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  "You'd have had it, Sims," said Bart. "You see that, Dick?"

  Dick said, "We'd both have had.it! Whew!"

  "Come along," barked Bart, "and get on wdth this tour. 'Whew' is right!"

  "I'm sorry," Marshall said below. "I didn't know . . ."

  "No harm," said Bart. "Just close."

  Johnny looked at Dick Bartee. "Wasn't it?" he said, with satisfaction. Because he knew! %.

  Marshall sitting in Bart's office a little later said, "Say, I nearly goofed with that match, eh? I guess it would have been serious?"

  "You bet," said Bart crisply. "A fool thing to do. Well, you didn't know any better. What can I do for you?"

  It took Marshall a moment to remember. Finally he snapped his fingers. "You and Dick never got down to draw up the papers on the business. Occurred to me I'd better tell you. Fellow in L.A., name of Harris, called me a month ago. Asked me what I knew about Dick. References, character."

  "Why?"

  "This Harris lends money. Said Dick was in to see him a month ago. Well, I kinda stalled on Dick. Talked you up pretty good."

  "Me?" said Bart a trifle tartly. "Am I Dick's secmity?"

  "This is what I—Harris didn't say what security he was being offered."

  "What security could Dick offer a month ago?" Bart frowned.

  "His fiancee's money? I just felt I should mention . . . Since Sims got here and stirred up some doubts."

  Bart looked cold and stiff. "Quite a few things have been stirred up," he said, "since Sims got here."

  "What things?"

  Bart said, "Doubt. Not proof."

  "Where's Sim&now?"

  Bart glanced out the window. "His car is gone. I think you ought to talk to him." Bart drummed on his desk. He looked so grim and withdrawn that the lawyer went away.

  CHAPTER 16

  Johnny knew!

  Reason had nothing to do with it. It was experience. He knew, clear and plain, that Dick Bartee would just as soon have seen Johnny seriously injured, hors de combat, or even dead, by accident, in the winery. He would have taken the

  risk to himself to be rid, and innocently rid, of Johnny Sims and Johnny's questions. Not too much risk, actually. Dick would have saved himself, since he was warned; he knew what to expect if Marshall lit a match. But he had made no warning sound for Johnny's sake.

  The tour speeded up and became a perfunctory walk through various rooms. It ended in a reception hall where a young woman was ready to pour the guests some samples of the product. At this point, Bart excused himself and took Marshall off to his oflBce.

  So the girls and Johnny and Dick, waited at the counter for the young woman to pour them sherry.

  "Better give John Sims a double dose," said Dick. "His nerves are shot. Cheer up," he said to Johnny. "A miss is as good as a mile."

  The man was made of brass!

  Nan turned, "Oh, Johnny, too badi The wine might help." She was sorry for him and his weakness.

  Johnny, standing there, knew that his conviction had shaken him. To his surprise, it was worse than the doubt. Now that he knew, he looked like a man who had had a bad shock. He said, "Nan, I want to talk to you alone." "Oh, not now, Johnny ..." "Now," he said.

  Nan took a wine glass and turned it in her fingers. She lifted her chin. "Johnny, I don't think we will ever talk alone again," she said gently. ''You must understand. I am going to be mairied. Won't you di'ink to that?"

  (What is known as a "winning smile," said something cynical in Johnny's head.)

  "All right," said Johnny. "TU drink to that, if you want. Then, will you listen to me?"

  Dick's arm came aromid her. "What do you want to say?" he inquiied. "The same old pitch? I killed Chiisty Mc-Cauley?"

  "Oh, Johnny," said Nan, in a voice of impatience and disappointment.

  Dorothy said, bright-eyed, "You see, we can't believe that, Johnny."

  "Then, please excuse me," Johnny said tightly. He felt alone in the world. Let down. Ineffectual.

  What had he not done? Where had he not looked yet

  for the evidence? The proof, damn itl He had no proof and the law would want it. He must get proof for the law because the law could take Bartee away from Nan.

  An hour later, he eased his old Plymouth into the crossroads settlement called Twomey.

  It didn't take long to locate the Bartees' old yardman, whose name was Delevan. Johnny caught him in his backyard. "I'm hunting up people to talk to," said Johnny, "about the McCauley murder, seventeen years ago."

  Delevan was about fifty, strong of limb, with a crooked nose on a pushed-in face. He leaned on his spade.

  "I understand you were there. In a hammock, or so I heard." Johnny liked this man at once and grinned at him companionably.

  'That's right," said Delevan. "I was in the hanunock. So the old man fired me. That was a long time ago. I used to sleep up there more times than the old man heard of. Hadn't been for the cops—" Delevan leaned on the spade handle and took out cigarettes. "Why do you want to talk about it?"

  Johnny made his speech about Roderick Grimes.

  "But you weren't called as a witness, I understand?" he finished.

  "Nope. They didn't bother." Delevan looked up at^the sunny skies. '^ nice night, that was. I was swinging and having a smoke . . ."

  "When?"

  "Around midnight. Around the time. Somebody killed a woman in the house and there J, was, swinging and smoking and thinking."

  "This haiimiock was among the trees at the front of the house?"

  "Right."

  "Then you must have heard Clinton McCauley."

  "Heard him and saw him, too."

  "Start from the beginning."

  "Where does it begin?" Delevan grinned. "I was swinging and thinking. I heard just what you hear in the night. Little crickets. Wind blowing. I hear cars."

  I'Cars?"

  "Sure. Planes, too. You know what you hear in the night."

  "The boy, Dick Bartee, had some kind of car, didn't he?"

  "Yup. Some kind of car."

  "Did you hear that car, that night?"

  "Buddy, this was seventeen years ago," said Delevan tolerantly. "I tell you, I hear cars. On the roads."

  Johnny said, "The Upper Road is the one that goes by in back of the Bartee house?"

  "Right."

  "Could a car come in from that Upper Road and get to the back of the house?"

  "Why not? Only I'd have heard a car come that close."

  "You couldn't have seen?''

  "Couldn't see through the house."

  "He could have walked—You tell it." Johnny subsided.

  "O.K. So I'm swinging there. I heard the bus. You can tell a bus. They got a woosh to their doors. So I know who this is coming. CHnton McCauley."

  "You know him?"

  "I knew everybody in the house. This McCauley's got no car. If anybody's getting off the bus in the night, why it's him."

  ;;Well?"

  "I douse my cigarette. He doesn't have to know I'm there. Takes a long time before I hear him on the road. So pretty soon I can see him weaving up the front steps. So he unlocks the door and he goes in."

  "Then what?"

  "Nothing. For a while.''

  "You couldn't see the side of the house?"

  "Nope."

  "Where the study is? No lights?"

  "Sure, I could see hghts."

  "What Hghtsr

  "Well, like I told the police, there was always a light in the hall downstairs. And I can see that, kinda dim, through the glass in the front doors. I can't tell from where I was, whether the study's got a light or not. I can only see the hght upstairs."

  "What light upstairs?"

  "Nathaniel's room."

  "Which was that?"

  "Front and to the right when you're facing like I was. I could see him plain."

  "You mean, he was up and around?"

  "Sure he was. He was painting a picture."

  "When could you see Nathaniel. Before
or after Mc-Cauley got there?"

  "Both," said Delevan. "I told you, I was swinging and enjoying the night. Fact, I was thinking about Nathaniel Bartee and me. There he had the big house, the money behind him. But I was thinking I'd rather be free and swinging out there in the hammock with practically nothing to my name but the clothes I had on—than I'd be Nathaniel who wants to paint pictures and has to do it in the night when the house i.s sleeping and the old man can't catch him."

  "How long were you watching Nathaniel?"

  "Oh, a long time. He had on some kind of funny shirt. He's standing up in front of this picture. I'm smoking—oh, two or tluee cigarettes. Then, I hear the bus. I put my cigarette out. I can hear McCauley on the road after a while, but I can't see him yet, account of the trees, so I don't botlier looking. I'm watching Nathaniel.

  "So, as I say, McCauley goes inside. Few minutes later, the Hght goes on in the old man's room."

  "Where is that?"

  "Front. On the left. Old lady turned it on. Nathaniel heard something when the hght went up. He stopped p^int-ing.

  "Now, wait a minute. You are telling me that you had your eyes on Natlianiel for quite some time before McCauley got tliere, up to and after the hghts went on in the old man's room?"

  "Yup. That's what I'm telhng you."

  "You told the police this?"

  "I did. Listen, I was Nathaniel's alibi. He never left that painting 'til—oh, I'd say quite a while after the Hghts were on in the old man's room. Then he heard something, because he takes off that crazy shirt, quick, and gets into his bathrobe. Then, I can't see him no more.

  "Then the hghts go on downstairs, front right. And lights start popping all over the house. Well, I don't know what's going on. I just He there. The pohce showed up, maybe fifteen minutes later."

  "What did you do?"

  "I went and talked to them."

  Johnny looked at him with respect. "I see. You went and told all that you knew?" "Right."

  "You heard no quarreling, no voices?" 'Didn't. Couldn't have."

  "Why didn't they call you at the trial, I wonder?^ "Listen, nobody was trying to prove Nathaniel did anything," Delevan said. "They didn't need me to say that McCauley walked into that house."

  "Could she had been dead when he walked in?" "How could she been? Nathaniel was painting his picture. He didn't hit her. The old man didn't hit her. I saw him getting up out of his bed before the old lady pulls the shade. The cook and the maid, they're sleeping downstairs in the back wing. Why would they hit her? McCauley was the only one who woulda hit her." "And you heard no car?"

  "I told you I heard plenty cars. Loud at night. Up and down the roads."

  "Somebody could have got into the house at the back, on foot, without you seeing?"

  "You're pushing,'' Delevan said, "Sure. They could, all right."

  "Do you think it's possible that the boy, Dick, might have got into the house at the back?"

  "Mister," said Delevan patiently, "it's possible. A whole platoon coulda got in at the back. Anything's possible." "You think it was McCauley?"

  Delevan shrugged. "It wasn't Nathaniel. That I know. He was a sad kind of guy." Delevan frowned. ''Well, see, it was pretty quiet. Now, I'd have heard a window breaking—not that one broke. I'd have heard a screen being cut-not that one was cut. One thing I might not have heard. That's somebody with a key, sneaking in at the back door. But this is nothing."

  "Nothing," agreed Johnny. "Can you tell me exactly how long it was between McCauley's entering the house and the hghts going up?"

  "Few minutes," Delevan shrugged. "I was swinging and thinking. And time, you know—unless you go by the watch-it don't always seem to take the same time for a certain time to go by." Delevan kept frowning.

  Johnny perceived that there was doubt. But doubt wasn't enough.

  He went back to his motel in Hestia. Tried to call Grimes. No answer. Tried Copeland. He meant to beg tlie lawyer to come down. Nan would talk to him, alone. But neither of Copeland's phones answered.

  I need help, thought Johnny in panic. She's going to marry a killer and I can't stop itl I am the la^t one who can stop it!

  CHAPTER 17

  That Thursday afternoon, the old lady was pleased as punch that there was going to be a wedding in the house tomorrow. She talked about weddings she had known and her nurse, Miss Adams, sat by, making dull agieeable, nmse-like remarks whenever the old lady lost the thread of her recollections, ^an seemed to be listening to them pl^ECidly" while she, slowly, with the daintiest care, put tiny stitches in a new hem on Dorothy's white silk dress.

  Dorothy, following a busy Blanche around the house, helping where she could, thought Nan looked like a httle girl, curled up in tlie chair, hfer dark hair han-ging around her cheeks, the wide silk skirt spread over her lap. A little girl in a dream. Dorothy had not argued with the dieam today.

  The Bartee men had not been about since the winery tour. A house preparing for a sudden wedding, Blanche said, was no place for a man. Blanche, in some different way, was in charge of the house.

  Blanche had made a very short list. ". . . just one or two couples, very close friends." She had said to Nan, "And your Mr. Sims, of course."

  But Johnny was not to be found. Dorothy had called the motel three times dming the afternoon. No answer. Wherever Johnny was, he did not know yet that tlie wedding was being arranged. Dorothy worried.

  Nan sewed peacefully. Nan pressed the new hem, tried the dress on, with Blanche present. Then Nan said she would wash her hair, would pack, would nap. Dick was coming for her very late in the afternoon, when they would go for their Ucense.

  By four o'clock, the clergyman was promised, the guests bidden, food planned, marketing accomplished, the big parlor pohshed. Blanche sent the old lady out of the parlor. Blanche was mistress of the house today; the old lady went meekly. The old lady had retreated to a position of being the ancient pet, there—but not in charge.

  "We'll do more flowers in the morning," Blanche said to Dorothy. "I'd better order the corsages. What are you wearing?"

  "A pink dress," said Dorothy. "Nearest I have to looking hke a bridesmaid."

  "Then I'll wear pink, too. That might look nice. Let's see how well we match."

  Dorothy went softly into the back bedroom. Nan, on the bed, slept, or played possmn. Her hair in pins. Face innocent and fair. Dreaming. No use to try to wake her. Dorothy took her pink dress into Blanche's bedroom.

  "What a huge room!"

  "Isn't it glorious? This used to be the older Bartee's, 'til we had to move mother downstairs. This dress might do."

  Her pink matched Dorothy's well enough. "So that's that," sighed Blanche.

  "You must be tired."

  "Sit down, shall we? I'll have a cigarette. No, I'm not tired. I think the house will look well."

  "Will Nan and Dick hve in the house?" Dorothy asked.

  "Oh, I don't know," said Blanche, "whether they will at an/'

  "You'd rather they didn't?"

  Blanche lifted her chin. "This place is Bart's. I'd rather Bart—we—didn't give up any part of it." Blanche was not meek today.

  "I can understand that," Dorothy said.

  "You're not awfully pleased about this wedding, are you?" asked Blanche. (They were two females with their hair down.)

  "No, I just wish they had waited."

  "But you do know Dick never killed anybody?" Blanche sighed. "I'm so glad all that is out in the open."

  "Were you fond of Dick? Ever?" Dorothy asked.

  "Fond?" frowned Blanche. "I was fifteen years old."

  Dorothy said sagely, "I guess there is no such word as 'fond' when you're fifteen years old. You can be awfully flattered if a famous wolf pays any attention."

  "I think that's exactly so." They smiled at each other. "I just love Bart," Blanche said hke a child. "I think I was afraid of Dick, really."

  "You're not afraid of him now?"

  Blanche didn't answer. Dorothy was sitting on the edge of a
big four-poster. She put her cheek against the tall mahogany post. "But McCauley is innocent, so Johnny says."

  "Surely he doesn't say so, now?" Blanche showed surprise.

  "The man must be obsessed then," Dorothy said, sadly.

  "Obsessed?"

  "McCauley himself, I mean. You know, Johnny talked to him."

  "Oh, did he? In the prison?"

  "Yes."

  "It's sad," Blanche said.

  Dorothy felt nervous and restless suddenly. "The "McCauley's lived here? Where did they stay?" she asked.

  "The room you girls are in. Mother Bartee once told me. All three of them, I beheve."

  "Three? That's right, there was a baby."

  "Yes."

  "Kate said she felt sorry for the baby." ("Her mama killed, her papa sent up, and not true, either." Dorothy remembered what Kate had said.)

  "I'm sure," said Blanche, "that was very kind of Kate."

  "What became of the baby?"

  "We don't know."

  ''Don't knowr

  "The aunt took her."

  "Aunt?"

  "His sister. What was her name? She was a little tiger. Dad says. I never saw her. I was away at boardingschool by the time she came back and raised all the fuss. They say she fought and fought. Oh yes, she took the baby. Can't think of her name. I know it began with an E."

  if:.' I

  1.

  Dorothy's hand squeaked on the mahogany post. "What was the baby's name?'' she asked.

  Blanche concentrated. "Mary."

  Dorothy relaxed. "Why didn't the baby stay here?"

  "Well, I believe Mother Bartee thought in terms of bad blood. Father a criminal, you know? Then, of course, the aunt was so determined. She was going to take the baby away and keep the whole thing from her."

  "What do you mean?"

  "The child wasn't ever to know what really happened to her parents. That's why we don't know where she is or anything about her."

  "I see," said Dorothy. She felt another wave of nervousness. "Look, you must want to rest a while . . ."

  "The truth is," said Blanche smiUng, "I had better wash some stockings. Thanks for all your help, Dorothy."

  Dorothy hurried downstairs. Her breathing was upset. She tried Johnny's number again. Still no answer.

  The house was very quiet. Ready. Waiting for a wedding.