The Last Drive

by Rex Stout

  Then he turned quickly at a swift expression of alarm in Harry’s eyes, and the two young men stepped forward together, calling out:

  “What’s the matter, sir?”

  The cause of their alarm came from their uncle the Colonel. He had let his mashie fall to the ground, and he stood with white face and eves drawn close in pain, trembling visibly, while a half comical expression of surprised dismay parted his lips.

  “What the deuce—what—” he stammered, moving his hands uncertainly upwards to his chest, while his two nephews ran forward, crying out, “What is it, sir?” and Fraser Mawson stood still, opened his mouth and let out in a high-pitched voice the one word:

  “Indigestion!”

  Suddenly the Colonel straightened himself up with an apparent effort, and made his voice steady:

  “Most curious sensation in my chest—no, here, lower down—I don’t think—indigestion—quite acute and—and painful—.”

  By that time the two young men had him by the arm, one on either side, and were trying to lead him toward the seats at the sixth tee, but he shook them off impatiently and stood still on the green turf, swaying a little from side to side with his hands pressed tightly on his breast. Harry turned to Fraser Mawson with a frightened look:

  “Maybe it’s his heart—I’d better—.”

  As he spoke there came a cry from his brother, and again they sprang forward as the Colonel suddenly thrust his hands straight in front of him and sank to the ground. They caught him and let him gently onto the turf, while Fred knelt to hold his uncle’s head in his arms, calling frantically to the others:

  “Run—quick—a doctor! Wortley’s around somewhere—for God’s sake hurry!”

  Harry was off like a shot in the direction of the clubhouse. Fraser Mawson stood as one helpless with astonishment, his eyes staring. The caddies, who had gone on toward the green, came running back at the sound of the young man’s shouts, and were speedily scattered over the links in every direction in search of Doctor Wortley, as were several other golfers who hastened over from nearby tees and greens. Their shouts for a doctor soon filled the air over all the June landscape; meanwhile Fred knelt with his arms around the shoulders of his uncle, whose eyes had assumed a glassy, fearful stare, while unintelligible sputterings came from his lips and his fingers tore nervously at the grass. Fraser Mawson had knelt down beside him and was saying over and over, “What is it, Carson, for God’s sake what is it?” finally causing the young man to exclaim half angrily, “Shut up, don’t you see he can’t answer you?”

  All at once a great shudder ran through the Colonel’s form and his hands were clenched tightly against his sides; a line of white foam appeared between his lips as his voice became articulate, barely so, a mere series of gasps:

  “Fred—here, so I can see you—that’s right, my boy—goodbye—tell Harry—and you, Fraser—I don’t know what this is, but it’s the end—all on fire inside—water—cool me off a little, you know—”

  The words gave place to meaningless sounds, little noises that escaped the old warrior in his terrible agony despite the tremendous effort he was making to control himself. His eyes were the eyes of a tortured man, rolling from side to side, and froth covered his lips; he had seized Fred’s arm with his right hand, and the crazy force of the grip crunched the bones so that the young man had to set his teeth on his lip to keep from crying out. Fraser Mawson had disappeared and now came running back with a pail of water from a nearby drinking tank; they tried to get the Colonel to drink, but he was beyond sensible action and the water ran over his neck onto the grass with little splotches of white in it. Shouts were heard, “The doctor!” and men seemed suddenly to appear from all sides, while from the direction of the clubhouse an automobile was seen dashing over the smooth fairway and leaping across the rough. By the time it arrived a crowd of twenty or thirty golfers had gathered; three or four of them had knelt down to assist Fred in his efforts as the Colonel’s body writhed and twisted horribly about in his pain. As the automobile jerked up suddenly with a grinding of brakes they made room for Doctor Wortley and he leaped out toward the group. Just as he arrived a mighty convulsive shudder ran over the prostrate form from head to foot, and then it lay still.

  The doctor leaned over with an ejaculation of amazement, and silence fell over the crowd as he knelt to unbutton the old faded army shirt that the Colonel had always worn on the links. Mutterings and whisperings from forty throats accompanied his quick, deft movements, lasting for the space of two long minutes; then absolute silence again as he slowly rose to his feet and turned about. A glance to one side, a clearing of the throat, and he spoke in an undertone:

  “Gentlemen, Colonel Phillips is dead.”

  There was a gasp from the crowd and two muttered words of dismayed unbelief from Fraser Mawson as he stood whitefaced beside the doctor:

  “My God!”

  Then a boyish cry of despair from Harry Adams as he threw himself down beside his uncle’s body and seized the hand that lay there on the grass in his own; his brother Fred was supporting the grey head on his knees and was trying to close the eyes with pathetic little strokes of his fingers. Stammering amazed whisperings passed around, and suddenly a direct question was put to the doctor by somebody. He seemed to hesitate, then turned again to the bareheaded group.

  “Gentlemen, you are all members of the Corona club, and you have a right to know; the Colonel was poisoned. I tell you this at once that there may be no gossip about it. The nature of the accident will have to be investigated, and it will be well if no silly rumors are circulated, both for the sake of the Colonel’s memory and the reputation of the club. I think you may be trusted in that respect. I’ll leave it to you, Matlin, to see that the caddies do no talking. Call it heart disease.—Here, some hands, if you please. Cook, will you kindly run your car a little closer.”

  There was a tug at Doctor Wortley’s arm, and he turned to look into Harry Adams’ set face and staring eyes.

  “Doctor—did you say—my uncle was poisoned—”

  A nod answered him, and he spoke again, stammering:

  “But what—what was it—”

  The doctor threw his arm across the lad’s shoulder. “We’ll find that out later, my boy. Keep steady. The thing now is to get him home.—Here, you men—”

  Carefully and gently the still body was lifted and carried to the automobile and covered with a robe. The faces of the crowd, filled with the fearful solemnity that always accompanies the presence of death, no matter whose, also bore the finer imprint of the hand of real sorrow, testifying eloquently to the quality of the man who had just left them.

  The caddies were permitted to approach now, and one of them, a little brightfaced fellow with his eyes filled with tears, came sidling up with a timid query as to what he should do with the Colonel’s bag of clubs, which he carried on his shoulder. Mawson bestirred himself at that and reached out for the strap, but it was grasped by Harry Adams, who tucked the bag under his arm as though it had been some sacred thing. “I’ll take it, Harry,” Mawson called, but the young man paid no attention to him. The little caddie had meanwhile made his way silently to the automobile, where he stood gazing tensely at the robe over the form in the tonneau; now he suddenly burst into tears and turned away with his hands over his face. Perhaps the Colonel would have appreciated that tribute more than any other if he could have known of it.

  The automobile started slowly in the direction of the clubhouse, with the group of golfers trooping silently, heads bare, in the rear. Bolton Cook, the Colorado millionaire, was at the wheel, and beside him sat Fraser Mawson, the dead man’s attorney, business adviser and friend. Among those who walked behind there was one face in which the general shocked expression of grief and solemnity was overshadowed by another—a look of keen professional interest and speculation. Throughout the scene at the fifth hole this man had remained silent, in the backg
round, but his steady penetrating eyes had not missed a word or glance or movement among the actors in the tragedy; and now they were fastened on the backs of Harry and Fred Adams, the dead Colonel’s nephews and heirs, as the two young men trudged along beside the slow-moving car.

  The face was that of Canby Rankin, the Southerner, who had turned detective.

  CHAPTER II

  At Greenlawn

  Rankin did not immediately follow the procession to the clubhouse. Instead, he moved across to the spot where Colonel Phillips had lain on the ground, and stood there for some time gazing at the crushed and trampled blades of grass with an absent expression in his eyes and a wrinkled brow. The Colonel had been one of his dearest friends; Rankin, a man not lavish of his affection, had sincerely loved him; but beyond a shocked tightening of the lips there was no indication of deep feeling on his countenance. He was in the habit of keeping his emotions sternly within; and, besides, a problem was trying to set itself in his mind. Finally he turned with an impatient shrug of his shoulders and strolled off slowly in the direction of the fifth tee, casting his eyes from side to side over the green turf, half curiously.

  “Probably absurd,” he muttered to himself. “Some constitutional secret, no doubt. Wortley says poison—symptoms, that’s all. Indiscreet. Still, he knew the Colonel. And there’s this devilish feeling I get, as though out of the air, like a dog with his nose full of fox-smell; it’s never yet played me false. Drives me to wonder . . . but who the deuce would harm Carson Phillips? Fine young fellows like those boys! No. Positively no one. It’s absurd. I must talk with Wortley.”

  But for all that, when Rankin had hastened his step somewhat and made his way across the fairway and the rough to the sloping terraces alongside the eighteenth tee he did not go at once to the clubhouse. Instead, he sought one of the smaller buildings set in a group of trees off to the right, around the door of which a number of boys in brown uniforms and yellow caps were scattered, engaged in a general discussion with a show of great animation and excitement. The greater part were gathered in a circle around some central object of interest near a corner of the building, and as Rankin approached he sighted the object of his search in the midst of this group. It was the little caddie who had turned the dead Colonel’s bag of clubs over to Harry Adams and later turned away from the automobile in a flood of tears.

  “The face was that of Canby Rankin, the Southerner who had turned detective.”

  The detective beckoned to him. “Come here, Jimmie.”

  The lad separated himself from the throng, and Rankin led him over toward the terrace out of earshot of the others.

  “What are they talking about over there?” he began, abruptly.

  “About Colonel Phillips, sir,” replied the boy. The excitement of his sudden elevation to supreme importance among the other caddies had evidently somewhat submerged his grief, but the tear stains on his cheeks made two whitish lines down to his chin.

  “What are they saying?”

  The reply was rather vague, mostly to the effect that they were “just talking.”

  “I see.” Rankin looked down at him speculatively. “You know, Jimmie, Colonel Phillips was stricken with heart disease. Doctor Wortley says so. I want to ask you a question or two, but you must promise not to say anything to the other boys. I think I can trust you. For the Colonel’s sake, Jimmie.”

  “Yes, sir.” The lad’s brown eyes flashed up. “I’d do anything for the Colonel. I won’t say anything, sir. Is he—”

  “Well?”

  “Is he really dead, Mr. Rankin?”

  Jimmie’s lips quivered a little as he put the question; then, at the detective’s somber affirmative nod, he closed them tight again.

  “Yes. I want to know, Jimmie, if you noticed anything at all unusual during the match this morning.”

  The boy thought a minute. “No, sir, nothing unusual. Except that Mr. Mawson got a three on the first hole.”

  Rankin smiled a little in spite of himself. “You’re sure there was nothing? Think hard.”

  “No, sir, not as I remember.”

  “Did they stop at the water tank on the fourth for a drink?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Anybody smoke?”

  After a second Jimmie replied that the two young men had lit pipes at the second tee.

  “Not the Colonel? Nobody gave him a cigar?”

  “No, sir. Nor Mr. Mawson, either.”

  “And the Colonel seemed well and in good spirits up to the time—up to the fifth hole?”

  Jimmie’s yes was quite positive, and then he added: “Except that he was mad on account of his driving. He’s been slicing awful for a week. Yesterday he used his brassie, and he used it today too; but it wasn’t any better. Only on the fifth hole today he took the driver again, and got a beauty. I was so glad because I thought—and then just five minutes later—”

  Rankin nodded. “And then drives didn’t matter any more. Now, Jimmie, look back and think carefully. Was there anything peculiar about the actions of any of the other three gentlemen? At any time?”

  “Why—Mr. Mawson was awful nervous about the Colonel’s driving, sir. Of course, he was his partner—”

  “No, no; I mean anything unusual, suspicious.”

  The boy’s brow wrinkled in the effort of memory. “No, sir, nothing,” he replied at length.

  Then, prompted by questions from the detective, Jimmie described in detail the actions of the other three members of the foursome when the catastrophe came. It was necessarily a meager recital, since the caddies had been a hundred yards in front at the time, and on running back had been sent off immediately in search of the doctor; and boys are not observing in the pressure of excitement. The detective got all he could out of him, then handed him a dollar bill and left him with a final warning not to repeat the conversation to the others. Then he turned toward the club-house.

  “Is he really dead, Mr. Rankin?”

  The Saturday crowd was all over the place—in the library, the bar, the dining-room, the piazzas, and, of course, the one topic of conversation was the tragic end of one of their best loved members, whose body was at that moment lying in some room upstairs. Everybody had come in from the links; all playing had ceased. In the dining-room members had left their luncheon to get cold on the tables, and then returned to sit and talk in hushed tones. There was a buzz everywhere. The mystery of the thing had grasped everybody. The word “poison” was being whispered around, and there was a rumor that police had been summoned from Brockton, the nearest village. Rankin, with his eye open for Harrison Matlin, the president of the club, was making his way from group to group through the throng in the library, when he suddenly heard his name called from behind and a hand came down on his shoulder.

  “Looking for you, Rankin. You’re wanted upstairs. Cortwell’s room. There’s the devil to pay.”

  It was John Waring, the travel lecturer. Rankin followed him through to the back rooms and up the rear staircase to the floor above. Half way down the long, wide hall they stopped in front of a door and Waring knocked lightly.

  “It’s Waring. I’ve got Rankin,” he called, and an instant later there was the sound of a key turning in the lock and the door swung open.

  As they entered and the door closed behind them again Rankin’s quick glance showed him two or three men gathered about a table in the center of the room; others were seated on chairs and on the bed over against one side; Harry and Fred Adams were standing near an open window with their backs turned, talking together in low tones. Harrison Matlin, the president of the club, was there, and Bolton Cook and James Cortwell, and Fraser Mawson and Doctor Wortley. The eyes of all were turned on the door as the two newcomers entered.

  “There’s a problem here, Mr. Rankin,” Matlin began, abruptly, “and we want to put it up to you. Doctor Wortley called us in to show us—you tell
him, Wortley.”

  “Just this,” explained the Doctor, “that the examination of the body, together with what I learn from Fred Adams of the nature of the attack—spasmodic rigidity, pronounced dyspnoea—verifies beyond all doubt that Colonel Phillips was poisoned.”

  Rankin frowned. “It’s a certainty, then. What agent?”

  “The motor nerves were paralyzed and death resulted from suffocation. Some virulent neurotic, most probably curare. Strychnos toxifera.”

  “Ah!” Rankin’s frown deepened. “That must enter through a wound. How—”

  “Look here,” was the Doctor’s answer to the unfinished question. The men about the table moved to one side, disclosing to view a lumpy, oblong form covered with a dark cloth; and Doctor Wortley, stepping forward, removed the covering from the body of Colonel Phillips. The clothing had been cut away, leaving it nude to the waist; and Rankin’s gaze, directed by the Doctor, fell on a spot some three inches below the terminal of the breast bone. There was a tiny puncture of the skin, which was inflamed and slightly puffed, with a greenish tinge extending over a circular spot about the size of a silver half dollar.

  “So that was the way,” breathed Rankin at length, straightening up. “But what did it?”

  “That’s what we want you to find out,” replied Matlin, keeping his eyes away from the table, where Doctor Wortley was readjusting the covering.

  Rankin was silent.

  “We don’t want any scandal about it,” the club president went on anxiously, “but we feel—of course, it wouldn’t be right to try to hush the thing up, even if it were possible. It must be investigated, but the Lord knows we don’t want the village police here. They’re no good, anyway. We feel we can trust you to do as much as anyone could do, and there will be no publicity. Colonel Phillips would want it that way himself.”