Mr. Grant straightened, and his words left no doubt of what he thought.
“I could not have wished her a more fitting death,” he said quietly.
18
WE ALL STARED AT Mr. Grant. Meek, quiet little Mr. Grant!
The lieutenant snorted, half rose, sat down again.
“You didn’t bring this up yesterday! What reason, may I ask, did you have for wishing Mrs. Garr any kind of death?”
Mr. Grant contemplated him passively.
“The inquest reminded us all of the evil in Mrs. Garr’s past, did it not? She was a woman who had brought sorrow of the most—the most agonizing kind. On hundreds. On mothers of innocent girls, mothers who died crying aloud—” He pinched his lips together, paused a moment before he continued. “Surely it is just that such a woman should meet a horrible end.”
The lieutenant’s voice was as quiet.
“And what does this mean to you, to you personally, Mr. Grant?”
Mr. Grant’s hands fell listlessly between his knees.
“Oh, nothing, nothing. I merely saw in it the workings of an awful Providence.”
“You didn’t help Providence?”
“No, I”—he turned his hands outward—“I didn’t help.”
“Well!” The lieutenant took a deep breath, settled back in his chair. There was something strange in Mr. Grant’s attitude. When he said he had not helped Providence, it was almost as if he were defending himself; as if he should have helped Providence and hadn’t. I could see the lieutenant tearing at that, then deciding to be jocose but watchful.
“You don’t have to feel bad because Providence got along without you. Now go back to your walk.”
“I came up the steps, to Adams again. I idled down past Elliott House until a man came up from the opposite way. I recognized Mr. Buffingham. He was returning from work. We came back to the house together, separated in the hall upstairs. I was awakened by the disturbance yesterday morning.”
“You ever do any sawing, Mr. Grant?”
Mr. Grant looked blank surprise. “Why, as a boy on my father’s farm, I occasionally assisted with the sawing of the winter wood supply.”
“What’s a steel saw look like?”
“Why, I don’t know. I never saw—”
“What do you think it would look like?”
“Why, quite a bit like a wood saw, I should think. Finer, perhaps. And stronger, of course. I didn’t suppose steel could be—but yes, yes, I suppose it can. Even diamonds can be cut.”
He peered at us over his heavy glasses, obviously at a loss over the last questions.
“That’ll do. You can go.”
“Food for thought in that guy,” the lieutenant said after Mr. Grant had left. “If we could prove he had some connection with Mrs. Garr in the past—but we can’t. I had two men working on his past for two days last week. Didn’t know I went into things so thoroughly, did you? We can’t find any record he was in the city until four years ago; he turned up then in a downtown hotel. His own evidence is he came from Detroit. Retired bookkeeper. Plenty of Grants in old Detroit directories, but, my God—we can’t follow them all up! Moved to this house soon after he came in town, lived here since. Lives off a bunch of US bonds, he says. I wish I could find out if Mrs. Garr ever put anything across on him. He isn’t the type to murder for a few cents, but he could well enough murder to get even with an old hate.”
“He doesn’t have an old hate against me, though,” I pointed out. “I can’t imagine Mr. Grant coming—coming—”
“Don’t forget you’re the only one heard that key fall. And you’d been upstairs asking some mighty leading questions.”
“That would mean he wanted to kill me to protect himself. He looks as if he wouldn’t much care what happened to him. Apathetic.”
“You psychology fiends.” Lieutenant Strom sounded apathetic himself. “Let’s see. Kistler. Still at work, I suppose. What time’s it getting to be? Four? Well, we’ll have to wait for Sands, then, too. Let’s have the Wallers down.”
My heart beat fast as the Wallers came in. Was the lieutenant going to throw the word “blackmail” at them? I wondered why they hadn’t been down to see me before today; I was certain that, when I first regained consciousness the day before, Mrs. Waller had been working over me. Mr. Waller had helped break down the door, too. But if they had been back since to inquire how I was, I hadn’t heard of it. If they noticed me at all now as they walked in, it was only a quick glance.
They stood before Lieutenant Strom; he had chairs placed for them; they sat. The expressions on their faces were oddly similar. Poker faces. But behind the masks was apprehension.
“Waller,” the lieutenant began in a friendly way, “would you repeat everything you know of what happened Monday night, for Mrs. Dacres’ benefit?”
Mr. Waller told of returning from the inquest with his wife and Miss Sands, of having dinner downtown, of talking in their apartment, of sleeping until wakened by Mr. Kistler’s call up the stairs about six o’clock on Tuesday morning. He and Mrs. Waller had both stayed to help the doctor. For the first time I heard some of the gorier details.
I thanked them as nicely as I knew how.
When they had both given their stories the lieutenant sat quiet for two ticking seconds before he spoke again.
“Now, Waller, I’m going into something that may be a purely personal matter.” He dropped politeness. “Why in hell didn’t you include in your previous evidence that you held a note of Mrs. Garr’s?”
Mr. Waller stiffened, and I saw Mrs. Waller’s fat pink hands clasp in her lap until they were white along the knuckles. She began trembling slightly; I could see the black lace of her revers shake. Mr. Waller’s eyes avoided the lieutenant’s.
“It didn’t have anything to do with Mrs. Garr dying. It was just a private matter.”
“It would
