The Search for My Great-Uncle’s Head

by Jonathan Latimer

  I put on my bathrobe and tied the cord about my waist. “He thinks you’re dumb, that’s why,” I said. “And so do I, if you have to employ a young lady to get information from me.” I bowed to Miss Leslie. “Good afternoon, Mata Hari.”

  By the time I was back to the house my rage had left me. But still I considered it an unfair trick for Miss Leslie to play upon me. I had admitted that we were looking for the head in reply to her question, but I thought she wanted to know what we had been doing for her own information alone. I didn’t like Burton Coffin, and I liked it even less that Miss Leslie should be trying to secure information for him. I wished I was bigger so I could punch him in the eye. I thought maybe I would anyway.

  My bare feet were noiseless on the stairs and on the short stretch of carpet between them and my room. I was surprised to discover my door ajar, and I peered in the crack.

  Mrs Spotswood, her wrinkled face secretive and purposeful, was going through the drawers of my dresser. She was bending over the bottom drawer, her hands feeling the back section of the container. The position of her bent shoulders, her stiff neck, as she leaned from her wheel chair, gave her the appearance of a hunchback.

  I suppose I must have made some sort of a noise, because she suddenly wheeled and faced me, an expression of intense alarm on her face. Curiously this expression changed to one of relief.

  “Oh, it’s you, Mister Peter,” she said.

  “Why, yes. This happens to be my room.”

  She made a clucking noise with her mouth, as though soothing an unreasonable child. “Yes, I know.” She came toward me on her way to the door. “I was looking to see if you had anything to go to the wash.”

  “Why, thank you very much, Mrs Spotswood, but I have nothing at all for the wash.” I stood aside to let the wheel chair pass.

  She smiled again, allowing her countenance to assume a particularly gentle expression, and pulled the door shut in my face. I went over and sank down on my bed and gave vent to a burst of profanity.

  “What the deuce?” I asked myself. “What the deuce?”

  Chapter IX

  AFTER A DINNER at which I distinguished myself by eating six ears of Golden Bantam corn we went into the great living room for coffee and cigarettes. The sun had not yet gone down, but the air was already chill and we were grateful for the crackling blaze of birch and pine Karl Norberg had started in the stone fire place. After Bronson, moving noiselessly about the room, had served the coffee George Coffin caught his eye.

  “Bronson,” he said, “I think Mr Tobias would have thought of one thing more for our comfort on a chill night like this.”

  “I have it ready,” Bronson replied solemnly.

  He left the room for a few seconds and returned with a tray on which was a bottle of brandy and a number of bell-shaped glasses.

  “Ha!” said George Coffin with infinite pleasure. He took the bottle and began carefully to measure out one fourth of a tumbler of the golden liquor to each person. “This is the climax of a very fine dinner.”

  I felt amusement at the boyish enthusiasm pictured on his face, and at the same time I experienced a feeling of genuine liking for my cousin. His horn-rimmed spectacles gave him the look of an owl, but the general effect, with the humorous twist of his lips and the friendly gleam in his eyes, was kindly. I thought, as I watched him pour the brandy, how he had made me the butt of two jokes at dinner without hurting my recently sensitive feelings.

  The first of these jokes came when I entered the dining room a moment or two after the others had taken their places at the candle-lit table. George Coffin was already telling the group about sitting with me in Uncle Tobias’ study. I noticed everyone was present except plump Mrs Harvey, who had a sick headache, and Mrs Spots-wood, who was eating in her room.

  “I didn’t know much about professors,” he was saying as I came into the room, “and I wasn’t sure whether they approved of smoking or not. So I asked the professor if I could smoke. And what do you think he said?”

  Nobody seemed to have an idea.

  “He said: ‘Go right ahead. I’m used to it. My aunt Nineveh smokes incessantly.’”

  I suppose the spectacle of a grown man saying that he can stand smoke because his aunt uses cigarettes is funny. At least everyone laughed.

  “The point is,” said George Coffin, “that I still don’t know whether he was giving me the bird for asking permission to smoke or whether he was telling the truth.”

  Miss Harvey, her blue eyes bright, said, “I’ll bet the professor smokes in secret all the time.” She had a youthful tendency to giggle.

  “I do,” I assured her. “Opium and marihuana.”

  Then, as we were eating the salad, consisting of tomatoes and lettuce and cucumbers fresh from the garden in back of the servants’ house, George Coffin leaned across the table toward Miss Leslie.

  “What did you say the professor’s middle name was?”

  “So you have been talking about me behind my back, my fair Mata Hari,” I thought. “All right, talk away,” I said to myself, “but sometime my chance for revenge will come.”

  At least she had the grace to blush. Without looking in my direction she replied, “Nebuchadnezzar. I discovered it in the family Bible.”

  “Peter Nebuchadnezzar Coffin,” said George Coffin while the others laughed.

  I laughed too. The name had always amused me: it was so typical of my father. He used to sing me to sleep with Vedic hymns when I was a little boy, and he wrote letters to his colleagues in cuneiform on clay tablets. On his gravestone he had inscribed: “Sargon Coffin—Born 1865 A.D.—Died 736 B.C.” He was born an American, but he lived and died a Mede.

  George Coffin continued the jest. “I think I’ll call you something short for Nebuchadnezzar,” he said, peering at me. “Nebuchadnezzar is too long. I think I’ll call you Butch for short.”

  This was funny, because if anybody in the world did not look as though his name would be Butch, it was I. The ridiculousness of the nickname struck everyone at the table, and it was time for dessert before the giggling had stopped.

  Then Mrs Coffin asked a question that sent a chill over all of us. “Who’s going to guard the house against the madman tonight?” she demanded.

  I think this put a shadow of apprehension on the minds of everyone as we moved into the living room. Even after George Coffin had handed around the brandy inhalers there was no perceptible return to the high spirits of the early part of dinner.

  “Karl Norberg and I and possibly Burton could take turns standing guard,” I suggested. “We could take three-hour shifts, and none of us would miss the sleep.”

  This idea was not very well received.

  “Guard duty is silly,” said Dr Harvey. His small blue eyes moved from one to the other of us. “All we have to do is to lock everything up, and nobody can get in.”

  “Why won’t the police provide us with a guard?” asked Miss Leslie.

  “They can’t guard every house in the county,” explained Burton Coffin.

  “Not every house in the county has had someone murdered by the madman,” was Miss Leslie’s rejoinder.

  But it was Mrs Coffin who put her finger squarely on the main objection to my scheme. I had a feeling that she hadn’t liked me at all since my association with her husband, and after she spoke I was sure of it.

  “I think we should have guards,” she said, “but I don’t think the idea of Professor Coffin watching over us would cause me to sleep soundly. I can’t imagine him subduing a maniac.”

  I felt that I would do just as well as any of the others, but I acknowledged her the right to an opinion about my puissance. The thing I didn’t like was the rather open manner in which she slighted my ability.

  Her husband took my part. “I think Butch would be as efficient as anyone,” he said. “All anybody could do if the man tried to break in would be to call for help. Nobody would tackle a maniac single handed.”

  Burton Coffin said, “I would.”
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  His father looked at him wearily. “I meant, no person with any sense.” His tone was edged with contempt.

  “Perhaps we should let Burton keep guard all night by himself,” I said.

  Mrs Coffin took me seriously. “Why, the very idea! The very idea. My boy needs sleep as much as anybody. I won’t hear of his staying up all night.”

  Her husband finished his brandy and stood up. “We’ll try to think of some way of safeguarding the house,” he stated. “Come on, Butch, we have a little tour to make.”

  I walked to the door with him after excusing myself. I was conscious of Burton Coffin’s eyes, angry and yet with a strange glint of apprehension in them, following us.

  When we had got around to the back of the house George Coffin took my arm. “You took quite a beating at dinner and afterwards.”

  “I don’t mind,” I said. “A college professor is always a ridiculous figure outside of a classroom.”

  “I don’t know. You haven’t had a fair chance to prove yourself. A man can’t do much when somebody clouts him over the head with a poker.”

  It was dusk now, but there was enough light to see under bushes and in the flower beds. A few fireflies gleamed intermittently. We searched for signs of recently uncovered earth. We peered under bushes; we examined the soft earth of the tulip beds; I pricked my hands pushing aside a cluster of pink roses; we even moved a small sundial. Our search was utterly fruitless. The back of the house, including the smooth surface of the croquet ground, was as barren as the front.

  As we were concluding the search there came to our ears the barking of a dog and the sound of underbrush being broken. Startled, I peered into the forest. Was the madman coming?

  Suddenly my eyes caught sight of a cow coming along the path from the back pasture. A bell, fastened by a leather strap about the creature’s neck, tinkled softly. Back of this cow were other cows, six in number, the remnant of my great-uncle’s prize herd, and back of them danced the estate’s brown-and-white collie, Rob Roy. The dog kept them moving at a good pace, barking at them occasionally and now and then pretending to nip their heels.

  “Smart fellow,” said George Coffin of the dog. “He goes out and brings them in every night. Unlocks the pasture gate with his nose.”

  As light on his white feet as a ballet dancer, Rob Roy moved the herd past us onto the court between the main house and the barn. Then with a warning bark for his charges to keep moving he came over to speak to us. Recognizing George Coffin as a friend, he paused for a moment to allow his ears to be rubbed, then briefly touched my hand with his cold nose. This bit of politeness having been performed, he raced after the cattle.

  I noticed how easily he, and the cattle, too, crossed the surface of the court. “How does it happen that the clay isn’t wet after all that rain last night?” I asked George Coffin.

  “Karl Norberg rolled it twice today. Your great-uncle always liked to have the surface of the court hard so the cattle wouldn’t bog down in the clay. It’s like a tennis court.”

  “Why didn’t he put in cobblestones?”

  “I don’t know, unless he thought they’d be hard on the cows’ feet.”

  I glanced around at the flower beds and grass in back of the house. George Coffin followed my eyes. “I guess the woods are the next item in our search,” he said.

  Back of the half circle of trees which surrounded the rear of the house was decidedly forbidding gloom. In the half light I could make out oddly distorted stumps, piles of leaves, weird-looking plants.

  “We’re not going to search there tonight?” I asked in alarm.

  George Coffin laughed. “I should say not. I’ve a healthy dread of Mr Glunt. We’ll try it in the morning.” He brushed off the knees of his white flannel trousers and caught my arm. “Let’s go inside.”

  As we were rounding the house an automobile came up the driveway and stopped in the clay court between the house and the Jersey barn. It was the sheriff with two strange deputies.

  “How do,” he said. “Any news?”

  “Not a thing,” I said. “Have you caught Glunt yet?”

  “That feller’s a slippery customer. We haven’t seen hide nor hair of him all day. But we’ll catch up with him, you can bet on that.”

  George Coffin rested an elbow against the side of the car. “Where do you think he’s got to?”

  “Can’t have got very far,” said Sheriff Wilson. “All the roads are being watched.”

  One of the deputies, a squat dark man with black stubble on his face, spoke. “He’s got to come out sometime to eat.”

  I asked, “What if he comes back to this house for food?”

  “Truss him up and send for me,” said the sheriff.

  “I think it would be a lot better, Sheriff, if you left a man here to truss him up.”

  “Can’t do it.” The sheriff’s ordinarily mild face was set in obstinate lines. “My men haven’t had any sleep for thirty hours, and they’ve got it coming to them. You got plenty of able-bodied men around the house to stand guard if you think you need one.”

  “Don’t you think there’s any chance of his coming back here?” asked George Coffin.

  The dark deputy said, “Don’t look as though it would be a smart thing to do … to come back to the place where you killed somebody.”

  Sheriff Wilson nodded his head. “That’s right, Clark.”

  George Coffin smiled at them. “Madmen don’t do smart things.”

  “Well, I can’t help it.” The sheriff stepped on the starter, and the engine roared. “I got a car posted at the crossroad about three miles down the line. If anything happens you telephone me, and I’ll have the state police flash the car by radio. It can be over here in three or four minutes.”

  We watched the automobile swing around the big court and disappear down the drive. It was quite dark by this time, and the sky was pin-pointed with bright stars. There was no sign of the moon. The air was sharp.

  George Coffin moved slowly toward the front steps of the house. “I think we ought to stand guard duty tonight anyway.”

  “There’s Karl Norberg and your son Burton and Dan Harvey and me,” I suggested. “Perhaps we could watch in pairs.”

  “That’s a good idea. The doctor and I could make the third shift.”

  By this time we were on the broad veranda by the door to the living room. I seized George Coffin’s arm. “I almost forgot to tell you something,” I said. “I caught Mrs Spotswood searching through my bureau just before supper.”

  “You did!” He eyed me for a moment. “Well, I am surprised at that.”

  “Why would she go through my things?” I asked.

  “I don’t know.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I don’t know at all.”

  “The funny part is that she didn’t seem alarmed when I caught her. You’d think …”

  “Why didn’t you ask her what she was doing in your room?”

  “I didn’t have to. She said she was seeing if I had any clothes that needed washing.”

  “Well, that’s darn funny. I can’t think of any possible explanation of her action.” He opened the door, ushered me into the living room. “I’ll do some worrying about that tonight in bed.”

  There was an atmosphere of fear about the big room, a tenseness despite the soothing warmth of the wood fire. Dr Harvey, Mrs Coffin, Burton Coffin and Miss Leslie sat in a circle to the left of the fire. They had been talking, and their faces were raised in brief alarm at our entrance. Even the game of double solitaire being played at the other end of the room by Dan and Dot Harvey had a kind of forced ferocity about it, although at the moment the brother was denying with considerable heat his sister’s allegation that he was cheating.

  “George,” said Mrs Coffin as we neared the fire, “wasn’t that a car I heard a moment ago?”

  “It was the sheriff.” George Coffin related the conversation we had had with the sheriff and his deputy and concluded by saying, “So it looks as though you’ll have to t
rust yourself to the Volunteer Night Watchman’s League of Crystal Lake.”

  Dr Harvey was scowling. “What does the sheriff think he’s going to do—wait until the madman shows up at a restaurant somewhere for dinner?”

  “That’s what the sheriff’s man said,” I declared. “He said they’d catch him as soon as he got hungry.”

  The doctor laughed bitterly. “Why don’t you put a tray on the front steps for him? That would be simplest.”

  “Not a bad idea at all, Doc,” said George Coffin. “Maybe if we did that he wouldn’t break into the kitchen as he did last time.”

  “George!” Mrs Coffin’s voice was exasperated. “I don’t think that’s anything to joke about.”

  “But I’m not joking.”

  “Dad would joke on his deathbed,” asserted Burton Coffin. His face was sulky.

  Dr Harvey’s white teeth gleamed. “You mean on somebody else’s deathbed.”

  “My son thinks I have a light mind, unsuited to the serious business of selling life insurance,” said George Coffin to me.

  Burton sat up in his chair as though he was about to make some sort of a reply, then sank back again without saying anything. He glowered at his father. Mrs Coffin’s face, turned toward her son, was sympathetic.

  I felt embarrassment at this unnatural antipathy father and son displayed for each other. It was not right. I changed the subject. “How about this watch? Shall we try it in pairs?”

  It was decided that this would be the best method of protecting the house. Though I protested, Burton Coffin and Karl Norberg were given the worst shift: that from four o’clock until breakfast. Dan Harvey and I were selected to guard from one o’clock until four, and George Coffin and Dr Harvey took the early duty.

  “That’s pretty swell,” said George Coffin after the hours had been arranged. “A couple of old gaffers like Doc and me would be up that late anyway.”

  “It’s all foolish,” muttered the doctor.

  I went out to the kitchen to ask Bronson to tell Karl of his guard duty, but I found only Mrs Bundy. She was mopping the porcelain sink with a damp cloth.