Nice, wouldn’t it have been, if he’d been the one to dump me on my kitchen floor, half strangled, just a few minutes earlier?
All right, let’s suppose he had.
Mrs. Halloran had made that telltale remark about banks to him, too. He was hard up for money; he’d said that repeatedly. The city council had taken all the money he had, and all he could beg or borrow. He’d had to overbid the Comet, with plenty of money behind it. He needed new presses badly. Maybe he wanted money to take me out to dinner.
That last was a nice possibility.
So when he knew Mrs. Garr was going to be away, he might have come to the house after train time to start looking. His quick, strong hands opening dresser drawers in the room under the stairs, flicking through the contents. His sure fingers prodding into sugar bowls and cream pitchers in the cellar kitchen. Mrs. Garr coming upon him, screaming:
“Thief!”
He’d jump to silence her.
He might not have thought how strong his hands were. Then quick, to hide it, to save himself . . . The cats . . .
I thought of his sick face the night before.
Impossible. But go on supposing. Suppose he had. What could I find out by?
Money.
If he’d found any, it might be around his rooms somewhere. He couldn’t put it in a bank; wouldn’t dare, so soon. Couldn’t give it to friends to keep; they knew he never had any.
He’d had very little money with him on Memorial Day.
The key.
Mrs. Garr’s key to the cellar kitchen. Where was that? If that could be found in anyone’s room . . .
My fingers itched.
Right before my eyes, I could see Hodge Kistler’s right hand unlocking his own door on that tour of inspection a week ago. See the key in his hand. It was as identical to the key that opened my own double doors as two Hollywood eyebrows. My grandmother had a big old house, and I know how her inside locks were—the same skeleton key opened them all.
I decided I’d look through Hodge Kistler’s rooms. If I found anything, that would be that. If I didn’t, I’d propose that he join me in hunting down Mrs. Garr’s killer.
I knew that if Mr. Kistler came home and caught me—well, I didn’t intend to be caught. A look at my clock told me it still wasn’t much past nine o’clock. If Mr. Kistler had had to work until midnight last Friday he should do so tonight, too; he seldom came home much before then. It wouldn’t take more than twenty minutes—thirty at the most—for what I wanted to do.
The Irish policeman was gone from the hall; the stranger in his place looked at me apathetically when I locked my double doors behind me and stood before him, jiggling my key in my hand.
“Is it all right, Officer, if I go up to gossip with the Wallers?” I asked brightly.
He waved a listless hand.
“Sure, go ahead.”
I went up, walking as heavily as I could, knocked on the Wallers’ door. Mrs. Waller answered and I went in.
We talked about Mrs. Garr, of course: had she been murdered or hadn’t she? They weren’t very communicative. They said they hadn’t slept much that day; they’d been talking instead. They seemed nervous, discouraged, uneasy. Mrs. Waller once called me “ma’am.” After their friendliness before, it was a change to be treated as a superior, and a superior under suspicion, at that. But I had too much else on my mind to worry about it.
I said good-bye inside their door, waited for them to answer, then opened and closed their door softly.
I stood outside their door, but I believed I had been so quiet the detective below would think I was still in the Wallers’ rooms.
Lightly I stole down the long, sparsely lit hall. If my key didn’t fit Mr. Kistler’s door . . .
But it did fit. The lock turned as smoothly as if my key and no other had been made for it.
That showed me how wise I had been to keep chairs under my doorknobs!
Rapidly I flicked down Mr. Kistler’s curtains, clicked on his lights. I remembered the layout of the rooms: the big room you walked into, used as a living room, the smaller room to the left used as a bedroom. In the bedroom, I opened the two doors in the back wall. The first one led to a closet, the other, bolted on the bedroom side, to a lavatory connecting with Mr. Buffingham’s room.
I bolted that door again.
Having to leave things as they were slowed me down. But I did a thorough job. Fortunately Mr. Kistler’s closet and drawers were those of a masculine man: neat, uninteresting, bare of clutter. Two hats on the closet shelf. A row of shoes beside them. Shoe trees to take out so I could feel in the toes. Nothing there. Suits and overcoats hanging from the rod; I went into every pocket, patted every inch of lining. Chest of drawers next. Shirts. Underwear. I squeezed all the socks. Looked under the pillows, the mattress, the rugs.
The bedroom netted me nothing.
In the living room, I took a look around for hiding places before I tackled the table with the typewriter and the stacks of papers that stood in the front bay. It would take a long time to go through those thoroughly. I lifted the cushion of the overstuffed chair, felt along the cracks. I shook out the books and magazines on the table by the chair. That reminded me there had been a couple of books on the table by the bed; I returned to the other room to shake those out.
Nothing there.
Walking back toward the living room past the chest of drawers, I stopped to look at it again: brushes, combs, and bottles on its top. An ecru linen cover.
Under that dresser cover is where it was. Mottled green paper with black printing. A railroad ticket.
A
