“Don’t borrow trouble Aunt Esther,” Poppy recommended.
“You’re right—I’m tilting at imaginary windmills, or I hope I am. So tell me,” Esther said in a brisker tone, “what’s on your schedule for today? I need to get my mind off my defense to the Grants Board.”
Poppy could not help but smile. “I’m supposed to get a packet from the Department of State today, that’s about—”
“—whether the man in Maracaibo is Stacy?” Esther interrupted, and nodded along with Poppy. “I’d almost forgotten that. That should be interesting. Anything else?”
“I’ll be talking with Loring later today about developments in GAD’s case.” She could tell that Aunt Esther wanted more information, so she added, “He gets regular telegrams from Blessing—the investigator?—who apparently has found GAD in a Czechoslovakian jail.” She did not want to appear too certain of this because that might lead to questions she would find difficult to answer without complicated explanations.
“GAD? In jail? Whatever for?” Aunt Esther exclaimed.
“That’s what I’m hoping to find out; Loring thinks that they may be trumped up charges,” said Poppy, not wanting to get into how much she did and did not know about GAD’s situation, for fear of adding in some of what Holte had told her. “I’ll be talking to Lowenthal about the little I’ve learned regarding GAD’s predicament.”
“Jail,” Esther mused again. “Sherman will be livid. Isadora will be hysterical.” She stared into her coffee as if to find confirmation in its depths. “I hope you don’t have to deal with either of them.”
“Thank you Aunt Esther. I hope I don’t, too,” said Poppy.
“And as long as we’re discussing unpleasant things, are there any new developments on the Hadley and Grimes investigation? And what happens next if the photograph is of Stacy? Or are there any plans around that?”
“Not that I’ve heard. If it’s slow today, I might give Tinsdale a call, but I don’t think he’ll have any news he’d be willing to pass on, and I doubt anyone else at Hadley and Grimes will talk to me, so I must contain myself with patience. No use letting my speculations run wild.” As she heard herself speak, Poppy became frustrated once more.
“But you may have to prepare yourself for a number of eventualities,” said Aunt Esther sagaciously. “Including having to stand up to a barrage of accusations from Sherman Pearse.”
Poppy shuddered. “Talk about borrowing trouble. I might as well give it a try and phone them, just to keep my hand in, bearding the lion in his lair before he starts roaring.” Then something occurred to her. “I might try to call Rudy Beech again. I’d like to know who’s been talking to him. Before he hung up on me, he said something that’s been eating at me: I think he’s had other inquiries about Louise, and I’d like to know who was asking.”
“He’s Louise’s half-brother, isn’t he? The one the family doesn’t talk about.” Esther tasted her coffee and put the mug down. “Too hot.”
“That’s the one,” said Poppy. “I’ve been watching the papers to see if there are reports in any of them that originated with Beech.” She had another bite of egg.
“What are you hoping to learn from him?” Esther asked.
“I want to know if he has heard anything from Louise, and if so, what it was; it’s worth a try.” As she said it, she thought it sounded simple enough, but she had an inkling that it would not be so. “Neva told me Rudy and Louise were close as children, and although they became less so, it might still be enough to give her reason to contact him instead of any of her friends here in Philadelphia.”
“Is she with Stacy?” Esther mused aloud.
“I don’t know. I’d like to find out, along with a number of other things,” said Poppy, a bit of grimness in her tone.
“You aren’t the only one,” said Aunt Esther. “What a tiresome man Stacy has turned out to be. I can almost feel sorry for Jo.”
“Why is that?” Poppy asked, and took the last bite of her eggs.
“Well, to have two of her four sons die before she did is painful enough, but to lose both Cosmo and Reginald, and to be left with Stacy…” She shook her head to finish her sentiments. “Hank is a good man, but Stacy is not. If Cosmo had not been killed in the Great War, he might have amounted to something afterward; he had taken an interest in electronics, if I remember correctly. Reginald was a promising anthropologist before the Flu got him, and Jo was proud of him in a vague sort of way, not unlike her feelings toward Hank and his work on yachts and aeroplanes. She’d like it better if he weren’t making money at it—that would take the blot of profit off the family escutcheon, but it is getting governmental approval and that appeals to her she can talk about it without sounding immodest.” She made another try at her coffee and found it drinkable this time. “Not that she would ever turn against Stacy, but having the law after him is putting her capacity to deny the obvious to a severe test.”
“I’m afraid you’re right about that,” said Poppy.
Missus Sassoro brought in two plates with warmed muffins on them, and the butter-dish. “I’ll have your ham and potatoes done in less than ten minutes Miss Thornton.”
“Take all the time you need, Missus Sassoro,” said Esther, reaching for the butter-knife. “These will keep me busy for a while.” As soon as the cook had returned to the kitchen, Esther went on, “I’m sorry for blathering on, but it helps me to compose myself.”
“I understand the impulse,” said Poppy.
Esther broke one of her muffins in half and buttered both of the halves. “I’m sure you do.” She bit into the muffin and smiled around it. “Heaven.”
THIRTY-EIGHT
CHESTERTON HOLTE WAS SEARCHING THE DIMENSION OF GHOSTS FOR PERCY Knott when he came upon a new ghost wandering aimlessly through the whorls and currents of noncorporeal presences. “Derrington?” he asked, to be sure of his startled recognition.
The ghost stopped. “You know me?”
“You’re Warren Derrington, aren’t you?” Holte did his best to conceal his astonishment. “How do you come to be here?”
“Where is here?” Derrington drifted a short nondistance away. “I thought I was in the hospital, then Stacy came to see me…or maybe I dreamed he did…and now I’m here.” He began to spin, but was able to stop. “What happened?”
As much as Holte wanted to ask Derrington if his death had been helped along by Stacy, he knew that Derrington would not yet be able to answer that question. “Why were you in the hospital?” Holte asked, choosing an indirect approach.
“There was a hurricane…and the Hadley house lost most of its roof and the east wall as well…the noise was dreadful…I think a beam fell on me, or perhaps it was the wall…I can’t remember which…A pair of the servants found me and got me to the hospital. I had some broken bones—my right arm and leg were in casts…I’m fairly certain of that…They said I had a fever, but I don’t remember whether I did or not. I can’t feel the bones any more.” He stopped abruptly.
Holte took a little while to respond. “That sounds like a rough go.”
“I don’t know much Spanish, but I think I was told the priest was coming…and then Stacy showed up—if I wasn’t delirious, which I might have been…I know I was part of the time.”
“You’ll figure it out, in time,” Holte assured him. “What were you doing at the Hadley’s vacation house?”
“Waiting for Overstreet…He was going to join me…I’m afraid I’ve disappointed him; I should have left a note when…the servants took me to the hospital; I was not thinking clearly then…Santiago de Cuba is closer, you see…Closer than Havana…We were supposed to meet in Santiago de Cuba…once the Hadleys got him out of Canada…That yawl of Nelson’s can make very good time when its engine is assisting the sails, especially on a reach.”
“You’ve sailed with Hadley, then?” Holte said, not wanting to inform Derrington that Overstreet was here in the dimension of ghosts, not waiting to contact him in Cuba.
&nbs
p; Derrington was more sure of himself about events not associated with his death. “A few times, mostly when Stacy and I were vacationing…It seems an eternity ago… We once spent almost a week in Cuba while Quentin worked out some arrangements regarding our antique reproductions, so they would pass muster with Customs. Stacy’s clever at those sorts of things, and Quentin knew how to make the arrangements almost invisible to inspection. That’s coming to an end.” He faltered on this last, then went on, “We would work in the morning and sail in the afternoon. Nelson was there most of the time, but he wasn’t part of our plans. He often slept late, in any case; he spent a lot of nights at the casino. Nelson likes to gamble.”
“Have you come upon either Nelson or Quentin here yet?”
“No; are they here? I didn’t know.”
“They may have been drowned in the hurricane. Their boat broke up, so it’s likely they didn’t survive,” Holte said, trying to ease the blow.
“That’s…unfortunate. It means I needn’t have waited so long for Overstreet. Sad.” Derrington stopped himself from drifting in a circle.
“Do you remember how long you’ve been waiting?” Holte asked, hoping to keep Derrington doing the ghostly version of talking.
“Not really. The days run together when you’re in a place like the Hadleys’ vacation house; one day much like another, and no clocks to keep you at your tasks. In the hospital they had me on morphine, so everything is a bit hazy. Sorry.” Derrington became more aware of his surroundings. “They still are a bit hazy. I don’t recognize anyone. I don’t know you… or do I?”
“We haven’t met, but we have…acquaintances in common: Madison Moncrief, for example, and Percy Knott.”
Derrington winced. “Pity about Moncrief. I should have handled it better.”
Holte was fascinated by that little addition. “You should have handled what better?” He paused, then urged Derrington on. “What it are you talking about?”
“You know,” Derrington said miserably. “The killing.”
“You killed Madison Moncrief?” Holte would have shouted if he had had a voice.
Derrington began to spiral, but did not stop explaining. “Yes, I did. I didn’t like killing him, not even with Louise helping by putting sleeping pills in his brandy. But Stacy was right Moncrief was getting too close; he knew too much, and was putting materials together that would have ruined us if they had been released to the Attorney General. I agreed to make it look like a suicide; I thought the chandelier was a good idea, that it was more plausible that he would hang himself than would take too many sleeping pills. I wanted to make sure they didn’t suspect Louise, and the hanging should have thrown them off her scent, but in the end, the police worked out that it wasn’t a suicide, but didn’t come to think that Louise had anything to do with it. Stacy said I made it too complicated—just shove a hatpin in behind his ear, he said, turn it around a couple of times, and that’s all it would take to do the job. The wound might not be noticed at the autopsy, and suicide or a stroke would be the finding.”
Holte was familiar with the need of new ghosts to talk about what they were able to remember as part of the process of understanding what had happened to them; he gave Derrington a little time to contemplate what he had said, then prompted him, “Moncrief is here, you know, if you would like to apologize?”
“Apologize? You mean for killing him?” He lapsed into contemplative silence, then said, “I suppose I should.”
“It might help,” Holte was being deliberately vague, not wanting to force comprehension on Derrington, for such imposition often brought about more confusion, rather than providing clarity to the recently ghosted. He had one other question to put to Derrington. “Did you kill Knott, as well? Because if you did, you should know he’s very angry with you for doing it.”
“Oh, no; I had nothing to do with that.” Derrington was distressed now, and so he spoke quickly, breathlessly, as if he had breath. “Stacy did that one, saying I had made such a hash of Moncrief he couldn’t trust me to take on Knott. It sounded like Stacy didn’t manage much better than I did: there was blood everywhere. You should have seen his overcoat. Stacy had used the mace-and-chain he had brought with him, and somehow got hold of one of Knott’s sabers after Knott had wrested the mace-and-chain out of Stacy’s grasp; Stacy’s first swing had caught Knott in the shoulder, not the head. That’s when Knott fought back, and almost got the saber away from Stacy, but by then, Stacy had cut him pretty badly, to say nothing of the damage he had done with the mace-and-chain, and Knott was losing strength in a hurry. He told me—Stacy, not Knott—that he had been bruised on his chest, where Knott landed a lucky blow, but that made it possible for Stacy to slice open Knott’s thigh, and that was pretty much the end of it. Stacy had to throw away his suit and overcoat; they had so many stains on them. He cut the garments into rags and tossed them into the Delaware, ten miles downstream from Wilmington. I went with him, to make sure no one saw us.” He was beginning to pull back from Holte. “I don’t know who you are, and—”
“I’m Chesterton Holte. I hope you’ll talk to me again?”
“—and I want you to leave me alone now. I have to think.” Without another word, he slid away into the nearest helix of ghosts, leaving Holte to consider what he had just heard. Stacy had killed Knott, assuming Derrington had told him the truth, and had not diverted his account from his own experience. For a moment he considered searching out Moncrief, or even Knott, but then changed his mind. He had more pressing business in the world of the living; Blessing would be readying his report shortly, and Holte wanted to know how the magistrates had decided GAD’s case. With that in mind, he slipped back into the world of the living, finding himself not far from the Vaclav IV Hotel, with the last stains of sunset shining in the west like molten lava, and its light burnishing the old stones of the city so that they shone like bronze. Paying little heed to the people still on the street, he hurried toward the Vaclav IV, only to be briefly halted by a torrent of angry barks from a smallish dog on a leash. Rising into the air, Holte put the ferocious animal below him and continued on at about third-storey level. Sliding into Blessing’s room through the ceiling, he found the investigator seated at the small table, a pad of paper open before him, and his fountain pen in his hand. “Have you had your supper yet?” Holte asked as he became more visible.
“There you are,” Blessing said, sounding more tired than Holte expected him to be. “It’s been quite a day, I can tell you that. If you ever need me to take on another case like this one, I may do away with myself.”
“Why so difficult? Do the magistrates want to put GAD in jail after all?” Holte did his best to occupy the other chair at the table.
“The magistrates want him, and the Living Spectres, out of Brno. You know about that, and GAD isn’t willing to do it unless the Living Spectres are provided a place where they can set up their own village. No, it’s GAD’s father who is determined to undermine all my efforts. The magistrates are requiring that Mister Pearse guarantee the price of GAD’s passage back to the US.” He scrubbed his hand through his thinning hair. “Mister Pearse is not inclined to do that. He says it’s GAD’s fault he’s in this situation, and he can get himself out. Mind you, Mister Pearse is also trying to offer bribes to the magistrates if they will release GAD from jail—he says Missus Pearse insists on it.”
“Can GAD afford a steamship stateroom?” Holte asked, dreading the answer.
“He hasn’t enough for a bunk in steerage; he’s spent his funds on the Living Spectres. Without help from his family, he’s pretty much stranded,” said Blessing, making a gesture of resignation. “I’ve been trying to find a way to pad my accounts enough to provide GAD a second- class ticket, but I can’t help but wonder if Mister Pearse is likely to compare my charges with what I quoted him originally, and I wouldn’t want to have to defend my actions to him; he might refuse to pay me for all my services. He seems the sort to do that, doesn’t he?”
“I’d have
to agree,” Holte said. “Is there some way his mother might be able to—” He stopped. “No, I guess not.”
“I could get him as far as Southampton Waters, and add that to my outlay, but there’s no way I can cover his ticket without taking it in the pocket-book, and that is not a good way to run a business.” Blessing rubbed his eyes. “Damned annoying.”
“Is funding all that’s keeping GAD from going home? I thought he was threatening to remain here with the Living Spectres.” Holte looked down at the pad of paper.
“He is,” Blessing said with a harsh sigh. “The magistrates are being firm about him leaving. They have agreed to make sure that the Armenians have a place to live, and a chance to work, as GAD was trying to secure; we don’t have that in writing yet, but I hope we will soon. The magistrates agree for now that working in the forest would be a good solution for the Living Spectres, and Avaikian is satisfied with that resolution. GAD is more skeptical, and wants to see if they’re going to follow through, once GAD is gone. I’ve recommended that GAD sleep on his options; I’ll have another go at him in the morning.”
“If the Living Spectres are satisfied with the arrangements for them, why is GAD being so stiff-rumped about staying?”
“Some of it is his concern for the Living Spectres, but that’s only part of it. He’s worried about what his father has planned for him; Mister Pearse is insisting that GAD return and begin his university career, keeping—as his father puts it—his nose to the grindstone to make up for all the trouble GAD’s put the family through.” Blessing shook his head. “And I can’t say that I blame him for wanting to stay with the Living Spectres.”
“Nor I,” said Holte. “What about this letter you mentioned? Is that a done thing?” He saw Blessing raise his eyebrows. “Does GAD really want to send an open letter to Poppy so it can appear in the Clarion?”
Living Spectres: a Chesterton Holte, Gentleman Haunt Mystery Page 45
