Murder at Bayside

by Raymond Robins

  “He could make it in a half hour easily,” I answered. “All right, then, it is certainly within the realm of probability that he was here.”

  “But I don’t see why you should think he actually did come on to Bayside,” I objected. “Just because the ticket-seller didn’t recognize him is not good enough. I’m inclined to agree with the Coroner; you remember he said it would be queer if she did.”

  “My suspicions were aroused by Edwin’s behavior. It seemed to me, he expected so confidently to be recognized, that when the girl professed herself unable to do so he got in a sort of panic.”

  I had to object to this. “That is just what he did not do; he took it very lightly and proceeded to tell the court an amusing episode from the picture.”

  “Quite right,” answered John Patrick. “Up to then, he had been grave and reserved; now he became light and jovial, injecting the only humor of the day into the court investigating, you must remember, the death of his uncle. I wonder, would you really expect such behavior from Edwin?”

  I had to admit that my chief had scored a point on me there. It was true he had been the only witness to seek the favor of the court when it would have been more like him-to resent any possible disbelief in his words.

  My chief continued: “This was what struck me first and made me think the point, however small, was worth investigating. The first move I made was to try to see the girl who gave her evidence that she was at the ticket window on the afternoon of November tenth. She was not to be found. A girl named Catherine Small has the job regularly, and she told me how on the particular afternoon in question she had been taken ill and left early, her sister volunteering to take her place. I asked Miss Catherine if she would have noticed Mr. Edwin Evans, had she been there when he came in. She left no doubt on the score; she knows him well, because he always talks to her, occasionally brings her small presents and is, all in all, the nicest gentleman who comes to the theater. She told me with the warmest regrets in her tone how sorry she was to have been absent from the window the day that Mr. Evans had been there last, as she would have unfailingly known him. I inquired as to her sister’s whereabouts, but drew a blank there. It seems, the sister works in Wheeling and was home for a week’s visit only. But I did see a picture of the girl and there is enough resemblance between the two so that Edwin, glancing casually through the window, may not have realized the substitution. How does this reasoning strike you?”

  “It seems probable that Edwin expected the girl to recognize him and not until he saw her in court did he realize his error; but I don’t yet see how you know he wasn’t at the cinema.”

  “Oh, I’m not done yet. I found out many more things. I was somewhat handicapped by the fact that your notes rather slurred over the nature of the scene to which Edwin alluded in court, but I came to the conclusion it must be the part of the picture which is supposed to take place behind the scenes at a musical comedy.”

  “Yes, I think so,” I replied, rather puzzled. “I saw the picture in Baltimore. The heroine becomes a member of the chorus and they run several scenes with showgirls and so on, and then the heroine comes in a la Lady Godiva on a white horse. The humor lies in the bewilderment of her country swain, who stumbles in on the rehearsal.”

  “Quite so,” John Patrick watched me with a twinkle in his eye. “Was the picture in Baltimore before it came out here?”

  “About a week before.”

  “Possibly Edwin did see it after all, then, but I fancy it was mere chance if he did. Generally speaking, I judge he reads about his pictures.”

  “What on earth do you mean?” I asked.

  My chief chuckled. “I might know you wouldn’t guess. You see, Bob, they publish magazines devoted to the motion picture industry—”

  “Of course,” I murmured indignantly. “They have pictures of the stars and interviews with them. I’m not such a back number as not to have seen them.”

  “Good!” exclaimed John Patrick. “Then you will get the point when I tell you that in the course of my more recondite searchings, I found a number of gaudy pictures obviously cut from these publications adorning James’ cottage, and when I questioned him he admitted freely that he had gotten them from magazines which Edwin had brought to the house and later discarded.”

  “An astounding taste on Edwin’s part,” I admitted smiling; “but not necessarily indicative of all the information you have drawn from it.”

  “Wait a minute; the knowledge which James imparted to me sometime ago was in the back of my mind when I was going over the case and, under the circumstances, I felt it permissible to do a little surreptitious raiding. You must remember that at the time of which I am speaking, I was anxious to free you from the talons of the police, then eagerly reaching out for you. I believed the end to justify the means, even though to encompass your escape I had to feed another victim to the rapacious jaws of the not-to-be-denied constabulary.”

  “Go on,” I said, much amused, “I judge this is a high-flown preamble to a confession of theft; or was it only breaking and entering?”

  My chief paid me no attention. “I was in no danger of being interrupted, since Edwin had gone to Baltimore, and Charles had departed to the village for a hair-cut, so I paid their room a little visit. In Edwin’s bedroom, on the night-table between a copy of Polo and a copy of Yachting, I found the latest edition of Photo Review.”

  “And that,” I asked, having caught on at last, “contained a review of ‘Sinners Indeed’?”

  “Quite right. As a matter of fact, it was a very brief resume of the story and criticism of the picture, which I am inclined to believe perhaps Edwin had seen after all, probably in Baltimore. But he never saw it in Belton, Bob, and I found the clue to that fact right in the very magazine in Edwin’s room.”

  “What do you mean?” I was very curious and wide-awake now.

  “A bit of editorial comment bewailed the tendency prevailing in small towns of permitting local censorship to ruin artistic and expensive production by deleting certain scenes distasteful to the prurient mind. Among the pictures so affected in certain localities was mentioned ‘Sinners Indeed,’ and the episode questioned by the rural bluenoses was none other than the famous chorus scene.”

  “It was cut out at Belton?” I asked incredulously.

  “That was my first business—to find out whether Belton was one of those towns whose Puritans were offended by this cinema bit. The State Board of Censors is very lenient, as you know, and that makes the local censors twice as vigilant. I questioned the manager of the theater and then confirmed what he told me by the evidence of three more people who had seen the show—but the manager alone should have convinced me. His lamentations were long and loud on the subject, for it seems that one of his patrons had seen the movie in its pristine purity—or lack of it—in the city, and the estimable lady had immediately taken it up with the local and self-appointed guardians of public morals in our county seat, with the result that the offending bit of celluloid was stricken out remorselessly amid loud shouts of ‘What is wrong in the Free State?’”

  I was white with excitement. Provided my chief had followed the proper line of reasoning—and it seemed to me he had—then Edwin had deliberately lied on the witness stand. I had sensed from the beginning that there was something queer about his eagerness to get his story before the troopers; now I saw that his whole reason for doing so was to disarm suspicion. He could not afford to have his tale questioned. And we had all been blind enough to follow his lead like dumb sheep. My breath was coming in quick gasps.

  “Why, then, we know the possible murderer!” I said, my words tumbling over each other. “If Edwin told a lie on the witness stand, the only conceivable reason must have been to conceal his presence at Bay-side.”

  “What would you suggest doing about it?” Vaile asked with maddening calmness.

  “Why, tell the police, of course. We ought to arrest him right away. We can do that, you know—any citizen can.”

 
; My chief sighed. “You are too impetuous, Bob.”

  “Why not, we know he didn’t tell the truth?” I said, doggedly.

  “We think he didn’t,” John Patrick pointed out. “The police thought you were somewhere outside the house, until you proved you weren’t.”

  “That was different. I was absolutely innocent.”

  “Unfortunately, from the point of view of admissible evidence, innocence is generally far harder to prove than guilt. Now, suppose you go to Lyttle and say, ‘Look at here, Sergeant, I have reason to believe that Edwin was not at the movies at all on the afternoon of November tenth; he described a scene from a picture, but it had been cut out by censorship when the film was shown at Belton.’ Then Edwin comes along and says, ‘Oh, yes, how stupid of me; I saw the picture in Baltimore and liked it so well I went to see it again at Belton, but now I remember that part was cut out. Thank you very much for reminding me.’ What are you going to do then? Can you prove he didn’t see the movie in Baltimore? Can you deny, he wasn’t too excited at the inquest to remember which time he saw the interesting bit?”

  “Well, why not tell Lyttle what we know?” I urged again. “He can work on the proof better than we can.”

  “I don’t want to, at least until we are sure we understand the significance of what we have found out. We need some confirmation of what, after all, is only the guess of an old man.”

  “It isn’t a guess,” I protested. “We are practically sure he lied on the witness stand.”

  Vaile interrupted me hastily. “That is exactly what he didn’t do, Bob, and I want you to note the point carefully. He lied to Lyttle, and he lied to the Coroner, and so successful were his prevarications that he was not asked, when the case came to trial, for any account of his movements. I want you to keep in mind the question, would he have lied in Court? You see, he was taking a terrific chance to tell the story he did at the inquest—now would he have taken the chance for any reason in the world save to hide his presence on the estate on the afternoon in question? The stake against him, the penalty if he lost, was the casting of suspicion in his direction. But if he told the same tale at the actual trial, he would have been liable to indictment for perjury, even if they could not pin the murder to him. Would he have taken that gamble? In other words, how big was the stake for Edwin?”

  “Plenty big enough,” I put in, “if he committed murder.”

  “Or if he did not do the murder, but was on the grounds when it occurred and has some guilty knowledge.”

  “He is in it somehow,” I exclaimed with certainty; “and we are going to find out how.”

  “Good! But remember, no preconceived ideas when you start your detective work.”

  “What am I to do? Are we going to carry on without the police?” I asked.

  “Just so. I want to find out what Edwin was up to, why he did these peculiar things. I think the place to start is Baltimore, where you can begin to trace his movements for the day. See if he has told any other lies. We have to find a convincing motive for him, remember.”

  “He had motive enough,” I said. “He always wanted money.”

  “Always, is one of the longest words in the English language. The murder took place on a particular afternoon. Now, why and, above all, who was the tramp—”

  I broke in, “Edwin, of course, and Tom knew it all the time. He’d go that far to protect one of his own family.”

  “Are you sure?” John Patrick eyed me meditatively. “I don’t know, but we’ve got to make the tramp fit in somehow. This business is not going to be handed over to the troopers until we have a neat, shipshape little package of evidence, proof against any defence the criminal may offer. You may find other people involved, other motives—all sorts of things may pop up and we must be prepared for them.”

  I was eager now to start.—“Shall we go to Baltimore tomorrow?” I queried.

  “Not we’—you. We are not going to be too obvious about this. You go to Baltimore, talk to everybody you can find who saw Edwin on the tenth, find out what he said and how he acted; then go over to the Crystal Palace, talk with Miss Small, look over the theater and see how the alibi worked. He didn’t just buy a ticket and turn around to walk away, you know.”

  The rest of the day was marked by spasmodic flights until shortly before sunset, when the ducks returned to the creek in full force. For the half-hour before the legal time limit ran out, we were busy shooting and retrieving our kill. Finally, as the hands of my wrist-watch read two minutes past five, the official hour of sunset, we ceased our sport, packed our gear and returned to the cruiser. After I had her engines started, I went up on deck and sat on the rail. The twilight was fast closing in and only the shadowy form and glow of his pipe marked where John Patrick stood at the wheel.

  “Son,” he said, as soon as he heard me, “there is something I want to impress on you. You are embarking on a dangerous course, pitting your wits against a desperate criminal. Don’t ever forget it, act slowly rather than rashly.”

  I shrugged my shoulders in the darkness. Truly, John Patrick was more fit for arm-chair detection than real work. I admired the ability with which he deduced the significant facts, but I was glad he was leaving me to do the actual trailing, for I was certain I would not be hampered by any foolish over-cautiousness.

  Just before it was time for me to return to the engine, I heard a chuckle. “Bob,” said Vaile, “do you realize, if Edwin did do the murder, the thing to catch him up will be the act of the local board of censors? I reckon, that’s mighty near the best excuse any one has yet found for censorship.”

  ELEVEN

  I had no past experience to guide me as to the proper procedure to follow when I set out to trace Edwin’s movement in Baltimore, nor did I have any particular idea just what to expect. Neither did I have any thought that the police might have already covered my line of investigation. It rather surprises me now, when I think it over, that I succeeded twice where the professionals failed; once by reason of painstaking concern with what the official mind felt was a useless triviality, and again by reason of what my friends politely call my innate artlessness.

  I decided to begin my work by presuming upon a very casual acquaintance with the junior member of the brokerage firm, which had the doubtful privilege of carrying Edwin’s account. I left Bayside in my bantam Henley, a relic of an inspired English trip, which no longer attracts the attention it once did, due to the advent of the American Austin. I drove the forty miles to Baltimore, arriving at the broker’s office about ten-thirty, and immediately requested to see young Courtney.

  “Hello, Bill,” I greeted him with, I hoped, a fairly convincing attempt at lightness. “Just dropped in to see you; I’m not in town much these days.”

  “Oh, hello, Williams,” he said, carefully closing the door into the customer’s room, whence my call had summoned him. “You are a stranger in our establishment. Well, a lot of new people are coming into the market these days.”

  “Not on your life,” I disclaimed hastily. “I’m just in for a social call—not an idea of business. At least, so far as I am concerned,” I amended craftily. “To tell the truth, I am a bit interested in stock quotations on account of a client; you know we are hard at work settling the Evans’ estate.”

  “Oh!” commented Courtney, shortly, cast down in his hope of a prospective customer. “Well, I suppose old Cyrus did hold a few stocks, although nothing like what he held in his heyday. I tell you, Bob, that’s what made the Old Pirate rich—buying them when they were low and selling them when they were high.”

  I grinned. “There speaks the young salesman. Does your next speech have to do with not selling your country short, or do you prefer Rothschild’s immortal refutation of your proverb?”

  Court laughed and replied, “When do you get through the business down in the country? Maybe I can sell you some bonds—you ought to invest your fees in something.”

  I thought I saw an opening. “No hurry; the heirs are content to wait
long enough to get it all correct and shipshape.”

  “They are, are they?” Bill rose to the bait beautifully. “Some of them may sing another tune if the market goes down much further.”

  “Edwin told me he was holding a short position,” I said lightly. “He doesn’t seem pressed for funds.”

  Courtney’s professional taciturnity settled down on him and he seemed to regret the one outburst. As I could hardly hope to get him to give a client away so easily, I bided my time, interested myself in his business and submitted to being shown around the premises. When we returned to the office, I could see that he was plainly waiting for me to leave. The moment had come to risk more direct measures.

  “Sit down a minute, Court,” I pleaded. “Mr. Vaile and I have struck a snag and he sent me up here to get your help. There is something queer in the records at Bayside and to get them straight I’ve got to get a line on some of Edwin’s transactions. I know you don’t generally feel free to impart information about a customer’s dealings with you, but you know how it is—exceptional circumstances and all that.”

  I wondered if this mixture of truth and falsehood would be sufficient to tap the well-springs of information; to my surprise, Courtney looked absolutely relieved.

  “Don’t apologize, Bob, a broker doesn’t feel natural nowadays unless somebody is investigating him for something. But, in all seriousness, I’m glad for a chance to talk things over with you. The trouble is, we have been bothered continually by the police. Jones and I took lunch with Edwin the day Cyrus was killed. At first the questions the police asked were natural enough—just to establish the fact that Edwin was here and all.” He stopped a second to light a cigarette and then continued, “This last week we have had two calls from a fellow named Lyttle. He snoops around here asking all kinds of questions, but when you try to pin him down and get rid of him, he evades you with some remark about keeping his records straight.”