“I think Slippery Ed took the candlestick,” said little Jean Clemens.
“Hush, child!” said Mrs. Clemens. “You should show more respect for your elders—call him ‘Mister McPhee.’ ”
Jean would not be dissuaded. “Papa always calls him ‘Slippery Ed,’ and I heard him say that man would steal the gold out of your teeth if you left your mouth open. So I think he’s the one who stole the candlestick.”
Mr. Clemens had suddenly busied himself with carving himself another slice of the roast, and so he missed the look his wife sent in his direction, which managed somehow to combine long suffering and suppressed amusement. “Who wants some more roast beef?” he said, innocence written on his face.
“I don’t think Mr. McPhee stole the candlestick,” said Clara Clemens, with the condescension older sisters reserve for younger. “Why would a man steal something from his own living room? Not even Slippery Ed is that stupid.”
“Maybe somebody lent it to him, and it was valuable, so he stole it,” shot back Jean.
“I don’t think so,” said Susy. “He wasn’t in the room during the séance, so he couldn’t have stolen it then. And then he went with Mr. Cabot to bring back the police. And after that, the police were there. Nobody would steal something while the police were right there watching.”
“If they thought it belonged to him, they wouldn’t know he was stealing it,” said Jean, sticking to her guns. “After all, it was his place, even if he was renting it.”
“Well, that wouldn’t matter once there’d been a murder there,” said Mr. Clemens, having decided it was safe to emerge from the shelter of the roast. He put down the knife and fork and took a sip of his wine, then said, “If somebody tries to take something away, the police get very suspicious, because it might be a clue. Ed would surely know that. He’s been in trouble with the police enough times to know that.”
“Then if he didn’t steal the candlestick, who did?” asked Jean.
“I think it must have been the murderer,” said Clara, between forkfuls of peas and carrots. She put down her fork and added, “A person who would murder someone wouldn’t think anything of stealing, too. But I think it’s the missing book that’s important, not the candlestick.”
“We’re talking about somebody who shot a man in a room full of witnesses, without any of us hearing the gun go off,” said Mr. Clemens. He wiped his moustache with his linen handkerchief, then continued. “I’m a lot more worried about that than sneaking off with a candlestick, or a book, or whatever else might be missing. But I suspect that Susy is overlooking perfectly good explanations for where those things went. They could have been brought to the séance by guests—remember, Mrs. McPhee told us that anyone who wanted to talk to a particular spook should bring something the person had used. The owners probably just took them home afterwards. Or maybe they were just pushed underneath the table, or moved to the other room.”
“There was nothing under the table,” said Susy, but there was a hint of doubt on her face. “I’m certain someone took away the candlestick. But I don’t know why any more than you do.”
“Don’t forget the book!” Clara piped up. “I’ll bet it was hollowed out, and the gun was hidden in it. I read a story where they used a hollow book to smuggle a gun into someplace.” She smiled at her own cleverness.
Susy looked thoughtful at this suggestion, but then said, “I think the police would have checked for that, if they’d seen someone taking it away. It was a big, thick book . . .”
“Tell you what,” said her father. “Cabot or I will go over to the McPhee apartment sometime in the next couple of days and see if those things are there. Maybe Mrs. McPhee knows what happened to them.”
“What if she’s the one who took it?” said Clara, a bright look on her face again. “Who would have a better excuse to move something, right in front of the police and everything? She could have just put it in a closet, and nobody would have thought twice about it.”
“I don’t think she had the opportunity,” said Susy. “She was in the bedroom with us the whole time until the police arrived, and after that they’d have been watching her.”
“I bet it was the murderer,” said Jean, waving her dessert spoon to emphasize the point. “He shot the doctor, and then he stole the candlestick!”
“Put your spoon down, young lady,” said Mrs. Clemens. “We don’t wave our silverware about.”
“Papa does it all the time,” said Jean, frowning. I could see that this line of argument was a time-tested defense for such behavior. “Especially when he’s acting like a bad, spitting gray kitten!” I had already heard the young ladies tease their father with this description when he got excited or lost his temper.
“Your papa should know better, and you certainly do,” Mrs. Clemens said. “All this talk of murder has evidently gotten you too excited, if you forget your manners so easily. If you cannot save that spoon for its proper use, I shall tell Cook not to give you any pudding.” This warning had the desired effect, and the spoon was returned to its proper place. And having finally gained control of the conversation, Mrs. Clemens turned it to subjects of her own choosing for the duration of the meal.
After dinner, Mr. Clemens smoked a cigar and enjoyed an evening of music with the family. Clara was an excellent pianist, and entertained her parents with a variety of pieces until little Jean’s bedtime. I heard snatches of Brahms and Stephen Foster from upstairs, where I had retired to rest my weary limbs, and to inspect my bruises. At least, I had escaped broken bones or
