Wall

by Mary Roberts Rinehart

  In the silence that followed we heard a car outside. It was the sheriff, and his stocky figure was stiff and erect as he came into the room.

  He looked at me.

  “Better go back to bed, Marcia,” he said. “Your brother and I have some things to discuss.”

  But Arthur interfered.

  “Let her stay, Shand,” he said. “I suppose it’s that alibi of mine. Well, she knows it all. She’s tried to protect me, but I’ve just told her it’s no use. I’m telling it all tomorrow. It’s a long story. You’d better sit down.”

  Arthur himself did not sit down. He did not even look at Mary Lou when, having heard the sheriff’s car, she slipped into the room. He stood erect on the hearth and quietly and clearly stated his case: the sloop and the alibi, for his wife’s sake; his own desperate situation, the talk with Juliette and what he had said to her, and his hasty departure in the middle of the night.

  “But that’s all,” he finished. “I never saw her again. And I never killed her.”

  Mary Lou was very white. He looked at her then for the first time, but she said nothing. She did not even look at him. To my surprise she got up, and with her dressing gown drawn around her—she had only her nightgown underneath—went out and up the stairs. Arthur followed her with his eyes, but she did not look back.

  I hated her that night, that she could still be jealous of a dead woman. And for something more. Toward the end of Arthur’s story I had seen suspicion in her face, and he must have seen it too. I know that he sat down as though the courage had left him, and I saw much the same look in his face as had been there the day I found him alone in Juliette’s apartment, with those bills and the mocking figure on them.

  I do not remember much that followed. The sheriff asked him some questions. Had he seen the man on the roof clearly? What had he—Arthur—done with the hatchet? Where had the car from the camp picked him up, and when? Had anyone seen him as he dozed on the waterfront while waiting for his train? And, rather ominously, had he sent any clothing to the cleaner’s in New York since that night?

  Arthur answered them all frankly. He had not seen the man on the roof, but thought he was fairly young, from the way he ran. As to the clothing, no, he had sent nothing. They could have his keys if they wanted to look over anything.

  I could add little or nothing. I told the story of the hat, and Jordan’s discovery of my attempt to destroy it. The sheriff asked me about the night before Juliette’s death, when she took the car out before Tony came. But he asked me something else.

  “What about this maid of hers, Marcia?” he inquired. “Why did she want to leave this house?”

  “I haven’t any idea.”

  “She’s afraid of something,” he said. “I’d give a good bit to know who or what it is.”

  I had fully expected Arthur to be arrested that evening. I am sure he did also, for he looked surprised when the sheriff got up and picked up his hat.

  “Well, I’d better get some sleep,” he said. “My brain feels like mush, and we’ve got the inquest tomorrow. I’m glad you came clean,” he added to Arthur. “I might as well tell you that the pilot who brought you up has made a statement to the New York police. He saw your picture in a newspaper, and identified it.”

  I went up to bed soon after he left, and out of sheer emotional exhaustion, I slept that night. Sometime after two o’clock I heard a motorboat not far away start up, choke, and after a time start again. It wakened me; but I dozed off immediately afterwards, and not for days did I realize the significance of what I had heard, or that we had had another murder that night.

  CHAPTER XIII

  THE INQUEST WAS HELD the next day. They had cleared a room in the schoolhouse for it, and Doctor Jamieson sat behind the desk, looking like a plump and bespectacled teacher, with Bullard and the sheriff close at hand. The six men who constituted the jury were all tradesmen in the town, responsible and somewhat self-conscious. They had already seen the body, I gathered, for one or two of them looked rather shaken.

  They sat on the platform in their Sunday best, while photographers’ bulbs flashed at them and at all of us as we arrived. Ever since I have wondered at the incredible cruelty of such spectacles. Mary Lou, I know, was white with indignation, and Arthur rigid. But near by in Jim Blake’s undertaking rooms Juliette lay dead, and somebody had killed her.

  The jury sworn in, Doctor Jamieson made a brief speech.

  “As this is the first inquiry of the sort here in many years,” he said, “I would like to explain the procedure to the jury. This inquest is an inquiry, a preliminary inquiry under oath. The witnesses are bound to tell the truth or be guilty of perjury. We are to take testimony relating to a grave crime, and that testimony, duly weighed, will lead to your verdict, whatever that may be.”

  He then instructed them as to the types of verdict they might render and, proof of identification having been given, the first witness was called.

  This was, I think, the medical examiner from Clinton who had conducted the autopsy. Condensed, his statement was a follows: The deceased, as he called her, had been dead before she was thrown into the lake. There was no water in the lungs. Her death had been caused by two wounds in the back of the head, both inflicted by a blunt instrument. By that he meant one without a sharp cutting edge. When found, these wounds had been filled with sand and other detritus from the lake or creek, but there was a considerable fracture of the skull. He described the size and nature of the injuries; and he put the time of death, which must have been practically instantaneous, at approximately two or two and a half hours after she had last eaten.

  Interrogated, he did not believe that a fall could have caused the injuries. Asked as to the iron shoe on a horse’s foot, he was dubious.

  “It is possible,” he said. “But taking the other circumstances into account I consider it unlikely.”

  As I have no record of the proceedings, I may be wrong in the order of the witnesses, but I believe that the next one was the detective who had found the body. The grave, he said, was shallow: two feet deep or so. He described his discovery, and the position of the body, adding that the face had been protected by leaves. Also he explained that leaves and needles had been placed over the grave itself to conceal it. It lay about fifty feet from the creek bank, and a mile or so above the main road. He believed the body had been dragged there from the creek, as he had been following a trail of broken branches when he found it. Here Doctor Jamieson stopped the proceedings and drew the attention of the jury to a map on the wall behind him. He got up and pointed out a red line on it.

  “In order to assist the jury,” he said, “I have had this map prepared. To save time I will say that this cross indicates the log by the trail where the deceased was last seen alive. The location of the grave is shown by this arrow. Testimony as to other marks on the map will be given in due time.”

  It was given. Witnesses came and went: the Boy Scout who had found the watch, the police photographer with his pictures of Juliette’s hat and gloves near the log, of the slides made by the mare on the steep hillside, of the scratches on Eagle Rock, and last of all, of that ghastly grave and Juliette in it, her hands quietly crossed on her breast.

  The jury passed them from hand to hand, solemnly and not too happily.

  They were all there. Oleson the diver, Ed Smith, even William, to testify when she had left the house.

  But the spectators were growing impatient. Nobody had yet been thrown to the lions, and the room was hot. Once the proceedings had to be stopped to open the windows. They were growing restless when at last Lucy Hutchinson was called.

  She was prepared. She got up, gave a half-contemptuous glance around the room, and going forward was duly sworn. As if in defiance she had worn the yellow sweater, and the room fairly gasped.

  But she emerged with a measure of dignity, although with considerable suspicion.

  She admitted at once that she had met Juliette that morning on the trail. She had been smoking a cigare
tte when Juliette rode up and dismounted. They had not seen each other for some time, and they had talked.

  “Will you tell us about that conversation?”

  “Purely personal matters. We had differed about something, but there was no quarrel.”

  “Do you care to elaborate that?”

  “No. It had nothing to do with her death.”

  “How long did you talk?”

  “Five minutes. Maybe ten.”

  “Did she indicate any fear? I mean by that, was she at all nervous?”

  “Not at all. Very calm.”

  “Had you carried something with you on that walk, Mrs. Hutchinson?”

  “I had carried a golf club.”

  There was a stir, and Doctor Jamieson rapped for order. Lucy smiled coolly.

  “Do you usually do that?” he asked.

  “Now and then. I meant to practice later. I’ve been off on my long shots lately.”

  “Will you tell us where that club is now?”

  “I haven’t an idea.”

  “Will you explain what you mean by that?”

  “I went off and left it,” she said. “Forgot it. That’s all.”

  “It has not been returned to you?”

  “No.”

  “When you left the deceased what was she doing?”

  “She was standing beside her horse.”

  “You did not see her mount it?”

  “No.”

  “Is that the last you saw of her?”

  “Not exactly. I looked back at the turn of the path, and she was still there. I thought she might be waiting for someone.”

  “Why was that?”

  “Well, her hat and gloves were still on the ground. And she seemed to be listening. That is, she was looking about as though she heard something.”

  It was straightforward enough, but it was easy to sense the emotions of a crowd. Lucy had been liked in the village, and at the opening of the inquest sentiment had been in her favor. But it was evident that there had been more to that meeting than she had told. Why refuse to tell what they had talked about? Why go away and forget the club? The thrifty New England soul rejected the idea, especially since she had, as she said, intended to use it later.

  I noticed one of the village women draw away as Lucy returned to her seat, as though she did not want to be touched by her.

  They forgot her, however, the moment Arthur took the stand. All his long summers there, his personal popularity and the directness of his testimony did not help him. Here at last was the story, and sensational enough to satisfy everybody.

  I watched him as he testified, his handsome head well up, his voice calm, his manner straightforward. Mary Lou was holding onto my hand, and I was sorry for her.

  I heard her gasp beside me, but Arthur held nothing back; Juliette’s suggestion of a cash payment instead of further alimony, his decision to see her, his arrival by plane, and his refusal to agree to her demands because of inability to raise so large a sum.

  They were stunned. His presence on the island that night was a real shock, and although he made a good witness, the remainder of his story sounded unreal, even to me: the man on the roof, his attempt to capture him, and his own departure in an unknown car, still undiscovered and unidentified. Nor did Arthur’s statement, that he had spent the crucial hours from daylight until his train left, asleep on the waterfront at Clinton, help him any.

  Even Doctor Jamieson looked unhappy.

  “I have one or two questions to ask you, Mr. Lloyd,” he said. “One is this: did you quarrel with the deceased on meeting her, after your arrival?”

  “There was no quarrel. I told her that what she wanted was impossible. That was all.”

  “Did you see her after that?”

  “No. I left after a few hours’ rest.”

  “Did you communicate with her in any way?”

  “I did not.”

  “Were you, at any time during that visit, in the vicinity of Loon Lake or the trail above?” he asked.

  “Never.”

  But it was evident that the spectators did not believe him. They stirred in their seats, whispered together. How simple it was after all! Lucy had left the golf club there, and Arthur had found it and murdered Juliette. Even now I find myself shaken with resentment as I write this.

  The room was still buzzing when he was excused. He came back to his seat beside Mary Lou, but Mary Lou did not look at him. I could have killed her for that, that day.

  I know now that the sheriff had not wanted the inquest to go to these lengths. It had been his idea to make it a brief formality. But Bullard had been insistent, and Arthur determined. It was out of Shand’s hands now, and running away with him.

  It was probably at his instigation that I was called. I corroborated Arthur’s story so far as I knew it. But I saw the sheriff speak to Doctor Jamieson, and the next questions were about Juliette herself.

  “Did the deceased appear perfectly normal while she was with you?”

  “She said she was in trouble. She wanted to leave the country.”

  “She did not explain that?”

  “No.”

  “Miss Lloyd, it may or may not be pertinent to this inquiry, but it has been suggested that I ask this question. Have you had any trouble in your house lately?”

  “One of the rooms—what we call the hospital suite—was entered and searched.”

  “When did that take place?”

  “On the day before Mrs. Ransom disappeared.”

  “Was there anything of value in those rooms?”

  “Nothing whatever, so far as I know.”

  “You have no explanation, then, of why this was done?”

  “None whatever.”

  “Do you think this had any reference to the deceased’s presence in the house?”

  “I think she did it herself,” I said bluntly.

  I was excused rather hastily after that, and Helen Jordan was called.

  But Helen Jordan was not present, nor did a messenger sent hurriedly to Eliza Edwards’s, where she had taken a room, find her there. Instead Mrs. Edwards herself arrived, to state breathlessly that her boarder’s clothing and suitcase were still there, but that her bed had not been slept in.

  Helen Jordan had disappeared.

  CHAPTER XIV

  THE INQUEST WAS ADJOURNED following that discovery. I had a fleeting glimpse of old Mrs. Pendexter, her black eyes snapping with interest; of Fred Martin and Dorothy; of Mansfield Dean alone; and, as we went out, of Allen Pell alone and lighting a cigarette, but watching the crowd sharply. Then we were back at the house, Mary Lou to go to bed taking a bottle of aromatic ammonia with her and Arthur to pace the library floor downstairs and drink one Scotch and soda after another without perceptible effect.

  “Now where are we?” he demanded. “That woman’s gone. She knew something, so she’s gone. Cleared out.”

  “Without her suitcase?”

  He stopped and stared at me.

  “What do you mean?” he said. “You don’t think—”

  “I’m not thinking, Arthur. She may be all right. On the other hand, we might as well face it. She may have been murdered.”

  “Murdered?” he said thickly. “Who on earth would want to murder her?”

  “It would be extremely interesting to know,” I retorted, and went out to see if Mary Lou’s tray was ready.

  Lunch—such lunch as we could eat—was over when I heard a car drive up. It was the sheriff, and I found him in the hall, with the door open and the engine outside still going. I did not like the expression on his face.

  “Which of your maids here would know what clothes the Jordan woman had?” he asked abruptly. “I want to find what’s missing.”

  “She’s still gone, then?”

  “She’s still gone,” he said laconically.

  I thought Ellen might know, although Jordan had been rather secretive. I called Ellen, and the sheriff told her to get her hat and coat. She looked terrified a
nd glanced at me.

  “It’s all right, Ellen,” I told her. “You’re not under arrest. Do what you’re told.”

  He brought her back in an hour or so. She had not, I gathered, been very useful. All of Jordan’s clothes that she remembered were there, except what she had worn when she left us; but she might have had others. However, there was her suitcase and her unused bed, and Russell Shand was in a bad temper and did not care who knew it. He went upstairs and examined her room, and then called for the key to Juliette’s room. When I found him there he was staring with some contempt at the rose silk sheets on the bed, and he held such mail as she had brought with her in his hand.

  “See here, Marcia,” he said. “Do you know any friend of Mrs. Ransom’s named Jennifer?”

  “No. I don’t know any of her friends.”

  “Then I wish I knew why the Jordan woman thought a letter with that signature was worth taking away with her.”

  “She took the letter?” I said incredulously.

  “She did. We found it in her suitcase.”

  “I have read it. There was nothing in it of any importance.”

  “Maybe not. Damned if I know.” He took out his notebook and glanced at a notation he had made in it. “‘Have just heard about L—,’” he read aloud. “‘Do please be careful, Julie. You know what I mean.’ Now what does that refer to?”

  I had no idea, and said so. He stood looking thoughtfully at the book in his hand.

  “Well, by the great horn spoon, you can bet that Helen Jordan thought it meant something,” he said. “Why was Mrs. Ransom to be careful about this L—? Was L—dangerous?

  “It sounds like it.” He put away the notebook. “The devil of it is,” he added, “that there’s a fair chance we’ll never know why she took it with her. Something’s happened to her, Marcia. You’d better realize that.”

  “You think she has been murdered?” I said weakly.

  “Well, look at the facts. She got to the Edwards house all right. She went up to her room, put the suitcase in a closet, took her pocketbook and went downstairs to her supper. After supper she locked her door and went out, maybe eight o’clock. She gave Eliza Edwards the key and said she would be back in an hour or so. But she didn’t come back. She hasn’t been seen since. Nobody knew her in town, so we can’t trace which direction she took; but she left this letter, her bankbook, and a hundred dollars in cash in that suitcase. That doesn’t look like running away, does it? Yet from the minute she stepped off the porch of the Edwards house last night she hasn’t been seen.”