Inspector Queen’s Own Case (5 page)

“I wish you would,” Alton Humffrey said slowly. “And, Mr. Pearl.”

“Yes, sir?”

“I don't want any publicity about this.”

“I'll see that the boys over at Headquarters keep quiet about it. Dick?” The chief glanced at his friend.

“One thing.” Richard Queen stepped forward. “If you don't mind my asking, Mr. Humffrey—is this your own child?”

Sarah Humffrey started. Alton Humffrey looked at the old man almost for the first time.

“No offense,” Inspector Queen went on, “but you told Chief Pearl you have no other children. It struck me you people are a little on in years to be having a first baby.”

“Is this one of your men, Chief?” the millionaire demanded.

“Inspector Queen of the New York police department, retired,” Abe Pearl said quickly. “He was my lieutenant when I pounded a Manhattan beat, Mr. Humffrey. He's visiting me for the summer.”

“The man who sent me a check for a dollar and fifty cents,” Alton Humffrey said. “Are you in the habit of helping yourself to other people's gasoline, sir?”

“I explained that in my note.”

“Yes. Well, Inspector, I don't see the relevance of your question.”

“You haven't answered it,” Richard Queen smiled.

“Michael is an adopted child. Why?”

“There might be something in his background to explain this, Mr. Humffrey, that's all.”

“I assure you that's quite impossible.” The millionaire's tone was frigid. “If there's nothing else, gentlemen, will you excuse Mrs. Humffrey and me?”

Jessie Sherwood wondered if Chief Pearl's friend was going to say anything to her before he left.

But he merely glanced politely in her direction and followed the chief out.

Tuesday evening after dinner, Jessie Sherwood went upstairs, peeped in at the baby, changed into a cool blue summer cotton, tidied her hair, powdered her nose, and slipped out of the house.

Jessie wondered as she sauntered down the driveway what the Humffreys talked about when they were alone. They were on the terrace now, sipping cherry brandy and staring silently to sea. In company they were articulate enough—Mrs. Humffrey was a positive chatterbox, of the corded-neck variety, while her husband had a caustic volubility—but Jessie had come upon them dozens of times alone together, and not once had she interrupted a conversation. They were strange people, she thought.

And jumped. A man had stepped suddenly from behind a tall clump of mountain laurel at the driveway entrance and flashed a light on her face.

“Oh. Sorry, Miss Sherwood.”

“It's all right,” Jessie said untruthfully, and strolled into the road. He was the second of the three guards hired by Alton Humffrey early that morning from a private detective agency in Bridgeport. They were rock-faced men who turned up and disappeared like alley cats.

When she rounded the curve in the road she began to walk fast. The air was salty sweet from the sea breeze and flowering gardens; and the road lights, great wrought-iron affairs shaped like sailing-ship lanterns, were besieged by platoons of moths and beetles cheerfully banging away. It was all very peaceful and lovely, but Jessie hurried on.

The gate was across the road at the Island end of the causeway.

“Mr. Peterson?”

The big private guard loomed in the gatehouse doorway.

“You walking across?” His voice was sulky.

“No, I'm just out for some air. What's the matter, Mr. Peterson? You sound sour on the world.”

“You'd think I'd had a picnic this weekend,” the guard grumbled, unbending. “You know how many cars came through here last night? And then they want me to remember who went in and out!”

“That's a shame,” Jessie said sympathetically. “With all that outbound traffic, I wouldn't have blamed you if you'd simply left the gate open all night.”

“That's what I did, Miss Sherwood.”

“Even at two in the morning, I suppose.”

“Sure. Why not? How was I to know?”

“Well, of course. And by that time you must have been darn tired. Were you sitting in the gatehouse, resting?”

“I'll say!”

“So of course you didn't see the car that drove in some time after midnight and left around 2
A
.
M
.”

Peterson scowled. “I saw the back of it.”

Jessie drew a long breath in the perfumed moonlight. “I'll bet it was a car you knew, and that's why you didn't stop him.”

“Something like that. I didn't see his face, but him and the car looked familiar.”

“What kind of car was it, Mr. Peterson?”

“Foreign job. A Jaguar.”

“I see.” Jessie's heart was beating faster.

“Like the one run by Mr. Humffrey's nephew—what's-his-name—Mr. Frost. Matter of fact,” the guard said, “I thought it was Frost. He'd been off and on the Island all weekend.”

“Oh, then you're not sure.”

The guard said uncomfortably, “I can't swear to it.”

“Well.” Jessie smiled at him. “Don't you worry about it, Mr. Peterson. I'm sure you do your job as well as anyone could expect.”

“You can say that again!”

“Good night.”

“Good night, Miss Sherwood,” Peterson said warmly.

He went back into the gatehouse, and Jessie began to retrace her steps, frowning.

“Nice going,” a man's voice said.

Jessie's heart flopped. But then she saw who it was.

“Mr. Queen,” she cried. “What are you doing here?”

He was in the roadway before her, spare and neat in a Palm Beach suit, looking amused.

“Same thing you are, only I beat you to it. Playing detective, Miss Sherwood?” He chuckled and took her arm. “Suppose I walk you back.”

Jessie nodded a little stiffly, and they began to stroll along beside high fieldstone walls clothed in ivy and rambler roses, with the moon like a cheddar cheese overhead and the salty sweet air in their nostrils. How long is it, she wondered, since I last took a moonlight stroll with a man holding my arm? The last one had been Clem, on leave before shipping out …

The old man said suddenly, “Did you suspect Ron Frost all along?”

“Why are you so interested?” Jessie murmured.

“Let's say I don't like cases involving nursery windows.” He sounded gruff. “And if I can lend a hand to Abe Pearl …”

Some tireless patriot out at sea sent up a Roman candle. They stopped to watch the burst and drip of fireballs. For a few seconds the Island brightened. Then the darkness closed in again.

She felt his restless movement. It was like a dash of cold sea.

“I'd better be getting back,” Jessie said matter-of-factly, and they walked on. “About your question, Mr. Queen. I suppose I shouldn't be saying this while I'm taking the Humffreys' money, but I like threats to babies even less than you do. Ronald Frost quarreled with Mr. Humffrey over Michael yesterday.” And she told him what she had overheard from the nursery.

“So Frost expected to be his uncle's heir, and now he figures the baby's queered his act,” Richard Queen said thoughtfully. “And Frost was tanked up when he left, you say?”

“Well, he'd had quite a bit to drink.”

“He was nursing a beaut of a hangover this morning, and there was an empty bourbon bottle on his bureau. So he must have worked himself up to a real charge by late last night. Could be …”

“You saw him?” Jessie exclaimed.

“I dropped over to his place in Old Greenwich. Sort of as a favor to Abe Pearl.”

“What did Frost say? Tell me!”

“He said he came straight home last night and went to bed. He lives alone, so no one saw him. In other words, no alibi.”

“But did he actually deny having driven back here?”

“Would you expect him to admit it?” She knew he was smiling in the darkness. “Anyway, he's had a good scare—I'll guarantee that. If Frost was the man who tried to climb in through that window, I don't think he'll try it again.”

“But what could he have been thinking of?” Jessie shivered.

“Drunks don't make much sense.”

“You think … ransom? He told Mr. Humffrey he was badly in debt.”

“I don't think anything,” the Inspector said. “Whoever it was wore gloves—there wasn't an unaccounted-for print anywhere in the nursery or shed, and smudges were evident on the ladder. We have nothing on Frost but a questionable identification by Peterson. Even if we had, I doubt if Mr. Humffrey would press a charge, from the way he talked to Abe Pearl on the phone today. The best thing for you to do is forget last night ever happened, young lady.”

“Thank you.” Jessie felt herself dimpling, and it made her add tartly, “Young lady!”

He seemed surprised. “But you are young. Some people never age. My mother was one of them. You're very much like her—” He stopped. Then he said, “This is it, isn't it? It's so blasted dark——”

“Yes.” Jessie hoped fiercely that the guard from the Bridgeport detective agency would have the decency to remain behind his bush and keep his finger off the flashlight button. “You were saying, Mr. Queen?”

“It wasn't anything.”

There was a silence.

“Well,” Jessie said. “I must say you've relieved my mind, Inspector. And thanks for walking me back.”

“It was my pleasure.” But from the way he said it, it sounded more like a sadness. “Well, good night, Miss Sherwood.”

“Good night,” Jessie said emptily.

She was standing there in the dark, listening to his footfalls retreat and wondering if she would ever see him again, when the light suddenly blinded her.

“Who was that with you, Miss Sherwood?” the private detective said.

“Oh, go away, you—you beagle!” Nurse Sherwood said, and she ran up the driveway as if someone were after her.

So that seemed the end of a promising friendship. The weeks went by, and although during little Michael's nap times on the Humffrey beach Jessie kept glancing up at passing small craft, or on her Thursdays off found herself scanning the crowds on Front Street or the Taugus public beach, she did not catch even a glimpse of that wiry figure again.

What children men are! she thought angrily.

If not for the baby, she would have given notice and quit Nair Island. She was desperately lonely. But little Michael needed her, she kept telling herself, trying not to feel the old jealous twinge when Mrs. Humffrey took him from her arms and exercised her proprietary rights.

Sometimes Jessie thought she ought to leave for the baby's sake, before he became too attached to her. But she kept putting it off. In the gloom that had suddenly set in, he was the only sunny thing. Besides, she told herself, there was always that disturbing incident of the night of July 4th. Suppose the attempt should be repeated and she weren't there to protect him?

So the weeks passed, and July drew to a close, and nothing happened. On the 31st, almost four weeks to the day from the date of the nursery incident, Alton Humffrey dismissed the three private detectives.

The following Thursday morning Jessie bathed and dressed the baby, fed him his gruel and bottle, and turned him over to Sarah Humffrey.

“You're sure you're up to it?” Jessie asked her anxiously. Mrs. Humffrey was sniffling with a slight summer cold. “I'll gladly forgo my day off. I can make it up some other time.”

“Oh, no.” Mrs. Humffrey peered at Michael through her white mask. Jessie privately wished she wouldn't insist on wearing a mask at the least provocation; the baby didn't like it. Besides, Jessie held the unprofessional view that the more an infant was shielded from common germ and virus infections in his early months, when he still had certain immunities, the more susceptible he became later. But Mrs. Humffrey went by the book, or rather by the books; she had a shelf full of them over her bed. “It's not the least bit necessary, Miss Sherwood. It's just a little head cold. We'll be fine without Nursey, love, won't we?”

“Maybe I'd better plan on coming back tonight, though,” Jessie said, setting herself for squalls. Michael was staring up at the white mask with apprehension, and his little mouth was beginning to droop at the corners.

“I won't hear of it.” Mrs. Humffrey took this moment to tickle his abdomen. “Kitchy-kitchy! Come on, darling,
laugh.”

“I really wouldn't mind,” Jessie said, choking back a sharp command to stop. Michael solved the problem by throwing up and howling. Mrs. Humffrey guiltily backed off. “It's nothing,” Jessie said, taking him. “It's just not a very good idea to tickle an infant, especially on a full stomach.” She burped him, cleaned him up, and handed him back.

“Oh, dear,” Sarah Humffrey said. “There's so much I have to learn.”

“Not so much,” Jessie couldn't help saying. “It's really only a matter of common sense, Mrs. Humffrey. I do think I'll come back tonight.”

“I absolutely forbid you. I know how you've looked forward to a night in town …”

In the end Jessie was persuaded. Driving her sturdy little 1949 Dodge coupé, she told herself all the way to the railroad station that she really must stop being so possessive. It would do Mrs. Humffrey good to have to care for her baby around the clock. Women had no business turning their children over to someone else. But if they were that kind—and it seemed to Jessie that she rarely encountered any other kind—the more responsibility that was forced on them the better off they and the children were.

Still, Jessie was uneasy all day. It rather spoiled the good time she had planned. She met an old friend, Belle Berman, a supervisor of nurses at a New York hospital; and although they shopped at Saks's, had lunch in a winy-smelling restaurant on 45th Street with French travel posters on the walls, and took in a matinée, Jessie found her thoughts going back to Nair Island and the unhappy little face on the bathinette.