Gallows in My Garden Read online

  “The gallows in my garden, people say,

  Is new and neat and adequately tall.

  I tie the noose on in a knowing way

  As one that knots his necktie for a ball;

  But just as all the neighbors … on the wall …

  Are drawing a long breath to shout ‘Hurray!’

  The strangest whim has seized me … After all

  I think I will not hang myself today.”

  From G. K. Chesterton’s

  A Ballade of Suicide

  Young Donald Lawson was familiar with

  that poem … yet now his body hung

  dead on a crag. Murder or suicide, Manville

  Moon was already on the case, as

  bodyguard to Don’s beautiful sister

  Grace. For Grace’s life was threatened,

  too, and to protect it Moon found himself

  crossing fists and guns with hired

  killers, and fencing desperately with

  Grace’s friends, family and fiance, any

  one of whom might have wanted to kill her.

  THE GALLOWS IN MY GARDEN

  by Richard Deming

  The Gallows In My Garden

  Richard Deming

  a division of F+W Media, Inc.

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter I

  Chapter II

  Chapter III

  Chapter IV

  Chapter V

  Chapter VI

  Chapter VII

  Chapter VIII

  Chapter IX

  Chapter X

  Chapter XI

  Chapter XII

  Chapter XIII

  Chapter XIV

  Chapter XV

  Chapter XVI

  Chapter XVII

  Chapter XVIII

  Chapter XIX

  Chapter XX

  Chapter XXI

  Chapter XXII

  Chapter XXIII

  Chapter XXIV

  Chapter XXV

  Chapter XXVI

  Chapter XXVII

  Also Available

  Copyright

  TO MY MOTHER

  who would prefer me to write innocuous tales about members of Dover Place Church

  I

  THE REASON SO MANY PEOPLE catch me in bed is not that I spend more time there than anyone else, but only that between jobs, which is most of the time, my slumber hours are odd, being roughly contingent on the closing-hours of taverns. In addition it was a Saturday in the middle of July, and the brick courtyard next to my bedroom gathered all the heat it could absorb from a bright sun and shoved it through my window.

  I was therefore sleeping naked without covers when the most beautiful woman I ever met dropped in at high noon.

  It takes me longer to get from bed to the door than most people, because I first have to strap on an intricate contrivance of cork, aluminum, and leather which substitutes for the lower part of a right leg I contributed to the war effort. As a result I was still nude when a soprano voice from the front room called, “Anybody home?”

  “Stay where you arel” I yelled, then added in a lower tone, “Unless you’ve had children and are over seventy.”

  A girlish giggle indicated my caller was somewhat less than seventy, so I advised her to wait ten minutes while I made myself presentable. It was closer to fifteen before I accomplished this chore, including a rapid shave. I always shave before investigating female callers who get me out of bed, because a bent nose and one drooping eyelid is enough handicap for a face, without adding whiskers.

  When I finally emerged from the bedroom, I found her standing before the mantel in my front room. It is hard to describe the first impact of her beauty, and useless to try to catalogue its details, for no one of her attributes would have been outstanding in a crowd of any hundred college-age girls. She was about nineteen or twenty, of average height, average slimness, average blondness of hair and blueness of eye.

  Yet some wondrous alchemy combined her various average features into an effect which was shattering. Perhaps it was partly her appearance of crisp coolness in an oppressive heat which had already begun to wilt my fresh collar, or perhaps it was simply personality bubbling within her, for the difference between prettiness and beauty is mainly a thing of poise and manner. Whatever it was, it caught me between the horns like a club, although from the advanced senility of my thirty-two years I rarely glance twice at women under voting age.

  When I finally got my mouth closed, I realized she had said something.

  “I didn’t catch that,” I said.

  “My name is Grace Lawson,” she repeated. “You’re Mr. Moon?”

  “I think so,” I said, still off center. “Sit down so you won’t break.”

  I led her to my favorite chair and released her hand only after she sat down.

  “Have a drink?” I asked, fumbling with the rye decanter, then changing my mind. “No, you’re too young. Smoke?” I lifted the lid from my cigar humidor and dropped it on the floor.

  “No, thanks,” she said, smiling. Apparently she was used to men stumbling over their own feet when they first met her.

  I said, “Pardon me,” poured breakfast into a shot glass, tossed it off, lit a cigar, and regained my equilibrium. When I took a seat on the sofa across from her, I found I could regard her without shooting any embolisms.

  “You’ve come on business,” I said. “That’s a deduction.”

  She smiled again. She had a smile that made you want to do something about her. Nothing drastic, for she was not the bedroom-eyed type. You didn’t want to take her in your arms; you wanted to pat her on the head.

  She asked, “How did you deduce that?”

  “Elementary. Pretty girls never call on me socially.”

  “You’re probably being modest,” she said, “but I did come on business. Do you charge much?”

  “More than I’m worth. Tell me what you want before we discuss rates.”

  “I couldn’t pay very much,” she said. “I don’t get my money until I’m twenty-one, and all I have is five hundred a month allowance.”

  I blinked. “You’re virtually a pauper. How old did you say you are?”

  “Going on twenty.”

  “In school somewhere?”

  “The state university summer session. I had to make up two courses I dropped. I’m a junior.” “Where’d you hear of me?”

  “The woman who owns El Patio recommended you. The night club, you know.” “Fausta Moreni?” I asked.

  “Yes, Fausta. Arnold and I have dinner at El Patio now and then. We were telling Fausta about the attempts on my life, and she recommended I see you.” Her lip corners lifted in a light grin. “She said if I made eyes at you, she’d cut my heart out, but she was only fooling.”

  “You don’t know Fausta,” I told her. “Let’s start at the beginning. Somebody’s trying to kill you?”

  “I think so. Once the saddle girth on my riding-horse was cut, presumably so I’d fall, and once my milk was poisoned, and once a flowerpot fell from an upper window when I was coming in late at night, and it broke right next to me.”

  I sat up straight. “You think so! You’re lucky you’re alive. How’d you escape all that?”

  “Just luck, really,” she said. “The saddle girth was cut so far it snapped soon as my weight hit the stirrup. And the milk was poisoned with something that smelled strong, so I didn’t even taste it. Uncle Doug had it analyzed—he’s a doctor, you know—but I’ve forgotten what the poison was. Of course maybe the flowerpot was just an accident. It missed me several feet.”

  “You report all this to the police?”

  “Oh, no. You
see it almost has to be someone in the house, so we wouldn’t want the papers to get it. Uncle Doug has been sort of investigating, but since Don ran away last week, Arnold and I have been wondering if that’s enough. We think maybe someone tried to kill Don, too, and he ran away because he was scared.”

  “Who is Don?” I asked, somewhat numbed by the barrage of names she had just thrown at me, and deciding to sort them out one at a time.

  “My brother.”

  “Wait a minute,” I said. “Your name is Grace Lawson? The kid who disappeared last week is your brother?”

  “My older brother, though not much older. Don was born just eleven months before I was. Last Sunday he left a note and ran off without even taking a suitcase.”

  I asked, “Aren’t you and your brother scheduled to inherit Fort Knox or something at twenty-one? I didn’t read the news item on it very carefully.”

  “We each get some money at twenty-one,” she admitted. “Unless whoever is after us succeeds in killing us. Then it goes to Ann.”

  I held up one palm. “For some reason you only confuse me, the more you talk. Maybe it’s because you run in names and act like I ought to know them, or maybe it’s only your dazzling smile. But let’s go back and start over. Begin by telling me all about yourself and your family.”

  “Well, there’s not very much about me,” she said. “I go to State U., but I live at home and drive back and forth. It’s only fifteen miles, you know. We live in Willow

  Dale. My mother died when I was born, and Daddy was killed in an auto accident a year ago. Ann is my stepmother, but I call her Ann because she’s only twelve years older than me, and more like a pal than a mother. Uncle Doug is Doctor Douglas Lawson, Daddy’s younger brother. He’s a bachelor and a regular dream, and if he weren’t my uncle and I weren’t in love with Arnold, I’d marry him even though he is an elderly man of forty.”

  Momentarily I contemplated the eight years remaining between me and the wheelchair, then asked, “Uncle Doug live in the house?”

  “No. Well, in a way. He has an apartment in town, but he visits so much we gave him his own room. He’s always there week-ends. But just Ann, Don, and I really live there.”

  I said slowly, “A minute ago you said whoever is trying to kill you must live in the house. You mean Ann?”

  “Oh, no!” she said quickly. “It couldn’t possibly be Ann. Though she, Don, and I are the only real residents, we have lots of regular visitors. There’s Mr. Mannering, the family lawyer. He has his own room, too. And Arnold. And Abigail Stoltz, the painter. She’s an aunt of Ann’s and visits week-ends a lot. And Gerald Cushing, who runs the drugstore chain for the estate. Daddy started the Lawson Drug chain, you know. Then there are five servants. All those people were around when the attempts were made on me.”

  “Who is this Arnold you’re in love with?”

  She seemed surprised that everybody didn’t know Arnold. “My fiancé. Arnold Tate. He’s a graduate student in English Lit. at State U. He’s going to be a professor, and some day a university president.”

  “Going to buy him a university?”

  “Oh, no,” she said, wide-eyed. “Arnold wouldn’t permit that. We even have to live on his salary after we get married, though I can use my money to educate the children if I want.”

  “White of Arnold,” I said. “Now tell me about the will. How is the money set up?”

  A half-frown creased the skin between her eyebrows. “I don’t believe the will has anything to do with someone trying to kill me.”

  “Maybe not,” I said, “but tell me anyway.”

  “Well,” she said reluctantly, “it seems Daddy wanted to be sure we children got the big share, though I don’t think it was very nice of him not to trust Ann to do the right thing. She’s awfully nice, really. Of course he provided for her. She has income for life from a half-million-dollar trust fund, and the use of the house as long as she wants, though she can’t sell it. Even the house’s maintenance is provided for through another trust fund, so Ann doesn’t have to worry about taxes or upkeep or servants’ salaries or anything. Then there were some bequests to charities and fifty thousand dollars to Uncle Doug and ten thousand dollars, I think it was, to Maggie, the housekeeper. The rest is held in trust for Don and me, or the survivor if one dies, until we reach twenty-one, when we each get half, providing we don’t marry before that.”

  “How was that last again?” I asked.

  “That was because Don ran off and married a waitress when he was eighteen,” she said. “He was always a little wild. Daddy had it annulled, and according to the will, if either of us marries before twenty-one, we get only one hundred thousand dollars and the rest goes to the other. If we both marry, or both die, Ann gets the bulk of the estate and all the trust funds are sort of canceled out.”

  “I see. How much is the bulk of the estate?”

  “Quite a lot. I don’t remember exactly. Once I asked Mr. Mannering, but I forget whether he said eight or eighteen million.”

  I got up and poured myself another drink. It didn’t help much.

  “Just offhand,” I said, “it looks like Don has the best motive for knocking you off, and your stepmother has the best motive for quenching you both.”

  “Oh, no,” she objected. “Ann doesn’t even know about the attempts on my life.” I noticed her objection did not extend to brother Don, which rather intrigued me.

  “Who does know?” I asked.

  “Only Arnold and Uncle Doug. I don’t think it has anything to do with the will. I think probably one of the servants is insane.”

  “That’s a sound theory,” I agreed. “Let’s hire a psychiatrist to psychoanalyze everybody. What is it you want me to do now? Act as a bodyguard?”

  “Well, I thought you could sort of investigate around to find out what’s going on. You’re a private detective, aren’t you?”

  Generally I say yes when a potential client asks me that, but to my own amazement I found myself telling the truth. “Theoretically. But I specialize in bodyguarding. You might call me a professional bodyguard.”

  “The card under your doorbell reads, ‘Manville Moon, Confidential Investigations.’ “

  “All right,” I said. “I’m a false advertiser. ‘Confidential Investigations’ sounds better than ‘Professional Bodyguard.’ I’d be glad to guard your body for a fee, but investigation of the attempts on your life ought to be made by the police.”

  Her lower lip thrust out. “Fausta Moreni said you made investigations like this. She said you even solved some murders.”

  “I have on occasion,” I said patiently. “But always when the police were on the case, too. If I start poking around for a potential murderer without the cops knowing anything about it, and he happens to get you before I get him, the district attorney is going to ask nasty questions. The state doesn’t issue private detective licenses because it thinks the regular police need competition. Private dicks are supposed to supplement police work, not substitute for it.”

  She looked disappointed. “I thought maybe you could come up as a guest, say a friend of Arnold’s, and sort of look around without exciting anybody.”

  “How could I investigate without exciting anybody? You can’t get to the bottom of a thing like this without asking questions. I’d have to check the people who handled the poisoned milk, whoever saddled your horse, who was awake when the flowerpot dropped. You think a casual house guest who starts prying like that isn’t going to excite anyone?”

  “Well, gee,” she said uncertainly. “I wouldn’t want to call the police without checking with Uncle Doug first.” The two little lines appeared between her eyebrows again, then smoothed away, and she threw one of her stupefying smiles directly into my face. “Would you come up just over the week-end and look around? Then Monday we’ll either let the police know, or I’ll release you.”

  Before I could recover from the smile, I heard myself saying, “I suppose I could do that.”

  She rose in p
reparation to leave. “I’ll drive back to school and pick up Arnold. I’m supposed to be in class now, but I cut. We’ll come by for you about six. Supposedly you’ll be driving down from the university with us, in case anyone at home asks. I guess you’d better be a graduate student in English literature, too, so Arnold can cover for you if anyone asks you questions about Shakespeare or something.”

  “All right,” I said. “I read Shakespeare in high school. Imagine I’ll be able to fool the servants, anyway.”

  After she left I remembered I had never told her my rates, which indicates the effect she had on people, for even my worst enemies have never accused me of lacking a certain hardheaded commercial sense.

  II

  FAUSTA MORENI IS THE ONLY WOMAN I ever got excited enough about to want to marry, but that was a long time ago. We met when I was twenty-four and she was a nineteen-year-old refugee from Fascist Italy. From Rome on north, Italians are neither as dark-skinned nor black-haired as the southern variety which constitutes most of America’s Italo-American population. Fausta was from Rome and she had snapping brown eyes, light-tan skin, and vivid blond hair.

  All during the war I carried her picture in my wallet and the memory of her comic accent, quick movements, and soft lips somewhere inside me. The trouble was my memory was of a naïve youngster bewildered by a strange country and needing a strong man’s protection. But when I finally returned home Fausta wasn’t in need of anything. She had become, peculiarly enough, a professional blackjack dealer, and one of the highest paid in the country at that. Possibly her success was due as much to her opponents’ concentrating only half their minds on the cards and the other half on trying to beat down her resistance to their personal designs as it was to pure skill, but nevertheless her employer thought enough of her to leave her El Patio when he suddenly departed with a bullet through his head.

  No sooner had the will been read than Fausta closed the casino and converted El Patio into a restaurant-night club. It was a smart move, for not only was the legitimate business less precarious, but it made as much in the long run by charging outrageous prices, and Fausta was an extremely rich woman at twenty-seven.