Death and Letters Page 7

  Half an hour later Gamadge climbed the stairs to Hall’s place of business. Albert rose to greet him, looking anxious.

  “It’s all right,” Gamadge assured him. “No chance of any trouble now.”

  “That’s good; but I think he’s forgotten about it anyway.”

  Albert pushed open one of the folding-doors; J. Hall was having his elevenses, coffee and a bun; he looked around the back of his chair.

  “This time,” said Gamadge, “I only want some information.”

  “And why must I supply it?” asked Hall testily.

  “Because you’re in the book and manuscript trade, and you’re an Englishman.”

  “I’ve only been naturalized forty years, that’s so.”

  Gamadge laughed. He came and sat down on the leather chair opposite Hall, and lighted a cigarette. “I’m very much interested in the Garthwain discovery.”

  “Oh indeed?” Hall stared. “Only now? It’s been no secret for months.”

  “You see? No secret to you, but I’m still gaping since I read Ranley’s article in the Quarterly.”

  Hall leaned over to call to Albert. “Albert, Albert. What did I do with the new University Quarterly?”

  Albert came in and found it in a tottering heap of pamphlets and catalogues. Then he went out, closed the doors behind him, and could be heard tapping faintly on a typewriter. He had recently persuaded Hall out of keeping him to longhand.

  “Deal went through,” said Hall, turning pages, “in March ’48.”

  “I have a professional interest,” said Gamadge, “in the way it was swung.”

  “So have a good many other people. I only know what I hear. I was over there last Spring myself.” Suddenly Hall got out his large silk handkerchief, rubbed his nose with it, and began to laugh. The laugh was interrupted by deep bass chokings and coughings, from which he recovered sufficiently to get out some words: “Can’t help it. Poor Garthwain. Poor Wordsworth, Dickens, Ruskin, and now poor old Garthwain.”

  “The others have survived,” said Gamadge severely. “I suppose Garthwain will.”

  “Who ever said you were a moralist, my boy? It’s shockin’.”

  “Just forget morals and tell me how on earth that deal went through. What do they mean—‘accredited agent’?”

  “Funny, isn’t it? Well, the agent was a solicitor.”

  “No!”

  “Smart work, wasn’t it? Nobody can make him say a thing, and Doddington wouldn’t anyway. You know Doddingtons’?”

  Gamadge shook his head.

  “Very old-established firm, Doddingtons’. Generations of ’em. He simply offered the letters at face value: are they authentic? And if they are, will you meet the price? He took ’em to Locker.”

  “Oh, that was the collector, was it?”

  “That was the feller, and he has plenty of money to buy anything that takes his fancy. He had everything done to those letters, he put all the new scientific fellers on to them. They’re Garthwain letters, no doubt of it.”

  “I’m sure they are.”

  “And of course the theory is that they were brought to Doddington in secrecy by the Unknown’s heirs, who reserved the envelopes from reasons of delicacy. They’ll dig it out yet, they’ll dig it out.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “But not through Doddingtons’. Well, of course Locker pretended to hang back a little—no envelopes, no guarantee that there wouldn’t be trouble about them later. But then Doddington gave his own guarantee—money back if there was trouble—and the price was reasonable. About ten thousand, it would come to, with Doddingtons’ commission deducted. Locker bought ’em, of course.”

  “Any hitch with the Garthwain heirs about publication?”

  “Well, no; like a lot of geniuses, Garthwain didn’t have much talent to spare for his family. They’re a dull lot, I understood, but Stanwood had to pay them for publication rights—a good fat sum. I didn’t hear how much.”

  “Stanwood will get it back.”

  “And a little over. A little over. Who’s going to do the book? I forget.”

  “Files.”

  “That’s it, and it will be translated into—” Hall began to choke again. “You know, Gamadge, I wouldn’t be surprised if it got on the films.”

  Gamadge smoked in silence while Hall enjoyed himself. At last he said: “I’d like your opinion about something.”

  “Have it, my dear boy, for what it’s worth.”

  “We both know what it’s worth in these matters. The thing’s very interesting; mystery and all. May I put a hypothetical question?”

  “What is it?”

  “Well, suppose the owners of the letters are shyer than we think. Too shy to appear in the transaction at all. I mean, they might feel that they were selling out—old-fashioned way of putting it—the family honor.”

  “They were,” said Hall, looking surprised.

  “Well, they’d be very shy. Suppose they confided the business to an agent?”

  “Eh?”

  “A confidential agent. Suppose he went to Doddington?”

  Hall gazed at him over the silk handkerchief.

  “With the guarantee,” continued Gamadge, “and the explanation that his principals couldn’t in decency appear. You know what Doddington is like; would he deal?”

  “Would he deal without knowing the provenance of the letters?” Hall thought it over. “If he knew the agent personally, say as a client of the firm—”

  “And knew he was good for ten thousand dollars and Doddingtons’ fee,” Gamadge put in.

  “It wouldn’t be only a question of the money, you know that,” said Hall. “Doddingtons’ wouldn’t risk their reputation; very bad for the firm if the letters turned out to be stolen property. Yes, they’d have to know that agent pretty well—well enough to accept his word.”

  “It would be a take it or leave it proposition,” said Gamadge. “And the agent’s name would have to be kept as secret as though it were the principal’s.”

  “If it provided a clue to the principal, yes.”

  “Even nationality might provide a clue,” said Gamadge, smiling, “with the whole literary world turned detective.”

  Hall cocked an eye at him.

  “Say he was a Scot,” suggested Gamadge. “Or an Irishman. That might narrow things down.”

  “It might. Well,” said Hall, “if I had confidence in the agent, I’d go ahead myself.”

  “That’s enough for me.” Gamadge pulled himself up out of the chair.

  “Why are you so sure there was an agent?” asked Hall, watching him.

  “Those delicate-minded owners. In their place I should have used an agent, but I’d have picked him with care. I suppose there simply wasn’t any way for them to sell the envelopes too, and yet protect themselves. They’d have got twice the money.”

  “It’s tantalizing,” agreed Hall. “Well, we can’t help it—we all turn scavenger in the end. Why don’t you devote the rest of your life to finding those envelopes, Gamadge? Nice hobby.”

  “I will, if you’ll devote the rest of yours to finding Tome 1 of that Molière I got off you. It must be somewhere, which is more than we can assume of the Garthwain envelopes.”

  “Oh, nobody in their senses would destroy the Garthwain envelopes,” protested Hall. “If those delicate-minded owners ever got hungry enough, they’d sell. Why, they’re insurance. Absolutely safe bet—they’d match up with every date on every letter.”

  Gamadge laughed and took his leave.

  When he reached home he found that Mrs. Coldfield had quarters at a quiet midtown hotel, and that Clara had placed a couple of bags at her disposal in case her luggage wasn’t forthcoming at The Maples.

  “I only hope you’ll get safely away from the place yourself,” she told him, half in earnest. “I have such a horror of it now, I’m almost afraid to let you go there.”

  “They’ll give me anything I want, just to get rid of me.”

  “Perhaps you�
�d better take dear Mr. Bantz along with you.”

  “I won’t need him this time.”

  “And it’s going to rain like anything.”

  “And there’s no porte-cochère.”

  “Harold could hold your umbrella for you,” said Clara.

  They had lunch, and after they had finished their coffee Gamadge took Mrs. Coldfield down to the office and installed her at his desk beside the windows.

  “Here are pencils,” he said, “and here’s paper, and you’ll find the telephone book and other reference books on that revolving stand there.” He pulled up a chair beside her. “I’ve been making inquiries about the sale of the letters, and I’m afraid we can’t hope for the name of that agent—not unless we show cause to enlist the services of Scotland Yard. Or the Home Secretary? Lord Chancellor? Who is it in England that can make a solicitor give a client away?”

  “Was it done through a solicitor?”

  “Yes; he got a guarantee of refund if the letters turned out to be stolen goods, but he got even more. He got an impression of bona fides; that means he knows the agent of old. And it means something more to me; if the agent was as responsible as all that, he wouldn’t take a chance either. He’s sure, absolutely sure there’ll be no trouble about the theft of those letters, even if it’s discovered by the Coldfields.” Gamadge looked at her, quietly smoking. “He was sure at the time, and he’s sure now.”

  “Because a Coldfield took them, and he knows there would never be any scandal allowed in that family?”

  “Yes; the whole thing would be suppressed; they’d keep it to themselves, and take their medicine. They might turn out the black sheep, but nobody would ever know why. The agent knows them pretty well, Mrs. Coldfield.”

  She nodded, pencil in hand, her eyes on his.

  “And of course it’s very improbable that the agent knows anything about the real consequences of the theft,” continued Gamadge. “He probably doesn’t even guess. He knows the thief well, but not well enough to be told that. So all he’s done has been to receive stolen goods, perhaps partly owned by the thief anyway, and which so far as he and the thief knew were a treasure trove. The Coldfields didn’t know they had them, and weren’t being cheated of money because they’d never have cashed in on them.”

  “Would the agent think of all that as an excuse?”

  “He would certainly try. He seems to be a man of reputation, if he is a man, and he seems to have acted out of friendship. Fifty per cent of the net wouldn’t be excessive as commission in such a case; would five thousand dollars pay him, or the thief either, for this job?”

  “Did they—did those letters really bring ten thousand dollars?”

  “There’s a lot more than literary value in them, you know; there’s news value and shock value. Everybody concerned will get big advertising, everybody except the people that don’t want it. Now what I want, of course, is a list of people, friends of the Coldfields, who can or may fill our requirements. It’s not so difficult as it looks—no need for discouragement.” Gamadge smiled at her.

  “Well, at least we know that he was over in England to make the sale.”

  “Over in England, somewhere about March of last year—not later than March, so I’m told. You can therefore eliminate very old people, very sick people, very young people, people who wouldn’t be taken seriously as intermediaries in such a deal. The agent wasn’t a mere business acquaintance of any Coldfield—he knew them at home. He was somebody’s friend.”

  “Susie’s friends are all young; and none of them would do.”

  “I don’t suppose they would. And don’t forget that the agent had to give Doddington a ten thousand dollar guarantee. Watch the credit rating!”

  “Mr. Gamadge—” she dropped her pencil, it rolled, and Gamadge caught it before it fell to the floor. “Mr. Gamadge, it simply isn’t possible to be fair about this. You have to use psychology.”

  “That’s fair,” said Gamadge, amused.

  “I mean Ira’s cronies—there isn’t one of them that couldn’t and wouldn’t lend him ten thousand dollars outright, rather than—”

  “Mrs. Coldfield, if you were hard up enough to need ten thousand dollars as badly as this party needed it, would you feel particularly anxious to pay it back again?”

  “I’ll have to think of somebody they all know.”

  “You’ve thought already.”

  “I’m going to be fair.”

  “That’s right.”

  “No psychology. I’m going to put them all down—all I can’t eliminate.”

  “Just eliminate Ira Coldfield’s stock exchange buddies, will you? Friendship is friendship, but sense is sense. And you might eliminate the Watertons.”

  She couldn’t help laughing.

  By the time Mrs. Coldfield had finished her list, and Gamadge had studied it, and they had all had tea, the rain was coming down in buckets. There was wind, too—half a gale.

  “Lovely afternoon for a drive up the river,” said Clara.

  “Just slow driving, that’s all.” Gamadge had turned on the radio. “They say the wind’s going down, and it’s going to clear later.”

  “I feel guiltier than ever,” said Mrs. Coldfield. “I do wish you’d put it off.”

  “Put it off? I can’t wait to get there. I’m particularly anxious to meet the family doctor.”

  “I never liked him, but his grandchildren are rather nice. They’re friends of Susie’s, always in and out of the house. Or were.” She wrinkled her forehead. “I haven’t seen much of them this year. But I suppose they’re busy. The boy is a medical student, and I think the girl has some job too.”

  “Don’t you know their parents?”

  “Oh, they’re orphans. They live with their grandfather in the village. They were really all brought up together—the Smyth children, and Susie, and Jim Waterton.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTMiracle

  SOON AFTER FIVE O’CLOCK the wind dropped, and the storm subsided to a thin, steady fall of rain. Gamadge was able to make pretty good speed after all.

  Whenever he had to stop, he snatched a typewritten sheaf of notes out of his pocket and studied them. They were his digest of Sylvia Coldfield’s list; he had made some eliminations of his own, and the list now read:

  Salmon, A. T.

  Funny old character, seems old at sixty odd. Retired. Was in the automobile business, and seems to have a modest competence. Bachelor, lives in hotels. Is devoted to the Coldfields, says they are the only family he has. Goes there regularly to stay. Knew them well as a neighbor when they had a house in New York. Hobby, rare books and prints. Travels a great deal, and was abroad last year. Epicure and gourmet.

  Barrette, Myra.

  Spinster, about fifty years old, contemporary of Ames Coldfield. Lives in a medium-priced apartment hotel in New York, travels a great deal, was in Europe last Spring. Once had more money, kept a flat in London. Is a close family friend; brought up with Ames and Ira, part of their childhood circle in New York. Is very fond also of Mrs. Ira Coldfield, who enjoys her company and always welcomes her at The Maples. Hobby, bridge and backgammon. Was in England for months every year until the war. Is said to have knocked around a little when younger, had a lot of amusing gossip, and a very frivolous? tough? attitude towards life.

  Venner, William Cole.

  Son of Venner the famous antique dealer and appraiser. Carries on the business wholesale, and his business seems to be his hobby. Perhaps forty years old, good-looking, pleasant, travels regularly abroad. Met the Coldfields when they were getting rid of their house and furniture in New York some years ago, and is on very friendly terms with them now. Drops in on his business trips around the country, comes up for dinner. Bachelor, so far as Sylvia Coldfield knows. She never heard him speak of any relatives.

  Holls, Gregory.

  Classmate of Ira Coldfield’s. Sporting character, retired from practice of the law. Plays golf with Ira, goes fishing with him, often stays the week end at The Maples. Wi
fe dead, and he lives at his club. Ira’s father is supposed to have given him a helping hand when he left college and started in law practice. A colorless type of man, but fits in. Was on a long cruise last year, visited a lot of places, ended up in England and came back here in May.

  Gamadge had his last look at the list when he slowed up at the Coldfield gates. He sat looking out at the house and grounds before he turned in; in this rainy light the place was bleak enough, but it could never be very gay. There were a lot of the big old trees, which matched the color of the rough stone building and stables; and the ugly stone seemed to soak up the rain.

  But that house wouldn’t be damp inside; it had been built as tight as a drum, built for permanence and comfort, and its woodwork would be as good as new. Certainly the big sunken door was; Gamadge, surveying it grimly, wondered how he and Harold could ever have got anybody out of the place.

  He tried to draw upon his historical sense, but he simply couldn’t imagine those square blue envelopes coming to that door; or did Mrs. Deane Coldfield have to drive down to the post office herself, in the shining carriage or—more probably—in her neat dog-cart, to get her foreign mail? But she could always explain that her English correspondent was a lady, that dear kind Lady Totten, who hadn’t much of interest to say.

  Gamadge roused himself from this reverie and rolled the car down over fine wet gravel to the doorstep. A plump maid let him in, took his card, and ushered him into the drawing-room on the left of the hall. She lighted lamps, and went away.

  There were closed folding-doors at the end of the room, shutting it off from the library of Harold’s description. Gamadge stood and looked around him. A fine well-proportioned parlor, but it would have looked better with the original fringed and looped curtains at the high windows, the original fringed and buttoned furniture and the crystal chandelier. It had been done over at the turn of the century, and Gamadge felt hemmed in by the gimcrack gilt and the brown velvet and the tapestry that now bore witness to the Coldfield lack of taste. He was sure that Mrs. Deane Coldfield hadn’t cared for this; but when it was done she was perhaps fifty-five years old, already a dowager.