“Ask him,” replied my cousin, and with dignity departed.
Which is precisely what I would have done except that I encountered Marian in the hall, and Marian, hatted and gloved, was ready to start to the village. She had wanted my company, but we didn’t exchange a word on the drive that carried us to the center of Winters Run. Nor did Marian speak as we entered the gloomy old-fashioned jail—it showed barred windows on the street—and were directed into a small reception room.
The formality of visiting a man under arrest on a capital charge is maddening. We signed cards. Those cards were stamped and passed on. We waited. Finally Fred was brought in. He was handcuffed, he had a guard beside him. I’ve always thought the guard must have been a kindly person. After taking a look at Marian’s stony face, he quietly removed the manacles, stepped outside and closed the door. Fred stood in the middle of the room, and looked at Marian, and did not make a move toward her. But my sister did not hesitate. She went swiftly and lightly like a girl across the room to kiss him, her whole face warm and tender. Fred broke down and cried. My own eyes were damp, and only Marian restrained her tears.
“You don’t need to tell us, Fred,” she said, “that you didn’t commit those murders. You don’t need to talk at all. We didn’t come here to ask you questions.”
But Fred at long last was determined to tell us everything. That he had gone to the strawstacks to meet Dorothy. That he had gone there when he left the theater. That he had gone there to buy back his letters.
“I’ve hidden things long beyond the time I should have talked. That may be—” and he forced a smile, “why I'm here. I hated Dorothy but I didn’t kill her.” He tried to describe how Dr. Smedley introduced him to Dorothy in the spring at the time when Ames was ill. He told us how the girl had flattered him, how he had taken her occasionally to luncheon and once or twice to tea.
“But I can’t tell you,” said Fred, “what possessed me to write such letters. It may have been because I couldn’t see Dorothy very often, and I would think of her, and sit down and write. She was always delighted to get a letter from me—like a child, I thought then. I must have been crazy!”
Marian made a protesting gesture but I broke in. “Is it true that Dorothy originally wanted ten thousand dollars to return the letters?”
Fred nodded miserably. “Yes. I didn’t dream she was coming out to Broad Acres, and I—I was terrified when she appeared. But in the beginning everything seemed all right. Dorothy told me not to worry, that the letters were in town. She kept promising to give them back to me.”
“Give them back!” I repeated sharply.
Again Fred nodded. “I was a fool to believe I’d be so lucky. Exactly two weeks ago Dorothy began demanding money, threatening to go to Marian, or to you, Margaret. She wanted ten thousand dollars. But on the day she left the house she agreed to take five thousand.” He paused. “She—she was rather queer about it. She was a mercenary sort, and I expected she would argue, but she only said five thousand dollars would do. She did stipulate I bring the money to the strawstacks.”
“Did she ever speak to you of Kirkland Anderson?”
“No. Never!” Fred said violently. “I don’t believe he had anything to do with it. I may have had a motive for strangling Dorothy, but I had no motive whatever for killing Anderson. I think the district attorney must be crazy! Look at me. I’m a stout man. Can either of you picture me wearing a cape and beret?”
Fred was too nervous to sit, and he leaned against the wall. “I’ve had lots of time to think the past two days. I’ve got to think unless I’m to hang for someone else’s crimes. Don’t shake your head, Marian. Harold’s been filling me with a lot of empty optimism but I know, I know. Innocent men have been hanged before.”
He began to walk up and down. “This morning I got to thinking about Dorothy Fithian. She was an unscrupulous, designing and complicated woman. Sometimes,” said Fred with an unusual flight of imagination, “it seems to me she was like a chess player. Her every move was studied, directed toward some object. She had some object in desiring to nurse your case, Margaret, some object beyond forcing herself beneath the same roof with me. I know that. She had an object in demanding that I meet her in the strawstacks. I could have handed her the money in the house. But no, she insisted that I leave the theater and drive secretly to the strawstacks. She had an object when she took my gun.” Fred turned around and looked at us “All I’m trying to say is that whatever project was in Dorothy’s mind on the night of September 27th, it j went beyond obtaining five thousand dollars from me, and returning my letters. I was merely a subsidiary part in some larger plan of hers. Once we find out what that plan was, maybe we can solve these crimes.
I felt that there was truth in what he said, but how we were to arrive at that truth I had no idea. Nor had Marian.
Presently I said gently, “Why did you ask Nancy Anderson to lunch?”
Fred looked at me. “I was badly frightened, Margaret. I saw how things were going. I had to know what Nancy Anderson meant to say to you. I had the crazy notion she might have the key to Dorothy’s murder. But she refused to tell me anything.”
“Did you return to her apartment after lunch?
“Yes,” he said.
“Did you drink with her?”
Fred swallowed, nodded. “I don’t like drinking after lunch, but the girl was determined to mix a cocktail. I barely touched my glass, but she tossed off two stiff drinks herself. It struck me, Margaret, she was bracing herself, building up her nerve, for the interview with you. She was still drinking when I left her at quarter to three, and she asked me to leave the downstairs door on the latch.
“She asked you to do what?”
“She asked me to unlock the downstairs door. I supposed so you could come up without ringing.
“The door was locked,” I said, “when I arrived at half past four, and the dentist let me in.
We stared at one another in the sunless, gloomy little room. Marian’s pale face was weary but triumphant. “Then someone went to the girl’s apartment immediately after you departed, Fred. Someone took advantage of the fact that she was drinking, and poisoned her. Someone who had access to the cyanide which disappeared from Grosvenor Hospital. What we have to do is prove it.
Nobody said anything. For a long time nobody said a word. I wanted to terminate the interview, but Marian was feverishly determined that somewhere in Fred s own story must be lodged the truth that would clear him.
She led my brother-in-law back to the fatal Friday night when he had driven away from the theater. “What time, Fred, did you arrive in the strawstacks?
“A little before eight thirty,” said Fred. “Jane’s car was parked on the road, and I pulled up beside it. I expected I would find Dorothy in the stables and I walked across the field. But Dorothy wasn’t in the stables. I was afraid to risk a light, I kept striking matches and calling her. Beads of perspiration dewed Fred’s forehead as the scene came back to him. I saw it, too. The damp, dank night, Fred moving through the shadowy stables, striking matches and softly calling the girl who wasn’t there. Fred went on, “I couldn’t understand it. I didn’t know what to do. I was about to leave the stables when on the road I heard someone start a car. I dashed back across the field, but it was dark as pitch. I stumbled, and when I reached the road Jane’s car was already gone. I saw the taillight disappearing in the distance.” He wiped his forehead. Dorothy’s body was in the strawstacks then. The murderer was in the car. I know that now. But I didn’t know it then. I was confused, uncertain—I thought Dorothy had driven off and would return. Or possibly that’s what I hoped. I had to have those letters! I waited until nearly eleven before I gave up and drove back to the theater!
“When the fires broke out,” I asked, “did you go to Dorothy’s room?”
Fred nodded. “You can imagine my state by then. I was crazed with worry, I thought there had been some misunderstanding, I hoped that Dorothy might have changed her mind and left the
letters behind. I took advantage of the confusion downstairs, and went to her room. I started looking through her bureau...”
“Wait a minute, Fred. Was someone in Dorothy s room when you went in?”
Fred said drearily, “Harold’s asked that a hundred times I don’t know, Margaret. I wasn’t in any condition to notice. Once I did think I heard sounds in your room but I was afraid to investigate. I didn’t go into your room, I didn’t touch the typewriter, I didn’t know that Jane was on the upper floor. All I could think about was those letters.” Fred’s face was drawn and white. “They rode me like a nightmare. Where were they? What had become o them? Of course I didn’t find them in the bureau, but 1 made only a hurried search and I was obsessed by the idea they must be hidden somewhere in the room. After we discovered Dorothy’s murder, I knew I had to find and destroy the letters. I—I went to Dorothy’s room a second time ” Slowly, as though his lids were weighted, Fred lifted his eyes to my face. “I went to Dorothy’s room a second time. I believe, Margaret, you will know the time I mean.”
I remembered the desperate struggle in the darkness of Dorothy’s bedroom, the attempt that had been made to keep me from lighting the lamp, and I understood why I had been left unharmed and uninjured beside the rain swept window. I raised my hand and pressed my fingers across Fred’s lips.
We never discussed the incident again.
24
Our tragic drama was rushing to its final fatal climax, though I did not suspect it nor did I have any hint of what that end was to be. On Tuesday, without informing the inspector or anyone else, Verity took it upon herself to project into the case someone whose name had never been mentioned in connection with it, and with the appearance of that person at Winters Run the end was inevitable.
I actually saw Verity at the telephone as she sent off her telegram, and heard her dictate the last few words. “Haste is urgent. Suggest you fly.” But when she explained that she was telegraphing our lawyer in Vermont, and asking him to come to Harold’s assistance, I believed her.
On Thursday night, quite late, Inspector Chant came to the house again. I did not guess from his manner that he had in his pocket the letter which, as much as the discovery of Kirkland Anderson’s body, was to change the picture of our murders, and was to destroy forever any theory of the young interne as a blackmailer. The letter was addressed to Kirkland Anderson, and had been received by him five days before his death. Looking back it seems to me queer how letters figured in our case. Fred’s letters to Dorothy had precipitated us into tragedy. Now this other so different letter to Kirkland Anderson was to play its own part in lighting us to the truth. Without it I am convinced we would never have arrived at the true solution of our crimes, nor penetrated their dreadful background.
All I knew at the time was that the inspector was excited. He stalked upstairs to my bedroom, and I followed him. He gestured me to sit at my desk, and gravely handed me a fountain pen.
“Please write out your signature.”
With considerable bewilderment I inscribed on a calling card my full name and watched him study it. I saw him nod in satisfaction. My bewilderment grew.
At length he raised his eyes. “I asked you once before, Miss Tilbury, whether you had ever written a letter to Kirkland Anderson. I would like to make my question more specific. Did you write him a letter on September 17th?”
I stared at the inspector. “Certainly not!”
“Nevertheless,” said the inspector, “a letter to Anderson, purporting to be written by you, exists. It was found in Nancy Anderson’s apartment. The letter was addressed to the hospital but evidently Anderson showed it to his sister, and left it in her care. At any rate, we discovered the letter in her desk.”
“May I see that letter?”
“I want you to see it, Miss Tilbury.” Inspector Chant handed me a sheet of my household stationery on which was beautifully typed:
“Dear Dr. Anderson:
Your letter which I received ten days ago angered and amazed me, and I had no intention of answering it. But your continued and persistent telephone calls compel me to make my position clear. Please understand once and for all that I have no interest in your slanderous and unfounded suspicions. Your assertions are insulting, cruel and ridiculous. I know my own family and my own friends better than any outsider possibly can. I would like to point out that if there had been anything in what you claim, Dr. Smedley would certainly have observed it.
I have no wish to speak with you, or to hear from you further. I expect this communication to close the matter.
MARGARET TILBURY”
The inspector pulled up a chair and sat down beside me. “You need not assure me, Miss Tilbury, that the letter is a forgery, for I know it. I know who typed it, forged your name and sent off the letter to Anderson. Many people,” he went on, “realize that a typed letter can be traced to a particular typewriter, but fewer people realize that very often an example of typing can be traced to a particular typist. But it’s a fact that most of us at a typewriter exhibit characteristics peculiar to ourselves. We strike the letters lightly, we strike them with sledge-hammer blows, we are neat and quick, we are uneven and sloppy, our margins differ, our errors are characteristic; time and again we mistake an ‘s’ for an ‘a,’ an ‘1’ for an ‘m.’ Your own typing,” he said and smiled, “is highly individual. No one could forget it.”
“That’s why you took those samples the other day?”
He nodded. “Dorothy Fithian,” he said, “was the only expert typist in your household. It was she who forged your name and typed that letter to Kirkland Anderson. In answer, Miss Tilbury, to a letter which Anderson had previously written you.”
“I never got that letter.”
“Dorothy Fithian suppressed it.”
I said confusedly, “I don’t quite understand. Kirkland Anderson and I were strangers. I doubt he’d ever heard of me.”
The inspector shook his head. “There you are mistaken, Miss Tilbury. I’ve been talking to Dr. Smedley. It appears that young Anderson was called into consultation during your illness last July.”
“I am quite sure Dr. Anderson never entered this house.”
“No.” The inspector smiled. “Smedley’s a vain man, he was puzzled by your symptoms, but he hated to confess he needed help. But he took his young assistant into his confidence. Together at the hospital they went over the records of your illness. Bacteriology was Anderson’s field, he knew a great deal about the insidious and deceptive assaults of typhoid germs, and he went pretty thoroughly into your case from the laboratory angle. Dr. Smedley has reluctantly admitted that it was Anderson who made the proper diagnosis of typhoid fever.”
It gave me a queer sensation to realize I owed a debt to a young stranger whom I had been willing to damn as a murderer. But still I could not understand why or in what connection Kirkland Anderson had written me. Still less could I understand Dorothy’s suppression of his letter, and the daring of that forged and insolent reply.
“In the light of the forged letter,” said the inspector, “I want you to think back to the telephone call Dorothy took just before she left your house.”
“You mean Kirkland Anderson’s call to Marian?”
“Kirkland Anderson,” said the inspector slowly, “was calling you, Miss Tilbury. Isn’t that obvious?”
“But I was sitting in the room!”
“There was nothing to prevent Dorothy Fithian from saying you had gone out—that you would return. You will observe the letter refers to other telephone calls from Anderson, none of which you received. Who suppressed them? Dorothy Fithian! On the night of September 27th she leaped to the telephone, she lied, she said you had gone out but would return, and again she prevented Anderson from speaking to you. Consider the risk. You were seated hardly ten feet from the telephone, but Dorothy' took the gamble, she lied to Anderson, hung up the telephone, turned around and lied to you. Why?” The inspector had posed the question, and it was he who answered it.
“Only one assumption is possible, Miss Tilbury. Kirkland Anderson, what he wanted to say to you, presented some definite menace either to Dorothy Fithian or to someone else in whom she was deeply interested!”
“Someone else! Do you mean Fred Brierly?”
The inspector shook his head. “Read the letter again, Miss Tilbury. Notice the wording. Isn’t it apparent that what Anderson was trying desperately to tell you was concerned with something much more serious than a trivial little love affair? We don’t know,” he went on slowly, “what Anderson wrote to you, but we must remember that the forged letter which he received was intelligible to him. That phrase ‘I know my family and my friends better than any outsider possibly can’ meant something to him. The reference to Dr. Smedley meant something, too. We can assume that Anderson was disturbed. He took the letter to his sister, they probably talked it over—”
“Nancy Anderson,” I said in a thin, unfamiliar voice, "hated me because she believed I wrote that letter to her brother.”
After a queer little silence, the inspector nodded. But he made no direct reply. He cleared his throat. “In spite of the letter and its brusque, intimidating wording, Kirkland Anderson persisted in his attempts to get to you, to talk to you. Therein lies the explanation of the many telephone calls to Dorothy Fithian, the many meetings between them. Through Dorothy Fithian, Kirkland Anderson was attempting to reach you, Miss Tilbury. We have some clue to his state of mind during this period from the hospital authorities. He was troubled, worried, nervous. Kirkland Anderson must have felt that his story was of vital import, but try as he would, he could not reach you with it.”
I opened my mouth to speak.
The inspector waved me to silence. “Kirkland Anderson made a fatal error, Miss Tilbury. I want you to understand that error. He trusted Dorothy Fithian. Trusted her implicitly. He sought her help. Whatever his ‘suspicions’ were, whatever he meant to say to you, we can know he didn’t dream his story would touch the girl. He did not suspect that the rebuffs he met originated with Dorothy herself, that she stood in his way. He did not realize that she was thwarting him at every turn, nor did he realize that in disclosing to Dorothy Fithian his desire to talk with you he had signed his own death warrant.”
The Strawstack Murders Page 22
