The Last Drive

by Rex Stout

  Still the detective was silent. Suddenly another voice came, and all eyes were directed at Fred Adams, the elder of the two brothers. He had turned from the window and was facing them with his countenance pale and grief-stricken.

  “I only have this to say,” he remarked, quietly and distinctly, “that I don’t want publicity and scandal any more than the rest of you, but nothing shall be left undone to punish the man that murdered my uncle.”

  “I tell you, Fred, we don’t know he was murdered,” Harry Adams put in, and the sentiment found echo in two or three other voices:

  “Yes, how do you know he was murdered?”

  They were silenced by Rankin:

  “Gentlemen, for my part, I agree with Fred. You have requested me to solve this thing. Very well. I’ll do my best, but only on condition that it is left to my discretion to notify the authorities at any time. Meanwhile, everyone of you must keep absolute silence on this affair. There must be no hint of crime in your discussions with those outside. Already the atmosphere is electric all over the place. Dispel it. And now, you will kindly leave me here with Doctor Wortley. You, Mr. Mawson, and Fred and Harry, will remain also, if you please.”

  There were mutterings as the men began a general movement toward the door, and Harrison Matlin stepped up to whisper in the ear of the detective, who nodded impatiently in reply. Slowly they trooped out, with backward glances at the covered form on the table, and as the last of them disappeared into the hall Rankin stepped to the door and closed it. Then he turned to the four men who had remained behind at his request. Doctor Wortley stood with his hand resting on the table; Fraser Mawson had sunk into a chair, while the two Adams brothers still stood together near the window. The faces of all were lined with gravity.

  “You’ve heard what Doctor Wortley has declared to be the cause of Colonel Phillips’ death,” began Rankin, abruptly, glancing from Mawson to the two young men. “A virulent neurotic poison, probably curare. Curare is an arrow poison, without serious effect when taken internally, but almost instantly fatal when introduced into the blood through a wound. It was used by South American Indians to infect the tips of arrows; tiny arrows shot from blowpipes. The abrasion of the skin on the Colonel’s chest is final proof of the agent. The point is, how did it get there? It must have been done sometime within the ten minutes immediately preceding his collapse. Who did it, and how?”

  Silence greeted the detective’s pause. Mawson glanced at Doctor Wortley, then at the window; the two brothers had their eyes fixed on the detective. Nobody spoke.

  “Did anything unusual happen during that time?” Rankin continued. “Was there anyone about except you four men and the caddies?”

  There was a simultaneous “No” from the two young men, and Fraser Mawson shook his head in negation.

  “No one,” the latter declared. “Nothing unusual occurred, absolutely nothing, until poor Carson suddenly cried out and fell to the ground. To me, Mr. Rankin, the whole thing is incomprehensible. There was absolutely no way it could have happened. And I can’t believe—why, Carson Phillips hadn’t an enemy in the world.”

  “Nevertheless, it did happen.” The detective’s tone was grim. “And I don’t suppose you intend to suggest suicide, Mr. Mawson.”

  “Good heavens, no!” the lawyer protested. “I simply can’t understand it.”

  “One of the caddies was a West Indian,” Fred Adams put in suddenly.

  Rankin sent him a quick glance. “Which one?”

  “Mine. His name’s Joe; that’s all I know about him. Never had him before.”

  “M-m-.” Rankin didn’t seem particularly interested. “I’ll talk to him. You can never tell. But as a matter of fact, I expect to find nothing here. The sooner we’re away the better. Doctor, I’ll ask you to go with us. An examination should be made of that wound. Telephone to Brockton for a conveyance for the body. It can follow.”

  The detective paused, then turned to Fred Adams:

  “I’ll spend the night with you at Greenlawn, if you don’t mind. And Doctor Wortley—”

  “Very well, sir. But I don’t see how you expect to find out anything there.” The young man was plainly surprised, as were the others.

  “Perhaps I won’t. We’ll look around a bit, though. Will you do that telephoning, Doctor? It would be best to go down at the rear; no use running past all those curious eyes.” He turned to the others. “You came over in the Colonel’s car, I suppose. Run it out on the drive and wait for me there. I’ll be only a minute or two.”

  Downstairs again, Rankin observed that the excitement was beginning to quiet down a little. Groups had broken up and scattered, and when he reached the piazza he saw several pairs and foursomes making their way to the first tee. On the lawn he found Harrison Matlin and surprised the club president by informing him of his decision to depart at once for Greenlawn, Colonel Phillips’s country estate; then the two men proceeded together to the caddie-house. Joe, the West Indian mentioned by Fred Adams, proved to be one of those indolent, ignorant half breeds who seem to consider the process of breathing an unwarranted tax on human energy; he had been with the club now for more than two seasons, and the caddie-master declared him to be inoffensive and fairly competent. Rankin asked him a few guarded questions, then dismissed him with a shrug of the shoulders; clearly there was nothing to be suspected here.

  He found the motor car on the drive near the gateway, with Fred Adams at the wheel and Harry seated beside him with a bag of golf clubs between his knees. To an observation of Rankin’s as he climbed in the young man responded:

  “They’re not mine, sir. Uncle Carson’s. I didn’t want to leave them. . . .”

  The detective seated himself in the tonneau beside Fraser Mawson, and the four men sat in silence, waiting for Doctor Wortley. He soon put in an appearance, with the information that conveyance would arrive from Brockton for the body in half an hour. Rankin merely nodded, sliding over on the cushions to make room for him.

  “All ready, Fred.”

  The engine whirred and the automobile shot forward, with two hundred pairs of curious and sympathetic eyes gazing after it from the piazza and lawns.

  Twenty minutes later they entered the gateway of Greenlawn, nestling in a wooded valley among the Jersey hills. Down a long avenue of lindens, with well-kept park on either side, the car rolled smoothly, then curved round a large sunken garden to bring up before the main entrance of the house. It was one of those summer castles that have been appearing throughout the east in ever increasing numbers in the past decade, low and rambling, of grey stone brought from Colorado, with extensive lawns and gardens dotted here and there with fountains, gravel walks in every direction, terraces descending at one side to a miniature lake and a broad driveway leading circuitously to a garage, constructed of the same material as the house, in the rear. Some comment had been excited among Colonel Phillips’s friends when he bought the place a few years before, for what use can an old bachelor make of a castle? He had merely smiled good-humoredly at their sly insinuations and proceeded to make Greenlawn one of the show spots of the hills. An old man’s whim, he said; and his nature was incapable of guile.

  Together the five men left the car and ascended the granite steps of the wide shady portico. From the rear of the house a chauffeur appeared, advancing inquiringly, but Fred Adams dismissed him by a wave of the hand. At the door of the reception room they were met by Mrs. Graves, the housekeeper, and the five men glanced at one another: Here was an unpleasant duty.

  “You tell them, Mr. Mawson,” Fred pleaded; and the lawyer was left behind to call the servants together and announce the death of their master. The others went on to the library, where Harry Adams finally freed himself of the burden of the Colonel’s golf bag, leaning it against a corner of the fireplace. They watched him in silence, with the thought in their eyes: He has played his last game.

  “Now if you yo
ung men will be good enough to leave me alone with Doctor Wortley,” said Rankin abruptly.

  Harry turned and started to go without a word. Fred hesitated, and finally blurted out:

  “I know you have charge of this thing, Mr. Rankin, but I must say that I don’t see why you run away from it. What can be done here at Greenlawn? I know you’re older and wiser than I am, and I don’t want to criticize, but Harry and I feel we have a right to know—”

  “You have,” Rankin put in, stopping him with a gesture. “But as yet there’s nothing to tell. I hold myself responsible. I am doing what I think best. But of course you’re in authority here now, and if you think—”

  “No, sir, it isn’t that,” the young man declared hastily. “I suppose I shouldn’t have said anything. But you—you know how we feel.”

  “I do, my boy.”

  Fred turned and followed his brother out of the room, closing the door behind him.

  The doctor and the detective, finding themselves alone, glanced at each other, and then away again. Rankin’s eye happened to light on a large bronze clock above the mantel, and stayed there; the hands of the clock pointed to a quarter past two. Doctor Wortley walked to a window looking out on the garden and stood there a moment, then crossed to a chair near the table and sank down in it, his fingers moving nervously along the arm. Neither said a word.

  “Of course, I know what you’re thinking, Rankin,” the Doctor finally observed, breaking into speech all at once. “I know why you thought there was nothing to be done over there. But—well—it seems preposterous. Fred? Harry? Mawson? Why, it’s preposterous!”

  The detective turned from his contemplation of the clock.

  “If you know what I think you know more than I do,” he said at last, slowly. “And you do as a matter of fact know more than I do. That’s why I want to talk to you. But certain conclusions are inevitable. We know how the Colonel was killed. A tiny arrow or steel needle cannot be sent from any considerable distance. From the fifth tee to the spot where the Colonel fell there is no shrubbery anywhere, nothing that could have served as a hiding place for the murderer. That is certain. Then it is equally certain that the murderer was not hidden. He was there, and he was not hidden. The caddies are out of the question. They were the two Simpson boys, Jimmie Marks and Joe, the West Indian Fred spoke of. Absurd to suspect any of them. That leaves only the members of the foursome. First the Colonel himself. Suicide must be considered, though the circumstances render it highly improbable. You were his friend and physician for thirty years. You knew him more intimately than anyone else. Your opinion?”

  “Carson Phillips did not kill himself,” declared the doctor with conviction. “There was absolutely no reason—I knew every detail of his life—and besides, he wasn’t the man to sneak out of a thing. No.”

  “Then the other three are left. The thought is repugnant to us. Admitted. Also, the hypothesis is difficult. It seems impossible that the thing could have been done without attracting notice. They all swear nothing unusual occurred. Can they be in league? I dismiss that as incredible. Then it was done, somehow, without attracting notice. How? And by whom? There motive enters. But the point is, how? If only I had been in that foursome! The blowpipe is out of the question as requiring extraordinary skill. There was some devilish trick somewhere.

  “You know,” said the doctor slowly, “it’s my opinion you’re on the wrong track, Rankin. I can’t believe—”

  “It’s the only open track,” the detective retorted. “No other way to turn. Disagreeable as it is, we must follow it. There’s one other thing I haven’t spoken of.—Hello! What’s up?”

  As he spoke the whirring of an engine had made itself heard, and now, through the window, an automobile, the one that had brought them to Greenlawn, was seen to turn about on the drive outside and head for the outer gate with a sudden leap forward. Fred Adams was at the wheel. An instant later Harry appeared on one of the gravel paths at the edge of the garden.

  Doctor Wortley, who had joined Rankin near the window, threw it open to call to the young man:

  “What’s up, Harry? Where’s Fred going?”

  “Down to Morton’s,” came the reply. There was a touch of disapproval in the tone. “Said he’d be right back in case you asked for him.”

  The doctor had closed the window again before Rankin’s query came:

  “Morton’s? Where’s that?”

  “Over west a few miles,” replied the doctor. “There’s a girl. Dora Morton. Rather odd he should run off there just now.”

  “I know you have charge of this thing, Mr. Rankin, but I must say that I don’t see why you run away from it.”

  Something in the tone caused the other to pursue the inquiry.

  “Why?”

  “Why—Carson didn’t approve of her. There’s been a quiet sort of row on about it for some time. She’s a daughter of Morton the cheese man, and well—Carson’s ideas were somewhat aristocratic, you know. I believe he even threatened to disinherit Fred if he didn’t give her up.”

  “Ah, I see,” said the detective softly.

  CHAPTER III

  But Doctor Wortley did not permit the insinuation in the detective’s tone to go unchallenged.

  “Good heavens, Rankin,” he exclaimed, “you can’t believe that Fred Adams would take his uncle’s life for such a reason as that!”

  “I don’t believe anything,” the other returned impatiently. “Right now it isn’t a question of who did it or why, but how it was done. We don’t even know that. But to put it in plain words, I am convinced that one of the four members of that foursome is responsible for the Colonel’s death. It’s the only possible solution.”

  As he spoke the sound of wheels was heard on the driveway outside. It was the conveyance that had been sent for to Brockton to carry the body of the Colonel to Greenlawn. Doctor Wortley went out to superintend the removal to the room that had been prepared upstairs, while Rankin went in search of Fraser Mawson.

  He found the lawyer in a small room at the further end of the lower hall. This room was the place that Colonel Phillips had set aside for the transaction of business; it contained a desk and a safe and files filled with letters and documents of various kinds, all kept neatly and methodically after the Colonel’s custom. As Rankin entered Mawson was in the act of taking a large book from a shelf in the safe, the door of which stood open.

  “You seem to be acting on a thought that has occurred to me also,” observed the detective, stopping beside the desk.

  The lawyer looked up at him inquiringly.

  “I was just looking to see if there is anything out of the way,” he explained. “You know, I came down here from the city once a week to confer with Carson on his affairs. We were to have attended to it tonight; that was our custom.”

  Rankin, nodding, found a chair, while the lawyer placed the book on the desk beside another that was lying there open. The fact of his having been entrusted with the combination of the safe, containing private documents of every description, was evidence of the complete confidence in which the dead man had held his attorney and lifelong friend.

  “He kept everything here, I suppose,” observed Rankin presently.

  The other nodded. “Everything. Except, of course, what was needed for any specific purpose, temporarily, in New York. Such were kept in my office.”

  Silence, while the lawyer compared entries in one of the open books before him with those in the other, occasionally writing something in the latter. From the other end of the hall, through the open door, came the sound of many slow and heavy footsteps, those of the men who were carrying into Greenlawn the body of its dead master. Rankin, craning his neck a little, could see their straining forms framed in the outer doorway, with Doctor Wortley in front directing them.

  “One thing I’d like to ask, Mawson,” resumed the detective after a moment. “Had th
e Colonel indicated an intention lately of making any change in his will?”

  The question appeared to surprise the lawyer a little.

  “None whatever,” was the reply. “Why, do you know of any reason?”

  “Nothing in particular,” Rankin returned, “except that Doctor Wortley tells me that he had been having a difference of opinion with Fred concerning a certain young lady named Morton, I believe.”

  “Oh.” The lawyer looked up from his writing. “Yes, there has been something said about it. Carson was much put out, and Fred was—well—obstinate. There were some pretty warm words, I believe—you know, Carson had a temper—but I don’t think he ever seriously contemplated changing his will.”

  “But Fred might have thought so.”

  The lawyer frowned. “Of course. He might think anything. But it seems to me a pretty weak thread to hold a suspicion like that against a boy like Fred.” A moment’s pause, then he added, “If you want my opinion, Mr. Rankin, it appears to me you’re pursuing a delusion. If I am a little diffident about speaking it is only because I see that I am included in your thoughts as well as the two boys. Of course, you may have reasons that I know nothing of—”

  “I haven’t,” the other interrupted. “All that I know, you know.”

  “Then I don’t see what you expect to find at Greenlawn, unless you look for something among Carson’s private papers. They are all in this room, and I am willing to stretch a point and submit them to your inspection, but I can tell you beforehand that your search will be in vain. As for Harry and Fred, it seems to me absurd even to entertain the possibility of their guilt of so black a crime.”

  “Then just what is your opinion, Mr. Mawson?”

  “One that I dislike to utter,” returned the lawyer with some hesitation. “At least, part of it, and that the most likely. It is forced on me by circumstances. It seems to me that there are just two possibilities. In the first place, I reflect that Colonel Phillips spent several years of his life in the Philippines and other parts of the Far East, and it isn’t only in novels that the Orient is filled with strange enmities and mysterious crimes. Some act of Carson’s, official or personal, some wrong, fancied or real, of many years ago, may have found its tragic sequel here on the Jersey golf links. Secondly, my long legal experience has taught me that any man’s life is apt to contain a secret, a dark and shameful secret sometimes, that remains unsuspected even by his oldest and dearest friends, and that may drive him to any desperate deed, even the most desperate of all, to bury it.”