The Classic Mystery Novel

by Dorothy Cameron Disney

  There was no answer. The footsteps ceased, and all was quiet. Someone lurked beyond the door, motionless, listening, waiting for me further to betray myself.

  I crouched against the panel. I heard from the other side the flare of a match, a rattle along the floor, and then, most terrible of all, I heard the sound of the steel shank as it was forced through the hole in the door. Slowly the door began to open. I resisted frantically. Inch by inch the steady, insistent pressure forced me back. The noiseless, terrible contest continued. My strength and will gave way. The door opened wide. I was trapped in the corner, pressed against the wall.

  Footsteps, regular, unhurried, came into the storeroom, crossed to the couch. The thick darkness kept its secret well. I could see nothing. The couch coverlet rustled; leather scraped on wood. A pause, long and ominous. Then the unhurried footsteps returned to the door, again paused. I prepared for the end. Whoever had entered the room knew that I, or that some person, was also there. I opened my mouth to scream, made no sound.

  The door began to close, slowly and deliberately as it had opened. Fantastically, in the darkness, I heard a low soft chuckle. The door shut smartly; the shank was swiftly withdrawn, and was dropped to the floor on the other side. I heard it fall.

  Three minutes that were like hours dragged by. Certain my visitor would not return, I tottered to the couch, found the flashlight. Laura Twining’s bags were gone. I was alone and imprisoned once more.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  A Splinter of Bone

  Gravel pattered at the window-pane behind me. A sharp, small noise like the rattle of broken beads. I tottered to the window. Jack stood on the ground below. His coat was torn, his cheek was bleeding, but to me he looked very nearly perfect. Then to my consternation he called in loud and cheerful tones:

  “I’m alive and whole. I had a devil of a time getting down that arbor, and…”

  I leaned out into the night. “For heaven’s sake be quiet. Something dreadful’s happened.”

  I heard him gasp, but he asked no questions. “I’ll be there in a minute.”

  A little later his footfall sounded in the corridor beyond the storeroom. Once more the steel shank slipped through the door, once more the knob was turned, and the door was opened. This time, though, I felt the blessed clasp of Jack’s arms, the warmth of his kiss on my lips. I tried incoherently to talk and I know that I wept from sheer relief. Clinging together, we started through the pitch-black silent house toward the lower floor. I recall little of that swift and noiseless journey, but as we started down the cellar stairs I did become vaguely aware of the change in temperature. The previous bitter chill had vanished; the basement dampness stirred with a feeble, humid warmth. A strange odor assailed the nostrils, an odor misty and unsubstantial, yet faintly acrid, like rubber drying in the sun. Then, suddenly, from the darkness came a whimpering moan.

  “What was that?”

  Jack’s arm tightened at my waist. “It must be Reuben. Poor little devil, I’d forgotten we left him here. Come, Lola.”

  I sensed the strain and urgency in his voice, the speed with which he hurried me outside. But I was glad enough to go. Jack returned for Reuben, and shortly afterward was at my side.

  We ran most of the way to the cottage, stumbling along in the dark, Jack with Reuben nestled under his coat. Under the cheerful light of the living-room lamps it became evident that Reuben was less seriously injured than we had thought. But the little dog was bruised and bloody, and my rage at his condition was a tonic to my nerves. While Jack busied himself with iodine and bandages, and I grew angrier every minute and less afraid, I got my story fully told.

  I can remember now Jack’s whitening face, the look in his eyes, how he rested his cheek against mine, how he said: “Maybe you’re a bum housekeeper, love of my life, maybe you don’t sew the buttons on my shirts, but you do have your points. Go on, weep on my shoulder. Collapse! You’re entitled, to a week of prostration. You’ve earned it.”

  That made me laugh. But Jack’s kiss wasn’t a joke. We had a moment of our own, before I said honestly, “The truth is, I was scared stiff. So scared that I haven’t the remotest notion who the man in the storeroom was, what he looked like or anything else.”

  “I think,” said Jack, “I know what he looks like. And both of us know why he ran such a desperate risk to get those bags.” Jack was silent for a long time. “You must have noticed how warm it was on our second trip through the cellar. And that curious odor. While we were trapped in the storeroom, Lola, something was being burned downstairs. Burned in a hot quick fire. I examined the furnace when I went back for Reuben. It was still warm. I found this in the ashes.”

  From his pocket Jack removed a tiny, charred object. It was a splinter of bone, very narrow, about three inches long—a fragment broken from a larger section. We stared at each other. Our eyes asked questions with implications almost too terrible to put into words.

  Jack said, “You’re certain you saw Laura’s passport?”

  “Positive.” Suddenly I found myself near tears.

  Jack took my hand, and held it hard. “It’s a ghastly thing to think about, but there it is. Laura Twining has been murdered, Lola, her body burned. Ghastlier still. I’m convinced I know who’s back of it.”

  I only looked at him.

  “In all her many talks with the French police,” Jack said carefully, “Mrs. Coatesnash has consistently omitted one important fact—the fact that the woman who started to Europe with her never arrived there. That’s significant, isn’t it?”

  “But how…”

  “Do you recall,” Jack asked, “the day the Burgoyne sailed? Do you remember the Coatesnash car passing us on the road? Who was in the car besides Laura?”

  Before me rose the unforgotten scene. It was a sunny February afternoon. I saw an ancient limousine rush past us and away toward New York. I saw baggage heaped in the car, saw Mrs. Coatesnash’s cold still nod, saw an English mastiff crouched on the floor, saw Laura Twining’s averted profile. At the wheel, facing his task with obstinacy and ignorant conceit. I saw a third familiar figure.

  I said, “Silas was driving.”

  “Well?”

  A series of possibilities paraded through my mind. Like scenes from a motion picture, rapid and chronological: A decrepit limousine halted on a deserted backwoods road; a terrible struggle occurred in the car with a strong and sullen man in the leading role; a body was carried back to a big white house and hastily buried; a proud old woman pursued a predetermined plan, traveled on to New York, and sailed alone.

  The events which might have occupied that sunlit afternoon seemed clear enough, but I hit upon no motives. What motive had Mrs. Coatesnash for the murder of her companion? What motive had Silas?

  I considered the relationship between Silas Elkins and Luella Coatesnash—the hired man’s serf-like demeanor toward the lady, her bland acceptance of it. Assuming that Mrs. Coatesnash desired to hurry Laura Twining from the world, I was almost ready to assume that Silas could be bullied, persuaded or ordered into assisting the bloody purpose. Almost—not quite.

  Logic faltered when I weighed his character and particularly his cowardice. Silas had the physical stamina, the strength for murder. Had he the courage, the cool and steady nerves, the will? The unknown whom I had encountered in the storeroom must surely be the murderer. That person had possessed to an extraordinary degree cunning, determination and intrepidity. Silas hardly possessed such attributes. Or did he? Could I have struggled with Silas and failed to recognize him?

  Chin sunk in his palms, forehead knotted, Jack also pondered the string of evil possibilities. On the chair Reuben stirred and moaned. Jack stroked the dog’s head. Slowly his expression changed.

  “We’ve been overlooking something damned important. Reuben.”

  “Reuben?”

  “I thought it was Silas who was at the big
house tonight, scaring you to death, vanishing with the bags. Well, it wasn’t. This fellow here lets him out,” Jack said ruefully. “Reuben wouldn’t have barked at Silas, in the first place—under any circumstances. And in the second place, Silas wouldn’t have needed to maltreat his own dog so he could escape from us into the house.”

  That logic was unanswerable. Reuben hated strangers, but was always friendly to those he knew. But if it had not been Silas in the big house—and eventually we decided it had not been—it was still possible that he suspected someone else was there and for Mrs. Coatesnash’s sake meant to shield that person from our curiosity. Did Annabelle Bayne also suspect? Who was the mysterious third person?

  Abruptly Jack turned and faced me. “What do you think of Franklyn Elliott as a candidate? Maybe he was on the hill tonight. He has courage, imagination, subtlety, all the talents of the top-flight criminal.”

  I said dryly, “A pretty conclusive definition of a man you’ve seen exactly twice.”

  “Twice was plenty. Elliott knows more than he’s told, a good deal more. Here’s something else. His profession is against him. He is a lawyer”—here Jack developed a favorite theory of his own—“and successful lawyers are notoriously the most lawless class on earth. They’re trained to consider evidence in a special light, as something to use, or something to hide and destroy. They make fortunes in contriving evasions of justice. Elliott would probably stop at nothing to assist a rich client. And the Lord knows that Mrs. Coatesnash is rich.”

  I thought Franklyn Elliott would stop at digging up and burning the body of a murdered woman—to oblige Mrs. Coatesnash or any other client I said so.

  “It’s nonsense, Jack. I don’t trust Elliott, but we’ve no real proof he isn’t a reputable lawyer. Nothing beyond a lot of vague suspicions.”

  “He ducked the inquest and made that secret call on Annabelle Bayne.”

  “That’s true enough, but…”

  “This isn’t vague!” Jack rose suddenly from his chair. “Do you remember Elliott’s telling us that he went down and saw Mrs. Coatesnash off to Europe? Laura wasn’t aboard the Burgoyne; she couldn’t have been. Has Franklyn Elliott said one word about her absence? You bet he hasn’t. He’s let us all believe that Laura was safe in Paris.”

  It was long past three o’clock. A distant rooster crowed shrilly. I wasn’t sleepy. I was confused, dissatisfied, bewildered.

  What we had learned at Hilltop House, what we had inferred, appeared to lead not toward, but away from, the original mystery. How could the events which had taken place that night be connected with the murder of Hiram Darnley? Superficially the grim-faced wealthy lawyer (our first victim) and the penniless spinster who had drunk our tea seemed worlds apart. I accepted that Darnley had been slain for money. Laura had no money. She was dull, colorless, unprovocative. So far as I could see there was nothing about her to invite murder.

  Luella Coatesnash was the single link between the dual mysteries. Hilltop House belonged to her; Darnley had been her legal representative; Laura had been her companion, her closest confidante.

  Presently Jack roused from his own thoughts. “I’ve been busy trying to tie up Darnley and Laura. Maybe I’ve got somewhere. I don’t know. I’ve been wondering if there might not have been a motive for Darnley’s murder other than that money.” He gave a short laugh. “I’ll admit that Mrs. Coatesnash would hardly conspire to kill a man for money. The money which Darnley carried must fit in of course, but if Mrs. Coatesnash had him murdered it must have been for another reason. I’ve thought of one good sound reason, and only one, why she might have wanted Hiram Darnley and Laura Twining out of the way.”

  “What is it?”

  “Think it out yourself, Lola. Concentrate on Mrs. Coatesnash, on the kind of woman she is. How could you hit at her? How could you bring her to the point of murder?”

  “You’ll have to spell it out for me,” I said slowly. “Unless—” I hesitated. “—unless you’re thinking about her grand old family name.”

  Jack smiled his satisfaction. “That’s it precisely. As I see it, you could hit at Luella only through her family, her infernal pride of race. Now let’s go on from there. Suppose Laura Twining and Hiram Darnley shared a piece of information, a secret, a shameful secret that concerned the Coatesnash family. The honor of the family sounds unmodern, old-fashioned, but Luella doesn’t live in a modern world. She belongs to the generation which cheerfully faced death before disgrace.”

  “Still…”

  Jack waved aside the interruption. “Wait a minute. Luella learns those two know the secret. Maybe Laura and Darnley threaten her with it. She sees disgrace, a grand old family toppling in the mud; she can’t bear the village knowing, snickering, whispering behind her hack. She…” Suddenly Jack’s eyes blazed. “The daughter, Lola! Jane—remember Jane? Remember the curious drowning? Darnley headed the search. Could he have learned something then, something about the girl, something kept quiet for years, but something hot enough to be news today in Crockford?”

  “But where and how and when did Laura and Darnley meet? We have no knowledge they ever did. Laura came to Mrs. Coatesnash after Jane’s death. Darnley hadn’t been in Crockford since then until the other night. Or we don’t know he had.”

  “Laura has been in New York.”

  “Darnley was a hard-headed business man. If he actually had a secret, why would he choose a chatterbox like Laura to confide in?”

  “They may have discovered it simultaneously. The thing for us to do is to establish a friendship if we can. Find out how well they knew each other. Find out everything about them both.”

  Shortly afterward Jack belatedly telephoned to the police. He disliked the task of outlining our evening’s questionable activities, but I for one was happy to delegate my own share in any further speculation. I was intolerably weary. Also I have a pragmatic mind, and though Jack’s theory was ingenious, I wanted some solid, substantial evidence to support it.

  Standish could not be raised by repeated ringing, but eventually Jack roused Lester Harkway. The young policeman asked excited questions, and promised to leap into clothes and come out at once. As Jack replaced the telephone, the clock on the mantel struck four. Four long silvery notes. Someone began to pound at the cottage door.

  I looked at the clock. I looked at Jack. He went quickly to the door, called out, “Who’s there?” A moment later he returned with Dr. Rand. The physician was haggard and worn; his coat was a mass of wrinkles; his shoes were caked and muddy. He walked wearily, gratefully to the fire.

  “It’s a lucky thing for me you artists and writers never go to bed. I saw your lights from the road and chanced your being up. Do I smell coffee?”

  “Will you have some?”

  “Will I! Two cups, if it’s handy, no sugar, but I favor lots of cream. Also I’d like to borrow a gallon of gas. My car ran out down the road a piece. Second time I’ve been caught in twenty years. Not bad, considering…but maybe after all we should have stuck to the horse.”

  He took a chair near the fire and yawned prodigiously.

  “Babies have a talent for selecting inconvenient hours to make a start in life. It’s a wonder their mothers put up with it. I wonder I do myself.” He rubbed his fingers through his skull-white hair. “I had a nasty shock tonight. It comes to me I’m getting old, damned old—senile, practically. An hour ago I brought Alice Shipman’s baby into the world; eighteen years ago I brought Alice into the world. That’s bad enough, but it’s not the worst of it. The first baby I delivered in Crockford was Alice Shipman’s mother. Thirty-eight years ago almost to the day—thirty-eight years! Does that qualify me for the firing squad, or doesn’t it? No man should be permitted to outlive his arteries.” He yawned again. “There’s no money in babies; there never was. People have them, doctors deliver them, and no one seems to make a penny out of it. Did you ever read Swift’s Modest Proposal
? Swift suggested that Irish infants be substituted for pork in the retail markets. I’ve often thought his notion should be applied in Crockford. God, I’m tired. Will you tell me why any sane man takes up a country practice?”

  We couldn’t tell him. I brought the coffee. He drank three cups, instead of the threatened two. His shoes were muddy. He borrowed a tea towel and polished them. He fell to discussing the inquest. He said heatedly that Annabelle Bayne should be ducked as a public nuisance. He regretted the passing of old New England customs which had possessed a certain social value.

  The clock struck the half hour. The physician glanced at it. “Good Lord, is it that late? What were you kids doing up? Don’t you ever go to bed?” He eyed Jack disapprovingly. “You were knocked unconscious less than a week ago. You should take care of yourself. You’re looking pale around the gills.” The sharp gaze was transferred to me. “You look a little peaked, too.” He peered into my face, felt my wrist, wagged his head. “Saffron eyes at twenty. A jumpy pulse. Wretched color. If you youngsters don’t start sleeping occasionally, when you get my age you’ll have no nerves worth mentioning.”

  “It’s fortunate we didn’t turn in tonight,” Jack said at once. “We’ve covered a lot of valuable ground. Most of the credit is due to Lola, but between us we’ve practically worked out a theory for Hiram Darnley’s murder.”

  Immediately the physician lost interest. “After drinking your coffee and toasting my feet at your fire, I probably shouldn’t criticize. However, one of the advantages of age, one of the few, is offering unsolicited advice. Polite young people feel obliged to listen. If I were you, young man, I’d pick something better to occupy my time.” He sniffed. “The village is overrun with amateur detectives, poking and prying and chattering among themselves. Ghouls, the lot of ’em! Why class yourself and your wife with a collection of morbid louts? You look normal. So does she.” Jack grinned. “Sure I’m normal. So normal that I actively resent the possibility of being arrested for a murder I didn’t commit.”