AFTER supper Bassett and Williams retired to the library. They were
surprised and intrigued by the length of Rawson’s absence. He had been
gone over two hours and what could have held him on the mainland so
long was difficult to imagine unless a new lead had developed. This
was Bassett’s idea, also his hope. To have suspicion lifted from Flora
would be the first lightening of the grinding distress he had felt
since the murder. Williams wondered if he could have come on anything
about Joe Tracy; but Bassett shook the suggestion off with a shrug. He
could check up on Joe in half an hour; besides, there was nothing to be
looked for in that line. His confidence was not assumed, his mind was
untroubled by any fears about Joe. That something had turned up which
might head the chase in a new direction was so encouraging a thought,
that, by contrast to his sensations for the last twenty-four hours, he
felt almost cheerful.
In the relaxation of the strain he was conscious of fatigue for the
first time. He threw himself on the sofa and in a moment had sunk into
the deep deathlike sleep of exhaustion. Williams, sitting near the
telephone also nodded, his big body sagged together in the chair, his
chin embedded in his chest.
The group in the living-room, viewed by the uninformed spectator,
might have been the usual evening gathering of an informal Gull Island
house-party. They had shut the garden door against draughts and with
the inland entrance open wide the place was scented with a sharp sea
tang and cool with the breath of the ocean. The tide, full-brimming,
lay a dark circle about them, no moonlit path or silvered eddies
to-night, the channel a solid swath of black between them and the
clustering shore lights.
They made a deceptively quiet picture, pleasant, agreeable-looking
people resting in reposeful attitudes after a day in the open air.
Shine was looking at a book of engravings spread on the end of the
table. Mrs. Cornell had brought in Miss Pinkney after the business of
washing up--Mrs. Cornell found Miss Pinkney’s society so fortifying
that she sought it at all hours--and together they made a feint of
playing a double solitaire. Anne and Flora sat near by reclining in
armchairs, both silent, with the fixed eyes of preoccupation. Stokes
was the sole member of the company whose inner unrest broke out in
movement. He paced back and forth before the fireplace, quick long
strides over the bear rug to the hall door and back again. Once or
twice the edge of the rug caught his toe and he kicked it out of his
way with a violent angry jerk of his foot.
When the minutes ticked away and no one came to overlook or overhear,
a cautious trickle of talk began to flow. Question and answer crossed,
low-toned, interrupted by warning looks at the hall door. Where had
Rawson gone, what could he be after? That the question lay uppermost
in all their minds was shown by the quick response to the first,
murmured tentative, the comprehension of sentences left unfinished
with only the query in the eyes to point their meaning. The drooping
attitudes gave place to a tense eagerness of pose, heads thrust forward
on craned necks. Shine forgot his book, the cards lay scattered beneath
the hands of Mrs. Cornell and Miss Pinkney, and Flora edged her chair
closer. Their voices, hushed by fears, were fused in a murmurous hum,
rising as the subject swept their interest higher, checked in sudden
minutes of listening alarm.
Rawson must have got hold of some information, gone afield on a
new clue. Then followed speculations, surmises, suggestions--wild,
fantastic, probable. It might have been nothing Shine thought, simply
a trip to the county-seat on business connected with the case. At this
Anne crept into the circle of lamplight, nodding an avid agreement.
Stokes coming forward caught his foot in the edge of the bear rug,
stumbled and broke into a stream of curses. Miss Pinkney, who thought
oaths anywhere reprehensible and on Gull Island profanation, grimly
bade him lift his feet. He glared at her, more curses imminent, and
Flora groaned, clutching the arms of her chair and rolling her eyes
upward.
“For God’s sake don’t mind anything anybody says,” implored Mrs.
Cornell slapping her hands down among the cards. “This is a murder
case, not a social function.”
They calmed down and presently, with no more ideas to exchange, grew
silent listening for the returning launch. It was a listening so wrapt
that the room became as still as a picture and they as motionless as
pictured figures. The ticking of the clock was audible, the sucking
clinking sounds of the water along the shore. The significance of what
they awaited grew with the minutes till the coming of the launch seemed
an event of fearful import upon which their fates hung.
The entrance of Williams shook them from their terrors. If his face
told them nothing, his manner was kindly gruff--they must be tired,
best thing for them to go to bed. As they rose and trailed limply to
the doors he beckoned Shine to remain. He would want him later, had a
job for him, so he’d better go now and get some sleep. His room was on
that floor, the butler’s? All right, he’d find him. Shine departed,
grateful. He was half-dead with sleep, but had kept it hidden as he
had his hunger, regarding both as unmanly weaknesses in the hour of
calamity.
Williams went back to the library where Bassett still slept. He looked
at his watch--a quarter to nine. He couldn’t understand it--what
could Rawson have got hold of on the mainland when it was as plain as
printing Mrs. Stokes was the guilty party. He started and moved to the
window; the throbbing beat of an engine came through the silence, a low
spark of light was advancing from the opposite shore.
When he heard the boat grinding against the wharf he waked Bassett.
“Rawson’s coming. And it’s nearly nine.”
Rawson came in by the window, his eyes blinking in the room’s
brightness. He came briskly, with something of theatrical effect in
his silent entrance, his purposeful walk to the desk. Bassett at once
noticed a change in him, a suggestion of enhanced forces, of faculties
recharged with energy. He tried to look stern but satisfaction shone in
his eyes and lit his long lantern-jawed face. He was like the bearer of
good tidings who would have worn the high smile of triumph if a smile
were fitting.
“Well,” said Williams, “where the devil have you been?”
“Down the coast, twenty-five miles, on roads that would have put
anything but a flivver out of commission.”
“You got something?”
“I did--this time. We’re on the right track now if I’m not much
mistaken.”
Williams gave an incredulous grunt. He did not believe in new material
and in advance placed himself in stubborn opposition:
“What did you go down the coast for?”
“To find a man called Gabriel Harvey.”
Bassett, about to sit down, stopped in surprise:
“Gabriel Harvey?-- That’s our launchman.”
“Exactly. And I had a devil of a time to find him. Down in a place
called White Beach, hidden away with friends in a shack without a
telephone.”
“But why----”
“I’ll tell you.” Rawson dropped into the desk chair, and, his elbows
on the arms, leaned forward, his eyes behind their glasses traveling
from one face to the other. “I went over there to look into Joe Tracy’s
movements. I couldn’t find any one who’d seen him come ashore and
learned that the man Gabriel who took him over, had gone to this place
White Beach for deep-sea fishing. Not being able to get hold of him I
went to the station to see if I could gather up anything. And I did.
The baggage man told me Gabriel had been there before he left for White
Beach leaving a suit-case and fishing-rod to be held till Tracy called
for them. They’re there now. I saw them.”
Williams said nothing, not ready with argument till more was divulged.
Bassett, in blank amazement, ejaculated:
“Why, that’s the most extraordinary thing----”
“Wait, Mr. Bassett,” Rawson raised a long commanding hand. “I hung
round till the evening train came in; that’s the train Tracy was to
take. I saw the conductor--it’s a small branch road and travel is light
at that hour--and he remembered his passengers, two women and a child.
Those were the only people who left Hayworth on the seven-fifteen, the
last evening train. I went back to the village and made inquiries.
Tracy had hired no vehicle at the garage or livery stable, nor had he
been seen anywhere about the place. Then I got a car and went to White
Beach. I was some time locating the old chap, but I finally ran him
down. He said he had not taken Tracy across to the mainland last night.”
Rawson dropped back in his chair. In answer to Bassett’s expression he
nodded soberly:
“Yes, it’s a pretty queer business. Gabriel said he’d told the boy to
be on time; made it clear to him that he wouldn’t wait. When Tracy was
not on the wharf he went to the house to look for him, saw his bag
and fishing-rod in the doorway and took them. No one was about and he
left--not sorry, I inferred from what he said, to give ‘the young cub’
as he called him, a lesson.”
Bassett got up:
“But it’s incomprehensible,” he exclaimed. “I can’t make head nor tail
of it. No one ever questioned that he’d gone.”
“No one said they’d seen him go but his sister,” came from Williams.
Bassett wheeled on him:
“Yes, you asked her. Didn’t she say she’d seen him?”
“No.” Rawson’s voice was dryly quiet. “I’ve thought of that. What she
said was that he went. In all fairness to her she probably thought
so--took it for granted as you all did--that he’d gone.”
“But why? What’s the meaning of it? If he’d missed the boat he’d have
turned up, he’d be here now.”
“Oh, he didn’t miss the boat,” said Rawson.
“Well, then, what was he doing? What made him stay?” In the turmoil of
his amazement, this sudden precipitation of a new mystery, Bassett had
not yet grasped the sinister trend of the other’s thoughts.
“Why,” said Rawson slowly, “he might have been staying for a purpose.”
“What purpose?”
“Can’t you imagine a purpose, Mr. Bassett?”
“Good God, you don’t mean to say you think he _did it_?”
“I’m not saying anything yet. But I’d like you to tell me how you
explain it. He says he’s going, leads every one to think he’s going,
makes all the preparations for his departure, then secretly, without
divulging any change of plans, doesn’t go. Aren’t those actions--well
to put it mildly--questionable?”
“Yes--the whole thing’s inexplicable as we see it now.”
“And note this. He had cause for anger against Miss Saunders--she’d
given him away to you--and you yourself have told us that he had an
ungovernable temper.”
“He had a devilish temper and a damned mean disposition and I make no
doubt he was blazing mad with her. But that he’d go to work to kill her
in cold blood, lay in wait for her--no--you can’t make me think that.”
“Same here,” said Williams. “You ain’t got enough provocation. With
Mrs. Stokes you have--a woman jealous of her husband.”
“And you’ve got a man,” retorted Rawson, “moved by one of the passions
that lead oftenest to murder--revenge.”
“Revenge?” echoed Williams.
“Miss Saunders’ accusation, if true,--and I think it was,--would ruin
him in his profession. He learned what she’d done to him just before he
was due to leave.”
A chill passed through Bassett--revenge was a word that fitted Joe. But
he cast the thought out, moving away from the desk and exclaiming with
angry repudiation:
“Oh, it’s unthinkable, preposterous.”
“What but an evil intention could have made him act as he did?”
“Any number of things. It may be a prank--a practical joke we’ll get
an explanation of later. He may have invented the story of his fishing
trip and gone off with a girl.”
“Had he a girl?”
“I don’t know--also he may have done something dishonest, got in
wrong some way--he was capable of it, I’m not defending him--and been
frightened and lit out.”
“How did he get off?”
Bassett’s voice was raised in his exasperation:
“Good lord, Rawson, we weren’t jailed here then. He could have had a
boat hidden in one of the coves. This place wasn’t escape-proof till
you turned up. He could have rowed ashore and landed anywhere, and
that’s what he’s done.”
“Unless he’s here.”
“Here on the island?”
“That’s my opinion, in hiding on the island.”
Williams spoke with an air of patient reminder:
“Ain’t we gone over it with a fine-tooth comb?”
Rawson pointed to the ceiling:
“How about that top story? A person--we won’t say who--could have
killed the woman, entered the house while the rest of you were on the
beach, put back the pistol, and gone up-stairs.”
Williams made a motion to heave himself up from his chair.
“Well, if that’s how you feel about it let’s go up and have a look for
the person.”
“We needn’t do that just now. They’re as safe as if they were behind
bars. There’s something I want to do down here first--have a talk with
Miss Tracy. She may be able to give us a little light.”
“She can’t help you,” said Bassett. “They weren’t on confidential
terms. She’d be the last person he’d tell anything to.”
He believed what he said, but his heart sank. Anne to be dragged
through another interrogation, an interrogation with a hideous
suspicion behind it!
Rawson rose:
“Perhaps so, but it’s worth trying. She may know more than you think;
sisters sometimes do. And she certainly must have more knowledge of him
than any of us. We’ll soon see.”
He moved toward the door.
“I’ll go up and get her now.”