The Book of the Dead (14 page)

Martin's procedure was also invariable; incapable of learning the uses of leash and harness, he always began the alleged stroll by gambolling like a kitten; but at the first hint of restraint he would lie down, seize the leash in both paws, and playfully chew and worry it. He would then find himself sliding along on his back, spring up in a rage, bolt off, bring himself up short, and cast himself down again for another bout with the enemy.

Theodore had never approved of the strolls in the shrubbery. On the present occasion he came to the back door and stood frowning. He said: “That cat goin' to break his back some day, tryin' to keep up with you.”

“Trying to what?” Gamadge turned to look down at his pet.

“His supper's ready.”

“Take him away. “

Theodore gathered Martin into his arms. Gamadge added: “I'll have my supper out here tonight. It's much cooler than it was.”

“You is so overlooked.”

“Let 'em look. Those fellows in the Charter Club will jump out of the windows when they smell my dinner.”

Theodore was not appeased. He remarked carelessly: “Long distance for you on the wire.”

Gamadge, with a howl of rage, sped into the house and up to the office. “Schenck? I've been half crazy.”

“Never got a minute till now. I couldn't risk leaving the lookout. But a few minutes ago I saw Pike driving past with two men, headed for the Crenshaw house. He drove in to get them. He's boarding up tomorrow, and one of the men's insurance, and the other real estate. They're giving the place a once-over. Going to try to sell. I walked up that way myself while Boucher was having his dinner—in a front window of our boardinghouse—and let me tell you that the Crenshaw house will be a haunted house in a couple of years.”

“Why?”

“Because nobody
will
buy it, and it's up there all by itself on a lonely road, and the grass will get tall, and the paint will come off, and birds and animals will get in there. Somebody'll hear a noise, goodbye.”

“You don't like the place?”

“I don't like any deserted place, city or country. Do you?”

“Well, thank goodness you got there, anyhow.”

“Oh, yes. We rolled in at a little after nine this morning—into Unionboro, I mean. Boucher driving, me asleep. Now don't interrupt me; I arranged for time with the Unionboro operator, but we mustn't outstay our welcome.”

“While you give me word-paintings of haunted houses.”

“Thought you'd want to know what the Crenshaw house is like. It's a plain, not very big farm; dooryard in front with maples; side yard with oaks and elms; grass poor; orchard sloping up back, stone wall—”

“I get it. Skip that.”

“Whatever you say. To start at the start, we made inquiries at Unionboro Station; nobody at all, no outsider, did any hauling there in June. That's final, and that means Pike was lying about it.

“We then drove up to Stonehill, nice little place, but it has a network of roads leading out of it. We never could have kept an eye on Pike if we hadn't found a boardinghouse—terrible, too—on the edge of town. Pike has to drive past every time he comes in. We got two front rooms upstairs.

“Boucher's been asleep all afternoon. I turn in right after supper, but I'm going to make him wake me early, because he's got to have another nap tomorrow morning. We're both going to be on hand for the funeral, which is scheduled for two o'clock; we think our friend means to leave for good soon afterwards.

“We saw him before we ever got our rooms in the boardinghouse; when we stopped at the post-office on our way through, to plant our story and pretend to arrange for mail. I went into the post-office; Boucher stayed in the car; Pike is never to get a look at Boucher, because if we have to split up Boucher will do the actual trailing.

“Pike looked regular to me, I'll say that; gawky type, sunburned, light eyes, hair cut with the garden clipper—you know; home style. Old suit and shirt, no hat. His car's an old Ford sedan. He was in the newspaper store next door to the post-office; post mistress says he came up from New York on the night express, morning of July twenty-second; stopped around paying bills and getting stores for himself. Told about Crenshaw being taken to the hospital, and showed a letter to the bank and other people, authorizing him to close the house up.

“Boucher says he
isn't
regular; says he's a fake. He didn't get a close view, but he sticks to it that he's no small-timer. Says he's an enigmatic individual and a droll type.”

Gamadge put in his first word: “Mystery man, is he?”

“So Boucher says. Something in his walk, something in his eye, something Boucher can't put the finger on. Boucher's the pro, he chased plenty of types, when he was with the Sûreté; but I don't pretend to get these nuances,” said Schenck, putting three syllables into the last word.

“For the record,” he went on: “Pike and Crenshaw arrived here in Pike's car on the fifteenth of June; might easily have landed at Unionboro that morning by the night express, getting in at 8:52. I'm checking up on the car—we have the number, of course. Might as well find out whether they picked it up in Unionboro that morning, where Pike bought it and when;
if
we can find out, you know. If he did acquire it lately, and in this vicinity, we have a chance.

“They lived up at the Crenshaw place until the morning of July sixth, when they took the day express down to New York. They were seen taking it. Pike garaged the car in Unionboro, small place away from the station.

“Pike came back at 8:52 on Thursday, the twenty-second, as I said. He's been up at the house since. Working hard, leaving it better than he found it. He didn't act surprised yesterday when he heard at the post-office that Crenshaw was dead; said he expected it. Acted exactly right; they all think he thought a lot of Crenshaw.

“Last news off the wire: Crenshaw's body arrived at Unionboro late this afternoon, came up on the day train. Is now at the undertaker's in Stonehill. The Presbyterian minister will conduct a small service at the graveside. He's had his fee.”

Gamadge spoke again: “Mr. Crenshaw was very particular about financial matters.”

“So it seems.” Schenck added: “The village is going to turn out for the funeral; the general feeling is that it's up to them; this Crenshaw of yours didn't have a soul in the world.”

“He had a step-niece by marriage, who will attend the obsequies.”

“No!”

“And he had a wife, who will not.”

“Well, I never.”

“The step-niece, Miss Lucette Daker, will have a word with Pike.”

“Quite a surprise for him. Would you like Boucher and me to keep an eye on her? He won't drive her over a cliff, or anything?”

“There's no reason why he should. Keep your eye on him, don't waste time on Miss Daker.”

“The big excitement here isn't the Crenshaw funeral, you know.”

“Isn't it?”

“No,” said Schenck, in a peculiar tone. “It's the other funeral, the one that's coming off next week. A Miss Idelia Fisher, old Stonehill family, she'd just been summering with her aunt here. Died the night of the day Crenshaw did. In a hold-up. What do you know about that?”

“Odd,” said Gamadge.

“We think so. But of course Miss Fisher's death doesn't interest you? It must have happened a short time before you telephoned me last night.”

“Lots of hold-ups nowadays.”

“As you say. Well, to close up: Boucher says Pike's absolutely peaceful in his mind, hasn't a notion that anybody's interested in him. We've made the best arrangements we can in the circumstances for following him up; Mrs. Much, our landlady, is paid for tomorrow in advance, our bags will be in the car, but we won't go to the funeral together. It's a nice cemetery, very old, on the north side of town. Boucher will stop on the byroad with the car, and I'll sit on the stone wall, to the east. Curiosity seekers. Our one hope is that Pike won't be able to get very far with the gas shortage on, and will take a train at Unionboro. We'll take it too. But Boucher says to warn you; he's a smart guy, and we may easily run into a snag.”

“Schenck, I knew you'd do the thing the right way. I can't thank either of you; you know that.”

“Cut it out. You've done us favors, and all Boucher thinks of is how you finally found out what prison camp his grandson's in. If you could come up it would be simpler.”

“I can't yet; I'm on this end of the job.”

“Well, be calling you.”

Gamadge had no sooner put the receiver down than he was rung again. This time by Dr. Ethelred Hamish. He said: “I have some information for you.”

“Already?”

“It's knowing where to ask. Three people contributed. Your friend the doctor in question is sixty-three years of age, born in New York City of obscure parents, got his medical degree at P.& S., interned at St. Damian's. He showed great promise as a young man, but that's all he did have; no friends, no money, no background. No social connections at all. Married early, but lost his wife somehow—death or divorce, I don't know—such ages ago that nobody thinks of him as anything but a bachelor.

“In spite of his talents he didn't get on. It's tough in this town for an M.D. with nothing but talent. Trouble is—one trouble—he hasn't a winning personality. Isn't popular at St. Damian's. Hasn't much of a private practice now, either. Nothing in the world against him.”

“Thanks, Red.”

“Oh—I called St. Damian's about a very interesting case of acute leukemia they had there.”

“Did you, though?”

“Only case of leukemia they ever had there. They didn't make any mistakes, Henry.”

“From what you said before I thought they hadn't.”

“If you have any further fancies in the matter I'll be glad to hear them.”

“The only possible question in my mind now is whether a narcotic drug case, complicated by leukemia, would go down in their records as leukemia and nothing else.”

“They'd have mentioned that complication to
me
.”

“Of course. Thank you. I may call up again.”

“Do. I'd like to be in on your investigation; if there's any such question as you imply concerning a medical man, the Association wants to know it.”

“Don't talk to anybody until I give you leave, Red, for Heaven's sake.”

Dr. Hamish said stiffly that he knew when to keep his mouth shut as well as the next man did.

Gamadge had his dinner in the grassy confines of his back yard, and no member of the Charter Club hurtled down to interrupt him; although he was able to wave with condescension to an acquaintance who leaned over the rail of the club terrace, four stories above, and stabbed hopefully towards Gamadge's bottle of pre-war whiskey with a long cigar.

A Mr. Indus was announced. Gamadge had him out to coffee.

Indus stood taking in the scene; then he turned to gaze up at the gray-painted brick house, with the ornamental balcony jutting from the library window. He said: “Pretty much as it always was?”

“Well, not quite. My ancestors would have thought it rather sordid of me to eat in the library and the back yard, and mix chemicals in the dining-room.”

“You come down, I come up,” said Indus. “My ancestors would have thought I was in clover in my room and bath.” He sat down. “Here's my report: Billig got up late, took in his paper and milk at ten o'clock. Looked kind of yellow. Drove himself down to St. Damian's hospital where he stayed till a quarter to twelve. Came back and saw patients till half past one. Patients were all from what you might call the humbler walks of life.”

“I might,” said Gamadge, pouring Indus his coffee. “But I wouldn't.”

“Anyhow, they were all men, one of 'em on crutches. All compensation cases, I should think, by the way they banged in as if the place belonged to 'em; all but one, and he had a mouse.”

“A…? Oh. Yes.”

“At one-thirty Billig came out and walked to an automat on Lexington, where he had lunch. After lunch he drove back to St. Damian's and spent two hours in the out-patients' clinic. Then he went upstairs in the hospital. At five he came home. At six-thirty he had dinner in a restaurant on 86th Street. He then took in the newsreel at a movie, and came home to keep his office hours. I left Toomey on the job.”

“Dr. Billig lives a full if not a rich life.”

“I don't know why it ain't richer; he looks like a brainy character to me.”

“Likely to get on in the world?”

“One way or another.”

“Brains do not always mean worldly success, Indus,” said Gamadge solemnly.

Indus replied as solemnly: “And crime does not pay; or so they tell us. Whatever he did, it hasn't paid him.”

When he had gone there were stars out in the purplish vault of the sky. Gamadge went to his office, opened the filing cabinet, and got out the Crenshaw Shakespeare. He took it up to the library; and there, reclining on the cool linen of the chesterfield, read
The Tempest
. A certain passage made him smile:

…remember

First to possess his books; for without them
He's but a sot, as I am; nor hath not
One spirit to command…Burn but his books…

Gamadge took out a pencil, underlined the last four words, altered
his
to
the
, then struck out
but
and the final
s
.
Burn the book
. Excellent advice indeed, books can be very dangerous. In fact, if this dark, ugly, dangerous case ever came to trial, it would be tried because of the Crenshaw Shakespeare.

A
T EIGHT O'CLOCK
on the following morning—Friday, July the thirtieth—Gamadge received the report of Mr. Toomey. Toomey, looking for some reason somewhat amused, kept his eyes on his notebook. He was very official: