Murder at Bayside

by Raymond Robins

  John Patrick laid a fatherly hand on my shoulder. “Don’t let it get you, son. It seems to me, the motive is the weak part. The only conceivable way in which any one would seem to benefit by Cyrus’ death is financially. Now are all your business affairs in good order?”

  I heaved a sigh of relief. “Of course. I have enough money to satisfy my modest needs—you know what my income is, better than any one else.”

  “Forgive me for asking, then,” continued John Patrick gently. “There are no drains on your income—no gambling, no speculation, no women?”

  I shook my head. “Not a thing. But if there were, what good would Cyrus’ money do me?”

  “Well, with Tom convicted of murder and me in Europe, you would have temporary control of a huge fortune; I can think of several things you might do with it, but I’d better not let Lyttle hear me say so, or I shall be the next on his blacklist. So far as you are concerned, the motive is lacking, unless the police can prove some definite need for immediate funds. I imagine their interest in you will stop at suspecting that you saw something or some one and are deliberately concealing evidence.”

  “That is a serious enough offense,” I scoffed, “and all the while they are concentrating on me, the real murderer is going scot-free.”

  For the first time there was born in me a burning desire to catch and convict the real criminal. Up until now I had not cared particularly, for I was deterred by the vague fear of the truth being more horrible than the uncertainty. Now when the foul breath of suspicion had been wafted over me, it was no longer a question of impersonal justice, it was a direct vengeance of a wrong done myself.

  I voiced something of this feeling and then burst out, “The worst of it is, I know I have a clue, but I can’t find out what it is that I have once had and now miss entirely.”

  John Patrick nodded gravely. “Every bit of thinking I do forces me to the definite conclusion that the murderer is some one in our immediate circle, and probably both you and I have clues whose purport we can’t understand or wouldn’t believe if we could. Do you realize what this means? Some one we see every day, some one we eat with, some one we talk to, is a brutal killer. But enough of this—the first thing we have to do is to clear you from suspicion. I’m going to read over the notes you made on the day of the murder, and see if we can’t find some way of proving to Lyttle that you never left the house, when once you had arrived, and you were never in the position to gain any guilty knowledge of any aspect of the affair.”

  In spite of this promise of my chief, I slept but little during the night and rose unwontedly early the next morning to join the family at breakfast. Charles and Tom had already finished, but John Patrick looked up from the table when I came in and remarked casually, “I took the liberty of telephoning to the Sergeant to come over this morning. I have an idea that I ran across something to interest him.”

  My heart leaped, for there was no mistaking the meaning of my chief’s words nor the confidence in his tone. He must have stumbled on some clue which would make the police willing to leave me outside the field of their investigation. Edwin, however, seemed to take exception to John Patrick’s words. He yawned and remarked, “Oh, let’s get the estate settled up and let the police run their own show; that’s what they are paid for.”

  There was just enough ambiguity in the last phrase to convey the unmistakable meaning that if the discovery of the murderer was the business of the paid guardians of the law, so the settlement of the estate was the business of the paid lawyers. John Patrick, unabashed, cheerfully ignored the implication and discoursed on the weather, always an indispensable topic. He proposed going the next day up Romney Creek to try his luck for a Thanksgiving goose.

  After breakfast my chief and I went up to our study, and we had scarcely seated ourselves when the Sergeant was announced. John Patrick launched forth on his talk at once, “Sergeant Lyttle, my young partner has told me that he believes the police are holding him under suspicion in connection with the murder of our former client, Cyrus Evans.”

  “Not at all,” hastily disclaimed Lyttle, mindful of the search made without a warrant, I fancy; “we are merely endeavoring to check up the stories of every one who was present on the afternoon of Mr. Cyrus Evans’ death. Merely a matter—“ I believe he was about to use his favorite phrase, but after a hasty glance in my direction, he finished, “Merely a matter of police routine.”

  “Just so,” assented John Patrick. “It will no doubt facilitate police routine,” his voice stressed these words ever so slightly, “if I point out one thing which seems to have escaped your notice, but which to my mind furnishes rather definite information as to the impossibility of Williams ever being outside the house, once he had put in the call to your barracks. I am going to quote from the notes made by Mr. Williams at the time of the murder and then dispatched to me to acquaint me with the case.

  “‘After I had dispatched James to the lodge gates, I went upstairs to the room which had been indicated as mine; going into the bathroom, I started a tub, came out closing the door behind me and began to remove my outer clothing, intended to bathe and shave before the family should return. Just as I got into my tub, a shot rang out. My eyes fell on my wrist-watch, exactly at four-fifty. I finished my bath and began to shave. Hearing the sound of voices, I concluded my shaving as rapidly as possible and dressed.’

  “That is Mr. Williams’ own account of his doings. If it is a correct account, it is impossible for him to have gotten down to the dock, or any place else where his presence would be important, and, then to have returned. I am going to call James to verify part of this, for I am sure you will grant me my reasoning?” He pressed the bell for James.

  Lyttle agreed with everything my chief said. “We have already checked the time at which he telephoned headquarters and the time when he walked into the study.”

  “How long an interval?” asked John Patrick sharply. The Sergeant looked uncertain for a minute, and then reached into his pocket and brought out some notes. “Four forty-one and five-five,—twenty-four minutes.” My chief smiled. “Goodness, if you knew him as well as I do, you’d be surprised beyond all measure at his bathing and dressing so rapidly. Now to prove his account true—James,” he addressed the butler who had just knocked and been bidden to enter, “James, did you notice Mr. Williams’ appearance when he first arrived?”

  “‘Deed, I did, suh,” replied that individual warmly. “He was wearin’ a gray business suit, without no topcoat. It wuz wrinkled and dirty. So Ah knowed he had a dirty ride on the train. He had a streak of soot on the back of his neck, up above his collar.”

  I winced at James’ graphic description of my appearance, but John Patrick laughed heartily and held up his hand.

  “How about his face? Did he need g. shave or not?”

  “Yessuh. Ah noted special he hadn’t shaved since goodness knows when, ‘cause most gin’rally, Mr. Williams is whut Ah calls a mos’ perticular gentleman.”

  “Well, I can testify to a clean-shaven chin and golf knickers when I met him. I even recall a slight nick in the chin perhaps caused by too much hurry when shaving.” Lyttle spoke heartily. “That’s fine, Mr. Williams, I’ll check up on your appearance from the taxi driver, and the station agent can probably remember you. If you changed your clothes and shaved, you didn’t have time to do anything else—not of interest to us, anyway. I’m grateful to Mr. Vaile for bringing this simple point to my notice.”

  James was still to be heard from. “Lookit hyar, Mr. Cop, he took a bath, too; leastwise, he used all the hot water, ‘cause there wuz plenty at four-thirty when Ah went out to see, and when Mr. Edwin came in to take his bath, it wuz all gone and Ah had to go an’ het it up again.”

  After James went out, I smiled at Lyttle. “I suppose you’d believe I let the tub run without ever getting in at all. My alibi rests on the shave and change of clothing. I want to show you what a slight circumstance it was to give me that alibi at all. Customarily, I shave in the mor
ning before going to work, but that particular day the fuse blew out in the bathroom and, rather than wait until it was fixed, I went down to the office, planning to go out later to get a shave. Then, leaving on the early train, I had just time to rush back to my apartment and pack, so I arrived with an unshaven chin.”

  Lyttle smiled at me with more cordiality than I had seen him manifest for some time. “Yes, Mr. Williams, the bath and even the change of clothing might have been faked, but the whiskers never. However, don’t think this alibi, resting on such a tenuous basis, is the only thing to clear you. Personally, I was convinced of your innocence all along, on the ground that never in the course of our conversations together have I found any reason to believe you are the type of man who could conceive and execute such a brilliant plot to gain control of the Evans’ fortune.”

  “Well, I’ll be—,” I gasped weakly. “You have finally exonerated me of all blame because you don’t think I have the brains.”

  John Patrick and the Sergeant joined each other in laughter. “Not the criminal brain, anyhow, son,” said the former. “I am sure the Sergeant is not underrating your intelligence, but he simply can’t see you in the role of a great criminal. Nor could I believe he thought very seriously of your concealing any very important evidence—you are too much the lawyer for that. Now you have supplied him with proof of your whereabouts so he can cross you out of the situation entirely.”

  Thus quickly did I dash in and fade out of the principal role of the plot; but the hours when I knew myself to be under suspicion remained indelible on my mind and strengthened my resolution to be implacable in my relentless search for the real criminal.

  TEN

  Before the Sergeant left us, John Patrick extracted from him sufficient information to let us know that the results of yesterday’s test-firing had been absolutely nil as far as connecting any gun in the house with the shooting of Cyrus Evans. This was exactly what I had expected, but it seemed to merit deep thought on the part of my chief. He was obviously distracted and disinclined to work, so I was not surprised when, after a few half-hearted attempts to settle down, he rose and left the study, going into his own room from whence he reappeared with a bundle of notes pertaining to the case. Most of these had been made by me, for John Patrick’s perusal on his return from England, but he had added many himself to keep the record up to date.

  I worked on for more than an hour, occasionally glancing out of the corner of my eye at the immobile figure so absorbed in the papers on his lap. Most of the time I was unconscious that there was any one in the room with me, so quiet did he keep, so profound was his concentration. Once in a while he would turn over the pages of the manuscript softly, as if to compare two separate entries. Then he sat staring for a long time at the carpet. It was almost noon when he got up abruptly and said, “Don’t expect me back for lunch; my errand may take some time.” And with that, he departed, leaving me to my own devices for the rest of the day.

  I had no idea what time my chief returned, although he was present at dinner. I tried to make an opportunity to question him about his mysterious doings when we were alone in the evening, but he smilingly evaded me with the excuse of needing sleep, since we were to go out to the duck-blind before daylight. I was forced to be content; indeed, I knew him well enough to be aware, how little chance I had of forcing his confidence until he was ready to give it to me.

  So on the following morning we prepared to get the duck-shooting for which I had originally come down to Bayside. How much had changed in the very short interval since I had taken the slow train out of Baltimore and precipitated myself into this affair!

  As we went down to the dock to get aboard the cruiser, the ill-fated boat on which Cyrus had made his last trip, I must confess that my scalp prickled and cold chills chased along my spine. It was an eerie feeling to be standing there in the cold, moist November night. The period just before dawn is at best uncanny and incompatible to man and beast alike, as if some vague prehistoric memory would warn us that in the ageless interval between dawn and daylight the familiar homely things of life lose their meaning, giving place to the formless monsters of unwilling imagination whose prototypes roamed the earth ere the beginning of civilization. I glanced nervously over my shoulder to reassure myself that the lumber-pile, put to such sinister use, had vanished, no longer affording shelter to mysterious gunmen.

  Whether, or no, my companion shared my feelings, I cannot say, for he preserved an absolute silence save to issue an occasional word of advice as regarded our progress. As soon as we were aboard the cruiser, I busied myself in the engine room, leaving to him the difficult task of piloting the craft down the winding channel to anchor at the mouth of Romney Creek. Once there, we loaded our equipment into the dory, which we had towed along, and made for the blind. The stars were growing pale, the day was close at hand, and it behooved us to hurry before the ducks had left the upper reaches of the creek to go out into the bay. Already a few stragglers were at an early breakfast, but we held off as the game laws protect the birds until the moment of official sunrise.

  The next few hours were glorious shooting. A crisp breeze, rolling sizable breakers into the sparkling bay, forced the ducks into the creek and, though the chill air gave promise of snow before night, we were kept warm and busy by our sport. As the high spot of the morning, we each got several geese. We had spied a few flying wedges dark against the sky and we prayed for them to come in range. Suddenly, a gander swooped down, his outstretched wings breaking against the air as a skilled pilot might bring his plane in to land. John Patrick got him, while I accounted for several geese which flew around aimlessly waiting for their leader to return to his disorganized flight.

  Then, as the sun shone brighter and the morning wore on, the birds became scarcer, so we took ourselves a little rest to open up the lunch basket of sandwiches and hot coffee, thoughtfully provided by the astute James. As we ate, John Patrick began to tell me of his errand of the previous day and of his suspicions, which were to open up an entirely new line of investigation in our mystery.

  “Bob,” he began, “now that you have been delivered from the jaws of the enemy, so to speak, you know how it feels to be placed under suspicion when you are totally innocent. To date, there has been a great deal of building on circumstantial evidence and I don’t care to contribute any more. Yet, when I was studying your notes of the case, I came across several rather queer items affecting one or more persons—sufficiently queer, in my humble opinion, to merit investigation.”

  “What do you propose doing?” I asked.

  “I think you and I can handle it ourselves. There will be time enough to hand it over to the police when we have something to show for our efforts; even if we find only a mare’s nest, we shall have done no harm, involved no innocent person. To be honest with you, son, my ideas are mighty far-fetched and will need some grooming before we get down to facts.”

  “I like your metaphor,” I answered with a lazy grin. “I presume it signifies a war-horse on the scent of battle. I must admit your remarks, so far, are incomprehensible but interesting.”

  John Patrick never mistook my fooling for disrespect; indeed, I rather think he liked my addressing him as a contemporary, although goodness knows why I shouldn’t. There was a permanent youth about my chief, which made me feel at times as if I were the older and more staid of the two. Now he drew out his pipe, stretched himself out on the hard planks of the blind and rolled up his outer coat, which the heat of the sun had made unnecessary, into a pillow for his head.

  “You remember Edwin’s evidence at the inquest?”

  “Edwin?” I queried in surprise. “Why, no; he was just a witness for his own alibi.”

  “Exactly; and did you notice how much he contrived to get into the records about his own movements for the day?”

  “Now that you speak of it, I recall that I rather wondered at his manner; he was taking up a great deal of the time, telling things not at all pertaining to the murder. He kne
w nothing about the crime itself, apparently.”

  “Apparently. I remember you told me that during the trial you rather distrusted the alibis the brothers offered. Now, the interesting part of his story has to do with the hours between four and six, when he claims to have frequented the Crystal Palace theater in Belton. What a shock he must have sustained when the trooper brought the ticket girl to the hearing and she failed to identify Edwin.”

  “Oh, no,” I corrected him promptly. “If my notes gave you any such impression, they must have been carelessly written.”

  “Well, son,” Vaile smiled at me, “you did a better job on those notes than you have any idea. If I relied on your recollection now, I’m afraid I’d get only a second-hand valuation. My contention is, Edwin never saw the movie, but he laid his plans to use it as an alibi. Now if he needed an alibi, you can bank on it he wouldn’t neglect to have the ticket-seller support it. No one else would be at all important, for it is dark in the theater and the usher who takes your tickets wouldn’t be expected to see and remember faces.”

  “You seem to be very well acquainted with the procedure at the Crystal Palace,” I teased. “I didn’t know you were a theater fan.”

  “I spent all day over there, more or less,” he returned. “But let me tell you what first aroused my suspicions. It is quite a nice point, I think, especially since every one else seems to have missed it completely. Now, according to your notes, Edwin told the Coroner a brief simple tale to account for his whereabouts on the entire day of his uncle’s murder. That was very nice of him, but, as I said, the only part we are interested in is from say three o’clock, when he left Baltimore, to shortly after six, when you all saw him at Bayside. We’ll allow him about an hour to get to Belton, since he says it was about four when he dropped in at the movie. Supposing him, then, to be in Belton at four, how long would it take him to get over here, if he drove directly through?”