Richard Deming: Gallows in My Garden

The doctor straightened his shoulders, managed the shadow of his former sardonic smile, and moved toward the porch steps. Maggie and Jason both moved out of his way. Then the inspector awoke from the coma he had been thrown into by Ann.

“Hey!” he said. “Where you think you’re going?”

“Home,” Doctor Lawson said. “I don’t seem to be very popular around here.”

“Guess again, friend,” Day said grimly. “You’re going down to headquarters.” The inspector glared over at me. “Why Moon handed out the impression we weren’t going to arrest you, I don’t know, but Moon doesn’t happen to run Homicide.”

I asked, “What charge you bringing, Inspector?”

“Murder!” he snapped, regarding me as though he thought I were half-witted.

“Whose?” I asked.

“His brother, for one.”

I shook my head patiently. “Not unless you get a confession. The only witness is dead.”

Day’s nose began to whiten. “Then we’ll get him for his nephew’s death. We’ve got the suicide note for evidence.”

“Which proves it was suicide,” I told him. “You’ll have a sweet time convincing a jury Doctor Lawson was responsible, unless he admits it.”

Now two-thirds of the inspector’s nose was white. “Then we’ll book him for attempted murder!” he yelled.

“On Grace?” I asked. “Sorry, Inspector. There was no intent to kill. The most you could convict him of is practical joking.”

“If you gentlemen have finished your discussion, I’ll go along now,” Doctor Lawson said.

Calmly he moved down the steps and walked toward the drive at the side of the house while the inspector watched speechlessly.

“You knew this all along, Moon!” he barked at me suddenly. “You told a lie. You said you still believed the theory you had yesterday.”

“This is the theory I had yesterday,” I said calmly. “You never asked me what theory I meant. But take it easy, Inspector. Doctor Lawson isn’t going anywhere. Mouldy Greene is back there in the courtyard where the doctor’s car is, and has instructions not to let anyone but you drive out of the place. Let him think it over awhile, then run him in and go to work on him. He may break, and that’s the only chance you got.”

“Fat chance,” he said, taking a large handkerchief from his pocket and mopping his brow.

Mouldy Greene came ambling around the side of the house. “Hey, Sarge—” he started to say, when I broke in.

“I thought I told you to stay back there and prevent anyone from driving out. The killer’s back there now.”

“Was he the guy you been looking for?” Mouldy asked. “That’s too bad, because he ain’t going to be much good to you now. He just jumped off the bluff.”

“What?” I yelled.

“Well, gee, Sarge,” Greene said defensively. “All you said was to keep guys from driving out. You didn’t say nothing about stopping them from doing anything else.”

At the end of August I got a card inviting me to Arnold Tate’s graduation exercises. I sent a small present, but I didn’t bother to go.

It was another two months before I heard anything more about any of the Lawsons, and then I got a phone call from Warren Day.

“Hey,” he greeted me in a strained voice. “You still go around with that Fausta Moreni?”

“Some,” I admitted. “Why?”

Momentarily I thought we had a bad connection, for the inspector’s voice sounded embarrassed. “I wondered if maybe you and she might not be busy tomorrow night.”

“I can ask her,” I said. “Is this an invitation?”

“Well, in a way. I thought maybe we might have dinner together somewhere.” Then a thought occurred to him, and he said hurriedly, “I don’t mean I’m inviting you out. You pay your check and I’ll pay mine. Sort of a double date.”

“Why, Inspector,” I said in amazement. “You mean you’re actually taking a woman to dinner? And paying her part of the check?”

“Sure I am,” he snapped.

“Anyone I know?”

“Well, yes.” He sounded embarrassed again. “Ann — I mean, Mrs. Lawson.”

I was still sitting there stunned, when he spoke again.

“Listen,” he said. “That girl of yours owns El Patio, doesn’t she? If we had dinner there, do you think we could get a special rate?”