Vaile listened intently without interruption until I had finished my story. Then nodding his head, he said, “You have done all I expected could be done. We have eliminated the car and satisfied ourselves that Edwin’s objective lies between two known points—in other words, somewhere in that area is the strange lady. Why he should be so desperately anxious to keep the matter a secret, why he should concoct such an elaborate alibi, still remains to be determined.”
“I am not sure that a woman is in it,” I objected. “He brought the handkerchief back with him and made no bones about saying that some one had played a trick on him.”
“Certainly. The girl knew it was not her handkerchief. Edwin had to go to her with it, though, before he discovered that it was a plant. The point is, he did go to her at the first opportunity after he found the handkerchief, just exactly as he did when the colored boy gave him the vanity case.”
I was not yet convinced. “If he returned the compact on the afternoon his uncle was murdered, why didn’t he say so, rather than expose himself to suspicion, if the inquest showed his story false?”
John Patrick thought a moment. “You must not lose sight of the fact that he believed his alibi was adequate until he got the nasty shock caused by the ticket-seller failing to identify him. I don’t know why he then decided to bluff it out, unless he felt he could always save himself by falling back on the truth. Or perhaps the truth was more damning than the lie. We have two alternatives left—either Edwin is innocent of the murder, in which case he can produce the lady to testify for him, or he is guilty and she knows it.”
“That would explain why he is so anxious to prevent any one from finding out who she is,” I breathed excitedly. “Look here, chief, let me go to Edwin now and tell him how much we know. I believe I can bluff him into an admission. If he is innocent, he will take us to the girl. If he is guilty, he will keep silent and we can turn our facts over to the police tomorrow, and I wager by night they pick the girl up.”
“Bob, you are insane!” exclaimed John Patrick, aghast. “I cannot seem to drive it into your head that you are dealing with a dangerous criminal. This is not a game of tag. If you went to the man who killed Cyrus Evans with a bait like yours, thinking to trap him into a confession, you would never live to walk out of the room.”
This bald statement shook me somewhat, but I was loath to give up my new idea. “He wouldn’t dare kill me, if he thought you knew everything I did. We might even threaten him with a letter to be deposited with the District Attorney, you know, to be opened in case—well, in case anything happened to one or the other of us.”
John Patrick shook his head emphatically. “No, thank you,” he said dryly, “I have no desire to thrust my head into a noose, nor yours either. I wish I could impress on you the danger of your own foolhardiness. Can’t you see this murder as I do; a cold calculating crime, done by a clever man to whom nothing matters but the achieving of his own ends? Do you think such a man is going to see himself in jeopardy and not strike back? Why even the thought that he has but a slim chance of going free, as in the case of holding the threat of the D. A. over his head, do you think he would hesitate to kill, to grasp at the slimmest reed?”
John Patrick stopped short, choked by his emotion.
In spite of myself, I was impressed. I felt a cold touch of horror when he presented so clearly to my eyes the sinister aspect of the murder already done and the boding threat of more evil to come.
“Boy,” he said, his voice shaking, “if Edwin killed his uncle, I believe you were never in your life closer to death than tonight when you almost stretched out your hand for that infernal handkerchief.”
This time John Patrick’s words reached their objective and I went to bed fully convinced of the danger I had been in; and, while I hoped as much as ever before to bring Cyrus Evans’ slayer to justice, I was content to let my share henceforth be as inconspicuous as possible. From now on, I determined to bridle my tongue and walk warily.
SIXTEEN
Events moved slowly for the rest of the week. We were pointing now toward the fifteenth, laying our plans carefully for we feared that Edwin might act with a great deal more subtlety than he had displayed when he went to return the handkerchief. Even I was now willing to display greater secrecy and more astuteness in covering up our movements. I was prey to ceaseless recriminations lest I had already done something to alarm our quarry and show him we were already on his trail. I knew the price we should have to pay, should we fail to hide our tracks, should we alarm him prematurely. I kept company with foreboding thoughts those days.
Withal, my part in our next endeavor was to be purely inactive, as we planned it. John Patrick was to leave Bayside the afternoon of the fourteenth, called away by business totally unconnected with the Evans’ affairs, and he would proceed to Havre de Grace—chosen as a base, both because of its proximity to Belton and because its urbane sophistication would permit him to put up at a hotel without occasioning too much speculation or comment. Then I was to telephone him when Edwin left the house, and my part was done.
That, I say, was the plan—but we reckoned without our shadowy opponent. He also had schemes for the fourteenth and fifteenth. John Patrick left according to schedule, leaving me to my own devices—and my first act was to provide us with some disquieting information and much food for thought. I went, prosaically enough, for a walk around the estate. In my mind I was revolving the idea, more or less suggested by my chief, that if Charles really did pick up a load of liquor at the mouth of Chesapeake Bay, what better place to land it than on his uncle’s estate. And I found an amazing confirmation of the theory.
Now the Bayside property extended to the Post Road. To transport liquor once landed, any passable lane would do, but unquestionably such a lane could not pass too close to the house, for during Cyrus’ lifetime he was a greater source of menace to the peace of mind of the rum-runners than was the Federal Service. To keep out of his way, then, was highly important to Charles in selecting the spot where the liquor was to be landed and stored to await the arrival of the trucks. This line of thinking brought me to the conclusion that there were only two places which would fulfill the conditions; one, a sandy strip of beach beyond the target range, very accessible from the water and capable of being reached by a tortuous wagon path through the woods. The other was not so accessible from the water, being on the bayou extending in from the pier and boat-house, but it was far nearer the main road and was expertly concealed from the house by the growth of pine trees at whose outer edge Cyrus had met his death.
It was this latter spot I inspected on the afternoon of the fourteenth. There was a rocky ledge at the head of the inlet, and closer inspection revealed a heap of rocks looking as if they had been placed by human hands to simulate a sort of cave. Still, I did not see how any truck could reach the place, until it dawned on me that I was standing within a few feet of the boundary line of the Evans’ estate. The adjoining land was arid waste and, I had always supposed, sand. Not until I noted a gap in the barbed-wire fence did I think to climb over the miniature promontory and pass through the boundary hedge; then I saw to my surprise that the soil, while waste and unproductive, was not too sandy to permit motor traffic. True, it was of a clay foundation, difficult to negotiate in wet weather, particularly with a heavy load, but it was no worse at that than many of our country roads. This place, then, met all the requirements.
I was elated over my discovery and planned to keep a cautious watch over this parcel of ground. Yet I was disquieted, too; the cache was within two hundred feet of the exact spot where Cyrus had been killed. True, the rocky ledge and pine grove jutted across one’s field of vision, but if Charles had stood there—and with three other men, all fully armed—he was lying when he said he knew nothing of the murder. I had an uncomfortable feeling that he was in it too, somehow, and, because we had not taken this possibility into consideration, I began to worry for my chief’s safety. He was engaged in a mission too dangerous to neg
lect any single factor and I considered how best I could warn him.
The rest of the day was difficult for me to get through. After a week of cool, clear, autumn days, we had experienced an extraordinary change of weather, and unseasonable heat, with oppressing humidity, descended on us like a stifling blanket. Towards evening the atmosphere became charged with electricity, thunder grumbled to the south of us, warning us of the onslaught of one of those weird, untimely storms which, natural enough in the summer, seem like an insanity of nature when they appear out of their proper season. I knew that somewhere, far to the south of us, a tropical hurricane was churning the gray waters of the Gulf Stream, ships were in mortal danger, coastwise towns were fearfully awaiting their death sentence from the tidal wave, and we, safe and sound above the danger line would, nevertheless, feel the sting of the tail of the mighty tempest, sometime before morning.
I kept Edwin in sight until he retired, although I scarcely thought he would attempt to meet his appointment an evening too early, in the face of the forbidding weather. When I went to bed I should have been able to sleep in clear conscience, with nothing to worry about save the dispatching of one telephone call on the morrow. But I kept waking up after wild dreams, wherein I was pursuing the master criminal hoping to catch a glimpse of his face. Then when he did turn around, he had no face at all, only a horror, a countenance smooth, blank and featureless. I awoke, bathed in cold sweat, shivering with the remembrance of the terrible thing I had seen in my sleep. The storm was almost on us now—the lightning flashed white, but the air was still and heavy. Then I heard it—a sound in all the stillness. It was like a single footfall, only not so clearly marked—more like the noise a great animal might make, moving stealthily but brushing up against some unexpected obstacle.
First it was almost exactly opposite my door; it progressed slowly, steadily down the hall. Then there was an interval when I lay tense, straining to hear it again; and when I did, I knew it came from the room above where I lay, the empty, locked room which Charles had consigned to our care. A prowler was about, some one to whom a locked door did not matter, some one who would go about his evil business in spite of our precautions.
I heard the low ominous roll of thunder, the guns of the storm coming closer, drowning out all lesser sounds. In the ensuing silence, which was an emptiness draining my ears of all sound, I heard it once again, slow, maddening in its deliberateness; but I lay tense in my bed devoid of any desire to find the explanation for this thing.
Outside my window a determined wind sprang up. The lightning became more frequent and in one of the bright flashes I saw something on the blank wall at the foot of my bed. In each succeeding flash of light I saw it, a giant hand whose stiff fingers clasped and unclasped slowly, horribly. The thunder was crashing now, demons unleashed, the wind roaring by with hurricane force. A blinding flash, the fingers writhed in superhuman agony, and my eardrums sang from the concussion of the mighty blast of thunder just outside. Trembling, but made brave by the very excess of my terror, I reached under the pillow for my flashlight, for I knew all the lights of Bayside had gone off with the last awful burst of fury. I rushed to my window to close it and saw that the tree outside, whose wind-tossed branches had patterned the fingers on my wall, had gone down, split by lightning.
The gale passed on, nor in the succeeding interval of peace did I hear the footfalls again. I finally slept in pure exhaustion, and when I woke in the morning, save for the evidence of the tree outside, I might have been hard put to say how much of last night had been fact and how much fear-born fantasy. But I knew one thing, and I would not forget it; there was an intrepid prowler at Bayside, one who could go over the place at will. I could not forget that the last time we had an intruder, Charles had obviously been gripped by the cold clutch of fear—and the time before that we had found Cyrus dead.
All next day circumstances conspired to keep Tom, Edwin and me in close company. In the evening we were sitting in the gun-room, and I was wondering if Edwin did not intend to keep his engagement on this fifteenth. Suddenly he rose, stretched himself and remarked casually, “I’m going out for a ride. Either of you fellows care to go along?”
At this unusual invitation I felt a cold chill run down my spine. I thought of the gangster expression, “being taken for a ride,” and I determined to refuse Edwin’s invitation in such a way as to brush aside whatever suspicions he might have. As I spoke, I strove to be nonchalant but I felt as if I held my life in my hands.
“Thank you, Edwin, but it is getting on towards eight, and if I am to get any work done, I must start at once.”
Tom put down the book he was reading and looked at me. “Nonsense, Bob, I believe you are afraid of the night air. If you can stand the dampness, you can do the work when you get back—unless you can’t go the late night hours.”
I drew myself up with what I hoped was a credible imitation of wounded dignity. “There is a certain amount of work to be gone through with before Mr. Vaile comes back, and I would like to get at it. Don’t let my refusal stop you from going with Edwin, if you wish.”
As I left the room, I heard Edwin laugh and say, “He had you there, Tom. You are the one who won’t go out in an open car if the night’s the least bit damp.”
I waited until I heard the Chrysler go down the drive, then I called the number John Patrick had left with me and gave the code message agreed upon. I wished I knew some way of passing on my information, or suspicion, about Charles, but there seemed to be none. Now my part was done, and I was left to worry and fret about the success of my chief’s plans.
The next day was one of indescribable anxiety. I had not heard Edwin return the night before, nor did I see him or his cousin at breakfast, although James told me they had finished a bare ten minutes ahead of me. I expected to see John Patrick back by lunch—but Tom and I ate alone. I was puzzled and distraught. The afternoon wore on, and still no sign of my chief. Worried as I was, I dared make no move. If John Patrick were all right, he would not thank me for my interference. My instructions had been to carry on at Bayside, but my instinct was to proceed to Belton and see if all was well with my old friend, or if some horrible accident had befallen him. I finally determined that I would wait until dark and then, if John Patrick had not returned, I would cast discretion to the wind and go in search of him.
Shortly before four-thirty a knock sounded on the door of the study where I was making a pretense at work. Before I could reply, Charles entered in his soundless fashion. The sight of him standing there affected my overwrought nerves so that I merely stared at him in open-mouthed bewilderment, my heart in my throat.
He looked at me a minute and then laughed, not unkindly. “What’s the matter, Williams, you getting nervy, too?” Then he asked me for the key to his room.
Of course, the key which had proved so unnecessary to last night’s prowler. It reposed in the strong box where John Patrick had put it. I got up, procured it, and handed it over. “I guess I am a bit nervy,” I admitted. “Did you have a good cruise?”
He grunted an unintelligible rejoinder and then left me. I sat in silence for a few seconds until the sound over my head told me he was running a bath and would be busy for some little time. Then I ran lightly from my room, down the stairs, taking good care not to be seen until I gained the pine grove, where I was invisible to any watcher from the window. From there I hastened to the rocks, reconnoitering carefully, lest any of Charles’ friends be around. I reached the cache and found it unguarded, a safe enough procedure in view of the location. I peered inside. Twenty cases, which, by their lettering, were of the best whiskey and assorted wines. Well, another piece of our puzzle fell into place with all its dreadful implications.
I went back to the house carefully and regained our study. There in front of the desk sat John Patrick.
“Thank God!” I burst out. “Another half hour and I would have gone in search of you.”
“I’m glad you didn’t,” he said gravely. “Where have y
ou been?”
In a few words I explained. I had found Charles’ secret cache and, if that was where he was when his uncle was killed, he must have stood within a few hundred feet of the crime as it was committed.
“Curious,” said John Patrick, “we get deeper in this mystery every step we take, instead of clearing it up a bit. Now let me tell you what I unearthed.”
Settling himself comfortably and taking out his pipe, he began his surprising story.
SEVENTEEN
“I don’t know, Bob, just how to tell this story,” John Patrick began. “It seems so unbelievable that I don’t see quite what it means myself. To put the matter in a nutshell, I have found the answer to all of our questions about Edwin except one, and I am no forwarder than I was at the beginning; for the one thing I can’t answer is, did he commit the murder? One minute I think he is absolutely innocent and the next—well, I am not so sure. The best thing I can do is to tell you the facts as I dug them out, and let you interpret them for yourself.
“To begin with, as soon as I got your message, I went over to Belton, hid my car, and took up my post of observation. In a surprisingly short time, Edwin came along. I trailed him and, if I do say so myself, I did it in a highly professional manner.” He interrupted himself to light his pipe.
“Where did he go?” I asked, unable to keep still any longer.
“The end of the trail, Bob,” answered my chief, smiling at my eagerness. “You remember the big house standing on the corner where the lane runs into the country highway?”
I nodded. “The last possible house he could have as a destination.”
“Right. And that is where he went.”
I was astonished. “Why did he go through all the hocus-pocus then? He could drive around in his own car and park it in the country road a dozen times without anybody noticing him.”
Murder at Bayside Page 18