Deadly Nightshade (22 page)

“Nice day for a drive,” said Gamadge. “Squalls, this afternoon, though. You don't mind squalls, do you, Tom?”

“No, and we have our rubber coats, and all our bags and boxes, and my shovel and pail.”

The rumble, in fact, seemed to be bursting open and exuding luggage. Schenck said: “Moving?” He seemed to approve of Miss Strangways' appearance, in spite of the threadbare condition of her clothes.

“All the way to New York.”

Breck, returning, supplemented this: “We're swimming out into still water. There's been the dickens of a shindy up at the Rocks.”

“I don't think we ought to talk about it, Dave.”

“Why not? First time I ever saw Ormiston act naturally. It's a good old-fashioned row. We thought we'd move out before they calmed down enough to make any objections.”

“I wouldn't have thought Mrs. Ormiston could fight with anybody,” remarked Schenck.

“Neither would I,” replied Mr. Breck. “It was refreshing.”

“Dave, I wish you wouldn't—”

Mrs. Burnside waddled out, a good-sized pasteboard box in her hands. Breck paid for it, thanked her, and squeezed into the driver's seat.

“I telephoned to Mr. Mitchell from Beasleys',” said Miss Strangways.

“That's right.” Gamadge shook hands. “Best of luck.”

“He'll let me know about—about Cousin Evelyn.”

“Did he tell you that she was submerged in the Great Purple?”

“I can't imagine what it all means.”

“You sometimes see elderly ladies reading all about it in busses. Good-bye, Tom.”

“Dave and Millie and I are going to have supper tonight in Boston.”

“You'd better get going; I see something that looks like the Ormiston sedan approaching from the north.”

Breck started the car with a jerk, and only just in time. They had scarcely disappeared down the highway when Mrs. Ormiston drove in, her children squabbling happily on the back seat. She looked flushed and angry.

“I stopped because I saw you here, Mr. Schenck,” she said. “Perhaps you can tell me what all this means.”

Schenck, with a glance towards Gamadge, politely said that he would be glad to, if he could.

“Mr. Gamadge,” she went on, her large brown eyes turning balefully in his direction, “is it a fact that the state police will not allow me to leave this county?”

“Not to my knowledge, Mrs. Ormiston. Who in the world told you so?”

“My husband informs me that I am watched, and that I shall be arrested if I try to leave. I shall drive down to Robson's, and if I am stopped, I shall—I shall—”

“Why does he think you will be stopped?”

“It was Bert who wanted to tear off before the Bartram funeral. I wouldn't stir. I have nothing to hide. There has been a policeman up at the Rocks, last night and again this morning.”

“To protect you all, I suppose.”

“Then why did he go to everybody and try to find out if I really was in the studio last night, starting my hooked rug?”

“There's a certain amount of routine…”

“Nobody saw me, of course; not until that policeman came and made such a racket with his motorcycle that he woke Sidney. My husband was at the movies—he left right after supper. Millie and Davidson Breck were together in the living room. I often spend whole evenings in the studio, when Bert is out of it. I happen to belong to a guild of needleworkers. I have my own work to do, I can assure you.”

“Why does your husband think that the police are after you, Mrs. Ormiston?” repeated Gamadge, patiently.

“He thinks I shouldn't have insured Tommy. Mr. Schenck will tell you it was a perfectly legitimate business transaction.”

“He has told me so.”

“If anything had happened to Tommy, somebody would have had to pay the bills. Now Millie and Dave have left, scared away, I suppose, by that policeman; and there is nobody to do the work.”

“I dare say the Beasleys can help out. Mrs. Ormiston, why go off like this, tire yourself and the children out, get caught in the storm this afternoon?”

“I won't have my children involved in a police investigation. I shall leave them with friends, and come back this evening.”

She drove away, and Schenck whistled gently. “Will they let her go?”

“They'll send word along the route. I suppose one of those fellows has seen her.”

“Don't you think we ought to—”

“No. Easy enough to pick that outfit up, if they want it.”

Officer Pottle walked up the drive, pushing his motorcycle, on which young William Stanley sat astride, his bare legs dangling. Bliss transformed his dark face, and an elflock hung over one eye. Pottle said: “Witness with information for you, Mr. Gamadge. He's seen that bicycle, and his folks want him to have it.”

“Testimony worth it?” Gamadge helped William to descend, and sat down on the steps. William, looking rather hunted, slid around one of the rail posts.

“I don't know; he wouldn't say a word to me. His grandma sent him. The little bike is standing in the middle of the camp, and it looks quite nice. I shined it up a trifle.”

“
You
ought to be rewarded. What did you want to tell me, William?”

William, who looked as if the last thing he wanted was to tell anybody anything, said in a mumbling voice: “That woman in the car.”

“Oh. Yes. What about her?”

“I was on the road. She stopped, and she took out her little camera. And then she looked ahead of her, and she saw Aunt Georgina just outside our camp. And she said, scared-like: ‘You're a gypsy.'”

“Scared-like?”

“Yes. She said: ‘You're a gypsy, ain't you?' I said yes, I was. So she turned her car, and she drove right away.”

“I see.” Gamadge's eyes screwed up as he looked into William's. “What about the candy?”

“She handed me that out of the car window when she asked to take my picture.”

“Oh. She was scared, you say? Not just surprised, or disappointed, or anything like that?”

“No, she was scared. She had a pink face. It looked funny.”

“Funny? How?”

“Pink spots stood out on it.”

“Veil, had she?”

“Yes. Gold hair.”

“Notice her hat, or her coat, or her dress?”

“Pin on her collar.”

“Bright pin?”

William nodded. “It was Monday.”

“Thank you ever so much, William. You couldn't tell me what time it was?”

“Right before supper.”

“They eat early,” explained Pottle. “Half past five or so.”

Gamadge looked earnestly at William, and William looked at him. Pottle said: “His folks hadn't heard anything about this woman, till he mentioned her to you yesterday morning. They kind of discouraged him from talking then, because they thought she might have something to do with the nightshade, and they don't want any part of that. Now, for some reason, they don't think she
was
mixed up in the nightshade case.”

“Why not, I wonder?”

“I suppose they think it was somebody else.” Gamadge took seven dollars from his wallet. “Here you are, Pottle. The bicycle is William's.”

“Worth the money, was it?” Pottle folded the bills, looking curiously at Gamadge, who replied: “Well worth it.”

Pottle swung William across the saddle of his machine, and they moved off. Schenck remarked: “I begin to hear the roar of the mighty cataract.”

“You must have good ears. Who's this coming? It's Ormiston, the abandoned and deserted. Hiking.”

Mr. Ormiston, burdened with a knapsack and carrying a stick, came up the drive, scowling. He acknowledged Gamadge's greeting with a short nod, and Schenck's introduction to him with a glare. “You're the insurance fellow, are you?” he asked. “Where's my wife?”

“Off for Robson's,” said Gamadge. “Lovely morning for a walk, Mr. Ormiston.”

“How else can I get about, with both cars gone?”

“You look hot. Have a drink.”

“If you mean alcohol, I never touch it.” Ormiston laid his painting kit aside, and lolled against the rail. “My place is a madhouse, this morning. Or it was. It's empty at present. Everybody cleared out for the day—or forever, so far as I know. I thought I might as well get a sketch, somewhere. Nice Japanese effect of pines just below here; I noticed it one morning.”

Gamadge said: “Why so annoyed at Mr. Schenck—and for the matter of that, at Mrs. Ormiston?”

Ormiston's flat, lowering face reddened. “Women are the very devil. My wife—I couldn't believe it when she finally told me. She insured that kid's life. Insured Millie Strangways' life, too. There's going to be a most unholy scandal when it gets out; but what does she care? And what does she care if everybody knows we happen to be hard up at the moment? It's purely temporary. I have a big commission, and several other irons in the fire; and Millie Strangways will be able to support her own kid before long.”

“She could support him now, if she decided to accept an offer that was made her in my presence.”

“Breck's? She won't marry. Has a complex.”

“Not Breck's. She has been offered a home for Tommy and herself, and an allowance; by a member of her husband's family.”

“Her husband's—who are you talking about?”

“A Miss Evelyn Walworth.”

Ormiston's face expressed utter amazement, and something more. Presently he said: “You're joking.”

“Certainly not.”

“That woman's mad. She was in an asylum.”

“Dismissed cured.”

“She's here?”

“Free as a bird, in the Pegram House, Ford's Center.”

“But they can't live with her! It's a crime. She was a dangerous lunatic. Threatened to kill Millie and the boy.”

“She says she doesn't want to, any more. She had a revelation.”

“I tell you, Gamadge, she's as mad as a hatter, and that kind never gets over it. Revelation!”

“I suppose she had to have one, if she was to live at all.”

“And she wants Millie to live with her in Boston? In that house? It'll have to be stopped. It would be murder to let it go through. Have you seen the woman?”

“Yes. Don't ask me what I think of her mental condition; I'm not competent to judge.”

Ormiston turned fiercely on Schenck. “If Millie Strangways and her boy set up housekeeping with that woman,” he said, “don't advise your company to renew those policies. You'll lose the money in three months.”

Mr. Schenck's lamblike acceptance of Ormiston's bad manners seemed to have been deceptive. He now trained his spectacles on the artist, and remarked composedly: “If Miss Strangways and her son can be removed from the proximity of the beneficiary, my company will certainly feel encouraged to renew.”

This Johnsonian sentence had an immediate effect. Ormiston said: “Perhaps I deserved that. I ought not to take it out on you, of course. You're not even an agent; I mean, you're only investigating. See here: what I wanted to tell Gamadge or the detective was this—the policies are not going to be renewed anyway. I'll see to that. I may be financially a bad risk, just now, but I am averse to the sordid.”

He shouldered his kit, picked up his stick, and lumbered down the drive; pausing to stare at the strange procession which passed him at the lower entrance, and came on to the porch. It was headed by Officer Pottle on his motorcycle; behind him advanced Miss Walworth's coupé; and an ancient and official Ford car, driven by Deputy Hoskins, brought up the rear. The top of the Ford was down. Hoskins leaned forward over the wheel, his small wiry body tense, and his eyes snapping. He wore, as his custom was, no collar; a lack which seemed to make his neck look thinner, and his prominent nose more predatory. He was smiling, less diffidently than usual.

The cavalcade stopped. Miss Walworth, red of face and a little wild of eye, got out of her car; this time neglecting to clear her skirt, which parted from the crack of the door with a loud rip.

“How do, Mr. Gamadge?” said Hoskins. “Glad to see you again.”

“How are you, Hoskins? Good morning, Miss Walworth.” Gamadge turned an inquiring eye on Pottle. “No trouble, I hope?”

Pottle opened his mouth, but Miss Walworth spoke first:

“You may well ask, Mr. Gamadge!” She panted, and made flurried efforts to replace wisps of hair under her hat. “I insisted on being brought here to see you. Nobody is more anxious than myself to assist the authorities; but I will not submit to unnecessary coercion. This person,” she continued, indicating Hoskins, “who has been most kind and civil throughout, was a witness to the whole affair. He will tell you whether or not I was hustled by this officer.”

“Hustled by Officer Pottle?”

“If that is his name.”

“But why, Miss Walworth?”

“I do not know. The fact is, Mr. Gamadge, that I am a martyr to hay fever, especially during the post-goldenrod season; therefore, I always carry a supply of paper handkerchiefs with me, in the pocket of the car where I keep my revolver.”

The four men gazed at her, fascinated.

“Your revolver, Miss Walworth?” repeated Gamadge, respectfully.

“I always carry one, of course, on my solitary drives. Nobody has more confidence than myself in the ultimate goodness of human nature; but I am not a fool.”

“Certainly not.”

“I am a fair shot. I was taught to use it by a young cousin of mine, who is—no longer with us. My cousin Lawrence,” said Miss Walworth, firmly. “He was an excellent shot himself. Well, to make a long story short, I discovered just as I was passing the gypsy camp that most of my handkerchiefs had unaccountably disappeared.”

Mr. Schenck blinked rapidly.

“I cannot imagine what has become of them. I remembered that the gypsies have been selling gaily colored cotton handkerchiefs, and that they are in boxes, and therefore presumably sanitary. I stopped at the camp, where this officer was, or appeared to be, oiling a small bicycle. William came up to me—you know William Stanley?”