The Classic Mystery Novel MEGAPACK®. Hay James
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was wearing the glasses,” I said, “when he came out of the station.”
“No doubt he was,” remarked Dr. Rand. “Amazing what a change a pair of spectacles will work in the appearance. These fit with the missing mustache, the suit, the hat, the overcoat. Taken in conjunction with the watch, they become even more significant.”
He had expected a mild sensation; he got it. Standish abruptly dropped the eyeglasses. “What watch?”
“Lewis’s watch, naturally! Or rather the watch he carried in his left-hand vest pocket.”
With this cryptic statement. Dr. Rand drew from his own pocket a slim platinum watch, no wider than a silver dollar and circled in square-cut diamonds. An expensive, fragile, lovely bauble. Standish extended his hand. Dr. Rand himself forced open the case to reveal delicate, swiftly moving works and a smooth platinum back inscribed with two initials. These initials were H. D.
Standish stared hard. “H. D doesn’t stand for Elmer Lewis!”
“My thought exactly.”
“In other words he wasn’t Elmer Lewis.”
“Not unless he stole or borrowed the watch. Take your choice. I’ve taken mine.”
So had we all. The fine underwear, the cheap outer apparel, the ridiculous eyeglasses, the shaved upper lip, the lack of labels and the pockets empty of personal memoranda, like tiny signposts pointed to an inescapable conclusion. Elmer Lewis had chosen to alight in the New Haven station as a man without a past. Two initials, forgotten or overlooked, had betrayed the plan, even though they did not elucidate its reason.
Standish placed the watch beside the spectacles, got heavily to his feet. Stooping, he lifted the brass-bound traveling bag, previously removed from our car. The bag was securely locked. He grunted, strove unsuccessfully to force the catches. A sudden question in his eyes, Jack leaned forward.
“Where’s the other bag?”
Standish ceased his labors. “What other bag?”
“The bag in the rumble seat.” As often when perturbed, Jack began to stutter. “Didn’t I say there were two bags? One in front with us, one in back with Lewis.”
Standish spun upon the coroner. “Doc, was there a bag in the rumble seat when you examined the body?”
“No—no. There was no bag there.”
“What became of it, then?”
Question and glare were general. No one was imprudent enough to venture a reply.
“How about you, Harkway? Did you see a bag when you stopped the car? I mean in the rumble seat.”
“Gosh, I can’t remember.”
“Something happened to that second bag! It didn’t fly off over the meadows.”
The police chief’s anger exploded into action. Seizing a paper knife he attacked the bag on the chair. One catch broke. The knife slid into the crack beneath the lid, bent in a dangerous arc, and the other catch broke; the lid of the bag snapped back and the knife flew across the room to fall unnoticed.
We crowded about Standish, all of us silent, too amazed for speech. The pigskin bag was heaped with currency. Hundred-dollar bills, ten-and twenty-dollar bills. Stack after stack, fitted shoulder to shoulder, still wearing the paper halters provided by banking houses.
“There’s a million dollars there,” said Harkway in an awed whisper.
He was wrong. There wasn’t a million. After a double count, some twenty minutes later, John Standish announced in weary baffled tones that the bag contained exactly $108,000.
CHAPTER FIVE
The Open Door
It was long past midnight when Standish glanced at the wall clock, sighed and said he guessed we could call it a day. Needless to say Jack had not explained the $108,000. Neither of us could imagine why Elmer Lewis had carried a small fortune in an ordinary pigskin bag. Obviously the money had a connection with the dead man’s mysterious business in Crockford, but the wildest speculation carried us no further.
Fingers cramped with weariness, Minnie Gray took down Standish’s rapid questions on the point, and Jack’s flagging answers. Her record is before me now. It is both diffuse and repetitious and I am consulting it only as an aid to memory.
“You say Lewis himself put the bag in the front seat of your car?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You had no idea of its contents?”
“Certainly not!”
“A hundred and eight thousand dollars is a lot of money, Mr. Storm. Did you get any hint from Lewis how he meant to use so large a sum?”
“I’ve just said I didn’t know he had the money.”
“Did you receive any impression from his manner that the bag was valuable?”
“None whatever.”
“I believe you said Lewis watched his property from the rumble seat. By rising, from time to time, and looking through the window at you.”
“That’s correct.”
“Still you didn’t suspect he was anxious about his bag?”
“We’ve covered that. I thought the man was crazy. Not a raving lunatic, but certainly a little touched. We were annoyed by his peeping till Lola drew the curtain.”
“You weren’t frightened?”
“I wasn’t; he made my wife jittery.”
“How about the missing bag? Can you describe it? Was it similar to this one?”
“I really didn’t notice. My impression is it was somewhat smaller.”
“Did it feel heavy?”
“I didn’t handle either bag; so I can’t compare them. I wasn’t interested in Lewis’s luggage.”
Standish stared at the open bag with its cargo of heaped-up bills. No one in the room had ever seen an equal amount of money. We all were fascinated, and I confess my eyes kept straying there. Beautifully engraved, green and orange and brown, those bits of paper spoke of ease and luxury, of furs and jewels, of security in a world grown insecure. They spoke no further.
The police chief’s gaze moved again to Jack. “Possibly Mrs. Coatesnash may be able to explain the purpose of the money. I hope so.”
“You sound doubtful. Surely it is to be expected she will be better able to explain than I am. She knew Elmer Lewis—I didn’t. She wrote to him—not to me. He came up from New York on her business—not on mine.”
“Mrs. Coatesnash will do all she can. I’ll vouch for her willingness. My only regret is she’s so far away.”
The interrogation continued. Hours later Jack rebelled. He flipped, a final cigarette to the pile beside him. “You have pumped me dry. I’m signing off. I have one more thing to say. I object to your methods. Strenuously. There are other lines of investigation in this case. Why don’t you follow them up, and give me and my wife a rest?”
“Interested parties, Mr. Storm, seldom approve of police methods in a criminal investigation. Speaking candidly, I’m far from satisfied with the story you’ve told tonight. Far from satisfied.”
On that note, abruptly, Standish decided to call it a day.
Allowing for possible delays, an answer to his cable could not be expected before noon on Saturday. He warned us to anticipate further questioning, stretched and rose.
“We seem to be at a temporary stalemate. A great deal depends on the cable I receive tomorrow. Mrs. Coatesnash may be able to throw some light on the situation.”
At