The Book of the Dead (9 page)

“Pathetic little guy, aren't you?” said Gamadge. “Where were you, if I may ask, when the burglar came? Fraternizing with him, getting between his feet? Was that why he couldn't get to the office door in time to let me have it as I went past?”

Martin gave up and flung himself down on the floor.

“He couldn't have done a thing about you,” mused Gamadge. “If he had, he'd have made enough noise to set me running; and he didn't want me running in the dark. Did you save my life, you dear little thing?”

Martin shot out a mighty paw and gripped the cuff of Gamadge's trousers. Gamadge shook him off by waggling that foot, and picked up the telephone.

When Mr. Robert Schenck answered, his voice was full of fury and of sleep: “Yes. Who?”

“It's Gamadge. “

“What did you wake me up for?”

“It's only half past twelve.”

“I turned in early to forget the heat.”

Gamadge proceeded to tell him a better way to forget the heat, and was interrupted by a cry of outrage: “I'll be damned if I will!”

“Schenck, I wouldn't ask it of you; but with this driving ban on, you're the only living soul I know who can use his car.”

“I can use my car on Federal business, that's when I can use my car. What's the matter with you going up to Vermont yourself, by train?”

“I have to be in New York for a few days, and anyway the last train has gone—the 12:01 to Unionboro. I've just looked at the timetable.”

“It's out of the question for me to go chasing around the country on your business.”

“Isn't murder Federal business?”

“Not unless you can tie it in.”

“I can tie it in.”

“Who's been murdered?”

“My client; and I was nearly murdered myself. I had to call the cops,” said Gamadge plaintively, “and even Durfee came.”

“Thank God Mrs. Gamadge is out of town.”

“So Durfee said.”

“What happened, anyway?”

“My friend staged the client's murder as a hold-up, and then—thinking I didn't know about it—came along to eliminate me. I think he must have had a gun—he wouldn't risk breaking
my
skull. He found my office window open, climbed in, and discovered that I hadn't come home yet. He was waiting for me in the office; and when I did arrive, hanged if I don't think Martin got in his way. Anyhow, I heard something and managed to get into the elevator and up to the library. I yelled police, and he left.”

“For Heaven's sake. So now you have to get this bird before he gets you.”

“The only chance I have of clearing up the case is getting hold of this Pike in Stonehill.”

“If you can't come up yourself, why don't you have Durfee call the people in Unionboro and hold him?”

“There's nothing to hold him on yet; I have nothing at all against anybody but a series of incidents; and by the time I persuaded Durfee that there was an element of cause and effect somewhere, and he persuaded his colleagues in Unionboro—or the authorities in Stonehill—Pike might be lost. He has a car. He's supposed to be staying over until Friday for a funeral, but he may not stay. I only want to know where he goes when he does leave Stonehill.”

“You think trailing him is a one-man job, do you?” Gamadge had a clear vision of Schenck, red hair on end, standing indignant among his modernistic furniture.

“I thought little Boucher might go up with you—turn and turn about at the wheel; it's only a seven hour trip by car, probably less at night. Boucher would do anything for us.”

“For you, you mean. You think we wouldn't have to be away more than a couple of days?”

“Pike will leave after that funeral; they're burying a man named Crenshaw, and Pike was his factotum. He's supposed to be up there in the Crenshaw house, closing it up.”

“He'll love being tailed by my car with my sticker on it.”

“He won't bother about your car. He hasn't the ghost of a notion that he's going to be tailed. He'll drive away quite openly. It ought to be a cinch for you and Boucher.”

“Leave me out; I'm an investigator, not a detective. Boucher's the pro. And what if Pike ditches his car and takes to a train? Am I to ditch my car? All right, all right,” said Schenck, in a tone of exasperation. “What's the man like?”

“You mean you'll do it? Schenck, I—”

“You knew I'd do it. You've done plenty of things for us; that part of it will be all right if you can just tie it in.”

“I
can
tie it in.”

“What's this man like?”

“Well, I never laid eyes on him myself, but—”

Schenck uttered a noise like a growl.

“—but I have a description. He's medium height, or tallish; thin, light-eyed, ragged brown hair, one of those brick-red permanently sunburned-looking complexions; he's supposed to be a small peddler or commission agent, and Crenshaw said he was a philosopher.”

“Cracker-barrel?” asked Schenck, in a tired tone.

“I don't think he's that type at all. I rather think he's efficient and cool; a tough customer. Now here's something that will make your job easier: The old Crenshaw house is on a dead-end road, a mile or so above Stonehill. From what I make out Pike will have to drive into Stonehill to go anywhere—unless he walks over the mountains, and that's rough country. If you could put up on the edge of town—”

“Edge of town,” repeated Schenck, who seemed to be making notes.

“Another thing: he's supposed to have been taxiing from Unionboro station in mid-June. You could check on that.”

“Unionboro is a good-sized town, you know.”

“But the other taxi people at the station would know if an outsider had been muscling in.”

“How do I report?”

“Telephone.”

“Was your late client a millionaire?”

“Money is no object.”

Gamadge's tone made Schenck pause. Then he said:

“Oh. You feel like that? Well, let's see. Boucher and I will be on a tour—government business—and taking a short holiday in the mountains. That's in case somebody checks up on the car. I'll wake poor old Boucher up now; if you don't hear within an hour, you'll know we've started.”

Gamadge said: “Schenck, I don't know how—” but he was cut off. He put the receiver down, turned, leaned back against the table, and stood with his eyes on the opposite wall, thinking.

N
EXT MORNING AFTER BREAKFAST
Gamadge called the distinguished Dr. Ethelred Hamish on the telephone. This was not as easy as it sounds; he had to be tracked from his home to the apartment of a patient who had flown down from the Adirondacks to consult him, thence to his Park Avenue office, and then to the Vandiemen Hospital. The Vandiemen Hospital put Gamadge on to Dr. Hamish's private offices, a receptionist nurse said that the doctor was just going to operate and was not available, and Dr. Hamish's special nurse said that she would speak to Dr. Hamish. At last Dr. Hamish himself roared into the telephone:

“Gamadge? If it's about Clara, let me alone. I tell you she's all right.”

“It isn't about Clara.”

“If you've been drafted I won't do a thing about it. Against my principles.”

“I'd rather be drafted than frozen in what I am in.”

Hamish abandoned humor: “Those trips must be tough.”

“It's not the trips.”

“But you do pick up information.”

“Oh, yes; more than you'd think. I suppose you haven't time to get a little research done for me?”

“What kind of research? Toxicology? Why don't you go to a lab?”

“It's personal and delicate. Just tell me first—can you induce leukemia, or fake the signs of leukemia?”

“No, you can't. You can come pretty close to it, though.”

“How?”

“Sulfa drugs; you can administer intravenously, if you like, or you can feed the victim a large white tablet. That'll disintegrate the white blood corpuscles for you.”

“Well, what's the catch?”

“The catch is that unless the pathologist who sees the blood-smear is the laboratory scrubwoman, substituting for the regular pathologist who's gone to the war, a slight difference from true leukemia will be noted and duly remarked upon.”

“Red, I'm greatly obliged for this information.” Dr. Hamish's hair was far from red, being, in fact, as black as the raven's wing, but Red had been his name at the university where he had been Gamadge's upperclassman. His proud boast was that nobody had ever called him Ethel twice.

“You're welcome,” he said. “Has somebody been trying a new method of murder?”

“No, according to you nobody has. I'm glad to have that settled. What I now want is a report on a colleague of yours, one Dr. Florian Billig; age, I should judge, about sixty; general practitioner, once a specialist in diagnosis. Connected with St. Damian's hospital.”

“St. Damian's? It would be closed up now, except for the war. Not enough endowment to keep it going in these days.”

“But I suppose they're still capable of diagnosing leukemia from blood-smears?”

“Even St. Damian's isn't enough of a has-been to make any mistake like that.”

“And they wouldn't get the slides mixed up, I suppose?”

“How many leukemia patients do you suppose the average hospital has a week? I suppose you're asking about the acute variety.” Dr. Hamish paused. Then he said: “I never heard of Dr. Florian Billig.”

“I had the pleasure of meeting him last night for the first time. My impression is that he has seen better days.”

“Just go carefully, will you, Gamadge?
My
impression is that you're monkeying with the buzz saw.”

“But I'm so brave; not like you professional pussy-footers. How about getting something for me about this Dr. Billig?”

“It's a ticklish matter, let me tell you, checking up on another medico. I could only manage it through the records, or through somebody who happens to know him.”

“I won't tell on you, old man.”

“Mind you don't. I'll see what I can do, and call you.”

“It's very urgent.”

“It seems to be.”

Gamadge rang off and called another address. He was answered by a man who sounded tough, sharp and busy. But when he heard who was telephoning, he mellowed: “Well, well, well. Coming to the professionals at last, are you, Mr. Gamadge?”

“My assistant's in the Marines, and I know I can trust any friend of Nordhall's.”

“Quite a party that was, wasn't it? He was bound I should meet you. What can I do?”

“Well, I should begin by saying that my business is strictly private business. We can't let Nordhall or any other member of the police department in on this.”

“You bet.”

“I mean the man I want shadowed is a doctor, and if he found out, and turns out to be a reputable citizen, he might sue me for a million dollars.”

“My operatives never got anybody sued yet.”

“Have you some very discreet ones at liberty?”

“We have no able-bodied young men now, you don't have to be told that. I have a couple of old fellers; they're good, but they couldn't run around much; and if it's a twenty-four-hour job you ought to have three. I haven't got three.”

“The man being a doctor, he'll be keeping office hours twice a day; and he'll probably be visiting hospitals a lot besides.”

“That might make it easier.”

‘I have a little plan worked out.”

“I bet you have. Can you telephone instructions, or do you want to come here and meet the fellers?”

“I'd better go there. Two o'clock?”

“Fine.”

Gamadge went down to his office, unlocked the filing cabinet in which he had deposited the Crenshaw Shakespeare, and took that crumbling volume into his laboratory. He stood for a moment, a look of unutterable woe on his face, glancing about him; at the well-stocked shelves and the locked cupboards, the long tables, the sink, the groups of hooded apparatus; then he laid the book down and shut and locked the door.

When he came out, dripping hot but looking rather pleased with himself, he had the Shakespeare in one hand and a sheet of scrawled paper in the other. He went to his desk, uncovered a typewriter, and produced the following:

THE TEMPEST. ACT I., SCENE I.

ACT II., SCENE II.

Gamadge studied this, still looking gratified. The notes were cryptic, but he had never expected more from them than a further gloss on character. He had been pleasantly surprised.

He locked them up with the Shakespeare, mounted to his bathroom, and had a shower. When he was dressed Theodore summoned him to lunch.

After lunch he took the subway down town, went into an oldfashioned office building, and had himself carried to the ninth floor. He sought and found a door marked:
Thomas F.
Geegan, Inquiries
.

Mr. Geegan's office was neither large nor air conditioned, and Mr. Geegan was a fat man; he had removed his coat, collar and tie, turned up his sleeves, and provided himself with a palm-leaf fan. But he had retained his straw hat, which was on the back of his glistening bald head. Two elderly men sat tilted back against the wall. One of them, a tall thin one, looked tired; the other, who was undersized and alert, with a receding chin, reminded Gamadge of a squirrel.