“I need a moment at the Athenaeum, Doctor,” said Ames as they started up Beacon Street. “It is on our way in any case, and I promised Professor Harbinger that I would pick up a particular volume for him before the expedition. Amazingly enough, the Harvard library did not have it.”
“You will have a fascinating adventure over there,” Mac—Kenzie commented. He himself, before coming to Boston, had never been east of Pittsburgh.
“Yes,” said Ames with some enthusiasm.
At the Athenaeum, a large, rather gloomy brownstone affair with, coincidentally, Egyptian detailing in its architecture, MacKenzie waited at the desk while Ames signed for his book. This place was, he knew, the haunt of many a Boston Brahmin; he could see a few of them now, early though it was, nodding over newspapers and periodicals in the high-ceilinged reading room that overlooked the slate and granite tombstones of the Old Granary Burying Ground.
Outside on the street once more, Ames gestured to their right. “Not far to go now. Inspector Crippen's lair is just down there, across Tremont Street beyond King's Chapel.”
“Do you think he will—ah—object to your involving yourself in the case?” MacKenzie asked.
“Yes, I suppose he will. On the other hand, he is not a fool. So if he believes I can be helpful, why, then, he may listen to reason after all. He could do very little in any case to prevent my making my own inquiries, but I do not want to alienate the man.”
They came to the corner of Tremont Street and waited to cross through the clogged traffic. A horse had gone down; its driver was whipping it ferociously. A little crowd had gathered, and a woman was berating him, ordering him to stop, but he ignored her.
They passed King's Chapel, a granite building with an oddly truncated tower, and came to the baroque, Second Empire pile that was Boston's City Hall—and its police headquarters.
Inside the massive oak doors, the atmosphere was hushed yet oddly busy. Coatless clerks hurried back and forth; once or twice a more senior official in dark coat and celluloid collar walked by. Once, MacKenzie saw a female, dressed in a dark skirt and white shirtwaist, sleeve protectors neatly fastened over her cuffs. She was, he thought, one of the new breed of women making their way in a man's world, and he felt sorry for her.
Crippen's department was on the second floor at the end of a long corridor. The office was busy, with several desks occupied by young men in mufti; one of them pounded away at a typewriting machine, making a distracting clatter.
On the opposite wall was a closed door, half glassed with opaque pebbled glass lettered with “Deputy Chief Inspector” in black. When Ames approached one of the secretaries and inquired for Crippen, the fellow nodded his head toward the door with a little grimace.
“Pretty busy right now, sir. Can I take a message?”
“No. I think, if you announce me, that he will see me,” said Ames; he spoke smoothly but with a certain air of authority. He had that way about him, MacKenzie thought— of a man born to the highest class in this crowded little city, a man accustomed to not tolerating any nonsense from those whom he deemed his inferiors.
As the secretary hesitated, Crippen's door burst open and a harried-looking uniformed officer sped out, neglecting to close the door behind him.
Ames took his opportunity and went right in.
“Inspector! How are you this morning?”
The man whom he addressed stood behind an enormous desk piled high with papers; he was short, gray-haired, and softly rotund. He had a shrewd, ugly face unadorned by mustache or beard or sideburns; between his teeth he clenched a smoldering cigar that gave off a nearly overpowering stench. He wore a hideous brown checked jacket, a mustard-yellow waistcoat, and a green cravat, all a trifle too tight, so that he gave the effect of bursting out of them.
For a moment he stared blankly at Ames, not recognizing him. Then, removing his cigar from his mouth and depositing it in a battered metal ashtray, he broke into a welcoming smile, exposing a gap where his right eyetooth should have been. MacKenzie thought that the smile had something about it of a cat who had swallowed a canary.
“Mr. Ames! Well, I never! Just the man I wanted to see!” He came around his overflowing desk, hand outstretched, grasped Ames's, and pumped it heartily.
“I thought I would save you the trouble of calling on me at home,” Ames said, smiling in return. “Although I should tell you that my sister would be happy to see you again. She wants you to come to tea any afternoon that you have a free hour.”
“Does she, now?” Crippen smiled even more broadly. “Lovely lady, your sister. You going to allow me to court her, one of these days?”
MacKenzie found this remark tremendously offensive; it was all he could do to put on a polite face as Ames introduced him.
“Well, gentlemen, sit down, sit down,” Crippen said, seemingly oblivious to the fact that Ames had not answered his question. He swept a pile of papers from one of the two wooden chairs facing his desk.
“Now, Mr. Ames, about this business last night,” Crippen went on, taking up his position behind his desk but not sitting down, an action that might have removed him from sight.
“Yes, indeed, Inspector. It certainly is a business, isn't it?”
Crippen sighed. “And it was you who discovered him. I must say, Mr. Ames, you left his rooms in a state. Looked like a tornado hit in there. Why'd you do that, eh?”
The man in the corridor, Ames thought.
“I didn't,” he replied. “The Colonel's rooms were in perfect order—more or less—when I left.”
“Oh?” Crippen peered at him. “Then who tore 'em up like that?”
Ames shrugged. “I have no idea.”
“I wish you had come to me directly,” Crippen said. “As it is—”
“Don't tell me you are going to put me at the head of your list of suspects, Inspector.” Ames was not quite smiling.
“Tell me why I shouldn't.”
“Because—obviously—I didn't commit the crime.” He was smiling a little now.
“Didn't you?” Crippen hooked his thumbs into his vest pockets and rocked back and forth on his heels.
Ames's smile faded. “Of course not, Inspector. If I had, I can assure you that I wouldn't be here.”
“Do you happen to own a gun, Mr. Ames?”
“No.”
MacKenzie did, but he had no intention of volunteering that information.
“The gun we saw on the Colonel's desk—” Ames began.
“Was not fired.” Crippen contemplated him thoughtfully. “In my experience, Mr. Ames, the person who discovers the body is more often than not the person who done the deed. What do you say to that, eh?”
“To that—why, I say that it may very well be so. But not in this case.”
Crippen contemplated him for a moment more. “All right. I'm going to believe you. For the moment, at least,” he added. “But if you didn't go to see the Colonel last evening in order to put him out of his misery, so to speak, why were you there?”
“It was—a private matter.”
“Come now, Mr. Ames. You can do better than that.” Crippen spoke softly, but suddenly he seemed vaguely menacing.
“All right, then, a delicate matter. As you can imagine,” Ames said. “But—in confidence—”
“You'll have to give a statement,” Crippen broke in.
“Very well. I am perfectly willing to do that. But what I am about to tell you will not be in it. I went to retrieve—or try to retrieve—a certain packet of letters.”
“Aha,” said Crippen. “Did you get 'em?”
“Unfortunately, no.”
“Letters belonging to—?” Crippen asked, squinting a little.
“A young lady of my acquaintance. A somewhat foolish young lady, I might add, and the letters were apparently just as foolish as she was when she wrote them.”
“And the Colonel got hold of 'em,” Crippen said.
“Yes.”
“And wanted money for 'em.”
“No. But it's my business to know about men like him,” Crippen said grimly, “and I do. So you searched for these letters?”
“I—looked for them, yes. I disturbed nothing, I assure you.”
Crippen looked at him skeptically. “Nothing?”
“Nothing.” How easily the lie came to his lips, Ames thought.
“You know for sure the fellow had 'em?”
“Yes. He had them yesterday afternoon, at any rate, as late as four o'clock. And so I assumed—”
“Yes, Mr. Ames? You assumed what?”
“That whoever killed him took them.”
Crippen thought about it. “Possible,” he said.
“And so if you should happen to discover them, I can assure you that the young lady would be most grateful to have them safely back.”
“Evidence in a murder investigation—”
“I understand. But since my sister and I stand ready to help you in any way we can—”
“Now, how would that be, Mr. Ames?”
“Well—for instance—there is the matter of the galleys.”
“The what?”
“The early proof sheets of what the Colonel was prepared to print in his paper. As I understand it, he showed them to the people whom he had—ah—marked for extortion, so that they could see exactly how they would be publicly exposed if they did not pay him what he demanded.”
“Oh. Those.” Crippen nodded confidently. “We have 'em.”
“Do you, indeed? I did not see them in the Colonel's suite—”
“No.”
“May I ask where you found them?”
“You may. But I can't tell you.”
“Could I see them?”
“Oh, well, now, I don't know about that, Mr. Ames. That might be against regulations.” Suddenly, Crippen grinned. “But if your sister were to come in, now, and ask—”
Ames shook his head. “Out of the question. This is no place for a lady.”
Crippen shrugged. “Suit yourself. And now, if you will excuse me—”
Ames put out a hand. “Yes, Inspector. I'm going—and I will give a statement to your stenographer. One or two questions before I do, if you please.”
“Well?”
“There was a door in the Colonel's room that led—I think—to a connecting suite. I tried it, but it was locked.”
“Nothing unusual about that, is there?”
“No. Except that while it was locked, it was also unbolted on the Colonel's side.”
Crippen shook his head. “We checked that out last night. No connection to the Colonel's death.”
“You checked it out? But who rents that suite?”
“No one—I mean, no one pertinent.”
“But who?”
“I can't give you that information.”
A look passed between them.
“You must give me this much, Inspector,” Ames said then. “I did perform my citizen's duty by reporting the Colonel's death. I could simply have left the hotel without notifying the manager, and consequently the Colonel's body might not have been found until hours later—possibly not until sometime today. That would have hampered your investigation, wouldn't you agree?”
Don't put his back up, MacKenzie thought. The inspector struck him as the type of man who was jealous of his authority and would not relish being forced to assent to obvious points made against him.
“Look here, Mr. Ames,” Crippen said. “It's like this. If you—or your sister—know of anything that might help us in our investigations, you have an obligation to come forward.”
“As I did last night, and as I have done again this morning.”
“Correct. And just between the two of us—” He flicked a glance at MacKenzie.
“You may speak freely before the doctor,” Ames said quickly.
“Just between the three of us, then,” Crippen resumed. “You can be charged with withholding evidence—”
“Oh, nothing so serious, surely, Inspector. I am entirely ready to cooperate with you. Take the galleys, for instance. They will be filled with hints, and suppositions, and initials—never a complete name, I am certain. And how are the police—who, if I may say so, do not mingle in the circles the Colonel targeted—how are the police to decipher them? Because you may be sure that it was someone who was about to be exposed in the Colonel's newspaper who killed him. Someone who knew that public disgrace was imminent. And someone, therefore, who was desperate enough to visit him during his weekly open house, and—”
Crippen held up his hand. “Enough, Mr. Ames. I take your point.”
“So you will let me have a copy?”
“I can't do that.”
“Then let me see them, at least,” Ames persisted.
Crippen pursed his lips. “I'll consider it. I make no promises.”
“And if you should happen to turn up the letters—”
Crippen gave him a look.
“I would be in your debt,” Ames finished.
Crippen blinked; he almost smiled. Apparently, MacKen—zie thought, to have Addington Ames in his debt was an appealing prospect.
“We'll see, Mr. Ames. All in good time. And now—”
Someone rapped on the door.
“If you'll just speak to my sergeant,” Crippen said, “the stenographer will be with you directly. Oh—and one more thing.”
“Yes?”
“There will be an inquest.”
Of course, Ames thought. He'd forgotten about that. “When?” he asked.
“Don't know yet. It's not up to us, it's the District Attorney who calls it. But you'll have to testify.”
Ames thought of his expedition to the Valley of the Kings. A week from tomorrow.
“Certainly, Inspector.”
They took their leave. In the outer office, Ames was handed over to a young man with a pad and pencil and escorted to a room down the hall. In less than half an hour he was back, and he and MacKenzie made their way out to the street once more.
“Not bad,” said Ames. “It could have been worse. How is your knee?”
“Better than I expected,” MacKenzie replied. He thought of Dr. Warren's instructions: plenty of rest, no strenuous activity. But he was bored with his convalescence, and this little adventure had piqued his interest.
“Good. Then we can call on someone who may well be of more help than Inspector Crippen—for now, at least.”
CAROLINE HAD STOOD FOR A MOMENT AT THE LAVENDER-glass bow window, watching her brother and Dr. MacKenzie make their way along the square toward Mt. Vernon Street. Dr. MacKenzie seemed to be mending rapidly, she thought. In her mind's eye appeared the portion of his anatomy that had been injured and on which Dr. Warren had operated; quickly she banished it. She knew what men's knees looked like, of course; but to think of Dr. MacKenzie's knee in particular unnerved her a bit. Such a nice man, she thought—and, unexpectedly, a good companion for Addington, who lived too solitary a life.
With a little sigh, she turned from the window. She had a busy day—and night—ahead, with no time to stand here, woolgathering about John MacKenzie. She liked him—yes. And beyond that— Well, she'd given up hope of any romantic entanglement years ago.
Dr. MacKenzie was a most delightful boarder—or guest, as she preferred to think of him. No more.
She'd started upstairs to her room when she heard the door knocker. She paused halfway up the curving staircase, her hand gripping the shining mahogany banister. No one called at this hour—except in some emergency like Val's, an hour earlier. Or perhaps it was another one of those dreadful men from the newspapers. Well, she wouldn't have to see him, and thank goodness Addington wasn't at home.
It was Val. She'd been all right when she'd left to go to Alice's, but now she walked in slowly past Margaret, almost as if she were in pain.
“Why—Val!” Caroline exclaimed, hurrying down. “What is i
t?”
Val stood immobile in the front hall.
“I—may I sit down?” she asked faintly.
“Yes, dear—of course—in the parlor—Margaret, please bring tea.”
“Oh, Caroline, I am so embarrassed—”
“What's wrong, dear? What happened?” In the parlor, Caroline sat down beside her, took her hands, and began to peel off her gloves. Val's hands were very cold, and she chafed them a little.
“I—they wouldn't let me in,” Val gasped.
“Who wouldn't? What are you talking about?”
“The butler at Alice's. He—he said Alice was not well, and she couldn't receive visitors today. It was her mother's orders, he said.”
“Not well? But she is to go to the Cotillion this evening! And from what I gathered from her mother on Sunday, a very important young man will be there as well. Alice really shouldn't miss it.”
“No. No, she shouldn't. But, Caro, you see—as I told you, Alice hasn't been well. When she came back from Newport in September, she looked terribly peaked. Mrs. Dane said that she and Alice had been to a funeral in New York, and Alice had taken it hard.”
“Who died? ” Caroline asked, momentarily distracted. Births and deaths were always of interest even if she didn't know the people involved.
Margaret knocked and entered with a tray. She looked distinctly disapproving, Caroline thought, at this interruption of her morning routine.
“I'm not sure,” Val replied when Margaret had left. “Some great-aunt or something.”
She accepted a cup of steaming Darjeeling and wrapped her hands around it to warm them, lost for a moment in thought.
Then she said, “I don't think that Alice is ill at all, Caroline.”
“What do you mean? If the butler said—”
Val shook her head. “I didn't believe him. I think he was lying.”
“Lying! But why would he do that?”
The DEATH OF COLONEL MANN Page 5
