Arrow Pointing Nowhere (16 page)

“Damned wasteful. I never can remember to conserve it. How is Alden taking tonight's tragedy, Doctor?”

Thurley, making for the door, stopped halfway. “Doesn't know a thing about it. He'll enquire after Mott once or twice, and then forget him. Well, I'll be getting along. See you again, I hope, in more cheerful circumstances.” He hurried out, and down the stairs. Gamadge thought that the doctor was capable of making almost any circumstances cheerful.

They have to be like that, he thought; grow an extra skin. They'd never survive it all if they didn't—be of no use to anybody.

He turned out the light and went into the hall; silence here, darkness except for one shaded bulb that did not reach the farther shadows. Psyche's lamp was unlit, herself a wraith just visible in her little arched shrine: As he reached the landing in front of her the ghost of a sound made him look over his shoulder; Alden Fenway's bedroom door opened, and the young man came out. He was in his shirt sleeves, with his collar unfastened and a comb in his hand; evidently on his way to the bathroom.

He stopped to look down at Gamadge. He seemed to tower in the dusky light, a little terrifying; like a giant walking doll with a fixed smile, whose mechanism was a mystery.

He asked: “Do you live here now?”

“Very sensible question; no.”

“Then come again soon.”

“Thanks, I will.”

Gamadge went on down the stairs, wondering what it would feel like if one of those big hands spread itself between his shoulder blades.

Rummaging in the closet beneath the stairs, he found his hat and coat. He let himself out into the vestibule, and came face to face with Craddock.

“Mr. Gamadge—you're going?”

“Well, yes; at last.”

“It's only half past ten.”

“I rather thought it must be the day after tomorrow.”

“Tired? I am myself. But if you'd just spare me a few minutes…”

Craddock looked more than tired; fatigue and strain had given him the wild expression of a man in physical misery. Gamadge said: “As many minutes as you like.”

“I thought—don't want to disturb them in there. If you'd come down to the billiard room?”

Gamadge followed him down to the street, along to the gate in the railing, through it to the service door. Craddock unlocked this, and locked it behind him when they had entered a paved yard. Trees and shrubbery were on their right, and beyond opened the snowy expanse that would be grass some day. Craddock unlocked the kitchen door, and they went into a short entrance hall. There was a doorway to left and right; Craddock led the way through the right-hand one and turned a switch.

The big room was pretty well occupied by a billiard table, a Ping-Pong table, two bridge tables and several chairs. Divans ran the length of the south and west walls, and there was a fireplace opposite the long west window.

Craddock said: “It's cold down here; I'll light the fire.”

“Not for me; keep my coat on.”

“Well—all right.”

They sat on the divan nearest the doorway, their coats on and their hats pushed forward by the leather cushions against which they leaned; two exhausted-looking men. “Nice place,” said Gamadge. “Must be a great place in good weather, cool and pleasant with the garden outside.”

“Yes. Mott Fenway liked it down here. I can see him knocking the balls around of an evening, played a good game. Played everything well. Took on any of us at Ping-Pong, even. I liked him, even if he didn't think much of us.”

“Us?”

“The other crowd; Mrs. Fenway's.”

“Oh.”

“I didn't blame him entirely, we do fill the house up. But it was tough on Mrs. Fenway. He thought a lot of you; he talked about you yesterday, after we all heard you were coming, and again today at lunch. Mr. Gamadge—did he ask you to come back here tonight?”

Gamadge was lighting a cigarette. “What makes you think so?”

Craddock pulled a standing ash receiver towards them with his foot. He said: “You didn't happen along by accident; and he had a chance to talk to you alone this afternoon, when he took you downstairs.”

“So did Mr. Blake Fenway have a chance to talk to me alone.”

“He's out of it.”

“Why should Mr. Mott Fenway ask me to come back here tonight?”

Craddock got out his own cigarettes. He said, choosing one, “I don't know where I stand. We'll have to settle that before I say anything, if it can be settled. Mrs. Grove knew
my people, and she got me this job at a time when I couldn't have held down another to save my life; but Mrs. Fenway's paying me, Alden's my patient—you might call him that, I suppose—and I'm under Blake Fenway's roof. And Blake Fenway treats me like a king.”

“Am I to tell you whom you're to be loyal to?” Gamadge turned his head to look at the young man. Craddock, however, did not look at him. He went on:

“I shouldn't say a word to you or anybody if I hadn't a personal motive for talking—Hilda Grove. I haven't an atom of proof to back anything I say. I thought you might be willing to advise me, and then forget about it. I wouldn't suggest this if I had evidence, but as I remarked before, there's none.”

“You'll have to trust my discretion.”

Craddock looked at Gamadge, his black eyes burning as if there might indeed be fever in his blood. He said: “At least I'm pretty sure you're not the kind of reforming busybody that finally gets had up for slander.”

“No,” replied Gamadge, smiling; “I'm not that.”

“I ought to tell you frankly that I'm not actuated by any higher motive myself than personal affection. Hilda's parents were killed in a plane crash; Mrs. Grove showed up and put her in that Swiss school, and then sheered off again. I made it my business to look in on young Hilda whenever I was within a thousand miles, more or less, of Geneva. I knew her when she was a baby; she's one still, in some ways—doesn't question motives, doesn't look for slights, has no vanity. I wish you'd met her; you'd get some idea of how I feel.”

“I'll try to exercise my imagination.”

“The point is that she can't fight her own battles, and that she has nobody to look after her but Mrs. Grove—a dry stick if ever I saw one. I stayed on this job instead of going west because I thought she ought to have one friend in the offing. Blake Fenway is a king, but he lets Caroline keep
Hilda marooned up there at Fenbrook with two rather stupid old servants. Mrs. Fenway's no use, has no authority and can't walk. Now I get the idea that there's something definitely wrong about Mrs. Grove. I never liked her much, but I thought she was a high-principled kind of type. Lately I'm not sure about it.”

“How lately?”

“Since that nuisance of a book got into the house; that book of views. It brought things to a head, somehow, but I think the trouble goes back farther than that, much farther. I know Mott Fenway thought Alden had torn the picture out; I heard him asking the poor guy questions about it. Alden didn't know what it was all about; he's a nice fellow, would have been a great guy if he'd ever had a chance. I'm fond of him; he has a great disposition, he's never sulky or troublesome. Perhaps he did tear the picture out; but I think Mott Fenway had stumbled on something else—overheard the two women talking, or found some letter. He wanted to get rid of the whole bunch of us, and I don't think he would have stuck at much to do Caroline Fenway a favor. She hates the sight of us all.” Craddock leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. “My idea is that Mrs. Grove has something on Mrs. Fenway—something about Alden. They've been in Europe for years, probably met often. It's possible that Alden may have been tagged by the psychiatrists over there—got into trouble of some kind, and Mrs. Grove knows it and is cashing in.”

“What kind of trouble?”

“Something that wouldn't matter a damn if he had his wits. He oughtn't to be allowed out alone, you know; as likely as not to stop traffic forgetting to cross the street with the lights. Mrs. Fenway may have been careless—he's so decently behaved that it's hard to remember he isn't all there. And people like Alden aren't allowed even one mistake, you know; one break, and that's the finish. And Mrs. Fenway has this idea that he's
better off among normal surroundings; she thinks he'd get stupid and miserable away from her. She may be right.”

“What gave you the idea that Mrs. Grove is cashing in?”

“Anybody with eyes in his head can see that there's trouble between her and Mrs. Fenway. Mrs. Fenway is under a terrific strain, and the other woman doesn't leave her for a minute. The room's full of dynamite. I'd say it had something to do with the telephone. Mrs. Grove sits looking at it, and Mrs. Fenway never touches it. It was an inch away from her hand tonight, but I had to come over and take that message for Mott Fenway. By the way, do you know that nobody's bothered to call Hilda and tell her Mott's dead? She was fond of him. I'd have called her myself, but I solemnly swore to Blake Fenway that I wouldn't.”

“Wouldn't telephone to Miss Grove?”

“Or write, or see her alone. He thinks she was sliding into a relationship with me that wasn't fair to her. He thinks I was getting a monopoly. He wants her to meet other men before she makes up her mind; I don't blame him, I'm no catch; couldn't support a canary bird. But how is she to meet other men, or anybody, up there at Fenbrook?”

“These war conditions hold things up.”

“I don't think war conditions have much to do with it. Miss Fenway wants the house cleared, and this business about Hilda is a kind of passive resistance she's working.”

“Why should the telephone come into the blackmailing scheme, if there is one?”

“I'm just making up a story to account for the state of things upstairs, you understand; I thought somebody might be coming here from Europe who could blow the information about Alden, and that they're expecting the call.”

“Why shouldn't they take it, then?”

“Mrs. Fenway doesn't dare, and Mrs. Grove wants an independent witness to get the name of the party first, so Mrs.
Fenway will know it's all on the level and come across with a final payment or something. I think she's staying on here because the other woman is getting all her money. Salting it away.”

“This is hindsight, Mr. Craddock.”

“It's not; I'm telling you what I've observed myself since a week ago Thursday.”

“You wouldn't have said a word about it if Mott Fenway hadn't been killed this evening.”

“All right then.” Craddock sat up, threw away his cigarette, and faced Gamadge. “That means you agree with me about that accident. I think he asked you to come back here and advise him about the Alden Fenway situation, or Mrs. Grove's blackmail game. I think he was shoved out of that window to prevent his spilling it to you. I was glad to see you tonight, but I don't believe in miracles—after you'd gone into the house my brain began working. There weren't any accidents; your coming along when you did wasn't one, Mott Fenway's death five minutes earlier wasn't one. And the next crime the Grove woman commits may involve Hilda, but by that time I'll be drafted to God knows where.”

Gamadge extinguished his cigarette; when he spoke it was amiably, but without enthusiasm:

“You're in a difficult situation, created however by yourself from a mass of conjecture. Let's see whether your ingenuity can cope with a couple of plain questions. What did Mott Fenway expect me to do for him?”

“How can I tell, when I don't know what he'd found out? He may have thought you could advise him how to tackle Mrs. Grove and get rid of her without publicity. Scare her off.”

“And what am I to do for you?

“The same thing, if—” Craddock's face was suddenly the face of a distraught and embarrassed young man—“if you
only will. I thought if you were willing to advise him you'd be willing to advise me; since he's dead.”

“But according to you, murder's been committed now. Are you prepared to turn a murderess loose on the community with a warning?”

“There's no evidence against her. Mrs. Fenway won't say that she left the sitting room; she's afraid to. I heard her tell Nordhall that all three of them were there all evening.”

“But suppose there should be evidence?”

“Then I say tell the police. It won't kill Hilda—she and Mrs. Grove aren't blood relations. I say get rid of that woman somehow. Worse things can happen than murder trials.”

“Worse things for Miss Grove?”

“Yes. If you'll only help me get her out of the clutches of the woman!”

“I must say I'd like a few facts to bolster up these startling theories of yours. You were in the sitting room when Nordhall questioned the ladies. How did they behave?”

“Mrs. Fenway was terrified; kept looking at Mrs. Grove, and when she talked her teeth were chattering. Mrs. Grove put on her usual act; but it wasn't as good as usual. I thought she looked ready to faint herself.”