Yellow Room

by Mary Roberts Rinehart

  He picked up the trowel with a handkerchief. The handle was fairly clean, and he wrapped it in the fresh linen. He was still carrying it when, having followed down to where he had found Elinor, he came out on the lane once more. The road was muddy, and the heavy rain had washed away all traces of the bloody water he had seen the night before, as well as any possible footprints. There was one, however, which remained fairly intact. He measured it beside his own, and decided that it had been made by a fairly tall man. He was still stooping over it when he heard someone behind him. It was Mr. Ward.

  He wore an overcoat against the cold morning air, but he was bareheaded. Instinctively Dane glanced at his feet. Even in galoshes they were small, and Mr. Ward saw the look and smiled frostily.

  “It might have been mine,” he said. “I’m often here. I don’t think it is, do you?”

  “Doesn’t look like, it.” Dane straightened. “There was some blood here last night. It’s been washed away. Did you hear the shot, Mr. Ward? It was fired about here.”

  “Who hears a shot these days?” Mr. Ward countered. “A shot and a backfire sound much alike. No. I heard nothing. I was asleep, I suppose. I don’t even know when it happened. In fact, I’ve only just heard about it. The milkman is our local paper.”

  He did not look as though he had been asleep. In fact, he looked old and exhausted, his face a yellow white and his veined hands unsteady. He looked at the handkerchief-wrapped trowel.

  “I see you’ve found something, major.”

  Its shape betrayed it. Dane opened it carefully, and Mr. Ward took a step nearer to look at it with nearsighted eyes.

  “A trowel!” he said. “What does that mean? We all have them. Where did you find it?”

  “It was on the hillside,” Dane said carefully. “I wondered about it. That’s all.”

  He did not mention the hole, nor did he have occasion to, for at that moment Nathaniel Ward staggered. He caught Dane by the arm, and the trowel fell to the muddy ground. Days later Dane was to wonder whether that action was intentional or not, but certainly the old man’s color was definitely worse. He looked like a man who had received an unexpected blow. He did not even speak for a moment. Then:

  “I’m sorry,” he muttered. “I’m too old for all this, I suppose. Just a moment. I’ll be all right.”

  Dane held him now with both arms. His body felt small under his heavy coat. Dane managed to reach his pulse, and found it stringy and faint.

  “I’d better get you to the house,” he said. “Or if you’ll sit here on the bank I’ll get someone to help you back.”

  But Ward held up a protesting hand.

  “Don’t alarm my wife,” he said. “I’ll be all right. I’ll sit down, if you’ll assist me.”

  The trowel was still on the ground. Dane seated Mr. Ward on the bank and then picked it up. Part of the handle was covered with mud, and he swore under his breath. Nevertheless, he rewrapped it. Mr. Ward did not seem to notice. He was sitting with his eyes shut, but his color was slowly coming back.

  “I’m most apologetic,” he said. “I don’t often come out before breakfast, but when I heard about Elinor I decided to walk over to see if I could do anything.”

  It could have been true. He had come along the graveled path that connected the two properties. But Dane believed that the old man had been shocked to find him there, although the attack, whatever it was, had been real.

  “Have you spells often?” he asked.

  “I get dizzy now and then. Nothing to do with my heart. Middle-ear trouble probably.” He was much better now. He pulled out a clean handkerchief and wiped his forehead. “Don’t let me keep you. I’ll sit here for a minute. I’m perfectly all right.”

  Thus dismissed, Dane moved back toward Crestview. He was still suspicious, although he hardly knew why, and halfway along the path he turned and looked back. The immaculate Nathaniel Ward was picking something from the mud near his feet. Even at that distance it gleamed dully, and Dane was certain it had been the shell from the gun with which Elinor had been shot.

  He hesitated. He could go back and demand to see it, in which case Nathaniel would certainly deny he had it, or he could go on and pretend he had seen nothing. He decided to go on.

  17

  BREAKFAST WAS READY WHEN he got back to the house. When Alex brought in the bacon and eggs he found Dane examining the trowel, and looked astonished.

  “What’s that, sir?”

  “I imagine it was intended to dig up the clothes on the hill. Look here, Alex. What do you know about the Wards? And I wish to God you’d learn how to make coffee.”

  “I’m no cook, sir. I never pretended to be a cook. If you don’t like the way I do things—”

  “All right,” Dane said impatiently. “What about the Wards?”

  Alex scratched his head.

  “Well, they’re very highly thought of here,” he said. “Very rich, but the townspeople like them. They give to the churches and the hospital, all the local stuff. Their son was killed in the last war. They’ve got a grandson in this one. They’ve been coming for forty years or so.”

  “Their grandson been back lately?”

  “They expected him, but he didn’t turn up.”

  Dane called the hospital after breakfast. Elinor Hilliard was somewhat better and was conscious. Greg was still there, but Carol was at home, and he went over to Crestview after he had hung up. He had expected to learn she was in bed, but he found her in the library beside the fire. She was looking exhausted, her hands lying limp in her lap, and her eyes lifeless. But she smiled at him.

  “I’ve just had a telephone battle with Mother,” she told him. “You would think I had shot Elinor myself. Either I’m to go home, or she will come up.”

  “And you don’t want her?”

  “She can’t help, and she doesn’t understand,” she said wearily. “She’s used to this house with seven or eight servants in it. And the way things are… Howard will be coming, but he can stay at the hotel.”

  “Then you’ve located Mr. Hilliard?”

  “Not yet. It’s Sunday, so his office is closed. He may be weekending anywhere. Mother didn’t know.”

  He gave her a cigarette and took one himself as he sat down.

  “Do you mind a little family talk?” he asked.

  “I’m used to them. What about?”

  “Your sister. Are she and her husband happy together?”

  She thought that over, as if she were uncertain.

  “It depends on what you call happy, I suppose. They’re congenial. They like the same things; you know, parties and bridge and plenty of money. He’s frightfully proud of her.” She roused then and stared at him. “You aren’t thinking Howard shot her, are you? That—well, that would be ridiculous.”

  “All right,” he said. “Cancel Howard. Why did she dress and go out last night, Carol? It was raining, you know.”

  She gave him the candid glance that always touched him.

  “She was after her clothes, wasn’t she?” she said. “At least I’m afraid she was. I don’t know, of course.”

  Anyhow that bar was down between them, thank God, he thought. She had been so pitifully alone, with no one to turn to. If she would use him—

  “I don’t pretend to understand it,” she said, closing her eyes. “My brain doesn’t seem to work. She’s had time enough to look for them, and last night it rained. She’s like a cat. She hates rain. Yet she—I don’t think she killed that girl, you know. And she liked Lucy. She’d never have bothered her.”

  “But you think she knows more than she’s telling?”

  “Yes. That’s what frightens me. If she’s protecting someone…”

  He knew what she meant. Carol thought Elinor was protecting Greg. He changed the subject abruptly.

  “Have you been upstairs since you came back?”

  “Only to dress. Why?”

  “You didn’t look in the yellow room?”

  “No. What about it?” />
  She was sitting erect now, and looking frightened.

  “It’s all right,” he told her quickly. “Nothing to worry about. I saw it on my way home. I’d come in to see everything was all right. Somebody had searched it pretty thoroughly.”

  She relaxed at that, as though the mere searching of a room was nothing compared with the welter of blood and mystery that surrounded her.

  “I don’t understand,” she said slowly. “It’s been carefully cleaned. Unless the police…”

  “I don’t think it was the police. It may tie in with your sister’s being shot. Suppose she heard someone in the house and followed outside—”

  She shook her head.

  “She’d never do that,” she said and got up. “I’ll have to see the room, I suppose. I’m glad Freda hasn’t seen it first.”

  He had prepared her as well as he could, but the first sight of the yellow room certainly shocked her. He had to restrain himself from putting his arms around her.

  “Look, my dear,” he said, “it’s not so bad as all that. Someone was looking for something. That’s all.”

  “So we’re just to go on, two people dead, Elinor shot and the hill burned. I can’t take much more, Jerry.”

  She cried a little then, and after a while he held her head against his shoulder and felt for a handkerchief.

  “Blow for papa,” he said, and was pleased to see her lift her head and smile.

  “I’m not really a baby,” she told him. “I play golf and tennis and swim and ride a horse. Usually I’m just average. But this has got me down. It’s—as Greg would say—it’s pretty rugged.”

  She insisted on straightening the room before the servants saw it, and the next few minutes they spent repairing the damage as best they could. Dane even managed to get the baseboard back in place, somewhat tottery but still, so to speak, on its own. The church bells were ringing when they finished, and she stopped to listen, as though it was strange that people should be going quietly to morning service while her own world was so chaotic. He felt that in her, and he kissed her lightly before he left.

  “For being a good girl,” he said cheerfully, and limped down the stairs to find Colonel Richardson, breathing hard from his climb, in the hall.

  “What damnable thing is going on?” he demanded. “Nobody tells me anything. I have to hear it from my servants or from someone who happens by. A girl murdered and burned! Lucy Norton dead! Now Elinor Hilliard is shot, and I’m not so much as notified.”

  “I’m sorry, colonel,” Dane said pacifically. “Things have happened pretty fast. Mrs. Hilliard was shot only last night, and it may have been an accident.”

  He snorted and looked at Dane suspiciously.

  “What was she doing outside in the rain?” he demanded. “I know Elinor. I never liked her much, but she wouldn’t go out alone at night in the rain for a million dollars. And she likes money at that. What happened? Does she know?”

  “She’s not allowed to talk. She’s barely conscious, I believe. She lost a lot of blood. But she’s going to be all right.”

  Dane got the impression that the colonel had more to say. He stood still for a moment, as though debating something with himself. But evidently he decided against it, for he saluted stiffly, turned on his heel and departed. Dane, watching him as he left, thought that aside from his almost defiant head he was not a well man. His lips after the climb up the hill had been slightly blue. And he was leaning rather heavily on his stick. He was certain too that the colonel had not been entirely frank with him.

  There was a car climbing the hill as he was leaving. It came with difficulty, gasping and roaring, and when at last it came into sight he saw an ancient vehicle, driven by a grinning young man who brought it to a stop and then mopped his face with a handkerchief, as though he had been pushing the car himself.

  “Got here,” he said triumphantly. “She’s a good old bus, only a bit on the asthma side.”

  He got out and looked around him, at the burned hillside, at the house and then at Dane himself.

  “Say, what goes on?” he inquired. “Another death and a shooting since I was here last! That’s going some. That the hill where the Hilliard woman was attacked?”

  “Attacked? Who said she was attacked?”

  “Don’t tell me she was shot by accident, or that she tried to kill herself by shooting herself in the leg. Who shot her, and why?”

  His smile, in spite of Dane’s resentment, was engaging.

  “Mind telling me who you are?” he inquired. He eyed Dane’s slacks. “Are you the brother, Captain Spencer? I’m Starr from the paper over at the county seat. I was here before.”

  “I live next door,” said Dane, somewhat diverted by all this. “I don’t know anything. If you want a story go to Floyd, the police chief here.”

  “Old sourpuss?” Starr laughed. “He’d clap me in the clink as soon as he saw me.” He viewed Dane with keen young eyes. “Say, I’ve seen you before, haven’t I?”

  “Hardly likely,” Dane said dryly. “I’ve been here only a few weeks.”

  But the boy grinned and then whistled.

  “I’ve got you! Starr with the eagle eye. Starr the boy reporter who never forgets a face. Remember the time that gang blew into the county seat to order machine guns, and you came up from Washington?”

  Dane was annoyed.

  “Now listen, son,” he said. “I’m in the army, now and until the war is over. I’m getting over a shot in the leg, and if you know what’s good for you that’s all you know.”

  “But hell, sir—”

  “That’s an order,” Dane snapped.

  Starr subsided. Dane felt repentant as he watched his crestfallen young face, and told him briefly what had happened, the shot followed by the finding of Elinor Hilliard wounded. He intimated, however, that she had heard someone outside and been shot while investigating. And the boy—he was little more—gave him something in return.

  “Funny thing,” he said. “I saw the body of the girl they found in the closet. She sure as hell was wearing a wedding ring. Floyd never gave that out, did he?”

  “It’s the first I’ve heard of it.”

  He was thoughtful after the reporter left. Did Floyd have the ring and was he deliberately keeping quiet about it? Or had this youngster been mistaken? After all, it had not been a pleasant sight.

  His leg was better. It had been improving for some time, he realized as he walked home, and the thought cheered him considerably. His voice was almost gay when he was called to the long-distance phone. Nevertheless, the message, couched in careful language, gave him furiously to think. The subject of the inquiry, it said, had received his “what you may call it” in Washington on Wednesday, June fourteenth. He had had a room at a hotel and had stayed there Wednesday night. At some time on Thursday he had packed a bag hastily and said he was taking a plane to New York, giving no address there, and not returning at all.

  “Not back yet,” said the voice. “Hotel has had no word. Drinking pretty hard before he left. No other details. Corroboration by letter.”

  Dane thought a minute after he hung up. Then he got in touch with Tim Murphy, who had reported from New York and was waiting for train accommodation north. He knew that Bessie would be listening in, but there was no time to waste.

  “About the C.M.O.H., Tim,” he said. “Find out if the holder was registered there in New York at a hotel between these dates. It’s important. Probably one of the big places, but I’m not sure. And get a move on. We’ve had more trouble here.”

  He gave the dates and Tim took them down. He had some trouble with the Congressional Medal of Honor, but finally understood. He had not finished, however.

  “I located that suitcase here,” he said. “Initials M.D.B. Sounds all right, doesn’t it?”

  “Sounds fine.”

  “Railroad company won’t let it go. But they can get it opened, or a friend of mine there can. What are they to look for?”

  “How the hell
do I know?” Dane said irritably. “Papers, documents, photographs—you know as well as I do.”

  “No panties?”

  “No panties,” said Dane grimly. “And you’d better come back here as soon as you can. I need you.”

  Dane rang off, confident that Bessie at least would be puzzled. He was not so sure about Floyd, nor indeed about the whole business. After all, Greg was not only a nation-wide hero, with his picture in all the papers. He was Carol’s brother, and Dane was not fooling himself any longer about Carol. Not that it was any use, he knew. This was a long war, in spite of the idiots who were betting it would soon be over. And Carol had waited for Don Richardson. He was not going to ask her to wait for him.

  As for Greg he was puzzled. He could have come here by plane, killed the girl and got away. Nevertheless, there was the fact that he had come back, rather cheerfully than otherwise. Murderers did not return to the scene of their crimes, unless they were psychopathic. They got as far away as they could, and stayed there.

  He was thoughtful when he called Alex, who came from his kitchen without removing the apron tied around his broad body.

  “What about this grandson of the Wards?” he asked. “You say he hasn’t come home lately.”

  “No, sir. They were expecting him a while ago, but he couldn’t get away. They’d planned some sort of party for him, but he had to go back to the Pacific. Old lady went to bed over it. Kinda hard on her.”

  “That the one they call Terry?”

  “Yeah. Not short for Terence. Mother’s name was Terry. He’s a flier in the Pacific. Good guy, by all accounts. Father and mother both dead. Lived with the old folks.”

  As usual Dane ate his lunch outside. The weather had cleared, and a plane had ventured out, flying low. He ate at the corner of the porch, so that by turning his head he could see either the bay or the ridge of hills above him. He could see the skeleton of the burned house, a chimney of the gardener’s house at Rockhill, and above and beyond them all two or three abandoned summer properties.