“Drakeley Scott: Left at one-thirty to see a hardhearted Yankee banker about a farm loan. I have called said hardhearted banker and, regardless of the degree of his cardiac petrifaction, he’s done young Drakeley a good turn. Mr. Henry Worthington states that a two-thirteen P.M. Saturday Drakeley Scott was seated opposite him in the Worthington library being told that his father owed the Comfort bank enough money already, and to go peddle his dairy prospects elsewhere.
“Leaving seven.
“And still we’re not finished. I left out Merritt Pangman. His mother’s testimony about the airmail letter arriving from Japan yesterday morning pretty well covers Seaman Pangman, notwithstanding the clever theories to the contrary that could be worked up by old mystery story hands.
“Leaving, as of this moment, six.”
There was silence for some time.
“Well,” said Ferriss Adams at last, “tomorrow morning ought to see
Nobody replied.
Wednesday began with a bang. They heard the shot at the breakfast table and it brought them up like one man in a rush for the door.
A dusty convertible was hauled up at the intersection. The Hemus twins flanked it; smoke still drifted from Tommy Hemus’s gun. A pale elegant man in a pale elegant suit of gabardine and a pearl gray Homburg sat behind the wheel, sputtering.
As they ran into the road, Burney Hackett came streaking from his house on the south corner. They joined forces at the car.
“What’s ailing these thugs?” cried the stranger. His voice was fussily cultivated, falsetto with outrage. “These armed hoodlums jumped in front of my car and had the effrontery to order me to go back where I came from! When I refused, they fired a shot in the air and informed me in the most callous way imaginable that the next shot would be right at me!”
“You want to learn not to argue with a gun, mister,” said Tommy Hemus, “you’ll live longer. We wouldn’t ’a’ shot him, Judge.”
“I’m glad to hear that,” said Judge Shinn.
“Maybe put a hole through his beautiful hat,” said Dave Hemus. “I bet that lid cost more’n ten bucks.”
“Nearer thirty-five,” murmured Usher Peague.
“I told you boys not to mess with people passin’ through!” scolded Burney Hackett. “Now, didn’t I?”
“Sure you did, Burney,” drawled Tommy Hemus. “But this character ain’t passin’ through. He’s bound for Aunt Fanny’s house.”
“What is this?” shrieked the elegant man. “Isn’t this a public thoroughfare? I wasn’t speeding, was I, breaking any of your piddling hick laws? Will someone please explain!”
“Calm down, sir,” said the Judge. “May I ask who you are and why you want to visit Fanny Adams?”
“Ask anything you ruddy well please, I don’t have to answer you. Damned if I will!”
“Of course, you don’t have to answer, sir. But it would simplify matters if you did.”
“The name will mean nothing to you, I’m sure,” the man said shortly. “I’m Roger Casavant—”
“The art critic?” said Johnny.
“Well! There’s a fellow with at least a primeval culture—”
“Holy smoke,” said Ferriss Adams. “I’m responsible for this, Judge. Mr. Casavant phoned last night. I meant to tell you about it this morning. He asked for Aunt Fanny. Naturally—”
“Naturally,” said the Judge. “Mr. Casavant, you have an apology coming. Been driving all night?”
“Most of it!”
“Then perhaps you’ll join us in a bite of breakfast. No, leave the car here. The boys,” and Judge Shinn glanced at the twins, “will take very good care of it, you may be sure. It’s all right, Burney...”
It turned out that Roger Casavant had telephoned the night before to ask Fanny Adams if he might not drive up to see her.
“I suppose you might call me,” the art critic said, a little mollified by Millie Pangman’s ham and eggs, “the world’s leading authority on the painter Fanny Adams. I recognized her genius long before the others and I flatter myself that I’ve had a little something to do with the burgeoning of her career. A great artist, gentlemen! One of the greatest of the modern primitives. As a matter of fact, I’m her biographer. I conceived the idea over a year ago of doing her life and a definitive critique of her place in modern art, and she’s been gracious enough to give her consent and cooperation. She made only one condition about my book, that she have final say as to its factual content. I phoned last night to tell her that the first draft of the manuscript was finished. I meant to ask her permission to bring it up so that we could discuss any changes she wanted. Instead,” and Casavant glared at Ferriss Adams, “some furtive-sounding pinhead refused to call her to the phone and gave me such a slimy line of jabberwocky that I became seriously concerned. After all, I said to myself, she’s a very old lady and she does live alone. I was so alarmed I decided to drive right up... only to find my worst fears realized!”
“I’m afraid they’re even worse than that, Mr. Casavant,” said Judge Shinn. “Fanny Adams was murdered last Saturday afternoon.”
