Death in the Back Seat

by Dorothy Cameron Disney

  “Well. Mr. Storm?”

  Jack at last got under way. “I suppose you’ve seen newspaper stories. A man who introduced himself as Elmer Lewis was murdered in my car; he was carrying a great deal of money. So far—chiefly because I had the opportunity—I seem to be the favored suspect. Indeed the only suspect. In the two days since the murder the police have accomplished nothing. They haven’t even managed to identify the victim.”

  “You’re mistaken there, Mr. Storm.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Elmer Lewis has been identified.”

  “When? By whom? How do you know?”

  The fat man fixed unblinking eyes upon us. “I have just returned from Crockford. I identified the body this afternoon.” Elliott paused. “Elmer Lewis was Hiram Darnley, my legal partner.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  The Woman at the Keyhole

  Not until we were aboard the New Haven train and bound for home did Jack and I appreciate Franklyn Elliott’s talents as an inquisitor. From us he had learned all we knew. From him we had learned nothing. Why Hiram Darnley had chosen to masquerade as Elmer Lewis, why he had carried $108,000 in currency, why he had announced himself as engaged in a business transaction for Luella Coatesnash—to these questions Franklyn Elliott merely replied that he did not know. He was tactful, courteous, adamant. In vain Jack sought to draw him out. “Weren’t you in your partner’s confidence?”

  “To an extent, yes. In this particular instance, no. Unfortunately, I was away on a hunting trip when Hiram left the office Friday.”

  “Then you don’t know why he came to Crockford?”

  “I haven’t the remotest notion. Naturally I’ve been curious. So curious that I took the trouble to question Hiram’s secretary. You saw Miss Willetts. She was badly hit by the news. She was closer to him than anyone else, and she says he received no communication from Mrs. Coatesnash at this office.”

  “How about his home?”

  “He lived at the Chatham Club. I imagine the police will check there.” The stout man smiled faintly. “My own sleuthing instincts didn’t carry me quite that far. In any event, it’s difficult for me to believe that Hiram heard from Mrs. Coatesnash after she left New York. We both saw her on the day she sailed—in fact, I saw her off—and at that time her affairs were in perfect order. The estate is handled by the firm—it seems incredible that Mrs. Coatesnash could have engaged in any private transaction with my partner. On the other hand, I can’t conceive why he should tell you so. The whole affair sounds fantastic—completely unlike Hiram Darnley.”

  “There’s the money itself,” said Jack, slowly. “Surely it can be traced now. Where did the money come from?”

  “I presume it came from my partner’s bank account.”

  Jack hesitated. “This is extremely important to me, Mr. Elliott. Is it possible the money belonged to Mrs. Coatesnash?”

  Elliott’s urbanity lessened. “Certainly not! Your suggestion is incredible! In the first place, we hold no power of attorney from Mrs. Coatesnash, so Hiram could not have drawn on her account. In the second place, he had an ample fortune of his own.”

  Abruptly Elliott wearied of our questions. He rose to signify that his good nature and the interview were at an end. He escorted us to the door.

  “My best advice to you, Mr. Storm, is to leave the conduct of the investigation where it belongs—in the hands of the authorities. Amateurs only succeed in annoying people who haven’t the time or patience to be annoyed.”

  Dispirited, Jack and I turned for information to the evening papers. Although headlines cried the fact of the identification, the stories which dealt with the career of the murdered lawyer offered nothing helpful. Hiram Darnley, survived by an invalid wife, a patient in an up-state sanitarium, apparently had lived a blameless and a public life. He was fifty-one, New York born and bred. In 1908 he had finished at Harvard Law School and gone immediately into private practice. During the war period he had covered himself with distinction in Belgian relief work and later served this Government as a dollar-a-year man. On the strength of his wartime reputation he had twice run unsuccessfully for Congress. Thereafter he had resigned political ambitions to bury himself in the law; with Franklyn Elliott he had represented several of Manhattan’s best-known corporations. The list of his clubs was impeccable. The resume of his activities, both legal and political, contained no hint of scandal—no suggestion of moral turpitude.

  “The man,” declared Jack, disgusted, “was a whited sepulcher, and far too good for a wicked world.”

  We left the newspapers on the train. Both of us knew that the real story of Hiram Darnley had not been printed. We reached the cottage very late, and were surprised to find John Standish and Harkway awaiting us. Jack was glad to see them, but I think I noticed even at the time how quietly the two men received his comments on the identification of Elmer Lewis, and how silently they rose from the front steps and followed us into the house.

  I was exhausted and excused myself immediately and started to retire. “A moment, please,” said Standish. “I want to talk to you.”

  I paused, startled by his tone. His morning affability had inexplicably vanished; his face was stern and cold. I looked toward Lester Harkway, but the younger officer managed to avoid my eye. Very much disturbed, I sat down, Standish turned to Jack.

  “I understood you were going to New York to sell some drawings. Isn’t that what you told me?”

  “Yes, of course,” said Jack.

  “Then why did you call on Franklyn Elliott this afternoon?”

  Jack stared. “How did you know that?”

  “You don’t deny seeing Elliott?”

  “I saw him, yes. But I wonder how you knew. Did you have us followed?”

  There was no reply. Standish leaned forward in his chair and what he said next was, to say the least, incomprehensible. “I’ve tried to treat you fairly, Mr. Storm. But you’re very much mistaken if you believe you can keep from me facts which I’m entitled to know. I don’t care what your motive is! If you’ve been intimidated, if you feel you need protection, I’m prepared to give it.”

  Jack was too staggered to interrupt. Standish rose from his chair—and with his next words suddenly all was clear. “You received a second telephone call at this cottage on Saturday. Your wife told Lester Harkway here that the message had been interrupted.” He looked at me with those cold, hard, alienated eyes. “You lied, Mrs. Storm. Why did you lie? Why did you say that message was interrupted? You know as well as I do that you were told—or ordered—to go to town for an interview with Franklyn Elliott. I insist you tell me the purpose of that secret meeting! I demand to know what occurred this afternoon in Franklyn Elliott’s office!”

  I was stunned. The reasoning, mistaken as it was, had a certain-frightening plausibility. The mysterious telephone call, our sudden request to go to the city, our failure to mention Franklyn Elliott because we hadn’t dreamed of seeing him. There were other things, however, which I didn’t understand. Did the police suspect the lawyer of having a hand in his partner’s murder? Why else would Standish attempt to establish a link between the three of us? Why else would he charge conspiracy and silence on our part?

  Jack repeated precisely the words of our talk with Franklyn Elliott and explained as best he could the impulse which had conveyed us to the lawyer’s office. He explained to a man who listened, but who plainly didn’t believe a word he said. Standish’s attitude became apparent when he departed, for Lester Harkway stayed. There was no explanation; the young policeman simply stayed.

  The inquest was to be held on Thursday, and our understanding was that we were to be kept in “protective custody” at least until the verdict had been handed down. It was an awkward situation and one which I resented. No one likes being under guard, and I like it less than most, although I must confess that Harkway did his best to be unobtrusive. He even tried to be of service around the house. In the morning he neatly made his bed and offered to help
me with the dishes. He spent considerable time at the telephone. He always closed the door, but I gathered that the investigation was in full cry and that Standish was out of town. It was plain enough that Harkway didn’t wish to discuss the case, but at Wednesday lunch I brought it up.

  “Why do you suspect Franklyn Elliott? And what do you suspect him of?”

  “I wouldn’t exactly say I did suspect him,” said Harkway cautiously. “But what we’re up against in Hiram Darnley’s death is beginning to look like a conspiracy—and, in a conspiracy, plenty of people could be involved.” His meditative glance reminded Jack and me that we could be involved.

  Jack hardly ignored the glance. “A conspiracy! Are you seriously suggesting that the murderer had an accomplice? What’s your evidence for making things so complicated? We’ve got two plots on Darnley’s life already, two people to account for and now you propose a third!”

  “Not necessarily.” Again Harkway hesitated. “Standish has suggested, and it doesn’t seem unlikely, that the man who hid in your closet and the actual murderer might originally have been confederates in the same plot.”

  Jack stared at him. “I don’t follow you. Darnley was murdered long before we reached the cottage, and the black-faced man certainly didn’t know it, else he would not have waited here. That…doesn’t look like team work.”

  “Suppose,” said Harkway slowly, “the plot didn’t operate on schedule. Suppose it went off the rails. Doesn’t that make the situation less confusing?” He added thoughtfully, “You’ve heard of the double-cross. Well, a hundred and eight thousand dollars is a lot of money. A cold-blooded murderer who saw a chance to grab a fortune might not pause to consider a confederate. He might be willing to forget previous—arrangements.”

  It was a logical theory. I could see that Jack was much impressed. But my own special leaning is usually toward facts. I said, “Is there any way of fitting Franklyn Elliott into such a picture? I’m sure that Standish doesn’t trust him.”

  “I shouldn’t sit here talking.” Harkway said candidly, “but there’s no harm in saying this. We haven’t a scrap of real evidence to tie up Elliott with Darnley’s death. You need evidence to take before a court. A hunch won’t go far there.”

  “But your hunch must be based on something!’

  “It’s based on nothing more than Franklyn Elliott’s attitude,” said Harkway slowly. “Personally, I’m inclined to think any suspicion of Elliott is moonshine. But this is true. He spent four hours in the station Monday, and when he got through talking he hadn’t said a thing. Not one damn thing about a man who’d been his partner seven years. Also he seemed a little over-anxious we should write off the murder as an unsolved mystery.”

  I was disappointed. “Had he a motive for wishing Darnley dead?”

  “None at all,” Harkway said at once. “Or none that we can find. Standish was in the New York office yesterday, talking to the help. It appears that Darnley’s death will actually cost Elliott money. Darnley was the senior partner; he ran with the society crowd and drummed up the business. Offhand, you’d say Elliott had every reason for wanting Hiram Darnley alive—every reason for wanting us to catch the killer. That’s just it; he evidently doesn’t care to have us crack the case, or at least he doesn’t choose, to help.”

  I asked if Elliott had an alibi for the night of the murder, and Harkway laughed. “You don’t ask a big-time lawyer if he has an alibi. As a matter of fact, Elliott told us voluntarily that he’d been on a hunting trip. He has a place in the Catskills.”

  “Was he there alone?”

  “He said he went out with a guide days. The guide went home nights. Standish looked up that place on the map after Elliott left,” ended Harkway, “and it’s two hundred and ninety miles from here. That, Mrs. Storm, is one hell of a distance!” Thursday came at last, a bright clear day, a day of blue skies and-white drifting clouds. In Connecticut an inquest is always held in private—decently, behind closed doors. Jack, I knew, would be the leading witness, and I was very grateful that the ordeal would take place in private. What I didn’t take into my calculations was human nature, and I wasn’t prepared for those crowds who poured into Crockford merely on the chance of glimpsing the actors in a tragedy.

  Harkway, Jack and I drove downtown together. Long before we reached Town Hall, we had to abandon the car and walk. Sidewalks and streets alike were jammed with sensation seekers. Jack and I were identified at once, and Harkway had all that he could do to force us through. I thought for a time I wouldn’t escape with the clothes on my back, and I still remember that determined young woman who wanted to seize my scarf for a souvenir. And what she said. She said indignantly. “You won’t need a scarf in the death house.”

  As I sit here now it seems incredible those words were ever spoken. But on that bright blue day of the inquest, that angry, defrauded young woman—I saw her long afterward behind a counter in the Crockford bakery—represented the majority opinion, the ingrown, prejudiced opinion of a small New England village. The opinion, in short, of most of Crockford.

  It was ten past two when we battled our way into Town Hall. The hearing was to be held in the court room upstairs, and the jury, chosen that morning, was already closeted there with Dr. Rand, who, as coroner, was presiding. After the uproar outside, the lower floor seemed queerly quiet and empty. The room where the witnesses were to wait their turns to testify seemed also very quiet, although two people were sitting there. Dennis Cark, the grocery boy, was seated near the door. He wore a brand-new suit, and he looked small, subdued and nervous. Beyond him, in a far corner of the room, sat a wan, colorless woman whom I did not immediately identify. Her head was bent and she was weeping silently into a crumpled handkerchief.

  “Darnley’s secretary,” whispered Harkway. “Name’s Anita Willetts. She’s come to confirm the identification.”

  I remembered then the stricken woman I had seen in Franklyn Elliott’s office. I said, “Where’s Elliott?”

  “He sent word this morning he was ill. Miss Willetts came instead.”

  “I thought Elliott had to come.”

  “No,” Harkway said slowly, “No. At this stage he has a legal right to refuse to leave the State of New York. A coroner’s inquest is not a trial.”

  Trial or not, Jack and I were there and I bitterly resented Franklyn Elliott’s absence. I fancied Harkway also resented it, though discretion kept him quiet. Jack and I sat down and Harkway tiptoed off upstairs.

  “I’ll get a line,” he said, “on what’s going on.”

  I knew precisely what was going on. John Standish, I had been informed, would make an opening speech, and, from that locked and curtained room three flights above, I almost fancied I could hear the rumbling accents of his voice, explaining to the members of a local jury at what date and hour, under what circumstances, and exactly how he had found a dead man in our car. A dead man and a bag which contained over a hundred-thousand dollars. I was convinced he would not mention Franklyn Elliott.

  “You,” said Jack suddenly to me, “are the greenest-looking woman I ever saw. Go over and get yourself a drink of water. And say to yourself as you go, ‘the Storms may be down, but damned if they’ll ever admit it.’”

  I went past Dennis Clark to the water cooler. Anita Willetts didn’t look up from her chair, but wept steadily on. I saw her fumble for another handkerchief, and I put mine in her hand. She looked up then from reddened, swollen eyes, hesitated and finally took the handkerchief.

  I drew a glass of water and drank it slowly. “You’re Lola Storm, aren’t you?” said Anita Willetts, presently. A certain awkwardness in her tone made me nod and turn at once to leave. She did something which surprised me. She leaned out, and patted my hand. “Sit down, my dear. You needn’t leave. I feel quite sure you and your husband didn’t murder Mr. Darnley.”

  She had obviously adored the dead man, and I was deeply touched. I was disconcerted when she added shrewdly, “If you’d wanted to kill him, you had only to drive
him on to your cottage. Or so it seems to me.” She must have seen me flush, for she added, “I don’t mean to be offensive, but it was odd, your picking him up. But then—” and again her eyes overflowed “—Mr. Darnley had been acting so oddly I can’t help believing your story is true. In a way I feel responsible for the dreadful thing that happened to him.”

  “You feel responsible!”

  “Because of that money he carried in his bag,” said Miss Willetts, evidently grateful for a chance to unburden her mind. “I got that money for him, Mrs. Storm. Every noon hour for two weeks I cashed checks for him at his various banks. I used to feel extremely nervous coming back to the office with several thousand dollars in my purse, and Mr. Darnley made me nervous by his attitude. He warned me to tell no one about the money, particularly I wasn’t to let anything slip to Mr. Elliott. I thought it was all wrong then, and that last day when he told me he was making a trip, and started off to the train with those two bags, well, I think I knew he would never come back.”

  “You saw him start to the train,” I said excitedly. “You knew he was coming to Crockford!”

  “No, Mrs. Storm. He told me he was going to Chicago.”

  She had little more to add. She had been shocked, perplexed and bewildered by the whole affair. When she had last seen Hiram Darnley in the office at one o’clock on that Friday afternoon, when he had picked up those traveling bags, he had worn a mustache, he had been dressed in quiet, impeccable taste. “He was,” said Miss Willetts sadly, “a most fastidious dresser. I’ve seen the clothes he wore up here, and I can’t conceive how he could bring himself to put them on.”

  Presently she was called upstairs to testify. Dennis Cark followed her. It was four o’clock when Lester Harkway appeared at the door and said, “Well, Mr. Storm, it’s your turn next.”

  Jack took a long breath and rose. I rose, too. I knew it wasn’t exactly legal, my going to the court room while Jack testified, but I didn’t expect to yield the point without a battle. None was necessary. Harkway conveniently looked away when we reached the proper door, and I slipped in. The policeman even found an inconspicuous chair for me, and though Dr. Rand, who was presiding from a raised bench which overlooked the room, certainly saw me, he gravely pretended not to.