Deadly Nightshade (24 page)

“I shouldn't have thought him so sensible.”

“You should have known Carroll's wife. No wonder the brothers never got on. They're antithetical. Well, George will be coming back for me any minute, now. I had a question to ask you, and if you won't answer it, I suppose I must resign myself. But I should like it if we could sleep peacefully in our beds henceforth. Was Bartram's child the intended victim of this—scheme—conspiracy—whatever it was?” He hesitated. “I can see that you might not feel free to tell me. I'd keep it to myself. I'd just like to know that nobody wanted to kill Bartram's child.”

“Nobody did, Doctor Loring, so far as I can judge.”

“On your word of honor?”

“Certainly on my word of honor. Is there any other kind of word?”

“You take a load off my mind.” Loring rose, as George Bartram stamped in.

“Well, Gamadge; too bad you have to travel on a rotten night like this,” he said, shaking himself. “You get drenched between the car and the porch. My brother wants me to say he's sorry not to see you again.”

“It's very kind of him.”

“I got Irma and her mother off this morning, cat and all. Gad, you should have seen Irma carrying the basket; you'd have said she was fifty, instead of five.” His red face looked dull and lifeless; the vitality had gone out of it, and out of his voice. He lingered for a minute after Loring had made his dash to the car, irresolute; his hand went into his pocket, and came out again, empty. “I suppose you really do have to go tonight?”

“Do you want me to stay longer, Mr. Bartram?” Gamadge met his shifting eye, and held it.

“It seems too bad for you to quit, just when things seem to be breaking. Last night, I mean, you know.”

“Mitchell can handle the rest of it.”

“I felt I'd like a talk with you—alone. Perhaps it wouldn't do any good.”

“You're the judge of that.”

“I don't know. I—”

A hail from Loring made him put out a large hand, shake Gamadge's, and hurry out to the car. Gamadge saw him staring back through the rain-washed window of the Cadillac, like a man who had lost an opportunity, and did not know whether to regret it or not.

The Burnsides came downstairs, lights went on, and the lobby shed its eeriness. Gamadge went up to wash and pack, and when he came down again he was met at the foot of the stairs by a short, dark young man whose hair shone glossily.

“Well, Harold.” Gamadge patted him on the shoulder. “How do you like the State of Maine?”

“I haven't seen any of it except stores, and now this hurricane.”

“What's the answer?”

“Nix, nix and double nix, except two people that saw them in an automobile.”

“Wonderful.”

“Soon as I got off the train, and telephoned you—”

“At seven forty-five, confound you.”

“I started around Ford's Center. Then I hired a Ford and went to Oakport. I did the beaches. I ended up at Harper's Rocks. The lady there let me wait till her husband got home—not so long ago.”

“You've had a day of it. Who are you supposed to be?”

“I'm traveling in writing paper. I brought along some of yours—the kind you get from England.”

“Why, you little—did it have my address on it?”

“No, I only brought the plain sheets. I said it was a dollar a hundred, with envelopes.”

“You must have made sales, at that price.”

“I took orders for about a ton of it. One of those state cops ordered some. They liked getting it C.O.D.”

“What did you do about a sample case?”

“I didn't need a sample case. I had the paper in a manila envelope.”

“We never do these things right. You should have had a sample case.”

“They didn't worry about a sample case when they saw that paper, at a dollar a hundred.”

“Your methods are so flamboyant. Go and get ready for supper, and remember we don't know each other.”

At seven o'clock Mr. Gamadge and Mr. Bantz sat down to the evening meal in the Burnside dining room. They were civil but distant, as such opposing types would naturally be.

At half past seven the gypsies broke camp, and vanished away as if driven before the wind and rain. An observer, if there had been one, might have seen young William hoist a small bicycle into the rear of the caravan, to the annoyance of his relations.

At eight o'clock Sheriff Enos James, that weather-beaten, kindly but disillusioned man, arrived with State Detective Mitchell at Burnsides. They were closeted in Mr. Gamadge's bedroom for half an hour, where Mr. Bantz also made one of the party; a fact which Mr. and Mrs. Burnside would have been surprised to learn.

At eight thirty, four persons sat over a light refection (cold lobster, potato salad and coffee) at the Turnbulls'. Mrs. Turnbull, free for the evening because her employer, Doctor Loring, was having supper at the Bartrams', had invited Miss Adelaide Gibbons and the Bartrams' Annie to spend the evening, at Miss Gibbons' suggestion. The Turnbulls, particularly Mr. Turnbull, a small, shy man, had not particularly looked forward to the party; but Miss Gibbons, that social genius, had kept them in roars of laughter; even Annie's face wore a demure smile.

“Come on, Mis' Rourke,” said Adelaide. “Tell us again what your cousin told the Black and Tan.”

At eight thirty-five Mr. George Bartram said he was going to the Center to see a show. He got into his car and drove off; Doctor Loring observed, after he had gone, that he hoped the movies would improve George's spirits, which seemed to be at a low ebb. But perhaps, he added, George was the kind that couldn't exist comfortably without some woman to pet him.

At eight forty-five Mr. Albert Ormiston told his wife that he was going down to Oakport for a look-in on the Bartrams. He then got into the Burnside car, and drove off in the rain. Mrs. Ormiston, who had returned in time for supper, minus her children, retired to the studio and contemplated her hooked rug. She was not exactly nervous at being left alone in the house, but she was not sorry when her husband returned, an hour later.

“George was out,” he said, briefly.

“How was Carroll?”

“Dopey and dull. I hate that fellow.”

“Don't be silly.”

“Loring hangs over him as if he thought somebody was going to do him an injury.”

“Somebody has done him an injury. Were they nice to you?”

“Nice to me! They'd better be nice. You going to bed?”

“Yes. Aren't you?”

“No. I'm going to work up something from those notes I took this morning. Tree patterns. Good night.”

At half past nine Gamadge and Harold started for the Center in the hired Ford. Mr. Burnside insisted on an early start.

“I don't want to hurry you folks,” he said, “but that car of Sloat's you got there has been known to balk a little; and you can't always make up time with the roads like this.”

At a quarter to ten Mr. Schenck left the Pegram House. Miss Walworth, who had been waiting at the door to see him off, pressed a little good-bye present into his hand. When he got into the hotel car, he unwrapped the parcel; discovered that it contained a fancy box of chocolates; and threw it out of the window.

“Roar of the mighty cataract,” he said to himself, watching the trees bend. “I guess this must be it.” But he guessed wrong.

Over the Falls

A
TREMENDOUS NOISE
and an enveloping cloud of steam ushered the express into the station at Ford's Center. The platform was suddenly crowded with glistening rubber coats and capes, trucks piled with wet luggage rolled towards the baggage car, sodden-looking mailbags were tossed up to men whose caps immediately began to shed water. An elderly lady, who was making the short trip to Providence in a day coach, was hoisted aboard; Gamadge, Harold and Schenck, the only other departing passengers, handed their bags to a porter, and climbed after them.

Gamadge immediately led the way back to the observation platform. When they had reached it, he performed introductions: “Mr. Schenck; my assistant, Harold Bantz.”

“Oh. Glad to meet you.” Schenck wondered where the young man had popped up from.

“I just ran up this morning,” said Harold.

“Oh.”

The wheels began to turn. Schenck said: “Quite a few cars parked behind the station, I see. Nobody got off the train, did they?”

“Perhaps we were being seen off,” said Gamadge. He stood braced against the end of the car, lighting a cigarette with some difficulty. Schenck, at a loss to know why they were all standing out here in the wet, flattened himself against the other side of the door. The station drifted past, and drifted away. They picked up speed, and Harold's voice rose shouting above the tumult of wheels: “Au reevoir.”

“When do you think Mitchell will have some news for me?” shouted Schenck. Gamadge shook his head. “Can't hear.”

“When do you think—” but they were rounding a curve, and he swayed against Gamadge. When he regained his balance, Gamadge was holding out a lighter to him. He fumbled beneath his overcoat, got out cigarettes, and managed to light one at the tiny flame. The door behind him opened, and the Pullman conductor came out, smiling.

“Passengers for Greenvale?” he asked. To his amazement, Schenck realized that the motion of the train was lessening. The engine screamed, brakes were applied, and they stopped with a succession of jerks. The conductor unlocked a gate. Gamadge sprang down without waiting for the steps, Harold followed him, and the porter handed down their three bags.

“Lively, please, sir,” said the conductor. Schenck hesitated for a split second, and then dropped to a dark platform. The train clanked away, taking, so he wildly thought, safety and sanity with it. He picked up his bag, and went after the others.

Twin lights pierced the wet darkness, and Hoskins' grinning face appeared out of the void; his bag was taken from him, and he found himself tumbling into the back seat of a car, with Harold beside him. They drove away from this ambiguous and, so far as Schenck knew, uncharted spot into a dim whirl of rain and wind-lashed trees.

“Quite a blow,” said Harold.

“Quite.” Schenck, vague as to his status in the rôle of uninvited guest, felt confusedly that it was not his place to ask questions.

“You're a sport,” said Harold. “Decided to come for the ride, did you?”

“After mature deliberation, yes.”

This seemed to amuse Harold very much. He said: “Didn't take you long to make up your mind. I was going to hand you back your bag, but Mr. Gamadge said: ‘Let him come, if he wants to.'”

“Kind of him.”

“Mitchell had them stop for us at that way station.”

“So I imagined.”

“Mr. Gamadge didn't like to ask you to come back into this business with us.”

“Why not? What's it all about?”

“I ain't supposed to say.”

They had been traveling along a highway, and Schenck suddenly thought he recognized a landmark. He said: “We're on the road from Ford's Center to Burnsides.”

“We're not going to Burnsides.”

They passed it, in fact, and drove on northwards, turning left when they reached the intersection to Oakport, instead of right. They were on a rough road, now, and after a time the jolts grew severe. Harold banged his head, said “Ouch”, and peered out of the window.

“Where are we?” Schenck also peered from the window on his side. “We're going through gates—big iron gates. What is this place, for Pete's sake?”

The car jolted to a stop. “I wouldn't get out, if I was you,” said Harold. “He said to wait in the car.”

Schenck let down the window, and put his head out into the rain. When he withdrew it, his face was startled. “It's a cemetery.”

“Yes, it is.”

“It's the cemetery I was in this morning.” Schenck put his head out again. The headlights gleamed palely on a group of men over to the right, on wet umbrellas, and the shaft of a tall monument. “That's the Bartram lot. And that—” he peered through the rain—“that's Mr. George Bartram, standing between the two state police. Sheriff pointed him out to me at the funeral.”

George Bartram's white face turned away again, and Schenck could see nothing but a semicircle of backs. He seized the door handle: “I'm going to get out.”

Hoskins and Gamadge returned to the car before he had had time to leave his seat. He sat back again, and the car made a lurching turn and bumped off through the gates. The rain was lessening. They had crossed the intersection, and begun the short run to Oakport by way of the upper road, before Schenck leaned forward and spoke:

“Mr. Gamadge?”

“Yes.”

“Hope you don't mind my sticking with this delightful party?”

“Not at all. We owe you something. I understand that you've made yourself useful.”

“Me?”

“Yes. Sporting of you not to ask a lot of questions. I'm trying to concentrate.”

Schenck accepted the hint in silence. They rumbled over Oakport Bridge, rushed through a dark and quiet village, and climbed the gradual and winding ascent that took them to the Bartram house. It was in darkness, except for the living room; a dim light came through the bay window. They went up the flagged walk between storm-beaten rows of flowers, and Schenck, glancing right and left, saw only a dripping wilderness. Gamadge rang. Miss Ridgeman came to the door, and recoiled at the sight of him.

“You went away!”

“I had to come back. Mr. Bartram in?”

“He's gone up to bed. Doctor Loring was just leaving.”

“I'd like to see him.”

She stood back, her blanched face searching his, and the four streamed into the living room. Loring sat before a dying fire, finishing a highball. At the sight of them he rose, stared, and said blankly: “Back again?”