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  “Guess so,” Asey said. “N’en she leaned forward to get a cigarette from that box. Tell me, what was she like?”

  “Mary was very pleasant, and she knew her business. Used to be a buyer for some New York firm, and it blew up, and she landed here. Seemed to enjoy burying herself out in this hell hole. Said she made a living. She’s got some fine stuff out in her shop in the barn. Had a lot of customers, and did the rubbing and restoring and finishing all herself. Great worker, very competent woman.”

  “Enemies?”

  “She got on well with everyone. Of course she got the women up on their heels once in a while, but they all like her except Brinley’s wife. Damn fool, that Brinley woman. Thinks she knows it all. Took a course in interior decorating once, and no one’s allowed to forget it. Awful row over the Club Parlor.”

  “Who won?”

  “Mary, hands down. Then Bessie claimed that Mary was only after a chance to unload her antiques, and make a profit. Lot of fuss. Turned out to be a nice room, though. Well, let’s get busy. Going to be nasty for the town. Any way out?”

  “Of keeping it quiet? Maybe,” Asey said. “Maybe, if – say, what’s the daughter like?”

  Dr. Cummings looked at him over the rims of his glasses.

  “I’m not a psychiatrist, or a psychologist,” he announced cryptically. “I’m just a plain country doctor, with the misfortune never to have delivered anything more bizarre than triplets and a twoheaded calf. Will you tell Lane and Weston to come here, and bring Lane’s camera, and all that stuff.”

  Half an hour later, Asey went into the living room.

  Zeb and Jane still sat on the couch, staring at the pattern of the hooked rug before the fireplace. Weston, his face a yard long, sucked at a dead pipe in the corner. He wore the sort of expression usually reserved for funerals, or automobile accidents, or various other forms of sudden death.

  “Where are the rest?” Jane had passed the stage of flippant desperation, and was now resigned and nearly normal except for the redness of her eyes.

  “What rest?”

  “Oh, police and all. Coroners, and reporters, and things like that.”

  “Doc’s medical examiner for this part of the world,” Asey said. “Wes is the town, an’ the law, an’ I’m actin’ head of the police here. Lane’s the state outfit. Don’t need more, unless you want it to be fancy. Lane’s a detective. He’s done what you might call the needful. Say, when is Eloise due?”

  “She should have been home long ago,” Jane said. “It’s awfully late for her. You don’t suppose – but then nothing could happen to her. She’s with Prettyman.”

  “She’s stuck on the ferris wheel,” Weston said dismally, speaking for the first time in twenty minutes. “Top seat, with Tertius. No ladders to reach, and she said she wouldn’t crawl down one anyway. Neither would Mrs. Cummings. She’s just below, with Bessie Brinley. The rest were all kids, and they managed to wriggle down somehow. Oh, I knew something would happen! I knew, it was bound to. I knew it would!”

  “What would happen,” Jane interrupted, “if we didn’t let anyone else know?”

  “Why, we’ve got to!” Weston said. “Haven’t we, Asey? How could we keep it quiet? We can’t.”

  “You’re the town,” Jane said, “and you know. Your police chief knows. The state cops and the coroner, or whatever you call him, they all know. And Zeb and I. Eloise’ll have to, but why any more? Why can’t we keep it a secret until after the week is over? It’s all so horrible, and letting people know will be even more horrible—”

  “We can’t,” Weston said. “There’s the funeral, and the undertaker, and that smashed window, and the mess of that room. All sorts of things. How’d you explain about Mrs. Randall’s not being around? How could – oh, it’s just impossible. It can’t be done.”

  “Wait now,” Jane said. “I hear the beach wagon coming up the drive. Eloise – she probably took Prettyman home. I thought I heard it going past a few minutes ago—”

  Asey watched the door expectantly. This Eloise had been mentioned any number of times, but people had shied away from personal description. Usually that meant someone was crippled or disfigured. Perhaps she had a wart on her nose, or was minus an eye. He didn’t even know if she were in her twenties, like Jane, or if she were in her forties.

  Forties. He almost said it out loud as she entered. Middle forties, stoutish, reddish brown hair beginning to show streaks of grey. Nothing the matter with her that he could see; she had the proper number of eyes and ears and arms and legs.

  She looked from one to another in the group.

  “Why, Jane! I didn’t know that you planned – I mean, I didn’t hear you say anything about a party! I’m sure Tertius and I would have preferred – so very distressing, up on that wheel. You know I’m always glad to help. Always. Sandwiches, or even a cake. I’m sure there’s no necessity for your making any secret of your parties, my dear – tch, tch!” she clucked her tongue. “And that coffee pot, right on the rug!”

  She put her hat on the table, and somehow managed to knock off two books, an ash tray and a lamp in the process.

  “I’ll fix’em,” Zeb said. He was watching Asey out of the corner of his eye.

  “Very nice of you, I’m sure – won’t the rest of you gentlemen sit – oh, Mr. Mayhew. I’m so glad you’re here – I think it’s only fair to tell you that the ferris wheel – really, the things those men who owned it said! So very unsafe – oh, why, Dr. Cummings! Your wife is so very distressed! She couldn’t find you—”

  “She’ll survive,” Cummings said brusquely. “Asey, you tell her – no, on second thought, I will. The rest of you go into the kitchen, or somewhere.”

  Asey drew Zeb out into the hall. “What—”

  “The doctors,” Zeb said, “call it loose association, if you mean Eloise. Myself, I’m inclined to be a little more Freudian about Miss R. Tell me, is there any chance of keeping this reasonably quiet for a while?”

  “D’pends on Eloise. Tell me, do they keep any servants here?”

  “Only Lina for washing and ironing. I think she comes a couple of days a week. Eloise and Jane do most of the housework between them – what did you say?”

  “I said,” Asey informed him, “I’d hate to have to make a Lady Baltimore cake with Eloise at my elbow. I’d end up with mint sauce. On the other hand, I wonder what kind of a cook she’d be – oho. Doc’s back. He got through it quicker than I thought he would. What’s the verdict?”

  Cummings wiped the perspiration from his forehead. “It was easier than I hoped for. She took it very well. Feels badly, of course, but – she wants to see Jane.”

  “Really,” Cummings added as Jane went back into the living room, “I hand it to Eloise. I was all set for some first-class hysterics, but she rose to the occasion like a lady. You have never seen hysterics until you’ve seen what Eloise can do along that line. That time she fell overboard from Baxter’s boat! Well, maybe we can swing it, Asey.”

  In a few minutes Eloise called to them.

  “Will you come in here? Jane, you tell them what we have decided – although I’m sure I can’t help feeling that there’s something very wrong about it, but of course if you and the rest feel that – I suppose the majority always knows – tell them, Jane.”

  “Mary loved this town,” Jane said. “I think that matters tremendously. So does Eloise. Mary would have hated to think that because of this awful thing happening to her, and us, and all, that the town should suffer the way it will if this is all made public right away. It’s an awful thing. A terrible thing. We’re going to find out who did it. But we think if it can be kept quiet until next week, why shouldn’t it? After all, everyone knows who’s supposed to know, and there’s no law about having to tell Winchell and the tabloids and the papers, is there?”

  “But I don’t see how we can!” Weston said. “How can we, Asey? We can’t, can we, doc? Lane, what do you think?” Asey picked up a pad and pencil from a desk.

/>   “Let’s go into a huddle,” he said. “Let’s see. First of all, I can fix up the window and the shade so they won’t be noticed. We can fix the room itself and lock it up. Now, Wes, you can make a note of Mrs. Randall’s death in the town records, but do you have to tell?”

  “In the town report, it—”

  “And the town report comes out once a year. In other words, note it, but don’t tell till you have to. Don’t even put the notation where anyone might see it.”

  “I got to—”

  “All right, then enter it and put your book in the bank vault. That’s that. Now, Cummings, you can manage the death certificate and an undertaker, can’t you? Haven’t you some relative who’s an undertaker?”

  “Well, he calls himself a mortician,” Cummings said, “but he owes me for his last two children and his appendix.”

  “All right. Doc, you an’ Lane’ll have to go to him tonight, in the beach wagon, an’ leave the car there. I’ll – no. Zeb will follow, and bring you back. Can you fix things with your wife, doc, or shall I?”

  “You, very definitely.”

  “Okay. I’ll see to it, an’ I’ll drive to Weesit an’ phone Porter in New York, an’ have him phone back here to Jane.”

  “Why?” Jane asked.

  “He’ll pretend to be a cousin, an’ say Mrs. Randal] must go to New York b’cause of serious illness in the family. A telegram won’t do. It would be phoned here from Hyannis tonight, an’ I want the phone girls here to know about it d’rect. Help spread the news. Anyway, it’s got to appear that Mrs. Randall’s gone to New York, drivin’ alone in the beach wagon.”

  “This is a charming house,” Eloise said timidly, “of course as I always said to our friends, lovely panelling, fine lines and all, but – well, I mean, it’s just a wee, wee bit—”

  “Remote,” Asey finished for her. “I thought of that. You an’ Jane had best go to Sara’s. Day times you can come back an’ carry on, but nights you spend there. You can explain it by sayin’ that you want to be near the cel’bration at night, an’ haven’t any car. Everyone knows that keepin’ you would be like Aunt Sara—”

  “There,” Weston said, “see? Then Sara’ll have to know. And Jeff, too. You see, you can’t keep it quiet. It gets complicated right off the bat!”

  “Sara already knows a lot, Wes. She an’ Jeff are safe, anyway. Now, let’s make a stab at this, an’ see how long we can hold out for Billingsgate’s budget. Lane an’ doc an’ Wes an’ I will get to work.”

  “But I’ve got Old Home Week!” Weston protested. “I’ve got—”

  “You got it like a rash,” Asey retorted. “Well, you go an’ Old Home Week, an’ we’ll get started. I’ll use some of Lane’s men, I know most of em. Now, we’ll get into the d’tails, an’ get our stories fixed, an’ get to work.”

  At half-past-four the following morning, Asey and Zeb wearily returned to Aunt Sara’s. Jane and Eloise had been brought there earlier.

  “Asey,” Zeb said as they undressed, “d’you understand any of this? Things at first seemed to be directed against the town, but this – what’s anyone got to kill someone like Mary for? It’s a maniac – remember that laugh?”

  “Yup, I heard it t’night.”

  “When?”

  Asey told him. “It’s all the same thing, Zeb. Shotgun – ’course, it was deer ball an’ not buckshot, but that don’t matter much. The first shootin’ was just a warnin’. This was meant to be – an’ was – final. It’s all part of the same muddle.” Zeb didn’t believe it.

  “Oh, come now,” Asey said. “ ’Member what Jane said tonight, that Mary was anxious to see me about somethin’? My guess is that Mary Randall found out somethin’ by accident, somethin’ more’n you an’ Sara an’ Wes an’ I ever knew. Someone discovered that she found out, an’ someone seen to it she never had a chance to tell. She – say, hear that? Listen!”

  Asey snapped off the light.

  “What—”

  “It’s our friend, givin’ us the razz – no, get away from that window. No, we ain’t goin’ out, neither. Not on your tin-type!”

  “Why not, Asey? It’s that laugh—”

  “Do you want a deer ball through your head? He’s hopin’ real hard we’ll fall for it, but we ain’t goin’ to. When anyone taunts you like that, you can be sure you’ll lose the tag game. Roll over an’ get to sleep. I am.”

  He turned over on his side, and within ten minutes he was producing light but convincing snores. Then he half sat up in bed and made some experimental sounds, but Zeb was too fast asleep to hear them.

  Grinning, Asey picked up his rubber- soled shoes, and Zeb’s sweater, and slid out of the room.

  The window at the end of the hall was open. He unhooked the screen, leaned out, and gripped the branch of the maple tree that rested on the slant roof. The window was small, but he squeezed through and swung onto the branch. Slowly he edged down the branch to the trunk, propped himself there some twelve feet above the ground, and waited.

  The breeze rippled through the leaves and swayed the branches above him. Over by the swamp, frogs were croaking. Far away on the shore road an automobile horn barked. He could just hear the boom and smash of the breakers on the outside beach – Asey opened his eyes wide. Someone was coming, up from the swamp. Someone had just crossed the narrow wooden foot bridge over the creek.

  He leaned forward and peered through the branches, but it was still too dark to distinguish anything.

  The footsteps came nearer, scrunched across the gravelled space by the garage, tapped on the flagstone walk that led from the garage to the house. If the person, whoever it was, stayed on that walk, he would have to pass directly beneath Asey.

  Quietly, he pulled aside a branch, and waited.

  Chapter 4

  Asey’s hand flashed under his sweater and his borrowed pyjama top to the old forty-five nestling in his shoulder holster. Then his hand dropped.

  It dawned on him belatedly that the person was a woman, and that the tapping on the stones came from her high heels. And now he could hear the swish of silk, and see a skirt swirl in the breeze.

  The woman strolled past the tree, and Asey very nearly fell on top of her.

  There was no mistaking that white hair. The woman was Sara Leach.

  Open-mouthed, he watched her walk to the front door, open it, and disappear inside the house.

  Asey slid down the tree trunk, jumped and noiselessly followed.

  “See here, Sara,” he demanded, “what’s the idea of this? What – wha—”

  Aunt Sara finished locking the front door, put the key carefully under a jade vase on the hall table, walked past him without saying a word.

  Keeping just behind, Asey followed her upstairs and along the hall to her room. The door closed softly as she went inside.

  Asey leaned against the wall and wiped his forehead against the sleeve of Zeb’s sweater.

  Only once before had he ever encountered a sleepwalker. That was on the “George P. Cram” – no, it was the “Joshua N. Cram,” and he had waked up just in time to wrench a machete from the hands of the West Indian cook as the latter swung at the second mate.

  With a shrug, he tiptoed back into his own room and crawled into bed.

  It was unthinkable that Sara had anything at all to do with this business, with the shotguns Saturday, or the killing of Mary Randall, or anything else. But her wandering around made him uneasy.

  Very likely it was a regular habit of Sara’s to take a stroll every night down by the swamp. But how long had she been there, and what about that crazy laugh? It was all screwy.

  Out of the whole mess only one real fact emerged; someone had something against Billingsgate. It might be a grudge against the town itself, or perhaps someone wanted to blank the celebration. Anyway, the person had issued plenty of warning about how he felt, and now he was getting right down to business.

  Why, Asey wondered, all this paving of the way? Apparently the fellow had nothing aga
inst Brinley or Weston or the Leaches. The selectmen didn’t figure. If they did, why hadn’t the fellow shot at them instead of just aiming to one side of them with buckshot?

  Anyway, by some accident Mary Randall had become aware of whatever this person had in mind, probably stumbling nearer to the truth than she comprehended. At least, she understood enough to want to see him and tell him things. But someone anticipated that, and took good care that nothing of the sort happened.

  That led to Jane.

  He didn’t know about Jane Warren. She had been a bit sour on the antique business that afternoon. What was that crack of hers- “All work and no pay.” Something to do with the Randalls or the antiques had annoyed her. But if she were as destitute as she claimed, and if she was supported solely by Mary Randall, it hardly seemed that Jane would deliberately kill her benefactor and employer. Perhaps in some way she would benefit by Mary’s death. Maybe she inherited the antique business or some money. Perhaps it was something more indirect; clearly Eloise was too scatterbrained to carry on by herself, and Jane would profit thereby.

  With the radio going, and the static and the fireworks, it was possible that she had not heard the shotgun. Offhand, it wasn’t very credible. And most people, when they were confronted with a murder, promptly began to tell how innocent they were. Jane had taken the other attitude and offered herself up as a sacrifice.

  After cleaning up Mrs. Randall’s room and fixing the window, Asey had gone over the entire house from attic to cellar, and investigated Zeb’s shotgun in the shed. It was covered with the chips and sawdust and dirt of the woodpile, and the barrels hadn’t been touched for a month of Sundays. He could find no trace of any other weapon, nor could Lane. But that didn’t mean that there wasn’t any.