CHAPTER XI
THE OLD MAN WHO CALLED
A FEW more questions indicated that Helen had no further useful knowledge to impart. Landis took her to the library and went to the kitchen, returning with James Harley, the chauffeur-gardener.
Harley was a rugged, red-haired man of middle age who looked as if he possessed a sense of humor. Landis invited him to be seated and asked him to tell them where he had been and what he had seen since his return from town.
“Well, sir,” he began in a rich voice, “I brought the boss home about a quarter past six and dropped him at the front door. I drove round and put the car away and went and turned on the sprinklers in the sunken garden, for it’s been a bit dry and Mr. Harrison was fussy about his chrysanthemums. Then I went back to the garage and wiped off the car. When I’d done that job and tightened the fanbelt a bit, I came back to the sunken garden, turned off the sprinklers again and came in the back door to the kitchen—”
“What time was that, Harley?” asked Bernard.
“About seven. Maybe a bit after, sir.”
“All right. You went to the kitchen—?”
“I just stuck my head in, said ‘Hello’ to my wife and cracked a joke with Susan. Then I went upstairs to clean up. I took my time over it and knew nothing about the murder until I came downstairs about eight.”
“Any idea who killed Harrison?” asked Landis.
“No, sir, I haven’t.”
“Can you remember exactly where you drove him during the last week, Harley?” Bernard cut in.
“Let’s see, sir. Last Sunday I drove him and Mrs. Graham to the yacht club. He took her for a sail and I drove them back in time for dinner. On Monday I drove him and Mr. Graham into town and dropped them at their offices. About four I went into town again, picked up Mr. Harrison, stopped for Mr. Graham at his office and drove them out here.”
“Did their relations seem amicable?” inquired Landis.
Harley looked slightly puzzled.
“You mean, were they friendly, sir? Why, as friendly as the Boss ever was with anybody, sir! He was a tartar!”
“Harrison quarrel much with you, Harley?”
“He bawled me out now and then, sir.”
“Where else did you drive him this week?”
“No place until today. This morning I drove him to the Long Island Station—The Pennsylvania—and left him there. He told me to stop at his office for him at five.”
“Did you notice anything unusual in his manner?”
“He was in a devil of a temper, sir.”
“When you came into the house tonight,” said Bernard, “you didn’t happen to come in the door at the end of the wing, lock it behind you, go through the billiard-room into the sunken garden and then in the back door, did you?” The old detective’s voice had the purring smoothness of a high-priced car such as Harley drove.
The chauffeur’s reaction argued him both intelligent and hot-tempered.
“No, sir, I did not come in the door at the end of the wing!” he grated. “Nor I didn’t shoot the Boss and sneak out through the billiard-room, either!”
“You’re in a great hurry to defend yourself,” said Bernard curiously. “We haven’t accused you—yet!”
“It sounded that way, sir!”
“Perhaps you’ve been questioned before?”
“Suppose you’ve been looking up my record,” Harley answered bitterly. “I was a bit wild as a kid but it was just bad luck my bein’ mixed up with that business. I had nothing to do with it.”
“We haven’t looked up your record,” said Landis in his friendly way. “You might as well save us time and tell us about it, Harley. What business was it?”
The chauffeur looked from one to the other suspiciously.
“You don’t know?” he demanded.
They shook their heads, watching him.
“That’s one on me, then,” he admitted. “It was the Marlow case, nine years ago. I was dead drunk and somebody shoved me in the room with Marlow. He was all cut to ribbons and they tried to pin it on me. Wish I knew who did it!”
Bernard nodded.
“I remember. Chicago, wasn’t it? So you’re—let me see—you’re Wheeler, eh?”
“Yes, sir, I’m Wheeler,” said the chauffeur grimly.
There was a short silence between them, the man with a record doggedly silent while the two detectives studied him.
“Well, Harley,” said Bernard at last, “did you see anyone at all about the premises while you were cleaning the car or when you came into the house?”
Harley reddened with gratitude.
“I didn’t, sir! I didn’t see a soul,” he answered.
“By the way, if you caught the man who killed Marlow, what would you do with him?” asked Bernard suddenly.
“I’d turn him up, sir! But—By G-d, I’d beat him up first!”
“You haven’t any suspicion of who killed Harrison?”
Harley shook his head.
“I’ve no idea, sir.”
“All right.” Bernard looked at Landis.
“That’s all, Harley. Much obliged.” Landis rose and led the man to the library where he left him with the others. On the way out again he turned suddenly and called.
“Step this way again, will you, Stimson?”
Harley’s eyes followed them as they left the room together.
Seated in the drawing-room, it was Landis who took up the task of questioning.
“Stimson,” he began with brusque friendliness, “I understand from Harley that Harrison was in a devil of a temper this morning when he went to town. Do you know why?”
“Why he was in a temper? I don’t, sir!”
“Did you notice it?”
“Not specially, sir. It wasn’t anything new.”
“Know of any letter that might have upset him?”
“I don’t, sir. He was just as bad last night.”
“He was, eh? Any idea what upset him, Stimson?”
“I haven’t, sir, unless it might be the old man who called yesterday evening. That seemed to annoy him.”
“You’re not very communicative,” Landis smiled. “Who was the old man and what did he want?”
“He wouldn’t tell me his name, sir. He was a ragged, surly old customer and said Mr. Harrison would see him, name or no name. He seemed harmless, though.”
“Go on,” said Landis patiently, “tell us all about him, man! Mr. Harrison’s been murdered, you know!”
“Yes, sir,” admitted the butler. “Well, this old chap rang the bell and asked for ‘Harrison.’ I asked him if he meant Mr. Harrison and he shot me a look and said that was just who he meant. I asked his name and he said not to mind about that but to tell my boss that an old man who had done him a service wanted to see him.”
“Did you take that message to Mr. Harrison?”
“Yes, sir. I left the old boy in the vestibule and told Mr. Harrison in the library. This was before dinner. Mr. Harrison told me to clear out and went into the hall. I returned to the dining-room. A minute later I heard the front door slam and Mr. Harrison came in again looking angry. He was red as a bull.”
“That all you know about the old man?”
“No, sir. I think not. Just before Susan sounded the gong the telephone rang and I went to answer it in the hall. I heard a voice on the wire that sounded like the same old man. He said: ‘I want to speak to Mrs. Graham!’ Before I could answer I heard Mr. Harrison bellowing a reply and the crash of a receiver. So I hung up also. Mr. Harrison had answered the call from the extension on his desk.”
“He was expecting the call, eh?”
“I couldn’t be sure of that, sir.”
“But it sounded that way?”
“Perhaps so, sir,” replied the butler cautiously.
Bernard snorted.
“Well, what did Harrison say?”
“All I heard was: ‘—away from here! I’ll see you tomorrow, damn your dirty hide!’”
“What did you gather from that?” Landis asked. “Did Mr. Harrison’s tone indicate impatience, real anger, apprehension, perhaps?”
“Real anger, I should say, sir.”
“Why didn’t you tell us about the old man when we questioned you before?”
Stimson hesitated a moment.
“Well, sir,” he replied at length, “you asked me only about what happened this evening. And Mr. Bernard’s manner toward me led me to think that to volunteer information might be misunderstood.”
“How, misunderstood?” asked Bernard quietly.
“You might suppose that I was trying to lead you away by introducing a—a species of red herring, sir!”
Bernard nodded.
“Very intelligent of you, Stimson.”
The butler offered no response.
“Thanks, Stimson. That’s all for just now.”
Landis rose and led the way back to the library.