Henry Gamadge 12 Night Walk by Elizabeth Daly

Author:Elizabeth Daly [Daly, Elizabeth]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781631940217
Publisher: Felony & Mayhem Press
Published: 2014-11-24T17:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Criminology

GAMADGE WENT DOWN to the street, turned right and passed the Tavern. A few people were in the drugstore. He walked on. A thick grove of lilac bushes hid the rear premises of the Tavern, ending at the hedge that bounded the Library domain. Beyond it came the shadowy lawn of the Rigby place; he turned up the winding path.

The path took him around to the north, where a half-grown youth sat on the doorstep reading. His baseball bat was lying beside him.

He looked up. “Name and occupation,” he said, “and cards of identity.”

“Gamadge. Document man.” Gamadge solemnly fumbled for his wallet. Willie Stapler read what was on the blue card, and looked at Gamadge’s fingerprints with a knowing air. “Where’d you get this?”

“Somebody required me to fill it out during the war.”

“Fingerprints too?”

“As you see. Rather a nice idea, don’t you think? Now I can’t commit any crimes.”

The Stapler boy searched for the gap in this reasoning, abandoned the search, and returned the card. He asked: “Business here?”

“Something to read. I heard Miss Bluett was on the premises.”

“You’re at Studley’s.”

“That’s right.”

The Stapler boy got up, went into the Library, and came back with a square-faced, square-bodied woman who looked at Gamadge sharply through pince-nez. She said: “Not open for business.”

“I know, Miss Bluett, but I’m a kind of writer, and I thought you might be willing to allow me to look at an encyclopedia. I want some data on Aubrey, the melodious twang man.”

Miss Bluett said after a pause: “Well, come in. Reference shelves to the right.”

Gamadge followed her into the cool depths of the big room, found his volume, and laid it out on a shelf. Miss Bluett stood contemplating him for a few moments; the kind of person, thought Gamadge, who won’t ask questions.

She retreated to her alcove. Gamadge had placed his bundle on a chair when he came in; he left it where it was, after he had replaced the encyclopedia, and wandered along looking at books.

Miss Bluett was surrounded by the Carrington donation. Gamadge, having completed his tour of the north and west walls, approached her diffidently and picked a small octavo, bound in peach-colored cloth, from the nearest pile.

“Mr. Isaacs,” he said, “and I haven’t seen the old boy for a quarter of a century. How pretty covers used to be. Would it be too much for me to ask you to make me out a card, so I could take this back to Edgewood with me?”

Miss Bluett twitched Mr. Isaacs out of his hand, inspected it, and said: “All right, I’ve done this one.” She placed it on her desk and got out her pencil with the rubber stamp on the end of it. She took a library card out of a rack.

“References? Miss Studley will do.”

“I was going to say Lawrence Carrington.”

Miss Bluett was also one of the people who don’t like assistance when doing their job. But she was too much interested in the news that Gamadge knew Carrington to be really annoyed.

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