“And not at all impressed by the fact that she barely escaped with her life?”
“Not Hattie Bluett. Well, the prowler went on to the Wakefield Inn, and we know what happened there—at least we know what young Yates says happened, and I don’t see why we shouldn’t believe him.”
“Nor I.”
“Miss Homans, both the Silvers, they’re accounted for from ten forty-five on; but young Silver—he has a sleeping porch off the parents’ room, it’s on the south side of the house; the prowler wouldn’t see his light. Wouldn’t see any light at the Inn.”
“You don’t feel certain about this Silver boy?”
“Nobody saw him before or afterwards till the police came in after the murder, and the whole town was in the street. Then he showed up, and I questioned him myself. But he couldn’t have gone out without the parents knowing it, and they seem like nice people. He’s getting ready for college—up here to study. Has a tutor right in Westbury.”
“Why a tutor?”
“Didn’t pass his examinations or something.”
“That sounds as if he hadn’t been overworking himself before, whatever he’s doing now.”
“These adolescents—I don’t know. He’s a funny feller. You’d better have a look at him.”
“Why should he or anybody have left that fire axe behind him, Sheriff, when he went on to the Carringtons’? And if he was already provided with a weapon to use on somebody in Edgewood, or on Miss Bluett, why bother with the fire axe at all?”
“I don’t know. I can’t even guess, unless he liked the look of the fire axe better than whatever he did have, and then when he heard a young feller call out instead of old Mr. Compson—”
“That’s so, a native would expect to find Compson there.”
“When he heard Yates call out, perhaps he was panicked and decided he’d better not be caught with the fire axe on him.”
“But he didn’t use a weapon of his own even at the Carringtons’, did he?”
“He certainly didn’t. He used a log of maple wood out of their own parlor fireplace; stood behind a bed curtain and brought it down on the top of Carrington’s head, and it crushed the skull as if it had been an iron bar. Round section of wood, easy enough to handle, that bark don’t take prints. And I say he was smart to give up his own weapon and use something that belonged on the premises.”
“Carrington was sitting up in bed?”
“Banked up with pillows.”
“The murderer must have used both hands.”
“Yes, he couldn’t hold the bed curtain tight or cover his arms. Plenty of blood, but it washes off some materials and it washes off human skin.”
“I suppose some kind of raincoat was worn, Sheriff. It threatened rain that night.”
“Yes, and the Jenner girl was wearing a raincoat when she came in, and both the Carringtons have raincoats, and everybody in the place has a raincoat.”
“The Carringtons or the Jenner girl could have done it, I gather.” Gamadge looked at his cigarette.
“Easy. Carrington says he was back in the library, where he couldn’t have seen or heard a thing. Miss Carrington says she was up in her room. The girl needn’t have been away from Frazer’s Mills at all; the garage is down at the end of the drive south of the house; they usually leave the car and walk up. She can’t dig up anybody who saw her in Westbury. But—” the sheriff gnawed his lip.
“Motive missing?”
“Gamadge”—the sheriff leaned forward—“you find me a motive. Just one. The Carringtons and the Jenner girl had nothing to gain and everything to lose by George Carrington’s death. He sank his entire capital in an all-out annuity years ago; when he died the income stopped. He had nothing to leave but a couple of thousands in his bank account and the old house—which isn’t even wired for electricity—and ten acres of land.”
“You looked into his financial situation?”
“I got his lawyer. I got his bank. I got the broker that sold his securities and the agent that sold him the annuity. I saw his papers there at the house. I saw a copy of his will—everything to his son and daughter. He had no life insurance; at least nobody knows anything about it if he had, and nobody’s come forward with information. The Carringtons told me all that and I checked everything they said. He wasn’t secretive about his affairs.
“You find me a motive for killing George Carrington. And try to connect him up with the others—the near-victims; with old Compson, Bluett, anybody at Edgewood. Or with this Yates. Find out why anybody should want to kill all those people—anybody except a maniac.
“Somebody’s crazy, that’s all. They say—” he looked at Gamadge almost wistfully—“they say that kind of maniac can fool everybody for years. Is that right?”
“So far as I know.”
“And they say we can only hope to prevent the last of a series of crimes. Not the next one, oh no. If the feller was crazy enough to run the risks he ran on Thursday night he’ll be crazy enough to run more. And he still has his own weapon, whatever it may be.”
Gamadge rose, and the sheriff wondered again what Durfee meant by implying that this matter-of-fact and down-to-earth character was some kind of curiosity. Nice enough man, seemed intelligent, but not what the sheriff’s wife would call colorful.
“It’s a tough case,” said the colorless one. “When is the inquest?”
“It’s been adjourned to Tuesday, and after that how can I keep all these people here? I can’t.” Ridley sat looking up at Gamadge, holding his dead cigar. “The Edgewood people are backed by their doctors. The Silvers are getting a lawyer.”
“How are the Carringtons taking it all?”
“They’re behaving like decent sensible people. The girl’s been sick in bed since she found the body.”
Gamadge said: “I can’t get into that house, Sheriff, unless we take Lawrence Carrington into our confidence.”
“You mean tell him why you’re here?”
“We’ll have to tell him. I wonder if you’d ring him up? You might say I’m investigating Edgewood—it happens to be true.” Gamadge pondered. “You could tell Carrington I need local information. And don’t I!”
“You certainly ought to get into the Carrington house.”
“And meet the Carringtons and Miss Jenner. I couldn’t manage it without you.”
“I’ll ring him,” said the sheriff slowly. He got up and put out a hand. “Glad to have met you.”
“Don’t make it so final, Sheriff,” said Gamadge, smiling. “We might meet again, you know.”
“Let’s hope we do.”
CHAPTER SEVEN Descendants
GAMADGE DROVE INTO Frazer’s Mills at noon. He stopped his car at the entrance to the village and sat looking down the long, broad, shady street. A month later these oaks and maples, planted here a century before, would be on fire with every shade of red and yellow; so would the forests to the right. On the left fields rolled away to a distant farm or two, white against dark-green hills.
“Emptied of its folk, this pious morn.” Gamadge wondered sardonically whether any soul could return to tell why The Mills was desolate. Not if the soul were already there.
Desolate it seemed, with more than a Sunday quiet; not a living creature in sight, not even a—Gamadge bethought himself: No dogs in Frazer’s Mills? Or didn’t they bark at night? Or were they all shut up in the houses after dark? Or had the prowler’s muffled feet made no noise at all?
Here was a living creature at last, but one who only gave sinister significance to the empty scene. A young state police officer wheeled his motorcycle into view from a driveway on the right and stood it beside a mounting block.
Gamadge leaned out and waved at him. He came to the car window; a thickset young man, sandy and fresh-faced.
“My name’s Gamadge. Did you”—Gamadge was fumbling for his wallet—“get any word?”
“Yes, sir. My name’s Adey.” He glanced at Gamadge’s license and returned it. “Other man’s Vine
s. I’ll see him if you don’t, he might be along the Green Tree Road.”
“One at each end?”
“Yes.”
“Well, you’ll be right on hand if there’s another murder.”
The young man, startled, answered sharply: “Why would there be?”
“These things are supposed to run in a series, aren’t they?”
“Yes, but he got away.”
“But you expect him back?”
Officer Adey said shortly: “We can’t be sure it was somebody from outside.”
“But you don’t think so. Excuse me for asking these questions, it’s what I’m here for, as you know.”
Adey nodded. “I know the place too well. My aunt lives in one of those.” He inclined his head forward and to the right.
“One of the cottages? You don’t tell me. You’re a descendant?”
“Yes, but he was a trainer.”
“That’s something!”
“Compsons’ stables. His bay geldings won every trotting race at Westbury for twenty-five years.”
“Good for him.”
Officer Adey accepted a cigarette and a light. He leaned an elbow on the car door and looked along the street with an air of challenge. “I helped them with the checkup Thursday night. You should have seen the place.”
“Turmoil?”
“I couldn’t tell you what it looked like. There’s only two street lamps, most of it’s dark. The whole town was out after we got here and they heard our motors and the cars from Westbury. There was an old lady from Edgewood in a Mother Hubbard with flowers; there was somebody from Wakefield’s been shampooing her hair, tied up in a wet towel. There was nightgowns and pajamas. There was Miss Wakefield’s transient in a bathrobe, and Lawrence Carrington in a soup and fish. I tell you it was a pitcher.”
“You make me see it. You checked up, did you?”
“All the cottages. Every able-bodied person has an alibi—like the salesmen at the Tavern. With their families or visiting around or at the store. Nobody’s bothering about the cottages, and I understand Edgewood has no maniacs. There’s that Silver boy, funny feller, but his folks didn’t act to me as if they were concealing anything. Carringtons—they don’t come up here as much as they used to, but unless they’ve changed a good deal they’re a family with no bats at all. Nice people. The old man came across with a big present for our dance at Christmas—came across regular. That girl they have there—she don’t drive as if she was crazy, anyhow.”
“I see you’re sold on the prowler. Your opinion’s valuable, officer. How about dogs?”
“Dogs? Oh, you mean Thursday night. That don’t mean anything. There’s no dogs at Edgewood or Wakefield’s or Carringtons’, and of course none at the Library, and there’s always a little barking going on of an evening, the usual thing. If you know the lay of the land you can understand that the prowler wouldn’t get near enough to any of the cottages to start any real barking.” He mused sadly: “Miss Wakefield always had a lot of nice bird dogs, but they’ve died off and she says she can’t feed ’em good any more; so she’s quit worrying.”
“I should think she’d have enough to do to feed the boarders. Well, thanks very much. I’ll be going along.”
Gamadge drove slowly along the street. He passed the rambling old Compson house on the left, shut up tight for the duration of the school holidays; on his right, barely discernible behind its maples, rose the classic façade of Carringtons’; Gamadge had a glimpse of a side lawn with round flowerbeds, and a pointed tower-like trellis half hidden by vines. The front lawn, green and cool under its thick trees as the bottom of the sea, was separated from the narrow flagged footway by a white picket fence and a hedge.
More trees, and then the Wakefield house; of red brick, handsome and stately, with modern additions that were no doubt a necessity. Gamadge noted the large screened sleeping porch where the Silver boy had or had not been on Thursday night at the time of the murder, and looked back after passing to get a view of the famous side door.
The Tavern, with its low pillared frontage and its wide old doorways, pleased Gamadge’s eye; but one window was full of hardware, the other of cosmetics and toothpaste. The drugstore was open for business, but nobody stood at the soda fountain.
Far back among its evergreens, enclosed by a thick and tall privet hedge, the smallish Library presented high casement windows to the street. Its front faced north, and could not be seen at all behind the greenery. A charming little old house, the Rigby house, of gray brick freshly painted. Gamadge wondered whether there might not be interesting old reading matter on its shelves.
Edgewood was trim and well-kept, with extensive grounds. Gamadge looked past it to the wilder spaces behind, which seemed to merge with the woods themselves; but the fatal little path must be there. The house was square and plain with a south wing, painted white. It had blue shutters, which gave it a modern look. Gamadge turned up the neat driveway, and got out in front of a small porch. The front door was closed, and—as Gamadge discovered—locked. He rang.
A pleasant girl in white, with a cap, evidently Miss Pepper, opened the door a crack and peeped out. Then she opened the door wide.
“You must be Mr. Gamadge,” she said, smiling at him.
“I am.”
“We’re expecting you. The man will take care of your car and your bags.”
“Only one bag.”
“Didn’t you bring golf clubs?” Miss Pepper looked past him at the car.
“No, the doctor says golf makes me nervous.”
“It certainly upsets some of our guests. Come in, Miss Studley’s downstairs. We hoped you’d get here in time for lunch.’’
The big lounge had a stairway rising from it to the left, a generous fireplace, now banked with autumn flowers, comfortable deep chairs and sofas, plenty of tables for magazines and ashtrays. There was a window on either side of the front door, one in the left wall, one in the right, and two at the rear.
Miss Pepper went through an archway on the right, and presently another white-uniformed figure appeared in her place.
“Mr. Gamadge?”
As Gamadge shook hands with Miss Studley he understood why Edgewood had been a success. She looked firm and competent enough to deal with the prowler himself, and yet she looked indulgent.
“I don’t have any office down here,” she explained. “I try to keep away from anything institutional.”
Gamadge said he never intended to become an inmate of an institution while he had the use of his arms and legs.
“I know, that’s how everybody feels. I’ll take you up to the third floor and show you my office—anybody can go in or out of it night or day. In fact they do!” she laughed. “I keep some good interesting books up there, and I also keep nice sharp pencils and pads and things. Everybody wants pencils all the time.”
“Doesn’t it disturb you frightfully?”
“Oh no, I have my bedroom. I don’t even hear people when they walk into the office and shove things around. Nobody knocks at my bedroom door except in great emergency—it’s an unwritten law.”
“I’m glad you have one at least.”
Miss Studley thought this was as cool and poised a customer, for an allegedly nervous one, as she had ever seen. But these writers, you never could tell. Or had Dr. Hamish said that Gamadge was a writer? He didn’t look quite like a writer. She had had a writer or two—most of them couldn’t afford Edgewood, of course. Those she had had—Miss Studley winced mentally. She asked: “Are you a writer, Mr. Gamadge?”
“Now and then. Nothing to boast about. I’m supposed to examine old books and papers.”
Miss Studley accepted this because she had to. There was something about this Mr. Gamadge that took the eye, and she didn’t know what it was. A nice man anyway, and a cool one.
“I had a very nice telephone conversation with your doctor,” she said. “I was delighted to have the chance to get acquainted with Dr. Hamish.”
“You must h
ave talked to most of the top men in that profession, Miss Studley.”
“I’ve talked to a lot of them. And they’ve never let me down.” Miss Studley looked at him calmly. “I’m glad you’re both so sensible about poor little Frazer’s Mills. This panic is absurd.”
“Er—a certain amount of alarm was natural at first.”
“At first, yes; though it was perfectly obvious the lunatic went away after the murder. Do sit down.”
Gamadge waited until she had taken a chair, and then sat in another near her, beside a table. Miss Studley pushed an ashtray towards him and he got out his cigarettes. She shook her head when he offered one.
“I smoke now and then to be sociable, that’s all.”
“Better for me if I could say the same. You mean you think that after the Carrington murder the fellow, having had what he came for, just kept going?”
Miss Studley thought this over. Then she said: “Yes, going south; through the woods to the Westbury road. As for his being still in the woods, that’s silly; they’ve hunted everywhere.”
Gamadge, looking through the nearest back window, said that there seemed to be a lot of woods.
“Miles of them, but they’ve been searched. All the game wardens, and they know every foot of the woods, and the state police, and a posse from Westbury. It’s a shame that The Mills should be avoided as if it had an epidemic in it.”
“It did look a trifle abandoned as I came through. I thought the inhabitants themselves must—”
“They have this foolish idea that some of our guests from outside—some, one of them, I mean, of course—might have had an attack of some sort. As if there wouldn’t be premonitory symptoms!”
“There certainly ought to be. Are you a native of The Mills, Miss Studley?”
“I was born right in that fourth cottage, the one with the latticed porch and the dahlias.”
“No! A descendant!”
“I certainly am,” said Miss Studley, smiling, “and I’ll tell you something else. My great-grandmother was a nurse in the Chapley family, and where do you think the Chapleys lived?”
Night Walk Page 6