“You thought she sent that tip in deliberately, knowing it would fall into your hands?”
“I guess you were right in the first place,” he said with a wry grin. “I fell for the girl over a year ago and I’ve never got over it. I just thought I had. Amusing in a hard-boiled egg like me, eh what?”
I did not find it in the least amusing. Ella had been partly right at any rate, I told myself with consternation. Sheila Kelly was responsible for Chet Keith’s presence at the inn, and he and I together were responsible for hoodwinking the sheriff and otherwise playing hide-and-seek with the law. I had a sudden ghastly vision of Professor Matthews’ bloodless face, stamped with a hideous grimace above the horrible red gash in his throat.
“How do you know,” I asked in a shaking voice, “that she isn’t making a fool of both of us?”
Had he tried to put me off, I think I should have blurted out the truth then and there, the moment I could have reached Sheriff Latham, but Chet Keith paid me the supreme tribute of dropping his guard for an instant during which we exchanged a distracted glance.
“Good Lord,” he groaned, “don’t you suppose that thought has me going around in circles half the time?”
“Maybe the sheriff is right,” I said again. “Perhaps she is just a clever actress, making a play at several million dollars.”
“Sure,” admitted Chet Keith miserably, looking like a wretched small boy. Then he squared his shoulders with an effort. “I’m pinning my faith on two things, Miss Adams. If she intended to kill Canby why did she want me here? And if she killed the professor how did she get back into her room with the key on the outside?”
“She might have wanted you here,” I said slowly, “to do exactly what you have done — manipulate the officers of the law, as well as the press, to suit her purpose.”
“She couldn’t have counted on the bridge going out.”
“No,” I admitted, “but you were relieved when it did go out, and I’ll have to remind you again that there is only your word for the key being on the outside of her door after the professor’s murder.”
He stared at me, his face white. “Are you implying that Sheila and I are in cahoots on this thing?” he inquired, his lips curling.
“I still refuse to believe that the trances are faked,” I said slowly, “but there’s only your own testimony to prove that you drew a blank on the ESP tests.”
“Good God, you can’t believe that I am Conspirator Number One!” he protested. “With Sheila in the role of my victim!”
“People have done worse things for a million dollars, and maybe she isn’t a victim at all,” I suggested miserably. “Maybe I have jumped to conclusions in thinking so. After all, I have no reason, except her own protestations, to believe that murder is contrary to her moral code.”
He looked genuinely aghast. “You think we plotted this together and I hypnotized her into committing the crimes!”
“Or maybe you just hypnotized her, so she could put on a good act, while you committed the crimes yourself.”
He wiped his forehead. “You don’t believe any such thing,” he stammered, again reminding me of a small boy, a desperate one.
“It’s possible, isn’t it?” I demanded.
“Anything is possible in this damnable business,” he admitted with a groan. “Nevertheless I am no hypnotist, Miss Adams, and I’d stake my life that Sheila is incapable of murder. Somebody has framed her by means of mental suggestion, just as you figured out, but I don’t dare face Sheriff Latham with that theory, any more than I dare let him know that the door between your room and Sheila’s was unlocked this afternoon; not, at least, until I have smoked the murderer out.”
He drew a long breath. “Give me an hour, just another hour,” he pleaded.
I hesitated, although as a rule I am not an indecisive person, and at that moment Butch came down the hall with Sheila Kelly in custody. She looked worse than ever, paler and more dejected if possible, but as she passed she glanced up at me and tried to smile.
I suppose Ella is right, though I have always flattered myself otherwise, and I am a sentimental old goose. At least that is my only excuse for acceding to Chet Keith’s request.
16
We were all seated and Marty Butler had closed the parlour doors before I realized that our number had been augmented since our last sitting with the coroner. For a moment I did not recognize the muscular young man in the neat blue serge suit with the carefully plastered-down brown hair and guarded expression. I had seen him only once before and then he had been wearing his chauffeur’s uniform, in which he looked trimmer, especially across the shoulders.
It was not, in fact, until Chet Keith called him to the witness stand that I was certain of the man’s identity.
“You acted as chauffeur to the late Thomas Canby?” the coroner asked, referring to the notes with which Chet Keith had supplied him.
“Yes.”
“Your name is Jay Stuart?”
“Yes.”
He had a hoarse, unpleasant voice and apparently he was determined to be as laconic as possible. He kept glancing at Chet Keith with unconcealed antagonism. Later I found out where the newspaperman had been when I missed him from the lounge. He was spying upon Mr Jay Stuart, much to the latter’s discomfiture.
“How long have you been in Mr Canby’s employ?” was the coroner’s next question.
“Three months or so.”
“What was your occupation before that?”
The man frowned and hesitated, and Chet Keith leaned a little forward. “You may as well spill it, Stuart. I’ve checked up on you, and how!”
It was then I realized what job Chet Keith had browbeaten his colleague Soaper into.
“There’s no disgrace in being a bodyguard,” growled the chauffeur.
The coroner looked blank, and Chet Keith went ahead to explain with a genial smile, “Certainly there’s nothing disgraceful in hiring out to protect a man who feels in need of protection. As I have taken the trouble to ascertain, Mr Stuart has served in that capacity on the pay rolls of several more or less distinguished persons who felt safer with him in their vicinity.”
The chauffeur’s hard small eyes flashed. “If you have done as much checking up as you claim, wise guy, you know there ain’t never been any complaints about my services.”
“No,” said Chet Keith, “your former employers seem to be of the unanimous opinion that you are efficient, so far as your peculiar talents go.”
“When I hire out to look after a bird I look after him,” growled the other.
“Nevertheless,” said Chet Keith softly, “Thomas Canby was murdered.”
The man slumped slightly in his chair. “Yep,” he muttered, “they got him.”
“With you on the job?” drawled Chet Keith.
Jay Stuart’s shoulders squirmed. “With me on the job,” he acquiesced with every evidence of chagrin.
“Actually,” Chet Keith pointed out, “you weren’t on the job when your employer was killed, Stuart.”
The man flushed. “I wasn’t at the séance, if that’s what you mean.”
“That’s exactly what I mean. Why weren’t you?”
“Why wasn’t I what?” demanded Stuart with a scowl.
“At the séance. After all, you were employed to see that Thomas Canby came to no harm. You couldn’t very well do that on the other side of a locked door.”
Stuart gave him a badgered look. “It was the boss’s orders,” he said sullenly.
“Thomas Canby ordered you to stay away from the séance!” I exclaimed.
He glared at me as if he were disposed to question my right to interfere, but he thought better of it when I glared back.
“He ordered me to do something else at that time. A man can’t be two places at once,” he said as grudgingly as if I had drawn the information from him with a corkscrew.
“True,” assented Chet Keith cheerfully, “only if Thomas Canby considered a bodyguard necessary at all
, why didn’t he feel such a necessity at the séance?”
The chauffeur glanced contemptuously at Sheila Kelly’s bowed head. “The boss wasn’t scared of that crooked professor or the girl,” he said, “and he wasn’t scared of no spook either, if you want to know.”
Chet Keith’s mouth tightened. “What was Thomas Canby afraid of, Stuart?”
“What are rich men always afraid of?” muttered the man.
“Threatening letters? Cranks after their money? Kidnappers? How should I know?”
“You are trying to intimate that Canby employed you because of the usual vague dangers which surround a wealthy man?”
“I guess he made some enemies when he was piling up his wad. His kind usually does.”
“So he waited till three months ago to hire a bodyguard.”
“Yep.”
I frowned. “Thomas Canby had been receiving threatening letters for years without paying any attention to them,” I protested.
“Had he?” inquired the chauffeur with a faint sneer.
“I saw an interview from him once,” I explained, “in which he mentioned that he received an average of two a week. They did not seem to disturb him in the least.”
Chet Keith nodded. “That’s why I investigated you, Stuart. I knew you were a bodyguard the moment I set eyes on you.”
“Maybe it sticks out or something,” sneered the man.
“No, but the gun does, which you were wearing the first time I saw you, and Canby was the last man in the world to get panicky without cause.”
“He had nerve all right,” admitted the chauffeur with the first flicker of animation which he had displayed.
“And yet all at once, three months ago, he decides for no special reason to hire a bodyguard.”
“Looks like it.”
Chet Keith leaned closer to the other man. “What was Canby afraid of, Stuart?”
The chauffeur’s face closed up as if he had pulled a screen over it. “How should I know?” he demanded. “He didn’t pay me to pry into his secrets.”
“No?”
“No!”
“You don’t know why Thomas Canby suddenly decided that his life was in danger? In enough danger to justify his hiring a professional bodyguard?”
“I told you I didn’t draw a salary for prying into his business.”
Chet Keith’s eyes narrowed. “You won’t be drawing a salary from Canby much longer.”
“I was hired to the first of the month.”
“No doubt you have cause to believe that it pays to keep your mouth shut.”
“I don’t know what you’re getting at,” said the man sulkily.
“I think,” murmured Chet Keith, “that since Thomas Canby’s death you have acquired a new employer.”
The man turned a little yellow. “Oh yes?” he muttered.
“Somebody who is making it worth your while to keep Canby’s secrets.”
“You can’t be arrested for thinking,” muttered the chauffeur, although I thought he looked uneasy.
Evidently Chet Keith thought so too, for he pressed his advantage.
“You know what Canby was afraid of, Stuart. You know of whom he stood in terror of his life and why. If you’ve struck a bargain to keep your knowledge to yourself, let me warn you that you can’t get away with it.”
“Says you!”
“Says I!” retorted Chet Keith and, leaning over suddenly, he snatched a wallet out of the man’s breast pocket.
It was a very fat wallet. Jay Stuart made a spring at it, but Chet Keith was too quick for him. He dumped the contents on the table before him. The wallet was stuffed with crisp new greenbacks.
“In this state,” said Chet Keith, “an accessory after the fact is equally guilty. You don’t want to hang, do you, Stuart?”
The man was positively livid. “You ain’t got nothing on me.”
“Nothing except that you were broke this morning. I heard you say so. You said you lost all your money in a crap game night before last. You said you had one dollar to run you to payday. Then, a while ago, I observed you with interest, out behind the inn, counting off green backs like a millionaire.”
“You damned snoop!” snarled the chauffeur. “I found that money. If you don’t believe me, try to prove I didn’t.”
“That’s your story, is it?”
“Yes.”
Chet Keith smiled unpleasantly. “The professor thought it would pay to keep his mouth shut. Now he’s dead. I warned him and I am warning you, it isn’t healthy to put your trust in murderers.”
The man wet his lips as if they were parched. His eyes flickered furtively about the room, and suddenly I knew he was frightened.
I think Chet Keith knew it too.
“Come clean, Stuart,” he said softly.
“I told you the truth,” muttered the man. “I wasn’t hired to pry into the boss’s affairs, and I didn’t. If I prefer to keep what I suspected to myself, that’s my business.”
“So you did suspect something?” asked Chet Keith.
The chauffeur scowled. “I ain’t deaf and I ain’t blind. Sure I suspected something. I suspected a lot. Just the same, the business Canby had me on didn’t have nothing to do with his being killed.”
“You think not?”
“Didn’t I tell you? The girl bumped Canby off, but he didn’t hire me because of her.”
“No?”
“She didn’t come into the picture till about two months after he took me on.”
“Exactly,” said Chet Keith with a triumphant glance at Sheriff Latham, who merely shook his head and looked baffled.
“The boss was expecting somebody to try to get him, but he didn’t think he had anything to fear from a quack professor and that girl,” said the chauffeur scornfully. “That’s why he didn’t have me at the séance last night.”
I leaned forward quickly. “What were you doing while we were all in here at the séance?”
He scowled at me. “Searching the mountain,” he said. “Not that it’s any of your business.”
“Searching the mountain!” I repeated incredulously.
“The boss wanted to make sure nobody was hiding out up here.”
Even Chet Keith looked baffled at this. “Thomas Canby suspected that somebody was concealed on the mountain?”
“Yep.”
“He believed the danger to himself lay outside, not inside the inn?” demanded Chet Keith in a disconcerted voice.
“Looks like it, doesn’t it?” snarled Jay Stuart.
“And did you find traces of somebody’s having been concealed on Mount Lebeau?”
The chauffeur hesitated and again his eyes flickered uneasily about the room. “Nope,” he said.
An interruption came from an unexpected quarter “The man’s lying,” said Jeff Wayne.
Everybody stared at him, and there was a dogged, unhappy look upon his face as he went on. “I heard him report to Mr Canby just before the séance started last night. He said he hadn’t finished searching the mountain, but he had discovered a hut down the road. He said it was supposed to be unoccupied, but the floor was littered with cigarette butts and there were car tracks back of the hut, coming and going and overlapping, as well as oil drippings on the ground, as if a machine had been parked from time to time behind the trees.”
Chet Keith eyed the chauffeur with a scowl. “So somebody had been hiding on the mountain.”
“First I’ve heard of it,” said Jay Stuart with what I can describe only as a leer.
The man’s insolence provoked me into an outburst. “Sheriff Latham, aren’t there ways to make a witness speak when he is deliberately impeding justice in a murder case?” I demanded. “This man has plainly accepted a bribe to withhold evidence. That is a penitentiary offence.”
The sheriff grinned. “I might let Butch here take him out and work him over,” he suggested with what I regarded as extremely misplaced humour.
Butch scratched his ear and looked embarrasse
d, and Jay Stuart shot him a contemptuous glance. “I’ve been manhandled by experts,” he said out of the corner of his mouth. “You’ve got nothing on me. I found that thousand dollars. Understand? I found it and try to get anything else out of me.”
Chet Keith’s face was scarlet, and so, I feel sure, was mine. I had heard of seeing red, but I had supposed the expression was a figure of speech until I stared at Jay Stuart’s mean, tight face.
“You know what Thomas Canby was afraid of!” I cried.
I am afraid I flourished my clenched fist under his nose. At any rate he flinched, but his lips only buttoned up the tighter. I remember realizing that we had reached an impasse and being perfectly furious about it. I glared at Patrick Oliver.
“It’s all your fault,” I said bitterly. “But for you and your sister none of this would have happened.”
Jeff Wayne moved closer to Judy and gave me an irate look. To this day Chet Keith persists in saying that young Wayne would never have come to the front as he proceeded to do if I had not goaded him into it.
“At the same time Mr Canby hired this man,” he volunteered with a miserable but defiant glance at Allan Atwood, “he employed a private detective.”
“A private detective!” exclaimed Chet Keith.
Young Wayne flushed. “I am supposed to be fifth vice-president in charge of personnel,” he said. “I-I make out the payroll. That is how I know.”
I stared at him. “What on earth did Thomas Canby want with a private detective?”
Jeff Wayne’s face was ashen. “He was investigating Gloria’s death,” he said in a voice scarcely louder than a whisper.
“Her suicide, you mean?” I asked sharply.
“If it was suicide,” he whispered.
There was an electric silence in which I think we all caught our breath, and when I looked at Chet Keith his eyes were like gimlets.
“Are you suggesting that Gloria Canby did not commit suicide?” he asked.
“Of course she committed suicide,” said Allan Atwood, but his face belied him.
“So,” murmured Chet Keith, “Gloria Canby was supposed to have opened her wrists with a razor blade because her father was going to have her put away in an institution, only Thomas Canby didn’t believe it.”
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