The Back-seat Murder

by Herman Landon

  “I suppose so. Evidently he wants to turn them over to Carmody or Miss Lanyard.”

  “For a good, stiff consideration?”

  “Maybe.” Whittaker scratched his head. “Wonder why Tarkin didn’t bring the diamonds here. He knew Carmody would be back here after a while. Maybe he didn’t think this house was a safe place for that sort of transaction.”

  Harrington nodded absently. His mind was too full of problems and vague premonitions to give much thought to the reasons for Tarkin’s conduct.

  “Did you ever hear of Mooreland’s murder insurance?” he asked suddenly.

  “Yes, just the other day. Queer arrangement, wasn’t it?”

  “You’ve had a suspicion, haven’t you, that it was Carmody who murdered him?”

  Whittaker looked doubtful and a little shamefaced. “Yes, I’ve had a suspicion, but not a very definite one. After what has happened lately, I’m more uncertain than ever. Storm thinks that—”

  He did not reveal what Storm was thinking. Instead he reached hurriedly for the flashlight and extinguished it. From the outside came the humming of an engine, and a white glare was thrown on the window shades.

  “I suppose that’s Carmody,” he muttered. “And maybe Miss Lanyard is with him. Wish I could crawl into a mousehole and watch them for a while.”

  “Maybe this will do.” Harrington spoke tensely, with a sense that the next few moments would bring dynamic developments. He led the district attorney across the library and opened a door. They stepped into the smaller room from which Theresa had been abducted the other night They stood side by side, with the door open a narrow crack in front of them.

  A tense wait followed. Harrington started nervously at the opening of a door on the other side of the library. Voices and footsteps sounded, and then a light flashed through the narrow opening. Evidently the newcomers had turned on the reading lamp in the library.

  “Now we shall see!” a voice remarked. It was hoarse and a trifle shrill and edged with nervous excitement. Harrington recognized it at once as Carmody’s.

  “Couldn’t you wait, dad?” asked Theresa nervously. “You aren’t well, and the doctor said you must avoid shocks.”

  Harrington, looking out over the district attorney’s shoulder, listened intently. In spite of what he knew about the relationship, it seemed odd to hear Theresa address Carmody as “dad.”

  “No shock could be worse than this strain,” Carmody declared. “Let’s get it over.”

  “In just a moment, dad. Sit here and rest for a bit. The ride gave you quite a shaking up, you know. You mustn’t exert yourself. We have all night.”

  With a good-natured grumble he yielded to her persuasion. There were sounds which indicated that they had seated themselves in a part of the library not visible through the narrow opening. The safe in the wall paneling could be clearly seen, however.

  “I don’t know what’s come over you, dad,” Theresa was saying. “Why should you get so dreadfully upset over a few diamonds?”

  “A jew diamonds. They are worth a million.”

  “But what’s a million. It isn’t worth ruining your health for.”

  “The diamonds belong to me,” Carmody declared. “Nobody else has any right to them. I don’t intend to let a gang of despicable criminals take them away from me.”

  “Oh, dad! I wish you wouldn’t talk like that The diamonds can’t do you any good. I’d rather see them dumped in the ocean than have you brood over them. Besides, it isn’t your nature to be greedy. You were always generous to a fault. I don’t understand you.”

  “Greedy?” Carmody chuckled grimly, with a nervous catch in his voice. “No, I’m not greedy. It isn’t that. It is—Don’t you understand, dear?”

  “No. All I understand is that those horrid diamonds are ruining your life.”

  “Oh, no. It isn’t as bad as that On the contrary, they enable me to look forward to a care-free and comfortable old age.” He paused, and when he spoke again his tone was strangely gentle. “As you know, I loved your mother. And when she died—you were only so high then—I promised to take care of you. I’ve done my best I’ve loved you as if you were my own daughter. There’s one thing, though, that’s hung like a shadow over my life. It’s the fact that when I die there’ll be no one to look after you. I shan’t be able to leave you much. There will only be a few—”

  “Oh, dad, what do I care? I’m strong and healthy and can take care of myself.”

  “Yes, doubtless. But I’m worried just the same. I should be so much happier if I could leave you something substantial. Now, don’t scold me, dear. I may be a foolish old man, but that’s the way I feel. Anyway, I am just stubborn enough to refuse to be cheated out of what’s mine. Now, don’t try to stop me. I can’t stand this uncertainty any longer. I must see about those diamonds.”

  “But it’s ridiculous, dad! The diamonds are in the safe.”

  “Safes can be robbed.”

  “But your safe is different from most. No burglar is likely to find the inner compartment. You said so yourself.”

  “I know, but where did Carstairs get that box? Where did it come from if it didn’t come from my safe? Now, dear, I’m going over there and find out.”

  A sigh sounded, then a series of quick, nervous footsteps. Through the narrow opening the two watchers saw the tall, slightly stooping figure of Carmody. His face looked drawn and haggard, and his hands shook as he manipulated the combination lock. Directly behind him stood Theresa, watching anxiously.

  The safe door swung open, and then followed further manipulation. Evidently Carmody was now opening the inner compartment of which Theresa had spoken.

  His face showed a terrible strain. His whole body was shaking.

  Harrington gave a sudden start. He looked out into the library as far as the narrow opening permitted. Whittaker, too, stood tense and rigid. Footsteps, very light and furtive, sounded across the library floor. Someone who as yet could not be seen through the narrow crack seemed to be creeping up on the two persons in front of the safe.

  “It’s here!” cried Carmody hoarsely.

  Weak from excitement, he staggered away from the safe. His face was pale, but his eyes shone unnaturally. In his hand he held a coffin-shaped box, gorgeously decorated.

  “See, dear?” he cried thickly. “It’s here. It’s—”

  “Much obliged,” said a voice. “Just what I’ve been lookin’ for.”

  Harrington started sharply, then stood stonily still. It was Luke Garbo’s voice!

  CHAPTER XXIV — The Murderer

  After a few moments’ stupor Harrington wanted to rush forward, but the district attorney held him back.

  “Wait,” he whispered. “If Garbo gets rough I’ll use this.”

  He exhibited his automatic. Harrington nodded, seeing that he was ready to use the weapon at a split second’s warning. His staring eyes went out through the narrow opening and fixed on Garbo. The man might have come straight from his poverty-stricken garage, for he was in his working clothes and there were grease smears across his face.

  Theresa and Carmody stood in a stunned, speechless immobility, the latter gaping incredulously at Garbo while he hugged the coffin to him with a trembling hand.

  “Surprised?” Garbo jeered. “Well, life’s full of surprises. Bet Carstairs would be surprised, too, if he could see this. There’s an honest bloke. Too honest for this world, to my way of thinkin’. What does Carstairs do? Why, he finds a pretty little coffin in the attic of the old hilltop hotel, and so he comes trottin’ over to Marsh’s house with it and hands it to Whittaker, not knowin’ the coffin is loaded with ten-penny nails. That certainly hands me a laugh.”

  Garbo laughed heartily.

  “Well, I got more’n a laugh out of it. I’m wise to what Carstairs does—see? Don’t ask me what put me wise, and I won’t tell you no lies. But I does some hard thinkin’. I says to myself that Mr. Carmody musta got a jolt when he saw Carstairs walkin’ in with that coffin.
And I asks myself what Mr. Carmody would do about it. Why, I says to myself, he’d rush home as soon as he got over his jolt and look in the place where he’s been hidin’ that pretty little coffin. I struck it about right, didn’t I? Yes, just about right And this sure beats the garage business. Thanks, Mr. Carmody.”

  He held out his grease-smeared hand for the coffin, but Carmody shrank back.

  “Now, what’s the use kickin’ up a fuss?” Garbo pleaded. “You be nice and accommodatin’, and I won’t pull any rough stuff. Come on now. Hand over that coffin.”

  “I’ll be hanged if I will!” Carmody rasped out His voice shook and he was deathly pale, but his manner was determined. Theresa came up to plead with him, but he brushed her firmly aside. “Stand back, dear. This contemptible crook isn’t going to bully me. There!”

  With a movement so swift that it aroused the admiration and astonishment of the two watchers behind the door, he stepped back to the wall, threw the coffin Inside the safe, and then two doors slammed shut in quick succession.

  “There’s your answer,” he declared. “Now get out.”

  Garbo fixed him with a black look; then his face broke into an ugly leer. Very leisurely he drew a revolver from his pocket.

  “Life’s a mighty uncertain proposition,” he drawled. “We’re here today and gone tomorrow. If you want to be here tomorrow, you’d better open that safe—quick!”

  He came forward, holding the revolver in his grimy hand. Theresa caught her breath and sprang to the older man’s side. Carmody drew himself up to his full height and confronted the garage keeper defiantly. There was something heroic and admirable about him, Harrington thought He wondered why Whittaker did not interfere. Surely this was the time for action.

  “I’ll give you one minute to open that safe,” Garbo growled.

  “And I’ll give you half a second to clear out,” Carmody retorted with fine disdain. “Save your childish threats for more gullible ears. I know you are not going to shoot me. If I die, who is going to open the safe for you?”

  Garbo was taken aback for a moment, but he rallied quickly.

  “Ah, don’t try to work your grand manners on me. I’m wise—see? I know now that there’s a double wall in that crib of yours. A shot of juice will smash both of ‘em. Come on, now. No foolin’.”

  He raised the pistol menacingly, and a little cry broke from Theresa’s lips.

  Then Whittaker pushed the door open and walked out into the library. Garbo glanced aside; the revolver faltered in his hand.

  “Drop it, Garbo!” He covered the garage-keeper with his pistol. “Drop it, I say! “

  A look of consternation came into the grimy face. His hand wavered. Carmody and Theresa stared in open-mouthed astonishment at the two intruders.

  “All right,” said Garbo surlily, dropping his pistol to the floor. “You’ve got me. Guess I should have stuck to the garage business.”

  Whittaker kicked the weapon to a far corner of the room. Harrington watched the garage-keeper narrowly. He could see his cunning brain at work, looking for a chance to turn the tables.

  “You should,” said Whittaker. “It’s safe, even if you don’t get rich in it. Better sit down, Mr. Carmody. You look tired. And you, Miss Lanyard—“ Harrington shouted a warning, but he was a second too late. With a surprisingly swift and agile movement, Garbo had darted forward and jerked the pistol from the unsuspecting district attorney’s hand. In a moment the wicked eye of the weapon was fixed on Whittaker’s chest.

  “No,” said Garbo triumphantly. “Guess I won’t go back to the garage, after all. Too much like work. Reach for the ceiling, Whittaker. You, too, Harrington. Up with ‘em or by gad—”

  Whittaker’s gently mocking laugh interrupted him.

  “Fire away,” he said casually, putting his hands in his trousers pockets and exhibiting his immaculate vest.

  Garbo stared at him, apparently undecided how to construe such a challenge. Harrington, too, thought that the district attorney’s conduct was rather foolish, bordering on the mock heroic. And then a feeling of utter perplexity came over him. He was watching Garbo, and just now Garbo was staring down at the pistol he was holding. His grimy face twitched. A look of dread showed in his eyes.

  “Well, why don’t you shoot?” Whittaker taunted. “Not afraid, are you, Garbo?”

  Harrington watched tensely, filled with a sense of incongruity. Why was Garbo staring down at the pistol in his hand with such a terrorized expression? Why was Whittaker tempting fate in such a disdainful way? He stepped a little closer to the garage-keeper, looked at the pistol in his trembling hand, and a mutter of surprise escaped him.

  It was not Whittaker’s weapon, but the one they had found beside Harry Stoddard’s body in the lonely hut in the woods.

  Of a sudden, with a beast-like snarl, Garbo flung the weapon from him. With a chuckle Whittaker picked it up and stuck it in his pocket.

  “You needn’t have been afraid of it, Garbo,” he said. “It didn’t happen to be loaded. Stoddard got the last shot from it.”

  Harrington stared at him in acute bewilderment. Whether the pistol was loaded or unloaded, it did not explain the look of terror with which Garbo had regarded it.

  “Watch him, Harrington,” the district attorney said. Then he stepped to the window, opened it, took a small metal instrument from his pocket, and let out two shrill whistles.

  “A signal,” he explained. “Storm—”

  With a hoarse snarl Garbo sprang for the door, and in a moment Harrington was in pursuit. It took the garage-keeper an instant to open the door, and in that instant Harrington flung himself on his back. And then he received a great surprise. Garbo shook him off as easily as if he had been a child. He grabbed the man’s arm, but his own arm was seized in turn, and now an excruciating agony tore through his body. He hung on, although every nerve was screaming in torture.

  And then, while his body writhed with pain, something flashed across his mind—a revelation that, despite the excruciating torture he was suffering, made him cling all the harder to the man’s arm. Only one person had the diabolical power to inflict such awful pain. He stared into the grimy face—hideously distorted by rage and frustration just now—and he was dimly conscious that Whittaker was running up and that Storm’s flinty features had just appeared at the door. A name trembled on his lips:

  “Carstairs!”

  CHAPTER XXV — Alias Luke Garbo

  Roscoe Carstairs, alias Luke Garbo, was taken to the county jail, and there, seeing that everything was lost, he turned defeat into an opportunity for self-glorification and made a bombastic confession to District Attorney Whittaker.

  Later in the day, in the library of the Marsh house, Whittaker retold the story to a little group consisting of Theresa, Carmody, Harrington, Storm and Samuel Tarkin. The reason for Tarkin’s presence was not apparent, except that the shifty-eyed and pasty-faced little blackmailer seemed to be in the habit of turning up anywhere and everywhere.

  “He fooled us all—even Storm,” said the district attorney, parting his coat and displaying his vest in all its immaculateness. “It’s queer how our minds work at times. If a certain circumstance leads us to suspect a man, and if later on that circumstance is explained away, then we jump to the conclusion that the man is innocent. That’s the way it was with Carstairs, alias Garbo. Storm and I wondered about those tracks outside the garage. Then the tracks were explained in a perfectly simple manner, and for a while we eliminated Garbo as a suspect For one thing, we never imagined that he and Carstairs were the same person.

  “What was his object in masquerading as a garage-keeper?” Harrington wanted to know.

  “It goes back to old Mr. Mooreland’s murder insurance. I think you all know about it Carstairs knew that Marsh had murdered Mooreland and was in possession of the million dollars’ worth of diamonds kept in a miniature Egyptian coffin. He conspired with Stoddard, his confederate, to get hold of those diamonds. They were almost certain that Marsh h
ad hidden them somewhere in the house. They reasoned correctly that no attempt would be made to dispose of them so soon after Mooreland’s death. Well, they tried in every way to learn where the diamonds were hidden. Carstairs, pretending to be Marsh’s friend, was a frequent visitor at Peekacre, and he would look for the diamonds whenever his host turned his back on him. After a while Marsh saw through him and threatened to shoot him if he ever showed his face in the house again.

  “But Carstairs was resourceful. He hit upon an idea that would enable him to be near Marsh and give him occasional access to the house. It was just such a daring and spectacular idea as would appeal to Carstairs’ nature. It so happened that he knew a little about automobile mechanics. He bought an old garage that had stood idle for months. He also bought a jacket, a pair of overalls and a few minor articles. Then, under the name of Luke Garbo, he opened the place for business. If be didn’t spend much time at his garage, nobody wondered about it, for business was dull. Jobs were few and far between, but in spite of that Garbo always had a lot of grease and oil smeared over his face and clothing. It didn’t occur to anybody to wonder bow he would look with his face washed.”

  “But what about the night of the murder?” Harrington put in. “We routed him out of bed, you remember. There was no grease on his face then.”

  “No, but there was a stubble of beard, and we saw him in a dim light. Besides, none of us had seen Carstairs then. Even if we had, we might not have recognized him in Luke Garbo. You see, Carstairs’ outstanding feature is a whitish face. He’s been cultivating it the past year, I understand. It’s a complexion that comes on and off. And Luke Garbo did a good piece of acting that night. Anyway, we had no reason to suspect that he wasn’t genuine.

  “It was an advantage for Carstairs, as Luke Garbo, to have a place of business within half a mile of the Marsh house. Nobody thought anything of it if occasionally he wandered over to Marsh’s garage and had a look at the car. Then, besides, he let it be known that he could do an odd job of plumbing in a pinch. That was a convenience, there being no professional plumber within miles of Peekacre. Marsh employed him two or three times to do minor repairs. I can’t say how competently the jobs were done, but I know that once Garbo went away from Peekacre congratulating himself on having a coffin about his grease-smeared clothes that contained a million dollars’ worth of diamonds. He got a bad jolt when he opened it, however. It contained nothing but nails. It was a replica of the original box and Marsh had used it as a decoy. I doubt if he ever noticed its disappearance, for the very next day he was killed.”