The Classic Mystery Novel

by Dorothy Cameron Disney

  I knew that she wouldn’t. She turned the car off the Post Road and we started on the last lap home. A number of courses occurred to me, and I selected the course which seemed to offer the least in the way of conflict. I was too physically low to engage in a prolonged dispute, and anyhow I was doubtful of success. I decided to telephone Jack from the Olmsteads’. When we neared the brown clapboard house, I asked Annabelle if she would stop.

  “I’ll be only a minute. I’ve an errand.”

  She nodded. “Why don’t you stay in the car? I’ll hop out and do your errand for you.”

  “I’m sorry, but you can’t.”

  Annabelle looked a little hesitant as she pulled up beside the road. She got out and opened the door for me, and watched as I walked up the flagged path to the dwelling. April was in the air. A few yards beyond, the woods where Jack had lain bleeding and unconscious showed a tentative, exquisite green.

  Henry Olmstead arrived at his door with a paint brush in hand. I cut short his welcome.

  “May I use your telephone? Is it connected yet?”

  “We keep it connected the year around. It’s cheaper that way. Hasn’t the company told you about the difference between winter and summer rates?”

  He led me inside.

  “Please, please where is your telephone?”

  “In the hall behind you, Mrs. Storm. But first I have something to tell you. Your husband phoned you about half an hour ago.”

  “Phoned me? Here! Why should he phone me here?”

  My tone was probably intimidating. Henry Olmstead looked abashed. “He didn’t exactly phone you here. But we’re on the same line and I—I happen to know your ring—four short rings, isn’t it?” He glanced at me timidly. “When I heard your ring several times, I imagined you were away and I began thinking I should answer. To take a message, you see? Well, finally I answered. It was your husband. He was surprised, but glad to give me a message. Very glad. I hope I haven’t offended you.” Something stirred in my mind, a recollection, a memory—vaporous, unsubstantial. I stared at Olmstead. I shook my head. It hurt.

  I said sharply, “So you answered a telephone call to me in this house! You could, of course, on a party line. Funny, but I’ve never in my life given any thought to the peculiarities of a community telephone.” I leaned against the wall. My hands were ice cold. I said, “Silas Elkins is on this line, isn’t he?”

  Olmstead’s head bobbed rapidly. “Yes, he is. You must know that, Mrs. Storm. Three of us share the one fine—you folks, Silas and—and your humble servant.”

  I must have presented a forbidding picture, for hurriedly and again he apologized. I scarcely heard him. I saw suddenly and clearly that Silas had been the black-faced man in our closet. I saw how he had managed.

  Olmstead’s telephone provided the long missing link and such a simple link, once you had it.

  Silas’s alibi rested upon the slender fact that when I telephoned the Lodge he had responded promptly to my appeal—and now I perceived that he need not have been at the Lodge.

  As plainly as though I had been present I realized where he had been and what he had done. He had left Jack unconscious in the woods and fled toward the Olmsteads’ house. He had heard the telephone ringing in the silence of the night, identified his own signal, and guessed I was calling him for aid. There must have been then an instant of panic, of indecision. Swiftly it passed. He let himself into the untenanted house—he had keys—rushed to the telephone, answered it and allowed me to assume that he was in bed at the Lodge. It was a good trick. For two solid weeks it had deceived us all, and now at long last I saw light.

  I whirled on my bewildered host. “You talked to Jack. Where is he? I must reach him at once.”

  “But you can’t, Mrs. Storm. That was his message. He was leaving New York, taking the train here. He spoke of a broken appointment. He was angry, I think.”

  “I understand.”

  What I didn’t understand was what my next move was to be. I had to talk to a person in authority, a person I could trust. Jack and Standish were quite out of reach—on their way to the train or aboard it. Harkway had started toward the Catskills, and God only knew where he was. I could imagine the type of intelligence I would find in charge at the station. But I had no choice. I decided to phone the station.

  I was ill, and when I rose from the chair I discovered it. The floor also seemed to rise. My head which had been heavy now seemed to float, and the rather small room seemed enormous. It was fever, I suppose.

  Coincidence had ruled the day. It had trapped Silas and was to trap him again. If I had reached the telephone one minute earlier or one minute later, I would have found a free wire and the course of a hideous afternoon would have been changed. Instead I removed the receiver when I did—at a moment when the party line was busy.

  Other voices sped over the wire, and I heard them. Two men—in the heat of a violent argument. What they said didn’t at first make sense, nor did the voices—which I immediately identified—make sense. One speaker was Franklyn Elliott; he was in a towering rage.

  He said, “You’ll see me today and you’ll like it. I’ve taken all from you that I propose to take. You play ball now or you fry. Do you get it? You fry!”

  The second voice was terrified. It stammered, protested, mumbled its words. I have forgotten the words, but the voice I shall never forget. It was the voice which had decoyed Jack and me to New Haven and I recognized it at last. It was Silas Elkins’ voice.

  Memory, in the final analysis, is a matter for the psychologists, and I cannot attempt to explain what I believe is commonly termed a brainstorm. Silas’s voice on the previous occasion—on the two previous occasions, for he had phoned twice—had been deliberately disguised. It was not disguised now. I had talked to him many times without suspecting, but now I knew. Possibly the fact of my hearing his voice over the wire was the necessary clue; or possibly the unnatural strain and excitement in his tone struck the proper chord; or perhaps it was that my mind having reached one conclusion was peculiarly receptive to another. I don’t know. I do know that I identified Silas instantly as the source of our mysterious voice.

  The conversation went on.

  Elliott said, “You can expect me at once.”

  Silas quavered, “Here at the Lodge?”

  Elliott said fiercely, “At the Lodge!”

  Two receivers clicked. The wire was free, and the operator was plaintively asking me what number I wanted. My brain was confused. I couldn’t remember why I had gone to the phone or whom I had intended to call. It was a distracted Henry Olmstead who took the receiver from me, replaced it, put his hands on my shoulders and forced me into a chair.

  He would not allow me to rise and, himself, at my urgent request, telephoned the police station. He got no answer whatever. I was frantic. Olmstead, who had got increasingly out of his depth, also became frantic.

  It was thus that Annabelle found us. She instantly took charge, rushed me to a couch, demanded and got brandy. But when finally we resumed our trip to the cottage—every minute passed like an hour—I had determined to take charge myself.

  Once we were in the cottage, I permitted Annabelle to make me comfortable. She was a solicitous nurse; she shoved a footstool forward, adjusted a pillow beneath my head. Then she removed her hat and gloves, and settled down to stay indefinitely. As feebly as I dared, I announced that bed was the place for me. Annabelle was gratified but suspicious. She followed me into the bedroom. She watched me kick off my shoes. I peeled off my dress.

  I said faintly, “My nightgown is in the closet. Would you bring it to me?”

  She stepped to the closet where Silas had hidden. I arrived there simultaneously with her. I shoved her forward. I slammed the door. There was a key in the lock. I turned it f must credit her with a certain amount of sporting blood. Aside from a gasp of surprise she made no outcry, and im
mediately, imperatively she rapped at the locked door.

  “Are you delirious?”

  “I’m as sane as you are.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “That doesn’t matter. I’ll be back soon. Make yourself at home. I hope you can find the light. I’m sorry I can’t leave you a magazine.”

  The closet exploded into protest. I paid no attention. It took me only a minute to dress. It took me several minutes to locate Harkway’s gun. I didn’t think I would need it, but it seemed best to go prepared. I thought I could eavesdrop on the interview at the Lodge without being seen, and I sincerely hoped so.

  The afternoon was very clear. The sky showed an almost painful blue. I rapidly left the cottage, crossed the road, slipped through the gate and began a hurried ascent of the pasture path. Looking up the steeply climbing hill beyond the Lodge, I could see Hilltop House, the cupola and the elaborate porte-cochere. A yellow roadster—Franklyn Elliott’s car—was parked beneath the porte-cochere.

  My heart sank as I realized that my speed had not been great enough. The lawyer had preceded me. I had thought I had plenty of time. And then suddenly it was borne upon me that I had no time at all. My errand was useless. The meeting was over. Even as I glimpsed it the yellow car throbbed, moved forward, gathered momentum, sped around the house and out of sight.

  Why I began to run I can’t say even now, but I did run. Breathless and trembling, I gained the Lodge. The door stood ajar. Reuben was inside. He barked wildly, and then was quiet. I knocked.

  “Silas! Silas!”

  There was no answer. Silas had to be there, I thought. Or could he have accompanied the other man in the yellow car? I had not glimpsed its passengers. The open door decided me. Silas set too high a value upon his possessions to go away and leave an unlocked door.

  I knocked, and again called. Reuben emitted another whimpering moan, subsided. The whole world seemed still. The sun shone down with a brassy brilliance, and the motionless trees and shrubs seemed cut from cardboard. Like a stage set. Silence gripped the Lodge, deep and utter. Something pulled me away from the door, and something stronger drove me toward it f pushed inside.

  I entered a small living room. From the adjoining kitchen where he was imprisoned, Reuben set up a renewed clamor. I looked around. The living room was in dreadful disorder. Furniture was broken and overturned. Smashed crockery was scattered about. Dark red splotches stained the floor and walls. I saw that the splotches were blood. I saw Silas.

  He lay at the far end of the devastated room, his skull crushed, his eyes wide open, and beside him were the remnants of a broken chair.

  Things began getting black. I didn’t faint. I staggered to the only uninjured piece of furniture on the place—Silas’s bed—lay down and closed my eyes.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  The Forgotten Purse

  After a long while I got up. The sun was setting and its last red rays made everything around me sharp and mercilessly clear. The upset furniture, all those signs of dreadful sanguinary battle, the dead man. My nerves screamed violent protest, and I started backing toward escape. I trod upon something soft—a bakery cookie. Half a dozen other cookies lay scattered on the floor. I noticed them with the tense consciousness that accompanies shock, and noticed also the upended table, the coffee pot, the two smashed cups. Two cups.

  I said out loud, “They had been eating before they fought.”

  Reuben had quieted. He heard me now, scratched at the kitchen door, and whimpered like a child. Perhaps the bravest thing I ever did was to cross the room to let him out. I walked unsteadily. I stumbled against a pail of water. A scrubbing brush floated in the pail, and sunk to the bottom was a bit of stained rag. An area of the floor was freshly scrubbed, a section of the wall was smeared where a damp cloth had been drawn over it, and I knew my arrival had interrupted a hurried attempt to clean up the place.

  I opened the kitchen door. Reuben shot forth, jumped wildly up and down, licked my hands and then rushed to the spot where Silas sprawled.

  I looked into the kitchen. Pans of milk were setting about, and the dog had turned one over. I saw the print of a man’s foot in the spilled milk, and I saw how the killer could have fled from the Lodge and reached the yellow car, without my glimpsing him as I approached. A back door led from the kitchen to a covered porch—a sort of utility room equipped with an ice box and cream separator—and beyond the porch was a back path. Someone had run along the path. Deep footprints showed in it.

  I closed the kitchen door, and then remembered that I shouldn’t touch anything. Reuben crouched beside Silas’s body. I called to him. He lifted his head and howled. The sound rose and kept on rising. I ran outside, and Reuben followed.

  I staggered down the hill to the cottage. Jack and Standish had finally returned from the city. The police chief’s car was parked in the yard. I went into the house. The men had freed Annabelle from the closet. I could hear their voices in the living room. I heard her voice. She was insisting that she didn’t know where I had gone. I entered the living room. They all turned around. Jack jumped to his feet.

  “Lola! Where have you been?”

  “At the Lodge.”

  “But what“…”

  I said, “Silas is dead. Franklyn Elliott killed him. Beat him to death with a chair.”

  Annabelle stood up. “That’s preposterous. It’s a lie. A cruel, wicked lie.”

  “It’s the truth. I overheard Elliott and Silas talking on the phone; Elliott was angry; he made threats; Silas was terrified. They made an appointment. I got to the Lodge too late to do Silas any good. I wasn’t too late to see Elliott’s car leave.”

  The men rushed for me. Annabelle stood quite alone. She was the color of chalk. She turned, moved swiftly toward the door, ran outside to her car. Standish caught her as she reached it, and brought her back inside. He shoved her into a chair.

  “You sit there till we get this straightened out!” He turned to me. “Is that all the story?”

  “No. Silas came here this morning to talk to Jack. About Darnley’s murder. He was going to tell everything he knew. I believe Elliott found it out. I believe that is why he returned from New York. I believe that is why he murdered Silas.”

  “That’s fantastic,” said Annabelle, and thereafter said nothing more whatever.

  Standish tried to make her talk. He failed entirely. She ignored the simplest inquiry, and behaved as though she had lost her hearing. He gave up, stepped to the telephone, called the Tally-ho Inn. Elliott wasn’t there. Standish hadn’t expected him to be. In rapid succession he called a series of numbers and notified every police station in the vicinity to watch out for Elliott’s car. He gave them the description; he gave them the number. The telephoning occupied some minutes. In the meantime, Blair, who had been missing from the station when I sadly needed him, rushed out from the village. He took it upon himself to guard Annabelle. He kept a gun on his lap, and pulled his chair so close to hers that his breath blew down her neck.

  Jack and Standish left the three of us together and went up the hill.

  I lay upon the couch. Annabelle sat straight as an arrow, lighting one cigarette on the stub of another. She didn’t say a word. My head ached wretchedly, and I had not eaten since morning. Time blurred, slid by. At length I glanced at Annabelle.

  “You still don’t want to talk.”

  “I can see,” she said bitterly, “you do. Very well I’ll give you something to think about.” She paused and then made a curious remark. “Did it ever occur to you that a hundred and eight thousand dollars splits three ways?”

  “Three ways?”

  “One third of a hundred and eight thousand dollars is thirty-six thousand. I believe three different people expected to share in Darnley’s money and conspired to murder him for it.” She studied space. “Thirty-six thousand dollars looks like a colossal sum to some pe
ople.”

  “It would to Silas.”

  She nodded. “Of course.”

  “But Mrs. Coatesnash…”

  Again she nodded, and I fancied she was dimly pleased. “The Coatesnash estate is upward of two million dollars.”

  I caught the drift of her oblique defense of the missing man and though I wasn’t at all convinced, I kept on playing. “Franklyn Elliott…”

  “…could make thirty-six thousand dollars on a single case.” Unfortunately, at this point, an interruption occurred. Dr. Rand came in and said that Jack had phoned him to stop by on his way to the Lodge. He took my pulse, pursed his lips, and ordered me to bed. Annabelle lighted another cigarette. Her hands trembled. She looked ghastly. Irresolutely the physician turned to her.

  “Would you like a sedative?”

  “I would prefer a drink.”

  I said, “There’s brandy in the kitchen.”

  She achieved instant vehemence. “No, thank you. I have imposed sufficiently upon your hospitality.”

  Embarrassed, Dr. Rand offered his own flask. She accepted it, and drank neat, as a man would. A little color returned to her face. Dr. Rand helped me into bed. Annabelle and the ubiquitous Blair remained in the living room. After the physician went away I heard her turning the pages of a magazine which I knew she was not reading. Perhaps fifteen minutes later Harkway entered the cottage, paused and spoke to her. She didn’t answer and I summoned him into the bedroom. His face was drawn and tired, and he explained that he had driven over 200 miles since two p.m. On his return from Elliott’s mountain camp, he added wearily, he had received the shocking news of our latest tragedy. He told me he had not been to the Lodge as yet, and he seemed disposed to be bitter over the whole affair.

  “If I had been in complete charge of the case, Silas would have been alive. In jail—and alive.”

  A similar thought had occurred to me, and a shade uncomfortably I changed the subject. “Did you discover anything at Elliott’s camp?”

  “I talked to his guide—a dumb Canuck. Spoke French mostly and I had a hell of a time making him understand me. I finally penetrated. Elliott lied to us.”