XII
I STOOD UP, shaking. âTell them,â I insisted, pointing to the window. âTell them now or theyâll accuse you of favoring me.â
Tiffin smiled smugly and walked to the window where the reporters were. I ran out of the room to the kitchen. Mrs. Larson was still there, looking bewildered and apparently finishing a good cry. I patted her, said, âIt will be all right, Ma.â and went to the telephone.
When I had The Press, I said, âThis is OâHara at Delhartâs. Get me rewrite.â They did and I went on: âAssistant County Prosecuting Attorney Godfrey Tiffin of Teneskium County today let zeal overcome common sense when he arrested an obviously innocent man for the murder of Carson Delhart, Portland millionaire.â
âHey!â someone spluttered into the phone.
âTake it,â I said, âand sign it Jeff Cook. He wants that lead used. Heâs out getting more dope.â That seemed to do the trick and after spouting some more I hung up. I turned to Mrs. Larson.
âTim will be okay,â I assured her again.
She was crying again. âThat big booby,â she sobbed. âHe confessed.â
I had to sit down. My knees simply went to pieces. I dropped into a convenient kitchen chair and stared hopelessly at her, trying to digest what she has said. She nodded vehemently at my incredulous expression. âHe did.â
I had really put myself out on a limbâand how Jeff Cook would love me for it. If only she had told me before I phoned in the story! But I took a deep breath and tried again. Heâs just protecting Glory,â I said. âEven Tiffin should know that.â
Before Mrs. Larson could answer, Jocko threw open the kitchen door. He had the glint of a legal eavesdropper in his eye. âI let you say it, Addy,â he told me in that deceptively mild voice of his. He wasnât happy now. âTo teach you a lesson. He wasnât protecting her. They had a fight and heâs sore.â He took my arm and pulled me into the passage. His grip was as gentle as his voice, and just as deceptive. âAddy, you go slow.â
âI donât care,â I said. âTim wouldnât do a thing like that. And she wouldnât either. I donât care.â I wanted to cry. I felt miserable. I stood there, fighting back tears and reasoning with myself. After all, I was supposed to be an impartial reporter in this case. If I let my emotions take control I would be of little use to anyone: myself, The Press, or Tim Larson.
âNow, Addy,â Jocko said, âthey did fight. He admitted it. He knew she was cheating on him.â I waited for him to go on. When he did I was startled, but not stunned as I had been by Mrs. Larsonâs statement. Jocko said, âShe was cheating on him with Hilton.â
After I had absorbed that one I managed a laugh. âIn that case, Jocko, he wouldnât have killed Delhart. He would have killed Hilton. And anyway, Glory wouldnât be an accomplice.â
âTim Larson,â he said, âthought Delhart was Hilton. He admitted he killed the wrong man. Glory told him Hilton was bothering her and egged him on. He found out too late that it was she who had been bothering Hilton.â
âOh, Jocko,â I said, âand you fell for that. You know Tim Larson too well to be such a sucker.â
Jocko shook my arm a little. âAddy, a man in love like Tim was will do most anything. Tim said it was after he did the killing that he fought with her. He even tried to kill her he got so mad. He threw her in the water. Thatâs why she got so wet.â
âTake it easy, Jocko,â I said. âThat doesnât fit in with her story.â
âOf course not,â he said. He snorted like a horse. âThink sheâd implicate herself by telling you?â
âIt doesnât hang together,â I said stubbornly.
âYes it does. Tim didnât even know he had killed the wrong man until Hilton called him to go on that search. It makes sense, Addy, and weâll prove that it does.â
âThe confession wonât hold in court,â I said.
âWe wonât need it. Weâll get plenty of evidence without it. And enough to put her right alongside Tim.â
I didnât say anything but I was thinking, âThat still doesnât account for everyone else in this household being scared half to death.â And not only after Delhartâs murder but the day before as well.
I did the only thing I could to save face with Jocko. I walked out on him. I went upstairs, straight to Gloryâs room. The deputy at the door refused to let me in. I did everything but kiss him and he only got red and mulish. It was obvious that I lacked charm and technique, maybe both. I went away from there feeling low. I wanted to be in on Gloryâs reaction when the confession statement was broken to her.
I heard movement as I drifted past Daisy Willowâs room. On impulse I knocked. There was no guard here, so evidently Tiffin regarded the case as all but closed.
âYes?â The voice didnât sound like Daisy.
âItâs Adeline OâHara,â I said. âCould I see you for a moment?â
The door opened and Mrs. Willow stood there. By daylight she looked rather formidable. She was still short and tubby but she held her ground like an Irish fishwife. She had been pretty once, not many years ago, but it was obvious that she hadnât bothered to fight her middle-aged spread and had turned dowdy. Her hair was still a nice, rich brown and well cared for. Her makeup was well done. But her dress was atrocious.
âMay I come in?â
âWe have no statement to make,â she said flatly. She wasnât being so sweet today. I liked her even less than I had last night. I looked over her shoulder and saw Daisy standing at the vanity in a slip. She looked as if she had been crying.
âI just came to see if Miss Willow is feeling better.â I said. Mrs. Willow filled the doorway and there seemed to be no chance of getting around her. âAnd,â I added, trying again, âto get your reaction. The feminine viewpoint.â I watched her closely to see if she bluffed easily. âI have to send in a story of one kind of another.â
âAt the proper time âŚâ she began.
âDo you want the publicity to be good or bad?â I demanded. I said it more sharply than I intended but I could see Daisy making pleading motions at me, beckoning me in. So I shot my bolt. And it worked. People as precariously and necessarily in the public eye as the Willows were couldnât afford bad publicity very often.
âYour taste is extremely bad,â Mrs. Willow informed me. Her dark eyes glowered at me and she set her mouth like a trap. But she stood aside. Once, I imagined, she had a pretty cupidâs bow mouth. But I was willing to bet that a bad disposition had made it turn down at the corners like it did. She looked about forty-five.
âGet a robe on,â she told Daisy tartly. She shut the door behind me. Daisy got into a robe all right but not before she had given me a chance to see purplish marks on her shoulders. I could easily imagine Mrs. Edna Willow doing that.
I made myself comfortable in a pinkish boudoir chair and lit a cigaret. Mrs. Willow wasnât going to change her antagonism and I certainly wouldnât bother to put myself out to conciliate her. She sat on the edge of the bed, very stiff and defiant. Daisy was at the vanity bench, playing at making up.
âYou know the news, I suppose,â I said chattily.
âI was being interrogated when the young man confessed,â Mrs. Willow said.
âThen thereâs no point in my asking whose felt hat is missing, is there?â
I couldnât have asked for nicer reactions. Daisy went white, as if she would try her fainting act again. She held onto the sides of the vanity until her knuckles showed the strain. She said nothing at all.
Mrs. Willow was far less flamboyant about it, but it would have taken a blinder person than I to miss seeing that it got under her skin. And deeply.
She tightened her lips and looked poisonously at me. She held that a moment and then she expelled her breath. âYou insolent creature!â
âWell, whose hat was it?â
Mrs. Willow took a moment to get control of herself, and then decided to play the scene differently. âWhat is this absurd story of a hat?â
âIt seemed to upset Miss Willow,â I said, nodding in her direction. Daisy was staring hopelessly at me.
âI donât know why it should upset her,â Mrs. Willow said. âShe is upset over this horrible thing, naturally. It has been a ghastly experience. I tried to calm Arthur. But he is very excitable. Very.â
What this lovely gibberish had to do with a hat, I didnât know. I said, âYou mean it was Arthur Frewâs hat?â
âStop it!â Those were Daisy Willowâs first words and she shrieked them hysterically. âStop itâplease! It was fatherâs hat and you know it.â
That was what I had been waiting for. And for Mrs. Willowâs reaction to it as well. But she disappointed me. She even seemed to expand under this statement. âOh, that hat?â Her voice was a masterpiece of indifference. âWhy didnât you say so, dear?â She asked Daisy. She looked at me and shrugged. âShe is so upset. You see, Titus brought an old fishing hat along. Yesterday he misplaced it. He was annoyed.â
âMiss Willow seemed to think the hat is connected with the murder,â I said.
But Mrs. Willow was equal to anything I could hand out. She certainly was taking this back-handed accusation of her husband in stride. She said, almost amiably, âDonât be a fool, child. Someone borrowed Daddyâs hat. Or he misplaced it. This is another hatâif there is one at all. There are a lot of disreputable hats, you know. Any number of them.â
She was too calm about it. And she was overdoing th...