Blood on Lake Louisa

by Baynard H. Kendrick

  After an interminable wait a light shone over the transom, and the door was opened by a sleepy-looking Ed Brown, Chief Deputy Sheriff.

  “Where’s Pete?” I demanded without explanation. “I’ve got to see him right away.”

  “Asleep, Doc. Anything I can do for you?”

  “Wake him up. It’s important.”

  “Who is it, Ed?” Pete’s voice asked from upstairs. “Doc Ryan. Wants to see you.”

  “Be right down, Doc. Have a chair in the sitting-room.”

  Ed Brown showed me into the comfortable room where I had spent so many pleasant hours, and with a casual “Good night,” went back to his duties in the jail. It was chilly. I threw another pine knot on the fire which had almost died out. It blazed up instantly. The room seemed strange to me. Even the crayon portrait of Pete which stared at me from the wall seemed to have a malevolent look in its eyes.

  “Taking a walk, Doc?”

  I jumped and turned, to see the huge frame of the Sheriff standing in the doorway. He was clad only in pants, shirt, and felt slippers, which accounted for my not hearing him descend the stairs. Then I realized that I must have been walking furiously back and forth in front of the fireplace. It seemed to be getting into a habit of mine—pacing back and forth like I was in a cell. Yes— that was it I In a cell—that’s where it would all end! I suddenly collapsed into a big chair and blurted out without preamble: “Pete, I shot at a duck on Lake Louisa late this afternoon and killed David Mitchell who was filling his water bottle by the edge of the lake! I’m a murderer! Do you understand! A murderer!” Then everything grew black. I felt myself slipping away.

  “Easy now, Doc! Easy now!” It was Pete’s voice coming to me from a distance. “No talk now. Just drink this down.” Something was held to my lips. I swallowed automatically. The fiery liquor ran through my veins and I felt better immediately. “Good stuff, Doc. Raided from one of the best bootleggers in the County. Now forget all that stuff about being a murderer, and let’s hear the rest about this accident. You been acting more like a fool than a doctor. We got to get out there and bring that body in. Come along. You can tell me about it on the way out.”

  He summoned Ed Brown, and told him to leave an Assistant Deputy in charge of the jail, and to load an outboard motor in the big car. His very matter-of-factness served to reassure me more than anything he could have said. I made no protest when he asked me to leave my own car and use his as we could make the trip in shorter time. We were soon speeding back over the road I had just traveled, Pete and I seated in the back seat of the sedan, and Ed at the wheel driving like a fiend. We made one stop at the home of Amos Pryor, our local mortician. Pete told me that he had asked Amos to pick up Doctor Stuart, who lived a short distance out of town, and to join us at the clearing where I kept my boat. He had also asked Amos to have his ambulance follow us out and wait at the same place. En route again, Pete asked me to go over my story. He listened without interruption while I told him everything from the time I left the house until my arrival at his home. His cigar glowed brightly now and again in the darkness of the car.

  “You’ve been hunting and fishing a long time in this state, haven’t you, Doc?”

  “Nearly all my life. More fishing than hunting though.”

  “Been out with Mitchell?”

  “Several times.”

  “Pretty cautious man, wasn’t he?”

  “Very.”

  “Friendly?”

  “With some people, but not a great many at that. He was a banker as you know, and wasn’t very intimate with anyone.”

  “You don’t think he would have hailed a boat which was being paddled silently near a feeding place for ducks?”

  “I think he would have waited to see who it was.”

  “How could you see the ducks you shot at if it was too dark to see Mitchell standing on the shore?”

  “They were silhouetted against the skyline where it was visible through the trees. I shot fast—without thinking—”

  “You’re a pretty good wing shot, aren’t you?”

  “Fair.”

  “Yet you say you thought you got one of the ducks.”

  “Buddy said he saw one of them go down. Something undoubtedly splashed in the water. After I found Mitchell I thought—”

  The end of the cigar glowed brightly, and Pete’s big hand closed over mine in a quick grip of friendliness.

  “Doc, that’s a steep bank by the Simmons place. I still can’t get it clear in my mind how you could shoot at three ducks flying high enough to be visible against the skyline and hit a man standing so low by the water that you couldn’t see him. Think it over, Doc. There may be a chance—”

  “I hope to God you’re right!” I said fervently.

  It is not my intention to go into all the morbid details which are inevitably necessary in any affair such as the shooting of David Mitchell. In fact they are none too clear to me. The moon had gone down, and the first streaks of dawn were in the sky, accompanied by a thick morning fog, so prevalent in early spring, when our sad little party arrived back in town, Pryor’s ambulance following in its wake, and I faced the miserable task of breaking the news to Mae.

  When I had finally put my car in the garage, and started into the house, I knew that I could never do it. Pete had said there might be a chance. I would cling to that hope in desperation and see what came of it. I knew she would be awake and want to speak to me. She had never failed in the many years of our life together. I also knew she would discover immediately that something was radically wrong. I would have to go on up to my own room without seeing her, and that would be a confession that all was not as it should be in itself. She called me as soon as I entered the house.

  “Will, dear, did you get any fish?”

  “Just one, honey, but it’s a nice one. I’m putting it on ice. I’m awfully tired. Why don’t you go on to sleep? I’ll see you in the morning.”

  “Well you can kiss me good night anyhow.”

  Then came, what I term to this day, the most happy interruption of my life. The bell of the night telephone in my room began ringing insistently. I could tell Mae it was an urgent call—that I had to leave immediately— anything to gain time to compose myself. I flew upstairs to my room and grabbed the receiver from the hook.

  “Doc,” inquired the grave voice of Peter Crossley, “how many times did you shoot at those ducks?”

  “Twice.” I answered rather shortly, thinking he might have at least let the matter rest until morning.

  “That’s right. We found both shells still in your gun. We took it from your car when it was parked in front of the jail.”

  “Well, what of it, Pete? For Heaven’s sake, let me alone until tomorrow.”

  “Nothing, Doc. I just phoned to tell you to go to bed and sleep tight. Mitchell was killed with a load of buck shot. You were shooting number fives. Good night!”

  I am not ashamed to admit that I ran into Mae’s room, buried my face on her shoulder and cried like a baby.

  3

  The information unearthed in the investigation of the death of David Mitchell seemed to prove only that the banker had been a very secretive man. Even Celia, his daughter, who was called as a witness at the inquest, knew little of his affairs.

  His entire fortune, some three hundred thousand dollars in bank stocks and first class property, with the exception of a few minor bequests, had been left to his motherless daughter. Marvin Lee, Celia’s fiancé, who was attorney for the bank, had been named as executor of the will.

  Buddy’s statement to me that Marvin had been in the woods looking for Mitchell on the afternoon of the shooting came back with renewed force when it was learned that the attorney had left Orange Crest on the midnight train that same night. He had left no word as to his destination or when he expected to return.

  While I felt from the bottom of my heart that Marvin could have no possible connection with the tragedy, yet I knew that the Sheriff was entitled to all the data
I could give him, and I had told Crossley all the facts in my possession before the inquest. He had received other information, too. Some of it he did not tell me until later.

  He did reveal, however, that the agent at the depot had sold Marvin a one way ticket to Jacksonville. This meant nothing at all, as the train lay over there for forty-five minutes, which would have given the attorney ample time to buy another to any place he was going. It was difficult to get Pullman reservations in our small town, and many of our inhabitants, when pressed for time, did just as Marvin had done.

  I heard from another source that the Sheriff’s office had been in touch with the authorities in Atlanta, who in turn had spoken to two firms there with whom Lee had often corresponded. Neither of the firms could give any assistance in locating him.

  Orange Crest was naturally buzzing with rumors, most of them with no foundation whatever. It was whispered that the bank was in difficulties, and that Mitchell, its president, had committed suicide. This started a small run which was quickly suppressed when the State Examiner reported everything in first class shape. Another persistent rumor was that Mitchell had stumbled on to a still and been shot by moonshiners. The local paper maintained a conservative attitude. The editor pointed out the fact that the authorities had found the body of Bess, Mitchell’s bird dog, riddled with buck shot near the scene of the crime; and that it was most unlikely that a suicide would kill his dog before shooting himself. Beyond that he refused to conjecture, admitting that he knew nothing and was awaiting word from the competent officials who were handling the case.

  Saturday night, three nights after I found the banker’s body, I was seated again in Pete Crossley’s sitting room.

  He was sucking gloomily on an empty pipe and appeared almost as worried as I had been on my last visit.

  “We didn’t get much out of the inquest,” he remarked. “What do you make of it?” I did not answer, so he started ticking off the facts on his fingers with the pipe stem.

  “First: Mitchell had been upset about something for several days. About what? Celia knew him better than anyone and she doesn’t know. What was worrying him?”

  “Money?”

  “He left three hundred thousand.”

  “The bank maybe—”

  “The auditors reported it O. K.”

  “Celia’s marriage to Lee. Maybe he didn’t approve.”

  “From what we know of him he would have said so without mincing words. Let’s go on to the second fact which caused the Coroner’s Jury to bring in a verdict of death at the hands of an unknown—our finding Bess, his dog. That doesn’t look like an accident, does it?”

  “I should say not.”

  “Well then give me a motive.”

  “For the dog?”

  “For Mitchell and the dog.”

  “I think Bess was shot for fear she would raise an alarm. Mitchell may have been robbed.”

  “He had no money on him when you found him, it’s true, but Celia said he never carried any when he was hunting.”

  “Revenge maybe.”

  “More likely, but for what? Men don’t kill a banker for refusing a loan—”

  “Didn’t he have Red Salmon arrested for moonshining a couple of years ago? Found his still in the woods or something?”

  “That’s true, but Salmon’s no fool. He knows that he would be one of the first we would look for if anything happened to Mitchell. We’re after him now.”

  “Wasn’t Mitchell a special game warden?”

  “Yes, and he did much to break up illegal hunting in this County. Arrested nine men so far as the records show, but I’ve checked them all up and otherwise they’re pretty good citizens. Wouldn’t they be in much the same position as Salmon?”

  “That’s true. It’s unlikely they would take such a chance for a petty revenge. Have you any theory at all?”

  “Frankly none, Doc. I’m as much at sea as you. I believe there is a reason back of this which we haven’t touched. Maybe Marvin can enlighten us—that is if we can find him. He has surely read of it in the papers by now—”

  He was interrupted by a light step on the porch and the shattering announcement of the big bell. I rose at the same time as he did, for I did not wish to intrude. He motioned for me to wait while he answered the door. I heard a woman’s voice and Celia Mitchell entered the room followed by the Sheriff. She ran to me with both hands outstretched as soon as she recognized me.

  “I’m glad you’re here,” she said simply. “I’m terribly worried about Marvin. Have either of you heard from him?” I shook my head. “I called your house,” she went on. “Mrs. Ryan told me you were here. I wanted to see Mr. Crossley anyhow.”

  She was distraught and tired and her friendly blue eyes had filled with tears. It dawned on me that, wrapped up in my own difficulties, I had been a very poor friend to the lonely girl whom I had brought into the world nineteen years before. I took her hands and drew her down on the arm of the chair beside me.

  “Celia, honey, you know if there is anything an old man can do—and I’m sure Pete here feels the same!”

  She ruffled up my graying hair with a quick gesture. “Certainly I know. You’re the two best friends in the world and the two finest men—”

  Pete coughed nervously and applied a pine splinter to his pipe. The big hearted officer was used to everything but words of praise. His face matched the bricks on the hearth as he leaned over the fire.

  “I wouldn’t have bothered you tonight,” she continued, “but there was something I had to ask you.”

  It was evident that she was striving to keep a grip on herself. I patted her shoulder reassuringly.

  “Did either of you find Daddy’s watch?”

  “His watch?” Crossley’s eyes were on me.

  “The one given him by the Chamber of Commerce. He always carried it. I have been through all his things this afternoon and it’s not there—”

  “Would he have taken it in the woods with him?”

  “He took it every place. You know how proud he was of it.” She stifled a sob. “Once I protested about his carrying it hunting and fishing, but he said a poor watch was worse than none. There are not many personal things to remember him by—”

  “I’m sorry, Celia,” the Sheriff said kindly. “We made a very careful search but we didn’t see anything of the watch.” He looked at me inquiringly. I shook my head.

  “It wasn’t in his pockets—that is—you see I was hardly responsible myself. I was terribly upset.”

  Pete nodded understandingly. “There is a possibility, of course, that he didn’t have it with him.”

  “I believe I know!” Celia exclaimed. “I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before. Daddy mentioned not long ago that the watch gained a trifle. Isn’t it possible that he left it to be adjusted?”

  “At Spence’s? It’s very possible!” Pete picked up the telephone in a corner of the room and called Forman Spence’s home. We waited expectantly. Apparently there was no answer. “Gone to the pictures, I guess. I’ll see if there is anyone at the store.” He called another number and after a short conversation he stated that he would be right down.

  “It’s Harry Bartlett,” he said as he hung up, “Forman’s new clerk. I think we better go down and see for ourselves.”

  It is just a short distance from Crossley’s home to the store so we decided to walk.

  “Why did Forman let Lewis go?” I asked as we left the house. “He’d been with him twelve years, or more, hadn’t he? Nearly as long as Tim Reig, his watchmaker.”

  “He didn’t let him go,” Pete explained. “Lewis quit. Got an offer from a big concern in Tampa, but Forman didn’t think he would take it. I guess the salary was too good to turn down.”

  “Where did this fellow, Bartlett, come from?”

  “Funny thing. Forman was talking to me about it the other day. Bartlett drifted in the day after Lewis left, looking for a job. He had references from two of the biggest jewelers in the country
, and Forman was tickled to death to get him. It seems he’d gone broke playing the horses at Miami, but the Bonding Company gave him a clean slate. Hard worker, too. I see him plugging over the books two or three nights a week. He’s been there nearly six months now, so I guess he’s satisfactory. You know what an old woman Forman is.”

  We crossed the Court House square, and turned into the brilliancy of Oak Street, the main thoroughfare of Orange Crest. It was nearly eleven. The usual double line of automobiles, which filled every parking space on Saturday nights, was rapidly thinning as the visitors to town left for their homes.

  Forman Spence’s store was dark, except for a single drop light with a green shade which lighted a cluttered desk in the rear. It partly revealed a young man in his shirt sleeves industriously sorting the papers piled up before him. We knocked on the door and he left his work and quickly walked the length of the store to admit us.

  “Sorry to disturb you, Mr. Bartlett,” said Pete, after he had introduced him to Celia and me, “But we’re badly in need of some information which you may be able to supply. We called Mr. Spence, but he doesn’t seem to be at home. We are anxious to know if Miss Mitchell’s father left his watch here for repairs before that tragic happening at Lake Louisa.”

  Bartlett stepped behind one of the counters, opened a hinged panel in the wall, and pressed home an electric switch which brilliantly lighted one half the store. I had sub-consciously noted that the young man walked with an effortless ease. It was not until the lights went on that I was aware that this was due to his harmonious physique. Almost as tall as Pete Crossley, his height was very deceptive owing to a pair of shoulders which were the broadest I had ever seen. I felt that if anyone had poked him with an explorative finger they would have met a wall of muscles as hard as Bessemer steel. His face was inclined to be dark and swarthy, and his piercing black eyes gave him a ferocious expression which disappeared instantly under one of his slow smiles. Then the whole face softened. The fierce black eyes became a wee bit dreamy. When the smile broadened into a grin, revealing the even white teeth, you felt that here, indeed, was a likable individual. I was amused at the thought of the mouse-like Forman Spence giving orders to this giant employee.