Hanged for a Sheep Page 5

  Pamela looked quickly at her aunt. Aunt Flora transferred her stare to Weigand.

  “Well,” she said, “wasn’t he shot?”

  Weigand nodded, slowly.

  “Yes,” he said. “He was shot. Through the throat. The bullet came out his head. Did you know that too, Mrs. Buddie?”

  “Don’t be a fool,” Aunt Flora said. “How would I know about it? But I expect men to be shot. It’s natural.” She paused. “And women poisoned,” she said.

  Weigand looked at her. His face showed nothing in particular, but Pam thought he was puzzled. She stood up and said, “Come on, Bill,” and started for the door.

  “The library, Aunt Flora,” she said. Aunt Flora said, “Naturally.” She looked at Weigand.

  “Watch yourself, dearie,” she advised. “Don’t forget about Jerry.”

  Weigand said nothing as he followed Pam up the stairs. But in the library he sat down on a chair by a table and looked at Pam and then, after a moment, said: “Whew!” Pam nodded slowly, half smiling, and said, “Isn’t she?” She lighted a cigarette and, after a moment during which he stared at nothing, Weigand lighted a cigarette.

  “Well?” he said.

  Pam started at the beginning.

  Aunt Flora was her mother’s sister. Stephen Anthony had been her fourth husband. “And Clem called him ‘the snake,’” she added.

  “I noticed,” Weigand said. “And your aunt isn’t much upset, is she?”

  “I don’t know,” Pam said. “It’s hard to tell. She—she’s peculiar, don’t you think?”

  “Yes,” Weigand said. “Very. Why did she think he’d been shot, do you suppose?”

  Pam thought a moment, and then thought of something.

  “She grew up in the Southwest,” she said. “Where there was lots of shooting. She may—well, may think of murder and being shot as synonymous. D’you think?”

  Weigand nodded. He said it might be that way.

  “And women being poisoned,” Pam went on, “because she thinks somebody has been trying to poison her.” She paused. “And I think they have,” she said. “But Cousin Alden doesn’t.”

  “The major?” Weigand said.

  Pam nodded. Weigand said he would try to get them straight. Starting with Aunt Flora. And her fourth husband who must, certainly, have been much younger. Pam nodded. Forty years, anyway, she thought. Younger than either Alden or Ben.

  “Start with the major,” Weigand said.

  Alden Buddie, Pam told him. Major, A.U.S. On duty at an army training center in New Jersey. And Aunt Flora’s oldest son. Son of a previous Major Alden Buddie, whom Aunt Flora had married first.

  “And Ben Buddie?” Weigand enquired. “Another son?”

  “Ben Craig,” Pam told him. “A son by Aunt Flora’s third husband. A baseball player.”

  “Ben?” Weigand asked, in surprise.

  “Ben’s father,” Pam told him. “Don’t be silly, Bill.”

  “Pam!” Weigand said. “And the girls?”

  “The major’s children,” Pam explained. “Their mother’s dead. And there’s Dr. Wesley Buddie, who is the major’s full younger brother and—.”

  She broke off, because Weigand was staring out through the door into the hall. He met the enquiry in her gaze.

  “Somebody going downstairs,” he said. “A young man. Newcomer, apparently. They’ll hold onto him, however.”

  It might, Pam told him, be Christopher Buddie, Dr. Wesley Buddie’s son. He had been expected the evening before and might have come late and stayed over. Or it might, of course, be Bruce McClelland. Weigand looked a little tired.

  “Who,” he asked, “would Bruce McClelland be? More family?”

  Pam nodded. Another grandson, she explained. Son of Robert McClelland, deceased, who was, in turn, son of Aunt Flora and her second husband, who was also Robert McClelland. Weigand ran the fingers of his right hand through his hair.

  “Jerry,” Pam said. “Just like him. But this isn’t my fault, is it? It’s Aunt Flora’s, if anybody’s.”

  “Right,” Weigand said. “Quite an aunt. No wonder—” He broke off. “Tell me about the poisoning,” he directed. Pam told him. It was about two weeks ago. Aunt Flora had become violently ill a short time after breakfast and had been violently ill the rest of the day and that night. Then, slowly, she had recovered. A doctor had been called and at first diagnosed acute indigestion. But he had apparently not been easy in his mind, because he had retained specimens. And the specimens, on Aunt Flora’s statement, had revealed arsenic. Weigand said it sounded fairly conclusive, and Pam nodded.

  “I think so,” she said. “But Cousin Alden thinks she’s just sort of—sort of flighty. He thinks she imagined it, because of Stephen.”

  “Listen, Pam!” Weigand said. “Be helpful.”

  “Flighty,” Pam explained, “because she married Stephen who was—oh, a worm or something. Or a snake. The arsenic, he thinks, is just another proof. But I don’t know.”

  “No,” Weigand said. “We’ll have to find out, of course. Now about this murder. The butler—is he really named George Sand?” Pam nodded. “The butler seems to think you found the body. Right?”

  Pam corroborated the butler’s impression. She told about finding it. Her face looked strained as she remembered. Bill Weigand made consoling sounds. Then Pam shook it off and said, suddenly, “The cats!” Weigand was puzzled.

  “They haven’t had breakfast,” she said. “Or clean newspapers. I forgot.”

  Weigand looked amused.

  “So you brought Toughy and Ruffy,” he said. “That must help.”

  Pam was a little indignant. She said it did, because they led her into things. Already they had led her—She broke off.

  “Go on, Pam,” Weigand said. “You ought to know that by now.”

  Pam went on. She told him, quoting as exactly as she could, of the conversation she had overheard between Clem and Judy when she was fishing for Toughy under the sofa. Weigand seemed interested. Then Pam remembered something else.

  “Just as I was going to sleep,” she said, “I heard a door slam. Could that—could that have been the shot, do you suppose?”

  Weigand was interested again. He said it might have been, if she were far enough away. She told him where her room was, and he thought that might be far enough. On the other hand, it might have been a door slamming. In any event, it was worth knowing about, because it might fix a time. What was the time? Pam looked at him, guiltily.

  “Didn’t you look?” he asked. She nodded.

  “Only,” she said, “it had stopped. I forgot to wind it, or something.” She studied Weigand’s expression.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “But it was after 11:45, anyway.” She told, him how she knew.

  But Weigand continued to look very disappointed in her. I’m not, Pam thought, starting this one very well.

  5

  WEDNESDAY

  9:05 A.M. TO 9:40 A.M.

  Weigand sat for a moment looking at Pamela North and then he shrugged. He said, abstractedly, that it might have been a help.

  “However,” he added, “what are M.E. ’s for?”

  “Don’t you know at all?” Pam asked. “When, I mean?”

  Obviously, Weigand told her, they could guess. Rigor was fairly well advanced; you could guess, then, that death had come somewhere between six and eight hours before the body was examined. It was examined at 8:35, which would make it between midnight and 2:30 or thereabouts. But rigor was a variable, depending on too many things. For one thing, it might be hastened if violent muscular activity had immediately preceded death.

  “And?” Pam said. “I mean, did it?”

  Weigand was still abstracted, but he smiled faintly. He said he wasn’t there. However—

  The course of the bullet had been rather odd. It had entered the throat below the jaw and ranged upward through the head, blasting its way out through the rear of the skull. That could happen, obviously, in several ways. For one t
hing, Stephen Anthony might have been lying flat on his back.

  Pam shook her head, doubtfully. Bill Weigand admitted that the posture would, under the circumstances, have been an odd one. Other theories were more persuasive.

  The killer could, for example, have been kneeling in front of Anthony, who in turn was standing. That was a possibility, although it presupposed another odd situation. Or the killer might have been sitting in a chair, with Anthony standing above him. Or perhaps leaning down toward him. That was, off-hand and until they knew more, the most likely supposition. And in that event—

  “Suppose,” Weigand said, “that Anthony was worked up about something and that the murderer wasn’t, or wasn’t showing it. Anthony was walking up and down, perhaps. Excitedly. Then he leaned over toward the murderer, perhaps put his hands on the arms of the chair and stared down at him.”

  “Or glared down,” Pam said. Weigand said, “Precisely.

  “That would have been right for the angle,” he went on. “If we suppose Anthony threatening his murderer, or shouting at him. And the murderer, perhaps with the weapon concealed—in his pocket, perhaps, or in a bag—had fired up at him. The impact would have knocked Anthony over backward, probably, at that range.”

  Pam nodded. She thought.

  “The gun wasn’t there, I gather,” she said. “Or you’d have mentioned it.”

  “No,” Weigand said. “It wasn’t there.” He broke off and after a moment began again.

  “Were they down on him?” he said. “The family—Benjamin Craig and Major Buddie and the rest. All of them, as your aunt said. Or was she—well, merely talking?”

  “They didn’t like him,” Pam said, after thinking a moment. “Nobody really knew much about him, except that he was always hanging around places. Night clubs and places. And, of course, he was so much younger. And then there was Aunt Flora’s money. Although I don’t know if he gets any. Would have got any. Because I don’t know how Aunt Flora felt about him, really.”

  “Did you ever meet him?” Weigand said.

  Pam nodded. Once or twice, she thought.

  “And—?” Bill Weigand prompted.

  “I didn’t like him,” Pam said. “Oily, I thought. But, then, I like Aunt Flora.” She looked at Bill. “I really do,” she said.

  “Right,” Weigand said. “I’ve an open mind. Has your aunt a great deal of money?”

  Pam said she had always supposed so. Aunt Flora had always looked like a lot of money. “And then there’s this house,” she pointed out. But whether these things meant merely plenty of money—“like thousands a year,” Pam explained—or lots of money, like millions, Pam didn’t know.

  “Only,” she said, “she’s leaving me some. Won’t that be nice?”

  Weigand said it would be very nice. He relapsed into thought, and emerged from it to go to the hall and stand for a moment at the head of the stair-flight leading down. Then he called, “Mullins!”, his voice cutting through the amorphous sounds below. Pam heard Mullins’s heavier, blunter voice answer.

  “O.K., Loot,” Mullins said. And then he came largely up the stairs and, after a moment, stood beside Bill and looked down at her.

  “Hullo, Mrs. North,” he said. “You got a nice one this time.”

  “Hello, Aloysius,” Pam said, sweetly. “Didn’t I, though?”

  “Listen, Mrs. North,” Mullins said earnestly, looking suddenly rather warm. “Not so much Aloysius, huh? I didn’t mean—” He looked around, a little anxiously and as if for support. “Jerry ain’t here?” he said.

  “Right,” Pam said. “Jerry ain’t here, Mr. Mullins. And don’t talk as if I—as if I went out after them.” But she smiled and Mullins looked relieved.

  “O.K.,” he said. “It was just a figure of speech.”

  Both Weigand and Pam looked at him with some surprise. He looked pleased. “A figure of speech,” he repeated, cheerfully. “You want some of ’em, Loot?”

  “Right,” Weigand said. “Get your little book. And get Mrs. Buddie.” He stopped, puzzled.

  “Mrs. Buddie?” he repeated. “Why isn’t she Mrs. Anthony?”

  “She changed,” Pam said. “Yesterday morning she decided to be Mrs. Buddie again. She always did.”

  “Listen!” Mullins said. “Sounds like she knew, don’t it? I mean—she was sort of getting ready to be a widow.” He looked at the others. “Sort of,” he said. “In advance, like.”

  Weigand looked interested but Pam shook her head. She said she didn’t think that meant anything.

  “Because,” she said, “she was always going back to Buddie. After she was Mrs. Craig, and Mrs. McClelland and now after she was Mrs. Anthony. Because she’d sent him away, you know. Stephen Anthony, I mean.” Then she, in turn, broke off and her expression became thoughtful. “The funniest thing about it,” she said, “is that he wasn’t supposed to be here at all. Let alone dead.”

  Weigand nodded and Mullins looked a little puzzled.

  “Right,” Weigand said. “I was thinking of that.” There was a momentary pause, apparently while he thought of that. Then he said, “Right. Mullins. Get Mrs. Buddie, will you?”

  Unexpectedly, Aunt Flora had changed from red to black. But black did not, somehow, look like mourning on Aunt Flora. The yellow wig, the resolute complexion, defied grief. Aunt Flora continued to look like Aunt Flora. She occupied a chair and looked back at Sergeant Mullins, who looked at her with evident awe.

  “Well,” she said, “have you found out who killed him?” She looked at Pam, who was rising as if to leave. “Did you tell them about the poison, dearie?” she enquired. “About poisoning your old aunt?”

  “Really, Aunt Flora!” Pam said. “You make it sound so—yes, I told them you thought somebody had tried to poison you.”

  “Thought?” Aunt Flora repeated. “Thought? Nonsense! I didn’t think. Somebody gave me arsenic.” She turned to Lieutenant Weigand. “What do you think of that, young man?” she demanded. “Going to let them get away with it? Or what?”

  “No,” Weigand said. His voice was quiet and he smiled, slightly. “We’ll try not to, Mrs. Buddie.” He saw Pam moving, not hurriedly, toward the door and said, “Stay around, Pam.” Pam looked pleased.

  “Suppose,” Weigand went on, “we go into that first. Right? Tell me about the poisoning, Mrs. Buddie.”

  Aunt Flora told him, repeating what proved to be an accurate report by Pamela North. She had had breakfast and become afterward very ill. She had been very ill for hours.

  “Sick at my stomach,” Aunt Flora said, explicitly. “Sick as a horse.”

  The doctor had given her medicines and thought at first that it was no more than an acute digestive upset. “Old fool,” Aunt Flora observed, cheerfully. And she had got better, but no thanks to him. She had insisted on the analysis because she had never had an illness like it before.

  “And I’ve had plenty, dearie,” she said, with new interest. “Always something. Mostly stomach. You never know when you’re young what the stomach can do.” She looked at, Weigand, demanding attention. “Never!” she repeated. “If I didn’t take care of myself every minute, I wouldn’t answer.”

  “But,” Weigand said, “this was different. And you were suspicious. Why?”

  Aunt Flora was not clear about that. It developed that this illness was more violent than any in the past. “Not that there’s anything mild about my stomach,” she added, quickly. Then she looked at Mullins. “Scared me, this did,” she reported. “It would have scared you, dearie.”

  Mullins looked uneasy and nodded.

  “Right,” Weigand said. “It’s pretty late now, of course. You should have come to us as soon as you got the report, Mrs. Buddie. Attempted murder is—well, better than murder.” He smiled. “For everybody,” he added. “However, that’s spilled milk.”

  “Arsenic,” Pam improved. “Spilled arsenic. Under the dam.”

  “The bridge,” Weigand told her. “Please, Pam.”

  “Of course,” Pam s
aid. “Over the dam, I get them confused.”

  “Be still, dearie,” Aunt Flora said, equably. “You talk like your, mother.”

  Weigand came in hurriedly.

  “For example,” he said, “you probably don’t remember what you had for breakfast that day. What day was it, by the way? Exactly?”

  “Two weeks ago Monday,” Aunt Flora said. “And I had the usual.”

  “Which was?” Weigand prompted.

  “Well,” Aunt Flora said, “first the citrate salts, of course. Then prunes. I have to eat prunes every day. And take the salts.”

  “Right,” Weigand said, again hurriedly. “And afterward?”

  Afterward, Aunt Flora said, had come the usual breakfast food—hot because it was winter. And some pancakes with a little bacon. And an egg—“no, I always allow myself two eggs on Monday.”

  “Why?” said Pam, involuntarily.

  “Because it’s Monday,” Aunt Flora told her. “Starts the week, dearie. You need it for Mondays.”

  There was a slight pause, during which everybody looked a little puzzled. Weigand aroused himself.

  “Right,” he said. “And toast, I suppose?” Pam listened for irony, but heard none. Neither did Aunt Flora, who nodded.

  “Obviously,” she said. “And coffee, of course. Oh—and a little honey to go with the toast, of course.”

  “Of course,” Bill Weigand said. “It—it gives the poisoner—well, opportunity. Plenty to choose from.”

  “Listen, young man,” Aunt Flora said, her yellow wig bobbing a little. “Call that breakfast?”

  “Yes,” said Bill Weigand.

  Aunt Flora looked at him.

  “Nourishment,” she said. “That’s what you need, young man. Pickers!”

  It took time to get things out of Aunt Flora, but, with breakfast out of the way, Bill Weigand persevered. Ben Craig had been in to see her that morning, before breakfast. The girls had looked in while she was eating, sitting on the bed and nibbling toast. The major had come in, too, before she had finished and taken the girls away when he left. Harry was down to tell her they needed new fuses and to get the money to buy them. Harry? Harry Perkins, obviously. And who, while they were on the subject, was Harry Perkins.