The Classic Mystery Novel

by Dorothy Cameron Disney

  “What are you trying to do? Blow up an unimportant argument into a motive for murder? What are you looking for? A confession?”

  “I am merely trying to get at the truth.”

  “You’re taking a damned unpleasant way about it.” Jack got up from his chair, and his face was white. “If you’re inferring that I was angry enough to shoot Lewis—which I wasn’t—if you’re inferring that I was armed—which I wasn’t—then you might go a step further. No person in his right mind would shoot a man to death, leave his body on a public street, and immediately afterward go shopping! Or do you take me for a fool as well as a murderer?”

  Into the electric atmosphere, like a two-for-a-penny firecracker, broke Minnie’s plaintive voice. “Mr. Storm, you simply must speak slowly. I didn’t get half you said.”

  Jack glanced at her distressed face, at me, regained his equilibrium. He sat down. “I’m glad you missed it.” Already realizing his outburst had been ill-advised, he looked at Standish and entered a resentful half-apology. “I shouldn’t have blown up, but I’ve been chivied and harassed until I hardly knew what I was saying. I’ve done my best to cooperate. Won’t you agree I haven’t acted the part of a criminal?”

  This elicited no reply. A quick knock sounded at the door. An excited voice called, “You there, Standish? May I come in? I’ve got something important for you.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The Pigskin Bag

  The door opened and anti-climax walked into the room in the person of Harold Blair. Standish’s chief deputy was a plump, waspish little man who had adopted, and adapted to a Crockford career, the airs and graces of fictional detectives. The knowing expressions, the dramatic manner, the haste when no haste is necessary. Short rapid steps carried him to his superior. He glanced portentously at the group and announced in a highly audible whisper:

  “I’ve found something—an important clue.”

  This clue, flung proudly upon the table, seemed to my inexperienced eyes merely a tiny cylinder of brass, somewhat scuffed and dented. Jack recognized it for what it was—the metal jacket of the bullet which had done for Elmer Lewis.

  At that time I knew nothing of guns. I was to learn a great deal. Elmer Lewis had been shot with a .45 caliber automatic pistol—the type of weapon which fires, extracts and ejects the empty cartridge shell, and is ready to fire again. The hand touches the trigger, the complicated series of mechanical reactions instantly follow. Dr. Rand had recovered the bullet; now Blair produced the empty cartridge shell which had dropped to the ground a twinkling fraction of a second before Lewis died. Standish brought out the flattened bullet, lined it up beside the scarred metal jacket, and the little blood brothers were reunited. Blair preened himself. Standish moodily studied the two exhibits.

  “Where did you find the shell?”

  “On Main Street, to the left of where the car was parked. I marked the spot, told Gray to keep the crowd off. Thought maybe the murderer might have left footprints.”

  Jack ignored this absurd suggestion and with it Blair. He turned to Standish. “I’d like to know. Doesn’t the spot where the shell dropped fix the place from which the gun was fired?”

  “Approximately.”

  “The murderer stood underneath the big elm,” Blair said promptly.

  “Exactly,” said Jack. “It was dark there; the street was noisy. A set-up which allowed someone to creep up to the car shoot Lewis, and escape unseen and unheard. Lola and I were gone a full ten minutes.”

  Standish listened in silence. Something about his expression frightened me and I guessed what he was thinking. Whatever we had established, we had by no means established our own absence from the car at the fatal moment.

  I said. “What are the chances of locating the gun?”

  The police chief smiled as one smiles at a child. “Very slight, in my opinion A forty-five is a common type of weapon. Connecticut factories must turn out hundreds every month.”

  “I was thinking of ballistic experts. Can’t they determine by markings on the bullet whether a particular gun was used?”

  “First they’ve got to lay hands on the particular gun. Quite a poser, if you ask me. Directly one man kills another, as a usual thing, he can’t get rid of his weapon fast enough.”

  I restrained a sharp impulse to point out that jack could hardly have discarded a weapon in the short trip from car to grocery store. At this moment Standish requested Jack to stand up. Beginning at Jack’s knees he patted his body to the shoulders—a quick, expert procedure that left no doubt as to its meaning. He picked up my pocketbook and peered inside. He went through the pockets of my coat. He found no gun. The overhead light wore a green shade; Jack’s face had a greenish cast.

  “I suppose you will also search the grocery store and the drug store?”

  “We have already,” said Standish.

  A long hush ensued. Water slid down the window-panes, the fire crackled and leaped up the chimney, throwing crimson shadows upon the floor. Jack said steadily:

  “I would like to clarify my standing here. If I’m helping you, that’s one thing. If I’m definitely under suspicion I want a lawyer.”

  “You don’t need a lawyer—yet.” The phraseology was disconcerting and was planned to be. Standish’s tone, however, was gentle. He smiled in a fatherly fashion, and set out on a different and equally alarming tack. “See here, Storm, I’ll be perfectly frank with you. I don’t believe you’re a cold-blooded killer, you aren’t the type. Furthermore, being practical, you had no chance to get rid of a gun. On the other hand—” He paused. “—I am convinced you haven’t told the whole truth about tonight. For your own sake, I suggest you do.”

  Too tired to repeat useless protestations, Jack only shook his head. We had another interruption, this time a welcome one. Lester Harkway knocked from the reception room, strode inside, bringing with him the fresh smell and feel of rain. He had already heard garbled rumors on the street. A curious glance traveled from Jack to me, before he reported to Standish that he was detached from duty indefinitely.

  “All night—if you need me.”

  Shouldering off a damp overcoat, he seated himself and prepared to listen. Standish commenced to piece together the long-drawn-out story of the evening. It seemed to me that every word pointed in our direction. We had received a mysterious phone call which it was apparently impossible to trace—we had driven to New Haven on a stormy afternoon to accommodate a man we didn’t know—we had disliked that man and he had been found murdered in our car. Fair as the summation might have appeared in the speaker’s view, to my ears it possessed the disturbing quality of an indictment. I watched Harkway throughout—he was seated opposite—but vainly. His face kept its own counsel.

  “How can I help, Chief?”

  “I want your version of the quarrel on the road.”

  After a little hesitation and with an obvious attempt to provide uncolored facts, Harkway furnished his account of the much-discussed incident. The account was substantially the same as Jack’s, and I was duly grateful. Standish grew restless.

  “This argument then—in your opinion—was just an argument? Nothing serious?”

  “Exactly what do you mean by serious?”

  “Was the argument serious enough so that it might have been resumed later on? Say, here in the village?”

  Harkway’s head bobbed negatively. “I have no way of judging how Storm felt, or Lewis either, for that matter. I mean after I left them. And you probably wouldn’t be interested in an out-and-out guess.”

  “Certainly I don’t want a guess,” said Standish testily. “I’m simply interested in hearing what you observed and what conclusions you drew.”

  “You’ve got the story. Storm was mad; Lewis acted as if he was; and I was hot under the collar myself. It was pretty much three-cornered.” Harkway shrugged. “There it is, and not much to write home abo
ut.”

  Gradually the argument between Jack and Lewis had been reduced to its proper status and now stood forth as no more than a squabble between two impatient men. I drew an easier breath. Harkway who had been on duty since early morning yawned, covered it quickly, apologized.

  “Is that all?”

  “Unless you have something more to say.”

  Here Harkway paused noticeably. “I hardly know how to say what I mean, but anyway it struck me there was something screwy about that argument. About Lewis’s part in it. Of course I might be wrong. It’s just a notion I had.”

  “Please go on.”

  I don’t remember precisely the manner in which the young policeman worded his next statement, but undoubtedly he phrased it badly. His vocabulary wasn’t made for subtleties and the impression he had received during the argument on the road was a very subtle thing indeed. In effect it was this: Harkway was convinced that when Lewis thrust himself into the colloquy he had done so with the deliberate intention of making himself obnoxious.

  “Lewis acted like he yearned to stir up trouble, Chief. Like a man spoiling for a fight. I thought he was trying to get Storm’s goat. That don’t sound sensible, but it’s what I thought at the time.”

  This also was my opinion, although it seemed to deepen the mystery of our passenger and his behavior. Why should Lewis purposely have sought to antagonize his benefactors? Frowning, Standish addressed himself to Jack.

  “Did you think Lewis was purposely attempting to pick a fight?”

  “It didn’t occur to me just that way. Certainly I considered his actions very strange. Abnormal. Unreasonable.”

  Harkway interrupted. “There was something phony about the guy. For all his loud talk he was nervous as a cat. My headlights fell on his face when he leaned out of the rumble seat and he jumped like he’d touched a hot stove. Pulled up his coat collar and jammed his hat over his eyes—like—like he was afraid I might get too good a look at him.”

  Jack eyed Standish challengingly. “Lewis had a similar effect on Lola and me. Phony is a good word to describe him; he wasn’t the sort you think of in connection with Mrs. Coatesnash. Personally I wonder how and where and why she picked him up.”

  As if suddenly reminded, Standish reached for the telephone, stayed his hand. “Do you know Mrs. Coatesnash’s Paris address?”

  Jack shook his head. “Silas would know.”

  I said, “Friday is band-practice night. He won’t be home.”

  Standish smiled, called several numbers, and finally got the address. After which he phoned the New Haven telegraph offices and dispatched the following cable:

  LUELLA COATESNASH

  HOTEL ST CLAIR

  RUE MORTANCE, PARIS, FRANCE.

  ADVISE IMMEDIATELY CROCKFORD POLICE ELMER LEWIS’S HOME ADDRESS AND NATURE OF HIS BUSINESS

  WITH YOU.

  When he replaced the receiver, the telephone rang. He spoke briefly, hung up and informed us that the coroner was coming over with his report.

  On the heels of the announcement Dr. Rand arrived. At the fag end of a crowded day divided between his private practice and his official duties, a day begun with a delivery and wound up with an autopsy, the man of sixty looked fatigued but well equipped for further activity. He dropped a bundle of damp, wrinkled clothing with some relief. Then, like the actor he was, he glanced around to get the feeling of the group. I felt he had something up his sleeve. He combed rapid fingers through his snowy hair.

  “Quite a gloomy gathering. You’re lucky you didn’t have my job. I assume you haven’t solved the murder yet.”

  He tossed over a written report which dealt in technical terms with Lewis’s mortal wound, listing the time, manner and medical causes of his death Standish laid it aside. “Did you find any identifying papers on the body?”

  Dr. Rand’s eyes now disclosed a subdued sparkle. “There wasn’t a sign of letters, cards, memos or any of the trash we men usually burden our pockets with. In itself, a fact worth noting.”

  “Any marks in the clothes?”

  “No laundry marks, no label even. The labels had been cut with scissors from the overcoat and waistcoat. It might almost appear that Lewis anticipated this investigation and provided against it.” The physician lifted his hand. “A minute, please. Allow me an opportunity to develop the theme. I promise you will find it worth your while to resume. I examined the body carefully and the farther I went, the more curious I became. Lewis has soft, white, manicured hands, a shade too manicured for my taste. His socks and underwear—look at them yourself—are the finest grade. Ditto his boots, which are London-made, unless I’m very much mistaken.”

  Recalling the shabby overcoat, the well-worn suit, I experienced a twinge of surprise. Standish began to poke among the clothing spread upon the table. The rest of us attended Dr. Rand, who paced slowly up and down before the fire.

  “Now look at the hat, suit and overcoat—quite different, aren’t they? Cheap, shoddy stuff! The suit was a wretched fit, yet the boots were custom made.”

  “Anything else?”

  “An operation for appendicitis a few years back—an excellent surgeon did the work—I’ve never seen a more beautiful scar.” Brought to himself by Standish’s impatient snort, Dr. Rand repressed his professional enthusiasm. “Equally good dentistry—the man’s teeth were…”

  “Let’s pass the teeth.”

  “Are you interested in learning that until a short time ago—two days at the most—Lewis sported a small, neat mustache? One of those broker decorations. There’s a bare patch on the upper lip, lighter than the surrounding epidermis and recently shaved.”

  “Certain of that?”

  “Positive. The condition of the skin indicates he wore a mustache for years, undoubtedly was handsomer with it on. He’s got a bad mouth, if you noticed. If I had been Lewis, I would have kept the mustache. Curious he didn’t choose to.”

  Dr. Rand smiled blandly and continued the performance. I liked him. He was a peculiarly vital man, who breathed excitement and gave it forth.

  “Next,” said the physician, “we come to the spectacles Lewis wore. Here, take them. They’re worth attention.”

  Standish accepted the spectacles. “They look o.k. to me.”

  “Then look again at the lenses.”

  Standish and I saw simultaneously what the physician meant. Convincing on casual scrutiny, the spectacles proved obvious counterfeits when examined carefully, and of no possible aid to vision. The thick clumsy lenses had been cut from ordinary window glass, the frames fashioned of a cheap lead composition. Such spectacles are often sold at toy counters. Standish lifted them to his eyes.

  “Maybe he wore them as a protection from the wind.”

  “Lewis was wearing the glasses,” I said, “when he came out of the station.”

  “No doubt he was,” remarked Dr. Rand. “Amazing what a change a pair of spectacles will work in the appearance. These fit with the missing mustache, the suit, the hat, the overcoat. Taken in conjunction with the watch, they become even more significant.”

  He had expected a mild sensation; he got it. Standish abruptly dropped the eyeglasses. “What watch?”

  “Lewis’s watch, naturally! Or rather the watch he carried in his left-hand vest pocket.”

  With this cryptic statement. Dr. Rand drew from his own pocket a slim platinum watch, no wider than a silver dollar and circled in square-cut diamonds. An expensive, fragile, lovely bauble. Standish extended his hand. Dr. Rand himself forced open the case to reveal delicate, swiftly moving works and a smooth platinum back inscribed with two initials. These initials were H. D.

  Standish stared hard. “H. D doesn’t stand for Elmer Lewis!”

  “My thought exactly.”

  “In other words he wasn’t Elmer Lewis.”

  “Not unless he stole or borrowed the
watch. Take your choice. I’ve taken mine.”

  So had we all. The fine underwear, the cheap outer apparel, the ridiculous eyeglasses, the shaved upper lip, the lack of labels and the pockets empty of personal memoranda, like tiny signposts pointed to an inescapable conclusion. Elmer Lewis had chosen to alight in the New Haven station as a man without a past. Two initials, forgotten or overlooked, had betrayed the plan, even though they did not elucidate its reason.

  Standish placed the watch beside the spectacles, got heavily to his feet. Stooping, he lifted the brass-bound traveling bag, previously removed from our car. The bag was securely locked. He grunted, strove unsuccessfully to force the catches. A sudden question in his eyes, Jack leaned forward.

  “Where’s the other bag?”

  Standish ceased his labors. “What other bag?”

  “The bag in the rumble seat.” As often when perturbed, Jack began to stutter. “Didn’t I say there were two bags? One in front with us, one in back with Lewis.”

  Standish spun upon the coroner. “Doc, was there a bag in the rumble seat when you examined the body?”

  “No—no. There was no bag there.”

  “What became of it, then?”

  Question and glare were general. No one was imprudent enough to venture a reply.

  “How about you, Harkway? Did you see a bag when you stopped the car? I mean in the rumble seat.”

  “Gosh, I can’t remember.”

  “Something happened to that second bag! It didn’t fly off over the meadows.”

  The police chief’s anger exploded into action. Seizing a paper knife he attacked the bag on the chair. One catch broke. The knife slid into the crack beneath the lid, bent in a dangerous arc, and the other catch broke; the lid of the bag snapped back and the knife flew across the room to fall unnoticed.

  We crowded about Standish, all of us silent, too amazed for speech. The pigskin bag was heaped with currency. Hundred-dollar bills, ten-and twenty-dollar bills. Stack after stack, fitted shoulder to shoulder, still wearing the paper halters provided by banking houses.