“What a shame.” Miss Pepper arranged the tray. She left them, and Mrs. Norbury settled herself to preside.
“And what have you all been doing?” she asked brightly.
Haynes said: “I tried to take a walk.”
“Tried?” Mrs. Norbury passed cups. Haynes, looking gloomily into his, nodded. “Along that wood path. Game wardens—bah! There was somebody walking along parallel to me in the woods.”
Everybody looked at him.
“And why not a game warden?” inquired Mrs. Norbury, still brightly.
“Fellow would have spoken when I called out. He didn’t. Went on towards Wakefield’s. I cut down between Wakefield’s and the Library, through all that jungle of thorn bushes.” He glanced down at his tweeds and picked vegetation from his knee.
Mrs. Norbury asked less brightly: “Did you speak to the police officers?”
“Neither of ’em in sight, and that deputy went off to supper long ago. Their hours are incredible.” He swallowed some tea and went on: “I suppose they searched that empty house—the school?”
“Of course,” said Motley. “Went through it Thursday night, in spite of the fact that it was locked up tight as a drum. When did you hear this fellow in the woods, Mr. Haynes?”
“About half an hour ago. Dare say it was some native, or one of those boys looking for trouble. But the place gets on your nerves. I had my walk up and down the street. There comes that motorcycle fellow now. I suppose I ought to have a word with him.”
There was a chugging from the Green Tree road, and they heard the motorcycle pass. It stopped beyond Edgewood. Haynes finished his tea and got up.
“Getting sick of it,” he said.
“Your tramp’s reached the millpond by now,” Motley told him. “Why start another panic? The sooner it all dies down the better for us.”
Haynes sat down again and took a piece of bread and butter.
“How about a game tonight?” asked Mrs. Norbury. “If Mrs. Turnbull isn’t up to it, Mr. Gamadge will take a hand. What do you play for, Mr. Gamadge? Is a quarter of a cent too low for you?”
Gamadge said it wasn’t. They sat silent after that, even Mrs. Norbury at a loss for conversation. But it was she, deaf though she may have been, who first looked up, turned her head, and remarked that there was something going on down the street. Old ears are tuned to calamity.
Everybody looked to the left, but the screen and the trees beyond cut them off from any view of street or Library. There was certainly a sound of voices somewhere in that direction, a shout, and then a sudden sharp cry. In another moment a woman was screaming. The three men on the porch got to their feet.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN Triumph of Vines
MRS. NORBURY, LOOKING very froglike in her dismay, stayed where she was; Motley got as far as the front door, thought better of it, and remained there; Miss Studley, loyal to her post, went no farther than the porch steps, where she stood and shouted after Miss Pepper to come right back and tell her what the trouble was. Haynes couldn’t run on account of his heart, so Miss Pepper, with Gamadge close behind, were the only people from Edgewood to dash across the lawn and down to the street. Gamadge overtook Miss Pepper as she rounded the library hedge.
The oldest inhabitants, and the fattest ones, were still streaming across the road and up to the Library; a crowd was already there, going on around it to the back. The screaming had stopped. A middle-aged woman, tears on her distorted face, stood on the Library path; somebody paused beside her and addressed her as Mrs. Stapler.
Dick Silver ran past Gamadge, who caught at his arm; the arm was snatched away, and the Silver boy galloped on towards the Wakefield Inn. Two motorcycles, abandoned in haste, leaned against the curb.
Gamadge ran up the lawn, dodging shrubs and trees. The front door of the Library was closed, the casement windows high; he went around to the rear and found the crowd surging about the cellar steps, with Vines keeping them back. When he saw Gamadge he beckoned to him; there was a curious look of triumph in the policeman’s eye.
“What is it?” Gamadge was panting.
“He got Miss Bluett.”
“How? When?”
“While you and me were talking down on the street. While the Stapler kid was getting her things for her at the drugstore.”
“I don’t—”
“Sure, she was locked in. Don’t you get it? He was here all the time.”
“Here?” Gamadge looked vacantly up at the peaked roof of the Rigby house.
“Up on the second floor. He’s been here ever since Thursday night. Left a nest of newspapers and some bread crumbs and stuff.” Vines smiled. “What did I say?”
“You mean nobody ever searched the Library?”
“I guess it’s one on us, but why would we search the Library? He didn’t even go in the Library, why should we imagine he’d come back? But he did come back.”
“How did he get in?”
“Ask the Stapler kid.”
Willie Stapler, his face pale and frightened, was standing on the fringe of the crowd. He came slowly forward. Gamadge looked at him blankly.
“She didn’t lock up after herself Thursday night,” he said. “When we came over here today the door wasn’t locked, and I saw it wasn’t, and she told me.”
“Told you she didn’t lock up when you left with her on Thursday night?”
“She pretended she forgot her torch, she said that was why she sent over for me to take her home; but I knew then she was scared, and she was too scared to remember to lock up.”
“Did she say so this afternoon?”
“No, but she was embarrassed. She said: ‘Of all things, I never locked up.’”
“I see.”
Vines took up the story: “And the feller’s had three quarters of an hour to get away—if he’s gone.”
“Mr. Haynes heard somebody in the woods; here he is, he’ll tell you.”
Haynes came up, and told Vines what he had heard. Vines gave a short laugh: “We might have caught him, all right.”
“If you’d been here,” said Haynes.
“We wasn’t far. Well, so you heard him going off in a southerly direction. Get him yet, perhaps; Adey’s telephoning in there. This time there will be a cordon.”
Gamadge put his hand into a breast pocket and got out his key case: “She gave me her key.”
“That so?” Vines took it without surprise. “We thought she had it.”
“So that I could get in and read while she was away.”
“And Hawkins had the only other one—cellar key.” He glanced behind him, down the steps, to the open door. “He let us in.”
“How did you—”
“This Stapler boy came back with the drugs for her, and found the front door shut and locked as he left it. He couldn’t make her hear, thought she might be back in the bathroom, or upstairs. So he just sat down under his tree and forgot about it.”
“I did not forget,” said Willie Stapler. “I knew she’d be coming out pretty soon; she lives with us, she always comes home a few minutes after five. I waited, and I was doing my summer school reading; little while ago I banged on the front door again, I knew Mom would be expecting me. When she didn’t answer I went and told Mom, and Mom went across and got Charlie Hawkins. He let us in.” Willie Stapler turned his white face to Gamadge. “It was a log of wood off the cellar pile.”
“That’s so,” said Vines. “That’s what he likes to use—log of wood.”
“Was that Mrs. Stapler screaming?”
“She couldn’t help it,” said Willie, his lip trembling.
“I should think not.”
Vines said: “Adey’s telephoning the sheriff. Just as well the front door was locked, these folks would have been all over the place.” He glanced after Haynes, who had turned away to repeat his story to somebody in the crowd. Then he asked Gamadge in a low voice: “You want in?”
“Yes.”
“I got to stay here. There’s Hawkins now, he can h
elp me with the bunch here.”
Hawkins came through from the cellar and mounted the steps; an oldish man, who looked haggard. Adey was behind him.
“Barracks notified, sheriff coming,” said Adey.
“Take Mr. Gamadge in, will you?” said Vines.
Gamadge went down the steps, and past Adey into the dark of the cellar. Dampness rose from the earth floor, oozed through the ancient foundations. Adey shut and bolted the door behind them and flashed his torch.
“Careful of that firewood,” he said. “Some of it rolled when he took the log off.”
They circled the pile of maple logs and went across to the cellar stairs.
“He walked easy,” said the officer. “I don’t see footprints, but we better keep to the edge of the stairs and the upper hall.” They mounted the steep flight. Gamadge found himself in the back passage; lights were on everywhere, and Adey motioned towards the bathroom.
“He only used one paper towel, and he didn’t get any blood on it.”
Gamadge looked in. “That’s the towel I used. Miss Bluett let me wash my hands in here.”
“Wonder he didn’t get you both. See what happened?” Adey turned slowly from left to right, shining his torch up the back stairs. “He was there. He listened in when you left and the Stapler boy left, went down cellar and got his maple log—if he didn’t have it already. She was at her desk working. Coming in from the passage he’d get her from behind. If his shoes were tied up again, the way they were on Thursday night, she wouldn’t hear a thing. Wouldn’t know a thing—we hope.”
“We hope.”
Gamadge went along the passage and looked into the Library. It was dim, and Adey put all the lights on.
There was nobody at the desk now, but down on the floor, within the rampart of books, there was a huddle of cotton print and a great stain of blood. Books had toppled over; beneath them lay a section of maple wood, red where its end showed from among sprawling open volumes and white pages. Gamadge stood looking down, his eyes focused for the moment on a yellow pencil with a rubber stamp on it.
“Working all right,” said Adey, following Gamadge’s look. “Had her pencil in her hand. Ever see anything like it? I did: George Carrington.” The silence lasted so long that he asked: “Make you feel funny or anything?”
“No, I’m all right. If he’d got me first, Adey—I was looking at these books—Miss Bluett would have screamed. The casements are open. He wouldn’t have got away.”
“That’s so. But he don’t mind risks—look at Thursday night. Crazy of course. Want to go upstairs?”
“If you don’t mind.”
“It’s all right.” Adey led the way. “Keep to the edges. He had newspapers all over the place up there, so we don’t have to worry about the floors.”
They went up to a little hall, from which doors opened. “Used this one room,” said Adey, “the one that faces the woods. He could show a light.”
“Where do these newspapers come from?” Gamadge looked into the small room, cluttered with a carpet of old newsprint.
“Packing boxes in one of the other bedrooms. He must have had food with him, but perhaps he don’t eat.”
“Somebody mentioned bread crumbs.”
“Just a grain or two, stale white bread.”
Gamadge nodded and turned away. They went down two flights of stairs to the cellar, and Adey unbolted the door. Gamadge came out alone, and mounted the steps. A captain of state police stood talking to a man and a woman who faced him arm in arm. The man was Lawrence Carrington, the woman resembled him enough for Gamadge to think she must be Carrington’s sister Lydia.
Lawrence had described her as serene, and Gamadge had received an impression from various persons that she was a spectator of life; her expressionless face was serene now as a mask is. But the arm within her brother’s trembled slightly. She couldn’t control that. Tall, pale-haired, beautifully dressed in white, she looked at Gamadge as if she did not see him.
The captain of state police was saying: “Just repeated himself, like they all do. You people here have had a raw deal, I don’t say it’s anybody’s fault, but it was a raw deal. All safe now.” He turned and saw Gamadge.
“Mr. Gamadge,” murmured Carrington. “Captain White.”
Captain White nodded, not too cordially, and went down the steps into the cellar.
Carrington said: “He’s badly hit by this, never hear the end of it. Lydia?”
“Yes.”
“This is Mr. Gamadge.”
Her mouth formed a smile.
Gamadge said: “I wouldn’t have thought of searching the Library myself on Thursday night.”
“Nor I,” agreed Carrington.
Lydia Carrington turned her head away. “Poor Hattie Bluett. I’ve known her all my life.”
Gamadge said: “No reason for me to intrude myself on you tonight, Miss Carrington. All this is too much for you.”
“Please come.”
“We’re counting on you more than ever. Do us good.” Carrington looked around him at the crowd, and beyond it. “Where’s Rose? Oh; talking to that young fellow—Yates. The fellow at the Wakefield Inn, Lydia.” He pressed her arm gently. “You remember?”
“Yes, Mr. Yates,” she repeated.
“He was the one that made Emmy Wakefield give the alarm on Thursday night.”
“Yes.”
“Or delayed her? Which? Never mind. Seven thirty, then, Gamadge. We won’t wait for Rose, Lydia; I suppose that young man will see her safely home.”
“Or I will,” said Gamadge.
As they turned away, Gamadge went through the crowd to the place beyond it and beyond the library where Yates and Rose Jenner stood. They had the casual air towards each other of bystanders who have made acquaintance on the sidelines of some event or catastrophe. As he came up, Rose looked at Gamadge from brilliant half-closed eyes.
Yates stepped forward eagerly. “Gamadge—there don’t have to be any secrets now?”
“No secrets now.”
“Let me introduce you to Rose Jenner. Rose—our only friend.” He was trying not to look too happy.
Gamadge said: “I don’t seem to have done much for you.”
“But we’re grateful all the same.” She did not smile, and Gamadge was also grave.
Yates said: “We’re not going to tell the Carringtons that we knew each other before, though; don’t forget, Gamadge, and give us away.”
“Just one secret left after all?”
She said: “I don’t want to hurt Lydia. Why should she know? I can bring Garry along this evening and they’ll be glad to meet him. He’s been a part of it—he’s been through it all.”
“We hope they’ll ask me to stay for supper,” said Yates, gaily in spite of himself.
“I’m sure they will,” said Rose. Her voice was clear, pleasant, a little toneless; just the voice, Gamadge thought, which could be imagined pronouncing that small ancient doom: Your king is in check.
Yates could not help noticing Gamadge’s gravity. He said: “This must be tough for you. Were you really with the poor Bluett woman just before?”
“Just before.”
“It’s pretty ghastly, isn’t it, that her death should do so much for us? For the whole place, if it comes to that!”
“Well, not her death, exactly,” replied Gamadge, and Rose Jenner’s eyes opened wider. Gamadge could see the gold at the edge of the irises.
“Not her death?” Yates was taken aback.
“Well, no; not her death, but the fact that there are newspapers spread about upstairs in the Library.”
Cars could be heard arriving at the foot of the path; people came up the path, carrying bags and cases. Yates said: “Let’s move, Rose,” and took hold of her elbow. One of the newcomers ran up to Gamadge and showed a badge. “Sheriff wants to know if you’ll wait, Mr. Gamadge. I’m Rouse, deputy; saw you this morning.”
“I remember. I am waiting.”
Yates said: “Hope to se
e you at the Carringtons’.” He and Rose moved off behind the Library. Gamadge settled down on the flat coping of an old stone wall, lighted a cigarette, and shut his eyes.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN Clearance
THE DEPUTY CAME out of the front door of the Library and lifted an arm. Gamadge rose and joined him. They went into the big book-lined room, where a small crowd was still busy in the corner behind Miss Bluett’s desk. A bulb flashed.
The sheriff took Gamadge into a corner where hard library chairs were gathered as if for a conference. They sat down. Ridley had a cigar in his mouth, his hands on his knees. After a moment he said: “Guess it’s all sewed up now.”
“Except catching him.”
“Yes. I’m waiting for that news. Lets you out, Mr. Gamadge.”
“Lets some others out, doesn’t it? For instance, everybody that had an alibi for this afternoon?”
“That’s so. I wasn’t worrying about them yet.”
“But they’re worrying, Sheriff.”
“That’s so. Feel like handing out the good news, do you?” Ridley got an envelope and a pencil out of his pocket. “Let’s see.”
“After all,” continued Gamadge gently, “the maniac is still at large.”
“My gosh, if we don’t get him this time…”
“Some of those people will be glad to go.”
“And I’ll be glad to get rid of ’em. Those Silvers, for instance. They were all with Miss Wakefield and the Yates feller out back playing darts, Mrs. Silver and all. The boy got her to come down and play, said she was having nervous prostration up in her room and she had to come down. Miss Wakefield and Yates have to stay, they’re witnesses to the axe business Thursday night, they’re needed at the inquest. The Silvers never saw a thing that night.”
“And this afternoon clears young Silver.”
“I’ll send Rouse over, tell ’em they can pack up and go. Who else?”
“Some people at Edgewood. Motley and Mrs. Turnbull were talking to me on the side porch from the time I reached there after I left Miss Bluett. They were on the porch before that—Miss Pepper knows they were.”
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