Nothing Can Rescue Me (12 page)

“He's so nice; you'll like him. Does he say it was those awful people up in the valley? They used to be bootleggers, and kidnap people.”

“I don't know what he thinks.” Even now Miss Wing did not look at Gamadge. She said: “Of course they're asking us all questions.”

“I don't know why they should ask
you
questions.”

“They want to know whether we heard anything.”

“Oh, Evvie, I can't realize it!”

“No, of course not. Dear Mrs. Mason, I must go. There's a man waiting.”

“I'll stay,” said Gamadge. “I won't leave you until the doctor and the nurses come.”

Miss Wing straightened, and her eyes met Gamadge's at last. “Nurses?”

“Mrs. Mason has had a great shock.”

“I could nurse her.”

“In a case like this one's time isn't one's own. Better rely on professionals.”

Mrs. Deedes came from the telephone. She was white and shaken, but she spoke cheerfully to her friend: “Dr. Burbage was at home; isn't that lucky? And he says he can get hold of Miss Mudge. You like Miss Mudge, Florrie.”

“She's very nice.” Mrs. Mason, a volatile type, was recovering; she had relaxed on her pillows, and a faint flush was growing on her cheek-bones. Sylvanus's death had of course shocked her greatly, but she would not grieve for him; their affection had never been deep.

Sergeant Morse appeared in the doorway. “Lieutenant would like you ladies to come down right away and wait in the dining-room.

“Go down, both of you,” said Mrs. Mason, bravely. “Go right down. You must do everything you can to help Windorp catch the man. Henry will take care of me.”

Gamadge consulted Sergeant Morse with a glance, and the sergeant's nod permitted him to stay. He waited until Miss Wing and Mrs. Deedes had been shepherded from the room; then he closed the hall door and the door into the bath, and came to sit down beside the bed. “Now,” he said, smiling, but looking determined.

“‘Now,' Henry? What do you mean?”

“Now we must think fast. What a comfort it is to deal with a woman of affairs; a woman like you, who can throw off shock, and pull herself together, and face the immediate future.”

“Oh dear; I can't—yet.”

“Now is the time for action; you can relax when the nurses come, and stop thinking completely. Here—let me plump up those pillows for you—you'll feel much stronger sitting up. I know you, Florrie; no fans and aspirin for you; you need a cigarette.”

He got her almost upright against her cushions, lighted a cigarette for her, and one for himself. “Now,” he said, “we're all set. Poor Syl is dead, and you are a multi-millionaire—with the free disposal of your father's fortune.”

Mrs. Mason's flush deepened; she gazed at him, startled and greatly excited. “Henry—I never thought!”

“Of course you didn't.”

“I never dreamed I should outlive poor Syl! I simply can't realize it at all!”

“As your adviser I must remind you that you must make that new will—make it without a moment's loss of time.”

Mrs. Mason looked staggered. “Make it
now
?”

“Of course. We talked that over. It mustn't stand as it is—not a day.”

“Yes, but, Henry, there can't be any such hurry as that! I'm not going to die, you know.”

“You certainly are not.” Gamadge, looking at her, marvelled at the defence mechanisms of the human brain.

“And I do think it's most inconsiderate of you to badger me like this at such a time,” she protested.

“Best thing in the world for you; anybody will tell you so.”

“You men would make us talk business in an earthquake. Oh, have it your own way,” said Mrs. Mason, in a weak voice.

“Fine. Where's that will you made on Thursday?”

“In the desk, somewhere. One of the drawers.”

He rummaged until he found it—a neat job, folded lengthwise, and inscribed:
Last Will and Testament of Florence Hutter Mason
. He collected a blotting-pad, paper, and a fountain pen, brought them and the will to her, and placed the blotter on her knees. Then, getting out his own pen, he sat down.

“Now,” he said, “let's see. The important thing is to dispose of the residuary estate.”

“I've been thinking that over,” she said briskly. “I'm going to leave it in equal shares to the Bethea Home for Destitute Children and the church I told you about in New York.”

“Good. Very sensible.”

“It's wonderful to be able to do such useful things.”

“Isn't it? Now for the other bequests.”

“I think I might double Sally's and Susie Burt's.”

“A hundred thousand apiece? Very nice.”

“And a hundred thousand to Evelyn Wing,” said Mrs. Mason firmly, “and my personal chattels, and Underhill.” Gamadge, making no comment, wrote it down. “What are you doing for Mason?” he asked.

She pressed her lips together.

“Now, Florrie; I know you think he wrote those things into your book and tried to get rid of Miss Wing, and I know he took Susie Burt to a night club; but you have no more proof against him, after all, when it comes to the business of tampering with your script, than you have against the others; and you're leaving them a lot of money. This will can be changed later; but if you should die suddenly, having cut him out, he'd put up an awful fight.”

“I don't believe he could break my will.”

“He'd do his best.”

“Well, then, I'll say a hundred thousand—but it's provisional.”

Gamadge said gravely: “All these bequests are provisional. Now, what about something for Corinne Hutter?”

Mrs. Mason's face assumed the look of mulish obstinacy that it took on whenever Corinne Hutter's financial affairs were mentioned. “I told you I don't wish her to get up and say she's too good for Hutter money!”

“She won't.”

“She refused the annuity Syl and I offered her.”

“Put her down anyway. People will talk if you don't; they'll say you were mean. Let her say what she likes—everybody will think she's making a perfect fool of herself.”

“Well; Syl and I thought of five hundred a year.”

“Then it ought to be a thousand, now, since you're doubling the other bequests.” Gamadge jotted it down; Mrs. Mason, watching him with some annoyance, tapped the blotting-pad with the end of her fountain pen.

“Servants,” said Gamadge.

“I'll leave them as they were. Syl and I arranged that between us. They're in his will, too,” Mrs. Mason's face clouded, and her eyes filled with tears. “I simply can't realize that he's gone first! And such a dreadful way—oh, Henry, who could have done such a thing?”

“Windorp will find out. Now just a minute more, Florrie. Executors.”

“The bank's one, and poor Syl was the other.”

“Let me put Bob Macloud down. He knows Syl's affairs, and your affairs, and he's incorruptible, and he'll approve of this will. I want you to let me call him up for you now. He ought to come out as soon as he can get here.”

“He charges so much.”

“You can afford to pay him anything. Let me get hold of him for you. You'll need him.”

“Oh, very well. Whom shall we get to witness this will, Henry?”

“Couple of State police—how's that for law?” He laid his notes on the blotter. “Now just you copy these out, and here's the other will to go by. You're an old hand at it—you'll know what to do.”

Mrs. Mason, reading his notes, slowly unscrewed the top of her fountain pen. After a moment she looked up at Gamadge; her high colour was fading, and her eyes were frightened.

“Henry?”

“Yes.”

“Henry—could one of
them
have killed him?”

“One of them?”

“Oh, it isn't possible!”

Gamadge thought: Got it at last. He asked: “Why should any of them kill Sylvanus, Florence?”

“Because”—she looked at him, and then down at the rough draft of the will, confusion and horror in her round eyes—“because he knew who put those things in my book!”

No, she couldn't imagine herself in danger from her friends; by some fortunate lapse of intelligence she was not as yet worrying on her own account. But she was sufficiently dismayed by her ingenious theory, and repeated it in another form: “He was going to tell, and they killed him so that he couldn't!”

“It's possible.”

“And you've let me leave all of them all this money!”

“They can't every one of them have killed him, Florence; and I don't believe the guilty party will ever inherit under this will, or any will of yours. You'll make dozens more, you know,” he said, smiling a little.

“Why won't he inherit?”

“Because let's hope that he—or she—will be discovered.” Mrs. Mason, her terrified eyes on his, stammered: “You made me cut Evelyn's legacy down; Evelyn would
never
—”

“She has friends, you know; they all have friends or backers.”

“I simply don't believe any of them did it! I can't! It must have been one of those creatures in the valley that keep on marrying their own nieces.”

“Let me do the worrying. You write out that will.”

She slowly applied herself to the task. Gamadge went to the telephone, tracked Macloud to his club, and communicated the news of Sylvanus's death in a couple of dead languages. Macloud, after a long pause, replied incredulously and in consternation:

“Do I understand that
notre ami archéologique a été tué avec un objet d'art
?”

“That's right.”

“Great Heavens.”

“Florence wants you up here as soon as you can make it; you're her lawyer again.”

“Tell him to stay over Sunday,” called Mrs. Mason. Macloud replied to the invitation by saying that he would drive up in time for a late dinner, but that he would have to return to town on Sunday afternoon. “It's ten after five,” he said. “I'll pack a bag and get my car. Perhaps I'd better have dinner on the way.”

Gamadge consulted Mrs. Mason, who said that she would order dinner for half-past eight.

“How is she?” asked Macloud.

“Behaving splendidly. She is at present making testamentary dispositions.”

“What! Again?”

“At my urgent request.”

Macloud, after a pause, said he was glad of it. Then he rang off, and Gamadge crossed to the long window nearest him. He opened one of its doors, and stepped out on a little iron balcony. The western mountain ranges and the nearer hilltops had disappeared in mist; mist was beginning to shroud the line of beeches that concealed the stream and cut the sloping grounds of Underhill from its meadows. The stream had a muted tone; not its most cheerful voice by any means, thought Gamadge, as he leaned on the railing to look downwards.

Immediately below him were the dining-room windows, which gave on a stretch of lawn. To the left, beyond a bricked walk, a tall yew hedge enclosed the kitchen premises and drying-ground; farther down, a double hedge of yew curved south and west; it was the approach to the walled garden. The back steps of the house were occupied by a State policeman whom Gamadge had already seen, and had heard addressed by Windorp as Ridley.

“Hi,” said Gamadge; adding, as the officer looked up, “Mrs. Mason wants you and another man to come up here for a minute.”

The trooper got to his feet. “Mrs. Mason wants two officers?”

“Tell Lieutenant Windorp she wants you to witness her will.”

Ridley, somewhat bewildered, opened the back door and raised his voice. At his summons a man in plain clothes came out, looked up at Gamadge, and then settled down on the steps. Ridley disappeared. Five minutes later he and another trooper were admitted to Mrs. Mason's room, and received by her with a cry of pleasure:

“Why, Johnny Ridley! And isn't that Officer Beaver?”

Ridley came over to the bed to shake hands; Officer Beaver, a huge youth, said shyly: “I'm awful sorry about Mr. Hutter, ma'am.”

“Isn't it dreadful? Your mother will feel so badly, Johnny; she was so fond of poor Syl.”

“She'll feel terrible. Hope we get the feller that did it.”

“As you see, I have to carry on; there's so much to attend to, and only me to do it. Now that Syl is dead I must make a new will, but all my friends are down for legacies, so they can't be witnesses. And all the servants are in my will, too.” She looked suddenly at Gamadge. “But why can't you be a witness, Henry?”

“Think I'll just stay on the sidelines.”

“Well, anyway, here it is.” Mrs. Mason undoubtedly liked to make wills, and knew all about the formalities of signing and witnessing them. She said: “Now I'm signing; you'd better come and watch me do it.”

Officer Ridley leaned over to watch the procedure from the left side of the twin bed; Officer Beaver edged himself between it and the other one; a sense of deep responsibility furrowed his brow.

“Now you're to sign,” said Mrs. Mason, handing Ridley her fountain pen.

Ridley signed, Beaver made heavy work of signing, and Gamadge blotted their signatures, folded the will, and bestowed it in a breast pocket. “Till Macloud gets here,” he said. “And not a word to anybody, you two; understand?”

“Not a single word,” said Mrs. Mason.

“I only hope we catch the feller that killed Mr. Hutter,” rumbled Beaver.

“I hope it's one of those men up in the valley.” Mrs. Mason's face lost its brightness. She pushed the blotting-pad away and leaned back against her pillows, her head averted and her eyes closed. She looked desolate and old. Gamadge went with the troopers to the door. As they reached it, a handsome, white-moustached man, carrying a black bag and still wearing his over-coat, brushed past them into the room.