“Found it behind the baseboard,” he said. “It sort of came loose in my hand. It’s the kid’s birth certificate. I thought you might be interested in the name she gave him. For his father, of course.”
Dane read it, then laid it down.
“I’d like to know why you held this out,” he said coldly. “You might have saved me a lot of trouble.”
Starr smiled sheepishly.
“Have a heart, Major. It promised to be a story. When I got around to it you were on the Coast. What was I to do? He couldn’t have killed her anyhow. But that’s not what brought me tonight,” he said, brightening. “I know from the telephone operator who it was who called the police last night to say you’d been shot.”
He looked expectant, but Dane’s face did not change.
“Thanks,” he said dryly, “I know that already.”
Late as it was—or early in the morning—Dane made two calls as soon as Starr had gone. One was to Dr. Harrison. The doctor was naturally annoyed but alert when he heard Dane’s voice.
“Sorry to disturb you at this hour,” Dane said, “but it’s rather important. Going back to the way the Barbour girl was killed, she was struck more than once, wasn’t she?”
“Two or three times. One blow did most of the damage. The skull was pretty thin.”
“You thought of a poker, didn’t you?”
“Or a golf club, yes. What’s it all about, Dane?”
“Just one thing more. Have you had any inquiry lately as to the exact nature of the injury which caused death?”
“Well, yes. Of course it was quite casual. I was making a professional call yesterday on—”
“Never mind,” Dane said sharply. “No names, please. And thanks.”
28
MR. WARD REACHED THE hospital early the next morning, to find a flustered nurse coming out of Dane’s room carrying a washbasin and Dane’s voice raised in fury.
“You get me a pair of pants,” he bellowed. “If Alex took mine snatch some off one of the doctors. I’ll be damned if I go around like this, draped in a blanket! Where the hell are my slacks?”
Nathaniel found him in the center of the room, his face red with indignation and a blanket held around him, over the short hospital shirt. He had the grace to look embarrassed.
“These institutions,” he said as he got into bed. “Trying to wash my face for me and refusing to get me my clothes. I’m all right. It was only a graze.”
He smiled, his tanned face under the white turban of bandage looking rather odd, but the old gentleman apparently did not notice. He stood inside the door as though uncertain. Then he advanced to the side of the bed and laid the morning paper on the covers.
“I take it you’ve seen what’s here,” he said. “I’ve come to you, major, instead of going to the police. I need some advice.”
His voice was steady, the thin reedy pipe of a very old man, but he looked shaken.
“I imagine I know what it is,” Dane said. “Sit down, sir, won’t you?”
He glanced at the paper. Starr’s story was there. He read it quickly, then he put it down.
“He has courage,” he said. “The whole story is incredible, isn’t it? And four Jap planes shot down!”
Mr. Ward sat very still for a moment.
“I think he wanted to die,” he said finally. “Is that courage or desperation?”
“They’re often the same,” Dane said quietly. “At least it’s no longer necessary to try an innocent man for a murder he did not commit.”
Mr. Ward stiffened.
“I would never have allowed Greg Spencer to suffer, Major Dane,” he said with dignity. “Since my wife’s death the necessity for silence is over. I did what I could. Now of course it is out of my hands. That is why I have come to you in spite of what has happened. You’re a military man. Where does justice lie, major? A quarrel, a blow, and against that the story there in the paper.”
“That’s what happened, is it?”
“So he told me. He was desperate. He came back to the library where I was waiting for him, and he acted like a madman. I went over to Crestview at once, hoping she was only unconscious. But she was dead, lying half in and half out the doorway, and Elinor Hilliard was bending over her body.
“I’d never seen her before. I didn’t know who she was until Elinor told me she was Greg’s wife. I think she thought then Greg might have done it. But she was frantic that night. She wanted time to get away, and she wouldn’t let me call Lucy Norton, or anybody.
“I don’t suppose I can tell you the horror I felt. It was Elinor’s idea to hide the body. She didn’t care where, so she herself could escape. You know Elinor,” he said wryly. “She didn’t care about the girl at all. Her whole idea was to gain a few hours.
“She wanted me to carry her up to the linen closet, but I’m not young. Later I did get her up in the elevator. I laid her but as decently as I could. And that’s what I was doing when Lucy came along the hall. It was the worst minute of my life when she stopped at the door of the closet, major. I did the only thing I could think of, I reached out and knocked the candle out of her hand. Then in the dark I tried to get away, and I’m afraid I bumped against her and knocked her down.
“She wasn’t hurt. She got up screaming and made for the stairs, and I heard her fall. When I found her in the hall below she had fainted. I didn’t know she was injured, of course. My only idea at first was to get Elinor safely away. And I had to work fast. Elinor was still outside—she hadn’t come in at all—and she wanted the girl’s clothing. She was anxious not to have her identified, at least not for a time. We didn’t expect to have more than a few minutes, until Lucy Norton came to, but even that would give her time to get away.
“Maybe I should have called the police, but look at my position. I had a half-crazy boy on my hands, and the shock might have killed someone I cared for. There was Elinor to consider, too. I had got the girl’s clothing from the yellow room, and she was in a hurry to go. I suppose you can guess the rest. We had to get him away and Elinor agreed to drive him to Boston, where he could get a plane. He wasn’t in uniform, you know.
“Well, I am a pretty old man, and I was in bad shape when they left. Elinor didn’t help me, either. At the last minute she thrust the girl’s clothes at me and told me to burn them. But I couldn’t burn them.” He smiled thinly. “We have an oil furnace.”
“So that’s why you buried them?”
“Yes, I did it that night. I couldn’t get into my own tool house. The gardener keeps the key. I got a spade from the one at Crestview. I didn’t do a very good job, I’m afraid, but I lifted a plant or two and replaced them. It wasn’t easy in the dark, and I didn’t know about her fur jacket. It was in the powder room downstairs. I found it when I went back to see if Lucy was badly hurt. One of the worst things I had to do was to go back to the closet with it and try…”
He seemed unable to go on. Dane, watching him closely, asked him if he needed brandy. He refused.
“I’m glad to talk,” he said. “It helps a little. I’ve carried a burden for a long time, and a sense of guilt too. When I told my wife the next night she almost lost her mind, and when later on she saw them digging up the hillside she—it killed her.” He stopped again. “I have that to add to my sins,” he said heavily. “After more than fifty years, major. My dear wife…”
He managed to go on, although it was obviously a struggle.
“It was unfortunate that I had not told her the night it happened,” he said. “She had been out looking for me, and she had seen Elinor’s car. It was too bad, for she mentioned it later to a caller, and as it turned out Marcia Dalton had seen the car too and recognized it as Elinor’s.”
He sat back in his chair, as if he had finished, and as if the telling of the story had exhausted him. Dane could not let it stop at that, however.
“How did he get to your house that night?” he asked.
“Quite openly. By plane and then taxicab. And I assure you
there was no murder in him when he came. I was alone downstairs. My wife and the servants had gone to bed. I let him in. You can imagine how I felt when I saw him, in civilian clothes and with a scar on his face. He was excited, but perfectly normal. I would have said he was a happy man that night. Of course we had to take certain precautions. You understand that. To avoid shock.”
“He didn’t mention the girl?”
“No. I don’t think he knew she was at Crestview. He was too excited to go to bed, he said, and he went out for a walk. I suppose he saw her then, at Crestview. I didn’t know she was there myself, or who she was.”
“He’d been fond of her?”
“Long ago. Not lately. Later on he told me he had been keeping her while he was in training, and that she had had a child by him. He said she’d been a damned nuisance ever since.”
“And that night?” Dane prompted him.
“I don’t know. I never asked him. She may have gone downstairs for something, a book or a cigarette, and he saw her through a window. He must have attracted her attention somehow, but she couldn’t very well bring him into the house. She went outside, just as she was. Certainly she wasn’t afraid of him.”
“He admitted that he’d killed her?”
“He said it was an accident. He had hit her with his fist, and her head struck the stone step. Later he said he’d introduced her to Greg Spencer last year, while Greg was drinking. Said he told her to marry him. He had plenty of money. He wanted to get rid of her, of course.”
There was a long silence. Dane was trying to coordinate the story with what he already knew. Some parts of it fitted, some did not. He stirred.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Ward,” he said. “This next question will be painful, but I have to know. Did he try to burn the body? You see, I know he was staying at Pine Hill.”
The old man looked sick. His face was a waxy yellow and his hands were shaking. Dane was about to ring for a nurse, but he made a gesture of protest.
“It’s all right,” he said unevenly. “It can do no harm now. God forgive, major. I think my wife did it.”
“Your wife!”
“I had told her the story, you see. All of it, and she was a woman of strong loyalties and deep affections. She knew the body was there, and that Lucy was in the hospital. And she had a key to Crestview. We have stayed through the winter once or twice, and she would go in occasionally to see that everything was all right.
“I imagine Lucy had left some kerosene in the kitchen. There was no electric light on, and she was using a lamp there. From the first my wife was certain the dead girl would be identified and we would be involved. But also she could not endure the thought of her being where she was. She wanted me to take her back into the country and bury her. But I was not strong enough to dig a grave.”
Dane had suppressed his astonishment, but he found himself rigid with pity.
“I see,” he said. “After all, who can blame her? The girl was dead.”
“She had been dead for two days. I think she did it on Sunday night after I had gone to church. It was a dreadful thing to do, but the weather was warm, and Carol was coming the next day. My wife never told me, of course, but I remember little things now, the tea set in the tool house and one or two other things Mrs. Spencer valued. I remember, too, that she had asked me if the house was insured.”
He got out a neat handkerchief and dried the palms of his hands.
“She looked very ill that night, but she wouldn’t let me call a doctor. I remember she didn’t go to sleep. She sat by a window, looking out at Crestview. But of course the house didn’t burn.”
Dane gave him a minute or two to recover before he spoke again.
“When did you know he had come back?”
“He never went very far. Certainly not to Boston. He was afraid of what the girl might have told Lucy Norton. Elinor says he went only a few miles that night. The next thing I knew he was hiding up at Pine Hill, hoping to see Lucy and keep her quiet. Both of us—my wife and I—were nervous about him by that time, but we managed to feed him, and I took a couple of blankets to him. I suppose he did see Lucy,” he added grimly, “and the shock killed her.”
“What about Elinor Hilliard?” Dane inquired. “Why was she shot?”
“She was badly worried. You can understand that. I suppose she meant to see me that night Lucy’s death had frightened her. Or she may have meant to look for the clothes I’d buried. But he was not a killer, major. I hope you realize that. She may only have been in his way. Colonel Richardson was after him, you know. He may only have fired a shot to stop Henry and it struck Elinor. I don’t know. I never saw him after that night. As a matter of fact I drove him to the railroad myself. But he would not talk.”
Dane was thoughtful for some time. The old man was fumbling in a pocket.
“You slipped up about the blankets at Pine Hill,” Dane said finally. “Why did you leave them there? You’d made a good job of the rest of it.”
The old man produced a letter and laid it on his knee. He took off his pince-nez and wiped them.
“When you reach my age,” he said wryly, “you forget things. When I remembered them it was too late. You’d already found them and told Floyd. And I’d lost my glasses when I was carrying out the empty cans he’d left. That is why—”
He got up, the letter in his hand.
“That is why I shot you, major,” he said. “You knew I did it, of course?”
“I knew it, yes,” Dane said soberly.
Nathaniel stood, looking down awkwardly at the man in the bed.
“I don’t know what is proper under such circumstances,” he said. “I can’t apologize. I can only explain. I had missed my glasses some time before, and that night I went to look for them. When I heard you—my nerves aren’t what they were. But I never meant to shoot you, only to frighten you off. I beg you to believe that.”
“I’m glad you’re not a better shot,” Dane said cheerfully. “I thought it was like that when I was able to think at all. You see, I understand a great deal, Mr. Ward. More than you think, perhaps.” He reached for the shoe box. “You’ll find your glasses in here,” he said, “but they’re broken. Don’t pay any attention to the other stuff. Just throw it away. Only”—he added with a smile—“I suggest you don’t bury it.”
Mr. Ward took the box awkwardly.
“What about the police?” he asked. “Should I go to them? Before he left he sent me a statement, to be opened after his death, or in case Gregory Spencer was convicted. I am keeping it at home.”
“Let’s wait a bit,” Dane suggested. “Greg Spencer won’t be tried for some time. And things sometimes work out. After all you may be wrong, you know.”
The letter was on his bed when Nathaniel went out, and Dane marveled at the strength which had carried the old man through the last few weeks, and which might have to carry him even further. It was some little time when at last he picked up the letter and began to read it.
29
HE KNEW AT ONCE when Carol came in that morning that she had seen the newspapers. She was very quiet, but she went to his arms at once.
“I don’t want to talk about it, Jerry,” she said. “Later, perhaps. Not now.”
“Just so it doesn’t change things between us, darling.”
“Nothing is changed,” she said steadily.
“Have you seen the colonel?”
“I stopped there. I didn’t see him. His man said he wasn’t feeling very well.” She stopped, and withdrew herself from his arms. “What am I to do, Jerry? It seems so brutal somehow.”
“I think that it will settle itself, Carol,” he said, his steady eyes on her.
He put her in a chair—he was dressed by that time, and a small dressing had replaced the bandage—and sat down near her.
“This is not going to be easy, darling,” he told her. “And I’ll ask you to withhold judgment for a while. I want to read you a letter. Mr. Ward brought it in this morning.”
He offered her a cigarette, but she refused, and he read the letter through to the end. Now and then he looked up, but she made no comment. She sat with her clear candid eyes on him, her face rather pale but otherwise calm.
He left off the salutation, and a following unimportant paragraph or two. He began:
“I have some news for you both, but I want you to keep it to yourselves for a while. I’ve found Don Richardson.”
Dane glanced at Carol. She had not moved, and he went on: “I was visiting one of our fellows in a hospital, and Don was in a convalescent ward. He was playing dominoes with a sergeant, and at first he didn’t see me. When he did he only looked puzzled.
“‘I think I’ve met you somewhere,’ he said.
“‘Why you old son of a so-and-so!’ I told him. ‘I’ll say you have. What’s the matter with you?’
“Then the fellow with him said he’d lost his memory. He’d been for months on an island somewhere. The natives had looked after him, but he’d had a fractured skull. ‘Got a silver plate there now,’ the sergeant said. ‘Been here for a good while. But things are coming back, aren’t they?’ he said to Don. ‘You knew this guy all right.’
“Well, he didn’t. Not at first anyhow. He was not in an officers’ ward, for nobody knew who he was. He was just part of the flotsam and jetsam of a war, brought back and dumped. I had to hurry, but I went back the next day, and he was definitely on the up-and-up.
“‘You’re Terry Ward,’ he said. ‘I know you now.’
“He didn’t remember his crash or the island, either, but he asked about his father. He didn’t want him to know until he could get back to see him. Old Richardson has a bad heart, you know. And when I’d seen him several times he said I was to write you this, that he would come to you first, and then you could arrange how to break it to his dad so it wouldn’t be a shock.
“I suppose I’ve been a help. They call him Jay here, because he was naked as a jay bird when they found him, and the natives had probably taken his identification tags. I agreed to keep his identity a secret until his father had learned it. To avoid shock. And I gave him a couple of hundred dollars. The reason I’m writing is that you may see him soon. He went AWOL from the hospital last week, and as I’ll be leaving before long it will be up to you. Just remember this. He’s changed a lot. Got a beard for one thing, although he’s promised to shave it off. And they’ve done some plastic work on him. Not bad, but not good either. He’s pretty much depressed. The boys say he talked about a Marguerite and somebody named Greg—maybe Greg Spencer—while he was delirious after the ether. And I’m sure he’s got something on his mind he won’t talk about.
Yellow Room Page 25