On the other hand, Dr Harvey’s reputation as a medical man was excellent. He was on the staff of the Belmont Hospital in New York, specializing in the surgical removal of tumors and cancerous growths. He had married Mary Coffin, the daughter of Simon Coffin, my grandfather’s and Tobias’ other brother, more than twenty-five years ago without the approval of her father, and he had made his way up into the world without help, starting out as a general physician in a small New Jersey town. The Harvey family now lived in a large apartment on Riverside Drive and employed two servants. Perhaps the doctor’s early experiences caused him to desire a dollar to go as far as possible.
George Coffin continued in a jocular vein until Bronson appeared with the dessert. It was a creamy custard with caramel sauce. Bronson halted beside my chair and spoke in a low voice:
“The sheriff is waiting in the living room, Mister Peter. He would like to talk with everyone.”
“Very well, Bronson,” I said. “Did you ask him if he would have lunch?”
“He said he had already eaten.”
We ate the custard hurriedly and then moved into the living room. The sheriff and his tall angular deputy, Jeff, were sitting on one of the davenports, talking in whispers. They halted abruptly when they caught sight of us.
“Well, Sheriff,” I said, “have you caught Elmer Glunt-yet?”
Sheriff Wilson’s face was the color, shape and texture of a baked apple: pinkish brown, round, soft skinned and faintly wrinkled. His eyes were mild and tired. He was wearing a black suit, frayed at the cuffs, a blue shirt and a stringy black necktie.
“No sir,” he said loudly. “That doggone feller is too slick for us. But we got all the roads blocked, and we’ll ketch up to him sooner or later, sure as shootin’.” His voice was nasal.
“We hope so,” I said.
The sheriff turned to his deputy. “Where do you think we ought to start, Jeff?”
“I reckon we better find out just how the body was discovered.” The deputy’s large Adam’s apple moved up and down when he talked. His blue serge coat, worn shiny, had too short sleeves, and he was continually pulling them down with his fingers in an effort to hide his knobby wrists.
The sheriff nodded. “Then we’ll have to speak to the lady who found the body.”
“Mrs Spotswood,” I said. I glanced at Bronson, who was standing by the dining-room entrance. “Is she able to come down?”
“Yes sir. She’s all dressed. Shall I call her?”
“Please, Bronson.”
He went into the downstairs library and spoke into a small wall telephone. In a few seconds I heard the purr of an electric motor, the sound which had puzzled me during the night. Presently a panel at the far end of the living room slid open, and Mrs Spotswood’s wheel chair emerged. Back of her I could see a small elevator, paneled in a dark wood which matched the walls of the living room.
Mrs Spotswood was old, but just how old I could not tell. A stroke three years before had affected one side of her body and must have considerably aged one side of her face. She was wrinkled, and there were livid pouches under her eyes, and the flesh was puffy over her jawbone. A coil of pure-white hair circled her head. She had violet eyes, and her face was so heavily powdered I could not tell whether her deathly pallor was real or not.
I introduced the sheriff, and he, modulating his tone, asked her to describe the events leading up to her discovery of Tobias Coffin’s body. She spoke in a melodious voice pitched so low it was difficult to hear her.
“I was awakened in the night by a noise in the corridor under my room,” she began. “I got …”
“Just a minute, ma’am,” said the sheriff. “What sort of a noise was it?”
“It sounded like something being dropped—something heavy, yet soft, like a watermelon.”
The sheriff nodded.
“I climbed out of bed and wheeled my chair to the head of the stairs. There was nothing in the hall below, but I saw the door to Mister Tobias’ study was open and that the light was burning. It was very late, and I was afraid he had fallen asleep over a book, so I put on my night robe and took the elevator down to his door.”
She paused, and the sheriff said, “Yes?”
“There he was.” Her voice caught in her throat. “There he was.”
The sheriff frowned thoughtfully while she sat very straight in her chair, twisting a handkerchief in her hands. “You didn’t see anybody else?” he finally asked. “Anybody in the hall?”
“Not until Peter Coffin came.”
“Thank you, ma’am.” The sheriff’s blue eyes roved about the room. “Did anyone else hear something before the time the corpse was discovered?”
Nobody replied.
“Well, now,” said the sheriff, “it looks as though the madman went on out, because none of you saw him, but even if he didn’t I don’t think it was likely that he was the prowler who hit Mr Coffin here.”
“Why not?” I asked.
“I’ll try to show you in a minute.” Sheriff Wilson held out a small soft-skinned hand. “Where’re them papers, Jeff?”
The deputy produced the documents he had taken from my great-uncle’s desk. The blood on the sheets had turned to dull brown stains, but there was a subdued gasp from the women.
“I understand Mr Coffin was supposed to have made a new will,” the sheriff said, rustling the papers. “Do any of you know about it?”
After an interval of silence George Coffin made a noise in his throat. “I think we all heard something about it,” he said. “I know Tobias told both Dr Harvey and myself that he was changing the old will.”
“Did he show you the new will?”
George Coffin’s eyes, behind the thick glasses, turned upon Dr Harvey. “Not to me.” Hastily Dr Harvey added, “Not to me either.” He glared at George Coffin.
The sheriff appeared not to observe this byplay. He asked me: “How about you, Mr Coffin? What do you know of the new will?”
“Very little. I’ve only heard the others mention it. Before last evening I did not know of the existence of a new will or of any will, for that matter.”
The sheriff frowned, drawing his thin eyebrows together, and gazed in dismay at his deputy. The deputy shrugged his shoulders.
“Then nobody knows for sure there was a new will among these papers?” the sheriff demanded.
Finally Bronson, his thin face solemn, moved toward the sheriff from the back of the room. “I do,” he announced.
“You!”
“Yes sir. I saw the new will on Mister Tobias’ desk. He showed it to me last night before Mister Peter came.”
“Ha!” Sheriff Wilson made a washing motion with his hands. “Now we’re getting somewhere. What did the new will say?”
Bronson glanced appealingly at me.
“I believe Bronson feels that it would be a breach of confidence to reveal what was in the new will,” I said. “Isn’t the document Bronson saw still there?”
The sheriff blew out his cheeks, spoke explosively. “That’s just it. The darn thing’s gone.”
If he expected to create a great sensation he was disappointed. I was amazed, and both Mrs Harvey and Mrs Coffin uttered little cries of dismay, but nobody else seemed particularly agitated. Dr Harvey and George Coffin both nodded as though they had already known of its disappearance. Burton Coffin’s heavy, handsome face was impassive, while Miss Leslie was perfectly calm.
“That’s why I’d like to know what was in the new will,” said the sheriff. “I’d like to know how it differs from the old will, which I got here.” He held up a group of typewritten pages bound together by staples. “Then maybe I’d get a line on who’d be likely to steal the new will.”
Bronson was still looking at me.
Dr Harvey said, “I don’t think anybody stole the new will. It wouldn’t be worth the effort. More than likely it hadn’t even been witnessed.” His voice was casual.
“It had been witnessed,” said Bronson. “The driver of the gro
cery truck and the young man who helps him deliver signed their names to it.”
The sheriff took from Bronson the name of the grocery, Archer’s, and the names of the driver and his helper, Joseph Carter and Edward Thebault. Bronson said they both lived in Traverse City.
“Now, how about the will itself?” asked the sheriff.
“As far as I’m concerned,” I said, “I am perfectly willing to have Bronson tell all he knows about the will. But there are other relatives here, and possibly they have some objection to his speaking.”
None had, so I told Bronson to go ahead.
“Well, the main bequest,” Bronson said, speaking to the sheriff, “is to Mister Peter. He is left the estate here and is given one sixth of the cash residue of Mister Tobias’ fortune after certain other bequests are paid.”
I stared at Bronson in bewilderment and, I confess, fear. I, a sedentary scholar, had no use for a huge mansion, a model dairy farm and large grounds, and had no desire to own them. Neither did I desire a larger income than I already had. Mine, I felt, was exactly right, allowing me to live comfortably and to travel, but small enough not to be burdensome. Would being a comparatively rich man with a large estate prevent me from carrying out my scholarly activities?
Bronson’s voice checked my frantic reverie. “Then Miss Leslie is to have one third the cash residue of the fortune after the bequests are paid, and Mr Burton Coffin and Miss Harvey and her brother are each to have one sixth.”
“So,” said the sheriff. He was examining the old will. “And the bequests?”
“Dr Harvey and his wife, and Mr George Coffin and his wife are each to receive twelve thousand five hundred dollars, or twenty-five thousand dollars to each family. Mrs Spotswood and I are to receive ten thousand dollars apiece, while Mrs Bundy, the cook, and Mr Bundy and Karl Norberg, the chauffeur, are to receive five thousand dollars apiece.”
“Well, well, well.” The sheriff waved the old will in the air. “Quite spme difference. No wonder somebody wanted to get hold of the new will.”
There was indeed quite some difference, as the sheriff went on to explain. In the old will George Coffin and Dr Harvey were the chief beneficiaries, dividing the entire estate, which included “stocks and bonds and cash, as well as the Michigan property.” Miss Leslie and my aunt Nineveh and I were each left twenty thousand dollars, while Mrs Spotswood and Bronson were left five thousand apiece. Neither the cook nor her husband nor the chaffeur was named in the old will, which had been drawn up nearly ten years ago.
“Now we begin to see why somebody was prowling through the dead man’s room,” concluded the sheriff. “Somebody didn’t want the new will to be found.”
“Are you trying to accuse me or Dr Harvey?” asked George Coffin grimly.
“I’m not accusing anybody. I’m just pointing out the facts. A number of people stood to gain by that will’s disappearance.”
“I suppose you think that one of us had a hand in Mr Coffin’s death too,” said Dr Harvey with heavy sarcasm.
The sheriff was genuinely shocked. “Gosh, no! I’m just trying to figure out who would gain by having the new will lost. That’s all.” His eyes were soft. “I can see a lot of you would benefit a little. I never thought of murder.”
“I don’t see that a lot of us would benefit,” said Dr Harvey. “I think you are speaking of me and Mr George Coffin.”
“Not exactly,” said the sheriff. “I don’t even know how much half the estate, as the old will provides for you two, is. Maybe the twenty-five thousand in the new will is as much as you’d get out of this anyway?”
George Coffin said, “I think Tobias was worth about three hundred thousand plus this property.”
The sheriff whistled. “That’s pretty good.” He thought for a moment. “Then each of you would stand to get about one hundred and fifty thousand by this old will.”
“Not quite as much as that,” said George Coffin. “You remember seventy thousand dollars in bequests had to be paid first.”
“Well, say a hundred thousand dollars apiece.” The sheriff shook his head. “That’s a good deal better than twenty-five thousand apiece.”
“It is if you look at it one way,” said George Coffin, “but it isn’t if you look at it another.”
“How do you mean?”
“I mean if you figure by families there’s not much difference in the two wills. The Harvey family gets twenty-five thousand plus two one-sixth shares in the estate, or about ninety-five thousand dollars. We get twenty-five thousand plus one-sixth, or about sixty thousand dollars.”
Sheriff Wilson took a long time to digest this information. At last he said, “One hundred thousand and half this property is better than sixty thousand, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” agreed George Coffin, “but not enough better to make me take the risk of destroying the will.”
“So you say,” said the deputy, his lantern jaw thrust forward.
“So I say,” agreed George Coffin.
The sheriff leaned forward in his chair. “Well, did you take the will, Mr Coffin?”
Dr Harvey, his face red, moved in front of the sheriff. “He doesn’t have to answer any question like that. If you are making a charge he can deny it, but he doesn’t have …”
“That’s all right, Thad,” said George Coffin easily. “I don’t mind answering his question.” He smiled at the sheriff. “The answer is no.”
The sheriff’s and the deputy’s eyes met. The deputy shook his head. “Well, I guess that’s all I can do,” said the sheriff. “I’ll look around a little, both for the madman and the will, if you don’t mind.”
“I don’t mind at all,” said Dr Harvey. His small blue eyes moved in my direction for an instant. “And I’m sure Professor Coffin now feels that he is in no position to object.”
“I never felt that I was in a position to object to anything,” I said. “If I have given any directions in the past twelve hours it was simply because Bronson turned to me.”
“I knew it was Mister Tobias’ idea to leave the house to Mister Peter,” said Bronson. “I was merely following it out.” He defiantly faced Dr Harvey. “I shall continue to obey Mister Tobias’ wishes.”
“Until the new will is discovered the old one goes as the expression of Tobias’ wishes, doesn’t it, Sheriff?” asked Dr Harvey.
“It seems like it would.” The sheriff scratched his head. “But I don’t know. A lawyer’d have to figure that out.”
Bronson appeared unconvinced.
“I don’t see what difference it makes anyway,” I said. “I’ll be glad to have Bronson take orders from you, Dr Harvey. I’ve only filled in, as I said, because Bronson turned to me.”
George Coffin was grinning. “What difference does it make who orders the groceries? I suggest we let Mary and Grace and Mrs Spotswood give the orders around the house.”
Bronson looked at me. I nodded.
“Hello!” exclaimed the sheriff, whose eyes had been wandering about the room. “Who’s this?”
“This” was Mrs Bundy, the cook. Her round face was agitated, and her red hair looked as though she had been out in the wind without a hat. She came directly to me. She was breathing too heavily to speak at first.
“Why, what’s the matter, Mrs Bundy?” I asked.
“It’s gone,” she said.
“What’s gone?”
“The thing he done it with. The cleaver.”
My face must have been blank, because she continued:
“The meat cleaver that he chopped off poor Mister Tobias’ head with. It’s gone from the kitchen.”
Sheriff Wilson elbowed me aside. “What’s all this? What’s this about a cleaver?”
“My cleaver has been stolen. It was here yesterday, but when I came to look for it just a moment ago it was gone.”
“But how do you know it was the cleaver used to kill Mr Coffin?”
“It isn’t likely the madman would be carrying two cleavers, is it?”
Mrs Bundy led the sheriff and most of the others into the kitchen to show them the place where the cleaver had been. I started to go up to my room and was joined on the stairs by George Coffin.
“A funny business,” he observed.
“Isn’t it?” I said. “It looks as though someone took advantage of the madman’s murder of Uncle Tobias to steal the will.”
“Maybe and maybe not.” He hesitated on the top stair. “Peter, do you think anyone, even a madman, would go very far with a bloody head?”
“I don’t know.”
“I don’t think so. I believe the cleaver and the head are somewhere around here. And possibly the will is with them.”
“You don’t mean the madman stole the will?”
“I’m not sure what I mean, but I think we should take a look for Tobias’ head.” He suddenly stared hard at me. “Peter, where would you hide the head of an old man you had just murdered?”
“I!” I blinked my eyes at him. “Why, I suppose I’d throw it in the lake.”
“But would it float?” George Coffin’s voice was triumphant. “That’s the question. Would it float?”
“Why, I shouldn’t think it would.”
“But are you positive it wouldn’t?”
“Well, no.”
“That’s just it. The man who chopped off the head wouldn’t know either. That’s the kind of thing nobody would be apt to know.”
“I suppose not,” I agreed. “Except, possibly, a doctor.”
“Aha!” His eyes gleamed. “What made you think of that?”
“Nothing in particular. I simply thought doctors would be more likely to know that sort of thing.”
George Coffin seemed disappointed. “I suppose you’re right. But I believe we can count out the lake in your search for the head.”
“My search?”
“I mean, our search. Where else could a head be hidden?”
The Search for My Great-Uncle’s Head Page 7
