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Authors: Dorothy Gilman
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sure by that time that she must have murdered Dr. Bugov too.”
“But you say she has just died in a mental hospital?”
Pruden nodded. “She was put on trial for the two poison murders while we continued searching for Dr. Bugov’s body. We even dug up the basement of her house. We had men searching the grounds of every nearby park, looking under culverts, and checking every piece of empty ground in the Dell section. The professor,” he said with finality, “was never found, dead or alive.”
“Extraordinary,” said Madame Karitska with interest. “And in this trial, was she found guilty?”
He shook his head. “It was a long trial, a rather sensational one at the time, but if it had been concluded, I seriously doubt that a verdict of guilty would have been brought in. There just wasn’t enough evidence, certainly nothing conclusive. She’d forged his name to those checks, yes, and she’d pawned his gold watch but there was no binding evidence of murder. She’d known Dr. Bugov for two years, we established that, but we never discovered how they met. There was the possibility that they’d been lovers—he was forty, she was thirty-five and quite attractive in a candy-box way. But when it came time for her to testify—they put her on the stand—she was rambling and incoherent, and made wild, extreme statements. She had to be removed from the stand. Ultimately the jury found her legally insane and she was ordered confined.”
“So the truth was never unearthed,” said Madame Karitska thoughtfully. “A strange story. She denied the murders?”
“Oh yes, and denies them even in her suicide note.” He removed a brown manila envelope from his pocket and carefully extracted a note written in pencil on lined notebook paper. “The note was written to the lawyerwho defended her three years ago and it reads, ‘It doesn’t matter really but I will say this. I didn’t kill Uli or Polly or Charlie. I went wild with grief from losing them. Nothing has been worth anything since.’ ” He handed the slip of paper to Madame Karitska and sat back.
Madame Karitska placed the letter on the table and gently inserted her fingers under it until the letter rested across the palms of her hands. After a moment she closed her eyes and Pruden sat in silence, watching her. The candles flickered and wavered; in the dim light he thought Madame Karitska’s face looked infinitely sad. When she opened her eyes her expression was thoughtful.
“Well?” asked Pruden.
“Tell me,” she said, putting down the note, “would there be any possible way to bring me—at this late date—any objects handled by Dr. Bugov or by this Polly Biggs or Charles Windham?”
Pruden was startled. “That’s a rather tall order after three years. It’s possible, though, I suppose. Dr. Bugov’s papers are still somewhere at headquarters—we sifted through them all for leads but found nothing. And Mrs. Biggs’s mother carried away Polly’s jewelry and is in a nursing home not far off my route. As for Mr. Windham—”
“That would be quite enough,” Madame Karitska told him.
Pruden smiled. “You’re not going to tell me any impressions you received, as you put it?”
“No,” said Madame Karitska. “Not tonight.”
“But you did catch something?” he asked eagerly.
“Oh yes,” she said, “a great deal, and I am mostcurious. If you will bring me objects belonging to two of the three persons I think I may be able to tie certain threads together for you. Your case,” she added with a faint smile, “is not yet over.”
It was two days before Pruden reappeared, looking triumphant, which was not surprising because it had taken a certain amount of resourcefulness and digging to produce the objects he presented to her. He gave her the gold watch belonging to Dr. Bugov that had been pawned by Mazda Lorvale, and which was still marked “Exhibit B” from the trial, and a leather checkbook of his as well. From Polly Biggs’s
“But you say she has just died in a mental hospital?”
Pruden nodded. “She was put on trial for the two poison murders while we continued searching for Dr. Bugov’s body. We even dug up the basement of her house. We had men searching the grounds of every nearby park, looking under culverts, and checking every piece of empty ground in the Dell section. The professor,” he said with finality, “was never found, dead or alive.”
“Extraordinary,” said Madame Karitska with interest. “And in this trial, was she found guilty?”
He shook his head. “It was a long trial, a rather sensational one at the time, but if it had been concluded, I seriously doubt that a verdict of guilty would have been brought in. There just wasn’t enough evidence, certainly nothing conclusive. She’d forged his name to those checks, yes, and she’d pawned his gold watch but there was no binding evidence of murder. She’d known Dr. Bugov for two years, we established that, but we never discovered how they met. There was the possibility that they’d been lovers—he was forty, she was thirty-five and quite attractive in a candy-box way. But when it came time for her to testify—they put her on the stand—she was rambling and incoherent, and made wild, extreme statements. She had to be removed from the stand. Ultimately the jury found her legally insane and she was ordered confined.”
“So the truth was never unearthed,” said Madame Karitska thoughtfully. “A strange story. She denied the murders?”
“Oh yes, and denies them even in her suicide note.” He removed a brown manila envelope from his pocket and carefully extracted a note written in pencil on lined notebook paper. “The note was written to the lawyerwho defended her three years ago and it reads, ‘It doesn’t matter really but I will say this. I didn’t kill Uli or Polly or Charlie. I went wild with grief from losing them. Nothing has been worth anything since.’ ” He handed the slip of paper to Madame Karitska and sat back.
Madame Karitska placed the letter on the table and gently inserted her fingers under it until the letter rested across the palms of her hands. After a moment she closed her eyes and Pruden sat in silence, watching her. The candles flickered and wavered; in the dim light he thought Madame Karitska’s face looked infinitely sad. When she opened her eyes her expression was thoughtful.
“Well?” asked Pruden.
“Tell me,” she said, putting down the note, “would there be any possible way to bring me—at this late date—any objects handled by Dr. Bugov or by this Polly Biggs or Charles Windham?”
Pruden was startled. “That’s a rather tall order after three years. It’s possible, though, I suppose. Dr. Bugov’s papers are still somewhere at headquarters—we sifted through them all for leads but found nothing. And Mrs. Biggs’s mother carried away Polly’s jewelry and is in a nursing home not far off my route. As for Mr. Windham—”
“That would be quite enough,” Madame Karitska told him.
Pruden smiled. “You’re not going to tell me any impressions you received, as you put it?”
“No,” said Madame Karitska. “Not tonight.”
“But you did catch something?” he asked eagerly.
“Oh yes,” she said, “a great deal, and I am mostcurious. If you will bring me objects belonging to two of the three persons I think I may be able to tie certain threads together for you. Your case,” she added with a faint smile, “is not yet over.”
It was two days before Pruden reappeared, looking triumphant, which was not surprising because it had taken a certain amount of resourcefulness and digging to produce the objects he presented to her. He gave her the gold watch belonging to Dr. Bugov that had been pawned by Mazda Lorvale, and which was still marked “Exhibit B” from the trial, and a leather checkbook of his as well. From Polly Biggs’s
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