Jeff and Alida seated themselves on a sofa that looked as though it might have been a prop for one of Mr. Eastman’s first photographs. Mrs. Calding took a nearby chair. Alida asked, “Is Mrs. Kernley here?”
“The doctor gave her a sedative and put her to bed, the poor dear. This has been almost more than she could take.”
“Is it true those men asked Janie about someone named Johnson?”
“That’s what Mr. Fairchild thought. He lives in the neighborhood, and he was walking his dog. But he was across the street, and there are traffic noises from East Avenue, and he is elderly—he couldn’t have heard very well. This town has got Johnsons on the brain after all those newspaper stories. He may have imagined it.”
“I know there is no Johnson living here, but I wondered if someone’s relatives could have been named Johnson or something like that.”
“Believe me, honey, the police already thought of that. They’ve got Johnsons on the brain, too. On account of all the burglaries, you know. But no one here has any connection with a Johnson. The police checked. They not only checked us—they checked the whole neighborhood!”
“Of course. They would have. We thought we were being clever.” Alida stood up dejectedly. “I suppose we should leave detecting to the detectives. Sorry to bother you, Mrs. Calding.”
“That’s all right, honey. You stop by any time. We are always happy to see you, and I’m sure Mrs. Kernley will want to talk with you when she is feeling better.”
As they started back down the hallway, a door opened. Mrs. Halmer, the nurse, immaculate in her white dress, looked out, nodded at Alida, and said, “Mrs. Calding—could you give me a hand for a moment?”
Calvin DuRosche sat in a invalid’s chair by the window. It was a tidy room, an immaculately clean room, with everything essential to a sick man’s comfort. DuRosche was elderly, gaunt, bald-headed. He sat staring straight ahead. Mrs. Halmer lifted him easily, and Mrs. Calding rearranged his pillows. Jeff watched with professional interest.
“He has had every kind of specialist,” Mrs. Halmer said. “None of them helped him. He can’t talk, he can’t walk, he can’t do a thing for himself. All he does is exist. They say he was such an active, intelligent, man. It is a terrible thing when a person lives too long.”
Alida turned away, holding back her tears. “There is a worse thing—dying too soon.”
They moved down the hall to the doorway with Mrs. Calding following them. On the stoop, Alida said, “Apologies again for bothering you. I guess it was a pretty silly idea.”
“The police didn’t think it was silly. But I wish they would forget about Johnsons and look for those murderers.”
As Jeff and Alida turned away, Mrs. Calding looked down into the shrubbery. “Hy Hyatt!” she exclaimed angrily. “What are you doing there?”
The handyman was crouched behind the clump of bushes that stood beside the entrance. He had a short length of thick pipe in one hand and a butcher knife in the other. He was a runty, ragamuffin type, dressed in cast-off clothing. He wore a white dress shirt, much in need of laundering, open at the throat; faded and patched golfing pants; and running shoes. He didn’t seem to be wearing socks. His long hair was a shaggy brown mat, and any public health officer would have declared him a disaster area.
He flashed a crafty smile, showing decayed stumps of teeth. “I’m guardin’ the house, Mrs. Calding. Them murderers is back. I saw ‘em drive past.”
“Nonsense!” Mrs. Calding exclaimed. “You don’t even know what they looked like. You put those things away before you hurt yourself!”
“Now don’t you worry, Mrs. Calding. I been to school, you know. I can take care of this. There won’t be no murderers breaking in while I’m here.”
“I’ll see to you later,” Mrs. Calding promised.
She followed Alida and Jeff down to the car. Alida apologized again for trying to wish the name Johnson on her.
“The only mystery about a name in this house belongs to Hy,” Mrs. Calding said. “He won’t tell anyone what his first name is. The ‘Hy,’ comes from his last name, Hyatt.”
Hy had come out from behind his shrubbery. He grinned at them again. He held the pipe and knife in a way that boded no good for any intruding murderer. As they drove back down the drive, Mrs. Calding waved her hand at them. Hy stood beside her waving his butcher knife.
At the foot of the drive, Mr. Kernley, a short, fat man with graying hair and a small mustache that seemed incongruously black, stepped out and flagged them. He greeted Alida warmly; she introduced him to Jeff.
“I was looking around that place where Janie was killed,” he said. “She fell back into the hedge and landed on a rock, you know. The police searched there, of course, but it was dark, and I don’t think they worked very hard at it. Probably they didn’t expect to find anything. Those two men never stepped off the sidewalk. Janie lost her balance and staggered backward into the hedge before she fell.”
“She was pushed!” Alida said bitterly.
“Well—Mr. Fairchild thought she was, but he also said she seemed to be struggling with one of the men as though they were both pulling on something. I found this.”
He opened a handkerchief and showed them a fragment of what looked like a black tube. “I thought it was metal,” he said. “But it isn’t—it’s thin wood. See the splinters where it broke? There is something odd set in the end of it. I think one of the men had this in his hand, and Janie caught hold of it, and both of them pulled on it. When it broke, she lost her balance and stumbled backward. She must have fallen pretty hard, so I suppose she could have been pushed at the same time.”
“It looks like a piece of a pocket telescope,” Jeff mused. “Or maybe a microscope—one made for kids. Except that those things wouldn’t have a wood tube.” Holding it by the handkerchief, he scrutinized it perplexedly. “If that’s a lens in the end of it, it certainly is strange-looking.”
“It may have nothing to do with Janie,” Mr. Kernley said. “Someone could have tossed this into the hedge to get rid of it. I pick up all kinds of junk there. Do you think I ought to take it to the police station?”
“The police certainly will want to see it. I know a sergeant who is working on the case. I can take it to him now. It should be checked for fingerprints and then analyzed scientifically. Maybe someone will know what it is.”
“That’s nice of you,” Mr. Kernley said. “I was worried about making a fool of myself, but if you really think it is important—”
“It is. The police will thank you. Even if they don’t, Alida and I thank you. You have given us a chance to do one small thing about Janie’s death.” He folded the handkerchief around the odd object and handed it to Alida to hold.
“Such a lovely girl with all her life ahead of her,” Mr. Kernley said. He shook his head sadly. “So unnecessary. You’ll see that the police get that?”
“In about fifteen minutes,” Jeff promised. They waved and drove off.
There was a meeting that night in one of the row apartments. It was an exact duplicate of the apartment Alida had occupied with Janie, but its furnishings and decor were distinctly masculine, and the place had the unmistakable air of occupancy by indifferent males rather than tidy females.
Most of those present had been at the party. Bob, one of the vocalists, interrupted a babble of talk by shouting for silence. He had a wrestler’s build; in fact, he was one, and his voice boomed. “Hold it! Alida and Jeff have asked us to help them.”
“Where are they?” Charlie asked.
“Alida is working and Jeff had an errand. Now listen. They are trying to find Janie’s murderers. This is our problem, too. Janie was one of us. Are we going to let those thugs get away with it?”
Charlie said, “Well, if the police can’t catch them, how do you expect us—ouch!”
Shirley elbowed him a second time and said, “Shut up!”
“The police don’t seem to be pushing this,” Bob said. “In their book, it wasn’t murder, it was manslaughter —there is no indication that the men wanted to hurt Janie. They certainly didn’t know that rock was there, and they might even be able to plead self-defense. The guy was trying to pull away from her, and she had hold of him—or
