The Book of the Lion

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER TWOEmissary

Gamadge said smiling: “I don’t know what’s been bungled, I’m sure, Mrs. Bradlock, and I’m not conscious of needing an apology. Do sit down and tell me about it.”

He sat opposite her and took out his cigarette case. But she already had hers in her hand, a thin gold one. He lighted her cigarette. She looked about her—at the books and files, the moulded cornice, the dusky engraving over the mantel, the antique bronzes on the mantelshelf. Gamadge looked at her.

In her early forties, perhaps, perfectly dressed and groomed. Not an animated face, in fact a colourless one in every sense, but still beautiful, and Gamadge thought humourless. She had red-brown hair, darker eyes, a high, fastidious nose, a thin, exquisitely curved mouth. She wore make-up sparingly; the texture of her skin was so fine that it would have been a pity to hide it.

She said in her expressionless way: “What a charming room. What a sweet little house.”

The laboratory door opened and Clara put her head into the room. She had been developing snapshots, and held one by a corner; she was wearing a high-collared indigo-blue smock, and her hair was a brown cloud about the longish oval of her face.

Her grey eyes met Mrs. Bradlock’s, and she said: “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know there was a client.” She withdrew, closing the door.

Mrs. Bradlock remarked: “Cinquecento.”

“Well, not without the smock, I’m afraid,” said Gamadge. “But I must tell my wife that.”

“Oh, was it your wife?”

“She is a bit young for the job.”

“She looks just like one of those bystanders in the old masters—a saint or an angel.”

“She’ll be delighted.”

“I’m afraid you’ll think I’m as stupid as poor Avery was. He realized it as soon as he’d talked to you on the telephone for a minute, and he instantly made inquiries. The first thing he discovered,” said Mrs. Bradlock, smiling at Gamadge, “was that you belong to one of his best clubs.”

“I’m glad it was one of his best.”

“That little one behind this house that nobody can get into. And you went to his university. And you write. And he put his receptionist on you, and she put the secretary on you, and he ordered you down to his office.” She looked at Gamadge almost mournfully.

“But, Mrs. Bradlock”—Gamadge was laughing—“why not? I only wish I had legitimate business reasons for going down to Mr. Bradlock’s office. I wish somebody would supply me with them!”

“You mean money to invest? He thinks you don’t care about money.”

“He must think I’m a fool, then. But surely he can understand that even in my business people don’t want money on false pretences.”

“Well, he does understand, and that’s why he’s so anxious for you to be the one to look at those letters.” Her face, as she referred to the Paul Bradlock correspondence, expressed a slight distaste for the subject; she might be forgiven for feeling it at the very thought of her talented brother-in-law. “But those men down there,” she went on in her deliberate way, “they are so stupid.”

“Oh, don’t say that. No reason why they should ever have heard of me, you know.”

“I don’t mean that it was Avery’s fault; that Mr. Williamson—Avery thinks he knows everything because he’s made so much money. But he doesn’t know anything except that.”

“I think he must be wonderful, myself.” Gamadge was amused at Mrs. Bradlock. “He needn’t bother with the likes of me. He has other things on his mind.”

“Thinking you were a dealer!”

“I might well be. Perhaps my article in the University Review sounded as if I were.”

“Well, it was all stupid, and Avery wants you to come to dinner.”

“Oh, he doesn’t have to do that.” Gamadge was laughing again.

“And look at those letters,” said Mrs. Bradlock simply. “Nobody’s seen them except Vera, and she isn’t an expert—she can’t know their value. She’ll be cheated. Mr. Gamadge, could they really be sold to somebody for a thousand dollars?”

The Bradlocks seemed fascinated by this round sum. Gamadge said: “Not much chance that they’re worth a fraction of it, but collectors do love to pick a correspondence over, and if none of them has ever been published, that boosts the value. Your sister-in-law didn’t use many of them.”

“Oh, you’ve read her book? She said people were so scattered, the letters go back so far, and it would have been so hard to get the permissions. I thought it was a very dull book, didn’t you? Avery had to pay for it.”

“That’s quite a usual arrangement, if a family wants a book done in a certain way.”

“We had to get it done our way. Even Mr. Meriden—such a nice old gentleman—even he wanted a lot of personal stuff about Paul, and we couldn’t have allowed it. There was all that awful publicity when he died.”

“I was away.”

“It was awful. They lived in our studio, you know; Vera lives there still. We could get any amount of money for it now, if we rented it, but of course she had to stay on while she was working on the book, and Avery can’t turn her out until she wants to go—if she ever does. She took all the responsibility for Paul, over all those years. So frightful. And she has no money except what Avery can give her. It would be nice if she could make some out of the letters.”

“Why shouldn’t she send them to me?”

“Well, if she could meet you—it would make all the difference. She’s very jealous of Paul’s things. She always sees his dramatic agent herself, and she would hardly let Avery talk to Mr. Meriden, the publisher. But Avery did see the agent and Mr. Meriden, and there’s no money in any of Paul’s work now. His play was revived after he was killed—we were against that, but the agent thought it might make money, and Avery didn’t like to risk losing anything for her. Mr. Cookson—the agent—really, I don’t know what these people are made of. Just because Paul died like that—”

“Where have you been, all your life, Mrs. Bradlock?” Gamadge smiled at her.

“Not here.” She returned his look seriously. “I come from the South.”

“So I had guessed.”

“But I’ve lived here ever since I was married. I like it better here, Mr. Gamadge. Really I do.”

“I’m sure you do.”

“The revival wasn’t a success. I don’t know why it should be; I can’t imagine anybody liking that play, even if they could understand it. If you could run up tonight for dinner at half past eight, just a business conference, you know?”

“I could, of course.”

“Will you? We dine rather late, because Avery likes to get a little bridge at his club after hours. He never gets home till seven or later.” She rose. “You will come?”

“Thank you very much, Mrs. Bradlock, I’ll be there.” Facing her, he smiled. “It will be a scramble, you know, going through a correspondence in a couple of hours. I may find it impossible to get any idea of the value of it at all.”

“I’m sure Vera has it sorted. It’s so good of you. And we’ll feel so much better about it if you come to dinner.”

“We’ll be square.” Gamadge spoke solemnly.

She pulled on long white gloves. “I’ll tell Vera as soon as I get home. She’ll like you—she’s intellectual.”

“What a compliment.”

Gamadge helped her on with her fur jacket and went to the door with her. A small, handsome town car and a chauffeur waited for her at the kerb. He watched it roll away, then closed the door and went upstairs. Martin jumped off the desk and followed him—it was time for tea.