idea, from something Banquo says, that Banquo thinks there was something peculiar about the murder of Duncan. So what does Macbeth do? Banquo has nothing on him. It’s all in the realm of what Banquo thinks. So to get rid of Banquo he puts himself in the power of three thugs, who he hires to kill Banquo. Bad, Ed. A very bad play. But it brings out the principle involved here. Only a fool would put herself in the power of a Cockney servant girl on something like this, especially when she didn’t need her help, or anybody’s. Therefore we can only conclude she got in the girl’s power by accident.”
“Meaning?”
“Ed, she was up there. Jenkins was.”
“And saw it?”
“Just happened to. And cashed in.”
“... What would she be doing there?”
“At that hour of night, I would say there was only one thing she would be doing, and that would be lolly-gagging with a guy. For a little slavey that sleeps in one of the small inside rooms down over the kitchen and isn’t allowed to bring anybody in there, that just about would be the answer. She was up there, snugged into a canvas swing with a guy, and here comes this little procession of a man, a woman, and a dog. She keeps quiet, hoping not to be seen, and we can pretty well be sure that the guy, whoever he was, wanted it that way too. The procession marches around, and she sees it’s Sperry, Mrs. Sperry—and who else does she see, Ed?”
“Dolly.”
“Who can’t talk, but can tell tales.”
“But why that story Jenkins told the cops?”
“There was nothing else for her to do.”
“What reason did she have?”
“To protect Mrs. Sperry, for a price, we can assume. To get it off the roof.”
“And why Mrs. Sperry’s story at the inquest?”
“The insurance investigators. If they could hang it on Mrs. Delavan, they’d save themselves every cent of their obligation. Therefore, they’d dig. But digging, real digging, was what Constance dare not have. If she hadn’t been seen, then the plant that was made by the phone call, with the location of the body, would have made Mrs. Delavan guilty, so fine. But once there was evidence against herself , once there was stuff those insurance guys might turn up, she had to do something to get them out of the picture. On suicide, they were satisfied. So she made it suicide. She thought fast.”
“Nice.”
“Horrible.”
We walked out to the street, and he took my arm. “Ed, I can be thankful of one thing, though.”
“Yeah? What’s that?”
“It’s not my case.”
“I guess that helps.”
“But, Ed, suppose I had to pin it on her!”
He went back to Los Angeles, and for a couple of weeks all that happened was the itching I did over the $25,000 in insurance Jane had thrown away by firing Jenkins. But then one day Jane rang me and said the police wanted to talk to her again, and could I be there. This time it was a couple of plainclothes men, by the name of Brady and Lindstrom, and I think it was Lindstrom that did the talking. He fished a gold bracelet out of his pocket that was bent up quite a little and had three horses’ heads on it with rubies for eyes. Or garnets, whatever they were. Nobody quite seemed to know. He asked Jane if she’d ever seen it before, and she said: “Yes, it’s mine.”
“Where’d you get this here bracelet?”
“From a cousin of mine.”
“What’s his name?”
“Harold Sherman.”
“When was this?”
“About ten years ago. When I was in school. I rode three of his horses to firsts in a Long Island horse show, and this was his way of thanking me. I’m sure, if you’ll look, you’ll find some sort of engraving inside there about it.”
“When did you wear it last?”
“I’ve never worn it.”
“Why not?”
“Well, it’s pretty ghastly, you know.”
Lindstrom looked at it and Brady looked at it and they kind of looked at each other. You could tell that something being pretty ghastly was a new idea to them. So far as they knew, if it was
“Meaning?”
“Ed, she was up there. Jenkins was.”
“And saw it?”
“Just happened to. And cashed in.”
“... What would she be doing there?”
“At that hour of night, I would say there was only one thing she would be doing, and that would be lolly-gagging with a guy. For a little slavey that sleeps in one of the small inside rooms down over the kitchen and isn’t allowed to bring anybody in there, that just about would be the answer. She was up there, snugged into a canvas swing with a guy, and here comes this little procession of a man, a woman, and a dog. She keeps quiet, hoping not to be seen, and we can pretty well be sure that the guy, whoever he was, wanted it that way too. The procession marches around, and she sees it’s Sperry, Mrs. Sperry—and who else does she see, Ed?”
“Dolly.”
“Who can’t talk, but can tell tales.”
“But why that story Jenkins told the cops?”
“There was nothing else for her to do.”
“What reason did she have?”
“To protect Mrs. Sperry, for a price, we can assume. To get it off the roof.”
“And why Mrs. Sperry’s story at the inquest?”
“The insurance investigators. If they could hang it on Mrs. Delavan, they’d save themselves every cent of their obligation. Therefore, they’d dig. But digging, real digging, was what Constance dare not have. If she hadn’t been seen, then the plant that was made by the phone call, with the location of the body, would have made Mrs. Delavan guilty, so fine. But once there was evidence against herself , once there was stuff those insurance guys might turn up, she had to do something to get them out of the picture. On suicide, they were satisfied. So she made it suicide. She thought fast.”
“Nice.”
“Horrible.”
We walked out to the street, and he took my arm. “Ed, I can be thankful of one thing, though.”
“Yeah? What’s that?”
“It’s not my case.”
“I guess that helps.”
“But, Ed, suppose I had to pin it on her!”
He went back to Los Angeles, and for a couple of weeks all that happened was the itching I did over the $25,000 in insurance Jane had thrown away by firing Jenkins. But then one day Jane rang me and said the police wanted to talk to her again, and could I be there. This time it was a couple of plainclothes men, by the name of Brady and Lindstrom, and I think it was Lindstrom that did the talking. He fished a gold bracelet out of his pocket that was bent up quite a little and had three horses’ heads on it with rubies for eyes. Or garnets, whatever they were. Nobody quite seemed to know. He asked Jane if she’d ever seen it before, and she said: “Yes, it’s mine.”
“Where’d you get this here bracelet?”
“From a cousin of mine.”
“What’s his name?”
“Harold Sherman.”
“When was this?”
“About ten years ago. When I was in school. I rode three of his horses to firsts in a Long Island horse show, and this was his way of thanking me. I’m sure, if you’ll look, you’ll find some sort of engraving inside there about it.”
“When did you wear it last?”
“I’ve never worn it.”
“Why not?”
“Well, it’s pretty ghastly, you know.”
Lindstrom looked at it and Brady looked at it and they kind of looked at each other. You could tell that something being pretty ghastly was a new idea to them. So far as they knew, if it was
Similar Books
