Arrow Pointing Nowhere (26 page)

“There must be something that inspires devotion in you Fenways, sir.”

“If you had only warned us that something was wrong!”

“I couldn't for two reasons: I didn't know what the cost might be to my client—her instructions were as I said very vague; and I had no evidence.”

“No evidence?”

“Against your sister-in-law and her eldest son? No. The evidence,” said Gamadge, pointing to the view of Fenbrook, “is there. It's all Mrs. Grove had, and Nordhall and I first saw it twenty minutes ago.”

“Nordhall…” Fenway got to his feet. “Where is he? What did he do?”

“I don't think you'll go through the agony of your sister-in-law's arrest and trial, Mr. Fenway. They didn't search her for a pistol, I suppose.”

“What do you mean?”

“That shot we heard sounded like the other ones—sounded as if it came from one of those little guns. I imagine she had a pair of them, and that when he shouted to her that it was all up with him she used the other one on herself. Do you think she'd live if he couldn't?”

N
ORDHALL
came into the room quietly; he had regained all his calm, and his manner was that of one who brings grave tidings. He said: “I don't know whether you'll think it's bad news or not, Mr. Fenway, or whether it's news at all; perhaps Mr. Gamadge guessed and told you.”

Fenway spoke with frozen courtesy. He was like a man half stunned, or in a dream: “That my sister-in-law is dead?”

“She's dead. The minute I told that fellow that we'd found a letter on that picture there, he shoved open the door of his room and shouted out to her that it was all over. She must have had the other little gun in the pocket of her robe all the time. She was lying on top of the bed—hadn't let the nurse undress her or give her a sedative; she was waiting to make sure everything was all right, that they'd got away with murder. She pulled the gun out and shot herself.”

After a moment Fenway spoke in a louder voice: “Where is Caroline?”

“All right; up on the top floor with Miss Grove. We wouldn't let them come down. Craddock came—ran half way and then jumped the banisters; but he pulled up short when he saw that fellow—the impostor—I can tell you! Quite a shock for him. But he has Miss Grove to think of. He's with her now. That's a nice little lady,” said Nordhall, an eye on Fenway's expressionless face. “Nice pair they make. Craddock says they're going to be together from now on, even if they starve to death; till they pass him for the war, of course. The little lady says so too.”

Fenway seemed to come to life at that; he slightly shook his head. “Starve? Craddock must be raving. They won't starve. I shall make Hilda my responsibility until he can take care of her.”

Nordhall, pleased with his tactics, went on: “I'm glad we didn't tell her anything about her aunt being suspected of blackmail and the rest of it. Touch and go, wasn't it? You know, when I saw those marks on that picture, read that letter, the whole thing shifted around in my head like one of those things we used to have in the parlor—what do you call them? Kaleidoscopes. Pattern shifted around in my head. I'll tell you something, Mr. Fenway; this has turned out better for you than you realize now. I know it's tough now, but at least you won't have to see your brother's wife in court convicted of fraud and conspiracy, and probably of being accessory to murder. Of course that fellow may swear it was all his own idea, and that he coerced her by threats.”

Gamadge moved a shoulder. “She wouldn't have let him swear to that.”

“The point is,” continued Nordhall, “that just now he's ready to say anything. He wants to talk to you, Mr. Fenway.”

Fenway raised a blank face. “Now?”

“I know how you feel, sir, nobody on earth you'd less rather see. Eerie, too; you won't know him. Craddock was knocked silly for a minute. But you're prepared, and to tell you the truth you'll be doing us a great favor. He may not talk again. He's a feller that does what he starts out to do, and just now he's all keyed up to tell you the whole thing. The statement will be a voluntary statement, you and Mr. Gamadge will be witnesses, it will clear up a lot of things you'd like to know yourself, and I've got a stenographer.”

There was a long silence. Then Fenway, leaning back in his chair and averting his face, said in a low voice: “I'll see him.”

“Thanks very much. People like you can be depended on, Mr. Fenway, and that's a fact.” Nordhall turned to the doorway and jerked his head. A uniformed man moved out of sight, and then returned.

Presently two persons came in, walking side by side and close together; two persons who at first glance seemed to Gamadge to be strangers; but only one of them—the plain-clothes man—was a stranger; the other, a tall, broad-shouldered, good-looking fellow with an air of competence and alertness about him, was Mrs. Cort Fenway's eldest son without his mask.

“Thanks very much for seeing me, sir,” he rapped out in a staccato and businesslike way; and his voice was a stranger's voice too. “I can imagine what an effort it must be for you, but I know you'll appreciate my position. I simply want to do my mother justice.”

Fenway slowly turned in his chair to face him, and sat regarding him with a kind of shocked incredulity; as if he were a fabulous monster turned real. Gamadge, studying the blond giant with interest, had the curious impression that in regaining his own personality the impostor had lost half his breeding. He had been far more like a Fenway before;
now, having dropped the disguise, he exposed himself as a type that used to be seen swaggering in the casinos and at the race-meetings of Europe—coarse-grained, arrogant and knowing.

He glanced from Fenway's bleak face to Gamadge's, and favored the latter with a half-smile. “How did she get the S.O.S. to you?” he asked curiously.

The plain-clothes man slightly jerked his wrist, which—as could now be seen—was riveted to the impostor's with steel. The prisoner looked down at his gyved hand, and put it in his pocket. “All right,” he said. “I suppose I won't be allowed even to ask you where that damned picture was.”

Gamadge moved his head to the right; the other followed the motion like a flash, and Gamadge said: “Pasted under the coffer.”

“Well, I'll be—I've been looking for it every night since a week ago Thursday, when that woman came and told us—but that's over. Still, when you think how much depended on it, you'd suppose I ought to have turned the trick. Too nervous, perhaps, with a houseful of people above and below. Well.”

He paused, took countenance, and faced Blake Fenway again.

“I'd like to say first,” he went on briskly, “that you mustn't be shocked at my attitude; it isn't frivolous. My mother brought me up to regard it all as a gamble, and I knew what she'd do if we lost. I was prepared, and I'm glad she's out of it. Mind you, the only reason we did lose was because the war came, and she got hurt on that cursed boat, and had to have somebody to take care of her. And of course I had to impersonate Alden Fenway in this house, or be had up before a draft board and all kinds of intelligence tests.

“The impersonation wasn't as hard as you'd think. I was coached young. I mean we had a look round at cases in the big
institutions in Europe, and my mother asked plenty of questions. Then we'd practice at pensions and hotels, and really there wasn't much to it. Here in this house I only had to keep it up from late breakfast to early bedtime, and after that I could lead my own life and have some fun.”

Gamadge, leaning rather wearily against the side of the mantelpiece, looked up from the still wearier figure of his host to interrupt the speaker: “You found yourself under the sad necessity of killing Miss Fenway's dog, I think.”

The alert blue eyes clouded. “Now I rather wish you hadn't brought that up. I was awfully sorry about that. Dangerous, too; but I managed somehow.”

“Mr. Mott Fenway thought Craddock had done it.”

“Mr. Mott Fenway had too many bright thoughts. Anyhow, I was able to lead almost as good a life as my mother and I led in Europe; we travelled, we let each other alone and had our own amusements. What a sport she was! It was hard on her here, being cooped up; but she didn't mind, except for worrying about me. She didn't dare move away from the family, of course, because we were afraid I'd be put through some of these modern tests for I.Q.—as I said. Neither of us knew what the scientific methods are now, and I don't have to tell you that we didn't consult specialists in Europe.”

Gamadge said: “Not even Fagon in Paris.”

At the other's laugh Fenway glanced up, then closed his eyes and let his head sink back against the cushions of his chair. “Fagon? Poor soul. We hoped his casebooks and his records were lost. We had to take a gamble on that. We were getting along all right, except for Caroline and Mott getting sick of us, and Mott watching me. And then along came that confounded book, and Mrs. Grove rushed up on Thursday afternoon to throw her bomb; that there was a signed letter traced through on a page—on the picture of old Fenbrook.
She said it was from Cort Fenway to Mother, and that it proved I wasn't Alden. She said the Fenways had been done out of half their money, and that unless Mother confessed, she'd tell. Fuss about nothing; what harm had we done? The Fenways didn't want or need the money, and Cort Fenway would have liked me to have it. He liked me—he was going to adopt me. But that obstinate fool of a woman, who never acquired any knowledge of the world or any kind of broad views after she left boarding school—we couldn't make her see it.” He glanced about him with a frown. “She was always burrowing in this room; I might have known she'd hide the picture here. I thought I'd pretty well covered the ground here, though. I was wasting time on the stair carpets.”

Fenway opened his eyes to say tonelessly: “Belle ought to have known that I wouldn't prosecute.”

“My dear, kind man, that wasn't the point; my mother was thinking of my interests—my income. Mrs. Grove didn't realize what she was up against; she never had a chance. But after Mott died she knew what she could expect if she persisted in trying to ruin us, and we didn't understand at the time why she kept going. I'm sorry about Mott, Mr. Fenway.”

Fenway continued to stare at him.

“The thing is, I overheard Mott confiding in Gamadge yesterday. We couldn't have Gamadge looking for the picture; we were afraid that by some fluke he might find it—and damned if he didn't! So I acted on the spur of the moment and got rid of Mott, who seemed dangerous; but I oughtn't to have been so impulsive. He was a lot more dangerous to us dead than alive.” The alert blue eyes turned to Gamadge. “You see why, don't you?”

Gamadge nodded, and the other went on, somewhat shamefacedly: “I was a fool. Hilda and the Dobsons would be invited to Mott's funeral; Mrs. Grove would know all
about it, know they'd left Fenbrook, and burst out with her story as soon as she was sure they
had
left. You know about the trap; I fixed it up myself that same Thursday night, and a hell of a cold trip it was. We needed it to keep Mrs. Grove quiet, and we needed it for evidence against her if we finally had to put on the act we put on this afternoon. You know something, Gamadge? We never could have convinced her that the trap was there unless it really had been there. I realized that, when I was describing it to her. After that she couldn't keep her eyes off the telephone, and she never said another word about telling Fenway. Sly, wasn't she? I wish you'd tell me how she got the message through to you.”

Gamadge said: “I rather hope you never will know that.”

“Annoyed at losing your client after all, are you? Well, your client wasn't taking any chances with that telephone. She knew that I could have reached it, or one of the others, before anybody could prevent me. I could tackle the whole crowd of them singlehanded, including Craddock.”

He spoke with satisfaction. Gamadge murmured gently: “It is
folie de grandeur
,” and was answered in a flash:

“No, it's not! There's nothing the matter with my brain.”

Gamadge looked doubtful. “Such a life—it couldn't help but warp any human soul.”

“Jargon! It was a wonderful life.”

“I'm only trying to find some way of explaining you,” said Gamadge, continuing to look at him as if in wonder.

“If you'll listen, you'll soon understand all about me and about my mother, too. Where was I? Oh yes; the shock we got this afternoon when we realized that Mrs. Grove was going to talk to Mr. Fenway after all; why, we couldn't imagine. We—hadn't the faintest idea, of course, that Hilda had left Fenbrook—that you were on the job. Well, we went ahead with the scene we'd rehearsed in case of just such an
emergency; and if Mother was upset afterwards you can't blame her—it's no joke to get a bullet in your arm, even if you're expecting it. Besides, we were a little flustered by your turning up outside the door, when we thought I had plenty of time to shut and lock it; time while Mr. Fenway came upstairs. But I did get it locked against you, and everything went off perfectly—our strategy of retreat. At least our part of it went off perfectly, and that's enough of that.” He turned again to Blake Fenway. “What you're interested in, sir, is the substitution scheme, all those years ago. It's a very simple story.