means that I want to find out where this Bogarty guy is, in the worst way." He raised his voice. "Yes, sergeant?"
The man at the oars of the boat called back, "We've covered every possible inch, Captain!"
"Keep on, though. Might be a current that could move the body. I gotta be positive Bogarty isn't lying on the bottom of that lake."
"How is the bottom?" Aggie asked.
"Eh? Oh. Sandy. Some rocks. Muck--farther up. Snags. But when we quit, it'll be because we are pretty certain Bogarty isn't in that pond! I must say, Plum, I'm grateful to you. Sort of relieved, too. You know--those people are all good friends of mine. And they're pretty good people--as people go--excepting one or two. I hate to see 'em in a mess. And it gives you feathers in the stomach when you find yourself--in the line of duty--wondering which of your best friends might be guilty of a murder."
CHAPTER 8
Sarah had taken to her bed; her mumps were undoubtedly worse. It seemed to Aggie, however, that her physical decline was due more to mental causes. She greeted his statement that Bogarty's body was probably not in the pond with a sullenness he had never seen in her. She said she was too tired to talk. The afternoon had faded into a yellow sunset across which streamed bluish clouds in long, horizontal pennons. It was a northern sky. Aggie went to his room and looked at it awhile as he dressed for dinner.
He reflected that the act represented a complete change of his original program. A double change, in fact. He had at first been loath to dine at the clubhouse; he had agreed to do so because Sarah had wanted to know the minor scandals brewing there. Then he had revolted against that, because the scandals had risen to vast if shadowy proportions.
Now he was preparing to go voluntarily to the club because of his own consuming interest. He had become, indeed, a prototype of--his aunt--an enlarged prototype--full of curiosity, eager to pry into anybody's intimate life.
He went up the steps· of the clubhouse almost blithely. His absorption had submerged his social awkwardness. There were people in the dining room and people in the solarium. Jack Browne was standing near the front door, talking to Mrs. Drayman.
When he saw Aggie, he left her.
"Glad you're up," he said amiably. "Place' is like a mausoleum. I mean--rather--a haunted house. Everybody has the jitters." He grinned boyishly. "You know, Aggie, that beard of yours gave me a shock, the day you checked in. Did I show it?"
Aggie smiled back. "Moderately."
"I'm sorry as the deuce. Beth's around. Looking for you.
Talking about you like a windmill. You've made a conquest there, pal."
Aggie's grin precipitated. "Where is she?"
"Playing table tennis--with Ralph--as usual. I'll go out with you--"
Aggie shook his head. "I wanted a bearing on her--to go the other way. She intimidates me."
The club manager chuckled. "Beth's all right. Not what you'd call soft-spoken--
but--boy! If that raven, ravishing dream girl were waiting for me with the look in her eye she's got tonight--I'd run thither--and not at a dogtrot either!"
Aggie was embarrassed. "Speaking of dogs,"--he said, "that wasn't a dog that bit Jim Calder. It was a fox. Remember you suggested that the chefs mutt was the size of a fox?"
Jack seemed momentarily not to catch the drift of this new subject. Then he nodded brightly. "Yeah. A fox! How in the world can they tell?"
"A guess." Aggie wondered if he'd let out too much of the trooper's information--
or, rather, his suspicion.
"Do they think--that Calder was--killed?"
Aggie shrugged.
The other man's blue and slightly wistful eyes grew cloudy. "I hope he was! If I'd known what Calder was going to cause Dad to do--I'd have shot him myself. Which shows you that anybody--can kill a person, I suppose."
Danielle was entering through the French doors in the billiard room. Aggie watched her. His answer to Jack was offhand. "I can imagine how you felt. Still-your
The man at the oars of the boat called back, "We've covered every possible inch, Captain!"
"Keep on, though. Might be a current that could move the body. I gotta be positive Bogarty isn't lying on the bottom of that lake."
"How is the bottom?" Aggie asked.
"Eh? Oh. Sandy. Some rocks. Muck--farther up. Snags. But when we quit, it'll be because we are pretty certain Bogarty isn't in that pond! I must say, Plum, I'm grateful to you. Sort of relieved, too. You know--those people are all good friends of mine. And they're pretty good people--as people go--excepting one or two. I hate to see 'em in a mess. And it gives you feathers in the stomach when you find yourself--in the line of duty--wondering which of your best friends might be guilty of a murder."
CHAPTER 8
Sarah had taken to her bed; her mumps were undoubtedly worse. It seemed to Aggie, however, that her physical decline was due more to mental causes. She greeted his statement that Bogarty's body was probably not in the pond with a sullenness he had never seen in her. She said she was too tired to talk. The afternoon had faded into a yellow sunset across which streamed bluish clouds in long, horizontal pennons. It was a northern sky. Aggie went to his room and looked at it awhile as he dressed for dinner.
He reflected that the act represented a complete change of his original program. A double change, in fact. He had at first been loath to dine at the clubhouse; he had agreed to do so because Sarah had wanted to know the minor scandals brewing there. Then he had revolted against that, because the scandals had risen to vast if shadowy proportions.
Now he was preparing to go voluntarily to the club because of his own consuming interest. He had become, indeed, a prototype of--his aunt--an enlarged prototype--full of curiosity, eager to pry into anybody's intimate life.
He went up the steps· of the clubhouse almost blithely. His absorption had submerged his social awkwardness. There were people in the dining room and people in the solarium. Jack Browne was standing near the front door, talking to Mrs. Drayman.
When he saw Aggie, he left her.
"Glad you're up," he said amiably. "Place' is like a mausoleum. I mean--rather--a haunted house. Everybody has the jitters." He grinned boyishly. "You know, Aggie, that beard of yours gave me a shock, the day you checked in. Did I show it?"
Aggie smiled back. "Moderately."
"I'm sorry as the deuce. Beth's around. Looking for you.
Talking about you like a windmill. You've made a conquest there, pal."
Aggie's grin precipitated. "Where is she?"
"Playing table tennis--with Ralph--as usual. I'll go out with you--"
Aggie shook his head. "I wanted a bearing on her--to go the other way. She intimidates me."
The club manager chuckled. "Beth's all right. Not what you'd call soft-spoken--
but--boy! If that raven, ravishing dream girl were waiting for me with the look in her eye she's got tonight--I'd run thither--and not at a dogtrot either!"
Aggie was embarrassed. "Speaking of dogs,"--he said, "that wasn't a dog that bit Jim Calder. It was a fox. Remember you suggested that the chefs mutt was the size of a fox?"
Jack seemed momentarily not to catch the drift of this new subject. Then he nodded brightly. "Yeah. A fox! How in the world can they tell?"
"A guess." Aggie wondered if he'd let out too much of the trooper's information--
or, rather, his suspicion.
"Do they think--that Calder was--killed?"
Aggie shrugged.
The other man's blue and slightly wistful eyes grew cloudy. "I hope he was! If I'd known what Calder was going to cause Dad to do--I'd have shot him myself. Which shows you that anybody--can kill a person, I suppose."
Danielle was entering through the French doors in the billiard room. Aggie watched her. His answer to Jack was offhand. "I can imagine how you felt. Still-your
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