The House without the Door (14 page)

He got a silk handkerchief out of his overcoat pocket and went over to Locke's body; he wrapped the handkerchief carefully round Locke's head and neck, and fastened it. Then he picked up the felt hat, folded it, and stuffed it in his pocket. A search to right and left and a little behind the body rewarded him with a gleam of metal; he picked up and pocketed a shell.

After studying the position of the corpse, which lay uphill, he got its arms round his neck, braced himself, struggled upright, and had it on his back. He went down the slope obliquely, and laid his burden down by the roadside, in the shelter of the pines. The dog trotted confidently at his heels, followed him to his car, and got into it at a word. Gamadge turned it, and drove it back to the spot where the body waited.

He got out, and stood for some time looking up and down the road. He could hear nothing; stillness had fallen on the countryside, and the Gregson house had seemed at his last glimpse of it to be still unlighted. He opened the back of the car and got out a rug. The silk handkerchief which he had knotted round Locke's head showed no stain; he got Locke into the back of the car, put the rug over him, and slid under the wheel. Hotchkiss' dog made room for him, whining gently.

At the Hotchkiss farm he stopped; the farmer was not in sight. He opened the car door. "Home, old man," he said, "your part of the job's over." The dog jumped out and trotted up the path.

Gamadge drove to the highway and turned south towards Burford. Tempting roads branched off into what looked like deep country, but he resisted them, his jaw set. The railway curved in—he could see shining tracks under a light beyond a field, and presently sheds and the station. Burford village was almost deserted at this hour of twilight, few cars were parked at the kerbs, and he was thankful to see none at the filling-station. He drove on past a lighted drugstore, a dreary little hotel, scattered houses, a church. He was out of Burford, into a zone of darkness and arching trees.

He thought he would never find the sort of by-road he needed, but two and a half miles down, there it was—a lightless track rising to the skyline. Gamadge turned left and drove upward, between banks topped by fences. He stopped in front of a big tree, and with some difficulty turned the car; his actions were slowed by fear of some hitch or accident. Then he got out and opened the back door.

He was just in time—the body was stiffening. He got it out, and behind the tree; laid it face downwards as he had found it, and took the handkerchief from its head. He dropped the hat a couple of feet away. His last glimpse of Locke's dead face had been strangely comforting; it was quite unmarred— the bullet was still in Locke's skull; and the primitive features looked serene.

He heard himself gasp as the sound of an engine came to him from up the road. He jumped into his car, and was at the turn into the highway long before whatever rattling old vehicle it was caught up with him. In fact, the driver of it never saw his car; nor would anyone trace him by tire marks—a black road, as well as a lonely one, was what he had searched so long for.

He went at a moderate speed through Burford, afraid to call attention to this second trip through the village; beyond it he accelerated, and shot round the turn to Pine Lots almost as recklessly as Belden had done. His journey past the Hotchkiss farm called forth no more than a perfunctory bark from the dog. He drew up at the Gregson house just after half-past six.

The lower floor was lighted, and there was a light on the porch. Gamadge mounted three stone steps to the lawn, and followed a gravel path, bordered by flowerbeds in need of weeding. He climbed two more stone steps, and rang a bell beside a green front door.

Mrs. Stoner, a purple knitted coat round her shoulders, answered the bell. She stood gazing at him.

"You remember me, Mrs. Stoner?"

But she had not seen him look as he was looking now. She said tremulously: "You're Mr. Gamadge."

"Yes. May I telephone?"

She stood aside, and pointed to a telephone on a table. The hall was narrow, and lighted by an oil lamp hanging from the low ceiling; facing Gamadge was an enclosed stairway, the door of which was closed with a latch.

"I'm calling Mrs. Gregson," he said, "and I'm afraid the call is private." She backed towards a room on the right, and he went on: "Somebody dumped some more evidence on her— practically on her doorstep; I couldn't have kept
it
out of the papers."

"Some more…" Her voice died. Then she asked: "Isn't she safe there—where you took her?"

"I'll find out."

He took up the telephone receiver, and she went into the room on the right, and shut the door. He gave the Five Acres number in a low voice, and when he had it asked for Mr. Thompson.

Harold's voice, when it came, was peevish: "Can't you leave us in peace for three hours?"

"Peaceful, are you? How's our friend?"

"Fine. She had her sleep, went for a stroll, and when she came back she asked for a radio. I installed Miss Lukes' little portable for her, and we had quite a talk. Mr. Colby's coming up to see her tomorrow."

"How did you find that out? I do hope you haven't been listening at keyholes, Mr. Thompson?"

"The memorandum's right here this minute, under my eye. 'Message for Mrs. James Greer. Mr. Colby is driving up tomorrow afternoon.'"

Gamadge frowned. He said after a moment: "I suppose he'll take her out in his car."

"Want me to go in the rumble?" Harold was jocose.

"No. Stick to your job, though. Goodbye."

He hung up, and went over to the closed door. At his rap Mrs. Stoner opened it.

"Mrs. Gregson is all right," he said. "I'm sorry to have missed the conference this afternoon. Did Benton Locke get to it?"

She stood in the middle of the long, low room, gazing at him helplessly. It was a room that suited her; with its plain furniture, its windows curtained in white muslin, its old, loud-ticking clock, it might haye been made for Mrs. Stoner.

"He never came," she said.

"Too bad. Most disappointing for Miss Warren and Mr. Belden. Mr. Belden left here before five o'clock. How about Miss Warren?"

Mrs. Stoner was dumb, and the clock ticked.

"Or hasn't she gone yet? You know, if I were you I'd lend her Mrs. Gregson's car to get home in. I should think Belden would have driven her back to New York, but I dare say they know what they're doing. They must have been very anxious to hear what Locke was going to say; important, it must have been to bring a busy man like that all the way up here."

"He only wanted to discuss the situation with us."

"No, I think it must have been more than that. I think Mr. Locke was full of information. I think Mr. Locke was on the warpath."

Mrs. Stoner said with pale dignity: "Celia and Benny know nothing of what has happened, Mr. Gamadge. They wouldn't do anything wrong."

"At least Benton Locke isn't actuated by regard for Mrs. Gregson. He doesn't care a button for her. All he's afraid of is losing that money she was going to leave him—he practically told me so."

"He needs it dreadfully. I do hope Vina won't—they both need it dreadfully."

"They don't protect you as you protect them."

"I don't need protection, Mr. Gamadge."

"You need it very much. You're the one who had the best opportunities to make attempts on Mrs. Gregson's life. The facts speak for themselves, and now there are additional facts."

Mrs. Stoner said in a quavering voice: "The mackerel was perfectly fresh; I bought it myself. I don't know what can have got into it. I don't think anybody put poison in it."

"Well, how about the gas oven, and the fruit cake?"

Mrs. Stoner looked distracted. "I can't think!"

"You must see who's the logical suspect in all these matters, Mrs. Stoner."

"But I found the poison in the cake!"

"People might say that you had merely been trying to frighten the life out of Mrs. Gregson."

"But why should I? Why should I, Mr. Gamadge? I don't want to frighten Vina; I stay with her because she's so lonely and has had such a dreadful time. I have my annuity."

"People might think the annuity wasn't enough for you, Mrs. Stoner. They might say you hoped to cut Miss Warren and Mr. Locke out of that will, and get the whole thing for yourself."

Mrs. Stoner took a step backwards. There was silence, and the clock ticked.

"You really ought to tell me," said Gamadge, "what Benton Locke was coming here to say."

There was a creaking noise in the hall. Gamadge looked over his shoulder to see the door of the enclosed stairway open, and Cecilia Warren step down the lowest stair. She was neat and fashionable in a tweed suit and a toque, and there was a handsome piece of fur about her shoulders. She came into the room rather quickly. Gamadge met the furious look in her eyes with a smile.

"That last was too much for you, was it, Miss Warren?" he asked. "I rather thought it would be; if you were still here, you know."

She said: "It's the most contemptible thing I ever heard of in my life. Trying to frighten Mrs. Stoner into giving Benny Locke and me away! She has nothing to tell."

"I wish she had; I only wish she had, and would tell it. Locke was greatly worried about her when I saw him, and I'm greatly worried too. I'd rather frighten her, Miss Warren, than sacrifice her in this miserable intrigue."

"You send her up here to be alone, and then you come to bully her. Disgusting."

"Why didn't Mr. Belden stay here and protect you both from me?"

"Because Benny didn't get here, and Paul had to get back to town."

"Did you come with Mr. Belden, may I ask, or by train?"

"I shan't tell you how I came. I shall answer no more of your questions."

"It's really most important."

Mrs. Stoner said; "She came by train, Mr. Gamadge. Celia, Mr. Gamadge is only trying to help Vina."

Miss Warren looked at the other woman with something resembling wild exasperation. Gamadge spoke mildly: "Just trying to prevent a ghastly crime; another ghastly crime. Why do you object?"

Miss Warren's anger froze into something more formidable. Mrs. Stoner quavered: "Another! You—you don't mean
Curtis Gregson
?" She looked ready to sink to the ground. Gamadge went and got a chair, lowered her into it, and then straightened himself to look down at her.

"Are you nervous here, Mrs. Stoner," he asked, "all alone?"

"No. You said I was to come." She seemed confused.

"I didn't quite realize—how isolated you are. Would you rather go back to New York to your boarding-house? I could take you."

"I like it here. I love the country. Mr. Hotchkiss is on the party line."

"Could you manage without a car for a while?"

"Mr. Hotchkiss has a Ford I can use when Vina has hers out."

"Are you willing to lend Mrs. Gregson's car to Miss Warren for a few days?"

"Oh, yes."

"I'll get it back to you, if she can't."

Mrs. Stoner seemed incapable of questioning him, incapable of thought. She sat supine, her hands clasped loosely together; but Cecilia Warren, whose frozen look had gone, spoke sharply: "I'm going by train."

"Well, I wouldn't."

"Why not?"

She faced him, and there was something in his glance that daunted her. He said: "You ought to be obliged to me for the suggestion. People in country ticket offices notice well-dressed ladies who buy tickets at this hour of the evening. Take the car. It may be foolish of me, but I should like to know that it was garaged in New York tonight."

"Are you going to trail me—or try to?"

"I'm going down behind you. Why should you try to lose me?"

Miss Warren went over, bent down, and kissed Mrs. Stoner's cheek. Then she left the room, and hurried along a rear passage. Gamadge departed by the front door, and waited in his car until she drove round the house and into the road.

He followed her easily, hoping as they went through Burford that no idle person had been collecting car numbers that day; and wishing that some inner urge did not impel her to drive so fast. He had no wish to be arrested in her company. She could have lost him at several intersections in New York, but made no attempt to do so. She garaged the car between Lexington and Third Avenues, on the street that contained Mrs. Smiles' apartment house. Gamadge did not wait for her to come out of the garage; he drove home.

A
T A QUARTER TO TEN THAT NIGHT
Gamadge on the chesterfield sofa in his library, coffee beside him on a little table, and a concert coming to him over the radio. He had had a late but satisfying meal. Athalie the cook had come upstairs to forgive him for missing his dinner; and Martin the cat lay across his mid-section, fast asleep.

Clara sat opposite him, arranging her notes. She said: "You're too tired to bother with what Mr. Schenck and I found out today."

"I'm in good condition. I had a two-hour nap at Five Acres: while others worked, I slept."

"Just the same; you look awful."

"Thank you, my darling."

"I mean so awfully tired. How did Mrs. Gregson like Five Acres?"

"Very much indeed. Harold installed a radio for her, and I have no doubt that she's listening to this symphony now. I wish we could."

"Wouldn't you rather listen than hear this stuff?"

"I must hear the stuff. No, don't turn it off; I like a musical background, if the music's good."

"Did you get to Pine Lots?"

"I did."

"What's Mrs. Stoner like?"

"Reduced gentility personified, with high standards of behaviour. I don't know how high her moral standards are, but I think that she could always manage to reconcile them to propriety."

"People say that if your manners are really good, your morals are good too."

"I love to think so. Mrs. Stoner is at present being crushed between the upper millstone of one loyalty and the lower millstone of another. Well, what have you there for me?"

Clara chose a typed page. She said: "Mr. Schenck went and saw a Mr. Ormiston, an artist—"

"No!" Camadge laughed. "Schenck's a wonder."