Эрл Гарднер - The Case of the Musical Cow

“Within the next hour you’ll either be under arrest again, or else be a fugitive from justice. Don’t waive extradition and return voluntarily to face that second murder charge. You sit tight on this side of the river and fight extradition every step of the way. And don’t say that I gave you that advice.

“All right, Rob, this is where you get out,” and Dr. Dixon extended his hand in farewell.

Rob didn’t waste any precious minutes on Linda’s empty apartment, but took a taxicab to the courthouse in Londonwood, the county seat. He hunted up the clerk’s office and said, “I want to look up the probate record in an estate.”

“What was the name?” the clerk asked.

“The last name,” Rob said, “was Carroll, and I believe the estate was probated about four or five years ago. Aside from that I haven’t much to go on.”

“Well, we can find it,” the clerk said.

Twenty minutes later Rob Trenton was busy copying the description of three hundred and twenty acres of property, which under a decree of distribution in the estate of George Hammond Carroll had been distributed to his daughter, Linda Carroll. Immediately after doing that, Rob hurried to an agency which made a business of renting cars.

Some time later, and just as the sun was dropping behind distant rolling hills, Rob turned off the main road and rattled along a graveled roadway.

He was looking for names on the mail-boxes, but suddenly he braked the car to a stop.

From the pasture on the hill below came the sound of a musical chime, followed after a moment by another one, the second being deeper in tone, but both being mellow and musical. Swiss cowbells, arousing nostalgic memories, causing a tug at the heartstrings.

Rob Trenton found a wide place at the side of the road where he could park the car. He shut off the motor.

The cowbells were drifting up now from the hill below in musical cadences. There were four cowbells and the effect of the harmony was as pleasing to the ear as the rolling scenery was to the eye.

Rob Trenton slipped through a barbed-wire fence, crossed under some shady trees and emerged on the upper end of the pasture where the four cows were grazing contentedly.

Up in the south-west corner of the pasture on a high knoll near the road was an old-fashioned, two-story frame farmhouse built of honest oak; and from its rugged, weather-beaten appearance, it had been standing for many years.

There was no sign of life about the house and Rob Trenton took up a position near the trunk of one of the trees, where he could observe the house through the lower branches and at the same time be all but invisible to any person peering from the house windows.

The countryside seemed peaceful and contented. The musical notes of the Swiss cowbells drifted up on the calm air. The shadows deepened into dusk, and then finally into darkness.

Rob Trenton kept his position by the tree until he could see stars overhead, until the huge two-story farmhouse showed only as a dark silhouette against a slightly luminous sky.

The cows stopped grazing and with the stilling of the cowbells the countryside lapsed into impenetrable silence.

Rob Trenton left his station by the tree and moved forward cautiously along the edge of the pasture, feeling his way.

There was no sign of life in the huge farmhouse.

Under cover of darkness, Rob slowly approached the building.

He came at length to a gravel driveway where an ancient woodshed had been converted into a garage. The swinging doors were propped open, showing only an empty interior. Rob walked around to the back door of the farmhouse, stood on the back porch and listened. He could hear no sound from within.

Carefully he tried the screen door. It was hooked on the inside. By pulling gently against it, Rob was able to determine the position of the hook.

Rob’s knife cut down through the screen, just where it joined the door, making an eight-inch cut. Through this he thrust his hand and wrist, found the hook on the inside, gently lifted it, opened the door, crossed the back screen porch and gently tried the back door.

It was locked from the inside.

Rob took a small flashlight from his pocket, pushed his handkerchief under the door. Pulling straws from a broom on the screen porch he was able to spread the handkerchief out on the inner side of the door. There was a large crack at the bottom of the door, sufficient, Rob felt certain, to suit his purpose.

Using the small fountain-pen flashlight to guide his operations, he inserted the point of his knife in the lock and manipulated the key until it was in a straight up-and-down position. Then he pushed with the point of his knife, and heard the key drop on the inside of the door. He gently pulled his handkerchief towards him, and had the satisfaction of feeling the key slide along on the handkerchief.

As soon as Rob’s flashlight glinted on a bit of metal under the door, he slipped the blade of his knife through the crack, pressed down on the key, and then by pulling at the same time on both the penknife and the handkerchief, pulled the key through from the underside of the door.

After that it was a simple matter to insert the key in the lock, gently turn it, open the door and step inside.

Rob’s small flashlight sent an exploratory beam around the kitchen. He moved quietly across the kitchen to a door which led to a back stairway leading to the upper rooms.

Rob inched his way up these stairs, keeping well over to the sides to avoid creaking boards.

Once in the upper corridor, he paused to reconnoiter.

He dared not use his flashlight now, but inched his way down the corridor, listening for any sound which would indicate human occupancy, and listening in vain. The big house was silent as a cave. Rob could hear only his own breathing and the pounding of his heart.

Midway down the corridor for the first time doubt stabbed Rob Trenton’s mind with a dagger of discouragement.

Quite apparently the house was empty. The chain of reasoning on which Rob had staked everything must have somewhere in it a weak link which made it fail to hold. And because Rob knew he was working against time, that every minute was precious, his failure could become all the more cause for bitter self-reproach.

Standing there in the corridor of the deserted farmhouse, Rob checked over in his mind the various mental stepping stones which had led him here. He could find nothing wrong with any of them, yet the fact remained he had apparently followed his reasoning to a entirely erroneous conclusion.

Then suddenly as he stood there, his nostrils detected the odor of fresh tobacco smoke.

There was no faintest sound, no ribbon of light coming under any of the doors which opened on the corridor, no other sign of human occupancy, but plainly and unmistakably the fresh tobacco smoke indicated someone had just lit a cigarette.

Rob felt his skin crawling with nervous suspense. His mouth felt dry. His heart began to pound.

He moved slowly, cautiously down the corridor, trying to find the room from which the tobacco smoke was coming.

The aroma of the fragrant tobacco was all through the corridor now. It seemed impossible to trace it to any one particular source. Then, so suddenly that it startled Rob, he heard the sound of a woman’s voice, a voice that apparently was asking some question.

It was a man who answered, and the answer was evidently in the negative, a rumbling, gruff few words which effectively silenced any further conversation.

Rob moved forward, so anxious now to test the accuracy of his conclusions that he forgot to keep to the side of the corridor, away from the possibility of creaking boards.

One of these boards creaked under his weight and the sound was so sharp in that silence that it frightened Rob into jumping quickly to one side.