“I don’t know anything about it.”
“He gave us a deposit. Am I to collect, or leave it, or take it away? It’s a special,” said Indus, his face crumpled with earnestness. “Pre-war stock.”
“He didn’t say a thing.” Mrs. Bradlock was annoyed.
“He might have left a cheque or something.”
“He’s always rushing off somewhere. I’ve been out all morning myself. I haven’t seen him.”
“It’s a special,” insisted Indus. “He wouldn’t get another for I don’t know how long.”
“I certainly can’t take the responsibility of paying for it.”
“Well, Ma’am, he might not want to lose it. He might have left a cheque.”
“Cheque? No. I can’t run his business for him,” said Mrs. Bradlock angrily. “Well, I’ll look in his room. He didn’t say anything about it, and I didn’t see a package.”
“Delivered to the hospital.”
“Oh. Well, wait a minute.”
Mrs. Bradlock left Indus in the doorway, and went across the room to the little stair. The trap at the top of the upper flight was open, luggage was strewn about the living-room. The place looked bare and dismantled; papers blew about the floor from the draught that Indus was letting in through the open door.
As she mounted the stair Indus made a gesture behind him without turning.
Mrs. Bradlock reached the gallery and disappeared into a room on the right. After a minute she came back and leaned over the gallery rail.
“I can’t—”
She stopped, her hands gripping the wood. The front door was closed, and instead of the little figure of the salesman a taller man stood looking quietly up at her.
Her face empty of colour, she asked harshly: “What does this mean?”
Gamadge said: “It’s all right, Mrs. Bradlock, no cause for alarm. I thought you might possibly see me coming, and decide to be out.” He walked half-way across the room towards the stairs, and stopped.
“I certainly would have been ‘out.’ I’m busy. What is this?” Her hands on the rail were trembling.
“I won’t detain you, I’m not here to prevent you from going where you like, or taking your money with you.”
“What do you want?” she almost screamed at him.
“Well, you might guess. You probably read your paper this morning. I came for that document you got out of your safe deposit box at the City and Seaboard Trust.”
“You damned spy, are you a thief too?”
“No, just interested in old documents. This one can’t fairly be said to belong to you—your husband blackmailed it out of Mrs. Wakes the night he died. Iverson killed him for it, and one of you poisoned her before she could talk to me about it. But I had already seen her, you know. Do you think I imagined it was suicide?”
She steadied herself, closing her eyes. When she opened them she spoke more firmly: “You’re quite mad. I have no such thing.”
“You haven’t disposed of it; you wouldn’t destroy it. Just let me have it, Mrs. Bradlock, and I’ll give you my word that I’ll make no more inquiries in this case. Unless I talk to them, the police won’t go on with it.”
She laughed, suddenly and loudly.
“Perhaps it is funny,” said Gamadge. “But I’m not compounding a felony. The police have all the suggestions that I could give them, and if they don’t follow up, that’s not my fault. I won’t go on prodding them. I don’t feel called upon to avenge these deaths, you know. All I want is that document—or documents.”
“I suppose you think you know what it is!”
“I’ll guess, if you like.”
Her eyes went past him. He looked around, to see Iverson standing a little behind him. Iverson had a hand in the pocket of his lounge coat, and he had the stance of one about to act violently. He straightened, smiled, and said calmly: “Our expert.”
Mrs. Bradlock shrieked at him: “I told you not to show him that thing! It’s all your stupid fault!”
Iverson’s face was clay-coloured. He said: “Well, that can be remedied.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” protested Gamadge, “not another fatality! Oh, no; that would be one too many. The police department couldn’t swallow three. And there’s that little man I sent to get me into the place; he knows I came. He’d make a horrible row.”
“Still,” said Iverson, “I feel really tempted.”
“Were you tempted last night?”
“Er—if I’d known what I knew later I’d have been seriously tempted.”
“But weren’t you?” Gamadge smiled at him.
“Well, to be frank, yes; but there was a dog.”
Vera Bradlock came down the steps. She was fumbling at her breast, under the apron. She said: “I can’t stand this. Hill, you are so stupid. Don’t you see he won’t go on with it? But if we don’t give it to him he’ll never let us go.”
Iverson said sharply: “Wait a minute, wait a minute.”
“No!” She ran down the last few stairs, snatched something out from under the bib of the apron, and pushed it into Gamadge’s hand. It was a yellow envelope, not very long or large, and much worn and soiled.
Gamadge looked inside, reading between half-opened pages. Then he flattened the envelope again and put it in his pocket. “No,” he said, looking from her to Iverson, “you have my word. But I’ll give you a tip in exchange—don’t hurry out of town. It won’t look well. And if the police question me, I won’t hold out on them.”
“Oh, for God’s sake get out of here,” said Iverson in disgust. “You know as well as I do that there’s no evidence even now. It’s just that I don’t want Vera breaking down on me.”
“It’s all your fault,” she was screaming again as Gamadge left the annex. He shut the door on her parrot voice.
Out on the street Indus lurked, expectant. Gamadge said: “Like a charm. All right, Indus, call it a day, and you get a big bonus for this morning. But Mr. Iverson put one over.”
“You mean he was there all day?”
“It’s not your fault, you know; I didn’t warn you that he knew the Avery Bradlocks well enough to call, and that he might get a chance to fake an exit and slip through by the connecting way.”
Indus looked heartbroken. “I knew a cab drove up, but it stopped at the Bradlock house, and I never popped out to look. I won’t take no bonus. Just give me the bare time.”
“Don’t be silly. Send me the bill and I’ll do what I like about it.”
“You goin’ home? We might ride—”
“No, I have an engagement at the Avery Bradlocks’.”
They parted, Indus still crestfallen. Gamadge left him looking sadly through the iron gates. He himself went on, and up the Bradlock steps.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Cocktail Party
THE PARLOURMAID recognized Gamadge with a smile. He said: “I know I’m very early; Mr. Bradlock—”
“He’s not home yet, sir, but Mrs. Bradlock is up in her sitting-room. That’s where they have their cocktails when there’s no party.”
“I’m glad I’m no party.”
“No dinner party, I meant, sir.” She took his hat and coat, and then preceded him up the broad stairs, which were uncarpeted for the summer and shining. A solemn, conventional house, with little character except its respectable solidity. Perhaps it reflected the original owner’s own character, as well as his taste.
But Mrs. Bradlock had done something to her sitting-room. Far from modernistic, it had a brightness and a knowingness. Brilliant colours mitigated the north light, there were French flower engravings on the walls and a remarkable landscape over the mantel. Mrs. Bradlock herself, advancing to meet Gamadge, was wearing a long, informal dinner dress of dark green, with a braided belt in many colours.
She said: “I’m so glad you could come. What would you like to drink?”
Gamadge shook hands with her. He said: “Well, to tell you the truth I’d like an old-fashioned; but don’t hurry it for m
e.”
“I’ll have one with you.” She glanced at the parlourmaid, who hurried off.
“Mother rests until seven,” said Mrs. Bradlock. “You’ll have to put up with me. Let’s sit down.”
There was a settee in front of the fire, and two armchairs flanking it. She sat in a corner of the little sofa, and Gamadge took the chair on her right. He looked up at the picture above the chimney piece. “Isn’t that a beauty?”
“Yes. I used to want to paint like that.” She smiled.
“Did you work at it?”
“In a ladylike way.”
They laughed, and discussed modern painting. The parlourmaid brought the tray, set a little table in front of Mrs. Bradlock, and departed. Gamadge said: “I’m rather glad we have a chance for a little talk together. I’ve brought you something.”
She looked surprised. Her glass in her hand, she met his eyes wonderingly. “Something for me?”
“Yes. Take a good swallow of that first.”
“Why?” She frowned a little, not much liking this.
“To please me.”
His expression was so friendly that she smiled too, and drank some of her old-fashioned. Then she put the glass down, still looking doubtfully at him. He said, his hand inside his coat, “Your own property. Yours for keeps now,” and brought out the yellow envelope. She took it from him, looked inside it, pulled out two papers and stared at them. One fell to the floor. Ignoring it, she crushed the other up in her hand, and gave him a wild look.
“It’s all right,” he said gently.
Suddenly, like a sand picture dissolving under the pull of the tide, her very personality crumbled and disintegrated before his eyes. She leaned forward, elbows on knees and face against her clenched hands, shaking with sobs.
After a moment he got up and came forward. “Take some more of this,” he said, offering her the glass. “I ordered it for you, you know.”
She looked up at him, tears running down her face. Then she got out her handkerchief and wiped them away, took the glass from him in her left hand, keeping the paper crushed in her right, and drank some of the whisky. She said in a strangled voice: “I don’t understand how you—”
“Never mind that just now. Shall we get rid of it first?” He motioned with his head towards her clenched fist. She opened her hand and held it out, as if it held a horror.
“Good. I see you know friend from foe.” Gamadge took the paper, lighted a corner of it, and held it up the chimney. When it was all but consumed, he laid the charred fragment on top of the wood in the fireplace, broke it up with the shovel, and pushed the remains behind the logs.
“And that’s all of that.” He picked up the other paper from the floor, a dwarf-sized letter sheet, and looked at it. “As for this, it could break your heart.”
She had pulled herself together. “I don’t know how often it’s nearly been the end of me.”
“It’s perfectly harmless now. Might I just keep it for a few days? Work of art.”
She shuddered. He put it in his wallet, sat down again and drank some whisky.
“But how did you—how could you—” She was sitting back now; a little colour had risen in her face, she looked years younger.
“I stopped in at the studio and made a little bargain with your friends. I’d seen Mrs. Wakes before she died—”
“I know. I can’t understand.”
“You will. Those two in the studio didn’t know what she might have told me; so I said that if they’d let me have the incriminating documents I’d call it square and leave the rest to destiny. They didn’t like the idea of inquiries, naturally; I suppose you realize that I know they killed her?”
She said faintly: “I can’t see how you knew.”
“Well, they made a bad mistake. They showed me something—it was probably one of Brandon’s projects—which put me on to the fact that they were part of a forgery ring. I connected that fact with another—Wakes’s facilities for research and so on in England. Never mind the details. I’ll just say that Mrs. Wakes told me nothing.”
“She wouldn’t. Poor thing, she never would have given Paul that thing if he hadn’t threatened her. He heard about it from Wakes, and he knew she had it. He knew all about the forgeries from Vera.”
“I supposed so.”
“Then two years ago Avery got so sick of him, and all the frightful things that happened more and more often; and he told Paul they’d have to go, and that Paul must get himself cured or there wouldn’t be any more money. Paul told me he was going to get that letter of mine, and the thing you have, from Mrs. Wakes, and use it to make me persuade Avery to keep them there in the studio. He didn’t ask me for money.”
“But after he was killed they did?”
“They’ve had everything Avery ever gave me. Avery said that if he died there might be delays, there always were in settling an estate, and he used to give me bonds that I could sell when I needed them. He’ll never know they’re gone.” Tears welled up in her eyes again. “My mother won’t know. Is it really all over?”
“Those people will never bother you again.”
“Vera told me to-day that she was going, but that I’d have to send her—I had nothing left but my allowance and my jewellery.”
“You know, I can’t understand why Mrs. Wakes ever kept the thing,” said Gamadge. “Here, let’s smoke; it’ll be a pacifier.”
He lighted a cigarette for her, and went on: “The Wakes woman seemed a good sort. I can’t understand her keeping that letter, since she wasn’t using it for blackmail.”
“But she kept it for protection. She was so afraid that some day she might be accused of the forgeries, it might all come out; and she thought that if she had one of my forgeries, and that letter of mine to Jeremy about it, it would prove I did them, and Avery would do anything to protect me and them all.”
Gamadge reflected. He said: “Fear can do pretty awful things to people. So can remorse. Don’t think she didn’t suffer from it!”
“But I don’t see how you thought of me, Mr. Gamadge.” She looked at him, half frightened. “They protected me so—I mustn’t be suspected, or they’d lose their power over me. They made me pretend to be against them, to be making Avery keep Vera there in the studio because I thought we owed it to her.”
“Yes, you fronted for them very well. But”—Gamadge looked at the end of his cigarette—“somebody had to change those brandy flasks.”
She put a hand up over her face. “Oh God, they made me do it.”
“I don’t know how you did.”
“I had to go, and she was dead.”
“How did you get in?”
“Hilliard Iverson had got a duplicate key.”
“Somebody had to go,” repeated Gamadge, “and I thought someone had gone after I got there yesterday afternoon; to clamp their alibi. They wouldn’t trust a paid employee, and I got the impression that the little Orme girl and Welsh weren’t responsible. But you could have seen me from that side window—if you were watching.”
“I was watching.”
“That’s what we call corroborative detail, you know. The important questions for me were provided by the blackmailers themselves. They had a lot of money; if, as I thought, they got it by blackmail, whom were they blackmailing? And why, if she had a lot of money, did Mrs. Paul Bradlock stay on in the studio and show no signs of wanting to leave it?”
“They stayed to watch me.”
“To keep their grip on you. Well, you’d been in Paris during the crucial years, you might have met your husband through Paul Bradlock.”
“I did. He introduced us.”
“And you’d had financial reverses—or your family had had them. I thought it added up,” said Gamadge. “I found that it did when I glanced at the contents of that envelope.”
She looked at it, lying on the table. “Why did you do it for me, Mr. Gamadge, if you’re not going to do anything more? Why?” She asked it almost timidly. “You know what I’ve done�
��you guessed it before.”
“I don’t like blackmailers; and don’t you think you’ve worked out a sentence, Mrs. Bradlock?”
“I’ve been dying for two years. I’ve been in agony.”
“You looked”—Gamadge smiled at her—“so frozen.”
“If I hadn’t loved Avery it wouldn’t have been so frightful.”
“And Paul Bradlock knew you loved him. No, I have no wish to avenge Paul Bradlock’s murder.”
She shrank back. “Was it one? I often thought—”
“We couldn’t prove it. You know, he needed killing; he could blackmail you, because he wouldn’t have cared if you had been shown up—he wouldn’t have cared on your account or on his brother’s.”
“I was so afraid of him. Mr. Gamadge—”
“Yes, Mrs. Bradlock.”
“Shall I tell you how it happened?”
“I’d like to know.”
“I was so happy in Paris—Mother left me there with friends, and I had everything, and I was so happy. Then I got word that the money was gone, and that I had to come home. I had to leave everything and come home to lost, ruined, poverty-stricken Longridge. And Jeremy Wakes—he went everywhere—I’d met him, and he’d seen the Christmas cards and things I did for fun, imitating old scripts, you know. And he asked me if I wanted to make enough money to keep me in Paris, just a little work in my spare time.”
She laughed. “He said it wasn’t like forging cheques, it was just giving people something they wanted, no harm done, everybody happy. I knew what I was doing; I made up my mind that if people would pay such prices for things when other people had nothing, they deserved what they got. I did a lot of the forgeries. Jeremy and Mr. Brandon and Mrs. Wakes and a lot of them worked together, and I knew some of the people who did the actual work, like me. It was quite exciting.”
Her voice was sardonic. “Quite exciting. Then I met Avery, and I came home and was married, and somebody wrote me that Mr. Brandon had killed himself, and why. After Jeremy died, Mrs. Wakes wrote—she said she thought everything would be all right, but she was keeping my letter.
“Then, two years ago, Paul told me he was going to put pressure on. When he was killed I thought it was all over, but Vera…” Her voice died. “She got so much fun out of it.”
The Book of the Lion Page 14
