Unexpected Night (13 page)

“Slight acquaintance of your family,” replied Gamadge.

“To whom my cousin Alma confides her financial intentions, and whom she sends forth as minister plenipotentiary, to convey them to her relatives. And what, Mr. Hugh Sanderson, do you think of that? Don't bother to tell me, though, because here is Callaghan, whom I could find it in my heart to pity.”

Callaghan, followed by a dozen young men and women, came slowly towards them from the shore. He was a big, redheaded Irishman, in corduroys and a grimy white sweater; and his troupe were all clad in the extreme of beach undress. Slacks, bathing suits and shorts predominated; none of the youths wore anything above the waist, and the girls very little. They stopped at a short distance, and the manager came on alone. Miss Baker brought up the rear with a stalwart in red canvas trousers, whose great arm, tanned like leather, was about her shoulders.

“What's this I hear?” demanded Callaghan.

Atwood performed introductions:

“Allow me to present our director, Mr. James Callaghan, who is steeped in the traditions of the Abbey Theatre, Dublin. He has but one fault, if it be a fault: he has an almost pathological addiction to the Irish drama. Callaghan, this is Mr. Sanderson, my cousin Amberley's tutor and friend. His best friend, I believe; common justice impels me to say so. These other gentlemen have not obliged me with their names; but I should judge that the older one is connected in some way with the law. The other says he is slightly acquainted with the Cowden family, and his part in these events remains obscure.”

“I'm Mitchell, state detective,” said Mitchell. “This is Mr. Gamadge.”

“Oh,” said Callaghan. He looked at Mitchell oddly. “You're up here about the death of this boy?”

“Yes.”

“Well, the Lord be thanked he didn't die here; we might have had all kinds of trouble over it. It's bad enough the way it is, with me shorthanded already, and most of these boys and girls amateurs that wouldn't know how to cover up a state wait, much less take a part at short notice. What are we to do now, Atwood? You got me into this. You never told me this Cowden boy was in immediate danger of dying.”

“I didn't know it myself; he's been the same, on and off, for years. Delighted to carry his spear for him, in addition to my other chores,” replied Atwood cheerfully. “I'm only in two of the plays now; put me in the third, by all means. It's all one to me.”

Mrs. Atwood broke her long silence with some asperity: “If you'd let me have Adrienne's part, you wouldn't be in any trouble at all. Susie Baker, or any of the girls, could do mine.”

“We've had that all out a dozen times, Floss.” Callaghan patted her on the shoulder with amiable detachment. “It's all settled. Sure, you'd blast the audience out of their seats in the Yeats play.”

“It's a heavy part; when it's played properly.”

“You have the heaviest part in the whole show; be satisfied with it, and leave me in peace.”

Atwood, who had for some reason been smirking complacently, now asked: “Don't you want to know why a state detective came all the way up here to break the news to us?”

“I'm not sure that I do.”

“It's really very interesting, though; my cousin Amberley appears to have left the hotel at two o'clock in the morning, gone down and climbed on some cliff or other, had a fatal attack, and fallen on to the rocks. What do you make of that?”

“What do you want me to make of it?”

“I wish you would make something; because my family, the dear creatures, are trying at last to get me into the domestic picture. They seemed to have suggested that I drove down there to meet the boy.”

Callaghan looked surprised. “He was to come up to-day.”

“We all know that; the idea is that there was a last-minute change of plan. Now you saw that message I got last night; and you know it was the only message I did get. Was there any change of plan mentioned in it?”

“So far as I can remember it, the boy said nothing about a change of plan. He said the plan was to remain unchanged.”

“Whereupon I went on rehearsing, out there on the pier, until I staggered to my tent at ten o'clock, or thereabouts?”

“You were busy enough up to ten,” agreed Callaghan, “and then you were in your tent, which is next to mine, for my sins, and plenty of noise you make in it. But whether you stayed in it for the rest of the night, the Devil himself only knows.”

“Very helpful, you are,” complained Atwood, looking grieved. “How about this? We all know the kind of racket that old pram of mine makes, getting out of this dump; did you, or any of you,” and he addressed the group of actors beyond Callaghan, “hear me leave the place at any time last night?… No? I thought not. Give it up, Mr. Mitchell; there's nothing in the notion, nothing at all.”

Gamadge said: “Why the intensive rehearsing, Mr. Atwood?”

“Ah, that's telling! Come up to the show and find out—if you can.”

“I shall certainly try to do that.”

“We're just trying to account for the boy going down to that cliff,” explained Mitchell. “His death is a financial disappointment for you, I understand, Mr. Callaghan?”

“You can call it that. He was supposed to be bringing money into the enterprise, but I knew he was not well, and I looked upon it as a gamble. Atwood, here, always has some scheme or other on hand. Some of them come off, some of them do not. The boy's death is just another bad luck turn; and if I was a superstitious man, it might upset me.”

“Why so?” asked Gamadge.

Callaghan, without replying, nodded as if to call his attention to something beyond. He turned, as did the others, in time to see the entrance from the lane of a most extraordinary cavalcade. It was headed by a policeman on a motorcycle; behind him came a sedan, with two men in it; and last of all lumbered a rusty black vehicle, looking wildly incongruous in that scene of sunlight, pines, blue sky and blue water.

“Good Lord Almighty!” said Mitchell. “It's a hearse.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

T
HE PROCESSION CAME
to a stop, and a short, stout man alighted from the sedan. He waddled across the intervening space, while his companion, aided by the driver of the hearse, began to unload cases from the back of the car.

“Stole a march on us, did you, Mitchell?” The stout man came up, and glanced about him at the assembled company. “Where's the manager of this aggregation, and where's the body?”

Mitchell did not reply; Gamadge, after a look at him, decided that he actually couldn't, his rage and astonishment were too great. Callaghan said:

“Over there in the last trailer.”

“You didn't think it was worth mentioning?” Mitchell regarded him with cold fury.

“I haven't had a chance to mention it. I sent one of the boys up to Tucon with a message for the sheriff as soon as we found her.”

“Her? Who?” barked Mitchell.

“Adrienne Lake—one of our actresses.”

“When did she die, and what of?”

“I don't know when, and I don't know why; unless she took too much sleeping stuff. She's had a bad tooth.”

“And when did you find out that she was dead?”

“Not until an hour ago. None of us saw her after seven o'clock, last night. She turned in then. Said she couldn't play to-night unless the abscess had gone down. Nobody bothered her this morning.” He turned to the stout man, who had been listening to this with a judicial expression. “You're the medical examiner?”

“That's who I am. Cogswell.”

“We open to-night, you know; at least, we mean to—if the skies don't fall on us. Can you keep this thing quiet till to-morrow?”

“You fight that out with Mitchell and the sheriff. Come on, boys, we'd better get going.”

He went down to the trailer Callaghan had indicated; it stood at the end of the line, near the edge of the steep bank that descended to the pebbly beach. His assistants followed him, casting curious glances at the group of silent actors. Mitchell continued to gaze at Callaghan, who went on gloomily:

“We have three experienced actresses here—had, I mean—and Adrienne, poor girl, was the best of the lot. A nice hole her death has put me in. It's not much to ask; just to keep it out of the news till tomorrow.”

“You show folks have me beat. What's this stuff you say she's been taking?”

“I couldn't tell you the name of it. Something the dentist gave her, in case her teeth kept her awake at night. She's had no proper sleep for a week, poor thing, but it wasn't until yesterday that she gave up her part.”

“How was it nobody looked in to see how she was getting along?”

“Sure, none of us would have had the heart to disturb her. We live pretty much as we like, up here; we pick up meals in the cook tent when we want them. For all I knew, she'd had her breakfast. Susie Baker, here, slept in the trailer with her, and noticed nothing out of the way.”

Mitchell followed his gesture, and addressed the little blond girl, who came forward accompanied by her muscular friend.

“You and Callaghan come down to that trailer with me. I want to get this straight.”

The young man beside her stepped forward; he had a dish towel in one hand; the other was clasped loosely about Miss Baker's upper arm.

“I'll stick around with Susie,” he said.

“Who're you?”

“My name's Rogers. George Rogers.”

“You the cook?”

“We all cook. I was washing the dinner dishes.”

“You go on back and wash 'em. Now, Miss Baker.”

“I'll just stick around.”

“You'll do as I say.”

“Please let George come with me,” said Miss Baker, tears rolling down her cheeks.

“She's had a terrible shock, finding Miss Lake dead; and then hearing about this Cowden feller on top of it. I come from her home town,” said Mr. Rogers. “I'm sort of looking out for her.”

“Well, come on, then. Over here.” Mitchell led the way to the nearest trailer. “Sit down on the steps, Miss Baker,” he said, irritably. She obeyed him, and the interrogation proceeded in full committee. “You tell me you slept all night in that caravan with that dead woman, and never knew the difference?”

“She was behind the curtain,” wept Miss Baker.

“You didn't ask her how she was, or offer to get her anything?”

“I knew she'd taken the medicine. I wouldn't have bothered her for anything.”

“How about this morning?”

“I got up early, and came out without making any noise.”

“So, as far as you or anybody knows, she may have been dead since a little after seven last night?”

Miss Baker nodded, and buried her face in her arms.

“Well, never mind. Stay around, now, and I'll talk to you again, later.”

Atwood had been standing on one leg, looking very birdlike indeed with his cocked head, long neck and beaky nose. He now said, gazing affectionately at Miss Baker:

“This young lady, Mr. Mitchell, is well-known to my wife and myself; in fact, we got her the job with Callaghan. She met Amberley Cowden at our place in New York, and so did Mr. Rogers. We know all about Susie. If she says she doesn't know anything about the death of our leading lady, you may take her word for it.”

“Thanks,” said Mitchell. He looked at the troupe of actors, and said shortly: “You people are not to go off this place till further notice, understand? Not one of you. I'm leaving that state policeman up here to take care of you.”

“If any of us made an effort to leave the place before to-night's performance,” Atwood informed him, “Callaghan would kill us. Wouldn't you, old boy? I don't think you quite realise,” he went on, eyeing Mitchell quizzically, “what all these calamities mean to our manager. To us all. Don't blame us for slight tendencies towards hysteria. Do you mind very much if I go and take my dip, now? I really feel the need of it, and tides wait for no man. This one will slide out on me, if I don't grab it pretty soon.”

“Go ahead.”

Atwood skipped away, and Mitchell, with Callaghan beside him, moved off in the direction of the mortuary trailer. Sanderson addressed Miss Baker sympathetically:

“Hard on you, Susie. And I know you feel badly about Amberley. But he couldn't have lived long, in any case—you knew that.”

“It's so awful, his falling off that cliff.”

“He died before he fell, or so they say.”

“Yes, but why did he ever go and climb up on a cliff, in the middle of the night?” She looked up, and caught Gamadge's eye. “Did you know him?” she asked.

“Slightly.”

“Don't you think it was funny for him to do a thing like that?”