The House without the Door (23 page)

"Which brings us to your motive; and it had become, as I saw when I first met you, an obsession—a fixed idea. I warned you against it, I begged you to take the money you had killed your husband for and let these people alone. But you were in a blind alley, or—let us say—the house without the door. You would find the door, or smash down the walls. Do you know, I was fool enough to pity you. Much as I hate a poisoner, I confess that I pitied you.

"You didn't want pity, except as it furthered your cause. All you wanted was to be cleared of Gregson's murder once and for all; to go out into the only world you cared about, well-off and respectable; to live the only kind of life you understood. But there was only one way to bring about that consummation—you had to make a case against someone else. Well, I've done my best to protect the victim; I've had several tries at it; I even put you up here, fondly hoping that you would be unable to plant evidence against her while you were guarded night and day at Five Acres. You won the first round of the battle; the others were to me. But I had to persuade you to an indiscretion—before witnesses. Miss Prady was good enough to help me, and so you see us here tonight."

Mrs. Gregson spoke for the first time: "I thought
they
had moved Benny."

"Never mind who moved him. The point that interests me is this: safety from the law means nothing to you, isn't worth a dime; but you may still, for all I know, be safe from the law. I don't know what I can prove against you—I don't know what a judge and jury would make of Miss Prady's foray tonight; perhaps they would believe that you were merely trying to defend yourself against blackmail and intimidation. But I have been to Omega, Mrs. Gregson, and I have seen Dr. Lamb."

She turned her head and looked at him. Gamadge went on:

"He wouldn't bring that evidence against you at your trial; he wouldn't be the means of sending you to your death by telling how you had had opportunity to possess yourself of a tube of morphia with one corner torn off the label of it. Miss Warren has been terrorized by that tube of morphia because she thinks it involves her, and
she
has never been acquitted of Gregson's death; that's why she regretted the impulse that made her tell how Gregson laughed. She withheld evidence, and her motive is forgivable; more so than Locke's, who withheld it because he knew that if you were to be convicted the Gregson money would all go to a Mr. Parrott in California.

"But Miss Warren didn't understand you; she never understood the depth and the power of that fixed idea of yours. You would never have mentioned that tube of morphia to a living soul, because it's the link that connects you with Gregson's murder. If people knew of it they would never believe that you are an innocent woman. They'd never believe it if they heard my story—the story of these last days.

"So we now arrive at the point I have been building up to, that it is quite useless for you to go on with your quest; and I repeat that Miss Prady and I are ready to make a deal. What have you done with Locke's car?"

Mrs. Gregson frowned. Then she said, her lips hardly moving: "I don't understand. What deal?"

"If you'll show us where you hid his car—you must have put it somewhere in this vicinity, but you couldn't let it be found near you—if you'll show me where it is, we'll all get out of this one; we'll leave you to drive on."

"On?"

"Wherever you want to go. We'll give you a long start— we'll give you till dawn. Nobody but ourselves knows when you attacked Miss Prady; we'll say you got away from us. You have plenty of money in that bag, I suppose? Your car's full of petrol and oil; there's a felt hat and a tweed coat back here, and a pair of gloves in one of the car pockets. You'll be quite comfortable. I don't see why you shouldn't get clean away, leave the car, and lose yourself. What do you think of the scheme?"

Mrs. Gregson sat silent, frowning. At last she said: "Drive straight along this lane."

They heard the muted crash of tree branches, a louder, ripping sound, and then nothing.

Miss Prady had clutched Gamadge's arm. She shrieked: "Why? Why?"

"She had to get out," said Gamadge. "That was the only door that was open. We must hurry a little, if you feel up to it; I must get to a telephone."

"H
OW'RE YOU GOING
to telephone us out of this?" inquired Harold dispassionately. He and Gamadge each had Miss Prady by an arm; as they walked down the dark lane she occasionally bent her head to get at the handkerchief in her hand and wipe her eyes with it.

"I'm going to drive us out of it," said Gamadge. "I have my car."

"You certainly left me on the outside of the case this time."

"Outside? You had the worst job of all. And how were you going to install Mrs. Gregson's radio for her without glowering, if you knew she'd just killed Benton Locke?"

"I still don't see how she worked it."

"Good heavens, she was probably off the place by the time we'd begun lunch; I went up afterwards and looked complacently at a sign on an empty room. Locke telephoned her on Tuesday night after I saw him, and told her that if she was manufacturing evidence of attempted murder against him, Cecilia Warren, or Mrs. Stoner, he'd publish the fact that she was in possession of a tube of morphia with a corner missing from its label at the time of her husband's death."

"How'd he know she had it?"

"When dependents are uncomfortable and unhappy, Harold, they forget their obligations to their benefactors; they prowl, they snoop and they conspire. Mrs. Stoner's only crime from first to last was in warming and feeding her young friends at the expense of their miserly patron; but Benton Locke, a lonely, penniless, restless boy, no doubt explored the house for want of something better to do. He found the tube of morphia among Mrs. Gregson's possessions; she had kept it ever since the days when she had seen or even helped her aunt in the struggle to cure Cecilia Warren's father of drug-taking. Benton Locke knew nothing of its source; he told nobody about it; but when Gregson died, and that tube was found, Benton knew very well that Mrs. Gregson had killed him. Those tubes of morphia with their serial numbers missing were known to Cecilia Warren too."

"And they both kept quiet about it."

"Mrs. Gregson never dreamed that Locke knew of its existence. She was a woman of infinite resource where her obsession was concerned, and when he telephoned she assured him that she didn't suspect
him
of wanting to kill her; but that she could tell him and Mrs. Stoner why she knew that Cecilia Warren was guilty of the attempts against her life. She said she didn't know where Five Acres was, but that he could follow us up here on Wednesday in his car, and wait along the road. He could drive her to Pine Lots, and she would present them with the evidence against Miss Warren.

"Locke pretended to agree; but he telephoned Cecilia Warren, advised her to be in on the conference, and perhaps suggested the presence at it of Paul Belden. He drove up here as arranged, picked her up as requested, and I suppose then informed her that Cecilia Warren would be present at the conference to speak for herself. That would have been an excuse for her to insist on a private word with him. She got him to stop at—"

Here Gamadge stopped himself.

"Made him drive up that road," supplied Miss Prady, bending to her handkerchief.

"And shot him with the gun that everybody knew he carried in his car. She left him there, say, at a quarter past two. She posted the anonymous letter in Burford—the letter to the police, incriminating Cecilia Warren. It would take her an hour and a half to get to the Smiles apartment in New York and plant the gun. Two hours back to Five Acres; that brings us to about five forty-five. She ran Locke's car along this lane and hid it in the woods; she was in her room long before I telephoned from Pine Lots and you reported on her. I suppose she had no hat on when she came back from that stroll?"

"No, she just had her knitting bag on her arm. I can't believe it now."

"You can believe that she had a hat in that knitting-bag."

"I don't know how you had the nerve to leave her loose and travel up to Omega." Harold was aggrieved.

"My dear boy, that's just the point—she wasn't loose! She had no car! I had been careful to separate her from her own, and Locke's was of no use to her. She wouldn't dare drive it again, much less take it to a filling-station; I checked on the mileage, and she must have used up all but a few gallons of petrol, even if Locke had it filled after he left New York on Wednesday."

"She ran that car into the gorge while she was supposed to be out walking today? She was crazy; that's all."

"No, she wasn't. Perhaps not quite human."

Harold felt a slight shudder. He said after a pause: "Anybody half-human would show something, after all that."

"You forget that Mrs. Gregson was obsessed. She had killed Gregson for the kind of life she wanted; she had been cheated of her reward by Cecilia Warren's ingenuous remark about a laugh; she had had three years to brood in. The Mrs. Gregsons are immensely concerned for their reputations; jealous of small social privileges and social position. This Mrs. Gregson was also without affection or imagination, with a terrific ego and an indomitable will."

Miss Prady said: "Benny told me she was so cruel. She was so jealous of Cecilia Warren. She liked to make her sleep in that little top-floor room in Bellfield."

"Yes. She shouldn't have indulged that fancy," said Gamadge. "It was the ruin of her when Miss Warren moved down to the guest-room. What a risk she took when she planted that gun at the Smiles apartment! But it was the only evidence she had, the only evidence which she could connect directly with Cecilia Warren. I dare say she was amused when poor Colby—how I hate to think of his horror when he hears all this—when he explained to us both on Tuesday how easy it is to get a duplicate key made. She had one to the Smiles apartment, no doubt had had it a long time. She knew when Miss Warren would be out, and what was the right time to go there. Well, Miss Prady, I gained your confidence by rather unorthodox methods; but thank goodness I did gain it, and you did most sportingly agree to meet me tonight and drive up here in the Gregson car. I made poor Cecilia Warren give me a key to it."

"What was that about blackmail?" said Harold. They had turned out of the lane and were walking up the highway; faster, now.

"Miss Prady and I worked it out before we started up here. She telephoned to Mrs. Gregson and told her that she knew all about the tube of morphia from Locke. She said she needed money—"

"And that's true!" said Miss Prady.

"So Mrs. Gregson invited her to come up and get it. Really, Miss Prady showed extraordinary nerve; but she was really quite safe."

"You try it," said Miss Prady, "and see if you feel safe."

"Here we are," said Gamadge. "Miss Prady, my car's just up the road, as you know; get into it and wait—we shan't be long. Harold, as soon as we get into Five Acres go and put that knife where it came from—a kitchen drawer, I suppose. Then hurry out to your room and pack, and join Miss Prady in the car."

Three minutes later Gamadge and his assistant were standing on the porch, and Gamadge's finger was on the night bell. After some delay Mrs. Tully opened the door. There was cream on her face, her hair was wired for the night, and she wore a pink cap, a pink woollen dressing-gown, and large pink slippers adorned with pompons. She was ill-pleased.

"What's all this?" she demanded. "What are you doing here, Gamadge, and what's your young man doing out of bed?"

"I'll explain, Tully." Harold slid past the pink mountain, and made for the east wing. Gamadge backed Mrs. Tully towards the lounge. "Just go up and rout Miss Lukes out, will you? I want to talk to you both."

"I will not wake Lucy Lukes up! She's as tired as I am. More so. Do you know what time it is?" Mrs. Tully spoke in a hissing whisper, in order not to wake the lodgers. "Do you want a room? What's the matter with you?"

"I don't want a room. I want to telephone, and then I want to talk to you both, and I have no time. You go and bring her down, like a good girl."

Gamadge made for the booth. Mrs. Tully, casting a truculent look after him, turned and lumbered up the stairs.

Gamadge found his party after a long wait. Durfee's voice barked: "What is it?"

"Gamadge speaking. I wanted to say that I had a hunch about Locke's murder—"

"Do you have to drag me out of bed at this time of night to listen to a hunch?"

"No; I followed the hunch, and I know who did it and where his gun is and where his car is."

"What are you talking about?"

"I want you to get the credit, Durfee; you can call up the Westchester people, or the Cold Brook sheriff—"

"Cold Brook?"

"—and leave me out of it. Because I want to get home to bed. I've been working on this case for you all day."

"Very kind of you. Who killed him, for instance?"

"Mrs. Gregson."

"Who?"

"Mrs. Curtis Gregson. The one that killed her husband three years ago. I wasn't able to hold her for you—she drove herself into a ravine, and there isn't a hope that she's alive. But if you want to make sure, you can get wreckers on the job right away. The ravine is on a lane just below a sanatorium called Five Acres, not far from Cold Brook. Anybody there can direct you. Left-hand side of the route as you come up," said Gamadge hurriedly. You can't miss it."

Durfee had difficulty in articulating. Then he said: "Where in the devil are you?"

"Here at Five Acres. Mrs. Gregson was staying here under the name of Greer—I sent her here." Gamadge heard a kind of snort behind him, which came from Mrs. Tully. She and her partner were just outside the booth; he felt beleaguered.

"For God's sake—" began Durfee.

"She hired me—for camouflage," said Gamadge. "I found it out, and came up to see her about it. She wanted a private talk, but they lock the place up; so she crawled out of a window. We went to this lane, in her car. When she knew I knew she'd killed Locke she attacked me."