Бретт Холлидей - Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, Vol. 33, No. 2, July 1973

“Did you see Finney or Charon before you went into the library, hear them on the stairs?”

“I heard somebody run down just after Prentiss, but I didn’t see who it was.”

“Only one person?”

“Maybe two. I was still half asleep.”

“Did Prentiss tell you what Mr. Warren said before he died?”

“Oh, that ‘pick up sticks’ thing? I don’t know what Simon meant by that. Isn’t Pick Up Sticks a game for kids or something?”

Di Lucca said, “Do you have any idea who murdered Mr. Warren? Or why?”

“No. How could it have happened in a locked room like that? I don’t understand it at all.”

“You don’t think Mr. Warren’s two nephews were involved?”

“Everett and George? Gosh, I don’t know. They’re both awfully sweet. Maybe Prentiss did it.”

“Why do you say that?”

“I don’t like him very much,” she said. “He’s pretty snooty.”

“I see. We understand there’s been some friction about money. Is that right?”

“Oh, sure, I guess so. Simon was a real penny-pincher. I had to practically beg on my hands and knees for a new dress, or for a tiny little raise in my salary.”

“What about Finney and Charon?”

“Well, Simon was always telling them they were a couple of spongers and that as long as they didn’t want to work for a living, they’d have to be content with what he gave them to live on. He could be real mean at times, Simon could.”

“Did Finney or Charon ever threaten him?”

“Threaten? You mean, say they’d kill him?”

“That’s what I mean.”

“I don’t think so. They were always shouting at Simon, and he was always shouting at them, and I never paid much attention. I guess one of them could have.”

“Do either of them own a gun?”

“A gun? I never saw a gun anywhere around here.”

Di Lucca said that would be all for the moment, and asked Miss Hughes to send Everett Finney in. She went out, and after a time Finney entered the sitting room and sat where Miss Hughes had, on the loveseat; he appeared relaxed.

“I suppose you want to know where I was when my uncle was murdered,” he said.

“To begin with, Mr. Finney.”

“Like everybody except Prentiss and my uncle, and the murderer, I was in bed. Six-thirty in the morning is an ungodly hour. Anyway, the shots woke me up. I got out of bed and put a robe on, and Prentiss was making a lot of noise running downstairs and shouting. When I got to the library, the doors were open and Prentiss was kneeling on the floor beside my uncle.”

“Did you see Miss Hughes or your cousin?”

“No. I was the first one down after Prentiss, and George and Becky came into the library after I did.”

“What do you think happened?”

“I can’t honestly say. I suppose, though, since the room was locked, that either George or Becky killed him. How it was done I have no idea. Pretty clever, though, that locked-room business.”

“Why do you suppose one of them is guilty?”

“This was hardly a happy household, sergeant,” Finney said. “None of us got along particularly well with Uncle Simon, except Prentiss. The reason we didn’t get along with him was because he horded his damned money like a miser and none of us exactly is used to the life of a pauper.”

“Did you have trouble with your uncle about money?”

“Naturally. But I’d hardly kill him over it. After all, he didn’t have too many years left and I have the idea that we’re all mentioned in his will. He had no one else to leave his money to, after all. George and Becky are greedier than I am, and less patient.”

“I see.”

“Sorry if I seem callous. You’d have had to know my uncle to understand the lack of grief. And of course there’s the money. I freely admit to liking that much more than I liked the old man.”

“What do you think your uncle’s dying words mean?”

“ ‘Pick up sticks’? I haven’t the slightest. Maybe he was delirious, or Prentiss misunderstood him.”

“Do you own a gun, Mr. Finney?”

“Certainly not. What possible use could I have for a gun?”

“Did you ever see a gun anywhere around the house?”

“No. If anyone has one, they’ve kept it well hidden.”

Di Lucca asked Finney a few more questions, learned nothing, and dismissed him. When he had gone through the door, to summon George Charon, Corcoran frowned and muttered, “Five-six, pick up sticks. Five-six, five-six.”

“Are you still reciting nursery rhymes?” Di Lucca asked him.

“There’s something about five-six, Rennie.” He scowled deeply, and then his face brightened and he snapped his fingers. “Sure!”

“Now what?”

“Five-six, what are five-six, Rennie?”

“Numbers,” Di Lucca said, frowning.

“Sure, numbers, but what else?”

“This is no time for guessing games, son.”

“Five-six, the fifth and sixth letters of the alphabet.”

“So?”

“Everett Finney,” Corcoran said. “E and F, the fifth and sixth letters of the alphabet! Rennie, maybe Warren was trying to name Finney as his murderer when he said ‘pick up sticks’.”

Oh boy, Di Lucca thought. Patiently he said, “Now come on, Corcoran. You really think a dying man is going to be thinking up cryptograms to name his killer? Why wouldn’t he just say ‘Finney’?”

“Who knows how the mind of a dying man works? Besides, he didn’t say ‘Finney’ or ‘Charon’ or any other name; he said ‘pick up sticks’.”

“Yeah,” Di Lucca admitted. “Evidently he did.”

George Charon came in then and took his place on the loveseat. His hands moved in their agitated way over the legs of his trousers. His story was substantially the same as Miss Hughes’ and Finney’s: he had been in bed at the time of the killing; he had been awakened by the shots. He had pulled on a robe and come downstairs to find Prentiss and Finney standing over the body of his uncle. He did not own a gun, was in fact afraid of the things, and knew of no weapons in the house. He had no idea how Simon Warren had been murdered in a locked room, and he had no idea what ‘pick up sticks’ meant.

When Di Lucca asked him if he cared to offer an opinion as to who the murderer was, Charon said without hesitation, “My cousin, Everett Finney.”

“You sound pretty positive, Mr. Charon.”

“Who else could it have been? Becky Hughes is beautiful but much too stupid to pull off a locked-room murder. Prentiss was devoted to the old man. Nobody else could have gotten in or out of the house. And I sure as hell didn’t do it. That leaves Everett.”

“Did you see or hear him run downstairs after the shooting, as he claims to have done?”

“I don’t recall hearing him — probably because he was already downstairs, after shooting Uncle Simon.”

“Was there any special bad feeling between Finney and your uncle?”

“Nothing special. They just generally despised one another. I often wondered why Uncle Simon didn’t throw Everett out of the house. But he believed strongly in looking after family, so he allowed him to stay and paid his way, such as it was. Everett was always demanding more money to spend on women and nightclubs and fancy clothes.”

“You didn’t have any quarrels with your uncle, Mr. Charon? The same type of quarrels over money?”

Charon lowered his eyes. “Well, yes, I suppose I did. I’ll have to admit that Uncle Simon was hardly a generous man.”

“You follow the horse races. Is that right?”

“Who told you that?” Charon demanded angrily.

“Is it true?”

“Well, what if it is? A man has to have some kind of hobby.”

“Has yours been a successful one?”

“Oh, I’ve lost a few dollars. I don’t deny that. And I owe a little bit of money at the moment, nothing major. I could have used an extra thousand or two. But that doesn’t mean I killed my uncle to get it.”