The Wrong Way Down (4 page)

“That's why you asked him about the picture!”

“That's why. He guesses roughly that this impression we have before us now might be worth twenty-five to thirty dollars in the open market; but that a collector might pay a hundred for a proof before letter.”

“Seventy dollars difference?”

“If you could find your market. In any case there'd be some difference, I should say fifty dollars at least. But Miss Vance, or anybody, would have to be prepared with the less valuable picture in order to make the change, and she'd have to be prepared with something else—information.”

“You mean she knew she could make the change without being interfered with?”

“Certainly that.” Gamadge stood contemplating Lady Audley biting the side of his thumb. He looked at Miss Paxton sideways. “You know these are not common.”

“Lady Audleys?”

“I never saw her before in my life. Rather a coincidence for Miss Vance, for anybody who knew that there was one already in the house, to own or pick up another one. Most of them must be in the books, you know—the books they were engraved for.
All
the lettered ones would be in the books unless somebody tore one out. Do you know what I think, Miss Paxton?”

“I can't even imagine, Henry.”

“I think this one must have been in the house too.”

“Both of them in the house? I never heard that this one was.”

“Well, it may have been, and your cousin Lawson Ashbury may never have heard of it either. It's an inferior copy of the portrait your uncle was interested in; let's say he acquired it first, and kept it in one of those tip-out receptacles in the book closet. Mr. Lawson Ashbury—did he live here all his life?”

“No, certainly not. He lived with Marietta in an apartment, or in the country.”

“No reason why his father should keep him posted on all such purchases, was there?”

“None at all.”

“Well, your uncle had this copy, and later on he found the finer one, the proof before letter. It was so fine and so much of an acquisition that he framed it and hung it in the hall. He'd lost interest in this one, never spoke of it to you or the rest of the family.”

Miss Paxton said: “I can't for the life of me see why people shouldn't prefer the ones that have all the information on them.”

“And you'd probably rather have a set of books in a handsome binding than in the original boards, uncut and unopened. Collectors wouldn't, no matter how fine the binding. And if you cut a page in one of their dratted Firsts, so as to read what the author said, they'd murder you.

“Well, we have the motive—malice, or a problematical seventy dollars. If we wanted to delve into psychology we might ask ourselves whether or not the very fact that the portrait resembled Mrs. Vincent Ashbury—”

“Henry, don't. It's too ugly.”

“I told you you wouldn't see the beauty of the case. Now for opportunity. Miss Vance, as we have already seen, may have had opportunity to change the pictures after she supposedly left on Sunday afternoon. We presume that she understood the difference in value between letter proof and proof before letter. Can't we presume that when she was a child, a visitor in this house, she was allowed to poke about a little in the book-room? Look at the pictures there while her elders took their tea?”

“It's perfectly possible.”

“If she was a practising medium at ten years old, her observation may have been sharpened and her natural childish liking for secrecy developed beyond the normal. She saw the picture—this picture—in the book closet; she knew it was almost a duplicate of the one in the hall; she said nothing: but she cashed in on that knowledge last Sunday afternoon.”

“She was a precocious little thing, always asking questions about the curios and the bric-a-brac; but she was clever with her hands. They'd let her look at the pictures.” Miss Paxton was frowning heavily. “She had a talent for drawing.”

“There you are. She comes here—how many years later?”

“Fifteen. She says she's twenty-five now.”

“She comes here, and as she enters this room she has a glimpse of the portrait of Lady Audley hanging where it always hung, just beyond this door. She wonders whether the other one is still in the book-room; she remembers that day long ago when she was perhaps detected in some hocus-pocus and disgraced; her parents with her. Lady Audley—there's a grimness about that Holbein look. If Mr. Lawson Ashbury's mother looked like that, and he looked like her, he could certainly be grim.”

“Just serious, Henry. A charming man.”

“But Miss Vance probably remembered one occasion when he was grim. After she leaves you, Miss Vance slips into the drawing room, into the book-room. You wouldn't have seen her from this chair of yours.”

“As a matter of fact I was probably in the pantry; I always wash up the glasses as soon as—”

“Good, you were in the pantry. You wouldn't have seen her or heard her. She finds the other Lady Audley just where it used to be. Had you mentioned the fact that you didn't as yet know exactly what was in those tip-out cupboards?”

“Probably. We talked about what I was doing for James.”

“And Miss Vance decides that nobody will ever miss the other Lady Audley, or notice a change. All the pictures in the hall are to be disposed of en bloc to a dealer. She doesn't know that
you
know what sentimental value your uncle attributed to the portrait. She's amused by the situation. She's used to taking chances, the great risks of her profession. She's clever with her hands, and she can move about like a ghost. She comes back past this doorway, takes the picture off its hook, takes it into the book cupboard, and makes the change. She has no tools, but she gets the nails back into the frame with the help of—what? Any small metal object that she finds in her handbag. She splinters the wood a little—rotten old wood. See?”

Miss Paxton leaned forward to gaze earnestly at the tiny splinters under one or two of the nails, and asked: “How did she pull them out?”

“Loosen them and you can pull them out with your fingers. She had something to do it with—perhaps a nail file—or she wouldn't have undertaken the job in the first place.

“She rolled the unlettered Lady Audley up, put it under her arm, having replaced it by this one. Then she went quietly down the stairs and out; and I'm sorry to tell you, Miss Paxton, that I think the other Lady Audley's gone forever.”

“I really cannot bear it.”

“Most irritating.”

“To have allowed someone to walk off with James' property, under my very nose! It means that I'm not competent to do the work, that's all.”

“Not competent? Miss Paxton! You've exposed the racket by your competence. You remembered something that most people would have forgotten, and you saw something that younger people mightn't have seen.”

“That's very nice of you, Henry; but I feel responsible. I shall make it up to James, of course, but—oh, I do so wish we could prove all this, and let that girl know we'd proved it, and get the picture back. Is it really gone? Do you mean we couldn't trace it?”

“She wouldn't sell it in this neighborhood now; and even if she did, it would cost us more than seventy dollars to run it down. Nothing in that. As for your making up the money, isn't there burglary insurance?”

“But the insurance people would never pay any attention to such a story. They'd never pay. They'd say I was mistaken about everything.”

“I was thinking that people of Miss Vance's profession don't like even the threat of court proceedings.”

“Court proceedings?”

“If we had a case we could take it into court. We have the makings of one.”

“That's what you said before. But—”

“One loophole for Miss Vance to crawl out of—somebody might have come into the house on Saturday or Sunday with a key.”

“But there were only two keys—mine and the one I gave Mrs. Keate.”

“And she's not a connoisseur?”

“I should hardly think so.”

“All things considered, Miss Vance seems the likelier proposition. We have a good enough case to scare her with.”

“Scare her into returning the picture?” Miss Paxton's eyes were brightening.

“There's a chance. People like Miss Vance hate the very thought of legal inquiries. They're bad for business, and judges and juries are not apt to be sympathetic with persons who make that kind of living.”

Miss Paxton said after a pause: “I should never really take it into court, Henry; she's a member of the family, after all—Cousin Lawson's niece's only child; and she's young.”

“I see the point; but we needn't tell Miss Vance so.”

“If you really could frighten her into giving the picture back—”

Gamadge smiled. “The approach would have to be discreet, even devious. Would you mind that?”

“Not a bit!”

“She mustn't be put on her guard. Of course she'll always
be
on her guard, but perhaps I can work it so that she'll have to see me or practically admit she's afraid to. I may have to use your name.”

“Do!”

“Let's go and telephone her now. You can hear exactly what I say, and what she says, and keep abreast of the whole thing.”

“Henry Gamadge,” said Miss Paxton, getting up, “you are the most satisfactory person I ever had dealings with.”

“Thank you. Have you her address?”

“It's in the book; didn't I say?”

They went out into the hall again and back to the stair landing. Gamadge found the address in the book.

“Pretty far downtown,” he said, “but on the east side.” He dialed, and then held the receiver so that Miss Paxton could listen too.

After only a couple of rings a calm, rather high soprano voice said: “Yes?”

“I should like to speak to Miss Iris Vance, if you please. This is Henry Gamadge speaking, a friend of Miss Vance's relative Miss Julia Paxton.”

There was a pause. Then the voice said: “This is Iris Vance.”

“Oh—glad to find you at home, Miss Vance. I was calling on Miss Paxton today, and we were talking about the Ashbury family, and she mentioned the fact that you are a sensitive.”

Another pause. Then Miss Vance said: “I did tell her so. I don't need or seek publicity.”

“Miss Paxton mentioned the fact because I said I wanted to get into touch with someone who had extra-sensory gifts. A matter of clairvoyance, I think.”

“Miss Paxton isn't sympathetic with that kind of thing; I am surprised that she should recommend me or anyone.”

“It wasn't exactly a recommendation, Miss Vance. But if you care to call her up she'll give me one. I was very glad indeed to hear of somebody like you—one doesn't care to go into these matters entirely in the dark.”

Ten seconds passed. Then Miss Vance said: “Might I ask what you wish to consult me about, Mr. Gamadge?”

Gamadge laughed. “You may as far as I'm concerned, but I have a rather skeptical friend whom I should like to convince in the matter. He's the kind who always talks about tests and watertight proof. As if such things followed mathematical formulas.”

“Sometimes they almost do.”

“I should like to be able to tell my friend that all tests have been complied with—that you knew nothing whatever in advance. I shouldn't even have told you my name if I'd thought you would be willing to see me without knowing it.”

“I am rather careful about choosing my clients.”

“Of course.”

“Is the skeptical friend Miss Julia Paxton?”

“Now, Miss Vance, if you ask such questions as that the test will fail. Could you possibly see me this evening? The sooner the better, of course, from every point of view.”

“From the skeptic's point of view, certainly. They think we have little black books and compare information, don't they?”

“I suppose so.”

Miss Vance seemed to consider. Then she said: “Would ten o'clock be too late for you?”

“Not at all. Extremely kind of you to let me come.”

“I'm going out to dinner, but I shall be at home before ten.”

“Thank you so much.”

Gamadge put down the receiver and turned to look at Miss Paxton with smug complacency. She returned his look with some consternation in her eye.

“Henry, you really are a most unscrupulous person.”

“I tried to prepare you for that discovery.”

“You're going to ask her to tell you what became of the other picture?”

“Something of the kind. As for my lack of scruples, do you think Miss Vance so scrupulous?”

“She can't help but suspect.”