Nothing Can Rescue Me

 

 

 

Nothing Can Rescue Me

Elizabeth Daly

Felony & Mayhem Press

New York

The plump little man leaned over Gamadge's shoulder and squeaked in his ear: “Who am I?”

“Hutter!”

“It's a wonder you knew me.” Sylvanus Hutter circled Gamadge's chair, pulled one up for himself, and sat down. He smiled and rubbed his knees. “That last reunion was in 1927.”

“Good Heavens.” Gamadge had laid aside his magazine, to gaze benevolently at his old classmate. “'27 from '42 leaves fifteen.”

“That's New York for you! But of course I'm always on the wing; or was,” his face fell, “until recently. Life will be different for awhile, I suppose.”

“Plenty of things to see on our continent.”

“I don't suppose I shall have time to see them. As for digging! Good-bye to the digs for the duration.”

“Perhaps you'll have time to get out another handsome book. I see them, if I don't see you.” Gamadge added: “Nice of you to tap me.”

“I was going to call you up. Lucky to find you at the old club.”

“I shouldn't be here if my wife weren't away.”

“Oh, is she? That's too bad. Florence and I hoped you'd both be able to come up to Underhill to-morrow for over Sunday. We've never met Mrs. Gamadge—too absurd.”

“She's in the West; her aunt's ill there, and needed her.”

“But you'll come, Gamadge, old man?”

Gamadge, as he considered the question, thought that fifteen years had not made much difference in Sylvanus Hutter. He was old for thirty-six—his lightish hair was thinning, his pinkish face had developed creases that would soon be wrinkles; but he was still as neat as a pin, and still punctilious—if he had dressed for a solitary dinner at the club; his yellow-brown eyes were still unable squarely to meet the eyes of the person he was talking to; his manner, in spite of a touch of nervousness, was as deliberate as of old. Sylvanus had never caught trains; he had advanced upon them with quiet purpose, ignoring their clamour and the rush of the crowd.

The round eyes besought Gamadge, and shifted away. “Florence will be disappointed if you can't manage the week-end—what's left of it.” He added: “Dine with me and think it over.”

“Awfully sorry, I'm meeting some men for bridge and dinner. Wish I were not; I'm straight from the office.”

“You in an office?”

“Bit of a war job. I'd like to go up to Underhill; I haven't seen Florence for five years—since her wedding. You don't see much of people at their weddings.”

“I wasn't at the wedding. Couldn't get home for it.” Hutter was still rubbing his plump knees, “I was laid up abroad.”

“So you were.” Gamadge remembered a theory, current at the time, that if Sylvanus had not been stranded in Rome with a broken leg his Aunt Florence would never have rushed into, and gone through with, her unsuitable marriage.

“Florence says you really must come to-morrow; I mean, you really must.” Hutter's straying eyes rose from Gamadge's tie to his face, and remained there. “It's—it's a case, you know.”

“A case?”

“For you. At least, Florence thinks it is. I don't as yet agree with her. I still think it may be some silly game.”

“I have no time for cases, Syl; my assistant's in camp, my own job's shot to pieces, and I'm up to my ears in war work.”

“Surely you could give us to-morrow and Sunday?”

“I'd have to leave on Sunday afternoon. I must be in that office by nine on Monday morning.”

“You could probably clear the whole thing up overnight. We know,” said Hutter, smiling, “what a great man you are.”

This was a joke—a Hutter joke. Greatness, even to the present sophisticated generation of Hutters, meant an ability to make a great deal of money; except in the case of a few persons, most of whom had been dead a long time.

“Don't tease me,” begged Gamadge.

“Tease you? We're only thankful we know a fellow like you. The matter's confidential, very ticklish, Florence is upset. She needs a man of sense to confer with.”

“Her husband doesn't qualify?” Gamadge, remembering Tim Mason the cheerful idiot, the muscular sportsman, who had succeeded at last where other, wiser fortune hunters had failed, asked the question with raised eyebrows.

Hutter laughed, “I think you know Tim Mason!”

“I knew him once—slightly. I haven't seen him since the wedding, either.”

“Well, he's sixteen years younger than Florence, and you can guess that she didn't marry him because he was sensible.”

“He must be forty now.”

Hutter wagged his head. “He's no help in a matter of this kind. He won't take it seriously.”

“You say you don't take it seriously, whatever it is.”

“Well; I—at first I didn't. Now I'm beginning to wonder whether it oughtn't to be looked into after all.”

“What's it all about, anyway?”

“I'm ashamed to say that it seems to be all about spooks.” Hutter laughed without much heartiness.

“I'm no authority on them, my dear boy.”

“Poor Florrie thinks she is. She took up automatic writing, and planchette, and all the rest of it, some time ago. Sally Deedes got her into it—you remember Sally? She's been in a state of distraction for a great while, what with her marriage going to pieces, and her shop, and taxes, and the war. To tell you the truth, Gamadge, I ask myself whether Sally isn't doing the things herself; unconsciously, of course. I ask myself whether Florence isn't!”

Gamadge was irritated. “What things? What things?”

“Don't ask me; it's all above my head. I'd only confuse you and myself if I attempted to explain. You must come and get it straight from Florence, you really must.”

Gamadge sat back to study Florence Mason's nephew with knitted brows. If Syl's complacence had been disturbed, something very disagreeable must be going on at Underhill. Gamadge would not have been surprised to hear that trouble had followed the Mason marriage, but he would not have expected the trouble to proceed from the spirit world.

He thought of Florence's wedding. She had carried it off well, with the childlike confidence that disarms criticism, and the cool determination that overrides it. She had looked younger than her fifty-one years, if a trifle haggard in her smart bridal gown and veil. She had been fluttery, emotional, triumphant. Mason, thick-shouldered and blond, the picture of satisfaction and good humour, had crushed the bones of Gamadge's hand. “Isn't she a wonderful girl, old man?” And Florence had embraced Gamadge, had cried, had shown him Syl's lovely cable from Rome.

“Henry darling,” she had quavered, “why don't you get married?”

Gamadge had benignly wished them luck. Now he passed the imbecile query on to Sylvanus Hutter: “Why don't you get married, Syl?”

“Me?” Hutter was almost resentful. “Why should I get married? I'm perfectly happy as I am—or was, until this wretched war stopped my work. I don't even know what will happen to my new book—the Mexican book. The fellow who was helping me with the text—clever boy—has gone off to fight.”

Gamadge respected the taste, the industry, and the knowledge that went into Hutter's art-and-travel books, published at his own expense in luxurious style, and illustrated for the most part with photographs of places and objects taken by Hutter himself. And Hutter collected things, too. Gamadge asked: “Did you bring much stuff home with you?”

“Oh, no; that isn't my field, you know; my field is closed. And my collecting wasn't ever to be taken seriously, in any case; I hadn't the money to buy much of anything really good. But Florence was worried about our best things—she has some nice silver and glass, you know; she insisted on having it all crated—waterproof crating—and bringing it up to Underhill. She thinks we might bury it.”

“No, really?”

“Florence wouldn't stay in New York after the air wardens began to come around. She was frightened.”

“I wondered how you all happened to be in Underhill in February.”

“We went up on the first, for the duration.”

“Dear me! I had no idea people were evacuating themselves.”

“Oh, Florence was determined to go. We closed the New York house, and we've taken a little apartment. We all run down, now and then. This is the twentieth, isn't it? We've been up at Underhill nearly three weeks.”

“What on earth does Mason find to do with himself at Underhill?”

“Oh, he's quite happy. He has his horses, and he's planning a nine-hole golf course across the stream. He comes to town a good deal, runs about, follows the races. Florence keeps the house full of people, you know. We're very gay.” But Sylvanus did not look gay.

“She always did love a houseful.” Gamadge smiled, remembering Underhill in former days.

“Yes. She was fairly happy until this wretched business came along. Somebody's been playing tricks. Until yesterday, though, I hoped that if we paid no attention the nonsense would stop. Yesterday—to be frank with you, I was disturbed; I let Florence persuade me that we'd better call you in. Miss Wing was inclined to wait a little.”

“Miss Wing?”

“Florence's secretary.”

“Florence has a secretary, has she?”

“Oh, yes. She's had several. She needs somebody to do her cheques and her social correspondence, get the household bills straight, that kind of thing. As a matter of fact, I've often been glad of someone to do my own accounts when I'm busy. And Miss Wing is a very highly educated girl, and she's been indispensable,” said Hutter, smiling a little, “since Florence began to write.”

“Florence is writing? Splendid.” Gamadge himself refrained from smiling.

“For a year or so she tried plays, but she seemed to have a good deal of trouble with them, so she decided to attempt a novel. She started it as soon as she got to Underhill, and she's been at it tooth and nail.”

“Good for Florence.”

“It was just what she needed to keep her busy up there. Miss Wing was invaluable—gave her her head, and did all the hard work. She's a most cultivated, accomplished girl, a cousin of Sally Deedes. Has a bachelor's degree, fell on hard times. Florence is devoted to her. She's lasted,” said Hutter simply, “four years.”

“It sounds as if she had plenty to do.”

“She earns her salary, but you know Florence—how extremely good she is to people she likes. Miss Wing hoped at first that she'd be able to get to the bottom of this trouble we've been having—clear it up herself. But Florence and I think it's gone too far; it ought to be stopped.”

“How long has it been going on?”

“A couple of weeks.”

“Who's been in the house while it was going on?”

“That's the worst of it—that's why Florence is so badly upset. Eliminating the servants—and we can eliminate them, as you will see—”

“Tell me now why we can eliminate them.”

“They're mentally incapable of such a trick. Besides—ridiculous! You remember dear old Thomas, and Florence's Louise; devotion itself. The others—well, they're out of the question. When you hear the story you'll know what I mean.”

“I hope so.”

“Just take my word for it that the thing needed brains, brains and a debased kind of imagination. You know, Gamadge, that I have very little imagination myself; I take things coolly, I don't go off the handle. But this business has given me a very queer feeling; unless Florence or Sally has quite gone off her head, hang it all, there's something ugly in the house. Bad feeling, I mean.”

“Who was there besides the servants, Syl?” asked Gamadge patiently.

“Mason and myself, Sally Deedes, Miss Wing, Susie Burt, and a young fellow named Percy. Did you ever know Susie Burt? She would have been a child when you used to stay at Underhill.”

“I remember a beautiful Mrs. Burt.”

“That was Susie's mother, Florence's best friend. She died, her husband died, and Susie's their only child. Susie's had practically no income for some years. Florence took her on, tried to make her into a secretary just before she married Mason. It didn't work; Susie's not up to it. She stays with us a good deal—awfully pretty, very good company when she wants to be—and she has had various jobs from time to time here in town. None of them was very solid or lasting. Florence thinks she's forward with men, but of course the poor girl wants be married. I never saw any great harm in her myself.”

“Who's Percy?”

“He's an old friend of Susie's, charming fellow, been coming to Underhill with the Burts since he was a child. Great favourite with Florence; has no people, writes or something, lots of personality. Mason thinks he's affected, but it's only his way. He's from Georgia originally, but he now lives in New York.”