“What did you do then?” I asked, though I was beginning to have a suspicion.
“I panicked. I was afraid someone would find him, and know that I’d come into the barn to talk to him. I figured the longer it took them to find him, the less chance anyone would jump to the wrong conclusion and suspect me. So I thought maybe if they didn’t find the body …”
“So you hid it.”
“In the trunk,” he said, nodding. “It was right there. And I put the bookend in, too.”
“And you took the key with you and hid it in a bowl of old keys.”
“Yes,” he said. “I was just going to throw it away somewhere, but as I was leaving, I saw the bowl of keys on one of the tables, so I wiped the trunk key off and threw it in there.”
“And you ran away without even looking for your books.”
“I looked,” he said. “They weren’t there.”
I studied his face. He looked embarrassed, depressed, defensive, hostile, and generally miserable. But I had no idea if he looked truthful. For all I knew, he could still be covering something up.
I wasn’t convinced he didn’t have motive for murder. But I also had a hard time imagining that he could bludgeon Gordon to death with the bookend. He looked like the sort of person whose idea of taking stern and decisive action was to write a querulous letter to the Caerphilly Clarion, and then whine for weeks if the editor pruned a single adverb. Perhaps I should let him fret for a while, and try to find either confirmation that Gordon had been dead already when Schmidt entered the barn or something to disprove it.
“So who do you think did it?” I asked.
He frowned.
“I don’t want to cast undue suspicion on someone else,” he said.
“Why not?” I said. “The more suspicion you cast on someone else, the less likely the police will focus on you.”
“You’re not telling the police!” he exclaimed.
“Give me a reason not to,” I said. “Tell me who you think did it.”
“Well, I don’t know that he did it,” Schmidt said. “But as I was coming in, I did see Ralph Endicott, leaving through the other door.”
“Endicott—Gordon’s old partner?”
“That’s him. Seemed in a bit of a hurry, too,” he added, warming to his subject. “And goodness knows, after everything Gordon did to him, he has no reason to like the man.”
“Okay,” I said. “If I can prove Endicott’s the murderer, maybe the police won’t have to find out what you did. At least not the part about Mrs. Pruitt’s books.”
“Thank you,” Schmidt said. “You can’t imagine how grateful I’d be.”
I decided not to point out that my statement contained a very large “if” with a great big “maybe” attached. And it occurred to me that before I let Schmidt completely off the hook, it might be a good idea to find out if he had any influence with any of the Great Stone Faces. If so, maybe I could pressure him into using it to our benefit.
Did that thought make me as despicable a blackmailer as Gordon?
I’d think that through later.
“Stay away from Gordon’s shop,” I said. “If I hear anything more about a break-in, I’ll tell the police everything.”
“Of course,” he said, hastily. “I was just about to go home. I realize what a mistake it was, thinking of breaking in.”
“That’s a load of owl pellets,” I said, in lieu of a ruder word. He looked puzzled, and I decided to leave him that way. He walked off quickly, as if in a hurry to get away from me.
I was turning toward the alley when I suddenly decided that I was tired. Why go the long way round? Why not just march right past the front of Gordon’s shop? If the chief saw me and wondered what I was up to, maybe it was time to tell him everything. I’d found proof that Gordon was already dead when Giles went into the barn. Let the police decide which of the other suspects was guilty.
I wouldn’t even have to tell them about Schmidt. All I had to do was sic them on the Hummel lady, and they’d follow the same trail I did.
Of course, by the time I realized that, the police cruisers were gone and Gordon’s shop locked up tight. So much for good resolutions.
Still, I could do something. I pulled out my cell phone and dialed the non-emergency number for the police station. The chief wasn’t in, of course, but Debbie Anne, the dispatcher, apologized very nicely and said she’d give him a message if I liked.
“Tell him the Hummel lady lied,” I said. “And he should talk to her again.”
“The who?”