Blood on Lake Louisa

by Baynard H. Kendrick

  He paused and polished his glasses. Cass squirmed uneasily on the hard chair. Sanderson gave his remarks time to sink in, then continued: “Now, your Honor, and Gentlemen of the Jury. You have heard the witness state that pine knots are used to heat the cabin. Pine knots, as we all know, burn hot—and fast! Yet, five hours after he leaves the cabin, probably much more—this witness returns accompanied by Dr. Ryan and the doctor sees the firelight shining on Salmon’s red hair. Gentlemen, I submit to you as the strangest fact brought out here this morning, the fact that a criminal as clever as the murderer of David Mitchell, and Red Salmon, should put more wood on the fire in the cabin of the man he stabbed. I submit this to you as a fact, because it is inconceivable to my mind that Salmon, mortally wounded with a knife stuck in his heart, could get up and replenish the fire, then get back in bed, wrap his blanket around him again, and tuck it in under his own feet!”

  18

  Carl Sanderson’s dramatic bringing out of a point we had all overlooked did much to exonerate Cass Rhodes in the eyes of the Jury. Atwater asked the witness a few more questions, and unearthed the fact that Salmon’s guns had been loaded when Cass left the cabin, although we found them both empty upon our arrival. At Marvin’s suggestion the J.P. also determined from Cass that Salmon had never had a bank account. The tin box, which Luke Pomeroy had found in the shack, contained the moonshiner’s worldly wealth—a pitiful twenty-four dollars.

  The woodsman left the witness chair with a broad grin, and stopped to give Carl Sanderson an embarrassed grip of the hand before taking his seat among the spectators. Atwater immediately declared a recess of two hours for lunch, and the four of us, Marvin and Pete, Sanderson and I, walked up to the Southern Hotel opposite the Court House to get a bite to eat. I felt rather self-conscious about my bandaged head, so we took a table at the back of the dining room where I could efface myself in a corner.

  Although it was still early for lunch, just shortly after twelve, the dining room was beginning to fill up rapidly. The school children were to hold a George Washington pageant during the afternoon, and a number of people had driven in from the country to see it. The inquest had brought many more into town, and the hotel was enjoying a rushing business. I had just given my order to the waitress when I looked up to see Tim Reig enter the dining room. He stopped inside the door, and glanced around uncertainly as if searching for a table. Then of a sudden he fixed his eyes directly on me. I nodded to him but he gave no sign that he saw it, although his gaze was so intent that it made me feel uneasy. As I watched him I saw him flush, as if angry, then the blood drained from his face. He turned quickly and left the room.

  My befuddled intellect started to function then, and informed me that Tim had not been looking at me at all, but at the window in back of me which opened onto the lawn at the rear of the hotel. Without stopping to think I threw up the sash and leaned out—and found myself staring into the grinning face of Harry Bartlett. I must have looked extremely silly.

  “Gee! I’m sorry if I startled you, Dr. Ryan. I was just looking in to see if a friend of mine was in there.” He strode off across the lawn.

  “What was the idea of that performance?” Pete asked when I had closed the window and resumed my seat. I explained.

  “I think it’s about time I paid that fellow, Bartlett, a social call, myself,” the Sheriff declared gravely. “There’s something fishy about him. What do—”

  “What I’m interested to know,” Sanderson broke in, “is where he was last Sunday afternoon.”

  “Always the great detective! Why do you keep coming back to Forman Spence and his employees, Carl? It’s true you showed me up as a rotten lawyer this morning, but I’d still like to bet that you’re on the wrong trail where Forman is concerned.”

  “You haven’t helped us much, Mr. Lee the Mysterious!” Pete grumbled.

  “But you’re so hard to help. The machinery of the Sheriff’s office grinds with such ponderous wheels. Everything is kept so dark and secret. If you think Bartlett is mixed up in this why don’t you arrest him and apply the third degree as used in our best cities? If you started on me I’d talk without hesitation—”

  “You tempt me strongly. I’d certainly like to give you a dose of it if that’s the case. Everybody in Orange Crest is buzzing around my ears to know—”

  “Where Marvin Lee was after Mitchell was killed, and why Marvin Lee followed Mitchell into the woods. I know, Pete. That’s why I brought it up. At nine thirty this morning I received an express package, and now I can talk.” Marvin critically regarded his finger nails. The three of us sat expectantly, our food growing cold.

  “Well go on and talk, you pest!” Crossley exploded. “Or I’ll give you a third degree right here.”

  “Oh, Sheriff! Don’t get so excited.” Marvin was thoroughly enjoying himself. “I was just collecting my thoughts. You see I’ve been on the spot, myself, for the last few days. I believe all of you know that the Road and Bond Trustees for this District have nearly a half-million dollars of road money deposited in the Bank of Orange Crest.” We nodded. “Well, to get that deposit, the bank had to place securities for that amount in the hands of the Road Trustees. About three hundred and fifty thousand of those securities were bonds in a northern utilities company. On the afternoon of the fifteenth I received a long distance call from an attorney in New York advising me, confidentially, that it might be wise for the bank to sell those utilities bonds, and invest in others.” Marvin touched his lips to his glass of water. “David Mitchell was somewhere out in the woods—hunting. If word ever leaked out to the Bond Trustees that the securities they were holding might not be good—well, the Bank of Orange Crest is perfectly sound, but it couldn’t stand a withdrawal of five hundred thousand dollars, and the run which such a withdrawal would have started. Anyhow, I found Mitchell, and talked with him at the place I showed Pete, near Lake Louisa. The outcome was that I left for New York, secretly, and in a hurry. I was there only a day, but it was sufficient. This morning additional securities arrived by express to replace the utilities bonds which have been disposed of at a minimum of loss.”

  “Good heavens!” I exclaimed. “You were in a fix. I suppose no one knew a thing about it except you and Mitchell.”

  “Exactly. I didn’t even dare tell the directors of the bank. Two of them are members of the Bond Trustees. I didn’t dare risk a leak. If it—”

  Crossley shoved a big hand across the table. “And if worse came to worse—you were ready to go to jail. Good boy! If that bank ever folded it would be the end of this town the way things are now. What do you think of our legal light, now, Sanderson?”

  “I still think he’s crooked—like all lawyers.” The State’s Attorney grinned. “What about the shotgun that was buried out at the lake?”

  Marvin pushed the hair up out of his eyes and dug a fork viciously into a piece of pie. “That’s something I’m taking up as the next order of business. By the way, Pete, aren’t you going to say anything at the inquest about Doc’s experience last night, and out at the lake? Everybody’s busting to know why he’s wearing that bandage.”

  “Let them bust. I don’t want this Bartlett thing let out yet. I’m going to let the Jury have a look at those Miami papers this afternoon, though. There are some specimens of Salmon’s writing on a deed in the County Clerk’s office. I’m interested to know if they will jibe with the figures written on that ad.”

  “You think Red was the monthly visitor, then, Pete?”

  “It looks that way, Doc. We may have to send the papers to a handwriting expert to prove it. We only have a few letters, and some figures to go by. Luckily there are some figures on the deed, too.”

  “If the figures are Red’s it will clear up a lot of things in my mind.”

  “Mine, too, Marvin. Red was probably waiting in the house when he heard the shots outside, and went to see what had been killed. He may have caught the murderer red handed and—”

  “If that’s a pun—it’s vile,
Doc. And your idea doesn’t seem very good to me, either,” Sanderson protested. “I think he would have ended up with a load of buckshot in him too, if he had. It seems more probable that he either actually saw the shooting, or saw the murderer right after it was done, but that he wasn’t quite sure whether, or not, the murderer had seen him. He didn’t waste—”

  “It isn’t a pun, and I think he knew the murderer had seen him. Don’t forget he loaded his guns as soon as he got back to his camp.”

  “I think you’re right, Doc,” Pete said. “That’s pretty good proof that he knew he was in danger. If we—“

  “Maybe he intended taking the law in his own hands,” Marvin suggested. “You remember he remarked the season never closed on skunks.”

  “It’s another angle to be considered. I was going to say that if we worked on the assumption that Red visited the house on the fifteenth of every month, and that he was an actual eyewitness of the murder, we have still run into a dead end road. We don’t know why he went there. We don’t know who was meeting him there—if anybody—”

  “Hold on a minute, Pete. It’s a cinch that the fellow who potted at Doc and Ed, and who cracked Doc over the head, knew the value of those papers as evidence. Aren’t we jumping at conclusions? How do you know Doc’s pleasant visitor didn’t leave them there himself? Let’s find out some starting point which we can prove. Have you asked the newsdealers in town whether Salmon ever bought papers there?”

  “What’s the use? Papers come in by mail, too, you know.”

  “Not the papers Doc showed me last night. I doped that out for myself. The Miami Floridians that are sent to subscribers are folded into a small roll by machinery, and mailed in brown paper wrappers. They are nearly always broken on the folds. The papers Doc found were bought at a newsstand. They had only been folded to quarter page size, and hadn’t a break in them.”

  Carl applauded soundlessly. “What a gigantic mind you have, Mr. Lee. You’re stupendous!”

  “I seem to be hemmed in by brilliant attorneys.” The Sheriff laughed. “Let’s go over to the Court House and have a look at the papers themselves.” We settled our checks, and as we were leaving the hotel, Pete said to me: “Marvin’s not so dumb at that, Doc. I think I’ll take his hint and try the news dealers. There’s a bare chance—“ We crossed the lawn to the Court House, and as we were ascending the steps we met Miss Phillips just leaving the building. “I came right up from the inquest,” she said to the Sheriff. “Those two letters you gave me this morning are on your desk to sign. Mr. Reig was waiting in the office for you, but he left in a few minutes.”

  “Tim Reig? Did he say what he wanted? Why he was in the dining room of—”

  “He didn’t say. I’m going to get some lunch.”

  Pete muttered something to himself as we went on in. The door to his suite was open and the office was empty. Marvin perched himself on a desk, and Sanderson and I took chairs. The Sheriff walked over to the big double-doored safe and started to twirl the combination. When he swung the doors open I could see, from where I was sitting, that the safe contained a motley collection of guns, jugs of confiscated liquor, parts of copper stills, and papers. He took out several of the guns and laid them on the floor. Marvin began to kick his heels on the side of the desk. There were footsteps in the hall, and Ed Brown and Luke Pomeroy came into the office. The Sheriff turned around as they entered.

  “Where are the Miami papers that were in here this morning?”

  “Search me,” Luke said.

  Ed walked over and looked in the safe. “They were here when I left for the Inquest at ten this morning. I closed the safe myself.”

  Pete picked up the guns and put them back in the vault. “You know,” he said softly, “it makes me sorer than hell to have evidence stolen out of my own office.” His voice was soft, but his face was drawn and his eyes were harder than I had ever seen them before.

  19

  I thought at first that Crossley was fooling. I should have known better. My left ear was a throbbing reminder that someone was willing to take desperate risks to recover those fifteen old Miami papers. The lapse of twenty-four hours had not served to entirely quiet my nerves from the shattering blast of a shotgun directed at me when I attempted to remove them from the Simmons house. Yet, in spite of my own experiences, I sat cold and unbelieving when Pete announced that they were gone. To me it was the final breaking down of all the forces of law and order. A curious feeling of utter helplessness took possession of me, as if I were pitting myself against one of those dream monsters from which we can never escape. Shooting and stabbing were horrible, but tangible. We had competent officials elected to stamp out such things. We placed our faith and our security in the hands of those officers. There was something sinister and demoralizing about the self-confidence, and cleverness, of a criminal who thought no more of the power of the law than to walk in, in broad daylight, and steal evidence from the locked safe in the Sheriff’s own office.

  Marvin’s heels still beat their annoying tattoo on the side of the desk. Pete swung around and faced the State’s Attorney, and exclaimed so savagely that Sanderson visibly jumped: “Go on. Ask me all about it! It’s my fault. I can’t even keep things in my own safe any more. Next week I’ll find they’ve been making shine in the County Court Room. Here’s all I know: four people have the combination to the safe, Ed, Luke, and Miss Phillips, besides myself. I’m not very careful with it. Lots of people stand beside me when I open it. I couldn’t name them all—”

  Sanderson stood up. “Don’t yell so, Pete. Your blood pressure will run way up and you’ll die from it. What time did you leave here this morning, Ed?”

  “Shortly after ten. I came over from the jail. Mr. Lee was waiting in the office when I got here. I opened the safe to put in a knife we took off a nigger last night. The papers were there then. I locked it again and walked over to Pryor’s with Mr. Lee.”

  Marvin stopped kicking his heels. “Thanks Ed, but you better tell them the whole story. He did lock the safe, Carl, but he went across the hall to the Clerk’s office, and was out of the room for fifteen minutes before we left. I thought you and Pete might be back before the inquest. I was anxious to tell you why I had been out of town.”

  The Chief Deputy looked gratefully at Marvin. “I didn’t think that—”

  “Sure, we understand, Ed,” the Sheriff said nastily. “You didn’t think it would make any difference. Since Mitchell was killed nobody in this organization has thought anything made much difference. It looks like we’re getting afraid somebody in town murdered these two people, and we might have to arrest them. You didn’t lock the office door when you left?”

  “No, sir. It’s never locked during the day, as you know. You—”

  “Well, you can lock it now, before the safe is taken. I’ll tell Miss Phillips never to leave it open again. There’s nothing more we can do now. Let’s get back over to the chapel. It’s nearly two.”

  We walked back to Pryor’s in silence. Even Marvin’s high spirits of an hour before were dampened by the loss of the papers on which we had counted so highly. Crossley was a bundle of nerves. Twice during the afternoon he left the chapel, and I saw him pacing back and forth in front of the building. The inquest dragged to a close without anything more of importance being developed. It became obvious, after Marvin, Luke Pomeroy and Crossley had been questioned, that the Jury would bring in another verdict of death at the hands of an unknown person.

  It was after five when we left the Coroner’s Court. From the testimony given I had formed a very clear mental picture of the happenings at Tiger Creek on the previous Sunday. Of course, I had no means of knowing that any of my conclusions were correct, but the evidence tended to show that the murderer had come by boat up Tiger Creek, probably from some point less than three miles below the camp. It was impossible to say whether he had watched Cass leave the shack, or arrived after Salmon’s friend had left for town. If he had intended throwing the blame on Cass Rhodes b
y leaving Mitchell’s watch in the coffee, it had been a fatal piece of carelessness to put more wood on the dying fire. Just why he should have unloaded Salmon’s guns, was another point I was unable to explain to my own satisfaction. The most logical reason seemed to be that he wanted to give the appearance that Salmon had not anticipated any danger.

  Marvin left us with the statement that he might drop in later to call on our guest, and the Sheriff offered to drive me home. I was still idly conjecturing about the events of the day when we stopped in front of my house. Pete and Sanderson, who were in the front seat, started to laugh, as the Sheriff applied the brakes. As I got out the cause of their amusement was easy to find. A large white mule, tethered securely to my gate post, was contentedly munching on my pet kumquat tree which grew just inside the fence.

  I had hardly put my foot on the ground when my front gate was flung open, and I found myself being literally dragged into the house by Buddy Nixon. The negro boy was so distracted that he was incoherent. I finally had to take him by both shoulders and shake him vigorously to bring him to a point where I could understand what he was saying. Out of his hysterical sobbing I gathered the fact that his father, Abe Nixon, was desperately hurt. Buddy’s own condition was proof enough of the seriousness of the case. Without waiting to ask more questions I dashed into the house for my medical kit. Pete yelled after me: “I’ll take you, Doc. Carl wants to ask Nixon some questions, anyhow.”