Murders in, Volume 2 (13 page)

In her dark-blue dress sprinkled with bright flowers, and her neat, uptilted hat, she looked older than she did in riding clothes; Gamadge thought she also looked tired.

“Delighted,” he said, shaking hands with her. Payne stood in the doorway, leaning on his stick; Harold, sliding past him on his way out, certainly appeared to be of a lesser breed, and decidedly without the law. “She always lugs me around everywhere with her,” said Payne gaily.

“Of course I do. Isn't this a nice room!” She glanced about her. Her eyes came gently to rest on Theodore, who was busily arranging chairs and a low table in front of the davenport.

“Young gentleman find this sofa comfortable,” said that functionary, and departed for the tea tray. Payne limped over to it, and Clara settled him on it with a cushion behind him. She then sat down beside him.

Gamadge brought cigarettes and matches, passed them, and seated himself on the other side of the tea table.

“You bet it's a nice room. Nice house.” Payne's eyes crinkled as he also looked about him. “Improvement on the kind of hole I live in. I hate a hotel.”

“Convenient, though,” said Gamadge. “You're independent. Whenever I go anywhere, or come back, there's the deuce and all to pay. It seems to me they're always wanting to houseclean, or something. God knows how often they wash the windows.”

“Pathetic,” smiled Payne. “I could easily burst out crying.”

“I feel like it, sometimes. By the way, Mr. Payne, you don't have to drink tea, you know.”

“I've always wanted to try it.”

“Sure you wouldn't prefer something more stimulating?”

“Sure.”

“Are you comfortable, Cam?” asked Miss Dawson.

“Quite.”

“Let me just—”

“Quit fussing, my angel.”

“When we are married, I shall have a sofa just like this one.”

“If we are married, you mean. I'm not sure yet that I'll have you, you know.” Payne turned and smiled at her.

“Don't be so rude; what will Mr. Gamadge think?”

“We know what he thinks, now; that I have a nerve, letting you marry a crock. Hello, isn't that the back of my club I see out of the window?” He pulled himself to his feet, and steered himself, rather crookedly, across the room. As he stood looking out of the big window at the awninged terrace opposite, Clara said: “Poor Cammy.”

“Yes. Too bad.”

“He can never get better.”

“Pretty grim for him—and for you.”

“He's awfully plucky.” She added, after a pause, “It was all my fault.”

“Yours?”

“We were riding, and we took a jump, and I let my horse crowd him. We came down on top of him.”

Theodore came in with the tea tray, and Cameron Payne came back to the sofa. He said, “We're neighbors. The Humbert—that's where I live, if you call it living—it isn't so far off, either. West Fifty-eighth Street. We might have a game, of an evening. Do you like cards?”

“Very much.”

“Piquet? Bezique? Cribbage?”

“All the two-handed games.”

“We must play. It's so damned hard to get up a bridge four.”

“Come in whenever you like.”

Theodore left them, and Miss Dawson poured tea. Payne, tasting his, said: “Delightful new beverage; I'm glad I stuck to it. Do you disapprove of Clara telling me about her Great-uncle Imbrie and the femme fatale, Mr. Gamadge?”

“Not in the least. That makes only eight in the know, excluding Miss Smith herself, and her friends.”

“We ought to start an Arbor Cult, or something. Hello.”

Martin the cat had come in quietly, looked the party over, and decided to leap upon the knees of Mr. Payne. He lifted his teacup out of the way, and Clara said: “Oh dear. Cats always go for the people that don't like them.”

“I'll remove the brute,” said Gamadge.

“Not at all. He doesn't bother me,” declared Payne.

“He does like dogs, though, thank goodness,” said Clara.

“That reminds me. How's the sick chow, Miss Dawson?” asked Gamadge.

Her face clouded. “She died last night. The vet had to…”

“Oh, I am sorry.”

“Doctor Wadley said it was better. She was so old, and she's been ailing a long time. We all went over to see her, before he…”

“I'm glad you have the other one. Wadley's my vet, too. Good man.”

Payne said, between bites of his muffin: “I didn't realize cats needed vets.”

“Oh, Lord, they're perfect hypochondriacs. Always something wrong with them.”

“Never tasted better muffins,” said Payne, accepting another. “About Miss Smith; what I say is, live and let live. What if she does get a slice of the money? He's happy, and nobody's much the worse for it, so far as I can see. The family wouldn't dream of interfering if he bought himself a yacht or an airplane.”

“But he's such a darling, and he's being taken in by this female,” protested Clara. “I hate to think of it.”

“He's having the time of his life. Getting a great kick out of it; she just suits him. Anybody can see that.”

Clara seemed more troubled by this lighthearted view of the situation than Gamadge thought necessary.

“Cam, please,” she said. “It's so ugly.”

“Oh, twaddle.”

“I don't think you ought to—”

“Just let me mind my own business, for once, like a good girl.”

There was something behind this exchange, Gamadge decided. He said: “I agree with Miss Dawson. It's ugly, and it's dangerous.”

Payne replied, very urbane: “Well, of course you have to say so. You're thinking of your job.”

Clara said: “Don't be that way, Cam.”

“What way?”

“If you are rude to Mr. Gamadge, he won't play cards with you.”

“For the love of heaven, can't you let me alone?”

Gamadge said: “Of course it's my job to extricate Mr. Vauregard; Mr. Payne is quite right. Strangely enough, I think I'm making progress.”

“No!” Clara was excited. “Can you tell us about it?”

“Not quite yet.”

“The thing is,” she said earnestly, “you ought to get a picture of her.”

“I'm afraid I may not be able to manage that.”

Payne's interest had apparently waned. He was glancing about the room again. “You have plenty of books,” he said. “Nice habit, reading; too bad I can't.”

“Didn't they teach you, darling?” asked Clara; her serenity had returned, and she was polishing off a little cake with great appetite.

“They couldn't teach me to like it. Well, Clara, we won't have a place like this, unless Uncle Imbrie leaves you a damn sight more than he's likely to; anyway, no matter how low we sink, we can't settle in The Humbert.”

“It's a bachelor apartment,” she told Gamadge, “and I'm the only woman that ever went up in the elevator. The boy told me so.”

“A cripple has special privileges,” smiled Payne.

“The more the better,” said Gamadge.

Payne again got to his feet and limped around the room, examining the pictures, the ancient maps, the celestial and terrestrial globes that stood waist-high on either side of the fireplace. He ended at the farther window, where he stood with his lame foot propped against the low sill, the sun glinting on his hair. Martin had slid to the floor, and was rubbing himself now against the stick in Payne's hand.

“Don't let him knock your cane out from under,” said Gamadge.

“You bet I won't.”

Clara was leaning back, her head against a cushion; Gamadge contemplated her gravely, and when she caught him at it, did not look away. They exchanged a long, friendly gaze. She said “It's restful here.”

“You look as if you could do with a rest. I suppose it's your dog, and all.”

“Yes, and that business at Uncle Imbrie's.”

“Upsets the whole family, I suppose.”

“It makes everything seem queer and unnatural. Nobody agrees with anybody else what to do. They are so nervous. Poor Aunt Robina feels it a lot.”

“Intolerable situation.”

“We all want the money, so I suppose it's hypocritical for me to mind talking about it all the time.”

“Not at all.”

“I wish sometimes I could get away from every single thing.”

She caught Gamadge's eye again, and something she read there held her own. He said: “Wish I could do something about it.”

“You can't.”

“I know that.”

“It's so restful here.”

Payne came back to them. “All right, Clara. It's getting on to five; if you're ready.”

She got up. “We loved it, Mr. Gamadge.”

“Come again. This bachelor establishment does let women up; welcomes them, in fact.”

“I'll bet.” Payne shook hands. “We'll have those card parties. I don't play for anything much, but I keep my end up.”

“You'll probably clean me out,” said Gamadge. “I play nothing regularly except bridge.”

He went down to the door with them, and saw them into Clara's sedan. Theodore, clearing away in the library, remarked that that was a fine couple, and a mighty fine young gentleman, “Be about perfect, when he gets over that bust-up he had.”

“That's the trouble.” Gamadge stood aimlessly in the window where Payne had stood, and gazed out at nothing. “He won't get over it.”

“Too bad; but he's good enough the way he is. Looks like one of the archangels, he only needs big wings.”

“All is illusion.”

“That young lady, she'll stick to him.”

“Play piquet with him all her life—unless when she gets old he ends by not liking her any more.”

Theodore straightened himself to stare. “Never heard you say nothin' like that, Mr. Gamadge; not in your born days.”

“Live and learn.”

Gamadge went into the hall and dialed the number of the Morton house. When he got Miss Vauregard, he said: “I'm going down there in half an hour. I think I have something. I'll begin to break it to him—very gently.”

“Oh, do be careful. He'll be so shocked.”

“I'll be very careful. It will take some doing, though.”

“Do you think I ought to be there with you?”

“No, much better to keep the family right out of it. Let him suppose it's the idea of a distinterested outsider.”

“I'm so nervous, I think I'll go out for a walk. Be sure to telephone me later.”

“I will.” He added: “Your niece brought her intended to tea.”

“Don't say I didn't warn you. It's a fixed idea.”

“Oh, I understand perfectly what you meant. As from one human being to another: Is your niece in love with this young man, or is it romantic self-sacrifice in the classic tradition?”

“Hundreds of girls have been in love with him.”

“I don't doubt it. Is she?”

“They've known each other always—too long to be romantic.”

“Did she really crowd him at the jump?”

“She will always think so. She was only sixteen, and he was an experienced rider, but you can't do anything with Clara, if she gets an idea like that into her head.”

“How about him? I thought him a little offhand.”

“Just his manner. Clara is all he has.”

“Rather casual with his treasure.”

“That's his manner, Mr. Gamadge. He's been wonderful about his injury.”

“Still, from one human being to another: Do you like this match? Tell me honestly.”

“Well…who knows how poor Cameron may turn out? Of course I wish things were different. One can't urge her to desert him.”

“At any rate, there'll be three of us from now on; she will stick to him, and I shall stick to her.”

“You can't mean it.”

“Can't I?”

“That kind of thing leads to all sorts of trouble.”

“Not at all; I shall make myself inconspicuous.”

Miss Vauregard made a sound expressive of incredulity, and hung up. Gamadge chose a book from his shelves, and wrapped it up with Volumes I and III of the Dykinck Byron. He then descended to the laboratory, where Harold was enlarging photographs, and took more expert instruction in the management of his new camera. He finally put it in his pocket, and left the house. It was five forty-five o'clock.

He took the Fifty-ninth Street subway, got out at Astor Place, and walked to Traders Row, arriving there at six fifteen. A yellow, cloudy light fell on the little street, where no passerby ever seemed to walk, and where the houses were as blank and apparently untenanted as if they had been house fronts on a stage. The Vauregard gates stood wide. Gamadge paused for a moment, noted the closed kitchen door and the green solitude beyond, and passed on to the white steps and portico.

Old John received him as if he had been a guest of years' standing: “Will you go up, Sir? Mr. Vauregard allows me to spare myself the stairs.”

“How is Eliza?”

“Very well, Sir; having her afternoon rest in her room. We are working on that paper, Sir.”

“Fine. How are you getting on with it?”

“Very well, Sir. I—I hope we are not doing an injustice to the young person.”

“You won't do that.”

“Shall you be wanting coffee, Sir? I can make you fresh.”

“No, indeed.”

“I hope you can wait for sherry, Sir. I take it up at seven, when I fetch down the coffee tray.”

“I'm afraid I can't. Is Miss Smith in the library, do you know?”

“She was not there at five. She may be in the garden, Sir. They are often there after coffee. Mr. Vauregard likes a stroll before dinner. He is expecting you, Sir, and you will find him upstairs.”

Gamadge mounted to the second story. Pausing in the library doorway, he saw the old gentleman's head above the back of the davenport. It was drooping, as if Mr. Vauregard was in a doze.