Jane Carter Investigates: Episode Seventy-Two
Several of the reporters
attempted to stop the limousine, but without success. The car clattered over
the drawbridge, which was pulled up again before anyone could follow.
The chauffeur deposited us at the
front door of the great house.
“Now show me where you found the
ring,” Miss Furstenberg said.
I led her down the winding path
into the grove.
“I hope we don’t meet your head
gardener,” I said. “He seems to be such an unpleasant fellow.”
Miss Furstenberg glanced at me
oddly.
“How do you mean?”
“Oh, yesterday he ordered me away
from here in no uncertain terms.”
“He only meant to do his duty.”
“Then the man has been ordered to
keep people away from this part of the estate?”
“I really couldn’t tell you,”
Miss Furstenberg answered. “Mother has charge of the servants.”
“Has the man been in your employ
long?”
“I can’t tell you that, either.”
Miss Furstenberg said in a tone that warned me that she did not care to be
questioned.
There was no sign of the old
gardener when we arrived at the lily pool. I searched about in the gravel and
grassy area surrounding the pool for a few minutes.
“Here is where I found the ring,”
I told Miss Furstenberg. “And see this!”
“What?”
“Footprints.”
“That doesn’t seem so
remarkable.” Cybil Furstenberg bent to examine the prints in the grass. “They
must have been left by Mr. Atwood’s shoes.”
“But it looks as if there might
have been a struggle here,” I insisted. “From those marks in the gravel
wouldn’t you say a body had been dragged across the ground toward the pool?”
“No!” cried Miss Furstenberg.
“The grass is trampled, and those are odd marks in the gravel, but I can’t
believe Thomas has met with violence. I refuse to think of such a thing! The
pool—” she broke off, and a shudder wracked her body.
“It is best to know the truth.
Have you notified the police about Mr. Atwood’s disappearance?”
Miss Furstenberg shook her head.
“Until today, I thought he would
return. Or at least I hoped so.”
“It seems to me an expert should
be called into the case,” I urged. “Why don’t you telephone the police station
now?”
“I couldn’t,” Cybil answered,
looking very miserable. “Not without consulting Mother.”
“Then let’s talk with her now.”
“She isn’t at home this
afternoon.”
“But something should be done,
and at once,” I protested. “A heavy rainstorm will destroy all these footprints
and perhaps other important evidence. Do you truly love Thomas Atwood?”
“With all my heart.”
“Then I should think you would
have some interest in what became of him. I can’t understand your attitude at
all.”
“I—I have others to think of
besides myself.”
“Your mother, you mean?”
“Yes.”
Cybil avoided my gaze.
“Surely your mother wouldn’t wish
an act of violence to go unpunished. So much time has been lost already.”
“We aren’t certain anything has
happened to Thomas,” Cybil responded, her eyes downcast. “If we should bring
the police into the case, and then it turns out that he has merely gone away to
some other city, I’d be held up to ridicule once more.”
“It seems to me you are taking a
most foolish attitude.”
“There is another reason why we
must be cautious,” Cybil said hesitantly.
“And what is that?”
For just an instant, I thought
that the young woman meant to answer the question. But Cybil seemed to
reconsider, for she said quickly: “I can’t tell you. Please, don’t ask me any
more questions.”
“Are you afraid you may be blamed
for Mr. Atwood’s disappearance?” I persisted.
“No, no, I assure you I am not
thinking of myself. Please, let’s return to the house.”
I deliberately blocked the path.
“Unless you wish me to notify the
police, there is a little matter which I must ask you to explain.”
I reached down, picked up a small
stone, and hurled it into the lily pond. As the ripples died away, we both
observed a convulsive movement of the water, a churning which had no relation
to the missile thrown.
“I think,” I said, “that you understand my meaning.”
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