Chapter Twenty-Four

IT WAS NOON WHEN Stewart, the district attorney, descended on us. Here was a big case, the sort to make him if he handled it right. Don Morgan’s death had been merely another murder, sensational largely because it had taken place on the Wainwright property. But now Maud Wainwright herself was dead. Suicide or murder, it was big news. His car that day was followed by three or four others of various vintages, containing reporters and photographers. I saw him myself, posing at the playhouse door, a half dozen cameramen around him, with Hopper out of range and looking more sardonic than ever.

The papers had the picture the next day. Evidently both Hopper and Jim were willing to give him enough rope to hang himself, for the caption read: District Attorney Says Mrs. Wainwright Suicide. All in all the procession looked rather like a Cook’s tour, with Stewart in the lead showing various points of interest. “The body was here, boys. You can see where it’s outlined with chalk. The gun was there, in the pool. Very sad case. Very sad indeed. Shows that money isn’t everything, doesn’t it?”

Jim managed to keep the reporters out of the house itself. But Stewart was in his element, sitting in the library with Tony, Dwight Elliott, Jim, Hopper, and when he sent for me, myself. “How did you happen to go to the playhouse last night? This morning, rather?”

I told him as well as I could, the sudden waking, missing Roger, and all that followed. He listened, his small shrewd eyes fixed on me.

“When you started for this playhouse did you have a key?”

“I never thought of it.”

“You were there to put out a fire, and you had no key?”

“I didn’t start with that idea.”

But he was plainly suspicious of me. He looked around the room, as though asking for their admiration. Nobody moved.

“You had no idea that the playhouse door would be already open when you got there?”

And at last I saw red. “Oh, what’s the use of all this?” I said desperately. “Somebody murdered Mrs. Wainwright here last night. If you’ll stop asking fool questions and posing around here, we might find out who did it.”

He never forgave me for that. He kept on pounding questions at me, however. What about the safe? Had I known the combination? Had I left it open the night before? Why had Mrs. Wainwright wanted the jewels listed and where was the list? Tony listened in somber silence. Hopper smoked steadily. Mr. Elliott examined his fingernails and tapped on a table. But there was no stopping Stewart. He brought in Hilda and the other servants, one after the other. Had they noticed a change in Mrs. Wainwright lately? Had she been depressed, low in her mind? Was there a chance she had hidden Tony’s gun somewhere, for her own purposes?

Tony broke it up finally. “Tell him about the list and the missing envelope, Pat,” he said, “and let’s get the hell out of here. I’ve had all I can stand.”