Pity Him Afterwards

Just like that. Out of desperation, more than anything else; the silence had been getting uncomfortable. For lack of anything better to do, he’d kissed her.

It was a short kiss, and not exactly a ball of fire. Then he sat back a little ways, looking at her, listening to something thudding in his chest, and wondering what her reaction would be.

She smiled. “I thought you’d never do it,” she said.

Quarter after two, and nothing was happening. Sondgard paced through the house, back and forth, back and forth, from front door to kitchen to front door to kitchen. From behind the closed doors of the rehearsal room came the drone of the rehearsal; Ralph Schoen was in there with Dick Lane and Alden March, who had three scenes alone together. Schoen couldn’t work with any of the others, because Loueen Campbell was in so many scenes, and he didn’t want to have someone else reading her lines. He had some sort of mystical director’s reason for this, having the actual actors present for the early rehearsals, so Sondgard hadn’t argued the point. But it left all four of his suspects at loose ends, here and there throughout the house.

In a way, that might be good. The killer would have nothing to distract his mind. He would have to think about the three-o’clock deadline. He would have time and leisure to worry.

But it was now quarter after two, and still nothing had happened. It was time, Sondgard thought, to apply a little extra pressure. So he broke off his pacing and went in search of his suspects.

He found Tom Burns first, sitting in the dining room at the long table there, a bottle and glass in front of him. He was drinking slowly but steadily, and he was doodling with a pencil on a sheet of paper, drawing sleek, highly chromed automobiles. He looked up when Sondgard entered, and waved cordially. “Greetings, Hawkshaw. Get yourself a glass.”

“No, thanks.” Two hours ago, they’d all been gathered in this room for lunch, a meal as uneventful as the morning’s, but even quieter. There had been no questions for him that second meal. Sighing, he sat down across from Tom and said, “You know Eddie Cranshaw very long?”

“Eddie who?”

“Cranshaw. You know, the skinny guy with the missing fingers.”

Burns frowned in concentration. As always, his mobile face exaggerated the expression, making it seem unreal. Or was it unreal? It was so hard to tell what a maniac’s face would look like.

Burns at last shook his head. “I don’t know the guy at all,” he said. “Cranshaw? With missing fingers? What a description.”

“You know, Everett Lowndes’ friend.”

“Is that the guy owns the place down the road?”

“That’s him.”

“I met him once, but I don’t know any of his friends. We borrowed a chandelier from him.”

“A what?”

Burns laughed. “Yeah, doesn’t it? A chandelier. Remember, three seasons ago, The Apple Seed? That dog of a thing. You saw it, didn’t you?”

“It sounds familiar.”

“So it needed a chandelier. The whole family keeps talking about the chandelier, remember?”

Sondgard nodded slowly. “It’s coming back to me,” he said.

“Well, this guy Lowndes had a spare chandelier in his basement, and he loaned it to us. Weighed a ton. We had to borrow Anderson’s truck, it wouldn’t fit in the wagon.”

“And that’s the only time you met Lowndes.”

“I suppose he’s come to the shows sometimes, I wouldn’t know.”

“That’s right.” Sondgard rubbed his palm against his forehead. “To think,” he said. “Three murders. I can hardly believe it myself.”

Burns looked startled. “Three? I only know about one.”

Sondgard looked at him, blinking in pretended befuddlement. “Did I say three? I hope to God that wasn’t a presentiment.”

“Eric, dear heart, are you trying to be cute with me?”

“I couldn’t be cute with anybody right now, Tom. I’m exhausted. I just wish three o’clock would get here.”

“Do you really think I might have bumped off poor Miss Cissie Walker?”

“Who knows who did what?” Sondgard got to his feet. “I’m liable to go take a nap on Bob’s bed,” he said. “I’ll see you later.”

“Have fun, Hawkshaw.”

As Sondgard went out, Burns poured himself another drink.

Would this work? He had no idea; but he was willing to try anything now. He would go through the same routine with each of them, hoping to catch some sort of reaction from the names, or the description of Eddie Cranshaw, or the “mistake” in the number of murders. Or, at the very least, to rattle the killer a little more, convince him that Sondgard was getting closer.

He went out to the hall and to the stairs and started up, intending to rouse out one of the other three, when he met Ken Forrest coming down. “Ah, there you are,” he said. “I’ve been looking for you.”

“For me?” There was no fear, or guilt, evident in Forrest’s eyes. He was, in fact, smiling helpfully, eager to be of assistance.

“I was wondering how long you knew Eddie Cranshaw.”

“Who?” Forrest glanced up the stairwell, as though expecting to find someone named Eddie Cranshaw up there. “He’s not somebody here, is he?”

“No, he’s Everett Lowndes’ friend. With the missing fingers.”