know you'd' be playing house dick this morning? Ask the local cops to trace Bogarty's car. I assume he didn't come here on foot?"
"It's not that," she answered. "Jim Calder didn't go home last night. He hasn't showed up since."
Aggie felt a recrudescence of the prickling sensation he had experienced when he saw the knife in the door. The undue worry his aunt had shown, and the urgent behavior of Mr. Calder, began to take form. Something was happening that Sarah would not talk about. At least-that she had not talked about. He waited for her to go on.
"The Calder cottage," she said, "is being done over. Jim's room is finished-and he was there last night--and the night before--with Gannon, his butler. The rest of the Calders, Beth, and Bill and Martha--are at the Draymans for the moment. That's Martha's mother's house. They didn't see their father last night. Gannon says, this morning, that Jim must have left the house after he'd gone to bed. He came over here, anyhow. What time was that?"
"Around eleven?"
"Maybe half past. He didn't sleep in his bed last night. He hasn't been seen since."
"And you think he picked up Mr. Bogarty's knife, walked off on our road toward his home, ran into Bogarty, attacked him, and that they both killed each other and hid each other's bodies?"
"I'm--worried--that's all."
"Look, Sarah. Have you got any reason to believe that Mr. Bogarty would do harm to anybody? Or that the unpleasant Mr. Calder--my prospective father-in-law--
would snatch up a sheath knife and disappear with it, after--say--poking it into somebody? If you have, I think you ought to tell me."
Sarah considered. "No."
"I can bank on that?"
"Well--plenty of people hated Jim. Even old John. Jim robbed him--virtually--and poor old John thinks I don't know it. There's a good deal of unforgotten injury and unrequited hate in every place that has been established for generations, and is as closely knit and as self-centered. But there's no definite reason--no." Aggie had risen. "Where are you going?"
"Out," he said. "As a matter of principle, I refrain from applying my undoubtedly immense analytical power to the problem of love triangles. Danielle versus Martha does not interest me. I don't know what Martha is like, but I'd say, offhand, that this Bill was a fool not to have married Danielle, if he ever had the chance. It would have been exciting.
But I will saunter around until I can reduce your worries about Mr. Bogarty, the missing Westerner, and Mr. Calder, the missing meanie. They bother me, a little. Telegram, knives in doors, people not showing up, people vanishing, knives vanishing--yeah. I'm going out."
Sarah smiled with relief and a certain small malice. "In the Plum blood stream,"
she said, "there's a gene of nosiness."
Aggie remembered the clubhouse foyer as accurately as he had the living room of Rainbow Lodge. Deer heads on the paneled walls. Mounted fishes. A prodigal fireplace.
A desk--like the desk of a hotel. A medley of furniture: Victorian mahogany, rustic hickory and birch, wicker and chintz. There were people sitting around in the foyer when he entered. Somebody was playing table tennis on the glassed-in porch. Waiters were serving luncheon to the early customers in the dining room beyond the archway.
Aggie walked to the desk, behind which stood a man of his own age, a powerfully built man with amiable features and eyes that were attentive and at the same time somber, as if he had resigned himself to living with an indelible disappointment. He regarded Aggie politely, although with a shadow of amusement at Aggie's oddity, and he asked,
"What can I do for you, sir?"
The professor leaned across the desk, tugged at his Vandyke, and said,
"Remember, Jack, when we sealed up the wasp nest with adhesive plaster and put it in Byron Waite's bureau drawer?"
The club manager stared uncomprehendingly.
"--or--the time you and I rigged up a bucket of water in the Patton bathhouse so it would
"It's not that," she answered. "Jim Calder didn't go home last night. He hasn't showed up since."
Aggie felt a recrudescence of the prickling sensation he had experienced when he saw the knife in the door. The undue worry his aunt had shown, and the urgent behavior of Mr. Calder, began to take form. Something was happening that Sarah would not talk about. At least-that she had not talked about. He waited for her to go on.
"The Calder cottage," she said, "is being done over. Jim's room is finished-and he was there last night--and the night before--with Gannon, his butler. The rest of the Calders, Beth, and Bill and Martha--are at the Draymans for the moment. That's Martha's mother's house. They didn't see their father last night. Gannon says, this morning, that Jim must have left the house after he'd gone to bed. He came over here, anyhow. What time was that?"
"Around eleven?"
"Maybe half past. He didn't sleep in his bed last night. He hasn't been seen since."
"And you think he picked up Mr. Bogarty's knife, walked off on our road toward his home, ran into Bogarty, attacked him, and that they both killed each other and hid each other's bodies?"
"I'm--worried--that's all."
"Look, Sarah. Have you got any reason to believe that Mr. Bogarty would do harm to anybody? Or that the unpleasant Mr. Calder--my prospective father-in-law--
would snatch up a sheath knife and disappear with it, after--say--poking it into somebody? If you have, I think you ought to tell me."
Sarah considered. "No."
"I can bank on that?"
"Well--plenty of people hated Jim. Even old John. Jim robbed him--virtually--and poor old John thinks I don't know it. There's a good deal of unforgotten injury and unrequited hate in every place that has been established for generations, and is as closely knit and as self-centered. But there's no definite reason--no." Aggie had risen. "Where are you going?"
"Out," he said. "As a matter of principle, I refrain from applying my undoubtedly immense analytical power to the problem of love triangles. Danielle versus Martha does not interest me. I don't know what Martha is like, but I'd say, offhand, that this Bill was a fool not to have married Danielle, if he ever had the chance. It would have been exciting.
But I will saunter around until I can reduce your worries about Mr. Bogarty, the missing Westerner, and Mr. Calder, the missing meanie. They bother me, a little. Telegram, knives in doors, people not showing up, people vanishing, knives vanishing--yeah. I'm going out."
Sarah smiled with relief and a certain small malice. "In the Plum blood stream,"
she said, "there's a gene of nosiness."
Aggie remembered the clubhouse foyer as accurately as he had the living room of Rainbow Lodge. Deer heads on the paneled walls. Mounted fishes. A prodigal fireplace.
A desk--like the desk of a hotel. A medley of furniture: Victorian mahogany, rustic hickory and birch, wicker and chintz. There were people sitting around in the foyer when he entered. Somebody was playing table tennis on the glassed-in porch. Waiters were serving luncheon to the early customers in the dining room beyond the archway.
Aggie walked to the desk, behind which stood a man of his own age, a powerfully built man with amiable features and eyes that were attentive and at the same time somber, as if he had resigned himself to living with an indelible disappointment. He regarded Aggie politely, although with a shadow of amusement at Aggie's oddity, and he asked,
"What can I do for you, sir?"
The professor leaned across the desk, tugged at his Vandyke, and said,
"Remember, Jack, when we sealed up the wasp nest with adhesive plaster and put it in Byron Waite's bureau drawer?"
The club manager stared uncomprehendingly.
"--or--the time you and I rigged up a bucket of water in the Patton bathhouse so it would
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