“Yes, and something water does not affect, a solid of some kind.”
At this moment John Patrick deemed it advisable to find the book we were ostensibly seeking. “Here it is,” he exclaimed joyously and, tucking it under his arm, piloted me to the stairs. As we mounted, I looked up; silhouetted against the wall above the landing was a man’s figure, motionless, black and huge. Distorted as it was, I could see a hand and arm poised on the stair rail; then, even as I watched, it flitted noiselessly upward.
“Charles!” I exclaimed under my breath. John Patrick did not reply until we had gained the second floor. Then closing our door, which had provided the light to pattern the figure on the landing, he spoke.
“Some one going up to the. third floor certainly. Now, I wonder, were we trailing him or was he trailing us?”
I marveled at John Patrick’s calm. I was trembling like a leaf, despite my efforts at control. “What are we going to do?” I inquired.
“Dress for dinner,” responded my chief. “I want time fo think this over. There are too many elements to this business; one minute, I know what the search is for, but I don’t know who is doing the searching. Then the next minute, I know who wants it, but I don’t know what it is. Talk about a case dripping with clues—I have so many I can’t decipher them, and every one points to a different perpetrator of the crime. We’ve got to eliminate one or two of them soon.”
“I have a clue,” I said soberly. “I mean I have had it at one time or another. I can’t exactly explain, but I feel that I once knew something important but have completely forgotten it by now. I wish it would come back to me; it may be the one thing we need to see through the mass of conflicting evidence.”
John Patrick looked at me gravely. “I know, son, you spoke about it once before. If you ever get hold of it again, remember this one thing—just because the person toward whom it points seems most unlikely, don’t discard any theory you may have. That’s the only way to break this case, make up your mind as to where the facts point, and then go out and get the evidence. I’ve already made up my mind, you see, but I have to be very careful that I’m not carried away by my preconceived ideas to the point where I am inclined to regard everything as proof for my side, when it may be capable of quite a different interpretation, one which may give the lie to all my work.”
“Do you mean to say, you know who killed Cyrus Evans?” I asked.
“Well, why not?” he parried. “You have some one in mind by this time, and why isn’t my guess as good as yours?”
I glanced at him suspiciously, for I was not at all sure he meant the word, guess, to be taken seriously. As for me, I had two suspects now. Edwin quite possibly had taken Elissa’s car and come over from Belton, although I was sure my chief didn’t believe such was the case. I could not begin to hazard what John Patrick really thought was the truth of that affair, but my mind was made up—I could never believe Edwin capable of loving Elissa. Yet, if he were guilty of the murder, that lovely girl was going to be dragged through all the resulting publicity and scandal. I winced from the thought of being the one to bring Edwin to justice, when the act entailed Elissa’s destruction at the same time.
No, I could not exonerate Edwin on logical grounds, but I surely hoped, for the girl’s sake, that Charles was the guilty one. He was rapidly becoming my favorite, largely because we had found we could not overlook his actions even for a short time, while we investigated Edwin. Charles kept coming into the picture, despite our efforts to keep him out for the time being. His shadow on the wall tonight, his silent way of moving, his abrupt manners, all sent a shudder of disgust through me. His wild companions, his illegal enterprises, his possible and very probable presence on the estate at the very time when Cyrus met his death, all made me consider very seriously the part he played in the events at Bayside. But the proof that we must seek—I had none. Where did he get the gun? Where did any one get the gun, for that matter. The gun was not in the house, but we believed the killer was. More curious still, each of the Evans men was provided with a gun on the momentous afternoon, but not one of the bullets fired from any of the three guns corresponded with the bullet extracted from the dead man.
Dinner that evening was a fairly jovial meal, for a wonder. My intense relief at John Patrick’s safe return raised my spirits wonderfully, for no one can go around keyed up as I had been without some reaction. My chief was his usual affable self, carrying on a lively conversation, ably seconded by Tom. Edwin was quiet, but not markedly so, while Charles, moody as usual, threw himself into the talk one minute, and sulked the next. Even so, there was less tension than ordinarily and almost no bickering. Nothing foreshadowed the strange events, so close upon us, which were to lead so rapidly to distressing tragedy and then straight to the horrible solution of the mystery.
We spent all evening together in the gun-room. The huge fire, restocked with logs from time to time, blazed away merrily, giving off a cheerful glow and plenty of warmth. Conversation varied from politics to personalities and back again, with the minimum of disagreement, until finally we all settled down to read books or periodicals in a very home-like way; all save Charles, at least, who sat all evening staring moodily at the fire. Shortly before eleven, James entered bearing a decanter of whiskey and a siphon of seltzer water.
Setting it down on the table, he stepped over to Tom and said something in a low voice. Tom started to his feet with an exclamation, “Go ahead, you fellows, have your whiskey and I’ll join you in a few minutes. James says the fuse has blown out in the whiskey closet, and the whole cellar is in darkness. I’ll have to see what the trouble is and get it fixed so he can go down and bank the fires tonight. Don’t wait on me though.”
John Patrick and I exchanged a hasty glance. Had the blowing-out of the fuse anything to do with the silent search earlier in the evening? Had the mysterious culprit gone down cellar in his quest? Tom had hardly left the room, when Charles sprang to his feet with alacrity to fix whiskeys for us. Each of us accepted a glass, savoring the fragrant aroma of old Scotch. While not a drinking man myself, I deplore that a new generation is growing up in ignorance of the famous old wines and whiskeys of the earlier days. The Evans’ cellars always yielded treasures in the way of drinks, as careful a collection, after a fashion, as the trophies of the gun-room. Nor had I ever heard of one of the Evans’ men getting drunk.
Reflecting thus, I sipped my nightcap, observing that John Patrick did the same. Edwin, on the other hand, took a big gulp of his and made a wry face.
“Good Lord, Charles, is this the best you can do now-a-days? It is foul.”
Charles poured himself a small dose straight and drained it down. “It tastes all right,” he said stiffly. “Go ahead and drink it, and be glad you don’t have to buy the stuff they sell in town.”
So that was the secret of the Evans’ store of liquor; Charles was purveyor for Bayside. I wondered icily if we were partaking of the fruits of the latest voyage.
Then, as I took a second sip, a larger one this time, to tell the truth, it didn’t taste so good. I told myself sternly it was because of my ridiculous prejudice against Charles’ occupation. While I appreciated good liquor, I deplored the means necessary for acquiring it. Anyway, like most rye drinkers, I have never really cared for the peculiar flavor of Scotch, but, not wishing to offend Charles if he took a personal interest in the liquor supply, I drained my glass.
Edwin did the same after some more grumbling, but I noticed that John Patrick set his glass down scarcely half gone. How odd for Edwin’s grousing to arouse a distaste for the drink in the rest of us! I got up to set my empty glass on the tray when the lights went out suddenly. A second later, they flashed on again.
“Tom fixing the fuse,” muttered Charles, his tongue strangely thick.
I stood by the table balancing myself by leaning against it. It seemed unaccountably far off, back to the chair from which I had risen. I decided not to attempt it but to say good-night and go to bed at once. My chief
likewise rose to go, looking at me oddly, and then Edwin got up with a jerk.
“Sitting here in front of the fire all evening has nearly finished me,” he growled.
Tom met us in the hall and, hearing that we were all tired out, laughed and said, “Well, I’ll just go in and get me a nightcap before emulating your good example.”
As I rounded the landing of the stairs, I saw Tom go into the gun-room, almost colliding with Charles who was on his way out.
When we entered the study and were about to separate for the night, John Patrick paused and studied me for a fraction of a second. “You are all tired out, aren’t you, lad?”
I admitted I was, not having had much sleep on the two preceding nights. He patted my arm. “Well, get a good rest tonight,” he mumbled in a voice unlike his own clear-cut tones.
“You are nearly all in yourself,” I remarked in surprise. He only nodded at me as he closed his door. Poor John Patrick; grand old man that he was, he was beginning to show his age, I thought.
As I closed my door, I realized that it was something more than fatigue holding me in its grip; it was a deadly stupor. My brain would not function at all. I could barely keep myself on my feet long enough to get ready for bed. I went through the requisite motions mechanically, my only thought being to lie down and seek oblivion. I could not grasp what had happened, but I did not greatly care, I wanted sleep.
Yet it was not sleep that came to me. It was the lapsing of all consciousness, a pseudo-death. The night brought horrible, intangible, unearthly dreams; ages later, life returned to me slowly, unwillingly, as I felt myself being shaken violently; but even then I could not rouse myself from the weight of my lethargy until a liberal dose of cold water hit me in the face. I sat up groggily, rubbing my eyes, to fall back again, overcome by dizziness and nausea. The room whirled and dipped in frantic revolutions about me. Finally, out of the dancing darkness and points of light, came my chief’s face, looking white and drawn. I focused on the sight until I overcame my sickness enough to perceive him, pale and weak, sitting on the bed beside me.
“What happened?” I asked, pressing my hands to aching temples.
“Drugged,” said John Patrick briefly. “I blame myself for not having realized it last night, when you began acting so queerly. But I had some, too—only half a glass fortunately—so I was unable to think straight.”
“The whiskey,” I said, comprehending only vaguely. He nodded. “It tasted a bit queer at the time.”
I looked about me. The bright morning sunlight streamed in the windows over a scene of incredible disorder. Bureau drawers were turned out, chairs upset, the whole room looked as if a hurricane had struck it.
John Patrick followed my glance with his eyes. “Plain to see why we were drugged. The whole suite has been ransacked. Our unknown friend, whom we heard working downstairs, was engaged with merely the preliminaries at that time. I am going down now to get a cup of coffee and a quart of milk. If we can get the milk down, we ought to feel better.”
Standing up weakly, plainly showing the effect of the drug, my chief departed. Left all alone, I fell back on the pillows with a groan. My head ached, my mouth was dry and foul tasting, my whole body sick and miserable. It seemed an impossibly long time before John Patrick returned, James behind him, bearing toast, coffee and milk. The butler’s face was ashy, his eyes popping out, his hand shaking so that the china rattled on the tray.
“This is terrible, Bob, worse than I feared. Every single person sleeping in this house was drugged, and the whole place turned upside down. James can tell me nothing about it; he didn’t see or hear a thing until he came over this morning to help his wife get breakfast. Even the kitchen has been searched.”
“Was Tom drugged?” I asked, mindful of the fact that we had not seen him drink any of the whiskey.
Both my chief and James looked frightened as I mentioned the name. “Tom is in very bad shape,” John Patrick replied. “Edwin and Charles are stirring a bit and coming to slowly, but I couldn’t get any response from Tom. He is out completely.”
“We could have prevented his being drugged,” I said slowly, “if we had only guessed. He must have had his nightcap after we had ours, but unfortunately we none of us knew what was the matter.”
“I have sent for the doctor,” said John Patrick shortly. “And for the police.”
At the mention of the police, James became more alarmed than ever. “We’s all gwine to be murdered,” he professed in tones which brooked no argument.
My chief turned to him. “No, we are safe for the present, James. You go downstairs and stay with Cornelia. Don’t either of you try to clean up for the present though, for the police will want to see everything just as it is.”
James left with little or no alacrity, as if he preferred our company to his wife’s. We began our coffee and, as the hot liquid slipped down my throat, I began to feel decidedly better.
“Are all the rooms torn up like ours?” I asked.
“Every single room in this house has been entered, some with a skeleton key, and turned out thoroughly while the occupants slept,” answered my chief.
“What has been stolen?” I asked.
“Well,” managing a feeble smile, “the silver is intact and my shirt studs are safe, so I conclude it was not an ordinary burglary. I ought to go to Tom, I suppose,” he broke off, “but I haven’t much strength myself. I hope the doctor will get here soon.”
“You mean Tom’s condition is serious?” I inquired in surprise. My brain was getting clearer now.
“I’m very worried about him. He is still in a drugged slumber which shows no sign of abating. The boys came to quickly, but Tom shows no sign of consciousness.”
“You’d better wait for the doctor, then,” I said. “Since all this,” waving my hand at the disorder in the room, “was done while every one in the house was asleep, you and I will have to admit we were on the wrong track—this is certainly an outside job. We knew the intruder was in the house before dinner, and I think we made a mistake by not telling Tom about it.”
John Patrick looked at me shrewdly. “Bob, we have a great deal on our consciences now and we can’t afford any more mistakes. I will admit that last night’s work puts a different complexion on some things—and it makes others still clearer. We have reached the point where we shall have to take the police into our confidence; but nobody else. Sergeant Lyttle will be over this morning and we will put our heads together. We’ll see first what the police make of it, and then we shall combine forces.”
With this I was forced to be content. My chief undoubtedly knew what was best, but I was now sufficiently alarmed to wish as much support as we could get. The quicker this business was over, the better I would like it.
NINETEEN
The doctor arrived promptly to examine his five patients. He found Charles and Edwin sick and weak, but out of danger, in a state very similar to mine before I had imbibed the restoring milk and coffee. But the medico had to ask John Patrick and me to assist him in caring for Tom, who was still in a deep, drugged slumber. The police arrived; restoring consciousness to the Master of Bayside was of more concern to us than aiding the law, but my chief went reluctantly to their assistance, while I remained to help the doctor. It took an hour or more of steady work to draw Tom out of the shadows, and many times I thought our task a hopeless one, but when things looked blackest he rallied under the stimulant the doctor administered and finally pulled out of danger. When he could speak, he feebly expressed a desire to have James with him, so that he should not be alone when the doctor left. In truth I did think some one should be with him, so I offered my services but he waved me away, reiterating his wish for the butler to stay in the sick room, while I should go to the aid of the police and should request that John Patrick come to see Tom as soon as convenient.
I was not reluctant to join the others in the library. The room had been subjected to the least disorder of any; in fact, as I wandered through the downstairs r
ooms, I rather got the impression that the upset condition was less the result of actual search than it was due to a desire to present an appearance of general confusion. The police must have already arrived at this decision, because they had given the servants permission to straighten up down here.
“Ah, there you are, Mr. Williams.” It was my old friend Lyttle speaking. So he was back on the case again. “How is Mr. Evans coming along?”
“He has had a mighty tough pull,” I answered, “but he is out of danger now and will soon be feeling as well as the rest of us.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” replied the policeman heartily. “This business is bad enough as it is. Perhaps you can help us get a bit forwarder on it—have you found out whether or not anything was missing from your effects?”
I had not as yet had time to make a complete inventory, but I knew my studs lay on the dressing-stand just as I had left them. On the other hand, my wallet had certainly been opened, the papers scattered on the floor, but not a cent of money had been taken. I duly reported these curious facts and, from the way Lyttle received them, I concluded that my tale was the same as the others had told. A strange burglar, indeed, had been at work.
The doctor had come downstairs a few seconds after I did and was now standing on the fringes of the group looking at us curiously. Lyttle turned to him. “Mr. Williams has told us that your patient is coming along nicely. Do you suppose I can send a man upstairs to question him?”
“You may question him,” replied the doctor, “but I shouldn’t advise his getting out of bed. He has had a narrow squeak and ought to take things quietly for a day or two.”
The Sergeant nodded sympathetically and ordered one of his men to go upstairs.
“Will you tell us, please, just what was the matter with your patients this morning?”
The doctor took a chair and puffed out his chest. “I was summoned here by ‘phone call at seven-thirty this morning,” he began, not in the least adverse to giving as many details as he could. “The person who called gave the name of John Patrick Vaile and said he believed the whole family to be suffering from the effects of narcotic poisoning.”
Murder at Bayside Page 20
