Somewhere in the House (16 page)

Gamadge pulled down the lid, and began to finger the objects in the well; a fancy china inkpot and penholder, a penwiper shaped like a dahlia with flannel leaves. He said: “Where moths do not corrupt. This thing is like new.”

“Look at all the two-cent stamps,” murmured Nordhall in a nostalgic tone.

The two-cent stamps were in a china box. Gamadge pulled forth a box containing a jade-handled seal and some sticks of blue sealing wax. Then he shoved everything back again into the well, and began to empty the pigeon-holes.

“Nothing,” said Nordhall.

“A life,” said Gamadge. “Letters from women or girls asking her to lunch, or referring to charity board meetings or bridge teas. Dance cards kept for years, because the dances were all taken. I suppose Miss Winonah Clayborn would always have partners. A note from a man thanking her for the delightful theatre party and supper. She didn't keep much.”

He attacked the contents of another pigeon-hole.

“Bills,” said Nordhall. “Look at the one for piano lessons for three months. The guy must have been a big shot. And, my God, don't miss the one for the piece of fancy work you'll see in the work-table. Just the canvas and wool—eighty-five dollars.”

“
Unique Spanish Gros Point chair cover
,” read Gamadge. “
Flower centres worked in petit point
. Work of art, Nordhall.”

“Guess they have to spend their money some way.”

“Don't grudge her her fancy work; must have been very calming.” He opened another bill. “This is from her florist; she gave a lunch party.” He read: “
Twelve Corsage Bouquets, green orchid and spray, sixty dollars.
”

“Made a sweater for herself,” said Nordhall, entering into the spirit of the thing: “
Twelve balls imported Shetland powder blue wool, nine balls white angora
.”

“Made herself some lingerie,” said Gamadge. “
Five yards white nainsook, ten yards Irish lace edging
. And here are some cosmetics; she was very conservative. Orris root, lavender, Atkinson's Eau de Cologne.”

“More perfumery,” said Nordhall. “White Rose and Quelques Fleurs.”

Gamadge said: “Rather dashing for Nonie.” He looked at the bill. “Oh, that was a Christmas present she bought for somebody. Bill's dated December twenty-one, nineteen-one. Of course it was a Christmas present; she didn't use perfume—only Eau de Cologne. You don't get her at all.”

“Then how about this?” asked Nordhall, offended. “Bought in April, nineteen-thirteen. Quelques Fleurs? That mean some flowers?”

“Yes.”

“Then here's a thousand of 'em, five dollars a bottle.”

Gamadge took the bill away from him and looked at it.

He read: “
One half-dozen Mille-fleurs. Bandet & Co. Thirty dollars
. This isn't perfumery, Nordhall.”

“It isn't?”

“It's buttons.”

“You don't say so.”

“They're painted with a lot of little flowers under glass. They're highly-esteemed by collectors; I looked buttons up yesterday after I got home. You'll find that Bandet was or is a dealer in antiques.” He added: “The bill is dated the year before she died.”

“Initial it, will you?” As Gamadge did so, Nordhall drew an envelope from his pocket, and carefully poured the contents upon a sheet of note paper from a pigeon-hole in the desk. The paper was edged and monogrammed in blue and silver, but Nordhall did not pause to admire it. He looked silently at Gamadge.

Gamadge bent his head to study the little heap of crushed glass and rainbow-coloured dust. He said: “That's one of them.”

“It was this side of the piano, ground into the rug. Aggie Fitch came in, the other party swung around to face her and dropped a button and stepped on it. Picked up the metal backing, but couldn't pick up this.” Nordhall poured the glinting heap back into the envelope, and put it and the bill for six mille-fleurs buttons into his wallet.

Gamadge glanced through the remaining papers, replaced them, and closed the desk.

“That's settled, then,” continued Nordhall. “Party was stealing, was caught at it by Fitch, and Fitch was killed. Just one of those mean little thieveries rather than which some people would commit a worse crime than be found out.” He added, as Gamadge got up and moved to the work-table: “Fitch's savings were just velvet.”

“You don't care for the Leeder-Nagle combination so much now?” Gamadge sat down and lifted the mahogany lid.

“I care for any theory.”

Gamadge inspected the contents of the little compartments in the top tray; old spools of silk and cotton, a gold thimble, small scissors with gilt handles, needle cases, a paper of fine English pins, bees-wax, a little emery bag, implements for sewing that Gamadge didn't know the uses of.

He pulled out the shallow drawer below. Knitting needles, hooks and eyes, buttons.

“No collectors' items here,” he said, and pulled out the deep lower drawer. It overflowed with a big canvas square, many-coloured skeins of crewel wool; the blunt needle was still in the middle of a brilliant flower.

“That's the eighty-five dollar job,” said Nordhall. “Perhaps one of the Clayborn ladies might like to finish it.”

“Perhaps.” Gamadge pushed the drawer in and stood up.

“Perhaps,” continued Nordhall, looking about him, “that girls' school will go on having this for their music room.”

“Foolish to waste it.”

“I'll tell you one thing,” said Nordhall, as they went out into the corridor, “if this hasn't been a haunted house yet, it never will be now.”

“Leaving the light?” asked Gamadge.

“I was going to yank it out of the base-board along here, and throw the wire in and lock up; but why? We've finished in there, and if anything else is hidden it'll have to be sawed out. I guess you're right—nothing else is hidden.”

Nordhall went back, turned out the light, and was coming through the doorway again when Mulvane called from the landing: “Somebody on the telephone for Mr. Gamadge.”

Gamadge ran down to the lower floor, and into the telephone passage.

Malcolm was on the wire: “Boss, I lost him.”

“Oh.”

“But I have a story for you.”

“Where are you now?”

“In a drugstore on Madison, around the corner from you.”

“I'll join you; we'll eat somewhere. Just tell me first where he was heading when you gave up.”

“Downtown.”

“Oh. Well, I'll be with you in five minutes.”

Gamadge quietly found his hat and coat, and let himself out into the vestibule. A policeman there took his name and told the assembled newsmen that this wasn't a Clayborn, and to give the feller a chance now.

Mr. Allsop had already run the gauntlet; Gamadge passed him at the corner, getting into a cab. The poor old gentleman looked very much bewildered still; he gave Gamadge a wild and questioning stare through the window as he was driven away.

Malcolm was standing in front of the drugstore beside the car; he did not look like an operative who had lost his subject, he looked rather pleased with himself.

“As the sorcerer's apprentice,” he said, “I think I did pretty well without the password.”

“I'll decide on that when I have your report. Are we following in Garth's footsteps?”

“Far as they go.”

“Then we'll put the car in a garage—I know one three blocks east. We'll have supper in the only restaurant within a mile that serves food on Sunday. Walk there.”

“What's the matter with riding?”

“I don't want Garth Clayborn noticing the car if he's had a glimpse of it already. Has he?”

“Might.”

“Take no chances.”

M
ALCOLM FLATLY REFUSED
to say a word until he had been told the story of the afternoon. It staggered him so completely that twice on their walk down to the restaurant—at the finding of Aggie Fitch, and at the fantasia of Sir Arthur Wilson Cribb and the yellow lamp wire—he stopped dead in his tracks. The second time he and Gamadge lost a light.

Gamadge was not pacified by his excuse that he was thinking of that poor kid Ena.

“Ena? Ena? She's irrelevant. Don't keep dragging your amours into this.”

They had reached the restaurant that still fed people on Sundays, and there, amid the roar of voices, the clash of falling crockery, the shouts of waiters and the moan of the radio, Malcolm told his own tale:

“When Clayborn came out of the alley he never saw me; said something to the policeman there, and then made for Fifth Avenue and got a cab. The alley is between a big apartment and a little old rustic house. The old lady that lives there thinks there's been a fire.

“I drove after him, and I don't know why there's so much fuss made about following people. It's as easy as falling off a log.”

“You ought to know; you fell off.”

“That was different. I mean I kept right after him to the upper Forties, and then across to Sixth Avenue. I thought of course that he was going through to some movie, but he wasn't. It's a dreary thoroughfare, isn't it?”

“You should have known it in its heyday, when the elevated was still running.”

“It's bad enough now. I couldn't believe my eyes when he stopped the cab at the corner—the south-west corner. Nothing anywhere but dingy stores, all dark, and a run-down hotel.”

The waiter brought cocktails, and then dashed away with their order.

Malcolm went on:

“He got out and paid the cab. I had the light with me, and thought it safest to drive across the avenue myself; but it wasn't too safe, as it happened. I nearly caught up with him. He was in front of an old four-storey building, brick, with a kind of round tower on the roof; what it can be for I don't know, shouldn't think it's meant for decoration. There's a cleaning and dyeing establishment on the ground floor, a tailor above, and I suppose flats in the two upper storeys. The third storey was lighted, the rest of the place dark. A sign in the tailor's window said
Spitano
.

“What was my astonishment when Garth walked a few yards along the street and went into the side entrance of the place. You must understand that the surroundings are squalid, and the building dingy and run-down. Here's the side street address.”

Malcolm passed it over, and went on:

“I got out of the car and discreetly followed into a dark and filthy vestibule. There were bells and cards; only two. One said
Spitano
. One was illegible.”

“Illegible?”

“The engraved name had been scored out. The inner door was unlocked, and I went into a narrow hall, very dirty, with no elevator and a flight of uncarpeted stairs. It was lighted only from above on some upper landing. By the way Garth Clayborn had gone into the place I knew he'd been there before.

“But he didn't stay long. I heard him coming down from the top floor, and I went back and got into the car, which I had left this side of a saloon. Unfortunately—and I don't know what I could have done about it—it's a westbound street. If I'd stopped on the avenue I'd have lost sight of him.”

“I understand.”

“He came out again, thinking his own thoughts; and they were funny ones. He made for the corner, and he was in a southbound cab before I could back up and follow. I never laid eyes on him again, although I drove several blocks down. He turned off somewhere. He might have been making for some downtown hang-out. I thought I'd better make my report before I did any investigating of my own.”

“You showed very good judgment. Wait here for me, I must telephone.”

Gamadge found a booth, and called the Clayborn house. He asked for Nordhall.

Nordhall said: “You were a fool to go home; there's a spread here would make your mouth water.”

“Malcolm followed Garth Clayborn, and now I'm going to investigate further. The trouble is, Malcolm lost him; he was headed downtown, but it's possible that he simply drove around the block and back to Fifth, and went back home. Will you find out if he did come back?”

“I'll find out; but why should I?”

“He's been poking into something that doesn't concern him; he might tackle somebody with his conclusions. He may not be safe in that house.”

“I'd like a few details,” said Nordhall, with interest.

“You'll get them all as soon as I have them, but meanwhile I want you to find out whether he came home. If he did, or when he does, I want an eye kept on him. Take no chances. There's a killer in the house, if I might remind you.”

Nordhall was the last man in the world to underrate the importance of such a warning from that quarter. He said: “I get it,” and asked: “When will you be back here?”

“As soon as I get that information. Lose no time now, for goodness' sake.”

Gamadge went back to the table, where the short meal they had ordered was waiting. He and Malcolm swallowed it hastily, and then went out and got a cab.

They drove down Fifth Avenue, cleared now of its summer evening crowds and at its best; with its towers and steeples rising into the misty glow of the lower sky, and stars above. The trip was a short one, the journey across to Sixth very short. Gamadge paid the cab off on the east side of the way, and he and Malcolm walked to the south-west corner.

Lights were still on in the flat above the tailor's shop; the vestibule and inner doors on the side street were still unlocked. The hall-way was thick with the smell of old dust and old garlic.

“And with the vital essence of Spitano, I suppose,” said Gamadge, “if they live over the shop. By the look of it they've been doing business there for half a century.”

They climbed the stairs to the third floor, where fresher odours of Italian cookery met them. An old gas bracket, converted to electricity, showed them a front door with the Spitano card on it. The Spitanos were having a party; loud music came through the door, shouts and female cries of merriment.