Arrow Pointing Nowhere Read Online Free Page B

only a couple of minutes. When he came back, Gamadge said: “He’ll be in the office. When I’ve seen him I’ll call you. Do you think you could send the note around to Mr. Fenway afterwards by hand?”
    â€œOf course; but you seem to be in a dreadful hurry.”
    â€œI am; and I’m more grateful to you than I can ever—”
    Miss Vauregard would not listen. “It’s nothing, nothing at all. Good gracious Heavens, can it be three o’clock?”
    â€œWe didn’t finish our cocktails,” said Clara, “till after two.”
    â€œSo we didn’t. I must run.”
    Half an hour later Harold strolled into the library.
    â€œI hung around Number 24 from two-thirty on,” he said, “but nobody threw anything out of a window.”
    â€œThe postman doesn’t call on Saturday afternoon. Of course there was no paper ball.”
    â€œThe old man came around at three-fifteen and went over the premises with a microscope; picked up everything in sight, and dusted snow off the steps and sidewalk. Snow kept on coming down, so he finally gave it up. The paper ball didn’t come out of any of the basement windows, they’re icebound; those on the front, I mean. The ones on the avenue are clear, and one was partly open; kitchen, I suppose. I don’t think the paper was thrown from the top story, it wouldn’t have cleared the roof of the bay window without falling outside the railings. It came from the middle bay window on the second or third floor.”
    Clara said: “Alden Fenway didn’t throw it out; nobody with a six- or seven-year-old brain made up that message.”
    â€œSomebody might get him to throw it out for them,” suggested Harold. Then he stared at her. “Do you mean he’s a child of six or seven?”
    â€œHe’s twenty-five; mentally retarded,” said Gamadge.
    Harold asked, after a pause: “Could he be trusted to throw a message out of a window without letting anybody see him do it?”
    â€œCould be, perhaps; I don’t know. Wouldn’t be, if discovery of the message meant serious consequences to the sender.”
    Harold frowned. “We don’t know how crazy he is. He may not be as crazy as they think. Suppose Mr. Schenck is right, and he has lucid spells, and is trying to get some information to you while the spell lasts?”
    â€œAlden Fenway was pronounced mentally incurable when he was four years old, by a great authority on brain disease. His mind developed a little, but it could never develop into a mature mind. He wouldn’t have lucid spells; he’d always be on the same low level of intelligence, if he didn’t eventually sink lower.”
    â€œWhat do you think of this, then? At three-five a young fellow came down the left-hand steps—it’s a double flight—and hailed a cab; big light-haired feller, quite handsome, stoops a little. Just as the cab came along to the curb he crumpled up a piece of paper and threw it away.”
    Clara’s voice was almost a shriek: “Threw away a piece of paper?”
    Harold continued stolidly: “White paper. Then he turned and looked around at another young feller who came out of the house and ran down the steps. Thin guy, pale, black hair, homely face, old belted mackintosh. This feller picked up the paper, looked at it, and went to the corner rubbish basket and chucked it in. Then he came back and took the big teller by the arm; helped him into the cab.”
    â€œHarold,” gasped Clara, “didn’t you get that piece of paper out of that rubbish basket?”
    Harold produced a crushed scrap. “Here it is.”
    Clara seized and unfolded it. “Well,” she said, “we know one thing; Alden Fenway can play tit-tat-toe.”
    Gamadge looked at the untidy squares and the noughts and crosses. He said: “Perhaps he had help, perhaps he always gets beaten. But if those two young