Staircase 4

by Helen Reilly

  The attempt didn’t fail. At ten minutes after two that morning, first-grade detective Schomblatt brought a taxi driver into the office. The taxi driver’s name was Thomas Ladd. On the afternoon of the day Mark Middleton died, Ladd identified Mark as his fare from a photograph. He had picked Mark up in front of the Devon and had driven him to a private house on East Sixty-Fourth Street.

  It came fast after that. The house on East Sixty-Fourth Street was owned and occupied by Judge Silverbridge, and Silverbridge was the Judge who had given the verdict in John Muir’s and in Tritex’s favor in the suit against them.

  Joseph Crewe Silverbridge had been on the District Bench for nineteen years. He was a distinguished member of the legal fraternity, noted for his knowledge of bankruptcy and patent laws. No breath of rumor had ever so much as touched his name. But there had been other judges… One of them was then serving a sentence for selling judicial decisions.

  Todhunter was with McKee when this information came through. His face wore a look of horror. “Not Judge Silverbridge—not a man like that!” he murmured, with what for him was excessive violence.

  McKee’s eyes had begun to shine. He said nothing to the little detective’s outburst except, “I don’t know. But I’ll tell you one thing. This is it. We’re on the last lap. When we’ve resolved this we’ll be over the tape.”

  Chapter Nineteen: Through a window

  AT THAT POINT Gabrielle could have given McKee valuable information. She had thought, in Joanna’s sitting-room in the Waldorf, when Blake Evans had lied as to his whereabouts on the night Glass was killed, that a woman might be at the bottom of Blake’s lie. She found out, by accident, that she was right. It was a glimpse only; the glimpse was sufficient, with what she already knew.

  On the afternoon before, when McKee had told her over the phone that he and Dwyer were coming to see her, she had realized instantly that she had to get Miss Nelson’s coat out of the apartment. As long as the woman was alive it hadn’t mattered too much; Miss Nelson knew who had killed Edward Glass. Now that she was dead and couldn’t speak, possession of the coat was infinitely dangerous. There had been just time to throw it into a hatbox, take the hatbox to Grand Central, check it, and get back safely. The coat was disposed of for the moment; it couldn’t stay where it was. As unclaimed baggage it might fall into the hands of the police by default, and the clerk who had checked it might easily remember her. No, she would have to destroy it for good and all.

  The only place to do that with safety was in Greenfield. Early on the morning following McKee’s and the District Attorney’s visit, she called Susan, didn’t get any answer, and sent her a telegram saying that she was coming up.

  She made her plans carefully. She had received no further warning from either the District Attorney or Inspector McKee about not leaving the city—which probably meant that they had detectives watching her.

  At a quarter of ten she left the apartment, carrying a suitcase and her other hatbox, walked to the corner, hailed a cab, and drove to Grand Central. In the station she made her way to the checkroom and checked both bags. The next Greenfield train wasn’t until ten fifty-five. She decided to have a cup of coffee in the Admiral coffeeroom to while away the time.

  The coffeeroom windows opened on a transverse corridor. Strolling along this corridor toward the entrance, she stood still at the sight of a familiar face beyond glass. Blake Evans was inside the coffee shop, seated at a table in the small inner room. There was a woman with him. Blake was in profile to her, the woman’s back was turned. Blake and the woman were talking earnestly. There was an air of strain about both of them. Blake was frowningly intent on what he was saying; his companion was sitting forward, her head bent, the fingers of an ungloved hand opening and closing on the cloth in front of her. As Gabrielle watched, she pushed back her chair and rose.

  The woman with Blake was his mother. Gabrielle hadn’t seen her for years; she recognized her at once. After a decade of widowhood, while Blake was in college, the former Mrs. Evans had remarried and left Greenfield. She had changed very little. She was a slender, pretty woman, with small delicate features and the remains of a rose-petal skin. She had evidently married well, wore a coat of silky eastern mink and a smart hat. She and Blake went through an archway and disappeared into the main room. Half a minute later, going into the coffee shop, Gabrielle almost ran into Blake. He was alone, didn’t see her, was staring ahead of him, hands thrust into his overcoat pockets, his handsome face set in stern lines.

  “Blake.” When she spoke his name he stood as still as though he had been shot.

  Looking at him, Gabrielle was reminded of Alice’s attitude when they had met unexpectedly on Ninth Street on the afternoon of the day she found Miss Nelson. Alice’s response then had been almost identical with Blake’s now. He was anything but pleased to see her, tried hard to conceal it. “Gabrielle—hello. What are you doing here?”

  She said, “I’m going up to Greenfield. That was your mother who was with you just now, wasn’t it?”

  There all resemblance to Alice ceased. Blake stared down at her, his olive skin patched with whiteness. It was as though she had stumbled on some secret he was trying desperately to conceal. He put out his hand and gripped her arm. His grip was hard.

  Gabrielle was amazed. What was the matter with him? “Blake!” she said sharply.

  He let go of her at that. The anger in him died down.

  He said tiredly, “I wish—Oh, hell, Gabrielle, have you got a minute?”

  She told him she had twenty or thirty of them. Sitting beside her on a banquette in the coffeeroom he talked about his mother. He said she was married to a man whose guts he hated. “From the first moment her charming second husband disliked me as much as I disliked him, but for her sake I’d have been willing to—well, put a face on it. My delightful stepfather wouldn’t have that. He resents me, is jealous of my existence. You see, he wants my mother’s entire attention for himself. So”—Blake shrugged—“we have to see each other without his knowing—for fear of one of his brainstorms. I haven’t been to the house for years. If he knew we saw each other regularly, he’d make her life hell.”

  Blake and his mother had always been deeply attached; the bitterness in him was understandable. Gabrielle said, “Was it your mother you were with the other night, the night Glass was killed, when you told the Inspector you were working late in your office?” Blake nodded. But there was more to it than that, Gabrielle thought. Blake kept eyeing her nervously, looking away, looking back. Finally, when he had paid the check and they were about to go, he said suddenly, as though the words were forced out of him, “Gabrielle, I’m going to ask you to do me a favor. Don’t mention my mother to—to anyone, will you?”

  Gabrielle said she wouldn’t, as a matter of course. But she was astonished. Of what possible interest could the former Mrs. Evans’s marital troubles with a second husband be to the people she and Blake both knew? And yet there was no doubt in her mind that Blake was badly worried about something concerning his mother. The man she had married was a Judge Silverbridge—which meant nothing to Gabrielle. Nevertheless, mulling things over after she left Blake, she recalled that before her remarriage Mrs. Evans, as she was then, had lived in Greenfield, and had known Mark and Joanna and the Amorys…

  Crossing an arcade through the crowd she gave her shoulders an impatient shake. She was becoming obsessed with Mark’s murder. Consciously and subconsciously she kept trying to relate every slightest happening to it in some fashion or another—which was absurd.

  Arriving and departing passengers surging through the great central enclosure, lines at the ticket offices, knots of people around the information booth, laden redcaps; somewhere in the throng there was a detective watching her, following her footsteps. Looking neither right nor left she made her way to the checkroom. Business was brisk, which was a help. When her turn came, she proffered two checks, one for her suitcase and the other, not for the hatbox she had deposited half an hour ago,
but for the one she had left there the previous afternoon. The hatbox she had brought with her that morning could sit on a shelf until she got back to New York and it was safe to redeem it.

  The two hatboxes were not identical. The difference in them wasn’t marked. But to a keen eye… Was there a detective close by? The attendant reached the low flat counter, slid her suitcase across to her, then the hatbox. Gabrielle put down a tip, picked up both hatbox and bag, and turned.

  This was the time for a hand to fall on her shoulder, a voice to say, I’ll take that, please. No one approached her. No one spoke. She made her way to Gate 24 unchallenged, through it into dense gloom and along what seemed like a mile of platform. Every step was a fearful one. If the coat was found in her possession now, it would be the end. I put it to you, gentlemen, the accused was caught red-handed trying to destroy incriminating evidence…

  The train wasn’t crowded. She found a seat easily was going to have it to herself. She swung the suitcase up onto the rack, put the hatbox under her feet. It wasn’t until the train pulled out ten minutes later that she was able to draw a deep breath. The platform was sliding by and she hadn’t been stopped. The knot in the pit of her stomach began to dissolve. She sat back against blue cushions and closed her eyes.

  “Hi, Gabrielle… Gabrielle!”

  Gabrielle stood on the Greenfield platform and turned. The train was pulling out. She had been heading for the taxi stand at the northern end. It was Tony who was calling to her. He came bounding across the graveled enclosure, in a lumber jacket and jeans, his dark head bare. In spite of the receding hairline he looked young and vigorous. He told her that they had just received her telegram. The children were sick and Susan had been at the doctor’s. The medico thought that the kids might be catching something, both measles and mumps were around. They wouldn’t know for twenty-four hours. “Alice wants you to stay with her and Tyrell till we know what’s what. Mind?”

  Gabrielle did mind, very much. Inside black leather the dead woman’s coat was growing to the proportions of an old man of the sea. Was she never to get rid of it safely? At Susan’s it would have been comparatively easy to dispose of—but at the Amorys’… It couldn’t be helped.

  Tony took her bags. Following him to the car and driving off, Gabrielle said the appropriate things. Of course she didn’t mind. The children were the ones to be considered. It might be only a cold, the symptoms in the beginning were alike, weren’t they? She hoped it was that, was glad Susan wasn’t too worried, but she’d always been sensible about things like that.

  At Bridge Street, instead of continuing on, Tony swung right for the shore. Ten minutes later they were at the Amorys’. The house, long, low, and old, that Alice had had restored and made over at a phenomenal cost, was set back under trees on a rise overlooking the distant Sound. Tony got Gabrielle’s bags out of the back. She hated him to touch the hatbox. It was the same inside.

  As they entered the hall, Alice came through the living-room doors, her hands out. “Gabrielle, darling—this is lovely. Not that I want the children to be sick, Tony, my pet, but I’ve asked her and asked her and she wouldn’t come, and now we’ve got her.” She rang a bell and a maid appeared. “Park, take Miss Conant’s bags upstairs.” She linked one arm through Gabrielle’s, the other through Tony’s. “It’s a vile day. Come in and have a hot toddy before lunch.”

  In spite of her lightness, her gay tone, Alice looked tired, and she was much too thin. She had lost weight in the last few months. In the living-room, sitting before a blazing fire and sipping her drink, Gabrielle heard with a sinking of the heart that Brenda Holmes and her cousin Lucy Morrow were coming for a few days. Ever since the night of Glass’s death she had felt uncomfortable with Brenda, didn’t know what she must be thinking. But John was coming, too, and her spirits lifted a little. Not because he was going to be there—the less she saw of him the better for her peace of mind, if there was such a thing—but because he could help her get rid of the coat. It was his responsibility as much as hers. If it hadn’t been for John, if she alone had been involved, she would have told the truth long ago, and the devil take the consequences. Even without the coat she was being accused of murder by the District Attorney—and you might as well be hung for a sheep as for a lamb. It was impossible for her to dispose of the coat here at Alice and Tyrell’s, but John might be able to do it, after dark.

  Tony left, and then there was lunch and the afternoon dragged on. She and Alice looked at a litter of boxer pups in the stables, and petted the horses, and at four o’clock Alice went out.

  She had to go to a cocktail party. “I hate to leave you, Gabrielle. But I didn’t know you were going to be here and I promised Mac Garron faithfully… If I’m late, make my apologies to Brenda and Lucy Morrow, will you?”

  Standing at the living-room window watching the Lincoln retreat down the drive under a grape-colored sky, Gabrielle debated Miss Nelson’s coat. She was alone in the house; try to get rid of it now? A gardener raking leaves near the gate, the chauffeur whistling in the quadrangle at the side, a maid passing in the hall… No, it was still broad daylight and too risky. And wasn’t there a policeman, a detective, somewhere about? Surely there must be. Better wait until John came, she decided, or failing that, until darkness arrived.

  But she couldn’t stay there doing nothing. She got her own coat, tied a scarf around her head, and went for a walk. She went as far as the cliff at Highlands, stood watching waves break on the pebbly shore for a long while with a feeling of profound depression. How little men were, and how quickly they passed, and what did it all matter, anyhow? Soon she would be old and then she would be dead—unless death came before age, unless she was destined to be strapped into the electric chair with a hood over her head.

  She turned her back on the water and started inland. A mist was blowing in from the sea. It began to surround her. Soon it would be solid, and darkness was coming on, the early darkness of late November. The foghorns were sounding off, distant and melancholy.

  Gabrielle quickened her pace. She didn’t want to get lost, not with the hatbox and its contents unprotected in her bedroom at the Amorys’. The hatbox was locked and the key was in her purse, but she felt suddenly nervous about it.

  She cut across the huge parking-lot at the beach, crowded in summer, empty and desolate now, almost collided with the edge of the pavilion, and turned into Blue Mill Road. Only half a mile more. An occasional car, its headlights a bright dazzle, made her step quickly into the bushes to avoid being clipped; there was no sidewalk. Waves boomed off on her right. Whenever the fog lifted she made good time. She had rounded the point and was on the home stretch when she saw the woman, a bulky figure turning out of the Amory driveway and coming toward her. One of the maids, probably, she thought. Fog obliterated the thickset figure, rolled away, revealed the woman again, nearer this time. As they came abreast of each other the purple dusk had its way for a moment. Then the woman was gone—but in that mist-laden glimpse Gabrielle had recognized her. She was the woman Alice had been talking to in front of the bank on Ninth Street, on the day Gabrielle had met her unexpectedly in the Village, the woman Alice had pretended was a chance stranger asking where the nearest subway station was.

  Alice had lied. The woman wasn’t a stranger. She had come from the Amory house.

  Gabrielle walked on slowly. If it had been anyone else but Alice… She was the frankest creature in the world. No—she only seemed to be. Seem—to appear to be true, to wear an aspect of truth and probability.

  Not only the physical world around Gabrielle was dissolving, her mental world was going, too. She thought of Mark’s subterfuge about the clasp of the pearl necklace, of Blake Evans’s anxiety about his mother, his request to her not to mention his mother to anyone, and now there was this woman Alice denied having known when she did know her…

  Her elbow hit one of the Amory gateposts before she saw it. The fog had banked up in earnest. Moving through it was like swimming upright in icy water
in darkness. She had to feel for the driveway with her feet. She lost it, found it, lost it again. Pin-points of light showed off on the right; she started in that direction. Her progress was slow. Unseen obstacles kept getting in her path, trees and bushes, the solid trunk of an oak. At last the house loomed up directly ahead. She wouldn’t have known she had reached it except for the broken rectangle of a lighted window immediately in front of her. Hemlock branches obscured it. She pushed feathery boughs out of the way with either hand, and stood as she was without moving.

  She was looking into the small room beyond the dining-room. The colored backs of books in cases, the top of a carved chair, a picture on the wall, and Tyrell Amory—but not the Tyrell she knew. The man standing in the middle of the floor was like a stranger. His hands were thrust into his pockets. One shoulder higher than the other gave him a lopsided appearance, as though he had suffered a shock. His head was bent. Even the shape of his skull seemed different, and his face, white, ravaged, was the face of someone engaged in a dreadful encounter, the outcome of which was in doubt.

  Brenda Holmes was standing close to Tyrell, a few feet away. She wore a gray-green dinner gown that brought out the tones of her skin, the lights in her coiled hair. There had never been anything of the siren about Brenda; she was too sure of herself, of her beauty, for that. If anything, she lacked animation, sparkle. There was no lack of animation about her now. She was talking to Tyrell passionately, pleadingly. Her breast rose and fell with the vehemence of her words, inaudible to Gabrielle. One hand tugged at a heavy gold chain at her throat. The chain broke. So did that held pose of struggle between those two. The struggle was over. The space between them was annihilated; Brenda’s arms were around Tyrell and she was clinging to him. Tyrell lowered his head still farther with a gesture of exhaustion and surrender, and laid his face against the gold of Brenda’s hair.