The Search for My Great-Uncle’s Head

by Jonathan Latimer

  “What’s the matter with you?” Sheriff Wilson frowned at Burton. “You seem willing enough to admit you killed Bronson. Why don’t you tell us how you got over there?”

  “Isn’t it enough for me to say I killed him?” retorted Burton angrily. “What do you care how I got over there?”

  At this moment someone knocked on the door. It was the deputy, Jeff. His face was excited, and he had to swallow twice before he could speak. “This guy we got here,” he began and then swallowed again. “This guy we …”

  “Go on,” said the sheriff.

  “This guy we got in the kitchen says he done it.”

  “What?”

  “Yeah, sure enough. He says he wants to confess, says his son is talking just to cover him up, and he won’t have it. I thought I better tell you.”

  The sheriff turned helplessly toward the colonel, who said, “We might as well hear his story.”

  “All right, Jeff, bring him in,” said the sheriff.

  The deputy left hurriedly. Burton remained silent, but his eyes were apprehensive. The colonel’s face was noncommittal, but the sheriff and I, I imagine, plainly showed the bewilderment we felt. The sheriff, indeed, went so far as to exclaim, “If this ain’t the doggonest thing I’ll eat my old straw hat!”

  When George Coffin, his face composed, but very haggard, was brought into the library, Burton stood up and took two steps toward him.

  “Don’t say anything, Dad,” he said. “Don’t talk. I’ve already told them everything.” The high pitch of his voice revealed jangled nerves.

  His father faced him sadly. “I’m sorry you thought it necessary to do this, Burton,” he said. “I am quite capable of paying the penalty for my crimes.” He turned to the colonel, and his words came briskly. “Burton, through a mistaken sense of obligation to his father, has confessed to these murders which I committed. I can’t allow him to shield me.”

  “Very fine of you, indeed, Mr Coffin,” declared Colonel Black. “Very fine indeed. If the sheriff will have your son removed to the kitchen guardhouse we should like to hear your story.”

  Burton started to say something to his father, but the deputy, Jeff, jerked his arm and said, “Come on, buddy.” They passed through the door.

  In the interval the door was open I could see the rest of the family grouped together in the living room. In particular I noticed Joan’s face, pale with sympathy for Burton. Suddenly her eyes met mine, and I was shocked to note a mixture of contempt and resentment in her glance. She stared at me until the door was closed. I realized with something like despair that she was holding me responsible for the arrest of the Coffins. Everything I managed to do, I thought with considerable self-pity, seemed to arouse an unfavorable emotion in Miss Leslie.

  “Now, Mr Coffin,” said the colonel, “let’s have your story. It should be interesting, very interesting. It’s not often a sleuth has two confessions for the same set of crimes.”

  The sheriff led George Coffin to the straight-backed chair. “Don’t try nothing,” he warned his prisoner.

  “You’d better begin with the motive, Mr Coffin,” suggested Colonel Black. “Motives are always so interesting.”

  “The motive is simple enough,” replied George Coffin, speaking in a loud, assured voice. “I’ve lived half my life in the expectation of inheriting a large share of Tobias’ estate. When I heard he was going to make a new will, leaving a much smaller sum to my sister and me, I determined to kill him before he could put his plan into effect.”

  “You didn’t know he had already made a new will, then?” the colonel demanded.

  “I still don’t,” said my cousin. “You haven’t seen it, have you?”

  The colonel shook his head thoughtfully. “No. You didn’t destroy it, did you?”

  “Why should I tell you if I did?”

  “You shouldn’t.” The colonel smiled pleasantly. “Now if you will be kind enough to outline your course of action?”

  “That was simple too. I got the meat cleaver from the pantry and cut off Tobias’ head.…”

  “What gave you the idea of doing that?”

  “The escaped madman. I thought the murder would be blamed on him.”

  The sheriff made a “tsk” noise with his tongue and teeth. “Everybody seemed to have that idea.”

  “I cut off Tobias’ head.…” continued George Coffin.

  “Did you notice anything curious about it?” interrupted Colonel Black.

  “Why, no.”

  “How did you manage to cut off his head without arousing his suspicion?”

  “He was asleep at his desk, his head lying on a mass of papers. It was an easy matter to creep in and strike him. He never woke.”

  “And what did you do with his head?”

  “I walked down the shore and threw it into the lake. I expect the fish have it by this time.”

  “I doubt if this lake boasts any fish large enough to swallow a man’s head,” said the colonel, “but never mind, we can check on that later. Now I’d like to know why you were throwing food into the lake last night.”

  “I wanted to make it appear that the madman had actually paid the house another visit, so that Bronson’s murder would be accounted for.”

  “That, at least, sounds reasonable enough,” said the colonel, “Go on, please.”

  “Well, next came Bronson.”

  “Why?”

  “He saw me carrying out Tobias’ head. He threatened to tell the authorities unless I paid him twenty thousand dollars.”

  “Is that what you were talking to him about yesterday afternoon?” I asked.

  “Yes. I agreed to pay him, but I knew that he would still be in a position to demand more. So I killed him.”

  “That was a logical way out,” approved the colonel. “How did you manage it?”

  “I agreed to meet him in the servants’ house just before he was supposed to meet you. I was to pay him a thousand dollars as evidence of my good faith. I went over there, crept around to the back entrance and waited until Bronson was seated in a chair. Then I crept up behind him and cut his head off.”

  “You’re a regular walking guillotine,” marveled the colonel. “What did you do next?”

  “I took his head and buried it by the oak tree in the small pasture and returned to the house.”

  “Very good,” said the colonel. “Now I’m going to ask you the question that seems to stop these confessions of murder. How did you manage to get from the main house to the servants’ house and back without leaving any tracks in the courtyard?”

  “That was easy.”

  “Easy!” exclaimed the colonel. “I don’t think it’s easy. I’ve been trying to figure out a way for many long hours.”

  “I took two boards from the pile in back of the house,” explained George Coffin. “I laid one on the court, walked along it to the end, dropped the other, picked up the first board and continued my progress. No tracks and no muddy feet.”

  “But that’s impossible. We would have seen the marks made by the boards.”

  George Coffin’s manner was bored. “You would have if you hadn’t laid a trail of boards to the servants’ house yourself. You happened to lay them directly over the marks I made with my boards.”

  The colonel turned to the sheriff in consternation. “D’you suppose we could have done that?”

  “I reckon so,” admitted the sheriff. “We laid them boards on the most direct path to the servants’ house.”

  “My goodness,” said the colonel in a dismayed tone. “I had counted so much on discovering how the crossing was made, and now it doesn’t do me any good.”

  “I don’t see why it doesn’t,” argued the sheriff. “It makes this man’s story stand up pretty well.”

  “It does, indeed, Sheriff Wilson, as far as Bronson’s murder goes. But I don’t believe Mr Coffin has grasped all the details of his uncle’s murder. There’s the matter of chloroform, for instance.”

  “Maybe Mister Tobias
was drugged with chloroform instead of being asleep, as Mr Coffin said,” ventured the sheriff.

  “I did smell a strong odor of chloroform,” said George Coffin. “After the discovery of the body I pointed it out to Peter.”

  “Yes, he did,” I said.

  “But the bullet hole in your uncle’s head, Mr Coffin? You could hardly have overlooked that?”

  “There wasn’t any bullet hole,” said George Coffin. “You can’t catch me with a trick like that.”

  “Perhaps not,” agreed Colonel Black, turning his head toward the sheriff. “I think Mr Coffin might be sequestered somewhere for a time, away from his son. I should like to do some thinking.”

  The sheriff took George Coffin away. He was gone about ten minutes, and during that time the colonel did not say a word. He leaned against the billiard table, his face absolutely impassive. I leaned back in my chair, my face toward the bookcases, and thought about Joan. I wondered how she had such power to upset my mind and my stomach, to make me feel like a boy suffering from calf love. I was over thirty and too old for such nonsense, I said to myself.

  But it didn’t help. I was filled with the knowledge that Burton, if his story was true, had done a very courageous thing to save Joan Leslie’s share of the insurance for her. I couldn’t have done it. Surely she would be grateful to him.

  Chapter XIX

  BACKING HURRIEDLY into the library, the sheriff said, “I can’t help it, ma’am. I’m just doing my duty, ma’am.” He closed the door on Grace Coffin’s angry face and wiped his forehead with a smudgy handkerchief.

  “Whew!” he said.

  “It’s natural she should be agitated,” I asserted, “with husband and son locked up.”

  The sheriff folded his handkerchief and put it in his hip pocket. “I don’t blame her.” He blinked his eyes at Colonel Black. “I reckon I’d better be taking them two over to the courthouse.”

  The colonel was staring at the black dot on the white cue ball. “I wish you could wait for a while,” he said without raising his head. “I have a feeling I should have the solution to this business right now.”

  “Then you don’t think George Coffin killed them?” asked the sheriff.

  “I don’t think he killed Tobias Coffin.”

  “Well, what about his son?”

  “I don’t think he killed Bronson.”

  “That seems to complicate things,” I observed.

  Colonel Black nodded. “It does.”

  “Look here.” The sheriff’s pale blue eyes glowed. “Why couldn’t this be possible? Why couldn’t George Coffin have killed Bronson to cover up his son’s having killed Tobias Coffin? It’d all work out that way.”

  I realized sickeningly that in all probability his solution was the correct one. It made everything fit into the picture. Bronson could have told George Coffin he knew Burton had murdered Tobias. And George, to protect his son, had killed Bronson, crossing the court by means of boards. He had not known, of course, that Tobias was already dead by his own hand when Burton cut off his head. It was a dreadful solution.

  Bright light from the green-shaded lamps above the billiard table made the colonel’s face pale. “I’m terribly afraid you’re right, Sheriff Wilson,” he said.

  “You’re darn right I am,” agreed the sheriff. “And it ain’t as terrible as it might be. We’ll get George Coffin, all right, but I guess it’ll be hard to pin much on his son. I don’t suppose it’s much of a crime to cut the head off a person already dead.” He rubbed his hands together in triumph. “I don’t mind letting him go as long as the chloroform, the gunpowder on the collar and the bullet hole in the head—if we find it—prove he didn’t kill his great-uncle.”

  “Yes, but do they?” asked the colonel.

  “Well, I reckon a meat cleaver don’t leave a gunpowder mark,” said the sheriff with indignation.

  The colonel laid down the billiard ball. “It’s all very confusing. Very confusing. Yet I suppose it is reasonable to want to lock the two Coffins in your jail, Sheriff.”

  “Sure it’s reasonable. I got their confessions, haven’t I?”

  “Yes, you have. But in a court two confessions are not better than one; not if they’re to the same crime.”

  While the sheriff was thinking about this someone pounded at the door. I opened it, disclosing the dark, heavy-set deputy who was with the sheriff on the night George Coffin and I had been searching for Uncle Tobias’ head.

  “We’ve seen Glunt,” he announced excitedly. “You better come, Sheriff.”

  “Where?” The sheriff jumped for the door. “Where is he?”

  “Half a mile down the lake,” said the dark deputy. “Come on.”

  “Tell those other fellows to watch the prisoners,” the sheriff called to us. “I’ll be back as soon as we get Glunt.” He ran off, the deputy on his heels.

  The colonel and I walked out into the living room. I felt very apprehensive as to what sort of a reception I would receive from my relatives after my information had caused the arrest of both George and Burton Coffin, but Joan was the only person to meet us.

  Her face was worried, but I was relieved to see she showed no contempt for me. “What have you decided?” she asked us.

  “The sheriff has decided to lock them up,” replied the colonel.

  “Yes, but you?”

  “Nothing.” The colonel shook his head slowly from side to side. “Nothing.”

  I was peering out the french windows toward the lake. It seemed to me that I could see, far to the right, a light. “I wonder what progress they’re making with Glunt,” I said.

  Joan turned the radio switch. “We’ll see. I think the state police are being mobilized.”

  There was a crackle of static, then a man’s voice came from the loud-speaker. “Car 231 proceed to Mann’s general store on Highway 22 and watch road for all pedestrians.” The voice was loud and high pitched, and the words were spoken rapidly. “Car 231 proceed to Mann’s general store on Highway 22 and watch road for all pedestrians.”

  I recognized the voice as the one which had puzzled me on the night of my arrival. Obviously it was a mobilization of the state police by short wave, for other cars were directed to take up other positions near Crystal Lake. As the voice continued I visualized a huge net of police being thrown about us, with the sheriff and his posse acting as beaters, trying to flush Glunt into the hands of the troopers. The thought was comforting.

  The colonel moved restlessly. “Let’s go outdoors and see what progress is being made in the hunt,” he suggested.

  As we went out onto the veranda I asked Joan, “What’s happened to everybody?”

  “They’re upstairs in the study. Dr Harvey is trying to reach an attorney in New York by telephone.”

  Now from the vantage point of the veranda we could see many lights pin-pointing the darkness to the right. They were spread over a large area in the shape of a semicircle, and they seemed to be moving in our direction. Their effect was artificial, like yellow drops of paint on the purple backdrop of a theater.

  I asked Joan, “Why aren’t you upstairs with the others?”

  “I wanted to see what you and the colonel were going to do.”

  “The colonel and I!” I exclaimed, amazed. “I don’t do anything.” I felt strangely gratified.

  The reflected light from one of the windows outlined the soft curve of her jaw. “You’ve found nearly everything of importance in this affair,” she said. “And I think you and the colonel will do Mr Coffin and Burton more good than any lawyer.”

  The colonel spoke. “I wish you were right, Miss Leslie.”

  “Then you don’t think they’re …?”

  “No, I don’t. But proving it is another matter.”

  “You don’t think either of them had anything to do with the murders?” I asked.

  “I don’t think they’re both guilty.”

  “Oh.” Joan’s voice was flat. “But you think one of them is guilty?”


  “I don’t know,” said the colonel wearily.

  The part of the circle of lights by the lake had been curved in, so that the figure now appeared to be a huge question mark. A soft breeze, blowing from the south, was threaded with the faint sound of voices. Overhead, stars filled the sky.

  Colonel Black turned toward me. “How long has your great-uncle raised Jersey cattle?” he asked.

  “Why,” I said, surprised, “for years. As far back as I can remember. He once had some valuable bulls, too, but he recently gave up breeding.”

  “Let’s take a look at the cows. I’d like to see some fine cattle—that is if there are lights in the barn?”

  “There are,” I said.

  “Won’t you come along with us, Miss Leslie?”

  “Yes.” Her gray eyes were wondering. “But don’t you think you ought to——”

  “No, I don’t.” The colonel smiled. “I’d like to look at cows now.”

  We crossed the lawn and the clay court and entered the barn. There was a sweet odor of hay and clover. I found the light switch. The cows looked at us without surprise through their luminous eyes.

  “They live in style, don’t they?” observed the colonel. He cautiously approached one of the cows and stroked her dish-shaped face. “So, bossy,” he said.

  The cow continued to chew her cud.

  “The cow’s an interesting animal,” said the colonel. “It has resisted all efforts to change its productivity for two thousand years.”

  I was about to say, “Is that so?” when Mr Bundy came in the front entrance of the barn.

  “Oh, it’s you, Mister Peter,” he said. “I was afraid someone was harming my cows.” The apprehension left his round pink face.

  “We were simply admiring them, Mr Bundy,” said the colonel.

  “They’re a lovely herd,” agreed Mr Bundy. “Never seen better markings or better show points.”

  “Yes, but milk. How much milk do they give, Mr Bundy?”