Whistle Past the Graveyard [= Give the Girl a Gun]

Chapter Seven

The morning after Friday’s visit I got up at my normal rising hour of noon, showered, shaved and was diving into a plate of eggs and sausage when the door buzzer sounded. When I opened the door, I discovered my caller was Madeline Strong.

“Well!” I greeted her enthusiastically. “Nothing sharpens my appetite like a beautiful redhead across the breakfast table. Come in and have some sausage and eggs.”

“You will be looking at a blonde across the breakfast table while the redhead sits in a corner,” a firm voice said from beyond my range of vision. Then Fausta stepped into sight from where she had been standing to one side of the door.

In spite of her threat to make Madeline sit in a corner, Fausta allowed her a place at the breakfast table. Discreetly the girl chose one side, leaving the spot across from me to Fausta. Neither accepted my offer of sausage and eggs, Fausta rather condescendingly informing me they had breakfasted four hours ago, but they did take coffee while I finished my breakfast.

When I was finished, Fausta said, “This is a business call, Manny. Madeline wants you to work for her.”

“On something connected with last night?” I asked.

Fausta looked at Madeline and the redhead said, “I didn’t know what to do or who to turn to, Mr. Moon. I suppose I shouldn’t have dragged Fausta into this. I guess I should have come alone. I phoned Fausta this morning because she’s always been so... well, understanding. Maybe I shouldn’t have bothered her. I really only know her from dining at El Patio, but there wasn’t anyone else I could turn to for moral support. You see, my parents are both dead, and since my brother Lloyd was killed last November...”

“Whoa!” I cut in, realizing from the increasing rapidity with which she spoke that she was wound as tight as a watch spring, and unless I cut her off, she was going to take just as long as a watch to run down. “Fausta has the run of this place. She pops in and out whenever the mood strikes her. Let’s leave out the explanation of why she’s with you and get on to your problem. What do you want me to do?”

She took a deep breath. “Get Tom out of jail.”

“Tom!

“Tom Henry. The fellow whose pipe was found on the lawn. They arrested him for Walter’s murder.”

“I see,” I said. “Did he do it?”

Madeline’s eyes flashed. “Of course he didn’t do it. Tom wouldn’t shoot anyone.”

“Then you don’t need me,” I said. “Contrary to popular belief, the police hardly ever frame innocent people. If he’s innocent, they’ll turn him loose.”

“You don’t understand, Mr. Moon. They found the gun that killed Walter in Tom’s workshop.”

“Oh.” I looked at her curiously. “Then what makes you think he didn’t do the shooting?”

Fausta answered for her. “She is in love with the boy, my thickheaded Romeo. And women in love have faith. They are not fickle like men, who will throw a woman to the dogs at the first whisper of suspicion.”

“All right,” I said to Madeline. “You’re in love with him, so naturally he is innocent. Tell me the details.”

It developed that there were no details beyond what she had already told me. Apparently Warren Day had arrested the boy the previous night; and this morning when he was allowed his one five-minute phone call, he had called Madeline instead of a lawyer. It seemed to me that in five minutes he could have gotten across more information than the bare facts that the police had located the murder gun in his workshop and he was in jail, but after reflection I realized that a young couple in love might easily spend most of the five minutes assuring each other of their mutual love before getting down to less important business such as murder. Then I thought of something else.

“If you and this Tom Henry are so much in love, how did you happen to be with Barney Amhurst last night?”

She looked at me in surprise. “That was a special celebration. Normally Tom would have been along too, but you heard what Barney said last night about the disagreement he had with Tom. Tom doesn’t hold any hard feelings against Barney, but under the circumstances he hardly felt like joining in celebrating the success of an invention which made obsolete the work he had been doing himself. I invited him, but he declined and he knew I was going with Barney. Besides, Barney is such an old friend of the family, it was almost like being out with my brother.”

“What do you want me to do?” I asked. “Make an independent investigation of the murder?”

“I want you to prove Tom didn’t do it.”

I shook my head at her. “No, ma’am. I don’t take cases on that basis. If you want me to investigate the facts, fine. But any evidence I uncover bearing on the killing goes to the police, no matter where it points. If your Tom actually killed Ford, I not only won’t undertake to prove he didn’t, I’ll do my best to prove he did. If you decide to hire me, that is.”

Madeline said, “You couldn’t possibly prove he did it, because he didn’t. He told me so over the phone.”

While the girl dubiously thought over the wisdom of employing an investigator who promised to help convict instead of absolve her sweetheart if he actually proved to be guilty, Fausta said in a firm voice, “Of course you want him to take the case, Madeline. Manny will find out the truth in no time at all. He is a very smart man.” She looked at me from narrowed eyes and added, “Except about women.”

Madeline gave Fausta a trusting look and said in a small voice, “All right, Mr. Moon. Can you start right away?”

“Immediately,” I told her. “But there’s a fee involved. Can you afford it if the investigation runs into a matter of weeks?”

She looked surprised. “Of course. I have plenty of money.”

I told her my day rate and accepted a retainer of fifty dollars.

“I’ll start off with a question to you,” I said. “Can you think of any reason Ed Friday wouldn’t want you to engage me to check up on this murder?”

Blankly she shook her head. “I barely know the man. And I don’t think Barney or Walter Ford knew him before about a month ago, when he came to Barney with an offer to invest in the Gimmick. Tom doesn’t know him at all. Why do you ask that?”

“Just an impression I got,” I said. “Quite possibly I misconstrued what he was getting at.”