The Golden Goose (15 page)

But then the corpse stirred, and Aunt Lallie's normal voice said, “Why is it that you always run away when you are needed most?”

“Why were you sitting in the dark in my room?” cried Prin.

“I've been waiting for you. Come here, Princess, and sit on the bed. By me.”

Prin went over to the bed and sat down near Aunt Lallie. She pressed her knees together and folded her hands on them.

“Please, Aunt Lallie, I'm very tired. What is it you wanted?”

“Just this,” said Aunt Lallie in a fluty voice. “I find myself in a most trying position, thanks to you, and I wish to know what you propose to do about it.”

“Thanks to
me?”

“Don't evade! You heard what that nasty brother of yours said. Brady practically accused me of poisoning Slater's bourbon. Out loud, in front of everybody! Simply because Slater left me everything.”

“Brady can be nasty enough, and a lot more besides, I suppose,” said Princess wearily, “but what does that have to do with me?”

“You're as much under suspicion as I, because you work in that drug store. I've told you time and again how silly it was to keep that job! Now see where it's got us.”

“But the drug store has nothing to do with anything, Aunt Lallie. I didn't steal the drug. And if anybody knows that you and I had no arrangement to kill Uncle Slater, you do.”

“What you and I know is not sufficient. That man Grundy is the nuisance, and I'm counting on you to convince him for my sake.”

“I'll try to convince him, of course, since I'm absolutely innocent. But it will be for my sake, Aunt Lallie, not for yours.”

“You needn't be
discourteous.”

“I'm not. I'm factual. Please, Aunt Lallie. I'd like to go to bed.”

Aunt Lallie's pretty little mouth thinned to an ugly little gash. “You are as boorish in your own way as Brady and your two cousins, though I must say that Twig has acted with surprising decency since Slater's death.” She popped out of the chair and stood there like a miniature Lady Macbeth in her flowing chiffon negligee with its bloody poinsettias. “And I shall take this opportunity to remind you, Princess O'Shea, that I am mistress here, and I am planning a few changes that certain people will not care for.”

“If that's a threat to throw me out,” Prin murmured, “it's an empty one. I am not staying in this house one minute longer than I have to, Aunt Lallie. As soon as Uncle Slater is buried, I'm leaving.”

“Good riddance!” hissed Aunt Lallie and went to the door and unlocked it. Trailing chiffon and blood, she swept out of the room.

Prin continued to sit on the edge of the bed. She was so exhausted that she thought she would never move again. And it was, in fact, a long time before she did.

13

It was not quite midnight, and Coley lay staring up at the invisible ceiling. He had been in bed only a short time, having made a couple of detours on his way back from Princess O'Shea's. He had found Winston Whitfield already nested down across the room, and Coley had undressed noiselessly. Now, lying motionless, Coley suddenly knew that Winnie was awake. He could feel it. Vibrations.

He spoke in a loud voice. “You've been awake all along, Winnie, haven't you?”

“Yes, I have,” came Winnie's voice, coldly.

“Then why the hell did you let me creep around in the dark like a dope?”

“I didn't care to talk.”

“You sore at me about something?”

“Should I be?”

“Don't play cute with me, old Winnie. You're jealous of Prin. Isn't that it?”

“Don't flatter yourself, Coley Collins. Me jealous? Ha, ha.”

“You don't like her.”

“I don't like any girl, you know that. Though if I did, I'd probably go for her.”

“That's a real compliment, Winnie, coming from you.”

There was a half-sour, half-pleased grunt. Then Winnie's voice, not quite so cold, said, “I suppose there's no mistake, Coley? You really want to marry her?”

“Yes, but don't worry. We'll work out something for you.”

“She won't let me live with you. She says she won't.”

“Well,” said Coley judiciously, “in a way you can't blame her.”

“I'll be lonesome when you go away. I may go away myself.”

“Where to?”

“I don't know. Somewhere.”

“You stay right in Cibola City. Then I won't have to fret about you. You make enough money in that stock-clerk job to get by on. Maybe I can even help you out a little now and then.”

“No, I'll be less lonesome off somewhere,” said Winnie stubbornly. “I couldn't stand your being so close and living with somebody else.”

“But she'll be my wife, old Winnie. Doesn't that make it kind of different?”

“No,” said Winnie.

“What about your snakes? If you went away you'd have to get rid of your snakes.”

There was a stricken silence. Then Winnie muttered, “Gosh, I forgot about that. You're right, Coley. I'll have to stay here.”

“It will work out just fine,” said Coley with relief. “You'll see.”

“While you live in that big house across town.” Winnie was cold-voiced again.

“That's what I thought. Now I'm not so sure.”

“How come?” asked Winnie, with a faint interest.

“Oh, just something that's come up.”

“I hope you do live there. In a big house like that you could certainly find room for me. And that girl is real gone on you, Coley, anyone can see that. So if you put your foot down—”

“The snakes,” said Coley.

Winnie sighed. Coley cursed in silence. Winnie was a bloody nuisance, but he was an amusing little devil, and Coley hated to hurt him or see him droopy-faced.

“Did Prin have to wait long for me?” he asked encouragingly.

“Oh, maybe fifteen minutes.”

“What did you talk about?”

“Nothing much. Snakes. You. How you're studying embezzlement and all.”

“You'd better go easy on the embezzlement bit, Winnie.”

“She knew all about it,” said Winnie, hotly this time. “Said you'd told her yourself.”

“I guess I did at that. Prin's all right. Understands lots of things. What else did you talk about?”

“Nothing! Just snakes and you. I told you.”

“You're a pal. Most fellows talking to a doll like Prin would have talked mostly about themselves.”

“I don't,” said Winnie shortly.

“There's no use trying to cheer
you
up. Sleepy?”

“No.”

“Well, better try. You know how early you have to get up.”

“It won't do any good.”

“You can try, can't you?”

“All right,” mumbled Winnie; and there was silence.

Coley lay brooding. He had been brooding all evening. His detours en route from Prin's had taken him into two bars, in each of which he had brooded over beer. His brooding was deep and bitter and befuddled, for what he was brooding about was Prin's revelation that Aunt Lallie O'Shea was coming into Slater O'Shea's entire estate.

It did not make sense.

Coley knew that it did not make sense.
Knew
it—not wished it, or guessed it, or heard it on the wind. Coley knew that it did not make sense because he had had very specific information to the contrary straight from the horse's mouth.

So he lay in the dark and brooded.

And after a while he stopped brooding and listened for Winnie Whitfield's breathing. When Winnie Whitfield was asleep his breathing sounded like a cage full of terrified birds trying to get away from a tiger-striped cat, with a dog on the floor near the cage trying to get at the cat. Winnie was not sleep-breathing. Winnie was awake-breathing.

“Winnie,” Coley said.

“What?” Winnie said.

“About Prin,” Coley said.

“What about her?” Winnie said.

“I know she gets on your nerves. She does, doesn't she?”

“Yes,” Winnie said.

“All right, then. If she should come around again when I'm not here, don't talk to her. Don't even let her in. Just tell her I'm not here and slam the door.”

“Hard?” asked Winnie, his voice brightening.

“Hard as you can.”

“Oh, boy,” said Winnie.

“Satisfied, Winnie?”

“Oh,
boy,”
said Winnie.

“Now try to get some sleep.”

That being taken care of, Coley went back to brooding again. And in the other room the snakes kept doing whatever snakes do at night.

14

Lieutenant Grundy was hot, damp and irritated. Office fan notwithstanding, his collar sawed at raw neck and his shoes nipped at swollen toes. He unbuttoned the collar and slipped off the shoes, leaned back in his swivel chair and sighed, and he closed his eyes.

Grundy had just returned from Slater O'Shea's funeral. His attendance had been a compromise between attending and not attending; that is, he had avoided the service at the church, but he had trailed along to the cemetery. He had not gone to the cemetery out of respect or grief. He had gone to the cemetery because that was what the book prescribed. Of course, the book prescribed it on the theory that the murderer cannot stay away from the funeral of his victim, and in this case the murderer was bound to be there anyway, as a member of the family; but perhaps the aberrant O'Shea character would manifest a guilt he could seize on.

So, naturally, they behaved impeccably. Damn contrary crew! Aunt Lallie had stood with bowed head, a scrap of black cambric pressed to her eyes, and it was actually moist afterward. Twig, who looked as if he prowled cemeteries at night for the fun of it, on this daylight occasion looked almost human. Brady O'Shea had seemed distressed. Peet had been pertly interested. And Prin, slim and grave, had presented an appearance chaotically at odds with Grundy's suspicions of her. The tearlessness of her eyes was contradicted by the pinched set of her lips; there was a touch of suffering gallantry about her. Grundy had not known whether to be sorry or glad.

He sighed again. He was not feeling as a police officer should in the prevailing circumstances. Now that Slater O'Shea had been laid to eternal rest on his subterranean couch, the wickedness that had put him there seemed not very important. Whereupon Lieutenant Grundy thought: Damn all O'Sheas to hell and back!

That was when the sergeant came into the office. “Say, Lieutenant, some young twerp name of Collins is out there, real brass monkey. Says he's got to see you in person, no stand-ins.”

“Coley Collins?” Grundy sat up straight. Princess O'Shea's boy friend had been at the cemetery, too, supporting her elbow. “You send that monkey in!”

Coley entered scowling. It was the same expression, Grundy remembered, that he had worn at the cemetery, as if in dying Slater O'Shea had imposed unreasonable demands on him, Coley Collins.

“What can I do for you?” Grundy snapped.

“It's not what you can do for me that counts,” Coley said, “it's what I can do for you.”

“That so? And just what is it you can do for me?”

“I can tell you who knocked off Slater O'Shea.”

Grundy glared with resentment. “Oh, you can, can you?” he said. “All right, sit down.”

Coley sat down calmly. Grundy rocked back in his swivel. The resentment persisted; and this was ungracious, he knew, inasmuch as Coley's information, if it could be supported by evidence, would end a case that for Grundy could not end soon enough.

“That's a pretty big hunk of real estate you've just bitten off, young fellow,” Grundy said. “Maybe you'd better think about it before you say any more.”

“I've thought about it,” Coley said. “Look, Lieutenant. Do you want to crack this nut or don't you?”

“Can you substantiate what you're going to tell me?”

“That's your job, not mine. I can only tell you what to look for.”

Grundy braced himself. “Shoot. Who murdered O'Shea?”

“His sister Lallie.”

Grundy experienced disappointment. He had half hoped for someone outside the area of his suspicions. That is, he had half hoped for a Twig or a Brady.

“Miss Lallie O'Shea is indicated by circumstances,” he said, to lead Coley Collins on.

“You mean because of the will?”

“Yes.”

“Well, that brings me to someone else who may
surprise
you. Aunt Lallie is guilty, no question about it, but she's not alone in this. No,
sir.”

Here comes my little Princess, thought Grundy, killing Coley Collins with his glance. It was made all the worse by the identity of the informer. What kind of crum was this, to betray his girl friend—especially a girl friend like Princess O'Shea?

“Well, speak up,” Grundy barked. “Who is it?”

“Selwyn Fish.”

Grundy's mouth assumed a fishlike character for a moment. “Selwyn
Fish?
The
lawyer?”

“I thought that would jar you,” said Coley Collins, smacking his lips. “Yes, sir, that slimy shyster is right in it with Lallie, and you can bank on it.”

“Fish … Where does Fish come into it?”

“With Slater O'Shea's last will and testament, that's where.”

“Which will,” Grundy asked cautiously, “would that be?”

“The one allegedly leaving everything to Lallie O'Shea.”

“Allegedly?” Grundy shot up in his chair. “What do you mean, Collins? Talk plain English, will you?”

“All right, here it is: The will that Fish claims gives everything to Lallie O'Shea is a fraud, with a forged signature.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because it has to be. Because I know as a matter of absolute fact that Slater O'Shea didn't leave a plugged quarter to his sister Lallie. Because I know as a fact that he left everything to his niece Princess O'Shea.”