The trouble at Pinelands A detective story
exchange a civil word with me. But there! I’m used to being ignored.”
Miss Christie put her to bed and presently came out to where we sat
forlornly on the front porch. And still no Somers.
“Whatever can be the matter?” asked Dorothy anxiously. “Do you suppose
he’s hurt?”
I thought the nurse’s color faded; her big eyes grew bigger. “Oh, I hope
not!”
“Humph!” said I sourly. “Drunk, more likely.”
“Why, Uncle George _Uhlman_! That’s horrid! It’s not like you. Of course
he’s not drunk.”
I sighed. “Well, Dorothy, I hope not. But--there he comes now!” I rose
and pointed.
There he came, sure enough, up the street toward us, still in his
braided morning coat, a wilted flower in his button hole, and that
ridiculous police badge pinned on his narrow chest. His silk hat was
cocked to one side of his head, and he held his head canted far to the
other side, as if to balance it. His long legs wabbled grotesquely; he
advanced in erratic jerks, tacking from tree to tree, and, as he came
closer, we could hear him sing, not unmusically: “An’ ’twas from ole
Satterfield’s bootleg party, I was takin’ th’ ole doc home!”
“Oh, dear!” said Dorothy helplessly. “What shall we do?”
Somers advanced to the foot of the steps and paused there, weaving back
and forth on wide-set legs, like a pair of intoxicated dividers. “How
do, f-folks?” He was gravely polite and tried to bow. Then he knocked
off his silk hat, stumbled, and stepped fair upon its crown.
“Dear me, dear me!” he mumbled. “S-shockin’! Shockin’ spectacle, horrid
sight! Young p’fesshun’l man, brightes’ prospec’s, ever’thing fine, an’
all gone t’ pot account of th’ demon drink!” He laughed wildly, then
collected himself by a tremendous effort.
“I am very sorry, Mrs. Parker.” Dorothy started at the sound of her new
name. “I apologize profoundly.” For a moment his enunciation was
elaborately exact; he spoke with drunkenly deliberate care. “Not my
fault entirely; due to un-for-tun-ate mis-cal-cul-a-tion ca-pa-ci-ty.”
Poor Dorothy rose, her face deadly white with disgust, and swept into
the house. Somers looked after her ruefully.
“Sorry,” he repeated. “Here, Pete--unk--good f-fellows! H-help me in;
get sobered. Got n-news.”
I hesitated, angry and ashamed; Peter rose obediently. But Miss Christie
was before us both. She ran down the steps and caught the drunken man’s
arm.
“I’ll steady you, doctor. That’s right! Now the other foot. Are you
coming, you two, or will you sit up there and stare like two old prudes?
I’m ashamed of you,” she declared, and her angry face once more shone
with that vivid beauty, which emotion alone seemed able to bring to it.
“Come!” She stamped her foot. “That’s right, doctor; just one more step
now. Come! Not two days ago this man saved your nephew’s life, Mr.
George Uhlman; he saved the life of your sister’s husband, young man!
Oh, you make me sick! J-just because he’s--he’s overtaken like this!”
We hurried to her aid, I, at least, a trifle ashamed of myself. For
Doctor Somers had been invaluable, whatever his personal habits might
be. We helped him in and upstairs to his room, ordered about
unmercifully by the erstwhile sleepy and indifferent Miss Christie.
“G-good girl!” mumbled Somers. “She un’stan’s, anyhow. Col’ towels,
please--an’ basin. Goin’ be s-sick.”
And sick he was. Miss Christie attended him, quietly efficient, as if
the handling of drunken men had been a large part of her training.
“More cold towels,” she ordered. “Mr. McGregor, run down and get Rosina
to make some coffee, very strong. Quick, now!”
We hurried to obey her. Somers sat all huddled in a chair, his long legs
limply outthrust. He groaned and pressed the wet towel close against his
temples, fighting hard for self-possession. I saw the perspiration start
out all over his lean, sallow face.
Presently he raised his head. His color was ghastly, greenish-white, but
his eyes were clear and steady. I saw that he was completely sobered,
and I marveled at the man’s self-control.
“Oh, my!” he groaned. “What rotten, rotten booze! And how I did hate
it!”
“You conquered your dislike, apparently,” I said to him.
“Humph!” He stared at me whimsically, but there was a hurt look in his
eyes. “Do you suppose I did this for the fun of it? Oh, well, I oughtn’t
to blame you.”
“_I_ didn’t!” said the nurse serenely. “I knew why you did it.” Peter
returned, bearing coffee; and the sick man gulped it down, black and
scalding.
“You knew?” Somers looked at the girl gratefully. I think there were
tears in his eyes. “I’m pretty sick yet,” he said. “Say, it does cut, to
have you folks think that of me.”
He rose unsteadily, leaning on Miss Christie’s arm. “Good girl!” he
repeated, with that sudden, flashing smile. “Well, I’m Ralph
Satterfield’s very best friend now, and, oh, what a head it’s cost me!
That man’s a tank; he’s copper-lined.” He passed a hand across his
forehead with a whimsical smile. “But I’ve learned a lot. I can give a
pretty good guess as to Satterfield’s whereabouts at the time Gaskell
was shot!”
CHAPTER XIX
AN EXPLANATION
Somers groaned, rubbed his aching head, and drank another cup of black
coffee. He was collecting himself momently; save for a very pale face he
was once more the coolly casual, brusquely friendly chap we all knew.
“Not later than nine, is it?” he inquired. “Right! Let’s go downstairs.
Call Dorothy; I’ve got lots to tell you all, and I’d better make my
peace with her at once.” He made a wry face. “She doesn’t exactly admire
me right now, I’ll bet!”
So we all repaired to the big sitting room, and presently Dorothy
appeared, urged in by her brother, and still looking hurt and disgusted.
Somers rose.
“Let me apologize, Mrs. Parker,” he began. “No--I’m perfectly sober
now!” He smiled his warming, whimsical smile as she made a little
movement of distaste. “Just let me explain. I had reason to think that
this man Satterfield knew more about the murder than he’d told. You knew
that? Well, the only way to find out was to make friends with him. If I
could get his confidence, he might let something out inadvertently. So I
had to chum up with him and his crowd; I had to drink with them, though
I assure you it wasn’t an unmixed pleasure, by any means. Lordy, that
raw corn whisky!” He rubbed his head again ruefully. “I thought I could
drink with that bunch and keep my head; but I was mistaken.”
“Oh, I suppose it was all right,” replied Dorothy, only half mollified.
“But it was just awful, doctor, to think of you off somewhere, drinking
with the very man who was going to hang my--my husband, two days ago!”
“That’s just why I did it! Satterfield hadn’t any love for Doctor
Gaskell, and it seemed odd to me that he should be so bitter against
Lewis--unless he thought he’d be safer himself if somebody else was hung
for that shooting. But wait till I tell you.
“In the first place, Satterfield was out drinking and playing poker that
night, and somebody phoned him about four in the morning, and he went
out. I told you all that, and that there was a shotgun beside Tulliver’s
door? Yes. Well, Satterfield took that gun with him! That’s one thing I
learned by getting drunk, Mrs. Parker.” I noticed that he had dropped
the familiar “Dorothy;” perhaps Somers resented the girl’s attitude just
the least bit in the world.
“Well,” he went on, “Charlie Bates went out back to the pump for a
drink, and he noticed that the shotgun was gone. And, when they all
left, after Satterfield got back, the gun stood in its place again. And
that’s that!”
“Look here, Somers,” I cut in. “Satterfield went out at four, you say?
Are you sure that was after Gaskell got the sick call?”
Somers nodded. “I asked Olsen about that. He called Gaskell up about ten
minutes before four. He thought it was queer he didn’t come, and finally
he got dressed and came after him about six. That’s how he happened to
be there so soon after Gaskell’s body was found.”
“Well,” I continued triumphantly, “if Gaskell was sent for at ten
minutes of four, he must have started across lots toward Olsen’s place
pretty soon after four o’clock. And he never got to Olsen’s, so he must
have been shot on the way over. That would fix the killing at four, or
very soon after; and my nephew couldn’t have done it, because he didn’t
get there until five. That’s easy to prove, because I saw him, and both
Wakefield and I heard the shot. Doesn’t that clear Lewis?”
Somers nodded impatiently. “If we could prove it--yes. Don’t you suppose
I’d thought of that, long ago? But we can’t. Gaskell was alone in the
house; his wife was away, and the cook didn’t get there until seven. He
was sent for at three-fifty, all right, but who’s going to prove he
didn’t take an hour to get ready? Nobody saw him except the murderer,
and we can hardly expect _him_ to come forward and testify. Now let me
get back to it; where was I?
“Oh, yes! Satterfield’s daughter, Minnie, is your night telephone
operator. She’s a nice girl, too; I made her acquaintance to-day. And it
was Minnie who called him up at four in the morning; he let that out to
me, talking about the affair. I’m pretty good, you know; I have to admit
it. I pumped a tremendous lot out of Satterfield and his gang, and I
don’t believe one of them suspected what I was after. Satterfield is
pretty bitter against Gaskell, even now that he’s dead. He more than
hinted that the doctor knew more than was good for him; and he said one
rather odd thing about that, too. ‘If Doc Parker hadn’t killed Gaskell,’
he said, ‘that is, if he did kill him--why, somebody else would have
done it in a day or two. Gaskell was buttin’ into what wasn’t none of
his put-in.’ What do you think of that?”
We all stirred excitedly; Dorothy glowed at him. “Why, that’s just
wonderful! It was as good as saying he did it himself. Now you can clear
my--my h-husband”--faltering a bit on the unfamiliar word--“as easy as
anything!”
That was like Dorothy. She was mercurial; by turns exalted, and again in
despair; inclined to jump at conclusions, and, by reason of that
failing, unjust at times. I felt she had been unfair to Somers to-night.
But it was an impulsive, generous injustice, for which she hastened to
make amends.
“Will you forgive me, F-Floyd?” she asked prettily. “I know it was
horrid of me, but I’m so upset!”
He gave her that sudden, flashing smile. “Why, of course, Dorothy! I
don’t blame you one bit. But it’s not so easy as all that, either. We’re
gradually collecting information, which may help the defense somewhat,
but we can’t prove anything from what Satterfield admits when he’s
drunk, you know. This only gives us a start for further investigation
along those lines.”
He reflected a moment, his long, dark face grave and mature; looking at
him I could scarcely realize that this man, one short hour ago, had
staggered up to Fort House, uproariously drunk, and had put a foot
through his silk hat on the steps.
“There’s something back of it all,” he went on presently. “I’m beginning
to feel that this murder is more complicated than we had thought.
Satterfield knows something, I’m sure, whether he did the actual
shooting or not. But, if he did, I don’t think it was merely revenge for
being sent up for thirty days. A month in jail isn’t any terrible
disgrace to a chap like that; he’s been in jail before, I’m told. No,
there is something else, something bigger, behind it all; what, I don’t
know. It’s irritating because it’s so vague. For example, Satterfield
was quite apologetic about that mob. We laughed a lot to-day about his
lynching that didn’t come off; my back’s sore from being pounded. Well,
he hadn’t anything against Doctor Parker, he told me--not a thing.