The Classic Mystery Novel

by Dorothy Cameron Disney

This was logical, if not precisely comforting. Nor was I particularly cheered when he handed Jack his own gun and insisted that it be kept on the premises.

  I gloomily unpacked.

  We discussed our burglar; we debated what the burglar might have wanted; we discussed Mrs. Coatesnash. Everything in the cottage belonged to the Coatesnash estate, a fact which made the situation extremely baffling. Luella Coatesnash hardly seemed the type who would leave anything of value on rented premises. Nevertheless, there appeared to be in the cottage something of interest to persons unknown. Since nothing had been taken from the cellar—we were sure now on that point—the something must still be there. Jack suggested it might be a clue to the murder.

  I agreed. “A clue,” I said, “might be contained in written matter. Many clues are. There are tons of letters upstairs. In the attic.”

  We went to the attic. It repeated the confusion downstairs. With a difference. Furniture and household debris were stored in the cellar. Boxes and trunks filled the attic. They overflowed with old clothing, books, old magazines and old correspondence.

  Jack plunged into a wooden box. I selected an elegant cardboard carton which once had housed a Paris hat. I sorted out two old bathing caps, a dozen dance programs and several strings of beads. I attacked a pile of letters tied in faded ribbons. They bore ancient postmarks; they were addressed to Jane Coatesnash; they were schoolgirl efforts of the most banal kind. In 1919 Jane sailed and swam; she went shopping in New York; and though in 1920 she had met a mysterious and tragic death, I discovered nothing of interest in these letters from her friends.

  I turned to Jack. “I’m simply wasting time.”

  “Same here. I’ve drawn plumbing bills and advertising circulars. Luella hung on to everything.”

  “Let’s quit.”

  “Let’s don’t. You can’t tell what might turn up.”

  In silence and in dust and in futile labor the afternoon faded into evening. My head began to ache. Jack looked wearily around.

  “Buck up, pal. We should finish the boxes anyway.”

  “I think my cold is getting worse.”

  “Maybe you’d better go and rest.”

  I stubbornly stuck to the job. It was six exactly when the phone rang downstairs. Jack rushed to answer, and I gratefully abandoned work to follow. I flung myself on the couch.

  “Who was it?”

  “Olmstead down the road. He wants to talk to us.”

  “What about?”

  “He didn’t say. Why don’t you stay here? I’ll be back in a minute. Probably it’s nothing important.”

  A moment before I would have sworn that an earthquake could not have budged me from the couch. Now I rose promptly. I didn’t choose to be left alone.

  From the Olmstead chimney the ascending smoke lost itself in a twilight sky. A raw wind blew from the Sound. Shrubbery surrounding the small brown house bent before it. Olmstead met us on the porch. He was a middle-aged, colorless man with mild sad eyes. He shook hands.

  “I came over from New Haven yesterday,” he told us, “and I’ve been meaning to call you since morning. Won’t you come in?”

  He led us into a house in the upheaval of being settled for summer habitation. He then remarked hopefully that neighbors should be better acquainted, and, without further preamble, attempted to draw us into a discussion of Hiram Darnley’s murder. “Fanny—my wife—and I have been following the case in the papers, and being neighbors and all…”

  Jack and I refused to be drawn.

  Mr. Olmstead looked hurt. “I hope you don’t think I’m curious. There was plenty of talk in the village, but I say what’s the point of listening to the butcher? You have to get to the people on the inside. And it does seem the people on the inside aren’t very talkative. I dropped in on Standish yesterday; I helped to appoint him, but he practically threw me out of his office. Even Silas. Silas has been our caretaker for years. He was here this afternoon helping me put up my screens. Mum as a clam, and he used to talk a blue streak. When I said something about Mrs. Coatesnash’s suicide, he nearly snapped my head off. Flung down the screens and went off in a huff. That’s the way it’s gone. I live in Crockford five months a year, but for all I know about the Rumble-Seat Murder I might as well be living in Alaska.”

  His curiosity was so evident and innocent that Jack had to smile. “I’m sorry to disappoint you but…”

  “It’s Fanny,” said Olmstead, with a sigh. “She entertains her bridge club Wednesday and…well, you’re married yourself.” We turned to escape. Olmstead rose hurriedly in alarm. “Wait a minute. Fanny says I’m long-winded and I guess I am. Any-how what I wanted to ask was this. Did you folks have any trouble last night?”

  We stared at him. “Why,” said Jack, “do you ask?”

  “Because I saw someone sneaking around your place.”

  Jack sat down again. “Tell me about it.”

  “I’d better start at the beginning. It makes a funny story. Well then, last night I was sitting out on my porch. It was late—around midnight. A car drove up and parked on the other side of the road across from the porch. A man was in it—I could see the tip of his cigar. It was dark; he couldn’t see me. He just sat there, and every now and again he would pop out his head and look up the road. I began to wonder what he was looking at.”

  I was on edge with impatience. Olmstead’s unhurried voice continued. “I stepped off the porch, quietly, so as not to attract his attention. I looked up the road. There wasn’t a darn thing to look at but your house. All your lights were burning. While I watched and while he watched, your lights went out. The man across the road took out his watch and looked at it. I looked at my watch. It was twenty minutes to twelve. By this time I was pretty interested. At ten minutes past twelve—we both looked to our watches again—the man climbed out of his car. He started in the road. I followed.” Olmstead sighed. “And then the accident happened.”

  “What accident?”

  “Up to then he hadn’t seen me. But I stepped on a stone. It made a noise. He heard me. He had a flashlight; he turned around and flashed the light on me. There was nothing for me to do but walk on past. He stood still in the road till I went by.”

  “You didn’t speak?”

  “Not a word. I think I made him sore. He acted sore.”

  “What became of him?”

  “I had to walk on. I walked about a hundred yards past your place, then turned around and came back. He was gone. There wasn’t a sign of him. But I was suspicious. I sat down on your stone fence and waited. It was cold. I waited a long time. I got up to go. It was lucky I didn’t. Because just then this fellow stepped out of your yard. He saw me again. He was mad as hell.

  He gave me a look, then hurried down the yard, jumped in his car and drove off.”

  “Of course you didn’t know the man?”

  “I can’t remember his name offhand, but I could find it for you. His picture has been in the papers. He’s mixed up in the case. He’s that short, stout fellow, that New York lawyer.”

  Jack’s eyes and mine met in a long, steady look. Our midnight visitor had been Franklyn Elliott.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Dark Red Splotches

  We escaped from Olmstead. We drove straight to the Tally-ho Inn and demanded Franklyn Elliott. He wasn’t there; he wasn’t even in the village. Bill Tevis, the clerk, told us about it.

  “Elliott made up his mind at least three hours ago. Tossed some things in his bag, called for his car and lit out for New York. Business, he said. I guess it was, too. His secretary phoned.”

  From the Inn we drove to Standish’s home. His housekeeper was serving him dinner. She answered the door and wasn’t disposed to allow us to disturb his meal, but Standish heard our voices and shouted out that we were to be admitted. The housekeeper pulled a long face, sniffed and retired to the kitchen.
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br />   Standish was so excited by our news that he pushed back the dishes and failed to eat another bite. The three of us gathered at the table, and mapped out our campaign.

  “Elliott,” said Standish, “could explain why he robbed a poor box if he had ten minutes to think. We’ve got to accuse him before he learns he’s suspected. And we’ve got to be sure he’s available.” With which he went to the telephone. To my surprise the long-distance operator easily located Franklyn Elliott in New York. He was calmly dining in his Fifth Avenue Club, and willingly left the table to talk. The policeman explained that he was coming to town and wished to see a copy of Mrs. Coatesnash’s will. Elliott was unsuspicious. An appointment was agreed upon for two o’clock the following afternoon. No mention naturally was made of Jack or me.

  “I’ll be by for you,” said Standish jubilantly to us; “at six in the morning. We’ll take the milk train in. Elliott will talk tomorrow or I’ll know the reason why. At last we’ve got something definite on that lawyer!”

  Franklyn Elliott, as we knew quite well, faced a far more serious charge than burglary. After we departed, Standish called in Lester Harkway. It was decided that the younger officer should go immediately to the Catskills, seek out Elliott’s hunting lodge and check exhaustively on the lawyer’s alibi for the night of March 20th.

  “It’s a long time ago,” said Standish, “but let’s hope you can dig something up. Elliott says he went out with his guide on the twentieth. Find the guide. Talk to the natives. Make a survey of the gas stations in the vicinity and try to find out whether Elliott bought any gasoline on the twentieth. He had his car with him. He swears he spent that day and night in the Catskills, but maybe you can establish he didn’t.”.

  “If it can be established,” drawled Harkway, “I’ll establish it.” He pretended to be indifferent, but he was excited. “It looks like a hot trail to me.”

  The two men shook hands and separated. That very night Harkway started for the Catskills.

  Our alarm clock went off at five a m the following morning. The sky outside our bedroom windows was a misty slate gray, sprinkled with a few pale stars. I woke with one of my heavy colds. I had sinus, and the sinus made my head ache as though someone had hammered it. My eyes ran and my nose dripped. Jack got me a slug of brandy. I swallowed it. I felt worse. He insisted I abandon the trip. I indignantly refused, started to put on my clothes and collapsed in tears. I was beaten and I knew it.

  I crawled back into bed. Jack earnestly deplored my misery and did what he could to alleviate it, though I must say he kept his eye on the clock. He made me coffee which I drank and toast which I pushed aside. At six precisely a horn tooted outside and Jack gave me a hurried kiss.

  . “Stay in bed, sweetheart. I’ll be back at five this afternoon. Don’t be so blue. The minute there’s news I’ll phone.”

  “Will you phone when you leave Elliott’s office?”

  “You bet I will.”

  He rushed outside. A car door slammed, gears made a shrieking sound and an automobile shot past my window to the road. I went back to sleep and when I opened my eyes it was noon. I felt a little better but not much. I tottered to the bathroom, where I sprayed my nose and throat. That improved my head. It was possible for my eyes to focus.

  Walking gingerly like a person who walks between eggs, I went to the kitchen. I squeezed six oranges and drank the juice. I reached for a cigarette. Jack had taken the last package; the carton was empty. There is no calamity in our house which equals a total lack of cigarettes. I searched feverishly through my pocketbook and desk, through Jack’s bathrobe and suits, only to discover that there wasn’t a cigarette on the place. I fished a butt from an ashtray and smoked that. It was awful.

  I held out for an hour before I decided to drive to the village. When I entered the bedroom to dress, I thought I observed a man standing on the opposite side of the road. I pulled down the shades. Fifteen minutes later I locked the back door and started toward the garage.

  There was a man on the opposite side of the road. It was Silas.

  His attitude caught my attention. He stood in the Coatesnash pasture; he leaned on the pasture gate; he stared at the cottage. He was like a statue. While I watched he moved, opened the gate and advanced to the center of the road. Again he became immobile. Then to my surprise he turned around and retraced his steps. Once more he sank his elbows on the cross-bar and started toward the garage.

  It was a peculiar performance. Because I was a little frightened my voice sounded sharp. I shouted, “Silas! What are you doing? Were you coming here?”

  He jumped. Immediately he saw me, he ducked through the gate and began clambering up the hill toward the Lodge. In the face of an alarm so evident, my own fright vanished. I shouted again. Slowly Silas came back, crossed the road, stood before me.

  “What do you want, ma’am?”

  “The point is: what did you want? Weren’t you coming here? Why did you change your mind?”

  He swallowed. “I was…” He broke off, peered up at me. “Is your husband at home?”

  “He’s in New York. He won’t be here until evening. What is it? Won’t I do?”

  Silas shook his head. His hair hadn’t been combed for days. He looked like a very sick man. I saw desperation in his face and stark misery. He scuffed the dirt in the road, kicking it back and forth, not seeing it.

  The situation had the unreality of a dream. It was one of those moments when an ordinary human being becomes possessed of an intense mental lucidity and insight, a sort of sixth sense that amounts almost to clairvoyance. I understood precisely what ailed Silas. The time Standish had predicted had at last arrived; Silas had reached his breaking point. And I didn’t know what to do about it.

  I said, “Come in the house. You can talk to me.”

  He grew suspicious. “Who said anything about talking? I want to see your husband—not you.”

  “But Jack won’t be here until evening.”

  “A few hours means nothing to me. I’ve had weeks of hell. Did you hear me? I said weeks.”

  His voice was hysterical and he wasn’t quite sane. Whatever part he had played in our crimes I felt then that he had paid for it. I told him—and I was honest—that I was sorry. He didn’t seem to hear. I couldn’t reach him in any way. He had braced himself to speak to another man, and even in wretchedness he retained his contempt for the female sex. Sullenly, monotonously, he refused to talk to me. He said only one other significant thing.

  “Is it true, Mrs. Storm, that someone broke in the cottage?”

  “Yes, it’s true.”

  His already pale face lost color. He was trembling. “You can put your mind at rest from now on. This thing is going to stop. And I’m going to stop it. I’ll see your husband tonight. No police—do you understand? No police. I’ll talk to him alone. I’ve done a lot of thinking and—and—he’s my pick of the lot.” With that Silas went away. Sick with disappointment, I crawled weakly into the car and drove downtown. At the Tally-ho Inn I stopped for cigarettes. While I waited at the cigar counter for change, Bill Tevis spied me and sang out cheerily from the desk.

  “Your old friend is back in the hotel.”

  I frowned, walked to the desk. “What friend do you mean?”

  “Elliott, of course. He blew in about noon. He’s upstairs now.” Bill grinned. “Shall I tell him you’re calling?”

  I looked at the clock. It said twenty minutes past two. I was lost in a sort of mental fog, compounded of physical illness and total bewilderment. “Elliott can’t be here,” I said. “He had an appointment with Standish in New York twenty minutes ago.”

  “Then he broke it.”

  “You’re joking!”

  “I was never more serious in my life.” Bill’s voice sank. “Would you like to hear the dirt? Annabelle Bayne is with him. She’s been there an hour.”

  I hung on to
the desk. Things were happening too fast for my comprehension. I saw that Bill was alarmed by my condition—his face seemed blurred and queer—but it didn’t matter. I just hung there. The stairway was behind me, and it seemed eminently natural that Annabelle Bayne should appear at the head of the stairs, walk down, catch my arm and say in a shocked tone:

  “Lola, you’re ill.”

  “I felt a little faint. I’m all right now.”

  Bill hopped around the desk. “You’d better lie down. I’ll open a room for you.”

  “I’m going home.”

  “At least let me call Jack. You aren’t fit to make the drive. What’s your number?”

  “Jack isn’t home. I can make it all right. Let me go,” I said to Annabelle.

  Her grip tightened on my arm. She shook me. “Jack not home! Do you mean to say you’re staying at the cottage alone? Are you crazy?”

  “Please, both of you, let me alone. I’ve got to get home. I’m expecting a phone call. It’s important.”

  “Then,” said Annabelle, “I’ll go with you. We’ll take my car and leave yours here. Bill, park Mrs. Storm’s car at the Inn garage. Lola, give him your keys.”

  She swept me before her. Her assertiveness and determination and assurance overwhelmed me. I objected feebly, but not enough. Presently, in a state of dim wonderment, I found myself in her car, headed toward the cottage. She attended strictly to driving, and didn’t talk, except to ask if I were quite comfortable. She had handled me like a child and I knew it.

  My head felt as though it would burst. I was exasperated beyond endurance. It was imperative that I reach Jack by phone, and Annabelle’s presence was the last thing I wanted. It had been made plain that she expected to spend the afternoon as my guest. I decided to get rid of her.

  I said, “You’ve been extraordinarily kind, but you’ve done enough. Too much. When we get home I can manage nicely for myself.”

  “You cannot remain another minute in that cottage by yourself. For one thing you’re ill, and for another it’s dangerous. You needn’t protest. I shan’t budge till your husband arrives.”