I Hear Adventure Calling, page 11
“Hear or see anything while I was upstairs?”
“No. I would be willing to swear, though, that when I first stepped into this gallery the cabinet was closed. I went to the kitchen door of the Digbys’ apartment and stood in the dark listening. Except for the fury of the storm outside I heard nothing stirring, not even the white cat. This door may have been slightly ajar when I first saw it and the impact of my feet on the floor swung it open. The enamels on the shelves look as if they might be worth their weight in gold, figuratively speaking.”
“Figuratively speaking, they are.”
“Isn’t the cabinet kept locked?”
“Yes. Here’s the key to it and the catalogue of its contents. Before I left for my swim this morning I gave them to Gene in case anyone showed a purchasing interest in the enamels. She was to return them to my desk before she left, a duplicate key to the apartment is in my desk in my office. It was there.”
“Check your list.”
Back and forth from jewel-toned enamels to the catalogue traveled her eyes. She checked again, whispered:
“The most valuable piece is missing.”
“Sure?” She nodded. “Any chance that Gene would take it out to show to a customer and forget to put it back? Customer. That’s a thought. She may have sold it.”
“She wouldn’t do that without leaving a memorandum. She knows to a cent the value of each article in the Gallery, if she had sold it she wouldn’t leave the door of the cabinet open.” She glanced around the gallery. “Nothing else seems to be miss— Look!” She pointed to the fireplace above which hung Stuart’s Washington— “The wood was laid ready for lighting. It has been disturbed.” It had. It was scattered as if a piece had been hastily seized.
“What do you make of that?” she whispered.
“Can’t figure it out; if the glass in the cabinet door had been smashed it would be evident that a stick from the fireplace had been used on it. It wasn’t. It—”
“There’s the phone! Gene calling, probably. Maybe you are right. Maybe she did sell the enamel. I’m so relieved at the possibility, my heart has spread wings.”
Myles stood close behind her, as seated in an English Regency painted armchair at an Empire card table in the entresol she answered the call.
“The Sargent Galleries.”
“That you, dearie?”
“It’s Mrs. Betsy on the verge of tears,” Fran whispered over her shoulder. “Fran Phillips speaking, Mrs. Digby.”
“The Lord be praised you’re home, dearie. We got word that Lem’s mother was having one of her spells and we must come at once. We left at about two in a hurry. Miss Gene was there and her sister-in-law, the widow, when the call came an’ she said for us to beat it an’ they would look after everything. I felt kind of uneasy because there was a strange young man with them, you know how girls are these days—”
“What young man?” Fran listened. Myles whispered:
“What goes that has whitened your face?”
“Just a minute, Mrs. Betsy.” She covered the receiver and spoke over her shoulder. “She doesn’t know who the man was with the girls but just as she and Lem were leaving, Barth, the waiter, who helped with the tea, appeared. When they told him why and where they were going, he asked if he couldn’t stay and help at the Gallery.”
“Ask if he did. Quick. I can hear everything she says.”
“Did he stay, Mrs. Betsy?”
“I can’t say, dearie. We were so anxious to get away we didn’t stop to find out. Autos were coming and going when we left. Lots of folks to see the new picture, I guess. An’ what d’you know, when we got to Lem’s mother’s, there she was, merry as a grig, surprised enough to see us, said nobody had sent for us.”
“What did you make of that?”
“We didn’t stop to make anything of it, dearie, we lit out for home. Suspicioned some deviltry was afoot, the papers are full of such tricks. We got on a rough road detour, our gas tank sprang a leak and before you could say Jack Robinson every drop was gone. I sat in the car while Lem walked three miles to a filling station. Are you there, dearie?”
“Yes. Go on.”
Fran listened with an undercurrent of speculation running through her mind. Barth, waiter, ex-butler, perhaps finger man, had appeared as the Digbys were leaving—in response to a faked call—where was the £5650 painting—had he been after that? Was the missing enamel a red herring drawn across the trail? If only she knew where the Constable was and could check—
“The gas fellas wouldn’t drive Lem back and he had to foot it against the storm,” Mrs. Betsy was continuing her saga. “He was all in when he reached me. I got him to my sister’s. The doctor says if he keeps quiet tonight he’ll be fine in the morning, but, oh dear—”
“Stop and get your breath, Mrs. Betsy. He will come through all right.”
“Sure, ’tisn’t him I’m worrying about, there’s two things. I’m whispering, I don’t want Lem to hear, he’d be mad as hops. I was so upset I left the key in the outside of the kitchen door. Get it quick. And the other thing is, you shouldn’t be alone in that place all night with all the valuables, not after. that fake call that came for us.”
Myles seized the phone.
“She isn’t alone, Betsy, and she won’t stay here tonight. We’re getting out as soon as this storm lets up.” The wire faithfully transmitted her croon of satisfaction.
“I’m that thankful you’re there, Myles, I could cry. Get supper in our place. There’s cold chicken in the icebox and—” He cradled the telephone.
“They’ve shut her off. The Digbys are out of this picture tonight. You’d better phone your boss. Tell him what has happened, and that Silas hasn’t reported yet. He’ll carry on from there.”
After a lengthy conversation she rose from the table.
“Mr. Sargent was annoyed almost to inarticulateness. I could hear his gasp of agony when I reported that the enamel was missing. He is furious that Silas Pond hasn’t shown up. He roared that a watchman shouldn’t let a little blow like this stop him. He is coming himself to take over, will bring the deputy sheriff and it may take time to get him. Ordered me to remain on duty till he arrived. Said I’d better go to Rocky Point for the night. I shan’t go.”
“You’ll go there or home with me. Nat would love to have you.”
“I’m not leaving. I’ll lock myself in upstairs—”
“Remember we found the door of the cabinet swinging?” She nodded. “Remember that the ex-butler arrived just as the Digbys were leaving in reply to a faked message? I see by your eyes that you get me. I heard Betsy say she left the key in the outside of the kitchen door. Someone came in that way. Someone opened the Louis XV cabinet and stole an enamel. Who? If after those reminders you still intend to spend the night here, I stay too.”
“Don’t be absurd. You couldn’t.”
“Couldn’t I? Want to be shown? Will you go or stay?”
“I’ll go to the Sargents’. You are something of a dictator, aren’t you?”
“So Sinclair, to whom you are ‘practically engaged,’ implied. I’ve gained my point. I usually get what I start for. Remember that. We’ll have time to raid the icebox before your boss comes and when he does come, watch out. Don’t lead with your chin. Wait for him to ask questions. After which warning, en avant, soldat.”
“I keep wondering why that man Barth appeared just as he did,” Fran said as they reached the threshold of the Digby kitchen. Myles snapped on the light. “We know that the young man whom Betsy said came with Gene and Matilde Sargent was Blake, so that mystery—”
“I’ll be darned. Look!” The last word was a whisper. Myles pointed to the floor. Muddy footprints crossed the marbleized black and white linoleum from pantry to window, from window to the entrance door upon which he had pounded for admittance not so long before.
“They are still very wet.” Fran’s whisper matched his for eeriness. “This proves that a door did close, we didn’t imagine it. The key is on the inside, Mrs. Betsy said she left it in the lock outside. Remember the glint of light you saw in the kitchen when we stopped the car?”
“Right. Whoever it was must have slipped out when we came in the front door. That stuck key made noise enough to warn anyone in the building. We needn’t whisper. He’s gone.” He went from window to window, carefully avoiding the footprints, and drew the shades, then to the entrance door, which opened easily. He closed it and turned the key.
“Whoever it was went out this way. If we could get an impression of the footprints—”
“The situation has ‘The Face on the Barroom Floor’ touch, hasn’t it?”
“Stop giggling, or you’ll have hysterics. About those footprints. I have an idea. Is there a sheet of blotting paper in the house?”
“There are two, large blue ones, on the desk in my office. I’ll get them.”
“Nothing doing. That’s my job. Wait in the small gallery.”
It seemed hours that she stood near the swinging door of the cabinet. It set her imagination galloping. Suppose the person who had opened it hadn’t left the house? Suppose he had hidden in her office or the repair shop? He might spring out at Myles. She shouldn’t have let him go alone. Perhaps at this very moment he was lying gagged and helpless—
She dashed from the gallery through the entresol to her office. The room was lighted. Myles stood motionless in the middle of it apparently concentrating on the door of the repair shop. Two sheets of light blue blotting paper dangled from his left hand. She breathed a little “Oh” of relief. He turned his head, placed his right forefinger against his lips, and resumed what appeared to be watchful waiting.
He had cautioned her to silence. Why? Had he trapped the thief? A sound the other side of the door. He tensed. She stiffened in sympathy. There it was again. Someone moving cautiously? Icy chills crawled up her spine and coasted down. Her teeth chattered. The key was on this side. Had Myles locked a person in? Why stand there like a bronze sentinel? Why didn’t he do something?
He shook his head in response to her clutch on his sleeve. A sound in the repair shop as if a picture frame had been knocked over set her heart thumping in her throat. Was the thief who had stolen the enamel box trying to escape through the rear door? Was it Barth? Could be. He had come that way yesterday. They must stop him. Another cautious sound. Myles bent his head, whispered close to her ear.
“The big ruler on your desk. Quick! Quiet.”
She thrust it into his hand.
“Okay. Beat it upstairs. Lock yourself in. I’ll open that door.”
XI
She didn’t go. He crossed the room too intent on his plan to know that she followed. She might be able to help if he—
“Hey! Let me out!” The drawling voice was hoarse, weak, the accompanying thump on the door feeble. “Hey! Let me out!” The last word was little more than a sob.
“Si-las!” Excitement cracked Fran’s whisper in the middle.
Myles turned the key and yanked open the door. He caught and steadied the tall man in blue and white striped shirt and navy dungarees who tumbled forward, carefully lowered him into the deep chair Fran pushed behind him. To the accompaniment of guttural sounds in his throat, Silas Pond planted elbows on his knees and lowered his head into bony red hands as if it were too heavy for his scrawny neck to uphold.
“Take it easy, Si,” Myles counseled. “Don’t try to talk yet. Bring water, Fran. Even if I knew where to find it I wouldn’t dare give him anything else till I know what happened to him.”
She broke her own speed record, which was among the higher brackets, to the Digby kitchen and back. Silas still sat with his head down. He raised it and seized the glass she offered.
“Go slow, sip it, Si. If you drink too fast it may make you sick.”
He ignored Myles’s warning, downed the water in one gulp, winced and cautiously turned his head from side to side.
“Guess my neck ain’t broke,” he admitted weakly. “Cricky, but it hurts. Did I swallow my gum? N-o-o, I got it.” He leaned his head against the back of the chair, closed his eyes and began to chew, his prominent Adam’s apple going up, going down, with each movement of his jaws. Perched on the broad desk Fran watched it with fascinated eyes and with difficulty restrained her excited urge to ask him questions. Time was flying. Why didn’t Myles begin? As if he sensed her impatience he said in a low voice:
“Give him time to pull himself together.” Silas roused. His pale blue eyes were dazed but his voice was stronger.
“I’m comin’ to fast, Myles. Cricky, it must have been an all-fired crack.”
“What happened to you, Nosey? Tell us as quickly as you can.”
“Shucks, seems like the time when you was a boy, fer you to be callin’ me Nosey, Myles. Tell you what happened is jest what I can’t do. I don’t know.”
“What can you remember, Mr. Si?” Fran prompted.
He closed his eyes and chewed ruminatively as if the movement of his jaws might stimulate memory.
“Lemme see.” Considering what had happened, his drawl was maddening. “I remember I came earlier than usual because I see the storm comin’—my head hurts fierce.” He groaned.
“Go on, please, Mr. Si,” Fran urged.
“I left my bike in the garage. Miss Gene hurried off as soon’s I appeared. I knew the Digbys would be here so I went back to the garage to sharpen the lawn mower. When I got back to the house the hell-raisin’ storm was on.”
“Then what happened?” Myles prodded.
“Left my sou’wester an’ oilskins in my room in the basement.” He closed his eyes, twisted his neck experimentally and groaned.
“Okay, you left your oilskins in your room, Si. What next?”
“Gimme a minute to think, Myles. I come upstairs to start my rounds. Stepped into what Mr. Sargent calls the entrysol, thought I heard a sound here, the door was open.”
“By ‘here’ do you mean my office?”
“Yes, Miss Phillips.” He shook his head as if to clear his eyes. “First I thought ’twas the storm makin’ it. I heard it again. Stepped in cautious like. Black as pitch.” He clutched his head with his hands. “It hurts gosh-awful. S’pose my neck’s broke?”
Myles, standing beside him, gently parted the thick straw-color hair on the flat top of his head.
“There’s a lump big as a duck’s egg here, it’s a humdinger, but the skin isn’t even scratched. If you’d broken your neck, Nosey, you couldn’t move it. Pull yourself together. Go on. We must find out what happened. Every minute counts. You’d just stepped in cautious like, black as pitch,” he reminded.
“It’s comin’ back. I stood there a minute and sniffed. Someone’d been smokin’. It warn’t a pipe nor a seegar, ’twas cigarettes, kinder sickish smell. Says I to myself, ‘The old man’d have a fit if he gets onto it, he don’t ’low smokin’ on the premises, even Miss Gene, who smoked every minute, don’t do it here. Beats me how that girl—”
“You sniffed. Then what?” Myles switched him from the detour to the main line of his story.
“After I sniffed I says to myself, ‘Better see what’s been goin’ on,’ an reached for the light button side the door. Come a terrible crash of thunder, I remember thinkin’, ‘Cricky, I been struck,’ an’ that’s the last I knew till in a kind of dream I thought a car stopped. A long time after I heard the light button in this room snap—my head began to hurt like thunder, I got to my knees, knocked over something, that roused me enough to yell an’ pound.”
“Sure you didn’t hear a movement in this room when you came to the door?”
“Nope. You don’t mean someone bopped me, that ’twasn’t the lightning?”
“Lightning has strange tricks, but it couldn’t shoot you through that door and lock it on this side. Someone took a crack at you. Who?”
Silas Pond struggled to his feet.
“That makes me feel kinder sick, I guess I better—” Myles caught his arm and steadied him.
“Go ahead, Fran, turn on the light on the stairs. Hurry. I’ll get him down before anything happens—with luck.”
Ten minutes later he joined her in her office.
“Nosey’s lying down. I promised him that you and I would play watchdogs till he feels better. Where’s that blotting paper? I hope those footprints haven’t dried up.”
They hadn’t. The light blue blotters faithfully soaked up the moisture. Myles regarded four muddy patterns, two rights, two lefts, with satisfaction.
“Aren’t they the berries? Boy, are we the smart dicks.”
“Will you show them to Mr. Sargent?”
“Not yet. Didn’t try to get all. There are several left on the floor for him to discover. I’d like to solve this mystery myself—ourselves, if you are with me.”
“I—a dick. And Judge Grimes said there was no adventure to be expected—by me—in the State of Maine.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Sometime I’ll tell you, meanwhile if you don’t want Mr. Sargent to see those prints, better hide them. You can’t stand there holding them.”
“I can, but as you suggest, I’d better not. Can’t take them to my car now, might run into your boss.”
“Hide them here. Be careful you don’t smooch them, they are still damp.” She lifted the cover of the cabinet in which the flour barrel stood. “It is almost empty. It may not improve the flour, but this is an emergency. Quick.” She shivered. “These walls may have eyes.” He carefully fitted the two sheets around the inside of the barrel. She adjusted the cover.
“So far so good. It will take some doing to get those out again without being seen, but we’ll meet that problem when we get to it. Listen.”
Rain beat against the windows. Thunder rolled. A loosened vine tapped eerily on the glass like the fingers of a wraith of the night begging for shelter from the storm. Fran had read of blood turning to ice, now she knew it could. Hers had congealed.
“What—what did you hear?” she whispered.
“A key in the lock.”
“Miss Phillips!” The booming call was followed by a flash and crash which shook the building.
