Arrow Pointing Nowhere (11 page)

Mrs. Dobson looked distressed. “Please come in, and the sergeant too. Miss Grove is here—she'll want to see any friend of the family.”

They entered a high, square lobby panelled in red mahogany.

Stairs rose from it, and some distance beyond it a swing-door was propped open. A delicious odor of ham frying filled the hall.

Mrs. Dobson closed the front door. “Please excuse the smell of cooking,” she said. “I keep the back doors open to warm the front for Miss Grove. We're saving heat while the family's away. If you'll just lay your things on that bench, I'll light the fire in the drawing room.”

“Don't bother, Mrs. Dobson.”

“It's no bother, sir. I'd be lighting it in a minute or so for Miss Grove.”

She went into a room on the right, and turned on a lamp. By the time they had got out of their coats and removed their overshoes a fire was blazing. They entered a big room, also panelled in red mahogany. Mrs. Dobson invited them to the hearth.

“You must be frozen,” she said, with a fond glance at Harold's uniform, “and half dead from that climb. Did you say Mr. Mott Fenway, sir?”

“I'm the son of an old Harvard friend of his.”

“And what a lovely gentleman he is. He used to pelt snowballs at me when I was a child around the house. My father was coachman here, and my mother was cook. Long ago.”

She went out of the room and down the hall. Harold, warming himself, looked about him at the Fenbrook drawing room. He said: “Not so bad. Not so bad. I like the little railings on the furniture. What's the color of those curtains?”

“Peachblow.”

“This place was fixed to last.”

“It has a permanent look.”

“Dressy for a country house.”

“Oh, no. They'd put the room into chintz for the summer.”

“You were right about it, Mr. Hendrix. It's a good kind of house.”

“We had one once.”

There was a rush of feet on the stairs, and then a girl came to the doorway. She stood looking at them and smiling. Slim, but strongly built; dark hair rolling back from a low forehead, eyes a shade lighter, the color of brown amber; a clear skin, red-flushed; features that gave the effect of having been carved too finely from delicate material. They gave her, in spite of her obvious health and high spirits, a plaintive look; Gamadge thought of drawings in red or brown chalk, under glass, in museums. Her green knitted dress was faded, her brown shoes had seen long service.

“I'm Hilda Grove, Mr. Hendrix,” she said.

Gamadge came forward. “May I introduce Sergeant Bantz, Miss Grove? I don't know him at all, but I think you'll like him.”

Miss Grove shook hands with Gamadge and with Harold. She said: “I think it's awful—your both climbing the hill and finding nobody but the Dobsons and me on top of it. Let's all sit down.”

They all sat down. Gamadge said: “We really mustn't stay. I'd better be telephoning—I must get to New York. Utterly stupid of me to think the family would be here, transportation being what it is just now. I had some wandering thoughts about the weekend, I suppose, this being Sunday.”

“Mr. Fenway—both the Mr. Fenways—will be sick about it.”

“I only know Mr. Mott.”

“Isn't he nice? But they're all so nice. Mr. Hendrix—must you and the sergeant go away before supper? It's frightfully early, but mine's all ready, and Mrs. Dobson says there's plenty of everything. She does so want you both to stay, if you don't mind ham and eggs.”

Gamadge said: “I had no notion it was so late.”

“Oh, it isn't; it's only six-twenty.”

“And I must get a train that will reach New York before nine.”

“There's one just after eight. You'll have lots of time for supper.”

“If you and Mrs. Dobson actually mean it, Miss Grove—” Gamadge looked at Harold—“and the sergeant and I have the colossal nerve—”

Harold said: “I have if you have.”

She rose. “Then I'll tell Mrs. Dobson, and Mr. Dobson will show you the downstairs dressing room. You might like to call your taxi now, there's a telephone in the coatroom. The taxis are rather slow sometimes, and when it's snowy everybody wants one.”

She went out of the room with a backward glance of pure delight. The two stood silent. At last Harold asked: “Is she or isn't she good-looking?”

Gamadge threw him a glance of mingled pity and disgust.

“Anyway,” continued Harold, “she's O.K. So is Mrs. Dobson.”

“Yes, and that fixes you, Sergeant. You'll spend the night at the Oaktree Inn.”

“What for?”

“I don't know. I must get further instructions. But if I go back to New York you'll have to stay within walking distance of Fenbrook.”

“What's this Oaktree Inn, and do they sell toothbrushes?”

“It's a place on the Albany Road, very expensive. I've often passed it in the car. We'll call up and get you a room. You can taxi down to the village with me and buy yourself what you need.”

Harold muttered that he would probably need flannel pyjamas.

A
N APPLE-CHEEKED MAN
in a high pair of rubber boots came shyly to the door. He introduced himself as Dobson, and conducted the guests to the coatroom under the stairs where the telephone was. A well-appointed dressing room opened from it. While Harold washed, Gamadge looked up the 8:01 train to New York, and then ordered a taxi to meet it. He next engaged a room at the Oaktree Inn for Sergeant Bantz; the Oaktree seemed pleasantly surprised.

Harold came out of the dressing room drying his hands. He said it was a crime.

“What is?”

“Eating here under a false name, and telling all these whoppers to that girl. You'll feel pretty small when she and the Dobsons find out that we were here under false pretenses.”

“If they ever do find out, they'll have reason to forgive me.”

“I'm beginning to think you got your signals wrong. There's nothing for me to do up here.”

“You hang on till further notice. I'll keep in touch with you.”

When they went out into the hall again Mrs. Dobson met them, beaming. She said: “I'm glad you're going to stay, sir and Sergeant. It's company for the young lady.”

“Lonely for her, is it, with the family away?”

“She don't say so, and in good weather it ain't so bad. She keeps out of doors a good deal, she works in the garden. But we've been snowed in.”

Gamadge had a suspicion that this was being said in the hope that it would reach Fenway ears. He told Mrs. Dobson that he agreed with her that it must be a dull life for a young person.

“And all that bother about the picture being lost out of the book. We don't know anything about the picture, or the book either.”

“A picture has been lost?”

“Twenty years ago, perhaps, and Miss Grove has only been sorting the books and papers for a couple of weeks. But Mr. Fenway don't blame us, of course. It's hard for her to have all the responsibility, though, and nobody to help her. It isn't as if she had friends here; she was brought up in foreign cities, with winter sports on the Alps and I don't know what all. She has no young friends at all in this country. There's no kinder, nicer lady than Miss Caroline, but she don't understand, she has so many friends of her own.”

Gamadge smiled at Mrs. Dobson. “I'll drop a word to Mr. Mott Fenway when I see him. I won't quote you, you know.”

“Well, sir, I'd be obliged if you wouldn't; it's none of my business. Miss Grove would like to learn how to be a real secretary somewhere, or do war work; but Mrs. Grove won't let anything interfere with Mr. Blake Fenway's plans, and I don't wonder. Still, this isn't like a real job, sir, where you're independent and meet other young people.”

Gamadge was quite sure that Mrs. Dobson was no idle gossip, and that it had cost her something to risk her standing with the Fenways in order to put Hilda Grove's case before him. That he had been chosen as intermediary did not surprise him; he was used to the role.

“I see the point,” he said.

“She's in the dining room, sir; you go through the parlor.”

The dining room was beamed and wainscoted in oak; two corner cupboards rose to the ceiling, whence descended a bronze chandelier. Hilda stood in front of an oak buffet, her hands behind her, contemplating a bottle. She had changed into a lavender dress; it was a summer dress, and it was old. Its thin draperies of skirt and bodice made her look taller, younger and more fragile. Gamadge said from the doorway: “Rossetti never came within a thousand miles of them but once.”

“Of whom?” she asked, looking at him in surprise.

“Of the old masters.”

“When did he?”

“When he drew that head I'm thinking of. Excuse me—my mind wanders. Is that a bottle of whiskey?”

“Mrs. Dobson says it's what Mr. Fenway would give you,”

“Then he's a gentleman.”

“There's ice. Would you and Sergeant Bantz fix it yourselves?”

Five minutes later they were all sitting at the oval dinner table; Mrs. Dobson passed ham and eggs and a green salad, and Miss Grove poured coffee.

“It's so lucky,” she said. “Mr. Dobson only drinks tea. Where were you stationed, Sergeant Bantz, if it's all right for me to ask?”

Harold swallowed. “An island,” he said, after the mouthful went down.

“I've tried him on that,” said Gamadge, “and I warn you that that's all you'll get out of him. He won't talk about anything but some kind of monkey.”

“Nice little feller,” said Harold.

“Are you going to be in this neighborhood long?” asked their hostess, her luminous eyes on Harold's square face.

“Depends on business.”

“It's lovely up here. I love the snow. Just now I'm rather busy with Mr. Fenway's books—Mr. Blake Fenway's. Did you say whether you knew him, Mr. Hendrix?”

“I don't at all.” Gamadge answered to his alias belatedly, and Harold grinned.

“He's wonderful.” Her face glowed. “Wonderful. I used to help him in his New York library, but Aunt Alice thought there were so
many
of us.” She laughed, and then grew grave. “Did you know about poor Mrs. Fenway, and Alden, and their awful trip?”

“Yes, I know all about them.”

“All about
him
?”

“Yes, I know.”

“Isn't it pitiful? We were so lucky to meet them, really, because Aunt Alice had to leave all her money behind her in occupied France. Aunt Alice is Mrs. Fenway's companion, and Mr. Fenway took me in too. He's simply an angel; I wish I thought I were being really useful. But we were able to do one thing for them all—we found Bill Craddock on the pier, and now he takes care of Alden.”

“I understand that he's just the man for the job.”

“He's splendid, you don't know how splendid,” replied Hilda, “because he really isn't the right man at all.”

“Isn't?”

Her whole face was suddenly downcast. “They'll never get anybody like Bill; but I should think it would kill him. I never was so surprised in my life as I was when I heard
he was going to stay. He can't do anything physically hard yet, but he had such a nice offer from some friend of his to help run the indoors part of a dude ranch. I did so hope he'd take it. I thought of course he would! They wouldn't have paid him much, but it would have been so good for him.”

“Perhaps he also wants to oblige Mr. Blake Fenway.”

“Oh, there was no obligation for Bill; he just happened to meet us all, and he got us all here safely. You don't know what that boat was like. He wasn't nearly as well then as he is now, either. There were plenty of things he could have found to do here, and he had a lot of information he could have written up—about China, you know. Mr. Fenway was amazed when he said he'd stay on and look after Alden, and Aunt Alice was, too.”

“Very exacting work, I should think.”

“And for Bill, who's used to being so free and so much outdoors! He's looking very thin and pale.”

“When did he make the decision?”

“Two years ago, I think.”

“You've known Mr. Craddock a long time?”

“All my life,” said Hilda. “His father and mother were friends of ours, and after mine died he used to keep turning up at my Swiss school—to keep me cheerful, you know.”

“Your aunt wasn't on hand?”

“Oh no, she travelled about with Uncle. He had a business that took him everywhere; he represented a firm in America—the same one my father was in. Some kind of machinery. He and Aunt Alice lived outside Paris when they were at home; the nicest little house at a place called Bourg-la-Reine.”