The Book of the Dead (21 page)

Gamadge said: “Please excuse my costume.”

“I don't think we ought to bother about conventional clothes in these days,” said the stranger.

“Still, I'm rather reactionary about going around in braces and no collar.”

“Don't mind me. I think it's marvelous.”

“What is?” smiled Gamadge.

“Men being here.” The stranger gave a high, metallic laugh. “My name's Pender, Irene Pender.”

“Mine's Gamadge, Henry Gamadge.”

“The joke is that I thought there wouldn't be a soul at the Inn this time except Miss Crabbe and me. And this morning in come four men!”

“And a lady came.”

“Well, anyway, she doesn't play golf. Perhaps she doesn't even play bridge!”

“I wouldn't count on that if I were you. So many do play bridge.”

“Especially these oldfashioned women. But I don't believe women like Mrs. Maxwell play anything. They just get their man, and then they don't do a thing for the rest of their lives, but sit around and hang on to him.”

“Very selfish.”

“Anyway, the rest of you haven't any wives.”

“So far as you know.”

“I mean not here.”

“Why do you come to such a quiet spot, if I may ask, Miss Pender?”

“Well, I'm from Ohio; but I have relatives in Springfield, and when it gets too dull at home I come East. But Springfield was terrible, and I got one of my silly old nervous breakdowns. So I ran over to the Crab Apple. I've come before when I had a breakdown. The Crab Apple always cures me. Don't you think golf is a cure all, Mr. Gamadge?”

“As long as one can lift a club.”

“I can do that, still; I used to be local champion at home. But it's not such fun playing alone,” said Miss Pender wistfully, “and now even Miss Crabbe can't play much, she's so busy in the Inn. Gin rummy in the evenings! It's as bad as home. Miss Crabbe doesn't introduce guests, she says they ought to have their privacy; but at home it was all right for the local woman champion to challenge men to play golf.”

“Of course. You must play a man's game.”

“I did once. And I won the State tournament at bridge, once,” said Miss Pender with pathetic eagerness.

“I don't know why anybody with your resources should have nervous breakdowns.”

“It's dreadful at home since the war. Nothing but men going away, and I crash when I do war-work.”

“If you don't like a job,” said Gamadge, “it takes a lot of doggedness not to crash.”

“It's all right for the
younger
girls. They travel, believe me!”

“You're wasting yourself. Why don't you cut loose and come to New York? You'd find plenty to do there.”

“But I crash.”

“You won't crash in New York. You won't knit or make bandages, you'll entertain at one of the clubs or canteens; and if you have a little extra money to spend on extra stuff for the boys to eat and drink you'll be the most popular woman in the town.”

“I don't know a soul in New York.”

Gamadge scribbled an address. “Here you are. They've just been starting a new group, and they've been calling my wife up to come and help, and pay for extra milk.”

“Milk?”

“The warriors call for milk.”

Miss Pender took the paper. “It's awfully nice of you—”

“Don't mew yourself up when you get there. Go to a big place where something's going on all the time. You must meet my friend Schenck. He's here with me. He has a bachelor apartment in New York, all full of gadgets.”

This was going a little fast even for Miss Pender, but she kept up: “I'd certainly like to try New York.”

“How about a little get-together this afternoon? Schenck and Boucher are asleep now, they're tired; but they'll wake up in time for tea and bridge. Would Miss Crabbe let us have it upstairs?”

“I should say so! I have a sitting-room. Marvelous.”

“We'll ask Miss Crabbe to cut in. Only don't mention us to the Maxwells.”

“Oh—do you know them?”

“Slightly.”

“I don't. And I certainly don't want
her
at bridge!”

“Then if you should meet them at lunch, don't mention us. We'll surprise them at dinnertime.”

“I'll tell Miss Crabbe you introduced yourself to me,” said Miss Pender, looking arch. “
You
don't seem to worry much about your privacy!”

“No, I hate it.”

They were still laughing over this subtle witticism when the houseman knocked at Gamadge's door. There was a telephone call. Gamadge excused himself to the now radiant Miss Pender, and went down to the booth. He came back, had his shower, and ate his lunch. After lunch he relaxed for an hour, and then tapped at Schenck's door.

There was a conference of an hour in Boucher's room; and when the three presented themselves at Miss Pender's sitting-room door she could not know that Boucher was not usually so silent, Schenck not always taut as a bow-string and talkative as a gramophone. As a rule they all played well: Boucher adored bridge, Schenck had an awful precision at the game and a deadly accuracy, Miss Pender certainly had not won a State tournament by inattention to the rules; but on this occasion form collapsed and crumbled. The players' states of mind were too much for it.

Boucher, always grave and exquisitely polite, more than once said 'arts when he meant the other red suit that stared him in the face. Gamadge played in a dream. Schenck and Miss Pender, partners for the afternoon and kindred souls from the moment they met, leaned across the table to converse endlessly, their cards against their chests. Miss Pender forgot her cigarettes and let them roll from the ash tray to the rug, to her neighbors' knees; she dropped cards upon the floor, she sipped and spilled water. She and Schenck arranged their next meeting—to take place at his apartment in New York—from its date to its last detail of drink and food. They were entranced by each other's bounce and vivacity.

Miss Crabbe came in with the tea; was prevailed upon to play Gamadge's hand, and did so competently. She seemed pleased with the party; and if she thought the three men an ill-assorted trio she did not show that she thought so. She looked benevolently upon Schenck and Miss Pender, and at Boucher with interest.

At last she said that she ought to be going down to see what was going on in the kitchen.

“Miss Crabbe,” said Gamadge, “I have a bottle of pretty fair whiskey with me. Could you be prevailed upon to join us in a highball?”

Miss Crabbe required no urging, and rang for ice. Gamadge mixed drinks, distributed them, and waited until they had been absorbed and might be supposed to have taken effect; then he ventured on:

“Miss Crabbe, I have a confession to make, an apology to tender, and a favor to ask.”

Miss Crabbe put down her cigarette. “I knew it!”

“That we were not a week-end golfing party?”

Boucher said gently: “Madame would know it at a glance.”

“I liked every one of you,” said Miss Crabbe.

“Let me introduce us properly,” said Gamadge. “Mr. Boucher is a distinguished ex-inspector of the Sûreté Générale of Paris.”

“I knew he was somebody!”

“Mr. Schenck is an agent of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.”

Miss Pender sank back in her chair, looked fondly at Schenck, and murmured: “Marvelous.”

“You're not after spies, are you?” inquired Miss Crabbe calmly. “We have none here, not even in the kitchen.”

“We are not after spies. I am Henry Gamadge, a nobody; or let me offer myself modestly as the conscientious citizen.”

Miss Crabbe sat up suddenly. “But why on earth—don't say it's the Maxwells!”

“I told you I didn't like her,” said Miss Pender.

“The horrid truth is,” continued Gamadge, “that the lady is not Mrs. Maxwell.”

Miss Crabbe rose slowly to her feet: “I can deal with that!”

“You can't deal with it, Miss Crabbe; we're here to deal with Mr. and Mrs. Maxwell.”

“They'll leave tonight!”

“They'll leave, I promise you.”

Miss Crabbe slowly resumed her seat. “Don't tell me,” she said, fixing Gamadge through her spectacles, “that you three men came up here to arrest these people just because they aren't married to each other. It's more serious.”

“It's serious.”

“Are the police coming to the Inn?”

“That's what Schenck and Boucher and I want to avoid; it's shocking that the Inn should be involved at all. I don't think it need be; it was only a point of meeting and departure for this lady and gentleman, and they won't have been here a day. What I should like to propose is this: you and Miss Pender have your dinner upstairs, and keep the servants out of the dining-room. When the Maxwells have gone down to dinner, have their bags packed and brought out to the side porch, and leave the rest to us.”

Miss Crabbe said dryly: “That's easy.”

“The Crab Apple won't get any more publicity than we can help; it's just your tough luck that Mr. Maxwell ever heard of it. Did he ever say how he did come to hear of it?”

“Through friends. He and Mr. Crenshaw came on the first, and they had the suite the Maxwells have now. I liked Mr. Crenshaw much the better of the two.”

Irene Pender giggled. “You liked Mr. Maxwell well enough! You said he was interesting.”

“I said he was interesting,” snapped Miss Crabbe. “I didn't say I liked him. Dr. Samuel Johnson was interesting, but I shouldn't have liked him at all. He wouldn't have given me any reason to.”

Gamadge, after struggling for a moment with the idea of Miss Crabbe and Dr. Johnson in social juxtaposition, gave it up and went on:

“They were here from June first to June fifteenth, you said.”

“And then they were going up to Vermont. Mr. Crenshaw sat out on their porch—that suite has a porch—most of the time, and read. Mr. Maxwell played a little golf with the caddies; some of our caddies are as good as a pro.”

“No doubt. Mr. Crenshaw didn't strike you as a very sick man?”

“Just rather languid.”

“Melancholy?”

“I never saw a man yet who could be cheerful when he wasn't well. Then Mr. Crenshaw felt better, and they left for Vermont.”

“You're sure they left for that reason? No other people coming to the Inn at that time?”

“Some people
were
coming.”

“I suggest this because Mr. Crenshaw wasn't likely to be feeling better. And Mr. Maxwell told you before he left that he would be coming back?”

“With his wife,” said Miss Crabbe indignantly. “He didn't know when they might be coming. Yesterday he telephoned me from the Long Valley Inn at Unionboro, and said Mrs. Maxwell would be up that evening, and he'd join her today, and he hoped they could have the same suite.”

“Asked first if there were other people here?”

“Yes; I thought he was asking because he wanted the suite, you know. I told him we only had one guest—Irene Pender. Mrs. Maxwell arrived, all excited to be seeing her husband again. She told me she'd come all the way from Texas, and that Mr. Maxwell had been with a sick friend, helping him settle an estate. I can't get over it. You'd have thought they'd been married a long time, by the way she talked—I was completely taken in! Such a quiet, dignified—”

“Just one of those dear sweet oldfashioned things,” observed Miss Pender. “You ought to have seen her slide past me on the stairs—oh, so exclusive!”

“But she didn't seem nervous,” said Miss Crabbe. “Neither of them seemed nervous.”

“They're not nervous. Mr. Maxwell,” said Gamadge, smiling, “is never nervous.”

“Well, I'm thankful I never have to see them again. Or will I?” She frowned at Gamadge.

“You may. I hope not.”

“So do I. Irene, we'll have dinner here. And those bags will be packed and taken down and out, Mr. Gamadge; you can count on me!”

“What a sport you are.”

Schenck had been conducting a low-voiced conversation with Irene Pender. He lingered to finish it when Gamadge and Boucher followed Miss Crabbe into the hall.

“Nerves of steel, has that one,” murmured Boucher, glancing back. “No imagination. He has all the luck.”

“You have the imagination, Boucher. And I have nerves, all right; but not of steel.”

“Twice I declared 'arts when it was diamonds.”

“You leave the hearts to them. I have a feeling that my wife is going to have her circle of acquaintance widened. She's made some unlikely friends since she married me.”

“If I may judge by my own experience, she will make the best of Miss Pender.”

A
T HALF PAST SEVEN
a striking couple entered the dining-room of the Crab Apple Inn, and found that they had the place to themselves. Candles were lighted on their corner table, but no servant was to be seen. The slim, blond man walked with his dark companion across the room, and he held her chair for her. He was well dressed in tweeds, but she wore a plain, expensive evening costume with a smart jacket. Her hair was piled high. Ear rings gleamed in her small ears, and there was a big diamond pin on the lapel of the silk coat.

“I hope,” he said, “that Miss Crabbe hasn't lost her only waitress.”

“Oh, no; they're just late as usual.”

He took his seat opposite her, with his back to the room. “Well, at least we can't complain of the crowd! But in a day or so we'll be in a livelier place.”

“I snubbed that tiresome girl this morning; that Pender girl.”

“Ghastly type. Well, the Crab Apple is all my friend on the Sandsea golf course said it would be; but I shan't be playing golf!” He added: “Not sorry for a good long rest.”

She smiled at him. “You've been wonderful.”