The Classic Mystery Novel MEGAPACK®. Hay James
Reporters.” It occurs to me that I have not dwelt sufficiently upon the fervid and hysterical attention which metropolitan newspapers were taking in what they termed the “Rumble Seat Murder.” Columns were printed, editorials lamented the mystery of the $108,000 corpse, front-page space was filled with maps of Crockford, dotted diagrams of Main Street, and the like. Special writers descended like locusts on the village, set themselves up at the principal hotel, burned holes in the blankets, ran up enormous telephone tolls, and, I believe, gave Mr. Bemis, the town’s despairing liquor dealer, a new lease on life. Amateur detectives every one, and an undoubted nuisance—Harkway always insisted that he trapped a reporter under his bed—they trotted in and out of the Undertaking parlors, camped on the police station steps, and demanded interviews from everyone who had the remotest connection with the case.
Sunday was a dead day in the investigation. Standish and Harkway fled from the station and locked themselves in a room at the Tally-ho Inn. Dr. Rand, described in the public prints as “an elderly, short-tempered eccentric,” barricaded himself in his home, detached his doorbell, pulled down his shades and was at peace.
Jack and I bore the brunt of a mass attack. Since we declined to talk, the reporters—there must have been a score of them—genially set out to wear us down. Our telephone rang until I removed it from the hook, our doorbell rang steadily from ten o’clock until noon—at which point Jack discovered some ingenious soul had wedged it with a match. We had locked the doors but wheedling voices called through keyholes that we were missing visits from old school friends. Sob sisters smoked on the steps and tossed butts and matches to the lawn. A card game was staged in the garage, and I hate to think about the number of empty bottles we found discarded there.
At four o’clock, uninterviewed but photographed—and the photograph of me adjusting my stocking remains a sore spot to is day—we escaped by the back door to exercise Reuben. Until darkness we stayed away. Returning, we were cheered to discover that hunger had vanquished the press.
At eight o’clock on Monday morning an especially enterprising New York newspaper telephoned the cottage. The Globe had learned that Jack was an artist; the Globe would like signed sketches of the various personalities who figured in the case—the two investigators, the coroner, ourselves, and, if possible, a drawing from memory of the victim. Sleepy and annoyed. Jack was on the point of curt refusal, when I intervened.
“Ask them what they’ll pay.”
Negotiations were resumed. It was suggested quite sensible that the sketch of Elmer Lewis might result in an identification. The possibility appealed to Jack, and I must confess the surprising sum of money offered appealed to me. But when the Globe further stipulated that Jack must deliver the sketches in person both of us were dismayed. It seemed unlikely that we could obtain permission to leave the township.
Eventually, however, we drove to town to broach the proposition. First we called upon our bondsman. Dr. Rand admitted us cautiously, and only after peeping through the curtains to see who was ringing his bell. He was agreeable and even enthusiastic about the venture. “It will do you a world of good getting to the city, give you a sense of perspective. After yesterday I could use a sense of perspective myself! A murder’s a bad thing, but I’m not sure newspaper men aren’t worse.” The final decision he then said must be left to Standish, and with Standish we anticipated difficulties. To my surprise the police chief readily granted Jack permission to make the trip. “Sure, run along to the city. Take your wife if you like—probably do her good. All I ask is that you be back by noon tomorrow.”
I was too naive to dream of looking a gift horse in the mouth or to speculate at any ulterior reason for the police chief’s amazing affability. Jack did his sketches, I approved them, and that very day we started gaily, lightly, off to town.
It was mid-afternoon when we alighted at the Grand Central Station. Until I set foot on Forty-Second Street, breathed in the smoky, familiar air, I hadn’t realized how much I missed New York. The day was gray. Leaden, low-hanging skies could not diminish the splendor and the wonder of my favorite city. Granite towers soared toward the heavens in the same remembered way. The same lovely furred women strolled into hotels to keep appointments. The same well-dressed, ill-shaped business men rushed past. The same newsboys cried their wares. We were home again, lost in the anonymity of preoccupied crowds, rubbing shoulder to shoulder with the most tolerant people one can ever hope to meet. People who didn’t care who we were, or what we had done or were about to do. Jack looked at me.
“Swell,” he said, “swell.”
He snared a taxi and departed toward the offices of the Globe. I went to get a decent shampoo and manicure. Afterward we met in an uptown hotel for tea. Jack was stimulated by the enthusiastic reception of his sketches, and by the tonic of the city.
“I,” he said, “feel great. You look great. Cute haircut you’ve got there—I like it. Now that’s set—how would you like to take an independent step in solving the mystery of Elmer Lewis?”
“What step?” I asked cheerfully.
“Do you remember that firm of lawyers Standish mentioned the other day, those lawyers who handle Mrs. Coatesnash’s affairs? Hiram Darnley and Franklyn Elliott? Well, they’ve got a suite of offices downtown—and T thought we might go there and have a talk with them.”
“A talk about what?”
“About Elmer Lewis, stupid.” Suddenly Jack was quite serious. “Mrs. Coatesnash is the great white cow of Crockford, but in New York, thank God, she’s only a person like us. Darnley and Elliott is a reputable firm—I asked at the Globe—and I don’t believe they’d shield a client they thought involved in a serious crime. Anyhow it won’t hurt to go and see.”
“Certainly not,” I said.
It was all as casual as that.
Darnley and Elliott occupied a twenty-story office building’s topmost suite, an entire floor. It was a most luxurious place. The etchings on the walls, the thick soft carpets, the expensive sunshine on the floor, the unusual quiet, testified to taste and money.
In the outer reception rooms a very pretty secretary tapped at a noiseless typewriter. Jack paused before her. He asked for Hiram Darnley.
“Mr. Darnley is out of town.”
“Then may I see Mr. Elliott?”
The stenographer smiled. “Mr. Elliott is also out of town. He is due here at four o’clock.”
I was already doubtful of our mission, but Jack pulled out a chair for me and calmly settled near the door to wait.
At four promptly the door opened. A short, stout man, astonishingly light on his feet, came quickly in. The secretary rose at once.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Elliott. These people have been waiting…”
“I can’t be bothered now. I’m busy. I’ll be busy the rest of the afternoon. Get rid of them.”
Franklyn Elliott vanished. The girl looked apologetically at us. Jack, who hadn’t moved since the lawyer’s entrance, addressed me in a low, excited voice:
“Did you recognize Elliott? He was in the New Haven station this morning. I saw him boarding the Crockford bus.”
A buzzer sounded on the secretary’s desk. She lifted a telephone, spoke, turned and said to Jack:
“What is your name, please? What business have you with Mr. Elliott?”
“My name is Jack Storm—my business is personal.”
The girl relayed the information. She hung up the telephone. She looked surprised.
“Mr. Elliott can give you fifteen minutes, if you don’t mind waiting a few minutes more.”
We waited.
I experienced a certain qualmish feeling as we entered the private office. New York’s expensive sunshine barred a thick rust-colored carpet. I had a hazy impression of Durer etchings and cheerful draperies. Behind a lovely rosewood desk, either