Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine, Vol. 24, No. 4. Whole No. 131, October 1954

Mom Sheds a Tear by James Yaffe

“The pitter-putter of little feet,” Mom said, managing to sigh sentimentally and point her finger at me accusingly, both at the same time. “It’s one of the chief pleasures in life. I don’t know what’s the matter with you and Shirley, that you’re not interested in this pleasure.”

I smiled a little sheepishly, as I always do when Mom, in her sharp disconcerting way, brings up this subject. “Shirley and I are very anxious to have kids,” I said. “As soon as I get my raise, and we can afford the down payment on a house in the suburbs —”

“Down payments! Raises!” Mom gave an angry toss of her head. “Young people nowadays, sometimes I think they got check books where their feelings should be. Believe me, Davie, if your Papa and me worried our heads over down payments when we was your age, believe me you wouldn’t be sitting here eating this pot roast right now.”

It was Friday night. The next day was my day off from the Homicide Squad, so of course I was having my weekly dinner up in the Bronx with Mom. My wife Shirley wasn’t with me tonight, though. She was out in Chicago for a week, visiting her folks. And as usual, Mom felt that Shirley’s absence entitled her to get terribly personal — downright embarrassing, in fact — about my married life.

“Besides, Mom,” I said, trying to turn the conversation into a joke, “aren’t you the one who’s always telling me that children are more trouble than they’re worth? You know your favorite saying — ‘They break your furniture when they’re babies, and they break your heart when they grow up.’ ”

“Who’s denying it?” Mom snapped back at me. “And without such heartbreaks what would life be?”

“I wonder if you’d feel like that,” I said, “if you were Agnes Fisher.”

“Agnes Fisher? I don’t know her. There’s a Sadie Fishbaum on the third floor—”

“Agnes Fisher is involved in a case I started on yesterday. She’s a widow, and she has a little boy five years old named Kenneth.”

“And what’s the matter with him, this little Kenny Fisher?”

“Nothing that we’ll ever be able to prove. But all the indications are that little five-year-old Kenneth Fisher is a murderer.”

Mom lowered her fork and glared at me. For a long time she glared, so hard that I had to turn my eyes away guiltily, even though I had no idea what I was feeling guilty about. Finally she gave a long sarcastic sigh: “It’s finally happened. Haven’t I been predicting it for years? Associating all the time with dope fiends and homopathic maniacs and drunk drivers, it finally went to your head. It only goes to show, when you had a chance to go into the shirt business with your Uncle Simon, why didn’t you listen to your mother?”

“Take it easy, Mom. I’m not the one who’s crazy. It’s this Fisher case. I’ll tell you about it, and you can judge for yourself.”

Obviously unconvinced, Mom brought her fork to her lips again, took a ladylike mouthful, and settled down to hear my story.

“Agnes Fisher is in her early thirties,” I said, “very pretty and breathless and a little absent-minded — in a nice attractive way, you understand. Her husband died a year ago — he was an Air Force pilot in Korea — and she lives with her little boy Kenneth in the house that her husband left her. It’s a four-story house on Washington Square, one of the few oldtime red-brick houses of that type that’s left on the Square. It’s been in the Fisher family since the Nineteenth Century.”

“He had money, this Mr. Fisher?” Mom said.

“The Fishers are a wealthy old New York family. Not so wealthy as they used to be, I guess, but still doing pretty well. So anyway, Agnes Fisher lived on Washington Square quite peacefully, getting along nicely with her friends and neighbors, apparently reconciling herself to her widowhood. But her little boy’s life wasn’t quite so calm and happy. The death of his father evidently upset him badly. He’s a naturally shy, dreamy kid, and with his father gone he sort of went into his shell more than ever. He spent lots of time by himself. He seemed to prefer his own day dreams to the company of other kids. And then, a few months ago, somebody new came into the lives of the boy and his mother.

“The newcomer was Nelson Fisher, little Kenneth’s uncle, his father’s younger brother. Nelson Fisher was about thirty years old. Like his late brother he was an Air Force pilot. He had just been discharged from the service, not because he wanted to be — flying was his whole fife — but because he had contracted malaria in the Pacific. He needed care and attention, and his sister-in-law Agnes is his only responsible relative. She’s a kind-hearted woman, and she was happy to take him in. She gave him the whole third floor of the old house, and so he moved in with his sister-in-law and his little nephew.”

“And little Kenny was jealous maybe?” Mom said.

“At first he was jealous. He sulked in a corner, or he cried and carried on, or he looked daggers at his uncle. Nelson Fisher was still a sick man — he still had after-effects from his malaria, and what with his medicines, his dizzy spells, his chills, his weekly visits from the doctor, Agnes did a lot of fussing over him. Kenneth seemed to resent this. One day he even went into a tantrum over it. He jumped up and down and yelled hysterically, ‘He’s not my father! I don’t want him for my father!’ He finally calmed down, but the incident upset his mother terribly. And it caused a lot of talk among the servants.”

“This was only at first though?” Mom said. “Afterwards little Kenny changed his opinion of his uncle?”

“His antagonism lasted about a month. Then, all of a sudden, he developed a completely different attitude. One day he couldn’t stand the sight of Nelson, the next day he couldn’t stand to be out of Nelson’s sight. Suddenly he had a case of genuine, full-fledged hero-worship. He dogged his poor uncle’s heels. He trotted after him wherever he went. He bombarded him with questions, and whatever answers he got he believed them implicitly. He gaped in admiration at everything his Uncle Nelson did or said.”

“So this is normal enough in little children,” Mom said. “They change their minds for no logical reason. And incidentally, I’ve also known some grown-ups—”

“Oh, it was normal all right,” I said. “Anyway, it seemed to be. It’s only because of what happened later — But I won’t get ahead of my story. For a few months everything was fine in the Fisher home. Nelson seemed to enjoy his nephew’s company. He had never married and had any kids of his own, and he treated Kenneth like a younger brother. Very ideal relationship. And then, about a week ago, at the beginning of the summer, little Kenneth started to do peculiar things. Until a week ago, he had always been a fairly honest kid. And then, a week ago, he started to steal things.”

“Steal things?” said Mom, poking her head forward. “So what did he steal?”

“Always the same kind of thing, Mom. Things that belonged to his dead father. For instance, it started with Agnes noticing that her husband’s medal, a Silver Star, was missing. She kept it in the jewelry case in her dresser drawer, along with his cufflinks, wedding ring, and other things, but now it was gone. She sounded out the cook and the housemaid as indirectly as she could, but they both got very indignant and insisted that they weren’t thieves. For a while she suspected that the man who had come to fix the plumbing was the guilty one. And then, the next morning, the housemaid came to her, very triumphantly, holding up the medal. She had found it, she said, while she was making up Kenneth’s bed just a few minutes before. The medal was under Kenneth’s pillow. Agnes was puzzled. She asked Kenneth about it, but he wouldn’t give her any explanation. He just turned his eyes away, mumbled something, then ran off. And Agnes isn’t the strong-willed, domineering type of mother who could keep pounding at the boy until she got the truth out of him.

“And then Kenneth did it again. In one of the hall closets Agnes keeps a lot of miscellaneous things stored away in boxes — some of her husband’s old clothes, his books and papers, and so on. One day she was passing this closet when she heard a rattling inside. She opened the door and saw Kenneth. He had pulled down one of the boxes, torn it open, and was about to take away something from inside of it.

“Believe it or not, Mom, Kenneth was stealing one of those long, flowing old-fashioned opera capes that people used to wear fifty years ago. It had belonged to Kenneth’s father. When he was an undergraduate at Princeton, he had appeared in a sort of Gay Nineties revue presented by the dramatic society. This old opera cape was part of his costume for that show.”

“And little Kenny knew, definitely knew, that his Papa wore this opera cape once?”

“He couldn’t help but know, Mom. There’s a photograph of his father in the living room of the house — taken after the performance of the revue and showing him with the opera cape over his shoulders. Well, Agnes naturally made Kenneth put the opera cape back in the box. And the next day she looked into the same closet, found that the same box had been torn open again and the opera cape removed. She went right up to Kenneth’s room. He wasn’t there, but sure enough the opera cape was hanging up in his closet. So Agnes took it down and put it back in the box. And the next day—”

“Don’t say it,” Mom said.

“You’re right,” I said. “The opera cape was gone. It was too much for Agnes. She didn’t want to spend all her time running after that opera cape. So she told herself Kenneth probably wanted it for some innocent game of his, and she shrugged off the whole thing.

“But Kenneth’s stealing didn’t stop there. Only two days later — about three days ago — he was at it again. The housemaid came to Agnes in great alarm, along with the cook. The night before, they had both heard strange noises coming from the top floor of the house. They both thought it was mice or the wind or something, and went to sleep. But this morning, when the housemaid went upstairs to clean, she found a terrible disorder that neither mice nor wind could have caused. There’s a small storeroom on the top floor, and in this storeroom, packed away in mothballs, Agnes keeps all of her late husband’s uniforms, his caps, his insignia, the rest of his civilian clothes, overcoats, shoes, and so on. The housemaid found this room looking as if a cyclone had hit it. Clothes and mothballs were scattered all over the place. And all her husband’s uniforms, down to the last little insignia, were missing. The cook immediately announced that she was quitting her job. She wasn’t going to stay in the same house with a wild little thief like Kenneth, and all Agnes’s pleading wouldn’t change her mind.

“Well, Agnes just didn’t know what to make out of all this. She was really worried about the boy by now, so worried that she thought of taking him to a doctor or a child psychologist to find out what was wrong. But she isn’t a very decisive person. She put off calling the doctor, and then yesterday morning it was too late. Yesterday morning the murder happened.”

I could see the gleam of interest in Mom’s eye. A certain perverse something in my nature made me pause, sigh, chew my food, and generally encourage the atmosphere of suspense.

Finally, to my immense satisfaction, Mom spoke up. “All right, all right, not so much geschrei and get to the point!”

“Yesterday morning,” I went on, “right from the start Kenneth acted funny. He had breakfast as usual with his mother and his Uncle Nelson. Only Kenneth, who was ordinarily a big eater at breakfast, wouldn’t touch a bit of food — not even a glass of water.

“After breakfast he went off to play. He had a favorite spot for his games, a small canvas canopy set up on the roof of the house. This was Kenneth’s ‘clubhouse’ — but until Nelson’s arrival, he didn’t have any other ‘club member’ to go with it. So now, after breakfast, he went up to the roof with his Uncle Nelson. Only Kenneth didn’t go up with his usual energy and high spirits. He climbed the stairs to the roof in a slow trudging way, glancing back over his shoulder, and with a sort of determined look on his face. His mother saw him on the way and wondered about it, but she was busy on the phone at that moment, so she put it out of her mind.

“Two hours later she heard the yell. A long agonized yell. The whole household heard it, and even though it was hard to tell exactly where it came from, everybody instinctively made for the roof. When they got there they found Kenneth standing by the ledge — a narrow stone ledge as high as his chin — looking down at the backyard four stories below. He was looking at his Uncle Nelson. Apparently Nelson had fallen from the roof, and his body was lying on the concrete below. They all rushed downstairs to help him, of course, and they found that he was still alive. Only for a few more seconds, though. During those few seconds, in his last painful breath, he kept repeating the same words. ‘Kenny, why? Why, Kenny, why?’ Then he died.

“Only one more thing to tell you, Mom. When the Homicide Squad arrived, we made a search of that roof. Underneath the canvas canopy, Kenneth’s ‘clubhouse,’ we found — you guessed it, Mom — all those things Kenneth had stolen from the house. His father’s uniforms, his lather’s opera cape, his father’s insignia, even his father’s Silver Star, which that kid had managed to sneak out of his mother’s dresser for the second time!”

My voice came to a stop on a rising note. Frankly, I was pleased with myself. Very dramatically presented, I told myself. Now let Mom make sense out of this one!

“And the little boy?” Mom said, in a low voice.

“He went into a kind of shock,” I said. “He grabbed hold of his mother and sobbed wildly for the rest of the day. But he won’t say what happened up there on the roof. He just stares ahead when anybody asks him. The doctor says he’ll get over the shock in a week or so. But after that his memory of the incident may be gone.”

“And your opinion, Davie?” Mom said. “According to you and the police, what did happen on the roof?”

“It’s not according to us, Mom. It’s according to the facts. There are lots of different possibilities — we’ve considered them all — but only one of them seems to fit all the facts.”

“So let’s hear your possibilities.”

“One possibility is that Nelson committed suicide. But this doesn’t make sense. He was upset over being sick and leaving the Air Force, of course. But Agnes says he was just beginning to get over his illness, and to reconcile himself to civilian life. If he was going to kill himself because of his illness, why did he wait so long to do it? And what makes even less sense, why did he kill himself in the presence of his five-year-old nephew? People don’t usually want witnesses to their suicides.”

“Absolutely, I agree. Next possibility?”

“That Nelson’s death was an accident. He was running, looking the wrong way, or something, and he tripped and fell over the ledge. But this is very unlikely. The ledge of the roof reached well above Nelson’s waist. It’s hard to imagine any sort of purely accidental force that would tumble him over so high a ledge.”

“A good point. I’m applauding.”

“Well, there’s the possibility — after all, we have to consider everything — that Nelson tried to push his little nephew Kenneth off the ledge, that Kenneth kicked and struggled and knocked Nelson over instead. But this doesn’t fit the facts, either. When Agnes got to the roof, Kenneth was neat as a pin — no sign at all of a struggle, nor any sign of physical exertion. Which leaves us with only one other possibility.”

“And this is?”

“I mentioned it already, Mom. We hate to believe it. We’re fighting against believing it. But the facts leave us no alternative. That little five-year-old kid must be mentally unbalanced. It’s happened before, you know. Our official psychiatrist says he’s come across dozens of cases of childhood psychosis, split personality, melancholia, and so on. So that’s what it must be in this case. The death of his father, his lonely life, his dependence on his mother, the sudden arrival of his uncle to disrupt his routine — all this must have upset his feeling of security. It must have preyed on the kid’s mind, and finally something snapped.

“The kid’s crazy behavior before the murder tells us very clearly what was going on in his mind. By some peculiar twist — really not so peculiar — his uncle suddenly appeared to him as the rival of his dead father. His uncle was trying to take his father’s place, and he, little Kenneth, had to prevent this for his father’s sake. He had to get rid of this intruding uncle, remove the cause of his unhappiness, see to it that he and his father had his mother to themselves again.

“He didn’t act the way an adult would, of course. It was just instinctive — the way a child steals or lies or kicks his nurse. But he did change his attitude toward his uncle. He pretended to feel affection for him. He pretended to worship him like a hero. Then, when he had completely gained his uncle’s trust, he got ready for the big moment. Which brings us to the most interesting psychological phenomenon. Little Kenneth was now going to do his father’s work, and so, with typical childish logic, he proceeded to steal his father’s things. His father’s uniforms, his father’s opera cape, his father’s medal — he took them all, slept on them or hid them away, in order to give himself his father’s courage, his father’s strength. By the time yesterday morning arrived, that poor kid had pushed himself into a real father fixation. In his own subconscious mind, he actually was his father.

“That’s why he went up to the roof yesterday morning looking so determined. He had made up his mind what he was going to do. Once up there, he played with his uncle innocently for a while — the craftiness of little kids is really amazing, Mom! Finally, under some pretext, he persuaded his uncle to lean over the ledge!. Remember that Nelson, even though he was a grown man, was weak and underweight and sick. Kenneth simply had to run up behind him, grab Nelson, lift, and then give him a push — the hardest push he could manage. Nelson toppled and screamed, and Kenneth went into shock.

“That’s the story, Mom. And you can see another thing about it — it’s the only theory that accounts for Nelson’s last words. ‘Why, Kenny, why?’ Stunned, bewildered — even in his death throes, he just couldn’t understand what had come over his little nephew.”

“And this is your solution to the case?”

I nodded my head solemnly. “I’m afraid it is, Mom.”

Mom was silent. She was looking thoughtful, abstracted, far away from our conversation and the dining room. This is peculiar behavior for Mom. On Friday nights, when I tell her about my latest case, she usually maintains a sharp, scornful attention. No sooner am I finished with my story than she pops out with cryptic questions, mysterious hints, sarcastic references to my thickheadedness. And finally, with great relish, she presents me with a complete, logical, inescapable solution based on her everyday experiences with scheming butchers, nosey neighbors, and selfish relatives. And so, this sudden frowning silence from Mom made me wonder.

A second later Mom’s unusual mood vanished. Her head snapped up, a gleam of triumph was in her eye, and her voice sounded as vigorous as ever. “He’s afraid it is. He should be afraid. He’s got something to be afraid about. The whole police force of New York City — a bunch of grown-up men with pensions coming to them any day now — and all they can think of when they got a body on their hands is to blame it on a little five-years-old boy!”

I felt a pang of hurt pride. “I’ve given you all the facts, Mom. Who do you want to blame it on?”

“I’ll tell you,” Mom said, “right after you answer me three simple questions.”

I sighed. Mom’s “simple questions” are well known to me. Generally they’re so “simple” that they leave me ten times more confused than I was before. “Ask away, Mom,” I said.

“Question One,” she said, raising her forefinger. “This little boy, Kenny — did he go in much for games? Was he the athletical type?”

“Oh, I see why you’re asking that,” I said. “You want to know if he was really strong and agile enough to push his Uncle Nelson off the roof. Well, the answer doesn’t prove much. The kid didn’t go in much for athletics, because he didn’t have many friends. In the neighborhood where he lives, it just happens that most of the kids are older. He was too small to play games with them — in fact, that may be one reason for his shyness and loneliness. On the other hand, he’s a husky kid for his five years. Strong muscles, lots of stamina, excellent health. And his Uncle Nelson, as I pointed out, was sick and rundown—”

“Yes, yes, this I know.” Mom interrupted impatiently. “Now, Question Two.” She raised two fingers this time. “Little Kenny, what sort of books did he read?”

“Books, Mom?”

“Books, books. You remember, what you used to open up now and then when you was at college — though God knows, with the crazy profession you decided to go into, you certainly didn’t need them much. This little Kenny was shy and lonely, you said. He spent a lot of time by himself. So little boys like that, usually they do a lot of reading.”

“I don’t see the point of the question,” I said, “but you’re right. The kid is a big reader. His room was full of books. Comic books mostly. Superman, Batman, space travel, that sort of thing. He’s a little too young yet for anything better.”

“Good, good,” Mom said, nodding her head. “Question Three. This is the most important question of all.” She fixed her eyes on me hard for a moment, then brought it out: “Yesterday, when Uncle Nelson got killed, it was late in the morning. I was busy in the meat market all morning — a little misunderstanding over my lamb chops, which I had a discussion about with Perelman the butcher — so I didn’t notice what the weather was like outside. Was it nice and sunny, or was it dark and cloudy?”

I just stared at her. “That’s the most important question of all? Mom, what’s the point of it?”

“Never mind the point. Only give me an answer.”

“It was a bright sunny day yesterday. The hottest day so far this summer. But I don’t see—”

“You don’t,” Mom said. “But I do.” Then she nodded her head and went back to her food.

After a while I cleared my throat. “You do what, Mom?”

“I see. Exactly what I suspected. Exactly the solution that was in my head right at the beginning.”

“You mean the little boy had nothing to do with it?”

“Who said so? The little boy had everything to do with it.” Mom enjoyed my confusion for a few moments, then she gave a sigh and a shake of her head. “Davie, Davie, don’t you see the mistake you was making all along, you and the Homicide Squad? All this talk about little boys that want their Mama’s affection, and they’re jealous of their uncles, and they get a Papa fixation and steal things and it’s just like kicking the nurse — this is very clever, only it isn’t what goes on inside the head of a little boy. It’s only what you personally think ought to go on inside the head of a little boy.”

“And you know what does go on inside a little boy’s head, Mom?”

“Why shouldn’t I? For a lot of years didn’t I have a little boy’s head right under my nose here in this apartment? A lot of tsooris it gave me, that head, but believe me I found out what went on inside of it. And you yourself, you and Shirley, you could find this out too. If you stopped reading psychology books for a minute and — All right, all right, no propaganda, back to the case. The main thing you should remember about a five-years-old boy is that he’s only five years old. Only five years he’s been alive in this world, and half that time he was learning how to talk English.

“So how much can you expect such a little baby to find out about life in five years? What’s true, what isn’t true? If you put your finger into a candle flame, you get a burn. But you put your finger into a sunbeam, and it only feels nice and warm. So how can a little baby find out the difference till he tries it for himself? When Papa comes home, you can throw your arms around his neck and kiss him on the cheek. But what about the nice man on the television set — how come you can’t throw your arms around him and kiss his cheek? Mama tells you a fairy story before you go to sleep — you hear Papa talking about a story from the newspapers about a little boy who got kidnaped. So which one of these stories is true? Which one is only for fun, and which one should you be frightened at? Which one of them really happened? Is there anything in this world that couldn’t happen?

“It’s like my baby brother Max, your Uncle Max, when he was seven years old and we came to America. Ever since he could remember, Max heard about the gangsters in America. Only what was a gangster? How old was a gangster? Did he look like other people? Anybody bigger than Max, who shouted at him and hit him, anybody like that, for Max at age seven could be a gangster. And wasn’t it his bad luck, the first neighborhood we moved into, near Delancey Street, to meet a couple little boys ten years old that wasn’t exactly the sweetest, kindest little boys in the world? So he asked them one day, ‘What’s a gangster, Sammy? Are you a gangster, Charlie?’ So Sammy and Charlie winked at each other and said, ‘Absolutely, we’re a couple of gangsters, we’re the worst gangsters in the whole city. We’ve got big guns in our pockets right now, and we’re going to shoot you.’

“And didn’t poor little Max believe them? Naturally he believed them. For weeks and weeks he was scared to death of them. He hid his face whenever a policeman passed by. He lost his appetite. He hated to step out of the house. And one time, when they told him they were going to come into his room in the middle of the night and kill him, he laid awake shivering in his bed, and when he heard the door squeak he practically jumped out of the window. Believe me, if the window had been opened a little farther, my brother Max wouldn’t be your Uncle Max today.”

“Mom, this is ridiculous,” I broke in. “Are you saying that little Kenneth talked his Uncle Nelson into believing that he was a gangster, that a five-year-old kid scared a grown man into jumping off the roof?”

“Certainly I’m not saying this!” Mom drew herself up with dignity. “All I’m saying is — little children are so small and ignorant, they’ve got such a trust in people, such a willingness to believe anything you tell them, they’re like little delicate china knickknacks that you keep on the hall table. They’re so weak, and the rest of the world is so big and strong and clumsy, and cruel sometimes, that there’s practically a million ways to break them into a million pieces.”

“I still don’t get it—”

“What I’m saying is this, Davie. If you wanted to get rid of a five-years-old boy, if he was in your way or you didn’t like him, you wouldn’t have to kill him and take the chance you’ll get arrested for murder. You could be much smarter. You could work on him a little, tell him things, frighten him and confuse him, and eventually get him to do some crazy thing so he’d have an accident and get killed.”

This statement stunned me. I didn’t know how to take it. I felt there was a glimmer of meaning in Mom’s words, but I couldn’t quite see it.

“I’m talking, Davie,” Mom said, “about all that stealing which little Kenny did. Nowadays there’s so much talk from psychiatry, everybody you meet thinks he’s another Dr. Sigmund Freed. Somebody does something we don’t understand, so right away we say, ‘Ha, ha! It’s psychiatrical! It’s a Papa fixation! It’s an infra-red complex!’ But sometimes, Davie, things have got a simple, obvious explanation — if you only take a little trouble and look at them.

“This last week, before his Uncle Nelson gets killed, little Kenny spends all his time stealing his Papa’s things. So naturally you come to the conclusion, he wants to take his Papa’s place and get rid of his uncle. But one thing you’re forgetting — little Kenny didn’t just steal his Papa’s things, he stole only certain particular things. When he tore open the box in the closet for his Papa’s Opera cape, he didn’t touch his Papa’s books or papers. When he went through the storeroom for his Papa’s uniforms, he didn’t bother about his Papa’s civilian suits. When he opened up his Mama’s jewel case, he didn’t take away his Papa’s cufflinks, he only took his Papa’s medal. So isn’t this interesting that he only takes a certain type thing belonging to his Papa? His Papa’s uniform, his Papa’s insignia, his Papa’s medal — he only takes things which are connected with his Papa’s work as an Air Force pilot.”

“Yes, that’s true, Mom. But what does it prove? Besides,” I added suddenly, “he took the opera cape! What does the opera cape have to do with the Air Force?”

“The opera cape is the whole answer, Davie. A little boy is interested in stealing everything that his Papa used in the Air Force — but he also steals his Papa’s opera cape. He steals it once, twice, three times. Such anxiousness to get hold of this opera cape! What’s it so important for? A little idea comes into my head, and I ask you the question; what books does he read? The answer is like I expected. Comic books — but which comic books? Cowboy books? Detective books? Pirate treasure books? No. This little Kenny, he’s interested in other subjects. Space traveling, Superman, Batman. And Superman and Batman, when they go flying through the air, what is it that they’re always wearing, streaming away behind them, puffing out from the wind?”

“A big long flowing cape!” I cried — and the light dawned.

“What else? So it isn’t such a mixed-up kasha any more, is it? It’s as clear as a consommé now. A common, normal, boyish thing was going on in little Kenny’s head, a thing which-lots of little boys go through, a thing which causes plenty little accidents and some big ones every year. Little Kenny got it into his head that he was going to fly!”

“Of course,” I said, almost with a groan. “I should’ve seen it all along. I remember, one summer when I was six, three of us climbed a tree in Uncle Dan’s backyard — But we lost our nerve at the last minute.”

“This I never heard before,” Mom said, giving me a sharp look. Then she shrugged. “And such a natural thing for little Kenny. His Papa used to be an Air Force pilot. Flying was a regular topic of conversation in his house. And his Papa was a hero to him. And he’s a boy who don’t have many friends. A strong active boy, but too small to play with the other boys in the neighborhood. They laugh at him maybe. They tell him to go away, he’s a midget, what good could he be on the team? It’s a terrible torture to him. What else does he want in this world except a chance to show them how wrong they are, to do something absolutely wonderful even though he is small, so that from then on they’ll be happy to have him on the team?

“Yesterday morning was the big moment, like you say. He was looking determined when he went up to the roof — not because he was going to kill somebody, but because he was finally going to put on his long cape, and maybe also part of his Papa’s uniform and his Papa’s insignia, and fly off from the roof. This was why he wouldn’t eat breakfast or drink any water. Because he wanted to be as light as he could—”

“I get it, Mom. And then, just as he was about to climb up on the ledge, his Uncle Nelson realized what was happening. He tried to stop the kid. He rushed at him. Kenneth sidestepped. Nelson lost his balance and fell off the roof instead.”

“Almost,” Mom said. “Not exactly. You forgot the most important detail. A little boy gets a crazy idea in his head. ‘I can fly,’ he says. ‘I’ll go up to the roof and try it.’ But little Kenny didn’t get this idea all of a sudden. He got it over a week ago. He stole his Papa’s uniform because he knew his Papa could never fly without it, and he wanted its mysterious power to come to him. He stole Papa’s medal and slept with it under his pillow, the way little children sleep on a tooth — so he could have his wish to fly in the air like Papa. He stole Papa’s long opera cape for his wings. So clever, so psychiatrical — to me this means only one thing. Little Kenny didn’t get the idea all by himself.

“Oh, yes, he was ready for the idea. This I admit. He was lonely, he was full of imagination, his big hero was his Papa the Air Force pilot. You and the Homicide Squad was closer than you thought, Davie, when you said that the whole case depended on the little boy’s feelings for his Papa. What you didn’t see was that somebody had to work on these feelings. Stealing the uniforms, using the opera cape, sleeping on the medal — these are schemes which would appeal to a little boy, but which a five-years-old boy wouldn’t be able to think up himself. Somebody else—”

“But who is this somebody, Mom? Agnes Fisher herself? I can’t believe it. Such a pretty scatterbrained woman — and she really loves her son. One of the servants maybe? How about the cook, the one who suddenly quit a few days before the accident?”

Mom gave a snort. “Foolishness. A cook who ups and leaves, nowadays it’s a common occurrence. It would be a miracle if the cook didn’t up and leave. The answer isn’t so complicated, Davie. Look at it this way. The big day is here. Little Kenny is going to fly. He’s nervous. He eats no breakfast. He goes up to the roof like a criminal going to the electrical chair. Two hours he’s up there, but he can’t bring himself to get started. The person who’s put this idea in his head, he don’t dare go away until he’s sure little Kenny is really going to jump. So finally he says to the boy, ‘It’s very simple. Here, I’ll show you exactly how you begin. I’ll climb up on the ledge. I’ll flap my arms like a bird. I’ll do everything except fly — which I couldn’t do, because I’m too big and heavy—’ ”

“Wait a second, Mom I Are you saying that Nelson Fisher was behind his nephew’s crazy behavior?”

“Who else? Who acted very peculiar for a grown man, ignoring the company of people his own age and spending his time with a little five-years-old? Who was lonely and sick and in a terrible state because his life as a plane pilot was over? Who could think to himself, ‘This sister-in-law of mine likes me already. She could be mine, along with her house and her money — if only this little brat was out of the way’? And who was it, after the first jealousy wore oft, that had the most influence over little Kenny? Who did little Kenny hero-worship and believe everything he said — especially on the subject of flying, because wasn’t his Uncle Nelson an Air Force pilot like his Papa used to be? And last but not littlest, who was up on the roof with little Kenny all morning? Nelson, exclusively Nelson. He climbed on the ledge, he flapped his arms, he shouted. ‘Look, Kenny, see how easy it is? Why are you hesitating, Kenny? Why are you acting scared? Why, Kenny, why?’ — and then he fell over himself.”

The picture before my eyes fascinated me, kept me silent for a moment. Then I said, “But how did it happen, Mom? What made him lose his balance and fall from the ledge?”

Mom frowned. “This was a problem. For a while it bothered me. And then it came to me, and I asked you about the weather. It was a bright, hot, sunny morning, you said. So I put myself in this no-good Nelson’s place. I’m excited. I’m so close to what I’ve been wanting and working for. And I’m a man who had malaria, a man who still gets dizzy spells. I climb up on a ledge — a narrow ledge, four storys up, and when I look down I see how far it is to the ground. And the sun is so hot, and it is beating down on me, I flap my arms, I yell at the little boy, then everything begins to dance in front of me. It is one of my dizzy spells. My God, I’m falling — I’m flying—” And Mom let her voice trail off solemnly.

After a pause, I laughed out loud, I couldn’t help myself. “Mom, you don’t know how grateful I am. A five-year-old murderer — we’ve been hating the idea all day. What a relief for the boys down at Homicide!”

“What a relief for the Mama,” said Mom, in a low voice.

I looked at her a moment. And then I thought I’d have a little fun with her. “But you still haven’t proved your main point, Mom,” I said, pretending to be very serious. “You still haven’t proved that it’s a good thing to have kids, that they aren’t all little monsters.”

Mom’s head snapped up. “I haven’t proved it? Who said so? Didn’t I show you that this Kenny is a sweet, innocent, intelligent little child?”

“Yes, Mom. But what about Nelson? Nelson was somebody’s child once.”

“Nelson?” Mom gaped at me, almost at a loss for words. Then her voice grew very fierce. “Nelson don’t mean nothing! What kind of talk is this, bringing up Nelson as an argument?”

“I don’t know, Mom.” I shrugged my shoulders elaborately. “Shirley and I will have to do a lot of thinking about this. We’d love to have a kid like Kenneth. But suppose that kid grew up to be like Nelson, It’s quite a problem.”

“It’s no problem!” Mom shook her head back and forth energetically. “Don’t talk like that — a son of mine! Don’t get a prejudice against children, I beg you, Davie. Little children — little grandchildren — they’re the most beautiful thing in the world. Sometimes I think they’re the only beautiful thing in the world.”

Then it happened — something I never thought I’d see. A mist came into Mom’s eyes, a trembling over her lips, and while I stared in amazement, Mom shed a tear.

I was terribly ashamed of myself. “Please, Mom,” I said, “I was only fooling.”

She recovered herself instantly. She got to her feet, her eyes dry again. “So was I!” she snorted. Then she stamped out indignantly to fetch the nesselrode pie.