Edwin, replacing the pistol in its case and snapping shut the lid, put a period to my thoughts. After all, we cannot choose the age in which to live, nor could I afford to criticize it. Where would I have been without the great corporations that gave rise to my profession? I should not have cared to be a lawyer in the gaudy days of the old frontier; I fear I have not the proper temperament.
Just then James came in and summoned me to the telephone. To my surprise it was a toll call from Baltimore.
“Hello, Mr. Williams,” said a familiar voice. “Sergeant Lyttle talking. I thought you might be interested to know that we picked up Al Herz. He seemed to be a favorite suspect of yours.”
I was not able to understand exactly what Lyttle was driving at, but I was tremendously interested in his news. “Yes, indeed,” I answered. “Has he told you anything yet?”
The Sergeant’s tone was grim. “Yes, he told me a lot, but it isn’t half what he is coming through with before we are done. It is too late tonight, but I wondered if you and Mr. Vaile would like to come up to town tomorrow. I’ve got to stay here until we decide how valuable this evidence is, and the D. A.’s office would kind of like to go over it with you all.”
I realized that the Sergeant’s “you all” meant my chief in particular, so I promised that both of us would be up in the morning and made an appointment before I hung up.
Returning to the gun-room, I was not a little elated. Al Herz was my prize suspect, notwithstanding the Sergeant’s disparagement of his capabilities. I did not have the proof for my theory, but it did seem to me that Herz filled the bill to a nicety. It would be far more satisfactory to make a scapegoat out of a professional crook than to pin the murder to one of the Evanses, no matter if I did think they were fully capable of it. To find a murderer among my own acquaintances rather upset my idea of things as they ought to be and disillusioned me as to the safeguards of contemporary civilization. I could hardly wait to break the news to my chief.
As Charles had left the gun-room before my return, I believed it safe to hazard a guarded mention of the morrow’s expedition.
“Sergeant Lyttle was on the ‘phone,” I remarked casually. “He has an errand for us to do in town and I took the liberty of promising our co-operation.”
John Patrick nodded, a questioning look in his eye. “Will it take very long?”
I thought a minute. “We have to go to Baltimore; suppose we leave just before lunch and then we can be back in time for dinner.”
“If it will take that long,” announced my chief, “we had better go earlier, as there is some business at the office awaiting our attention.”
“How about you, Edwin?” asked Tom. “Shall you be going up with them?”
Edwin looked rather surprised and remarked stiffly, “I shall be away tomorrow, if that is what you want to know, but I am going in my own car.”
“I merely wished to tell James about lunch,” Tom explained coolly.
Edwin vouchsafed no reply, leaving Tom to surmise the time of his departure. I wondered idly if he intended to see Elissa. I wished I could have the opportunity to shadow him. Then an idea struck me; what would happen if I should call on Elissa myself? After all, I did know her and surely her residence in Belton was no secret, even though I had failed to discover it in the course of my early inquiry at the drugstore.
Later on that night, after John Patrick and I had gained our rooms, I suggested some such course of action; first, however, explaining the real nature of our trip to Baltimore. When I had done talking, my chief held up his hands in mock horror.
“Bob, you are hopeless. You are ready to pin the case on Edwin, yet you more than suspect Charles, and you really hope Al Herz is guilty. Now I can’t believe this was a gang murder. I don’t even agree with the Sergeant in his theory. You are in no frame of mind to sift any evidence dispassionately. You would better let me go to the police station myself, and leave you to attend to things at the office.”
“The way this case looks to me,” I said stiffly, for I felt no slight grievance at his words, “is that if Edwin had some means of conveyance from Belton he could easily have committed the murder. If he didn’t, then Charles did. At least, he was on the scene—or practically so. If he did kill his uncle, then that Herz person was accessory after the fact. I would not be surprised if he could explain what became of the gun and who was the tramp Tom chased.”
“And shot at?” queried John Patrick softly.
“No,” I replied thoughtfully. “I still can’t explain the shooting—but perhaps Herz can.”
My chief’s voice was kind. “Boy, I don’t want you along tomorrow, because I don’t want you to get too much conflicting evidence in your head. I have to rely on your memory of what you think happened on November tenth, last. I’ll tell you what Al Herz says about it, and then we’ll go over the stories, point by point. In that way, your own mind will be clearer and we’ll be of more help to each other.”
“Do you mean that I am not to go to police headquarters with you?”
“Just so. There is plenty for you to attend to at the office. After all, the firm can’t function properly with both members out running down a murder.”
With this decision I was forced to be content, although I did not relish spending the day working in our Baltimore office, while John Patrick was in the center of things.
“All right, then—but don’t forget to let me know everything they get from Herz,” I said.
TWENTY-ONE
The next morning we left Bayside early and drove to Baltimore before any of the family were up. It proved a long day for me, forbidden to attend the conference in the District Attorney’s office, forced to discipline my wandering thoughts by working in my musty quarters. For the first time in my life my spirit rebelled against the corporation reports and balance-sheets formerly containing all the romance in the world for me. Over folios of closely-typed script, designed to smooth the path for a gigantic merger, appeared Elissa’s golden head and Edwin’s face with his eyes narrowed as he had aimed the old pistol last night. I could hear again the ring of metal as Charles, half in scorn, half in bravado, threw the key down on our study desk, the day he asked us to take charge of it. What was the meaning of the raid on his room? Had Herz done it at Charles’ bidding, or had the two fallen out?
I shook my head impatiently; I must banish these tempting thoughts and get my mind on the business before me. How slowly time crawled, as I emulated our office boy’s technique and went about my work with one eye on the clock, one ear cocked to catch the striking of the hours. It was six o’clock, pitch dark outside and snowing, when John Patrick came into the room.
“Come, Bob,” he said in tones so abrupt as to contrast harshly with his usual courteous speech, “get your coat and come on. We must get back to Bayside at once. Lyttle is out in the car and he will give you a full explanation as we drive along.”
My chief’s obvious disinclination to stop and discuss matters made me silent as I got on my overcoat and hastened down to the car. I got in the back seat of the sedan and sat beside the Sergeant. Since all the windows, save the one at the driver’s elbow, were rolled up to keep out the snow, the three of us sat snugly for conversation.
“What about it?” I asked eagerly, as John Patrick shifted gears and nosed his way out into traffic.
“Oh, Herz came across with enough evidence to stock a farm,” answered Lyttle. “Being an innocent bootlegger, he was only too eager to disavow any connection with the murder. The trouble is that evidence—well, evidence isn’t always proof.”
I nodded my comprehension. “Evidence can be taken to mean one thing one time, and another thing entirely different at other times, depending on contributing circumstances.”
Lyttle smiled a bit sourly. “You’ve hit it, Williams.” We were passing up Charles Street, whose gaily decorated shops proclaimed the imminence of the Christmas season. “For instance, look at the Salvation Army Santa Claus with his kettle on the corner. Now
there is evidence before your eyes as to the existence of Santa Claus. But I have to get his confession as to driving reindeer in defiance of the traffic laws before I can arrest him.”
“And then, out of your own knowledge and experience, can you believe his confession?” queried John Patrick sardonically.
“I sure can, if I can get it,” announced the Sergeant in a decided tone of voice.
“Would you mind telling me what this is all about?” I asked a trifle impatiently.
The Sergeant turned to me. “On November tenth, last, at four in the afternoon, an innocent little group of bootleggers met on the shore of the Bayside estate, down there where the bayou comes in.”
My heart leaped; once again my deduction was right.
“This group comprised one Al Herz, one Angelo Morelli, and one Spider Longstreet, all known to the police, not favorably but well. They had come there to meet Charles Evans, who had loaned the gang his cruiser, and his uncle’s property, to assist in the rumrunning expedition. As they stood there quietly, the four of them, a shot rang out. Charles crept forward over the rocks to investigate, while the other three stood there, holding hands or playing mumbley-peg, I suppose. At any rate, Evans returned, gun in hand, some fifteen minutes later. It was not he, but Morelli, who approached Herz later and instructed him to testify at the inquest, in order that no suspicion should be cast in their direction through their association with Charles. I understand, you have already seen Morelli, so you can appreciate how compelling he could be.”
“I?” I inquired in surprise.
“If you will go to crab and beer places, you must not be surprised at the people you meet there,” Lyttle answered with a boyish grin.
So Morelli was my friend with the compelling voice and sinister glance. “What is Edwin’s connection with the gang, then?” I asked.
“None,” replied John Patrick over his shoulder. “Lyttle thinks it was undoubtedly Charles who was there, and who made his exit through the door from the last booth into the office. After all, you merely heard the name Evans and jumped at the conclusion that it was Edwin.”
I was somewhat embarrassed and turned to Lyttle to question him further. “It seems a strange enough tale. Of course, the fog must have been heavy down by the water, but it seems as if Herz must have seen more than he says. You don’t believe him, do you?”
“Of course, I do,” snapped Lyttle.
“You don’t quite understand,” remarked Mr. Vaile. “Al Herz was vague about the direction from which the shot came, but early this morning he very conveniently decided that it came from the direction where Tom says he was chasing his tramp. Therefore, the police believe Charles, coming out from the woods to investigate the first shot, met up with his uncle and shot him, either according to premeditated plan or in a moment of rashness. It was, of course, necessary to keep Cyrus in ignorance of what was going on down by the bayou.”
“There you have the motive, the opportunity and the means. I hardly need to tell you, Mr. Williams, the shot fired down by the dock was not heard even by those standing closest.”
“A silencer on the gun!” I exclaimed, slapping my knee. At last, an explanation of the single shot. The one that Tom fired at the tramp—or was it the one the tramp fired at him? Well, perhaps there was only one; Tom might very well have fired at the tramp and then claimed that the latter shot at him first. I shook my head impatiently; it did not quite fit in, but it must be the correct solution.
“Don’t like it, hey?” inquired Lyttle, peering at me in the darkness.
“Oh, well,” I said slowly, “it doesn’t seem absolutely conclusive, if you know what I mean, but it might very well be the truth.”
“Exactly,” stated the Sergeant triumphantly. “That’s what I told Mr. Vaile. This isn’t a cross-word puzzle, it’s a murder. There are bound to be little pieces left over, things we don’t see yet, but I’ve got enough to work on. I can try now to get a confession from Charles, and just a few more shreds of proof, and I can arrest him. Anyhow, the D. A.’s office thinks we are near the end of the case; they ‘phoned to Bayside for him to come to town.”
“He didn’t come?” I asked breathlessly. “Why, he may have escaped by now.”
“Not a chance,” replied the Sergeant grimly. “There are plain-clothes men at Bayside with orders to shadow any one who leaves. No one will get away.”
“How about the cruiser?” I inquired.
“Two men aboard her to prevent any one from making off in her.”
“Funny he didn’t come in to the D. A.’s then, unless he is suspicious.”
“Oh, he is suspicious all right,” returned Lyttle. “We really didn’t expect him to turn up first try, but he’s the type that it doesn’t do any harm to warn and let think the situation over a bit before you are really ready to tackle him. When the office called, the butler answered, so Charles will probably say he never got the message, but he’ll be just that much more likely to talk to me.”
“And I suppose he will confide in you as to whose gun he used and where it is now,” put in John Patrick.
“That’s right,” I said, “Charles’ gun did not shoot a bullet whose markings were similar to those on the fatal bullet, did it?”
“No,” acknowledged the Sergeant, “but he could have had another gun with him at the time. It was only Mr. Thomas Evans who was definitely limited in that respect.”
I addressed my chief with a direct question, “Don’t you believe Charles is guilty?”
He hesitated before he replied, “It is not improbable. However, I am not convinced, even though the possibility has been in my mind from the start.”
“I am,” I stated, mindful of my chief’s previous accusation that my head was too full of suspects for clear thinking. “It seems to me to be the obvious answer to all our questions. A silencer on the gun, of course. Why didn’t we think of it before?”
“We did,” said Lyttle, emphasizing the pronoun with slight malice. “As soon as Tom was out—he could not have had a silencer on his gun without our knowing it, for we should have seen the threads on the muzzle. You are aware, I suppose, how a silencer screws on the muzzle of the gun and, therefore, there must be threads just as you find when you screw your pipe-stem together, for instance.”
I nodded my comprehension. “But you don’t know where the gun that killed Cyrus is now. When you find it, you expect to discover that it has been fitted with a silencer.”
“Did Herz admit to seeing a silencer on the gun in Charles’ hand?” asked my chief.
“No,” answered the Sergeant reluctantly. “He said he really didn’t notice.”
There was a faint snort from the front seat, indicating John Patrick’s disbelief of this statement. It did seem strange for any one to overlook such an obvious appendage to a pistol.
Lyttle defended this point quickly. “I didn’t expect Herz to give young Evans away completely. He will, though, when he is convinced it is to his advantage to do so.”
The rest of the way to Bayside the Sergeant and I did all the talking. The more I thought about it, the more apparent Charles’ guilt became. His arrest would end all our troubles and, sorry as I was, of course, that Charles should prove to be the murderer, nevertheless I would be glad to have the strain ended and be able to settle back to a normal way of living again.
As we turned in at the gates to the Evans’ property, the chain was stretched across, forbidding our entrance. John Patrick sounded the horn, and in a second Trooper Brown appeared at the running board of his car. His voice sounded abrupt and harassed. “Will the Sergeant please stop off a minute?” he said.
Lyttle, with an exclamation of surprise, climbed out.
“Perhaps it would be better if the car waited, too,” added Brown.
John Patrick good-humoredly turned off the motor and drew out his pipe, preparing to fill it. I shivered as the chill air, no longer warmed by the running of the engine, penetrated my overcoat.
“Now what?” I q
ueried, watching the two policemen disappear within the gate-keeper’s house.
“Something serious, I’m afraid,” replied Mr. Vaile in a voice he strove to keep casual.
We were not long left in ignorance. The door of the lodge burst open and Lyttle, with Brown at his heels, fairly fell into the car.
“Drive right on up to the house, please.” Lyttle’s voice was trembling with excitement. “The case is over. I have my confession. Charles Evans committed suicide about an hour ago.”
“What!” exclaimed John Patrick and I in unison.
“He shot himself,” returned Lyttle, now striving to keep all indications of triumph out of his voice and speak with at least a modicum of the respect due to the dead. “The call from the D. A.’s office must have told him the game was up; finding any escape impossible, he took the easiest way out.”
“The easiest way out,” my chief repeated the trite phrasing in a musing tone. “Yes, I suppose so. He would never submit to capture. Who was in the house when he killed himself?”
“No one,” answered the Sergeant. “Mr. Edwin had gone some time before, and Mr. Thomas, as soon as he heard that Charles was wanted in town, dismissed the guard on the cruiser and took her down to the narrows to get some ducks. I reckon he knew his cousin and was willing to give him a chance to do what he did. Mr. Thomas, of course, has been aware of the truth for some time, I think, although he did not confide in the police until he felt that his own life was menaced.”
I had caught something in Lyttle’s resume that struck me as very strange. “You say, Tom dismissed the guard on the cruiser? I thought they were there to protect him as much as anything else.”
Lyttle gave me a quick look and replied in a dry voice, “So did I. It seems, Tom pointed out that there would be no room for them in the blind, and so, instead of staying with the cruiser anyway, they elected to remain in the warmth of the gate-house. Of course, if anything had happened to the Master of Bayside, the papers would have been hot on the trail of the police, never considering that when you furnish a man with a bodyguard and he refuses it, there is something to be said on both sides.”
Murder at Bayside Page 23
