Arrow Pointing Nowhere (9 page)

“Next morning I thought of the dog; ugly, very ugly, but a conjecture. Should I, on the strength of the conjecture, talk to Blake, upset him fearfully, upset Belle Fenway and Mrs. Grove, enrage Craddock to the point of making him throw up the job?

“We know nothing about him, of course, except what Mrs. Grove has told us—that he comes of decent people and had a newspaper job in China. He's fond of Hilda, but Blake rather quashed that; the boy is in no position to support a wife, Hilda Grove isn't trained to support herself, and even Blake didn't see his way to supporting a war bride; Craddock will be in one or other of the services, of course, as soon as he's able. Blake suggested that a recognized affair would be, as things were and are, no advantage to the girl; and I must say that she herself seems quite passive in the matter.

“Craddock has been a godsend to those two women—Mrs. Grove and Belle Fenway; he got them home—with Belle injured and Alden a dead weight, got them through all the hardships of a frightful voyage, and is now supposedly the person best qualified to look after Alden as Belle wants him looked after—tactfully, discreetly, and so on. He's a treasure. They'd fight me tooth and nail if I made trouble for him. I didn't do anything about it, and no doubt that fact is enough to explain my present circumstances and myself.”

Mott sat back in his chair and got out a cigarette. “But now the case is altered. Whether or not Craddock killed the dog, his excursions at night (I suppose there were more than
one) prove that he's not to be trusted; they also indicate that he's capable of neglecting his job in other ways. Caroline and I think that the view of Fenbrook was torn out of the book after it arrived here, torn out by that unfortunate boy; we think he may be turning mischievous, and perhaps destructive, and conceivably dangerous. And Craddock didn't—perhaps doesn't—take him seriously enough to stay on the job at night.”

Gamadge looked at the other. “Any proof?”

“About the view? None whatever, but we can't account for the wantonness of the mutilation in any other way. Belle would deny the possibility; she'll call the specialists in again, and they may back her up. They swore this kind of case never progressed into violence or even surliness; and Belle says that Fagon's treatments were only to prevent deterioration, and to teach him to take care of himself and make a good showing. He does, I must say. I've never seen him anything but amiable. But the experts may be wrong; and if they are, and this tearing out of the picture is a sign that they're wrong, is Craddock the sort of person to notice danger signals?

“One more thing; since the discovery that the view was lost—a week ago Friday, I believe—Caroline says that she has noticed strain and anxiety in the other camp. She says it's quite obvious, and she thinks that Belle and Mrs. Grove know who tore the picture out of the book, and are hiding the knowledge for fear that Alden will be sent away.”

Gamadge said: “That's interesting.”

“She thinks Alden's hidden the thing, and that they can't find it. She's sure that somebody's been looking for something through the house at night. If Belle or Mrs. Grove—or Craddock, if he knows what's up—could find the thing, and destroy it, there'd be no proof against Alden.”

“What proof would there be in any case?”

“He may have marked it up in some way; he's always scribbling. He can't play that game—noughts and crosses—but he uses up a dozen sheets of paper at it every day.”

“Why should he tear that particular view out of that particular book?”

“Craddock or Mrs. Grove had plenty of time to show it to him; either of them may have told him great tales of the family grandeur. He's the male heir, you know.” Mott Fenway's expression combined satire with sadness. “He may have thought it was something he ought to own.”

Gamadge smoked thoughtfully. “You and Miss Fenway have built up something of a case.”

Mott's eyes, hooded by wrinkled lids like a big bird's, creased at the corners; he smiled. “Our motives are mixed. Caroline is frankly nervous; but what it really amounts to is that if we can find the picture ourselves, and prove that Alden tore it out of the book, we'll get rid of the whole tribe of them.”

Gamadge smiled a little too. “Will you?”

“Of course. Alden will go. If he can do a thing like that, Blake won't have him in the house; what mayn't he do next? Belle will go with him, Mrs. Grove with her, and Craddock will be out of a job. I suppose,” he added slowly, “that it will be the end of that child up at Fenbrook; I mean, as far as the Fenways are concerned. But I think she won't mind learning a job. I shall miss her, though. The aunt's rather grim.”

“I thought so too.”

“Well, there you have it.” Mott gestured with the hand that held the cigarette. “A situation that for all we know may be dangerous, and one that we think depends on finding a picture. We can't find it, they can't find it; could you?”

“Is that my assignment?” Gamadge raised his eyebrows.

“That's your assignment. Those books of yours—you have found things, you know how other people have found things.”

“I have been lucky at that game. But you said that somebody else was prowling about the house at night; shouldn't I run into the prowler?”

Mott Fenway had not really believed that Gamadge would consent to do more than advise him; he did not attempt to disguise his pleasure and surprise: “You'll actually consider helping us?”

“Not if it means being discovered and thrown out.”

“I shouldn't dream of letting you in for that; been thinking it over very carefully.” Mott leaned forward, punctuating his remarks with jabs of his cigarette. “The thing is to look when nobody else is looking; when nobody is paying any attention to empty rooms. Right after dinner.”

“But you didn't invent that notion, Mr. Fenway; the second-story men did.”

“All our windows are fastened, of course. I'll let you in by the service door and the basement, say at nine o'clock. The servants will be busy in their own working quarters, and we'll go up by the back stairs. They lead straight up to the top floor, and I can keep you in my own room till the coast is clear. I don't think anybody will be going anywhere tonight; Blake and Caroline will be in the sitting room, or if Caroline isn't, she'll be in her own bedroom, or perhaps at the piano downstairs. If we run into her she won't betray us, I can promise you. I haven't told her anything about this plan of mine—better leave her out of it; but she won't betray us. I'll go around with you, do the scouting. When you see the arrangement of rooms and back stairs you'll understand how easy it is.”

“Where will Craddock be?”

“In the sitting room. What happens is this: Blake and I and Caroline have our coffee there with the others; then Blake and I go down to the library and have a quiet cigar, and then he or I may or may not invite Craddock to a game of billiards; we have
a billiard and game-room in the basement. Caroline sometimes joins us if she's at home. More usually, Blake goes up and takes a hand of bridge with Belle, Mrs. Grove and Craddock. Sometimes Caroline or I cut in. Now I can pretty well direct operations; I'll be too lazy for billiards, I'll get Blake settled at bridge by nine o'clock. Unless we're very unlucky, we'll have the house to ourselves.”

“How are the rooms arranged?”

“Belle's is the corner one next the sitting room; Mrs. Grove's is next hers, with a bath between. Alden's is next Mrs. Grove's, at the south end of the house. Blake's suite is opposite, and Caroline has her room and her bath beyond him, next the sitting room on the west.”

“Do you suggest that I shall find the view in a couple of hours?”

“It wouldn't be in any bedroom but Alden's, and probably not in his.”

“And you think tonight would be a good night for a paper chase?”

“The sooner the better, Blake said that you might be going away. It's a sporting proposition, Gamadge; you might have luck. I really cannot tell you what it would mean to me—to get that picture back for my cousin, and perhaps to be able to tell Caroline—oh, ridiculous.” He sat back. “Ridiculous to make a sentimental appeal to you. Why should you care about all this?”

“It's a sporting proposition, as you say; and I assure you I'd very much like to know that Mr. Fenway had his picture back.”

“Of course you'd appreciate him.”

“It's a forlorn hope, in the circumstances. Even if I knew the picture were in the house I couldn't promise results in the time.”

Mott Fenway was looking pleased and alert. “It's uncommonly good of you. I shouldn't dream of asking such a favor if I didn't think there might be more serious developments later on.”

Gamadge's attitude now changed; he put out his cigarette, and addressed Fenway with the air of a man taking over a job. “I'll have to let you know when to be expecting me at the door in the wall. How about telephoning you?”

“There's a telephone just outside this room. I'll be here until you call me.”

“But the switch may be on upstairs; I mustn't announce myself. I'll give the name of Hendrix, and say something about an appointment for tomorrow. What shall it be?”

Mott was amused. “Someone at the Vernon Club wants a bridge game.”

“Good. But suppose I broke a leg or was suddenly prevented in some other way from getting to a telephone?”

“I sincerely hope not!”

“You'd have to be notified. If anybody else calls you in the name of Hendrix, it will be one of my operatives.” Fenway stared.

“And if the name of Hendrix comes up later, in any other connection, you must play up. Research takes one far afield, and mine may lead me into byways. Mr. Hendrix is the name of the son of one of your classmates. What university?”

Mott Fenway, looking dazed, murmured: “Harvard.”

“You know all about Mr. Hendrix, son of your old Harvard classmate. Or—” Gamadge laughed—“would you prefer to know nothing about him at all? I ought to have warned you; when I interest myself in a case, or what looks as if it might turn out to be a case, I become unpredictable. I mean that I follow all leads, and I go on following them. Shall we call the whole thing off?”

Fenway met the greenish eyes of this genii whom he appeared to have released from its bottle. He said: “Certainly not. I can trust you not to distress my cousin Blake and Caroline, and not to get us into the papers.”

“And may I suggest that you ought not to take the opposition too lightly? You suspect Craddock of having killed a dog so that it shouldn't bark when he deserted his post at night. You suspect three people in this house of keeping what may be a dangerous secret from Mr. Blake Fenway. You think Mrs. Fenway has no scruples where the comfort of her son is concerned. You may be quite wrong about it all, but if I were in your place I shouldn't care to be overheard discussing it.”

Mott Fenway smiled. “None of those people would dream of suspecting me of conspiracy against them, Mr. Gamadge. What you don't quite realize is my unimportance—to them. I'm a good-natured nonentity, hardly a person at all.”

“If I can't impress you with the importance of being discreet, let me appeal to you on behalf of Miss Fenway. You don't want her to incur the ill will of unscrupulous persons?”

Fenway rose. “Caroline is very careful. I dare say you're quite right to be concerned about us, and I'm obliged to you; but I have walked on eggs for many years, and I think I have learned the art. I don't allow her to be uncivil upstairs.”

Gamadge thought that Miss Fenway had once or twice come rather close to incivility upstairs. He said: “Whatever these people have or haven't done, you propose to dislodge them all from a security they've enjoyed for more than two years.”

“My dear young man, I'm sorry to have frightened you on my account. I'll really be careful.”

Gamadge went and put on his coat; hat in one hand, his books under the other arm, he went out and down the hall. Fenway accompanied him to the front door. Leaning into the vestibule, his gray hair blowing about his forehead, he whispered: “I'll say I had a look at the weather.” He withdrew, and the front door closed after him with a thunderous slam.

T
HE UPPER WINDOWS
of Number 24 commanded a long prospect to the north, south and east; Gamadge therefore hurried west, to enter the nearest drugstore. He explored his pocket for the paper ball which he had rescued from the wastebasket, and unrolled it carefully. It proved to be nothing but the Sunday section of a local timetable, with a pencilled arrow marking Rockliffe station on the Hudson. His watch said 4:30; there was a train for Rockliffe at 5:03, arriving at 5:46. He entered a booth, made a telephone call, and then dashed from the store and hailed a taxi. He was at the Grand Central in time to check his parcel of books at the package office.

Harold joined him at the gate one minute before the train left. The sergeant wore his trousers tucked into his high boots, and carried a pair of obsolete galoshes under his arm. He said, as they walked down the ramp: “These things nearly lost me the train. Where are we going to, and why are we dressing up like Eskimos?”