The Search for My Great-Uncle’s Head

by Jonathan Latimer

  “Colonel,” I exclaimed, “I have found the missing will!”

  “Excellent,” he said without looking up from his microscope. His voice betrayed no surprise.

  “But I’ve also found an important clue,” I added.

  He glanced up this time. “But I have found the murderer,” he said calmly. “Or rather—his trousers.”

  The colonel leaned against the big table in the center of the living room, the trousers hanging over his arm. The sheriff had called a meeting, and everyone in the family and in the household, too, with the exception of Mrs Spotswood, was present. Both George and Burton Coffin, their wrists fastened by steel chains to burly deputies, were on hand, as was the asylum attendant who had taken charge of the madman. His name was Captain Marvin Anderson. He had sent Glunt on to the hospital in Traverse City.

  “If Glunt had Mister Tobias’ head,” the sheriff was saying, “it’s proof, ain’t it, that he killed him?”

  So the round object the madman dropped was my great-uncle’s head!

  “I think not,” said Colonel Black. “He told Captain Anderson he found it, and I see no reason why he should have lied.” He turned to the heavy-jawed captain. “I believe he led you to the place where the head had been hidden and showed you the other things concealed there?”

  The captain prodded a wooden box with his toe. “Yeah, he did. And here’s the junk we found.”

  Carefully the colonel laid the contents of the box on a newspaper. There was a bloodstained meat cleaver; a bottle marked “chloroform”; a revolver; a stained handkerchief with my great-uncle’s initials, T. C., on it, and a piece of paper headed: “To Whom It May Concern.”

  The colonel picked up the paper between his thumb and forefinger and read:

  “‘I have never let Fate master me, nor do I intend to start now. Yet Fate seems to be aiming at my mastery through my stomach.’”

  “Ulcers,” interrupted Dr Harvey. “Ulcers which stood a good chance of developing into cancer.”

  The colonel continued to read:

  “‘I have five, perhaps ten, years to live, but they will not be pleasant years. Money, authority, possessions are of little value without health. I would rather leave these things to those who can enjoy them. I can think of no better time to do so than when my family is present.

  “‘And, too, in killing myself I shall defeat Fate. I shall name the time and manner of my death instead of having them named for me.

  “‘TOBIAS COFFIN.’”

  The colonel paused, then said, “There’s a postscript. It reads:

  “‘This chloroform makes me sick. I’ll name a revolver instead. Fate be damned!’”

  Mrs Coffin drew a gasping breath. She looked smaller now, and much older. “But that fits Burton’s story!” she exclaimed. “You’ll have to release him.”

  “Not until we find out who killed Bronson, ma’am,” said the sheriff firmly.

  “I killed him,” said Burton, “just as I said.”

  George Coffin said, “No, he didn’t. He doesn’t know how he crossed the court without tracks. I killed Bronson.”

  Mrs Coffin gasped. I was afraid she was going to faint, and I moved nearer to her and took hold of her arm.

  “Where I come from,” said the sheriff, giving them both angry glances, “it’s a crime to lie about a murder.”

  “Perhaps legally,” said Colonel Black, “but you know what Confucius said of the moral aspect of the question, don’t you, Sheriff Wilson?”

  The sheriff stared at him blankly, and the colonel said:

  “Once the Duke of She spoke to Confucius, saying: ‘We have an upright man in our country. His father stole a sheep, and his son bore witness against him.’

  “‘In our country,’ Confucius replied, ‘uprightness is something different from this. A father hides the guilt of his son, and a son hides the guilt of his father. It is in such conduct that true uprightness is to be found.’”

  For the first time since he had been arrested I noted a glint of interest in George Coffin’s eyes. He raised his face to the colonel in a long appraisal. There was a faint trace of color in his cheeks.

  “I don’t know about your dukes and so on,” said the sheriff, “but I’m thinking that the evidence fits Burton’s story to a T. I bet he did murder Bronson. He found his great-uncle dead by his own hand and wanted to save the insurance for his girl here.” He jerked his thumb at Joan. “So he hid the suicide evidence. But when he knew Bronson had seen him hide it he killed him.”

  Colonel Black was fascinatedly testing the edge of the meat cleaver with his thumb. “The only fault with your theory, Sheriff,” he said, “is that Tobias Coffin was murdered.”

  Like an echo in a deserted house the word “murdered” was repeated from all sides.

  “Murdered!” exclaimed Burton Coffin.

  “Murdered?” queried the sheriff.

  “Murdered,” whispered George Coffin as though he had known it already.

  I looked at Joan. She was staring at Burton, fear in her eyes. Mrs Harvey had Mrs Coffin’s other arm, so I released my arm and walked to Joan. She turned a white face to me.

  “Could Burton have …?” she asked.

  “No.”

  She clasped my hand. “I’m so glad. I wouldn’t want to be responsible for …”

  She let her hand remain in mine.

  The sheriff had recovered his composure. “How could it be murder?” he asked angrily. “You got powder marks on his collar, there’s a bullet hole in his head, and there’s the suicide note. Dr Harvey says it’s in Mr Coffin’s handwriting.”

  “It does resemble Tobias Coffin’s handwriting,” agreed the colonel, “and only an expert will be able to tell whether or not it is a forgery. But the note has little to do with the fact that Mr Coffin was murdered.”

  “I should think it’d have everything to do with it.”

  “No. The chloroform’s the thing. You remember the expert testified at the inquest that a large quantity of chloroform was present in Mr Coffin’s lungs—enough to render him unconscious?”

  The sheriff nodded.

  “Well, how could an unconscious man shoot himself?”

  The sheriff’s mouth dropped open. Everyone was giving the colonel complete attention now.

  “I might as well tell you the entire story,” said the colonel. “I have it pretty well in my mind.”

  “And you know who killed Mr Coffin and who killed Bronson?” asked the sheriff.

  “Yes. The same man killed them both. Shall I go on?”

  “And you know how he crossed the court?”

  “Yes. An amazing device.”

  “Who was it?”

  “Wait. I’d like to outline the story of the murders first.”

  “All right.” The sheriff sat down at one end of the davenport to the right of the fireplace. “Shoot.” His tone sounded as though he was prepared to disbelieve everything the colonel had to say.

  The colonel was still toying with the meat cleaver. “Our story opens the night Tobias Coffin was murdered,” he began. “On that same night Elmer Glunt, who had cut off the heads of his wife and children, escaped from his guards while on the way to the state asylum.

  “These two events are strangely connected.”

  “Mr Coffin had invited his family to come to Gray-mere to hear of the changes he had made in his will. I believe it was well known to everyone, with the exception of Peter Coffin, that he was going to leave the bulk of his property to the younger members of the family rather than to the older, as he had once intended.”

  The colonel glanced at George Coffin, who nodded interestedly. Everyone, indeed, was interested. I imagine the same thought was in all minds. Who could the murderer be? Was he, or she, in the room?

  The colonel continued:

  “This, then, is our setting. The murderer decides that the time is ripe to strike. He has something to gain by Tobias Coffin’s immediate death.”

  I thought, “There i
s nothing pointing at anyone in particular here. Any one of us might have wanted to kill Tobias: some to destroy the new will, some to prevent its ever being changed.” I wondered of the colonel had the same answer as I.

  “So he went up to Mr Coffin’s study after the household was asleep,” the colonel went on, “and overpowered him with a chloroformed handkerchief. He had the suicide note already written, even the postscript, and after Tobias Coffin was completely unconscious he waited for a burst of thunder and shot him through the head. The noise of the thunder, of course, covered the Sound of the revolver.

  “Then the murderer arranged the body so that it would appear to be a suicide. He put the bottle of chloroform and the handkerchief on the desk, laid the note on the blotter and placed the revolver in Mr Coffin’s right hand, bending the arm so that the muzzle was pointed directly back of the right ear, where the shot had entered.”

  Vividly I recalled the position of the body across the table. The arm had been bent in just that manner. From the expression on George Coffin’s face I could see he recalled it too.

  “But something happened to disarrange the murderer’s plan,” continued the colonel. “Burton Coffin, having seen the light in the study, came to investigate. When Burton’s footstep sounded in the hall the murderer was examining the new will. Quickly he thrust it in a vase on the mantel, fearing that whoever was coming would catch him with it, and darted into Tobias Coffin’s bedroom.

  “Without the will he was fairly safe, for he could say, if caught, that he, too, had been awakened by a noise from the study and had come to investigate.

  “But he wasn’t caught. Burton entered the room an instant later and discovered his great-uncle. Naturally after reading the note and seeing the revolver and the chloroform he believed it to be suicide. As he says, the thought of the insurance, half of which he knew went to Miss Leslie, came to him. He knew that suicide would void the policy.

  “He acted at once to conceal the suicide. He remembered Peter’s account of his encounter with the madman and the scare the madman had given the household when he tried to break in. So he went downstairs and took Mrs Bundy’s meat cleaver and with it cut off Tobias’ head.”

  Joan’s hand grasped mine convulsively.

  “Then, followed by the murderer, he went out of the house with the head and all the evidence of suicide and buried them at the base of the tree in the pasture back of the barn.” The colonel glanced at Burton. “He thought he was unobserved, but both the murderer and Bronson, from his window in the servants’ house, saw him. Of course at the time Bronson had no idea what Burton was doing.”

  There was a click at the end of the living room, and Mrs Spotswood emerged from the elevator. I felt a thrill of horror at the sight of her wrinkled, inscrutable face with its deep-set, burning eyes. She glided noiselessly across the room, halting the wheel chair back of Mrs Bundy, who stood with her husband and Karl Norberg. Joan’s hand, as she looked at the old woman, tightened on mine.

  “Mrs Spotswood,” the colonel said, “I have been explaining how Mr Coffin was murdered and how Burton cut off his head to make the death appear to have been the work of the madman.”

  Mrs Spotswood’s voice was like the dry rustle of leaves. “I knew he was murdered,” she said. “I have been looking for the will.” There was no expression on her face.

  “Well, to continue”—the colonel’s voice sounded flat—“you found the body just as Burton, followed by the murderer, had returned to the house. Your scream aroused Peter and prevented the murderer from returning to the study and taking the will from the vase.

  “Later, when everyone was in the room, the murderer looked for the vase, but Peter had taken it for a weapon. After everyone had gone to bed the murderer returned to the study to look for the vase. He thought possibly it was somewhere in the room. His light was seen by Norberg and the deputy left on guard duty, and with Peter they burst into the room. In leaving the room the murderer hit Peter with a poker.

  “I don’t know if this was a deliberate attempt to kill, but I think it was.”

  After gazing for several moments at the meat cleaver, which he still held in his hand, the colonel resumed his story.

  “The searching of the various rooms thereafter, including the attack on Burton, was the work of the murderer. In the meantime Bronson let it be known that he knew something connected with the crime, perhaps even the identity of the culprit. He knew that Burton had buried the head and the suicide evidence, but the murderer was afraid that Bronson knew about him.

  “So after dinner on the night of my arrival he crossed the court in the most remarkable manner imaginable (really, the trip was a stroke of genius), secured the cleaver from its hiding place and cut off poor Bronson’s head.”

  Drawing a gasp of horror from the women, the colonel made a slicing movement of the cleaver in the air.

  “Then, after he had hidden the head and the cleaver with the other head by the tree he returned to the house.”

  Sheriff Wilson’s small eyes were alert. “Very good story,” he said, “but you haven’t told us how the murderer crossed the court yet.”

  The colonel eyed the people in the room. He glanced at me, at Mrs Spotswood, at Dr Harvey, George Coffin, Mr Bundy, Dan Harvey, Joan. For the first time he looked really dangerous. He looked like a cat ready to spring. A muscle in his jaw quivered.

  “First,” he said slowly, “I should like to name the murderer.”

  “Why, sure,” said the sheriff. “Go ahead.”

  I noticed with a touch of amusement the expression on the face of Captain Anderson, the chief of the asylum guards. It was an expression of mingled amazement and incredulity. His heavy jaw had fallen down, and he stared at the colonel through bulging eyes.

  “The man I’d like to name,” the colonel said, “is Dr Thaddeus Harvey.”

  Despite the fact that this announcement did not come as a surprise to me I was unable to observe the reactions of everyone to the colonel’s words. This was due partly to the relief I felt in having the name spoken at last and partly to the widely diverse nature of the reactions. Both George Coffin and his son were unmoved, their faces, if anything, apprehensive, as though they feared some trick. Mrs Harvey paled, and Joan left me to go to her side, but she didn’t faint. The two younger Harveys gazed at their father in alarm.

  “Dr Harvey,” repeated the sheriff. “Dr Harvey?”

  The doctor shook himself like a fox terrier. His eyes glowed angrily, his face flushed. “What sort of nonsense is this?” he cried.

  “Then you don’t care to admit you’re guilty of both murders?” asked the colonel dangerously.

  “Don’t care to admit——” Dr Harvey was for the moment unable to speak.

  The sheriff, his face worried, said, “Don’t you think you ought to wait until …”

  Colonel Black ignored him, spoke to the doctor. “Who beside you would have chloroform in the house?” he demanded.

  “Why you mountebank! You cheap fourflusher!” Dr Harvey’s voice was shrill with rage. “Trying to put this on me. Don’t you know it’s slander? I’ll have you kept in jail for the rest of your life for this.”

  The colonel shrugged his shoulders. “As Juvenal said, ‘Nihil est audacius illis deprensis; iram atque animos a crimine sumunt.’” He translated for the sheriff. “Nothing is bolder than they who are detected; they assume anger and spirit because they are detected.”

  If it was the colonel’s object to enrage Dr Harvey he succeeded beyond all expectation. The doctor was struck dumb with anger; he was unable to do anything but shake his fist at the colonel.

  The sheriff was still dubious. “But what proof have you, Colonel?” he asked.

  “Plenty.”

  “Bah!” exclaimed Dr Harvey.

  The colonel stared coldly at him. “Have you ever seen the new will drawn by Mr Coffin, Doctor?”

  “No. Why should I have seen it?”

  “You’ve never touched it?”

 
“No.”

  “Then why did you ask Peter Coffin what had become of the vase in Mr Coffin’s study?”

  I looked at the colonel with admiration. Dr Harvey’s interest in the vase was what had given him away to me as soon as I had discovered the will. How clever of the colonel to see it too!

  The doctor hesitated for an instant. Some of the crimson color faded from his face. “Did I ask him that?”

  “Yes, you did,” I said. “When you and George and I were in Uncle Tobias’ room—just before the sheriff came.”

  “Perhaps I did if Peter says so. I presume I must have seen that it was gone from the mantel.”

  The colonel laid the cleaver on the table and took a paper from his pocket. “And you didn’t know that the will was in the vase?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Then how do your fingerprints happen to be on it?”

  Dr Harvey was silent.

  “Naturally you wanted to destroy the new will,” said Colonel Black. “You wanted the money for yourself, not for your children. And the only way you could make sure of this was to kill Mr Coffin and then destroy the will. Too bad you hadn’t time that night.”

  The doctor’s teeth were bared in a sneer. “You have a fine imagination.”

  “You don’t imagine fingerprints.” The colonel’s voice was soft. “Nor does Bronson’s murder come under the heading of fancy.”

  “Well, how do you get me across that court without wings?” asked the doctor.

  “I ride you across.”

  “Ride?” asked the sheriff.

  “Yes. On Lady Cleo, the leader of Mr Coffin’s Jersey herd.”

  “Oh, my gosh!” exclaimed the sheriff.

  “It sounds almost impossible, but you remember Lady Cleo was accustomed to be ridden by Mr Bundy’s boy. Dr Harvey, casting about for a method of reaching the servants’ house to kill Bronson, hit on Lady Cleo. He went out to the rear of the house and caught her as she led the other cows toward the barn from the forest pasture.”