“I’ll explain gladly,” I told Officer Hefferan, “if you’ll descend from that horse and get level with me. That’s the democratic way to do it. Do you want me to get a stiff neck, slanting up at you?”
I yawned wide without covering it, since there was nothing there but nature and a mounted cop. Being up and dressed and breakfasted and outdoors working at seven in the morning was not an all-time record for me, but it was unusual, and I had been up late three nights in a row: Tuesday the congregation of clients, Wednesday the festivities with Lily Rowan, and Thursday the drive to La Guardia to meet the airplane, which had been on schedule.
Hefferan came off his high horse and was even with me. We were posted on top of the little knoll in Central Park to which he had led me the day I had made his acquaintance. It promised to be another warm October day. A little breeze was having fun with the leaves on the trees and bushes, and birds were darting and hopping around, discussing their plans for the morning.
“All I’m doing,” Hefferan said to make it plain, “is obeying orders. I was told to meet you here and listen to you.”
I nodded. “And you don’t care for it. Neither do I, you stiff-backed Cossack, but I’ve got orders too. The setup is like this. As you know, down there behind that forest” — I pointed — “is a tool shed. Outside the shed Keyes’ chestnut horse, saddled and bridled, is being held by one of your colleagues. Inside the shed there are two women named Keyes and Rooney, and four men named Pohl, Talbott, Safford, and Broadyke. Also Inspector Cramer is there with a detachment from his squad. One of the six civilians, chosen by secret ballot, is at this moment changing his or her clothes, putting on bright yellow breeches and a blue jacket, just like the outfit Keyes wore. Between you and me and your horse, the choosing was a put-up job, handled by Inspector Cramer. Dressed like Keyes, the chosen one is going to mount Keyes’ horse and ride along that stretch of the bridle path, with shoulders hunched and stirrups too long, catch sight of you, and lift his or her crop to you in greeting. Your part is to be an honest man. Pretend it’s not me telling you this, but someone you dearly love like the Police Commissioner. You are asked to remember that what you were interested in seeing was the horse, not the rider, and to put the question to yourself, did you actually recognize Keyes that morning, or just the horse and the getup?”
I appealed to him earnestly. “And for God’s sake don’t say a word to me. You wouldn’t admit anything whatever to me, so keep your trap shut and save it for later, for your superiors. A lot depends on you, which may be regrettable, but it can’t be helped now.
“If it won’t offend you for me to explain the theory of it, it’s this: The murderer, dressed like Keyes but covered with a topcoat, was waiting in the park uptown behind that thicket at half-past six, when Keyes first rode into the park and got onto the bridle path. If he had shot Keyes out of the saddle from a distance, even a short one, the horse would have bolted, so he stepped out and stopped Keyes, and got hold of the bridle before he pulled the trigger. One bullet for one. Then he dragged the body behind the thicket so it couldn’t be seen from the bridle path, since another early-morning rider might come along, took off his top-coat — or maybe a thin raincoat — and stuffed it under his jacket, mounted the horse, and went for a ride through the park. He took his time so as to keep to Keyes’ customary schedule. Thirty minutes later, approaching that spot” — I pointed to where the bridle path emerged from behind the trees — “he either saw you up here or waited until he did see you up here, and then he rode on along that stretch, giving you the usual salute by lifting his crop. But the second he got out of sight at the other end of the stretch he acted fast. He got off the horse and just left it there, knowing it would make its way back to its own exit from the park, and he beat it in a hurry, either to a Fifth Avenue bus or the subway, depending on where he was headed for. The idea was to turn the alibi on as soon as possible, since he couldn’t be sure how soon the horse would be seen and the search for Keyes would be started. But at the worst he had established Keyes as still alive at ten minutes past seven, down here on the stretch, and the body would be found way uptown.”
“I believe,” Hefferan said stiffly, “I am on record as saying I saw Keyes.”
“Scratch it,” I urged him. “Blot it out. Make your mind a blank, which shouldn’t—” I bit if off, deciding it would be undiplomatic, and glanced at my wrist. “It’s nine minutes past seven. Where were you that morning, on your horse or off?”
“On.”
“Then you’d better mount, to have it the same. Let’s be particular — jump on! There he comes!”
I admit the Cossack knew how to get on top of a horse. He was erect in the saddle quicker than I would have had a foot in a stirrup, and had his gaze directed at the end of the stretch on the bridle path where it came out of the trees. I also admit the chestnut horse looked fine from up there. It was rangy but not gangly, with a proud curve to its neck, and, as Hefferan had said, it had a good set of springs. I strained my eyes to take in the details of the rider’s face, but at that distance it couldn’t be done. The blue of the jacket, yes, and the yellow of the breeches, and the hunched shoulders, but not the face.
No sound came from Hefferan. As the rider on the bridle path neared the end of the open stretch I strained my eyes again, hoping something would happen, knowing as I did what he would find confronting him when he rounded the sharp bend at the finish of the stretch — namely, four mounted cops abreast.
Something happened all right, fast, and not on my list of expectations. The chestnut was out of sight around the bend not more than half a second, and then here he came back, on the jump, the curve gone out of his neck. But he or his rider had had enough of the bridle path. Ten strides this side of the bend the horse swerved sharp and darted off to the left, off onto the grass in one beautiful leap, and then dead ahead, due east toward Fifth Avenue, showing us his tail. Simultaneously here came the quartet of mounted cops, like a cavalry charge. When they saw what the chestnut had done their horses’ legs suddenly went stiff, slid ten feet in the loose dirt, and then sashayed for the bound onto the grass, to follow.
Yells were coming from a small mob that had run out of the forest which hid the tool shed. And Hefferan left me. His horse’s ham jostled my shoulder as it sprang into action, and divots of turf flew through the air as it bounded down the slope to join the chase. The sound of gunshots came from the east, and that finished me. I would have given a year’s pay, anything up to a kingdom, for a horse, but, having none, I lit out anyway.
Down the slope to the bridle path I broke records, but on the other side it was upgrade, and also I had to dodge trees and bushes and jump railings. I was making no detours to find crossings, but heading on a bee-line for the noises coming from the east, including another round of shots. One funny thing, even busy as I was trying to cover ground, I was hoping they wouldn’t hit that chestnut horse. Finally the border of the park was in sight, but I could see nothing moving, though the noises seemed to be louder and closer. Straight ahead was the stone wall enclosing the park, and, unsure which way to turn for the nearest entrance, I made for the wall, climbed it, stood panting, and surveyed.
I was at Sixty-fifth and Fifth Avenue. One block up, outside a park entrance, the avenue was so cluttered that it was blocked. Cars, mostly taxis, were collecting at both fringes of the intersection, and the pedestrians who hadn’t already arrived were on their way, from all directions. A bus had stopped and passengers were piling out. The tallest things there were the horses. I got the impression that there were a hell of a lot of horses, but probably it wasn’t more than six or seven. They were all bays but one, the chestnut, and I was glad to see that it looked healthy as I cantered up the pavement toward the throng. The chestnut’s saddle was empty.
I was pushing my way through to the center when one in uniform grabbed my arm, and I’ll be damned if Officer Hefferan didn’t sing out, “Let him come, that’s Nero Wolfe’s man Goodwin!” I would have been glad to thank him cordially, but didn’t have enough breath yet to speak. So I merely pushed on and, using only my eyes, got my curiosity satisfied.
Victor Talbott, in blue jacket and yellow breeches, apparently as unhurt as the chestnut, was standing there with a city employee hanging onto each arm. His face was dirty and he looked very tired.