The Classic Mystery Novel MEGAPACK®. Hay James
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she had years of a damn tough life, and worms turn; fools change their coats.
“Women in Laura’s position—paid companions, living in an atmosphere of wealth without a penny to bless themselves—often go to pieces, morally, spiritually, any way you choose. They lead unnatural, servile, hemmed-in lives; they breed neuroses, envies, gnawing jealousies. For a decade Laura got kicked around, grinned and bore it. People sometimes turn the other cheek, but they seldom love the person who makes them turn it. Say Laura did learn about Jane. Would she remain a Christian? I doubt it. Would she keep her mouth shut when by breaking the news in some subtle feminine way she could do Mrs. Coatesnash a mortal injury and even the score of years?”
I saw Laura in a new and blinding light. It made me uncomfortable and—sad. Jack stared at the physician. “Sheer malice sounds rather weak. Laura needed her job. Mrs. Coatesnash would probably refuse to credit the story and Laura would be out on the street.”
“Assuming Laura did find out and did tell, we can assume she had a better motive than malice. Jane Coatesnash is still a vivid conversational topic in Crockford. How’s this? Laura threatened to broadcast the news unless …” Dr. Rand shrugged. “Mrs. Coatesnash is wealthy. The companion hadn’t a dime. Maybe the poor soul thought she saw a chance to secure the independent old age she often talked about. And then discovered,” the doctor finished grimly, “that blackmailers sometimes have no old age to worry about.” With that he stood up from his desk. “I haven’t talked so much in a month. I’ve said things I shouldn’t have said. But anyhow you’ve heard my facts and my opinions.”
Jack rose, too. “Of course, there are a good many unanswered questions. Why, for instance, did Hiram Darnley carry that bagful of money? On what pretext did Mrs. Coatesnash lure him here? You probably know that Franklyn Elliott is in the village, has been since the day of the inquest. What’s his purpose? Do you think he’s implicated in his partner’s murder? Could Elliott explain what happened to Laura?”
Dr. Rand would not be drawn. “I don’t,” he said, “propose to work out the convolutions of the mystery. I wouldn’t if I could. And you’ll remember, please, that you two promised to abandon any independent activities. Go home and give your brains a rest. Though,” he concluded meditatively, “it might not be a bad idea to keep an eye on Silas.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
A Telltale Piece of Glass
At three o’clock that April afternoon John Standish returned to Crockford from Osage, New York. He had seen Hiram Darnley’s widow in her mountain sanitarium; he had found her a languid, willing, non-productive witness. A woman well past middle age, crippled with arthritis, Abigail Darnley had lived for so long in a world of pain that her husband’s murder had little significance except as it affected her. Since the early period of an ill-starred marriage, their interests had been diverse and separate; she had concerned herself with the petty routine of the invalid and Darnley had paid the bills.
“I hadn’t seen him in months, Inspector. He hated hospitals.”
“Can you tell me why, on the night of March twentieth, he thought it necessary to use an alias?”
She said in querulous bitterness, “I can’t imagine, unless he was planning to visit some girl. He was your careful sort.” Standish was old-fashioned enough to wince. “The money your husband transported in his satchel, a hundred and eight thousand dollars, has been traced to his account. It almost wiped him out. A sizeable business transaction must have been involved to demand such an amount of cash. Wouldn’t you know about his business?”
“I didn’t,” she said fretfully. “That was like Hiram—to keep me in the dark.” Then she said in sudden alarm, “The money reverts to me, of course. When will you turn it back?”
“Very soon, madam. We would prefer, however, for you to collect the money after we arrest your husband’s murderer.”
This, then, was in Standish’s mind as he turned into the village police station. Jack and I, weary as we were, awaited him there. We had wanted to go home to bed, but Harkway had insisted upon our presence. After Standish summarized the sparse results of his interview with Darnley’s widow, we outlined the Crockford situation. We told of our expedition to Hilltop House, of the garden grave, of Laura Twining’s vanished luggage. We told of the charred bone fragment, of the transformed house and grounds. Only one thing was omitted from our account, and that was the story which had been related by Dr. Rand.
But the account was telling enough. That was patent from John Standish’s shocked and sober face. For the first time Jack and I managed to shake him in his allegiance to Mrs. Coatesnash. Unwilling as he was, he could not fail to see the implications of her lengthy silence on the subject of her companion. Luella Coatesnash might be a member of an old and honorable Connecticut family, but here was proof of a continued lack of candor.
“That lawyer of hers,” said Standish, “has been aiding and abetting her. He told me he went down to the Burgoyne to see the women off to Europe. He volunteered the statement. I didn’t ask.”
“He told us the same.” Jack hesitated. “Did you know that Elliott was here at the Tally-ho Inn?”
“I saw him yesterday,” said Standish shortly. “I wanted to find out what he was doing here, why he evaded the inquest and still saw fit to make a trip to Crockford. I didn’t find out. Elliott said he came here to protect Mrs. Coatesnash’s interests in the investigation. That’s nonsense! He didn’t choose to protect her interests by appearing at the inquest.”
I had a vivid recollection of a hurrying figure on a moonlit beach. I said, “He called on Annabelle Bayne that very night.”
“So he told me,” said Standish, “though I suspect it was because he thought I’d gather the information from some other source. Elliott has a talent for anticipating questions and answering them before they’re asked. So far as that goes, if he is in Crockford for the reason he says—feeble as that reason appears—it’s quite plausible he’d call on Annabelle Bayne.”
“Surely,” I said, confused, “Elliott must have been—well—embarrassed when you asked him why he avoided the inquest.” “Lawyers,” said Standish, “aren’t easily embarrassed. Elliott merely said he didn’t consider his presence necessary at an informal hearing. Said Miss Willetts could tell us as much about the case as he could, so he delegated the job to her. Well, maybe. But it does seem queer that directly afterward he should climb in his car, drive to Crockford and settle down for a lengthy visit.”
“Maybe,” Jack suggested, “Elliott feels Mrs. Coatesnash needs ‘protection’ of a different kind than that furnished at inquests.” Standish did not reply. He swung to his feet. “I propose we have a talk with Franklyn Elliott. The situation has changed since yesterday. I hope we can persuade him to be more communicative by using Laura Twining as a lever.”
Together with the two policemen, Jack and I drove to the Tally-ho Inn. Bill Tevis grinned at us from the desk. Standish talked to the clerk a moment and I gathered that the lawyer was in his room. “He’s almost always in,” Bill said cheerfully. “Only goes out for meals. No, he’s had no callers. Too busy, I suppose. He keeps the wires to his New York office busy.”
Bill then telephoned our names from the lobby, and Elliott requested that we come up at once. The fat man met us in the upper hall. He was in his shirtsleeves, and was casually pulling on a velvet house coat. He welcomed Standish and Harkway cordially enough, though he did cast an odd glance at Jack and me.
“This is quite a convention,” was the way he put it. “But I daresay in small towns you run your investigations differently. Come in. Sit down. Make yourselves comfortable.”
I found myself watching him in a kind of angry wonder. What right had he, if half the suspicions I harbored were correct, to be looking and acting so calmly, to be suggesting with every faintly patronizing gesture that we were presuming on his time?
He ushered us into a room which indicated an indefinite stay. A portable typewriter had been set up, and various personal possessions