Читать книгу The Furthest Fury - Carolyn Wells - Страница 7

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Stanhope, without his host, had gone down to the village in the Hazelton motor. They had dropped Barker Hazelton at the railway station to take the earliest train for New York. Then Stanhope, with the chauffeur had gone the marketing rounds, and hearing of the Woodbine tragedy and knowing the coroner pretty well, had gone there and remained for some time.

But when he heard the tale of Barker’s call on Nevin Lawrence the night before, Stanhope concluded it was time for him to go back and tell Amos Hazelton about it.

He had no trouble in finding the Hazelton car, for Martin, the chauffeur, was among the crowd that was blocking the road and choking the path that led to the house.

Reaching Hazel Hill, Stanhope told Amos the details as far as he knew them.

And he had scarcely finished when two men in plain clothes arrived and demanded to see Barker Hazelton.

“He’s gone to New York,” his father said, “can I be of any use?”

“Well, can you tell me anything of your son’s movements last night?”

The man, Lewis by name, was frank and courteous of manner, but his eye was alert and his tone a bit sharp.

“Before I answer your question,” Hazelton said, “will you tell me why you want to know?”

“As this gentleman here can witness, the inquest down at Woodbine cottage has brought out evidence that your son called there last night and is the last person so far known to have seen Mr. Nevin Lawrence alive.”

Amos Hazelton looked grave.

“I am sorry to say,” he began, “I can tell you nothing at all of my son’s movements last evening. I only know that after dinner he went down to the village as he does nearly every night. I don’t know what time he came home, as he has a latch key and comes and goes as he chooses. He was at breakfast this morning and left the house just on time to catch the eight-thirty train for New York. He will be home about five or six this afternoon, I suppose.”

“Know where I can get in touch with him in New York?”

“No, I’m sorry to say I don’t. But he’ll show up all right this afternoon. Now, Mr. Lewis, don’t mince matters. Is my boy suspected of this crime?”

“No, sir, I’m not prepared to say that. But, as you must understand, it is necessary to question him. He was known to be at the Lawrence house from about nine o’clock on, and also, he was known to be in a bad temper.”

“Yes, and it is common knowledge that Mr. Lawrence and my son were rival candidates for the presidency of the Country Club. But, to my mind, that doesn’t imply a murderous impulse in my son’s heart.”

“Nor to my mind, either, Mr. Hazelton. But you must see that we want an interview with him. He might give us important information as to the murderer.”

“All I can promise is that I will let you know as soon as he returns home.”

“Don’t trouble yourself about that. He will be met at the station. But what we want is to get him home sooner. You can give us no idea where he is spending the day?”

“Not the least. It is Barker’s vacation this month, and he naturally idles about. He is oftenest at home, but he runs down to the city or to the seashore now and then. But he almost never stays away over night without letting me know of his plans.”

“Is your son possessed of a quick temper?”

“Very quick. But I cannot think he belongs to the criminal class.”

“Not all crimes are committed by the criminal class. It has been said there is nothing essentially incongruous between crime and culture. Not that I am making any accusations. I merely want to show that it is necessary to interview Mr. Barker Hazelton as soon as may be. I bid you good morning.”

The two men went away, the second one not speaking, except bare civilities, and Amos Hazelton turned a despairing face to his friend.

“Bad lookout, Dave. My boy has fairly a gunpowder temper. He flies into a passion in a moment.”

“Oh, come, now, Amos, don’t be scared by those men. They’re more self important than logical. They saw you were frightened and they hoped to get some admission out of you. Now, you and I know Barker couldn’t possibly have done this thing, and the worst course for us to take is to admit that he possibly could.”

“But he could have done it. You don’t know Bark as I do. You haven’t seen him for the last few years. He’s a strange chap, and I wouldn’t vouch for what he would or wouldn’t do in a moment of sudden, fierce anger.”

“But for a matter of a club election, to kill two people! It’s preposterous!”

“Preposterous or not, there’s a possibility. Now, I trust to you to help me. You’re up on these subjects, crime, murder—all that. And you must advise me. Shall I try to locate Bark and tell him not to come home?”

Stanhope looked at his friend in amazement.

“Keep your head, Amos,” he said, almost impatiently. “It’s too absurd to talk that way! Why the boy hasn’t been accused!”

“But he will be! I know that Lewis, he lives over Beechfield way, and he belongs to the State Police. He’s got it in his head that Bark is guilty—”

“Well, he’ll have to get it out!” Stanhope broke in. “Now, you leave this thing to me. As you say, I know more or less of such matters and if Barker isn’t guilty, rest assured he’ll have no trouble or bother in the matter. If he is—I’ll take charge of the whole affair.”

“Another thing, Eleanor will hear of this, it’ll be in the papers. I must go to her.”

“Just where is she?”

“She and Nell are in the White Mountains, at Profile House. I’ll go right up there.”

“No, wait till you see Barker. Your wife and daughter will not see to-morrow’s papers until tomorrow evening, and of course, there’ll be nothing in to-day’s papers. Tell me more about these Lawrences.”

“There’s so little to tell. At least I know little. Nothing, in fact, beyond their estimable qualities and general popularity. That’s the worst of it, nobody could have a thing against Nevin Lawrence. If he had been a man who made enemies there might have been suspects. But he was a favorite with all sorts and classes. And as for his sister, everybody adored her. There never have been people in New Midian more universally admired and respected.”

“Did he come and settle in this little place to get characters for his stories?”

“I don’t think so. I never heard of his using any of us. His stories are, I think, purely imaginary. He said he came here because he was attracted by the beauty of the place, and he and his sister wanted a quiet little home with a garden, not too far from New York.”

“Know anything about his family or antecedents?”

“I don’t; but then I don’t know him intimately at all. You see, he’s a younger man than I am, and though he’s older than Barker they’ve been chummy.”

“How old was Lawrence, do you suppose?”

“Less than forty—thirty-eight, or so, likely. Mrs. Sayre, my wife said, not a day over thirty.”

“Mrs. Hazelton liked them both?”

“Oh, yes, very much. I tell you, everybody did.”

“And what was the cause of this great popularity?”

“Nothing, except that they were cultured, refined people, with a good sense of humor, and a kindly courtesy to all the village. They minded their own business, but they were always ready to take part in any general celebration or subscribe to any town project. They were devoted to each other, and always ready and willing to entertain and be entertained. They belonged to the various clubs, and were good mixers, though they spent a lot of time at home. Seemed to enjoy their home, always adding a pergola or a garden seat, or a new bay window.”

“Own the house?”

“No, Lawrence rented it from Ben Gray, but there was talk lately of his buying it. What I’m getting at is, that I know of no neighbor or villager who could have done this thing. I don’t believe for a minute that it was a burglar—they were not wealthy people—and so, what theory is left but someone of a quick temper striking in anger!”

“But, hold on, Amos, you’re far too ready to think evil of your own son. These people had gone to bed and to sleep. Barker must have left there some time before.”

“Oh, I know, I know—but—well, I may as well tell you—Barker came home last night, and went to his room. Then later he went back down to the village again.”

“You’re sure?”

“Saw him. Bright moonlight, you know. Saw him go out about midnight and he came back much later. I didn’t see him come in but I heard him.”

“At what time?”

“I didn’t look, but it was perhaps a couple of hours later—say about two.”

David Stanhope was troubled. It began to look at least a little dubious for the son of his friend.

But he only said, “cut it all out, don’t think about it until we can get Barker’s own story. Why, Amos, its too absurd to imagine one man killing another to be president of a foolish little village club!”

“It’s really a county club, and a rather large and important one.”

“But to kill a man because he prefers not to carry a flask in his hip pocket!”

“It isn’t that, it’s the principle. I’ve heard Bark discuss it again and again. He says the liberty of the club members should not be so prescribed. Says the U. S. A. can make laws for its citizens, but personal liberty cannot be trammeled by a fellow man. Oh, I know his attitude, and Lawrence felt just the opposite. I sided with Lawrence, I admit, but of course, I didn’t say that to Barker, except in a guarded way.”

“Well, I’m going back to the inquest. I suppose it’s still going on. Coroner Fraser is nobody’s fool, and he’s very careful and exact but he’s mortal slow. I’ll bet he hasn’t called more than two or three witnesses yet. Will you go Amos?”

“No. At first I thought I would, but I’ll stay here. You see, Barker might come home—er—on the quiet.”

“He might, but he won’t. I believe I know that chap better than you do, if you are his father. If he had killed a man, the first thing he’d do would be to give himself up.”

“I’ll stay home anyway. You go along down, Dave, and can’t you be around the station when the afternoon trains come in? You can command the car.”

“Yes, I’ll do that. By the way, that man Lawrence wears a ring—a fine catseye. Now, I haven’t much use for a man who’ll wear a ring.”

“Don’t carry such fastidiousness too far. It was a good dignified, manly-looking affair. I don’t approve of rings for men, either, but remember he was a literary man, and they’re allowed a little extra liberty in such matters. Take my word for it, Nevin Lawrence was a real man—a man’s man, ring or no ring.”

When Stanhope reached Woodbine Cottage again, Fraser was grilling Emma Lily.

But Dave learned that it was a second interview, there had been an interval during which the wills of the deceased had been produced and read.

As the house-keeper had told, there was a bequest to her of one thousand dollars from Mr. Lawrence and another thousand from Mrs. Sayre. The local lawyer had drawn the wills and brought them to read.

Nevin Lawrence’s will provided that at his death everything of his should become the property of Mrs. Janet Lawrence Sayre, and Mrs. Sayre’s will, in turn left everything to Nevin Lawrence.

Both wills also provided that if the legatee were not alive, the property should revert to the New Midian Library, in which institution both testators had shown a deep and abiding interest.

As the lawyer had summed it up, although the medical evidence declared the deaths were nearly simultaneous, the detectives felt sure that Mr. Lawrence died first. Yet, in either case, the property of the one who died first became the property of the survivor, and since both were now dead, both estates were surely the property of the Library Corporation.

As the minor bequests, the two thousand to Emma Lily and one thousand to George Bailey, the chauffeur, were unchanged by these decisions, there was no one to object.

Much discussion was indulged in regarding the possible heirs or relatives of the dead brother and sister, and it was proposed to advertise for any news of such, but no criticism was heard of the silence of the two as to their previous home or kindred.

“They made no secret of it,” declared Emma Lily, “they made no secret of anything. They used to live in Chicago, and when Mr. Lawrence took up his writing notion, he wanted to be near New York ’count of his editor’s bein’ there. And they didn’t like city life, so they came here, where there was good train service to New York. I’ve heard Mr. Lawrence say that time and again. They wasn’t no mystery about those two, of that I’m certain.”

But the ever alert Fraser had the editor in question rung up on the telephone.

“Why, I don’t know much about Lawrence,” that dignitary responded. “He was a most courteous, rather scholarly man. He wrote stories and I printed them. That’s about all I know of him, except his home address and the price I paid him per word.”

The investigation of Lawrence’s writing table gave no more light on his private affairs. To be sure, his records and check books revealed the price he was paid for his stories and the prices he paid out for his purchases, but these were all of the most natural and usual description.

Mrs. Sayre had charge accounts at the New York shops, as did Lawrence. Her feminine belongings were on bills made out to herself and paid by her own checks. Purchases for the house or for the table, as well as his own apparel or library supplies were paid by Lawrence. All these bills and statistics were in order, yet things were not itemized down to the last penny. There was no cheese paring.

“Just as I should do such things myself,” Stanhope soliloquized, as he looked over the desk.

All in all, there was no cause to suspect anything mysterious or bizarre about the life or death of two such normal, admirable characters, nor was there the slightest evidence that any secret matter had led to the double tragedy.

“It’s too easy,” Fraser summed up. “It’s either that Emma Lily, who couldn’t wait for her fortune, or it was a passing highwayman. I know they don’t infest these parts, but there might have been one all the same. You needn’t tell me young Hazelton killed these two for a fool quarrel about a club matter!” This he said to Dave Stanhope, who was not only an old friend but a wise and deep thinker, and in whose opinions Fraser had a deal of confidence.

“What about that broken statuette?” asked Stanhope, suddenly.

“Knocked down in the scuffle—”

“But there was no scuffle in Lawrence’s room—”

“That’s so; look here, Emma Lily, who broke the little statue in Mr. Lawrence’s room?”

“Whoever did the killin’!” she returned solemnly. “I say—whoever did the killin’, that ’er Tangerine—”

“That what?”

“Tangerine they always called it.”

Stanhope interposed. “She means Tanagra Figurine. They’re rather valuable. But I want to know how it happened to get smashed.”

“Musta been knocked off by the murderer,” declared Emma Lily, looking disinterested.

“But then it would have been broken only in two or three pieces. This was smashed to bits—looked as if it had been ground with somebody’s heel in anger.”

“Maybe it was,” came the imperturbable response. “I say, maybe it was. The man musta been furious mad to kill ’em at all—both of ’em. So, why wasn’t he mad enough to bite a tenpenny nail in two or smash a little clay statue?”

“Yes, but why would he?” Stanhope persisted.

“I don’t know,” Emma Lily said.

Fraser watched her closely. He had it so firmly in mind that she was the murderer, he was so sure that she was clever enough to act any sort of an innocent part, that he tried his best to trip her up. It might well be, he thought, that there had been some fuss about the little curio—perhaps it had led to a row, and the woman had smashed the lovely piece of art in sheer spite and venom.

Fraser couldn’t quite make out Emma Lily, and he studied her hard. To begin with, she was a little too cocky, he thought. Of course she was in charge of the house, but she put on too many airs and assumed too dictatorial a manner to please him entirely.

“You must know a lot about these two people,” Fraser said to her, sternly. You couldn’t live with them and not know more or less about their everyday life.”

“But it’s less,” Emma Lily cried, triumphantly. She seemed to enjoy disappointing her inquisitor. “I’ve served their meals and took care of their rooms for nigh on two years, but I don’t know any more about them than any of their neighbors do. Maybe not half as much as some,” and she sent a meaning glance at Busybody Busby, who was listening intently.

The inquest had become a mere informal talk, but Fraser felt sure he could get at the truth better this way than any other. He still had Busybody up his sleeve, but he wanted to polish off Emma Lily first.

“You are pretty smart to do all the work of this house. To get the meals and take care of the whole house is no small task for one woman.”

Emma Lily looked rather pleased than otherwise at this tribute to her efficiency, and said with a touch of modesty:

“Well, Mrs. Sayre helped more or less with the upstairs work. I say she helped more or less. The living room, too, and Mr. Lawrence’s study. I swep’ and dusted, but she liked to fiddle around with the ornaments and books, and she always fixed the flowers.”

Stanhope nodded at his own perspicacity in having realized there was the touch of a loving hand to be noted in the household appointments, but Fraser was on another track.

“And you meddled with the little statue, and broke it—was that it?”

“Nothing of the sort!” Emma Lily almost screamed. “I never harmed the thing. I never touched it—never had it in my hand! Nobody can prove I did!”

“Your word is enough,” said Fraser, contemptuously; “nobody wants to prove you did. But its queer how it is smashed up.”

He looked contemplatively at the bits and scraps of red clay, which had been collected in a pasteboard box. He was most anxious to bolster up his theory that Emma Lily had broken the statuette, had been scolded, and had—but he suddenly saw his theory as absurd and with a sigh he turned to pastures new.

These were the boarders at Gray Porches. Many of them had come over, and were only too ready and willing to give voluble and tautological evidence that was no evidence at all.

He warded them off with difficulty, learning first of all from Ben Gray and his wife that neither of them had heard or seen anything unusual or suspicious in the neighborhood during the night.

All the servants of the boarding house asserted the same thing. All the guests whose rooms faced toward Woodbine were interrogated and all denied having any knowledge of the least disturbance of any sort or kind.

Miss Lizzie Busby, seemed fairly bursting with a desire to be called as a witness, but Fraser knew she would keep—knew, too, her reputation for news and gossip, and preferred to ask the others first.

There were few others. Gray Porches, Miss Busby’s house and Woodbine cottage were the only residences on that street—or lane, as it merely was.

The Lawrence chauffeur was not on duty at night, and slept at his mother’s house in the village. The Busby servant also slept at home, and came around mornings when she got good and ready.

So the Gray Porches people being done up, and the milkman and baker having been able to offer no helpful word, Fraser found elimination had brought him to Busybody Busby and he called on her.

“But,” he whispered to Dave Stanhope, “don’t put too much faith in her yarns. She knows it all, she’s the town gossip, you know, and she doesn’t hesitate to embroider her stories, if she thinks she can make an impression.”

“Put her on oath,” suggested Dave.

“Can’t exactly do that, at an informal inquiry. But maybe I can scare her into telling the truth. Trouble is, I don’t believe she has anything to tell. She’ll make it up.”

There was a silence as the little old maid came forward and took the seat designated for her.

She was not ill-looking, but her pale, ashen hair was lusterless, and her faded blue eyes rather weak and reddened, as if she had wept.

She had a wistful face in repose, but when talking, she forgot herself in her enthusiasm and her expression became animated, even dramatic in its intensity.