“There was quite a gale. Maybe it blew off.”
“It couldn’t have blown off after he got into the car. The windows and doors were closed.”
Storm bit hard into the cigar he was smoking. “Well, then I should say that, when he started out, he had no idea of going anywhere. Maybe he just stepped out on the porch to look at the weather, and then he saw or heard something that called him away from the house, and then—”
“I have reason to believe,” Harrington cut in, “that he started out for the post-office in the village.”
Storm looked nonplussed and stared at his cigar. Whittaker’s gloomy eyes traveled to the bench where the body lay.
“Marsh was short and thick,” he pointed out, apparently apropos of nothing. “About your size, Storm.”
Storm did not appear to see the point of the suggestion. Whittaker’s eyes went from the bench to the rear of the car.
“This car has a high back window—higher than most,” he observed. “Even so, Marsh’s head, when he sat erect, would hardly touch it Of course, with his hat on—”
He paused and looked hopefully at Storm, but the detective was still puzzled.
“It seems Marsh was afraid for his life—expected somebody to take a pot shot at him or something,” Whittaker added.
Storm drew up his head. “I’ve got it! With his hat on, Marsh could be seen by anybody who chanced to glance at the rear window. But he couldn’t be seen with his hat off.”
“See?” said Whittaker solemnly, nodding in Harrington’s direction. “I knew Storm would hit it. Storm has brains. Of course, Marsh could have pulled down the back curtain or put his hat beside him on the seat, but a man doesn’t always think of such simple things. Now, here’s another hard one, Storm. Marsh was in the habit of smoking good cigars, but he smoked a cheap one on this trip—a three-for-a-quarter. Here is what’s left of it. I found it inside the car. How come?”
With a shrewd expression, Storm studied the fragment. He meditated for a long time, while Whittaker gazed at him expectantly out of his dour eyes.
“I suppose a poor cigar is better than none,” Whittaker suggested after a long wait.
Storm looked up, and his eyes indicated that he was on the track of an idea.
“So if a man can’t find his favorite brand,” Whittaker went on after a while, “he’ll take any brand he can get.”
A grin broke out on Storm’s face.
“I think I’ve got it,” he said proudly. “Between the time he left the house and the time he turned up in the car, Marsh was in a place that sold cigars, but not his favorite brand, and so he bought what he could get.”
Whittaker appeared to consider the idea.
“I believe Storm is right,” he told Harrington. “I don’t know what I’d do without Storm’s brain. You give him a problem, and he’ll give you the solution before you can bat an eye.”
“And now,” said Storm importantly, “all we’ve got to do is to find a place in the neighborhood that sells the Okay but does not sell Marsh’s own brand, and we’ll know something about his movements before the tragedy.”
“Why, of course,” said Whittaker admiringly. “I’d never have thought of that. I’m lucky to have a brainy man on my staff. We’ll do that very thing. But first—“ He glanced dejectedly at the car. “But first it might be a good idea to try to discover how Marsh got into the car and how the murderer got at him. We’ll tackle the first part of the problem first. How did Marsh get in? Mr. Harrington, would you mind sitting down at the wheel again? I want to reconstruct the scene.”
Harrington complied, and Whittaker saw that all the windows were closed, then turned up the inside handles on the two rear doors and the left front door and slammed them shut. The right front door, which had a special lock, he merely closed.
“There you are, Storm. Imagine the car going over thirty-five miles an hour. How did Marsh get in?”
Storm walked slowly around the car, scrutinizing every detail of the arrangement of doors and windows. He paused before the right front door.
“I’ve seen people in the movies jump from one moving car to another,” he remarked, “but it looked phony to me. If Marsh did that—“ He gave an incredulous laugh. “But Marsh couldn’t do such a thing.”
“But suppose he did?” Whittaker prompted.
“It’s supposing the impossible. But, if he did, he must have landed on the running board and gotten in through this door. There was no other way he could get in. And it’s a sure thing he couldn’t have gotten in this way without Mr. Harrington seeing him. No, that’s out It couldn’t happen in a million years.”
“Well, what then?”
Storm walked around to the rear, tested the back window, shook the spare tire and, standing on the bumperette, looked out over the top.
“The window is tight,” he said. “Anyhow, no grown man could squeeze through. The top hasn’t been tampered with. Couldn’t be done, anyhow, without the driver noticing it. No, sir, I see no way Marsh could have gotten inside this car.”
“But he did get in, and it seems the murderer did, too.”
Storm shook his head and confessed that the problem was too deep for him. Whittaker looked disappointed.
“Have you no idea at all, Storm?”
“Yes, I have. One of two things happened. Either Marsh was in the car when it started, or else Mr. Harrington has been lying to us. I wouldn’t be too sure about that goof.”
He spoke in a confidential undertone that was inaudible to Harrington, sitting behind closed doors and windows. Whittaker walked around to the right front door and opened it.
“Storm says he is stumped,” he announced.
“So am I,” said Harrington, climbing down from the seat.
“Storm thinks,” Whittaker added, “that either Marsh was in the car all the time, or else you have been spoofing us.”
Harrington shrugged. “Oh, I expected that.”
“Did you stop anywhere along the road?” Storm asked.
“Only at the garage. I had to leave the battery to be recharged, and the man—I believe his name is Luke Garbo—gave me another battery to use in the meantime.”
Storm fixed him with a hard and suspicious gaze.
“I know Luke Garbo,” he said. “A little queer, but a first-class mechanic.” He paused for a moment and glanced at the car. “By the way, the battery of a Waynefleet is in the back, isn’t it?”
“Yes, under the rear foot board.”
“So if Marsh was hiding in the car when you drove away from Peekacre—and that’s a hard if to swallow—Luke Garbo would have found him when he changed the battery.”
“He would,” said Harrington with conviction, “and I’m sure I would have seen him. No, I don’t think you will find the solution there.”
“I’m afraid we won’t find it anywhere else,” was Whittaker’s gloomy remark. “Did you get out of the car while Garbo worked on it?”
“No, I sat at the wheel all the time, but I looked back occasionally. I’m sure there wasn’t another human being about.”
“How can you be sure? Did you look around?”
“Oh, I suppose I did, in an abstracted sort of way. Several curious things had happened, and I had a lot of things on my mind.”
“So, it’s possible, isn’t it,” Whittaker suggested, “that Marsh slipped into the car after Garbo had finished his work and gone inside?”
Harrington tried to recall all the details of his brief stop at Garbo’s garage. He shook his head.
“Why should Marsh do that? Besides, I’m sure he didn’t. I remember now that Garbo himself closed the rear doors. He remarked there was a storm coming. Garbo is a melancholy individual. He remained standing as I drove off, and I heard him say something to himself about being here today and gone tomorrow.”
“Yes,” said Storm, “that’s one of his favorite bright cracks.” He gazed darkly and narrowly at Harrington. “Well, this is how it looks to me. The only place where Ma
rsh could have slipped into the car was at Garbo’s garage. It couldn’t have happened anywhere else.”
“And it didn’t happen there,” said Harrington with emphasis. “I didn’t see him until three-quarters of an hour later.”
Storm fixed him with a gaze that was frankly incredulous.
“Let’s hear what Garbo has to say,” Whittaker suggested. “We might go over there now.”
Harrington started the engine, and the two other men climbed into the rear seat. It was but a short run to the crossroads where Garbo’s little garage was situated. Soon the headlights picked out a low and murky brick building with two gasoline pumps in front.
“Let’s stop here,” said Whittaker when they were about a hundred yards distant. “I want to look at something.”
Harrington stopped, and they proceeded afoot through the gentle drizzle. Whittaker pulled out his flashlight and inspected the ground as they moved along.
“I don’t suppose Garbo’s business is very lively,” he conjectured. “It wouldn’t be in a locality like this.”
“It isn’t,” Storm affirmed. “The new state road just about ruined him.”
Whittaker swept his flashlight back and forth as if looking for something on the soggy ground.
“Then it’s just possible that he hasn’t had a customer since Mr. Harrington drove away. Don’t you think so, Storm?”
“Why, yes, it’s possible enough. Sometimes he hasn’t more than a customer or two a day.”
“And it started to rain just before Mr. Harrington drew up. That helps. Now—What’s this?”
He stopped and trained the flashlight straight down.
96
The moist ground showed a number of indentations extending in two long lines.
“Tire marks,” said Harrington. He bent over and studied the marks carefully. “These were made by the Waynefleet. Mr. Marsh had a new set of tires put on last week. That’s why the marks show so plainly.”
Whittaker’s flashlight made a long, circular sweep.
“And they are the only fresh marks I can see,” he declared. “Let’s move on.”
They followed the two tracks until they came to a point where the surface had been cluttered up by footsteps on one side.
“This is where I stopped,” Harrington explained. “Here you can see where Garbo stamped back and forth while he worked.”
Whittaker focused his light on the muddled cluster of footprints. They occupied a narrow space, and from them extended several straight lines reaching to the garage and back.
“Let’s see,” said Whittaker. “I suppose Garbo came out to see what was the trouble, and then he had to go back and fetch the other battery. And this is where he worked.” Again he looked down at the conglomeration of footmarks. “The imprints are all in one group, and they are all on one side of the tracks. Now let me find a clear one.”
He picked out a clear print and measured it carefully with a small collapsible gauge. Then he straightened up and looked around.
“Now, if somebody sneaked into the car while Garbo and Mr. Harrington weren’t looking, there ought to be another set of footprints close by.”
They searched carefully, but the only fresh prints were those made by the tires and by Garbo himself. All the other depressions in the ground were old and shapeless, showing that they had been made before the rain set in. Whittaker looked at his assistant as if hoping for a bright suggestion, but none came.
“I’m stumped,” Storm confessed. “It’s a dead sure thing that Marsh didn’t get into the car here. Or anywhere else, for that matter,” he added, fixing a dark look on Harrington.
Harrington smiled. “Think I’m lying, Storm?” The detective did not answer, but his studied silence spoke an emphatic yes. Making long sweeps with his flashlight, Whittaker studied the several lines of footprints extending between the garage and the point where the Waynefleet sedan had stood. The tracks overlapped or crossed one another in places. Whittaker seemed vaguely troubled.
“One—two—three—four—five,” he counted. “Garbo made three trips from the garage to the car, and two from the car to the garage. Queer, isn’t it, Storm? What do you make of it?”
Storm looked at the five tracks, all converging in the much-trampled spot where the car had stood, and shook his head.
“I—I don’t get the point, sir.”
“Well, let’s see. Garbo walks from the garage to the car to see what was the trouble. Then he goes back to the garage for the new battery. Then he carries the new battery back to the car and installs it. And then, it would seem, he carries the old battery back to the garage, and returns to the car once more to see his customer off and make sure that the car is starting all right. And then—But I think that’s all. There aren’t any more tracks to account for.”
Harrington felt a quiver of sudden excitement. Storm stood stonily still for a moment, gazing rigidly at the tracks, and then his sturdy shoulders jerked upward.
“Holy smoke!” he exclaimed. “According to that, Garbo never went back to the garage.”
“I believe you are right,” said Whittaker, as if the thought had just now occurred to him. “That’s what I call brainwork, Storm. No, since there are three tracks from the garage to the car, and only two in the other direction, Garbo couldn’t have gone back to the garage.”
“But where did he go?” Storm demanded after a long pause.
“Nowhere, it seems, unless he went straight up. Let’s go in and ask him.”
CHAPTER X — A Purchase of Cigars
Owing to the lateness of the hour, it took a great deal of pounding to arouse the garage proprietor, who lived in the rear of his business establishment. At length a light fell through a window, then came the sound of a bolt being withdrawn, and finally Luke Garbo, only half dressed, showed a sleepy face at the door.
“Want gas?”
“No,” said Whittaker, his gloomy eyes making a comprehensive sweep of the office and noting a little refreshment and tobacco counter at one side. “We want a nice smoke.”
Garbo rubbed his eyes and went behind the counter, apparently not sufficiently awake as yet to think it strange that he should have been aroused in the dead of night to satisfy such a trifling requirement.
“What kind?” he asked with a yawn.
“Cuban Queen.”
“Sorry, but I ain’t got that one.” Garbo opened his little showcase, containing a modest stock of only three or four brands. “But here’s a right nice smoke.”
He held out a box, and Whittaker took a cigar and inspected the label. “‘Okay,’” he read. “All right, well try it Have one, Mr. Harrington? Help yourself, Storm.”
Each man took a cigar and lighted it, and Garbo returned the box to the case. He was fully awake now, and he fixed a look of pleased surprise on Mr. Storm.
“Why, hello, Mr. Storm. Didn’t recognize you at first Travelin’ pretty late, ain’t you?”
“Business,” said Storm briefly. “Here’s somebody else I think you know.” He indicated Harrington.
The two men looked at each other. Without his mechanic’s cap, and with the grease removed from his face, Garbo seemed quite a different man from the individual in oil-spattered overalls who had attended to the Waynefleet sedan.
“Why, of course!” he exclaimed. “You’re the gentleman who came here yesterday in Mr. Marsh’s car. Did she run all right?”
“Splendidly,” Harrington assured him.
“And this,” Storm proceeded with the introductions, “is Mr. Whittaker, the county attorney.”
Garbo seemed quite impressed.
“How is business?” Whittaker inquired pleasantly. “Rotten. That new state road has taken all my trade away. You don’t happen to know anybody who wants to buy a nice little garage?”
“I can’t think of anybody just at present.” Whittaker looked appreciatively at his cigar. “Nice smoke. Sell many of this brand?”
“Just a few.” Garbo heaved a dolorous sigh. “I •
don’t sell much of anything. Most of the people who stop here want only oil or water, and they ain’t much profit in them things.”
“No, I suppose not You didn’t happen to sell one of these cigars yesterday?”
Garbo looked as if he thought the question rather odd. After a moment’s thought he shook his head.
“Try to remember, Mr. Garbo. Didn’t someone come in and ask for Cuban Queen and then, when he found you didn’t have it, buy one of these instead?”
“No,” said Garbo, a ponderous look in his honest eyes. “I didn’t sell no cigars yesterday. Business was worse than usual, and that’s sayin’ a mouthful. Why,
I had only one customer all day, and that was this gentleman here.”
There was an exchange of furtive glances between Whittaker and Storm.
“We want to ask you about that,” said the latter. “Remember how many trips you made between the garage and the car while Mr. Harrington was here?” This time Garbo looked both uneasy and mystified. “Say, what’s up? You’re askin’ some queer questions.” He swallowed hard, and a look of alarm came into his worried face. “Anybody dead?”
“Why should you suppose that?”
“I’m not supposin’, but life is uncertain. We’re here today and gone tomorrow.”
“Well, we’re here tonight, anyhow,” said Storm practically. “Now think hard. How many trips did you make?”
Garbo considered, but his mind seemed to be on the question itself rather than the answer.
“Oh, I guess about three or four.”
“There are tracks outside,” Storm told him, “that show you made three trips from the garage to the car, and only two in the other direction.”
Garbo gaped uncomprehendingly, and then a look of astonishment came into his broad face.
“Why, that can’t be. Three trips out and two in? If that was so, then I’d be standing out there now.”
“You certainly would, Garbo.”
The man looked acutely puzzled, and it seemed to Harrington that his perplexity was genuine. For that matter, the discrepancy as to the tracks was only an added complication. It did not explain how Marsh had gotten into the car or how he had been killed.
The Back-seat Murder Page 7