Hunt with the Hounds

by Mignon G. Eberhart

  “Somebody could have taken advantage of that very fact. Everybody knows the circumstances, down to the last detail. It would be easy to duplicate them with the very conclusion in view that you are taking. Someone else—someone who had nothing to do with Ernestine Baily’s murder—could have duplicated the same set of circumstances in the hope of making us believe it was the same murderer.”

  “He could have,” Henley said shortly, “but I don’t believe anybody did, and you’d never get a jury to believe it. No—it’s too close to the Baily case and you didn’t let me finish—did or did not Dr. Luddington throw his weight at the trial to get Jed Baily off? Certainly. Well, then, he knows Sue Poore is to be arrested.…”

  Ruby stirred to give a kind of indignant murmur at that point. Henley went on “… he will be put on the witness stand again; he is a man who could not under any circumstances give false testimony; he knows Sue Poore killed the Baily woman, we know that the motive and the opportunity were there. He protected her so far as he could. But she phones that she is to be arrested, she wants to see him. He knows that she intends to plead with him to contrive to protect her even to the point of perjury. She goes to see him; he refuses to lie point-blank for her; she kills him the way she killed the Baily woman.…”

  Ruby, shocked, was standing. “Sue never killed him! Sue couldn’t kill anybody. This is perfectly outrageous!”

  She came over to Sue and stood, her heavy figure itself like a protective wall, between Sue and Henley. The sheriff sighed. Someone had opened a window near-by. It was still misty and wet outside; in the silence that followed what was practically an outbreak of hysteria on Ruby’s part, a murmur of voices drifted up from the street below. It was a curious murmur; there was an angry, rather threatening, undertone. Henley said, “Hear that. We’re going to have trouble, Sheriff, if we don’t act quickly. The Baily murder was bad enough; but this one—everybody in the county knew Dr. Luddington.”

  “Everybody in the county loved him,” the sheriff said heavily. “But I’m not going to act too quickly, Henley, and you can’t make me.”

  “You’re going to arrest this woman.”

  Ruby said, “If you arrest Sue Poore you’ll be making a terrible—a terrible mistake.”

  “Your loyalty does you credit, Mrs. Luddington.” Henley got up and opened the door to the waiting room. “That’s all now; you can go home.… Unless Sheriff Benjamin wishes to question you further,” he added as an afterthought.

  It was an indulgent-sounding afterthought, as if patient with age and with the sheriff’s heavy anxiety and perplexity; the sheriff, however, said nothing; he nodded at Ruby. Ruby in the doorway, said to Sue, “I think you should have a lawyer. I’ll speak to Wat and Jed. They’ll do something.”

  She went away; the door closed. “What can they do?” Sue thought despairingly. Where was Aunt Caroline? What had it done to her?

  Where was Fitz?

  Henley returned and sat, bolt upright and erect, but looking tired nevertheless. His face was glistening and red. The glittering leather belt across his stomach was too tight; he eased it surreptitiously and said, “Now then, we’ll have your whole story again, Miss Poore.”

  The sheriff made a kind of protesting motion. Henley snapped, “Again. Every word of it.”

  “She’s told you everything she knows,” the sheriff said.

  “There may be something, some detail …”

  Some snare, thought Sue; some trap. “I’ve told everything,” she said in an uneven voice which could not possibly carry conviction.

  “Tell it again,” Henley said inexorably and eased his belt another notch.

  And surprisingly he was right; there did emerge a small fact, a tiny facet of the whole grim and tragic picture, which she had, up to then, forgotten. He interrupted her, to say: “And what did you do when, you say, you went into the room and found that he was shot? What was your first act?”

  “I went to him.”

  “Did you know he was dead?”

  “Yes—I—there was the wound.”

  “But the Baily woman had such a wound. She wasn’t dead. She didn’t die for nearly two hours.”

  “But he …” What had she done? She’d gone to him, she’d leaned over; she said, “He wasn’t breathing. I held something to his lips; there wasn’t any mist, any clouding—so I knew he was dead.”

  There was a silence except for that dull shuffle and murmur from the awakened street below. Both men were looking at her. Henley said then sharply, “You did not tell that before. What did you hold to his lips?”

  “It was …” Exactly what was it? She thought back desperately; a small mirrored surface; hadn’t it felt square in her hand like some sort of box? Certainly there was something thick and solid about it. She said faltering; “I don’t know. It was sort of thick—as if it were framed or—it may have been a sort of box …”

  “A box! What sort of box?”

  “I don’t know. A compact or a … a cigarette box or … I don’t know …”

  The sheriff looked at Henley; Henley said, “There was nothing of the sort on the desk.”

  “What did you do with—whatever it was that you picked up?” asked the sheriff.

  What had she done with it? She could remember, although vaguely, the feel of it in her hand; she could remember the despair and terror with which she had looked at that small surface and found it bright and shining, reflecting only a part of her own white face. “I don’t know. I must have put it down on the desk or somewhere. I can’t remember anything about it. Not anything. All I could think of was Dr. Luddington and that—the place on his back and then I heard Jeremy galloping away. I don’t know.”

  “It couldn’t have been say, one of his instruments, some mirror—well, I don’t know just what, but something that had a metal surface that shone like a mirror?”

  She couldn’t think any more; she couldn’t remember anything about it save that bright, unmarred surface. “I could hold it in my hand,” she said. “It didn’t have any sort of handle or anything like that. I—it was a sort of box. That’s all I can remember.”

  “Is it in your pocket?” suggested the sheriff.

  It was not. She searched. Obviously Henley did not believe that it was anywhere. It was in his eyes, in his red, impatient face. Yet how could it have been invented by Sue, or by anybody? How could it have served any conceivable purpose of deception, as Henley quite clearly believed that it did?

  There was, then, a sort of commotion at the door of the outer office. Someone knocked; at the sheriff’s word a trooper opened the door and thrust his head into the room. “Somebody’s here to see Miss Poore. He’s brought Judge Shepson. He says his name is Wilson.”

  Henley uttered an angry word and got to his feet. “They can both stay out.”

  “She’s got a right to a lawyer. Judge Shepson’s a lawyer,” the sheriff said.

  “Not yet,” Henley said. “I’m not through questioning her. We haven’t charged her. We haven’t arrested her.”

  “We aren’t going to yet, anyway,” observed the sheriff. He rose and went to a desk in the corner: with deliberation, while Henley and the trooper and Sue watched, he took out an official-looking paper, lighted a match and held it to the paper. Henley started and jumped forward.

  “That’s the warrant! That’s the warrant for her arrest. You can’t do that.”

  “Oh, but I can,” the sheriff said mildly. “Stay where you are, both of you.”

  The trooper didn’t move. The sheriff held the flaming paper and as it quickly burned dropped the black flakes into an ash tray. Henley’s face was bright red and furious. The sheriff said, “She just might have had some kind of row with Ernestine, but nobody can make me believe that this girl here shot old Dr. Luddington.”

  Henley started forward then, swearing; the sheriff stopped him, his faded eyes as cold as ice peaks. “I’m still sheriff of this county. If you want to do anything about it right now you’ll have to go over my head
. And I’ve still got friends in this county.”

  Henley caught an angry breath; he thought for an instant, “All right!” He whirled to the trooper. “Show in the boy.”

  Sue did not hear him. She was stunned and breathless. She was almost crying with gratitude and relief. So she had no warning—the trooper withdrew and closed the door, there was a sort of movement and the murmur of voices again in the outer room—but she was looking at Sheriff Benjamin and not really seeing him because everything in the room was blurred. She must telephone Caroline at once and tell her that she had, they had, at least a respite. Then Woody walked in at the door.

  It closed behind him. He stood there in blues, very thin and young and tanned from sea duty. Captain Henley said, “All right. Here we are. Your brother, Miss Poore, was picked up in a garage in Dobberly, trying to hire a car. He was seen by a neighbor visiting Dr. Luddington’s place surreptitiously only an hour or so before we got the alarm. Now then, we’ll have your story, Mr.—Sergeant—Lieutenant Poore.”

  “Ensign,” said Woody, looking very thin and young. “Hello, Sue.”

  12

  HE CAME across to her. Henley would have stopped him. The sheriff made a quick gesture. “Let them alone,” he said.

  Woody stooped and kissed her. “What have they been doing to you?”

  “Oh, Woody, it’s all right! Listen—they aren’t going to arrest me …”

  “Arrest you!”

  “… the sheriff says he does not believe that I could have shot Dr. Luddington and oh, Woody, I didn’t, I didn’t …”

  Woody stood straight and slim in his blue uniform, his face hard, his eyes shooting sparks. “Sue—my sister—hauled up here and questioned and threatened, by God, sir, I’ll …”

  “Take it easy, Woody,” said the sheriff and Sue cried, “But he’s not going to! That’s what he said.”

  “Now see here,” began Henley angrily, “you signed that warrant for her arrest for the murder of Ernestine Baily, you can’t tear it up now because of the Luddington …”

  “I burned it,” said the sheriff. “You said yourself the two murders were linked together, part of the same crime. That’s what you said. Well, then, this girl just didn’t murder Dr. Luddington; I don’t believe it. So I’m not going to arrest her for Ernestine Baily’s murder. Not now.”

  “The jury will believe it,” snapped Captain Henley. “And they’re going to have a chance to listen. I tell you that woman is guilty. She killed Ernestine and she tried to influence the doctor to protect her and he wouldn’t so she’s shot him, too. She’s a …”

  “How would you like to have your head busted?” said Woody.

  Captain Henley was scarlet with anger, his shrewd eyes furious. “Trooper!” he shouted, “Trooper …” and gave his belt a hitch. “I’ll show you who’ll get his head busted, you young …”

  “Here now, here now,” interposed the sheriff. “We’ll not get anywhere this way.” A trooper opened the door, put his head into the room and the sheriff said, “Get out.”

  He did so.

  Woody, fists doubled, looked disappointed. They like to fight, Sue thought wearily, but with a glimmer of amusement: youth and the Navy, fast, quick scuffles in seaports, on shore leave and a quick getaway before the shore patrol comes running—and superior officers, later, who remember their own youth and fail to see black eyes and cut faces. “Woody,” she said placatingly, “it’s right. They were going to arrest me—I know how it sounds but they were—and now the sheriff burned up the warrant and they’re not going to. At least not—not now and if you’ll listen …”

  “Then what’s this guy talking about?” asked Woody, his eyes cold and again adult, fixed on Henley.

  The sheriff said, “Sit down now, Woody, take it easy. This is Captain Henley of the State Homicide Department. He’s doing his duty and you’ll be doing yours if you answer what he wants to question you about. You’ll also be helping out your sister. If she didn’t shoot Ernestine—or Dr. Luddington—then the truth will prove it, and every detail, every scrap of information that leads to the truth is going to give your sister a boost. That clear?”

  Anger and a desire to fight struggled with common sense and his ingrained respect for his elders; Woody looked at the sheriff and said soberly, “Yes, sir, but I think that my sister ought to have a lawyer. I don’t know the law but I don’t think it’s right to haul her up here and question her and threaten her without giving her a chance for legal protection.”

  “All right. She can have a lawyer any time she wants one. But just now, Woody, we want to know something you can tell us, you see …”

  Henley gave his belt another hitch and snapped, “What were you doing sneaking around the Luddington place just before he was shot?”

  Woody whirled. “I wasn’t sneaking.”

  “Go on. How’d you get there? Why?”

  The sheriff made a kind of pacifying motion and then sat down to listen. Woody said, “I don’t like the way you form your questions. But I’ll answer …”

  “You’re damn right you’ll answer, you …”

  The sheriff got up. He wore old-fashioned congress shoes with elastic at the sides; they shuffled forward and backward and he sat down again. Woody said, however, more peaceably. “I’ve got nothing to hide. Yes, I was there. Who saw me?”

  “Never mind that. Why did you go there?”

  “Because I wanted to see Dr. Luddington.”

  “What about?”

  Woody hesitated. The anger and look of defiance left his face. Sue, who knew him so well, saw that he was both troubled and perplexed; he waited a moment before replying and finally said: “Well—I wanted to see him. We—we’ve always gone to him for advice, Sue and I, and I—I didn’t know just what …” he stopped there, stuck.

  There was a little pause; a shrewd, exploring look had come into Henley’s face. He said, “Had you talked to your sister before you went there?” The sheriff shot him a queer, surprised look.

  And a new sort of alarm touched Sue. She said quickly, “You must have got into the Dobberly station from Richmond. We were expecting you. We had your wire from Memphis. Caroline would have come to get you. I suppose you wanted to ride up if Dr. Luddington happened to be going that way.” She stopped abruptly; she had no idea why she had spoken so hurriedly until she heard her own words and they sounded like excuses, lifelines flung out quickly toward Woody.

  It sounded like it to Henley, too, who said briskly: “No prompting, Miss Poore.… What did you want to ask his advice about? Come on, now—Ensign.”

  The sheriff shuffled his congress boots mildly. “Let’s just have the whole story, Woody. You’re on leave, I take it. Begin at the beginning.”

  Woody turned to the sheriff. “Yes, sir. From San Diego. I got a lift to Tuscon and another to Memphis and then the weather stopped me. I …” he swallowed; they could see his thin young neck move, “I wanted to get here before the trial was over. I thought they were making it pretty tough for Sue and I …” again he swallowed and said: “I thought it was going to be like this.”

  “Like this?” said the sheriff.

  “I thought that—from the way it read. I got all the papers, I thought they were going to acquit Jed and I thought …” Again he stuck; the sheriff said quietly, his faded blue eyes steady, “What did you think?”

  “I thought they were going to arrest Sue.”

  There was a short pause; someone down in the street shouted to somebody else. A car came racing along and stopped with a squeal of brakes just below the windows. Then Henley gave a kind of snort again. “Everybody knew that by the time the trial was over.”

  “I didn’t,” Sue thought queerly, “I didn’t.” Fitz expected it; perhaps everybody expected it. I didn’t.

  Woody refused to look at Henley; he moistened his lips and said, “So I wanted to be here. I finally got to Richmond and took the train here; it gets to Dobberly about five, it was a little late. Anyway, I wanted to see Dr. Ludding
ton …”

  “What about?” shouted Henley in exasperation.

  Woody still wouldn’t look at him. “I’m coming to that. First, though, Sue was right; I didn’t want to phone for her or for Caroline to come to get me, and I thought Dr. Luddington would take me home after I’d talked to him …”

  “What …” began Henley explosively and the sheriff said quickly. “Go on, son, tell it your own way.”

  “Yes, sir. Well, I left my duffel at the station—it’s still there—and walked out to the doctor’s place. It’s quite a long walk from the station, I don’t know how far …”

  Henley got up angrily, his red face swollen with impatience, shot the sheriff a look and sat down again. Woody went on, “… I don’t know what time it was when I got there; it’s on the edge of town. It was raining. I didn’t see a soul when I got to the street where he lives. The houses are sort of far apart there and with all the laurels and trees …”

  Henley interrupted. “We know all that, but you were seen just the same!”

  “Well. I wasn’t trying not to be seen. But I didn’t pass anybody that I remember, I’m sure. I got to the door and rang the bell and nobody came; I remembered it was Thursday, maid’s day off.” He stopped as if to collect his thoughts and again Sue knew his look. He was making up his mind not what to tell but what not to tell.

  But Woody—Woody couldn’t know anything of the murder! He’d been away, ever since the day after Ernestine had been killed, months and months ago. Woody couldn’t know anything about whoever had come quietly out of the dusk, into Dr. Luddington’s consulting room and shot him as he sat there unaware that murder stood behind him.

  Woody said, “So I walked in. I didn’t see anybody. The door was open into the waiting room. But the door into the consulting room was closed, and—and somebody was there with the doctor.”

  “Unhh!” said Captain Henley, startled.

  “Somebody,” said Woody, “in riding boots.”

  Captain Henley must have been tilting back in his chair; it came down now with a crash. “You’ve been talking to your sister!”