“As I said,” went on the Sergeant, paying not the least attention to the foregoing remarks, “I must have some one inside the house, some one who will work with me. I can have everybody shadowed when they go out, I can plant a man of my own at Bayside, but better than any such solution is to be able to take advantage of Mr. Vaile’s well-known and often demonstrated abilities.” He nodded politely at my chief.
Then this young man was aware of John Patrick’s former achievements in connection with various criminal investigations. His stock rose considerably in my eyes, and I was delighted to find him so eager to get our help without displaying any jealousy or annoyance at what he might have regarded as our unjustified interference.
“I am sure,” the Sergeant began, “that all these mysterious actions have been motivated and directed by some one of the family. I do not see how it was done, but I have come to the conclusion that Mr. Evans came to his death at the hands of one of his own kin. I have come to this conclusion after an exhaustive search for the man whom Mr. Thomas saw and shot at the day his father Was killed. Just how this individual was involved I cannot say, beyond the fact that his part was one of hireling rather than principal. Perhaps his business now is to conduct the search for some object which his employer must have. That object, whatever it may be, bears directly on the murder; it is either the thing for which the crime was committed in the first place, or else it is evidence of some one’s guilt. I have to know which.” He held up his hand apologetically as my chief made as if to speak.
“Just one more word, please, Mr. Vaile. Last night’s work was done by the accomplice, since every one in the house was unquestionably under the influence of the drug this morning. Now, what could be the nature of an object which could be so important, and yet whose recovery could be intrusted to a hired criminal?”
John Patrick looked up with an expression of utter weariness and lassitude on his face, such as I had never seen him manifest before. “Sergeant Lyttle,” he began, “what I am about to say now are the words of an old man, tired and disillusioned by recent happenings. I think I could tell you the name of the man who did the murder, but I have not a scrap of proof, nor would you believe me without it. Moreover, I do not think it is possible ever to get the proof you need. But this I do say—the killer left some tell-tale evidence somewhere and that is what he is searching for. For God’s sake, Lyttle, find the thing at once, for if it is in the hands of an innocent person, no matter whether or not he knows the meaning and value of what he has, his life is at stake. Put guards in the house and, if Tom feels that his life was attempted last night, detail a bodyguard for him. Don’t relax your vigilance until you find the object.”
Lyttle sensed the alarm and distress in John Patrick’s voice. “You don’t believe it was found last night?” he challenged.
“No,” Vaile answered quickly, “not unless it was found in the last room searched, and such a supposition seems far-fetched. Every room on the upper two floors was actually ransacked; the downstairs was only made to look that way. We know those rooms have been combed on two previous occasions, at least. Had the object been found last night, the search would have been stopped at once, or else there would have been the same camouflage observable in some rooms up here as we saw downstairs. As I see it, the killer had been looking everywhere without success, so he decided to get us all asleep so deeply that we will not be disturbed as he makes one final grand effort. I greatly fear that effort was as unsuccessful as the others, and I hate to guess what his next move will be.”
Lyttle pondered these remarks for a few minutes. “You insinuate that the killer did the searching last night himself. Do you mean, the real criminal was hired to commit the murder, or do you think some one only pretended to drink the whiskey?”
John Patrick made a weary gesture. “What does it matter in point of law? The testimony of the eye is not always accurate.”
“It matters to me,” said Lyttle decisively. “I am going to have the Baltimore police pick Al Herz up again. Now I have these footprints to go on, I can threaten him, and if he knows anything about last night he will talk fast enough when he finds out murder is connected with those doings.”
“Charles drank his whiskey straight last night,” I volunteered. “Would that make any difference in the action of the drug?”
“Probably not,” answered Lyttle, “but it might have made it easier to dispose of the contents of the glass without drinking them. I’m inclined to believe that Mr.
Vaile is right and some one only pretended to drink last night.”
“Then it was Charles,” I exclaimed triumphantly. “Edwin complained of the bitterness of the whiskey.”
Lyttle only smiled. “Aren’t you underrating the intelligence of your adversary? That is exactly what a clever man would do, if he knew it was going to taste bad and he was intending to take just one sip himself before throwing the rest away, while you were all intent on tasting your own.”
I nodded thoughtfully. “He tried to minimize the risk by speaking of it himself and then we were more likely to drink out of perversity or politeness. At any rate, that’s what happened.”
The Sergeant went on, “Perhaps there would have been extra inducements had some one refused to finish a sufficient amount of his nightcap. If that doctor weren’t such a pompous old dunce, we might have found out if he suspected either Charles or Edwin of shamming this morning, but he would consider the question lese majesté both toward himself and his patients.”
“I noticed his reaction when you suggested that we had taken the drug ourselves, rather than having it accidentally administered,” I laughed.
“Yes, he’s the kind of a doctor who, when a broker jumped out of a twenty-story window during the late depression, would certify that the death was due to natural causes. Well, I think he’d be right at that.”
I stiffened involuntarily. I did not think it becoming of the police to jest at the idea of a business suicide. Lyttle sensed my disapproval and went on, “But the most important thing for us to decipher is—what is the nature of the object for which all this searching is being done?”
“Something small,” hazarded John Patrick, “judging from the places searched.”
The Sergeant was silent a few seconds. “Mr. Vaile,” he asked, “is there any chance of a new will turning up, or any document which would upset the existing will?” My chief shook his head emphatically. “Not a chance of a will benefiting either Charles or Edwin, if that is what you mean. I doubt if Cyrus would make any will at all without consulting us, but if he had decided to alter the provisions of the existing document, he never would have increased the benefits to either brother. If he disinherited Tom, Heaven only knows what he would have done with his money, but it would go to some institution rather than any one else in the family. Cyrus had heard rumors of Charles’ bootlegging, and he distrusted both boys’ predilection for low company. No, the document in effect now was made some years ago, and if Cyrus thought of altering it, it would have been to reduce the bequests. However, on that score, he told me often enough that he would leave the will the way it was, partly because they were his dead brother’s sons and deserved something on that account, and partly to keep them from disputing the will and tying up the estate. He read them rightly; with each of them, a bird in the hand is worth a thousand in chancery.”
The Sergeant nodded. “Then even if he knew of Mr. Thomas’ gambling and had cut him out of the inheritance, he would not have increased the nephews’ share.”
“I think he would have given Tom the same amount he gave the other two, and left the bulk of the estate elsewhere. But don’t worry about that, man, there is no other will. You can’t dispose of an estate like this one without calling in a lawyer. I wasn’t called, and if any one else had been, don’t you suppose we would have heard from him by now?”
Lyttle sighed. “I’m just trying to figure out what would have been important enough for anybody to go to such desperate lengths to find. Well, I�
��ll call Baltimore to pick up Herz and try for a lead there. I shall accept your suggestion, gladly, about having Mr. Thomas Evans protected and, in return, I shall rely on you to keep me informed of everything going on in the house. For, mark my words, the solution to this mystery is right here under our noses, and the real criminal a resident of Bayside.”
TWENTY
From the moment when Lyttle took us into his confidence and requested our help, we began to work hand in hand with the police. In fact, John Patrick became the directing head of the investigation now nearing its sensational end. And although he never took the Sergeant entirely into his confidence, due to his unrelaxing personal reticence, at least he gave him whole-hearted aid and valuable suggestions.
My chief was in a peculiar position; he already knew who had done the murder, he even understood what had been the object of the unrelenting search throughout the house; but he did not know where it was hidden, nor was he sure of the actual status of the person who, at least once, had had it in his possession. His worst handicap, as he explained after all was over, was his absolute lack of evidence and his great fear that, failing the necessary evidence, anything he did might precipitate another murder. There was nothing to do but wait for the killer to smoke himself out; and if another death should result because of this waiting—how else could it have been prevented?
John Patrick’s first move, when he assumed control of the final plan of campaign, was designed to reduce the risk to the minimum. He sent for the police to remain at the house, ostensibly to look for some clue to the identity of the professional house-breaker, since this myth was to be religiously held to for public consumption. Although I realized that this measure was for the protection of us all, it made me feel ill at ease and more fearful than I had been at any previous time. It smacked too much of armed guards and a state of siege for my liking.
As long as we live had been at Bayside together, there had been an undercurrent of suspense and excitement, it is true, but nothing we could not look to protect ourselves against, even though we must needs walk warily until the unmasking of the killer permitted us to relax and put away our apprehension. Now with the summoning of the police and the installation of the troopers in our residence, I felt that we were acknowledging ourselves helpless against the sinister shadow menacing us, and I did not like the resultant sense of dependency. It seemed to me, we were making a confession of failure when we had already done so much, John Patrick and I, he suggesting a course of action for me to follow out.
We had broken down Edwin’s alibi and established the fact that he could have been at Bayside when Cyrus was killed. We had ferreted out Charles’ hidden activities, and now had a strong suspicion that he had been within two hundred feet when the crime was committed. In spite of our success thus far, we were now to give up our problem and depend on outside help, when we might be arriving at the solution unaided. I racked my brains all day for something of hidden significance, which might furnish the key to our puzzle and permit us to fit the rest of the fragments into place.
Along toward nightfall the troopers withdrew from the house, save for the one man detailed to guard Tom until he was strong enough to look after himself. I was amazed to note that the assigning of this bodyguard called forth no comment from either of the brothers, for I thought that Charles, at least, would have something to say on the subject. I began to suspect that both of the boys had been more upset by last night’s happenings than they dared admit, either because they thought matters were going too far, or because they had guilty knowledge and were trying to conceal it. Three troopers were to remain at Bayside as a patrol for the grounds, and their presence was to be a regular feature from now on, regardless of whether or not Tom decided to dispense with the bodyguard.
Meanwhile, all of us had made a splendid recovery from our unfortunate experience of the night before, whatever effect it may have had on our mental states. Tom had staged a rapid come-back in the afternoon and by evening he insisted, in spite of the doctor’s orders to the contrary, on getting up and joining us downstairs after dinner. We were all gathered in the gun-room, as was the custom at Bayside, when he came in. I thought he showed the effects of his illness quite plainly, both by his nervous manner and his random, ceaseless conversation; but perhaps this was due, in a measure, to Charles’ presence. It truly was a queer situation which threw into close proximity, first Mr. Vaile and me, Tom’s guests, free from suspicion of complicity in the crime but bending our best efforts toward the apprehension of the criminal; Edwin and Charles, Tom’s cousins and pensioners, one or both of whom he suspected of the murder of his father and the attempted murder of himself. I wondered why Charles remained, unless, as seemed doubtful, he was unaware of Tom’s accusation to Lyttle on that very morning. I finally decided that he was sufficiently deep in his own thoughts to ignore Tom’s presence, or perhaps it was his usual reckless bravado holding him here in the gun-room with us. Whatever may have been the individual reasons, the fact remained that none of us seemed to be desirous of leaving the presence of the others to seek solitude on the floors above where the lone trooper kept his solitary vigil, grim reminder of last night’s disorder.
We were all at pains to make conversation, lest the lack of it should suggest our dispersing for the night. Tom kept pacing ceaselessly up and down the room, finally stopping in front of the gun-case containing the old frontier weapon which I have mentioned once before in this narrative. After a few moments of hesitation, he opened the case and drew out the gun.
“Did you ever see this?” he inquired, addressing himself to my chief. “I know you don’t particularly care for museum pieces, but this might be of interest to you.”
John Patrick held out his hands without exhibiting more than perfunctory concern. “I see,” he said, “an old single-action Colt. Not an uncommon relic of the frontier days. A certain romance about them, too; with just such a gun, I suppose, Billy the Kid terrorized Tombstone, and other hardy plainsmen gained fantastic reputations for their marksmanship.”
I reached for the gun idly; I had seen it before and knew why Tom was smiling as he listened to Vaile’s disinterested words, but, like the rest, I wished to keep the conversation going and ugly thoughts at bay, even if it had to be done at the cost of repetition of the old story. Besides, to tell the truth, when Tom first handed us the gun I did not recognize it.
“Nice balance,” I commented. “Do you suppose those old-timers could shoot from the hip with anything like the accuracy attributed to them?’
Tom began to laugh. “As a pair of gun-experts you are strangely blind. The revolver you are holding is not precisely the one that figured in frontier romance.” John Patrick came to my side and I showed him the changes that had been made in the weapon—for now I recalled them. In shape and finish it was exactly what it purported to be, a relic of an earlier day, but closer inspection revealed that it had been modified by master craftsmen in a surprising way. It was fitted with hammer, cylinder and ejector, adapting it to present-day ammunition and rendering it capable of firing just such a cartridge as had killed Cyrus Evans.
“A curiosity indeed,” murmured John Patrick. “But why did you have it done?”
Charles spoke up from his favorite chair by the fireplace. “My idea,” he explained. “It rather started by my wondering, just as Bob did a minute ago, how much truth there was in the tall stories of marksmanship of the old frontiersmen. I began to study some of the weapons of the period, and, while I still distrust the tales, it is on account of the old-fashioned ammunition. They knew how to make guns in those days, real guns, for men who could use them. The balance is nearly perfect, the grip far more comfortable than any modern pistol—it’s the best designed gun ever made and sold. I have small use for an automatic and, if you don’t believe my contentions as to the accuracy and penetration of that pistol there, take it out and see how it works with modern ammunition.”
“I’d like to,” John Patrick responded, but Charles was off on his favo
rite hobby.
“As for your guess about Billy the Kid, you are not so far away from the mark. A fellow brought that pistol to me from Mexico and told me that it belonged to one of the old Arizona marshals, who eventually found life more pleasant across the border.”
“Is that so?” John Patrick was looking curiously at the notches on the grip as he handed it back to Tom. The latter polished the gun lovingly before he made as if to put it back in its velvet case. “Tell me more about it,” my chief begged like a small boy scenting a grim story.
But Charles was not to be drawn into a discussion of the pistol’s lurid past, even if he knew it. “It saw bloody service in the days which the best minds choose to gloss over as a necessary but deplorable concomitant to our glorious civilization—let it rest in peace now.”
“Here, Edwin, you have never seen it since it came back from the factory, have you?” Tom said in the silence following Charles’ last words. Edwin took the gun out of its case and aimed it a few times with real delight in his eye.
“I knew it was here, I think, but I never saw it before, or quite realized what Charles had had done to it. This makes a real weapon now, doesn’t it? I’ve heard Charles ride his hobby before, but I didn’t guess there was so much in it. Mind if I try shooting some day, Charles?”
As I watched the scene, I could not help reflecting that it would have been far better for both those boys, had they lived in the days when the gun was young. They were of the temper which would have written fresh pages in the history of the old West; the Evans family would have made great names in the frontier times. Romance might have presented them as lawless killers, judged by our standards, but their fame would have acquired the softening and mellow glamour that attached itself to the heroes of the great Southwest. It is an error for nature to permit her children to be born out of their time, a waste of human body and human soul. If my worst suspicions were correct and one of these men was a murderer, how much of the fault was his, and how much that of the era into which, through no asking of his own, he had the misfortune to be born?
Murder at Bayside Page 22
