Murders in, Volume 2 (23 page)

Gamadge had not moved. He now took a swallow of whisky, and said: “Theodore is suffering from remorse.”

“This mornin' I thought Mr. Gamadge had demeaned himself,” explained Theodore. “Now I see by the paper Harold just brought in, police beginnin' to value him.”

“We have Mr. Schenck to thank for that. Bring him a drink, and invite him to stay to dinner.”

Schenck was nattily dressed in tropical worsteds, and carried a round straw hat. This he dropped upon the top of the celestial globe (from which Theodore instantly removed it), drew a newspaper from under his arm, and sat down.

“The Vauregard-Morton case is still up among the war news, this afternoon,” he said. “Stay to dinner? I should say so. What good is Saturday, this weather? I was all set for the beaches, and instead of that I had to go to a movie.”

Theodore brought another glass and more ice, moved a table to Schenck's elbow, and went out.

“Can't you relax?” asked Schenck, with a puzzled glance at his host. “Sit back in that chair, for goodness sake. I thought nothing ever disturbed the steely nerve. What's the matter with you?”

“I'm expecting a telephone call.”

“Honestly, when I read the paper yesterday morning, I thought I'd die.”

“Oh?”

“‘Mr. Henry Gamadge, a caller at the Vauregard mansion on Traders Row, discovered the body. His statement was corroborated by the butler and he was allowed to leave.' I thought I'd die.”

“So glad you were amused.”

“I knew you were up to something.”

“Lucky the police didn't come to that conclusion.”

“Then the Morton case broke, with Mr. Gamadge involved. Thinking you must of course be hand in glove with the cops, as usual, and having Durfee on the wire about something else, I asked him for the lowdown.”

“And found that he wanted it himself.”

“He seemed to get such a jolt out of what I said that I was afraid I might have mixed things up for you, a little.”

“On the contrary.”

“Wait till some of these press men get around to digging up your past. You'll have a high old time. Theodore will get that private telephone wire at last.”

“Fortunately, nobody has bothered me much yet; I hope they won't, for just a few hours more. Can you travel around with me, this evening?”

Schenck screwed up his eyes. “One of your wild parties?”

“Not so very.”

“Because I didn't bring along my bullet-proof vest.”

“I just want a witness.”

The telephone rang in the hall, and Gamadge sprang out of his chair. Schenck listened, without shame.

“Durfee?…Oh, thanks…Just a second, I have a pencil and paper right here…Go ahead…No prescriptions except what I gave you, no drugs or medicaments. Payne gets his stuff only by prescription, and it's a private one of Schildmann's, and it's a very mild sedative…No illnesses or disabilities of any kind…No, I'm not a bit disappointed, just wanted to check up. I'll give you the whole thing either tonight or early tomorrow… No. I can't until then.”

Schenck came up behind him and bawled into the mouthpiece: “Give him his head, Durfee, he can't be bossed.” Durfee replied with a few words not entirely complimentary either to Schenck or to Gamadge, and rang off.

As they turned from the telephone they almost ran into Harold, who acknowledged Schenck's greeting with more than his accustomed taciturnity.

“And what's the matter with you?” inquired Schenck. “I never got into such a melancholy outfit. Don't know if I can stand it, if it lasts through dinner.”

“Harold thinks I ought to be taking him on this ramble, instead of you. Matter of fact, he's got to stay home and wait for me to call him; I'm going to have to use the code.”

“Mr. Schenck could do that.”

“You think I'd give our code to Schenck, or anybody else?”

The code, Harold's invention, was dear to him. He said grudgingly, “Well…”

“And you'll have to keep the car at the door, ready to drive off at a moment's notice.”

Schenck said: “It's one of your usuals, all right. I recognize the symptoms. Barometer's falling.”

They went back to the library, and listened to soul-destroying news on the radio until Schenck turned it off and begged for a cocktail. They sat long over these, and had a leisurely dinner. At eight thirty Gamadge called the Morton house. A policeman answered, and Gamadge asked for Mr. Payne. When the officer inquired who wanted him, Gamadge said it was the Elmsport Gazette, in connection with the Vauregard case. Was not Mr. Payne engaged to be married to Miss Dawson? The policeman said: “Let the man have his evening in peace, can't you?” and rang off.

“All ready,” said Gamadge. “Come on, Schenck and take one of my coats, if you haven't yours. You may want it.”

Schenck, under protest, put on a light topcoat, and they sallied forth. The chill, cloudy twilight had come to an end, and lights were beginning to show in the high buildings; their towers were lost in iridescent mist. The street lamps went on. They took a cab to West Fifty-eighth Street, and walked down the block to a bleak, barrack-like structure, dating from the first decade of the century.

The lobby was deserted, except for a colored boy who slept in the elevator. Gamadge went softly past him. Schenck following on his toes. They climbed a flight of stairs, consulted all the cards on all the doors, and climbed to the next story. Here Gamadge stopped at a door marked “Payne.” Instead of knocking, he turned and led the way softly down to the lobby again.

“Payne, eh?” whispered Schenck, greatly interested. “You thought he might leave his door open for us?”

“I wanted to find out whether anybody could call on him without being announced—or even seen.”

This time Gamadge awakened the elevator boy: “Mr. Payne in?”

“No, Sir. He went out a half an hour ago.”

“Can we wait?”

“Yes, Sir. I'll let you in.”

They were borne slowly to the third floor, and the boy opened Cameron Payne's flat for them, and went down again.

“Trustful guy,” said Schenck, all eyes. “Nothing to hide. You going to wait for him, or was that a deception? Or am I indiscreet?”

“Far from it.” Gamadge preceded him along a dark, narrow hall to a small room at the end of it. He found and turned a light switch.

The open window looked out on fire escapes and the brick walls of a courtyard. Schenck peered from it, and withdrew his head to glance in disparagement at disheartening brown walls and an imitation Oriental rug, at imitation tapestry chairs and a hard sofa, and at the radiator masquerading as a gas log in the fireplace. A gilt-framed picture hung over the mantelpiece, with its name on it—“Lake by Moonlight.” Tennis and golf cups, with other trophies, stood on the shelf below. A large, comfortable chaise longue, nicely upholstered in chintz, crowded the rest of the deplorable furniture into a huddle.

Schenck said: “This place would give me the horrors.”

“Payne isn't aesthetic.”

“Neither am I aesthetic, but you ought to see my little flat. Chromium and red leather, glass-topped tables, geometric rugs, everything modern, built-in beds and a dinette.”

Gamadge, with a slight shiver, said it must be fine. They went into the adjoining bathroom.

“My goodness, look at the tub and the plumbing! And peek in here at the brass bed and the stained-pine chiffonier!” Schenck had penetrated to a bedroom. “I thought Payne was a socialite.”

“Oh, God, don't say that.”

“Why not?” Schenck came back, surprised.

“No reason why not, except that I'm nervous. It's a word I don't much like.”

“Nervous, are you?”

“Just a little. Excuse my manners.” Gamadge had glanced among the usual assortment of objects on the shelf over the basin. He now opened a medicine cabinet badly in need of re-enameling and peered therein. He took out a small glass phial with a screw top. “Payne hasn't much money. That's why he can't have a dinette.”

“I haven't any too much.”

“You have an important job, you capitalist; Payne's a cripple, and can't earn.”

“Are you ever going to tell me why we came here?”

“Just to look at this.”

“It's the medicine you talked about on the telephone, isn't it? I see Schildmann's name on the label.”

“Apparently.” Gamadge put it in his pocket, and searched among the things on the other shelves. “No other medicines or drugs at all, even in powder form,” he said.

“The police must have been all over his stuff.”

“Yes.”

“Are you going to take the feller's dope away from him?”

“I hope he won't need it tonight.”

“I hope not, either. You have your nerve.”

Gamadge said, smiling at him: “Do you feel like tasting one of the tablets, in the interests of science—or humanity?”

“No, I do not!” Schenck stepped back, negation in every inch of him.

“Even though the police must have been all over his stuff?”

“No, darn you.”

“Quit criticizing me, then.”

“Somebody out after the guy's life?”

“Might be.”

Gamadge closed the cupboard, and they investigated two closets—one full of faultless clothes, the other, meant for a kitchenette, now used as a photographic darkroom. Schenck said: “You haven't really searched the place.”

“No. No reason to.”

They went back to the living room, and Gamadge found the telephone. After a short wait he got a sleepy response from the factotum below. He asked for his own number.

“That you, Harold? Got your green book? Take this down.” He consulted the back of an envelope, and read out: “Prx, 6283, bjz …Of course I had it written out, all ready. Tubbing, crawl, flimsy pudge. π Got that? Hamburger. That's all.” He waited until Harold had made some response, and rang off.

“Is ‘Hamburger' part of the code, or were you ordering a snack?” asked Schenck.

“It means: ‘Wait around the corner.”'

“Some code!”

“It certainly is.”

Gamadge had his hand on the livingroom switch, when a very quiet knock came on the door of the flat. He paused. Schenck said: “That's not the colored boy. He hadn't time.”

“No. Another visitor.”

“I'll open it.”

“Not on your life, you won't.” Gamadge went down the hall and pushed the door open. He seemed to push the visitor with it, because the bare, gray, dimly lighted corridor showed no one. Presently, however, a figure moved forward and appeared in the entrance of the flat; and Schenck, with a considerable thrill, realized that the caller was Mr. Thomas Duncannon, whose picture, in and out of costume, had figured largely in the newspapers during the last twelve hours.

Gamadge said: “Come in, Mr. Duncannon.” The actor walked slowly down the passage and into the sitting room, pulling off his gray gloves. He seemed to have recovered from his drugging, but his eyes were red-rimmed, and his skin yellow. Every line of his face had sagged; he looked exhausted.

“Payne at home?” he asked, as the other followed him.

“Sorry, he's not,” said Gamadge. “So you did manage to lose your friend with the pink hair, Mr. Duncannon.”

“He went to sleep. I don't suppose I can have been expected to sit and wait for him to wake up.”

“You just walked out of the hotel?”

“By the back way, or one of them. It's quite a maze.” He went over to the chaise longue, and sat down on it. “I wanted to talk this thing over with Payne. He's clever.”

“Very.”

“Thinks some prowler sneaked in and killed my wife.” Duncannon's red-rimmed eyes looked up at Gamadge, but he did not lift his head.

“Not one of his more intelligent ideas, I think.”

“I dare say that was for publication. He may have something else to suggest, when I've talked to him.”

He took his hat off, dropped it on a chair, and leaned quietly back against the cushions of the chaise longue.

Gamadge said: “We were just going. Shall you wait for him?”

“Indefinitely.” He closed his eyes.

Schenck followed Gamadge out of the flat, and down the concrete hall.

“Are you going to tip off the law?” asked Schenck, regarding his companion curiously.

“No.”

“The widower had a smoldering eye, didn't you think so?”

“He has just awakened to harsh realities. We won't disturb the guardian of The Humbert; let's take the stairs.”

“He's been disturbed.” Schenck paused, and listened to the rising clank of the elevator. “Would that be Payne, I wonder? I have a kind of a sort of a feeling that I'd like to tell him he has a caller—with a smoldering eye.”

“That wouldn't be Payne—not yet.” But Gamadge also paused, and as the elevator came to a stop, hastily ducked down the stairs out of sight. Schenck joined him. The gate clashed, the cage descended, and heels tapped on the bare concrete. Gamadge and Schenck cautiously raised their eyes above the level of the floor.

A small, well-rounded figure in a very short-skirted dark suit and a black hat like a cup and saucer pattered along to Cameron Payne's apartment, knocked, turned the knob and walked in. As she closed the door behind her, Schenck asked blankly: “Was it unlocked all the time?”

“Certainly it was. Didn't you see the elevator boy open it?” Gamadge was already mounting the stairs again.

“Didn't notice.” Schenck, alert and amused, followed Gamadge back down the corridor. Still more amused, if a trifle apprehensive, he watched his unpredictable friend gently turn the handle of Payne's door. Suddenly he seized Gamadge's elbow.

“Hey, look,” he begged, in a whisper.

Gamadge looked over his shoulder, and met the gaze of two eyes, which peered at him above the level of the floor. Somebody else had come up the stairs, and now occupied the observation point which they had just abandoned.