WHY MRS. GRAHAM SCREAMED
After breakfast next morning the coroner came to the house for
Harrison’s body. Landis had a talk with him in the library, promising
him a set of photographs in time for the inquest, then telling him
Allen’s and Anita’s story in full and asking permission to withhold it
at that runction.
The coroner proved intelligent, reasonable and a gentleman. As Landis
and Bernard had the case, he promised to call no more evidence than
necessary to establish the facts of the murder.
He departed quietly, taking with him Harrison’s body and the three
local policemen to leave a clear field.
Breakfast had been a gloomy meal, household and guests eating in a
silence that veiled uneasiness or suspicion, the servants unnatural and
morose, Miss Mount red-eyed and taciturn. If the crisis had found her
composed and resourceful, evidently night and privacy had brought a
softer mood.
With the departure of Harrison’s torn body the atmosphere lightened a
little. But Landis was relieved when he left the house to find Bernard
quietly smoking his pipe in the sunken garden. Their own position in
the household was hardly one to inspire cordiality.
“Hello,” he said, “I’ve been thinking.”
“That’s all right, if you don’t overdo it.”
“I’ve been thinking,” repeated Landis with dignity, “that it might be
worth while to find out why Mrs. Graham screamed. It’s funny no one
has mentioned it except Joel.”
Bernard puffed at his pipe.
“Get hold of Mrs. Graham and we’ll ask her. Never know when we’ll
strike a trail.”
Landis found the Grahams descending the main staircase on their way out
for a walk. With a tiny frown and then a laugh, Mrs. Graham accompanied
him to the sunken garden.
They found seats in the ornamental summerhouse, from which they could
see Graham wandering about the billiard-room.
“Mrs. Graham,” began Landis, “we’ve a funny question to ask you? Did
you happen to scream last Wednesday night?”
She stared at him, then gurgled with laughter.
“I’m afraid I did! Though I’d almost forgotten about it.”
“Did someone or something frighten you?”
“Oh, my, no! I burned myself!”
“Oh,” said Landis blankly, “you burned yourself!” He made an effort to
show interest. “Curling your hair?”
Ethel Graham laughed gayly.
“No! Thank goodness, it’s naturally curly! I leaned back on Ray’s
cigarette.”
“And burned your hand on it?”
Ethel Graham looked slightly embarrassed.
“No. You see, Ray was reading and smoking in bed and I went in to
pester him. I sat down on his bed and took his book away. Then I
leaned back all of a sudden and his hand was there with his cigarette
in it. He wasn’t expecting me to lean back quickly like that. So I
burned myself!” She straightened and touched the small of her back
reminiscently. “It startled me so and hurt so that I--well, I just
yelped!”
“Burned you through your clothes?” exclaimed Landis.
Ethel laughed, flushing a little. “I just had my nightgown on and it
wasn’t a very thick one!”
“It would hurt, of course,” said Landis quickly.
“It did--for a while! Ray made a fuss over it and put on a lot of cold
cream. He went into my bedroom to get it. But Miss Mount had heard my
disgraceful yell and came over to see what was up. Without thinking,
I called to her to come in. It hurt so, even then. Ray was terribly
embarrassed and went back to his room,” she added with a gurgle of
laughter. “So Miss Mount went for some stuff she had and dressed my
back for me. She was awfully nice about it. Ever since then we’ve been
great friends. I like her a lot.”
“She’s a mighty interesting woman,” admitted Bernard.
“She’s a dear! She’s so interested in _you_!”
“Interested in me?” demanded Bernard blankly.
Ethel bubbled with light-hearted laughter. “Not you _personally_!
I mean the person who happens to be talking to her. We had a long talk
Thursday morning and she asked me all about myself. She knows that it
isn’t much fun not having any home of your own. Though of course I’m
happy _now_!”
“I had an idea,” said Bernard casually, “that Miss Mount was in town
all day Thursday!”
“So she was. But we had our talk right after breakfast. She asked me
into her room. She didn’t go into town until later.”
Bernard smiled.
“What on earth did you two find to talk about?” he demanded.
“Well, I like that! We talked about ourselves, of course! Or rather,”
Ethel laughed, “about me! I told her all about being unhappy at home
and running away and who my parents were. She knew some Cuddys out near
Riverhead but I told her where mine lived and that they couldn’t be the
same ones. But she thought they might be relatives and wrote down the
address. She was so sweet and sympathetic. _She_ understood why I
ran away!” Ethel directed a demure and mischievous glance at Bernard.
“I’m an old fool,” smiled Bernard contritely. It was evident that he
had taken a great fancy to Ethel Graham.
“Not a bit of it!” she cried. “I just hoped you--wouldn’t jump to
conclusions without understanding!”
“Look here,” he said, “we won’t keep you from your walk a minute longer
than we have to. But I would like a word with your husband first--just
a word, eh? Will you tell him?”
“Of course.” Ethel jumped to her feet and made for the billiard-room.
When her back was turned, Landis and Bernard exchanged glances.
“Cuddy again!” murmured Landis, as soon as she was out of hearing.
“This is getting interesting. Wonder where he fits into this jig-saw
puzzle!”
“We’re going to find out!”
Graham came down the steps and in a moment joined them, his smile a
trifle perfunctory.
“We’re not going to keep you long,” Landis assured him with a friendly
grin. “Remember the night Mrs. Graham burned her back?”
Graham showed his surprise.
“Is there anything you fellows _don’t_ know? You bet I do,” he
added warmly.
“Miss Mount dressed the burn, we understand. Did you happen to notice
anything peculiar about her manner?”
“No. I ducked out of sight right away, not being dressed. Why in the
world should there be anything peculiar--”
“Wait a bit,” Landis smiled. “Do you know of anything peculiar about
your wife’s past? I don’t mean personally, of course. I mean her
parentage?”
It was obvious that the question upset Graham. His manner grew stiff
with indignation. They saw, however, that the question had startled
him, too.
“Look here, is it necessary for you gentlemen to--well, to pry into
things like that?” he demanded.
“In this case I’m afraid it is, Graham. I’m sorry.”
“Find out then!” Graham was in a sudden rage of hurt pride. “_I_
won’t answer such a question!”
“We’ll try to keep it a secret,” said Landis subtly.
Graham was alert enough to see the implication.
“If there were a secret,” he answered hotly, “it still wouldn’t be mine
to tell, would it?”
“Look here, Graham,” ordered Bernard, “Cuddy has cropped up twice in
this case already. He was actually here at the house the night before
the murder. He may have been here the same night for all we know. And
he isn’t at all your wife’s type. We want to know where he fits in.”
Graham shook his head with a doggedness they had not expected in him.
“Ethel’s past has nothing to do with the murder. If you absolutely
insist on my telling you what I know, we’ll all three regret it. You
can force me to tell you, of course. But I won’t tell you otherwise!”
“All right,” said Bernard suddenly. “We won’t insist! At least, I
won’t. That’s twice you’ve refused to answer. You sent for us. But you
aren’t exactly helping us, you know!”
“I can’t help it!” Graham retorted obstinately. “You keep asking
personal questions that have nothing to do with the case. You don’t
have to go prying into a girl’s past, do you?”
“We’re squashed,” interrupted Landis in his friendly way. “Go have your
walk, Graham, and cool off!”
Graham stared at him angrily for a moment, then turned on his heel and
stalked off in pursuit of his wife.
“Those two,” murmured Landis, “are the only really likeable people in
the house, except maybe Miss Mount! Also, I think that Cuddy on Long
Island will be an early port of call!”
“You bet he will,” returned Bernard. “In the meantime, suppose we learn
what we can about his movements out here!”
Landis went to the garage and discovered that a grateful Harley had
done everything except re-upholster his car. They drove first to the
local railroad station, where they were lucky enough to find that
one of the two porters had seen an old fellow such as they described
getting off the six-ten train from New York on Friday night. He looked
such a rube that the porter had noticed him. Neither he nor anyone else
about the station had seen the same man leave town on Friday night nor
seen him on Saturday night.
Luck followed them into the single main street. In the second place
they tried which had a public telephone, the woman remembered seeing
such an old man on Friday night. She had changed a dollar for him so
that he could telephone and he had pored over the change until she was
afraid she had given him too much. But she had not seen him on Saturday
night.
They returned and put their car in the garage in time to explore the
grounds before lunch and to find, some distance back of the house,
the open stretch of sward where the archery targets were set up. But
neither these nor the grounds yielded anything of moment to their case.
After a taciturn and rather gloomy meal, during which only Ethel
Graham and Landis made any effort at sustained conversation, the two
detectives set out alone for the inquest. Miss Mount, Stimson and
Susan, the only witnesses called, followed in the big car driven by
Harley.
The coroner was true to his word and kept the inquest a purely formal
and perfunctory affair. The verdict was brought in: “Death due to a
wound caused by an arrow discharged by some person or persons unknown.”
The rest of Sunday afternoon and Sunday evening, Landis and Bernard
moved unobtrusively and casually about the house. Though subdued by
tragedy and more by uneasiness, life in the household pursued a most
commonplace course and they learned nothing whatever of interest.
At breakfast on Monday morning, Landis waited until Miss Mount, the two
girls and all four guests had come down, then inquired whether it was
necessary for any of them to go into New York. Graham volunteered to
stay, provided Brent did not need him. Russell and Allen admitted that
no pressing business interests demanded their departure. Miss Mount and
the two girls had nothing to say. In fact, no one wanted to seem eager
to get away from the scene of the crime.
After breakfast the two detectives drove into New York. The funeral
had been arranged for the afternoon, to take place from the local
undertaking parlor. There was nothing to be gained by attending it and
much to be done elsewhere.
On the way in they discussed the case, admitting each to the other
that he had no definite theory to pursue, no real working hypothesis.
Opportunity and known motive alone considered, the choice seemed to lie
between Stimson, Russell and Allen. But to each of these three theories
there were psychological factors that made it highly unsatisfactory. In
spite of his hatred and the bit of feather, Stimson had been too frank
and too calm for a murderer. Allen had been much too careless about
admitting his motive. Russell had made no attempt to deny his motive,
either. Neither Stimson nor Russell had tripped once. Allen had lied
but with an obvious and apparently innocent motive. Landis and Bernard
had learned a lot and got--nowhere.
In New York, Landis drove Bernard to the down-town district where Brent
had his offices, drove up-town again, parked his car in the vicinity of
the Pennsylvania Station and took the first available train for Great
Neck, where inquiry at the post office would give him Hiram Cuddy’s
address.
They met again at six in a chop-house near Times Square and each
admitted that he had had a busy day. Landis was cheerful. Bernard had a
grim little smile about his mouth.
“You spill your news first,” said Landis in an undertone, when they had
both ordered enormous mutton chops.
Bernard chuckled, though he looked tired.
“It doesn’t sound much, after the places I’ve been and the visits I’ve
paid! In the first place, I’ve seen the will. It leaves Miss Mount a
hundred thousand, Brent fifty thousand, Graham ten thousand and Stimson
five thousand. The other servants get two thousand apiece. There’s a
half-million life trust for his brother, Joel.”
“And the rest to the girls. That’s what Brent said.”
“It is,” Bernard admitted, “though he didn’t mention Stimson.
The fortune is about two million dollars less than Brent
expected--somewhere around eight million in all, which goes to the two
girls after the bequests are deducted. But what’s a couple of million
dollars!”
“What’s up your sleeve?” demanded Landis.
“Just this. Brent has lost a lot of money lately, backing some sort of
patent fuel-saving device. Two million dollars are missing. He admits
it. He gets fifty thousand. He is trustee, which means a big percentage
on the capital right away and a slice of the income until the money
goes to the girls, two and four years hence. Pretty soft for Brent, eh?”
Landis whistled.
“Where was he Saturday night?”
“He was out for a stroll, don’t you remember?”
“Why, bless me, so he was!” said Landis in a very fair imitation of the
stout little lawyer’s pompous manner.
“That’s that,” said Bernard. “The rest is interesting, too. I called on
an old acquaintance who helps publish a scurrilous little affair called
‘Chitter--Chatter.’ He knows everybody and everything a self-respecting
citizen ought not to know. Allen, he says, is a poor but popular young
man about town who is credited with the intention of marrying money.
This fellow knows about his affair with Anita, though he didn’t mention
their marriage--knows that he’s out there now. That’s common gossip, it
seems. He’d get that from the papers.”
“Ask him about Russell, too?”
“I did. Russell is supposed to have a reasonable income. His guess
was about ten thousand a year. He says Russell lives well beyond it,
is known to be entertaining his fiancée lavishly, is supposed to
be hard-pressed for cash and is rumored to have raised one fairly
large loan at very large interest on the strength of his announced
engagement to Isabelle Harrison!”
Landis sat up.
“Damn it, they’ve _all_ got motives!” he groaned. “Maybe the whole
household got together and cooked the thing up!”
“Maybe you’re crazy!” grunted Bernard. “What’s your news? What about
Cuddy?”
“Did you get any dope on Harrison’s past and where he went on Monday
and Saturday?” Landis countered.
“Nothing of much interest. He’s been in a couple of shady deals before
he got rich. On Monday he stayed here in town, took two hours for
lunch, went back to the office and home at the usual time. Nobody here
saw him on Saturday at all.”
“My yarn is longer and more interesting,” said Landis.
“Spin it, then. Every dog barks in his own yard!”
With a laugh, Landis plunged into his story. He had obtained Cuddy’s
address and a brief description of him from the post office where he
sometimes called for his mail. The station master at Great Neck had
sold Cuddy a return trip to New York on Friday morning and seen him
depart at once. A porter had seen him come back late that night. No one
in town had seen him on Saturday, where he was known in at least one
store as a surly and miserly old skinflint.
Landis had taken a taxi in Great Neck and driven inland to the little
group of farms of which Hiram Cuddy owned one. Before visiting the man
he had learned from local gossip that a woman answering the description
of Miss Mount had been looking for Cuddy on Thursday and had been
directed to his house. He was known to be at home at the time.
“Score one for you,” said Bernard at this point.
“Wait a bit, there’s more,” said Landis. “The same neighbor told me
that she saw a man like Harrison call at Cuddy’s farm about noon, day
before yesterday and stay there about half an hour. He came out in a
taxi like mine. Afterwards, when I got back to Great Neck, my driver
helped me find the other taxi. The other driver verified Harrison’s
description, told me that his ‘fare’ seemed to be in a rage on his way
to the Cuddy farm and grim enough when he left, though he didn’t haggle
over the price of the ride.”
“Good,” nodded Bernard. “But you went to see Cuddy?”
“Of course, sir! He struck me as an ugly, shifty old brute. His wife is
as grim and close-mouthed as he is. They’re not Ethel Graham’s type at
all. Anyhow, they admitted readily that she was their daughter, adding
that she ran away from home three years ago and they’ve washed their
hands of her.”
“Get on, man,” chuckled Bernard, as Landis paused. “What about Hiram’s
two visitors?”
“He wouldn’t say one word about them, wouldn’t even admit that they’d
been there! I passed myself off as a reporter looking for news about
the murder and about the guests in the house at the time, so I couldn’t
very well press him about Miss Mount and Harrison. But--I did ask him
for Ethel Graham’s birth certificate! They told me they’ve lost it. And
that’s all they did tell me.”
“But not all you learned?” Bernard demanded.
“Not quite. I went back to my neighbor who’s been there for years. She
told me that Ethel, whom she knew and liked, came to the Cuddy farm
first as a child about three years old. She’d been there ever since
until she ran away. The old girl I talked to was a warm-hearted party
and got quite indignant about the way the Cuddys treated Ethel. I
didn’t go back to Cuddy. It seemed better not to rouse his suspicions
further and much easier to trace Ethel’s real parentage from this end.”
“You mean--Miss Mount?”
Landis nodded.
“It seems likely. Miss Mount and Harrison. Ethel is about twenty-one.
Miss Mount has been with Harrison for twenty-three years. And she must
have been a beauty as a girl, sir. She’s a beauty now. That theory fits
all the facts.”
“Shouldn’t wonder,” agreed Bernard thoughtfully.
They finished their dinner quickly, went down to the Pennsylvania for
the car and started their long drive back to Harrison’s home. On the
way, each was busy with his own thoughts. As they passed the nearby
town and drew close to the house, Bernard cleared his throat and spoke,
softly.
“Graham will have to talk now,” he said, “and so will Miss Mount,
afterwards! But we’ll keep it all from Ethel Graham if we can.”
Landis ran the car into the untenanted garage and they walked around
the house together on the crunching gravel and rang the front door
bell, tired but better satisfied.
Stimson answered it with unusual alacrity and they saw at once that a
good deal of his poise had deserted him.
“What’s up, Stimson?” Landis inquired.
“Something very serious has happened in your absence, sir!”
“What?” asked Landis sharply. “Has somebody committed suicide?”
“No, sir. But Mr. Graham has been shot with an arrow, sir, in just the
same way as Mr. Harrison!”