THE EVIDENCE

                                                                       by                         

                                                      BRADLEY W. SIMPSON

 

     Beneath the high veranda of the stately country mansion, the surrounding countryside dropped steeply away to the dense undergrowth of the river bottom below.  A small gazebo at the water’s edge, its refined woodwork diluted by gray autumn rain, was just visible amidst the ancient oaks and hickory trees that choked the banks of the river.  Higher up the hillside, a thick tangle of forest darkened the country with a dreary display of evergreen that sulked formidably atop the feral autumn landscape. 

     Professor Gauntlet, accompanied by a visitor, stood on the balcony peering down through the cold October rain.  He seemed passive, somewhat sedate as he watched a troop of bear hunters painstakingly edge their way deep into the underlying wilderness in the mountain valley below.

     “It’s interesting, Professor,” the visitor spoke up.  “Quite a turn of events in your life.  Two months ago you were struggling to pay your mortgage.  Yet suddenly, it seems you could afford to purchase the adjoining property if you felt so inclined.”

     The Professor smiled wanly.  “Well, I wouldn’t go that far.  I’m financially secure, is all.”

     “Humph.  Let’s not be modest.  It’s wealth!  I’ve seen your statements, remember?  I am your accountant, you know.”

     “And since when do accountants make house calls?”  Professor Gauntlet asked, irritably.

     The visitor ignored the comment.  “I think you have a pretty snug future here in the hollow; I don’t see you at the beggar’s banquet anytime soon.”

     Professor Gauntlet said nothing, but lit a smoke as he gazed down through the mist.  The fat, middle-aged accountant, Grover Wensfield, pulled his overcoat together.  Despite his girth he was feeling the nip of the autumn chill.

     “Funny thing, fortune,” he continued while glancing wishfully at the warm fire burning in the drawing room behind them.  “One minute, a fellow’s near ready for the poor farm, and the next he’s got more money than Heaven.”

     “You’re prone to exaggeration, friend,” the Professor suggested.

     “It’s an odd thing, isn’t it?  Your sudden wealth, I mean.  You know, it coming at the same time that all that money went missing from the University.  Precisely the same time, I should say.”

     Professor Gauntlet shifted his weight from one leg to the other, but said nothing.

     “Hundreds of thousands of dollars --vanished!  Just like that.  And the police still don’t know who the thief is.  But they don’t know what I know, do they?”

     The Professor eyed Grover Wensfield warily.  The fat man continued.  “All that money, gone!  Pinched!  And just a few days later, a sizeable fortune shows up in your account.  Strange, eh?”

     “What the hell are you getting at?”  Gauntlet demanded.  “A coincidence.  Nothing more.”

     Wensfield stifled a smirk.  “It’s interesting what a fellow uncovers when he spends long hours laboring over financial records and expenditures.  With an endless order of funds records and electronic draft tracking at my disposal, I made a very conclusive discovery.  But you didn‘t realize I did the accounting for the University as well?”

     The accountant paused as if allowing his host a chance to interject, but a cold glare was the only response.  “To uncover such an indisputable truth and to actually know the offender…imagine it…it’s the kind of thing that could absolutely ruin a man!  And I’ve got the evidence to prove it.”  The accountant indicated an envelope in the breast pocket of his tweed coat.

     With a sudden, impulsive movement the Professor stepped nearer the edge of the veranda and allowed the wind to blow in on his face.  That the wind carried with it a mist of rain did not bother him; it seemed to have a consoling effect.

     “But don’t misunderstand me, Professor.  I understand the lengths a man will go to when he finds himself in a desperate financial squeeze.”

     Professor Gauntlet drew in a deep breath and tossed his cigar over the balcony.  “What do you want, Grover?”  he asked.

     “Not much.  Just a small raise in my pay.  Say, ten thousand.”

     “Blackmail, huh?  That’s illegal, you know.”

     “So is money laundering.  The difference is, I have proof.  It seems your freedom is for sale.  Price --ten thousand dollars.”

     The Professor remained silent for a long while.  He fired another cigar and leaning against the baluster, he closed his eyes.  “Well, that only seems fair,” he said finally.  “For all the hard work you do, laboring by candlelight over my private affairs, you rather deserve a raise.”

     “I knew you’d see it my way.  After all, I’ve always done my very best for you.”

     “You’ll take a voucher, of course.”

     “I’ll take cash,” Wensfield said bluntly.

     “My God, man!  Be reasonable!  You cannot expect…”

     “Cash,” the accountant repeated.  Tomorrow afternoon.  Or this evidence gets mailed to the police.”  So saying, he excused himself and left the Professor alone on the veranda.

     Gauntlet watched as the accountant came into view on the pathway below which led across the estate into the gloom of the approaching darkness.  A moment later, he smashed out his half-smoked cigar, and followed after the man.

 

 

      In the black of night in a desolate edge of forest, Professor Gauntlet stood over the body of Grover Wensfield.  The Professor had been surprised at the large efflux of blood that erupted from the accountant’s skull when he smashed it with the cudgel.  Wensfield had collapsed to his knees, gurgled pitifully, and expired.  A steady shower still fell and it washed away all traces of crimson that drained from the dead man’s head.

     The Professor knew he had to get rid of the body, and quickly.  He took out his pocket watch, and straining to see its hands in the dark he made out the time:  eleven o’ clock.  That meant he had seven hours before daybreak; seven hours to dispose of the corpse.

     He pondered the situation for a minute.  He would have to bury the body.  But he would need a shovel to do that.  And a light.  He could not risk leaving some bit of damning evidence behind in the darkness.  One loose button or a fragment of thread might very well be his undoing. 

     Professor Gauntlet covered the body with a loose layer of leaves and detritus and edged his way back up to his mansion and the tool shed that stood behind it.  Taking a match from his coat pocket he lit the kerosene lantern on the shelf and rummaged around the shed for a shovel.  He found a stout one, and was backing out of the small door with lantern in one hand and shovel in other, when a sudden voice from the darkness behind him sent him spinning in his shoes, dropping the tool and sending the light crashing to the ground.

     “Sorry if I scared you, Professor,” the deputy sheriff said.  “I was just patrolling the road and saw the light coming from the shed here, and thought I better check it out.”

     “Oh, I was… just…making sure I had locked my tools up, is all,” Gauntlet stammered.  “Just a precaution against thieves.”

     The deputy stooped to pick up the lantern which was still burning.  “Well, that’s a wise precaution.  And I’d recommend keeping your things locked safely away from the bears, too.”

     “Bears?”

     “Yes, sir.  Those grizzlies are getting brave, coming up from the bottoms for food before they go into hibernation for the winter.  Just don’t leave any food lying around outside.  The smell attracts ’em.” 

     “Yes, that’s good advice.  Well, thanks for stopping by.  I know you have a busy night ahead of you…”

     The deputy nodded and headed back up the stone path to the road.  Gauntlet watched the policeman to make sure he didn’t return for any reason, and after several minutes he decided it was safe to resume his task.  He checked his watch again.  Eleven-thirty.  He must hurry and bury the dead heap which awaited him in the forest.

     The rain had slowed to a light drizzle as the Professor returned to the outskirts of the woods.  He heard a slow rumble of thunder in the distance, and he wondered if the thing that had been Grover Wensfield could hear it, as well.  He trudged onward through the black forest with his mission clear in mind;  he would bury the body at the foot of the large cypress tree where he had left it, and no one would ever know.

      But fear suddenly choked him.  The body was no longer beside the tree.  It was gone!  There stood the cypress, and there laid the scattered pile of soil and leaves, but there was no trace of the body.

     Gauntlet stood motionless, petrified by fear.  Had Grover been alive, after all?  Had he crawled from the woods?  He wondered--

     His jaw dropped and sickness gripped him from within.  Somewhere nearby in the forest a twig snapped loudly.  Someone or something was watching him.  “Grover, is that you?”  the Professor tried to call out, but the words emerged from his throat in a painful whisper.  He was sure he heard footsteps.  Just a raccoon, he tried to convince himself but failed.  Another twig snapped, and Gauntlet could not deny the terrific inclination to quickly escape the woods.

 

 

     The clock struck midnight in Professor Gauntlet’s drawing room.  He shivered, and did not know whether it was fear or his soaked clothes that caused him to do so.  He changed, and then nervously trifled at the fireplace for a minute before a couple of oak logs combusted into a healthy glow.  Filling a glass with bourbon, he paced the floor in front of the fire and tried to subdue his anxiety. 

     This is ridiculous, he thought.  Of course the man is dead.  He must have been mistaken about where he had left the corpse, is all.  The woods were deep, and it was easy to become disoriented in the dark.  He would go back in the morning when his nerves were not playing tricks on him and finish the job.  No one would be out that early, and he would rid himself of Grover Wensfield, once and for all.

     Despite the Professor’s self-assurance that all was well, he found the thought of sleep impossible.  He closed the shudders in the drawing room tightly, and kept a silent vigil by the fireplace.  Once or twice during the night he peeped through the window onto the lawn below and thought he saw a shadowy figure crouched among the hedges.  He suffered through the remainder of the night before the fireplace, stoking the dying embers, and draining a pint of whiskey.

     He opened his eyes and the light of morning scorched his sensitive retinas.  At some point in the night he had fallen asleep, after all.  How long he had been out was impossible to say, but the great pendulum clock downstairs now chimed the hour.  No, it was not the clock; it was the doorbell!

     Professor Gautlet answered the door to find a policeman in a crisp blue uniform standing before him.  The visit was not altogether unexpected, but it took an effort for Gauntlet to constrain his anxiety.

     “Professor Gauntlet?”  the officer inquired.

     “Yes,” the Professor answered, trying to seem surprised at the policeman’s presence.  “Is anything wrong?”

     “Perhaps we should speak inside,” suggested the officer, peering behind Gauntlet into the hallway.

     “Yes, of course.”  The Professor led the official to the den where they each took a chair before the large bay windows.

     “I’ll get right to it,” said the officer.  “You, of course, are acquainted with Grover Wensfield of the Berkley Accounting Firm?”

     “Yes, he is my accountant.”

     “His wife reported him missing this morning.  She said he didn’t come home last night.”

     “Oh?”

     “And according to his secretary he had planned a meeting with you last evening.  Is that correct?”

     “Um, yes.  He did drop by for a little while.”

     “What time, exactly?”

     “Maybe a quarter till six. I can’t say for certain.”

     “ And what was the nature of your meeting?” 

     “Business.  Strictly business.  My finances and such.”

     “Did you arrange the meeting?”

     “Yes…  I mean, no.  Mr. Wensfield showed up unannounced.”

     “Was that normal?  For him to just drop in unannounced?”

     “No, it was unusual.  I even joked about him making house calls.  He is so dedicated, you see.  I’m afraid I’d be rather lost without him.”

     The police officer made a note in his pad.  “How long did Mr. Wensfield’s visit last?”

     Professor Gauntlet looked up to the ceiling as if trying to recall the previous evening.  “Well, I’d say it couldn’t have been more than half an hour.  Probably less.”

     “Did he mention any stops he had to make after your business was wrapped?”  

     “No, not a word.  You don’t think something’s happened to him?”

     “His wife is concerned,” the officer said.  “Did you happen to see which way Mr. Wensfield went when he left your property?”

     “As a matter of fact, yes.  I was on the terrace when he left.  He walked that way, up to the main road.”  The Professor pointed in the opposite direction of the woods.

     “And that’s the last you saw him?”

     “Yes.  Shortly after that I went out to lock up my tool shed.  In fact, I spoke briefly with the deputy who was on patrol.  Harris was the name on his tag.  He may have seen Mr. Wensfield pass down the lane.”

     “Thank you for your time, Professor Gauntlet.  I’ll look into it.”

     The Professor walked the policeman to the door.  “You’ll let me know when he turns up, of course.  Day or night.  I’d just like to know he’s safe.”

     “I’ll keep you posted,” the officer promised.

 

    

     The woods seemed cheery enough in the light of morning.  The previous night’s heavy downpour had caused the river to swell and it now forsook its banks.  Gauntlet walked through the damp woodland, feeling the confidence that the loaded pistol in his right pocket now afforded him.  He would find the body and bury it.

     But the Professor’s confidence betrayed him, for there was still no sign of the corpse anywhere in the woods.  He questioned his sanity.  There stood the ancient cypress that stretched majestically toward the ceiling of the forest.  That was the spot where he had struck down Grover.  What then, had happened to the body?  A surge of fury pulsed up the Professor’s spine.  What game was Grover playing?  Even in death he had gotten the upper hand.  A sad chuckle escaped the Professor’s mouth, but the laugh quickly turned into a roar of rage.

 

 

                                                                 

                                                                 II

 

     Professor Gauntlet sat alone in his drawing room with a bottle of bourbon in his hand.  He watched the flames in the fireplace sulkily as he unconsciously beat the poker upon the andirons.  Officer Yates had been back earlier that day for a second interrogation.  After a week, Grover Wensfield was still missing, and foul play was suspected.  The police were now searching the backwoods for any trace of the man. 

     The Professor no longer felt comfortable in his own house.  Night time was the worst.  He dreaded it.  There were mysterious noises in the old house, now.  Moans and whispers haunted him; he could not remember the last decent night’s rest he had had.  Grover Wensfield was after his sanity.

     Tonight, he sat drunk, contemplating his future.  He would have to leave the hollow.  He would take his money and go abroad to someplace far away, where he could blend in with the locals.  Some place where Grover could not follow him.

     The night was a wild one, with a high wind battering the country mansion.  An occasional sprinkle on the windows threatened a downpour, and Gauntlet drew the heavy drapes together to keep the storm at bay.  The clock struck midnight, and on cue a loud thunder clap struck and rattled the windows. 

     The Professor regained his seat and sat listening to the fire spitting and crackling in hot protest. But he suddenly perked his ears at another sound.  Something downstairs.  Had he heard the front door open, or was it just the old house settling against the storm?  That was probably all it was.  But then he heard the distinctive creak of the floorboards below.

     “Who’s there?”  he called, sitting frozen in his chair.  Another loud rumble of thunder was the response.  But had he also heard a voice behind the thunder?

    “Cursed drink,” he said to the empty bourbon bottle before tossing it into the flames.  But then a cry escaped his lips.  The stairs had creaked.  He was certain of it.  He stood, and quietly took his pistol from his desk.  Had he left the front door unlocked earlier?  He strained to think against his intoxication.  He made his way to the drawing room door, and ever so gently, opened it two inches.  He peeped out into the darkness of the corridor.  It was too dark to see anything.

     “Grover, is that you?”  he yelled.  The house stood silent for a moment, and then the stairs creaked again.  Professor Gauntlet slammed the door shut and turned down the lights in the room.  The gun trembled in his hand as he aimed it chest-level at the door.

     A deep voice moaned from the shadowy recesses of the hallway, and the door slowly edged open.

    “You won’t take me alive, you devil!”  Gauntlet shouted, and unloaded six shots into the blackness.  Then he felt a searing pain in his chest, and everything faded black.

 

     The paramedic placed Officer Yates’s wounded arm into a sling and administered a shot of morphine for the pain.

     “Okay, Officer Yates,” began the Sheriff who had been summoned from his home at one in the morning.  “Let’s have it from the beginning.  That is, if you can manage.”

     “I’ll be fine,” he winced.  “The bullet barely grazed me.  Let’s see, from the beginning?  Well, you’ve heard by now that we found the body of Grover Wensfield shortly after eleven o’ clock tonight.  The body had been dragged down a steep embankment near the river.  Looked for sure like a grizzly bear made a meal of him.  As far as we can tell, the bear crushed in the back of his skull which was probably what killed him.  It looked like the bear played rag doll with him for a while before it finally…ate him.  Needless to say, there’s not much left of the body.

     “Anyway, this man here, Professor Gauntlet, was aquainted with the deceased, and he requested that I keep him posted on our investigation.  ‘Day or night,’ he said.  And that was just what I came here to do.  I saw the light on upstairs, and so I figured he was still up.  I found the front door was slightly ajar, so I entered and identified myself as a police officer, but got no response.  As I ascended the stairs he called out something about Grover, to which I again announced my presence.   I reached the top of the landing and opened the door to the drawing room, and that’s when he began shouting like a madman and unloaded five bullets into the wall behind me, and one bullet into my left arm, here.  I had no choice but to take him down.  One bullet to the heart.”      

     “You were just doing your job, Officer Yates,” the Sheriff answered.  I would have done the same thing.  The hearse is removing his body now.  By the way, did you find anything on Grover Wensfield’s body that we can return to his widow?”

     “Nothing except this envelope that we found in the pocket of the remains of his coat.  The word ‘evidence’ is written on it.” 

     “Evidence?  What’s that about?”

     “I haven’t the slightest idea.  It’s just two tickets to the opera.”