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  “I do hope,” she said, “that my husband has seen you? He has? And he told you about that Slade? You will restrain him, won’t you? Rushing around with that shotgun! It was disgraceful! A town officer, brandishing a shotgun, with all our guests! People were shocked! I said to my husband, Arthur, I said—”

  “Look,” Asey interrupted, “let’s get to the bottom of this. You an’ Mr. Brinley tell me that after the brush fire last night, Mike Slade was uptown, brandishin’ a shotgun. Am I right up to that point?”

  “Well, he wasn’t exactly brandishing it, but he had a shotgun with him openly, i and it upset a number of people, including many Old Settlers. It upset them very much. Naturally it is upsetting when—”

  “Yes. But what did he have a gun along with him for? Decoration, or use, or what?”

  “Didn’t Arthur tell you? Arthur tried to restrain him, and Slade was very rude, and told him to go away and lay an – oh, he was just as rude as you’d expect someone like him to be. He said – why, the things he said!”

  “Yes, I know. Outspoken sort. An old it spade caller. But what explanation did he i give your husband?”

  “Why, it really wasn’t an explanation, at all, really. The man was either I drunk, or crazy. He said he had a shotgun with him, and he intended to carry it i with him as long as he felt like it, and certainly until he got the chance to shoot t back at whoever had been shooting at i him with a shotgun. Oh, no. He said, whoever had been trying to shoot at him, or something. Now you know that’s absurd—”

  “Yes,” Asey said.

  “What? But it is absurd! I’m sure that many people might have wished they could do something about him, but no one ever did – after all, we’re civilized people, and we – why, certainly no one tried to shoot him! And – why, where are you going, Mr. Mayo?” Mrs. Brinley sniffed. “And in such a terrific hurry. Well, I don’t care,” she continued to talk as the roadster shot down the street, “what Arthur Brinley thinks, I think that Mayo is crazy, too! Dashing off like that—”

  Chapter 5

  “You don’t mean it,” Aunt Sara said. “You can’t mean it, Asey.”

  “I do,” Asey assured her firmly. “You think I’m jokin’? D’you think I’d try to be funny, under the circumstances?”

  “But I simply can’t believe it.” Sara shook her head as she poured out another cup of tea. Jeff was having a nap after the excitement of the day, Zeb was still at the store, and Jane and Eloise had not yet returned from the hollow. She and Asey were out under the maples in the front yard. “Dear me, I do wish Jeff hadn’t insisted on our staying to that ball game. I’ve never understood baseball, but it gives me such an appetite, and it’ll spoil my dinner entirely to gorge myself now. No, Asey, to get back to Slade, I don’t think you’re joking, but I do feel that your conclusion’s somehow wrong.”

  “I have hunted Mike Slade,” Asey said, “for six hours. All I know is, his best pants an’ coat is on his bed. His Old Home Week badge is sittin’ on a copy of Karl Marx, an’ his brand new buckskin shoes are on top of somethin’ called ‘Tender Buttons’ – say, you ever read that? You try it some day. I’d like to see how you felt afterwards. An’ the rest of his wardrobe, what there is of it, is sort of strewn around casual.”

  “Where’s his pocketbook? Gone?” Asey laughed. “Sort of a middle class touch. He’d hidden that in an empty sardine tin an’ stuck it in his ice box. Anyway, Mike Slade hasn’t been any place he’s supposed to go, today. He hasn’t been home, his milk’s on the doorstep. He hasn’t been to his studio. No one’s seen him since last night. Those are—”

  “The facts in the case, to coin a phrase,” Sara said.

  Asey didn’t let her sarcasm bother him. “They are. An’ his shotgun ain’t around, an’ he has two empty cartons in his book case, an’ the labels on’em say deer ball an’ buckshot. You can figure it out any way you please. You can figure that he killed Mary Randall an’ exited in haste, or you can figure that the person who got Mary also got him. There you are.”

  “I never thought of that,” Sara said, “the possibility that he might be harmed. That must be it. I’d never believe he had anything to do with Mary. Asey, what are we going to do? Don’t you think we’d just better let Billingsgate go, and let the thing be made public? After all, suppose someone else is killed? We’ve no right not to let people know of danger, if there is any!”

  “The human’tarian aspect,” Asey said, “is sort of muddled. It’d be too bad if anythin’ happened to anyone else, but after all, the fellow can’t keep up any massacre on a large scale. An’ if we let Billingsgate down, pop goes your whole town. Workin’ on the greatest good for the greatest number theory, Billingsgate an’ its finances are the most important.”

  “But if people knew, wouldn’t you be able to ask more questions, and find out more things? I mean, here’s the problem of Slade. He’s gone. If you weren’t handicapped by keeping this quiet, you could ask around and find out things.”

  “I have. Lane an’ I have both asked around an’ found out nothin’.”

  “But you keep assuming that he’s alive! Suppose he’s dead? Shouldn’t you organize a posse, or something?”

  “And drag ponds, to find him alive an’ fishin’? Nope. I don’t think.”

  “Why are you so sure he is alive?”

  “Because,” Asey said, “if I had some idea of killin’ Slade, an’ then I seen him cavortin’ around with a shotgun, as he was last night, promisin’ death an’ d’struction to the person who had any such ideas, I think I’d hesitate. That man’s a born fighter. I think he’d scare me off.”

  Sara got up from her chair and walked over to the garden.

  “I always thought I was rather bright,” she said plaintively. “But I don’t understand any of this. Why, if someone actually did threaten him, why didn’t he come to us last night? He knew about things, everything but Mary Randall.”

  Asey chose a bachelor button with care, and drew it through the lapel of his coat.

  “That’s what makes me think he’s all right. P’raps he thought that by comin, straight to us, he might give somethin’ away. P’raps he figured if he could make it personal, he might get farther into understandin’ things. As I get it, someone did somethin’ to him after I left the fire last night. Probably some sort of warning, like the shotguns Saturday. He warned right back, as loud an’ obvious as he could, that he was ready to meet all comers. N’en, I think, he decided to lay low. He may have some idea of his own that he’s working out. From the little I saw of Slade, I know he wouldn’t take any risks, like movin’ past lighted windows. No, I give him credit. An’ at the same time, I don’t entirely write him off the list as innocent, either—”

  “Car’s coming,” Sara said. “Let’s talk about the governors, all three of em – no matter, it’s your cousin Weston. Did you hear his speech today? It was good, in spite of the fact that he sounded a little like the late Mr. Coolidge – Hullo, Wes, are you exhausted?”

  “I’m a little tired,” Weston said, “but it’s gone all right so far, hasn’t it?”

  “It’s a triumph of organization,” Sara said, “and I mean that sincerely, Weston. Everyone had a grand time today – what’s that you’ve got?”

  “It’s the strangest thing ever. A note from Slade. I just found it in my mail box, in front of the house. I don’t often look into that box, I get my mail at the post office, but the flag was up. It says,” he opened the note and read from it, “ ‘Dear Mayhew, I was called away suddenly. Back soon. Slade.’ Now, what do you make of that?”

  “Is it genuine?” Sara asked. “Let me – why, it looks like his writing. Wait. I’ve a note from him in my desk, and I’ll bring it out.”

  As far as they could tell, the writing on the two sheets of paper was identical.

  “Same kind of paper, too,” Asey said. “Same kind of ink. I’ll give’em to Lane, to make sure.”

  “What do you make of this?” Weston demanded. “What’s he found o
ut?”

  “Nothin’ I know of,” Asey said. “This is all Slade’s own brain wave. What do you think?”

  “I don’t think he possibly could have had anything to do with Mary Randall,” Weston said slowly. “He’s a fighter, but he wouldn’t fight that way. He’d rather shoot you full of words. And he wouldn’t have left any notes for me. What I think is, he’s been scared off. He’s led a funny life, and his past is shady, and what I think is, he recognized someone, some visitor, who’d known him before, and someone he didn’t want to meet again. He play-acted around last night for an alibi. That’s what we think—”

  “We?” Asey said. “You an’ who, Brinley?”

  Weston turned pink.

  “Well, yes. They were very upset about him last night. They felt—”

  “Don’t tell me,” Asey said, “I know how they felt. Well, this is just somethin’ else to delve into.”

  “Honestly,” Weston said, “I’ve gone through the day like I was sitting on a bunch of thistles, with a sword hanging over my head and a bottomless pit at my feet. So far, so good – but what’s going to come? How long can we keep this quiet? It’s driving me crazy! And here I got so much to do—”

  “Run along an’ forget it,” Asey said. “You do the Old Home Weekin’, an’ leave the worryin’ to us—”

  But Weston refused to be soothed. He was still audibly worrying when he left.

  “Somehow,” Sara said as they watched his car disappear over the hill, “the Billingsgate branch were never the calm, imperturbable brand you have in Wellfleet.”

  “Oh, I dunno,” Asey said, “it’s just that they ain’t happy in the abstract. Just the samey, Brinley an’ Wes may have somethin’ there.” He told her about Madame Meaux. “She was headin’ for him. Maybe he’s dodgin’ her. I think I’ll hunt her up later, an’ look into it. Meanwhile, I’ll see Lane an’ find out if this note’s genuine. If it is, at least it’ll mean he’s alive.”

  With Lane was a man whom Asey greeted with open arms.

  “Hamilton, I’m glad to see you. I can use you – Lane, can I, or is he just here for the ride?”

  “The boss thought you might want me,” Hamilton said. “He said to tell you he’d seen the woman, and he’ll do what he can to help keep it quiet this week. He thought he might get down with the governor tomorrow. He – what’s that, a handwriting job? Your department, Lane.”

  “My kit’s indoors. Come in, and – Asey,” Lane said, “can’t you do anything about that woman Eloise? She’s driving me nuts. I’m telling you, there’s something the matter with her. I finally showed her my wife’s picture, and told her I had two kids in high school, but she kept right on.”

  “It’s your fatal charm,” Asey said. “Come on, we got to settle this, an’ then I want to lay some plans with you fellers. An’ by the way, Lane, can you get one of your men to lurk around here tonight, too? I think we’d better keep on havin’ someone here. And at Sara’s, an’ Brin- ley’s, an’ Weston’s, if you can manage. Got enough men? Any excuse’ll do, like protectin’ the town officers from bein’ disturbed, or protectin’ the antiques here. N’en if anything happens, we at least took precautions. Say, who took the women home from here, did Zeb?”

  “Two local men, one was from the point,” Lane said. “Curious bird. Wanted to know just what relative was sick, and where, and how bad, and all. Jane took him on, and played him like a piano. Say, what about that girl, Asey? She seems pretty clever.”

  “We’re lookin’ into her tonight,” Asey assured him. “Lookin’ into lots of things.”

  At dinner, back at Aunt Sara’s, Zeb announced his intention of working most of the night.

  “Orders!” he said. “My God, you never saw so many orders in your life. Matt’s daft. Thought he had enough for this week, and we had to phone Boston fifty times. Matt’s ordering carload lots now. And Baked Beans’ll be up ten points by the end of the week. It’s awfully funny. You say, what about a can of beans, and they say, why yes, they’ll be nice to have in the house. It seems you don’t ever buy baked beans to eat, you buy them to Have in the House, like coal or flowers. I’ve sent father a wire. Something’s radically wrong with his advertising. Say, Jane, you’ll have to go with Asey tonight—”

  “I already asked her,” Asey said. “Miss Randall’s goin’ proper with Jeff an’ Sara, an’ sit in a blue-an’-yellow draped box, but Jane an’ I, we’re goin’ to mingle with the hoi p’loi an’ eat peanuts.”

  “I’m going to flirt with the trumpet,” Jane said. “He asked me for a date, Monday, and when I asked him who he thought he was, he said he was the best solid sender in the business. It must mean something, he was quite proud of it. While I’m busy with him, Asey, you—”

  “I’ll be chattin’ with Madame Meaux. Hustle, Jane. I want to hear her render the openin’ number. Maybe she’s better with lights an’ spangles than she was in the corridor the other day.”

  Madame Meaux was rendering “America The Beautiful!” when they reached the ball park, and Asey admitted that she was doing it rather well.

  “Maybe so, but I never liked that song,” Jane said. “It’s so blatantly smug. As if no other country ever had spacious skies, or amber waves of grain, or purple mountain majesties, or anything. It doesn’t seem to sound right here, either. There are spacious skies, but—”

  “Well,” Asey said, “you can sing ‘Oh beautiful for bay’bry bushes, for lots an’ lots of sand,’ if you like. No one’ll ever notice.”

  Jane laughed. “Now this one – what’s this? People have been singing it at the drop of a hat for weeks, and I never yet have understood a word. I asked Mary—” she stopped and bit her lip. “Mary didn’t know. She said she just hummed a sort of obbligato.”

  “That,” Asey said, “is Billingsgate’s crownin’ opus. That is ‘Billingsgate Beautiful.’ The town anthem, by the fine Italian hand of Bessie Brinley.”

  Jane shivered and gritted her teeth. “Wow! Why do they sing it? How can they? I mean, after all, you don’t try to sing something like that from choice, or just to be nice to Mrs. Brinley.”

  “Well,” Asey said, “in a cel’bration like this, you got to sing something for brotherhood an’ the cause, like – oh, like – like the ‘Horst Wessel.’ ”

  “That name,” Jane said, “always sounded to me as though it should be some sort of black sausage – well, that’s over! Thank God! Asey, where are you – are you really going to talk with her? Well, can you tie that!”

  Madame Meaux greeted Asey with a dazzling smile. In evening dress, and with makeup, she was a far different woman from the hot perspiring bicyclist of the afternoon.

  “Very nifty,” Asey said. “You had’em hanging on the ropes.”

  “Sister Brinley,” Madame Meaux told him, “wanted a soprano with volume, and she got one. I can make that trumpet sound sissier than a penny whistle. Say, have you seen Slade?”

  “That’s what I wanted to talk with you about – got a few minutes?”

  “I’ve got an hour before I have to tear off Old Favorites, if that’ll help.”

  “Fine,” Asey said, “get your coat an’ come along with Jane Warren an’ me—”

  “If you mean your girl friend, she’s walked out on you. Joined the local swells in that box. And you’d better know you’re being watched, if that sort of things matters to you.”

  “Half the fun of these things is the nice new gossip,” Asey said. “Billingsgate’ll r’member for years how I upped an’ made off with their soprano. Hop along.”

  He gave no indication of seeing either Aunt Sara’s wink or Jane’s annoyed stare as he escorted Madame Meaux to the roadster.

  Once in the car, he had a bad moment. All he wanted was to ask questions about Slade, but he had forgotten that the eyes of Billingsgate were upon them.

  Madame Meaux solved the problem.

  “What I’d like,” she said, “is a couple of dogs with mustard, and a sundae with a lot of marshmallow. Sister B. has th
is feeling that sopranos don’t eat.”

  “We’ll remedy that,” Asey said gratefully. “By the way, is – er – M-e-a-u-x your real name?”

  “My real name happens to be Emily Slade. And I know who you are, because I asked that guy at the garage.”

  “Relation to Mike?”

  “His brother was my first husband. Died five years ago, and don’t say you’re sorry, because no one was. Charley Slade was a punk. Now,” her manner changed, “let’s get some food, and you tell me why the great detective wants to know about Mike. You do, don’t you?”

  “First we’ll eat,” Asey said, “an’ then we’ll dally with him.”

  She ate her hot dogs and devoured two sundaes with a whole-hearted abandon that charmed Asey.

  “There,” she pushed away the dish, “now what’s the trouble?”

  “Are you,” Asey asked, “enough of a menace in Slade’s life for him to decamp at the sight of you?”

  “Well,” Madame Meaux said thoughtfully, “he owes me around four hundred dollars, and he knows it, and I admit I had some hope of prying it out of him. I helped him with a hospital bill. That’s all I can think of. He and I got along all right. Oh, it was true, what I told you about working on those projects. We did. But I didn’t know who you were then, and it didn’t seem necessary for me to tell you any more.”

  “Quite right. So he owed you money. That may be why he’s vanished, leavin’ what seems to be a genuine note sayin’ he’ll be back next week. But we kind of wondered.”

  “Must be. But don’t let that give you any wrong ideas about Mike. He’s a right enough sort. My money’s safe with him. Say, he hasn’t done anything, has he?”

  “Not that I know of,” Asey said. “But – say, it’s time I got you back. Only – if you see him, or he gets any message to you, will you let me know?”

  “Sure.” They got up from the table. “I don’t understand – hm.”

  “Hm what?” Asey inquired as they got into the roadster.