A cocker. And the leash is green and made of braided leather. Judy just got it for him the other day, and it's gone.”

“Well,” Weigand said, “we'll let you know if we come across it. We probably will. Meanwhile, there are one or two other things.” He paused and looked at her, saw her get ready. She was not as poised as she thought she was, he decided. “About Ross Brack, of course,” he said.

She was ready for that.

“Ross Brack has nothing to do with any of this,” she said. “Or with you. He doesn't like policemen.”

“No,” Weigand said, “I don't suppose he does. But that isn't the point, Miss Buddie.” He broke off, began again. “I won't pry into anything, Miss Buddie,” he told her. “Not unless it becomes necessary. All I want now is to know where you and Brack were last night. And don't tell me you were here in the house, because we know you weren't.”

“I went out,” Clem said. “By myself. Not with Ross.”

“You left the house some time after eleven,” Weigand clarified. “You went by yourself. You were not with Brack. Where were you, Miss Buddie? Who were you with?”

“Whom,” Pam thought to herself. But it was no time to bring it up.

“I wasn't with anybody,” Clem Buddie said. “I—I just went for a walk. I couldn't sleep.”

Weigand looked amused. She didn't like him to look amused, and showed it.

“Try again, Miss Buddie,” he suggested. “Make it better, this time.”

“I may have dropped in some place,” she said. “To get warm. I wasn't out long.”

“A drug store?” Weigand suggested. “A lunch counter? Or a bar, perhaps?”

“What difference does it make?” she demanded. “What business is it of yours?”

There was a man dead, Weigand explained, as if to a child. She didn't like that, either. He had been killed somewhere around one o'clock, earlier or later. He was investigating the murder. He had to find out where everyone was.

“You're old enough to appreciate that, Miss Buddie,” he said. “You're not a little girl. And I doubt if you're a fool—enough of a fool not to understand that you have to account for your time. Or enough of a fool to go walking around New York in the middle of the night without reason. Where did you go? And why?”

She didn't say anything.

“You went out to meet Brack,” he insisted. “Did you meet him?”

Still there was no answer.

“Or did he stand you up?” Weigand went on, pressing. “As he did earlier in the evening.”

The girl stared up at him. She was flushed.

“Leave me alone, can't you?” she demanded. “Leave me alone!”

“When you tell me,” Weigand said. “You went to meet Brack. He didn't show up. Where?”

He waited, giving her time, leaving it up to her and leaving her conscious of the weight of time and of his certainty.

“All right,” she said. “All right. Damn you! The Grand Central.”

“Why?” he said. “Why the Grand Central?”

“Oh,” she said. “Because there are always people there—and a girl can be alone there without attracting attention. We—we often meet there. And maybe go into the oyster bar and then go some place else.” She defended herself, unexpectedly. “Lots of people do,” she said.

Weigand nodded. It seemed reasonable.

“And he didn't come,” he said, stating a fact. “How long did you wait, Miss Buddie?”

“About half an hour or—longer.” Her voice was low, but she wasn't fighting him now. “Then I knew he wasn't coming. The way he hadn't come for cocktails, after he promised.”

She sounded miserable.

“Somebody's done something,” she said. “Somebody's made him change.”

Now she sounded, as well as looked, like a little girl. Pam wanted to go to her, and her wish was reflected in the small beginning of a movement from her chair. But Bill Weigand caught her eye and shook his head, just perceptibly. She looked hard at him, trying to tell him something.

“Don't tell her about the money,” Pam tried to tell Bill Weigand with her eyes. “Don't tell her he was
paid
not to meet her.”

There was something in his eyes which made her sure Bill had caught her message. Or had not, even without it, planned to tell Clem Buddie that Brack was for sale; that, to him, she was for sale.

“So,” Weigand said. “You went to meet Brack. You didn't meet him. You waited half an hour or so. Then you came home?”

“I had an oyster stew,” Clem said, her voice very small. “I was hungry.”

It was disarming, Pam thought—utterly disarming. And it made her feel better about her young cousin. Something which wanted to be a smile twitched at Bill Weigand's lips and was sent packing. His voice was quiet and level, and revealed nothing.

“Then you came home,” he said. “After the stew. When did you get here?”

She didn't know, exactly.

“I wasn't thinking about time,” she said. “It was late. It was—wait a minute. It was about one when I left the station. I remember a clock. I took a cab home. It took about—oh, ten minutes. Perhaps fifteen, from the time I saw the clock. It must have been about a quarter after one when I got here.”

Weigand was interested. Pam could tell it from his voice, and from his eyes.

“And you saw nothing?” he said. “Heard nothing. In the breakfast room, I mean?”

The girl shook her head.

“I didn't notice,” she said. “There wasn't, anyway, anything big enough to notice. I didn't see anybody, or hear anything. I suppose you mean a shot?”

“A shot,” Weigand agreed. “Or anything else.”

She shook her head. Then she seemed to remember something.

“There was a funny smell,” she said. “Like—like Fourth of July, in a way. That—” She broke off then, and her eyes grew wide. She was very much like a little girl, now.

“Yes,” Weigand said. “A powder smell, but this time not from fireworks. You got here—well, within a few minutes. Anthony had just finished dying.”

“But I didn't see anyone,” the girl insisted. “Or hear anyone.”

“Then,” Weigand said, “you were lucky.”

She waited, saying nothing. After a moment he told her that was all, for now.

“But,” he said, “I may have to have the whole story—later. Be thinking that over, Miss Buddie.”

She still said nothing. She was still lovely when she went out, but she was no longer defiant.

“The poor child,” Pam said, watching her and looking after her still when she had gone out of sight down the hall. “The poor child—what a mess!”

“You believe her, don't you?” Weigand said. His voice held no comment.

“Of course,” Pam said. “Anybody could tell. It was just as she says. Don't you?”

“It would be nice to know, Pam,” Bill told her. “You think it's obvious?”

“Of course,” Pam said. She was very decisive. “Nobody could make up the oyster stew.”

Weigand smiled. Oddly enough, he told her, that was the point he had hit on. Nobody could make up the oyster stew—or, rather, nobody
would
make up the oyster stew. Pam said she was pleased with him.

“Now what?” she said.

Now, Weigand told her, some odds and ends. An automatic to be sent to ballistics; reports to listen to. “And,” he said, gloomily, “Deputy Chief Inspector Artemus O'Malley. Dear old Arty. He likes to be in on things. And George Sand to talk to.” He hesitated over the name.

“At first,” Pam said, “I always used to think of George Eliot. And once I called him Silas Marner. Although they were really quite different, except for the names.”

Weigand was already thinking of other things.

“It sounds dull,” Pam said. “Particularly Arty. I think I'll go see the cats. The poor morsels aren't seeing
anything
.”

Bill did not object. Pam went up to her room and talked to the cats. But the cats were engrossed with each other, and merely used her to run across. They were so active that it tired her to watch them, and then she thought of telephoning Jerry. It was thoughtful of Aunt Flora, Pam thought, to have an extension in the guest room.

There was somebody—some policeman, probably—talking on the phone when she first tried. She hung up, waited a moment and tried again. This time the line was clear. She dialed the operator.