The Twelve Crimes of Christmas Read Online Free PDF Page A
Author: Martin H. Greenberg et al (Ed)
elevator. If that was it, if he
was just a man Bottweill hired, he wouldn’t have had any reason to kill him—and
besides, he wouldn’t have known that Bottweill’s only drink was Pernod, and he
wouldn’t have known where the poison was.”
“Also,”
Emil Hatch said, sourer than ever, “if he was just hired for the job he was a
damn fool to sneak out. He might have known he’d be found. So he wasn’t just
hired. He was someone who knew Bottweill, and knew about the Pernod and the
poison, and had some good reason for wanting to kill him. You’re wasting your
time on the agencies.”
Stebbins
lifted his heavy broad shoulders and dropped them. “We waste most of our time,
Mr. Hatch. Maybe he was too scared to think. I just want you to understand that
if we find him and that’s how Bottweill got him, it’s going to be hard to
believe that he put poison in that bottle, but somebody did. I want you to
understand that so you’ll understand why you are all to be available at the
addresses you have given. Don’t make any mistake about that.”
“Do
you mean,” Mrs. Jerome demanded, “that we are under suspicion? That I and my son are under suspicion?”
Purley
opened his mouth and shut it again. With that kind he always had trouble with
his impulses. He wanted to say, “You’re goddam right you are.” He did say, “I
mean we’re going to find that Santa Claus, and when we do we’ll see. If we can’t
see him for it we’ll have to look further, and we’ll expect all of you to help
us. I’m taking it for granted you’ll all want to help. Don’t you want to, Mrs.
Jerome?”
“I
would help if I could, but I know nothing about it. I only know that my very
dear friend is dead, and I don’t intend to be abused and threatened. What about
the poison?”
“You
know about it. You have been questioned about it.”
“I
know I have, but what about it?”
“It
must have been apparent from the questions. The medical examiner thinks it was
cyanide and expects the autopsy to verify it. Emil Hatch uses potassium cyanide
in his work with metals and plating, and there is a large jar of it on a
cupboard shelf in the workshop one floor below, and there is a stair from
Bottweill’s office to the workroom. Anyone who knew that, and who also knew
that Bottweill kept a case of Pernod in a cabinet in his office and an open
bottle of it in a drawer of his desk, couldn’t have asked for a better setup.
Four of you have admitted knowing both of those things. Three of you—Mrs.
Jerome, Leo Jerome, and Archie Goodwin—admit they knew about the Pernod but
deny they knew about the potassium cyanide. That will—”
“That’s
not true! She did know about it!”
Mrs.
Perry Porter Jerome’s hand shot out across her son’s knees and slapped Cherry Quon’s
cheek or mouth or both. Her son grabbed her arm. Alfred Kiernan sprang to his
feet, and for a second I thought he was going to sock Mrs. Jerome, and he did
too, and possibly he would have if Margot Dickey hadn’t jerked at his coattail.
Cherry put her hand to her face but, except for that, didn’t move.
“Sit
down,” Stebbins told Kiernan. “Take it easy. Miss Quon, you say Mrs. Jerome
knew about the potassium cyanide?”
“Of
course she did.” Cherry’s chirp was pitched lower than normal, but it was still
a chirp. “In the workshop one day I heard Mr. Hatch telling her how he used it
and how careful he had to be.”
“Mr.
Hatch? Do you verify—”
“Nonsense,”
Mrs. Jerome snapped. “What if he did? Perhaps he did. I had forgotten all about
it. I told you I won’t tolerate this abuse!”
Purley
eyed her. “Look here, Mrs. Jerome. When we find that Santa Claus, if it was
someone who knew Bottweill and had a motive, that may settle it. If not, it won’t
help anyone to talk about abuse, and that includes you. So far as I know now, only one of you has told us a
lie. You. That’s on the record. I’m telling you, and all of you, lies only make
it
was just a man Bottweill hired, he wouldn’t have had any reason to kill him—and
besides, he wouldn’t have known that Bottweill’s only drink was Pernod, and he
wouldn’t have known where the poison was.”
“Also,”
Emil Hatch said, sourer than ever, “if he was just hired for the job he was a
damn fool to sneak out. He might have known he’d be found. So he wasn’t just
hired. He was someone who knew Bottweill, and knew about the Pernod and the
poison, and had some good reason for wanting to kill him. You’re wasting your
time on the agencies.”
Stebbins
lifted his heavy broad shoulders and dropped them. “We waste most of our time,
Mr. Hatch. Maybe he was too scared to think. I just want you to understand that
if we find him and that’s how Bottweill got him, it’s going to be hard to
believe that he put poison in that bottle, but somebody did. I want you to
understand that so you’ll understand why you are all to be available at the
addresses you have given. Don’t make any mistake about that.”
“Do
you mean,” Mrs. Jerome demanded, “that we are under suspicion? That I and my son are under suspicion?”
Purley
opened his mouth and shut it again. With that kind he always had trouble with
his impulses. He wanted to say, “You’re goddam right you are.” He did say, “I
mean we’re going to find that Santa Claus, and when we do we’ll see. If we can’t
see him for it we’ll have to look further, and we’ll expect all of you to help
us. I’m taking it for granted you’ll all want to help. Don’t you want to, Mrs.
Jerome?”
“I
would help if I could, but I know nothing about it. I only know that my very
dear friend is dead, and I don’t intend to be abused and threatened. What about
the poison?”
“You
know about it. You have been questioned about it.”
“I
know I have, but what about it?”
“It
must have been apparent from the questions. The medical examiner thinks it was
cyanide and expects the autopsy to verify it. Emil Hatch uses potassium cyanide
in his work with metals and plating, and there is a large jar of it on a
cupboard shelf in the workshop one floor below, and there is a stair from
Bottweill’s office to the workroom. Anyone who knew that, and who also knew
that Bottweill kept a case of Pernod in a cabinet in his office and an open
bottle of it in a drawer of his desk, couldn’t have asked for a better setup.
Four of you have admitted knowing both of those things. Three of you—Mrs.
Jerome, Leo Jerome, and Archie Goodwin—admit they knew about the Pernod but
deny they knew about the potassium cyanide. That will—”
“That’s
not true! She did know about it!”
Mrs.
Perry Porter Jerome’s hand shot out across her son’s knees and slapped Cherry Quon’s
cheek or mouth or both. Her son grabbed her arm. Alfred Kiernan sprang to his
feet, and for a second I thought he was going to sock Mrs. Jerome, and he did
too, and possibly he would have if Margot Dickey hadn’t jerked at his coattail.
Cherry put her hand to her face but, except for that, didn’t move.
“Sit
down,” Stebbins told Kiernan. “Take it easy. Miss Quon, you say Mrs. Jerome
knew about the potassium cyanide?”
“Of
course she did.” Cherry’s chirp was pitched lower than normal, but it was still
a chirp. “In the workshop one day I heard Mr. Hatch telling her how he used it
and how careful he had to be.”
“Mr.
Hatch? Do you verify—”
“Nonsense,”
Mrs. Jerome snapped. “What if he did? Perhaps he did. I had forgotten all about
it. I told you I won’t tolerate this abuse!”
Purley
eyed her. “Look here, Mrs. Jerome. When we find that Santa Claus, if it was
someone who knew Bottweill and had a motive, that may settle it. If not, it won’t
help anyone to talk about abuse, and that includes you. So far as I know now, only one of you has told us a
lie. You. That’s on the record. I’m telling you, and all of you, lies only make
it