“Did anything unusual happen during that time?” Rankin continued. “Was there anyone about except you four men and the caddies?”
There was a simultaneous “No” from the two young men, and Fraser Mawson shook his head in negation.
“No one,” the latter declared. “Nothing unusual occurred, absolutely nothing, until poor Carson suddenly cried out and fell to the ground. To me, Mr. Rankin, the whole thing is incomprehensible. There was absolutely no way it could have happened. And I can’t believe — why, Carson Phillips hadn’t an enemy in the world.”
“Nevertheless, it did happen.” The detective’s tone was grim. “And I don’t suppose you intend to suggest suicide, Mr. Mawson.”
“Good heavens, no!” the lawyer protested. “I simply can’t understand it.”
“One of the caddies was a West Indian,” Fred Adams put in suddenly.
Rankin sent him a quick glance. “Which one?”
“Mine. His name’s Joe; that’s all I know about him. Never had him before.”
“M-m-.” Rankin didn’t seem particularly interested. “I’ll talk to him. You can never tell. But as a matter of fact, I expect to find nothing here. The sooner we’re away the better. Doctor, I’ll ask you to go with us. An examination should be made of that wound. Telephone to Brockton for a conveyance for the body. It can follow.”
The detective paused, then turned to Fred Adams:
“I’ll spend the night with you at Greenlawn, if you don’t mind. And Doctor Wortley—”
“Very well, sir. But I don’t see how you expect to find out anything there.” The young man was plainly surprised, as were the others.
“Perhaps I won’t. We’ll look around a bit, though. Will you do that telephoning, Doctor? It would be best to go down at the rear; no use running past all those curious eyes.” He turned to the others. “You came over in the Colonel’s car, I suppose. Run it out on the drive and wait for me there. I’ll be only a minute or two.”
Downstairs again, Rankin observed that the excitement was beginning to quiet down a little. Groups had broken up and scattered, and when he reached the piazza he saw several pairs and foursomes making their way to the first tee. On the lawn he found Harrison Matlin and surprised the club president by informing him of his decision to depart at once for Greenlawn, Colonel Phillips’s country estate; then the two men proceeded together to the caddie-house. Joe, the West Indian mentioned by Fred Adams, proved to be one of those indolent, ignorant half breeds who seem to consider the process of breathing an unwarranted tax on human energy; he had been with the club now for more than two seasons, and the caddie-master declared him to be inoffensive and fairly competent. Rankin asked him a few guarded questions, then dismissed him with a shrug of the shoulders; clearly there was nothing to be suspected here.
He found the motor car on the drive near the gateway, with Fred Adams at the wheel and Harry seated beside him with a bag of golf clubs between his knees. To an observation of Rankin’s as he climbed in the young man responded:
“They’re not mine, sir. Uncle Carson’s. I didn’t want to leave them...”
The detective seated himself in the tonneau beside Fraser Mawson, and the four men sat in silence, waiting for Doctor Wortley. He soon put in an appearance, with the information that conveyance would arrive from Brockton for the body in half an hour. Rankin merely nodded, sliding over on the cushions to make room for him.
“All ready, Fred.”
The engine whirred and the automobile shot forward, with two hundred pairs of curious and sympathetic eyes gazing after it from the piazza and lawns.
Twenty minutes later they entered the gateway of Greenlawn, nestling in a wooded valley among the Jersey hills. Down a long avenue of lindens, with well-kept park on either side, the car rolled smoothly, then curved round a large sunken garden to bring up before the main entrance of the house. It was one of those summer castles that have been appearing throughout the east in ever increasing numbers in the past decade, low and rambling, of grey stone brought from Colorado, with extensive lawns and gardens dotted here and there with fountains, gravel walks in every direction, terraces descending at one side to a miniature lake and a broad driveway leading circuitously to a garage, constructed of the same material as the house, in the rear. Some comment had been excited among Colonel Phillips’s friends when he bought the place a few years before, for what use can an old bachelor make of a castle? He had merely smiled good-humoredly at their sly insinuations and proceeded to make Greenlawn one of the show spots of the hills. An old man’s whim, he said; and his nature was incapable of guile.
Together the five men left the car and ascended the granite steps of the wide shady portico. From the rear of the house a chauffeur appeared, advancing inquiringly, but Fred Adams dismissed him by a wave of the hand. At the door of the reception room they were met by Mrs. Graves, the housekeeper, and the five men glanced at one another: Here was an unpleasant duty.
“You tell them, Mr. Mawson,” Fred pleaded; and the lawyer was left behind to call the servants together and announce the death of their master. The others went on to the library, where Harry Adams finally freed himself of the burden of the Colonel’s golf bag, leaning it against a corner of the fireplace. They watched him in silence, with the thought in their eyes: He has played his last game.
“Now if you young men will be good enough to leave me alone with Doctor Wortley,” said Rankin abruptly.
Harry turned and started to go without a word. Fred hesitated, and finally blurted out:
“I know you have charge of this thing, Mr. Rankin, but I must say that I don’t see why you run away from it. What can be done here at Greenlawn? I know you’re older and wiser than I am, and I don’t want to criticize, but Harry and I feel we have a right to know—”
“You have,” Rankin put in, stopping him with a gesture. “But as yet there’s nothing to tell. I hold myself responsible. I am doing what I think best. But of course you’re in authority here now, and if you think—”
“No, sir, it isn’t that,” the young man declared hastily. “I suppose I shouldn’t have said anything. But you — you know how we feel.”
“I do, my boy.”
Fred turned and followed his brother out of the room, closing the door behind him.
The doctor and the detective, finding themselves alone, glanced at each other, and then away again. Rankin’s eye happened to light on a large bronze clock above the mantel, and stayed there; the hands of the clock pointed to a quarter past two. Doctor Wortley walked to a window looking out on the garden and stood there a moment, then crossed to a chair near the table and sank down in it, his fingers moving nervously along the arm. Neither said a word.
“Of course, I know what you’re thinking, Rankin,” the Doctor finally observed, breaking into speech all at once. “I know why you thought there was nothing to be done over there. But — well — it seems preposterous. Fred? Harry? Mawson? Why, it’s preposterous!”
The detective turned from his contemplation of the clock.
“If you know what I think you know more than I do,” he said at last, slowly. “And you do as a matter of fact know more than I do. That’s why I want to talk to you. But certain conclusions are inevitable. We know how the Colonel was killed. A tiny arrow or steel needle cannot be sent from any considerable distance. From the fifth tee to the spot where the Colonel fell there is no shrubbery anywhere, nothing that could have served as a hiding place for the murderer. That is certain. Then it is equally certain that the murderer was not hidden. He was there, and he was not hidden. The caddies are out of the question. They were the two Simpson boys, Jimmie Marks and Joe, the West Indian Fred spoke of. Absurd to suspect any of them. That leaves only the members of the foursome. First the Colonel himself. Suicide must be considered, though the circumstances render it highly improbable. You were his friend and physician for thirty years. You knew him more intimately than anyone else. Your opinion?”