Unexpected Night (17 page)

“No. Why?”

“Somebody just drove into us, and then vanished.”

Lieutenant Barclay turned, looked up at the tee, and then back at his cousin.

“Alma seems to have been the victim,” he said. “Did she get hit?”

“No. But it was a near thing.”

“Funny. Probably some kid, if he ran for it.” He went over to the bench, and pulled a large, immaculate handkerchief from his pocket. “Too bad, old girl,” he said. “Tuck this in your collar.”

Alma refused it with a shake of her head, rose, and moved away. She began to poke about in the pine needles for the lost ball, Norman at her heels. Fred Barclay stood, handkerchief in hand, looking at her. Gamadge turned back to Mrs. Cowden.

“What makes you all so afraid of that little man Atwood?” he asked.

“I'm not exactly afraid of him. I feel that he's the only person connected with us in any way who could possibly do such a thing.”

“Serious allegation. Besides, he's up at the Cove—or ought to be. I can find out, perhaps.”

Fred Barclay had lighted a cigarette, and stood leaning against a tree, quietly smoking. Alma shoved her mashie into Gamadge's bag, which Norman held for her, and said: “I can't find it.”

“I think I can,” said Mrs. Cowden. She went over to the spot, adding, with a certain grimness: “There's no reason why Mr. Gamadge should be victimised by our misfortunes. Where's that other ball, Caddie? You didn't find it, and you have no business pocketing it. Give it to me.”

Norman, looking sheepish, produced it—a new ball, of excellent make. Gamadge came over to look at it.

“Interesting souvenir,” he said. “I own several of that brand. Shall we present it to your niece? According to your theory, it's hers.”

“I'd like you to take charge of it.”

“Thanks.” He dropped it into his pocket, and she began to rake efficiently under a root. Presently she extracted the ball, and handed it to him.

“Profound thanks.” As Norman, stimulated by all this civility, retrieved the other ball from the green, he continued:

“That's right, put it in the bag, and put this one in, too. We've had enough golf for to-day. Don't look depressed; here's your fee, and here's your tip. Take the lady's club, stick it in my bag, and trot back to the caddie master with them; he'll keep them for me till I get a chance to put them in the locker.”

“Will you take me out again?” Norman fingered his first earnings as if unable to believe his eyes.

“Certainly; do the whole eighteen. Now, be off with you.”

Norman sped off by some short cut of his own. Young Barclay again approached his cousin.

“You look like the devil,” he said. “Better hang on to my arm.”

“Please let me alone, Fred.”

Gamadge advanced, clasped her firmly by the elbow, and walked off with her down the next fairway. “Right back to the tenth,” he said, “with the Ocean House in full view, and no stray balls coming from anywhere.”

Young Barclay fell back beside Mrs. Cowden, casting a long, slow, coldly furious look at Gamadge; for which the latter hardly blamed him.

“What you want,” he said, “is a good stiff drink, Miss Cowden. The time for sedatives is past; the time for stimulants has come. How about a stiff one in Room 22—just you and Hoskins and I? There's some good Scotch in my suitcase.”

“I'd like a drink,” confessed Miss Cowden.

“You don't want Fred along?”

“I'd rather not,” she replied, staring in front of her.

“All right, we won't have him. He's annoyed with me at the moment, anyway; he might cast a gloom. Will your aunt insist upon joining us? Not that we don't want her, of course, but what I say is, let us occasionally relax outside the family circle. Hoskins is going to be on the job, to-night, by the way.”

“Is he?”

“Yes, I'm going up to the Cove, to see this show; I'll be back by 11.30, at the latest, I should think. I was there this afternoon, and met Mr. Atwood. He tells me I have the evil eye.”

She gave him a quick, wondering glance.

“I also met your brother's friend, little Miss Baker. Susie Baker. Do you know her?”

“No, I don't. I've heard him speak of her.”

“Nice little thing. Was he fond of her?”

“I don't know. We didn't see very much of each other, Mr. Gamadge. He didn't tell me anything. He was away a good deal, with his tutors. In a way, I hardly knew him. We led such entirely different lives.”

“And of course you were younger.”

“I was always at school.”

“Excuse me for asking these personal questions; did he give you an allowance?”

“He gave me presents. Amby needed almost all his money for himself, he really did. Doctors, and treatments. And cruises.”

“I can see that.” Gamadge wished that he could control a perpetual impulse to glance behind him. They were well out in the middle of the fairway, and beyond danger from any driven ball; but he found himself looking over his shoulder just the same. He went on: “Hoskins says your aunt, Mrs. Barclay, came along with some sort of physic for you. Does she fancy herself as a pharmacist?”

“She's always trying to doctor people. She used to have a medicine chest, when she and Uncle Harrison were in the Army.”

“For God's sake, don't let her go putting any of her brews into your stomach. Pour them down the drain, and tell her they did you a world of good.”

The distant click of a golf ball made them both jump. Alma Cowden looked at him with a faint smile. “I wonder if that sound will always make me duck, after this,” she said.

“Don't think too much about the incident. Somebody on the tee, practising; ‘Never thought he could shoot as far as that'; I've heard the story before, and so have you.”

She gave him a straight look. “You couldn't find him.”

“I didn't try; hopeless job, with all that cover. Your cousin was probably right; some young ass, who cut in from the road without bothering to go up to the club and pay his fees. He's in the next township by now, unless I'm very much mistaken, selling his clubs.”

“You know very well that he was trying to hit me, Mr. Gamadge.”

“Who was?”

“I don't know.”

“You know as well as I do that nobody on that tee could hope to hit anything smaller than the green.”

“Arthur Atwood—”

“Now don't give me any of that Atwood stuff! Let's eliminate him. He's up at the Cove, with a state cop on the premises, and strict orders to stay there.”

“Couldn't he get out through the woods, and get a lift somewhere along the road?”

“Bother it, perhaps he could; I should have thought nothing bigger than a chipmunk could navigate that brush. Forget him; I'll find out whether he left the place.”

“Did you find out whether he left there last night?” She looked up at him, her lips set.

“Had me there. Look here, Miss Cowden; you're mighty anxious to pin this on Atwood, and so is your aunt. As a matter of fact—”

They had now reached the tall bushes that concealed the tenth tee. The sharp crack of a golf ball brought them to a momentary halt; they smiled grimly at each other, and rounded the screen of willows. Mrs. Barclay stood alone on the tee, driver in one hand, the other shading her eyes against the blazing afternoon sun.

CHAPTER TEN

M
RS. BARCLAY WAS
too much absorbed to notice her audience. She removed her hand from her eyes, sought vainly about her feet for her wooden tee, removed another from her hatband, and pushed it firmly into the earth. She then placed a grimy ball upon it, straightened, grasped her driver, and raised it. Her long arms in their tight pink sleeves descended in a magnificent follow through, and the ball shot grandly over the rough and landed well up in the middle of the fairway.

Gamadge applauded, and so, after a pause, did Alma Cowden.

Mrs. Barclay turned, and regarded them benignantly. “That was a lucky one,” she said.

“More management than luck, Mrs. Barclay. I congratulate you.”

“My short game is very poor, as you know. How nice that you feel able to be out, Alma; but is it wise? You look exhausted.”

“Miss Cowden nearly had an accident,” said Gamadge.

“Oh, dear; your aunt Eleanor won't like to hear that. Did she approve of your coming out?”

Mrs. Cowden answered the question by coming around the bushes with Lieutenant Barclay. His mother stared.

“Well!” she exclaimed. “You out too, Eleanor!”

“Yes, Lulu, as you see, I am out,” replied Mrs. Cowden, calmly. “So are you; so is Fred; and so, I am glad to see, is poor Hugh Sanderson.”

That young man could indeed be descried in the distance, putting on the eighteenth green.

“Only Dad missing,” said young Barclay. “He must be at the beach, by this time. Shall we go down, Mum, or are you finishing this hole? You'll do it in par, if you keep up; you've made a better start at it than I generally do.”

“I'll come with you, dear. Will you get my balls?”

“Leave them for the caddies; they look like mushrooms. You deserve new ones, after those drives.”

“I have a box of lovely new ones that I won at bridge, but I never use them on this awful tee. Once in the marsh, and they're gone.”

“Mum makes her own golf rules,” observed Fred, dropping his brassie into her bag, and shouldering it. “Changing balls in mid-game is O.K. with her.”

“I wouldn't do it in a match, Freddy.”

“Not if your partner knew it, you wouldn't.” He went down the other side of the tee, refraining from any glance in the direction of his cousin or Gamadge. Mrs. Barclay lingered to say:

“What's this I hear about Alma having an accident, Eleanor?”

“Somebody drove into us on the fifteenth.”

“Oh, dear! Who?”

“We couldn't find out.”

“How dreadful. Who could it have been, Freddy?”

“Didn't see the outrage. A caddie, perhaps. They practise when they get a chance.”

“I hope you will report it at the club. The course is positively dangerous, nowadays, with all these people from the small hotels crowding in.”

“Now, Mum, you know you hit old Macpherson in the ankle, and how nice he was about it. Come along, if you want a swim before supper.”

“I'll see you this evening, Eleanor.”

They went off, and the Cowdens and Gamadge returned to the Ocean House by the back way. A big young man in a porter's uniform watched them with interest as they all climbed the fire-escape stairs, and then went on loading baggage on the freight elevator.

Doctor and Mrs. Baines were just arriving at the door of Number 21 when the three surprised them by a flank movement from the left; the doctor vast, calm and benign, his wife also large, also serene, and full of cheerful solicitude. They were delighted to hear that there had been a walk, and puzzled as well as horrified by the story of the mysterious golf ball. Gamadge brought forward his idea (slightly edited) of the orgy in Room 22, but the doctor vetoed it.

“Won't do, young man,” said Baines. “Won't do at all. I know a trick worth two of that. Meanwhile, the patient would be all the better for a short period of rest and relaxation before her dinner.”

Alma disappeared, and he went on:

“I don't much like her colour, and there are signs of shock. Less hysterical, though; much less hysterical. Not your fault that the cure wasn't entirely a success, Gamadge.”

“Thanks. Look here, I'm going to have a drink before I go down to the beach; let me bring my stuff down here. There's plenty for all, and Mrs. Cowden could do with a stiff one, or I'm much mistaken.”

“Much obliged to you, but we had our afternoon maximum dose a few minutes ago.”

“And we needed it; the sea is dreadfully cold, today,” said Mrs. Baines.

“Have to bear up now until dinner-time; won't we, Molly? My wife and I are great believers in rum old-fashioneds, and the barman here—what's his name—Murphy—makes them very well. I'll have them send you up one, Ellie; no liquor for the little girl, though.”

Gamadge said: “Sorry my diagnosis was wrong. How about you, Mrs. Cowden? Care for a highball?”

“I should be only too glad of one.”

He went up to his room, got out the remains of a bottle of whisky, and sent for a jug of ice and glasses. When he returned to Number 21 with the tray, Doctor Baines and his wife had gone. Sanderson joined him at the door.

“Well, Hugh; you look very hot and tired.” Mrs. Cowden accepted her glass from Gamadge with gratitude. “What a pet Bertie Baines is; don't you think so, Mr. Gamadge?”