Skeleton Key (13 page)

“Didn't mention one. Why?”

“Mrs. D. was in a hurry to change the guest-room bed. She was up there tearing at it, ten minutes after you went in to talk to her.”

“The guest room? Which one is that? Oh, the one to the south.” Nelsing turned to look up at it. “How did you know which—no, never mind answering… Queer,” he murmured just audibly, “I thought they shared the north bedroom. She said they were together when—”

He shook his head, and walked briskly down the road to the Freys'. Georgine watched him ring the bell, and saw the door open and the tall figure vanish.

A moment later she heard Peter Frey's voice once more. He must be standing by the open kitchen window, which faced on the street. “I brought him,” the voice said, loud and flat. “I brought Hollister to this place.”

Still softly, Todd McKinnon said, “It seems that nobody escapes. I'd have said that Roy Hollister was nothing to these people, besides being the warden; but what'll you bet they're all bound up somehow in the matter of his death? All of 'em, every one on this street.”

“Not me,” said Georgine firmly. “I'm going home now.”

The Devlins' door opened and Sheila Devlin came out, crossing the road with a swift stride. “Mrs. Wyeth,” she said in a tone of such cold fury that Georgine took an involuntary step backward, “you brought that man here. I saw you drive up together. You encouraged him to pry into our private lives, to ask questions, to—to suspect us of being untruthful. You did that. May I ask why you interest yourself in us?”

Georgine thought,
I mustn't get mad, I absolutely must not lose my temper
. “Mrs. Devlin, I had no intention of making trouble for you; just the contrary. It was to prove that Ricky wasn't responsible.”

“That was very good of you,” said Mrs. Devlin coldly, “but I can defend my son if it's necessary. And it's not! Ricky has never in his life done anything wrong. He was asleep in bed last night when the siren sounded. I—I saw him. I went down to his room and looked in,” she said with nervous emphasis. “He heard me, he said so.”

She saw him?
Georgine thought;
but she didn't say that last night! She's not trying to make us believe a lie? If so, emphasis isn't the way to do it
…

“It's unnecessary that we should be annoyed this way—questioned by a police officer! We should be allowed to forget this”—her large hand went out, gesturing down the road—“as soon as possible. You'll oblige me, Mrs. Wyeth, by not trying to help again.”

Her long bony face didn't look sweet nor saintly now. It looked frightened. The dark head inclined jerkily, and Sheila Devlin turned and went back into her own house.

“Well, for heaven's
sake
,” Georgine said. Her chin jutted out. “And all in such a ladylike voice, too! I wish I'd taken that trowel of yours and whacked her one!”

“Easy on,” said Mr. McKinnon, with his subterranean chuckle. “Looks as if you started something, getting Nelse up here. Well, a few of us will be grateful, if Mrs. Devlin isn't.”

“I'm so glad you're enjoying this,” Georgine snapped. “And now I
am
going home, before somebody else slaps me in the face!”

She gardened energetically for half the afternoon, in her landlords' back yard. Get your hands in the dirt, gardening enthusiasts suggested, and go back to Mother Nature; that was how to forget your troubles and problems. Oh, indeed? How did you keep your brain from picking up phrases and irrelevant memories and churning round with them like a washing machine?

Skeleton keys
, Georgine thought
; a light that was off one night and on the next; the line of sweat on Ricky Devlin's lip; Professor Paev and his lists, and the mean joke someone had played on him—if it was a joke; if someone had played it. Inspector Nelsing, tapping his forefinger on the desk: Inspector Howard Nelsing, saying, “I may need you to help me.”

Only he hadn't. He'd seemingly forgotten all about her, left her to cool her heels in the middle of the street. He seemed to he interested in the Grettry Road people, though; he might be there for two or three days.

Of course she'd have to keep on going there until she finished her typing.

It was mid-afternoon when she realized that someone was leaning on the back fence; without turning her head she knew who it was, for a lively solo on the mouth-organ had announced the presence. As she stood up, trying to brush heavy adobe soil from the knees of her slacks, Mr. Todd McKinnon lowered his instrument and remarked in a tentative voice, “Be mine, Mrs. Nickleby.”

Georgine grinned. “Throw a few cucumbers at me, and I'll consider it. Come in, won't you?”

She was rather astonished to see him measured against the high fence; those lean, narrowly built men often looked taller than they actually were. He was glancing along the fence. “Must I go clear round the block, or climb over?”

“There's a gate farther along. It may stick a bit, I never use it; that back lot is too weedy and bushy.”

“Very handy,” said Mr. McKinnon approvingly, finding the gate-latch. “This short-cut gets me here from my apartment in no time.”

H'm; did he mean to beat a little path to her door? She discovered that the prospect wasn't unpleasant; he had a gift of accepting people as they were, making them feel comfortable. “Can you find a place to sit down?” she said, kneeling again to gather up her tools.

He appeared to fold up all at once, like one of those bedtrays; when she looked up there he was, cross-legged on the grass. “Nice,” he said, with a comprehensive look around the enclosed garden.

“What was that tune you were playing over the fence?” Georgine said. “Catchy, somehow; I've heard it once or twice on the radio.”

“It's called
Jingle Jangle
.”

“Of course. Isn't that the one about, ‘Oh, ain't you glad you're single?'”

“It is, and I am.” said McKinnon. “Forgive me, Mrs. Wyeth, I seem to have got settled without waiting for you. How about sitting on the ground and telling sad stories of the death of wardens?”

Georgine also sat cross-legged. “I was expecting this,” she said. “You seemed to be consumed with curiosity.”

“Not just the vulgar kind; more of a serious study.”

“There's no way out, is there? Everyone's going to want to discuss Hollister.”

The far-off twinkle came into his eyes. “What have you been thinking of all afternoon?”

“Hollister,” said Georgine, laughing. “But what's your serious study? Are you—you're not connected with the police yourself?”

“Only in a friendly way, I assure you. I pursue them. I make their off hours hideous, asking questions.”

“Oh. A crime reporter. No? But you said you made your living at it.”

Mr. McKinnon sighed guiltily. “I write detective stories.”

“I'm afraid I've never—”

“You wouldn't. They come out in the pulpwood magazines, under five or six pen names. Hack work, but I can live on it. I'm no creative artist; I can't get started without some knowledge of a real crime—the surroundings, the people, the background.” He offered her a cigarette, his voice running smoothly on. She had never met anyone who could talk so much without tiring one's ears. “Given one good complicated crime, I'm off to six or seven stories. You see where the police come in; sometimes they'll describe old cases, the ones that were closed years ago, and those are nearly as good as fresh ones. Just the same, I'm getting an awful kick out of being in on the ground floor.”

“No wonder Inspector Nelsing thought you'd be sick because you weren't on hand last night.”

“Yes,” said McKinnon, looking off into space, “It's a pity I wasn't. But you were, and I'd like to get your impressions. You make anything of it, Watson?”

“Nothing but complete confusion. You probably know as much about it as I, by now; except that Professor Paev was lured off the Road by a low impostor who pretended to be one of the University Regents.”

“Was he, indeed!” said McKinnon, his agate eyes direct and intent upon her. “Would you mind telling me the whole story?”

She told it. The scattered bits of information were now arranged neatly in her mind but still meant nothing.

He listened with rigid attention. When she had finished, “But, Mrs. Wyeth!” he said. “This is interesting. It's better than I'd thought. It begins to look like premeditation, as if somebody tried to arrange that the whole end of the road should be clear of witnesses. Did anyone know you were to stay over for the evening?”

“On the contrary. I told Mrs. Gillespie I was going home.”

“Would she have spread that news, do you think?”

“She wouldn't have had to,” Georgine said. “We were talking about it in the garden, anyone who was around could have heard us.”

“There you are. That fact alone might not mean much, but combined with the Carmichaels' light it begins to look like business. Someone turned on that light to make sure of Hollister's being in a certain place in the road; and the light could have been arranged any time after Wednesday night. Anyone could have gone into that garden without being conspicuous. We all had the excuse of picking the old ladies' flowers.”

She thought,
Ralph Stort was in there, and seemed to feel he had to explain his presence. Was Hollister the person who had “tortured” him?
It almost looked that way. Horrible, how your mind ran on; and the minute you allowed a suspicion to creep in, the whole thing got too concrete.

“Do you believe all that?” she said.

“Well, not as absolute gospel,” said McKinnon mildly. “Maybe the light turned itself on at some vibration. Maybe the car did get loose by accident; that flapping top might have given the illusion of a person in the driver's seat. But naturally I prefer it the other way. I can do a nice job with it. Put somebody in that car, bent on murder, thinking there was nobody at home from the Gillespies down. Then think of the shock to that person when your voice came out of the darkness, just at the moment when he was walking up the road to safety.”

“If I didn't imagine those footsteps.”

“For my purposes, you didn't. Then there's Hollister,” he went on musingly, “tramping around with his pocket full of skeleton keys. There's a picturesque detail I'd never have thought up myself, because it doesn't seem to fit. More than likely it's irrelevant. He could have got hold of 'em somewhere and kept 'em to get into houses where people had gone away and left lights burning. It'd be like the poor guy. He took his warden job seriously.”

“Didn't he, just.” Georgine shook her head pityingly. “All that methodical zeal—”

“—Putting him on the spot,” McKinnon caught up her sentence. “He must have looked round; think of that, too; hearing something rushing down on top of you, turning, trying to dodge instinctively, still not knowing quite what it was until you went sailing through the air—or fell, and felt that weight crushing your chest in—I'm sorry, Mrs. Wyeth, I'm
sorry
. I didn't want to upset you. Completely thoughtless of me.”

“It's all right,” said Georgine faintly, “only it seemed so horribly real from Hollister's point of view. It's dreadful, when you come to think of it, how hardly anyone considers the feelings of the—the one who got killed. It doesn't matter if you liked him or not, it's—”

“Please forgive me,” McKinnon said gravely. He laid his hand on hers for a moment. “Did it sound as if I were gloating over the details? I can't help seeing it vividly, you know. And believe me, this isn't a Roman holiday.”

She looked at him. She said slowly, “Are you sure?”

“Completely sure.” Their eyes held for a minute. “If we can imagine accurately enough what goes on in people's minds and feelings, we get some indication of how they'll act. It works backwards, too. It's one of the most serious studies on earth to figure out what went on in a murderer's mind, what lay there for days, weeks, years before his crime—or sometimes only for minutes, as long as would be needed to work up a murderous impulse.”

“Dear me,” said Georgine, somewhat recovered, “you sound like one of those psychological detectives that the police turn to when they're completely baffled.”

McKinnon laughed aloud, abruptly. “Couldn't be farther from it—if there ever was anyone like that. The force tolerates me politely, and that's about all. If they're in a good mood they may give me a little information—after it's been made public.”

“And do you give
them
any?”

“Now and then.” He chuckled again, ruefully. “Usually I find out they've known it all along, and they're a dam' sight better than I at digging up actual motives.”

“Yes. That's a slight snag, the motive.”