Living Spectres: a Chesterton Holte, Gentleman Haunt Mystery

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “I’d like that,” said Esther. “I’m sorry; I was up half the night with a sore ankle. I think I might have strained it during the planting. I came down rather hard while Galliard and I were putting the last of the birches into their hole. Galliard said that at my age, I have no business doing such strenuous work. Have you ever heard anything so absurd in your life?”

  “Do you think you should see the doctor?” Poppy asked, her concern cutting through all other considerations.

  Aunt Esther sniffed in disapproval. “You’re as bad as Galliard is.”

  But Poppy would not be put off. “If you need some time to recover, I know Lowenthal will postpone your meeting if you have a medical emergency.” She regarded her aunt with a suggestion of worry, but knew better than to urge her.

  “No. It’s not that bad. Not only did I twist it planting the birches, I slipped while carrying a flat of winter vegetables into the green-house, for the raised beds there, and its southern exposure; the walkway stones were wet and I wasn’t paying attention.” She rubbed her eyes. “Galliard took over for me. We’ll have cabbages and onions and Swedish potatoes from December to the end of March.”

  “When you’ll be in the Amazonian jungle,” Poppy pointed out. “If your ankle can hold out until you have to leave.”

  “Nothing to worry about.” Esther reassured her niece. “Galliard will look after the plants and will see that Missus Sassoro has the produce when it’s ready.”

  “Good of him,” said Poppy automatically. After a large sip of coffee, she added, “If you change your mind about seeing your doctor, make sure you call Miss Stotter at the Clarion. She’s Lowenthal’s secretary, and a very reliable women.”

  “Miss Stotter. I’ll remember, but I won’t need it,” said Esther, and raised her voice. “Missus Sassoro, I’ll have four waffles instead of two. I find I’m hungry this morning.”

  “Whatever suits you,” Missus Sassoro answered at her most unflappable. “Your coffee is almost ready.”

  Poppy set down her napkin and rose from her chair. “Until sometime around one-thirty then. I hope it all goes well.”

  Esther smiled. “I’ve put together a portfolio of my photographs of the Living Spectres; if that doesn’t persuade him to let me do a piece for him, I can’t imagine what will. Have a good interview. Don’t let Isadora wear you out.”

  “I’ll try not to,” said Poppy, and went to retrieve her purse, her brief-case, her raincoat, and her umbrella, just in case the weather forecast was right.

  Miss Roth let Poppy out of the front door. “When do you expect to return?” she asked as Poppy started down the stairs.

  “Six, six-thirty. If I’m going to be later, I’ll phone you to let you know.”

  “Very good,” said Miss Roth, and closed the door.

  Poppy got into her Hudson and started off for the Addison Newspaper Corporation building, her concentration fixed on the road. The morning sky was hazy, but there were high clouds blowing like streamers across it; studying the western horizon, Poppy was fairly sure that the Weather Service was right about the possibility of rain by evening. As if to confirm this, a spatter of droplets struck the windshield; she toggled on the wipers and turned on her headlights. A paperboy at the corner was hawking the Tribune; Poppy glanced at the headline and saw nothing about the Pearse case above the fold on the front page. She allowed herself to feel a bit less harried.

  “How much do you plan to tell Loring about Overstreet and Derrington?” Holte asked from the empty place on the seat beside her.

  Poppy had just entered the street at the foot of Aunt Esther’s long cul-de-sac, where the newspaper stand was. “Will you please announce yourself, for a change?”

  “As you like. I’m here. How much do you—”

  “—plan to tell Loring. I haven’t made up my mind,” she informed Holte. “Ask me after I do the interview with the Pearses. I should have decided by then.”

  “I’d like to know as soon as you do,” he said.

  “Very well; you can eavesdrop when I talk to him—not that I could stop you—and we can compare notes afterward,” she said, edging around a delivery van pulled by four Clydesdales, their red coats as dark as mahogany, their white manes and tails a muted silver-grey in the beginning of morning mizzle. “But let me keep my mind on driving for now, if you don’t mind.”

  Holte took a moment to think about this. “All right. It is not easy to deal with traffic in weather like this. The road looks slick, and that’s a hazard. Find your parking place and I’ll accompany you to your desk.”

  Poppy found that idea disconcerting, but she accepted it as a sensible trade for his company during the morning commute. “It should take me another fifteen minutes to get to the Clarion. I’ll see you then.”

  “Fifteen minutes,” he said, and hoped he would not be too far off the mark. “You’ll park in the usual place? In the alley.”

  “Yes, if no one takes it before I get there. I won’t be the only one looking for a spot this morning.” She leaned on the horn to warn a Packard pulling into traffic not to cut her off from her right-hand turn. “Whatever you’re going to do in the meantime, don’t expose yourself to any babies or household pets. Or parrots.”

  “I’ll do my best,” he promised, and went ahead of her to the paper, trying to decide how Poppy’s knowledge of Overstreet’s death could be explained.

  While Holte mulled over this predicament, Poppy continued on through the thickening parade of autos, trucks, delivery wagons, and bicycles; she did her best to keep her wits about her, but, being tired, the task seemed more demanding than it did on most mornings. After four blocks, she discovered the cause of the unusual slow-down: a streetcar had slammed into an old White Steamer, effectively blocking the intersection in both directions; two harried policemen in foul weather gear stood in the middle of the street, directing traffic around the mess. Poppy noticed an ambulance at the side of the opposite street, and realized that the crash had been worse than she had first supposed. She resigned herself to arriving late as she edged her way forward in the pack. When she reached the alley, her regular spot had been taken and she had to find a parking place almost a block away. Not a good omen for the day, she told herself as she hurried along the sidewalk, trying to keep her umbrella at the right angle for her to stay dry. As she crossed the alley, a Ford went by, splashing her ankles as it passed. “Ye gods,” she muttered, hoping this was not another omen for the day.

  Rushing into the city room, she paused at Lowenthal’s office door and knocked. “Sorry, boss,” she said. “There was an acci—”

  “An accident on the streetcar line. Not unusual in bad weather. I’ve got Vance out covering it. You’re not the only one late this morning.” He studied her. “What have you got for me?”

  “I have some questions for the Pearses ready. And I have a follow-up story on Merrinelle Butterworth; the one you told me to do yesterday when the Pearses canceled. She’s a bit dramatic about her life, like something out of the flickers, so I talked to a couple of her friends, and tried to find out how they saw her claims. Would you like me to hand my notes over now?” Then, as an afterthought, she said, “I called Missus Plowright yesterday; she gave me the phone number for Rudy Beech—her half-brother—in Florida; he may know something about where Louise Moncrief is. I’m planning on trying to reach him this afternoon, assuming the lines aren’t down due to Hurricane Sylvia. That’s what the Weather Service is calling it.”

  “So the AP wire says. They expect it to be a heavy blow.” He motioned her to come in and pointed to the visitor’s chair. “Let me have what you’ve got. How soon do you need to leave for the Pearses interview?”

  “Forty-five minutes, if traffic is still backed up,” she told him as she sat down and opened her brief-case. “This also has my notes on my interview with Miss Butterworth, brief as it was. She didn’t like the questions I asked, since they were mostly about GAD and not about her, and after a while, she became petulant. Quite disc
ouraging. Her mother’s right about her: she likes being the center of attention. She said that talking about GAD upset her—no doubt true, but that wasn’t the heart of the matter.” While this was direct enough as a statement, it was also a ploy to explain why her notes on her interview with Merrinelle were scant.

  “Typical for a girl her age.” Lowenthal took the two files she held out, opened, and skimmed them. “What’s she like, other than self-centered?”

  “She’s pretty in a baby-faced way; about my height; short, light-brown hair; big, cerulean eyes; more of a bust than is fashionable, which she likes males to notice. She’s more intelligent than she pretends to be, and she is mesmerized by glamour. She says she wants to be in moving pictures. I don’t know how that fits in with marrying GAD, but that doesn’t seem to bother her.” Poppy saw Lowenthal nod. “If she grows out of her penchant for dramatics, she could be a very interesting adult, but just now, that’s a big if.”

  “I know the type,” he said, handing the files back to Poppy. “You can work these up later, as you need them, once you have the Pearses’ take on things.” He rubbed his forehead to get the curl he had been worrying back in place.

  “Yes, boss,” she said, and got up.

  “Your aunt will be in later,” he said as Poppy made for the door. “One o’clock.”

  “I know,” Poppy said.

  “You think there’s anything worthwhile in her article? Does it read right for our subscribers?” He asked as if it had just occurred to him, but Poppy was certain that he had had it in mind since she arrived at the office.

  “I don’t know. She didn’t show what she’d written to me.” Poppy studied him, trying to determine what he wanted to know. “But there may be a connection to GAD Pearse being missing. Remember, he had expressed concern about the Living Spectres in his last two letters to Merrinelle.”

  Lowenthal nodded once. “Maybe a sidebar, then.” He pointed to the door. “Get to work. Chop-chop.”

  Poppy said, “Yes, boss,” again, and made for her desk, noticing that about a third of the other desks were unoccupied. That accident must still be interfering with traffic, she thought as she took her place at her desk. She looked up as the ceiling light flickered, and nodded once to show she understood.

  Dick Gafney, who was smoking his third cigarette of the morning, peered through his halo of fumes to catch Poppy’s attention. “The Pearses and the Butterworths. Don’t you move in high circles?”

  “If you say so, Gafney,” she answered, preparing her usual sandwich of bond, carbon, and onion-skin paper.

  “You have any leads on the Pearse story? If you ask me, the boy’s been kidnapped and is probably dead by now.” He coughed a little.

  “He may be,” Poppy said, doing her best not to get upset by Gafney.

  “Make the most of it, honey-girl. Since you like the crime desk. Do you want to show us how tough you are?” His laughter was cut short by the shrilling of his telephone, and he abandoned this needling of Poppy to take the call.

  “He’s a fool, and he’s jealous,” said Holte in her ear.

  “I know,” Poppy whispered. “But that doesn’t mean I have to like what he does.” And with that, she rolled her papers into the platen and began to pound the keys, taking out her annoyance on the typewriter.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  ELLISTON, THE PEARSES’ VERY SELF-CONTAINED BUTLER, HAD SHOWN POPPY INTO the conservatory at the back of the Pearse mansion, a century-old structure of white-painted cast iron and glass that had recently been expanded and now not only had a fine display of mature palms and other semi- tropical plants, but had a sitting area with a service closet where water, tea, and coffee could be had, as well as other, less legal, potables.

  Isadora and Sherman Pearse were waiting on the upholstered couch in the sitting area; Isadora, in a morning dress of dull-purple faille with a small ruff of lavender lace, barely acknowledged Poppy’s presence. Sherman was dressed for business in a conservative, beautifully tailored suit of charcoal-grey English worsted that had been made in Saville Row; his shirt was pristine white linen, and his tie Prussian-blue silk. He rose to greet Poppy, and spoke to her as if he had not known her when she was growing up. “Thank you for coming Miss Thornton. Please join us.” He pointed to one of three occasional chairs. “I apologize for the delay in seeing you; it couldn’t be helped.”

  Tempted as she was to ask what had happened to cause that delay, Poppy held her tongue as she sat down and took her notebook from her purse, and then searched its depths for a pencil, finding it in with her ten-dollar emergency bill. “I hope you won’t mind if I take notes. I’ve found that it helps minimize errors in reporting.”

  “I’d prefer you did; it saves confusion later; it’s always wise to keep notes, don’t you think?” Mister Pearse approved. “May I offer you some refreshment? Tea? Coffee?” Before Poppy could answer, Mister Pearse raised his voice. “Elliston, would you ask Huntsman to come out here?” He gave Poppy a self-assured look that narrowly missed being smug.

  From near the door, Elliston replied, “Of course, Mister Pearse.”

  “It’s been a long time since I’ve seen you, Miss Thornton, aside from the evening at your Aunt Esther’s,” Mister Pearse said, by way of courtesy. “You were at the gathering we hosted shortly after HOB’s funeral, as I recall?”

  “Yes, I was,” said Poppy. “It was a sad occasion.”

  Mister Pearse waved his hand, dismissing that unhappy day to the past. “We’re hoping to avoid another such.”

  “I hope you can avoid it, too,” Poppy said, knowing that this reiteration was expected of her. “The loss of any child must be unendurable.”

  “HOB was our shining hope,” said Mister Pearse. “And now we may lose our second son to adventurism. Adventurism!”

  “Sherman,” his wife murmured, putting her hand on his arm. “Must you? You told me you wouldn’t.”

  “I’m afraid to say,” Mister Pearse began in a tone that suggested the reverse, “that I hold your Uncle Maximilian partly responsible for this situation.”

  “Mister Pearse, please; this is not to the point,” said his wife with a fidgety nod in Poppy’s direction. “There’s no reason to dwell on—”

  Mister Pearse cut in ruthlessly. “If Maximilian hadn’t told GAD stories about his travels, or given him that letter that President Roosevelt sent to your uncle, I’ve no doubt that GAD would have settled down by now, and not gone tramping across Europe, in the company of the scaff and raff of the Ottoman Empire.” He sat straighter. “By the way, I don’t suppose you’ve heard anything more about Maximilian?”

  “Not in years,” Poppy said, striving to keep her temper in check; she had not expected such an outburst.

  “Serves him right, going off like that. If he is still alive, no doubt he has a wife with a bone in her nose and a passel of half-breed brats, unless the natives did him a favor and boiled him in a pot.” Mister Pearse looked away. “I’m sorry. I’m very much on edge. We all are. But that doesn’t change what your Maximilian did to turn GAD’s interests to—”

  “That’s enough, Mister Pearse,” said Missus Pearse, and turned toward Poppy. “Pardon my husband. When he is worried, he’s bellicose.”

  “Since you and your husband are seeking to find GAD, and I am in a position to help, I would like to think we can work in concert,” said Poppy in the most reasonable tone she could produce.

  “Help?” Mister Pearse shook his head. “By spreading rumors and gossip about?”

  “Miss Thornton is more discreet than that, Sherman,” Missus Pearse said in a softly correcting voice. “She knows GAD. She won’t expose him to greater danger than he is in already.”

  “I’m prepared to do what I can to help you on avoiding undue publicity,” Poppy said, taking as professional a stance as she could. “Your interview ought to help get the ball rolling.”

  “GAD will be pleased to know you’re helping us Miss Thornton,” Missus Pearse said, paying no attention t
o the warning glance her husband shot her. “When he was younger, he had the most dreadful crush on you, you know.”

  Poppy nearly dropped her pencil, she was so taken aback. “No,” she admitted a trifle unsteadily. “I didn’t know.”

  “My dear,” said Mister Pearse in a firm voice, “that has nothing to do with this meeting.”

  “It would, for GAD,” his mother insisted.

  “Shall we get on with it?” Poppy suggested, not wanting to be pulled away from the purpose of her visit.

  But Mister Pearse was not to be rushed. “I understand you’ve been living with your Aunt Josephine Dritchner,” he went on in a sudden rush of politeness. “If you would be kind enough to give her our regards?”

  “I will, of course,” said Poppy, adding conscientiously, “But, as I’m sure you recall, I’ve recently moved in with my Aunt Esther. Both my aunts thought it advisable,” said Poppy, determined not to get side-tracked again from her assignment, “and I agreed.”

  Sherman Pearse produced a condescending smile. “Well, if you’ll extend our regards to your Aunt Esther as well, we would appreciate it.”

  “Certainly Mister Pearse,” said Poppy, wanting to upbraid him for his manner, but sticking to her mission.

  Mister Pearse sat down next to his wife and took her hand; he spoke quietly yet firmly to Poppy. “I’m told you know Inspector Loring, Miss Thornton, and I must believe that you know he is working on our case, very sub rosa for now. Commissioner Smiley is in agreement that we need to keep as much of this investigation out of the public eye as is possible. Commissioner Smiley is a prudent fellow, for all that he was born in Scotland. We spent yesterday resolving particulars in that regard. Not only are we eager to protect our privacy, but we’re hoping to avoid the kind of hysteria that arose around the Leopold-Loeb case, which is assuming that there has been a kidnapping, which I am not prepared to concede.” He patted Missus Pearse on the shoulder as she shuddered.