midnight. A car drove up and parked on the other side of the road across from the porch. A man was in it—I could see the tip of his cigar. It was dark; he couldn’t see me. He just sat there, and every now and again he would pop out his head and look up the road. I began to wonder what he was looking at.”
I was on edge with impatience. Olmstead’s unhurried voice continued. “I stepped off the porch, quietly, so as not to attract his attention. I looked up the road. There wasn’t a darn thing to look at but your house. All your lights were burning. While I watched and while he watched, your lights went out. The man across the road took out his watch and looked at it. I looked at my watch. It was twenty minutes to twelve. By this time I was pretty interested. At ten minutes past twelve—we both looked to our watches again—the man climbed out of his car. He started in the road. I followed.” Olmstead sighed. “And then the accident happened.”
“What accident?”
“Up to then he hadn’t seen me. But I stepped on a stone. It made a noise. He heard me. He had a flashlight; he turned around and flashed the light on me. There was nothing for me to do but walk on past. He stood still in the road till I went by.”
“You didn’t speak?”
“Not a word. I think I made him sore. He acted sore.”
“What became of him?”
“I had to walk on. I walked about a hundred yards past your place, then turned around and came back. He was gone. There wasn’t a sign of him. But I was suspicious. I sat down on your stone fence and waited. It was cold. I waited a long time. I got up to go. It was lucky I didn’t. Because just then this fellow stepped out of your yard. He saw me again. He was mad as hell.
He gave me a look, then hurried down the yard, jumped in his car and drove off.”
“Of course you didn’t know the man?”
“I can’t remember his name offhand, but I could find it for you. His picture has been in the papers. He’s mixed up in the case. He’s that short, stout fellow, that New York lawyer.”
Jack’s eyes and mine met in a long, steady look. Our midnight visitor had been Franklyn Elliott.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Dark Red Splotches
We escaped from Olmstead. We drove straight to the Tally-ho Inn and demanded Franklyn Elliott. He wasn’t there; he wasn’t even in the village. Bill Tevis, the clerk, told us about it.
“Elliott made up his mind at least three hours ago. Tossed some things in his bag, called for his car and lit out for New York. Business, he said. I guess it was, too. His secretary phoned.”
From the Inn we drove to Standish’s home. His housekeeper was serving him dinner. She answered the door and wasn’t disposed to allow us to disturb his meal, but Standish heard our voices and shouted out that we were to be admitted. The housekeeper pulled a long face, sniffed and retired to the kitchen.
Standish was so excited by our news that he pushed back the dishes and failed to eat another bite. The three of us gathered at the table, and mapped out our campaign.
“Elliott,” said Standish, “could explain why he robbed a poor box if he had ten minutes to think. We’ve got to accuse him before he learns he’s suspected. And we’ve got to be sure he’s available.” With which he went to the telephone. To my surprise the long-distance operator easily located Franklyn Elliott in New York. He was calmly dining in his Fifth Avenue Club, and willingly left the table to talk. The policeman explained that he was coming to town and wished to see a copy of Mrs. Coatesnash’s will. Elliott was unsuspicious. An appointment was agreed upon for two o’clock the following afternoon. No mention naturally was made of Jack or me.
“I’ll be by for you,” said Standish jubilantly to us; “at six in the morning. We’ll take the milk train in. Elliott will talk tomorrow or I’ll know the reason why. At last we’ve got something definite on that lawyer!”
Franklyn Elliott, as we knew quite well, faced a far more serious charge than burglary. After we departed, Standish called in Lester Harkway. It was decided that the younger officer should go immediately to the Catskills, seek out Elliott’s hunting lodge and check exhaustively on the lawyer’s alibi for the night of March 20th.
“It’s a long time ago,” said Standish, “but let’s hope you can dig something up. Elliott says he went out with his guide on the twentieth. Find the guide. Talk to the natives. Make a survey of the gas stations in the vicinity and try to find out whether Elliott bought any gasoline on the twentieth. He had his car with him. He swears he spent that day and night in the Catskills, but maybe you can establish he didn’t.”.
“If it can be established,” drawled Harkway, “I’ll establish it.” He pretended to be indifferent, but he was excited. “It looks like a hot trail to me.”
The two men shook hands and separated. That very night Harkway started for the Catskills.
Our alarm clock went off at five a m the following morning. The sky outside our bedroom windows was a misty slate gray, sprinkled with a few pale stars. I woke with one of my heavy colds. I had sinus, and the sinus made my head ache as though someone had hammered it. My eyes ran and my nose dripped. Jack got me a slug of brandy. I swallowed it. I felt worse. He insisted I abandon the trip. I indignantly refused, started to put on my clothes and collapsed in tears. I was beaten and I knew it.
I crawled back into bed. Jack earnestly deplored my misery and did what he could to alleviate it, though I must say he kept his eye on the clock. He made me coffee which I drank and toast which I pushed aside. At six precisely a horn tooted outside and Jack gave me a hurried kiss.
. “Stay in bed, sweetheart. I’ll be back at five this afternoon. Don’t be so blue. The minute there’s news I’ll phone.”
“Will you phone when you leave Elliott’s office?”
“You bet I will.”
He rushed outside. A car door slammed, gears made a shrieking sound and an automobile shot past my window to the road. I went back to sleep and when I opened my eyes it was noon. I felt a little better but not much. I tottered to the bathroom, where I sprayed my nose and throat. That improved my head. It was possible for my eyes to focus.
Walking gingerly like a person who walks between eggs, I went to the kitchen. I squeezed six oranges and drank the juice. I reached for a cigarette. Jack had taken the last package; the carton was empty. There is no calamity in our house which equals a total lack of cigarettes. I searched feverishly through my pocketbook and desk, through Jack’s bathrobe and suits, only to discover that there wasn’t a cigarette on the place. I fished a butt from an ashtray and smoked that. It was awful.
I held out for an hour before I decided to drive to the village. When I entered the bedroom to dress, I thought I observed a man standing on the opposite side of the road. I pulled down the shades. Fifteen minutes later I locked the back door and started toward the garage.
There was a man on the opposite side of the road. It was Silas.
His attitude caught my attention. He stood in the Coatesnash pasture; he leaned on the pasture gate; he stared at the cottage. He was like a statue. While I watched he moved, opened the gate and advanced to the center of the road. Again he became immobile. Then to my surprise he turned around and retraced his steps. Once more he sank his elbows on the cross-bar and started toward the garage.
It was a peculiar performance. Because I was a little frightened my voice sounded sharp. I shouted, “Silas! What are you doing? Were you coming here?”
He jumped. Immediately he saw me, he ducked through the gate and began clambering up the hill toward the Lodge. In the face of an alarm so evident, my own fright vanished. I shouted again. Slowly Silas came back, crossed the road, stood before me.
“What do you want, ma’am?”
“The point is: what did you want? Weren’t you coming here? Why did you