Nothing Can Rescue Me (11 page)

“SS. Gervase and Protase. Now I'm going down to confer with Syl. We'll have your New York place opened, and Mason shall stay here and look after Underhill. You're clearing out when I do.”

“But, Henry!” Flustered, and rather excited, she peered at him tearfully from behind her handkerchief. “Why?”

“Why? Because, my dear girl, you've created such an ammunition dump around you that I'm afraid to leave you in it. Sparks are flying already. We don't want anything more to happen like that business with your book. When you get to New York see your doctor. Or have you one here?”

“Except for my special arthritis régime I have Dr. Burbage, from Bethea. We've had him ever since Father died. He's very good.”

“He can recommend a Southern trip. Take Louise. It'll do you worlds of good to travel.”

“I've never been so ordered about in my life!” But Mrs. Mason seemed pleased by Gamadge's brusque methods.

“You need to get away from the lot of them,” he said. “You need to stop worrying about who loves you and who doesn't. Now I'll go talk to Syl, and then I'll be back. Don't tell anybody about your plans yet—you want Burbage's orders behind you.”

“I don't know how I shall ever get ready by to-morrow. Shout for Louise.”

Gamadge went and shouted for Louise, whose room, as he remembered, was just at the head of the back stairs. Then he descended to the first floor; at the door of the library a single note from the old clock within told him that it was half-past three.

He did not go through the library, however; a curious muffled sound like crying drew him along the hall to the cupboard under the stairs. When he arrived at it a scratching prepared him to see the griffons tumble out as soon as he opened the door; they did so, evidently in a vile temper, and dashed past him towards the front of the house.

Mildly surprised, he tapped on the office door, received no answer to his knock, and went in. The room was in semi-darkness as he had left it, and seemed empty; planchette was no longer on the bridge table, and suddenly he caught sight of its little white wheels on the floor, midway between the door and the window. It lay on its back, legs in air, with exactly the helpless look of an over-turned bug or beetle. Gamadge, more and more puzzled, advanced through the dusk.

After a step or two he halted, frozen; Sylvanus lay behind the bridge table, fallen sidewise, with the little chair across his feet. There was a pool of blood under the frightful wound on his head, and at the edge of the pool lay the weapon that had killed him—a bronze Chinese lady from the library mantelpiece, the one that leaned slightly towards the left.

Gamadge raised his eyes and looked at the open library door. The murderer had come through it after snatching the bronze from the mantle; had dealt that smashing blow from behind. Sylvanus, falling forward, had struck the light table, and planchette had bounded to the floor. When? Gamadge looked over his shoulder into the dark hall, and across to the stair cupboard; some thirty-five minutes earlier he had seen the griffons rush for the back stairs, and Louise had said that they must be hunting Sylvanus. If the murderer had shut them up in their familiar prison to quiet their barking, Sylvanus had perhaps been murdered while Gamadge and Louise conversed in his bedroom.

Gamadge walked around the bridge table and touched Sylvanus's outflung wrist; then, suddenly whirling, he sped out of the office, down the hall, and halfway up the front stairs. But his momentary panic was baseless—he had a glimpse of Louise within the doorway of Mrs. Mason's room, and he heard Florence's voice chattering busily. He came back to the office, closed and locked the doors, and went to the desk telephone.

When he heard the operator's voice he said shortly: “State police.”

A few seconds later somebody addressed him in a gruff kind of chant: “State Police Headquarters, Bethea. Sergeant Begg.”

“I wish to report a homicide.”

Sergeant Begg was not startled: “Those drunks up in the valley again?”

“Drunks? No. Mr. Hutter's been killed; at the Hutter place, above Erasmus.”

“For the love of—”

“I'm a guest in the house. I found him about two minutes ago. Back of his head's smashed in, and the weapon's here. Done within the last thirty-five minutes. I'm locking the room—haven't told anybody.”

Sergeant Begg said: “For the love of—what's your name?”

“Gamadge. Henry Gamadge, New York.”

“Any men on the place for a round-up?”

“Er, I think it was an inside job.”

“I'll get hold of the Inspector if I can. Keep an eye on the room till somebody gets there.”

Sergeant Begg rang off. Gamadge went back to the bridge table, and looked at the paper which had been under planchette; there was no mark on it except the long, light track which planchette had made when Sylvanus's dying hands first shoved it, before he struck the table and it bounded off to the floor. Gamadge was sure that Sylvanus would not have waited long for a message; certainly not ten minutes—until three o'clock. Had the griffons been shut up before or after the murder? Before it, of course; as soon as they met the murderer in the hall.

Gamadge looked into the stair cupboard, and pulled on its hanging light. A neat cupboard it was now, with the floor clear except for garden tools and baskets under a shelf; a riding-crop and gloves on the shelf, a couple of sou'wester hats and rubber coats on the hooks. One of the gloves was bloodstained, and the thinner and shorter raincoat had blood on its right cuff and low down on its right front, near the hem. These last stains looked as if they had dripped there; from the bronze, perhaps, when the murderer lowered it after the blow; those bronzes had smooth, rounded pedestals—blood would drip from them. Gamadge had seen the pedestal of the one that killed Sylvanus, and observed that its head was clean.

If the griffons had been shut into the cupboard before the murder, wouldn't they have come rushing out again when the murderer replaced the gloves and the raincoat? They would, unless ordered to stay where they were by someone whom they implicitly obeyed. Thinking this over, Gamadge shut the cupboard door and took up a strategic position at the foot of the stairs; whence he could watch the hall and its doors, and watch the drawing-room; and—most important of all, to him—whence he could hear Louise and Mrs. Mason. Except for them the house was quiet—rather too quiet for his peace. Mason might still be on his walk, Corinne Hutter on hers, but what had become of Susie Burt, of Mrs. Deedes, of Evelyn Wing? Had the latter gone upstairs? He looked into the drawing-room, but it was empty.

Had Percy gone on his walk in the walled garden? It had not quite rained, but while Gamadge was with Mrs. Mason it had begun a sort of drizzle.

Twice Gamadge went all the way up to the second floor, to assure himself that all was well with Florence Mason. The second time Louise almost caught him; she was carrying a griffon along to the hall bathroom and scolding it; blood on its paw, she complained, but she couldn't find that it had hurt itself.

At four minutes past four two motor-cycles and a police car came quietly up the drive; Gamadge, from the front doorway, watched one of the officers station the others; three outside the house, while a fourth and fifth came up the steps. Their superior followed them; a stocky middle-aged, greying man with a long and square chin, a long and blunt nose, a thin mouth and a direct stare. He stopped in front of Gamadge to ask: “You the Mr. Gamadge that called us?”

“Yes. Thought you'd never get here.”

“We made pretty good time. I'm Lieutenant Windorp, Inspector of State Police at Bethea. The coroner's on his way. I called the county.”

“Glad they got hold of you. This way.”

“Stay at the door, Ridley. Come along, Morse. This is Sergeant Morse, Mr. Gamadge. He'll take notes for me.”

Gamadge nodded to Sergeant Morse over a shoulder. He unlocked the office door, and for ten minutes did most of the talking. Lieutenant Windorp made an excellent listener, and in fact did little more, after he had pulled back the curtains and raised the blind, than listen to Gamadge and look about the room—at the body of Sylvanus, at planchette recumbent, at the paper on the table, the bronze statuette on the floor. Then he allowed Gamadge, still talking, to show him the cupboard under the stairs. Sergeant Morse, a young man training himself to be completely official, took notes with speed and competence; but he could not prevent his eyes from bulging.

When Gamadge had related, in the minutest detail, every- thing (except his conversation with Mrs. Mason and his conversation with Louise) that had happened after he had left Sylvanus to planchette, Windorp remarked that he seemed to be a fair witness.

“I've had a little experience. I know the kind of information you people want. By the way—I haven't told you that my poor friend here, and his aunt Mrs. Mason, got me up yesterday on a job.”

“Job?”

“You'll be interested, but that story can wait until you have time to listen to it. What I should like to impress upon you now is the condition of Mrs. Mason's alibi.”

Windorp, surveying him dispassionately, said: “I know Mrs. Mason fairly well. Didn't know she had a motive for killing her nephew.”

“Well, that's just it; you and I are aware that it's absurd to dream of her killing anybody for any reason; but the fact is that Syl's death gives her the free use of the Hutter fortune—about ten millions. Up till now she's only had half the income; Sylvanus had the other half.”

Windorp's face did not alter. “His death releases the capital?”

“Yes. But of course she's always known that, and only today she was discussing her will with me—on the basis of her private fortune of about five hundred thousand.”

Windorp ran his hand over the top of his head.

“She expected me in her room from lunch-time on,” continued Gamadge. “I left Hutter at ten to three, went upstairs with the maid Louise a couple of minutes later, talked to her in my room for a few minutes, and found Mrs. Mason settled on her chaise-longue with a book at three-three. That's what the clock on her mantel said. I was with her until just on three-thirty, when I went down and found Hutter. She had less than ten minutes to shut up the dogs, commit the murder, get the rain-coat on and off, and dodge up to her room again; knowing I was due any minute. It's out of the question. I wish you'd let me break Syl's death to her, lieutenant. It'll be a frightful shock. And somebody's sure to see those troops of yours any minute now.”

Windorp reflected. At last he said: “Tell you what we'll do. That man of theirs, Thomas; I've seen him around in Bethea for years. Tell him to get Mrs. Mason down here.”

“Thanks. In the drawing-room? You'll want the library clear.”

“And you don't want her as close to the scene of action as that. All right,” said Windorp imperturbably, “the drawing-room.” Gamadge rang the bell beside the swing door. Thomas appeared, looking stupefied; he had caught a glimpse of the troopers, and now, at sight of Windorp, showed agitation.

“There's been some trouble, Tom,” said Gamadge, “and Lieutenant Windorp wants to talk to Mrs. Mason. Don't say trouble—just ask her to step down and see him—and me.”

“Yes, sir. Might I ask what—”

“No, because if you know what, Mrs. Mason will get it out of you.” He added: “When she's down, stand by in the dining-room with brandy.”

Thomas went up the back stairs. Gamadge and Windorp retired to the drawing-room, where Gamadge supplied the lieutenant with additional detail until Mrs. Mason came down. She was alert and inquisitive, but not alarmed.

“Well, I'm delighted to see you, Lieutenant Windorp, but I don't know why you're here, because none of the cars is out. We hardly ever use them. Don't tell me any of the men has been doing anything? They're never in trouble!”

Windorp discreetly permitted Gamadge to break the news; called Thomas in when she collapsed; helped him to administer brandy; and when she revived, permitted Gamadge to take her up to her room.

Another car, and then another, drove up to the front door; there was commotion in the hall, a rush of footsteps, a slamming of doors. The house was astir by the time that Gamadge and Mrs. Mason had reached her room.

Mrs. Deedes came up behind them, gasping. “Henry, what is it? There are police on the grounds, and a man with a badge in the lower hall, and a man with a bag—he looks like a doctor. What has happened?”

Gamadge said: “Help me to get her on her bed.” Mrs. Deedes, with a wild glance at him, put her arm around her friend. Mrs. Mason was laid tenderly on the left-hand bed, and supported by a multitude of little pink and blue pillows; Mrs. Deedes drew the eiderdown up over her feet. She opened her eyes. “Syl's dead,” she whispered. “Somebody killed him.”

Mrs. Deedes raised a shocked face to Gamadge, who nodded. “It's true, Sally. Ring her doctor.”

She went to the telephone, which stood on a table beside the fireplace. As she lifted it, Gamadge said: “Tell him to bring two nurses.”

“Two?” she faltered.

“Two. She's not to be alone day or night until she can be moved from Underhill.”

“Alone, Henry? We wouldn't leave her alone!”

“I want two nurses.”

At the look in his eyes she turned away, and began to talk into the mouthpiece. Evelyn Wing appeared at the door. “Evvie!” Mrs. Mason held out her arms. Miss Wing, without a look at Gamadge, came and bent over the pathetic figure on the bed.

“Evvie, Syl's dead! Somebody killed him!”

“I know. A policeman came and told me just now. I must go down. I had to speak to you first.”

“Can't you stay with me?” Mrs. Mason clutched her.

“Dear Mrs. Mason, we all have to go and talk to the officer—Lieutenant Windorp.”