Somewhere in the House by Elizabeth Daly Read Free Book Online Page A

most interesting occupation. He’s an author too—”
    Seward glanced at Gamadge with pale interest.
    â€œBut his real business is most interesting. He finds out all about old books and papers. It’s like being a detective; forged documents and that kind of thing.”
    Gavan Clayborn, suddenly alert, stared at Gamadge with open surprise. “Gamadge? Gamadge? Haven’t I heard—”
    â€œBy your expression,” said Gamadge, “I’m afraid you have.”
    â€œThe Gamadge we’ve seen in the papers?” asked Miss Clayborn, with tolerant wonder.
    â€œUnfortunately I have been in the papers.”
    â€œThose cases!” Miss Clayborn was more and more flatteringly kind. “What fun!”
    â€œWell, not entirely.”
    â€œShouldn’t think you could stick it,” said Seward Clayborn.
    â€œStick anything if you get mad enough,” said Gamadge.
    â€œRight, absolutely right,” agreed Gavan. “Don’t do to be too squeamish in these days.”
    â€œNever did to be too squeamish, perhaps.”
    â€œI’m too squeamish,” said Seward in a tired voice. “Much too squeamish.”
    Mrs. Leeder said: “Mr. Gamadge is the one person in the world—I think you’ll agree with me—whom I could ask to be here tomorrow when we open the music room.” And as Gamadge gripped the arms of his chair, she went on: “To find the buttons.”
    There was a profound silence, during which Gamadge relaxed. Then Clayborn said shortly: “Don’t understand you,” and his tea slopped in his saucer. No; Gamadge wasn’t going to be thrown out.
    â€œHe’s entirely discreet,” continued Mrs. Leeder calmly, “and he doesn’t bungle. If the buttons are there he’ll find them in no time.”
    Miss Clayborn, ignoring Gamadge, looked at her niece. “Harriet,” she asked in her harsh voice, “have you gone stark crazy?”
    â€œNo, Aunt Cynthia, I haven’t. Anyone would tell you that it’s much better to have an impartial person present—”
    Seward’s cold voice interrupted her. “Harriet, you really have gone out of your head. Mr. Allsop—”
    â€œMr. Allsop is about eighty, and what does he care about the buttons? They’re not part of the trust.”
    Another silence followed. Gamadge broke it, speaking mildly: “I know how you must all feel; it must seem like an intrusion, and unless you can accept it it will be an intrusion. But may I suggest that a disinterested referee takes responsibility from the parties involved and makes things simpler for all? You engage me to find the buttons; I find them if they’re there, all of them, and place them in Mr. Allsop’s hands for sale or distribution. No delay, no argument. I should like to tell you about my Great-aunt Myrtle.”
    They were all looking at him now; Mrs. Leeder quietly, as one who has done her part and leaves the rest to a stronger ally. Clayborn’s face was unreadable; but while his colour was high, his sister’s had faded until her conventional makeup stood out against her pallid skin like camouflage. Gamadge, turning his head to include Seward Clayborn in the conversation, was greeted by a stare of almost ludicrous consternation.
    Gamadge crossed his knees and lighted another cigarette.
    â€œMy Great-aunt Myrtle,” he began, “was a peculiar and terrifying old lady with a weak heart, who lived with her brother—until he died—in a large old mansion in a country town. She was not, I may remark here, terrifying to me; I used to spend a month of my summer vacations there when I was a boy, and we got on very well.
    â€œShe knew that when the brother died the house and property, and all the old family stuff in the house, would go to his children. She had money of her own, and would be comfortable; but naturally she didn’t look forward to the move,