Nothing Can Rescue Me (13 page)

“Hal Burbage!” cried Mrs. Mason, sitting up.

“And your friend Miss Mudge. We were lucky to get hold of her.” Dr. Burbage was closely followed by a capped and bonneted nurse, carrying a suit-case; Gamadge hurried forward and took it from her, to be rewarded by a bright smile. Burbage, after a sharp glance at him, went to his patient.

“Well, Florrie.” He put his fingers around her wrist. “Considering what you've been through in the last hour, you're doing pretty well. I'm pleased with you.”

Mrs. Mason had again become limp and tearful. “Oh, Hal, it's all too dreadful. I suppose I must have collapsed at first, since Mr. Gamadge would insist on my having two nurses.”

Burbage sat down, put his bag on the floor, and dragged his coat off. He was about to hang it on the back of his chair, but Miss Mudge quickly advanced and took it away. “You the man that wanted two nurses, are you?” he pierced Gamadge with another sharp look. “From the way Mrs. Deedes talked over the telephone I thought you must be a specialist, and I was called in for a consultation.”

“I simply have no manners,” wailed Mrs. Mason, “Let me introduce you.”

“Don't think it's necessary,” said Burbage, considering the blunt-featured young man with the greenish eyes. “I'll have a word with Mr. Gamadge after I've settled you, Florrie; or rather, while Miss Mudge is settling you. We'll go outside and she'll put you to bed. I'm going to give you a good once-over, now I'm here. How's the novel getting along?”

“Don't talk about it!”

Burbage, surprised at her vehemence, said: “Mustn't let it lick you. Mustn't let this trouble lick you. I've known you a long time, and never saw anything or anybody lick you yet. You just turn yourself over to Miss Mudge; remember how she got you through the flu last year?”

The smiling Miss Mudge came forward, and Burbage rose. Outside the closed bedroom door he faced Gamadge:

“There's another nurse on the way. What's the idea, young feller?”

“I thought day and night professional nursing was the thing for Mrs. Mason just now. Until Sylvanus's murder has been cleared up.”

Burbage knitted his brows. “Windorp's been checking up on you. He had the darnedest rigmarole. The New York City Police Department has their summer camp not so far from this, and Windorp knows some of 'em. He's been telephoning.”

Gamadge smiled.

“Says you were good enough to explain that Florence Mason didn't kill Sylvanus Hutter. Florence!”

“I hoped he'd waste no time on Florence. She mustn't be alone, Doctor, or eat or drink a thing the nurses haven't prepared for her: I'm hoping to get her to New York tomorrow. Think she can make it?”

Burbage looked at him, frowning heavily. At last he said: “Good Lord, I know these people.”

“Just at the moment, would you take a chance on them? Syl's death has released the Hutter fortune, and every soul in the house is down for something in her will, and they all know it except Corinne Hutter, whose annuity I made Florence shove in about half an hour ago.”

“I suppose it couldn't be those thugs up the valley?”

“Thugs up the valley, Doctor? Chinese bronze used as weapon, front door locked, raincoat and gloves found and put on, office desk undisturbed—”

“I was hoping they'd been scared off.” Burbage chewed his lower lip. “I know how it looks. I'll have Florence in shape to go back to New York to-morrow. Windorp's a sensible man; he won't object.”

“I thought perhaps you'd get hold of her New York doctor and see if he'd put her in a comfortable rest cure for the time being. Where she'd enjoy herself. Get her away from these people—all of them.”

“Good idea; I know the very place, she's been there before.” He cast a glance of sombre inquiry at Gamadge. “Mason—if he's not consulted he'll make a row.”

“Windorp must handle him.”

“Well; I'll give instructions about the food and the nursing. Trust Mudge and Boylan—that's the other one. Windorp seems to think you may be able to give him a hand with this murder. Says you had everything cut and dried for him.”

“I had a dead body for him. I had everything cut and dried for the murder; room darkened, all the rest of it. Syl got me up here to look after Florence, and he's dead. I'm not going to let anything happen to Florence Mason.”

Miss Mudge put her head around the door to say that Mrs. Mason was ready for the doctor. Burbage muttered: “See you again,” and hurried into the bedroom. Gamadge was turning away, when a voice addressed him from the head of the back stairs: “For goodness' sake, Mr. Gamadge, what is all this, anyhow?”

Gamadge swung about to look up at Miss Corinne Hutter. “Good Heavens,” he said, “didn't Windorp get you?”

“Who's Windorp? What's happened? I sat down to finish that tear in the window curtain, and I looked out and saw State police in the yard.”

“I gave him your name with the rest. Why didn't they find you? Where on earth have you been?”

“Up here, having a nap after my walk. Where should I be?”

“What time did you get back?”

“Around a quarter past three. I've had a sleep.”

“Slept right through it all. Look here, I'm coming up.”

Again he climbed the dark stairs, and again followed her into the little south-west room. She stood gazing at him, thimble on finger, needle and spool in her hand, amazement growing in her round eyes. He took note of the fact that the bed was against the partition wall, out of sight behind the half-open door.

“Funny the troopers didn't look right into all the rooms,” he said. “Somebody'll get a wigging.”

“Why?”

“Because there just might have been a strange murderer in the house. Your cousin Sylvanus is dead, Miss Hutter.”

“Dead?”

“He was killed. Somebody smashed his head in with one of those bronzes from the library mantelpiece. It happened be- tween ten minutes to three and half-past, and you just missed seeing the murderer.”

Miss Hutter justified his opinion of her Roman quality; she looked at him in silence, and then sat down in her rocking chair. After a pause she remarked: “I can't take it in.”

Gamadge also sat down. “Don't blame you,” he said.

“Where was he when he was killed?”

“In the office, working planchette.”

“Where was everybody?”

“Don't know. I found him, and didn't see a soul except Louise and Mrs. Mason. They're out of it, anyway.”

She pondered this. Then she said: “Anybody could get in, you know. They don't lock the back door much in the day-time; it was unlocked when I came back. The servants wouldn't see the person come in unless one of them happened to be in the hall or the passage.”

Gamadge told the story of the raincoat and the griffons. As he finished it the griffons trotted into the room, and he pointed to the second in line. “That fellow had blood on his paw, afterwards. I think he got it when the murderer hung the raincoat up in the closet.”

Miss Hutter looked faintly nauseated, but said calmly:

“It's a girl, Dodo. Bobo's the boy.”

‘Whose dogs are they?”

“Cousin Florence's, but they like Cousin Tim Mason the best.” She added, rather quickly, “They like lots of people.”

“Now, look here, Miss Hutter.” Gamadge leaned forward, his eyes on hers. “I want you to forget everything—everything except the fact that your cousin Sylvanus was brutally killed. I don't think there's much doubt that he was killed by an inmate of this house. I want you to be frank with me, and discuss the potentialities for murder of all these people.”

She reached out to pick up the corner of the muslin curtain, studied the half-mended rent in it, and slowly began to sew the remaining gap together. Then she said:

“They're all nice folks.”

“How nice? Is Miss Burt as nice as Mrs. Deedes, is Percy as nice as Mason? What do you mean by nice, Miss Hutter?”

“I mean they all come from nice families. It would take a good deal to make any of them kill a person.”

“It would; what, for instance? Florence suggests that Sylvanus knew who put those extracts into her book, and was killed because he intended to tell; tell me, I suppose. He showed no sign of being about to tell me anything.”

“He was quite close-mouthed.”

“He was, and he hated a row. But I had stirred him up, and perhaps he was going to reveal something. Perhaps he knew that Miss Burt's affair with Mason was more serious than Florence supposed.”

“Susie Burt wouldn't have a serious affair with anybody unless the person had money.”

“Now we come to it. Nobody in the outfit had money but Sylvanus and Florence; now she has it all.”

Miss Hutter's spool rolled from her lap to the floor, but she retrieved it before Gamadge could do so. When she sat up again there was a slight flush on her face. She said: “Terrible.”

“So terrible that I have got two nurses for Florence.”

“I'm glad of it.”

“Thank goodness you don't protest, and talk about thugs up the valley.”

“Well, I did talk about somebody from outside.”

“Before you knew the facts.”

“I don't know many facts yet. Would Cousin Tim Mason get a good deal of money if Cousin Florence died?”

“A good deal; less than he was down for at one time.”

“I don't mean that Cousin Tim would do these things. I was thinking of Susie, and it's kind of mean of me.”

“We must think of these things. Miss Burt is down for something too. It would be worth while, I suppose.”

“I don't see what else Cousin Sylvanus could have been going to tell, if that's what he was killed for,” said Corinne, rocking.

“Well, perhaps he was killed just to release the money to Florence.”

“Mrs. Deedes wouldn't kill him, or Cousin Florence, or anybody.”

“Not even for Bill Deedes?”

Corinne slowly shook her head. “Of course I don't know, but I should say not. She isn't the kind.”

“Miss Wing?”

Corinne shook her head. “She isn't the kind either.”

“She's down for a whacking legacy, you know; we can't tell who's been snooping about and reading drafts or copies of Florence's wills.”

“I can't see Evelyn Wing committing murder.”

“Remains Mr. Percy; the charming, the accomplished; the serious reader. He seems to have developed a certain interest in Miss Wing, although more or less the property—by report—of Miss Burt. Would you say that he could be seriously in love unless there was money in it for him?”

“I guess anybody could be seriously in love without there being money in it; but I don't believe he'd marry without it, any more than Susie Burt would.”

“What do you think of him otherwise?”

She snapped off her thread, put the needle and spool carefully into her little sewing-case, and tied the case up. She laid it on the table, and then, slowly tapping her thimbled finger on the table edge, seemed lost in thought. At last she looked at Gamadge. “Are you going to repeat what I say to the police?” she asked.

“I won't repeat an unnecessary word to them.”

“If I had to have an enemy, I'd rather have almost anybody but Glen Percy.”

“No, really?” Gamadge was much interested. “Would you indeed?”

“Yes, I would.”

“Why?”

“When I drove over a couple of weeks ago I went down to that garden with the walls and the yew hedges. He was by the pool with Susie Burt, and they were talking, and I saw his face.”

“Not so beautiful as it usually is?”

“It wasn't beautiful at all. He was talking about Cousin Tim. Then I came around the hedge, and they saw me, and he was pleasant again.”

Gamadge was thoughtful. “He seems pleasant enough to Miss Burt now, if a trifle condescending.”

“That's just it.”

“You're making him out a very queer character indeed.”

“I'm not making him out anything.”

“If he was reproaching Susie Burt for her affair with Mason, in spite of the fact that he wouldn't marry her unless she had money—oh, look here?”

Corinne looked at him, silent.

“He works out a scheme to do away with your cousin Florence, and marry Miss Burt on the strength of her legacy; which he presumably knows all about. Miss Burt, however, falls in love with Mason; so Percy adapts the plan to Miss Wing. Tampers with the novel, secretly explains to Florence that somebody's trying to get rid of Wing, gets her legacy boosted, and begins to lay siege to her affections. Dear me. No wonder, if that's true, Miss Burt was unable to contain herself when she saw his pretended change of heart. He's beginning to sound like somebody out of an Elizabethan drama himself—‘Glenido, a Roman Gentleman.'”

“The only person I ever saw that had his looks,” said Corinne Hutter, rather dreamily, “was an Italian on a boat.”

“An Italian—on a boat?”

“His baggage was marked for Washington,” said Corinne. “It was a ferry boat, and I followed him quite a way up the dock. Perhaps he was a prince; I couldn't describe him.”

“I've seen 'em; I know what you mean.”

“Well, anyway, you're going to look out for Cousin Florence.”

“I most certainly am. And I'm hoping to get her out of here to-morrow.”

Officer Ridley passed the door, stopped, retraced his steps, and peered in. Astonishment overspread his face. Gamadge rose, smiling.

“Officer,” he said, “meet Miss Hutter.”

“I know Johnny Ridley,” said Corinne drily.

“Good gosh. Lieutenant read me the names you gave him, Mr. Gamadge, and I wrote 'em down. When he said Miss Hutter I thought he meant Mrs. Mason; lots of people around here still call her Miss Hutter. Was you in this room all the time, Corinne?”