The Golden Goose

7

With Lieutenant Grundy and Detective Boatner waiting upstairs with Uncle Slater for the meat wagon, they all had to agree that the situation looked pretty grim. Everything considered, they agreed to a surprising degree. The conviction was voiced by everyone that Uncle Slater had not been murdered by anyone present, because none of them would have been fool enough to kill the lovely golden goose. So if it had been murder the obvious explanation was that an unknown somebody had slipped into the house at considerable risk and poured a shot of something deadly into Uncle Slater’s bourbon bottle for no reason anyone present could think of. It all made so little sense that the longer they discussed Uncle Slater’s death the surer they were that he had not been murdered at all. Still, Grundy and Dr. Appleton had seemed so positive that something would be found in the bottle and in Uncle Slater.

“But can they just go ahead and autopsy Uncle Slater without permission?” Cousin Peet wanted to know.

“We’ve been all through that, Peetie,” said Prin kindly.

“They’ve got to have the permission of the next of kin,” said Coley, “or evidence of an unnatural cause. If they find poison in the bottle of bourbon that’s all they’ll need to go right ahead and autopsy Mr. O’Shea on their own.”

“Damn that bottle of bourbon,” said Cousin Twig viciously.

“I didn’t like that business about Uncle Slater’s eyes, either,” Brady muttered.

“I agree,” Aunt Lallie said. “Slater has made things difficult for us in a number of ways. In the end, he behaved badly.”

“Well,” Prin said, “however badly he may have behaved, it was not so badly as we’re behaving now. Uncle Slater is a lot worse off than we are, and I simply will not talk any more about it. Coley, I’d like to go outside and sit on the steps or take a short walk or something, if you don’t mind.”

“I don’t mind,” Coley said.

“How about you, Peet?” Brady said. “Wouldn’t you like to go for a short walk?”

“With you?” asked Peet.

“Yes.”

“No.”

Prin and Coley went out to the front porch, sat down on the top step and began holding hands. But they had hardly begun when the ambulance came for Uncle Slater.

“There’s a big tree stump in the back yard,” Prin said, rising hastily. “Let’s go around there and sit on it.”

“Don’t you want to stay and see Mr. O’Shea off?” asked Coley.”

“No, I don’t.”

So they went around to the back yard and sat on the big tree stump while Grundy and Boatner departed at last in the wake of Uncle Slater’s basket. So long as Uncle Slater had been upstairs on the floor, physically in residence, Prin’s feelings had been qualified by an irrational notion that he might decide to rise and take up where he had left off. But after he was taken away by the meat wagon no such notion could survive. He was simply and irrevocably gone.

It was apparent to Coley that Prin was feeling worse. He resumed holding her hand for comfort, and she leaned against his shoulder and looked up at the moon. Coley could see the clean line of her throat in the moonlight and the shadow of her lashes on her cheeks, and this sight made him flex his muscles with tender manliness.

“What are you thinking?” he asked softly.

“I’m thinking that it’s too bad Uncle Slater had to die, and that it’s even worse if someone helped him do it.”

“Well, I’m thinking that it’s time you and I got married, or that it will be time after your uncle is buried.”

“Oh, Coley, I don’t know. You haven’t got a bean, and my share of Uncle Slater’s estate would keep us for about six months if we were extra-careful — what would we live on after that?”

“You could stay at the drug store for a while, and I could hold onto my taproom job while I look for something that pays more. When I’m finished with the accounting course, you won’t have to work at all, because I mean to be the best damn accountant you ever saw.”

“I’ve never even seen an accountant,” said Prin adoringly.

“Well, you’re going to see one every day for the rest of your life. Will you marry me, Princess O’Shea?”

“Of course. I’ve intended to from the first daiquiri that first night.”

There was no conversation for some time. When they stopped to get their breaths, Prin said, “Poor Uncle Slater. I’m sure he did things now and then that he’s ashamed of right now, but he was a kind and generous soul. If somebody murdered him I hope he sizzles in hell — I mean the somebody, not Uncle Slater.”

Coley pulled his lower lip far out, as if to make room for a large idea. “You know something, Prin?” he said suddenly. “It just occurred to me. When Mr. O’Shea made that new will you told me about, leaving everything to be divided equally among the twenty-two surviving O’Sheas, he must have had good reason to think he might otherwise be murdered.”

“He practically told us as much. Or at least that he considered it enough of a possibility to take out some insurance.”

“Well, I don’t know about the other O’Sheas, but if that Frankenstein monster of a Cousin Twig of yours were my beneficiary to any sizable amount, I think I’d want some insurance, too. And Brady, if you’ll excuse my saying so, would probably slit his own sister’s throat to keep from having to go to work.”

“Do you think so? I am his sister, you know — the only one he has, to my knowledge. Do you really think Brady would be capable of slitting my throat?”

“I’m willing to say, having considerable interest in your throat, which I would like to kiss this instant, that I’m relieved that he has nothing to gain from doing so. Any more,” added Coley regretfully, “than that gargoyle Twig.”

“I’d rather have it kissed than slit, and by you than by anyone else I know.”

This seemed to Coley an invitation. After kissing her throat, he went on to several other places, which took some time. In the course of this engagement, they changed positions on the stump the better to concentrate, but it was not, in spite of willing effort, one of Prin’s more accomplished performances.

“That was pleasant enough,” Coley said, “but it lacked something. I don’t believe you are quite as dedicated as usual.”

“I’m sorry, darling. I tried, honestly I did, but Uncle Slater keeps getting in the way.”

“Uncle Slater would be sorry to hear that, I’m sure.”

“It’s just that I keep hoping he died naturally. But the more I think, the more I’m afraid he didn’t.”

“Then you’d better begin thinking constructively — say, as follows? On the surface, we can see no reason why the O’Sheas of this household should want to do your uncle in; to the contrary, his continued existence would have kept you all paid-up members in the freeloaders’ fraternity. On the other hand, we agree that at least two of said household O’Sheas would have done him in without lashing a bat if a reason existed that we know nothing about. In such a case the lack of financial motive might well serve as a red herring across the trail of actual motive. What do you think, Prin?”

“I don’t know. Anything is possible, I suppose, where O’Sheas are concerned.”

“At least nothing should be overlooked. For instance, we should not consider insiders to the exclusion of outsiders. An outsider doesn’t seem likely under the circumstances of your uncle’s death, but it’s always possible.”

“You may be right, Coley.”

Coley grabbed her. “You have someone in mind,” he said eagerly.

“No, but knowing something of the kind of life Uncle Slater led before his marriage, it wouldn’t surprise me if he left a trail of people who wanted to kill him, and one of them caught up with him.”

But Coley shook his head. “That kind of killer wouldn’t use poison. You would have to expect something more violent. Like shooting, or hitting him over the head.”

“Not if the killer were a female.”

“A female? At your uncle’s age? You can’t be serious.”

“Darling, you must read a biography of Victor Hugo some day. Never mind, though. I’ll merely say that a woman in the case of my Uncle Slater — at any age — was technically quite possible.”

“All right,” said Coley, nodding, “we’ll tuck that theory away for future consideration. Prin, if it turns out that Slater O’Shea met with foul play—” (“Why do they call it play?” Prin murmured) “—I go into action. I used to be known as Nosy Collins — stuck my beak into everything; the original cat killer. Well, I mean I’ve always thought I’d make a splendid detective. How does it strike you?”

“The only thing that strikes me right now,” said Prin, screwing up her pretty face, “is a splitting headache. I think I am coming down with that unmentionable condition I mentioned to Mr. Free this morning as an excuse to get out of work. Coley, do you think it’s my punishment for lying?”

“No,” said Coley, “but you go right on thinking so. It may act as a catharsis and give you absolution.”

“I’ll take aspirin,” said Prin. “It would also help, I think, if I were to get some sleep. Would you very much mind, darling, if I were to go in and try?”

“Princess. I love you.”

“Coley. I love you. You’re so sweet and clever and — and lovable.”

“I’m actually devious as the devil,” said Coley modestly. “Let me take you into the house.”

“That’s not necessary. I’ll go in through the kitchen, and you can cut through to the street. It’s a long walk back to town. Kiss me good night?”

They kissed with fervor beside the stump, joining shadows in the moonlight, and then Coley went one way, toward the street, and Prin went another way, toward the house. The rear of the house was dark, and she felt her way onto the screen porch. She was sure the door would be unlocked, for no one ever bothered to lock a door, a kind of slovenly trustfulness of O’Shea character that was not likely to be altered by murder or anything else. She was just reaching for the back door knob when something stirred in the nearby darkness of the porch. Prin jumped and squealed.

“It’s only me, Princess,” said Cousin Twig’s appalling voice.

“Damn it, Twig, what in the hell do you mean by skulking here in the dark and scaring me out of ten years’ growth?”

“I wasn’t skulking. I was waiting.”

“For what? A broomstick?”

“You. I thought you’d never send that Coley away. I want to talk to you.”

“Well, dear cousin,” snapped Prin, “it will have to be some other time, if ever. I have a headache, and I’m going up to my room and take some aspirin and go to bed.”

“Stay and have a cigarette with me, Prin. Please?”

“No, thank you.”

“You have plenty of time for that Coley.”

“What I have for Coley and what I have for you are two different things, thank God.”

“Including kisses. I saw you out there kissing in the moonlight.”

“So you’re a Peeping Tom in addition to your other disgusting accomplishments. I’m sorry conditions were unfavorable tonight, Twig. Otherwise you might have seen a lot more exciting sight than a few kisses.”

“Cut it out, Prin,” Twig said rather thickly. “You go too far with me and you’ll be sorry.”

“No danger, Twiggy. I’m not going anywhere with you — far or near.”

“You’d better be careful. I’m warning you.”

Prin had a sudden notion, accompanied by a chill, that maybe she’d better. Now that her eyes had adjusted to the darkness, she could make out the shape of Twig as a long-domed shadow among shadows. There was something rather dreadful in his immobility, as if he had been waiting — was still waiting — for more than her mere body. She knew that his disproportionate face was dark and still and hard as buried stone. His voice was a listless, lusterless monotone, almost without inflections or stress — the voice of a Thing, Prin thought; and she shivered and decided not to arouse him further by leaving.

“What do you want to talk about?”

“About you and your precious Coley, for one thing.”

“What about him?”

“To begin with, I don’t like him.”

“I’m sorry, Twig. I do.”

“You’ll change your mind after a while.”

“You think so? Why?”

“He’s not good enough for you.”

“Who is good enough, do you think? Twig O’Shea?”

“Why not?”

“This is very sudden, I must say. I had no idea you really care so much.”

“Because I haven’t carried on about you like Brady after my stupid sister? Your brother is a fool.”

“I’ll tell him you said so.”

“Tell him whatever you please.”

“You’ll regret it if I do.”

Twig barked a laugh. “He can’t even handle Peet.”

“Brady has no desire to knock Peet’s head off. I think he’d enjoy going to work on yours.”

“Perhaps that’s what Peet needs. As an introduction, that is, to something else she needs.”

“I suppose that would be your approach?”

“That’s right.”

Prin said rather carefully, “I take it you mean that would be your approach... to me?”

“I’ll consider it.”

“All right, Twig. Then I’ll merely consider telling Brady what you just said about him.”

The laugh spat at her from the dark again. “Brady has more to worry about than anything I’ve said.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean the police.”

“Why should Brady be worried about the police?”

“Because if Uncle Slater was murdered, there will be an investigation. And once a murder investigation starts, a lot more may be dug up than what’s being looked for.”

“You think my brother has done something he needs to worry about?”

“A dozen things.”

“How about yourself?”

“I can take care of myself.”

“Is that so? It hasn’t been apparent. Now that Uncle Slater isn’t here any more, we’ll see how well you can take care of yourself.”

The voice nearby was stilled. Then it began again with a sort of cornered-rat determination. “We’ll all have to clear out of here soon. Let’s you and I clear out together, Prin.”

Prin said, “You think I would—?” But then she controlled herself. “I have other plans, Cousin Twig.”

“Involving Coley Collins?”

“Intimately.”

“It won’t work.”

“Why not?”

“Because I won’t let you.”

“And how do you propose to not let me?”

“You’ll come around, Prinny. Do you know the things we could do together...?” And now the unnatural voice held an undernote of hot yearning, thick and fierce as a flow of lava. But the words were obscene, utterly obscene; and they painted such pictures as Princess O’Shea had only dreamed of in her ghastlier nightmares, so that she wanted to scream and had to choke the screams back lest the very fears at their source touch off the actions that the words only spoke.

All that Prin could think to say when the monster across the porch paused, heaving for breath, was: “Did you hear yourself, Twig? Did you listen to yourself?”

“I want you,” Twig gasped. “I want you....”

He made a soft hissing sudden sound and she heard the scrape of his feet.

“I’d rather be dead,” Prin cried; and she lunged for the back door and jerked it open and ran into the kitchen and slammed and locked the door in one fluid blur. She could hear him rattling the knob and cursing her as she sped upstairs.

With the key turned securely in the lock, Prin stood still and breathed deeply in the moonlight flooding her bedroom. She counted for a minute the diminishing beat of her heart. Then she undressed, put on pajamas as pale as the moon itself, and lay down on the bed, turning her face to the windows. Her head still ached in a cadenced throbbing. She was intensely awake. There was no sleep for her, then or soon, or even at all.

She got up and went into her bathroom and took three aspirins, then crept back into bed and lay stiffly, face turned again to the moonlight. She was still lying that way, a long time afterward, when someone tapped secretively on her door.

Dear God, Prin thought, dear good God, let it not be the monster. She covered her ears. She pulled the summer blanket over her head. She burrowed under her pillow. But she could still hear the tapping.

Prin sat up in bed. She swallowed first, hard. “Who is it?”

“It’s me. Let me in, Prin.”

Brady. It was Brady! “Go away, Brady,” Prin said. “I’m in bed.”

“Prin, I want to talk to you.”

“I don’t want to talk to you.” How wonderful of Brady.

“You may as well let me in. I won’t go way until you do.”

“Oh, all right,” said Prin. “Just a minute.”

She crawled out of bed and, with her hand on the key, had a horrid thought. “Are you alone, Brady?”

“Of course I’m alone,” he said peevishly. “What kind of question is that?”

The best kind, Prin thought; oh, the best kind. “Wait a minute,” she said, “till I get back into bed.” She turned the key and got into bed and said, “All right, now... Lock the door, Brady.”

“What’s the matter with you tonight?” He locked it and came walking through a wall of moonlight and sat down on the edge of her bed. He sat in the shadows, and she could not see his face. But his voice sounded strained.

“I’m sorry, Prin, but... you’re the only one I trust around here. A brother and sister have to stick together.”

“Do we?” said Prin.

“I know I haven’t been much of a brother. We hardly know each other.”

“That’s a fact. What was it you wanted to talk to me about?”

He shifted his weight on the bed. “About what you and Collins were really doing in Uncle Slater’s room.”

“Just what Coley and I told that policeman — looking around to see what we could see. We also did some smooching, but not much. With Uncle Slater lying there...”

“Look, Prin.” Brady made an impatient noise. “Whom you smooch with and where are your business. But what you saw may be the business of all of us — if that old maniac of a doctor is right about Uncle Slater’s being murdered, that is. Do you really think he was?”

“I don’t know, Brady. We’ll know soon enough.”

“Did you see that bottle when you were in the room?”

“I must have. I’m sure I’d have noticed if it wasn’t. Bottles and Uncle Slater sort of went together.”

“It’s a damn shame you didn’t take it away.”

“Why, Brady?” asked Prin curiously. “If Uncle Slater was poisoned, don’t you want his poisoner punished?”

“Hell, no. What difference would that make to Uncle Slater? Now there’s probably going to be a messy investigation.”

“Oh, I see. You’ve done something you’re afraid they’ll find out.”

“Never mind that!” said Brady savagely. But then he said, “All right, suppose I have?”

“It couldn’t be that you put poison in that bottle, could it?”

“My God, Prin, don’t talk like that! What reason would I have? And even if I had, would I have been dumb enough to leave the bottle there? I’d have come back and taken it away. Anybody with sense would.”

“I don’t know about reasons. All I know is that it was an awful thing to do to Uncle Slater — if it was done, I mean — and, frankly, I’m not sure you weren’t capable of doing it.”

“That’s a hell of a thing to say about your own brother,” Brady said angrily.

“If you are my brother.”

“What?”

“You heard me, Brady.”

He was silent. Then he muttered, “You mean you forgot me so completely during the years I was away that you even doubt I’m the real Brady O’Shea?”

“It was a long time,” said Prin, feeling sorry for him suddenly.

“I take it, then, that you feel no affection for me at all.”

“I don’t know, Brady. It’s troubled me a great deal. I just don’t know.”

This time his silence went on and on. Finally, days later it seemed, Brady said, “In that case I’d better get out of here and leave you alone.”

He got up from the bed. He stood there without moving, however, for some time, as if he were hesitating about saying or doing something more. But then he stalked to the door, unlocked it and stalked out. Prin got swiftly out of bed, flew to the door, shut and locked it, and stood with her back to it, trembling.

The house was full of darkness. Dark people, dark thoughts, dark motives, dark pasts... darkness everywhere.

Uncle Slater had been murdered, all right.

Prin was suddenly sure of it.