Death in the Back Seat

by Dorothy Cameron Disney

  Jack ignored this absurd suggestion and with it Blair. He turned to Standish. “I’d like to know. Doesn’t the spot where the shell dropped fix the place from which the gun was fired?”

  “Approximately.”

  “The murderer stood underneath the big elm,” Blair said promptly.

  “Exactly,” said Jack. “It was dark there; the street was noisy. A set-up which allowed someone to creep up to the car shoot Lewis, and escape unseen and unheard. Lola and I were gone a full ten minutes.”

  Standish listened in silence. Something about his expression frightened me and I guessed what he was thinking. Whatever we had established, we had by no means established our own absence from the car at the fatal moment.

  I said. “What are the chances of locating the gun?”

  The police chief smiled as one smiles at a child. “Very slight, in my opinion A forty-five is a common type of weapon. Connecticut factories must turn out hundreds every month.”

  “I was thinking of ballistic experts. Can’t they determine by markings on the bullet whether a particular gun was used?”

  “First they’ve got to lay hands on the particular gun. Quite a poser, if you ask me. Directly one man kills another, as a usual thing, he can’t get rid of his weapon fast enough.”

  I restrained a sharp impulse to point out that jack could hardly have discarded a weapon in the short trip from car to grocery store. At this moment Standish requested Jack to stand up. Beginning at Jack’s knees he patted his body to the shoulders—a quick, expert procedure that left no doubt as to its meaning. He picked up my pocketbook and peered inside. He went through the pockets of my coat. He found no gun. The overhead light wore a green shade; Jack’s face had a greenish cast.

  “I suppose you will also search the grocery store and the drug store?”

  “We have already,” said Standish.

  A long hush ensued. Water slid down the window-panes, the fire crackled and leaped up the chimney, throwing crimson shadows upon the floor. Jack said steadily:

  “I would like to clarify my standing here. If I’m helping you, that’s one thing. If I’m definitely under suspicion I want a lawyer.”

  “You don’t need a lawyer—yet.” The phraseology was disconcerting and was planned to be. Standish’s tone, however, was gentle. He smiled in a fatherly fashion, and set out on a different and equally alarming tack. “See here, Storm, I’ll be perfectly frank with you. I don’t believe you’re a cold-blooded killer, you aren’t the type. Furthermore, being practical, you had no chance to get rid of a gun. On the other hand—” He paused. “—I am convinced you haven’t told the whole truth about tonight. For your own sake, I suggest you do.”

  Too tired to repeat useless protestations, Jack only shook his head. We had another interruption, this time a welcome one. Lester Harkway knocked from the reception room, strode inside, bringing with him the fresh smell and feel of rain. He had already heard garbled rumors on the street. A curious glance traveled from Jack to me, before he reported to Standish that he was detached from duty indefinitely.

  “All night—if you need me.”

  Shouldering off a damp overcoat, he seated himself and prepared to listen. Standish commenced to piece together the long-drawn-out story of the evening. It seemed to me that every word pointed in our direction. We had received a mysterious phone call which it was apparently impossible to trace—we had driven to New Haven on a stormy afternoon to accommodate a man we didn’t know—we had disliked that man and he had been found murdered in our car. Fair as the summation might have appeared in the speaker’s view, to my ears it possessed the disturbing quality of an indictment. I watched Harkway throughout—he was seated opposite—but vainly. His face kept its own counsel.

  “How can I help, Chief?”

  “I want your version of the quarrel on the road.”

  After a little hesitation and with an obvious attempt to provide uncolored facts, Harkway furnished his account of the much-discussed incident. The account was substantially the same as Jack’s, and I was duly grateful. Standish grew restless.

  “This argument then—in your opinion—was just an argument? Nothing serious?”

  “Exactly what do you mean by serious?”

  “Was the argument serious enough so that it might have been resumed later on? Say, here in the village?”

  Harkway’s head bobbed negatively. “I have no way of judging how Storm felt, or Lewis either, for that matter. I mean after I left them. And you probably wouldn’t be interested in an out-and-out guess.”

  “Certainly I don’t want a guess,” said Standish testily. “I’m simply interested in hearing what you observed and what conclusions you drew.”

  “You’ve got the story. Storm was mad; Lewis acted as if he was; and I was hot under the collar myself. It was pretty much three-cornered.” Harkway shrugged. “There it is, and not much to write home about.”

  Gradually the argument between Jack and Lewis had been reduced to its proper status and now stood forth as no more than a squabble between two impatient men. I drew an easier breath. Harkway who had been on duty since early morning yawned, covered it quickly, apologized.

  “Is that all?”

  “Unless you have something more to say.”

  Here Harkway paused noticeably. “I hardly know how to say what I mean, but anyway it struck me there was something screwy about that argument. About Lewis’s part in it. Of course I might be wrong. It’s just a notion I had.”

  “Please go on.”

  I don’t remember precisely the manner in which the young policeman worded his next statement, but undoubtedly he phrased it badly. His vocabulary wasn’t made for subtleties and the impression he had received during the argument on the road was a very subtle thing indeed. In effect it was this: Harkway was convinced that when Lewis thrust himself into the colloquy he had done so with the deliberate intention of making himself obnoxious.

  “Lewis acted like he yearned to stir up trouble, Chief. Like a man spoiling for a fight. I thought he was trying to get Storm’s goat. That don’t sound sensible, but it’s what I thought at the time.”

  This also was my opinion, although it seemed to deepen the mystery of our passenger and his behavior. Why should Lewis purposely have sought to antagonize his benefactors? Frowning, Standish addressed himself to Jack.

  “Did you think Lewis was purposely attempting to pick a fight?”

  “It didn’t occur to me just that way. Certainly I considered his actions very strange. Abnormal. Unreasonable.”

  Harkway interrupted. “There was something phony about the guy. For all his loud talk he was nervous as a cat. My headlights fell on his face when he leaned out of the rumble seat and he jumped like he’d touched a hot stove. Pulled up his coat collar and jammed his hat over his eyes—like—like he was afraid I might get too good a look at him.”

  Jack eyed Standish challengingly. “Lewis had a similar effect on Lola and me. Phony is a good word to describe him; he wasn’t the sort you think of in connection with Mrs. Coatesnash. Personally I wonder how and where and why she picked him up.”

  As if suddenly reminded, Standish reached for the telephone, stayed his hand. “Do you know Mrs. Coatesnash’s Paris address?”

  Jack shook his head. “Silas would know.”

  I said, “Friday is band-practice night. He won’t be home.”

  Standish smiled, called several numbers, and finally got the address. After which he phoned the New Haven telegraph offices and dispatched the following cable:

  LUELLA COATESNASH

  HOTEL ST CLAIR

  RUE MORTANCE, PARIS, FRANCE.

  ADVISE IMMEDIATELY CROCKFORD POLICE ELMER LEWIS’S HOME ADDRESS AND NATURE OF HIS BUSINESS

  WITH YOU.

  When he replaced the receiver, the telephone rang. He spoke briefly, hung up and informed us that the coroner was coming over with his report.

  On the heels of the announcement Dr. Rand arrived. At the fag end of a crowd
ed day divided between his private practice and his official duties, a day begun with a delivery and wound up with an autopsy, the man of sixty looked fatigued but well equipped for further activity. He dropped a bundle of damp, wrinkled clothing with some relief. Then, like the actor he was, he glanced around to get the feeling of the group. I felt he had something up his sleeve. He combed rapid fingers through his snowy hair.

  “Quite a gloomy gathering. You’re lucky you didn’t have my job. I assume you haven’t solved the murder yet.”

  He tossed over a written report which dealt in technical terms with Lewis’s mortal wound, listing the time, manner and medical causes of his death Standish laid it aside. “Did you find any identifying papers on the body?”

  Dr. Rand’s eyes now disclosed a subdued sparkle. “There wasn’t a sign of letters, cards, memos or any of the trash we men usually burden our pockets with. In itself, a fact worth noting.”

  “Any marks in the clothes?”

  “No laundry marks, no label even. The labels had been cut with scissors from the overcoat and waistcoat. It might almost appear that Lewis anticipated this investigation and provided against it.” The physician lifted his hand. “A minute, please. Allow me an opportunity to develop the theme. I promise you will find it worth your while to resume. I examined the body carefully and the farther I went, the more curious I became. Lewis has soft, white, manicured hands, a shade too manicured for my taste. His socks and underwear—look at them yourself—are the finest grade. Ditto his boots, which are London-made, unless I’m very much mistaken.”

  Recalling the shabby overcoat, the well-worn suit, I experienced a twinge of surprise. Standish began to poke among the clothing spread upon the table. The rest of us attended Dr. Rand, who paced slowly up and down before the fire.

  “Now look at the hat, suit and overcoat—quite different, aren’t they? Cheap, shoddy stuff! The suit was a wretched fit, yet the boots were custom made.”

  “Anything else?”

  “An operation for appendicitis a few years back—an excellent surgeon did the work—I’ve never seen a more beautiful scar.” Brought to himself by Standish’s impatient snort, Dr. Rand repressed his professional enthusiasm. “Equally good dentistry—the man’s teeth were…”

  “Let’s pass the teeth.”

  “Are you interested in learning that until a short time ago—two days at the most—Lewis sported a small, neat mustache? One of those broker decorations. There’s a bare patch on the upper lip, lighter than the surrounding epidermis and recently shaved.”

  “Certain of that?”

  “Positive. The condition of the skin indicates he wore a mustache for years, undoubtedly was handsomer with it on. He’s got a bad mouth, if you noticed. If I had been Lewis, I would have kept the mustache. Curious he didn’t choose to.”

  Dr. Rand smiled blandly and continued the performance. I liked him. He was a peculiarly vital man, who breathed excitement and gave it forth.

  “Next,” said the physician, “we come to the spectacles Lewis wore. Here, take them. They’re worth attention.”

  Standish accepted the spectacles. “They look o.k. to me.”

  “Then look again at the lenses.”

  Standish and I saw simultaneously what the physician meant. Convincing on casual scrutiny, the spectacles proved obvious counterfeits when examined carefully, and of no possible aid to vision. The thick clumsy lenses had been cut from ordinary window glass, the frames fashioned of a cheap lead composition. Such spectacles are often sold at toy counters. Standish lifted them to his eyes.

  “Maybe he wore them as a protection from the wind.”

  “Lewis was wearing the glasses,” I said, “when he came out of the station.”

  “No doubt he was,” remarked Dr. Rand. “Amazing what a change a pair of spectacles will work in the appearance. These fit with the missing mustache, the suit, the hat, the overcoat. Taken in conjunction with the watch, they become even more significant.”

  He had expected a mild sensation; he got it. Standish abruptly dropped the eyeglasses. “What watch?”

  “Lewis’s watch, naturally! Or rather the watch he carried in his left-hand vest pocket.”

  With this cryptic statement. Dr. Rand drew from his own pocket a slim platinum watch, no wider than a silver dollar and circled in square-cut diamonds. An expensive, fragile, lovely bauble. Standish extended his hand. Dr. Rand himself forced open the case to reveal delicate, swiftly moving works and a smooth platinum back inscribed with two initials. These initials were H. D.

  Standish stared hard. “H. D doesn’t stand for Elmer Lewis!”

  “My thought exactly.”

  “In other words he wasn’t Elmer Lewis.”

  “Not unless he stole or borrowed the watch. Take your choice. I’ve taken mine.”

  So had we all. The fine underwear, the cheap outer apparel, the ridiculous eyeglasses, the shaved upper lip, the lack of labels and the pockets empty of personal memoranda, like tiny signposts pointed to an inescapable conclusion. Elmer Lewis had chosen to alight in the New Haven station as a man without a past. Two initials, forgotten or overlooked, had betrayed the plan, even though they did not elucidate its reason.

  Standish placed the watch beside the spectacles, got heavily to his feet. Stooping, he lifted the brass-bound traveling bag, previously removed from our car. The bag was securely locked. He grunted, strove unsuccessfully to force the catches. A sudden question in his eyes, Jack leaned forward.

  “Where’s the other bag?”

  Standish ceased his labors. “What other bag?”

  “The bag in the rumble seat.” As often when perturbed, Jack began to stutter. “Didn’t I say there were two bags? One in front with us, one in back with Lewis.”

  Standish spun upon the coroner. “Doc, was there a bag in the rumble seat when you examined the body?”

  “No—no. There was no bag there.”

  “What became of it, then?”

  Question and glare were general. No one was imprudent enough to venture a reply.

  “How about you, Harkway? Did you see a bag when you stopped the car? I mean in the rumble seat.”

  “Gosh, I can’t remember.”

  “Something happened to that second bag! It didn’t fly off over the meadows.”

  The police chief’s anger exploded into action. Seizing a paper knife he attacked the bag on the chair. One catch broke. The knife slid into the crack beneath the lid, bent in a dangerous arc, and the other catch broke; the lid of the bag snapped back and the knife flew across the room to fall unnoticed.

  We crowded about Standish, all of us silent, too amazed for speech. The pigskin bag was heaped with currency. Hundred-dollar bills, ten-and twenty-dollar bills. Stack after stack, fitted shoulder to shoulder, still wearing the paper halters provided by banking houses.

  “There’s a million dollars there,” said Harkway in an awed whisper.

  He was wrong. There wasn’t a million. After a double count, some twenty minutes later, John Standish announced in weary baffled tones that the bag contained exactly $108,000.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The Open Door

  It was long past midnight when Standish glanced at the wall clock, sighed and said he guessed we could call it a day. Needless to say Jack had not explained the $108,000. Neither of us could imagine why Elmer Lewis had carried a small fortune in an ordinary pigskin bag. Obviously the money had a connection with the dead man’s mysterious business in Crockford, but the wildest speculation carried us no further.

  Fingers cramped with weariness, Minnie Gray took down Standish’s rapid questions on the point, and Jack’s flagging answers. Her record is before me now. It is both diffuse and repetitious and I am consulting it only as an aid to memory.

  “You say Lewis himself put the bag in the front seat of your car?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You had no idea of its contents?”

  “Certainly not!”

  “A hundre
d and eight thousand dollars is a lot of money, Mr. Storm. Did you get any hint from Lewis how he meant to use so large a sum?”

  “I’ve just said I didn’t know he had the money.”

  “Did you receive any impression from his manner that the bag was valuable?”

  “None whatever.”

  “I believe you said Lewis watched his property from the rumble seat. By rising, from time to time, and looking through the window at you.”

  “That’s correct.”

  “Still you didn’t suspect he was anxious about his bag?”

  “We’ve covered that. I thought the man was crazy. Not a raving lunatic, but certainly a little touched. We were annoyed by his peeping till Lola drew the curtain.”

  “You weren’t frightened?”

  “I wasn’t; he made my wife jittery.”

  “How about the missing bag? Can you describe it? Was it similar to this one?”

  “I really didn’t notice. My impression is it was somewhat smaller.”

  “Did it feel heavy?”

  “I didn’t handle either bag; so I can’t compare them. I wasn’t interested in Lewis’s luggage.”

  Standish stared at the open bag with its cargo of heaped-up bills. No one in the room had ever seen an equal amount of money. We all were fascinated, and I confess my eyes kept straying there. Beautifully engraved, green and orange and brown, those bits of paper spoke of ease and luxury, of furs and jewels, of security in a world grown insecure. They spoke no further.

  The police chief’s gaze moved again to Jack. “Possibly Mrs. Coatesnash may be able to explain the purpose of the money. I hope so.”

  “You sound doubtful. Surely it is to be expected she will be better able to explain than I am. She knew Elmer Lewis—I didn’t. She wrote to him—not to me. He came up from New York on her business—not on mine.”

  “Mrs. Coatesnash will do all she can. I’ll vouch for her willingness. My only regret is she’s so far away.”

  The interrogation continued. Hours later Jack rebelled. He flipped, a final cigarette to the pile beside him. “You have pumped me dry. I’m signing off. I have one more thing to say. I object to your methods. Strenuously. There are other lines of investigation in this case. Why don’t you follow them up, and give me and my wife a rest?”