THE
BACK-SEAT
MUKDEK
asm
HERMAN LANDON



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B2.&
L2.58M





The
Back-Seat
Murder





The
BACK-SEAT
MURDER
Herman Landon
®
New York
HORACE LIVERIGHT
1931


COPYRIGHT, I931, BY HERMAN LANDON
PRINTED IN THE U. 9. A. BY
OUINN ft BODEN COMPANY. INC.
RAHWAY. N. J.


2? £r £ cf m -r •
THE BACK-SEAT MURDER
Contents
I
The Ash Pile
3
n
A Strange Letter
I5
in
In the Rear Seat
25
IV
The Man Behind
34
V
The Abandoned Hotel
44
VI
Miss Lanyard's Accomplice
57
vn
The Man in the Library
67
vm
The Lay Takes Its Course
78
DC
Tracks in the Mud
89
X
A Purchase of Cigars
IOO
XI
The Glove Button
109
xn
Iron Bars
120
xni
Roscoe Carstairs
129
XIV
Pharaoh's Coffin
140
XV
The Two Voices
148
XVI
Torture
158
XVII
The Dead Man's Hat
170
XVIII
The Look of Guilt
183
XIX
Some One Behind the Door
195
XX
Murder Insurance
205
XXI
In the Glass
221
XXII
The Face at the Window
234
XXIII
The Dark House
243
XXIV
The Murderer
254
XXV
Alias Luke Garbo
26l


i


The
Back-Seat
Murder





CHAPTER I
The Ash Pile
It was a little after two o'clock in the morning, and
the cellar of Mr. Christopher Marsh's house on the old
Peekhaven Turnpike presented the unusual spectacle
of a private secretary raking an ash pile.
Leonard Harrington had donned the cap and over-
alls belonging to old Stippett, gardener and handy man,
and a pair of gloves protected the secretarial hands
against grime and injury which might have betrayed
their occupation with an unusual task. The electric light
attached to one of the crosswire timbers in the ceiling
showed an eager and determined look on his passably
handsome face. There was a strain of excitement and
suspense, too. Looking at him, one might have thought
that he was searching for diamonds in the ash pile.
The pile was fairly large, and it represented last
winter's accumulation of ashes. It was now the first
week in September, and within a month the pile would
be carted away and a supply of coal would take its
place in a corner of the cellar. Working a few hours
each night, Harrington faced a rather prodigious task
if he meant to sift the entire heap within the remain-
ing time.
3


The Back-Seat Murder
Kneeling on the cement floor, he was attacking the
mound with a small rake, a child's toy. Now and then
he came to a clinker which he tossed aside after a
glance. The finer stuff, after being dislodged with the
rake, was sifted through his gloved fingers, handful by
handful, and then cast to one side. Gradually a smaller
mound of ashes and clinkers was rising beside the larger
one.
It was a slow and tedious task, and Christopher
Marsh's private secretary appeared anything but pa-
tient. He grumbled now and then, and occasionally
he gave a nervous start, as if he had apprehended some
disturbing sound. There was no apparent reason for
such nervousness, for it seemed unlikely that any mem-
ber of the small household would visit the cellar at
such an hour. The bedrooms occupied by Christopher
Marsh and his wife, the latter a confirmed invalid,
were on the second floor and far off to one side of the
house. The bedrooms of the servants—there were
only four—were even more remote. Miss Lanyard,
the nurse, whose services were necessitated by the
hypochondria of the mistress of the house, occupied a
room adjoining her patient's. All in all, it seemed that
Leonard Harrington could have pursued his task in
peace.
Moreover, neighbors were few and far between in
this isolated locality, the nearest being a good mile
away. Peekacre, the Marsh country home, stood in a
grove of hemlocks situated some five hundred yards
4


The Ash Pile
from what had once been the main highway, fallen
into neglect and disuse since the opening of the new
state road. Thus, and aside from the lateness of the
hour, there was no apparent reason why Harrington
should fear an interruption.
Yet he was unmistakably nervous. At frequent in-
tervals he cast uneasy glances across the tracery of
lights and shadows that covered the floor and walls.
Possibly the raking of the ash pile was a deed of dark-
ness that troubled a sensitive conscience. Or perhaps
he had a morbid feeling that the shrewd, watchful eyes
of Christopher Marsh had the power to penetrate walls.
Then again it might be that he was disturbed by
thoughts of Theresa Lanyard, the nurse.
He had often wondered about her during the three
weeks he had been employed by Christopher Marsh.
Her prim and almost severe appearance had evoked
conflicting impressions in his mind. He had often
wondered how she would look without her crisp white
apron and peaked cap, without her primness and pro-
fessional imperturbability. Was she as staid and dig-
nified and coolly capable as she looked, or was she
playing a role of some sort? Had she, like himself,
entered the Marsh household under false pretenses, in
pursuit of some ulterior motive? There was no sound
reason why Harrington should ask himself such ques-
tions, but he could not keep them out of his mind.
And now, as he knelt on the hard cellar floor, run-
ning handfuls of ashes through his fingers, these very
5


The Back-Seat Murder
questions were agitating his brain. Once or twice, he
felt sure, he had surprised a vagrant glance out of
Theresa Lanyard's eyes that was not in keeping with
her demureness. In an unguarded moment he had
seen a strange sort of smile trespassing upon her lips.
And once—
He jerked up his head and stared across the clut-
tered cellar floor, most of it in shadow. In the next
instant he dropped the rake and sprang to his feet.
Half way down the stairs at the farther side stood a
feminine figure draped in a dressing gown. Her face
was in dusk, but he fancied there was a faint, mocking
smile on her lips.
"Miss Lanyard!" he exclaimed.
She came down the remaining steps and approached
him, then surveyed his grimy overalls and dust-
streaked face with an amused expression.
"Mr. Harrington, you're a sight," she declared.
Harrington found no answer. He felt exceedingly
foolish. Miss Lanyard came a little closer.
"You are the most ambitious secretary I ever saw,"
she declared.
He gazed at her stupidly, then glanced guiltily at the
rake lying at his feet.
"Looking for anything in those ashes?" she inquired.
"Yes," awkwardly. "I—er—lost a stickpin the
other day and thought it might have got mixed up in
this pile."
6


The Ash Pile
"Really?" There was mockery in her fine gray
eyes. "Couldn't you think up a better one?"
"Give me time." In desperation he was resorting
to banter. "You took me by surprise."
"And you looked positively guilty. It's no crime
to be poking about in a pile of ashes, is it?"
"Not exactly." At length he was able to raise his
eyes and meet her inquiring gaze. She was still smil-
ing in a mocking way, but there was solemnity in her
smile. Without the prim, shell-rimmed glasses, which
she usually wore during the day, she seemed years
younger. Not a day over twenty-four, he reflected.
"Did I make a noise?" he added. "Is that why you
came down?"
"No, I didn't hear anything. You are the quietest
ashman I ever saw. Most of them make a dreadful
noise. But I've been wondering about you, Mr. Har-
rington. You don't look quite genuine as a secretary."
"And you are not overly convincing in the role of
a nurse."
She gave him a long, calculating look. Without her
peaked cap and her professional manner, her face was
quite attractive, he observed. There were signs of an
inner tension, however. He saw little flickers of
anxiety in her gray eyes.
"Then you think I'm a fraud?"
"A rather charming fraud."
Her mouth tightened a trifle.
7


The Back-Seat Murder
"I wonder," she murmured, "if your name is really
Leonard Harrington."
"And I wonder," he mimicked, "if yours is really
Theresa Lanyard."
"No," she thoughtfully confessed. "It isn't."
He started. He had not been prepared for such a
prompt and candid admission.
"But I am really a nurse," she added. "I worked
in a hospital at one time. Are you a real secretary?"
"Mr. Marsh appears satisfied with my services."
"So it seems. I wonder what he would think if he
should see you now."
"Yes, I wonder," Harrington murmured. "He
would probably take another look at my credentials."
"That would be embarrassing, wouldn't it?"
"Oh, rather." He took out a handkerchief and
mopped his face, then regarded her with new curiosity.
"If I made no noise, what brought you down here?"
"Feminine inquisitiveness. One night last week I
heard you walk down the hall at three o'clock in the
morning. You didn't walk like an honest man. Your
footsteps had a sort of sneaky sound. The next night
you did the same thing, and the night after that. I
discovered you had acquired the habit of prowling
about a lot in the small hours. Little by little I got
curious about you, and to-night I decided to investi-
gate."
"H'm. You must be a light sleeper, Miss—er—
Lanyard."
8


The Ash Pile
"Not exactly, Mr.—er—Harrington. But most of
Mrs. Marsh's ailments—they are all imaginary, any-
way—come on at night, and that keeps me awake a
great deal. I usually manage to snatch a nap in the
afternoon. Now, Mr. Ashman, we understand each
other, don't we?"
"No, I don't think we have even begun to under-
stand each other."
"Your fault. Men are always slow in such mat-
ters." She looked at the two heaps of ashes, the
small one and the big one. "So you think this is the
place where David Mooreland was murdered, do you?"
He started, then stood stonily still, gaping at her.
There was a tight, mirthless smile on her lips. One
hand fumbled nervously with the girdle of the dressing
gown.
"Good heaven!" he exclaimed. "Who are you?"
"Does it matter? What we want to know is who
murdered David Mooreland."
Impulsively he came a little closer and regarded
her in astonishment. Now he could see that she was
in the grip of an intense excitement. The slender
figure within the dressing gown was trembling.
"Isn't it true?" she demanded. "You want to know
who murdered David Mooreland, don't you?"
He was silent for a moment, gazing into her white,
tense face.
"Oh, I've known that for some time."
The statement appeared to startle her.
9


The Back-Seat Murder
"You know? You actually know? You have
found some proof?"
Again he searched her face and hesitated.
"Oh, I don't blame you for being discreet, Mr. Ash-
man. You know nothing about me except that I call
myself Theresa Lanyard and that I am employed here
as Mrs. Marsh's nurse. I may be a friend, or I may
be an enemy. It's always well to be circumspect.
But tell me, why should a hard-working secretary
spend his nights searching an ash pile unless he hoped
to find—certain things?"
"Why, indeed?" asked Harrington stiffly.
Her gray eyes slanted toward one of the dusky
corners of the cellar.
"Let me see. David Mooreland disappeared one
day last March. To most people his disappearance
was a complete mystery. It was supposed that he
had gone away and met with an accident. A few ini-
tiated ones know better. They know that he was
about to lay certain unpleasant facts before the author-
ities—facts that would probably have sent Christopher
Marsh to jail for a long term of years. They also
suspect—though they can't be positive as to that—that
David Mooreland came to this house on the day of
his disappearance."
Harrington fixed her with a searching, noncommittal
gaze.
"You are one of the initiated, I see," he remarked
drily. "Go on."
10


The Ash Pile
"Oh, there isn't very much more. Not much that
is definitely known, at any rate. It is supposed by
the initiated few that Mr. Mooreland was enticed here
by some hook or crook and that he never left Peekacre
alive. It is regarded as significant that his disappear-
ance took place only two days before he was to lay
his facts before the district attorney. Certain persons,
friends of Mr. Mooreland's, searched the vicinity, but
they found no trace of him. It seems certain that he
died here."
She shivered and her voice shook a little.
"Oh, yes, that's certain enough," Harrington de-
clared. "He was murdered in cold blood."
"Who murdered him?"
"Our estimable employer, Christopher Marsh, of
course."
She lowered her head and seemed to fight for con-
trol of her nerves.
"Do you know that, or are you only guessing?"
"No one else had a motive for the murder. Moore-
land's death saved Christopher Marsh from prison."
"Yes, I know. I have been thinking the same
thing. But it doesn't really prove anything, does it?
Do you know anything else?"
"Perhaps I do, but—" He came to a significant
pause.
"I see. You hesitate to confide in me."
She lifted her eyes, and her gaze was straight and
clear. A little of his instinctive reserve left him,
XI


The Back-Seat Murder
"Perhaps I do," he said, "but, aside from that, it
isn't a pleasant subject to discuss with a young
"I'm a nurse, you know." A pale smile came to her
lips. "Nurses come up against a lot of unpleasant
things."
"But this— Oh, all right." For a moment his eyes
went to the furnace and the battery of asbestos-lined
pipes radiating from it. "I know that the body of
David Mooreland was destroyed in that furnace."
She shuddered. In the dim light her face took on
a grayish hue.
"That is," Harrington added, "it was destroyed to
the best of the murderer's ability. It seems he failed
to realize that even in a raging fire a body can't be
completely obliterated."
"Oh," she breathed. "You found something in the
ash heap?"
He nodded grimly. "Only a gold tooth so far. I
found that last week. It has already been identified.
I haven't finished yet. I may find other things. It
doesn't really matter, though. The gold tooth is
enough to establish the fact that Mooreland was mur-
dered in this house."
"But it doesn't prove that Mr. Marsh murdered
him."
"True, it doesn't." Harrington ground the words
between his teeth. "IH come to that later. Marsh
will be convicted of murder before I am through."

12


The Ash Pile
There was a note of vehemence in his voice that
made her open her eyes wide. .*
"Are you a detective in disguise? No, of course
you aren't. Detectives take such things calmly, as a
matter of routine. You—you talk as if you had a
personal interest in the affair."
"I have, but suppose we don't go into that. It
wouldn't interest you, and besides—" He paused,
then looked at her with a new expression. "But what
about yourself? You aren't a lady detective, are
you?"
"Mercy, no!" She gave a strained little laugh.
"My interest in the case is— But suppose we don't
go into that either."
"All right." He laughed. "I won't pry into your
secrets, or bore you with mine."
"But we might help each other," she suggested.
"It seems we are both working with the same aim in
view. That is, if you can trust me."
He regarded her steadily, in the manner of a man
who penetrates appearances and takes nothing for
granted. Her face, warm, lovely and yet tragic, was
a different face from the one he had seen under the
peaked cap.
"I can," he declared.
"Then we are partners."
Impulsively she thrust out her hand, and he took
it and held it for a moment. Thus, with dust in their
13


The Back-Seat Murder
nostrils and creeping shadows all around, they sealed
their compact.
Suddenly he drew back. In an instant he was all
alertness. Theresa, head aslant, gazed through the
dusk toward the stairs. Her chin quivered.
"What was that?" she whispered.
He tiptoed cautiously forward. His figure melted
into the shadows at the farther side of the cellar.
After a little while he came back.
"These old houses make all sorts of queer sounds
at night," he remarked.
But his voice lacked conviction. He could not be
certain, but hadn't there been a swift movement in
the upper dusk as he glanced up along the stairway?
Had some one been listening?
14


CHAPTER II
A Strange Letter
The man who for the present called himself Leonard
Harrington sat in the little study adjoining the library
and waited for the buzzer to summon him into his
employer's presence. While waiting, he occupied
himself with a book of a size that just slipped snugly
into his coat pocket. Leonard Harrington was a firm
believer in the adage that reading maketh a full man.
Usually the buzzer sounded on the stroke of ten
each morning, for punctuality was Christopher Marsh's
golden rule. Then, with his secretary's assistance, he
would devote himself to his correspondence. It was
an odd sort of correspondence for a man who had as
varied and extensive business interests as had Christo-
pher Marsh. The letters, it seemed to Harrington,
pertained to everything under the sun except business.
Often they were of the most trivial nature; at other
times their meaning was obscure. The private secre-
tary had no cause for complaint, however, for his duties
were light.
They were so light, indeed, that he often wondered
what Marsh wanted with a private secretary. The
correspondence, such as it was, rarely occupied more
I5


The Back-Seat Murder
than an hour each day. He suspected that Marsh's
business interests were being managed by competent
hands in the city and that he was only making* a
specious pretense of directing them from his library
at Peekacre. Yet, though Harrington's secretarial
duties were light, his freedom was greatly circum-
scribed. Marsh, it soon appeared, wanted him within
easy call, day or night. His outdoor life was limited
to short walks about the grounds and an occasional
drive to the village to post letters or send telegrams.
Aside from these brief respites, it seemed that his em-
ployer was reluctant to let him out of his sight.
These and many other circumstances had gradually
turned Harrington to the belief that what his master
really required was not a private secretary but a body-
guard. There were numerous indications that such
was the case. Day by day during these three weeks
the older man had evinced a growing tension and nerv-
ousness, symptoms of a mental disturbance that ex-
pressed itself in a sour humor, a waspish disposition
and a constant alertness. Every one with whom he
came in contact was subjected to the most thorough
scrutiny. It was his habit to make the rounds of the
house late at night and satisfy himself that all the
doors were properly locked and the window fastenings
securely applied. His bedroom door was equipped
with an electrical alarm that would give instant warn-
ing of a stranger's approach.
All in all, it soon became apparent that Christopher
16


A Strange Letter
Marsh was a man in fear for his life. Perhaps that
explained why he had removed with his wife and a
few trusted servants from New York, where all his
interests were centered, to the seclusion and quietude
of Peekacre. It was Harrington's impression that it
had been a flight rather than a removal. Marsh's life
at Peekacre had all the aspects of a hidden existence.
It was rarely he received a caller, rarely he ventured
beyond the gate in the tall picket fence that surrounded
the estate. Moreover, even during the first week of
his employment, the secretary had made the discovery
that his employer's whereabouts was known only to a
few intimates.
It was indeed a curious arrangement, and the strang-
est part of it all was the fact that Marsh appeared to
rely for his safety upon a man who was seeking to
convict him of the murder of David Mooreland. And
now it developed that Theresa Lanyard had insinuated
herself into the Marsh household for the same purpose.
And while the nurse and the secretary were working
to uncover Marsh's secret guilt, Marsh himself was
in mortal fear of an enemy. Who was that enemy,
and why was he seeking Marsh's life?
Often in the past three weeks Harrington had put
these questions to himself, and they were agitating his
mind this morning while he waited for the buzzer's
summons. The book had slipped neglected to his
knee. Thoughtfully he gazed out the window. There
was a bleak drizzle out there among the shivering
17


The Back-Seat Murder
hemlocks, and by contrast the house had a warm and
pleasant aspect. There would be a wood fire in the
library this morning, and in two or three weeks the
furnace in the cellar would be started. A pile of ashes
and cinders loomed in Harrington's thoughts.
He rose and went to the window. He was tall and
slender and moved with the resilient swing of a man
whose muscles are in good trim. His garb was modest
and inconspicuous, as became a private secretary, yet
there were subtle little touches here and there which
bespoke an innate refinement. Strength was the out-
standing characteristic of his face. It showed in the
capable chin and in the penetrating quality of the ash-
gray eyes. Yet there was a softer quality as well, a
suggestion of the man who likes to play and dream
occasionally. Just now, however, it was the dynamic
quality, the touch of iron, that predominated.
The buzzer sounded, and his expression changed.
In a twinkling he became the efficient and methodical
secretary. From his desk he picked up a notebook
and pencil and walked into the library.
"Good morning, sir." His voice contained just the
proper degree of respect.
Marsh gave a curt nod. He was a man of medium
height but of powerful build. Even the sagging flesh
along his jowls could not dispute the fact that he pos-
sessed more than his share of mental and bodily force.
As he sat there, in front of his massive rosewood desk,
he was the very picture of a man who blasts and bullies
18 •


A Strange Letter
his way to success. His eyes were small and sur-
rounded by crinkling flesh, yet they had a frosty and
dominant expression.
For a full thirty seconds he did not speak, but looked
at his secretary in the sharp and contemptuous man-
ner which he adopted toward most persons. A secret
dread had bitten deep into his face of late, but he was
doing his best to conceal it. And this morning there
was a new shade of expression in his crusty visage—
a look of sardonic humor, Harrington thought.
"There is only one letter this morning," he an-
nounced.
Harrington sat down in his customary chair and
poised his pencil over the notebook, prepared to clut-
ter the page with dashes and curlicues in fair imitation
of stenographic characters. Afterward he would
transcribe the letter from memory—and his memory
was so excellent that Marsh had suspected nothing so
far.
He looked up from his notebook, wondering at his
employer's delay in beginning the dictation, and again
he caught a look of grim humor on Marsh's face. The
man's sharp, flesh-environed eyes were looking straight
at him, and their expression was not pleasant. In con-
fusion Harrington glanced about the library, furnished
with a classical simplicity which yet did not conceal
the fact that Christopher Marsh was a very wealthy
man. The older man's eyes seemed to follow him
whichever way he turned. Why didn't Marsh begin,
19


The Back-Seat Murder
and what was the meaning of that curious look in his
face?
"This is a very confidential letter, Harrington," the
other said at length. "This afternoon I want you to
deliver it in person to James C. Whittaker, the prose-
cuting attorney of this county. An appointment has
been made for you to see him. You will take the car
and time yourself so as to be at his office promptly at
half past four. It is about two hours' drive."
"Very good, sir," said Harrington levelly, though
his brain was seething with the thought that this
promised to be a very strange errand. "By the way,
the car wasn't running well yesterday."
"Yes, I noticed it. Something wrong with the bat-
tery. A loose connection, probably. I could fix it
myself." Marsh enjoyed puttering about in the ga-
rage, and he prided himself on his mechanical ability.
"But you had better stop at that little service station at
the crossroads apd have it seen to. The man there is
reliable. Allow an extra fifteen or twenty minutes for
that. Now, here is the letter."
In an expectant mood Harrington held his pencil
over the notebook, and the first sentence spoken by his
employer gave him a sharp start.
"Certain recent developments have forced me to the
conclusion that my life is in danger, and I am writing
you this letter so that you may be prepared to take
immediate action in the event that I should come to a
sudden and violent end." He paused. "Get that,
20


A Strange Letter
Harrington? Well, take your time and be sure to get
it down right. A sudden and violent end. Ahem. I
have reason to believe that one or more persons are
seeking my life. Although I am taking all reasonable
precautions, these conspirators may succeed in their
reprehensible efforts. If the worst should come to
worst, I desire that the criminals shall be properly
punished, and with that aim in view—"
He paused again, noticing that Harrington's pencil
had become motionless after a few flourishes.
"What's the matter, Harrington? You look sick."
With a great effort Harrington controlled himself.
"I'm all right, sir. This is a bit unusual, that's all.
Would you mind repeating?"
Grumblingly Marsh repeated the last few sentences,
then went on with the dictation.
"—and with that aim in view I respectfully call your
attention to the character of a young woman calling
herself Theresa Lanyard, who has been employed here
as nurse to my invalid wife. I believe that an investi-
gation— Good heavens, Harrington, can't you keep
your mind on what you are doing?"
"I'm sorry, sir. This is a bit startling."
"Never mind how startling it is. Get it down. I
believe that an investigation into Miss Lanyard's
character and past life will prove illuminating. Vari-
ous circumstances have come to my notice which would
seem to indicate that she is not the sort of person she
represented herself to be. Got that, Harrington?"
21


The Back-Seat Murder
+
"Yes, sir." The meaningless crow's feet danced and
swam beneath the secretary's eyes.
"In short," Marsh went on with the dictation, "I
believe that, in the event of my untimely death, you
would find it profitable to subject this young woman
to a thorough scrutiny. Furthermore, I suggest that
a similar investigation might be made with benefit into
the moral character as well as the past and present
history of my private secretary, Leonard Harrington,
who, I am convinced—"
Harrington's pencil slid across the page, forming a
jagged streak. He stared up at Marsh, and again he
saw that look of sardonic humor in his face.
"Nervous this morning, Harrington? Up too late
last night, perhaps. It seems I heard your door close
at three in the morning."
With a heroic effort the secretary pulled himself to-
gether. Was Marsh indulging in a grewsome jest, or
was he acting on a deep-laid plan?
"I think you were mistaken, sir," he managed to
say. "But this letter? You are joking, aren't you?"
"Joking? Do I look like a man who would joke
about his own death?"
"Hardly," Harrington had to admit. "But you must
realize—"
"Realize nothing! Please take down what I say,
and don't bother your mind with things that don't con-
cern you."
22


A Strange Letter
"But you are practically accusing Miss Lanyard and
me of plotting your murder?"
"Well, what of it? Aren't you?"
The blunt question and the accompanying incisive
glance made Harrington gasp. Yes, Miss Lanyard
and himself were surely plotting against Marsh, but
where on earth had the man got the idea that they
were plotting murder? Moreover, what perverted
sense of humor could have induced him to dictate such
a letter to him, Harrington?
"You will please go on," said Marsh drily. "—who,
I am convinced, entered my employ under false pre-
tenses and with the deliberate intention of doing me
harm.
"Please do not understand that I am accusing either
or both of the persons mentioned. I am merely sug-
gesting that, if a certain eventuality should come to
pass, you will find it profitable to investigate them.
Yours very truly— That's all, Harrington. Now
snap out of it and come to life. Make three copies and
bring them to me immediately."
Harrington walked out in a daze and sat down at
the typewriter. The text of the letter was fresh in his
mind, but it seemed as if his fingers refused to obey
him when he proceeded to type it out on paper. He
made several errors and had to make a number of
fresh starts. At length he returned to the library and
placed three sheets, an original and two carbons, be-
23


The Back-Seat Murder
fore Marsh. The latter read carefully, then attached
his scrawling signature to two of the sheets.
"Oh, I forgot. I want you to address two envelopes
to Mr. Whittaker."
With his brain still in a whirl, Harrington returned
to the other room and addressed the envelopes. Re-
turning and placing them on the desk, he received a
frosty and inscrutable grin from Marsh. Then Marsh
enclosed the original in an envelope, sealed it, and
handed it to Harrington.
"This is the one you will deliver to Mr. Whittaker
in person," he explained. "Bear in mind that you are
to deliver it into his own hands. This carbon," folding
one of the copies and enclosing it in the extra envelope,
"will go to Mr. Whittaker by mail. I shall see to the
mailing of it myself. It isn't likely that both of them
will go astray. I shall keep the other carbon in my
file."
He raised his head and bent a significant glance on
the bewildered secretary.
"Remember that you are to be at Mr. Whittaker's
office at half past four. And don't forget to have the
battery seen to. That's all."
He waved his hand in dismissal.
*4


CHAPTER III
In the Rear Seat
"How utterly ridiculous!" Theresa Lanyard exclaimed.
Harrington, meeting her as he went to his room to
dress for his journey, had just told her of the astound-
ing letter Marsh had dictated and the equally astound-
ing instructions he had given. Everything considered,
he thought it best that she should know.
"Ridiculous?" he echoed. "Well, perhaps. Wish I
could be sure. The whole thing looks like such un-
mitigated nonsense that I'm inclined to believe that
Marsh has something up his sleeve."
"But what could it be?" The forehead beneath the
white cap was delicately puckered. "We are not plot-
ting against Mr. Marsh. At least"—with a quick
glance up and down the hall—"we are not plotting to
kill him."
"No, but evidently he thinks we are. Even so, it
doesn't make sense. If he thinks we are after his life,
why doesn't he do something besides write a letter?"
She fixed him with a long, thoughtful glance.
"It may be his twisted sense of humor. That's the
only explanation I can see. And it would be just like
him to perpetrate a joke of that kind. I heard him
25


The Back-Seat Murder
chuckling to himself when he went out a while ago."
"Marsh went out? In this rain?"
"Yes, he did. It surprised me, too. He started off
toward the main road. Curious, isn't it? It's the first
time I've seen him go more than a hundred steps away
from the house. Wonder where he was going."
"I know I" Harrington suddenly exclaimed. "To
the postoffice. He'll have a nice, long walk, and I'll
bet it took him a lot of courage to start out. Hope he
took his pistol along. By the way," and his face
clouded of a sudden, "if anything should happen to
him—"
"Yes," with a nod, "people would probably blame
you and me? Mr. Harrington, are you going to deliver
that letter?"
"Why not? Nothing is to be gained by destroying
it. Whittaker will receive a carbon copy of it by to-
morrow morning's mail. Marsh is now on his way to
the postoffice to mail it."
She lowered her head and thought. Her face, now
that she had dropped her artificial professional manner,
was altogether womanly and attractive. Suddenly she
looked up again.
"I don't like it. I wish you wouldn't deliver that
letter."
"But the carbon copy—"
"Yes, I know. That isn't what I mean. I mean
that— Oh, I don't know. I just have a feeling that
something is wrong."
26


In the Rear Seat
"Then chase it away. Everything is all right. You
see, I simply have to deliver the letter. If for no
other reason, I must do it for your sake and mine.
Suppose something happened to Marsh. Whittaker
will have the carbon copy. I'll wager Marsh wrote an
annotation on it to the effect that his secretary is
delivering the original in person. Whittaker will won-
der why the original wasn't delivered, and that will lead
to all sorts of ugly suspicions. You see, don't you?"
"Yes, but—" Her head drooped again. "I wonder
if Marsh really intended that you should deliver the
letter."
"What?" He stared at her for a moment, then
laughed. "My partner is all tired out, I see. Too
much excitement lately. Now go to your room and
try to sleep. I'll see you some time during the eve-
ning."
She moved away reluctantly, with a long backward
glance, and Harrington went to his room and hurried
into a change of clothes. A little later, with the aston-
ishing letter tucked into his inside breast pocket, he
went out to the garage and tried to start the Wayne-
fleet sedan. The starter gave only the feeblest re-
sponse as he set his foot on it. Either there was a
loose connection, as Marsh had suggested, or else the
battery was weak. Being a poor mechanic, although
a very good driver, Harrington took the crank from
the tool box and started the engine by hand.
In a few moments he was on his way, but the un-
27


The Back-Seat Murder
even functioning of the motor told that the battery
was not doing its duty. He drew up at the garage
situated at the point where the private driveway forked
into the old Peekhaven turnpike.
A stocky individual with a grimy face and in greasy
overalls came out from the little garage, which looked
as if business were none too good in this desolate
region.
"Trouble?" he inquired mournfully, and then, as his
sluggish eyes traveled along the sleek streamer lines of
the car, he brightened perceptibly. "Why, if it ain't
Mr. Marsh's car! She's a good old bus. They ain't
none better. No-sireel Some of the old tubs aroun'
here would make you plumb sick to look at. But this
one— Well, sir, she's a pippin!" He came closer, and
his face relapsed into its former gloom. "You don't
know anybody that wants to buy a nice garage, eh?"
"No," said Harrington, with an amused glance at
the sorry-looking establishment. "Thinking of selling
out?"
"I might. Trouble is that nobody wants to buy.
You see, the garage is all right—as nice a little garage
as you ever see—but the business has been rotten ever
since the new state road went through a mile west of
here. It's a wonner they wouldn't put the road where
it'd do folks some good."
"It is," Harrington agreed, perceiving that the man's
garrulity was due to sheer loneliness. He would gladly
have stopped to chat for a while, but he would have
28


In the Rear Seat
to hurry if he was to reach his destination on time.
"What's your name?" he inquired.
"Garbo—Luke Garbo," said the man mournfully, as
if the name itself were an added affliction.
"Well, Mr. Garbo, I wish you would have a look at
the battery."
"Righto." With a lugubrious air Mr. Garbo went
into his garage, returning shortly with a hydrometer.
He stuck his head and shoulders through the rear door,
removed the mat and floor boards, and after a while
he straightened up and held the hydrometer to the light.
"Eleven-seventy," he announced. "That means
she's just about dead. Better let me charge her up
for you. I've got a battery here you can use in the
meantime."
Harrington approved the idea, and Mr. Garbo pro-
ceeded with the exchange of batteries. All the while,
as he went about his task, he was muttering to himself
about the state of his business and lamenting the fact
that the new state road had ruined his prospects.
Harrington fell to inspecting the scenery. It was
dismal enough, with a steady drizzle in the air and a
raw wind sweeping over the hills. With the mist and
the waning of the day, the horizons were narrowing,
and the only dwelling within sight was a small hovel
leaning against an immense bowlder.
"Well," Garbo was muttering, "we're here to-day
and gone to-morrow."
Harrington glanced back over his shoulder. He had
29


The Back-Seat Murder
not been listening to the man's mournful soliloquy.
He had been thinking about the curious letter in his
pocket and the strange things going on at Peekacre.
Garbo's last muttered words caught in his mind, how-
ever.
"Apropos of what?" he asked.
The man straightened up from his labor and started
to put the floor boards and mat back into place.
"Eh? Apro— Say, that's a new one, ain't it? I
was just thinkin' about poor Mr. Marsh. He looks as
if he wasn't long for this world."
"How so?"
"If ever a man looked as if he was goin' straight to
his own funeral, that's him. He's got into the habit
of talkin' to himself, too. That's alius a bad sign. I
do it myself."
He chuckled dismally and gathered his tools.
"Oh, well," he sighed, "we're here to-day and gone
to-morrow. Reckon you'd better have these here win-
ders closed. They's a heavy rain comin'."
He twirled the knob, raising the two windows in the
rear, one on each side. Harrington started the engine,
realizing he would have to hurry. He heard Garbo
slam the side doors shut, and he caught another dolor-
ous mutter to the effect that we're here to-day and gone
to-morrow. Then he slipped the clutch in and swung
into the highway.
The speedometer went from twenty to thirty, and
then to forty, and there Harrington held it. The engine
30


In the Rear Seat
was fairly singing now, and he could easily have gone
much faster, but the road was slippery and he knew
that the brakes were in poor condition and would not
be much good in an emergency.
Garbo's weather prediction was coming true. It was
raining harder and harder. As he set the windshield
wiper in motion and closed the window on his right,
another prophecy of Garbo's recurred to him. Mr.
Marsh was not long for this world, the man had said.
Only idle talk, perhaps, but somehow the words lin-
gered in Harrington's mind with a prophetic signifi-
cance. And then he found himself repeating Garbo's
words: "We're here to-day and gone to-morrow."
He laughed at the absurdity of his own trend of
thoughts. It was only empty talk that Garbo had
poured into his ears, the meaningless chatter of a
lonely man who eagerly seizes the opportunity to talk
to some one. Yet it was true that Marsh himself lived
in constant fear of death. His demeanor during the
past few weeks, not to mention the preposterous letter
he had dictated that morning, proved it. And now
Harrington carried in his pocket a letter in which
Marsh named the persons he suspected of plotting his
death. Was there ever such a grotesque situation?
A motor's horn screamed in the rear, interrupting
his thoughts. A glance into the rear-view mirror over
the windshield showed a magnificent coach, with a
liveried chauffeur at the wheel, approaching at terrific
speed. Harrington, with a mental comment on some
31


The Back-Seat Murder
people's recklessness, edged over to the side, and the
speed monster flashed past him.
Taking the wheel with one hand, he glanced at his
watch. He had been driving nearly three-quarters of
an hour, and now the road was becoming a succession
of steep hills and declines. Reluctantly, with a thought
to the unsatisfactory condition of his brakes, he slowed
down a little. The wind had risen, and it was driving
the rain through the open window on his left. Already
his shoulder was wet. Since he would have no occasion
to signal on this open road, he closed the window.
He would have felt quite snug and comfortable now
if he could but have turned his thoughts away from
Marsh, from the letter in his pocket, and from the
incoherent fears that Theresa had voiced just before
they parted in the hall. She had said a very curious
thing, he remembered, something to the effect that per-
haps Marsh did not intend that the letter should be
delivered. What on earth could she have meant by
that? A woman's intuition, perhaps. Intuitions were
usually vague and apparently senseless. But this par-
ticular intuition—
A thick exclamation fell from his lips. The wheel
slipped in his hand; the car lurched wildly. Without
apparent reason, he had just cast another glance at
the rear-view mirror, and now he stared into it with
the intensity of a man who doubts his senses.
He blinked his eyes and gave a feeble groan. It
32


CHAPTER IV
The Man Behind
Again the car lurched and slithered. Luckily it was
a smooth and straight stretch of road, with no danger-
ous shoulders. Harrington righted the wheels and
glanced again into the mirror, and again his brain
reeled. Back there, in the rear seat, sat Christopher
Marsh, real as life. He did not move a muscle. He
only grinned in a gloating, satisfied way.
They were plunging down a steep hill now, and the
road claimed Harrington's full attention, even though
his brain was awhirl with the picture of Marsh sitting
so complacently in the seat behind. Where had he
come from? When had he gotten into the car? Not
during the stop at the garage, Harrington felt certain,
for there had been no other person about, and he had
chanced to look behind just a moment before Garbo
slammed the doors shut. It was equally certain that
Marsh had not been in the car when Harrington left
Peekacre. If he had been, he would have been dis-
covered at the garage. It appeared, then, that he must
have gotten in while the car was going between thirty-
five and forty miles an hour.
Harrington shook his head. No human being could
34


The Man Behind
do that. It was flatly impossible. The only clear fact
was that Marsh was now sitting in the back of the car,
and it was idle to wonder how he had got there. It
was not only idle, but staggering as well.
The perilous descent was over, though heaven only
knew how he had managed it safely. He was at the
bottom of the hill now, and he let go the accelerator
and put his foot on the brake. It responded grudg-
ingly, but the friction sufficed to lessen the momentum.
"Go on," Marsh directed in his habitual bullying
way. "Don't stop."
Harrington's mystification had turned to obstinacy,
and now obstinacy turned to disobedience. He bore
down hard on the brakes. There came a metallic
squeal, the car rolled on a little farther, then stopped.
"Are you deaf?" Marsh bawled. "I told you to go
on."
"I heard you," said Harrington. He threw the
clutch into neutral and applied the emergency, then
swung around in his seat and stared at the man be-
hind him as if to satisfy himself that he was really
flesh and blood. "So it's really you," he said foolishly.
"Of course," Marsh growled. "Who else would it
be?"
Harrington nodded dazedly. What mystified him
was not that the man in the rear seat was Marsh. He
would have been just as deeply mystified if it had
been any one else. He stared stupidly at the two win-
dows, misty with rain, and the two doors, both locked,
35


The Back-Seat Murder
as was shown by the upturned handles. And then, in
order to steady his brain, he turned and glanced out
over a landscape of hills swept by wind and rain.
It was growing dusk. The horizons were crowding
closer and closer. As far as eye could see, there was
no dwelling anywhere, no sign of life.
"Drive on, you fool!" Marsh barked. "Think I
want to sit here all night?"
Harrington turned to him again. The man's face
was, as usual, a little red. The veins at his temples
stood out prominently, as they always did when he
grew irritated. The eyes were cold and contemptuous.
With all this, there were signs of an inner satisfaction
—a malicious satisfaction, Harrington thought. The
man might have been brooding over a diabolical joke.
"I didn't see you get in," Harrington remarked, his
brain still awhirl with the riddle of Marsh's presence
in the car.
"It's my car, isn't it? Do I have to beg your per-
mission to ride in it?"
"No, but you might explain how you got in."
"Damn your impudence!" Marsh snarled. "Now
drive on, or I'll throw you out. Take the next turn to
the left."
"The left? That's not the way."
Marsh bared his teeth. For an instant he looked as
if he was inclined to drive his fist into Harrington's
face, but evidently he thought better o| it.
36


The Man Behind
"I said the first turn to the left," he spoke sharply.
"I want no arguments. Drive on."
As if the matter were settled, he leaned back against
the cushion and drew a cigar from his vest pocket.
"What about the letter?" Harrington asked, deter-
mined to elicit some explanation from the man in the
rear seat.
"Never mind the letter." Marsh was fumbling in
his pockets for a match. "I've changed my plans."
Harrington regarded him obstinately. He had
dropped all pretense now of being the respectful and
deferential secretary. He cast a long glance up and
down the road that wound like a gleaming ribbon under
the downpour. There was not another car in sight.
The thought came to him that out here, in the swirling
wilderness, the relationship of master and servant had
ceased.
"Very well," he said. He reached out his hand and,
turning the ignition switch, silenced the humming of
the engine. "We stay where we are until you explain
a few things."
"Oh, do we?" Marsh's hand came out of his pocket,
and with it came an automatic. "Your mistake, Har-
rington. We go on this moment. Start her up and
step on her."
Harrington gazed contemptuously into the menacing
eye of the pistol. An unreasonable stubbornness was
upon him.
"No, Marsh, you can't frighten me that way. We
37


The Back-Seat Murder
are not going on. If we move at all, which is doubt-
ful, we turn back to Peekacre. Unless you explain—"
He paused. He looked into Marsh's eyes, and what
he saw silenced the words on his tongue. It was mur-
der—cold-blooded, deliberate murder. For a moment
his gaze lengthened, and then he turned back and
started the motor. A derisive guffaw came from be-
hind, and with it came a puff of smoke. Marsh had
lighted his cigar and was enjoying himself. But a
glance at the rear-view mirror showed that his aim
with the pistol was unwavering.
Harrington threw in the clutch and set the car in
motion. He chuckled grimly. Marsh's pistol had not
frightened him, but that look in the man's eyes had
gone like an electric shock to his brain. Yes, he had
read murder in those eyes. Far more plainly than
words could, they had told him that in another moment
Marsh would have shot him dead. It was no use de-
bating whether Marsh would or would not do such a
thing; Harrington knew. And he was far from ready
to die as yet.
"Don't forget the left turn," Marsh called out.
Harrington laughed again. He knew he would take
the left turn when he came to it. It would be either
that or death. And death repelled him, not because he
feared the process of dying, but because it meant the
end of everything. Marsh might kill him later, of
course. Perhaps that was his intention. All Harring-
ton could do for the present was to play for time.
38


The Man Behind
"Now," said Marsh, and Harrington felt a cold pres-
sure against his neck. In the gathering dusk he saw,
a short distance ahead, a road branching off to the left.
It was a rough and narrow road winding into a wooded
wilderness as black as the descending night, but he
slowed down and made a sharp turn. A chuckle
sounded behind him. The pressure against his neck
eased.
It was a stiff upward climb now. It grew rapidly
darker as they penetrated into the jungle. He switched
on the headlights and cast another glance into the mir-
ror. The pistol was lying on Marsh's knee, ready for
instant action. The man was leaning back and smok-
ing his cigar with an air of keen enjoyment. In the
surrounding dusk his face, as reflected in the mirror,
looked curiously white.
The ascent grew steeper, the landscape blacker.
The engine began to labor, and Harrington shifted into
second gear. The road seemed to extend endlessly into
the hills and the howling night. Presently they came
to a level space. In the distance, a rambling structure
with an air of decay and desolation about it stood
revealed in the headlights' glare.
"Stop," Marsh directed, and Harrington brought the
car to a standstill. A puff of strong cigar smoke
drifted across his shoulder. The mirror showed Marsh
leaning forward, with the pistol in his hand.
"Good place to die—eh, Harrington?" he suggested
conversationally.
39


The Back-Seat Murder
Harrington's body tensed. Rigidly he gazed into the
mirror above the windshield. Had Marsh directed him
to this desolate spot only to kill him? He could see a
smile on the man's face, dark, brooding, horrible. He
worked his wits at frantic speed.
"It's an appropriate spot," the other went on. "It's
dark, quiet and rugged. A shot wouldn't be heard by
anybody but the squirrels. A body left lying here
wouldn't be found in a thousand years. See that old
ruin straight ahead? It was once a summer hotel.
The management went bankrupt because the place was
too far from everything. You can't complain that I
haven't selected a romantic spot for you to die in."
Harrington spurred his wits to greater effort. He
knew the pistol was leveled at his back. He was posi-
tive now that Marsh meant to kill him. Only his wits
could save him, and his wits seemed utterly inadequate
to the emergency. Again he looked into the mirror,
trying to gauge his chances if he should attempt a
sudden somersault over the back of the seat.
Hopeless, he decided. Marsh would shoot at the
slightest move, and he would shoot to kill.
"Why do you want to kill me?" He was sparring
for time.
"Don't you know?"
"I know what you said in that absurd letter."
"It was true, wasn't it?"
"It was ridiculous." Harrington's hand moved fur-
tively to the door at his left. Here was another slen-
40


The Man Behind
der chance. He might succeed in throwing the door
open and leaping to the ground before Marsh could
shoot. But he would have to be as swift and agile as
one of the wild beasts that inhabited the jungle on all
sides. "I never had the slightest intention of killing
you. Neither did Miss Lanyard."
"You are a liar, Harrington, and I'm going to kill
you."
Harrington felt his heart crawling toward his throat.
He had an agonizing feeling that in the very next
moment a deadly slug would tear through his body.
He held his breath. But the crack did not come. The
man in the rear seemed to take a fiendish delight in
playing with his victim. Again Harrington's hand
moved furtively toward the door handle.
"Your name is not Harrington," Marsh went on,
"and you're a rotten secretary. You came to me with
forged credentials. Oh, I'm on to you. I haven't said
anything, but I've had my suspicions. If you didn't
come to me with the idea of killing me, why did you
come?"
Harrington hesitated. With his hand on the door
handle, he cast another glance into the mirror. He
could see that Marsh's hand was steady, that his aim
was sure. If he could but shake that deadly aim for
a mere instant!
"Let go that handle!" Marsh bawled, and Harring-
ton recoiled from the pressure of hard steel against
his spine. "One move, and you die!"
41


The Back-Seat Murder
Harrington laughed grimly. He would die, anyway.
A few seconds or minutes did not matter. He might
as well grasp this despairingly slender chance. But the
chance would be somewhat improved if, for but a
split second, he could divert Marsh's mind from his
murderous aim.
An inspiration came. With a sharp inward thrill he
turned his head and faced the man in the rear.
"Why did you kill David Mooreland?" he asked.
And then he saw the face in the dusk grow white.
He saw Marsh's hand tremble. The pistol wavered.
This was his chance to jump for his life. But Harring-
ton sat motionless, enthralled and fascinated by the
look of devastating fear he saw in the man's face.
The spectacle held him spellbound. He stared and
stared.
And then, as he stared, the face in the dusk changed
horribly. The eyes grew round; the mouth dangled
open in an expression of overwhelming surprise. Har-
rington felt he was seeing something unreal, inexpli-
cable. And now Marsh's chest heaved forward. An
awful scream came. It soared piercingly in the scale,
broke curiously in the middle, dwindled down to a
stream of gasps and groans.
"Good Lord!" broke shakily from Harrington's lips.
It seemed as if the hills and the wet, howling night
were still echoing that awful scream. Now Marsh's
head slumped slackly to the shoulder. The lips moved
42


The Man Behind
grotesquely, but the movement ceased even while Har-
rington was staring into the hideously twisted features.
Then came a final groan, a rattle*" in the throat. The
eyes in the dusky face rolled and grew filmy.
Christopher Marsh was dead.
43


CHAPTER V
The Abandoned Hotel
"Dead!" Harrington muttered. He bent in stony rig-
idity over the back of the front seat. The spectacle
he had witnessed was brain-stifling and body-numbing.
Marsh's sudden appearance in the car had been mysti-
fying enough. But this—this was positively uncanny.
Marsh's body had slumped back against the rear
seat. It was still sagging and settling itself against
the cushions. The face was turned up at a slant, and
along the throat, extending toward the neck, there was
a reddish trickle.
"Murder," said Harrington. His mind formed the
thought mechanically. Yes, of course it had been
murder. First the sudden scream, and now the red-
dish trickle along the throat, testified as to that. But
how— Harrington's mind stood still. It seemed as if
the black night itself must have incarnated itself in a
murderer's form.
Slowly, vacantly, in the dim light thrown back by
the lamps, his eyes traveled over the rear of the car.
If there had been a murder, there must have been a
murderer. The murderer must have stolen up to the
car while it was standing here on the hilltop. In some
44


The Back-Seat Murder
opened from the outside. How, then, had the murderer
reached his victim?
There was, of course, the door on the driver's right.
That one could be opened from the outside. But only
a man endowed with a miracle-performing faculty
could have slipped in through that door without being
seen. Harrington had been sitting right there, in the
front seat, and he had turned to face Marsh at the
time. If the assassin had struck the blow from that
direction, Harrington would have seen him, heard him,
and felt him. It was flatly impossible.
To make certainty doubly certain, he switched on
the ceiling light and inspected the space on his right.
There was not a vestige of moisture. If the door or
window had been opened for but an instant, the wind-
driven rain would have poured in on the cushion. But
the whole thing was simply unthinkable.
He roused himself from his stupor and reached for
the flashlight in the side pocket of the car. He was
grimly determined to ascertain how the incredible
thing had happened. One thing was certain, even if
all the rest was a mocking delirium. No matter how
the murderer had entered the car, he could not have
approached it without leaving the imprint of his feet
in the soggy dirt road.
Wriggling over to the right side, he opened the door
and stepped out. A gust of wind and rain beat against
his face. Little rivulets of water ran across the clayey
road, which was scarcely more than two ruts with a
46


The Abandoned Hotel
weed-grown ridge in the middle. He swept his flash-
light back and forth, and again a mutter of stupefac-
tion fell from his lips. There was not a mark of a
foot anywhere, either in the road or on the running
boards.
He chuckled idiotically. The impenetrability of it
was getting on his nerves. The murderer must have
dissolved himself into a bodiless sprite. But once
more he walked around the car, searching the mud
for footprints. There were no traces of any kind. He
stopped in the back and gazed stupidly at the rear
window. He had not thought of it until now. But
this window could be opened neither from the inside
nor the outside, and a touch told him that it was
securely fastened in its frame.
"Stumped!" he muttered. He was not only stumped,
but stupefied as well. A thing like this challenged all
reason. He walked around to the front and returned
the flashlight to its place. Then, leaning over the
front seat, he stared down into the space between the
two seats. Marsh's pistol was lying there on the rub-
ber mat where he had dropped it, the muzzle almost
touching his toe.
Harrington gazed pointedly at the mat. Beneath it
was the floor board, and under the floor board were
the connecting rod and a compact assembly of shafts
and levers. With the prevalent passion for low-slung
bodies, manufacturers were utilizing every inch of
space. Not even the smallest dwarf, and hardly a
47


The Back-Seat Murder
small dog or cat, could squeeze into that narrow space
under the floor board. No, the solution was not there.
He shook himself. He doubted if the solution was
to be found anywhere. He stared into the swirling
rain, along the path of light projected by the lamps
and into the black jungle beyond. Suddenly he stood
rigid. Far ahead in the watery gloom there was a
flicker of some sort, an evanescent light.
His hand went to the dash board and switched out
the head lamps. Darkness rushed upon him, obliter-
ating everything, but straight ahead, somewhere in the
neighborhood of the abandoned hotel, he saw a feeble
light. Back and forth it moved, as if some one were
carrying a lantern. He rubbed his eyes. In the sur-
rounding gloom the moving light had a ghostly char-
acter. A vagrant thought flashed across his mind.
The murderer?
His brain was in an uproar. Clear thinking was
impossible. But it was curious that some one should
be moving about in a hotel that had been closed for
years and was only a short distance from the scene of
the murder. He took the flashlight from the side
pocket of the car, and then he reached over the seat
and picked up the dead man's pistol. Then he set his
face against the driving wind and rain and broke into
a run.
He slithered and stumbled, and twice he fell. The
road was like glue under his feet. Stronger and
stronger grew the conviction that the murderer had
48


The Abandoned Hotel
taken refuge in the old abandoned hotel. There was
little reason and not much logic behind the conviction.
It was only a blind belief. And ordinarily he would
not have exerted himself to apprehend the slayer of
Christopher Marsh. But the circumstances made all
the difference. The attendant incidents made the mur-
der a personal concern of Harrington's. And in the
morning the dead man's ante-mortem statement would
reach Mr. Whittaker, the prosecutor, throwing suspi-
cion upon Theresa Lanyard and himself.
He brought up against a gate hanging perilously on
loosened hinges. "Hilltop View Hotel" read the faded
and battered sign in the arch above the posts. He
pushed through and, by the aid of his flashlight, picked
his way along a driveway overrun with weeds. For
several minutes now he had seen nothing of the light
he had noticed in the vicinity, but possibly it was
obscured by the thick clumps of trees.
It seemed as if the piazza, reached by half a dozen
rickety steps, would collapse under his feet. Caution
bade him extinguish his flashlight, for it would render
him an easy target in case any one should take a shot
at him. In the dark he moved along the wall and
fumbled for a door. Rotting boards creaked under
his feet, but luckily the whole house was creaking be-
fore endless gusts of wind, so there was little danger
that the noise would betray him.
The door, when he found it, was locked, but it was
a simple thing to reach his hand through one of the
49


The Back-Seat Murder
broken glass panels and release the bolt. Evidently
no effort had been made to save the house from decay
and pilferage. He was now in a narrow enclosure,
evidently an entrance hall, and at the farther side was
another door. This one was unlocked, and he passed
through. Inside the air was stifling, and the darkness
was so intense that it made the eyes ache. For a while
he listened tensely, but there were no other sounds
than the wind's hoot and the creak of decaying timbers.
Still wondering what could have become of the light
he had seen, he flashed on his torch.
Except that it was almost denuded of furniture, he
was in the typical lobby of the typical small summer
hotel. A few pictures, not worth the cost of carting
them away, hung on the walls. There was a broken-
down sofa and a rocking-chair with a rocker missing.
Straight ahead was a semi-circular desk and at one
side a stairway. Despite his excitement, he looked
rather longingly at a brick fireplace. In his drenched
condition, a fire would have been a great comfort.
There were neither logs nor kindling, however.
In a moment he was moving toward the stairs, de-
termined to make a quick search, but after a few
steps he paused. His fingers, acting more quickly
than his brain, extinguished the flashlight. Instinc-
tively he reached for the pistol he had picked up from
the floor of the car and placed in his pocket. It was
a satisfaction to know that it was still there.
From the upper regions of the house had come a
SO


The Abandoned Hotel
sound that did not have its origin in the storm. He
tiptoed a little closer to the stairway, then stopped and
strained his ears. Some one was moving up there,
moving toward the upper stairway landing. Now he
could hear a voice speaking in a conversational tone,
so evidently there were two persons approaching, or
else it was some one talking to himself.
He came forward until his hand touched the stair-
way post. The footfalls were drawing closer, and now
he could hear a second voice—a woman's! He gave
a little start. It seemed strange to find a woman in a
place like this, and on such a night. Soon they would
be coming down the stairs, and in all probability they
would turn on a light, and then he would be discovered.
Even now he could see the wavering light of a candle
approaching the upper landing.
For a moment longer he listened to the voices, felt
an odd sort of thrill shooting down his spine, and then
he picked his way quietly to a door he had seen under
the stairway. He had suddenly determined that he did
not wish to be discovered as yet. He entered, found
that the space behind the door was only a closet and
not big enough to permit him to stand upright, so he
got down on his knees and pulled the door to, leaving
only a narrow crack.
"You see?" said a masculine voice. "There is no-
body else here."
Harrington caught a brief glimpse of a slender, dark-
5i


The Back-Seat Murder
faced man walking up to the desk and placing a candle
on it.
"I can't understand it," said a feminke voice, and
Harrington started sharply. Theresa Lanyard! He
could not see her, but he thought she was standing
close to the closet door. "I'm certain he intended to
come here."
"What made you so certain?"
"Where else would he go?"
"The world is wide. Roads are running in all direc-
tions. As for this God-forsaken hilltop, it's the last
place in the world I'd wish to go a night like this."
"But you are not Christopher Marsh."
"And I thank my stars for that!"
The speaker had a fine, resonant voice, but Har-
rington thought there was something vaguely unpleas-
ant about it. He wondered whether Theresa had come
to the hilltop with the dark-faced man, or whether
they had come separately. Of a sudden he remem-
bered the magnificent coach that had torn past him on
the road at such terrifying speed.
"What an awful storm!" Theresa murmured.
"Atrocious!" the other agreed. "This is really a
romantic spot, though—an ideal setting for either a
kiss or a murder. I'm not in a murderous mood to-
night. What about a little kiss?"
"Oh, I'm not at all in the mood for that. Kisses
require a moon and a caressing breeze to be wholly
satisfactory."
52


The Abandoned Hotel
"Sorry. I can't deliver either the moon or the
breeze. I'm plainly out of luck. It's been a pleasant
surprise, though. When I heard your footsteps a
while ago, I never imagined it was you who had come
to share my wretched solitude."
Harrington listened attentively behind the closet
door. One of his questions had already been answered.
Theresa and the man had arrived separately.
"I was as surprised as you were," she told him.
"And as pleasantly, I hope. By the way, how did
you come?"
"I telephoned Mr. Carmody and asked him to lend
me his car and chauffeur. I didn't explain. Mr. Car-
mody is always obliging. The car is now waiting in a
clump of trees off the road. I thought it best not to
leave it in too conspicuous a place."
"Splendid. It's rare and refreshing to find a charm-
ing face coupled with an astute brain. I am proud of
my little confederate."
Harrington started. Confederate? What sort of
understanding could exist between Theresa Lanyard
and this sleek, dark-faced man with the subtly un-
pleasant voice?
"I'm frightfully curious, Mr. Stoddard," she con-
fessed, her bantering tone edged with a trace of un-
easiness. "You haven't told me yet what you are
doing here."
"Hilltops intrigue me," said her companion vaguely.
53


The Back-Seat Murder
"They give one such a lofty outlook upon life, and
one never knows whom he may meet."
"Oh, Mr. Stoddard! You are being tantalizing."
"No, I'm being discreet. You are the tantalizing
one. I find you prowling about in a tumble-down old
hotel, and you tell me you came here to save some-
body from being murdered. I ask who the somebody
is, and all I get is a lot of evasions. Isn't that being
tantalizing?"
"No," throwing his own words back at him, "it's
being discreet."
"Then you don't trust me?"
"Do you trust me, Mr. Stoddard?"
There came a little pause. Harrington would have
given a great deal for a glimpse of Theresa's face just
then, but it was not prudent to open the door wider.
"No, I don't," said the man addressed as Mr. Stod-
dard, and Harrington discovered that his heart, for no
apparent reason, had accelerated its beat. The air in
the closet was suddenly stifling. A vague, inexplicable
uneasiness was creeping upon him.
"Why?" she asked, and Harrington detected a note
in her voice which told that she was fighting a rising
dread. "Didn't you call me your confederate just
now?"
Stoddard paced the floor for a few moments before
replying.
"Miss Lanyard," he asked, "what were you doing
in the attic a little while ago?"
54


The Abandoned Hotel
"At-attic?"
Stoddard laughed disagreeably.
"You were there. Don't trouble to deny it. You
see, I had been aware of your presence in the house
for ten or fifteen minutes before I accosted you. I was
curious to see what you would do. Come now, why did
you go up to the attic?"
"I—I was looking for somebody."
"That's a lie," said Stoddard bluntly.
Harrington rose from his kneeling position and stood
tense and crouching behind the door. A series of
quick footsteps told that Stoddard had walked up to
the girl.
"Very charming," he was saying sarcastically, "but,
oh, so false! Now I'm going to use a few plain words.
You are a lying, cheating, two-faced, double-crossing
crook. I have suspected it for some time. Now I
know. As I remarked before, this is a beautiful place
for a murder."
"You—you wouldn't—" Theresa gasped out, and
then his fine, resonant but vaguely sinister laugh cut
her off.
"Oh, wouldn't I? Look at me. What do you
think?"
Another pause fell heavily on Harrington's nerves.
His hand moved to the pocket where he kept the pistol
that had belonged to the dead man.
"I believe—you would!" Theresa exclaimed hol-
lowly.
55


The Back-Seat Murder
"Correct, I would. I am alarmed over your visit to
the attic. It convinces me that you have turned traitor.
However, murder is a serious matter. I must consider.
And in the meantime—" He laughed again, as if a
humorous thought had occurred to him. "In the mean-
time you will return to your beloved attic and remain
there for a while."
Rapid steps sounded, and a dull cry broke from
Theresa's lips. Pistol in hand, Harrington stepped out.
56


CHAPTER VI
Miss Lanyard's Accomplice
Stoddard, dark and lean-bodied and well-groomed, had
seized the girl's arm. He had the type of intellectual
features that might denote either a genius in lawful
pursuits or a genius in villainy. At the sound of Har-
rington's hurried steps he whirled round and gaped.
Theresa's eyes grew round with astonishment.
"Who the devil are you?" Stoddard demanded.
"Oh, I see! The new secretary at Peekacre. I recall
seeing you once or twice. And so you have been play-
ing eavesdropper in that closet. Well, well I Is that
the sort of work Marsh is paying you for?"
Quickly, and yet with a casual air, his hand went
to his hip pocket. Theresa gave a sharp cry, and
Harrington raised his pistol. Stoddard shrugged and
let his hand fall back.
"The advantage is yours," he conceded. "What do
you propose to do with it?"
Harrington's eyes went to Theresa. Her face was
white, her chin quivered. Her astonishment, following
her recent shock at Stoddard's conduct, was acute. She
stared at Harrington as if he had risen out of the floor.
"Who is this man?" he asked.
57


The Back-Seat Murder
She did not answer, and Stoddard replied in her
stead.
"I have the dubious honor of being Miss Lanyard's
accomplice, in a manner of speaking. That is, I was
until a little while ago. Then I caught her in an act
that opened my eyes to her treachery."
Theresa shrank back a step and regarded him with
an expression of keen aversion.
"We'll go into all that later," said Harrington. His
mind was revolving the thought that here, perhaps, was
the murderer of Christopher Marsh. He had heard
nothing while he stood in the closet which conflicted
with such a conjecture. Stoddard's clothing and shoes
were dry, he observed, but he might have worn rain-
coat and rubbers. "Stand back against the wall and
hold up your hands," he directed.
"Too strenuous," Stoddard objected. "It would give
me a cramp in the arms."
"Instantly," said Harrington sharply, making an
ominous gesture with the pistol.
"I abhor melodramatics." The man yawned super-
ciliously. "And you can't frighten me with that pistol.
I know you are not going to shoot me. However, if
you feel so inclined, shoot away."
With superb nonchalance he swung on his heels and
walked evenly toward the door.
"Good night," he called back over his shoulder.
"See you later, Miss Lanyard."
Harrington stared after him. He could not help but
58


Miss Lanyard's Accomplice
admire such insolence and courage. Of a sudden he
dropped the pistol into his pocket and ran in pursuit,
but he was an instant too late. The man broke into
a run, and he had disappeared into the howling black-
ness by the time Harrington reached the piazza. With
a sense of frustration he returned to the room where
he had left Theresa.
She had stood staring thoughtfully at the candle on
the desk, but she turned as he entered and regarded
him with an inscrutable expression.
"He got away," he announced. "He'll get a good
drenching."
She nodded absently.
"So you didn't deliver the letter," she murmured.
"The letter?" His hand went toward his breast
pocket. He had almost forgotten. "No, I didn't.
You see, I—" He stopped, deciding he would not go
into grewsome revelations just now.
"You changed your mind," she finished for him, mis-
understanding his hesitancy. "But I don't understand.
What are you doing here? What do you know about
this place?"
He smiled somberly. His thoughts went back to the
car he had left in the road and its grewsome freight.
"I knew nothing when I started out," he admitted,
"but I'm learning fast. The place seems to be a
rendezvous for certain people. It appears that there
is some mystery about the attic. That's about all
I've learned so far. Perhaps you will tell me the rest."
59


The Back-Seat Murder
"Oh, sometime. It's a long story, and I'm dread-
fully tired. But you are entitled to an explanation. I
don't know what Mr. Stoddard might have done to me
if you hadn't come to my assistance just in time. He
is a dreadful man. I believe he is capable of murder.
Yes, I believe—" She shivered and her voice dropped
to an unintelligible whisper.
"I heard him call you his accomplice."
"Yes, and you probably heard him call me a liar, a
cheat, and a crook. It was true. I am all that. That
is, I've cheated Mr. Stoddard and lied to him. I've
been playing both ends against the middle."
"Marsh and Stoddard being the two ends," he sug-
gested.
"Yes, and I've played them against each other to
find out who murdered David Mooreland."
"Good Lord!" Harrington exclaimed under his
breath.
"You see," she went on, "I've never been convinced
that it was Mr. Marsh who killed Mooreland. I've
been just as ready to believe that Mr. Stoddard was
the murderer. Either that, or else they planned it
together. There were lots of reasons for suspecting
either of them or both of them. And so I've kept them
both dangling, in a way. Mr. Stoddard knew I had
an ulterior motive in getting the position of nurse at
Peekacre, but he was mistaken about the motive. To-
night, thanks to my carelessness, he stumbled upon the
truth."
60


Miss Lanyard's Accomplice
Harrington gazed at her in amazement. A thousand
questions were thronging his mind, but he refrained
from asking them.
"You seem desperately anxious to bring Mooreland's
murderer to justice," he declared.
"Oh, I ami"
"But that wasn't your reason for coming here to-
night?"
"No, not exactly. I came because— Oh, I suppose
it was a sort of intuition. I was astounded when you
told me about the letter Mr. Marsh had dictated and
about the instructions he had given you. I knew there
was some deep purpose behind it, but I couldn't figure
it out. Then, after you had gone, an idea popped in
my mind. I saw it all in a flash—or I thought I did.
And so I rushed out here to warn you and prevent a
murder."
"Murder?" he echoed.
"Yes, I felt certain Mr. Marsh meant to murder
you. It seemed very clear then—horribly clear. But
now—" Her voice faltered and she gazed uncertainly
about the room.
"But I had no intention of going to this place," he
pointed out. "What led you to suppose that you
would find me here?"
With a thoughtful frown, as if trying to collect a
sequence of ideas, she glanced off into space.
"I don't know. I reasoned it all out, but it seems
absurd now. If you knew all that I know, perhaps you
61


The Back-Seat Murder
would understand. Anyway, I was almost certain that,
if Mr. Marsh meant to do you harm, the harm would
be done here." She gave a nervous laugh. "As Mr.
Stoddard remarked, it's a perfect setting for a murder.
I supposed you would be held up on the way and
enticed to this place somehow. My mind wasn't very
clear on that point. It seemed—" She turned on him
suddenly, with a startled look in her eyes. "And I
was right!" she exclaimed. "You did come here!"
Their eyes met in an expression of mutual wonder.
Yes, he reflected, she had been right, or very nearly
right. He wondered by what process of reasoning, or
by what flash of intuition, she had divined Marsh's in-
tention.
"How did it happen?" she asked.
He turned away, hesitated, listened to the roar of
the storm, then faced her again. She had to know the
grewsome truth very soon. It might as well be now.
"Mr. Marsh is dead," he said gently.
She stood stonily still, staring at him. Then she
swayed a little, and he led her to the ramshackle sofa
at the side of the room.
"Dead?" she echoed huskily. "Murdered?"
"Yes, and in the most curious way." As clearly as he
could, he told her what had happened, beginning with
Marsh's sudden and inexplicable appearance in the car
and concluding with a description of the dramatic
scene that had terminated in the mysterious death
thrust.
62


Miss Lanyard's Accomplice
She sat very still when he had finished. Only her
hands moved nervously.
"I should have driven straight back to Peekacre,"
he added, "but just then I saw a light over in this
direction. I was seized with a wild idea that I might
catch the murderer, and so I ran over."
"And you almost caught him," she said unthinkingly.
He gave a start and fixed her with a searching look.
"You think Stoddard is the murderer?"
"Oh, I shouldn't say that. I don't know. All I
know is that he would be capable of almost any
atrocity."
He turned away, and in his mind he ran over the
incredible things that had happened in the car.
"I doubt," he said huskily, "if any human being
could have committed this murder in the way it was
done."
She bowed her head in thought. He gazed down at
the gleaming waves of brown that curved away from
her forehead.
"I think we had better go," he murmured. "Your
car is waiting, isn't it? I don't suppose you want to
go back to the attic any more to-night?"
"The attic?" She shivered. "Oh, that was just an
after-thought. When I didn't find you here, I sup-
posed my suspicions had been wrong, and then I
thought I might as well go up there and look around
a bit."
"I see," he said, still gazing down at her head and
63


Miss Lanyard's Accomplice
the dim contours of a tumble-down structure. The
double doors stood wide open.
"The garage," she said. "And it's empty."
With a sigh of relief he took her arm and, bending
against the gale, they walked out into the howling
deluge. They had taken only a few steps when an-
other troublesome thought occurred to him.
"Stoddard couldn't have got very far," he remarked.
"My car is blocking the road a little way down the
hill, and there isn't room to pass."
"But there are three roads. I have an idea Mr.
Stoddard took one of the others."
They quickened their steps, although it seemed as
if the wind were constantly pushing them back. She
guided him to the narrow clearing, sheltered on one
side by a clump of trees, where her car and chauffeur
were waiting. All in all, he reflected, it was best that
she should return with the chauffeur, although he
should have preferred to have her beside himself in
the Waynefleet sedan. But that, he decided, would be
too grewsome an experience.
His swift glance at the chauffeur's face was reassur-
ing. He felt the man could be trusted. But he
searched the car thoroughly before he assisted her to
her seat and made sure that the doors were securely
locked. After the experience he had been through, he
felt that he could not be too cautious. Then, after
telling her that he would see her soon at Peekacre, he
65


The Back-Seat Murder
walked the short distance to where he had left his
own car.
As he approached, he searched the soggy ruts for
signs that another car had been through, but there
were none. Evidently Theresa had been right. Stod-
dard had gone away by one of the other roads. He
opened the rear door and flashed his torch into the
interior. The body had sagged a little deeper into the
cushions, but otherwise the scene was exactly as he had
left it. He shook his head slowly and shut his mind
against a horde of perplexities. Then he took his seat
at the wheel and started back.
66


CHAPTER VII
The Man in the Library
The coach Theresa had borrowed from the obliging
Mr. Carmody was not far behind when Harrington
drove into the grounds of Peekacre. It swung up to
the front entrance, the passenger alighted and went
inside the house, and the coach drove away. In the
meantime Harrington put the Waynefleet sedan in the
garage, and for a few moments he stood in perplexed
contemplation of the lifeless form in the rear seat.
The proper procedure, he understood, was to leave it
there for the official inspection. Questions and mys-
teries thronged his mind as he turned away, carefully
locked the garage door, and walked up to the house.
It was late, and a glance along the rambling stone
and stucco structure showed only a few lights burning.
Evidently the servants had retired. Harrington felt
cold and wretched, and he would have preferred to
step into dry clothes at once, but first he would have
to notify the authorities. The telephone was in the
library, and he hung his dripping raincoat on the rack
in the hall and walked in.
He took but a few steps inside the room, then stood
still and stared. Theresa was there, and her face told
67


The Back-Seat Murder
him at a glance that a disagreeable complication had
set in. She was still in her green raincoat and her small
black hat, and her eyes were fixed with a look of dread
and aversion on a man seated at the rosewood desk.
He was an undersized man, almost bald, with an
unhealthy complexion, a sharp nose, and an unwhole-
some grin which exposed several gold teeth and was
doubtless meant to be ingratiating.
"This gentleman says he is waiting for Mr. Marsh,"
Theresa explained.
At complete ease, the caller leaned back in the tall
chair in which Christopher Marsh had been accus-
tomed to sit when he attended to his correspondence.
"My name is Tarkin—Samuel B. Tarkin," he an-
nounced importantly. "I'm here to see Mr. Marsh on
private and important business."
"Who admitted you?" asked Harrington coldly.
"The butler. He knows me. I often call on Mr.
Marsh. The butler said he might not return till late,
so I said I would wait. Will he be back soon?"
"I haven't the slightest idea," Harrington declared,
irritated by Tarkin's manner. "But I am Mr. Marsh's
secretary and you can state your business to me."
"Won't do," the little man declared, shaking his
head.
Harrington scowled. He was anxious to telephone,
but he did not care to do it in Tarkin's presence.
"I am not sure Mr. Marsh will return to-night," he
68


The Man in the Library
said brusquely. "Hadn't you better come back in the
morning?"
"H'm," said Tarkin, and his unwholesome grin
seemed to spread from his crooked mouth to his
shrewd, rheumy eyes. "Mr. Marsh must have changed
his habits, if he is staying out all night. Never knew
him to do that before."
"Mr. Marsh's habits are his own concern. I really
think you hadn't better wait. It is highly uncertain
whether he will return to-night."
"Uncertain, eh?" Tarkin slanted his head to one
side and gazed shrewdly at Harrington. "Well, life is
a pretty uncertain proposition, isn't it? We never
know, when we start out to go somewhere, whether
we are coming back alive."
Harrington started and fixed the man in the chair
with a sharper look. At first he had been merely an-
noyed; now he regarded Tarkin with a new and appre-
hensive interest. Out of the corner of an eye he caught
a startled look on Theresa's face.
"You know, don't you," Tarkin pursued, "that Mr.
Marsh will never again sit in this chair? It's too bad.
It's a nice and comfortable chair."
Harrington walked slowly up to the desk and, lean-
ing over it, looked straight into the man's shifty eyes.
"Just what do you mean by that?" he demanded.
"You heard what I said." Tarkin ran his fingers
appreciatively over the handsomely carved arm rests
69


The Back-Seat Murder
of the chair. "It's a nice piece of furniture—much
nicer than a coffin."
A gasp sounded at Harrington's side. Theresa had
come up and stood staring tremulously at the man in
the chair.
"Oh, come to the point," Harrington snapped.
"No hurry, is there?" Tarkin giggled and rubbed
his hands together. "You're Mr. Harrington, aren't
you? Anyhow, that's what you call yourself. Names
don't mean much these times. And the young lady,
I think, is Miss Theresa Lanyard. It isn't her real
name, but who cares?"
Harrington measured the little man with a look of
stupefaction mingled with uneasiness. Tarkin ap-
peared well informed. His rheumy eyes glowed slyly
as he saw what a sensation he had created.
"You talk like a man out of your senses," Harring-
ton remarked. "You say yourself that names don't
matter. Then why stress such an unimportant point?"
"Well, it's like this. Suppose Mr. Marsh should
never come back? Suppose his dead body should turn
up somewhere? Suppose he's been murdered? You
know what would happen. The police would come
around and ask a whole lot of questions. They would
soon find out that you aren't Mr. Harrington and that
the young lady isn't Miss Lanyard. They would want
to know all about you. And they'd think it very
curious that you two should have hired out to Mr.
Marsh under phony names. Wouldn't they now?"
70


The Man in the Library
Tarkin's watery eyes were very innocent as they
traveled from one face to the other.
"Go on," said Harrington stiffly. "Miss Lanyard
and I are both tired, but we will give you five minutes
more."
"You will give me ten—maybe twenty. Now sup-
pose it should turn out that Mr. Marsh had been afraid
of you two who had hired out to him under phony
names—that he'd gotten the idea into his head that
you were after his life? Suppose the police found out
that Marsh had been suspecting you of plotting his
death? It wouldn't be so good, would it?"
Harrington's eyes narrowed. Tarkin's information
appeared surprisingly complete and exact. He felt a
quiver at his elbow, and his eyes met Theresa's.
"No, it wouldn't be so good," Tarkin repeated.
"But it might be even worse. Suppose, for instance,
that Mr. Marsh was murdered under your very nose,
so to speak, and that you couldn't explain how it hap-
pened? The harder you tried to explain, the more
convinced the police would be that you were lying.
Pretty bad, eh, Mr. Harrington?"
"Appalling," Harrington drily agreed. He was no
longer wondering how Tarkin happened to be in pos-
session of so much accurate information. For the
moment he was conscious of nothing but a fervid desire
to pitch the man out the door. "So it's blackmail," he
added.
"Right," said Tarkin. "Blackmail it is."
7i


The Back-Seat Murder
Harrington's eyes were full of contempt. His fingers
worked convulsively. It would be a great satisfaction
to throw the blackmailer, squirming and squealing, out
of the house, but he resisted the temptation. Instead
he walked around to the end of the desk and picked
up the telephone.
"What now?" asked Tarkin, his rheumy eyes blink-
ing.
"You will see," said Harrington, jigging the hook.
"Better wait," Tarkin advised. "I'm not through
yet. When I've finished you may change your mind
about calling the police. Look here."
He dug his hand into his pocket and pulled out a
small package. Harrington's thumb came to rest on
the telephone hook. He watched tensely, and so did
Theresa, while with exasperating slowness Tarkin un-
wrapped the little parcel. At length a small gray glove
appeared. With a gloating expression the little man
held it up to the light, revealing several reddish
smudges on the fingers.
"Blood stains," he explained. "Not so good, eh?"
Theresa gave a shuddering gasp. Harrington gazed
dazedly at the glove which Tarkin was holding between
the tips of two fingers. It was evidently a woman's
glove and, save for the stains, it looked as if it had
not been worn long.
"Where did you find it?" Harrington asked.
"Not more than ten feet from the car you left in the
road when you went to the old hotel."
72


The Back-Seat Murder
"Any more bids?" he inquired, looking hopefully at
the girl.
Harrington's eyes were still fixed on the white,
agonized face. Then he looked down at her small,
trembling hand, as if measuring it, and then, with
equal intentness, at the glove. He nodded, and a look
of tragic understanding entered his face.
"Better hurry," Tarkin advised. "To save time,
let's begin with five thousand. Not a penny less."
"You contemptible rati" Harrington muttered, look-
ing longingly at the blackmailer's scrawny neck.
"Where do you suppose a secretary and a nurse would
find five thousand?"
"Secretary and nurse!" Tarkin giggled. "Say, that's
good! But we're wasting time. And you can't fool
me. I know who you two are. It isn't going to hurt
you to fork over a measly five thousand. I might ask
more, and I'd get it, too, but I want to be reasonable.
Well, do we close the deal?"
He moistened his lips with a satisfied air and looked
expectantly at the two.
"What do you say, Miss Lanyard?" asked Harring-
ton gently. "Shall I give him the five thousand?"
She fixed her stricken eyes on the glove. She gasped
for breath as if suffocating. Her eyes fell.
"Yes, please," she said faintly.
"That goes," Harrington declared, fixing Tarkin
with a look of profound loathing. He reached into his
74


The Man in the Library
pocket. "IH give you a check for five thousand dollars
and then—"
"No, I'll take the cash," the blackmailer declared.
"Checks aren't so good in this sort of business. And
don't misunderstand me. I meant that I want five
thousand from each of you. That makes ten. Even
so, I'm letting you off easy. Now, if you—"
He broke off with a sharp squeal. Harrington had
seized him by the throat, jerked the glove from his
hand and tossed it to Theresa, and now, transferring
his grip from the man's throat to his collar, he dragged
him toward the door. The blackmailer squirmed and
kicked and whined, but to no avail. In the entrance
hall, after opening the door, Harrington gave a vigor-
ous heave, and the little man went hurtling into the
darkness and swirling rain. A thud and a scream
sounded as he landed on the soggy lawn.
"Not so good, eh, Tarkin?" Harrington called out,
his feelings considerably relieved.
Back in the library, he found Theresa standing be-
fore the fireplace. The fire was almost out; all that
remained was a smolder and a glow in the ashes. Her
slender figure drooping a little, she gazed as if fasci-
nated at the charred and smoking mass. There was a
faint reek in the air.
"H'm," said Harrington, following her rigid gaze.
"So Tarkin's ten thousand is going up in smoke."
"Yes," she said absently, "the laundry marks—"
75


The Back-Seat Murder
"Oh, the laundry marks." He chuckled mirthlessly.
"We might as well make a thorough job of it."
He took kindling from the fuel basket, watched it
blaze up, then added a couple of logs. He watched her
unsteadily, as if she were a long distance away.
"Better get up closer," he advised. "You are
drenched. And you might as well remove that rain-
coat."
Mechanically she took off the outer garment, and
he drew up a chair close to the fire. For a time he
stood looking at her with the same far-off expression
in his eyes.
"Wonder how Tarkin happened to know so much,"
he mumbled.
She continued to gaze into the fire as if she had not
heard him. She shook her head listlessly when he
offered a cigarette, and he lighted one for himself.
"Funny thing about that glove," he remarked. "I
can think of no earthly reason why the person wearing
it should remove it and drop it so close to the—er—
fatal spot. It seems like playing into the hands of
fate."
She sat leaning forward in the chair, her face in her
hands, while the firelight gleamed on her dark head.
Now and then he looked at her queerly, with a grim
smile on his lips.
"Curious scoundrel, that Tarkin. Didn't seem to
know much about blackmailing technique. And he
handled the glove very carelessly. I wonder—"
76


The Man in the Library
He looked down at the floor as if a particularly puz-
zling thought had come to him, then shrugged and
paced up and down the room a few times.
"Anyhow," he muttered, "the person who committed
the murder must be a second Houdini. And Marsh
must have been another." He paused beside her and
looked down at her gleaming head with an uncertain
expression. "I suppose, now that the evidence has
been reduced to ashes, we might as well turn the
majesty of the law loose on the case. We've delayed
rather long."
He waited for her answer, which was only a slow
nod, and then he stepped up to the table and consulted
the telephone book. In a little while he had Mr. Whit-
taker, the prosecuting attorney, on the wire. When he
had made his brief report, he glanced about the room.
For an instant his eyes paused on the fireplace. He
sniffed. There was a suspicious reek in the air.
"A bit stuffy in here," he observed. "Suppose we
open the windows for a bit."
77


CHAPTER VIII
The Law Takes Its Course
The clock in the library had chimed the hour of two
before Seneca Whittaker, the prosecuting attorney, ar-
rived. With him he brought a little retinue consisting
of Doctor Griffin, the county medical examiner, and
two county detectives, Cunningham and Storm.
A long, rangy, dour man was Seneca Whittaker. He
had a gentle face that made one think of a melancholy
lamb, and his voice was soft and a little plaintive. He
always walked and spoke as if he were in a sickroom.
With the exception of the white vest he wore, his
clothing was rather untidy and ill-fitting. The white,
double-buttoned vest, however, was an immaculate and
impressive thing. Whittaker was proud of it. He dis-
played it whenever he could by the simple expedient of
pushing his coat to the sides and thrusting his hands
into his trousers pockets.
Doctor Griffin and the two detectives were all in-
credulity while Harrington told his story. Occasion-
ally the former snickered contemptuously, while the
latter exchanged meaningful glances. Harrington him-
self felt at times as if his recital of facts merited
nothing but disbelief. It was difficult to maintain a
78


The Law Takes Its Course
calm voice while he told of Marsh's sudden and inex-
plicable appearance in the Waynefleet sedan and the
equally sudden and inexplicable murder. Whittaker,
however, looked as if he were of the firm opinion that
this was a world of melodrama in which anything might
happen.
Toward the end of Harrington's story, he got up
from his chair, displayed his ornamental vest to full
advantage, and sauntered over to one of the windows.
The storm had dwindled down to a slow drizzle and a
fitful moan of wind. Whittaker looked down at the
rug at his feet, and then he stooped and touched it
briefly. He waited until Harrington had finished, and
then he walked over to the opposite window and went
through the same performance.
"You've had the windows open, I see," he observed.
"It's been raining in. There's quite a pool on the wind-
ward side."
Harrington gaped at him. It seemed an absurdly
irrelevant observation for Whittaker to make after
listening to such an amazing story. He recalled, how-
ever, that he had opened the windows to clear the room
of the odors of the burnt glove.
"Yes, I opened them," he said. "The room needed
an airing."
"Did it?" asked Whittaker, regarding him slug-
gishly. "Let's see, the wind died down suddenly at
midnight. Not much rain could have blown in after
that. You didn't get back till about half past eleven,
79


The Back-Seat Mttrder
you tell me. Then you must have opened the windows
between half past eleven and midnight."
Harrington nodded vaguely and sought Theresa's
eyes.
"Weren't you cold?" asked Whittaker. "You had
just come in from a long drive in the storm."
Harrington gave a little start. He was just begin-
ning to perceive the drift of Whittaker's remarks.
"The fire was smoking," he casually explained. "It's
better to freeze than to suffocate."
"Oh, smoking, eh?" Whittaker turned his melan-
choly eyes on the fireplace. "Wonder what made it
smoke. It isn't smoking now."
While Harrington watched him with a growing ten-
sion, he walked up to the fireplace and looked down
at the hearthstone. His head drooped lower and lower
from his shoulders. Harrington, tracing his downward
gaze, saw that there were particles of dried mud on
the hearthstone.
"Now, that's queer." Whittaker gave a mirthless
chuckle. "If a fire had been burning, nobody could
have stood as close as this without getting scorched.
If there was no fire, what was the sense in standing
up close?"
Harrington stole a glance in Theresa's direction. He
saw a look of vague alarm on her face. Whittaker, it
seemed, was gradually approaching a ticklish point.
Harrington recalled that he had built up the fire after
Theresa had thrown the glove on the glowing ashes.
80


The Law Takes Its Course
"Now, I wonder what made the smoke," Whittaker
said again in his gentle, plaintive voice. And then,
while two pairs of eyes in the room watched him
anxiously, he took the poker, pushed back the burning
log, and proceeded to rake the embers and ashes. It
was a tedious task, and Whittaker was a patient man.
At length he dragged a small object out on the hearth-
stone.
"Too hot to touch," he said, but he tapped the little
object with the poker, knocking off the coating of ash.
"Why, it's a button! What kind of button, I wonder?
Too small for a vest and not the right shape for a
shirt." He got down on his knees and inspected his
find closely. "It's from a glove," he declared. "A
lady's glove, I should say. And there's a trade-mark
on it. Well, we'll just let it cool off."
He got up, spread his coat apart, exhibiting his vest,
and fixed a gentle, quizzical look on Harrington and
Theresa.
"All right, doc. We'll have a look at the body.
You watch this button, Cunningham. You take a run
through the house, Storm. Better come along, Mr.
Harrington. I think Miss Lanyard needs a rest."
The three, led by Harrington, went out to the ga-
rage. Harrington unlocked and opened the door and
switched on the electric light, then stood aside while
Whittaker walked slowly around the sedan, inspecting
each door and window.
81


The Back-Seat Murder
"You say these doors and windows were locked?"
he questioned.
"All the windows were closed, and three of the doors
were locked from the inside. The front door on the
right was closed but not locked."
"And you were going thirty-five miles an hour?"
"Between thirty-five and forty."
In his sluggish manner, Whittaker inspected the ar-
rangement of the doors.
"Nice little problem," he commented. "Since the
front door on the right was the only one that wasn't
locked, Marsh must have gotten into the car that way."
"But I would have seen him," Harrington protested.
"Besides, how could a man get into a car traveling
over thirty-five miles an hour?"
"I don't know," Whittaker confessed with a sigh.
"All I know is what you told me. You said Marsh
appeared in the rear seat after you had been going
about three quarters of an hour. To appear there, he
had to get in somehow, and there's only one way he
could have gotten in."
"But that's an impossible way."
"Trying to prove yourself a liar, Mr. Harrington?"
Whittaker chuckled in his dreary way. "Well, how
Marsh got in isn't any more mysterious than how the
murderer got at him. All right, doc. Do your stuff."
Doctor Griffin opened the rear door and looked in at
the grewsomely twisted figure in the corner.
"I need more light than that," he declared.
82


The Law Takes Its Course
Whittaker looked around, and his eyes fixed on a
work bench littered with tools of all descriptions.
With Harrington's assistance he cleared off the bench,
and then, by the combined efforts of the three men, the
body was lifted from the car and placed upon it.
"Now," said Whittaker while the examiner went
about his task, "please sit down at the wheel, just as
you were when you first saw Marsh in the car."
Harrington climbed into the front seat, gripped the
wheel, and fixed his eyes on the rear-view mirror. Soon
he saw Whittaker's dour face reflected in the glass.
"Is this how Marsh sat?" the prosecutor inquired.
"Just a little more toward the center."
Whittaker edged over. "Now tell me again what
happened."
"We were going down a hill. When we reached the
bottom, I started to apply the brakes, but they weren't
working well, and Marsh ordered me to go on and take
the road on the left. I knew that wasn't the right road,
and I didn't like the looks of things anyway, so I
stopped the car as soon as I could. We had an argu-
ment, and Marsh pulled a pistol on me."
"You saw the pistol in the mirror?"
"I did. I saw Marsh's face, too. He looked as if
he actually meant to kill me. Oh, yes, I saw murder
in his face. And I had no desire to die just then, so I
went on and turned to the left."
"That's the old, narrow road that leads to the Hill-
top View Hotel?"
83


The Back-Seat Murder
"It is, but I didn't know it then. Looking in the
mirror, I saw Marsh leaning back and smoking a cigar
as if he were actually enjoying himself. I surmised he
meant to kill me, and I was only playing for time. We
reached the top of the hill, and Marsh ordered me to
stop. He asked me if I didn't think it was a good
place to die, and then he said he was going to kill me."
"Why did he want to kill you?"
"Oh, he had an absurd obsession that I was after his
life. He was pressing the pistol against my spine, and
I expected every moment to be my last. The only hope
I could see was to jump for my life, and I doubted if
I could jump fast enough. It seemed I would stand a
better chance if I could give him a jolt of some sort
and distract his mind for a moment. And so, all of a
sudden I turned around and—"
"Show me," said Whittaker.
Harrington changed from narrative to pantomime.
He swung around in the seat and faced the man sitting
behind him.
"Then I asked him why he killed David Mooreland."
The prosecutor's face went blank for a moment.
"Oh, you asked him why he killed David Moore-
land. Did you have any reason for asking him that?"
"Yes, I did. But even if I hadn't had any reason
whatever, the way he looked at me at that moment
was proof enough. I never saw such a look of guilt in
my life. I almost forgot to jump. And then—" Har-
rington's voice wavered. "Then it happened."
84


The Law Takes Its Course
"While you were still turned around in your seat and
facing him?"
"Yes, just as I am facing you now. Marsh died
before my eyes. First his face convulsed in the most
horrible manner. Then his eyes grew round and glassy.
He heaved forward, gave a scream, and then his head
slumped down on his chest. He was dead in a few
minutes."
Whittaker inclined his head and meditated gloomily.
"You didn't see anything of the murderer?"
"Nothing whatever."
"You saw no weapon, no hand reaching out, or any-
thing of that sort?"
Harrington shook his head. Again he had an em-
barrassing feeling that he had told an incredible thing.
He wondered why Whittaker did not denounce him as
a liar. Yet, even now, the death scene was horribly
real and vivid in his mind.
"Tell me," said Whittaker, "did you have any idea
as to whether Marsh was struck from the side or from
the back?"
"From the back, I should say,"—after a moment's
reflection. "That's only a hazy impression, though. I
didn't see the blow struck. All I saw was how Marsh
reacted to it."
Whittaker fixed him with a long, sluggish look.
Over at the bench the examiner was muttering to him-
self as he went about his task. Now Whittaker turned
and inspected the window in the rear, running his fin-
85


The Back-Seat Murder
Whittaker nodded understandingly. "Anyway, the
cigar must have dropped from his mouth when he was
stabbed. Here it is." He reached inside the car,
picked up something, and exhibited a half-smoked
cigar. The band was partly charred, but the name
was still legible. He passed the fragment to Harring-
ton. "Queer, eh?"
Harrington studied the band for a moment.
"'Okay,' " he read, his brows puckering.
"It's a puzzle," said Whittaker. "Okay is a cheap
cigar. You can buy them three for a quarter. Quite
a come-down for a man used to the best. I wonder
why Mr. Marsh smoked good cigars all his life and a
cheap one the day he was murdered. Maybe Storm
can figure it out. Storm has brains. Here he is now."
88


CHAPTER IX
Tracks in the Mud
The garage door opened and Storm, a thickset, flint-
jawed man with shrewd eyes beneath beetling brows,
walked in and reported that he had gone through the
""""house but had found nothing of interest.
"Well, there are a few interesting things here," Whit-
taker told him. "I want your opinion on them, Storm.
First, Mr. Harrington here tells me Marsh was bare-
headed. What do you make of that?"
The detective's bushy brows contracted.
"He wasn't in the habit of going out bareheaded,
was he? Some men think it makes the hair grow."
"No," said Harrington. "I have been here three
weeks, and I never saw him go out without his hat."
"There was quite a gale. Maybe it blew off."
"It couldn't have blown off after he got into the car.
The windows and doors were closed."
Storm bit hard into the cigar he was smoking.
"Well, then I should say that, when he started out,
he had no idea of going anywhere. Maybe he just
stepped out on the porch to look at the weather, and
then he saw or heard something that called him away
from the house, and then—"
89


The Back-Seat Murder
"I have reason to believe," Harrington cut in, "that
he started out for the postoffke in the village."
Storm looked nonplused and stared at his cigar.
Whittaker's gloomy eyes traveled to the bench where
the body lay.
"Marsh was short and thick," he pointed out, ap-
parently apropos of nothing. "About your size,
Storm."
Storm did not appear to see the point of the sug-
gestion. Whittaker's eyes went from the bench to the
rear of the car.
"This car has a high back window—higher than
most," he observed. "Even so, Marsh's head, when he
sat erect, would hardly touch it. Of course, with his
hat on—"
He paused and looked hopefully at Storm, but the
detective was still puzzled.
"It seems Marsh was afraid for his life—expected
somebody to take a pot shot at him or something,"
Whittaker added.
Storm drew up his head. "I've got it! With his
hat on, Marsh could be seen by anybody who chanced
to glance at the rear window. But he couldn't be seen
with his hat off."
"See?" said Whittaker solemnly, nodding in Har-
rington's direction. "I knew Storm would hit it.
Storm has brains. Of course, Marsh could have pulled
down the back curtain or put his hat beside him on the
seat, but a man doesn't always think of such simple
90


Tracks in the Mud
things. Now, here's another hard one, Storm. Marsh
was in the habit of smoking good cigars, but he smoked
a cheap one on this trip—a three- for-a-quarter. Here
is what's left of it. I found it inside the car. How
come?"
With a shrewd expression, Storm studied the frag-
ment. He meditated for a long time, while Whittaker
gazed at him expectantly out of his dour eyes.
"I suppose a poor cigar is better than none," Whit-
taker suggested after a long wait.
Storm looked up, and his eyes indicated that he
was on the track of an idea.
"So if a man can't find his favorite brand," Whit-
taker went on after a while, "he'll take any brand he
can get."
A grin broke out on Storm's face.
"I think I've got it," he said proudly. "Between the
time he left the house and the time he turned up in
the car, Marsh was in a place that sold cigars, but not
his favorite brand, and so he bought what he could
get."
Whittaker appeared to consider the idea.
"I believe Storm is right," he told Harrington. "I
don't know what I'd do without Storm's brain. You
give him a problem, and he'll give you the solution
before you can bat an eye."
"And now," said Storm importantly, "all we've got
to do is to find a place in the neighborhood that sells
the Okay but does not sell Marsh's own brand, and
9i


The Back-Seat Murder
we'll know something about his movements before the
tragedy."
"Why, of course," said Whittaker admiringly. "I'd
never have thought of that. I'm lucky to have a brainy
man on my staff. We'll do that very thing. But
first—" He glanced dejectedly at the car. "But first
it might be a good idea to try to discover how Marsh
got into the car and how the murderer got at him.
Well tackle the first part of the problem first. How
did Marsh get in? Mr. Harrington, would you mind
sitting down at the wheel again? I want to reconstruct
the scene."
Harrington complied, and Whittaker saw that all the
windows were closed, then turned up the inside handles
on the two rear doors and the left front door and
slammed them shut. The right front door, which had
a special lock, he merely closed.
"There you are, Storm. Imagine the car going over
thirty-five miles an hour. How did Marsh get in?"
Storm walked slowly around the car, scrutinizing
every detail of the arrangement of doors and windows.
He paused before the right front door.
"I've seen people in the movies jump from one mov-
ing car to another," he remarked, "but it looked phony
to me. If Marsh did that—" He gave an incredulous
laugh. "But Marsh couldn't do such a thing."
"But suppose he did?" Whittaker prompted.
"It's supposing the impossible. But, if he did, he
must have landed on the running board and gotten in
92


Tracks in the Mud
through this door. There was no other way he could
get in. And it's a sure thing he couldn't have gotten
in this way without Mr. Harrington seeing him. No,
that's out. It couldn't happen in a million years."
"Well, what then?"
Storm walked around to the rear, tested the back
window, shook the spare tire and, standing on the
bumperette, looked out over the top.
"The window is tight," he said. "Anyhow, no grown
man could squeeze through. The top hasn't been tam-
pered with. Couldn't be done, anyhow, without the
driver noticing it. No, sir, I see no way Marsh could
have gotten inside this car."
"But he did get in, and it seems the murderer did,
too."
Storm shook his head and confessed that the prob-
lem was too deep for him. Whittaker looked disap-
pointed.
"Have you no idea at all, Storm?"
"Yes, I have. One of two things happened. Either
Marsh was in the car when it started, or else Mr. Har-
rington has been lying to us. I wouldn't be too sure
about that goof."
He spoke in a confidential undertone that was in-
audible to Harrington, sitting behind closed doors and
windows. Whittaker walked around to the right front
door and opened it.
"Storm says he is stumped," he announced.
93


The Back-Seat Murder
"So am I," said Harrington, climbing down from the
seat.
"Storm thinks," Whittaker added, "that either
Marsh was in the car all the time, or else you have
been spoofing us."
Harrington shrugged. "Oh, I expected that."
"Did you stop anywhere along the road?" Storm
asked.
"Only at the garage. I had to leave the battery to
be recharged, and the man—I believe his name is Luke
Garbo—gave me another battery to use in the mean-
time."
Storm fixed him with a hard and suspicious gaze.
"I know Luke Garbo," he said. "A little queer, but
a first-class mechanic." He paused for a moment and
glanced at the car. "By the way, the battery of a
Waynefleet is in the back, isn't it?"
"Yes, under the rear foot board."
"So if Marsh was hiding in the car when you drove
away from Peekacre—and that's a hard if to swallow
—Luke Garbo would have found him when he changed
the battery."
"He would," said Harrington with conviction, "and
I'm sure I would have seen him. No, I don't think
you will find the solution there."
"I'm afraid we won't find it anywhere else," was
Whittaker's gloomy remark. "Did you get out of the
car while Garbo worked on it?"
"No, I sat at the wheel all the time, but I looked
94


Tracks in the Mud
back occasionally. I'm sure there wasn't another
human being about."
"How can you be sure? Did you look around?"
"Oh, I suppose I did, in an abstracted sort of way.
Several curious things had happened, and I had a lot
of things on my mind."
"So, it's possible, isn't it," Whittaker suggested,
"that Marsh slipped into the car after Garbo had fin-
ished his work and gone inside?"
Harrington tried to recall all the details of his brief
stop at Garbo's garage. He shook his head.
"Why should Marsh do that? Besides, I'm sure he
didn't. I remember now that Garbo himself closed the
rear doors. He remarked there was a storm coming.
Garbo is a melancholy individual. He remained stand-
ing as I drove off, and I heard him say something to
himself about being here to-day and gone to-morrow."
"Yes," said Storm, "that's one of his favorite bright
cracks." He gazed darkly and narrowly at Harring-
ton. "Well, this is how it looks to me. The only place
where Marsh could have slipped into the car was at
Garbo's garage. It couldn't have happened anywhere
else."
"And it didn't happen there," said Harrington with
emphasis. "I didn't see him until three-quarters of
an hour later."
Storm fixed him with a gaze that was frankly in-
credulous.
95


Tracks in the Mud
The moist ground showed a number of indentations
extending in two long lines.
"Tire marks," said Harrington. He bent over and
studied the marks carefully. "These were made by
the Waynefleet. Mr. Marsh had a new set of tires
put on last week. That's why the marks show so
plainly."
Whittaker's flashlight made a long, circular sweep.
"And they are the only fresh marks I can see," he
declared. "Let's move on."
They followed the two tracks until they came to a
point where the surface had been cluttered up by foot-
steps on one side.
"This is where I stopped," Harrington explained.
"Here you can see where Garbo stamped back and
forth while he worked."
Whittaker focused his light on the muddled cluster
of footprints. They occupied a narrow space, and
from them extended several straight lines reaching to
the garage and back.
"Let's see," said Whittaker. "I suppose Garbo
came out to see what was the trouble, and then he
had to go back and fetch the other battery. And this
is where he worked." Again he looked down at the
conglomeration of footmarks. "The imprints are all
in one group, and they are all on one side of the tracks.
Now let me find a clear one."
He picked out a clear print and measured it care-
97


Tracks in the Mud
the much-trampled spot where the car had stood, and
shook his head.
"I—I don't get the point, sir."
"Well, let's see. Garbo walks from the garage to
the car to see what was the trouble. Then he goes
back to the garage for the new battery. Then he car-
ries the new battery back to the car and installs it.
And then, it would seem, he carries the old battery
back to the garage, and returns to the car once more
to see his customer off and make sure that the car is
starting all right. And then— But I think that's all.
There aren't any more tracks to account for."
Harrington felt a quiver of sudden excitement.
Storm stood stonily still for a moment, gazing rigidly
at the tracks, and then his sturdy shoulders jerked
upward.
"Holy smoke!" he exclaimed. "According to that,
Garbo never went back to the garage."
"I believe you are right," said Whittaker, as if the
thought had just now occurred to him. "That's what
I call brainwork, Storm. No, since there are three
tracks from the garage to the car, and only two in the
other direction, Garbo couldn't have gone back to the
garage."
"But where did he go?" Storm demanded after a
long pause.
"Nowhere, it seems, unless he went straight up.
Let's go in and ask him."
99


CHAPTER X
A Purchase of Cigars
Owing to the lateness of the hour, it took a great deal
of pounding to arouse the garage proprietor, who
lived in the rear of his business establishment. At
length a light fell through a window, then came the
sound of a bolt being withdrawn, and finally Luke
Garbo, only half dressed, showed a sleepy face at the
door.
"Want gas?"
"No," said Whittaker, his gloomy eyes making a
comprehensive sweep of the office and noting a little
refreshment and tobacco counter at one side. "We
want a nice smoke."
Garbo rubbed his eyes and went behind the counter,
apparently not sufficiently awake as yet to think it
strange that he should have been aroused in the dead
of night to satisfy such a trifling requirement.
"What kind?" he asked with a yawn.
"Cuban Queen."
"Sorry, but I ain't got that one." Garbo opened
his little showcase, containing a modest stock of only
three or four brands. "But here's a right nice smoke."
He held out a box, and Whittaker took a cigar and
ioo


A Purchase of Cigars
inspected the label. "'Okay,' " he read. "All right,
we'll try it. Have one, Mr. Harrington? Help your-
self, Storm."
Each man took a cigar and lighted it, and Garbo
returned the box to the case. He was fully awake now,
and he fixed a look of pleased surprise on Mr. Storm.
"Why, hello, Mr. Storm. Didn't recognize you at
first. Travelin' pretty late, ain't you?"
"Business," said Storm briefly. "Here's somebody
else I think you know." He indicated Harrington.
The two men looked at each other. Without his
mechanic's cap, and with the grease removed from his
face, Garbo seemed quite a different man from the
individual in oil-spattered overalls who had attended
to the Waynefleet sedan.
"Why, of course!" he exclaimed. "You're the
gentleman who came here yesterday in Mr. Marsh's
car. Did she run all right?"
"Splendidly," Harrington assured him.
"And this," Storm proceeded with the introductions,
"is Mr. Whittaker, the county attorney."
Garbo seemed quite impressed.
"How is business?" Whittaker inquired pleasantly.
"Rotten. That new state road has taken all my
trade away. You don't happen to know anybody who
wants to buy a nice little garage?"
"I can't think of anybody just at present." Whit-
taker looked appreciatively at his cigar. "Nice smoke.
Sell many of this brand?"
101


The Back-Seat Murder
"Just a few." Garbo heaved a dolorous sigh. "I *
don't sell much of anything. Most of the people who
stop here want only oil or water, and they ain't much
profit in them things."
"No, I suppose not. You didn't happen to sell one
of these cigars yesterday?"
Garbo looked as if he thought the question rather
odd. After a moment's thought he shook his head.
"Try to remember, Mr. Garbo. Didn't some one
come in and ask for Cuban Queen and then, when he
found you didn't have it, buy one of these instead?"
"No," said Garbo, a ponderous look in his honest
eyes. "I didn't sell no cigars yesterday. Business was
worse than usual, and that's sayin' a mouthful. Why,
I had only one customer all day, and that was this
gentleman here."
There was an exchange of furtive glances between
Whittaker and Storm.
"We want to ask you about that," said the latter.
"Remember how many trips you made between the
garage and the car while Mr. Harrington was here?"
This time Garbo looked both uneasy and mystified.
"Say, what's up? You're askin' some queer ques-
tions." He swallowed hard, and a look of alarm came
into his worried face. "Anybody dead?"
"Why should you suppose that?"
"I'm not supposin', but life is uncertain. We're
here to-day and gone to-morrow."
"Well, we're here to-night, anyhow," said Storm
102


A Purchase of Cigars
practically. "Now think hard. How many trips did
you make?"
Garbo considered, but his mind seemed to be on
the question itself rather than the answer.
"Oh, I guess about three or four."
"There are tracks outside," Storm told him, "that
show you made three trips from the garage to the car,
and only two in the other direction."
Garbo gaped uncomprehendingly, and then a look
of astonishment came into his broad face.
"Why, that can't be. Three trips out and two in?
If that was so, then I'd be standing out there now."
"You certainly would, Garbo."
The man looked acutely puzzled, and it seemed to
Harrington that his perplexity was genuine. For that
matter, the discrepancy as to the tracks was only an
added complication. It did not explain how Marsh
had gotten into the car or how he had been killed.
"I don't get it," Garbo confessed. "No-siree, I don't
get it a-tall. Must be a mistake somewhere."
Storm seemed inclined to press the point further, but
Whittaker forestalled him with a question.
"You didn't see anything of Mr. Marsh yester-
day?"
"Mr. Marsh? No, I ain't seen him since last Thurs-
day, almost a week ago."
"Just one more question, Garbo, and then well let
you go back to bed." Whittaker pulled thoughtfully
103


The Back-Seat Murder
on his cigar. "Was there any one else about when
you worked on Mr. Marsh's car?"
"No, sir. Not a soul."
"Would it have been possible for anybody to slip
into the car unnoticed by you and Mr. Harrington?"
"Eh?" Stark amazement gathered in Garbo's eyes.
"Say, what in the name of Sam Hill—"
"Please answer my question, Garbo."
The man heaved a long breath.
"How could anybody slip in when they wasn't no-
body around? It couldn't be done, anyhow. I closed
the doors myself just as Mr. Harrington started up the
engine, and I happened to look inside. No, sir, they
was nobody in that car but Mr. Harrington. I could
take oath on that."
Whittaker smiled as if entirely satisfied.
"Thanks, Garbo. We won't bother you any more.
Too bad about Mr. Marsh, wasn't it?"
The man started, then stood rigid, staring, with eye-
lids fluttering.
"Eh? What—what are you sayin' about Mr.
Marsh?"
"He is dead—murdered."
Garbo stood stonily still. Only his lips and Adam's
apple worked.
"Murdered?" he exclaimed huskily. He swallowed
with difficulty. "And only yesterday I was sayin' that
he didn't look as if he was long for this world. Here
104


A Purchase of Cigars
to-day and gone to-morrow. That's how it goes. Who
done it?"
"That's what we are trying to find out. Good night,
Mr. Garbo."
He walked out, followed by Harrington and Storm,
the latter giving the garage-keeper a long, dark glance
in parting.
"I don't like that goof," he declared when they were
outside. "Something queer about him. And it's funny
that he stocks Okay cigars but not Cuban Queen."
"Think so?" said Whittaker mildly. "Well, maybe
you are right. It strikes me, though, that you may
find a good many places within forty miles of here
that sell only cheap cigars. A cigar like Cuban Queen
would go stale on Garbo's hands, and that would mean
quite a loss."
Whittaker stopped a few steps from the garage and
swung his torch over the footmarks and tire tracks.
"And you had him up a tree about these tracks,"
Storm pointed out. "You knocked him dumb."
Whittaker reflected while he slowly moved his torch
over the maze of markings.
"Oh, not up a tree exactly. He was simply puzzled,
and he was puzzled like an honest man. A dishonest
man would have tried to brazen out of it and lie.
Garbo didn't do that."
"Because he couldn't think of a lie quick enough."
"Think so, Storm? If Garbo had anything to do
with this murder, he is a very clever man, and a clever


The Back-Seat Murder
man would have come right back at me with a good
lie. For instance," and Whittaker flashed his torch on
the rear end of the Waynefleet, "Garbo might have
told us that, just as Mr. Harrington started the car,
he jumped on to the rear bumper and rode a little way,
jumping off just before the car picked up speed."
"He might, but he would have to explain why he
did it."
"Maybe the spare tire chain was dragging, or maybe
the rear license tag had come loose, so Garbo hopped
on and fixed it while the car was running. Or maybe
he had an errand at that little shack where the drive-
way comes out on the main road and decided he might
as well hop on and ride. You see, a clever man, if
dishonest, would have been able to think of several
explanations."
"But, even so, he had to return to the garage, and
he couldn't do that without leaving tracks."
"Let's see." Whittaker made a wide arc with his
torch. "See how the road swings out in a half circle?
If Garbo rode to that little shack, for instance, he
would have made a short cut, and that would have
brought him around by the hard gravel path to the
other side of the house. You see, a clever man could
have lied out of it. Doesn't it strike you that way,
Storm?"
"Well, he might," was the grudging admission.
"And, anyway," said Whittaker, "this doesn't ex-
106


A Purchase of Cigars
plain how Marsh got into the car or how the murderer
got at him."
They piled into the Waynefleet, and Harrington
drove back through the early morning drizzle. As
they approached the house, a single light, surrounded
by a wet stucco surface, stabbed the darkness. He
thought of Theresa, waiting in the library, and of the
glove of which nothing now remained but a button.
And then, by a circuitous route, his thoughts went to
the strange and almost forgotten letter which was still
in his pocket.
The two officials alighted at the door, and he drove
the car into the garage. He was almost certain he had
left the light burning, yet the building was dark. As
the glare of the head lamps illuminated the interior,
he cast a swift, involuntary glance at the grewsome
figure stretched out on the bench. He shut off the
motor, mechanically reached out his hand to switch
off the headlights, but something checked him—a swift,
furtive movement alongside a number of packing cases
stored in the rear.
For a moment he sat rigid, watching. Then, leaving
the head lamps on, he alighted. Marsh's pistol was
still in his pocket, and his hand moved toward it as
he went to the rear. Now he could detect neither
sound nor movement, but a brief glimpse of an under-
sized scurrying figure lingered vividly in his mind.
He stood in front of the tier of packing cases, listen-
ing. All he heard was the patter of rain on the roof
107


The Back-Seat Murder
and a plaintively moaning wind in the trees outside.
Suddenly he reached out and jerked the tier aside,
then grabbed a squirming and whimpering individual
by the coat collar and pulled him out into the sharp
light of the head lamps.
An exclamation of surprise and disgust broke from
his lips.
It was Samuel B. Tarkin, the blackmailer.
108


CHAPTER XI
The Glove Button
Seeing that he was cornered, the man grinned ingrati-
atingly, exhibiting several gold teeth. Harrington
shook him vigorously, making his bald head waggle as
if insecurely attached to his spine. There was a scratch
across his cheek, and he looked thoroughly disheveled.
"Oh, still here, Tarkin? What are you up to now?"
"Stop shaking me," the little man whined, his face
looking doubly unwholesome in the glare of the head
lamps. "How can I talk if you dislocate my jaw?"
"Make it short," Harrington advised, jerking him
out on the floor. "What are you doing here?"
Tarkin pulled himself together and arranged his
rumpled clothing. Out of the corner of a rheumy eye
he glanced at the dead man on the bench.
"Now look here. No use being rough. You don't
like me. You want to wring my neck. That's all
right. I'm used to it. You see, I'm not what you
might call a popular sort of person. Just the same,
you like Miss Lanyard, don't you? A bit sweet on
her, eh? Of course, that isn't her name, but—"
"Shut up!" Harrington growled. Again he reached
for Tarkin's neck, but the little man scuttled away.
109


The Glove Button
ting the button. And then— Well, just look at this."
With a self-satisfied chuckle, Tarkin drew his hand
away from his vest pocket and exhibited the glove
button.
"What am I bid?" he inquired. "Remember—no
rough stuff, or I'll yell at the top of my voice, and
that won't be so good. How much?"
"A good, sound kick." Harrington's hand, inspired
by a sickening disgust, moved quickly and seized Tar-
kin by the throat, choking off an outcry. With his
other hand he pried the blackmailer's fist open, dis-
lodged the button, and then a vigorous kick sent the
little man spinning across the floor.
"Now get out of my sight," he snapped.
With whimpers and grunts the man steadied him-
self. His rheumy eyes glared balefully.
"You'll be sorry for that," he snarled.
"Get out," said Harrington thickly, dropping the
button into his pocket, "or I may forget that you are
only a puny, disgusting rat."
"All right," said Tarkin sullenly. "I'll go, but you'll
be sorry. The button isn't everything. There are
other things. What about the letter Marsh wrote yes-
terday?"
Harrington stared for a moment, again marveling at
the scope of the man's information. Instinctively his
hand went toward his inside breast pocket.
"Not so good, eh?" Tarkin, misinterpreting his ex-
pression, giggled in spiteful glee. "I know all about


The Back-Seat Murder
that letter. It'd make interesting reading for Whit-
taker, and it'd make things look pretty bad for you
and Miss Lanyard. Both of you are in deep even now.
But the letter—"
"The letter," Harrington interrupted, restraining
himself with difficulty, "was mailed yesterday by Mr.
Marsh, and Whittaker will have it in the morning."
"Are you sure of that? Maybe Marsh meant to
mail it, but he didn't." The blackmailer's eyes slanted
toward the body on the bench. "That letter may get
you into bad trouble."
Harrington gazed narrowly into his unwholesome
face. Tarkin's information seemed to encompass a
great many things. It was possible that he was stating
the truth about the letter, that Marsh had not mailed
it. Harrington shrugged.
"The letter doesn't interest me," he said coldly. "I
have a copy in my pocket. It shall be delivered to
Whittaker at once."
The blackmailer's face fell for a moment, and then
a shrewd, golden grin parted his crooked lips.
"You've been a long time delivering it—eh, Mr.
Harrington? You've been carrying it about with you
since early yesterday afternoon, and you haven't deliv-
ered it yet. Come on now, 'fess up. Maybe you meant
to hand it over to Whittaker, and maybe you didn't.
If you did, it was only because you thought Whittaker
would get the original in the morning and that you
wouldn't gain anything by tearing it up. Well. Whit-
112


The Glove Button
taker won't get the original, so there's no reason why
you should give him the copy. He'll never be the
wiser. It's a secret between you and me."
Harrington's face darkened. The thought of sharing
a secret with this loathsome blackmailer was revolting.
"Think it over," said Tarkin with an insinuating
grin. "You and Miss Lanyard are already in bad.
You're here under phony names and false pretenses.
The way the murder was done, it looks as if only you
could have done it. Maybe they'll say you and Miss
Lanyard cooked it up together. And now this letter of
Marsh's on top of everything else. Not so good, eh?"
Harrington tried to clear his mind for sober thinking,
but Tarkin's sickening nearness made it hard. He
wondered just how deeply Theresa Lanyard was in-
volved. Certainly the circumstances had an ugly
aspect. The thought of guilt did not enter his mind,
but the innocent sometimes suffer grievously at the
hands of the law.
"So we'll just keep our little secret between our-
selves," Tarkin suggested, shrewdly cocking a rheumy
eye. "Of course, secrets are expensive."
"So it seems." Harrington's lip curled. "Where is
the letter?"
"Now, would I be likely to tell, after the way you've
been treating me? Tell me what you're willing to pay,
and maybe we'll do business."
Harrington fixed him with a dark, narrow gaze.
"3


The Back-Seat Murder
"You are a most thorough-going blackmailer, Tar-
kin. Keep the letter and take this."
He swung out his foot, and Tarkin would have re-
ceived a vigorous kick if he had not jumped just in
time. Like a frightened cur he scuttled across the
garage to the door, flung a whining imprecation over
his shoulder, and then he straightened up of a sudden
and gazed rigidly toward the house.
"Something is up," he muttered. "Look at all those
lights."
Harrington restrained an impulse to kick him out of
his sight, and stepped up beside him. There were
lights all over the house, and additional lights appeared
even as he stood staring through the drizzle. All at
once, it seemed, the house had become a scene of
bustling activity.
"That's queer," said Tarkin. "Wonder what— Oh,
of course! They're looking for Miss Lanyard. Not
so good, eh? But they won't find her. Not a chance!"
Harrington gave him a level look, then gripped him
firmly by the collar.
"Out with it!" he said sharply, giving the man a
vigorous shaking. "Where is Miss Lanyard?"
"Say, lay off me, can't you? Didn't I tell you Miss
Lanyard went to powder her nose? She must have
gone a long way to find a powder puff. Women are
queer."
Harrington shook him again, and so soundly this
114


The Glove Button
time that the blackmailer's head struck the doorpost.
A stream of bleating cries poured from his lips.
"Where is she?" Harrington thundered.
"Let go of me, and maybe I'll tell you." The little
man squirmed and gasped for breath.
"If you have been up to deviltry—" Harrington
began threateningly.
"Ah, forget itl I can't help it if Miss Lanyard
suddenly decides to take a walk, can I?"
"A walk?" Harrington's eyes bored into his sallow,
twitching face. "Did Miss Lanyard go out for a
walk?"
"Well, not a walk, exactly. Call it a run, and you'll
hit it. The last I saw of her she was going like mad."
"Which way?"
"How should I know? Women don't tell me their
secrets."
"You lie, Tarkin! You know. Out with it!"
The blackmailer shrank away from the reach of his
hand and peered at him with a shrewd and sullen
expression.
"Yes, maybe I know," he admitted. "Maybe I
could tell you. It depends. What's the information
worth to you?"
Harrington glanced at the lighted windows across
the wide, dried-up lawn. A mutter of supreme disgust
broke through his compressed lips, and then he flung
himself on the blackmailer and, seizing him by the
throat, started choking him unmercifully. Tarkin
"5


The Back-Seat Murder
squirmed and kicked, and a stream of gurgling sounds
issued from his mouth.
"Will you tell?" Harrington demanded.
"Yes—stop I" The clutch eased, and the man, shak-
ing in every limb, gulped air into his lungs. "All right,
I'll tell. It wouldn't have hurt you to pay me a little
something, but since you won't—" He broke off at a
menacing gesture from Harrington. "Miss Lanyard
handed me a note for you," he added sullenly.
"She handed you a note?" Harrington asked sus-
piciously.
"Well, with the servants asleep, there was nobody
else to hand it to, and Miss Lanyard left in a hurry.
Here it is."
He drew a folded note from his pocket. For a
moment, as he took it, Harrington studied the man's
unwholesome countenance. Then he unfolded the note
and read the penciled scrawl:
Go with this man. Remember the
ash pile.
Theresa Lanyard.
Twice Harrington read the brief note, and again he
looked suspiciously at the blackmailer.
"You know what this note says?"
"Sure I do. It's short and to the point. But that
stuff about the ash pile— I don't get that."
Thoughtfully Harrington studied the note again.
He knew Theresa's handwriting. This was either
116


The Glove Button
genuine or a very clever forgery. The allusion to the
ash pile seemed to put the stamp of authenticity on it,
however. Night before last—it seemed years ago now
—he had stood with Theresa beside the ash pile, and
there they had entered into a partnership and pledged
themselves to bring Mooreland's murderer to justice.
Tarkin could know nothing about that, no matter how
much else he knew. Theresa, doubtless, had intended
the allusion to the ash pile as a sort of countersign.
"All right," said Harrington curtly. "Get in the
car."
"I think we walk," Tarkin rejoined. "It isn't far.
With the roads wet, the car could be traced, and that
wouldn't be so good."
Harrington regarded him sharply. The man was
doubtless right, but Tarkin's every word and look in-
spired him with distrust. He stepped up close to the
cringing man.
"Tarkin," he said, "if this is a trick, I'll kill you.
Now come on."
With a bleating protestation of good faith, the man
started out into the drizzle, and Harrington followed,
keeping his hand on the pocket where he kept the
pistol. Tarkin moved with a slinking gait, his head
bobbing up and down, muttering to himself. He fol-
lowed no path, and he seemed to set the course over
hard and rocky ground that was not likely to show
footmarks.
For a quarter of an hour they walked in silence.
117


The Glove Button
J
that each step might lead him into a trap. There were
no lights on this side of the house. Like a blind man
he picked his way in the blackness until he came up
against a wall, and then he fumbled back and forth
for a door. At length he found the button and pressed
it.
Then came a long wait. He stirred uneasily. He
was drenched, and tired besides, and his nerves were
jangling. Time and again he rang. There were no
sounds anywhere, only the drip-drip of the rain and
the sighing of the wind, and the house seemed wrapped
in a deathlike stillness. Yet, there must be life within,
for he had seen a light as they approached. It was
curious, though, that no one answered his repeated
rings.
He felt a sudden stab of uneasiness. Suppose that
the note had been forged after all, in spite of the inti-
mate allusion to the ash pile? Suppose the whole thing
had been a clever trick to lure him away from Theresa
at a time when she was in desperate need of capable
assistance? Suppose—
"Tarkin!" he cried sharply.
No reply came, and he knew then that the black-
mailer had vanished. And in the same instant the
door came soundlessly open.
119


CHAPTER XII
Iron Bars
"Who's there?" a timid voice asked, and in the dark-
ness Harrington saw the blurred glint of a face. It
was a strange reception, he thought.
"Harrington—Leonard Harrington," he replied.
A breath of relief sounded, but the man in the open-
ing seemed to look out over Harrington's shoulder to
assure himself that there were no prowlers in the back-
ground.
"I'm a nervous man," he confessed. "I have a
horror of burglars. Please come in."
He led the way, and Harrington, tingling with a
variety of emotions, followed. They entered a library,
a large, pleasant room. The rugs and the, wall decora-
tions had a soothing quality, and the log fire had a
cheerful effect.
Harrington looked at his host. He was a tall, gray
man with pink cheeks. His shoulders had a tendency
to stoop, and he had a habit of holding his head a
trifle to one side. He had alert, nervous eyes and
looked like a man who would jump at the falling of a
leaf. A thick bang of gray hair falling down over his
left temple gave him a ludicrously rakish aspect.
120


Iron Bars
"I'm Martin Carmody," he announced as he closed
the door. "Glad to see you, Harrington. It's a great
relief to have you here."
While Harrington watched him curiously, he went to
each of the three windows and, raising the shade for
an instant, looked out. It became apparent, as he did
so, that each window was protected by iron bars on
the outside.
"Burglars are the bane of my life," he admitted.
"You are not afraid of burglars, are you, Harrington?"
"Oh, not particularly." Harrington smiled. He sus-
pected that Carmody had a nervous dread of a number
of things.
Carmody, his head aslant, inspected his tall, slender
figure with its suggestion of quiet strength, and the
inspection seemed to reassure him.
"Where is Miss Lanyard?" Harrington asked.
"In there." The older man indicated one of the two
doors leading from the room. "She is resting now.
The poor girl is exhausted."
"She sent me a note. Didn't she wish to see me?"
"I know about the note. She told me. Yes, she
wants to see you, but first of all she wanted to get you
out of harm's way."
"Harm's way?" There was a tinge of suspicion in
Harrington's ash-gray eyes.
"Well, out of Whittaker's way." Carmody chuckled
uneasily. "It's the same thing. Just turn your mind
back over that distressing episode in the car." He
121


The Back-Seat Murder
shivered nervously, as if the subject were extremely
distasteful. "Theresa gave me your version of the
affair. According to your own statement, it would
have been a physical impossibility for anybody but
yourself to commit the murder. That's correct, isn't
it?"
"Substantially, if we judge by appearances."
"There you are I Whittaker would have placed you
under arrest before morning. You couldn't blame him.
Well, that's what Theresa wanted to prevent."
Harrington's fumbling fingers fastened absently on
the little button in his vest pocket.
"Why?" he asked pointedly.
A pale humorous flicker showed in Carmody's eyes.
"Maybe she likes you. Maybe she thinks nice men
are so few that it's a shame to put one of them in jail.
Anyway, didn't you two pledge a sort of partnership
night before last? Your fates are linked, so to speak.
If one of you is dragged off to jail, the other will soon
follow. Theresa has been drawn into this ugly mess
as deeply as you have."
"Oh, not quite. We may both be under suspicion,
but I'm under graver suspicion than Miss Lanyard."
"You say that because you don't know all the facts."
"Perhaps so, but I can't see that we gain anything
by running away. That's a confession of guilt."
"What would you gain by going to jail?"
Harrington meditated. There was a pucker of doubt
between his eyes.
122


Iron Bars
"I infer Miss Lanyard has told you everything?"
"Everything. I'm an old friend of the family. I
know, of course, that Lanyard isn't her name any more
than yours is Harrington."
"What do you know about Samuel B. Tarkin?"
The older man grew a little confused of a sudden.
"He—er—proved an efficient guide, didn't he?"
"Oh, yes, but it surprises me that Miss Lanyard
should entrust her messages to a blackmailer. And he
vanished most mysteriously after leading me to your
door."
"He probably realized that you didn't relish his
company."
Harrington considered. The explanation, as far as it
went, seemed adequate enough, but there was still an
element of doubt in his mind. His eyes went to the
door at the side of the library.
"If you don't mind, I'll just look in for a moment."
He walked deliberately to the door, opened it
quietly, and glanced into a smaller room. The light
from the library reading lamp fell through the door-
way and revealed Theresa fast asleep on a sofa, with
a rug thrown over her. He closed the door and turned
away.
"Satisfied?" Carmody inquired. "Do you know, I
rather like a man who doesn't take too much for
granted. One can't be too careful. I envy Theresa.
It's wonderful to be able to lie down and sleep after
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Iron Bars
"Real motives?" Harrington laughed dazedly. The
suggestion was startling to the point of absurdity. "If
I had a real motive, wouldn't I know it?"
"Not necessarily."
Harrington gasped. Of a sudden he wondered if
Carmody's brain was twisted. But no, the man looked
quite sane, and he seemed to enjoy the mystification
he had created.
"You had a motive for killing Marsh," he insisted,
"and Whittaker will soon find it. Let's see—that
makes four." He counted on his fingers. "Stoddard,
Theresa, myself and you. I suppose it occurs to you
that, out of these four, you are the only one who was
with Marsh when he died?"
"Oh, yes, that's obvious. But this motive you speak
of—"
"Just wait and see. You will soon understand. The
police— By the way, there's one I forgot to men-
tion—Roscoe Carstairs. That makes five."
"Roscoe Carstairs?" Harrington echoed. "I've
never heard of him."
"But maybe you've seen him. A thickset man with
a very white face—the whitest face in the world?"
"Thickset and white-faced? That's a striking com-
bination. No, I'm sure I never saw him."
"Perhaps you will." Carmody looked as if the mere
thought of Roscoe Carstairs inspired him with dread.
"Well, in spite of the circumstances, and in spite of
"5


The Back-Seat Murder
what the police think, my guess is that Carstairs is the
murderer."
Harrington regarded him intently. Apparently he
had spoken from a strong conviction.
"You seem to know a great deal about this murder."
Carmody was silent for a little. His timid eyes
moved from the floor to the door behind which The-
resa was sleeping.
"I know human nature," he declared, "and I know
a great deal about Marsh's private history. The solu-
tion of murder mysteries is generally found in a man's
private affairs."
Harrington nodded thoughtfully. Carmody's in-
comprehensible statement, attributing a motive for the
murder to himself, was still agitating his mind. At
length he shrugged.
"Five suspects!" he mused. "But does that make
the list complete? What about Tarkin? And what
about Luke Garbo? Their actions have been rather
peculiar."
Carmody chuckled morosely.
"If you want to put all peculiar people in jail, you
will have to build a lot more jails. No, I'm still betting
on Roscoe Carstairs."
Harrington gazed at him pointedly, but Carmody
did not seem in the mood for explanations. With his
quick, nervous gait, and with head aslant, he walked
about the room, glancing uneasily to all sides. At
length he paused and took a cigarette from a silver
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The Back-Seat Murder
sound. And then, even as he looked at it, the door
came slowly open. A man stepped in, closed it behind
him, then stood with his back to it. He was a thickset
man with rather blunt features and an unnaturally
white face.
Carmody shrank back and stared at the intruder.
His face and shoulders sagged as if sudden paralysis
had seized him.
"Carstairsl" he exclaimed in a sickly voice.
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Roscoe Carstairs
free his arm, but a sharp, stabbing pain made him
desist.
"Don't get excited," Carstairs advised. "She is only
frightened. I told them not to hurt her."
Harrington caught a glimpse of Carmody's face. It
was palsied with fright, and he knew he could expect
no assistance from that quarter.
"I supposed she would scream," Carstairs remarked.
"Women always do. That's why I came in here to
act as buffer."
Again Harrington tried to jerk his arm away from
the clutch of the soft, prehensile fingers. A twinge of
excruciating pain drew a groan from his lips. He
swung his left hand back to drive a blow into Car-
stairs' white face, and in an instant his entire body
was convulsed with agony.
"Sorry," said Carstairs gently, "but you force me
to hurt you."
Harrington groaned with despair and physical tor-
ment. It seemed that a mere playful twist of Carstairs'
fingers was enough to inflict unbearable torture. He
listened tensely while the blood pounded in his head.
There were no more sounds now. The room behind
the door was ominously quiet. What had happened to
Theresa?
Carstairs' grip on his arm relaxed. He felt suddenly
weak, as if those twinges of racking agony had drained
his strength. For a moment the room blurred and
heaved, but he could still see Carstairs' white, smiling
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The Back-Seat Murder
face. And then the face seemed to fade out and vanish.
There came a sound like the closing of a door.
After a moment of dizziness he stared about him.
There was no one in the room but Carmody and him-
self, and the older man stood gaping at him, transfixed
with horror.
"Where did he go?" Harrington cried.
Carmody pointed a shaking finger at the door on
the side of the room. Harrington rushed out. The
sofa on which Theresa had lain was empty. A white
curtain was fluttering before an open window. With
an agonizing sense of helplessness he turned away, and
just then the sharp report of a backfire and then an
engine's steady throb sounded out in front.
"Gone!" Carmody groaned. "And they took The-
resa! Good God!"
Harrington stared at him. His brain was not quite
clear yet. The after-twinges of the most excruciating
pain he had ever known seemed to be shooting through
his body.
"Where do you suppose they are taking her?"
"Heaven only knows. But I'm afraid—" He shud-
dered and choked. "I'm afraid they'll kill her!"
"Kill her?" Harrington echoed, and then a sudden
shock swept the last remnant of stupor from his brain.
Carstairs' face haunted him, unnaturally white and
smilingly malignant. He rushed to the door.
"Wait!" Carmody cried, wringing his hands in men-
tal anguish. "Where—"
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Roscoe Carstairs
"I'm going to catch that car if I have to chase it all
over creation."
"Don't be a fool. You can't catch it afoot."
Harrington turned. The words thrust a wedge of
sanity into his brain.
"We'll both go," Carmody declared. "My car can
do eighty miles an hour. Oh, where are those keys?"
He fumbled frantically in his pockets, and at length
he pulled out a key container. Hurriedly, Harrington
took it from him.
"You stay here, Carmody. There's nothing you
can do. IH go it alone."
He pushed the fear-stricken man into a chair, but
Carmody sprang up again.
"I—I must go!" he stammered. "Can't you see?
She is my—my daughter."
"Your—" Harrington stared at him in utter aston-
ishment. His brain made a few swift revolutions, and
then he shoved the older man back into the chair. He
saw it was necessary to be brutal now. "No, you stay
here, Carmody. You would be worse than useless.
You want me to bring her back alive, don't you? Well,
then don't interfere."
He sprang quickly from the room and out into the
open. The drizzle had ceased; the sky had turned
from black to gray. Across the lawn, behind a fringe
of trees, he saw a squatty building which he thought
must be the garage. He rushed over and tried the
keys in the lock.
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The Back-Seat Murder
An undersized figure slunk out of the dusk and
approached.
"In a hurry, eh? Know where you're going?"
The first key failed to work. Harrington tried an-
other. He cast a look of loathing on the ubiquitous
blackmailer.
"Get away, you rat!"
Tarkin giggled. The second key turned in the lock,
and Harrington slid the immense door open.
"There are three roads leading away from here,"
the blackmailer explained. "Suppose you took the
wrong one? Not so good, eh?"
Harrington wanted to kick him, but a sudden
thought restrained him. He grabbed the man by the
collar.
"Did you see which way that car went?"
"Well, I've got eyes, and sometimes it pays me to
use them."
Harrington dragged him inside the car, lifted him
squealing from the floor, and flung him into the front
seat, to the right of the driver's place. Then he
jumped inside and started the engine. It was only
about a hundred feet to where the private driveway
emerged into the crossways. He scanned the land-
scape in all directions, but there was no sign of another
car.
"Which way, Tarkin?" he asked sharply.
"Well, I'm not so sure now. It was a kind of dark
and—"
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Roscoe Carstairs
"You could see the head lights."
"Well, maybe. How much—"
"Not a cent." Applying the emergency brake, Har-
rington turned to him threateningly. "Will you tell,
or will you take the beating of your life? Decide
quickly."
Tarkin saw something in the dark, determined face
that frightened him.
"Straight ahead," he said sullenly.
For a moment Harrington searched his unwholesome
face, and then the car plunged forward with a sudden-
ness that flung Tarkin back against the cushion.
Harder and harder Harrington bore down on the accel-
erator. There was a roar of wind in his ears. The
landscape, hazy and unreal in the gray dawn, flew past
the windows in blurred zigzagging lines.
"Better go easy," Tarkin advised. "We turn soon."
Harrington flung him a sharp suspicious glance.
How could Tarkin know? Through the windshield
he looked out into the gray morning dusk. His eyes
narrowed. The landscape looked vaguely familiar.
He was rushing down a hill now, and he released
the accelerator and gently applied the foot brake. He
remembered the locality now. At the bottom of the
hill, he knew, was a narrow and rutty road swerving
off to the left and climbing up the hill to the old aban-
doned hotel.
"That's right," said Tarkin as he swung sharply
135


The Back-Seat Murder
into the hilltop road. "You seem to know. Why did
you want me along?"
Harrington sent the car rushing up the hill. Familiar
sensations thronged his mind. It seemed as if he would
only have to look into the mirror to see Marsh sitting
back there in the dusk, a wicked and crafty smile
wreathing his broad face.
The hill grew steeper, the engine began to labor, and
he shifted into second. Tarkin sat sullenly beside him,
only grunting now and then. Soon, in the gray light
of advancing day, he caught a glimpse of the old hotel.
At the first opportunity he swung off the road and
drove the car into a small clearing sheltered by sur-
rounding trees. He shut off the engine and cast a
doubtful look on the blackmailer. What should he do
with Tarkin?
"Better hurry," said the blackmailer surlily, easing
himself deeper into the cushions. "If you don't, there'll
be a murder. Not so good, eh?"
A trace of perplexity crept into Harrington's search-
ing gaze. There was something curious about Tarkin.
With a shrug he removed the ignition key and put it in
his pocket, then hurried away. It was necessary to
move cautiously now, for some one might see him from
the windows of the old hotel, and that would jeopardize
his mission.
Visions of the white face and soft voice of Roscoe
Carstairs pursued him as he darted in and out among
the trees and bushes alongside the road. The fear-
136


Roscoe Carstairs
stricken countenance of Carmody haunted him, too.
Theresa's father! He wondered to what extent the
relationship explained her entanglement in the affair.
And then, as he came out in the open, he slapped his
hip pocket to make certain that the pistol was there.
He might need it soon.
Now the grounds of the old hotel stretched before
him. There was only a thin sprinkling of trees, and
while running from one to another he was exposed to
the gaze of any chance observer. But he gained the
long, sagging piazza without interference, and now he
stole quickly to the main door. He turned the knob,
held the door open a crack, and listened. In a mo-
ment he stepped inside. He was in the lobby of the
old hotel, almost denuded of furniture. The lazy morn-
ing wind was whistling through cracks in the window-
panes. Though it was fairly light outside, it was still
dusk within. His eyes fixed on the stairway and the
door under it. It was behind that door he had lain
hidden while he witnessed the stormy scene between
Theresa and the dark and dapper Harry Stoddard.
Where was Theresa now? Her father had seemed
to fear that she had been dragged off to some horrible
fate. Doubtless Carmody had ample reason for his
apprehensions. With a recurring vision of a white and
evilly smiling face, Harrington looked up the stairway.
It was quiet up there. As far as eyes and ears could
tell, he was alone in the house.
He started up, silently cursing the steps that creaked
137


The Back-Seat Murder
under his weight. At the upper landing, a long, dim
corridor stretched out before him, with doors on each
side. All his senses on the alert, he walked to the end
of it, then turned back and ascended another flight.
The third floor was as silent and lifeless as the one
below. He dipped into a few of the rooms, all stripped
of furniture and most of them having broken windows
and crumbling plaster. There was no sign that any one
had set foot within them since the old hotel was in its
heyday.
There remained only the attic now. He had received
several inklings of curious things going on up there.
He ascended the last flight of stairs, and at first it
seemed as if the place had been abandoned to spiders
and mice, to dust and decay. Then, as he advanced a
few steps, he experienced a feeling that had been absent
when he roamed the lower parts—a sense of human
occupancy. The air was less stale, the chill and the
dampness less penetrating. Something told him that,
not so long ago, human feet had moved over these
dusty spaces.
The feeling made his nerves tingle. Some one might
be lurking in the heavy shadows that ky on all sides,
scarcely disturbed by the meager light falling through
two grimy windows in the ceiling. It was possible,
too, that somewhere up here he would find Theresa
Lanyard.
The thought quickened his pulses and brought
sharply conflicting emotions. He recalled Carmody's
138


Roscoe Carstairs
ashen, fear-stricken face and the grim apprehensions
he had voiced. What if he were too late? He put the
nerve-shaking thought from him and hurried on. Now,
as his eyes grew accustomed to the dusk, he saw a par-
tition at the farther end of the attic. It ran the whole
width of the house and was bisected by a corridor.
Possibly this part had once been the servants' quarters.
He walked toward it, cautiously drawing his pistol
as he did so. With a sharp sensation of danger he
stepped softly into the corridor. There were two doors
on each side, and he stopped before the nearest. Very
gently he turned the knob in his hand and pushed the
door open. The hinges gave a slight, warning squeak,
and then a voice spoke—a softly purring voice that in-
stinctively made him grip the pistol a little harder:
"Ah, you, Harrington. Come right in."
139


Pharaoh's Coffin
leveled at Carstairs' broad chest. "Carstairs, what did
you do with Miss Lanyard?"
"Oh," carelessly, "she is somewhere around the
house. Do you wish to see her?"
"I do," said Harrington, rather taken aback by the
casual reply.
"Well, I expect her in here any moment. If you
are not in too great a hurry, sit down and wait. She
won't be long."
Harrington stared at him, bewildered by his calm
manner. It seemed impossible this could be the same
man who, a short time ago, had abducted Theresa in
such roughshod fashion.
"I don't believe you," he declared.
"No matter. Miss Lanyard herself will bring the
proof of what I say. When you see her, then you will
believe me. In the meantime, you might as well be
comfortable."
Harrington's bewilderment grew. It was either su-
perb acting, or else entire candor. Which of the two?
"You are not denying you kidnaped her?"
"Why, no. You saw me, so why should I deny it?
Anyway, the word is subject to definition. It would
be more correct to say that I rescued her."
"Oh," sarcastically, "you call it a rescue. A rescue
from what?"
"Death."
The startling little word fell casually from Carstairs'
lips. Harrington searched his face. It seemed to grow
141


The Back-Seat Murder
whiter with the brightening of the light falling from
the overhead window.
"Look here, Harrington." Carstairs spoke in a
slightly altered tone. "If you came here with the idea
of taking Miss Lanyard back to Carmody's house, you
might as well go back now. I don't know how you
stand in this matter, but I'm rather sorry I had to
twist your arm so unmercifully. Anyway, as long as
I can help it, Miss Lanyard is not going to be exposed
to further danger."
"Danger?" said Harrington lamely. His brain was
a whirl of contradictions, and the most astonishing con-
tradiction was Carstairs himself. "The way you acted,
I thought you were dragging her off to her death. Her
father thought so, too."
"Her—what?" The soft tone bespoke acute puzzle-
ment.
"Her father—Mr. Carmody."
Carstairs turned his white face upward and gave
him a long stare. The muscles of his mouth twitched.
"Did Martin Carmody tell you that he is Miss Lan-
yard's father?"
"Isn't he?"
Carstairs looked as if he wanted to laugh outright.
"Ask her when she comes in," he suggested. "In
the meantime I don't hesitate to tell you that I took
Miss Lanyard away because I had good reason to be-
lieve that Carmody would have murdered her."
Harrington gaped at him. His brain felt as if it
142


Pharaoh's Coffin
had been turned inside out. Mechanically he lowered
the pistol and sat down.
"But she went voluntarily to Carmody's house," he
pointed out.
"Voluntarily? Well, perhaps. That's another word
that requires definition. It would be more correct to
say that she was enticed there."
There was no direct connection, but for an instant
Harrington's thoughts went back to Samuel Tarkin.
"But don't take my word for it," Carstairs hastened
to say. "Let Miss Lanyard tell you all about it. Ask
her what she thinks of Martin Carmody as a father."
Again his lips twitched humorously. "Father, indeed 1"
he said under his breath.
Harrington regarded him narrowly. His imagina-
tion conjured up a vision of the fear-stricken old man
he had left a while ago. Had Carmody worked a hoax
on him? Or was Carstairs working a hoax on him
now? Well, he would reserve judgment for a while.
He looked about him. The room was poorly fur-
nished, and the roof overhead had an ominous sag.
Carstairs, with his white face and his shadowy smile,
seemed to dominate the scene.
"Live here?" Harrington inquired.
"Oh, no, I just come here occasionally for a change
of scenery."
"It seems several other persons have acquired the
same habit."
Carstairs nodded thoughtfully. "Did you know," he
143


The Back-Seat Murder
asked, "that old David Mooreland was the owner of
this hotel?"
Harrington started. The question was accompanied
by a sharp but furtive glance. In the stress of recent
events, he had almost forgotten David Mooreland and
his tragic death. Yet it was his determination to find
Mooreland's murderer that had drawn him into all
these complications.
"Did you?" Carstairs prompted.
"No," said Harrington. For a moment, in imagina-
tion, he had been poking into the ash heap in Marsh's
cellar.
"But you knew Mooreland?" The other gave him
a quick, searching glance as he asked the question.
"Only slightly," Harrington prevaricated.
"Curious old fellow," said Carstairs musingly. "He
spent a great deal of time here shortly before his—er—
disappearance. The hotel had then been closed for
some years, and he stayed here all alone except for a
trusted servant. I suppose you know that?"
"No. It's news to me."
Evidently Carstairs was in a communicative mood.
"Some people think he came here to hide," he went
on. "It seems he spent his last years in fear of death.
Somehow he had got the idea that one or more persons
were after his life. It might have been nothing but a
feeble old man's delusion."
"Yet it appears his fears were well founded. Some-
body murdered him."
144


Pharaoh's Coffin
"Oh, you think so? Well, you may be right. Have
you any idea who killed him?"
Harrington hesitated. He wished he had not spoken
so frankly.
"I see you have," the other added. "Well, so has
Whittaker. And, to be candid with you, so have I."
Harrington looked up quickly. The smile on Car-
stairs' white face seemed even more shadowy than
usual.
"Who?" he asked.
"Well, if you ask Whittaker, and if he is frank with
you, he will tell you that Martin Carmody is the man."
"Carmody?" said Harrington thoughtfully. This
was an entirely new slant on the Mooreland affair.
"Yes, but no arrest has been made, because Whit-
taker lacks the necessary evidence. And just now, of
course, he is deep in quite another mystery—the Marsh
murder. Queer case that, Harrington. Why on earth
did you give such an incredible account of it?"
"It was the truth."
"Was it?" asked Carstairs slowly. "Well, perhaps,
but people don't want the truth when it is hard to ac-
cept. Now, nobody is going to believe that, under the
circumstances as you stated them, Marsh got into the
car without your knowing it. It will be supposed that
you picked him up somewhere with the deliberate in-
tention of murdering him. Then you got flustered and
confused and told an impossible cock-and-bull story.
That's what they will think."
■
145


CHAPTER XV
The Two Voices
With difficulty Harrington turned over on his back.
There were sounds in the air—sharp, piercing sounds
that transported him from a state of semistupor to a
complete awakening. Though they seemed to come
from a near-by source, they meant absolutely noth-
ing. There was a dull pain in his head that made it
impossible for him to comprehend the meaning of
things.
Sunlight was pouring in through the window in the
roof, striking the room at an angle which, had he been
able to reason it out, would have told him that the day
was far advanced. Stray impressions, dim and very
remote, trudged through his brain. Now it was a laugh
—a soft, gloating sort of laugh. Now it was something
about a coffin—Pharaoh's coffin. And now he heard
those piercing sounds again.
"Somebody screaming," he thought, but the thought
made no impression. It was only two meaningless
words that his brain refused to take hold of. But the
laugh seemed a tangible thing, though several hours
had passed since he heard it. And the allusion to
Pharaoh's coffin was coupled in his mind with a pic-
148


The Back-Seat Murder
not move his arms or legs. His arms were tied behind
his back, and his legs were incapacitated by cords ap-
plied just above his ankles.
He groaned and his head sank back to the cot on
which he was lying. And now the screams rang out
louder and louder, shriller and more piercing. His
imagination pictured a scene of horror. The fiends
were torturing her!
A cold sweat broke out on his face. He strained
furiously at the cords. His lungs were bursting, not
from the physical exertion, but with an agony evoked
by mental pictures.
And then, as he lay on his back, feeling as if the
cries were being wrung from his own bruised body, an
incongruous feeling crept upon him. He listened in-
tently. He gauged the pitch and swell of the cries.
Somehow they sounded less terrifying now. They were
not really cries of suffering, he thought. Rather they
sounded as if they had been produced for vocal effect.
But why should one cry like that if one did not suffer?
Even as he debated the question, the cries ceased.
There was only silence now—silence and an acute be-
wilderment. He wondered if his mind was still wan-
dering and if that was why he had got such an odd im-
pression of the cries. And then, as he heard the door
open, he quickly closed his eyes and feigned uncon-
sciousness.
Footsteps approached, and in a moment some one
was standing beside him. As he simulated the uneasy
I50


The Two Voices
stupor of a person with a throbbing head, he felt a pair
of eyes searching his face. He kept his own closed,
but his imagination pictured the white countenance and
the shadowy smile of Roscoe Carstairs. He fancied
the man was quietly laughing at him. It was an un-
comfortable moment, and he was glad when a sound at
the door drew Carstairs away.
"Well, Stoddard?" Carstairs said.
He stiffened for an instant, and the cords gnawed at
his wrists. It was Harry Stoddard, the dark and dap-
per man with the resonant and yet vaguely unpleasant
voice, to whom he owed the swelling on his head.
"No luck," Stoddard reported. "Either she doesn't
know, or else she won't talk."
"Oh, she knows," said Carstairs in his mellow voice.
"Surprised at you, Stoddard. Thought you had a way
with the ladies. Can't you captivate them any longer?"
"Not when it comes to coffins."
Harrington started where he lay on the cot. Pha-
raoh's coffin again!
"So Miss Lanyard wouldn't talk," Carstairs was say-
ing. "With your profound knowledge of feminine
wiles, you realize, of course, that when gentleness fails
one must try more drastic measures?"
"Yes, and I tried them."
"H'm." Carstairs moved about the room, and pres-
ently he stopped again before the cot. Harrington
gave an imitation of an unconscious man's groan.
"You performed a thorough job on this poor devil."


The Two Voices
ting the screws on her. Too bad she isn't a better ac-
tress. Are you in love, Stoddard?"
"Love!" Stoddard laughed scoffingly, but with a
tremor.
"No? Well, that's a relief." Carstairs' voice was
gently sarcastic. "What will you bet that I can make
her talk?"
Stoddard said nothing, but Harrington, holding his
eyes open a narrow slit, saw a look of aversion on his
face.
"You see, Stoddard," the other went on, "I'm not
hampered by chivalry, and I know several cute tricks
that are guaranteed to loosen the tongues of lovely
ladies. Care to make a bet?"
"Ah, Carstairs, what's the use being crude? Why
don't you try subtlety instead of violence?"
Carstairs did not answer for a long time. Harring-
ton trembled and strained at the cords around his
ankles and wrists.
"Stoddard," said Carstairs softly, "you're a liar and
a coward. I'm going to see Miss Lanyard now. But
first—"
His hand swung out and crashed into Stoddard's jaw.
The man spun around and, with a gurgling sound in
the throat, went to the floor. For a moment Carstairs
stood looking down at the inert figure, then walked
softly out.
Harrington tore furiously at the ropes, but to no
avail. Evidently they had been tied by an expert. He
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The Back-Seat Murder
worked in a blind, savage frenzy, his mind tortured by
horrible visions, until he realized that he was only
wasting his strength. Any moment now a scream might
pierce the awful stillness, and it would be a different
scream from those he had heard a little while ago.
Exhausted and perspiring, he glanced up at the win-
dow in the roof. It was already growing dusk. Gloom
was descending over the desolate hilltop, and there
was no hope in any direction. His glance traveled to
where Stoddard lay. Whatever the man might be, he
had at least shown human feelings. But there was no
hope there, either. Stoddard might lie there for half
an hour, and in the meantime—
A cold shudder convulsed him. He strained his ears
for sounds which he dreaded to hear. It seemed a little
eternity had passed since Carstairs departed on his
diabolical mission, yet it could have been only a min-
ute or two. Within the next sixty seconds the hideous
performance might begin.
In a delirium of horror he tore at the cords, but he
was only bruising his flesh. His blood ran cold, but
his skin was bathed in clammy perspiration. The bit-
ing of the cords into his flesh became a physical tor-
ment, but the visions that streamed through his mind
were more agonizing still.
Of a sudden he lay motionless. He had heard the
sound of a door opening. A dwarfish figure slunk out
of the dusk and approached him.
154


The Two Voices
"Huh! All trussed up. Fretting yourself into a
stew. Not so good, eh?"
For once Harrington felt no loathing in the black-
mailer's presence, nor did he inquire how Tarkin had
appeared so opportunely. The little man looked about
him in the gathering dusk and saw the motionless figure
on the floor.
"Stoddard, eh? Somebody must have handed him
a good one. Never saw so many crazy goings-on. Car-
stairs is tearing around like a lunatic, and now he's
giving Miss Lanyard the works, and it looks as if—"
"Shut up I" Harrington cried. "And cut these
damned cords."
Tarkin's shrewd eyes measured the cords that bound
Harrington's hands and feet and were wound in sev-
eral layers around his chest. He took out his pocket
knife.
"About twenty feet of cord," he estimated, open-
ing the knife. "It'll cost you one hundred dollars a
foot. That makes it an even two grand."
"All right—but hurry!"
Tarkin contemplated him with a hurt expression.
"You didn't play fair the other times," he com-
plained. "You kicked me and choked me and mopped
the earth with me. I've got you now. Do I get the
two grand?"
Harrington listened for a moment, wondering why
the air was not rent by cries. Tarkin's commercial in-
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The Back-Seat Murder
stincts aroused no disgust now. He only fumed over
the delay.
"Don't be a fool! I don't carry two thousand in my
pocket. Now hurry, or I'll—"
He groaned with a realization of helplessness, and
the blackmailer giggled.
"Wonder what Carstairs is up to," he mumbled as
if to himself. "He's been awfully quiet since he went
into the other room. That's a bad sign. When Car-
stairs is as quiet as that, there'll be hell popping soon.
Glad I'm not in Miss Lanyard's shoes. She—"
"Damn you!" Harrington cried, heaving frenziedly
against the cords. "Don't you know he's gone in there
to torture her?"
"I had an idea maybe that's what he was up to."
"Well, then, aren't you going to cut these cords?"
"Do I get the two grand?"
"You do."
"Is that a promise?"
"It is."
"You give me your word of honor?"
"I do, confound you!"
Tarkin lowered his head and considered.
"It's a bad way to do business, but I'll take a chance
on you. Now don't forget."
He slashed the cords, which Harrington was strain-
ing in his anxiety to get free.
"Remember," was his parting shot, "you owe me
two grand."
156


The Two Voices
Harrington stretched himself, trying to ease his
cramped muscles. He felt his hip pocket. The pistol
was gone, of course. He felt a little giddy from his
injury, and he staggered drunkenly from the room. As
he had previously noticed, this end of the attic was par-
titioned off from the rest and bisected by a corridor
with two doors on each side.
There was not a sound anywhere, and in this dark
space he could scarcely see anything. He felt weak
from his long confinement on the cot, and a sense of
impending horrors threatened to swamp his reason.
Unarmed as he was, he would have to proceed very
cautiously if he were to accomplish anything. He
looked up and down the dim corridor, and his eyes fell
on a faint streak of light, evidently coming from an ill-
fitting door.
He tiptoed over. There was an absolute silence
within. He found the knob and gently pushed the door
open. And then, blinking his eyes against the sudden
illumination, he stood still and stared at one of the
strangest spectacles he had ever seen.
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The Back-Seat Murder
"Patience, Harrington," said the latter. "You will
see directly. It will be worth seeing."
He stooped and pulled out the handle. Attached to
it was a thin metal rod tapering to a fine point. The
whole thing looked like an ice pick.
"Not quite hot enough," Carstairs remarked, putting
the instrument back. Harrington noticed that he was
wearing a glove on his right hand to protect it against
the heat.
Harrington's brain whirled. For the moment all his
thoughts were revolving around the instrument in the
fire. Of a sudden he recalled a remark made by the
medical examiner who had inspected Marsh's body.
The fatal wound, he had declared, looked as if it had
been inflicted with an ice pick or a similar implement.
He stood rigid, staring at the handle protruding
through the little door. Probably it meant nothing,
however. There were millions of ice picks in the world.
The only significant circumstance was that this par-
ticular ice pick should have appeared in a house situ-
ated near the scene of the murder.
"Where did you get that ice pick?" he inquired.
"Recognize it?" Carstairs asked, his eyes narrowing.
"Where did it come from?" Harrington insisted.
The other regarded him fixedly, and then a shadowy
smile broke out on his white face.
"Ask Samuel Tarkin," he suggested. "You know
Tarkin, don't you? Well, ask him. I'm not sure you
160


Torture
will get a truthful answer out of him, but you might
try."
He drew the instrument out of the fire, glanced at
it, and put it back again.
"Almost ready," he remarked. He cast a slanting
glance at Harrington. "Curious you should ask that
question. Did Tarkin tell you anything?"
"Not a word," Harrington declared, wondering
whether the blackmailer was by any chance within
hearing distance.
"No, Tarkin wouldn't. It's odd, though."
He looked down at the red-hot stove, a puzzled
frown between his eyes. It looked to Harrington as if
the ice pick meant a different thing to each of them.
In his own mind it was associated with the Marsh mur-
der. In Carstairs' mind— But it was impossible to
determine what was going on behind that white face.
Finally the other shrugged as if to dismiss a problem
from his mind. He turned to Theresa.
"Once more," he said in his mellow voice. "Will
you tell?"
She did not seem to hear him. Something flickered
in her eyes as she kept staring at the stove. He re-
peated the question.
"I—I can't," she said in a small, cold voice. "I
don't know."
Carstairs sighed. With his foot he thrust the instru-
ment a little farther into the fire.
"What are you going to do?" Harrington demanded.
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The Back-Seat Murder
"Refresh Miss Lanyard's memory. Incidentally I'm
going to try my skill as a beauty specialist. Glad you
happened in, Harrington. I want your opinion. Don't
you think, a dimple in her left cheek would improve her
beauty?"
He glanced meaningfully at the handle. A premoni-
tion, at once vague and horrible, made Harrington's
blood run cold.
"It isn't a painless process, you know," the other
continued, "but then Miss Lanyard won't be the first
woman to suffer in the cause of beauty."
A choking cry of utter dread broke from Theresa's
lips.
"I only hope," Carstairs went on, "that I can per-
form the job without bungling. I should hate to dis-
figure such a lovely face."
A sickening horror convulsed Harrington. In a flash
he saw the full extent of the diabolical idea. He un-
derstood now why Theresa was sitting there in a stupor
of dread, watching the instrument in the fire with a
look of hypnotic horror. It was a thing more revolting
than slow death. A searing touch with a white-hot
iron, and her loveliness would be hideously scarred for
life.
"You skunk!" Harrington gritted, and then he
leaped, seething with an impulse to crash his fist into
that white, faintly smiling face. His hand, fired with
a savage frenzy, shot out—and was neatly caught
around the wrist. A laugh, a playful twist, and his
162


Torture
face went gray with pain. And then, without apparent
effort, Carstairs flung him across the room.
"Don't be a nuisance, Harrington." He spoke as if
remonstrating with a willful child. "You see it's ab-
solutely no use."
Harrington leaned weakly against the wall. His
body was a mass of shooting pains. He stared groggily
at Carstairs' hand. It was a soft, white hand. He had
a feeling that it was diabolically inspired. He had ex-
perienced its subtle and devastating cunning in Car-
mody's house, and now the experience had been re-
peated.
He cast a sultry glance about the room. Faint wisps
of smoke were curling about the glowing sides of the
stove. Overhead, through the little window in the roof,
a single star shone in the velvet sky. By the stove,
arms crossed, stood Carstairs, gazing patiently at the
protruding handle. And at the wall sat Theresa, look-
ing as if enthralled by a vision of horrors.
Why didn't she run? The door was unlocked. But
of course Carstairs, standing within a single leap of the
door, would stop her. Perhaps she had already tried
and, in doing so, experienced the fiendish magic of the
man's fingers.
Harrington stiffened abruptly. Very leisurely Car-
stairs was putting on the glove again. Now, with the
same casual movement, he drew the iron rod from the
fire. He held it appraisingly to the light. The point
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The Back-Seat Murder
was white, and infinitesimal sparks sizzled around it.
Very slowly he came forward.
A dull, ragged cry broke from Theresa's lips.
Quickly Harrington stepped up beside her. The white-
hot point of iron came closer and closer, a horrible,
crawling menace beyond which the face of Carstairs
loomed white, composed and smiling.
Terror, abomination and stupefaction clashed in
Harrington's brain. Carstairs was proceeding as if he
had no fear of an interruption. Did he think that any
man would remain idle while such a hideous thing went
on? Did he trust the diabolical deftness of his fingers
to that extent?
Theresa sprang up and pressed shudderingly against
the wall. Nerves crawling, Harrington watched for a
sign of the slightest distraction on Carstairs' part. He
was in the position of a soldier who had but one shot
and could not afford to waste it.
"Just once more," said Carstairs, stopping before
the girl. "Will you tell?"
She shrank away from the horrible thing in his hand.
"I can't!" The words were flung out on a fear-
choked scream. "I don't know. I swear I don't. Oh,
God!"
"Sorry," said Carstairs with a shrug. "In that
case—"
He raised the sizzling implement. The girl edged
back along the wall until she found herself caught in
the corner.
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Torture
"Splendid!" Carstairs murmured. "Exactly where I
wanted you."
The hellish thing rose in his hand again, its white
point already turning red. Harrington stood motion-
less, waiting his one chance.
"Wait!" he cried hoarsely. "What do you want to
know?"
"It's a little matter concerning a coffin," said Car-
stairs calmly. "Better keep out of this, Harrington."
The coffin again! Harrington's brain lurched wildly.
And then, as Theresa wedged herself frantically into
the corner, with the menacing point of fire close to her
face, something within him burst loose. He struck
out savagely, but the thrust stopped in midair. Fingers
played lightly around his wrist—lightly but with ter-
rible effect. And this time the fingers did not let go
after the one body-racking twist. They held him at
arm's length, administering another twist whenever he
tried to move. And all the time the hideous thing in
Carstairs' hand crept closer and closer to Theresa's
face.
A series of split screams dinned in his ears. Hor-
ribly fascinated, he watched the point of iron. It
seemed to swell to monstrous proportions, to sweep
everything else out of sight. There was an insanity
in his brain, but his tortured mind revolved around a
single thought. His left hand was still free. It was
only his right hand that was caught in Carstairs' mon-
strous grip. But it was a despairingly slight advan-
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The Back-Seat Murder
tage. Just another playful twist, and his body would
be a writhing bundle of agonies.
Suddenly his brain stood still. There seemed to be
a sickening reek in the air—something burning! The
thought steadied him strangely, sent a quickening im-
pulse to his senses. He stared at the red point which
a few seconds ago had been white. Yes, it could have
been only seconds, though it seemed hours. He sniffed.
That awful reek was no longer there. It had been only
his imagination. But any moment now the thing he
had imagined might become ghastly reality.
He stared at the red point. His brain whirled dizzy-
ingly. A mad impulse came, and it seemed that im-
pulse and deed were encompassed in a split second. A
moment's insanity, a convulsive heave—and now the
frizzing end of the iron was in his left hand and a
burning agony was tearing through his flesh.
It was nameless torture, but he laughed crazily as
he flung the scorching iron from him. The reek of
burnt flesh had become reality now, but the reek was
coming from his own seared hand, not from the gray,
drawn face he saw against the wall. A sudden sensa-
tion of relief made him weak, and then his relief turned
to loathing and hate.
Carstairs stood motionless, with a stunned look on
his white face. It was as if he had witnessed some-
thing unbelievable and stupefying. His face was the
face of a man utterly dumbfounded, but Harrington
saw only the face of a fiend. The reaction came in a
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Torture
blind, surging rage that dulled bis senses to the scorch-
ing agony in his hand.
His smoldering eyes went to the iron rod lying on
the floor. The red glow was slowing fading, but it was
still sufficiently hot to form a black, smoking blister
on the board. He snatched it up and, with a hoarse
cry of rage and abomination, whirled on Carstairs.
"Take that, you devil!"
He was in a delirium. His hand swung out. In an-
other moment a blister would have been torn across
Carstairs' cheek. But his hand stopped, and it was
not Theresa's horrified cry that stopped it. It was
the look he saw on Carstairs' face—the look of a smil-
ing stoic.
"Go ahead," the man said. "I don't blame you in
the least."
As he spoke, he dropped his hands to his side and
turned his face toward Harrington and the sizzling iron.
"It's cooling off," he remarked. "Perhaps you had
better heat it."
Harrington stared at him. The burning delirium
oozed from his brain. It might be only a gesture of
mock heroics Carstairs was making, but it was a mag-
nificent one. No matter how thoroughly he deserved
it, it was impossible to inflict torture on a man who
faced it so coolly.
Harrington flung the iron to a far corner of the room.
Of a sudden he became conscious of the agony in his
hand.
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The Back-Seat Murder
"Better let me attend to it," Carstairs said.
He walked out of the room, and Harrington made no
move to detain him. The man seemed scarcely human.
He heard a moan, and he saw Theresa clutching the
wall for support. Now that the horrible ordeal was
over, her nerves were giving way. He eased her to a
chair and tried to make her comfortable. And then,
unthinkingly, he kissed her. She smiled wanly and
closed her eyes.
Presently Carstairs returned and applied a bandage
to the injured hand. Harrington watched him in a
daze, with a sense of mocking unreality. Whether he
was inflicting torture or healing a wound, the man's
fingers seemed equally deft.
"You took me by surprise, Harrington," he admitted,
and his shadowy smile lit up his face again. "I never
saw such a dare-devil stunt in my life."
Harrington's lips twisted into a cramped smile. It
had not been dare-deviltry; it had been madness.
"And now," Carstairs added, "I'm at your service."
Harrington stared at him groggily. A few moments
ago he could have torn the man to pieces. Now he was
rendered strangely speechless and diffident.
"I suppose I deserve almost any kind of punishment
your brain can conceive," Carstairs added. "Go ahead.
I shan't complain."
He folded his arms and waited. Harrington did not
move.
"I might add, though of course you won't believe
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Torture
me," Carstairs went on, "that I didn't have the re-
motest idea of hurting Miss Lanyard. I wanted to
frighten her and make her talk."
"You chose a hellish way of doing it," Harrington
muttered.
"The only effective way. I knew it would make her
tell, if she could. But a moment before you intervened
in such a mad and stupendous fashion, I had become
convinced that she couldn't. I'm not apologizing. I'm
no saint—far from it! And I know you won't believe
a word of what I am saying."
Still Harrington did not speak. He felt ashamed of
himself for an inclination to accept the man's words
at their face value. He felt Carstairs, no matter what
sort of villain he might be, would scorn lies and sub-
terfuges.
Now Carstairs took out his watch. "In sixty sec-
onds I shall walk out of this room, unless you choose
to detain me," he announced.
Harrington did not detain him.
169


CHAPTER XVII
The Dead Man's Hat
The forenoon sun shone into the library and glimmered
on Seneca Whittaker's immaculate vest, which he was
displaying to advantage by parting his coat and keep-
ing his hands in his trousers pockets.
After a few hours' sleep, a small group was gathered
in the library of the Marsh country house. It con-
sisted of Martin Carmody, looking a little grayer than
usual; Theresa, whose face still showed the strain of
a terrifying night; Harrington, whose ash-gray eyes
seemed to say that life was all contradictions, and Whit-
taker and his indispensable assistant, the flint-jawed
and thickset Storm.
From the table, on which several articles were dis-
tributed, Whittaker took a black derby and looked at
the inside band.
"Mr. Marsh's hat," he explained. "He was wearing
it when he walked away from the house. Miss Lan-
yard and the housekeeper saw him, and they're posi-
tive he had his hat on. But an hour or so later, when
Mr. Harrington looked into the mirror and saw Marsh
sitting in the back of the car, the hat wasn't on him.
170


The Dead Man's Hat
It wasn't found in the car after the murder. It had
disappeared somewhere."
He paused and twirled the brim of the garment be-
tween his fingers. Harrington recalled that he had
stressed the point of the missing hat, but he could not
see that it was important.
"Storm thinks it may mean something," Whittaker
went on, "and so I asked Mr. Carmody to come here
and tell us how the hat got into his house."
Carmody jerked up his tall, slightly stooping figure
and stared. The inevitable bang of gray hair fell down
over his left temple, giving him a somewhat rakish look.
"My house?" he exclaimed.
"Yes," said Whittaker gently. "Storm happened to
see it when he called at your house late last night to
inquire if Miss Lanyard was there. He found it on the
floor of the clothes closet just off the entrance hall.
You can see it's been knocked about. Shame to treat
a good hat like that."
Carmody gaped and seemed unable to take his nerv-
ously flickering eyes from the hat.
"I'll be dashed!" he exclaimed. "I never saw that
hat before, and I don't see how it got inside my house."
Whittaker gave him a disappointed look, then turned
to Storm as if hoping for an inspiration.
"Did you see Marsh the day he was murdered?"
Storm asked in his blunt way.
"I did not. I hadn't seen him for over a week."
Storm looked highly incredulous, but asked no fur-
171


The Back-Seat Murder
ther questions. Whittaker turned to the table and
picked up a slender instrument with a wooden handle.
A little gasp sounded in the room. Theresa had turned
white at the sight of the implement. Harrington had
brought it with him from the hilltop hotel, and he had
handed it to Whittaker with a brief account of the
night's happenings.
"Anybody ever see this before?" Whittaker asked,
holding the instrument aloft and running his sluggish
eyes over the gathering.
No one answered, but several pairs of eyes hung on
the object.
"What is it?" Carmody asked.
"Only an ice pick," said Whittaker. "It turned up
a short distance from where Marsh was murdered.
Storm thinks it may mean something. The medical
examiner, by the way, said Marsh was stabbed with
some such thing as this."
Carmody shivered and a look of dread shone out of
Theresa's eyes, but no one spoke a word. Just then
Harrington recalled something Carstairs had said.
Carstairs had advised him to ask Tarkin what he knew
about the ice pick. As yet Harrington had had no
opportunity to do so, for Tarkin had been nowhere
in sight when he and Theresa left the old hilltop hotel.
With a despondent look Whittaker returned the im-
plement to the table.
"There's something else you may be interested in,"
he remarked. "Especially you, Mr. Harrington. You
172


The Dead Man's Hat
remember those tracks outside Luke Garbo's garage.
They looked as if Garbo hadn't gone back to the garage
after his last trip out to the car. As far as the tracks
showed, he should still be standing there. Garbo him-
self couldn't explain it. He was stumped. But this
morning Storm found the explanation."
Storm coughed and looked justifiably pleased.
"Did Garbo tell him?" Harrington asked, suddenly
interested. The footprints outside the garage had been
one of the most puzzling features of the mystery.
"No, I don't suppose Garbo realizes even now how
it happened. Storm didn't talk with him this morn-
ing. He just watched him. As you know, people do
all sorts of things when they're nervous. Once knew
a man who had a habit of looking out the window and
counting the bricks in the house across the street. An-
other man was always spelling street signs backward.
Still another, when walking along the sidewalk, always
steps on the line between the squares of cement. Now,
a man can do a thing like that without realizing it.
That's the way with Garbo. It seems he has a habit
of absent-mindedly walking in his own tracks."
Harrington gave him a long, puzzled look.
"Garbo did that very thing this morning," Whit-
taker went on. "He walked out to the gasoline pump
to make some sort of repair, and then he evidently dis-
covered he had forgotten his tools, so he went back and
fetched them. He made his repairs, then walked back
inside the garage. Storm, who's been wondering about
173


The Dead Man's Hat
this case mysterious, and that's Mr. Harrington's ac-
count of how it happened. Storm says it couldn't have
happened that way. He thinks Mr. Harrington is mis-
taken."
"That's a pleasant way of calling me a liar," Har-
rington remarked.
Storm gave him a hard, sarcastic look. Whittaker
glanced down along the immaculate expanse of his
double-buttoned vest.
"It's deeper than that," he said. "It's so deep I
can't see the bottom of it. Unless a man is a fool,
he doesn't tell a lie that sounds like a lie. He tries
to make it plausible. Now, Mr. Harrington, what you
told us doesn't sound at all plausible. A liar could
have done better. That proves—" He paused and
looked helplessly at Storm. "What does it prove,
Storm?"
But Storm seemed nonplused. His hard, square face
was a maze of wrinkles.
"Of course," said Whittaker casually, "there's such
a thing as keeping one's mind a jump ahead of the
other fellow's."
Storm brightened. "This is how it looks to me," he
declared weightily. "Mr. Harrington here handed us
an impossible yarn because he knew we would say to
ourselves that only an innocent man would have the
nerve to tell a story that sounded like a lie."
Whittaker appeared to consider.
"Maybe Storm is right. Storm generally is. It takes
175


The Dead Man's Hat
technical difficulties to you. It isn't enough to appre-
hend the culprit. If you do that, and nothing more,
the most you can hope for is a verdict of manslaughter.
If you find the murderer and determine the circum-
stances of the crime, you might obtain a verdict of sec-
ond degree murder. But to obtain a verdict in the
first degree you will have to do more. You will have
to find the motive. Am I right?"
Whittaker exchanged glances with Storm and nodded
again.
"You haven't found any motive, have you?" Car-
stairs asked.
"Not yet."
"Well, I have." Carstairs slapped his bulging over-
coat pocket. "It's here."
Several pairs of eyes stared at him in astonishment.
"Yes, it's here, in my pocket," Carstairs repeated.
He sat down and lighted a cigar. "Thought you might
be interested. Let's see—" He ran his eyes over the
little group. "All the suspects are here, with one or
two minor exceptions."
He chuckled. Harrington watched him intently,
marveling at the man's airy insouciance. One of the
exceptions was, of course, Harry Stoddard. But who
was the other? Luke Garbo? Tarkin?
"So it's possible," Carstairs went on, "that the mur-
derer is in this room at present. Please don't look so
shocked. I didn't come here to shock you, but to help
you. Mr. Whittaker, if you will pardon the suggestion,
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The Back-Seat Murder
you are not going deep enough into this matter. My
private opinion is that the person who killed Marsh
performed a public service. But the murder of Marsh
wasn't an isolated occurrence. It was coupled with
another murder—the murder of David Mooreland."
Whittaker started so violently that his thumbs
slipped out of his arm pits.
"Oh, yes, Mooreland was murdered," Carstairs went
on, "although all that's generally known is that he
disappeared. He was murdered, and I think the mur-
derer is now in this room. Why was he murdered?
I'll tell you. He was murdered for the same reason
that Marsh was murdered. One motive governed both
cases—and the motive is in my pocket."
The eyes of his listeners fixed on the bulge in his
overcoat, but Carstairs appeared in no hurry to exhibit
the contents of his pocket.
"As I have said," he went on, "the person who killed
Marsh performed a public service. But Mooreland—
Ah, that's different. There was a fine old man, gentle,
lovable and kind. Now, I'm no moralist. I have little
use for the conventions. I go my own way, and it isn't
always the straight and narrow way. Just the same,
I'd give a great deal to see Mooreland's murderer
brought to justice."
Harrington marveled at him. Just now there was
a black look of vindictiveness on Carstairs' white face.
A man of bewildering contradictions, certainly.
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The Back-Seat Murder
—because Mooreland had something we wanted. We
had our hearts set upon possessing it. Mooreland died
—was murdered—but the rest of us hung around, hop-
ing to attain our hearts' desire. The object in ques-
tion was hidden somewhere, or so we supposed. We
searched everywhere—clandestinely, of course. We
grew jealous and suspicious of one another. And then,
just the other day, Marsh found it. I don't know how
or where. And a few hours later he was murdered."
His gaze, not unfriendly, fixed on Harrington. Then
it moved to Carmody, sitting tense and erect, with his
shock of gray hair falling down over his temple. At
length it rested on Theresa. Her face was strikingly
white, and her eyes were fixed on the bulge over Car-
stairs' pocket as if a matter of life or death were cen-
tered there.
"And this morning," said Carstairs, "after a long and
patient search, I found the object that has brought
about two murders."
Harrington saw Theresa start from her chair. Now
her expression was one of overwhelming astonishment.
She stared for a moment at Carmody, who seemed ut-
terly stupefied. Harrington's gaze wandered back to
Carstairs' bulging side pocket. The man seemed to
take a grim delight in prolonging the suspense.
"Mr. Whittaker," he said, "are you good at reading
faces?"
"No," said Whittaker, a humorous flicker in his
dreary eyes, "but Storm is."
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The Dead Man's Hat
"Well, watch carefully," Carstairs added. "Some-
body is going to feel very guilty when I reveal what is
in my pocket That means that he is going to try to
look very innocent—and the harder he tries the guiltier
he will look. Isn't that good psychology, Storm?"
"Well, try and see," said Storm curtly.
In an exasperatingly slow manner Carstairs moved
his hand to his overcoat pocket.
"Wait a minute," said Whittaker. "If Marsh was
murdered on account of that thing you have in your
pocket, how come that it isn't in the murderer's pos-
session?"
Carstairs turned to him with his vague, shadowy
smile.
"How do you know it isn't? How do you know I'm
not the murderer? But, all joking aside, perhaps the
object slipped away from the murderer. Anyway, here
it is."
The tension in the room seemed to reach the burst-
ing point as a parcel came out of his pocket, and it con-
tinued while Carstairs slowly removed the wrapping.
At length, while a tomblike silence prevailed, he re-
vealed an article of rectangular shape, about the size
of a small cigar box. It shone and sparkled with jewels
and trimmings of gold.
"Here you are, gentlemen. Rather," with a glance
at Theresa, "lady and gentlemen."
The silence was like a suffocating thing.
"What is it?" asked Whittaker at length.
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The Back-Seat Murder
"Pharaoh's coffin," said Carstairs.
Harrington stared at the object. It was a coffin in
miniature, decked out with all the gorgeousness of
which the old Pharaohs were fond. A gurgling sound
made him raise his eyes. He saw a terrible strain over
Carmody's face. The old gentleman had sat gazing at
the little coffin with a fixed, stupefied expression. Of
a sudden something had seemed to burst in his eyes.
He clutched at his heart. His gray head wagged from
side to side and slumped to his breast
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The Back-Seat Murder
"Well," said Whittaker, turning from the window
and fixing his dour eyes on his assistant, "who was the
guilty-looking one?"
Storm closed his notebook and methodically put it
in his pocket.
"Mr. Carmody certainly looked guilty," Storm de-
clared, craftily emphasizing the last word but one.
Whittaker nodded approvingly in Harrington's di-
rection.
"Storm is deep. He says Mr. Carmody looked
guilty. He doesn't say he is actually guilty. Tell us
what you mean, Storm."
"Well, I was watching the whole room. Mr. Car-
mody looked guilty enough, but somebody else looked
all-fired innocent. Too innocent," Storm added saga-
ciously.
"See?" said Whittaker solemnly. "That's Storm.
He has eyes and a brain, and he uses both. Couldn't
get along without him."
Harrington smiled. Whittaker was exhibiting his
assistant's talents with the air of one exhibiting a blue-
ribboned bulldog.
"Well, Storm," he now added, "who was the one that
looked too innocent?"
"Oh, we won't mention names just now. Anyhow,
it wasn't a fair test. Mr. Carstairs prepared them for
what was coming."
"Even so," came Carstairs' voice from the depths of
the armchair, "the result seemed fairly conclusive."
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The Look of Guilt
He chuckled agreeably. "Oh, come now, Storm.
There were only six of us in the room, counting your-
self and Mr. Whittaker. You two, by virtue of your
official positions, are safely outside the range of sus-
picion. So the person you say looked too innocent
must be either Miss Lanyard, Mr. Harrington or my-
self. Which one was it?"
Storm shook his head stubbornly and, walking up to
the table, picked up the miniature coffin.
"Storm never says a thing unless he is absolutely
sure," Whittaker explained. "That's a characteristic
of a great mind."
Harrington looked at him. There was a sly little
twinkle in his dour eyes.
"You didn't tell us anything new, Mr. Carstairs,"
the prosecuting attorney went on. "Storm has sus-
pected for some time that Mooreland was murdered.
There was a rumpus between him and Carmody toward
the last. Wasn't there, Storm?"
"Yes, a bad one. Oh, I guess Carmody killed the
old man. There are several things make me think so.
Can't prove it, though, so what's the use talking?
Anyhow, I don't agree with you, Mr. Carstairs. I
don't think the same goof did for Mooreland and
Marsh. That is to say, I think Carmody murdered
Mooreland, but I don't think he had anything to do
with the Marsh murder."
Carstairs shrugged as if Storm's opinions were of
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The Back-Seat Murder
no great importance. The detective was inspecting
the little coffin.
"It's locked," he remarked. "Good, strong lock,
too."
"Yes," said Carstairs, "and the key is still missing.
I suppose, Mr. Whittaker, you will turn it over intact
to the executor of the Mooreland estate? It's just pos-
sible that he has the key."
"IH look into it. So Mooreland left an estate, did
he? I never heard of it."
"Few people have, but it's so. He left a considerable
estate. That coffin, by the way, contains a million
dollars' worth of precious stones."
The box dropped with a loud crash from Storm's
fingers.
"It might be advisable," Carstairs added casually,
"to keep the box under lock and key until you can get
in touch with the executor. Well, gentlemen, I trust
I have given you a few valuable hints. Now, if I can't
assist you further, I shall take a little walk. Good
morning."
Storm's astounded gaze was still riveted on the little
coffin. Whittaker looked a trifle uncertain, but he said
nothing. With a swagger that might have been un-
conscious, Carstairs left the room, and Harrington
stared after him, brows puckering.
"Gosh!" Storm muttered thickly. "A million dol-
lars!"
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The Look of Guilt
"Which one?"
"Well, one time Carstairs went after me with his
bag of jiujitsu tricks, and I went for him with an ice
pick. He took it away from me and— Well, it wasn't
so good!" Tarkin's thoughts seemed to run back over
a painful scene.
Harrington considered. So that was the episode
Carstairs had had in mind when he suggested that
Tarkin could tell something about the ice pick. He
remembered, too, that Carstairs had seemed puzzled
that he, Harrington, should stress such a trifling point.
"When was that?" he asked.
"Oh, a couple of weeks ago. I'm not saying it was
this particular ice pick, you understand. I don't see
that it cuts any ice, anyhow." Tarkin laughed at his
little joke.
"So Carstairs took the pick away from you. And
kept it, of course?"
"I suppose so. Say, what has all this got to do with
my two grand?"
Harrington gazed thoughtfully at the instrument.
If there had ever been any dark-red stains on it, they
had been destroyed when Carstairs heated it in the
stove. He put it down and reached for his checkbook.
"I'll take it in cash," Tarkin declared. "Checks
aren't so good. Anyhow," with a shrewd grin, "you'd
have to sign a name to it that isn't known in these
parts. No, I'll take the cash."
"Yes, and you will wait for it." Harrington put the
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The Back-Seat Murder
checkbook back in his pocket. "I don't carry much
cash around with me."
"Look here," surlily, "you aren't going to welch?"
"You will get your two thousand, and I hope you
choke on it. Now clear out."
Whimpering, the blackmailer shuffled out of the
room. As the door closed behind him, another door
opened—a small closet door in a corner of the library.
The long, rangy figure of Whittaker appeared in the
opening.
"Wish Storm had been here," he said. "He'd have
learned a whole lot from that. So that little rat is
blackmailing you?"
"Oh, not exactly." Harrington explained. He had
already given a brief account of last night's happen-
ings, but he had omitted Tarkin's part in them. "So,
you see, it isn't a case of blackmail."
"I see." Whittaker came close up to him. "I won-
der what name you would have signed to the check if
you'd made it out."
"Does it matter? You might not know it if I told
you."
"Maybe not. That reminds me. I got a queer let-
ter in the mail—a carbon copy of a letter, rather. A
note in Marsh's handwriting came with it. It said
you would deliver the original."
Harrington started. Two realizations flashed
through his mind. So Marsh had mailed that amazing
letter, after all. And the original was still in Harring-
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The Back-Seat Murder
into the car while you were driving it, it must have
been a man as small and light as Tarkin."
"No," said Harrington, shaking his head, "Tarkin
couldn't have done it. It would have to be a man as
small and light as a kitten, and even a kitten couldn't
have got in with three of the doors locked on the inside
and all the windows closed."
"I see you are going to be a good witness for the
prosecution."
"Can't help it," grimly. "Besides, there is still the
mystery of how Marsh got into the car."
"Yes," said Whittaker, "there is—provided you told
the truth."
194


CHAPTER XIX
Some One Behind the Door
The first part of the inquest was a rather colorless
affair. It was held in the library, and Whittaker sat
in the late Christopher Marsh's chair and looked rather
ill at ease at finding himself in a position of such dig-
nity. The medical examiner was there to report his
findings, and among the others present were Harring-
ton, Carstairs, Theresa and Storm.
The session was a preliminary one, Whittaker ex-
plained. They would hear two or three witnesses, and
then an adjournment would be taken till the following
day, when he hoped that Carmody, now resting in one
of the bedrooms upstairs, would be able to appear.
He was also anxious to hear what Mrs. Marsh might
have to say, but the widow, who had been a semi-
invalid for years, had collapsed upon hearing of the
murder, and her physician had ordered another twenty-
four hours of absolute rest. Too, Whittaker had been
unable to get in touch with Marsh's lawyer, who might
have several illuminating things to report and whom
he hoped to have on hand in the morning.
It was with a sense of incongruity that Harrington
again told the story of the unforgettable motor drive
195


Some One Behind the Door
as if he too was at a loss to see the drift of his chief's
questions.
Whittaker considered, and again there was a queer
glow about his face.
"It fits together. Mr. Harrington has told us that
he had been on the way about three quarters of an
hour when he suddenly saw Mr. Marsh in the car.
That would be about the time he crossed the Crooked
Creek bridge."
He looked around him, and was met by baffled
glances everywhere. No one could understand what
the Crooked Creek bridge bad to do with the Marsh
murder mystery.
"Well, doc, let's hear from you," he said suddenly.
While the medical examiner was still making his
report, he called Storm over to the window and spoke
to him in an undertone. Evidently he was saying some-
thing of a startling nature, for Storm looked acutely
puzzled. In the end he took his hat and coat and went
out, presumably on an errand connected with the
Crooked Creek bridge.
Carstairs followed the medical examiner, but the
questions put to him seemed perfunctory. He was soon
dismissed, and he walked out with his customary swag-
gering gait. Theresa was questioned next, but it was
apparent that Whittaker's thoughts were still wander-
ing.
"That'll be all for to-day," he announced. "I wanted
to ask Luke Garbo a few questions, but he's nailed up
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The Back-Seat Murder
a notice on his garage door saying he has gone away
for the day and won't be back till to-morrow morning.
I wanted to hear from Mr. Carmody too, but he is
too ill. Then there is Mrs. Marsh. Her physician
tells me I mustn't subject her to any strain till to-
morrow. So I guess we'll call it a day."
He got up and fixed his somber eyes on the gorgeous
little coffin in front of him on the table.
"Pesky thing," he mumbled. "I don't like the re-
sponsibility of it. Wish Marsh's lawyer would hurry
up and get here. It's no joke to have to look after a
million dollars' worth of stones."
He glanced up and found Theresa's eyes riveted on
the box. She turned away and looked suddenly con-
fused. He slipped the box into his pocket.
"Oh, Miss Lanyard, you're a nurse, aren't you?"
A furtive little smile flickered in the wrinkles beside
his mouth. "Well, would you mind going up and
seeing how Mr. Carmody is getting on?"
She flushed slightly at the pretense that she was still
regarded as a nurse, and left the room. The others,
including the official stenographer, having gone, he and
Harrington were alone in the library.
"Well, we didn't get very far to-day," Whittaker
mumbled.
Harrington could not refrain from touching upon a
detail that had aroused his curiosity.
"I suppose Storm is on his way to Crooked Creek
bridge?"
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Some One Behind the Door
"Yes, Storm had a bright idea. He has them often."
"I thought this one came from you."
"Oh, Storm would have seen it if I hadn't. Even so,
it's only a hunch. There may not be anything to it.
It's odd, though, that Marsh appeared in the car just
about the time you were crossing the bridge."
"I don't see the connection. And I didn't think you
believed my story."
"I'm not sure I do. I'll see what Storm thinks when
he comes back. Anyhow, this hunch Storm is working
on has nothing to do with the actual murder. It only
explains, if it explains anything, how Marsh got into
the car—if he got into the car as you say he did."
"But he didn't climb into the car over a bridge."
"We'll see. By the way, has the car been cleaned
since the murder?"
"I think not, but it got a thorough soaking that
night."
"I don't mean an outside cleaning. I mean an inside
one. Let's go and see."
Increasingly bewildered, Harrington followed him
to the garage and turned on the light. Whittaker
opened one of the rear doors and carefully examined
the space between the two seats, also the rear seat
cushion. The examination took nearly a quarter of
an hour, and he did not speak until they were in the
library again.
"Marsh wasn't in the habit of greasing the soles of
his shoes, was he?"
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The Back-Seat Murder
Harrington gaped at the astonishing question.
"Why on earth should he do that?"
Whittaker's face was an unreadable enigma.
"I must ask Storm what he thinks about that. I
guess Storm won't be back for hours, though. He's
got a long job— Well, how is the patient, Miss Lan-
yard?"
Theresa had just returned to the library.
"Mr. Carmody is very restless," she reported. "He
is anxious to get home, too. He is never comfortable
in a strange bed. He lives only a mile from here. Is
there any objection?"
Whittaker scratched his chin thoughtfully. Con-
sciously or unconsciously his hand went to the pocket
containing the coffin.
"No objection, but don't you think he ought to rest
a little longer?"
"The doctor has just left. He told Mr. Carmody he
was strong enough to leave any time."
"Oh, but doctors don't know everything. Just let
him rest an hour or so longer. By the way, did you
happen to look in on Mrs. Marsh while you were up-
stairs?"
"I looked in, but that's all. She was sleeping
quietly."
Whittaker nodded approvingly. "Then she must be
getting well. Nothing like having a good nurse."
She gazed at him uneasily, saw the furtive twinkle
in his eyes, and reddened a little.
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Some One Behind the Door
"Oh," said Whittaker, as if just recalling something,
"I heard a little while ago that Mr. Carmody is your
father. Is that right?"
Harrington waited tensely for her answer. Consid-
ering the simplicity of the question, it was long in
coming.
"Not quite," she said with evident reluctance. "I
was an orphan and Mr. Carmody brought me up. He
has been like a father to me. Though I haven't made
my home with him in recent years, I think of him as
a father, love him as a father, and I feel I owe a great
debt to him."
Her voice shook a little, but her gaze was straight
and clear, and there could be no mistaking the sin-
cerity in her tone. Harrington nodded thoughtfully
to himself. Carstairs had told the literal truth, but
no more. Perhaps the literal truth was all he knew.
He had never looked into Theresa's heart, where the
real truth was to be found.
"Better go back to him," Whittaker gently sug-
gested, "and tell him not to be in too great a hurry to
go home."
Casting a long, wondering glance on him, she left
the room. Whittaker touched his pocket again. The
coffin appeared to give him great concern. He rocked
thoughtfully on his heels and his eyes wandered off into
space.
"Wonder why Carmody is in such a hurry to get-
home," he mumbled.
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The Back-Seat Murder
Harrington gave him a puzzled glance. Carmody's
anxiety to get into his own bed seemed a natural thing.
"Well," said Whittaker, glancing out the window
into the late afternoon shadows, "I wouldn't be sur-
prised if things came to a head to-night."
"You mean when Storm returns from Crooked
Creek bridge?"
"No, when Carmody gets back to his own house."
Harrington stared at him perplexedly. Whittaker
had been full of strange ideas all day. It had begun,
it seemed, when Carstairs came to the house and sur-
rendered the little coffin to him. But then any man
would act strangely if he suddenly became the cus-
todian of a million dollars' worth of jewels.
"I need a little nap," Whittaker declared. "Guess
I'll try the couch in the drawing-room. Wish you
would call me when Mr. Carmody gets ready to leave."
Harrington nodded absently and wondered what
was going on in the district attorney's mind.
"Wish you would take care of this in the mean-
time," said Whittaker casually, and pulled the coffin
from his pocket. "It would keep me awake, and I
certainly need a few winks."
He handed the gorgeous box to Harrington as care-
lessly as if it had been only a cheap trinket. Harring-
ton took it dazedly. Of all the strange things Whit-
taker had done, this was by far the strangest. It
seemed madness, but perhaps there was method in it.
"But^"
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Some One Behind the Door
"Don't argue, please." The district attorney
yawned. "Just slip it in your pocket. By the way,
have you a gun?"
Harrington shook his head in an astounded way.
The pistol which had belonged to his late employer had
vanished during the exciting events at the hilltop hotel.
"Well, take this." Whittaker handed him his own
automatic. "Anybody who has a million dollars' worth
of jewels in his pocket ought to carry a gun."
Harrington looked about the room as he slipped the
weapon into his pocket. Shadows were gathering in
the corners. Outside, on the lawn and among the
trees, a fog was rising. In the dusk he imagined he
saw a knowing smile on the district attorney's face.
"Well," with a long breath, "I'm glad nobody saw
you hand me the coffin."
Whittaker gave a throaty little chuckle.
"I wouldn't be too sure about that. Don't forget to
call me when Mr. Carmody gets ready to leave."
He walked away slowly. Even before he reached
the door, he was almost blotted out by the oncreeping
shadows. Harrington remained standing at the desk.
He was tingling queerly. The box in his pocket seemed
to have assumed monstrous size and weight. A mil-
lion in precious stones I And Whittaker had handed
it for safekeeping to one under suspicion of murder.
He lighted a cigarette, gazed thoughtfully at the
flickering flame of the match until it died, then gazed
sharply into the shadowy corners. What on earth was
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The Back-Seat Murder
Whittaker's idea? The long, dour district attorney
was certainly moving in mysterious ways. And that
was a curious remark he had made just before he went
out. "I wouldn't be too sure," he had said in reply
to Harrington's remark that no one had witnessed the
transfer of the coffin. The words had sounded vaguely
significant.
Harrington reached out his hand to switch on the
library lamp, then changed his mind. For a reason not
quite clear to himself he preferred to remain in the
gloom with the treasure he was guarding. His eyes
went around the paneled walls. They seemed to be
growing darker every moment. He gazed at the win-
dows with their heavy curtains and into the night
gathering outside. Last of all his eyes fixed on the
door to the little study where he had played at his
fictitious role of secretary.
In a moment he stiffened. A grim smile crept up
from the corners of his mouth. He knew now what the
district attorney had meant. Whittaker must have
sharp ears and eyes.
The study door was open a crack, and some one
was standing behind it!
204


CHAPTER XX
Murder Insurance
A slight squeak had come from the study door, and
then the sound of some one catching his breath. It was
very still now, but Harrington imagined he saw a pair
of eyes peering out through the narrow crack. Whose
eyes?
Again he felt that sharp, tingling sensation. Of a
sudden his center of consciousness seemed to have
moved to the pocket that contained the little coffin. At
least one murder, and perhaps two, had been perpe-
trated because of the contents of that gorgeous box.
Would it inspire still another murderous deed? And
was it the murderer of Marsh who was now lurking
behind the study door?
His brain worked by leaps and flashes, stimulated
by the mysterious presence behind the door and by the
dynamic something that hung in the air. He hesitated
briefly while he touched the pocket that contained the
coffin and the other pocket that contained the auto-
matic. Should he take an aggressive stand at once, or
should he wait and let the man behind the door show
his hand?
In the next moment the question was answered for
2 os


The Back-Seat Murder
him. Almost soundlessly the door came open. Some
one stepped out, a shadow moving among shadows.
The newcomer walked with a step so light that Har-
rington knew at once who it was.
"What do you want, Tarkin?" he asked sharply.
The dramatic thrill was leaving him. Only a sense of
disgust remained. He had been keyed up to something
totally different from an encounter with a blackmailer.
"Shi" Tarkin whispered. "Want to disturb every-
body in the house? And you don't play any cute
tricks on me this time, Harrington. I've got the drop
on you. See?"
There was a small, grayish gleam in the gloom, and
it pointed straight to Harrington. It was too late now
to reach for his pistol. Somehow it had not occurred
to him that he might need it when he saw that the
intruder was only Tarkin. One did not associate gun
play with the slimy ways of a blackmailer. And, even
now, the pistol in Tarkin's hand did not seem as men-
acing as it would have seemed in the hand of some
one else.
"Oh, you've changed your tactics, I see. Well, what
are you offering for sale this time?"
"Not a thing. I've come to collect."
"But I told you—"
"Yeah, I know what you told me, that you didn't
have the cash. You've got it now, or something just
as good. I'll take that."
He crept forward a few steps, and Harrington's
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The Back-Seat Murder
him. He hit the floor with a thud, and Harrington
wrenched the pistol from his hand.
"Get up, Tarkin," he directed, "and answer a few
questions."
With whimpers and mutters the blackmailer scram-
bled to his feet. Harrington reached out and switched
on the library reading lamp. It diffused a reddish
glow within a narrow space and left the rest of the
library in shadow.
"Sit there," Harrington ordered, indicating a chair.
Tarkin obeyed surlily. There was a black, treacherous
look in his unwholesome face. "What do you know
about this box?" Harrington demanded.
"I know the Mooreland jewels are in it."
"The—what jewels?"
"The Mooreland jewels. They belonged to David
Mooreland."
With a look of surprise, Harrington searched his
sallow face.
"Ridiculous! Mooreland never had any jewels. He
was honest and poor. Where would he— Oh, well,
let it pass. How did you know I had the box?"
"I've got eyes and ears, haven't I?"
"I see. You have a great talent for appearing in
unexpected places, and you're making the most of it.
It's easy for a runt like you to slip in and out. I sup-
pose you were somewhere in the offing when Carstairs
brought the box to the house."
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The Back-Seat Murder
knew Mooreland was no pauper. As I said, it was a
funny sort of will—a kind of murder insurance."
"What?"
"Murder insurance. That's what it was."
Harrington's thoughts went back a few years and
resurrected dim recollections of a letter he had received
one day from David Mooreland. It was a most curious
letter. He had wondered at the time whether Moore-
land's mind was weakening or whether he was develop-
ing a grotesque sense of humor in his old age. After-
ward he had forgotten all about it.
"I see you remember," said Tarkin, watching him
craftily. "I guess you remember, too, what sort of
man Mooreland was. Some people thought he was
batty in the head. It wasn't that, but he was certainly
a queer old jackass, with all sorts of funny notions in
his head and—"
"He was a man of honor," Harrington cut in, re-
senting the blackmailer's crude references to the man
who had been his father's dearest friend.
"I didn't say he wasn't, did I? I only said he was
queer. As queer as they make 'em. Guess he came
of a queer family, for his brother was queer, too.
David Mooreland's queer streak didn't show till he
was well past sixty. It was a funny sort of fear—fear
of being murdered."
Harrington's brows went up. Another dim memory
was knocking at his brain.
"I guess you'd call it an obsession," Tarkin went
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Murder Insurance
on, his rheumy eyes fixed on the bulge over Harring-
ton's pocket. "Anyhow, it was a crazy sort of fear,
and it grew on him as he got older. Some people think
it started when an old aunt of his was murdered.
Whether that was true or not, the fear haunted him
night and day. He put extra locks on his doors. He
never went out on the streets without keeping one eye
over his shoulder to see if anybody was chasing him
with a knife. Queer, eh? And not so good for a man's
nerves. And the queerest part of it all was that there
was no reason on earth for his fear. He was the last
man in the world to make enemies.
"You see, David Mooreland was a gentleman if ever
there was one. I'm no gentleman, but I can spot one
a mile off. Yes, sir, he was too much a gentleman for
his own good. His friends made money, and some of
'em didn't care how they made it, but David Moore-
land made just enough for a comfortable living. And,
as I said, there was no reason why anybody should
want to hurt a hair on his head. In spite of that he
was the scaredest man alive. Didn't have a moment's
peace. Worried all the time and—"
"Come to the point," Harrington curtly interrupted.
Somehow it seemed as if old Mooreland's name was
being defamed by contact with the blackmailer's lips.
"I'm there now," said Tarkin smoothly. "Things
come to a point one day when a man whose name no-
body ever found out stepped off a boat at one of the
Manhattan piers and went to Mooreland's house with
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The Back-Seat Murder
a package in his pocket. Nobody knows whether or
not he paid duty on the package. If he did, he must
have paid a stiff amount. Anyhow, he handed the
package to Mooreland and said it came from Moore-
land's brother William, who had been living in Amster-
dam for twenty years. That's all he said, and David
Mooreland never saw him again.
"Well, the old boy had the surprise of his life when
he opened the package. There was a pretty little box
in it. Yes, sir, the same box you've got in your pocket.
Mooreland opened it and almost keeled over when he
saw it was crammed with diamonds. It seems William
had been in the diamond business in Amsterdam. His
brother David was his only relative, and so, when he
felt death coming on, he did things the simplest way.
He packed a million's worth of rocks in the box and
sent them over by a trusted friend. And so David
Mooreland became a millionaire."
Harrington was listening intently now. He was
learning of a strange chapter in the life of a man whose
kindliness and sweetness of character had made a pro-
found and lasting impression upon him.
"Just try to picture the old boy with a million on
his hands," Tarkin went on. "He had lived in fear
before, and for no reason. Now there was a reason.
People had been murdered for much less than a million.
The old gentleman worked himself into a cold per-
spiration. He imagined murderers were lying in wait
for him everywhere. It was all foolishness, of course.
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Murder Insurance
Nobody knew he had the rocks except the man who
brought them over. But Mooreland thought there was
just a chance somebody might find out. He got pan-
icky. The sane thing, of course, would have been to
take the box to a safe deposit vault, but people don't
do sane things when they're panicky. And so Moore-
land just sat there and looked at his diamonds, with
cold shivers running all over him, and wishing the
pesky things were on the bottom of the river.
"That's where they might have landed, too. Moore-
land was scared enough to do any crazy thing. But
he thought it over, and a better idea came to him. He
was getting old; he wouldn't live to enjoy his pile for
long. Besides, he had no relatives he could leave it
to, only a few friends, and he was very fond of those
friends. He was tempted to divide the diamonds among
them right away, but then he thought of a still better
idea—and that was murder insurance."
Tarkin chuckled and rubbed his long, greedy hands.
"Now, being a queer man, he worked the thing in
a queer way. It wasn't such a bad way at that, if
he had only been a little more careful. This was his
idea. The million in diamonds was to be divided among
his friends after his death, but there was a string tied
to it. If he should die a violent death—if he should
be murdered, that is—the division wouldn't take place
until the murderer had been found, and the one who
found him would get one half of the diamonds as his
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The Back-Seat Murder
share and the other half would be split up among the
rest of the heirs.
"Pretty good, eh? You see how he was protecting
himself all around. He knew that prospective heirs
get impatient sometimes, that now and then they feel
an awful temptation to hasten things along with a knife
or a dose of poison. Under this kind of arrangement,
they wouldn't be so likely to do that. It would be to
their interest to let Mooreland die a natural death.
What's more, each one would be a sort of bodyguard
and would take it on himself to see that nobody went
gunning for Mooreland. And anybody that might feel
tempted to bump him off would be discouraged by the
fact that there would be a reward of half a million for
the one who nabbed the murderer. Yes, Mooreland
fixed it up pretty neatly. There was just one bad hitch.
"You see, if he went to work and made a will with
such provisions in it, a lot of people would say he was
crazy. That might give somebody a chance to contest
the thing. Besides, Mooreland had a horror of pub-
licity, and the newspapers, if they got wind of a will
like that, would yell themselves hoarse. That wasn't
the worst of it, though. What Mooreland liked least
of all about the arrangement was that some people
might read between the lines and think he was afraid
of his friends. Maybe he was doubtful of one or two,
but he realized he might be wrong, and he didn't want
to do anybody an injustice. The upshot of it all was
that he didn't make a will at all, except what you might
«
216


Murder Insurance
call an unofficial one. And be appointed an unofficial
executor. That is, he took the pretty little box, with
the million's worth of diamonds in it, and handed it to
Christopher Marsh."
"What?" Harrington exclaimed, incredulously.
"Can you beat it?" Tarkin snickered disgustedly.
"Yes, he handed Marsh the diamonds and made him
his unofficial executor. If Mooreland died a natural
death, Marsh was to divide the diamonds evenly among
the heirs. If he was murdered, Marsh was to keep the
diamonds until the murderer was found, and the per-
son who found him would get half. If the murderer
wasn't found, Marsh would keep all."
Harrington stared at him with open mouth.
"Marsh, of all persons!" he exclaimed.
"Yes, Marsh, of all persons! Don't ask me to ex-
plain. What Mooreland didn't know about human
nature would fill all these books." Tarkin made a
comprehensive sweep with his hand. "Maybe Marsh
worked on his simple nature. Anyhow, he thought
Marsh was the best friend he had. He would have
trusted him with his life and soul. Maybe he was
right. You can't tell. Marsh might have been the
best and squarest man in the world till he got his
hands into that million dollars' worth of rocks.
"Well, Mooreland sat down and wrote a letter to
each of his heirs, telling them what he had done. You
see, the murder insurance wouldn't be any good unless
they knew the conditions. I guess the heirs were sur-
217


The Back-Seat Murder
He leaped with the lightness of a cat, yet the sudden
impact sent Harrington staggering against the wall.
A moment's chaos, then the slamming of a door. Har-
rington felt his pocket.
The coffin was gonel
220


CHAPTER XXI
In the Glass
In an instant he was racing in pursuit, marveling at
Tarkin's lightness of touch and cursing his own care-
lessness. A groan escaped him as he rushed out upon
the piazza and heard an engine's roar and saw a red
tail-light twinkling among the trees. It seemed the
thoughtful Tarkin had made his plans with a view to
a hurried departure.
Harrington ran down the curving driveway to the
garage. As he reached it, he caught a final glimpse of
the darting red light which showed the way Tarkin and
the million in diamonds had gone. He flung the great
sliding doors wide and saw the graceful lines of the
Waynefleet sedan gleaming in the dusk. It would
have to prove its mettle to-night.
He sprang for the driver's seat, then came to a dead
stop. A small light was moving inside the car, and
the rear door was blocked by a man's shoulders and
back. A mutter sounded, and the shoulders and back
straightened up. Whittaker's dour face and rangy fig-
ure appeared in the meager light. He held a flashlight
in his hand.
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The Back-Seat Murder
"Oh, hello, Mr. Harrington," was his casual remark.
"You look excited."
"The diamonds—Tarkin—" said Harrington breath-
lessly.
Whittaker nodded. "Yes, I expected that. You're
going to chase him, I suppose? You will have to hurry.
I think he took Carmody's car, and that baby can cer-
tainly hit it up. And now Carmody will have to stay
here till you get back. There won't be another car on
the place."
Harrington, one foot on the running board, stared
at him. He talked as calmly and ramblingly as if
Tarkin had run away with a pocketful of junk instead
of a million in diamonds.
"Don't you understand? The diamonds!"
"Yes. Too bad. Well, you had better step on her.
You've still got the gun I handed you, I suppose?"
Harrington gave a dazed nod. He touched the
starter, and the engine responded with a lusty snort.
He heard Whittaker bang the door shut and warn him
against reckless driving, and then the car shot out of
the garage and tore into the driveway. Harrington
switched on the head lamps and gazed out along the
winding ribbon of road, and a dejected mutter fell from
his lips. Tarkin had a good two minutes' start, and
a faster car as well. All he could hope for was a stroke
of luck.
He flew past Luke Garbo's garage. It was dark and
showed no sign of life. Now a three-cornered crossing
222


In the Glass
was in front of him, and there was nothing to indicate
which way the blackmailer had gone. Possibly, in
order to avoid pursuit, Tarkin had defied the traffic
regulations and darkened his lights.
Having nothing to guide him, he made a random
turn, and now he was speeding along the same road
he had traveled when Marsh had so mysteriously ap-
peared in the car. It was just possible that Tarkin
had gone to the old hilltop hotel. It seemed to be a
central point in all sorts of villainous activities, and a
likely destination for a man with a million dollars'
worth of diamonds in his pocket.
He urged the car to its utmost speed. There was a
roar of wind in his ears. The landscape, black and
shadowy beneath the stars, was a breathless stream of
hills and dips and curves. Now and then a morbid
urge caused him to glance at the rear-view mirror.
It required but a slight stretch of the imagination to
see Marsh's face back there in the dusk. The night,
the crazily winding road, and his taut nerves made it
easy to re-create that astounding scene.
Mile after mile slipped by in a panorama of black
jungles and heaving fields. Soon he would reach the
point where the narrow hilltop road branched off to
the left. And now, as a swift climb brought him to
the apex of an elevation, he could see a ribbon of dusky
silver gleaming down below. Apparently it was a
stream winding its way through the valley.
Instinctively he eased his pressure on the accelera-
223


The Back-Seat Murder
tor. A disturbing sensation, stronger than the zest of
the chase, came upon him. It was somewhere in this
vicinity that Marsh had so mysteriously appeared in
the rear seat. And down below, at the foot of the hill,
he saw an arched span across the ribbon of silver. In
another moment there was a rumbling in his ears. He
was crossing a bridge. The Crooked Creek bridge?
The ribbon of silver was behind him now, and be-
fore him was another stiff climb. He should have taken
it with a rush, but instead he let the engine slow down.
A stupefying sensation was beating against his brain.
His senses seemed to go numb, as if stunned by an in-
credible manifestation.
A whiff of cigar smoke was drifting over his
shoulder!
He lifted his eyes to the rear-view mirror and held
them there rigidly. The car, even at the slow speed
it was now traveling, lurched dangerously. He righted
it by force of instinct and applied the brakes, stopping
on the edge of a ditch. His eyes, rounded and glassy,
were still fixed on the mirror. He shook his head and
gave an insane laugh. No, such an astounding thing
could not happen more than once in a lifetime. He
must be dreaming.
But there it was—a man's face in the mirror. Some
one was occupying the rear seat, and curls of smoke
issued lazily from the cigar clamped between his teeth.
Harrington laughed again, like a drunken man. In-
congruities were thronging his brain. Marsh, too, had
224


In the Glass
sat in that seat smoking a cigar. But this man did not
have Marsh's square shoulders and broad face.
"Whittaker!" he exclaimed thickly.
The district attorney nodded as casually as if it were
the most natural thing in the world that he should be
sitting there. Harrington turned in his seat, feeling
that the thing he had seen in the glass must be an op-
tical illusion. But there was nothing illusory about
the occupant of the rear seat. He was very real and
very matter-of-fact.
"How—how did you get here?" Harrington stam-
mered, gaping at him fishily.
"Simplest thing in the world," Whittaker assured
him.
Harrington stared at him as he sat in the dusky in-
terior of the car. His brain described a few dizzy
revolutions.
"But Marsh—Marsh didn't—"
"No, he didn't. But maybe Storm will find the an-
swer to that." Through the car window he looked out
at the meandering banks of the creek. "See anything
of Storm's car?"
Harrington looked dazedly about him. The bridge
was less than a hundred feet behind. There were woods
on all sides, but through the trees could be seen the
pearl-gray streak of the creek.
"I don't see any car."
"Well, Storm isn't very far away. And he's shrewd
enough not to leave his car where it can be seen. I
225


The Back-Seat Murder
guess he followed the creek down a little ways. Of
course, he may have found what he was looking for
and gone back."
"Wouldn't we have met him if he had done that?"
"Oh, you can never tell about Storm. He doesn't
do things in the expected way. He may have gone
back by another road. But I guess we'll wait a little
while."
Harrington nodded dully. He was not giving much
thought to Storm and his mysterious search. The
major portion of his brain was occupied with Whit-
taker's sudden appearance in the car. It could be ex-
plained in a very simple manner, perhaps, but that
explanation threw no light on Marsh's equally sudden
appearance in the same car. There was a divergence
of circumstances at the very outset. They converged
only at the point where the rear-view mirror had re-
flected a man in the back seat.
"So you gave up the chase?" Whittaker inquired.
Harrington started. Tarkin and the million in dia-
monds had gone completely out of his mind.
"Just as well," said Whittaker. "I suspect you took
the wrong road, anyway."
Harrington stared at him. He seemed to take the
matter very calmly, as if a fortune in diamonds could
be picked up any day.
"Which way do you think he went?"
"I don't know, of course, but I have an idea that he
went to Carmody's house."
226


In the Glass
"Carmody's house?" Harrington's brain turned
over several puzzling circumstances. "But he didn't
start that way. Besides, there's nobody home."
"That's so. But, if Tarkin was going to Carmody's,
you may be sure he didn't go the shortest way, but
zigzagged about a bit to throw off pursuit. Anyway,
that's what I should have done if I had been in his
place."
"But why should Tarkin take the diamonds to Car-
mody's house?"
"Ah, that's a poser. We'll have to ask Storm what
he thinks about that." Whittaker lowered his dour
face over his cigar. "You see now how it happened,
don't you?"
"How what happened?"
"How Marsh got into the car."
"No, I'll be hanged if I do!"
"Well, maybe Storm will make it clear. I can't be
sure till I hear from him." He looked up and glanced
along the sides of the car, then turned up the handles
on each rear door and saw that the windows were
closed. "Now, here is the setting, just as it was that
night. Just imagine that I am Marsh. Now take a
walk around the car and see if you can figure out a
way to get at me with a knife."
Harrington fixed him with a long, wondering look,
then stepped out and closed the door behind him. In
a somber, tingling mood he ran his hands over every
square inch of the outer surface. He paid particular
227


The Back-Seat Murder
attention to the rear window, for it was his impression
that the fatal thrust had come from that direction. But
there was no loophole anywhere. He could see no pos-
sible way in which an assassin, operating from the out-
side, could attack a man seated inside the car.
With a mutter of bafflement, he started back to his
seat, and then something made him suddenly tense and
alert. Reaching instinctively for the pistol Whittaker
had given him, he glanced sharply along the ditch be-
side the road, partly concealed by a scrubby growth.
He heard no unusual sounds now, only the rustling of
dead leaves and a chirping and squawking from the
depths of the woods. Yet, with pistol in hand and an
uneasy sensation in his mind, he walked along the
ditch, kicking a weed and a bush here and there. At
length, convinced that he had been mistaken, he re-
turned to the car.
"Well?" said Whittaker; and then, as he saw the
pistol in Harrington's hand, his eyes widened in aston-
ishment. "Oh, you went about it realistically, as if
you were the murderer. But the murderer didn't use
a pistol. He used a knife."
"I know," said Harrington, not caring to correct him,
"but I imagined the pistol was a knife."
"I see. And did the imaginary knife give you an
inspiration?"
"No." Harrington sat down at the wheel and
turned back, facing the district attorney. "For the
life of me I can't see how it was done."
228


In the Glass
"H'm." Whittaker grinned somberly. "Then we
are exactly where we were before. If the murder
couldn't have been done from the outside, then it must
have been done from the inside, and in that case only
you could have done it. That is, unless Storm can
give us a different slant on it."
As he spoke, he toyed absently with the lap robe
that hung on a rope stretched out along the back of
the front seat. Of a sudden a look of intentness came
into his face.
"The seat curves forward," he observed, "but of
course the robe falls down straight. A man, if he was
as small as Tarkin, could almost hide behind the robe."
Harrington started and leaned farther back. A look
of keen interest appeared in his face, but it did not
last long.
"It couldn't be done," he declared. "I sat like this
when it happened, looking straight at Marsh, just as
I am looking at you now. The murderer couldn't pos-
sibly reach out from behind the robe and stab him
without my seeing him. Anyway," in a tone of finality,
"there was nobody behind the robe. I made sure of
that."
"That's out, then." Whittaker sighed lugubriously.
"I'm doing my level best to clear you, but I'm not get-
ting much help. Now, just let's try to figure it out.
Marsh was sitting just as I am now. You had turned
back in your seat and was looking at Marsh just as
you are now looking at me. It was dark outside, and
229


The Back-Seat Murder
there couldn't have been much light inside the car,
only what was thrown back by the head lamps. Still,
I suppose, you could see what was going on. Now try
and remember what you saw."
Harrington searched his memory. The scene was
very vivid in his mind. The same scene was before
his eyes now, except that he had to imagine that the
district attorney was Marsh and that a pistol was
pointed at him. Could there have been a movement
back there in the dusk which his eyes had failed to
catch? It was possible. He had seen murder in
Marsh's eyes, and a man facing death was not overly
observant.
"No," he declared, "I didn't see anything that ex-
plains how the murder was done. All I saw was
Marsh's face. It changed horribly. And then he let
out a scream. And then—then he died."
"H'm. A jury would have a hard time swallowing
that. Now, just try to jog up the old memory. One
thing is sure. With all the doors and windows closed,
the murderer couldn't have got inside the car while
you sat looking at Marsh. Either he was inside the
car before, or else he committed the murder from the
outside."
"He couldn't have been in the car," Harrington de-
clared.
"Then it was done from the outside."
"But that's just as impossible."
"If it is, then you're the murderer. But let's look
230


The Back-Seat Murder
"What's up?" Whittaker inquired, noticing his ex-
pression.
"Oh, nothing," said Harrington carelessly. His mind
had just been reenacting the murder on the lonely hill-
top, and in all probability he had only imagined that
there had been a flicker—a flicker of a hand or a face
—against the rear window.
Whittaker regarded him with a queer, far-off look.
"By the way," he said suddenly, "Marsh was point-
ing a pistol at you. How did he hold it? Like a man
who knows how to handle firearms?"
Harrington opened his eyes wide at the strange
question.
"Come to think of it, it struck me that he handled
it. a bit amateurishly. But even an amateur can shoot
straight at close quarters."
Whittaker nodded. He seemed strangely excited.
"Let's see that pistol." He took the weapon from
Harrington's hand. "Now, don't get nervous. I'm
not going to hurt you. Is this the way Marsh held it?"
Harrington felt an odd thrill as the weapon was
pointed at the region just above his diaphragm.
"No, he held it higher."
"Like this?" The district attorney raised the hand
in which he held the pistol.
"Higher still. As I recall it, his hand was almost
level with his chin. Yes, that's about right."
"Good Lord!" Whittaker exclaimed, and Harrington
marveled at the look that came into his face. It was
232


The Face at the Window
dred yards from the point where they had left the car.
Of a sudden Harrington stopped. The rising full
moon was casting a silvery luminance over the woods,
revealing objects that had not been visible before. Now
Harrington's eyes were fixed on a small tumbledown
shack, perhaps a hunter's cabin, some fifty feet further
back into the woods. On an impulse Harrington
started toward it.
"What now?" the district attorney grumbled.
"Come along," Harrington flung back over his
shoulder.
He moved cautiously through the underbrush, try-
ing to make as little noise as possible. He had no defi-
nite idea that the murderous prowler had taken refuge
in the cabin, but there was a chance that he had done
so. Considering how quickly he had taken up the pur-
suit, the man could not have got far away.
Now he stopped behind a tree. There was a little
clearing in front of him, and the cabin stood in the
center of it. He waited until Whittaker came up.
"We'd better crawl," he whispered. "We would
make fine targets in the moonlight."
Whittaker nodded, and they proceeded on hands and
knees. Suddenly Harrington paused and signaled his
companion to do likewise. A creaking sound, like that
produced by a foot placed on a rotting board, had sud-
denly issued from the shack. Harrington's heart gave
a little lurch. His instinct had led him aright. There
was some one inside the cabin.
237


The Back-Seat Murder
"Careful!" Whittaker admonished.
After a brief wait Harrington crawled forward again,
keeping in the shadow of a tall poplar standing just
outside the shack. Whittaker was just behind him,
with his pistol ready for action. On close view the
cabin appeared very small and in an extremely dilapi-
dated condition. The door was open, and beyond it
was the black, yawning interior.
Harrington's veins tingled. Anything might lurk in
that black space. A few more crawling motions, and
he was at the door, one elbow resting on one of the
crumbling wooden steps. Whittaker was at his side
now, his pistol striking a hard metallic sheen through
the moonlight, his hampered breathing testifying to his
excitement.
After a brief wait, Harrington lifted his head. Per-
haps it was a mad thing to do, for in this position he
offered a splendid target for any one lying in wait
within. He scanned the dark space, but the darkness
was impenetrable.
Of a sudden he sprang to his feet. A peculiar sound
had come from the interior. He had been straining his
ears for sounds, but not a sound of this kind. He had
expected to hear a trigger being cocked or to see the
flash of a blade of steel, but this was different. It was
the beginning of a scream that was instantly stifled into
a groan.
He waited, spellbound, with cold shivers chasing up
and down his spine. For a few moments all was still
238


The Back-Seat Murder
away. If he had taken refuge in the woods outside,
the dry underbrush would have betrayed his move-
ments.
On the floor, almost within reach of the dead man's
hand, lay a pistol. Whittaker picked it up and ex-
amined it with a curious expression. He chuckled
grimly as he tested the hammer and opened the car-
tridge chamber. Meanwhile Harrington glanced again
about the little cabin, consisting of but a single room.
It seemed as if the murderer must be skulking some-
where in the shadows along the walls.
"Hadn't we better look around?" he suggested in a
whisper.
"What would we look for? Oh, the killer. No, I
don't think it would do any good. He's too far away."
"But he must have been here a minute or two ago."
"Think so?" absently. "Well, you might have a
look. I'll stay here."
Harrington cast him a long, puzzled glance, then
proceeded cautiously along the cabin walls. Finding
nothing, he went outside and walked around the hut,
then searched the surrounding ground. Dry twigs and
dead weeds crackled under his foot at every step, tell-
ing him again that the murderer could not have escaped
without being heard. He went back inside. Whittaker
was still absorbed in contemplation of the pistol.
"Ever see this before?" he asked.
Harrington took the weapon and inspected it.
"It might be the one Marsh had," he declared.
240


The Back-Seat Murder
"No doubt somebody was aiming a pistol at me.
But as for the rest— Well, we'll see. There's nothing
we can do here. IH telephone Doc Griffin from Peek-
acre and have him come and take care of the body.
Guess we'd better hurry back. Have a hunch we're
in for a bit of excitement to-night."
Harrington was a greatly puzzled man as they walked
back to the car.
242


The Back-Seat Murder
"It's possible he doesn't know," Whittaker went on,
"that Samuel Tarkin got the coffin away from you.
Anyway, he is a worried man. And I guess Miss Lan-
yard is a worried girl. I'd be worried, too, if there
was a million dollars' worth of diamonds at stake.
And so they've been anxious all day to get back to the
Carmody place. Maybe Tarkin is there waiting for
them. Again, maybe he isn't."
His eyes ranged the valley between the two houses,
one almost dark, the other brightly lighted.
"Wish I knew what to do," he said plaintively.
"Guess I'm too dependent on Storm. I had a clear
idea when I started out, but a lot of things have hap-
pened since then."
"What was your idea? You gave me an awful jolt
when I saw you in the glass all of a sudden."
"It was just an experiment. I wanted to see if it
could be done."
"But the conditions weren't the same as when Marsh
played the same trick."
"No, not quite. Anyway, I thought a ride would
do me good. Besides, I was getting worried about
Storm. I'm still worried about him. Tell you what
you do. Drive up as far as Luke Garbo's garage, and
then I'll get out and walk up to the Marsh house and
see what's stirring. I want to telephone Doc Griffin,
anyway."
In an acutely puzzled state of mind Harrington did
as directed. There was a light in the garage, but Luke
244


The Dark House
Garbo was nowhere in sight. The district attorney
got out and walked away with a rapid, lunging stride.
Harrington lighted a cigarette and waited. Being
too nervous to remain still, he walked over to the garage
and looked in. There was no sign of the proprietor
anywhere. Harrington strolled back and forth a few
times, and presently Whittaker's rangy figure appeared
around a bend in the road. He climbed inside the car
and asked Harrington to drive toward the Carmody
place.
"Storm got back," he reported as the car was being
swung around. "He was waiting for me at the Marsh
house. It took him a long time to find what he was
looking for."
"Oh, he found it?"
"Of course he found it. Storm always gets what
he goes after. Clever fellow, Storm."
Harrington fixed him with a quizzical eye as he
drove along, but Whittaker did not seem inclined to
go into confidences.
"Carmody and Miss Lanyard are still there," he
went on. "It seems Carmody has been fretting terribly.
Wouldn't be surprised if he asked somebody to take
him home in the car Storm used to go to Crooked Creek
bridge."
Harrington bent a scowling gaze on the moon-bathed
road ahead. It seemed the district attorney was alto-
gether too secretive. Yet, he realized, Whittaker had
245


The Back-Seat Murder
no desire to be tantalizing. Possibly he was not quite
sure of his facts as yet.
"What's Carmody fretting about?" he asked.
"The coffin, of course. He had the shock of his life
when Carstairs walked in and calmly pulled the coffin
from his pocket. Carmody doesn't see how there can
be two coffins exactly alike in both shape and size."
"Two coffins? Then—" Harrington stopped short,
seized with a staggering thought.
"Yes," said Whittaker, "that same coffin which Car-
stairs brought to Peekacre this morning should have
been reposing in a snug hiding place in Carmody's
home. Carmody couldn't believe his senses when Car-
stairs pulled it out of his pocket. The shock was too
much for him. He collapsed under it. And all day
he has been anxious to go home and see if there can
possibly be a mistake somewhere."
Harrington sat silent, guiding the wheel in an absent
manner, his mind too full for words.
"But how did the coffin, with the diamonds in it, get
into Carmody's possession?" he finally blurted out.
"That's what I'd like to know. Better stop here.
Just as well not to advertise our arrival. It might be
a good idea to park the car behind that clump of trees."
Mechanically Harrington drove the car off the road
and maneuvered it into the desired position. He turned
off the lights and they stepped out. Avoiding the drive-
way, they walked in silence through a sprinkling of
246


The Dark House
pines and hemlocks, all the time guided by the single
light shining in the house.
"We'll work around to the back," said Whittaker in
an undertone, and they made a wide detour. Evidently
the district attorney had been over the ground before,
for he seemed thoroughly familiar with it. As they
walked side by side, Harrington detected signs of a
tension and a suppressed excitement about him.
A wall of stucco and stone loomed before them.
There was not a single light on this side of the house.
The moonlight tinged the black windows with a blurred
iridescence. They stopped before a door, narrow and
disproportionately tall, with a fanlight above it.
"I feel like an arsenal," Whittaker muttered. "Two
guns—my own and the one we found beside Stoddard's
body. Hope this door isn't locked."
Luckily it was not. The district attorney entered
first, and Harrington followed. In the dark, without
speaking a word, they made their way through several
rooms. At length, after Whittaker had opened a door
a crack, they stopped and listened. No sounds came.
The district attorney moved forward and played his
flashlight over the floor. They were in the library.
"Nice and cozy," Whittaker observed, but his voice
was not quite steady. He swung his torch over the
walls, then focused it on a circular safe imbedded in
the oak paneling. "I could never see what people want
with these flimsy wall safes. You could almost pry
them open with a can opener. I certainly wouldn't
247


The Back-Seat Murder
want to keep a million dollars' worth of diamonds in
one of them."
Harrington bent a questioning gaze on his long,
somber face. Whittaker moved away from the wall,
put his torch on the desk and, displaying his white
vest to advantage, looked about him.
"Devilish things, diamonds," he soliloquized. "They
seem to turn people's minds. There have already been
three murders on account of the ones in the coffin—
Mooreland, Marsh and Stoddard. Maybe there'll be
another before the night is over. I wouldn't be sur-
prised—"
The buzzing of the telephone interrupted him. He
looked at it dubiously, then walked up to the instru-
ment and put the receiver to his ear.
"Hello," he said in fair imitation of Martin Car-
mody's timid voice. "Yes, this is Mr. Carmody. Oh,
yes, Tarkin. Well?"
There was a brief conversation. The district attor-
ney looked slyly pleased when he hung up the receiver.
"Tarkin wants Carmody or Miss Lanyard to meet
him at the hilltop hotel," he announced.
Harrington started, then stared at him for a moment.
"And Tarkin has the diamonds with him, of course."
"I suppose so. Evidently he wants to turn them over
to Carmody or Miss Lanyard."
"For a good, stiff consideration?"
"Maybe." Whittaker scratched his head. "Won-
der why Tarkin didn't bring the diamonds here. He
248


The Back-Seat Murder
able to leave you much. There will only be a few—"
"Oh, dad, what do I care? I'm strong and healthy
and can take care of myself."
"Yes, doubtless. But I'm worried just the same. I
should be so much happier if I could leave you some-
thing substantial. Now, don't scold me, dear. I may
be a foolish old man, but that's the way I feel. Any-
way, I am just stubborn enough to refuse to be cheated
out of what's mine. Now, don't try to stop me. I
can't stand this uncertainty any longer. I must see
about those diamonds."
"But it's ridiculous, dad! The diamonds are in the
safe."
"Safes can be robbed."
"But your safe is different from most. No burglar
is likely to find the inner compartment. You said so
yourself."
"I know, but where did Carstairs get that box?
Where did it come from if it didn't come from my safe?
Now, dear, I'm going over there and find out."
A sigh sounded, then a series of quick, nervous foot-
steps. Through the narrow opening the two watchers
saw the tall, slightly stooping figure of Carmody. His
face looked drawn and haggard, and his hands shook
as he manipulated the combination lock. Directly be-
hind him stood Theresa, watching anxiously.
The safe door swung open, and then followed further
manipulation. Evidently Carmody was now opening
the inner compartment of which Theresa had spoken.
252


The Murderer
taker, not knowin' the coffin is loaded with ten-penny
nails. That certainly hands me a laugh."
Garbo laughed heartily.
"Well, I got more'n a laugh out of it. I'm wise to
what Carstairs does—see? Don't ask me what put me
wise, and I won't tell you no lies. But I does some
hard thinkin'. I says to myself that Mr. Carmody
musta got a jolt when he saw Carstairs walkin' in with
that coffin. And I asks myself what Mr. Carmody
would do about it. Why, I says to myself, he'd rush
home as soon as he got over his jolt and look in the
place where he's been hidin' that pretty little coffin.
I struck it about right, didn't I? Yes, just about
right. And this sure beats the garage business.
Thanks, Mr. Carmody."
He held out his grease-smeared hand for the coffin,
but Carmody shrank back.
"Now, what's the use kickin' up a fuss?" Garbo
pleaded. "You be nice and accommodatin', and I
won't pull any rough stuff. Come on now. Hand over
that coffin."
"I'll be hanged if I will!" Carmody rasped out.
His voice shook and he was deathly pale, but his man-
ner was determined. Theresa came up to plead with
him, but he brushed her firmly aside. "Stand back,
dear. This contemptible crook isn't going to bully
me. There!"
With a movement so swift that it aroused the ad-
miration and astonishment of the two watchers behind
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The Back-Seat Murder
the door, he stepped back to the wall, threw the coffin
inside the safe, and then two doors slammed shut in
quick succession.
"There's your answer," he declared. "Now get out."
Garbo fixed him with a black look; then his face
broke into an ugly leer. Very leisurely he drew a re-
volver from his pocket.
"Life's a mighty uncertain proposition," he drawled.
"We're here to-day and gone to-morrow. If you want
to be here to-morrow, you'd better open that safe—
quick!"
He came forward, holding the revolver in his grimy
hand. Theresa caught her breath and sprang to the
older man's side. Carmody drew himself up to his
full height and confronted the garage keeper defiantly.
There was something heroic and admirable about him,
Harrington thought. He wondered why Whittaker did
not interfere. Surely this was the time for action.
"I'll give you one minute to open that safe," Garbo
growled.
"And I'll give you half a second to clear out," Car-
mody retorted with fine disdain. "Save your childish
threats for more gullible ears. I know you are not
going to shoot me. If I die, who is going to open the
safe for you?"
Garbo was taken aback for a moment, but he rallied
quickly.
"Ah, don't try to work your grand manners on me.
I'm wise—see? I know now that there's a double wall
256


The Murderer
weapon from him. With a chuckle Whittaker picked
it up and stuck it in his pocket.
"You needn't have been afraid of it, Garbo," he
said. "It didn't happen to be loaded. Stoddard got
the last shot from it."
Harrington stared at him in acute bewilderment.
Whether the pistol was loaded or unloaded, it did not
explain the look of terror with which Garbo had re-
garded it.
"Watch him, Harrington," the district attorney said.
Then he stepped to the window, opened it, took a small
metal instrument from his pocket, and let out two
shrill whistles.
"A signal," he explained. "Storm—"
With a hoarse snarl Garbo sprang for the door, and
in a moment Harrington was in pursuit. It took the
garage-keeper an instant to open the door, and in that
instant Harrington flung himself on his back. And then
he received a great surprise. Garbo shook him off as
easily as if he had been a child. He grabbed the man's
arm, but his own arm was seized in turn, and now an
excruciating agony tore through his body. He hung
on, although every nerve was screaming in torture.
And then, while his body writhed with pain, some-
thing flashed across his mind—a revelation that,
despite the excruciating torture he was suffering, made
him cling all the harder to the man's arm. Only one
person had the diabolical power to inflict such awful
pain. He stared into the grimy face—hideously dis-
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The Back-Seat Murder
torted by rage and frustration just now—and he was
dimly conscious that Whittaker was running up and
that Storm's flinty features had just appeared at the
door. A name trembled on his lips:
"Carstairs!"
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Alias Luke Gar bo
place for business. If he didn't spend much time at
his garage, nobody wondered about it, for business
was dull. Jobs were few and far between, but in spite
of that Garbo always had a lot of grease and oil
smeared over his face and clothing. It didn't occur
to anybody to wonder how he would look with his face
washed."
"But what about the night of the murder?" Harring-
ton put in. "We routed him out of bed, you remem-
ber. There was no grease on his face then."
"No, but there was a stubble of beard, and we saw
him in a dim light. Besides, none of us had seen Car-
stairs then. Even if we had, we might not have recog-
nized him in Luke Garbo. You see, Carstairs' out-
standing feature is a whitish face. He's been cultivat-
ing it the past year, I understand. It's a complexion
that comes on and off. And Luke Garbo did a good
piece of acting that night. Anyway, we had no reason
to suspect that he wasn't genuine.
"It was an advantage for Carstairs, as Luke Garbo,
to have a place of business within half a mile of the
Marsh house. Nobody thought anything of it if oc-
casionally he wandered over to Marsh's garage and had
a look at the car. Then, besides, he let it be known
that he could do an odd job of plumbing in a pinch.
That was a convenience, there being no professional
plumber within miles of Peekacre. Marsh employed
him two or three times to do minor repairs. I can't
say how competently the jobs were done, but I know
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The Back-Seat Murder
that once Garbo went away from Peekacre congratu-
lating himself on having a coffin about his grease-
smeared clothes that contained a million dollars' worth
of diamonds. He got a bad jolt when he opened it,
however. It contained nothing but nails. It was a
replica of the original box and Marsh had used it as a
decoy. I doubt if he ever noticed its disappearance,
for the very next day he was killed."
The listeners straightened up and watched him in-
tently.
"In the meantime," Whittaker proceeded, "Marsh
had begun to entertain certain suspicions of his private
secretary, who had entered his employ under the name
of Leonard Harrington. He was also doubtful of his
wife's nurse, whom he knew as Theresa Lanyard. Lit-
tle by little he was led to the belief—and he was abso-
lutely right—that these two were secretly trying to con-
nect him with the murder of Mooreland. And one
night—the night before his death, by the way—he
overheard the nurse and the secretary talking in the
cellar. What he heard proved to him that Mr. Har-
rington was in possession of dangerous information and
that he was likely to discover still more damaging evi-
dence. He resolved to kill Harrington.
"I suppose nearly every murderer has aspired to
achieve the perfect crime. Marsh planned to kill Mr.
Harrington in a way that would be absolutely detec-
tion-proof. In accord with this plan, he sent Mr. Har-
rington away on a fake errand, instructing him to
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Alias Luke Garbo
them quite a distance, but Storm found them yester-
day."
"Yes," said Harrington wonderingly, "Storm found
the overalls and the jacket, but how did you find the
solution?"
"Well, you remember I found some grease spots in
the car the other day. They confirmed a hunch of
mine. After all, Marsh's appearance in the car couldn't
be explained in any other way. Now, Marsh was a
coward and had a mean streak in him. That's why he
went about his intended murder in that particular way.
Appearing suddenly in the car, with a pistol in his
hand, he had you completely at his mercy. You had
no possible chance to fight him. Moreover, having the
drop on you, he could compel you to drive to an isolated
spot where he could commit his crime in safety and
where it would be easy to dispose of your body. But
it was the mean streak in him that made him remove
his overalls and clean his face before he showed him-
self to you. He wanted you to know who he was.
He wanted you to know that the man who was going
to kill you was the man you had tried to send up for
murder. And so he tormented you for a bit before
he pulled the trigger—"
"But he didn't pull the trigger," Harrington inter-
rupted. "He might have done so a second later, but
he was murdered just then."
"You are wrong. He did pull the trigger, meaning to
kill you, and in doing so he shot himself."
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The Back-Seat Murder
A dead silence prevailed for a time.
"Shot himself?" Harrington echoed.
"Who else could have shot him?" A slow smile
spread over Whittaker's dour face.
"But he wasn't shot. He was stabbed."
"Well, he was murdered, at any rate. Whether he
was shot or stabbed makes no difference. It was an
absentee murder, so to speak. The murderer was
about three hundred yards away when his victim died.
I mean Roscoe Carstairs, alias Luke Garbo. You see,
Garbo had smelled a rat when Marsh came to him that
morning and asked him to go to New York. He left
his garage, but did not go far. He only went to the
old hilltop hotel to have a conference with his confed-
erate, Harry Stoddard, who had made the place his
headquarters for some time. Now, there had been a
difference between the two conspirators. Carstairs, or
Garbo, believed that the diamonds were hidden in
Marsh's house. Stoddard believed they were in the old
hilltop hotel, where Mooreland had been hiding before
his death, and that they had never been in Marsh's pos-
session. As it happened, neither was right."
"What?" Harrington exclaimed; and then, as he cast
a glance in Theresa's direction, his eyes narrowed.
"No," Whittaker repeated, "neither was right.
About a month ago Marsh discovered that the coffin
containing the diamonds had disappeared. The person
who took them had not been fooled by the boxful of
nails which Marsh had used as a decoy. He had taken
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The Back-Seat Murder
Harrington smiled. The district attorney's modesty
was a little comical at times.
"But Stoddard?" Harrington asked. "What hap-
pened to him?"
"Oh, Stoddard. Well, beneath all his crookedness,
Stoddard had a soft streak in him. Carstairs didn't
like it. He was afraid Stoddard would cause him trou-
ble. Besides, he confidently expected to get hold of
the diamonds, and he didn't want to divide them with
his accomplice. So he decided that Stoddard had to
die."
With a very solemn air Whittaker took a pistol from
his pocket.
"Yesterday Carstairs handed Stoddard this pistol.
He told him to go to Crooked Creek bridge and kill
Storm. He said Storm might dig up some damaging
evidence, and somebody had to stop him. It was only a
subterfuge. Carstairs wasn't greatly concerned over
anything Storm might find. His only idea was to get
rid of Stoddard, and he was hoping that one or two
things might happen—either that Storm would kill
Stoddard in a pistol battle, or else that Stoddard would
accidentally kill himself. As it happened, Stoddard
was too late. Storm had already started back. But
Carstairs' treacherous scheme worked out very nicely.
Mr. Harrington and I trailed Stoddard to a hunter's
shack. He tried to take a shot at us—and he shot him-
self."
270


Alias Luke Gar bo
"How?" Harrington asked, but an idea was already
forming in his mind.
"You see this pistol. It looks like any ordinary pis-
tol, especially to a person not familiar with firearms.
If Stoddard had opened it, he might have discovered
something very peculiar about it, but he had no oc-
casion to do that. Yes, it's a very peculiar pistol. It
doesn't fire a bullet, but a pointed steel slug—and it
fires backwards."
"Backwards?" Harrington exclaimed.
"Yes, this part"—he indicated a point along the
upper portion of the handle—"opens up when the trig-
ger is pulled. A powerful steel spring evicts the slug
with great force. If the person pulling the trigger holds
the pistol as pistols are generally held, he gets the slug
in his chest. If he hold it a little higher, he gets it in
the throat. Carstairs told me he bought it from an
inventor who had gone insane. It seems Marsh kept
a pistol in his desk drawer. One day when Carstairs
was prowling about the house looking for the diamonds,
he found the pistol. He took it and left the trick pistol
in its place. They were about the same size and shape.
With his usual foresight, Carstairs anticipated that
Marsh might take a shot at him some day when he was
poking about the house. That anticipation was never
fulfilled, but Marsh put this pistol in his pocket the day
he started out to kill Mr. Harrington."
With a shiver Harrington stared at the weapon in
the district attorney's hand.
271


The Back-Seat Murder
"And afterward," Whittaker went on, "Mr. Har-
rington picked it up from the floor of the car. He had
no reason to suspect that it was not an ordinary pistol.
He carried it for a day or so, and then he was assaulted
in the hilltop hotel, and the pistol returned to Car-
stairs' possession."
A little pause fell. The listeners stared shudderingly
at the diabolical weapon.
"But no slug was found in Marsh's body," Harring-
ton pointed out.
"As I said before, Carstairs was at the hilltop hotel
that night. He saw the lights of your car, and so he
went out to investigate. You were not there. You had
seen a light somewhere about the old hotel, and you
thought the murderer had gone there. Naturally, feel-
ing that you yourself might be suspected, you were
anxious to catch him. And so, when Carstairs came up
to the car, all he found was the body of Marsh. The
slug had torn a hole in the throat, but had not gone in
far. Carstairs pulled it out. If he had left it in, we
might have found the solution sooner. By pulling it
out he made it look as if nobody but you, Mr. Har-
rington, could have committed the murder."
Harrington's thoughts went back to a memorable
evening. Again, in imagination, he saw Marsh's face
in the dusk of the car.
"And then, as he walked away from the car," Whit-
taker added, "he discovered that his hand had been
stained with blood when he pulled the slug out. He
272


Alias Luke Garbo
wiped it off with a glove he had in his pocket—Miss
Lanyard's glove. Miss Lanyard, it seems, had lost it
in the old hotel, and Carstairs had picked it up, mean-
ing to confront her with it as evidence that she had
been prowling about there. After wiping his hand,
he dropped it near the car, where Tarkin found it after-
ward."
Tarkin grinned his unwholesome grin.
"And Miss Lanyard almost threw a fit when I
showed it to her," he said with a giggle. "She was all
on edge, anyway. Those blood stains made her see
red all over the place. It made her wild to think that
she might be dragged into the Marsh murder just
when—"
Harrington silenced him with a contemptuous look
and turned to the district attorney.
"How did it happen," he asked, "that Marsh's hat
was found in Carmody's house?"
"Likely as not Carstairs brought it there. For the
sake of his own safety he complicated the mystery all
he could."
Harrington looked at Theresa, sitting with lowered
eyes beside Carmody, with a somber smile on her lips.
His thoughts went back to the night when they stood
beside the ash heap in the cellar.
"You had competition, Mr. Harrington," the district
attorney remarked. "Miss Lanyard, too, was trying to
find Mooreland's murderer. You see, there were cir-
cumstances which made it look as if Mr. Carmody had
2 73


Alias Luke Garbo
come to you like an honest man, you wouldn't have be-
lieved me. You'd been afraid of me. It wouldn't
have been so good. But you thought you could handle
a crook who didn't pretend to be honest. And so—"
"Wait," Harrington broke in. "Who the deuce are
you?"
Tarkin rolled his shifty eyes at Theresa.
"I am Snooks," he said.
THE END
277