Death in the Back Seat

by Dorothy Cameron Disney

  “Sure,” said Bill. “What’s it to you?”

  Jack hesitated. “I’ve been parked across the street looking in. I noticed something peculiar. That man didn’t register.”

  Bill would have driven off at once, but Jack said quickly, “You weren’t born yesterday. It’s against the law to assign people rooms unless they register, and you know it is. You can’t convince me Franklyn Elliott registered. I was watching.”

  The college-boy clerk became defiant. “He took my room. So he’s my personal guest, not a hotel guest. What’s against the law about that?”

  Jack shrugged. “Standish might not be keen about the arrangement if he learned about it.”

  Bill turned sulky. “Go ahead and be a heel. Run to the cops if you want to.”

  “I don’t want to,” Jack said slowly, “and I won’t. I’d hate to get you into trouble. But why did you agree to such a queer arrangement?”

  Bill snapped on the ignition. “I like my job, that’s why. Mrs. Coatesnash owns the Tally-ho Inn, in case you’re interested. And Elliott’s her lawyer.”

  Jack was baffled. “Didn’t Elliott explain?”

  “He said he didn’t want police to find out he was here until tomorrow. Else they might think it funny he didn’t show up for the inquest. He said he was here on private business.”

  Which was all we could gather from Bill Tevis.

  More mystified than ever at the end of the crowded day, we went home and to bed. The morning papers—we recklessly bought Boston, New York and New Haven editions—devoted columns to the inquest, and it was surprising the amount the newspaper men had found out about a supposedly secret hearing. Even the incident of Annabelle Bayne was printed. I was about to toss the papers aside, when Jack whistled and handed me a copy of the New York Globe.

  The Globe, pursuing devious methods of its own, had scored a journalistic beat. An enterprising girl reporter had tracked down the shop where Darnley’s clothing had been purchased, a small second-hand store in the upper regions of the Bronx. The proprietor, an alarmed little Jew, clearly remembered the well-dressed gentleman who had appeared on March 20th to trade his own expensive apparel for “the shoddiest stuff you’ve got in the place.” As indisputable proof, he produced—and the Globe photographed—the garments Hiram Darnley had worn when he left his office.

  It was information of a sort, but again it led to no conclusion, except the inescapable conclusion that Darnley had been bound on some illegal mission. But what was the mission? We did not know. What was the purpose of the money? We did not know. We had many questions, and not a single answer. We didn’t know why Darnley had climbed into the rumble seat of our automobile, why he had treated us with such marked incivility, who had telephoned or why. Reconstructing the crime or piecing together any background which might explain it was out of the question.

  It was seven days after the murder, and we were completely up in the air. Our theories were non-existent. Our brains were addled. We turned to tangibilities. Two people provoked our attention. They were Annabelle Bayne and Franklyn Elliott. We suspected both the lawyer and the lady of possessing knowledge which might aid us materially in a better understanding of the case. We attempted to concoct a sensible method of tapping these twin sources. A method eluded us. We had called upon Elliott in New York and had been fobbed off with polite evasions. To seek an interview with Annabelle Bayne, I suggested, would be like seeking an interview with an Arkansas bobcat, and Jack laughed and agreed.

  I collected the scattered newspapers and carried them to the kitchen kindling box. Unannounced, Silas shambled up from the cellar. As usual, his errand was financial. For the sake of my peace of mind, we were keeping Reuben at the cottage. The stipend to Silas was twenty-five cents per day; he now thought fifty more equitable.

  “You agreed to twenty-five.”

  “I can’t help it, Mrs. Storm. I’d really like the dog myself.

  It’s lonesome at the Lodge. Specially nights.”

  The murder had affected him to a surprising degree, and his cowardice infuriated me. He jumped at shadows and refused to enter the cellar until, to the ruin of electric bills, we left burning there a permanent light.

  Jack said he probably didn’t enjoy the company of a pair of putative murderers, and I know I was increasingly exasperated by his habit of slipping noiselessly into the kitchen and not speaking until I discovered him. I had an uneasy feeling that he might be peering at me from around any corner—peering and wondering.

  We haggled over Reuben’s price, settled finally at thirty-five cents a day, with the privilege to Silas of breaking the bargain whenever he chose. He went off, doubtful and dissatisfied.

  I washed the dishes, tidied the house and took the expensive Reuben for a walk. At four o’clock the dog and I were engaged in a game of ball when a smart car rolled suavely into our driveway. I turned around to look at it. Annabelle Bayne alighted and walked slowly across the lawn. I dropped the ball, stood, stared. She reached my side, laughed a little nervously, but was otherwise composed.

  “Please let me say my piece before you order me off the place. I’ve come to say I’m sorry for what happened yesterday. I—well—let’s say I was mistaken. Will you forgive me?”

  I simply couldn’t find my voice, Jack emerged from the cottage, stared as I had stared, and then she was upon him repeating the same astonishing apologies. She had hated him yesterday, but today it seemed she wanted to be his friend. Jack recovered himself sufficiently to remember what I had forgotten—that we desired a talk with Annabelle Bayne. He invited her into the house. She went eagerly.

  “Such a darling place,” she murmured. “Mrs. Storm, you have perfect taste.”

  “Mrs. Coatesnash,” I said shortly, “is responsible for the taste. We rent the cottage furnished.”

  “Now you’re being modest. You’ve moved the couch and changed those chairs.” Her bright eyes darted to the walls. “And you’ve taken down the dreadful portraits. Uncle Will and Aunt Maria and Cousin God-Knows-Who. I wonder what became of them.”

  “I think they’re in the attic,” said T. “Have you been here before?”

  “Often. As a child I almost lived here, played here every day. Jane Coatesnash and I used to come to see Jane’s aunt, who had the cottage then. There were trunks in the attic full of ridiculous clothes, and we’d drag them out and put them on—you know how children are.” She assumed an air of sweet appeal. “Would you mind too much if I went through the house?”

  Taking permission for granted, she linked an arm through mine and we began the tour. Her eyes flashed everywhere. She saw the attic; she found the battered trunks; she saw the cellar and pointed out the broken tea pot which she and the long-dead Jane had used for tea.

  She sighed. “What fun we had! Those days were the happiest of my life.”

  Last we went into the bedroom. Annabelle had no associations here; at any rate, she mentioned none. Still she seemed loath to leave. She spoke of the curtains, the rugs, the furnishings. She covertly examined the doors. She approached the closet.

  “Is this where your burglar hid?”

  “Who told you there had been a burglar?”

  She smiled amusedly. “You haven’t lived in a small town long. Do you think you can keep anything a secret in a town the size of Crockford? You’ll learn, Mrs. Storm you’ll learn.”

  “Then you’ve heard all about it?”

  “From a dozen different people.”

  Reentering the living room, she settled gracefully in an easy chair. Jack and I exchanged a glance of deep perplexity. Annabelle was clever, but so were we. If she had hoped to convince us that her call was merely friendly, she had failed. What did she want of Jack and Lola Storm?

  She finally told us. “You’re in a jam. I am, too. Since—” she smiled faintly “—since that foolish exhibition yesterday, I’ve had plenty of policemen in my hair. I’m a selfish beast, and my own troubles probably made me think of yours.” She laughed.

 
“Made me realize that since I was innocent, so could you be. There’s human nature for you! Anyhow, I thought this. Standish is nothing but a stupid, routine village cop. Harkway is very little better. Between them they’ll never solve the case. But the three of us—if we pooled our resources—might solve it.”

  The words were smoothly spoken, and entirely unconvincing. Jack said dryly, “Where do you propose we begin?”

  She had her idea ready. “First, you must dismiss Luella Coatesnash from your mind. Whatever you were told by telephone, it’s absurd to imagine she had anything to do with Darnley’s coming here. I know. Although Mrs. Coatesnash was fond of Hiram Darnley, she was on purely formal terms with him, had been for many years. I doubt she’s talked to him a full ten minutes since those days at Mather.”

  “Mather? Was Hiram Darnley present during the search for Mrs. Coatesnash’s daughter?”

  “Indeed, yes. He spent days there, hardly ate or slept, did all that was possible, and more too. I say it, who disliked him. Afterward Mrs. Coatesnash felt eternally grateful.”

  “Weren’t you,” Jack said carefully, “in Mather at that time?”

  “Yes, of course. I stayed until we gave up hope.”

  “Then how does it happen you told Dr. Rand you had seen Darnley only here in Crockford?”

  “I lied,” said Annabelle Bayne, without an instant’s hesitation. “I should warn you that I’ll always lie to save myself a little trouble. Of course, I recognized the body, but I owed Hiram Darnley nothing, didn’t even like him. My name is poison in the village anyhow, and it seemed best to just keep quiet.” I decided then that Annabelle was perhaps more clever than her audience. Seemingly she had shown all her cards; in reality she had told us only what we already knew. She had chosen the time and place; No one heard the damaging admission except myself and Jack.

  “Suppose,” said Jack, and gave her a level look, “we do drop Mrs. Coatesnash from our present calculations. Must we also drop Franklyn Elliott?”

  “Elliott? Oh, you mean Darnley’s partner.” The straight brows drew together. “I hadn’t thought of him at all. Surely you don’t suspect“…”

  “What,” said Jack, “is he doing here in Crockford?”

  “Here in Crockford!” The brows went up, the full mouth framed an astonished circle. “Is he in Crockford? I understood he was too ill to leave New York.”

  Apparently Annabelle Bayne had decided the time had come once more to lie and save herself a little trouble.

  Shortly afterward, innocent that we had trapped her in deception, still chattering volubly, she left. We followed her outside. Silas crossed the yard, bound on his evening trip to the furnace. She stopped him to request that he appear at Bayne Place to clip her privet hedges. Beside her smart, low-slung car the four of us stood together in the thickening dusk.

  Darkness was falling almost visibly, blotting out the fields and trees. I happened to glance up the hill toward the Coatesnash mansion. I squinted. It seemed to me I had seen light flicker behind one of the upper-story windows. “Silas,” I said, “did Mrs. Coatesnash leave you keys to the big house?”

  He started. “No, ma’am. She said she didn’t want me poking in her things. The house is locked up like a drum.”

  “Then,” I said, “someone has broken in. I just saw a light on the third floor.”

  The darkness blurred Annabelle Bayne’s expression. Her voice was cool and unexcited. “You probably saw a reflection from headlights passing on the hill road.”

  All four of us stared toward the vague bulk of the great white house. The chimney shaft rose stark and clear, the cupola had lost its gingerbread in shadows. A second time light arced across an upper-story window. Silas and Annabelle Bayne exchanged a look, a complicated look, a look I couldn’t comprehend, a look which inferred the dimmest sort of understanding. And yet strangely I sensed an antagonism between the two. So they might have looked at each other if one of them guessed something of the other and dared not speak it out.

  “It’s only a reflection,” said the woman indifferently, and the hired man bobbed his head in vigorous agreement.

  “No one could get into the house, Mrs. Storm.”

  “Why should anyone want to?” queried Annabelle.

  Whereupon she stepped into her car and drove off toward Crockford. Silas, too, shambled away. Jack and I lingered in the yard. The light did not reappear.

  The ringing telephone summoned us inside. Dennis Cark was on the wire. The grocery boy had telephoned reluctantly and admitted it. On the way to the cottage, Annabelle Bayne, he said, had stopped in the grocery store. At first, she made an attempt to conceal her mission, eventually revealed it.

  “She tried to find out,” said Dennis Carle’s thin, troubled voice, “how much you owed the store. We wouldn’t say, but she went on to the drug store and asked there too. Don’t tell my boss I told you. I promised not to, but I thought you had a right to know.”

  Jack and I regarded each other in mingled wonder and aggravation. Annabelle Bayne’s curiosity had mounted to amazing heights. Evidently she was anxious to learn just how great was our need of money.

  I said to Jack, “Perhaps she wanted to know if we could use a certain sum of money—say a hundred and eight thousand dollars.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Two New Suitcases

  No better method of heightening curiosity has ever been devised than the unsuccessful effort to turn curiosity aside. By denying the existence of the light. Annabelle Bayne and Silas focused our minds upon it. Because of their behavior, the light gained an importance. Why had they lied? The answer seemed obvious. For an unknown reason they wished to prevent an investigation of the Coatesnash house.

  The scene on the lawn had another specific effect. From the moment he sturdily forswore the evidence of his own eyes, we suspected Silas. We added him to a list which had consisted only of Annabelle Bayne and Franklyn Elliott. “People Who Need Explaining,” we dubbed them. A strange dissimilar trio—the lawyer, the sharp, clever writer, the jack of menial trades.

  As in the case of the others, our suspicions of Silas were irritatingly indefinite. He acted oddly, but from motives we could not penetrate. With quickened interest we considered his change of manner since the murder, his growing nervousness, his extreme unease. Previously we had put down his condition to an ignorant fear of the law. Now it seemed that Silas might fear something more sinister and more explicit.

  “But what?” Jack sat for a speculative interval. “Look. Lola. This sounds fantastic, but think a minute. Why wasn’t Silas the man who hid in the closet?”

  “Silas wouldn’t need to break into the cottage. He has keys.”

  “But…”.”

  I shook my head. “It won’t do, Jack. You have forgotten I dashed inside and phoned Silas. The Lodge is fifteen minutes hard running from the woods. Silas could not have run from there and reached his telephone by the time I rang him up.”

  “Then he answered right away?”

  “Immediately. It was barely five minutes after you and the black-faced man disappeared.

  “Immediately?” Jack frowned. “You phoned late at night, yet Silas always goes to bed with the chickens. And sleeps like a rock.”

  “What are you getting at?”

  “Did he answer too quickly? He knows we would call on him in case of trouble. How did he sound? Is it possible he was waiting beside the phone Friday night expecting trouble here?”

  “He sounded sleepy.”

  “That doesn’t signify. How fast did he get down here from the Lodge?”

  “Not fast at all. He came the long way round. I remember because I watched the pasture path. I was annoyed when I saw him coming by the road. If Silas expected trouble, he thought of his own skin first. He wouldn’t set foot in the woods till I went in.”

  I felt we were unduly complicating the already complicated situation. The picture of Silas seated at his telephone filled with a inexplicable anxiety did not appeal, to me. It a
rgued a craft which I could not concede him.

  Late in the evening Jack and I decided to trespass upon our landlady’s grounds. It was an imprudent decision, but we had arrived at a state where action seemed essential. The light which had shone briefly and mysteriously in the deserted dwelling was a powerful lure. As Jack said, sometimes a great deal depends upon trifles. Also, as he didn’t say, sometimes it is well for the innocent to avoid even the appearance of evil.

  We planned carefully, deliberately delaying a start until eleven o’clock. Once Silas was safely asleep, the danger of discovery would be slight; if caught we were prepared to say we had strayed thoughtlessly from the road. Jack armed himself with a good, stout monkey wrench—he didn’t own a gun—and, accompanied by Reuben, we set forth on our illegal jaunt. The yellow dog hung at my heels; he disliked the darkness and the sounds of a country night.

  Silently we mounted Strawberry Hill, taking the short cut through the rocky pasture. Jack used a flashlight sparingly. The path familiar in the daytime presented unexpected ruts and turnings and long vistas of inky blackness that were, I must admit, dampening. We almost ran into the Lodge. Reuben emitted a yip of pleasure, which I stifled instantly. We waited. Silas slept on, undisturbed.

  Softly calling the dog to follow, we crept ahead, past the vegetable gardens, past the grape arbor to the rear of the mansion. At the irregular patch of dead lawn, where on sunny days Mrs. Coatesnash had walked with Ivan, we brought up sharply. One by one Jack illuminated the third-story windows of the big white house. A close inspection disclosed one unshuttered window at the extreme left. Narrow and uncurtained. Jack spoke in a whisper.

  “Is that where you saw the light? Could you place it?”

  “I think that’s right.”

  “Wait here.”

  He tiptoed to the rear doors—there were three—separately examined each. He rattled the knobs, causing my heart to beat uncomfortably. He returned to report rear doors and windows locked and apparently impregnable.

  “Two of the doors wouldn’t budge a fraction of an inch. I believe they’re barred from the inside. The basement door isn’t barred, but it’s sure as hell locked.”