“Well, one time Carstairs went after me with his bag of jujitsu tricks, and I went for him with an ice pick. He took it away from me and—Well, it wasn’t so good!” Tarkin’s thoughts seemed to run back over a painful scene.
Harrington considered. So that was the episode Carstairs had had in mind when he suggested that Tarkin could tell something about the ice pick. He remembered, too, that Carstairs had seemed puzzled that he, Harrington, should stress such a trifling point.
“When was that?” he asked.
“Oh, a couple of weeks ago. I’m not saying it was this particular ice pick, you understand. I don’t see that it cuts any ice, anyhow.” Tarkin laughed at his little joke.
“So Carstairs took the pick away from you. And kept it, of course?”
“I suppose so. Say, what has all this got to do with my two grand?”
Harrington gazed thoughtfully at the instrument If there had ever been any dark-red stains on it, they had been destroyed when Carstairs heated it in the stove. He put it down and reached for his checkbook.
“I’ll take it in cash,” Tarkin declared. “Checks aren’t so good. Anyhow,” with a shrewd grin, “you’d have to sign a name to it that isn’t known in these parts. No, I’ll take the cash.”
“Yes, and you will wait for it.” Harrington put the checkbook back In his pocket. “I don’t carry much cash around with me.”
“Look here,” surlily, “you aren’t going to welch?”
“You will get your two thousand, and I hope you choke on it. Now clear out.”
Whimpering, the blackmailer shuffled out of the room. As the door closed behind him, another door opened—a small closet door in a corner of the library. The long, rangy figure of Whittaker appeared in the opening.
“Wish Storm had been here,” he said. “He’d have learned a whole lot from that. So that little rat is blackmailing you?”
“Oh, not exactly.” Harrington explained. He had already given a brief account of last night’s happenings, but he had omitted Tarkin’s part in them. “So, you see, it isn’t a case of blackmail.”
“I see.” Whittaker came close up to him. “I wonder what name you would have signed to the check if you’d made it out.”
“Does it matter? You might not know it if I told you.”
“Maybe not That reminds me. I got a queer letter in the mail—a carbon copy of a letter, rather. A note in Marsh’s handwriting came with it. It said you would deliver the original.”
Harrington started. Two realizations flashed through his mind. So Marsh had mailed that amazing letter, after all. And the original was still in Harrington’s pocket. In the feverish rush of tragic events he had completely forgotten it.
“But you never did,” Whittaker added.
“I forgot.” With an embarrassed smile, Harrington pulled the letter from his pocket “Too much excitement Here it is.”
Whittaker regarded him closely as he took the letter. For the moment his eyes, usually so sluggish and melancholy, seemed strangely keen. Harrington felt his innermost thoughts were being read.
“Yes, one forgets,” Whittaker mumbled. “The letter will be introduced at the inquest, of course.” His Ores grew dull and heavy again. “Did you believe what Tarkin told you?”
“About the ice pick? Well, it didn’t occur to me to doubt him.”
Whittaker stuck his hands in his pockets and lowered his head.
“I don’t suppose he weighs more than a hundred pounds.” He appeared to be talking to himself. “And he hops around like a straw in the wind.”
“Yes? What of it?”
Whittaker seemed to come out of a reverie. He smiled somberly.
“For a man who may be arrested for murder before the day is over, you are awfully slow to see the drift in the other direction. Now, this is how Storm would look at it. If—and it’s a big if—somebody slipped into the car while you were driving it, it must have been a man as small and light as Tarkin.”
“No,” said Harrington, shaking his head, “Tarkin couldn’t have done it. It would have to be a man as small and light as a kitten, and even a kitten couldn’t have got in with three of the doors locked on the inside and all the windows closed.”
“I see you are going to be a good witness for the prosecution.”
“Can’t help it,” grimly. “Besides, there is still the mystery of how Marsh got into the car.”
“Yes,” said Whittaker, “there is—provided you told the truth.”
CHAPTER XIX — Someone Behind the Door
The first part of the inquest was a rather colorless affair. It was held in the library, and Whittaker sat in the late Christopher Marsh’s chair and looked rather ill at ease at finding himself in a position of such dignity. The medical examiner was there to report his findings, and among the others present were Harrington, Carstairs, Theresa and Storm.
The session was a preliminary one, Whittaker explained. They would hear two or three witnesses, and then an adjournment would be taken till the following day, when he hoped that Carmody, now resting in one of the bedrooms upstairs, would be able to appear. He was also anxious to hear what Mrs. Marsh might have to say, but the widow, who had been a semi-invalid for years, had collapsed upon hearing of the murder, and her physician had ordered another twenty-four hours of absolute rest. Too, Whittaker had been unable to get in touch with Marsh’s lawyer, who might have several illuminating things to report and whom he hoped to have on hand in the morning.
It was with a sense of incongruity that Harrington again told the story of the unforgettable motor drive up to the desolate hilltop. He had a feeling that he was telling a story that could not be believed. At times he almost doubted the truth of it himself. The fact that there was no cross-examination only seemed to brand the story as too absurd for serious thought.
Yet, while he was telling it, he caught a most curious expression on Whittaker’s face. It was his impression that the district attorney’s thoughts were wandering and pursuing a course of their own and that somewhere along that course there was a light. Certainly, for a moment or two, there was a most peculiar glow in the dour face. And at the end Whittaker asked a very strange question.
“Let me see,” he said. “Isn’t there a bridge somewhere along the road you took that afternoon—a short bridge spanning a stream?”
Harrington could not remember, nor could he see why Whittaker should ask such a question. A thousand bridges would not explain the mysterious things that had happened on that ride.
“There is,” said Storm, who seemed more familiar with the territory than his chief. “It’s called the Crooked Creek bridge.”
“Crooked Creek, eh? Wish I had your memory, Storm. Well, now, let me see? Mr. Harrington tells me he was going between thirty and forty miles an hour. How long would it take him to get to that bridge after be left Luke Garbo’s garage?”
“Oh, about forty or fifty minutes.” Storm looked as if he too was at a loss to see the drift of his chief’s questions.
Whittaker considered, and again there was a queer glow about his face.
“It fits together. Mr. Harrington has told us that he had been on the way about three quarters of an hour when he suddenly saw Mr. Marsh in the car. That would be about the time he crossed the Crooked Creek bridge.”
He looked around him, and was met by baffled glances everywhere. No (me could understand what the Crooked Creek bridge had to do with the Marsh murder mystery.
“Well, doc, let’s hear from you,” he said suddenly.
While the medical examiner was still making his report, he called Storm over to the window and spoke to him in an undertone. Evidently he was saying something of a startling nature, for Storm looked acutely puzzled. In the end he took his hat and coat and went out, presumably on an errand connected with the Crooked Creek bridge.
Carstairs followed the medical examiner, but the questions put to him seemed perfunctory. He was soon dismissed, and he walked out with his customary swaggering gait. Ther
esa was questioned next, but it was apparent that Whittaker’s thoughts were still wandering.
“That’ll be all for today,” he announced. “I wanted to ask Luke Garbo a few questions, but he’s nailed up a notice on his garage door saying he has gone away for the day and won’t be back till tomorrow morning. I wanted to hear from Mr. Carmody too, but he is too ill. Then there is Mrs. Marsh. Her physician tells me I mustn’t subject her to any strain till tomorrow. So I guess we’ll call it a day.”
He got up and fixed his somber eyes on the gorgeous little coffin in front of him on the table.
“Pesky thing,” he mumbled. “I don’t like the responsibility of it Wish Marsh’s lawyer would hurry up and get here. It’s no joke to have to look after a million dollars’ worth of stones.”
He glanced up and found Theresa’s eyes riveted on the box. She turned away and looked suddenly confused. He slipped the box into his pocket.
“Oh, Miss Lanyard, you’re a nurse, aren’t you?” A furtive little smile flickered in the wrinkles beside his mouth. “Well, would you mind going up and seeing how Mr. Carmody is getting on?”
She flushed slightly at the pretense that she was still regarded as a nurse, and left the room. The others, including the official stenographer, having gone, he and Harrington were alone in the library.
“Well, we didn’t get very far today,” Whittaker mumbled.
Harrington could not refrain from touching upon a detail that had aroused his curiosity.
“I suppose Storm is on his way to Crooked Creek bridge?”
“Yes, Storm had a bright idea. He has them often.”
“I thought this one came from you.”
“Oh, Storm would have seen it if I hadn’t Even so, it’s only a hunch. There may not be anything to it. It’s odd, though, that Marsh appeared in the car just about the time you were crossing the bridge.”
“I don’t see the connection. And I didn’t think you believed my story.”
“I’m not sure I do. I’ll see what Storm thinks when he comes back. Anyhow, this hunch Storm is working on has nothing to do with the actual murder. It only explains, if it explains anything, how Marsh got into the car—if he got into the car as you say he did.”
“But he didn’t climb into the car over a bridge.”
“We’ll see. By the way, has the car been cleaned since the murder?”
“I think not, but it got a thorough soaking that night.”
“I don’t mean an outside cleaning. I mean an inside one. Let’s go and see.”
Increasingly bewildered, Harrington followed him to the garage and turned on the light. Whittaker opened one of the rear doors and carefully examined the space between the two seats, also the rear seat cushion. The examination took nearly a quarter of an hour, and he did not speak until they were in the library again.
“Marsh wasn’t in the habit of greasing the soles of his shoes, was he?”
Harrington gaped at the astonishing question.
“Why on earth should he do that?”
Whittaker’s face was an unreadable enigma.
“I must ask Storm what he thinks about that I guess Storm won’t be back for hours, though. He’s got a long job—Well, how is the patient, Miss Lanyard?”
Theresa had just returned to the library.
“Mr. Carmody is very restless,” she reported. “He is anxious to get home, too. He is never comfortable in a strange bed. He lives only a mile from here. Is there any objection?”
Whittaker scratched his chin thoughtfully. Consciously or unconsciously his hand went to the pocket containing the coffin.
“No objection, but don’t you think he ought to rest a little longer?”
“The doctor has just left. He told Mr. Carmody he was strong enough to leave any time.”
“Oh, but doctors don’t know everything. Just let him rest an hour or so longer. By die way, did you happen to look in on Mrs. Marsh while you were upstairs?”
“I looked in, but that’s all. She was sleeping quietly.”
Whittaker nodded approvingly. “Then she must be getting well. Nothing like having a good nurse.”
She gazed at him uneasily, saw the furtive twinkle in his eyes, and reddened a little.
“Oh,” said Whittaker, as if just recalling something, “I heard a little while ago that Mr. Carmody is your father. Is that right?”
Harrington waited tensely for her answer. Considering the simplicity of the question, it was long in coming.
“Not quite,” she said with evident reluctance. “I was an orphan and Mr. Carmody brought me up. He has been like a father to me. Though I haven’t made my home with him in recent years, I think of him as a father, love him as a father, and I feel I owe a great debt to him.”
Her voice shook a little, but her gaze was straight and clear, and there could be no mistaking the sincerity in her tone. Harrington nodded thoughtfully to himself. Carstairs had told the literal truth, but no more. Perhaps the literal truth was all he knew. He had never looked into Theresa’s heart, where the real truth was to be found.
“Better go back to him,” Whittaker gently suggested, “and tell him not to be in too great a hurry to go home.”
Casting a long, wondering glance on him, she left the room. Whittaker touched his pocket again. The coffin appeared to give him great concern. He rocked thoughtfully on his heels and his eyes wandered off into space.
“Wonder why Carmody is in such a hurry to get-home,” he mumbled.
Harrington gave him a puzzled glance. Carmody’s anxiety to get into his own bed seemed a natural thing.
“Well,” said Whittaker, glancing out the window into the late afternoon shadows, “I wouldn’t be surprised if things came to a head tonight.”
“You mean when Storm returns from Crooked Creek bridge?”
“No, when Carmody gets back to his own house.” Harrington stared at him perplexedly. Whittaker had been full of strange ideas all day. It had begun, it seemed, when Carstairs came to the house and surrendered the little coffin to him. But then any man would act strangely if he suddenly became the custodian of a million dollars’ worth of jewels.
“I need a little nap,” Whittaker declared. “Guess I’ll try the couch in the drawing-room. Wish you would call me when Mr. Carmody gets ready to leave.” Harrington nodded absently and wondered what was going on in the district attorney’s mind.
“Wish you would take care of this in the meantime,” said Whittaker casually, and pulled the coffin from his pocket “It would keep me awake, and I certainly need a few winks.”
He handed the gorgeous box to Harrington as carelessly as if it had been only a cheap trinket. Harrington took it dazedly. Of all the strange things Whittaker had done, this was by far the strangest. It seemed madness, but perhaps there was method in it. “But—”
“Don’t argue, please.” The district attorney yawned. “Just slip it in your pocket By the way, have you a gun?”
Harrington shook his head in an astounded way. The pistol which had belonged to his late employer had vanished during the exciting events at the hilltop hotel.
“Well, take this.” Whittaker handed him his own automatic. “Anybody who has a million dollars’ worth of jewels in his pocket ought to carry a gun.”
Harrington looked about the room as he slipped the weapon into his pocket Shadows were gathering in the corners. Outside, on the lawn and among the trees, a fog was rising. In the dusk he imagined he saw a knowing smile on the district attorney’s face.
“Well,” with a long breath, “I’m glad nobody saw you hand me the coffin.”
Whittaker gave a throaty little chuckle.
“I wouldn’t be too sure about that. Don’t forget to call me when Mr. Carmody gets ready to leave.”
He walked away slowly. Even before he reached the door, he was almost blotted out by the on-creeping shadows. Harrington remained standing at the desk. He was tingling queerly. The box in his pocket seemed to have assumed monstrous size and wei
ght. A million in precious stones! And Whittaker had handed it for safekeeping to one under suspicion of murder.
He lighted a cigarette, gazed thoughtfully at the flickering flame of the match until it died, then gazed sharply into the shadowy corners. What on earth was Whittaker’s idea? The long, dour district attorney was certainly moving in mysterious ways. And that was a curious remark he had made just before he went out. “I wouldn’t be too sure,” he had said in reply to Harrington’s remark that no one had witnessed the transfer of the coffin. The words had sounded vaguely significant.
Harrington reached out his hand to switch on the library lamp, then changed his mind. For a reason not quite clear to himself he preferred to remain in the gloom with the treasure he was guarding. His eyes went around the paneled walls. They seemed to be growing darker every moment He gazed at the windows with their heavy curtains and into the night gathering outside. Last of all his eyes fixed on the door to the little study where he had played at his fictitious role of secretary.
In a moment he stiffened. A grim smile crept up from the corners of his mouth. He knew now what the district attorney had meant. Whittaker must have sharp ears and eyes.
The study door was open a crack, and someone was standing behind it!
CHAPTER XX — Murder Insurance
A slight squeak had come from the study door, and then the sound of someone catching his breath. It was very still now, but Harrington imagined he saw a pair of eyes peering out through the narrow crack. Whose eyes?
Again he felt that sharp, tingling sensation. Of a sudden his center of consciousness seemed to have moved to the pocket that contained the little coffin. At least one murder, and perhaps two, had been perpetrated because of the contents of that gorgeous box. Would it inspire still another murderous deed? And was it the murderer of Marsh who was now lurking behind the study door?
His brain worked by leaps and flashes, stimulated by the mysterious presence behind the door and by the dynamic something that hung in the air. He hesitated briefly while he touched the pocket that contained the coffin and the other pocket that contained the automatic. Should he take an aggressive stand at once, or should he wait and let the man behind the door show his hand?
The Back-seat Murder Page 14