Something the Cat Dragged In (16 page)

Tidiness. It kept cropping up. Shandy thought of Ungley, so tidily propped against that harrow with his hat still in his hand, and of the old man’s apartment, so tidily searched. There was no special reason to think of Ungley in connection with Mrs. Smuth. Except that people didn’t usually get murdered around Balaclava Junction within so short a distance and during so short a span of time.

And there was a tie of sorts between them, come to think of it. More than one, unfortunately. In the first place, there was Congressman Sill. He’d been associated with them both just before they died, though in different ways. That was the good one. The bad one was the college. Ungley’d been on the faculty here, he’d still taken his meals here, still drawn that oversized pension Svenson was so steamed up about. Ruth Smuth had spent a lot of time here back during the fund drive for the silo, and had been around here the past couple of days trying to collect what she’d claimed as her reward for past services. And Svenson had been more than steamed at Mrs. Smuth.

The hell with that. What about Alonzo Bulfinch? Ungley hadn’t been popular with anybody, even some of his alleged confreres at the Balaclavian Society, but he’d doddered on unscathed until his long-lost nephew hove into town. Ruth Smuth had got Svenson’s back up, and no doubt a good many other people’s as well because she was that kind of woman; but nobody’d done her in until Bulfinch became a security guard on the campus she’d chosen to infest.

Was there any food for thought in the fact that Bulfinch had come on duty early this past evening? He could hardly have orchestrated Purvis Mink’s wife’s gallstone attack, unless by some wild flight of coincidence Mrs. Mink happened to be an old sweetheart of his and they’d concocted a plot together. However, what if, for the sake of argument, Bulfinch had lied about not having known he had an uncle living in the same small village as his old army buddy, and not having known he was down in the will as one of that surprisingly rich uncle’s heirs? Ottermole had accused Bulfinch to his face of lying about that, and Ottermole was turning out to be not quite the blithering idiot Shandy had always thought him.

All right, suppose Alonzo had managed to wangle an invitation out of Silvester Lomax for the express purpose of coming to Balaclava Junction and killing the gander who was going to lay him a fat golden egg. Bulfinch was a fast thinker, a fast mover, and—aha!—a tidy chap by nature. His reaction to Mary Ellen’s unexpected tale of woe had shown that. He’d got shaved, combed, and dressed, packed his bags, changed his bed, and been out of Silvester’s guest room in roughly five minutes yesterday afternoon. He’d been mighty adroit about overcoming Ottermole’s hostility and gaining permission to use his late uncle’s apartment, too.

For somebody so efficient and resourceful, would it have been impossible to kill Ungley and not get caught? There were bicycles enough around campus. Suppose Bulfinch had swiped one, pedaled like hell down the hill, slain his uncle, and raced back in time to punch the next clock on his round.

That would have meant knowing exactly where Ungley was going to be at exactly the right moment, but a man boarding with Evelyn Lomax wouldn’t have had much trouble finding out anything connected with Betsy’s place. Considering the restricted life the old man had led, Evelyn could have told Bulfinch between one breath and the next all he’d have needed to know about Ungley’s comings and goings. And forgotten she’d ever said it, like as not.

Judging from the matter-of-fact way Evelyn had been going off to her ladies’ tea and leaving Bulfinch asleep in the house, the Lomaxes must have been treating Bulfinch as one of the family, letting him fend for himself a fair amount since he’d started the job at the college. Left alone there, he could even have phoned to arrange a secret rendezvous with Ungley behind the museum after the lecture.

Crazy as it sounded, Bulfinch might have managed to make such a meeting sound plausible to a muddleheaded old coot who went in for theatrical gestures like carrying a cane stuffed with melted lead. Being himself the entertainment of the evening, Ungley could easily have wound up his talk by the appointed time and been out there waiting when Bulfinch swooped in for the kill.

That could account for the disproportionately small amount of blood found on the harrow tine, perhaps. Bulfinch would have been too pressed for time on his first trip to hang around and stage an accident; simply whanged his uncle and left him for dead. Later on, perhaps at his supper break or whatever they called it, he’d have made a second trip.

He’d have had plenty of time then. The guards no doubt staggered their breaks so no two would be off duty at the same time. That would have been when he’d have tidily wiped the cane, and smeared the blood on the harrow peg. There wouldn’t be much of it because clots would have formed by then. He’d have set his uncle against the harrow, gone through Ungley’s pockets to find his keys and perhaps that five hundred dollars Pommell was so concerned about, then slipped across lots to search the apartment.

That would also explain why the files had been stolen. Bulfinch couldn’t have afforded to linger over all those folders in the house. His break would have been running out. He’d still have Ungley’s keys to get rid of, hence another trip back to the clubhouse, where he’d most likely have left the bicycle in any case. Putting the keys inside rather than back in the old man’s pocket would entail more time and risk, but support the plausibility of Ungley’s having locked himself out and having an accident while trying to get back in, just as everybody except Betsy Lomax had been quite willing to believe.

Maybe the risk wouldn’t have been so great. Forcing a window in that ramshackle building oughtn’t to be any real chore. Why in thunder didn’t the Balaclavians, with all their money and pretensions, squander a few dollars on cleaning and repairs?

Never mind that now. Here he had Bulfinch, theoretically, with the uncle’s files stuffed into plastic trash bags, as Mrs. Lomax had deduced. They’d be easy enough to carry that way, tied together by their tops and slung over Bulfinch’s shoulders as he ran back through the shortcut, across his bicycle carrier when he pedaled back to the college. As to what he’d be hoping to find, one could only guess. Some heirloom he was afraid might be claimed by the Balaclavians if he didn’t get to it first? Family letters he could use to prove he was the rightful heir or conceal the fact that he wasn’t?

Whoever had taken the risk of searching Ungley’s apartment and carrying away those files must have had great hopes, great fears, or feathers where his brain ought to be. Shandy did not think Alonzo Persifer Bulfinch was a stupid man.

Hiding the bags on campus would make sense. Buifinch could hardly have lugged them back to Silvester’s house without letting his driver see them, and then having to think up a lie that would fool a trained security guard. Where could he have hidden them at the Lomaxes’? Evelyn was surely the sort of woman who cleaned under beds and in dark corners. Bulfinch himself had remarked that the campus was the only area around here that he knew really well.

All right, so suppose Bulfinch had put the sacks around here someplace handy? Suppose he’d taken advantage of his early arrival, before the time clocks got turned on for the late shift, to drag them out and settle down for a quiet perusal of their contents? Suppose Mrs. Smuth had come along for no good reason and caught him at it? He’d be apt to recognize her because he’d watched the news with Betsy Lomax. Mrs. Smuth must have been in some of the television pictures and his hostess would have pointed her out to him.

Even if he didn’t recognize her, he’d know she meant trouble. Merely being seen with Ungley’s files would be enough to brand him as his uncle’s murderer, considering the cash value of his motive. If he’d killed to get them and what went with them, why wouldn’t he kill again to hang on to what he’d got?

Shandy brought himself up short. He was supposing too damn much these days. Why not try for some facts? “How did you happen to find the body, Bulfinch?” he asked.

“I just looked and there she was. That red coat of hers caught the light from my lantern. First I thought it was fallen leaves, then I realized it couldn’t be, so I walked over and took a closer look. Of course I knew right away what had happened. I’d have had to be blind not to. It was awful, I can tell you. She must have been a pretty woman, too.”

“Don’t you recognize her?”

“Professor, I’d say her own mother would have a heck of a time recognizing her now. Should I?”

“You very likely saw her on the news tonight.”

“You mean she was mixed up in that crazy Halloween party, or whatever it was? Doesn’t seem the type, somehow. I thought she must have been the school nurse, or a housemother or some such. What in heck was she doing on campus so late? You know who she was, Professor?”

“Ruth Smuth. Does that mean anything to you?”

“Oh sure, now I recognize the coat. Betsy did point her out to me on the news. She was telling me that was the woman who ran a big fund drive for the college some years back and raised the money to build the silo. Gee, this is even worse than I thought. A real friend and benefactor like her.”

“Urrgh,” said Thorkjeld Svenson. Shandy’s heart sank another notch. He was about to ask if the doctor had been sent for and the police station notified when Melchett and Ottermole rushed in tandem toward them.

“Where’s the body?” Melchett was demanding testily. “I wish to God you people would space out your corpses a little wider. Two murders within twenty-four hours is too damn many for my taste.”

President Svenson gave the doctor a look. “Why ours?”

Melchett flinched. “I’m sorry, President. I just meant—Professor Ungley—”

“Emeritus. Means retired. Happened in the village.”

“Er—so it did. Puts a different—and this—good Lord! Can that be Mrs. Smuth?”

“Same coat.”

“That’s right,” Ottermole put in. “I saw her wearing it on the news. I was wondering how come she got mixed up in that nutty demonstration.”

“So were we,” Shandy said before Svenson could erupt. “We’re hoping Congressman Sill will be able to cast some light on the matter. If he’ll shut up long enough for us to ask him a few questions,” he added, for by now he was feeling pretty vicious. “Ottermole, would you have something we can spread on the ground so Dr. Melchett can get to the body without destroying any clues that might be lying around?”

“Sure.” Ottermole ambled over to his cruiser and came back with a smallish cardboard box in his hand. “Plastic trash bags,” he explained. “Never know when they’ll come in handy.”

He laid a sort of processional carpet corpseward. Melchett stepped gingerly over the slippery plastic and knelt to exercise the mysteries of his calling. The other members of the party stood around trying not to watch and wondering if their companions felt as sick as they did.

“Was she—you know—attacked, Doctor?” Ottermole asked when he couldn’t stand it any longer.

“I can see no outward sign of rape or other physical assault, though of course something may show up in the autopsy. It appears to have been a quick, clean strangling from behind. Apparently she didn’t even have a chance to struggle. Her fingernails are intact, and she wore them long.”

“Any idea how long she’s been dead?”

“I wouldn’t want to be pinned down, but offhand I’d say between five and seven hours. Not much more, and almost certainly not less.”

“That’s interesting,” Shandy remarked. “We were all under the impression she’d left the campus along with the other—er—outsiders. Didn’t you think so, President?”

“Saw her. Drove off. Too fast. From a no-parking zone.” Svenson fumed in sulphur-laden silence for a moment, then added, “Husband.”

“What?” yelped Ottermole.

“What President Svenson means is that we ought to contact Mr. Smuth and see whether he can enlighten us as to his wife’s subsequent movements,” Shandy translated.

“Oh sure. She’d have had to go home and cook his supper, wouldn’t she?” Clearly Ottermole took it for granted the rest of Balaclava County existed in the same state of contented atavism as his own household. “He’ll have to be told anyway. I suppose I better bust the news myself. Okay if I use the phone in the security office, Lonz?”

“Go right ahead,” said the chief suspect. “Silvester won’t mind.”

“I thought Silvester was off duty.”

“He came back to cover for Clarence. We can’t leave the office unmanned, no matter what, on account of the signal board. I ought to be out doing rounds, myself. You folks don’t need me here any longer, do you?”

Ottermole glanced at Shandy, got a shrug for an answer, and shook his head. “Stick around a few minutes. How long you been on duty, Lonz?”

“Since twenty-three minutes to nine.” Bulfinch explained yet again about Purvis Mink’s wife’s gallstones. “So the way it works out, this was my second trip along here. There wasn’t any body the first time.”

“You sure?”

“Being sure’s what I get paid for, Fred. Anyway, she’d have been hard to miss, wouldn’t she?”

That was true enough. The killer hadn’t made any great effort to hide Mrs. Smuth’s body, though that would have been simple enough to do. He could have dragged her farther into the shrubbery, removed that red coat and stuffed it away somewhere, and strewn dead leaves or branches over the corpse as camouflage. It was almost as if he—or she, since a reasonably strong woman could have handled that petite form easily enough—had wanted the body found right away.

No, not right away. She must have been dead some while before she’d been laid out so neatly beside the path; unless Melchett was far out on the time span during which she’d been killed or Alonzo Bulfinch was lying about her not having been there when he’d made his first round.

“Could you tell us exactly when you passed here before?” he asked the guard.

“Six minutes to eleven on the dot. I finished Purve’s last round, see, before I started my own. Then Clarence decided I’d better keep the same route, though he arranged it a little differently.”

“According to Dr. Melchett, Mrs. Smuth must have been dead well before eleven,” Shandy reminded him.