“Bring her back to dinner if you’re not too tired afterward.”
“Funny, aren’t you?”
He rumpled the hair Sarah had taken extra pains with that morning and left, walking in his usual fashion, as if he were battling winds of gale force. Sarah combed her hair, finished the silver, did the advance preparation for dinner, then decided it wouldn’t hurt her to get out for a breath of air. Thinking she might cross over and walk along the Esplanade for a while, she strolled down to Charles Street.
From force of habit, she looked in at Mr. Hayre’s window. The Staffordshire pugs were gone. The new center of interest was an icon, very lovely and very old. Or was it? Sarah pressed her dainty nose against the glass and examined the charming piece until she’d satisfied herself. No doubt about it, here was Lydia Ouspenska’s latest artistry. On impulse she opened the door.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Hayre.”
“Why, Mrs. Kelling. Long time no see.”
“No, I’ve been too solvent to sell and too poor to buy. I couldn’t resist inquiring about that icon in the window, though.”
“Now, there,” cried Mr. Hayre, “is a find. Did you notice the perfect state of preservation?”
“Yes indeed. It looks as if it had been painted only yesterday,” Sarah replied sweetly.
“Doesn’t it, though?” The dealer plucked the icon out from among the other pieces and turned it reverently in his pudgy fingers. “It ought to be in a museum, really.”
“I’m surprised it isn’t. I suppose you’re asking a frightful price.”
“Well now, to an old friend like you—”
“Hi, Jack.” A slim, dark form glided in from the street. “Hi, Mrs. Kelling.”
Sarah and Hayre both started. White teeth flashed in Bill Jones’s swarthy, delicate face.
“How they going, Bill?” said Hayre with a tinge of uneasiness. “I didn’t know you were acquainted with Mrs. Kelling.”
“Su-ure. She’s got a little thing going with Max Bittersohn.”
“Mr. Bittersohn is one of my boarders,” Sarah explained primly. “Do you know him, Mr. Hayre?”
“I’ve met him.” The antique dealer laid the icon behind the cash register and became ever so busy rearranging his stock.
Sarah took the hint. “Well, since I’m not in the market I mustn’t take up your time. Good-bye, Mr. Hayre, Mr. Jones.”
But when she reached the door, Bill Jones was at her side. “Can I buy you a drink?” he muttered out of the corner of his mouth.
Sarah had no particular reason to refuse and possibly one to accept. “Why, thank you,” she replied. “I’d love one. Though I haven’t too much time,” she added to be on the safe side. “Could we just go into the lounge here?”
“Su-ure.”
A few minutes later they were seated in the darkest booth in the farthest corner of the most obscure cocktail lounge on Charles Street. Bill had got remarkably quick service. Sarah took a taste of her daiquiri and smiled.
“This is a pleasant surprise. How nice of you to ask me, and why do you suppose Mr. Hayre was in such a rush to get rid of me?”
Bill shrugged his shoulders up to his eyebrows, waved his diminutive hands, and leaned over the table. “Jack’s a funny guy,” he confided.
“He’s a businessman at any rate. I sold him some things a few months ago when I was rather frantic for ready cash, and I’d swear he made a thousand per cent profit on every piece.”
“Su-ure,” breathed the artist. He began drawing pictures in the air with the tip of one exquisite but dirty finger. “It’s hard to imagine you being hard up.”
“Why do you think I run a boarding house?”
“Why does anybody do anything?”
“Because we can’t think of a less disagreeable alternative, I suppose.”
“Ah”—Bill leaned even farther over the table, his immense black eyes gleaming through the gloom—“but why can’t we?”
“I suppose it depends on our circumstances, early conditioning, personality, one thing and another.”
“Yeah-h!”
“It is rather odd, I suppose, that I decided to stick it out in Boston and do this boarding house thing. I could have let the bank have the property, taken whatever cash I could raise, and gone off to Pago Pago or Saskatchewan.”
“Or Greece!”
Sarah laughed at his enthusiasm. “Or India.”
“I don’t think you’d like India. I was there once.” He drew some more pictures; “It’s not your sort of place.”
“What is my sort of place?”
“Oh-h, maybe Paris. I mean, you’re”—he did some remarkably effective graphics with both hands. “In a nice way, of course.”
“Why, thank you, Bill. May I call you Bill?” Maybe it was the drink, but she was finding this great fun.
“Su-ure,” he murmured, “Sarah.”
They smiled at each other furtively, as seemed fitting.
“Maxie’s a lucky guy,” Bill whispered.
“Bill, I’ve told you—” Sarah stopped. What was the sense in lying to a thoroughly honest man? She changed the subject. “You know Countess Ouspenska, don’t you?”
“Doesn’t everybody?”
“Max was going to see her this afternoon.”
“Hey-y-y.” Bill laid a hand over Sarah’s. They were about the same size, and Sarah always had trouble finding gloves small enough to fit her. “You’re not worried about Maxie and old Lydia?”
“Of course not.” Sarah wondered whether she ought to snatch her hand away, but decided Bill’s was too small to count. “Unless she takes a notion to seduce him at gunpoint. I do think that’s awfully dangerous, don’t you? Besides, isn’t it against the law now?”
“Seducing Max?”
“No, carrying a handgun.”
“What handgun?”
“Her own, I assume. I hope she has a permit for it.”
Bill squirmed. “What makes you think Lydia has a gun?”
“I saw it.”
“When?”
For Bill Jones, the question was startlingly abrupt. Sarah’s pleasant feeling of relaxation vanished. Suppose she told Bill about having gone to Lupe’s with Max after they’d trailed Bernie and the countess from Hayre’s antique shop? Suppose Bill passed the word back to Hayre and Hayre told Nick Fieringer. Or somebody else. Suppose they change the subject.
“Let’s see, when was it? I first met the countess when we met at Dolores Tawne’s studio. Then she invited me to her own place. They’re neighbors at the Fenway Studios, as you may know. Then she dropped in at my house a couple of nights ago. Perhaps I noticed the gun in her handbag when she was fixing her lipstick or something. She carries a great satchel affair. Anyway, I didn’t say anything about the gun, of course, and I don’t recall that anyone else did, so perhaps it was when we were in the studio. No, thanks, I mustn’t have another. I should get home and see how Max made out. Oh dear, that was a slip, wasn’t it? I do like her enormously and I’m not the least bit jealous, truly, but she does tend to run on about the magnificent Max. Would you care to walk back with me and join us for sherry?”
“Thanks, but I have a little errand to do,” Bill muttered. “I don’t suppose you’d be interested in dropping around at my pad later?”
“I don’t know what Max’s plans are.”
“Who said anything about Max?”
Sarah blushed and dimpled. “Oh, I couldn’t possibly, but it’s sweet of you to ask. Thank you for the drink.”
They parted at the door. Sarah turned up Mount Vernon Street. The last she saw of Bill Jones he was headed for Cambridge Street Station, hugging the sides of the buildings.
Chapter 18
SHE WAS LATE GETTING home again, though not so disastrously as she’d been the day she got stuck in her blouse. She let herself in through the alley door and got busy with dinner while Mariposa was doing the drinks in the library. She was chopping and stirring like mad when Bittersohn rushed in, furious with wo
rry.
“Mind telling me where the hell you’ve been?”
“Having a drink with a charming gentleman.”
“I thought something had happened to you.”
“Sorry to disappoint you.”
He fumed in silence for a moment, then remarked far too casually, “I suppose it was your Uncle Jem.”
“No, as a matter of fact it was Bill Jones.”
“What were you doing with Bill Jones?”
“I told you, having a drink.”
“Why?”
“He invited me.”
“So?”
“We met in Mr. Hayre’s antique shop.”
“Sarah, for Christ’s sake what were you doing there?”
“Admiring an authentic early Byzantine icon by Lydia Ouspenska. How did you make out with her, by the way? Or did you?”
“Cut it out, will you? I brought her back to dinner as you told me to. You’re some hostess, I must say.”
“I’m sure Mrs. Sorpende is coping.”
“What did Bill have to say?” Bittersohn demanded after a short pause for silent fuming.
Sarah smiled enigmatically. “A number of things.”
“Did he tell you the icon was a fake?”
“Of course not.”
“Did you tell him?”
“Why should I bother? I’m sure he knows. I did happen to mention that the countess carries a gun.”
“Nice going. Now he knows we followed her to Brookline.”
“Not from me he doesn’t. I pretended I’d seen it the night she came here.”
Bittersohn grunted. “What did he say when you told him?”
“He was surprised and upset, I think. I have a sneaky hunch he may be on his way to see her right now.”
“How can he be? She’s here.”
“He doesn’t know that.”
“Why didn’t you bring him back with you if you’re so fond of his company?”
“I invited him for sherry but he had to go to the countess’s. Why are you bothering me about this stuff when I’m running so late already? Did Her Highness dress for dinner?”
“Did she ever!”
“Then go tell her how nice she looks. I’ll be right in.”
Sarah was used to quick changes by now. About three minutes later she was sweeping into the library. “Countess Ouspenska, do forgive me for not being here to welcome you. We’re so glad you could come.”
“Me, too,” screamed Lydia, flashing a smile at Mr. Porter-Smith. She certainly had dressed. Her gown was of scarlet crepe circa 1935, cut low in the front and lower in the back. A huge purple silk anemone rode on her left hipbone. She had bracelets up to the elbows and earrings down to her collarbones. In her raddled way she was gorgeous.
When Charles announced dinner she swept grandly in on the arm of Porter-Smith, to whom she had taken an obvious fancy. That dapper young blade had blossomed out in a new Madras dinner jacket of a lightsome yellow and green plaid. Together he and the countess were resplendent to the point of dazzlement. Even Professor Ormsby’s eyes were seen to stray for a moment from Mrs. Sorpende’s impressive façade, but the countess was too skinny for his taste so they soon strayed back.
Lydia Ouspenska was in the liveliest possible spirits. She laughed uproariously at everybody’s jokes, especially her own. She took lavish helpings of everything Charles passed. Then suddenly she clapped a hand to her mouth and staggered to her feet.
Charles had her out of the dining room almost before the others realized what was happening. Sarah rose to follow but Porter-Smith beat her to it. “Allow me, Mrs. Kelling. I have my Senior Lifesaving Badge.”
“Thank you. Get her up to my bedroom if you can. And please tell Mariposa, if Charles hasn’t already done so.”
Knowing her efficient staff would cope, Sarah tried to carry on as a good hostess should. Charles was back in time to serve dessert. He reported that the countess appeared to be resting more comfortably and Mariposa was with her. As the group moved back to the library for coffee, though, Sarah thought she’d better scoot up for a peek herself.
Charles, Mariposa, and no doubt the unflappable Mr. Porter-Smith had got the poor countess to bed most efficiently. Somebody had even remembered to turn back the counterpane and lay a clean sheet over the blanket cover before bundling her up in the eiderdown. The flamboyant red gown was folded neatly over the back of Sarah’s low slipper chair, the bangles stacked, on the night stand, the gold sandals set side by side on the rug. Lydia was not only asleep but snoring loudly.
Remembering the woman’s hit-or-miss eating habits, Sarah decided a gastric upset was most likely due to the shock of her system’s trying to ingest a square meal for a change. She closed the door and went downstairs to drink her coffee with an easier mind.
Her boarders were all being terribly understanding about the incident. Mrs. Sorpende was spinning a pathetic picture of the infant countess fleeing the Winter Palace with wolves and Bolsheviki in rabid pursuit, growing up as a fragile waif on the streets of Istanbul or some such exotic place, peddling her jewel-encrusted Easter eggs to buy croissants and brioches. It was a gripping story and Sarah thought it too bad the countess couldn’t be there to hear. Still she was relieved when it came to an end and she could go back to check on the patient. She wasn’t at all surprised when Max Bittersohn came, too.
By now Lydia seemed even deeper in slumber, her breath coming in gasps and gurgles. “Out like a light,” said Max. “She must have loaded up on that wine you sent her while I was waiting downstairs for her to get dressed.”
“What wine?” Sarah asked him. “I only sent food.”
“That’s funny. There was a bottle sitting on the table by her stairway. I took it for granted—” He bent over the sleeping woman, beginning to look anxious.
Sarah ducked under his elbow. “She’s making awfully strange noises. I can’t see her color under all that goop on her face. Bring me the jar of cold cream from the bathroom shelf, will you? And a towel.”
She was feeling for a pulse when Bittersohn dashed back with the cold cream and her very best lace-trimmed guest towel. “Here”—Sarah handed the limp wrist over to him—“you try. I never have any luck with pulses.” She smeared cold cream on the painted cheeks and began to wipe. The bared skin was oddly bluish in color. “Max, this doesn’t look awfully good to me.”
He scowled. “The pulse is so light I can hardly feel it. Ring for Charlie. Tell him to get a cab quick.”
“Do you think there may have been some kind of slow-acting poison in that wine?”
“I don’t know, but after what happened to Brown we’d better not take any chances.”
They bundled the unconscious woman up in blankets and rushed her to the emergency entrance of the hospital. The intern on duty looked at Lydia’s color, listened to her heart, scratched his head, and sent for a resident. The resident probed, rolled up an eyelid, peered, and sent for a laboratory technician. Sarah and Max were bombarded with questions. Where had she been? What had she eaten? What was her medical history? Who was her next of kin?
At the last question Sarah burst into tears. “Can’t you tell us what’s the matter with her?” she sobbed.
“Maybe it’s an allergic reaction,” ventured the intern.
“Maybe we’d better get a stomach pump and an oxygen mask,” said the resident.
They wheeled Countess Ouspenska away, leaving Sarah and Max to answer as best they could the questions of a weary admitting clerk. When they’d managed that, Sarah said, “We’d better wait.”
“It might be a while,” he reminded her.
“I don’t care. I feel responsible. What if it was something I cooked?”
“Then you and I would be sick, too, wouldn’t we?”
“But an allergy—”
“Allergy hell!”
The seats in the waiting room became desperately uncomfortable. Bittersohn prowled back and forth along the corridors, bringing back things out of vending machine
s he found: coffee that tasted like nothing in particular, stale crackers filled with what was supposed to be peanut butter and tasted like shellac, candy bars loaded with sugar and sickish artificial flavorings. Sarah didn’t even attempt to eat them. After a while she found a pay phone and called the house.
“Charles, is everybody else all right? Then it can’t possibly have been food poisoning. No, they haven’t told us a thing. Yes, as far as I know she’s still—I’m sure they’re doing everything they can. Don’t wait up. I have my key and Mr. Bittersohn is staying with me.”
She rang off and went back to join him. “Everything’s fine back there. What I can’t understand is why it should have taken so long to work, if it was poison. She was in the house for almost two hours before she got so horribly sick all of a sudden. She didn’t offer you any of that wine, I hope?”
“No. She did say something about making a glass of tea but I told her not to bother.”
“How long were you in the studio?”
“Maybe an hour.”
“What were you doing?”
“Talking. Listening, I should say. You know Lydia.”
“What was she talking about?”
“Life, love, the problems of the creative artist, who knows? Lydia was in a peculiar mood. I’d lead her up to a subject and she’d turn kittenish on me. She says she hasn’t seen Nick Fieringer in years, which I suspect is a lie. She claims Palmerston’s still crazy about her, which I know damn well must be a lie. All I got out of her is that the man in her bed that night was Bill Jones, and that doesn’t mean a thing.”
“Why doesn’t it?”
“Because Bill sleeps there half the time, or so she claims.
His buddies are always wanting to use his pad for one reason or another. If he gets sleepy and it’s too late to bother any of his girl friends, he pops over and crawls in with Lydia. ‘Is purely Plutonic,’ she says.”
“I’ll bet it is! Max, shouldn’t we go over to her studio and collar that bottle of wine before somebody else does?”
“If it’s poisoned and traceable, somebody already has, no doubt. If it isn’t, why bother? Furthermore, my adorable little fuzzyhead, that’s what’s known as tampering with evidence.”
The Palace Guard Page 14
