The Girl at Central

by Geraldine Bonner

  VI

  Longwood was stunned. By noon everybody knew it and there was no morebusiness that day. The people stood in groups, talking in whispers as ifthey were at a funeral. And in the afternoon it _was_ like a funeral,the body coming back by train and being taken from the depot toMapleshade in one of the Doctor's farm wagons. It lay under a sheet andas the wagon passed through the crowd you couldn't hear a sound, exceptfor a woman crying here and there.

  Then it was as if a spring that held the people dumb and still wasloosed and the excitement burst up. I never saw anything like it. Itseemed like every village up and down the line had emptied itself intoLongwood. Farmers and laborers and loafers swarmed along the streets,the rich came in motors, tearing to Mapleshade, and the police wereeverywhere, as if they'd sprung out of the ground.

  By afternoon the reporters came pouring in from town. The Inn was fullup with them and they were buzzing round my exchange like flies. Some ofthem tried to get hold of me and that night had the nerve to comeknocking at Mrs. Galway's side door, demanding the telephone girl. But,believe me, I sat tight and said nothing--nothing to them. The policewere after me mighty quick, and there was a seance over Corwin's DrugStore when I felt like I was being put to the third degree. I told themall I knew, job or no job, for I guessed right off that that talk I'doverheard on the phone might be an important clew. They kept it close.It wasn't till after the inquest that the press got it.

  Before the inquest every sort of rumor was flying about, and the paperswere full of crazy stories, not half of them true. I'd read about placesand people I knew as well as my own face in the mirror, and they'd soundlike a dime novel, so colored up and twisted round the oldest inhabitantwouldn't have recognized them.

  To get at the facts was a job, but, knowing who was reliable and whowasn't, I questioned and ferreted and, I guess, before I was done I hadthem pretty straight.

  Sylvia had been killed by a blow on the side of her head--a terribleblow. A sheriff's deputy I know told me that in all his experience hehad seen nothing worse. Her hat had evidently shielded the scalp. It waspulled well down over her head, the long pin bent but still thrustthrough it. Where she had been hit the plush was torn but not the thickinterlining, and her hair, all loosened, was hanging down against herneck. There was a wound--not deep, more like a tearing of the skin, onthe lower part of her cheek. It was agreed that she had been struck onlyonce by some heavy implement that had a sharp or jagged edge. Though thewoods and fields had been thoroughly searched nothing had beendiscovered that could have dealt the blow. Whatever he had used themurderer had either successfully hidden it or taken it away with him.The deputy told me it looked to him as if it might have been somefarming tool like a spade, or even a heavy branch broken from a tree.The way the body was arranged, the coat drawn smoothly together, thebranches completely covering her, showed that the murderer had takentime to conceal his crime, though why he had not drawn the body backinto the thick growth of bushes was a point that puzzled everybody.

  It was impossible to trace any footprints, as the automobile party andHines had trodden the earth about her into a muddy mass, and the grassalong the edge was too thick and springy to hold any impression.

  Close behind the place where she lay twigs of the screening trees weresnapped and bent as if her assailant had broken through them.

  There were people who said Hines would have been arrested on the spot ifrobbery had been added to murder. But the jewelry was all on her, morethan he said he had noticed when she was in the Wayside Arbor. The pearlnecklace alone was worth twenty thousand dollars, and just below it,clasping her gown over the chest, was a diamond cross, an old ornamentof her mother's, made of the finest Brazilian stones. In the pocket ofher coat was a purse with forty-eight dollars in it. So right at thestart the theory of robbery was abandoned.

  Another inexplicable thing was the disappearance of the French maid,Virginia Dupont. Jack Reddy denied any knowledge of her. He said Sylviahad never mentioned bringing her with them and he didn't think intendedto do so. The Mapleshade people thought differently, all declaring thatSylvia depended on her and took her wherever she went. One of themysteries about the woman that was quickly cleared up was the walk shehad taken to the village on Sunday morning. This was to meet Mr. Reddyand take from him the letter for Sylvia which had been found in thedesk.

  I know from what I heard that the police were keen to find her, but shehad dropped out of sight without leaving a trace. No one at Mapleshadeknew anything about her or her connections. She was not liked in thehouse or the village and had made no friends. On her free Sundays she'dgo to town and when she returned say very little about where she'd been.A search of her rooms showed nothing, except that she seemed to haveleft her clothes behind her. She was last seen at Mapleshade by NoraMagee, who, at half-past five on Sunday, met her on the third floorstairs. Nora was off for a walk to the village with Harper and was in ahurry. She asked Virginie if she was going out and Virginie said no, shefelt sick and was going up to lie down till she'd be wanted to help MissSylvia dress for dinner.

  If you ask me was anyone suspected at this stage I'd answer "yes," butpeople were afraid to say who. There was talk about Hines on the streetand in the postoffice, but it was only when you were close shut in yourown room or walking quiet up a side street that the person with youwould whisper the Doctor's name. Nobody dared say it aloud, but therewasn't a soul in Longwood who didn't know about the quarreling atMapleshade, whose was the money that ran it, and the will that lefteverything to Mrs. Fowler if her daughter died.

  But no arrests were made. Everything was waiting on the inquest, and weall heard that there were important facts--already known to thepolice--which would not be made public till then.

  Wednesday afternoon they held the inquest at Mapleshade. The authoritieshad rounded up a bunch of witnesses, I among them. The work in theExchange had piled up so we'd had to send a hurry call for help toheadquarters and I left the office in charge of a new girl, KatieReilly, Irish, a tall, gawky thing, who was going to work with ushereafter on split hours.

  Going down Maple Lane it was like a target club outing or a politicalpicnic, except for the solemn faces. I saw Hines and his party, and therailway men, and a lot of queer guys that I took to be the jury. Halfwaythere a gang of reporters passed me, talking loud, and swinging along intheir big overcoats. Near the black pine the toot of a horn made mestand back and Jack Reddy's roadster scudded by, he driving, with Caseybeside him, and the two old Gilseys, pale and peaked in the back seat.

  They held the inquest in the dining-room, with the coroner sitting atone end of the long shiny table and the jury grouped round the other.Take it from me, it was a gloomy sight. The day outside was cold andcloudy, and through the French windows that looked out on the lawns, thelight came still and gray, making the faces look paler than they alreadywere. It was a grand, beautiful room with a carved stone fireplace wherelogs were burning. Back against the walls were sideboards with silverdishes on them and hand-painted portraits hung on the walls.

  But the thing you couldn't help looking at--and that made all thesplendor just nothing--were Sylvia's clothes hanging over the back of achair, and on a little table near them her hat and veil, the one gloveshe had had on, and the heap of jewelry. All those fine garments and theprecious stones worth a fortune seemed so pitiful and useless now.

  We were awful silent at first, a crowd of people sitting along thewalls, staring straight ahead or looking on the ground. Now and thensomeone would move uneasily and make a rustle, but there were moments sostill you could hear the fire snapping and the scratching of thereporters' pencils. They were just behind me, bunched up at a table infront of the window. When the Doctor came in everyone was as quiet asdeath and the eyes on him were like the eyes of images, so fixed andsteady. Mrs. Fowler was not present--they sent for her later--but Noraand Anne were there as pale as ghosts.

  The Coroner opened up by telling about how and where the deceased hadbeen found, the position, the surroundin
gs, etc., etc., and then calledDr. Graham, who was the county physician and had made the autopsy.

  A good deal of what he said I didn't understand--it was to prove thatdeath resulted from a fracture of the skull. He could not state theexact hour of dissolution, but said it was in the earlier part of thenight, some time before twelve. He described the condition of the scalpwhich had been partially protected by the hat, thick as it was with aplush outside and a heavy interlining. This was held up and then givento the jury to examine. I saw it plainly as they passed it from hand tohand--a small dark automobile hat, with a tear in one side and someshreds of black Shetland veil hanging to its edge. She bore no othermarks of violence save a few small scratches on her right hand. She hadevidently been attacked unexpectedly and had had no time to fight orstruggle.

  The automobilists who had found the body came next. Only the men werepresent--two nice-looking gentlemen--the ladies having been excused.They told what I have already written, one of them making the creeps godown your spine, describing how his wife said she saw the hand in themoonlight, and how he walked back, laughing, and pulled off thebrushwood.

  After that Mrs. Fowler came, all swathed up in black and looking like ahaggard old woman. The Coroner spoke very kind to her. When she got tothe quarrel between Sylvia and the Doctor her voice began to tremble andshe could hardly go on. It was pitiful to see but she had to tell it,and about the other quarrels too. Then she pulled herself together andtold about going up to Sylvia's room and finding the letter.

  The Coroner stopped her there and taking a folded paper from the tablebeside him said it was the letter and read it out to us. It was datedFirehill, Nov. 21st.

  "_Dearest_:

  "All right. This evening at seven by the pine. We'll go in my racer to Bloomington and be married there by Fiske, the man I told you about. It'll be a long ride but at the end we'll find happiness waiting for us. Don't disappoint me--don't do what you did the other time. Believe in my love and trust yourself to me--_Jack_."

  In the silence that followed you could hear the fire falling togetherwith a little soft rustle. All the eyes turned as if they were on pivotsand looked at Jack Reddy--all but mine. I kept them on Mrs. Fowler andnever moved them till she was led, bent and sobbing, out of the room.

  Nora Magee was the next, and I heard them say afterward made a goodwitness. The coroner asked her--and Anne when her turn came--veryparticular about the jewelry, what was gone, how many pieces and suchquestions. And then it came out that nobody--not even Mrs. Fowler--knewexactly what Sylvia had. She was all the time buying new ornaments orhaving her old ones reset and the only person who kept track of herpossessions was Virginie Dupont. All any of them could be sure of wasthat the jewel box was empty, and the toilet articles, fitted bag, andgold mesh purse were gone.

  Hines was called after that. He was all slicked up in his store clothesand looked very different to what he had that day in the summer. Thoughanyone could see he was scared blue, the perspiration on his foreheadand his big, knotty hands twiddling at his tie and his watch chain; hetold his story very clear and straightforward. I think everyone wasimpressed by it and by Mrs. Hines, who followed him. She was a miserablelooking little rat of a woman, with inflamed eyes and a long droopingnose, but she corroborated all he said, and--anyway, to me--it soundedtrue.

  Tecla Rabine, the Bohemian servant, followed, and when she walked overto sit in the chair, keyed up as I was, I came near laughing. She was alarge, fat woman with a good-humored red face and little twinkling eyes,and she sure was a sight, bulging out of a black cloth suit that was thefashion when Columbus landed. On her head was a fancy straw hat with onemangy feather sticking straight up at the back, and the last touch washer face, one side still swollen out from her toothache, and looking forall the world as if she had a quid in her cheek.

  Though she spoke in a queer, foreign dialect, she gave her testimonyvery well and she told something that no one--I don't think even thepolice--had heard before.

  While Hines was locking up she went to her room but couldn't sleepbecause of the pain of her toothache.

  "Ach," she said, spreading her hand out near her cheek, "it was out sofar--swole out, and, oh, my God--_pain_!"

  "Never mind your toothache," said the Coroner--"keep to the subject."

  "How do I hear noises if my toothache doesn't make me to wake?" sheasked, giving him a sort of indignant look.

  Somebody laughed, a kind of choked giggle, and I heard one of thosefresh write-up chaps behind me whisper:

  "This is the comic relief."

  "Oh, you heard noises--what kind of noises?"

  "The scream," she said.

  "You heard a scream?"

  "Yes--one scream--far away, up toward Cresset's Crossing. I go crazywith the pain and after Mr. Hines is come upstairs I go down to thekitchen to make----" she stopped, looking up in the air--"what you callhim?"--she put her hand flat on the side of her face--"for here, to stopthe pain."

  "Do you mean a poultice?"

  She grinned all over and nodded.

  "Yes, that's him. I make hot water on the gas, and then, way off, I heara scream."

  "What time was that?"

  "The kitchen clock says ten minutes past ten."

  "What did you do?"

  She looked surprised.

  "I make the--you know the name--for my ache."

  "Didn't you go out and investigate--even go to the door?"

  She shook her head and gave a sort of good-humored laugh as if she wasexplaining things to a child.

  "Go out. For why? If I go out for screams I go out when the dagoesfight, and when the automobiles be pass--up and down all night, oftendrunken and making noises;" she shrugged her shoulders sort of careless;"I no be bothered with screams."

  "Did you go to bed?"

  "I do. I make the medicine for my swole up face and go upstairs."

  "Did you hear any more screams?"

  "No--there are no more. If there are I would have hear them, for I can'tsleep ever all night. All I hear is automobiles--many automobilespassing up and down and maybe--two, three, four times--the hornssounding."

  The Coroner asked her a few more questions, principally about Hines'movements, and her answers, if you could get over the lingo, were allclear and in line with what Hines had said.

  The railway men followed her, Sands and Clark and Jim Donahue. Jim wasas nervous as a cat, holding his hat in his hands and twisting it roundlike a plate he was drying. He told about the woman he put on theseven-thirty train on Sunday night.

  "Where did you first see this woman?" he was asked.

  "On the platform, just before the train came in. She came down along it,out of the dark."

  "Can you swear it was Miss Hesketh?"

  Jim didn't think he could swear because he couldn't see her face plain,it being covered with a figured black veil. But he never thought of itbeing anyone else.

  "Why did you think it was she?"

  "Because it looked like her. It was her coat and her gold purse and I'dknow her hair anywhere. And when I spoke to her and said: 'Good evening,Miss Hesketh, going to leave us?' it was her voice that answered: 'Yes,Jim, I'm going away for a few days.'"

  "Did you have any more conversation with her?"

  "No, because the train came along then. She got in and I handed her herbag and said 'Good night.'"

  When he was asked to describe the bag, he said he hadn't noticed itexcept that it was a medium sized bag, he thought, dark colored.

  Then he was shown the clothes--that was heart-rending. The Coroner heldthem up, the long fur coat, the little plush hat, and the one glove. Hethought they were the same but it was hard to tell, the platform beingso dark--anyway, it was them sort of clothes the lady had on, and thoughhe couldn't be sure of the glove he had noticed that her gloves werelight colored.

  Sands, the Pullman conductor, and Clark, from the Junction, testifiedthat they'd seen the same woman on the train and at the Junction. Sandsparticularly no
ticed the gold mesh purse because she took her ticket outof it. He addressed her as Miss Hesketh and she had answered him, butonly to say "Good evening."

  Then came the Firehill servants. The two old Gilseys were dreadfullyupset. Mrs. Gilsey cried and poor old David kept hesitating and lookingat Mr. Reddy, but the stamp of truth was on every word they said. Caseyfollowed them, telling what I've already written.

  When Mr. Reddy was called a sort of stir went over the people. Everybodywas curious to hear his story, as we'd only got bits of it, most of themwild rumors. And there wasn't a soul in Longwood that didn't grieve forhim, plunged down at the moment when he thought he was most happy intosuch an awful tragedy. As he sat down in the chair opposite the Coroner,the room was as still as a tomb, even the reporters behind me not makingso much as the scratch of a pen.

  He looked gray and pinched, his eyes burnt out like a person's whohasn't slept for nights. You could see he was nervous, for he keptcrossing and uncrossing his knees, and he didn't give his evidencenearly so clear and continued as the newspapers had it. He'd stop everynow and then as if he didn't remember or as if he was thinking of thebest way to express himself.

  He began by telling how he and Sylvia had arranged to go in his car toBloomington, and there be married by his friend Fiske, an Episcopalclergyman. The Coroner asked him if Fiske expected them and he said no,he hadn't had time to let him know as the elopement was decided onhurriedly.

  "Why was the decision hurried?" the Coroner asked and he answered low,as if he was reluctant to say it.

  "Because Miss Hesketh had a violent quarrel with her stepfather onSaturday morning. It was not till after that that she made up her mindshe would go with me."

  "Did you know at the time what that quarrel was about?"

  His face got a dull red and he said low.

  "Yes, she told me of it in a letter she wrote me immediately afterward."

  Then he told how on Saturday night he had received a special deliveryletter from her, telling of the quarrel and agreeing to the elopement.That letter he had destroyed. He answered it the next morning, shehaving directed him to bring it in himself and deliver it to Virginie,who would meet him opposite Corwin's drugstore. This he did, the letterbeing the one already in evidence.

  The Coroner asked him to explain the sentence which said "Don'tdisappoint me--don't do what you did the other time." He looked straightin front of him and answered:

  "We had made a plan to elope once before and she had backed out."

  "Do you know why?"

  "It was too--too unusual--too unconventional. When it came to thescandal of an elopement she hung back."

  "Is it your opinion that the quarrel with Dr. Fowler made her agree thesecond time?"

  "I know nothing about that."

  Then he told of leaving Firehill, coming into Longwood, and going downMaple Lane.

  "I reached there a few minutes before seven and ran down to the pinetree where I was to meet her. I drew up to one side of the road andwaited. During the time I waited--half an hour--I neither saw nor heardanybody. At half-past seven I decided she had changed her mind again andleft."

  "You didn't go to the house?"

  "No--I was not welcome at the house. She had told me not to go there."

  "You were in the habit of seeing her somewhere else, though?"

  His face got red again and you could see he had to make an effort not toget angry.

  "After I had heard from Miss Hesketh and seen from Dr. Fowler's mannerthat I was not wanted at Mapleshade, I saw her at intervals. Once ortwice we went for walks in the woods, and a few times, perhaps three orfour, I met her on the turnpike and took her for a drive in my car."

  He then went on to tell how he drove back to Firehill, reaching there alittle after nine. The place was empty and he went up to his room. Hedidn't know how long he'd been there when the telephone rang. It was themysterious message from her.

  He repeated it slowly, evidently trying to give it word for word. Youcould have heard a pin drop when he ended.

  "Did you attempt to question her on the phone?"

  "No, it all went too quick and I was too astonished."

  "Did you get the impression that she was in any grave danger?"

  "No, I never thought of that. She was very rash and impulsive and Ithought she'd done some foolhardy thing and had turned to me as the oneperson on whom she could rely."

  "What do you mean by foolhardy?"

  He gave a shrug and threw out his hands.

  "The sort of thing a child might do--some silly, thoughtless action. Shewas full of spirit and daring; you never could be sure of what shemightn't try. I didn't think of any definite thing. I ran to the garageand got out my car and went northward up the Firehill Road. It wasterrible traveling, and I should say it took me nearly three-quarters ofan hour to make the distance. When I was nearing the pike I sounded myhorn to let her know I was coming.

  "Just before I got there the clouds had broken and the moon come out.The whole landscape was flooded with light, and I made no doubt I'd seeher as soon as I turned into the pike. But she wasn't there. I slowed upand waited, looking up and down, for I'd no idea which way she wascoming, but there wasn't a sign of her. As far as I could see, the roadwas lifeless and deserted. Then I ran up and down--a mile or two eitherway--but there was no one to be seen."

  "Did you hear any sounds in the underbrush--footsteps, breaking oftwigs?"

  "I heard nothing. The place was as still as the grave. I made longerruns up and down, looking along both sides and now and then waiting andsounding the auto horn."

  "Did you stop at any of the farms or cottages and make inquiries?"

  "No. I didn't do that because I had no thought of her being in any realdanger and because she'd cautioned me against letting anyone know. AfterI'd searched the main road thoroughly for several miles and gone upseveral branch roads I began to think she'd played a joke on me."

  "Do you mean fooled you?"

  "Yes--the whole thing began to look that way. Her not being at therendezvous in Maple Lane and then phoning me to meet her at a place,which, when I came to think of it, it was nearly impossible for her toreach in that space of time. It seemed the only reasonableexplanation--and it was the sort of thing she might do. When I got theidea in my head it grew and," he looked down on the floor, his voicedropping low as if it was hard for him to speak, "I got blazing mad."

  For a moment it seemed like he couldn't go on. In that moment I thoughtof how he must be feeling, remembering his rage against her while allthe time she was lying cold and dead by the road.

  "I was too angry to go home," he went on, "and not thinking much what Idid, I let the car out and went up and down--I don't know how far--Idon't remember--miles and miles."

  "According to Mr. Casey it was half-past four when you came back to thegarage."

  "I daresay; I didn't notice the time."

  "You were from 9:30 to 4:30 on the road?"

  "Yes."

  "You spent those seven hours going up and down the turnpike and theintersecting roads?"

  "Yes, but at first I waited--for half hours at a time in differentplaces."

  He looked straight at the Coroner as he said that, a deep steady look,more quiet and intent than he'd done since he started. I think it wouldhave seemed to most people as if he was telling the absolute truth andwanted to impress it. But when a girl feels about a man as I did abouthim, she can see below the surface, and there was something about theexpression of his face, about the tone of his voice, that made me thinkfor the first time he was holding something back.

  Then he went on and told about going home and falling asleep on thesofa, and about the doctor and Mills coming.

  "When I saw the Doctor my first thought was that I must keep quiet tillI found out what had happened. When he asked me where his daughter was Iwas startled as I realized she wasn't at home. But, even then, I hadn'tany idea of serious trouble and I was determined to hold my tongue tillI knew more than I did.


  "The ring of the telephone gave me a shock. I had been expecting to geta call from her and instinctively I gave a jump for it. By that time Iwas sure she'd got into some silly scrape and I wasn't going to have herstepfather finding out and starting another quarrel. They," he noddedhis head at the Doctor and Mills, "caught on at once and made a rush forme.

  "After that----" he lifted his hands and let them drop on his knees--"itwas just as they've said. I was paralyzed. I don't know what I said. Ionly felt she'd been in danger and called on me and I'd failed her. Ithink for a few moments I was crazy."

  His voice got so husky he could hardly speak and he bent his head down,looking at his hands. I guess every face in the room was turned to himbut mine. I couldn't look at him but sat like a dummy, picking at mygloves, and inside, in my heart, I felt like I was crying. In thesilence I heard one of the reporters whisper:

  "Gee--poor chap! that's tough!"

  He was asked some more questions, principally about what Sylvia had toldhim of the quarrels with her stepfather. You could see he was careful inhis answers. According to what he said she'd only alluded to them in ageneral way as making the life at Mapleshade very uncomfortable.

  He was just getting up when I saw one of the jurors pass a slip of paperacross the table to the Coroner. He looked at it, then, as Mr. Reddy wasmoving away, asked him to wait a minute; there was another question--hadhe stopped anywhere during Sunday night to get gasoline for his car?

  Mr. Reddy turned back and said very simply:

  "No, I had an extra drum in the car."

  "You used that?"

  "Yes."

  "What did you do with the drum?"

  "Threw it into the bushes somewhere along the road."

  "Do you know the place?"

  He gave a sort of smile and shook his head.

  "No, I don't remember. I don't know where I filled the tank. When it wasdone I pitched the drum back into the trees--somewhere along theturnpike."

  Several more of us came after that, I among them. But the real sensationof the day was the Doctor's evidence, which I'll keep for the nextchapter.