Murders in, Volume 2 (10 page)

Harold came back very morose.

“The secretary is a big fat man with a bald head. He took the letter, and I waited in a little room with stars on the ceiling. There was a blue book on a table called
New Soul
. The feller came back and gave me this.” He handed Gamadge a blue envelope, with a star on one corner of it. “Gave me a nasty ugly look, too. They must've not liked what you wrote them.”

Gamadge opened the letter, unfolded a sheet of paper sprinkled with stars, and read in typescript:

Gamadge said: “Telephone that I'll be there.”

“You better take me along.”

“Nonsense. The best people go there.”

“They wouldn't if they got the look that secretary handed me.”

“I just made them a little nervous. Did you get me that camera? Good. Let's see it.”

Harold produced a little object, so enchanting in its compact perfection that it engrossed both of them for some time. Gamadge then went to his room and put on his best town clothes. He gazed earnestly at his shoes to assure himself that they were in no need of a polish, took up a soft hat and a pair of gloves, and left the house. A bus at the corner deposited him at eleven sharp within a block of the Dykinck residence, which stood on the south side of the street, in a depressing row of brownstone houses, all alike, and all losing flakes and chips from their gritty surfaces. The street had deteriorated; children shouted across the asphalt, and one of the houses had a card in its front window, announcing: “Vacancy.”

G
AMADGE MOUNTED
the high stoop and pulled a bronze knob. He then entered the vestibule, and stood, already a trifle depressed, in contemplation of walnut double doors; their upper halves were of glass, ornamented with a ground-glass pattern—birds and flowers.

After a considerable wait he was admitted by an elderly parlormaid in a long black alpaca dress, a long white apron, and a fluted cap. She took his card, left him standing in the front hall, and went upstairs.

Gamadge laid his hat on a marble-topped console, and looked about him. Walnut folding doors shut him off from the drawing room; the huge mirror above the console sprouted hooks on either side of it, and umbrella stands below; beside the stairs a narrow hallway ended in another glassed door, through which filtered a pale, uncertain light. The Dykinck house was dark, stuffy, and as quiet as the grave. Gamadge leaned against the newel post, and faced the closed doors of the drawing room; thereby enabling whoever it was that peered at him through the crack to get a good look at him.

The maid came downstairs, and pushed the folding doors wide. The observer had withdrawn. Gamadge, feeling a little eerie, stepped past the maid into the dusk of a long room, with brown shades pulled down over the tall windows, and shrouded furniture standing about like boulders. Another huge mirror confronted him, high enough to reflect the immense bronze chandelier. His feet slid on Holland drugget.

A female form, tall and apparently much bedraped, stood with its back to the windows. As the maid departed, it said in a high voice: “I am Miss Dykinck.”

“So good of you to let me come,” replied Gamadge.

“It is a great pleasure; and Mamma loves company. She is not always up to it.”

“Very kind of her to put herself out.”

Gamadge began to discern a shadowy face under a large hat with a pink rose on it, a figured silk dress which reached the lady's ankles, and, finally, an out-stretched hand with a frill about the wrist. He shook the hand, and Miss Dykinck sat down. Gamadge groped for a chair in front of her.

She had a sharp, pale face, surrounded by tendrils of brown hair; bright brown eyes, flecked with yellow; a high nose, and a mouth which looked as if it had just been tasting something sour. The corners of it drooped, and the upper lip was drawn a little away from the prominent front teeth.

“I must apologize for keeping you in the hall,” she said, “but the maid lets no one in until she is sure of them. And I must apologize for the drawing room; we are not supposed to be in town, of course.”

“Very pleasant and cool in here.”

“Mamma is not well enough yet to move to the country. Did you know that I had a peep at you, while you were in the hall?”

“Had you, though? I'm glad I passed muster.”

“As we have no man on the premises, Mamma is a little nervous.”

“You are quite right to be careful.”

“Besides,” and Miss Dykinck laughed with abandon, “I have made a vow that no man over thirty shall ever again cross this threshold. Old men are so dreary.”

“I shall have to be going, then, I'm afraid, Miss Dykinck; I'm thirty-four.”

“You don't look it, Mr. Gamadge; I shall amend my vow; no man who looks more than thirty shall come into the house, except on business. It's not always so easy,” said Miss Dykinck, laughing again, “to get up a bridge game in the circumstances; but I don't care.”

Gamadge thought that Miss Dykinck's defense tactics were rather interesting, and quite excusable. “Hard on us,” he said. “We can't help our ages.”

“Or our preferences—can we?”

“As a matter of fact, I notice ages very little; it's personality that counts with me,” continued Gamadge, keeping up his spirits with some difficulty.

“I'm afraid I am not so philosophical. Mamma must be ready to see you; shall we go up?”

Gamadge felt that he had passed muster a second time. He preceded Miss Dykinck (by request—didn't the old books of etiquette insist upon this?) up the stairs to the second floor. They went along a narrow hallway to the front of the house, and entered a large sitting room; its ebonized and gilded furniture was upholstered in peacock-blue plush, and the black-marble mantel-piece upheld an ormolu clock and vases, all under glass domes.

A very old lady with an egg-shaped head sat beside the farther window. She wore purple foulard, white-spotted, and was swathed in a white shawl. A clover-shaped table, covered with blue plush and fringed, stood beside her; there was a large rosewood box on it.

“Well, young man,” said Mrs. Dykinck in a deep, hoarse voice, “here I am, all ready for you; but I don't see how I can help you about your book. Posy, give Mr. Gamadge a chair.”

Gamadge took a bamboo rocker from Miss Dykinck, saw her disposed on an ottoman, and sat down. Mrs. Dykinck observed him through steel-rimmed spectacles.

“I was quite touched to get a note from Angela Morton,” she said, with considerable dryness. “They have quite dropped us.”

“Now, Mamma!” Miss Dykinck's upper lip drew away from her teeth in her characteristic smile. “You dropped Mrs. Morton for ages—after she first went on the stage.”

“It wasn't done at that time. Nowadays, we make compromises. How does she wear, Mr. Gamadge? Those big women usually age so fast, I always think.”

“She is still vital and impressive, Mrs. Dykinck.”

Mrs. Dykinck laughed hoarsely. “She was always a wild, bold girl. From the nursery. They say she has gone in for spiritualism.”

“Not spiritualism, Mamma; the Chandors are not spiritualists.”

“Some trickery of the kind, at all events.”

“Oh, no, Mamma; the Chandors are not like that t'all. I met Chandor at a tea, once; he was really very charming. We had quite a discussion on—what is it?—New Soul.”

“He should never have been introduced to you; and if he had been, by some oversight, you should not have talked to him. You are not only a lady—you are a Churchwoman.”

“Oh, he was quite harmless; and New Soul is not so very heretical.”

“I wonder if Angela Morton still dabbles in that kind of thing. She used to go in for astrology.”

“I believe she has dropped it all, for the time being,” said Gamadge.

“And how are the boy and girl turning out? Posy met them at a wedding, not so long ago, and she was not very well impressed.”

“I thought their manners poor, that's all,” said Miss Dykinck. “Clara Dawson was too much occupied to waste time on anyone not in her set, and the boy was offhand. The husband,” continued Miss Dykinck, smirking humorously, “struck me as an agreeable sort of person.”

“But rather old” ventured Gamadge. They exchanged a mirthful glance. Mrs. Dykinck again protested:

“My daughter Rose is far too democratic socially, Mr. Gamadge. She will talk to every Tom, Dick, and Harry at these functions.”

“You know very well that you wouldn't like it if I came back from them without any gossip for you,” retorted Miss Dykinck gamely. “Dick Vauregard is getting to look quite like his father, only much bigger and nicer.”

“I hope he has not too much of his father in him!” rumbled the old lady. “Cyril Vauregard spent all his share of the money before he died; threw it out of the window. What we used to call a man about town, Mr. Gamadge.”

“They call them playboys now.”

“Horrid expression.”

“Cameron Payne was at the wedding,” said Miss Dykinck. “Did I mention him, Mamma?”

“You did, Posy, several times.”

“I sat beside him for half an hour. The poor boy was quite by himself on his sofa. I could have cried.”

“He is able to walk about, I believe,” said Mrs. Dykinck peevishly.

“But not for long, they say. He has become very spiritual since his accident. Witty, though; we had great fun over some of the types at that wedding. Do you know him, Mr. Gamadge?”

“Hardly at all.”

“He was a lovely child, and now he is really beautiful. I hope Clara Dawson is not going to neglect him. I hope she appreciates him properly.”

“Angela Morton won't like supporting them both,” said her mother. “I had an idea she wanted Clara for Dick. In that case, they could very well have lived on their Vauregard legacies, put together. I wonder how poor old Imbrie Vauregard is getting on, by the way—he must be ninety. We haven't seen anything of him for ages. How long ago was it, Posy, that he gave that tea party, or coffee party, and left you out?”

“Perfect ages. He only likes very young girls, you know.”

Considering Miss Dykinck's own expressed preferences, Gamadge thought that this remark might have been made with less acerbity. He said: “I give parties myself, once in a while. I hope I shall be able to persuade you into coming, some afternoon.”

“Who chaperones for you?” inquired Mrs. Dykinck.

“I wish you would, Mrs. Dykinck!”

“Nonsense. I am thankful to say that my chaperoning days are over.”

“Miss Vauregard might take on this party.”

“She would do quite well. Robina Vauregard has a good deal of sense, I always thought.”

“Old Mr. Vauregard told me, in connection with this book I think of writing, that an ancestor of yours was a great friend of his grandparents. I hoped you might have letters.”

“So that's what you came to find! Cornelia Dykinck was my great-aunt.” Mrs. Dykinck's white, ringed hand stretched out towards the rosewood box. “We are not a letter-saving family, I am sorry to say, especially of recent years; but there are some—”

A bell jangled in the depths of the house. Mrs. and Miss Dykinck became alert, and waited in silence until the ancient parlormaid appeared panting in the doorway.

“Miss Rose's hair tonic.” She advanced, a white package in her hand, and placed it within the outstretched fingers of the old lady. Mrs. Dykinck examined it from all angles, and then gave it to her daughter.

“Put it in my room, Anna,” said Miss Dykinck. Anna retired, and Mrs. Dykinck opened the rosewood box.

“These are the only old letters we have,” she said. “I went over the bundles this morning, and my daughter says that there is nothing you ought not to see.”

“In your part of the book,” said Gamadge, “I shan't be dealing with any period after 1840.”

“Then you may borrow these two packets. We expect you to be most discreet, Mr. Gamadge; nothing must be published, or even alluded to, without our express permission.”

“I shouldn't think of it,” said Gamadge, taking the letters, and wondering whether he wouldn't have to write the confounded thing, after all.

“I thought you might care to use some of these.” Mrs. Dykinck, evidently rather eager and fluttered, produced a small heap of daguerreotypes from the box, their cases in the usual state of disrepair. Gamadge opened one, and gazed mournfully at the vanishing and ghostly countenance of the Dykinck within. He said they might prove valuable.

“You may not be aware that my daughter Rose is the last of the Dykincks; she is not sure whether she would care to have her picture in your book; historically, it might be of interest.”

“I hope I may have a photograph?”

“There's rather a good one,” said Miss Dykinck, “but it's rather old.”

“Send it to me, if you will.” Gamadge, who had been feeling more and more of a brute, comforted himself by reflecting that the Dykincks seemed inclined to purchase immortality rather cheap. “By the way,” he continued, “old Mr. Vauregard spoke of two little presentation sets of Byron—one in his possession, one perhaps in yours.”

Mrs. Dykinck looked blank. “Do we own a set of Byron, Posy? We have some old books, but I don't know what's there.”

Miss Dykinck said, “I don't know, myself.”

“If a Vauregard presented them, there might be a little story in it,” said Gamadge.