Murder at Arroways Read online

  Mike Jones, the man the police were hunting, sprang to the eye. Jones was in poor circumstances, needed money. He was well enough acquainted with Arroways to have managed to get hold of the key to the blue room from the keyboard in the basement, and when he was foiled in that first attempt to enter the blue room from inside the house in order to search for the rings, he had entered the room from outside by means of the ladder.

  Mike Jones might leap to the eye; it wasn’t Mike Jones who had telephoned to Anne Giles on Friday night. A strange man appeared suddenly in the living-room doorway, a tall man, dark, authoritative, quiet, powerful, a personage. There was no doubt of that from the beginning. Luttrell introduced him. The stranger was Inspector Christopher McKee of the Manhattan Homicide Squad, and he had been working on Anne Giles’s murder from the New York end. The Inspector had come straight from the state barracks where the news had just come in. He told them.

  A deep shiver went through Damien as the New York Inspector began to speak. Listening to his deep, almost ndifferent voice, to what he said, she thought wildly, Lies, ill lies, and I believed—

  The man wiio had called Anne Giles to the phone here it Arroways at ten o’clock on the night she died was Bill Heyward.

  Chapter Eleven

  The Stopped Clock

  It was just one o'clock when Inspector McKee and Luttrell left Arroways. After that they went to the Kendleton house in the village to see Bill Heyward, who hadn't been, in when Luttrell tried to get hold of him earlier. At three o’clock the two officials settled down in the town prosecutor’s office over the plumbing shop on Main Street to talk.

  Luttrell was not only a distant connection of the Inspector's, they were friends of long standing. Over the phone that morning he had said to the Scotsman, apropos of the discovery that Maria Mont's rings were missing, that they had been stolen from Randall Mont’s dead body, or from the car in which he had crashed, “This is it, McKee. I felt that something was wrong at the time, couldn't put a finger on it. There was never an adequate explanation of why Randall Mont was at Arroways on the night he died—what he was doing there. Yes, this is it” He had asked for help.

  McKee was interested. He was already familiar with the details of Anne Giles’s death. It was he who had ordered the examination of her apartment in the city. On vacation and at a loose end, he had taken the next train for Eastwalk.

  They had had a little difficulty getting Mr. William Heyward to talk. But when Luttrell said he was ready to produce a witness, one Sylvia Gross, who had overheard Heyward calling Anne Giles from a booth in the drugstore at ten o’clock on the night of her death, Heyward had capitulated readily enough.

  On the surface, at any rate, he wasn’t a man adapted for crime. Old stock, he had come from a line of well-charted forebears who had taken the tensile strength out of him, softened him up. He was habituated to ease and a comfortable conscience and a smooth social order. He iad admitted the charges Luttrell brought. He agreed :hat he had been at Anne Giles’s cottage on the night she lied. He gave the same account of his actions he had pre-/iously given Damien. Heyward had followed his friend Mike Jones to the cottage; he hadn’t, he said, gone there :o meet Anne Giles himself. The telephone call then. That, Heyward asserted, was a different matter entirely, he call had nothing to do with her death. “I’d like to lave killed her,” he confessed. “I’d like to have wrung ler neck.”

  A gesture acknowledged his lack of neck-wringing ability when it came down to it. Perhaps> McKee thought.

  Anne Giles was, had been, trying to hijack Heyward. [He described his new process for the manufacturing of rayon. It was an important step forward in a wide-open industry, was going to make him money. Anne Giles had demanded a cut, saying that if he didn’t come through she’d stop him cold, get out an injunction. He had formerly worked for an affiliate of Mont Fabrics, an affiliate controlled by Mont, and under the terms of his contract the new process belonged to them. It was a mere technicality. She was the only one who had spotted it. She had offered to lay off for fifty percent of the down payment and a thirty-percent cut of the royalties.

  Yes, her death had benefited him. Certainly she could have made difficulties. It might have meant a court fight, could have put other buyers off. She had given him Monday morning as a deadline for agreement. He had told her over the phone on Friday night to go to hell. No, he certainly had not killed her.

  Back to Mike Jones. Heyward swore that Mike Jones hadn't killed Anne Giles, either. All right, all right, so he had lied to Luttrell about having been in his aunt's house with Jones until two a.m. on Saturday morning. No, it wasn’t true—but he had been with Jones from maybe—oh, say a little after eleven on.

  Luttrell said coldly, “You weren't with Jones when he grabbed that boat of Joe Lawrence’s and rowed off up the river. In fact, you weren’t with him from about half

  Within reasonable limits the medical examiner agreed with what Heyward said. Anne Giles had died between i eleven p.m. on Friday night and one a.m. Saturday morning. In the medical examiner’s opinion it was much nearer to eleven. Nevertheless, the evidence against Heyward was grave.

  Miss Kendleton declared stoutly that Heyward had been in his room working on a presentation all evening. She had heard him go out after she was in bed, at perhaps a quarter past eleven. Miss Kendleton’s testimony was scarcely grade A. She was devoted to her nephew, and had lied to Luttrell before. She admitted the lie frankly. “Of course I backed Bill up. I knew he had nothing to do with that woman’s death. Neither did Mike Jones.”

  Miss Kendleton didn’t appear to be passionately fond of the Monts. She said that Anne Giles had been close to Maria, in her confidence, and that there could be plenty of reasons why the Monts didn’t like her, and pointed out that Anne Giles was staying at Arroways when she died. Her cottage was only a short distance across the fields— why not look closer to home? Anyhow, Bill couldn’t have gotten to the cottage in time to kill her, or Mike either. They hadn’t reached the cottage until after half past twelve.

  This was all very nice and all very fine, McKee reflected, but there was no proof of exactly when Bill Heyward or Jones had turned up at the cottage on the river. The bartender at the Main Street tavern and half a dozen customers were vague about time. They admitted that Heyward and Jones had both been in the tavern latish on Friday night, but when they had left was uncertain. Moreover, Heyward’s attitude about Jones was intransigent, to say the least. “Mike didn’t kill that woman. That’s all there is to it. No, I don’t know where Mike is. If I don’t know I can’t tell you, can I?” Luttrell had wanted to take Heyward into custody and sweat Jones’s whereabouts out of him. McKee had advised against it. Given a free foot Heyward might lead them to Jones—and he wasn’t a gentleman you could sweat anything out of.

  When the two men were settled in broken-down comfortable chairs in the shabby office, Luttrell said, “Well, McKee?”

  The Scotsman fingered a cigarette. “If the Giles woman lifted those rings from Randall Mont’s body, you’ve got a good outsider motive. The old second-thief-best-owner. It’s not in satisfactory shape yet. Neither—” he lit the battered cigarette and inhaled deeply—“is that Mont household at, what do you call it, Arroways? They're all jittery and they’re all holding back. Mrs. Mont is a frightened lady. That business about the room the Giles woman occupied is muddy. Two attempts to enter it—two—one from the inside on Saturday afternoon, one through the window by way of a ladder on Sunday night—Tell me, why didn’t you grab the bag and brief case earlier yourself?”

  Luttrell looked unhappy. “Anne Giles was killed three miles from Arroways, in her own cottage. Her purse was missing. It looked like robbery, in the beginning, anyhow.” He spoke ruefully.

  There was no use crying over spilled milk, McKee reflected and went on to say that there was something in Miss Kendleton’s suggestion. He contemplated Bill Heyward’s devoted aunt for a minute through half-closed eyes, returned to the Monts.

  “There�
�s a definitely psychopathic flavor about the daughter, Jancy Hammond, Luttrell. That drinking of hers is symptomatic, has a cause. Mike Jones could have made his way inside unobserved, you say, and gotten hold of the key? And Jancy was in love with him three years ago, before she married this Hammond fellow? Hammond himself and that friend of the family, Hiram St. George, are a bit too untroubled, foursquare, telling all— Then there’s Oliver Mont. Even there things aren’t on the up and up. Mont’s engaged to marry Linda St. George, isn’t he? Well, he’s overboard about that Carey girl, or at least I think so/’

  McKee paused, watching Luttrell flush angrily. “What's the matter, Fred?”

  Luttrell studied his hand, flexing the fingers. “If Oliver Mont hurts Linda, murderer or not, I’ll—” He pulled up with an effort.

  Eyeing him, McKee gave an inward whistle. Was Fred in love with the St. George girl himself? It looked very much like it. Emotional complications. The Scotsman sighed, sat up. “Let’s get back to Randall Mont's death and those rings. And I want to look at the Giles cottage. Come on, we’ll go over there first, and you can tell me as we go.”

  On his feet, he added, “I also want a look at that ravine where Randall Mont crashed. Death from heart failure—” At Luttrell’s sharp stare he shrugged. “I’m not saying Mont didn't die of heart failure, I simply want to be sure.” If McKee had had definite impressions of the various occupants of Arroways, they in turn had been unpleasantly affected by the Inspector's appearance in Eastwalk, to a marked degree. Luttrell was one thing. As well as being the town prosecutor he was a neighbor, a friend, and could be relied upon to be both just and fair. The man from New York—one of the foremost criminologists of his day, St. George said soberly—was another kettle of fish. “What s it his business, what’s he mixing up in it for?” Roger Hammond wanted to know with a moody fretfulness that touched on fury.

  “Why should you worry, Roger, my boy?” Oliver asked, grinning at his brother-in-law. “You’ve got a clean bill of health, unless—by the way, what time did you get up here last Friday night, the night Anne was killed over there in her cottage? You’ve never said.” He was watching Hammond intently.

  “How do I know what time it was?” Hammond returned hotly. “I don’t go around holding my watch in my hand. Are you insinuating—”

  “Oliver, Roger—please," Eleanor Mont said in a tired voice, and her son and her daughter’s husband stopped sparring.

  Damien was too stricken by the revelation that it was Bill who had called Anne Giles at ten o’clock on Friday night to pay a great deal of attention. Why had Bill lied to her, by indirection, anyhow? It was unlike him to lie. If he was as innocent as he said he was, why hadn’t he told her about the call? There had been plenty of opportunities. She couldn’t talk to anyone about it. Jerome Castle had already gone. She was sorry when he went, felt in a vague way that she had lost a friend.

  Funeral services for Anne Giles were to be at four o’clock in the funeral home in Eastwalk. With the exception of Jancy and herself, the others were all going. Immediately after the Inspector’s departure, Linda had taken Jancy home with her. Linda was troubled. Her natural lightness, gaiety, were in abeyance, under wraps. Did she, too, know things she wasn’t telling? For a while she had remained outside of the shadow that had fallen over Arroways. It had finally engulfed her. She was white and still and watchful, her sparkle extinguished. The others were in their rooms putting on the more formal attire the occasion demanded, when Bill called Damien.

  He told her what he had already told the Inspector, the why and wherefore of his phone call to Anne Giles on the night she was killed. He said, “That deal of mine is still in the works. I didn’t want to talk too much about it until it was wrapped up, signed, sealed and delivered. I didn’t want to tell anyone what Anne Giles was trying to do until I got a definite answer out of Fogler and Benson. Then I’d know where I was. You understand, don’t you?”

  Bill seldom explained his reason for doing or not doing a thing at such length. This was different. Damien said, “Yes, I understand, Bill," and she did in a way. Bill had wanted to have something solid to offer her, as a surprise. The boyishness of this warmed her. But he had already held back twice, giving the story of his activities piecemeal and under pressure. That was Mike Jones. It was Mike Jones who had kept him silent the first time; it was to protect Mike Jones that he had kept still about having been at Anne Giles’s cottage. Bill was a good friend. He asked her to meet him so that they could talk, but she said, “I can't, Bill. I’ve got to go down to the bank in a little while and I don't know how long I’ll be. Suppose I call you later?” Behind her the library door had opened. She hung up and turned.

  It was Oliver Mont who had come in. His tall fairness was almost a shock in the dark room. All the light that was in it seemed to focus on him where he stood beside a window playing with the cord of the Venetian blind. He looked at her with one of his veiled glances. She told herself firmly that there was nothing mysterious about that veiling, nothing to excite interest, curiosity, invite exploration—it was simply the effect of thick blond lashes.

  “Calling your friend, Heyward, were you, Miss Carey?” ' he asked in a dry voice.

  Her friend—of course Bill was her friend. Damien's anger spurted. “Yes, I was talking to Mr. Heyward. You have no objections, Mr. Mont? Don’t think I should have asked permission to use the phone?” She stopped short at Oliver’s smile, annoyed at being pushed into absurdity.

  Oliver left the window and moved toward the desk, moved slowly. His eyes between the short thick blond lashes held hers. He put out a cigarette in an ash tray without looking at it. The desk, five solid feet of it, separated them. It did no good. It was as though some inner bar, barrier, had gone down between them. Damien had a moment of blind panic.

  Oliver was speaking again. His voice, what he said, put him farther away, steadied her slightly. “My advice is, you can take it or not, as you choose, don’t get mixed up with Bill Heyward, yet. Wait a while.”

  Outside a horn blew. It was Linda in her roadster, calling for Oliver to take him into town to the funeral services for Anne Giles. Oliver turned away, tapped on the pane, waved to Linda, said calmly to Damien, “Think that over, Miss Carey,” and walked out of the room.

  When Damien left it herself a minute later he and Linda were gone. Eleanor Mont was in the hall, pulling on a pair of black gloves. Hammond had already left. Hiram St. George was going to drive Eleanor Mont into town. ‘I know you've got to go to the bank," she said to Damien. ‘Can we give you a lift down?"

  Damien thanked her and said no, that she was going to walk, that she was probably in for a tedious interview ind thought she'd get some air first. Her coat was in her room. She went upstairs for it. Coming down she caught a glimpse of Eleanor Mont and Hiram St. George through he window at the front of the hall. They were standing Deside St. George’s car, an elderly well-polished Cadillac. Eleanor Mont’s back was turned; St. George faced the house. Oliver's mother was talking with unusual animation. She kept throwing out her hands as though she was stressing something vital. At the same time her posture was curiously rigid.

  Whatever she was proposing was a shock to Hiram St. George. He shook his shapely head, a frown on his forehead, and more than a frown. Damien could hear no sound except the ticking of the clock near the library, yet it was clear that St. George was saying no, almost fiercely and with a desperate vehemence to what Eleanor Mont was urging on him. Suddenly Oliver’s mother stopped talking. Her hands fell to her sides in a gesture of defeat, and she turned her face away from St. George and started across the gravel.

  Something about the way he walked at Eleanor Mont’s side, holding her arm, something about the care, devotion, with which he helped her into the car, struck coldly at Damien. A monstrous suspicion sprang up in her, blossoming like an evil flower. Randall Mont’s sudden death after Maria had died had left Eleanor Mont not only a rich woman, but a free one. St. George had the stability that Randall Mont
had apparently never had, he was companionable, intelligent, physically attractive— The shadows in the hall, the silence broken only by the steady ticking of the clock, became a stifling weight. Damien threw off her flash of suspicion. Oliver’s mother wasn’t a woman like that. “No,” she said aloud, taking a step, and put the idea firmly from her mind.

  The telephone rang then. It was Mr. Silver, talking from the bank. He was sorry, but there was no use her coming down to the bank that afternoon. Pressing business occupied the board of directors, and her mortgage wouldn’t be up for consideration until tomorrow, perhaps even Thursday. He would let her know.

  Damien was disappointed but not unduly so. She didn’t care enough. Nothing seemed to be going right—but then nothing seemed to matter much. She was restless and at the same time apathetic. All the duties, tasks, with which she ordinarily occupied herself were in suspension before the fact of murder. New York seemed a thousand miles away. She felt saturated with the people at Arroways, oppressed and overweighed by them and by the house itself, its courtyards and gardens and halls and corridors, its empty rooms lying all around. She went out for a walk.

  The wind had shifted into the southwest and it was warmer, but exercise did nothing to lighten her mood. Returning before she had gone a full mile, opening the door and letting herself into the great hall, she was transfixed with a passionate longing for a small bright bar somewhere in the East Fifties, with rose-colored lights and music and tables and waiters and people—strangers. Jancy was over at the St. George house, the others at the funeral services for a woman who had been strangled to death. Here there was only stillness and vast spaces filled with gloom. Moving through them was like moving through a chain of islands in fog. Shapes in dimness had lost their reality, were distorted. She was almost at the top of the stairs when she came to an abrupt halt, her heart in her throat.