Murders in, Volume 2 (4 page)

“Please don't talk about the police, Mr. Gamadge. Angie has a fit if you mention them.”

“They can be discreet.”

“We can't risk it.”

“Our last hope, then—the Byron.”

“And that's where you come in, Mr. Gamadge! If you could just show Uncle that it doesn't belong to his set!”

“If I only could. I suppose you don't know the edition, or anything?”

“I got a minute to myself on Sunday, and copied the card in his file.”

“Miss Vauregard, you are worth working with, and for.”

She took a slip of paper from her handbag, and gave it to him. He read:

Byron (Lord).

THE POETICAL WORKS OF LORD BYRON
,

complete in 10 Volumes.

Published by R. W. Pomeroy, No. 3 Minor Street,

Philadelphia, 1830.

Small octavo, brown cloth gilt.

Engraved frontispieces, and notes.

Fair condition, engravings foxed, bindings faded.

(Volume II missing).

“Volume II missing,” repeated Gamadge, looking up at Miss Vauregard. “Gives one quite a chill.”

“I had a chill when I saw it back on the shelf!”

“I suppose he hasn't remembered to erase that phrase from the card. You say Volume II is much fresher than the Vauregard set?”

“Much. It's a kind of purplish brown.”

“What they called puce, I suppose. It must have been in a dry, dark place all these years.”

Miss Vauregard shuddered.

“I imagine that your uncle wouldn't allow me to borrow it?”

“He'd almost sooner lend you Miss Smith, I should say.”

“I never heard of this little Byron, but I'm sure it can't have much, if any, market value.”

“They picked it up somewhere.”

“Yes. I'm pretty well convinced that this whole remarkable scheme was hatched on the day when someone found Volume II somewhere, and remembered the Vauregard legend.”

“I have thought all along that Uncle must have told the arbor story to the Chandors or some of their clients. They'd all talk about psychic experiences, and so on, I suppose.”

“I really must meet the Chandors, and find out exactly what they do go in for.”

“Angie will introduce you, perhaps. You'll have to have an introduction, you know—they're very particular.”

“Well, have you any other suggestion, Miss Vauregard?”

“I wondered why you didn't think it queer that she was able to get to the house without being noticed. She was in costume.”

Gamadge looked at her ironically. “I'll show you something,” he said. He got up, went to a bookcase, opened it, and after a minute's search took out a couple of books bound in tree calf. He brought them to a table beside her, opened them, and turned the pages of one and then the other.

“Here we are,” he said. “
Old Curiosity Shop
, published in 1841, and
Oliver Twist
, published in 1838. Fashions didn't change as often then as they do now, so we may take those pictures as representing styles in 1840. Look at Miss Rose Maylie, Nancy, Barbara, even Little Nell. Discount the scoop bonnets and let Little Nell's dress down an inch or so, and what do we find? We find tight bodices, with a ruffle or a wide collar at the neck; long, full skirts, without any crinoline; short sleeves; rather low-heeled slippers, with or without straps. The hair is parted in the middle, and worn high, or loose on the neck.”

Miss Vauregard studied the illustrations with surprise.

“Now, tell me,” said Gamadge. “If you saw a young woman dressed like that on a New York street, late in the afternoon of May the third, would you stop and stare?”

“No, I shouldn't. If she wore a long skirt, she wouldn't be wearing a hat, either.”

“The puffs on those sleeves seem inclined to bloom at the elbow; that doesn't look right to me,” and Gamadge frowned. “Would the scarf hide them?”

“Of course it would. Mr. Gamadge, she could have walked blocks to Uncle's!”

“And she's banking on the fact that the family won't consult the police, and let them ask whether anybody saw her, or even circulate a description.”

“How I wish I could consult the police!” exclaimed Miss Vauregard, in a rage.

“Which brings us to the summing up.” Gamadge closed the books, and leaned forward to look his client firmly in the eye. “You don't get all the implications of this affair.”

“Don't we?”

“No, you do not. Just go over these points with me: Miss Smith can't face court proceedings—all she is out for, we suppose, is a free gift, made during your uncle's lifetime. But it's absurd to suppose that the gift could be a small one. Think of the elaborate preparations, the trouble, the huge risk. She didn't merely have to assemble that costume; she has had to learn a long and difficult part, and act it many hours a day.

“Every hour of her sojourn in that house, especially since last Sunday, when the family was taken into Mr. Vauregard's confidence, is fraught with danger to her now. Seven persons, including myself, know the arbor story—a lot of people to keep a secret—the whole business may leak out at any time. We have agreed that she wants publicity less even than you do. Why is she staying in that house? To get what she went for, of course; the moment she got it, she would disappear. But how could she be sure of getting it in time to go while the going was good? The more I think of it, the less can I see Miss Smith as a professional swindler, the member of a mob.”

“But she's there, Mr. Gamadge, and it all happened.”

Gamadge sat back, and gave his client an odd, rather helpless look. He said: “You still don't see the grave implications.”

Miss Vauregard seemed frightened. “There's something more to be afraid of? Mr. Gamadge—surely she has no motive for harming Uncle?”

“My point is that we don't know what her motives are, or what she really wants. Look here—I must see your uncle and Miss Smith, if possible, and talk to the rest of your family, before I take this job.”

Theodore came in. “Young lady calling in a car,” he said. “Wants her aunt. Says not to disturb yourselves, she can wait.”

“That's Clara. She's going to drive us down to Traders Row.” Miss Vauregard rose, looking perplexed and uneasy. Gamadge went down with her, picking up his hat from the hall table as they left the house. Theodore saw them out of the front door, but did not immediately close it—he was evidently much interested in the neat little sedan that waited at the curb.

T
HE OCCUPANT OF THE CAR
was a large golden-red chow, which stood on the front seat with his head and shoulders out of the window. A young woman in riding clothes had taken up an easy position on the curb, and leaned against the car beside him, rubbing his head.

“Well, darling,” said Miss Vauregard. “Did you see Ching?”

“Yes. She's much worse, Aunt Robbie. I'm going back tonight. The vet thinks he may have to do it soon.”

“Oh dear. Mr. Gamadge, this is my niece, Clara Dawson; and this is Sun—his grandmother is very old, and she's ill. We are all distressed about it.”

“How do you do, Mr. Gamadge?”said Miss Dawson. “Are you going to save Great-uncle Imbrie for us?”

Gamadge had already taken a quick but comprehensive glance at her longish oval face, lightly tanned, with a flush on the cheekbones; at her wide forehead, short nose, and benign gray eyes. A brown riding hat came down low on her dark-brown hair, and a long, russet-brown coat hung loosely over dun-colored breeches and shining brown boots. Miss Dawson's figure was still rangy; her riding costume became it.

He thought: “I'll never get this girl,” and a moment later: “Am I out of my mind?” He said: “I can try, Miss Dawson.”

The cat Martin, which lived for occasions like these, put his head around Theodore's legs, crept through the doorway, and trotted down the front steps. The chow came through the car window; Martin leapt into the next area, Gamadge after him, the chow after Gamadge, and Miss Vauregard after the chow. She grasped Sun by the tail, while Martin eluded Gamadge, and dashed into the street. Miss Dawson caught him by falling on him.

“I do hope to goodness you haven't scratched your boots.” Gamadge assisted her to her feet. Martin, having instantly relaxed in her arms, lay back against her shoulder with closed eyes and a pleased expression. Miss Vauregard bundled the chow into the back of the car.

“Any damage?”

“Not a bit,” said Miss Dawson.

“Let me take that wretched animal.”

“Oh, he's so sweet. Don't disturb him yet.”

“He'll take a piece out of you, in a minute,” said Miss Vauregard, getting into the sedan.

“You actually like the creatures?” asked Gamadge.

“I only wish I had one. I even have to keep Sun at a dog's boardinghouse.”

“You know very well, dear,” said Miss Vauregard, through the car window, “that your Aunt Angela cannot be disturbed by dogs and cats. After Ching clawed the curtain…”

Miss Dawson allowed Theodore to take Martin away from her, and into the house. She said, “He's lovely.”

“He hopes to see you again.” Gamadge opened the car door for her, and went around to the other side.

Miss Dawson looked at him with the detached benignity that he found so remarkable.

“I'd love to see him again.”

“How about coming to tea with him?” He got in, and she started the car. “Bring anybody, or nobody. If it must be somebody, I should prefer Miss Vauregard.”

“When can I come?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Marvelous.”

Miss Vauregard hung on to the chow's collar while he leaned out of his window, getting the breeze in his hair. Catching Gamadge's eye, she held it with a snapping black one, and shook her head.

“No good?” asked Gamadge, over the back of his seat.

“No.”

“You giving me orders?”

“Information.”

“What's all this?” inquired Miss Dawson, turning the corner into Park Avenue, and stopping for a light.

“We got confidential over our mint juleps,” said Miss Vauregard.

“Drinking at a business conference? I never heard of such a thing.”

“Your aunt and I don't have to keep our heads clear when we have a business conference. We're affinities.”

“Only,” said Miss Vauregard, “Mr. Gamadge doesn't seem to realize quite how we feel about getting into the papers.”

“I merely think that there are worse things than getting into the papers.”

“Such as losing a million dollars,” said Clara demurely.

“There are worse things than losing a million dollars.”

“Not many, I should think.” Miss Vauregard's tone was dry.

“The Barclays say you don't like to be in the papers.” Clara's glance at him was still more demure.

“They've been telling on me, have they?”

“Fred and Alma have. Fred told me how scared he was because he thought you were falling in love with Alma.”

“When I fall in love with anybody, nobody will have to think about it; they'll know it, and so will the girl.”

“Alma said it was silly—you'd only been acquainted for a few hours.”

“I shouldn't need a few hours. A few minutes would do.” Gamadge, watching the profile beside him, decided to be grateful for the mint julep; it seemed to have inspired his voice with a subtle urgency which had its effect. The flush on Miss Dawson's cheek grew deeper. She said nothing, and she did not look at him. Nobody spoke again until the car turned west from Astor Place.

“I'll let you out at the corner,” said Miss Dawson, then; “Those cobbles wreck my tires.” She added: “I suppose I can't go in with you, Aunt Robbie? I'm dying to see Miss Smith.”

“No, dear, you cannot.”

Miss Dawson drew up at the curb, and Gamadge got out. He helped Miss Vauregard to descend, and then, at Clara's request, transferred the chow to the front seat. Clara said, “I shouldn't be surprised if she turned out to be a refugee, after all.”

“Very charitable of you,” replied her aunt dryly. “But Miss Smith might have communicated with the family when she discovered that your great-uncle's wits were going, and that he took her for a historical character.”

“If she had, she'd have lost her meal ticket. I don't believe you realize how a refugee must feel, Aunt Robbie.”

“Perhaps I don't, dear.”

“Shall I wait here for you?”

“Certainly not. Go home and get out of those hot things.”

“I promised to pick Cameron up and take him for a turn before dinner.”

“Go along then.”

Clara turned the car, and Gamadge walked beside Miss Vauregard down the narrow, tree-shaded street. Grass and bushes showed at the end of it, through the iron railings of the little park. Late afternoon sunlight turned the old bricks under their feet to a deep rose color, and cast a friendly glow on the brownstone walk-ups on the left, and the high windowless walls on the right. But for a distant view of towers rising into the sky, it might have been a street in any little European town.

Gamadge paused in front of a wide gateway in a brick wall, surmounted by an arch and an old lantern.

“Gates hospitably wide,” he said. “This must be a quiet, law-abiding backwater.”

“It is. Uncle has never had any trouble with intruders.”

“Until now.” He stood surveying the brick-paved driveway, the side of the old three-storied house, the glimpse of garden beyond. A hint of white ironwork showed through vines in the distance. “The famous arbor; candid little place. I see that the windows on either side of the kitchen door are high.”

“Yes; you can't see out of them without standing on something.”

“And these nearer windows are well curtained.”