listed as walking, but didn’t.
There was a cross-link between the Glass Teddy Bear gift shop vandalisms and the Dodo case, in that Hank Murray, manager of the Busquash Mall, lived in Carew and, when he had the time, served as a Gentleman Walker. Then there were the Warburton twins, who also lived in Carew and seemed to lead lives of leisure. They were devious and shady, but any criminal activities in California had gone unreported, and in Connecticut they were simply dismissed as eccentrics, a type of person both prominent and tolerated in a university city like Holloman.
From there he went back to the victims and did the whole exercise again, this time using sources like Helen MacIntosh’s journals, which he found informative, perceptive and amusing. She had put them in his custody a week ago, even including the one she was entering-in about nine weeks, she had filled no fewer than seven books!
Her colored inks amused him in one respect, but in another provoked sincere admiration: she was right when she said it was a help, and certainly the purple entries were something of a revelation. Her description of the glass teddy bear, his value, and Amanda’s stubborn refusal to admit its worth were excellent; he was interested to learn that his cool, selfish, ambitious trainee had developed a fondness for Amanda that ripened into friendship; long after there was no necessity to put entries in her books about the Vandal case, a paragraph or two of purple ink would appear.
Then there was her work on the California connections of the Warburton twins, starting with Howard, their father.
“Howard Warburton was autopsied,” she wrote in black ink, “not because he had died falling down his stairs, but because the examining doctor at the scene thought his body in an impossible posture. At autopsy he was shown to have a spinal column fracture at C2-C3. There were no other injuries apart from minor bruising. The police pathologist agreed that Mr. Warburton’s head should have been closest to the bottom step, not his feet, and called the death suspicious.
“Then the twins-eight years old-admitted that they had been present when the accident happened, and had pushed and pulled at their father trying to revive him. His head had been closest to the step, but by the time they finished with him, it was farthest away. That left only one difficulty, the fact that there had been no cerebral or cardiac catastrophe to cause the fall. Then Robert said he thought his father had tripped, and Gordon, a parrot according to the San Diego police, said he saw his father trip too. After interrogating the twins intensively, the San Diego D.A. declined to pursue the matter. The year was 1945, and the cream of every crop was in the armed services. Howard Warburton hadn’t been, thanks to poor vision and flat feet. Two reasons why he might have tripped.”
In purple ink she had written: “They did it! In 1968 we’re a bit more sophisticated about the capacity of children for doing murder, but in 1945 I guess people would have died of horror at the mere thought.
“I didn’t think there was any reason why, provided I kept identities properly concealed, I shouldn’t talk to Kurt about it, and he agrees with me. I made my killer one child, in case you’re worried, Captain. I confess I only do it to get a rise out of him-he’s so cool, calm and collected. Sorry, sir.”
Smiling, Carmine put the book down. She was incorrigible! However, she had been dating Kurt exclusively for eight or nine months, and no one knew better than he that all human beings need someone to confide in. According to her lights, Kurt was ideal-unconnected to her work, prone to take her side. What more could one ask? he thought, an image of Desdemona before his eyes.
Carmine ploughed on-black pen, blue pen, red pen, green pen, and that inevitable purple pen to put a very personal, highly biased slant on everything that swam through her little part of the huge police ocean.
Sometimes there were irreverent remarks about her father-purple pen, of course! and one perceptive comment about her mad-in-an-uncertifiable-way mother, who had seen three ghosts in the Chubb House sitting room fireplace. Which wasn’t enough to make it into Helen’s report book: what was? The fact that all three stopped playing some antique game of cards, complete to wigs and buckled shoes, and stared at Angela MacIntosh in utter terror. ‘A ghost! Can you see her?’ asked one. Then all three disappeared. Written in red overwritten in purple: “Mom strikes again. No one’s safe.”
And what do I do? he asked himself at three in the morning, finished at last. What she says is so interesting, though she has no idea of it. And the spontaneity of those little stories about her parents, Kurt, and Amanda Warburton-wonderful!
Desdemona was awake, watching New York television on the little set that stood atop the bureau in their bedroom; she tended to be insomniac if he hadn’t come home by bedtime. Even knowing he was sure to be safe-if he wasn’t, they’d race to tell her-couldn’t compensate for the fear in a cold bed.
“Did you do what had to be done?” she asked, sitting up.
“Yes. I just needed to see all of it in perspective and from every viewpoint.” He threw his clothes over a chair, too tired to put them away.
“Do you know whodunit?”
“Yes, I’m fairly sure.” He crawled into bed and cuddled. “The trouble is, there’s not a shred of evidence.”
“I love your hair,” she said, running her fingers through it. “Mine’s so flimsy.”
“Wrong genes, my giant English mouse.” He kissed her neck. “I hope you’re not in too much need, love. I’m past it.”
“So am I, actually. I’m just glad you’ve seen the trees as well as the forest. Are you sure there’s no evidence?”
“Positive.”
“Will you confide your suspicions to anyone other than me?”
“Not this time. There are all kinds of complications, too many sensitive egos… ” He was mumbling a little.
“Yes, it’s not a terribly happy division at the moment, I know.” She looked brisk. “You sit on it, love, no matter who tries to probe.” A giggle. “Or with what.”
He forced his eyelids open. “I’m just glad, Desdemona, you’re not in danger from a killer.” The words came out a trifle slurred.
She grabbed his hair again, but painfully. “Carmine! Don’t you dare tempt fate! Take that back, or cross your fingers, or-or-or something!”
“I crossed my fingers,” he murmured, and was asleep.
Good, she could leave the TV on; it would take her some time to grow drowsy. Twisting, she looked down at his face in the dim, flickering light. The lines had smoothed away, he was at peace. How awful to think I have to wake him again four hours from now. He’ll be mad at me for letting him sleep an extra bit, but I don’t care. The world won’t end if he’s not sitting at his wretched kitchen table by eight o’clock, and so I’ll tell Delia. What would I do without her?
CHAPTER VII
“I’ve worked our strategy out, twinnie dear,” Gordie said, waving a thick artist’s paint brush dripping crimson gore.
“Do tell!”
“To get the blood right, we have to witness a slaughter.”
Robert swung around from the typewriter; the exasperation on his face was exactly mirrored on his brother’s, and he gave a whinnying laugh. “Gordie, your face is perfect! We’re getting so good that we won’t even need to be in the same room together.”
“Shall we continue our rhymes a little more?”
“Why not? Um-slaughter… Rhymes with daughter, caught her, bought her, fought her, sort her-”
“Yes, yes, that’s plenty!”
“Party pooper! All jokes aside, Gordie, I do like your sketch. It’s new, it’s different-a novel concept for murder. Why don’t we make more of it?”
“Will Amanda like it if we do?”
“Who cares, twinnie-winnie?” Robert asked, tittering. “She is our aunt, and small potatoes.”
“Don’t forget that we need Captain Delmonico to dig our biggest potatoes, Robbie. Will he like the blood?”
