Deadly Nightshade (18 page)

“Just a question, ma'am,” said Mitchell, panting. “Do you know if a Miss Humphrey called here Monday, any time, taking photographs of children?”

“Why, yes; she came in the afternoon. I was here alone with Tommy; the others were all at the ball game.”

“What time, do you remember?”

“It couldn't have been much after half past four.”

“Take a picture of the boy, did she?”

“I'm afraid she got a snapshot. I was annoyed; Millie…” she paused, and Mitchell said:

“We know Miss Strangways is his mother. I don't think that photograph will be published, Mrs. Ormiston.”

Gamadge, standing in the road, asked: “Did you get a good look at the woman, Mrs. Ormiston?”

“No, I didn't. She was rather big, and wore loud clothes. That's all I can tell you; I was on the porch, and Tom was down here. She had a veil on, and a long checked coat.”

Gamadge followed Mitchell back to the car, and they drove furiously down the shore road, and into Oakport. The Bartram house slept among its trees, green shutters closed against the blinding dazzle of the sunset. This time it was Gamadge who got out first, and went up the flagged walk, basket in hand. Miss Ridgeman was watering the flowers along the borders. He said:

“Here's Irma's cat, Miss Ridgeman. Name of Whitey. To be returned, if necessary, to the Beasley farm. I hope Mrs. Bartram will see her way to letting Irma keep it, though.”

“It's awfully good of you, Mr. Gamadge.” Miss Ridgeman took the basket, and peered through the cheesecloth at the mewing prisoner within.

“I have an uncomfortable suspicion that the burden of its existence is going to fall upon you.”

“Annie likes cats.”

“Thank goodness for that. Er—Irma is young; she won't absolutely maul the animal, I suppose?”

“We'll see that she doesn't.”

“Look here, Miss Ridgeman; did a woman come around on Monday, asking to take a picture of the little girl? Woman in a black-and-white checked coat, white hat, nose veil? Name of Humphrey?”

Miss Ridgeman, looking startled, said: “Why, yes; she did. She said something about a magazine contest. Of course I didn't allow it. What—”

“How did she impress you?”

“I didn't like the look of her at all. She was a loud, common sort of person, made up like a chorus girl. I wouldn't have let her take a picture of Julia for anything.”

“Did she ask for one, before she offered to take one, herself?”

“Yes. We hadn't any. Mr. Bartram was going to—I wish he had, now.”

“What time did she come here?”

Miss Ridgeman considered the question. “Late in the afternoon.”

“Can you put it nearer than that? Anybody else get a look at her?”

“No; we were in the summerhouse, and she walked right in the back gate.”

“See her car?”

“I'm afraid not. Is it important? What had she to do with—”

“We're just checking up on strangers. Thanks, Miss Ridgeman.”

On their way out of Oakport Mitchell stopped at headquarters and was gone for some time. When he came out, he looked slightly less glum.

“Walworth hasn't come back to the Pegram House yet,” he said. “I've started the Humphrey investigation, and the inquiry about that contest and that magazine. I want to know where George Bartram spent Sunday night, but I have to go careful, there.”

He got into the car, and started it.

“Yes,” said Gamadge. “Care is indicated.”

“I could make a lot of trouble for myself. I wouldn't so much mind that, because it's all in the day's work; but I can't fit Mrs. Bartram into the picture. I just can't do it.”

“Mitchell, beware; you know what happens if you follow that line of reasoning.”

“I can't help it. I want to tackle William Stanley about his friend in a car.”

“Leave William until tomorrow; I'll get Pottle to show him that little bicycle—on approval. William isn't the right age, Mitchell; if Miss Humphrey bothered with him, she was only broadening the field of inquiry.”

His voice had acquired a dryness that Mitchell recognized. The detective watched him out of the corner of a squinting and puzzled eye, and finally asked: “You beginning to see any glimmer of sense in this mix-up?”

“Just a glimmer.”

“That's more than I see.” There was a pause, during which Gamadge looked out of the car window at the quiet evening landscape, and Mitchell kept looking at him. At last the latter said: “How about passing along your information? I could use it.”

“No, you couldn't. I want facts.”

“Well, we'll get 'em for you, if they can be got.”

“I don't think you can get them for me, without giving the show away before we have any proof of what happened.”

“Good gosh; you talk as if you really had a line on this business.”

“I have,” said Gamadge, calmly. Mitchell nearly sent the car into the ditch. He righted it, and made the turn that led them down the highway to Burnsides. Then he said, sharply:

“If you know what it's all about, hand over what you've got. We can't take any chances.”

“You'd clap me into Miss Walworth's nursing home. I'll tell you this, Mitchell; I'll have to convince you that what I think is true, convince you absolutely, before you'll lift a finger to get the proofs we want. I can't do that tonight, but I'll give you my conclusions, unless I've given them up and thrown them out of the window, some time tomorrow morning.”

Mitchell, grumbling, drove on to Burnsides. Mr. Burnside came out on the porch.

“Young feller to see you,” he said, addressing Mitchell. “Young feller in steel spectacles.”

Young Man in Steel Spectacles

T
HE DRUGSTORE HAD
supplied the young man with something for his sunburn; it glistened on his nose as he rose to greet them, dabbing meanwhile at his ear with a silk handkerchief. He had light hair, light eyes, and a narrow face; perhaps a slightly foxy one, the foxiness being mitigated by humor.

“My name is Schenck, Mr. Mitchell,” he said. “The sheriff sent me over to see you. Here's my card.” He glanced politely at Gamadge, and added: “I'm afraid my business is confidential.”

“This gentleman is assisting me.” Mitchell accepted the card, without looking at it. “And nothing's confidential to the police unless they decide it is.”

“Well—the sheriff said you would be discreet.”

“I can't seem to hear Enos James saying any such thing. He may have said I don't talk more than I need to.” Mitchell looked at the card, his eyebrows went up, and he handed it to Gamadge. It said:

ROBERT C. SCHENCK
Investigator
THE REAL ECONOMY INSURANCE CO.
NEW YORK CITY

The young man put his handkerchief in his pocket and stood in an easy attitude, while Gamadge read the card and returned it to Mitchell.

“Sit down, Mr. Schenck,” said the latter. “I'll be glad to hear what your business is. It must be important, for you to come all the way from New York on it; or perhaps this is just one of your regular trips.”

“I don't make regular trips—not on my job.”

“I guess you don't. Well, if you want privacy and discretion, I'd better look see where the Burnsides are. This place ain't built to tell secrets in.” He went to the dining-room door, and came back, after closing it, to report that Mr. and Mrs. Burnside, together with the help, were laying the table for supper.

“They set a good table, too, I understand,” said the young man, taking a chair in front of the fire, between Mitchell and Gamadge. He spoke rather wistfully. “I'm staying at the Pegram House. I didn't think my expense account would stand Burnsides. Pretty expensive, isn't it?” And he looked about him in some surprise at the big, bare room, carpeted with drugget and devoid of amenities.

“These places are luxury spots,” replied Mitchell, getting his pipe out, “though you wouldn't think so, to look at 'em. Well, here we are, all set. What can we do for you?”

Mr. Schenck hesitated, warmed his hands for a few moments before the blaze, and at last decided to talk:

“Everybody knows that old life insurance motto—‘Shut up and pay up.' The last thing we want is to give policy holders the idea that there'll be any trouble collecting.”

“I'm paying premiums on considerable insurance,” said Mitchell. “I don't expect Mrs. Mitchell to have to fight for her money, when I pass out.”

“Naturally not. We never make unnecessary inquiries even. When this nightshade case broke, for instance; we would have delivered the goods—on your say-so, of course—without asking any questions.”

Mitchell, glancing quickly at Gamadge's impassive profile, said: “I don't know what you're talking about.”

“No, of course not. Could I have this gentleman's name?”

Mitchell's introduction was brief; it consisted, in fact, of the word “Gamadge,” irritably pronounced.

Mr. Schenck returned Gamadge's bow, and got out a cigarette. “Five years ago last spring,” he said, “Mrs. Albert Ormiston came into our downtown office and took out a policy on the life of Thomas Strangways Ormiston, aged one year and seventeen days. Two years ago she came in and took out a policy on the life of Mildred Strangways; Mrs. Strangways having just been passed as a good risk by our medical officer.”

Mitchell coughed. Gamadge continued to gaze into the flames.

“A very nice lady, Mrs. Ormiston seems to be,” said Mr. Schenck, his eyes behind their glittering lenses turning from one face to the other. “The office was favorably impressed. I met her this morning for the first time; at the Bartram funeral. The sheriff was just going when I called, and he took me with him in his car. I hired one later for my own use—when I discovered how much ground there was to be covered. More than I expected.”

“You were saying,” Mitchell reminded him, “that your office…”

“Yes. Mrs. Ormiston was very frank on both occasions. Very frank. Explained fully that the child was Mrs. Strangways son, and had been unofficially adopted by her husband and herself from charitable motives. We investigated, of course. Sad story, isn't it?”

Gamadge, who thought this almost a miracle of understatement, spoke for the first time: “Mrs. Strangways, or Walworth, was a party to the arrangement?”

“She fully concurred in it; but she is not a beneficiary on the child's policy. Mrs. Ormiston explained that her husband was not cognizant of her step; that he was reserved in matters of finance, and would object seriously to having it known that they were in modest circumstances. Mrs. Ormiston accounted for her wish to insure the child in this way: If, while under her care, he had an illness and died, there would be considerable outlay. Her own son was in delicate health, and she would not feel justified in diverting the money from him to the Strangways boy. She proposed to pay the premiums out of her house-keeping allowance, and such sums as she earned, from time to time, by making hooked rugs.”

Gamadge asked: “Miss Strangways was not well enough, five years ago, to pass your physical examination?”

“No. She was suffering from anemia and general disability, and she was twenty pounds underweight. When we finally agreed to insure her, she was a very good life. The boy was always strong and healthy.”

“And she approved of the arrangement for Tommy.”

“Fully. Told us herself that she wished to protect Mrs. Ormiston's interests in every possible way, and that she was under heavy obligations to her.”

“Is Mrs. Ormiston insured, herself?”

“Yes. In favor of her own children. Well; the sums involved were not large, especially in the case of the little boy. We don't insure children for large amounts, you know; we don't much like to insure such young children, at all. The rates have been getting lower and lower, you know—to discourage interested parties from—er—cashing in on the decease of minors.”

“Very delicately put,” said Gamadge.

“It's a delicate subject. However, when we are convinced of the
bona fides
of the parties, and after full investigation, we do insure a child of one year or upwards; a hundred dollars at first, and a hundred more with each successive year. If the Strangways-Ormiston boy had died, we should now owe Mrs. Ormiston in the neighborhood of seven hundred dollars.”

“I see.” Gamadge stretched his legs out, leaned back in his chair, and closed his eyes. “But now you don't have to pay.”

“No,” agreed Mr. Schenck, his glasses shining. “Not this time.”

“You think somebody's out after the boy's life?” Mitchell inquired, studying him with interest.

“We have no idea what to think. My company hopes very much that you will see your way to co-operating. The point is: shall we be reasonably safe in renewing the policy on the boy's life, and on the life of his mother? Or have you information which leads you to think that it would be a mistake on our part? It would be a great favor, and we should hope to be of service to you in the future. We often are, you know.”

“You insurance people certainly are.” Mitchell looked at him uneasily. “How did you get the idea that the business might not have been an accident, or some kind of a mistake?”

“We can't find that the case is closed, or that you've got after the gypsies. And none of you up here has taken steps, so far as we can find out, to put the blame on anybody. The whole thing seems to have been left in the air.”

“Pending investigation,” said Mitchell, sharply.

“Exactly. We thought you might be willing to tell us where your investigation seems to be leading you.”

“And whether,” said Gamadge, turning his head to smile faintly at Mr. Schenck, “it seems to be leading anybody to the conclusion that Mrs. Albert Ormiston poisoned, or attempted to poison, three children for a little less than seven hundred dollars.”