guilt about so many different things. He blinked his rather protruding eyes, took a deep breath, and said, “But why on earth—? Are you intimating that I’d do a thing like that? I’m supposed to be one of the targets of this crazy plot, remember?”
“This was the mistake that was made, Mr. Bayles,” she went on coolly. “While in the case of Larry Reed’s murder there was no question of alibis—since we cannot know where and when and how he got the poison—now we do know that the murderer was in a car outside my bungalow at a certain time last night, leaving me a warning to lay off.”
“Oh?” he said cautiously.
“Yes.” She smiled brightly. “You see what it means? This automatically eliminates everyone who has a good alibi for that hour. Immediately after the car roared away and before the driver had a chance to get home, I telephoned everyone involved in the case, just to check. You didn’t answer your phone, by the way.”
“What? Oh, I can explain that. I’d taken a couple of seconal tablets to knock myself out. The phone could have rung all night and I wouldn’t have heard.”
“Then,” she persisted wickedly, “you say you were home and in bed at three o’clock this morning?”
“Certainly. I came home shortly after two, and I can prove it. I always turn on my bedside radio for a little owl music before I go to sleep, and the people in the next apartment heard it and pounded on the wall, so that proves—”
“That proves something, at any rate.” The schoolteacher felt a surge of secret triumph, though she also wished with all her heart that she had actually thought of making those phone calls. She turned to go, and then as Bayles relaxed in obvious relief she whirled back on him again. “Just one thing more,” she said. “The sender of those poison-pen valentines knew too much about the past of his potential victims. Perhaps we can pursue that line a little. Mr. Bayles, how did your secret leak out?”
The man shrugged helplessly. “I don’t know, honestly. It’s nothing I’d be likely to talk about.”
“Not even to an old friend, or an affable bartender—or—?” Bayles shook his head. “For years I’ve put it out of my mind, completely. I wouldn’t let myself think of it. You see, I promised my mother on her deathbed that I’d become a priest, and—and—” His eyes were wet and shining.
“I understand.” The schoolteacher took her departure, fearing that the man would break into Mother Machree —or into tears of self-pity. He was, she thought, a small loss to the Church of Rome. Miss Withers was beginning to form a picture of the real Rollo Bayles in her mind’s eye, and it was not as pretty as his paintings by any means.
Yet a man could be an apostate, he could break a deathbed promise to his adored mother, and still—could he be a murderer, could he kill, and kill with the subtle, sneaky method of poison?
The schoolteacher walked thoughtfully back along the sunlit studio street, past hurrying cutters with their precious cans of film, past cute little uniformed studio messengers with their languorous starlets’ walk and their wondering starlit eyes—each remembering that Lana Turner had been a soda jerk when she was discovered—past secretaries and electricians and executives and all the myriad denizens of this gold-plated anthill. From the open window of a sound room came the last line of the alma mater anthem—“G-g-g-gawk-wak—that’s Peter Penguin’s song….” repeated over and over again as the sound men ironed out indistinguishable errors in the track.
Miss Withers even ran into the gnomish janitor she had met on her first day here, who gave her a roguish wink. On an impulse she caught his sleeve. “Mr. Cassiday, you know more about this place than almost anyone. You knew Larry Reed and all the others involved. Did he have any enemies? Who, do you think, would have a motive to poison him?”
“Poison?” The old man stiffened
“This was the mistake that was made, Mr. Bayles,” she went on coolly. “While in the case of Larry Reed’s murder there was no question of alibis—since we cannot know where and when and how he got the poison—now we do know that the murderer was in a car outside my bungalow at a certain time last night, leaving me a warning to lay off.”
“Oh?” he said cautiously.
“Yes.” She smiled brightly. “You see what it means? This automatically eliminates everyone who has a good alibi for that hour. Immediately after the car roared away and before the driver had a chance to get home, I telephoned everyone involved in the case, just to check. You didn’t answer your phone, by the way.”
“What? Oh, I can explain that. I’d taken a couple of seconal tablets to knock myself out. The phone could have rung all night and I wouldn’t have heard.”
“Then,” she persisted wickedly, “you say you were home and in bed at three o’clock this morning?”
“Certainly. I came home shortly after two, and I can prove it. I always turn on my bedside radio for a little owl music before I go to sleep, and the people in the next apartment heard it and pounded on the wall, so that proves—”
“That proves something, at any rate.” The schoolteacher felt a surge of secret triumph, though she also wished with all her heart that she had actually thought of making those phone calls. She turned to go, and then as Bayles relaxed in obvious relief she whirled back on him again. “Just one thing more,” she said. “The sender of those poison-pen valentines knew too much about the past of his potential victims. Perhaps we can pursue that line a little. Mr. Bayles, how did your secret leak out?”
The man shrugged helplessly. “I don’t know, honestly. It’s nothing I’d be likely to talk about.”
“Not even to an old friend, or an affable bartender—or—?” Bayles shook his head. “For years I’ve put it out of my mind, completely. I wouldn’t let myself think of it. You see, I promised my mother on her deathbed that I’d become a priest, and—and—” His eyes were wet and shining.
“I understand.” The schoolteacher took her departure, fearing that the man would break into Mother Machree —or into tears of self-pity. He was, she thought, a small loss to the Church of Rome. Miss Withers was beginning to form a picture of the real Rollo Bayles in her mind’s eye, and it was not as pretty as his paintings by any means.
Yet a man could be an apostate, he could break a deathbed promise to his adored mother, and still—could he be a murderer, could he kill, and kill with the subtle, sneaky method of poison?
The schoolteacher walked thoughtfully back along the sunlit studio street, past hurrying cutters with their precious cans of film, past cute little uniformed studio messengers with their languorous starlets’ walk and their wondering starlit eyes—each remembering that Lana Turner had been a soda jerk when she was discovered—past secretaries and electricians and executives and all the myriad denizens of this gold-plated anthill. From the open window of a sound room came the last line of the alma mater anthem—“G-g-g-gawk-wak—that’s Peter Penguin’s song….” repeated over and over again as the sound men ironed out indistinguishable errors in the track.
Miss Withers even ran into the gnomish janitor she had met on her first day here, who gave her a roguish wink. On an impulse she caught his sleeve. “Mr. Cassiday, you know more about this place than almost anyone. You knew Larry Reed and all the others involved. Did he have any enemies? Who, do you think, would have a motive to poison him?”
“Poison?” The old man stiffened
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