about the man dressed as a Nazi who’d fire a blank at him. He’d fall to the stage and you’d tell the audience to buy bonds. He wasn’t surprised. He said he’d acted out scenes for audiences in other cities, too.”
“The heart attack was just a coincidence, happening when it did,” Bensmith decided.
I had to agree with him. From both a medical and a legal viewpoint, there’d been no crime.
Wagner’s death had completely overshadowed the war-bond auction, and it was a couple of days later before I saw Vera Lens and remembered to ask her about it. “We did well,” she reported, “considering everything.”
“Who bought that door from the Black Cloister?”
“Funny you should ask. It went to a man named Jack Mitchell. He was Rusty Wagner’s manager and was making the tour with him. The door’s still here. We’re supposed to ship it to him in California.”
On the following Monday, the day after Easter, I was driving past the ruins of the old Cloister and decided to stop. Walking through the high grass to the gaping front entrance, I found a roof partly burned through, and weathered walls still showing scars from the fire. There was evidence of children playing there, and ground into the dirt out back I found a used shotgun shell. Every farm family kept a weapon close at hand. There were always varmints on the prowl.
After lunch I stopped in to see Sheriff Lens at his office. “I drove by the Black Cloister this morning and took a look. Can you tell me any more about the fire and your investigation?”
The sheriff gave one of his familiar sighs. “Doc, there’s no crime for you to solve, neither here nor back in nineteen twenty-one. That Rusty Wagner could be killed by a shot from a blank cartridge isn’t an impossible crime, it’s no crime at all!”
“Let’s get back to the Cloister fire for the moment. Tell me about the young man who died there.”
He went over to the file and opened the bottom drawer. “I haven’t looked at that folder myself in years. Probably should have discarded it after all this time.” Opening the slender file, he took out some papers and a few photographs. “The victim’s name was Fritz Heck. He was eighteen, same age as Wagner. Nice-looking fellow. That’s him on the right in this photo.”
“Is this Wagner with him?”
“No, it’s Heck’s younger brother.”
I nodded. “I should have guessed that from the resemblance.”
“We got the photo from the family in Hartford, for identification purposes. There was no doubt it was him, though. Heck’s finger-prints were on file with the Hartford police. Him and Wagner stole a car but didn’t know much about driving it.”
“How did the fire start?”
“Wagner told me they were preparing dinner, chatting about a girl they’d met in town, when Heck got careless and some hot grease caught fire. They tossed water on it but that just spread it around. The flames went up along the ceiling and into the living room.” He referred to his notes and Wagner’s statement. “Heck ran into the living room and tried to beat it out, but it was too late. He was trapped by the fire and smoke, and died inside the front door, trying to get it open.”
“Why is the house still standing after all these years?”
Sheriff Lens shrugged. “I heard tell Heck’s family bought it, wanted it as a memorial to their son. But they never did anything except pay the taxes.”
“Did you ever meet any of them?”
He shook his head. “If they came here I didn’t see them. Of course the body was shipped back to Hartford for burial.”
“What about Rusty Wagner? What happened to him after the fire?”
“They took him back to Hartford, too, for treatment of his burns. We heard later that he moved to New York and was in a play. Mayor Bensmith was a friend of his and stayed in touch over the years.” He squinted at me over the tops of his glasses. “You’re tryin’ to make something out of all this, aren’t you?”
“I’m trying,” I agreed with a smile. I picked up the snapshot of Fritz Heck and studied it. “Do you have an autopsy report there?”
“Well, not really. Back in 1921, Northmont’s coroner was just a local sawbones eager to make a few extra bucks. He just had to look at the body to know the fire killed Heck. The Hartford police furnished us with medical records on the two boys, though.”
He passed them over to me and I glanced quickly through them. There were the usual childhood illnesses, plus a serious bout of influenza for Heck during the nineteen epidemic. Wagner had suffered from rheumatic fever twice as a child, but had escaped the flu. “What else do you have there?”
“Just Wagner’s statement on the fire, which I’ve told you about. His face was burnt trying to save his friend.”
I thought about that. “Do you have a phone number for this manager of his, Jack Mitchell?”
“I think it’s here somewhere. Why do you want it?”
“Vera says he was high bidder on that Cloister door. It seems an odd thing to bother about when your client has just died.”
I phoned Mitchell’s West Coast office and after some delay was put through to him. “Mr Mitchell, this is Dr Hawthorne, back in Northmont. We’re still investigating Rusty Wagner’s unfortunate death.”
“Yes,” he replied. “I just got in the office. I’ve been making arrangements for the memorial service. What can I do for you?”
“I’m told that you were high bidder for the door from the Black Cloister, where Rusty lived for a time.”
“That’s correct. He wanted me to bid on it for him. It seemed very important to him. When the ambulance took him away I was hoping he was still alive. I entered my bid on the door before following him to the hospital.”
“What do you plan to do with the door?”
“Do with it?” his voice rasped over the phone. “Nothing. Now that he’s dead you can keep the door, auction it off again.”
“Did he have any reason for wanting it so badly?”
“None that I know of. He’d lived at that Cloister for one whole summer. I suppose it brought back memories.”
“I’m sure it did,” I agreed. “His friend died in the fire, and he was badly burned.”
“He never went into detail about it. He just asked me to buy the door at the auction.”
I thanked him and hung up. Sheriff Lens asked, “Did you learn anything?”
“He doesn’t want the door now that Wagner’s dead. He said we should keep it and auction it off again.”
“I’ll tell Vera.”
“Where’s the door now?”
“Still over at the town hall. In the mayor’s office, I think.”
“Let’s go have another look at it,” I suggested.
We walked across the square to the town hall. Mayor Bensmith hadn’t yet returned from lunch, but his secretary Rita showed us the door leaning against his office wall. “We’re waiting for shipping instructions,” she informed us.
“He doesn’t want it,” I told her. “We’ll auction it again.”
I moved over to examine the door more closely and asked Rita, “Do you have a pair of tweezers?”
“I think so.” She went back to her desk and returned with them.
“What are you after, Doc?” Sheriff Lens wanted to know.
“I’m not sure, but I know Wagner wanted this door, and his statement to you at the time of the fire wasn’t completely accurate.”
“How’s that?”
“He said Fritz Heck died inside the front door, trying to get it open. But look at this door. The scorching is on the outside, while the inside is unmarked by flames. This door had to be open at the time of the fire, and if that was the case how could Heck have been trapped there by the fire and smoke? He could have simply run outside.”
“I never thought of that,” the sheriff admitted.
I took a penknife from my pocket. “I wish we’d had a more complete autopsy report.”
“In those days-”
“I know.” I concentrated on one of the wormholes Annabel had noticed earlier, enlarging it a bit with my knife. Then I went to work with the tweezers. After a moment I extracted what I was seeking.
