ROBBERY
‘I’m not intruding, am I, Inspector?’ asked Mrs. Bascom as she joined
him in the workroom of the barn.
‘Intrudin’--meanin’ forcin’ your way in?--Well, I ain’t seen no one
stoppin’ you, Ellen B.,’ said Sewell with a grin. ‘If you ask me, I’d
say you’re welcome--always stimulatin’, sort of, to have you helpin’
me.’
He chuckled softly to himself as she stalked over to one of the
chairs and sat down with an audible ‘Hump!’ He had expected a more
violent retort than that, but when she remained silent, he continued
his study of the room, examining the desk with a grotesquely large
magnifying-glass he took from his pocket, then using it on the safe,
the chairs, even along the carpet. At length he returned it to his
pocket and shook his head as their eyes met.
‘It ain’t no use. The rain’s cleaned up any marks outside, an’ there
might as well have been a cyclone in here. Finger-marks blurrin’ all
over everythin’ an’ not a real clue left. Kind of stumps me, all
right. You ain’t got any ideas, I s’pose?’
‘Of course I have. Some one simply walked in that window over there
and killed King in the dark.’ She pointed to the curtained window
near the desk.
‘But it was locked, every one said so, an’ I saw it for myself.’
‘That doesn’t make any difference. Obviously no one could get in
there--so naturally some one did!’
Sewell stared at her incredulously, then a slow flush began to mount
into his cheeks as he realized she was only jeering at him.
‘All right, Ellen B., that squares up for the time bein’. For a
moment I thought you really meant--’
He broke off as an idea struck him. Several of the guests had
examined the windows that had been curtained and found them locked,
according to their statements. They had proved so when he too
examined them, yet he now decided to look a little more closely,
especially at the one near the desk.
Without a word of explanation, he walked over to this latter window
and studied its lock. It was an ordinary bolt affair, securely
fastened and impossible to move from the outside. A drop of water
seemed to have seeped in somehow from the storm, and he absently
touched it with his finger, then wiped it off on the white paint of
the woodwork. It left an oily smear. He bent closer, discovered the
catch had been recently and thoroughly oiled!--Why? To prevent a
squeak--?
The bolt slid noiselessly under his touch and he slowly pushed the
French window open. Something gritted on the sill and he stooped down
to pick up a pebble which had caught under the door frame. Beside it
on the white paint was a scratch and a faint heel mark which had been
partly under the door, hence was not washed away by the rain.
He looked up to find Mrs. Bascom just behind him, intently watching
every move he made.
‘Seems as if you weren’t so far off, after all,’ he said mildly. ‘If
I remember rightly, this window wasn’t used much, was it?’
She shook her head, stepping back a pace to hide her curiosity.
‘Well, them marks look kind of fresh to me!’
She bent closer to look at the blur. Sewell was watching her, and
the movement confirmed his suspicion. Something was concealed in the
bosom of her dress, for it bulged out as if from a weight. It might
be a purely personal article, and yet----
‘Looks like this might be one clue they didn’t mess up.--Ha, it ain’t
a pebble, it’s cement--an’ cement’s on that stone wall there.’
He pointed to the wall which ran so close to the barn that a person
might easily have stepped from it to the window sill. A glitter on
one of the hinges caught his attention then. It proved to be another
drop of oil, and when he tested the doors, they moved noiselessly.
‘Guess you must be quite some detective yourself, Ellen B. I’m kind
of glad you intruded!--’Course, you just guessed it, I suppose;
woman’s intuition, eh?’ His glance at her face was swift but piercing.
‘Yes, I--I was only getting back at you for what you said to
me.--But, Ezra, do you mean he--the murderer--came in this way? Then
it must have been an outsider!’
‘Seems so--him or her. Looks like he was well prepared for the
murder, too. Either he was a pretty good guesser or knew just when to
come an’ go in the dark.’
‘But that would mean he knew all about the play!’
‘You’re a pretty good guesser, ma’am, or else you know somethin’ I
don’t, Ellen B.,’ he shot at her suddenly.
‘What do you mean?’ Involuntarily her hand moved toward her breast,
but she stopped it midway.
Sewell did not answer. He crossed over to the window behind the
chairs in which the guests had sat to watch the play. A brief
examination of this showed it also had been well oiled, but there
were no marks on the sill. When he turned to face Mrs. Bascom again
his expression was calm, though he was inwardly excited.
‘We’re gettin’ somewhere now. I got a hunch it was one of the guests
as did it, came out of here an’ in that other window in the dark,
then locked ’em again durin’ the confusion afterwards, see?’
‘What do you mean about me--knowin’ something?’ reiterated Mrs.
Bascom, refusing to be side-tracked.
‘Oh, nothin’, only you seem to be a pretty good guesser.’
‘You’re accusing me of holding back guilty knowledge, Ezra Sewell!’
‘Nope, certain not. It just struck me queer for a minute--how you
knew about that window.’
‘I didn’t know, I tell you. It was merely a coincidence. If you
appreciated anything about human nature and psychology----’
‘Well, I apologize, ma’am, so don’t get all riled up over it.--Let
me think.--It must have been some one as knew all about the play, eh?’
‘Yes, it might have been one of us,’ acceded Mrs. Bascom eagerly
as an idea occurred to her. ‘It was so dark in the room after King
turned off his desk light that some one might have done as you say.
Any one passing before that other window would have been seen, but if
he came in by the curtained window and kept to this side of the room,
he would have been invisible to us, of course.’
‘Him or her!’
‘Why do you keep adding--“her”?’ snorted Mrs. Bascom. ‘Just because
of that paper with the numbers on it--Why, how do you know Sylvia
typed it at all? How do you know it wasn’t planted there on purpose?
Why do you suspect Sylvia of such an imposs----’
‘I ain’t mentioned no names, have I?’ he interrupted. ‘I merely
remarked it might have been a he or a she, for all we know yet.’
‘But you meant Sylvia, you know you did. And you know perfectly well
she wouldn’t----’
‘’Course I know she wouldn’t, nor Ruel, nor----But some one did.
Might have been you! Far as I’m concerned, me an’ the law suspects
every one around here--’cept myself.’
This silenced her as he had intended it should, and Inspector Sewell
abruptly led the way from the room. When they were outside the barn,
he asked a few questions quite briskly.
‘When can I talk to Sylvia, do you think?’
‘To-morrow, perhaps.’
‘An’ the inquest’ll be then too. You’ll be there for it?’
‘I’ve decided to stay here in the house for a few days. I may be able
to help.’
‘Good idea. Better not say anythin’ about what we just found,
understand?’
‘I won’t. How could I, when commanded not to by--by the law?’
Sewell chuckled appreciatively. ‘Well, I’m kind of glad you’ll be
handy to keep an eye on things. Hope you’ll call me if you need
anythin’ or find anythin’.’
‘Such as?’
‘Oh, the weapon.--Huh, you look as s’prised as if you’d never thought
of that. Seems queer to me it ain’t turned up--’specially if one of
the guests did it. I’m goin’ to have a look for it outside here now.’
Mrs. Bascom watched him walk away with a queer fluttering of her
heart beneath the knife that still rested over it. His sudden
reference to the weapon had startled her. Had he suspected anything?
Had his question about her concealing something contained a double
meaning? She could only wonder as she watched his leisurely progress
toward the rear of the barn.
He stooped to pluck a long grass stem which he stuck in his mouth,
then pushed his hat farther back on his head and stood staring at the
window just beyond him.
As he paused there, feet apart, hands clasped behind his back, an
idle thought crossed Mrs. Bascom’s mind. His was not a prepossessing
figure, average in height, not as rugged as many of his neighbors.
Yet there was a virility, a latent strength about him which he never
seemed to call into being. The same applied to his character which
was friendly, likable, yet rather impressive.
This being true, why should he always arouse an antagonism in her
which was quite obviously reciprocated? She was not ill-tempered
by nature. She could ‘get along’ with almost every one, and the
fact that she was a widow, living alone in moderate comfort, did
not hinder her social standing with the other men and women in the
village. Yet it was certainly true that she and Sewell were always
sarcastic, even caustic, with each other for no apparent reason.
Sometimes she felt he deliberately taunted her, and occasionally she
had tried to overcome this spirit, but always with the same result.
The mood was only short-lived, resulted in a spirited resumption of
hostilities. She had done her best; the result was, of course, his
fault, not her own--just like a man!
With this comforting self-justification, she watched him disappear
around the corner of the barn, then hastened into the house. Sylvia
was still asleep, so she went to the kitchen to inform Martha of her
decision to remain in the house for a few days, after which she set
off at a brisk walk to close up her own home temporarily and bring
back in a battered, straw suit-case a few necessary articles for her
stay.
When she returned, the knife, still wrapped in the chiffon, lay
safely hidden in her own attic. Before putting it away in a trunk,
she had studied it with a magnifying-glass from her parlor table. The
blade showed no marks and the hilt was so carved and etched that no
finger-prints could have been retained on it. Aside from the fact
that it was undoubtedly the weapon the murderer used, it seemed to be
of little value as a clue, she comforted her conscience.
Once established in the bedroom next Sylvia’s in King’s house, Mrs.
Bascom felt comfortably lazy and picked up a book she found there
to read. It proved to be one of King’s novels, written under a
pseudonym, and she began it with interest. The tale was an absorbing
mystery of crooks and detectives, murders and counter-plots which
quite thrilled her. Two hours passed as a few minutes, and only when
the front door bell rang did she look up with a start to find it was
almost dinner time. After changing her dress, she descended to greet
the doctor and judge who had just returned.
Eagerly they listened to her story of Sylvia’s rescue, pressing her
for details which she gave much as she had done earlier to Sewell and
with the same reservations.
‘I suppose this inspector person has made a more thorough search
to-day. Did he find anything tangible--the weapon, for example?’
asked Judge Brant when she concluded.
Mrs. Bascom glanced at him quickly, but his face revealed nothing but
interest and curiosity.
‘No--unless he found it after I left him.’
‘And Miss Hawley. How is she now?’ asked Dr. New, professionally
interested in that angle of the case.
‘Resting comfortably and as well as could be expected!’ gibed Mrs.
Bascom.
The doctor grinned. ‘You’d make a good nurse, Mrs. Bascom.--But I
gather she’s been looked after--her ankle?’
‘By our local doctor, yes. He said nothing was wrong with her except
the sprain--that rest was all she needed.--But I wish you’d give your
opinion too. I’d feel so much more comfortable, with you, right here
in the house, looking after her.’
‘Of course, while I’m here I shall, if you wish.’
‘Does that mean you have to go soon, Doctor?’
‘I’m afraid so--after the inquest.’
‘But Dr. New, I think you ought to stay on a few days--just to make
sure she’s all right.’
‘So, you don’t trust your local physician?’ smiled the latter
banteringly.
‘Yes, but--well, the nervous shock must have been severe. And I know
Mr. King would insist upon the best of care for her, if he were still
alive.’
The doctor hesitated. ‘Put that way, Mrs. Bascom, I can hardly
refuse. I’ll stay--a day or so, at least. You don’t think I ought to
see her to-night?’
‘She’s asleep, so I guess she’d better just rest. There’ll be so
much for her to do when she can--go over King’s papers and answer
questions and all. Incidentally, I’m going to stay here too for a
while.’
‘Quite right, Mrs. Bascom. Just call on me if necessary.’
The two men left to prepare for the evening meal and Mrs. Bascom,
observing the inspector outside the window, hurried out to accost him
as he shuffled toward his car.
‘Find anything new, Ezra?’
‘Not a durned thing, Ellen B.,’ he replied cheerily. ‘Guess I need
your guidin’ hand when it comes to findin’ things.’
He bent over the crank of his car and puffed audibly as he spun its
handle several times before the engine snorted noisily. His face was
red with the exertion as he climbed into the driver’s seat without
bothering to open the door. Tossing off his hat, he bent closer to
her with a twinkle in his eye and shouted above the pounding of the
engine--‘Mighty becomin’ dress, that. Seems to fit you better than
the one you had on this mornin’, Ellen B.!’
With a flourishing rap on his chest, he threw in the clutch and
started with a bounding jerk, leaving Mrs. Bascom gasping.
So he had noticed that bulge in her dress! But had he guessed what
it was? Did that explain his questions, his first reference to the
missing weapon? Or was it merely a coincidence, a product of her own
imagination?
A sort of panic seized her. Had she done the right thing to conceal
that knife? If he suspected her knowledge, might not he get her into
trouble?--Her ideas were vague. She saw a vision of herself in jail,
held for--what was the term?--contempt or accessory to something.
She wavered, might have confessed it all if Ezra had only remained.
Then Sylvia’s anxious, wan face seemed to float before her eyes,
strengthening her resolve. Sylvia would have enough to face without
that. Come what might, Mrs. Bascom would guard her secret, do a
little sleuthing of her own before she gave up that knife and its
story. And she must warn Sylvia to keep silent about certain phases
of her confinement in the chute--for the time being, at least.
The evening meal was given over to a discussion of the crime with
the doctor, the judge, and Basil, but it was all fruitless and
brought out nothing new. After it was concluded, the men retired to
the piazza to smoke and Mrs. Bascom withdrew to her room where she
eagerly took up King’s story once more, reading it with avidity.
About ten o’clock she went to Sylvia’s room, placed some more malted
milk at the side of her bed, then, as she was a light sleeper, left,
knowing she would hear if Sylvia should call or need her.
King’s book enthralled her. She heard the men retire to their rooms,
but still read on, unable to put down the story again until she had
concluded it. So it was nearly midnight before she closed it with a
little sigh of relief, undressed, and went to bed. But she could not
sleep as she had expected to do. For what seemed hours, she lay awake
going over and over the details of King’s murder. Even her caustic
admonitions to herself proved unavailing; her brain refused to cease
its activities.
At last she fell into a doze, only to be awakened by some sound which
ceased as soon as it had startled her to an upright position in bed.
She sat there, tense, for a moment, but no repetition of the sound
came to her ears. She must have been mistaken, she decided. It was
nothing but her own nerves.
Disgusted at herself for being so foolish, Mrs. Bascom lay back
again, deliberately closing her eyes and counting sheep jumping
over the wall. She had just reached the fiftieth hurdler, when an
unmistakable crash brought her to her feet by the side of the bed.
Somewhere in the house a chair or some heavy piece of furniture had
been tipped over and fallen upon an uncarpeted floor. The sound
seemed to have come from one of the rooms on the lower floor.
Mrs. Bascom groped for her dressing-gown, only to realize she had
neglected to bring it with her. She crept to the door, opened it a
crack, but modesty prevented her from stepping into the hall.
Modesty is an illogical emotion. Dress Mrs. Bascom in a flannel
wrapper and she felt quite competent to face any masculine eye--under
such provocation as the present situation--but clothe her in an even
more voluminous flannel nightgown, and even her curiosity shrank
back in righteous terror. Some one might see her, one of the men,
if the sound had awakened him too. If only she had brought that
dressing-gown----
A door opened, then another, and she heard whispered voices, the
muffled shuffling of slippered feet. Peering out through a crack in
the door, she could just discern two figures hastily descending the
stairs. Undoubtedly they were the doctor and the judge whose rooms
were at the farther end of the corridor. Opening her door a little
wider, she listened eagerly until footsteps close by made her close
it again quickly. That must be Basil coming from his room farther
down the wing.
A blur outside her window announced the arrival of the men in the
study below and the turning on of its lights. Mrs. Bascom remembered
the window would probably be open--it was a needless precaution to
even close it this far out in the country--so leaned out of her own
to try to catch any of the sounds or voices from below. A word or
broken phrase became intelligible as the men moved about in the room,
enough for her to gather that some one had entered with the obvious
intent of robbery.
She had listened there for several minutes before the thought of
Sylvia came to her mind. Perhaps the noise had awakened her and she
might be frightened. Mrs. Bascom hurried to the door between the two
rooms and softly pushed it open, glancing quickly at the bed. It was
empty!
Scarcely believing her eyes, she looked again, opening the door wider
and almost gasping aloud with surprise. The covers were thrown back,
and Sylvia was nowhere to be seen. Her eyes swept the vacant room
questioningly, paused on the hall door that stood ajar. She took a
step into the room, then shrank back again. That door was slowly
moving open!
Mrs. Bascom cringed back into the shadows, but held her door open a
crack so that she might watch.
A figure stumbled into the room and leaned against the wall. It
was Sylvia in a dark dressing-gown, supporting herself on a cane!
Painfully she drew herself toward the bed, favoring her sprained
ankle, but stepping on it occasionally and breathing rapidly. Once
there, she thrust the cane under it, then threw herself down, too
exhausted to remove her wrapper or get beneath the covers.
Mrs. Bascom rattled the knob of the door and entered.
‘My dear, what’s the matter?’ she called softly.
‘That noise--I tried to get to the door--I’ll be all right now.’
‘You should not have gotten up,’ reproved Mrs. Bascom sternly. ‘Why
did you do it?’
‘I--I had to----But the doctor said I could--advised me to step on my
foot all I could, you know. It’s bandaged--’
‘There now. Let me help you and tuck you in. You’re still weak.
Everything is all right. Just rest and sleep.’
Sylvia sighed deeply and relaxed, seemed to fall asleep almost
instantly, so Mrs. Bascom left her, hearing the men approaching
up the stairs. Modesty or no modesty, she must find out what had
happened! Wrapping the puff about her shoulders, she thrust her head
into the hall and called out, ‘What is it? Was it a robber?’
‘Yes--at least, an intruder,’ answered one of the men. ‘He broke into
King’s desk, but of course we don’t know whether he took anything or
not. The window was open--he must have come in there. We’ve locked up
again now, so don’t worry. We’ll search the house, then call Sewell,
so you’ll be perfectly safe.’
It sounded like the judge’s voice, but as he spoke he was moving
toward his room so that Mrs. Bascom had no chance for a reply or to
ask any of the questions that arose in her mind. For a moment she
stood still listening. Thus it happened she overheard still another
brief conversation.
Scarcely had the two men closed their doors, when one of them opened
again and Mrs. Bascom, by leaning immodestly into the hall, saw Judge
Brant step from his lighted room and knock on the doctor’s door. When
the latter opened it, the Judge spoke in what was supposed to be a
whisper, but was so loud and excited that Mrs. Bascom clearly heard
his words.
‘Doctor, some one has been in my room while we were downstairs. Come
in and I’ll show you. My wallet----’
The rest was lost as the two men disappeared from Mrs. Bascom’s view,
but she had heard enough. She knew that ‘some one’ was Sylvia!
But why? What was she doing there? If she was after some special
thing----The will! That was the only article the judge possessed that
seemed to bear on the case. She was after the will--why?
Shivering slightly with the excitement and the chill of the night,
Mrs. Bascom got back into bed to think. She intended to straighten
out these questions in her mind before sleeping again, sure that rest
could not come until her perplexities were settled.
Yet the human brain is a contrary organism; given a problem which
must be solved, it often plays the truant, closes up shop and refuses
to function, while if it has no duty to perform, it creates one
out of thin air. Thus, now that Mrs. Bascom had a real reason for
remaining awake, she almost instantly dropped off to sleep!