# The Girl at Central/Chapter 5

pp. 70–86.

### V

THERE were so many puzzling "leads" and so much that was inexplicable and mysterious in the Hesketh case that it'll be easier to follow if, in this chapter, I put down what the other people, who were either suspects or important witnesses, did on that Sunday.
Some of it may not be interesting, but it's necessary to know if you're going to get a clear understanding of a case that baffled the police and pretty nearly ... There I go again. But it's awfully hard when you're not used to it to keep things in their right order.
I've told how Jim Donahue said he put Sylvia on the train for the Junction that night at seven-thirty. Both Jim and the ticket agent said they'd seen her and Jim had spoken to her. She carried a hand bag, wore a long dark fur coat and a small close-fitting hat that showed her hair. Both men also noticed in her hand the gold mesh purse with a diamond monogram that she always carried. Over her face was tied a black figured veil that hid her features, but there was no mistaking the hair, the voice, or the gold mesh purse.
Sands, the Pullman conductor, said this same woman rode down in his train to the Junction, where she got off. Clark, the station agent at the Junction, saw her step from the car to the platform. After that he lost track of her as he was busy with the branch line train which left at eight-forty-five and was the last one up that night. No woman went on it, there were only two passengers, both men.
The Doctor didn't make his whole story public till the inquest. They said afterward the police knew it, but it was his policy to say little and keep quiet in Mapleshade. What we in the village did know—partly from the papers, partly from people—was that after the message from Mrs. Fowler saying Sylvia had eloped, he told Mrs. Dalzell he would have to leave, having been called away to an important case. When the Dalzells' chauffeur brought his car round he asked the man several questions about the shortest way to get to the turnpike. The chauffeur told him that the best traveling would be by the Riven Rock Road, which he would have to go to the Junction to get. The Doctor left the Dalzells' at a little after eight, alone in his car.
He reached the Junction about eight-thirty-five, a few minutes after the train from Longwood had arrived. On the platform he spoke to Clark, asking him how to get to the Riven Rock Road. Clark gave him the directions, then saw him disappear round the station building. Neither Clark nor anyone at the Junction—there were very few there at that hour—saw him leave in his car, though they heard the honk of the auto horn.
But it was Jack Reddy's movements that everybody was most interested in. There was no secret about them.
Sunday at lunch he told Gilsey that he was going away for a trip for a few days. If he stayed longer than he expected he'd wire back for his things, but, as it was, he'd only want his small auto trunk, which he'd take with him. When Mrs. Gilsey was packing this he joked her about having a good time while he was gone, and she told him that, as there'd be no dinner that night, she and Gilsey'd go over to a neighbor's, take supper there and spend the evening. After that he asked Casey, the chauffeur, to have the racing car brought round at five, to see that the tank was full, a foot-warmer in it and the heaviest rugs and a drum of gasoline, as he was going on a long trip.
At five he left Firehill in the racer. At a quarter to seven two boys saw him pass the Longwood Station in the direction of Maple Lane. He said he came back through the outskirts of the village at seven-thirty, but no one could be found who had seen him.
After he left Firehill the Gilseys cleared up and walked across the fields to the Jaycocks' farm, where they spent the evening, coming home at ten and finding the house dark and quiet. Casey went to another neighbor's, where he stayed till midnight, playing cards.
He slept over the garage, and about four in the morning—he looked at his watch afterward—was awakened by a sound down below in the garage. He listened and made sure that someone was trying to roll the doors back very slow and with as little noise as possible. Casey's a bold, nervy boy, and he reached for his revolver and crept barefooted to the head of the stairs. On the top step he stooped down and looked through the banisters, and saw against the big square of the open doors a man standing, with a car behind him shining in the moonlight.
He thought it was a burglar, so, with his revolver up and ready, he called:
"Hello, there. What are you doing?"
The man gave a great start, and then he heard Mr. Reddy's voice:
"Oh, Casey, did I wake you? I've come back unexpectedly. Help me get this car in."
They ran the car in, and, when Casey went to tell how he thought it was a burglar and was going to shoot, he noticed that Mr. Reddy hardly listened to him, but was gruff and short. All he said was that he'd changed his mind about the trip, and then unstrapped his trunk from the back and turned to go. In the doorway he stopped as if he'd had a sudden thought, and said over his shoulder:
"You don't want to mention this in Longwood. I'm getting a little sick of the gossip there over my affairs."
Casey went back to bed and in the morning, when he looked at the car, found it was caked with mud, even the wind-guard spattered. At seven he crossed over to the house for his breakfast and told the Gilseys that Mr. Reddy was back. They were surprised, but decided, as he'd been out so late, they'd not disturb him till he rang for his breakfast.
Monday morning was clear and sharp, the first real frost of the season. All the time I was dressing I was thinking about the elopement and how queer it was Mrs. Fowler saying they'd gone by turnpike and Jim Donahue saying he'd seen Sylvia leave on the train. I worked it out that they'd made some change of plans at the last moment. But the way they'd eloped didn't matter to me. Small things like that didn't cut any ice when I was all tormented wondering if it was for the best that my hero should marry a wild girl who no one could control.
I hadn't been long at the switchboard, and was sitting sideways in my chair looking out of the window when I saw Dr. Fowler's auto drive up with the Doctor and a strange man in it. I twirled round quick and was the business-like operator. I'll bet no one would have thought that the girl sitting so calm and indifferent in that swivel chair was just boiling with excitement and curiosity.
The Doctor looked bad, yellow as wax, with his eyes sunk and inflamed. He didn't take any notice of me beside a fierce sort of look and a gruff,
"Give me Corona 1-4-2."
That was Firehill. I jacked in and the Doctor went into the booth and shut the door. The strange man stood with his hands behind him, looking out of the window. I didn't know then that he was a detective, and I don't think anyone ever would have guessed it. If you'd asked me I'd have said he looked more like a clerk at the ribbon counter. But that's what he was, Walter Mills by name, engaged that morning, as we afterward knew, by the Doctor.
Watching him with one eye I leaned forward very cautiously, lifted up the cam and listened in on the conversation:
"Is this Gilsey?"
Then Gilsey's nice old voice, "Yes, sir. Who is it?"
The Doctor's was quick and hard:
"Never mind that—it doesn't matter. Do you happen to know where Mr. Reddy is?"
My heart gave a big jump—he hadn't caught them! They'd got away and been married!
"Yes, sir, Mr. Reddy's here."
There was just a minute's pause before the Doctor answered. In that minute all sorts of ideas went flashing through my head the way they say you see things before you drown. Then came the Doctor's voice with a curious sort of quietness in it.
"There, at Firehill?"
"Yes, sir. Can I take any message? Mr. Reddy was out very late last night and isn't up yet."
The Doctor answered that very cordially, all the hurry and hardness gone.
"Oh, that's all right. I'll not disturb him. No, I won't bother with a message. I'll call up later. Thanks very much. Good-bye."
I dropped back in my chair, tapping with a pencil on the corner of the drawer and looking sideways at the Doctor as he came out of the booth. He had a queer look, his eyes keen and bright, and there was some color in his face. The strange man turned round, and the Doctor gave him a glance sharp as a razor, but all he said was: "Come on, Mills," and they went out and mounted into the car.
When the door banged on them I drew a deep breath and flattened out against the chair back. They hadn't eloped!
Gee, it was a relief! Not because of myself. Honest to God, that's straight. I knew I couldn't have him any more than I could have had the Kohinoor diamond. It was because I knew—deep down where you feel the truth—that Sylvia Hesketh wasn't the girl for him to marry.
That was about half-past eight. It was after ten when a message came for Mapleshade that made the world turn upside down and left me white and sick. It was from the Coroner and said that Sylvia Hesketh had been found that morning on the turnpike, murdered.
Poor Mrs. Fowler took it!
Anne Hennessey told me afterward that she heard her scream on the other side of the house. I heard it, too, and it raised my hair—and then a lot of words coming thin and shrill along the wire. "Sylvia, my daughter—dead—murdered?" It was awful, I hate to think of it.
Nora and Anne ran at the sound and found Mrs. Fowler all wild and screaming, with the receiver hanging down. I could hear them, a babble of tiny little voices as if I had a line on some part of Purgatory where the spirits were crying and wailing.
Suddenly it stopped—somebody had hung up. I waited, shaking there like a leaf and feeling like I'd a blow in the stomach. Then Mapleshade called and I heard Anne's voice, distinct but broken as if she'd been running.
"Molly, is that you? Do you by any chance know if the Doctor's in the village?"
"He was here a little while ago with a man calling up Firehill. Anne, I heard—it can't be true."
"Oh, it is—it is—I can't talk now. I've got to find him. Give me Firehill. He may have gone there. Quick, for God's sake!"
I gave it and heard her tell a man at the other end of the line.
I'll go on from here and tell what happened at Firehill. I've pieced it out from the testimony at the inquest and from what the Gilseys afterward told in the village.
The Doctor and Mills went straight out there from the Exchange. When they arrived Gilsey told him Mr. Reddy wasn't up yet, but he'd call him. The Doctor, however, said the matter was urgent and they couldn't lose a minute, so the three of them went upstairs together and Gilsey knocked at the door. After he'd knocked twice a sleepy voice called out, "Come in," and Gilsey opened the door.
It led into a sitting-room with a bedroom opening off it. On a sofa just opposite the door was Jack Reddy, dressed and stretched out as if he'd been asleep.
At first he saw no one but Gilsey and sat up with a start, saying sharply:
"What's the matter? Does anyone want me?"
Gilsey said, "Yes, two gentlemen to see you," and stepped to one side to let the Doctor and Mills enter.
When Reddy saw the Doctor he jumped to his feet and stood looking at him. He didn't say "Good morning" or any sort of greeting, but was silent, as if he was holding himself still, waiting to hear what the Doctor was going to say.
He hadn't to wait long. The Doctor, in the doorway, went right to the point.
"Mr. Reddy," said he, "where's my daughter?"
Reddy answered in a quiet, composed voice:
"I don't know, Dr. Fowler."
"You do!" shouted the Doctor. "You ran away with her last night. What have you done with her?"
Reddy said in the same dignified way:
"I haven't done anything. I know nothing about her. I haven't any more idea than you where she is."
At that the Doctor got beside himself. He shouted out furiously:
"You have, you d——d liar, and I'll get it out of you," and he made a lunge at Reddy to seize him. But Mills jumped in and grabbed his arm. Holding it he said, trying to quiet down the Doctor:
"Just wait a minute, Dr. Fowler. Maybe when Mr. Reddy sees that we understand the situation, he'll be willing to explain." Then he turned to Reddy: "There's no good prevaricating. Your letter to Miss Hesketh has been found. Now we're all agreed that we don't want any talk or scandal about this. If you want to get out of the affair without trouble to yourself and others you'd better tell the truth. Where is she?"
"Who the devil are you?" Reddy cried out suddenly, as mad as the Doctor, and before Mills could answer, the branch telephone on the desk rang.
Reddy gave a loud exclamation and made a jump for it. But Mills got before him and caught him. He struggled to get away till the Doctor seized him on the other side. They fought for a moment, and then got him back against the door, all the time the telephone ringing like mad. As they wrestled with him Mills called over his shoulder to Gilsey:
"Answer that telephone, quick."
Gilsey, scared most out of his wits, ran to the phone and took down the receiver. Anne Hennessey was at the other end with her awful message.
When he got it Gilsey gave a cry like he was stabbed, and turned to Mr. Reddy, pinioned against the door.
"Good Lord, have mercy, Mr. Jack," he gasped out. "Miss Hesketh's dead. She's murdered—on the turnpike—murdered last night!"
The Doctor dropped Reddy, tore the instrument out of Gilsey's hand and took the rest of the message.
Reddy turned the color of ashes. There wasn't any need to hold him. He fell back against the door with his jaw dropped and his eyes staring like a man in a trance. Gilsey thought he was going to die and was for running to him, crying out, "Oh, Mr. Jack, don't look that way." But Mills caught the old servant by the arm and held him back, watching Reddy as sharp as a ferret.
The Doctor turned from the phone and said: "It's true. Miss Hesketh's been murdered."
There was a dead silence. The click of the receiver falling into its hook was the only sound. The three other men—the Doctor as white as death, too—stood staring at Reddy. And then, seeing those three faces, he burst out like he was crazy:
"No—she's not—she can't be! I was there; I went the moment I got her message. I was on the turnpike where she said she'd be. I was up and down there most of the night. And—and——" he stopped suddenly and put his hands over his face, groaning, "Oh, my God, Sylvia—why didn't you tell me?"
He lurched forward and dropped into a chair, his hands over his face, moaning like an animal in pain.