Deadly Nightshade (8 page)

“Little ball,” protested Irma, speaking for the first time in their acquaintance.

“You can't have it. I'll get you another little ball, one that you can play with. Good heavens,” he said, staring at her, “you must have a charmed life. Did they teach you in Holland never to put anything you found into your mouth?”

Irma nodded.

“They made a good job of it. Good heavens,” repeated Gamadge, “what an extraordinary child you are. Shall we go and look at the place where you found these things?”

Irma nodded, slid from her chair, and rushed into the hall. Gamadge followed her down the hall, past the stairs, and round them to a short passageway that ended in an open side door. Irma ran out, jumped down two shallow stone steps, and stopped to hunt in the depths of a low bush that grew to the right of them. She pulled forth a rusty little iron shovel, brandished it playfully at Gamadge, and dashed off across the lawn.

Gamadge, striding at her heels, inquired: “May I ask where you got that coal shovel? It's a sensible plaything, I grant you; but it's rather dirty. Doesn't it belong in the kitchen?”

“Annie gave it to me.”

“Did she, really? All right; lead on.”

They passed the summerhouse—a rustic affair, once picturesque, now enclosed in stout wire netting—and crossed an expanse of green, tended lawn. A narrow path led them suddenly into a sort of maze, where bushes higher than Gamadge's head almost met across the trail. Trees, rising high above, shut out the sun. They were in a wilderness—out of the world.

“It's a jungle,” muttered Gamadge, pushing long twigs of lilac away from his face. Irma moved confidently on, turned a corner, and was out of sight in a moment. A rustle in the shrubbery behind him made Gamadge stop and turn; Annie hurried up, limping, and breathing hard.

“Oh,” she said, when she caught sight of him. “You're with the little girl.”

“Very much so,” replied Gamadge. “Were you worried about her?”

“I saw the nurse drive off, from the dining-room window, and the child was not in the lower part of the house. I wondered was she alone in the garden.”

“I'm not surprised that you're nervous about her.”

“Who wouldn't be, in this place?” She glanced to right and left with an indescribable air of repulsion. “'Tis no place for children.”

“She has her shovel with her,” said Gamadge. Annie gave him a quick, rather frightened look, but made no reply. “You like her to have a bit of old iron along when she plays out here, don't you?” he persisted. As she remained silent, he asked: “Don't you feel like telling me why you think the place is dangerous—in that way?”

“I wouldn't speak of it. The gentry wouldn't want me to be talking,” said Annie, faintly.

“You're not referring to the Bartrams, are you?”

“No, I am not. I'll say no more; they'd think me out of me wits.”

Gamadge studied her, looking thoughtful. Presently he said: “You're on the wrong tack, Annie. Why not tell me about it? Perhaps I could explain.”

She shied away from him, and hurried off along the path.

Gamadge, frowning, turned back and realized that Irma was out of sight. He called her at the top of his voice:

“Hi! Irma! Where has the child got to? I believe I have the jitters myself now. Irma!”

She bounded into view at the turn of the path. Gamadge addressed her fretfully: “Don't you go rushing off alone, shovel or no shovel. Where's that pine tree? Let's have a look at it, and get out of this place—it gives me goose flesh.”

The tree was some distance ahead, off the path and in a corner of the high picket fence. Irma pointed to a wide branch, laden with cones, that trailed on the bare ground.

“Where did you see the little bell?”

She bent down and poked her finger into a spot just under the edge of the bough.

“How about the dear little black ball?”

Irma shook her head, and indicated by a gesture that it had been lying on the path, some distance away. Gamadge lifted the branch, restrained her, by a powerful clutch at her skirts, from diving under it again, and glanced below.

“What a nice little house,” he said. “You'd like to play there, wouldn't you? Well, you've been a good child. I shall try to do something effective about the white kitten. But we still have a delicate bit of business to transact.” He lifted her to the top of a stump, steadied her with a hand hooked into her belt, and continued persuasively: “Now, don't go off the handle; I want to borrow that little red bell.”

Irma looked horrified, and made as if to leap off the stump into space; but his hold on her belt restrained her.

“I said borrow,” he insisted. “Wait a minute! You don't know what that red ribbon is—it's the white cat's necktie. Or at least I think it is; and if it fits, the animal probably belongs to you. Here—you needn't choke me to death.” For she had seized him about the neck, and seemed bent upon strangling him. She suddenly released him, dug into the pocket of her blouse, dashed the bell and ribbon into his hand, and with his assistance leapt to the ground. Gamadge followed her along the path, through the maze, and back to the lawn. Here she began busily to dig with her shovel in a hard flower bed, while Gamadge strolled about the summerhouse, strolled to the back gate, returned, and lighted a cigarette.

Mitchell found him sitting on a fragile-looking iron bench, watching his charge with an air of benevolent detachment. He joined him on the bench, and got out his pipe.

“All serene?” he asked.

“Not so very. I have two pieces of information for you, both rather curious. In the first place, Annie thinks she knows how the children got the berries.”

“No! I had an idea she was worrying about something definite.”

“Very definite. You can't do much about it, though. Her idea seems to be that it was done by some sort of witchcraft.”

“Bother the silly old thing. We can't—but see here: if she thinks that, she must have seen something.”

“Well, not necessarily; it may be nothing but an idea. And the trouble is, even if she did meet what she thought was the uncanny, and in some far from agreeable form, she'll never dare talk about it. We won't know what she saw, nobody will ever know; unless I can prove to her satisfaction that she's mistaken.”

Mitchell glanced about him as if he expected to see a phantasm of the Celtic twilight gibbering at them from behind a tree or a bush.

“She even provided Irma with a charm to ward the gentry off with,” continued Gamadge, who did not seem to be amused. “Old iron does it. She gave Irma that shovel. Well, it's an unproductive subject, at present; let's drop it and go on to the other one.”

“I would have said she was telling the truth, when she told us she didn't see anything, that morning,” said Mitchell.

“So should I. Now, Mitchell, please look at this.” Gamadge extracted the red bell, with its wad of ribbon, from his inside pocket. Mitchell gazed at it, openmouthed.

“It's one of 'em!” he exclaimed. “I saw the others; it's one of 'em! Where in time…”

Gamadge told the story of Irma, the pine tree, and the black berry; which he also produced for Mitchell's inspection. That individual seemed able to do little more than stare, until Gamadge had finished. Then he said in a low voice:

“That settles it. The little gypsy was here. He got that bell from Sarah Beasley in exchange for the nightshade—”

“A poor sort of swap, though, don't you think?”

“We don't know what else he gave her for it. When he was here, he dropped that bell. Julia Bartram got hold of it, and she kept hold of it—till she went in under the tree. She must often have played there. That settles it,” he repeated. “It's that little gypsy.” He lighted his pipe, and had it going before he suddenly spoke again—this time with an almost ludicrous expression of dismay on his ordinarily calm and expressionless face. “Unless—my gracious heavens!”

“You see another explanation, do you?” Gamadge was watching him closely.

“But my gracious, it can't be so! The George Bartrams! I never even checked up on that trip of theirs; they might have got here any time. You
can't
check up on a motor trip, in a private car! It never entered my head. See here: if he had to leave his business over there in Europe, he may be out of a job.”

“So he may.” Gamadge's face was blank.

“And they ain't picked up so easy over here, now; I've known men better fixed than George Bartram is, lose a job and never get another one. But, my heavens! Well, I can test some of it. You want to come over here a minute, little girl?”

Irma looked up, planted her shovel in the flower bed, and arrived in a confident and trustful mood. Mitchell, plainly endeavoring to conceal his extreme discomfiture, said cheerfully: “You came down here by way of the shore, didn't you, Irma? Tuesday, I mean. Motored down along the beaches. Waves, rocks, sea gulls.”

Irma thought for a moment, and then nodded, violently.

“But you all got out of the car, sometimes, looked at the view, picked flowers in the woods.”

Irma responded more quickly this time; she nodded like a mandarin, and Mitchell, looking at Gamadge, asked: “Don't she ever talk?”

“Seldom.”

“Well, Irma,” Mitchell proceeded, as if with a certain distaste and reluctance. “You came past a barn, and there was a little girl playing there; perhaps she was playing with a cat. White cat.”

Irma's eye fell upon the red bell in his hand, and she nodded—slowly and reflectively, this time.

“She gave you this little bell, and you gave her a bunch of berries for it. That so?”

Irma nodded.

“And then,” Mitchell went on, “Your folks drove the car through the woods up there, and they saw another—they saw a little boy playing in front of his house—”

“Just a moment, Mitchell. May I take the witness?” asked Gamadge.

“Go ahead.”

“And then,” said Gamadge, “you caught a very large butterfly.”

Mitchell stared, but Irma nodded as if trying to dislocate her neck.

“You jumped on its back, held tight to its horns, and flew over the woods down to Oakport. Didn't you?”

“Yes, I did,” shouted Irma. She spread out her arms, flapped them wildly, and sprang into the air.

“Irma!” called Miss Ridgeman, from the side door. “Come and get your crackers and milk.”

Irma seized her shovel and fled; pausing at the bush beside the house steps to plant it faithfully deep down among the roots.

“It's no laughing matter.” Mitchell turned upon Gamadge with a look of reproach.

“I know; can't help it. Irma's pantomime is always so graphic.”

“She'll say anything!”

“That's what you get for leading the witness.”

“We don't know where she found this thing. Can't depend on a word she says.”

“You can't depend on any of these children as witnesses, Mitchell; surely you know that. On Irma least of all—she's only five.”

“She must have found this bell somewheres.”

“Or had it given to her. She may quite well have picked it up on the Beasley road.”

“I'll have to ask these people some questions. I don't even know whether the little Bartram girl had an estate of her own, or who it goes to. I do know her father's mills are all right; they went through some tough times, of course, but they've picked up pretty well since Bartram brought himself to making artificial silk. George Bartram—he could come in here without worrying about being seen. He knows the place, and he knows the back way.”

“Meanwhile, what is his wife doing? Or is it a conspiracy?”

“We'll try to find out.”

A tall, broad-shouldered man and a pretty little woman came around the side of the house.

“Here they are,” said Mitchell.

Bartrams—Cadet Branch

M
R. GEORGE BARTRAM'S
handsome, rosy countenance and spreading waistline bore witness to good living; his keen eyes, long, sharp nose and determined jawline seemed to announce the fact that he meant to go on providing comfortably for himself if he could. He was well, if not quietly, dressed in brown checks, a lightweight brown overcoat, and a soft brown hat. He was talkative.

“Glad to meet you, Mr. Gamadge,” he said, shaking hands without waiting for an introduction. “Loring says you're a great man. I know you're a busy one, and I'm speaking for my brother as well as for myself, when I say that we don't propose to let you spend your time on our troubles for nothing. You'll take the suggestion as a matter of business; Carroll wants you to send him in a bill for your services.”

“Oh, thanks very much indeed,” answered Gamadge. “It's quite impossible; I'm in no way qualified. Mitchell likes to have somebody to talk to when he's on a case, and as he was very kind to some friends of mine who got into trouble, last summer, I'm only too glad to oblige him.”

“Well, that's that. My brother is very anxious to talk to you, whether you're qualified or not. Loring's given him a pick-me-up, and he'll be ready to see you in a few minutes.”

“I really do think we ought to put off our talk until tomorrow.”

Mrs. Bartram reassured him in bright, decided tones:

“Oh, no, Mr. Gamadge; it's just what he needs. Doctor Loring says it will be the saving of him to see somebody new, and keep up an interest in outside things and people.”

“Well, but this investigation, for what it's worth, won't divert his mind, exactly, will it?”

“
You
will, though, Mr. Gamadge. He's interested in you. Oh, I'm so sorry for him. I hope we'll be able to take him along to New York with us on Monday. He ought to get away from this house. And you know,” continued Mrs. Bartram, who seemed to be as chatty as her husband, “I won't be sorry to go, either. And I was looking forward to seeing the old family place so much.”