Ill Met by Moonlight. Leslie Ford
It seemed a horribly offhand way of disposing of the awful fact of death.
“You’re to look carefully, gentlemen, as you will be called upon to make a decision as to the cause of death and the manner it was come by. You are all men of the world. I will ask you not to omit any fact that seems important to you—such as the odor in the car, for example.”
Mr. Shryock went on. It was his hour—he didn’t often come into contact with the April Harbor Colony. Most of us died decently in our town homes in the winter of pneumonia or old age. We came to April Harbor for rest and relaxation.
“All right, gentlemen.”
Jim Gould stood watching them, white-faced and haggard, as they went in, trying not to look at him, poor dears. They went one by one to the window where Jim had stood, looked in, turned away quickly, blundered back outside and lighted cigarettes again—even Rodman Bishop. George didn’t look at her, I’m sure of that. He just got to the door and hurried out, a little green about the gills, and I could hear him protesting in an undertone to the coroner that he oughtn’t to have to act, because he had driven home with her. But nobody paid any attention to him, except Colonel Primrose. He stood there quietly, with his head cocked and his sparkling black eyes resting on first one, then another, listening to everything, and rather more like a turkey buzzard than Mr. Shryock, if the truth were told.
That’s why I watched him when his turn came. He looked inside the car, and sniffed; bent his head close to Sandra’s face and sniffed again, picked up her hands and looked at them. Then he opened the door. A half-empty flask of whisky fell out onto the running board. He picked it up carefully and handed it to Mr. Shryock. Then he touched the back of the seat, and bent down to look at Sandra’s slippers. After that he moved away and made room for Sergeant Buck, who did exactly what the Colonel had done and moved away in his turn.
We waited, the twelve men of the jury and myself, for more than half an hour in my living room before the coroner and Dr. Potter and another man—tall, stooped and dyspeptic—came in.
“This is Mr. Owens Parran, gentlemen,” said Mr. Shryock. “He’s our State’s Attorney. Always on the job, that’s his watchword, and you’re all going to like his style, I know that. Would you like to say a word at this time, Mr. Parran?”
Mr. Parran shook his head and yawned. “Go ahead,” he said. I thought we might be going to like his style, but it was going to be hard to get over his manner. He did, however, shake hands with Rodman Bishop and Colonel Primrose. I suppose it’s part of being a good politician to be able to spot the most important men in any group without outside assistance.
“Dr. Potter,” the coroner said.
I don’t think I’ve ever seen Adam Potter look as old and completely done in as he did then.
“The cause of death is quite clear,” he said in a dry expressionless voice. “The discoloration of the skin that you must all have noticed is due to carbon monoxide poisoning. I think there is no reasonable possibility of doubt that that is the cause of death.”
“Thank you, doctor. Now, gentlemen, I understood from Mrs. Gould senior that she and Mrs. Latham here found young Mrs. Gould. I should like to spare the natural feelings of the bereaved as far as is in our power, so I will ask Mrs. Latham to give her account of the situation.”
“I heard someone in my garden a few minutes after three,” I said. “I got up and came down. It was Mrs. Gould. She was hunting for Sandra—her daughter-in-law.”
I don’t know why I left out Andy Thorp, but I was quite definitely conscious that I was doing so.
“I thought I heard a motor running and we went into the garage. The engine of the sedan was on. I started to turn it off, thinking somebody had just forgot it. My hand touched a wool coat. I thought it was a man until I switched on the lights and saw Sandra Gould. She had on a man’s coat.”
“I wished to inquire about that jacket,” Mr. Shryock said.
“Mrs. Gould got wet during the evening. I suppose someone gave it to her to wear home so she wouldn’t catch cold,” I said.
“Undoubtedly got caught in the rain.”
I glanced at Colonel Primrose. He was just sitting there.
“Had Mrs. Gould been drinking?” Mr. Shryock continued.
There was no answer from anyone.
“I ask that,” he added, “because of the smell in the car, and because it would be extremely simple for a lady under the influence to drop off to sleep without switching off the engine of her car.”
A voice spoke up nervously.
“But it wasn’t her car in the first place, and she’d certainly not been drinking in the second.”
We all looked around, rather startled by this sudden contribution from the ranks of the jurors. George Barrol flushed. “I mean . . . you see, I came home with her. I mean, Mr. Thorp drove us both home from the club house, and they let me out at The Magnolias. Then they drove back. Unless they drank a lot after they left me, Mrs. Gould certainly wasn’t under the influence, as you say.”
The coroner frowned, and so did everybody else except Rodman Bishop. He looked at me and shook his head a little. The thing about George Barrol is that he’s always putting his own and other people’s feet into things that had best be left quite free of feet.
“Where is Mr. Thorp?”
The coroner looked about.
“Go get him, Frank. Will one of you gentlemen go with him to show him the way?”
Jerry Nolan went—glad to get out, I think, because he’d been quite devoted to Sandra the last two summers before he married Charlotte Putnam.
The rest of us still avoided looking at each other. Even Yancy Holland was lined up on the side of the Colony, trying to keep the matter as casual as possible. Now and then somebody glanced apprehensively at Colonel Primrose and Sergeant Buck. They were the imponderables. The rest of them could be counted on to help old Jim if he needed it. In fact, as it was turning out, the coroner was doing it all for them. Even I could think of forty embarrassing questions that had not been asked or even hinted at. The doors of the garage, for instance. If Sandra had gone to sleep, she couldn’t very well have closed the doors and sealed herself in.
Mr. Shryock was examining a piece of folded note paper he’d got somewhere. He had passed it to Mr. Parran, and Mr. Parran had examined it for a considerable time before he passed it back.
I went out to the kitchen to get some glasses and some beer. I didn’t feel in the mood to set fifteen men up to Scotch and soda. Moreover, I couldn’t in the least understand the coroner’s air. Here obviously was a group of people tremendously upset by what had happened, and he was setting about as if it were an all-night oyster roast.
I had just got back when we heard Jerry Nolan’s voice outside.
“Buck up, Andy—for God’s sake, old man!” he was saying. They came in. Andy Thorp’s face was ghastly. His eyes were bloodshot, he looked altogether as if they’d just swept him out from under a counter. There was a dazed and stricken look on his face and he kept muttering crazily and mumbling something about keys. He was six feet three of complete and total incoherence. He sat down, or rather Jerry Nolan pushed him into a chair. Then, to my surprise, Sergeant Buck was at his side handing him a stiff peg of whisky, and taking the empty glass away.
Andy groaned and dropped his head on his hands. He sat there kneading at his head with convulsive fingers.
“Mr. Thorp, I understand you drove Mrs. Gould and Mr. Barrol home from the dance at the club?”
Andy nodded.
“You dropped Mr. Barrol at The Magnolias. Now if you’ll tell us what happened next, please?”
Andy looked up. I think he was really nearer the point of collapse than any of us realized.
“I