The Classic Mystery Novel MEGAPACK®. Hay James
She was crying. She balled her handkerchief, got up and stumbled from the room. Elliott didn’t say anything about her.
He turned to us and I studied his round, rather pleasant face. His head was a trifle large for his short body, was bald and he carried it well. He looked like a man who might collect Napoleonana, and, glancing at his desk, I wasn’t surprised to see a small bronze of the Emperor. Elliott caught my eye and smiled.
“A great general—Napoleon, and one of my admirations. Now won’t you sit down and tell me what I can do for you?” We sat down. Jack hesitated. Politely interested, the lawyer leaned forward. The silence lengthened. Elliott glanced inquiringly at Jack, then at his watch. Jack flushed but still said nothing. At that moment, as he admitted later, he was strongly tempted to leave the office without a single word. I would have followed gladly. I realized belatedly how absurd was our idea of presenting our suspicions of Luella Coatesnash to this man. If Elliott knew anything to his client’s disadvantage, anything which might assist our case, certainly he was capable of keeping such information to himself. From my first glimpse of him I firmly believed that he would do so.
“Well. Mr. Storm?”
Jack at last got under way. “I suppose you’ve seen newspaper stories. A man who introduced himself as Elmer Lewis was murdered in my car; he was carrying a great deal of money. So far—chiefly because I had the opportunity—l seem to be the favored suspect. Indeed the only suspect. In the two days since the murder the police have accomplished nothing. They haven’t even managed to identify the victim.”
“You’re mistaken there, Mr. Storm.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Elmer Lewis has been identified.”
“When? By whom? How do you know?”
The fat man fixed unblinking eyes upon us. “I have just returned from Crockford. I identified the body this afternoon.” Elliott paused. “Elmer Lewis was Hiram Darnley, my legal partner.”
CHAPTER NINE
The Woman at the Keyhole
Not until we were aboard the New Haven train and bound for home did Jack and I appreciate Franklyn Elliott’s talents as an inquisitor. From us he had learned all we knew. From him we had learned nothing. Why Hiram Darnley had chosen to masquerade as Elmer Lewis, why he had carried $108,000 in currency, why he had announced himself as engaged in a business transaction for Luella Coatesnash—to these questions Franklyn Elliott merely replied that he did not know. He was tactful, courteous, adamant. In vain Jack sought to draw him out. “Weren’t you in your partner’s confidence?”
“To an extent, yes. In this particular instance, no. Unfortunately, I was away on a hunting trip when Hiram left the office Friday.”
“Then you don’t know why he came to Crockford?”
“I haven’t the remotest notion. Naturally I’ve been curious. So curious that I took the trouble to question Hiram’s secretary. You saw Miss Willetts. She was badly hit by the news. She was closer to him than anyone else, and she says he received no communication from Mrs. Coatesnash at this office.”
“How about his home?”
“He lived at the Chatham Club. I imagine the police will check there.” The stout man smiled faintly. “My own sleuthing instincts didn’t carry me quite that far. In any event, it’s difficult for me to believe that Hiram heard from Mrs. Coatesnash after she left New York. We both saw her on the day she sailed—in fact, I saw her off—and at that time her affairs were in perfect order. The estate is handled by the firm—it seems incredible that Mrs. Coatesnash could have engaged in any private transaction with my partner. On the other hand, I can’t conceive why he should tell you so. The whole affair sounds fantastic—completely unlike Hiram Darnley.”
“There’s the money itself,” said Jack, slowly. “Surely it can be traced now. Where did the money come from?”
“I presume it came from my partner’s bank account.”
Jack hesitated. “This is extremely important to me, Mr. Elliott. Is it possible the money belonged to Mrs. Coatesnash?”
Elliott’s urbanity lessened. “Certainly not! Your suggestion is incredible! In the first place, we hold no power of attorney from Mrs. Coatesnash, so Hiram could not have drawn on her account. In the second place, he had an ample fortune of his own.”
Abruptly Elliott wearied of our questions. He rose to signify that his good nature and the interview were at an end. He escorted us to the door.
“My best advice to you, Mr. Storm, is to leave the conduct of the investigation where it belongs—in the hands of the authorities. Amateurs only succeed in annoying people who haven’t the time or patience to be annoyed.”
Dispirited, Jack and I turned for information to the evening papers. Although headlines cried the fact of the identification, the stories which dealt with the career of the murdered lawyer offered nothing helpful. Hiram Darnley, survived by an invalid wife, a patient in an up-state sanitarium, apparently had lived a blameless and a public life. He was fifty-one, New York born and bred. In 1908 he had finished at Harvard Law School and gone immediately into private practice. During the war period he had covered himself with distinction in Belgian relief work and later served this Government as a dollar-a-year man. On the strength of his wartime reputation he had twice run unsuccessfully for Congress. Thereafter he had resigned political ambitions to bury himself in the law; with Franklyn Elliott he had represented several of Manhattan’s best-known corporations. The list of his clubs was impeccable. The resume of his activities, both legal and political, contained no hint of scandal—no suggestion of moral turpitude.
“The man,” declared Jack, disgusted, “was a whited sepulcher, and far too good for a wicked world.”
We left the newspapers on the train. Both of us knew that the real story of Hiram Darnley had not been printed. We reached the cottage very late, and were surprised to find John Standish and Harkway awaiting us. Jack was glad to see them, but I think I noticed even at the time how quietly the two men received his comments on the identification of Elmer Lewis, and how silently they rose from the front steps and followed us into the house.
I was exhausted and excused myself immediately and started to retire. “A moment, please,” said Standish. “I want to talk to you.”
I paused, startled by his tone. His morning affability had inexplicably vanished; his face was stern and cold. I looked toward Lester Harkway, but the younger officer managed to avoid my eye. Very much disturbed, I sat down, Standish turned to Jack.
“I understood you were going to New York to sell some drawings. Isn’t that what you told me?”
“Yes, of course,” said Jack.
“Then why did you call on Franklyn Elliott this afternoon?”
Jack stared. “How did you know that?”
“You don’t deny seeing Elliott?”
“I saw him, yes. But I wonder how you knew. Did you have us followed?”
There was no reply. Standish leaned forward in his chair and what he said next was, to say the least, incomprehensible. “I’ve tried to treat you fairly, Mr. Storm. But you’re very much mistaken if you believe you can keep from me facts which I’m entitled to know. I don’t care what your motive is! If you’ve been intimidated, if you feel you need protection, I’m prepared to give it.”
Jack was too staggered to interrupt. Standish rose from his chair—and with his next words suddenly all was clear. “You received a second telephone call at this cottage on Saturday. Your wife told Lester Harkway here that the message had been interrupted.” He looked at me with those cold, hard, alienated eyes. “You lied, Mrs. Storm. Why did you lie? Why did you say that message was interrupted? You know as well as I do that you were told—or ordered—to go to town for an interview with Franklyn Elliott. I insist you tell me the purpose of that secret meeting!