The Classic Mystery Novel MEGAPACK®. Hay James
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the much-discussed incident. The account was substantially the same as Jack’s, and I was duly grateful. Standish grew restless.
“This argument then—in your opinion—was just an argument? Nothing serious?”
“Exactly what do you mean by serious?”
“Was the argument serious enough so that it might have been resumed later on? Say, here in the village?”
Harkway’s head bobbed negatively. “I have no way of judging how Storm felt, or Lewis either, for that matter. I mean after I left them. And you probably wouldn’t be interested in an out-and-out guess.”
“Certainly I don’t want a guess,” said Standish testily. “I’m simply interested in hearing what you observed and what conclusions you drew.”
“You’ve got the story. Storm was mad; Lewis acted as if he was; and I was hot under the collar myself. It was pretty much three-cornered.” Harkway shrugged. “There it is, and not much to write home about.”
Gradually the argument between Jack and Lewis had been reduced to its proper status and now stood forth as no more than a squabble between two impatient men. I drew an easier breath. Harkway who had been on duty since early morning yawned, covered it quickly, apologized.
“Is that all?”
“Unless you have something more to say.”
Here Harkway paused noticeably. “I hardly know how to say what I mean, but anyway it struck me there was something screwy about that argument. About Lewis’s part in it. Of course I might be wrong. It’s just a notion I had.”
“Please go on.”
I don’t remember precisely the manner in which the young policeman worded his next statement, but undoubtedly he phrased it badly. His vocabulary wasn’t made for subtleties and the impression he had received during the argument on the road was a very subtle thing indeed. In effect it was this: Harkway was convinced that when Lewis thrust himself into the colloquy he had done so with the deliberate intention of making himself obnoxious.
“Lewis acted like he yearned to stir up trouble, Chief. Like a man spoiling for a fight. I thought he was trying to get Storm’s goat. That don’t sound sensible, but it’s what I thought at the time.”
This also was my opinion, although it seemed to deepen the mystery of our passenger and his behavior. Why should Lewis purposely have sought to antagonize his benefactors? Frowning, Standish addressed himself to Jack.
“Did you think Lewis was purposely attempting to pick a fight?”
“It didn’t occur to me just that way. Certainly I considered his actions very strange. Abnormal. Unreasonable.”
Harkway interrupted. “There was something phony about the guy. For all his loud talk he was nervous as a cat. My headlights fell on his face when he leaned out of the rumble seat and he jumped like he’d touched a hot stove. Pulled up his coat collar and jammed his hat over his eyes—like—like he was afraid I might get too good a look at him.”
Jack eyed Standish challengingly. “Lewis had a similar effect on Lola and me. Phony is a good word to describe him; he wasn’t the sort you think of in connection with Mrs. Coatesnash. Personally I wonder how and where and why she picked him up.”
As if suddenly reminded, Standish reached for the telephone, stayed his hand. “Do you know Mrs. Coatesnash’s Paris address?”
Jack shook his head. “Silas would know.”
I said, “Friday is band-practice night. He won’t be home.”
Standish smiled, called several numbers, and finally got the address. After which he phoned the New Haven telegraph offices and dispatched the following cable:
LUELLA COATESNASH
HOTEL ST CLAIR
RUE MORTANCE, PARIS, FRANCE.
ADVISE IMMEDIATELY CROCKFORD POLICE ELMER LEWIS’S HOME ADDRESS AND NATURE OF HIS BUSINESS
WITH YOU.
When he replaced the receiver, the telephone rang. He spoke briefly, hung up and informed us that the coroner was coming over with his report.
On the heels of the announcement Dr. Rand arrived. At the fag end of a crowded day divided between his private practice and his official duties, a day begun with a delivery and wound up with an autopsy, the man of sixty looked fatigued but well equipped for further activity. He dropped a bundle of damp, wrinkled clothing with some relief. Then, like the actor he was, he glanced around to get the feeling of the group. I felt he had something up his sleeve. He combed rapid fingers through his snowy hair.
“Quite a gloomy gathering. You’re lucky you didn’t have my job. I assume you haven’t solved the murder yet.”
He tossed over a written report which dealt in technical terms with Lewis’s mortal wound, listing the time, manner and medical causes of his death Standish laid it aside. “Did you find any identifying papers on the body?”
Dr. Rand’s eyes now disclosed a subdued sparkle. “There wasn’t a sign of letters, cards, memos or any of the trash we men usually burden our pockets with. In itself, a fact worth noting.”
“Any marks in the clothes?”
“No laundry marks, no label even. The labels had been cut with scissors from the overcoat and waistcoat. It might almost appear that Lewis anticipated this investigation and provided against it.” The physician lifted his hand. “A minute, please. Allow me an opportunity to develop the theme. I promise you will find it worth your while to resume. I examined the body carefully and the farther I went, the more curious I became. Lewis has soft, white, manicured hands, a shade too manicured for my taste. His socks and underwear—look at them yourself—are the finest grade. Ditto his boots, which are London-made, unless I’m very much mistaken.”
Recalling the shabby overcoat, the well-worn suit, I experienced a twinge of surprise. Standish began to poke among the clothing spread upon the table. The rest of us attended Dr. Rand, who paced slowly up and down before the fire.
“Now look at the hat, suit and overcoat—quite different, aren’t they? Cheap, shoddy stuff! The suit was a wretched fit, yet the boots were custom made.”
“Anything else?”
“An operation for appendicitis a few years back—an excellent surgeon did the work—I’ve never seen a more beautiful scar.” Brought to himself by Standish’s impatient snort, Dr. Rand repressed his professional enthusiasm. “Equally good dentistry—the man’s teeth were…”
“Let’s pass the teeth.”
“Are you interested in learning that until a short time ago—two days at the most—Lewis sported a small, neat mustache? One of those broker decorations. There’s a bare patch on the upper lip, lighter than the surrounding epidermis and recently shaved.”
“Certain of that?”
“Positive. The condition of the skin indicates he wore a mustache for years, undoubtedly was handsomer with it on. He’s got a bad mouth, if you noticed. If I had been Lewis, I would have kept the mustache. Curious he didn’t choose to.”
Dr. Rand smiled blandly and continued the performance. I liked him. He was a peculiarly vital man, who breathed excitement and gave it forth.
“Next,” said the physician, “we come to the spectacles Lewis wore. Here, take them. They’re worth attention.”
Standish accepted the spectacles. “They look o.k. to me.”
“Then look again at the lenses.”
Standish and I saw simultaneously what the physician meant. Convincing on casual scrutiny, the spectacles proved obvious counterfeits when examined carefully, and of no possible aid to vision. The thick clumsy lenses had been cut from ordinary window glass, the frames fashioned