What To Do Until The Undertaker Comes (1971) by Tobias Welles

W.T.D.U.T.U.C.
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what to do until
the undertaker comes
by Tobias Wells
Boston Detective Knute Severson
had never questioned his life, his
profession or his own inner convic
tions. Within the span of a few days
the routine of his job and personal
life leave him vulnerable to the
doubts and turmoil whose resolve
can only come with time and lonely
thought.
A seemingly academic murder
case plagues Knute because of mis
takes made during the _investigation
and unusual difficulties in appre
hending the murderer. Lucilla Rog
ers, estranged from her husband, is
found dead in her bedroom by her
two children. The murderer could
easily be a jealous husband or a
jealous boyfriend. Maybe it was the
children who struck the unexpected
note of tragedy in the case - they
seemed so pathetically alone and
for some unknown. reason, terrified.
(continued on back flap)
What to Do Until the Undertaker Comes
Books by Tobias Welles
WHAT TO DO UNTIL THE UNDERTAKER COMES
DINKY DIED
THE YOUNG CAN DIE PROTESTING
DIE QUICKLY, Dl::AR MOTHER
MURDER MOST FOULED UP
DEAD BY THE LIGHT OF THE MOON
WHAT SHOULD YOU KNOW OF DYING?
A MA'ITER OF' LOVE AND DEATH
What to Do Until the
Undertaker Comes
TOBIAS WELLES
PUBLISUF.Jl FOR THE CflJME CLUB BY
DOUBLEDAY & COMPANY, INC.
GARDEN CllY, NEW YORK
1971.
All of the characters in this book
are fictitious, and any resemblance
to actual persons, living or dead,
is purely coincidental.
First Edition
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number 79-1390.73
Copyright © 1971 by Deloris For.bes ..
All Rights Reserved
Printed in the United States of America
To Mary and Andy Stronczer with love
What to Do Until the Undertaker Comes
CHAPTER ONE
It was my thirty-fourth birthday.

It fell on the second of my scheduled two days off
from Division One of the Boston Police Department. It
fell on a Monday so that even Thelma Bruley, my gal
Thursday who cleans my apartment every week, didn't
come in and say, "Happy birthday, Knute."
My cat, Mein Hair, just blinked at me when we woke
up and he promptly went out for some air right after
feeding. I was too proud to call Benedict or anyone else
and remind them that it was my birthday.
Even my mother didn't call the whole solitary day.
So that night I went out.
Not that I was lonely. I didn't get lonely. It was just
that it was my birthday, my thirty-fourth, and I figured
I could tell some stranger it was my birthday and not
feel like a fool.
I went into a bunch of bars I never frequented. I
drank more than I usually drink. Long about midnight
I found myself in one called the Punchy Lion and
also I found myself pretty well potted so I said good
night to my newfound friends-there must have been
half a dozen of them I'd picked up along the way-and
went home.
2 What to Do Until the Undertaker Comes
The next morning I had a hangover and, since Bene
dict was testifying in court, I was grateful that I could
hang around the office and catch the phone. Which is
why I was sitting at my desk when this kid wandered in.
He was just about the saddest-looking little kid I'd
ever seen. He was only a little taller than my desk and
he put two red-mittened hands on the top of it and
peered over it at me. I said, "Hi." He didn't say any
thing, just watched.
I looked over at Davoren who had his desk at right
angles to the entrance to the detectives' office and
whose job it was, in part, to pass people in and out.
He raised his eyebrows and started to come after the
kid. I waved him away.
I leaned forward and asked solemnly, "Can I do
something for you?''
His baby lips parted, he couldn't have been more
than five years old or so, and I could see neat little
teeth inside. His mouth was the palest pink. I'd heard
the corny phrase "lips like rosebuds" before, but now I
knew what it meant.
"Are you a policeman?'' he asked in a grave, childish
voice.
'Tm a detective. Knute Severson's my name. What's
yours?"
"Jonathan. My name is Jonathan Rogers. I'll be five
years old next week."
"Is that so? Congratulations. Are you going to have
a party?"
He frowned, a worried frown of sudden concern.
What to Do Until the Undertaker Comes 3
"I don't know." He thought about it. "I don't think so."
I put my elbows on my desk top and leaned my chin
on my fists. This brought me, more or less, down to
his level. "Are you lost?"
A vehement shake of the head. "No. I live at 631
Haven Street. I'm not lost."
"That's good. You're a real smart boy to know your
address. How about your phone number?"
"We don't have a telephone. We just moved in." I
looked up at Davoren again. Maybe the kid's mother or
father were somewhere around. I couldn't get over the
feeling that the little guy spelled trouble. It wasn't his
clothes. he seemed to be dressed all right and he wasn't
crying, nothing like that. He just looked so damned sad.
I got up from my desk and went around to where
he stood. Davoren and I were the only ones in the office
at the moment, the time being noon and most of the
crew being out on runs or eating lunch. I could see the
whole of Jonathan Rogers then. He had on a dark blue
snow suit and red boots to match his red mittens. The
boots were on the wrong feet and I thought he'd prob
ably pulled them on himself. I knelt down beside him.
"Are you looking for somebody?"
He nodded.
"Who?"
"You."
I picked him up, he was lightweight, and sat him on
the desk top. "Here I am. What can I do for you?''
"Come home with me."
"Come home with you? Now?"
"Yes. Now, please."
"But doesn't your mother . . . ?" I stopped in mid
question. Captain Granger's office door flew open,
banged against the side of the wall. "Davoren." The
captain's voice was unusually loud. "Is Benedict in or
out?"
"Out, Captain," I answered, Benedict being Detec
tive First Grade Lawrence Benedict, my partner. "He's
in court on that Morse case, you remember, the assault
and battery,"
"Corne into my office, will you, Knute? I want to talk
to you." The captain disappeared behind his door.
"Jonathan," I said to the little guy, lifting him down,
"can you wait a little bit? I'll drive you home."
He nodded, settled himself in the chair by my desk.
His rnismated, red-booted feet hung just over the edge
of the seat. He sure was a cute kid, if only he didn't
look so sad. I went in to see Granger.
"Shut the door, will you, Knute? And sit down."
I did so. He was pawing through papers on his desk
as he often did when I sat before him. As though he
didn't have time to simply talk, but must keep at least
three cases ahead of himself at all times. He said, with
out looking up, "Has Benedict told you what he's up to?"
I shook my head. "I don't . . ."
"Here. Read this." He tossed a sheet of paper across
to me. I began to read, glanced up once at Granger and
then back to the letter. When I'd finished, I handed it
back to him.
"I'm not really surprised," I said matter-of-factly.
"He's got an income, you know, and Barbara has her
own money. I don't blame him for wanting to retire
when he's young enough to do something else. And, as
he points out, he's the forty-four year old father of a
three-and-a-half year old daughter." Really surprised, I
wasn't, but my nose felt slightly out of joint. Why didn't
Benedict tell me first?
"It comes at a God-awful time." Granger scowled.
"You'd think he'd care more about his pension."
"He's got twenty years under his belt. I guess he fig
ures that's enough. Besides, you can't tie him to the job.
If he wants out, he wants out."
Granger growled. "I know. I guess it gets me because
it should be me instead of Benedict. I keep thinking
about it-but that's as far as it goes." He gave me a sud
den smile. "I guess I'm chicken."
"Aren't we all? Thirty days' notice, he gives. What
happens now?"
"We'll have to break in a new man. You'll have to
do most of the breaking in. 111 send a request into Stan
hope Street. God knows who they1l send us."
I thought about that. I'd been working with Benedict
for seven, almost eight years. We'd gotten pretty close
in that time. Before that, I'd been a rookie detective
under Mert Jacques. He'd been my idol and I'd been
on stake-out with him the night he got shot and killed.
So here I was, thirty-four years old with twelve years
on the force and I had to begin again with a new man.
Some of the guys said it was like taking a new wife. I
wouldn't know. I'd never been married.
"Well," said Granger, dismissing me, "I thought you
should be the first to know."
"Yeah. Thanks." I started for the door.
"Knute."
"Yes, Captain?"
"Maybe we'd better get on the ball and see about
making you detective first grade, huh?"
"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir." And with that thought in
mind, I wandered back out to the squad room. There,
sitting just as I'd le£t him, was the little guy in the dark
blue snow suit with the red boots on the wrong feet.
"Are you ready now?" he wanted to know.
"Ready? Oh, yes. Okay, Jonathan, let's get in a big
car and go somewhere." Pinkerton and Dracutt had
come in while I was in Granger's office so I told them
where I was going. ''I'll grab a bite before I come back,"
I added. "If Benedict shows up, tell him 111 be at
Clancy's having lunch."
Jonathan Rogers reached out a red mitten and took
my hand. I rocked him in the front seat of my car and
said, "631 Haven? Right?"
"Yes. That's where I live."
I glanced at him. Square little jaw, eyes forward,
hands in lap. I wondered what his bag was, ventured
a guess. "Did you tell some of the kids you could get a
ride in a police car? If so, I don't know that they11 be
lieve you. This one isn't marked."
He looked at me, obviously confused. "No, I guess
you didn't," I answered myself. I glanced back at him.
"Were you looking for me special?" I didn't think so,
the way he'd wandered in hadn't seemed deliberate.
He shook his head to my question and I dropped the
subject. Maybe his mother would know why young
Jonathan marched himself into Division One and asked
to be taken home. I was willing to bet, no matter how
bravely he acted, that he'd gotten lost. Maybe his folks
were of that breed, that rare breed that taught him the
police were his friends. "When in trouble, find a police
man." Possible. Not probable in this day and age, but
possible.
Haven Street was a mezza-mezza neighborhood.
Single family houses in a row, some with fresh paint,
others �th fading shingles or peeling clapboards. Num
ber 631 was a combination of the two states of repair,
the trim around the windows and door looked fairly
fresh, but there were plastic squares tacked across the
front windows in place of regular storm windows,
and there was an overflowing trash can at the side of
the porch. Packing stuff in it mostly, it appeared to be
debris from moving.
Jonathan sat where he was in the car and just
looked at the house. I said, "This is it, isn't it?" He
nodded his head.
I opened the door. "Come on, I11 go in with you."
I wanted to talk to his mother. He was too little to be
wandering around all by himself.
"Yes." He said the word as though he'd expected me
to do just that, but still he made no move to get out of
the car. I walked around and opened the door for him.
"Come on," I said again. Then, "Are you afraid of
something? Your mother, is that it? Will she be mad at
you? Did you go off without her knowing?"
"No." He stepped slowly out onto the curbing. I took
his hand and we went up the walk, me nearly pulling
him along. I didn't see a doorbell so I knocked on the
door.
"It's all right," said Jonathan. "We can go in."
"Isn't anyone home?" I had my head turned to ask
the question so I heard the door open before I saw who
opened it.
An older kid, a teen-ager, I couldn't tell right off if
it was a girl or boy. Long, light brown hair clung to
the narrow head and thin neck. The eyes were covered
with big, round sunglasses with purple lenses. She-he
was dressed in blue dungarees and a white, man-style
shirt that hung out over the jeans. "You brought one,"
it said to Jonathan. I couldn't tell the sex from the voice
either.
Jonathan nodded.
'Tm Detective Severson," I said briskly, "is this your
little brother?"
"Yes. Come on in." The thin figure moved back out of
the doorway. There were cardboard boxes stacked in
the room behind her, the living room it seemed to be,
there was a couch and an armchair covered in an ugly
brown fabric.
"What's your name?" I asked when I got inside.
"Where's your mother?''
'Tm Jennifer Rogers." So it was a girl. "My mother's
What to Do Until the Undertaker Comes g
in there." She pointed toward a door that led off to the
left of the living room.
''I'd like to talk to her," I told Jennifer Rogers.
"Would you ask her to step out here for a minute?"
"You'll have to go in there." Jonathan looked up at
his sister after she spoke, moved over and took her
hand.
"Is something the matter with her?" I asked. "Is she
sick?"
They stared at me, the small pale face with eyes the
color of Coca-Cola and the long thin face with the
purple circles covering the eyes.
I walled quickly to the doorway on the left. The
door was closed. It had a shiny brown china knob. I
turned it and pushed the door open. Green shades were
drawn. In the shadows, I could make out a bed.
"Mrs. Rogers?" I said tentatively.
There was someone in the bed, dark hair against a
white pillow. I moved closer.
After a minute I said, "You kids stay out there."
The girl said, "Ifs all right. We've already seen her."
"Stay out there anyway," I snapped, and shut the
door on them. I released the shades and they flapped
up around the rollers. The windows looked out on a
similar house next door. The house looked empty of
life and I turned away.
The hair wasn't dark after all. It was the blood around
it that made it look dark. The mouth and eyes were
open in an expression of utter surprise. Her hands were
curled in an attitude of supplication. She hadn't fought,
she'd only begged. She'd been shot in the throat and
chest, her nightgown and the bedclothes were washed
with blood. She'd been dead for some time. I sighed
and stepped back from the bed.
The door behind me opened. "We don't have a phone
yet," Jennifer told me. "Maybe you have a police radio
in your car."
'Tm afraid she's dead," I said slowly.
"I know. I thought it would be hard to tell when
someone is dead but it's easy. She looks dead."
I came forward, stared into the purple glasses.
"When did you find her?"
"Jonathan found her this morning. He called me and
I said she was dead." The still-childish voice was com
pletely without emotion.
"And yon waited till now? It's after noon."
"We had to decide what to do."
"Why didn't you go to the neighbors?"
"We don't know any of them. We just moved in yes
terday.''
I came all the way out of the death room and shut
the door behind me. "Did you touch anything?"
She shook her head. The light brown hair swung laz
ily. "We didn't have to. Like I said, it was easy to tell."
"She was shot. Didn't you hear the shots?"
She frowned. "I don't know. Did you, Jonathan?"
she asked the little boy.
"I had a dream," he told her.
"About shots?" I asked.
He nodded.
"You must have heard them, too," I said to the girl.

"'I heard noises in the night. I don't know when. I
thought a car made the noise, maybe. It sounded like
it was outside."
"What time was it?"
She shrugged. I gave up temporarily. 'TU notify my
divi�ion. They'll send men out and we'll have to ask you
lots of questions. Then we'll have to decide what to do
with you. You can't stay here . . "
"We can go to my father."
"Where's your father?"
"He lives in a hotel downtown. On Washington
Street." "'
"He doesn't live with you?"
"They were separated."
"I see." I certainly did see, more than they imagined.
I reported in to Davoren and when I'd given him the
details, I added, "Tell Captain Granger I recognized the
woman."
"You knew her?" Davoren's voice rose in mild sur
prise.
"I didn't know her exactly, but I've met her. Tell
Granger I know it's a bloody coincidence but I ran into
her just last night. Pub-crawling. And she was with a
man I don't think was her husband."
"Moses on the mountain." His tone was almost re
signed, but not quite. "Two kids, you say? You'd better
get them out of there, no need to subject them to . . .
I'll send the lab crew out pronto. As soon as they arrive,
pack the kids up and bring them along."
"Tell them to get on their horses. The girl's been
keeping a death watch all the morning long." And while
we waited, I brought them out into the daylight, out on
the porch and we sat on the steps not saying much.
Jonathan drew designs in an empty flower bed with a
stick and Jennifer sat like a sunglassed owl, hugging her
knees, leaning against the rubbish can. Every so often
she'd raise her head as though she heard something and ·
I discarded the owl analogy for the thoroughbred race
horse, nostrils flaring, edgy. I sat there silently phrasing
questions. They could wait, I decided, until we got to
more neutral territory.
Doc Albert came first, alone. "The boys will be along.
They're finishing up on-another matter." The careful
rephrasing after a glance at the kids.
"We'll go along as long as you're here. Jennifer, do
you know where the keys are to this place? We'll have
to lock it up-when we're through."
She started to rise, hesitated. "They're in my mother's
pocketbook, I think."
"Where is it? I'll get them?"
Head down. "On the bureau in the bedroom." While
I was at it, I looked through the purse. The usual femi
nine stuff, a coin purse with fifty-six cents, a billfold with
seventeen dollars. A match folder from the Punchy
Lion. A house key attached to a rabbit's foot key ring.
Doc Albert had come in with me and I handed him
the key. "Aren't you feeling well, Doc?" I asked, taking
a second look.
He shook his head, tried to grin. "I've got a hell of a
toothache and I can't get in to see my dentist so I
prescribed for myself, a damn fool tWng to do. I'm half
hopped up on codeine. My head's ringing like. a zither."
"You want me to hang around?"
"No, no-I'm okay. Just get those kids out of here. I
don't know what it is about them, but they cramp my
style."
As we drove away down the deserted street, Jona
than asked me, "We don't ever have to come back there
again, do we?"
"I don't think so."
''And we won't have to see that man again either?"
I glan�d at him quickly . ..What man, Jonathan?"
His sister turned her head to look at him. "That was
a dream, Jonny, don't you remember? That and the
shots-that was all a dream. Don't you remember, you
said it was a dream? Don't you remember?"
He thought about it, eyes narrowed in concentra
tion. Then he nodded, face serene. "Yes," he agreed
happily, "it was all a dream."
C HAPTER TWO
When I finally got a chance to eat, it was nearly three

o'clock and I found a table at Clancy's and ordered a
cheeseburger and beer. I'd just about downed the last
bite when Benedict came in.
'Tm sorry, Knute"-he stood hat in hand, looking
down at me-"I should have told you first about leaving
the force, but . . ." He smiled somewhat tentatively. "I
guess I just hated to, so I didn't."
"That's okay, Benedict. Sit down. I'm going to miss
you, man, and that's the truth. But I can't say as I blame
you."
He shrugged off his coat and hung it with his hat next
to mine. "The weather up here bothers Barbara lately,"
he explained, pulling out a chair. "Especially the win
ters. It's because she's stuck in that damned wheelchair
and can't get her circulation going, for one thing. And
when it gets cold, she's really con.fined. In the house,
day after day. We thought we'd move somewhere
where the weather's better . . ."
"I understand." I did. Barbara Benedict was a fine
gal who suffered the pangs and boredom of shut-in
status without complaint. But she'd be a lot better off in
a more benign climate, maybe someplace on a beach
where she would swim, perhaps. Swimming, they say, is
good for polio victims.
"Then, too, I'd like some sort of job where I'd have
more regular hours," Benedict went on. "Kim will be
going to regular school soon. She'll need a dad around
to take her places, go to the PTA, that kind of stuff. It
would be different, perhaps, if Barbara were mobile . . ."
"You're right. Absolutely."'
"And there's this old friend of mine-I went to college
with him-he's starting his own auto agency in Naples,
Florida, and he wants me to come in with him. Now, I'll
grant yoy I don't know much about the auto business,
but it's a first-class franchise and . • ."'
I reached out and tapped him on the shoulder. "Ben
edict, it's all right. It's okay. I dig. I repeat, though, I'll
miss you like hell, you old so-and-so. Now, why don't
you order something to eat so we can get on with the
business of law enforcement before the shift runs
out."
"111 miss you, too, Knute." He looked away. He was
embarrassed. "You know I will." He looked back hope
fully. "Maybe you'll come down and visit us."
"You know I will. I was just waiting for an invitation."
'Tm going to take my vacation at the end of the
month, plan to go down and buy a house . . . which
reminds me, would you like to take over our apart
ment?"
Benedict and Barbara had a jewel of a place on Com
mercial Wharf> overlooking the harbor, all renovated to
taste and, in my opinion, Barbara's taste was first rate.
''I'd like that a lot, but . . . could I afford it?"
He grinned. "I think so. The rent isn't so high. Bar
bara said she'd rather you had it than anyone else."
I grinned back. "So, go! What's holding you?"
While he ate a bowl of clam chowder, I filled him in
on the Rogers murder. "Where are the children now?"
he wanted to know.
"Down at Division One with a matron to keep them
company. The father's a salesman out on calls, we
haven't been able to reach him yet. When we finish
here, we can go back and talk to them. I laid off after
a while this morning, I figured they'd had enough for
the time being."
He nodded. "Looks as though it's the man she was
out with, does it? What was his name?"
I shook my head ruefully. "Damned if I can remem
ber. I didn't know hers either, just recognized the face.
You know how it is, you make conversation in a bar
and the next thing you know, you're old buddy
buddies, at least for the moment. Besides, I'm afraid I
was pretty gassed."
He gave me a thoughtful look. "Anything bothering
you?"
I looked blank. "Not especially."
"How are your folks? You haven't said lately."
I moved my empty beer glass in little circles on the
tabletop. 'Tm going up there my next day off. My
mother says Dad hasn't been feeling so hot."
'What he needs is a good dose of spring. All of us do.
I hate this weather. March in New England is the most
cheerless of all. You're expecting spring and there's no
sign of it." He paused, wiped his mouth with his nap�
kin. "And how is your friend, Brenda Purdue?"
"Brenda? Oh, fine. Lawyer Greathead's got her up to
her pretty neck in torts and writs." He nodded, didn't
say any more. I'd told him once how Brenda and I were
good friends, extra good friends and, "that's al1." I
hadn't gone into the whys and wherefores. Such as
Brenda's relationship with the great Charles Evans
Greathead, her boss. I really didn't know the answer
to that myself and I'd never asked. Perhaps I didn't
want to hear the am,wer.
Jennifer and Jonathan were playing cards in one of
the interrogation rooms when Benedict and I got back
to Division One. Mrs. Cahill, the matron, removed
the remains of their lunch when we came in, and left us.
I wandered up to the table, looked over Jennifer's
shoulder. "What are you playing?" I asked.
She looked up. I wanted, in the worst way, to get rid
of those glasses so that I could see her eyes. "Fish,"
she said in that high clear voice. "It's the only game
Jonathan knows."
"This is Detective Benedict," I told them. "We
thought we'd better talk to you-about things. I'm sorry
but it's got to be done."
"I explained to Jonathan." She was certainly a cool
character. I wondered how old she was so I asked her.
"Fourteen."
"You're only thirteen," Jonathan protested.
'Tm almost fourteen."
"And I'm almost five."
Benedict and I pulled up chairs. My partner wore
that sober look he got when he had to deal with young
sters. It grieved him to see them in trouble. It bugged
me, too, but Benedict fairly bled over it.
"You say your mother and father are-were sepa
rated?" I began. "How long have they been living
apart?"
She looked to Jonathan for confirmation. "Since last
winter? Just before Thanksgiving."
Jonathan thought about it, nodded. "My daddy went
away."
"And you stayed with your mother?"
"Yes. They both said we should." Jennifer pushed all
the cards together, began to shuffie them. She wasn't
very good at it, cards kept spilling out.
"Do you know why they decided to live apart?"
She surveyed me through purple glass. "He said she
was a nymphomaniac."
I heard Benedict's faint sigh. "I don't know that
word," Jonathan announced.
"It means . . ." Jennifer had an explanation ready.
"We know what it means," I said hurriedly, "and I
think Jonathan doesn't need to know just now. Was
there any particnlar pP-rson they fought about?"
"Nedward," said Jonathan.
"You mean Edward," his sister corrected him. "Ed
ward wasn't even around then. Then it was Clinton and
after that came Alan."
"I don't remember." Jonathan's lower lip came out.
"Edward?" I said. "Called Ned? What's his last
name.?"
"His name is Edward B. Burkhart." She pushed the
purple glasses back on her skinny nose.
"Who is he?"
"He's a man who works in a liquor store."
"Oh? Which one?"
She'd memorized the name and address of the place.
She recited it and I wrote it down.
"And Alan, is that what you said? Who is Alan?"
"Alan H. Kensington."
"You\e pretty hipped on middle initials. How come?"
"There could be lots of Edward Burkharts or Alan
Kensingtons. My middle name is McClure. I am Jen
nifer M. Rogers. Jonathan is Jonathan Paul Rogers so
he is Jonathan P ."
Benedict sighed again.
"And the first one you mentioned, Clinton, was it?"
"Clinton C. Clinton."
"What?"
"Clinton C. Clinton. It's a stupid name." For the first
time she let me see an expression on her face. It regis
tered disgust.
"And what was Clinton C. Clinton's place in this
world?" Benedict stirred beside me.
"He said he was a singer."
"He said?"
''I've heard him." She crossed her jean-clad legs. "He
stinks."
Now Benedict spoke up. "Kensington? Who was he?"
She examined her fingernails. They were square and
none too clean and there were traces of nail polish here
and there. "He's a bartender. Last time I heard, he
was the bartender at the Punchy Lion."
"What does he look like?" I said, trying to recall the
bartender from the night before, and at the same time
Benedict asked, "Who was in your house with your
mother last night?"
She chose to answer Benedict. "I don't know. I'm
a growing girl. I go to bed at ten o'clock."
"A man," Jonathan piped up.
"You saw him, heard him?" Benedict concentrated
on the little boy.
"No." He swung his feet. He still wore his red boots.
They were still on the wrong feet.
"Then why," asked Benedict gently, "did you say
that?"
Jonathan licked his rosy lips. "I don't know." He
grinned at Benedict.
"You said you didn't touch anything," I put my two
cents' worth into the conversation. "You didn't find a
gun?"
She shook her head. "I told you."
"Guns aren't that easy to come by." I tried to sound
as kind as Benedict but I couldn't tell if I made it or
not.
"I guess not." Again the gesture with the glasses,
pushing them back on the concave temples. A blue vein
stood out on one side of her skull.
"I'm curious about something else," I said. "Why

did you send Jonathan all alone to get somebody?
Weren't you afraid he'd get lost? Why didn't you come
yourself?"
She shrugged. "I didn't think it was right to leave her
alone. I told him how to go. He's good at remembering
things, taking orders."
"But you didn't go for your father?"
"I knew my father wasn't home. He goes to work very
early." She swung her head and the glasses moved.
She pushed them back again. They were obviously too
big for her. Maybe they'd been her mother's.
Jonat�n had been engaged in a kind of peekaboo
game with Benedict. He suddenly demanded, "Let me
see your gun!"
"Jonathan," said Jennifer sharply. He pouted at her.
"He doesn't understand really," she told me in a
womanish way.
I thought what a good thing that was and then
there was a rapping on the door. I glanced up at the
small window. There was a face in it. A man's face,
round and innocent looking. An adult Jonathan. I said,
"Is that your father?"
They moved then, Jonathan first, Jennifer right
after. "Daddy, Daddy!" squealed Jonathan. Jennifer
didn't speak but the glasses fell off and lay ignored on
the Hoar. But because of the angle, I still couldn't see her
eyes.
They threw their arms around him, buried their
faces in him, clung as though they'<l never let go.
Rogers' mouth worked, undecided whether to take
shape to speak or to cry. When the words came, they
were shaky, "What-what happened? They said Lucy
. . . who . . . ?"
"Take us with you, Daddy! Take us with you." Jen
nifer's tone was muffled but clearly frantic. Jonathan
began to bawl.
"A couple of questions, Rogers," I began. I was
shouting into the gale of Jonathan's wails.
Rogers ignored me, knelt and gathered his children
in. "Jenny, don't, don't . . . Jenny, honey, don't be
afraid . . ,"
"Don't let anybody hurt us!" Jennifer truly sounded
her age now, maybe younger.
"Hurt you!" Rogers looked up at us. "What have
they been doing to you?"
"Nothing, Mr. Rogers . . ."
"Don't let them, Daddy." Jennifer looked up into her
father's face.
"You can't bully my children!" Rogers didn't seem to
hear my protestation.
"We're not bullying them . . ."
"Daddy! Daddy!" Jonathan tugged wildly at his
father's arm.
"We had to ask them what happened but we haven't
had a chance to go into . . ." Now I knew about talk
ing to stone walls.
"What is it, Jonny?" his father asked distractedly.
"What's the matter?"
"I have to go to the bathroom!"
"They wouldn't even let you go to the bathroom?"
Rogers' glare was fiercely accusing.
"It's right down the hall, he didn't tell us . . ." I tried
to explain.
"Here, fll show you, Jonathan." Benedict went up to
the little boy, put out his hand. Jonathan howled and
hid his head in his father's leg.
Rogers tried to free himself, said, "Go with the man,
Jonny," he said, "Jenny, if they've done anything to
you . . ."
I lost my temper. 'TD tell you what we've done to
them! We've handled them with kid gloves. You take
them out of here, take them home. You may not give a
damn about who killed your wife, but we do . . ." I
stopped, disgusted, disgusted mostly with myself. I
turned my back on them, said quietly, "Get them out of
here, take them to your place. We'll be around. We've
got a lot of questions that need a lot of answers."
"Mr. Severson." It was Jennifer who spoke to me
while her father collected Jonny, got directions to the
men s room.
"Yes?" I turned around. She had retrieved her purple
glasses, had them on again.
"I didn't mean to imply that you were doing any
thing to us." Her face was as expressionless, her voice
as detached as ever.
"Well, thanks for that." My reply verged on the sar
castic and she reacted even though she didn't show it
visibly. She turned and started after her father.
"Who did you mean?" I asked after her.
She didn't answer. I spoke again. "Who are you afraid
of, Jennifer? Tell me."
She whirled on me at the door. 'Tm not afraid of
anybody ," she said earnestly. "I'm not afraid of any
body at all."
C HAPTER TH REE
When we got back to our desks, Granger sent for Ben

edict and I got busy with paperwork while I waited for
him. Things had been relatively slow until today, the
weather had been too bad for an excess of outdoor
activity and who knew what went on inside houses
nnless s�ebody called the cops?
When Benedict emerged from the captain's office he
told me, "There's a new man corning. Captain Granger
says you're to break him in. He's assigning me to
pornography detail."
'Who is the new man?"
"The captain doesn't know. All he knows is he's com
ing-tomorrow or the next day."
We looked at each other. "Okay. He's putting you
on pornography? What will you do-put on a hippie
suit and hang out at the dirty bookstores?"
"The Post Office Department is in on it. It seems the
purveyors of pmricnce have a new gimmick now.
They send 'marriage manuals' through the mails and
on the outside of the envelope is printed: 'To be opened
by adults only. If you don't wish to accept this piece
of mail, write refused on the outside of the unopened
envelope and we will try to remove your name from
the mailing list.' "
I made a face. "Just plain smut gags me. Filthy bas
tards. What's the legal book on pornography?"
"Number 272 of the Massachusetts General Laws,
sections 28 to 30C. I should know, I just looked it up.
Based on the first amendment and the 14th amendment
of the Constitution. The prurient interest test, the patent
offensiveness test and the social value test."
I laughed. "I should have known you'd have it down
pat. What's this social value bit?"
He put on his best professorial manner. "Obscenity is
not within the area of constitutionally protected speech
or press but erotica and obscenity are not synonymous.
Unless a work is utterly without social importance, it
cannot be deemed obscene.''
"Social importance, huh? So what constitutes social
importance?"
"As the man Shakespeare said, ah, there's the rub."
"Hey, fellas !" Pinkerton came breezing into the squad
room with Dracutt at his heels. "Have you heard the
definition of a hippy?''
"No," said Dracutt, playing the role of straight man as
usual, "tell us, Mr. Bones, what's a hippy?''
Pinky struck a pose. "It's a jack that looks like a jill
and smells like a john."
We laughed and/or made faces. I said to Benedict,
"Are you ready?" He nodded and we took off for the
liquor store where one Edward B. Burkhart put in his
time.
I wasn't absolutely certain until I saw him, but when
I did I nodded to Benedict. He'd been the man with
Lucilla Rogers the night before and for my dough that
made him suspect number one.
He was standing behind the counter, dapper and
freshly shaven, wearing a houndstooth jacket and dark
blue slacks with a sharp crease. He had dark hair, on
the long side, and a burgeoning mustache with red
glints in it. He was older than l, I thought, at least he
looked it and quite a bit older than the Rogers woman.
When he'd finished with his customer, I stepped up and
said, "Burkhart, remem her me?"
A pu,pled expression passed quickly across his face,
then he stuck out his hand. "Sure. You're the birth
day boy. How are you? Run out of scotch?"
I leaned confidentially close to him. "My name is
Severson," I said, "Detective Severson. This is Detective
Benedict."
The welcome in his eyes vanished but he kept his
face straight. "Detective? Is that so? I guess we didn't
get around to that part last night." He laughed, a some
what forced laugh. "Good thing we didn't tear up the
joint, huh?"
The street door behind us opened and a woman
crune in carrying a shopping bag full of empty quart
beer bottles. "Is there someplace where we can talk?" I
asked.
He blinked once, very quickly. "Talk? Sure. Wait till
I get Roy out here. Roy[ Can you take over for a
minute?''
Roy, a Social Security type with a long, pink nose,
appeared and Burkhart led us into the back room. We
stood between shelves stocked with liquor bottles.
Burkhart leaned on a stack of beer cases. "What's
wrong?" He ran his tongue along his lips, touched the
mustache with it and withdrew it.
"What time did you leave Lucilla Rogers last night?"
"Lucy? About one-thirty." His elbow slipped off the
top of the top beer case and he had to steady himself.
"Why?"
"Where did you leave her?"
"At her house, of course. She's just moved into a place
over on Haven Street. ·what's the idea of this quiz,
anyway? Lucy's husband? That must be it. Look fellas,
Lucy's just a friend, a good-looking gal to have fun
with, you know what I mean? I don't want to get mixed
up in any divorce suit or anything like that. I let Lucy
out of the car last night and she went in the house and
that was that. Not even a good-night kiss."
"You have a witness?"
"A witness? Sure. Sure, I have." He laughed sud
denly, this time a clear ringing laugh. "I not only have
a witness, I have witnesses. You met 'em. Pete and
Greg, they were with us all evening. Pete Stone and
Greg Edgeworth. Old pals of mine. They were right
there in the car when I let her out. They11 tell you."
"Where can we find them?" asked Benedict.
Burkhart was in such a hurry to get their addresses
out that he stuttered. I wrote them down.
Roy stuck his long nose in the doorway. "Ned, there's
a couple of people waiting." He looked at us sadly. He
reminded me of a graying beagle.
"I'll be right there, Roy. You guys are through with
me, aren't you?"
"For the time being." I closed my notebook. Burk
hart pushed past us. When he'd almost reached the
doorway he stopped, looked back, asked, "Lucy's okay,
isn't she? I mean, Rogers didn't work her over or any
thing?"
"Was he in the habit of doing that?" Benedict wanted
to know.
"Yeah, I guess so. She said so. She is all right?"
"She'� dead," I told him. "Somebody shot her late
last night or early this morning."
Burkhart's mouth fell open. The mustache accented
its 0-shape. "My God," he squeaked, and then, "Well,
it was after one-thirty. I swear to you she was alive and
well at one-thirty." He left us and when we passed
through the shop he was asking a customer, "Cans or
throw-away bottles?" He didn't even glance in our di
rection.
Neither Stone nor Edgeworth were at their home
addresses and Kensington didn't come on duty at the
Punchy Lion until 6 P.M. Clinton C. Clinton we hadn't
been able to get a line on but we had feelers out with
the local theatrical agents. On the way back to the sta
tion, we reviewed our interview with Chester Rogers
after Benedict had commented, "For the kids' sake, I
hope Burkhart's alibi doesn't hold up or that one of the
others . . ." He let his voice trail off. I knew what he .
was thinking. Husbands are notorious for being wife
killers. Certain husbands, that is. Especially jealous hus
bands with good reason for being jealous.
Rogers had seemed shook, we agreed, more than
shook, bereft. We hadn't pinned him down much, not
then, but let him take the kids to his hotel while Doc
Albert and the rest of the crew finished their work on
the corpse and the house. "What did you think of Rog
ers?" I asked Benedict.
"His shock seemed genuine enough. Also his con
cern for his children."
I grunted partial agreement. "But it's pretty sure to
be one of the four. If Burkhart checks out, we've only
got three little Indians. And Rogers is one."
Benedict raised his glasses and rubbed at the bridge
of his nose. "The youngsters are afraid of something."
"I thought so, too. But what? If they saw anything,
why wouldn't they come out with it? Especially the
little guy?''
'Tm inclined to think that he didn't see anything,
that he was asleep as his sister says, or that he doesn't
understand what he saw-if he did."
I wasn't sure. "Maybe. But I should think he'd tell it
if he had anything to tell. He talks about a dream. Per
haps that's it. He heard something and thinks it's a
dream."
"Jennifer hides her emotions as though she'd had
long experience at it. It's difficult to tell if she's simply
wary by nature or whether she's keeping something
back."
"But why would she?" I frowned into the sun glare.
"To protect someone? Or, out of fear?"
"Protect someone? That brings us back to Father,
dear Father, doesn't it? And God knows, she's got to be
handled very, very gently. If we bugged her until she
accused her own father, the D.A. would go ape. We've
got to dig up something else, then confront her with it.
You could be right on the second count, too, the fear
bit. Damn, it's tough to deal with kids]"
Benedict shook his head hopelessly. "Perhaps we'll
have the complete report on the medical findings and
physical evidence by the time we get back."
And we did, it was on my desk and I had just read
that Lucilla Rogers died between the hours of 1 and
4 A.M. which more or less substantiated Burkhart's claim
that he'd left her alive at one-thirty, when Davoren
called to me from the captain's doorway.
I went over to see what he wanted.
"Your mother called," he told me in a low voice.
"Seems your dad had a stroke."
I stared at him.
"Captain says it's okay if you want to take off and go
up there." He tried to make a small smile encouraging.
"He's okay, your dad. I mean, your mother says he's
come out of it some. Seems it happened a few days
ago . . ."
"Tell the captain thanks." And with a terse explana
tion for Benedict, I took off in my car for New
Hampshire.
C H AP T E R F O U R
Shuddup, the spaniel, could be heard barking behind

the door as I walked up on the porch of my folks'
place. There was still snow on the ground in New Hamp
shire and snow in March can be pretty depressing un
less you're a ski nut. As if I needed to be depressed. I
opened the door, said, "Hush, Shuddup, it's me. Any
body here? The prodigal has returned!"
Shuddup came roaring out of the foyer, whimpered
and jumped up on me. I kneaded the top of his head,
called, "Mom?"
"Who is it? Knutel" My mother, from the top of the
stairs, looked down at me. I hadn't been home for six
months or so and I thought, my God, she's aging. Just
since then, she'd grown older looking. I started up the
stairs to meet her.
"How is he?" The words came out louder than I'd
intended them to.
She glanced back over her shoulder, put a finger to
her lips and came slowly down the steps. "Your father
will be so glad to see you," she said in a loud, bright
voice. "Come, let's hang up that coat and then you
can go up."
I heard a faint voice from the upper floor, a voice
I almost didn't recognize. "Knute? Is that Knute?"
"Yes, George," my mother called to him in that same
strange voice. "He'll be right there. Just be patient
and let the boy get his coat off."
Shuddup was trying to tum himself inside out at my
feet. "Down, boy," I told him and followed my mother
into the living room. She turned on the lights. For some
reason, it didn't look as cheerful as it always did. I
thought I saw dust on the tables and that was impos
sible. Not with my mother.
"He's very sick, Knute," Mom whispered. She put
out her lland and I reached for it, was surprised to find
the skin felt dry and leathery.
"When did it happen?" I kept my voice down, too.
"When you wrote, you said he hadn't been feeling well,
but I had no idea it was so serious . . :•
Sudden tears filled her eyes. "It's nearly a week now
-it happened on Friday," she murmured, then turned
away.
"Can he talk-yes, of course, I just heard him, Is
he affected in any way? He isn't paralyzed, is he?"
She shook her head. "Just a little droop to the right
side of his face. The doctor says . . . the doctor says he
has a good chance to come out of it just fine. But it will
take time and he'll have to be careful . . ." She reached
for me now with both hands. "Oh, Knute, I'm so
frightened. I never knew what fear was until I thought
I might lose him!"
"Why didn't you let me know . . . I could have come
up, gotten time off. Why didn't you let me come and
help? At least be with you?"
My mother smiled bravely. "I would have, but the
crisis was over so quickly. And then I didn't see any
sense for you to be frightened, too. But then I thought
I'd better let you know in case anything . . . He'll be
very pleased. Go up and talk to him, my dear. I've got
to get his supper anyway."
I walked slowly up the stairs, Shuddup panting at
my heels. They'd been talking the past couple of years
about moving to Florida. Dad wanted to but Mom
didn't. Maybe that's what they should do, like Benedict.
The weather in Florida was better, the climate should
be kinder to bones and tissue growing old.
My folks were . . . I counted, Dad was sixty-seven
and my mother sixty-five. Not old, but growing older.
Maybe I shouldn't live so far away from them. But what
could I do in New Hampshire? Get a job on some local
police force? I'd go bananas in a small town, I knew
that. And I'd lose all my seniority. There you go again,
Severson, I told myself. The self-servicing boy in
person.
My father's door was ajar. I walked in, said, "Hi,
sport. How's it going? I hear you've had a small brush
with bad health."
He looked smaller and thinner and I could see the
droop to his facial muscles my mother had mentioned.
But his eyes shone as they always did and his smile was
coming along.
"Hi, ya, boy!" He struggled to raise himself on his
pillow and I gave him a hand at it. "How's the boy?
How's everything in the big city? How are the Red Sox
shaping up? Did you see where Tiger Browne is getting
out of the Army? That ought to give them a shot in the
arm . . .
I sat down on the side of the bed. "Tiger Browne,
huh? That's good news. Maybe Yaz will win the batting
crown again, huh? The season opens next month. Tell
you what-you get better and I'll get us some tickets,
would you like that? Maybe sky view seats, how does
that grab you?"
"Fine, Knute, fine. I'd like that. How have you been,
boy? LQng time no see. Your letters sound great,
though. How's your pal Benedict and his family?'
I pushed Shuddup down, he was trying to get onto
the bed, too, and told him, "He's going to leave the
force. Move to Florida. When I go back, I've got to
break in a new man."
"Going to Florida, is he? Your mother's been talking
about Florida lately, seems she's changed her mind . . .
but I guess you know all about that. You'll miss him.
You've been together a long time."
"Yes, I'll miss him. I may move into their apartment.
It's a nice one, you know, you've been there, on the
waterfront. It's bigger than the one I have now and you
and Mom could come down and stay awhile this spring.
How would that be? Would you?"
"Well . . ." He gave little tugs to the blanket with
a feeble hand. "What would we do with Shuddup? He's
not used to kennels."
"So bring him with you."
"And what would that cat of yours think of that? I
don't know, Knute . . . Helen, Knute says Benedict is
leaving the force and he wants us to come stay with
him awhile. What would you think about that? Maybe
we could get in to some ball games . . ." He was smil
ing at Mom, doing his best to sound perky.
"Benedict is leaving? Oh, Knute." She put the tray
down on the table beside Dad's bed. "That's too bad.
What is he going to do?"
"Go into the auto business down in Florida. Hey,
Pop, that looks like pretty good chow. Why don't you
dig into it?"
"It's chicken soup, George." Mother spooned up
golden soup and white noodles. "And not from a can
either. I made it myself."
"Looks mighty good." Again he tried to sit higher
and I propped pillows. I watched my mother feed him
and I watched how valiantly he tried to eat with ap
petite.
"I think I'll go down to the kitchen and see if you've
got a beer in the refrigerator," I told them. I had to get
out of there.
"I think there's some," Mother said over her shoulder.
She was concentrating on the feeding process. "There
were when your father took sick . . ." Her voice trailed
off, picked up again. "How about a nice wedge of toast,
George?"
I nursed my beer in the kitchen until Mom came
down. "He should have a nap now," she said, "but he
wants to see you." The chicken soup, I noticed, was
only hall-eaten.
"I won't stay long," I promised. I hesitated at the
kitchen door. "I had some kind of good news. There's
a good chance I'll be promoted to detective first grade."
"Oh, son, that's wonderful." She smiled at me, the
first real smile she'd been able to come up with since
I came in the door. "Your father will be so happy to hear
it."
"I don't want to tell you what to do, Mom . . ." I
hesitated again. "But don't you think you should con
sider moving away from here? Maybe south?"
"I don'+ know." She shook her head. ''I'd go anywhere
to help him, but ifs so far away. So far away from you
. . . and our friends, all the friends he has in his lodge.
They call daily, wanting to know when they can come
and see him. I just don't know how it would be, but I'd
go in a minute if he wanted to. All I want now is for
him to get well."
I smiled at her. "He'll make it. He's tough."
"That's the best news yet that Tiger Browne is com
ing back," my father pawed at the folded Herald
Traveler to show me the article. "He'll be good for at
least twenty games, maybe more." He nodded his head,
but so feebly.
"Bound to be."
He leaned back then, as though he'd run out of en
ergy in that instant. I fussed at his pillows some more,
said, "How about if I go down and get some supper?
Could you spare me awhile? I'm ravenous."
"Sure, son. I'll just catch me a catnap while you're at
it. Darnedest thing about this business, I get so tired
. . . seems like every couple of hours, I need a little
sleep."
I left my hand for a moment on the pillow near his
head. "Nothing strange about that," I said, "remember
the time when I was laid up in the hospital? I did noth
ing but sleep for weeks on end, it seemed."
"Yes, I remember." His voice was softer, he spoke
more slowly. "Does that bullet wound ever bother you
anymore?"
"Nope. Never. Forgot it ever happened. That's the
way it will be with you. Incidentally, Dad, the captain
says I may get a promotion . . ." I paused. His eyes
were closed and he was breathing quietly, regularly.
I left the room almost on tiptoe. Shuddup rushed down
the stairs ahead of me. Even Shuddup, rushing, moved
more slowly than in the past, I thought. Time was pass
ing and everything was changing. My mother never
even mentioned my birthday. Of course I understood
and God knows I didn't blame her. But it was some
kind of an omen, of that I was sure.
C HAPTER FIVE
Benedict was sitting at his desk, talking to a plump guy

in a baggy brown suit when I walked into Division One
the next morning. Pinkerton, Dracutt, Blasdell, and Gil
breath were holding some sort of huddle over by the
far windows, telling jokes, no doubt.
I ga'(e Benedict a hello wave and took my seat. He'd
left the Rogers report on my desk with some of his care
fully written notes. I'd just started on the first page
when Davoren signaled me to go into the captain's
office. As I got up to go, I was aware of a sudden silence
in the room. The gang by the window was watching
me and Benedict turned his head to see me pass, called,
"How's your father?"
"Coming along, I think." I rapped on the captain's
door.
"Come in," said Captain Granger and I did so. He
had someone with him, a dark-haired, thin young man
who looked shyly away as I entered.
"This is Barry Parks, Knute Severson." Captain
Granger didn't seem especially pleased to pronounce
either name, or perhaps that was just my imagination.
"He's coming with us, going to be your new partner,
Knute."
I put out my hand and we shook. I said, "Glad to
know you." He said, "Hello, sir."
"Sit down, Knute." Captain Granger pushed a chair
forward. "Let's get better acquainted. Barry here is just
out of the academy, I've been filling him in on pro
cedures."
"Sure thing." I turned to him. "Have you been on
the force long?"
I could have sworn he blushed. "Just two years on
traffic. I've been lucky."
Barry Parks. Had I heard the name? Yes, I thought
so. Something about a hit-and-run and he'd comman
deered a passing car, took off after the driver of the
hit-and-run vehicle and nabbed him. Several months
back. So they'd picked him out and sent him to school
and here he was, a detective. It had taken me six years,
but then things were moving faster now, all over the
world.
"He can give you a hand on this Rogers thing," said
the captain. "Benedict agreed that he might as well
jump in feet first. Have you had time to digest what's
been happening? And, by the way, how's your father?"
"My mother says he's better. Of course I don't know
how bad he was, but she seems encouraged."
"Thanks be to God. Well, suppose you take Barry out
and show him around, introduce him to the men and
then the two of you can go over the Rogers report
together. If you have any questions, Barry, Knute will
be able to answer them. If he can't, come see me."
"Yes, sir." He really was a scrawny kid. I wondered
What to Do Until the Undertaker Carnes 41
how he'd made the weight requirements and the civil
service physical. Maybe they were lowering standards.
We walked out into the squad room, one after the other,
and I said, "Fellas, this is Barry Parks, our new man."
Benedict stood up to meet him while the plump man
at his desk looked on. "Lawrence Benedict," I told
Parks. "Detective first grade, leaving us for greener pas
tures. Detective Second Grade Pinkerton and Detective
Second Dracutt, they're a team. Detective Third Gil
breath, he's our photographer, and Detective First Blas
dell, fingerprints. And of course, our clerk, Sergeant
Davoren."
Parks "repeated the names and shook hands all
around. I sat down at my desk and he wandered nearby,
stood uncertainly. "Sit down," I said, "and look over this
Corner Pharmacy report." He looked as though he
would smile, but didn't, and took a seat.
"Knute," Benedict called over to me, "this is Joe
Cook. Postal Inspector Joe Cook. Joe, this is-was my
partner Knute Severson."
I left Parks reading the report and went over. "How's
it going?"
"The smut game?" Cook grimaced, "We've got a new
law but I don't know what good it's doing. Here's our
pandering circular, we've got a billion of them but we
don't seem to be giving many out."
I picked up the small white pamphlet and read.
"A family receiving a pandering advertisement which
it finds offensive has authority under a new Federal
Law ( Prohibition of Pandering advertisements in the
mail, Public Law go-206, Title III, 39 U.S. Code 4oog )
to ask that its members receive no more mail of any
kind from the sender. An advertisement is considered
pandering if it offers to sell material which is, in the
opinion of the recipient, 'erotically arousing or sexually
provocative.' "
I flipped over to the section marked "Enforcing the
law." After a written complaint is received the post
office sends a prohibitory order directing the sender to
refrain from any further mailing of any kind to the com
plaining patron. Any violation of the prohibitory order
brought to the attention of the postmaster results in
seeking a Federal Court order directing compliance and
then, if the panderer refuses to cease and desist, punish
ment by fine or imprisonment. The form to be filled
out by the complaintant was printed on the back . . .
"Send offensive advertisement, its envelope and signed
form to postmaster with the words: 'Request for Pro
hibitory order' on the face of the envelope."
I said, "A slap on the wrist."
"Just about," answered Benedict. •u you've got any
questions on the Rogers report . • ,"
"Right." I knew I spoke curtly and was sorry, but if
only he didn't have this hair across his tail about quit
ting. I understood, I thought I understood but just the
same it bugged me. I went back to my desk, found a
chair for Parks who didn't have a desk as yet, and be
gan to read. Almost immediately, I looked across at
Benedict in surprise.
"A police Special?" I asked incredulously.
Benedict nodded. The plump guy in the brown suit
moved impatiently. The hell with him, he could wait.
"Model 10, .38 Smith & Wesson Special military and
police revolver." Benedict spelled it out.
"Jesus Christ," I said reverently and went back to
reading. Although Lucilla Rogers had been only in her
early thirties, she had had a complete hysterectomy,
otherwise there were no unusual physical findings.
The murder weapon hadn't been found. Fingerprints
in the bedroom and living room of the Haven Street
house were being checked out, the children had been
fingerprinted, the corpse, of course, and so had Chester
RogeDt Benedict had written in the margin: A complete
rundown to come. See Blasdell.
He had interviewed Alan Kensington at the Punchy
Lion after I'd left for my folks'. I passed the formal
report over to Parks and sat back to read Benedict's
notes.
"Kensington impressed me as a cynical type," he had
written. "When I told him I wanted to talk about Mrs.
Rogers he said, 'Oh, yeah. I heard about that.' How had
he heard about it, I asked. 'It was in the evening paper,'
was his answer. He was right, it was.
"He then commented, Tm not surprised.' When I
asked him why, he said she was a party girl. I pressed
him for amplification and he said he'd known her for
several years, that she habituated bars and was known
at the Punchy Lion as one of the regulars. Did that mean
she was promiscuous, I asked, and he said, no, not
exactly. She could take it or leave it, were his words.
He had taken her out at one time, I reminded him and
he agreed he had. As we discussed Mrs. Rogers, I at
tempted to assess his feelings for her and it is my
impression that he considered her as a mere female, at
tractive enough and pleasant enough to use when the
spirit moved him. He is known, incidentally, as some
what of a ladies' man. I imagine, Knute, that you11
want to talk to him yourself eventually but I doubt that
he is hiding a passionate love-or hatred-of the girl.
But, of course, we haven't narrowed down the motive
so this impression may not be at all pertinent.
"As to Kensington's whereabouts the night of the
murder, he told me he was on duty until 1 A.M. on the
26th at which time the bar was closed. He then assisted
with the tidying up and the counting of the day's re
ceipts. He left the Punchy Lion between one-thirty and
two and arrived at his home shortly after two-fifteen.
He said his wife would verify the time of his arrival
home and his co-workers would testify as to when he
left. I haven't talked to Mrs. Kensington yet, but the
manager and waitresses agreed that he left when he
said he did.
"No news of Clinton, nor have I spoken again to
Rogers or to the witnesses Burkhart mentioned. So take
it from here, Knute, and the best of luck. I keep visu
alizing those poor kids finding their mother dead in
that horrible bedroom."
I sat back and thought about it while Parks read
Benedict's story. He seemed to be a slow reader, it took
him long enough. I looked for and found Chester Rog-
ers' personal phone number, dialed it. I let it ring maybe
ten times before I hung up. I knew I wasn't going to
catch Edgeworth or Stone at home, assuming they
were working men, so I had a choice of visiting the
Kensingtons at home or taking a run by the house on
Haven Street again. The thought passed my mind that
I'd rather find Mrs. Kensington alone. If Parks would
only finish his homework, the house on Haven Street
beckoned. I had another thought, found Rogers' office
phone and tried that number. A sultry-voiced switch
board operator told me, "Mr. Rogers isn't in today." She
paused, added with hushed excitement in a more nat
ural ton'e, "I guess you know what happened to his
wife."
"Do you know where he is?" I countered.
"Gee, no. At home, I suppose, or at the funeral parlor.
He's got those two little kids. It sure is a rotten shame,
isn't it?"
I agreed that it was, thanked her and put the tele
phone back in its cradle. Parks announced he was ready
and, armed with a key, we drove over to Haven Street.
Somebody had emptied the trash barrel, otherwise
the house looked just the same. Parks and I walked
up on the porch, I had my hand out to put the key in the
lock when the door opened. I stared in amazement.
Santa Claus stood looking out at us, red suit, white
beard and all.
I said stupidly, "Who the devil are you?" and at the
same time he asked, "Looking for somebody?"
"Police," I said automatically and produced identifi
cation. 'Who the-who are you?"
"Phil Walker's my name. Come in. I own this house,
when I heard what happened I thought I'd better come
over and check it out. Come in, will you? I can hear the
oil burner going. No use in wasting heat, you know.
Come in!"
We followed Santa Claus into the living room. "May
I ask why you're dressed up like that?" I couldn't keep
the incredulity out of my voice.
"This?" He looked down at himself. "Almost forgot
I had it on. I work at a boys' club, we've been having
Christmas in March, plan to have one in July, too, but
I'll bet this beard will give me the fits when it's hot. It
itches like hell even when it's cool." He tugged at the
flowing white whiskers and pulled the beard off. His
own chin was clean shaven, slightly pock-marked.
"What have you been doing in here?" I glanced
around the room. A couple of the cardboard boxes had
been moved onto the brown sofa. "Going through the
Rogerses' things? This place is supposed to be sealed
off until we're through with it."
"Just trying to help." He looked even stranger without
the beard, like one of the cartoons showing a beat Santa
Claus in the locker room on Christmas Eve. "Didn't
know the people personally, but saw them going in and
out while the movers were here. A little boy and a girl.
Sad."
"You say you own the house. \Vhere do you live?"
Out of the comer of my eye I saw Parks wandering over
to the bedroom door. About time. I thought he was
going to stand there doing nothing all day.
"Next door." Santa Claus pointed in the direction of
the house I'd seen out of Mrs. Rogers' window.
"Mrs. Rogers rented from you directly?"
"That's right. I ran my own ad, always do. Don't be
lieve in giving money to real estate agents for doing
nothing, especially when I live close enough to keep
an eye on the place."
"You ran the ad and Mrs. Rogers called?"
"That's the story. She sounded nice enough on the
phone so I told her the address, to come on out and
see the"'place. She looked it over and I looked her over
and we made the deal."
I heard Parks walking around in the bedroom. It
sounded as though he opened and closed a window.
"What did you think of Mrs. Rogers?" I asked the
landlord.
Santa-Walker gave me a raised-eyebrows look. His
eyes were right in character for the part, bright blue.
..Seemed all right. She told me about the children. I
asked about her husband. She said they were divorced
or separated, I forget which, it's all the same to me. I
said, too bad, the boy needs a father. She said she knew
that but it couldn't be helped. I said, okay, but no noise,
no wild parties. I'd keep an eye on her, I said, from next
door. She laughed then, I remember, like she thought
the whole idea was downright funny. Anyway, we made
the deal." He looked around, shook his red-capped head.
"Now I'll have to rerun the ad, go through the whole
damn thing again."
Parks came out of the bedroom. I could make nothing
out of the expression on his face. He headed toward
the back of the house, looking for the kitchen, I as
sumed.
"Are you married, Walker?" The landlord had been
watching Parks, too, now he began to follow him.
"No. I'm an old batch." Said over his red-plush
shoulder.
I went after him. "What's your job?"
"I told you. A boys' club."
"What kind of boys' club? Scouts? YMCA?" The
kitchen was small with painted wooden cabinets on one
wall and a middle-aged refrigerator and stove on an
other. Parks was peering into the refrigerator.
"It's a private, philanthropic club. I'm the director,
the name of the club is Bentley Hall. Anything that will
spoil in there, fella? No sense leaving it if there is, the
children have moved in with their father." Walker
looked over Parks' shoulder and Parks edged out of his
way.
"Hmmm." Walker reached in. "Milk, eggs, and ham
burg. Ought to be a paper bag around here somewhere."
"You're not going to take it home with you?'' Parks,
realizing he'd spoken without thinking, turned p ink in
the face.
"Just trying to help," smiled Walker. "Yes, here's a
bag. If we leave the food in there it will only make a
mess and somebody'll just have to clean it up. Here,
hold this, will you?" He handed a shopping bag to
Parks.
"Where were you two nights ago, Walker?" I asked,
leaning against the kitchen counter.
"You mean when she was killed?" He placed a carton
of milk in the bag Parks held, followed that with a box
of eggs. "Too bad, but I wasn't home. Stayed at the club
that night. I do that every so often."
"Then you couldn't have seen or heard anything?"
"No. Too bad. Like to help if I could. Hey, there's a
head of lettuce, too. Don't close the bag yet."
"'I suppose there are people at-Bentley Hall, did you
n
say-whc;t. would corroborate what you say? I pulled
open a narrow drawer beside me. It was filled with
cooking gadgets, can openers, apple corers, and such.
"Well, certainly, I . . ." He took his head out of the
cold box and straighted up. "Why would I need cor
roboration?''
I opened a second drawer. Stainless steel flatware.
'"Routine."
His blue eyes narrowed. "Now, see here • • . I didn't
even know the woman."
I shut the drawer. "So you told me." The next drawer
held such things as scissors, screw drivers, a tack ham
mer. I could feel them watching me. "Did you find any
thing interesting in the bedroom?" I asked Parks.
"No, sir." If Walker weren't there, I'd have given him
hell for that sir. We were supposed to be partners, not
boss and hireling. Nor senior and junior either. No mat
ter why he used the "sir" I didn't like it.
Walker went back to his refrigerator with consider
ably less enthusiasm. I looked into cupboards and other
drawers, not that I expected to find anything, the boys
from the division had been through the lot already.
When Walker shut the icebox door and took his bag,
I left off my desultory searching, said pleasantly, "Ready
to take your treasures home?"
'Td better get these on ice . . . this is my house, you
know. How did you plan to get in here anyway? I sup
p ose you have a key. Is this according to Hoyle, the
police being able to walk into a man's house anytime
they feel like it? How can I rent a place under those
circumstances?" He was bristling now and I quite gave
up thinking of him as Santa Claus.
'We have Mrs. Rogers' key, you'll get it back in due
time." I dangled it in front of him. "Did she pay rent in
advance?''
"Yes, of course:•
"How much?"
"Two months, the first and the last, it's custom-
ary . . ."
"Then it's really rented for two months, isn't it?" I
smiled at him.
His blue eyes were icy. "I intended to return the
money."
"Is that so? Wel1, that's very good of you. We'll be
through here in a day or two and you can do it then."
He stood stiffly. "Then I shall deduct the number of
days from the deposit."
"I thought you might. Tell me, Walker, do you own
a gun?"
"Indeed I do natl"
"That's good. You run along and we'll see you later.
We'd like to have your fingerprints, for one thing. Nat
urally, you'll say we'll find your fingerprints here-as
you said, it's your house. But we'll be wanting to iden
tify them as yours. We can always find you next door
or at your boys' club, I gather? You're not planning on
taking any trips?"
He didn't favor me with a reply, simply stalked out
of the room, an angry man in a silly Santa Claus suit.
I grinned as the outside door slammed.
"You think he might have killed her?" asked Parks
in a h�-whisper.
I purred my answer. "I think we've just found our
selves another Indian."
"Sir?"
I glared at him. "Don't call me sir. I'm not your com
mander in chief and I'm not old enough to be your
father."
We drove in silence after that to the Kensington
house. Mrs. Kensington was, to me at least, a surprise,
gray-haired and definitely middle-aged. I hadn't talked
to her husband, the bartender, myself, but if he was
the guy I vaguely remembered I fi gured him to be
Lucy's contemporary. Maybe he was and had a mother
complex.
'Tm Detective Severson," I said, "and this is De
tective Parks. He'd like to ask you some questions."
There, I figured that should fix him for that sir busi
ness.
Parks turned pink, asked politely, "May we come in?"
Mrs. Kensington looked bewildered. "I guess so. I
was doing the laundry. What would the police want
with me? Alan isn't in any trouble, he hasn't been hurt
or anything?"
"No, ma'am." Parks was one of those Jack Webb
models. We trailed after her into a living room that was
strictly ordinary. She asked us to sit down but she kept
standing so Parks got up again. Finally she sat and he
sat and he said diffidently, "It's about a young woman
who used to patronize your husband's place of business.
We have to know where your husband was on Tuesday
evening, when he got home, that kind of thing."
The pleasantness went out of her face. "Alan doesn't
play around."
Parks grew redder but pressed on. ..What time did
your husband get home Monday night? That would
be the 26th?"
"The usual time. He always comes home the usual
time." She nodded her gray head vigorously. "He's not
like some others, he doesn't play around. My friends
tell me how lucky I am. All their husbands play around."
"What time is the usual time?'' Parks insisted.
"One forty-five on the button. I could set a clock by
that man." Her lips were set in a straight line.
Parks glanced at me. I said mildly, "Your husband
said he got home about two-fifteen."
Her eyes hardened. "One forty-five. On the dot. He
wouldn't know. He never pays any attention to clocks
anyway. What did this woman, this barfly you men
tioned do?"
"She got herself killed," said Parks softly.
CHAPTER S I X
· Jennifer opened the door. I knew it was Jennifer only

because it must be. She had on a black dress, a black
dress designed for a woman, not a girl. But perhaps it
wasn't easy to find a black dress for a scrawny teen-ager.
It was long and on the too-large side, she'd hitched it
around her narrow waist with a belt.
Her face, without the glasses, looked naked. Her eyes
were hazel, more tawny than green. Across her nose, a
row of freckles gave the only color to her pale skin. She
looked up tight, terribly controlled.
n
I said, "Hello, Jennifer. Is your father here?
She nodded and looked annoyed at a sudden burst
of sound from the background. It was Jonathan, de
molishing a Tinker Toy building with a wave of his
small hand. Chester Rogers, also clad in black, sat on
a hideaway bed, watching his son.
I introduced Parks and added, "We need to have a
talk." I hoped he could think of someplace for the kids
to go. His hotel accommodations weren't designed for
family living to say nothing of privacy.
"vVe've just come from the mortuary," Rogers told
me solemnly,
"The man was nice," Jonathan piped up. "He gave
me a calendar!"
"That's nice." I returned his smile. "Why don't you
kids go for a walk on the Common?"
"I want to ride the Swan Boats!" Jonathan jumped
up.
"Daddy,"-Jennifer touched her father on a slumped
shoulder-"do we have to go?"
"Yes, you'd better." He hardly raised his head to
answer.
"Come on, Jenny." Jonathan tugged at her hand.
She looked at me, a glance, I thought, of pure ani
mosity. "It's all right, Jennifer," I found myself saying.
She looked away without softening her expression and
took her sweet time getting wraps for the both of them,
even insisted on putting Jonathan's boots on. At last the
door closed behind them and I sat down in an armchair,
unbuttoned my coat.
"Is there anything new?" asked Rogers in a dejected
tone.
"Not yet. We've got a lot of talking to do and we
thought we'd better start with you."
He looked up then, face full of misery. "What can I
tell you? She left me-and got herself killed."
''I'd like to know more about Lucilla Rogers," I told
him, settling back in my chair. "From the beginning as
you know it. When did you meet her? What was she
like? How had she changed?"
He blinked at me. "Changed? Yes, I guess she had.
I didn't think she had-that is, I didn't think it till now.
But she must have, because she loved me once. I know
she did. I know she did."
"Does she leave any family? Mother and father?
Brothers or sisters?"
"Her father died when she was little and her mother
passed away a couple of years ago. She didn't have any
family except us."
"What about your folks? I'm thinking about your
children-you're going to need somebody to help you
take care of them."
He shook his head morosely. "They've moved to
Florida. They never got along well with Lucy anyway.
The kh:ls don't really know them. I'm afraid, even if
they were here, it wouldn't work out. It's up to me, we
can manage somehow. Jenny's grown up for her age.
We11 figure it out." Now he nodded his head in self.
reassurance.
Rogers had a face like a choir boy . . . it was almost
too small for his large body, too young for it, too. I
thought back to the night I'd met Lucy Rogers, she was
a wise-cracking kind of girl, obviously she'd been
around. I could imagine the story, and when I asked
Rogers how they met, I wasn't far wrong.
"We went to school together," he told us. "Lucy was
always my girl and when we graduated, we got married.
My father didn't like the idea. He said I should find
out about other girls first, but I couldn't see that. She
was everything I wanted." His wide eyes filled with
moisture. "I don't understand what went wrong. I
asked her, Lucy, why? We've got kids, I told her, and
I'm not that bad as a husband, am I? I bring home my
paycheck and I don't drink or run around. Why can't
you live with me?" He lowered very long lashes to hide
his tears. "She said she just didn't love me. She said it
wasn't anything I'd done, she just didn't love me and
she couldn't help that. I thought if I let her have her
way for a while, she'd find out it wasn't what she
wanted. She'd come back, I thought. But she never had
a chance."
"When did she have her operation?"
His face grew animated. "That was part of it, I
think, after she had that hysterectomy. People say
sometimes it does funny things to you. She was glad,
though. She said she was glad it was over with. She
said she didn't want any more kids, anyway. She had
it a couple of years after Jonathan was born, doctor
said she had to."
"Did you know about her-boy friends?"
"I saw her with Burkhart once. She'd known him
before . . . he ran around with a girl friend of hers. I
wasn't too upset about it, I knew what he was like.
Not Lucy's type at all. She liked someone to do things
for her. He was the kind that wanted things done for
him, so I wasn't worried. She wouldn't go for that for
long."
"How about Clinton? And Kensington?''
"I don't know." He squared his shoulders. "I didn't
follow her around. I wouldn't do that. That's low and
sneaky."
...What did you do with your leisure time? Say, the
night she was killed, for instance?"
He nodded his small head, agreeing with himself.
"I knew you'd ask that. I tried to think of what I could
tell you that I could prove." He grimaced. "And there's
nothing. I went to the movies. Dr. Dolittle is playing
down the street. I thought I could tell you the plot, it
was very nice, not like some of these things you see
nowadays, and that would prove I was there but then
I realized that wouldn't do. It's been around and I
could have seen it anytime."
"She was killed long after the movies were over," I
told hiJll. Parks was prowling around again. He just
didn't seem able to stand still.
"After the picture was over I came home, here, and
went to bed," Rogers went on. "There's no way I can
prove it. It was a night like all my nights since Lucy
left me. Lonesome."
Parks was studying some frames hanging over a
highboy. He leaned closer to see better. As he looked
he asked, almost idly, "I see you were a member of a
special police force."
"Yes." Rogers looked over at him. "In my home
town. It was a kind of honor. We did traffic duty at
busy times, things like that. They had a small regular
force so we .filled in."
"And they gave you this nice certificate for it." Parks
stepped back from the highboy, resumed his pacing. In
the middle of a step he added, "Did they issue you a
gun?"
Something changed in Rogers' eyes. The choir boy
looked vanished briefly. "Yes. Yes, they did. Not issue
it exactly. I paid for it. It was mine."
I said smoothly, "So naturally you kept it."
Defensively. "Yes, yes I did. I paid for it. It was
mine. I had a permit for it."
"A Smith & Wesson?" Maybe Parks wasn't quite so
hopeless after all
Rogers nodded.
"Where is it now?"
"I gave it to Lucy. When she left me." He wouldn't
look me in the eye. "A woman isn't safe living alone!"
"Let's see the permit."
He looked blank. 'TU have to find it. It's around . • •
I don't know where."
How convenient for a killer, I thought, a weapon
close at hand. Who knew she had it-besides Rogers?
Had she talked about it, even shown it around? I asked
him, expecting him to be eager with a yes answer. But
he said he didn't know. He didn't look happy saying it,
but that's what he said.
So who would know the answer to that question?
The kids, I supposed, although not necessarily. They'd
have to be asked just the same but I was reluctant.
Jennifer-I didn't mind questioning her so much, she
was old enough to know the implications; but with
Jonathan, it was indeed like taking candy from a baby.
I decided we could put it off at least until after their
mother was buried.
"Did your wife have a bad temper?" This from Parks
who was now looking over a pile of magazines on a
low table.
"No worse than most women, I guess. She could get
mad, all right, but she got over it quickly. Didn't hold
a grudge."
"Can you think of any reason why anybody would
have wanted to kill her?" Parks seemed fascinated with
one of the publications he'd found. From where I sat
it looked like a copy of Playboy.
Rogers hung his head, shook it. "None. She didn't
have any money, only what I paid her each month to
live on and though it seems a lot to me, keeps me
strappeti•, it wouldn't be much for a robber. Besides,
she kept it in a checking account. She wouldn't have
had much money in the house."
I wondered aloud, "She didn't take drugs of any
sort? Smoke pot?" They'd found no needle marks on
her arms, but you never knew.
Rogers looked horrified. "Of course not!"
Somebody rapped softly on the door. Rogers looked
up expectantly. "That will be Ellen," he said and went
to answer while I waited to see who Ellen was.
Ellen was a little young thing, maybe twenty or
twenty-one, with a sweet, plain face and legs as thin as
Jennifer's. "Thank you for coming, Ellen," said Rogers
taking her white-gloved hand. "These men are detec
tives. Ellen, Miss Hobbs that is, is my secretary. She
called just before you showed up and said she was com
ing over. I don't know what you can do, Ellen, but it's
nice of you to offer."
"It's no trouble at all." Her voice was astonishingly
lovely, a breathy, but not too breathy alto. I wondered
if she could sing with a speaking voice like that. She
looked around. "Where are the children?"
"They've gone out for a walk. I didn't want them to
hear . . . the lurid details." Rogers led his secretary to
the sofa bed and sat her down. Perhaps I was imagin
ing things, but I thought he looked a great deal brighter.
"We're just leaving." I stood up and Parks started
for the door. Buttoning my coat, I said, "Nice to meet
you, Miss Hobbs. We'll be in touch, Rogers. See if you
can find that permit."
"Yes, I will." He came with us to the door. "Please
let me know how things are going." He held out his
hand and I shook it. His eyes were tear-filled again.
"Poor Lucy."
Leaving, we passed Jennifer and Jonathan coming
down the hall. She was tugging him along and he was
protesting that he wanted to ride the Swan Boats. She
stopped short when she saw us, then hurried the little
boy past and into the room. The door shut cutting off
Jonathan's wail. I rang for the elevator.
"He'll have to move out of here," Parks commented.
"A hotel's no plaet to bring up children."
"Have you got kids?" I asked him. I didn't even
know whether he was married or not.
"We're having one." He blushed.
"Congratulations," I said automatically. The elevator
doors opened and we joined a trio of elderly ladies
for the ride down. From their conversation, I judged
they were off on a sortie to Filene's basement. I silently
wished them luck in the shopping wars.
"What did you think of Rogers?" I asked when we
got in the car.
"He seems to be taldng it hard."
I grunted agreement. "Could be an act, however."
I was thinking of his reaction to his secretary's ap
pearance.
"Yes, it could be. He was quick to admit that the gun
was his, though." Parks' tone was diffident.
I grunted again, looked at my watch. Chances were
that E�eworth and Stone wouldn't get home much
before six. I suggested that we grab a bite of supper
while we had the chance. Parks blushed some more,
said he wanted to call his wife when he got a moment.
"She wasn't feeling too well this morning. She tells me
not to worry, that it goes with having a baby, but all
the same . . .•
"There's a public phone at Clancy's," I told him, and
we went there. He said he'd have a cheeseburger and
went off to telephone. I doodled with my pen on a page
of my notebook. Our friend Santa Claus intrigued me.
Before we went to Edgeworth's, a stop at Bentley Hall
could well be in order. Maybe we 'weren't seeing the
forest for the trees . . . just because Lucilla Rogers
mixed a batch of boy friends didn't necessarily make
jack Hap . . . I grinned wryly at my feeble pun and
Parks, returning to the table just then, asked, "Some
thing funny r·
6.2 What to Do Until the Undertaker Comes
I opened my mouth to tell him, Benedict and I oc
casionally amused ourselves with Spoonerisms, but I
decided it wasn't worth the effort. "I was just thinking
of something. How's your wife?"
He smiled boyishly. "All right. She says it's just morn
ing sickness, it goes away."
"When's the baby due?'' Our food came and I put
mustard on my burger while he used catsup on his.
"October." He bit into his sandwich. "Do you have
children?"
"I'm not married."
"Oh. Then of course you don't . . ." He blushed
some more. Brenda Purdue crossed my mind briefly.
I'd have to call her one of these days . . . but not until
my father got better. Which reminded me that I
wanted to call my mother. Would it be better to call
now or later? I wolfed my food and told Parks I had a
call to make, too. I might get tied up if I waited and I
didn't want to disturb them once they'd gone to bed.
I deposited change and dialed the number direct.
It rang and rang and then my mother's voice came on
saying, "Hello." She sounded out of breath. Damn, I
thought, I'd caught her upstairs and she had to run
down to answer.
..How's Dad, Mom?"
"Knute! How good of you to call. Excuse me while
I catch my breath. I was upstairs . . .""
'Tm sorry, Mom."
"Oh, son . . ." she laughed shakily. "That's all right."
The laughter faded. "He's about the same, I guess.
Maybe a little better. I think your being here did him
some good. He keeps talking about going to the open
ing ball game."
"Oh. Yeah. I've got to scare up some tickets. I'll call
a fellow I know on the Herald-Traveler, maybe he can
help me. I hear they're pretty well sold out for open
ing day. Do you think Dad can make it?"
"I don't know." She sounded tired. "I hope so."
•well, 111 get them anyway. He'll have something
then to look forward to. That's what he needs."
"Have you met your new partner yet?''
.,,
"Yes. His name's Barry Parks. He's a young one."
She paused a moment. "You didn't exactly take to
him?"
"He's all right. I just don't know him very well."
She put on her fond, motherly voice, the one she
used when she hinted that I should get married. "It
will take time, Knute. It will all work out. I'm sure it
will."
"Sure. You tell Dad I'm going to try for those tickets.
And 111 call you tomorrow."
"Your phone bill . . ." she said it but she really didn't
mean it. She wanted me to call and I knew it.
"Tomorrow, Mom. About this time. Okay?"
"All right, Knute. And thank you for calling." I hung
up and stood bemused, staring at nothing for a few
seconds, Then I remembered where I was and what
we had to do and I collected Parks and we headed
for Division One just to touch base and pick up any
messages that might have come in.
There was one. Clinton C. Clinton had been located.
He was a singing emcee at a place called Flipper's
Funland in Revere.
C HAPTE R S E V E N
An old man wearing an apron and wielding a broom

was sweeping dirty water into the corners of the en
trance foyer of Flipper's Funland. When I asked where
we could find Clinton, he squinted at me, pointed a
thumb. "They're all in there."
We stepped gingerly across the floor.
"He's the long-haired fag in the pink pants," the old
man called after us.
Parks looked at me and I made a face. We pushed
open double swinging doors and spotted, right off, a
long-haired character in a bright pink corduroy jump
suit. He was weaving across the front of the stage with
a portable mike in his hand. Before we could make a
move, the old gent with the broom yelled over our
shoulders, "Hey, Clinton! Here's a couple of cops call
ing on you!"
Parks and I exchanged looks again as the pink-clad
apparition halted, put aside the mike and jumped down
from the platfonn. "Must be we smell of eau de po
lice,". I said under my breath.
Flipper's Funland was a big, barnlike room filled with
tables placed as close to one another as physically pos
sible, except for directly in front of the stage where
space had been left for at least six couples to dance.
The wind from the ocean whistled past the windows,
found its way in through seams. A half dozen female
dancers wearing stretch pants and jerseys pranced
lethargically across the stage in approximate rhythm to
the piano which was being played by a very large
man in a pile-lined coat.
Clinton C. Clinton waved his hand in the direction
of the stage. "Rehearsing for tonight's show," he said.
He ran his hands through his long, wavy hair and
smiled a toothy smile. "It looks so glamorous to the
public. They don't see the work that goes on."
"We've come about Lucilla Rogers," I told him.
The smile vanished, was followed by a lugubrious ex
pression. "A damn shame. Sit down at this table, we can
talk here. Lucy was a good kid. Generous to a fault.
We were friends awhile back, but I guess you know
that or you wouldn't be here. I haven't seen her-oh, in
months."
Parks wandered over toward the bandstand while
Clinton and I took seats. I said, "Where were you last
Monday night? We're checking on everybody who
knew her."
He raised slim eyebrows up into his bangs. "Every
body?"
"Everybody we can find,'' I amended.
"I was here, of course. Right up there on that stage."
The smile almost blinded me. "Lots of witnesses."
"What time does Flipper's close?"
He turned the smile down to a mere 100 watts. "Two
A.M. We stop serving before one, of course, but it
takes that long to get rid of them so we run the last
show through till two. Then they go like lambs."
"That's interesting." I saw Parks leaning against the
piano, apparently chatting with the pianist. "She could
have been shot after two, we aren't sure."
The sand-colored eyes tumed to pale brown. "Hey!
Don't give me that." The smile came back like the sun
that refuses to stay behind a cloud. "Anyway, I was
with somebody afterward."
"Somebody?"
He turned to face the stage. "Sec the tall one, there
at the lmd, the one with the body?" I looked where he
was pointing, picked out the tallest, a brunette on the
junoesque side, and nodded. ''Well, that's Heather,"
Clinton continued. "We're pretty friendly."
"And you were with her Monday night after the
club closed?"
"You know it." A leer.
"Until when?"
"Until when? Let's see. I'd say we got up about
noon."
Park� and the piano player laughed softly at some
thing one of them said. "Want to talk to her?" Clinton
asked me. "I'll call her over."
"You do that," I said, "but call her from here."
He gave me a cocky look, yelled, "Heather!" and
waved his arm in our direction.
Heather stopped moving, said something to the girl
next to her and walked off the stage. She emerged from
the side smoking a cigarette. As she neared the table,
she began to cough. "Damn," she muttered in a nasal
voice. ''I've got this damn cold and it's damn cold in
here."
The pianist stopped playing and Parks sat down on
the bench beside him. The other dancers left the plat
form as though somebody'd yelled fire. "It's coffee
break." Heather definitely talked through her nose, nat
urally or because of the cold, I couldn't tell. "You guys
want a cup?''
"This is Detective --" Clinton looked at me blankly
and I gave him my name. Before he could say anything
else, I asked her, "Were you with Clinton all last Mon
day night?"
She sniffed. "If he says so."
"If he says so."
"I don't keep track of what night. I don't even re
member where I was last night. Oh, yes, I do. I went
right home because of this damn cold." She hugged
herself. "But you don't care about that, do you?" As
she spoke, her face was absolutely devoid of expres
sion. Her eyes, set in a broad face, reminded me of a
cow's.
"But you're not sure about Monday night? That's
the night I'm interested in. Monday, M arch 26."
"Sure I'm sure."
"You just said you weren't."
"I am, though. I just remembered. I'm sure. Mon
day night."
"Where?" I practically barked the word.
What to Do Until the Undertaker Comes 6g
She didn't even blink. "My place. I got an outside
staircase so what the landlady don't know won't hurt
her."
..And you11 swear you were with Clinton Monday
night?"
She shrugged. "Why not? Clint, you got a handker
chief on you or something? My nose is running like a
.
sieve."
"Here you are, baby." He handed her a rumpled
white square and she blew her nose on it. I pushed back
my chair and beckoned to Parks. "Any ideas as to
who might be the guy we're looking for?" I asked Clin-
ton. ,.
He flashed the smile. "Completely in the dark. Like
I say, she was a good kid but I didn't know her that
well."
"Who was a good kid?" asked Heather without any
great interest.
"111 be seeing you," I told them. They could be lying
like rugs as far as I was concerned, but the real hang-up
was what motive would he have had for shooting Lu
cilla Rogers? What motive would any of them have
had, as far as that was concerned, except her husband?
And if they were lying, how could I prove it? One
thing the courts definitely don't buy is, "I knew they
were lying, of course I did, anybody at all could tell
. . . well, if they weren't lying, then they were so cas
ual about the whole thing that he couldn't possibly
have . . ." Oh, to hell with it.
Besides, it was after six o'clock and we had a pair of
70 What . to Do Until the Undertaker Comes
alibis to check on. Burkhart alibis. Everybody had
somebody to say they were someplace else.
Except for Chester Rogers.
Stone and Edgeworth shared an apartment in Mat
tapan. I recognized the face of the fella who answered
the door, but I wasn't sure which one he was. "Pete
Stone," he said frowning. "Don't I know you from
somewhere?"
I told him when we'd met and why we were there.
I had to speak loudly, background music from inside
the apartment was my competition. It was the Beatle
song, "Hey, Jude."
Stone frowned harder. "Come in," he said somewhat
grudgingly. "We're expecting company in a little
while . . ."
"\Ve won't take long," I promised.
Edgeworth was in his bathrobe, shaving cream on
his face. He said, 'Tve seen you before . . ." and I
went through the routine all over again.
"Could you tum that down?" I concluded, indicat
ing a stereo set that took up most of one wall. They
were expecting company all right, the lights were
turned low and the pillows fluffed up.
Stone walked over and killed the sound. "Ned sent
them," he told Edgeworth.
"What for?"
"You know about the Rogers killing," I answered.
"He said you guys were his alibi."
"He did, huh?" Edgeworth tightened the cord on
his bathrobe. "We don't know anything about Lucy
Rogers. She was Ned's pal, not ours."
"What did Ned say we could alibi?'' Stone leaned
easily against the stereo.
"When did you part company with him?"
Stone stared at me with hooded eyes. "When did
he say we did?"
I stared back.
Stone looked at Edgeworth and Edgeworth said cau.
tiously, "Hell, how would we know? Who was check
ing watches?"
''Did you see Lucy go into her house?"
"Su�." It was Stone who answered.
"Did Burkhart go in with her?"
"No. They'd had a fight."
"A fightr'
Edgeworth amended Stone's phrase. "She was
burned off because we had to go home. She said she
didn't want to go home. She said it was a lousy time of
night to go home and it was a lousy house she was liv
ing in and a lousy life she led . . ."
"A lousy house? Any particular reason for her saying
that?"
Edgeworth tightened his belt again. "How would I
know? She was a complainer, went on and on. We
couldn't wait to get her off our backs. She was Ned's
problem, not ours."
"Whose car did you have? Who was driving?"
"Ned." Stone took over the answering chore once
more.
"So you let her off and he brought you home?''
They looked at each other. "No," Edgeworth said
slowly. "He took us to the Statler and we got a cab."
"Why was that?"
"Ned got bushed all of a sudden, that's what he
said. Gave us a song and dance about how beat he was,
how he had to get into the sack. So we said the hell
with him and grabbed a cab. Must have been maybe
2 A.M. and that's all we know." He turned toward a
bathroom door. "I gotta finish shaving. We've got a
couple of girls coming at seven-thirty."
On the way baok to the station, I talked softly to
myself. "Five little Indians. All in a row."
"Rogers, Burkhart, Kensington, Clinton, and
Walker," Parks spoke from the shadows. I'd almost for
gotten he was with me.
"That's right," I nodded. "And not one of them's got
a solid alibi. Not a single one."
CHAPTER EIGHT
After we got squared away the next morning, Parks

and I drove over to Bentley Hall. Bentley Hall was a
stone building off Charles Street, a building that prob
ably had once served as a residence, no doubt an im
posing qpe, but now bore the unmistakable look of an
institution. Chipped banisters and woodwork, tan walls,
scuffed floors.
There was an elderly woman sitting behind a desk
at the end of the foyer barring the way to the stairs.
She was working on a cros!.word puzzle and smoking
a cigarette. I told her we wanted to see Phil Walker.
Without taking her eyes off the crossword puzzle page,
she told us he was in the gym. Where was the gym, I
asked. She pointed a thumb. "Second floor, straight
ahead."
I guessed that the "gym," large as it was, had been
created by removing partitions. It was furnished with
the usual gymnastic equipment and looked to be
empty. But I heard voices murmuring so I called,
"Walker? Are you here?"
Heads popped up from behind a stack of mats at
the far end. Half a dozen boys' heads of assorted col-
ors and one clown face, complete with dead-white
make-up and a wide, red-painted mouth.
Ye Gods, I thought. I walked forward. "Walker?
Can we talk to you a minute?"
The clown stood up. He wore a white and red polka
dot suit with a wide ruff around the neck. "Who . .
oh, it's you. Take ten, will you, fellas?'' Six youngsters
tore out of the gym and we heard their noisy clatter
on the stairs.
"What's the deal?" The clown and I approached
each other as I spoke. "A day at . the circus?"
"We're planning a fund-raising show." His painted
mouth was turned up in a perpetual smile but his real
mouth was tipped down. "What do you guys want?
This is a busy day."
"We'd like to have a look at your sleeping quarters.
You know, where you spend the night here at the
club? Just to check things out and then we11 make a
little run down to the station where you can let us take
your fingerprints. It won't take long. If you cooperate."
"No wonder we have so much crime in the streets!"
Walker glared at us through starry clown's eyes. "Here
I am, trying to deter juvenile delinquency and the
police are doing everything in their power to keep me
from my work. What will my boys say when they see
me drive off in a police car?"
"It may raise your standing." I grinned at him. "Let's
see where you lay your head, shall we? Time's a
wastin'."
He glared some more and marched out past us,
What to Do Until the Underlaker Comes 75
Parks and I trailing after. We went up the stairs rather
than down, up to the third floor where closed doors
dotted the hallway. Walker opened one and the three
of us walked in. I opened my mouth and promptly
closed it.
It was a big room, possibly a master bedroom when
the hall was a house, and the furniture may have come
with it. There was a huge fourposter with a canopied
top, yet, and matching bureaus of heavy, carved ma
hogany. An Oriental rug, a good one, lay on the floor
and damask drapes on the long windows matched the
ruby-colored bed hangings. When I'd taken it all in,
I said;"'"Well, well."
"You've heard of the Bentley family, I presume?"
asked Walker stiffly. "This was once their family home
and when the last male Bentley died, Mr. Nathaniel,
that was, leaving no heir, his widow decided to make
this house into a boys' club. These are some of the
original furnishings. As you can see, if you know any
thing about such things, they are valuable antiques."
Parks sighed what sounded like a sigh of apprecia
tion and walked over to look out a window. "Does
anyone else sleep on tllis floor?"
"No. The other rooms are hobby rooms, craft rooms,
store rooms, and an office. We have a night watchman,
of course, we have to because nothing is sacred any
more, but he stays downstairs at the reception desk."
"A night watchman? Then maybe he can verify
the fact that you stayed here Monday night?"
The painted mouth tightened. "You're still on that
gig? Maybe he can and perhaps he can't. He's not at
the desk all the time, he does have to make his rounds,
you know. People will steal anything that isn't nailed
down these days."
I smiled, I hoped, sweetly. "I should think it would
be worth the chance. Odd that you wouldn't at least
want us to ask him. He just might be able to back your
alibi. Funny you feel so negative about it."
Parks came away from the window, looked over a
stack of boxes on the table. From where I stood, they
appeared to be games.
"What's your night watchman's name? When does
he come on duty?''
Parks walked over and opened the door of a big,
old-fashioned armoire. It held some usual men's clothes
and some brightly colored garments that I took to be
more costumes. Walker was a great one for dressing up,
it seemed.
"His name is Stanley McCoy." Walker's tone was
pettish. "And he comes to work at eleven o'clock. From
eleven to eight, those are his hours."
"How about an address?"
He flapped his arms in an "I give up" gesture. "That
will be in my office. I suppose there's no other way to
get rid of you."
"We want that address and the prints. That will do
for openers. Do you want to change your clothes be
fore we go downtown?"
"Oh, I suppose so. That means more time wasted.
It takes me half an hour to get this make-up on, I sup-
pose you realize that . . ." He grumbled all the way to
and from Division One, but we got what we wanted
even if it did kill the whole morning.
After we grabbed a bite to eat, we went looking for
Stanley McCoy. Stanley McCoy, his wife told us, was
a night watchman by night and a Linotype setter by
day at one of the daily newspapers. "When does he
sleep?" I couldn't help askirg.
His wife, a drawn-looking, very pregnant dishwater
blonde, shrugged. "You know how much it costs to
have a kid these days? When you need money, who
has time to sleep?"
We fbund Stanley McCoy at his place of business.
A bony man, maybe in his early thirties, he peered up
at us through eyeglasses, hands on his Linotype key
board. I explained who we were, what we wanted. I
had to talk rather loudly, the presses were rolling not
too far away.
"Walker?" McCoy was chewing gum, the movement
of his jaws accelerated. "Yeah, he sleeps there some
times. Monday, the �6th you say? He might have, he
might not. I don't pay much attention, do my job and
that's that." He blinked aggrievedly.
"Does he ever have anybody upstairs with him after
the club has dosed?" Parks' question, from a man so
usually silent, surprised me.
McCoy glanced up at him sharply. A burly-type guy
standing near us caught my eye. I got the idea he
wasn't happy with us being there. The foreman, no
doubt. McCoy saw him too, said quickly, "How would
I know?" and began to punch Linotype keys.
"You don't seem to take much of an interest in what
goes on at Bentley Hall," I told him.
"Why should I? I moonlight. There's not too much
work to do, it pays enough to let us save a little. Be
sides, I don't believe in that do-gooder stuff. Let 'em
get out and work, that's what I say."
"What do you think of Walker?"
"He's all right, I guess. He don't give me no trouble
• . . not till now."
The burly character edged closer. McCoy didn't
seem to look at him, but he knew he was there. ''I've
got to get back to work," he said out of the comer of
his mouth. "I don't know who was there, Walker or
anybody else. Honest to God, I don't."
I gave up. "Okay. If you remember anything after
you've thought about it, call us." I left my name and
phone number with him, poked Parks and we walked
out of the press room. I could feel the foreman's eyes
watching us all the way out.
As I started the car, I asked, "What was that bit
about somebody being with Walker at Bentley Hall?"
He flushed. "The games. They were games for two
or more. You can't play them alone."
"Maybe they belong in a hobby room or someplace
else. Maybe he just stacked them there." I drove out
into traffic.
"That could be," Parks agreed.
"But you don't think so?"
"I don't know. I just wondered."
"Hmmm. Could be we should talk to Mrs. Nathaniel
Bentley. It might be interesting to hear how and where
she found the director of her philanthropic club." And
I made a mental note to look up Mrs. Nathaniel Bent
ley the first chance I got. But after we reached Divi
sion One, that thought got chased out of my mind.
All hell had just been sitting around getting bored
and ready to break loose-and now it began to do it.
Hell's advance man was a most incongruous character
by the name of Mack Thimble.
CHAPTER NINE
He was a tall, thin man wearing olive-drab coveralls

and an old Army jacket. He was complaining to Davo
ren, "Man, I can't hang around here all day and
night . . ." when Davoren spotted me coming down
the hall and called, "Knute, this guy's been waiting
for you. Name's Mack Thimble."
"I'm Severson," I told Thimble. "You want to see
me?"
He looked me in the eye for a fraction of a second
before he glanced away. He wasn't used to looking at
people directly, not for long. 'Tm trying to do my
citizen duty," he grumbled, "and all I get is a run
around." He was carrying a paper bag in both hands.
Since it didn't look heavy, I figured it must be valuable.
"What can I do for you?" I asked him. "Come over
and sit down. Sorry to have kept you waiting."
He shuffled after me and I borrowed a chair for him
from Benedict's empty desk. Thimble folded himself
into it, put the paper sack on my desk top. "I found
this." His tone was on the defensive side. "They said
it looked like your baby and I was to give it to you. I
found it and when I looked inside I jumped like a
snake bit me. I dropped it, a hot potato, and I would
have left it there but there's these kids that go poking
around and I thought, what if one of them found it?
Only I didn't want it either, didn't want one of these
things in the house . . ."
I took a pencil and poked it into the end of the bag,
opened it just enough to see inside. "Did you handle
it?" I asked.
"Not mel I felt the sack, felt something inside, so I
opened it. Dropped it quick, like I said."
I used careful fingers, worked the gray-black pistol
out onto the desk top. It gleamed dully, Smith & Wes
son .38 all right, six-inch barrel.
"Whete did you find it?''
"At the dump. I ride a refuse truck, got a good repu
tation, you ask my boss. Been at this business three
years steady now, guys come and go, too good for the
work, I guess . . ."
"Did this come off your truck?"
A vehement nod. "Must have. When we dump her,
I always give a kind of look afterward. People throw
away the damnedest things . • . it's all this affluent
society crap, found a radio one time, worked just fine
and another time . . ." He paused to scratch the tip
of his nose with a not-quite clean finger.
"What is your route?"
He told me.
"Including Haven Street?" I pressed.
He nodded.
"And when did you find this?"
"Tuesday. After work. Just before I went home."
"You didn't exactly leap on your horse and rush
down here, did you?" As soon as Blasdell came in,
we'd fingerprint the gun. I was trying my best not to
get excited but if this wasn't a break, I didn't know
what a break was.
"I had someplace to go that night and I hadn't had
my supper, man gets tired working outside all day,
tired and hungry . . . then after that I had to work . . .
I just couldn't get around to it till now." He reached
in his coverall pocket, brought out a pack of cigarettes
and a match packet. Parks beat him to it, lit the ciga
rette for Thimble.
I used my pencil to turn the gun around. I thought I
could make out powder marks around the barrel.
Could it have been in that trash barrel the morning I'd
walked into that house with Jonathan? Trash can sit
ting right out on the porch in plain sight. The lab
boys must have dug through the trash can when they
got there, they wouldn't have overlooked such an ob
vious receptacle. So, maybe somebody put it there
later, after they'd come and gone . . . or, "What time
did you make pick ups on Haven Street?" I knew it
had to be after noon, the trash can had been full when
I'd seen it.
Thimble shrugged, looked for an ash tray. Parks got
him one from Benedict's desk. "Can't say for sure. It
varies. Maybe one o'clock, maybe three. Somewhere in
between there. Usually."
I reached in my file drawer and dug out the lab re
port on the house on Haven Street. Had they checked
the trash barrel? They had-empty at 2 : 30 P.M. So the
gun could have been, must have been in it when I
walked right by it. If I hadn't been so distracted by the
kids . . . I felt like slapping my forehead and yelling,
"Dumbkopf!" The fortunes of the gods, grinding ex
ceedingly small, had ruled that Mack Thimble would
come by and empty the trash barrel before the lab crew
came. But Doc Albert was there-he knew enough to
hang onto every shred of evidence, he wouldn't have
let them empty the trash barrel before it had been
checked out. He'd been in the bedroom with the body,
hut he would have heard the racket, the sound of some
body coming up on the porch . . . his toothache. I
remembered his toothache and the comment he'd
made about his head ringing like a zither.
Because of a toothache, we'd lost the murder
weapon.
"You didn't notice what was in the barrel at 631
Haven Street?" I knew it was a stupid question, no
doubt one refuse can looked pretty much like another
to him.
"Naw. Unless we see something good on top, then
we fish it out right then and there and hang onto it, we
don't pay no attention. If we dug into every one, we'd
never get the route covered." Thimble puffed easily on
ms cigarette, He seemed relaxed now, not so eager to
get away. Pleased to get the gun off his hands, I
guessed. Scared before that he might be blamed for
something.
I thanked him for coming and he grinned. His teeth
needed attention, but he looked good to me. I prayed
for fingerprints and from where I sat, it looked like we
might get some. Because the killer had panicked and
dumped the gun, because a curious trash collector had
a fear of guns, we might get somewhere at last. I
wished Benedict were there, he'd recognize the same
sweet smell of success that I did. You could always tell
when things were coming your way. I shook hands
with Mack Thimble as he got up to go.
I'd turned to Parks with a smile on my lips and had
just started to make some remark about angels and dis
guises when my phone rang. Without looking, I reached
out and picked up the receiver.
"Knute! My God, Knute!" It was Davoren's voice but
sounding so strange and he was just across the room
from me so I looked over at him and he was sitting
there, staring into the telephone, white as a sheet.
He looked up and our eyes met and when he talked
again into the phone, I swear I knew what was coming.
"It's Benedict. He was down on lower Washington
Street . . . some hophead came into the smut shop he
was in and . . . sh1ck him in the guts. The blade, they
said the blade was a foot long . . ."
I thought, I think I thought how screwy to be talking
this way about this, over the telephone, when I wanted
to be shouting and I know Davoren wanted to be yell
ing, too, but I guess he didn't want to shake up the
customers, there were a few civilians going in and out,
and I almost whispered, "Is he dead?"
"No • • • no, but bad • . .''
"Where? Where is he?"
"Boston City. It was the closest . . ."
Parks, at my elbow, murmured, "What's up?"
Pinkerton burst through the door from the hall,
nearly knocking over a passerby, and said in a voice
you could hear in Granger's office, "My God, have you
heard about Benedict?"
I dropped the phone, answered none of the voices
I barely heard, I don't remember leaving the building,
nor the drive across town, I only became wired in when
I faced Doc Albert in the corridor at Boston City Hos
pital. We stood near a door that I knew led to Benedict,
but Doc,\Jbert wouldn't let me go in, he kept jabbering,
jabbering . • •
"He needs blood," three of Doc Albert's words came
through.
I peeled off my coat. 'Tm type O."
""All right. Come with me. We'll get you set." He eyed
me closely. "You okay?"
"Of course I am. God damn it, sure I am. Let's get
on with it."
He took me, not in to Benedict, but to another room,
a small room with examination tables, two of them side
by side, and he pulled a couple of nurses out of thin
air. The next thing I knew I was lying Hat on my back
waiting for Benedict to be wheeled in. "Barbara," I sud
denly remembered. ''Is there somebody with Barbara
and Kim?"
"Of course there is." Doc A1bert meant to be sooth
ing but his reply came too quick.
I struggled to sit up. "Who? Who? I should be with
them."
Doc Albert pushed me back on the table and some
body grabbed my ann. "Look, Knute," he said gently,
"you can't be in two places at once and we need you
here."
They brought Benedict in, Jesus, he looked like
death, he looked dead already, and they hooked us
together with tubing like the two working parts of
some strange machine. While they took the blood, I
didn't really feel anything, didn't think anything, I al
most dozed, lay there and nearly slept while my blood,
my ordinary blood tried to fill the void and make Bene
dict live. I did think once, I thought like a prayer that
my blood would be good enough for Benedict.
CHAPTER TEN
I woke up, all alone, in a strange, dark place and I knew

that Doc Albert had given me a needle to put me out.
I was fully dressed, except for my coat and shirt, both
of which were neatly hung over the back of a chair
across thft little room. I could make them out when the
blinking lights of some sign came in stripes through
the venetian blind. I was in another examination room
of some sort, lying on a table that had a kind of shelf
at the end to support my feet. As I pushed myself up
and swung my feet over, I struck an obstruction, metal,
something like a stirrup in the wrong place and I real
ized I was in a gynecological examination room.
I dressed hurriedly, didn't bother to tie my tie which
also hung over the back of the chair, just strung it
around my neck, and went looking for Benedict.
A nurse waylaid me before I'd gotten very far. "Mr.
Severson," she cooed with an appropriate professional
smile, "Dr. Albert said to let you sleep. Are you feeling
better now?"
"Benedict. Detective Benedict. Where is he? How is
he?"
The smile grew brighter, still a terribly mechanical
thing. "Dr. Albert said you'd ask that right away. He
said to tell you he's holding his own."
"I want to see him."
The smile dimmed, like a minor loss of electrical
power, surged forth again with new voltage. "Well . . •
he didn't say you could . . ."
"I want to see him." I'm not sure, but I think I gritted
my teeth.
"On the other hand, he didn't say you couldn't see
him. Come this way."
I followed starched skirt, flat white shoes, white
stockings down the hall, past doors where recuperating
people looked out from beds in caves, where sick people
lay mutely, non-caring, sheet-covered bulks in private
misery. And for punctuation, an occasional groan. At
last we turned into one of these doors and I looked at
Benedict who lay, eyes closed, face somehow sunken,
there but not there, missing.
His face looked bare and young without his glasses.
His skin was an odd color in the night light. At first I
thought his chest didn't move, but when I looked
closely, I made out its gentle rise and fall. Weary rise
and fall.
"Is he going to be all right?" I whispered to the nurse.
"He's holding his own, quite comfortable as you can
see . . ." She became suddenly, unexpectedly human,
"He's got a good chance, thanks to you and his doctor.
He really has."
I leaned over him. I wanted in the worst way to
speak to Benedict, to have him answer me back but I
knew I must let him sleep, gather strength. I reached
out and rested my fingertips on his arm. It felt warm,
living. I backed off, bumped into the nurse. 'Tll go see
his wife," I said, more to me than to her.
"Oh, I don't think . . . I mean, at this hour . . ."
"What time is it?" I asked stupidly. I hadn't the energy
to even look at my watch.
"Almost midnight. Why don't you go home to bed?
Tomorrow, things are sure to look brighter."
"Nearly midnight." Half a day gone, vanished, while
Benedict fought for life and I lay supine, out of action.
The action. But what did the action matter? Here was
where t� real action was, here was Benedict who
needed me badly ( or was I the one who needed him
badly?) . . . Barbara and Kim who had needed me
during those terrifying hours only I wasn't there . . . I
shivered. I was chilled, hungered for warmth. "I think
I'll go home," I said aloud but to myself. "Things will
look brighter in the morning." I wasn't sure I could
drive.
"Why don't you do that?" The smile was back, it
guided me like a beacon into the hall. Her voice from
a distance told me how to find my way out of the place
and I memorized her words, walked the corridors like
a robot.
Coming out into the clear, cool night I blinked and
stretched like Frankenstein's monster. My car was .,
parked at a crazy angle near the emergency entrance.
I thought its blank headlights looked at me accusingly.
I got inside it and sat there, knew I didn't want to go,
go What to Do Until the Undertaker Comes
couldn't bear to go home. And it was too late to try and
help Barbara tonight. I started the engine. Division
One. Where I belonged. Where whoever was there
would understand, too, that I didn't want to talk about
it.
God, they say, looks after drunks and fools. I didn't
know which noun described me but I made it to Di
vision One and when I got there there was an urgent
message for me.
Chester Rogers had called at 1 1 : 10 P.M. Jennifer
and Jonathan had disappeared.
At the bottom of the message, written in Granger's
hand, was the order: Call Parks, get him over there.
Knute's at the hospital with Benedict. Parks will have
to handle this on his own.
I drove like hell but Parks was there just ahead of
me. He answered Rogers' door and I stood there when
he did, with my hand still raised, fisted for knocking,
and realized with a kind of horror that I hated him in
that moment.
Why? Because he was just beginning and I was well
on my way? Because whether Benedict lived or died
was cutting me up inside and wasn't really touching
him? These things and more, I knew, were reasons and
I said to myself right then and there, hold it, Knute,
hold it. Don't let anybody jab that spring inside or you'll
come unglued in a million pieces and all the king's
horses and all the king's men . . .
"I tell you, they've been kidnapped!" Chester Rog-
ers' voice was out of control and he Happed his arms
in extreme agitation.
"Oh, Mr. Rogers. Chesterl" Ellen Hobbs clasped her
hands together. "Please don't say that. Don't even think
itl"
"Calm down," I urged with a new, icy detachment,
"just cool it." I gave Rogers a little push that moved him
backward and he collapsed on the studio couch. "Start
from the beginning. When did you last see them? Take
a deep breath, now slow and easy."
He tried to do as I said but in the middle of the deep
breath his face fell apart and he began to sob. "Oh,
Chester!" Miss Hobbs knelt beside him. ''Please don't!"
I used my harshest voice. "Stop that, Miss Hobbs.
Get him something to drink. Have you got any whiskey
around here?"
She turned her anguished young face up to me.
"Whiskey? Oh, I don't know. I don't think so."
Rogers rolled over on the sofa and wept into the
cushions. I ordered, "You tell me, Miss Hobbs. Tell me
what happened."
"They've been gone since . . :• Parks began but I
stopped him.
"Let her tell me," I commanded.
Miss Hobbs wrung her hands. "We'd gone out to
eat . . ." Rogers cried louder. "It was all my fault," Miss
Hobbs told him plaintively. To me she explained, "He
hadn't eaten. The children had gone down for supper
and I said he had to eat something to keep his strength
up. So by the time they came back, he'd agreed to go
with me and we went down to the coffee shop, he
wouldn't go into the dining room and we were gone
maybe half an hour, forty-five minutes and when we
came back, they were gone!"
"Jenny! Jonny!" wailed Rogers into the pillows.
"What time was this?"
Miss Hobbs looked at her wristwatch as though it
would tell her. "About seven-thirty, I'd say."
"You went down to eat at seven-thirty?"
"No, we came back here then. We went down just
before seven." She was very certain. Little Miss Effi
ciency.
"So that sometime between a quarter of seven and
seven-thirty, the kids disappeared?"
"Yes."
Rogers, sobs abating, sniffled loudly.
"But you didn't call the station until after eleven?"
Rogers sat up, sniffled again. "I thought at first they'd
just gone out someplace. It never entered my mind . . ."
his face worked, "that somebody would kidnap them."
He shook a trembling finger at me. "It's the murderer.
My children saw something that night and he's taken
them away." His choir boy's eyes grew even wider as
he considered his own words. "My Codi He'll kill them!"
"Oh, Chester!" Miss Hobbs fluttered around him.
"Now, hold it," I said sternly. "Was there a note? Did
they take their coats with them? Anything else?" I
turned to Parks who had made his way across the room,
was looking out the window. "Parks, go down and find
out if anybody saw them in the lobby."
He nodded, turned to go. In passing he said, "The
bus terminal's right across the street."
I stared at him for a second. "See what you can find
out." Rogers blew his nose and I put a question to him.
"What were they wearing? The coats they had on the
other day?"
"Coats?" He looked around in confusion.
Miss Hobbs went to a closet door. "Let me look, we
didn't think to . . . yes, her Loden coat is gone and
Jonny's blue jacket."
Parks nodded in affirmation and left us. I had a
thought. "The red boots," I asked Ellen Hobbs. "Jonny':,
red boof!i. Was he wearing those?"
"Red boots?" She peered into the closet. "I don't see
any."
"Did either of them have any money?" Rogers was
looking utterly blank so I repeated my question.
"Money?" The word might have been foreign.
"Money. Cash."
"No, I don't think . . . not that I know of. What
would they have wanted money for?"
"Is there anything else missing? Besides their coats
and the boots?'' Damn the man, why didn't he pull him
self together?
"I haven't looked . . . I never thought . . . kidnap
pers don't . . . do they?"
"Miss Hobbs, would you know where the children's
clothes were kept?" Questioning Rogers was next to
hopeless.
"\Vell, no, I . . ,"
"They have suitcases." There was awareness now on
Rogers' face and another emotion I didn't quite under
stand. "We didn't have room in the bureau, we were
going to move, so they lived out of their suitcases." He
stood up to show me, went to another closet, opened
the door and, "They're gone! Their suitcases are gone!
He doesn't mean to murder them. He wouldn't have
taken their clothes if he planned to kill them, would
he?" Rogers grabbed my arm and pulled at me, eager
for reassurance.
I moved his hand away, said, "Anything else gone?
Did you have any money around, for instance?"
"No, it isn't wise to keep money in . . ." he frowned,
ducked back into the closet. "Miss Hobbs! Ellen!" His
voice was muffied by the confines of the little room.
"My samples are gone." He emerged, face a study in
bewilderment. "Why would a kidnapper steal my
samples?"
I was as puzzled as he was. "Samples of what? What
samples?"
"Why, my top line bowling balls. I sell bowling equip
ment and I always carried two of my very best balls
for demonstration." Even in his distress, he couldn't
resist adding, 'Tm quite well known in bowling circles."
"He's just the best salesman we have," Miss Hobbs
told me proudly.
I stared at them. "Let me get this straight. You sell
bowling balls and you had two in this closet and now
they're gone? How would anybody carry them? You
just don't walk around with a bowling ball in your hand.
And aren't they on the heavy side?"
"They were in carrying bags, of course. One was a
twelve-pounder, for those who can't handle the heavy
weight as well, and another was a sixteen-pounder."
Now it was my turn to frown. "When did you see
them last?"
"I don't know . . ." He thought about it. "The day
this terrible thing happened to Lucy, I guess. I brought
them back and stuck them in the closet. I haven't even
thought of them since then."
"How much were they worthr'
"The heavier model retailed for $35 and the lighter
for $32.50."
"Describe them to me. The bags, too. And the kids'
suitcases, whatever you can recall that they had in
them." I got out my notebook. Rogers was at least think
ing now. The loss of his samples seemed to have brought
him out of his tearful daze.
Parks came back while I was noting: One navy-blue
bowling bag with red leather handles and trim, one
hunter's green bag with natural leather handles and
trim; one small zippered suitcase in a gray and black
striped fabric; a medium-sized gray molded case with
one dented corner. When he entered, I glanced up and
shook my head at him. Whatever he'd learned I pre
ferred to hear in private.
Rogers, however, wasn't to be denied. "Did anyone
see them?" he broke off to ask. "Did you get a descrip
tion of the man?"
g6 What to Do Until the Undertaker Comes
Parks avoided his eyes. "Everybody who was on duty
between six forty-five and seven-thirty is off duty now.
We'll have to check in the morning."
"Oh, God," moaned Rogers. "My poor children."
"We'll take you home now, Miss Hobbs," I said put
ting my notebook away. "Both you and Mr. Rogers can
use a good night's sleep."
"Will you be all right, Chester?" Ellen Hobbs wanted
to know. "Oh, dear, I wish there were something I
could do!"
"What time is it?" Chester had a wristwatch, too, and
now he looked at it. "Almost one-thirty. You must go
home, Ellen. And tell Mr. Honing I'll get in touch with
him tomorrow. I know I was supposed to report back
for work, but I just can't with this hanging . . . " He
straightened to his full height. "Of course I'll be all
right. I'm worried sick, but I'm a grown man, aren't I?
You nm along and I thank you for your kindness of
heart."
She seemed loath to go but we took her. During the
ride, I commiserated and complimented, then I in
quired, "What did the children say to you this after
noon? Were you with them all the time?"
"The funeral was this morning and I took the day
off for it. I felt so sorry for them all." She smoothed her
pale gloves. "They didn't say much to me at all, really.
Oh, Jonny did. He's such a darling and happily I don't
think he quite fully realizes. But Jenny is a silent girl,
by nature, Chester says. Now that I think back, I can't
recall her saying a word. She'd just look and watch and
listen. Even when I tried to make conversation. Chester
says that's the way she is, that she hasn't any friends
even and that he's worried about her. I told him it was
simply because of this thing that had happened to her
mother. Ifs natural that she should be very upset, I
told him. I told him he'd worry if she wasn't."
"Sounds as though he did a lot of apologizing. Was
she nide to you?" I was watching the road closely, look•
ing for her side street.
"Oh, I wouldn't call it rude. It's just as I said, she
wouldn't answer. I told Chester I didn't mind at all, to
think nothing of it. I told Chester I understood."
After�we'd dropped her off, the first thing Parks said
was, "How's Benedict?"
I made my answer as short as possible. "Still alive.
What did you find out down in the lobby?"
"What I told Rogers was pretty much the tmth, but
the doorman thinks he saw them leaving the building
early last evening."
"Anyone with them?"
"He couldn't be sure. They've gotten used to seeing
them around, coming and going. Everybody feels sorry
for them."
"Were they carrying anything?"
"He didn't mention it. Carrying what?"
I told him about the suitcases and the bowling balls.
He said thoughtfully, "Bowling balls."
"Crazy, isn't it?" Suddenly I felt weary, close to ex•
haustion. He'<l brought his own car to Rogers' hotel,
I told him I'd take him back there. He nodded.
"Do you think they were kidnapped?" he asked.
"It's possible, I suppose. Anything is possible. But it
doesn't smell that way."
"I went over to the bus station."
I eyed him. "Oh?"
"I remembered that Rogers had said his parents
lived in Florida. I thought if I were a kid and wanted
to run away, I'd want to go to somebody. I thought
it just might b e possible that a bus might have left for
Florida and that they might have been on it."
"What did you find out?"
"No Florida buses tonight. Just one for New York
City by way of Hartford. Left at ten minutes past eight,
dnc into the city about now."
"Anybody remember them buying a ticket?"
"It was pretty much the same as the hotel-shifts had
changed. But just on the chance, I thought it might be
a good idea to send word to the New York police. They
could be on the lookout for them. And they could watch
the Florida-bound buses."
I tried to hold back a sigh. "Okay. I'll go by the
station . . ."
"No, I'll do it. You must be dead."
"Pretty close to it, I guess. While you're at it, you'd
better have somebody check out our little Indians. It
is possible that Messrs. Burkhart, Kensington, Clinton,
or Walker could have made off with them for the very
reason Rogers said. They might have seen something.
Hell"-1 pounded the steering wheel with my fist-"they
should have!"
"111 do that." I pulled up at the hotel and he started
to get out. Hand on the door handle, he hesitated. "I
don't get the bowling-ball angle."
I yawned, I couldn't help it. "It fits right in with your
Florida theory up to a point. If yon don't have any
money, you take something that's worth something to
get some. Although God knows you can't get to Florida
on a couple of bowling balls."
He nibbled his lower lip. "A check of the pawnshops
down by North Station?"
I yawned again. "Yes. But how would they know
where to go . . . still, I think Jennifer Rogers is the
same breed of cat as Mama, smarter than she looks."
"If they did run away, why?" Parks was out on the
sidewalk now.
"All I can figure is that they're scared to stay around
here."
"Then they did see something?"
"Had to. 1'11 get in as soon as I can in the rooming. I
want to go by the hospital first."
"Right. And Knute . . ."
I looked out at him. "Yeah?"
"I hope evcrything's all right . . ." His words sounded
weak against the night wind.
"Thanks, Parks." I drove home, brought a furious
Mein Hair in and fed him and went to bed.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
I slept like a dead man and awakened to the dual buzz.

ing of my alarm clock and the purring of Mein Hair.
I came to with a start and when I'd pulled myself to
gether, and incidentally fed the cat and let him out,
I telephoned Doc Albert at home.
"Jesus, Knute," he protested, "I know you're con
cerned, but I haven't had time to check with the hos.
pital this morning. When I left last night, prognosis was
pretty fair."
''I'll call the hospital then."
"You can if you want to, but if you'll just take it easy,
I'll get back to you after I've seen Benedict. About all
they'll tell you at the hospital is that the patient spent
a comfortable night."
'TU call anyway." And I did and they told me Mr.
Benedict spent a comfortable night. Then I telephoned
Barbara.
"Knute, oh, I'm so glad to hear from you! Dr. Albert
told me what you did. You know how grateful I am,
I don't have to tell you that." She sounded surprisingly
cool, I thought, quite in command of herself.
"All you all right? How will Kim get to nursery
school? Do you want me to take her?"
"I'm all right now. It was pretty bad at first. Kim is
all right, too. One of the other mothers is going to drive
her and I've got someone to stay with her while I'm at
the hospital." She paused. ''I'd like very much to see
him this morning. Dr. Albert said not last night but I'd
like very much . . ."
'TH check out with Captain Granger and then I'll
pick you up. Say, about nine?"
"Do you think it will be possible to see him then? I
don't know about visiting hours . , ,"
'We'll make it possible."
"Thank you, Knute. You're a good friend."
,.
"How did it happen?" was the first thing I asked
Granger. "Did they get the creep who did it?"
Granger sounded as tired as I felt. "Yes, they got him.
Joe Cook from the post office was with Benedict, he put
a hammerlock on the guy and somebody got hold of a
patrolman. He's one of those nuts that checks in and
out of the dope cure hospitals, stays in just long enough
to dry out, then comes out and shoots himself full of
junk again. His name's Billy Upham."
I growled in disgust. The punks, the no-goods, always
the punks and the no-goods. Sometimes I got sick of
the whole business. I told Granger I planned to take
Barbara to the hospital and he said okay. "Gives me the
shivers when it happens this way." He might have been
speaking to himself. "It's like a jinx. You make a move
to get out of this rat race and the boom falls. Happens
more times than maybe you know. Benedict had only
ten days left."
"He'll be okay," I said stubbornly.
"I hope so. But it will take a while. Messes up his
plans. Seems like you just can't get away clean."
'TB get in as soon as I can. Is Parks moving on this
Rogers thing?"
"So far as I know. I'll be anxious to hear about Ben
edict."
'Tm on my horse." I hung up and gulped down cof
fee, got into my clothes. Billy Upham! If Benedict didn't
pull through, I'd see to Billy Upham. Punk! No-good!
Good for him I wasn't the one to collar him.
Benedict's apartment looked somewhat like mine,
boxes and barrels all over the place. Pictures down,
bookshelves empty. Barbara, noticing my glance, said,
"We'll have to defer moving for a while, I'm afraid.
Will it make things difficult for you? You've given no
tice on your apartment."
"No problem. I've got a couple of extra months to
run on my lease anyway. I was going to try and sublet
it or just let it go." I handed over her pocketbook and
gloves and steered the wheelchair toward the hall door.
Out in the hall, I headed the chair toward the service
elevator. Thank God we didn't have to use the steep,
narrow staircase that comes with renovated lofts and
provides atmosphere and out-of-breath guests.
"How's your father?" Barbara asked.
I felt a pang of guilt. "I haven't had a chance to call
since day before yesterday. Mom said he was getting
better." And I hadn't done a thing about baseball

tickets either. Fine son I was. In danger of turning into
an iceman, not giving a damn about anything or any
body. So busy trying to save the punks and the no-goods
from themselves . . .
Down on the street, I lifted Barbara into the front
seat, folded up the chair and put it in the trunk. Gulls
swept over the wharf's end, lured by the promise of an
incoming fishing boat. I breathed deep. "Smell the sea,"
I said.
"I shouldn't say this, seeing as you will be taking
over our apartment," Barbara managed a small smile,
"but som'tltimes the smell you get isn't exactly the smell
of the sea." Her face grew serious again. "Pollution is
getting to be a problem."
"When I move in"-I put the car into gear-'Tll per
sonally plague everyone on the wharf to cease and
desist."
"You may have to do just that." We rode silently for
several blocks, then Barbara asked, "Knute, how did he
look?"
I reached for a platih1de but came up with, "He
didn't look as though he felt very good."
Her reply was a quiet, "Thafs what I expected,"
I found a platitude: "It's great what medical science
can do these days,"
Barbara responded politely, "Yes, isn't it?"
After that, there was more silence and then we were
at Boston City where I commandeered a parking spot
in the official-cars-only section and we went in.
An unfamiliar nurse was about to give us a bad time,
basing her argument on the fact that visiting hours
hadn't begun and anyway, there were two of us, one not
family, and "Mr. Benedict is in an intensive care unit,
I'm really not certain he should be seeing anyone at
all . . ." Even Barbara's wheelchair didn't melt her
heart of stone.
But Doc Albert did. "Mrs. Benedict, I'm glad you're
here. Your husband's awake and anxious to see you.
Hello, Knute. It's all right, Mrs. Aarons. I'll take these
people in myself."
Benedict's eyes were open and now that I could see
into them, I felt infinitely better. The old Benedict, hurt
ing but recognizable, was there in his eyes. "Barbara.
Knute," he murmured and she reached and he reached
and they caught hands. He had another left for me.
"You look better," I told him.
Barbara turned a smiling, tear-stained face. "I think
he looks terrible."
"You should have seen him last night." I grinned.
"Well, I've got to leave you two. Crime must march on."
I turned to Doc Albert. "What time shall I come for
her?"
"Oh, Knute, you can't be chauffeuring me around all
the time," protested Barbara. "I'll get a cab."
"Nonsense . . ." I began, but the doctor cut the ar
gument short.
"We'll send one of Boston's finest for you, Mrs. Bene
dict, any time you need transportation. Suppose you
stay through the noon hour right now and then we'll
see how well he does this afternoon. If he's a good lad

and sleeps, I might let you come back tonight."
"Thank you, Doctor." She tugged at my arm to pull
me down, gave me a kiss on the cheek. "And thank you,
old friend."
C H A P T E R TW E L V E
I used the travel time back to the office to feel guilty

again about the fact that I hadn't called my mother
since Benedict was wounded. I planned to correct that
omission as soon as possible, maybe at lunch I'd have
a chance to get to a pay phone. If the Rogers kids had
shown up, life would be a lot simpler . . . I told myself
I should be more worried about them than I was but
then I told myself, forget it, they're all in the day's
work, you can't save every kid that comes down the pike
and the reason that you're not scared stiff about their
whereabouts is because you've got a hunch . . . any
way, because Benedict was better I felt a lot better
when I came into Division One and met Parks coming
down the hall.
"Walker isn't at home or at his boys' club," he told
me the minute he saw me.
I thought, good God, don't tell me I've misjudged
this thing entirely, that the man's some kind of a
psycho . . .
"And the fingerprints on the gun that Thimble
brought in are smudged, Blasdell thinks somebody
rubbed the paper bag into them, maybe Thimble when
he picked it up, you remember he said he felt the gun
through the sack? Smudged just enough to mess up the
whorls, not enough to rub them out completely."
I almost said, now tell me the good news. "They're
looking for Walker and the Rogers kids?" Parks and I
entered the office side by side.
"How's Benedict?" Davoren hailed me.
"Better." I grinned at him, repeated the word for the
benefit of Pinkerton and Dracutt and anyone else in
earshot.
"That's good," said Parks, "I meant to ask you.
They've got the description of Jennifer and Jonathan
on the teletype, Walker, too, by now. Chester Rogers
has been'·on the phone with us half the morning. He
calls every fifteen minutes asking for news. I didn't tell
him about Walker, I didn't think there was any neces
sity of giving him that to worry about."
I tapped my teeth with a pencil. "Walker. I can't see
. . . we never did go out and visit Mrs. Bentley, did
we? And did you get a chance to send the info on those
bowling balls down to robbery?"
Parks blushed. "You should have heard them. I de
scribed the balls and the bags, asked them if they could
be in one of the hock shops. They said they'd put two
bowling balls on the list but that the list was as long
as the green giant's arm and not to expect miracles."
"They're run ragged," I admitted. "But maybe they'll
come up with something."
I went to another subject. "The trash can was empty
when the lab boys got to the Haven Street house?"
"Yes."
"Then that means I flubbed it."
I started to explain about the trash can when
Granger's door opened and he waved me in. I excused
myself and went to answer his questions about . Bene
dict. Granger said he was going to try and get over
himself if Doc Albert thought Benedict was up to it.
When I came out, Davoren said they were taking up a
collection for flowers and I put in five bucks.
"Are they taking up a collection for Benedict?" Parks
asked me back at the desk.
I nodded.
"I'<l like to give something . . ." He looked over to
the clerk.
"Just hand it to Davoren. And then come running.
We've got a call to make on Mrs. Bentley."
Before we got out of the office, I got trapped by
Rogers on the telephone. I had to listen to a five-minute
dissertation on the fallibilities of the force. "They're
just two children, I should think you'd be able to find
two children without any trouble . . ."
"r-.lr. Rogers"-! made my voice as patient as pos
sible-"is there any possibility they might have gone
to your people in Florida? You're sure Jenny didn't
have access to any money?"
"You think they went away on Lheir own? But why
would they do a thing like that? They wouldn't do a
thing like that! And of course Jenny didn't have any
money . . . besides, she hardly knows her grandparents.
I'm not even sure she knows their address!"
What to Do Until the Undertaker Comes 1og
"Can you think of any friends they might have gone
tor' I persisted.
"I tell you they wouldn't have . . . you send your
men out and pick up those people you suspect of killing
Lucy! One of them has my children and believe you me,
if anything happens to them, I shall have your head on
a platter, Detective Severson!"
Mrs. Nathaniel Bentley lived in Beverly. Her house

sat high on a grassy knoll, was reached via a circular
pea-stone driveway. "You'd think she'd hottop it," was
Parks comment.
"She probably thinks hottopping is for the birds. The
asphalt jungle and all that." I drove in, heard the stones
spinning off, plink, plink against the undercarriage of
the Chevy II. Spinning our wheels, we might just be do
ing that. The staff at Bentley Hall hadn't known where
Walker had gone, according to Parks, but they weren't
shook up about it. Seems he often went off for a couple
of days when he felt in the mood.
Parks had asked them if he didn't announce his de
partures and destinations, had been told not necessarily.
"The woman at the reception desk, you remember the
crossword puzzle fan, her name is Mrs. Brinkley, com
mented that Mr. Walker was just as much a kid as the
rest of them. As she tells it, he'd vanish whenever he got
his nose out of joint. Those were her words."
"Nose out of joint? I suppose that escorted trip to the
station could be classified as that . . ." I got out of the
car. The sun was shining, this was the first day I'd felt
1 10 What to Do Until the Undertaker Comes
any sign at all of spring. We walked up onto the wide
veranda, rang the doorbell. In a moment, the big
carved door was opened by a woman dressed neatly
in a maid's blue uniform.
\Ve identified ourselves and I said we'd appreciate
an interview with Mrs. Bentley.
"The police? The Boston police?" The maid didn't
know what to make of that at all. She hesitated, then,
'TH ask her, but I don't know . . . " We nodded and
waited patiently in the hall while she went off "to ask
her."
"Look at those paintings," Parks spoke in a half whis
per, indicating the hall walls. "They look like originals."
"Could be."
We heard the maid coming back before she came
into view, it was a long hall. "She says she'll see you,"
she told us. She couldn't resist adding, "She says she
wants to give you a piece of her mind."
I raised an eyebrow at Parks and we followed the
blue uniform down the hall into a room that was part
solarium with greenhouse and part study. A small el
derly woman with a face as wrinkled as a monkey's
came to meet us. She wore sneakers on her feet, a
printed cotton dress and what appeared to be a cash
mere sweater. Pinned to the sweater was a diamond
Lrooch.
"You're the men who have been bugging poor
Philip," was her greeting. She had very bright blue eyes
and they were blazing.
"Is Mr. Walker here?" I asked her politely.
"Of course he's here. Where else would he go when

he's being hounded?" She came closer, stopped right
in front of me, looked up. She reached about to the
middle of my chest, but there was something queen-like
about her.
"We've been looking for him," I said mildly.
"Looking for him, pahl For what reason? I told Philip
I would deal with you fellows. Fuzz, that's the new
word, isn't it? There's been a great deal in the papers
about police bnitality of late and, being a good Re
publican, frankly I haven't believed it, but now I'm
beginning to wonder . . ." She jabbed me with a
diamond-Kinged finger. "You come right out with it,
here and now. What are you after Philip for? I don't
need any State Street lawyers or any constitutional
rights recitations to find out what I want to know!"
Curious, I asked, "What does he think we want him
for?"
The blue eyes were covered instantly with bone
china lids. "He doesn't know. He doesn't have any
idea."
"Where did you find Mr. Walker?" I asked. "Where
did he come from?"
She moved away from me, raised her head and ex
amined the leaves of a strange-looking plant set in a
majolica pot and reaching almost to the ceiling. "Philip
came highly recommended. I selected him from a list
of applicants after careful scrutiny."
"And he came from . . . ?" I prodded.
The blue eyes snapped as she thought about lying
but it just wasn't in her. "Los Angeles. Philip comes
from California."
"Was he ever in trouble in California?" Parks was
taking his usual stroll-while I did the questioning, he
was examining the flora and fauna, the latter repre
sented by a big cage of parakeets twittering in the
middle of the indoor garden.
She fairly quivered, controlled herself, avoided my
question by asking, "What do you want with him?"
If she wouldn't tell, I could find out myself. Philip
Walker, the name must be real if he'd been selected
"after careful scrutiny." "Did he tell you about the mur
der in his rental house in Boston?"
No, he hadn't, I could tell by her amazing blue
eyes. "What about it?"
I gave her a brief outline. Parks was making bird
noises to the cage of budgies.
Mrs. Bentley frowned, looked thoughtful.
"Maybe it would be helpful if we could talk to him,"
I suggested. "In your presence, of course."
She hesitated, decided, raised her voice to an im-
perious tone, called, "Mabel!"
Mabel, in the blue dress, appeared in the doorway.
"Ask Mr. Walker to come downstairs, please."
"He didn't bring anyone with him when he came,
did he?" I inquired. "Incidentally, when did he ar
rive?"
"Of course he didn't bring anyone. He came yester
day afternoon, practically in tears, poor boy. He said
What to Do Unta the Undertaker Comes 113
you'd taken him to the police station like a common
thief."
"For a routine fingerprinting," I told her. So Walker
couldn't have had anything to do with the disappear
ance of Jennifer and Jonathan. I didn't know whether
to be relieved or disappointed.
Walker came through the door blinking. He wore
fairly ordinary clothes for a change, a pale green turtle
neck �weater and darker green pants. His somewhat
full underlip was thrust forward in a pout. He was
not pleased to see us, not at all.
"I thought we asked you not to leave town," I baited
'I•
him.
He came back with, "I don't consider coming to
Beverly leaving town."
"You could at least have left word."
"I was too upset. I came straight to Mrs. Bentley to
talk this thing over. She's been like a mother to me."
He looked at her with soulful eyes. "I didn't know
which way to tum."
Parks came out of the greenery, stopped at my side.
"We've had no communication with the California au
thorities," he said mildly.
"Well, how was I to know that . . . ?" Walker
stopped in mid-sentence.
"What sort of record did you have out in L.A.?" I
asked in a conversational tone.
"I don't know what you're talking about!"
I shrugged. "We can find out. It won't take long."
He looked at Mrs. Bentley, who smiled at him. She
looked more like a hairless monkey than ever.
"It was when I was young." He began to speak
rapidly in a low voice. 'Tve paid for it over and over,
never been in any trouble since and anyway I was in
nocent at the time, but it keeps following me . . ...
"What was it? A molesting charge?"
He threw up his hands, looked to Mrs. Bentley. ..You
see?" he said brokenly. "'You see?"
Mrs. Bentley reached up and patted him on the
shoulder. "Philip was a mere youth, a young boy still
in high school. And he didn't do the molesting, he was
the one molested by an older man, a terrible man.
That's why he's turned to youth work. He wants to
make sure that other young boys don't find themselves
in that ghastly position." Her eyes defied me to blame
him, to think him the sinner rather than the one sinned
against.
Walker gave an exaggerated shudder. Mrs. Bentley
patted his shoulder once more. She had to reach way
up to do it.
'We don't know anything about that," I told Walker,
"and I guess it's between you and Mrs. Bentley unless
we hear something to the contrary. We're trying to
find out who murdered Lucilla Rogers and I'll ask you
again, do you have any idea that might help usr
"I told you, I was at the club." He seemed suddenly
taller. He would be considered by many an attractive
man, I realized. His hair was light brown, waved nobly
off a wide forehead. The only drawbacks were the
traces of acne that marked his skin. I made a mental

note to tell vice to keep a kindly eye on Bentley Hall.
And to get the facts from California. Could be he was
telling the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the
truth. It might explain in a way, too, why he liked to
dress up in outlandish costumes, so that no one would
recognize him. But then there could be other reasons
for that. God knew I was no psychiatrist.
"Did you see any men come to the Rogers house?"
I asked Walker. "Not necessarily that night, but at any
time?"
He shook his head. "I told you, they were there only
that first day and then she was killed that night. The
only people I saw were the kids, the woman, and the
movers.
The movers. I frowned. Was I missing a bet there?
Some nut found Lucy attractive, came back for a bet
ter look? I doubted it. She wasn't that much of
a beauty, nor that sexy-looking either. Besides, he
wouldn't hang around until the wee hours of the
morning expecting her home. But I tucked the idea in
my mind. Mrs. Bentley intimidated me sufficiently so
that I didn't dare bring out my notebook. I noticed
Parks hadn't done so either.
"Did you notice the name of the moving company?"
He reflected. "I don't remember. It was a red and
yellow truck. Not too big, maybe they'd know on the
other end."
The other end. That was another thing-Lucy and
the children had moved from a South Boston ad-
dress. Could Jenny and Jonny have gone back there?
To a friendly neighbor, perhaps? We should have
thought of that first off . . . I was missing too many
line drives lately, better pull myself together . .
"Have you seen the youngsters since they left with
their father?" I knew he would say no and he did. I be
lieved him because it didn't fit in with either time
schedule. So I thanked Mrs. Bentley, nodded at
Walker, and Parks and I walked out and down the
long hall. "That's definitely a Wyeth," said Parks as he
passed a picture. "And a real one, too, I think."
I hardly glanced at it. I was too preoccupied plan
ning our itinerary. Say thirty minutes, give or take a
few, to South Boston, then a quick lunch and I'd call
my mother, after that if I was lucky we could stop for
a minute at the hospital and look in on Benedict . .
C HA P T E R T H I R T E E N
The landlady in residence at the house in South Bos

ton was a Mrs. Hetherington who weighed, by my es
timation, close to three hundred pounds. Indeed she
had rented an apartment to Mrs. Rogers and the chil
dren . . . "I was that sorry to see them go, not because
of her especially, but the youngsters . . . I had a soft
spot in my heart for them."
From her accent, I guessed that Mrs. Hetherington
was either Irish-born or of Irish descent. I should
have guessed it from her face as well, it was a round
ruddy face with deep laugh lines at the eyes and
around the mouth.
"You and Mrs. Rogers didn't get along?'' I let Parks
make an inspection of Mrs. Hetherington's sitting room
while I concentrated on the lady herself.
"I didn't say that!" She glared at me for a brief mo
ment, then shrugged pudgy shoulders. "Not that I
wouldn't have said it. Lucy liked pants too well to suit
me. She didn't do her duty by the children, that was
my main argument with her. Leaving them alone
all the time! Jennifer was more of a mother to Jonny
than the lady herself. And when I tried to do a bit for
one or the other of them, telling me I was interfering
until I hardly dared say hello to the children when
they came down the hall."
"You haven't seen the children since they moved?"
Parks was edging toward the hall. Mrs. Hetherington's
apartments were upstairs, she occupied the lower floor
of the big, old-fashioned house.
"No, I haven't . . . does that mean you're looking
for the children? When I read about the death of their
mother, I naturally thought their father would be tak
ing them or I would have offered myself. My own
brood is all grown and gone, I've a girl that's a Sister of
Charity and a boy in the priesthood and then I've got
six married children, too, scattered all over they are,
and I'm a grandmother fifteen times already!"
I avoided her question by asking, "Why did Mrs.
Rogers move? She'd lived here how long-several
months, wasn't it?"
"The truth of the matter was, we had a bit of an
argument. Would you and the other officer care for a
cup of tea?"
Mrs. Hetherington looked pleased at her offer of hos
pitality and I hardly had the heart to refuse it, but we
didn't have the time. I told her so, with thanks.
"There's so much sorrow in the world." She shook
her gray head sadly. "It's hardest on the young. Used
to be, when I first came to this country, I could walk
on any street, meet me friends on street corners if I
wanted to and no harm would come, nothing was
thought of it. But today-they're not wanted anyplace.
And there's not that many safe places, either."
"'Did Jennifer have any friends around here? In the

neighborhood or from school?''
She shook her head again. "Poor little Jenny. The
weight of the world on her shoulders. Born that way,
I guess she was. Some children are like that. It was the
worst for her, when her mother and father separated.
Mr. Hetherington, bless his soul, and I were married
for thirty-seven years before he passed on. Many's the
time I could have throttled him, the drink you know,
but I never would have left him, never in this world.
The children would have suffered for it."
Parks stuck his head through the archway. "Would it
be all ritht if I looked into the apartment they oc
cupied?''
"Well, I don't know . . . I rented it right off, Miss
Maguire, she lived all her life in a house down the
street and then the rest of her family died off and it
got to be too much for her . . . well, Miss Maguire
was just waiting for somebody to move out and when
the Rogers left she came right along. I'm not sure if
she's to home . . . if she isn't, I guess it would be all
right. She's a maiden lady and kind of timid, the
thoughts of the police in her place would set her
straight off. But there's nothing for you to see up there.
They took every stick and stitch they had."
"If she is out, I would appreciate seeing it." Parks was
adamant, but politely so.
'Tll go up and see." Mrs. Hetherington waddled out
of the room and I could hear her laborious progress up
the stairs. When the steps began to creak again, I knew
she was starting down. "It's all right," she called. "Come
on up."
Parks and I joined her at the upper landing. Her face
was flushed from the exertion of stair climbing, I sup
pose. "The doc says I'm endangering my heart carrying
all this weight," she admitted, "but I come from a
stocky family. There's not much you can do about it
when you come from a stocky family."
The second-floor apartment was so neat as to be al
most clinical. The furnishings were on the old
fashioned side with oak and walnut predominating.
The wallpaper was a faded yellow dotted with sprigs
of flowers. "I told Miss Maguire I ought to have it
done over, but she said no, it was all right just the way
it was." Mrs. Hetherington sighed. "She said, poor lady,
it would do for the little time she'd be here. Miss Ma
guire truly believes she's not long for this world. I told
her not to be gloomy, but she reminds me she's going
to be seventy-two come summer. The truth of the
matter, I think, is that it makes her nervous to have
men in her room."
Parks eyed some magazines on a table. "She's in
terested in vivisection?"
"Oh, my, yes. Not vivisection, anti-vivisection. She
gets all worked up over those little animals in those
laboratories. Probably where she is right at this minute,
passing out pamphlets. She's very active in the cause.•
Mrs. Hetherington leaned forward confidentially. "I
don't say nothing but it's my opinion that it's far better
to have a sick animal than a sick human being. But
What to Do Until the Undertaker Comes l!l-1
Miss Maguire, she sees it the other way. Still, live and
let live, I always say."
Parks disappeared into a bedroom. "You were say
ing that 1vlrs. Rogers left the children alone a lot." I
brought Mrs. Hetherington back to our interrupted
conversation. "Did she have men visit her here?"
..If you mean, did she behave like a hussy in my
house, the answer is I should certainly hope not. She
had some callers, of course. But they crune to supper
or to take her out, things like that. And the children
were always here. I may not have cared too much for
Lucy Rogers, but I never believed she misbehaved in
front of"the children. Jennifer wouldn't have let her.
Jennifer has very proper ideas for a young girl."
"Knute, come here for a minute, would you?"
Parks called to me from an inner room.
I went to him. He was standing in the bathroom, a
very large bathroom, converted no doubt from a bed
room. Here the wallpaper was blue with pink roses and
in places it was peeling off the wall, from the moisture,
I presumed. A tub with claw feet occupied the far
end. A sink and toilet ranged along a wall. A low
cupboard on the other wall held towels and a few
toiletries. Lavender scent, soap, a hair brush, and a
comb.
"Look here." Parks pointed to a bare spot behind
the tub where the paper had been removed. I leaned
over and looked. There was a faint penciling, I could
make out a word that looked like -filthy. Filthy? I
frowned and leaned closer.
"Something about a thousand bathtubs cannot clean
filthy people," Parks told me.
'Who wrote that, do you know?" I asked the land
lady. She bent over but she wasn't able to get too close.
"I'll need my glasses. Writing on the wall, is it? I don't
care for that at all, at all. I've never noticed it myself,
can't say how long it's been there. A thousand baths
can't clean filthy people? Now what does that mean,
anyway?" She straightened up in irritation. "When I
was a girl, people used to say, 'Fools' names like fools'
faces always appear in public places'."
I didn't bother to point out that no name appeared
and that the place wasn't exactly public. Instead I
pressed, "Could it have been written by Miss Maguire?
It looks more Wee it has been there for some time."
'TU soon find out." Mrs. Hetherington bristled at the
thought. "You must have sharp eyes, young man,"
this to Parks. "I wouldn't have spotted that in a mil
lion years."
He grinned rather sheepishly. "My wife tells me it's
a terrible habit, more like snooping. I tell her I can't
help noticing things, even a spot of dust on top of the
refrigerator and a piece of thread on the carpet."
"Saints above!" Mrs. Hetherington looked stricken.
"You must be a most particular husband. Don't know
as I'd want to keep house for you."
"That's what she says. I tell her it's . . ...
A door opened nearby and we heard footsteps in
the room beyond.
"Ach, it's Miss Maguire," whispered Mrs. Hethering-
ton. Aloud she called, "Miss Maguire, it's me, here in
the bathroom. With the plumbers."
Parks and I looked at each other. Mrs. Hetherington
put a fat finger to her lips and left the bathroom. A
wispy fema1e voice said, "I didn't know the
plumbers, Mrs. Hetherington?"
"Actually, they're paperhangers, too. We was just
wondering, Miss Maguire, what to do with the bath
room, it needs papering something awful. Why, there's
even some scribbling on the wall. Would you be know
ing who could have done that?"
More footsteps coming closer. I did my best to look
,.
like a plumber-paperhanger, if there was such a beast.
A very thin, white-haired lady wearing a long raincoat
came into view in the doorway. She was frowning.
"Writing on the walls? Whoever . . . ?"
"Over here, ma'am." Parks directed her to the bath
tub. She edged around him.
"I can't make it out," said Miss Maguire after a mo
ment. "Is it-scurrilous?"
"Oh, no, ma'am. It's on the order of cleanliness is
next to godliness. Not those words exactly, but that
sentiment."
Miss Maguire looked around in bewilderment. I
didn't think her eyesight, even with her glasses, could
be too good. "I can't imagine . • . you don't think I did
it, do you, Mamie?"
"Indeed not." Mrs. Hetherington gave us a trium
phant look. "More than likely somebody long before
you. We'll just see about papering it, or I can just wash
it off if you like."
"Papering? But that would mean my bathroom
would be tied up for some time. Washing will do
nicely, Mamie. I told you I didn't want to cause any
trouble, for the short time I'll be under your roof . . ."
Mrs. Hetherington assured Miss Maguire she was no
trouble at all while we waited out in the hall. The as
surance took a good five minutes while I chaffed to get
going and Parks studied the hall from floor covering
(linoleum ) to ceiling ( slightly cracked ) and in be
tween.
At last the landlady joined us and breathily made
her way downstairs ahead of us. I thanked her for her
cooperation when we finally reached the bottom. She
reiterated her offer of tea and again I politely refused.
"I don't suppose you'll tell me what you meant
about seeing the children? Has anything happened to
them? Has Jennifer nm away again?"
Parks and I exchanged glances. "Jennifer ran away
before?"
She smiled ruefully. "Oh my, yes . Not too long after
they came here, last summer it seems to me, maybe
September because I recall school was in session. When
she ran away her mother jumped to the conclusion
that Jenny had gone to be with her father but she
hadn't. When Lucy found out Jenny wasn't there, Lucy
was all set to call the police but I asked her not to do
that. No offense intended, but children get frightened
when the police go looking for them. I begged her to
wait, I said Jenny would be back. She'd get hungry
and lonesome, I told her, and come home. With eight
children, you see, I'd had a lot of experience."
"Did she come home? Voluntarily?"
'Well, not exactly what you'd call voluntarily. Some•
body from the school brought her home that night. A
gentleman, I don't recall his name but he was what
they call a guidance counselor. It seems that Jenny
had sneaked into the schoolhouse and hid in the base•
ment. The janitor found her and called the guidance
counselor, he brought her home. He talked a long time
to Lucy that night and I guess things must have been
better afterward, 'cause she didn't run away again."
'What school was this? Is it near here?"
..Jefferson Junior High School, it is. Four blocks over
and three down, on Gihnanton Avenue. Jenny did well
in school, her mother told me. Got good marks. She's
a smart young lady, that one,"
"Did she say why she ran away?"
A regretful shake of the gray head. "Not to me, she
didn't. I don't lmow if Lucy even knew. It happens
sometimes, they just get mixed up and troubled and
they've got to go off. I expect you've felt that way
yourself sometimes."
I nodded, I had. "Thank you very much, Mrs.
Hetherington. I'll tell Jennifer when I see her that
you're concerned about her."
She sighed. "You still won't say . . . all right, officer.
But you tell Mr. Rogers for me if he needs any help
with those children that I may be an old lady but I've
got lots of room and lots of time and lots of experi-
ence . . .
,,
I told her I'd do that and I meant it. When we
reached the street, Parks didn't ask where we were
going. "Four blocks over and three blocks up," he
reminded me. When we were partway there he said,
"You never did buy the kidnapping theory, did you?"
"I may be wrong," I admitted. God help me if I
were.
"I checked the bus station this morning. I went into
the Florida possibility all over again, but nobody re
members seeing them. Still, I doubt if that's conclusive.
The place was a can of wonns when I was there, peo
ple all over the place. So I teletyped the F1orida au
thorities just in case. Though how they'd come by the
cash to buy a pair of tickets, I don't know."
"I strongly suspect that Jennifer pawned the bowl
ing balls. But that wouldn't take them far. The main
reason I don't accept the kidnapping story is because
they didn't really act scared. Think back on it. They
acted as though they were trying to act scared. All that
stuff about 'don't let them hurt us'-oh, you weren't
there then. That was Benedict. But take it from me,
they were faking it. At first I bought it, but later on I
began to doubt. They're afraid, and there I'm con
tradicting myself, but not of somebody. Something."
"Here's Gilmanton Avenue. Turn left here. Just the
same, I find it hard to believe that Jennifer at least
didn't see or hear anything." Parks peered out through
the windshield. "It must be that big brick building up
ahead."
"I should have landed on her with both feet right at
the beginning." I began to slow the car, looking for a
parking place. "I was too damned easy."
"There seems to be a parking lot around in back of
the building . . ."
"And I've missed the entrance, of course. Damn this
traffic, there ought to be a law to keep some of these
cars off the road."
The name of the gentleman who was the guid

ance counselor was Harvey Levine. He was, in fact, the
only guidance counselor at Jefferson Junior High, the
girl with the adenoidal voice in the office told us, add
ing that we might find him in his office, but she wasn't
sure . . .
His office was a little cubicle in the basement. The
walls of the office were pulled in even farther by the
file cabinets on all four sides. There were only two
chairs and he sat us in them while he perched on a
corner of the desk. When we told him we wanted in
formation about Jennifer Rogers, he looked at us
sadly. "I knew there was trouble brewing there. For
one thing, her grades took a dip this last semester."
Levine gnawed at his mustache. "It distresses me more
than I can say that I don't have time to keep a finger
on each and every pulse . . ." he dipped into a filing
cabinet and pulled out a folder, looked into it and nib
bled at the mustache some more.
"I see I wrote myself a note to confer with Jennifer
at regular intervals, but I don't think I've seen her in
the last month . . . dear, dear, I see, too, that they've
moved away. And you said it was her mother who'd
been . . . dear, dear." He looked up at us with con
cerned eyes. "The mother at one time threatened to
have her arrested under the stubborn child law, did you
know that?"
"No, I didn't know that. Was that when she ran
away?"
"Afterward, when I brought her back." Now he fin
gered his mustache. "I put in a personal plea for the
child. She hadn't been in any trouble before, at least
not that we know of, not here at the school. I was of
the opinion that she was upset because of the separa
tion between her parents and I told the mother so."
"Did Jennifer know of her mother's threat?'' Parks
asked.
"She made it right in front of her. Personally, I be
lieve that the stubborn child law is a downright anach
ronism. It doesn't seem to me that locking a troubled
child up in an institution with a collection of other
mixed-up youngsters is any way to solve anything. Oh,
I know some of the culprits are bad news, very bad
news. But in a house of correction where the world is
upside down anyway, it's the troublemakers who do
the teaching." He shook his head at the pity of it all.
The stubborn child law goes like this: Section 53
of Chapter 272 of the General Laws of the Com
monwealth of Massachusetts-Stubborn children, run-
aways, common drunkards, common night walkers,

both male and female, common railers and brawlers,
persons who with offensive and disorderly act or lan
guage accost or annoy persons of the opposite sex,
lewd, wanton, and lascivious persons in speech or be
havior, idle and disorderly persons, disturbers of the
peace, keepers of noisy and disorderly houses and per
sons guilty of indecent exposure may be punished by
imprisonment in a jail house or a house of correction
for not more than six months, or by imprisonment at
the state farm, or by a fine of not more than $200, or
by both spch fine and imprisonment.
And, Section 54-Whoever is found in a public way
or other public place, committing any offense or dis
order mentioned in the preceding section, may be ap
prehended by a sheriff, deputy sheriff, constable, or
police officer, or by any other person by order of a
magistrate or any of said officers without a warrant
and be kept in custody for not more than twenty-four
hours, Sundays and legal holidays excepted, until he
can be taken before a court or trial justice having juris
diction of such oflense.
I know it almost by heart because ifs so often used.
It's a broad statute and it is under its authority that
cats of many colors can be sent to a house of correc
tion, etc., for six months. The number of repeaters is
appalling and after the house of correction looms the
women's or men's reformatory. It seems that once in,
the "stubborn child" begins a ritual descent with ap-
propriate background music being a dirge in rock and
roll rhythm.
It must have terrified Jennifer Rogers if she under
stood the implication and if her mother really meant
the threat.
What if Lucy had made it again? Could Jennifer
have been so panic-stricken that she had picked up her
father's gun and killed?
"Tell me about the runaway episode," I urged Le
vine.
"The janitor found her, down in the furnace room.
It was a Friday or Saturday night, I'm not sure, but he
called me at home and I came right down. I didn't
know the child then, just had had no dealings with
her-as I said, she hadn't been in any trouble before
and you know, it's the squeaky wheel that gets the oil.
Anyway, I brought her up to my office and I asked
her what was the matter. She just looked at me, odd
expression she has-or rather, lack of expression-and
said, 'Nothing's the matter. I just didn't feel like going
home.' "
"Did she finally tell you what was troubling her?"
"No. I think that's what made her mother so angry,
she just sat there and stared at us after I took her
home."
"Whatever gave her the idea of hiding out in the
school?"
"I asked her that. She said, very matter-of-factly,
that she was sure it was the last place her mother
would think of looking for her."
I told him she had disappeared again, this time with
her little brother. "I don't suppose there's the slightest
chance she would have come back here . . . . ?"
"Oh, I don't think so." He got off the desk top. "But
we could look. It won't hurt to do that. With her little
brother, is that so? I remember him, cute little boy. I
hardly think she would have come back here . . .
she was a bright child, very bright, and I'm sure she
could think of other places. If we use her yardstick,
this might not be the last place anyone would think of
looking for her, not this time."
He led us down a corridor, I could see youngsters at
desks thr&gh the doorways and as we progressed, a
bell rang, desks emptied and the lonely halls suddenly
£lled. We made our way through the exuberant mob,
opened a door at the far end of the corridor and de
scended into the relative peace of the basement. With
the help of the janitor, who was having his lunch and
seemed not too happy about the interruption, we ex
amined every cubicle and cubbyhole. No Jenny, no
Jonny.
Back upstairs, the halls were empty again, I made
another effort. "She must have had some friends. Was
there a teacher she was close to?"
Levine pursed his lips and shook his head. "This
isn't like an elementary school where one has only one
teacher who knows at least something about everyone
in her class. Jennifer had several teachers and I went
to them all in September. They all said she was quiet,
did her work well. I'd like to help, heaven knows I
would, but I just don't know whom to tell you to see."
We thanked Levine and went out to the car, me
thinking that I'd met a lot of lonely people in my life
but never before a lonely child. What did she do with
her time, I wondered, outside of school work? And
more important, where was she now? And Jonny?
We stopped to eat and I made my phone call to
Mom. 'Tm sorry I didn't get back to you last night,"
I began.
"Oh, Knute, I really think"-her voice was lighter
this morning, almost gay-"! really think he's much
better! The doctor came yesterday afternoon and I
feel so encouraged. He said he's making excellent prog
ress-you know how doctors talk!"
I came away from the phone almost as happy as she
was. Now, if Benedict kept up with the good work, too,
I'd be able to concentrate on the problem at hand, i.e.,
Jennifer and Jonathan Rogers. I hadn't put my mind to
it the way I should have, I was well aware of that. I
told Parks, "My father is feeling better," and he an
swered, not automatically, "That's great." Then he
blushed but this time it didn't irritate me. He just
couldn't help it, it seemed. He was young and unsure
and he had that kind of skin. I promised myself I'd
be more patient with him. He wasn't a bad guy. Not
Benedict, but not a bad guy at all.
While we drank coffee, I suggested we back up and
start over again on the Rogers thing. "We've got our
five Indians"-! named them-"Kensington, Clinton,
Burkhart, Walker, and Rogers himself. Then, too, we've
got the kids and they are, of course, the immediate
problem. But if we start at the beginning, with the
night of the murder, maybe we can find where we've
lost the trail."
Parks looked thoughtful and I went on. "I was in
the Punchy Lion that night and I talked to them for a
while, to Lucilla and Burkhart, Edgeworth and Stone,
and to Kensington, the bartender, too. I wasn't what
you'd call dead sober but I would have noticed, I think,
any undercurrents. Only I didn't. There was no rivalry
between the men about the woman, in fact they
treated �r pretty casually. None of this lighting ciga
rettes with pretty speeches stuff that you'd expect from
a man making a pitch."
"So if she and Burkhart were involved, it had
reached the take-it-for-granted stage?''
'Td say so."
'Tm still interested in Walker. He's the odd man
out."
"And Rogers has the best motive. At least on the sur
face, you can't get around that. But I had another
idea when we were talking to Levine. If Lucy Rogers
threatened to have her daughter put away . . ," I let
my sentence die out. I didn't like to think that the
girl might have shot her mother. Oh, it happens, God
knows it's happened many a time. So we had to look
at it.
The thought didn't seem to shake Parks too much.
"She certainly had the best opportunity. I've never
really bought her story that she didn't hear anything.
The little boy, that could be. Kids sleep very soundly
when they're that age." He blushed. "So they tell me."
I nodded slowly. "Either she's it or she knows some
thing she hasn't told us, it looks that way to me. Maybe
both of them know something. Which means more than
ever we've got to find them."
Parks considered, "On the theory that she might
have done the shooting and that Jonny might know
you don't think she'd do anything to him?"
That was another possibility I'd tried not to think
about. "We'd better get back to Division One. Maybe
something's turned up."
But nothing had. Even Rogers' telephone calls had
died off, or so Davoren told us. Robbery had no word
on the ridiculous bowling-ball question. The lab had
been playing around with the Smith & Wesson and had
come up with a more sophisticated theory, that the gun
had been rubbed against something, some sort of
rough cloth that didn't really get it clean, just smeared
the prints to the point where they couldn't get a make
on them. As for Kensington, Clinton, and Burkhart, it
was business as usual. Walker was still out at the Bent
ley house with his benefactress.
I checked out at the usual time, told Parks good
night and went to see Benedict. He was all hooked up
to an intravenous arrangement but bis color was defi
nitely better and his eyes looked like Benedict's eyes.
"Knute." He reached weakly for my hand.
•How's it going, old man?'' I sat down in a chair be
side his bed.
He tried to grin. "I guess you could say, in the ver
nacular, it's a gutsy issue."
I smiled back at him. "Bad jokes, yet. I'd say you're
on the mend."
He sighed and the action seemed to pain him but
he recovered quickly, asked, "How's it going with you?"
I shook my head. "Not too good. We've lost the
Rogers kids."
His eyes narrowed. "Hanky-panky?"
I shrugged. ..I don't think so-for several reasons.
"'
But we haven't been able to find a handle, Here, can
I help you with that pillow? Do you want your shoul
ders up a little higher?"
"No. I'm all right. Supposed to be like this. How's
the new man working out?"
"Okay, I guess. He's quiet, but he does a lot of look
ing around, notices things. He11 do, I suppose, only
it isn't the same.u I blurted the last of the sentence like
a silly school kid.
Benedict smiled. "I know you, Knute. You'll learn
to love him like a brother."
And then I said what I'd been feeling for several
days but hadn't been able to put into words, "I don't
know. I'm like-drying up. I don't clutch in the way I
used to-I'm beginning to wonder if I give a damn any
more. Six months ago, these kids missing would have
driven me up a wall. Now, I just plod around doing
all the mechanical things. It scares me. That sounds
corny as hell, but it does. Did you ever feel that way,
that there wasn't anything you could do to make any
thing better so why bleed over it?"
He sighed again. This time he reached involuntarily
for his middle, winced as he touched the bandage. "It
only hurts when I laugh." He tried once more to grin.
"I feel safe in saying your problem is only temporary."
"No, you haven't ever felt that way, I knew that be
fore I asked. I hope you're right-that I'll get over it.
It isn't much for jollies. Hey-my father's better!"
"Wonderful. That's just wonderful."
"Is Barbara coming back tonight?''
"She said she would. Captain Granger was in this
aftemoon. Which reminds me, thank the guys for the
flowers." He moved his hand to indicate the corner
bureau. There was a bouquet on it that covered the
whole wall and I hadn't even noticed it before.
"We went all out," I laughed for him. "Listen, I'd
better go. I don't want to wear you out."
"That's all right. You aren't tiring me." But I was, I
could tell by his face.
'TH get back tomorrow." I got up and retrieved my
coat from the back of the chair where I'd put it. "Can
I bring you something? To read? To eat?"
"You can bring me the report on the Rogers busi
ness. I could look it over, not that I could necessarily
come up with anything but sometimes a fresh pair of
eyes . . ."
I leaned over the bed. "Damn it, Benedict, I don't
What to Do Until the Unde1taker Comes 137
see how you'll ever make out as an auto dealer. You're
a cop, man. It's bred in the bone."
I drove home then and put a TV dinner in the oven,
fed Mein Hair. I felt restless. While the fried chicken
heated, I put in a call to Brenda Purdue. She said, "My
goodness, I thought you'd gone to the moon or some
other spot where you were equally incommunicado."
'Tm sorry, I really am. My dad's been sick." And I
told her about Benedict.
'Tm so sorry! I'll send him a card. You say, Boston
City Hospital?''
"Right. He'd like that, I'm sure. He's always asking
about yol.P-1 think he approves of you which brings me
to a point. Are you busy tonight?"
Regretfully, "Yes, Knute, I am. I'm sorry."
Greathead, I supposed. "Don't be sorry. It isn't your
fault. That's what a guy deserves when he calls up at
the last minute. When can we get together?"
"How about Sunday?"
"Sunday? Why not? Say, how'd you like to drive up
to New Hampshire and see my dad?"
Slowly, "They've never met me."
"They'll like you." I'd never invited her before. I'd
never invited any woman.
"All right, if you're sure they won't mind. Maybe it
will be a good day and I can pack us a picnic lunch.
Do you like fried chicken on picnics?''
I suddenly remembered the TV dinner. "Love it.
111 pick you up at nine and we can get an early start,
swing by the hospital on our way and see Benedict,
too." By the time I hung up, my dinner was charred
around the edges but I ate it anyhow.
After rd cleaned up the kitchen, I went out and took
off. I didn't know where I was going but I knew some
place there was something that I could do.
C HA P T E R F O U RT E E N
I had only one drink at the Punchy Lion. Kensington

wasn't there. "He's got some kind of bug," his replace
ment told me. "Fine night to have itl Leaves us short
handed as hell."
The placli was crowded but I saw no one I knew. I
got in the car again, thought about go!ng to Rogers'
hotel. Maybe we could have a drink together and he'd
get to talking. I'd run out of specillc questions, but per
haps he'd come up with something, stream of conscious
ness. I drove over and rang his room from the lobby.
Nobody answered.
I went to the desk clerk, showed my ID. "Seen Mr.
Rogers around?''
The clerk stared at me as though I had two heads.
"I think . . ." he swallowed nervously, "I think he went
into the dining room with a young lady."
Ah, yes, the ever present Miss Hobbs. Father-sitting,
no doubt. I stood in the dooiway of the dining room and
looked around until I spotted them at a table in the
corner. I went over and before he could ask the ques
tion, I said, "No, no word, yet."
"Oh, dear," murmured Miss Hobbs. She was dressed
up for dinner this evening in a pearl gray silk thing.
Somehow it made her look even more sympathetic.
Rogers groaned and took another bite of his roast
beef. "May I sit down?" I didn't wait for an invitation,
pulled out the chair across from him and sat in it. I
signaled a waiter and ordered a scotch. "Will you join
me?" I asked.
Rogers looked pious. "Never touch it. We will have
coffee, though."
Conversationally I remarked, "I thought I'd find you
wringing your hands in your room."
He looked flustered. "We had to eat. Doesn't do any
body any good to run yourself down."
Miss Hobbs toyed with her dinner, what was left of
her dinner, she'd polished off the best of her roast beef
before I came. "I keep thinking of little Jonathan," she
said and gave a deep sigh.
My drink came and I told the waiter, "Separate check,
please." I took a long swallow. "But not about Jennifer?"
Miss Hobbs cocked her head. "But she's older, more
able to take care of herself."
"When I get my hands on the fiend who took them
away . . ." Rogers growled. He stirred his coffee vig
orously.
"How do you figure it, Rogers?" I asked. "'That the
person who killed your wife"-! stressed the words just
in case they'd forgotten about Lucy-"made off with
the children? Or is this a completely separate kidnap
ping? What's your theory?"
He raised his eyebrows. "Why, I should think-well,
it could be either way. I mean, it was all in the papers
about Lucilla and you never know who reads about
these things and gets all sorts of crazy ideas . . ,"
"Who knows, indeed? But I think you can forget
about the killer-kidnapping angle. Forget about it, that
is, if any of our suspects are guilty because they're all
under surveillance and there's no sign of Jenny or
Jonny." I grinned at him. "Unless, of course, you've
hidden them away yourself."
His eyes grew even wider and his mouth fell open.
When he closed it again, it was to say, "You can't be
serious . . . you can't believe . . ."
"But r�e been with him, almost every minute,"
gasped Miss Hobbs.
I downed the rest of my drink. "Everybody's got an
alibi," I said sardonically. I put a couple of bills on the
table. "This should take care of my tab. Enjoy your
dinner, Rogers. I'll let you know when anything turns
up."
When I reached the exit I looked back. Rogers was
still staring after me and Miss Hobbs was patting his
hand.
Back in my car, I considered going to see Parks but
I realized I didn't know just where he lived. I could
look in the phone book or check it out at Division One
only how could I go barging in on a man whose wife
was pregnant and who no doubt wanted her husband
all to herself whenever possible?
I watched the traffic go by and wondered if by now
Walker had returned to Haven Street. What the hell,
· I might as well drive over there to see, I thought. To
night my minutes were a dime a dozen.
Walker's house was dark as was the house next door,
number 631. I parked out in front and looked at number
631 as if it should tell me something. If walls had ears
and doors a tongue. On impulse, I got out and went up
the walk, up onto the porch. The front door was locked
just as we'd left it and I didn't have the keys, they were
back in my desk. I made a mental note to return them
to Walker when I got a chance.
Was there any other way to get in, I wondered. I
glanced around. The house on the other side was a
good distance away. I could make out the rectangular
shape of a lighted television screen through one of its
windows. The house directly across the street was dark,
I remembered that the occupants were a couple of
nurses who had the night duty at Massachusetts General
Hospital. A quiet street with few houses, working people
for the most part, people who, when they were home,
kept to themselves and minded their business.
I walked around to the back of the house. The back
yard was narrow and fenced. The back door was locked.
There was a small kitchen window, secured; a regular
sized window, fastened; and a window that led, if I
recalled correctly, to the murder bedroom.
That window slid open and I crawled in. There was
some moonlight and I could see the bed where Lucy
Rogers' body had lain, stripped now of its bloody
sheets, just an ordinary bed with an ordinary mattress
covered with a mattress pad. I wondered if the blood
had seeped through and they'd turned it over, but I
didn't bother to look.
Instead I listened. A tiny rustling. Mice? I walked to
the door that led to the living room, pushed it open.
Was the electricity on? I fumbled for a switch, found
one and pushed it but nothing happened. That figured.
Walker wasn't going to pay an electric bill for an unoc
cupied house.
My eyes had adjusted themselves somewhat to the
darkness by now and I could make out the door to the
kitchen and another door. I tried the other door. It was
a second bedroom holding twin beds. There was a body
in one oflhe beds. I leaned over, looked closely, said,
"Jonathan?''
A voice behind me warned, "Don't wake him up."
I straightened slowly without turning my head. "I
suppose you got in through the unlocked window just
as I did." There was no answer so I tried again. "What
gave you the idea of hiding here?"
"I figured it was the last place anybody would think
of looking for us."
I turned my head. She was wearing, it seemed, the
shirt and jean outfit. The shirt gleamed faintly in the
shadows. "Your father's frantic," I told her. "He thinks
you've been kidnapped."
"He'll get over it." That young, too cool voice coming
from the darkness almost made me shiver. "Come," she
demanded. "I don't want to wake Jonathan. He sleeps
good once he's gone but I had a terrible time getting
him to go to sleep."
I followed her out into the living room. "Why did
you run away?" I asked her.
"We were in the way." She sat on the sofa. It was
even more shadowy there but I could see the shirt. "He
likes living in the hotel and he's away a lot. It wouldn't
be good for Jonathan. And then, too, my father has
Miss Hobbs now. So he'll get over it."
I stumbled across a chair and sat in it. "You think this
is better for Jonathan?"
"Until I figure a way to get Jonathan to Florida, it is.
You said he thought we were kidnapped. Do you think
he'd pay a ransom note if I wrote oner•
"If you want to go to your grandparents, why don't
you just ask your father?"
"You don't know him. He got mad at them before
we were born or something. He'd never let us go."
"Have you had anything to eat?"
"Yes. I have a little money."
"You hocked the bowling balls?"
"I sold them. I didn't know where to go to pawn them.
I took them one at a time into two separate stores that
stay open late. I said I got a bowling ball for Christmas
but I didn't want it and it had never been used."
'Tm surprised they bought that story."
I could almost hear her shrug. "I can be very con
vincing."
"Just the same . . .""
"Besides, Jonathan backed me up. Everybody be
lieves Jonathan."
"I suppose they do." I squirmed in my chair. "You're
lucky the heat is on in here. It still gets cold nights.
Walker turned off the electricity."
"No, he didn't. I unscrewed the light bulbs so Jon
athan wouldn't forget and turn on the lights."
"I see." She thought of everything. "How is he taking
this-adventure?"
"He's scared but he's used to doing what l say. I took
care of him more than anybody else. She was almost
never home after last summer."
"Last summer. That's about the time you ran away
the first time, isn't it? Why did you do that?"
"We had an argument. My mother and I didn't see
eye to e,e."
I said softly, "Did you shoot her? Because she threat
ened to send you away to the house of correction?"
I heard her sigh clearly across the room. "No. She
didn't mean that anyway." She was doing something, I
couldn't tell what. I could see the white shirt sleeves
moving, the body of the shirt changing form. "Come
here," she said.
I stood up and walked over. "Sit down," she said. I
sat down beside her. She put her anns around me. She
was bare from the waist up. She took one of my hands
and placed it on a small, firm breast. She put her mouth
on mine. I said to her mouth, "No," and pushed her
away. She asked, "What's the matter? Don't I do it
right?"
I got up and stood in the center of the floor. "I don't
make love to little girls," I said stiffiy.
"You don't?" She sounded honestly puzzled.
"No. I don't. Why? Do you know someone who
does?"
The shirt was moving again. I guessed she was but
tening it up. "I thought most everyone did."
"Why? Why did you think that?''
"Because of that awful Clinton C. Clinton. That's
why I ran away in September. My mother was out one
day and he was there and he put-he did something to
me. I didn't dare scream because of Jonathan. It would
have been very bad for Jonathan. Very bad. He's too
young to know about such awful things. It was bad
enough for me. Afterward I washed and washed and
then I ran away."
I thought, a thousand baths cannot clean filthy peo
ple. "Did you tel1 your mother?"
"Yes. After I came back and Mr. Levine went away.
I told her she must never see that man again. I told her
if she did, I would do something awful."
"What did she say?''
For the first time, a little uncertainty crept into her
voice. "I wondered if she'd heard me-or if I had said
it wrong in some way so she couldn't understand be
cause she just said she didn't like Clinton C. Clinton
anyway, and then she got real mad as though he'd done
something to her instead of to me. But he never showed
up again and I don't think she went to him either be
cause she started going around with Alan H. Kensington
and Edward B. Burkhart and when I told her she must
never bring either of them home either, that I wouldn't
stand for it, that's when she began to go out all the time.
I guess she thought I'd run away again if she didn't
do what I said."
I found my chair and sat down in it once more. Very
gently I asked, very carefully, "What happened the
night she diedr'
She didn't answer me. Instead she asked, "Would
you like some instant coffee? I make pretty good in
stant coffee."
"In the dark?"
"I have candles. You can't see a candle from outside
too well. Especially if you pull the curtains."
"All right. I'll have some instant coffee." We went
into the ltitchen and she pulled the curtains and lit a
candle. It made her eyes look very dark and very deep,
her face almost pretty. She heated water and mixed
the brew. She asked me, "Do you have cream and
sugar? We'll have to use milk because I don't have any
cream."
"Yes, milk please. But no sugar."
She brought the steaming cup and saucer to me,
indicated that I should sit down at the kitchen table.
Then she brought a cup for herself and sat down across
from me. For the first time since rd met her she looked
at me, really looked. Suddenly she asked, "Do you know
about the power?"
I sipped and said, "This is good coffee. What powerr
"I don't know what you'd call it but that's what I call
it. I have it but it's hard to find anyone else who does.
Our former landlady had it sort of, but she talked like
she had it more than she really did. Sometimes that
will fool you. And the guidance counselor at the school
I used to go to, I thought maybe he had it but it turned
out he didn't. He didn't have time to have it. It takes
time. That's one thing it takes lots of-time."
"Tell me about this power. What does it dor
She frowned in earnest concentration. 'Tm not sure
I can describe exactly what it does but I know what it
feels like to have it. It's when there's somebody you
know and when you have this power they are terribly
important to you, you truly care about them, so much
that it hurts you but if you have the power that's all
right because only with the power can you help them,
really care for them."
I stared at her. 'Tm sorry, I don't think I quite . . .•
She moved her thin hands impatiently. "Well, for an
example-suppose Jonathan had gotten so nervous that
he had a habit of wetting his bed, suppose that. Now,
if you don't have the power all you do is get mad at him
and fuss at him and that just makes him more nervous
and that makes it worse. But if you have the power, you
put your arms around him and you say, there, there,
Jonny, it's all right, together we'll solve this, it won't
be easy but together we'll try and here are the things
we can do together . . ." She broke off, her eyes looking
into mine.
"The power," I said slowly. I nodded. •Now I see."
She smiled. I had never seen her smile. She could,
one day, be a beautiful woman. "Yes," she almost whis
,.
pered the word. "I thought you might have it.
"I don't think I've quite got it"-I turned my coffee
What to Do Until fhe Undertaker Comes 149
cup round and round in its saucer-"or if I did have it,
I've begun to lose it." I looked up. "But maybe you've
helped me know how to get it back."
"'It's a wonderful thing to have,» she said gravely.
"Terrible, but wonderful."
"Yes. Even though, as you say, it hurts you a little
to have it."
She watched me for a moment, then looked down.
r
"' m sorry about what happened in the other room. I
didn't want to do that but I thought if I did you
wouldn't tell on us."
"I knew you didn't want to do it." Jesus, I thought,
Jesus! ,.
"You asked me about the night Mother died." She
picked off little pieces of the candle wax and made a
hall of them. "'I heard her come in late that night and
go into her room. I was half-asleep but half-awake, I
never went all the way to sleep when she was out. When
I knew she was in bed, I relaxed. I didn't have to worry
anymore, she was home. So then I could go to sleep
again, really go to sleep and I'd done that, gone sound
to sleep when suddenly I heard a noise, somebody was
knocking on the front door.
•1 woke up. It wasn't easy, it took me a few minutes
and then I heard Mother talking to somebody. I got
up and went to my door, I slept in there in the room
with Jonathan and I saw them in the living room, the
two of them and all my mother had on was her night
gown and you could see right through it!"
She stopped short, eyes wide, and I knew she was
there, was watching it like an old movie, one she hadn't
enjoyed seeing the first time.
Slowly, she continued. "He said something about the
night was young yet and she said he had to be quiet
or he'd wake us up and as I stood there, almost as soon
as I'd reached the door, she laughed and he reached for
her and pulled her to him, took her with him right into
her bedroom and they shut the door. I ran out into the
living room barefooted and in my nightgown and all,
I was going to pound on her door and scream at them,
tell him to leave, when I thought of Jonathan. I didn't
want Jonathan to know, oh, honestly, I didn't! I came
back and quietly closed his door and while I was doing
that I thought, what good will it do if I send him away?
I knew the truth then, there would be another and
another until one day Jonathan would know about
Mother, everybody would know . . . so I went into
the living room and sat down on that sofa to think what
I should do and I could hear them, not loud, but I
could hear them . . ." She turned her face away from
me.
"Who was the man, Jennifer? Who was the man?"
She was somewhat in control again when she looked
back. "Why, Edward B. Burkhart, of course. I sat there
on that sofa among all the boxes that we hadn't un
packed yet and when I heard him getting ready to
leave I remembered my nightgown and I ran back to
my room and watched again through the crack in the
door. She came out with him and kissed him"-her
voice roughened-"and I thought he would never go
but at last he did." She shuddered. "At last he did."
"And then?" I kept my voice very soft.
"I came out. She'd gone back into her room. Daddy's
pistol was right on top of one of the boxes and I didn't
know if it had bullets in it or not but I picked it up and
went into her room and I said I told you you must
never bring a man like that home again or I'd do some
thing awful-and I did! I pulled the trigger! I didn't
think-such an awful noise and smell and the gun
jumped in my hand, pushed me backward and when I
looked, when I looked she was bleeding and she had
this awfui expression on her face and she tried to say
something but she couldn't and I stood there and cried
while she died!"
She was crying now. Her mouth was distorted and
tears were rolling along her freckled nose, down her
cheeks into the downturned corners of her mouth. I
reached into my pocket for a handkerchief and handed
it to her. She hid her face in it and sobbed.
While she was crying, I heard a small voice from the
hall saying, "Jenny?" and I went out and knelt down in
front of Jonathan and said, "It's all right, Jonny, it's
been bad but it's better now. You run, get dressed be
cause rm going to take you back to your daddy and
everything's going to be all right."
..All right?" He looked at me with those big dark
eyes and his rosebud lips quivered.
Liar, I called myself. "All right," I said confidently
and I turned him back toward the bedroom and he
went.
Jennifer had stopped crying. Face still damp, she
looked up from the handkerchief and asked, "Did he
hear me?"
"I don't think he heard what we were saying. I told
him everything was going to be all right now."
Solemnly she nodded. 'Tm glad you told him that."
I sat down again. I had to finish. There wasn't too
much more. "What did you do when-it was over?"
She wiped her eyes. "I couldn't think what to do first.
I thought Jonathan might have heard, but he was still
asleep." She repeated the words, "Still asleep. I was glad
of that. I thought somebody in one of the other houses
might have heard but when I looked out, I didn't see
any lights anywhere. I rubbed the gun off on my pants,
both sides, rubbed hard and wrapped it in my shirttail.
I didn't know what to do with it until I remembered the
trash can on the porch. I found a paper bag in the
kitchen and put the gun in it, dropped it in the trash
can, pushed it way down. When it got time for Jonny
to get up I told him to go to the police station. I told
him where it was and how to get there. I told him he
must bring a policeman back"-she glanced away-"!
told him, the nicest one he could find. I told him Mother
had gotten very sick and <lied and that we needed a
policeman, but I told him, too, that he mustn't tell
why." She gave one last swipe to her face with my
handkerchief, looked up and asked, "What will they
do with me? Put me in the electric chair?"
And I walked around to her and put my arm around
her shoulders and I said, "Jennifer, I won't pretend it's
aH right but together, you and I, we11 see what we can
do to make it as right as possible. Together, we'll talk
to the district attorney and to some doctors, maybe,
and we'll get hold of Clinton C. Clinton, we'll have
some business to do with him, and Edward B. Burk
hart, we'll get him in and we'll tell how it happened,
just as you told me, and someday, somehow, if we use
enough power, maybe it will all be better, just as I
promised Jonathan it would be."
"Jennyt, . . . " Jonathan stood in the kitchen doorway.
He was all dressed even to his snowsuit and boots. I
couldn't be sure in the candle's light but it looked as
though they were on the wrong feet again.
"Yes, Jonny?" His sister pushed back her chair and I
stood aside so she could go to him.
'1s it all right?" asked the little boy. He reached for
her hand.
She said, "You're going back to Daddy's and I'm
going to go away for a while."
The small face changed and he looked to me with
frantic eyes. "You're not going to take her to that jail,
that jail that Momma wanted to send her to. You're
not, I won't let you!" And he broke away and came at
me, small fists flailing.
"No, Jonny, no!" Jenny came after him, caught him
and held him close. 'Tm going away someplace nice, I
promise you."
He rested against her and his muffled voice said, "Am
I having another nightmare?"
"Kind of." She stroked his hair.
"Like the other time?"
She had her back to me and stood very straight.
"Kind of like the other times." She turned him around
and started him toward the door. "Come on, we've got
to go."
He took her hand and skipped a little skip. 'Tm so
glad it's a nighhnare, Jenny. I'm so glad it's always been
nighhnares, 'specia1ly since you say some day I won't
have them anymore. But I'd much rather they were
nightmares than real, you know like the time I dreamed
Momma was screaming at you and telling you you
weren't going to nm her life . . ."
"Hurry, Jonny." They were out in the hall now and
I followed after. "We've got to hurry and please don't
tell any more about your nightmares because it scares
me, it really does . . ." She was pulling him along.
"How you weren't going to run her life," he made a
singsong of it and she had the door open now, pushing
him through, and I had to hurry to keep up with
them and I wanted to tell her she'd forgotten to get her
coat but Jonny kept singing his newfound song, "Not
going to run her life, going to send Jenny where some
one can handle her, going to send Jenny where some
one can handle her and all a dream, all a dream, here
comes Jonny with Daddy's gun, you're not going to
send my Jenny away, you're not going to send my
Jenny away, all a dream, boom, boom, all a dream . . ."
"Jonny," Jennifer screamed at him. "Shut up!"
And she slapped him, as hard as she could and he
began to howl and she stooped down, got on her knees
and put her arms around him and held him tight and
she was sobbing, too, and there in the darkness on the
cold sidewalk the two of them were crying and the
sounds of their crying filled the quiet street and seemed
to bounce off the silent houses.
(continued from front flap)
Then K nute's partner of eight
years, Lawrence Benedict, about to
resign from the force, is critically
wounded on the job. For Knute it is
a double blow and one to which he
has trouble reconciling himself.
And when he visits his ailing
father he finds his parents sadly
older and he suffers the inner re
criminations of a man who wonders
where his duty as a son really be
gins and ends.
In the skillful hands of Tobias
Wells a murder story with an un
usual twist becomes a novel of both
a cop with a case and a man search
ing for his own true strengths and
limitations.
PHOTO BY ALEX GOTFRYD
JACDT PHOTOGRAPH BY JERRY SARAPOCHIELLO

J ACll:ET TYPOGRAPHY BY ROGER ZIMMERMAN
Printed in the U.S.A.

"The thin figure moved back out of the doorway. There
were cardboard boxes stacked in the room behind her, the
living room it seemed to be, there was a couch· ·a�d an
arm chair covered in an ugly brown fabric.
" 'What's your name,' I asked when I got inside.
'Where's your mother?'
" Tm Jennifer Rogers . . . My mother's in there.' She
pointed toward a door that led off to the left of the living
room.
" 'I'd like to talk to her,' I told Jennifer Rogers.
" 'You'll have to go in there.' Jonathan looked up at his
sister after she spoke, moved over and took her hand.
"I walked quickly to the doorway on the left. The door
was clo�ed. It had a shiny brown china knob. I turned it
and pushed the door open. Green shades were drawn. In
the shadows, I could make out a bed.
"There was someone in the bed, dark hair against a
white pillow. I moved closer.
"After a minute I said, 'You kids stay out there.'
•
"The girl said, "It's all right. We've already seen her.' "
what to do until the

undertaker comes
by Tobias Wells

What To Do Until The Undertaker Comes (1971) by Tobias Welles

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What To Do Until The Undertaker Comes (1971) by Tobias Welles

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W.T.D.U.T.U.C.

PUBLISUF.Jl FOR THE CflJME CLUB BY

DOUBLEDAY & COMPANY, INC.

GARDEN CllY, NEW YORK

It was my thirty-fourth birthday.

"You must have heard them, too," I said to the girl.

When I finally got a chance to eat, it was nearly three

"I'm curious about something else," I said. "Why

When we got back to our desks, Granger sent for Ben­

Shuddup, the spaniel, could be heard barking behind

Benedict was sitting at his desk, talking to a plump guy

· Jennifer opened the door. I knew it was Jennifer only

An old man wearing an apron and wielding a broom

After we got squared away the next morning, Parks

He was a tall, thin man wearing olive-drab coveralls

I woke up, all alone, in a strange, dark place and I knew

I slept like a dead man and awakened to the dual buzz.

better." And I hadn't done a thing about baseball

see how well he does this afternoon. If he's a good lad

I used the travel time back to the office to feel guilty

Mrs. Nathaniel Bentley lived in Beverly. Her house

"Of course he's here. Where else would he go when

traces of acne that marked his skin. I made a mental

The landlady in residence at the house in South Bos­

"'Did Jennifer have any friends around here? In the

The name of the gentleman who was the guid­

aways, common drunkards, common night walkers,

I had only one drink at the Punchy Lion. Kensington

PHOTO BY ALEX GOTFRYD

JACDT PHOTOGRAPH BY JERRY SARAPOCHIELLO

Printed in the U.S.A.

what to do until the

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When we got back to our desks, Granger sent for Ben

The landlady in residence at the house in South Bos

The name of the gentleman who was the guid