Deadly Nightshade (12 page)

“And Mr. Ormiston was already familiar with them, and knew their history; at least I presume he was, if he managed the original deal.”

George Bartram said: “There was some kind of joke about one of them. What was that joke about the little old dark picture, Carroll?”

Bartram turned off the radio, got up, and lounged slowly back to the group around the fire. “How did you get on the picture subject, anyhow?” he asked, eying his brother with the wry amusement that George Bartram seemed often to provoke in him.

“I don't know how we got on it. Mr. Gamadge wondered if Father sank his money in some hobby.”

“The mill was his hobby.”

“I wondered whether your father had been put on to a good thing in pictures,” said Gamadge.

“There's no trace of anything like that. How would they get by the customs?”

“Well, there are all sorts of games; pictures have been known to be painted over, faked in some way. The collector then ‘discovers' them elsewhere.”

“Father wouldn't do a thing like that!” The younger Bartram was indignant.

“Not if it was just a question of doing the customs? It's very odd, you know, what otherwise strictly honorable people will do when it's only a matter of paying duty.”

George Bartram scowled. At last he said: “
Mother
wouldn't stand for it. She was great on civic responsibility. Remember the time we rode free on the train, Carroll, and she made us go back and make full confession and restitution to the conductor?”

“Yes.” Carroll Bartram smiled. “I suppose Father might not have told her a thing about it.”

“But Ormiston knew, and bought 'em off her for nothing!” George Bartram's face turned dark-red.

Loring said, laughing, “We haven't an atom of proof against your father, George.”

“No; but—what was that little picture they joked about, Carroll?”

“Don't ask me.” The elder Bartram, using the glass of the Kensett as a mirror, readjusted his smoke-gray tie. “Dutch school,” he said; “which is all Dutch to me. It wasn't signed.”

“They used to say it was by somebody—who was it? Somebody good.”

“Began with a V; I know enough,” he added, smiling, “to know it wasn't Van Dyck.”

“Or Vermeer.” Gamadge also smiled.

“That's the fellow—Vermeer.” Bartram looked round in surprise at the inarticulate sound made by Gamadge, and at Loring's wild crow of mirth, instantly subdued.

“Wake me up, somebody,” implored the doctor, wagging his head until a lock of fairish hair fell over his eyes.

“What's the matter?” inquired Bartram, mildly. “I seem to have dropped a bomb.”

“Oh, nothing's the matter, old man; only, a Vermeer is at present what George would call a wanted article.”

“Somewhat in demand, just at present,” agreed Gamadge, solemnly.

“A bit scarce. Why, you poor benighted heathen,” said Loring, addressing the brothers almost violently, “don't you really know that Vermeer of Delft is not only the height of the fashion, but that his few and jealously counted pictures are valuable beyond your wildest dreams?”

“Oh? Why?” asked Carroll Bartram, politely.

“Because a lot of his things were scattered and burned up or lost, you innocent, and a lot of them were ascribed to other painters. Then he was rediscovered—when, Gamadge?”

“About seventy-five years ago the craze began, I think.”

“And since then hordes of people have been hunting around in all the holes and corners of Europe, trying to find Vermeers, signed or not. I thought they were all placed, now.”

“There are supposed to be still a few in existence, waiting to be found,” said Gamadge. “Your father really must have been joking, Mr. Bartram; there isn't much chance of a Vermeer falling into his hands like that.”

“How much would one be worth?” asked George Bartram, whose flush had not entirely subsided.

“I hardly know. What do you think, Loring?”

“Well, before 1929 I'm sure a Vermeer would have brought at least a hundred thousand, in the open market.”

“What!” George Bartram started as if he had been stung.

“Just forget it, George, old boy,” advised Loring, with a grin. “Drop the whole thing. We have no proof that your father ever bought a decent picture in his life. If he did, and Ormiston got it from your mother for a song, he won't tell.”

“But couldn't we make him produce the things, or find out what he did with 'em?”

“If he sold a picture for a hundred thousand dollars,” said Mitchell, “he wouldn't be so hard up as he is now.”

“Is he hard up?” inquired Loring.

“They tell me so. I oughtn't to have mentioned it. When did you say your father sold the bonds, Mr. Bartram?”

“Between the summer of 1925 and the summer of 1927; wasn't it, Carroll?”

“If you say so; I don't remember.”

“Sold 'em for cash?” asked Mitchell.

“Well, not quite like that,” said Carroll Bartram. “The proceeds of the sales were duly deposited in the bank, and he drew out the cash himself, in amounts running from a thousand to ten thousand dollars.”

“He might have transferred it to another bank—under another name.”

“So he might.”

“Funny he didn't say anything to your mother.”

“He may have intended to. He died suddenly, you know; of heart failure. Shock to us all.”

“Well, it certainly does look as if he heard of some investment while he was in Europe in 1925; realized on his securities in the next two years; and bought whatever he did buy, in 1927.”

“There are long odds against the possibility of cheating those fellows at the customs,” said Gamadge.

“Long odds against old Mr. Bartram cheating anybody, too,” said Loring.

“Well, we must certainly interview Mr. Ormiston. I'll let you know,” said Gamadge, as he rose, “how the gentleman reacts to the words Varnish, Value and Vermeer.”

George Bartram shook hands, forcing a smile; he was undoubtedly shaken to the depths of his soul by this exasperating hypothesis. Carroll Bartram had for some minutes been looking exhausted. He shook hands silently with Gamadge, and sank back on the davenport.

Loring went to the front door with the two visitors. “Look here,” he said, “what about lunch at my place? It will save you the trip to Burnsides and back, and we'll have a chance for a real talk. Impossible to discuss things freely in there.” He jerked his head backwards. “Now, don't be afraid of taking potluck with me; I run a bachelor doctor's establishment; no fixed hours, plenty of food in the cupboard, and a good plain cook who loves company.”

“What say, Mr. Gamadge?” Mitchell was evidently pleased with the invitation.

“I'm entirely in your hands.”

“Good!” said Loring. “You don't know my house, do you? I'll just get my car—it's in the back lane.”

“We'll join you there. I'll get you to let me telephone Mrs. Burnside, and ask her to save that tinker mackerel for supper.” Mitchell and Gamadge started down the steps, and Loring disappeared into the house.

Mrs. George Bartram, Irma Bartram and Miss Adelaide Gibbons were picking flowers from the borders along the flagged walk. Mrs. Bartram still wore the coral necklace, and Irma the gold beads; Irma had also somehow managed to persuade someone to pin the enormous cameo brooch to her sweater, whereon it reposed, blandly incongruous. Miss Gibbons, gaunt, freckled, and unprofessionally clothed in a short red-and-white silk dress and patent-leather pumps, wore long gold filigree earrings, from which half the tassels were missing.

“Long stems, Irma,” admonished Mrs. Bartram, glancing rather helplessly at the other two, who were tearing marigolds from their stalks and casting them into a flat basket, without much regard for the niceties of the task, but with great rapidity.

Miss Gibbons smiled up amiably at the two men.

“Pickin' a bouquet for dinner,” she said, “and look at all the help we got here. Never you mind, Irm, we can float the short ones in a dish, like my mon does with pansies. See what Irm gave me out of her box of joolery. Ain't they pretty?”

“Short stems, Irma,” repeated Mrs. Bartram, a little stiffly.

Irma, as usual, said nothing, but the look she bestowed on Gamadge was blissful; she was being horribly spoiled, she knew not for what reason; and she had found an affinity.

Casebook of a Country G.P.

G
AMADGE SETTLED HIMSELF
into his seat in Mitchell's car and got out a pencil and a badly smudged Torquemada puzzle. He buried himself in it so effectively that Mitchell gave up trying to talk to him.

They drove east to the limits of the Bartram property, turned left, again followed the white picket fence, turned left again, and found themselves in a narrow lane, between the Bartram grounds and the woods. Loring awaited them in front of a garage which contained two cars, one of them George Bartram's bargain in Cadillacs. Loring's own well-worn two-seater looked as if a garage seldom sheltered it.

“Have you been in this way?” he asked Gamadge, indicating the Bartram gate.

“No. I won't get out, thanks.” Gamadge looked towards the summerhouse, of which the wire netting shimmered among shrubs.

Loring preceded them along back roads to a cheerful frame house, standing on a quiet corner among old maples. A pleasant, gray-haired woman received them hospitably.

“I have a big dish of fish chowder all ready,” she said. “How's Carroll Bartram? I hope he's bearin' up.”

“He is, better than I thought he would. Serena, this is Mr. Mitchell; state detective. You watch your step. And here's Mr. Gamadge, from New York. This is my housekeeper, Mrs. Turnbull. She'll show you the way to the office washroom, while I go and get out something worthy of the fish chowder. A dry white wine, don't you think? I need something rather special, after this morning's very exacting work.”

“I sh'd think you would,” said Serena. She led Gamadge and Mitchell through the office on the left of the door, and to a well-equipped lavatory. Mitchell took the liberty of using the office telephone to call Burnsides, and Gamadge stood at the side door, evidently cut through for the benefit of patients, which gave on a sunny lawn with a border of late-blooming flowers.

“‘An innocent life, yet far astray'?” He intoned it questioningly. “I shouldn't mind being far astray in a place like this.”

“You'd think you were far astray, in winter,” said Mitchell. “My heavens, you need snowshoes to get around these back roads.
Nothing
gets through. I bet Loring uses the old cutter, bells and all.”

They crossed the hall, hung their hats on a rack which already bulged with masculine outer garments that exuded a leathery, rubbery smell, and joined Loring in a small, square dining room. It was neat and bare, with faded roses on the walls and clean muslin curtains at the windows. Serena brought them huge dishes of fish chowder, followed by a cucumber salad, for which she apologized:

“The doctor will have his greens.”

“Yes, and not in chunks, either. I hope those cucumbers are sliced thin, Serena. I see they are; bless you.” Loring made a superlative dressing, refilled their glasses with Graves, and asked Serena to toast some more brown bread.

“This Mrs. Turnbull of yours, she's some cook,” said Mitchell, and Gamadge remarked that Doctor Loring was probably some cook, too.

“Well—she does the native dishes perfectly; I supply the trimmings, and make out the menus. I'm a gourmet.”

“So am I,” said Gamadge, “and I can assure you that I never ate a better lunch in my life.”

“Glad to hear you say so.” Loring served the dessert—home-preserved fruits and spongecake—and they finished the meal in the silence of appreciation. Afterwards they adjourned to a large room at the back of the house, where Serena brought them coffee.

Gamadge sank into an old green rep chair in front of the Franklin stove, and sighed.

“I call this a room!” he said.

“It's the old parlor and sitting room, thrown together.”

It ran across the width of the house, with two windows on the south, one on the east, and a fireplace, fitted with the Franklin stove, in the north wall. Green rep, fading to bronze, hung from the windows to the floor, which was covered by an ancient green-and-white carpet. Yellowed engravings in wide mahogany frames hung between latticed bookcases. A broad table in the southeast corner was spread with papers. The wall was a panorama of quiet landscapes, which Mitchell gazed upon admiringly.

“I had the paper made,” confessed Loring; “had it copied from scraps I found in the attic. I suppose I was a fool, but I do like things to be in keeping. I can't tell you how I hated having the whale-oil lamp, there, fitted for electricity.”

“And he has those curtains up nine tenths of the year,” said Mrs. Turnbull, who had come in to take away the coffee cups. “Men are the greatest ones for curtains; lucky they don't mind dust.”

She departed, and Loring said: “We're reasonably sure of being let alone for the moment. Have a drop of brandy? To the deuce with those great silly glasses, say I; I like mine in a thimble.”

He and Gamadge had their thimblefuls, Mitchell refusing.

“I feel good enough the way I am,” he explained, filling his pipe. “This kind of thing is apt to make you forget you're working against time.”

“You really must go tomorrow night, Gamadge?” asked Loring. “Too bad. It's a comfort to have a civilized being to talk to, once in an age.”

“I should say that Mr. Bartram was highly civilized.”

“In the strictly worldly sense, yes; I don't pretend to emulate him, and he, in turn, has no use for—er—
belles lettres
.”

“You write, don't you, Doctor?”