The House without the Door (17 page)

"Dear, dear Mrs. Gamadge,

"Please forgive my informality, but I have had the pleasure of meeting your charming husband, and he will tell you who I am. I wonder whether you will both humour an old woman, and dine with me at half-past seven tonight.

"The party will be in a sense a business conference. Poor Benton Locke's tragic death has shocked me very much, and quite shattered my friend and secretary Cecilia Warren, who had known him for years. I am asking her fiancé, Paul Belden, and Benton Locke's fiancée, a little Miss Prady. I am also asking a Mr. Colby, Mrs. Gregson's friend.

"We must all put our heads together, and try to make something of this dreadful affair. It occurred to me that no one is more capable of doing so than your clever husband, about whom I have been making inquiries, and who seems to be a truly distinguished person.

"Cecilia joins me in hoping that you will both make
a great effort to come
. Yours most sincerely,

Rosette Smiles."

Thursday

Clara stared at Gamadge.

He said: "It's a wake."

"Why is she asking us, and all those people?"

"Well, she's evidently the sort of festive old thing that lives for company. I dare say she snatches at any excuse for a doings."

"A doings! I simply can't understand it. Shall we go?"

Gamadge wandered over to the sofa and sat down. He said: "We'll go, and we'll take Schenck."

"Take Mr. Schenck! Why?"

"We need him."

"But we can't. It's a dinner—we can't bring a strange man."

"It's a business conference. Mrs. Smiles likes strange men—she'll be delighted to have him, all the more because he'll make eight for dinner."

"What excuse can we possibly give?"

"Call him up and see if he'll come."

"He's already promised to dine with us."

"Then what could be more simple?"

Clara called up Mrs. Smiles. "Yes, we'd love to come," Gamadge heard her say, "but the trouble is that we've already asked a friend to dine with us—a Mr. Schenck…Oh, thank you so much, I'm sure he will. He's very nice…Oh, most discreet— he's an insurance investigator.…Seven-thirty, then…Good-bye."

She came back to say that Mrs. Smiles sounded very nice and kind, but rather silly.

"She's silly in a way, but I think she's very shrewd too. I believe that she and her cronies have the entire police department buffaloed, homicide squad and all."

"How in the world did you know that?"

"Never mind. Call up Schenck, will you, and tell him to wear a white tie." He added: "Tell him to stop for us at seven-fifteen."

Clara did so; Gamadge heard her struggling against Schenck's no doubt passionate demands for further information. At last she said: "Yes, Mr. Belden and Mr. Colby and Miss Prady and us. No,
not
Mr. Locke—somebody killed him…I said killed him…Yesterday; don't you read the papers? That's what the party is about, Mrs. Smiles wants Henry to tell her who did it… I'm glad you can come, and I don't know any more about it than you do, and please excuse me—I must go. Good-bye."

She came back and sat down beside him. "Mr. Schenck is simply raging to know more about Benton Locke."

"He'll know more about him before he's through. Look here, Clara." Gamadge, sitting forward on the sofa with his hands hanging between his knees, turned his head to look at her sideways. "This is a very bad case."

"I was afraid it was."

"It's so bad that I'm going to ask you to do something I wouldn't dream of suggesting, if I weren't afraid somebody's life was in danger."

"Of course I'll do anything."

"I believe you would; but this is delicate, exacting, even perhaps dangerous; and it's extremely unpleasant. The trouble is, I have no time."

Clara, returning his harassed look, said nothing.

"The Smiles apartment is a duplex," he went on. "The drawing-room, or living-room, is two stories high, and the second-floor bedrooms are evidently along the front, and are approached by a little winding staircase to the right of the front door as you go in. They're above the dining-room and kitchens. To the left of the front door there's a little cloak room and washroom for male guests.

"Mrs. Smiles hasn't, I should say, a large staff of servants; in that apartment she wouldn't need more than a butler, a cook, a housemaid, and a kitchenmaid. She seems to have no personal maid—Miss Warren waits on her. With a dinner for eight on hand, I don't believe there'll be a maid upstairs when you go up to take off your things."

Clara listened in wonder.

"If there is, we'll have to try to work out something—after dinner, perhaps. As it is, we'll get there a little late; we'll hope that Miss Prady will have left her wraps and gone downstairs. You must find out which Miss Warren's room is."

"How can I?"

"You can't fail to. At most, there can't possibly be more than four bedrooms, with the necessary baths—not in an apartment of that size. The big one, with a big double bed in it and all kinds of lace counterpanes and fixings, will belong to Mrs. Smiles. There may be another luxurious but sombre one—Smiles' dressing-room, if he ever lived there. I don't have to tell you what spare, or guest, rooms are like; and the remaining one, with belongings in it, will be Miss Warren's. You'll probably be directed to the spare room; you must immediately find Miss Warren's, and search it thoroughly."

"Search it!"

"Not all at once, you know; begin when you leave your wraps, before dinner—you'll have a few minutes. Your second chance will be after dinner, when you'll gracefully absent yourself to powder your nose. The third chance will come when we all go home."

"But what am I to search for?"

"A thirty-eight calibre automatic pistol."

Clara's mouth fell open.

"It's biggish, heavy, and a thing that can be felt before it's seen. It ought not to be hard to find, unless she's locked it up-and I don't think she'd do that."

Clara made an effort to speak. At last she said: "I shan't know where to look."

"Just decide where
you'd
hide it; not too deep, you know—you might need it again."

"In the lowest drawer of my dresser."

"Look in all those drawers first—it won't take you a minute. Where next?"

"On the top shelf of the closet."

"That's too bad; it means you may have to stand on a chair. Well, do your best; unless—" He looked at her dejected face: "Unless you'd rather not. Say the word, and I'll give up the whole idea."

"Of course I'll do it."

"Schenck and I will be in the offing, you know; we won't let anybody catch you at it unless they mow us down first. I'll be on the stair, and Schenck in the drawing-room doorway. We'll whistle for danger. Is there anything special that you'd like us to whistle?"

Clara would not smile. "If anything goes wrong they'll put us out of the house and call the police."

"Probably. I told you it was a nasty job."

"I won't find it. She's locked it up or thrown it away. She'd never keep it!"

"I say it's there."

"What shall I do with it if I find it?"

"Well, for God's sake, be sure that the safety catch is on. I've shown you where the safety catch is on an automatic."

"Yes, I know where it is."

"See that it's on, and then—let's see. You'll have to carry some sort of wrap."

"I'll wear a little coat that matches my pink dress."

"Wrap it up in the coat, and bring it down to me. I'll take it, coat and all."

Clara suddenly began to smile. She said: "Mr. Schenck will be furious."

"I don't know. He may actually enjoy it. We must look at it as if it were a parlour game, Clara; just a parlour game."

"Mrs. Smiles won't think it's a parlour game."

"I bet she adores them. Perhaps she'll make us bob for apples."

"How did you ever get the idea that there was a gun in Cecilia Warren's room, Henry?"

"Logic, pure logic, partly based on a tip from Durfee which he didn't know he gave me. The moral of it is, never write letters, Clara; not even anonymous letters in block print."

"Oh—has there been
another
one?"

"You bet there has."

M
R. SCHENCK
arrived at a quarter past seven to find the Gamadges ready for him. Clara was radiant in a pink dress and a little fur-trimmed pink jacket. Schenck himself was as usual up to the minute, in tails so long that they made Gamadge's look docked; but Gamadge's had come from Savile Row some years before.

Schenck glowered at him while he explained the strategy of the evening.

"Going to drag your wife into it, are you?"

"I'm dying to look for a pistol," said Clara.

"Like fun you are. When they catch you at it, I suppose this guy will explain that you're a kleptomaniac."

"I won't get caught if you whistle."

"Whistle! I may have to break somebody's leg. This is some party you've got me invited to."

Gamadge, holding Clara's fur coat for her, said: "I don't deny it's tough. If it wasn't tough, I shouldn't have asked either of you to pitch in."

Schenck looked sharply at the blunt, amiable visage of his friend. He said: "I suppose Locke's murderer will be right on hand.
He'll
have that thirty-eight calibre automatic pistol, with all the rest of the bullets in it. We'll probably all get shot except you."

"I'm glad you have the situation well in view. It's more than I have."

Clara said: "Lieutenant Durfee told him something, Mr. Schenck."

"Inadvertently," said Gamadge. He adjusted a silk hat, gazing with admiration at Schenck's glittering new one, and they all went out and got into the Gamadge car.

At Mrs. Smiles' door the major-domo respectfully asked Mrs. Gamadge to go upstairs—first door on the left, madam. Clara, without a glance at her escorts, climbed to the second floor and disappeared from view. Schenck and Gamadge were ushered into the little cloakroom on the left. They disposed of their outer garments in something like thirty seconds and came back into the hall, where the major-domo was waiting to announce them. Gamadge leaned nonchalantly against the newel post of the winding stairway, and Schenck stood poised just outside the drawing-room door.

Clara descended, wearing the jacket; she shook her head. Gamadge patted her on the shoulder, and they went into the big room.

"Mr. and Mrs. Gamadge, Mr. Schenck," said the major-domo.

Five persons looked up from their places round the fire; they seemed a mile away. Mrs. Smiles, impressive in petunia-coloured velvet, extended a hand and nodded eagerly. Her chins billowed above a dog collar of pearls with diamond slides, and there were two diamond stars in her hair. Miss Warren, who looked well-bred and pale in the brick-red dress, stood beside Belden. He towered above her, his back to the doorway; his broad smile, as he looked over his shoulder at the late-comers, was full of amusement.

Miss Prady sat on a low chair beside Mrs. Smiles. She made an odd, forlorn picture in a yellow dress which had outlived much dancing, some of it no doubt in public. There was an elaborate yellow ornament in her hair, which had been curled tightly for the occasion. She looked ill at ease and unhappy; Colby, who seemed to have been trying to talk to her, appeared no less so. His square red face brightened when he saw Gamadge. He advanced a step, and then hesitated.

"Now this is really nice of you!" Mrs. Smiles made no apology for remaining in her arm-chair; she took Clara's hand in both of hers, a giant clam enfolding a minnow. "I have only to look at you to know what you're like, Mrs. Gamadge. I hope you'll always be my friend."

"Oh, thank you, Mrs. Smiles."

"Let me introduce Miss Prady and Miss Warren. This is Mr. Belden; and of course you know Mr. Colby."

"And this is Mr. Schenck, Mrs. Smiles."

Mrs. Smiles beamed upon Schenck, who was equal to the occasion: "My company had the pleasure of handling some of your husband's insurance."

"How interesting. Did you know my dear husband, Mr. Schenck?"

"I'm sorry to say I hadn't the pleasure." He longed to add that he was perhaps the only private investigator in the city who had not at some time or another had a shot at investigating the great bandit Smiles.

When all the introductions had been made and Gamadge stood on the edge of the group drinking his cocktail, Colby edged up to him.

"My God, Gamadge," he muttered, "what is all this about Locke getting killed?"

"Don't ask me."

"But I do ask you."

"Ask away."

"I mean, he must have been headed for—for one of two places."

"Don't tell the police so. We must keep a certain party out of it, as I suppose I needn't remind you."

"She's half out of her mind! She thinks it must be the beginning of a massacre, and who knows if she's wrong or not?"

"Who knows?"

"I hardly like to leave her up there."

"It would be very difficult to get at her without her permission."

"But suppose it was someone she trusted."

Gamadge looked at him. "Do you imagine her to be a complete fool? But she trusts you, Colby. How did the drive come off?"

"She wouldn't go. I don't think she does trust me now— me or anybody; not entirely. I don't blame her."

"She doesn't blame me, I hope, for allowing Benton Locke to get himself killed?"

"No, no, of course not."

Belden came up to them, at the top of his form; he tilted the remainder of a cocktail into his large mouth, and followed it with a little sausage rolled in bacon. "I've been telling Miss Prady," he said. "Benton Locke would have liked the idea of this party. He hated cant, and he loved the dramatic and the picturesque. Real artist, that boy was."

"So he seemed to me," agreed Gamadge.

"He would have liked Mrs. Smiles' notion of funeral baked meats." Belden seized another little skewered sausage from the passing tray. He put it into his mouth, and laid the skewer on his cocktail plate. "He would have liked to see Miss Prady mourning him in yellow net and a bunch of artificial flowers."