Odor of Violets by Baynard Kendrick (books for 6 year olds to read themselves .TXT) 📕

was killed some time around six or seven, as far as we know—maybe later. I arrived here about four.”

“What has that to do with it?” King asked sharply.

“Nothing perhaps.” Maclain raised his head. Brief as the life of a shooting spark up the chimney, the leaping fire brought a glint of flame to his sightless eyes. “Perhaps a lot. Bella may have been killed to prevent her talking to me.”

“About what?”

“About the disappearance of Mr. Tredwill’s daughter, Sergeant,” the Captain announced, choosing his words. “Barbara Tredwill vanished last night in New York City.”

“So! Kidnaping!” The officer whirled around on Thad and Gil. “I’m investigating a murder here, believe it or not. Why was this kidnaping kept from me?”

“It wasn’t,” Thad told him with cold preciseness. “You know it now. This isn’t a precinct stationhouse. I’ve a right to withhold information, if I think my daughter’s safety demands it. I’ve got a right to wait until someone communicates with me.”

“And who has?”

“No one, Sergeant King.” Thad’s big head sank down in his hands. For seconds the living room was still.

“It’s nearly midnight.” Bunny Carter looked at his watch and put it away. “My wife’s not well. Is there any reason, Sergeant, for detaining me?”

“No,” said King. “You can go.”

Bunny rose and flexed his stiffened muscles. King looked at him reflectively. “You came over here this evening to talk with Mr. Gilbert Tredwill, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” said Bunny. “That’s so.”

“Did you see him right away?”

“He was downstairs in his workshop. I waited in here with Stacy, Mr. Tredwill’s younger son—”

“Oh, yes.” The Sergeant opened a notebook and looked at it. “I remember now, Mr. Carter. You can go.”

“Thanks.” Bunny’s round face grimaced. “You can reach me at the plant if you need me tomorrow, Sergeant King. You too, Captain Maclain.”

“Why should Maclain need you?” King snapped out.

“He’s rather well known as an investigator,” Bunny said meekly. “I thought he might be helping you.”

“Oh,” said King.

The Captain covered the faintest of smiles with his hand. “The Sergeant has enough problems, Mr. Carter, without adding me.”

King left his post in front of the fire and walked to the door, where he signaled Trooper Stinson in the hall to pass Bunny by.

“Now where are we?” Thad demanded when King came back into the room.

“Damned if I know.” King leaned against the table by Maclain and said earnestly: “What do you make of this, Captain Maclain? What did that girl want to tell you that would provoke any human to murder her that way?”

“If I could answer that last question, Bella would still be alive, Sergeant. This is all I can say: you’ve questioned everyone in this house—and no one has an airtight alibi. I’d advise you to call in more men, Sergeant—enough to post one in every hall.”

“But no one in The Crags—” Thad began brokenly.

Maclain stood up, flowed to his feet, with a motion so commanding that it dominated the room. “Your wife was in The Crags when she was attacked last night, Mr. Tredwill. Bella was asleep in her room in The Crags when she was murdered today. The Crags has become the battleground of a war. I’m warning Sergeant King to watch everyone in this house, servants and all, as he’s never watched before. When a clever killer has started to work the end is never in sight. The worst murders in the history of crime were committed by a twelve-year-old boy.”

2

Gilbert Tredwill deposited the butt of his second cigarette in an ash tray beside him and turned to watch Helena conceal her smooth skin in the sleek satin of a nightgown.

She had undressed silently, carefully draping stockings and underwear over a chair, fussing wordlessly over her hair and make-up removal. Gilbert would have preferred her usual inconsequential chatter. When Helena undressed without speaking it was a fair premise that sleep would follow a family row.

He lighted a third cigarette which he didn’t want, making an elaborate ceremony of striking the match and throwing it away. Helena ignored his obvious dallying. He snubbed the cigarette after a single inhale, and said: “What’s the matter with you?”

She swung around from her dressing table as though the question had startled her beyond endurance. “I’m frightened, Gil.” Her round blue eyes moved toward the bedroom door.

“Why?” he asked with masculine unreasonableness. Helena’s remark aroused in him a quick irritation which he found it hard to account for.

“Well—why not?” Helena countered. “After what’s happened here, Gil, you don’t expect me to feel secure just because there’s a policeman pacing up and down the hall.” She turned back to her dressing table and began to brush her hair with quick petulant strokes. “Let’s get away from here, Gil. This place isn’t good for either of us.”

“My work’s here, Helena—and my family.”

“Voltaire said—”

“Don’t quote things, darling, please.”

Helena left the dressing table and sat down on the edge of her bed. She slipped the mules from her slender, high-arched feet and turned to face Gil halfway. “There’s too damn much family, Gil. The more you love me, the less they’ll like me. I’m an intruder and a foreigner. Families are like that. It’s—”

“Nonsense, Helena. Who’s said anything about—”

“No one has said anything—but you’re changing, Gil, becoming watchful and hard. I want some time alone with you. Even in New York we’re not alone.”

“You’re being difficult now,” said Gil. “Thad shared the suite with us—but he paid all the expenses, too.”

Helena slid into her bed and pulled the eiderdown quilt up to her chin. “I see.”

“Is there some hidden meaning back of that remark?” Gil reached for another cigarette, then decided against it. Instead, he sat watching his wife stonily.

“Not intentionally,” said Helena. “It just seems out of place to find a Tredwill considering expenses. Usually one finds them flinging money about most recklessly. Is it because your father also pays the expenses of the household that you don’t want to move from here?”

Gil began to undress, removing his clothes with short vicious tugs expressive of disapproval. In shirt and