Death and Letters Read online

  “If I used any such metaphor,” said Clara, “you’d—”

  “Never mind metaphors, or natural history either. Do I convey the fact to you?”

  Mrs. Coldfield nodded.

  “Now for what I did gather, which isn’t much. Ames Coldfield knows as well as we do what our theory is; that you and your husband were given those capsules, with intent to kill. He’s a clever man, as you said; a very clever man. He couldn’t miss that alternative. Whether any of the others have missed it, I don’t know. And I’m almost sure he knew those Garthwain letters were there in that little rosewood desk. Whether he simply found them, and left them, or whether he’s the one who sold them, I don’t as yet know. I’ll know better tomorrow morning.”

  “Left them?” asked Clara.

  “If he’s the ancestor-worshipper he pretends to be (and may well be, in spite of his opinion of specific ancestors), what exactly could he do? Destroy them? That would be against all his instincts. Tell about them? I doubt it. If there had been a Garthwain affair there might have been others, and how would the Watertons, to say nothing of the family itself, feel about a suggestion of bâton sinister in the Coldfield arms? I think he’d leave them for the next generation to deal with, and meanwhile he’d savor the secret and get a lot of private fun out of it. I’m only guessing.”

  “And by the time Glen found out,” said Mrs. Coldfield, “Ames had looked through the letters again; only one envelope was there. The Garthwain correspondence had been sold.”

  “Yes, he knows that too. So what does he do? Nothing. He had no evidence. But hasn’t he wondered whether a criminal secret like that isn’t connected with your husband’s death?”

  “He sounds very heartless and cruel,” said Clara.

  “In his way he is, I suppose. He gets a lot of fun out of it all—he got a lot of fun out of showing us the Deane Coldfield letters, and reading one of them to us.”

  “You actually got yourself up into that attic?”

  “I did, but we won’t go into it now—there isn’t time. Now for your brother-in-law Ira Coldfield. He’s an enigma, like all of his type; he’s learned to control his feelings. He has outbursts at the right moments, but who’s to say they’re not calculated? There’s nothing against his having seen the letters, and it’s possible that he needed that money. The place seems to me to be a little understaffed, Mrs. Coldfield—or was, when you and your husband were part of the household.”

  “It was, of late years. Georgette seemed to find it hard to get servants up there.”

  “And that wedding is going to cost them plenty. On the face of it, he seems like the kind of man who’d take his brother’s and his wife’s advice about a case such as yours appeared to be; go along with them, perhaps reluctantly, entirely believing that you would be better off for a sojourn in a mental institution, unconsciously biassed by his own deeply felt wish to sweep you off the earth and out of the minds of men. I don’t know.

  “Mrs. Ira wouldn’t be so likely to act without bias—would she?”

  “No,” said Mrs. Coldfield, smiling faintly.

  “She’d certainly like to cut a dash in the eyes of the Watertons, and on her own account too. And there was a suggestion that she found her husband a little close with his money. Even Susan suggested it.”

  “He is, a little.”

  “He comes by it honestly,” said Gamadge, laughing. “No question but that he’s a Coldfield! As for Susan, she’s very much attached to that eligible she’s marrying. Nice enough fellow—I don’t think myself that he’d bother his head about the shortcomings of Susan’s ancestors. Did he have some kind of affair with the little Smyth girl before he took up with Susan Coldfield?”

  Taken aback by the suddenness of the question, she looked at him, frowning. After a moment she said: “The four of them were always together; I suppose the Smyths more or less paired off with Susan and Jim. I never heard—”

  “There’s a family that needs money more than any Coldfield ever did. The boy is out—definitely out. He’s on his own feet. This Zelma, though—She seems to have had the run of the house in the good old days before Susan’s engagement, may keep to the old ways still. She knows that attic; and it wasn’t she who found your husband’s old fingerprinting outfit.”

  “There was one?”

  “Certainly was, Susan dragged it out and didn’t know what it was. Really didn’t, I mean.”

  “He left it up there, after—”

  “Apparently he did. Zelma Smyth was there the night you were poisoned, they were all playing games downstairs; nobody’d be missed if they slipped away. How about the Sunday night—the night your husband was murdered?”

  “But Mr. Gamadge—”

  “Just tell me. Could she have been in the house that time?”

  “Not that I know of. But—”

  “The door that leads from the study, Ames’s study, out into the garden. Is it kept locked?”

  “No, not until everything’s locked up at night. I simply can’t—”

  “She’s lost Waterton to Susan Coldfield,” said Gamadge. “She’s not being treated at all nicely by the Coldfield people, they’re afraid of her; and she isn’t in a good state of mind about them. Susan and her James are not tactful. She may have lost him long before the engagement was announced, probably did; and if she found those letters, and knew what they meant in the way of money, it’s just possible that she thought she’d be getting a bit of her own back without depriving anyone. And if your husband found her out, she’d be in a worse position than any Coldfield.”

  “That little thing! I don’t believe it.”

  “But you didn’t know her very well. There’d be books in Doctor Smyth’s office that would tell her all about the amytal, wouldn’t there? Perhaps there’d be amytal, too. We have to think of everything,” Gamadge told her mildly. “And she was the only one of the lot that asked where you were.”

  “Zelma Smyth wanted to know where I’d gone?”

  “Yes, but of course she says she likes you. We had a little of everything up there,” said Gamadge reflectively, “including some uproarious farce, and a considerable amount of polite comedy, and a permeating sense of melodrama; but through it all, nobody asked me questions. Nobody but Susan.”

  “But Mr. Gamadge, what I don’t understand is, who would act as Zelma Smyth’s agent in England? Why do you even consider her, when you were so sure the agent thought it would be safe to sell the letters? You said a minute ago that she’d be in a very bad position if she were found out, the Coldfields wouldn’t feel it necessary to protect her.”

  “That’s a difficulty,” admitted Gamadge, “and I’m pretty sure no agent of hers would find himself on your list. He’d have to be a big gambler—take a chance. But for reasons of my own I like her as a suspect—if I can be said to like anybody.” He got up. “We’ll know more about agents tomorrow. Now I’ll just fix us up a nightcap, and then Clara and I will drive you over to the hotel.”

  “It’s rather pleasant, by this time, to be sure that nobody knows where I am.”

  “You won’t be lonely,” said Clara. “I’ll call up first thing in the morning, and we’ll have lunch together.”

  Mrs. Coldfield sat back, looking up at them. She said: “I don’t quote poetry, Glen broke me of it; and the only way I could possibly say what I feel about you two would be by quoting poetry.”

  “Don’t have any illusions about us,” begged Gamadge, laughing. “We do as we please.”

  “Even the animals get on together here.”

  Gamadge cast a dissatisfied look at the indistinguishable heap of tawny fur under the writing-table. He said: “Clara, won’t you speak to your big dog again about licking my Junior? He’ll have the fur off him.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEENPerson to Person

  NEXT MORNING Gamadge began the day by calling Macloud. When he got through to him he spoke in a sharp businesslike tone:

  “Bob? Your client Mrs. Glendon Coldfield wants to have l
unch with you at the Guildford if you can make it; one o’clock. She wants you to see her husband’s executors—his brothers, the Coldfields—about his Will.”

  After a slight pause, Macloud asked: “You mean you got her out?”

  “My dear good fellow, ‘got her out’! What a ludicrous way of putting it. Would I ask a reputable lawyer to condone extra-legal proceedings of the kind you seem to imply? I went up there on Thursday evening, called for Mrs. Coldfield, and drove her to town. She spent the night with us, and last night she moved to the Guildford. Yesterday I went up there again—The Maples, Cliffside, you know, and had a talk with the family; you’d love them, just the kind of solid, respectable family you get on with. I was sorry not to meet the family doctor, Smyth, you remember, but he didn’t seem to care to meet me, for some reason, so we had to manage without him. You won’t find anything but plain sailing about the Will; you’re to meet the Coldfield lawyer if the executors decide that they’d be in the way. Rather retiring people, like all conservatives. Can you make it?”

  Macloud said: “Don’t be an ass. Wild horses wouldn’t—”

  “That’s right. I won’t give you the creeps over the telephone, Bob, Miss Murphy mightn’t like it. But Mrs. Coldfield will. Do you mind if Clara’s there?”

  “Do I ever mind if Clara’s there?”

  “No. One o’clock, don’t forget; and there’ll be no trouble. Mind that.”

  “If you say so.”

  Gamadge rang off and called the office of Futurity. When the switchboard operator replied, he said briskly: “Hate to make a nuisance of myself, but could I ask a favor? This is Henry Gamadge speaking.”

  “Yes, Mr. Gamadge?” The young lady was distant and reserved with him.

  “I wonder if you have a boy or perhaps a girl that you could send around to ask if anybody there knows a Mr. Ames Coldfield.”

  There was a silence; probably the young lady operator’s mouth was open.

  “And if anybody on the staff does know Mr. Ames Coldfield,” Gamadge went on, “will you put him on the telephone?”

  The young lady, after a pause, asked for Gamadge’s name again and requested him to wait.

  The wait wasn’t long. A cheerful voice said: “Myers speaking. I’ve met Ames Coldfield—if that’s what you wanted to know?”

  “This is kind of you, Mr. Myers, and I’m ashamed to be such a bother and take your time. I only need a few seconds of it. I dined with the Coldfields last night, and Ames said you told him it was Locker that bought the Garthwain letters.”

  “Well, what do you know!” Mr. Myers was laughing. “It doesn’t take long, does it? I saw the old boy at the Grolier Club doings, and I did mention Locker and the Garthwain letters, I remember it perfectly. I didn’t realize at the time that it wasn’t common knowledge yet over here—it was in England.”

  “You mean you told him recently?”

  “No, last Fall—but before anything was printed here, you know.”

  “Locker wasn’t mentioned in the Quarterly article.”

  “No, damn it, it seems to be a secret still, if you can call it a secret when everybody knows it.”

  “I didn’t; I was greatly interested. Kind of an amateur book man myself. Did Ames tackle you about it? He would, if he thought you—”

  “Yes, he certainly did; came up with his coffee-cup in his hand and button-holed me. Wanted to know all I knew about the sale—he’d heard rumors. I couldn’t tell him anything but that—Locker bought the things. Fascinating, isn’t it?”

  “It is, Mr. Myers, and I’m much obliged to you for confirming it.”

  Gamadge, scowling, reached into his pocket, took out his notebook, and crossed Ames Coldfield off a list. Then he rang a downtown number, and was answered by a brisk and busy-sounding voice.

  “It’s Henry Gamadge, Mr. Geegan.”

  “Well, for Heaven’s sakes, if it isn’t! How’s the boy?” inquired Mr. Geegan exuberantly. “Why don’t I hear from you all these years? Don’t you work any more except with police? How’s Nordhall?”

  “Fine, as far as I know, but we don’t want any police in on this, Geegan.”

  “Getting out of line, are you?” Geegan laughed heartily.

  “No, but it’s confidential stuff—couldn’t be more so. And I’m not even sure yet whether I’m going to need any of your people, or when, or exactly what for.”

  Geegan was delighted. “Sounds like you, all right.”

  “You’re not as short of help as you were last time?”

  “No, thank goodness, that was the war. I got a nice lot of young fellers now, veterans and everything.”

  “It’s only a shadowing job, but the trouble is I may want the people right away.”

  “Full time?”

  “Yes, and of course I’m engaging them as of now; two of them, if you can—”

  “Wait a minute.” Geegan was off the wire for several minutes. When he came back he said: “I can get you two, nice young fellows.”

  “Car?”

  “Sure.”

  “Er—snappy dressers? They might have to go into restaurants and so on.”

  Geegan laughed again. “This isn’t the war, let me remind you again. Bardo and Shaff, the names are; at least we call him Shaff because he’s Polish, and his full name is something you wouldn’t believe if you saw it written down.”

  “They’re hired. Will you have them waiting around? I’ll call up sometime before lunch. And Geegan—I don’t know how long the job will last; will you get hold of a couple of night men for me too? I don’t think I’ll need them, but I’d better be prepared.”

  “No good taking chances.”

  “Just have Mr. Bardo and Mr. Shaff ready to go the minute I call, will you?”

  “They’ll be on one foot.”

  “Thanks, Geegan. You’ll hear from me.”

  Clara came into the office, dressed to go out. “Any orders for the day?” she asked. “It’s Saturday, you know; stores close early.”

  “I’m worrying about that a little. Clara”—Gamadge turned in his swivel chair to face her—“would you do a little job on the telephone for me?”

  Clara said: “I’ll be glad to. Those ghastly people.”

  “How did you know I wanted you to help out with the Coldfields?” Gamadge seldom asked her to involve herself directly in a case; he looked at her in some surprise.

  “I knew by your expression,” said Clara. “I feel very strongly about that whole family; you can say what you like, but even that girl—Susan—could have done something.”

  “No, she couldn’t.”

  “She could. She was just too selfish to care. I wish,” said Clara, coming over to the desk and laying her gloves and handbag down on it, “you wouldn’t always make such an effort to be impartial, Henry. Sometimes there just aren’t two sides to a question.”

  “Perhaps you’re right.” He got up. “I’d like you to call up the Cliffside place and find out somehow or other where the ladies are going to be today.”

  She stood looking at him. “You want them out of the house, do you?”

  “I’d like to know their plans. As you said, it’s Saturday.”

  “Then Ira Coldfield wouldn’t be at work; and I suppose that creature Ames is always at home. Head of the family!”

  “Ames didn’t sell the letters, Clara.”

  “He didn’t?”

  “No. He wants to find out who sold them just as much as we do.”

  “How did you—”

  “He’s been asking around. He’s not our man—forget him.”

  Clara sat down at the desk, looked at the number Gamadge put before her, and dialled.

  After a pause she said: “I wonder if you could tell me whether Mrs. Coldfield and Susan are to be in town today?… Oh, they are? Thank you very much, I’ll try to… No, that’s all right, never mind, I won’t bother to leave a message.”

  She put the receiver down. “It was the maid, Henry. They’ve started for New York, th
ey’ll be there all day. Agnes thinks it’s lunch and a matinée.”

  “Thank you, it’s just what I wanted.”

  “I’m disappointed, I rather hoped you were after Mrs. Ira. I feel very vindictive about her. But I suppose after all he’s the likeliest. All that blustering yesterday!”

  “We need some more of the whiskey,” said Gamadge, “and some French vermouth.”

  It was a beautiful day. Gamadge, following Clara out of the house, stood with her for a minute on the steps as if he didn’t like to part from her. “We ought to be doing something nice ourselves,” he said. “I wouldn’t even mind taking the boy, and some peanuts, and sitting in the park. Why don’t we ever have a nice family party like that? And on Saturday we’d have lots of company.”

  “Are you crazy?”

  “I just feel gregarious.”

  “It wouldn’t be such a novelty for me, you know,” said Clara grimly. “I’ve done plenty of that. I don’t think you’d care for it. Let’s leave it to Miss Mullins.”

  “It was only a dream.”

  She gave him a rather troubled glance, but he smiled; she walked away down the street towards Third Avenue and the markets, he turned in the opposite direction and hailed a cab at the corner.

  The building was a big old business place on Madison Avenue, with retail shops for men’s and women’s wear on ground level, and a dozen office floors above. There was a double bank of elevators, with telephone booths beyond. Gamadge looked at the list of tenants, and spoke to an elevator man who was standing idle in front of his empty car:

  “Mr. Venner in this morning, would you know?”

  “Sure, he came in. Not much traffic Saturdays.”

  “No. Thanks. I’ll go up. Eleven?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Wait a minute, I ought to telephone. I see some booths back there.”

  Gamadge went into a booth and telephoned Geegan.