Unexpected Night (6 page)

Mitchell replaced the list in the envelope, added the photograph, rose, and approached the table. He opened the lid of the pigskin dressing case, and then paused to wind a handkerchief around his right hand. A multitude of glass and silver objects winked against a rich dark-green silk lining; Gamadge came up to watch, while Mitchell began carefully to remove them one by one. They were so cunningly fitted that it was a task of some delicacy to get them out of their individual nests.

“Quite a bag,” remarked Gamadge.

“How much would you say a thing like this was worth?” asked Mitchell.

“I hardly know. Where does it come from?”

Mitchell turned a flat tooth-paste container upside down, and said: “Tomlinson, Piccadilly.”

“Where the good bags come from. Say five hundred dollars.”

“My goodness.”

“Did you see the famous cigarette case? That might have cost almost as much.”

“The young feller didn't stint himself.”

“He had so few toys, Mitchell. My own little car cost more than that bag, and nobody thinks it was an extravagance. He couldn't drive a car.”

“You certainly liked that boy.”

“I was dammed sorry for him. He must have known that it was to everybody's interest to keep him going until he was twenty-one.”

“That's putting it strong. You might say, if you wanted to talk like that, that it was to his sister's interest to have him die as soon afterwards as possible.”

“And to the interest of all the people benefiting by that will you're hunting for.”

Mitchell took out a glittering toothbrush case. “He never even took his toothbrush. Well, that's all there is in the bag, far as I can see. Don't these things—” He felt around the bottom edges of the lining, seized a tiny loop of ribbon, and pulled. “Not much secret about this.”

“Only a compartment for valuables.” Gamadge craned to look. “One pair of platinum cuff links, pearl evening studs, old-fashioned tiepin, probably his father's.”

“He don't seem to have set much value on his things.” Mitchell began to replace the fittings, and had just finished when somebody knocked.

“Who's there?” he demanded, hastily forcing the last objects into their places, and closing the lid.

“Sanderson.”

“Come right in, Mr. Sanderson. I was waiting for you.”

CHAPTER FOUR

S
ANDERSON CAME INTO
the room like a man who has been in a hurry for so long that he cannot stop when the rush is over. The loosely hung door banged and rattled shut behind him; he crossed the room in two strides, flung himself into the chair from which Gamadge had risen, pulled out a wilting handkerchief, and dabbed his hot face with it. Gamadge retreated to the broad window ledge, where he sat in silence. Formal condolences would have been out of place; they might come later, when the young man had regained his breath and his balance. Mitchell also waited, placidly rocking.

“Hot over there at the Centre.” Sanderson at last put away the handkerchief, and ran a hand over his light hair.

“Have a drink of water, Mr. Sanderson,” suggested Mitchell. “You look just about all in.”

“I am.” He glanced about the room as if wondering how he came to be sitting there, seemed to become aware of Gamadge for the first time, and said doubtfully: “Are you—didn't I see you at the Barclay cottage last night?”

“Yes. My name's Gamadge.”

“Of course. Excuse me for behaving as if I had taken leave of my senses. It was ghastly over there at the Centre this morning. The poor old Colonel had a bad time of it.”

“I don't envy you the experience,” said Gamadge.

“If only those two women can get through without crashing! I don't know how to face them.”

“We didn't hear it was any fault of yours,” said Mitchell.

“They may think it was. I never said a word to Mrs. Cowden about the boy's plan for cutting loose to-day. I hadn't the heart. He trusted me absolutely—or I thought he did.” Sanderson's face expressed self-disgust. “I might have known he wouldn't have felt he could really trust anyone. He knew we were all dead against his going up there to the Cove. He simply told me enough to keep me from watching him, and made other arrangements with Atwood behind my back.”

“You think he had this getaway last night all planned, then?”

“What else can I think? What was he doing down on the cliff, unless he was meeting Atwood? I suppose he was afraid that if he waited till morning I'd go on arguing, and he'd weaken, and give the whole thing up. And, of course, he could hardly wait to get there.”

“But if his arrangements were all made, why did he try and get in touch with Atwood last night?”

“I'm beginning to think that he wasn't really trying to. I think that telephone call was camouflage, for my benefit. He wanted me to think that Atwood was settled up there at the Cove, and that the original plan stood for to-day. It all shows,” and Sanderson gave them a wry smile, “how completely I had fallen down on my job.”

“I wouldn't say that. What's your reason for this theory of yours?”

“Well, he made a call while we were at Portsmouth.”

“He did?”

“Yes. He was alone in his room for a while—I thought he was asleep. It was down on the bill, but they didn't mention the destination, and like a fool I thought it was to New York. I might have noticed that the charge wasn't enough for a New York call, but we were pretty well upset and worried by that time, and I paid up and thought no more about it. He had lots of friends, you know, and all that theatre business. He liked to feel that he was in the middle of things. He was always telephoning.”

“We'll check up on that call from the Harbour Inn. But see here, Mr. Sanderson; if you're right, he must have known about the telephone situation up at the Cove. Sam says he didn't know how to get through, last night. Was that camouflage, too?”

“I suppose it must have been. I'm just guessing, of course, but I can't help thinking he'd have known when and how he could get in touch with Atwood. He was very accurate, you know; he always checked up on everything. He wouldn't let any plan stand, without verification and goodness knows what all. Look here, I'm making him out a sneak.”

“Sneak? No, I don't think so. We know the peculiar circumstances.”

“Are you sure? He was anything but a sneak, Mitchell. And he had plenty of affection for his aunt and his sister, and a good deal for me. He simply realised what a hell of a fight I was going to put up at the last minute, and he didn't want to go through with it. He hadn't the physical strength to go through with it. You don't know how I'd been working on him. Do you know what I told him? I told him he wouldn't live a day up there. I think it was true. Just imagine,” exclaimed Sanderson, almost with passion, “just imagine him living like that, or trying to! Just try to imagine him pigging it up there at that God-forsaken place. They live in tents and trailers! You can imagine how long he'd last there. It would have been the death of him. It
was
the death of him—just trying to get there,” he repeated.

“Well, I suppose he realised all that, didn't he?”

“Yes, and he didn't care. He was a fearless kid, you know, which made it all the harder for us to keep him in reasonable health. He wanted a whirl before he died, and I suppose he thought the only way to get it was to go off without bother and explanation.”

“I suppose if he'd gone before he was of age, Mrs. Cowden would have had him brought back?”

“He thought so, but I'm not at all sure that she would have done anything. She would have been frightfully distressed, but she wouldn't have done anything to upset him. You must remember that the one thing we all avoided was a row. His heart couldn't stand them, or so the doctors said.”

“Exactly what was he going up there for, anyway?”

“To act. It isn't as crazy as it sounds; he was quite good at it. And, of course, the Atwoods flattered him. Atwood and his wife are both in that outfit, you know—‘The Old Pier Players'!”

“Quite a responsibility for them, taking him up there away from his folks.”

“They don't know the meaning of the word. A more irresponsible creature than Atwood never lived. All they wanted, if you ask me, was to get hold of the boy's money. The poor kid was going to be a backer, or a partner, or something.”

“Sounds like a kind of skin game, to me.”

“It was and it wasn't. I believe the manager, Callaghan, is a decent enough sort of person, and he really has experience in the theatre. It was a legitimate enterprise. But naturally Callaghan wants all the money he can get; he'd be glad enough to take the boy in, sick or well.”

“What sort of feller is this Atwood? He must be related to a whole lot of respectable people.”

“He is. His mother was Mrs. Barclay's sister. She ran off and married some sort of actor, and the family dropped her. They're both dead. Arthur Atwood is supposed to be a bad egg; I never quite made out why. He's an oddity.”

“How'd young Cowden get to be so friendly with him?”

“Atwood must have engineered it. They have what they call a studio in New York—it's really nothing but a big apartment in a run-down hotel. Amby used to go there, and when I was engaged to look after him, a couple of years ago, I went along. Somebody had to look after him. But you can see how difficult the situation was; I couldn't have kept it up much longer.”

“Didn't want to squeal on him—that it?”

“In the end, I simply couldn't. I should have thrown up the job, I suppose. I was losing it, anyhow, when he skipped out.”

“You mean the Cowdens wouldn't have kept you on?”

“It wasn't in their hands, after he came of age. He wanted me to stay with him, but naturally I wouldn't do it; not as a member of the ‘Old Pier Players'! No, I was going back to the school. I'm a schoolmaster, you know, if you can call it that. It amounts to a little lower-form teaching, mostly mathematics, sports, and general dry nursing. They've kept the job open for me. I knew, of course, that this one couldn't last long. Mrs. Cowden explained that when she took me on.”

“Why'd you take such a short-term situation, anyway, Mr. Sanderson?”

“She offered me a big salary—tremendous, it seemed to me; it does still. I was to be paid for a full year, no matter what happened; as a matter of fact, I had two, and I bought myself some insurance. I went into it as a business proposition, you understand; I hadn't met Amby.” He turned suddenly to Gamadge. “I suppose you didn't see enough of the boy to get any idea why I was so fond of him.”

“I can easily understand your getting fond of him.”

“Funny; we all knew he couldn't live long, but I got so that I stopped believing it.” He got out his handkerchief again, and again dabbed his face with it. “I suppose the reason this is such a shock is because he died in that ghastly way. It's this sickening routine that makes it so bad for everybody concerned. I don't see why Baines can't make an affidavit, or something.”

“Doctor Baines wasn't attending him, was he?”

“No, I don't think he's a heart man; but he knew all about it.”

“I wish you'd just give us a summary of events, up to the time you left him for good, last night.”

“Starting when? The beginning of the trip? Well, he was in pretty fair shape when we left New York. We reached Boston late on Saturday, and stayed over. We planned to make Portsmouth for dinner last night; you know those shore dinners at Toms'? But he had a bad turn just before we pulled in, about seven. We stopped at this Harbour Inn, and got him to bed; tried to make him agree to spend the night there. He wouldn't hear of it; he was afraid he wouldn't get to the Old Pier in time for the opening, if he let us keep him too long on the road.

“Then there was another struggle about the Barclays. We were going to stop off there, on our way up, but we tried to persuade him to cut that out. Nothing doing; I had to telephone them that we'd be late. Late! You know what time we showed up, Gamadge. It sounds incredible, letting him do it; but I assure you, we had no choice. We were avoiding excitement; but
he
wasn't, never did.

“Well, he had another bad turn on the way up here. Not heart, so far as we could tell; just nausea and dizziness. We thought perhaps the cocoa had upset him; I suppose it was really nothing but nervousness, worrying about Atwood and the trip to the Cove. We finally drove on up, and he was as chipper as you please; the rest of us rags. He insisted on that call to the Cove, and then he turned me out. I did manage to get these things unpacked—some of them. I saw Mrs. Cowden for a minute, and asked her whether he ought to be left. She advised letting him alone. ‘He'll never settle down, if you don't,' she said. You know, we were all more or less fatalists about him. It wasn't as if we could have done anything for him; there was nothing to do. So I turned in.”