The House without the Door (13 page)

"She's been in the papers, and she's hiding from publicity. I told you all that."

"Under that style she's nothing but folks. What got her in this state?"

"She was a member of one of the best families in a small town, and she got in the papers; doesn't that tell you anything?"

"She needn't be afraid anybody'll recognize her here," said Miss Lukes, who was not talkative. "I don't think any of them ever looks at a newspaper, even when they're at home— any of them but Mrs. Billings, and she's one of these saints. She wouldn't gossip about the devil himself."

"I don't like this Mrs. Greer, as you call her, being alone all the time," said Mrs. Tully. "She looks to me as if she's been frightened."

"She's here for privacy. Don't you rent her a car and let her go driving herself around the country, though; make her let Harold or one of the men on the place drive her. Say it's a rule."

"What is this?" Mrs. Tully was indignant. "We don't take mental cases, even if the doctors are always trying to slip 'em over on us."

"If Mr. Gamadge sends her, that's enough," said Miss Lukes. "I'm glad Harold's coming; he always fixes the lights and the kitchen taps first thing."

"If he does, that proves he likes you. He knows who Mrs. Greer is," said Gamadge, "and he'll look out for her."

"It sounds like monkey business to me." Mrs. Tully scowled. "I won't have anything going on here that's likely to upset the patients."

"Mrs. Greer won't upset them. She doesn't know who Harold is, or why he's here, and I don't want her to. It would make her nervous, and I want her to feel safe." But he had a guilty look, which Mrs. Tully instantly recognized for what it was. She said: "None of your detective stuff here, Gamadge. This isn't Bellevue."

Lucy Lukes shook her partner's arm. "You let Mr. Gamadge fix this his own way," she insisted. 'And just remember what that room rents for. If you feel like turning down ninety a week in late November, I don't."

"Neither do I, but—"

"And Harold's paying thirty-five for one of the cubbyholes. Are you crazy?"

Gamadge was biting his forefinger. He said: "I had to put her somewhere. I know it's a good deal to ask—taking somebody in under a false name."

"You leave her here and forget it," said Miss Lukes. "We wouldn't be here ourselves if you hadn't put up capital."

Gamadge patted her shoulder, and went downstairs. He passed through a large sunroom or lounge, observed by two old ladies and an old gentleman, and went out on the front porch. He sat down on the steps in the sun, smoked, and waited.

Harold drove up in a station cab at a quarter past twelve. He ignored Gamadge, carried his bag and suitcase across the porch, rang the bell, was admitted, and disappeared. In a few minutes he came out and sauntered over to sit beside his employer.

"Mrs. Gregson is above you in the north-east corner," said Gamadge, speaking low.

"So Lukes told me. They gave me the room just under her. I'll freeze to death; did you know those cells have no windows? Only the Dutch door."

"That's enough, I should think."

"I should, too. Do you know what the nights up here are going to be like?"

"Sleep in the daytime. Nobody could get in here then without a permit; but I want her looked after at night, when windows go up."

Harold's voice suddenly changed as a man strode up the drive. He said: "Seems a nice place. Did you just get here, Mr.—er—?"

The newcomer, a distracted-looking individual in a cap and a leather coat, paused in front of them. He said: "Nice? It's a tomb. Twilight comes down on these forsaken hills like a pall."

Gamadge looked mildly up at him.

"One escapes from those wrecks and ruins of humanity in the lounge," continued the man, "one goes up to bed and lies there and listens to the crickets and the tree frogs. One begins to think of one's sins, and to wonder if there may not be a hereafter in spite of all."

"Keep up your courage," said Gamadge.

"I came up here to write. My doctor said I should be able to write here. I can't write, I can't sleep until dawn, and then come the roosters."

"I rather like the roosters."

"They drive me to frenzy."

"You can't be well."

"Perfectly well, if I could have quiet. How long are you up for?"

"I'm not staying. How long are you up for, sir?" inquired Gamadge politely of Harold.

"Not long," said Harold. "You can bet on that."

"Can you sleep?" asked the distraught man.

"No; I roam around."

"They don't let you."

"They do me; I have a deck stateroom."

"Pay me a call after hours, via my south window; we might have a game of something."

"See what I can do. Where are you?"

"South-east corner." He went in, and Harold observed glumly: "He ought to spell me."

"I don't trust these insomniacs," objected Gamadge. "They sleep a lot more than they think they do."

An old lady came out of the house, pretended to admire the view, and after a moment shyly addressed Gamadge. He rose.

"So you really are Mr. Gamadge; I knew you the moment I saw you through the window." She was delighted.

"How nice to see you again. You're Mrs. Billings." Gamadge shook hands.

"You play such a nice game of bridge, and you were so nice to play with." Mrs. Billings glanced politely at Harold. "I wonder if that gentleman plays."

Gamadge said: "I'll find out." He turned to Harold and asked: "May we know your name, sir? Mine is Gamadge. My friend, Mrs. Billings, and I would like to know if you play bridge."

Harold got up off the step. "My name's Thompson, and I'm sorry to say that I don't play bridge at all."

This was not true, and the falsehood bid fair to do Harold no good; for Mrs. Billings said eagerly: "We might teach you."

"I'm not sure if I'm going to stay."

"Oh, dear. I did hope for a permanent fourth. The maid tells me that a new patient has come, a Mrs. Greer, but that she's taking a complete rest cure. I did so hope that we could get up a nice table in the evenings; they are so long, and Mr. Pole often doesn't wish to play. Would you—would you like to join us for a rubber just until lunch, Mr. Gamadge?" Mrs. Billings' old face gazed up at him wistfully. Gamadge said: "Of course. I'll be delighted to."

"I'm afraid we only play for a fortieth."

"Quite enough."

Mrs. Billings, glowing with pleasure, went into the house. Gamadge followed her; Harold, grinning, pursued him with an admonition not to forget Blackwood, and went round to the back, where a chauffeur-handyman rushed out of the garage to ask him something about a new camera. They retired to the chauffeur-handyman's rooms over the garage.

Gamadge played bridge until after one, when the luncheon gong released him. His partner had been Mrs. Billings, and his opponents old Mr. Bitterfield and the distraught Mr. Pole. Mr. Bitterfield still played a sound game of auction in the Work tradition; Mr. Pole's tendency was to respond with Blackwood to his partner's first bid; and Mrs. Billings, a gentle and timid player, never raised her partner at all. She explained the omission whenever it occurred by saying: "If I do, you'll jump away up."

They were still struggling with the first rubber when the gong sounded. Gamadge's suggestion that the winners of the first game should be paid, with the usual bonus, satisfied everybody. Mr. Bitterfield and Mr. Pole had held all the cards, and were the victors; Mrs. Billings only wanted to play and did not care who won.

They all went into the dining-room and sat down to eat a well-cooked and delicious plain meal; Gamadge delightedly watching Harold, at a corner table, reluctantly absorbing the kind of food he took least interest in. After lunch Gamadge smoked a cigarette, conversed with Mr. Bitterfield on the subject of blood pressure, and at last wandered up to the second floor. On seeing a lunch tray, well cleared, outside Mrs. Gregson's room, and the "Do Not Disturb" sign on her door, he wandered down again and out to Harold's quarters on the terrace. He was dropping with sleep.

Harold was exchanging his coat for a sweater and suggested that Gamadge take a nap. Gamadge looked longingly at the pile of extra blankets on the cot. "Hanged if I don't," he said. "I can get to Burford in half an hour from here."

"Going to that place—Pine Lots?"

"Yes; I'll stop there. It's on my way home."

"I still don't see why all the fuss over Mrs. Gregson. Nobody but Mr. Colby knows she's here."

Gamadge did not reply, but proceeded silently to take off his coat and shoes.

"I'm going back to the garage," said Harold. "That feller wants some help developing his pictures."

"Ask him if he'll condescend to take time out and fill up my car, will you?"

Harold nodded and left. Gamadge rolled himself up in blankets, and lay down. He fell asleep almost as his head touched the pillow, sinking consciously and deliciously into kind darkness.

He woke slowly, and lay for a minute looking out through the upper half of the Dutch door at a mellow sky and a far-off line of hills. Autumn scents came to him on a chill breeze. He consulted his watch, and was gratified to find that he had had nearly two hours of oblivion; it was well past four.

He assumed shoes and coat, feeling some amusement, as he combed his hair at Harold's mirror, to think that this was the first time he had ever used the tortoise-shell comb in his wedding outfit. Strolling afterwards along the back of the house on his way to the side lane, he was still further amused to hear loud snores proceeding from the window of Mr. Pole.

He found his car turned and waiting, climbed in, and drove away; catching as he did so a glimpse of Harold, looking very dirty, at the upper window of the garage. Harold grinned and waved. Gamadge left Five Acre Farm and drove towards Cold Brook down the steepish, winding road.

G
AMADGE, ON THE LOOKOUT
for the branch to Pine Lots, slowed as he approached a likely-looking road on his right. A bus passed him labelled
Danbury
, and he heard the faint whistle of a train; the railway must be over the hill to the west.

A two-seater came down the by-road, going fast; Gamadge, waiting for it to make the turn, had a clear view of the driver's profile; but he would hardly have recognized Mr. Paul Belden if that gentleman had not cast a momentary look at him as he flashed by. Perhaps he also recognized Gamadge, but he gave no sign of doing so—his hard, set, almost ferocious expression did not alter. It was so nearly a grimace that in the uncertain daylight it made Belden look more like a gargoyle than a man.

Gamadge watched the car streak southwards; then he entered the by-road and drove along between stubble fields in which a few pumpkins still glowed among the stacks of corn. Stony pastures followed, and to the north a deep belt of pines. The land rose steeply in front of him and to the south. He passed a small, shabby farm on his left, set back among maples at some distance from the road.

The farmer came round his house, a bucket in each hand, and glanced over his shoulder at the woods rising steeply to the south-west. A dog was barking somewhere in that region. He set his pails down as Gamadge stopped his car, and came to the road along a dirt path.

"Am I right for Pine Lots?" asked Gamadge.

"You be."

"You're Mr. Hotchkiss?"

"That s right."

"Mrs. Stoner get back today?"

"Yes, come up this mornin'."

"Mrs. Greer says you take good care of them."

"Try to; they're nice ladies."

The angry barking continued. Hotchkiss said: "That's my pup. Guess he found a woodchuck; hope it ain't a skunk." He whistled piercingly, and a spotted dog with hound's ears came running down the cleared hillside. He ran up, and his master admonished him: "You ferget them animals and come in and eat your supper."

"Well, good evening," said Gamadge.

"Good evenin'."

Gamadge drove on, over a ridge, past a stump lot on the left, past a tongue of pine trees which came down to the road. He stopped at sight of a white house. It had a yard planted with old trees; from where he sat Gamadge could not see the side door. He got out of the car, and skirted the pines until he was in sight of the garage in the rear. He had seen the curtained upper windows and the side entrance, and now he was looking at a latticed kitchen porch. He strolled to the garage; it contained no car, but a well-kept sedan stood in front of it.

A burst of wild barking somewhere above and behind him made him turn; he frowned, as it changed to a long, rising wail. The Hotchkiss dog had come back. Gamadge crossed the yard again, pushed through the belt of pines, and came out on the stump lot. Dusk was beginning to take the colour from its russets and yellows, but the light was still clear enough; as he climbed, choosing footholds on the slippery grass, the spotted dog rushed down to meet him. It leapt up to paw him, its tongue hanging out.

"All right, old boy; what's the matter?"

The dog wagged its tail, dashed away, and stopped to look back at Gamadge. As Gamadge came on it bounded off again, leaping the stumps and the low bushes. Gamadge toiled after it, avoiding loose stones. The dog waited for him beside a fallen log, or what looked like one; but Gamadge, coming up to it, stood rigid. It was not a log, although its coat was the colour of one.

The dog stood motionless beside it, looking at Gamadge, and Gamadge, bending slightly forward, stood agaze. Then he advanced, still staring at the body and at the shattered back of its head. There was some blood on the collar of its brown overcoat. A felt hat lay where it had fallen as Locke went down. What could be seen of his face was like pale-grey marble. His hands were covered by grey driving-gloves.

After a moment Gamadge bent to flex a cold wrist; it was not rigid. He turned, went over to a broad stump, and sat down. The dog came to shiver against his legs.

Gamadge put a hand on its long head. "You're a good boy," he murmured. "Keep quiet, now, and stay here." He sat looking at the body in furious concentration; it was several minutes before he could make up his mind to act. At last he got up, his expression not only grim but desolate. He had never felt so alone in his life; far away was Harold, and out of the question; far away was Schenck, and out of the question too. He couldn't bear to think of Clara.