Richard Deming - Gallows in My Garden

I said slowly, “So the would-be murderer killed himself, and now we live safely forever after, eh?”

The inspector’s grin changed to a scowl. “That’s right. Anything wrong with it?”

“Just one minor point. Where do the mugs who tried to take me for a ride fit in?”

The scowl became deeper, and he bent his head to peer at me over his glasses. “A guy like you has got lots of enemies, Moon. It’s your personality makes them. They never had any connection with this case.”

“They knew Grace Lawson by sight,” I said patiently. “They had tailed her to my apartment, and jumped me because they didn’t want my nose in this business.”

“You mean that’s what you deduced, master mind. Probably they were brothers of some girl you wronged and cast aside.”

I lit a cigar and kept out of the rest of the conversation, which mainly concerned the inspector’s brilliance. The worst of it was that he was a smart cop, but he had a blind spot which made him simply shrug off any conflicting little bit of evidence that marred an otherwise perfect case. I had seen him do it before, and nine times out of ten he was right and the conflicting part proved to be a red herring, but this time I knew he was wrong, for I had too vivid a memory of that squat gunman saying to his English-lord pal, “Geez, it’s the kid! What do we do now?”

After the inspector left I might as well have saved my breath insofar as trying to convince anyone the whole situation was not yet over. With the exception of Arnold Tate, who, in spite of his suspicion that I had a dirty mind, made a half-hearted suggestion that I be retained as a watchdog a few days just to be sure, everybody was so relieved Don had not been murdered by one of them, and the attempts on Grace’s life could be pinned on a dead man, there was just no way to get past the mental block.

In spite of her shock at her brother’s death, Grace herself was so heartened at no longer having to doubt any of these people, whose possible guilt she had never really been able to suspect anyway, she became almost gay. The same attitude of release seemed to pervade all of them, even Ann and Douglas Lawson, who next to Arnold had shown most concern over the girl’s safety, closing their minds to the possible danger Grace might still be in. Though properly horrified by the exposé of Don’s guilt, their horror was more than overbalanced by relief that none of the clique still alive was a criminal.

I beat my head against the solid wall of their determination until it began to look as though I were simply arguing to keep from losing my job. Then I gave up and rather curtly inquired if someone who was not intending to go to church could take me back to my flat.

Grace said, “I will. Come on, Arnold. We’ll run Mr. Moon uptown.”

Ten minutes later I followed Grace and Arnold into the garage containing the Cadillac convertible, pitched my overnight bag into the rear seat, and slid in next to Arnold. As Grace started the engine, a yell came from the side of the house. We all waited inquiringly, looking back over our shoulders.

Douglas Lawson entered the garage, said, “Decided to go along for the ride,” and vaulted into the small rear seat.

To keep him company I joined him, but I got back there less athletically, by using the car door.

I noticed Arnold’s back stiffen and Dr. Lawson brace his feet against the floor. Before I could figure out why, I suddenly learned. Grace backed the car with a surge of power that nearly threw me in the front seat, swung it sharply right parallel to the garage, which hurled me against the doctor, and slammed on the brakes.

“Do you always do that?” I gasped.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she said. “I should have warned you.”

She started to spin the wheel left, which would have headed the car toward the drive, but the steering-grip offered so little resistance her hand slipped off. Blankly she stared down at the wheel as it slowly revolved one complete cycle, stopped and began to revolve the other way.

“Ho hum,” I said, climbing out of the car. “Brother Don came back to life and sabotaged your steering-column.”

Silently the rest of them got out and stood staring at the car, as though if they looked hard enough they could diagnose its troubles.

“Anyone but you drive this car?” I asked Grace.

She shook her head.

I eyed her contemplatively. “Having ridden with you, I know you like speed. Presumably everyone else around here knows it, too. All you got now is a minor repair job, but if that had happened on a curve at seventy, you’d have a major funeral. Four, in fact.” I told Arnold, “Go get Karl.”

Arnold glanced at me curiously, raised his eyes to the windows of the apartment over the garage, and yelled, “Karl!”

After a moment the youngster’s head came out one of the windows above us, and he looked down inquiringly.

“Got some overalls up there?” I asked him. He nodded his head.

“Put them on and come down. I want you to crawl under this car to look for something.”

His head disappeared and a few minutes later he appeared from the end garage, which apparently contained the stairs to the garage apartments, clad in a pair of greasy coveralls and carrying a flashlight.

“The steering-wheel won’t work. See if you can tell why,” I told him.

Without comment he wriggled underneath, lay there for a moment with his toes sticking up, then wriggled out again.

“Somebody used a hack saw,” he said laconically. “Thought I heard someone down here last night, but I looked and didn’t see nothing.”

I got my grip out of the back seat. “Guess we’ll have to use a different car.”

“Wait a minute,” Arnold said. “You aren’t going anywhere. If no one else wants to hire you to protect Grace, I’ll pay the bill, myself.”

“You won’t have to, Arnold,” Grace said quietly. Her face was pale, and her eyes held the expression of someone who had been slapped by her mother. “Will you stay on, Mr. Moon?”

“I’ve been trying to all along,” I told her. “It wasn’t my idea you were out of danger.”

Our return to the house put an end to its occupants’ mood of suppressed gaiety. Church plans were canceled in favor of sitting around and staring at each other covertly, as though wondering which one of them was the culprit. Even yet they all seemed unwilling to face the fact that one of them was a murderer, or at least was trying to be a murderer. Delicately they skirted the subject by discussing plans for Grace’s protection as though her enemy were some person outside their own group. I had my own plans, but saw no advantage in airing them in front of the killer, who I was reasonably certain was a member of the conference.

Surprisingly enough Abigail Stoltz made the only intelligent suggestion during the whole conversation.

“It seems to me Grace should get away from here entirely,” she said hesitantly. “Say have Mr. Moon take her off some place none of us know about, and then come back here and apply all his energy to finding out what this is all about.”

“You’ve been reading my mind,” I told her. “If Grace and Mrs. Lawson agree, we’ll leave right after dinner.”

This brought on a discussion during which everyone tried to talk at once, but which finally ended in general agreement. However, most of the group felt they personally should know where Grace was hiding out, Ann because she was the girl’s stepmother, Arnold because he was her fiancé, Dr. Lawson because he seemed to fancy himself her natural protector, and Jonathan Mannering on the grounds that the family lawyer should be in on the details of any matter bearing on the welfare of one of the family. I got the impression he feared I might kidnap the girl and hold her for ransom.