Crows Can't Count Read online

  “You say you think there were other visiting-places?” “Yes, but we don’t know. You see, Pancho’s a very intelligent and a very secretive bird. Aren’t you, Pancho? But there were times when Pancho would be gone and neither Mr. Cameron’ nor I would know where he was. I’m sorry, Pancho, but you’re a heavy bird. Dona can’t stand here and hold you on her finger all the time. Don’t you want to go see Mr. Lam?” She moved her hand over toward me and once more the crow drew back. Dona tossed her hand and gave him a little push in the direction of his cage.

  “Liar,” he screamed at her, then shouted, “Go away, go away!” He hopped back over the wood and into his cage.

  “He’s really all broken up,” she said. “I’m trying to keep him interested, but he’s morose and irritable. Do you want to go back to the house, Mr. Lam?”

  “Mr. Cameron traveled some, didn’t he? Did Pancho stay here while Mr. Cameron was absent?”

  “Naturally. The properties in which Mr. Cameron was interested were in Colombia and it’s difficult to carry crows back and forth. Mr. Cameron liked to keep in touch with things, so he went there frequently. I don’t really think he cared too much about making the trip. He was much attached to Pancho, and he was happy here. Anyway, I’d keep Pancho for him when he was on these trips.”

  “Your father’s dead,” I said as she returned to the house. “Your mother’s living?”

  “Yes.”

  “Here in the city?”

  “Yes.”

  A certain reserve in her voice showed she was answering questions about her mother with definite intention of not volunteering information.

  “You’ll pardon me if I seem impertinent, but has she married again?”

  “No.”

  “Are you,” I asked, “working? I know all of this is terribly personal, but—”

  She smiled and said, “I guess it’s quite all right. You have to get stories to earn your living. I’m free lancing.”

  “Writing?” I asked.

  “Commercial art work. I do sketches. Sometimes I sell the sketches. Sometimes I get a chance to do a job according to regular specifications—you know, an agency will want a girl leaning against the rail of a ship with the wind blowing her hair and—I’ll show you.”

  She opened a closet door, dragged out a portfolio of heavy cardboard, opened one of the covers. A young girl stood at the rail of a ship, the wind blowing her hair, whipping a short white skirt about attractive legs. A white sweater emphasized the points a sweater should emphasize.

  I don’t know much about art, but there was a clean something about that picture. I suppose it was the way the white had been used and the suggestion of the wind blowing. The picture was filled with life. You saw the anticipation in the girl’s eyes as she looked out across the ocean. The eyes were raised a little above the horizon so that the girl seemed to be looking over the ocean and into the future—a future she was eager to meet. The swirl of the wind-blown skirt about her legs created the impression that she loved to feel wind on her flesh. There was just a bit of pink leg showing above the stocking where the wind was whipping the skirt—not too much, just enough.

  “Do you like it?” she asked, her eyes watching my face.

  “I’m crazy about it,” I told her. “It does things to me. You feel that picture.”

  She sighed. “I did it on order for an agency that wanted something to show the lure of vacation travel. After I did it, the big boss changed his mind about the type of picture he wanted. He decided it would be better to have a moonlight picture of a girl sitting by the rail and a man in evening clothes leaning over her.”

  I said, “That’s a marvelous picture. If he didn’t like it, he’s nuts.”

  “Well, he’d changed his mind,” she said. “He barely glanced at this picture. That’s the trouble. The art man who gave me the assignment had something like this in mind and he thought my picture was absolutely perfect. Then the big boss came in, took one look at it and decided he wanted moonlight—something to suggest the romance of travel. Oh, well—that’s the way it goes.”

  “What will you do with it now?” I asked.

  “Oh,” she said, “I’ll keep it for a while. I may be able to get something out of it for an art calendar. Sometimes they buy things like that.”

  I said, “For my money, it’s one of the nicest things I’ve ever seen. You can get the reflection of the sunlit ocean in the girl’s blue eyes and also the hope and the love of life and the yearning for adventure and—dammit, you get everything that’s young and clean and vital in there.”

  “Is that what it means to you?” she asked.

  I nodded.

  “I’m glad,” she said. “I wanted to have it in there. I didn’t know that I’d really done it. You know how it is with those things. You try for something in a painting and because you’ve tried so hard, every time you look at it, you see it in there. But you can’t tell whether other people see that same thing or whether you’ve just hypnotized yourself.”

  “Well, you’ve got it in there, all right. What other pictures have you?”

  “Oh, you wouldn’t really be interested. That’s the best of the lot. After all, some of them are pretty bad. I like to think some of them are good, but they vary.”

  “Mind showing them to me?”

  “I’d like to, if you really want to see them. I’d like to have your comments. You see, an artist tries to do something. I can’t tell you what it is. I guess it’s trying to interpret life. Take that picture of the travel girl, for instance. I guess almost everyone wants to travel. It’s a means of getting outside of one’s self. But when you travel you’re not really just looking at scenery. You’re looking out beyond yourself, out beyond the horizon. That’s why I had that girl’s eyes raised, her head up, looking up above the horizon.”

  I nodded.

  “Did you get that feeling from the picture?”

  “Definitely. Do you do much traveling?”

  “Of course not. I have to work. Confidentially, I take time out to paint for a while. Then when the wolf begins to howl at the door, I go out and get a job, just a plain job.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Anything I can get that offers an honest living. I skimp until I feel like a miser. However, every dollar I can save above my living expenses means that I can carry on my art work that much longer. One of these days I’ll get over the hump and then I’ll be able to do better work.”

  “Doesn’t it bother you, having to stop your art work to get a job?”

  “Oh, I guess so. I just don’t take time to think of it. It’s necessary and I’ve found there’s no use quarreling with the things necessary in life.”

  “It seems to me you should be able to make a living out of your art.”

  “Some day I will. Right now my work is more or less spotty. I know it. Of course, it’s hard to get started with art. Once you get a reputation, you can sell your work and get high prices for it. When you are just starting in, people feel they can buy your stuff for peanuts. That makes them choosy and critical. When you get a name, they defer to your judgment and rave over stuff they wouldn’t even think of buying from an unknown.”

  “That must be annoying.”

  “I don’t know. Of course, there are times when you’d like to have things otherwise. But that’s a fact, and if one is going to get anywhere in life, one must learn to respect facts. So many people go through life trying to kid themselves. I try to train myself not to argue with facts.”

  “Going to show me the rest of those paintings?”

  “Oh, I’m sorry! I didn’t realize I was keeping you waiting.”

  “You’re not. I’m enjoying it. Remember, I have a job to do too and you’re helping me do it. You speak Spanish?”

  “Oh, yes, like a native. I’ve had so many friends who spoke it when I was a girl, and my mother knows many Spanish-speaking people. I learned the language along with English.”

  “You noticed the emerald pendant pictu
red in the newspapers?”

  “Yes. I’ve read everything in the paper about Mr. Cameron’s death. Do you suppose he shot at the murderer?” “It’s hard to tell. Had you ever seen that emerald pendant before?”

  “No.”

  “But Mr. Cameron must have had it for several months. Do you suppose he intended it as a gift for someone?”

  “Probably. I wouldn’t know.”

  “Was he interested in jewelry?”

  “I don’t think he was. However, he was a peculiar man. In some ways he was baffling. He had many interests. When he’d be with a person, he’d be interested in the things that interested that person. He never intruded his own interests on you.”

  “How about Sharples?”

  “He’s different. I don’t know him so well. Mother knows him much better than I do.”

  “You don’t like him?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “Do you?”

  “Is it necessary for you to ask that?”

  “I was just wondering.”

  “He’s a smart man. I don’t think he takes the interest in his friends that Mr. Cameron does—did. Mr. Sharples is more wrapped up in his own affairs arid I guess they’re extensive.”

  “Something of a wolf?”

  She laughed. “Aren’t all men?”

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  “I think they are.”

  “Was Cameron?”

  “Heavens, no!”

  “There you are, then. Some men aren’t.”

  “Mr. Cameron was different. He was gentle and considerate. He never pawed. Sometimes he’d give your shoulder a pat, but when he did, you liked it. It was a friendly, encouraging pat, not pawing.”

  “Did Mr. Cameron like Shirley Bruce the way Sharples does?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Any idea?”

  “I don’t know much about Shirley.”

  “You know Sharples?”

  “Not too well. I don’t think I’ve ever talked much with him about Shirley. She’s sort of a ward of his. I suppose he feels close to her for that reason. Look here, we’re getting pretty far off the subject, for me—on the subject, for you. I suppose you’re trained to lead people to talk about the things you want to know. I haven’t learned to guard my tongue. Let’s talk about crows and pictures, and—say, would you like some candy? I’m not much on sweets, and someone sent me a whole box of—”

  The doorknob turned. Without knocking, a woman entered.

  She was middle-aged but not heavily fleshed. The eyes were dark and emotional over high cheekbones. There was only the faintest hint of an olive-like coloring to the skin. She carried herself with a proud, disdainful air, which a short, upturned nose made seem oddly incongruous.

  “Hello, Mother,” Dona said.

  The mother looked at me.

  “May I present Mr. Lam, Mother.”

  I told her I was pleased to meet her and she bowed and said, “How do you do, Mr. Lam,” in a soft, throaty voice which should have been beautiful but its monotone showed she was thinking of something else.

  The dark eyes flashed to the portfolio and caught sight of the picture before Dona could get it closed.

  “More foolishness?” she asked.

  Dona laughed and said, “Still plugging away, Mother.”

  Mrs. Grafton all but spat an exclamation of disgust. “There’s no money in it! You work and work and work and what does it get you? Nothing!”

  Dona smiled away what was evidently an old argument. “One of these days I’ll be successful. Do sit down, Mother.”

  Mrs. Grafton sat down, looked at me suspiciously, then looked at Dona. Her dark eyes, which at one time might have been romantic, now seemed almost predatory. She had the faculty of taking in everything at a glance. “Where did the candy come from?”

  “In the mail. I haven’t had any yet. It came right after breakfast.”

  “You’d better think more of marriage, she said. She took the lid off the box of candy, looked at it, and turned to me.

  This time her eyes were more appraising and less hostile. There was seductive invitation in her voice. “Would you care for some candy, Mr. Lam?”

  “Not this early in the day, thanks.”

  Mrs. Grafton selected a piece with some care, bit into it, started to say something, changed her mind, ate the rest of the candy, reached for a second piece, and said, almost in disgust, “These police!”

  “What’s the matter, Mother?” Dona asked, putting the portfolio back in the closet and carefully closing the door.

  “They are fools,” Mrs. Grafton said and ate a third piece of candy. “You got my note, Dona?”

  “Yes.”

  “You knew I was coming?”

  “Yes.”

  Mrs. Grafton looked at me.

  I said, “Well, I must be going. I—I’d like to see you again some time if I might—sort of a follow-up, you know.”

  “What paper are you with?” Dona asked.

  I shook my head and said, “I’m not with any paper. It’s something different. I’m—I’m interested.”

  “Interested in what?” Mrs. Grafton asked.

  “Crows,” I said, and smiled.

  “But I thought you were a reporter,” Dona said.

  “No.”

  “A reporter!” the mother exclaimed. “Dona, haven’t you any better sense than to talk with reporters? Of all the empty headed people! You’re too friendly. You go around talking with people, all sorts of people. You never seem to learn you can’t do that.”

  “But, Mother, he says he isn’t a reporter.”

  “Well, what is he then?”

  “I—” Dona broke off, smiled perplexedly at me and said abruptly, “Would you mind answering that question for her, Mr. Lam?”

  I turned to Mrs. Grafton. “You see, I am interested in—”

  Mrs. Grafton’s face darkened. “Dona, what’s the matter with that candy?”

  “Why, Mother, what’s wrong?”

  “That last piece, it tasted—”

  She twisted her face in a quick spasm of expression. Then suddenly her eyes were dark with rage and panic. “You’ve poisoned me!” she screamed.

  “Mother! What’s the matter?”

  She broke into rapid-fire Spanish. The daughter recoiled from the blast of that statement, whatever it was. Then the mother said in English, “So now it is me whom you want to kill.”

  Her arm made swift motion, and as steel glittered, I lunged for her arm. She was drawing back the knife to throw it. I missed the arm, but caught her sleeve. She threw the knife as I jerked on the cloth. The sleeve tore and the knife fell to the floor.

  Once more she broke into rapid-fire Spanish, tried to rush to the bathroom, stumbled, collapsed over a chair, and started to vomit.

  I never did hear Sergeant Sam Buda come in. I know that the girl and I were trying to get her to the bedroom when I noticed someone else was helping us. I looked up and it was Sam Buda.

  “What is it?” he asked me.

  “She thinks she’s been poisoned.”

  Buda looked at the candy box on the table.

  “Candy?”

  “Right,” I said.

  “Got any mustard?” he asked Dona.

  “Yes.”

  “Make mustard water,” he said. “Make it warm. Give it to her. Lots of it. Where’s your telephone?”

  “I haven’t any. Sometimes the landlady lets me use hers. In the front house.”

  Buda disappeared. Dona and I were left alone with the sick woman. The girl mixed up hot mustard water. The mother moaned and retched and groaned. It seemed that we were hours working with her, getting warm mustard water down her, then holding her as her form shook and stiffened with the waves of nausea which followed.

  After a while the retching passed and I went out to the living-room, leaving Dona with her mother. I started looking around for the knife.

  It was there in plain sight, sticking into the flo
or—and it wasn’t the knife Juanita Grafton had tried to throw. That had been a sinister onyx-handled dagger. This knife now stuck into the floor was a general utility knife with a wooden handle and some paint on the blade.

  I didn’t touch it.

  Then Dona called. Her mother was hysterical, fighting, screaming. I went into the bedroom to help handle her.

  I was dimly conscious of sirens, of an ambulance bell, of white-clad men, and of Buda giving terse swift instructions. The white-clad doctor pushed me to one side and the next thing I knew, I was standing out in the courtyard with a couple of radio policemen and Sergeant Buda’s eyes boring into mine.

  “How come?” he asked.

  I said, “I was interested in the crow.”

  “Why?”

  “Just interest, that’s all.”

  “Who’s the woman?”

  “Her mother.”

  “You saw her eat the candy?”

  I nodded.

  “How many pieces?”

  “Three or four.”

  “How quickly did she become ill after she ate them?”

  “Almost immediately.”

  “Sounds like cyanide,” Buda said. “Stick around, Lam. I want to talk with you later. Come on, boys, let’s find out about that candy.”

  The officers entered the house. A couple of stretcher men came out, carrying Mrs. Grafton. They loaded her in the ambulance and I heard the sound of the ambulance siren and the clanging of bells.

  A woman was watching from the house in front. There seemed to be something almost furtive about her curiosity. Whenever she saw me looking at her, she hastily averted her face, moved away from the window, and became busy about other things. After a few minutes, I’d see her face at one of the other windows.

  I walked around back of the little crackerbox house and gravitated toward the woodshed.

  No one stopped me.

  Pancho wasn’t in his cage.

  I clambered over the dusty wood, stubbed my toe over a battered suitcase, and started exploring the cage.

  In the back was a little partitioned-off space where sticks and twigs had been loosely piled in the shape of a rough circle. I managed to get my hand in this partition and started moving the fingers around. I felt something hard and smooth touching the tips of my fingers. By scissoring my first and second fingers together, I managed to draw it out.