The House without the Door (16 page)

W
HEN GAMADGE—
as seldom happened—reached the small hours of a morning after a bad night, he turned off the switch of his bedside telephone; he did so at four a.m. on the day following his momentous decision in the stump lot, and at five a.m. he fell into a dreamless sleep.

No member of his household had ever dared on any previous occasion to knock at his door if his telephone did not answer; but on this same morning, at ten o'clock, Theodore not only knocked; he afterwards put an apologetic face into the room.

"What the devil," murmured Gamadge.

"Beg pardon for disturbin' you, sir, it's police."

"Tell them to come back later."

"It's Lieutenant Durfee. Mis' Gamadge is entertainin' him in the liberry."

"Oh. Well, bring my breakfast here. I'll see him when I'm dressed."

Not long afterwards he sauntered into the library, where Clara was eagerly explaining something to a lean man in a blue suit.

"This whole book is a forgery, Lieutenant Durfee," she was saying, "and so is the author's signature and the date on the flyleaf. Here it is, see?
Your oblig'd John Pipkin
."

"Why should the feller forge a whole book? Why didn't he buy this
Poems of John Pipkin
, and forge the signature into it?"

"Because there's only one other
Poems of John Pipkin
, and that's in the British Museum—unless they've moved it on account of the war. And that copy has no signature on the flyleaf."

"The feller expected to make a lot of money out of this, then?" Durfee studied the thin green book with interest.

"Oh, no; even the real one—the British Museum one— isn't worth much. Nobody cares about Pipkin, his poems aren't good."

"I don't catch it; why all the misery then?"

"Because the man who forged this, or had it done, only collected unique books, and a Pipkin with a signature would have been unique."

"But what's the fun of owning a thing that isn't real?"

"Why, he could show it to all his friends."

Gamadge came forward. "How's that for a motive to give a jury, Durfee?" he asked.

Durfee turned a thin, lined, reddish face toward him, and got up. He said: "I see you're bringing your wife up right, Mr. Gamadge."

"She's just started on the handwritings; Pipkin's, for instance. The Pipkin
i
is what gives the show away."

"Can you do anything with printed writing?" Durfee accepted a cigar.

"Certainly, but it's not easy to get other specimens of it for comparison." Gamadge lighted Durfee's cigar, and his own.

"I have a crank letter I want to show you some time—if necessary; I can't show it to you yet. You know how these things crop up when a sensational murder case gets into the papers."

"Is there a sensational case in the papers?"

"This murder case up in Westchester County below Burford. Feller named Locke, Benton Locke. That's what I came about; I understand that you called on him at his rooming-house night before last."

Clara replaced John Pipkin on a shelf. She remained with her back to the room, fingering the other books in the row. Gamadge said: "Oh, yes. I suppose Miss Prady gave you my name."

"That's right, Miss Arline Prady." Durfee was studying Gamadge with some degree of exasperation. "You didn't think we'd be interested?"

"My dear good man! Of course I was going to call you. I only heard that he'd been shot last night, over the radio; I've been in bed ever since. I don't know who shot him, or why; and I certainly wasn't the last virtuous person who saw him alive."

Clara said, turning away from the bookcase: "Will you excuse me if I go? I have some errands." She shook hands with Durfee. "I'll bring your carbon paper home with me, Henry."

"Thank you, my darling."

She flitted from the room. Durfee, looking after her, said: "I was going to suggest finishing our conversation in your office or downtown. I didn't want to remind Mrs. Gamadge of the fact that people you pay calls on quite often die by violence shortly afterwards."

"Quite often is good. Twice isn't quite often."

"It's quite often from the police point of view."

"I busted that case for you. Perhaps you didn't want to remind Clara of the fact that if it hadn't been for me you people would have arrested her as accessory to murder."

"You can't blame me for wondering if your baleful influence hadn't been at work again; you call on this feller, and the next day he gets killed."

"Lots of people I've called on are still alive and well."

"You think I ought to look at it as a coincidence?"

"Look at it as cause and effect, if you want to be so foolish; but however you look at it, you can look at it sitting down. And smoking a cigar."

Durfee sat down behind the big table. He said: "It's quite an interesting tie-up."

"What is?"

"The Locke case and the Gregson murder case."

"You found a tie-up, did you?"

"We didn t realize until this morning that he was that Benton Locke."

"What's the tie-up?"

"I might ask you that. I will ask you why you went to see him Tuesday night."

"Private business."

"Now don't get obstinate; you'll be called when they hold the inquest, you know. They've adjourned it, but when they hold it you'll be invited."

"I'll be there."

"And you won't be able to plead private business there."

"By that time the business will probably not be private. Can't you lay off me for a few days? You know very well that I don't obstruct justice."

"Not very long; not till two or three people get killed, anyhow."

"Really, Durfee! I call that too bad of you. I was astounded by Locke's death—astounded."

"Do you know what I think?" Durfee squinted up at him. "By what I know of you, I think you put some idea in his head, and he acted on it, and got shot as a result."

"If I knew who shot him, or why he got shot, I'd pass the information along to you—instantly."

Durfee smoked in silence for half a minute. Then he said: "The hitch comes with the word 'knew.' I'd like your opinions; I don't require a statement under oath, or some thing all ready to present to a jury."

"If you know me as well as all that"—Gamadge smiled at his guest without rancour—"you know that I won't go around spilling a lot of nonsense. I'm not fond of handing out half-baked notions to the police."

"They'd like to be the judge of what's important and what isn't. How do you suppose I can lay off you, as you suggest, if the whole department, and the D.A., and the newspapers know that you were calling on Locke night before last?"

"You can manage it, all right. Tell them I'm worth waiting for," said Gamadge airily. He went on, ignoring Durfee's scowl: "How long had he been dead when they found him?"

"Six to eight hours, but nobody saw him on that road until ten. The farmer that did find him came past on his way to Burford more than two hours earlier and didn't see him at all."

"That's possible; perhaps the farmer's headlights weren't on when he made the first trip."

"They weren't, and it's easier to see what's behind that tree when you're coming from Burford than when you're going there."

"You keep saying Burford; why Burford? As I get it, the road's quite far down the highway from Burford."

"Manner of speaking; Burford's the nearest town. Why," asked Durfee, plaintively, "should he have gone up that road? It leads out into the country, no town for miles."

"Or why should he have been coming
down
that road, you know," Gamadge asked after a pause: "No sign of his car?"

"No. It's a second-hand Ford convertible coupé, and he kept it in a garage near his rooming-house."

"No sign of the pistol, I suppose?"

"No; nor of the shell. But Locke was killed with a .38 automatic; we have the bullet, and that's all we have." Durfee's expression was so odd that Gamadge looked curiously at him. He went on: "They tell me that there ain't any underworld characters in his kind of dancing game. They tell me it's all full of angels."

"Well—of course he'd been dancing for years in night clubs and resorts."

"I'm not much interested in that angle, to be frank with you. I'm interested in the tie-up with the Gregson case."

"Who wouldn't be?"

"Just the kind of case you'd enjoy digging into, too. That Warren girl—" Durfee looked thoughtful. "I always had an idea she knew more about it than ever came out at the trial." His hand wandered towards his breast pocket, and came away empty. "I wish you'd tell me about your business with Locke," he said irritably.

"Eventually I will."

"Eventually." Durfee looked contemptuous. "I want information today." He said after a moment: "Whatever became of Mrs. Gregson, I wonder—and that housekeeper of hers? They vanished right off the map."

"So they did."

"Miss Warren's with a Mrs. Smiles. We had this crank letter this morning; posted in Burfurd yesterday afternoon at three o'clock; and that's 'why Burford,' by the way."

"Oh—really?"

"The letter's too crazy to act on without due caution. We can't upset people and get their influential friends and their lawyers in our hair on the strength of an anonymous letter, and a crazy one at that."

"Can't you?" Gamadge showed amusement.

"Not without an O.K. from the big shots. The D.A. will be back in town late tonight; I'll get hold of him, no matter what time it is. There were bushels of these crank letters after the Gregson trial, and they were none of 'em worth the ink on 'em."

"Is this a reminder of them?"

"Yes. One of those original cranks may have remembered Locke's connection with the Gregson case, and started up again. The commissioner won't let me talk to you about the thing till I've seen the D.A."

"The crank must be trying to involve somebody of vast importance."

"Indirectly." Durfee rose. "There'd be the dickens and all to pay if we made a mistake, I can tell you that." He faced Gamadge, and his expression was sombre. "Look here; after you left Locke that night he made two calls—dial calls; they can't be traced. He didn't get any between the time he saw you and the time he left, and we don't know when he did leave yesterday—Miss Prady was out, and can't tell us; but the house telephone is in the lower hall, and it's pretty certain he got no message. It's a fair inference that he made those two calls on account of what you said to him. Now I know you have sense, and I know you get results; but I'd advise you to give me what information you have—here and now."

"I have no information that would do you any good, Durfee; if I have any at any future time you'll get it—immediately."

"You can't fool with this. This is going to tear the Gregson case wide open again."

"Let me venture to give you a layman's inconsiderable crumb of advice:
you
can't fool with it. Do you remember what sometimes happens to people who tear old murder cases wide open again?"

Durfee walked out of the room, and pushed the button of the automatic elevator. He said, without turning his head: "If it wasn't for that poor unfortunate little wife of yours…"

Gamadge looked solemn enough as he escorted Detective-Lieutenant Durfee down to the front door.

The telephone was ringing when he returned to the library. Harold's voice, intensely calm, greeted him over the wire:

"I just saw the papers."

"You have the advantage of me; I haven't seen them yet."

"You mean to tell me you don't know what happened yesterday just off the route below Burford?"

"I don't mean to tell you that. After all, several people were bound to call me up."

"Did
she
call you up?"

"Last night—she got it on the radio, which is more than you seem to have done."

"She's shut up in her room, probably half-crazy worrying."

"No; shocked, but not crazy. Keep awake from now on."

"You bet I will."

Harold had no sooner rung off than Gamadge was recalled to the telephone. He said "Hello" rather crossly.

"Is this Mr. Gamadge speaking?" The voice on the wire was tremulous. Gamadge said: "Yes, here I am, Mrs. Stoner."

"Mr. Gamadge, Hotchkiss brought my paper."

"Oh. Yes."

"I couldn't believe my eyes. Poor, poor Benny."

Gamadge waited until sobs no longer came to him from far away. Then he said: "Yes. Too bad."

"That's why he never came! Oh, who could have done such a thing?"

"Not a crank this time."

"No. It must have been a bandit!"

"Well—I think not."

"I can't stay here. I'm coming to New York. Mr. Hotchkiss will drive me to the noon train."

"That's sensible of you."

"Have you told Vina Gregson?"

"Yes, she knows."

"I hate not knowing where she is. Couldn't you tell me, Mr. Gamadge? She'll want to talk to somebody. She'll be so frightened. She'll be so shocked."

"I'd rather not have anyone know her whereabouts just now. She's being looked after better than you are, Mrs. Stoner."

"She's among strangers."

"Don't worry about her. May I have your city address?"

Mrs. Stoner gave him a street and number in the east Fifties, and then seemed to fade away from her end of the telephone. After listening for some moments to an empty kind of buzzing, Gamadge put his end on its cradle and went into the library. He found Clara sorting mail. She asked: "How did you manage about Lieutenant Durfee? I had to go, I couldn't stand it."

"Durfee feels very sorry for you. I think he'll let me alone for a day or so—not longer. He gave me a good deal more information than I gave him. What's that thing?"

The thing which had called forth Gamadge's exclamation of fastidious disgust was a large, square, scented envelope, mauve in hue, with a purple line round its pointed flap. Clara turned it over; it was practically covered with immense and almost illegible handwriting, and was addressed to her. She opened it, and took out a sheet of notepaper, monogrammed and bordered in mauve and purple. She read aloud in a surprised voice: