Crime is Murder by Helen Nielsen Page A

doesn’t have to marry a man just because he’s in love with her.”
    The words were Joel’s, but they were such good words Lisa couldn’t help borrowing them. They stopped the professor only momentarily.
    “That’s very true,” he said quietly, “and it’s also very true that Howard Gleason was emotionally unstable. But that’s all the more reason to be suspicious about the five thousand dollars.”
    The questions fairly leaped into Johnny’s eyes; but Lisa waved her to silence. Professor Dawes was leaving no tales untold this time.
    “The award money,” he explained. “The Cornish Award is a year of study in Europe
or
five thousand dollars. Gleason took the money, a certified check signed by Nydia Bell Cornish and cosigned by Stanley Watts, treasurer of the Cornish Award committee. And yet Gleason died penniless. Think of that, if you please. One year in Bellville, one year in which his living expenses could have been no more than his salary, small as it was, and yet no trace of that money could be found after his death. His funeral expenses were paid out of a small insurance policy, the residue of which went to his beneficiary—Marta Cornish.”
    The wind from the windows was cooler now. Fact number four. Lisa’s mind went wandering back to that unfinished meditation down at the old ruins. She’d been on the verge of a discovery then. She was much closer now.
    “This isn’t just hearsay,” the professor added. “I’ve checked my facts. I was upset at the time of Gleason’s suicide. This time the gossip penetrated deeper. When my nephew began keeping company with Marta I set out to verify some of the rumors.”
    “You mentioned on the athletic field that both Marta’s suitors were insured,” Lisa reminded.
    “I shouldn’t have blurted it out that way, not in front of Joel. Our relationship is strained enough already.”
    “But is it true?”
    The professor looked miserable now. He seemed to hate himself for what he was saying.
    “I have a friend in the insurance business in the East,” he answered finally. “At my request he verified the fact that Pierre Duval, who, like Gleason, had no next of kin, had named Marta as beneficiary in a five-thousand-dollar policy which carried a double indemnity clause for accidental death. Within six months after Duval’s death, ten thousand dollars was paid into the Cornish estate to be held in trust for Marta.”
    It was all out in the open now. Lisa had been right in her accusation at the foot of the high school steps: the professor had been holding out on her. But it was Johnny who was the explosive type, who dared put into words what no one else did.
    “Do you realize what you’re saying, Professor?” she demanded. “Do you realize that we now have what’s known in homicidal circles as the motive for the crime?”
    The professor smiled wanly.
    “What crime, Miss Johnson?”
    Even Johnny didn’t dare go far enough to answer his question. It was left hanging like a suspended sentence—what crime? Lisa’s mind was busy. As Joel had told her, there would have been an investigation at Duval’s death. If there had been any evidence, if there had ever been any evidence of foul play, it was all lost and forgotten now.
    But Curran Dawes loved his nephew, and Curran Dawes was afraid. Lisa saw that clearly for the first time. Undecided, tormented by a mind that had been trained to logic and fair play; but underneath the surface that oldest of primitive emotions—fear. Was it justified? What crime?
    Lisa couldn’t answer the question, but someone could. Someone did.
    “It’s a lie! It’s all a horrible lie! Don’t listen to him, Miss Bancroft. He’s just trying to break us up!”
    The cry was from the French windows. More than the wind had stormed in. Three silent people turned to meet the cry and found themselves facing a slender pillar of defiance—Marta Cornish.
    There was no telling how long Marta had been standing there. The wind was strong