The Search for My Great-Uncle’s Head

by Jonathan Latimer

  “That and a lot more,” said George Coffin. His eyes twinkled.

  I didn’t feel especially excited. A bequest of a few hundred or even thousand dollars would not alter my mode of living. “It will all come out after the police clean up this mess,” I said, indicating the mass of blood stained papers.

  We were silent for a time. George Coffin found a package of cigarettes in his dressing gown and offered me one. I refused. “You don’t mind if I smoke?” he asked. I thought I detected a note of mockery in his voice and replied, “I am quite used to tobacco. My aunt Nineveh smokes a great deal.”

  George Coffin’s eyes twinkled behind the glasses. I could see he was making a mental note of my reply for a future anecdote. “These women,” he said, lighting his cigarette.

  Actually I smoke and am very fond of a pipe.

  Thaddeus Harvey was looking at me again. He had a habit of fixing your eye with his before he spoke. “Did you go through your great-uncle’s pockets, Peter?” he asked.

  “No. Why should I? I don’t generally pilfer cadavers.”

  His eyes remained on mine. “I thought you might have looked there for the will.” He suddenly gazed up at the mantel. “Whose hairbrush?”

  “Why, it’s mine.” I picked it up and put it in my pocket. “It was the only weapon I could find when I heard Mrs Spotswood scream.”

  George Coffin had moved to a position beside the corpse. “If it was Tobias’ hairbrush,” he said to Mr Harvey, “it wouldn’t be here.”

  “Why?”

  “The madman would have taken it to keep Tobias’ hair neat.”

  Dr Harvey grunted to show his disapproval of such levity. George Coffin was bending over the severed neck. “Nice job,” he said. “The knife must have been good and sharp.”

  I tried not to look, but my eyes kept turning to the corpse.

  “Hello!” said George Coffin. “He had on a dirty collar.”

  I glanced down at the stiff white collar my great-uncle invariably wore. There was a black spot on it at about the point under the right ear. The top of the collar, above the spot, had turned brown.

  Thaddeus Harvey was standing beside me. “Maybe that’s where the murderer held him,” he suggested. “It looks like a smear from a dirty hand.”

  “It might be,” said George Coffin. “Or it might be soot from the fireplace.”

  “Where did the silver vase that was on the mantel go?” asked Dr Harvey.

  I felt sensitive enough about my choice of weapons to lie. “I don’t know,” I said.

  George Coffin shrugged his shoulders. “What’s a vase beside a missing head?” he asked.

  Our conversation was interrupted by the appearance of Bronson. “The sheriff,” he announced.

  Chapter IV

  THE SHERIFF was a nervous little man in a black suit, and his name was Albert Wilson. He had been a seed merchant for thirty-five years, I was informed, and had been elected to his office on a reform ticket. Nothing could induce him to look at Tobias Coffin’s body. He even refused to enter the room. His increasing agitation as the story was unfolded was manifested by frequent repetitions of “I declare!” and “That beats the dickens!” After a nervous tour of the house he returned to the living room, there perching uneasily on the edge of a straight-backed chair while Bronson and the two deputies went through the grounds. He had evidently been informed of my encounter with the madman, and he asked me to repeat the story of my trip around the lake.

  The other members of the household, even Miss Leslie and Burton Coffin, who kept persistently by her side, crowded close to listen. I told of my experience in a very matter-of-fact tone.

  When I had completed my account the sheriff said, “I bet you was plenty scared.”

  “I was,” I admitted. “Scared rigid.”

  Everyone found this reply humorous.

  Fresh birch logs in the great stone fireplace burned with the noise of crackling popcorn, sending agile flames up the chimney. The bright yellow light helped illuminate the room and brought out warm tints in the faces of my relatives. The heat contrasted pleasantly with the dismal sounds of rain and wind outside.

  I was surprised to see that there were so many persons in the house. There were, in the half circle of people in front of the blaze, George Coffin, his stately wife, Grace, and their son, Burton; Dr Harvey, his wife, Mary, and their two children: Dan, the weedy boy, and Dorothy, the pretty blonde; all my relatives. And in addition there were the dark-haired Miss Leslie, who was present because she was the only child of Tobias Coffin’s late wife’s brother; Mrs Bundy, the servant who had first looked through the peephole in the library door at me; her husband, in charge of the Jersey herd; and a tall man wearing a black sweater and a pair of flannel trousers. His name was Karl Norberg, and he was the chauffeur-gardener. He was a good-looking blond Swede about thirty-five years old, with a sunburned face and clear blue eyes.

  After another survey of this group I asked, “Where’s Mrs Spotswood?”

  “She the one who found the body?” demanded the sheriff.

  “Yes.”

  “Then that’s just what I’d like to know. Where is she?”

  Dr Harvey’s bright eyes met those of the sheriff. “She’s in bed. She has had a very severe shock, and I gave her some sleeping tablets.”

  “She won’t be getting up then?”

  “Not till morning.”

  “Well, I don’t suppose it’ll make much difference if I question her now or in the morning. The thing to do is to get after Elmer Glunt.”

  “Elmer Glunt?” I inquired.

  “The fellow you met. The madman.”

  Although he had seen them himself the sheriff wanted to know more about the open window and the tracks in the kitchen. Dorothy Harvey, her big blue eyes expressive, told once more how she had discovered the window.

  “But the tracks,” interrupted the sheriff, “did they just go in?”

  Miss Harvey nodded.

  “Then he’s still in the house,” announced the sheriff triumphantly.

  Burton Coffin’s voice was husky. “Not necessarily,” he said. His hand held Miss Leslie’s arm. “Walking through the house would have dried his feet. He wouldn’t have left any tracks going out.”

  The sheriff pondered. “There’s something in that, son.” He turned to me. “We’ll get him, though, wherever he’s gone. We got men watching every road in the county. He can’t get away.”

  “That’s good,” I said. “I’d hate to think of his killing any other defenseless people.”

  Bronson appeared at the front entrance of the house with the two deputies. All three were dripping wet. One of the deputies was wearing a yellow slicker, and he spoke to the sheriff.

  “We’ve looked about everywhere, Sheriff. In the cellar and through the garage and the cattle barns and the boathouse. There ain’t a sign of him.”

  “I reckon that’s about all a body can do, Jeff,” said the sheriff. He stood up and looked around at us. “The coroner’ll be here in the morning to get the cadaver. We’ll be moving along.”

  Mrs Harvey raised a plump hand to her throat in dismay. “Oh no! You can’t leave us unprotected.” Her voice was shrill. “We’ll all be killed.” There was a diamond ring on her finger.

  Dr Harvey moved to her side. “Now, Mary, you’ll be all right.” His hand patted her plump arm in quick movements.

  George Coffin said, “I think it would be an excellent idea, Sheriff Wilson, if you could spare a man to watch the house for the rest of the night.”

  “Yes, he may attempt to come back,” said Mrs Coffin. “It is the duty of the law, is it not, to offer protection?” Her voice was regal.

  Sheriff Wilson scratched under his left arm with his right hand. “I reckon I could spare a man if you insist.” He looked around at us. “Though you seem to have a lot of able-bodied hands around already.”

  Jeff, the deputy in the yellow slicker, said, “I’ll stay, Sheriff.” He moved toward the fireplace. �
��I got a hunch he’s still hanging around somewhere. He ain’t going to be lugging a head all over creation.”

  Mrs Harvey would have screamed, but a warning glance from her husband silenced her. She and Mrs Coffin and young Miss Harvey were huddled together.

  The sheriff somewhat reluctantly agreed to allow Jeff to remain with us and departed with the other deputy, assuring us as he left that he’d be back first thing in the morning. “I’ll look over them papers then,” he added. The deputy borrowed one of the shotguns in the game room and went to the front door.

  “I think I’ll prowl around outside for a bit,” he said. “You folks better try to get some sleep. It’s after four o’clock.”

  A puff of black smoke flew out of the fireplace as he closed the front door. It was still blowing outside, and we could hear the whine of the wind around the house.

  “I’m certainly not going to bed,” declared Mrs Harvey. “He’s not going to come back and find me asleep.” Her plump face was determined.

  “Now, Mary,” said Dr Harvey. “You’ll regret not going to bed tomorrow.” His hand tightened on her arm. “Come on, dear. I’ll stay with you.”

  She allowed herself to be propelled from the room by her husband, who looked, despite his smallness of stature, perfectly confident of his ability to protect her from the assault of a maniac.

  Mrs Coffin was quite tall, almost as tall as her husband. She carried herself with aplomb, her head held high and her chest thrust forward, as though she were of royal birth. She spoke to her son. “Burton, I think you should be in bed. It’s very late.” She took her husband’s arm and led him toward the stairs. “We’re going.”

  “I’ll be up in a few minutes, Mother,” said Burton sulkily. “I’ll get plenty of sleep.”

  Mrs Coffin halted. “Now, Burton. You remember what——”

  “Let him alone, Mother,” said George Coffin. “He’s supposed to be of age.” He looked over at me. “It might be a good idea if someone watched the upstairs for the rest of the night.”

  “Yes, it would,” I said. “I’ll get a chair and sit in the hall by my uncle’s door.”

  “There’s no need of watching your uncle’s room, Mister Peter,” said Bronson, who had remained a respectful distance from the fire. “The deputies locked the door and took the key. They said nothing was to be touched until the coroner came.”

  “I wasn’t thinking so much of my uncle’s room, Bronson,” I said, “as of acting as a sort of guard.”

  “I’ll be glad to do that, sir.”

  “That’s all right, Bronson. You’ll be needing some sleep.” I turned my eyes toward George Coffin, waiting with his wife at the foot of the stairs. “I, or someone, will be in the hall.”

  “Good night, then,” he said.

  We all said good night.

  Mrs Bundy said to me, “I’ll just go up to the third floor and stay with Mrs Spotswood. The poor old lady will be frightened if she wakes up all alone.” As she mounted the steps the pigtails over her shoulders quivered. “Good night, Mr Bundy,” she called to her husband.

  A gust of wind crossed the room, blowing the silk bottoms of Miss Leslie’s pajama legs. Bronson had opened the front door. “Mr Bundy and Karl and I are going over to the servants’ quarters, Mister Peter,” he said. “I’ll be back at seven o’clock to relieve you, if I may, sir.”

  “That will be fine, Bronson,” I said. “Good night.”

  “Good night, sir.” Bronson waited for the other two men to pass through the door. “I should keep my eyes open, sir.” There was a strange expression on his face, urgent and warning. The closing door blotted it out.

  Burton Coffin and Miss Leslie were seated on the couch in front of the fire. Inadvertently I noticed that Miss Leslie’s ankles, exposed by the loose legs of her pajamas, were brown and slim. “What did he mean by keep your eyes open?” asked Burton Coffin. He still held the shotgun in his hands.

  “Perhaps he thinks the madman will come back,” I suggested, sitting down in one of the comfortable overstuffed chairs at right angles to the couch.

  Miss Harvey, who had been lighting a cigarette with a piece of birch bark, faced her brother. “Look at my hand wobble, Dan,” she said. “Just like a hangover.” She giggled and pretended she could not make the cigarette and the flame meet.

  Miss Leslie smiled at her. “May I have one, too, Dot?” she asked. “I need something for my nerves.”

  “Why certainly, my dear. How rude of me.” Miss Harvey gave Miss Leslie the cigarette she had lighted, offered another from the pack to Burton Coffin. He said, “Thanks,” and accepted one and lit it from Miss Leslie’s cigarette. Their faces were quite close together as he did so, and I noticed that they smiled at each other.

  Dan Harvey was regarding me. “Well, Professor, do you think you’ve got the defense lined up all right?” he asked. “The enemy may attack at any minute.”

  There was nothing very friendly in any of their looks. There was, indeed, in their faces a combination of hostility and amusement. I suddenly felt very lonely, and I wished I had never come to my great-uncle’s house. I would have liked to remain for a few minutes more before the cheerful fire, but I didn’t want to be in anybody’s way.

  “I hope the enemy is ten miles off by now,” I said, rising to my feet. “I hope the sheriff has him in custody.”

  “But you’ll protect us if he should come back?” asked Miss Harvey. “I should like to feel that you are watching over us.” Her voice was mocking.

  “You can count on the professor,” said Burton Coffin. “He’ll protect you with his hairbrush.”

  Miss Harvey and her brother both tittered. I was forced to smile, too, despite an unpleasant feeling that I was being made the butt of an unfair joke. Still, I must have been a remarkably ridiculous figure with that hairbrush in my hand.

  “A hairbrush is probably as good a weapon as any for me,” I said. “I’m not very handy in matters of violence.”

  Miss Leslie’s eyebrows were delicate arches against the white background of her high forehead. Her eyes were gray and luminous in the firelight. “A coward never is,” she said.

  I turned away from them and went up the stairs. I took a straight-backed chair from my room and carried it far down the hall to the turn in the corridor. From this point I could watch all the bedrooms on the floor. There were small lights burning at both ends of the hall, and I was not in complete darkness. I sat in the chair and crossed my legs and began to think.

  At first I thought about Miss Leslie and her hostility to me. “A coward never is,” she had said. It was a very cruel remark, and I felt it was unjustified. I went over the scene with Mrs Spotswood again in my mind. Had I acted as a coward would? A brave man, I supposed, would have rushed to Mrs Spotwood’s aid, shouted, “Don’t be frightened, I am here,” and rushed into the room. I admitted to myself that I had fallen considerably short of the model procedure. But had my failure been the result of cowardice? I examined my conscience. Yes, I had been frightened, badly frightened. But my fright hadn’t prevented me from rushing into my great-uncle’s room when it became apparent to me that the trouble was there. And it wasn’t fright which prevented me from going to Mrs Spotswood’s aid. It was a lack of knowledge in dealing with hysterical women. If I was guilty, I decided, I was guilty of stupidity, not of cowardice. Unless, of course, being frightened automatically made you a coward.

  I was pondering over these things when the four young people came down the hall. They were smiling, and talking in whispers. Abreast of me, Burton Coffin bent down and asked in a stage whisper, “All quiet on the Potomac, Professor?”

  “All quiet,” I said.

  I didn’t look at Miss Leslie until they had gone by me. She halted at the second door on the corridor past the turn. For a moment she and Burton Coffin held a whispered conversation, then she opened the door and went into her room. Burton Coffin came back toward me and entered the first room past the turn. The Harveys walked on to rooms conside
rably further along the corridor.

  I moved my chair against the right angle made by the wall at the turn in the hall and sat down again. I didn’t have to worry about anyone coming up behind me. To my right, three doors up, was the locked room in which my great-uncle’s body lay. Next was his bedroom and then, next to me, almost by my right arm, was Mrs Spotswood’s office. To my left was the long row of guest chambers occupied by the Harveys, the Coffins and Miss Leslie. I felt confident that nobody could get into any of these rooms without my knowledge.

  Presently I began to think again. I wondered why the servants and even my relatives accepted my orders. I knew it wasn’t because of my dynamic personality; in fact I knew that my personality, except when I was enraged, was more mouselike than dynamic. I wondered if it was because of the will. Was I being left a good share of the estate? Was I to come into control of this house? That would account for the servants. But what about the curious attitude of Dr Harvey? His looks seemed to convey his knowledge of something I had done, almost as if I had a guilty secret which he had uncovered. Of what did he suspect me? I didn’t know. Neither did I know the reason for Burton Coffin’s open hostility. Was he a disappointed heir? And Miss Leslie. Would my clumsiness earlier in the evening account for her cruelty?

  The seat of the chair was hard, and I tilted the back against the wall so that my position was more comfortable. I closed my eyes and thought about Miss Leslie. I thought what different types we were: she, sophisticated, chic, aggressive, accustomed to the ways of the world; I, a man of thought, shy, quiet, diffident, and, in my attire, the antithesis of chic. I did not, however, think of myself as unsophisticated. My study of Restoration times and morals had certainly given me as complete an education as anyone along worldly lines.

  The thought of the Restoration made me wonder what my favorite rake, John Wilmot, would have done in circumstances such as I had encountered during the night. I had no doubt that he would have banished the distrust of the younger people with a witty remark or two, and that his elegant attire would have had a profound appeal for Miss Leslie. I leaned my head back against the wall and imagined that I was in reality the gay Earl of Rochester. I could see myself hearing a sound in the night, leaping from bed, grappling with the madman in the hall and triumphantly turning him over to the authorities, not a hair on my head out of place. I could see the surprise on the faces of those who had hitherto distrusted my manhood, the wonderment in Miss Leslie’s.…