Deadly Hall

by John Dickson Carr

  16

  BREAKING OFF, LIEUTENANT Minnoch looked very hard at the District Attorney.

  “Any comment, sir?”

  “Not before I’ve heard what you call real proof,” said Uncle Gil, leaning back in his chair. “The floor is yours, my friend. Why not sit down and be comfortable?”

  “If you don’t mind, Mr. Bethune, I’ll stay on my feet. And I’ll do what you always do; I’ll take it up point by point.” The lieutenant nodded at Jeff. “Last Thursday night, on that journey downriver, your nephew kept asking me why I took such an interest in their group, specially in Dave Hobart and his sister. Did I suspect anybody, asks your nephew, of being concerned in a crime?”

  “And you answered?”

  “I answered, sir, that I hadn’t said I suspected anybody of anything; leastways, I sort of qualified it, of anything that would ever get into court. And at the time, Mr. Bethune, that was God’s truth.”

  “But you did suspect something?”

  “Yes, sir, I did. We’d already had our attention directed to this house, and to the Hobart family, by that anonymous letter about Thaddeus Peters breaking his neck in 1910. By accident, see, Fred Bull and I landed on the same boat with the two Hobarts. So I had my eye on anybody of that name, and their friends too.”

  “You’re not suggesting …?”

  “No, sir. I may lack subtlety, but I’m not a damn fool. I’ve never suggested or even thought Dave Hobart or his sister could have had anything to do with a death that happened seventeen years ago, when both of ’em were kids.

  “But there was something very funny, and fishy too, about that situation on the steamboat. We’ll take Dave Hobart, we’ll take what he said, and I’ll call your nephew as my witness to it. Fair enough, Mr. Caldwell?”

  “Fair enough, I suppose,” Jeff admitted.

  Lieutenant Minnoch again addressed himself to Uncle Gil.

  “Dave sneaked aboard that boat at Cincinnati, and persuaded Captain Josh Galway to keep quiet about it. But he soon changed his mind about hiding, or pretended to change his mind, after he’d had a little talk with your nephew on Monday night. He pretended he didn’t know his sister was aboard, just as she pretended she didn’t know he was there. But let’s remember what he told Mr. Caldwell—what he confessed, you might say—that very first night on the river.

  “He invited your nephew down to his stateroom on the texas, where he broke out a bottle of Scotch. Mr. Caldwell asked him what was the matter, why he was as jumpy as a cat and acting like a wanted criminal. Dave admitted there was a woman in his life; he did confess that much. He also said that, whenever he did what he oughtn’t to do, his guilty conscience wouldn’t give him any rest. And you could see …”

  “Yes, Lieutenant,” Jeff burst out, “now we can all see. You were the sinister figure lurking outside and listening!”

  Minnoch came very near sputtering.

  “I’m a lot of things, maybe,” he declared, fist lifted for emphasis, “but my worst enemy couldn’t call me sinister. I’ll just remind you, young fellow, what happened in the middle of all this. In walked Miss Serena Hobart. Remember?”

  “I remember.”

  “Immediately Dave, on the defensive, shouted out that he hadn’t said one word of what mustn’t be said. And she told him, with an odd kind o’ glance between ’em, there was one matter that must never be touched on or even hinted at. Well, what did it mean? Who was the woman in his life? The law’s got an ugly name for that kind o’ business, and it’s an ugly thing too.”

  “If you mean incest …” Uncle Gil began.

  “Yes, I do mean incest,” roared Lieutenant Minnoch. “Let’s put the right name to what every experienced cop has seen for himself. Just because we usually find it among poor nobodies from the slums is no reason why it can’t happen among rich somebodies from the society news.” He turned on Jeff. “When you went back up to your stateroom that Monday night which was Tuesday morning, you left those two together. Who’s to say what they did through the rest o’ the dark hours? Hell’s fire, sir,” and the lieutenant appealed to Uncle Gil, “won’t you even admit the possibility?”

  “Oh, I admit the possibility. Indeed, it was the first thing that occurred to me.”

  “It did, Mr. Bethune? Why?”

  “Because I am a great reader of detective fiction; no other reason. Having admitted the possibility, which would naturally suggest itself to any follower of Sherlock Holmes, Father Brown, and Hercule Poirot, I am bound to say I don’t believe a word of it.”

  “Neither do I,” Jeff agreed instantly. “Lieutenant Minnoch could buttress his case by pointing out that Dave once referred to Serena as Iris March, the notoriously loose heroine of The Green Hat, though the lieutenant wasn’t there and couldn’t have heard Dave say it. All the same, there are sound reasons, not detective-story reasons at all, why the theory is most unlikely.”

  “May we hear those reasons?” asked Uncle Gil.

  “If Dave had been carrying on any incestuous affair with Serena, I don’t believe he’d have been so anxious to have me stay here at the Hall. Then there was her hasty flight from here on Friday night after the mysterious phone call, undoubtedly to meet this unknown lover in town. Dave stayed at the Hall, didn’t he?”

  “Did he really stay here, Mr. Caldwell?” Lieutenant Minnoch demanded. “He told you a lot of things, and hypnotized you into believing him; he’s a very persuasive young gentleman. He’d already thrown dust in your eyes by suggesting an unknown lover so you wouldn’t think of him as the man. There were still several cars in the garage Friday night. After he got some innocent confederate to make a prearranged phone call, he could have followed Miss Serena wherever she went. Did you see hide or hair of either of those two until you saw ’em again Saturday morning? Can you swear Dave didn’t leave the house on Friday night?”

  “He did leave the house on Friday night. But it was only to buy cigarettes at Rupert’s Corners up the road.”

  “That’s what he told you, was it?”

  Uncle Gil’s cigar had been gathering long ash on the edge of the tray. Gilbert Bethune trimmed off the ash, took two deep inhalations of smoke, and then crushed out the cigar.

  “You have promised, Lieutenant,” he said formally, “that you would produce evidence in your support. So far, whether you are right or wrong, we have heard theory and no more. Is there evidence?”

  “You bet there’s evidence, sir, and I’ll line it up in just one minute! Before I do, though,” and the stocky man bristled, “I’d like to ask your nephew a question. You, young fellow, just won’t go along with the idea—the certainty, I’d call it—that Dave Hobart had been carryin’ on with his own sister?”

  “No, I won’t go along with it.”

  “But he said there was a woman in his life, didn’t he? You don’t deny he said that, do you? All right! If the woman wasn’t Serena Hobart, who in the name of sense could it ’a’ been?”

  “That’s not easy to answer, I’m afraid. There’s been Kate Keith, of course; it’s no secret. But Dave has never taken her very seriously; she can’t qualify as one who troubles the waters. What Dave meant, I think, is that there’s a girl he’d like to be the woman in his life, but he’s upset because she refuses to accept him as the man in hers.”

  “Oh? And who would that girl be?”

  “Penny Lynn.”

  “Miss Lynn, eh? The beautiful little lady who is a lady?”

  “Yes, Lieutenant. Dave’s made more than one remark indicating that he’s got Penny on the brain, and would go overboard for her if she’d give him any encouragement at all. But she won’t. Apparently Penny’s interested in—in somebody else. And Dave knows it. Late Friday afternoon he said nobody else had a chance with her as long as this other fellow is around.”

  “Would you mean yourself, by any chance?”

  “I’m answering your questions, Mr. Minnoch; interpret the answers as you like. If you ask for my interpretation of Dave, I’ve told you. The w
oman in his life wouldn’t be the woman in his life, which is what upset him.”

  “Ho!” roared Lieutenant Minnoch, so carried away that he teetered up on his toes as well as raising his fist. “Dave Hobart was upset, all right, though it was for a different reason. These Hobarts have always been a funny lot; that’s no secret either. Don’t ask a plain man like Harry Minnoch to sympathize with what’s mortal sin in anybody’s religion. But at least a plain man like Harry Minnoch can see through ’em.”

  “And so?” prompted Uncle Gil, studying the police officer through half-closed eyes.

  “It’s as plain as print, ain’t it? Dave Hobart was upset because of what he’d been up to for some time with his own sister. But that flighty, smooth-tongued young gentleman just couldn’t bear the hell he went through from his own guilty conscience. So he killed his guilty partner in hopes he’d get rid o’ the burden, like other men have done before him in cases I can quote from the record.

  “He killed her so sneakily, you can call it cleverly too, that if he’d left it at that we might never ’a’ proved anything against him. We might ’a’ suspected and did suspect; we couldn’t ’a’ proved. But would he leave well enough alone? Oh, no! These clever guys never can let well enough alone. He had to put in extra touches; he had to make it look too good; he overreached himself, and we’ve got him.”

  Well launched, impassioned, Lieutenant Minnoch had allowed his words to become torrential as he addressed Uncle Gil.

  “Harry,” asked the District Attorney, “do I detect a note of triumph?”

  “Maybe you do, sir. I hate to say I told you so; I hate to remind you he took you in. I knew he was in no danger; I knew he was the murderer. But, when you asked me to put a guard on him Saturday night, I obeyed the boss and left O’Bannion outside his door.”

  “You have already theorized, haven’t you, that the attack late Sunday afternoon was a fake attack?”

  “It’s more than a theory, sir. He faked the whole attack; he told a pack of lies that oughtn’t to ’a’ deceived any babe in arms, let alone deceive you. I started to prove it before you and Mr. Caldwell yesterday afternoon, so I’ll finish proving it now.”

  “This entails, no doubt, your attempted demonstration that no outsider could have entered the house by the side door, attacked Dave, and left by the same way?”

  “That’s part of it, yes; but it’s just one part.”

  “Well?”

  Now sure of himself, Harry Minnoch could afford to be indulgent.

  “Nobody came in or went out, Mr. Bethune. Outside, as I showed you, only mud or water everywhere. No livin’ soul, so help me, could ’a’ gone up those stairs, crossed an uncarpeted passage, walloped his victim in the bedroom and got out again, all without one trace of mud and water on the floor, and without one sound heard by O’Bannion only a short distance away.

  “Now what does Master Dave say to this? All he can say is that the alleged man with the blackjack wore no shoes. In Japan, maybe, they take off their shoes in the house, even when the weather outside’s not first cousin to Noah’s flood. But we don’t do it in this country, sir, and I say Master Dave’s story is a barefaced lie. If you still won’t go all the way with me, I’ll back it up with the evidence of the blackjack.”

  “Evidence of the blackjack?”

  “I have here,” said a triumphant officer, taking out his notebook, “the findings of our fingerprint man, who tested the blackjack found on the floor beside Dave Hobart.”

  “Yes?”

  “There were no fingerprints on that blackjack, sir, no prints at all. Just some smudges that might ’a’ meant it was handled with gloves, or wiped clean afterwards, or not properly handled at all.” Lieutenant Minnoch flourished his notebook. “You were mighty sarcastic when I said the blackjack might tell us a lot by not telling us anything; you called it something-or-other paradox. But it was gospel truth just the same!”

  Gilbert Bethune sat up straight.

  “One moment, Harry. Is it your contention that Dave, wearing gloves, hit himself over the head for realism’s sake? If so, what happened to the gloves afterwards? He was knocked out, you know. If he used the blackjack …”

  “He didn’t use the blackjack, sir; nobody used the blackjack! It was only part of the fakery to mislead us. He had it ready in the pocket of his pajamas or dressing-gown, bein’ careful not to touch it except through a fold of cloth.”

  “And then?”

  “At the right time,” Minnoch announced powerfully, “he let out a kind of cry, upset that table with the dishes, dropped the blackjack on the floor, and dived straight down on the floor to conk his own head for the injury. We can’t get away from evidence, sir. I say that’s how he did it, and I say we’ve got him!”

  Through the silent house, despite a closed door between library and minor drawing-room, they could hear the distant ringing of the telephone. Not long afterwards a knock at the library door heralded the appearance of Cato, who said Mr. Bethune was wanted on the phone.

  Uncle Gil, clearly awaiting this, strode away in haste. He did not remain long absent. After an interval of perhaps two or three minutes, during which Jeff and Lieutenant Minnoch stared at each other without speaking, the District Attorney returned at a springier step. Instructing Cato to turn on the lights in the study and leave, he again took up his position behind the library table.

  “You look pleased, Mr. Bethune,” Lieutenant Minnoch said in an accusing voice.

  “I am pleased,” acknowledged Uncle Gil. “A little of the mist begins to clear away.”

  “If you ask me, sir, it’s all cleared away! I’ve built up a case against Dave Hobart, haven’t I? Got any comments on that?”

  “Indeed I have comments,” Uncle Gil assured him with enthusiasm. “You are more than a zealous police officer, Harry. You are also a not inconsiderable poet.”

  “Poet?” exclaimed the other, as though he had been called a jabberwock or a hippogriff.

  “I mean what I say. This romantic tale you have spun for us …”

  “Romantic, for the luvva Pete?”

  “Distinctly romantic. Romance, by one definition, is a narrative in prose or sometimes verse with scenes, incidents, and love affair remote from everyday life. You have done it, my friend; your reconstruction fulfills every need. Furthermore, if you had not so often assured me to the contrary, I should suspect you of being a secret reader of detective fiction.”

  “Sir—”

  “In murder stories, almost invariably, any character attacked without being killed will be the guilty wretch who has contrived this injury as part of his own plot. You score there too, with a sweep of imagination which—”

  Lieutenant Minnoch squared himself.

  “Look, sir, I’m begging you! Say what you want to say; say what you’ve got to say; just don’t orate at me. Since you think I went wrong, where did I go wrong? Is there any question I can’t answer?”

  “Yes, there is. If Dave Hobart killed his sister, how did he kill her?”

  “Well …”

  “You yourself have doubts, I think. This romantic fantasy, with strange love affair as well as Jacobean guilt motive, lacks a central pivot. Since the door was bolted on the inside and the windows are virtually inaccessible, how did the murderer get in and out of the bedroom? Until you can answer that question, Lieutenant, you can’t take Dave Hobart to court; you can’t charge him; you have no case at all.”

  “Well, sir, can you explain how the murderer did it?”

  “I think I can. I believe I can name the murderer, who acted alone and had no accomplices guilty or innocent. My original notion as to the murderer’s identity, which at first I distrusted as being wilder than yours, would appear to be backed by sound reason. Tomorrow, with luck, I should have incontestable proof.” Uncle Gil lifted his shoulders. “Meanwhile …”

  “Meanwhile?” prompted Jeff.

  Gilbert Bethune took another cigar from his vest pocket, bit off the end, and lighted it.
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  “It is now time,” he said, “to read half the riddle: what might be called the harmless half, though something of a shock if you don’t know what’s coming. The recent phone call, which pleased me so much, did not come from my office. It came from a certain firm or company at Algiers over the river; I needed expert help of a certain kind, as tomorrow I shall need expert help of a different kind; and they provided it.

  “In leading up to the explanation of the harmless half, Lieutenant, I will call my nephew to witness as you called him. During the journey downriver, Jeff, you observed that both Dave and Serena Hobart suffered badly from nerves. They had a weight on their minds; they were both upset. What caused this?”

  “Don’t ask me, Uncle Gil! I’ve tried so hard to answer that one that I’m almost convinced there’s no answer.”

  “And yet there is an answer. We need not star-gaze for an incestuous affair between brother and sister. What did both of them fear?”

  “Well, what did both of them fear?”

  “They feared they would lose Delys Hall,” replied Uncle Gil, “though they had no wish to lose it. Serena told you too often and too vehemently she wanted to get rid of the place. Penny Lynn doubted this, and Dave later acknowledged that Serena was as fond of this home as he still is.

  “But it seemed almost certain they would lose the Hall. Information grudgingly laid before you by Ira Rutledge in his office makes it clear that Harald Hobart had in fact dissipated most of the family fortune. If they had some few assets left, the only real, thumping asset that remained was the Hall itself. And to keep their heads above water they must sell to Mr. Merriman of St. Louis. Unless …”

  “You know, sir,” Lieutenant Minnoch struck in, “I’ve got to admit that does make sense. But I don’t get it; I don’t see where this leads. They’d have to face the losses and sell out, unless … unless what?”

  “Unless,” Jeff suddenly exclaimed, as he saw, “they could find Commodore Hobart’s hidden gold? A weight of bullion worth three hundred thousand dollars would relieve any future anxieties and allow them to keep the Hall too.”