Unexpected Night (4 page)

“You all right?” he enquired, putting the case on the table.

“Yes. Fine. Call Sanderson, will you?”

Sam did so, and went downstairs. He had left the three golf bags belonging to the party leaning against the counter; he put them in the lobby chest, and was just emerging when the office telephone rang. He went back to answer it, and heard Sanderson s voice:

“That you, Sam? Hang on a minute.”

“Yes, sir.”

Sanderson's voice went on, to somebody else: “All right, Amby, you idiot. Go ahead, and make it short.”

Sam said: “You want to make a call, Mr. Cowden?”

“Yes, I do. It's to Seal Cove. You know where that is?”

“Yes. Oakport exchange.”

“I don't know the number, it's that summer theatre—‘The Old Pier Players.'”

“I'll get the Oakport operator.”

Sam got into communication with Oakport. Presently he said: “They have no telephone up there, Mr. Cowden.”

“What? There must be one. That's crazy.”

“No, sir, they haven't. No number listed.”

“Perhaps they're all asleep. Ring them again.”

“No number to ring.”

“I don't understand. It's a theatre. They must have a telephone.”

“Wait a minute.” Sam again interviewed Oakport, and came back with the news: “They ain't installed yet. They only been there a week, and the poles was all down. There's been a lot of trouble with outlying districts since the storm last fall. Operator can get you Tucon.”

“Where's that?”

“Little place on the back route from Oakport to Portland. They been getting their messages and telegrams left there in some store. Operator has the number. They might take your call, and ride down to the Cove with it.”

“Oh, well; I hate to get them up, this time of night.”

“It's only a little place. Might not anybody be around, late as this.”

“I should think those people at the Cove would be wild.”

“I should, too.”

“Well, it's not so important as all that. I guess—”

Sanderson's voice said: “Amby, you are a jackass. I'll get him for you first thing in the morning. Now will you quit? I want to go to bed. I'm all in.”

“I see now why there wasn't any message for me to-night.”

“Of course. He couldn't get through. Quit, will you?”

“All right, Sam.”

The receiver clicked. Sam exchanged some words with Oakport, and returned to his magazine. He was deep in it, when a curious sound on the stairs beside him made him look up, and then stare, transfixed. The sound had been, as he thought, laboured breathing.

He gazed incredulously at the pallid, smiling face, the tweed coat, the white silk muffler, the thick yellow chamois gloves, and the Panama hat; and he spoke as he had never before spoken to a guest of the Ocean House:

“What you doing down here?”

“Oh, you're there, are you? I wasn't sure you would be.”

“Certainly I'm here.”

“I thought you might be making your rounds. You do, don't you?”

“Yes, I do. You ain't going out, Mr. Cowden?”

“Not if you'll do something for me. I dropped my cigarette case. I had it in the car, and I know just where it must be—right outside, near the steps. It must have fallen out of my coat when Hugh Sanderson was helping me down.”

Sam, remembering that awkward exit from the front seat, was not surprised to hear that something had been dropped in the process; but he continued to stare.

“Why didn't you telephone down?” he demanded. “Why didn't you send—”

“Sanderson's dead on his feet; I'm as fresh as a daisy. I had two solid hours in bed, at Portsmouth.”

“You could have telephoned.”

“They're not asleep, yet. They might have heard me. I want my cigarette case; it's a good one.”

“You were going poking out in this fog, lookin' for it? You must be crazy. You turn right round and go on back up to bed. I'll find it, if it's there.” Sam got up, and produced a big torch from under the counter.

“All right. Keep your hair on. You can stick it in a drawer, till morning.”

“I'd put it in the safe, only the safe's locked.”

“Just stick it in a drawer.”

“You go on up to bed. Your aunt will be crazy,” said Sam, unconsciously using the tone that he would have employed for a bad boy, rather than a young man who had just come of age. He refused the dollar that was offered him over the banisters.

“I haven't found it yet,” he said. “To-morrow will do.” He went out, poked for some time about the roadway and the steps, and finally saw a grey, softly gleaming object in the rough grass that edged the drive. He turned it over, wondered at its subtle sheen, and went back into the hotel.

Relieved to see that the pale young man had disappeared, he went into the back office and bestowed the cigarette case in an envelope, and marked it. Then he shut the envelope carefully into a desk drawer. When he emerged, Gamadge was sliding a thick letter into the mail slot.

“See young Cowden?” asked Sam.

“No. What do you mean? Didn't they come long ago?”

“Sure they did.” Sam glanced up at the clock, which said 1:40. “Half an hour. He came down again, just now.”

“Shouldn't think they'd let him do that.”

Sam explained. “I thought there was something funny about it,” he said, looking bothered.

“How funny?”

“Can't exactly say. He was all bundled up.”

“Well—he meant to go out in the fog, if you weren't here.”

“He looked to me like he was goin' somewhere more than that.”

“Where on earth should he be going, at this hour? And in his condition?”

“If he wasn't a sick feller, I'd have said he was goin' out to keep a date.”

“Date! You must be dreaming. He doesn't know a soul in the place, so far as I can make out, except the Barclays.”

“Well, I guess I am crazy; but he looked too much dressed up to be going out just to look for a cigarette case.”

“Perhaps that heart trouble of his makes him cold. I think I've heard so.” Gamadge turned towards the stairs and paused on the lowest step. “Come to think of it, Sam, it's his birthday.”

“So he said.”

“And it meant something to him, let me tell you! He's been a rich man for forty minutes.”

Gamadge climbed to the first floor, and stood looking down the hall. Sam's story had impressed him; but he was inclined to think that they were both making too much of it.

“Hang it all,” he thought, irresolute, his eyes wandering from one end of the silent corridor to the other. “I can't go knocking them up; they'd hear me, if I even scratched on his door. They must be down at that end—all the transoms are open. Shall I go back and get his room number from Sam? It does seem such a nursemaidy, rocking-chair thing to do. No, I won't. Nothing to it.”

Gamadge, in fact, had a virtue that sometimes transformed itself into a fault; that of minding his own business. He went up to the second flight of stairs, into cold, fog-laden air; entered his room; and was in bed and asleep in ten minutes.

CHAPTER THREE

A
VIOLENT KNOCKING
finally persuaded Gamadge to open his eyes. The room was flooded with sunshine. “All right, all right,” he muttered.

Waldo, the tall bellboy, put his head around the door. “I forgot to call, Mr. Gamadge. It's nearly nine.”

“Good Lord, Macpherson will be raging.” Gamadge sat up annoyed. “What's the idea, forgetting your calls?”

“We're all upset. It don't matter about Mr. Macpherson, he's down at the cliff.”

“Where?”

“Down the road, on the lookout. Something terrible happened. One of the guests fell off the rocks.”

“That's too bad. When? This morning?”

“Last night. Young feller that just checked in. Name's Cowden.”

“Cowden!” Gamadge suddenly came awake. “Yes, sir. They think he had a heart attack, and fell over the cliff. Everybody's down there. They just took the remains away.”

Gamadge, staring at the bellboy, swung one leg over the side of the bed. “What did he go down there for?”

“They don't know.”

“Do they know when it happened?”

“Somebody said around two o'clock.”

Gamadge groaned. “Who found him?”

“One of the gypsies from the camp down in the grove. Kid named Stanley. He was out on the beach early, about seven, picking up driftwood and jelly seaweed before the beach cleaners got around. The body had a typewritten name and address pinned inside the coat; case of accidents.”

“Of course. So somebody telephoned here?”

“They got hold of Mr. Sanderson—he's a feller came with the Cowden party. He went and got the Barclays—they're some relation of the feller that got killed. The sheriff sent a detective over, and he's grilling Sam Leavitt.”

“I didn't know the sheriff had a detective.”

“Some friend of his; state detective, or something. He wants to see you, Mr. Gamadge; that's how I remembered about your call.”

“Thanks very much.” Gamadge swung the other leg to the floor. “Where is he?”

“Room 17—that's the room the Cowden feller had.”

“You tell him I'll be there as soon as I've had a swallow of coffee. Tell him I want to be grilled, too.”

Waldo rushed away. Gamadge had a quick bath, pulled on his clothes, and went down to the dining-room. At 9:40 he knocked at the door of Number 17.

“Come in,” said a mild, slow voice. Gamadge entered, closed the door behind him, and looked down into the square face of a grey, stocky man who sat in a hard rocking chair. He wore a business suit, waistcoat and all, and black, shiny shoes. Sam was perched on a hard chair opposite him. He looked puzzled and upset, and he evidently needed sleep; otherwise, his grilling did not seem to have had serious effects on him.

“Mr. Gamadge,” he exclaimed, “ain't this awful?”

“Yes, it is.”

“You just missed him. If you'd seen him, you might have felt the way I did, and gone after him, or something.”

“I might have.” He nodded to the grey man, who nodded in return. “I'm Mitchell,” he said.

“How do you do?” Gamadge's eyes wandered around the small, neat room, which showed no signs of occupancy except a dressing gown and a pair of pyjamas lying on the bed, a closed suitcase on the floor, and a closed pigskin dressing case on the table. “Did they pull you out of bed, Sam?” he asked.

“No; I hadn't gone to bed. I don't get relieved till 7:30.”

“First-class witness, Leavitt is,” said Mitchell. “Mr. Gamadge: What about this cocoa?”

“Cocoa.” Gamadge's eyes roved about the room again, and came back to Mitchell. “Cocoa?” he asked, with polite blankness.

“Sam Leavitt tells me the deceased had cocoa at Colonel Barclay's cottage last night, and was sick afterwards.”

“Mis' Cowden said so. She said he was sick coming up here in the car, an' it must have been the cocoa.”

“I remember, now. Young Cowden and his sister had cocoa. The rest of us were accommodated with whisky.”

“His sister had some, did she?” Mitchell looked at Sam. “Did it disagree with her, too?”

“Not as far as I could see. She was spry enough. Grabbed her little suitcase, jumped out of the car, and skipped right up the steps and into the lobby. She wasn't sick.”

“How'd the boy act? Didn't seem to be in pain, or anything?”

“He was fine, once the other feller got him out of the car. I thought first he was kind of weak, and I whistled Kimball up from the garage, so the feller wouldn't have to leave him. But afterwards you wouldn't have known he was sick, if it hadn't been for his colour, and his hard breathin'. He come over to the desk, and looked up at the clock, and started jokin' about it bein' his birthday. Lively as anybody.”

“Well, thanks, Sam. That's all for now. You go on to bed.”

Sam went; Gamadge sat down on the chair he had vacated, and lighted a cigarette. When he looked up, Mitchell's small blue eyes were on him.

“You know any of these people well, Mr. Gamadge?” he asked.

“I met the Cowdens last night, for the first time. The Barclays I know as summer acquaintances.” He added, “I don't think there was anything the matter with their cocoa, Mitchell. I don't think Mrs. Cowden meant that there was.”