A Pint of Murder Read Online Free PDF Page B

reach out and give that treacherous little mat a yank?
    Why should he think it was funny to do a thing like that? He was old enough to realize the possible consequences. Maybe he didn’t do it to be funny. Kids could harbor grudges as well as grownups, and Janet had had a little sample last night herself of how nasty the doctor could be.
    Bobby might even have thought he was doing something great for his mother. He might know something about a jar of string beans and a much-needed inheritance. He might very well have heard through the village grapevine that Janet Wadman was coming to show his grandfather something strange she’d found in the cellar up at the Mansion. Little pitchers had big ears.
    Janet found she was having a hard time trying to swallow the coincidence that Dr. Druffitt had died just when he did. It was, however, frighteningly easy to credit the possibility that somebody hadn’t wanted him to see that jar. If Bobby Bascom could have heard about her errand, so could lots of other people. If he could have done that stunt with the mat, so could others.
    A doctor’s waiting room was a public place. Anybody could walk in through the waiting room. Everybody knew this was Mrs. Druffitt’s club day, and that she’d be upstairs getting herself dolled up for the occasion. Everybody knew Dot Fewter wasn’t working here today. Everybody knew everything about everybody, in Pitcherville. Somebody might still be lurking close by, wishing Janet would leave so that he could make his getaway. Why hadn’t she thought of that sooner? She was almost out the front door when Fred Olson barged in and stopped her.
    “What happened, Janet?”
    “We’re supposed to think he slipped on the mat and banged his head.”
    Fred either didn’t catch the implication or chose to ignore it. He opened the office door and stood gazing down at the thin, elderly body sprawled on the gleaming parquet. “Poor old Hank. Never knew what struck him, I don’t s’pose. That’s a blessin’, anyhow.”
    He knelt and prodded at the back of the skull, his blackened stubs of fingers tender as a mother’s. “Yep, dent there you could get your fist into. Looks as if there’s nothin’ to do now but send for Ben Potts.”
    “Ben Potts?” cried Janet. “You can’t just bundle him over to the undertaker without a doctor’s certificate, can you?”
    “No, I guess not, come to think of it.” Olson scratched his raspy chin. “I might get hold of ol’ Doc Brown. You prob’ly ain’t heard he’s back in town. Livin’ with his married daughter Amy out beyond the Jenkins place.”
    “Dr. Brown? I didn’t even know he was still alive. He must be crawling on for ninety.”
    “So what? He’s still a doctor, ain’t he? Might perk the ol’ geezer up to make one last house call. You told Elizabeth yet?”
    “No. I—it didn’t seem right to leave him alone. I thought I’d better call you first.” Janet realized she was backing away from the body. She supposed she couldn’t blame Olson for backing away from such a ghastly responsibility.
    “Better get ’im up on the examinin’ table an’ haul a sheet over ’im before she comes. Be an awful shock to her, seein’ him like this. Ben won’t be back till suppertime. He’s got a funeral over to West Jenkins.” He bent and picked up the smaller, slighter body and swung it around toward the black leather-covered table.
    “Watch out for his head!” Without quite realizing why, Janet put out her hand to shield the skull from the edge of the desk.
    “Can’t hurt it no more’n it is already,” the marshal said grimly, but Janet wasn’t paying any attention. Almost of their own accord, her fingers were exploring the shattered cranium.
    “Fred, feel this dent again.”
    Reluctantly, he did. “It’s busted all to hell an’ gone, sure enough. What more do you want me to say?”
    “Feel the shape of the break, I mean. Don’t you notice how round and smooth it is? Shouldn’t it be