Death Likes It Hot

1

I’M quite sure now that Greaves was bluffing. He suspected Brexton was the murderer and he had enough circumstantial evidence to turn the whole thing over to the District Attorney’s office but he knew that many a good minion of the law has hung himself with circumstantial evidence which a bright defense has then used to embarrass the prosecution. Greaves had no intention of moving for an indictment which would not stick. His bluff to me was transparent: he wanted to create in everyone’s mind a certainty of Brexton’s guilt; if this could be done, the case would certainly be strengthened psychologically . . . and Greaves, I’d already discovered, was a devoted if incompetent amateur psychologist.

I went up to my room and took a long bath, reconstructing the revelations of the day. There had been a number and none seemed to fit the picture which was slowly beginning to form in my mind.

I had tracked down most of the alibis. Anyone could have put sleeping pills in Mildred Brexton’s coffee except Randan who was in Boston that day. The two Claypooles and Brexton knew where the sleeping pills were located. Miss Lung could not have known. Mrs. Veering might have known since she was undoubtedly one of those hostesses who enjoy snooping around their guests’ possessions.

Alibis for the second murder were all somewhat hazy, excepting Allie’s and Brexton’s; if they had really been together at the time of the murder, it either ruled them both out as murderers, or worse, ruled them in as joint killers for reasons unknown ... at least in her case. Mrs. Veering had no alibi nor did Miss Lung. Randan did; he was at the Club. Who then, logically, was in the best position, motive aside, to hâve committed both murders, allowing of course that all alibis were truthful?

The answer was appalling but inevitable: Mrs. Veering.

I dropped the soap and spent several minutes chasing it around the bathtub while my mind began to adjust to this possibility.

Of all the suspects she alone had no alibi for either murder . . . other than a possible claim of ignorace as to the whereabouts of the various bottles of sleeping pills. If Brexton and Allie were not joint murderers, then the only person left who might have killed both Mildred and Claypoole was Mrs. Veering who, as far as I knew, had no motive.

The thought of motives depressed me. The “how” of any murder is usually a good deal simpler than the “why.” These people were all strangers to me and I had no way of knowing what tensions existed between them, what grievances were hidden from the outside world. But at least Greaves and I were in the same boat. He didn’t know any more than I did about the people involved. He had the advantage though of a direct mind: Brexton was quarreling with his wife. Brexton killed his wife. Claypoole threatens to expose him out of his love for the dead woman. Brexton kills Claypoole, using his own knife which he thoughtfully leaves beside the body to amuse the police.

At that point, I ruled Brexton out. He hadn’t done the murder. I had a hunch, though, that if anyone knew who had done it, he did. Meanwhile, there was the problem of motives to sort out and Mrs. Veering was now my primary target. She would be a slippery customer since, even at best, she didn’t make much sense.

I was just pulling on my trousers when Mary Western Lung threw the door between our two rooms open and stood before me, eyes burning with lust and bosom heaving. I realized too late that the bureau which I had placed between our connecting door had been moved to its original position by some meddling servant.

With great dignity I zipped my fly. “You were looking for me, Miss Lung?”

She pretended embarrassment and surprise, her eagle eyes not missing a trick. “I don’t know what I’m doing, honestly!” She moved purposefully forward. I pulled my jacket on and shoved a chair between us, all in one dazzling play.

“Sit down, Miss Lung.”

“My friends call me Mary Western,” she said, sinking disappointedly into the chair. “I was so immersed in ‘Book-Chat’ that, when I finished, instead of going out of the door to the hall I just barged.” She gave a wild squeak which was disconcerting ... it was obviously intended to reproduce a ripple of gay laughter at her own madcap derringdo: it was awful.

I mumbled something about the perils of authorship.

“But of course you would understand. By the way I read with great interest your account of our tragedies in the Globe. I had no idea you were a past master of the telling phrase."

“Thanks.” I tied my tie.

“But I think you should have consulted some of us before you went ahead. There are wheels within wheels, Mr. Sargeant.”

“I’m sure of that.”

“Yes, wheels within wheels," she repeated relishing her own telling phrase.

Then she got to the point. “I must tell you that I do not altogether agree with your diagnosis of the case.”

“Diagnosis?”

She nodded. “It was perfectly clear from your piece in the Globe . . . between the lines, that is . . . that you feel Brexton did not kill either his wife or Fletcher...”

“And you feel he did?”

“I didn’t say that.” She was quick, surprisingly so. "But, in the light of what evidence there is, I don’t see any basis for your confidence.”

“I’m hardly confident . . . anyway, it was, as you say, between the lines.”

“Perfectly true but I thought I should talk to you about it if only because you might, without meaning to of course, make trouble for the rest of us."

“I don’t . . .”

“I mean, Mr. Sargeant, that if Brexton did not do the murders then one of us must have . . . it’s perfectly simple.”

“That's logical. I had even thought that far ahead myself.”

She was impervious to irony. “And if it is one of us, we are all apt to be dragged very deep into an unpleasant investigation which might seriously affect us all, personally and professionally. You follow me?”

I said that I did. I also said that I could hardly see what the famous author of “Book-Chat” had to fear from an investigation.

“No more perhaps than the rest of us who are innocent . . . and no less.” She was mysterious. She was also plainly uneasy.

“Im afraid we’re all in for it anyway,” I said, sounding practical. "I don’t think my reporting makes much difference one way or another. We’re all in for some rough questioning . . . that is, if Brexton doesn't confess or something dramatic happens.”

“Why make it worse? I'm convinced he killed Mildred. . .

“You weren’t originally.”

“Only because I couldn’t believe that such a thing had happened, could happen. Now my only hope is to see this thing quickly ended and Brexton brought to justice. He was tempted . . . God knows: 1 know. Mildred had not been herself for a year. She was becoming simply impossible. The night before she died she got hysterical ... at darling Rose, of all people, and attacked her with a knife . . . the very same knife Brexton used to kill Fletcher. Oh, it was terrible! Her attacking Rose I mean. Rose screamed: it woke us all up, remember? and then of course Brexton came rushing in and stopped . . .”

I was now listening with, I must confess, my mouth open with surprise. I didn’t want to arrest her incoherent flow for fear she might clam up; at the same time I knew that what she was saying was extremely important.

When she paused for breath, I asked with affected calm, “That's right, Mildred and Mrs. Veering stayed in the drawing room after we went up to bed, didn’t they?”

“Why yes . . . that's when the quarrel started. Rose told me about it later. Brexton had gone to bed and I suppose Rose was scolding Mildred about her behavior when Mildred just lost her head and rushed at her with a knife . . . poor darling! Rose was out of her mind with terror. She screamed and Brexton came rushing in and slapped Mildred. It was the only thing to do when she was in one of her passions. Then he took her off to bed and Rose came upstairs, telling us not to worry . . . you remember that.”

“I wonder how Mildred happened to have the knife . . . it’s a kind of palette knife, isn’t it ... in the drawing room?”

Miss Lung shrugged. “With a madwoman, you never know. Rose of course was positive Mildred wanted to kill her. She has been like that for years about many people and we’ve always humored her ... I mean you know how Rose is: impulsive, and of course her little vice doesn’t make for one hundred per-cent rationality, does it? But it seems that this time Rose was right and Mildred did attack her. ..."

“Why?”

“That is none of our business,” said Miss Lung coldly. “But I will say that they were great friends before her breakdown. Rose was loyal to her afterwards when many people didn’t want to have her around. She even invited them here for the week end so that Mildred might have a chance to relax and get a grip on herself. Then of course the girl attacks her. Its hardly fair. My point is that things like that are no one's business but Rose’s . . . they shouldn’t be written about by gossip columnists, especially since I’m convinced the whole terrible thing is really very simple. I only hope the police act quickly before . . .”

“Before another incident? another murder?”

She looked almost frightened. “No, I didn’t mean that exactly.” But she wouldn't go on. “I hope we're not too late for dinner.” She made a production out of studying the heart-shaped gold watch she wore on a chain over her heart. Then, talking “Book-Chat,” we went downstairs and joined the other guests.

Greaves sat in the center of the sofa, looking like an unsuccessful experiment in taxidermy. He had changed to a blue serge suit which smelled of mothballs and was strewn with lint like snow upon a midnight clear. He was being a member of the party tonight, not a policeman and he was, figuratively speaking, watching every fork. The others played along as though he were an old friend. No mention was made of the murders. The conversation was forced but general. Brexton was in excellent form which, considering the fact his head was well in the noose, was surprising. I wondered if he was saving up a surprise or two.

I found out one significant bit of news right off; Mrs. Veering, over the martini (ray, said: “Poor Allie is still unconscious. I’m sick with worry about her.”

“Hasn’t she come to at all?”

“Oh yes, regularly . . . it’s only the dope which keeps her out. You see, when she comes to, she starts to rave! It’s simply horrible. We’re so helpless . . . there’s nothing anyone can do except pray.”

“Have you seen her?”

“No, they won’t let anybody in except the doctor, and the nurse. I have demanded a consultation and I think perhaps they’ll have to have one. Mr. Randan’s agreed of course as the next of kin.”

“Consultation?”

“To see what's wrong with her.”

“You mean . . .”

“She may have lost her reason.” And on that cheerful note, we went in to dinner.

I remember looking about the table that night with some care. The odds were that the murderer was among us, quietly eating stewed tomatoes and lobster Newburg. But which one? Brexton was the calmest, no doubt banking heavily on that perfect alibi: if he was telling the truth, and we’d soon know from Allie Claypoole herself, he would be safe . . . unless of course the business was even more bizarre than any of us suspected and the two of them, like the Macbeths, had together done in her beloved brother for reasons too lurid for the family trade.

Just as the dessert was brought in, Mrs. Veering, with a strange bland smile, got to her feet and pitched head forward onto the table.

There was a stunned silence. Her tumbler landed on the thick carpet with a hollow sound. Flowers from the centerplace scattered everywhere.

Miss Lung shrieked: a thin pale noise like a frightened lovebird.

The rest of us sat frozen in our chairs while Greaves leaped from his chair and pulled her chair back from the table. “Don’t anybody move," he said.

2

But this was not the crisis he or anyone had anticipated. The butler came rushing in with digitalis and Mrs. Veering recovered sufficiently to say, with a ghastly parody of her social smile, “I’ll be all right . . . heart . . . bed.”

She was carried upstairs and the trained nurse undressed her while Greaves ordered a doctor.

Our ever diminishing party then sat rigidly about the drawing room, drinking brandy and waiting for Greaves who, with one of his plain-clothes men, was investigating Mrs. Veering’s glass, her food, the table, the servants.

Miss Lung was the most affected. I was afraid she might have a stroke herself. “Poor Rose! Knew it would . . . told her . . . never listens ... the strain, the awful strain . . . can’t be helped . . . everything possible, always, from the very beginning . . . alcohol . .

Greaves joined us within the hour. He seemed genuinely puzzled. "Mrs. Veering is all right, we’re happy to report. She has a cardiac condition, a chronic one. She had an attack and . . .”

“Drugged!” Miss Lung looked at him, her eyes wide and glassy. “I know she was drugged . . . like poor Mildred, or worse: poison!”

This is what we had all been thinking.

Greaves, without hesitation, went to the table where the whisky was kept and, regulations or no regulations, poured himself a stiff drink.

Then he joined our tense circle. “She was not drugged and she was not poisoned. She is resting comfortably. Her doctor is with her now. She may have to stay in bed a day or two but that’s all.”

There was nothing for us to say. Miss Lung obviously did not believe him. The rest of us didn’t know what to think. "No one can see her until tomorrow,” said Greaves just as Miss Lung got purposefully to her feet.

“Rose is my oldest friend and when she is in her hour of need I must go to her, come what may." The authoress of Little Biddy Bit looked every yard a heroine.

“I’m sorry but I can’t allow it.” Greaves was firm. Miss Lung sat down heavily, her face lowering with anger. Greaves looked at the rest of us thoughtfully.

“This is going to be a difficult night,” he said. “I will tell you right off that we’re waiting for Miss Claypoole to recover and give us her story of what happened the night of her brother’s murder. Until we have her testimony, we can do nothing but wait.”

Awkward silence greeted his candor. Everyone knew what he meant. No one said anything: no one dared look at Brexton who sat doodling with a pencil on a sketch pad. I half expected him to say something out of line but he ignored Greaves.

“Meanwhile,” said Greaves with an attempt at heartiness, “you can do anything you like. We’d prefer for you to stay here but we can’t force you, exactly. Should you want to go out, please check with me or with one of the men on duty. I know all this is unusual procedure but we're in an unusual situation without much precedent to go on. It is my hope, however, that we will be able to call a special court by Friday.”

“What is a special court?" asked Brexton, not raising his eyes from the sketch pad on his knees.

“It’s a court consisting of the local magistrate and a local jury before whom our district attorney will present an indictment of a party or parties as yet unknown for the crime of murder in the first degree.” He gathered strength from the legal jargon. It was properly chilling.

Then, having made his effect, he announced that if anyone needed him he could be found in the downstairs bedroom; he went off to bed.

I went over and sat down beside Brexton, feeling sorry for him . . . also curious to find out what it was that made him seem so confident.

He put the book down. “Quiet week end, isn’t it?” This wasn’t in lhe best of taste but it was exactly what I’d been thinking, too.

“Only four left,” I said, nodding. “In the war we would’ve said it was a jinx company.”

“I’m sure it is too. But actually it’s six surviving, not four, which isn’t bad for a tough engagement.”

“Depends how you reckon casualties. Has Mrs. Veering had heart attacks before? like this?”

“Yes. This is the third one I know of. She just turns blue and they give her some medicine; then she’s perfectly all right in a matter of minutes.”

“Minutes? But she seemed really knocked out, The doctor said she’ll have to stay in bed a day or two.”

Brexton smiled. “Greaves said the doctor said she’d have to stay in bed.”

This sank in, bit by bit. “Then she . . . well, she’s all right now?”

“I shouldn’t be surprised.”

“Bdt why the bluff? Why wouldn’t Greaves let anybody go to her? Why would he say she’d be in bed a few days?” “Something of a mystery, isn’t it?” “Doesn’t make and sense.”

Brexton sighed. “Maybe it does. Anyway, for some reason, she wants to play possum ... so let her.”

“It’s also possible that she might have had a worse attack than usual, isn’t it?”

“Anything is possible with Rose.” If he was deliberately trying to arouse my curiosity he couldn’t have been more effective.

“Tell me, Mr. Brexton,” I spoke quietly, disarmingly, “who killed your wife?"

“No one.”

“Are you sure of this?”

“Quite sure.”

“Then by the same reasoning, Claypoole hit himself on the head, dragged his own body through the sand and cut his own head half off with your palette knife.”

Brexton chuckled. “Stranger things have happened.”

“Like what?”

“Like your knocking yourself out the other morning in the kitchen.”

“And what about that? That I know wasn’t self-inflicted.”

Brexton only smiled.

“Your wife killed herself?”

“By accident, yes.”

“Claypoole . . .”

“Was murdered.”

“Do you know who did it?”

“I didn’t.”

“But do you know who died?”

Brexton shrugged. “I have some ideas.”

“And you won’t pass them on?”

“Not yet.”

I felt as if we were playing twenty questions. From across the room came the high squeal of Miss Lung appreciatively applauding some remark of our young historian.

I tried a frontal attack. “You realize what the police will think if Allie Claypoole testifies that she was, as you say, with you when her brother died?”

“\Vhat will they think?” His face was expressionless.

“That perhaps the two of you together killed him."

He looked at me coolly. “Why would they think that? She was devoted to him. Look the way this thing hit her. The poor child went out of her head when they told her.”

“They might say her breakdown was due to having killed her own brother.”

“They might, but why?”

“They still think you killed your wife. They think Claypoole had something on you. They think you killed him. If Allie says you were with her then they’ll immediately think she was involved too.”

“Logically but not likely. Even allowing the rest was true, which it isn’t, why would she help me kill her brother?”

I fired in the dark. “Because she was in love with you.”

Brexton’s glaze flickered. He lowered his eyes. His hands closed tight on the book in his lap. “You go too far, Mr. Sargeant.”

“I’m involved in this too,” I said, astonished at my luck: by accident I had hit on something no one apparently knew. “I’d like to know where we stand, that’s all.”

“None of your business,” he snapped, suddenly flushed, his eyes dangerously bright. “Allie isn’t involved in any of this. There’ll be hell to pay if anybody tries to get her mixed up in it . . . that goes for the police who are just as liable to court action as anyone.”

“For libel?”

“For libel. This even goes for newspapermen, Mr. Sargeant.”

“I had no intention of writing anything about it. But I may have to ... I mean, if Greaves should start operating along those lines. He’s worried; the press is getting mean. He’s going to have to find somebody to indict in the next few days.”

“He has somebody.”

“You mean you?”

“Yes. I don’t mind in the least. But there won’t be a conviction. I’ll promise you that.” He was grim.

I couldn’t get him to elaborate; I tried another tack. “If neither you nor Allie killed Claypoole, that leaves only three suspects . . . Miss Lung, Mrs. Veering and Randan. Why would any of those three have wanted to kill Claypoole?”

Brexton looked at me, amusement in his eyes. “I have no intention of giving the game away, even if I could, which is doubtful. I’m almost as much in the dark as you and the police. I’ll give you one lead though,” he lowered his voice. “Crime of passion.”

“What do you mean?”

With one quick gesture of his powerful right hand he indicated Miss Lung. “She was in love and she was spurned, as they say.”

“In love with whom?”

“Fletcher Claypoole, and for many years.”

“I thought she was in love with the whole male sex.”

“That too. But years ago when I first met her, about the same time Fletcher did, she was a good-looking woman. This is hard to believe, I know, but she was. All the fat came later when Fletcher wouldn’t have her. I painted her once, when she was thin ... it was when I was still doing portraits. She was quite lovely in a pale blond way. I painted her nude.”

I could hardly believe it. “If she was so pretty and so much in love with him why didn't he fall for her?”

“He ... he just didn't.” The pause was significant. I thought I knew what he didn’t want to say. “But she’s been in love with him ever since. I think they quarreled our first day here.”

“About that?”

“About something.”

“I can’t see her commiting murder fifteen years after being turned down.”

“Your imagination is your own problem,” said Brexton. He got to his feet. “I’m going to bed,” and with a nod to the two on the couch, he left the drawing room.

This was the cue for all of us. Randan asked me if I wanted to go to the Club with him. I said no, that I was tired. Miss Lung waited to be invited to the Club hers-If but, when the invitation did not come, she said she would have to get back to her authorial labors . . . the readers of “Book-Chat” demanded her all.

I went upstairs with her. On the second floor landing one of the plain-clothes men was seated, staring absently into space. Miss Lung bade us both good night cheerily and, with a long lingering look at the servant of the public, she oozed into her room, no doubt disappointed that his services did not include amatory dalliance with Mary Western Lung.

I went to my own room and quickly shoved the bureau against the connecting door. Then I telephoned Liz, only to find she was out.

I went over and looked out the window gloomily and thought of Liz, wondering whether or not I should join Randan, who was just that moment getting into his car, and make the round of the clubs. I decided not to. I had an idea there might be something doing in the next few hours, something I didn’t want to miss out on.

Fully clothed, I lay down on my bed and turned the light out. I thought about what Brexton had told me, about what he hadn't told me. Very neatly, he’d provided Miss Lung with a motive. Not so neatly, he'd allowed me to discover what would, no doubt, be an important piece of evidence for the prosecution: that Allie Claypoole and he were in love, that the two of them, as easily as not, could've killed her brother for any number of reasons, all ascertainable.

3

I awakened with a start.

I had gone to sleep and not moved once which explained why my neck ached and my whole body felt as though I’d just finished a particularly tough set of calisthenics. I don’t know what awakened me. I won’t say premonition ... on the other hand a stiff neck sounds prosaic.

The first I did was to look at my watch, to see how long I’d slept: it was exactly midnight according to the luminous dial.

I switched on the light beside my bed and sat up, more tired than when I’d dropped off to sleep.

I had half expected a call from Liz. The fact I hadn’t received one bothered me a little. I found I was thinking altogether too much about her.

Suddenly the thought of a stiff shot of brandy occurred to me, like a mirage to a dying man in the Gobi. I had to have one. It was just the thing to put me back to sleep.

I opened the door and stepped out into the dimly lit hall. At the far end, the plain-clothes man sat, staring dreamily at nothing. He shook his head vigorously when he saw me, just to show he was awake.

“Just going to get something,” I said cheerfully.

He grunted as I passed him. I went downstairs. The lights were still on in the drawing room. I remember this surprised me.

I had just poured myself some brandy when Miss Lung, pale and flurried, arrayed in her pink awning, materialized in the doorway.

“Where is the nurse? Have you seen the nurse?”

“What nurse?” I looked at her stupidly.

“The nurse who...”

“Someone looking for me?” A brisk female voice sounded from the main hall. Miss Lung turned as the nurse, whiteclad and competent, appeared with a covered tray.

“Yes, I was. A few minutes ago I went into Rose’s room to see how she was ... I know that nobody’s allowed to do that but I just didn’t care. Anyway, she wasn’t in her bed. I rapped on Allie’s door and there wasn’t any answer there either and I was afraid...”

“I’m the night nurse,” said the white figure. “We change at midnight. I was in the kitchen getting a few things ready. As for Miss Claypoole she is under morphine and wouldn’t be able to hear you. .

“But Rose? Where on earth can she be?”

“We’ll find out soon enough." We made an odd procession going up those stairs. The angular angel of mercy, the billowy plump authoress of “Book-Chat,” and myself with a balloon glass of brandy in one hand.

The guard stirred himself at the sight of this procession. “I told her she wasn’t supposed to go in there but..."

Miss Lung interrupted him curtly. “This is Mrs. Veering’s house, my good man, not the city jail.”

We went into Mrs. Veering’s room first and found our hostess, handsome in black lace, sitting up in bed reading a detective story. She was dead sober for once and not at all like her usual self. She was precise, even formidable.

“What on earth is everybody doing . . she began but Miss Lung didn’t let her finish.

“Oh, Rose, thank heavensl I was terrified something had happened to you. I was in here a few minutes ago and you were nowhere in sight; then I rapped on Allie’s door.” She indicated the connecting door, “and there wasn’t any answer. I couldn’t’ve been more terrified!”

“I was in the bathroom,” said Mrs. Veering, an unpleasant edge to her voice. “I’m perfectly all right, Mary. Now do go to bed and we’ll have a nice chat tomorrow. I still feel shaky after my attack.”

“Of course I will, Rose, but before I go you must . . .” while the two women were talking, the nurse had opened the connecting door and gone into Allie's room. She had left the door half open and I maneuvered myself into a position where I could look in. I was curious to see how Allie looked.

I saw all right.

The nurse was already on the telephone. “Doctor? Come quickly. An injection. I don't know what. I think she’ll need an ambulance.”

Before the law intervened to keep us all out, I was at AHie’s bedside.

She lay on her back, breathing heavily, her face gray and her hands twitching at the coverlet. The nurse was frantically examining a hypodermic needle.

“What happened?”

“Someone’s given her an injection.” The nurse managed to pump a last drop of fluid from the hypodermic on a piece of cotton. “It’s ... oh God, it’s strychnine!”

4

This time the questioning was general. There were no private trips to the alcove.

Greaves joined us an hour to the dot after the ambulance took Allie to the hospital.

Mrs. Veering was on hand, pale and hard-eyed, her own attack forgotten in the confusion. Miss Lung was near hysteria, laughing and giggling uncontrollably from time to time. Brexton was jittery. He sat biting his knuckles, his old faded dressing gown pulled up around his ears, as though to hide his face. Randan, who’d arrived during the confusion, sat with a bewildered look on his face while Greaves explained to us what had happened.

“She’ll be all right,” were his first words. He paused to see how the company responded: relief in every face . . . yet one was acting. Which?

Greaves went on, not looking at anyone in particular. “Somebody, at midnight exactly, got into Miss Claypoole’s room and attempted to give her an injection of strychnine. Luckily whoever did this did a sloppy job. Very little was introduced into the artery, which saved her life.” He pulled out a tablet of legal-size paper.

“Now I’m going to ask each of you, in order, to describe where he or she was at midnight. Before I start, I should say for those who are newcomers to this house that on the second floor there are seven bedrooms, each with its own bath. The hall runs down the center of the floor with a window at either end. On the west side is the staircase and three bedrooms. On the north, fartherest from the stairs, is Mr. Sargeant’s room. Next to him is Miss Lung. Next to her is an empty room and south of that of course is the stairs. Three bedrooms and a stairwell on the west side." He paused a moment; then: “All contiguous bedrooms open into one another, by connecting doors in the rooms themselves . . . not through the bathrooms which do not connect.”

“I can’t see what all this has to do with what’s happened,” said Mrs. Veering irritably.

“It has a great deal ... as I hope to show you in a few minutes.” Greaves made some marks none of us could see on the tablet. “Now, on the other side of the hall, the east side overlooking the ocean, there are four bedrooms. The north bedroom belongs to Mr. Randan. The next to Mrs. Veering. The next to Miss Claypoole and the last to Mr. Brexton. Both Mr. Brexton and Mrs. Veering are in bedrooms which have doors which open into Miss Claypoole’s room.”

“The door in my room is locked,” said Brexton suddenly. His voice made us all start.

“That’s correct,” said Greaves quietly. “It was locked this morning by me, from Miss Claypoole’s side of the door. The key was not in the lock, however.”

“What do you mean by that?” Brexton’s voice was hard.

“All in good time. And don’t interrupt, please. Now I hope you will all be absolutely honest. For your own safety.”

There was a grave silence. Greaves turned to me. “Where were you at midnight?”

“In bed, or maybe just waking up.”

“Do you always sleep fully dressed?”

“Not always. I just dozed off. I hadn’t intended to go to sleep but I did, probably around eleven or so.”

“I see. And you say you woke up at twelve.”

“That’s right. I looked at my watch. I was surprised I’d been asleep. I turned on the light and decided that a drink of brandy might be just the thing to get me back to sleep.”

“And you went downstairs?”

“As you know.” I was aware that, while I talked, Greaves was recording everything in shorthand; this was an unexpected talent. I described to him what had happened.

He then turned to Miss Lung. “We'll move from room to room, in order,” he said. “Yours is next. Where were you at midnight?”

“I ... I was in Rose’s ... in Mrs. Veering’s room, looking for her.”

“Are you sure it was midnight?"

“No, not exactly but I guess it must’ve been because I was only in there a few minutes and I saw Mr. Sargeant right afterwards. I was terrified when I didn’t find her. Then, when I knocked on Allie's door and got no answer, I knew something must be wrong; I rushed off to find the nurse. The policeman on duty saw me.”

“Unfortunately, he didn’t see you go in. He did see you come out. He was standing on the top stair, it seems, talking to the nurse going off duty, his back to the hall when you went into Mrs. Veering’s room, at ten minutes to twelve."

“I ... I was only in there a very few minutes.

“Yet the nurse went off duty at ten minutes to, or rather left Mrs. Veering's room at that time to meet her relief who was arriving downstairs. She paused to chat with the man on duty. While this was happening, you went across the hall from your room to Mrs. Veering’s, isn’t that right?”

“Well, yes. I did notice the policeman was talking to somebody on the stair. I couldn’t see who it was...”

“Miss Lung, did you try to open the door between the two rooms?” There was a tense silence. Miss Lung was white as a sheet. Brexton sat on the edge of his chair. Mrs. Veering’s eyes were shut, as though to blot out some terrible sight.

“Miss Lung did you or did you not try to open that door?”

The dam broke. The cord of silence snapped. Miss Lung wept a monsoon. In the midst of her blubbeiings, we learned that she had tried to open the door and that it was locked, from the other side.

It took several minutes to quiet Miss Lung. When she was at last subdued, Greaves moved implacably on. “Mr. Randan, will you tell me where you were at midnight?”

Reluctantly, Randan tore his gaze from the heaving mound which was Mary Western Lung. “I was in my room.”

“What time did you come back to the house?”

“I don’t know. Quarter to twelve or so. The night nurse and I arrived at the same time. We came in the house together. We both went upstairs; she met the other nurse who was on duty and I went to my room. I was just about to get undressed, when the commotion started.”

“When were you aware of any commotion?”

“Well, I thought something was up even before I heard anything definite. I heard Sargeant’s door open and close. It’s right opposite mine so I could tell he was up. Then I heard somebody stirring next door to me ... it must’ve been Miss Lung. I didn’t pay much attention until I heard them all running up the stairs.”

“What did you do then?’’

“I went out in the hall and asked the man on duty what was happening. He said he didn’t know. Then you appeared and..."

“Ail right.” Greaves turned to Mrs. Veering. “And where were you at...”

“I was sitting on the toilet.” The crude reply was like an electric shock. Miss Lung giggled hysterically.

“You were there from ten minutes to twelve until twelve o’clock?”

“I don’t carry a stop watch, Mr. Greaves. I was there until I finished and then I went back to bed. The next thing I knew, three maniacs were in my room.” This was a fairly apt description of our invasion.

“Did you see or hear anything unusual during those ten minutes?”

“No, I didn’t.”

Evidently Greaves hadn’t been prepared for such prompt negatives. He started to ask her another question; then he decided not to. She was looking dangerously angry. I wondered why.

Greaves turned to Brexton and put the same question to him he to the rest of us.

“At twelve o’clock I was sound asleep.”

“What time did you go to bed?”

“I don’t know. Eleven . . . something like that.”

“You heard nothing unusual from the next room, from Miss Claypoole’s room?”

“Nothing in particular.”

“Then what in general?”

“Well . . . moving around, that’s about all. That's before I went to sleep.”

“And when you awakened?”

“It was around midnight: I thought I heard something.” “Something like people running? or shutting doors?”

“No, it was a groan ... or maybe just my imagination or maybe even the noise of the surf. I don’t know. It’s what awakened me though. Then of course everybody started to rush around and I got up.”

“This sound that you heard, where did it come from?”

“From Allie’s room. I thought it was her voice too. I think now maybe it was.”

“What did you do when you heard it?”

“I . . . well, I sat up. You see there was only a few seconds interval between that and everyone coming upstairs.”

Greaves nodded; his face expressionless. “That’s very interesting, Mr. Brexton. You didn’t by any chance try to open the door did you? the door between your room and Miss Claypoole’s?”

“No, I knew it was locked.”

“How did you know that?”

“Well, I ... I tried it some time ago . . . the way you do with doors.”

“The way you do, Mr. Brexton.”

“It’s a perfectly natural thing to do.” Brexton flushed.

“I’m sure, especially under the circumstances.” Greaves reached into his pocket and pulled out a handkerchief which he unwrapped. It contained a key which he was careful not to touch. “What is this, Mr. Brexton?”

“A key.”

“Have you ever seen it before?”

“How do I know! All keys look alike.”

“How do I knowl Al! keys look alike.”

“This is the key to the door which leads from your room to Miss Claypoole’s.”

“So what?”

“It was found twenty minutes ago, hidden in the pillowcase of your bed. Mr. Brexton, I arrest you on suspicion of an attempted murder in the first degree. You may inform your attorney that a Special Court will be convened this Friday in Easthampton. I am empowered by the State of New York...”

Miss Lung fainted.