The Palace Guard

by Charlotte MacLeod

  “We all enjoyed the results, and you certainly may. You’d better make plenty, though. Mr. Palmerston eats like a pig. And,” Sarah added reflectively, “perhaps it might be a good idea to add a little ground glass to the fillings.”

  Chapter 9

  UNDER DIFFERENT CIRCUMSTANCES SARAH would have gone to considerable lengths to avoid having tea with C. Edwald Palmerston. Even as it was, she felt the need of some fresh air to brace herself for the ordeal. Around four o’clock, while Mrs. Sorpende was puttering happily around the kitchen and Mariposa was downstairs donning her jazzy orange uniform with new yellow and orange checked ribbons on the cap, Sarah put on her coat and strolled down to Charles Street.

  Charles Street, the thoroughfare that runs through the bottom of Beacon Hill on the river side before you get to Storrow Drive and the Esplanade, is noted for its shops: florists’ shops, food shops, boutiques of many sorts, and especially for its antique shops. One of these had a collection of china pug dogs in its window, all of whom appeared to be snarling. Sarah paused to snarl back. As she did, a movement inside the shop caught her eye.

  What she’d seen were the exquisite little hands of Bill Jones, flying as they’d done at her own dinner table. She peeked in furtively, as she felt Bill would expect her to. His head was close to the antique dealer’s ear. His lips were barely moving. Sarah had seen plenty of sign language while Aunt Caroline was still alive, though, and those eloquent gestures weren’t hard for her to interpret. Bill was talking about paintings. Stolen paintings. Specifically, those paintings that had been taken from Madam Wilkins’s palazzo.

  A third man was in the cluttered room, lounging in a Savonarola armchair. Sarah recognized him, too. That was Bernie, the pianist who had done so much on Sunday to save Nick Fieringer’s concert from total disaster. As far as she could see, he was reasonably sober.

  Now what, if anything, did all this mean? Sarah knew the antique dealer slightly. In the grim days after Alexander’s death, when she’d discovered she was flat broke and about to be foreclosed on for non-payment of mortgages she didn’t know she’d inherited, she had gone to this Mr. Hayre in desperation with some of the family antiques. Would he have bought a stolen painting? Recalling what Mr. Hayre had paid her for a Canton tea set and what he’d subsequently sold it for, Sarah thought he probably would. She hurried back to the house, hoping to catch a private word with Mr. Bittersohn, but she got there too late. He was already in the library with Mrs. Sorpende and Mariposa was hovering in the wings, ready to do her stuff with the tea tray.

  Punctually on the stroke of five, Mariposa showed C. Edwald Palmerston into the house. At two minutes past, he was bowing over the fair hand of Mrs. Sorpende. At three minutes past, Palmerston was still holding the aforesaid hand. At four minutes past, Max Bittersohn coughed menacingly and Mr. Palmerston released his clutch.

  “So good of you to invite me, Mrs. Kelling. Ah me, the last time I entered this house was to pay my respects at the time of your tragic loss: You appear to have made a speedy recovery,” he added, looking askance at the flowered print dress Sarah had picked up for next to nothing in Filene’s Basement under Mariposa’s expert guidance because she was sick and tired of wearing her mother’s old clothes.

  “I’m trying to cope,” Sarah replied. “Cream or lemon?”

  “Milk please, and two lumps of sugar.” Palmerston settled himself as close as he could get to Mrs. Sorpende and inhaled his refreshment with gusto.

  “How are things going at the Madam’s?” asked Bittersohn.

  “The Madam’s? I deplore that unfortunate nickname, Mr. Bittersohn. The Wilkins Museum merits the respect of our citizenry as one of Boston’s most venerable institutions. I use the word venerable, of course, in the sense of meriting veneration. As to its actual age, I must confess that I myself can recall the opening, though dimly through the eyes of a mere babe. Ah, dear lady”—Palmerston seized this excuse to pat his neighbor’s plump wrist—“tempus fugit.”

  “How right you are,” said Mrs. Sorpende, edging herself ever so deftly out of reach and perhaps not being quite sure what tempus fugit meant but knowing it was generally safe to tell a man he was right.

  “Would you happen to remember what the contents of the palazzo were appraised for at the time of the opening?” said Bittersohn.

  “Madam Wilkins, to employ the title by which she chose to be known, was said to have spent well over ten million dollars on her paintings and other objets d’art. The value would be immeasurably higher now, needless to say.”

  “Would you care to bet on that?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “According to a recent independent survey”—Bittersohn had just retrieved a Matisse for the head of a local advertising agency—“there isn’t twenty thousand dollars’ worth of genuine stuff in the whole palazzo.”

  C. Edwald nearly bit a chunk out of a Spode teacup. “But—but that’s preposterous! By what right do you—?”

  “You might say I’ve had the matter investigated because I’m a concerned citizen interested in preserving Boston’s cultural treasures. I thought you, as chairman of the board of trustees, ought to be aware of the actual situation.”

  “Sir, if this is a joke I find it in poor taste. Who made this alleged survey?”

  “Mrs. Kelling can testify that it’s no joke, Mr. Palmerston. I happen to have taken my doctorate in art history. As a result of some things I noticed on a visit to the museum with Mrs. Kelling this past Sunday, I got an acquaintance who specializes in stolen paintings to go have a look. He drew up this list.”

  Bittersohn drew out a somewhat grubby sheet of expensive writing paper covered with calligraphy that would have passed muster in any medieval monastery. “As you can see, it shows which of your paintings have been replaced by copies within the past thirty years, and when and where each of the stolen originals passed out of the state. Quite an impressive piece of research, wouldn’t you say?”

  “I don’t believe a word,” said Palmerston, who had turned the color of a spoiled cauliflower.

  “This morning,” Bittersohn went on, “I gave a Xerox of this list to one of the curators of paintings at the Metropolitan Museum in New York, who happened to be in Boston on some other business. He spent several hours at the Wilkins and is willing to testify that at least twenty-five of the paintings listed here are modern copies. He didn’t have time to go through the whole list, but he said he’d be willing to come back and have another crack at it.”

  “But—but, good heavens! Good heavens!”

  “You’d better have another cup of tea, Mr. Palmerston,” Sarah said.

  “Tea? Good heavens, I—”

  “Brandy, perhaps?” Mrs. Sorpende suggested.

  “Yes, yes. Brandy by all means. Ordinarily I abstain but—yes, brandy. Please.”

  The man’s color was ghastly. He leaned back against the sofa cushions as though his spine had given way, and sipped the drink Sarah brought him. After a minute or so, he made an effort to pull himself together.

  “A curator from the Metropolitan, you say?”

  “That’s right,” said Bittersohn. He mentioned a name. “Do you happen to know him?”

  “Not personally, but the position would seem to place him as—ah—eminently reliable. I shall have to call a trustees’ meeting forthwith. Or dare I? In so delicate a situation, perhaps the less said the better. The public must be protected from this dreadful allegation. We must lose not a moment. We must each pledge ourselves to secrecy here and now, and we must refrain above all from calling in the police and thus alerting the malefactors. A private detective, that’s what we want! Someone of unexceptionable tact and discretion. Who was that chap my old friend Mrs. Forbot was telling me about, who performed so capably in the case of the bogus Bellini at the Cotman Club? Let me think.”

  “Bittersohn?” Sarah prompted.

  “That’s it. Why, it must have been you, Dr. Bittersohn. Well-met at Philippi, eh? Bravo! No wonder you interest
ed yourself in the matter, and how right you were to call it to my attention in this private and discreet manner. I herewith place the situation in your hands. You will proceed with dispatch and, need I say, secrecy.

  Old Anora Protheroe had once remarked, “Our lot aren’t much for looks, by and large, but we’re tough.” With the resilience of one who has been brought up on Emerson, oatmeal porridge, codfish cakes, and Boston baked beans, C. Edwald Palmerston bounded to his feet, shook hands all around with a special lingering pressure for Mrs. Sorpende, thanked Sarah for her hospitality, urged Bittersohn to spare no effort, and left.

  Mariposa took the teacups out to the kitchen. Mrs. Sorpende went up to change from her elegant tea gown into an even more elegant dinner gown. Sarah opened the library windows to air out C. Edwald Palmerston.

  “Well, Mr. Bittersohn, I hope you got what you wanted.”

  He came over to help her with the windows. “I did. Tell you what, since you’ve been such a good kid I’ll take you out to see the nighthawks after dinner.”

  “I’ve seen nighthawks, thank you.”

  “Then come for the exercise. It will do you good.”

  “Perhaps you’re right.”

  In any event, Sarah went. Mr. Bittersohn’s idea of a quiet evening stroll was not what she’d been used to. He led her through the byways behind Park Square to a place she’d never been before. Dolph would have called it a dive and for all Sarah knew about such things he might well have been right. They were sitting in a booth listening to three elderly ladies perform with verve on the saxophone, the drums, and the double bass when they were joined by an acquaintance.

  “Ah, my God, the beautiful Max and his adorable sweetheart!”

  “Hi, Lydia,” said the beautiful Max. “Can we buy you a drink?”

  “But of course.” Countess Ouspenska squeezed herself in beside Sarah. “I will sit with this little one so you can look at us both. In such a rotten light as here I am still passable. Double vodka please, Giovanni, from the bottle you didn’t water yet.”

  Lydia got her drink, took a mighty swig, and gasped, “Peachy! Today I finish my genuine antique masterpiece and get a beautiful present from an old goat and now the magnificent Max buys me double vodka. Is life in the old bat yet, not?”

  “I think you’re wonderful,” Sarah replied with all sincerity.

  “Little darling, I love you madly!” Countess Ouspenska embraced her seatmate with Slavic fervor, transferring a good deal of pancake makeup to Sarah’s flawless cheek. “Listen, do you know what that old goat Palmerston does? He sends a basket of goodies so big”—she flung out her arms in a wild jangle of bracelets—“with a note in fond remembrance. Is the first time that old foxy-loxy ever puts anything in writing. Too bad he doesn’t sign it.” She took another gulp of her drink. “Anyway, this week I eat.”

  “How nice for you.”

  “You said it, babushka. Now I negotiate for sale of my wonderful icon and for one month I have it made in the shade. Is like song be like I hold your head up high somewhere is a bluejay of happiness.”

  “What’s this about your icon, Lydia?” Bittersohn asked ever so casually.

  The countess giggled. “Is my secret. Maybe you come to my studio without this pretty little watchdog and ask me again nice, eh?”

  “Sounds like a great idea to me. How about another?”

  “Unfortunately no. I have to stay bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. Is important business appointment.” The countess stifled a hiccup with an aristocratic gesture and sorted out her scarves and necklaces. “I go now.”

  “Can we drop you somewhere?”

  “No, is better for security I go alone. Please case the joint to see is anybody follow.”

  Bittersohn pulled his coat collar up around his face and tiptoed to the door. “Sst, Lydia!” His whisper carried easily over the saxophone, the drums, and the double bass. “The coast is clear.”

  “Good. In my new business is necessary to take precautions. Was necessary in my old business, too. Au revoir, my little wood pigeon. You come and see me, too. I paint you as madonna and child in authentic Byzantine technique.”

  Countess Ouspenska pulled one of her scarves far down over her face, put on a pair of dark glasses, and slithered out. Bittersohn came back to the booth and helped Sarah into her coat.

  “Come on, we’ll follow her by stealth and cunning. She’d be heartbroken if we didn’t. Try to look furtive.”

  They had no trouble keeping the countess in sight. She must have made a few more stops before she met them, for she was making almost as much leeway as headway although her general bearing was more or less in the direction of Charles and Beacon.

  “I’ll bet she’s heading for that antique shop,” Sarah murmured.

  “What antique shop?”

  “The one where I saw your friend Bill Jones this afternoon.”

  “Huh? Which shop was this?”

  “The one with all the china dogs in the window. It’s run by Mr. Hayre, who gypped me so unmercifully on the Canton tea set.”

  “What was Bill doing?”

  “Whispering into Mr. Hayre’s ear about the paintings at the Madam’s.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I could tell by the way he was waving his hands around. That piano player of Mr. Fieringer’s was there, too.”

  “Bernie? What the hell? Did they see you?”

  “I think not. I was outside peeking through the window.”

  “Why?”

  “Masochism, I suppose. I always look in when I pass the store, to see if he has any of my things on sale for about sixty times what he paid me for them. Look, she is heading for Charles Street.”

  Countess Ouspenska must have been revived by the exercise. She had got up steam and was progressing at a much faster rate. She managed to nip across Beacon just as the light changed, while the two who were following her had to wait till the traffic stopped. By the time they could go again, she was nowhere in sight.

  “Damn, we’ve lost her,” muttered Bittersohn.

  “No we haven’t.” Sarah took his hand and hustled him up a tiny alley and around a corner.

  “Where are we?” he whispered.

  “Behind Mr. Hayre’s antique shop, of course.”

  “And what do we do now?”

  “Lurk.”

  Chapter 10

  SARAH’S HUNCH WAS A good one. They’d been peering down the alley from behind the ashcans for barely ten minutes when they saw the countess emerge. She had a man with her. As the couple passed beneath one of the imitation gas lamps that help to give Charles Street its Old Boston atmosphere, the lurkers in the shadows could see he was Bernie the piano player. Perhaps Lydia had got paid for her icon. Anyway, either she or Bernie must be in funds for they hailed a taxi.

  “Come on.” Bittersohn practically carried Sarah across to a rank where, luckily, another cab was idling. “Mind following that cabbie who just pulled out?” he said to the driver. “We were supposed to meet that couple who are riding with him but they must have got tired of waiting just as we came along. We’re all going to the same party and they forgot to give us the address.”

  “Well, that’s life,” said the cabbie in a fine burst of philosophical originality. “I could pull up alongside and ask.”

  “No, we’ll follow along and surprise them. It shouldn’t be too far. Somewhere around Brookline Village, I think. Anyway, we wouldn’t mind having a little time to ourselves, if you get what I mean.”

  The driver must have got what he meant, for he turned up the volume on his radio and shut the opening in the heavy plastic that separated the front seat from the back. Bittersohn grinned and pulled Sarah close to him.

  “Mind if we act natural?” he murmured.

  “Is this what you naturally do with women in taxis?” she whispered back, not making any real attempt to pull away.

  “We’re a guy and his date on our way to a party, remember?”

  “Do you suppose we really
are? On our way to a party, I mean? Where is Bernie taking the countess, do you suppose?” Sarah found it necessary to remind herself of the object of their mission. Being this close to Mr. Bittersohn might otherwise divert a young widow’s attention to matters she had no business thinking about.

  “I guessed Brookline Village because that seems to be where it’s at these days, and that’s more or less where we’re heading, but don’t ask me why. Right now the only thing I like about this expedition is having you along, and I’m not sure I was smart to bring you. There are only two things Bernie can do by himself: play the piano and drink. Otherwise he waits for Nick Fieringer to lay it out for him. His hanging around that antique shop, which seems to be another place where it’s at, could mean that he’s running errands for Nick.”

  “And what would that mean?”

  “Mrs. Kelling, you were there when Nick tried to tout me off this Wilkins business on Sunday evening. I don’t know whether coming to me was his own idea or if somebody sent him. I expect he’d take a buck to do an errand. Nick has a million pals, but as far as making a living goes, he must be just about scraping by.”

  “You don’t think he’d murder two guards as a favor to a friend?”

  “Not Nick. He’s too fat and clumsy, for one thing.”

  “Could he have told Bernie to do it?”

  “How could Bernie have been up on the third floor pushing Joe Witherspoon over the balcony when he had to go directly to the Tintoretto Room as soon as he finished playing and have his hand held by somebody’s great-aunt the music lover?” Bittersohn absentmindedly closed his own hand more snugly around Sarah’s. “Furthermore, I can’t see Nick trusting Bernie to load Brown’s bottle. Bernie would have been too apt to drink up the murder weapon himself.”

  “Mr. Fieringer would have been able to manage that business with the bottle easily enough, wouldn’t he? As for Witherspoon, well, he did like painted ladies.”