“Because she carries tales to Palmerston?”
“Mainly because they don’t like her. I’ve always considered Dolores the salt of the earth, but now that I’m in close daily contact with her I find she tends to be something of a bully, if one can apply that epithet to a woman, as I suppose one can nowadays. For instance, she laid Melanson out this morning for being a rabbit, which was both unkind and zoologically inaccurate.”
“Has she expressed any theories about Brown and Witherspoon?” asked Bittersohn.
“She’s convinced that both deaths were accidental, or says she is. She claims Brown tried to fake a suicide for the same reason he rigged that stupid robbery scene in the chapel, as a childish bid for attention. She claims a man who drank things like bay rum and vanilla extract probably figured a little paint remover wouldn’t hurt him. One has to admit that’s a credible hypothesis. She also claims Brown led Jimmy astray, however, and that’s arrant hogwash.”
“What does Jimmy himself say?”
“Nothing worth repeating. Jimmy never has a thought in his head that isn’t directly concerned with getting a drink.”
“Was he really sick last Sunday?” Sarah asked.
“I presume so because he had to pay me to substitute for him out of his own pocket, or his sister’s more likely. Jimmy had already used up his annual sick leave nursing hangovers. What makes you think he wasn’t?”
“I was just thinking.” She explained what she’d been thinking. “Does that make any sense to you? Would it be possible, for instance, for Jimmy Agnew to have reached the third floor and got out again without being spotted on a day when he was supposed to be absent?”
Brooks thought the matter over. “I can’t say it’s impossible,” he said at last. “For one thing, one gets so used to seeing a guard in uniform that even his ordinary outdoor clothing might constitute a sufficient disguise. Then you have to consider the small number of guards on duty in relation to the amount of clutter we’re supposed to be able to see around. It would not be hard for a person to get into that sedan chair without being seen, just as you did this afternoon even though a considerable number of people were standing not far away. As to what might have drawn Joe Witherspoon away from the Titian Room, I’m afraid the crass suggestion made by Mr. Fieringer is not wholly unreasonable. Joe’s kidneys were a source of vulgar ribaldry around the locker room. The person in the sedan chair would only have to lie low and wait for the opportune moment, dump Joe as he was going along the balcony, then jump back in again and choose an opportune moment to escape. Brown’s trick in the chapel, as you suggest, might have been deliberately planned to provide that moment. Alternatively, the murderer might have stayed in the chair till everybody else had cleared out, then simply left at his leisure. There’s only one watchman at night. Anybody with even a vague knowledge of the layout would be able to dodge him easily enough. I don’t know about those other people you mention, but surely anybody who has access to the palazzo during the off hours, such as Dolores or Mr. Fitzroy, or Mr. Palmerston—”
“I’d root for Mr. Palmerston on general principles,” said Sarah, “except that he’s far more interested in avoiding scandals at the Madam’s than causing them. Besides—”
“Besides what?”
“I’m afraid Mr. Bittersohn isn’t going to like this idea.”
Mr. Bittersohn didn’t. When she mentioned Nick Fieringer, he shook his handsome head. “I can’t buy that. Nick was with the musicians. Ask Bernie. Ask that kid who thinks she’s a cellist. Both of whom would lie their heads off for the great impresario, no doubt. Why did you have to think of Nick?”
“I’m sorry. Maybe you can find witnesses who saw him during the whole performance. Unbiased ones, I mean.”
“Who’s unbiased? Nick is everybody’s pal. If they didn’t see him for a while, they’d think he was out packing up the music or something. How did I get myself into this, anyway? I think I’ll give up my sordid profession and get Mrs. Sorpende to teach me Belgian lacework instead.”
“Is Mrs. Sorpende a lacemaker?” Cousin Brooks perked up. “I designed an improved butterfly net years ago, but could never find anybody able to make a trial model for me.”
“I’m sure she’d be thrilled to pieces if you asked her,” said Sarah. “Why don’t you come to dinner again tomorrow night and bring your plans?”
“Splendid suggestion. Thank you, Sarah.” And off he bounded, happy as a bunny in a clover field.
Sarah yawned. “What a day this has been! I’d better put the porridge to soak and go to bed.”
“Need any help?” Bittersohn asked hopefully as he followed her out to the kitchen.
“At what?”
She laughed and blushed. He bent and kissed her gently on the mouth. It was too much like that last night in the kitchen at Ireson’s Landing, the one night of her seven-year marriage when she and Alexander had been truly happy together. She buried her face in Bittersohn’s shirt front and burst into tears.
“For God’s sake, Sarah!” He was talking through clenched teeth. “Is this what it’s going to be like every time?”
She wiped her eyes and tilted her head back to look him full in the face. “Now, you listen to me, Max Bittersohn. I’m going to be twenty-seven years old next month and Alexander would have been fifty-one in September. We never had a marriage at all, in the usual sense of the word. But we did love each other and—and what sort of woman would I be to you if I could just stick him off somewhere like a book I’d finished reading and never think of him again? I’m not going to pretend I don’t want you, because I do. If you can’t wait till I’m ready, then that’s my tough luck. But there’s no sense in your trying to force the issue because I’m doing the best I can and I can’t do any better.”
Bittersohn kissed her again, even more gently than before. “I’ll be around, Sarah. Let me know when you’re ready, okay?”
She managed to smile. “I’ll more or less have to, shan’t I? Good night, Max. Keep your buttons on.”
Chapter 15
KNOWING WHERE THEY STOOD with one another made the situation between Sarah and Max Bittersohn easier in some ways, harder in others. For instance, it was difficult to maintain a serene and decorous mien in front of Mrs. Gates and Mrs. Sorpende when one was getting pinched in a sensitive place and Mariposa was being ever so obvious about not noticing what was going on behind one’s chair. Life was never like this in the old days, when Alexander would have been letting himself be browbeaten by Aunt Caroline, and Edith would have been making a great to-do about clearing away because she was so grievously overworked. One could adjust to change. One simply gave one’s lovesick swain a mild kick on the ankle and went about one’s daily tasks.
If one rushed to be downstairs early, dressed in one’s best, to meet one’s boarder for sherry, one was only making up for one’s dereliction of the previous evening. If one’s first arrival happened to be Cousin Brooks, one merely tried not to look disappointed.
“Hi, Sarah, where is everybody?” was his greeting.
“Getting dressed for dinner, mostly. They should start trickling down pretty soon. Were you looking for somebody special?”
“Yes, Bittersohn. I have his pictures.”
“So soon? Mariposa, would you mind—”
But Mariposa didn’t have to mind. Bittersohn, usually the last one to arrive, came charging in. “I thought I heard the patter of little feet. How did you make out, Kelling?”
“Rather successfully, I think.” Brooks passed over the tiny squares of paper.
Bittersohn took a look and went into convulsions. When he could speak, he passed the snapshots over to Sarah. “Get a load of Palmerston’s expert!”
“It can’t be!”
“Would your own fourth cousin’s belt buckle lie to you?” said Bittersohn. “It’s Lupe all right. Look at those weaselly little eyes, and the beard.” In spite of the ambassadorial garb and a strange appearance of having bathed and visited a barber, the man in the
pictures was indubitably their recent acquaintance from Brookline Village. “I don’t know how he dealt this hand, but maybe I’ll find out later. I’m planning to see him, you know.”
“Oh yes, this was the night he’s to have Rembrandt’s cat ready. Do you think he will?”
“Sure. He’s probably authenticating the cat right now. That, madam, is an operator.”
Charles, who had just got home from the plastics factory and made his quick change into his buttling garb, came rushing through the hall to answer the doorbell. A moment later he coughed sadly at the library door. “Mr. Palmerston is here, madam. Will he be staying to dinner?”
“He will not,” said Sarah. “You may as well show him in. Mr. Bittersohn, shall Brooks and I leave?”
“No, stick around. This should be interesting.”
Palmerston bustled in behind Charles. “Well, Bittersohn, I’m happy to inform you that the situation is under control.”
“Great,” said Bittersohn.
“You may well say so. I had the inspired thought of getting your—er—friend’s findings verified by a genuine expert. I selected Dr. Aguinaldo Ruy Lopez who, as you must of course know, is one of Europe’s leading authorities on pre- and post-Renaissance paintings.”
“How about during?” said Bittersohn.
Palmerston pretended not to hear. “I had Dr. Ruy Lopez flown to Boston at my own expense. He visited the Wilkins Museum first thing this morning and spent much of the day examining the paintings you questioned. He informs me on the basis of his own personal knowledge”—Palmerston waggled a bony forefinger to emphasize every word—“his—own—personal—knowledge, mind you, that your appraisal was wrong in almost every case.”
“Was the curator from the Metropolitan wrong, too?”
“There is,” said Palmerston with aristocratic hauteur, “such a thing as professional jealousy. I make no such accusation. The charitable assumption is that you and your—er—associates, whoever they may be, were misled by the possibility that very old copies of the paintings may exist, or even that modern copies may conceivably have been made and sold as originals. Dr. Ruy Lopez informs me that this sort of thing is occasionally done by—er—unscrupulous people.”
“Dr. Ruy Lopez would certainly know. May I ask how you happened to think of calling him in?”
“As a matter of fact, I did not think of him. My first inclination was to approach someone known to me personally. Upon sober reflection, however, I deemed it wiser to employ an expert who had no connection with any local museum and might therefore be relied upon to give a totally—er—non-parochial opinion. I then conferred with various persons whose opinions I respect. Several names were put forth and it was determined that Dr. Ruy Lopez would be the best man for the job. A transatlantic telephone call and a bit of string-pulling with one of the larger airlines, and the thing was done.” He favored them with a smirk of self-congratulation.
“I suppose it was Mrs. Tawne who suggested Dr. Ruy Lopez,” Sarah observed innocently.
“No, as a matter of fact it was our musical director, Mr. Nicholas Fieringer.”
Bittersohn looked a bit sick.
“Dr. Ruy Lopez has in fact given me the names of three paintings he believes to be spurious.” Palmerston dragged out a gold-tooled leather notebook bristling with slips of paper. “Ah, yes, here it is. These, he tells me, are post-Renaissance copies about which he believes Mrs. Wilkins must have been duped at the time of purchase.”
“And you’re willing to take his word against the opinions of three others?”
“I fail to see why I should not. The unbiased opinion of an eminent scholar appears to bear sufficient weight to offset the casual speculations of—er—possible sensation seekers. Therefore I have decided to proceed no further. This whole affair, sir, was a mare’s nest.”
“The hell it was.”
“Mr. Bittersohn, if you persist in your efforts to pursue an investigation, I shall be forced to give credence to a suspicion that has been voiced to me but that I have hitherto been reluctant to entertain.” Palmerston puffed out his cheeks and glared down his nose. “It is that you have seized upon the chance to exploit our recent tragedies with the object of mulcting the Wilkins Museum of a substantial fee.”
Bittersohn half rose from his chair.
“But of course,” Palmerston went on quickly, “such behavior would be unthinkable in a person of your—er—doubtless merited professional standing. So I think the best plan at this juncture will be for us to agree quietly among ourselves that a mistake has been made and part with no hard feelings on either side. You must feel free, of course, to submit a bill to me personally for whatever services you may have rendered in good faith, even though they turned out to be—er—unnecessary.”
“Good night, Mr. Palmerston,” said Bittersohn quietly.
Sarah touched the bell. “Charles, show Mr. Palmerston out.”
“I trust you understand my position, Mrs. Kelling.” The head trustee twisted his features into a placatory simper. “I should not wish to lose your good opinion of me.”
“My opinion of you has not changed, Mr. Palmerston. Good night.”
“Perhaps you will convey my respects to Mrs. Sorpende?”
Sarah did not answer. Charles stood waiting. Palmerston left.
“Charles,” said Sarah after the door had closed, “if that man ever tries to set foot in this house again, you’re to pour boiling oil on his head.”
“It will be my pleasure, madam. May I offer you sherry?”
“By all means.”
Brooks raised his glass. “Confusion to our enemy!”
“I’ll drink to that,” said Sarah. “I hope he develops a carbuncle where it hurts most.”
“I hope he chokes,” snarled Bittersohn, “when I make him eat his words.”
They ate, drank, and were merry to show they didn’t care. After dinner Bittersohn went downstairs to equip himself for the expedition to Brookline Village. Rather alarmed, Sarah made an excuse about something in the laundry room and followed him.
“Max, you’re not going to see that Lupe now, are you?”
“Sure, why not?”
“But suppose he’s found out who you really are?”
“Big deal. I’ve been fired from the case, remember?”
“You don’t intend to drop it, then?”
“How can I? Don’t you think Palmerston is going to start dropping hints around town about Bittersohn the phony? You heard him offer me a bribe. He’ll be saying I can be bought. If my reputation for honesty and reliability gets cut down, I’ll be lucky to wind up teaching art history at Miss Foofeldinker’s finishing school for thirty bucks a week. Damn it, Sarah”—he put his arms around her and rested his cheek on her soft hair—“you wouldn’t want that to happen, would you?”
“Having you cooped up in a classroom with a lot of Miss LaVallieres twitching their behinds at you? I should say not! All right, Max, give me five minutes to change.”
“You’re not coming, fischele. Go be a nice landlady.”
Sarah knew better than to insist. She rejoined her boarders and found the library a scene of infant gaiety. Cousin Brooks was demonstrating how he ran a birthday party. He was impersonating a barn owl. Mrs. Sorpende was acting with verve the part of a field mouse about to be caught. Professor Ormsby was the barn, Miss LaValliere the weather vane, Mrs. Gates the cow in the stall, and Mr. Porter-Smith a badger for some reason Sarah couldn’t grasp.
There was a great deal of giggling and scuttling about, then Cousin Brooks pounced on Mrs. Sorpende and announced that the owl had caught the field mouse, the badger must return to its hole beside the barn and usually about now they served the ice cream and birthday cake. He whipped a handful of paper hats out of his pocket and passed them around. They all put on the hats and sang, “Happy birthday to you.”
Charles, caught up in the general merriment, entered with a tray of liqueurs. Mrs. Sorpende insisted on lighting a candle for Brooks to
blow out before he was allowed to sip his crème de menthe. It was all so charmingly silly that Sarah almost forgot to worry about Max until the doorbell rang.
Charles parked his tray on the Chippendale lowboy and went to see who was there. He came back and murmured to Sarah, “Mr. Fieringer would like to see you, madam.”
“Heavens, don’t let him in here.” The entire group, wearing their paper hats, were now playing ring-around-a-rosy with Mrs. Gates as the rosy since she was too old and frail to go cavorting about like the rest. “Take him up to the studio. I’ll see him there.”
Forgetting to take off her paper hat, she went to greet the impresario. Fieringer was looking unhappy, and Sarah knew he expected her to be furious with him about Bittersohn’s getting fired. She was, now that she remembered. Too late, she also remembered the paper hat. Snatching it off, she demanded, “Is this a friendly visit, Mr. Fieringer, or did you come to be offensive like your boss?”
“I came to see is my old friend Maxie mad at me,” he replied frankly.
“I am not in a position to answer for Mr. Bittersohn.”
“Beautiful lady, what could I do? Palmerston comes to me with a problem. Everybody brings problems to old Nick. Palmerston says to me, ‘Who can I get?’ I say Bittersohn is best. He says, ‘Bittersohn is Harvard, I am Yale Class of ’32, how can I trust Bittersohn?’”
“Are you sure that’s what he said, Mr. Fieringer? In the first place, Mr. Bittersohn went to Boston University.”
“So all right it’s Palmerston went to Harvard and BU he doesn’t trust. I’m an old man, I get confused. And Bill Jones—”
“Oh, you know Bill Jones?”
“I tell you, lady, I know everybody. I see Bill Jones at the Madam’s poking around, I know Maxie must have sent him. Bill Jones is from stolen originals an expert, naturally he tells Maxie stolen originals, not somebody passing fakes.”
“Are you implying that Bill Jones lied?”
“Bill Jones lied?” Nick was horrified. “Bill couldn’t lie about nothing. Not to save his own mother Bill couldn’t lie. That’s why he gets along so good with crooks. I don’t say Bill lied, only he made a mistake.”
The Palace Guard Page 12
