Skeleton Key (21 page)

He stepped suddenly to the walk, intercepting the first of an excited group of neighbors. “Just an accident, ladies and gentlemen,” he said smoothly. “This lady and I managed to jump out of the way in time. Yes, a big flowerpot; you can see for yourselves.—Get her into the house, Mac,” he flung over his shoulder. “Carry her if you have to. No, I forgot. I'll do it.”

“I can walk,” said Georgine crossly. “I'm all right.”

There was a blank interval, and she found herself miraculously on her feet, going up her own front steps. “That could have killed us,” she said earnestly to McKinnon. “That could have killed both of us. That could have—”

“Yes, I know. Sit down a minute, and let's see what that fall did to you.”

The sight brought back her senses with a rush. “My stockings!” Georgine wailed. “My last good ones, in
rags!
”

McKinnon materialized from the bathroom with a bowl and a washrag. He passed the cloth gently and expertly over her face, brushed leaves and twigs from her hair, and then turned his attention to her knees. “You took most of the skin off your legs, too,” he remarked mildly. “Bleeding in one or two places.”

“Skin grows in again,” Georgine snapped. “Nylon doesn't. Oh,
dear
. And not another pair to be h-had for love or money.” Her voice was perfectly all right, except for an annoying tendency to break in the middle of words.

“She hurt?” Nelsing said, coming in and closing the door behind him. “Sorry I had to throw you around, Mrs. Wyeth.”

“D-don't mention it.” She gave a little gasp of laughter. “You—you—just in time…”

His small gesture silenced her. “Mac,” he said deliberately, “how long have you been here? Where were you?”

McKinnon did not look up from his task of applying iodine and gauze. “About twenty minutes. Sitting on the steps.”

“You were”—Georgine began faintly—“you were playing—”

“I heard you coming, and I was afraid I'd startle you if you happened on me suddenly. I knew you were out, Mrs. Wyeth; you and Nelse passed me on your way up to the Road.”

Nelsing stood looking down at him, his blue eyes cold and remote. “How did you get into the garden without pulling that thing down on
your
head?”

“Came in the back way,” said Mr. McKinnon casually. “I've made a habit of it, luckily.”

“A habit?”

“Yes. I've called on Mrs. Wyeth once or twice.” He finished the bandaging and rose, meeting Nelsing's eyes for the first time. “Want to make something of it?”

“No. A call's innocent enough. That contraption, out there”—Nelsing gestured over his shoulder—“that was malice. Somebody figured on a ten-to-one chance of killing
her
.”

“Not I, I assure you,” said McKinnon. “Somebody else. Take that suspicious look off your face, Nelse. Don't you get the similarity? Somebody who hasn't quite the guts to use a gun or knife, somebody who takes these chancey methods—running a man down with an automobile, setting a trap that may or may not work—leaving a loophole for the victim to escape through, to soothe his conscience—” He looked round at Georgine, his straight sandy brows drawn together. “But why you?”

She sat upright, an incoherent jumble of words forcing their way out. “How should I—I won't be classed with Hollister, that's a lot of—you know I've had nothing to do with this in any way, b-both of you know that!”

“But you were there when Hollister died,” McKinnon said, looking at her intently. “If you were a witness, perhaps someone wants to put you out of the way.” His eyes glinted suddenly. “By God, Nelse,” he said in a hushed voice, “it's the Nervous Murderer. Old Number Four.”

“What are you holding back, Mrs. Wyeth?” said Nelsing.

“Nothing!” Georgine got to her feet, found they wouldn't support her, and fell back on the couch. The room began to tilt oddly across her blurred vision.

“Here,” said McKinnon quickly, “lie down. Put your feet on this pillow.”

“I'm all right. D-Don't fuss.”

“You look mighty pale for a well woman,” said the quiet voice.

“Well, I feel pale. But don't fuss over me, please! Just g-go on talking for a few minutes.”

She let her eyelids fall. She could hear the two men moving about the small brown room; plenty of noise they made, too, their feet clumped so in those big shoes… Funny sound in this house of women; no men in your life for seven years, and then suddenly two at once.

She heard McKinnon's voice, running on without cessation, without hurry. “I thought for a while this one might be a standpatter. Thought it with hope, I'll admit, because I've never seen one yet. It would have been a good set-up, come to think of it: a murder committed on impulse, or almost so, and then—just nothing. No panic, no give-away, no evidence. You haven't got any material evidence, have you, Nelse? I thought not. Someone was smart enough not to leave fingerprints.”

His voice faded away and resumed from another point in the house. What was he doing in the kitchen, opening and shutting cupboards? “But this attack comes along, and Number One is out. A standpatter would hardly take a chance like this. Number Two wouldn't either; the Perfect Murderer. He makes his plans in advance, and arranges to leave no evidence, or to frame someone else. And it isn't often he repeats. Repeaters choose simpler methods.”

He was back beside her. “Come on, Mrs. Wyeth, turn your head and take a sip of this.”

She smelled alcohol. “Where'd you find that sherry?” she murmured dizzily. “There wasn't much left…”

“Drink it,” Nelsing's deep voice commanded her. “It'll do you good. Too bad you haven't any brandy.”

“Go on talking,” Georgine said, managing to rise on her elbow and drink a little of the sherry. It wasn't much good, but it warmed that icy place in her chest. “What were you j-jabbering about, number one and number two?”

“The types of murderer-character,” McKinnon said.

“He's got theories,” Nelsing observed.

“No sneering for the duration, if you please,” McKinnon requested as lightly as ever. Then his voice took on once more the tone of a lecturer fascinated with his subject. “As every murder investigation develops, it reveals a pattern; and that pattern is caused by the character of the murderer. There are approximately seven types. Number One, the Standpatter; Number Two, the Perfect Murderer—you can spot him,” McKinnon interrupted himself with a ghostly chuckle, “because he's thought it out so cleverly that he usually forgets some simple li'le point and trips himself up. Number Three, the Repeater. Repeaters come under two heads: the sort who kill for money, over and over, get themselves made beneficiaries of insurance and then get to work with the poison or what not; and the sort who kill for ritual or with a kind of sadistic pleasure. Most of them want to be on the spot to see the victims die, and all of them, peculiarly enough, choose victims who are alike, who belong to the same, uh, ancient profession, for example. But in this case,” the pacing feet came to a stop, “I don't believe we've got a Repeater, because there's no connection between you and Hollister in anybody's wildest moments of imagination, including mine.”

“He thinks there is,” said Georgine vengefully, opening her eyes to look at Nelsing. His expression did not change. Todd McKinnon lifted her upright and put a pillow behind her. “There,” he said. “Feeling better? Want me to go on while you finish your drink? Well, there's Number Four, the Nervous Murderer. We'll come to him in a minute. Number Five, the Damn Fool. He leaves a trail a yard wide, all the evidence pointing to himself, but just the same he'll deny his guilt up and down. Once in a long while you'll find one like that who just happens to be innocent.”

He strolled up and down, his hands in the pockets of his tweed jacket. He seemed completely immersed in his own theories, but he was watching Georgine narrowly if covertly. “Number Six you might call Policeman's Li'le Helper. He's frank and cheerful and comes round to the police with theories and evidence that'll point to somebody else, or mix 'em up. They're supposed to overlook him, because he's so coöperative. Of course,” continued Mr. McKinnon smoothly, “I don't count political assassins, nor hopheads. The homicidal maniac is out too.”

“Huh,” Nelsing said, almost snorting. He was sitting quietly, patiently, on the hard seat beside the fireplace, his arms tightly folded across his chest. His grave eyes watched McKinnon, occasionally shifting to Georgine.

“Out for fiction purposes, I mean,” said Mr. McKinnon, gently reproachful. “There's only one type of maniac I can recognize, and that's Number Seven; the sort of person who's not mad on the surface, but hides a twisted mind under a perfectly normal appearance. With that type again, there's usually some sort of plan or obsession, traceable through the pattern; and again, I'll be damned if I can think of any similarity between a virtuous young housewife who's doing a li'le typing on the side, and a retired detective.”

“A hired thief,” said Georgine bluntly, without thinking. Nelsing opened his mouth as if to stop her, but McKinnon was in ahead of him. “Thief?” he said, struck with a kind of holy joy. “Whose house was he going to burgle? No, wait; I think I know. The Professor's, because the old boy was lured away for the evening. Right?”

“Near enough,” Nelsing grunted.

“Okay, so there's even less connection.” He swept on. “But the Nervous Murderer, Number Four; there's my pal. He leaves his mark as plain as an oily fingerprint; as soon as he begins to act in character, the pattern shows it. He's the standpatter gone wrong. He can't let well enough alone, he tries to escape or to go back and clean up evidence—
or
he's so nervous that he takes a crack at a possible witness. And damn it if this bird doesn't look like that type. You agree with me, Nelsing?”

“Maybe,'” Nelsing said. “Well, are you through with your little bedtime story? Then—if you're feeling quite recovered, Mrs. Wyeth, may we discuss the solid evidence?”

“I guess so,” Georgine said. She had been considerably revived by the sherry and the even, impersonal flow of McKinnon's voice had given her mind a chance at adjustment. He said now, “I haven't a cigarette on me. Will you give her one, Nelse?”

“All right, Uncle,” said the Inspector a trifle grimly, lighting the cigarette for Georgine. McKinnon, having seemingly arranged things to his liking, retired to a corner and sat down with his knees crossed. Absently he took his mouth-organ from his pocket and tapped it silently on the palm of his hand.

Howard Nelsing pulled up a straight chair and sat facing Georgine. “Is there something else you know, Mrs. Wyeth, that you haven't told me?”

Georgine opened her mouth, and found she wasn't quite ready for the inquisition. The blue eyes were looking right through her again, and the rugged face was implacable. “Must we go on,” she said irrelevantly, “using Mr. and Mrs.? Or Inspector? After all, you gentlemen have been throwing me around the front yard and taking my stockings off. Can't we use something less formal?”

“Any way you like. Now, tell me, please. Is there any suspicion, any evidence, that you've been holding back?”

She took a deep breath. “On my word, there isn't.”

“Something you forgot?”

“Not anything I can remember now! Except—” She shot a glance toward the corner.

“Claris told him about the rendezvous, after I'd talked to her a bit more,” McKinnon said.

“Oh. Well, then, that's all. N-Nelse, you remember I came to you that first day, with everything—not only the evidence about Hollister, but all the stuff I'd imagined or suspected, too. The business about the house-searching and the grave—well, you know why I didn't mention those. Otherwise I didn't hold out on a thing. That'd be foolish, wouldn't it, when all I wanted was to help? I don't suppose you've thought of me as—what did he call it?—the Policeman's Little Helper who's a murderer on the side.”

Nelsing said, “Let's go over this from the beginning. I telephoned you at seven-thirty. When I got here you were waiting on the sidewalk. Presumably nobody knew you were going out, until that moment. You told no one? Right. We got up to Grettry Road, and as I remember, you said something about your landlords being at the movies until midnight. You said it aloud, in the open street.”

“There wasn't anyone in sight. Well, yes; Mr. Devlin at the top of the road—but he couldn't have heard what we said, do you think?”

“I don't know. He was there, listening, was he? Throughout our conversation?”

Georgine nodded.

“It's a possibility. There's another, though; and I was a crashing fool not to think of it and investigate. There might have been someone behind that thick hedge.”

“All the neighbors,” Georgine said slowly, “have been in there picking flowers, at one time or another.”

“So,” Nelsing said. “Well, I should have looked; but it was all innocent stuff, we'd been over it before, and I had no idea the talk would be dangerous. Whoever was there had plenty of time to get down here in the dusk, and go up the outside stair to that balcony, and rig up a trap. It needn't have been a man, any more than it had to be a man driving the car that ran down Hollister; but I'll say
he
for convenience. He heard something, in that conversation of ours, that made him feel you had dangerous potentialities as a witness. That's one idea. Let's work on it.”

“Go ahead,” said Georgine. “But I can't think—”

“You figured out for us how far those footsteps had gone. I asked you if you'd recognized them.”

“And I said I couldn't.”

“Think again, uh, Georgine. Was there anything peculiar about them? The tempo, the length of a stride? A limp or hesitation?”