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Assurance Double Sure
by Samuel Shellabarger
writing as John Esteven
"But yet I'll make assurance double sure,
And take a bond of fate: thou shalt not live."
MacBeth, Act IV, SC. I
Chapter 1
Charged Wire
A motor patrolman loomed out of the wet.
"Don't you know it's illegal to use a spotlight on the road? What are you so interested in that wall for?"
"I'm sorry," I said. "I'm trying to find the Galliard place."
"Oh, are you? Well, you don't need a spotlight for that. What's your name?"
"Peter Court."
He examined my license. "District of Columbia . . . State Department, eh? What's your business around here?"
"I'm supposed to be a weekend guest at Dunbar Manor," I told him, "if I can ever get there. I was expected for dinner."
He grunted. "Some late! It's half past eleven. Rain hold you up that much?"
"That, and losing my road near Greenwich. It's the darndest tangle I ever saw." His manner changed. "First trip up here, sir?"
"Yes."
"That's okay, then. You're outside the Galliard property now. That's why the spotlight looked phony. We have to be particular on this road, Galliard being the big shot he is, and the stuff in his house worth millions. It's a natural magnet for crooks until they learn that it's better guarded than Sing-Sing. Plenty of watchmen behind the barb wire on top of that wall. Friend of Mr. Galliard's?" (This last in tone of respect.)
"He's a friend of my father's," I answered. "I know Mrs. Galliard and Miss Galliard."
The man grinned.
"You've got something coming to you when you meet his Nibs. Thinks he's King of Connecticut. Cross-grained old buzzard! But I wish I had his money!"
He seemed lonely and inclined to conversation. "Rainiest June I've ever seen. Have this weather all the way from Washington?"
I told him I had, and threw in the clutch.
"Just follow the wall," he directed. "You can't miss the gates."
Churning along through the downpour, which nearly defeated the windscreen wiper, I was impressed by the height and length of that wall. It seemed to me to express something more than stone and mortar — the power of the Galliard millions — and the farther I skirted it, the smaller it made me feel. Dunbar Manor must cover half a county. How would it seem, I envied, to be able to satisfy every whim, every ambition, to be as great a personage in London or Paris as in Washington or New York, to be courted, obeyed, feared like Hamilton Galliard?
It had made quite an impression to let out casually at the Department yesterday afternoon that Mrs. Hamilton Galliard had wired me an urgent invitation for the weekend.
"Very nifty, Peter! Stepping high, aren't you? Didn't know you were an intimate of the Galliards."
I must confess that the invitation by telegram and the urgency of it had surprised me a good deal, but I contented myself with answering :
"Oh, I knew Mrs. Galliard when I was at the embassy in Rome."
It would have been indiscreet to explain how well I had known her, and the pack of trouble I had been able to help her out of.
The kidding went on. "There's a daughter, isn't there, a one and only? Best wishes, lucky devil!"
Yes, there was Jean Galliard. I had met her at a couple of debutante parties in New York last winter, and had been more attracted than I dared let myself admit. There was a wall around her too, the wall of her millions and of my own pride as a comparatively poor man. And yet, more than anything else, it was the thought of seeing her again which attracted me to Dunbar.
Suddenly I put on my brakes, and realized why the motor cop had been dubious of the spotlight. You could no more have passed Buckingham Palace without knowing it than you could this entrance. A group of marble pillars with a mighty wrought-iron barrier between them and flanked by an imposing gatehouse loomed on my right.
At the sound of my horn, a door in the gatehouse opened, a flashlight showed, and a man came out accompanied by two large dogs. A couple of other figures appeared behind the gate.
"Yes?"said the man, playing his light on me. And when I had given him my name, "We can't open at this hour without special orders — Call up the house, Bill," he yelled back to someone inside; "ask about Mr. Peter Court."
"That's all right," came a voice from beyond the gate. "I have his name. He's expected."
And at once, mechanically controlled, the great iron trellises swung back. As I crept forward, a tall figure in a raincoat drew alongside.
"If you don't mind giving me a lift," he said pleasantly, "I'll ride up to the house with you. Save me the walk." And he climbed in. "My name's Roy Vincent, Mr. Galliard's house detective, Mr. Court. It's my job to supervise the guards, protective measures, and so on around here. — To your right . . . now left. That's it."
We wound uphill between thickets of shrubbery. I felt that Vincent was supervising me at the moment, but I only remarked how ably protected Mr. Galliard seemed to be.
"It's necessary," he answered crisply. "There are a lot of bad actors loose. You'd be surprised if you knew the size of his fan mail."
"What do you mean?"
"Threatening letters. I look after that department, too." He added that he had been in the government service before his appointment at Dunbar, and had still a semi-official standing with the state and federal police. We passed a watchman evidently armed, who drew back at a word from him. It was both impressive and depressing. I hinted as much to Vincent.
"You get used to everything," he remarked noncommittally. "Mr. and Mrs. Galliard were brought up to it."
I thought of Mrs. Hamilton Galliard, Nina Galliard, as I had known her in Rome five years ago, young, life-thirsty, charming, rattle-brained. She had been on furlough from Dunbar, then without the walls and guards. I wondered how much she had ever really accepted the limitations of her wealth. Perhaps, now that she was forty, she had become reconciled to her old husband and the ten-foot wall.
I changed the subject.
"Are there any other guests for the weekend?"
"Yes, sir — an Italian gentleman, Baron Vespa."
Startled, I did rather well to keep the road.
"Who did you say?"
"Baron Vespa — Antonio Vespa. Ever met him?"
"No."
I didn't add that there were few people on earth I cared less to meet, nor what that name meant. It explained everything: Nina's telegram, the point of inviting me. The rain-swept road was no darker now than before, but it had become ominous. In spite of the wall and the guards, tragedy had entered Dunbar.
"Baron Vespa's a great horseman," Vincent was saying. "I've never seen Mr. Galliard so taken with anybody on short acquaintance. Of course, thoroughbreds are the speciality here. The Baron knows a lot about horses."
"Been here long?" I queried, trying to sound casual.
"Two-three days. He came Wednesday."
What had happened since then? What was brewing now in the great house over there? We had topped the slope, and were swinging around towards the long, pale facade. A few lights showed wet splotches through the rain. There was a sense of marble and loneliness and space on the wide gravel terrace.
The door opened, as we drew up. One liveried servant took charge of the car, another of my bags, a third of my coat and hat. Vincent had disappeared. I found myself in a huge hall, paneled with tapestries, softened with rugs, but for all that, hard and rich and cold. A fourth servant, evidently a valet, presented the regrets of Mr. and Mrs. Galliard that they had been unable to wait up for me, that they hoped I would call for anything I wished, that they looked forward to welcoming me in the morning.
I followed the man up a broad marble staircase down a corridor.
"Here, sir."
He glided about the spacious room, unpacked my bags, distributed the contents in wardrobe and tallboy, showed me the gadgets of the bath, asked if there was anything I wanted beyond the decanter of Scotch and the sandwiches on the center table.
"By the way, sir, let me call your attention to the window screens. They are electrified; it's unpleasant to touch them."
"What's the point of that?" I asked.
"An effective way of destroying mosquitoes and other insects, sir. Electrocutes them. Also efficient against intruders. The frames are locked. In case of fire, you'll find the key to the right of the window."
As if to illustrate the method, some night-flying beetle struck the screen at that moment, and burned with a hiss."
"Is there anything else, sir? — I hope you rest well."
He glided out, leaving me to silence, unbroken save for the drip of the rain and occasional frying sounds from the screens. An electric clock on the night table showed past twelve. I poured a drink, and stood moodily eyeing the windows. Was this the sort of thing I had been envying a half hour ago? Barbed wire around Dunbar to keep out men, charged wire to keep out insects; but in spite of it — Suddenly, the whole rich place struck me as rather terrible.
I started at a low sound behind me, and turned to listen, then realized that it was at the door, a soft, repeated tap.
Walking over, I turned the knob cautiously, opened and stood face to face with Nina Galliard.
