“My God!”
Then a boyish cry of despair from Harry Adams as he threw himself down beside his uncle’s body and seized the hand that lay there on the grass in his own; his brother Fred was supporting the grey head on his knees and was trying to close the eyes with pathetic little strokes of his fingers. Stammering amazed whisperings passed around, and suddenly a direct question was put to the doctor by somebody. He seemed to hesitate, then turned again to the bareheaded group.
“Gentlemen, you are all members of the Corona club, and you have a right to know; the Colonel was poisoned. I tell you this at once that there may be no gossip about it. The nature of the accident will have to be investigated, and it will be well if no silly rumors are circulated, both for the sake of the Colonel’s memory and the reputation of the club. I think you may be trusted in that respect. I’ll leave it to you, Matlin, to see that the caddies do no talking. Call it heart disease. — Here, some hands, if you please. Cook, will you kindly run your car a little closer.”
There was a tug at Doctor Wortley’s arm, and he turned to look into Harry Adams’ set face and staring eyes.
“Doctor — did you say — my uncle was poisoned—”
A nod answered him, and he spoke again, stammering:
“But what... what was it—”
The doctor threw his arm across the lad’s shoulder. “We’ll find that out later, my boy. Keep steady. The thing now is to get him home. — Here, you men—”
Carefully and gently the still body was lifted and carried to the automobile and covered with a robe. The faces of the crowd, filled with the fearful solemnity that always accompanies the presence of death, no matter whose, also bore the finer imprint of the hand of real sorrow, testifying eloquently to the quality of the man who had just left them.
The caddies were permitted to approach now, and one of them, a little brightfaced fellow with his eyes filled with tears, came sidling up with a timid query as to what he should do with the Colonel’s bag of clubs, which he carried on his shoulder. Mawson bestirred himself at that and reached out for the strap, but it was grasped by Harry Adams, who tucked the bag under his arm as though it had been some sacred thing. “I’ll take it, Harry,” Mawson called, but the young man paid no attention to him. The little caddie had meanwhile made his way silently to the automobile, where he stood gazing tensely at the robe over the form in the tonneau; now he suddenly burst into tears and turned away with his hands over his face. Perhaps the Colonel would have appreciated that tribute more than any other if he could have known of it.
The automobile started slowly in the direction of the clubhouse, with the group of golfers trooping silently, heads bare, in the rear. Bolton Cook, the Colorado millionaire, was at the wheel, and beside him sat Fraser Mawson, the dead man’s attorney, business adviser and friend. Among those who walked behind there was one face in which the general shocked expression of grief and solemnity was overshadowed by another — a look of keen professional interest and speculation. Throughout the scene at the fifth hole this man had remained silent, in the background, but his steady penetrating eyes had not missed a word or glance or movement among the actors in the tragedy; and now they were fastened on the backs of Harry and Fred Adams, the dead Colonel’s nephews and heirs, as the two young men trudged along beside the slow-moving car.
The face was that of Canby Rankin, the Southerner, who had turned detective.
Chapter II
At Greenlawn
Rankin did not immediately follow the procession to the clubhouse. Instead, he moved across to the spot where Colonel Phillips had lain on the ground, and stood there for some time gazing at the crushed and trampled blades of grass with an absent expression in his eyes and a wrinkled brow. The Colonel had been one of his dearest friends; Rankin, a man not lavish of his affection, had sincerely loved him; but beyond a shocked tightening of the lips there was no indication of deep feeling on his countenance. He was in the habit of keeping his emotions sternly within; and, besides, a problem was trying to set itself in his mind. Finally he turned with an impatient shrug of his shoulders and strolled off slowly in the direction of the fifth tee, casting his eyes from side to side over the green turf, half curiously.
“Probably absurd,” he muttered to himself. “Some constitutional secret, no doubt. Wortley says poison — symptoms, that’s all. Indiscreet. Still, he knew the Colonel. And there’s this devilish feeling I get, as though out of the air, like a dog with his nose full of fox-smell; it’s never yet played me false. Drives me to wonder... but who the deuce would harm Carson Phillips? Fine young fellows like those boys! No. Positively no one. It’s absurd. I must talk with Wortley.”
But for all that, when Rankin had hastened his step somewhat and made his way across the fairway and the rough to the sloping terraces alongside the eighteenth tee he did not go at once to the clubhouse. Instead, he sought one of the smaller buildings set in a group of trees off to the right, around the door of which a number of boys in brown uniforms and yellow caps were scattered, engaged in a general discussion with a show of great animation and excitement. The greater part were gathered in a circle around some central object of interest near a corner of the building, and as Rankin approached he sighted the object of his search in the midst of this group. It was the little caddie who had turned the dead Colonel’s bag of clubs over to Harry Adams and later turned away from the automobile in a flood of tears.
The detective beckoned to him. “Come here, Jimmie.”
The lad separated himself from the throng, and Rankin led him over toward the terrace out of earshot of the others.
“What are they talking about over there?” he began, abruptly.
“About Colonel Phillips, sir,” replied the boy. The excitement of his sudden elevation to supreme importance among the other caddies had evidently somewhat submerged his grief, but the tear stains on his cheeks made two whitish lines down to his chin.
“What are they saying?”
The reply was rather vague, mostly to the effect that they were “just talking.”
“I see.” Rankin looked down at him speculatively. “You know, Jimmie, Colonel Phillips was stricken with heart disease. Doctor Wortley says so. I want to ask you a question or two, but you must promise not to say anything to the other boys. I think I can trust you. For the Colonel’s sake, Jimmie.”
“Yes, sir.” The lad’s brown eyes flashed up. “I’d do anything for the Colonel. I won’t say anything, sir. Is he—”
“Well?”
“Is he really dead, Mr. Rankin?”
Jimmie’s lips quivered a little as he put the question; then, at the detective’s somber affirmative nod, he closed them tight again.
“Yes. I want to know, Jimmie, if you noticed anything at all unusual during the match this morning.”
The boy thought a minute. “No, sir, nothing unusual. Except that Mr. Mawson got a three on the first hole.”
Rankin smiled a little in spite of himself. “You’re sure there was nothing? Think hard.”
“No, sir, not as I remember.”
“Did they stop at the water tank on the fourth for a drink?”
“No, sir.”
“Anybody smoke?”
After a second Jimmie replied that the two young men had lit pipes at the second tee.
“Not the Colonel? Nobody gave him a cigar?”
“No, sir. Nor Mr. Mawson, either.”
“And the Colonel seemed well and in good spirits up to the time — up to the fifth hole?”
Jimmie’s yes was quite positive, and then he added: “Except that he was mad on account of his driving. He’s been slicing awful for a week. Yesterday he used his brassie, and he used it today too; but it wasn’t any better. Only on the fifth hole today he took the driver again, and got a beauty. I was so glad because I thought — and then just five minutes later—”