Unexpected Night (9 page)

“You could. They'll probably give you the income your brother had, until you get the capital. If you wanted to, I suppose you could begin paying the beneficiaries out of that.” He looked at her pallid face, and said: “Let me get this straight; are you afraid that somebody's going to get impatient, and do you in?”

“No; of course not.”

He disregarded her faint denial, and went on: “What does your aunt think of the idea, or haven't you told her about it?”

“She thinks it's ridiculous.”

“Well; let's see. Sanderson's out, I should think—you'll have to stay alive, if he's to get his thousand dollars. Besides, you can easily pay
him
off.”

“Laugh at me, if you want to; the way my aunt does.”

“I was never less amused in my life. Sanderson being eliminated, things begin to narrow down a little. What's this cousin of yours really like—this Atwood? Do you know him?”

Miss Cowden's shoulders moved, almost as if she shuddered. “Yes, I know him. He's awful.”

“Awful, is he? Your brother thought a lot of him.”

“Amby liked all sorts of people, if they made him have a good time.”

“I'm going up to the Cove. Do you want me to let this hobgoblin know that you're going to give him his hundred thousand?”

“Yes.”

“And shall I tell the Barclays?”

“Aunt Eleanor's going to tell the Barclays.”

“I wouldn't be too sure about that, if she hears how Mrs. Barclay has been going on.” Alma Cowden's trembling lip curled. Gamadge continued: “Now, listen, Miss Cowden; I don't quite know what to think of this dismal idea of yours; it may be the result of shock. You've had a terrific shock, you know. No use people saying you must have been prepared; nobody is ever prepared. Nothing can prepare you.”

She glanced at him, as if surprised that he should realise this fact.

“I don't know these people,” he went on, “and I can't even guess whether your feeling is justified; but I do know a blue funk when I see one. There's no reason why you should be left to get out of it as best you can. I'll fix things for you.”

“Nobody can fix them.”

“That's what you think. It's easy. What's that dope you have there?”

“Luminal.”

“That's the stuff! Pay attention, now; I'll have Mitchell post a man in Room 22; to keep the newspaper men off, you understand? He won't let anybody come near you, not even a member of the family. I'll put a sign on the door that you're not to be disturbed. Now comes the expert advice from a past master on the heebie-jeebies: Take one of those tablets, and get into a tepid bath. Stay in it for twenty minutes, no more, no less. By the time you're out, of it, the man will be on guard—I'll knock when he is, and tell you so. Lock both doors; somebody might barge in through your aunt's room with lunch, or something, and I want you to feel that you're not going to be waked. Get into bed, and take the second tablet; by that time your room will be nice and shady—you'll be asleep in five minutes. How does that sound?”

The shadow of a smile touched Miss Cowden's lips. “It sounds nice.”

“You'll sleep right through lunch. Have you anything to amuse yourself with, when you do wake up?”

“I'm knitting a sweater.”

“Good. Telephone down and order yourself something or other—a glass of milk, tea and toast, something light. You won't want much, but you ought to have something. After you get it, stay right in your room and knit until I get back from Seal Cove. When I do, we're going out for a turn on the golf course.”

“Aunt El won't let me do that.”

“She will, when I've talked to her. It's the best time of day for a walk; cool, pleasant, and hardly anybody playing. You needn't play, you know; just take a club and help me look for balls. Will you start now on the Gamadge Hydropathic Treatment? I want to hear the bath running before I go, and your aunt and Mitchell look as if they'd finished their conference.”

“Yes, I will.”

Miss Cowden left the room so quietly that neither Mitchell nor Mrs. Cowden looked around. When Gamadge joined them, she was saying: “…cannot imagine where it is. Perhaps he did drop it in the car. Alma is very anxious to carry out the bequests, so the will is of no importance, in any case.”

“Just in case somebody got to talking, we might as well have a try at finding it,” said Mitchell. “I'll take a witness and go over the car, do it formal.”

“There's no hurry, we shan't be using it.”

“Well, I'm much obliged to you. I guess that's all.”

Mrs. Cowden shifted telegraph forms about on the table. She said: “I hope I haven't seemed abrupt. I'm not quite myself.”

“I think you've been fine.”

“It's this ghastly feeling that I've failed at my job.”

“Don't feel that way.”

“I completely lost his confidence when I interfered about the Atwoods.”

“I don't believe any older person ever does have a young one's full confidence. Your nephew never had much of a chance at a private life, I guess. I ain't surprised, myself, that he wanted to have a try for one. You had quite a problem on your hands.”

Gamadge asked: “Has Mitchell told you that he's putting a man in Room 22, to keep you from being annoyed in any way?”

“No; what a splendid idea!”

Gamadge hurried on, to cover Mitchell's wooden stare: “I've persuaded your niece to take her sleeping medicine.”

Mrs. Cowden said, with the ghost of a smile: “Young men have so much more influence with young women than aunts and doctors seem to have.”

“She looks upon me as an old uncle. Look here, Mrs. Cowden; she was right, you know. What you both need is a walk. How about a stroll on the golf course, late this afternoon? Now don't say no; I can arrange it so you won't see anybody, and nobody will see you. You can go down the fire escape, and along that path behind the club-house to the tenth tee. The second nine is all among woods, and what few golfers there are will all be in by that time.”

Mrs. Cowden looked doubtful, thought a moment, and said at last that she might consider it. “It's most kind of you, Mr. Gamadge. It's an imposition. What about your own golf?”

“I have no match on to-day. Why not let me make myself useful? I'll send one of the boys up when we get back from Seal Cove.”

“Are you going up there?”

“I'm driving Mitchell up. I thought if you could spare him we might take Sanderson along; he knows Atwood.”

“Of course I can spare him; but I don't believe poor Hugh Sanderson is likely to get any information out of Arthur Atwood. I don't think anybody could.”

“I'm really getting very curious to meet the fellow. Until later, then.”

He got himself out of the room, across the hall, and to the telephone in Room 22 before Mitchell had managed to make his farewells. He had, indeed, got his connection with the garage, and ordered his car to be sent up to the hotel, before Mitchell advanced upon him:

“Who arranged about me being the stooge around here?”

“Now, wait a minute; those women are in a state. They need privacy. I thought you'd approve of my suggestion about posting a man here.”

“You're mighty considerate of them, all of a sudden. Mrs. Cowden—she's as nice a lady as I ever met. She had no more to do with her nephew's death than I had.”

“Sold on Mrs. Cowden; I knew you'd like her.”

“She's feeling terrible, but she can hold it in. That girl can't. I never saw anybody worse overwrought.”

“I wondered what you'd think of Miss Cowden.”

“You were talking to her; what do you think of her?”

“She is spirited—very spirited.”

“Too spirited to suit me. I like her aunt's way of being spirited better.”

“It's admirable. But I have a feeling that without money, Mrs. Cowden as we know her would cease to exist. Can you dig up somebody to look after these women, or must I do it myself?”

“Call the office, if you don't mind, and have them send up a boy.”

Gamadge did so, explaining: “Yes, this is 22, Wilks; Mitchell and I are conferring in it. And if Mr. Sanderson comes in, ask him to speak to us, will you?”

Waldo arrived, panting, and Mitchell said: “You won't last the season out, at this rate, young feller. Take those stairs easy, or you'll founder yourself. College boy, ain't you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What's your last name? Ames, is it? Your father Doctor Waldo Ames, Oakport?”

“Yes, he is, Mr. Mitchell.”

“Then you ought to be a responsible kind of feller, if you're anything like him. I want you to go down and give Parker a confidential message from me. Ask him if we can use this room to-day on sheriff's business.”

“Yes, Mr. Mitchell.”

“That deputy, Hoskins. He still downstairs?”

“Yes, he's on the front steps.”

“Bring him up here with you.”

Waldo sped off. Mitchell remarked: “Boy comes of good stock.”

“I like Peabody the best,” murmured Gamadge.

They sat with the door open, until a small, wiry man in shirtsleeves, his coat over his arm, came in at a leisurely pace. Mitchell said: “Hoskins, this is Mr. Gamadge. He wants you to do something, and he'd better tell you what it is. I think he wants you to act as a kind of bouncer. Too bad you ain't a bigger man, but you're the best I can do.”

Gamadge ignored this. “I'll tell you how it is, Hoskins,” he said. “These ladies in 21 and 19—Mrs. Cowden and Miss Cowden, you know—they're badly shaken up, nervous, suffering from shock, all that kind of thing. I don't want any stranger to go near them. You're to do any knocking on Mrs. Cowden's door that has to be done, and you'll deliver any or all messages. And nobody, I don't care who, is to disturb Miss Cowden for any reason. She's resting by doctor's orders. I'm going to put a sign up. If she wants anything, she'll tell you.”

Hoskins asked: “When do I eat?”

“Whenever you want to. Telephone down, and ask them to put the bill on my account. But we don't want to be too conspicuous; the other guests might not like it.”

“How would it be if I borrowed one of the porters' uniforms?”

“Great idea; you have your wits about you. Now, if you'll come across the hall with me, I'll introduce you to Miss Cowden.”

Gamadge's tap on the door of Room 19 brought a faint response: “Who is it?”

“Me; Gamadge. I want to introduce Mr. Deputy Sheriff Hoskins.”

“How do?” said Hoskins, to the pine surface in front of him.

“How do you do?” came through the door.

“He's the nicest little man you ever met, Miss Cowden, and he has absolutely caught the spirit of the occasion. He has suggested wearing a porter's uniform, so that it won't look funny for him to hang around watching the fire escape. I'll describe him for you: red hair, red face, light-blue eyes set rather close together, but not disagreeably so; longish nose, biggish ears, biggish mouth, no collar.”

“I'd know him anywhere,” said the voice on the other side of the door.

“Very well, then; it's thoroughly understood that if you feel at all nervous, and don't care about ringing down and telling the office about it, and don't wish to knock up your aunt and have her tell you that it's all imagination, you're to bang on your door, or open it and call out. Hoskins will come running. If anybody has any business with you from now on until I get back, they'll have to transact it through Hoskins. I'm off to the Cove, with Mitchell and Sanderson. When I get back, you and I and your aunt are going to have that golf game. How do you feel? Sleepy?”

“Yes, I do. Thank you.”

“Till later, then.”

Gamadge took an envelope out of his pocket, wrote: “Asleep. Do Not Disturb” on it, and handed it to Hoskins. “Get one of the boys to give you a thumbtack,” he said, “and put this under the number on the door.”

CHAPTER SIX

M
ITCHELL CAME OUT
of Room 22. “Oakport tells me that a tea room called the ‘Pottery Pig' is taking messages for the Cove,” he said, as he and Gamadge went down the corridor. “We might as well stop there and see whether they got any telephone call yesterday from the Harbour Inn. I suppose they write the messages down. I don't make a practice of expecting too much, but that message, if we get hold of it, might just settle the whole thing.”

“You didn't call the Harbour Inn?”

“May not need to. Besides, they might not have listened in on the talk, and it would have been the night shift, anyway, I guess. This place is our best bet.”