Halfway House (24 page)

“Jealous!” Bill laughed bitterly. “As for you, I don’t mind giving you a bit of friendly advice. With all your self-confidence, you’re still just a male. Watch yourself with that girl. She’ll make as big a sucker of you as she made out of me.”

“Emotionally, you’ve gone back to a vernal seventeen, my son. The trouble with you is that you can’t recognize your own symptoms. Don’t tell me you don’t dream about her. You can’t forget that moment in the dark when she kissed you. You’re all tied up in knots and you’re fighting yourself twenty-four hours a day. I’ve had my eye on you from afar since the trial. Bill, you’re an ass.”

“I don’t know why I’m listening to you,” said Bill savagely.

“It doesn’t take a Freud to see what’s making the wheels spin so crazily. And your analysis, therefore, of a ‘professional interest’ in Andrea is just as adolescent.”

“In love. Why, I despise every inch of that—”

“Of course you do,” grinned Ellery. “But I haven’t come here to lecture on the intricacies of the tender passion. Let me explain matters and give you a chance to apologize.”

“I’ve heard enough—”

“Sit down! When Lucy was convicted in Trenton one thing stood out so prominently as to overshadow everything else. That was Andrea’s peculiar behavior—before, during, and after her session on the stand. It set me to thinking.” Bill grunted derisively. “My thoughts led me to certain conclusions. My conclusions led me to cultivate the girl. There was nothing else I could do; all other leads had failed. I’ve checked and rechecked every angle of the case; I’ve found nothing suspicious anywhere, and everything’s wound up at a blank wall.”

Bill frowned. “What the devil could you hope to accomplish by taking her out? You can’t blame me if I thought—”

“Ah, we’re rational again. As a matter of fact, my assiduous devotion to the young lady has worried more than your own noble ego. Mrs. Gimball—I should say Jessica Borden—is on the verge of prostration, Senator Frueh is frothing at the mouth, and Finch is chewing his immaculate fingernails. As for young Jones, from last reports he’s been trying to kill some of his polo ponies. Excellent! Exactly what I wanted. I’ve accomplished something.”

Bill shook his head. “I’ll be jiggered if I see what.”

Ellery pulled a chair over to the bed, “Answer my questions first. What are you doing in New York?”

“Cleaning up.” Bill lay back on the bed and stared at the ceiling. “Going through the motions. After the trial I made a demand payment of the National Life by filing the usual proof-of-death form. Just a gesture, of course. The National ignored the formal demand, refusing in effect to pay the face value of the policy on the ground that the beneficiary had been convicted of the murder of the insured.”

“I see.”

“The company notified Gimball’s executor—some bigwig friend of the family—that they were prepared to pay over to him for the Gimball estate the cash-surrender value of the policy on release of all future claims. I understand that’s already been done.”

“The conviction invalidates the policy?”

“Oh, absolutely.”

“And how’s the appeal going?”

“We’ve forced New Jersey to finance it; I suppose you’ve read that in the papers. I’ve managed on various technical grounds to delay matters; it will be next year before final action is taken. Meanwhile,” Bill’s face darkened, “Lucy’s in Trenton. Better than the Pen.” He scowled at the ceiling. Then he said: “What was the idea of bringing her…?”

“Who?”

“The—damn it all, all right! Andrea!”

“Look here, Bill,” said Ellery quietly. “Why was Andrea so terrified at the thought of going on the witness-stand?”

“Blessed if I know. Her testimony certainly didn’t bring out anything of a damaging or significant nature.”

“That’s approximately true. It makes her reluctance even more astonishing. It couldn’t have been, of course, that she was so averse to revealing that she had visited the scene of the crime. That aversion may have motivated her in keeping mum about the visit before we dug it out, but it wouldn’t have when you asked her to testify. In fact, she had every reason to accede to your wishes.”

Bill sneered. “Yes, she had!”

“Stop being a child. The girl likes you—I shan’t sicken you by employing a stronger term.” Bill colored. “She felt sorry for Lucy—”

“An act! She was playing me—”

“You’re more sensible than that remark indicates, Bill. She’s a fine lassie; there’s good solid stuff in her that her environment hasn’t been able to spoil. And she’s not a hypocrite. Under normal circumstances she should have been glad, as I say, to help Lucy. Instead… well, you saw how she acted.”

“She wouldn’t do anything for us. She’s on the other side of the fence. She’s sore at both of us because of Gimball.”

“Nonsense. She was the only one that night at the shack to show any sign of human sympathy toward Lucy.”

Bill plucked at the white spread, pinching it, smoothing it down, pinching it again. “All right. What’s the answer?”

Ellery went to the window. “What would you say has been her predominant emotion since the business of her visit to the shack came out?”

“Fear.”

“Exactly. Fear of what?”

“I wish I knew,” growled Bill.

Ellery came back and gripped the footrail of the bed. “Obviously, fear of telling her story. Now, why should she be afraid of that?” Bill shrugged; he was pinching the spread again. “Don’t you see that it’s fear not from inside that poor girl, but from outside? Fear under pressure? Fear induced by
threats
?”

“Threats?” Bill blinked.

“You’ve forgotten that charred cork.”

“Threats!” Bill was on his feet; it was astonishing how his eyes had brightened with hope. “Good Lord, Ellery. I never—Poor kid!” He began to walk up and down before the bed, muttering to himself.

Ellery gave him a quizzical look. “
L
’
affaire marche
, I see. It’s been evident to me for some time. It’s the only theory that takes all the facts, physical and psychological, into consideration. She wanted to help you; yet she couldn’t bring herself to it. If you had seen that girl’s face the night… Well, you didn’t; you’re blind as a bat, anyway. She’s been through hell. Why should she submit herself to such torture unless it were an ulterior fear that kept her silent? It’s fear clearly not for herself, you see.”

“So that’s why—”

“The problem admitted of a crude sort of analysis. If she had been threatened by someone—warned to keep her mouth shut—it was obvious that the threatener was afraid of something within her power to disclose. My course of action was therefore dictated to me. By monopolizing her time, I tended to accomplish two things: one, to play on her better nature so that she would finally disclose what she knew despite everything. Two,” Ellery blew a quick puff of smoke, “to force the hand of the person who had threatened her!”

Bill said swiftly: “But, Ellery, that means—”

“That means,” murmured Ellery, “that I’ve plunged Andrea into danger. Quite true.”

“But you’ve no right to!”

“The tune changes. Up in arms in her defense already?” Ellery chuckled. “Well, we mustn’t take personalities into account, Bill. Whoever’s warned Andrea must know by this time that I’ve been cultivating her acquaintance. They know my interest in this case. They will be wondering what I’ve managed to accomplish with the girl. They’ll be nervous. In a word,
they’ll take action
.”

“Well,” roared Bill, “what the hell are we waiting for?”

Ellery smiled and jabbed his cigaret out against the tray. “In either event, I’ve managed matters so that we’re on the road to a discovery. I took Andrea up to Trenton the other day to break down her last defense. I knew a sight of Lucy in her present condition and surroundings would do the trick. She cried all the way back to New York. I think today…”

But Bill was already in the corridor punching the elevator bell.

The fish-faced man frowned. “Miss Andrea is not at home.” His tone suggested that Miss Andrea would never be at home as he stared at Bill.

“Come off it,” said Bill curtly, pushing the man aside. They stepped into the duplex living-room of the Borden-Gimball apartment. Bill looked around quickly. “Well, where is she? We haven’t all day!”

“I beg your pardon, sir?”

Bill put his hand on the narrow chest and pushed. The fish-faced man’s nose came down and he staggered back with a look of fright. “Will you talk or do I have to shake it out of you?”

“I—I’m sorry, sir, but Miss Andrea isn’t at home.”

“Where is she?” snapped Ellery.

“She went out about an hour ago, sir, very suddenly.”

“Didn’t she say where she was going?”

“No, sir; she left no word.”

“Who
is
home?” demanded Bill.

“Only Mr. Borden, sir; it’s the nurse’s afternoon off and he is asleep in his room. I’m sorry, sir, but in his condition he really shouldn’t be disturbed.”

“Where’s Mrs. Gimball?”

The man looked distressed. “She’s out, too, sir. She left for Mr. Borden’s country estate on Oyster Bay.”

“Alone?” asked Ellery queerly.

“Yes, sir, at noon. For a few days’ rest, I believe, sir.”

Ellery’s face became very grave. Bill, looking at him, felt himself go suddenly cold. “Was Miss Andrea at home when her mother left?”

“No, sir.”

“You say Miss Andrea went out without explanation an hour ago? Alone?”

“Yes, sir. You see, sir, she had received a telegram—”

Ellery said, “Good Lord, man.”

“We’re too late!” shouted Bill. “Now you’ve done it, damn you, Ellery. Why didn’t you—”

“Now, Bill, this may be nothing at all. Where is this wire? Do you know? Hurry!”

The man’s eyes stared wildly now. “I took it to her boudoir, sir. It must still be—”

“Show us to her room!”

The butler scuttled off toward the stairs, leading them up to the second floor of the apartment. He indicated a door and backed away, looking scared. Ellery opened the door; the room was empty. There were evidences of a hasty departure. In the cool green-and-white chamber the silence was, somehow, ominous.

Bill cried out and pounced on a crumpled yellow paper lying where it had been thrown on the rug. It was a telegram, and it said: SOMETHING DREADFUL HAS HAPPENED COME AT ONCE ALONE SAY NOTHING TO ANYONE STOP AM AT NORTH SHORE INN BETWEEN ROSLYN AND OYSTER BAY ON MAIN ROAD HURRY… MOTHER

Ellery said slowly, “That’s bad, Bill. The North Shore Inn is Ben Duffy’s place—the orchestra-leader. It’s been shut down for months.”

Bill’s face worked. Then without a word he flung the telegram on the floor and sprang through the doorway. Ellery stooped, picked up the yellow paper, hesitated, thrust it in his pocket, and followed. Bill was already downstairs. Ellery said to the butler, who seemed fixed to the spot, “Were there any unusual callers today?”

“Callers, sir?”

“Yes, yes. Visitors. Speak up, man!”

“O-oh, yes, sir. A lady from the newspapers, sir. Some peculiar name. I think—”

Ellery blinked. “A Miss Ella Amity?”

“Yes, sir! That was her name.”

“When? Whom did she see?”

“She was here early this morning, sir. I don’t believe she saw anyone… Well, I don’t know, sir. I was off duty——”

“Rats,” said Ellery, and sped down the stairs.

The sun was low when Ellery’s Duesenberg rolled into the driveway before the sprawling, garish structure whose rather streaky sign said NORTH SHORE INN. The place was boarded up. There was no sign of life.

They jumped out of the car and made for the entrance. Ominously, the door stood ajar. They plunged into a vast chamber, dusty and stripped, its bare tables piled high with gilt chairs. In the gloom they could make out no details. Bill swore; and Ellery put his hand out. “Whoa, Bucephalus. There’s no sense in charging blindly into the unknown.” He paused and muttered, “I didn’t really believe… It does look as if we’re too late. The damned cheek of that woman!”

Bill shook him off and lunged forward. He began running up the room, knocking chairs and tables aside and raising dry dust. Ellery stood still, frowning. Then he turned aside and went to a half-door with a ledge above which a sign said CHECK ROOM. He leaned over the edge, eyes narrowed. “Bill!” he called in a low voice, and then he vaulted the ledge. Bill came pounding back, his face frantic. He found Ellery kneeling inside the tiny room beside the crumpled figure of Andrea. She was sprawled on the dirty floor, her knees drawn up, her hat off and her hair tumbled about, and she was very still. In the gloom her face was ashen.

“Good God,” whispered Bill. “She’s—she’s——”

“Nothing of the sort. Rustle a pail of water. There must be some sort of tap working in the kitchen. Where’s your nose? She’s been chloroformed!”

Bill swallowed hard and sped away. When he came back he found Ellery still on his knees, supporting the unconscious girl in a half sitting position and methodically slapping her cheeks. The imprints of his fingers were visible; but she was still as motionless as a corpse.

“No good,” said Ellery quietly. “She got a real dose. Put that pail down, Bill, and find some towels, a tablecloth, napkins—anything in the line of linen. Don’t be finicky about cleanliness. This is going to take heroic measures. Pick up a couple of chairs, too.”

When Bill returned, staggering under two chairs and an armful of dusty linen Ellery was bent over the girl’s torso, working swiftly. Bill’s eyes widened with shock. “What the devil are you doing?” he shouted.

“Turn your eyes away if you can’t bear the sight of female flesh. I’m exposing her chest, if you must know. What a moral young man! It’s part of the treatment, idiot. But first put those chairs on the path outside—together. She needs fresh air most of all.”

Bill gulped and hurried to the main door, yanked it open, looked back, gulped again, and disappeared. A moment later Ellery strode outside carrying Andrea’s limp body. “Get the pail. Together, I said! Right. Now get the pail.”

When Bill came back with the pail Andrea was lying face up on the two chairs, her head drooping far backward. Ellery had ripped open the waist under her sports suit, revealing her brassière. It was very pink and lacy.