We All Killed Grandma by Fredric Brown Page B

I did. That’s the only time I ever saw her. Nice-looking girl. I’m married too, by the way, and you met my wife once under fairly similar circumstances, only it was my night off and a tavern instead of a restaurant. I’ve been married four years, got a kid two and a half. Well, I guess that gives you the picture of how well we knew one another. Pretty well for a year or so and then—well, you know how things like that happen, people drift apart.” He grinned reminiscently. “You used to be nuts about cars, back then. Had a hot rod, a Model A that you spent most of your money on and loved like a brother.”
    “Guess I’ve still got a touch of it,” I said. “Picked up a ticket today for speeding.”
    “Want me to fix it for you?”
    I shook my head. “Let me pay the fine and teach myself a lesson.”
    He laughed. “Knew you were going to say that. I’ve offered three or four times to fix tickets for you, and you always insisted on taking your medicine. Well, what did you want to talk about?”
    “About the murder. Anything new on it?”
    He shook his head gloomily. “And this isn’t for publication, but I doubt if we ever will. We’ve picked up every known burglar in town and questioned the hell out of them, and haven’t got any reason to suspect one more than another, except that we could eliminate a few who had pretty solid alibis. Must have been an out-of-towner, or somebody new to the game we don’t know yet. And if we do ever pick him up, how the hell would we prove a case against him?”
    “Ballistics?” I asked: “I mean if he kept the gun he shot her with—”
    “We can hardly hope he’d be that stupid, but of course it’s an outside chance. And outside of that, what could we get on him? There were securities in the safe—some of them negotiable—but presumably he took only the cash, and it wasn’t marked. And he either wore gloves or was damn careful in wiping out his prints. We’re pretty sure it was gloves. We lifted every print in or around the room and they’re mostly Mrs. Tuttle’s, some of Mrs. Trent’s, a few that are Arch’s. And yours on the outside doorknob and the telephone. Not even any footprints outside; the ground was too hard. We found scuff marks in a clump of bushes about ten feet from the window, but no clear prints. He must have hid there, watching the window, until he saw her leave the room, then he upped with his knife and cut the screen and went in.”
    “Don’t you think that shows he knew her habits?”
    “Possibly, not necessarily. If he’d cased the job, it wouldn’t have been too hard for him to find out. And a lot of people knew Mrs. Tuttle’s working habits—she was something of a local celebrity, Rod, as an elderly, eccentric woman in business. She’s been written up in news stories, feature articles, in both the daily papers here. She must have liked it, thought publicity was good for business, because she was always willing to talk to a reporter or a feature writer. Matter of fact, that gives me an idea.”
    “What?”
    “Got to ask Mrs. Trent if any reporters called on Mrs. Tuttle recently. If the burglar did case the job—if it wasn’t a random prowl—that’d have been the simplest way forhim to find out things. He could have pretended to be a reporter—and probably have been invited right into the room he wanted to case and could have asked her all the questions he wanted. And if Mrs. Trent let him in, she might be able to give us a description. That’d help.”
    “One thing I don’t see,” I said, “and that’s how, from outside, he could have known she’d leave the safe open when she left the room. And the safe’s against the outer wall; he couldn’t see it from outside. And it seems to me unlikely she’d have it standing open all evening every evening.”
    “You can see it, though; there’s a mirror. You have to step close to the window, but you can see the safe in that mirror—the one on the wall near the door. He