Something for the Sweeper | Page 7

or I'll kill you."
He said it in such a murderously calm voice that the scarred man let go
of him. Jones straightened the front of his coat with a jerk and a shrug
of his shoulders. "You don't have to tell me," he said. "I know you're a
cop."
"Yeah," said the scarred man. "Maybe you didn't think there were any
cops in this town. Maybe you think you've been playing a little game of
hide-and-seek with yourself. What's the big idea of trying to make us
look like monkeys?"
"I can't help what you look like. You wanted to see me, you said."
"All right. You've been in this case from the first. In fact, you started
the ball rolling. You found Hendrick Boone. Did you stick around? No,
you ducked out before we got here. You found the other two. Now, just
what do you think you're doing?"
"Trying to find a murderer."
The scarred man stared at him. "Are you so dumb you haven't figured it
out yet? Sarah Boone did for her father and tried to do for her mother
so she'd get the money her uncle left."
"Did she?" said Jones.

"Why, sure. What--" The scarred man's hard eyes narrowed. "Oh, so
you've got something else up your sleeve, have you? All right, then.
Who is the murderer?"
"The person I was following. You can come along and take the credit
for the arrest, if you don't bother me with a lot of dumb questions."
The feet of Jones and the scarred man were soft and noiseless on the
cork flooring. They walked side by side, tensely, and ahead of them
was the bright, clean glitter of the glass partition that blocked off the
short corridor where Hendrick Boone's room had been.
Through it they could see the nurse sitting behind her desk and looking
up into Mrs. Hendrick Boone's thick glasses and shaking her head in a
blank, surprised way. Jones nodded at the scarred man and then reached
down and turned the knob on the glass door very softly.
"No," said Jones. "Sarah isn't here. That was just a gag to see if I
couldn't get you out from under cover. You really killed Sarah. She's in
the morgue. Your feet are too big, Mrs. Boone."
Mrs. Boone's skirt rustled silkily. Mrs. Boone's white-kid gloves made
a blurred streak rising above the collar of her old coat, flipping down
again. The knife was a flat, hissing glitter coming at Jones.
The scarred man ducked with an inarticulate cry. Jones dove under the
knife and it smashed through the glass partition and rattled on the
corridor floor beyond. Jones' shoulder hit against bony knees. There
was a strangled cry, and Mrs. Boone's coat ballooned clumsily, falling..
Jones got up, drawing in a long breath. "You were a big help," he said
to the scarred man. "Thanks." He looked at the white-faced nurse.
"Sorry, Miss. I didn't figure on any knife-throwing."
The scarred man pointed. "She--Mrs. Boone--she killed her husband
and daughter?"
"No," said Jones. "Of course not. Morganwaite killed them. What do

you think I just tackled him for?"
"Him?" the scarred man said blankly.
Jones leaned down and picked up Mrs. Boone's glasses and loosened
the collar of Mrs. Boone's coat and pulled it down. Morganwaite's face
looked white and peaceful and kindly.
"Morganwaite killed Sarah and Hendrick Boone," Jones said. "He did it
so he could marry Mrs. Boone and live in comfort on her money. He
had been planning it even before I turned up. Mrs. Boone had a little
property. The news I brought about the trust fund just gave him added
incentive. I don't think there's any doubt that he would have married
Mrs. Boone had his plan gone through. She was a timid, trusting soul,
beaten down by years of living with her drunken husband. She wouldn't
be hard for anyone as clever as Morganwaite."
"Well, how?" said the scarred man.
"Easy for him," said Jones. "He's quite a female impersonator. Must
have been an old-time actor. He looks like one. First, he got rid of
Sarah. On some pretext, he got her to go to that old house on Twelfth
Street. He'd picked out the spot a long time ago. He shot her when he
got her there-- in the temple, close enough so it would look like suicide.
Then he dressed himself in Sarah's clothes, painted some birthmarks on
his arms, came down here and finished Hendrick Boone. Then, still
pretending to be Sarah and laying a nice plain trail, he sent a note to
Mrs. Boone and signed Sarah's name to it, asking Mrs. Boone to meet
Sarah at the house on Twelfth."
"Huh!" said the scarred man. "You mean the old lady didn't even know