The Strawstack Murders

by Dorothy Cameron Disney

  “I understand,” said Chant sympathetically.

  Over my twinge of conscience I added, “Won’t my nephew do as well?”

  He smiled. “Better, probably, if it’s a matter of obtaining an accurate description of a tall and handsome male! I can talk to your niece tomorrow and check one description against the other.

  A few minutes later Ames and Marian joined us. Ames was more at ease than he had been earlier in the evening, as was Marian also. She greeted Chant with the manner reserved for those whom she considered her inferiors and a little grandly took a chair. Before the inspector could speak, she briskly began the interview. “I’ve been thinking it over,” she said in that determined way of hers, “and I’ve decided who killed Dorothy. I’m convinced you’ll find some hitch-hiker is guilty. Dorothy was the kindest-hearted girl alive. On her way back from Washington she must have picked up someone walking along the road and…

  “I’m afraid not, Mrs. Brierly,” said Chant courteously. “The person you describe would hardly have neglected to take Miss Fithian’s purse.”

  “He took the car,” said Marian stubbornly. “My idea was that you trace this hitch-hiker through the car. I’ve written out a description for you.” She graciously extended a slip of paper.

  At that Chant’s patience wore a little thin. He explained curtly that he had placed a description of Jane’s car on the teletype before he ever left the village. “And, Mrs. Brierly,” he said in conclusion, “if we find the car and the murderer in it, I can assure you we will find a person whom Miss Fithian knew well. A person whom she knew so well that she deliberately and trustingly went to meet him in that lonely field.”

  Marian was temporarily silenced. Chant gratefully abandoned her and questioned Ames about the evening at the Paradise Roof. Ames added little to Jane’s account except that Dorothy’s companion had not worn evening dress, and that he had looked a little shabby.

  “We only saw them for a minute,” Ames said to Chant, “and I don’t think the man saw us at all. That’s all I know. Except,” Ames finished awkwardly, “that he didn’t look the sort who would be mixed up in murder.”

  “It’s odd,” said Chant, “how few murderers you can pick out from their faces.”

  That struck a chill in me, but Marian who had listened incredulously to Ames’ account, again took control of the interview. “There’s some mistake,” she said sharply. “I can’t believe that Dorothy would deliberately lie to me. I was in her confidence, yet she never mentioned this Kirk or any other man to me. She lost her husband just last spring, and I’m certain she wasn’t interested in anyone else. Else she would have told me.”

  I could see Chant watching Marian. She wasn’t aware of that silent scrutiny. She started when he said, So you were in the young lady’s confidence. Suppose then you tell us whom she’s been meeting in the groom s apartment.”

  Marian turned pale. “I don’t understand.

  Chant picked up the key to the groom’s apartment. Iron entered the velvet voice. “Come, come, Mrs. Brierly, you knew the young woman, knew her well, yet you’ve told me less of her private life than your cook has. Rosa knew Miss Fithian was entertaining a man in the apartment over the stables. One night last week when she was crossing the fields she saw his shadow against the window shades. On two occasions during the past week a man, young from the sound of his voice, and addressed by Miss Fithian as Kirk, telephoned this house. Each time Miss Fithian spoke to him at length. Rosa knew that, too. As it happens, on both occasions she wanted to order the groceries over the kitchen extension. Unfortunately, she was too well-trained a servant to listen in.” He leaned forward in his chair. “Who is ‘Kirk,’ Mrs. Brierly?”

  The self-assurance which is so much a part of Marian left her. She sat very still. “I can see,” she said at last in a colorless voice, “you won’t believe me. But all of this is news to me. I thought of Dorothy as quite a different kind of person. I thought she and I were friends. I was mistaken. As for ‘Kirk,’ I’ve never heard of him.”

  At that moment, and before Chant spoke, the village coroner walked into the room. Dr. Titus Oakley was a small, troubled man with the melancholy eye of his calling. He wasn’t sensitive to atmosphere, and he studied Marian’s elaborate evening gown with alert attention. Titus liked drinking better than practicing medicine and his wife was the village dressmaker. I daresay he meant to be prepared for questions when he went home. Satisfied, the coroner turned to Chant. “They’ve taken the body to the village, Jeremy. As near as I can make out the poor young woman died of strangulation sometime after eleven o’clock. No later than twelve, in my opinion, but I’d like to consult with Dr. Hargreaves.”

  I rose to call Simon. In the foyer I saw him coming down the stairs with Fred and Harold. Jane, he said, had been moved into her own bedroom and was sound asleep. Verity had stayed on guard to watch over her.

  “I’m glad,” said Simon, “the. police were willing to put off questioning the youngster until tomorrow.”

  I said steadily, “No doubt Inspector Chant realizes how slight her information is.”

  I thought Harold gave me a cynical glance, but a moment later we had turned into the drawing room. I was glad to see that Chant had not resumed his questioning of Marian. Ames had poured her a pony of brandy and it seemed to me her color was better. The inspector was talking to Green, who had returned to report that the telephone had been repaired. Titus Oakley was memorizing the arrangement of a drapery which Marian at one time had insisted should be flung over the curve of the grand piano, thus ruining the noble lines of the instrument. He hurried forward as we entered. The coroner was impressed, if Chant was not, by Harold’s reputation in Washington and by Simon’s connections there. He shook hands cordially with the two brothers and ignored Fred as so many people did. Immediately we were seated, in a loud and at the same time ingratiating voice, he requested Simon’s opinion as to the approxi¬mate hour of Dorothy’s death.

  “You saw the body first,” said Oakley, “and had a better chance to judge…”

  After a little thought Simon gratified the coroner by saying, “My opinion is the same as yours. Her death occurred not before eleven o’clock and certainly not much after twelve.”

  Fred was seated beside me. “Then Dorothy must have died,” he said beneath his breath, “during the third act of that accursed play.” It was an odd remark to make and not like him. But I was the only one who heard it and I couldn’t see his face, which was turned away.

  Chant suddenly stood up. He looked deliberately about the room as though all of us, Marian and I, Harold and Simon, Fred and Ames, were his enemies, antagonistic, opposed to him and what he meant to do. That skeptical measuring look was echoed in his tone. “You people were, or so you say, that unfortunate young woman’s friends. Can any of you suggest how she spent her evening? She left this house at eight o’clock to mail some letters. Let us assume she mailed those letters. That might account for her up to nine o’clock. What was she doing between nine o’clock and the hour she died? If she went to Washington, why did she return to Broad Acres? Can any of you give me the least idea? Can any of you give me any lead? So far, the only cooperation I’ve had has been from servants.”

  No one spoke. Chant’s expression became slowly scornful. I wet my lips and tried to open my mouth, but no words came.

  “Then,” said Chant, “I’m to assume I’m on my own. The help I get on this case I’m to give myself.” Again he looked at us. “I’ve learned virtually nothing of Dorothy Fithian from any of you. I’ve learned nothing which will help me catch a brutal criminal. Either you are a remarkably unobservant group of people, or else you’re hiding something. Is that it? Are you protecting this Kirk? Are you protecting one of yourselves?”

  Harold sprang to his feet.

  “Sit down, Mr. Hargreaves,” snapped Chant. “You can save that speech for court. I’m in charge at present.”

  He strolled to the telephone. In utter silence we heard him call the lo
cal telephone office, heard him ask the operator to check her records and notify him of the hour when our wire had ceased to function, the hour and the minute if possible. Then he banged the receiver into place, and abruptly left the room.

  Titus Oakley stayed behind, which put an effective damper on any general conversation. I believe it must have been half an hour later before Chant returned. I know that he was present when the report which he awaited was telephoned from the village. He took the call. His disappointment in the report was evident even before he turned and spoke to us.

  “Unfortunately,” he announced coldly, “the telephone company can’t say what time the service was disconnected. They didn’t know the line was out of order and had been repaired until I notified them. All they are prepared to say is that the last call on record came . through at 7:58, a fifteen cent call from Washington—Borden 1212.”

  Simon started. “Borden 1212!” he repeated in sur¬prise. “That’s the Grosvenor Private Hospital!” He turned in my direction. “The hospital must have been calling me. Why didn’t you let me know, Margaret?”

  “Because the hospital didn’t call this evening,” I said somewhat shortly. “I know. I came into the drawing room immediately after dinner and the only call was one which Dorothy took for Marian. Now I think of it, it came through at about eight o’clock, after you’d gone, Marian, and just before Dorothy left the house.”

  Marian sat up in her chair. “That’s ridiculous, Margaret. I don’t know anyone at the hospital except Dr. Smedley, and he wouldn’t be phoning me.”

  It wasn’t the hospital calling,” I repeated irritably. “It was your tailor calling about an appointment you’d broken for a fitting this afternoon. Nothing important.”

  Marian looked bewildered. “Are you crazy, Margaret, or am I? I didn’t break an appointment with the tailor this afternoon. I didn’t have an appointment. I’ve ordered nothing new for months.”

  I viewed my sister with sharp dismay. “But, Marian, Dorothy certainly said…”

  “We’ll settle this!”

  Chant seized the telephone and ordered the operator to get the Grosvenor Private Hospital on the wire. He talked with the nurse at the switchboard there. This time he wasn’t disappointed with the results of his conversation. His face, as he turned to Marian, his face that could be so deceptively gentle, was alight with triumph, hard and vengeful.

  “You’ll be glad to hear, Mrs. Brierly, that we’ve done two things. We’ve identified Kirk and very probably identified our murderer. Dr. Kirkland Anderson telephoned this house at 7:58 from the Grosvenor Private Hospital. Shortly after nine o’clock he left the hospital in a woman’s company. He was due back on duty at midnight, four hours ago. The hospital is greatly exercised over his absence.” Chant walked to my sister’s chair and stood looking down at her. “You lied to me, Mrs. Brierly, lied deliberately. I want to know why. I want to know why Dr. Kirkland Anderson telephoned you early in the evening and why you saw fit to conceal that fact.

  7

  Some experiences, I firmly believe, leave an indelible mark upon the soul. Today, months after the closing of the chapter which began with Dorothy Fithian’s murder, months after I left Broad Acres forever, I can recall every detail of that scene in the drawing room. Other more dramatic incidents have blurred in my mind, lost merci fully their sharp and hideous edges. But not that. I can hear again the hard cold ring of Chant’s voice, I can visualize so clearly the way Marian shrank back in her chair, the horror and incomprehension in her eyes.

  A log crashed in the fireplace and cast a shower of burning sparks into the room, but for once my sister’s mind was far from Persian rugs. Ames rose to subdue the sparks and to save the carpet but she didn’t notice it, nor did she notice the frightened, almost pitiful look he sent in her direction. I think she must have been aware when Fred moved his chair so that it was close to hers, for it seemed to me that she relaxed, regained a little of her color. Simon and Harold were seated in the background side by side, and they didn’t move or speak. Thus my friends and kin remain fixed in memory, and then the endless moment passed.

  Fred got stiffly to his feet. “You don’t need to answer, Marian,” he said harshly. “Your acquaintanceship with this Dr. Anderson is your own affair.” With a fierceness which sat oddly on so meek a man he looked at Harold. “Is she obliged to answer, Harold? What legal standing has this questioning?”

  Harold waked from immobility. “None whatever. Marian is entitled to talk to me before she…”

  “I don’t want to talk to you,” said Marian then. “I haven’t a thing to hide, and talking won’t change the truth. I’m not acquainted with Dr. Kirkland Anderson. Until this minute I had never heard of him. He may have been a friend of Dorothy’s,” said Marian, “but I didn’t know it. I was at the theater at nine o’clock.” She faced Inspector Chant defiantly. “You spoke of a woman meeting Dr. Anderson at the hospital. Are you suggesting I was that woman?”

  “No,” Chant said. “The woman who was seen to leave the hospital with Kirkland Anderson,” he went on slowly, “was Dorothy Fithian. They drove off together in your daughter’s car. At shortly after nine o’clock.”

  No one spoke. At eight o’clock Dorothy Fithian had left my house; at nine o’clock she had been seen eighteen miles away in Washington; at shortly after nine she had left Grosvenor Private Hospital in the company of a young physician named Kirkland Anderson; some time before midnight she had died horribly in the strawstacks, and her companion had disappeared.

  It was now four a.m. Dorothy was dead, Kirkland Anderson was missing, Jane’s car was missing. I thought, as I sat there, that we had hardly discovered the murder before we had named the murderer. But somehow the thought brought with it no relief. I knew nothing of Kirkland Anderson, his name was new to me, but I sensed then, without reason and without logic, that the young stranger’s fate was to be bound up inextricably with my fate and that of my family.

  Harold Hargreaves was pragmatic always. His own relief was evident as he turned to Inspector Chant.

  “Let me congratulate you, Inspector! You’ve solved your case. By tomorrow afternoon, with luck, you should apprehend the fugitive.”

  Chant paid no attention, but continued to stare at Marian. “Why did Anderson telephone you, Mrs. Brierly? Why did Miss Fithian carry her luggage into Washington, then turn around and drive back here with Anderson as she must have done?”

  “I don’t know,” said Marian. “I told you I’d never heard of Dr. Anderson until this evening. If he telephoned me I don’t know why. Nor can I understand why Dorothy would lie to Margaret. And she did lie.”

  “It’s a trivial point in any event,” Harold began. “The thing to do is get Anderson behind the bars.”

  “Be quiet, Harold.” Again Marian faced the inspector. “It’s evident you believe that Dr. Anderson murdered Dorothy, and there’s some connection between me and him. Well, there’s not. I can’t explain the telephone call. I sincerely hope that you investigate it. You’ll learn then that I’ve told the truth. I’ve said my say, Inspector. Now Fred, will you help me up to bed?”

  Chant made no protest but silently watched them go. Fred supporting Marian, she clinging to him as she so seldom did. Then, quickly, and without another word, the inspector left the room. The coroner and deputy followed him.

  The rest of us soon broke up. We didn’t discuss what had happened. There was nothing to say. Simon told me quietly that he had postponed his departure to Vermont, and as quietly Harold offered to stay until the following afternoon. The lawyer did express his confident opinion that Kirkland Anderson would be arrested in the morning, and that with his arrest the mystery would speedily clear away. Ames only pressed my hand.

  There was little remaining of the night. The stars were pale from my bedroom window, a dying moon washed the canopied bed which still retained the impression of Jane’s small body. I did a thing I had never done before. I closed and locked my windows. I was weary to exhaustion. Once
in bed, however, I couldn’t sleep. My mind returned persistently to Marian, to Jane. Why had Jane lied about the incident in the alcove? Had Marian also lied—lied about the telephone call? I could not decide. But I was certain that my sister was concealing something. I recalled that she had been disturbed when she came in from the theater, long before we discovered Dorothy’s body. The others, Jane and Ames and Fred, had shared a common lack of ease. What had disturbed them?

  The moonlight retreated across my carpet, silvered the alcove and the door which led from there into what had been Dorothy Fithian’s bedroom. A dozen times I roused to fancy I had heard some sound from there. Once I re¬member crawling out of bed, walking gingerly through the alcove, opening the adjoining door and flashing on the light. Without Dorothy’s possessions the room was as impersonal as could be found in any smart hotel; it gave no sign that its occupant had gone off to a mysterious and dreadful death.

  Distant, unfamiliar sounds downstairs troubled my restless mind, and further banished sleep. Footsteps, hushed voices, the occasional ring of the telephone. A car roared out of the driveway. Another car arrived. Long after the family had retired Chant continued his own activities. I don’t know exactly how he occupied himself, but I do know that during this period he talked to Verity. Toward seven o’clock, heavy-eyed and feverish, I gave up the battle to sleep and put on my clothes. I heard Verity coming up the stairs, and called her in. She didn’t want to come.

  “I want to look in on Jane, Margaret, and get to bed. I am an old woman and need my rest. You’ll have to see to ordering breakfast.”