“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.