“There’s a glass door out of that little den, kind of a French window. The back door is half glass, opens on a lobby, back stairs. The cook’s in the kitchen, a nice big fat woman in a white uniform. The little kitchen-maid is in and out; she’s all fixed up in frills to wait on table. She just got the dessert shoved to her through the pantry slide.
“The dining-room runs along from there all the way to the front; I got a good look in between the curtains on the last window down. It’s a long room, as you can imagine, with the double doorway right up front and the table in the middle, opposite the mantelpiece. Extended, it could be seen from the hall; but now it’s pulled in to accommodate six or eight. You can make it.
“They’re all there, all five of them; you were right. Unless the fifth is company.”
“Don’t think they’d be having company nowadays,” said Gamadge.
“I think she’s our client; and she’s the only one I couldn’t get a look at in the face. She’s sitting alone on that side of the table; dark hair done very neat and plain, dark kind of plain evening dress. They’re all dressed for dinner. They’re all talking but her. She’s got her head bent down a little, just sitting.”
“Waiting.”
“I guess that’s so. There’s a big high-colored man at one end of the table, and a dressy woman at the other end.”
“The Ira Coldfields.”
“Good-looking girl and middle-aged man on the side opposite our client. The middle-aged man is talking away to beat the Dutch, face puckered up as if he thought he was funny.”
“Ames Coldfield. Very intellectual.” Gamadge added: “All right, let’s go.”
He got out of the car, and they went down under big old trees to the corner of the house, where shrubbery thickened. Harold stayed where he was. Gamadge rounded the house to the back door; he rang, and the stout cook looked out at him. He had not taken off his hat before she was smiling benevolently.
“I’m awfully sorry to bother you,” said Gamadge, “but I had trouble with my car up on the route, and I wondered if I could telephone to a Cliffside garage. I don’t want to disturb the family. Just when you must be serving up the dinner, too.”
“I’m just sending in the coffee, sir. I have me own telephone here under the back stairs.”
“I thought you would. Don’t want to make a nuisance of myself.”
She stood aside. “It isn’t everybody would be so considerate. Come in, sir.”
Gamadge entered a little lobby, with the kitchen on one side and a closed door on the other—the nurse must be behind it, eating, and Gamadge glanced at it with disfavor and apprehension. He went on to the telephone, beyond which a baize door shut off the front part of the house; the cook returned to her own premises.
He dialled without lifting the receiver, said a few words, and then walked through the baize door into the front hall. A broad hall, a broad stairway, then the lighted drawing-room on the right and the dining-room on the left. Ames Coldfield said something in a high voice, a woman laughed. Gamadge edged along past the drawing-room doorway; nothing was to be seen of the dining-room but a fine walnut console between the end windows, an oblong of Persian rug, side chairs against a panelled wall. He reached the front door and opened it a little way. Harold slid through, and was closing the door gently behind him while Gamadge went back as he had come.
He went through the baize door and on to the kitchen. The cook turned from the sink.
“I’m ever so much obliged,” he said. “They’re coming.”
“You’re welcome, sir.”
He left the house, rounded it, and returned to the car. It started smoothly and quietly enough, and he drove down the curving drive to the front door. He waited, the engine running, and when the door swung open he was out of the car and had the rear door wide.
He had a view of three women coming from the dining-room, pausing, staring; he heard Harold’s calm voice: “Car for you, Mrs. Coldfield,” and saw him cut her off from the others as neatly as a sheepdog. He didn’t have to touch her—she came out of the house like a sleep-walker, straight to the car and into it. Harold, right behind her, had slammed the door shut and was holding it.
Gamadge flung himself into the back of the car, Harold let go of the doorknob and tumbled behind the wheel. There was a double slam and they were off up the drive. They had almost reached the route before Gamadge got himself twisted around to look out of the rear window. A big man in dinner clothes stood only a few yards up the drive, and three other people were grouped behind him, like images.
“Gave them a surprise,” he said, and couldn’t help laughing. But he was surprised himself when he turned back to look at the passenger huddled in the other corner, and saw that she was laughing too.
It wasn’t hysteria, although she gasped between fits of the laughter. She managed to speak: “It was so funny. So funny.”
“It was, now you mention it.”
“That man, that wonderful man. Who is he?”
“Bantz? He’s a research chemist. Now don’t let this kill you—he was a marine.”
There was a certain wildness in her laughter now, and Gamadge said hastily: “Here, let me put this coat on you.” He got Clara’s topcoat around her shoulders. “And we’ll have a drink. I need one too,” he told her, filling the top of the brandy-flask. “It wasn’t so funny until we put it through,” he went on. And as she drank: “It wouldn’t have been funny at all if you hadn’t been magnificent. I never saw anything like the way you came through that door. Clockwork.”
“But it was a car I’d been wanting so. I could never have got past the gates at any time without a car. And”—she looked at him, still smiling a little—“I’d had your message.”
“Didn’t that amuse you? I hoped it would.”
“To think that Georgette gave it to me!”
“Your brother-in-law Ames checked up on us.”
“He would; but it was only fussiness and wanting to be in on anything even faintly literary. He was amused by Glendon’s choice of books. He thinks crosswords are very silly.”
“I hope he’ll know some day how silly they can be.”
She had a silk evening bag on her arm. Now, opening it, she showed him the little paper-covered book. “Here it is. It was Glen’s, but since he died I’ve been doing them too.”
“How in God’s name did you get the message out?”
“With some proxies.”
“Of course! A business office would forward such an enclosure at once and as a matter of course—assume a mistake.”
“It couldn’t have happened again.” She was sombre enough now. “They were all out, and the nurse wouldn’t know that the proxies could wait. I wasn’t allowed to seal anything; but she didn’t look. I don’t know how I—”
He said: “It’s all right now. Have some more of this. The story can wait.”
They had been going south at a fast clip; now Harold slowed, and grinned at them over his shoulder. “Time to get directions,” he said. “Do we go straight back, pay toll and everything, or do we ride around by Jersey or somewhere? I mean are they coming after us?”
“No,” said Mrs. Coldfield. “They won’t come after us.”
“You mean State Police won’t even be waiting at the bridge to take a look at our passports?”
“No, once I got away it was too late.”
“In that case,” said Harold, stopping the car, “we might take it a little easy.” He lighted a cigarette.
Gamadge asked: “Have some brandy?”
“Don’t care if I do. Now that it’s all over, I feel a little shaken.”
“Some day, perhaps,” said Mrs. Coldfield, “I can put it into words—what I feel. You mustn’t think I suppose it was as simple as it looked.”
“We always try to keep it simple,” said Harold, handing Gamadge back the cup. “When I worked in the boss’s lab we used to get things more involved sometimes. Now Plan One is always simple. I was afraid this time we might have to
blow fuses, cut telephone lines—that’s against the law, too—wrestle with the nurse. She looks as if she could break my leg. But the boss said we could probably depend on you keeping your wits, and you’d been warned, too.”
He started the car. Gamadge said: “You’ve impressed him deeply. He doesn’t talk much as a rule. Now about plans for the night. We could fit you out perhaps for a hotel, but my wife and I thought you might prefer to stay over at least until tomorrow with us. So far I’m an unknown quantity to your relatives, so they wouldn’t know where to look for you. I don’t want you bothered with telephone calls or visitors.”
“It’s too much to ask.”
“Of friends of Caroline Fenway’s? Of a man who’s had the privilege of a sort of introduction to Mrs. Blagdon?”
“Dear old thing.”
“You have an invitation to go there, too, but I think you ought to work up to that gradually, unless you feel the need for excitement right away. Besides, her intentions are excellent, but I don’t think she could keep it quiet—your arrival without luggage as a refugee. I’m not sure her servants could. Now with us—you’ll have to have the nursery governess’s little room, but Clara seemed to think it would do. By the way, my wife can keep a thing quiet.”
“I feel”—she had sunk back into her corner and closed her eyes—“so relaxed. It’s the first time, since I came back to the house from the Dalgren place.”
“You know, I can’t see why you couldn’t enlist the servants back there on your side. The cook seems such a nice woman.”
She opened her eves to gaze at him. “Cook?”
“I had to get in by the back way, to open the front door for Harold—never mind it now.”
She closed her eyes again. “The servants were told that I was mad. What else could they believe, when a doctor and nurse said so?” She added: “I don’t think the nurse believed it. As for Smyth, he’s a poor silly old thing, devoted to them all. Perhaps he thought he was acting for the best. I could never make any fuss, you know.” Her voice was so faint that Gamadge could hardly hear her. “I could never lose my temper or show resentment, I couldn’t scream out of the window or try to burn the house down. That’s the kind of thing they were hoping for.”
“Were they trying to get you put somewhere for life, behind Dalgren’s back?”
“I was afraid so.”
“Were you afraid of anything more drastic?”
“Yes, sometimes. But Smyth wouldn’t…” Her voice faded.
They were slowing for the bridge. Gamadge said: “Just try to rest now. We’ll make one stop before we get to my place—don’t wake for it. I’m going to telephone The Maples from a public booth.”
She was startled. “Are you?”
“Mustn’t leave them in a state of anxiety,” said Gamadge, smiling at her.
“Mr. Gamadge—if you’re going to talk to them, I must tell you that I gave them a hideous shock. They may all have been acting in good faith, except one. The whole thing is so frightful, I don’t know how I shall ever tell you.”
“Just let it go for now.”
She was quiet. By the time the car entered the West Side Highway she was asleep, and Gamadge sat back watching her and smoking thoughtfully.
There was a drugstore on Harold’s corner. Harold drew up at the curb, and Gamadge got out and went in. He called The Maples; there was no waiting at the other end of the wire. A man’s angry, frightened voice rasped: “Yes, who is it?”
“Am I speaking to Mr. Ira Coldfield?”
“Yes. Who is this?”
“A friend of your sister-in-law’s. I wanted to tell you that she’s—”
The voice shouted at him: “Are you one of the fellows that got into my house on false pretenses and got a sick woman out of the house and took her away in a car?”
“Would you call it an abduction?”
“You got into my house—the cook—”
“Your servants had nothing to do with it, Mr. Coldfield.”
“I know that. You got in by fraud. I—”
“We were there by invitation. Isn’t Mrs. Glendon part owner now? But let’s not waste time discussing that kind of thing. We’re quite ready to go to court if you are—produce her at any time. She has an excellent lawyer, and I’m sure Dalgren would testify. But you know your sister-in-law well enough to know that she dislikes publicity as much as you do—that’s why we had to use the methods you say you object to, though I should think you’d be grateful for them.”
“Does anybody want publicity in such a case?” growled Ira Coldfield. “I say you’ll regret this bitterly—she was under a doctor’s care.”
“Not being mad ourselves, we—her friends—are quite willing to bank on Mrs. Coldfield’s sanity. My idea is to come up there tomorrow and have an informal talk about the whole thing; and pick up some luggage for her, you know,” said Gamadge amiably.
There was a silence, then a faint mumbling, and then a different voice—Ames Coldfield’s—came thinly over the wire:
“This is Ames Coldfield speaking, Mrs. Glendon Coldfield’s older brother-in-law.”
“Yes, Mr. Coldfield?”
“Any friend of Sylvia’s will be well received in our house, sir, and I wish that you had realized it before.”
Gamadge couldn’t help laughing. He said: “There seemed to be a little trouble about issuing the invitations.”
“How I should love to know the procedure, but let’s maintain a civilized approach, since you seem to be a civilized man.”
“Thank you.”
“The whole thing hinges on points of view—on what we thought and what you think about my sister-in-law’s mental condition. You realize that, of course?”
“Mrs. Glendon Coldfield realizes that. She makes out a case for you.”
“Of course she would. Sylvia is always fair—except where her delusions are concerned. Surely you can see that we would prefer to keep them in the family? Until she had abandoned them? But I agree with you, a conference is always best. No lawyers, of course?” He giggled.
“Only myself.”
“Er—you are not one, by any chance?”
“Oh, no. A reputable lawyer wouldn’t have used our methods.”
Ames giggled again. “I’m glad you admit so much! Well, then: my brother is very much occupied, and tomorrow he won’t be able to get away from his office and up here until shortly before six. Can you be here at six? We feel that it would be more satisfactory to have our whole family present at the conference, and three of us would have to make a special trip to town for it, and”—the giggle was prolonged—“you know the way.”
“I’ll be there. If you’ll just get a bag or two packed for your sister-in-law?”
“I promise it.”
Gamadge came back to the car. Mrs. Coldfield was still asleep, and Harold standing on the curb beside her window. He and Gamadge exchanged goodnights, and Gamadge drove off.
CHAPTER FIVEWhy?
CLARA SAID that Mrs. Coldfield probably ought to go straight to bed, that she had every reason to be a wreck. Mrs. Coldfield said that she had slept in the car and wasn’t at all tired, and that she wouldn’t be able to close an eye until she had told Gamadge all about it—she owed him that, at least. Gamadge said that he wouldn’t be able to close an eye until he’d heard.
“But don’t let that influence you,” he added. “Sometimes I don’t close an eye anyway.”
They were in the office, which had once been the Gamadge family drawing-room; a high, long room, with a white moulded ceiling and a white mantel, beneath which a fire burned. Mrs. Coldfield was warming her hands at the fire.
She said: “I can’t believe it—that I’m out of that house forever. It’s very stimulating, Mrs. Gamadge, to be free; and not to be waiting. I’d rather tell the story tonight.”
A big tawny chow and a yellow cat were sitting together near the wide doorway, paying close attention. They wanted to know when and where people were finally going to settle do
wn. Clara joined them. She said: “In that case I’ll be up in the library; it’s awkward to talk to two. When you’re ready, you’ll find something to drink up there, and something to eat, too. I don’t believe you had much dinner, Mrs. Coldfield.”
“Not much; in the circumstances I couldn’t eat much.”
“Well, I’ll be there with the animals.”
But the cat Junior had other ideas; when Mrs. Coldfield sat down in one of the leather chairs in front of the fire, he ran over and sprang into her lap.
“Oh, leave him here,” she said. “What a nice friendly one.”
“He’s rather officious, I’m afraid,” said Gamadge. “He’s trying to take Martin’s place, the one that died.”
“I wish they didn’t have to die so soon. We couldn’t have one at The Maples—Glen and I.”
“He really doesn’t bother you?” asked Gamadge anxiously, as Clara and Sun went upstairs. “We don’t like to suppress him—he means well, poor little guy.”
Mrs. Coldfield smiled at him as he sat down beside her in the other big chair and offered her a cigarette. “I don’t think it will be so hard for me to tell the story as I was afraid it would be.”
Gamadge lighted her cigarette and his own. Then he said: “Perhaps you’d rather I told it to you.”
She turned to look at him.
“Think I couldn’t?” he asked. “Think I don’t know? By the way, the defense has tipped its hand: Ames Coldfield says you developed delusions, and that they were just keeping it all in the family until you got back to normal. So I said I’d go up tomorrow and get some clothes for you and have a conference. I said you have a lawyer, which is quite true—Bob Macloud, none better. But I promised not to bring him along with me, so we’re all looking forward very much to the meeting.”
She asked faintly: “A lawyer? I don’t think—”
“Oh you needn’t have him unless you need him. I just retained him so that I could say you had him; I think he’s already made himself quite useful. Now for the story: and you must correct me where I go wrong.”
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