The Desert Lake Mystery

by Kay Cleaver Strahan

  Adam spoke to Rosemary. “Twill isn’t much hurt,” he said. “He has stanched his own wound. Don’t worry. He’s all right.”

  “He died only a few minutes ago,” she answered. “There, on that pillow. I held him in my arms. He said, ‘Tell them suicide.’ He couldn’t hear what I said to him. He stopped breathing.”

  Kent turned to us. Some of the blood had got on his white shirt. “Can’t you find him?” he asked, vexed.

  I was picking up the small pearl-handled revolver. I broke it, snapped it shut and put it back where I’d found it on the bureau.

  “He died so soon,” Rosemary said. “I think it couldn’t have hurt very much. It was below the little hollow in his throat, at the side. Rather far down. Would that hurt very much? Would it, Kent?”

  “Please, sweet,” Kent begged. “Look again. See that pillow over there? No one is on it. You didn’t even wound Twill seriously. He has been able to get up and walk away.”

  “If it had hurt very much,” she asked, “could he have spoken? Could he have thought for me and told me to say that it was suicide?”

  “Darling, darling——“ Kent begged and he sounded more pitiful, though that wasn’t possible, than she did.

  It seemed to me I’d better get out of there, so I went through the front door and Brigid came with me. I hadn’t missed Adam in the house, but when Brigid and I got out in front, here he came hurrying, stumbling over the sagebrush from the back of the place. He had searched the cottage again, he said, beginning with the garage, looking into the clothes closet, under the bed in the bedroom, behind the curtains in the shower bath—all places that we’d overlooked the first time—but he hadn’t found Twill.

  “He must have gone to the community house,” Adam said, still not too worried, though we were all walking mighty fast in that direction. “He probably went out the back way while we were in front with Rosemary. He’ll be all right. I want to bring him back and show him to his sister. She’s worse off than he is right now.”

  In spite of one confusing point, which I’ll come to presently, that was what I thought. My idea was that Rosemary, in what Reggie afterward called “a mad moment of passion,” had taken a shot at Twill and had been so scared when the gun went off that she’d gone out of her mind. This wasn’t very sensible, but it seemed barely possible. The ghoulish removing of a dead body off the floor and out of the house in less than ten minutes’ time didn’t seem possible at all.

  “I never dreamed that Rosemary had a temper like that,” Adam went on, and I’m sorry to say he spoke admiringly, being like most of us the kind that likes his own faults in himself and others. “I thought she was wishy-washy. Weak as water. Deplorable, of course. Most regrettable. But—understandable. There have been several occasions in my own life when I’ve been glad afterward that I didn’t happen to have a gun in my hands. Cactus Point—eh, Jeff?”

  “Yes, you bet,” I said. “The only trouble is that if she fired twice it wouldn’t look so well.”

  “Twice!” Adam said. “What do you mean?”

  I explained the confusing point. “That revolver she used had been shot twice.”

  “And did you discover for yourself, Sheriff,” he asked, “or were you told that the past few minutes were the only ones in which a revolver could be discharged, here or elsewhere?”

  We’d come to the community house. Brigid said, “Rosemary shot only once. We heard it right here on the porch. One shot,” and stopped outside the screen door.

  Adam and I went on into the big living room. Reggie was trudging around at a brisk gait for him, sweating and vexed.

  “It’s about time someone was coming to help us,” he said. “You chaps take hold of these tables. They have to be pushed together for dinner——”

  “Seen anything of Twill?” Adam interrupted, making it careless, and explaining when Reggie said he had not, and, “Why?”

  “He was fooling with his revolver just now and it went off and nicked him a trifle. He’s more scared than hurt, but he rushed outside and we thought he’d come here.”

  “Oh, my!” Reggie piped up. “But, for goodness’ sakes! He didn’t come here. Well, but then where did he come—go, I should say? Where is he? Where can he be?”

  “He’ll be about somewhere,” Adam said, but he didn’t sound so careless; and I made a big mistake by suggesting on our way to the kitchen that we’d better get a move on us, since the boy had been bleeding pretty bad and might have fainted.

  I don’t know yet how Reggie beat us to the kitchen where the two ladies were, but he did, shouting, “Mummy! Betty-Jean! Twill has shot himself. He’s lost. Bleeding. Fainted——”

  Adam said, “Shut up, you damn fool,” and the way he said it, slow, not very loud, accenting the damn, sounded fine. But it was too late. Reggie had done his best to start a panic and for once, anyway, Reggie’s best was as good as any man’s.

  Chapter V

  Thinking back on it now, it seems to me that there was a long panicky spell of frenzied searching when we were all running like wild through the cottages and garages, stumbling over the sagebrush and rocks outside and shouting in the dark. Time doesn’t flit by when you are hunting for somebody as we were hunting for Twill, thinking that every five minutes’ delay in finding him might mean the difference between finding him alive or finding him dead.

  The moon was in its last quarter and the outside lights were no good because someone had put small colored bulbs in all the sockets, strung high along the walks and driveways, trying to make the place look romantic, I guess. Before long Adam ordered Reggie to get a box of clear glass globes and exchange them for the colored ones. Reggie tried; but the one ladder on the place cracked under him like a nut at the second light. He wasn’t hurt but the ladder was and so both he and it continued being useless from then on.

  I’ll give a map of the camp, offering it as one excuse for us going off half-cocked at first. The territory inside the fence was only five acres of flat, rocky sagebrush desert. We all kept thinking that Twill, a cripple and wounded besides, had left his cottage by the back door bent for the community house. So our plans were to work fast searching the cottages and the grounds between the community house and his place.

  Two more excuses were Adam and Mrs. Duefife who both took full charge of everything from the minute Reggie sounded the alarm. Adam could issue orders a little louder than Mrs. Duefife could, but she could issue them lots faster and when it came to one countermanding the orders of the other I’d think it was about a draw.

  Adam said, “Jeff, you go back to Twill’s cottage and search it thoroughly again. Rosemary may have come to her senses enough to help us. If Kent’s there tell him he is needed out here.”

  “No,” Mrs. Duefife said. “Brigid you run to Twill’s. I want Jeff to go through this cottage with Reggie.” The result of this particular matter was that when I got up from making an exhibition of myself by looking under the wall bed where Rosemary was lying with Kent sitting on it beside her, I saw Brigid standing with her freckle-colored eyes squinted up regarding what I thought was me in a coldly speculative manner.

  Rosemary was quiet now, but she looked so sad that I didn’t have the heart to tell Kent that his dad wanted him. Brigid didn’t either. She took hold of my arm and kind of led me out of there to the front stoop.

  “Wait, Jeff,” she said, then. “I’ve something to tell you. There’s no hurry about finding Twill. He is dead.

  “How do I know?” she answered, before I’d finished asking the question. “I know Rosemary. She is not hysterical now. If she didn’t know that Twill was dead would she be lying in there, looking like Death with its eyes put out and doing nothing? You know that if she thought that there was a chance in a million of finding Twill hurt, wounded, she’d be out hunting for him as long as she could walk, and when she couldn’t walk she’d crawl. You know that if Rosemary had one ghastly sick hope that Twill might be alive she wouldn’t allow Kent to stay with her doing nothing. And Ken
t wouldn’t stay, either. He knows, now, that Twill is dead. If he didn’t, he’d be hunting for him. He’d know that finding Twill would be better for Rosemary than staying with her. Kinder and wiser. Kent is lots of both.”

  I knew that what Brigid had said was good horse sense, except for one thing, and I told her so. ‘The trouble is,” I said, next, “that if Rosemary did kill Twill, then some person must have come in the back door, during those three or four minutes we stopped out in front, and carried his body off.”

  Brigid asked, “After we heard the shot, was it ten minutes do you think before we went into the cottage and found Twill’s body gone?”

  “Hardly that,” I said. “But, anyway, Brigid, no one would sneak in and steal Twill’s dead body.”

  “Why not?” she said.

  “Well,” I said, “looking at it the other way: Why? What in thunder could anybody want with Twill’s dead body?”

  “I know,” she said, “I’m just silly. But I’m nervous. Jeff, darling,” she went on, smoothing my sleeve, “since St. Dennis isn’t here will you take his place for me? Stand by me and be my friend? I’m young, Jeff. And so alone! And you’re so good and wonderful.”

  “Brigid, honey,” I answered, “there’s been nothing your old Jeff wouldn’t do for you, and you know it, since you were knee-high to a grasshopper.”

  “Promise, darling?” she coaxed. “Word of honor. Not Sheriff’s word of honor. Brigid’s wonderful friend’s word of honor?”

  “Promise on all my words of honor,” I said.

  “Fine!” she snapped, and went on very growling and menacing. “You’ve promised. Don’t forget. If you don’t help me I’ll marry Joe Laud and St. Dennis will shoot you on sight in your shoes when he gets home for allowing it. The idea! He’s forty years older than I am. Revolting. Stop fidgeting and listen.

  “A person can’t be tried for murder unless the body is found. Someone has had sense enough to help Rosemary. We must help too. The body is probably hidden in one of the farthest east cottages. If we can find it, you can take it on Dollar around Tumboldt as far as Dead Man’s Hook. It won’t be found for ages, if ever. It’s a sheer drop——”

  “Brigid,” I had to interrupt, “you’re as crazy as Hades. I’m Sheriff of Oakman County. I can’t go riding around Tumboldt disposing of dead bodies in the dark of the moon.”

  She said, “Well, I can. And I will,” and began walking away from me very fast.

  I went with her, hoping to talk her out of dastardly deeds and trying to think who on earth could or would steal Twill’s body. There was no sense in my thinking of Judge Shively just then; but I did, and was so surprised at forgetting him and remembering him that I spoke his name. “Judge Shively,” I said.

  “Yahweh!” she said, which is a cuss word for her. “No,” she went on. “He’s old and lame with rheumatism and doesn’t know Rosemary at all. He couldn’t. But—— Wait!”

  She started on a dead run and didn’t stop until she came to Judge Shively’s front door where she knocked hard. The house was dark and had the feeling of nobody being at home. We found both doors and all the windows locked. She was all for breaking a window. I didn’t like the idea. Finally, against my better judgment, we compromised on one of the small, high kitchen windows. I boosted her up to it and she broke it with a rock, unlocked it and crawled in.

  The understanding had been that she was to open a door for me. She didn’t. I got scared for her and began hoo-hooing, soft at first but, when she didn’t answer, quite a bit louder.

  She came to the window then and told me to go to the front door. “I’ve found something in the bedroom,” she said, as she let me in. “Come on.”

  What I dreaded seeing in the bedroom I hardly know. What I did see were some pillows and bedding strewn around on the floor in front of the closet. I was relieved, I guess, until Brigid stooped and began tossing them over as ladies do when sorting the laundry. But instead of counting, “Two sheets; two pillowslips; one towel,” she was saying, “See, there’s blood on this. Blood on this. This pillowslip is twisted and wrong side out. Blood on it. Blood here——”

  As fast as I could step around her and over the bedding I went into the clothes closet behind her. Clothes were hanging on a rod in there, and grips and things were on the floor, and what with stumbling down and tangling up I completely lost my patience.

  “Stop swearing,” she said, “and come out of there. Twill isn’t there. I looked thoroughly while you were yelling outside. I found these bloodstained covers in there, but—— Yahweh!” she said again. “They’ve been taken from the wall bed. Come, Jeff. Hurry.”

  I hurried. I let down the wall bed. It was heavy coming down. The covers had been taken off so that the body of a dead man could be strapped in their place and make room for the bed to shut back into the wall.

  I see it in nightmares yet. But even so, I think I wouldn’t have lost my senses as I did, in fact I know I wouldn’t, if that man wearing striped pajamas had been any man I’d ever seen before, or even heard of in all my life.

  I was rattled all right, and rattled bad. My only excuse is that all the folks on the place being good friends of mine, I got an idea that an utter stranger, even in the condition he was in, was more apt to have caused trouble than anybody else. And I knew right then that there was trouble and lots of it.

  I guess I ought to stop here and explain that Brigid was a nice girl at heart and didn’t mean to be flip at such a time. It was just a bad habit the child had fallen into, thinking and talking that way, from associating too long with her papa.

  “Wait, Jeff,” she said. “You’re making a mistake. You can’t do it, Jeff. You can’t put it over. You can’t arrest the victim.” And then the poor kid bolted for the bathroom and I could hear her being awfully sick in there.

  Chapter VI

  The next thing I heard was somebody coming up the front walk. I opened the door a crack and there was Adam. I wanted to save him from the shock I’d had, if I could, so I tried to tell him before I let him come in.

  “Adam——“ I began.

  “You’ve found Twill?”

  “No, but——”

  “Why were you yelling, then?”

  “I was not yelling,” I said, forgetting about hoo-hooing.

  “You were yelling. I heard you by the gate. What’s the matter? What frightened you?”

  “Nothing frightened me——”

  “Your idea in yelling, then, was merely to frighten everyone else?”

  I gave up. “I guess you’d better come in here,” I said, and sat down in a chair by the door.

  It was quite a few minutes before Adam said anything that would do to repeat. But I was relieved to find that he knew the poor young fellow. He was Clyde Shively, the old Judge’s son, who had come to Memaloose just that afternoon.

  As soon as Adam had settled down, some, he wanted to get the straps undone. He asked me to lend a hand. I’d heard of a convention about not touching the body before the coroner touched it; but it seemed the only decent thing to do, so we did it.

  He turned the body over a little. “Shot in the back,” he said. “By the Eternal, hell has certainly broken loose independently all over this place tonight!”

  Brigid came in from the bathroom looking terrible and asking if Twill had been found.

  Adam shook his head. “We all fear that the boy must have done away with himself in the lake immediately after he left the house.”

  Brigid should have said then what she said later, that Twill couldn’t have drowned himself in the lake immediately after we found him gone from the cottage for the reason that she had watched the lake from that minute until the dark shut down. She said nothing because she could see no connection between finding this Clyde Shively murdered a quarter of a mile away from where Twill’s body had been stolen; and she was bound and determined to help whoever was trying to help Rosemary. From first to last Brigid never changed her mind about trying to help Rosemary. This complicated
things to some extent, I suppose; but I can’t see that it did any real harm, or that any of the other murders would have been prevented if the kid had been less loyal.

  I said nothing, either, when Adam mentioned the lake. But I thought that if someone had thrown Twill’s body in the lake we’d find it the first thing in the morning. Memaloose wasn’t more than eight feet deep at its deepest, and glass clear. Then I remembered that there wasn’t a boat on the place. Adam had offered to buy one if the folks cared for boat riding, but nobody had so he’d let the matter drop. I was wondering about getting Sig Hansen’s boat over from Nameless, when Adam took out his watch.

  “It is nine-fifteen now. Rigor is practically complete. I’d say this man had been dead at least five hours. What do you think, Jeff?”

  I said, “I think it is pretty much guesswork after a couple of hours, anyway.”

  “Yes, you’re right,” he agreed. “But we know that he was alive shortly after three o’clock this afternoon. The rain began at two-thirty. The telephone wires are up again, so I’ll call the boys at Ferras presently. There is no particular hurry now. The killer has had hours to climb the fence, or break through it, and make his escape.”

  “The fence?” I asked, very much surprised.

  “That sand and alkali strip outside the gate,” Adam said, seemingly going off at a tangent, “takes impressions like soft putty when it is wet. No stranger has come into this camp or left it since the rain. Rosemary with Acrasia left and returned after the rain. You, Jeff, came in with Dollar after the rain. Kent came in, around a quarter to seven. The sand is still soft enough to take impressions. My own footprints show where I stepped out there just now.”