Deadly Nightshade (10 page)

Chairs were drawn up, but Loring and the nurse remained where they were. Gamadge took advantage of the few moments while people were getting settled, and hastily studied his host. The older Bartram looked younger than his brother George in all ways but one. His expression was that of a man profoundly shocked, who is still struggling against fact, and in the process of resigning himself to it; and the strain had for the time being aged him; but his face, Gamadge thought, was a naturally smiling one. He was taller than George Bartram, slender, with a clear, tanned skin and wide-set, fine, dark eyes. His long nose had escaped sharpness, and his mouth was too amiable for determination.

“Not a businessman by nature,” thought Gamadge, “and not an intellectual. Sports and games; I bet he's good company. He can't stand up to trouble like this—it knocks him endways. He'd run away from it if he could, but he knows how to control his feelings.”

Bartram said: “I hear you've met the little gypsy, Mr. Gamadge.”

“I have.”

“Glad you had a look at him. Well—what did you think of him?” Bartram glanced about at the others, and back at Gamadge, and the corners of his mouth curved up a little. “What do you think of him?” he asked again.

“Nice little fellow.”

“Loring says he probably has a lot of Yankee blood in him.”

“Oh, undoubtedly.” Doctor Loring smiled broadly. “Good, strong physique. Not a scarecrow like young William.”

“Perhaps he's a Young Pretender,” said Gamadge. “Scottish royalty.”

“You met the old grandmother, did you?” Loring's smile widened. “Great character, isn't she? You ought to try to pin her down, sometime; ask her which James is her forefather. She'll begin to hedge, get on her dignity, imply that it's a question of world politics, and snub the life out of you.”

“Thrones would shake if she told all she knew?”

“They would; like jelly.”

“Loring ran me down there after—afterwards, to look at the boy,” said Bartram.

“So that's where you got to?” George's face expressed surprise. “We couldn't imagine—”

“Yes. He would do it. I don't think that's much of a place for a little fellow to convalesce in. Mrs. Stuart seems willing to hand him over.”

“You're weakening,” said Loring, triumphantly.

“Well, I am. Oh, bring him along, bring him along! That is, if Miss Ridgeman will stand by, and you'll let your Serena and her husband come over and do the housework. I'm not going to leave Annie here when I leave; she's heading for a breakup, or I'm much mistaken.”

Loring and Miss Ridgeman exchanged glances of mutual pleasure and congratulation, and the nurse, evidently heartened by her employer's reference to her, came forward and offered him the tumbler; it contained a thick, yellowish fluid from which Bartram winced away in disgust.

“What's that?” he inquired.

“Only your malted milk, Mr. Bartram.”

“Take it out of my sight, for goodness' sake! I'll consider a drink of rye whisky.”

“Doctor Loring—”

“Bother Doctor Loring. I won't have that stuff.”

“Oh, yes, you will, old boy; no whisky for you, this morning; that caffeine I shot into you is all the stimulant you need for a while. Down with it, now; you haven't eaten a mouthful of solid food for—days, is it, Miss Ridgeman?” asked Loring.

“Not much food, Doctor.”

“Down with it.”

Bartram took the glass, frowned at it, and emptied it. Miss Ridgeman removed it, and herself, from the room. Mr. George Bartram, who had been sitting as if dumfounded, asked: “What's all this about the gypsy?”

“Oh—Loring thinks I might take him in.”

“Take him in?” George Bartram stared at Loring.

“Yes. Adopt him, you know.”

“One of my prescriptions.” Loring looked down at his patient with a smile, patted him on the shoulder, and said in a low voice, “Good for you.”

“Adopt that kid?” George Bartram's face was a mask of incredulity.

Mrs. Bartram, who had seemed almost as greatly taken aback as her husband showed himself to be, intervened:

“What a perfectly lovely idea, Carroll! Perfectly lovely. But do you know all about him? They are so careful in the hospitals, and nurseries, and places; they never let people adopt children if they don't know the inheritance. It might be so bad.” She, also, glanced with surprise and reproof at Loring, who answered cheerfully:

“I think it's much more sporting to take them sight unseen, as you might say. If he turns out a horse thief or a nitwit, Carroll can turn the psychiatrists on him. Whatever happens to him, he'll be the dickens of a lot better off than he'd be in a Boston slum.”

“Well, I think it's just lovely. Don't you think it's lovely, George?”

The warning note in his wife's voice was not unheeded by her husband. He said: “Certainly, certainly,” and looked bewildered.

“And now to the real business in hand.” Bartram turned to a small table at his elbow, and lifted therefrom a good-sized leather box, which he placed on Mrs. Bartram's lap. “Here you are, Adèle; I hereby appoint you guardian of this on behalf of your daughter, Irma Bartram, and I hope you'll get some fun out of it while Irma's growing up. It's a solemn transfer of property, you know. Very informal, but we have a good many witnesses to the transaction, and one of them is a detective.”

“It's Mother's old jewel box.” George Bartram bent forward, interested.

“Of course it is; and it represents Julia's estate.” Bartram spoke quietly. “It's a way we have in the Bartram family, Gamadge; unbreakable tradition. The jewelry goes to the oldest girl. My mother willed it to Julia, as you know, George. And now, of course, you're the oldest girl, Irma; go and take a look at your property.”

“But, Carroll, see here. It belongs to you, now.” George Bartram spoke hesitantly, while Irma scrambled down from his knees.

“By law, perhaps; but morally, no. What do you think Mother would have said about it? Trouble is,” continued his brother, watching Irma as she hung over the open box, which Mrs. Bartram had just succeeded in freeing from its complicated fastenings, “trouble is, the stuff has so little market value. I don't believe there's anything in that collection, except Mother's old solitaire ring, that a modern jeweler would look at.”

Mrs. Bartram lifted the lid of the box, gasped, and exclaimed “Carroll!” in a voice of wonder and delight. “Carroll!” she repeated, almost in a shriek. “George! Come here and look at these!”

“I don't have to look at them.” George Bartram got out of his chair, however, and leaned over his wife and daughter. “Many's the time we've seen 'em—haven't we, old boy? Mother thought they were worth a fortune, didn't she? Remember how we used to tease her when she got that wall safe put in?”

“Yes; and you drew a picture of a burglar opening it with a shoehorn, and fainting when he saw what was in it.”

Mitchell, who had also advanced to peer over George Bartram's shoulder, remarked that things like that probably cost plenty to buy, though.

“And they're back in fashion!” Mrs. Bartram held up an impressive-looking necklace of turquoise and filigree. “A whole set of turquoise; coral; garnets; gold bracelets; ever so many earrings, and a rope of seed pearls. Oh, Irma!”

Irma, greatly interested and pleased, grasped a large cameo brooch, was instantly pricked by its formidable pin, and dropped it on the floor.

“That's what you get for snatching things. No, darling, it doesn't hurt; see, here's a little gold bead chain that you can wear now!”

She fastened it on Irma's neck, while Gamadge picked up the hideous brooch and restored it to the jewel case.

“There aren't many as bad as that,” said Carroll Bartram. “I'm glad of it, for Irma's sake. Don't miss the secret compartment, Adèle.”

The secret compartment, however, proved disappointing; it contained a couple of daguerreotypes, some bits of broken coral, a red Chinese tassel, a watch chain made of hair, and two old keys.

“I could have told you,” said George Bartram. “Those are sentimental keepsakes. I hope you'll throw that hair thing away; it gives me the creeps.”

“Well, I only hope you'll wear the things yourself, Adèle; if Irma agrees, of course.” Her brother-in-law looked at her with amusement, but he spoke affectionately. “Lord knows, you deserve more than this junk. You've been a brick, these last few days.”

“Irma would have something to say to me if I lost any of them!” She fastened a short string of huge coral beads about her neck, and fingered it lovingly. “Carroll, I don't know how to thank you for these! Irma will, when she's old enough. Now come on, darling, and let's show them to Miss Ridgeman and Annie.”

“And Ad'laide,” said Irma, skipping off.

“She just loves that funny Adelaide. Aren't children queer?” Mrs. Bartram closed the lid of the jewel box, and hurried out, all smiles. This time Carroll Bartram managed to rise, and remained standing; one elbow on the mantelshelf, his head bent, and his eyes fixed on the embers in the fireplace.

“That's off my mind,” he said. “I'm glad your good, kind little wife likes the things, George.”

George Bartram cleared his throat. “It was mighty nice of you to dig 'em out, old man. I never should have thought of 'em.”

“Why should you? They're not very important. Well, let's get on with it.” He did not lift his head, and his fingers tapped the ledge of the chimney piece nervously. “Anything to tell us, Mitchell? Any ideas, Mr. Gamadge?”

Gamadge said: “We seem to be wandering in a fog, Mr. Bartram, unless we decide to adopt the gypsy theory, and write the thing off as a tragic accident.”

“But will those poor devils of gypsies get into trouble if we do that?”

“Not serious trouble, unless we find evidence against 'em,” said Mitchell. “Of course we couldn't let 'em come back here, or any place within fifty miles of Oakport. The community wouldn't stand for it.”

“That seems so brutally unfair.”

“And the tribe might make some kind of a fuss about it; the men, I mean.”

“They hate trouble,” remarked Loring. “They wouldn't fuss much.”

“We don't exactly want to take advantage of that.”

“We don't want to take any advantage of them at all,” said Bartram. “If it happened through one of their children, it's a thing that wouldn't happen again in a thousand years; I don't believe it ever happened before—not in this part of the world.”

“Well, if you don't like the gypsy theory, we can consider Tommy Ormiston's evidence about a lady in a car. A harmless lunatic—”

Loring interrupted. “As a professional man, I can't let you assume that all lunatics are necessarily well-intentioned; especially if they go about distributing poison.”

“Even a layman doesn't assume that, Doctor; but the point is that this second theory deals with a person without sane motive. Leaving it aside for the moment, we turn to theory number three—that a sane person had a definite reason for distributing the berries. Can you supply me with a reasonable motive which would embrace the Beasleys, the Bartrams, the Ormistons, and perhaps the gypsies? Or do I understand that there's some doubt about little Elias having had any atropine?”

“I'll stake my professional reputation he hadn't,” declared Loring. “Between you and me, Cogswell's diagnosis was a pure case of wishful thinking; he wants to pin this business on the gypsies, and get rid of it.”

“Well, how about the three other families?”

“Fantastic.”

“Then we're faced with the assumption that only one family was the real object of the attack; somebody had something to gain, or a grudge to work off. The other poisonings were carried out to confuse the issue, and keep investigation off the right trail.”

There was a silence. Then George Bartram exploded:

“That's the craziest thing I ever heard.” He glanced about at the others. “Carroll—Loring. Isn't that the craziest thing you ever heard of?”

“No, George, it isn't.” Loring turned narrow eyes on him. “It's logic. Mr. Gamadge is simply going over all the possibilities. Do face it intelligently.”

“I know what you think about my intelligence, Bob; but I say there never was any such plan as that carried out except in a dime novel.”

“I must lend you some of my criminological treatises, George. Well, Gamadge, as you were saying?”

“As I was saying, we ought to take that special motive into consideration. The motive of gain, say, or the motive of revenge.”

“I don't believe anybody has a grudge against either of the Beasleys,” said Mitchell. “Everybody around here knows all about the Beasleys; good stock, both of 'em. I spent a lot of time since Tuesday on the Beasleys; if they have an enemy in the world they don't know it.”

“And you couldn't find out any reason why they should have an enemy without knowing it?”

“I don't believe they have.”

“Well, the Ormistons; what about them?”

Loring said, with an amused look: “I should think Bert Ormiston must have hundreds of enemies—that is, if he's anything like what he was as a youth. But whether they are the sort who would go to such appalling extremes to express their disapprobation, I hardly know.”

“You don't take the idea seriously?”

“I really can't. Not where Ormiston is concerned. Take his work seriously, by all means, if you happen to like that sort of thing; but not poor old Bert Ormiston himself.”

“Well, then; have
you
an enemy, Mr. Bartram?”

Bartram looked up, straightened, put his hands in the pockets of his dark-gray flannel coat, and gazed past Gamadge towards the bay at the end of the room. “No,” he said, “not one.”