The Rotary Club Murder Mystery (22 page)

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Authors: Graham Landrum

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“So, when Alice took advantage of her husband's absence to spend some time with her light of love on his yacht, Paula took advantage of Alice's absence to gather the things she needed for her plan.
“Paula was aware—the fact is, the whole town of Stedbury knew—that Charles Hollonbrook had a pistol range in the basement of his house, where he practiced. Paula also knew that Alice made him use a silencer.
“So all Paula had to do was take the key that had been given her, go into the house, enter the bedroom, where Charles had no doubt taken her a number of times before. The key to the drawer where Charles kept his pistols, silencer, and ammunition was right there in his dresser.
“And as for the so-called suicide note, it may possibly have been written to Paula. We'll never know the true situation involved, for you know the note said: ‘Sorry to disappoint you, but I can't make it today.' The note could have been meant for the gun-club members, but just suppose that it was calling off an assignation with Paula, and suppose the reason why he was calling it off was that he was having an assignation with his new ladylove, Kimberlin Mayburn. If Paula had had any suspicion of such a thing, it would have made her absolutely furious.
“She would be determined on revenge and such a revenge as would rob Kim Mayburn of her half million. As far as Alice's half million went, Paula didn't care about that. Charles in effect had left Alice for Paula—and he had signed, sealed, and delivered his endorsement of Paula's position with that life-insurance policy, which he had now canceled. To be sure, the premiums were expensive, and he had money problems. But all the same, it was a mistake to cancel Paula's policy.
“So Charles was to die by ‘suicide' and Paula would be even with both Charles and Kim.”
Ron Jefferson was looking at Mrs. B. with his mouth open. At that point, I didn't think he was at all convinced, but he was certainly drawn into her account.
“Don't tell me women don't react that way,” she said. “I am eighty-eight years old, and I've never been anything but a woman since I was a girl.”
She bestowed a beaming smile on both of us.
“Now,” she said as she picked up her purse and rose from the table, “let's go to this room over here and I'll show you how Paula Stout ‘committed suicide' on Charles Hollonbrook in a locked room.”
I had arranged that a room would be available for Mrs. Bushrow's demonstration, and Nancy Attwood, the manager of the Inn, had been standing at the door of room 112 for some minutes, waiting for us.
Mrs. Bushrow led us like a conquering general. She smiled sweetly and bowed slightly to Mrs. Attwood, who appeared as curious as I myself was to see how the trick was to be done.
We all entered the room.
Mrs. Bushrow said, “Now which of you gentlemen wishes to act the part of Charles Hollonbrook?”
I volunteered.
“Very well,” she continued, “you got here no later than nine-thirty on that Monday evening because the evening club in Ambrose Courthouse would be done by seven-thirty and
then you would have been served a drink with the president of the Ambrose club and would have come down here.
“You had a book with you—a good book by Mr. Dick Francis. So you got into bed and enjoyed your book until eleventhirty, which is the time you usually go to sleep unless you have other entertainment. You take a sleeping pill because, as your wife attests, you always take a sleeping pill when you stay at a motel. You say it helps you sleep through the noise of late arrivals and early departures.
“So it is beddy-bye, and you sleep soundly—well, I guess you sleep soundly for the rest of your life, because around two o‘clock, when she knows from experience you will be snoring away, your ‘office' mistress in gloves and running shoes, or whatever, comes silently, silently into the room with her flashlight and
your
pistol with
your
silencer on it. She has brought along the note, with which she perhaps thinks you rejected her for someone else; and she is about to make sure that the half million that you intended for her rival will never be paid.
“She holds the gun in the position that you would have to hold it in to blow your own brains out. She pulls the trigger; the gun discharges. She places the gun in your right hand to add fresh fingerprints to the other prints that are already there—your prints, because she has worn gloves whenever she handled the gun, the silencer, and the ammunition.
“Paula lays the ‘suicide' note on the nightstand and silently leaves the room.”
It is a pity Mrs. B. never tried for a career on the stage. We were entranced by her recreation of the murder. But Ron Jefferson broke the spell.
“That's very good except for four things that destroy your whole theory. First, the key to the room was inside the room when the body was found. Second, a silencer is not perfect. People in the adjoining rooms and the room above would have heard. Third, even if the ‘murderer' had a key to the room, she could not know that the chain would not be on the door when
she wished to enter. And fourth, you have not explained how the chain could be on the door when the body was found.”
“Ah,” said Mrs. Bushrow, delighted that the Commonwealth Attorney had fallen into her trap. “You do not realize that Paula Stout had a secret weapon. The young lady who worked here until recently—Miss Teddy Brazille—was Paula Stout's niece, and that made all the difference.
“You perhaps recall that Paula had a beautiful sister. Teddy is the daughter of that sister. ‘Beautiful mother—more beautiful daughter.' Why should a beautiful girl want to waste her life as a room clerk in a motel? Is there not a career for her? Is there not New York? She longs to be a glamorous model, and her aunt has promised to supply her with money to go to a school that will guarantee all the instruction that it takes to wear beautiful clothes and prance around in front of department-store buyers and whatnot.
“All Teddy has to do is assign the rooms on May 26 in such a way that nobody is placed in the rooms above and on either side of Charles Hollonbrook. That's not such a wicked thing, is it? And she must give her aunt a pass key when she arrives. After all, the aunt has been in motels with her lover before. And then the other thing …”
Once more, Mrs. Bushrow rummaged in her purse, and this time came up with a Phillips screwdriver.
“Dollar twenty-five at Ace Hardware,” she said, holding it up. “Here's the other thing she had to do.” Mrs. Bushrow began removing the linkage mechanism. “She simply took this thing off before Hollonbrook got here. A man is not nervous about someone coming into his room in the middle of the night. One lock would certainly be enough for Charles Hollonbrook, a war hero and all. And so, with the door locked behind him the last time he came into the room, he laid his key on the bedside table, where it remained until the room was broken into the next day.”
“And now for how the chain got back on the door, you are
going to have to stay in here while the rest of us go outside, or else the motel people will have to break into a ‘locked room,'” she said to me.
“Oh no you don't,” I said. “I want to see how you do this.”
She smiled. “How very ungallant of you, Mr. Delaporte! For poor Mrs. Attwood will have to stay if you go out with us.”
Mrs. Attwood agreed to remain, and Mrs. Bushrow continued.
“Very well, Mrs. Attwood, please give me your key.” Mrs. Attwood surrendered the key. Mrs. Bushrow gave it to me, saying, “Here, hold this.”
She was opening her purse and rummaging. At last, she found what she wanted: a heavy black thread.
She held it up for us to see. “Clark's ONT, number eight. Use it for sewing on overcoat buttons.”
Then she pointed to the arrangement for securing the door on the inside. It was not the old-fashioned chain, but it served the same purpose. It was a link of metal attached by a swivel to the inner side of the door in such a way that when the door was closed, the link could be thrust over a hook attached to the doorjamb.
Mrs. Bushrow ushered us out of the room. Being careful that we could see what she was doing, she looped her thread over the link. Then, holding the ends of the thread in one hand, she closed the door with the other. With a gentle pull from the outside of the door, she propelled the link inside the door over the hook, where it would remain until someone inside the room disengaged the link.
Dropping one end of the thread, she pulled the whole of it free of the door and handed it to me. Receiving the key from me, she inserted it in the lock, turned it, and removed it again.
“Take the key, Mr. Commonwealth Attorney,” she said, handing it to him, “and see if you can get in.”
Ron said, “I'll be damned.”
“Go ahead, unlock the door,” she urged.
Ron inserted the key, turned it in the lock, and pushed the door open as far as it would go—about three-quarters of an inch.
“I think you had better open the door for us, Mrs. Attwood.” Mrs. B. had raised her voice slightly.
Mrs. Attwood closed the door, disengaged the mechanism, and opened the door again.
Mrs. Bushrow had very effectively knocked the wind out of Ron Jefferson's sails.
“And now,” she said, “I think we had better go back to our nice table by the pool so I can tell you what you must do.”
Ron followed her like a little boy being conducted by his mother at a wedding reception.
“Now,” she began, when we were seated, “you are no doubt wondering what proof I have of all this. I haven't any, but I'm going to tell you how you can get proof.
“It's my ‘secret weapon,' you see.
“When I began to look into all of this—after these gentlemen in the Rotary Club asked me to do it—I had no idea of this ‘secret weapon.' If I had known who Teddy Brazille was, I would have known the whole thing right away. But I didn't know, and I went over there to Stedbury and stayed with my friend Maud and flounced around and poked my nose into everybody's business. And in short order, I had warned every possible suspect that there was a determined old woman rooting around in their dirty linen.
“Nobody likes a busybody. You know that. But when my car was blown up, I knew I had gotten very close to ‘who done it.'”
Jefferson did not know about the bombing of the DeSoto and Mrs. B. explained it in some detail before getting back to her purpose.
“When I found—by accident—right here at the Inn that Teddy had come into a lot of money, I realized that she was an accomplice. She probably was not as bright as she might be
and, I tried to think, perhaps not fully conscious of what she was doing. And who could the man with that blasting gelatin be?
“Now I knew that Paula Stout was Teddy's aunt. So I went snooping about in Stedbury again, and of course everybody in that little town knew what I was up to. The librarian had recognized me on the first day, and after that I might as well have been on television. And I knew that whoever had dynamited my car would have to attack me again.
“Well, the long and short of it is that if he hasn't been bailed out, poor Mr. Brazille is over there in the Stedbury jail on a charge of blowing up my car. You see, he is the key to my evidence.”
This last was directed significantly to Ron Jefferson.
“Mr. Commonwealth Attorney, you can work with the authorities down there in North Carolina. Get them to drop the charges against Mr. Brazille, or agree to a minor sentence or probation if he will cooperate with us against Paula Stout.”
“But, Mrs. Bushrow,” Jefferson objected, “does he have any positive evidence against the Stout woman?”
“Perhaps not, but Teddy Brazille does. And if you can find her, you can cut the same deal with her: If she and her father tell what they know, charges against both will be dropped, light sentences imposed, or probation granted.
“At this point, Mr. Brazille can't have much love for Paula Stout. I have no doubt the father will lean on the daughter, especially if both of them can get off without a heavy sentence.
“Now, Mr. Jefferson, I know you are a smart man and can figure all those little negotiations out.
“I'll tell you one thing. I bet the father knows where the girl is.”
“I see what you mean,” Ron replied. He exchanged a few blandishments with Mrs. Bushrow and left—in fact, to take action on the lady's suggestion.
>>
Harriet Bushrow
<<
 
 
 
 
 
P
rofessor Landrum says that Plato or Aristotle—or one of those old Greek philosophers—said that a story had to have a beginning, a middle, and an end. Well, what is an end? Don't you just stop? No, no, says Professor Landrum, the end must tie up all the loose threads and tell the reader what happened to all the people he has met in the story.
Now don't you like that idea? Because, you see, Henry Delaporte left the whole thing hanging in the last chapter. He didn't say anything about the trial and how it all turned out. I said to him, “Henry Delaporte, you are the lawyer and you must write it up,” because, for me at least, it was the best part.
Well, he said it would just be a repetition of what the reader already knows, and maybe he was right. Anyhow, I'll brush over it lightly.
Mr. Jefferson did just what I told him to, and both Mr. Brazille and Teddy agreed to be witnesses for the prosecution. As I predicted, Paula Stout tried to run away. But when her money ran out, she was picked up for forgery. She didn't know how to do it, you see. And so there was another charge against her.
I don't know how she had the nerve, but Paula pleaded
innocent. She was counting on her alibi, poor girl! That old fool Rose Moody admitted on the witness stand that she couldn't hear a thing without her hearing aid. Oh yes, she said, she always took it out of her ear before she went to bed; and, yes indeed, that sweet Paula had brought her a nice glass of warm milk before she retired for the night on May 26. Could there have been sleeping medicine in it? She
did
think she
had
slept rather well.
So that did away with Paula's alibi, because it takes less than two hours to drive from Stedbury to Borderville and no time at all to kill Charles Hollonbrook. Then two hours back to Stedbury. There was no alibi left at all.
They had me on the stand, you know. I had to explain how Paula could make it look like the room was locked. And when Maud heard I was going to testify, she had Robert drive her up to Borderville. They stayed with me. And Robert enjoyed the trial, too, because of his part in rescuing me from the “foul clutches” of poor Mr. Brazille.
Paula got a life sentence, but I suppose she'll be out in five years or so.
Alice Hollonbrook collected her half million in insurance money, but I am afraid she was right about the estate itself. Now that Estonia Savings and Loan's president was free of blackmail, he was able to foreclose on the Hollonbrook property. And though I understand that his business is in pretty shaky condition, they say that there is a chance he will pull through since real estate is looking up a little.
And Vic Douglass, the fraternity brother of Charles Hollonbrook—you remember how Hollonbrook cheated him when Featherstone Plastics came to Stedbury—well, that sweet, dear boy wants to bring Alice Hollonbrook into his real estate firm. The two of them have an offer to act as agents in disposing of the Hollondale property for Estonia Savings. In her last letter, Alice was seriously thinking about taking Vic up on his proposal.
After the foreclosure, there was hardly enough of the Hollonbrook
estate left to divide. So it looked as though the children were going to have to find the money for college somewhere else—until that sweet, dear Alice Hollonbrook offered to pay their expenses at Estonia State. I prophesy that Alice won't be much out-of-pocket, for I can't imagine any one of those children in college for longer than a few months.
Poor Kim Mayburn! I'm afraid she is completely “around the bend.” They had to put her in a private sanitarium. At least she got her half million from the insurance. With that and the money she already had, she can afford to be crazy. The rest of us just have to go on and hope nobody will notice.
Teddy Brazille pleaded guilty, of course. They couldn't just drop the charges as if nothing had happened, but in return for her testimony against her aunt, she drew a ten-year suspended sentence. She is still trying to be a model. She's such a beautiful girl; I hate to see her ruin her life. But she thinks she'll never get old, and it takes so much character for a girl not to have her head turned by something as glamorous as modeling.
Mr. Brazille! In spite of what he did, I kind of liked him. He was not prosecuted because I did not press charges against him after he agreed to testify against Paula. When Paula's verdict came in, he came to me and apologized—said he knew what he'd done was wrong, but Paula had put him up to it—told him if he couldn't frighten me into silence, his girl would go to jail. Well, who can blame a man for protecting his daughter? Besides, the poor old man is probably none too smart.
And since you already know that Buck Patterson—the golf pro, you remember—is back with his wife, that just about takes care of everyone.
Oh—I was about to forget.
The Rotary Foundation has this wonderful Paul Harris Fellowship. It does such marvelous things. It's their agency that has just about stamped out polio the whole world over. To be a Paul Harris Fellow, someone has to pay one thousand dollars. That's how they get the money to do those wonderful things.
Well at their banquet in October, who do you suppose that wonderful Rotary Club gave one of those Paul Harris Fellowships to?
Me!

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