Deadly Nightshade (20 page)

Mitchell set his jaw. “What in time did he see?”

“Perhaps I'll make a guess—tomorrow.”

“Ain't you putting things off rather late?” Mitchell stood with his elbows on the high desk, consulting his notes; Gamadge drowsed. The telephone, when it rang, gave the usual impression of mortal urgency. Mitchell picked up the receiver:

“Hello, Mrs. Ormiston?…Miss Strangway's
gone?
… What do you mean, lost?…Before supper? Where's Breck?… He oughtn't to be hunting in the woods, he ought to have called state police headquarters. Nobody there?…Where's Mr. Ormiston?…At the movies?…I'll be up—no time at all.”

When he reached the car Gamadge was already under the wheel, and the engine was running. Mitchell fell into the seat beside him, and slammed the door while they shot away from the porch steps.

“Take the short cut,” said Mitchell, “and stop a minute at headquarters. I want to get hold of Bowles, if I can. My heavens. Mrs. Ormiston telephoned from Beasley's. It's tough, their not having their own telephone.”

“I gather that she's left the three children alone in the house.”

“She couldn't help it. Breck, the fool, is searching the woods; lost his head, I suppose. Miss Strangways put Tommy to bed, and then went out for a stroll. That's the last any of them saw of her. Ormiston took her car and went to the movies, right after supper. Mrs. Ormiston is nearly crazy. They thought she'd come home, gone upstairs.”

“And fell into a panic when they found she hadn't?”

“Yes. Do you think Walworth happened along and took her for a ride?”

“I don't think anything.” Gamadge turned into the short cut. He had observed the road with some care that morning, and now drove on the extreme right of it, one wheel following the rank grass that bordered it. Even when they entered the woods, he did not slow down. Mitchell, bounding in his seat, gasped: “I knew something would happen to the girl! But with Breck there…”

They were rushing towards the spot where Trainor had been killed, their lights two thin beams amid pitch darkness. Mitchell saw the slender huddle of clothing in the road, the pale hair scattered on black earth; he shouted, and his shout changed to a yell as Gamadge pressed his foot down.

“For God's sake—don't you see?”

Gamadge's voice came sharp in his ear: “Take your hand off the wheel. Don't you know an ambush when you see one? Keep your head in the car.”

The jolt, when it came, was hideous. Mitchell, peering wildly through the back window, saw sticks and straws flying, a yellow wig tossed aside. He stuttered, a hand on the door: “Let me out of this.”

“Use your wits. We were meant to get out.”

“My Lord, was that how Trainor got his? A dummy!”

“For goodness' sake take your hand off the door, and sit back. We don't know where the fellow is. I hope there's no wire.”

“He'll clear that dummy away. Humphrey's wig—I bet that was Humphrey's wig.”

“Very likely.”

“Whoever it was will be through to the upper road and away, before we—”

“Can't help it. We were supposed to get out, one at a time—in the car lights. The party may have a rifle.”

“Why didn't he shoot at our tires?”

“We'd have stayed in the car, and you'd have held the siege with your gun till somebody came along. I know you're still dying to walk back and shoot it out, but that's suicide. Too much cover.”

The car emerged into starlight, and Gamadge slowed. Mitchell asked, almost tearfully, “Why try it on
us
, the darned fool?”

“We're The Men Who Knew Too Much. You've seen about it in the movies.”

“We don't know a thing. Or at least I don't, and you're only guessing, so far.”

“Somebody doesn't care for our guesses.”

“How'd you know enough to drive over that thing, for the land's sake?”

“I was half expecting something.”

“I don't know how you did it! That crunch when we went over—I feel funny.”

Gamadge produced his flask, and Mitchell, who loathed whisky, unscrewed the top, and drank.

Gamadge said: “I didn't believe Mrs. Ormiston would leave her children to go and telephone at the Beasleys, and I didn't believe Breck would desert her while he hunted in those woods. If you had been watching for a trap that dummy wouldn't have deceived you for a minute.”

He stopped in front of headquarters. The extreme rage of Officer Bowles, a large and beetle-browed young man, when informed by the still confused Mitchell that he had been out of the office, took some abating; it changed to stupefaction when Mitchell explained.

“Of course the whole thing was a put-up job,” he finished, “but I can't get it out of my head, even now, that there may be something wrong up at Harper's Rocks. I want you to ride up there as fast as you can. Find out who's home and who ain't, get a full report on where they are and what they're supposed to be doing, and make 'em show you the little feller—Tommy. See with your own eyes if he's safe and sound. Then go over to Beasley's and report from there. I'll be here, or at Bartram's. Wait a minute.”

He called the Beasley farm. Claribel's voice came tinkling volubly over the telephone. No, nobody'd been there using the phone; yes, somebody could come and use it; they wouldn't be in bed. Her oldest sister and her oldest sister's husband had come already, and they were all helping Pop fix extra beds for the menfolks in the big hayloft. Mom had made ten huckleberry pies; and how was the kitty?

Mitchell said the kitty was fine, and slammed down the receiver. “Where's Pottle?” he demanded.

“Just gone home.”

“Get him for me; and when you do get him, tell him to hurry. He's to ride along to that place on the short cut where Trainor was killed—right opposite the wood trail. Tell him to look around and see if he can find any traces of that dummy, or of a car parked in the woods, or anything else. We'll be there before long, and have a word with him.”

Gamadge asked diffidently whether somebody could be posted on the upper road, where the wood trail came out.

“Certainly, if you think it'll do any good. He might find car tracks, at that. Or footprints.”

Bowles got Pottle on the telephone.

“Just starting for the movies, with his girl,” he said. “There's a picture at Ford's Center for tonight only—revival of ‘Snow White.' He's a little sore.”

“Too bad about him.”

“Wants to know if he can bring the girl along with him to the short cut. It's that Luvy Wells he's so gone on,” explained Bowles, “and he's afraid somebody else will take her to the picture if he don't.”

“He's the damnedest state cop I ever heard of. Certainly he can take her into the short cut, if he don't mind her head getting blown off, or something. Does he know he may have a fight on his hands in there?”

“Oh, no, he won't. For goodness' sake!” expostulated Gamadge. “This isn't a war; and it's the fellow's time off.”

“No state policeman has time off, in an emergency.”

“This isn't an emergency.”

“You tell him if he says one thing to this girl about this business, I'll have him fired. Court-martialed.”

Bowles conversed with his colleague, said it was all O.K., and went out to bestride his motorcycle. Mitchell seized the telephone. After a minute's rapid talk, he said: “The call to Burnsides' was sent from Picken's drugstore. Pay telephone. Come on.”

Still nursing the finest case of jitters that Gamadge had ever seen, he left headquarters at a run, and cast himself into his car. Gamadge had hardly got aboard before they were off.

Picken's clerk was busy; several couples were having a Saturday night carouse of sodas and sundaes at the counter, and customers were buying candy, cigarettes and papers. However, Mitchell and Gamadge were finally ushered into the prescription cubicle in the rear, and the clerk listened to Mitchell, and shook a bullet-head.

“I don't notice folks using the booth,” said the clerk. “I only noticed one stranger this evening. Lady. No, I didn't pay any attention to what she had on. Black and white checked coat.”

“Yellow hair?”

“I didn't see her hair. Her hat was pulled down. Lots of make-up. Veil.”

“Tall woman? Medium? Short? Fat or skinny?”

“I couldn't tell you. Ordinary size.”

“Shoes?”

“How would I notice her shoes? She wore pumps, I think.”

“Di'mond pin?”

“Her coat was buttoned right up to her ears.”

“Gloves?”

“Thick drivin' gloves, white with black seams. Say, I don't specially notice folks that don't buy nothing. What is this?”

“I think you notice a good deal. Here, gimme a can of tobacco.”

Mitchell pointed out his brand, seized the can, rammed it into his pocket, and rushed out, Gamadge at his heels.

“And that's that,” he panted, starting the car. “I never came up against such a thing in my life. Perhaps
you
expected Humphrey to turn up at the other end of that telephone call.”

“You haven't said whether the voice sounded like Mrs. Ormiston's,” said Gamadge, mildly.

“It sounded like a woman in a hurry, scared to death and gaspin'. That's what it sounded like.”

He relapsed into a bleak silence, which he maintained until they had reached the cheerfully lighted doorway of the Bartram house. Miss Ridgeman let them in, looking frightened.

“I heard you drive up, and I saw you hurrying up the walk,” she said. “Is anything the matter?”

“Oh, no; everything's as nice as pie,” said Mitchell. “Who's home?”

“We're all home except Mr. George. He went to the movies.”

“‘Snow White', of course.” Mitchell's sarcasm increased, and Miss Ridgeman, bewildered, replied yes, that's what he was going to see.

“Well, don't disturb the others. Just get hold of Loring for me, will you?”

Miss Ridgeman went to the telephone behind the stairs, and returned in half a minute to say that Doctor Loring would be over.

“Where can I see him for a short talk, before we join the family?”

“In the dining room.” She indicated the door on the right, and asked again: “Is there any more trouble? Mr. Bartram's asleep, in there. I don't want—”

“We may not have to bother him at all.”

“Mrs. Bartram at home?” asked Gamadge.

“She's listening to the radio.”

“If the radio doesn't disturb Mr. Bartram, I shan't.” The white kitten came bounding along the hall to meet him. He picked it up and went into the living room.

Carroll Bartram lay on the davenport, eyes closed, head comfortably pillowed, Boston newspapers drifting about him. Mrs. George Bartram sat at the other end of the room beside the radio, which discoursed the music of Mozart. Gamadge drew up a chair.

“Good evening, Mrs. Bartram,” he said.

She looked up, pleased; rather Irma-like, this evening, Gamadge thought, with her fair hair fluffed out, and her short-sleeved blue dress spreading about her.

“Why, good evening, Mr. Gamadge! We must talk low, and not wake poor Carroll. George is at the movies; he always wanted to see ‘Snow White'.”

“Mitchell came over to talk business, and he brought me along. You like chamber music, Mrs. Bartram.”

“Yes, I do. Mr. Gamadge, I love this place! It's the loveliest place I was ever in.”

“Lovelier than Ohio?” asked Gamadge, smiling. “Lovelier than The Hague?”

“Yes; it's so cool, and the sun is so bright.”

“That's a rare combination, I agree.”

“Nothing could spoil Oakport for me—not for long. I do hope Carroll won't decide to shut it up, or sell it. I do so hope that Irma can be here sometimes.”

“The house and grounds don't seem melancholy to you, any more?”

“If some of those evergreens were cut down, and the bushes pruned, it would be perfect. And of course I should have that awful playhouse taken away.”

“You don't like the summerhouse?”

“I hate it, and so does Irma. I took her there this afternoon, and she almost kicked a hole in the netting. We never shut her up anywhere—she won't stand it.”

“Let her kick it to pieces; then little Elias won't have to play in it.”

“That's something else I've changed my mind about; I agree with Miss Ridgeman—the little boy will be splendid for Carroll. At first I didn't like the idea—his being a gypsy, you know; but I really think Carroll may find him more interesting, just because of that. I don't think the average man cares much for an ordinary child, do you?”

Whitey had gone to sleep on Gamadge's arm. He asked: “May I inquire what your immediate plans are, Mrs. Bartram?”

“Oh, dear! I ought to be in New York this minute, looking for a little apartment for us to live in while George finds out what's going to happen to the business.”

“Why don't you go tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow? Sunday?” She looked surprised, but rather eager.

“Yes. Take Irma and leave on the midmorning train. You could get ready in time, couldn't you?”

“Of course; but I ought not to leave Carroll.”

“Your husband can stand by, and Miss Ridgeman is here. You'd be in New York all ready to start apartment hunting on Monday morning. I can give you the name of a very comfortable family hotel.”

“I wish I could, there's so much to do. George and Carroll could follow day after tomorrow with Annie.”

“Certainly they could. You've done your share, up here.”

“I'll speak to George about it. They'll have Adelaide, too. She's so funny, Mr. Gamadge; she was coming in here this afternoon, to listen to the radio, while we were all here! Carroll just laughed.”

“His family has known Adelaides for a couple of centuries; you must get used to them, too, Mrs. Bartram.”