The Book of the Dead by Elizabeth Daly

the elevators into an inner lobby, and presently returned with a youngish man in conservative clothes, who looked rather bemused; he held the clipping in his hand as if it were burning his fingers.
    â€œYou wanted to rent this apartment for the remainder of the summer, sir?”
    â€œIf it’s reasonable, and not too big. My name’s Gamadge. We’re having some decorating done in our house, and my wife and I thought we might be more comfortable here than in a hotel.”
    â€œI’m not quite sure whether it is available.”
    â€œNot? I understood that the party had died.”
    â€œYou were a friend, Mr. Gamadge?”
    â€œFriend of a friend,” said Gamadge, feeling as though he had uttered the phrase at least fifty times in the last twenty hours.
    â€œI’m not quite sure what Mrs. Crenshaw’s plans are.”
    Gamadge was unable to suppress the beginnings of a start, but he did his best to recover himself. He said after a moment: “I had no idea that Mrs. Crenshaw was here.”
    â€œShe flew from California as soon as she was notified of Mr. Crenshaw’s death.”
    â€œDistance doesn’t mean much nowadays, does it?”
    â€œIt certainly doesn’t.”
    â€œWhat a shock for her.”
    The manager looked as if the shock had been for him. He said: “We had no idea Mrs. Crenshaw was coming. She’s here with a niece, and at first she thought she might be staying on in the apartment—it’s leased to Mr. Crenshaw until the first of October. She thought she might have a good deal of business to attend to, but now she finds that there won’t be so much after all. I’ll consult her and let you know.”
    â€œFellow needs a friend,” Gamadge told himself. He gave the manager his card. “I’m afraid I may disappoint you—and her,” he said. “Your handsome place looks too good for the likes of me.”
    â€œThe terms might be very reasonable,” said the manager, in tones of more than doubt.
    â€œWell, I’ve written down my telephone number. You might call me. Thank you very much.”
    Gamadge walked forth, somewhat dazed himself, into the hot brightness of the street. He stood for a moment or two, his hat forgotten in his hand, under the smart awning; then he beckoned a cab and drove home. He was none too soon; the telephone began to ring when he was half way up the stairs to the library. He took the rest of the flight in leaps, and arrived at the telephone panting.
    â€œYes?” he gasped.
    â€œMr. Gabbage? This is Mrs. Howard Crenshaw.”
    â€œGamadge. Yes. Excuse me for being out of breath, Mrs. Crenshaw; I was catching the cat.”
    Although this frivolous explanation was intended to persuade Mrs. Crenshaw that Gamadge was in no desperate hurry to answer the telephone, he would not have made it if she had sounded like a sorrowing widow; but the high, muted, disagreeable voice in which she had mispronounced his name was not the voice of the griefstricken. Nor did its owner seem to be either civil or urbane; her response to his remark was a long, blank silence.
    â€œThickwitted,” Gamadge told himself.
    After a pause for a readjustment of her faculties she went on: “They tell me that you called about the apartment.”
    â€œI did, but I’m afraid—”
    â€œI’d like to see you anyway, Mr. Gamadge. They seem to think that you knew my husband.”
    â€œI know somebody who knew him—slightly.”
    â€œThat Miss Fisher? Did you call at the hospital with her last night?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œNaturally I should like to talk to her, but I have so little time. I have reservations on the Chicago Limited this evening; it goes at six. I thought if I saw you, I might not have to call her up. I don’t want to see more people than I can help. Naturally.”
    â€œYou’re going back so soon, Mrs. Crenshaw?”
    â€œThere’s a