Living Spectres: a Chesterton Holte, Gentleman Haunt Mystery

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “It’s not the same thing,” said Poppy.

  He tried to keep her talking. “Why is it so wrong for you to like Inspector Loring?”

  Poppy tightened her hands. “You don’t understand. If I were to become involved with J.B., it would destroy my credibility as a crime reporter. I would be accused—maybe not directly, but the gossip would insinuate—of using my womanly wiles to get my story, inquiring on my back, as Harris would put it—and believe me, he would do. After that, I wouldn’t even be assigned to the Society page, since my reputation would make me unacceptable to people I’ve known for most of my life. I’d probably end up covering committee meetings and lectures, or something equally boring and backwater, if Lowenthal kept me on at all.” She did her best to stare at Holte, filmy though he appeared to be.

  “Lowenthal likes you. He’s not about to fire you.”

  “He wouldn’t let liking me stand in the way of firing me if he thought the paper would be better with me gone. He has a responsibility to Addison, and he knows it. He wouldn’t go to bat for me if he supposed it might cause problems for the paper.” She pressed her lips together to keep herself from saying more. “First and foremost, Lowenthal is loyal to the Clarion, and if he thought I was damaging it, like me or not, I’d be out the door.” She sighed. “It could damage Loring, as well, if his superiors found out he was sharing information with a reporter; that’s frowned upon. Both of us have to be careful.”

  Holte still wanted to know more; he was certain that something had happened at the party to upset her, for she had that fixed manner about her that she only revealed when she was aggravated. “What disturbed you this evening?” It was a guess, but after a long career of spying, Holte had become sensitized to the undercurrents that ran through small-talk, though this time he had not caught the nicety with the barb in it.

  “Nothing directly,” she said, and wiped her eyes, smearing her mascara; she stared at her fingers and the dark stain left on them.

  “Did your aunt say something?”

  Poppy shrugged stiffly. “Nothing that she hasn’t said many, many times before. Everyone knows she disapproves of my job.”

  “But there was something more,” he insisted. “If Josephine didn’t vex you, someone did; I wish you’d tell me what happened.” He moved a bit nearer to Poppy. “It’s not like to you to hold such things in.”

  Poppy got up and started to the far end of the room, to the old leather chair Maestro had occupied an hour ago. “Are you ready for bed, cat?” she asked.

  Holte was right behind her, repeating his plea. “I wish you’d tell me what was said—and who said it.”

  “Ye gods, Holte!” She rounded on him. “Can’t you leave it alone? You’re making a mountain out of a molehill.”

  “Since you’re dwelling on it, no, I can’t. You’re disturbed, and that troubles me.” He put out his hand, wanting to rest it on her shoulder in a reassuring way, but noncorporeality made this impossible, and she felt only a cold sensation where his fingers passed through her. “Sorry,” he muttered.

  “I wish I could explain it to you. Most men don’t understand how easily women can be dismissed—literally and figuratively—on account of obvious affection. It’s bad enough that they think I got my job because of my father, rather than through my own abilities.” She could feel his skepticism, and pressed on. “Before she went on her first trip to the Soviet Union, Aunt Esther and I talked about this very thing, and she told me that in the newspaper environment, I would have to be particularly discreet, for gossip travels like lightning in this profession. At the time, I didn’t quite believe her, but after a year at the Clarion, I saw for myself that she was right. I’ve observed Aunt Esther’s admonitions ever since.”

  “What do you mean?” Holte asked, paying no attention to Maestro’s low growls.

  “There was another female reporter working at the Clarion when I first got there, just over two years ago, when they were hiring to replace those on the staff who had died in the Flu epidemic. She did the science and education stories, mostly, but also covered the background on local political inquiries as well; she was good at getting to the root of issues, particularly in education. She was often talking with the principal of James K. Polk High School, the one that often wins the science fairs? You know where it is? The one with the rocketry club and the new auditorium?”

  “Generally speaking. Across the street from the park with the apple orchard, about two miles from here,” he said. “Not quite upper-crust, but affluent.”

  “Yes. That’s the school. Anyway, Thelma Rhilander spent a lot of time with the principal to keep up with what the school was doing that got such excellent results, and rumors started flying that there was more than the gathering of information going on between them. Thelma ended up quitting the paper and moving to the Sacramento Bee to get away from all the talk. She was very angry about it, and I don’t blame her.”

  “That sounds a little extreme,” said Holte, keeping his voice level. “She didn’t have to move across the country.”

  Poppy flung up her hands. “Yes, she did; she did. That’s the point—she had to. She now covers agricultural news, and never meets with any man alone.”

  Holte was skeptical. “Isn’t that overly cautious?”

  “I wish it were. It’s not. Thelma left the Clarion well over a year ago, and the reporters—the male reporters—still talk about her.”

  “Really?” Holte had the disquieting notion that perhaps Poppy was right about this. “After all this time?”

  “I’ve heard them,” Poppy agreed, her animosity undiminished. “Ye gods! You should have listened to some of the things that were said about her; when they talk about her now, and the things they said to her face, for that matter, with the condescending addition of can’t you take a joke when Thelma protested. I wish I’d had the nerve to speak up, but if I had, I would have been subjected to the same thing. At the time, I excused myself, because I was new to the paper, but I was kidding myself.” She put her hands to her face. “I know I should have said something, but I was too scared to do it.” To her horror, she started to cry, saying through her sobs. “My mother was a Suffragette, and what I’ve done—or not done—would disappoint her. I should have stood up for my principles. I should have spoken out. I should have said something. After all, I don’t need my job; I’ve money enough. But I want my job, so I said nothing. Sometimes I am such a coward, I want to just scream.”

  Holte watched her in consternation, feeling helpless to comfort her. “Poppy, I wish I could make it better. And for what it may be worth, I think you’re braver than most men I knew when I was still alive.” It was a futile admission, for when he had been alive he had seen the winks and heard the innuendos exchanged among men when they spoke about women—he had sometimes participated in the quips and double entendres—and he knew this had not changed. He moved next to her, and put his gauzy hand over hers, coming as close to a succoring touch as he was able. Although he did not wholly comprehend her dejection, he wanted to assure her that things would improve, but he could not summon up the words.

  With an effort, Poppy stopped weeping. She wiped her eyes with her finger, further smearing her mascara. “Damn,” she muttered, and offered no regrets for her language. “I’m sorry. I’m overtired.”

  “Hardly surprising. You’ve had a demanding day, with another one ahead of you.” He did his best to let her steady herself. “And it is late.”

  Poppy sighed. “And I need to be at work by eight. As you say, I have another busy day ahead of me.”

  “Then you’d better get some sleep.” He wafted back toward the desk. “Are you finished here?”

  “I am,” Poppy said, yawning. “I can’t think straight any more tonight. I’ll do my polish tomorrow morning at the office.” Saying this reminded her that she needed to pick up a new typewriter ribbon for the Smith; the quality of the letters it produced was fading. She made her way toward Holte, then looked back at Maestro. “I s
hould take him down to the kitchen. He has the run of it most nights; Missus Boudon doesn’t want any mice to get in. The kitchen and the mud-room, where his sandbox is now, are his bailiwick. When you were here last, he was kept in the laundry.”

  “The mud-room makes more sense, but Missus Boudon has a point.” said Holte to let her know he was listening; he pointed to Maestro. “What does he make of it?”

  “He hasn’t said.” She went to pick up the cat, who eluded her and headed for the door, tail up and whiskers bristling. Poppy followed after him, and opened the door to allow him to depart. “He knows the way. Missus Boudon will let him in; she’s still cleaning up.”

  “Are you certain?” Holte asked. “It’s getting late, and she might want to get home and finish the work here tomorrow.”

  “Well, usually it takes her two hours, with Eliza’s help, to get the kitchen in order after such a large party. They have it down to a routine; they’re quite efficient—even Aunt Jo says so, and she has high expectations of her staff. So Hawkins will take the leaves out of the dining table in the morning, and by dinner time, you would never guess that we’d had tonight’s festivities.” Poppy stretched to loosen the muscles in her arms and back. “Missus Flowers should have finished gathering up plates and cups and glasses from the parlor and the dining room, and perhaps the sitting room as well. She’ll be off to her cottage by now, but Missus Boudon will be here for another half hour at least. Eliza will drive her home.”

  “She has an auto?” Holte asked in surprise.

  “It’s her father’s. He doesn’t like her walking alone after dark.” She lingered at the door. “Do you ever get tired?”

  “Yes,” he replied, and offered an explanation. “Staying materialized for any length of time can be exhausting; it’s a matter of concentration. Noncorporeality doesn’t lend itself to keeping in even marginally visible form, and after a while, it’s wearing.” He saw that her eyes were slightly red and the lids were puffy. “Go on. Get some rest. You look as tired as I feel. I’ll see you in the morning, and I’ll do my best to make sure you see me. For now, I’m evanescing; if you’ll excuse me.”

  Poppy gave a little chuckle. “What about your trick with the lights and the phone lines? Do those wear you out, too?”

  “Not as much as materialization does, but it can be fatiguing.” He floated up toward the ceiling, fading away to a misty shimmer as he went.

  FIVE

  CORNELIUS LOWENTHAL, THE DAY CITY EDITOR OF THE CLARION, WAS HAVING A bad day, and it was not yet eleven, plenty of time for more disasters: Dick Gafney, his primary crime reporter, had been injured in a traffic accident the night before, had been taken to the hospital where he would be staying for at least three days, and there was no one free to cover for him, which put Lowenthal in a dicey position. He sat at his desk in his office, twirling his fingers in his thinning hair, making a curl that drooped toward his right eye; he was frowning portentously, anticipating the displeasure of the Addison Newspaper Corporation’s Board of Directors if there was no coverage in this evening’s edition about the robbery at the Napier’s Jewelry Store which had netted the thieves about three million dollars-worth of unset stones; Napier’s had been in business for over a century and was renowned for the quality of its jewelry, and its customers were numbered among most of Philadelphia’s upper crust; they would want to be kept abreast of developments. Reluctantly Lowenthal got up from his swivel-chair and tromped to the door. “Thornton!”

  Poppy started at this abrupt summons. “Has something happened?” she asked of the air, and expected no answer. She closed her notebook, put it and her pen in the center drawer of her desk, picked up her purse, and left her desk to make her way across the city room to Lowenthal’s office. “What do you want, boss? I haven’t been able to get any confirmation on when Overstreet will be brought back—”

  Lowenthal indicated the chair in front of his desk that faced his own. “Sit down.”

  “Will do,” she said, and did as she was told while trying to figure out what it was that Lowenthal wanted now; he had signed off on the story she turned in at nine, so she worried: had there been some new developments in the last hour she had not heard of?

  “Is there anything popping on the counterfeit antiques, or the Knott investigation right now? Can you spare a little time for something else?” He trod back to his chair and plunked himself down in it. “By the way, that’s a nice outfit. It suits you and it suits the work.” The grin he attempted in order to show that he intended the pun was more of a wince, but he assumed she would understand.

  Poppy groaned and gave him a thumbs up. “Thanks, boss.” She brushed the whiskey- colored sleeve of her new suit, which she had chosen as much for her lunch with Inspector Loring as her interview with Neva Plowright; it had a Goudy jacket of fine worsted wool, with a fan collar and modified bell sleeves, her blouse was ivory silk with a small lace ruff at the collar and more lace around the wrists. The skirt was straight but with a deep double-pleat in the back so that she would not be hobbled when she walked. “Nothing more on Knott so far today,” she said to him. “I’ve got a call into the District Attorney’s office to find out if there’s any progress on Overstreet’s extradition, but as of twenty minutes ago, it’s pretty much the same as yesterday. It’s unlikely that there will be anything new on that front until Monday; it’s Thursday, and the District Attorney’s office doesn’t like to have a lot of hold-overs on Fridays.”

  “No kidding,” Lowenthal growled.

  Poppy considered her editor carefully. “You do recall, don’t you, that I have time off after three so I can pick up my aunt at four and tend to my moving.”

  Although it was obvious to Poppy that Lowenthal had forgotten, he said, “Sure, sure,” and grunted, “Three o’clock? Can you stay as late as three-thirty? Could you go to police headquarters and cover the press briefing on the Napier robbery? It’s at two-thirty, and should take half an hour or so—and knowing Elmer Smiley, the police won’t answer many questions. If you’ll write up about three column inches…” He let the request hang between them.

  Taking the assignment would mean she would have to cancel her lunch with Loring, so she hesitated. “I’ll need to make a couple of phone calls; I have the interview with Louise Moncrief’s sister this afternoon and I don’t know how long it will take.” This last was a fib, since she did not want to mention her other plans to Lowenthal. “I’m hoping that she’ll have something to tell us about Louise’s whereabouts.” That provided her with an explanation for this follow-up since it was unlikely that Neva Plowright would talk with anyone not part of the wider family circle.

  “Wouldn’t that be a scoop,” Lowenthal said at his most dubious.

  “Well, no one else is going to get her to talk. I can’t promise I will, but at least I can get my foot in the door.” That had been the reason Poppy had been assigned to the case when it began, and it was still true.

  “Yes, I know.” Lowenthal banished the scowl from his face, then leaned forward on his elbows. “You can draw out cab money, if that will make it easier,” he offered, as much for his surliness as his request for extra time from her.

  Poppy smiled, and pulled a key-ring from her suit-jacket’s hip pocket. “I don’t have to. I picked up my Hudson this morning.”

  “That’s right. You told me a week ago, didn’t you.” Lowenthal snapped his fingers as a kind of minor applause. “That’s a big help. Just make sure that you drive it safely—it’s bad enough having Gafney in the hospital. I don’t want you there, too. You know what they say about women drivers.”

  Although she bridled a bit, Poppy was able to respond without snapping. “I’ll do my best, boss,” she promised, and made up her mind to skip lunch; after last night, she would not need fuel beyond another cup of coffee.

  “Then get on with it. I’ll want to look at your interview notes when you get back from the press briefing. If you need information about Napier’s, have one of the copy-boys get it from the morg
ue. Don’t bother trying to come here between your interview and the briefing, just get to the central station by quarter past two, so you can get parked and inside in time.” He stretched and then turned his attention to the stack of papers on his desk. “Make your calls quickly and leave here. Chop-chop.” He waved her out.

  Back at her desk, Poppy called Loring, hoping that he was not out of his precinct station; when the receptionist answered, Poppy gave her Loring’s name and waited while she rang her through.

  “Loring,” he said curtly; from his tone, he, too, was having a rough day.

  “Hello, JB. It’s Poppy,” she said.

  His manner softened at once. “Good morning, and how is your day going? Tell me it’s better than mine.”

  “I wish I could, but that would be a taradiddle, unfortunately,” She took a deep breath and plunged in. “I’m going to have to postpone our lunch. There’s a briefing on—”

  “—the Napier robbery,” he finished for her. “So Lowenthal has put you on that, has he?” He laughed once. “The stolen property guys are all over it, like ants on honey. Jewels and moneyed people always get their blood pumping. There’s so much hoop-lah that every man in that division is expecting to get at least a commendation for it—when they solve it, which they believe will be quickly. I don’t think it’s going to be the piece of cake they’re saying it will. Whoever pulled it off had it planned down to the last detail; they got in and out without fuss or notice, and that building has a night-watchman; he claims he was knocked out, but he might have simply hid, or ran off while the robbery was in progress. There might be a few fingerprints we can use, but there’s hardly a scintilla of hard evidence so far, and there’s no hint of where the jewelry has gone, and that suggests an inside job. No witness has come forward, either. It’s going to be a bitc…riddle to unravel enough to get it before a judge. I’m glad I’m not part of it.”