Death in the Back Seat

by Dorothy Cameron Disney

  Harkway spun on his heel. He examined the neat round hole and the merriment left his face. “A pretty fair job of illegal entry,” he said at last. “Still it’s funny you wouldn’t waken.” Suddenly he moved across the hard packed ground, mounted the short flight of stairs which led into the kitchen, tried the door at the top. It opened.

  “Was this door locked last night?”

  “Locked,” said Jack, “and bolted from the kitchen side.”

  “Your intruder may not have known that.”

  Harkway bent to scrutinize the lock, looking for scratches, I suppose, or signs of tampering—a far from reassuring sight. Recollections of tragedies in isolated country cottages came into my mind, and, in the damp cool basement air, I shivered.

  The policeman glanced doubtfully at me. “I hate to alarm you unnecessarily, but, frankly, I don’t like the look of this. You are a little far from town—or neighbors.” He hesitated before he added, “Our case isn’t over, you know. Mrs. Coatesnash may be dead but—” and his tone was grim “—there are others who aren’t.”

  “Those ‘others’,” said Jack, “have nothing to fear from Lola and me. Why should we have anything to fear from them?”

  “The murderer of Hiram Darnley, Mr. Storm, may fear you have information which—in fact—you don’t possess. The black-faced man may fear the same. That’s frankly a guess. I don’t need to guess that someone tried to force this door which leads upstairs to the floor where you and your wife lay sleeping. The scratches are plainly visible.”

  I rose with decision. “That settles it. We move to the Inn this afternoon.”

  Harkway was obviously pleased, but I could see Jack wasn’t. We went upstairs, however, and I actually started to pack. Harkway sat on the bed while Jack paced the room.

  “Has it occurred to you,” Jack said at length, “that by moving into town we might be playing into the murderer’s hands? Doing exactly what he planned for us to do?”

  “I don’t get your meaning,” said Harkway, puzzled.

  “Why couldn’t last night’s affair have been planned with the deliberate intent of driving us to town? Say someone had some—some use for the cottage. Then certainly it would be to that person’s advantage to force Lola and me out of it. What better way than by frightening us until we left of our own accord?”

  “But what possible use,” said I, bewildered, “could anyone have for the cottage? It’s just a house.”

  “Put your imagination to work, Lola. Do a little guessing. How’s this for a guess? Something is hidden in the cottage, something quite small probably, something valuable either to the murderer or his accomplices. But the murderer (we will call last night’s visitor the murderer for convenience) doesn’t know the exact location of the—the object.”

  “If there is an object,” I said tartly.

  “Let him finish, Mrs. Storm,” said Harkway and to my dismay I saw that he was impressed.

  “I’m finished. I was only suggesting that if someone had a reason for wanting to search the cottage, a thorough search would be impossible unless it were unoccupied. It would take days to give this place a complete work-over. Lola and I hardly touched the cellar.”

  “But that’s only a notion of yours,” I wailed. “A crazy notion and I’m packed to leave.”

  Jack ignored my outburst, and said to Harkway, “What’s your advice in the matter?”

  “I hardly know what to say. Certainly you’ve built up a pretty convincing case for sticking around to see what will happen next.” The young policeman turned to me. “Maybe we’d better leave it up to the lady.”

  “The lady,” I said, “is going to town.”

  Jack gave me the look reserved for those occasions when I let him down. I went on packing. Once you weaken with him you’re gone, and I was determined to spare us both another night in the cottage.

  “I never thought,” Jack said, “you’d turn tail and run from phantoms, Lola. My guess is that last night’s visitor was only Silas.”

  “Now you’re wrong.” Harkway permitted himself a short laugh. “Silas didn’t stir from the Lodge last night. Blair spent the night on the hill, caught himself a fine spring cold and nothing else. Apparently he’d have done better to put in his time down here.”

  “Well,” Jack said philosophically, “it was just an idea I had, and the best of us can’t be always right.”

  Again a pointed glance was directed at me. My determination to quit the cottage wavered. Was Jack’s interpretation of the broken window correct? By packing my bags and preparing to flee to town was I following a cunning plan laid down for me by someone unknown?

  Harkway crushed out his cigarette and rose. “If you young folks are ready I’ll pilot you in to town.”

  Jack turned. “Are you ready. Lola?”

  “Not quite,” I said snappishly. “What’s the hurry? We’ve got the afternoon.”

  Harkway moved toward the door. “In that case I’ll run along. I’ll give you a ring tonight.” He looked questioningly from Jack to me. “I suppose I can reach you at the Inn?”

  Neither of us replied. We trailed him to the hot sunshiny lawn where he paused to examine the footprints and to cover the clearest specimen with a handkerchief, which he weighted with four small stones. “I’ll send Blair around to take a plaster-of-Paris cast.”

  He spoke absently and without much interest. I stared at the footprints, distinct and well defined in the soft turf bordering the drive. “I should think the prints might be valuable. They are so dear.”

  “That’s the trouble with them, Mrs. Storm. I’m afraid they’re too clear.” He smiled at my surprise. “Either your marauder was incredibly bold or—and this seems more likely—those footprints were meant to be seen.”

  As he mounted his motorcycle a familiar automobile came up the road, turned into the drive, and Annabelle Bayne got out. She was pale beneath her rouge, and seemed very much excited. She said at once. “Have you seen the papers? Did you know that Luella Coatesnash was dead?”

  “We knew,” I replied.

  “I can hardly believe it yet.” Annabelle touched a handkerchief to her eyes, but the eyes were dry. The gesture was unpleasantly theatrical. It seemed to me that Annabelle was reacting to the death of an old dear friend with histrionics instead of honest feeling. Jack glanced at me in a puzzled way. I was puzzled, too. I felt quite sure that Annabelle hadn’t come to the cottage to discuss the news which had been blazoned in the morning papers. My belief was confirmed, when she turned and said to Harkway, “I see you’re leaving. Please don’t let me delay you.”

  She spoke in the cool remote way she reserved for those she considered her inferiors. Harkway was not abnormally sensitive, but he caught on. He flushed but stood his ground. “I’d like to know, Miss Bayne. Have you a theory for the suicide?” She shook her head. Again she touched the handkerchief to her eyes. “Luella never seemed to me the type of person who would kill herself.”

  “Then,” said Harkway baldly, “you don’t consider it an admission of a guilty connection with Hiram Darnley’s murder?” There was a flash of hostility in Annabelle’s gaze. “Certainly not! My opinion would be that the police authorities have driven an innocent and unfortunate old woman to her death.”

  For a moment I was afraid Harkway intended to argue the point, but he only shrugged and started a second time to leave. Jack abruptly suggested a stirrup-cup. He went into the house, and I guided my antipathetic guests into the chairs beneath the apple tree. For several minutes I carried on a single-handed conversation; then Jack came out and handed drinks around. The liquor didn’t help. More awkward minutes passed. Annabelle was patiently waiting for Harkway to depart, and he exhibited no signs of haste.

  Finally, suddenly, she said, “Lola, I’d like to talk to you.” Jack smiled blandly. “Why not here? We like your company.” Annabelle bit her lip. She stared across the sunlit open field toward the narrow band of woods. Smoke climbed from the Olmstead chimney and made a pattern again
st the sky.

  She looked surprised. “I hadn’t heard the Olmsteads had opened their place. They seldom come so early.”

  “I saw Olmstead downtown this morning,” Harkway said. “Buying paint.”

  I wasn’t especially interested. I didn’t dream that a New Haven architect whom I had never seen would play his own small part in our drama. I said, “Well, anyhow, it’s nice having neighbors for a change.”

  “Curious, your saying that.” Annabelle straightened in her chair. “I’ve been wondering. Don’t you ever get—well—lonely. At nights? I should think you might.”

  Lonely was a mild word to describe my emotions about the cottage, but I made some vague reply.

  Annabelle plucked a blade of grass and twisted it around her finger. “I thought you two might like to move in a while with me. Until—things get straightened out. I’ve loads of room. You could have a suite on the second floor.”

  Harkway set down his glass so suddenly that it overturned. Jack drew an astonished breath. As for me, I didn’t know what to think. Although Annabelle treated the matter lightly, her burst of hospitality was not only unexpected; it was incredible. Our previous relations had certainly not been friendly, and now she proposed to open her house to us—to hand us a second-floor suite.

  She paused. “Have I spoken out of turn—or what? Don’t you want to come?”

  “Your—your invitation is something of a coincidence. As it happens we were thinking of moving in to the Inn.”

  “Splendid. Then you’ll come to me instead.”

  Jack looked at me. I looked back at him. I said, “It was kind of you to ask, but we can’t possibly barge in on you. Anyhow, we aren’t going to town. We’re staying here.”

  “I’m sorry.” Her bright eyes traveled restlessly about the silent group. “What is wrong? Did I crash in on an important conference? Has something happened which wasn’t printed in the papers?”

  “Why should you think that?”

  She laughed. “So what am I supposed to think? With the air of mystery so thick you could cut it with a knife! Also, I use my eyes.” She gestured toward the spot where Harkway’s handkerchief lay pinned, a white square on the grass. “That helped. It’s covering a footprint, isn’t it? Can’t I hear what it’s all about?”

  Jack flipped away his cigarette. “I suppose there’s no harm telling. Someone broke into the house last night.”

  “Oh!” She sat very still. Then, “That proves it,” she said passionately. “You should come into town! Please, please let me put you up.”

  “Sorry. We’ve decided to stick it out.”

  “You have courage,” she said in a tone which implied we had more courage than sense, and on this note she departed.

  A little later Harkway followed. After Annabelle’s visit he changed front completely, and vigorously applauded our decision to stay.

  “Your hunch was o.k., Storm. I believe a definite attempt is being made to get you out of your home. That woman’s invitation was a shade too pat. By refusing to budge, you may do a lot for our case.”

  This was logical, if not precisely comforting. Nor was I particularly cheered when he handed Jack his own gun and insisted that it be kept on the premises.

  I gloomily unpacked.

  We discussed our burglar; we debated what the burglar might have wanted; we discussed Mrs. Coatesnash. Everything in the cottage belonged to the Coatesnash estate, a fact which made the situation extremely baffling. Luella Coatesnash hardly seemed the type who would leave anything of value on rented premises. Nevertheless, there appeared to be in the cottage something of interest to persons unknown. Since nothing had been taken from the cellar—we were sure now on that point—the something must still be there. Jack suggested it might be a clue to the murder.

  I agreed. “A clue,” I said, “might be contained in written matter. Many clues are. There are tons of letters upstairs. In the attic.”

  We went to the attic. It repeated the confusion downstairs. With a difference. Furniture and household debris were stored in the cellar. Boxes and trunks filled the attic. They overflowed with old clothing, books, old magazines and old correspondence.

  Jack plunged into a wooden box. I selected an elegant cardboard carton which once had housed a Paris hat. I sorted out two old bathing caps, a dozen dance programs and several strings of beads. I attacked a pile of letters tied in faded ribbons. They bore ancient postmarks; they were addressed to Jane Coatesnash; they were schoolgirl efforts of the most banal kind. In 1919 Jane sailed and swam; she went shopping in New York; and though in 1920 she had met a mysterious and tragic death, I discovered nothing of interest in these letters from her friends.

  I turned to Jack. “I’m simply wasting time.”

  “Same here. I’ve drawn plumbing bills and advertising circulars. Luella hung on to everything.”

  “Let’s quit.”

  “Let’s don’t. You can’t tell what might turn up.”

  In silence and in dust and in futile labor the afternoon faded into evening. My head began to ache. Jack looked wearily around.

  “Buck up, pal. We should finish the boxes anyway.”

  “I think my cold is getting worse.”

  “Maybe you’d better go and rest.”

  I stubbornly stuck to the job. It was six exactly when the phone rang downstairs. Jack rushed to answer, and I gratefully abandoned work to follow. I flung myself on the couch.

  “Who was it?”

  “Olmstead down the road. He wants to talk to us.”

  “What about?”

  “He didn’t say. Why don’t you stay here? I’ll be back in a minute. Probably it’s nothing important.”

  A moment before I would have sworn that an earthquake could not have budged me from the couch. Now I rose promptly. I didn’t choose to be left alone.

  From the Olmstead chimney the ascending smoke lost itself in a twilight sky. A raw wind blew from the Sound. Shrubbery surrounding the small brown house bent before it. Olmstead met us on the porch. He was a middle-aged, colorless man with mild sad eyes. He shook hands.

  “I came over from New Haven yesterday,” he told us, “and I’ve been meaning to call you since morning. Won’t you come in?”

  He led us into a house in the upheaval of being settled for summer habitation. He then remarked hopefully that neighbors should be better acquainted, and, without further preamble, attempted to draw us into a discussion of Hiram Darnley’s murder. “Fanny—my wife—and I have been following the case in the papers, and being neighbors and all…”

  Jack and I refused to be drawn.

  Mr. Olmstead looked hurt. “I hope you don’t think I’m curious. There was plenty of talk in the village, but I say what’s the point of listening to the butcher? You have to get to the people on the inside. And it does seem the people on the inside aren’t very talkative. I dropped in on Standish yesterday; I helped to appoint him, but he practically threw me out of his office. Even Silas. Silas has been our caretaker for years. He was here this afternoon helping me put up my screens. Mum as a clam, and he used to talk a blue streak. When I said something about Mrs. Coatesnash’s suicide, he nearly snapped my head off. Flung down the screens and went off in a huff. That’s the way it’s gone. I live in Crockford five months a year, but for all I know about the Rumble-Seat Murder I might as well be living in Alaska.”

  His curiosity was so evident and innocent that Jack had to smile. “I’m sorry to disappoint you but…”

  “It’s Fanny,” said Olmstead, with a sigh. “She entertains her bridge club Wednesday and…well, you’re married yourself.” We turned to escape. Olmstead rose hurriedly in alarm. “Wait a minute. Fanny says I’m long-winded and I guess I am. Any-how what I wanted to ask was this. Did you folks have any trouble last night?”

  We stared at him. “Why,” said Jack, “do you ask?”

  “Because I saw someone sneaking around your place.”

  Jack sat down again. “Tell me about it.”


  “I’d better start at the beginning. It makes a funny story. Well then, last night I was sitting out on my porch. It was late—around midnight. A car drove up and parked on the other side of the road across from the porch. A man was in it—I could see the tip of his cigar. It was dark; he couldn’t see me. He just sat there, and every now and again he would pop out his head and look up the road. I began to wonder what he was looking at.”

  I was on edge with impatience. Olmstead’s unhurried voice continued. “I stepped off the porch, quietly, so as not to attract his attention. I looked up the road. There wasn’t a darn thing to look at but your house. All your lights were burning. While I watched and while he watched, your lights went out. The man across the road took out his watch and looked at it. I looked at my watch. It was twenty minutes to twelve. By this time I was pretty interested. At ten minutes past twelve—we both looked to our watches again—the man climbed out of his car. He started in the road. I followed.” Olmstead sighed. “And then the accident happened.”

  “What accident?”

  “Up to then he hadn’t seen me. But I stepped on a stone. It made a noise. He heard me. He had a flashlight; he turned around and flashed the light on me. There was nothing for me to do but walk on past. He stood still in the road till I went by.”

  “You didn’t speak?”

  “Not a word. I think I made him sore. He acted sore.”

  “What became of him?”

  “I had to walk on. I walked about a hundred yards past your place, then turned around and came back. He was gone. There wasn’t a sign of him. But I was suspicious. I sat down on your stone fence and waited. It was cold. I waited a long time. I got up to go. It was lucky I didn’t. Because just then this fellow stepped out of your yard. He saw me again. He was mad as hell.