Free Murders in, Volume 2 by Elizabeth Daly Page A

had removed and was rolling into a ball.
    Duncannon said, coming back towards them, “I never thought of that.”
    â€œBut how else could she be there—innocently, let us say?” Gamadge asked the question mildly. “Unless, of course, she really is a refugee, and the old gentleman has concocted his romance out of too much family atmosphere.”
    Duncannon said firmly, “I believe she really is a refugee.”
    â€œFine,” agreed Dick Vauregard, with lowering sarcasm. “Now, if she’ll just oblige with the name of the boat she came on, and hand over her papers—”
    â€œShe will, eventually. Good heavens,” said Duncannon, in a drawl of disgust, “give her time. After such experiences as she may have had, it’s a wonder that she remembers her own name. When I saw her, she seemed very vague, hardly normal. Trouble is, Gamadge, the whole family is so terrified of the old codger down there that they won’t ask him a question about her. If they did, he might let it all out, in time. As a matter of fact, I don’t think he’s mentally sound—haven’t thought so for some time.”
    â€œI don’t think you’re mentally sound,” said Dick Vauregard. “Did she impress you as a suffering angel, Mr. Gamadge?”
    â€œTo be quite frank,” answered Gamadge, “and without meaning to hurt anybody’s sensibilities, I thought she would make an excellent understudy for your aunt, Mrs. Morton, in her new play.”
    Mr. Duncannon stared at him with a sort of furious disgust. Young Vauregard gently whistled.
    â€œNot as bad as it sounds,” continued Gamadge, smiling. He took a wallet out of his pocket, and removed the fragment which he had cut from the Observer . “Here’s what Ivor Brown, the English critic, says about Vittoria Corombona—or rather, Accorambona; which he says was the lady’s right name: ‘She loved passionately, lived dangerously, offended the Medici and died young.’ Not quite Webster’s white devil, is it? Miss Smith might go back to history, and give us a new reading.”
    Dick Vauregard looked at him under knitted brows. “Did you like the zombi?”
    â€œNo, I did not; and she knows it.”
    The house man, more harassed even than before, brought in a tray of cocktails. Miss Vauregard refused one. Gamadge accepted a glass, and young Vauregard seized one, emptied it, and seized another. “I’ll have yours, Aunt Robbie,” he said. “I need it.”
    â€œYour manners are very bad, dear.”
    â€œDon’t make a sissy of me. This highbrow theater stuff makes me feel weak.”
    Duncannon, sipping his cocktail, said: “Very young, still, aren’t you? Don’t try so hard to be a he-man.”
    â€œYou don’t have to try, do you?” Vauregard’s irony was so bitter as to startle Gamadge; it made Duncannon flush.
    â€œCompany present,” was all he said, in a tired voice.
    â€œSorry to offend your delicate sensibilities.”
    The house man had gone out of the room; he now returned with a small silver jug, which he placed on the tray. As he did so, Angela Morton swept in from the hall.
    She was a tall, large-boned woman, long-limbed and graceful, with large dark eyes, almost classical features, and a brilliant smile. Like many other actresses of her period she seemed to have no physical vanity in private life; her graying hair was carelessly arranged off her forehead, in a large untidy knot on her neck; and her green silk robe or tea gown was made for comfort; moreover, it lacked freshness. She strode up to Gamadge, her arm outstretched to its full length, her head back and her eyes fixed upon his own.
    â€œDear Mr. Gamadge, how very good of you, and what a comfort to have somebody we can trust, to help us! Have you had a cocktail? Luigi, where is my vegetable juice? Oh, thank you. Don’t bother—I shall