The Desert Lake Mystery

by Kay Cleaver Strahan

  If the murderer had planned ahead of time, he might have had his own car and left it across the lake behind the boathouse. But he’d have to come and go through Nameless, turning square in front of Sig Hansen’s (Sig runs the general store, butcher shop and poolroom all in one) for the lake road, going and coming. A stranger’s car that leaves the highway stands every chance of being noticed in Nameless.

  So when I got there I circulated myself around, careless, but freely inquisitive, and found that nobody had seen a stranger, wet, dry, afoot or horseback, in a car or out of one, any time yesterday.

  I had a bite to eat at Ma Whal’s, the alertest old lady for news that I ever met. She knew to the minute what time all the ladies in town had got their washings out on the line on Monday. She knew that a man and a woman and three children, driving a blue Buick sedan with an Oregon license—number 23112—had come littering into her place on Tuesday, on their way to the Grand Canyon, and used the paper napkins so rough she couldn’t iron them out again. She knew all about the shooting accident across at Memaloose on Wednesday—or so she thought, the poor old soul—but she was positive that the men I was hunting, helping out the Reno police, hadn’t come near Nameless and wouldn’t dare if they knew what was good for them.

  At Sig Hansen’s I’d already learned that the Killaky boys had been shooting pool there all afternoon and evening and that practically the whole town had seen them doing so at one time or another. Like all Indians, they never bothered much about eating, so they’d missed their suppers and had fine alibis the same as everybody else had—that is, everybody except one of the victims.

  Coming back from Nameless some little thing went haywire with my car again. When I got to Ferras I drove into Goldfield Red’s garage to have him look her over. Doc Sprague was outside there with his old Ford getting gas. I had an idea that maybe the folks had called him to come to Memaloose and, sure enough, they had. Instead of taking Dollar out again I asked the old Doc if he’d give me a lift. He said he’d be glad to and I got in with him.

  It was nearly eight o’clock and the mountain road was worse than it had looked from horseback. We agreed that another slide was likely at the place I pointed out. We agreed that we’d wait until daylight to come back over the road, spending the night at Memaloose. Fine agreeable man, the old Doc. Quiet, too. He answered my question about why he had been called by saying that the heat had affected some of the ladies pretty bad. I asked him nothing more. He asked me nothing at all. So neither of us, as the saying goes, had to tell lies.

  Not speaking of Adam, in particular, he met us at the gate and told the old Doc that one of the girls had shot her brother by accident and that the young man, more scared than hurt, had left camp. Another young man, he said, had been examining the revolver the girl had used and he’d be damned if it hadn’t gone off again by accident and killed the second young man dead.

  Doc said, “Joe called me in this afternoon. He had to by law to protect himself. I couldn’t give a certificate of self-inflicted gunshot wound resulting in death for the man I saw. He was shot in the back. But I suppose Joe had things wrong as usual. He told me that a lot of tender feet over here—dude ranchers—had been fooling with revolvers, target practice or something of the kind, and not knowing the first thing about handling firearms a lamentable series of accidents had resulted.”

  This sounded to me twice as much like the old Doc as it did like Joe, so I remarked in a good clear undertone, “The Mayor has been so upset over all this that he hardly knows just what has happened, except, to use his very words, that hell has burst loose all over the place.”

  “Urn-hum,” said the old Doc. “And Joe told me that while you weren’t issuing extras over here, Oak-’ man, or broadcasting for a while, you had Jeff, Ernie and Mac on the job, working hard. I assume that Joe is right about that, at least?”

  “Did Joe also tell you,” Adam asked, “that we have one man in the Ferras jail right now?”

  “No. If he had, I’d have visited him. If he’s a white man, I’d advise you not to keep him there in this weather. A Mex or an Indian might stand it. A white man can’t, for long. If he has to be in jail, send him down to Sackawash.”

  There is an unfriendly rivalry between Ferras and Sackawash, so Adam made a few preliminary remarks and wound up by declaring that a little heat never killed anybody.

  “Let’s hope not,” Doc said, “if you’re responsible for keeping him there.”

  “I have good reasons for keeping him there,” Adam said.

  Doc said, “Shooting scrapes aren’t in my line. Trying to keep folks alive is what I work at. I’m advising you, and not forgetting that you assisted me in sending my Julia and Charles through the university, that there aren’t any reasons good enough for keeping a white man in the Ferras jail in this heat. I’m warning you, though still remembering your favors to me, that if a man dies over in that damn jail I’ll make it as hard for you as I can. Where are the sick ladies?”

  Seemed that Mrs. Duefife was the worst off of anybody. She had fainted dead away while helping get supper for the boys in the community house. She was in bed in her bedroom. Reggie, Betty-Jean and Brigid were milling around in her parlor. Rosemary was there, too, but not milling. She was sitting by the window with her quiet hands folded in her lap. I slipped Kent’s note to her and then I went outside again and sat down on the stoop waiting for Adam. I knew he’d leave the old Doc with Mrs. Duefife and come out pretty soon.

  He did, in a tearing hurry. I told him that the old Doc and I were planning on spending the night in camp.

  “All right,” he said. “But what do you want me to do about it?”

  That wasn’t such a good opening, but I grabbed my chance of putting in some words for Kent, using the old Doc to back me up.

  “Everybody in this county,” he said, “is crazy about good, healthful heat doing harm. Do you want the boys here any longer? The three of them are making a lot of extra work for the ladies.”

  “I never did want them here, especially,” I told him. “Why not send them with word to the Penroys to let Kent out and tell him to come home. He’d be more useful than six of them.”

  “The boys have been exceedingly useful,” he said. “ But they are worn out now—no sleep for twenty-four hours. I’ll stop here at the community house and send them home. See you later, Jeff,” he finished, adding, “maybe.”

  I sat down and waited. I knew he was going to warn the boys about keeping mum and liked issuing his orders in private. When he came out again he greeted me like something he had been trying all his life to forget and asked me what I was waiting for.

  “You,” I said.

  “Why?”

  “To tell you that, while it is real nice of you wishing to keep everything pleasant for everybody, just the same right is right. And, notwithstanding——”

  “What’s that?” he asked, like he was deaf.

  “Notwithstanding all the trouble over here, you’ll be letting yourself in for worse and more of it if you don’t get in touch with the Shively’s kinfolk pronto. The immediate family, the bereaved—you’ve got to inform them, Adam. There’s no two ways about that.

  “I am a patient man,” he answered, very solemn, “and I am long-suffering. I never tell anyone to mind his own business. I always explain all things, including my most private affairs, to everyone who asks, because I am patient and long-suffering.

  “The Judge and his son had no immediate family. I telephoned this morning to the old gentleman’s lawyer. I began guardedly—to spare him any shock you understand. He told me that Judge Shively had gone, a few days ago, to join his foster daughter, Betty-Jean, at some summer camp in Nevada. The post office address was Ferras—apparently where I was telephoning from.

  Clyde Shively, in so far as the lawyer knew, was in New York.

  “Fortunately, despite Ivy Duefife’s objections, I had had both Rosemary and Betty-Jean identify the body. This brings an interesting question. Were they, actually, t
he only persons on the place who could have done so? At least, they are the only ones who admit ever seeing the man before.”

  “Yes,” I said, “but did you tell the lawyer that Clyde Shively had been killed here?”

  “Most assuredly. I also told him that the old gentleman had left the camp and that we didn’t know where to get in touch with him.”

  “What did he say?”

  “Well, he wasn’t overly agreeable at first. He insisted upon knowing whether we were certain that the shooting had been accidental. But when I assured him that the verdict at the inquest——”

  “What inquest?”

  “The inquest. The coroner’s inquest, of course.”

  “This is the first I’ve heard of it,” I said.

  “You should have attended it, instead of sitting over here all morning.”

  “Have you held the funeral yet?” I wanted to know. “I spoke to the lawyer about that. He hadn’t our geographical limitations clearly in mind. He was sure that Judge Shively had stepped out and boarded a train for his home. And so he suggested that we wait to consult the old gentleman’s wishes as to ‘the disposition of the remains.’ A California lawyer wouldn’t be any better than a Nevada mining man if he talked about ‘funerals’ and ‘burying.’ In the end, though, he was very decent. He seemed sincerely grieved over Clyde Shively’s accident—said the boy had been a fine, faithful son to his father. Also, he had some very pleasant things to say about my little daughter.”

  He stopped talking. I sighed. I thought that he’d ask me, “What’s the matter?” But he didn’t, so I told him.

  “You didn’t do right, misleading the lawyer. There comes a time when there has to be an end to hushing things up——”

  “By the Eternal!” he burst out. “What should I do? What do you want me to do? Cite me a single instance where publicity has helped in finding criminals. Doctor Sprague knows that I am doing everything possible—except inform the universe. I’ll not do that. These people are my guests. I’m responsible for their being here. I feel particularly responsible for Brigid O’Dell. I’m the one who will have to face her father when he returns. Could I face him, if I’d allowed his young daughter’s name to be blazoned in headlines all over the country in connection with an affair of this sort? O’Dell has a small fame of his own. ‘Author’s Daughter Involved in Murder Mystery. O’Dell Girl Guest at Millionaire’s Murder Camp.’ Is that what you want? Or do you want me to arrest that girl who accidentally killed her brother? She’s fairly young to stand a criminal trial. Or is it that you think I have no right to keep my own daughter’s name clean?”

  I didn’t have an answer for so much as all that, so I just sighed.

  Seemed that my sighing got on his nerves. He burst forth again, worse than ever, saying so and finishing, “As for that, what is the use of our keeping up this infernal pretense with each other? You know as well as I know what has happened here, and that no hue and cry is going to do any good now.”

  “How do you mean ‘know what has happened’?” I asked.

  He didn’t answer. A spry breeze had sprung up and kept on springing, whistling between its teeth and lapping the lake into nice little sounds that blended fine with the silence.

  “Cooler tomorrow,” Adam said.

  “Speaking of the weather,” I said, “what did you mean by saying that I know what’s happened here and that hues and cries won’t do any good now?”

  “Don’t you?” he asked. “Don’t you know that Clyde Shively was killed? That his father undoubtedly has been killed? That Twill was killed?”

  “Sure,” I said, mad all over and hoping to get him the same way. “I know that. And, also, that ‘I or you can or may be killed.’”

  “But not eaten,” he said. “Oh, I beg your pardon, Jeff. My mind was wandering. I was thinking of ants. Scamp ants, you know. Most unpleasant customs. Carnivorous. Good night. I’ll see you in the morning,” and off he went into his cottage, leaving me alone and glad of it.

  Chapter XXII

  If there is anything that makes a man who is behind on his sleep feel more resentful than waking up bright and early when there is nothing to wake up for, I don’t know what it is. That is what I did the next morning, Friday, and the pink ruffled bedroom curtains were the last touch. Not that pink ruffles aren’t pretty and romantic; just that no man on earth wants to wake up to them in the early morning.

  Reggie, agog, was the first person I met when I stepped outside. After saying that he’d just had a splendid shower—he being the type of man who never takes a bath without talking about it—he sprang the other good news.

  “Uncle Adam is going to take us all back to Hay Patch today. I’m so glad. Mummy’s so glad. Aren’t you glad? We are motoring over. We are all glad.”

  I walked down to the lake where Brigid was swimming around, kind of half-heartedly. When she saw me she hollered for me to wait. I sat down and waited.

  “Jeff,” she asked, while she was shaking the water out of her ears, “do you know what or how much Mayor Oakman knows?”

  “You mean about all the goings-on over here?” I asked.

  She just slumped her shoulders, pressed her lips together and looked at me.

  “He was hinting around last night that he knew something,” I said. “But I doubt it like sixty.”

  “What did he say?” she demanded. “Word for word?”

  I told her how he’d said that I knew as well as he did what had happened and that no hue and cry would do any good now.

  “Fine! Grand!” she said, leaning back and shaking her bright hair like it was a flag.

  A man is hard to suit. I hadn’t liked it yesterday morning when all the folks had been so sad. I liked it less this morning when they seemed happy. I said so. I said I saw no reason for Reggie’s jumping up and down and clapping his hands, or for her celebrating something—I didn’t know what.

  “I’m not either,” she said. “Here comes Mayor Oakman, the poor, sweet, precious old darling.” Adam came up to us just then asking hurriedly, “What is it? What’s the matter now, Jeff?”

  “Nothing,” I said. “Why?”

  “I don’t know. You looked stunned.”

  “It was the language Brigid was using,” I said. “These modern girls,” he said, smiling a very little, and turning to her. “Run and get dressed, child. You’re going with the first load to Hay Patch.”

  “Jeff hasn’t had his breakfast,” she objected, being nice that way sometimes. “I was going to get it for him.”

  “Betty-Jean is getting breakfast for the Doctor in her cottage,” Adam said. “I told her to count Jeff and me in the pot. Run along, child. Come, Jeff, to breakfast. We haven’t much time, the Doctor is in a hurry as usual. You and I, Brigid and Mrs. Duefife are going with him in his car to Ferras. I’ll pick up my car there and take Brigid and Mrs. Duefife on to Hay Patch. You can bring your Ford back for the girls and Reggie.”

  “Do you think it’s all right?” I asked. “Leaving Betty-Jean and Rosemary here alone?”

  “Reggie will be here,” he said.

  “I meant to say alone with Reggie,” I said.

  “Still joking and jesting, Sheriff?” he said, very sour.

  “Have it your own way, Mayor,” I said and looked at my watch. It was eight o’clock.

  Anybody would think that five people could get fed, fixed up, loaded into a Ford car and started off, especially from Memaloose, in half an hour. It was twenty minutes past nine when we got under way with the old Doc driving.

  Some of the reasons for our delaying were as follows: Brigid didn’t want to go with the first load.

  Mrs. Duefife didn’t want to go, either, if Reggie couldn’t go. Adam got mad, of course, and said that Reggie could go in my place and bring my car back for the other folks. Reggie said he couldn’t drive a car. Brigid said she could; so why couldn’t Rosemary go in my place? Adam told Brigid that he was responsible to her father for her—meaning that he didn’t want her driving
a car over the road in the shape it was in. Mrs. Duefife began crying, then, and saying that Adam admitted there was danger for those left behind. This made no sense since Brigid was not going to be left behind. But Adam mentioned, anyway, that he was leaving his own daughter.

  We’d likely be arguing there yet—and in some ways it might be better for all if we were—but the old Doc stepped on it and we were off with a jerk according to Adam’s first plans, which at the time seemed good to me.

  Mrs. Duefife was sick from heat and strain and had to get to the cool of Hay Patch. Brigid was a kid under his care. I had to bring my car back for the folks. Doc, of course, had to go. And Adam, besides wanting to take the ladies on to Hay Patch, wanted like everything to talk to Kent in the jail. Of course, though, besides all this sensible planning he did have an ornery plot on foot for the arrangements he made. I didn’t know it then; but I knew then and know yet that he believed with all his heart that those going and those staying were safe from harm.

  The old Doc, cranky at starting so late, drove like fury until we came to the place where we’d agreed the night before that another slide would be apt to come. It had come. The road gang boys were clearing it off with hand shovels, not daring to bring their outfit up to such a place.

  Trying to turn around there would be sudden death. Trying to back down, even in a Ford, would be slow suicide. So we stayed stopped. The old Doc—it was just like him—had to have a shovel in the box on his running board. He, Adam and I took turns with it helping the boys who, also, found quite a bit more for us to do, such as shoving boulders over the brink and so on. They were nice about it; said we needn’t turn a hand unless we were in a big hurry. They’d have the road passable but dangerous in five to six hours anyway.

  Mrs. Duefife was chilling again and it looked serious so early in the morning. Brigid and the Doctor fixed her up as comfortably as they could in the back seat and the Doc gave her a pellet with some water out of his canteen. Pretty soon she went off to sleep, but kind of moaning and fussing even then.