Evidence of Things Seen (17 page)

Groby said: “They probably think Hattie and I have the money, and we're trying to beat taxes. Those fellows at Stratfield will say anything; they've got it in for me, and that's enough.”

“I guess you wish now,” said his wife in a nagging tone, “that you'd kept out of those side lines of yours. I begged you and begged you.”

“But you didn't suggest moving into a smaller house and giving up the girl and some of your spending money,” said Groby, in a tired voice. “Gamadge, if you'll take the cottage, ghost and all, you can have it and the property for five thousand cash.”

“Just give me time, Groby.”

“Time?” Groby looked at him, and then rose. “Might as well get going to the farm, anyhow.”

The two couples drove to the farm in their two cars. Mrs. Groby unlocked the new oaken front door, and invited the Gamadges into a square entry from the back of which rose a steep flight of stairs. The stairs and the entry had been painted white, and neatly carpeted in gray. There was an old marble-topped side table against one wall, with an equally old mahogany-framed mirror above it.

“How nice,” said Clara.

“Yes, but come in here––and don't faint!” Mrs. Groby, with a titter compounded of amusement and mortification, threw open the door on the left.

Gamadge did not faint, nor did Clara, but they were both astounded. The bay window which defaced the outside of the farm had been arched over within, and transformed what was once a dark farm parlor into a bright modern room. Below the window ran a half circle of upholstered bench, its upholstery a bright grass-green. The walls and ceiling were white, there was a large square mirror set into the plaster above the mantel, and on the mantelshelf was a bouquet of wax flowers under a glass. The smaller pieces of furniture were of glass and metal, the upholstered pieces were covered with a brilliant pattern of grass-green and pink; a carpet of even brighter pink concealed the ancient floor.

The wax bouquet was not the only relic of the past in this gay room; an immense round marble-topped table, artfully reduced in height, stood in the bay of the window; it upheld a large old lamp with a flowered china shade.

“We think,” giggled Mrs. Groby, “that the decorator, whoever it was, must have been playing a joke on Aunt Alvira.”

“Getting rid of stuff he couldn't sell to anybody else,” muttered Groby.

“Well, but it's very clever,” said Gamadge, staring about him. “Very charming.”

“And how wonderful, to cut that great marble-topped thing down and make a coffee table of it,” exclaimed Clara. “And what beautiful wax flowers; were they Miss Radford's?”

Mrs. Groby said that they had been in Grandma Radford's room. “Do you like the way this parlor is fixed up?” she asked, much surprised.

“In its way,” said Gamadge, “I think it's delightful. You don't know who did it?”

“No, and we can't find the bill. I know one thing—Aunt Alvira never thought it up herself!”

“Did you ever ask her about it?”

“Yes, and she said it was the latest thing!”

“If the whole house had been done over like this it must have gouged a considerable chunk out of that seventy thousand.”

“Only the dining room and the entry, thank goodness. There's a new bathroom upstairs, but the same plumbers did it that did the ones at the cottage.”

“Let's see the dining room, by all means.”

The dining room was across the entry; and if there was nothing playful about it, it was in its own way as amazing as the parlor. Its walls and ceiling were a pale, dull silver; it had a mulberry-colored rug, mauve curtains, and gray furniture. There were two purple glass vases on the mantel, and there was a pink-luster dish between them.

“It's a poem,” said Gamadge. “I suppose those vases and that dish are family ornaments.”

“Yes,” replied Mrs. Groby, “and when I said the lavenders swore at each other, Aunt Alvira looked at me quite patronizing.”

Gamadge said: “Somebody put her up to it all, of course; and what's more, somebody placed those wax flowers and those vases and that dish, and told her how to have the round table cut down, and made a feature of that gilt lamp with the china shade. Somebody that knew all about decoration—modern decoration. But that person must have had a lot of influence with her, and been very persuasive. That parlor does look like a joke, Mrs. Groby, but it looks to me like a shared joke; Miss Radford saw the fun of it too.”

“I guess so, or she wouldn't have spent the money.”

“But who was this somebody?”

The Grobys exchanged blank looks. Then Groby said: “Who did she know that knew about things like this?”

Mrs. Groby suddenly frowned. “Wait a minute. When I was on that war-knitting committee we met at Stratfield; we had our headquarters there. Somebody was talking about Gilbert Craye—they're always talking about Gilbert Craye in Stratfield, he fascinates them—and somebody else said he had the inside of his house restored; before his wife left him. I mean he had a man up from the Metropolitan Museum in New York to say what kind of curtains to have, and who to get to clean the pictures and mend the furniture.”

“Fanny Hunter said something about his knowing a lot about decoration,” said Clara, “and she ought to know, because she knows a lot about it herself.”

Groby laughed in a disobliging manner. “Craye!” he said. “Gilbert Craye wouldn't know Alvira Radford was alive.”

“Oh, is that so?” inquired Mrs. Groby. “That's all you know about it.”

“Well, what do you know about it?” retorted her husband. “Buddies, were they—Craye and your Aunt Alvira?”

“He was right here in this house within a week after she moved in herself, last September!”

“Buying chickens.”

“He has more chickens of his own than Aunt Alvira ever had. Aunt Alvira's girl told me about his being here. It was something about those refugees of his; the girl heard Aunt Alvira say ‘refugees,' and laugh; the girl thought he might have been trying to board some of ‘em out on Aunt Alvira.”

“And do her decorating for her if she'd take a couple off his hands?” Groby seemed amused.

“I'm just telling you. I mentioned him and the refugees to Aunt Alvira, but she turned it off; she never liked anybody asking her questions.”

“I think that's all nonsense,” said the frank Groby. “Know what I think? Some smart salesman came up and talked the old lady into the whole business. The stores read about wills in the papers, and find out who get legacies, and they're right after the heirs, especially women alone in the world. It's a regular racket.”

“Like when the man called you up on Monday about that new car,” said Mrs. Groby.

“That was no racket; that car was the biggest bargain I ever saw, and I've traded cars most of my life.”

Gamadge said: “Might Sam know anything about new furniture coming in?”

Sam was found by Groby in the cow yard, and brought in. He looked gloomily about the mulberry dining room, and said that long-distance vans had come up in the middle of the preceding October. He was not required to help, indeed almost never set foot within the house, and knew nothing about the decorating. “Only the vans had a big K on ‘em.”

He was allowed to leave the room before Gamadge and Clara said in chorus: “Keene!”

“Keene?” demanded Mrs. Groby.

“Keene in New York,” Gamadge told her. “Furniture and decorating.”

“And if this room and the parlor were in their model house,” said Clara, “all Miss Radford would have to do would be to order them duplicated, rugs and curtains and all.”

“Keene has a model house in the store,” Gamadge explained to Mrs. Groby. “It's done over every year. But Miss Radford never ordered the rooms from Keene's illustrated catalogue; never. Not on her own. Well, let's tackle the lost securities problem. Had Miss Radford any kind of office with a desk?”

“They're not in her desk,” Mrs. Groby led the party back to the gay parlor, and through it into a small room which had not lost its original walnut, patent rocker, and threadbare carpet. A tall and ugly walnut desk stood open, its contents strewn on an adjoining table.

“Not a thing here but old bills and checkbooks, and some junk,” said Groby. “And there isn't any secret drawer, either. I'm mechanic enough to know that.”

“Mind if I look these over?”

“Go to it.”

There was not much; Miss Radford had not treasured old papers, and hers seemed to have been a limited and an arid life. The last voucher in the half-filled checkbook was dated November, 1941.

“She actually seems to have paid cash for everything since November thirtieth of last year,” said Gamadge.

“There isn't a bill here for 1942,” Groby informed him.

“Remarkable. Here are the big bills for the builders and painters and plumbers, and for Yost's work at the cottage. Here's a smaller bill for an extra painting job, and one for building in that bench under the bay window—both dated October.”

“That bunch of letters isn't interesting,” said Mrs. Groby. “They're all real old, except one or two. There's one from Aunt Eva Hickson, about coming to live in the cottage after her husband died.”

Gamadge found and read it, a dour communication, seven years old. It said that the sisters might as well set up housekeeping together and save expenses; that the writer expected Alvira to run the house—she herself was arthritic and used to service, and wouldn't be able to turn a hand. In return, Mrs. Hickson proposed to lift the mortgage on the farm, pay taxes and upkeep on both properties, and foot all bills. The letter ended: “You're getting the best of the bargain, but I need care, and I don't like strangers.”

Gamadge replaced it in its envelope, which was postmarked Cincinnati. He said: “Your aunt Alvira seems to have earned her legacy.”

“I guess she did; still, Aunt Eva Hickson wasn't as dry as she writes.”

“Were they on affectionate terms, so far as you know?”

“You can't tell what terms folks like that are on. They never fought; at least I never heard that they did.”

“Old stick, Eva Hickson,” said Groby. “I never could stand her.”

The desk had held few oddments; a dog whistle, rubber bands which broke when stretched, bits of old red sealing wax, pens, old Christmas cards carefully preserved, church circulars. Old leases for the farm and the new one for the cottage were in a long envelope. There was no address book or list of telephone numbers.

An arid life, Gamadge thought; had Miss Radford lately hoped to brighten it?

“Let's go upstairs,” he said. “I think Miss Radford would keep valuables upstairs, where she could snatch them in case of fire.”

“That's what we thought.” Mrs. Groby led the way up to the second floor, and into a long northwest bedroom which looked as though it had been hit by a bomb.

M
R. AND MRS. GROBY
had made a job of it. The bedding had been torn from the bed and the mattress rolled up, drawers had been removed from dressers and turned upside down, rag rugs were piled in corners, clothing was heaped upon chairs, all the closet doors stood open, soot that had fallen down the chimney drifted across the hearth.

“There ain't any loose floorboards,” said Mrs. Groby, “or any holes in the chimney, or any ripped-up places in the pillows or the mattress.”

Groby, lifting a picture to its hook, said that if there was money in the room, Alvira had certainly buried it good and deep.

“She wouldn't bury it deep.” Gamadge stood with his hands in his pockets, looking about him. “She wouldn't nail it up anywhere. She was using it for current expenses, and—as I said—she'd want to get at it in a hurry in case of fire.” He went across the room to a built-in cupboard; its upper and lower doors hung wide. “This where your grandmother had her cache?”

“Yes.” The others joined him, and Mrs. Groby lifted a lid in the partition shelf between the top and bottom halves. “See how tight this fits. You'd never know there was a join.”

“But the secret seems to have been an open one in the family. Your grandmother wouldn't expect a child to keep it.” Gamadge peered into a shallow rectangular space which contained old leather and velvet boxes, a lacquered tray full of bright Californian shells, daguerreotypes, some thin old silver spoons tied together in a bundle, and a large silver watch.

“No, everybody knew about it,” said Mrs. Groby, “but outsiders didn't.”

Gamadge opened the boxes. One contained a pair of gold filigree earrings, one a gold bracelet, one a cameo brooch. The last one was filled to overflowing with a silver bead-necklace, a silver-gilt stick pin and a couple of rings; the rings had small stones in them; one a diamond cluster, one a row of sapphires and rubies.

“That box was Aunt Eva Hickson's,” said Mrs. Groby.

Gamadge said: “Did your grandmother keep money here?”

“I never saw any.”

“Guess she didn't handle much,” said Groby. “She might not have seen a dollar bill from one year to another.”

“She did too, Walt! I often heard her talk about her egg money she saved.”

“Then she put it in the savings bank.”

Gamadge said: “Well, I don't know.” He stood looking down at the neatly fashioned cavity, a smile on his lips. “Do you believe, Mrs. Groby, that lightning never strikes twice in the same place?”

“Do I what?”

“Let's see whether Grandma Radford told you all her secrets.” He got a knife out of his pocket, opened the larger blade, and inserted the point into a faintly visible crack in the old paintwork. The whole bottom of the cavity rose; it was a thin board, and it had covered a second cavity a scant inch deep. The jewel boxes slid to one end of their upper hiding place, and there was a rattle of small shells.