by Q. Patrick
The butler had no sooner been dismissed than he came back into the room coughing apologetically.
“Excuse me, Mr. Bracegirdle, but there’s a young person at the back door who wants to speak to you. Says it’s urgent, sir.”
The deputy glanced questioningly at Mr. Alstone.
“Who is it, man? Don’t stand there trying to make mysteries.” Seymour’s voice was thick with irritation.
“One of the Baines children, sir. Young Tommy. He says his mother—”
“Show him in.”
Tommy Baines, a lad of ten, looked dazed with fear as he was led by Hall into the enormous living-room. Doubtless he was remembering the time not far distant when he had been caught trespassing in the flower beds. Far too frightened to speak, he looked at Seymour with the fascinated stare of a rabbit watching a weasel. Bracegirdle, who sensed the situation, spoke to the boy in fatherly tones.
“Well, Tommy, what is it?”
At length the boy started to speak slowly; but his eyes never left Mr. Alstone’s face.
“Please, Mr. Bracegirdle, Ma says she saw something last night that you ought to know about and could you come round, please, sir.”
“Your mother!” I exclaimed. “I thought she was in hospital.”
“No, sir. She wouldn’t stay so our Mark went’n fetched her yesterday afternoon. But she’s in bed, sir, so she can’t come over and she’s been cryin’ somethin’ terrible ever since she heard about our Poll.”
“Tell your mother we’ll be over in ten minutes.”
The boy trotted off, and, after giving instructions to his men Bracegirdle beckoned me aside and suggested that we should go together to the Baines’ cottage.
It was evident that he did not wish Seymour to come along.
Chapter IX
Mrs. Baines was in bed when we arrived and looked remarkably well considering all the circumstances. There was something indestructible and eternal about her which made me feel sure that, in a short space of time, she would probably be acquiring another husband and producing even more children. Such is the tenacity of those who are not too strong mentally.
I congratulated her on her appearance and remarked—rather fatuously—that I was glad to see her back from the hospital so soon.
“Back?” she echoed, and a bright spot of color appeared in each cheek as she spoke. “Where would you expect me to be but back home when my family is bein’ murdered in traps and trees—”
Bracegirdle made clucking noises like a distressed hen.
“There was something you wanted to tell me?” he asked gently.
Mrs. Baines gave a little laugh which verged on the hysterical.
“They’ve taken my Polly and they’ve taken my Jo, but there’s no reason why I shouldn’t do all I can to—even though it’s a family as—well, never mind. But I saw him there, and murder is murder even if some people are only getting what’s coming to ’em.”
Bracegirdle looked puzzled. Then he winked at me and tapped his grey hair surreptitiously with his finger. I nodded.
“Take it easy, Mrs. Baines,” I cautioned. “You mustn’t upset yourself. You’re still weak.”
The woman sat bolt upright in bed. “Weak I may be, Dr. Swanson, but not so weak I can’t use my own eyes, and not so blind I can’t see what’s in front of ’em, even if it was in the middle of the night, and the snow blowin’ in the window—”
“Hadn’t you better begin at the beginning?” I suggested.
Mrs. Baines’ agitation seemed now to have given way to a mood of comparative composure.
“Well, Dr. Swanson, Mark fetched me in from the hospital yesterday afternoon, and Susie—that’s my sister—put me to bed and made me comfortable here. The window was open—Susie’s a great one for fresh air—and I went off to sleep soon’s I had my supper. Some time in the middle of the night I woke up feeling cold, and when I turned on the light I saw the snow blowin’ in all over me.”
“You’ve no idea what time it was?”
“Not then, I didn’t, but after it was all over, I screamed and Susie came in and put me back in bed and said it was almost midnight. I was cold and trembling, so she went downstairs—”
“But,” I interrupted, “what did you see that frightened you so?”
Bracegirdle was standing by the window, looking out on to the road that led past the Baines’ cottage, across the covered bridge toward our house, the Goscbens’ and the Tailford-Jones’. It was obvious that he attached little importance to Mrs. Baines’ story—treating it like the hundreds of other bits of ill-founded gossip which had reached his ears in the past few weeks.
“What did I see?” The woman’s voice had sunk almost to a whisper. “I saw the body of young Mr. Gerald—him as they say is missing this morning, like my poor Polly was a while back.”
Bracegirdle had spun round and was staring at her incredulously.
“Where—how—?” he snapped.
I shot him a warning glance.
“Just tell us in your own way, Mrs. Baines,” I said quickly.
She was waving a weather-beaten hand toward the window.
“I saw him from there,” she continued. “I got out of bed, and was trying to shut it when I saw a car going down the road toward the covered bridge. I didn’t pay no attention to it till after it was gone, and then—then—I saw it. It was dragging along behind like a bag of potatoes. In the light from the window I could see the face as plain as yours, for all it was snowing. And if it was my dying breath I’d swear it was the body of Gerald Alstone behind that car.”
The narration seemed to have exhausted her, for she sank back into the pillows and, for a moment or two, was quite incapable of giving coherent answers to the questions that Bracegirdle poured out in quick succession.
No, she could not tell us whether the car was large or small, roadster or sedan. It had bright lights in front and in back and there was a thick layer of snow on top. Apart from that, she knew nothing.
We left her, at last, to the ministrations of Susie, who, in a brief interview on the stairs, confirmed that part of her sister’s story which concerned herself.
“Well, what d’you make of it?” I queried as Bracegirdle and I trudged through the snow toward the garden gate.
“Hooey—just so much hooey. The woman is sick. She’s been listening to gossip. She wakes up in the middle of the night and gets scared. You’ll notice that she didn’t tell her sister it was young Alstone’s body. Apparently she only thought of that after she heard he was missing—just to make a good story.”
“But there might be something in it.”
“And there might be something in the thousand and one crazy stories that are going round Grindle. I ask you, Dr. Swanson. That woman said she’d seen the body of Gerald Alstone dragged behind a car. It was snowing and there’s not much light from her window. How on earth?—” He broke off with the nearest approach to impatience I had yet seen in him. “Why, even in broad daylight it would be impossible to recognize a body from that distance. It might—as she herself suggested—have been a bag of potatoes.”
“But people don’t deliver potatoes at midnight,” I commented mildly. “And they don’t usually drag them behind cars.”
We had now reached the road where the snow had already been crushed and dirtied by passing cars. About a hundred yards to our left loomed the covered bridge—an old-fashioned structure which takes the road over Grindle Creek. As I saw it, there flashed through my mind an idea which, as it afterwards turned out, was my only real contribution toward the solving of the case—the only bit of pure deduction of which I was guilty throughout the whole affair. My brain child was conceived, gestated and brought to parturition in the twinkling of an eye.
I seized the deputy’s arm and almost dragged him toward the covered bridge.
“Listen,” I exclaimed, “if Mrs. Baines wasn’t lying—if that was Gerald Alstone’s body she saw—well, the car was going in the direction of the covered bridge. There’s no snow there—”
“I’m afraid I don’t get you, Dr. Swanson.”
I was hurrying forward, shouting over my shoulder at the recalcitrant Bracegirdle.
“You think that Gerald was killed either in the gun-room or nearby; then he was carried over the porch and down the steps. Up to that point you can trace him by the blood stains but, after that, the snow made further observation impossible. All right. Mrs. Baines said his body was dragged past her window around midnight. We know he was—or had been bleeding. The friction with the road would constantly have been making fresh contusions. If it weren’t for the snow we might find blood on the road. But our murderer was either darned clever or darned lucky. His tracks are obscured—that it, whenever he is out in the open. But, there is one place where there’s no snow to hide his trail. Here it is.”
“The covered bridge!”
“Yes, there’s hardly any snow on the surface here. Now, if Mrs. Baines is right, we might find some trace of blood. There’s just a chance.”
And blood we found—after a long and back-aching search. Dried into the old planks of the bridge in two places were minute purpling spots. Bracegirdle chipped off a piece of the stained wood and put it tenderly in an envelope. For about half an hour we were down on hands and knees like a couple of schoolboys playing at sleuths. Here and there were fresh abrasions in the surface of the wood. Splinters had been raised and pressed down. Finally, it seemed, we became so familiar with our field of activities that we could reconstruct a broad swath across the bridge—a swath marked occasionally with infinitesimal blood stains and bordered by a faint ridge of dust and dirty fragments of snow.
At length we stood up and gazed at each other solemnly.
“Looks as though Mrs. Baines was right,” commented Bracegirdle as he felt for his pipe. “I have to thank you for your suggestion.”
“Well, what next?”
“I must get back to my men. Find out particulars of all cars passing this way last night. Start a search for the body along the road. There’s just a chance they may have dumped it somewhere. By the way, Dr. Swanson, I think we’ll keep this little matter to ourselves for a while. There’s no point in getting Mr. Alstone worried unnecessarily.”
I nodded agreement.
“And, I’m going to ask you another favor, Dr. Swanson. I want a talk with young Foote out at the hospital. I was wondering if you’d go along with me.”
“That’s fine. I was planning on going in today anyway. I intend to live in my room at the college for a bit. Looks as though the snow’s here to stay and I don’t like that long drive. Besides, I haven’t any chains.”
“I’d be glad to take you in,” said Bracegirdle. “I’ll come for you in my car at four o’clock.”
At three it started snowing again, but Bracegirdle arrived promptly at four, having spent a busy afternoon. The stains from the bridge had been analyzed and proved to be blood. He had started checking up on the cars but, apart from the obvious fact that the Goschens, the Tailford-Jones, Toni and myself were bound to cross the covered bridge on our way home from the Alstones, he had learned nothing. An extensive search for Gerald had been inaugurated with no result.
At the hospital we were informed that Peter’s parents were with him and, consequently, we were obliged to wait a few moments.
“There’s just one little thing,” Bracegirdle began, as we sat together on a bench in the corridor. “Of course, it’s a mere matter of routine, but Mr. Foote’s leg was broken, wasn’t it? It wouldn’t have been medically possible, I suppose, for him to have been about last night?”
“Good God! No!” I exclaimed. “His leg’s in a plaster cast. But here’s the resident. I’ll ask him.”
Purvis.was bearing down upon us, large and smiling. With admirable tact I phrased my questions in such a way that Bracegirdle could understand and Purvis’ suspicions were not aroused. The resident laughed to scorn the idea that Peter could have been one yard from his bed within the last week.
“Hope to have the cast off in a few days,” he said cheerfully. “But, till then—”
We were interrupted by the opening of Peter’s door. A large, expensive-looking woman with a sweet face and sad eyes was leaving the room. She was followed by Marcus Foote, leather magnate, a short, stocky man with a prominent jaw and the same dark hair as his son. Bracegirdle hurried into the room and Purvis introduced me to Peter’s parents. Both Mr. and Mrs. Foote expressed their pleasure at making my acquaintance.
“Well,” I said, “you ought to be proud of your son, Mrs. Foote. That was a brave thing he did.”
“Brave, but foolish.” Mrs. Foote’s face broke into a faint smile. “Peter’s always been like that—excitable and madcap. I suppose I should be proud of him, having tried to save those horses but—” she smiled again a little sadly—“you know how mothers are. We’d much rather have our children dull and safe than headstrong and courageous.”
Marcus Foote had been standing at our side in silence. Now he turned to me.
“You live in Grindle, I believe, Dr. Swanson?” His voice was smooth and well-modulated.
I nodded.
“There’s a little favor I would like to ask. Mrs. Foote and I feel—” He paused for a moment and, seeing his embarrassment, I led him into an empty room.
“It’s about this fellow, Baines, Dr. Swanson. I understand he’s a little difficult to approach and, after all, he did save my son’s life. I was wondering whether, perhaps, you—”
He produced a check book from his pocket.
“A trifle, a mere trifle,” murmured Mrs. Foote. “It could be done without any fuss.”
“Your name is Douglas, I believe?” Foote senior was scribbling in his check book. “I will make this out to you, if you don’t mind. I’m sure you’ll be willing to do this for us.”
They had gone before I realized what had happened. As I glanced down at the slip of pink paper in my hand, I saw that it was a check to my order for one thousand dollars.
Stuffing it in my pocket, I hurried into Peter’s room. The boy was sitting up in bed talking excitedly to Bracegirdle.
“… Yes, the operator said it came through around eleven thirty.” He smiled at me and then continued. “I was asleep at the time and got no notification of it till this morning. The nurse told me that whoever it was that had called had been scared or worried about something. He had asked for me, and then, being told he couldn’t get me till the morning, rung off, leaving no message.”
“He hasn’t called again today?”
“No, the only call I had this morning was from my father.”
“There’s nothing else you can tell that might throw light on the business, Mr. Foote?”
“Nothing at the moment. Mr. Franklin Alstone came to see me this morning. I told him all I know, which was not much. But let me think things over. Something may come to me.”
Bracegirdle grunted and, beckoning to me, took his leave. Without a word I followed him down the corridor to the telephone operator’s desk. The girl on the five till twelve shift had just come on duty. Yes, she remembered the call in question. Someone had asked to be put through to Mr. Foote’s room at eleven thirty-four. Said it was very urgent. Seemed kinda jumpy. Of course, it’s most irregular to put calls through to the patients after nine-thirty.
“Was it a man or a woman?” asked Bracegirdle.
Miss Potts pushed at her vivid yellow hair.
“Well, it’s difficult to say, Mr. Bracegirdle. You see, Mr. Bracegirdle, the voice was sort of high and excited. And what with so many calls coming through, a girl doesn’t pay so much attention. Unless, of course, she’s one of the kind that listens where she’s no business to.”
“But, surely, Miss Potts, it’s easy enough to tell the difference between a man and a woman on the ’phone.”
“If it was easy, I could have told you, couldn’t I?” Miss Potts’ eyes were round and injured. “I tell you it might have been either and that’s all I know, Mr. Bracegirdle.”
“You asked him to leave a message?”
“Naturally,” she snapped. “That’s the regular procedure.” “And he wouldn’t?”
“I don’t know.” She turned away primly, pretending to have discovered a document of the utmost importance which required her immediate attention.
“How do you mean—you don’t know?”
“Just what I say. He or she was just about to say something. There was a sort of scuffling sound and the receiver was banged down.”
Bracegirdle looked surprised. “You mean it sounded as though someone had interrupted?”
Miss Potts’ manicured hands were performing amazing convolutions with the telephone plugs. “Your guess is as good as mine, Mr. Bracegirdle,” she remarked. “Yes, Dr. Klein. Certainly, Dr. Klein, just a minute, Dr. Klein.”
Announcing irritably that her evidence might be required in court, Bracegirdle turned away.
Just after he had left, I bumped into Toni. He wore a dirty apron and carried a rack of test-tubes in his hand.
“Hello, Doug. What’ve you been doing all day?” “Sleuthing.”
I outlined the day’s experiences.
“Well, what are you going to do about it?” he asked suddenly.
“Do? There’s nothing we can do.”
“So!” His mouth was twisted in a curious inward smile. “All right, Doug, my boy. If you don’t want to be confidential—don’t.”
He paused as if expecting me to say something.
“I might mention,” he continued, and now he was smiling frankly, “that if you don’t want to be confidential, I needn’t either. In fact—”
He broke off and was gone.
But what he meant by these curious remarks I had not the faintest idea.
Chapter X
For the next few days the snow remained impenetrable. Consequently, Toni and I stayed on at the hospital, leaving Lucinda in sole command of the farm house. Except for the inquest on Polly Baines which I was subpoenaed to attend, I was entirely cut off from inside developments in our local mystery. The inquest itself brought to light very little that was new. The pathologist’s findings were such as to shock even the hard-boiled country jurors, and after a verdict of willful murder had been passed, the coroner characterized the crime as the most outrageous and fiendish in the annals of Cotuit County. In view of the latest facts, he added, it was obvious that Jo Baines, too, had been the victim of willful murder. The same day a verdict was returned to that effect, and the killer in Grindle had two deaths officially to his credit.