“So we may have to wait five years to find out who killed Madison Moncrief and Percy Knott?” Poppy asked, unanticipated distress washing through her.
“Possibly, if your inspector friend doesn’t find out first.” He moved a little, as if settling down on the rear seat. “A very dogged fellow, Inspector Loring.”
“And smart,” Poppy added.
“Being an officer in a war requires that combination, if one is going to survive,” said Holte.
“What about being a spy?” Poppy asked before she could stop herself.
“Both those things are necessary,” Holte said without a trace of emotion. “And so is sneakiness. And guile.” He went silent. “When I was alive, I took pride in the latter two.”
Thinking in for penny, in for pound, Poppy pursued her inquiry. “And now? What do you think of your sneakiness and guile?”
“Now I accept what happened pragmatically, which is why I am haunting you: I am responsible for your father’s death, and I want to balance the books. I did what I deemed was necessary at the time, which is what I am doing now, as well.”
“Um,” she said. “Necessary. That makes it sound like a nasty chore.”
“That’s putting too harsh a purpose on it, not that I wouldn’t do it if it had been less…satisfying…than it has become.” He paused, then went on. “Yet working with you is turning out to be more…more engaging than I thought it would be.” He was a bit more visible, as if his admission had provided a surge in his manifestation.
“Why?” she asked.
“For a number of reasons, I suspect,” he said, more obliquely. “You’re not a typical privileged young lady—that’s no surprise to you. My value to you is more than a matter of providing what your father can no longer provide; you have proved to be a most unusual young woman, doing unusual work: those factors together have fired my curiosity.”
Poppy saw the Blind Pig three blocks ahead, and she said, “Keep an eye out for a parking place, would you. The curbs looks pretty full.”
“Isn’t there a parking lot?” Holte asked.
“A small one, and it fills up rapidly at lunch time.”
“If that’s what you want,” he said, and inspected the spaces along the street as Poppy made her way more slowly toward the Blind Pig, paying little attention to the honks and shouts around her.
“There’s one mid-block ahead. You’ll have about a block to walk.” Holte said suddenly. “Just ahead of the Ford.”
“I see it,” Poppy told him. “Thanks. Let’s hope no one gets to it before we do.” She kept a wary eye on a Cord that was two cars ahead of them, the driver going as slowly as Poppy.
“If you lose that one, turn left at the next corner and go over to Founders’ Green. The parking isn’t difficult around there, in spite of the construction under way.” Holte spoke confidently, for he had recently made it his business to acquaint himself with Philadelphia. “It’s a bit of a walk, but not too demanding.”
“Aren’t you the savvy one?” she asked lightly. “Next you’ll be telling me where to get fuel most cheaply.”
“That would be at Gordon’s Garage and Livery,” Holte said drily.
The Cord inched past the parking place, and Poppy sighed as she moved into position to back into the space. She put the Hudson in reverse and backed in next to the curb; it was a tight fit but not too impossible. After she put the gear in neutral and set the hand-brake, she picked up her large purse and got out of her auto, being careful to open the door when there was no vehicle immediately beside her. She locked the door quickly and went around the front of the auto to reach the sidewalk. Striding briskly, she was at the Blind Pig Grill in short order, and as she stepped through the door, she saw that Inspector Loring was waiting for her on the bench next to the mahogany reception desk. He was wearing a tweed sport-coat over a white cotton shirt, a dark-brown bow-tie and dark-brown slacks, making him look more professorial than inspector- like. His eyes were tired, and Poppy found herself wondering what had happened that had kept him up at nights.
“You’re here,” he said as he rose to greet her.
“I am. And you’re here before me; I didn’t notice your auto—you must be in the lot.” He nodded while she went on, “By the way, I like how you’re dressed today: you look spiffy.” Listening to herself, she mentally chided herself for sounding so inane. “What have you got to tell me?
“Once we’re seated. They’re setting up a booth for us now.”
“A booth. This must be a very important meeting.” She grinned at him, wanting to show her enthusiasm.
“It is. And I am relying on you to keep my confidence,” he said, trying to smile but not succeeding.
A waiter, resplendent in a blue-and-white coat of Revolution-era design over a standard white shirt and black trousers, approached, menus in hand. “If you will follow me? Your booth should be ready.” Without waiting to see if Poppy and Loring were behind him, he set off through the maze of round tables in front of the long, polished bar, making his way toward the bank of curtained booths along the far wall, each one with a number on the left-hand side of the curtain. He stopped at number 11, and pulled its curtain back to allow the two to enter. “I will return in five minutes to take your orders.”
“Thanks,” said Loring as he stood aside for Poppy. “Bring us some coffee when you come, if you would.”
“Yes, sir,” said the waiter with a supercilious smirk, revealing his assumption for their reason to want privacy, and let the curtain close behind him.
The booth was small but not cramped; the oak-paneled walls that defined it went almost to the ceiling, the curtain was canvas-backed velveteen, there was a brass coat-rack in one corner, and an oval cherry-wood table with four chairs placed around it. Salt and pepper shakers stood at the center of the table, along with a sugar bowl and a creamer; two sconced lamps provided illumination. Loring held out the nearest of the chairs for Poppy, then took the one next to hers.
“So what is this about?” Poppy asked as soon as Loring was seated. “Does it have anything to do with Overstreet? Has he agreed to testify regarding Derrington and Stacy?”
“Sorry, no. I still don’t know when I’ll be off to Montreal in Quebec to take charge of him.” He made a motion of dismissal. “This is a more…delicate matter. Very hush-hush.”
“Oh? Are we going to be talking about GAD Pearse?” Poppy was mystified. She opened her purse and took out her pencil and notebook. “Do you mind if I keep notes?”
“If they aren’t too specific, and only for your private use,” he said. “At least for now.”
“Ye gods,” she said.
“Yes.” Loring picked up his menu and glanced through it. “Order anything you want.”
“Thanks,” she said, recognizing this maneuver for the distraction it was. “Anything you recommend?”
“The mussels are good, and so is the osso bucco. The hasenpfeffer is quite nice. The beet- and-cabbage salad isn’t bad, either.” He shrugged. “It depends on how hungry you are.”
“Um-hum,” she said, reading quickly through the dishes offered. “What are you having?”
“The Flemish Stew,” he said quickly, glancing at his wristwatch. “As soon as we order, I’ll tell you what’s going on. I don’t want to be overheard when we get down to business.”
“Are you really worried about that—being overheard?”
“Yes. The booth helps, but someone outside the curtain might be listening and offer what he hears to one of the yellower papers, which would compromise…” His voice faltered. “Indulge me in this, okay? You know how insistent the Pearses can be. For now, tell me about work, or how you like your new living arrangement, or what you found out from Missus Plowright.”
“Let me see,” Poppy said, doing her best to conceal her disappointment at being put off. “Work is still on the routine side, and probably will be until we find out where Stacy has gone; my new living arrangements seem fairly good, but I’ll know more when I�
�m used to them; and Neva Plowright is perplexed and confused, judging from the answers she provided. I can’t say I blame her. Louise left a mess for her.”
“This has got to be a rough time for her,” said Loring.
“It seems likely.” Poppy resigned herself to the short wait to find out more, and thinking this was as good a time as any, she summoned up her courage and asked, “Are you busy this Friday evening?”
“I don’t know. Why?”
One of the sconce lights blinked rapidly three times, then resumed its soft shining.
“Aunt Esther is having a buffet-dinner party, and I was wondering if you might like to come? Nothing terribly fancy,” she added before he had a chance to talk. “She wants to make my move to her house official, and she’s going to have a few of her colleagues join us as well, to mark her return from the Soviet Union.”
“Friends and family sort of thing?”
“Friends and colleagues is more like it. I’m not expecting much family.”
“I see,” he said, and stared at the sconce that had flickered as if daring it to blink again.
“My cousin Hank and his wife will probably be there. He’s going to be in town a while longer.”
“What about Missus Dritchner?”
“Aunt Jo’s been invited,” Poppy told him, being scrupulously correct. “She hasn’t accepted or declined yet.”
Loring considered this. “I gather I’m the sole policeman,” he said.
“Probably. Esther’s asking Cornelius Lowenthal, and his wife. Also Judge Benedict Stephanson, who’s an old friend of Esther’s, and possibly Denton North and his mother, and a few of her colleagues from the National Geographic Society. My old friend Mildred Fairchild and her husband Humphrey will be with us, and Arnold Schultz, who used to be at the Department of State; he retired last year, and now does some lecturing.” She almost held her breath waiting for Loring to respond.
“They’re from a higher rung up the ladder than I am, by the sound of it,” said Loring.
“It won’t matter; Aunt Esther has a very eclectic group of friends—she once invited a union organizer to Thanksgiving, and another time had a famous dancer at the table—and I’m getting more inclusive, thanks to people like you,” said Poppy, her courage deserting her as soon as she had spoken. “We won’t be doing jewels and furs, and no one is planning to dance. I don’t think you’d be uncomfortable, but it’s up to you.”
He put down his menu. “Okay. If I don’t have to be in Canada, I’ll come to your aunt’s party. I have to admit, I’d like to meet her.”
Poppy was so startled by his acceptance that all she could say was “Fine. I’ll tell her. It’ll be at six-thirty for seven.”
There was a soft tap on the door-frame and the waiter pulled back the curtain. “Would you like to order now?” he inquired, setting down a tray with two cups of hot coffee on it.
“Yes,” said Loring as he saw Poppy nod.
The waiter readied his pencil over his order-pad, scowling as the light blinked again.
Poppy ignored the light, saying, “I’ll have the scallops with bacon and spinach.”
Loring ordered the Flemish Stew, a kind of pot roast with carrots, onions, and potatoes, cooked in secretly imported dark beer; he sat back in his chair while the waiter wrote it down and left them alone. “It’ll take about twenty minutes to get the food, and that’s enough time.”
“Ye gods,” she murmured.
“Are you ready?” He looked down at her notebook as if expecting it to open on its own. “And keep in mind, nothing with specific names.”
Poppy had put a lump of sugar in her coffee, and was reaching for the creamer. “So what is this all about? I’m filled with curiosity.” She poured a little bit of cream into her coffee, and wished she had a spoon to stir it; she picked up her pencil and prepared to write. “Who, what, where, why, and how?”
“It’s awkward,” he said.
“So you’ve told me,” Poppy said by way of encouragement. “Care to enlarge on it?”
The waiter knocked on the door frame, then stepped into the booth with flatware and linen napkins, which he put into place with the quick efficiency of long practice. He nodded once and withdrew.
Loring glared at the curtain. “Damn it,” he muttered, adding a conscientious “Sorry,” by way of apology for his language.
“You haven’t said anything significant yet, even if he tried to eavesdrop,” Poppy told him. “Give him half a minute to get to the kitchen and then tell me.”
“You’re right,” Loring conceded, adjusting the position of his fork. “It’s a habit I picked up during the Great War, not letting anyone eavesdrop.”
“Are you keeping track of the Napier robbery?” Poppy guessed, to keep Loring talking. “Have you been assigned to the case?”
“No. Robbery is handling it, so I’m not involved. It’s still Harper’s game.” He coughed nervously. “If the robbers had killed someone, I’d be working it.”
“Oh?” She quickly recalled everything that had been in the Clarion during the previous week. “Something political turning up, then?”
“Not directly, no, at least I don’t think so. Nothing about the coming election, anyway, or any of the races.” He rubbed his chin. “It may have something to do with the international situation.”
“You mean it has something to do with Stacy as well as GAD?” Poppy asked, excited and repelled at once.
“Not that I know of,” said Loring.
Poppy leaned toward him. “Then what?”
TEN
“YOU KNOW THE PEARSE FAMILY, DON’T YOU? YOU KNOW THEM FAIRLY WELL.” It was not a completely unexpected question, but Poppy could tell that Loring was uneasy about asking it, which puzzled her.
“A bit, yes. Sherman and Isadora were friends of my father’s. When I was a child, my father took Toby and me to their house to have Sunday dinners with the Pearse family from time to time. Why? That was years ago.”
“Gameal Augustus Darius, called GAD? Did you spend much time with him?”
“Yes, during our visits, I did. I knew his oldest sister, Auralia, somewhat—she’s a few years younger than I am—and his late brother, HOB. Auralia is Cassandra Auralia Thalia; she refuses to answer to CAT, which she loathes.” She suddenly realized what was going on. “Do you have news about GAD? Has something’s happened to him.”
Loring nodded unhappily. “Pearse was in to report his son missing, as I mentioned, and filled me and two other senior officers in on what he knows about his son’s situation, but asked that the information not be released to the public, or the Federal Bureau of Investigation, to avoid press attention, so the whole matter is unofficial, as I’ve said. There’s no paperwork on file anywhere. Pearse doesn’t want people prying into his family affairs. But his wife is afraid that GAD has been kidnapped, which is a possibility, though there’s been no real hint of that yet, beyond her dread. Pearse himself is afraid of being barraged by all kinds of claims for money to reveal where GAD is, and what has happened to him if knowledge of GAD’s being missing becomes public, not without cause: the man’s worth ten million if he’s worth a dime. He’d be barraged with demands for money, either offering information or the return of GAD. Pearse is asking us to maintain his privacy until we know more.”
“Thus you talk to a reporter?” Poppy asked with a suggestion of a laugh.
“No, thus I talk to a friend of the Pearses, who understands Mister Pearse’s reticence.” He put his elbows on the table and leaned on his hands. “You know if there are secrets in that family, and you can do some snooping if you catch a scent. I’m not interested in scandal, only in things that might have something to do with GAD’s being missing.” He stared into his coffee cup. “And if you decide to do any spying, I hope, you will report to me if you discover anything useful. Later on, you’ll have an inside story on the case.”
“If anything comes of it,” Poppy added in as neutral a tone as she could achieve.
&nb
sp; Loring shrugged awkwardly. “It’s the best I can offer.”
“The same bargain as the one we’ve made for you to continue telling me, sub rosa, about what you have found out about the Moncrief and Knott murders?” She considered this for a few seconds, then nodded. “All right. You’ve been a great help to me before and it’s only fair that I help you where I can. But if the family goes public with their worries, you’ll let me use whatever you find out.”
He looked directly at her. “Deal; and if you can pass on anything you might pick up from your invisible friend…?” He let the suggestion hang in the air.
Poppy gave an exasperated sigh. “I don’t have an invisible friend,” she reminded him, and inwardly chided herself with the thought that while she had been truthful, she had said nothing about the ghost of a Canadian spy who was helping her in various ways. “I’m not aware of any secrets in the Pearse family, beyond the usual gossip. But I’ll make some inquiries among my…acquaintances—discreet inquiries—to see what’s what.”
“Okay,” Loring said, and visibly relaxed.
Poppy regarded him for a moment or two, then asked, “What have you learned so far? So I can start snooping.” She did not want to use the word spying, thinking that Holte might be annoyed.
He took a sip of his coffee and put the cup aside. “According to Pearse, GAD went to Europe in the second week of June, and had reservations to return the third week in August. When he left, he told his parents that he would be going into Eastern Europe. He mentioned Vienna and Buda-Pest as places he expected to visit before returning on the 28th of August. Throughout July, he sent home letters weekly, the last two coming from Vienna. In his final letter, he declared his intention to spend the rest of his time in Vienna doing what he could to help the Armenian refugees there—he was distressed at their plight, and the state of their living conditions, as well as the lack of indignation that the Europeans felt for them—and believed that someone should do something about it, so he decided he wanted to be useful before he—”
Living Spectres: a Chesterton Holte, Gentleman Haunt Mystery Page 11
