Living Spectres: a Chesterton Holte, Gentleman Haunt Mystery

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “Small wonder,” said Poppy by way of commiseration.

  After a brief pause, Loring said, “It means that, barring the unexpected, I should be able to be with you tomorrow night. And thank you again for your invitation.” He lowered his voice. “If there are any…complications, I’ll let you know as soon as I learn of them.”

  “Much appreciated,” said Poppy. “I hope we do see you.”

  “So do I,” Loring admitted before he hung up the phone.

  Poppy sat still at her desk, staring at her scribbled notes, a distant expression in her eyes. After the greater part of a minute, she rose, and taking her notebook in hand, went to Cornelius Lowenthal’s office, and tapped on the door.

  “Come in, and this better be good,” Lowenthal growled from inside.

  Poppy took hold of the doorknob and pushed. “It’s Poppy, boss,” she said as she came in. “I just talked to Inspector Loring, and he tells me that Miles Overstreet has escaped from the Mounties and is probably on the run.”

  Lowenthal’s scowl faded to a wolfish smile. “Overstreet escaped? Can you get confirmation on this?”

  “I think so. Inspector Loring gave me the name of a Mountie I should be able to use. I’ll get right on it, if you want me to pursue the story?” The doubt in her voice was more because she was remembering what Holte had told her, and realized that this would not be a source that Lowenthal would approve. “The Mountie should be able to give me information. Is it all right for me to call him?” She glanced at the name in her notebook. “It’s a Captain Joiner, and I’d guess he’s in the Montreal department. If he isn’t, I’d assume they could tell me where he is posted.”

  Lowenthal’s smile became crocodilian. “I knew you had a nose for this kind of work, Thornton. Go right ahead. If anyone upstairs asks about the cost of the calls, you send ’em to me.” He pulled at his thinning, curly hair. “I’d like something by two this afternoon, so I can place it well.”

  Poppy did her best to conceal her delight. “I’ll get right on it, boss,” she pledged.

  “Damn right you will. Chop-chop.” Offering no apology for swearing, he made a shooing gesture to dismiss her. “Get back to me as soon as you have confirmation.”

  Back at her desk, Poppy picked up her phone and told the operator to connect her with the Montreal office of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, thinking as she did, that Holte would be pleased that she used the full title. “I want to talk to a Captain Joiner. If he’s not assigned to that office, see if they can tell you where he is.”

  “Is this urgent, Miss Thornton?” asked the operator.

  “Yes,” said Poppy, and tapped the eraser on her pencil on her notebook. “If you need permission, check with Lowenthal.”

  “All right. Please stay on the line and I will connect you as soon as I have reached Captain Joiner for you.” The operator had a sing-song delivery and a tone worthy of a schoolmarm.

  “Thanks,” said Poppy, and went back to bouncing her eraser on her notebook while she formed questions in her mind.

  “I have Captain Joiner for you, Miss Thornton,” the operator informed her some four minutes later. “Go ahead, Captain.”

  Captain Joiner had a deep, soothing voice that bordered on the soporific. “Good morning to you, Miss Thornton,” he said. “Inspector Loring told me you might call me about Overstreet.”

  “How perceptive of him,” she responded in as cordial a tone as she could muster. “I’m a reporter with the Philadelphia Clarion, and I have been following a case in which Miles Overstreet was deeply involved.”

  “I understand that,” said Captain Joiner.

  “Then you’ll understand my need for confirmation on what has occurred before I can go to press,” she said crisply, readying her pencil to write. “He was being transported by which agency?”

  “I’m afraid we were handling the transfer, the Royal Canadian Mounted Police,” Joiner said, a note of chagrin in his voice.

  Poppy had already decided on using the direct approach. “How much can you tell me about it?”

  “Rather a lot, I’m sorry to say,” the captain admitted. “I was in charge of the escort. I was in the lead auto, and three of us had got over the bridge when the alert sounded and the midsection began to turn, leaving Overstreet in the transport vehicle on the midsection. That seemed safe enough, because the midsection was isolated, so there was no way he could get away, or so we thought.”

  “So let me get this pictured in my mind,” said Poppy. “You were on the rear section of the bridge, and therefore connected to land, and Overstreet was in his transportation was on the middle part of the bridge that had rotated to let river traffic through? What about the leading part of the escort?” She began to sketch the situation on the edge of her desk blotter. “Were there vehicles stopped behind you?”

  “A few; the rear auto had its siren on, so there was no pile-up of vehicles immediately behind us. The front of the escort was on the far side of the bridge, and connected to land, just as I and my men were. I and a few others had got out of our autos to see what was going on in the river, to get some idea of how long we might have to wait. A few minutes later, there was a flurry of shots that came, we presumed, from the embankment behind us, and we took cover, which is fairly standard procedure in these circumstances. There was a rifleman in the second lead car, and he was busy trying to locate the origin of the shots.”

  “How do you mean that the bridge turned?” Poppy asked. “Will you describe how that works, please?”

  Captain Joiner was silent for a second or two, then began, taking care to provide details. “The bridge is in three sections. The midsection sits on a column that pivots. The alarm is supposed to provide time for all vehicles to get off the midsection before it is turned, but in this case, only the transport vehicle was on the midsection when the turn began. The turn is ninety degrees, and the roadway in the midsection aligns with the flow of the river, allowing marine traffic passage on either side of the column. We find that this speeds up the movement of ships on that busy stretch of the river, and returns road travel to its normal flow more quickly than the standard drawbridge does.”

  “I take it, then, that it was not the La Salle Bridge, because of the railroad bridge next to it? The turning mechanism probably would be too broad for that arrangement,” Poppy said, pleased now that she had taken the opportunity to look at Aunt Esther’s atlas before she had come in to work that morning.

  “No, you’re right, Miss Thornton,” said Captain Joiner, a quality of newfound respect in his tone. “For safety reasons, we went along to the Pont Champlain. That turns out to have been a mistake.”

  “How long before the transfer was that decision made?” Poppy almost held her breath for the answer.

  “The day before. We had to make changes in our arrangements, but there was nothing unusual in that.”

  “Did you ever determine where the shots had come from?”

  “Alas, we did not,” he confessed. “I wondered at some point if they had come from the yacht, but that sounds unlikely, and in these instances, you do clutch at straws, don’t you?”

  “I would think so,” said Poppy, writing hurriedly.

  “The rifleman told me that he thought it was someone shooting—illegally—at the geese that were about; after the first shot, the geese took to the air, which would account for the upward angle of the bullets.” He paused, and added, “There are those who hunt out of season.”

  “Can you tell me anything more about the incident?” Poppy asked.

  “Well, the bridge began to rotate, and those of us ahead of the midsection did not at first realize what was happening, and by the time we did, there was no way to stop it, for the mischief was already done.” The chagrin was back in his voice. “I must admit that I paid very little attention to the yacht—it was a very handsome yawl, about fifty feet, I’d say, and perhaps fifteen or slightly more abeam, brightwork polished, decks clean, the engine humming along like a first-class genera
tor, sails properly furled, quite yar as the sailors say—for I was expecting a larger vessel to be coming, not that solitary craft; it was the height of the masts that made the rotation of the bridge necessary. After the shots were fired, I allowed myself to be distracted by the yacht’s passage, fearing that it might also be in danger, but then heard the siren on the transport vehicle go off, and saw that the door on the rear of the transport was lifted all the way up, and the passenger door in the front was coming open. Because of the open door, I could not clearly see what was going on, but I did see a man fall from the midsection of the bridge into the river, not far from the yacht.”

  “The Saint Lawrence?” Poppy asked, just to be certain.

  “Yes. The Rivière des Prairies is on the other side of the city, in the west.” He cleared his throat. “At first I did not notice any potential connection between Overstreet and the yacht, and there might not have been one, but the boat turned back, perhaps for altruistic reasons rather than any plan, and took Overstreet from the river.”

  “Does this yacht have a name?” Poppy was writing rapidly now, striving to keep ahead of what Captain Joiner was saying.

  “It was Belle Helene, and it flew an American flag, which may or may not be significant. We’re trying to trace it to its home port, but so far, we have had no luck; it’s early days yet.”

  “I gather the American Coast Guard is looking for the yacht? Do you think they could help you, by arranging some kind of mutual search?” It was an obvious question, but one that Lowenthal would want included in her report.

  “I hope so, but I have to tell you that we saw no home port on her stern, and there was no port medallion on her mainmast flag, or none that I could work out. That was what was most troubling about the rescue of Overstreet. It suggested that the yacht was not there by happenstance, and that there was a surreptitious purpose to its presence. Some of my men disagree with me, but the whole thing is too coincidental for my taste.”

  “That’s a possibility, that it was a set-up,” Poppy allowed, thinking of Loring’s comments about coincidences.

  “We have sent word to the Royal Navy about this, in case the yacht is bound eastward, or toward the Caribbean. The Atlantic is a big ocean, but the Royal Navy might get lucky, or your Coast Guard.”

  “Does that mean the Belle Helene is an ocean-going craft, and not just a coaster?” Poppy was writing even more rapidly now, and her concentration was increasing.

  “It had that appearance,” said Joiner, very carefully. “But many private boats that operate in the Saint Lawrence are ocean-going, whether they need to be or not.”

  “I’ll be sure to mention that,” said Poppy, taking great satisfaction in having Holte’s account confirmed. “Is there anything you’d like to add?”

  “Not at this time, no, since it would have to be entirely speculation.”

  Poppy was satisfied. “Then thank you so much, Captain Joiner. You’ve been most helpful.”

  “You will benefit us as well, Miss Thornton. Your report will alert many persons out sailing to be aware of the Belle Helene and to report her if she is sighted.” He sounded sincere enough, but there was still a note of worry that Poppy could hear.

  “The Clarion is glad to be of any help we can, Captain,” she declared.

  “We’re grateful for any assistance you can render.” He sounded sincere, which reminded Poppy to ask one more thing.

  “May I quote you, by name? And if you are willing to be quoted, will you spell your first and last names, and confirm your rank?”

  “You may quote me. My first name is Peregrine, like the falcon, and my last is Joiner, like a carpenter. My rank is Captain in the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. If you would send me a clipping from whatever article or articles you publish on this case, I would be much obliged. I am in the Montreal office.” This had the sound of something he had said many times before.

  “I’ll do that,” Poppy told him, and added, “Thank you for talking with me on what must be a very busy day for you.”

  “It is my privilege,” he told her, and hung up.

  For the next hour Poppy roughed out her story, and by the time she went to lunch, she was confident of making her two o’clock deadline. On impulse, she took her car and drove to the Seagull Café, that overlooked a private boat club on the Delaware, where she occupied herself with watching the boats passing the broad windows that faced the river until her fish chowder arrived, along with a basket of cornbread and a mug of strong, black tea. Taking a little time to think about it, she was fairly certain that the Belle Helene would not come here to any New England port, nor to any port this side of Havana, not with the Coast Guard looking for her. The same might be true of England and Europe, given that the Royal Navy was also on alert, which left points farther south to be explored. The Mediterranean seemed unlikely—too closely watched, and with the British controlling Gibraltar, the risk would be tremendous. Would the Belle Helene make for the Caribbean Islands not under British control, or the Azores, farther east and south? The yawl could hold along the coast of South America, or Africa, for that matter. Perhaps she should ask Hank about it—he should know. By the time she had finished her lunch, Poppy had also decided how to present her story, and she was returning to the Clarion in a much more positive frame of mind than she had had when she left. As she drove back to the Addison Newspaper Building, she was whistling, beginning to think that finding the Belle Helene could help re-energize the Moncrief investigation; she would have to thank Loring for the tip.

  Lowenthal was waiting for her when she walked in. “Well?”

  “Give me fifteen minutes and I’ll have what you want,” she said, heading for her desk; she could feel the eyes of the eight other reporters in the room upon her, and so she moved at a brisker pace.

  “You have two sources for the story?” His demeanor was unusually edgy as he followed her to her desk.

  “Yes boss and I can quote both of them,” she said, sitting down and reaching for two sheets of paper and a carbon. “Why? Are you getting grief about this?”

  “You might say so,” Lowenthal said, his gaze shifting around the room. “Just bear in mind that we can’t afford an error on this one. Our bosses upstairs reminded me that we don’t want any grief from the law. The District Attorney requires accuracy in anything we print about anything having to do with Moncrief and Knott.”

  “He’s anticipating the trial already?” Poppy asked.

  “It looks like it; he’s confident, he says, that when Overstreet is caught, he’ll give up all he knows, and that will lead to Derrington and your cousin,” said Lowenthal, suddenly aware that he had the full attention of everyone in the city room. “I had a call from his office not half an hour ago, ten minutes after I heard from upstairs, and I was told that if anything we printed corrupted the case, he would take action against us, freedom of the press be damned. And that is an exact quote.”

  Poppy rolled the sheets into the platen and prepared to type. “I got it.”

  “Make sure you keep it in mind,” Lowenthal told her, then turned and made his way back to his office, pausing at the door to call for Dick Gafney to bring him the latest on the Napier robbery investigation.

  Gafney, one arm in a sling, glowered through a haze of cigarette smoke and mumbled a reply.

  “Ten minutes!” Lowenthal barked.

  “Tough on you, Thornton,” said Jim Franks, who covered sports; he was grinning at Poppy’s discomfort. “Better get cracking.”

  “You, too, Franks,” she said, refusing to be distracted by him. She began to type, taking care to make sure she spelled Captain Joiner’s name correctly, aware that she would have to answer for even a minor mistake in the story. She was half way through the report when the lamp above her desk flickered.

  “Not now,” Poppy whispered as she hit the carriage return with more force than usual.

  “Thirty-one Museum Street, Westminster,” said Holte from immediately behind her left shoulder.

&
nbsp; Poppy stopped typing. “What?”

  “N.Cubed’s business address. Thirty-one Museum Street, Westminster.”

  It took Poppy a moment to realize what he was telling her; she felt a rush of chagrin that she had not gone to the paper’s library to look it up herself. She reached for a pencil and scribbled the address in her notebook, doing her best to make it appear that she was fact-checking rather than adding something about an entirely different story. “London, England?”

  “Yes.” Holte could feel her stress, and added, “Finish what you’re doing. I’ll talk to you later.”

  “Thanks,” she muttered, and went back to work on the Overstreet article. In twelve minutes she was through; she pulled the papers out of the typewriter and went toward Lowenthal’s office, trying to reread what she had written as she went. Not bad for a rush job, she decided, and knocked on his door, knowing that the eyes of her colleagues were still trained on her.

  “Come in,” Lowenthal barked, and looked up as Poppy obeyed. “Have you?”

  “Done,” Poppy said, and put the top sheet down on his desk.

  “Good. Gafney still isn’t done with his.” Lowenthal picked it up and skimmed through it. “I may trim out a sentence or two, but otherwise, it does the job.”

  “Thank goodness.” Poppy sat down in the chair across the desk from Lowenthal. “Do you want me to stay on it boss?”

  “For a day or two, yes. If there’s no more news, we’ll talk about it on Monday. I’ll want you to have a word or two with your inspector. And make sure you check in with the Mounties first thing Monday.” He began to read the page more closely. “You sure quoting Inspector Loring is all right with him?”

  “Yes. He’s known to be on this investigation, and he’s not about to say anything that could compromise prosecution of the case.” Although she said this more forcefully than she planned, she was certain that Loring would not object to her account of Overstreet’s escape—or, she thought, she would owe him an apology, a notion that made her ill at ease.