“It isn’t easy,” said Cecily without complaint, “but I know it is for a good cause, and doing it makes him happy, so I encourage him.”
Josephine was pleasantly surprised at this generous answer; she turned her gaze on her son again. “Well, Galahad, if your wife approves, then I must do the same.”
“You’re a real trooper, Mother,” he said, then added, “And I think you’re an absolute peach to have this party for me. Cecily’s right: I’ve been impossible about turning forty-seven, but I know the party will change that.”
Holte drifted around the ceiling, wondering how Hank would deal with such an event as one of his mother’s harangues so early in his stay; his way of speaking with her showed Holte that Hank had long ago learned to placate Josephine. Upon brief reflection, Holte’s first impression of Hank/Galahad was that Josephine’s oldest son did not like emotional scenes or dramatic effusions, but he was startled when Cecily spoke up.
“I know we’re both sorry it has taken us so long to visit, Missus Dritchner, but I am most grateful that you do understand that Hank’s work has been very exacting, and that is truly good of you. Many mothers would not be so sympathetic, and it is to your credit that you have not made an issue of his current venture. I’m glad that you realize that the competition in developing modern ships and aeroplanes is very high just now, and Hank has been needed. Dritchner, Jennings, and Mayberry is on the verge of great things.”
“Of course, dear; I do understand,” said Josephine, patting her son’s hand.
“That’s good of you, Mother.” There was nothing overtly suggesting that Hank might have wanted to keep the distance between him and Josephine, but Holte suspected that Hank preferred to have it that way. He moved a little nearer to hear what Josephine would say to Cecily’s oblique apology.
“Yes, I try to make an effort.” She turned to speak to Cecily. “His letters are full of the work he has been doing with aircraft along with ships. He is very good about keeping me informed. I must confess I don’t entirely understand the relationship between the two disciplines, but I gather it is an important one.” Josephine gazed on her son with pride. “You are a credit to all of us.”
“Thank you, Mother,” said Galahad, and then hazarded more unknown territory. “How many are you expecting tonight?”
At this question, Josephine absolutely glowed with pride. “Nineteen, perhaps twenty. Missus Boudon is preparing beef and two turkeys with oyster stuffing for this evening, and Eliza will be here to help, as she is now. We have some very good Bordeaux to serve, and a passable Chenin Blanc, for those who prefer fowl to red meat; there’s also a pork roast cooked in a coat of chopped cherries and served with a sweet onion relish. There will be nine dishes for the dinner, beyond the soup and salad, and not counting the cake.”
“It sounds wonderful,” said Cecily, trying not to over-do it after her previous eloquent commendation.
Josephine was satisfied, so she clapped her hands together, saying, “That’s enough about tonight. You must tell me how the last four years have been with you, Galahad. While your letters are wonderful, there is so much more I want to know.”
Galahad obliged, taking care to watch her to see how she was receiving his report. “Well, as I’ve said in my letters, I’ve branched out into the aeroplane field. Who would have thought that being a yachtsman who designed boats would lead to this? Not you, and not I, at first. But after my work with Brigadier General William Mitchell—we call him Billy—on the demonstration bombing of the Ostfriesland three years ago, I’ve broadened out. Not that I’ve given up designing yachts, for I haven’t, but I am including aeroplanes in the process. I haven’t wanted to bore you with the specifics.” He was clearly used to explaining how his transition had come about. “When I was first approached, I was reluctant to commit myself to the project that had been proposed, but the more I looked into it, the more I saw how useful I could be. They have many of the same problems to deal with, yachts and aeroplanes. Air influences both sailboats and aeroplanes, as well as currents and barometric pressure, so it is important to design both yachts and aeroplanes with these things in mind. Only last week, I was approached by William Bushnell Stout, who is starting a passenger airline—can you imagine what it would be to take an aeroplane over long distances rather than an auto or a train?—and asked me to assist him in the design of his all-metal aeroplanes. It’s quite a challenge; I don’t know if I’m up to it, since I have little knowledge of all-metal aeroplanes, but in that, I am hardly alone. This is new territory, and we’re all beginners.”
Josephine stared at him as if adoring the shrine of a saint. “How wonderful. What more can you tell me?”
For the next two hours, the three took over the sitting room, while Chesterton Holte hovered around them, picking up bits and pieces of information and family gossip that he knew could be helpful to Poppy. Over their conversation, Josephine, Galahad, and Cecily had a delicious selection of finger food: broiled baby oysters; minced ham on toast; chilled, thin-sliced beets marinated in vinegar and herbs; cubes of celery root lightly breaded and roasted in butter with diced onions; an array of berries in sweetened cream with leaves of mint atop them; chopped bacon and wilted spinach served in a pastry shell and garnished with minced parsley and shredded Parmigiano cheese; slices of apple wrapped in a blanket of Camembert cheese, slightly warmed; and a plate of three dozen oatmeal cookies. Holte tried to imagine how these three would be able to face dinner in four hours after such a repast, to say nothing of the horse doovers that would accompany the drinks before dinner. Even without the liquor, there was enough here to keep them satiated for the entire evening. By four-thirty, all three agreed to get ready for the evening’s festivities at six and would leave the sitting room to Eliza’s last-minute ministrations; Holte left them to it and went back in the direction of Poppy’s room, where he found Maestro hunkered down in front of the door, staring at him balefully and muttering imprecations in what Josephine called High Cat.
“Little you know about it,” Holte informed Maestro, and passed through the door into Poppy’s bedroom with its stack of nine taped and marked boxes. Already the room felt empty, and Holte made his way around it carefully, thinking that it would be too easy to leave some trace of himself among all her things. When he was satisfied that all was in order, he hurried away toward the Clarion’s office, and sought out Poppy’s usual desk, only to find she was not there. A quick sweep of the place told him she was not in the Addison Newspaper Corporation building, so he went off in the direction of the police department, to the floor where Inspector J. B. Loring had his desk, and was relieved to discover her in Loring’s visitor’s chair, her notebook in her hand, and her pencil working rapidly. Holte settled in on the ceiling above Poppy and Loring, his full concentration fixed upon them; he realized that the two were in the middle of a discussion.
“—it could lead to greater revelations than a simple confession. May I mention your belief that Overstreet might not be Knott’s murderer?” Poppy asked, cognizant as she did that his answer might implicate Stacy in the crime more than the fragmentary evidence did now. For the last hour, Poppy and Loring had been reviewing the complications and loose ends of the Knott murder and the counterfeit antiques investigations, discussing where the two probes seemed to overlap, comparing their news and guesses with the current attempts to bring Miles Overstreet back to the United States, as well as speculating on the progress of the search for Stacy Dritchner and Warren Derrington. It took Poppy almost half an hour to gather all the information she wanted; she departed the police station and drove directly to Aunt Jo’s house, fretting a little at the traffic, and arrived ten minutes earlier than she had anticipated. After informing Missus Flowers that she had arrived, Poppy went to join her aunt, cousin, and cousin-in-law in the parlor. After a round of welcoming, she said, I’m so sorry I had to be late. I was interviewing the lead investigator on Stacy’s case. I’ll have to write the story later tonight.”
“Does it bo
ther you, talking with the police?” Hank inquired.
“A bit, but it is part of my job,” Poppy said.
“Your job!” Josephine said as if the word tasted vile.
Poppy ignored the outburst. “The case is stalled just now; they can’t do much until they find Stacy, wherever he is.”
Hank chose his words carefully. “Yes, I can see that. Stacy has managed to disappear, hasn’t he?”
“It seems so unlike him, not to write to me,” Josephine lamented.
“He’s a fugitive, isn’t he?” Hank asked. “Officially?”
“Well, he hasn’t been arrested, but there is a warrant out for him,” said Poppy without a trace of emotion.
“Poppea, you mustn’t,” her aunt rebuked her.
Hank intervened before his mother could ring peal over Poppy. “He’s my brother, and I want to know what is going on with the police, since they are attempting to arrest him.”
“That is wrong,” Josephine insisted. “The police have been mistaken before, and they are now. Eustace would never do violence to anyone, and as to the claims of fraud, that is clearly absurd.”
While Poppy knew such an inquiry discomfited Aunt Jo, Poppy was aware that there was a real possibility that Stacy was in some way connected to the killing. “Inspector Loring was most informative: he told me that in my article, I can mention that the evidence, while inconclusive, is sufficient to allow the police to continue their case against him while the District Attorney is pursuing a number of other potential leads, in spite of Overstreet appearing to be the most obvious of their suspects. Unfortunately, it’s those others that have delayed the extradition for so long: the Canadians want more certainty before they hand him over to the authorities here.” Loring had been tired when he had told her this, but there was a light in his eyes that revealed how happy he was to have Poppy’s company, on whatever justification; the way he had looked at her still lingered in her thoughts, as she went on. “The case is by no means closed, much as Commissioner Smiley would like it to be otherwise.”
“Commissioner Smiley is a sensible man,” Josephine said.
“From what Loring told me, what they have would suggest a conspiracy, if there actually are others involved,” Poppy told them. “If one chose to interpret the circumstances in that light.”
“Conspiracy?” Josephine cried out. “Eustace would never—never—do anything so reprehensible.” She shook her head emphatically. “Let’s not discuss this any longer. I can’t bear it. Truly, I can’t.”
So they spent their last half-hour talking about the upcoming presidential race, and debating about the plans to widen several of the roads that joined various New England cities to one another, and rancor was averted for the time being.
Up in her room, Poppy’s thoughts returned to her interview with Loring; while she dressed, she reviewed the conversation they had had after he had brought her up to date on the search for Stacy. In her mind, she carefully replayed what they had said, once the matter of Stacy, Derrington, and Louise had been dealt with:
“While I am eternally grateful to your guardian angel, I’m still perplexed how he did it—revealing where you were through making my light blink in Morse code.”
“I don’t have a guardian angel,” said Poppy emphatically, putting emphasis on the have and hoping to dismiss the whole matter.
She did not succeed, for Loring said, “Ordinarily, I don’t believe in such things, but in this case, I am still at a loss as to how it came about. There was no thunder that night, and most phone repairmen don’t climb poles in the dark. Perhaps I should leave it to Aimee Semple McPherson—it’s a lot more up her alley than mine.”
The very mention of the theatrical young woman preacher now flourishing in Los Angeles made Poppy blush. “I don’t think it’s anything like that.”
“That’s right. Preacher McPherson rides a motorcycle and has a huge church with a two-hundred-voice choir, nothing at all like a desk-lamp blinking Morse code,” Loring said levelly.
“Oh, please, JB, don’t go looking for the uncanny when it probably isn’t there; the next thing you know, we’ll be testing out table-tapping,” said Poppy, feeling a bit abashed that she should present Holte’s efforts in such a demeaning light, and went on more sensibly, “I can’t explain it either, but I’m glad it happened, whatever it was.”
“Okay, but you might have changed your mind if you had been there,” said Loring. “It was a most peculiar thing.”
Poppy rallied to Holte’s defense. “If I had been there, there would have been no need for the Morse code signal.”
Loring chuckled. “I can’t dispute that.” He went silent as a kind of conversational shrug. “And most policemen, if they stay on the job long enough, have at least one experience that isn’t readily explicable by most standards, though the bulk of them are reluctant to admit it. I’d like to know how it happened, but I won’t go out of my way to find an explanation. Finding out what caused it might make it worse, not better. Your aunt told me last month that she is certain it was Eustace, proving that his locking you in the basement was never intended to be a crime. The trouble with that explanation is that we know now that Stacy was on his way to New York by quarter after four, and could not have meddled with my light. What is the most perplexing is that the information was specific and accurate—not one of those vague, fortune-teller-like hints.” He gave a single laugh. “Well, that’s enough for today, I think. I know you have a busy schedule this week, but might you be free tomorrow? So long as you don’t mind sandwiches, I’ll be glad to buy you lunch.”
“I’d like that,” she said before she could stop herself.
“I might have some news about the whereabouts of Warren Derrington, and if it pans out, I’ll tell you all about it. I wish I had more.”
“Anything more about Stacy?” she asked.
“I hope so, but there’s something else: I have had a case cross my desk that I’d like your help with, unofficially. You can’t use it in the paper, not yet. There are matters about the case that require me to handle them…um…with circumspection, which might include working with the Department of State, something I’ve never had to do before.” He coughed to show his discomfort. “It has to do with someone in your—”
“—social rank,” she finished for him, a trace of fatigue in her tone. “So long as I can have until two to interview Neva Plowright about her sister, I would be glad to. It took me three days to talk her into letting me speak with her. She’s understandably skittish about anything having to do with Louise. I might have information for you, too, but that will depend on Neva.” It was not quite true but near enough that she had no reason to apologize, for anything that Neva might tell her about Louise Moncrief could be as useful to Loring as it would be to her, and she would share whatever she learned over lunch. Then a thought struck her. “This other case you mention—does it have anything to do with GAD Pearse? He’s missing somewhere in Europe.”
There was five seconds of silence, and then Loring said, “Yes. But please keep that to yourself.”
“You’re working on that? Isn’t that a bit strange?” Poppy could not keep from asking,
“It is. I’m not certain what I can do from here, but the Pearses are demanding local participation in the search for their son, and I caught the assignment, since I was stationed in Europe, during the Great War.” Loring coughed. “It’s awkward. I don’t know what the Pearses expect me to do. Mister Pearse has been a pinchpenny when it comes to providing useful information. He says he will tell us more when the time is right.”
“That sounds like him.”
I’ve asked to see GAD’s original itinerary, but Mister Pearse has refused to show it to me until he’s satisfied that I’m the right man for the job. If he decides I am, he’ll send over a copy of it.” There was aggravation in Loring’s voice. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to prove, with so little information to go on, and no instructions as to how the Pearses want me to proceed.”
“How frustrating,” said Poppy.
“I realize that Mister Pearse wants to keep his hand in; what father wouldn’t want to? But considering how little I have to go on, and how inexperienced the Pearses are in this sort of thing—GAD could be in serious trouble. Taking up with refugees can have repercussions, many of them quite unpleasant.”
“Do you think it could be dangerous? Would you have to go to Europe?” Poppy had a sudden and unexpected rush of anxiety.
“It might be that I’ll have to travel, but let’s not spread it about; bear in mind that we may be overheard, and I don’t want this bruited about. If you’ve already heard about this case, you’ll know that it’s an unusual one, and I’m trying to feel my way through it. I may not have kids of my own, but I saw enough of families who lost their sons in Europe that I’m aware of how devastating it can be—not knowing makes it worse. The Pearses are trying to keep this from the general public. The family is demanding—”
“Confidentiality. I understand.” She waited a second or two, then said, “If there’s anything I can do to help you with that case, please let me know.”
“We can talk about it later. Tomorrow.”
“When we meet for lunch,” Poppy affirmed. “Is there some place you’d like us to meet?”
“Do you know the Firebird Café, on Old Green Street?”
“I can find it. It sounds like one of the narrow alleys around the old docks. There’s a map in the city room. I’m sure I can find Old Green Street there.” She smiled at him. “I’m looking forward to it. I pick up my Hudson tomorrow morning, and I’ll drive it over to the Firebird Café. This way, I’ll have a chance to show it off. You can give me your opinion of it.” She came close to giggling, but was able to control her impulse before it became too strong to resist. “It’s dark-green, or that’s what I was promised, not quite so drab as black. The seats are tan leather, front and back.”
Living Spectres: a Chesterton Holte, Gentleman Haunt Mystery Page 4
