The Back-seat Murder Read online

  All in all, it soon became apparent that Christopher 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 strangest 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 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 outstanding 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 possessed 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 his way to success. His eyes were small and surrounded 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 manner 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 announced.

  Harrington sat down in his customary chair and poised his pencil over the notebook, prepared to clutter 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 confusion 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, 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 prosecuting 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 battery. A loose connection, probably. I could fix it myself.” Marsh enjoyed puttering about in the garage, and he prided himself on his mechanical ability. “But you had better stop at that little service station at the crossroads and 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,

  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 investigation—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. Various 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?”

  “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 together. Was Marsh indulging in a gruesome 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 concern you.”

  “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 minder? 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 dryly “—who, I am convinced, entered my employ under false pretenses 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 suggesting 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, before 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. Returning 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.

  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 astounding letter Marsh had dictated and the equally astounding 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 unmitigated 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 plotting 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 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!” Harrington suddenly exclaimed. “To the post-office. 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 tomorrow morning’s mail. Marsh is now on his way to the post-office 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.”

  “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 wonder 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 evening.”

  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 astonishing 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 response 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 uneven 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-siree! 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 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, r
eturning 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 proceeded 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 boulder.

  “Well,” Garbo was muttering, “we’re here today and gone tomorrow.”

  Harrington glanced back over his shoulder. He had 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, however.

  “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 allus a bad sign. I do it myself.”