Friends till the End Page 17

  “Oh, that’s good, because sometimes shocks like that can upset boys his age so much that they never let it out. Charlie is like that. He won’t talk about what’s bothering him. I sit with him and try to get him to talk, but he won’t. He’s very good at getting around me. That’s something that kids get good at as they grow up—wouldn’t you agree?—getting around their parents, I mean.”

  “Yes, well. I guess so.” Has she heard about Richard’s running around and fighting with Dad? Isabel was wondering. Gossipy bitch! What else does she know?

  “Ruth tells me all kinds of things about her kids,” Heather was saying. “Terrible problems she has, really terrible. Now her daughter has just left for Malaysia on the spur of the moment. Can you imagine? And of course she told me all about the missing insecticide. Whoever used it would steal it from Ruth, because she’s so fuddle-headed that it’s unlikely she’d ever notice. And Sam’s workshop is really a mess. Did they search your house, too?”

  The question was sharp.

  “Of course,” Isabel said without thinking.

  Heather nodded as if satisfied. “They searched ours from top to bottom. Linus thought it was all a big game. He followed the policemen around and asked them questions. What are you doing? What are you looking for? He wanted to look, too. That’s the way children are—so curious. Of course they didn’t find anything in any of our houses. I could have told them that from the start. Whoever stole that stuff must have gotten rid of it as soon as possible. Don’t you think so?”

  “Yes … well … I guess so. I don’t really know.”

  “That’s what I would have done,” Heather said firmly.

  Richard entered the room and Isabel greeted him with relief. “Hi, Richard, Heather brought us some delicious cookies. Want one?”

  “Mmmm,” said Richard after biting into one. “Great!” He scooped up three more and pocketed them, leaving the room.

  Heather and Isabel burst into laughter.

  “Boys!” said Heather.

  In the study, peace and quiet reigned. Linus had settled down with a pad of paper and a crayon and was busily drawing what looked like a herd of elephants. Walter was at his desk, working.

  Occasionally they exchanged a comment or two, nothing more. Walter was absorbed in his work and Linus was content to be drawing. Between the two of them was an instinctive rapport. Linus studied his elephants with a critical eye and, crossing them out, began to draw stars, a skyful of stars.

  Out in the hallway the door bell rang and they could hear Isabel answering it.

  “Oh, hello,” she said. “Come on in … Heather’s here too, of course …”

  Her voice drifted away into silence. The breeze from the open window ruffled Walter’s iron-gray hair.

  Linus happily colored in the spaces between the stars to look like the night sky. Finally he rolled over with a little sigh. He lay on his back, hands crossed on his stomach, watching Walter.

  Finally he said, “Uncle Wally?”

  “Mmmhmmm?”

  “What was that stuff you drank after everybody left Mommy’s party?”

  “What?”

  “That stuff. That stuff. You put it in a glass and went to the punchbowl and put some punch in and drank it.”

  Walter Sloane looked up.

  “I didn’t put anything in any glass.”

  “Oh, yes you did. I saw you. I was under the table. I like being under the table,” Linus said in a meditative voice. “You can see people and they can’t see you. It’s fun.”

  There was a long silence.

  “You must be mistaken, Linus.”

  Linus looked puzzled. He rolled over onto his stomach.

  “I don’t think so. Don’t you remember, Uncle Wally? You weren’t feeling good. Mommy and Daddy ran out of the room, and it was just you and me. Except you didn’t know I was there.”

  There was another pause.

  “Well, yes, now that you mention it, I think I do remember what you’re talking about. It was when I was alone in the room, wasn’t it, after I had come in from outside?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Well, well. It’s nothing to worry about, Linus. It was just some medicine I always carry with me. I was feeling sick, so I took it and it helped me.”

  “Did it?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s good.”

  Linus, losing interest, picked up his crayon and began to draw goldfish swimming in a pond. The goldfish were so large that two of them filled up the whole page. He chewed his lip, disappointed, and started over again.

  The man at the desk spoke.

  “You haven’t told anyone else about this, have you, Linus?”

  “Unh-unh.”

  “Okay. That’s good. I wouldn’t want anyone to worry, you see.”

  Suddenly a rather flustered voice spoke from the study door.

  “Oh!” it said nervously.

  Walter Sloane spun around in his chair. “Who’s there? Who is it?”

  Ruth Abrams edged sideways into the room, like a crab.

  “It’s me. Just me. Ruth. How … how are you, Walter?”

  “Ruth? What are you doing here?”

  “Linus,” she said falteringly, “Linus, your mother wants you. It’s time for you to go. She’s waiting for you outside.”

  “Oh. Okay.” Linus gathered up his crayons. “Bye, Uncle Wally.”

  Walter Sloane gave him a grim smile. “Good-bye, Linus.”

  “Bye, Aunt Ruth.”

  Ruth shut the door firmly behind him and gave Walter Sloane a nervous little glance. “Boys! So imaginative, aren’t they? Such—such tales they love to tell.” Her face was all pink and her gray curls bobbed helplessly. “Boys … yes … oh, yes … such little tales they love to tell.”

  She came over and sat down in front of the desk. “Why, I remember my Jonathan at that age. Such an imagination! Why, the things he used to tell me … you would never have believed it.”

  “Yes. Well. Listen, Ruth. I’ve got a lot of work to do before I go back to the office next week—”

  Ruth gave a strange little gasp. “Of course, I happen to know that what Linus told you is true—isn’t it?”

  There was a silence.

  “I don’t know what you heard while you were eaves-dropping at the door, but I can assure you, it was nothing. Just a little game between Linus and me. As you said, lots of boys play games like that. It was nothing.”

  “Oh, yes, yes, yes, of course it wasn’t. Yes, Walter, I quite understand. Of course it wasn’t. Of course no one would believe what Linus had to say, would they?—no, no—very convenient for you, isn’t it? But it’s different with me, you see, Walter. It’s different. Because, you see, I know you did it.”

  She smiled at him brightly.

  “Yes. You killed Laura and Freda—oh, poor Freda, just because she happened to see something at one of those awful, awful parties. I had a bad feeling before the first party. Yes, I did. I said, ‘Sam, we shouldn’t go. Something’s wrong. Something terrible is going to happen.’ But of course we had to go. You and Sam have been business partners for so long—well, it wouldn’t have looked right if we didn’t.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Oh, no, no, no, of course you don’t, Walter, and you don’t have to if you don’t want to, it’s all right with me. But let me tell you my side of it. You see, I’ve been thinking things over for quite a long time now.” She put her head to one side like a little bird and her face went all pink again. “I know that thinking about things isn’t my strong point,” she said humbly. “But ever since that bag of insecticide was missing from our basement, I’ve been thinking things over in my own way, you know. And even though I told that policeman that I couldn’t remember if anyone had been down in the basement before it disappeared—of course I couldn’t at the time, you see, I was so upset and flustered and I just hate anything having to do with the police, don’t you?—well, afterward I was thinking
it over and it seemed to me that that wasn’t quite true. Because I suddenly remembered that somebody had been down in the basement. At the tennis party. And it was you, Walter.”

  She looked at him expectantly.

  “You see, everyone else had been over our house any number of times—Laura and Freda and Isabel and of course Heather and Harry, and Richard never comes over at all if he can help it, and naturally it’s hard to keep things straight when you’re not sure exactly when it was that people were over or when that little bag disappeared. Oh, it’s very hard indeed. But I was thinking it all over in my own way, slowly, but if I may say so myself, carefully, and it suddenly came clear to me.”

  She paused and looked at him again.

  “You see, everyone else had been over any number of times—but you hadn’t, had you, Walter? You never come over our house. The only time I could remember your being there was at the tennis party we had, a few weeks before Laura’s party. There was something about that party you didn’t know, Walter—something I didn’t even remember until just a few days ago. You see, I came back to the kitchen at one point—I had to get the watermelon out of the fridge and also we had run completely out of ice, I don’t know why that always happens to us—and I was in the kitchen and I saw you, Walter.”

  She nodded emphatically.

  “I saw you coming up the basement stairs.”

  She nodded again.

  “I meant to ask you at the time what you were doing down there, but you went out the back door and I was so worried about the ice—I mean, there’s no way of making ice in a hurry, is there, and everyone’s drinks were warm—that I forgot all about it. It didn’t seem important, you see. But then I started thinking about it and I realized that you must be the one behind all these dreadful murders. Because you were in our basement that day, and you took the poison. And then you used it to kill Laura. And later I suppose you poisoned yourself at Heather’s party, just to throw everyone off the track. Then you killed Freda to keep her from talking. Really, when you think about it, it’s all very clear, isn’t it?”

  There was a pause.

  At last Sloane said, “Why are you lying like this, Ruth? Have you gone completely crazy?”

  “Now, now, Walter. Don’t start in. I’m not lying. You know that perfectly well. Now listen to me. I came here today for a good reason—yes, a very good reason. Heather said she was coming over, and Sam told me you were going back to work soon, and I thought about it and realized that this is the perfect time to ask you for a few little favors.”

  She sounded very smug.

  “What?”

  “A few little favors, Walter,” she said calmly. “I want money—not enough to break you, just enough to help Sam and me get by. And I want you to promise that you won’t go back to work—not tomorrow, not next week, not ever. I want Sam to take over the business. You see, Walter, I hate to say this, but I think he deserves it a lot more than you do.”

  She looked at him placidly.

  “You’re out of your mind.”

  “No, no. I don’t think so. I think you’re going to do just what I say. Because if you don’t, I’ll go to the police. I know them by now, you see, I have a personal connection.”

  “It’ll be your word against mine.”

  “Yes, it will, won’t it? My word—and Linus’s—against yours.”

  “Your word and Linus’s!” He laughed. “You’re crazy! Who in the world is going to listen to a five-year-old—and a half-wit like you?”

  “Well, I never! Half-wit! I never! Why, if Sam could hear you say that—!”

  He leaned forward menacingly.

  “You have a damned good reason for wanting to incriminate me. I’d tell the police you want Sam to take over my position. Nobody—nobody—would believe you, Ruth.”

  Ruth shook her head at him pityingly.

  “You still don’t understand, do you, Walter? They don’t have to believe me. All they have to do is begin—just begin—to suspect you. Don’t you see? The only reason you’ve been safe this long is that no one has considered you as a possibility. Once I tell my story—and what I heard Linus say—they’ll investigate you all over again. They’ll haul you in and ask you all kinds of questions—embarrassing questions. You know what I mean, Walter. And they’ll find the proof. Of course they will. You know that. That’s why you tried so hard to protect yourself, isn’t it? Once they suspect you, it’ll just be a matter of time.”

  She stood, picked up her frayed handbag and moved toward the door.

  “But if you would rather I went and told them now—”

  Walter Sloane spoke heavily.

  “Wait!”

  He reached down and opened a drawer. Taking out his checkbook, he said, “How much?”

  “Fifty thousand dollars,” she said promptly. “To start with. I’ve been planning to buy some new lawn furniture, and it’s so expensive, don’t you think? And there are some renovations we’ve been wanting to do for such a very long time on the house …”

  She took the check and said:

  “Very wise of you, Walter. Very wise.”

  “Get out.”

  “Wait a minute. Wait a minute. I’m not done with you yet.” She sat down again. “I want your promise that you won’t go back to work.”

  “No!”

  “Promise me, Walter. You won’t go back to work, will you? You’ll give up your position and let Sam take over, now won’t you?”

  “All right. All right! Now get out!”

  She sat looking at him calmly, the check clutched in her hand.

  Sloane’s nerves gave way.

  “What is it?” he roared. “What is it, damn you? What more do you want?”

  She rose to her feet and leaned over the desk. There was something very beautiful in her face as she spoke.

  “Justice,” she said.

  Walter Sloane stared unbelievingly as the door opened and the policemen filed in.…

  Ruth handed the check to Detective Voelker and whirled on Walter Sloane as he got up from his chair. She slapped him smartly across the face and shrilled:

  “And that’s for calling me a half-wit!”

  11

  “Eat your dinner,” said Maya.

  Snooky pushed his plate away. “I’m not hungry.”

  “Eat your dinner. Have some cabbage, at least. It’s good for you.”

  “I don’t want cabbage,” Snooky said irritably. “I hate cabbage. I’ve always hated cabbage. You know that. Why are you torturing me? Why can’t I go talk to Bernard?”

  He looked longingly at the closed study door.

  “Bernard’s busy right now. Anyway, he explained everything to you yesterday. Weren’t you listening?”

  “Yes, My, but I want the details.”

  “Cabbage before details,” she said firmly, and with a sigh Snooky picked up his fork.

  Inside the study, Detective Voelker was having trouble drawing out Bernard, whose instinctive hatred of his own kind had returned in force once he considered the case closed. He sat at his massive desk and stared palely at the policeman. Misty mumbled, teasing a rubber bone at his feet.

  “But what,” Voelker was saying patiently, “made you guess that Walter Sloane was the murderer?”

  Bernard didn’t know. It was a number of things. Things that didn’t fit in. Things that didn’t make sense.

  “For a while there I admit I thought your brother-in-law might have done it,” said Voelker. “His girlfriend is going to be a very wealthy woman now.”

  Bernard greeted this with incredulity.

  “Snooky? Snooky? I assure you, Detective, my brother-in-law could not put together a successful plan to murder a rodent. If Snooky wanted to murder someone he’d just come at them with a battle-ax.”

  “Yes. I see. What exactly then were these things that didn’t make sense to you, Mr. Woodruff?”

  Bernard glanced through his notes nervously. He drew out one page that had the word

  ANMLYSr />
  written in large green letters at the top.

  “Anomalies,” he explained. “I was struck by how many there were. First of all, Sloane didn’t die. It seemed strange to me at the time. His wife was poisoned, and she died; Freda Simms was strangled, and she died; Sloane was poisoned—but he didn’t die. Well, why not?”

  “It might have been a mistake in the dose.”

  “Yes. But the doctor said the dose was large enough to kill.”

  “Yes—that’s true.”

  “Then there were some other strange things, things that didn’t fit in. For instance, the second party—the one that Heather Crandall gave. That didn’t make sense to me at all. Why would Walter Sloane go? He was supposed to be a suspicious, paranoid individual. This was the same crowd that had allegedly poisoned his wife. Yet he accepted the invitation. It didn’t make sense. And even if he did attend, why would he let Heather Crandall touch his glass, take it away to fill it up, and so on? Wouldn’t he be more careful than that? No one ever told me that Sloane was a stupid man, but that was a stupid thing to do. It felt all wrong to me, somehow.”

  “Yes. I see.”

  “Of course, he had to go to that party. He needed someplace—a public place with all his friends present—to stage his own poisoning.” Bernard looked thoughtfully out the window. “It was clever—very clever—very risky. The man took an awful chance. He knew he’d be the main suspect when his wife was killed. So what does he do? He arranges to poison himself, very realistically. He faked his symptoms in front of the Crandalls. When they left the room to get help, he picked up the nearest glass, dumped in a carefully premeasured dose of insecticide, went to the punch bowl, ladled in some punch and drank it down. Then he went back and knocked over the lamp as if he were in convulsions. He had it all planned. That way, he’d get to the hospital in plenty of time to receive the antidote, but a blood test would show that there was a toxic amount of poison in his system.”

  “And the glass he used had been used during the party by Mrs. Abrams, so her fingerprints were all over it,” said Voelker. “We looked in the wrong direction that time—at her instead of at him.”

  “Which is what he figured would happen, so he felt safe. The self-poisoning worked very well. It shifted suspicion off of him and onto an unknown murderer. He then proceeded to build up the existence of this nameless murderer, this enemy, implying that his friends were all potential killers while at the same time protesting their innocence. Once his basic premise had been accepted—that his wife’s murder was either an accident or part of a series that included him—he felt fairly safe.”