CHAPTER VI
The Mystery at the Pier
FOR a moment, no one spoke. Only the boy’s laboured breathing broke the stillness; he was shivering convulsively, clutching at the hat-rack for support.
“It was the lightning, I suppose,” said Tremaine, at last, in a suppressed voice. “I knew that bolt struck somewhere near. The pier would naturally be a dangerous place.”
“I told him not to stay there,” broke in Delroy angrily. “There was no sense in it. Was it the lightning?” he demanded, wheeling on the boy.
“No,” he gasped, “it’s murder.”
“What!” cried Delroy incredulously.
“Lightnin’ don’t cave a man’s head in, does it?” asked the boy doggedly.
Delroy grabbed a raincoat from the rack and Tremaine caught up another. Across the lawn they sped, under the trees, down to the water-front, with young Graham stumbling blindly along behind. The little white boathouse gleamed vivid in the glare of the lightning. They entered and paused uncertainly in the gloom.
“Where is he?” asked Delroy.
“Out there on th’ pier,” answered Graham brokenly, “Out there where they struck him down.”
“Get a light here and we’ll bring him in. Come on, Tremaine”.
At the pier-end lay a dark, huddled figure. A lightning-flash disclosed the staring eyes, the bloodstained face.
“Good God!” cried Delroy, and the horror of it seemed to strike through him, to palsy him.
Tremaine knelt down beside the body and lifted a limp wrist. He held it a moment, then laid it gently down.
“He’s quite dead,” he said, and stood quickly erect again, with a shudder he could not wholly repress.
Delroy, swallowing hard, gripped back his self-control.
“We can’t leave him out here,” he said; “perhaps there’s a spark of life. You take the legs; I’ll take the head.”
It was a heavy load and they staggered under it. From the boathouse a light flashed out, and in a moment young Graham came hurrying out to them and helped them forward, sobbing drily.
They laid their burden on the cot which the son had occupied and stood for a moment looking down at it. The boy seemed on the verge of collapse; his lips were drawn, his teeth chattering; the horrible sobbing did not stop. Delroy turned to him sharply.
“William,” he said, “I want you to show yourself a man. A good deal depends on you. Remember that-remember, too, that with your help, we’re going to catch the scoundrel who did this.”
The boy straightened up with a groan of agony,
“That’s what I want!” he cried. “That’s all I ask!”
“That’s what we want, too,” and Delroy laid a calming hand upon his arm. “Now go up to the house and rouse Thomas, but don’t alarm anyone else. Get him to telephone at once to Babylon for Doctor Wise and for the coroner, and tell them both to get out here as quickly as they can. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir,” answered Graham, and disappeared in the outer darkness.
For some moments, the two men stood looking down at the body without speaking. Then Delroy stooped and touched lightly the bloody forehead.
“See,” he said, “his head has been beaten in.”
“Yes,” nodded Tremaine, “the murderer struck boldly from the front—he didn’t think it necessary to steal up behind.”
“But why didn’t Graham defend himself? He was armed. Why did he let him get so near?”
“There’s only one possible explanation of that,” said Tremaine drily, “supposing, of course, that Graham didn’t fall asleep. He knew the man and thought him a friend. Perhaps they were even talking together at the time the blow was struck.”
Delroy’s face turned livid and great beads of sweat broke out across his forehead.
“That would explain it, certainly,” he agreed hoarsely, “for there isn’t the least likelihood that Graham was asleep. But it’s too horrible, too fiendish; I can’t believe it.”
Tremaine turned away to the window without answering, and stood there rolling a cigarette between his fingers and staring out across the water. The storm had passed, but by the broad bands of light which flashed incessantly along the horizon, he could see the waves still tossing wildly in the bay. He lighted the cigarette with one long inhalation, and stood there smoking it, his back to the room and its dreadful occupant. Delroy sat limply down upon a chair and buried his head in his hands.
Presently there came the sound of footsteps on the walk, the door opened, and young Graham and Thomas came in.
“Doctor Wise promised t’ come at once, sir,” said the latter to Delroy, his voice dropped instinctively to a hoarse whisper. “He said he’d bring the coroner with him.”
Delroy nodded without looking up.
“Anything else I can do, sir?” asked Thomas, with one horrified glance at the still form on the cot.
“Yes; go back to the house and bring down some whiskey and half a dozen glasses.”
“Very well, sir,” and Thomas hurried away. He was back in a surprisingly few minutes.
“Give Mr. Tremaine a glass,” said Delroy. “Tremaine,” he called, “take a bumper, or you’ll be catching cold,” and he himself brimmed a glass and drained it at a draught. Tremaine took his more slowly.
“You, too, William,” said Delroy. “Here, you need it.”
The boy, who had been standing beside the cot, his hands clasping and unclasping convulsively, took the glass mechanically and swallowed its contents.
Thomas carried the tray to the farthest corner and sat down. Seeing that no one noticed him, he filled a glass for himself with a trembling hand.
Ten, twenty, thirty minutes passed—thirty centuries during which no one spoke. Then they heard the swift clatter of a horse’s hoofs, the whir of wheels, and a buggy pulled up before the door. Thomas had it open on the instant and two men walked in.
“What is it, Delroy?” asked one of them. “Nothing serious I—ah!” he added, as his eyes fell upon the cot.
He went to it quickly, the other following; touched the hideous wounds, looked into the eyes, felt the temples.
“He’s dead,” he said, at last; “has been dead two or three hours, I should say. His skull is crushed—fairly beaten in. It’s your gardener, Graham, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” Delroy answered.
The doctor stepped back.
“I turn the case over to you, Heffelbower,” he said. “It’s in your province now. Mr. Delroy, this is Mr. Heffelbower, the coroner.”
Heffelbower bowed. He was a little, stout man, bald-headed and with wide-open blue eyes that stared like a doll’s. Primarily, he was a saloon keeper, but had been elected coroner as a reward for his valuable services to his party. He possessed a certain native shrewdness which fitted him to some extent for the office; also a lack of nerves and a familiarity with crime which might often be of service.
“I presume,” he began slowly, “t’at t’is man wasn’t killed here in his bed?”
“No,” said Delroy, “we found him lying out on the pier yonder. We thought it only common humanity to bring him in, since there might have been a spark of life left.”
“Oh, of course,” agreed the coroner, instantly, visibly impressed by Delroy’s presence. “T’at was right. Who found t’e body?”
“His son, there,” and Delroy indicated young Graham by a gesture.
The coroner turned toward him; it was easy to see that he had a high opinion of his own ability as a cross-examiner and detector of crime. He wasn’t actually smiling, but his round face was shining with satisfaction. Babylon and the neighbouring villages are quiet places, and this was Heffelbower’s first important case since his election. He would show his constituents how wise their choice had been.
“My dear sir,” he began, evidently proud of his command of language, the result of many years of saloon debates, and speaking with distressing care but with a racial inability to conquer the “th,” “I know such a recital will be painful to you—most painful—but I must hear from you just how t’e discovery was made. You will naturally be more anxious t’an anyone to bring to justice t’e scoundrel who committed t’is crime, so please give us all t’e details possible. T’en I will know how to proceed.”
From the moment of his entrance, Tremaine had been contemplating the coroner with half-closed eyes; now, he turned back to the window with a little contemptuous smile.
“I’ll tell everything I know, sir,” said William, coming forward eagerly. “I went up t’ th’ house about nine o’clock and brought this cot down, intendin’ t’ turn in here an relieve father at midnight. Father was settin’ out there on the pier a-smokin’ his pipe when I turned in. I went t’ sleep almost as soon as I touched th’ piller. I don’t know how long it was, but after a while I kind o’ woke up an’ heard voices a-talkin’ out there on th’ pier. I got up an’ looked out th’ winder an’ purty soon I saw it was Mr. Drysdale with father.”
“Drysdale? Who’s he?” asked the coroner.
“He’s a friend of mine,” spoke up Delroy quickly. “An old friend. He’s staying here at the house with us. In fact, he’s to marry my wife’s sister.”
The coroner bowed.
“Very well,” he said, turning back to Graham, “you may continue.”
“Well,” went on the young fellow, “as soon as I saw it was Mr. Drysdale, I knowed it was all right, so I went back to bed ag’in. An’ I didn’t know nothin’ more till a great clap o’ thunder nearly took th’ roof off th’ house. I set up in bed, but I couldn’t seem t’ git awake fer a minute, my head was whirlin’ so. Then I got on my feet an’ looked out th’ winder an’ jest then it lightened ag’in an’ I seen father layin’ there”
He stopped with a sob that shook him through and through.
“That will do for t’e present,” said the coroner kindly. “It seems rather extraordinary,” he added, turning to Delroy, “t’at t’is man should have sat out t’ere in t’e rain at t’at time of night. Was he fishing?”
Delroy sprang to his feet with a sudden start.
“Fishing?” he cried. “No! I’d forgotten. He was guarding my wife’s necklace.”
He threw open the door and ran out on the pier, the others following. At the extreme end a rope was dangling in the water. He reached over and pulled it up. The wire cage was flapping open. The necklace had disappeared.