The Search for My Great-Uncle’s Head

by Jonathan Latimer

  Mrs Coffin frowned at me. “Then you’ve known that Bronson had something to tell all the time?”

  “Since yesterday anyway.”

  “Well!” She agitated her large head furiously. “It seems to me you know almost too much about what is going on in this house.” Her tone was definitely hostile.

  “Mother!” exclaimed Burton Coffin.

  “If people are going around accusing people,” she said sharply, “I feel it my duty to point out some things myself.”

  I was silent under this surprising attack, but Burton Coffin took up the cudgel for me. “I don’t think the professor has accused anybody,” he said, “and I think he’s right about Bronson. We have no power to make Bronson tell us something he prefers to tell to Colonel Black.”

  George Coffin was regarding his son with a strange look in his horror-ridden eyes; a look resembling awe, but I was unable to think why Burton’s remark should summon up awe.

  “Very well.” Mrs Coffin rang the small silver bell in front of her place angrily, and Bronson appeared. His face showed surprise at the length of time the soup course had taken.

  The remainder of the dinner went smoothly. The roast of beef was so good that during the main course nobody cared to do more than make the most perfunctory conversation, and when the salad was served Colonel Black turned another question about detection into a discussion of Shakespeare.

  “He is one of the most fascinating men who ever lived,” he said, “and his life furnishes a field for detection of a far more acute type than that required by the solution of a simple murder.” He cut into the crisp half head of lettuce on his plate, using his knife and fork as do the English. “We have in Shakespeare not the problem of how a man died, but the problem of whether he lived at all.”

  “But Colonel Black,” cried Miss Harvey, “there couldn’t be any doubt that Shakespeare lived.”

  “There could and is that any dramatist by that name ever lived,” said the colonel, obviously enjoying the effect he was making. “A number of people maintain with the utmost vehemence that Shakespeare never wrote a play in his life.”

  Through the salad, dessert and into the black coffee in the living room the colonel pursued the Baconian and Spencerian theories of Shakespeare. His talk was interesting, especially when he quoted from court and coroner’s records of the time of Elizabeth, but I don’t think any of us listened to him with complete attention. I know my mind was busy speculating on what revelation Bronson had in store for the colonel. I hoped that the old butler would be proved to be harboring some ridiculous notion which his unsettled emotions had built into what he considered proof of someone’s criminal guilt.

  Finally Mrs Harvey interrupted both my train of thought and the colonel’s conversation to say apologetically that she was going upstairs to bed. Her plump face looked tired.

  Dr Harvey remonstrated with her, pointing out that it was still light outside and far too early for bed, but when she insisted that she would prefer to retire he acquiesced.

  “I’ll go up with you,” he said. “I want to get my Atlantic Monthly.”

  Everyone else began to move away from the fire. The two Harveys and Miss Leslie directed their steps toward the library and the billiard table. George Coffin, looking at me, said he thought he would go down to the cellar for another bottle of my great-uncle’s brandy. He still appeared ill.

  I said I thought that would be an excellent plan.

  Mrs Coffin cast an angry glance at her husband as he started for the pantry. “You be careful, George Coffin,” she warned, “and don’t try to drink the cellar dry.”

  I think she and I were both surprised by his reply, for instead of his usual glib witticism, he said, “Yes, my dear,” and continued humbly on through the dining room.

  Burton Coffin watched him disappear with a puzzled frown on his handsome face. Suddenly he arose from the chair beside his mother. “I think I’ll go down with Dad,” he announced. “I’ve never seen the cellar.”

  He departed, leaving Mrs Coffin, the colonel and me in front of the fire. The colonel bowed to Mrs Coffin and said, “I wonder if you would excuse Peter and me for a moment. I should like to have him show me where the telephone is.”

  Mrs Coffin nodded. “I shall remain by the fire for a moment or two. The blaze is very pleasant.”

  I suggested the extension in the upstairs study, rather than the telephone in the big library, and Colonel Black followed me up the stairs.

  Once in the room I asked, “I wonder what made Bronson speak of whatever it is that he has seen and reveal that you are a detective?”

  “You have me, Peter.” The colonel’s heavy lids half veiled his eyes. “Unless he’s trying to scare a confession out of someone.”

  This idea hadn’t occurred to me before, but I saw at once that such was obviously Bronson’s intention. Either his evidence wasn’t conclusive, or he didn’t want to be responsible for the arrest of a member of the family he had served so long, if he could possibly avoid it.

  While I was thinking the colonel had brought out the French telephone from its place on one of the bookshelves. “Don’t go,” he said as I started to leave the room. “I don’t mind your hearing what I have to say.”

  He glanced at a card in his pocket and then asked the operator to get him Samuel Watts in Traverse City. I walked over to the window and looked out at the storm. It was almost dark now, and I could barely make out flashes of white on the wind-whipped lake. The moving air still howled around the house, but the rain had, at least for the moment, let up, although the sky was ominous.

  The colonel spoke into the telephone. “Hello. Hello. Mr Watts?… The Mr Watts who is an agent for the American Insurance Company?… Good. This is Colonel Black speaking. I am representing the company in the death of … What’s that? Oh, you had a wire from the company.… Yes, I would like to have you do something for me. Do you happen to know the coroner?… Oh, very fine, Mr Watts. If you’ve insured him you must know him quite well. Now this is what I want. Have him make a complete autopsy on the body of Tobias Coffin. I want special attention centered upon the lungs. If the medical examiner for the county isn’t an expert toxicologist have the coroner get one immediately. Have him get one tonight if possible. If necessary, have him get McNally in Chicago. He’s one of the best in the country. He can be reached at the Northwestern Crime Detection Laboratory. Tell the coroner we’ll pay all the expenses, including airplane fare up here for McNally. I’d like to have a preliminary report tomorrow before the inquest, which is set for the afternoon, so you’ll have to hurry, Mr Watts.… Yes, there is a tremendous rush, Mr Watts. The autopsy should have been performed yesterday, and another day may make it too late.… Thank you, Mr Watts. I’m sure you will succeed. I shall look forward to seeing you in Traverse City tomorrow.… Good evening, Mr Watts.”

  The colonel placed the telephone on its shelf. He came over to me at the window. “Now you are going to ask me …” he was beginning when, suddenly, he cocked his head on one side, and demanded, “Peter, what the devil is that tinkling noise?”

  Above the noise of the wind I heard the sound of a bell. I laughed. “Are you thinking the elf children are out in the storm, Colonel?” I demanded.

  “Well, what is it then? It sounds weird enough to make a man wish for bell, book and candle.”

  “It’s only the cows. They return home from the pasture, escorted by Rob Roy, the collie, each evening at sundown. The leader wears a bell so Rob Roy can find them.”

  The colonel listened to the bell for several seconds. “It’s a pleasant sound when you know what it is,” he said. “Think of all that rich cream, to be used with cereal and coffee tomorrow morning, coming in from the pasture under its own power.”

  He would have continued, but I interrupted him. “Why are you so anxious to have an autopsy on my great-uncle’s body?” I inquired.

  “That’s the very question I thought you were going to ask me, Peter,” he replied, “and I shan’t an
swer except to say that my decision was influenced by something you and I discovered in this room before dinner.”

  “The chloroform,” I said.

  “Perhaps.” He smiled at me. “Shall we go back downstairs?”

  There was nobody in the living room. The colonel took advantage of this fact to pour himself a large glass of port, and I peered into the library. Miss Harvey and her brother were having an exciting game of billiards.

  “Where’s Miss Leslie?” I called.

  “She said she was going upstairs,” said Dan Harvey, leaning heavily on a cue. “Didn’t you see her?” His question was purely perfunctory, however, because his sister made a shot, and he immediately began to cry, “Missed it, missed it, ha, ha, ha,” and paid no more attention to me.

  From the library I went to the pantry. Mrs Bundy, a damp cloth in her capable hand, was cleaning the ivory-finished sideboard.

  “Bronson left for the servants’ house about ten minutes ago,” she said in response to my question. “He seemed to be in a dreadful hurry to get through, so I said I’d clean the silver for him tonight.”

  “Are you going to spend the night in your quarters in the servants’ house?” I asked her, “or are you going to keep Mrs Spotswood company again?”

  “She wants me to stay with her, poor soul,” said Mrs Bundy, “and so I shall, even though my man is raising the roof about it.”

  “I think that’s very good of you, Mrs Bundy. It was a terrible experience for the old lady to find Mister Tobias’ body.”

  “Don’t I just know it, Mister Peter. I should have died right there had it been I.”

  When I reached the living room again I found Colonel Black in conversation with Miss Leslie, Burton Coffin and George Coffin. A bottle of brandy, dust heavy on its sides, stood on the table beside my cousin.

  “It’s quite a cellar,” Burton Coffin was saying. “I never saw so many different kinds of bottles in my life. Every kind of wine in the great bins and brandy bottles …” He halted, his imagination evidently unable to find a comparison which would convey the number and variety of brandy bottles to his auditors.

  “It’s funny we didn’t see each other down there,” said George Coffin.

  Colonel Black was gazing with an interested eye at the bottle on the table. “Pedro Domecq, Spanish brandy,” he read from the time-yellowed label. “More than thirty years old.” His tongue involuntarily moistened his lips. “I can almost imagine its bouquet.”

  “No need to do that,” said George Coffin, seizing the bottle and inserting a corkscrew in the neck. “We will test it personally.”

  I spoke to the colonel. “Bronson has gone over to the servants’ house. Don’t you think you ought to go over to see him?”

  The colonel cast a doleful glance upon the bottle between George Coffin’s knees, then looked at me. “I suppose my duty must be done.”

  At this moment the bottle popped, and George Coffin said, “Wait a second, and I’ll pour you a small quantity to sustain you on your trip. It’s really dangerous to go out in that rain unfortified.”

  As glasses were being secured from the pantry Dr Harvey and Mrs Coffin came down the stairs. The doctor’s alert eye fell upon the bottle. “Ah! A surprise party.”

  Mrs Coffin’s back, even when she walked downstairs, was as stiff as a queen’s. “I sometimes think,” she said in a loud voice, “that George’s veins are filled with brandy instead of blood.”

  Instead of replying George Coffin smiled sadly and poured a small quantity of the golden liquid into each of the inhalers. He passed glasses to Miss Leslie and his wife, who pretended to wave her share away but nevertheless took it, and then handed an especially large portion to Colonel Black. “See if you don’t think this is as good as any but the oldest of French cognacs,” he said.

  Politely waiting until the rest of us had received glasses, the colonel raised his inhaler to his nose, cupping the thin glass in the palms of his hands so their heat would cause evaporation. While we waited in hushed silence he sniffed once, sniffed again and then drew a long breath and signified his overwhelming approval of the brandy by ecstatically exhaling, “Ah!”

  I, and I think possibly the others, felt relieved, as though in some way the honor of the house had been vindicated, and I tried a sip of the brandy. It was very fine indeed, with a mellowness which left a pleasant aftertaste in the mouth.

  The others, in varying ways, expressed their pleasure in the fine old liquor and complimented George Coffin on his choice of postprandial entertainment. I noticed as I moved around to speak to Miss Leslie that George Coffin had poured himself almost half a tumbler of the brandy. His face looked as though he needed it, and I wondered again if he were ill.

  Miss Leslie smiled at me with her eyes. “Don’t you think this is nice: to be warm and cozy in front of a fire while the wind blows outside?” she asked.

  I was about to reply in the affirmative when with a great crash the front door was flung open. A gust of wind flew into the room, fluttering the silk cover on the table nearest the door and causing the fireplace to spew out a cloud of black smoke. The noise of the storm was loud in our ears.

  In the doorway stood Karl Norberg, the tails of his wet slicker flapping wildly in the moving air. His eyes, distended in a wild combination of terror and horror, roved over the persons in the room, finally settled on me.

  “What is it, Karl?” I cried.

  He moved two jerky steps in my direction. “It’s Bronson.” Back of him the wind shrieked derisively, almost drowned out his words. “The madman’s cut off his head.”

  Chapter XIII

  A SILENCE so complete that I could hear the splash of waves on the shore, the crackle of half-consumed wood in the fireplace, held the room. Then Grace Coffin uttered a wail. She sat on the davenport to the left of the fire, her back arched, her large bosom outthrust, her hand still clutching the brandy inhaler, her ordinarily austere face quivering with fear. “Oh, oh, oh,” she cried. I felt an impulse to giggle and realized I was near hysteria myself.

  Her clamor released the room from this queer spell of terror. Miss Leslie moved swiftly to comfort Mrs Coffin. From the library came the two young Harveys, their billiard cues still in their hands. Simultaneously Burton Coffin, Dr Harvey and I started toward Karl Norberg and the door.

  “Where’s the body?” Dr Harvey demanded.

  “In the servants’ sitting room.” Courage had begun to return to Karl Norberg, making his blue eyes almost normal. “I found him there when I came in from the barn.”

  “Let’s go,” said Burton, starting through the door.

  “No!” Colonel Black’s voice, loud and authoritative, rang in our ears. “Everyone remains here.” He moved to the front door. “Young Mr Harvey, will you please notify the police? At once, please.” Dan Harvey gave him a startled glance, then hurried to obey his order. The colonel continued, “Peter, I want you and Miss Harvey to search the house for muddy shoes. Or for shoes that show signs of having recently been wiped off.” His eyes swept the room. “Does anyone object to having his room searched?”

  There was no objection.

  “Very good. The rest of you are to stay in this room until my return.” He grasped Karl’s arm. “Come on.”

  The closing of the door was the signal for an excited burst of conversation. Everyone began to talk at once. Mrs Coffin began to weep, and Miss Leslie kept repeating, “There’s no danger, no danger at all,” to her. George Coffin muttered, “This is terrible,” and poured himself a goblet of brandy. From the library came Dan Harvey’s high, excited voice communicating news of the new tragedy to the sheriff’s office.

  “But why does the colonel want all of you to remain in this room?” asked Miss Harvey loudly.

  Burton Coffin’s face was sullen. “Because he thinks one of us killed Bronson,” he replied.

  “I don’t believe he thinks that,” I objected. “I think he just doesn’t want to overlook any possibility.”

  For
an instant there was a lull in the conversation. The storm, if anything, had increased. The house, despite its great timbers and rock foundation, trembled under each howling gust of wind. In the intervals of calm the hiss of rain, which had started again, on the lake and through the trees, the slap-slap of waves against the wooden boathouse, the pounding of the miniature surf on the shore, beat against our ears.

  Mrs Coffin had detached herself from Miss Leslie and was sitting unsupported on the davenport. “You’re not going to do anything so silly as to search our rooms, are you, Peter?” she demanded.

  “I am,” I said. “I intend to do everything in my power to catch the murderer, madman or otherwise.” I felt a trifle pompous saying this, but it seemed to silence Mrs Coffin.

  George Coffin finished his brandy and lifted a dazed face to us. “They said he cut off Bronson’s head?” he asked.

  “Yes, dear,” said Mrs Coffin with sarcasm. “Karl mentioned his head had been cut off.”

  “He said by the madman,” added Miss Leslie hopefully. “Maybe he saw him.”

  “I don’t want you bursting into my wife’s room,” said Dr Harvey to me. “If you have to go in there I’ll go with you. I don’t want her any more frightened than she is.”

  “Surely it won’t frighten her to have her daughter enter her room,” I said.

  “The madman cut off his head,” mumbled George Coffin. “His head … off … cut off.” Then seeing our eyes upon him, he hastily poured more brandy into his goblet.

  “This is outrageous,” said Dr Harvey, “preventing us from leaving this room. Does that detective think we’re all criminals?”

  “You can go upstairs,” I said, out of patience. “I won’t try to stop you. But it will mean you aren’t playing the game.”

  He shrugged his shoulders ill-naturedly. “Go ahead then. But don’t scare Mary. She’s sick enough as it is.”

  Dan Harvey returned from the telephone in the library. “The sheriff says he’ll be right over,” he reported. “He says everyone better stay inside.”

  “All right, Dan,” I said. “You stay here while your sister and I look around.”