The Wrong Way Down (23 page)

“Ashbury's had a tough time with his woman for the last ten years. She drank herself into sanatoriums, she picked up stuff in the house out there and sold it, she had him crazy. He's a conservative guy himself, and he had his children to think of. No knowing what she'd do next. He covered up for her all right, but until this time he never could find out where she went on her regulars; every now and then she'd disappear, and he was half out of his mind.

“This time he got me on the job, and Mollie too, and the young people—Miss Ashbury's going to be married, they were all scared out of their lives that this woman would make some kind of open scandal this time.

“I went through wastebaskets and trash, and I found a torn memorandum of train schedules and reservations through to New York; Ashbury had the address of some boarding house her family used to stay at when they had money. You understand that the whole thing was under-cover, all Ashbury wanted was to get her back home quietly; so that's all we had, the memorandum and the address—not another thing. The four of us came East.

“I had my first glimpse of her on that upper landing of the Vance apartment last night, after the shooting, and I didn't know what the shooting was about. I was in a daze. Of course there had to be some tie-up with you and that picture; when you brought it along we all wondered whether Mrs. A. hadn't been up to something. Miss Ashbury—well, she was too scared to think straight. Behaved badly, but she had this idea of keeping everybody's mind off her stepmother. Never liked Miss Vance much, didn't like that spiritualist stuff. Hoped Miss Vance would say she
had
taken the picture, and somehow square herself with you and get rid of you.

“Never mind now. I saw this woman leave by the fire exit, I grabbed up the shell from her gun and went after her. She'd wedged the door, but I got it open. Luckily I had my rented car on the corner, but I got blocked. Anyway, I saw her get out of her cab at this street, and she was dressed the way she is now. When I got into the street myself, she'd disappeared. I finally decided that I couldn't do anything down here until morning, and as I was sure she hadn't seen me at the Vance place, I thought I'd better hustle over and check out of the Lingard. I knew Mollie'd check out of the Hambledon—there'd be police inquiries after that shooting on the stairs. So I moved in on some friends of mine named Smiley; he's an operator I used to work with here in the East. Mollie'd be sure to get in touch with me there. The Smileys don't know a thing about the Ashbury business. They're out.”

“They know your wife's dead, Mitchell,” said Gamadge. “They had a newspaper.” He added, as Mitchell stared: “Of course they knew you and she were going under other names. I saw that, but I didn't bother them much. I gathered that you were staying there; but I wasn't after you personally, I was after Mrs. Ashbury, and young Ashbury apparently hadn't found her at the Smileys'. I kept after him.”

Mitchell, after a scowling pause, went on with his story: “Well, last night I didn't dare 'phone the Ashbury apartment, or the Hambledon either; but I called Ashbury in San Francisco. We couldn't say much. He told me about Miss Paxton's fatal accident, and we agreed it was an accident. I told him about you and the picture, and we agreed that sounded like something the Missis thought up. I gave him the Smiley number, and promised to keep him posted.

“Mollie called me at Smiley's from a drugstore after she left the Hambledon, and she was badly shaken up; she'd heard from the young people about Miss Paxton's adjourned inquest. She said she was going to hunt up a trained nurse she knew and stay with her, only she didn't have her telephone number; I was to meet her on Sixth and take charge of her suitcase while she located the nurse.

“By the time she met me she'd made up her mind to get out from under; she was dead sure this Miss Paxton had been murdered, and who by, and what for; Mollie wasn't the sort to help cover up for a murder. You'll understand me, though,” and Mitchell's face wore a faint grin, “when I say that I had every right to reserve judgment. So had Ashbury.”

“Yes,” said Gamadge gravely, “I understand your points of view.”

“And I had a duty to my client. But I didn't blame Mollie, and I didn't like her being mixed up in such a dangerous thing anyway. I made two suggestions, though; the first one was to blow the works to you, not to the police.”

Gamadge looked inquiring.

“You struck me as an intelligent kind of character,” explained Mitchell, “who could see around the thing and hand it to the cops better than Mollie could; and I didn't want her spending the night in the police station and held as a material witness and so forth. You could handle it; anyway, I hoped you could. You acted and talked last night as if you was somebody.”

“Did I?”

“Not just a nosy parker. My second suggestion don't sound good. I said for her to leave me loose awhile, I'd like to try to find this woman and get her back to San Francisco and into her usual sanatorium—whiskey cure, that is—before the police caught up with her. The whole thing could be handled better if she was already in care of her own doctor, and in a place where they knew her as a—kind of an invalid.”

Gamadge looked at Mrs. Ashbury. She sat with her fingers around her highball glass, though it was empty. Her eyes were vague.

Gamadge said: “I see the idea.”

“Mollie saw it. She likes Ashbury too. She agreed that she needn't know where I was; and I didn't tell her where I'd followed Mrs. A. to.

“I took the suitcase back to Smiley's. How could I know that this killer here was waiting up at your place for another try at you?”

“
I
had the idea, Mitchell,” said Gamadge mildly. “I went in the back way.”

“The trouble was that I couldn't get it through my head why she was after you. She's no fool.”

“Afraid of future identification. Only Miss Paxton and I had ever seen the so-called Ashbury cleaning woman, or heard that she claimed to have worked for Lawson Ashbury. There mustn't be a hint of suspicion against the cleaning woman, you know; one hint, and she was done for.”

“I was a damn fool. Well, today I came back to this street and hung around and asked questions; didn't make any sense out of the answers. Everybody here had a regular lease, and nobody told me that a Mrs. Brant wasn't here much. I suppose they were used to the idea, took it for granted, since she was supposed to be a buyer from the Middle West.

“As for the rooming house, I couldn't get any satisfaction there; and if you knew Mrs. A. as well as some of us do”—he cast a malign look at the abstracted face against the cushions—“you wouldn't have thought she could spend much time in that dump. I suppose she never did spend time in it.”

“They're pretty independent there, with their cooking privileges.”

“Just a place to leave from and come back to, and a locked hall bedroom behind her. Well, I hung around; and about twenty to three this afternoon a cleaning woman came out of the dump and walked away from the drugstore on the corner where I was parked; walked West.

“That's when I got my only bright thought in the whole case. I'd already questioned the colored maid, and I'd found out from her that all the roomers including the landlady were out for the day. The landlady was visiting, the roomers all work full time.

“Then where did this character come from? I went back and had another talk with the colored woman, and it comes out that this Mrs. Keate only arrived two weeks and four days ago. That fits in. I didn't wait to find out anything more down there—I beat it uptown to the only place I could think of where she might go in daylight—the Ashbury house. What must have happened, I suppose, was that she went out early as usual to buy herself a paper and catch up on the personal news, sneaked back by way of the other house as usual to have a comfortable read up here, and so on; nobody'd see her at that time of day, or notice a cleaning woman if they did. Then later she went out again by way of the trap door and the rooming house to keep her regular appointment. The colored woman just happened to see her leave the first time—she has something better to do than check up on the lodgers, and I don't think she could put one and two together anyhow.

“Anyhow, the whole business began to take shape in my mind; a cleaning woman could have had a chance to change those pictures, and it would be just like Mrs. A. to pick up a little extra value if she could. A cleaning woman…

“And she could have called up in her own person and made an appointment to see Miss Paxton last night at nine. Miss Paxton would have been delighted.

“Today she might be going back to pick up something else.

“I went up there, and a cop was in a doorway opposite; I'd know one a mile off. I took a chance when he was lighting a cigarette, and started in. I saw Miss Vance on the stairs and you on the landing, and I ducked out. Bought my paper, saw the news about Mollie, and went to the morgue. Said there was a mistake, but I didn't much care whether I
was
identified; I wasn't.

“Back I came here to wait for the cleaning woman; got in next door, saw the open trap there and here, nothing to it.”

Mitchell looked about him. “Telephone?” He strode towards one at the far end of the room, picked up the receiver, and turned to Gamadge. “Want me to ask for that guy Mollie told me the Ashburys said you work with? What's his name?”

“Lieutenant Nordhall. It would be simpler.”

Mitchell sat down and dialed. He said: “I can't do anything more for Ashbury now.”

“Too personal?” Gamadge regarded him with a certain sympathy.

“Too personal. With somebody of my own killed, I feel a little different about covering up a murder.”

“You reserved judgment, you know, Mitchell.”

“That's so.” He looked at Gamadge. “You're a fair man.”

As he dialed, Mrs. Ashbury spoke in a faint voice: “Mr. Gamadge…”

“Yes, Mrs. Ashbury?”

“It's true; I've been in sanatoriums, and I'm often sick, and sometimes I hardly know what I do.”

“That's right,” said Gamadge cheerfully. “That's the line of defense; and if I had been convinced by it, I'd have tried to get you back to San Francisco and into your rest cure myself. That's what I wanted time to decide before Mitchell came; but I'm afraid I decided that you're as sane as I am.”

N
ORDHALL FLUNG HIMSELF
down on Gamadge's chesterfield sofa, put his feet up, and asked: “Where's the cats?”

Gamadge, who was working at his desk, made a cheeping sound. The all-yellow kitten bounded from nowhere, rushed around the room, avoiding Nordhall's outstretched hand, and disappeared again.

“Has some other engagement,” said Nordhall. He clasped his hands on his chest and turned his head to look at Gamadge. “Here it's only Sunday,” he said, “and you've lost interest in the Ashbury case already.”

“Somebody's paying me for doing this.”

“Nobody'll pay you for finding Miss Paxton's murderer. Poor Ashbury.”

Gamadge put down his pen and turned his chair. “What's he like?”

“Very nice, probably nicer than he'd be if he hadn't taken such a beating. But I don't think he was ever a bad sort of guy; his children are fond of him, anyway. He's settled down with them in their apartment, and he's been mighty nice about the Vance engagement. And the Fredericks are going to stand by. Anybody'd know they would, just to look at them. The Ashbury girl's ashamed of herself, but Miss Vance and young Ashbury won't tell on her—about her trying to put off the picture stealing on her future sister-in-law. I guess she was half out of her head with the family troubles. Hoped Miss Vance would take the blame, and that you'd be convinced and drop the whole thing.”

“I must have shaken them up considerably that evening.”

“You did.” Nordhall looked up at Lady Audley's locked, indifferent face. “You going to claim that as a fee?”

“No; I wouldn't want it. I've seen the other one. I feel a little delicate about sending it to Ashbury. Don't know quite what to do with it.”

“Give it to me and I'll stick it back in the Park Avenue house. Poor Ashbury, I wouldn't like to force it on him myself. He's had a horrible time these last years—fixed it so that people didn't even know she drank, pretended she was off with him while she was in sanatoriums, took the whole rap. Nobody's going to persecute him about trying to cover up for the murders; and who's to prove it anyway? The same goes for his children and Mitchell. After all, it was Mitchell turned her in.”

“So it was.”

“She'd have been out of that flat and on a train before he ever caught up with her if it hadn't been for you. Of course, Ashbury's going to hire every psychiatrist between here and San Francisco, but the money motive is going to bother them. If he only gets her into an asylum for life he'll be a happier man than he expected to be when he got here. I can't get over what a soft thing she thought she had; fool-proof scheme, and the Ashburys wouldn't give her away no matter what they thought. What made you think of her?”