“Lady, how do I know? I’m only telling you what must have happened.”
“Good of you,” granted Bittersohn. “Vieuxchamp, would you mind going down to the courtyard and asking somebody from the police to come up here? Brown, what makes you so sure Witherspoon would have heard a disturbance in the chapel? The Titian Room’s all the way over on the opposite side of the Grand Salon, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, but—”
“You didn’t see him away from his post?”
“Not that I recall.”
“Was he in the habit of wandering around?”
“Joe? Not usually, but there’s always the off chance, isn’t there? Or maybe the crooks ran in there after they slugged me, and Joe saw their faces and they panicked and killed him. How do I know? I was out like a light.”
“You keep saying they, Brown. How many of these silver thieves were there?”
“Jeez, I don’t know. Two or three maybe.”
“What makes you so sure there was more than one if you never saw them?”
“I must have heard their footsteps behind me.”
“Then why didn’t you turn around?”
“Look, who the hell are you, anyway? Get off my back. I got a headache. I’m not saying another word till the cops get here.”
The injured guard planted himself on the wormholed bench, set both large feet firmly on the tessellated floor, and buttoned his flabby lips into a surprisingly thin line. The others stood around watching him sit until a harassed-looking man in a wrinkled raincoat toiled up the three long flights of the Grand Staircase.
“Oh, Christ, Bittersohn, you here?” was his amiable greeting. “I knew I should never have got up this morning. Hanging around the nudes again, eh?”
“May I call your attention to the fact that there’s a lady present?” said Bittersohn with great dignity. “Mrs. Kelling, may I present Lieutenant Davies.”
“How do you do?” Sarah held out her hand. “It seems odd we haven’t met. I thought I knew everyone on the force by now.”
“Oh, you’re that Mrs. Kelling?” Lieutenant Davies shook the small hand carefully, as if he were afraid it might come off. The way things had been happening among the Kellings lately, one never knew. “I’ve been wondering why the guys are all in love with you.”
“Are they? How charming of them. I must explain that I’m merely an innocent bystander this time. Mr. Bittersohn had passes to the concert and he offered me one.”
“Not bad, Bittersohn, considering the concerts are free and therefore no passes are issued.”
“Thanks, Davies. Remind me to do you a favor sometime. Speaking of concerts, this gentleman on the bench has a song on his lips. He wants to sing it to you. He doesn’t like me.”
“Who does? Stick around, will you?”
“Sure. Mind if I get Mrs. Kelling’s cousin here to show us some of the priceless art treasures? I’d like to get a look at the big Titian.”
“Naturally you would,” said Brooks. He led the way with alacrity. Perhaps it had been Titian who painted this particular version of a popular subject, perhaps it hadn’t. In any event, Lucrece appeared to be taking her ravishment like a trouper. Even through half an inch of dust and old varnish, the lady was quite an eyeful.
“I suppose she’s all right if you like fat women,” Sarah sniffed. “Mr. Bittersohn, would it be in order to ask why you were so hard on that guard Brown?”
“Because Brown is a liar, and a damned poor one. He claims he was struck from behind, but we found him lying on his back. He was wedged under that bench so tight that we had to lift it to get him out. So the alleged burglars who were in such a hurry to get away that they dumped their loot took the time to turn him over, lift that heavy choir stall, and plunk it down on top of him. Or else he sucked in his fat gut and used his hands to shove himself in under the bench without help.”
“But why would he do that?”
“Maybe he saw Witherspoon thrown over the railing, got scared, and hid. Maybe he did the throwing himself and is trying to fake an alibi. Maybe the killer happened to be a pal of his and told him to make himself scarce so he wouldn’t get involved.”
Brooks Kelling nodded his neat gray head. “Exactly the sort of perspicacious observation I expected from you, Bittersohn. Of course Brown’s telling fairytales. Even Sarah pointed out the absurdity of anyone’s trying to steal church silver on a busy Sunday afternoon. Brown undoubtedly piled the stuff there himself. No doubt he left fingerprints, but they won’t count, because he can always say he handled the silver in line of duty.”
“How would you describe Brown, Kelling?”
“Fat. Fat in the body and fatter in the head. Stupid enough to let somebody use him. Too stupid to make an effective accomplice. I would guess that somebody instructed him to fake a robbery and pretend to have been attacked, but forgot to remind him that people who get hit on the backs of their heads are more apt than not to fall on their faces.”
“Does anyone around here have brains?”
“Mr. Fitzroy, the superintendent, is a man of considerable acumen. He happens to have been on a short holiday this week, a circumstance that may not be without significance. Vieuxchamp shows occasional glimmerings of intelligence. Jimmy Agnew, the man whose place I’m taking, does not. Melanson wouldn’t dare think without permission.”
“Who’s Melanson?”
“The spiritual heir of Caspar Milquetoast. He’s stationed among the Italian pottery at the rear on this floor. Nobody in his or her right mind would ever steal those atrocities, but Melanson lives in constant dread lest some militant aesthete rush in with a club and smash the collection in the interest of a more beautiful Boston. I’m sure he’s still at his post. He won’t leave until somebody tells him he may.”
“Then let’s go see him. What’s wrong with Agnew?”
“Allegedly he has a bug. In fact he’s no doubt suffering from an overdose of Schenley’s.”
“How did you get elected to fill in?”
“Jimmy’s sister Dolores volunteered me. Dolores and I are old friends.”
“What does Dolores Agnew have to do with appointing the guards?”
“She’s Dolores Agnew Tawne, widowed since God knows when. Dolores is the oil on the squeaking hinge around here, as one might say. She cleans the paintings, dusts the statues, polishes the silver, doctors the peacocks, hectors the gardeners, arranges the flowers, lights the candles in the chapel, and what-not. I expect her influence is all that keeps Jimmy on the job.
He’s an agreeable enough chap but not what one would describe as a zealous worker. Dolores is the salt of the earth.”
Sarah knew what that meant: a loud voice and plenty of beef to the heel. Brooks had always been the natural prey of bullying women.
They stopped to tell Davies where they were going, and he elected to come, too. The wretched Melanson was found cowering among his preposterous bibelots. When he saw them he jumped about a foot.
“Oh! Oh, thank goodness it’s you, Mr. Kelling. Isn’t this dreadful? Vieuxchamp was just telling me—” He stammered “dreadful” another time or two, then petered out.
“Can you tell us anything, Mr. Melanson?” Davies asked him.
“Heavens to goodness, no. Nothing at all. I didn’t know a thing until Vieuxchamp told me.”
“Haven’t you heard all the noise from the courtyard?”
“I couldn’t very well help that, could I? I knew something dreadful must have happened.”
“But you didn’t go to look?”
“How could I? We’re not allowed to leave our stations. Mr. Fitzroy is very strict on that point. Vieuxchamp shouldn’t have come here. I hope you don’t think I lured him in?”
“That’s all right, Mr. Melanson. The police have the floor sealed off. Have you any idea why anybody might want to murder Joe Witherspoon?”
Davies’s question threw the timid soul into an utter tizzy. “B-burglars,” he stammered. “Vieuxchamp said it was burglars. It must have been bur
glars. Mustn’t it?”
“Why? I don’t recall any robberies being reported from here.”
“Oh no, we’ve never had a robbery before. Not,” Melanson amended hastily, “that I know of.”
“Do you suspect there may have been a theft that was never exposed?”
“Gracious, no, I wouldn’t dream of suspecting any such thing. But if it should ever turn out there had been and I’d said there wasn’t, somebody might think—”
“Mr. Melanson,” Bittersohn interrupted, “do you recall ever having heard Witherspoon complain that something had been changed?”
“About the two Uccellos, you mean? No, I believe that was Mr. Fitzroy. I may be wrong, of course, but I’m quite sure it was Mr. Fitzroy who spoke to Mrs. Tawne. Almost sure, that is. Well, fairly sure.”
“And what did Mr. Fitzroy say to Mrs. Tawne?”
“Please don’t think I deliberately listened. But Mr. Fitzroy wasn’t mincing his words, I can tell you that. I suppose it’s all right for me to tell you. I mean, it’s not as if he—that is, it was Mrs. Tawne who—”
“Who what?”
“Who hung them the other way around because she thought they’d look better that way. After Madam Wilkins left explicit instructions, too! It was—was—” Words failed him.
“As you must know, Bittersohn, the Madam’s will stipulated that everything must be left exactly as she placed it,” Brooks Kelling took it upon himself to explain. “Madam Wilkins had phenomenally atrocious taste.”
“That’s right,” Melanson was happy to agree. “And there they were, if you please, hanging face to face when they’d always hung back to back. I saw them myself.”
“When was this?”
“About—let me see—it was when I had the carbuncle, I do know that. Perhaps three, no four—oh, dear, it’s so difficult. I’d say it must have been roughly four years ago last October but I couldn’t tell you for sure.”
Bittersohn sighed. “You don’t recall a more recent incident?”
“I should hope that sort of thing wouldn’t happen often!”
Vieuxchamp’s reappearance kept Sarah from disgracing herself by a fit of the giggles. “I’ve been checking around,” he explained. “As far as I can tell offhand, nothing’s been taken. We’d have to do it with the inventory list to be sure.”
“Who keeps the list?” asked Lieutenant Davies.
“Mr. Fitzroy. He’ll be here tomorrow morning.”
“Who’s in charge when he’s not around?”
“I guess you might say we all are. Each guard is responsible for his own station.”
“Mr. Fitzroy is an unusual man,” Brooks interjected. “He believes in the dignity of the individual.”
“Besides,” said Vieuxchamp, “we’re all too scared of him to foul up. Aren’t we, Milky?”
“We all have the greatest respect for Mr. Fitzroy,” said Melanson primly.
“God help Brown when Fitzy finds out he almost let somebody get away with the communion plate,” Vieuxchamp went on. “Brownie’s lucky he got that crack on the head. It just might be considered an extenuating circumstance, that and poor old Joe’s getting killed.”
“Then you go along with Brown’s theory that Witherspoon was murdered to keep him from being able to identify the alleged thieves?” said Bittersohn.
“Well, yeah, I guess so. It makes sense, doesn’t it?”
Bittersohn didn’t point out that it made sense only if one accepted Brown’s clumsy pretense of robbery. If, as Brooks Kelling claimed, Vieuxchamp had occasional glimmerings of intelligence, why was he so willing to swallow the story?
Chapter 3
“THEN YOU DON’T BELIEVE Witherspoon could have either jumped or fallen?”
Bittersohn’s question appeared to give Vieuxchamp some trouble. “Why would he jump?”
“The guard down in the courtyard maintains Witherspoon was upset over some change he either saw or fancied in the big Titian he was so fond of.”
“Oh, that? Hell, a man wouldn’t kill himself over a painting. I suppose he could have fallen, now that you mention it. See, there’s that big clock over the main exit. You can’t see it from the third floor unless you lean over the balustrade. Sometimes we do, to see if it’s time for our coffee break or something. Joe might have been doing that and taken a dizzy spell and lost his balance.”
“I didn’t know Witherspoon had dizzy spells,” Melanson said interestedly.
“Oh, sure, had ’em all the time. Hardening of the arteries, I suppose. Joe was no kid, you know.”
“Speaking of getting along in years, Mrs. Kelling, we’d better go see if we can find Nick Fieringer. He’ll be wondering why we never showed up in the Tintoretto Room after the concert.” Bittersohn got behind Brooks Kelling and went through a pantomime that Sarah at last managed to interpret as “Ask him to supper.”
She couldn’t imagine why, but she obeyed. “Cousin Brooks, it’s been such ages since we’ve seen each other that I hate to say good-bye. Can’t you drop over to the house after you go off duty? It’s always an informal buffet on Sunday nights because I never know who’s going to be around.”
“Why, that’s kind of you, Sarah, and I’d like to come. As it happens, however, I’m bespoken. I’ve already invited Dolores Tawne to eat with me. At that little café over on Huntington Avenue near the Art Museum,” he added thriftily.
“Then why don’t you bring her along? I’m sure we’d enjoy meeting her.”
Sarah wasn’t at all sure but she thought she must have said the right thing, because Mr. Bittersohn was looking pleased. Cousin Brooks, on the other hand, demurred. He was afraid Dolores might interpret an invitation to meet the family as a sign of serious intent. Sarah argued that one fourth cousin twice removed and an assortment of paying guests could hardly be interpreted as serious intent. Brooks, seeing both the force of her argument and a chance to save a few dollars, for he was, after all, a Kelling, finally agreed.
“I hope I did what you wanted,” Sarah remarked to Bittersohn as they left the group and started downstairs to the second floor, where it was possible Nick Fieringer might still be waiting.
“You did fine,” he said somewhat abstractedly, staring at the head of a petulant-looking Heracles.
“What are you thinking?” she prodded.
“I’m thinking that, as Diamond Jim Brady said to the Floradora Girl, there’s deception behind that bust. How did you know the Romney’s a fake?”
“Because my Aunt Emma out in Longmeadow owns the original. She’s an ancestress of ours and I’m supposed to resemble her, though I can’t see it myself.”
“Did Madam Wilkins know your family owned the original?”
“I doubt it. They were never on visiting terms, especially after the debacle at the opening. If anything was said then, I’m sure she insisted hers was the original and ours the copy, but it can’t be unless Romney painted two identical pictures of the same subject. I’m quite sure he didn’t. That’s the sort of thing Aunt Emma would know about. I could take you out to see Aunt Emma’s by way of comparison if you like.”
Bittersohn’s lips twitched, and Sarah knew why. If Cousin Brooks was nervous about finding himself romantically compromised on the strength of a short subway ride and a supper of cold roast beef and tapioca pudding in well-assorted company, what would Aunt Emma think of Sarah’s driving all the way to Longmeadow à deux with a remarkably attractive man of suitable years and substantial income?
“I’d like very much to see the original sometime,” he replied, “but I don’t need that to convince me. So far just about everything I’ve seen in this place is a fake. Either Madam Wilkins was the prize patsy of all time or there’s a large rat i’ the arras.”
“The arras being bogus also, I presume? Is that why you asked me to invite Cousin Brooks? Surely you don’t think he’s involved in some art forgery racket? Did you really suspect him that time about Uncle Thaddeus’s Corots?”
“The answers are no, no
, and no, in that order. Your cousin’s a little bit of a screwball in some ways if you don’t mind my saying so—”
“Why should I? Show me a Kelling who isn’t.”
“But, as I was about to remark, he’s nobody’s fool, he’s fun to be with, and as far as I know he’s so honest it’s ridiculous. I simply want to talk to him. I’ll owe you a meal to make up for him and his lady friend.”
“You will not. Owe it, I mean. Of course if somebody happens to give you a free pass to the Ritz.” Sarah showed a dimple that was an agreeable surprise in her squarish, clear-skinned but pale face, and Bittersohn laughed.
“So!” a bass voice unctuous as beef drippings exploded. “This is where I find you, Bittersohn. Canoodling among the cupids with a beautiful lady instead of in the Tintoretto Room telling my talented young protégée she should maybe learn her scales before she thinks Carnegie Hall.”
“Hi, Nick. Mrs. Kelling and I were on our way to find you.”
“I believe you,” said the fat impresario archly. “Maybe you can tell me how come the cops in the courtyard? So my young genius takes her cadenzas like a case of whooping cough, is she under arrest for disturbing the peace?”
“Nick, the kid was fine. She needs a little more practice. Tell me, how well do you know the guards in this place?”
“I know everybody.” That was a simple statement of fact. Nicholas Fieringer did, almost.
“What sort of man was Joe Witherspoon?”
“Was? Why was? Something has happened to Joe?”
“He landed on his head in the courtyard just about the time your young genius must have been making her curtsey to Mrs. Forbot.”
“Old Joe?”
The impresario was one of those large, squashy, bald men whose emotions are close to the surface. His mouth puckered like a baby’s. Sarah would not have been surprised if he’d burst into loud wails. After a moment, though, he went on calmly enough. “I can think of nothing more unlikely. How could this happen?”
“The corridor guard on the third floor claims somebody tried to rob the chapel. Brown, his name is. You know him, too, I expect. Anyway, Mrs. Kelling here found him stuffed under a choir stall with a bunch of silver cups and stuff in a heap by the altar. His story is that two or three guys slugged him during an attempted robbery and pitched Witherspoon over the balustrade to protect their identities.”
The Palace Guard Page 2
