The Classic Mystery Novel

by Dorothy Cameron Disney

  “He told us the same.” Jack hesitated. “Did you know that Elliott was here at the Tally-ho Inn?”

  “I saw him yesterday,” said Standish shortly. “I wanted to find out what he was doing here, why he evaded the inquest and still saw fit to make a trip to Crockford. I didn’t find out. Elliott said he came here to protect Mrs. Coatesnash’s interests in the investigation. That’s nonsense! He didn’t choose to protect her interests by appearing at the inquest.”

  I had a vivid recollection of a hurrying figure on a moonlit beach. I said, “He called on Annabelle Bayne that very night.”

  “So he told me,” said Standish, “though I suspect it was because he thought I’d gather the information from some other source. Elliott has a talent for anticipating questions and answering them before they’re asked. So far as that goes, if he is in Crockford for the reason he says—feeble as that reason appears—it’s quite plausible he’d call on Annabelle Bayne.”

  “Surely,” I said, confused, “Elliott must have been—well—embarrassed when you asked him why he avoided the inquest.” “Lawyers,” said Standish, “aren’t easily embarrassed. Elliott merely said he didn’t consider his presence necessary at an informal hearing. Said Miss Willetts could tell us as much about the case as he could, so he delegated the job to her. Well, maybe. But it does seem queer that directly afterward he should climb in his car, drive to Crockford and settle down for a lengthy visit.”

  “Maybe,” Jack suggested, “Elliott feels Mrs. Coatesnash needs ‘protection’ of a different kind than that furnished at inquests.” Standish did not reply. He swung to his feet. “I propose we have a talk with Franklyn Elliott. The situation has changed since yesterday. I hope we can persuade him to be more communicative by using Laura Twining as a lever.”

  Together with the two policemen, Jack and I drove to the Tally-ho Inn. Bill Tevis grinned at us from the desk. Standish talked to the clerk a moment and I gathered that the lawyer was in his room. “He’s almost always in,” Bill said cheerfully. “Only goes out for meals. No, he’s had no callers. Too busy, I suppose. He keeps the wires to his New York office busy.”

  Bill then telephoned our names from the lobby, and Elliott requested that we come up at once. The fat man met us in the upper hall. He was in his shirtsleeves, and was casually pulling on a velvet house coat. He welcomed Standish and Harkway cordially enough, though he did cast an odd glance at Jack and me.

  “This is quite a convention,” was the way he put it. “But I daresay in small towns you run your investigations differently. Come in. Sit down. Make yourselves comfortable.”

  I found myself watching him in a kind of angry wonder. What right had he, if half the suspicions I harbored were correct, to be looking and acting so calmly, to be suggesting with every faintly patronizing gesture that we were presuming on his time?

  He ushered us into a room which indicated an indefinite stay. A portable typewriter had been set up, and various personal possessions were scattered about. On the dresser I saw and immediately recognized a photograph of Annabelle Bayne. I chalked up another lie to her score. Not four hours earlier she had told me Elliott was a stranger to her on the night he called at her home. The lawyer intercepted my gaze and I know for a minute I annoyed him. I know, for he managed to pass by the dresser, and knock the photograph face down. But he wasn’t really disturbed.

  And it was he who opened the interview. “Well, Mr. Standish, what can I do for you? Have you any fresh information on my partner’s murder?”

  Standish brushed that aside. “Mr. Elliott,” he began, “you and I have talked before. Relative to your presence in Crockford, what you’re doing here, what your real purpose is.”

  “And during our previous conversations,” Elliott broke in less affably, “I’ve explained repeatedly that I came up here, at some personal sacrifice, to watch out for Luella Coatesnash’s interests. Ordinarily I wouldn’t touch a criminal case, but this situation, as you fully comprehend, is different. My own partner was murdered. For a reason which I fail to fathom my partner was responsible for leaving suspicion on an old and valued client. Under those circumstances I felt morally obligated to drop my other business, come to Crockford and see that Mrs. Coatesnash received justice.”

  “No lawyer is morally obligated to stand between a client and the police!”

  “I don’t like your tone.” Elliott stood up. “I’m Mrs. Coatesnash’s lawyer, and that’s all I am. Certainly I’m not standing between her and the police. On the contrary! I’m more than ready to answer any civil questions.”

  “You’re convinced in your own mind Luella Coatesnash was not responsible for Hiram Darnley’s murder?”

  “Utterly convinced!”

  The fat man sat down again upon the bed. A slanting bar of sunshine illumined his placid face. His expression didn’t vary when Standish said, “When did you last see Laura Twining?”

  Elliott knit his brows. “It must have been the day the Burgoyne sailed. Offhand, I can’t recall the date. But I recall the occasion vividly.”

  “Then—” said Standish, and a note of urgency crept into his voice, “you saw her off with Mrs. Coatesnash.”

  “No,” said Elliott smoothly, “I didn’t see her off. Miss Twining didn’t sail.” For a moment I couldn’t believe my ears and then Elliott repeated in a meditative tone, “Miss Twining didn’t sail.” There was a moment of utter consternation. The big scene had gone awry. Jack and I looked blankly at each other. Beside us Harkway emitted a noiseless whistle. Then Standish strode into the center of the room.

  “Why wasn’t I told before? You deliberately gave me the impression both women were aboard the Burgoyne.”

  “I did nothing of the kind,” said Elliott, and sounded merely peevish. “I never mentioned Laura Twining, nor did you. If you got the wrong impression, it’s not my fault. How could I guess you’d be interested in Laura Twining’s plans? You could easily have learned she didn’t sail by consulting the Burgoyne passenger list, by asking me at any time, by cabling Mrs. Coatesnash.”

  “When Mrs. Coatesnash left here,” said Standish angrily, “it was generally understood Laura Twining was accompanying her to Europe. So generally understood that everyone in town believes they are both abroad. Why, within twelve hours of leaving Crockford, were Mrs. Coatesnash’s plans completely changed? Why, in the weeks since then, should you, and only you, have known the plan was changed? Will you explain the secrecy?”

  “There was no secrecy,” said Elliott impatiently. “If Mrs. Coatesnash didn’t shout the news in letters home, she was merely trying to protect her companion from ugly gossip. I regret to say the Twining woman was a thief.”

  “Laura Twining a thief! I don’t believe it.”

  “You may be right at that.” The plump shoulders shrugged. “Mrs. Coatesnash thought so, but I wasn’t entirely convinced myself. The evidence seemed rather slight. Would you like to hear the story?”

  “I would!” said Standish.

  “Very well, then. Mrs. Coatesnash and the Twining woman arrived in New York some hours before sailing time and took a room at the Wickmore Hotel. Mrs. Coatesnash was tired from the drive down, and went to bed. She sent the companion out with a fifty-dollar bill to do some last-minute shopping. The bill disappeared; lost Miss Twining said, stolen Mrs. Coatesnash said. She marched her companion down to my office, and a most unpleasant scene occurred.” Elliott sighed reminiscently. “Two screaming women with me between them—you can visualize it! I declined to arbitrate. They fought it out between themselves. The upshot was that the companion lost her job and Mrs. Coatesnash, mad as a hatter, sailed alone.”

  It was pure invention, and we knew it was. But there wasn’t a scrap of evidence to disprove it, a fact of which Elliott was fully cognizant. He sat comfortably on his bed, and inwardly I felt he was equally serene.

  “Where is Miss Twining now?”

 
“I haven’t the faintest idea.” The fat man made a vague, inclusive gesture. “There was a sister in the South, in North Carolina or Georgia, one of the Cracker States. She may have gone south or she may have taken another job in the city. She was far too hysterical to discuss her plans.”

  Elliott’s plump ringed hand—he wore an unflawed solitaire—reached for a humidor which held cigars. “May I ask why you’re interested in Laura Twining? Surely you aren’t working on the premise she’s concerned in my partner’s death? I think it most unlikely.”

  “Miss Twining,” Standish said, “has been murdered.” There was a crash as the humidor struck the floor. The lid came off and cigars spilled to the carpet. Franklyn Elliott was white as chalk.

  “You seem startled, Mr. Elliott.”

  “Good God, who wouldn’t be!”

  “Won’t you agree,” said Standish in velvet tones, “it would have been wiser for Mrs. Coatesnash to tell us frankly that her companion was not in Paris?”

  “Naturally, I agree.” The lawyer’s color came slowly back. He took out a handkerchief and mopped his forehead. “Your news bowled me over. I didn’t-I don’t know what to think.

  Where did the murder occur? Where did you find the body? When?”

  “Please hold in mind,” said Standish, “that we came to question, not enlighten you. Have you anything to add to your story about Laura Twining? Would you like to change it?”

  “No,” said Elliott. “No. The story stands.” A peculiar quality instilled his tone. “I will say this. If you would withdraw, let affairs take their course, your mystery might solve itself.”

  He was quite himself again. A moment later he had the effrontery to glance at his watch and ask us to excuse him. I was furious. Maybe I wouldn’t make a good policeman, but I would have liked a chance at questioning Franklyn Elliott.

  The four of us left the Tally-ho Inn and drove dismally to the cottage. It was late afternoon, that twilight hour when human energies sink low. I was depressed and I know the two policemen were. We dropped into steamer chairs on the lawn. It was chilly, but neither Jack nor I had sufficient spirit to invite our guests into the house and start a fire.

  “Listening to a liar,” said Standish, with a sigh, “is weary work. If there’s anything in this life which I detest it’s a polished liar.”

  “Personally,” said Harkway, “if we’re discussing liars, I’d rather tackle an educated man than an ignorant clod. You’re more likely to catch the educated man in contradictions. He talks too much. But the clod recognizes his own deficiencies and won’t talk at all.” He glanced instinctively in the direction of the Lodge. “Are you going to call on Silas, John?”

  “I thought so.” Standish rose. I believe he wanted to be alone, but on the pretext that Silas had neglected to return our keys I managed to accompany him up the hill. Silas apparently had spent the day beside the shattered cellar door. At any rate, we found him there, seated on a kitchen chair, a pitchfork across his knees. Without a word or sign of recognition, he handed me the keys to the cottage. To Standish, he said:

  “I’ve been expecting you. I’ve got a complaint to make. Look at that door! Your friend Harkway kicked it in this morning, and he didn’t have no warrant. I want him thrown off the force. Mrs. Storm here and her husband broke in the house last night.

  I want them arrested.”

  Standish sidestepped the issue neatly. He said soothing, empty phrases, granted that the expedition had been illegal, promised damages and redress. He congratulated the hired man upon his devotion to his employer’s interests.

  Silas relaxed a little. “Then I’ll buy another door tomorrow and charge it to the county.”

  “The county will be glad to pay.”

  Standish peered at the hired man. Quick to read the signs of human distress, he observed what Jack and I had observed a few days earlier. For all his bluster, Silas was distrait, worried, not himself. Obviously he was suffering some inner strain.

  Standish had been acquainted with Silas since Silas’s boyhood. He understood the slow, suspicious workings of the Scotchman’s mind, his deathly fear of law, his determination at any cost to save himself. Convinced that the other was a moving spirit in our mystery, he adopted his own methods of establishing it. He did not storm or threaten, or, as Harkway had done, accuse Silas of destroying evidence. He set himself to woo the hired man’s confidence. He piped a soft and gentle tune. In vain.

  Categorically and in particular Silas denied knowledge of Laura Twining and her movements. He professed astonishment that she was not in Paris. No, he hadn’t seen or heard from her. Standish was prepared for denials. But he had anticipated a tightening of tension, a show of fear, alarm. He drew a blank. A puzzling blank. Oddly, the mention of Laura Twining appeared to bring Silas an obscure relief.

  “She was one of your talkers, Chief, but I never bothered to listen much. A nice lady—if Mrs. Coatesnash fired her it’s news to me. They was thick as thieves the day I drove them to New York.”

  “What time did you leave them there? What time did you get back to Crockford? On February seventeenth?”

  Silas scratched his head. “Gosh, lemme see. Traffic was pretty bad that day. I took ’em to a hotel, helped ’em settle, then turned around and started back. It’s a good four-hour drive; we left here at noon. I must have got back by nine or tea o’clock.”

  Could Silas sit so quietly if he had blood on his hands? Would his faded eyes be tranquil if he knew Laura Twining were dead? Murdered? I looked through the broken door at the furnace, cleanly swept, cold and secret.

  “Now, Silas, I want you to listen carefully. I’m told the two women quarreled after you left them. Over a fifty-dollar bill. My information is that Mrs. Coatesnash accused her companion of theft.”

  “Sounds funny to me. I’da said Miss Twining wouldn’t steal a pin. Did you ask her about it? What does she say?”

  “Laura Twining has disappeared. Vanished. Dropped from the earth.” Standish’s voice was purposely loud. “I’m beginning to believe she’s gone for good and all.”

  Normal curiosity was to be expected. The hired man exhibited none. He idly dug his pitchfork in the earth. “Likely she’ll turn up. A passel of her stuff is still in the house. I wouldn’t worry about Miss Twining.”

  Standish, I knew, had hoped for a startling reaction. He looked bitterly disappointed. His lips tightened.

  “So Laura Twining left things in the house? What kind of things? Baggage?”

  “No, sir. She needed her bags for the trip. She packed a cardboard box with stuff that wouldn’t go in. Books mostly, I guess, and magazines. She saves old magazines. Just trash, but it meant something to her. I’d swear she’d come back for it.”

  If Silas knew of the vanishing traveling bags, the unused passport and letter of credit, he hid his knowledge well. Standish scuffed at a heap of gravel.

  “Then Laura Twining hasn’t been on the place since you took her down to New York?”

  “Ain’t seen hide nor hair of her. She couldn’t have got in if she had come. She ain’t got keys; I ain’t myself. Mrs. Coatesnash carried ’em with her. She always does.”

  Standish abandoned the unfruitful topic. He settled himself upon the doorstep. He tried another tack.

  “Silas, are you acquainted with Franklyn Elliott?”

  It was a random shot, but surprisingly it told. Silas woke abruptly from his lethargy. He suppressed a start. His Adam’s apple fluttered in his throat.

  “You mean Mrs. Coatesnash’s lawyer?”

  “Exactly. Do you know him?”

  “Never laid eyes on him.”

  “Sure of that?”

  “Sure I’m sure. What’s Franklyn Elliott got to do with me?”

  “You seemed—well—taken aback when I mentioned him.”

  “I been reading about him in the papers. That’s all. E
lliott’s nothing to me. I’m nothing to him.”

  “Take care, Silas. Has he ever written you? Have you ever written him?”

  “No.” The hired man developed an irritatingly irrelevant grievance. “I ain’t rich enough for New York lawyers. Folks with money can run to the law; it’s no help to them without. I get into trouble. What happens? I stay in trouble. Franklyn Elliott don’t pester his head with the likes of me.”

  The new vein had played out. Silas had said his say and we were left to face hazy, ambiguous speculations. Why had the mention of Franklyn Elliott disturbed the hired man, when the more sinister mention of Laura Twining had not? Was there a hidden link between Silas and the lawyer?

  Standish shifted his bulk on the step. “Silas, it pays to tell the truth. The whole truth. Nothing is to be gained protecting others. Not in a murder case.”

  Silas was frightened. There was no question of it. A look of pressing worry came on his face, a look of terror, of stubborn desperation. The bones in his thin face seemed sharpened, the hollows beneath his eyes became pronounced.

  “I’ve told the truth,” he said a little wildly. “Go ahead and take me off to jail if you don’t believe it. I’d be as well off in jail as I am now. Maybe I could get some sleep at nights and…” he broke off suddenly, and made an attempt to pull himself together. He went on in a different tone, “You’ve got nothing on me. Nothing you can prove.”

  “This is your chance,” said Standish sternly, “to tell me what I’m convinced you know. We’re going to find out who murdered Hiram Darnley; we’re going to find out a lot of other things. No matter who it hurts! Someone is going to hang!”

  “I hope to God,” said Silas Elkins, “it happens soon.”

  Standish turned at once on his heel and stalked past the hired man and into the Coatesnash house. Silas meekly accepted the police chiefs statement that he was acting on his own authority, and did not object. No one bade me no. I followed. Since morning Silas’s attitude had undergone a striking change. He seemed eager to assist; he made suggestions; he produced Laura Twining’s string-bound, cardboard suit box. The box contained two cotton housedresses, a pair of rubbers, two books on astrology, a pamphlet on spiritualism, a dozen well-thumbed popular magazines. There were no letters, nothing personal.