Murders in, Volume 2 (18 page)

“Yes. That's what he has said right along.”

Durfee contemplated Gamadge for a few moments, seemed to reflect, and then asked: “Are you still employed by these people?”

“Oh, no. I think Mrs. Morton fired me this morning, or rather yesterday morning, when I bullied her about telling you the arbor story. Poor woman, what a spot she was in!”

“Of course none of this stuff you told me is evidence.”

“No, just conjecture.”

“It may cut a few corners for us.”

“I hope it will.”

“If anything more turns up, you'll hand it over?”

“Naturally; but I'm out of the case. I hope.”

“It's too bad you didn't get a line on the Smith woman, through that book.”

“I wasn't so much trying to get a line on her, as trying to get rid of her.”

“You see what that got you.”

“Yes. Got the family the Vauregard money.”

Durfee gazed at him, somewhat baffled. “You're a queer guy. Don't get anybody else killed, will you?”

“I'll be careful. Are you giving the whole Smith-Wagoneur story to the press, Lieutenant?”

“Certainly are. They'll have all details by tomorrow noon. The more publicity on Smith now, the better.”

“Was that poison Mr. Vauregard had in tablet form, do you mind telling me?”

“Potassium cyanide solution. He got it in his second cup of coffee.”

“Oh. If Miss Smith didn't put it there, perhaps the fellow took away the container to saddle the job on her. I mean, people usually do try to make it look like suicide, don't they?”

“Now what are you getting at?”

“Just talking in my sleep.” Gamadge rose, wobbling slightly, and steadied himself against the back of his chair. “As you see. Anything more, or can I go home to bed?”

“Nothing at present. If you get any ideas, just cooperate, will you? Don't forget how this thing got away from you. You might find yourself in a tight place, sometime.”

“Oh, I hope not. Good night.”

Gamadge made his way past the uniformed man and out of the house. He had his picture taken as he descended the steps. Before he walked away he glanced up at the front of the Morton residence, which was now blazing with lights from roof to basement, and which his exhausted fancy pictured as almost literally bulging in the grip of its two mortgages. Another flash in his eyes made him blink and start. He grinned at the grinning cameraman, and went off down the dark street.

N
EXT MORNING A SIGN
on Gamadge's door said “Keep Out,” and his bedside telephone was switched off; so that he did not waken until ten, or appear at his breakfast table until ten thirty. He seemed, however, to be in a brisk and purposeful mood, which ill accorded with the careworn look of Theodore as he handed the bacon.

After a glance at the papers, in which the second Vauregard murder had found its way to a place where war news had had pre-eminence for weeks, he threw them aside and looked about him.

“Where's Martin?” he asked.

“In the lab'atory, Mr. Gamadge, keepin' Harold company. Harold, he don't feel so good this mornin'.”

“Too bad.”

“He see us in the paper, and he go down and shut the lab'atory door.”

“He's too sensitive. Go down to the laboratory and get Martin out of there, will you, and into his basket. This is the day he has that wart taken out of his ear.”

“That cat's as well as ever he was in his life. You goin' to upset him for nothin'?”

“Doctor Wadley said it might be a focus of infection.”

“Doctor Wadley's too fussy. That cat ain't been sick since Christmas, when he stole those shrimps mayonnaise.”

“You get him into his basket.”

Gamadge finished his breakfast, called Wadley and made an appointment, had a cigarette, and went downstairs. Theodore stood in the front hall, a large coffer-shaped basket on the floor beside him. There was a cab at the door.

“Doctor Wadley won't be workin' today, it's Saturday,” protested Theodore.

“He's there, I called him.”

Gamadge picked the basket up by its handle; it was not only lopsided, but it became lopsided at a different angle with every step he took. He got it to the curb, and the driver of the cab, viewing it ungraciously, said that Gamadge would have to hold it on his lap.

“I know that; I held it on my lap from New York to Boston once; my friend doesn't care for baggage cars.” Gamadge got in, and adjusted the basket on his knees. He then took the orange paw which presented itself to him through a little window practiced in the wickerwork, and held it faithfully until the cab arrived at Wadley's address.

The veterinary had his quarters on the top floor of a tall building, and they had been described by Theodore as “good enough for folks.” There was a front office, a waiting room furnished with comfortable chairs and a sofa for collapsed pet owners to lie down on, a big, modern surgery, and a laboratory in the rear. Gamadge sat admiringly beside the glass-topped operating table while Doctor Wadley wrapped Martin in a bath towel, told him he was a good boy, and applied a local anesthetic to his ear. Martin shrieked, Gamadge winced, and Wadley conjured him to hold on to the bath towel.

“Sorry my assistant isn't here today,” he said. “I gave him the Saturday off. Owners are never any good at this sort of thing.”

The wart was off in a moment. Martin stepped out of the towel, stretched and shook each leg as if to convince himself that no bones were broken, and then seemed to dismiss the whole thing from his mind. He jumped down and was making for the waiting room door, when Gamadge caught him up and cradled him in his arms.

“You're a martyr, old boy,” he crooned; “that's what you are.”

Wadley raised his eyebrows in amused tolerance of this spinsterish exhibition, said that there would be no trouble with the ear, and added: “Just give me a call, if he shows a tendency to scratch it.”

Gamadge placed Martin in his basket, and fastened the lid.

“By the way,” he said. “Miss Dawson tells me that you take care of her dogs.”

“Miss Clara Dawson?” Wadley paused, in the act of gathering up his instruments.

“Yes.”

“I've taken care of all their animals for years. I never was more shocked in my life! First the old gentleman, on Thursday, and now this ghastly thing about Mrs. Morton. I only knew Mr. Vauregard through that French poodle he had, but—why, it's incredible! The papers seem to think it must have been that refugee he had staying with him. Unbalanced by her troubles, went out of her mind, got some kind of persecution complex involving the whole family. They say the police can't find her.”

“No. You had to put Miss Dawson's old dog out of the way, the other night, she says.”

“Yes. Fine animal—that kennel has the best chows in the country, I always say. I wanted to do it before; when a dog gets blind and deaf, can't enjoy its food, has rheumatic pains, it's time for the poor old thing to go. Nice family, I don't like to think of them in all this trouble. Every one of them, except Mrs. Morton, came over here on Wednesday evening to say good-bye to the old dog. Even Duncannon came. He used to breed Afghans, but he sold 'em.”

“Pretty touching, that. All here, were they?”

“Miss Dawson came with young Payne—sad case, that, isn't it? Duncannon drove Miss Vauregard over. Dick—I took care of his Scotties when he was a little fellow, before his father died—he turned up later. They all waited until I'd given the hypodermic. I wouldn't let Miss Dawson wait in here, though; never do. She was upset enough as it was.”

“Milling around for some time, were they?”

“Quite a while. I called up earlier, before six, and told Miss Dawson it ought to be done, but she asked me to wait until later, so they could all come. Mrs. Morton—poor woman—she never cared for animals.”

“She had a macaw.”

“If you call that an animal; I'm no bird man.”

“Decent of you to stay late, and humor the family. Did you keep your assistant on, too?”

Doctor Wadley, slightly surprised at the question, said no, he had let Thompson go home. “Didn't need him. The dog was lying quietly, half conscious…”

“What do you use in the hypodermic?”

“Potassium cyanide solution.”

Gamadge lighted a cigarette, and Wadley gathered up his instruments and took them over to the white-enameled sink. Suddenly he turned, stared at Gamadge, and said: “My God.”

Gamadge returned his gaze, but said nothing.

“That's what the papers said. In the coffee. But…”

“Was the stuff lying around handy, Wednesday night?”

“It was, but—Gamadge, you don't mean—”

“It isn't easy to come by.”

“No, that's what I thought when I read about the old gentleman and this refugee. Good Lord, I—”

“Where was it, while the family milled around, and you were working over the dog?”

“In the laboratory, on that shelf just inside the door there. I got the jar out of the locked cupboard before I went out for my dinner. Place was all locked up, of course, while I was away.” Wadley's red, good-natured face had taken on a purplish hue.

“Let's see it, will you?”

The veterinary, after another stare at him, went into the laboratory and came back with a small, squat jar, plainly labeled; there was a bit of adhesive plaster sealing the glass stopper. He put it down on the operating table, and they both looked at it.

“My God,” said Wadley, “we're both crazy.”

“Is there a sink near that shelf it was standing on?”

“Right beside it. Why?”

“Can you tell whether any of it's missing, Wadley?”

“Of course I can. I put four ounces into this jar out of the supply, did it myself; I don't allow anybody else to handle such stuff. I filled my hypodermic, and that's all that I used of it.”

He took the jar into the laboratory. Gamadge waited, finally taking Martin out of the basket, for company.

When the veterinary returned, his purple hue had faded to mauve.

“Gamadge, my God, there's nine minims gone.”

“Nine drops exactly?”

“Yes.”

“It couldn't have evaporated?”

“Nonsense. But it's all nonsense! Those people—they didn't know they were going to have access to the stuff!”

“Couldn't have got spilled somehow?”

“Look at the jar; that's why I use it—so it won't tip over; but if it had, we'd have known it.”

“Yes; ‘…how faint the peaches smelt.'”

“What say?”

“You would have smelled the stuff. Well, old man, I have no right to ask you to keep quiet about this for the moment—”

“I only wish I could keep quiet about it forever! I can see all the headlines, if it ever gets into the papers: ‘Vet careless with deadly poisons.'”

“Not at all; ‘Distinguished veterinary surgeon aids police.' You leave it to me. I've seen Durfee—”

“That's so, you found the body!”

“Both bodies.”

Wadley stared.

“So I'm more or less in touch with the police. I'll be discreet; just let me handle it.”

“Glad if you will. There must be some mistake, Gamadge! Nice people like that coming over to see the old dog.”

“Let's hope there is.”

Gamadge once more bundled Martin into his basket, bade farewell to the distressed Wadley, and drove home. He released Martin in the hall, and telephoned from his office:

“Henry Gamadge speaking. Is this the Morton house?”

“It is.”

“Lieutenant Durfee there, by any chance?”

“He's busy.”

“Ask him if it will be all right for me to come up and call on Miss Vauregard or Miss Dawson.”

“Miss Vauregard is in bed; she can't see anyone.”

“Miss Dawson, then.”

After a wait, Durfee said: “Hello.”

“Any objection to my coming up and seeing Miss Dawson, Lieutenant?”

“Any objection to telling me what you want to see her about?”

“Well, of course I'm out of the case, professionally; but I have an idea you might be interested in, only I have to do some checking up first. I thought Miss Dawson might help.”

There was a long pause. Then Durfee said: “I had a call this morning from a man named Schenck—insurance investigator.”

“Oh, yes; I know him. Delightful, isn't he?”

“I don't know how delightful he is, but he's as sharp a customer as I ever met. He and I have come together now and then on business.”

“I hope he cooperated. Schenck always wants everybody to cooperate.”

“Yes, he did; he says you cooperate.”

“Very nice of him.”

“Quite excited he was, when he saw the papers. Wanted to know,” said Durfee, with a kind of wonder, “if you were on the case!”

“I hope you snubbed him.”

“He told me a lot of funny stuff. See here; if you talk to the girl—any of these people…”

“Well?”

“Schenck says you don't hold out on the police.”

“Oh, never. What I was going to say was, that if I get this information from Miss Dawson, I shall turn it over to you and ask you to help check up on it. I have no facilities for digging up information, and I can't make people give me any.”

There was another pause. Then Durfee said: “Just want us to do a little work for you?”

“I'm doing a little work for you.”

“What's your interest in doing it?”

“Entirely noble. I have an idea that some of these people might get framed, if we're not careful.”

“Nice of you to help. See here; Schenck said you didn't snoop off by yourself and look for information.”

“Certainly not; I was asked to assist the state police.”