Unexpected Night (25 page)

“Miss Cowden's up at Bailtown, in the hospital.”

“No, really?” Mr. Ormville was surprised. “Prostrated? I'm sorry to hear it. Her brother's death must have been a great shock to her.”

“She near died, last night. She got poisoned with morphine.”

“Good Heavens! How did that happen?” Mr. Ormville put on his Oxford glasses, and peered at Hoskins through them.

“That's part of the case. Mr. Gamadge found her.”

“Who is Mr. Gamadge?”

“He's—why, he's—he's a guest here in the hotel.”

“I don't quite understand you, Mr. Hoskins. How did this Mr. Gamadge come to find her? And how did she come to be poisoned by morphine?”

“Mr. Gamadge was passing, and he saw that the door wasn't locked, so he went in.”

“Dear me. The place seems even more informal than I thought this morning. You say this hotel guest went into Miss Cowden's room, because he found it unlocked? Really.”

“Well, she kept it locked on account of being so scared of this Atwood. Mr. Gamadge told her to, and he put me in the opposite room.”

Mr. Ormville leaned back in his chair, and gazed steadily at his
vis-à-vis
. Hoskins hurried on: “Only, last night this Atwood was shot and killed up at Seal Cove, so it wasn't him put the morphia in the medicine.”

“Arthur Atwood was shot and killed, last night?”

“Yes, Mr. Gamadge found him.”

“Mr. Gamadge appears to be practically ubiquitous.”

“He was workin' on the case. Mrs. Barclay says she didn't put but a little morphia in the medicine, though. I went down to their house with them, last night, and got the bottle. Doctor Baines told me to. Mrs. Barclay had hysterics, and we had to give her brandy. The bottles are over to the Centre, and they're goin' to be analysed.”

Mr. Ormville opened his mouth, closed it again, took off his glasses, replaced them, and said at last: “I suppose I may take it for granted that these events have some coherence. Why was Miss Alma Cowden afraid of Arthur Atwood? I always had a suspicion that the poor fellow was a bad lot; but why should Alma Cowden lock her door on account of him?”

“I ain't absolutely certain, but I think it had something to do with her being nearly killed yesterday by a golf ball.”

“A what?”

“Somebody nearly hit her with a golf ball. Mr. Gamadge was there, and he—”

“I shall really have to make the acquaintance of this Mr. Gamadge.”

“He had me watchin' the corridor. That was how I come to sign the paper she made out, givin' all the money away.”

“All whose money?”

“The money Miss Cowden got, after her brother died.”

Mr. Ormville's whole demeanour altered. He leaned forward, placed his elbows on the table, and fixed Hoskins with a piercing look, through his glasses.

“Am I to understand,” he asked, in measured tones, “that Miss Alma Cowden conveyed, or attempted to convey, the property which she presumably inherits through the death of her brother, to a Mr. Gamadge, one of the guests of this hotel?”

“No, she didn't give it to him. She just gave it up.”

“Gave it up! She cannot give it up, Mr. Hoskins; she cannot do anything whatever with it. She is an infant.”

“I know; Gamadge knows the paper ain't legal. But he's goin' to hand it over to you, just the same.”

“I am beginning to think,” said Mr. Ormville, leaning back again, “that you are right, and that there really is a case. This is the most extraordinary story I ever heard in my life. Did the golf ball strike Miss Cowden on the head? Is she mentally unhinged, do you know?”

“No, she ain't; but I guess Mr. Gamadge thought she would be, if we didn't sign that paper.”

“If he encouraged her in this remarkable attempt to tamper with the laws of property, he is unhinged himself. I don't think I can follow the thing any further until I have had some coffee.”

It had arrived, and Mr. Ormville fell upon it with a highly uncharacteristic abandon. Hoskins, wondering dimly whether he had perhaps confused the situation for the old gentleman instead of clarifying it, ate hungrily and in silence. He was rather relieved when Hugh Sanderson joined them.

Mr. Ormville greeted the young man with pleasure. He liked a good appearance, good spirits, and good humour, and he had known Sanderson's family in their more prosperous days. He said:

“Sit down, Hugh, sit down and have some breakfast. Have you finished yours, Mr. Hoskins? Then, if you have business, I won't keep you.”

Hoskins said, awkwardly, that he ought to be getting over to the Centre, and that he was much obliged for the breakfast.

“How will you get there? Will you wait, and go with us?”

“No, thanks, Mr. Ormville. There's a bus.”

“Well, I'm greatly obliged to you for breaking all this bad news to me. Greatly obliged.”

Hoskins, looking gratified, took his departure. Mr. Ormville sighed, got out his cigarette case, and said: “I suppose the man's in his right senses.”

“If he's been trying to tell you what we've been through, sir, I don't wonder you doubt it.”

“You must tell me the whole story; but have some coffee, first.”

Sanderson ordered coffee and toast. “I can't eat anything,” he said. “This last business about Miss Cowden has knocked us all out. We were up with her, walking her, you know, until all hours.”

“She actually had an overdose of morphia? Mistake of Lulu Barclay's?”

“It certainly looks that way! I called up the hospital as soon as I got up; she's much better. In fact, she'll be all right, they say, in a day or so.”

“You young people!” Mr. Ormville studied him, and said: “You're not too fit, yourself. I suppose poor Amby's death was a great shock to you.”

“Yes, it was, sir; it was bound to come, but I found I wasn't prepared.”

“Are they having the inquest to-day? I rushed up to be in time for it.”

“Well, they're talking now about postponing it, or adjourning it, or something.”

“Why, in the world? From what Barclay told me over the telephone, yesterday, I understood that both their man here and Ethelbert Baines say it was death from myocarditis.”

“Well, yes; it was. But then they began to worry about his being down there at the cliff—”

“I should think that was for his family to worry about. If he died from natural causes, the sheriff's office has no cause to worry about the circumstances.”

“That's what I should have thought; but then these other things began to happen. Alma's accidents…”

“Well, I suppose they were accidents, were they not?”

“I suppose so.” Sanderson looked troubled. “I wasn't present on either occasion. I can't imagine Mrs. Barclay putting all that morphia in the medicine on purpose. Can you, sir?”

“Lulu Barclay has done many extraordinary things in her life; she may, of course, have gone completely out of her head, but I doubt it.”

“And then these things began to happen up at that summer theatre.” Sanderson poured out some of the coffee that had been brought him, and took a swallow of it. He lighted a cigarette, and went on: “Atwood, and that actress.”

“Actress?”

“Didn't you know? One of the actresses was found dead there, yesterday morning; I was on the spot when the medical examiner got there.”

Mr. Ormville leaned back once more in his chair. “That is an item,” he said, “which Mr. Hoskins omitted to include in his casualty list. But I fail to see what it, or Atwood's death, has to do with Amberley's inquest.”

“I think they're completely confused, sir; they have some idea that the things have some connection with one another.”

“They must indeed be confused. The important thing is to get the poor boy's inquest over, and his body in Woodlawn, where it now belongs. I cannot have Mrs. Cowden and Alma kept hanging about here while they investigate all the other deaths in the vicinity. None of us had had any communication with Arthur Atwood for years.”

“Amberley had, sir.”

“True enough. Do the authorities here imagine that any of Amberley's relations went up to this summer theatre and shot Arthur Atwood?”

Sanderson frowned. “They've got quite a good man on the job—a state detective called Mitchell. He seems to have plenty of sense. The trouble is, Gamadge seems to have been out after Atwood's blood, and he's got them stirred up.”

“Who on earth is this Gamadge, Hugh, and what has he to do with it? He sounds like a most unconscionable busybody.”

“He's a friend of the Barclays. Some sort of book expert. I didn't quite get all of it, but he looks at old books for collectors, or something, and advises them whether to buy. Writes pamphlets, I think.”

“Oh. He's that Gamadge, is he? I used to know his father—delightful fellow, I was always running into him at sales and at the Caxton Club.”

“Gamadge is rather a nice fellow himself; I like him. How he comes to be so mixed up in this affair, I hardly know. I think he likes Alma.”

“Does he, indeed?”

“And he seemed to have some idea that Atwood had got Amberley to meet him down on the cliff, night before last. Anyhow, he's been on the spot all through everything. Sounds officious, but somehow he doesn't quite give the impression of being a busybody.”

“If he persuaded Alma to try to give away her brother's money, I shall think him definitely a busybody, if not worse.”

“Give away—I haven't heard a word about that, sir.”

“I was a little afraid that you had been inoculating her with some of those quixotic ideas of yours.”

“I wouldn't presume so far.”

“Well, I must certainly have a word or two with this Mr. Gamadge. I am beginning to think that I was well advised in coming up here at the earliest possible moment. I shall advise the sheriff very strongly to let us have our inquest to-day, and to hold the other ones at his leisure. If Atwood's heirs wish to engage a criminal lawyer, they may do so; but we cannot be delayed by that procedure. I shall tell the people at Ford's Centre that I shall not allow my clients to be victimised.”

“Good for you, sir. Colonel Barclay telephoned, this morning—he's in an awful state, poor old gentleman, about this morphia business last night. He says the sheriff wants a conference in his office somewhere about ten o'clock. Shall I drive you over?”

“I shall be greatly obliged if you will. I hope Eleanor Cowden will not have to attend this conference.”

“No, he doesn't need her, he says.”

“I shall represent her interests; and then I can come back here and report to her. You must give me a full account of the whole thing on our way over.”

“I'll get the car, sir.”

They rose from the table. Mr. Ormville took off his glasses, folded them, put them in his pocket, and lifted his chin to stare down his high, aristocratic nose at the young man.

“Quite a mess, Hugh, my boy,” he said. “Quite a mess.”

“I thought you'd realise that, sir.”

“It may be as well to start at once. I should like to get to the Centre in good time.”

The elm-shaded streets of Ford's Centre had a cool and pleasant smell: Mr. Ormville stood for a moment, sniffing with wistful appreciation, before he entered the fine new Town Hall. Sanderson, after parking the Cowden car, followed him up to the sheriff's office—a large, freshly painted room with a clean linoleum floor and several comfortable, wooden armchairs. Mr. Ormville sat down in one to the left of the desk, crossed his legs, balanced his hat on his knee, closed his eyes, and waited on events. Being used to the law's delay, he waited patiently for some time.

The sheriff came in, introduced himself, snatched up some papers, and went out again.

The medical examiner came in, was introduced by Sanderson, shook hands, and took Sanderson away.

Colonel Barclay came in. He looked shaky, wretched, and older than his sixty-odd years. He shook hands, said it was a sad occasion and that he couldn't make head or tail of it, and sat down. He then unfolded a newspaper and buried himself behind it. Mr. Ormville remarked:

“I hope Lulu isn't letting all this get too much on her nerves.”

“Prostrated. Completely prostrated,” growled the Colonel.

“That doesn't sound like Lu,” protested Mr. Ormville in mild surprise.

“You may not have heard that Eleanor Cowden is accusing her of willful murder.”

“Nonsense. From what I have been told, Ellie Cowden must be in a state to accuse anybody of anything.”

Colonel Barclay muttered “Outrage,” and Mr. Ormville relapsed into philosophical silence. Fred Barclay came in, bringing with him an aura of godlike calm. Mr. Ormville blinked at him; he was always forgetting how magnificent Fred was.