Murders in, Volume 2 (9 page)

“Not even a private wire?”

“No, I'm afraid the poor things are dreadfully hard up nowadays.”

Mrs. Morton went into the room behind the green parlor, which seemed to be a small, dark library. There was a desk in front of its one window, at which she sat down with her back to the drawn portieres. The doorbell rang. Dick Vauregard, who had been frowning at his feet, now addressed Gamadge curiously:

“You said Miss Smith was dangerous. How do you mean, dangerous—apart from the danger to our money?”

“When a thing of this sort is being carried on, regardless of risk and trouble, one never knows what it may lead to.”

Duncannon said sharply, “I don't know what that implies.”

“Well, technically at least, a crime is in process of construction; and there's always the chance that one crime will lead to another.”

“I don't see why.”

“A second one may be necessary to back up or conceal the first. Classical example, much used in secondary education:
Macbeth
.”

“Nonsense. If Miss Smith were cornered, she would simply pack up and disappear, I suppose,” said young Vauregard.

“Let us hope so.”

Miss Clara Dawson came in, her cheeks glowing. She was followed by a tall young man of Saxon fairness, who walked with the aid of a stick. Miss Dawson seemed to be in the highest spirits.

“Hello, gang,” she said. “Hello, Mr. Gamadge. Great-uncle Imbrie thinks you're a wonderful man. He adores you. Let me introduce Cameron Payne.”

Mr. Payne, who also seemed to be in high spirits, and who had a radiant smile, shook hands.

“You certainly made a hit down there,” he said.

Miss Vauregard exclaimed: “Clara, what have you and Cameron been doing?”

“Don't be like that, Aunt Robbie; we couldn't resist. We've seen the zombi.”

M
RS.MORTON CAME BACK
into the drawing room, an envelope in her hand. She looked ill-pleased.

“Clara,” she said, “you were to tell nobody.”

“It never entered my head that you could mean Cam, Aunt Angela. You told Tom.”

“Tom is my husband. You are not married to Cameron Payne yet, so far as I am aware.”

Payne said, in a light but masculine singsong that consorted admirably with his angelic coloring: “Easy does it, Mrs. Morton. I shan't spread it.” There was nothing angelic about the way his eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled, or about the teasing humor with which he looked at her. He stood carelessly leaning on his stick, poised on one foot, the other knee bent slightly. He wore a thin gray suit, the loose, fashionable cut of which seemed to minimize his lameness.

“Of course Cameron won't tell.” Clara pushed a chair up behind him, and he sat down in it without looking at her; his act, as well as hers, seemed automatic. She remained standing beside him, a hand on the chair back, while with the other she pulled off her felt riding hat. She cast it on a table some distance away, and smoothed back her thick, soft brown hair with the gesture of one who knows that it is, and will remain, neatly in place. “Uncle gave us sherry,” she said. “Why didn't somebody tell us that the zombi—excuse me, Tom—why didn't some of you say how good-looking she is?”

Mrs. Morton handed the envelope to Gamadge. Her brilliant smile had returned, and did not alter as she said: “I hope that joke about Tom and the—and Miss Smith will wear thin after a week or so. We can't hope to hear the last of it sooner, I suppose. Infants!”

“Why shouldn't Tom admire her? She's perfectly lovely, and Cam thinks so, too.”

“Beautiful,” agreed that young man, turning his impish smile on Gamadge. “But a trifle dumb, perhaps?”

“Dumb? She's putting on a wonderful show—you'll have to give her that,” said Dick Vauregard. “She's anything but dumb.”

“She's a little spooky,” said Clara, “but I might not have thought so if I didn't know the arbor story.”

Duncannon said: “You're a fair-minded girl, Clara; didn't she look to you as if she might have been through so much that it had knocked her out, for the time being?”

“Yes, she did; but I thought that was part of the show, Tom.”

The doorbell rang again.

“Why don't you get a picture of her, Mr. Gamadge?” asked Clara. “Somebody would be sure to recognize it, she's so wonderful-looking. Uncle said you were going back there tomorrow, before dinner. You could take along one of those little tiny cameras, and snap her through a hole in your coat, or something. Isn't that what detectives do?”

Gamadge began: “That had occurred to me; but—”

Dick Vauregard interrupted, with some irritation “Give the man credit, Clara! And do sit down, can't you? You're keeping him on his feet.”

“No, no; I must be going. There are slight difficulties in the way of my snapping Miss Smith through a hole in my coat, Miss Dawson.”

“But there are little cameras no bigger than a cigarette lighter; Cameron has one.”

Payne said, with his humorous smile: “It's a nice little gadget, but not constructed for snooping.”

Gamadge's quick look found no malice in the young man's face, nor had there been any in his tone; but he replied with an amiability which certain persons had in the past found reason to distrust: “My snooping is done in the grand manner. I don't know my job well enough to hold a card up my sleeve, much less palm it. No deception, ladies and gentlemen.”

The house man came in, looking wild, and announced: “Mr. Bridge is calling.”

A short, stocky man with a pale, flat face and round eyes entered slowly. His expression of acid resignation did not change when Mrs. Morton, from her sofa, extended her long arm in the loose green-silk sleeve.

“Darling Weddie! I had given you up. Was that your ring, ages ago? Luigi is so slow.”

“You run the poor devil off his legs. I was looking at the little Drouet again.”

“What fascinates you so about that landscape?”

“Make a nice set for a Tchekhov play.”

“Mr. Gamadge, Mr. Bridge. He directs the Mermaid Group. He's persuading me to have a last fling in such a wonderful play. Can you keep a secret?”

“Try me.”

“Would you come to see me as Vittoria Corombona?”

Bridge said: “People will come to see anybody as Vittoria Corombona.”

“Now, Weddie, is that nice of you?”

“It's a glorious idea,” said Gamadge. “I'll come, don't worry.”

“Have you brought the costume sketches for me?” asked Mrs. Morton eagerly.

Bridge took a folder from under his arm. “Yes, all except Brachiano. Duncannon will have to go to the Morgan library, with a card, if he wants to see that.”

“And now we have practically everything!”

“Except money,” said Bridge. “If we don't do it right, the police will close us up; there's only one way to get by with Webster—put on so many frills that nobody will know what it's all about.”

“Where is Luigi? Oh, there you are; a cocktail for Mr. Bridge, and won't you stay for dinner, Weddie? Can't you? Too bad. Let's see…this is Wednesday. How about Friday? Without fail? Good. Must you really be going, Mr. Gamadge? You'll let me know all about everything? Thank you so much.”

Gamadge made his adieux. When he came to Clara Dawson, she said: “Tomorrow, don't forget.”

“I won't forget.”

“When Great-uncle Imbrie said you were going down there, I was afraid you had forgotten our tea party.”

“No, indeed. I was careful to arrange for that.”

“Love to Martin.”

“Thank you, he'll be touched.”

Miss Vauregard said nothing when he took leave of her; but her eyes were anxious and questioning. He gave her a friendly smile, and was off.

He took the first taxi he saw, and was at home in five minutes. As he dashed up the steps Harold came out of the front door. Not the least of that youth's peculiarities was his dislike of sit-down meals, and his preference for strange foods, eaten in solitude and at counters.

“You just caught me,” he said.

“That's what I hoped to do. Can you deliver a note for me?”

“Right now?”

“In a cab.”

“O.K.”

Gamadge turned into the office and wrote the note, which he enclosed in an envelope with Mrs. Morton's.

“Here you are,” he said. “I'm going out to dinner, and I may not see you later. First thing tomorrow I want you to get me the best and smallest miniature camera to be had for money. How much do they cost?”

“Don't know. I'll get it at Forbes', where we have an account.”

“I want to photograph marks on a book, and if possible I want to photograph a woman. Indoor work. The camera will have to be very candid.”

“O.K.”

“I want to use it tomorrow.”

Harold placed his snap-brim felt on his black hair, and went out. Gamadge took a shower, dressed, and went to his club. There he dined with a friend, and played bridge afterwards. During the course of the evening he acquired certain information.

From an old gentleman:

The Dykincks were church set, and were supposed to have about enough money left from their invested fortune to pay their taxes. They had sold all the New York property they had inherited except the Thirty-fourth Street house, rented their Newport cottage, and were no longer bothered by requests for subscriptions. The mother (who had been a Dykinck, too) was an invalid. The girl was tied to her—one of those deplorable things—and didn't go out much, either.

From a somewhat horsy young man:

The Vauregards used to be horse fanciers, but none of them rode now except the girl, and Mrs. Morton only drove when she was in the country, old hacks she had had for years. They never showed horses. The girl and Dick still belonged to the Riding Club, but Dick had no time now for riding.

Cameron Payne had been a polo player, and had had a bad accident—not at polo. Some kind of spill. Duncannon wasn't a riding man—went in for fast motoring. Quite a decent sort, but he and Dick Vauregard were not supposed to get on.

From a young actor:

Duncannon had never been star material, used to get by on his looks, and was now definitely on the skids. Had had some bad luck, besides; two of his recent plays had been flops. He had been in Angela Morton's company six years before, and had been shoved by her into the part of Christian, when she undertook an ill-fated revival of
Cyrano
. Mrs. Morton had fallen in love with him during the short run, and had married him in a month.

“They say he really did fall in love with her, too,” said Gamadge's informant. “She had a lot of appeal, they tell me. She won't let him go into pictures.”

“Did he get a chance at pictures?”

“He did about five years ago. She wouldn't hear of his going to Hollywood.” The young actor laughed, in a cynical manner. “She says the pictures are not art.”

“Has plenty of money, hasn't she?”

“I don't know why she should have. She's spent a lot on Duncannon, and I hear she supports a whole raft of poor relations.”

From an athletic member:

Cameron Payne was an orphan, twenty-eight years old, an ex-polo player of some reputation. He had had a riding accident four years previously and would be knocked up for life. Popular guy, even now, but of course he had more or less dropped out of things. Had a little money, enough to get on with, belonged to a good club, played cards a good deal. Lived in a flat by himself, somewhere. “Was going to be a metallurgical chemist, but had to give it up. Fooled around in somebody's lab, now and then. Hard luck—time must hang heavy on his hands. He never cared for anything but sports.”

Gamadge went home at midnight, and found two notes on his bedside table. The first was from Harold, and was short:

They had me wait on the stoop while they

wrangled the answer.

The second was written in a tremulous, flowing hand, on thick, black-bordered paper; it said:

Gamadge reverently studied the Dykinck crest, which seemed to consist of a gloved hand brandishing a carving knife, and then retired to bed.

At nine o'clock on the following morning he asked Harold to call the Chandor apartment. “Tell them I wish to consult them about a literary matter,” he said, “and that I was referred to them by the Vauregards.”

Harold went into the office, and came back presently to say that the Chandor secretary sounded like a tough proposition, and requested a letter. Gamadge, annoyed, penned the following:

CHANDORS:

Harold was asked to deliver this epistle by hand. He withdrew, and Gamadge took down several reference books, in which he immersed himself until his assistant's return. By that time he was convinced that of all early Dutch settlers and merchants, the Dykincks had probably been the dullest and most blameless. They had built nothing, founded nothing, and created nothing except Dykincks. They had apparently done nothing but make and save money, and how they had managed to lose it all, Gamadge could not imagine.