“And they’re not witnesses either. They didn’t see or hear anything Thursday night.”
“No. I’m going back there; could I tell them? Could you give me a pass for them or something?”
The sheriff exchanged his pencil for a fountain pen, accepted a page of Gamadge’s notebook, and wrote on it, the notebook for a pad.
“Write me two, will you, Sheriff?” Gamadge steadied the notebook. “Those people won’t want to leave together, Mrs. Turnbull hasn’t her car and she might not care to take a lift from Motley.”
“That’s so, strangers.” The sheriff wrote two, and handed them over. Gamadge waved them until they were dry, then put them in his wallet.
“Haynes can’t go,” said Ridley. “Not on your life he can’t. He was right there. By his own showing he was right up there behind the Library when the feller got away.”
“Wouldn’t have mentioned it, if he’d been the maniac, would he?”
“Don’t know how crazy he might be. These crazy people are boastful—like to get as close to the spotlight as they can.”
“Don’t tell me, Sheriff, that you’re forgetting those newspapers upstairs?”
“No, I’m not forgetting those newspapers upstairs. But I’m not letting Haynes go, and neither would you in my place. There’s been enough mistakes made around here since Thursday night. I’m having folks warned to be more careful than they ever were. But it looks like the prowler now—unless he has some place here to hide, he’s wandering in the woods. He’s been smart, they often are, but he must be pretty crazy by this time. Well, we’re having those newspapers analyzed, and the bread crumbs too; how’s that?”
“That’s sensible.”
“I thought you’d laugh about the bread crumbs.”
“No indeed.”
“I did, but those state police technicians, they’re just wild to get at those bread crumbs. Might be something in that bread that puts it in one bakery in the whole of Westchester County. They can’t do much about the log of wood, though. Ever hear of that choice of weapon before? On the premises and doesn’t take prints—maple bark doesn’t anyway—and kills like a piece of iron. But what weapon did he bring along with him to the library? Of course there’s a woodpile at Edgewood.”
“Is there?”
“Right on his way. They’ve been cutting some hickory up there. We haven’t found any lying around loose, though. He’s got a wood complex.”
“Evidently.”
“So those technicians tell me. Took a look at that axe at Wakefield’s and decided it wasn’t what he wanted. I guess he must have brought along his own stick of wood, and liked the Carringtons’ firewood and the firewood here better. You know, that rough bark—the blood didn’t spatter much; but there must have been some on the killer; wouldn’t you say so? Haynes—”
“Has Mr. Haynes got blood on him?”
“Plenty.”
“Oh?”
“His own, from those scratches he picked up from the berry bushes on his way down from the wood path. We don’t find any more yet.”
“Are you going to lock Haynes up in a padded cell until the technicians analyze his tweeds—or you find the real maniac?”
The sheriff took his cigar out of his mouth to smile. “What were you doing up on that stone wall back there? Asleep?”
“I was in a reverie, yes.”
“You missed something. We had Haynes in here, looking him over, and that nurse—Pepper—pushed in and said he had heart trouble and we’d be responsible if we killed him, and that Miss Studley’s patients were under Edgewood care, and that it was time for Mr. Haynes to come home and have his before-dinner sleep. She walked out of here with him, had hold of his arm; he went along with her, meek as a dog.” The sheriff added: “So if you stay over you’ll have the pleasure of being under the same roof with him. Are you staying over?”
“I am; I have a supper engagement at the Carringtons’.”
The sheriff rose. “I’m going up there now; I have to talk over the inquest with Carrington, get his requests for the disposal of his father’s body afterwards, lots of things.”
Gamadge slowly got to his feet. “Then you can go home?”
“Home? I’ll be here at the Tavern half the night; they might catch the murderer. Well, Mr. Gamadge, I’m mighty sorry you had your trip for nothing. Tell Durfee I was glad to make your acquaintance.”
“I will, Sheriff.” They shook hands.
Gamadge went down to the street, which was now lined with cars on both sides from one end of it to the other. He walked up the Edgewood drive. Edgewood had a dead and empty look, its front door closed and its windows shuttered against the setting sun. He rang, and Mrs. Norbury peeped at him through a crack. She flung the door wide.
“Well, young man! I don’t know which is the hero of the hour—you or Haynes.”
Gamadge entered. “Me?” he asked.
“Spending the afternoon in the Library with the murderer upstairs.”
“Or down cellar.”
“Poor thing, what a disagreeable girl she was.”
“Just mannerism; they get it sometimes—that or claustrophobia.”
“Got along with her, did you?”
“Very well indeed.”
Mrs. Norbury surveyed him. “Now I look at you, you do show signs of having had a shock. Go up and get a pill from Miss Studley.”
“That’s an idea.”
Gamadge ascended, but only to the second floor. He knocked on the door next his. After a pause Motley told him to come in.
Motley stood in his shirtsleeves, a water glass in his hand. The whiskey in the glass had not been diluted. He looked at Gamadge as if he hardly recognized him.
Gamadge held out one of the sheriff’s passes. “Here you are. Beat it.”
“What?”
“Beat it. Get in your car and go. Let them send your stuff after you. Say you’ve had a telephone call about a sick dog.”
Motley took the slip of paper and read what was on it. A slow flush rose through the sickly yellow of his face. He looked at Gamadge, read the paper again, and said: “I thought I was a goner.”
“Better get going, Motley.”
“You got this for me?”
“You’d have had it sooner or later.”
“A little too late.” He put the whiskey tumbler down, half turned, stopped, and addressed Gamadge again; relief struggling in his expression with a queer resentment: “I wish I knew exactly who you are and what’s in this for you.”
“I’m thinking of Mrs. Turnbull.”
Motley could not quite repress the beginnings of an incredulous leer. Knowing the kind of thing he would have liked to say and couldn’t, Gamadge felt a little sorry for the fellow.
“Don’t waste time over my motives,” he said. “Think of it as a racket if you like. Only get out of this.”
“I won’t hit the village at all. I’ll leave by way of Green Tree, drive straight for the river, cross by the Bear Mountain Bridge, go home from there.”
“That’s right.”
“I wish to God I knew why you thought of looking us up in the first place.”
“I told you. Besides, you seemed so nervous. Don’t try anything of the sort again, Motley, you’re not equipped for it.”
“Oh.” Motley smiled. “Strings to this, are there?” He held up the pass. “I thought so.”
“No strings, but of course I should follow your future career with interest.”
“Especially if it gets mixed up with Mrs. Turnbull’s?”
“Only if it gets into the papers.”
Motley said almost violently: “You know the worst of me.”
“I hope so.”
Motley put the slip of paper in his wallet and picked up a small traveling case. Gamadge went out of the room, shutting the door after him, and back down the hall. He knocked at Mrs. Turnbull’s door.
A faint voice asked who it was.
“Gamadge. May I come in a minute?”
>
The faint voice said yes. He went into a dim and perfumed retreat, and after a moment or so during which he got his bearings he saw Mrs. Turnbull. She was lying down on a bed which had certainly been furnished by herself with pink satin pillows and a pale, monogrammed eiderdown. This was spread over her feet. She lifted her head to gaze at him with red-rimmed eyes.
“It’s all right, Mrs. Turnbull. May I give you this?” Gamadge came up to the bed and handed her the pass. “It lets you out of Frazer’s Mills whenever you want to go.”
Mrs. Turnbull reached feebly for her lorgnette; Gamadge put it into her hand. She scrutinized the pass.
“What I think is,” said Gamadge, “that you’d better wait on until the end of your booking. No reason at all why you should leave sooner; Motley’s going immediately.”
“Is he?”
“Of course. He’s the one that makes it dangerous for both of you. I got one of those permissions for him, and he’ll be out of here in half an hour.”
“But will I be safe here?”
“Quite safe.”
“Mrs. Norbury says that Mr. Haynes—”
“Don’t worry about Mr. Haynes.”
Mrs. Turnbull was incapable at the moment of being grateful for anything; indeed, she probably couldn’t take in what she was to be grateful for. She said: “Well, if you say we’re all right… ”
“And you know what I think, Mrs. Turnbull? I think what you need is a nice long trip. Change, new friends, travel. Enjoy yourself. Meet new people.”
“I don’t make friends easily. I’m so alone.”
“Well, you try it.” He added, on a note of apology: “I suppose you have no financial affairs to worry about; I mean you’re all tied up in a nice trust or something?”
“Oh, I’m tied up tight, Mr. Gamadge.”
Feeling somewhat relieved, Gamadge went to his own room. At least Mrs. Turnbull wouldn’t be murdered, whatever happened to her husbands; for she was fated. She was a predestined victim, and Gamadge was thankful that she would probably be the victim of nothing worse than a fortune hunter.
It was time for him to get ready for supper at the Carringtons’. He had a bath, dressed at leisure, and was downstairs at twenty past seven. On his way to the telephone he met Miss Pepper.
“When you write to your husband,” he said, “tell him that an obscure civilian named Gamadge is proud of you.”
“Miss Studley’s furious at them. Poor Mr. Haynes. But he didn’t have an attack, blue as he looked. If they dare bother him again—”
“Do excuse me, won’t you, I have to telephone my wife. Haven’t had time all day.”
Gamadge went back to the booth. Several minutes later he came out of it looking as if his time there had not been ill-spent. He left Edgewood at a fast walk, and kept up the pace when he reached the street; but he crossed to the other side to avoid the worst of the crowd.
The Library was now dark, and there were few people gazing at it from the lawn. Gamadge wondered who would sit at Miss Bluett’s desk now, or if anybody would. Probably it would never function as a library again, but would go into the market as a desirable all-the-year-round residence and bring taxpayers and new blood to Frazer’s Mills.
In front of the Wakefield Inn young Silver was tinkering with a sedan. He left his job when he caught sight of Gamadge, and ran across to speak to him.
“Isn’t this rotten?”
“About Miss Bluett? Yes. Rotten.”
“Well, of course that’s terrible; but I mean isn’t it rotten we’re going?”
“Don’t you want to go?”
“Certainly I don’t. Not with all the excitement, and besides that we have no place to go to but my aunt’s, and I have to sleep three in a room with my cousins. Worst little aggregation of dim thinkers you ever saw. When I got the news of course I came and told the parents, and they started packing; my father has a logical mind, he knew they’d let us go. He’s been pestering them ever since. We’re leaving now.”
“Well, I’m very glad to have met you, Mr. Silver.”
“No, but they say you’re a friend of the sheriff’s or something; they say the cops passed you right in, you must have something to do with the law.”
“Grapevine still working, I see. I have no official connection with the law. I happen to know some people—”
“Listen, Mr. Gamadge. If I had evidence they’d make me stay. The family could go, but I could stay till after the inquest. I’d have to.”
“What do you mean, evidence?”
“Well, listen; you know where my sleeping porch is, and I was reading there on Thursday night—had my light on. Well, this maniac must have gone round the house from north to south on his way to Carringtons’. He’d see my light when he got round, and he’d cut back up to the wood path; wouldn’t he?”
“Very likely.”
“That’s what he did do. I’ve been pretty sure of it ever since, but the parents said I wasn’t sure enough to make my evidence worth talking about.”
“I don’t know what you are talking about.”
“Well, looking back after all the hullabaloo, I was pretty sure I heard him going up through the orchard to the wood path. Anyway, I heard something. Isn’t that evidence?”
“If it is, and you’ve concealed it until now, they’ll make it hot for you; minor though you are. They’ll make it hot for your father and mother.”
“Not if we say we weren’t sure.”
“We? We?”
“The parents kept insisting that I imagined it afterwards, or that it was a bird or an animal.”
“Put it on them, would you?”
“No, but you know they’d mix in.”
“Then you keep them out. You can’t swear to anything, and this evidence isn’t needed now. Everybody knows the maniac must have gone past the Inn, and you’ll have to go and sleep three in a room with your backward cousins.”
Young Silver resigned himself. “I can’t find Yates anywhere,” he said, turning away. “Will you say goodbye for me?”
“Yes. It really was a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Silver.”
“Thanks.”
He went back to the family car. Gamadge walked on past Wakefield and Carrington property, and crossed when he was opposite the Carringtons’ picket gate. He went through the gate, and up a flagged walk darkly shadowed by pines.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN The Trellis
GAMADGE STOOD AT the foot of the broad and shallow steps that led up to the porch, and looked to right and left. On the left the grounds were rough and thickly planted with trees; on the right the side lawn, landscaped in its old-fashioned way with round flowerbeds and tower-like trellis, sloped green and picturesque to barns and stables. In this half-light it was charming; Gamadge thought how pleasant it must be of a summer morning, with all its fragrance of honeysuckle vine and flowers, damp earth and new-cut grass.
There was a bow window on this side of the house, and below it, running all along the foundations, a deep moat or ditch, fern-planted, gave light to basement windows. Farther along there was another bow. Gamadge had walked to the corner to observe all this; now he came back, mounted the steps, and rang a bell that tinkled softly.
Carrington opened the door; he was in dinner clothes.
“I’m sorry,” said Gamadge, “I didn’t bring other garments.”
“Stupid of me not to realize that—or at least to ask. Not that it matters. My father,” said Carrington, “liked us to dress. He never relaxed in such ways, not even at The Mills. It’s automatic with us now. Do come in. The cocktails are ready.”
He led the way into a parlor on the right, from which two doorless archways gave on an inner room. They, as well as the front windows and the bow, were corniced in gilt and draped with cherry brocade much faded.
“What a room,” said Gamadge, while Carrington went to a console to pour the cocktails.
“Too bad Lydia can’t face it yet. You know that”—he moved his head slightly—“is where my fa
ther was killed.”
“I supposed so.”
“And Lydia’s piano is here. Too bad. Well, they say times cures everything if we wait.”
The room, smelling sweetly of old painted wood, old fires, straw matting and many flowers, was all white, cherry brocade and rosewood. Gamadge, his cocktail glass in hand, wandered about looking at pictures and ornaments. The flowers were in trumpet-shaped glass vases with ormolu holders and stands. “Lovely,” said Gamadge.
“Rose arranges them,” said Carrington. “Extraordinary how much of our old stuff has survived. We have never replaced anything.” He added: “We’ll be getting electric light now; my father preferred the oil lamps and the candles, but it’s really too difficult to get regular service, and lamps have to be filled and wicks trimmed if the skies fall. And fires built.” He looked down at the hearth. “You see where the log was.”
The top log was in fact missing from the well-laid pile. Gamadge nodded.
“Shall we go into the bedroom now, and have our second drink afterwards?” Carrington stood aside, and Gamadge went past him into an oblong room, wider than it was deep. The big four-poster bed faced the wall between the doorways; glazed chintz curtained it, but the curtain to the left of the headboard was missing.
There were two rear windows, looking out on greenery; there was a bow window looking out on the side lawn. Rosewood furniture, very handsome; old hooked rugs in fine condition; a marble-topped night table furnished with a lamp and candles, writing materials, books.
“You can see,” said Carrington, “that in warm weather this would be the most comfortable room in the house. My father always had it, and his father before him. Upstairs the ceilings are lower, and no room but this has nearly the amount of air. With the front door open, as it was on Thursday, as he always wanted it to be until late, he got all the air there was on a hot night. It can be hot in Frazer’s Mills. But not too hot, you know.” He smiled.
“Never too hot if you like a place,” said Gamadge.
“Place is like a garden in summer,” said Carrington. “And it’s as it always was, except that my father very reluctantly parted with the old washstand and painted tin ewers and things when he put in his ground-floor bathroom. That’s our one innovation, and most convenient. I believe we had the first bathtub ever seen in Frazer’s Mills—but that was long ago. A coffin-shaped tin affair, and cold water piped upstairs. The wonders of science.”
Night Walk Page 13