The Devil Loves Me

9

It was the first time Inspector Sands had ever tried to manage a roomful of people. Sands’ special talents were usually employed on special jobs; he had never handled a gangster but he was used on cases involving the middle and upper classes. He soothed old ladies who were afraid of being poisoned, he talked to young men who signed other names than their own on checks, and businessmen whose stores burned down too conveniently, and society women whose jewels mysteriously disappeared after paste substitutes had been made.

But his tactics were the quiet kind and they were futile in Dinah Revel’s case. She was screaming invectives so shrilly that Sands almost missed the knock on the door. He hurried toward it, grateful for the interruption.

By the time he came back Dinah had run through her repertoire of epithets and was sitting with her back to the others, looking out of the window again.

Sands said, “Jackson, I haven’t your complete story.”

Jackson, who had been both pleased and shocked at the scene, tried to create the impression that he was a man of the world by shrugging his shoulders casually.

“My story is a little confused. I move around the house a great deal in the course of my duties. Shortly before six I began to arrange the silver and china for dinner. I was doing this when Mr. Revel rang for me. He asked me where Mrs. Revel’s room was and I told him. I then returned to the dining room until you rang for me to fetch Mr. Williams. I went down to the billiard room and found him dead. That was a little after six-thirty.”

“You had not been down to the billiard room before that time?”

“No sir.”

“Who built the fire in the grate?”

“I assume Mr. Williams did.”

Sands reached in his pocket and brought out the gun.

“Have you ever seen this gun before, Jackson?”

Aspasia gave a genteel shriek at the word “gun.” Sands walked slowly around the room holding the gun in front of each of them. They all shook their heads.

He paused in front of Jane. She looked at the gun, her eyes wide with fright. “That’s... that’s Duncan’s gun,” she whispered. “It’s the one he always carried.”

“Why did he carry a gun?” Sands asked. There was no hope in his voice. None of them knew this Duncan, he thought. They tell me a few isolated facts about him but they can’t piece him together for me. He bought a rattlesnake, he wrote a letter to Revel, he wore blue silk underwear, he wanted to marry Nora Shane. He had bullied his sister and picked out her friends, but she adored him and she wore a mink coat. He came from a good family and he had a lot of money, but he carried a loaded revolver.

“I don’t know,” Jane said. “I guess he just liked to carry one. Duncan didn’t explain himself to anyone. He just did things. He wasn’t like other people.”

“All right,” Sands said. “I’m sorry to have delayed your dinner, Mrs. Shane.”

“We didn’t mind,” Mrs. Shane lied gallantly. “Won’t you stay and have dinner with us?”

“No, no, thanks. I have work to do. I am leaving a man here. If any of you has any additional information tell him and he’ll get in touch with me.”

He remained at the door while the others went out. Jane was the last to go.

“Miss Stevens,” he said. “You had something to tell me privately?”

She looked around carefully before replying. There was no one within earshot but she moved closer to Sands and spoke in a whisper:

“Yes, I have. You remember that letter that Dr. Prye received shortly before the wedding? I know you think Duncan wrote it but he did not.”

“I don’t know who wrote it,” Sands said evenly. “In many respects the handwriting was similar to your brother’s.”

“It wasn’t in the least—”

“The general appearance was different, that is the slant of the letters. But that’s what I expect when an amateur tries to disguise his handwriting — a difference in the general appearance but similarities in formation of letters, spacing, punctuation, margin widths, general setup. It looks as if your brother wrote the letter.”

Jane was astounded. “I’m telling you he did not, and all you do is argue with me!”

“Not arguing,” Sands said patiently. “Giving you my point of view, telling you that I have reasons for my belief in order to warn you that I shall expect reasons for yours.”

“I have reasons,” she said, nodding. “I keep all Duncan’s letters; in fact, I keep everybody’s letters.”

She paused, and Sands nodded gravely, thinking, in fact you would; you tie them up with blue ribbons and I’m standing here talking to you on an empty stomach.

“—more or less souvenirs,” Jane was saying. “Well, when I saw that letter to Dr. Prye I thought at the time it sounded half familiar, if you know what I mean. I mean, it sounded like something I’d heard or read before. Then this afternoon, while I was in the drawing room talking to Dr. Prye, I suddenly remembered. And what’s more I know why I remembered.”

“Let’s have what you remembered first,” Sands suggested.

“Of course. It was a letter Duncan wrote to me from Detroit. I’d forwarded the invitation to Nora’s wedding to the Hotel Statler there, and the letter he wrote back to me is the one I’m talking about.”

“When was this?”

“Oh, around the end of August. It wasn’t a very long letter. He said he was looking forward to attending the wedding although weddings and funerals were so much alike it was high time someone combined the two.”

“ ‘I have always been intrigued,’ ” Sands quoted, “ ‘by the funereal aspect of weddings and the hymeneal aspect of funerals. It is high time someone combined the two,’ ”

“That’s it!” Jane cried. “Those were his very words. Duncan liked to talk like that, to say rather shocking things that he didn’t really mean. The reason I remembered the letter when I was talking to Dr. Prye is that Dr. Prye was mentioned in the letter. Duncan wanted to know who and what he was.” She giggled. “Duncan said he sounded like a gossip columnist: ‘I Spy’ by Dr. Prye. Anyway, as soon as I thought of the letter I went right upstairs.”

Sands was gentle with her. “I’m afraid you haven’t proved your brother didn’t write the letter to Prye. To the contrary, I’d say. Some people go on repeating phrases indefinitely if they’re fond of their own words.”

“I haven’t finished,” she said softly. “I went upstairs to get that letter and it was gone.”

Sands was staring at her. She’s right, of course, he thought. I’ve never actually believed Duncan wrote that letter to Prye.

“Tell me about it,” he said; “where you kept it.”

“I had a pile of letters in the drawer of my bureau, tied with ribbon.”

“Drawer locked?”

“There is no lock on it.”

“Anything else disturbed?”

She looked upset. “I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

“I’ll see about it.”

He went down the hall and exchanged some words with the uniformed policeman sitting near the entrance to the basement. The policeman walked upstairs and Sands came back.

“Aren’t you going to do anything?” Jane cried.

“I’m going to eat,” Sands said. “You’d better eat too.”

She walked toward the dining room with an air of offended dignity and went inside. Sands collected his hat and opened the front door. He stood on the top step, pulling the collar of his coat up around his neck.

The air was thick with fog, as if a giant spider had spun his web across the city. The last bedraggled leaves were falling from the trees with soft sighs of protest.

He walked down the steps, drawing the spider’s web into his lungs. It came out of his mouth like ectoplasm from the mouth of a spirit. As he moved, the mist moved away from him, separating, drawing together again behind him. He walked in the small cleared space like a shadowy king.

“Ah, thank you, thank you,” he said. “I am honored.”

The fog smothered his voice and swallowed his smile. Uneasy, he quickened his pace. He was light and heavy and quick and dull. He was the last man on earth moving into the spirit world; he was hungry, and there was nothing to eat but ectoplasm...

His car stepped out of the fog. The feel of the wheel in his hands made him real again. He put his foot on the starter, grinning with relief, letting the motor roar. Then he bent his head to take a last look up at the house.

The room above the drawing room was showing a light. The room was Duncan’s and the key to it was in Sands’ pocket. As he watched, a figure came between the light and the drawn curtains.

There was a woman in Duncan’s room, in front of the bureau. She was crouching, she was opening the drawers, looking for something, and she was in a hurry.

Sands got out of his car and walked quickly to the house, thinking, maybe she wants to borrow those damned blue pajamas. He held his finger on the bell and waited, stamping his feet impatiently on the doormat.

Jackson opened the door. “Oh. I thought you’d gone, sir.”

“Yes,” Sands said. “Is everyone in the dining room?”

“No sir. Mrs. Revel went up to her room. She didn’t want any dinner.”

“And Hilda?”

“Hilda is in the kitchen having her dinner.”

“Mrs. Revel is taking Mr. Williams’ death very badly, isn’t she?”

Jackson looked puzzled. “Yes sir. It’s what you’d expect. I understand how she feels. I was engaged myself once.”

“Oh,” Sands said. “And the young lady died?” Jackson grinned. “No sir. She said she’d see me in hell first. Women are funny.”

“I have never married,” Sands said. He turned around and went down the steps.

The light in Duncan’s room was out by the time he reached his car. He got in and headed toward Bloor Street.

He had intended to go home and broil himself a steak and go to bed. But he was no longer very hungry. On Bloor he stopped at a White Spot and had a hamburger and some coffee and a piece of pie. When he had finished he made a call on the pay telephone and came back to pay his check, smiling.

Fifteen minutes later he was in the library of Commissioner of Police Day.

The library and the commissioner had points in common: they were both large and comfortable and they both made Sands uncomfortable.

Day smiled a greeting. “Don’t apologize for disturbing me, Sands,” he said affably.

Sands, who had no intention of apologizing, said, “Thank you, sir. It’s very kind of you. Have you read my report on the Stevens affair?”

“Sad,” Day said. “Very sad. The young man was slightly drunk, lost his balance, and fell down the steps.”

“I don’t think so,” Sands said.

Day smiled indulgently. “I remember when I was an inspector I took a very grim view indeed of such accidents. I don’t blame you, Sands. When you have a headache an oculist will tell you it’s your eyes and a psychoanalyst will tell you it’s your repressions. Similarly, a policeman is likely to consider an accident murder. It’s only natural.”

“In this case, very natural,” Sands said dryly. “Another man was killed about six o’clock. In the same house. With Stevens’ revolver.”

The commissioner’s smile faded and he assumed his why-does-everything-happen-to-me? expression. He said, “Another American?”

“No. He was in a broker’s office in Montreal.”

“Well, that’s something,” Day said with a sigh. “We can’t afford to have Americans murdered in Canada. It creates bad feeling, especially at such a critical time. I suppose you’re sure this American, Stevens, was murdered?”

“Quite sure. If you’ve read my report carefully you’ll see that.”

The commissioner reached in his humidor for a cigar. “You are irritatingly superior, Sands. I did read your report carefully. I read everything carefully.”

“Yes sir.”

“There were, I grant, a number of confusing side issues in the case, considerable hocus-pocus with letters and what not, but the main issue is clear. A drunken man fell and was killed.”

“And the loaded revolver he was carrying at the time evaporated,” Sands said.

“So,” Day said.

“So. That wasn’t in the report. Your mistake was a natural one, Commissioner, and I don’t blame you.” Sands’ voice was smug. “I came over here merely to get your opinion on the case, but if you have no opinion I’d better be going.”

“Oh, sit down,” the commissioner said irritably. “Of course I have an opinion. I always have an opinion.” He paused weightily. “It is my opinion that this Stevens was a crook. You had better take a plane to Boston tomorrow morning and find out more about his business.”

“I dislike planes,” Sands said.

“Come, come! You’ll have to be more progressive—”

“I get airsick.”

“And while you’re in Boston you might look into the records of this man Jackson. An odd coincidence that he should come from Boston.”

“He came to Toronto to join the R.C.A.F.,” Sands explained. “They turned him down and he had no money to get back to his home so he took a domestic job.”

“Find out about Stevens’ money, if he made a will and who benefits. I suppose you have Horton working on the letter written to this Dr. Prye?”

“I have,” Sands said. “I’ll ring him up now if I may.”

“Go ahead.”

Sands went to the table and in two minutes was talking to Horton, the police department’s graphologist.

“How about the two letters I sent you?” Sands asked.

“I got it all written up for you,” Horton said. “I’m on my way to dinner. Good-by.”

“Good-by. Were they written by the same person?”

“No. Be a good boy and hang up, Sands. I’m hungry. Go away.”

“The commissioner wouldn’t like it,” Sands said. “I’m at his house now.”

“My God,” Horton said. “Why didn’t you tell me? All right. Pay close attention. There were many similarities between the two letters and after a casual glance I decided that they were both written by the same person, the letter beginning ‘Dear George’ being the normal writing of this person and the letter beginning ‘Dr. Prye’ being a disguised writing. However, I put my gadgets to work and now all is clear. The person who wrote the letter to Dr. Prye has a normal handwriting which is similar to the writing on the letter to dear George, which is the normal writing of whoever wrote it. Get it?”

“No.”

“Well, I can’t help that.”

“Try again. Call them A and B.”

“Sure. A and B are two people who’ve been to the same boarding school and have learned to write under the same master. That is, they write similarly. That ought to be clear. A wrote a letter to Dr. Prye, trying to disguise the writing. B wrote a letter to dear George in a normal, undisguised handwriting. Both A and B are female.”

Sands shouted, “What?”

“Surprise,” Horton said. “Either they’re females or damn close to it. I can’t tell definitely by the writing. How could I? Sometimes you can hardly tell when you see them.”

“Don’t be coarse.”

“The hungrier I get the coarser I get. Do I hang up now?”

“You do,” Sands said. “Leave your report in my office.”

Sands hung up and turned back to the commissioner. Day was frowning disapprovingly toward the telephone.

“Horton is inclined to be insubordinate,” he said. “What does he say?”

Sands told him.

Day yawned. Why couldn’t people behave themselves, especially on the Sabbath? “All right, Sands. Is that all? Have you any men posted in Mrs. Shane’s house?”

“One.”

“Good. We can’t afford to have any more Americans murdered.”

“I know that,” Sands said coldly. “Maybe I can dig up a couple of Ukrainians for you.”

Day smiled pleasantly. “Same old Sands.” He escorted Sands to the door, talking affably. Sands went out to his car.

Same old commissioner, he thought sadly.