“No thanks, I don’t like celery very much.” To make up for this lack, Poppy had another sip of cognac.
Esther shrugged. “Then let’s hope Miss Roth will enjoy them.” She had another pastry shell, and bit into it. “I’m liking these better; they may be a bit insipid, but that’s soothing, in its way.” She realized there was only one left on the plate, and gave Poppy an embarrassed smile. “I’m sorry. I seem to have eaten more than my share.”
“It’s fine with me. I’m not very hungry.” As she said it, she realized it was true. “I’d better wait for dinner, or I won’t eat more than a few bites.”
“You’re still unnerved about Stacy?” Esther licked her fingers before wiping them once more on the napkin Miss Roth had provided.
“That, and I’m hoping that Lowenthal will take on the open letter that GAD sends. I’m worried that he might not, and then I’m afraid that GAD will be in for more trouble than he knows. Not the sort of thing he would comprehend, since he’s been acting with good intentions.” Poppy saw the light flicker again; Maestro lifted his head enough to glare in that direction. She wondered what Holte was making of their conversation.
“If Lowenthal decides against running the letter, it’s not your fault. It may be unfortunate for GAD if that happens, but he’s the one who put himself in this position, and he’s the one who will have to answer for it. Mind you, I’m benignant in the matter of his troubles, and I admire his impulse to try to help the Armenians, who have suffered more than most of us realize, but I know there is little I can do for GAD, or for the Armenians, for that matter, and I will not allow myself to fret about something that is out of my hands,” said Esther. “Lowenthal will want to make the decision about the letter in terms of what he thinks will sell newspapers, not what will help GAD, and that’s his job. You don’t have to do more than present the letter if you think it’s appropriate, and your responsibility ends there.”
Poppy thought this over as she had a bit more cognac. “That may be hard to do. I feel that I owe him my help, since he’s sought it.”
“That’s your mother talking. She felt responsible for the fate of all womankind.”
“What’s wrong with that?” Poppy demanded.
Esther looked directly at Poppy. “You were given a great deal of responsibility when you were still quite young, when your mother became ill. I’m not saying your mother didn’t need someone’s help, but when it fell to you as the primary attendant, I told your father that it was unfair, that you hadn’t learned to separate yourself from the needs of others; I tried to convince him to hire a day nurse, but Oliver said you wanted to do it.”
“And I did. I hated feeling that there was nothing I could do for her, when she had done so much for others, herself,” said Poppy, feeling uncomfortable.
“That’s understandable,” Esther said. “But it was unrealistic to make you her major support. Had you been seventeen or eighteen, that would have been another matter, but you were too young for such burdens. You had your schoolwork and your French classes, and your comportment lessons, and caring for a dying woman was asking too much of you. It gave you an exaggerated sense of responsibility. In your profession, that could exhaust you.” She studied Poppy’s demeanor. “I’m not rebuking you, I’m giving you the benefit of my opinion, although you didn’t ask for it. Take it or not, as you like, but at least agree to think about what I’ve said. If it will make matters easier for you, do as much as you can to cover GAD’s story, but remember that it is his, and don’t entangle yourself. That’s my opinion, and that’s all it is.” She took the last pastry shell.
“You sound like Lowenthal,” said Poppy, feeling she had to say something. “He’s always telling us that we are the voice of neutrality. A couple days ago, he got after Gafney for bluntly taking sides in a story he’s covering, such things being for the editorial page, not in with the reporting.” In spite of herself, Poppy relished the recollection of Gafney’s chagrin. “I try to keep that in mind when I work.”
“Lowenthal’s a sensible man,” Esther approved as the light blinked twice. “Damn and blast. Another bulb going.”
“It could be trouble on the line because of the fire,” Poppy said, glancing at Holte who was floating up toward the ceiling.
“I hope that’s all it is,” said Esther with feeling, adding, “I don’t want to offend you, Poppy; I want to see you get through life with as few bumps and bruises as you can. I appreciate your concern for GAD’s circumstances, just as I think it generous of you to be sympathetic to Missus Sassoro’s worries about her husband—you’re good-hearted, which is to your credit, so long as you don’t let it consume you.”
“You know about Missus Sassoro’s husband’s health?” Poppy asked, trying to disguise her amazement with an attempt at a knowing demeanor.
“Certainly. I’d be a poor employer if I weren’t aware that there is something seriously wrong with Cesare, but I’d be a worse employer if I intruded where I might not be welcome. Family crises, as you know, are often best kept private, particularly when there has been no request for outside aid.” She caught her lower lip in her teeth. “If Celeste Sassoro wants my help, she knows she can ask for it. I’ll let her know the same is true for you before I leave for South America. But until she does ask—if she does—don’t volunteer; it would make her feel vulnerable and beholden at a time when either or both would be frightening. Let her keep her pride for now. She’s under enough strain as it is.” She drank most of what was left in her glass; she refilled it.
“All right; I’ll do my best not to,” Poppy vowed, but with a twinge of conscience. “I wouldn’t want her to think that I don’t care that she is enduring a difficult time.”
Aunt Esther held up her hand. “You’ve misunderstood me. There are times that the illusion of normality is more reassuring than forcing the issue of an emergency; it helps keep the crisis from compounding.”
“Aren’t you ignoring your own advice by artificially maintaining that illusion?” She was puzzled when Aunt Esther laughed. “What’s funny?”
“I’ve told you my opinion. You’re free to ignore it. I felt it would be remiss of me not to point out some the hazards of your work, and why you might not see them yourself. GAD has his problems, so does Missus Sassoro, and almost everyone you’ll ever meet—I’ll wager that your Inspector Loring has his troubles, as well; in his line of work, it would be strange if he didn’t; his being protective of you is commendable, though it has its limits, which is good for you both. You have only to think about Jo, and her constant efforts to dismiss Stacy’s misdeeds because she is inwardly afraid that she is responsible for how he behaves, which she is not; Stacy’s made his own bed and he should lie in it. I would hate to see you end up doing the same thing in your own style. That’s all.” She put the lid back over the celery sticks, stood up and smoothed her skirt. “Dinner should be about ready. Shall we go into the dining room and sit down?”
Poppy drank the last of her cognac and followed her aunt; she could sense that Holte was still with them, and made up her mind to ask his opinion later that evening, and hoped she would not have to wait until Esther had gone off to bed to inquire.
Her opportunity came when she had gone to the study to complete her notes to hand over to Lowenthal on the following morning. She had done a half-page of summaries about the Department of State’s materials when Holte came through the closed door and approached her. “I was wondering when you’d show up,” Poppy said with more nonchalance than she thought she possessed.
“I see you’re busy,” Holte said, becoming more visible.
“Nothing that can’t be interrupted,” Poppy told him, swiveling her chair away from her typewriter. “Anything more to report?”
“Not just at present,” Holte answered. “I was thinking I might take another stab at finding Quentin Hadley among the ghosts, and see what he remembers of his last few days among the living. If he does, it will be another piece of the puzzle.”
; “Do you think you can? Find him?” Poppy heard Maestro yowl outside the study door, but made no effort to let him in.
“If I take the time to do it properly, I should do. It strikes me that he may be able to tell me where to look for Stacy, and perhaps to tell me what Stacy may be planning.” Holte sank into the desk up to his waist. “If you have something to go on, it may help you to be less anxious about him.”
“I want to get him back here to face up to what he’s done. I want to see him revealed for what he is. If he really killed Knott and Derrington, he has more than his attempt on me to answer for,” she cried out, adding parenthetically, “That was a very poor sentence; Lowenthal would make me rewrite it.”
“That sounds more like you,” Holte approved. “When grammar and syntax are the worst thing you can think about, that’s improvement.”
“Well, I do my best to speak as well as write with concision,” Poppy said, raising her chin to make her point.
“And you do it well,” said Holte. “For the rest of what I might say, take note that I am biting my metaphorical tongue.”‘
Poppy chuckled. “Duly noted.”
“I want you to know that I think your aunt gave you some very good advice. You would be wise not to become too deeply immersed in the stories you cover; you need to marshal your energy, not wear yourself to flinders.” He came toward her. “You can do a better reporting job if you don’t allow yourself to get dragged into the actual cases you cover.”
“Stacy made that impossible when he tied me up and locked me in the warehouse basement. Up to that point, I could have remained uninvolved, but once he did…what he did, I was in it up to my neck.”
“I’m relieved to hear that you’re aware of that,” said Holte, and went on, “You have a portion of your life invested in Stacy’s activities, whether you like it or not.”
“I don’t see how I could avoid it.” Poppy gazed toward the night-darkened window, seeing her face reflected in the glass, almost as insubstantial as Holte’s figure that appeared embedded in the surface of her desk. “Cousins we may be, but his actions involved me in his activities beyond all remedy. GAD, I’ll admit, is hardly on the same level, though my friendship with him is hard to put aside, since I like him. I’m pleased that Mister Blessing is making me tangential to GAD’s particular problems. I’ll do what I can to persuade Lowenthal to publish the letter he’s going to write, but short of embarking for Europe myself, that limits my participation in his life.” She tossed her head to show her independence from the Pearse family. “Lowenthal says he wants a piece from me when GAD’s letter comes in, to accompany it and remind the readers of what has happened, but other than that, unless something drastic happens, that should be the end of it, though if he writes his book, I may do a profile on him when it’s published. I expect I’ll have another assignment in a day or two; he’s going to keep me on crime for the time being. He reminded me this afternoon that impartiality is paramount in reporting, and I have no dispute with that.”
“It is good to know that you understand the principle,” said Holte.
“I pay attention to what my editor tells me; I’m not a complete novice at these things.”
“I knew there was a reason I like Lowenthal; he’s an admirable fellow, and a credit to his profession,” said Holte. “He’s protective of his reporters, in his way. That’s a virtue for a man in his position.”
“That he is,” said Poppy. “In his way.”
“I’ll be off, then, shall I?” There was a bit of reluctance in his tone.
“If you like,” said Poppy, turning back toward her typewriter.
“I’ll see you in a day or two—sooner if I find out anything useful.” He was moving slowly upward, his feet about eight inches off the oaken top of the desk.
“That would be fine,” said Poppy, deciding that she would call Loring before she went to bed, to let him know about GAD’s letter and to confirm that the photograph was of Stacy, who was now known as Esteban Driscoll, according to the Department of State. It would be a good way to end the day, she told herself as she resumed working on her notes.
EPILOGUE
GAD’S LETTER ARRIVED AT THE CLARION ON THE LAST DAY OF SEPTEMBER, AND was delivered to Poppy’s desk by Neal Galloway, the newest copy-boy on the floor, a fourteen-year-old from one of the most run-down parts of the city. “Those are a lot of stamps,” he observed as he handed the envelope to Poppy. “Where do they come from?”
“Czechoslovakia,” said Poppy, and saw the blankness in Neal’s eyes. “It’s in eastern Europe, below Poland and next to Austria. Go into the morgue and look at the world map on the wall.” It was the pride of the Clarion morgue, twelve feet wide by nine feet high, a floor-to-ceiling four-color print occupying a wall all its own. “Start at Vienna and go east-by-south to Bratislava, or north and a bit west to Prague.”
“Right you are Miss Thornton,” Neal said with an enthusiasm so patently false that even Gafney laughed.
“For your own good, Neal,” Poppy admonished him. “If you’re going to be in the newspaper business, you’re going to have to be familiar with the world. You might not need to know these things often, but when you do, you’ll need them urgently.”
“Right you are,” Neal repeated, retreating in disarray.
“You sure told him, honey,” said Gafney loudly, and grinned as his comrades laughed again, coughed, and lit another cigarette.
Poppy rallied. “I could say much the same thing to you,” she told Gafney. “But you don’t want to listen to a woman.”
“Why should I?” Gafney shot back.
Before Poppy could say anything, Harris spoke up, sounding bored. “Put a sock in it, Gafney. It’s all old hat, in any case. She does her job as well as the rest of us.”
Gafney swore comprehensively and glowered in Poppy’s direction, but remained silent.
“Anyone here collect stamps?” Poppy called out. “If you want these, let me know.”
Miss Stotter called out from her desk next to Lowenthal’s office, “My nephew does. I’ll take them.”
“I’ll hand them to you when I go into the boss’ office,” Poppy promised her, and carefully opened the envelope to remove the four, closely typed pages. With a degree of trepidation, she began to read, skimming over the half-page of thank yous and expressions of appreciation that served as GAD’s cover letter before beginning the actual text of the letter to his family. The salutation was brief and respectful, but then GAD took on the meat of his concerns:
I regret that my decision to assist these unfortunate people, the Living Spectres, who are among the very few to escape the massacre of the Armenians undertaken by the now deservedly defunct Ottoman Empire, has so deeply disappointed you, but I believe that I have a responsibility to do what I can—and it is little enough—to alleviate the suffering of these remaining few. I did not arrive at this determination lightly, or with the intent to cause you any dismay. I have attempted to live up to the principles you have applauded in others and have instilled in me throughout my life…
Poppy read on through each paragraph, looking for signs of self-indulgence or grandiosity, and found none. By the time she finished, she felt on the verge of tears, so she took her handkerchief from her purse and carefully blotted the edges of her eyes, taking care not to smudge her mascara, then stood up, picked up the letter and the envelope, walked to Miss Stotter’s desk where she handed that harried individual the envelope, then went off toward Lowenthal’s office, hoping that there was no one there ahead of her, for she did not want to wait a minute longer than necessary to put the letter in her editor’s hands. She rapped once on the door, when she realized that Lowenthal was on the phone; Poppy clicked her tongue in annoyance, and tapped her toe until she heard him hang up, then knocked twice on the pebbled glass that displayed Cornelius Lowenthal, Day City Editor in large, black, Roman letters.
“Come,” said Lowenthal.
Poppy opened the door and went in, and noticed that Low
enthal’s thinning hair was more than usually disheveled. “I have something for you, boss,” she said before taking the chair across the desk from him.
“You finished with the interview with Denton North already?” Lowenthal asked abruptly.
“No, not yet,” she said. “But I have the open letter from GAD Pearse to his family. It came in half an hour ago.”
“Then you’ve read it,” said Lowenthal.
“I have. I think it’s useable.” She held it out to him. “Have a look at it and tell me what you think.”
“Stay where you are,” he ordered her as he began to read, nodding occasionally, and pursing his lips twice, a sign that he thought something was wrong. When he was done, he looked over at Poppy. “Not bad. Not bad at all. It needs a little trimming, and there are a couple of clauses that need fixing, but for an eighteen-year-old kid, it’s pretty damn good.”
Poppy knew that this was high praise coming from Lowenthal. “Then you’re going to run it. I’m glad to hear it.”
“I am. You can do a brief summary of events, and it’ll go on tomorrow’s edition. I want you to call the Pearses and tell them that we have the letter, so we won’t have Mister Pearse storming in here to complain. He can write a letter to the editor, and we’ll run it as a response, if he insists.” Lowenthal said this with relish, anticipating the clash with ill-disguised glee.
“I’ll talk to Missus Pearse and explain it to her. Isadora Pearse will know how to handle her husband better than I do,” said Poppy, not entirely convinced of this herself.
“Deal with it however you like, just make sure they’re informed,” said Lowenthal. “Did Denton North tell you why the District Attorney is going to arrest only three of the senior men at Hadley and Grimes, and not the whole lot of them?”
“Not exactly, no,” Poppy admitted. “The whole of the office is being cagey about it.”
Lowenthal hooted derisively. “Playing politics. I knew it!” He grinned with relish. “This is going to get hot in the next week or so. I want you to stay on top of it, Thornton. You know more about the case than anyone else in the city room. Just be careful to get confirmation about every single fact you mention, even if it’s only that the day was sunny.”
Living Spectres: a Chesterton Holte, Gentleman Haunt Mystery Page 48
