Murders in, Volume 2 (12 page)

Gamadge, looking anything but annoyed, said that he wouldn't.

“We are business people; New Soul is not only a practical system of life, it's a business—and a very good business, too. We have a special commodity that people need, want, and pay for. Anything that menaces that business,” said Mr. Zanch, “is a racket, to us.”

“Naturally. And if the business menaces somebody, then the business is a racket to him—or her,” said Gamadge, cheerfully.

Mrs. Zanch said: “Now, now. This isn't the way to go about it at all. Mr. Gamadge isn't a blackmailer—ridiculous; and he can see just by looking at us that we are not fortune tellers, palmists, or mediums. We don't care about going into your book in the section that deals with them, Mr. Gamadge.”

“Oh, you wouldn't.”

“We don't care about going into it at all,” said Zanch, his tone suddenly violent. “We have a lawyer, and we shall take good care not to go into your book, in any section whatsoever.”

“I'm sorry. New Soul sounded interesting, to me, and I could treat it seriously. Since Mrs. Zanch—or both of you—have written a book yourselves, I supposed that you were not averse to print.”

“You can't deal with it intelligently.”

“I could refer to it intelligently, perhaps,” suggested Gamadge, looking surprised. “What's the difficulty? There must be something. You're not by any chance worrying because I heard of you through the Vauregards and Mrs. Morton?”

The Zanches were silent. Then Mrs. Zanch said: “Mrs. Morton left us rather abruptly. She is a woman of whims—very flighty, I am sorry to say.”

“Artistic temperament.”

“Far, far too much of it! We could have given her balance and repose; but she was a difficult case. Charming woman, of course,” said Mrs. Zanch.

“We have the best and most delicate-minded people in our seminars,” said Mr. Zanch. “Any breath of dissension frightens them.”

Gamadge looked sympathetic. “As a matter of fact,” he said, “I don't know why old Mr. Vauregard shouldn't endow New Soul; he would be allowed to endow a hospital for the body, why not one for the mind? Or soul, of course. He would be allowed to build one. The family couldn't do a thing about it. I really do not see the difference. Except, of course, that there's a touch of popular prejudice against cults.”

“We are not a cult, Mr. Gamadge.” Mrs. Zanch's smile was almost a grimace, so forced had it become. “We are, as I keep telling you, a system. Look out of that window.”

Gamadge did so, and then gave her a politely questioning glance.

“What do you see?” asked Mrs. Zanch.

“Sky.”

“Of course. But the stars are there, Mr. Gamadge; the stars are there! Why can't you see them at this moment?”

“Too much light?” asked Gamadge, with the nervous uncertainty of a candidate taking an I.Q. test.

“Too much light; the light that shows us things which are of no importance to the spirit—things which distract the soul. We teach these light-blinded people to look beyond that empty sky, to pierce illusion; to lose one star, and find the countless stars that it conceals.”

“I see,” said Gamadge. “You pierce the illusion of light, and find the twilight of the soul. What a title! ‘The Twilight of the Soul.' Couldn't you use it, Mrs. Zanch?”

Mr. Zanch said roughly: “Don't bother with him, Astra; you can see to look at him that he's light-bound.”

“A materialist, I'm afraid,” agreed Mrs. Zanch.

“And we don't want you interpreting us in your book.”

“I shouldn't dream of doing so, if you object; in fact, I am willing to give you a promise in writing that I won't even mention you, or New Soul either. I'll give it to you now,” said Gamadge; “then, when I make my request, you won't call me a blackmailer again; and before witnesses, too,” he added, reproachfully.

“Request? What request?” Zanch fixed suspicious black eyes on him.

“I only want to know just what old Mr. Vauregard was going to do for New Soul, before his family got after him.”

The Zanches gazed at him, and Mrs. Zanch suddenly laughed. “Of all the impudence!” she said.

“Not at all. Why should you object to satisfying my curiosity? I have no witness here; and if I mentioned such a thing in my book, you could get terrific damages out of me for libel.”

“Nothing of the sort was ever discussed. Really, Mr. Gamadge! If Mrs. Morton wishes to ruin us by spreading tales among our clients, she will have to go about it another way. You talk of libel; there is such a thing as slander.” Mrs. Zanch laughed again, highly amused. “To send you here with your story about a book!”

Gamadge said: “Mrs. Morton was rather averse to my coming, but I persisted. Of course, I can ask the old gentleman himself, and he may tell me—who knows?”

He got out of his chair. Zanch said: “Wait a minute. I don't get this at all. What use are you going to make of the information, if you get it?”

“I'll be perfectly frank with you. I have reason to think that Mr. Vauregard has fallen into less scrupulous hands than yours.”

Mrs. Zanch drew in her breath. “Ah! I knew he would. Poor old gentleman. If you knew what we saved him from, Mr. Gamadge! Crystal gazing and clairvoyance, I give you my word!”

“He wasn't above table tipping, I swear he wasn't,” said Zanch.

“Well, somebody's after him; and I just wanted to get an idea what they may think they can get out of it. If it's anything considerable, the family will do something drastic—” He stopped himself from adding: “again.”

The Zanches looked at each other. A hoarse voice from the corner where Mr. Rubens scribbled in shorthand said gloomily: “I bet you it's the Knights of the Temple crowd. He kept asking about them.”

After a long pause, Mr. Zanch spoke between his teeth: “It's a crime. He'll sink into Black Magic, that's where he'll end up. Very susceptible subject. Hankered after phenomena. My wife hasn't been in a trance since we discovered New Soul, but she would have done anything, rather than throw him to the wolves.”

“What are the Knights of the Temple likely to get out of it, do you think?” asked Gamadge. “Much?”

“Anything,” said Mrs. Zanch. “Almost anything, that is. The first thing they would get would be the old house, and the upkeep; but not any such upkeep as he planned for it when it was going to be a museum. Oh, no.”

“Dear me,” said Gamadge. “And I suppose that bequest would take precedence; get paid before the family legacies were settled.”

“All things considered,” said Zanch dryly, “I suppose so, too.”

“Well, I must be going. Thank you both for being so helpful, and I only wish you'd reconsider about my book. Look here; won't you let me send you the chapter, if it ever gets written? You might actually like it, you know.”

Mrs. Zanch said, with graciousness, that she thought that might be a good idea. Her husband remarked jocosely “Too bad to disappoint you. Old what's-her-name—Cybele—the outfit on the second floor; they want a ghost writer, I understand.”

Gamadge laughed, and said that he would remember that fact. He shook hands with the Chandors, and went out, escorted by the bald man, who was in a thawing mood.

“The boss was peeved at first,” he said, “because he got busy and found out you did detective work.”

“I've done it twice, and I hardly ever remember that I have done it. Sorry to upset him.”

“For Gawd's sake don't let anybody try anything raw with the old gentleman—Mr. Vauregard. It would kill him.”

“I'll do my best.”

Gamadge walked home through the park, feeling his usual pleasant nostalgia at sight of the fountain below the Mall, the old green balustrades, the boats on the lake. He sat down under a big tree, in a byway well screened from motor traffic, and reviewed the situation.

There had been a good deal at stake, apparently, when somebody decided to play the arbor game; quite enough to justify a certain amount of risk. Well, Gamadge did not doubt that Miss Wagoneur-Smith could be scared away, but what then? The old gentleman seemed determined to make a fool of himself in one way or another; how could X hope to restrain him from further excursions into the inane? Once again Gamadge's thoughts made him uneasy. He told himself that he was getting too hardboiled for polite society, represented by the Vauregard family and its connections; threw away his cigarette, and pursued his way along avenues of dusty trees.

He found Harold sorting Dykinck letters.

“How'd you like the Chandors?” he asked, looking up as Gamadge came in.

“Not much. They're disappointed. Old Mr. Vauregard certainly intended to do something big for them. They were teaching him to see the stars at midday. Zanch—that's Chandor—was certainly a medicine man of some kind, once; Mrs. Zanch comes from the West, and has been brought up among the spirits, I should say; it's her life. She made me think of a magnificent and glorified trained nurse. I shouldn't be surprised if she did some people as much good as their pills and electric sun lamps do.”

“Ten letters for you to look at,” said Harold. “Vauregard references, five.”

Gamadge looked through the five. “All from Cornelia Dykinck to her husband Deken. Very interesting.”

He selected one, and read:

Gamadge cast the letter aside, and seized upon the next one, which was dated “Twentieth May.” He read eagerly:

“Where's the other letter? Where's the other letter?” Gamadge hunted about on the table.

“What other letter?”

“The letter of May thirteenth. Where is it?”

“There isn't any letter of May thirteenth.”

“There must be…Good heavens—X!”

“What do you mean, ‘X'?”

“X got the letter, too, hang it all!”

“I don't know anything about the case,” said Harold, putting the letters together, “so I don't know what you're talking about.”

“Cornelia wrote to her absent spouse weekly, and there's a letter missing—the one that explodes the Great Wagoneur Mystery. X got Miss Dykinck to show him the letters, as well as the Byrons; perhaps he's writing a book, too! Poor Miss Dykinck must think we mean to flood the market. He stole the letter of May thirteenth, and he stole Volume II of the Byron set. Of course he had to have that letter—it blows Miss Smith higher than a kite, or would if old Mr. Vauregard saw it. Well, I bet on the dashing Charles—I always suspected him.”

Harold gathered up the papers, and rose. “You want these in the safe?”

“Stick 'em in, but they're no use to me. Well, I only hope X hasn't dared telephone Miss Smith; if he has, and repeated Miss Dykinck's story of this morning, I doubt if I get to see the zombi again at all.”

“I don't care who the zombi is,” said Harold coldly, “but who is this X?”

“Don't I wish I knew ! Never mind; I shall do a lot of guessing, I can tell you. It's somebody Miss Dykinck has taken a fancy to, and whom she has been entertaining once or twice of an evening, unbeknown to her domestic Gestapo. It's a young or youngish man, and a not unattractive one. I say young or youngish, but I think Miss Dykinck would stretch a point, if she liked the fellow.”

“This is your guess?”

“It's my guess. What sort of visitor would be banned by Mrs. Dykinck, I wonder? A young man—she wouldn't like Posy to make a fool of herself; a married man; a divorced man; a man of evil repute; a man not socially acceptable to a Dykinck.”

“Still guessing?”

“No, I think that part of it's certain. This person (ridiculous to suppose that Miss Dykinck would go to any trouble to see a woman), this person is trying to keep the Vauregard money in the family.”

“Do they need money?”

“They do. Even Mrs. Morton does—to finance a probably unremunerative theatrical production. She's set her heart on it.”

Theodore came into the room, and announced (with a broad smile): “Miss Dawson and Mr. Payne.”

“I
'M AFRAID WE'RE
awfully early, it's only a little after four,” said Clara. “Cameron has an engagement later. I brought him with me—do you mind?”