Poppy joined in her toast, then asked, “Do we have a final count on company for tomorrow?”
Esther looked around, meeting Poppy’s inquisitive gaze. “Didn’t I tell you this morning?” She saw Poppy shake her head. “Well, I intended to. As of last evening, there will be twenty-six of us, counting you and me. I’ve told Miss Roth to use the Italian china, the set with the rose- wreaths on the rims of the plates. We have thirty-two of those settings, thank goodness. And the Baroque sterling; it goes well with the china.” She had another sip of cognac. “I wish I’d thought to bring some schnapps back from Vienna while I was there. I’d have had to smuggle it in, of course, but it would have been a nice touch for tomorrow.”
“Can’t your bootlegger Ruscelli get you any?” Poppy asked.
“Probably, but it’s ever so expensive, and it’s also not a sure thing that the quality would be up to the standards I would like.” She took a deep breath. “I found some very good cheeses at a little market on Fulton; Missus Sassoro will do a tray of them, with soda crackers. That, along with an array of Belgian chocolates, should be an adequate dessert, don’t you think?”
“It sounds expensive,” said Poppy, a bit dubiously.
“It is, but it’s nice to be able to spend my money on something other than travel.” She laughed softly. “I’ll be off again soon, and I want to make the most of my time here with you.”
Poppy did not know if she should be wary or grateful, so she only said, “Thanks,” and had more of her cognac. “Do you have a date for when you’ll leave?”
“Not a firm one yet; I’m negotiating with the National Geographic Society on particulars, and they are taking their time about responding. I’m hoping that I will have a firm departure date in three weeks at the latest, which means I’ll probably be away through the end of the year. My guess is they’ll make up their minds by the end of the month, which puts us into October—four weeks at the most, I hope—and then I’m on my way to Central and South America, including a journey up the Amazon. Winter in the Amazon. It should be fascinating. I’ve been to the mouth, of course, but never penetrated beyond Brazil. This time I’m going all the way to Iquitos, which is in Peru.”
“Quite a distance,” said Poppy, who knew some kind of response was required of her. All the while she was thinking that Iquitos struck a chord with her, and wished she could remember what it was.
“I’ve been curious about the place for years, but never had the opportunity to go there. They say it’s quite civilized for a city in the middle of the jungle; we—that’s the editorial we—shall see,” Esther said, and looked up as Miss Roth brought in a small tray of broiled crab legs wrapped in Chinese pickled ginger. “Thank you, Miss Roth.”
“Dinner will be on the table in half an hour,” Miss Roth announced. “I’m needed in the kitchen.”
“Of course you are,” Esther agreed. “There’s still a lot to do for tomorrow night.”
“That there is,” said Miss Roth, and withdrew.
“Thank you,” Esther called after her, then gave her attention to Poppy. “So tell me about this escape. I want to be au courant for the party.”
FIFTEEN
THE DIMENSION OF GHOSTS WAS MORE ACTIVE THAN USUAL, AND IT TOOK Chesterton Holte more time than he had anticipated to find Madison Moncrief among the energetic swirls that were ghostly existence. When he finally approached Moncrief, Holte was surprised to find an unfamiliar ghost with him, and so he hesitated as he approached.
“Moncrief? It’s Holte,” he said in his non-voice.
“So it is,” said Moncrief, sounding a bit restored by Holte’s greeting. “How long are you back for this time?”
“Not long. I have a few things I’d like to find out.”
Moncrief did what passed for a sigh among ghosts. “Haven’t we all?”
Holte glanced at the newcomer again, and saw that he had the stupefied stare that those just recently dead had when their death had been unanticipated. “Who is this?”
“This is Julian Eastley,” said Moncrief. “He was a hero in the Great War, but it took a lot out of him. He used to do some speaking about the fighting, for civic clubs and the like, and he had an inheritance, so he didn’t need to work, which was just as well. After the war, he didn’t have a head for business, though he did before it. He used to hang on Louise’s lead-strings; if he were a boy, we’d call it puppy love, but in his case, he said it was devotion. Always around the house, and never any worry to me. He hasn’t been here very long; I suppose you can tell. He hasn’t been able to remember anything of what killed him, not yet, anyway.”
“I can see that,” said Holte. “What led up to—?”
Eastley directed his attention toward Holte. “Do I know you? Can you tell me where I am? I can’t seem to recognize it…”
Moncrief responded before Holte could provide an answer. “I’ve told him several times, but he’s still in shock. You don’t have to tell him he’s dead if you don’t want to. It won’t stick.”
Holte signaled his understanding to Moncrief, and asked Eastley, “What are the last things you remember before you arrived here?”
The question seemed to confuse Eastley, and he could not bring himself to answer for a short while. “It all seems so…remote, like something I dreamed…a long time ago…” He faltered, then steadied himself and went on, “I had been in my house…I share it with my uncle now, you know? A tidy little place with a partial view of Independence Hall…Well, enough of that. I decided to go out for a drive…you know, to restore my equilibrium? I have to do that when the megrims are on me.” He did something that implied an apology, then resumed his narrative. “I drove westward out of Philadelphia and had gone through Columbia—dreadful roads they have in that part of the county—and was approaching York. It was late in the afternoon, and I was thinking about turning back after dining at York, you know, as one does. I find driving at night soothing. I had my flask with me, and was taking a nip now and then, I remember that; it helped me to keep steady, and it almost made up for the roads, and it kept the Black Dogs away. Can’t drive well when the Black Dogs are on me. Anyway, there was sun at my back, and when the rear-view mirror flashed, I had trouble seeing what lay ahead. There was a bad patch on a curve, I recall that much. It went around a hillock and the curve tightened toward the far end. The rear-view mirror caught a brilliant ray that dazzled me. I think I might have swerved.” He stopped abruptly, floundering for a better explanation of what happened. “There might have been someone coming up behind me, too fast, on that curve. I believe I thought I should go faster or pull over and let him pass, and then the mirror flashed…” He stopped again. “And now I’m here, wherever that may be, and I have no remembrance of how that came about.”
“I think you crashed your auto, Eastley, that’s what I think,” said Moncrief with the patience of frequent repetition.
“That sounds likely,” Holte seconded. “Poor fellow.”
“How do you mean, crashed my auto? That’s absurd,” said Eastley, offended by the possibility.
“You’ll figure it out, in time,” said Holte, trying to console Eastley. “When you do, I’d like to know what you do remember.”
“So would I,” said Moncrief, and abruptly changed the subject. “Do you have any new ideas about what’s become of Louise, Holte? Eastley hasn’t been able to tell me anything about her.”
Before Eastley could summon up an answer, Holte said, “No, I don’t.”
“She’s still missing?” Moncrief was sounding alarmed now.
“Yes; I’m sorry,” said Holte. “So are Stacy Dritchner and Warren Derrington, for that matter,” said Holte. “They haven’t cropped up here, have they?”
“No,” said Moncrief, downcast at the lack of information about his wife, now his widow. “Not that I know of.”
“What do you mean, linking Louise’s disappearance to Derrington’s and Dritchner’s? There was disgusting gossip about a connection between them during the summ
er, the nasty innuendos were sickening. Utter nonsense, I call it,” Eastley said, coming staunchly to Louise’s defense.
Now it was Moncrief’s turn to bristle. “You can’t deny that they were all close friends. It was Stacy who introduced me to Louise. Can’t thank him enough for that. I remember that he said at the time that he thought she would be a perfect wife for me, and that she was already taken with me. I couldn’t believe my good fortune—a bang-up girl like that.”
“You were a most fortunate fellow, Moncrief,” Eastley declared.
“I wish I knew where she is. Not to haunt her, you understand nothing like that. But I would like to look in on her, now and again; I miss her. I didn’t know what it would be like, not to have her about.” Moncrief pondered for a short time. “If you learn anything more about her, Holte, you must tell me. I’ll feel better when I know she’s all right.”
“If you will tell me what you learn, if you learn anything, about her whereabouts. If you remember.” Holte looked around at the swirls and flow of the ghosts. “Any more groups of newcomers?”
“Just another group of Armenians. I thought we’d seen the last of them, but apparently not. This lot starved to death.” Moncrief was disinterested in them. “Have you made any progress in discovering who killed me?”
Holte answered this carefully. “I may have a lead to follow up. I’ll let you know if it goes anywhere.”
“Much appreciated,” said Moncrief in a display of automatic good manners.
Eastley swirled around, staring in the eyeless manner of ghosts. “That’s right: you’re dead, aren’t you? How did I come to forget that?”
“You’ll figure it out, Julian, in time,” said Moncrief with ironic sympathy.
Holte realized that he had gained as much information as he could, so he addressed Moncrief. “When Knott gets back, will you tell him I’d like to speak with him?”
“If I remember, I will.” Moncrief was being drawn back into the maelstrom of ghosts. “You know how that goes, don’t you, Holte?”
“Do you know where he has gone?” Holte persisted, trying to persuade Moncrief to make an effort to bear these things in mind. “I need to talk with him.”
“Not that I’m aware of; he didn’t tell me where he was going, the last time I saw him,” Moncrief murmured, losing definition.
Holte became more insistent. “Anything, Moncrief. Anything you can recall.”
“…don’t know. Something about a boat…” and saying that, he vanished, Eastley following him into the spiraling grey mist.
Left to his own devices, Holte decided to return to the world of the living, and slipped back into Aunt Esther’s house in Philadelphia, where it was about four in the morning. He rose from the pantry, where he had arrived, and materialized in Poppy’s room, where Maestro woke, sprang up, and greeted him with a low, musical growl. “I’m not going to do anything to her,” he explained to the cat. “I can’t; and even if I could, I wouldn’t.”
Maestro was unimpressed; he turned his back on Holte and flipped his tail twice before he settled back into a curl on the end of the bed.
Holte moved away from Poppy’s bed to settle in the chair, sinking into it about an inch before he folded his arms and took on the sketchy appearance of someone napping, had there been anyone in the room who could see him besides the sleeping Poppy. It would be morning soon, he reminded himself, and he would be able to speak with her before she went off to the Clarion. He let his thoughts drift where they might and after a time, came back to the association of Stacy, Derrington, and Louise. There was something about it that rankled: Holte had some time before reached the conclusion that theirs was not the coincidence of acquaintance that so often happened to members of the same group, but something more—the question was what. He was still lost in contemplation when the alarm on Poppy’s night-stand jangled and brought him out of his reverie.
Poppy turned over in bed while Maestro took cover under it. She reached out, pushed down the toggle on the alarm clock, and was rewarded with silence. After a stretch and a yawn, she sat up and rubbed her eyes. “Ye gods,” she said as she caught sight of Holte. “How long have you been here?”
“Not very long,” he answered. “Perhaps an hour.” He drifted toward her. “You’re going in early to work, are you?”
“Yes. I’ll be coming home at three. Lowenthal arranged that for me. He’s going to leave early as well, to get ready for tonight, but he’ll get into work at the usual hour.” Her chuckle ended on a second yawn. “So let me get up, will you?”
“I’m not stopping you,” he said, even as he moved back.
She lifted the comforter and sheet, and swung her legs out from under. “What a beastly hour to be awake,” she said sourly, and got to her feet.
“Will you have any time to lie down before this evening?” Holte asked.
“I hope so, but I’m not counting on it.” Poppy turned away from him. “I need to have a little time to myself, if you don’t mind. Say fifteen minutes?”
“I’ll have a look around the house.”
“Thank you,” said Poppy, and went to her closet to take out her apple-green suit with the dark-blue piping on the seams. She laid this on the bed, then went across the hall to the bathroom to get ready for her day.
Holte was waiting for her when she came down to the kitchen. “There’s a plate of chopped meat in the refrigerator,” he informed her as she filled the basket in the percolator with coffee grounds.
“That’s for Maestro. I’ll take it up to him before I leave for work. He thinks he’s starving.” She selected a mug and set it on the central table, and then went to take two slices of bread from the open loaf in the bread-bin. “The milkman is due this morning, so there’s going to be fresh cream. I wish I could stay for it, but the bottle of it that we have isn’t too old. He’s going to leave three pounds of butter—Missus Sassoro says we’ll need two for tonight, and Aunt Esther relies on her to know those kinds of things.” She put the slices of bread in each side of the toaster and depressed the switch to turn it on. “Cramer’s is the dairy we use here. Aunt Jo uses van Hooten’s—it’s been around longer than Cramer’s; Aunt Jo thinks that Amish make the best dairy farmers.”
Holte realized that she was talking as much to wake up as to provide him any specific information, but he listened on the chance that she might want him to respond to something she said. So when she took the butter-plate from the refrigerator, he asked, “Are you expecting a busy day today?”
“Who knows? Fridays are either very slow or very busy. So far today doesn’t look to be too hectic, but it’s too soon to tell. There’s supposed to be some sort of political rally at Independence Hall this morning, but that’s not my bailiwick; Foster covers those events.” She took a plate from the crockery cupboard and set it on the table next to the mug, then put the percolator on the stove and got out a match to start the nearest burner. “I’m hoping we might have some more information from Canada on Overstreet, but it might be too soon.” She took a butter-knife from the silverware drawer. “I’m thinking of contacting the Coast Guard about the Belle Helene. I’d like to know who owns her.”
“Will you be talking to your Inspector today?”
Poppy reminded herself not to rise to such obvious provocation, and said, “Since he’s coming this evening, I suppose I will.”
Holte mimed a fencer’s salute. “Sa-sa,” he approved. “What else is happening at the Clarion?”
“Aside from the Napier investigation? There’s a Mayoral Committee being formed to investigate corruption in city government and Lowenthal’s sending two reporters to cover the announcements. Again, not my cup of tea. There is a delegation from Holland expected at the Maritime Commission this morning, which is Norton’s beat. There’s an exhibition of medieval art at the museum, which Anders covers; I don’t know how he stands it. And there’s a boxing match that the sports desk will cover. I don’t know anything about boxing; tennis perhaps, and sailing, and croquet, a
nd equestrian contests, but not boxing or wrestling, for that matter.” She went to check the toaster. “Another minute or two,” she said as she carefully turned each slice of bread around so it would be toasted on each side.
“How long do you think Lowenthal will keep you on the Overstreet story?” Holte hovered near the stove, looking like a badly faded sepia print.
“As long as something newsworthy is happening.” She reached for the butterdish and began to make curls in the butter for her toast. “Since I’m going in before Lowenthal arrives, Matthew Pike might have an assignment for me. I hope he doesn’t bother.” Just the mention of the night city editor of the Clarion made Poppy uneasy; Pike was known to disapprove of women taking jobs that were, in his view, the rightful domain of men, and she had clashed with him more than once during the summer.
“What sort of assignment?” Holte asked.
“Probably a rewrite or two. That’s his style. It’s a way to keep me in my place.” She glanced at the percolator; the water in it was beginning to thrill and soon the rich aroma of coffee would pervade the kitchen, which, to Poppy, was the official beginning of her day; she got the cream out of the refrigerator and poured a dollop into her mug. “I really need my coffee this morning.”
“At this hour, I’m not surprised.” Holte drifted toward the pantry door. “Your aunt is hiring extra help for the evening?”
“Yes, a couple of waiters, and Missus Sassoro wants to have a scullion in the kitchen, so Aunt Jo has arranged for one. They’ll be here until midnight, and then the household will be on its own. Knowing Aunt Esther, she’ll take charge of the kitchen after Missus Sassoro goes home, unless she had made other arrangements with her staff, in which case, I don’t know.” The percolator was bubbling and the aroma of coffee was now much stronger. “Almost ready,” she said.
“Are you going to stay in the kitchen?”
“In the breakfast-nook,” said Poppy, pointing in the direction of an arched doorway that at present had closed pocket-doors. “It faces east, not that that matters at this hour; the sun won’t be up for a little less than an hour.” She went to the stove and picked up the percolator with a pot-holder and brought it back to the central table and poured out the fragrant, dark liquid into her mug, watching it turn a dark tan as she did.
Living Spectres: a Chesterton Holte, Gentleman Haunt Mystery Page 17
