Murders in, Volume 2 (3 page)

“Don't laugh; it's too awful. Uncle Imbrie thinks she's come back.”

Gamadge sat up in his chair and looked at Miss Vauregard.

“Just a hundred years afterwards, you know—on May the third, 1940. Don't laugh; it's too awful.”

“I'm not laughing.”

“He says she appeared in the doorway of the arbor at half past five in the afternoon, wearing a cornflower-blue silk dress with a white ruffle, and carrying a white silk scarf.”

“Mr. Vauregard told you this?”

“Yes, and he isn't insane. Of course, he's always been interested in what he calls occultism; he thinks he's psychic. It's nothing connected with religion, you know, and it's not spiritualism. He calls it New Soul.”

“He's addled his head with New Soul, the poor old boy!”

“Well, he has some excuse, Mr. Gamadge; when she came back, she brought the book with her.”

“Book?”

“The Byron, Volume II.”

“The Byron, Volume II,” repeated Gamadge, staring.

“The gap in the bookshelf is filled at last. You'll see Volume II when you go into the library—the binding is fresher. He's so proud of it all, he'll probably find some excuse to show it to you.”

Gamadge leaned back and lighted a cigarette. “I never heard such a story in my life.”

“The book matches, Mr. Gamadge; it's out of a set of ten. You see why we want you so dreadfully? You absolutely must come and look at it.”

“I shall certainly come and look at it. A collector's item, by Jove, if ever there was one!”

“And now he's dropped New Soul completely, and hasn't been near the Chandors since.”

“Are they the New Soul merchants?”

“Yes. Angela introduced him, as a matter of fact—she's always been amused by that kind of thing. So many theater people are.”

“And business people.”

“Then she got worried about it, he seemed so engrossed by them. Now he's dropped the Chandors.”

“Doesn't need any more instruction in the occult; I see. Have you been introduced to Miss Wagoneur since she escaped from the fourth dimension?”

“Yes, but not for nearly a month after she came. However, I heard of her on May the fourth. Uncle telephoned me quite early that morning—it was a Saturday, I remember—and asked me to do some shopping for him. I often do, I'm always delighted.

“He startled me with a most extraordinary story. He said that the daughter of some very old friends of his—English—had been caught somewhere in Europe when the Germans came, and was only just able to escape to the coast. Her family was all dead, she had no friends nearer than England, and as the only boat she could find was coming to America, she thought of Uncle, whom she had often heard spoken of by her people, and embarked.”

“What did he say she had been doing on the continent of Europe?”

“She was a governess in some noble family. He explained that she had lost all her luggage, and had even had to borrow a hat.”

“How did she manage about papers?”

“Kind officials got her off as a refugee.”

“Not a bad story at all.”

“I swallowed it whole, and couldn't imagine what poor Uncle would do with the girl, or how he could stand such an upset. He then said that he wanted me to buy a complete outfit for her; the sort of thing Clara would wear, the best to be had. She was older than Clara, though—about twenty-five. She'd given him measurements, and I could tell that she was very slim, and quite tall. He said she was a blonde, and liked blue.”

Gamadge closed his eyes, and murmured: “Good heavens.”

“He said no formal evening things, nothing but the simplest clothes—she was quite shattered by her experiences, and couldn't stand meeting anybody for a long time. He said I wasn't to tell a soul, not until he gave me permission.

“I went straight out and did the shopping; it took me all morning, until lunchtime. Old John—that's the butler; he and his wife Eliza have taken care of Uncle for years, the nicest English couple—John met me at the door, looking bewildered, and took in the parcels. I didn't pump him, of course; but I did ask how the young lady was getting on, and he said she was resting, and hadn't come down yet. I asked after Uncle, and he said Uncle was ‘a little shaken, Madam, but quite happy making plans for the young lady.' I wasn't at all surprised to hear that he was shaken. A refugee in Traders Row!

“John was evidently dying to say more—we're very thick—but neither of us quite dared. John and Eliza simply worship Uncle; they're absolutely loyal to him. I heard nothing more until last Sunday. Uncle Imbrie telephoned and asked me to coffee—that always means five o'clock. When I arrived there was nobody in the library, and I wandered around as I always do, glancing at the books and things. I had my first shock when I saw Volume II of the Byron staring at me from the shelf; that gap in the set is such an institution that it was like seeing the Winged Victory with a head, or the Venus of Milo with arms. I could hardly believe my eyes. I stood and gaped at it, and I saw that it looked quite fresh and brown—the others are faded almost to gray.

“Uncle came in while I stared, and it gave him a perfect opening. You cannot imagine the excitement and pride with which he told me that gruesome story. I wouldn't have hurt him for anything, so I didn't laugh hysterically; but I did have to sit down and drink a glass of sherry.”

“I should have called for a pony of brandy.”

“John always brings sherry when women have the vapors. When I felt strong enough to listen to the rest of it, he told me how dazed, and lost, and frightened she had been, gazing around her and up at the high buildings; and how he had helped her into the house by the garden door, and how she had fainted in the hall. He called John and Eliza, hastily told them the refugee tale (he'd just been listening to the radio, poor darling) and Eliza got her to bed. It's their rest hour, between coffee and sherry time, and Eliza was upstairs in her room, and John was in their sitting room. They hadn't seen a thing.”

“Neat timing.”

“Yes, I realized that, and I was in a fury. Poor Uncle! I really didn't see how I could behave decently to the creature when he brought her in, but luckily I pulled myself together. He introduced her as Miss Smith. He had implored me not to refer to anything ‘extra-normal,' as he called it; I was to pretend that she was really a refugee. I assure you, I feel ten years older since that afternoon.”

“Quite a strain for you. Does she feel the strain, do you think? It must be terrific, for her.”

“She didn't show it. A quiet, well-bred young woman, very pretty, rather stiff and formal, old-fashioned manners, you know. I could have shaken her! Sitting there knowing that we must humor Uncle! Perhaps she really is English—I don't know. I poured the coffee, and she drank a cup, and ate cakes. Uncle's story had confused me so that, to tell you the truth, I hardly regarded her as human. She's very pale.”

“Don't forget that she's putting something tremendous over, or trying to.”

“I tried not to remember it. Uncle was pleased with me; he told me afterwards, when she left the room, that I had been most tactful. I was to break it to the family under seal of secrecy, and they were to come and meet her by relays.”

“The family ghost.”

“He needn't worry about our telling people! I don't know what we should do if the papers got hold of it! Well, she's installed there; for good, so far as we know. Uncle said it would be a long time before she would be able to take up normal life again. He said it was a miracle she had kept her senses, and that he had a sacred responsibility. Dick met her on Monday—he's furious. Being a lawyer, he spends his time trying to think what we can do about it without a scandal, and without annoying Uncle. Angela refused to go—says she couldn't trust herself; she sent Tom Duncannon in her place. Uncle didn't like it at first—he thought Angie shouldn't have told anyone outside the family—but that's absurd, of course she told her own husband. Tom seems to feel as if she must be a victim, in some way. He's not as down on her as we are, I suppose because Uncle Imbrie is no relation to him. Mr. Gamadge, you will help us? May I take you there this afternoon?”

“Nothing short of violence could keep me away from the place; but what exactly do you want me to do?”

“Find out who she is, of course, and get some proof of it that we can show Uncle Imbrie.”

“Let us discuss it intelligently over the juleps. Theodore has taken his time with them, but I see they're frosted.”

“N
OW FOR IT,” said Gamadge. “Feel better?”

“Ever so much better. It was just what I wanted.”

“Then let's go over the general situation. You must realize, of course, that if you took the thing into court Miss Smith would hardly last through the first day's proceedings. No, I understand that you don't care to take it into court; but your nephew, who is a lawyer, must know that there are private proceedings, in which a delicate family matter like this can be adjusted before a referee, or in judges' chambers, or something. The refugee story would be knocked into a cocked hat, and your Uncle Imbrie clapped into a sanatorium for life, if you wanted him there.”

“We shouldn't for one moment consider putting him into an asylum. He isn't insane.”

“But credulous, Miss Vauregard—extremely credulous. Lots of aged persons have been judged incompetent on less evidence than this preposterous arbor story.”

“I won't have him put in a sanatorium. And if he isn't put in one, he'll be so annoyed at us for interfering that he'll cut us out of his will. We'll lose all his money, instead of just whatever he means to give Miss Smith.”

“The financial end of it is interesting, but complicated. How will he convey property to Miss Smith, do you think?”

“In his will—he'll make a new one. Or he'll create a trust.”

“Wills can be broken, and this will could certainly be broken. Don't forget that Miss Smith will never go into court with either of her stories. Trust ditto. She wouldn't put faith in one or the other.”

“She'll persuade him to give her the money outright.”

“Unless he really is insane on this one subject, a businessman like Mr. Vauregard wouldn't hand over cash or its equivalent—not any amount that would repay Miss Smith for all her trouble—in a lump sum, and for the asking. I suppose she and her backers—she really must have backers—can't be out after something in the house, can they? Something of great value?”

“There isn't anything in the house worth such a conspiracy. Even the silver wouldn't be worth it. I suppose she must be a member of a gang, mustn't she? And poor Uncle's alone in the house with her, except for the servants! I can't bear it. We must get rid of her somehow.”

“You're not sufficiently afraid of her to risk publicity, and your uncle's annoyance, though.”

“Risk! If we put him in the papers—oh, it doesn't bear thinking of. And besides, he simply dotes on the woman! I'm only afraid that the shock of finding she's an impostor will kill him.”

“Perhaps nothing could shake his faith in her. Nothing will, if it's an obsession.”

“But he's so perfectly sensible on every other subject. He's very shrewd about money. He would loathe having been made a fool of. If we could convince him, by degrees…”

“Delicate job. I suppose he guards her like a dragon?”

“She needn't meet anybody, unless she chooses. She certainly wouldn't see you, unless she thought you had just come to look at the books. She hasn't been off the place since she came, and I never get a moment alone with her.”

“Well, let's see. What about catching her out, in some way? The clothes she came in; could we get hold of them? One single modern hook or eye, you know.”

“Mr. Gamadge, it's too maddening! She burned them up.”

“Burned them up!”

“Uncle told me so. He said she hated the sight of them. He was telling me the refugee story, and he said that she had worn the things for weeks, and asked permission to burn them.”

“I suppose she told him that they awakened sad memories of the fourth dimension. Miss Smith is very clever.”

“It's a gang—a gang of swindlers.”

“How about these Chandors—the New Soul people? It sounds a little like the kind of game an occultist outfit might think up.”

“We did discuss them, but Angela says they're most respectable, have a lot of important clients, dine out, make loads of money. She doesn't think they'd risk a thing like this.”

“Well, we have three bets left. Miss Smith may give herself away; she can't know all the habits and customs, to say nothing of the phraseology, peculiar to England and America in the early part of the nineteenth century.”

“Uncle wouldn't know enough to ask her the proper questions, or catch her if she made a mistake; and he wouldn't let anybody else ask her anything at all. I don't see how she can keep it up forever, though—playing such a part. And living in seclusion like that I should think would drive her mad.”

“I'm afraid she doesn't mean to keep it up forever. Our second chance is to identify her with somebody. Would Mr. Vauregard let me take a picture of her, I wonder?”

“I can see her letting you take her picture!”

“If I brought a jolly little miniature candid camera along, Mr. Vauregard might think it a charming idea; and she couldn't do anything about it, short of flying from the room.”

“She'd fly from the room, and say she felt ill, or something.”

“I can't try it out today, because I have no such camera, and can't use one effectively, anyway. Harold will have to teach me. He does all the photographing around here, mostly in the laboratory. The only trouble is, one can't do much, secretly, with a photograph. The police—”