The House without the Door, page 12
"Well." Clara, studying his enigmatic features, put her notes together. "That's all."
"Not quite all. We have discussed the principals in the Gregson murder case, but we have not discussed all the principals in the case that Mrs. Gregson has now asked me to investigate."
"Who else is there?"
"Colby's an interested party."
"Mr. Colby! He's only in it because he's Mrs. Gregson's friend."
"If I were trying the case I should feel bound to ask myself whether that was the fact, or whether he had not on the contrary been Mr. Gregson's friend."
Clara was quite horrified. "But he hardly knew Mr. Gregson!"
"So he says."
"Henry!"
"What if Colby really knew Gregson very well, and liked him very much? They had years and years of those trips on the Commuters' Special to Bellfield, and ever so many golf meetings. What if Colby had constituted himself the Avenger?"
"You're making fun of me."
"Not at all. It's part of the general inquiry. I shouldn't be at all justified in leaving it out of consideration."
Clara asked, gazing at him: "Is this what detecting means?"
"This and worse."
"I never heard anything so wild. Mr. Colby isn't like that."
"When people get a fixed idea nobody knows what they're like."
"But he couldn't possibly—what about the cellar stairs and the mackerel? He couldn't have done either of those things."
"Why not? Colby knew Pine Lots very well; he rents it for the owner. Do you suppose he isn't acquainted with its cellar stairs, and its kitchen, and its side door? He may know Mrs. Gregson's hours and her ways; we have no idea how often he's been there."
"If you think Mr. Colby's type could have written those letters and done all those things—"
"He certainly had keys to that apartment of hers here in New York, and I'm sure he knew that she liked fruit cake. Nobody could cultivate a person like Mrs. Gregson for three years—"
"Cultivate! If ever there was a nice, simple person in the world, it's Mr Colby."
"I must study the case from all angles; if I don't, somebody else may—somebody much less humane than I am."
Clara looked as if she thought that Gamadge in his present mood was not particularly humane; but just then the concert ceased. A voice announced: "News on the hour," and proceeded to talk urgently.
"Shall I turn it off?" asked Clara. "No, don't move; you'll disturb Martin."
Gamadge said: "He's getting too hot and heavy for me. Take him off."
Clara lifted the large orange cat, who hung limply and at incredible length from her encircling hands; he pretended to be unable to set foot on the floor, so Clara established him in a chair. Suddenly she noticed Gamadge's head turn on its cushion, and the fixity of his eyes.
"…Westchester County, two and a half miles south of Burford," said the announcer. "The young man has been identified as Benton Locke, a promising young dancer in the Diehl ballet. Raymond Jeffers, a farmer, who discovered the body while on his way home at ten o'clock this evening, says he does not think it was there when he came through about half-past six this evening, but that he may have missed seeing it, as it was behind a large tree. Locke had been shot in the back of the skull, just above the base of it; no pistol was found. The young man's wallet and wrist watch had not been taken. Police are checking up on car bandits, who may have stolen his car, killed him, and made a getaway when they heard Jeffers' approach.
"Now the weather. Tomorrow—"
"Turn it off," said Gamadge.
Clara did so. Then she came over and sat on the end of the chesterfield. "Henry, what does it mean?"
"Well, I don't think it means car bandits."
"They'll stop looking for car bandits tomorrow, won't they, when they remember who he is? They'll remember the Gregson case."
"You bet they will."
"Why, you must have driven past the very road he was found on; or did you come home by the back route?"
"I didn't have time to take the back route home."
The telephone rang, a long peal. Clara shook her head at Gamadge, who had begun to rise, went into the hall, and brought the instrument into the library on its thirteen-foot wire. Gamadge balanced it on his chest.
"Mr. Gamadge?" It was a high voice, muted.
"Yes." He motioned to Clara, and she bent to the receiver.
"This is—"
"Just as well not to mention names. Those walls up there are none too thick."
"Mr. Gamadge!" It was a cry. "I was listening to the radio—"
"Yes; gently! So was I."
"Oh, poor Benny!"
"Yes; careful."
"I've done him a dreadful injustice. I must have."
"Well, we don't know."
"Perhaps he was just trying to find out!"
"Perhaps."
"Why should he have been on that road? Why was he there?"
"Better there than farther up, don't you think?"
"But if he was on his way to Minnie, why did he turn off? And what's happened to his car? I wish you were here."
"You're all right."
"But they'll connect him—connect him—"
"Not with Mrs. Greer. They may never find out a thing about the present situation, you know. We may never have to tell them a word of it, and I don't suppose the other parties will."
"I'm terribly frightened. Terribly." Clara heard the shiver in the distant voice.
"He's been completely cut off from the old life and the other place; he's been dancing all over the lot. Night clubs, everywhere. They'll look for something in his later background."
"If only they don't find me! If only I shan't have to be in the papers again!"
"There may be a mention, a picture or two; you won't see them."
"It's so nice here. I hope I shan't have to go. I wish you'd let me call up Minnie Stoner—she'll be distracted."
"If you want safety, don't lay a trail of telephone calls."
"I was rather sorry Mr. Colby decided to drive up tomorrow."
"So was I, but I think he'll be careful."
"I feel so safe in this place; they lock it up after ten, so nobody can even get out without getting a key from Mrs. Tully or Miss Lukes."
"Yes; I used to crawl out of the window when I wanted a moonlight stroll with a fair patient."
Mrs. Gregson laughed, faintly and briefly. She asked: "When shall I see you?"
"I'll communicate when I have something to tell you."
"Good-bye."
"Good-bye."
Clara took the telephone from him. She said: "Her voice sounded so numb."
"Yes; it was a fearful shock to her, but she has nerve. She can take it."
"I don't know how she can live through it all. Henry—" Clara stood, clasping the telephone, her eyes searching his. "Do you think you'll ever find out? About Benton Locke, and everything?"
"I'll find out if I can. I'll find out," said Gamadge between his teeth, "if it's the last thing I do."
The telephone went off in a tremendous jingle, startling Clara very much. Gamadge took it from her.
"Yes?" he asked. "Oh, Colby."
"Great heavens, old man." Colby's voice shook. "Have you been listening to the radio?"
"Yes. Great concert, wasn't it?"
"Concert!"
"We all seem to have been taking it in."
"Did you hear the news afterwards—about that fellow?"
"I did."
"Great heavens, what does it mean?"
"Well, Colby, to tell you the truth I'd rather not discuss it at all over the telephone. If you don't mind—"
"I understand all that; I had to call you and ask if you'd heard."
"Naturally."
"Have you any line on this thing, Gamadge?"
"Early days to ask that."
"Have you told our friend in the country about B.L.?"
"She just called me."
"How is she?"
"All right so far. I'd much rather not talk about any of it on the telephone, Colby."
"Great heavens, though; I've been out looking at properties all day, and as soon as I get home—"
"I know. Very upsetting. Take a drink, and let me do the same and get to bed. I'm tired myself."
Colby rang off, muttering. Gamadge turned to Clara with a smile. "It's really very unfortunate from the investigator's point of view," he said. "The gentlemen in the case have jobs that take them all over creation all day long, and you can't check up on them. They look at properties, and they look at landscapes. What is one to do about it?"
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Gamadge Irregulars
WHEN GAMADGE—as seldom happened—reached the small hours of a morning after a bad night, he turned off the switch of his bedside telephone; he did so at four a.m. on the day following his momentous decision in the stump lot, and at five a.m. he fell into a dreamless sleep.
No member of his household had ever dared on any previous occasion to knock at his door if his telephone did not answer; but on this same morning, at ten o'clock, Theodore not only knocked; he afterwards put an apologetic face into the room.
"What the devil," murmured Gamadge.
"Beg pardon for disturbin' you, sir, it's police."
"Tell them to come back later."
"It's Lieutenant Durfee. Mis' Gamadge is entertainin' him in the liberry."
"Oh. Well, bring my breakfast here. I'll see him when I'm dressed."
Not long afterwards he sauntered into the library, where Clara was eagerly explaining something to a lean man in a blue suit.
"This whole book is a forgery, Lieutenant Durfee," she was saying, "and so is the author's signature and the date on the flyleaf. Here it is, see? Your oblig'd John Pipkin."
"Why should the feller forge a whole book? Why didn't he buy this Poems of John Pipkin, and forge the signature into it?"
"Because there's only one other Poems of John Pipkin, and that's in the British Museum—unless they've moved it on account of the war. And that copy has no signature on the flyleaf."
"The feller expected to make a lot of money out of this, then?" Durfee studied the thin green book with interest.
"Oh, no; even the real one—the British Museum one— isn't worth much. Nobody cares about Pipkin, his poems aren't good."
"I don't catch it; why all the misery then?"
"Because the man who forged this, or had it done, only collected unique books, and a Pipkin with a signature would have been unique."
"But what's the fun of owning a thing that isn't real?"
"Why, he could show it to all his friends."
Gamadge came forward. "How's that for a motive to give a jury, Durfee?" he asked.
Durfee turned a thin, lined, reddish face toward him, and got up. He said: "I see you're bringing your wife up right, Mr. Gamadge."
"She's just started on the handwritings; Pipkin's, for instance. The Pipkin i is what gives the show away."
"Can you do anything with printed writing?" Durfee accepted a cigar.
"Certainly, but it's not easy to get other specimens of it for comparison." Gamadge lighted Durfee's cigar, and his own.
"I have a crank letter I want to show you some time—if necessary; I can't show it to you yet. You know how these things crop up when a sensational murder case gets into the papers."
"Is there a sensational case in the papers?"
"This murder case up in Westchester County below Burford. Feller named Locke, Benton Locke. That's what I came about; I understand that you called on him at his rooming-house night before last."
Clara replaced John Pipkin on a shelf. She remained with her back to the room, fingering the other books in the row. Gamadge said: "Oh, yes. I suppose Miss Prady gave you my name."
"That's right, Miss Arline Prady." Durfee was studying Gamadge with some degree of exasperation. "You didn't think we'd be interested?"
"My dear good man! Of course I was going to call you. I only heard that he'd been shot last night, over the radio; I've been in bed ever since. I don't know who shot him, or why; and I certainly wasn't the last virtuous person who saw him alive."
Clara said, turning away from the bookcase: "Will you excuse me if I go? I have some errands." She shook hands with Durfee. "I'll bring your carbon paper home with me, Henry."
"Thank you, my darling."
She flitted from the room. Durfee, looking after her, said: "I was going to suggest finishing our conversation in your office or downtown. I didn't want to remind Mrs. Gamadge of the fact that people you pay calls on quite often die by violence shortly afterwards."
"Quite often is good. Twice isn't quite often."
"It's quite often from the police point of view."
"I busted that case for you. Perhaps you didn't want to remind Clara of the fact that if it hadn't been for me you people would have arrested her as accessory to murder."
"You can't blame me for wondering if your baleful influence hadn't been at work again; you call on this feller, and the next day he gets killed."
"Lots of people I've called on are still alive and well."
"You think I ought to look at it as a coincidence?"
"Look at it as cause and effect, if you want to be so foolish; but however you look at it, you can look at it sitting down. And smoking a cigar."
Durfee sat down behind the big table. He said: "It's quite an interesting tie-up."
"What is?"
"The Locke case and the Gregson murder case."
"You found a tie-up, did you?"
"We didn t realize until this morning that he was that Benton Locke."
"What's the tie-up?"
"I might ask you that. I will ask you why you went to see him Tuesday night."
"Private business."
"Now don't get obstinate; you'll be called when they hold the inquest, you know. They've adjourned it, but when they hold it you'll be invited."
"I'll be there."
"And you won't be able to plead private business there."
"By that time the business will probably not be private. Can't you lay off me for a few days? You know very well that I don't obstruct justice."
"Not very long; not till two or three people get killed, anyhow."
"Really, Durfee! I call that too bad of you. I was astounded by Locke's death—astounded."
"Do you know what I think?" Durfee squinted up at him. "By what I know of you, I think you put some idea in his head, and he acted on it, and got shot as a result."
"If I knew who shot him, or why he got shot, I'd pass the information along to you—instantly."
Durfee smoked in silence for half a minute. Then he said: "The hitch comes with the word 'knew.' I'd like your opinions; I don't require a statement under oath, or some thing all ready to present to a jury."
"If you know me as well as all that"—Gamadge smiled at his guest without rancour—"you know that I won't go around spilling a lot of nonsense. I'm not fond of handing out half-baked notions to the police."
"They'd like to be the judge of what's important and what isn't. How do you suppose I can lay off you, as you suggest, if the whole department, and the D.A., and the newspapers know that you were calling on Locke night before last?"
"You can manage it, all right. Tell them I'm worth waiting for," said Gamadge airily. He went on, ignoring Durfee's scowl: "How long had he been dead when they found him?"
"Six to eight hours, but nobody saw him on that road until ten. The farmer that did find him came past on his way to Burford more than two hours earlier and didn't see him at all."
"That's possible; perhaps the farmer's headlights weren't on when he made the first trip."
"They weren't, and it's easier to see what's behind that tree when you're coming from Burford than when you're going there."
"You keep saying Burford; why Burford? As I get it, the road's quite far down the highway from Burford."
"Manner of speaking; Burford's the nearest town. Why," asked Durfee, plaintively, "should he have gone up that road? It leads out into the country, no town for miles."
"Or why should he have been coming down that road, you know," Gamadge asked after a pause: "No sign of his car?"
"No. It's a second-hand Ford convertible coupé, and he kept it in a garage near his rooming-house."
"No sign of the pistol, I suppose?"
"No; nor of the shell. But Locke was killed with a .38 automatic; we have the bullet, and that's all we have." Durfee's expression was so odd that Gamadge looked curiously at him. He went on: "They tell me that there ain't any underworld characters in his kind of dancing game. They tell me it's all full of angels."
"Well—of course he'd been dancing for years in night clubs and resorts."
"I'm not much interested in that angle, to be frank with you. I'm interested in the tie-up with the Gregson case."
"Who wouldn't be?"
"Just the kind of case you'd enjoy digging into, too. That Warren girl—" Durfee looked thoughtful. "I always had an idea she knew more about it than ever came out at the trial." His hand wandered towards his breast pocket, and came away empty. "I wish you'd tell me about your business with Locke," he said irritably.
"Eventually I will."
"Eventually." Durfee looked contemptuous. "I want information today." He said after a moment: "Whatever became of Mrs. Gregson, I wonder—and that housekeeper of hers? They vanished right off the map."
"So they did."
"Miss Warren's with a Mrs. Smiles. We had this crank letter this morning; posted in Burfurd yesterday afternoon at three o'clock; and that's 'why Burford,' by the way."
"Oh—really?"
"The letter's too crazy to act on without due caution. We can't upset people and get their influential friends and their lawyers in our hair on the strength of an anonymous letter, and a crazy one at that."
"Can't you?" Gamadge showed amusement.
"Not without an O.K. from the big shots. The D.A. will be back in town late tonight; I'll get hold of him, no matter what time it is. There were bushels of these crank letters after the Gregson trial, and they were none of 'em worth the ink on 'em."
