Something blue (6 page)

"How old was he? Fifteen? What would he do if he went out? Date? What girls did he know?"

"Try the phone book," said Rush. ''He was six feet already, and big. He dated. He had a car. His father Hed for him. You know that? The school didn't know about his car. That's what I mean, how he always got away with stuff. Catch my old man lying for me."

"Did you lie for him?" Johnny said. -' • '"

George Rush sHd off the stod. '^ope." he said. He swayed a httle. "I Hed for myself," he said. "My old man would have skinned me alive if I'd have been expelled."

Johimy said, "You were out that nightl Wait . , . Listen ..."

"I don't know you," Rush said. "But Dick Bartee, I know. So don't dream, brother." He leaned closer and his breath was bad. "If I could have proved he was out that night, his trouble might have been worth my trouble. See?" He showed his teeth. "Give up—that's my advice." He hiccupped. He went away.

Johimy sat in the bar a while longer. There was something wrong with Bartee's alibi? Or was there? This George Rush was mahcious, envious, about as untrustworthy a witness as Johnny could imagine. One thing he'd said Johnny believed. If Rush could have made trouble for Dick Bartee—seventeen years ago or now—he would have enjoyed it.

CHAPTER 7

Monday, just after noon, they buried Emily Padgett.

After the ceremonies, Johnny followed Charles Copeland out to the curb. The lawyer was putting a slim blonde, sun-tarmed woman into a car. She was rolling her eyes, seeming distressed, saying, "Please, Charles, don't be late tonight. Please?"

"I must go to the oflBce,'' he told her. "Have a good lunch. Forget it."

Johnny said, as he turned, "May I come back to yoiu: oflBce, sir?"

"You're John Sims, aren't you? Sad about Emily. Funerals upset my wife."

"ril follow you, sir.'' The lawyer looked at Johnny's tight face and said no more.

In the o£Bce, the lawyer told his switchboard to hold all calls. "Well?"

"I've been to see Clinton McCauley."

"Ah . . ." The lawyer sagged. His gray hair was a little startling above a sun-browned face. "I've been worrying about that ever since the boat docked. Emily turned to you, then? What does McCauley say?"

"What do you say," asked Johnny, "about this engagement?"

"I am horrified," said Copeland quietly.

"You think Bartee is the killer? You think McCauley is right?"

"No, I do not. But that makes no difference. I am horrified, just the same."

Johnny felt a little surge of confidence in the man. Still, he said severely, "What were you thinking of when you introduced them?"

"I couldn't help that," Copeland said. "I'll tell you about it. Dick Bartee came up one day last fall, to deliver a letter from his grandfather by hand. First time I had met

him. He was pleasant. I was cordial. That was that.

"About two months ago, he popped in again. Wanted advice. What did I know about some business people around this town? While we were talking, right here, Nan Padgett happened to come in with some papers. You know she's in the stenographer's pool, but she is rather my protege. I be-Heve she said, Tou wanted these, Mr. Copeland?' and I said, Thank you, Miss Padgett,' and that was absolutely all that was said. Oh, I suppose Nan smiled, as she naturally would, at the boss' guest. I did not introduce them to each other.

"Well, same day, Bartee asked me to lunch with him. I said I was rushed, but if he didn't mind eating in a hurry at my regular place . . . He said he didn't mind, so we went across the street. Now Nick's is mobbed but I have a table reserved every day, as I think I told him. We started past a long hne of people waiting, and there, wedged in the crowd, were Nan and Dorothy Padgett. Bartee stopped in his tracks. He said something hke, This yoimg lady mustn't starve, must she? Isn't there room for her too?' And before I could open my mouth he'd yanked up the velvet rope and Nan and Dorothy had ducked under, laughing.

"Well, I'm kind of uncle to them, you know. They've eaten at my table often enough. What was I to do? Say 'No, you can't sit at my table today.' Could I explain why not? Could I say, 'Because I don't want you to meet this man.' And could I have said why I didn't? I was stuck, I tell you. It happened so fast. Scattered my wdts. So l just put the best face I could on it. I introduced them and we had lunch, the four of us. Dick Bartee, it seemed to me, wasn't too much impressed. Anyhow, I suppose I assumed he'd go for Dorothy.

"Dorothy?''

"Why, yes. She gets the whistles."

"That's right. I guess she does."

"Nan's a sweet kid," Copeland said, "but Dorothy's a stunner. So we talked about everything but personahties. I saw to that. Then, it was over and everyone parted and I thought that was all. Had no idea he went on seeing Nan. I've been away over a month. Emily was gone, too, or she'd have stopped it. I wouldn't have had it happen."

Johimy chewed his Up.

The lawyer was staring at his polished desk. "Does Mc-Cauley want Nan told now? Does he want me to teli her?"

"What do you think of McCauley?" Johnny asked.

"I know the man's got this obsession . . ."

"Is it just an obsession?''

"I don't know. But if he says. Tell her' I will tell her. Does he say so?"

Johnny said, "Would you tell me about this money first? How much money is coming to Nan?"

"Plenty," Copeland said, and named a sum that made Johnny whistle. "It's supposed to be an inheritance from her dead parents—through Emily, handled by me. AH fixed years ago."

"Then it just comes to her?"

"Yes. At Emily's death. Or Nan reaching twenty-one. Whichever's first. It is hers, right now."

"Do you think Dick Bartee knew about that money?" The lawyer bhnked. "Could he have known?" Johnny pressed.

"The old man was supposed to keep the secret. I'm almost certain that he did."

"Why should Dick Bartee dehver a letter by hand? And what was in the letter? Was Nan's name in there?"

The law)'er stared. "I don't know why he brought it instead of mailing it. I don't think her name was there." The lawyer began to look startled. "I see what you mean. He did . . . yes, he did force that introduction. But the girls being in the restaiu-ant—that was just coincidence."

"Was it?" said Johnny.

"Of course, it . . . Wait a minute. He could have set out to cultivate me. If he knew that Nan worked in my office, he could have figured to find an opportunity to force an introduction, sooner or later, somehow. That's the way your mind's working?"

"I'm wondering," Johrmy admitted.

Copeland sent for the letter that Dick Bartee had de-hvered for his grandfather.

Dear Mr. Copeland: (it went)

Since you tell me Miss McCauley has not spent the the yearly allowance I've sent the child tliese seventeen years, and since you say it now amounts to a sizeable fortune, and since the child, now twenty years of age,

will come into this money in, at the least, another year, and is fully protected in the event of Miss McCauley's death by coming into the money at that time, if necessary—I write to announce that I have sent the last amount I shall send. The child is provided for. I am old. And faihng.

Having, therefore, just drafted what I am quite sure will be my final will, I want you and Miss McCauley to know that neither she nor the child receive any bequest therin, nor are they mentioned therein by any name. This means that upon my death, no one need discover the name Miss McCauley and the child now use. And no one can connect the girl with the terrible and pitiable past.

I believe that my duty in the whole matter has been discharged to Miss McCauley's satisfaction. I will say to you, and to Miss McCauley, whom I admire, that I now agree her course has been most kind and vsdse. I wish the httle girl all happiness.

Yours sincerely, Bartholomew Bartee

'Decent letter," said Johnny. '^And no Padgett named."

Copeland said slowly,. "The information about the money is there, isn't it?"

"Had the letter been tampered with?"

"I can't say." The lawyer thought of something that relaxed him. "But he would have no way to find" out where Nan was or under what name she and Emily were hving."

Johnny said pityingly, "I guess you don't have snooper's blood."

"What do you mean? How could he? There are no records he could get at. I'll swear to that. And I never told him."

"Nobody had to teU hun. There is one person he could locate, all right."

"Whor

"Clinton McCauley.''

"Well . . . yes."

"Emily said she went to see her brother once a month."

"Yes."

"Didn't Emily fight for her brother at the time of that crime? Wasn't she there, in Hestia?"

"Yes, she was."

"So Dick Bartee had seen her? Might know her when he saw her again?" "Possibly."

"What's to stop Dick Bartee from hangnng around watching who visits the prison? He'd certainly have a clue as to what she'd look like. Then, when he spots Emily, following her home? Then he knows where she lives and under what name. Wait a minute. Two girls!" Johnny jerked upright. "How could he know which girl was going to get the money? The names were changed."

The lawyer sat still and closed his eyes. In a moment he opened them and said, "Maybe I can tell you how. Listen. When we had lunch that day I said we talked about impersonal stufiF, One impersonal topic was politics. Dick Bartee said to the girls, 1 don't suppose you pretty young things can vote yet?' "

"And Dorothy said, "I can; she can't.' "And Nan said, 'But in another year, I can.' "So he knew which girl by her age, of course." "Uh huh," said Johnny.

"We will have to tell Nan right away," Copeland said anxiously.

"We haven't got McCauley's permission to tell her yet." "WhatI He's the one who swears Dick Bartee killed his wiiel"

"Now he wants to believe different," Johnny said. "To spare Nan. Not to break her heart. He wants to be shown that he has been wrong."

Copeland stared. "He's been wrong," he said shortly. "I never could believe the boy did it. But what does he mean?" "I'm to check. I've already tested that ahbi." Johnny told about George Rush. "Trouble is," Johnny confessed, "this Rush is very sour on Bartee. Could be just malice. And he won't swear. Doesn't mean much?" He looked at the man of law.

"No," said the lawyer. "Nothing."

"That's why I haven't called Father Klein. I don't have an\'thing either way."

"We are going to have to do something about stopping this marriage," Copeland fumed. "Tell Nan he's after her money."

"\Ve haven't a grain of proof that he is" said Johnny. "Look at the way it seems. Bartee meets you because his grandfather does business with you. He meets Nan through you. He falls for her. That's simple. Easy to grasp. Happens every day. What are we going to tell her? Something complicated. We say Bartee maneuvered the whole thing, ferreted her out, got himself introduced to her, because he knew she had money. Also, when we say he wants her money, we are saying he doesn't want her. And that is something Nan may not want to believe." Johnny knew this with a sickening certainty.

"What are you suggesting?" Copeland said rather angrily.

"I would like the proof" said Johnny. "If Clinton Mc-Cauley is sick and obsessed, I'd hke to be sure of that. And if not, then I'd like to get Bartee for the murder of Christy McCauley, if he did it. And get Nan's father out of prison, by the way. It scarcely seems enough, just to break up a romance. Does it?"

"No," said Copeland. "Not if Bartee is guilty. But even if he isn't guilty of anything but fortune-hunting—I tell you I don't like this marriage."

"If Bartee is a killer and I can prove it, that will stop the marriage,^ut good" Johnny said. "I thought I -could' scavenge around. While there is time. I've done this, although never for real, iii exactly the same way."

"You think you can turn up anything?"

"McCauley wants me to try."

"Let's talk to McCauley."

"O.K. I'll drive you over. Let me call Father Klein."

When Johnny got the chaplain on the Hne, Father Klein broke in. "McCauley is in the infirmary. He's gone about out of his mind. The dilemma . . ."

Johnny stiffened. "What am I going to do, then? I promised to wait for his permission. But a decision, about telling the girl, is going to have to be made pretty soon."

"McCauley does not want her told at all."

"What!"

"Last clear thing he said to me. He realizes that he has judged Dick Bartee without proof. And that is wrong."

"But, listen to mel" Johimy began to explain about the money.

The chaplain was not the man for understanding about money. He broke in. "McCauley said that unless there is courtroom proof . . ."

"He must be out of his mind," snapped Johimy. "Doesn't he claim a court found him guilty?"

"Yes, but he understands , . ."

"Look here, sir. You say he's about out of his mind?"

"The man is trying to beheve what he does not beUeve," said the chaplain severely.

"I have to do something," Johnny said. "Tell me what I am to dol"

The chaplain said, in a moment, "You care for this girl, his daughter? You have her welfare at heart?"

"I do. I have." Johnny's voice began to shake with foreboding.

"Yes, I thought so. I will say this to you. If you ever become personally certain that this man Dick Bartee is a murderer, then feel released from your promise. Make it your responsibility to decide."

"Mine?" said Johnny.

"Mr. Copeland may help you some. But I rather think the dead lady—the girl's aunt—gave it to you."

"I'll—do the best I can," choked Johnny.

He hung up. The lawyer, who had been listening in, said sympathetically, "I'll help you tell her."

But Johnny said angrily, "You heard? McCauley is out of his mind?"

"Yes. Sad."

"Did you hear Father Klein say whether to tell her? Yesterday he thought we must. How long do you think McCauley may have been out of his mind? We don't know, said Johnny. "We are basing an awful lot of theory on that man's integrity. If it weren't for McCauley, would it have crossed our minds that Bartee read a letter? Or plotted to meet Nan? Or any of it?"