Richard Deming - Gallows in My Garden

“What was the call?” Day asked.

“A delivery. I had been expecting it, but hoped the mother would pick a more agreeable time.” He grinned. “That’s a forlorn hope, for they all seem to prefer the middle of the night.”

“Give me the details,” Day said, producing a dog-eared notebook and an automatic pencil.

“The patient was Mrs. Anna Wright,” the doctor said, spelling the last name and waiting while Day wrote it down. “When her husband phoned, I told him to get her to the hospital, phoned the hospital to make arrangements, then dressed and drove there myself. I arrived at one-twenty, about a minute before the expectant mother.”

“What hospital?” the inspector asked. “Millard.”

“And you were there until seven-thirty?”

“Until about seven. Ordinarily deliveries don’t take so long, but this was a breach presentation, and the mother went into shock from loss of blood. I stayed to check on the intravenous until I was sure she was out of danger. The baby lived. A six-pound girl.”

“One last question,” Warren Day said. “Why didn’t you report these murder attempts to the police?”

“I suppose I should have,” the doctor admitted. “But it seemed so certainly the work of someone in the house, I hoped I could discover who it was and turn him or her over to the police quietly, instead of getting everyone upset knowing a potential killer was loose among us.”

“Humph!” Day snorted. “All right, Doctor. Send in young Arnold Tate.”

Neither Arnold Tate nor Gerald Cushing, who followed him, was able to offer any information we did not already have. Day made short work of them and then called Jonathan Mannering.

Mannering was able to shed no light on either Don’s death or Grace’s danger, but he did clear up a question which had been bothering me — whether the Lawson estate was worth eight or eighteen million. He let go of the information reluctantly, not that it would make a particle of difference to anyone, but purely because of the conservative legal tendency to impart no information concerning a client to anyone without a subpoena.

Only after Warren Day bluntly informed him he considered the will the most probable motive for the attempts on Grace’s life, and he meant to know its provisions even if he had to drag Mannering into court that night, and I had explained that we already knew the general provisions, and named them, did the lawyer relent.

“I suppose the actual amounts involved aren’t particularly important, since you seem to know everything else,” he said. “The bulk of the estate, which was scheduled to fall to Grace and Don equally after all other bequests, a few special trust funds, and taxes are taken out, amounts to controlling interest in Lawson Drugs, with a rough market value of eighteen million dollars and about two million in cash and other convertible assets.”

“Wow!” I said. “Twenty million bucks. Twenty million motives for murder!”

Jonathan Mannering eyed me coldly. “Since Ann-Mrs. Lawson is the heir in event of the children’s deaths, you are implying she is the guilty person.”

“Not necessarily,” I told him. “Maybe she’s on the killer’s list, too. Who’s her heir?”

The lawyer stared at me blankly for a moment, and a curious expression of fear touched his eyes. “Why — why, Abigail Stoltz. But Ann really has little to leave, since the trust fund furnishing her income reverts to the Lawson estate on her death.” He paused while a look almost of incredulity slowly formed on his face. “Of course if Grace died suddenly, and then Ann died before she changed her present will, Abigail would inherit everything.” He thought a moment and added, “No doubt in such circumstances Douglas Lawson, or other relatives of the bequestor, could break the will, or at least partially break it, since it is obvious Donald Lawson’s will never intended anything to go to Abigail Stoltz. I’ll have to speak to Ann about it.”

“Don’t speak to anyone but Ann,” I suggested. “Just possibly that would hurry along some murders.”

Day glanced at his watch. “Nearly midnight. Tell Mrs. Lawson I want the servants now, but the rest of you may go to bed if you wish. And send Lieutenant Hannegan in for a minute.”

When Hannegan opened the door, Day barked at him, “Find out where Don Lawson’s room was and get some samples of his handwriting. That’s all.”

“Yes, sir,” Hannegan said, and closed the door quietly.

I grinned at the inspector. “Bet the boys at Homicide all pitch in to buy you a Christmas present each year.”

He looked startled. “Eh? You mean maybe the men don’t like me?” Discarding his cigar, which now looked like a shredded rope, and biting a quarter inch off a new one, he muttered defensively, “Nobody can say I play favorites.”

“No,” I told him. “You ride the pants off everybody.”

About five minutes passed before there was a knock, and the door opened without awaiting invitation. With one hand still on the knob, Maggie, the housekeeper, stood stiffly in the doorway, surveying Warren Day’s bald head distastefully. The inspector examined her mustache with equal distaste.

“Well, come in and close the door!” he said testily.

Ignoring him, Maggie addressed herself to me. “Sir, Miss Ann wants to know if these police persons would like sandwiches and coffee before they talk to the rest of us.” Her tone made it obvious she still considered me a guest, whereas the police were in the same category as tradespeople and delivery boys.

“They’d like it very much, Maggie,” I said solemnly. “And so would I.”

Day cleared his throat, but before he could speak, the housekeeper said, “Most everyone has gone up to bed. Will the drawing-room be all right, sir?”

“Fine,” I said. “And would you have Edmund take something to the driver out back?”

“Yes, sir. It’ll be ready in about five minutes.”

“Humph!” Day snorted as Maggie departed, leaving the door open. He slanted his cigar at a belligerent angle and glared at me over his glasses.

“Maggie is blood-conscious,” I explained to him. “One of the old-family-retainer type, who can recognize aristocracy at a glance, and has no use for the proletariat. I’ve mentioned those ready-made suits you wear before, and—”

“Shut up!” Day bawled.

He surged to his feet and flounced out of the room ahead of me.

The only people in the drawing-room were Grace and Ann, the others apparently having wasted no time in taking advantage of the inspector’s permission to retire. Grace’s youthful face was drawn with strain and fatigue.

“You going to bed soon?” I asked her.

She nodded tiredly.

“Then I’ll start earning my fee,” I said. “I want to check your bedroom for safety.”

She nodded again, almost mechanically, bade her stepmother a tepid good night, and moved toward the stairs. I followed her up them and along the upper hallway, which was dimly lighted by a single wall lamp, to the door just this side of my own.

As she reached for the knob, I touched her shoulder and said, “Huh uh.”

She looked back at me inquiringly.

“I don’t mean to be. melodramatic,” I said, “but as long as you’re paying for a bodyguard, let’s give you your money’s worth. According to Emily Post, the bodyguard always goes first.”

Gently I pushed her aside, opened the door, and felt for the wall switch with my left hand.

“Grace?” inquired a low voice from the darkness.

My left hand found the wall switch at the same moment my right found the P-38 under my arm. I aimed the latter in the general direction of the voice before flipping the former. A soft, pink glow flooded the room, disclosing Arnold Tate resting comfortably beneath a thin sheet on one of the two pillows of the double bed in the room.