Ellery Queen’s Anthology. Volume 1, 1960

Mary Roberts Rinehart The Dog in the Orchard

Mary Roberts Rinehart is generally acknowledged, to have been the founder of the so-called “Had-I-But-Known School.” Also, to quote Howard Haycraft, she represented “the quintessence of the romantic mood” in the literature of detection. But the story that follows is not an example of the Rinehart “formula”: rather, it illustrates the intensely realistic quality of Mary Roberts Rinehart’s more unconventional work — a tale of a man with animal instincts and a dog with human instincts, a tale of psychological warfare between a man and a dog...

The man was sitting on the porch of the farmhouse. He sat very still, a rifle across his knee, his eyes fixed on the orchard and the wheat field beyond it.

The day had been hot. For hours he had watched the heat rising in shimmering waves from the dirt road that led into the farm. Now, however, it was cooler. A slight breeze ruffled the dust which lay thick everywhere, and moving carefully, he got out a bandanna handkerchief and dried his face.

In the wheat field beyond the orchard the dog raised his head with equal caution. He was panting heavily. He wanted water badly, but his eyes were on the figure on the porch. He knew now that it was dangerous to go to the creek or the horse trough. There was a nick out of one ear where a bullet had just touched him, and flies buzzed around it constantly. He could wait until dark. With the patience of his kind, he closed his eyes and slept.

It was twilight when he got to his feet. He had heard the slam of the screen door, and he knew what that meant. But even then he was wary. He stood, his eyes fixed on the house. So he remained for some time. Then at last, crouching low, he moved to the creek and drank. Thus revealed, he was gaunt to the point of starvation, his coat drab and dry. He was still drinking when he heard the car. He stood tense; then, abandoning all caution, he loped eagerly toward it, and the man inside saw him.

“Hello, Rags,” he called. “How are you?”

But the dog shrank back at the sound of his voice, and as he retreated, the man looked after him curiously. Looks half starved, he thought. Queer. I always thought Nellie was crazy about him.

He stopped the car in front of the house and got out. There was a lighted lamp inside, and someone was moving about. He got out and clumped up the steps.

“Hi, Foster!” he called. “Got a minute or two?”

There was a silence. Then the man came to the door. He looked uneasy. “I’m getting my supper,” he said. “What’s wrong, sheriff?”

“Nothing wrong. Just mending my political fences. Election soon.”

“Well, I’m for you. You know that.”

He moved aside unwillingly, and the sheriff came in. He knew the house well. It was the usual farmhouse of the district, and Nellie Foster kept it immaculate. It was untidy now, however. The kitchen sink was piled with dishes.

The sheriff looked surprised. “Nellie sick?” he asked.

“Nope. Gone to her mother’s.”

“Where’s that?”

“Indiana,” said Foster. “Old lady’s not well. She’s been gone a week now.”

“Looks like it’s time she came back,” said the sheriff, grinning. “That dog of hers looks it, too. Why don’t you feed him once in a while?”

Foster was working at the stove. He was a big man, handsome after a fashion, but now slovenly and unkempt. He kept his back to the sheriff.

“Damn thing won’t come near me,” he said. “I kicked him once, and he didn’t like it. Anyhow, he was her dog, not mine.” He added grudgingly, “How about supper? I’m going to fry some eggs.”

“Fine. I’ll wash first.”

The sheriff went out onto the back porch. There was a tin basin there, a pail of water and a ladle. He poured out some water and washed, drying his hands on a dirty roller towel and glancing about him as he did so. Certainly the place needed Nellie, with her active body and cheerful face. But he remembered that lately she had not been so cheerful, and that there had been some talk about Foster and the Burford girl on the next farm — a plump and brazen creature with an eye out for a man. Any man.

He shrugged that off. Foster was a solid citizen, a successful farmer. He had his feet on the ground, all right.

Nevertheless, the sheriff watched Foster surreptitiously as he moved around the kitchen. He might fall for a girl. He wasn’t old. Not over forty; and the Burford girl had a way with her.

While Foster fried the eggs, the sheriff poured his own coffee. Sitting at the table waiting, he saw the rifle in a corner and eyed it with surprise.

“What’s the gun for?” he asked. “Didn’t know you had one.”

“Bought it a year or two back,” said Foster. “Weasels got after the chickens.”

The two men ate companionably enough. Mostly the sheriff talked. It was in the middle of an anecdote that the dog barked in the orchard — a bark that ended in a long blood-curdling wail. Foster stiffened, and the sheriff saw it.

“What’s the matter?” he asked. “Is that Rags?”

“Yep. He does it now and then. Someday I’ll shoot him if he keeps it up. Damned nuisance.”

“Better not do that. He’s Nellie’s dog. She’d have a fit.”

But the sound continued. Out in the orchard the dog was standing, his long tragic face pointed to the sky. But he was weak from hunger, and gradually the sounds died away. He lay down on the ground, and inside the house the sheriff watched the sweat gather on the backs of Foster’s hands.

“How long’s that been going on?” he asked. “It doesn’t sound like Rags. He was a quiet dog.”

Foster rose and picked up the plates. “Since Nellie left, mostly. He misses her, I guess. Want some more coffee?”

“No, thanks. I’d better be moving.”

But the sheriff was thoughtful as he drove back to town, and as he got ready for bed that night he spoke to his wife.

“Saw Foster this evening,” he said. “He says Nellie’s gone to visit her mother.”

“Then that’s why she wasn’t at church last Sunday. I wondered.”

“Where is the mother?” he asked. “What part of the country?”

“Indiana, I think. Why?”

Well, that was all right. He was probably only making a fool of himself. He finished undressing, went to bed and to sleep.

Out at the farm, however, there was no sleep. The dog saw to that. He stood in the orchard and bayed his grief and loneliness to the sky. At last, in a frenzy, Foster picked up the gun and went after him. It was hopeless, of course. The dog was not there, and with an oath the man went back to the house, to lie awake waiting for the sound once more.

In the past week it had been like that, as though it were a game between the two, man and dog; the dog winning at night; the man winning by day. But the advantage lay with the dog. At intervals he slept. The man could not, and he was desperate for sleep. He would doze on the porch, his rifle across his knees, waking with a jerk to find his body bathed in sweat and the gun on the floor.

He did not work on the day following the sheriff’s visit, and that night after dark he met the Burford girl out by the barn. She was a big girl, handsome and frankly lustful. She put her arms around him, but he was unresponsive.

“What’s the matter with you?”

“Nothing. I couldn’t meet you last night. The sheriff was here.”

She eyed him. “The sheriff? What did he want?”

“Nothing much. Election’s coming soon. But he heard that damned dog.”

“Why don’t you poison him? I’ve said all along he’d make trouble.”

“He’s too smart for that. I’ve tried it. He won’t eat around the place. Anyhow the sheriff saw him. He might ask questions. Well, let’s forget it.” He pulled her to him and kissed her roughly. “Listen,” he said. “I’m going to sell this place and get out. You’ll come along, won’t you?”

“Sure.” But there was no conviction in her voice, and he pushed her away.

“You’ll come, all right,” he told her grimly.

It rained the next two days. The dog lay in the field and shivered. And on the third day the sheriff went into the store which was the local post office. He asked for his mail and chatted with the postmistress.

“Hear Nellie Foster’s gone away,” he said idly. “Out to Indiana.”

“That so? When did she go”?

“A week or so ago. Don’t tell me Nellie hasn’t written to Foster!”

“I don’t remember any mail for him. I don’t think he’s been in this week.”

“He can’t be anxious about her.”

“He’s pretty anxious about that girl of Burford’s. It beats me how a man with a wife will let a girl like that make a fool of him.”

“You sound pretty sure.”

“I am sure. I’ve seen them together.”

That day the sheriff had a talk with his deputy. “Maybe I’m crazy, Joe; maybe I’m not. I just don’t like it. Nellie was a homekeeping woman, and a trip to Indiana would mean something to her. What does she do? She doesn’t call up anybody and say she’s going. She just goes. It isn’t natural.”

“Sure sounds queer,” said the deputy.

“I think Nellie’s dog knows something. And it’s my guess that Foster’s out to kill him. He’s got a gun. It might be a good idea to go out there and look around, anyhow.”

They went out through the rain that afternoon. The roads after they left the state highway were muddy, and Foster was evidently not expecting company. As they turned in at his lane he was on the porch, and he had the rifle to his shoulder. He fired before he saw them.

“For God’s sake,” said the deputy, “what’s he doing?”

Then Foster saw them, and his face went blank. He put down the gun and waited for them.

“What’s the idea?” asked the sheriff, as he stopped the car. “Getting ready to go to war?”

“There’s no law against my shooting rabbits, is there?”

“Weasels and rabbits. You seem to have a lot of varmints around here, Foster.”

The sheriff got out of the car, and the deputy followed. They climbed the steps, while Foster watched them with suspicious, bloodshot eyes. He had not shaved, and he had been drinking. Not much. He was still wary.

“What do you fellows want?” he demanded.

“Well, I’ve got an errand, if you’re agreeable. I told my wife about Rag’s missing Nellie, and she said she’d like to keep him for a while.”

Foster shrugged. “You can have him if you can catch him. He’s gone plumb wild. Most ornery dog I ever saw. Won’t even eat.”

“Where is he?”

“He lies down in the wheat field a lot.”

“Well, I’ll try,” said the sheriff. He turned to go, then stopped. “Better get a license for that gun, Foster. You might get into trouble.”

They left him there, gazing after them. Let them get the dog if they could. He needed sleep. All he asked was a chance to sleep. He rubbed his bloodshot eyes and sat down heavily...

The two men moved toward the wheat field. Now and then the sheriff whistled and called, but there was no response. The dog had learned strategy. He was crawling away on his belly, his head low, following the furrow so that no ripple of the grain betrayed him. Finally he reached a culvert under the road and lay there, shivering in the water.

The sheriff also knew strategy. He spoke cautiously to the deputy. “Take a good look around, Joe,” he said. “Go over to the orchard and whistle. That’s where the dog howled from. And look at the ground. See if it’s been disturbed any. I’ll go on to the field.”

He called again, “Here, Rags. Good dog. Come on, Rags.”

But the dog lay under the culvert, motionless. He was still there when the two men drove back to town.

The deputy was talkative. “I didn’t see anything,” he said. “But there’s something up. The place looks like Foster hasn’t done a lick of work on it for a week. What is it, anyhow? Mrs. Foster have insurance?”

“He couldn’t collect without a body. That girl of Burford’s, most likely. They’ve been seen together.”

“What about the dog? Did you want him?”

“I had an idea he could tell me a thing or two if I could get him. Unless Foster gets him first.”

The sheriff dropped Joe in town and drove forty miles to the railroad junction. Here he questioned the men in the ticket office and around the station, but without result. A ticket for a woman going to Indiana. Well, where in Indiana? The sheriff didn’t know. To ask Foster would make him suspicious, so at last the sheriff drove home, depressed and uneasy.

But Foster was already suspicious. He saw the girl that night and told her about the sheriff’s visit. “What’s bringing him around?” he said angrily. “He didn’t want that dog. Hell, that wife of his wouldn’t have a dog on the place.”

“So what? Shoot him and bury him.”

“The sheriff knows he’s here. I can’t kill him. Don’t be a damned fool.”

His tone was rough. Already his feeling for the girl was changing. She both drew him and repelled him. If it hadn’t been for her, he would be sleeping at night, able to eat. But he needed comfort that night. He tried to kiss her, but just then they heard the familiar bark ending in a wail. The girl drew back and shuddered.

The next day, in his office, the sheriff spent some time in thought. He had nothing but a vague suspicion. Nellie Foster might be safe enough. But there was that picture of Foster, glaring at the dog with bloodshot eyes over the sights of his gun. There was, too, the entire moral and physical disintegration of the man. Something had caused it. But what?

The sheriff had one line to follow. How had Nellie got the message about her mother? The farm had no telephone, so it had come either by letter or by telegram. He went to the post office once more. There was no telegraph station in the village, and messages were telephoned there from the junction.

This time, however, he went in his official capacity. “Just keep this quiet,” he said. “Nellie Foster went to Indiana because her mother was sick. Got any idea how she learned that? By letter or telegram?”

The postmistress looked startled. “There’s nothing wrong, is there? About Nellie?”

“I don’t know. It’s a queer business.”

“She didn’t get a telegram. She might have had a letter. She and her mother wrote pretty steady. There’s just one thing — maybe it doesn’t mean anything.”

“What is it?”

“Foster’s trying to sell his farm.”

“The hell he is!”

“Matt Saunders has wanted it for a good while. Foster was in to see him today.”

The sheriff went away, thoughtful. So Foster was getting out. He didn’t like the look of it. Yet when he met Matt Saunders on the street, the matter seemed common-place enough.

“Hear you’re thinking of buying the Foster place, Matt.”

“Yeah. Been dickering for it for a couple of years.”

“And Foster’s selling.”

“Looks like it. Nellie wants to be near her mother, out West.”

But the sheriff was still not satisfied. That afternoon he sent for Joe and gave him some instructions.

“Now, mind this,” he said. “We’re outside the law, and Foster can raise the devil if he sees you. Besides, I have an idea he’s dangerous.”

“I’ll be all right,” said Joe.

“If he stays in the house you stay out.”

“You bet!” said Joe fervently.

But Foster did not stay in the house that night. At dusk the dog had commenced once more its mournful wail, and when Foster met the girl at the barn he did not even embrace her. He stood off, red-eyed and unkempt, and his voice was hoarse with rage and fear.

“You got me into this,” he said brutally. “Now, get me out. Listen to that! That must be some way to get him. He might let a woman get near him.”

She nodded. “He might. He might think I was Nellie. See here, get me some of her clothes — things she’s worn — and some shoes and stockings. And you’d better bring meat and a rope.”

It seemed a sound plan. Foster felt more cheerful as he went back to his house. The weather had cleared, and the moon was out.

He never saw Joe, hidden in Nellie’s room, because as Foster started up the stairs, the deputy slid out the window and dropped lightly to the ground. But Foster was beyond fear or suspicion that night. His only thought was the dog. Nevertheless, as he mounted the stairs he was trembling, and in the bedroom, groping in the clothes closet, he made small whimpering noises, strange from his big body.

But the instinct for self-preservation was strong. He found what he wanted, and went downstairs. The girl was on the porch. She had slipped off most of her clothing, and the moonlight made her flesh gleam white and desirable. But he did not so much as look at her. All at once he hated her white body, and suddenly it occurred to him that she hated him, too; that only one thing united them now, and that was fear.

“Where’s the meat?”

“I’ll get it.”

“Well, hurry, you fool. I can’t stay out all night.”

She was dressed in Nellie’s clothes when he came back, and she took the pan of meat without a word.

The dog was lying in the familiar spot in the orchard. He was very weak. He breathed shallowly, his dull eyes closing, then opening with a jerk. But his ears were alert, and his sensitive nose. It was his nose that told him first. Meat, of course, but something else, too. He staggered to his feet and stood trembling violently. She was coming. She was coming at last. With a low whimper he ran to her.

“All right,” called the girl. “I’ve got him.”

He made no protest, save when Foster came near. Then he showed his teeth. Tied and locked in the barn, he wolfed down his food, and afterwards he slept. But there was no hope in him, and once in the night he howled again. Foster, lying awake, heard him and swore.

It was morning when Joe reported to the sheriff. He looked pleased with himself.

“Get in?” asked the sheriff.

Joe nodded. “Looks like the story’s straight, all right,” he said. “Foster nearly caught me, at that. But I had time to look around. Her clothes are gone, except the stuff she worked in.”

The sheriff grunted. “Either the story’s straight, or he’s smarter than I thought he was.”

Joe grinned. “Well, he wasn’t so smart, at that,” he said. “Look at this.”

He held out his hand, and in it was a plain gold wedding ring.

“In the pocket of an apron,” he said. “Like she took it off when she was working. Ain’t likely a woman would go on a visit and leave a thing like that.”

“No,” said the sheriff soberly. “No.”

Once more he got into his car and drove out to the farm. Already the atmosphere of the place had subtly changed, and so had Foster. He had shaved and put on a fresh shirt, and the porch had been swept. When the sheriff arrived, he was repairing the chicken-yard fence, and he looked himself again.

“Thought I’d make another try for Rags,” the sheriff said. “He kinda worries me. That is, unless Nellie’s coming back soon.”

Foster shrugged. “I don’t expect her. Her mother’s pretty sick.”

“You’ve heard from her, then?”

“Yeah. Had a letter a day or two ago. She won’t be back for a while.”

“Then I’d better see about the dog.”

“Dog’s gone,” said Foster. “I gave him to that girl of Burford’s. She was going to visit some relatives over in Carter County, and she said they’d take him. Left this morning.”

The sheriff looked at him. “I think you’re lying, Foster,” he said. “You haven’t heard from Nellie, and you’ve been trying to kill Rags for a week or more. Why?”

“He was a damned nuisance, that’s why!”

“Where’s Nellie, Foster?”

“I’ve told you where she is. You crazy with the heat or what?”

“Where is she? I mean, what town. What part of Indiana?”

Foster looked at the hatchet in his hand, then put it down and straightened. “Now, get this and get it right, sheriff,” he said. “I’m having no interference with my affairs. For a man running for re-election, you’re making a fool of yourself for nothing. What business is it of yours where my wife is, or my dog either? Now, get the hell out of here. I’ve got work to do.”

The sheriff reflected ruefully on that as he drove back to town. It was true. Nellie might be in Indiana. She might even have forgotten her wedding ring. All he really had was Foster’s lie about the letter and a dog howling in the night; and now even the dog was gone...

Certainly the dog was gone. Early in the morning the girl had led him out to her car and tied him in the back. But there was no fight left in him. He lay where she placed him, hardly moving through the long hours.

The girl, on the contrary, was cheerful. She felt that she had escaped catastrophe by her own shrewdness. When she thought of Foster, she laughed out of sheer relief.

The dumb fool, she thought. It’s the Women who have the brains.

She stayed the night at her cousin’s farm. The dog stood by while they looked at him, his head drooping, his tail between his legs. When the children fed him he ate, but only once did he show any emotion whatever. That was when the girl was starting back the next morning.

“Well, good-bye, Rags,” she said. “Be a good dog, won’t you?”

She leaned down to touch him, and he snarled and showed his teeth.

“Gosh!” she said. “I don’t believe he likes me.”

The dog was quiet enough after she had gone. The children petted him, and he was gentle with them. But he lay most of the time in his kennel, sleeping and eating. Now and then he moved outside, as though to test his legs. The rope which tied him was long. He would walk a bit, go back and sleep again. At the end of three days he looked better: his coat had improved; his eyes were clear. And that night he started to free himself.

It took him a long time, for the rope was tough; but before dawn he was free. He moved out of the kennel, shook himself and started for home.

Meanwhile, the sheriff had reached an impasse. Nellie had been a reticent woman. His guarded inquiries revealed no one in town who knew where her mother lived. And then one day his case, such as it was, blew up entirely.

Foster received a letter from Indiana.

“It was from Indiana, all right,” said the postmistress. “I couldn’t make out the town. He didn’t give me time to look at it.”

“He was here, was he?”

“He was waiting for me to sort the mail. He’s been in every morning for three or four days.”

“Would you know Nellie’s writing?”

“No, but it looked like a woman wrote it.”

The sheriff went back to the office and taking out the wedding ring, laid it on his desk. It was still there when the door opened and Foster came in. He looked well, and he was carefully dressed.

“Just thought I’d drop in,” he said. “You and I haven’t been too friendly, but I guess that was my fault.”

“Understand you’re getting out.”

“Yes. Sold the farm yesterday. I’ll be off in a day or two. Nellie likes it where she is. Anyhow, her mother’s pretty old.”

“Then you’ve heard from her?”

“Got a letter today.”

Foster took it out of its envelope and gave it to the sheriff. It was what might be expected, rather stiff and in a woman’s hand, and after the sheriff read it he handed it back.

“She doesn’t say anything about her wedding ring, does she?” he asked.

“Her wedding ring? What about it?”

“I had an idea she forgot it.”

Foster looked uneasy. “Well, what if she did?” he demanded angrily. “She forgot a lot of things. She always did.”

“This look like it? It’s got her initials inside.”

Foster’s face lost its color as he saw the ring. “Where the hell did you get that?” he shouted furiously. “If you’ve been in my house without a warrant I’ll have the law on you.”

“I am the law around here,” said the sheriff. “At least, until after election. Let’s see the envelope of that letter.”

But Foster stamped out of the office, and the sheriff was ruefully aware that he had overplayed his hand. When Joe came in, he was pulling on his pipe, the ring still in front of him.

“Foster’s had a letter, Joe,” he said.

“From his wife?”

“From some woman. Maybe Nellie, maybe not. Ever see the Burford girl’s handwriting, Joe?”

Joe blushed. “I had a note or two, way back,” he admitted.

“Know it again?”

“I may have a letter around somewhere,” said Joe uncomfortably.

“I’d like to see it. None of my business what it’s about. Think you can find it?”

“I’ll go home and look.”

An hour later the sheriff sat with the letter before him and a deep conviction in his mind. The Burford girl had written Foster’s letter; it had gone to someone in Indiana in another envelope and been sent back by request. The sheriff had another conviction too: that Nellie Foster was dead and buried somewhere on the farm. But where? He could not dig over a hundred and sixty acres. He probably had no right to dig at all, without more of a case than he had; and Foster was leaving. In a day or two he would be gone.

If only he had the dog! He grunted. The dog was probably dead, too.

But the dog was not dead. He was not only alive — he was on his way home. It was now, although neither knew it, a race between Foster and himself, between dog and man; the man to close up his affairs and escape, the dog to prevent that escape; the man living in terror, the dog living by sheer determination. But the dog had instinct, the man only his wits.

It was a long distance, and the dog was wary. He traveled mostly by night resting during the day; but his route was as direct as a homing pigeon’s. By what miracle he found his way, no one would ever know.

But find it he did. On the night before Foster was to leave, Joe came into the sheriff’s office. The sheriff was sitting there, his feet on his desk.

“Well, I’d better be going home,” he said. “No use sitting here worrying.”

“Nothing doing, eh?”

“Nothing. Maybe I’m getting too old for this job.”

Joe made ready to follow him. Then he remembered something. “Say,” he said, “if I didn’t know that dog of Foster’s was a hundred miles from here, I’d say I’d seen him tonight.”

“Rags? You saw Rags?”

“Well, I don’t know him well. Looked like him, though. He was heading for Foster’s place, and he was about all in.”

The sheriff reached into the drawer of his desk and took out an automatic. “Maybe I’m crazy with the heat, as Foster said,” he observed. “Again, maybe I’m not. But I think that dog was Rags, and if it was, I’m damned sure I know where he was going. Better come along.”

They drove out by the country road. It was a moonlit night, and a mile or so this side of Foster’s, they overtook the dog. He was moving along, his head and tail drooping, his whole body showing exhaustion. The men got out of the car and followed him on foot. They were only a few yards behind him when he turned into Foster’s lane. But he did not go to the house.

He went directly to the orchard, and once more lifted his long tragic face to the sky and sent out his heartbroken cry. The two men listened, their nerves strung taut. The wail ended, the dog began to scratch at the earth. He scratched furiously, and Joe caught the sheriff’s arm.

“Do you suppose she’s been buried there?” he whispered.

“I’m afraid so, poor woman.”

The sheriff started toward the house, Joe following him. When they were close by, Foster flung open the door, but he did not see the two men. He stood staring toward the orchard, and as the dog wailed again he made a strange gesture, as of a man defeated. Then he went back into the house and slammed the door. The sheriff leaped for the porch.

He got there just too late. A shot rang out inside, and when they entered, Foster was lying dead on the floor.

Hours later, when Nellie Foster’s body had been found in the orchard and taken away, the sheriff climbed wearily into his car. Joe drove, and the sheriff sat back, his eyes closed, while at his feet Rags slept the sleep of exhaustion. They were almost home when he spoke.

“You know, son, it’s a funny thing about Foster. He wasn’t fighting the law. He thought he had the law beat a mile. What he was fighting was this dog.”

“And the dog won,” said Joe.

“Yes,” said the sheriff. “The dog won.”