Somewhere in the House (19 page)

“I always knew there was a kind of wild character somewhere in the house, but I didn't know how wild until I saw Garth Clayborn lying in there. Shot twice. Do you know what with?”

As Gamadge made no reply, Nordhall told him: “Shot with the gun that killed Sillerman. How do you like that?”

“Astounding.”

“Isn't it?”

“How do you know?”

“Well, we haven't got the gun.”

“No?”

“And that's funny, too, isn't it? But it's natural enough for the boy to have agreed to talk to his prospect in the music room—the one place they absolutely knew they wouldn't be overheard or interrupted. But the prospect was heeled. Well, they sent me the Sillerman files and the Sillerman bullet, and the bullets that killed Garth Clayborn came out of the same old Smith & Wesson .38.” Nordhall jerked his head again, this time in the direction of the closed studio. “We've got a regular laboratory set up in there, everything that wasn't nailed down at headquarters. Easier to bring stuff here than to take five people downtown to have their hands examined for powder traces. Not a trace on anybody, and no stained gloves in the house.”

Nordhall unlocked and opened the music-room door; he switched on his torch. The silvery place was as it had been, except for two dark stains on the rug midway between door and window.

“Both the bullets went right through,” said Nordhall, “head and chest. You can imagine the mess, and it must have sounded like two bombs in here. Would you mind telling me why Garth Clayborn let anybody walk in on him wearing gloves? Or let the prospect put on gloves while they were talking?”

“I might make a guess.”

“Go ahead.”

“The prospect might have had some story about being allowed by the police to take a breather in the garden. Why not? There are police out there. It's a cold night, it would be natural enough to put on a topcoat and gloves—no hat, though. The revolver would be in a side pocket of the coat, wrapped in cleansing tissue.”

“That's an idea.”

“Easy enough to dispose of shredded gloves.”

“Down a drain?”

“I wouldn't risk a drain; things get caught in traps.”

“Not in these traps,” said Nordhall.

“They might. The murderer remembered that there's a stiff breeze. What could have been simpler than to cut the gloves into shreds, open a window, and let them go? They'd be half over the city in five minutes.”

“The pistol wouldn't blow away, but unless it was dropped out and somebody picked it up and walked off with it, I don't know where it can be. We've had men on the roof, and on the roof below the bricked window there—a gun could have been poked out of the hole we broke through. I'd say it isn't in the house. Of course we're right near the Park, plenty of tough characters along there of a night; perhaps it was thrown out from the roof to the street and picked up. Whatever became of it, it was fired as soon as the killer got inside the room and got the door closed. Garth Clayborn stood about the middle of the rug, as you see, facing the door.”

“I see.” Gamadge asked after a moment: “How much of a search have you made for the gun? You wouldn't give up yet, would you?”

“We'll give up next Christmas. We've about settled for the chimneys and flues, we've had every book out of every shelf, we've done the usual tearing up. We can't locate a secret panel, and the whole family says there isn't one. We won't take their word for it. Now I suppose you'd like to see the Sillerman files.”

“That's in order.”

“You bet.”

They went out and along to the studio. Nordhall opened the door, and Gamadge looked in on a scene lighted by the concentrated glare of one hooded lamp. It shone on a long work-table set out with apparatus, and on the hands of the expert who sat, eyes shaded, looking at something which he held in the delicate grip of a forceps.

Nordhall said: “Mr. Gamadge, Norris.”

Norris looked up. He said: “Glad to meet you.”

“Ready to go to court, if we ever get there?”

“Yes; but I'd like to get the gun. It would be fine if I could fire a bullet out of that gun.”

“We'll get it for you if it's in the house.”

“How about the roof?”

“You stick to your microspectroscope. The gun isn't on the roof.”

“I suppose those cameramen were trying for a picture of you people searching the roof,” said Gamadge.

“What cameramen?”

“The ones on the poor old lady's roof down on the next street.”

“We've been all over her place outside; the party might have slung the gun there.”

“I wish you'd tell her it isn't a fire; she'll sit up all night on account of sparks.”

“Keep your mind on the nice tie-up here,” said Nordhall, who was looking through papers in a folder. “We'll have you busting a twenty-year-old alibi for us before we're done with you. I'm surprised at you, not finding us that pistol.”

“You've cramped your style,” said Gamadge, “with that nonsense about its being thrown out of a window. Just make up your mind that it's in the house, and then of course you'll find it. Nothing makes a thing harder to find than a preconceived idea that it may not be findable.”

Norris said: “You're right at that.”

“Oh, yes?” Nordhall was irritated. “You tell it to the boys down in the cellar with coal dust in their hair.”

“They're fondly dreaming of the underworld character who happened to pick it up on the street,” Gamadge told him.

“Well, what are
you
dreaming of, then?”

“I'm dreaming of Sir Arthur Wilson Cribb, Lady Athenia Lewis, Dante's
Divine Comedy, III
, and what other of the lot may be—”

Nordhall, with a howl of rage, dashed from the studio.

Norris looked up mildly, detached and faintly interested.

“They make boxes out of books, in this house.” Gamadge picked up the folder, went across the studio to a chair beside a lamp, turned on the lamp, and sat down.

“Don't say.” The scientist fitted one of his bullets into a little labelled case. Silence reigned until Nordhall returned panting. He held in both hands, by its edges, a thick quarto in black morocco gilt.

“Doggone you, Gamadge,” he puffed, “you can find anything in a book.” He slapped the volume down in front of Norris. “
Floral Belles
,” he recited loudly, “
Of the Greenhouse and Garden. Profusely Illustrated With Coloured Plates From Paintings by Mrs. A. Walton
,
1873
. Heavy as lead anyway, I suppose Matty just took it out of the bookcase and laid it on the floor.” He raised the heavily stamped and gilded cover, and displayed the big revolver that lay in a roughly-contrived nest, wadded with tissue. “The cover was glued down.”

Even Norris deigned to bend forward and peer at this exhibit. “Smith & Wesson .38,” he said admiringly. “What do you know?”

“They have this pink tissue stocked in all the bathrooms here,” said Nordhall. “Go to it, Norris. I won't touch it. You have two witnesses and not another thing on your mind.”

Norris picked up a heavier pair of forceps, gently drew the gun from its nest, and placed it gently on a rack.

Nordhall peered into
Floral Belles
. “This is no job like those others we saw,” he said. “This is a strictly amateur performance, imitating the others in a clumsy way. This was done in a hurry, to hide that pistol. Wonder why our friend kept it after the Sillerman murder, though?”

“Not a type to discard a weapon,” said Gamadge.

“Probably been in this book twenty years until to-day. Fresh wadding, though. Don't these people read their books?”

“Not old gift books of the vintage of seventy-three,” said Gamadge. “It was quite a safe bet.”

“Dug out with a jack-knife, and not too sharp a knife either. Pages not even glued, and here are some left in underneath, and a picture. Boy oh boy, look at the Night-blooming Cereus. Size of your head. Will you fingerprint, Norris, and right away?”

“I'll try.”

“Don't blame you for thinking there won't be any.” Nordhall straightened himself. “It's going to be tough for us. Inference, with that old phoney alibi to keep getting in our way.”

Gamadge was reading typed pages with deep interest. He said: “This list was typed verbatim from Sillerman's address book, was it?”

“Yes. You can see the original if you like.” Nordhall added with a grin: “In confidence. That's confidential matter, as you may judge.”

“O Lord, I feel as if I were handling a dud bomb.”

“Some list, isn't it?”

“Some list. Did you get after all these unfortunates?”

“Only to find out whether they were in town on the night. None of 'em was except our friend, so far as we could trace names.”

“
Massinger
, and a Chicago address. Was that one of the L. L. Massingers, by any hideous chance?”

“It certainly was, the old man.”

“Well, he's dead.”

“Guess he wished he was when we called him up. Of course he didn't have to say why he was in Sillerman's book—only had to give us his alibi. Same with the others.”

“And this Pittsburgh party;
Considine
. Sillerman was discreet, it might have been old Considine or his sons.”

“It was the youngest son, and he was married, like Leeder.”

“Philadelphia, Washington, even Atlanta. Whew. What a circle of acquaintance. I suppose you never followed up to see whether there was any later drug history in any of these cases?”

“Why should we, and where would we get the money and the time?”

“
Leeder
,” read Gamadge. “And this very same address, and here we are, digging up the past.”

“Makes you think, doesn't it?”

“Oh, fate caught up with him long ago, when the janitor saw him. Otherwise—”

“Otherwise he wouldn't have had to kill Fitch for her savings, and steal things out of the house. Well, we can take him downtown. But I wish we had something more, anything, just something to take it out of the probability class and put it where it belongs. As it is—but you know what a trial for murder is. This gun connects him with another murder that he had an alibi for.”

Norris leaned back and lighted a cigarette. He said: “This gun is polished off clean. What's the chance of your getting after those Leeder alibis now?”

“One's dead. One's in Europe doing army stuff—big shot. One's married and lives in Canada. But we can ask them questions, of course, the live ones,” said Nordhall, with ferocious gaiety.

Gamadge was studying his list. He said: “Here's a name with a star after it and no address.
Colford
.”

“You'll find three or four of those; nothing could ever be done about those.”

“Did
she
star them?”

“Yes.”

Gamadge knitted his brows over Colford.

“They're all names like that,” said Nordhall. “Tilson, Albury, made-up sounding names.”

“Might be drug merchants. She'd have to be extra careful about those.”

“They widened the field,” said Nordhall.

Gamadge ran his eyes over the remaining names on the list. “
Raschner
isn't here, anyway.” He looked up. “Is Norris a member of the Department?”

“Of course he is.”

“Then I'd like him to hear this.”

“Hear what?”

“I've thought of something that might help, but you may not like it.”

“I'll like anything.”

Gamadge sat forward and began to talk earnestly.

H
ALF AN HOUR
later Gamadge found Malcolm, Elena Clayborn and Miss Lorina Nagle helping Roberts clear away in the kitchen. At least Malcolm and Elena were helping him; Elena drying silver, Malcolm—with a dish towel about his middle—carrying plates and glasses into the pantry. Old Roberts stood dazed beside the enormous sink, feebly scouring it.

Miss Nagle sat on a corner of the kitchen table, giving them all what seemed to be a pep talk. Nobody was paying any attention to her, but she did not appear to mind that. When Gamadge came in she talked on, giving him a short nod, but otherwise ignoring his presence.

“That was the old-fashioned way,” she said, “going into crêpe and mourning when you didn't care anything about the person at all. Who cared about Garth? I'd hate to tell you what I thought of him. As a member of the family, I say carry on. I hate hypocrisy.”

Elena dumped silver into a felt-lined basket, while Roberts watched her nervously. The forks and spoons had probably acquired more scratches in that moment than in all the years of their long lives. Malcolm, his chin on top of a pile of Crown Derby, stopped to say between his teeth: “They care who shot him.”

“Why should Ena care? Her father is out—he isn't the type at all; that's all she has to worry about, and it isn't much. You've led such a sheltered life, Ena, you don't realize how often these things happen. They happen all the time. Whoever did it will get a verdict of temporary insanity, and after that it'll be one, two, three.”

“Years?” asked Gamadge.

“Just a little rest cure in a sanatorium. Whoever it was probably found Garth rooting around in that music room, still looking for buttons or something, thought he'd discovered the person that killed Aunt Aggie Fitch, and had a brainstorm and shot him.”

“With the big gun the person always carried around in his pocket,” said Elena. “You ought to have studied law. You're good.”

“That's why they'll say it was insanity—because the person carried a gun.”

“I wouldn't call it insanity to carry a gun in this house,” muttered Malcolm. He disappeared through the swing door into the pantry.