The Classic Mystery Novel MEGAPACK®. Hay James
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I know, for he managed to pass by the dresser, and knock the photograph face down. But he wasn’t really disturbed.
And it was he who opened the interview. “Well, Mr. Standish, what can I do for you? Have you any fresh information on my partner’s murder?”
Standish brushed that aside. “Mr. Elliott,” he began, “you and I have talked before. Relative to your presence in Crockford, what you’re doing here, what your real purpose is.”
“And during our previous conversations,” Elliott broke in less affably, “I’ve explained repeatedly that I came up here, at some personal sacrifice, to watch out for Luella Coatesnash’s interests. Ordinarily I wouldn’t touch a criminal case, but this situation, as you fully comprehend, is different. My own partner was murdered. For a reason which I fail to fathom my partner was responsible for leaving suspicion on an old and valued client. Under those circumstances I felt morally obligated to drop my other business, come to Crockford and see that Mrs. Coatesnash received justice.”
“No lawyer is morally obligated to stand between a client and the police!”
“I don’t like your tone.” Elliott stood up. “I’m Mrs. Coatesnash’s lawyer, and that’s all I am. Certainly I’m not standing between her and the police. On the contrary! I’m more than ready to answer any civil questions.”
“You’re convinced in your own mind Luella Coatesnash was not responsible for Hiram Darnley’s murder?”
“Utterly convinced!”
The fat man sat down again upon the bed. A slanting bar of sunshine illumined his placid face. His expression didn’t vary when Standish said, “When did you last see Laura Twining?”
Elliott knit his brows. “It must have been the day the Burgoyne sailed. Offhand, I can’t recall the date. But I recall the occasion vividly.”
“Then—” said Standish, and a note of urgency crept into his voice, “you saw her off with Mrs. Coatesnash.”
“No,” said Elliott smoothly, “I didn’t see her off. Miss Twining didn’t sail.” For a moment I couldn’t believe my ears and then Elliott repeated in a meditative tone, “Miss Twining didn’t sail.” There was a moment of utter consternation. The big scene had gone awry. Jack and I looked blankly at each other. Beside us Harkway emitted a noiseless whistle. Then Standish strode into the center of the room.
“Why wasn’t I told before? You deliberately gave me the impression both women were aboard the Burgoyne.”
“I did nothing of the kind,” said Elliott, and sounded merely peevish. “I never mentioned Laura Twining, nor did you. If you got the wrong impression, it’s not my fault. How could I guess you’d be interested in Laura Twining’s plans? You could easily have learned she didn’t sail by consulting the Burgoyne passenger list, by asking me at any time, by cabling Mrs. Coatesnash.”
“When Mrs. Coatesnash left here,” said Standish angrily, “it was generally understood Laura Twining was accompanying her to Europe. So generally understood that everyone in town believes they are both abroad. Why, within twelve hours of leaving Crockford, were Mrs. Coatesnash’s plans completely changed? Why, in the weeks since then, should you, and only you, have known the plan was changed? Will you explain the secrecy?”
“There was no secrecy,” said Elliott impatiently. “If Mrs. Coatesnash didn’t shout the news in letters home, she was merely trying to protect her companion from ugly gossip. I regret to say the Twining woman was a thief.”
“Laura Twining a thief! I don’t believe it.”
“You may be right at that.” The plump shoulders shrugged. “Mrs. Coatesnash thought so, but I wasn’t entirely convinced myself. The evidence seemed rather slight. Would you like to hear the story?”
“I would!” said Standish.
“Very well, then. Mrs. Coatesnash and the Twining woman arrived in New York some hours before sailing time and took a room at the Wickmore Hotel. Mrs. Coatesnash was tired from the drive down, and went to bed. She sent the companion out with a fifty-dollar bill to do some last-minute shopping. The bill disappeared; lost Miss Twining said, stolen Mrs. Coatesnash said. She marched her companion down to my office, and a most unpleasant scene occurred.” Elliott sighed reminiscently. “Two screaming women with me between them—you can visualize it! I declined to arbitrate. They fought it out between themselves. The upshot was that the companion lost her job and Mrs. Coatesnash, mad as a hatter, sailed alone.”
It was pure invention, and we knew it was. But there wasn’t a scrap of evidence to disprove it, a fact of which Elliott was fully cognizant. He sat comfortably on his bed, and inwardly I felt he was equally serene.
“Where is Miss Twining now?”
“I haven’t the faintest idea.” The fat man made a vague, inclusive gesture. “There was a sister in the South, in North Carolina or Georgia, one of the Cracker States. She may have gone south or she may have taken another job in the city. She was far too hysterical to discuss her plans.”
Elliott’s plump ringed hand—he wore an unflawed solitaire—reached for a humidor which held cigars. “May I ask why you’re interested in Laura Twining? Surely you aren’t working on the premise she’s concerned in my partner’s death? I think it most unlikely.”
“Miss Twining,” Standish said, “has been murdered.” There was a crash as the humidor struck the floor. The lid came off and cigars spilled to the carpet. Franklyn Elliott was white as chalk.
“You seem startled, Mr. Elliott.”
“Good God, who wouldn’t be!”
“Won’t you agree,” said Standish in velvet tones, “it would have been wiser for Mrs. Coatesnash to tell us frankly that her companion was not in Paris?”
“Naturally, I agree.” The lawyer’s color came slowly back. He took out a handkerchief and mopped his forehead. “Your news bowled me over. I didn’t-I don’t know what to think.
Where did the murder occur? Where did you find the body? When?”
“Please hold in mind,” said Standish, “that we came to question, not enlighten you. Have you anything to add to your story about Laura Twining? Would you like to change it?”
“No,” said Elliott. “No. The story stands.” A peculiar quality instilled his tone. “I will say this. If you would withdraw, let affairs take their course, your mystery might solve itself.”
He was quite himself again. A moment later he had the effrontery to glance at his watch and ask us to excuse him. I was furious. Maybe I wouldn’t make a good policeman, but I would have liked a chance at questioning Franklyn Elliott.
The four of us left the Tally-ho Inn and drove dismally to the cottage. It was late afternoon, that twilight hour when human energies sink low. I was depressed and I know the two policemen were. We dropped into steamer chairs on the lawn. It was chilly, but neither Jack nor I had sufficient spirit to invite our guests into the house and start a fire.
“Listening to a liar,” said Standish, with a sigh, “is weary work. If there’s anything in this life which I detest it’s a polished liar.”
“Personally,” said Harkway, “if we’re discussing liars, I’d rather tackle an educated man than an ignorant clod. You’re more likely to catch the educated man in contradictions. He talks too much. But the clod recognizes his own deficiencies and won’t talk at all.” He glanced instinctively in the direction of the Lodge. “Are you going to call on Silas, John?”
“I thought so.” Standish rose. I believe he wanted to be alone, but on the pretext that Silas had neglected to return our keys I managed to accompany him up the hill. Silas apparently had spent the day beside the shattered cellar door. At any rate, we found him there, seated on a kitchen chair, a pitchfork across his knees. Without a word or sign of recognition, he handed me the keys to the cottage. To