Unexpected Night (5 page)

“The boy being tired, and sick, anyway, it might have upset him. That the idea?”

“I think that was the idea.”

“Of course we have to have an inquest.” Mitchell spread out his hands, and contemplated his square fingers.

“I suppose you do.”

“Our medical examiner seems to think that the deceased died of this heart trouble he had.”

“And fell off the cliff during the attack?”

“Yes. We'd like to get hold of some kind of a working theory about why he went down there, in his condition, at that time of night.”

“That cigarette-case business certainly points to a planned affair.”

“I don't think there's any doubt but what it was. There seems to be some idea in the family that he was going for good.”

“Really? Going where?”

“Up to a place called Seal Cove, where they have a summer theatre. He has a cousin up there.”

“So he told me. He was interested in the place. But—”

“Sanderson tells me he was planning to go up to-day. You know he was having his twenty-first birthday?”

“Yes; I heard about that.”

“All of it?”

“If you mean the financial situation, the Barclays told me about it last night.”

“Not much of a birthday,” said Mitchell, again spreading his hands and examining the fingers.

“And he was looking forward to it, too.”

“Was, was he?”

“All kinds of plans. He was going to sign his will, to-day.”

“It's missing.”

“Is it, really? He put it in his pocket—I saw him; if that was the document he showed Fred Barclay.”

“If it ain't there,” Mitchell jerked his head towards the pigskin dressing case; “it ain't anywhere.”

“How very odd.”

“You'd think he'd take a thing like that case with him, if he was going off for good.”

“He wouldn't have been able to carry anything, Mitchell. I know he'd never think of such a thing. But if he was going off for good, and didn't want his family to know it, why did he struggle through that cigarette-case comedy with Sam, instead of quietly decamping by way of the fire escape? It's only one flight down, and the dining-room and kitchens are at that end of the hotel. Not a soul would have seen him.”

“He might not have known about the fire escape; and even if he did, he had a good reason for not going that way. He'd have had to pass his tutor's room, his sister's room, and his aunt's room; and even if they were in bed, the transoms were open.”

“They were; I saw them.”

“And those people hadn't hardly time to get to bed, much less to sleep. One squeak out of his shoes, or anything like that, and the trip was off.”

“So it was.”

“I'm going into all this, Mr. Gamadge, for two reasons. First, they think this cousin of his, Atwood, must have planned to drive down from the Cove, last night, and meet him at the cliff, and take him up there to that summer theatre. ‘The Old Pier Players'; that's what the name is. Now, this Atwood hasn't come forward; so I'm going up there to see him. If there was any kind of an accident, down on the rocks, he may not want to admit being there; but we found a folding cheque book in the boy's pocket, and one of the cheques in it was made out to Atwood, and signed. Made out for one hundred dollars. It was folded right back with the others, and anybody going through his pockets would be likely to miss it. Now, Colonel Barclay tells me you're interested in handwriting, and ink, and so on, Mr. Gamadge.”

“I am; trouble is, the handwriting and ink I'm interested in is usually from one to two hundred years old.”

“Don't say!” Mitchell looked disappointed. “My idea was that perhaps you could tell whether that cheque was made out last night. If it was, you could argue that the deceased meant to
give
it to Atwood, last night.”

“You could.” Gamadge looked round at the immaculate blotter on the desk, and the brand-new steel pen. Mitchell said:

“There ain't a mark on that blotter, and no other blotter was in the room. He had a fountain pen—empty.”

“Oh. Well, Mitchell, there's a faint, feeble possibility that I could tell you whether the ink on that cheque is Ocean House ink.”

Mitchell's eye lighted.

“Don't count on it. If I can, it will be a lucky break. And I have no materials here to work with.”

“I'll get 'em for you from Portland. The other request I have to make is this: You saw all these people, Mr. Gamadge; and you're the only person outside the family, except Sam, that did see ‘em. I'd like to hear what you thought of 'em.”

“That's a long order, on such a short acquaintance, I can tell you more or less what I thought of the boy himself; he was very attractive.”

Mitchell raised his eyebrows. “Sam says he looked like a livin' corpse.”

“His colour was startling, but otherwise he had a very attractive personality. His illness had warped him, I suppose; he was obviously spoiled; selfish, perhaps; self-indulgent; a trifle too used to having all the money in the outfit. But he had character. His illness hadn't made him morbid, he wasn't peevish, and he had (as you know already) physical and moral courage. I should say he was affectionate and generous to people he liked; and I should say he liked a good many people. I liked him, Mitchell. I hoped he'd get a little fun out of his money.”

There was a pause. Then Mitchell said, woodenly: “Sheriff doesn't like the job of asking these bereaved ladies questions.”

“No; very unpleasant. So he passed the buck to you.”

“I don't like it any better than he does.”

“What questions do you want to ask them, anyway?”

Mitchell glanced at him, glanced out of the window, and said: “There'll be a post mortem.”

“Naturally.”

“What's more, there's a Doctor Ethelbert Baines in the hotel, and they say he's a big man in New York.”

“He is. A very big man.”

“He's a friend of the Cowdens. He's going over to the Centre to check up on Cogswell's findings.”

“You couldn't have a better opinion.”

“He had to die sometime soon, they tell me,” continued Mitchell. “Nothing specially funny about his dying last night, after all he'd been through yesterday. He had a bad attack at Portsmouth.”

Gamadge surveyed him for some moments in silence. Then, smiling faintly, he leaned back in his chair, stretched out his legs, gazed at the ceiling, and said reflectively; “What if they find some ante-mortem bruises? Or what if they don't? Having some imagination, it worries you a little to consider how soon he died after coming into his money. You can't help realising that if he had lived only a short time longer, he would have been living among new friends, spending his fortune on them, perhaps even getting married. You reflect morosely on the fact that his sister is his sole heir, since he doesn't seem to have got that will signed and witnessed. Is she his sole heir, Mitchell?”

“Yes, she is. But I don't—”

“You don't feel like going into the next room and asking her if she pushed her brother off the cliff, last night. That would certainly have given him a fatal heart attack, wouldn't it?”

Mitchell gave him a doubtful and grudging look. “I haven't said any such thing.”

“So I had to say it for you. You want me to introduce you to these ladies?”

“I have to go easy.”

“Certainly. The approach will have to be indirect.”

“You mean you'll do it?”

“Certainly I'll do it. Why not?” Gamadge turned, and was about to pick up the telephone.

“Look out!” Mitchell started forward. “I have some fingerprint men coming down this afternoon.”

“Oh.” Gamadge picked the receiver up by its edge. “That you, Wilks? Give me—no, wait a minute. Send one of the boys up, will you?” He said over his shoulder: “Mrs. Cowden may not be answering her telephone.”

“In a hurry, ain't you?” Mitchell studied him curiously, as he replaced the receiver on its hook.

“Aren't you?”

“I have to see Mrs. Barclay, and get up to the Cove.”

“I'll drive you up, if you're agreeable. I'd like to see the place. The poor little beggar asked me to go. I think I'd do well to accept his invitation.”

Peabody, the short bellboy, knocked and came in.

“Oh, Peabody,” said Gamadge. “Go to Mrs. Cowden's door, will you, and ask her if she will speak to Mr. Gamadge on the telephone.”

“Yes, sir.”

“If she says she doesn't know who I am, tell her I'm a friend of the Barclays. She met me there last night.”

Peabody walked solemnly down the hall, past the intervening room, to Number 21. They heard his knock, and a low-voiced conversation. He returned, his solemn face lighted by an unaccustomed smile. “She says yes.”

“I don't believe that everybody could have got me that interview, Peabody. I'll remember it. Now go down and tell Wilks to put me on to Room 21. Tell him it's all right, Mrs. Cowden expects the call.”

Peabody left, and Gamadge waited for a few moments, and then lifted the receiver again.

“Mrs. Cowden? I apologise for bothering you at such a time. First, let me ask if I can be of any help. Anything at all… Yes, I thought they might be at the Centre; that's why I… Let me know if there's anything, then. How is Miss Cowden?… Oh, I'm very sorry… You got hold of Baines? Good. I was going to say I could probably find him for you, on the golf course… Peabody did? That boy's a jewel.

“What I called up about, there's a man here from the sheriff's office, quite a nice fellow, state detective. He wants some data; you know these formalities. He didn't feel that he could bother you this morning, but I had an idea you might be willing to help him out. Of course he could wait for Colonel Barclay to get back from the Centre… You'll see him? I was pretty sure you would. Shall I get hold of him, then, and bring him up, say in half an hour? I agree with you—much better to get these things over with… Not at all, I'm only too glad. Good-bye.”

Gamadge replaced the receiver gently on its hook, and turned to Mitchell with a condescending bow. Mitchell's answering look held a mild and questioning wonder.

“What's the matter?” asked Gamadge.

“You're a cool customer.” Mitchell was amused. He went on, frowning: “Did she say Miss Cowden was sick?”

“Collapsed. They had Baines see to her.”

“Now, that's too bad. I was counting on seeing her.”

“You may, yet; who knows?”

Somebody knocked, and little Peabody made a second appearance, holding a large manila envelope as if it were a tea tray.

“State policeman just brought it,” he said, and backed out, more solemn than ever. Mitchell said: “I will say they were pretty quick, over there. Not so bad, for the Centre.” He took out a photograph, glanced at it, handed it to Gamadge, and busied himself with a typewritten report.

The picture showed a figure that looked merely like garments, carelessly flung down, so insignificant was it, spread-eagled below towering rocks. A Panama hat lay near it, and its tweed topcoat was twisted away from one shoulder, as if torn off in the fall. The body lay face down; there were no injuries to be seen on the back of the head; but the upper half of the face was a black smear.

Gamadge looked at it, turned it this way and that, and studied it from all angles. Then he handed it to Mitchell.

“Take it away,” he said. “I don't like it.”

“You can imagine how the little feller that found it felt. Those gypsies are hard-boiled characters, even the children; but when he got hold of the beach cleaners, this Stanley boy was crying.”

“I feel like crying myself.”

“Here's the list of what young Cowden had in his pockets. No papers, except that cheque book, and a bill or two. They sent the cheque book; here it is.”

“Must I handle it by the edges, too?”

“No, I got that printed. No prints on it but his.”

Gamadge opened it, and unfolded the signed cheque, which had not been torn out; unless opened, it resembled all the blank ones. He studied it, while Mitchell continued:

“No driving licence, of course. A wallet with some stamps and thirty-four dollars in cash. Handkerchief. Pair of chamois gloves, rolled up. Little bottle of medicine—iodide of potassium. He had a wrist watch on, unbreakable glass, but it was under him, and it was smashed. Stopped at 2.9.”

“Which is when he died?”

“Far as anybody can tell. He was out in the cold and wet for all those hours. The spray reaches that place, when the tide's high. It was going out at two, but it was still high enough to soak him. Then there was his physical condition, and nothing solid in his stomach since he had dinner at Portsmouth. Two-nine suits the medical examiner all right.”