“Small wonder he dissipated his inheritance with that kind of adolescent approach,” I commented.
“He never grew up, I presume,” Leffing agreed. He turned and waved toward the forlorn shack as we walked away. “And this is what came of it.”
After dinner at The Carriage Care, we went up to our rooms. “I don’t want to be the proverbial wet blanket,” I said presently, “but we seem to have come up with precious little that will lead us to Franklin Selk’s murderer. Are we staying on after tonight?”
“I think another day would do no harm. For one thing, I want to look in on Mrs. Conliff.”
“Mrs. Conliff?”
“The woman who saw Selk walking toward the orchard. You will recall that Chief Warwick mentioned her. She lives about a mile from the orchard.”
I apologized for my poor memory and let it go at that. I found it hard to imagine that Mrs. Conliff could provide us with any constructive leads.
About mid-morning the next day we drove over to talk with the elderly widow who lived alone in a tidy frame house just outside the center of town. She was startled but not displeased by our unexpected visit.
She sat down with us in her rather cramped little living-room. “I’ve been so nervous since that terrible thing happened! Imagine a maniac like that prowling around here! Oh, I do hope you’ll find him out, Mr. Leffing!”
“We shall do our best, Mrs. Conliff! And now would you tell us exactly when and how you saw Franklin Selk walking toward the orchard the day of his tragic death?”
Mrs. Conliff brushed aside a straggling lock of grey hair and folded her hands on her apron. “It was a little before eleven o’clock in the morning. Just by chance I was sitting here sewing. I happened to look up and glance out the window. Mr. Selk was walking past. He was carrying a sort of greenish-colored bag over one shoulder. He didn’t look frightened or worried or anything. Poor man! And he was going to his death!”
“Was he walking slowly, at a brisk pace, or about as he customarily walked, Mrs. Conliff?”
She hesitated. “For an old man he usually walked along at a good average pace.” She paused. “I’d say, that morning, he was walking a little more slow than usual.”
“You say that he was carrying this green bag over his shoulder. Which shoulder?”
“His left shoulder.”
“Could you get a good clear view of the bag, Mrs. Conliff?”
“Well, not a good view, no. You see as he walked past here, heading south, his left shoulder was on the other side. I mean his right arm and shoulder faced my window here.”
Leffing nodded. “I see. I believe you and the police assumed that Mr. Selk was heading for the orchard to gather apples?”
She looked puzzled. “Well, of course! He was carrying the bag and they found him in the orchard. Everyone here knows that he scrounged around the fields and orchards for whatever food he could pick up.”
Leffing persisted. “Does it not strike you as somewhat odd that he should be carrying an empty bag over his shoulder? Do you think it possible, Mrs. Conliff, that the green bag was not empty? — and that was the reason he was carrying it over his shoulder and the reason he was walking more slowly than usual?”
Mrs. Conliff’s hand flew to her mouth. “Mercy sakes! I never thought of that!”
She pondered a moment and shook her head in bewilderment. “But if he was going to gather apples, Mr. Leffing, he’d go with an empty bag! Oh, I just don’t know what to think now!”
Leffing arose and patted her shoulder. “Do not trouble your mind about it, Mrs. Conliff. It may mean nothing at all. We are merely trying to follow through on every possible aspect of the case! So far, the pickings have been meager.”
She conducted us to the door, shaking her head. “I’m afraid I’ve just caused confusion, Mr. Leffing. I do so wish I could help!”
Leffing turned to thank her. “You may have helped immeasurably, Mrs. Conliff! Do not upbraid yourself for one moment!”
“I honestly can’t see that the bag business will get us anywhere,” I remarked as we drove off. “The old man may merely have been carrying a few sandwiches or a box of crackers and a container of tea!”
“You may be correct,” Leffing replied, “but it seems unlikely that such items would weigh so much he would walk more slowly than usual.”
I had to concede this point, but I could suggest nothing further.
After lunch, Leffing informed me that he intended spending a good part of the afternoon “rummaging around among the records” in the town clerk’s office.
I knew better than to question him, and since it was a clear, bright autumn day, I climbed into the car and started out on a leisurely tour of the surrounding countryside;
I arrived back around four o’clock to find my friend had already returned to our rooms. “Any luck?” I asked.
“It would not appear so. I thought that at one time a farmhouse might have stood in the apple orchard. I could find no reference to one. According to town records, the only building which ever existed there was a small schoolhouse. It burned down over fifty years ago, a few years after World War I, and was never rebuilt.”
“You are going ahead with the case?”
“Tomorrow morning, if it suits you, we will drive back out to the orchard. I want another, more careful look.”
I agreed readily enough, although when I recalled his previous inspection of the orchard, a further survey seemed pointless.
The next morning, after the dew had burned off, we drove back out to the scene of the murder.
Leffing, with a powerful magnifying glass in one hand, got down on his hands and knees like the traditional sleuth of fiction, and began a systematic search of the ground. I poked about among the trees, looking for the site of the old schoolhouse which had burned down so many years before.
“I can’t find a trace of it,” I informed Leffing a few minutes later. “Not a single foundation stone nor even a stick of charred wood.”
Leffing stood up to relieve his cramped muscles. “Hardly surprising, Brennan. The school stood on supports, with no cellar underneath. It was built almost entirely of wood. Probably the natives carried off whatever nails, metal and so on which could be put to further use. And that was over a half century ago.” He bent to resume his labors.
I sat down under a tree and munched on an apple which hadn’t yet started to rot. It was somewhat sour but not unpleasant tasting.
Although I didn’t time him, I believe Leffing spent at least an hour crawling about the orchard, magnifying glass in hand.
At length he appeared satisfied. He put away his glass and began humming an old-time English music-hall ballad whose title forever eludes me.
I knew this was a sign that he was “onto something”, or at least believed that he was, but he volunteered no information and I stubbornly refused to question him.
After we arrived back at The Carriage Care, he told me that he expected to spend a good part of the afternoon making various telephone calls.
Since the weather remained fine, I put on a pair of old shoes and started out on a rambling hike. It was a pleasant interlude; the air cool, the rolling hills edged with ochre and scarlet.
When I arrived back at The Carriage Care, late in the afternoon, Leffing was packing his bag.
“You have quit the case?” I asked.
“We can return to New Haven tomorrow, Brennan. I have turned all the facts over to Chief Warwick. I believe an arrest is imminent.”
I stared at him in amazement. “You have solved the old man’s murder then? I had no idea there was a suspect anywhere in sight!”