Nothing Can Rescue Me (19 page)

“Don't hope too much from this case, Macloud; it's a bad one.”

Before going down to breakfast on Sunday morning Gamadge, warned by sounds of activity within and without the house, looked from Sylvanus Hutter's window. He saw the cars parked in the drive, and caught a glimpse of Macloud, supported by the presence of two state policemen, glumly handing out typed statements to a ravening press. He gained the dining-room by way of the back stairs, the rear passage, and the side door.

One of the large, phlegmatic maids served him. She said that Thomas was “not so well.”

“Splendid, the way you're all keeping your heads,” said Gamadge, enjoying his coffee and his perfectly cooked eggs and bacon. The tall maid, soldierly and trim in her grey uniform, did not deign to reply. If she could lose her head in any circumstances, he thought, then so could the Jungfrau.

Sergeant Morse came in to say that the lieutenant wished to see him in the library. Gamadge rose, cigarette in mouth. “You been up all night, Morse?” he mumbled.

“Lieutenant and I had shakedowns in the library.”

Windorp looked none the worse for his shakedown; he was sitting at the round table, his papers spread out before him. There was a chair drawn up opposite him; no doubt it was for the accommodation of witnesses.

He said: “Good morning. The slacks in the urn were one hundred per cent wool. The article had been doused in cleaning fluid before burning, and the ashes damped down with water afterwards. Just enough smell left half an hour or so later for Beaver to notice it. No buttons or other metal fastenings were found.”

“Quick work.”

“My man in Bethea did it for me last night. I got the report this morning early. He found a piece under the microscope that says the stuff was probably dark blue.”

“He's good.”

“The murderer needed all of that forty minutes, I should say.”

“And got most of them; all but two or three minutes to see Louise and myself upstairs, and two or three for safety at the other end.”

Windorp frowned. “If it was Mason, he'd have had to come back to the house to change the capsules, and then get out again so as to come back from his walk later. But how could he or his accomplice know they'd have a chance to change the capsules?”

“Just luck that the chance came so soon. The death of Mrs. Mason was premeditated, the time of death not.”

“I don't know why Miss Wing, or anybody, should take a walk down in that place on a cold, disagreeable afternoon. If it was Mason she saw, she ought to be able to tell him from Percy. I'll talk to her about that. Before I see these people again I want to get the Mason wills straight in my head. Mr. Macloud gave me notes on 'em.” He shuffled his papers.

“Quite simple,” said Gamadge. “She made one shortly after her marriage, leaving all she possessed to Mason. First fine careless rapture, you know.”

“Yes; and Mason admits he knew about that one.”

“We can forget that one. She made another, three years ago, leaving twenty-five thousand each to Mrs. Deedes, Miss Burt, and Miss Wing, and making her husband residuary legatee. It also gave him Underhill and her effects.”

“Mason won't admit he ever saw that one, but he says he understood he was still residuary legatee in it. The other beneficiaries say they had a vague idea they were down in it for something good. But not one of 'em, and not Mason, will admit that they knew a thing about the will that was made last Thursday. Macloud says you say they may have seen drafts or copies, or the Thursday will itself.”

“Or Mrs. Mason may have told Mason—or implied—that she was going to make a new will, cutting him out.”

“Point is that if they did any of them know about the Thursday will, none of them but Evelyn Wing had more than a fifty thousand dollar motive for these murders. On Thursday she's made residuary legatee; on Saturday Hutter and then Mrs. Mason are killed.”

“Mason still thought he was residuary legatee.”

“It's in his favour that he admits it.”

“Don't forget the tampering with Mrs. Mason's books, Windorp.”

Windorp groaned. “Has that got to tie up with the murders?”

“Yes, it has.”

“Then either Mason tried to ruin Wing with Mrs. Mason before Mrs. Mason could change the will in her favour, or Wing committed the murders before anybody could do anything else to set Mrs. Mason against her.”

“The trick made her residuary legatee, no matter why it was done.”

Windorp asked, scowling at Gamadge: “Who's Evelyn Wing's heir?”

“Mrs. Deedes, I fancy”

Windorp groaned again, pushed his papers aside, and summoned Morse. “Get that maid Louise in here,” he said.

Louise had a swollen, tear-stained face, and red eyes; but there was a doggedness about her. She accepted Windorp's invitation to sit in the witness chair. Gamadge retired to the embrasure of one of the east windows, and stood there looking out at parked cars, great beeches, and a sullen sky.

“I'm sorry to bother you again,” said Windorp. “I know how you must be feeling.”

“Both gone.” She looked piteously at Gamadge. “Both gone, and Underhill will belong to a stranger.”

“Terrible,” said Windorp.

“Who is going around killing people in ze house?”

“We're going to find out, and you're going to help us. Which of the ladies here wears slacks?”

“Slex?”

“Ladies' trousers.” Windorp patted his own breeched leg.

“Oh. Madame never liked zem, she always told ladies zey looked bad in zose zings.”

“She was right.”

“Madame would not even wear pyjamas; just her beautiful nightdresses. She asked her friends not to wear slex at Underhill.”

“But they have them, don't they, to wear other places?”

“Only Mees Wing. She has grey flannel slex, but she never wears zem here.”

“Miss Hutter?”

Louise looked astonished. “Mees Corinne has no clothes, she does not dress at all.”

“Certainly she wears clothes—I've seen her in 'em.”

“I mean she is not
habillée
. She does not follow fashion. She would not wear slex.”

“Just covers herself up with something.” Windorp remained grave. “One of these ladies might have slacks, though, and you not know it.”

“Not unless zey hide zem! I unpack for ladies, I look over zeir zings.”

“How about the servants?”

Louise, in spite of her sorrow, could not but smile. “Zose beeg Danes? Zey would look wonderful in slex!”

“Don't wear them?”

“Never. Never in zis house have I seen anybody, anybody at all, in slex.”

“Well, thank you, that's all for now. Morse, show her out, and get Miss Wing here.”

When Louise had been escorted from the library Windorp turned to Gamadge. “Mason has no slacks that would go over his trousers, he said. No dungarees or overalls on the place would go on him. Nothing of the kind is missing from the garage or the stables, and Thomas says there's not an extra pair of trousers gone. He valets the men.”

Gamadge said that he hoped he had not been wasting Lieutenant Windorp's time on slacks.

Evelyn Wing came in, and at a gesture of Windorp's took the witness stand. Her eyes had the glazed look that comes from a sleepless night, but she was neat and self-controlled, and her hands lay quiet on her lap.

“Who is your heir, Miss Wing?” asked Windorp.

The question seemed to amaze her. “My heir?” She collected her thoughts. “Cousin Sally, I suppose. Mrs. Deedes.”

“You have no other relative?”

“No.”

“Made a will?”

She shook her head.

“You have a good deal to leave, you know, since yesterday. Money, and all this.” Windorp indicated the room, but seemed to include the house and property in his gesture. “All the stuff here, too,” he said, and glanced up at the black-marble chimney- piece, one end of which was bare, the other decorated by a slim bronze figure leaning gently to the right. All the furniture; the chair you re sitting on, the rug under your feet, the knives and forks you eat with.”

She said: “It's incredible. Mrs. Mason never meant that will to stand—never. Why should I have so much?”

“You had a lot more yesterday, or would have had if Mr. Gamadge hadn't persuaded Mrs. Mason to change her will.”

“She did things on impulse. She wouldn't have let it stand.”

“She wasn't given much time to change it. Now, Miss Wing; you said yesterday that you saw Mr. Percy down in that walled garden about five minutes past five o'clock. He says he wasn't there. How did you come to make such a mistake?”

“I only saw his hat.”

Windorp's lower lip came out as he sat back to glare at her. “You only saw—you didn't tell us so at the time.”

“Because I assumed that it was Mr. Percy. I saw his hat moving along behind a hedge, and I thought of course that he was wearing it.”

“You know his hat, do you?”

“Yes.”

“Where exactly was it when you saw it moving along?”

“Behind the outer hedge, going towards the south. The east hedge. I was on the west side of the pool.”

“On the level part of the place, or on the steps, or down beside the pool itself?”

“I don't quite remember; but I only saw a hat.”

“You must remember. Anybody would remember a thing like that.”

“I really don't.”

“I suppose you realize that if you were up on the ground level you would have seen more than a hat? You would have seen a head under the hat?”

“I suppose I should have.”

“You know where you were standing, Miss Wing. You won't be able to get away with that story on oath.”

“I only saw a hat.”

“That's what you say now, when you know that instead of its being an alibi for Percy it's the other thing. Where are your grey slacks?”

She started violently, recomposed herself, and replied: “In a trunk in the storeroom on the top floor.”

“Trunk locked?”

“No. The woman who was here yesterday went all through our trunks and things.”

“She wasn't told to look for slacks. Morse, tell Briggs to go up there and get these slacks and bring 'em down.”

While they waited, Windorp sat looking at Miss Wing as a large dog looks at a cat which has placed itself just out of his reach. Morse came back, and resumed his shorthand. Windorp spoke to her slowly:

“Miss Wing, I'll make a suggestion to you. I'll say what the lawyer would say to you in court. He'd say you didn't see a hat moving along behind the east hedge, going south. He'd say you were wearing that hat yourself, and Percy's coat, and you dragged Percy into it because you were afraid somebody might have seen you going down to the walled garden. He'd say you put those quotations in Mrs. Mason's book yourself, to persuade her that Mason was trying to make trouble for you. He'd say that nobody but you said one word about that walled garden yesterday, and you mentioned it because you were afraid you might have been seen coming back, and didn't dare say nothing about it. And he'll ask you why you didn't speak to Percy—call out, say something.”

“I didn't feel like talking to anybody.” She was looking intently at Windorp, but he had not shaken her. She answered him calmly enough.

“You didn't smell anything burning up while you walked back to the house?”

“They're always burning leaves and things. I didn't notice.”

“You'd have noticed that smell.”

Officer Briggs, a blond heavyweight, came in with a pair of grey flannel slacks over his arm; Windorp asked; “These yours, Miss Wing?”

“Yes.”

“The only ones you had up here?”

“Yes.”

“That's all for the present.”

She went slowly from the room; Windorp sent Briggs for Percy, who must have been waiting near the door of the library, for he lounged in almost before Briggs had had time to cross the hall. He immediately caught sight of the slacks, which Briggs had draped over the arm of a chair, and asked in a tone of great surprise: “What are you doing with my summer trousers?”

“Those are slacks, Mr. Percy; ladies' slacks. Could you wear 'em?”

Percy went over and picked them up. He held them against himself, cogitated, and said: “A trifle small in the waist and broad in the beam; but I could get them on; only they'd be short, you know.”

“Mason?”

“Couldn't get into 'em.”

“These belong to Miss Wing.”

“Do they? I haven't seen them on her.”

“But she wears slacks, since she bought these. Why should she have left the garden without speaking to you, Mr. Percy, if she thought she saw you in it?”

Percy hesitated, considered the question, and at last said with a semblance of great candour: “The truth is, Lieutenant Windorp, that our relations are slightly strained. A couple of weeks ago I made honourable advances at her, and she repulsed them.”

“Why?”

“She is a proud spirit, and she thinks I am frivolous, unaccountable, and light-minded.”

“Thought you were Miss Burt's property, perhaps?”

“Miss Burt doesn't care a hang about me, but Miss Wing is scrupulous.”

“Miss Wing thinks you always tell the truth. She thinks that if you say you weren't in the garden yesterday, she must have only seen your hat.”

“If she says that, then she only did see my hat,” said Percy, looking dazed.

“This is a murder investigation, so I have to ask personal questions. Have you means to support a wife?”

Percy's head turned rather stiffly on its neck to look at Gamadge, and then back again to Windorp. His voice has lost its lightness when he replied: “I don't know what you consider sufficient means to support a wife. Miss Wing has been poor; with me she would be less poor than she once was.”