The Search for My Great-Uncle’s Head

by Jonathan Latimer

  “I’m afraid we’re in for an all-night storm,” he said. “It usually lasts twelve hours or more when it comes down from Canada.”

  “Oh, Bronson,” exclaimed Miss Leslie in dismay, “another night like the one before last?”

  “I’m afraid so, miss.”

  Bronson and I finished closing the doors and windows, and he went upstairs to inspect the windows in the rooms along the front of the house. I returned to the fire, by now a crackling blaze of dry wood, and sat down opposite Miss Leslie.

  “By the way,” I said, “nobody has been searching through your room, has he?”

  “No. You asked me that last night. Why?”

  “Somebody has gone through Burton’s, Dan’s and mine, and I was trying to imagine what the motive for the searching was. I thought possibly somebody was looking through all the younger people’s rooms.”

  “They—or he—went through your room too?”

  “Yes, last night. I found my room in complete disorder when I went to bed this morning.”

  “I’m surprised you didn’t raise a fuss.”

  “I didn’t think it worth while. I simply picked up my clothes (I didn’t bring many) and went to bed.”

  “Why did you think someone was searching the rooms of all the younger people? What would we have to conceal?”

  “It’s a pretty wild surmise, Miss Leslie, and I don’t know if I should tell you.”

  “I wish you’d call me Joan. ‘Miss Leslie’ sounds so formal,” she said, smiling. “And I promise not to tell. Not even Burton.”

  “I wasn’t thinking of that,” I said quickly. “I was thinking that you’d probably laugh at me.” I felt myself blushing. “I don’t look very much like the popular conception of a detective.”

  “I think you look very nice, especially since you’ve taken off your horn-rimmed glasses.”

  “Do you really think so?” I was becoming quite red.

  “It makes you look five years younger.”

  “Why, thank you, Miss Les—Joan.”

  “But what was your reason for thinking the person would go through the possessions of all the younger people?”

  “You understand I am including myself in the category of younger people of course?”

  “Of course, especially with your glasses off.”

  “Thank you. You flatter me.”

  “Not at all.”

  “The reason is this: I thought possibly someone was trying to make sure the new will was destroyed. He might have been afraid that one of us, who benefit most in the new will, had taken it into safekeeping until the proper time.”

  Thinking put small wrinkles in the space between her arched eyebrows. “But I don’t see why anybody would think that,” she objected. “There’s been nothing to make anyone think we could possibly have it.”

  “One thing could have happened.”

  “What?”

  “The person looked for the will beside Uncle Tobias’ body and found that it was gone.” I looked at her intently to make sure she would catch the import of my next words. “That person had intended to steal the will and destroy it but believed that somebody who did not want the will destroyed had frustrated him.”

  Her face was alarmed. “But do you believe that’s what really happened?” Her gray eyes were wide. “Do you think one of us has the new will?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I’m trying to imagine what the person who’s doing the searching might think. I don’t know what I think. I’m completely confused.”

  “You don’t believe it’s possible that the madman is still prowling around? That’s what Burton says.”

  “What do you think?”

  “I don’t think he could be.”

  “I don’t either. We’d catch sight of him if he was, or he’d …”

  Joan shuddered. “That’s the only thing I’m afraid of. If he came for me I’d be too scared even to scream.”

  Above the noise of the wind I heard the whine of the electric motor which ran the elevator. I wondered who was using it.

  “That madman’s many miles away from us by this time,” I assured Miss Leslie. “He would have been caught long ago if he’d stayed in this neighborhood.”

  The elevator door opened, and Mrs Spotswood glided out in her wheel chair. Her sunken eyes, the deep pupils glowing with inner fire, fastened upon us. She propelled the chair in our direction.

  “How nice the fire looks,” she said. Her voice was low, but she spoke with an intensity which gave her words a funereal quality.

  “Yes, doesn’t it,” Joan replied.

  But for the strange light in her eyes, Mrs Spotswood might have been a wax-museum image created to wear the black silk dress, the long skirt of which shrouded her feet, the violet silk shawl, the white hair, done up in a large bun on the back of her head, the lace cuffs of the Victorian maiden old lady. Even when she spoke no expression troubled the pale and wrinkled mask of her face.

  “Where are the others?” she inquired. “Taking naps?”

  “I’m afraid everyone will be caught in the storm,” I said. “They’re still out.”

  Her voice was difficult to catch above the roar of the wind. “Good. Good,” she said, barely moving her purple lips. “They’re safe out in the open air, out in the woods.”

  “For myself,” I said, “I should prefer to be right here in front of an open fire.”

  “You would?” No louder, her voice had suddenly become harsh with scorn. “Don’t you know that there’s danger in this house, death in this house?” Her hands moved convulsively on her lap. They were pale and wrinkled, like roots just pulled from the earth. “It’s all over … everywhere … the feel of death.” She leaned forward in her chair, trembling, and her deep-set eyes blazed. “You’ll leave if you want to save yourselves. Leave this house. Leave death behind.” Her face became tragic. “It’s only us who can’t run from death that will have to face it. You’re both young; you can run fast. Faster than death. Strong young legs can run faster than death.” A rumble of thunder checked her voice; she cocked her head, listened to the sound diminish. Her face was expressionless again. Her voice came to us, low and no longer harsh. “I’m afraid we are in for a bad storm.” She turned her chair about and passed swiftly into the dining room and out of our sight.

  I turned my startled eyes upon Miss Leslie, partly to see what effect Mrs Spotswood’s speech had had upon her, partly to make sure I had been actually hearing this odd warning. Miss Leslie’s face reassured me. She was properly alarmed.

  “How strange!” she exclaimed. “What does she mean?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t know.” I tried to smile at her, but I felt my effort was a failure. “But don’t be frightened. Probably Mrs Spotswood is upset and has been imagining things. The events of the last two nights are enough to upset almost anybody.”

  “Well, I am frightened.” Her gray eyes were dark against the pallor of her face. “I feel as though something hung over this house too.” She gave me a wan smile. “It’s ridiculous, but I have a definite foreboding of evil.”

  “It’s the tension in the air. We’ve all been under a strain, and we are all suspecting one another of having had a part in searching the house, of breaking into rooms and going through private possessions. Naturally there’s an unpleasant atmosphere.”

  She drew a long breath. “Perhaps you’re right, although my feeling is harder to analyze than that. Don’t you have a feeling of apprehension?”

  “I don’t think so,” I said. “Each time something happens I’m surprised.”

  “Then you aren’t frightened?”

  “Perhaps I am,” I admitted. “At least I’ll be glad when Colonel Black, the detective for the insurance company, arrives.” I delved again into my sensations and was forced to continue, “I guess I am frightened, at that. I hate to think of another night without proper guards in this house.”

  “Why is the detective coming?” she asked. “I don’t see why the i
nsurance company would want to investigate your great-uncle’s death.”

  I explained how Colonel Black had telephoned me, and I told her what Bronson had hinted at to me. “As soon as Colonel Black arrives,” I continued, “Bronson is going to tell him all he knows.”

  “Somebody in the house killed Mr Coffin?” She was evidently appalled by the idea. “Why, that’s incredible! Bronson has been seeing things. It’s beyond the realm of possibility.”

  “That’s about what I thought, but I felt obliged to mention it to Colonel Black.”

  “Why the coincidence itself is beyond anything, even in fiction.” She was evidently trying to dismiss completely the possibility that Bronson could be right. “A madman with a fixation for people’s heads is loose in the neighborhood. We actually see him at this house. Then your great-uncle’s head is cut off. It stands to reason the madman did it.”

  “That’s exactly what I thought,” I said, “but perhaps Bronson has seen more than we think. He certainly is mysterious enough about it, whatever it is.”

  “We’ll know, anyway, after the detective arrives,” she said, a trifle more composed. “I’m not going to worry about it.”

  I started to say that it was a difficult matter to keep from thinking about the murder, especially when additional mysteries cropped up from time to time, but my observation was checked by the arrival of Dr Harvey, George Coffin and Mrs Coffin. All three of them looked cheerful, and their faces glowed from the wind.

  “What we need is hot tea and some muffins,” announced George Coffin with a sly glance at Miss Leslie and me. “And what’s more we’ll have ’em if the professor hasn’t eaten them up.”

  “We’ve been waiting for you,” I said. “It was an effort to deny ourselves, but we did.”

  After Bronson had been informed of the immediate need of tea for five persons they went upstairs to change their clothes. I looked at my wrist watch and was surprised to discover that it was five o’clock. The afternoon was nearly gone, and there was no sign of Colonel Black. I hoped he hadn’t been delayed, and I said as much to Miss Leslie.

  “You are scared,” she said triumphantly.

  I was trying to explain, without much success, that it wasn’t so much for myself as for the others that I was frightened when Bronson brought in the tea wagon. Mrs Bundy had evidently been prepared for such an emergency, and the tray was heaped with hot muffins, biscuits, small cakes and various conserves. They looked delicious.

  Bronson pushed the wagon toward Miss Leslie. “Would you care to serve, miss?” he inquired.

  Joan was pouring me a cup of tea when the others came back downstairs. George Coffin sniffed the air, said, “Ah! Can it be English muffins and honey that I smell?” His face was pink with health, and his demeanor was gay.

  “I don’t see any English muffins, George,” said Mrs Coffin severely. “You have the imagination of a child.”

  Dr Harvey’s small foxlike face contracted into a grin. “He may have the imagination of a child,” he said, “but he also has the nose of a bloodhound. Look.” He pointed to the dining room.

  Bronson was emerging with a tray completely hidden by great round English muffins. They gave off a delightful odor of toasted dough, reminding me of the small teashop in Oxford Circus that I used to patronize on my way home from the British Museum.

  “Aha!” George Coffin gave a delighted leap in the direction of Bronson and seized one of the muffins and a plate. He presented them to his wife with a courtly gesture. “Here, my dear, eat this. Surely a figment of my imagination will not be fattening.”

  Mrs Coffin snorted.

  We were all eating contentedly and listening to an account of the purchases made on the trip to Traverse City (Mrs Coffin was particularly proud of a patchwork quilt she had bought from a farmer’s wife, though I was unable to see how the gaudy object would fit in anything except a stable) when the younger Harveys and Burton came in through the back way. Extra tea was brewed for them while they went upstairs and changed their clothes. Upon their return and between enormous bites of muffins and other delicacies they recounted their adventures. They had reached the forest ranger’s cabin on the dune and from this vantage point had watched the progress of the lightning and the storm. They were pleased at having beaten the rain to the house, but Dan Harvey predicted that it would soon arrive.

  “The clouds were as black as coal to the north,” he said.

  After Mrs Coffin had chided a somewhat irritated Burton for having taken such a chance with the rain the conversation, as it always had, turned to the mystery. Dr Harvey wanted to know if there were any new developments.

  “Nothing since our rooms were searched,” I replied.

  “Our rooms?” queried Dr Harvey.

  “Mine was searched too,” I said, repeating the story I had told Miss Leslie.

  There followed much general speculation as to the reason for the assault on Burton and the search through the room. Miss Leslie and Burton were talking with considerable animation, so I ate the last of my muffin, smearing it liberally with honey, and moved over by George Coffin.

  He spoke in a low voice. “That about lets Mrs Spotswood out.”

  I nodded. “Unless she hadn’t had time to make a thorough search of my room before I came upon her.”

  “It’s very queer.” He frowned good-naturedly.” I think I’ll have to take up searching. Maybe I’ll stumble upon whatever it is the mysterious prowler is looking for.”

  At this moment Bronson, taking out some of the tea things, glanced interrogatively at George Coffin, who nodded in reply. He stood up, saying, “Excuse me a minute. Bronson has something he wants to speak to me about.”

  I listened to an argument between Dan Harvey and his sister as to whether or not lightning would strike swimmers, his sister trying to persuade him to come for a plunge in the rain, when Karl Norberg entered the house through the side door. He came directly to me, his yellow slicker clinging to his legs. There were drops of water on it.

  “There’s a man outside who’s asking for you, Mr Coffin,” he announced. “Says his name is Black.”

  Joan, halting in the midst of a sentence spoken to Burton Coffin, turned her face toward me. There was relief in her eyes. The others were also listening.

  “Colonel Black!” I said, making my voice sound surprised. “I never thought he’d make it. Where is he?”

  I leaped to my feet and followed Karl to the side door. As we passed the library I noticed Bronson and George Coffin in a corner. Their faces were close together, but I could see that Bronson was talking and George Coffin was listening intently.

  Karl held the door for me, and I walked out into the gray afternoon. It had just started to rain.

  Chapter XII

  IN A NILE–GREEN Chinese robe, decorated with white silk dragons, Colonel Black reclined comfortably on his bed and listened with pleased interest to my story. He had had a hot bath and two large whiskies and soda, and his pink face contrasted with the marvelous blue of his eyes. His expression—tinged with arrogance by the aquiline nose, the high cheekbones, the long jaw line; tinged with benevolence by the kindly wrinkles at the corners of the eyes, the healthy plumpness of his jowls, the humor of his lips—was that of a man hearing an entertaining legend.

  At the various high spots of my narrative he somewhat disconcertingly would cry, “Excellent! Oh, by the very gods, excellent!” and his face would beam. When I came to the account of the attack on Burton Coffin he beat his hand upon his thigh and shouted, “Oh, good!”

  This surprising sentiment caused me to pause for a moment. “But why good?” I demanded. “You don’t even know the young man.”

  “No. You don’t understand.” His long, perfectly manicured hands disclaimed with an outward gesture any personal feeling. “It’s merely the shape of the story. It’s quite Elizabethan. Really.”

  I finished my account and added that I had not revealed the fact that he was a detective to my relatives.

  �
��By the shades of Shakespeare,” he exclaimed excitedly, “this is fine.” His voice, ordinarily a trifle high and querulous, deepened. “It reminds me, in a way, of that great scene in Cymbeline when Imogen awakes with the cloaked body of Cloten lying beside her. Do you remember how the author adds effect to effect to reach a crescendo of horror?”

  I shook my head. “I remember the scene vaguely,” I said, “but I don’t …”

  He held out an arm in an arresting gesture. “She sits up, mildly puzzled and saying sleepily, ‘But, soft! no bedfellow,’ and then, becoming aware that the figure beside her is heaped with sweet flowers, she dreamily picks one of the blossoms and is shocked wide awake by the discovery (‘O gods and goddesses!’) that there is blood on it.

  “Then after she prays it is only a dream and hides her eyes with her hands and looks again and sees the body is still there she recognizes some of the garments and lifts the cloak to examine the face and then (‘Murder in heaven?’) sees that the corpse is headless and goes stark, raving mad.”

  He paused, his eyes looking down his nose at me, and said, “Isn’t that dandy?”

  “Well, no,” I said.

  “I thought only the Elizabethans could as neatly combine murder and horror,” he continued, “but here we have a combination (perhaps not as well suited to a dramatic presentation) quite as grotesque.” He locked his hands behind his head and sighed comfortably. “I’m really quite pleased to be here.”

  The storm was increasing. Around the lake-front corners of the house the wind screamed as though it was enraged by its failure to break through the trembling panes. It moaned and wailed like a hungry tiger; it roared and shouted. At times, in a climax of fury, it shook the house like a terrier with a boot. The rain fell in sheets.

  “Is there anything more I can tell you?” I inquired. “If there isn’t I think I’ll prepare for dinner.”