The Classic Mystery Novel MEGAPACK®. Hay James
his defiant swagger and moderated his tone.
“You got no right here. Mrs. Coatesnash left me in charge. I was to keep trespassers off.”
“We will pass the matter of our rights.” Harkway indicated the plot of earth in the garden. “What do you know about this?”
“What is there to know about it?”
“I’m questioning you. Please remember it! Have you been digging in the garden recently?”
“I dug the crocus bed, if that’s what you’re driving at. Mrs. Coatesnash told me to. Prepare the crocus bed, she said, the last week in March.”
“When did you prepare it?”
“The last week in March.”
“Exactly when?”
“A couple days ago, Wednesday, I guess.” Silas glared at the policeman. “You got no right to ask me questions. I don’t need to answer.”
“You’ll answer or I’ll take you down to jail. Are you saying you haven’t worked in the rock garden since Wednesday?” The threat of jail had again deflated Silas. “I got finished Wednesday morning. I put in fertilizer and was waiting for it to work. I figured on setting out the bulbs today.”
Silas was a farmer. He had sharp eyes and the perspicacity of country people. If he had prepared the crocus bed on Wednesday, he certainly would have observed signs of previous digging and quite probably would have encountered something buried in the softened ground. He denied noticing anything unusual. The second alternative was equally black. If Silas had not prepared the crocus bed, then he was lying, cither to protect himself or someone else. The destruction of the evidence needed to verify our story—the filled-in hole, the smeared marks, the changed locks—had required time, energy and particular knowledge. Silas had these things.
I studied his face, mute, stubborn and unreadable. Again I attempted to place him as the marauder of the night before; except for the detail of Reuben, he slipped perfectly into the part. My thinking traversed a worn, monotonous trail. Reuben would not have barked at his master; Silas would not have kicked into insensibility his own dog. Yet he must be involved. In what way? Flow?
In my effort to implicate Silas I viewed the affair from a different angle. I had assumed that the person who had dug the hole also filled it in. It occurred to me that there might be two separate individuals—one person who had prowled the night-black grounds, and a second person who had later concealed all traces of the first. Silas could be the second person. I believed he was.
Harkway had heard about the dog. At this point I am positive his thinking was similar to mine. He looked thoughtfully down the garden slope.
“Why were you hiding in the snowball bushes?”
“I wasn’t hiding. I was working—pruning the bushes.”
“You were spying on us!”
“I say I was pruning them bushes.”
Harkway moved deliberately down the rocky slope. Silas gave a short alarmed cry and followed. There were no pruning shears in the place where he had crouched. There was, however, a spade. It had a bright red handle. Mrs. Coatesnash marked her tools to discourage borrowing. Harkway kicked at the spade. “Do you use this for pruning?”
Silas was a little white. “I hadn’t got rightly started. I was going back to the. Lodge for my shears.”
“What were you doing with the spade?”
“Loosening the dirt a little.”
“Where? Show me.”
The earth surrounding the snowball bushes was hard and unbroken. Silas again contradicted himself. He had only begun the spading, he said, when he noticed us. He was confused and frightened. Harkway peered at the spade. Bits of loam adhered to it.
“Where did you use this spade?”
Silas said nothing. Harkway turned and stared significantly at the garden above. “I’ll tell you where. I’ll do more. I’ll tell you exactly how you’ve occupied your time this morning.”
“I just got up.”
“You’ve been up for hours,” snapped the policeman, “and busy every minute. Suppose I list your various activities. It may refresh your mind. You changed a lock on the cellar door; you trampled over certain marks on the lawn; you filled in a hole that was in the crocus bed last night. You were polishing off your work at the crocus bed when you heard us coming around the house. You ran down here, concealed yourself, watched a while, and then conveniently discovered us.”
Silas wet his lips. “You’re crazy. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
He entrenched himself in obstinate denial. The strength of the stupid supported him; his own denials seemed to convince him he was the injured party. He resented our presence; he bitterly resented Harkway’s manner. His alarm lessened and his indignation grew. Shown the lock on the cellar door and the key that did not fit, he glanced suspiciously at Jack and said:
“Mrs. Coatesnash didn’t leave you keys. I ain’t surprised your key won’t work.”
“It worked last night.”
“Nobody gave you permission to be on the grounds last night. If I’d a heard you, you’d have got a load of buckshot for your trouble. Keep off these grounds. I mean it, you better keep off these grounds.”
Harkway interrupted the tirade. “Bring me the key to the door.”
“I got no key.”
“Stand back then. I’m going to break it down.”
Silas unloosed violent objections. “You got to have a court order. Let me read your order.”
“I’ll get the order later.”
At once the policeman launched himself upon the door. The wood groaned beneath the onslaught; for all his slenderness Harkway was a powerful man. Silas darted forward. Jack grabbed and held him. A second time Harkway plunged against the panels. The hinges squeaked agonizingly, the lock broke, the door gave and Harkway stumbled inside.
Silas, Jack and I entered in a noisy, argumentative body. The hired man continued to threaten and object. We might as well have listened to him, and Harkway could have spared himself his high-handed and illegal effort. The cellar had undergone the same careful transformation that had occurred outside. The furnace was stone-cold and empty: there were no ashes, no clinkers, no traces of a hot quick fire. The third floor told a similar tale. The storeroom door stood invitingly open but the floor was freshly swept—innocent of footprints—and the window was closed and shuttered. The broken door knob had been repaired.
“Where’s the box you saw, Lola? The box with the locks?”
“Here it is.”
“Any locks there?”
“None now.”
Silas shot the three of us a look of baleful triumph. “What did you find? Nothing is what you found. The bunch of you,” he ended violently, “are no better than common burglars. I’m going to report that busted door. Don’t think I’m not!”
If this were acting, it was most effective. A later scene, puzzling and bewildering, played in an identical key, took place at the cottage. Outraged and indignant, Silas stalked ahead of us to regain his injured dog. His wrath rekindled when he examined Reuben; he quit his job on the spot and demanded his pay in full.
“I’m through with folks like you! Folks that would mistreat a helpless little animal. You’ve half killed him.”
“Reuben was hurt last night—kicked by someone on the Coatesnash grounds. We had nothing to do with it.”
“I want my money.”
Jack wrote the check. Silas pocketed it and picked up the dog. Reuben weakly