“Right here?” Gamadge smiled back at her.
“Right in this house!”
“Well, you’ve managed to do something or other to the wheel of destiny, Miss Studley.”
“It does seem like fate. I always loved this Chapley house, and as soon as I could I bought it.” She looked around her with pride. “It wasn’t well arranged inside, those old country homes were apt to be so cut up and dark; so I tore out every partition downstairs, and just kept this one room, and the dining room in the wing. I built a new kitchen and laundry on.”
“What a good idea.”
“And I put private baths in upstairs.”
“You had vision.”
“I’ve certainly done very well.”
“Did this prowler thing scare any of your patients away?”
Miss Studley’s face fell. “It’s too silly—they’re not allowed to go.”
“Why not?”
“That’s what I’d like to have somebody tell me. Mrs. Norbury is the only witness—you know he nearly went into her room?”
“Yes, I remember.”
“You’d think, being eighty years old, she’d be prostrated, crying and begging to go home. She’s reveling in it!”
Gamadge laughed. “Likes the excitement?”
“Really it’s quite ghoulish. After all, Mr. Carrington was killed! But I don’t know, sometimes very old people seem to lose all sense of tragedy.”
“So near the edge themselves that it doesn’t shock them when somebody else goes over?”
“I can’t help thinking so. She wouldn’t leave for anything—she’s quite looking forward to the inquest. But poor Mrs. Turnbull—so nervous and frightened, and won’t take sedatives because her husband—I’m not betraying confidences, it was all in the papers at the time.”
“What happened to him?”
“He took an overdose of amytal. I do wish people wouldn’t run these risks. He had definite instructions from his doctor. But no, he must take twenty grains instead of five, and of course he was found dead in the morning. Poor Mrs. Turnbull, and now this happens. You can imagine how she must feel, practically suspected of being a homicidal maniac.”
“She has plenty of company, though.”
“Mr. Haynes—the quietest, nicest man; he doesn’t say much, but it can’t be good for his heart. And Mr. Motley—cooped up like this and not even able to go somewhere in his car and play golf! I’m sure their lawyers could get them out of it, but they don’t want to fuss. If they did, somebody would be sure to say they were running off.”
“But they’d have to come back for the inquest if they’re to give evidence.”
“They have no evidence to give. They don’t know any more about it than I do. I may be very wrong about it, but I do wish Mrs. Norbury hadn’t said a word about her door opening on Thursday night; then we wouldn’t be in it. But the minute the news of the murder came she was out in the street talking to the police and the sheriff and the newspapers. If it wasn’t for Mrs. Norbury nobody would ever have thought of saying that one of the Edgewood guests started out from here on Thursday night. What with? That’s what I’d like to know. We haven’t missed any axes.” Miss Studley glanced at Gamadge and away. “Of course it’s made the others nervous,” she said. “But as I told Dr. Hamish, and he understood perfectly and sent you up, all the doctors swear these people weren’t mental at all. You don’t develop a thing like that in a couple of days, you know.”
Gamadge said: “If the prowler was from outside, and came in along the Green Tree road, this would be the first house on his way.”
“Of course it would, and so I tell everybody. Mr. Gamadge… ”
“Yes, Miss Studley?”
“They all lock their doors at night now, and it wouldn’t be fair for me not to tell you to lock yours.”
“Good for you. That’s the way to talk.”
“Well, after all, I’m responsible for the safety of my guests. Outsiders—the newspapers—keep talking about our leaving the house open so late. Imagine. Everybody here always left their houses open as late as they liked, sometimes all night. And as for our not locking the side door on Thursday after Miss Wakefield called up—”
“Didn’t you?”
“Mr. Gamadge, just please put yourself in our place. Nothing ever happened in The Mills. Now this prowler came, looked in on Mrs. Norbury and went away again, looked in at the Inn and went away again, evidently going south. There hadn’t been any murder so far as we knew. Why in the world should we think he’d come back, anyway? We locked the front door, it was about the time Miss Pepper did lock it. But we didn’t lock the back doors; normally we left the kitchen door until the staff came home. They like to stay around in Westbury for a while after the late movies, having sodas or beer or whatever they do have.”
Gamadge said: “I see your point. You weren’t in a panic.”
“And we didn’t want Mrs. Norbury getting into one, either. We weren’t going to tell her about the Wakefield business at all. Well, I know one thing; even if they don’t find this prowler, it won’t take long for The Mills to keep their doors unlocked again.”
Gamadge laughed. “No, it never takes long.”
“And that’s one good thing.” Miss Studley took a booklet out of her pocket. “You’d better look at our rates. I thought you might like this nice south room on the second floor, with bath.”
Gamadge looked at the price of the south room, repressed a shudder, and said it would be fine. “I may not be staying after Labor Day, you know, Miss Studley. Depends on what goes on at home.”
Miss Studley rose. “I hope you can stay longer. You’re just what we need, Mr. Gamadge—somebody sensible.”
“Well,” said Gamadge, also getting to his feet, “of course I wasn’t here at the time.”
“I suppose that makes a difference.”
They went up the curving stairs, Miss Studley explaining that there was a telephone booth behind them, to the right of the side door. When they reached the second story landing she nodded towards the left. “There’s that side staircase, and that’s Mrs. Norbury’s room just this side of it. My office is just above. Shall we go up and look at it? So you’ll know where to come when you want a pencil or a novel or a piece of writing paper.”
“I have a pencil and a novel and a piece of writing paper, but I’d feel much safer if I knew how to track you to your lair.”
“My lair is my bedroom,” laughed Miss Studley.
“Oh yes, I forgot.”
They went down the hall and climbed the side stairs. On the top floor Miss Studley opened the first door to the left. Gamadge looked into a large plastered room with a sloping ceiling and a dormer window. It was simply a comfortable sitting room with a large, well-appointed desk.
“Awfully nice,” said Gamadge, “but where do you keep the secret files?”
“I have none, of course!”
“No case histories?”
“They’re not my business. And any records I do make for the doctors—”
“They’re in your bedroom. I know.”
“What of it?”
“I’m beginning to think this is the best run sanatorium I ever saw or heard of.”
“It isn’t a sanatorium.” Miss Studley couldn’t help laughing with him. “Are you making me out some kind of fraud?”
“Tell me who isn’t one, when dealing with the sick?”
“They’re not sick any more than you are, and if you’re sick, then I am!”
“Can’t a man be tired of examining books and documents?”
“I should think he’d die of it.”
They went down and along the second floor hall to the south room, where Gamadge found his bag. He said it was as pleasant a room as he had ever seen. “All blue and white—so cheerful.” He didn’t like blue and white, but the south room was certainly cheerful.
“Come down when you’re ready,” said Miss Studley, “lunch is from one to two. The dining room is through tha
t arch from the lounge, and there’s a big screened porch off it where we serve tea. It’s glassed for a sun parlor in wintertime.”
Gamadge, left to himself, looked out of his south window. He could see little of the Library, there were too many trees. He unpacked his bag, got ready for lunch, and went downstairs; but he went by way of the side stairs, and stood for a while looking out of the side door. Then he turned back past the telephone closet and went through the lounge into the dining room.
CHAPTER EIGHT Case Histories
ALTHOUGH IT WAS only one o’clock, Gamadge found four little tables already occupied. The four guests looked up at him as he arrived, then down at their plates again. He glanced at them, unfolding his napkin.
The older man, sandy and graying, must be Haynes; he looked depressed and gloomy, and he took small interest in the newcomer. Ancient Mrs. Norbury, alert as a sparrow, seemed to accept Gamadge as a refreshing novelty in a stale situation. She smiled at him.
Gamadge returned the smile; they bowed.
His eye caught the flash of sunlight on Mrs. Turnbull’s bracelet, and he raised his eyes from it to her face. The nervous widow; she had had the money, and she had loved Mr. Turnbull. Had he perhaps chosen to cease upon the midnight? Gamadge thought that he himself might have done so in Mr. Turnbull’s place. A dull woman, and (unless Gamadge was mistaken) without benevolence.
The dark fellow in the corner—Motley—showed more inner discomfort than the rest of them. In fact, he showed agitation. His handsome mouth twitched as if he had recurrent twinges of his neuralgia, his eyes roved, his hands—well manicured—played with the silver, and he dropped a spoon to the floor. The rosy-faced waitress picked it up for him, and he smiled upon her.
All I know about them, thought Gamadge, is that three of them are nervous and have a right to be, and that all four of them must be rich. Motley’s very nervous. Just bored? If I were mixed up in a murder and for some reason didn’t care for publicity, how damned nervous I should be.
Gamadge hurried through his excellent lunch to get to the lounge first. Mrs. Norbury came out next, and paused beside his chair. He rose.
“I’m Mrs. Norbury,” she said brightly.
“My name’s Gamadge.”
“Oh, we all know who you are. Came right along into the midst of the maniacs, didn’t you?” She chuckled. “How do you like us?”
“Very much. But you were one of the near victims, Mrs. Norbury.”
“Yes, and they’re all wild at me because I told about it, and got them all caged up under suspicion. But wouldn’t you have told in my place?”
“Certainly. Very wrong of you not to have said anything.”
“They ought to be much obliged to you, anyway; takes the blight off.”
“I must admit that I didn’t know there was going to be such a blight; I mean so much effect of curfew and martial law in the village.”
“It’s too bad they don’t catch this tramp. These police!”
“But it needn’t be a tramp, Mrs. Norbury.”
“No, that’s the trouble. I do hope since you’ve come there’ll be a chance of bridge tonight.”
“Won’t they play?”
“Never touch a card. Say they couldn’t keep their minds on it. Oh well, perhaps you’ll feel like rummy.”
“I do hate that game so.”
“I do too, but it’s better than nothing.” She went up the stairs. Haynes, Motley and Mrs. Turnbull came in from the dining room together; companies in misfortune, if in nothing else but bridge. Haynes said: “You’re Mr. Gamadge.”
“Yes.”
“I’m Haynes, let me introduce you to Mrs. Turnbull. This is Motley.”
They all nodded. Mrs. Turnbull stood twisting her pearls with ringed fingers and looking at Gamadge a little vacantly. Motley went to the back of the room and stared out of a window; Haynes turned abruptly to fling open the front door. He gazed out into the brightness of the afternoon.
“Stuff and nonsense,” he growled. “Broad daylight, and a policeman at each end of the village, and a deputy sheriff on the Carringtons’ front steps; and we’re all shut up like dangerous animals.”
Mrs. Turnbull spoke in a mincing voice: “But after all, Mr. Haynes—a crazy man with a stick of wood might rush in before anybody could stop him. Do you think it’s quite safe to open the door?”
“Fellow’s in the next state by this time. We’ll hear of some crime in Jersey. Plenty of woods there!”
Motley spoke with his back to them:
“If that Norbury woman had kept her mouth shut… I still think it may have been a coincidence. I told that idiot sheriff so. I told the captain of state police so.”
Gamadge, interested, repeated: “Coincidence?”
Motley swung to face him. “That incident here on Thursday night. Place like this—people are popping in and out of rooms all the time. It’s understaffed. We’re paying for a lot of service we don’t get. Pepper’s always in a hurry, and the maids are always forgetting clean towels or something. Somebody opened and shut Mrs. Norbury’s door and won’t admit it now, somebody went out for a breath of air—it was stifling that night—and doesn’t dare say so because if they do they’ll be thrown into jail as a criminal lunatic. Mrs. Norbury’s eighty. She got things mixed, and when the murder broke she had hindsight and made her story fit the other stories.”
“Well, of course,” said Gamadge, “it does fit the other stories.”
“She told Pepper at the time,” added Haynes. “No use trying that kind of thing, Motley, it won’t help.”
Mrs. Turnbull said: “The best thing to do is just to wait quietly until it blows over.” Her voice quavered. “They can’t keep us forever.”
She went over to the stairs and mounted them laboriously; lamed by her high heels. Not a woman, Gamadge thought, who had ever had much physical exercise. Well on in her forties.
Motley stood looking after her, an ugly look. Haynes caught it.
“I don’t put it on her,” he said. “She’s neurasthenic, I suppose, bound to be after the shock she had when her husband died like that. But I’d say she was incapable of it in more ways than one.”
Motley cast an angry glance at him. “I don’t put it on her. Never thought of such a thing. It’s this passive acceptance of the thing that gets me. She has nothing to do but sit here and wait forever. The rest of us can’t.”
“By heaven,” said Haynes, “I’m glad the lunatic didn’t try her door. She’d have gone off her head.”
“Good thing if she had. Settled it then and there—he’d have been caught.”
“Nice thing for us if he never is caught!”
Gamadge said: “I suppose he must have had a torch with him on that trip of his.”
“That doesn’t worry them.” Haynes turned a pale blue eye towards him. “There’s a torch here, in a coat closet off the side lobby. Anybody can use it. Everybody does. Dark as pitch out there at the back until you get through to the garage.”
“And does everybody use that wood path?”
“If they want a walk. It’s an easy enough way to get one, and trails lead off it into the woods.”
“And we all have raincoats,” said Motley with a sardonic half-smile. “And there’s always plenty of grass and pine needles sticking to our shoes—even Mrs. Turnbull’s. That man of Miss Studley’s cleans them when he feels like it.”
“I’m sure I don’t know what’s worrying you people,” said Gamadge, “with so little evidence, and what there is distributed around like that.”
Haynes gave him a lowering look. “You don’t? How about going home again, and our friends waiting to see whether we’ll take a swing at them with a piece of wood?”
“They won’t. Too many people in the boat with you.”
Motley came to the foot of the stairs. He said: “They might look into those cottages again.”
“Thought they were all alibied.”
“By one another. This is an inbred, backwards communi
ty, nobody in it had the spunk to leave—they’ve sat here for a hundred years drying out. As for those farms—”
Miss Pepper came through from the archway, to answer the telephone which had begun to ring behind the stairs. She returned and smiled at Gamadge: “Your doctor’s checking up on you.”
“Is he? Good. This the only telephone, Miss Pepper?” asked Gamadge, starting for it.
“Miss Studley has one in her office on the top floor.” Gamadge stopped. “Oh—by the way; where is Miss Studley? I wanted a word with her if she isn’t busy.”
“Out on the porch.”
“Thanks. I’ll see her.”
Gamadge went back and around to the left; he paused a moment to glance at the lobby, the side door and the side stairs; then he entered the booth and shut the door.
“Hamish?”
“Hello, idiot. How’s audibility?”
“I looked into that. Safe here, you don’t have to worry about anybody but the operator in Westbury; and Westbury’s a good-sized place.”
“Bother all this top-secret stuff of yours.”
“You never have any of course.”
“Mine doesn’t spring from morbid curiosity. Well, I got the information for you.”
“You’re a wonder.”
“A nice job it was.”
“For Miss What’s-her-name, your poor unfortunate secretary. All in the interests of public welfare, too, and no curiosity, morbid or healthy. Well, I’m greatly obliged all the same.”
“You should be. Number one in order of age: the old party is perfectly regular. His man—I know him—says he had his tonsils out and gets sore throat at sea level and can’t stand mountains on account of his heart. This Edgewood is just right for him. His specialist often sends such cases there. Known him for thirty years, and damn it all it’s impossible—any such development as you’re interested in.”
“That satisfies me.”
“The next party, the one from Pittsburgh—I had the dickens of a time running her man down. He’s very well known. By the way, who’s paying these long distance calls? I have a carefully itemized list.”
Night Walk Page 7