The Search for My Great-Uncle’s Head

by Jonathan Latimer

  “But the dog?” asked the sheriff.

  “He was used to seeing Lady Cleo ridden. Dr Harvey rode the cow to the barn, killed Bronson, then rode the cow back across the court. As soon as he reached the heavy grass in back of this house, he slid off and allowed the cow to return to the barn. The result was that there was no mud on his feet and no tracks in the court.”

  Dr Harvey was pale now, and his eyes moved continually about the room.

  “But why didn’t Mr Bundy see him?” asked the sheriff.

  “It was fairly dark, and Mr Bundy was in the barn.”

  “In the hayloft,” said Mr Bundy, speaking for the first time. “But I wouldn’t have seen him even if I had been down below.”

  Dr Harvey’s voice was brittle. “That’s a truly brilliant reconstruction,” he said, “but you can’t prove it.”

  “Oh, can’t I?” The colonel spread the pair of Oxford-gray trousers on the table in such a manner that the seat was up. “These are yours, are they not, Dr Harvey?”

  “I don’t know. I have a pair like them.”

  “These, at least, have your name in them.” The colonel handed the sheriff the magnifying glass and said, “Have a look at the seat.”

  The sheriff peered through the glass, one eye shut. “Hair,” he said. “Silver hair.”

  “Lady Cleo’s hair,” supplemented the colonel.

  The sheriff handed the magnifying glass to Colonel Black. “That’s enough for me,” he declared. He turned toward Dr Harvey. “I’ll have to take——” He halted abruptly.

  I turned toward the doctor to see what had happened. Dr Harvey’s eyes were narrow slits through which the black pupils gleamed wickedly; his right hand held an automatic pistol. “Don’t move,” he commanded, moving the pistol in an arc before him. “Stay where you are.”

  While we watched in a stupor composed half of fear and half of terror, he backed out of the room, disappeared into the pantry on the other side of the dining room.

  “I’ll be doggoned!” exclaimed the sheriff, struggling to draw his revolver from its holster. “Come on, boys, let’s git him.” His face was angry.

  Almost simultaneously the two deputies unfastened the handcuffs linking them to George and Burton Coffin. Joining the sheriff and Captain Anderson, who also carried a revolver, they cautiously made their way into the pantry.

  I found myself standing in front of Joan. Unconsciously I must have moved there to shield her. I glanced at her oval face, but she was staring at Burton.

  The colonel was moving toward the front door. I called to him, “Better take a gun, Colonel.”

  “Never used one in my life,” he replied, passing through the door. “I plan to confine myself to watching.”

  Burton looked up at Joan. “I’m all right,” he said. For the first time, to me, he appeared boyish. His face had lost that sullen, arrogant expression which had made me dislike him. He smiled at Joan, his right hand fumbling at the steel bracelet on his left wrist. “I’d like to get rid of this, though.”

  She caught her breath, dropped down beside him on her knees and put both hands on his wrist. “Oh, Burton …” There was moisture in her gray eyes.

  I felt a sudden constriction in the vicinity of my lungs.

  “I was a fool to do it,” said Burton, placing his hand on hers. “But I wanted to help you.”

  George Coffin had managed to remove his handcuff. He touched his son on the shoulder. “I’m sorry for everything I’ve said about you, Burton,” he said. “You’ve got real courage. Not many sons would risk their lives by confessing something they believed their father had done.”

  “You did the same thing for me,” said Burton.

  I was dimly conscious that the other women, Mrs Bundy, Mrs Coffin, Mrs Spotswood and Dot Harvey, were trying to comfort Mrs Harvey, who had partially collapsed on the davenport, but my eyes were upon Joan and Burton.

  “I’ve lived my life,” George Coffin said, “and it isn’t anything for me to die. My confession wasn’t anything, but yours was, son.” He looked down at Joan. “Especially when you’ve got someone to live for.”

  Burton’s hand tightened on Joan’s. “I don’t know if I have,” he said. “Have I, Joan?”

  I didn’t wait any longer. Joan’s eyes turned toward me, in apology, regret or defiance, I did not know which; but I turned and fled from the room. How could she help loving Burton after what he had done for her? I had lost her. I had never had her. I felt as though the world had come tumbling about my head as, indeed, it had.

  Chapter XXI

  THE WIND was now from the east, and clouds made black patches among the stars in the sky. It was colder. My stomach felt very queer, almost as if I were faint from hunger, but I wasn’t hungry. I leaned against the rail around the veranda, drew my coat closer about me for warmth and stared out at the lake. My life was going to be very lonely. It had always been lonely, but I had never known it before. I sighed.…

  “Peter.” It was the colonel’s voice. “What’s the matter?” His tone was kindly.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Come. Come. It must be something. People don’t sigh like that for nothing. Is it Miss Leslie?”

  I could make out his figure a few feet from me. He, too, was leaning against the rail. His face, his hands made faint gray smudges in the blackness.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “You think perhaps she cares for Burton?” I made no reply.

  “Well, that is something to worry about, because she’s a very nice girl.”

  “Yes, she is.”

  “What do you know about her?”

  “Nothing … and everything.”

  He chuckled. “An excellent reply, Peter. But let me tell you something of her actual history. I had her looked up before I left New York.”

  “How about Dr Harvey? Aren’t you going to look for him?”

  “That’s the sheriff’s job. I’m a detective, not a bloodhound. Now about Miss Leslie …”

  He told me what he had found out about her, and despite the fact that my heart ached painfully I listened with interest. She was, he said, an orphan. Up to her second year in Smith College she had been living with her aunt, but upon that woman’s death she had been forced to leave school because of a lack of funds. Securities left her by her parents had ceased paying dividends, and her aunt’s money went to a sister. She had refused a scholarship at Smith and had, for the past four years, earned a comfortable living drawing fashion illustrations for magazines and advertising agencies.

  “She had courage and ability,” concluded the colonel, “things many girls haven’t.”

  “I knew that,” I said gloomily, “but I’m afraid such a confirmation only adds to my sense of loss.”

  The wind blew from the lake, steady and chill. It was not terribly cold, but it carried a feeling of early fall. It was a damp wind. We stood for a while in silence.

  In the rectangle of light by the doorway appeared Mrs Spotswood in her wheel chair, and George Coffin. The colonel called to them.

  “Hello, there,” said George Coffin. “Any signs of the doctor?”

  “We aren’t looking for signs,” replied the colonel. “That’s the sheriff’s job.”

  Mrs Spotswood’s voice sounded like two pieces of sandpaper being rubbed together. “The doctor was a fool to run away,” she observed. “He should have stayed.”

  “He knew he was caught,” I said.

  “Why?”

  “Well, the fingerprints on the new will, for one thing.”

  “Those are hypothetical,” said the colonel. “I merely guessed they would be there.”

  “You mean you lied?”

  “To be frank, yes.”

  Mrs Spotswood laughed without mirth.

  “But you had him cold on Bronson’s murder?” asked George Coffin.

  “Yes, I had him cold.”

  “George,” I said, “you thought Burton had committed both crimes, didn’t you?”

  “
Yes. Bronson told me he’d seen Burton with Tobias’ head. So when Bronson was killed, what could I think?”

  “And Burton thought just the other way. He thought you’d killed Bronson to protect him.”

  “That’s it. Regular comedy of errors.”

  “Far from a comedy,” said Mrs Spotswood.

  The colonel spoke. “Just to clear the record, Mrs Spotswood, I’d like to ask you a couple of questions.”

  “All right.”

  “Why were you searching through Peter’s clothes?”

  “Looking for the new will. I thought it must be hidden somewhere in the house.”

  “And earlier this evening, what were you doing walking around the house?”

  “Walking?” exclaimed George Coffin. “Mrs Spotswood walking?”

  Mrs Spotswood’s voice was dry. “I was walking around the house.”

  “But you never told us you could walk,” I said.

  “You never asked me.”

  “But why in the evening, Mrs Spotswood?” asked the colonel.

  She hesitated before replying. “It’s a somewhat painful subject, Colonel. You see, my method of locomotion is rather—grotesque. I’d prefer not being seen, as much for the sake of others as for myself. Yet I need the exercise. So I walk at night.”

  I broke the embarrassed pause which followed her words with a question. “How did the madman get Uncle Tobias’ head and the suicide stage properties, Colonel?”

  “As far as Captain Anderson was able to learn from Glunt, the madman had been hiding all the time in the vicinity of Graymere,” replied the colonel. “On the night of Bronson’s murder, perhaps, he saw the doctor place Bronson’s head at the foot of the tree in the small pasture, with Mr Coffin’s head, the revolver and the other deceptive paraphernalia. Naturally he was unable to resist the temptation to remove at least one of the heads to a hiding place of his own.

  “Or else Dr Harvey, on the day following Bronson’s murder, removed Mr Coffin’s head and the other things himself, hid them in the woods where they were discovered by Glunt. This possibility seems more likely since Dr Harvey would just as soon have Bronson’s head discovered; thus lending strength to the theory that the madman was the murderer of both Bronson and Mr Coffin.”

  “You were very clever to reconstruct the two crimes, especially the murder of Uncle Tobias, Colonel,” I said, “but I’m afraid the insurance company won’t thank you for proving that he was killed instead of being a suicide.”

  “They will certainly have to pay through the nose,” agreed the colonel. He sounded as though the idea didn’t disturb him.

  There was a noise at the door, and Joan and Burton Coffin came out on the porch. My heart jumped violently at the sight of them.

  “Where’s Mother?” George Coffin asked his son.

  “Upstairs with Aunt Mary,” replied Burton.

  Had they reached an understanding? I could tell nothing from his tone. His voice was utterly casual. I wished I could see their faces.

  “I think I’ll go up too,” said George Coffin, walking toward the door.

  A wild shouting arose in the woods to our right. “Halt!” commanded a voice. “Halt, or I’ll shoot.”

  There was a sound of breaking brush, and then came the explosion of a shotgun. “This way,” cried the sheriff’s voice. “This way.” Two shots followed this outburst, and we could hear the whine of bullets. Feet, pounding heavily on the sod, made a noise in the yard, and presently we caught, in the light from the living-room windows, a glimpse of a running figure.

  “Dr Harvey!” breathed Joan.

  “He’s got his pistol too,” added Burton Coffin.

  I dropped over the veranda rail and started after the doctor. “Stop!” I commanded.

  The doctor turned and fired at me without halting. The bullet clipped some leaves above me. “Stay back,” he shouted, veering to the left toward the boathouse.

  I followed somewhat more cautiously. I was filled with anger at the doctor, especially because he’d killed harmless old Bronson, but I didn’t want to let him shoot me. Even though Joan Leslie didn’t want me, and I didn’t care what happened, I desired to see Dr Harvey captured.

  The fugitive ran into the boathouse, and I heard a rattle of boards. He was going to take the canoe and escape by way of the water. I reached the door of the boathouse, but before I had even determined whether or not to enter, another shot made me duck for cover. Far in the rear I heard encouraging shouts from the sheriff and his men. I dropped behind a tree and lay face down on the cold earth. There was a heavy splash in the boathouse and a groan of wood. He had dropped the canoe in the water and had opened the door on the lake side.

  Quickly I drew off my shoes, trousers and coat, scrambled to my feet and raced out onto the pier. If it was cold I didn’t notice it. The doctor caught sight of me just as I saw him. He was only twenty yards from the end of the pier, paddling furiously. He boated the paddle and raised an arm at me. I dove a split second before the flash of the pistol; something like a white-hot iron seared my head, and I landed on the water in a belly flop.

  For an instant I was stunned, then fury overwhelmed me. The only thing in the world I wanted to do was to get my hands on him. My head cleared, and I struggled to the surface, gasping for air, making a tremendous turmoil on the water. My skull throbbed with pain. I wondered if I was dying. I started to swim toward the canoe. How many shots had he left. Three? Two?

  A vertical black shadow on a longer horizontal one, Dr Harvey waited quietly as I came toward him. I was only thirty feet away, yet he made no move to escape. Was he going to give himself up to me? Or was he going to wait until I was at the canoe’s side, then kill me?

  Twenty feet, and still he didn’t move. The calm, the patience with which he awaited my approach was terrifying. He was sure he could kill me. I drew a long breath, thrust my head and shoulders into the dark water and took a powerful breast stroke, descending as quickly as I could. I heard a distinct “plop” and knew he had fired and missed me.

  The water was pitch black; it was as though I was swimming with a blindfold over my eyes. I was safe from another shot, but how was I going to reach him? Instantly a plan formed in my mind. I guessed that once I disappeared under the surface he would paddle away as rapidly as he could. Moreover, he would go out into the lake, in the direction the canoe had been headed. Perhaps I could get to him before he was able to move at top speed.

  I was going toward him anyway, and so I took five swift strokes, reaching a position approximately under that originally held by the canoe. But the doctor would be endeavoring to get under way. I took four more strokes and started toward the surface. Something solid grazed my shoulder. I reached up blindly and seized the doctor’s paddle and gave it a terrific tug. With a splash the canoe overturned above me.

  I came to the surface and listened. For a second there was silence, then, to the left, the doctor broke water. He was not more than five feet away, thrashing about wildly. Two crawl strokes brought me beside him. “Go away, or I’ll hit you,” he cried in a fury. I seized his shoulders, dodging a blow from his fist, and thrust him toward the bottom. I held him down with my feet for fully a minute and then let him up, stifling, I must confess, an impulse to drown him.

  When his head emerged from the water he drew a great, gasping breath. “Are you ready to come ashore?” I asked. He clawed at my face, his nails cutting my skin. I pushed him under again.

  This time when he came to the surface there was no fight in him. He had swallowed a great deal of water, and if I hadn’t put an arm under his neck he would have sunk of his own accord. As I started for shore, abandoning the canoe, I heard shouting and saw lights on the pier. I headed in that direction.

  During the pursuit of the doctor and in my brief combat with him I had been too excited to think of my wound. Now, pulling my captive over the water with one arm and swimming with the other, I found I was extremely tired. Faintness almost overcame me, and I felt a strong desire
to let myself sink down in the dark water.

  “Hello,” called a voice from the pier. “Have you got him?”

  A light shone in my eyes. I was hardly five yards from the wooden pilings. “Yes,” I said, allowing myself to float for an instant.

  A voice called anxiously, “Are you all right?” I recognized it as the colonel’s.

  I was too weary to reply. I wanted to stop swimming, but I forced myself on, saying, “Only six more strokes … only five more strokes … only four …”

  After an eternity I reached the bathing ladder. “Take him,” I gasped, hauling Dr Harvey part way out of the water. In a second they had him on the pier. I felt my strength leave me. I sank back into the water, dimly hearing someone say, “Quick! Get him!” but not connecting the words with myself.

  Without opening my eyes I could tell it was daytime. From the feel of sheets, of springs under me, I knew I was in bed. My head didn’t hurt very much, but I was reluctant to open my eyes for fear it would. Someone made a noise coming into the room, and Joan Leslie’s voice asked:

  “Doctor, is he—all right?”

  I was delighted to note a catch, an expression of concern in her voice.

  The voice which replied had that tone of suave optimism employed by doctors in replying to questions. “I see no reason why the young man should not be all right,” it said cheerfully.

  I wondered if the doctor meant to reassure Joan by concealing the true state of my condition or whether long practice at being confident had made him sound insincere. I never believed doctors anyway.

  Apparently Joan didn’t either. She said, “Oh, Doctor, he’s got to live.”

  “Oh, he will,” said the doctor. “Good-by.”

  I opened my eyes a crack. It wasn’t so bad. The ache produced by the golden sunlight quickly subsided. Joan was staring at the door with an expression of doubt. She turned her lovely wide gray eyes toward me, and I quickly closed mine.

  Presently she was beside my bed. There was a faint sweet odor of flowers about her. She touched my cheek with a soft hand. “Oh, Peter,” she whispered, “you must live.”