Free Murders in, Volume 2 by Elizabeth Daly Page B

wait on myself.”
    But Mrs. Morton did not have to wait on herself. Her husband lunged forward and settled her on the little sofa opposite Miss Vauregard, with a stand at her elbow. He poured out her drink, brought it to her, and sat down at her side. Gamadge was sinking back into his chair, but she waved him nearer.
    â€œSit beside Robina,” her mellifluous voice besought him, “and let us talk our family scandal over quietly. Where is Clara, Robina? Late, as usual; we must try to get on without her advice. Pull up your chair, Dickie. What did you think of the young woman, Mr. Gamadge? I would not see her, but my husband tells me she has looks. Do you agree with him?”
    Gamadge said: “She is very good looking. About my taking the case, Mrs. Morton; it’s absurd, really. I’m not a detective. I have no organization, and no facilities for this kind of work. I can’t watch people, and I can’t trail them. I can’t even look them up, properly. Nobody but the police can really do that.”
    â€œThe police are out of the question, Mr. Gamadge; didn’t my sister explain that? Your observations are what we want.”
    â€œThey may be worthless to you, and a waste of time.”
    â€œWe’ll risk it. What did you think of Miss Smith?”
    â€œI thought her very dangerous.”
    â€œDid you really? In what way?” Mrs. Morton glanced at her husband, whose arm was lying along the back of the settee, and whose hand occasionally patted her shoulder. “Not as a siren, I gather,” she went on, smiling. “Tom and Dickie complain that she looked straight through them.”
    â€œStill uninterested in gentlemen.” Gamadge also smiled. “I mean that she represents something dangerous; something crooked; something—well, let us not be melodramatic, but shall I call it something evil? I’m afraid your husband is too generous in his estimate of her. She has studied a part, and is playing it very well.”
    â€œI really think I must see her, after all. She must be very clever. Imagine going through all that, day after day, without breaking down! But then I speak as one who cannot act off the stage, Mr. Gamadge. I never could.”
    Gamadge, who was convinced that Mrs. Morton never stopped acting unless she was sound asleep, said “It may be possible to frighten her away.”
    â€œYou won’t do that,” exclaimed Dick Vauregard. “She’s as hard as nails.”
    Mrs. Morton gave her famous chromatic laugh. “You think so because she didn’t respond to your blandishments, Dickie. Tom finds her more sympathetic.” She patted her husband’s hand, and went on, with a fond look at him: “Tom is always for the underdog, Mr. Gamadge. He thinks the girl is a sort of victim. I don’t know…Uncle must be protected, whoever she is. Miss Smith might run off with the Georgian silver.”
    â€œTom won’t love you, if you talk like that, Aunt Angie,” said young Vauregard.
    â€œJust try to forget about me and my emotions,” said Duncannon, in his weariest drawl. “Angela, you must see for yourself. I don’t believe there’s an ounce of malice in her. Gamadge is looking for a plot, so of course he finds one. The trouble is, your uncle is mildly insane.”
    â€œNonsense, Tommy! Uncle isn’t mad. What do you think, Mr. Gamadge?”
    â€œFar from it. He thinks he has weighed the evidence and come to a logical conclusion. Unless we can show him definitely that it’s false evidence, he won’t be amenable to reason.”
    â€œBut can we show him that?”
    â€œI think we probably can, if we try. Tell me, Mrs. Morton; has he made a will, and do you know the terms of it?”
    â€œHe made one in 1920, just after Mother died—she was his only sister. It was a nice will, but a good deal of money went toward keeping up the old house as a museum—in