Jean Backus - Ellery Queen. The Best of Suspense

Ames heard him coming forward, the steps alternately crunching on the patches of open decomposed granite and then fading into nothing on the carpeted pine needles. “I say,” Nottingham called, “is anyone in here?”

Ames strove to make his voice sound casual. “I wouldn’t come any farther.”

The steps stopped, then Nottingham’s cautious voice, “Who’s there?”

“Frank Ames. I wouldn’t come any farther.”

“Why not?”

“There’s been a little trouble here. I’m watching the place for the sheriff.”

Nottingham hesitated a moment. Then his steps came forward again so that he was in full view.

“What happened?” he asked.

“A man was shot,” Ames said in a low voice. “I don’t think it’s a good place for the women and I think your party had better stay on the trail.”

“What is it, Dick?” someone called softly, and Ames felt a sudden thrill as he identified Roberta Coe’s voice.

“Apparently there’s some trouble in here. I guess we’d better get back to the trail,” Nottingham called out. “A man’s been shot.”

Eleanor Dow ling said, “Nonsense. We’re not babies. The woman who needed her smelling salts went out of fashion years ago. What is it?”

Ames walked over to the trail. “Hello,” he said self-consciously.

They acknowledged his salutation. There was a certain tension of awkward restraint, and Ames briefly explained what had happened.

“We were just taking a walk up the trail,” Nottingham said. “We saw your tracks and then they turned off. There was someone with you?”

“The sheriff,” Ames said.

Nottingham said, “Look here, old man, I’m sorry, but I think you owe us a little more explanation than that. We see the tracks of two men up the trail. Then we find one man standing alone and one man dead. You tell us that the sheriff has been with you, but we should have a little more than your word for it.”

“Take a look for yourself,” Ames said, “but don’t try to touch the body. You can look at the dead man’s shoes. They’re full of hobnails.”

Roberta Coe held back, but Nottingham, Eleanor Dowling and Sylvia Jessup pushed forward curiously.

“No closer than that!” Ames said.

“Who are you to give us orders?” Nottingham flared, circling the body.

“The sheriff left me in charge.”

“Well, I don’t see any badge, and as far as I’m concerned, I—”

He stepped forward.

Ames interposed himself between Nottingham and the inert figure. “I said to keep back.”

Nottingham straightened, anger in his eyes. “Don’t talk to me in that tone of voice, you damned lout!”

“Just keep back,” Ames said quietly.

“Why, you poor fool,” Nottingham blazed. “I used to be on the boxing team in college. I could—”

“You just keep back,” Ames interrupted quietly, ominously.

Sylvia Jessup, acting as peacemaker, said, “I’m sure you’ll understand Mr. Ames’ position, Dick. He was left here by the sheriff.”

“He says he was. I’m just making certain. Where did the sheriff go?”

Ames remained silent.

Sylvia pushed Nottingham to one side. “Where did the sheriff go, Mr. Ames?”

“He went to phone the coroner.”

“Were you with him when the body was discovered?”

“No, the sheriff found the body, then came and got me, and then went to the ranger station to telephone.”

Nottingham’s voice and manner showed his skepticism. “You mean the sheriff discovered the body, then he walked away and left the body all alone to go down and get you at your cabin, and then after all that, went to notify the coroner?”

“Well, what’s wrong with that?” Ames asked.

“Everything,” Nottingham said, and then added, “Frankly, I’m skeptical. While I’m on vacation right now, I’m a lawyer by profession, and your story doesn’t make sense to me.”

Ames said quietly, “I don’t give a damn whether it makes sense to you or not. If you don’t think the sheriff’s actions were logical, take it up with the sheriff, but don’t try to argue with me about it because in just about a minute you’re going to have to do a lot of backing up.”

Nottingham said, “I don’t back up for anyone,” but his eyes were cautious as he sized up Frank Ames as a boxer sizes up an opponent in the ring.

There was contrast in the two types; Nottingham well-fed, heavily muscled, broad of shoulder; Frank Ames slender, lithe with stringy muscles. Nottingham had well-muscled weight; Ames had rawhide endurance.

Abruptly the tension was broken by steps and H. W. Dowling called out from the trail, “What’s everyone doing over there?”

“There’s been a murder, father,” Eleanor said.

Dowling pushed his way through the scrub pines. “This damned altitude gets me. What’s the trouble?”

Eleanor explained the situation.

“All right,” Dowling said, “let’s keep away from the place.” He paused to catch his breath. “We don’t want to get mixed up in any of this stuff.” Again he paused for breath. “Who’s the sheriff?”

“Bill Eldon,” Ames said. “I think he visited your camp.”

“Oh, yes,” Dowling said, and his patronizing smile was as eloquent as words. “Dehydrated old coot. Where’s he gone?”

“To notify the coroner.”

“Well, I want everyone in my party to keep away from that body. That includes you, Dick. Understand?”

“Yes, H. W.,” Nottingham said, suddenly meek.

“And,” Dowling went on, “under the circumstances, I think we’ll wait.” He paused for two or three breaths, then added, “Until the sheriff gets back.” His eyes swiveled to glower at Ames. “Any objection, young man?”

“Not in the least,” Ames said. “Just so you don’t mess up the evidence.”

“Humph,” Dowling said, and sat down, breathing heavily.

More voices sounded on the trail. A carefree, casual, man’s laugh sounded garishly incongruous.

Dowling raised his voice and called out, “We’re in here, Sam.”

Crunching steps sounded on the decomposed granite, and Alexander Cameron and Sam Fremont came to join the party.

The abrupt cessation of their conversation, the startled consternation on their faces as they saw the body seemed to revive the shock of the others. A period of uncomfortable silence spread over the group.

Alexander Cameron, his equipment stiff and new, from the high-topped boots to the big sheath knife strapped to his belt, seemed about to become ill. Sam Fremont, quickly adjusting himself to the situation, let his restless eyes move in a quick survey from face to face, as though trying to ferret out the secret thoughts of the others.

Roberta Coe moved over to Frank Ames’ side, drew him slightly away, said in a whisper, “I suppose it’s too much to ask, but — could you — well — give me a break about what happened yesterday?”

“I’ve already covered for you,” Frank Ames said, a note of anger showing in his voice, despite the fact that it was carefully lowered so the others could not hear. “I don’t know why I did it, but I did. I stuck my neck out and—”

“Roberta!” Dowling said peremptorily. “Come over here!”

“Yes, H. W. Just a moment.”

Dowlings eyes were narrowed. “Now!” he snapped. “I want you.”

The tension was for a moment definitely noticeable to all. Roberta Coe’s hesitancy, Dowling’s steady, imperative eyes boring into hers, holding her in the inflexible grip of his will.

“Now,” Dowling repeated.

“Yes, H. W.,” Roberta Coe said, and moved away from Frank Ames.

Sheriff Bill Eldon, squatting on his heels cowboy fashion on the side of the ridge, kept to the concealing shadows of the pine fringe just in front of the jagged rock backbone. John Olney, the ranger, sat beside him.