Ellery Queen's Crime Cruise Round the World

by Ellery Queen

  Few people were stirring along the road, although the sky was paling rapidly. The only activity we saw was at Randall Dorsey’s blacksmith shop. The forge already glowed, and a steady clanking sounded. There were two of our neighbors waiting outside the shop, and one was inside with his horse. Three others were turning away.

  Although the white in my uncle’s hair and beard was now more noticeable, Abner still seemed as one who might have been moulded in that very forge, or another like it. The chestnut he rode could almost have been sired by the great horse which had been his companion when I was a boy, so that the pair seemed to present an unchanging picture.

  My uncle glanced across at me. “Randolph could expect to meet Harper this morning at the courthouse. He has been unable to see the man at all for two weeks, for Harper has been in Pittsburgh. His return was expected late last night. Yet Randolph wants me to meet him early and ride with him to the courthouse. Why?”

  I shook my head, but I felt that no answer had been truly expected of me.

  “Something has happened while Harper was away,” Abner said, fixing his eyes on the road. “And Randolph does not want him to talk to anyone who has a hand in it before he does. That must be the way of it.”

  It was not a long ride to Harper’s place. He had a modest acreage of several pastures, some timber, and a small section of hilly land bisected by a steep ravine. Since Harper was the County Clerk, he farmed little, contenting himself with a few beef and dairy cattle and some poultry. His house was a neat, white-painted, two-story frame which sat close to the road.

  We tethered our horses, Abner’s chestnut and my roan gelding, where they could drink from the wooden trough near the barn. At the front door of the house Abner’s knock was answered by Margaret Harper, a short, stout woman with plain features.

  “Why, Abner!” she said in surprise. “And Martin. It’s early for you to be out. Do you want to see Tom?”

  “If we might.”

  An apologetic look crossed her face. “He’s not in. One of the cows must be out and has strayed up onto the hill. He’s gone to bring her in. Will you come in for coffee until he comes back?”

  Abner seemed not to have heard the invitation. “Does he often have this trouble?”

  “Why, no. Almost never. Tom was amazed when he heard the cowbell back on the hill a while ago.”

  “So should I be. Tom builds good fences.” Abner turned to me. “Martin, you and I might ride up to help bring that cow in.”

  As we rode away from the yard toward the hill, I could hear the irregular tonking of the cowbell in the distance. There was something odd about it, and it made me frown. Then I realized: it neither came closer nor went farther away. The beast might be grazing, of course, but where was Harper?

  I started to mention this to my uncle, but he was glancing intently at the ground, which was soft. I looked down and could see the hoofmarks of Harper’s horse, but that was all.

  There was morning mist as we approached the hilly tract. A small pond lay at the foot of the hill, and white vapors from the water had spread up the slope and into the ravine which flanked the right side of the hill. The sun, just rising at the hill’s top, made long, slanting shafts in the mist in the places where the trees let it shine through. Down in the ravine I could hear the piping of the peepers, the tiny frogs of early spring.

  As we urged our horses carefully through the dead brush, Abner shook his head impatiently.

  “A strange cow which makes no sound but the clanking of its bell. Why do we not hear Harper or his horse? See, they came this way.”

  We mounted higher until we were more than a hundred feet above the bottom of the ravine. Then the mist thinned to mere wisps, and I could see empty woods before us. There were only the spruces, the sweet gums, the maples, and the stalks of the brush, all bare and leafless. The spruces alone were green.

  Then I saw that the woods were not completely empty. Ahead, to our right, a horse stood, its saddle empty. There was no cow, although I could still hear the bell. It was very close.

  “The cow—” I began.

  “There is no cow,” said Abner, raising his right arm. “There. Look up.”

  I stared where he pointed. Near where the horse stood there was a ledge or rock, at the edge of a straight, high drop into the ravine. A silver maple grew by the left side of the ledge, one long branch extending over the rock. Attached to the branch above the center of the space was a cowbell, sounding when the gentle morning breeze stirred the branch.

  I started to urge my horse toward this strange thing.

  Abner’s massive hand closed on the gelding’s bridle. “Wait,” he said. “Where is Harper? And look at his horse. It only stands on three legs.”

  He turned his head this way and that, then faced the ledge.

  “Harper!” he called.

  There was no answer.

  He dismounted and walked slowly toward the horse, a young bay stallion. I saw that he was right—it did, indeed, favor its left foreleg. I saw, too, that Abner paid less attention to the horse or the bell than he did to the ground. He stooped once and picked something up, examined it, and carefully put it into his pocket. Then he walked to the ledge and looked down into the ravine.

  “Harper!” he called, as before, then waited. Again there was no answer.

  He turned aside and walked to and fro near the ledge. Once again I saw him pick up something. Finally he walked to the side of the horse and began to soothe it.

  “Now come here, Martin,” he said. “I want you to look at this animal’s hoof while I hold his head.”

  I dismounted, tethered both our horses to a nearby beech, and came to the stallion’s side. The beast was distressed, but Abner had quieted it and was holding firm.

  I raised the bay’s left foreleg carefully and gripped it much as Randall Dorsey, the smith, might have done. When I looked at the hoof, the reason for the horse’s lameness was clear. A prolonged piece of metal protruded from the tender part of the foot, and the hoof was bloody.

  I told Uncle Abner about the curious thing I had found.

  “A caltrop,” he said. “A Devil’s tool, in this case. I thought you might find it. Now, Martin, you are strong. Take my glove, then grip the prongs and pull hard.”

  He passed his right glove, of heavy leather, to me. I donned it, reached down to grip the protruding metal, and pulled with all my strength. The bay would have plunged with the pain had my uncle not curbed him. The metal object came free, and the bay grew quieter.

  I examined the thing. It was of iron and consisted of four prongs so arranged that no matter how it fell, three prongs would rest on the ground and the fourth would project upward. The points were almost needles, and the edges were sharp. Each prong was between one and two inches long. Three of the prongs were bright; the fourth was bloody.

  I held it out to my uncle, who glanced at it briefly and put it into his pocket.

  “I picked up two more,” he said, his voice wrathful. “Now, look at the bell. It hangs just higher than a man can reach, even sitting in his saddle. Harper would want to cut down the bell, else how would he know when a cow really was out? He would ride to the ledge and raise himself in his stirrups. On the ledge would be three of Satan’s instruments, placed where the horse would be sure to step on one. Then—”

  He turned and then began to lead the bay gently toward our own horses.

  “Martin,” he said. “Get the bell. Then we must go down to the ravine.”

  We were both silent as we came to the courthouse, with its white plaster pillars, later in the morning. I had completed the unpleasant task of carrying Thomas Harper’s body back to his house across the front of my saddle. My uncle, after leading the lame bay to the barn, had taken the burden of telling Margaret Harper how we had found her husband. Both of us were in a somber mood.

  We had just tethered the horses when I looked up and saw Squire Randolph coming down the steps of the courthouse. He moved slower nowadays, and there were pou
ches under his eyes. He still cherished his affectations, but he had lost none of the respect he commanded as a Justice of the Peace.

  “Abner,” he called, “did Harper not return? Or is he following you?”

  My uncle looked up, his eyes bleak as January sky.

  “Harper did not return. He is at his house, but he will not be following us. You asked me to find him this morning, and we did. We came upon his body at the foot of a small cliff in the ravine on his land. His neck was broken.”

  “Did you see anyone else?” Randolph asked.

  “That is a strange question,” Abner replied. “We did not, although it was clear that he had been led into a trap. A fall killed him, but that fall was planned.”

  Randolph’s face was heavy with sadness.

  “Harper was needed to help settle a case. The disputants are in my office now. It would seem that one of them might have caused this terrible thing. I had foreseen interference, and I asked your help. But you saw nobody.”

  Abner seemed to grow taller. “Randolph, I think we should talk to these people. It is true that we saw only Thomas Harper’s body, but the image of his murderer’s mind was all around.”

  Randolph nodded. “Mr. Emerson says there is no den in the wide world to hide a rogue. How does he put it? ‘Some damning circumstance always transpires.’”

  Abner was beginning to mount the steps. “He had only to look to Adam and Cain for his examples.” He glanced sidewise at Randolph. “This morning someone attempted to ignore the oldest law. If that person is in your office, we shall know it.”

  There were three persons already seated at the big oak table when Randolph, still puzzled by Abner’s last remark, showed us into his office. Two of them I knew; the third was a stranger.

  Everyone knew Randall Dorsey, the blacksmith. Not only his chair, but the room, seemed too small for him. He had removed the superficial grime of his trade, but his horny hands were gray with ground-in dirt. Flying sparks had singed his brown beard in spots. His eyes seemed to have carried some of the banked fire of his forge with them.

  At his side sat his sister, Anna Blackhurst. She was in her mid-forties, but the widow’s black she wore detracted in no way from the appeal she had for any man who ever saw her. Her figure had scarcely thickened. Her auburn hair had no gray, and it had barely darkened. Her milky skin was unlined, and her green eyes were clear and penetrating.

  For us, her neighbors, she had been the preserver of tales and legends as far back as my memory went. She could summon up for children the fairies, the elves, the leprechauns, and the gnomes. Frontier history was as familiar to her as her next-door neighbors. The Indians themselves knew no more of their lore than she. I still remembered the day when she shocked many women by appearing at school in buckskin shirt and trousers. She was recreating for us the famous exploit of Anne Bailey, when that frontierswoman rode through nearly 100 miles of hostile country for ammunition when Clendenin’s Fort was besieged. All the same, Anna Blackhurst never completely won back her standing in the community.

  As a Justice of the Peace, Randolph often settled disputes of many types. When the issues were beyond his jurisdiction, he acted as a sort of Special Commissioner of the Circuit Court. As such, he lacked a judge’s authority, and his decisions could always be appealed. He was known, however, to be able and fair, and few appeals were taken. This reduced the number of the Circuit Judge’s cases, and he could dispose promptly of litigation requiring jury trials.

  Randolph waved a hand. “You know Mrs. Blackhurst and Randall Dorsey, Abner. This young man is a stranger. Let me introduce you to Nathan Dillworth.”

  My uncle looked at the young man curiously, and no wonder. Ephraim, the oldest of the local Dillworths, operated a busy still, among other things, and he was no better than he should be. The Dillworth most remembered was Lawrence. His greed for land had twice led him to clash with Abner. The second clash had ended in his hanging for murder.

  The young man stepped forward. “I might be unfamiliar to you all, but my roots are here. My father was Gideon Dill worth.”

  Abner nodded in recognition. “I remember him. He left here for Baltimore nearly twenty years ago. He had a wife and a small boy. He was a sign painter, I recall.”

  He studied young Dillworth, who was tall with thick, black hair and a sweeping mustache. He was lean and appeared to be keeping a ferocious strength in check. His most striking feature was a hook which had replaced his left hand.

  “And what do you do, Nathan Dillworth?” Abner asked.

  “I was a cavalryman until my horse fell on me and crushed my left wrist,” Dillworth said. “Now I am an actor.”

  “Were you ever sent to fight Indians?”

  Dillworth laughed. “I have never seen an Indian. The accident happened when I had just finished training.”

  Randolph clucked with impatience. “And we are attempting to settle a matter of land ownership. Shall we be seated?”

  When we had taken our places, Randolph placed two folded pieces of paper before Abner.

  “Here are two deeds to a piece of property,” he said, settling back in his chair. “Read both and tell me what you think. Be sure to examine everything.”

  I could tell that Abner considered protesting that he was no lawyer, but he said nothing. He knew that Randolph valued his opinion.

  He read slowly and carefully. When he had finished both documents, he placed them side by side and glanced from one to the other. Finally he turned them over and examined the writing on the back of each.

  “These deeds are both to the same piece of land,” he said finally. “They were drawn about fifteen years ago. The property is a tract of two hundred and fifty acres, sold by Oliver McCoy. One deed is made to Gideon and Flora Dillworth. The other is made to Richard and Anna Blackhurst. Yet one deed must be worthless, for the two are identical.”

  “Not quite,” said Randolph.

  Abner looked again at the papers. “Not quite, that is true. The Dillworth deed is dated three days earlier. In all other respects, the documents are twins—the same lawyer, the same notary—why, even the recorder’s statement on the back as to the number and page of the record book is the same.”

  Randolph stroked his jaw. “And this is impossible.”

  “Not entirely,” Abner said. “Oliver McCoy could have bilked Richard Blackhurst, who was given the later deed. This is unlikely. It was not in McCoy’s nature to do this. Besides, the fraud would never have passed Morgan Roberts, his lawyer, or Morgan’s clerk, who made out the papers and notarized them.”

  He looked hard at Randolph. “What does the record book show?”

  Randolph sighed. He picked up a large ledger-type of book which was in front of him and opened it. Without a word, he pushed it to Abner.

  My uncle consulted the deeds for the page reference, then glanced at the book.

  “The page is gone!” he said. “It has been cut away with a sharp edge. It might never have been missed until a time such as this came.”

  This provoked Randolph into a summation of the situation as it stood. One of the deeds had to be false, but it was difficult to say which one. The later dating of the Blackhurst deed might make it suspect, but the Dillworth deed might have been dated earlier to throw suspicion the other way. There were no witnesses to testify one way or the other. Oliver McCoy, his lawyer, and the law clerk were all dead. The dead law clerk was shown as notary on both deeds. The fact of fraud had been established by the missing page from the record book.

  “That is why I wanted to talk to Harper,” Randolph said. “He had a prodigious memory. He might have recalled whose name was on the copy in the records. He might even have remembered who asked to look at the book. That person could have removed the page.”

  The table vibrated to the slap of a heavy palm.

  “There was no fraud done by our family,” growled Dorsey. “My sister is as honest as anyone here. So was her husband while he was alive.”

  He turned to hi
s opponent. “Dillworth, I don’t know you. I did know your father, and I had thought well of him. Now I think he was cut from the same cloth as some of the others of the same name.”

  Young Dillworth paled. “You can never support that.”

  The smith leaned forward. “Your father was a sign painter. He could have had the eye and the hand to be a forger. And he came back here once, fifteen years ago. He could have cut that page from the book then.”

  Dill worth’s jaw was set. “My father had the honesty you claim for your sister. As for Blackhurst, I have been told by many of your neighbors that customers in his store had to be wary of short weight and scamped measure when he was alive.”

  Anna Blackhurst’s eyes flashed. “You defame a man who cannot defend himself.”

  “My father has no better defense against your brother,” said Dill-worth, indicating the smith. “And my mother’s a widow, like you.”

  Dorsey raised his hand to thump the table again. Dillworth saw it and brought his own left arm down so that the hook at the end of it cracked sharply against the wood. My uncle’s mouth tightened in displeasure at such tactics.

  Anna Blackhurst smiled ruefully and dropped a handkerchief on the surface of the table. “But it is such meager land. Why should my husband have risked going to prison over it?”

  “My father knew there was coal under it when he bought it,” Dillworth replied. “He always said that its value would increase. I have learned, in Baltimore, that the railroad will pass within a quarter mile of the property. The coal will now be more valuable because it will be easier to transport. What my father knew, Blackhurst could have known.”

  “My husband’s judgment was poor,” Anna Blackhurst said. “He bought land for the sake of owning it.”

  Dillworth turned to Randolph. “You spoke of Harper, the County Clerk. Where is he? If he could help, he should be here.”

  Randolph made no reply. Instead, he gestured toward Abner.

  My uncle reached into his pockets. “Two of us have seen Harper this morning—Martin and I,” he said. “Before we discuss that, let us all look at these.”