The Back-seat Murder

by Herman Landon

  “I don’t get it,” Garbo confessed. “No-siree, I don’t get it a-tall. Must be a mistake somewhere.”

  Storm seemed inclined to press the point further, but Whittaker forestalled him with a question.

  “You didn’t see anything of Mr. Marsh yesterday?”

  “Mr. Marsh? No, I ain’t seen him since last Thursday, almost a week ago.”

  “Just one more question, Garbo, and then we’ll let you go back to bed.” Whittaker pulled thoughtfully on his cigar. “Was there any one else about when you worked on Mr. Marsh’s car?”

  “No, sir. Not a soul.”

  “Would it have been possible for anybody to slip into the car unnoticed by you and Mr. Harrington?”

  “Eh?” Stark amazement gathered in Garbo’s eyes. “Say, what in the name of Sam Hill—”

  “Please answer my question, Garbo.”

  The man heaved a long breath.

  “How could anybody slip in when they wasn’t nobody around? It couldn’t be done, anyhow. I closed the doors myself just as Mr. Harrington started up the engine, and I happened to look inside. No, sir, they was nobody in that car but Mr. Harrington. I could take oath on that.”

  Whittaker smiled as if entirely satisfied.

  “Thanks, Garbo. We won’t bother you any more. Too bad about Mr. Marsh, wasn’t it?”

  The man started, that stood rigid, staring, with eyelids fluttering.

  “Eh? What—what are you sayin’ about Mr. Marsh?”

  “He is dead—murdered.”

  Garbo stood stonily still. Only his lips and Adam’s apple worked.

  “Murdered?” he exclaimed huskily. He swallowed with difficulty. “And only yesterday I was sayin’ that he didn’t look as if he was long for this world. Here today and gone tomorrow. That’s how it goes. Who done it?”

  “That’s what we are trying to find out. Good night, Mr. Garbo.”

  He walked out, followed by Harrington and Storm, the latter giving the garage-keeper a long, dark glance in parting.

  “I don’t like that goof,” he declared when they were outside. “Something queer about him. And it’s funny that he stocks Okay cigars but not Cuban Queen.”

  “Think so?” said Whittaker mildly. “Well, maybe you are right. It strikes me, though, that you may find a good many places within forty miles of here that sell only cheap cigars. A cigar like Cuban Queen would go stale on Garbo’s hands, and that would mean quite a loss.”

  Whittaker stopped a few steps from the garage and swung his torch over the footmarks and tire tracks.

  “And you had him up a tree about these tracks,” Storm pointed out. “You knocked him dumb.”

  Whittaker reflected while he slowly moved his torch over the maze of markings.

  “Oh, not up a tree exactly. He was simply puzzled, and he was puzzled like an honest man. A dishonest man would have tried to brazen out of it and lie. Garbo didn’t do that.”

  “Because he couldn’t think of a lie quick enough.”

  “Think so, Storm? If Garbo had anything to do with tins murder, he is a very clever man, and a clever man would have come right back at me with a good lie. For instance,” and Whittaker flashed his torch on the rear end of the Waynefleet, “Garbo might have told us that, just as Mr. Harrington started the car, he jumped on to the rear bumper and rode a little way, jumping off just before the car picked up speed.”

  “He might, but he would have to explain why he did it.”

  “Maybe the spare tire chain was dragging, or maybe the rear license tag had come loose, so Garbo hopped on and fixed it while the car was running. Or maybe he had an errand at that little shack where the driveway comes out on the main road and decided he might as well hop on and ride. You see, a clever man, if dishonest, would have been able to think of several explanations.”

  “But, even so, he had to return to the garage, and he couldn’t do that without leaving tracks.”

  “Let’s see.” Whittaker made a wide arc with his torch. “See how the road swings out in a half circle? If Garbo rode to that little shack, for instance, he would have made a short cut, and that would have brought him around by the hard gravel path to the other side of the house. You see, a clever man could have lied out of it. Doesn’t it strike you that way, Storm?”

  “Well, he might,” was the grudging admission.

  “And, anyway,” said Whittaker, “this doesn’t explain how Marsh got into the car or how the murderer got at him.”

  They piled into the Waynefleet, and Harrington drove back through the early morning drizzle. As they approached the house, a single light, surrounded by a wet stucco surface, stabbed the darkness. He thought of Theresa, waiting in the library, and of the glove of which nothing now remained but a button. And then, by a circuitous route, his thoughts went to the strange and almost forgotten letter which was still in his pocket.

  The two officials alighted at the door, and he drove the car into the garage. He was almost certain he had left the light burning, yet the building was dark. As the glare of the head lamps illuminated the interim:, he cast a swift, involuntary glance at the gruesome figure stretched out on the bench. He shut off the motor, mechanically reached out his hand to switch off the headlights, but something checked him—a swift, furtive movement alongside a number of packing cases stored in the rear.

  For a moment he sat rigid, watching. Then, leaving the head lamps on, he alighted. Marsh’s pistol was still in his pocket, and his hand moved toward it as he went to the rear. Now he could detect neither sound nor movement, but a brief glimpse of an undersized scurrying figure lingered vividly in his mind.

  He stood in front of the tier of (lacking cases, listening. All he heard was the patter of rain on the roof and a plaintively moaning wind in the trees outside. Suddenly he reached out and jerked the tier aside, then grabbed a squirming and whimpering individual by the coat collar and pulled him out into the sharp light of the head lamps.

  An exclamation of surprise and disgust broke from his lips.

  It was Samuel B. Tarkin, the blackmailer.

  CHAPTER XI — The Glove Button

  Seeing that he was cornered, the man grinned ingratiatingly, exhibiting several gold teeth. Harrington shook him vigorously, malting his bald head waggle as if insecurely attached to his spine. There was a scratch across his cheek, and he looked thoroughly disheveled. “Oh, still here, Tarkin? What are you up to now?”

  “Stop shaking me,” the little man whined, his face looking doubly unwholesome in the glare of the head lamps. “How can I talk if you dislocate my jaw?”

  “Make it short,” Harrington advised, jerking him out on the floor. “What are you doing here?”

  Tarkin pulled himself together and arranged his rumpled clothing. Out of the corner of a rheumy eye he glanced at the dead man on the bench.

  “Now look here. No use being rough. You don’t like me. You want to wring my neck. That’s all right I’m used to it You see, I’m not what you might call a popular sort of person. Just the same, you like Miss Lanyard, don’t you? A bit sweet on her, eh? Of course, that isn’t her name, but—”

  “Shut up!” Harrington growled. Again he reached for Tarkin’s neck, but the little man scuttled away.

  “Well, if you have anything to say, come to the point.”

  “I’ve got lots to say, and you’d better listen.” Tar-kin assumed an important mien. “Don’t you know you and Miss Lanyard are in a tight fix? Oh, I know you burned the glove. But there is still the button, and the police are good at identifying buttons. Not so good, eh?”

  “Well?” Harrington demanded, recalling that Whittaker had detailed one of his two assistants to watch the button during his absence. That had been only a subterfuge, of course. The button could have been cooled off in water and consigned to a safe pocket. In reality it was Theresa Lanyard that Cunningham had been set to watch.

  Tarkin giggled and put his hand in his vest pocket.

  “Suppose I should tell you I’ve got the butt
on here? Now, don’t get rough. If you do, I’ll holler, and then the deal’s off.”

  Despite his sense of loathing Harrington gazed curiously at the little blackmailer.

  “There isn’t going to be any deal,” he declared. “A button isn’t so easily identified. Furthermore, I don’t believe you have it. I saw it last on the stone in front of the fireplace, and Cunningham was watching it.”

  “Yes, but he was watching Miss Lanyard, too. And then Miss Lanyard went off to powder her nose, and she didn’t come back, and after a bit Cunningham got nervous about her. He went to look for her, forgetting the button. And then—Well, just look at this.” With a self-satisfied chuckle, Tarkin drew his hand away from his vest pocket and exhibited the glove button.

  “What am I bid?” he inquired. “Remember—no rough stuff, or I’ll yell at the top of my voice, and that won’t be so good. How much?”

  “A good, sound kick.” Harrington’s hand, inspired by a sickening disgust, moved quickly and seized Tar-kin by the throat, choking off an outcry. With his other hand he pried the blackmailer’s fist open, dislodged the button, and then a vigorous kick sent the little man spinning across the floor.

  “Now get out of my sight,” he snapped.

  With whimpers and grunts the man steadied himself. His rheumy eyes glared balefully.

  “You’ll be sorry for that,” he snarled.

  “Get out,” said Harrington thickly, dropping the button into his pocket, “or I may forget that you are only a puny, disgusting rat.”

  “All right,” said Tarkin sullenly. “I’ll go, but you’ll be sorry. The button isn’t everything. There are other things. What about the letter Marsh wrote yesterday?”

  Harrington stared for a moment, again marveling at the scope of the man’s information. Instinctively his hand went toward his inside breast pocket “Not so good, eh?” Tarkin, misinterpreting his expression, giggled in spiteful glee. “I know all about that letter. It’d make interesting reading for Whittaker, and it’d make things look pretty bad for you and Miss Lanyard. Both of you are in deep even now. But the letter—”

  “The letter,” Harrington interrupted, restraining himself with difficulty, “was mailed yesterday by Mr. Marsh, and Whittaker will have it in the morning.”

  “Are you sure of that? Maybe Marsh meant to mail it, but he didn’t.” The blackmailer’s eyes slanted toward the body on the bench. “That letter may get you into bad trouble.”

  Harrington gazed narrowly into his unwholesome face. Tarkin’s information seemed to encompass a great many things. It was possible that he was stating the truth about the letter, that Marsh had not mailed it. Harrington shrugged.

  “The letter doesn’t interest me,” he said coldly. “I have a copy in my pocket It shall be delivered to Whittaker at once.”

  The blackmailer’s face fell for a moment, and then a shrewd, golden grin parted his crooked lips.

  “You’ve been a long time delivering it—eh, Mr. Harrington? You’ve been carrying it about with you since early yesterday afternoon, and you haven’t delivered it yet Come on now, ‘fess up. Maybe you meant to hand it over to Whittaker, and maybe you didn’t If you did, it was only because you thought Whittaker would get the original in the morning and that you wouldn’t gain anything by tearing it up. Well. Whittaker won’t get the original, so there’s no reason why you should give him the copy. He’ll never be the wiser. It’s a secret between you and me.” Harrington’s face darkened. The thought of sharing a secret with this loathsome blackmailer was revolting.

  “Think it over,” said Tarkin with an insinuating grin. “You and Miss Lanyard are already in bad. You’re here under phony names and false pretenses. The way the murder was done, it looks as if only you could have done it. Maybe they’ll say you and Miss Lanyard cooked it up together. And now this letter of Marsh’s on top of everything else. Not so good, eh?” Harrington tried to clear his mind for sober thinking, but Tarkin’s sickening nearness made it hard. He wondered just how deeply Theresa Lanyard was involved. Certainly the circumstances had an ugly aspect. The thought of guilt did not enter his mind, but the innocent sometimes suffer grievously at the hands of the law.

  “So we’ll just keep our little secret between ourselves,” Tarkin suggested, shrewdly cocking a rheumy eye. “Of course, secrets are expensive.”

  “So it seems.” Harrington’s lip curled. “Where is the letter?”

  “Now, would I be likely to tell, after the way you’ve been treating me? Tell me what you’re willing to pay, and maybe we’ll do business.”

  Harrington fixed him with a dark, narrow gaze.

  “You are a most thorough-going blackmailer, Tar-kin. Keep the letter and take this.”

  He swung out his foot, and Tarkin would have received a vigorous kick if he had not jumped just in time. Like a frightened cur he scuttled across the garage to the door, flung a whining imprecation over his shoulder, and then he straightened up of a sudden and gazed rigidly toward the house.

  “Something is up,” he muttered. “Look at all those lights.”

  Harrington restrained an impulse to kick him out of his sight, and stepped up beside him. There were lights all over the house, and additional lights appeared even as he stood staring through the drizzle. All at once, it seemed, the house had become a scene of bustling activity.

  “That’s queer,” said Tarkin. “Wonder what—Oh, of course! They’re looking for Miss Lanyard. Not so good, eh? But they won’t find her. Not a chance! “

  Harrington gave him a level look, then gripped him firmly by the collar.

  “Out with it!” he said sharply, giving the man a vigorous shaking. “Where is Miss Lanyard?”

  “Say, lay off me, can’t you? Didn’t I tell you Miss Lanyard went to powder her nose? She must have gone a long way to find a powder puff. Women are queer.”

  Harrington shook him again, and so soundly this

  time that the blackmailer’s head struck the doorpost. A stream of bleating cries poured from his lips.

  “Where is she?” Harrington thundered.

  “Let go of me, and maybe I’ll tell you.” The little man squirmed and gasped for breath.

  “If you have been up to deviltry—“ Harrington began threateningly.

  “Ah, forget it! I can’t help it if Miss Lanyard suddenly decides to take a walk, can I?”

  “A walk?” Harrington’s eyes bored into his sallow, twitching face. “Did Miss Lanyard go out for a walk?”

  “Well, not a walk, exactly. Call it a run, and you’ll hit it. The last I saw of her she was going like mad.”

  “Which way?”

  “How should I know? Women don’t tell me their secrets.”

  “You lie, Tarkin! You know. Out with it!”

  The blackmailer shrank away from the reach of his hand and peered at him with a shrewd and sullen expression.

  “Yes, maybe I know,” he admitted. “Maybe I could tell you. It depends. What’s the information worth to you?”

  Harrington glanced at the lighted windows across the wide, dried-up lawn. A mutter of supreme disgust broke through his compressed lips, and then he flung himself on the blackmailer and, seizing him by the throat, started choking him unmercifully. Tarkin squirmed and kicked, and a stream of gurgling sounds issued from his mouth.

  “Will you tell?” Harrington demanded.

  “Yes—stop!” The clutch eased, and the man, shaking in every limb, gulped air into his lungs. “All right, I’ll tell. It wouldn’t have hurt you to pay me a little something, but since you won’t—“ He broke off at a menacing gesture from Harrington. “Miss Lanyard handed me a note for you,” he added sullenly.

  “She handed you a note?” Harrington asked suspiciously.

  “Well, with the servants asleep, there was nobody else to hand it to, and Miss Lanyard left in a hurry. Here it is.”

  He drew a folded note from his pocket For a moment, as he took it, Harrington studied the man’s unwholesome countenance. Then he un
folded the note and read the penciled scrawl:

  Go with this man. Remember the ash pile.

  THERESA LANYARD.

  Twice Harrington read the brief note, and again he looked suspiciously at the blackmailer.

  “You know what this note says?”

  “Sure I do. It’s short and to the point. But that stuff about the ash pile—I don’t get that.”

  Thoughtfully Harrington studied the note again. He knew Theresa’s handwriting. This was either genuine or a very clever forgery. The allusion to the ash pile seemed to put the stamp of authenticity on it, however. Night before last—it seemed years ago now—he had stood with Theresa beside the ash pile, and there they had entered into a partnership and pledged themselves to bring Mooreland’s murderer to justice. Tarkin could know nothing about that, no matter how much else he knew. Theresa, doubtless, had intended the allusion to the ash pile as a sort of countersign.

  “All right,” said Harrington curtly. “Get in the car.”

  “I think we walk,” Tarkin rejoined. “It isn’t far. With the roads wet, the car could be traced, and that wouldn’t be so good.”

  Harrington regarded him sharply. The man was doubtless right, but Tarkin’s every word and look inspired him with distrust. He stepped up close to the cringing man.

  “Tarkin,” he said, “if this is a trick, I’ll kill you. Now come on.”

  With a bleating protestation of good faith, the man started out into the drizzle, and Harrington followed, keeping his hand on the pocket where he kept the pistol. Tarkin moved with a slinking gait, his head bobbing up and down, muttering to himself. He followed no path, and he seemed to set the course over hard and rocky ground that was not likely to show footmarks.

  For a quarter of an hour they walked in silence.

  Their destination appeared to be much farther away than Tarkin had indicated.

  “How much farther?” Harrington asked.

  “We’ll be there in a few minutes.” Tarkin giggled maliciously. “Wet and tired, eh? Saves you right for being stingy.”

  Harrington plodded on behind. The darkness was so thick that at times he had difficulty keeping his guide in sight. Apparently the blackmailer knew every rock and tree, for he never hesitated for direction. He estimated that they must have been walking a good three quarters of an hour when at length they brought up in front of a gate in a stone fence. A light glimmered among the trees.