The Third Mystery

by James Holding

  When he had cut the ignition he took one final pull on his cigarette before he dropped it out the window. He had been unable to reach Clyde Eastman—he had telephoned once and detoured past Eastman’s house on his way here—but that could not be helped. Now, aware that he was as mentally prepared as he could be under the circumstances, he opened the door, stepped to the pavement, and walked back to the driveway that had been cut deeply into the grassy slope and led to the two-car garage.

  For some reason he did not want to move in a crouch but he walked swiftly, aware that even with the difference in elevations between drive and lawn the upper part of his body would be visible to anyone who happened to be watching from the windows. He saw that both cars were in place and seconds later he had moved beneath the open overhead doors and knew he no longer could be seen from outside.

  The problem that then presented itself was: Which of the cars should he search first? The Continental was Austin Farrell’s personal car but he did not always use it. The smaller sedan often served as his taxi to and from the station and on those days the larger car was left for Elinor and the gardener-chauffeur who took her about when Austin was not available. Finally, because his hunch indicated that the Continental was the car he wanted, he opened the wide door and took out the pencil flashlight he had brought.

  For if his theory was right, Tom Ashley had been shot, not on his front lawn as he had first suspected but from a car. An automatic pistol had been used, which meant that it was likely some or all of the expended shells had been ejected inside the tonneau. According to Manning these shells had not been found at the roadside or lawn of Ashley’s house—unless they had been discovered fairly recently. Whether or not the person who had pulled the trigger had the intelligence to comb the car for those shells was something else again.

  Standing on the garage floor and leaning inside the car, he directed his flash on the carpet in front of the rear seat. He went over this inch by inch. He paid particular attention to the crevices at the front and rear as well as the metal strips on the sides. When he found nothing here he moved in and, on his knees now, went over the seat, sliding his fingers well down into the crack where it met the back rest.

  He repeated the procedure on the floor of the front part of the car, depending not only on his eyes and the flashlight but his sense of touch. Gradually then a feeling of futility began to work on him and to fend off his discouragement he continued stubbornly.

  The high hopes had faded now. This was to have been the starting point from which his theory could be developed. Without something concrete to support his hope he had only bits of information, most of it intangible, on which to make an accusation. In the end it was this stubbornness that finally paid off.

  He did not see the hole in the back rest a quarter of an inch above its juncture with the cushion, and it is unlikely anyone else would have seen it unless he had been looking for it. For the small neat pattern of the upholstery that covered the sponge-rubber base had a dark background and the break in that fabric was tiny.

  It was the touch of his finger that found that break, and having found it, the finger probed more deeply. The beam of the flashlight revealed little more on the surface but he knew now he had found a hole. He tried to expand it with the tip of his little finger. When the tough resiliency of the rubber blocked him, he reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and removed the thin, ball point pen which someone had given him, a cheap giveaway pen with an advertising message printed along its length.

  With the end of this he began to probe anew, his weight driving the point deeper. He was not sure how far the pen had penetrated but he knew finally that the point had come up against something that felt hard and metallic.

  By adding leverage he was able to move the tip back and forth, to feel the slight scratch of metal on metal. Then, because he could do no more at the moment, he withdrew the pen and remembered again the three shots he had heard the night before.

  Two of these had come one on top of the other. The third was delayed. Because Ashley had died hard? Because he had strength and the will to fight back while he could. There was powder burns on his hand and if they had come from the third shot it seemed likely that he had grabbed the muzzle and twisted it violently aside before that third bullet was fired.

  He felt his hopes soar as he completed the thought. If the slug was in the seat, and the gun could be found—

  “Okay, Rick!”

  He stiffened where he stood, his feet on the garage floor his weight forward on hands that still rested on the seat. He had heard no sound until those words hit him without warning. He had been too busy with his thoughts and with his search to consider the possibility that he had been seen, but there was no doubt in his mind about the voice.

  “Back out! Easy now.”

  Rick did as directed. He straightened and turned slowly and then he saw the little gun in Austin Farrell’s hand.

  “Elinor saw you from her window,” Farrell said. “She wasn’t sure who it was, so I thought I’d have a look. If I have to use this you’ll be a prowler I failed to recognize in time.”

  Rick stood stiff-legged and immobile while he fought off the shock of his surprise. Because he did not want to let on how badly he had been shaken he was careful with his voice.

  “That would be a stupid thing to do.”

  “Would it?”

  “Because when they dug the bullet out of me they might just compare it with the two they found in Tom Ashley. Then where would you be?”

  “It wouldn’t do you much good then, would it?”

  “That’s the gun, isn’t it?”

  Farrell leaned back against the other car. “What were you looking for?”

  “Empty shells?”

  “You’re a little late. So were the police when they came poking about this afternoon.”

  “Three shells?”

  “That’s right.”

  Rick considered speaking of the hole in the upholstery and decided against it. That would be for the police to dig out—if he could stay alive until they got on the job.

  “That gun isn’t going to do you much good in the end, is it, Austin?” he said.

  “I don’t know.” Farrell glanced down at it. When he looked up his handsome face was tight and some new purpose showed in his eyes. “That’ll depend on a lot of things. “Shut that door, Rick.”

  He waited until Rick closed the car door. “Now let’s go inside. I think we’d better talk things over. Out the side door and in the back way. Just remember I’ll be right behind you and if I have to use the gun I’ll probably do it, stupid or not.… Get moving!”

  It was quite dark as they moved out the door and along a breezeway to the rear entrance. The lights were on here and Rick took no notice of his surroundings but did what Farrell told him until they reached the center hall. He knew his way then and walked ahead, hearing Farrell two paces behind him as their steps synchronized.

  Elinor Farrell was sitting in the same chair in which he had last seen her. She wore a loose-fitting navy dress which seemed to accent her pale, well-boned face. Again she had a printed scarf in her lap and her right hand moved beneath it while her left lay motionless on the chair arm.

  She was looking right at him as he advanced, and all at once he knew what was wrong with his portrait and why he had been dissatisfied with it the other afternoon. For this was not at all the face he had painted; this was not the woman who had sat for him twice weekly during the past month. The strain showed in the features now and he recognized it as such. The face seemed thinner somehow, the mouth tense, and the eyes which had so often reflected the dignity and serenity that characterized this woman were shocked and afraid.

  “He was searching the car,” Farrell said. “Sit down, Rick. Over here where I can keep an eye on you.

  Rick eased down on the divan that had been placed against a refectory table facing the windows. He looked at the woman and then at the gun. When he let his gaze move upward he did not like w
hat he saw in Farrell’s thin-lipped face. Not knowing what came next, he decided to wait and let someone else carry the ball. Farrell might have done so—at least he had started to open his mouth—when the silence was broken by the shrill summons of the telephone.

  From his sitting position, Rick jumped about two inches as his reflexes responded to the sound. Elinor stiffened slightly in her chair and glanced at her husband.

  “Answer it, Austin.”

  Farrell backed toward the telephone table and picked up the instrument.

  “Yes.… Who?” His eyes flicked to Rick and his smooth brow was suddenly warped. “Yes. Who’s calling?”

  He covered the mouthpiece with his hand and spoke to his wife. “A Mr. Johnson. He wants Rick.”

  “But—how would he know—”

  “I told him to call me here,” Rick said.

  “Then talk to him,” the woman said.

  Farrell extended the telephone and spoke softly as he stepped aside and leveled the gun.

  “And be damned careful what you say, Sheridan. I’m not fooling.”

  “Hello,” Rick said. “Yes, this is Sheridan.”

  “I got what you wanted from the medical examiner,” Johnson said. “No cuts or wounds of any sort inside your wife’s mouth.… Is that what you wanted? Have you got a new lead on this?”

  “I may have.” Rick eyed the gun. “Thanks a lot. I’ll call you back.”

  He hung up before Johnson could reply and again Farrell gestured with the gun.

  “What did he want?”

  “What difference does it make?”

  Farrell chewed on the question a moment. “Go back and sit down.”

  Rick resumed his seat. He stole a glance at his watch. It was exactly eight forty-six and he began to wonder, not if Brainard was going to be late but whether he would come at all. For he needed Brainard now, needed him badly. Once inside, the older man would help make things tough for Farrell because it was his natural bent to make things tough for anyone who gave him an argument.

  “What?” he said in response to something Farrell had said.

  “I asked why you told Johnson, whoever he is—”

  “He’s a lawyer.”

  “—to call you here?”

  “Because after I had searched your car I intended to come in and—”

  This time the interruption came from the ring of the doorbell and Rick eased back on the cushions and let his breath out slowly while Farrell and his wife again exchanged startled glances.

  “Who the devil can that be?” Farrell said.

  He swore softly as the ring was repeated.

  Elinor had leaned forward, her hands white-knuckled as she squeezed the arms of her chair. Her face was taut and still as she waited for the next ring and presently it came.

  “Let it ring,” Farrell said savagely. “Maybe whoever it is will go away.”

  “I don’t think so,” Rick said.

  “What?” Farrell scowled at him.

  “That’s probably Brainard.”

  “Brainard? Don’t kid me. Why should he—”

  “Because I asked him. I asked him to meet me here at a quarter of nine.”

  Farrell was glaring now but he still had no answer and when the bell continued to ring, steadily now, he swore again and said: “Let it ring, damn it! He can’t break in.”

  “He’ll probably go to the police,” Rick said.

  “Austin!” Elinor sat up in her chair. “You’ll have to answer the door. Maybe you can convince him that we’re alone.… And give me that before you go, please.”

  She was looking at the gun now and when Farrell hesitated she spoke again with new authority. “Please do as I say, Austin.”

  Farrell stepped quickly to the chair and she accepted the automatic in her left hand. Then he wheeled and disappeared in the hall.

  Rick waited, breathing shallowly now as his nerves began to tighten. He heard the door open and Farrell’s voice. Brainard replied and Farrell answered, and now Brainard’s voice rose and there was no difficulty hearing what he said.

  “What do you mean, he’s not here?” he demanded. “His car’s out front and he told me to meet him here.… Well, make up your mind. Do I come in or find the nearest telephone and call the police?”

  Rick had heard that tone of voice so often over the years that he was used to it. Apparently Farrell was not equipped to combat it at the moment because presently steps sounded in the hall and the door slammed and then Brainard was moving into the room where he looked at Rick and then at the woman before he came to a stop. He also saw the gun.

  “What’s that for?” he snapped.

  “I was searching a car when Farrell came up behind me in the garage,” Rick said. “He had the gun. That’s why I’m sitting here. Thanks for coming.”

  Brainard did not seem to hear this last. He was watching Farrell, his face stiff and his eyes savage beneath the bushy brows. Normally he was not a profane man and to women of his class he had a certain courtliness. At this moment however the pressure was too much for him to bear.

  “So you’re the miserable bastard who did it?” he said.

  “Mr. Brainard.”

  Brainard’s hands flexed at his sides but something in the woman’s tone made him look at her.

  “Please sit down,” Elinor said.

  “Why? This is a matter for the police now, isn’t it?” He turned on Rick. “You can prove he did it, can’t you?”

  “I know some things that may help,” Rick said. “If I can get a chance to explain them. When I finish you can decide for yourself.”

  Brainard thought it over. “All right.” He picked out a straight-backed chair and sat down. “Let’s get started.”

  Rick took a second to look at his audience one at a time. This was what he had come for and now he had his chance. The trouble was there were so many things inside his head that crowded for expression he did not know quite how to start. He swallowed and wet his lips. When he was ready he spoke first of Tom Ashley.

  He related some of the things Ashley had told him in their last conversation and spoke of his suspicions.

  “Tom was at my place somewhere around the time Frieda was killed,” he said. “He lied about his movements because we know now he must have known who killed her. Until then he had protected this person. I don’t know why except that Frieda was threatening his happiness and her death removed the pressure. I suppose it may have seemed like a favor to him and he was willing to let it go at that.”

  “Wait a minute!” Brainard spoke harshly. “What’s this about Frieda blackmailing him.

  Rick told the truth as he knew it and the look in the older man’s eyes told him that Brainard had never suspected that his daughter might have had an affair with Ashley or anyone else.

  “Whatever the reason,” Rick went on, Tom knew he could not hold out any longer. I had enough facts and theory to cause his arrest in the morning and he knew I intended to go to the police with what I had.… The mistake he made was in calling the killer as soon as I left. He was a very decent guy and he must have wanted to explain why he had to tell the truth; when he finished the killer must have begged for a final interview.”

  He paused and said: “I thought there had been an argument and that Tom had been shot outside in the darkness. I know now it didn’t happen that way.… I was sitting in my bedroom when I heard those shots and I finally remembered that I had heard an automobile horn a few minutes before that.

  “What happened,” he said, “is that the killer blew his horn and Tom came out to the car, never dreaming that the person he had protected would turn on him. He was shot down from that car, probably without warning, without a chance. As he staggered back and fell the car moved off. It was out of sight by the time I could run out of the house.”

  He went on hurriedly to tell what he had done and how he had called the police. “When I knew he was dead I got an idea,” he said. “I made three calls. Neither Eastman nor Gorton, who had possibl
e motives for murder, were home, so I called here. From the time I heard the shots until I made this last call was perhaps fifteen minutes—no longer. But it’s only a ten-minute drive from Tom’s place to here; time enough to get back before the call came. You answered, Elinor.”

  The woman nodded. “I know.”

  “You said Austin wasn’t here.”

  “Which was true.”

  “You had to say that because if I asked to speak to him you would have been trapped. You pretended you’d been asleep but you weren’t, were you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “When Austin goes in town he usually takes the small car to the station. He was in town last night—and that left the Continental. I say Ashley was shot from that car and I can prove it. I think you drove it. Even with a crippled leg you can drive a car with an automatic shift. I know you can because you drove a car away from my house the night Frieda was strangled.”

  “What’s all this?” Brainard leaned forward and seemed about to spring from the chair. “Elinor? You’re saying Elinor killed her? I thought it was Farrell.”

  “So did I,” Rick said, “until after I’d left his office and had a chance to add up a few things.… Yes,” he said as he let out his breath, “Elinor killed her. Didn’t you, Elinor?”

  Chapter 21

  The silence that came with Rick’s announcement lasted for three long seconds and was finally broken by Farrell. Until then he had been standing and now he made some small throaty sound that could have been a muffled groan. His shoulders sagged and he moved slowly over to the chair that faced his wife and let himself down wearily.

  Brainard remained as he was, his bushy brows bunched over eyes that gradually lost the look of incredulity to narrow fixedly on the woman. Elinor’s body remained at ease. The gun lay under her left hand on the arm of the chair and finally she lifted the hand to gesture emptily.

  “You can’t be serious, Rick.” She smiled and it was not a bad effort under the circumstances. “I can’t understand why you should accuse me like this when you have nothing to offer but some wild guesses. Surely there must be more than that.”

  “A couple of things, Elinor,” Rick said. “Some of them so minor I might not have remembered them at all if it hadn’t been for the atomizer.”