June 9, 2025 • 21 mins
Dive into Last Drive, an intriguing mystery from famed crime author Rex Stout, the mind behind the enduring Nero Wolfe detective series. This riveting tale, which inspired the inaugural Nero Wolfe novel, Fer-de-Lance, revolves around a golfer who suddenly drops dead of an apparent heart attack on the golf course. However, the plot thickens when the death is ruled a poisoning. Canby Rankin, the country clubs president, steps up to the challenge of unmasking the killer. This riveting summary is brought to you by Ben Tucker.
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Speaker 1 (00:00):
Chapter five of The Last Drive by Rex Stout. This
LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Read by Ben Tucker.
Chapter five, Harry turned and gazed back down the road
where I don't see any one. No, not now he
jumped into the shadow that clump of trees on the rock.
(00:23):
But who can it be? I don't know. The detective
stood peering intently toward the clump of trees two hundred
yards away. It looks as though you'd got mixed up
in a dirtier piece of business than you bargained for.
What you don't mean, Uncle Brinken interrupted him. Ah, there
he is with the words. The detective was off toward
(00:44):
the trees with a bound, and without an instant's hesitation.
Harry was at his heels back down the road. They
raced at the top of their speed, and when they
had traversed half the distance, in the dim glow of
the waning moonlight, they saw a figure dart suddenly out
of the shadow across the road, scrambling over the fence
and started a dead run across the fields like a
startled rabbit. Rankin swerved aside, squeezed between the wires almost
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without halting, and took after him. Harry, not far behind,
was calling as he ran cut across He's making for
the woods. Rankin had already seen and was straining every
muscle to intercept the maneuver, but Harry, with his useful
athletic stride, soon passed him. The man I had bounded
frantically across the furrows without looking back. His goal was
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evidently the fringe of the woods bordering the river, some
five hundred yards from the road, and the advantage was his.
As the two converged at a point half a mile down. Rankin,
seeing himself out distanced by Harry anyway, took it easier
as his injured shoulder was causing him considerable pain. Then,
seeing their quarry finally reached the edge of the woods
and disappear, he pushed forward again. When at length he
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reached the spot, he could see nothing for the waning
moonlight stopped at the barrier of the thick foliage and
left all in darkness. Young Adams too had disappeared from
the woods. Some distance within. Came the sound of rushing
footsteps and rustling branches, and the detective pushed forward in
that direction, calling meanwhile, Harry, Harry, where are you? An
(02:13):
answering shout came here this way. Rankin went on, stumbling
over hollows and fallen trees, and scratching his face and
hands on the low hanging branches. The sounds ahead of
him grew fainter than suddenly swerved to the left and
seemed to be approaching here. In the midst of the woods.
The night was black, though now and then through the
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interstices of the leaves could be seen the faint shimmer
of the last rays of the moon on the surface
of the nearby river. Where are you, Rankin? The detective answered,
and thrust his way blindly toward the voice. The sounds
of commotion had ceased. Two minutes later he came suddenly
upon Harry at the edge of a small clearing. Is
it you, Harry? Have you lost him? The young man nodded,
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Keep still a minute. They stood there, motionless, listening, enveloped
in darkness and silence. The woods were as still as
the tomb. There was not so much as the sound
of a rustling leaf. From a distance. There came faintly
on the air the murmur of the river in the
shallows half a mile below. He got through the thicket
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to the bank, said Harry, at length, and started down stream.
Then he dived into the underbrush again, and I couldn't
tell which way he went. I thought I heard him again,
but it was you. He's lying low, not far from
us right now. They listened another while, but no sound came.
No use. He's given us the slip, the detective finally observed.
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They turned reluctantly and made their way back through the woods.
A match showed rankin the face of his watch twenty
five minutes past two. When they got to the open,
they found that in the short interval of their search,
the moon had dropped below the edge of the hills
to the east, leaving the sky light and the earth dark.
Tramping across the stubble, they crossed over the fence into
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the road, and five minutes later were at Green Lawn.
You're sure the fellow came out of here, Harry was asking.
As they turned in at the gate. Rankin replied that
he was. That's funny. I thought it might have been Fred,
but of course he wouldn't have run. I can't understand it.
A dim light could be seen in one of the
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upper windows of the house, in the room where doctor
Wortley was keeping his lonely vigil with the earthly remains
of the dead Colonel. All within the house was quiet.
Rankin and Harry mounted the stairs together without speaking. After
the excitement of the past four hours. The gloom of
the House of Death had dropped its heavy mantle over
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them at the threshold at the first landing, they parted,
Harry to mount another flight, and the detective to continue
down the hall to his own room at the further end.
There he halted with a sudden appearance of alertness. He
heard Harry's footsteps traversing the hall above, and the soft
opening and closing of a door. Then, instead of entering
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his room, the detective stepped noiselessly back down the hall
and stopped before a door near the stair landing. He
stood there, listening intently for a full minute, then all
at once raised his hand and rapped softly on the panel.
When a second knock brought no response, he noiselessly turned
the knob and entered. The room was pitch dark. Rankin
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stood motionless just inside the door, without having closed it,
straining his ear. When the utter silence had convinced him
that the room was unoccupied. He moved to the electric
switch and turned on the light. One quick glance at
the bed showed him that it had not been slept in,
and with a gleam of satisfaction in his eyes, he
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turned the light off again and left the room. He
stood hesitating for a moment at the top of the stairs,
then turned down the hall to the door of his
own room and entered. The first thing he did after
turning on the electricity was to take off his coat
and shirt and have a look at the injured shoulder.
An examination convinced him that it was nothing worse than
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a painful bruise. His movements were slow and mechanical, like
a man lost in thought, and at length, with his
hand still moving slowly back and forth over the bruised shoulder,
he stood and stared fixedly at nothing with wrinkled brow. Finally,
he pulled himself up. Yes, he muttered to himself, but
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how the devil did he do it? Then, instead of
undressing for bed, though it was nearly three in the
morning and he had had no sleep, he turned with
sudden decision and put his shirt back on and his coat.
A snap of the switch in the room was in darkness.
Placing a chair just inside the threshold, he had left
the door open. He sat down to wait. At the
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end of a minute or two, he fancied he heard
a sound in the hall, but peering cautiously out toward
the dim night light at the other end, saw nothing.
He settled back in his chair. He was upholstered in
leather and very comfortable after all the exertion and excitement
of the preceding four hours. His muscles found it RESTful
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and soothing. He twisted around to an easier position and
stretched his feet out till they rested on the jamb
of the threshold. He yawned. The sharp pain in his
shoulder subsided a little and became a dull ache, throbbing
rhythmically and not all unpleasantly. There seemed to be something
RESTful even in that throbbing. He allowed his head to
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fall back against the soft leather and stay there a
dozen times. He closed his eyes, and opened them again,
and closed them. The next thing he knew he heard
himself snoring. He came to with a jerk and a snort,
and got to his feet, telling himself that he had
dozed off a second and that he mustn't do it again.
Perhaps he'd better look at his watch. It was twenty
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minutes to four. He had slept nearly an hour. Cursing
himself inwardly, he pushed the chair out of the way
and entered the hall. Not a sound was to be heard,
but yes, a faint, almost indistinguishable murmur of voices came
from somewhere at the front of the house. Rankin stepped
softly down the hall to the stairs. The murmur became louder,
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though still faint, drifting up the corridor leading to the
right wing. Down it he went less cautiously now until
he reached an open door through which a dim light
shone from the interior. It was the same room in
which he had found Fred Adams early the previous evening,
kneeling beside the body of his dead uncle and guardian.
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Rankin entered by the light of the candles at the
other end, he saw the silent figure, shrouded and white,
stretched out on the bed, and near by, seated in
easy chairs drawn side by side and conversing in low tones,
where Doctor Wortley and Fraser Mawson. They looked up and
nodded as the detective entered up so early. The little
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doctor wanted to know, with an air of relief at
sight of him to those who watched with the dead,
anything as a relief, rank and nodded and sat down.
Couldn't sleep. Soon be morning now, He turned to mossin,
you've been up long. His tone was that of one
who makes conversation. The lawyer had taken out his eyeglasses
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and was rubbing them with the corner of a handkerchief
as he replied that he had been unable to sleep,
so I thought I might as well come in and
keep the doctor company, he continued, though when I got
here it was three hours or more ago. A little
after midnight, I found him dozing very well alone. To
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tell the truth, I had dozed off, Doctor Wortley put in,
somewhat shamefacedly. It was inexcusable. But it's been a strenuous day,
and I'm not as young as I used to be.
I suppose I should have allowed Fred to divide the
night with me. He wanted to, but the boy was
completely worn out, and anyway I felt I owed it
to Carson, and I went off like a log. When
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I woke up half an hour ago, Mawson was sitting there.
As the doctor spoke. Rinkin was regarding Mosson from a
corner of his eye. The disarranged hair, the soiled collar,
the general air of untidiness about his attire. All these
were natural enough, and a man who had been up
all night in a house of bereavement. But was the
explanation of those two long scratches, one on his forehead,
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the other on his cheek, from which the blood had
been carefully wiped away, Such scratches as might come, for instance,
from low hanging branches when making your way hastily through
the woods at night. For a while, the three men
conversed together, turning naturally to the virtues of their departed friend,
whose still form lay there beside them. The windows became
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gray square a the dawn arrived, and when the light
began to dim the rays of the candles, the doctor
arose and pulled down the shades. At length. Rankin left
them and returned down the corridors to his own room.
From below came the faint stirrings of the waking household. Yes,
but how the devil did he do it? Muttered the
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detective once more, as he took off his coat and
shoes and got into a dressing gown. Then he stretched
himself out on the bed and slept. When he awoke
it was broad day. Going to the window and letting
up the shade to look at the sun, he saw
that the morning was half gone. In the rear of
the grounds, near the garage, a man was playing a
hose on an automobile. Nearer in the driveway, a dismal
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black conveyance proclaimed the presence of the undertaker. The blossoms
of the garden were smiling in the sunshine, all unconscious
of anything but beauty and virtue and happiness in the world.
They adorned. The detective turned away, his mind, attacking freshly
the problem of the day before. As he began to dress. Downstairs,
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he found Fraser Mawson and Fred Adams and doctor Wortley
still at the breakfast table. Over the steaming coffee, they
discussed the details of the military ceremony to take place
on the morrow. An officer from Governor's Island was expected
some time during the day to confer with them. Mawson
entered into the discussion with a naturalness and freedom that
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caused Rinkin to wonder a little could he be mistaken.
Had the lawyer really been sitting in that room upstairs
during the chase in the woods the night before, if
only he had gone there at once. On his return
to Green Lawn after breakfast, the detective went in search
of Harry Adams, and at length found him seated on
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a bench in the gun room, with a bag of
golf clubs at his side and an assortment of emery paper.
Clothed in oil. He was industrially polishing a mid iron.
The detective's surprise at finding him thus occupied must have
been apparent on his face, for the young man explained,
there uncle Carson's, Sir, I wanted. I just thought i'd
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polish him up a little. Don't you remember how he
always said a good soldier could shoot better with a
clean gun. He used to keep after fretting me, because
our irons were always rusty. The lawyer nodded and stood,
watching the gritty paper slide to and fro over the
shining metal. But he had sought out the young man
for a purpose, and presently broached it. Harry was surprised
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at first, and then as he caught the other's meaning,
incredulous readily he agreed to follow instructions. A little later, accordingly,
the two men went in search of Fraser Mawson. They
found the lawyer in the room at the rear of
the Lower Hall that had served as Colonel Phillip's office,
arranging some papers spread over the desk in confusion. It
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was with an expression of amiable inquiry that he turned
to them and waved his hand toward the chair near
the window. Harry began abruptly, mister Mawson, I've come to
see you about that united traffic. The lawyer sent him
a quick glance. What about it? I thought that unfortunate
affair was settled. It is as far as I'm concerned, sir,
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as far as I'm directly concerned. But you remember I
told you about a chap named Warner that got me
in on it in the first place. Well, well he's
in trouble. He got in too far and trying to
get out again. He used some money that wasn't his.
Then the whole thing collapsed and he's up against it.
They're on to him. What has that got to do
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with you, the young man explained, telling of the obligation
he had been placed under to gil Warner at college.
He recited the circumstances in detail, while Mawson sat regarding
him impassively, and the detective gazed absently at nothing. I've
got to do it, that's all, Harry finished. Of course,
if I help him out of this scrape, I'm through
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with him, for I see now he's nothing but a crook.
But I was mixed up with him in this United
traffic thing, and it's up to me to stick. Not,
of course, that I knew anything about his using money
not his own. What do you want me to do? Why, sir?
I thought you might advance me enough cash to fix
the thing. It would take a little over fifty thousand.
(15:19):
The lawyer was silent, frowning. He turned his keen eyes
first on Harry, then on Rankin, and finally let them
rest on the papers before him. With the fingers of
his hand lying on the desk, he was lifting a
lead pencil an inch or so and letting it fall
again with a series of sharp clicks. Suddenly, he demanded,
what has Rankin got to do with all this? Harry
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replied imperturbably that he had gone to the detective for
counsel and had been advised to make an appeal to
Mawson for the necessary funds. Another silence shorter than before,
and the lawyer turned eyes that had suddenly grown hard
on the young man, and said abruptly, either Rankin is
extremely clever, or you're an awful fool, Harry, it doesn't
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matter which, since the result is the same. I had
feared this the fact, not the discovery of it, and
yet it stuns me. The young man looked at him
in puzzlement. What do you mean, mister Mawson, The lawyer
shook his head. It's useless, my boy. I can't understand
why you ever did you think Rankin was so blind
he wouldn't see the coincidence between your urgent need for
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a large sum of money and the means of getting it.
What you don't mean, I mean that if you attempted
to leave this house now, or even this room, mister
Rankin would probably insist, politely but firmly, on accompanying you.
I don't blame him. That's his business. You've asked me
to advance you fifty thousand dollars, that's my business. And
as much as your uncle is dead and as one
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of his heirs, you are worth more than fifty times
that amount. I can easily do so I can get
the money for you tomorrow morning. In New York. Harry
had risen to his feet and then sank back again
into his chair as one stupefied whah. He stammered, speechless
at the horror the thought. You can't mean to accuse me,
my uncle. I don't need to you accuse yourself, but
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I why Another voice interposed the voice of the detective
with a gesture of command. He motioned Harry to be silent,
then turned his eyes on the lawyer authoritatively. They were
the first words he had uttered since entering the room.
Mister Mawson, let's understand just what you are driving at.
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Do you accuse Harry here of murdering Colonel Phillips. The
lawyer's answering gaze was steady. I didn't say that, he replied, calmly.
Do you accuse him of being implicated? Mawson swung around
in his chair. I'll answer your question with another, mister Rankin,
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do you accuse him of being implicated? I'll waive the precedence.
I do not, and I don't either, replied the lawyer abruptly,
and swung back to his papers as if the subject
were closed. But I think I know who is implicated.
The detective went on and stopped. Mawson kept his eyes
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on his papers, and rink and resumed. This whole United
Traffic deal looks suspicious, so I believe Harry to be innocent.
It's United Traffic we came to talk about first, to
relieve Harry's mind. You will advance that fifty thousand dollars, Why,
said I would, replied the lawyer, without looking up. That's
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all right then, now, Harry said, he came to you
for assistance and realizing on his securities for that speculation,
and that you helped him. That's right, isn't it. Mawson
shoved his papers aside and raised his head to meet
the detective's eyes. There was a second pause. That's right,
he said, finally good. Harry also told me he had
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previously gone to his uncle for assistance, and the Colonel
Phillips had firmly refused to have anything whatever to do
with you, not traffic. Also, he advised his nephew to
follow his example. That's right, isn't it, Harry? The young
man nodded yes, Sir. Harry also told me that when
he came to you for assistance, he informed you of
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his uncle's position in the matter and asked you to
keep the transaction of secret. He did so inform you
I don't remember. Well, it's unimportant anyway. Here's what I
can't understand. If the colonel was so firmly convinced that
you not a traffic was a worthless speculation, why did
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he invest over half a million in it himself? A
murmur of surprise came from Harry Mawson's eyes flashed into
those of the questioner, with a gleam of something that
may have been anger. He made an evident effort to
control himself and succeeded. I'm sure I don't know, he replied, calmly.
You told me yesterday that he lost about three hundred
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thousand dollars the detective. You showed me the entry in
one of those books recording the loss. Was that entry
made by Colonel Phillips himself? It was not. Again, the
lawyer's eyes flashed, and again he visibly restrained himself. All
the entries in those books for the last twenty years,
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with a very few exceptions, were made by me. This
one also, I see now mister Mawson, I'd like you
to tell me one thing. When was that entry made?
This time the restraint failed. Mawson rose swiftly to his feet,
pushing back his chair so violently that it teetered and
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nearly upset. His face was pale and his eyes flashed fire,
But there was nothing exactly threatening in his attitude to
account for the suddenness with which the detective also got
to his feet and advanced to the desk just across
from Mawson. The eyes of the two men met, and
it was like the crossing of steel blades. They stood silently.
(21:02):
At that instant the telephone bell rang. End of Chapter
five
Chapter five of The Last Drive by Rex Stout. This
LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Read by Ben Tucker.
Chapter five, Harry turned and gazed back down the road
where I don't see any one. No, not now he
jumped into the shadow that clump of trees on the rock.
(00:23):
But who can it be? I don't know. The detective
stood peering intently toward the clump of trees two hundred
yards away. It looks as though you'd got mixed up
in a dirtier piece of business than you bargained for.
What you don't mean, Uncle Brinken interrupted him. Ah, there
he is with the words. The detective was off toward
(00:44):
the trees with a bound, and without an instant's hesitation.
Harry was at his heels back down the road. They
raced at the top of their speed, and when they
had traversed half the distance, in the dim glow of
the waning moonlight, they saw a figure dart suddenly out
of the shadow across the road, scrambling over the fence
and started a dead run across the fields like a
startled rabbit. Rankin swerved aside, squeezed between the wires almost
(01:08):
without halting, and took after him. Harry, not far behind,
was calling as he ran cut across He's making for
the woods. Rankin had already seen and was straining every
muscle to intercept the maneuver, but Harry, with his useful
athletic stride, soon passed him. The man I had bounded
frantically across the furrows without looking back. His goal was
(01:29):
evidently the fringe of the woods bordering the river, some
five hundred yards from the road, and the advantage was his.
As the two converged at a point half a mile down. Rankin,
seeing himself out distanced by Harry anyway, took it easier
as his injured shoulder was causing him considerable pain. Then,
seeing their quarry finally reached the edge of the woods
and disappear, he pushed forward again. When at length he
(01:50):
reached the spot, he could see nothing for the waning
moonlight stopped at the barrier of the thick foliage and
left all in darkness. Young Adams too had disappeared from
the woods. Some distance within. Came the sound of rushing
footsteps and rustling branches, and the detective pushed forward in
that direction, calling meanwhile, Harry, Harry, where are you? An
(02:13):
answering shout came here this way. Rankin went on, stumbling
over hollows and fallen trees, and scratching his face and
hands on the low hanging branches. The sounds ahead of
him grew fainter than suddenly swerved to the left and
seemed to be approaching here. In the midst of the woods.
The night was black, though now and then through the
(02:35):
interstices of the leaves could be seen the faint shimmer
of the last rays of the moon on the surface
of the nearby river. Where are you, Rankin? The detective answered,
and thrust his way blindly toward the voice. The sounds
of commotion had ceased. Two minutes later he came suddenly
upon Harry at the edge of a small clearing. Is
it you, Harry? Have you lost him? The young man nodded,
(03:00):
Keep still a minute. They stood there, motionless, listening, enveloped
in darkness and silence. The woods were as still as
the tomb. There was not so much as the sound
of a rustling leaf. From a distance. There came faintly
on the air the murmur of the river in the
shallows half a mile below. He got through the thicket
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to the bank, said Harry, at length, and started down stream.
Then he dived into the underbrush again, and I couldn't
tell which way he went. I thought I heard him again,
but it was you. He's lying low, not far from
us right now. They listened another while, but no sound came.
No use. He's given us the slip, the detective finally observed.
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They turned reluctantly and made their way back through the woods.
A match showed rankin the face of his watch twenty
five minutes past two. When they got to the open,
they found that in the short interval of their search,
the moon had dropped below the edge of the hills
to the east, leaving the sky light and the earth dark.
Tramping across the stubble, they crossed over the fence into
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the road, and five minutes later were at Green Lawn.
You're sure the fellow came out of here, Harry was asking.
As they turned in at the gate. Rankin replied that
he was. That's funny. I thought it might have been Fred,
but of course he wouldn't have run. I can't understand it.
A dim light could be seen in one of the
(04:26):
upper windows of the house, in the room where doctor
Wortley was keeping his lonely vigil with the earthly remains
of the dead Colonel. All within the house was quiet.
Rankin and Harry mounted the stairs together without speaking. After
the excitement of the past four hours. The gloom of
the House of Death had dropped its heavy mantle over
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them at the threshold at the first landing, they parted,
Harry to mount another flight, and the detective to continue
down the hall to his own room at the further end.
There he halted with a sudden appearance of alertness. He
heard Harry's footsteps traversing the hall above, and the soft
opening and closing of a door. Then, instead of entering
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his room, the detective stepped noiselessly back down the hall
and stopped before a door near the stair landing. He
stood there, listening intently for a full minute, then all
at once raised his hand and rapped softly on the panel.
When a second knock brought no response, he noiselessly turned
the knob and entered. The room was pitch dark. Rankin
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stood motionless just inside the door, without having closed it,
straining his ear. When the utter silence had convinced him
that the room was unoccupied. He moved to the electric
switch and turned on the light. One quick glance at
the bed showed him that it had not been slept in,
and with a gleam of satisfaction in his eyes, he
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turned the light off again and left the room. He
stood hesitating for a moment at the top of the stairs,
then turned down the hall to the door of his
own room and entered. The first thing he did after
turning on the electricity was to take off his coat
and shirt and have a look at the injured shoulder.
An examination convinced him that it was nothing worse than
(06:12):
a painful bruise. His movements were slow and mechanical, like
a man lost in thought, and at length, with his
hand still moving slowly back and forth over the bruised shoulder,
he stood and stared fixedly at nothing with wrinkled brow. Finally,
he pulled himself up. Yes, he muttered to himself, but
(06:33):
how the devil did he do it? Then, instead of
undressing for bed, though it was nearly three in the
morning and he had had no sleep, he turned with
sudden decision and put his shirt back on and his coat.
A snap of the switch in the room was in darkness.
Placing a chair just inside the threshold, he had left
the door open. He sat down to wait. At the
(06:56):
end of a minute or two, he fancied he heard
a sound in the hall, but peering cautiously out toward
the dim night light at the other end, saw nothing.
He settled back in his chair. He was upholstered in
leather and very comfortable after all the exertion and excitement
of the preceding four hours. His muscles found it RESTful
(07:18):
and soothing. He twisted around to an easier position and
stretched his feet out till they rested on the jamb
of the threshold. He yawned. The sharp pain in his
shoulder subsided a little and became a dull ache, throbbing
rhythmically and not all unpleasantly. There seemed to be something
RESTful even in that throbbing. He allowed his head to
(07:40):
fall back against the soft leather and stay there a
dozen times. He closed his eyes, and opened them again,
and closed them. The next thing he knew he heard
himself snoring. He came to with a jerk and a snort,
and got to his feet, telling himself that he had
dozed off a second and that he mustn't do it again.
Perhaps he'd better look at his watch. It was twenty
(08:03):
minutes to four. He had slept nearly an hour. Cursing
himself inwardly, he pushed the chair out of the way
and entered the hall. Not a sound was to be heard,
but yes, a faint, almost indistinguishable murmur of voices came
from somewhere at the front of the house. Rankin stepped
softly down the hall to the stairs. The murmur became louder,
(08:25):
though still faint, drifting up the corridor leading to the
right wing. Down it he went less cautiously now until
he reached an open door through which a dim light
shone from the interior. It was the same room in
which he had found Fred Adams early the previous evening,
kneeling beside the body of his dead uncle and guardian.
(08:46):
Rankin entered by the light of the candles at the
other end, he saw the silent figure, shrouded and white,
stretched out on the bed, and near by, seated in
easy chairs drawn side by side and conversing in low tones,
where Doctor Wortley and Fraser Mawson. They looked up and
nodded as the detective entered up so early. The little
(09:07):
doctor wanted to know, with an air of relief at
sight of him to those who watched with the dead,
anything as a relief, rank and nodded and sat down.
Couldn't sleep. Soon be morning now, He turned to mossin,
you've been up long. His tone was that of one
who makes conversation. The lawyer had taken out his eyeglasses
(09:29):
and was rubbing them with the corner of a handkerchief
as he replied that he had been unable to sleep,
so I thought I might as well come in and
keep the doctor company, he continued, though when I got
here it was three hours or more ago. A little
after midnight, I found him dozing very well alone. To
(09:50):
tell the truth, I had dozed off, Doctor Wortley put in,
somewhat shamefacedly. It was inexcusable. But it's been a strenuous day,
and I'm not as young as I used to be.
I suppose I should have allowed Fred to divide the
night with me. He wanted to, but the boy was
completely worn out, and anyway I felt I owed it
to Carson, and I went off like a log. When
(10:12):
I woke up half an hour ago, Mawson was sitting there.
As the doctor spoke. Rinkin was regarding Mosson from a
corner of his eye. The disarranged hair, the soiled collar,
the general air of untidiness about his attire. All these
were natural enough, and a man who had been up
all night in a house of bereavement. But was the
explanation of those two long scratches, one on his forehead,
(10:35):
the other on his cheek, from which the blood had
been carefully wiped away, Such scratches as might come, for instance,
from low hanging branches when making your way hastily through
the woods at night. For a while, the three men
conversed together, turning naturally to the virtues of their departed friend,
whose still form lay there beside them. The windows became
(10:59):
gray square a the dawn arrived, and when the light
began to dim the rays of the candles, the doctor
arose and pulled down the shades. At length. Rankin left
them and returned down the corridors to his own room.
From below came the faint stirrings of the waking household. Yes,
but how the devil did he do it? Muttered the
(11:22):
detective once more, as he took off his coat and
shoes and got into a dressing gown. Then he stretched
himself out on the bed and slept. When he awoke
it was broad day. Going to the window and letting
up the shade to look at the sun, he saw
that the morning was half gone. In the rear of
the grounds, near the garage, a man was playing a
hose on an automobile. Nearer in the driveway, a dismal
(11:46):
black conveyance proclaimed the presence of the undertaker. The blossoms
of the garden were smiling in the sunshine, all unconscious
of anything but beauty and virtue and happiness in the world.
They adorned. The detective turned away, his mind, attacking freshly
the problem of the day before. As he began to dress. Downstairs,
(12:07):
he found Fraser Mawson and Fred Adams and doctor Wortley
still at the breakfast table. Over the steaming coffee, they
discussed the details of the military ceremony to take place
on the morrow. An officer from Governor's Island was expected
some time during the day to confer with them. Mawson
entered into the discussion with a naturalness and freedom that
(12:29):
caused Rinkin to wonder a little could he be mistaken.
Had the lawyer really been sitting in that room upstairs
during the chase in the woods the night before, if
only he had gone there at once. On his return
to Green Lawn after breakfast, the detective went in search
of Harry Adams, and at length found him seated on
(12:50):
a bench in the gun room, with a bag of
golf clubs at his side and an assortment of emery paper.
Clothed in oil. He was industrially polishing a mid iron.
The detective's surprise at finding him thus occupied must have
been apparent on his face, for the young man explained,
there uncle Carson's, Sir, I wanted. I just thought i'd
(13:13):
polish him up a little. Don't you remember how he
always said a good soldier could shoot better with a
clean gun. He used to keep after fretting me, because
our irons were always rusty. The lawyer nodded and stood,
watching the gritty paper slide to and fro over the
shining metal. But he had sought out the young man
for a purpose, and presently broached it. Harry was surprised
(13:33):
at first, and then as he caught the other's meaning,
incredulous readily he agreed to follow instructions. A little later, accordingly,
the two men went in search of Fraser Mawson. They
found the lawyer in the room at the rear of
the Lower Hall that had served as Colonel Phillip's office,
arranging some papers spread over the desk in confusion. It
(13:54):
was with an expression of amiable inquiry that he turned
to them and waved his hand toward the chair near
the window. Harry began abruptly, mister Mawson, I've come to
see you about that united traffic. The lawyer sent him
a quick glance. What about it? I thought that unfortunate
affair was settled. It is as far as I'm concerned, sir,
(14:19):
as far as I'm directly concerned. But you remember I
told you about a chap named Warner that got me
in on it in the first place. Well, well he's
in trouble. He got in too far and trying to
get out again. He used some money that wasn't his.
Then the whole thing collapsed and he's up against it.
They're on to him. What has that got to do
(14:39):
with you, the young man explained, telling of the obligation
he had been placed under to gil Warner at college.
He recited the circumstances in detail, while Mawson sat regarding
him impassively, and the detective gazed absently at nothing. I've
got to do it, that's all, Harry finished. Of course,
if I help him out of this scrape, I'm through
(14:59):
with him, for I see now he's nothing but a crook.
But I was mixed up with him in this United
traffic thing, and it's up to me to stick. Not,
of course, that I knew anything about his using money
not his own. What do you want me to do? Why, sir?
I thought you might advance me enough cash to fix
the thing. It would take a little over fifty thousand.
(15:19):
The lawyer was silent, frowning. He turned his keen eyes
first on Harry, then on Rankin, and finally let them
rest on the papers before him. With the fingers of
his hand lying on the desk, he was lifting a
lead pencil an inch or so and letting it fall
again with a series of sharp clicks. Suddenly, he demanded,
what has Rankin got to do with all this? Harry
(15:40):
replied imperturbably that he had gone to the detective for
counsel and had been advised to make an appeal to
Mawson for the necessary funds. Another silence shorter than before,
and the lawyer turned eyes that had suddenly grown hard
on the young man, and said abruptly, either Rankin is
extremely clever, or you're an awful fool, Harry, it doesn't
(16:00):
matter which, since the result is the same. I had
feared this the fact, not the discovery of it, and
yet it stuns me. The young man looked at him
in puzzlement. What do you mean, mister Mawson, The lawyer
shook his head. It's useless, my boy. I can't understand
why you ever did you think Rankin was so blind
he wouldn't see the coincidence between your urgent need for
(16:22):
a large sum of money and the means of getting it.
What you don't mean, I mean that if you attempted
to leave this house now, or even this room, mister
Rankin would probably insist, politely but firmly, on accompanying you.
I don't blame him. That's his business. You've asked me
to advance you fifty thousand dollars, that's my business. And
as much as your uncle is dead and as one
(16:43):
of his heirs, you are worth more than fifty times
that amount. I can easily do so I can get
the money for you tomorrow morning. In New York. Harry
had risen to his feet and then sank back again
into his chair as one stupefied whah. He stammered, speechless
at the horror the thought. You can't mean to accuse me,
my uncle. I don't need to you accuse yourself, but
(17:08):
I why Another voice interposed the voice of the detective
with a gesture of command. He motioned Harry to be silent,
then turned his eyes on the lawyer authoritatively. They were
the first words he had uttered since entering the room.
Mister Mawson, let's understand just what you are driving at.
(17:29):
Do you accuse Harry here of murdering Colonel Phillips. The
lawyer's answering gaze was steady. I didn't say that, he replied, calmly.
Do you accuse him of being implicated? Mawson swung around
in his chair. I'll answer your question with another, mister Rankin,
(17:49):
do you accuse him of being implicated? I'll waive the precedence.
I do not, and I don't either, replied the lawyer abruptly,
and swung back to his papers as if the subject
were closed. But I think I know who is implicated.
The detective went on and stopped. Mawson kept his eyes
(18:09):
on his papers, and rink and resumed. This whole United
Traffic deal looks suspicious, so I believe Harry to be innocent.
It's United Traffic we came to talk about first, to
relieve Harry's mind. You will advance that fifty thousand dollars, Why,
said I would, replied the lawyer, without looking up. That's
(18:30):
all right then, now, Harry said, he came to you
for assistance and realizing on his securities for that speculation,
and that you helped him. That's right, isn't it. Mawson
shoved his papers aside and raised his head to meet
the detective's eyes. There was a second pause. That's right,
he said, finally good. Harry also told me he had
(18:52):
previously gone to his uncle for assistance, and the Colonel
Phillips had firmly refused to have anything whatever to do
with you, not traffic. Also, he advised his nephew to
follow his example. That's right, isn't it, Harry? The young
man nodded yes, Sir. Harry also told me that when
he came to you for assistance, he informed you of
(19:13):
his uncle's position in the matter and asked you to
keep the transaction of secret. He did so inform you
I don't remember. Well, it's unimportant anyway. Here's what I
can't understand. If the colonel was so firmly convinced that
you not a traffic was a worthless speculation, why did
(19:35):
he invest over half a million in it himself? A
murmur of surprise came from Harry Mawson's eyes flashed into
those of the questioner, with a gleam of something that
may have been anger. He made an evident effort to
control himself and succeeded. I'm sure I don't know, he replied, calmly.
You told me yesterday that he lost about three hundred
(19:58):
thousand dollars the detective. You showed me the entry in
one of those books recording the loss. Was that entry
made by Colonel Phillips himself? It was not. Again, the
lawyer's eyes flashed, and again he visibly restrained himself. All
the entries in those books for the last twenty years,
(20:18):
with a very few exceptions, were made by me. This
one also, I see now mister Mawson, I'd like you
to tell me one thing. When was that entry made?
This time the restraint failed. Mawson rose swiftly to his feet,
pushing back his chair so violently that it teetered and
(20:40):
nearly upset. His face was pale and his eyes flashed fire,
But there was nothing exactly threatening in his attitude to
account for the suddenness with which the detective also got
to his feet and advanced to the desk just across
from Mawson. The eyes of the two men met, and
it was like the crossing of steel blades. They stood silently.
(21:02):
At that instant the telephone bell rang. End of Chapter
five
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