Hanged for a Sheep (6 page)

“Well?” Aunt Flora said. “Enough to wake the dead! I'm surprised at you, Alden.”

The major and Ben stood up and the major spoke. He said, “Sit down, mother.”

“It won't wake the dead,” Pam said, unexpectedly. And then to the major, who seemed most in control of things, “Who is it?”

The major looked angry. His face was red.

“Won't let us look,” he said. “Nonsense, eh? Wouldn't expect it of Sand.”

There were flashing lights now from the door leading to the breakfast room. That would be the photographers. And a bell clanged outside—that would be the ambulance, coming or going. Then Pam heard a familiar voice and after a second Bill Weigand stood in the doorway. Pam got up and went across to him and said, “Hello, Bill.” Then she turned and faced the others.

“This is Lieutenant Weigand, everybody,” she said. “Of the Homicide Squad. An acting captain, really.”

“All right, Pam,” Bill Weigand said. His hand touched her arm. “Quit shaking, Pam,” he said. His voice was quiet and confident, as if she would quit shaking once he told her to. She quit shaking.

“Well, young man,” Aunt Flora said. “So she sent for you, did she? In spite of what I told her?”

She seemed to be talking to Weigand, but she was evidently talking to Pam. And Pam answered.

“It isn't that, Aunt Flora,” Pam said. “It isn't the arsenic. This is something else—a man. In the breakfast room.”

“Absurd,” Aunt Flora said, with vigor. “Perfectly absurd. What's he doing in there, dearie?”

“Well,” Pam said, “he's dead, darling. I'm terribly sorry.”

“Should think you would be,” Aunt Flora said. She seemed about to go on, but Weigand held up a hand. He spoke quietly, but Aunt Flora stopped talking.

“You're Mrs. Buddie?” Weigand asked. “Pam's aunt?” He did not wait for her to answer, but said, “Right.

“I'll want some of you to look at him in a minute,” he said. “As soon as the Medical Examiner has finished. It won't be pleasant but—.”

“What do you think we are, young man?” the major broke in, testily. “Bunch of old women, eh? Think we've never seen dead men before.”

“Well,” Weigand said, his voice still quiet. “Many people haven't, you know. I gather you have, Mr.—is it Buddie?”

“Major,” the major said, more testy than ever. “Naturally it's Buddie. What would it be, eh?”

“Smith,” Weigand said. “Or Jones. Well, Major, we'll let you—.” He broke off as somebody spoke to him from the room behind. He said, “Right, Mullins.” Then he turned back and spoke to the major. “All right, Major,” he said. “Suppose you have a look, since you don't mind.”

“Don't be a fool,” the major said. “Of course I mind. Nasty business. Nasty head wound, from the looks of it. What do you think I am, man? Eh?”

Weigand looked at him, half smiling. The major made throat sounds, but marched toward the door. Weigand let him go through, told the others to wait a moment, and followed him. There were the voices of several men from the breakfast room. Then the major came back, looking not so ruddy. He looked at Aunt Flora in embarrassment. He cleared his throat. Then he spoke hurriedly.

“It's that husband of yours, mother,” he said. “Got himself killed. Sorry to tell you. Hate to be the one—.”

“Don't mumble, Alden,” Aunt Flora said. She looked at Major Buddie with interest. “Didn't kill him, did you, son?” she enquired. She seemed to expect to be told.

“Oh,” Clem said, very suddenly. She stood up, slender in a long, fitted blue robe. “The snake—somebody's killed the snake.” She turned to her sister. “Darling,” she said. “Somebody's killed the snake!”

Judy looked pale. She held out her hand toward Clem. “Don't, Clem,” she said. “Don't talk like that.”

“I should think not,” Aunt Flora said. “So you called him ‘snake' did you—you—you—flibbertigibbet. I'll have you know—” She broke off. “Anyway,” she said, “it was very disrespectful, dearie. When he was your—” She paused again to consider. “Your step-grandfather,” she said. “Poor Stevie.” She did not, it was clear, care to pretend great grief.

“She's just interested,” Pam thought. “I suppose she's just run out of other feelings.”

Bill Weigand was back in the door again. He looked at her a moment.

“Pam,” he said. “I'd like to talk to you a minute. To start with. Not here. Right?”

“Yes,” Pam said. “Of course. Can we use the library, Aunt Flora? And—and I'm terribly sorry about poor Stephen.”

“All right, dearie,” Aunt Flora said, sitting down in a swirl of red. “Of course you are. Everybody's sorry. But nobody's surprised, are they?” She looked around her family. “All down on poor Stevie, weren't you? All of you. Thought he was after your share, didn't you? All of you.”

“Mother,” Major Buddie said, “you talk too much. Too much nonsense, eh?”

His mother stared at him. Then she stared at Ben. Ben was still standing, looking a little shocked.

“Well,” she said. “Say something, Ben. Unless you shot him.”

If Ben planned to speak, Lieutenant Weigand's words stopped him. Weigand still spoke quietly, but his voice had a new timbre.

“What makes you think he was shot, Mrs. Buddie?” Weigand asked. “Nobody said he was shot.”

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

W
EDNESDAY

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 thing, 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—