evening dresses, slacks, and riding-habits. Along one wall was a rank of riding-boots, jodhpur shoes, and fragile high-heeled slippers, but a pair of rubber-soled sneakers appeared to have received the most wear.
A wispy scarf and panties of blazing crimson were drying on a hanger. That would be the bathing suit that Lawn had worn in her private investigation of the pool yesterday morning.
A little reluctantly Miss Withers followed the inspector out of the room. “That’s the works,” he said. “Except for the servants’ room over the kitchen.”
“What, no nursery?”
“Cairns probably figured he had family enough with his wife’s father and sister on his hands.”
Miss Withers had a quick look at the servants’ room and bath, which was so neat and impersonal that it might have served as a model bedroom in a department-store exhibit. There was a chessboard set up on the bedside table, an armful of fresh red roses in a big vase on the bureau, and a tiny shelf of books which included John Donne, Walter Pater, George Crabbe, Emily Post, and Countee Cullen. None of the books had a red jacket.
“So that’s that,” said the inspector.
“We’ve settled one thing, at least,” the schoolteacher announced. “From none of the bedroom windows, not even Helen’s, is the swimming pool visible. The bathhouse cuts off the view.”
The inspector said he already knew that. None of the guests at the party could have known that Huntley Cairns was alone at the pool. They went downstairs again, came finally into the kitchen, where an elderly man in filthy overalls was placidly making himself a sandwich out of canapés left over from the party, putting a whole slab of them between two slices of bread.
“Searles!” cried the inspector. “What are you doing here?”
“Eating,” said Searles. He kept on.
“You’re supposed to be down at the inquest.”
“I was down to the inquest,” admitted the gardener wearily. “I was the first witness called, and when they got through with me I came back to work. Nobody said anything about my being fired, and gardens gotta be watered, whether folks die or not. More I see of people, more I like plants, anyway.”
Questioned further by the inspector, Searles emphatically denied seeing anybody or hearing anybody prowling around the place. But he had been busy turning on sprinklers.
“And don’t go looking at me fishy-eyed because I’m in the house,” the old man went on. He showed a key. “I have the run of the place because it’s my job to keep fresh flowers in all the rooms. I’m supposed to have my lunch, too, but with the help gone, I had to make my own.”
The inspector took Miss Withers’s arm and showed her into the dining room. “That’s reasonable enough,” he said to her. “No point in getting the old man riled up—he’s plenty sore at everybody for being arrested. You know how it is.”
“Gardens do have to be watered,” admitted the schoolteacher thoughtfully. “But, Oscar—”
“Save it,” the inspector told her. “I want to get back down to the inquest before it’s over and done with. Come on, I’ll give you a ride home—and will you please stay there and keep from throwing monkey wrenches?”
Miss Withers didn’t answer him. She pulled away, heading towards the library. “Just a minute, Oscar. I have an idea—a wonderful idea. It’ll only take a minute.”
Grumbling, he followed her into the library. “What’s this, a retake?”
“Listen, Oscar. It was late in the afternoon when Mr. Beale and the others were in here—”
“Suppose it was?”
“The windows face to the east. It must have been quite dark, so the lights would have been on, wouldn’t they?”
“Suppose they were?”
Without answering she pulled the Venetian blinds, drew down the shades, and turned on all the lights. “Now!” cried Miss Withers. “Don’t you see, Oscar? Artificial light brings out colors that aren’t there by daylight. A book jacket
A wispy scarf and panties of blazing crimson were drying on a hanger. That would be the bathing suit that Lawn had worn in her private investigation of the pool yesterday morning.
A little reluctantly Miss Withers followed the inspector out of the room. “That’s the works,” he said. “Except for the servants’ room over the kitchen.”
“What, no nursery?”
“Cairns probably figured he had family enough with his wife’s father and sister on his hands.”
Miss Withers had a quick look at the servants’ room and bath, which was so neat and impersonal that it might have served as a model bedroom in a department-store exhibit. There was a chessboard set up on the bedside table, an armful of fresh red roses in a big vase on the bureau, and a tiny shelf of books which included John Donne, Walter Pater, George Crabbe, Emily Post, and Countee Cullen. None of the books had a red jacket.
“So that’s that,” said the inspector.
“We’ve settled one thing, at least,” the schoolteacher announced. “From none of the bedroom windows, not even Helen’s, is the swimming pool visible. The bathhouse cuts off the view.”
The inspector said he already knew that. None of the guests at the party could have known that Huntley Cairns was alone at the pool. They went downstairs again, came finally into the kitchen, where an elderly man in filthy overalls was placidly making himself a sandwich out of canapés left over from the party, putting a whole slab of them between two slices of bread.
“Searles!” cried the inspector. “What are you doing here?”
“Eating,” said Searles. He kept on.
“You’re supposed to be down at the inquest.”
“I was down to the inquest,” admitted the gardener wearily. “I was the first witness called, and when they got through with me I came back to work. Nobody said anything about my being fired, and gardens gotta be watered, whether folks die or not. More I see of people, more I like plants, anyway.”
Questioned further by the inspector, Searles emphatically denied seeing anybody or hearing anybody prowling around the place. But he had been busy turning on sprinklers.
“And don’t go looking at me fishy-eyed because I’m in the house,” the old man went on. He showed a key. “I have the run of the place because it’s my job to keep fresh flowers in all the rooms. I’m supposed to have my lunch, too, but with the help gone, I had to make my own.”
The inspector took Miss Withers’s arm and showed her into the dining room. “That’s reasonable enough,” he said to her. “No point in getting the old man riled up—he’s plenty sore at everybody for being arrested. You know how it is.”
“Gardens do have to be watered,” admitted the schoolteacher thoughtfully. “But, Oscar—”
“Save it,” the inspector told her. “I want to get back down to the inquest before it’s over and done with. Come on, I’ll give you a ride home—and will you please stay there and keep from throwing monkey wrenches?”
Miss Withers didn’t answer him. She pulled away, heading towards the library. “Just a minute, Oscar. I have an idea—a wonderful idea. It’ll only take a minute.”
Grumbling, he followed her into the library. “What’s this, a retake?”
“Listen, Oscar. It was late in the afternoon when Mr. Beale and the others were in here—”
“Suppose it was?”
“The windows face to the east. It must have been quite dark, so the lights would have been on, wouldn’t they?”
“Suppose they were?”
Without answering she pulled the Venetian blinds, drew down the shades, and turned on all the lights. “Now!” cried Miss Withers. “Don’t you see, Oscar? Artificial light brings out colors that aren’t there by daylight. A book jacket
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