The House without the Door (15 page)

"—and Mr. Ormiston gave him an introduction to one of Mr. Belden's firm. What's Mr. Belden like, Henry?"

"He has curious charm, terrific vitality, and the sensibility of a rocking horse. He's magnetic, coarse-grained and companionable. Hasn't a nerve in his make-up. I should think he would have made a good surgeon; don't know how he came to impinge upon the arts."

"His father was an architect."

"Ah, I see."

"He went to Cornell, and talked himself out of two suspensions. He got into awful scrapes. He's supposed to have brains."

"Oh, he has."

"He can work when he likes. He got into financial trouble about ten years ago—"

"Who didn't?"

"—and he and the firm nearly went out of business. But he has no private means, to speak of, and he's very hard up still. He lives anyhow, Mr. Schenck says, and spends every cent he has on boats and racing."

"What about his morals? Or did Schenck put them into an enclosure for my private eye?"

"Of course not. Here they are; Mr. Schenck says: 'Tell Gamadge that he's always very much sought after, and always found. But nothing interferes with his engagement to Miss Cecilia Warren, which seems to be of long standing. She seems to be part of the guy's life. There was a sort of a breach of promise suit pending five years ago, but he talked himself out of that. His partners are fond of him.'"

"Is this Lothario ever going to marry his first love, does Schenck gather?"

"She wouldn't even announce the engagement—or at least it didn't get announced—until after the Gregson trial."

"When she acquired prospects—financial prospects."

"But she won't marry him because she thinks some people think she killed Mr. Gregson."

"Romantic of her. Too romantic. Sounds more like a stall on the part of the unromantic Mr. Belden, but you never can tell."

"I think he sounds very romantic, all these affairs, and still being faithful to Cecilia Warren."

"Faithful in his fashion."

"I'd rather have somebody faithful to me in that fashion than not faithful at all."

"You don't know what you'd rather."

"Yes, I do." Clara put aside Schenck's notes, and took up her own. "Cecilia Warren's father married Mrs. Gregson's aunt, Miss Voories. He died ten years ago—"

"Of heart trouble; complicated, I believe, by drink."

"She went to Coverly School when she was thirteen. She left Omega for good when she was sixteen, and came to live with the Gregsons. She went to a business school, and Mr. Belden got her a job in his office as a stenographer and typist."

"And she was so busy there that she never even went back to Omega when her father died. He was in a hospital in Utica for some unspecified length of time, but she didn't go to see him in Utica, either. The defence made great play of that; I must say that Applegate's rhetoric always did give me a horrible pain, but he had something there."

"Didn't Miss Warren ever explain why she never went back to Omega?"

"She says her father died suddenly; but he was in hospital for a while. However—we are not Applegate, and we needn't take a lofty moral attitude in the matter until we know more about it."

"We don't know much about Mrs. Stoner, either. She and Mr. Gregson's mother went to the same school near Bellfield. When her husband died she was going to some kind of poor-house, because she didn't even have enough money to get into a home."

"Most depressing."

"You can imagine how glad she was when Mr. Gregson took her in."

"Perhaps the Gregsons were glad to get an unpaid lady-help; I imagine that Mrs. Stoner earned her keep." He added, lazily stroking Martin's ears, "What did Mr. Stoner die of?"

"I don't know, Henry."

"Never mind."

"Mr. and Mrs. Gregson were married in 1919. By that time old Mrs. Gregson was dead. Old Mr. Gregson died in 1928."

"What of?"

"I don't know." Clara frowned as she looked at him.

"Too bad."

"Henry, are you thinking of that morphia? Because the newspaper says that there wasn't any morphia in the Gregson history.'

"Certainly there was none involved in Mr. and Mrs. Voories' deaths. They died in an accident."

"Vina Voories was an only child. She has no relations but Miss Warren, and Mr. Gregson left no relation but an old man named Parrott, who's in a sanatorium—before, he lived in San Francisco. Now he's in a sanatorium, for good."

"For good, is he?"

"He has something incurable and stays in bed. Mr. Schenck telephoned out there to some friend of his, and found out all about Mr. Parrott. He thought you wouldn't mind paying the charges."

"We really must do something for Schenck."

"I think he likes to come to dinner."

'Ask him for tomorrow night; ask him regularly. He ought to have a standing invitation. Did you get anything about Miss Arline Prady?"

"Just that she's a native of Bellfield, and the girl Benton Locke took out the night Mr. Gregson died. Her father was the druggist, and she worked in the store. Benton Locke met her at a charity fair, and they got to be friends through their dancing."

Gamadge said, his eyes half-closed: "A druggist. Does that fact interest you?"

Clara looked quickly at him. "But Henry! A druggist wouldn't keep old, old tubes of morphia in stock."

"Perhaps he wouldn't."

"And Benton Locke had no motive for killing Mr. Gregson, and you said Cecilia Warren's testimony cleared him and Mrs. Stoner."

"If her story was true, it cleared them; but something else clears them of actually administering the morphia—clears them more effectively than uncorroborated statements by Cecilia Warren; Gregson may have laughed in the night; he might have laughed if Mrs. Gregson had been with him, if Miss Warren had been with him, or even—conceivably—if he had been alone. But if Locke or Mrs. Stoner had walked in on him and invited him to take another dose of bicarbonate of soda, I think he would have sworn."

"Well." Clara, studying his enigmatic features, put her notes together. "That's all."

"Not quite all. We have discussed the principals in the Gregson murder case, but we have not discussed all the principals in the case that Mrs. Gregson has now asked me to investigate."

"Who else is there?"

"Colby's an interested party."

"Mr. Colby! He's only in it because he's Mrs. Gregson's friend."

"If I were trying the case I should feel bound to ask myself whether that was the fact, or whether he had not on the contrary been
Mr
. Gregson's friend."

Clara was quite horrified. "But he hardly knew Mr. Gregson!"

"So he says."

"Henry!"

"What if Colby really knew Gregson very well, and liked him very much? They had years and years of those trips on the Commuters' Special to Bellfield, and ever so many golf meetings. What if Colby had constituted himself the Avenger?"

"You're making fun of me."

"Not at all. It's part of the general inquiry. I shouldn't be at all justified in leaving it out of consideration."

Clara asked, gazing at him: "Is this what detecting means?"

"This and worse."

"I never heard anything so wild. Mr. Colby isn't like that."

"When people get a fixed idea nobody knows what they're like."

"But he couldn't possibly—what about the cellar stairs and the mackerel? He couldn't have done either of those things."

"Why not? Colby knew Pine Lots very well; he rents it for the owner. Do you suppose he isn't acquainted with its cellar stairs, and its kitchen, and its side door? He may know Mrs. Gregson's hours and her ways; we have no idea how often he's been there."

"If you think Mr. Colby's type could have written those letters and done all those things—"

"He certainly had keys to that apartment of hers here in New York, and I'm sure he knew that she liked fruit cake. Nobody could cultivate a person like Mrs. Gregson for three years—"

"Cultivate! If ever there was a nice, simple person in the world, it's Mr Colby."

"I must study the case from all angles; if I don't, somebody else may—somebody much less humane than I am."

Clara looked as if she thought that Gamadge in his present mood was not particularly humane; but just then the concert ceased. A voice announced: "News on the hour," and proceeded to talk urgently.

"Shall I turn it off?" asked Clara. "No, don't move; you'll disturb Martin."

Gamadge said: "He's getting too hot and heavy for me. Take him off."

Clara lifted the large orange cat, who hung limply and at incredible length from her encircling hands; he pretended to be unable to set foot on the floor, so Clara established him in a chair. Suddenly she noticed Gamadge's head turn on its cushion, and the fixity of his eyes.

"…Westchester County, two and a half miles south of Burford," said the announcer. "The young man has been identified as Benton Locke, a promising young dancer in the Diehl ballet. Raymond Jeffers, a farmer, who discovered the body while on his way home at ten o'clock this evening, says he does not think it was there when he came through about half-past six this evening, but that he may have missed seeing it, as it was behind a large tree. Locke had been shot in the back of the skull, just above the base of it; no pistol was found. The young man's wallet and wrist watch had not been taken. Police are checking up on car bandits, who may have stolen his car, killed him, and made a getaway when they heard Jeffers' approach.

"Now the weather. Tomorrow—"

"Turn it off," said Gamadge.

Clara did so. Then she came over and sat on the end of the chesterfield. "Henry, what does it mean?"

"Well, I don't think it means car bandits."

"They'll stop looking for car bandits tomorrow, won't they, when they remember who he is? They'll remember the Gregson case."

"You bet they will."

"Why, you must have driven past the very road he was found on; or did you come home by the back route?"

"I didn't have time to take the back route home."

The telephone rang, a long peal. Clara shook her head at Gamadge, who had begun to rise, went into the hall, and brought the instrument into the library on its thirteen-foot wire. Gamadge balanced it on his chest.

"Mr. Gamadge?" It was a high voice, muted.

"Yes." He motioned to Clara, and she bent to the receiver.

"This is—"

"Just as well not to mention names. Those walls up there are none too thick."

"Mr. Gamadge!" It was a cry. "I was listening to the radio—"

"Yes; gently! So was I."

"Oh, poor Benny!"

"Yes; careful."

"I've done him a dreadful injustice. I must have."

"Well, we don't know."

"Perhaps he was just trying to find out!"

"Perhaps."

"Why should he have been on that road? Why was he there?"

"Better there than farther up, don't you think?"

"But if he was on his way to Minnie, why did he turn off? And what's happened to his car? I wish you were here."

"You're all right."

"But they'll connect him—connect him—"

"Not with Mrs. Greer. They may never find out a thing about the present situation, you know. We may never have to tell them a word of it, and I don't suppose the other parties will."

"I'm terribly frightened. Terribly." Clara heard the shiver in the distant voice.

"He's been completely cut off from the old life and the other place; he's been dancing all over the lot. Night clubs, everywhere. They'll look for something in his later background."

"If only they don't find me! If only I shan't have to be in the papers again!"

"There may be a mention, a picture or two; you won't see them."

"It's so nice here. I hope I shan't have to go. I wish you'd let me call up Minnie Stoner—she'll be distracted."

"If you want safety, don't lay a trail of telephone calls."

"I was rather sorry Mr. Colby decided to drive up tomorrow."

"So was I, but I think he'll be careful."

"I feel so safe in this place; they lock it up after ten, so nobody can even get out without getting a key from Mrs. Tully or Miss Lukes."

"Yes; I used to crawl out of the window when I wanted a moonlight stroll with a fair patient."

Mrs. Gregson laughed, faintly and briefly. She asked: "When shall I see you?"

"I'll communicate when I have something to tell you."

"Good-bye."

"Good-bye."

Clara took the telephone from him. She said: "Her voice sounded so
numb
."

"Yes; it was a fearful shock to her, but she has nerve. She can take it."

"I don't know how she can live through it all. Henry—" Clara stood, clasping the telephone, her eyes searching his. "Do you think you'll ever find out? About Benton Locke, and everything?"

"I'll find out if I can. I'll find out," said Gamadge between his teeth, "if it's the last thing I do."

The telephone went off in a tremendous jingle, startling Clara very much. Gamadge took it from her.

"Yes?" he asked. "Oh, Colby."

"Great heavens, old man." Colby's voice shook. "Have you been listening to the radio?"

"Yes. Great concert, wasn't it?"

"Concert!"

"We all seem to have been taking it in."

"Did you hear the news afterwards—about that fellow?"

"I did."

"Great heavens, what does it mean?"

"Well, Colby, to tell you the truth I'd rather not discuss it at all over the telephone. If you don't mind—"

"I understand all that; I had to call you and ask if you'd heard."

"Naturally."

"Have you any line on this thing, Gamadge?"

"Early days to ask that."

"Have you told our friend in the country about B.L.?"

"She just called me."

"How is she?"

"All right so far. I'd much rather not talk about any of it on the telephone, Colby."

"Great heavens, though; I've been out looking at properties all day, and as soon as I get home—"

"I know. Very upsetting. Take a drink, and let me do the same and get to bed. I'm tired myself."

Colby rang off, muttering. Gamadge turned to Clara with a smile. "It's really very unfortunate from the investigator's point of view," he said. "The gentlemen in the case have jobs that take them all over creation all day long, and you can't check up on them. They look at properties, and they look at landscapes. What is one to do about it?"