Arrow Pointing Nowhere (2 page)

“I don't know what I can go by but the evidence.”

“How about a hoax, or a servant with a grudge? Only the Fenways don't have servants with grudges; the postman says they stay till they're too old to work, and then they're pensioned off comfortably. How about a lunatic? The society editors I talked to this morning don't know anything about a lunatic, but the society editors don't know much about the Fenways, and that's a fact. You ought to hear them on the subject. The Fenways have a publicity phobia.”

“That's in their favor.”

“Yes, but the papers can hardly get vital statistics out of them, and when there's a wedding it's private, no pictures and no church ceremony, and when there's a funeral the deceased just slips away with two lines in the obituary column. The Fenways are about as obscure,” said Schenck, “as the obelisk in Central Park, and they've been in New York a deuce of a lot longer; but they'd rather not be mentioned above a whisper.”

“But there's never been any mystery about them, everybody knows their history. Old, distinguished, legal family, none better. Money acquired by judicious marriages, and the sale of pre-revolutionary grants up the Hudson, and legal services to a distinguished clientele. The Fenways come from a very old English family, and always seem to have been more than well off. To use an old-fashioned mode of speech, they know everybody and go everywhere; which means that they know the chosen few and go where
they
go. I'm not less surprised than you are, Schenck, that a message like this one should have been thrown out of a Fenway window. Do you know who lives there now?”

“Blake Fenway, widower; his unmarried daughter; his only brother's widow, and—I think—her son. Her husband, Cort Fenway, died a long time ago; she always lived in Europe, but the war sent her back home. Oh—there's a cousin or something in the house, a Mr. Mott Fenway, elderly man; he's always lived there.”

“Does Fenway still practise law?”

“Don't know. The firm is Fenway, Fenway and Chudley.” Schenck wagged his head. “No wonder the assistant postmaster consulted another fellow before he did anything official about anything connected with that house! Why, there's never been any news about it, much less scandal! No, it's the family lunatic.”

“Well: let's see what my orders are. I'm to go there and inspect something or somebody, perhaps try to get into touch with my client; but I must be discreet—I mustn't give the client away, or consult the police. I'm to go as soon as I can, I'm a week overdue.”

“It's a man; women don't read rare-book catalogues and know about curiosa.”

“Really, Schenck! Some women read everything they can lay their hands on. Don't you know any learned women?”

Schenck said he didn't.

“It would be easier to keep a woman under duress.”

“But what kind of duress is it? The party has a certain amount of freedom—enough to throw paper balls out of a window. It's a corner house, facing a street and broadside-on to an avenue; even if the whole family's in the conspiracy, servants and all, your client ought to be able to make some kind of a row—yell fire or murder out of that window.”

Gamadge said: “You forget the discretion clause in the message. My client doesn't seem to want a row.”

Schenck rose. “It's a lunatic with a persecution mania. Watch your step, and a happy weekend.”

Gamadge saw him into the little elevator, and then shouted down the stairs for his wife. She arrived in the company of Harold Bantz, once Gamadge's assistant, now sergeant of Marines and at home for repairs. Gamadge said that being torpedoed had mellowed him, but at present he looked morose. Theodore, Gamadge's old colored servant, followed him muttering.

“All this noise and shoutin' around the house,” said Theodore. “Can't hear yourself think. Why don't Harold fix the bells, now he's home? Can't get no repair men.”

Harold said: “I can't fix the bells and the radio and the plumbing till I get the cat back into condition. And I can't work without tools. Somebody's been dusting my part of the laboratory. Can't find a thing.”

“Harold says we've been rationing Martin,” said Clara.

“He's the only member of the family that hasn't been,” grumbled Theodore.

“Thin as a weasel,” said Harold.

The yellow cat ran in and took up a commanding position on the hearth. Since Harold's return Martin had followed him everywhere. He did not like members of the family to disappear for long periods of time; Gamadge's theory was that he was trying to imagine the last twelve months an illusion, and to persuade himself that the permanence of things was unshaken.

“I wondered if you'd be willing to help me with a case,” said Gamadge.

“Case?”

“I've just had sealed orders.”

Harold took the buff envelope and its contents from Gamadge's hand, and sat down at the table to study them. Gamadge said: “Reason I called you, Clara: do you think your Aunt Rob knows the Fenways?”

“Mr. Blake Fenway and Caroline? She knows them, and I've met them. They aren't the case, are they?” Clara looked very much surprised.

“I don't know. Will you telephone and see if Miss Vauregard can come to lunch?”

Clara went to the telephone, and came back to say that her aunt would be with them in half an hour.

“Before she gets here I'll tell you and Harold the story.”

They joined Harold at the round table in the window, the table that Theodore would soon be laying for lunch. Branches of a tall tree rose like a fretwork screen between the window and the backs of houses in the next street; snowflakes were beginning to fall from a lowering sky.

Gamadge finished the story of the paper balls. Harold looked alert, but Clara was nonplussed and incredulous.

“Henry,” she said, “I think there must be some mistake. I really don't think you and Mr. Schenck can be right about this. There can't be anything terrible going on in the Fenway house.”

“But I ought to find out, don't you think so? Even if the Fenways are untouchable, in the flattering sense, they're not forbidden to human speculation, are they?”

“No, but you sound as if you thought they were stuffy. They're not at all. The last time I met Mr. Fenway was at a wedding, and he's a perfect darling; and Caroline's very nice, too. She's rather sarcastic; or perhaps that isn't the right word.”

“Embittered? Disillusioned?”

“Perhaps. But lots of fun to listen to.”

“How old is she?”

“About thirty, I think.”

“Good-looking?”

“Well, no; but very distinguished, and wears lovely clothes—plain but perfect.”

Harold was studying the exhibits. He looked up at Gamadge. “The client must know a good deal about you,” he said.

“Whatever the client knows, it seems to have inspired the client with more confidence than anybody except one person—” Gamadge smiled at his wife—“ever had in me before. I feel a horrid sense of responsibility, and the worst of it is that I'm a week late. If I don't hurry I may very well be too late, and hurry is impossible. And I'm taking on a job I really have no time for. I must make the most of this weekend.” He looked at Harold. “Are you with me?”

“I'll start right in.” Harold rose. “But I won't be able to work tonight. Mrs. Gamadge and I have a date.”

“Date?” Gamadge looked suspiciously at his assistant, and from him to Clara.

“Dinner and theatre. Arline Prady is coming, and a friend of mine off a boat.”

“I forbid it, I absolutely forbid it,” said Gamadge violently.

“Henry!” protested Clara. “Harold's leave!”

“You'll get no cab, the buses will be jammed, it's starting to snow again, you'll catch your death. And this man off a boat how horribly tough he will be!”

Harold was at the door. “Very nice feller,” he said, “and wants to see the Planetarium.”

C
LARA'S AUNT,
Miss Robina Vauregard, arrived in a hurry and said that she must dash away right after lunch. Gamadge allowed her to drink her cocktail and begin her lunch before he asked her to tell him all about the Fenways.

“Fenways? There's nothing to tell about the Fenways. Clara, the gutters are a foot under water, and the taximan had to jump me across the curb.” Miss Vauregard was always cheerful and chatty. “Now we're going to have more snow—in fact we are having it—and they say it's going to freeze again. How is your cold?”

“She got over it,” said Gamadge. “She's going to get a new one tonight. Tell me about the Fenways, Miss Vauregard.”

Her bright black eyes questioned him curiously. “Don't say they're in trouble! Nothing ever happens to them! At least—” she looked grave. “I shouldn't say that, but I was thinking of Blake and Mott and Caroline.”

“Untouchables, are they?”

“The simplest, dearest creatures, and Blake is rather shy. I've always known them. Blake and Cort and I went to the same school here in New York when we were small; Mott was older, but I met him when I went to birthdays at Number 24. Old Mr. and Mrs. Fenway were always having parties for them. The school was Miss Denny's, and the little boys were in the basement. We played in the park afterwards. Then we went to other schools, but they came to our parties and we went to theirs, and we met at dancing school. I used to lead the German with one or the other of them often. Blake was quieter, but Cort was romantic.”

“Just generally romantic?”

“Well, he was always in love with Belle Kane. He was nice to us all, but he was always in love with her. He finally married her, and she lives at Number 24 now. He died twenty years ago. Blake married such a lovely girl, just right for him. It's too bad Caroline looks like him, and not like her.”

“Do you see much of them now?”

“Oh, no, I haven't for ages. We drifted apart, as people do unless they have something in common. I see Blake at people's houses sometimes, or at concerts or the theatre. Caroline is always with him now. She went to some college for a year or two—she's very intelligent, I believe—but after her mother died she came home. She and her father are devoted. It's such a shame—she had a most unfortunate experience with a man she was going to marry, but who married somebody else with more money.”

“I thought the Fenways had money enough for anybody.”

“She has none of her own yet. Blake and Cort were never great money-makers, you know; the money came from their grandfather, the one who sold all the original property. Blake's father was an only son, and inherited the whole property; he left it to Blake and Cort for life, and the capital to
their children after they died. Caroline won't have her share
until Blake dies.”

“Mr. Cort Fenway had a son, I think; he's in possession of half the Fenway property now?”

Miss Vauregard's face clouded again. “Yes.” After a moment she went on: “Blake's income must be pretty large, but he insists on keeping up those two great old houses—Number 24 and Fenbrook. This Fenbrook is only a little way up the Hudson, you know; the original Fenbrook was near Peekskill, a lovely place, built long before the Revolution. Poor Blake does regret it so; Grandfather Fenway sold it to the Van Broncks, neighbors of his, and they pulled down the house. There's a funny story about Blake which gives you a rather good idea of him, poor dear. Somebody once asked him about the old place, and he said it was torn down after the war. The person was surprised. ‘As recently as that?' And Blake said in his innocent way: ‘I mean the Revolutionary War.'”

Gamadge laughed, but said that Mr. Blake Fenway sounded agreeable.

“And he's not a fool, you know; just rather attached to the past.”

“I'd like to meet him.”

“That could be arranged, I should think, because he collects books. You might—” Miss Vauregard stopped, and fixed Gamadge with a lively and suspicious eye.

“Henry, I will not turn you loose on the Fenways without knowing what you are up to.”

“You think I'd be bad for them?” asked Gamadge, smiling.

“I don't think you could be, because they never get into trouble.”

“Let's say that I know Mr. Fenway is interested in rare books. So am I. Won't that do?”

“I'm sure I heard that since he retired from practice he collects books. The family has always been interested in that kind of thing. Grandfather Fenway wrote, or something, and I did hear that Caroline tried to.”

“And was Mr. Cort Fenway literary too?”

“If he was, he couldn't have had much encouragement from Belle! We went to the same boarding school, and I can tell you that she wasn't literary! A most beautiful, brilliant girl, though, and so full of fun. But she had a most awful mother; excellent family, you know, but so vulgarly determined that Belle should make a rich match. Anybody. The awful woman used to fling Belle at the heads of the most impossible men. Belle wouldn't look at them, and we were all so glad when Cort Fenway got her at last. She was twenty-five by that time, and Mrs. Kane decided to relent. The other war was on—it was 1914. Cort was already there, a volunteer in France. He would be!”