Murder at Bayside Page 2

  This plan of housing the staff under a separate roof is a common one in the old plantation dwellings, and Cyrus had adhered to it when Bayside was built because of his dislike of having the servants under foot, as he expressed it. The grove which concealed their quarters extended to the end of the property on this, the southern, boundary and held many outbuildings and sheds, as well as the main route from the house to the dock, the whole being more in the nature of a well-kept park than an actual forest. On the other hand, the entire northern boundary was second-growth timber, cleared from the eastern edge to the house for lawn and garden space, but allowed to grow as wild as fire hazard would permit the rest of the way.

  Proceeding around to what was really the front of the house, the whole panorama of the grounds unrolled before one on a clear day. The house, standing on a knoll, had an excellent view of the blue waters of the bay, sparkling below to the right and far ahead. A part of the woods had been cut down to afford this view, and here were more gardens, bird runs and, below them, the target range where the Evans family delighted to exercise their skill.

  On this particular afternoon, the rain screened nearly all from sight. A dank fog was already drifting in as the downpour let up, so that visibility was unusually poor. I walked around to the front door and rang, being admitted almost at once by the colored butler.

  “Mr. Evans is not in, suh,” he informed me as if he were surprised at my arrival. “He went out in one of the boats earlier in the day, but Ah ‘spects this fog to drive him in soon, suh.”

  “Mr. Tom is here, isn’t he?” I asked.

  “Oh, yessuh. He ‘round the place some’eres.”

  Truly your country gentleman does not let weather bother him very much, if the Evans household was a good example. I had been cherishing a mental picture of the family grouped around a cheerful fire with perhaps a few whiskey sodas to keep off the chill.

  “Well, no matter, James,” I replied. “If my room is ready, I’ll go and wash up while I wait for Mr. Evans.”

  “Yessuh. The front room as usual, suh.”

  I was half-way up the stairs when Tom came hurrying in with an air of suppressed excitement. He called to the butler who was following me with my bags.

  “Hey, Jim, bring me my forty-five, will you? And be quick about it.”

  Then as he came further into the reception room, he saw me and exclaimed, “Oh, hello, Williams, you got down early, didn’t you?”

  James put my luggage down and went to obey Tom’s command, his eyes popping out of his black countenance. “I called your office,” I began, although truth to tell, I was almost as curious as James to know why Tom should demand his gun on a day so obviously unfit for target practice.

  “I called your office, but Miss Ellesworth told me you were not coming to town today, so there was nothing left for me to do but take the early train.”

  Tom paid me no attention, impatiently rapping his knuckles on the stair rail as I spoke, his eyes following James who was going down the passage to the gun-room.

  “Not down there, you black buzzard,” he burst out. “Get me my pistol from the top, left-hand drawer of the desk in my study.”

  The butler turned and went upstairs while I stood irresolute. Then Tom looked at me and said in a low voice, “I’ve suspected for several days that some one was lying low around this place—some one with no right to be here. Just now I saw a tough-looking customer down by the pheasant pens, and I miss my guess if he’s any ordinary hobo. I haven’t forgotten his ugly mug even if he has been in jail six months.”

  I took this meaning at once. “Not Jim Hirstein?” I asked quietly but with great excitement, naming the convict whose recent prison break was still the nine days’ wonder of Baltimore. Hirstein had been lying in the penitentiary under sentence for murder, the day of execution set, and not all Tom’s efforts in behalf of his unsavory client could avert his richly deserved fate. Then Hirstein had taken matters in his own hands and made his way out from the stone walls, which had never before yielded up an inmate save by the due process of law.

  My face must have betrayed what I thought of this contretemps, should it prove true that Hirstein had sought asylum on the estate of his lawyer while the police were scouring the country in search of him, for when I looked at Tom I saw a scornful half-smile curling his lips.

  “Don’t worry. If it is he, I shall give him a warm time. I defend my clients, but I don’t protect them after they have been sentenced.”

  I nodded, somewhat embarrassed to have my thoughts so easily read. “The papers have maintained that he was hiding out in this part of the country until the watch on trains and boats should be relaxed. Nevertheless, it is going to let you in for a lot of talk.”

  “I’m not worrying—“ he broke off as James returned. The butler handed over the pistol, a wicked-looking forty-five whose sleek black side was ornamented with a small gold plate.

  “That’s yo’ presumtation gun, Mr. Tom,” the negro said as he gave the weapon to its owner. The latter smiled mechanically and hastily showed me the inscription on the gold plate:

  “Won by THOMAS EVANS

  First Prize, National Championship

  Fifty yard offhand pistol shooting

  Camp Perry, 1919”

  I had just time to read the words when Tom turned to go, saying over his shoulder, “Williams, suppose you give the State Troopers a ring.”

  “Oh wait a sec. I’ll come with you,” I volunteered.

  “No, please stay here. It may take some time for the troopers to get over, and anyway I want you to remain in case Dad or any one else comes in while I’m gone.”

  I let Tom go without any further protest, for he was well able to take care of himself. To tell the truth, I had no desire to mix up with a known killer like Hirstein. I had no fears for my host’s safety; the slight braggadocio Tom had shown in sending especially for his trophy gun betrayed his eagerness to capture the bandit at the point of his own weapon, and I would not be the man to deter him. I turned to the telephone and even after I had mastered the intricacies of the country dial system, it took me a few minutes to get my connection. It probably was not as long as I thought, but I remember wondering what would be my feelings had I surprised the bandit at the house and must needs hold him at bay until I got through to the police station. Perhaps such contingencies are taken care of in the emergency directions which occupy so much space in the front of the directory, but I would hate to find myself up against such a situation. At length I heard a voice saying, “State Troopers Headquarters, Belton, Lieutenant Murphy speaking.”

  I explained the purpose of my call as coherently as I could, thanking my lucky stars for a clear wire. After all, I was requesting police help to come from fifteen miles away, on the chance of capturing some one who might be a reckless bandit or might turn out to be a perfectly harmless tramp. Tom was the only person who had seen the man and, with the rain and the fog, I was beginning to wonder just how good his identification was. When I had finished my halting story, the lieutenant informed me that one of the new radio-equipped cars was already in our vicinity making its regular cruise-about, and he promised to send it a message directing it to proceed to Bayside at once. I was, of course, aware of the recent addition to our police force, of these modern vehicles designed to replace, eventually, the slower, if more picturesque, mounted trooper; but I had no idea one was in our section already. I hung up the receiver; then realized how soon the police would be arriving, so I dispatched James to the gate to await them. I hated to think of the effect a fast, radio-equipped scouting car might have on the sedate old retainer down there, unless he were warned and reinforced by some one from the house.

  At last I was free to go upstairs and freshen up my own appearance. I retrieved my bag from the front hall where James had left it and mounted the staircase, finding without any trouble the room which had been designated as mine. I walked directly into the bathroom where I started a tub running; in the meanwhile, I returned to
the bedroom to undress leisurely and lay out some dry clothes. I was glad of the opportunity to get a hot bath, for my garments were unpleasantly damp and sodden. The house was deathly still when I turned off the water and stepped into my bath. Not a sound had I heard all the while I had gone quietly about my preparations. Then, suddenly, a shot rang out. Subconsciously I glanced at my wrist-watch, which, with my ring, I had forgotten to remove. I noted the time and listened intently. Everything was absolutely quiet; I could even hear the steady drop of water on the window panes.

  TWO

  Though at the time I had no prescience of calamity, I was naturally curious to know if Tom had captured his bandit, so hastened along with my bath. I had dried myself and was partially dressed and shaving when I heard a rumble of voices in the hall below. Listening a moment, I knew it was James bringing the police with him. They had certainly made a ready response to my call. Allowing ten minutes for my toilet and about the same for the conversation with Tom and the act of telephoning, not more than twenty minutes had elapsed since Tom had first mentioned the presence of a prowler.

  Then I heard Tom’s voice booming out from somewhere down the hall, directing the police to come up. I wondered vaguely when he had come in, for I had been listening intently after the shot without hearing a sound. Either I had relaxed my efforts momentarily, or he had come in silently indeed. Wondering with some excitement what was going on, I quickly finished up my dressing and hurried down the hall to Tom’s study. The door was open and I saw him leaning on the desk talking with three men in the olive-drab uniform of the State Police. As I entered, a hush fell on the group and all eyes turned to me as if expecting me to bring them news. Tom straightened up and introduced me to Sergeant Lyttle and his two men, whose names I afterwards ascertained to be Starr and Brown. At the time, Tom’s words of introduction startled me too much for me to grasp all that was being said at the moment.

  “This is the man,” he indicated me with a large gesture, “who called you on your fruitless errand, Sergeant.”

  I could not help resenting the use of the pronoun. True, I had called the police, but it was at Tom’s own request, and it was he who had partially identified the tramp as the long-sought jail-breaker. What a fool I should feel, had I summoned the State Troopers to chase a harmless vagrant off my friend’s estate. I was irritated at Tom’s light and patronizing fashion of shoving the blame off on me but, before I could find my voice to protest, he began an explanation which partially salved my vanity.

  “I went down to the pheasant runs where I had seen the man but a few moments before and he was still there. But he caught sight of me this time and commenced to leg it off for the woods on the northern boundary. Just as he got to the fence he pulled a gun and fired on me once. I fired back but, running as I was, I couldn’t take aim properly. It was Hirstein all right. I saw his face clearly enough. It’s too bad he got away to the cover of the woods.”

  I thought this over for a second while the police Sergeant was questioning Tom as to the probable direction Hirstein might take when once he found himself in the woods.

  “But, Tom, the shot I heard didn’t come from over by the north at all,” I ejaculated. “It was from the other direction entirely—south and somewhat east, I should say.”

  The three troopers whirled on me simultaneously. “What shot?”

  I realized that I had thrust myself into an entirely unsought-for limelight. “Well, I heard a shot,” I hedged, “and I thought it sounded as if it came from over by the water, perhaps, but I don’t know which way the wind is, and what with the fog and all—“ This was going very badly.

  “How many shots did you hear?” inquired the Sergeant.

  “Only one. I listened for more, but I didn’t hear another sound. It couldn’t have been Mr. Thomas, for he says there were two shots fired over there. It must have been something altogether different.” I was uncertain of my ground, but it did seem queer, for I well remembered that there had been no wind to speak of at the time, and the extreme silence of the house contributed to the fact that I should have heard all the shots, not just one. I was glad the next question was one I could answer with absolute exactitude.

  “About how long ago did you hear this shot?”

  “It was fired at exactly four-fifty.” I glanced at my wrist-watch. “Fifteen minutes ago.” Then I explained: “I was in the act of removing my watch and so happened to note the time.” I might have added that, such was my haste to get into a warm bath, I most probably would have bathed with the watch still on.

  Lyttle made a strange noise in his throat. “Are you sure it was a pistol shot, not some one firing at ducks from a blind off-shore?”

  I could not be mistaken, for I have not lived all my life, boy and man, in the Maryland hunting country for nothing. “It was a pistol,” I stated emphatically. “Furthermore, it was not fired by any one out target shooting; at least, I don’t know of any one who uses a heavy caliber pistol for target practice. I thought at the time it was a forty-five, so, knowing that Mr. Thomas Evans had taken a pistol of such caliber with him, I naturally thought it was he whom I had heard firing.”

  “Oh,” replied the trooper politely, “I thought you just said it couldn’t have been Mr. Evans, because the sound came from the wrong direction?”

  “Well,” I murmured, anxious to understand this matter myself, “it did sound like a shot fired from the southeast; and, too, I heard only one. The bath water had been turned off, but even if it hadn’t been, I don’t believe it would have drowned out the noise of firing, especially as I was in the bedroom the greater part of the time.”

  Tom laughed with no apparent sympathy for my embarrassment. “All right, old man, we won’t suspect you of making it up out of whole cloth.” Nevertheless, I had a feeling that the Sergeant thought I was floundering around in a conversational morass, attempting to explain a matter about which I was hopelessly confused. Well, I was confused as to the interpretation of what I had heard, but I was not the victim of an auditory delusion, of so much I was absolutely positive. I wondered why the police delayed so long in going out to investigate the shooting and find out where Hirstein had gone. I did not realize at the time how interesting the Sergeant was finding our conversation.

  Tom was keener than I, however, and, after a moment’s hesitation, he picked up his forty-five from the desk and tossed it lightly at the trooper. “Here you go, Sergeant; take a look at my gun if you like. I can’t explain what Williams heard—you’ll have to leave that to him—but my gun will bear out my story.”

  The trooper examined the gun quite frankly. “There is no doubt but that this pistol has just been fired,” he confirmed.

  Tom warned him that it was loaded, so Lyttle ejected the magazine which contained five cartridges. Then operating the slide, he removed the sixth and handed the gun over to me. Not in the least understanding this turn in the proceedings, I squinted down the barrel, observed the unmistakable signs of firing, commented on the warmth of the steel; in short, I agreed absolutely with the Sergeant’s previous comment without seeing where all this led us. Now I love fire-arms of all sorts, and I recognized this pistol as a beautiful specimen of its kind; nevertheless it was assuming a slightly sinister aspect and I was glad to pass it over to its owner.

  “Any great interval between your shot and the hobo’s?” Lyttle wanted to know.

  “I didn’t even stop to aim properly,” Tom replied.

  “Well, Starr, you and Brown search the property. If we find any traces of the visitor or signs of his return, we’ll know what to do. I can always get additional troopers to search the woods before he can get very far away, if it is Hirstein. He is city-bred and even a born woodsman cannot make much headway in that heavy underbrush. You better stop at the ‘phone downstairs and report in, Starr, and let the lieutenant do as he likes about reserves. By the way, don’t forget to look over by the water to see if you can find any trace of the shooting that Mr. Williams reports.”

  The tw
o men departed to carry out their orders, while Tom, the Sergeant and I settled down to await developments. I was surprised at Lyttle’s decision to remain with us. At that time I had no idea how much gratuitous misinformation pours into headquarters whenever as notorious an affair as the Hirstein case is receiving publicity in the papers; nor how the police come to regard the informers with far more interest than they display in the story they listen to. After dispatching his men Lyttle was determined to stand by to observe us, the two tangibles in the case, astutely guessing his more important duty to be right here. Furthermore, my own rattled behavior and peculiar story had already impressed him. Had I been a bit more learned in criminology and the ways of the police, I might have read the proper significance in Lyttle’s lack of activity and his strange preference for our company.

  The three of us sat for some moments carrying on a desultory sort of conversation, and then Tom rang for James to bring him some water, lemon-juice, cloves and rum.

  “I’ll fix up some hot toddies for us all. These November afternoons are chill enough without a drizzling rain to soak you through.”

  He drew a compact little Sterno stove out of the drawer of his desk. Then his fingers came in contact with some specially cut rags.

  “You fellows mind if I clean my gun?” he asked, half-apologetically.

  I laughed. “Not I, my lad. I know that cleaning guns amounts to a religion in this household. I believe your only regret when out duck-shooting is that you can’t stop and clean your gun after every shot. I see you have even begun keeping waste rags and oil in your study desk.”

  “Oh, I usually do my cleaning in the gun-room, but I want to watch the toddy so I’ll do it here this time.” He reached for the pistol, but the Sergeant had just picked it up again.