Somewhere in the House (15 page)

“What started the fight, Mrs. Nagle?”

“My daughter wished to be a dancer. She was only eight, but you have to start early. Mrs. Clayborn was going to pay for the lessons, but she died. And the very day she died Aggie didn't waste a minute; she called up and told me the lessons were off.”

“So you wouldn't go ahead and arrange for them?”

“Yes, and you can imagine the shock it was. Lorina was half sick crying.
We
couldn't afford lessons, and we knew what would happen. That's what did happen; Lorina works in an office.”

“Too bad.”

“Aggie could have lent her the money till she got started on her career; by what my husband and I could figure—she was the kind of person that never talks about her money—she must have had plenty saved. I let myself go,” confessed Mrs. Nagle. “I burned up the telephone.”

“And then called up two weeks later to try and get a line on her and apologize?”

“Yes, of course I did. But when they said here that they didn't know where she was, what could we do?”

“And you have no idea where her savings were?”

“We never had any idea. My husband thinks now—” she hesitated, and then went on in a flat voice—“he thinks she had her money on her.”

“When she was killed?”

“Yes, or some bank would have advertised or found us or something.”

“Well, it's much better to be frank, Mrs. Nagle; now we get a better idea of your motives in acting the way you did about her.”

Nagle, who had not changed his attitude, said: “Yep. You get the idea. Now you won't have to put the blame for the killing on nice people like the Clayborns. You can say Leeder or my wife or I came over here that afternoon, Aggie let us in, and we killed her for her money—to give Lorina dancing lessons.”

“Well, she's still waiting for 'em,” said Nordhall.

“That won't bother you; there was a fight, that's enough. Rowe Leeder's old trouble will be raked up, and the papers will have the three of us running a murder academy.” Nagle suddenly brought his head down and looked at Gavan Clayborn, a dangerous look. He said: “We'll have some good stories about some of you people to hand out ourselves.”

After a long pause Gavan Clayborn sat up, felt with deliberation for his cigar case, got it out of his pocket, opened it, and offered it to Nagle. He said: “She died here, Mr. Nagle; this is where they'll place the responsibility for her death. But wherever the responsibility does lie, the Clayborns owe you something. Have a cigar.”

Mr. Allsop, looking apprehensive, came a step forward; Nagle sat gazing at Clayborn, motionless.

“Have a cigar and let's talk it over,” said Clayborn. “The Clayborns owe you consideration.”

Nagle, his bright round eyes fixed on the other, slowly took a cigar. While he clipped and lighted it, Clayborn replaced the case and went on:

“Right. I won't offer you a drink now, because there's a buffet supper getting assembled downstairs, what Roberts can scramble together for us; salads, cold stuff, and anything you like in beverages from cocoa to whisky. I hoped you'd do us the pleasure of going down and having something. I rather hoped that, sad as the occasion is, it might be an occasion for our young people to get acquainted.”

Miss Nagle, turning her head to look at Garth again, caught his expression of outrage. She favoured Gamadge with a cynical and worldly smile. But Mrs. Nagle looked eager.

“To tell you the truth,” continued Gavan, “I'm very glad to have an opportunity of meeting you all in this informal way. Mr. Allsop and Lieutenant Nordhall being with us needn't make it formal. It's all in the family. They understand as we do—terrible tragedy, but it happened a long time ago. We can discuss it frankly.”

Nagle was listening intently. He said: “My wife had a kind of an idea that Aggie being in your employ at the time—we haven't gone into it yet, perhaps we won't need to; but Aggie Fitch's money, whatever she had in her bag anyway, was stolen out of this house; and if she'd been putting up curtains and fallen off the ladder—”

“Exactly,” said Gavan. “Very frank, plain talk, just what we want. We'll have a consultation with Mr. Allsop, and we'll abide by what he says—unless you want to get a lawyer of your own in. But you probably know that he's impartial in these matters. As for the present, we are glad to bear all immediate expenses and take all the responsibility off your hands. Bury her in the family plot, of course; and see that there's room left and places marked for you and your wife and daughter. I hope Mrs. Nagle will consult with my sister about funeral arrangements, when there is a funeral. That's in the hands of the police. But you and your wife and daughter are naturally the principals, we take our marching orders from you.”

Nagle recrossed his legs; he did not take his round bright eyes from Gavan's blue ones. To him Gavan Clayborn represented such power and influence, so much worldly experience and wealth, that he no doubt believed Clayborn quite able to get his own family out of any jam.

“You'll be in on our conferences with the police,” continued Clayborn, “and with the Commissioner; I happen to know him a little, he's coming up when he gets into town. They'll leave no stone unturned. But—twenty years ago; who's to tell what happened?”

Mrs. Nagle said: “I don't know what Mr. Nagle was thinking about—saying we'd tell stories to the papers. Family stories! Imagine us telling family stories to the—”

Leeder spoke lazily: “Sit tight, Louisa. Nagle and Lolo may choke
you
to death if you don't. The Clayborns won't be able to give you a nickel if you shake them down in front of the Law. Just forget you have anything to sell.”

“We haven't anything to sell,” protested Mrs. Nagle.

“Everybody has family gossip to sell, and Nagle damn near put his foot in it a minute ago. You'll make a big mistake if you do talk to the papers, or let Lorina have her picture taken. I know she's dying to do that.”

Miss Nagle made an affectionate face at him.

“It's Old Home Week,” said Leeder. “Make the most of it. Nagle, take your family down and have something to eat and drink and go home. They won't stop you. Nobody really thinks you had anything to do with Aggie's taking-off. Did you even know a thing about those buttons?”

Mrs. Nagle said: “I don't know what you all mean about buttons. I never heard anything about buttons.”

Miss Nagle asked: “Were they jools?”

Nordhall spoke at last: “Go on down and get your supper. Just keep around so we can get in touch with you later—don't leave your vicinity and don't talk.”

The Nagles rose. Leeder said: “I'll go down with you.”

“I will,” said Elena. She came forward and took Miss Nagle arm.

Miss Clayborn said sharply: “Garth!”

“Sorry.” Garth came lounging from his window. “I have to go out.”

W
ITH THE DEPARTURE
from the room of the Nagles and Leeder, Elena and Garth, a silence fell. Gavan broke it: “We'll have to make up a sum of money—the heirs will,” he said in a tone of calm resignation.

Nordhall was grinning from ear to ear. He looked at Gamadge. His expression seemed to say that these people were so used to getting away with anything that even the presence of a policeman didn't embarrass them. But Gamadge was quite sure that Nordhall's methods—celebrated among his friends—of disarming the opponents by fraternization, had hypnotized even Gavan Clayborn. That gentleman, glancing at Nordhall, remarked: “You see what I mean.”

“Fair enough,” smiled Nordhall. “And right out in the open. No extortion, or anything like that.”

Mr. Allsop, not hypnotized, said anxiously: “It's quite understood that no question of—er—compensation has arisen. There can be no reason why the Clayborns shouldn't give these family connections a present.” He looked exhausted and shaken, but he was very game. “An income to the girl, say; for I'm afraid—” he smiled bleakly—“that in the professional sense her dancing days must be over.”

“Lucky, perhaps, for a suffering public,” said Seward, “that they never began.”

“She'd swallow anything,” said Miss Clayborn, “to get into the house. I know that type. We'll never be rid of her now.”

“We shan't be in the house, Aunt Cynthia,” said Mrs. Leeder.

“She'll follow us up. She'll drop in. What in Heaven's name got into Rowe Leeder's head to stay with them all these years? It's the most extraordinary thing. I can't get over it at all.”

Allsop said: “Speaking without prejudice, I might say that perhaps he had his very good reasons for staying there.”

“If he hadn't reasons,” replied Miss Clayborn shortly, “he wouldn't have stayed.”

“It's a combination,” agreed Nordhall, “it's certainly a combination.”

“Wouldn't trust the fellow—Nagle—farther than I could throw him,” said Gavan.

“And after all these years,” said Mr. Allsop, “as Mr. Leeder very pointedly remarked, it is probably doubtful that evidence will be found against anybody.”

“It was Mr. Clayborn that pointedly remarked that,” said Nordhall, laughing again.

“Whoever remarked it,” said Allsop, “it is quite true. The question of fingerprints occurs to me; but everybody was in that music room on the day.”

“I haven't given up all hope yet, Mr. Allsop,” said Nordhall. “But I'm afraid you're right. That yellow cord doesn't take fingerprints, and Fitch's handbag's gone. Well: you all want me to pin it on the Nagles and Leeder.”

Mrs. Leeder said: “No. Those Nagles looked like harmless people to me.”

Nordhall looked down at her rather sternly. “You wouldn't call them a combination?” he asked. “From a professional's point of view the three of them make one, and a powerful one. I'll put it to you:

“They're living together, have been together since before the Fitch murder; and Leeder kept the fact a secret even from you.

“Money's the big motive for homicide, and they had no money; while all of you Clayborns had incomes and your livings paid for.

“Leeder knew all about the house and the family; and he could have got information about the proposed sealing of the music room from Fitch. After the murder, years afterwards, as soon as he decently could, he turned up here again to watch you all, to see whether the sealed room was tampered with, perhaps to—er—supply the combination with marketable loot. I'll just remark that Nagle looks like a crook, Mrs. Nagle's a cipher, the daughter's on the make; such people might have contacts with receivers of stolen goods, and Leeder once had dealings with the underworld.

“Figure it out without bias, Mrs. Leeder.”

Miss Clayborn said faintly: “The awful, terrible part of it is that the Nagle woman looks like Aggie Fitch. I don't think I can face her again.”

“No need for any of us to face her,” growled her brother. “We'll have sandwiches and something to drink up here.”

Mrs. Leeder rose. She said: “I'm going to my room. I don't want anything.”

“You'd better have something, Harriet,” said Miss Clayborn coldly.

“Just some coffee. I couldn't eat.” She looked at Gamadge. “But you must go down and make some kind of meal, Mr. Gamadge—if you can bring yourself to swallow food in this house.”

Nordhall said: “Food is food. Just come on upstairs with me first, Gamadge, will you?”

They went out of the sitting-room, and up to the top floor. A uniformed man was stationed in front of the music room, whose door stood ajar to allow the passage of a long, thick electric wire.

Nordhall addressed him: “All right, Mulvane. Go down and get yourself something to eat. Then take the front—let Goldstein go home.”

The uniformed man departed, and Nordhall pushed open the door. Gamadge entered behind him.

The music room was now brightly lighted by a high-powered bulb fitted to an old standard lamp, and it was thoroughly ventilated; several bricks had been knocked away outside the open middle window-pane. Fresh cold air blew in through the gap; the evening had turned chilly, and there was a stiff breeze.

Gamadge stood and surveyed the place with some interest. It was bare, as a music room should be; without pictures on the silvery rough-plastered walls, without curtains or upholstery. The slate-blue floor was of some cork-like composition, the rug a plain silvery-blue.

Dominating the place, the open baby-grand piano stood in the south-east corner, where light from the windows had once fallen over the left shoulder of a player, to the keyboard. The piano lid was propped up in concert style, and there were candles on the holders and a sheet of music on the rack; near by, a handsome old canterbury held other music. The piano stool, which swivelled on a screw, had a comfortable padded seat of velvet.

There was little other furniture. A small, lady's desk of carved maple, and a chair to match, stood against the north wall; an old-fashioned sewing table of mahogany, nearer the door on the same side, had a small armchair in front of it. The sofa on which the dead woman had lain, and on which Nonie had perhaps often reposed after her practising, had made up the list of furnishings sealed into the room twenty years before.

Gamadge walked over to the piano. The music on the rack was a Chopin prelude, and looked difficult to play.

Nordhall said: “We could take the whole thing to pieces.”

Gamadge bent over and looked into the piano. He said: “I think you've got the wrong idea, Nordhall. If anything was hidden here, it wasn't to be hidden for ever. The old lady didn't mean that. If she laid a button-case on these wires she put it there to emphasize the fact that the buttons were to remain Nonie's property for the duration.”

“Glad to take your word for it.” Nordhall followed him to the desk, and stood behind him when he sat down. “You can take my word for it that there isn't any secret compartment in that little thing; it's modern. And none in the sewing table.”