The Classic Mystery Novel MEGAPACK®. Hay James
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in her chair. “I’ve been wondering. Don’t you ever get—well—lonely. At nights? I should think you might.”
Lonely was a mild word to describe my emotions about the cottage, but I made some vague reply.
Annabelle plucked a blade of grass and twisted it around her finger. “I thought you two might like to move in a while with me. Until—things get straightened out. I’ve loads of room. You could have a suite on the second floor.”
Harkway set down his glass so suddenly that it overturned. Jack drew an astonished breath. As for me, I didn’t know what to think. Although Annabelle treated the matter lightly, her burst of hospitality was not only unexpected; it was incredible. Our previous relations had certainly not been friendly, and now she proposed to open her house to us—to hand us a second-floor suite.
She paused. “Have I spoken out of turn—or what? Don’t you want to come?”
“Your—your invitation is something of a coincidence. As it happens we were thinking of moving in to the Inn.”
“Splendid. Then you’ll come to me instead.”
Jack looked at me. I looked back at him. I said, “It was kind of you to ask, but we can’t possibly barge in on you. Anyhow, we aren’t going to town. We’re staying here.”
“I’m sorry.” Her bright eyes traveled restlessly about the silent group. “What is wrong? Did I crash in on an important conference? Has something happened which wasn’t printed in the papers?”
“Why should you think that?”
She laughed. “So what am I supposed to think? With the air of mystery so thick you could cut it with a knife! Also, I use my eyes.” She gestured toward the spot where Harkway’s handkerchief lay pinned, a white square on the grass. “That helped. It’s covering a footprint, isn’t it? Can’t I hear what it’s all about?”
Jack flipped away his cigarette. “I suppose there’s no harm telling. Someone broke into the house last night.”
“Oh!” She sat very still. Then, “That proves it,” she said passionately. “You should come into town! Please, please let me put you up.”
“Sorry. We’ve decided to stick it out.”
“You have courage,” she said in a tone which implied we had more courage than sense, and on this note she departed.
A little later Harkway followed. After Annabelle’s visit he changed front completely, and vigorously applauded our decision to stay.
“Your hunch was o.k., Storm. I believe a definite attempt is being made to get you out of your home. That woman’s invitation was a shade too pat. By refusing to budge, you may do a lot for our case.”
This was logical, if not precisely comforting. Nor was I particularly cheered when he handed Jack his own gun and insisted that it be kept on the premises.
I gloomily unpacked.
We discussed our burglar; we debated what the burglar might have wanted; we discussed Mrs. Coatesnash. Everything in the cottage belonged to the Coatesnash estate, a fact which made the situation extremely baffling. Luella Coatesnash hardly seemed the type who would leave anything of value on rented premises. Nevertheless, there appeared to be in the cottage something of interest to persons unknown. Since nothing had been taken from the cellar—we were sure now on that point—the something must still be there. Jack suggested it might be a clue to the murder.
I agreed. “A clue,” I said, “might be contained in written matter. Many clues are. There are tons of letters upstairs. In the attic.”
We went to the attic. It repeated the confusion downstairs. With a difference. Furniture and household debris were stored in the cellar. Boxes and trunks filled the attic. They overflowed with old clothing, books, old magazines and old correspondence.
Jack plunged into a wooden box. I selected an elegant cardboard carton which once had housed a Paris hat. I sorted out two old bathing caps, a dozen dance programs and several strings of beads. I attacked a pile of letters tied in faded ribbons. They bore ancient postmarks; they were addressed to Jane Coatesnash; they were schoolgirl efforts of the most banal kind. In 1919 Jane sailed and swam; she went shopping in New York; and though in 1920 she had met a mysterious and tragic death, I discovered nothing of interest in these letters from her friends.
I turned to Jack. “I’m simply wasting time.”
“Same here. I’ve drawn plumbing bills and advertising circulars. Luella hung on to everything.”
“Let’s quit.”
“Let’s don’t. You can’t tell what might turn up.”
In silence and in dust and in futile labor the afternoon faded into evening. My head began to ache. Jack looked wearily around.
“Buck up, pal. We should finish the boxes anyway.”
“I think my cold is getting worse.”
“Maybe you’d better go and rest.”
I stubbornly stuck to the job. It was six exactly when the phone rang downstairs. Jack rushed to answer, and I gratefully abandoned work to follow. I flung myself on the couch.
“Who was it?”
“Olmstead down the road. He wants to talk to us.”
“What about?”
“He didn’t say. Why don’t you stay here? I’ll be back in a minute. Probably it’s nothing important.”
A moment before I would have sworn that an earthquake could not have budged me from the couch. Now I rose promptly. I didn’t choose to be left alone.
From the Olmstead chimney the ascending smoke lost itself in a twilight sky. A raw wind blew from the Sound. Shrubbery surrounding the small brown house bent before it. Olmstead met us on the porch. He was a middle-aged, colorless man with mild sad eyes. He shook hands.
“I came over from New Haven yesterday,” he told us, “and I’ve been meaning to call you since morning. Won’t you come in?”
He led us into a house in the upheaval of being settled for summer habitation. He then remarked hopefully that neighbors should be better acquainted, and, without further preamble, attempted to draw us into a discussion of Hiram Darnley’s murder. “Fanny—my wife—and I have been following the case in the papers, and being neighbors and all…”
Jack and I refused to be drawn.
Mr. Olmstead looked hurt. “I hope you don’t think I’m curious. There was plenty of talk in the village, but I say what’s the point of listening to the butcher? You have to get to the people on the inside. And it does seem the people on the inside aren’t very talkative. I dropped in on Standish yesterday; I helped to appoint him, but he practically threw me out of his office. Even Silas. Silas has been our caretaker for years. He was here this afternoon helping me put up my screens. Mum as a clam, and he used to talk a blue streak. When I said something about Mrs. Coatesnash’s suicide, he nearly snapped my head off. Flung down the screens and went off in a huff. That’s the way it’s gone. I live in Crockford five months a year, but for all I know about the Rumble-Seat Murder I might as well be living in Alaska.”
His curiosity was so evident and innocent that Jack had to smile. “I’m sorry to disappoint you but…”
“It’s Fanny,” said Olmstead, with a sigh. “She entertains her bridge club Wednesday and…well, you’re married yourself.” We turned to escape. Olmstead rose hurriedly in alarm. “Wait a minute. Fanny says I’m long-winded and I guess I am. Any-how what I wanted to ask was this. Did you folks have any trouble last night?”
We stared at him. “Why,” said Jack, “do you ask?”
“Because I saw someone sneaking around your place.”
Jack sat down again.