Die, Little Goose: A Bret Hardin Mystery. David Alexander

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      Jim Lennox sprawled upon a Victorian love seat near the baroque marble mantelpiece. He was a tiny man, barely five and a half feet tall, and he seemed as fragile and delicate as a Sèvres figurine. His thick white hair hung down his neck and curled over the opened collar of his shirt in an antiquated theatrical fashion that had only lately been revived by young hoodlums and television actors and was called a ducktail haircut. Even in his most poverty-stricken days the old man had always been neat and chipper. Now he was rumpled and frightened and he seemed utterly defeated. His usually keen old eyes were dimmed by bewilderment and shock.

      A fat detective who was sweating profusely stood beside the little man, apparently guarding him. The contrast between the prisoner and his keeper was almost ludicrous. The tableau made Hardin think of a lumbering St. Bernard mothering an undersized Chihuahua.

      Recognition swam into Lennox’s eyes as Bart entered. “Bart!” he cried, rising from the small sofa. “For God’s sake, Bart! These policemen think I’m a murderer!”

      Bart tried to think of something reassuring to say. Before he could speak, the white-haired detective was addressing Romano. “Hello, Lieutenant,” he said. “You’re just in time. We’re about to take the statement of the ladies who discovered the body and heard the shot. This is the landlady, Mrs. Mattingly, and Miss Travers.” He turned to the woman on the chair and said, “Now just try to compose yourself, ma’am, and let’s go over it again. This is an officer from Homicide and he’ll want to hear what you have to say.”

      Mrs. Mattingly choked back a sob, dabbed at her eyes.

      “I’ve told it so many times already,” she said.

      “Tell us about the house and the roomers first,” the precinct detective prompted.

      “There are five rooms in the house that I rent out,” Mrs. Mattingly said, pressing her fingers to her temple as if she were trying to squeeze the story from her mind in proper sequence. “I occupy an apartment on this floor. There are three rooms and a bath and a linen closet on the second. The first, the smallest room, is occupied by Mr. Lennox here. The largest room was occupied by Mr. Adrian Temple and his wife Daphne, who was—was murdered. She was an invalid. The third room is occupied by Mr. Temple’s dancing partner, Miss Travers, who is here with me. My daughter has a small apartment on the top floor but it is unoccupied now because she’s playing stock in Louisville. The other two rooms on the top floor are rented to Mr. Montgomery and Mr. Sandrean. Mr. Montgomery is a ventriloquist who conducts the ‘Woodenhead Willie’ program for children over television. Mr. Sandrean is a Mexican gentleman who is a magician. He is known professionally as El Diablo. Neither gentleman was home this evening. In fact, no one was home except poor Daphne and James Lennox. I shouldn’t have gone to the theatre.”

      Mrs. Mattingly was weeping and dabbing at her eyes with her wispy handkerchief again. “Now, now,” the detective said soothingly. “You shouldn’t blame yourself, ma’am.”

      “We had these tickets to the Music Hall,” she continued. “Mr. Sandrean—El Diablo, that is—has a spot in the current stage show and he gave us tickets for everyone in the house, except poor Daphne, of course. Even Adrian, Mr. Temple, was going with us. He thought he could find some friend to sit with Daphne. But yesterday Mr. Temple had one of his little disappearances, as I call them. Adrian has a weakness, poor, unfortunate man. He drinks at times. When he does, he simply wanders off for a day or two. We’ve come to expect it every few months. He is still missing, in fact. Of course, we didn’t like leaving Daphne alone. My maid comes in days and she leaves around six as a rule. Elsa offered to stay with Daphne, but Daphne wouldn’t hear of it. She wouldn’t hear of any of us missing the show, in fact. She said her husband would probably return anyway, because she knew his habits when he’s on one of his little sprees.

      “Then Mr. Lennox came back from his office, all done in by this terrible heat. He has a slight heart condition and he looked pale and wretched. He said he had a terrible headache and was going to lie down. That solved the problem. His room is right next to the one the Temples occupy. James often sits with Daphne when Adrian and Elsa have an engagement at a club. If Daphne needed anything, she could call or tap on the wall. She’s very self-reliant, really, and gets around quite well in her wheelchair.”

      The plump little woman gasped and shivered. The bony hand with the blood-red nails patted her shoulder comfortingly.

      When Mrs. Mattingly recovered, she continued, “Mr. Montgomery, the ventriloquist, accompanied Miss Travers and me to the theatre. I’m afraid two tickets went to waste. The ones that Mr. Sandrean had given Adrian and Mr. Lennox. After the show Mr. Montgomery invited us to a bar for refreshment, but Elsa has been feeling the heat and she wished to get home and shower and retire early. Mr. Montgomery left us to go for a drink. I suppose we must have left the Music Hall about a quarter to eleven. It’s only three blocks from here, you know. Anyway, we were home at seven minutes to eleven exactly. I know, because I have a habit of glancing at the big grandfather clock in the hall. And it’s always right. It was just a couple of minutes later that it happened.”

      She paused again, overcome by emotion. Then she said, “Elsa went directly upstairs to go to her room. I came into the parlor and turned on the lights. A few seconds after Elsa reached the top of the stairs, I heard this shot. I ran out into the hall. Elsa was screaming, calling me. I rushed upstairs. We hesitated a moment, trying to guess where the the shot had come from, calling Daphne. We went into Daphne’s room. She was there in her wheelchair, dead, covered with blood.” Mrs. Mattingly buried her face in her hands and sobbed.

      “And Mr. Lennox was standing on the fire escape, staring at poor Daphne,” Elsa Travers said, her chalk-white face grim.

      Bart turned to the stricken old man on the love seat. He said, “Can’t you explain this, Jim?”

      “I have explained it, Bart. But they won’t believe me,” Lennox answered. “You thought I looked peaked and you sent me home early from the paper. I stopped at the Automat and had a salad and some tea. It was all I felt like eating. My blood pressure has been acting up in this heat. I came home and the others were going to the Music Hall to see El Diablo. I simply wasn’t up to it. I said I would stay home with Daphne. After they left for the theatre I looked in on Daphne. She was well, but she was drowsy. She didn’t want me to help her onto the bed. She felt sure Adrian would return this evening and she wanted to be sitting up when he arrived. She said he was always remorseful when he came home after he had been drinking and she wanted to be awake to comfort him.

      “I hardly slept at all last night. Tonight I took some medicine the doctor gave me for my blood pressure condition. There’s a mild sedative in it, I think. I lay down on my bed without undressing. I didn’t lock my door. No one here ever does. The keys are almost always on the outside of the doors, in fact, until we retire for the night. I left mine on the outside. I got up once and looked in on Daphne. She was dozing in her chair. I went back in my room about nine and lay down on the bed again. I was stupefied by the heat or the sedative, and I fell into a deep sleep. The shot awakened me. I thought of Daphne at once. Then I heard someone screaming and calling Mrs. Mattingly’s name. I tried to get out my door, but it was locked from outside, so I went out on the fire escape to get into Daphne’s room through the window. I saw her there in the chair, with blood on her. I could smell the smoke from СКАЧАТЬ