drove up to the back of the house. Normally the boy would have been here early in the morning, but the storm made him decide to make deliveries to his customers who lived on less well maintained roads before those lanes became impassable. He had been delayed all the same, and a lucky thing that turned out to be. The housekeeper, certain that she had seen the colonel’s car, wondered if he might have had a flat tire, or some other problem. The young man told her he had seen the Rolls, some distance ahead of him, but not the colonel’s Model T. But he promised the housekeeper that he’d keep an eye out on his way back to the village.
“The storm eased about then, and so as the delivery boy made his return trip, he looked down each of the lanes as he passed them. At the fourth such lane, he was greeted with a startling sight—young Mr. Harris, his face covered in blood, lying next to a car.
“The boy hurried down the lane, thinking there had been a terrible accident, but the car appeared to be undamaged. He hardly gave it more than a glance, though, because when he got out of the truck and knelt next to Robert Harris, he saw that the colonel’s son had been shot.
“I’ll say this for the lad—he had presence of mind. He looked around quickly, and seeing no sign of the colonel or anyone else, put Mr. Harris into his truck and drove as fast as he could toward the village—smart enough to figure out that the doctor would be there, rather than wasting time taking the wounded man back up here, where they’d only have to wait for the doctor to come up. The doctor did the best he could for him, then drove him to Mercy Hospital over in Tarrington.”
“They’ve an excellent man there,” I said. “Dr. Charles Smith. We served together overseas. He’ll know what to do for such injuries.”
“I’m glad to hear that—that’s the very man who’s caring for him. I’ve also got two of my deputies there to guard him, and to see if he can tell them anything once the doctor permits them to question him.”
He rubbed a hand over his forehead, as if to clear his thoughts.
“So while Robert Harris was being cared for by the medical men, I was called, and the boy took me back to the lane. I was quite anxious to find the colonel, of course. Unfortunately, although his car is there, he’s nowhere nearby.”
“May I take a look at it?” Wishy asked.
“Yes, I hope you will, because I must say there’s something—” He glanced at the Simmses and said, “We can discuss all this along the way.”
He rang for Rawls, and asked him to fetch his deputies up from the kitchen, where they had been offered hot coffee and sandwiches.
“Are we to be kept prisoner here, then?” asked Alice.
“It’s best for now if you wait here, under guard. I would hate to see any further harm come to any member of your family.”
“For our own protection, then?”
“That, and because I feel certain I’ll have more questions for you.”
“Can I at least stroll around the gardens now that the sun is out?”
The sheriff hesitated, glancing at Slye, who gave the slightest shake of his head. “No, miss,” the sheriff said, “I can’t risk it. You’ll stay in this room, please, and if you have need, there’s a lavatory just across the hall. Should you need anything else, food or drink, just ring for Rawls and I’m sure he’ll bring it to you.”
She pouted, but clearly saw she’d not win him over. Anthony tried to argue that they should at least be given the run of their own uncle’s house, but the sheriff, I was quickly learning, was a man who could assert his will when necessary.
The trip to the lane where the car was still parked was brief but productive. Wishy wouldn’t hear of taking the Pierce-Arrow down the narrow muddy track, so we cautiously made our way on foot. Fortunately, the summer sun had been out for a little while, so at least we weren’t making the trip in the rain.
The sheriff’s deputies posted there had made good use of their time, one staying with the car while three others searched the woods. “No sign of the colonel yet, sir,” the one at the car reported. “Though it seems obvious that poor young gentleman crawled out to the lane after being shot. We followed your orders and didn’t touch the car. Any idea when the fingerprint man will be here?”
“Any time now.”
I saw that Hanslow, when in his element, was not the idiot I had assumed him to be. He could not be dissuaded from mimicking what he believed to be Sherlock Holmes’s manner of investigating, making use of the magnifying glass, muttering to himself, and frowning a great deal. Slye several times had to point out that there was more than one way to interpret the tire tracks and boot marks Wishy observed in the mud. But these were mere preliminaries.
When Aloysius Hanslow stopped playing at being the Great Detective and really looked at the vehicle mired in the lane, he did what none of the rest of us could do—and with a degree of confidence that transformed him. Some part of my brain registered this transformation, but not for long, for the shock of his pronouncement dislodged all other thought.
“Dear me, Bunny!” he said. “This isn’t the colonel’s car!”
Slye had an arrested look, as I’m sure we all did. Then he smiled and said, “Tell us how you know.”
I couldn’t completely follow all that followed, but I could grasp that some sort of difference in radiators and other features of the machine itself were nothing compared to what one could learn simply by looking at—and smelling, through a window that was not quite closed—the interior of the automobile. “Bunny, this car was not owned by a man of the colonel’s disposition!”
He was right. The car was strewn with wads of paper, bits of tinfoil wrappers, and empty bottles. It stank of cheap gin and emitted other unsavory odors of unmistakable but unnamable origins. I thought of the neat, well-kept home I had just been in and knew Wishy was absolutely correct.
“Carlton’s?” Slye asked.
Wishy surprised me by considering the question carefully as he put on a pair of gloves. “I believe so. Sheriff, you said you’ll have a fingerprint man up here soon?”
“Yes, he’s on his way. But Aloysius, you know that Carlton’s fingerprints on his own car, if it is his car—”
“Certainly—of no use. But if the fingerprints of the colonel and Mr. Robert Harris are on the inside of the vehicle—”
“I don’t think anyone other than a driver has recently occupied this vehicle,” Slye said, peering in through a side window. “The seats are covered with too much detritus. At the very least, those wads of paper would have been crushed and flattened. I suspect if you are brave enough to look through them, you will find evidence that this is indeed Carlton’s Model T. In fact, I can see several envelopes addressed to him lying on the backseat.” He stepped away from the car. “Wishy, could a Rolls-Royce be driven down this lane?”
“Not without damage to the paint. That’s why we left my car on the paved road.”
“The grocery truck?”
“It’s a Model T truck. No wider than this car.”
“Confound it,” the sheriff said, “this only raises more questions! If this is Carlton’s car, then what happened to the colonel’s car? And if no passenger sat in this car, how did Mr. Robert Harris come to be here?”
“Sheriff,” Slye said, “our answers are undoubtedly at the house. I’d like to return there as quickly as possible. Also, I’m afraid Carlton Wedge may be in some danger.”
“My men are looking for him, I assure you. I intend to try to get the Simmses to be more forthcoming about his recent whereabouts.”
With this we had to be satisfied.
Once back at the colonel’s house, the sheriff went into the study to use the telephone, while Wishy, given specific instructions by Slye, walked toward the Silver Ghost. I followed Slye into the kitchen, where I frightened a young maid into giving a little scream. I begged the cook not to carry out her threat to beat some sense into the girl. Slye asked if Rawls and the housekeeper could be brought there without alerting the Simmses to the fact, which the maid readily agreed to.
Slye questioned these two worthies about the arrival of the Simmses, thanked them, and strode outdoors. He stood gazing toward the outbuildings. Wishy hurried up to us. “You were right, Bunny. The floorboards are filthy. A shame, to muddy a car like that!”
“I suspect they were rather rushed.” He paused, then said in one of the gentlest voices I had ever heard him use, “I’m afraid I must next look into the horse barn, Wishy.”
