The Classic Mystery Novel MEGAPACK®. Hay James
Jack with Reuben nestled under his coat. Under the cheerful light of the living-room lamps it became evident that Reuben was less seriously injured than we had thought. But the little dog was bruised and bloody, and my rage at his condition was a tonic to my nerves. While Jack busied himself with iodine and bandages, and I grew angrier every minute and less afraid, I got my story fully told.
I can remember now Jack’s whitening face, the look in his eyes, how he rested his cheek against mine, how he said: “Maybe you’re a bum housekeeper, love of my life, maybe you don’t sew the buttons on my shirts, but you do have your points. Go on, weep on my shoulder. Collapse! You’re entitled, to a week of prostration. You’ve earned it.”
That made me laugh. But Jack’s kiss wasn’t a joke. We had a moment of our own, before I said honestly, “The truth is, I was scared stiff. So scared that I haven’t the remotest notion who the man in the storeroom was, what he looked like or anything else.”
“I think,” said Jack, “I know what he looks like. And both of us know why he ran such a desperate risk to get those bags.” Jack was silent for a long time. “You must have noticed how warm it was on our second trip through the cellar. And that curious odor. While we were trapped in the storeroom, Lola, something was being burned downstairs. Burned in a hot quick fire. I examined the furnace when I went back for Reuben. It was still warm. I found this in the ashes.”
From his pocket Jack removed a tiny, charred object. It was a splinter of bone, very narrow, about three inches long—a fragment broken from a larger section. We stared at each other. Our eyes asked questions with implications almost too terrible to put into words.
Jack said, “You’re certain you saw Laura’s passport?”
“Positive.” Suddenly I found myself near tears.
Jack took my hand, and held it hard. “It’s a ghastly thing to think about, but there it is. Laura Twining has been murdered, Lola, her body burned. Ghastlier still. I’m convinced I know who’s back of it.”
I only looked at him.
“In all her many talks with the French police,” Jack said carefully, “Mrs. Coatesnash has consistently omitted one important fact—the fact that the woman who started to Europe with her never arrived there. That’s significant, isn’t it?”
“But how…”
“Do you recall,” Jack asked, “the day the Burgoyne sailed? Do you remember the Coatesnash car passing us on the road? Who was in the car besides Laura?”
Before me rose the unforgotten scene. It was a sunny February afternoon. I saw an ancient limousine rush past us and away toward New York. I saw baggage heaped in the car, saw Mrs. Coatesnash’s cold still nod, saw an English mastiff crouched on the floor, saw Laura Twining’s averted profile. At the wheel, facing his task with obstinacy and ignorant conceit. I saw a third familiar figure.
I said, “Silas was driving.”
“Well?”
A series of possibilities paraded through my mind. Like scenes from a motion picture, rapid and chronological: A decrepit limousine halted on a deserted backwoods road; a terrible struggle occurred in the car with a strong and sullen man in the leading role; a body was carried back to a big white house and hastily buried; a proud old woman pursued a predetermined plan, traveled on to New York, and sailed alone.
The events which might have occupied that sunlit afternoon seemed clear enough, but I hit upon no motives. What motive had Mrs. Coatesnash for the murder of her companion? What motive had Silas?
I considered the relationship between Silas Elkins and Luella Coatesnash—the hired man’s serf-like demeanor toward the lady, her bland acceptance of it. Assuming that Mrs. Coatesnash desired to hurry Laura Twining from the world, I was almost ready to assume that Silas could be bullied, persuaded or ordered into assisting the bloody purpose. Almost—not quite.
Logic faltered when I weighed his character and particularly his cowardice. Silas had the physical stamina, the strength for murder. Had he the courage, the cool and steady nerves, the will? The unknown whom I had encountered in the storeroom must surely be the murderer. That person had possessed to an extraordinary degree cunning, determination and intrepidity. Silas hardly possessed such attributes. Or did he? Could I have struggled with Silas and failed to recognize him?
Chin sunk in his palms, forehead knotted, Jack also pondered the string of evil possibilities. On the chair Reuben stirred and moaned. Jack stroked the dog’s head. Slowly his expression changed.
“We’ve been overlooking something damned important. Reuben.”
“Reuben?”
“I thought it was Silas who was at the big house tonight, scaring you to death, vanishing with the bags. Well, it wasn’t. This fellow here lets him out,” Jack said ruefully. “Reuben wouldn’t have barked at Silas, in the first place—under any circumstances. And in the second place, Silas wouldn’t have needed to maltreat his own dog so he could escape from us into the house.”
That logic was unanswerable. Reuben hated strangers, but was always friendly to those he knew. But if it had not been Silas in the big house—and eventually we decided it had not been—it was still possible that he suspected someone else was there and for Mrs. Coatesnash’s sake meant to shield that person from our curiosity. Did Annabelle Bayne also suspect? Who was the mysterious third person?
Abruptly Jack turned and faced me. “What do you think of Franklyn Elliott as a candidate? Maybe he was on the hill tonight. He has courage, imagination, subtlety, all the talents of the top-flight criminal.”
I said dryly, “A pretty conclusive definition of a man you’ve seen exactly twice.”
“Twice was plenty. Elliott knows more than he’s told, a good deal more. Here’s something else. His profession is against him. He is a lawyer”—here Jack developed a favorite theory of his own—“and successful lawyers are notoriously the most lawless class on earth. They’re trained to consider evidence in a special light, as something to use, or something to hide and destroy. They make fortunes in contriving evasions of justice. Elliott would probably stop at nothing to assist a rich client. And the Lord knows that Mrs. Coatesnash is rich.”
I thought Franklyn Elliott would stop at digging up and burning the body of a murdered woman—to oblige Mrs. Coatesnash or any other client I said so.
“It’s nonsense, Jack. I don’t trust Elliott, but we’ve no real proof he isn’t a reputable lawyer. Nothing beyond a lot of vague suspicions.”
“He ducked the inquest and made that secret call on Annabelle Bayne.”
“That’s true enough, but…”
“This isn’t vague!” Jack rose suddenly from his chair. “Do you remember Elliott’s telling us that he went down and saw Mrs. Coatesnash off to Europe? Laura wasn’t aboard the Burgoyne; she couldn’t have been. Has Franklyn Elliott said one word about her absence? You bet he hasn’t. He’s let us all believe that Laura was safe in Paris.”
It was long past three o’clock. A distant rooster crowed shrilly. I wasn’t sleepy. I was confused, dissatisfied, bewildered.
What we had learned at Hilltop House, what we had inferred, appeared to lead not toward, but away from, the original mystery. How could the events which had taken place that night be connected with the murder of Hiram Darnley? Superficially the grim-faced wealthy lawyer (our first victim) and the penniless spinster who had drunk our tea seemed worlds apart. I accepted that Darnley had been slain for money. Laura had no money. She was dull, colorless, unprovocative. So far as I could see there was nothing about her to invite murder.
Luella Coatesnash was the single link between the dual mysteries. Hilltop House belonged to her; Darnley had been her legal representative; Laura had been her companion, her closest confidante.
Presently Jack roused from his own thoughts. “I’ve been busy trying to tie up Darnley and Laura. Maybe I’ve got somewhere.