Murders in, Volume 2 (14 page)

Gamadge said: “Good evening, Sir.” And then, receiving no answer, he repeated: “Good evening, Mr. Vauregard.” He rounded the end of the davenport, stopped abruptly, and said: “My God!” His eyes went from the dusky and contorted face to the hand bent strangely inward on the chintz cushion; he saw the broken Spode cup on the parquet floor, and the river of spilled coffee. He stared for another moment, turned, and dashed from the room.

G
AMADGE TOOK THE STAIRS
three at a time. He glanced into the drawing room, the dining room, the pantry and the kitchen, and then went through the back doorway that led into the garden. It was empty, and so was the arbor.

He came back and opened the door of the servants' sitting room. John lay on the couch, snoring lightly. At Gamadge's voice he sat up with a start.

“John,” said Gamadge, “when were you last in the library?”

“When was I…” The old man was only half awake. “At five, Sir, when I took up the coffee.”

“Where have you been since?”

“Here, Sir, except when you—”

“Eliza upstairs all that time?”

“Yes, Sir. She goes as soon after five as she…Is anything wrong, Sir?”

“Just tell me this: So far as you know, nobody came to have coffee with Mr. Vauregard?”

“No, Sir.”

“Miss Smith with him when you took the tray up?”

“No, Sir. What—”

“Do you keep everything wide open down here, even when you take your nap?”

“Mr. Vauregard is in and out…The kitchen door—Eliza locks it. Mr. Gamadge, Sir, what has happened?” The butler got to his feet.

“Mr. Vauregard is dead. Hold on there—sit down. Any brandy anywhere? Dining room? I'll get you some. Don't you stir, now; you can't do a thing.”

Gamadge ran to the dining room, found cognac in the buffet, and came back with it. He poured some into a water glass on the dresser, and stood over the butler until he had drunk it. Then he said: “I know how you feel—it's pretty bad.”

“What—what was it, Sir?” gasped John.

“That's the trouble; he's taken poison somehow. Steady, there—you're not to go near the library. Understand? I'm calling the police.”

“Police!”

“I've got to. I want you to go up and see if you can find Miss Smith. She isn't down here, or in the garden. Will you do that for me? Then you're to go up to Eliza, and keep her right in her room. I'm doing the best I can for everybody—take my word for it.”

“Yes, Sir.” John got up. He looked vague. Gamadge said in a sharper tone: “Just go up and find Miss Smith. If you can't find her, call down; I'll be in the pantry.”

The old man went along the hall and up the stairs. Gamadge, listening, heard him mount the second flight without turning down the hall. He then dashed out again, and into the arbor. He had not been mistaken on his first hurried trip; there was a smudge of cigarette ash on the white iron bench—somebody had flicked most of it off. He studied the grass, and found no match or stub; there was, however, a neat hole punched in the soft ground at the left of the entrance—a corner where the sun never shone. He stared at it angrily, left the arbor, looked about on the grass between it and the paved walk that circled the fountain, and went back to the house.

As he entered, he heard old John's voice from the floor above: “Miss Smith is not here, Sir.”

“Sure?”

“Yes, Sir.” His voice was shaking.

“Then go up and break the news to Eliza, and for your life, don't either of you leave your room. And don't be frightened—I'm standing by.”

Gamadge still hugged his parcel under his arm. He mounted the stairs again, and made for the library. Casting no glance at the bent figure on the davenport, he crossed to the bookcase between the east windows. The Byron set confronted him, but it was again incomplete—Volume II had once more been withdrawn from circulation; this time, thought Gamadge with considerable relief, for good and all.

He unwrapped his parcel, laid its contents on a table, and carefully removed the inscribed flyleaf from Volume I of the Dykinck Byron. He then opened the bookcase, shoved the set along, and squeezed the Dykinck Byrons, Volumes I and III, in at the end of the shelf. He rewrapped his own book,
Mystery and Magic in Numbers
, making as bulky a parcel as he could of it, and took it with him down to the pantry, where he had seen a telephone. He dialed the Morton number.

“Is Miss Vauregard in?” he asked.

The houseman's indistinguishable mumble faded, and presently Miss Vauregard spoke.

He said: “This is Gamadge, Miss Vauregard. I am speaking from Traders Row. I have bad news for you. Can you take it?…Yes, it's Mr. Vauregard…Yes, he is. I found him so. He had been dead some time, I should think more than half an hour.…Are you all right? I'm awfully sorry to keep you talking, but if you can manage it, I want you to listen; it's most important…Take a minute…Good, I knew you'd stand by.

“This is our one and only chance, because I have to call the police…It was poison, I think he had it in his coffee…Miss Smith isn't in the house or on the place—can you understand me? Good for you. Volume II is missing again…Yes, it's gone.

“Try to listen carefully, now: Get hold of the rest of the family, and see whether they can account for themselves from five o'clock on, until about six. I was expected any time after six, you know, and John saw your uncle at five. If any of you can't produce witnesses to provide a complete alibi, you must tell the police the arbor story.

“Why? Surely you see it. You must tell the whole thing, with just one reservation, what only you and I know—the tieup with our friends in Thirty-fourth Street. Don't drag them in. The police will never get that line at all, because Volume II is gone. Don't you see? Without it there's absolutely no connection—I've seen to that.

“What? Oh, I'll tell the police the refugee story—that's all I'm supposed to know. I'll wait for you to divulge the other… Miss Vauregard, you must divulge it! They're going to look for motive, and we must give them Miss Smith…No, they won't come to our conclusions; they can't. Volume II is gone. Don't you see? There is nothing to connect any of you with it. Let them get after Miss Smith, and keep after her; if they know she's a swindler, they'll follow that line indefinitely…We can't help where it leads; don't think of that! Think of all the innocent parties.

“And don't communicate with me from now on—much better not. I just came in about the books. When you tell them the arbor story, and they question me about it, I can look out for myself. Remember, don't hold out on them! Only, those people called D, it would be tough to drag them in. They're not going to be useful. I must hang up, can't wait another moment. Till later. Good-bye.”

Gamadge hung up and dialed another number.

“Police? Henry Gamadge speaking, from the old Vauregard house, Traders Row. I called at six fifteen, or near it, and found old Mr. Vauregard dead…Poison, I think…No, I didn't…No, I won't…Yes, I will.”

When the police arrived, they found in Mr. Henry Gamadge a model witness. He allowed himself to be marooned in the drawing room, a charming apartment wherein he sat as in a stupor, nursing his parcel and asking no questions. He told his story patiently to three different sets of officials, he offered his fingers for printing with an air of candid interest, and he did not mention the fact that he was getting hungry.

At last a thin-faced, dark man with a narrow blue eye came in, introduced himself as Detective Lieutenant Durfee, and asked to see the contents of Gamadge's parcel. “The old fellow—Daggett, the butler—said you brought one. Any objection?…”

“None at all.” Gamadge handed it over.

Durfee untied it, and gazed inquiringly at
Mystery and Magic in Numbers
. He said, “I understand you're an authority on books and documents.”

“Kind of whoever said so.”

“I had Miss Vauregard on the telephone; she says she introduced you.”

“Yes.”

“Mr. Vauregard wanted to see this?”

“Yes. It's nonsense, but he liked to fool with such things.”

Durfee looked at a picture of a pentacle within three concentric circles, and returned the book to Gamadge.

“This young lady that was staying in the house—this refugee. English girl, I understand.”

“So Mr. Vauregard told me.”

“She hasn't come back yet. Didn't take her hat with her.”

“No?”

“Could you describe her?”

“I could, but I only met her once, yesterday. Tall, slim, very fair, rather long blue eyes, pointed face. Fine, thin, rather long nose. Long neck, lots of thick, fine hair. Very good-looking.”

“Lady, I suppose?”

“Ladylike. Quiet, good manners, rather formal and old-fashioned.”

“Family tells me she was a governess.”

Gamadge gently sighed. “Seems the deceased didn't say much about her.”

“He didn't to me.”

“You hear that refugee story from the family?”

“Yes.”

“What did you think of it?”

“I thought that whatever the details of it might be, they would turn out to be entirely creditable to him.”

“Felt that way, did you?”

“Oh, yes; most high-minded old gentleman.”

“We haven't been able to get hold of the family lawyer yet—Bedlowe. He's in the country. The family doesn't know a thing about Mr. Vauregard's affairs, except that he made a will years ago. We hate to lose any time over routine, when it's a case of homicide.”

“Is it a case of homicide?”

“No poison container present; unless,” said Durfee, jocosely, “you removed it.”

“People have been known to take a capsule or a tablet out of a pocket, and swallow it, I suppose.”

“We'll know more about that later. What did you think about the servants? The family says they're out of the question.”

“Oh, absolutely, I should think.”

“The poor old cook—Mrs. Daggett—she's so laid out we got a woman up from the department to look out for her. Nice woman, Mrs. Daggett likes her.”

“I should say Miss Vauregard was the person for that job.”

“We don't want the family down here, yet; I'm going up to see them this evening. Funny, the way that yard door was left open when the servants weren't on the spot.”

“I understood from John the butler that Mr. Vauregard was going out.”

“Even so. Still, Daggett says they never have been burgled. How about getting the time straight? You were to drop in between six and seven, and you got here and up to the library at about six fifteen?”

“Six eighteen, I should think.”

“You looked at the body, didn't touch it, and came right out again. Didn't touch it.” Durfee questioned Gamadge with a sharp, inquiring glance.

“No. He was dead, I could see that. I supposed you didn't want me to examine him or offer my opinions. I know nothing about such matters.”

“So you came right out again. Nothing unusual about the place, except the dead body, and the broken coffee cup?”

“I saw nothing unusual; I was there about a quarter of a minute, and I had only been in that room once before—yesterday.”

“Why did you decide he was dead?”

“Because he'd taken cyanide.”

“You're up on poisons?”

“One reads so much about that one. Cyanide gives people that blue look, doesn't it? And of course the broken cup, and that pond of coffee on the parquet, showed he'd only had a sip of it.”

“A sip was plenty. It was his second cup, unless somebody else had one, and washed up afterwards. Well, you went down and broke the news to Daggett. Five minutes?”

“About that, and five more to hunt for Miss Smith, and a short five to telephone Miss Vauregard and the police.”

“Which brings us to six thirty-eight, when you called us. We were here at six forty-four.”

“Er—Miss Smith didn't have coffee with Mr. Vauregard?”

“Not unless she washed her cup afterwards. Mr. Daggett says there are exactly two cupfuls gone out of the pot. The deceased took two cups of an afternoon, and was always finished with his second by five-thirty. There's an alcohol lamp under the urn, and he kept it going in case a friend dropped in. Old Daggett didn't clear away until he brought up sherry at seven—he's got rheumatism, and the old gentleman spared him.”

“No cyanide in the coffee pot, I gather.”

“Probably not, but we'll have it analyzed. It doesn't smell of any. The point of all this is that whoever put cyanide in that second cup of coffee knew all about the house, and the habits of the deceased, and knew that he wasn't likely to have unexpected callers any time. There was just one time of day when a thing like that could be pulled off in this house.”

“By an outsider.”

“Yes. The Daggetts seem to have been making out some kind of a statement about this refugee, Miss Smith. Queer things they noticed. They say the list was for the family.”

“They're devoted old servants. They'd worry about a stranger coming in from nowhere.”

“And the old gentleman didn't give out much information about her, I understand.”

“Very little.”

“Would it inconvenience you if we looked you over—just to keep the records straight?”

“Go ahead,” said Gamadge, laughing. “Only of course I should have shot the poison container down the drain.”

Durfee smiled grimly, and looked Gamadge over himself. He showed interest in the little camera, and borrowed it “for a day or so.” He looked into Gamadge's wallet, but did not notice or remove the flyleaf inscribed “Cornelia, from a Friend,” which nestled among clean banknotes. He investigated Gamadge's fountain pen, which was full of ink, apologized civilly, and let him go home.