Murder at Bayside

by Raymond Robins

  “Tom disclaims all responsibility for this tramp, Charles,” Edwin remarked. “The honor is all yours. Did he get anything, by the way?”

  No one answered for a moment and then John Patrick said, “Charles tells me there was money in this desk drawer, and it is gone now. Also, the thief went through his clothes, but the contents of the pockets were left scattered on the floor.”

  I walked over to the broken window. A stout trellis, covered by ivy, ran from the ground to the roof, passing within six inches of the casement. I reflected uncomfortably that this same vine might likewise afford entrance to our study on the floor below.

  “He got in and out this way, all right,” I said, satisfied with the results of my survey. “The vine is all trampled down—a trellis has always seemed to me a veritable invitation to thieves.”

  John Patrick rose. “I’m going to look around the grounds a bit, if you don’t mind. May I take your flashlight, Tom?”

  “I’ll go with you,” Tom replied courteously. “I think I can dig up another light downstairs.”

  I followed along, leaving the two brothers alone in the suite they had occupied jointly until tonight.

  “I wonder how the window got smashed?” I queried idly as we walked out, but I got no response.

  We found two more searchlights downstairs and went outdoors. If John Patrick had hoped to find any footprints, he reckoned without the weather, for the ground was wind-swept hard and dry. Only the broken vines along the trellis bore witness to the passing of some one not long before.

  There didn’t seem to be much of importance to be seen out here, so I was wandering aimlessly about forty feet from the house, shivering in the cold of the night, when the beams of my flashlight fell on a strange object. As I came closer to pick it up, I saw that it was a large roll of bills, held together with an elastic. I gave a shout and when the others came running to me, I exhibited my find.

  “The money Charles lost,” John Patrick said quickly. “I imagine the thief dropped it in the darkness and Tom’s flashlight frightened him away before he could recover it. Let’s take it back to its owner and see if the find doesn’t cheer him up a bit.”

  The three of us climbed the rear stairs for a second time that night. Edwin had departed, but Charles was sitting just as we had left him with his gun in his hand. We gave him the money, telling him of the circumstances of its recovery, but his face never moved a muscle.

  “Thank you,” he said to me, with more dignity than I had ever seen him manifest before. “I am going to stand guard the rest of the night. The doors to the two bedrooms going into the hall are locked, and the only other door into this room I shall lock after you are gone; thus, I shall be able to guard against the return of any intruder with this—“ motioning significantly to his forty-five.

  We wished him a sober good-night and went to our respective rooms to finish out what was left of the night. I wanted to talk over the recent happenings with my chief, but as soon as we entered our study, he fairly pushed me into my room, muttering in my ear, “Go to bed now, I’ll be with you early in the morning.” Then he said aloud, “Good-night, my boy.”

  Somewhat mystified, I turned in, unable at once to get to sleep. Where did this burglary fit into the scheme of things? Was it an isolated event, entirely unrelated to anything that had gone before? How had the enormous roll of bills come into Charles’ possession? I recalled vaguely having heard how bootleggers always had a large sum of money at hand to use in their business dealings. Was the burglary connected with Charles’ somewhat shadowy transactions—hi-jacking, was that what it was called?

  Then a fresh idea came to me. Only the members of the immediate family knew that Charles was now the sole inhabitant of the suite above. Until a late hour tonight, Edwin’s possessions had likewise occupied part of the room which had been entered. Was the mysterious something which linked Edwin with the mysterious lady the object of the search? If so, what was the intruder looking for, and had he found it? On the other hand, it was Charles’ money which had been stolen, Charles’ clothes which were gone through, thus making it entirely possible that it was a simple theft. In that case, why had the burglar passed our window and climbed a story higher before he plied his craft?

  Eventually, I must have drifted off to sleep, for it seemed as if I had just closed my eyes when I wakened to find John Patrick sitting on my bed, shaking my shoulder and regarding me in an amused fashion.

  “My soul, Bob,” he said with a smile, “You are a difficult person to awaken. Here,” passing me his cigarette case, “are you sufficiently demoralized to have a smoke before breakfast?”

  It really wasn’t my custom to have a cigarette before I cleaned my teeth, but I accepted one nevertheless and waited while he held a light for me.

  “I didn’t want to talk to you last night,” he began. “The whole household was awake and I didn’t know who might flatter us by listening to see if we demonstrated our suspicious natures by discussing the affair. However, I think we are safe enough now, since it will be at least an hour before any one is up for breakfast. Bob,” he proceeded very gravely, “you have got to get it into your head that we are dealing with a dangerous man. We don’t know his identity and, until we do, we can’t trust any one. Don’t try to see too much and, above all, don’t ask questions unless you and I are alone.”

  “I didn’t, did I?” I asked, meekly.

  “Oh, yes you did. You asked about the window; you wondered how it got broken.”

  “Why, we were alone, except for the family,” I said in surprise. “The person who broke the window must have been miles away by that time.”

  John Patrick regarded me gravely. “I wish I thought so,” he said in a dry tone. “Bob, you have the unfortunate trait of believing exactly what you are supposed to. Just remember, please, in the future, don’t talk unless you are in our own suite and you are sure we cannot be overheard.”

  I promised to be careful. “But what about the window?” I wanted to know.

  John Patrick drew an object from the pocket of his dressing gown. He unwrapped the stained handkerchief covering it and held it out gingerly. It was an ink bottle, which had lost its cork. The mouth of the bottle was cracked and the ink all gone, although the stained handkerchief testified to the recency of its disappearance.

  “Here is the object that broke the window,” he said. “I noticed there was no ink on Charles’ desk, and the broken window seemed so pointless to me that I half suspected where I would find the inkwell. I picked it up outdoors when you and Tom were concentrating on the money.”

  “Why do you say the broken window was so pointless?” I asked.

  “Well, if the intruder made his entrance by the window—and the trampled vines prove he did—why should he break the window before going out? Ergo, he didn’t go out the same way he came in, but he wanted Charles, who rushed into the room just then, to think he did. Remember, the night was exceedingly dark and Charles was barely awake. The scheme worked and the burglar, under cover of the noise, slipped into the bedroom formerly occupied by Edwin, ran out into the hall and along the passage to the back stairs and down that way.”

  “He couldn’t have been more than a few steps ahead of Tom,” I cried in excitement.

  My chief looked at me peculiarly. “He might have been a few steps behind Tom,” he suggested.

  “Edwin?” I said with surprise in my voice, thinking of the scene at the head of the stairway when I arrived. “But Edwin didn’t have time to get outdoors and back up the stairs again. You forget that the money was lost outside the house.”

  “The money was a blind of the most obvious sort,” retorted my chief. “I don’t know what was the object of the search, but I am sure the roll of bills was purely incidental. Here is what I think happened; the thief came up the trellis and opened the window—Charles said, by the way, that he never looked at the catch, didn’t know whether it was fastened or not. I heard the footsteps overhead, so I know the man was already a
t work when your door creaked. The thief kept quiet a few minutes until he heard Charles get up, and then he knew he would have to get out. He grabbed the money, dropping the drawer by accident or design, it doesn’t matter which, threw the inkwell at the window, and vanished through the door opposite to the one Charles was at that moment coming through.”

  “Do you really think it was something of Charles’ he wanted?” I suggested. “He may not have known that Edwin had moved out.” Waiting a second for a reply,

  I put forth the theory I had evolved the night before.

  “Possible,” John Patrick nodded his head. “However, every one in the house knew that Edwin had moved downstairs; even the servants were aware of it; so on your reckoning it would have to be an outside job.”

  “No,” I said, triumphantly, “there is one other solution we have overlooked. It might have been Edwin, himself. Perhaps he deliberately fomented the quarrel with Charles in order to get a separate room; then he ransacked his brother’s quarters, hoping we would think it was an outsider.”

  Vaile smiled. “I don’t think you are clear in your own mind as to whether the raid was staged by some one in the house or not. I’ll give you one more idea. Would Charles, for some inscrutable purpose of his own, deliberately plan the whole thing himself?”

  Perceiving that my chief was serious, I revolved the idea in my mind carefully before replying. “The clue to the identity of the thief rests in the identity of the object sought,” I concluded astutely.

  John Patrick flashed me a glance of approval. “And what might be the nature of the object sought?” he inquired in the manner of a schoolmaster drilling his pupil.

  I had no answer ready, so I countered swiftly, “What do you think it is?”

  My chief answered me after a silence, and when he spoke it was in a hushed voice as if he were speculating aloud, careless of whether or not I paid any attention. “Yes, I have a nebulous idea, but it is so bizarre, so cruel and above all so hazy as to details, I cannot put it into words yet. It would be terrible if I were wrong—unspeakably terrible if I were right.”

  “Do you think that the burglary is connected with the murder?” I asked when I perceived that he would say no more.

  He looked very grave. “Until the murder is solved, I’ll connect every untoward event in this house with the death of Cyrus Evans. I don’t mean that the murderer necessarily attempted the burglary—I can’t go so far as that yet—but I do think the attempt grew out of, or was necessitated by, the murder. You notice I say attempted, for I feel sure that you raised the alarm too swiftly for the thief to have been successful. Along the same line of reasoning, I think it will be repeated. Possibly the thing the thief wants is not in Charles’ possession at all; therefore, it behooves us all to watch out,—we may be favored next.”

  “Sort of a case of the murderer returning to the scene of his crime?” I asked.

  John Patrick raised his head in surprise. “No, the scene of the crime doesn’t seem to figure in this at all, does it? At least, I haven’t noticed any activity down by the dock. Yet, fundamentally your phraseology is correct; although, to speak absolutely accurately, I think you should say that the murderer has never left the scene of his crime, if you broaden the statement to mean Bayside itself. He is still here, watching, waiting, and for what? I’d give a great deal to know.” He paused a moment and looked at me uncertainly. “There is a queer thing now. I found it in your notes for, of course, it happened before I came back; you remember, I think it was the evening before the inquest, when Tom told Edwin he would turn them out of Bayside? He hasn’t done so, nor have they made any attempt to leave.”

  “They probably can’t until we settle the estate,” I objected.

  “No, I think they could at least get rooms in town. They both seem to be extraordinarily flush with money. Lately, even Edwin has given up hounding us to get the work done. They are all three sitting pat, as if something else were about to happen, as if last night were only one manifestation of the undercurrent of fear and mystery around Bayside.”

  As my chief rose to go, I asked another question. “Do you think Charles knows what the intruder was after last night?”

  A pitying look was my answer. “Good heavens, didn’t you catch the significance of his remark about remaining locked in and armed, waiting the return of his visitor? That’s why I am disinclined to the idea that Charles staged the whole show himself. Of course, as an armed display, it might have been very effective, but, even in that case, he has something or knows of something some one else wants—and wants badly.”

  John Patrick departed, leaving me to reflect on the substance of our conversation. There was still an air of unreality about our undertaking, our attempt to spot the murderer. Although I knew that John Patrick never considered for a moment the possibility of any one outside the immediate household participating in the crime, I was not so sure. The police, I presumed, were off chasing down some clue of their own, hoping to prove the identity of the tramp who had appeared once to Tom and, quite possibly, once again last night, this time visiting Charles. Perhaps I have not the singleness of purpose of my chief, for I could see a dozen potential leads along this line. For one thing, Edwin had once suggested that Tom knew the identity of the visitor—in that case, how far would Tom go to protect the reputation of some one else? If that some one else were a member of the family, I thought he would go a long way. He was very like his father and, certainly, Cyrus had moved heaven and earth to protect his nephews when he really didn’t care a snap of his fingers for them. This brought me to a consideration of Charles’ bootlegging activities and some of his dubious friends. I was too sleepy to reason it out, but I did not feel that last night’s adventure was at all conclusive in itself. For one thing, the mystery of Edwin’s behavior was uppermost in my mind. He did not appear to be involved in the latest development, but I had learned to distrust appearances so far as he was concerned.

  FIFTEEN

  I dozed off again after John Patrick had left me and did not reawaken until late in the morning. When I finally went downstairs to search for a cup of coffee, I found the house as quiet and well-ordered as if last night’s excitement had never been. I was not more than half-way through my breakfast when I heard a car coming along the drive, from the garage. Coffee-cup in hand, trusting that I presented an appearance of complete nonchalance, I stood at the window long enough to see Edwin’s blue Chrysler flash by, its owner at the wheel. Then I dashed up the stairs two at a time to inform my chief and ask for instructions.

  “Shall I go to Belton now?” I inquired after reporting.

  John Patrick smiled. “No, you have touched upon the weak spot of our scheme—we can work only after dark; but I think the same handicap applies to our quarry. The short autumn afternoons lend themselves admirably to his purpose—and to ours. So I should say, along about four o’clock will be ample time for you to depart.”

  I sat down and cast about for some means of keeping the conversation going. The idea of settling down to our prosaic tasks and keeping at them all day made absolutely no appeal to me.

  “Have the police been informed as to what happened here last night?” I inquired.

  “No. Charles says it was his show and he doesn’t want the troopers called in. Tom acquiesced readily enough—I think he hates the thought of Bayside being subjected to the white light of further investigations.” And my chief’s eyes twinkled as they contemplated my idleness. “Come on, let’s get started on Cyrus’ personal checking account. Such work is pertinent to your line of endeavor and won’t bore you as much as some other, perhaps. Besides, it has to be done.”

  I went to the desk and brought out a ledger and four huge bundles of canceled checks. I was calling out the numbers and my chief was comparing them with the entries’, when a knock sounded on the door. Without waiting for permission, Charles walked in and, when I looked at him, I betrayed my surprise at what I saw by an involuntary start. He wore an old khaki shirt and trous
ers and carried a short mackinaw over his arm. But what had startled me was the pistol holster strapped to his shoulder, the blue black butt of its tenant shining with a sinister gleam.

  He strode over to the desk and threw a small key down on the surface. Then he came to the point at once.

  “Mr. Vaile, I figure you are in charge here, so please take care of this key for me. I’m going out on the cruiser for several days and I have locked my room up to avoid a repetition of last night. This is the key for the door I came out of—everything else is locked from the inside.”

  John Patrick looked at the boy keenly for a minute. “How about the window?”

  Charles nodded. “Furniture pulled up in front of it. If any one tries the window again, they may be able to get in, but they’ll rouse the whole place. I’m not holding you responsible for anything, you know, I’d just sort of like to leave the key with some one I can trust.”

  Not a muscle in my chief’s face moved. His voice was kind, but his eyes carefully veiled. Yet his words were soft and very gentle. “Would you care to tell me, Charles, the precise nature of the object I am to guard?”

  There was a long moment of silence. I thought Charles was going to lower his mask and give us his confidence, but I was mistaken. He finally said very quietly, “I keep nothing of value in my room.”

  John Patrick nodded as if satisfied. Then Charles took his departure as quietly as he had entered. He had the Indian trick of moving on noiseless feet. As soon as the door closed behind him, I breathed a deep sigh. When Charles left, the supercharged atmosphere lightened somewhat, as if he had lessened the tension by removing his person, but the effect of the surprising interview lingered on.

  My chief was toying with the key in his hand. “Most illuminating talk, that,” he said. “You know, one or two pieces of the puzzle are falling into shape, but I must admit some of them seem farther from fitting than ever.”