IV

When I come to the next day I can't make my story plain if I only tell

what I saw and heard. I didn't even pick up the most important message

in the tragedy. It came at half-past nine that night through the Corona

Exchange and was sent from a pay station so there was no record of it,

only Jack Reddy's word--but I'm going too fast; that belongs later.

What I've got to do is to piece things together as I got them from the

gossip in the village, from the inquest, and from the New York papers.

All I ask of you is to remember that I'm up against a stunt that's new

to me and that I'm trying to get it over as clear as I can.

The best way is for me to put down first Sylvia's movements on that

tragic Sunday.

About five in the afternoon Sylvia and Mrs. Fowler had tea in the

library. When that was over--about half-past--Sylvia went away, saying

she was going to her room to write letters, and her mother retired to

hers for the nap she always took before dinner. What happened between

then and the time when Mrs. Fowler sent the message to the Doctor I

heard from Anne Hennessey. It was this way:

They had dinner late at Mapleshade--half-past seven--and when Sylvia

didn't come down Mrs. Fowler sent up Harper to call her. He came back

saying she wasn't in her room, and Mrs. Fowler, getting uneasy, went up

herself, sending Harper to find Virginie Dupont. It wasn't long before

they discovered that neither Sylvia nor Virginie were in the house.

When she realized this Mrs. Fowler was terribly upset. Sylvia's room was

in confusion, the bureau drawers pulled out, the closet doors open. Anne

not being there, Harper, who was scared at Mrs. Fowler's excitement,

called Nora Magee, the chambermaid. She was a smart girl and saw pretty

quickly that Sylvia had evidently left. The toilet things were gone from

the dresser; the jewelry case was open and empty, only for a few old

pieces of no great value. It was part of Nora's job to do up the room

and she knew where Sylvia's Hudson seal coat hung in one of the closets.

A glance showed her that was gone, also a gold-fitted bag that the

Doctor had given his stepdaughter on her birthday.

All the servants knew of the quarreling and its cause and while Mrs.

Fowler was moaning and hunting about helplessly, Nora went to the desk

and opened it. There, lying careless as if it had been thrown in in a

hurry, was Jack Reddy's letter. She gave a glance at it and handed it to

Mrs. Fowler. With the letter in her hand Mrs. Fowler ran downstairs and

telephoned to the Doctor.

The poor lady was in a terrible way and when Anne got back she had to

sit with her, trying to quiet her till the Doctor came back. That wasn't

till nearly two in the morning, when he reached home, dead beat, saying

he'd come round the turnpike from the Riven Rock Road and seen no sign

of either Sylvia or Jack Reddy.

No one at Mapleshade saw Sylvia leave the house, no one in Longwood saw

her pass through the village, yet, two and a half hours from the time

she had made the date with Mr. Reddy, she was seen again, over a hundred

miles from her home, in the last place anyone would have expected to

find her.

Way up on the turnpike, two miles from Cresset's Crossing, there's a

sort of roadhouse where the farm hands spend their evenings and

automobilists stop for drinks and gasoline. It's got a shady reputation,

being frequented by a rough class of people and once there was a dago--a

laborer on Cresset's Farm--killed there in a drunken row. It's called

the Wayside Arbor, which doesn't fit, sounding innocent and rural,

though in the back there is a trellis with grapes growing over it and

tables set out under it in warm weather.

At this season it's a dreary looking spot, an old frame cottage a few

yards back from the road, with a broken-down piazza and a door painted

green leading into the bar. Along the top of the piazza goes the sign

"Wayside Arbor," with advertisements for some kind of beer at each end

of it, and in the window there's more advertisements for whisky and

crackers and soft drinks. Nailed to one of the piazza posts is a public

telephone sign standing out very prominent.

At the time of the Hesketh mystery I'd only seen it once, one day in the

summer when I was out in a hired car with Mrs. Galway and two gentlemen

friends from New York. We'd been to Bloomington by train and were

motoring back and stopped to get some beer. But we ladies, not liking

the looks of the place, wouldn't go in and had our beer brought out to

us by the proprietor, Jake Hines, a tough-looking customer in a shirt

without a collar and one of his suspenders broken.

It's very lonesome round there. The nearest house is Cresset's, a half

mile away across the fields. Back of it and all round is Cresset's land,

some of it planted in crops and then strips of woods, making the country

in summer look lovely with the dark and the light green.

Sunday evening there were only two people in the Wayside Arbor bar,

Hines and his servant, Tecla Rabine, a Bohemian woman. Mrs. Hines was

upstairs in the room above in bed with a cold. There was a fire burning

in the stove, as a good many of Hines's customers were the dagoes that

work at Cresset's and the other farms and they liked the place warm.

Hines was reading the paper and Tecla Rabine was cleaning up the bar

before she went upstairs, she having a toothache and wanting to get off

to bed.

At the inquest Hines swore that he heard no sound of a car or of

wheels--which, he said, he would have noticed, as that generally meant

business--when there was a step on the piazza, the door opened and a

lady came in. He didn't know who she was but saw right off she wasn't

the kind that you'd expect to see in his place. She had on a long dark

fur coat, a close-fitting plush hat with a Shetland veil pushed up round

the brim, and looked pale, and, he thought, scared. It was Sylvia

Hesketh, but he didn't know that till afterward.

She asked him right off if she could use his telephone and he pointed to

the booth in the corner. She went in and closed the door and Hines

stepped to the window and looked out to see if there was a car or a

carriage that he hadn't heard, the mud making the road soft. But there

was nothing there. Before he was through looking he heard the booth door

open and turning back saw her come out. He said she wasn't five minutes

sending her message.

That telephone message was the most mysterious one in the case. It was

transmitted through the Corona Exchange to Firehill and there was no one

in the world who heard it but Jack Reddy. I'm going to put it down here,

copied from the newspaper reports of the inquest:

Oh, Jack, is that you? It's Sylvia. Thank Heavens you're there.

I'm in trouble, I want you. I've done something dreadful. I'll

tell you when I see you. I'll explain everything and you won't

be angry. Come and get me--start now, this minute. Come up the

Firehill Road to the Turnpike and I'll be there waiting, where

the roads meet. Don't ask any questions now. When you hear

you'll understand. And don't let anyone know--the servants or

anyone. You've got to keep it quiet, it's vitally important, for

my sake. Come, come quick.

That was all. Before he could ask her a question she'd disconnected.

And, naturally, he made no effort to find out where the call had come

from, being in such a hurry to get to her--Sylvia who was in trouble and

wanted him to come.

When she came out of the booth she carried a small purse in her hand and

Hines then noticed that she had only one glove on--the left--and that

her right hand was scratched in several places. Thinking she looked cold

he asked her if she would have something to drink and she said no, then

pushed back her cuff and looked at a bracelet watch set in diamonds and

sapphires that she wore on her wrist.

"Twenty minutes to ten," she said. "I'll wait here for a little while if

you don't mind."

She went over to the stove, pulled up a chair and sat down, spreading

her hands out to the heat, and when they were warm, opening her coat

collar, and turning it back from her neck. Both Hines and Tecla Rabine

noticed that her feet were muddy and that there were twigs and dead

leaves caught in the edge of her skirt. As she didn't seem inclined to

say anything, Hines, who admitted that he was ready to burst with

curiosity, began to question her, trying to find out where she'd come

from and what she was waiting for.

"You come a long way, I guess," he said.

She just nodded.

"From Bloomington maybe?" he asked.

"No, the other direction--toward Longwood."

"Car broken down?" he said next, and she answered sort of indifferent,

"Yes, it's down the road."

"Maybe I might go and lend a hand," he suggested and she answered quick

to that:

"No, it's not necessary. They can fix it themselves," then she added,

after a minute, "I've telephoned for someone to come for me and if the

car's really broken we can tow it back."

That seemed so straight and natural that Hines began to get less

curious, still he wanted to know who she was and tried to find out.

"You come a long ride if you come from Longwood," he said.

But he didn't get any satisfaction, for she answered:

"Is it a long way there?"

"About a hundred and eighteen miles by the turnpike--a good bit shorter

by the Firehill Road, but that's pretty bad after these rains.

"Most of the roads _are_ bad, I suppose," she said, as if she wasn't

thinking of her words.

They were silent for a bit, then he tried again:

"What's broke in your auto?"

And she answered that sharp as if he annoyed her and she was setting him

back in his place:

"My good man, I haven't the least idea. That's the chauffeur's business,

not mine."

He asked her some more questions but he couldn't get anything out of

her. He said she treated him sort of haughty as if she wanted him to

stop. So after a while he said no more, but sat by the bar pretending to

read his paper. Tecla Rabine came and went, tidying up for the night and

none of them said a word.

A little before ten she got up and buttoned her coat, saying she was

going. Hines was surprised and asked her if she wouldn't wait there for

the auto, and she said no, she'd walk up the road and meet it.

He asked her which way it was coming and she said: "By the Firehill

Road. How far is that from here?"

He told her about a quarter of a mile and she answered that she'd just

about time to get there and catch it as it came into the turnpike.

Hines urged her to stay but she said no, she was cramped with sitting

and needed a little walk; it was early yet and there was nothing to be

afraid of. She bid him good night very cordial and pleasant and went

out.

He stood in the doorway watching her as far as he could see, then told

Tecla, whose toothache was bad, to go to bed. After she'd gone he locked

up, went upstairs to his wife and told her about the strange lady. His

wife said he'd done wrong to let her go, it wasn't right for a person

like that to be alone on such a solitary road, especially with some of

the farm hands, queer foreigners, no better than animals.

She worked upon his feelings till she got him nervous and he was going

to get a lantern and start out when he heard the sound of an auto horn

in the distance. He stepped to the window and watched and presently saw

a big car with one lamp dark coming at a great clip down from the

Firehill Road direction. The moon had come out a short while before, so

that if he'd looked he could have seen the people in the car, but

supposing it was the one the lady was waiting for, he turned from the

window, and, thinking no more about it, went to bed.

Before he was off to sleep he heard another auto horn and the whirr of a

car passing. He couldn't say how long after this was, as he was half

asleep.

How long he'd slept he didn't know--it really was between four and five

in the morning--when he was roused by a great battering at the door and

a sound of voices. He jumped up just as he was, ran to the window and

opened it. There in the road he could see plain--the clouds were gone,

the moon sailing clear and high--a motor and some people all talking

very excited, and one voice, a woman's, saying over and over, "Oh, how

horrible--how horrible!"

He took them for a party of merry-makers, half drunk and wanting more,

and called down fierce and savage:

"What in thunder are you doing there?"

One of them, a man standing on the steps of the piazza, looked up at him

and said:

"There's a murdered woman up the road here, that's all."

As he ran to the place with the men--there were two of them--they told

him how they were on a motor trip with their wives and that night were

going from Bloomington to Huntley. The moon being so fine they were

going slow, otherwise they never would have found the body, which was

lying by the roadside. A pile of brushwood had been thrown over it, but

one hand had fallen out beyond the branches and one of the women had

seen it, white in the moonlight.

They had unfastened an auto lamp and it was standing on the ground

beside her. Hines lifted it and looked at her. She lay partly on her

side, her coat loosely drawn round her. The right arm was flung out as

if when the body stiffened it might have slipped down from a position

across the chest. As he held the lantern close he saw below the hat,

pulled down on her head, with the torn rags of veil still clinging to

it, a thin line of blood running down to where the pearl necklace

rested, untouched, round her throat.

It was Sylvia Hesketh, her skull fractured by a blow that had cracked

her head like an egg shell.

V

There were so many puzzling "leads" and so much that was inexplicable

and mysterious in the Hesketh case that it'll be easier to follow if, in

this chapter, I put down what the other people, who were either suspects

or important witnesses, did on that Sunday.

Some of it may not be interesting, but it's necessary to know if you're

going to get a clear understanding of a case that baffled the police and

pretty nearly.... There I go again. But it's awfully hard when you're

not used to it to keep things in their right order.

I've told how Jim Donahue said he put Sylvia on the train for the

Junction that night at seven-thirty. Both Jim and the ticket agent said

they'd seen her and Jim had spoken to her. She carried a hand bag, wore

a long dark fur coat and a small close-fitting hat that showed her hair.

Both men also noticed in her hand the gold mesh purse with a diamond

monogram that she always carried. Over her face was tied a black figured

veil that hid her features, but there was no mistaking the hair, the

voice, or the gold mesh purse.

Sands, the Pullman conductor, said this same woman rode down in his

train to the Junction, where she got off. Clark, the station agent at

the Junction, saw her step from the car to the platform. After that he

lost track of her as he was busy with the branch line train which left

at eight-forty-five and was the last one up that night. No woman went on

it, there were only two passengers, both men.

The Doctor didn't make his whole story public till the inquest. They

said afterward the police knew it, but it was his policy to say little

and keep quiet in Mapleshade. What we in the village did know--partly

from the papers, partly from people--was that after the message from

Mrs. Fowler saying Sylvia had eloped, he told Mrs. Dalzell he would have

to leave, having been called away to an important case. When the

Dalzells' chauffeur brought his car round he asked the man several

questions about the shortest way to get to the turnpike. The chauffeur

told him that the best traveling would be by the Riven Rock Road, which

he would have to go to the Junction to get. The Doctor left the

Dalzells' at a little after eight, alone in his car.

He reached the Junction about eight-thirty-five, a few minutes after the

train from Longwood had arrived. On the platform he spoke to Clark,

asking him how to get to the Riven Rock Road. Clark gave him the

directions, then saw him disappear round the station building. Neither

Clark nor anyone at the Junction--there were very few there at that

hour--saw him leave in his car, though they heard the honk of the auto

horn.

But it was Jack Reddy's movements that everybody was most interested in.

There was no secret about them.

Sunday at lunch he told Gilsey that he was going away for a trip for a

few days. If he stayed longer than he expected he'd wire back for his

things, but, as it was, he'd only want his small auto trunk, which he'd

take with him. When Mrs. Gilsey was packing this he joked her about

having a good time while he was gone, and she told him that, as there'd

be no dinner that night, she and Gilsey'd go over to a neighbor's, take

supper there and spend the evening. After that he asked Casey, the

chauffeur, to have the racing car brought round at five, to see that the

tank was full, a footwarmer in it and the heaviest rugs and a drum of

gasoline, as he was going on a long trip.

At five he left Firehill in the racer. At a quarter to seven two boys

saw him pass the Longwood Station in the direction of Maple Lane. He

said he came back through the outskirts of the village at seven-thirty,

but no one could be found who had seen him.

After he left Firehill the Gilseys cleared up and walked across the

fields to the Jaycocks' farm, where they spent the evening, coming home

at ten and finding the house dark and quiet. Casey went to another

neighbor's, where he stayed till midnight, playing cards.

He slept over the garage, and about four in the morning--he looked at

his watch afterward--was awakened by a sound down below in the garage.

He listened and made sure that someone was trying to roll the doors back

very slow and with as little noise as possible. Casey's a bold, nervy

boy, and he reached for his revolver and crept barefooted to the head of

the stairs. On the top step he stooped down and looked through the

banisters, and saw against the big square of the open doors a man

standing, with a car behind him shining in the moonlight.

He thought it was a burglar, so, with his revolver up and ready, he

called:

"Hello, there. What are you doing?"

The man gave a great start, and then he heard Mr. Reddy's voice:

"Oh, Casey, did I wake you? I've come back unexpectedly. Help me get

this car in."

They ran the car in, and, when Casey went to tell how he thought it was

a burglar and was going to shoot, he noticed that Mr. Reddy hardly

listened to him, but was gruff and short. All he said was that he'd

changed his mind about the trip, and then unstrapped his trunk from the

back and turned to go. In the doorway he stopped as if he'd had a sudden

thought, and said over his shoulder:

"You don't want to mention this in Longwood. I'm getting a little sick

of the gossip there over my affairs."

Casey went back to bed and in the morning, when he looked at the car,

found it was caked with mud, even the wind-guard spattered. At seven he

crossed over to the house for his breakfast and told the Gilseys that

Mr. Reddy was back. They were surprised, but decided, as he'd been out

so late, they'd not disturb him till he rang for his breakfast.

Monday morning was clear and sharp, the first real frost of the season.

All the time I was dressing I was thinking about the elopement and how

queer it was Mrs. Fowler saying they'd gone by turnpike and Jim Donahue

saying he'd seen Sylvia leave on the train. I worked it out that they'd

made some change of plans at the last moment. But the _way_ they'd

eloped didn't matter to me. Small things like that didn't cut any ice

when I was all tormented wondering if it was for the best that my hero

should marry a wild girl who no one could control.

I hadn't been long at the switchboard, and was sitting sideways in my

chair looking out of the window when I saw Dr. Fowler's auto drive up

with the Doctor and a strange man in it. I twirled round quick and was

the business-like operator. I'll bet no one would have thought that the

girl sitting so calm and indifferent in that swivel chair was just

boiling with excitement and curiosity.

The Doctor looked bad, yellow as wax, with his eyes sunk and inflamed.

He didn't take any notice of me beside a fierce sort of look and a

gruff,

"Give me Corona 1-4-2."

That was Firehill. I jacked in and the Doctor went into the booth and

shut the door. The strange man stood with his hands behind him, looking

out of the window. I didn't know then that he was a detective, and I

don't think anyone ever would have guessed it. If you'd asked me I'd

have said he looked more like a clerk at the ribbon counter. But that's

what he was, Walter Mills by name, engaged that morning, as we afterward

knew, by the Doctor.

Watching him with one eye I leaned forward very cautiously, lifted up

the cam and listened in on the conversation:

"Is this Gilsey?"