He had a son.
I suppose there isn’t any tragedy in the world more heartrending, I thought, looking at him, than being the father of a baby that turns out wrong. Of waiting and thinking about the baby that’s coming, afraid and secret and proud; of having the baby be born and going in to see it with its mother, glad and tender. Of wondering all the years as the baby grew whether he should say yes, he could go to all the movies he wanted to, or no, no more movies, too exciting; or yes, an allowance, or no, learn to earn; or yes, I’ll get you a baseball, or no, I wish you wouldn’t play with the Smith boy. Mr. Buffingham was worn with the grief of having made the wrong decisions.
The lieutenant was looking at him, too. As if idly, while he told the reason for this second questioning.
Mr. Buffingham’s story was simple. Worked until midnight.
Walked home. Car in garage for repairs. Met Mr. Grant near Elliott House. Walked in with him. Wakened by racket Tuesday morning.
“A new bit of information has come to hand,” said the lieutenant as Mr. Buffingham finished. There was bite under his carelessness. “Enjoy being blackmailed, Buffingham?”
Mr. Buffingham’s dark eyes made a quick swing from face to face, but his mouth was imperturbable.
“Who, me?”
“Yes, you.”
“What’re you talking about?”
“You, Buffingham, paying blackmail.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Oh no, I’m not.”
“What’ve I done to be blackmailed for?” Mr. Buffingham’s eyes were very careful.
“That’s what I want to know.”
I saw it, we all saw it. It couldn’t be concealed.
Relief.
Mr. Buffingham was relieved when the lieutenant said he’d like to know what for. He was still worn, still harried, but the new fear that had crept back of his eyes when the lieutenant first said “blackmail” had crept away again.
“What could anybody blackmail me for?” he demanded now, truculently. “I ain’t done nothin’. Just because my boy got in a little trouble, here, you’re going to try to hang something on me, too, huh?”
“How much you getting at the Elite, Buffingham?”
“Eighteen per. It’s a lousy joint.”
“Eighteen dollars a week?”
“That’s it.”
“You insist on that?”
“Sure, that’s what I’m getting. Ask the old man if you don’t believe me.”
Soft and smooth. “Nine dollars a week is a lot for your room upstairs, Buffingham.”
Again Mr. Buffingham’s eyes made their darting round.
“Yeah,” he said. “Oh, you mean what I been paying old lady Garr recently?” He threw back his head to laugh loudly. “So that’s where you got your blackmail, huh? She would leave the receipt stubs around, wouldn’t she? Old lady Garr! That’s good!” He stopped laughing as if it were turned off by a spigot. “I owed her some back rent, see. No job for a while. And the old lady staked me to the room, see? But jeez, blackmail wasn’t so far off, at that. I been paying three times over for that room ever since I got a job again. I’ll bet she had me set to pay three times till the walls fell in. Me, I was thinking about moving to get out from under.”
If he was lying it was a good job; he was as easy as if there were no judgment at stake, no trial, no life.
The lieutenant tried the methods he had used on Miss Sands.
“Nine from eighteen leaves nine dollars a week. And you drive a car.”
Mr. Buffingham waved a weary, careless hand. “Oh, I’ve got a couple little sidelines on. You know, Lieutenant. It ain’t so hard in a drugstore. You can see why I got to. You wouldn’t crack down on me for that, would you?”
He was doing better than Miss Sands.
The lieutenant tried another tack.
“So your boy’s going to try a break, eh?”
“Huh?”
“You heard me.”
“I don’t know what you’re trying to put over on me, but—”
“Oh yes, you do. That’s how you happened to have that saw.”
“Saw?”
“Acting dumb, eh?”
“I don’t know what you mean.” He was alert and easy, increasingly sardonic as he became more sure of his ability to parry the thrusts of his questioner.
“Wisecracker, huh? Where’d you get that saw?”
“I ain’t had any saw.”
“Must have quite a little tool kit. What’d you use on the screws?”
“I ain’t got no screws to turn.”
“Oh, so you’re thinking about turning screws. So you were turning screws on that cellar door!”
“Cellar door? There ain’t any cellar door.”
It was, undoubtedly, the answer anyone in the house would have made—anyone who was not thinking of the door in my kitchen. Because there was no door at the top of the main cellar stairs. How crafty was Mr. Buffingham? If he were guilty, did he have brains enough to make that subtly innocent answer? I could see the possibilities being weighed in the lieutenant’s mind. Then he veered again.
“You ever know Rose Liberry, Buffingham?”
“Who?”
“You heard me this time, too.”
“Rose, you said? Liberry? Can’t say I have. Who’s she?”
“No one. Now.”
The lieutenant let him go.
He was thoughtful as Mr. Buffingham hurried out.
“Why don’t you turn on your psychology now, Mrs. Dacres?”
“On Mr. Buffingham, you mean?”
“On Mr. Buffingham. God! What a name!”
“Well . . .”
“Is he the type that could have done it?”
“Yes,” I said. “Yes, I think he might have done it, psychologically speaking. But why should he? We can’t know for sure about Mrs. Garr, but why should he attack me? I haven’t anything on him.”
“Sure of that?”
“Of course I am. I know him less than anyone else in the house.”
Mr. Kistler stood up to stretch.
“Yes, he’s sort of past your age.”
I ignored that, but Lieutenant Strom didn’t.
“I can see where Kistler here would have greater charms,” he said.
They both stood grinning at me like a couple of apes.
“I thought you were intent only in finding out who
