The Classic Mystery Novel

by Dorothy Cameron Disney

  When Mr. Brown completed his business and came for his money, he was smiling. “I should a brung my shotgun, Mrs. Storm. There’s good hunting downstairs. Your place is overrun with squirrels.”

  “Squirrels?”

  “I saw three. Those varmints can be awful pests. If I was you, I’d mend that window.”

  “It’s been mended.”

  “Then it’s been broke again.”

  “Where? Let me see.”

  I followed him outside. He gleefully indicated the window through which he had dumped the coal. Broken previously, it had indeed been broken once again. Coal dust blew gently through a hole which certainly had not been there yesterday. I stared in silence at Mr. Brown. I daresay my reception of his discovery pleased him. His own enthusiasm grew.

  “Funny kind of a hole, ain’t it? Round as a plate. Don’t recollect when I’ve seen a window broke like that.”

  The window catch was unfastened, and Mr. Brown volunteered that he had found it so. There was no glass on the lawn. I didn’t need John Standish to tell me that this was an outside job.

  For as I stooped to peer at the hole, I reached a conclusion which the observant Mr. Brown had missed. The window was not broken; it was cut. There was no shattering. The hole was round and neat, almost tidy. Several minute scratches rayed out from it. Such scratches as might be made by a glass-cutting instrument. Or by the diamond in a ring.

  Instantly I guessed what had occurred. Someone had stepped from the cindered driveway to the window, cut the pane, thrust through a hand, unlocked the window, opened it and dropped into the cellar. The picture of myself and Jack asleep upstairs with someone moving silently about the floor below turned me a little faint. Mr. Brown was now extremely curious. “Something wrong, Mrs. Storm?”

  “No, nothing.”

  He would have stood there talking, but I hustled him into his truck and off. Then I rushed inside and burst upon Jack who was shaving. He turned irritably at my entrance.

  “This is a bathroom, darling. Can’t you knock? And I wish you’d stop using my razor blades to sharpen pencils.”

  “Someone was in the house last night! In the cellar.”

  At first incredulous, Jack soon sobered sufficiently to wipe the lather from his face, pull on a bathrobe and accompany me into the yard. I showed him the window. There were no footprints in the vicinity—only smears and the coal truck’s heavy tread—but leading toward the road, deep in the muddy turf which bordered the drive, we discovered at least a dozen prints. Clumsy, wide and well defined.

  “A man’s prints,” Jack said. He bent over, looked mystified. “By George, the fellow wore rubbers. What extraordinary prudence in a housebreaker!”

  At the harder surface of the road the prints disappeared. We could not fix the direction from which the intruder had come, nor could we decide whether he had arrived by car or on foot.

  “I think,” said Jack, “he must have walked. Wouldn’t a stopping car have wakened you?”

  “I was tired,” I admitted.

  But, tired or not, I’m usually a light sleeper, and I couldn’t understand my not arousing. There were other things I couldn’t understand. For one, a sensible reason for the housebreaking. A stop bolt on the door which opened from the cellar into the kitchen prevented any entrance to the cottage proper. Consequently, the intruder had remained on the basement level. But what had he wanted there?

  We went to the cellar Jack turned on the light. The single electric bulb glowed dimly, and I started as a squirrel scurried past in the gloom, fled up the pile of coal and vanished through the aperture in the window. Save for the broken window there was no sign of anything unusual. The cellar presented its customary aspect—dirt and dust, ruin and decay.

  I looked over the debris with which Mrs. Coatesnash had filled every available inch of space—looked and was appalled. We had never been curious enough to investigate the dismal contents of the cellar and we had no inventory. We faced then an exasperating problem. How were we to decide what had been stolen in the night when we didn’t know accurately what had been there? Nevertheless, on the theory that a person retains a subconscious memory of any place where he has often been, Jack insisted upon a thorough, back-breaking search.

  He flatters himself on his painter’s eye, and I believe he enjoyed himself. He would arbitrarily group a collection of miscellany—a sagging armchair, a bird cage, a box of old light bulbs—study the group, move slowly forward and repeat the process. He touched nothing. Occasionally he would squat or step back to obtain a different perspective. With less success I imitated him. At the end of an hour my cold was getting worse, my back was breaking and I was thoroughly disgusted. Every item I specifically remembered—the painted phonograph horn, the odorous roll of carpet, the lawn mower which lacked a blade—was in its accustomed place. The disorder seemed just as bad as yesterday, no worse.

  I sat down on a barrel, discarded Jack’s method and tried out a method of my own. I let my imagination work, and attempted to decide what any sensible person could possibly have wanted that might have been concealed amid such worthless trash. Since the larger items were accounted for, it had to be something small. My ideas were more picturesque than practical. I recalled newspaper accounts of priceless paintings hidden beneath cheap lithographs, stories of incriminating papers left carelessly in trunks. I remembered reading of a will cunningly concealed in a plastered wall. And then, as I sat there, a strong impression overcame me.

  I said, “Jack, we may as well give up. We haven’t been robbed. Not a single solitary thing is missing. Nothing—I’m positive—has been disturbed.”

  Jack straightened. He looked as bewildered as I’ve ever seen him look. “Darned if that isn’t what I had decided myself. But it doesn’t make sense. If robbery wasn’t intended last night what was intended? Why was the window broken? Why are those footprints on the lawn?”

  His words were lost in the sudden roar of a motorcycle. A moment later Lester Harkway’s astonished face appeared at the open cellar door.

  “Good lord, what’s going on?”

  “An inventory,” Jack called. “We have either been robbed or else something queer has happened.”

  “Robbed?” Hark way hurriedly joined us in the cellar. I vividly recall the surprise in his face as he surveyed in turn several broken chairs, a sagging couch, a pile of rotting books. He grinned. “I shouldn’t have thought this junkman’s paradise would tempt anyone. What’s gone? What happened anyhow?” A little wryly Jack returned the smile. “That’s it—we don’t know. We know that someone broke into the cellar some time last night and that’s all we do know. But you might look at the window behind you.”

  Harkway spun on his heel. He examined the neat round hole and the merriment left his face. “A pretty fair job of illegal entry,” he said at last. “Still it’s funny you wouldn’t waken.” Suddenly he moved across the hard packed ground, mounted the short flight of stairs which led into the kitchen, tried the door at the top. It opened.

  “Was this door locked last night?”

  “Locked,” said Jack, “and bolted from the kitchen side.”

  “Your intruder may not have known that.”

  Harkway bent to scrutinize the lock, looking for scratches, I suppose, or signs of tampering—a far from reassuring sight. Recollections of tragedies in isolated country cottages came into my mind, and, in the damp cool basement air, I shivered.

  The policeman glanced doubtfully at me. “I hate to alarm you unnecessarily, but, frankly, I don’t like the look of this. You are a little far from town—or neighbors.” He hesitated before he added, “Our case isn’t over, you know. Mrs. Coatesnash may be dead but—” and his tone was grim “—there are others who aren’t.”

  “Those ‘others’,” said Jack, “have nothing to fear from Lola and me. Why should we have anything to fear from them?”

  “
The murderer of Hiram Darnley, Mr. Storm, may fear you have information which—in fact—you don’t possess. The black-faced man may fear the same. That’s frankly a guess. I don’t need to guess that someone tried to force this door which leads upstairs to the floor where you and your wife lay sleeping. The scratches are plainly visible.”

  I rose with decision. “That settles it. We move to the Inn this afternoon.”

  Harkway was obviously pleased, but I could see Jack wasn’t. We went upstairs, however, and I actually started to pack. Harkway sat on the bed while Jack paced the room.

  “Has it occurred to you,” Jack said at length, “that by moving into town we might be playing into the murderer’s hands? Doing exactly what he planned for us to do?”

  “I don’t get your meaning,” said Harkway, puzzled.

  “Why couldn’t last night’s affair have been planned with the deliberate intent of driving us to town? Say someone had some—some use for the cottage. Then certainly it would be to that person’s advantage to force Lola and me out of it. What better way than by frightening us until we left of our own accord?”

  “But what possible use,” said I, bewildered, “could anyone have for the cottage? It’s just a house.”

  “Put your imagination to work, Lola. Do a little guessing. How’s this for a guess? Something is hidden in the cottage, something quite small probably, something valuable either to the murderer or his accomplices. But the murderer (we will call last night’s visitor the murderer for convenience) doesn’t know the exact location of the—the object.”

  “If there is an object,” I said tartly.

  “Let him finish, Mrs. Storm,” said Harkway and to my dismay I saw that he was impressed.

  “I’m finished. I was only suggesting that if someone had a reason for wanting to search the cottage, a thorough search would be impossible unless it were unoccupied. It would take days to give this place a complete work-over. Lola and I hardly touched the cellar.”

  “But that’s only a notion of yours,” I wailed. “A crazy notion and I’m packed to leave.”

  Jack ignored my outburst, and said to Harkway, “What’s your advice in the matter?”

  “I hardly know what to say. Certainly you’ve built up a pretty convincing case for sticking around to see what will happen next.” The young policeman turned to me. “Maybe we’d better leave it up to the lady.”

  “The lady,” I said, “is going to town.”

  Jack gave me the look reserved for those occasions when I let him down. I went on packing. Once you weaken with him you’re gone, and I was determined to spare us both another night in the cottage.

  “I never thought,” Jack said, “you’d turn tail and run from phantoms, Lola. My guess is that last night’s visitor was only Silas.”

  “Now you’re wrong.” Harkway permitted himself a short laugh. “Silas didn’t stir from the Lodge last night. Blair spent the night on the hill, caught himself a fine spring cold and nothing else. Apparently he’d have done better to put in his time down here.”

  “Well,” Jack said philosophically, “it was just an idea I had, and the best of us can’t be always right.”

  Again a pointed glance was directed at me. My determination to quit the cottage wavered. Was Jack’s interpretation of the broken window correct? By packing my bags and preparing to flee to town was I following a cunning plan laid down for me by someone unknown?

  Harkway crushed out his cigarette and rose. “If you young folks are ready I’ll pilot you in to town.”

  Jack turned. “Are you ready. Lola?”

  “Not quite,” I said snappishly. “What’s the hurry? We’ve got the afternoon.”

  Harkway moved toward the door. “In that case I’ll run along. I’ll give you a ring tonight.” He looked questioningly from Jack to me. “I suppose I can reach you at the Inn?”

  Neither of us replied. We trailed him to the hot sunshiny lawn where he paused to examine the footprints and to cover the clearest specimen with a handkerchief, which he weighted with four small stones. “I’ll send Blair around to take a plaster-of-Paris cast.”

  He spoke absently and without much interest. I stared at the footprints, distinct and well defined in the soft turf bordering the drive. “I should think the prints might be valuable. They are so dear.”

  “That’s the trouble with them, Mrs. Storm. I’m afraid they’re too clear.” He smiled at my surprise. “Either your marauder was incredibly bold or—and this seems more likely—those footprints were meant to be seen.”

  As he mounted his motorcycle a familiar automobile came up the road, turned into the drive, and Annabelle Bayne got out. She was pale beneath her rouge, and seemed very much excited. She said at once. “Have you seen the papers? Did you know that Luella Coatesnash was dead?”

  “We knew,” I replied.

  “I can hardly believe it yet.” Annabelle touched a handkerchief to her eyes, but the eyes were dry. The gesture was unpleasantly theatrical. It seemed to me that Annabelle was reacting to the death of an old dear friend with histrionics instead of honest feeling. Jack glanced at me in a puzzled way. I was puzzled, too. I felt quite sure that Annabelle hadn’t come to the cottage to discuss the news which had been blazoned in the morning papers. My belief was confirmed, when she turned and said to Harkway, “I see you’re leaving. Please don’t let me delay you.”

  She spoke in the cool remote way she reserved for those she considered her inferiors. Harkway was not abnormally sensitive, but he caught on. He flushed but stood his ground. “I’d like to know, Miss Bayne. Have you a theory for the suicide?” She shook her head. Again she touched the handkerchief to her eyes. “Luella never seemed to me the type of person who would kill herself.”

  “Then,” said Harkway baldly, “you don’t consider it an admission of a guilty connection with Hiram Darnley’s murder?” There was a flash of hostility in Annabelle’s gaze. “Certainly not! My opinion would be that the police authorities have driven an innocent and unfortunate old woman to her death.”

  For a moment I was afraid Harkway intended to argue the point, but he only shrugged and started a second time to leave. Jack abruptly suggested a stirrup-cup. He went into the house, and I guided my antipathetic guests into the chairs beneath the apple tree. For several minutes I carried on a single-handed conversation; then Jack came out and handed drinks around. The liquor didn’t help. More awkward minutes passed. Annabelle was patiently waiting for Harkway to depart, and he exhibited no signs of haste.

  Finally, suddenly, she said, “Lola, I’d like to talk to you.” Jack smiled blandly. “Why not here? We like your company.” Annabelle bit her lip. She stared across the sunlit open field toward the narrow band of woods. Smoke climbed from the Olmstead chimney and made a pattern against the sky.

  She looked surprised. “I hadn’t heard the Olmsteads had opened their place. They seldom come so early.”

  “I saw Olmstead downtown this morning,” Harkway said. “Buying paint.”

  I wasn’t especially interested. I didn’t dream that a New Haven architect whom I had never seen would play his own small part in our drama. I said, “Well, anyhow, it’s nice having neighbors for a change.”

  “Curious, your saying that.” Annabelle straightened in her chair. “I’ve been wondering. Don’t you ever get—well—lonely. At nights? I should think you might.”

  Lonely was a mild word to describe my emotions about the cottage, but I made some vague reply.

  Annabelle plucked a blade of grass and twisted it around her finger. “I thought you two might like to move in a while with me. Until—things get straightened out. I’ve loads of room. You could have a suite on the second floor.”

  Harkway set down his glass so suddenly that it overturned. Jack drew an astonished breath. As for me, I didn’t know what to think. Although Annabelle treated the matter lightly, her burst of hosp
itality was not only unexpected; it was incredible. Our previous relations had certainly not been friendly, and now she proposed to open her house to us—to hand us a second-floor suite.

  She paused. “Have I spoken out of turn—or what? Don’t you want to come?”

  “Your—your invitation is something of a coincidence. As it happens we were thinking of moving in to the Inn.”

  “Splendid. Then you’ll come to me instead.”

  Jack looked at me. I looked back at him. I said, “It was kind of you to ask, but we can’t possibly barge in on you. Anyhow, we aren’t going to town. We’re staying here.”

  “I’m sorry.” Her bright eyes traveled restlessly about the silent group. “What is wrong? Did I crash in on an important conference? Has something happened which wasn’t printed in the papers?”

  “Why should you think that?”

  She laughed. “So what am I supposed to think? With the air of mystery so thick you could cut it with a knife! Also, I use my eyes.” She gestured toward the spot where Harkway’s handkerchief lay pinned, a white square on the grass. “That helped. It’s covering a footprint, isn’t it? Can’t I hear what it’s all about?”

  Jack flipped away his cigarette. “I suppose there’s no harm telling. Someone broke into the house last night.”

  “Oh!” She sat very still. Then, “That proves it,” she said passionately. “You should come into town! Please, please let me put you up.”

  “Sorry. We’ve decided to stick it out.”

  “You have courage,” she said in a tone which implied we had more courage than sense, and on this note she departed.

  A little later Harkway followed. After Annabelle’s visit he changed front completely, and vigorously applauded our decision to stay.

  “Your hunch was o.k., Storm. I believe a definite attempt is being made to get you out of your home. That woman’s invitation was a shade too pat. By refusing to budge, you may do a lot for our case.”