Murders in, Volume 2 (22 page)

“They can. I don't care if they did.”

“We've seen all these things you mention, including Payne's tablets.”

“Of course.”

“The department can't work in the dark for anybody that wants information and won't say why.”

“But my dear man, you asked me to assist; I'm doing it in my own way.”

“I have to be the judge about whether your assistance is going to be worth anything to us, before I put department labor and money into it.”

“I'll defray expenses.”

“What I can't make out is, why you're doing all this.”

“Not for excitement, I assure you. Will you get the information for me? I can get it myself, only it will take me so much longer. Do make up your mind—I'm starving.”

Durfee, looking black, reached for the telephone.

“Blessings on thee.” Gamadge rose. “I'll be at home all afternoon.”

“You might have tried to get something from Miss Dawson.”

“Forget about Miss Dawson.”

Durfee's eyes followed him out of the room.

When he reached home, the expression on his usually amiable face was such that nobody dared comment on the hour—half past two o'clock. Athalie remained in her kitchen, and sent up a tremendous lunch; Theodore served it in silence. Gamadge was on his davenport smoking, and still scowling, when Harold appeared with an afternoon paper under his arm.

“Welcome, stranger,” said Gamadge.

Harold laid the paper on a table. “Mr. Schenck called up,” he said, in what the French would describe as a
voix blanche
.

“Did he?”

“Coming in this afternoon.”

“Delighted to see him.”

“Lady called up four times. Wouldn't give her name.” Harold looked down at the headlines under his eyes. “I got an idea it was Miss—”

“No names.”

“Miss. Glad she's still alive. I didn't more than think she would be—the whole story is out, now, Byron and all.”

“Hope it reads well.”

“A Mr. Payne called up, just before you got here. Coming in this afternoon.”

“He and Schenck won't get on at all.”

“I can keep one of 'em downstairs.”

“Let 'em all come.”

Theodore brought coffee, gave a sidelong, agonized look at the papers which Harold had laid on the desk, and went out quickly. The telephone rang. Gamadge swallowed some coffee, and went into his bedroom to answer it. A high, shaking voice said: “Mr. Gamadge?”

“Yes.”

“Don't mention my name.”

“No.”

“Can we be overheard?”

“Not here; where are you?”

“In a booth, Mr. Gamadge—where is that book?”

“Don't worry about it; nobody will ever lay eyes on it again.”

“Mr. Gamadge, if my name is ever brought into this, in any way—any way, Mr. Gamadge—I shall kill myself.”

“You won't be brought into it.”

“You believe me when I say I should kill myself?”

“I do. Absolutely. Please don't be so unhappy about it. Nobody will ever know.”

“I couldn't live for one single day. Oh, what a fool I've been.”

“You mustn't be hard on yourself. Why shouldn't you have a caller of an evening? Everybody else does.”

“I shall never give anybody his name, whatever happens. You understand that? You understand that I should deny everything.”

“Perfectly, Miss—er—look here; I must call you something. Miss Flower. Perfectly, Miss Flower. You won't see the party again, though, I hope?”

“What?”

“You must never under any circumstances see the party again—privately. Not at all safe.”

“As if I ever would!”

“Not safe in any way, I mean. The party seems very tough, and you may not realize it, but you are perhaps the only living soul who knows who he is. Without meaning to be sensational, I feel that I ought to call your attention…”

There was a pause. Then Miss Dykinck said in a different voice: “I'm not that sort of coward, really I'm not. I suppose you think I'm behaving very badly, Mr. Gamadge…”

“Who am I, to blame you?”

“I can't tell anybody!”

“Many civilized persons have preferred death to losing face. You are in good company.”

Miss Dykinck's voice softened. “Would he tell, if they caught him, Mr. Gamadge?” she asked tremulously.

“Why should he give evidence against himself?”

“Just to be spiteful, perhaps.”

“Not everybody prefers being spiteful to living, you know.”

A faint, wavering ghost of Miss Dykinck's well-remembered giggle came over the wire, and Gamadge looked relieved. She said: “You and that book you were going to write!”

“I may write it yet.”

“If you do, don't connect us in any way with that awful family! Imagine Mrs. Morton playing such a trick on that poor old man! Mamma isn't surprised.”

Miss Dykinck was apparently quite herself again, and Garnadge felt that he might make an effort to terminate the conversation. He said: “Do please forgive me, but I'm fearfully rushed.”

“Of course. Thank you. I—”

“Don't worry, now!”

As he turned away, Gamadge felt rather touched; even Miss Rose Dykinck thought it unnecessary to exact a vow from him, and that in spite of the fact that he had got her into her present state of tribulation.

He wandered about the library, and then stood looking out of the window at a gray sky and wind-tossed branches. A chilly east gale was tearing at the leaves of his big tree. He reflected morosely that he might have to end by consulting Chandor for a message from the stars, if he had to throw out much more direct evidence.

A light, agreeable voice said: “Hope I'm not intruding. Your man let me bring myself up in the elevator.”

Gamadge turned. “Oh. Good afternoon, Mr. Payne.”

“Rotten afternoon it's going to be.” Cameron Payne stood in the doorway, leaning on his stick. He smiled at Gamadge, and said in gentle protest: “Look here. I've heard of taking pennies from a blind beggar, but I never heard until now of anyone trying to take a cripple's girl away from him.”

“Nor I. Won't you sit down?”

“What's all this you've been putting into Clara's head?”

“Nothing that wasn't there already; except the awful warning.”

Payne laughed. “That be hanged. She telephoned me; I could hardly choke her off, and that boy at my switchboard must have got an earful.” He made little marks on the rug with his cane, tapped them smilingly, and smiled at Gamadge. “Such rot. There are dozens of explanations for holes in a garden house.”

“Oh? Such as?…”

“What do I know? Gardeners do all sorts of things.”

“The gardener hadn't been in that arbor for a long time. Bench all dust and twigs, grass high. And I don't myself see why he, or anyone, should bore a hole in a corner.”

“Fact remains, it's not evidence. And I can't see,” continued Payne, in plaintive wonder, “why you didn't fill the thing up, while you were about it. If you're not going to give me away, why leave what you foolishly consider traces of my being there?”

Gamadge contemplated him with mild incredulity.

“You really are a kind of marvel, Payne; you really are.”

“Am I?”

“You are. I don't propose to go about clearing up after you, my good fellow. I can leave evidence for the authorities to find or ignore, but I won't conceal it “

“Delicate distinction. You're concealing a good deal, so you think.”

“More than I ought, and part of it I'm concealing from Clara.”

Gamadge returned the bright-blue gaze fixed on him. After a pause, Payne said: “You're absolutely, hopelessly wrong. Do you know when a man's telling the truth, or don't you?”

“Yes. You really think I'm mistaken in one particular.”

“The only one that counts, my boy!”

“The only one that counts with you. I assure you that I'm not mistaken, about that or about any of the rest of it.”

“Why not explain, if you're as cocksure as all that?” Payne looked amused.

“Explain why you're in danger? Not on your life. You don't want the murderer caught.”

“What has that to do with it?”

“Everything. But Clara Dawson doesn't want you caught by him—and killed. That killer you're shaking down isn't going to take it.”

“Oh. Tell Clara that theory?” Payne studied him, still smiling.

“No, I didn't tell her. If she finds it out—”

“No reason why she should. But even if she did…” Payne gave him a dazzling smile. “I can't expect you to understand. If you'd seen her face, though, when she and that big filly she couldn't manage came down on top of me, you'd know what I mean. You simply can't do a thing about that.”

“No; but you can.”

“You're mistaken.”

“She won't stand a racket, Payne. You didn't see her face when I talked to her.”

“If it were all true, all this tosh of yours, nobody ought to blame me for saving her some of her money. She's been done out of a good big whack of it. Even Mrs. Morton wouldn't have been besotted enough to leave her will the way it was, after old Uncle Vauregard died. It's very annoying, you must admit.”

“Very, indeed. Clara is sick of this money obsession.”

“Noble of her. She'd be sicker yet, if she didn't have enough to spend about five dollars a day on a chow.”

“I should say that it will come to your making a choice—easy dough or Clara Dawson.”

“No advice wanted, thank you all the same. I can take care of myself, and I shall look out for Clara. I hear you're working with the law now.”

“Yes; I prefer it.”

“Private customers got rather out of hand, didn't they? I swear, I think you're responsible for the whole fiasco, deaths and all.”

“I'm afraid I am. I may be said to have killed Mr. Vauregard and Mrs. Morton, in a negative kind of way.”

“How were you going to prove that stuff about the book?”

“Photographs of the binding.”

“I don't see what good they would do you. Are you keeping the evidence against a rainy day?”

“No, and that reminds me.” He went into the hall, and lifted his voice: “Harold!”

Harold appeared, in the doorway of the elevator.

“Those pictures you took yesterday, and the enlargements. Bring them up here, will you?”

There was a short interval, during which Payne sat gently tapping the floor with his stick, and Gamadge leaned against the table. When Harold came in, he bestowed no glance on the visitor, but handed a folder to Gamadge, and stood waiting. He never did recognize the existence of callers, unless Gamadge introduced him; had been known, in fact, to step on their feet, so unsubstantial did they seem to be to him.

Gamadge took a couple of plates out of the folder, and gave them to Payne; they each showed a double row of irregular markings, not quite parallel; Payne inspected them, eyebrows raised.

“This plate, marked 1, doesn't continue on to 3,” he said. “There's a gap; something ought to come between.”

“Plate Number 2 didn't get enlarged; in fact, Picture Number 2 didn't get taken.”

“And this is the evidence that made all the trouble, and caused two deaths?” Payne looked up at him, smiling.

“Two thirds of it. Harold, smash these up for me, will you, and destroy the photographs. We shan't be wanting them, after all.”

“Smash them—in here?” Harold asked it stolidly.

“Here and now.”

“Let's see the folder,” said Payne, his eyes dancing. Gamadge picked it up and handed it to him. He read:

“Thanks. Very amusing.” Payne returned the folder. Harold slid the plates into it, took it over to the nearest window, and laid it on the stone sill. Having glanced about him, he picked up a large bronze paperweight, and cracked up the plates in their container very much as he might have cracked up a paper bag of nuts, or a towelful of ice. He then lifted the limp result upon a newspaper, and carried it out of the room.

“Impressive,” said Payne, laughing. “I'm the witness, I suppose. I'll tell Clara that the case of Vauregard versus Smith is in ruins. Thanks for a very pleasant call.”

He got up, and adjusted the crook of his stick comfortably to his hand.

“You go up there and see Durfee. Tell him all about it. I'll back you to come out of it without a blemish on your character,” said Gamadge, watching him as he went to the doorway. He turned, and stood poised and graceful, a fine figure of a young man. No one would have guessed at an injury.

“Too late,” he said. “Don't you worry yourself about me. You've got it all wrong—for once. I'm as safe as houses.”

“I'm not worrying about you. You're too silly to worry about.”

“I was rather expecting you to advise a short trip—for my health. You could look out for Clara while I was away.”

“I was rather expecting a remark of that kind, sooner or later.”

“At least, I haven't disappointed you there!” He laughed again, and went across the hall to the elevator. Gamadge did not press the button for him, or see him down to the door.

W
HEN THEODORE ANNOUNCED
Mr. Schenck, that personage found Gamadge sitting in an armchair, his elbows on his knees, a highball glass in his hand.

“Hello,” he said. “Schenck, you're an answer to prayer.”

Mr. Schenck had a foxy cast of countenance, and sharp, humorous eyes. He said: “You look peaked. Where's the Souchong? Not getting this feller into bad habits, are you, Theodore?”

Theodore was tolerant of Mr. Schenck. He replied “Mr. Gamadge got a lot on his mind, today. He needs somethin' to hold him up.”