The Girl at Central
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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?"
Then Gilsey's nice old voice, "Yes, sir. Who is it?"
The Doctor's was quick and hard:
"Never mind that – it doesn't matter. Do you happen to know where Mr. Reddy is?"
My heart gave a big jump – he hadn't caught them! They'd got away and been married!
"Yes, sir, Mr. Reddy's here."
There was just a minute's pause before the Doctor answered. In that minute all sorts of ideas went flashing through my head the way they say you see things before you drown. Then came the Doctor's voice with a curious sort of quietness in it.
"There, at Firehill?"
"Yes, sir. Can I take any message? Mr. Reddy was out very late last night and isn't up yet."
The Doctor answered that very cordially, all the hurry and hardness gone.
"Oh, that's all right. I'll not disturb him. No, I won't bother with a message. I'll call up later. Thanks very much. Good-bye."
I dropped back in my chair, tapping with a pencil on the corner of the drawer and looking sideways at the Doctor as he came out of the booth. He had a queer look, his eyes keen and bright, and there was some color in his face. The strange man turned round, and the Doctor gave him a glance sharp as a razor, but all he said was: "Come on, Mills," and they went out and mounted into the car.
When the door banged on them I drew a deep breath and flattened out against the chair back. They hadn't eloped!
Gee, it was a relief! Not because of myself. Honest to God, that's straight. I knew I couldn't have him any more than I could have had the Kohinoor diamond. It was because I knew– deep down where you feel the truth – that Sylvia Hesketh wasn't the girl for him to marry.
That was about half-past eight. It was after ten when a message came for Mapleshade that made the world turn upside down and left me white and sick. It was from the Coroner and said that Sylvia Hesketh had been found that morning on the turnpike, murdered.
Poor Mrs. Fowler took it!
Anne Hennessey told me afterward that she heard her scream on the other side of the house. I heard it, too, and it raised my hair – and then a lot of words coming thin and shrill along the wire. "Sylvia, my daughter – dead – murdered?" It was awful, I hate to think of it.
Nora and Anne ran at the sound and found Mrs. Fowler all wild and screaming, with the receiver hanging down. I could hear them, a babble of tiny little voices as if I had a line on some part of Purgatory where the spirits were crying and wailing.
Suddenly it stopped – somebody had hung up. I waited, shaking there like a leaf and feeling like I'd a blow in the stomach. Then Mapleshade called and I heard Anne's voice, distinct but broken as if she'd been running.
"Molly, is that you? Do you by any chance know if the Doctor's in the village?"
"He was here a little while ago with a man calling up Firehill. Anne, I heard – it can't be true."
"Oh, it is – it is – I can't talk now. I've got to find him. Give me Firehill. He may have gone there. Quick, for God's sake!"
I gave it and heard her tell a man at the other end of the line.
I'll go on from here and tell what happened at Firehill. I've pieced it out from the testimony at the inquest and from what the Gilseys afterward told in the village.
The Doctor and Mills went straight out there from the Exchange. When they arrived Gilsey told him Mr. Reddy wasn't up yet, but he'd call him. The Doctor, however, said the matter was urgent and they couldn't lose a minute, so the three of them went upstairs together and Gilsey knocked at the door. After he'd knocked twice a sleepy voice called out, "Come in," and Gilsey opened the door.
It led into a sitting-room with a bedroom opening off it. On a sofa just opposite the door was Jack Reddy, dressed and stretched out as if he'd been asleep.
At first he saw no one but Gilsey and sat up with a start, saying sharply:
"What's the matter? Does anyone want me?"
Gilsey said, "Yes, two gentlemen to see you," and stepped to one side to let the Doctor and Mills enter.
When Reddy saw the Doctor he jumped to his feet and stood looking at him. He didn't say "Good morning" or any sort of greeting, but was silent, as if he was holding himself still, waiting to hear what the Doctor was going to say.
He hadn't to wait long. The Doctor, in the doorway, went right to the point.
"Mr. Reddy," said he, "where's my daughter?"
Reddy answered in a quiet, composed voice:
"I don't know, Dr. Fowler."
"You do!" shouted the Doctor. "You ran away with her last night. What have you done with her?"
Reddy said in the same dignified way:
"I haven't done anything. I know nothing about her. I haven't any more idea than you where she is."
At that the Doctor got beside himself. He shouted out furiously:
"You have, you d – d liar, and I'll get it out of you," and he made a lunge at Reddy to seize him. But Mills jumped in and grabbed his arm. Holding it he said, trying to quiet down the Doctor:
"Just wait a minute, Dr. Fowler. Maybe when Mr. Reddy sees that we understand the situation, he'll be willing to explain." Then he turned to Reddy: "There's no good prevaricating. Your letter to Miss Hesketh has been found. Now we're all agreed that we don't want any talk or scandal about this. If you want to get out of the affair without trouble to yourself and others you'd better tell the truth. Where is she?"
"Who the devil are you?" Reddy cried out suddenly, as mad as the Doctor, and before Mills could answer, the branch telephone on the desk rang.
Reddy gave a loud exclamation and made a jump for it. But Mills got before him and caught him. He struggled to get away till the Doctor seized him on the other side. They fought for a moment, and then got him back against the door, all the time the telephone ringing like mad. As they wrestled with him Mills called over his shoulder to Gilsey: