BASSETT on the wharf in the cove watched the launch approaching over
the glistening floor of water. As it grated against the boards he heard
his name in a deep-throated bass voice and the big body of the sheriff
climbed over the side. A rough padded hand grasped his, and “Well, Mr.
Bassett, the law’s got us together again,” was growled into his ear.
Two more figures followed him. One was Rawson, the district-attorney,
whom the vivid light revealed as a man much younger than Williams,
tall and narrow-shouldered, with a lean New England visage and a pair
of horn spectacles astride a high-bridged nose. The other was disposed
of with a casual hand-wave and a murmur of “Patrick,” brought, it was
explained, to take charge of the causeway. Rawson, it appeared, knew
Gull Island well, having been there several times on legal business
for Mr. Driscoll.
As they walked back Bassett told his story. He noticed that the younger
man’s questions were sharp and to the point and before they had gone
half-way realized that Rawson was of a much higher grade of education
and intelligence than his coadjutor. A smart chap, he thought, and felt
his burden lightened--they could do good teamwork. Stopping by the edge
of the pine wood he pointed out the scene of the shooting and was again
struck by the man’s quick comprehension.
Moving on, Williams observed with grim relish:
“You couldn’t have a murder committed in a better place than
this--better for us. Once you’re on here it’s a damned hard business
getting off. These folks are as good as in prison. Now, Mr. Bassett,
just where does that causeway lie?”
The channel stretched before them, a shining expanse, ripple-creased,
summits of rock emerging. The receding water was like a silver veil
being slowly withdrawn, its delicate tissue torn by sharp-edged
projections. Bassett pointed beyond the wharf:
“There! Below the water there are steps cut in the rock that lead down
to it. It goes straight across to a breakwater and landing outside the
village, a bank and a belt of trees above. The whole stretch won’t be
clear till nearly midnight.”
Williams gave his instructions to the man Patrick--a watch on the
causeway, any one stopped who came from the mainland or attempted to
leave the island. Patrick, a silent massive countryman, with a stolid
bull-dog face, thrust out his chin and nodded. He slouched off, the
sound of his heavy boots loud on the rocks. The others turned toward
the house, the light from its opened door falling outward in a long
golden square.
The occupants of the room heard them and looked at one another. Mrs.
Cornell, with clenched hands, slowly stood up, and the rest, like
people in church who see a figure rise and simultaneously follow its
example, got to their feet. They stood by their chairs, motionless, all
facing the same way. It was like an ensemble scene in a theater.
The three men entered and under the shadow of the gallery paused for a
moment surveying the standing figures much as they might have looked at
some spectacle arranged for their approval. William was surprised at
their number and their line ranged like a battle front. Rawson’s sharp
eye ran over the faces, mentally ticketing them, and Bassett, with no
precedent to guide him, walked toward his associates and announced:
“Ladies and gentlemen, the authorities have come. Mr. Rawson and Mr.
Williams.”
They bowed and then not knowing what to do next, subsided into their
seats. The men came forward, moving to the long table where Williams
sat down, fumbling in his pocket for a fountain pen and paper and
clearing a space for the taking of notes. Rawson, surveying the seated
assemblage, said:
“This is the whole of your company, Mr. Bassett?”
“All who were here at the time of the murder. Several of the actors and
assistants left at five-thirty and Joe Tracy, one of the company at a
quarter to seven.”
“You saw them go?”
“I saw the first lot go. I didn’t see Tracy. But,” he looked at Anne,
“this is his sister, Miss Tracy. She probably did.”
“Did you, Miss Tracy?” said Rawson.
Her voice was very low but steady and clear:
“Yes, he went.”
“Well, that disposes of them,” said Rawson, and drawing up a chair, sat
down facing the line of solemn people.
There were a few formalities to go through. A general agreement on the
time of the murder--a few minutes before seven disposed of that, and
the interrogation of Mrs. Stokes, the one eyewitness, followed.
She began well, telling the story she had told Bassett. When she
described her first view of Sybil running to the edge of the Point,
Rawson interrupted with a question:
“Was she running fast, as if some one was after her, as if she was
frightened?”
“Yes, she was running fast but I don’t know whether she was frightened.
I wasn’t close enough to see anything like that, and I didn’t have time
to see. Just as I was looking at her the shot came.”
“Did you notice the direction it came from?”
“No--it was like a sort of loud snap in the air. I heard it and she
staggered along a few steps and went over.”
“Did you hear any sounds--footsteps? A person makes a noise on this
rocky ground.”
“I didn’t hear a thing.” She leaned toward Rawson with haggard
insistence. “I _couldn’t_ hear anything. I was stunned. Mr. Bassett
asked me that and you all seem to think I ought to have heard the
person--the murderer--or tried to catch him. But I hadn’t any sense, I
just stood there paralyzed, not grasping what had happened.”
“Mr. Bassett says you went out on the rocks and tried to catch the
body.”
“Oh, yes. _Then_ I came back to life. I ran down into the hollow and
out on the rocks as far as I could go. And she was going by on the
current--her hair and her dress all whirled about. Oh God, why was I
the one to see it!”
Stokes addressed her, his voice low and urgent:
“Flora, just try to answer quietly.”
She paid no attention to him, her eyes riveted on Rawson.
“And then you came back to the house?”
“Yes, but I stood there watching her for a few minutes. I don’t know
how long, desperate, not knowing what to do. And then I started to run
back here and I fell down. I suppose I was shaking so and the rocks
were slippery. I think I fell twice, but I don’t know. I seemed to be
half-crazy.”
“You saw or heard nothing on your way back?”
“No, no, I keep telling you,” her voice grew higher. “I _never_ saw
anybody. If anybody was there he must have been hiding. They could
have heard me--I was screaming.” She turned to the others. “Wasn’t I
screaming?”
Bassett confirmed her statement and she went on, her voice still
higher, the cords in her neck starting out:
“Of course they heard me and hid--got out of the way. Some stranger.
We were all in the house, everybody here was in the house. It couldn’t
have been any of them.”
Stokes half rose: “Flora--_please_!”
She turned violently on him:
“Why shouldn’t I say it? I’m not afraid. I was the only person outside
and it couldn’t have been me.” She faced round on Rawson. “Nobody could
think that. Ask them--these people. They’ll tell you.”
“That’s not at all necessary, Mrs. Stokes.” Rawson was mild and suave.
“Now if you’ll try to be calm----”
“Calm, calm,” she groaned and bent almost double, dropping her face
into her hands. Stokes got up, chalk-white in the lamplight:
“My wife’s pretty well knocked out, Mr. Rawson.”
“Quite understandable, Mr. Stokes. We won’t trouble her any more just
now. And if the rest of you ladies and gentlemen will refrain from
saying what you think or offering suggestions we’ll get on a good deal
quicker.”
Stokes took his chair. Flora raised herself and dropped against
the back of hers with upraised chin and closed eyes. Bassett had a
photographic impression of Williams, striking softly on his teeth with
his fountain pen and looking at her.
They went on to Stokes who was very clear and composed. He had walked
about--down the path to the pine wood and round that end of the house.
It was absolutely still and he had heard nobody. He was not sure of the
direction of the shot as he had been reading a paper at the time. Like
the rest of them he had had no suspicion of anything serious or, of
course, he would have investigated.
Everybody else was in the house. Bassett indicated their positions,
pointing them out as he explained their whereabouts.
Miss Saunders’ movements followed. She had spent the earlier part of
the evening sitting on the cliffs with Miss Tracy. Miss Tracy had left
her some time after six, Miss Saunders saying she would follow but
wanted to see the end of the sunset. No one had seen her come back but
she had come back, for shortly before seven Mrs. Cornell had noticed
her leaving the house.
Mrs. Cornell, invested with the grisly excitement of the hour, was
eager to tell what she knew. She had been standing at the window of
her room, and she saw Sybil on the path below passing the end of the
balcony. Mrs. Cornell was surprised for it was not far from supper-time
and Sybil was still in her Viola dress. She had not watched her, but
had gone back to lock the trunk. Both she and Miss Pinkney agreed
that the shot had followed soon after--about six or seven minutes they
thought.
They diverged to the place of the murder, the Point. The last person
who had been there was Shine, somewhere round six-thirty, though he
couldn’t swear to the time. He’d stayed there perhaps ten minutes,
walking round, and had then gone up to the garden. As far as he could
see the place was deserted. In answer to the question had he seen any
one on his way back, he said he had seen Mrs. Stokes walking along the
ocean bluffs and Mr. Stokes reading a paper on the balcony.
This ended the interrogations for the time being. The company was told
they might retire to their rooms. But they were to understand that they
were held on Gull Island for the present, no going off on any pretext
or holding communication with any one on the mainland. Also--and Mr.
Rawson was emphatic--once in their rooms they were to stay in them
unless sent for by him. He did not want any wandering about in the
halls or talking together.
They rose weariedly and prepared to go. Stokes helped his wife to her
feet and Bassett edged between the chairs toward Anne.
“How are you?” he murmured, for her appearance shocked him.
“All right. There’s nothing the matter with me.”
“Try to get some rest.”
“Will they want us any more to-night?”
“I don’t think so--not you anyway.”
Stokes and Flora moved toward the hall door, the woman limply hanging
on her husband’s arm. Rawson’s voice arrested them:
“Mr. and Mrs. Stokes, just wait a minute.”
Everybody stopped in mid-transit, holding their positions as if they
were standing to be photographed.
“Where is your room or rooms?”
“We’re together in a room on this floor out in the hall here opposite
the stairs.”
“I’d rather Mrs. Stokes went up to the second floor.” He turned to
Bassett, “You have space up there I suppose?”
“Space!” It came from Miss Pinkney before Bassett had time to
answer--these hirelings of the law did not realize where they were.
“We’ve put up more people here than you could get into one of those
flea-bitten hotels up your way.”
“Take her things up there. You help her.”
Flora turned stricken eyes on her husband. He said nothing but very
gently loosened her fingers on his arm. They trailed away, Miss Pinkney
stalking ahead. Mrs. Cornell and Anne made their exit by the opposite
door. Both were silent as they climbed the stairs. Mrs. Cornell’s door
opened and closed on her, and Anne fared on to hers on the side stretch
of the gallery. She looked down into the lighted room, saw Shine move
toward the entrance, heard his voice, loud and startled:
“Why, there’s some one down by the dock!”
The other men wheeled sharply, on the alert. She stopped, head bent,
listening.
“Patrick--the damned fool.” It was Williams. “Told to watch the
causeway and standing up there like a lighthouse.”
“Oh, it’s your man. I’ll go down and tell him.” Shine wanted to help
all he could before his retirement to the butler’s bedroom. “He ought
to be where he won’t show, is that it?”
“Yes, tell him to stow his carcass somewhere out of sight. He ain’t
there to advertise the fact he’s on guard.”
“If he gets in the shadow under the roof of the boat-house,” said
Bassett, “he can command the whole length of it and not be seen from
either side.”
“That’s the dope. The neck of this bottle’s the causeway and it’s going
to be corked good and tight to-night.”
Anne’s door closed without a sound.
The three men turned back from the entrance. “Is that woman gone
up-stairs yet?” Rawson murmured to his assistant as Williams stepped to
the middle of the room and watched the gallery. He continued to watch
it till Flora and Miss Pinkney appeared and finally were shut away
behind their several doors, then he looked at Rawson and nodded.
“Now,” said the district-attorney to Bassett, “I want you to show me
where that pistol was.”
Bassett indicated the desk:
“In the third drawer of the desk. Miss Pinkney is certain it was there
this morning.”
“And you know it wasn’t there when you looked after the shooting?”
Rawson went to the desk as he spoke.
“I can swear it wasn’t.”
Rawson pulled out the drawer and thrust in his hand.
“Well, it’s here now,” he said, and drew out a revolver.
He held it toward them on his palm. They stared at it, for the moment
too surprised for comment. Rawson broke it open; there was one empty
chamber.
“Can we get into some room where there’s more privacy than this
place?” he said. “I want some more talk with you, Mr. Bassett.”
Bassett directed them to the library. He put out the living-room lights
and followed them.