Through a maze of mother-of-pearl boxes, framed photographs, embalmed swordfish, and the like, went the passengers of the Dragonfly, coming at last to the chief’s office, where that worthy awaited them in the only chair. Dr. O’Rourke stood by the door, still in dressing gown and slippers over his bathing suit.
“Not going to take long,” Chief Britt promised them. He cleared his throat. “None of you saw anything out of the ordinary on that trip out here, did you?”
Nobody ventured a reply.
The chief nodded. Then he took a deep breath. “None of you noticed anything that’d make you think Mr. Forrest, the sick man, was anything worse than just sick?”
“Not until he died,” Phyllis offered.
“Exactly. Couldn’t have anybody—harmed him, so to speak, without the rest of you seeing, could there?”
There was a general chorus of “No.”
The chief turned triumphantly to Dr. O’Rourke. “There you are! It’s just like we figured. Now there ain’t a reason in the world why we shouldn’t put this case down as a natural death and let these people go about their business.”
Captain Narveson fidgeted a little. “Ay never saw a faller die from being seasick before,” he put in. The blue eyes turned toward Ralph O. Tate. “Maybe that drink you give him to make him feel better was bad liquor?”
Tate took off his beret and mopped his bald dome. The others were all staring at him. “Please,” he said. “You all know who I am. Why should I—I mean, I buy the best liquor that can be got. It’s smuggled in every week from a ship that comes twice a year from Scotland and lies offshore until it’s unloaded. No rotgut for me. Anyway—I took a drink after the sick man did. You all saw me!” He did not offer to display his flask.
“That’s true,” burst in the girl with red curls. She had removed the sun goggles, and her lashes were long and curling.
“Sure it’s true,” said Phyllis La Fond. But all the same she stared very hard and very thoughtfully at the great director, Mr. Ralph O. Tate.
The young man with slick hair settled that problem at once. “No matter if somebody gave a man a swig of the worst wood alcohol, death wouldn’t follow in less than a couple of hours at the quickest. I know—I used to work in a drug store. So it doesn’t matter what kind of liquor was in the flask, it couldn’t have been the cause of Forrest’s death.”
Chief Britt nodded and waved his hand. “All right, folks. Sorry to’ve kept yuh from your dinner. Mac’s place down the street has pretty good food. Tell him I sent you. …”
They made a concerted rush for the door, but it was barred by a tall, spare figure.
“Excuse me,” said Miss Hildegarde Withers, “but the party isn’t over.”
As the others pushed past her with varying expressions of annoyance upon their faces, the schoolteacher drew from its envelope a blue-and-white square of paper.
“Read this,” she told Chief of Police Amos Britt. “Read this—and then tell me again that you think Roswell Forrest died a natural death.”
Britt looked at the message, and his lips moved slowly:
POSTAL TELEGRAPH
NEW YORK CITY NY 5:15 P
HILDEGARDE WITHERS
AVALON CALIFORNIA
THOUGHT YOU WERE ON A VACATION WHY ARE YOU INTERESTED IN FORREST HIS DESCRIPTION FOLLOWS BORN AUSTRALIA AMERICAN PARENTS AGE THIRTYFIVE BROWN EYES DARK BROWN HAIR MEDIUM BUILD DRESSES VERY WELL NO PHOTO AVAILABLE BARNEY KELSEY FORMER BARTENDER NO POLICE RECORD SUPPOSED TO BE WITH FORREST AS BODYGUARD UNDERSTAND CERTAIN PARTIES HAVE OFFERED SPEND FIFTEEN GRAND IF FORREST UNABLE TESTIFY BEFORE BRANDSTATTER COMMITTEE WHATS UP
OSCAR PIPER
Chief Britt put down the message and whistled. “Musta cost two-three dollars to say all that,” he hazarded.
“But don’t you understand?” Miss Withers stared at him, searchingly. “Don’t you see what it means?”
“Mebbe I do, and again mebbe I don’t,” Chief Britt said. He turned toward O’Rourke, who was reading the message.
“If you ask me,” said the doctor thoughtfully, “it means that somebody earned fifteen thousand dollars this morning.”
“Hear, hear!” came from Hildegarde Withers, triumphantly.
Chief Britt looked from one to the other. Then he went swiftly to the door. “Hey, Ruggles!”
The aged deputy appeared, grinning toothlessly.
“Ruggles, you better round up the people that just left here and tell ’em not to leave the island just yet,” ordered the chief. “Tell ’em to stick around the hotel in case I want to ask a few more questions.”
“Okay, Amos.” The deputy disappeared.
“I suggest that you give the same order to Mr. Barney Kelsey,” Miss Withers put in.
“Him? Oh, he ain’t going away. Offered to stick around as long as we wanted him to. Nice feller.”
The chief relaxed in his chair again. “You showed me your telegram, ma’am,” he offered. “I sent one myself, and I got an answer, too. I may as well let you see what Mrs. Roswell Forrest had to say when she got the news.” He presented a blue-and-white slip of his own, which Miss Withers eagerly seized:
POSTAL TELEGRAPH
YONKERS NEW YORK COLLECT 5:35 P
CHIEF AMOS BRITT
AVALON CALIFORNIA
IF ABSOLUTELY NECESSARY WILL GUARANTEE MINIMUM FUNERAL EXPENSES FOR BURIAL THERE
MAE TIMMONS FORREST
“That word ‘absolutely’ cost me an extra sixty cents,” the chief told her ruefully.
“It certainly seems that his wife was crazy about him, doesn’t it?” Miss Withers handed back the message. “She wants him put under ground as cheaply and quickly as possible—and if absolutely necessary she’ll pay for the coffin!”
“Handsome of her, I calls it,” said Dr. O’Rourke. “Now if you will excuse me, I think my invaluable assistant will have a pan of chili on the oil stove over at the infirmary. The company is none too appetizing right now, but—” The little doctor turned toward Miss Withers. “I don’t suppose you’d care to make it a foursome?”
“Another time,” said that lady calmly. “I have things to do—and so has the chief here.”
Chief Britt nodded. “So I have. Only I’ll be dad-blessed if I know what they are!”
“I’m going to send another telegram,” said Hildegarde Withers. “And wait for another answer.”
POSTAL TELEGRAPH
AVALON CALIFORNIA 1:35 P
INSPECTOR OSCAR PIPER
CENTER STREET POLICE HEADQUARTERS
NEW YORK CITY
SUSPECT MURDER LOCAL POLICE BEWILDERED HAVING FINE TIME WISH YOU WERE HERE
HILDEGARDE
The answer was not long in coming, and it was to the point:
POSTAL TELEGRAPH
NEW YORK CITY NY 6:20 P
HILDEGARDE WITHERS
AVALON CALIFORNIA
I WILL BE
OSCAR
Chief Britt, though he did not send another message, received an answer all the same. A messenger delivered it into his hands as he bent over a steak at Mac’s Place:
POSTAL TELEGRAPH
NEW YORK CITY NY 6:25 P
CHIEF OF POLICE
AVALON CALIFORNIA
FORREST CASE HIGHEST IMPORTANCE POLITICALLY CONSIDER IT EXTREME FAVOR IF YOU HOLD EVERYTHING UNTIL I ARRIVE WEDNESDAY
OSCAR PIPER INSPECTOR NYC POLICE
The chief read it through three times and then folded it and put it away in a pocket of his soiled white linen jacket. He turned to Ruggles, the ancient deputy, who was mumbling away at a plate of milk toast beside him.
“You better go down to the carpenter shop,” he pronounced judicially, “and tell ’em not to make that pine box, after all.”
Ruggles let his mouth hang open.
“Y’ mean you ain’t going to send the remains over to the mainland on the steamer, Amos?”
Britt shook his head. “We’re going to hold everything till Wednesday,” he
said.
But as Miss Withers could have told him, he was more than optimistic.
CHAPTER V
A ROUND RED SUN beat down upon a city seemingly deserted. The swarms of natives, tourists, and summer people had wisely distributed themselves between the beaches, the glass-bottomed boats, the Aviary, and their hotel rooms, leaving only a blistering Main Street, a solitary red bus, and an angular and determined lady who engaged the driver of that bus in animated argument.
“Two dollars is the price for a trip to the airport, lady,” insisted the plump driver. “Unless you want to wait until four-thirty for the regular run.”
Miss Hildegarde Withers was most emphatically opposed to waiting. Neither did she want to pay two dollars for a two-mile trip for which a taxicab in her own Manhattan would have charged fifty cents. But there were only half a dozen motor vehicles in all Catalina, and this was the only one for hire.
“I’ll give you a dollar,” bargained that canny lady. But the plump young man in blue overalls shook his head and returned to his studious perusal of yesterday’s newspaper. It was evident that he would just as soon stay where he was.
Miss Withers was at the point of weakening when a vibrant young voice beside her cut in.
“Two dollars it is,” said Phyllis La Fond. “Dollar apiece, sister—are you on?”
“I’m—er, on,” agreed Miss Withers. She surveyed her prospective bus companion carefully. “What’s this, another amateur detective in our midst?”
“God forbid,” Phyllis told her cheerily. “My baggage is still up at the airport, and I figure that the best way to make sure of getting it is to go after it. So we’ll kill a couple of birds with one stone, eh?” They were climbing aboard.
“Let’s not speak of killing,” requested the schoolteacher, as they sped away. “But I get the drift of your remark. You’re the pretty girl who was on the plane this morning, aren’t you?”
Phyllis took this as it was meant. “Uh huh. Unless you mean the redhead, and she’s a little thin if you ask me.”
“No figure at all, from what I saw of her,” Miss Withers agreed. She was not one to waste an opportunity. “I’ve already heard one version of that trip,” she remarked with the proper amount of casualness. “Mr. T. Girard Tompkins gave me his outline as he rode in with the body. But I’d like to hear your impressions. It must have been very exciting.”
“Exciting?” Phyllis held on tight as they rounded a curve at forty miles an hour. “It was about as exciting as riding an electric hobbyhorse. You can have my share, thanks.” All the same, Phyllis found herself giving a reasonably accurate story of the ride on the Dragonfly, with one important omission.
“And at the end, when we were all saying ‘Thank God that’s over,’ why, the man in the brown suit didn’t get up. You know the rest,” she finished.
“I’m not sure that anybody knows the rest,” Miss Withers told her. “Or that anybody ever will, though I’m going to try.”
“Here’s luck,” Phyllis said. They rode over the crest of the last hill in silence and finally after a toboggan-like descent were deposited beside the gate which led down to the villa and the airport landing.
The plump chauffeur slid out of his seat. He looked at the dollar watch which hung on a knotted shoestring from a buttonhole of his overalls. “I’ll get your bags, miss. Starting back in five minutes.”
“But—you’ll have to wait for me!” Miss Withers was indignant. “I won’t be ready to go back in five minutes.”
“Then you’ll walk,” said the man in the blue overalls. He went down the hill toward the office.
“Fresh guy,” said Phyllis comfortingly.
“I suppose you’ll be ready to go then,” said Miss Withers. “For my part, I came to have a look at the plane down there, and a look I’m going to have.”
“All I want is my bags,” Phyllis admitted. “But I’m in no hurry. Suppose I go down to the plane with you?—I can show you where each of us was sitting.”
“And you’ll walk back to town?”
“Walk—me? Never!” Phyllis proudly displayed a bit of twisted metal. “Let that fresh hayseed try to start his bus without us now. I’ve got his ignition key!”
Miss Withers’s eyes flashed. “Stout fella,” she said. “Come on.”
They moved down toward where the big red-and-gilt plane was standing, but as they passed the villa a voice called from the doorway. The fat youth stood there, with a bag in either hand.
“These the right ones?”
“Those are mine,” said Phyllis.
At the sound of her voice one of the bags emitted a doleful whine. “What in heaven’s name have you got in there?” Miss Withers wanted to know.
Phyllis snapped her fingers. “If I didn’t forget about Mister Jones!”
“Who?”
“Mister Jones—he’s a dog.” Phyllis crossed swiftly to the container and opened a snap. From the box bounded a small black-and-white terrier, which evidenced delight at seeing the light of day again by a series of shrill yelps.
“Did ums get tired all by himself so long?” asked Phyllis coyly.
Mister Jones’s only answer was to cavort wildly about the formal gardens of the airport, pausing to sniff at every shrub and cactus, and finally disappear in the bushes.
“Come to me, you bad boy!” called Phyllis hopefully. Mister Jones stayed.
Phyllis snagged a well-chewed leash from the interior of the container. “Come here, sir!”
Miss Withers coughed and lowered her voice. “I think he’s—er—”
“You mean gone to see a dog about a man?” Phyllis grinned.
“Come here, sir,” she called again.
Mister Jones trotted out of the bushes, once more a docile and well-behaved citizen. With head and ears cocked to one side, whiskers waving in the breeze, white forepaws wide and sturdy, the little dog approached its mistress with the utmost confidence.
“What kind of a dog is it?” Miss Withers wanted to know. She had always preferred cats, but there was something definitely appealing—something a little hungry and searching—in the roguish eyes that met her own.
“He’s a pedigreed wire,” Phyllis announced. “Wirehaired terrier to you. Supposed to be worth a lot of money. But you can’t prove it by me—I’ve only had him three days, and I’m no expert.” She snapped the leash on the little dog’s collar. “I suppose I ought to exercise you, useless,” she remarked, as she bent over the wriggling animal. “Mind if he comes along?”
“Of course not.” Miss Withers rubbed her fingers across the tight twisted wool. “You’re a fine fellow, aren’t you, boy? A little fat, I should say. But a fine fellow.”
“I named him Mister Jones after the man who gave him to me,” confided Phyllis amiably. “He went broke, and the pup was all he could give me when he moved out.”
“Miss Withers raised her eyebrows and then nodded. “Sort of a diamond-bracelet dog, eh?”
“Sort of. Only I’d trade him for one, any day.” Phyllis laughed and tugged at the leash. The terrier, who had discovered an interesting crackerjack box, trotted obediently after them, dragging the prize. Now and then, Mister Jones was confident, it would be possible to swallow a succulent morsel or two of cardboard on the way.
They approached the red-and-gilt Dragonfly, hesitating a moment before the narrow door. But they found it unlocked. Phyllis swung it open, and Mister Jones leaped gayly up the steps.
Hildegarde Withers had often read of the psychic sensitiveness of dogs and cats. If she had expected any reaction from the terrier in this narrow cubicle which she was confident still reeked of murder, she was sadly disappointed. The fat little dog strained on the leash, sniffing delightedly at the myriad new odors of the cabin, even discarding the treasured crackerjack box in favor of new findings.
Phyllis patiently explained the situation of the seats and their various occupants on that morning’s plane trip. “I know what you’re thinking,” she said. “You’ve got
an idea that somebody killed that fellow Forrest, or whatever his name was. But I don’t see how it could have happened.”
“Nor do I,” said Miss Withers. “That’s no proof at all that it didn’t happen.” She was busily making a diagram of the interior of the cabin. “And you say the dead man sat here?”
Mister Jones, entering into the spirit of the thing with a whole heart, leaped upon the blue leather seat, pressed two dusty paws against the plate-glass window, and then dropped to investigate the floor again, sniffing noisily.
It was at this moment that the exploring party was interrupted by a stern voice from the door.
“Plane doesn’t leave for the mainland till four-thirty,” said Lew French. “You’ll have to wait in the waiting room—nobody allowed aboard here.”
They left the Dragonfly. “We were through with it anyway,” said Miss Withers. The sunlight was blinding after the semidarkness of the plane.
Up the slope, in the red bus, a perspiring young man was searching vainly for his ignition key.
“Oh—is this what you’re looking for?” Phyllis inquired innocently. She displayed the key. “I just found it a moment ago.”
The driver found himself at a complete loss for words. He inserted the key and raced his engine.
Miss Withers was already seated in the bus. Phyllis handed up Mister Jones and started to follow. Then she stopped.
“What, again?” she asked wearily. The little dog was wriggling uncomfortably.
Miss Withers turned around, jarred from the train of thought which had been taking her nowhere—fast.
“What’s the trouble?”
“Mister Jones wants to go,” Phyllis informed her. She lifted down the little dog.
“He doesn’t look to me as if he wanted to go,” Miss Withers observed. Mister Jones had lain down in the dust of the roadway, an abject picture of discomfort.
“Come on, snap out of it,” Phyllis commanded. She caught the dog by the scruff of the neck and lifted it to the flat top of the gatepost. “Let’s have a look, nuisance. What’s troubling you?”
Puzzle of the Pepper Tree Page 5
