“Oh, I’ve lived here ever since I was married, if that’s what you mean, but this had been my mother-in-law’s home for a great many years by then. Since she was both blind and deaf, we had to keep everything exactly as she herself had arranged it, so that she could find her way around. It’s hard to feel you really belong in a place when you don’t feel free to so much as pull a chair out of line. If you’ll forgive my mentioning chairs again.” They both had a little laugh over that, then Sarah had a bright idea. “Would you excuse me for one second? I’m just going to run into the studio. It used to be Aunt Caroline’s—that is, my mother-in-law’s boudoir.”
She came back with a huge armload of lace, georgette, and crepe de Chine. “Would you be terribly offended if I were to offer you a few of her things? You’ve been so sweet and I—it would please me if you were to have something that belonged to the house. She was a famous beauty in her day, you know, and when her husband was alive she always dressed in the most exquisite clothes. You wouldn’t believe what I found when I cleaned out her closets. Everything was far too big for me, of course, so I passed most of it out among her friends and relatives.”
Cousin Mabel had managed to wind up with the lion’s share as always, and what she intended to do with all those beaded chiffon evening gowns, only the Lord in His infinite wisdom knew.
“But there are still some negligees and nightgowns and undies, camisoles and those floppy-legged step-ins and so-forth, that are quite lovely. You have such a charmingly imaginative way of dressing that I’ve been thinking you might find them rather fun to play around with.”
In fact, Sarah had thought no such thing until a moment ago. It was just that she’d happened to find the garments in the basement room where they’d been stuck and forgotten after Aunt Caroline’s death. Rushing to get the room ready for Mr. Bittersohn, she’d thrust them back upstairs in the former boudoir because she couldn’t think offhand what else to do with them. Now, watching Mrs. Sorpende’s face aglow at sight of the soft colors and rich fabrics, she was grateful for her oversight.
“Oh, Mrs. Kelling! I’m simply overwhelmed. Are you sure you care to part with these wonderful things?”
“Quite sure. I’d never use them myself, and they’re not the sort of stuff one cares to pass on to outsiders. I only hope some of them fit.”
“They will, I can assure you, one way or another. I’m very clever with my needle. Such lovely, lovely materials! I feel like the Queen of Sheba just touching them. Or should I say Queen Liliuokalani?”
“No, don’t. I used to think that was such a lovely name, but if Mr. Hartler says it one more time, I’m planning to throw a full-scale tantrum.”
They giggled again like two well-brought-up little girls who knew perfectly well they shouldn’t be making fun of nice, nutty old Mr. Hartler. Then Mrs. Sorpende said she must go along upstairs and let Mrs. Kelling get some rest. Knowing what she really meant was that she couldn’t wait to try on her new hole-free underwear, Sarah let her go.
Surprisingly, the headache was almost gone, too. Sarah finished her preparations for the night, got into bed, and had read less than a paragraph of Schopenhauer before she switched off the light and drifted into sleep.
Chapter 14
SARAH WAS HAVING A lovely dream of being in a public restaurant with Queen Elizabeth and Prince Philip. The Prince was singing along with the orchestra in an extempore serenade to the Queen, who was wearing a lovely frock and matching hat in moss green and looking quite lovely, terribly embarrassed, and tremendously gratified as who wouldn’t. Then Sarah realized the drumming noise she was hearing didn’t come from the orchestra accompanying His Royal Highness but from somebody’s loud tapping at her bedroom door.
She sat up, switched on the bed lamp, and snatched for her robe. The time, according to her alarm clock, was twenty-seven minutes past one.
“Who’s there? What’s the matter?”
“It’s me.” Charles must be badly shaken. “You better come. We got the fuzz downstairs.”
“The what? Oh, my God!”
Sarah couldn’t find the sleeves of her bathrobe, got her slippers on the wrong feet and had to change them, made an ineffectual sweep at her hair with a brush, then rushed downstairs. Police at this hour weren’t selling tickets to the Policemen’s Ball. Was it Uncle Jem? One of the boarders? Was he, or she, in jail, in the hospital, at the morgue?
By now Sarah was practically on first-name terms with everybody in the division. “Hello, Sergeant McNaughton,” she sighed. “What’s the matter now?”
“Hi, Mrs. Kelling. Sorry to keep bothering you. You got an elderly gentleman named—uh—Hartler living here?”
“Yes, I have. What’s he done now?”
“Would he be a little guy maybe five feet four or five, good head of hair for a man his age. Wearing sort of old-fashioned evening clothes with a black cashmere overcoat and black patent leather elevator shoes.”
“Is that what they are? I’ve always thought he had bunions or hammer toes or something and needed those orthopedic ones you have to have made specially. Yes, that’s Mr. Hartler, at least it sounds like him. I’m reasonably sure he didn’t stop to change after dinner. He was in a mad rush to get out.”
“Where was he going, Mrs. Kelling?”
“To look at some chairs that are alleged to belong at the Iolani Palace in Hawaii. Mr. Hartler’s been trying to collect furniture and whatnot for the restoration. Sergeant McNaughton, what’s this all about? Have you caught him trying to buy stolen property? Is he in jail?”
She ought to have remembered Sergeant McNaughton was too experienced a law enforcement officer to let himself get switched off from what he was doing. He waited politely until she’d finished talking, then asked, “Where were these chairs supposed to be?”
“He didn’t say, at least not to me. Mr. Hartler and I aren’t on the chummiest of terms at the moment. He’s had swarms of people in and out of here about this Iolani Palace business of his, and they’ve been making a nuisance of themselves. I got fed up this afternoon and pinned his ears back in no uncertain terms. He apologized and we more or less smoothed things over for the moment, but when he got going on those chairs, I was in no mood to ask politely interested questions. Charles, you got him a taxi and put him into it, didn’t you? Do you recall his giving the driver an address?”
“He did not do so in my presence, madam. Mr. Hartler was still thanking me in a profuse, not to say fulsome manner when the vehicle departed.”
Sergeant McNaughton didn’t bother to ask in which direction. Tulip Street, like so many others on the Hill, was one way and barely passable at that. The cabbie would have headed straight for Beacon Street because there was nowhere else he could go. Mr. Hartler needn’t have given him any direction until they were in a position to change course.
“If he was only going a short distance, like say over to Arlington Street, would he have bothered with a cab?”
“In this case, I should think he might,” Sarah replied. “He was all of a twitter to get at those chairs, and riding was faster than walking. And it was dark and raw, and though he’s lively enough for his years, he does have a heart condition.”
“How’s the condition of his bankbook?”
“Fine, as far as I know. I believe Mr. Hartler is quite well-off.”
“In the habit of carrying a wad of cash around with him?”
“I couldn’t say. He spent a fair amount of money on me this evening. After that blasting I gave him, he rushed out and bought me a big bunch of roses, and some expensive chocolates, and a bottle of benedictine. He probably paid cash, because he hasn’t been living back in Boston long enough to have charge accounts around the Hill, I shouldn’t think. What’s the matter? Has he been robbed?”
“I shouldn’t be surprised,” said Sergeant McNaughton. “We found nothing in his wallet except some personal papers and an I.D. giving this address. Loose change in the pockets, that’s all.”
“You mean you ha
d to search him? Then he’s—”
“Afraid so, Mrs. Kelling. Hey, somebody catch her!”
After that, things became fuzzy. Sarah had a dim awareness that Mr. Bittersohn had somehow manifested himself in a maroon bathrobe and was yelling at the policeman. “Why didn’t you hit her over the head and be done with it? How much do you think she can take?”
Mariposa was being rude in Spanish. Charles was trying to get the madam to drink something that unfortunately turned out to be the benedictine Mr. Hartler had brought. Sarah got sick to her stomach just smelling it. Poor Sergeant McNaughton was trying to apologize. Sarah didn’t want any more apologies. She’d had one too many tonight already. She sat up, noting with surprise that she was on the library couch although she had no idea how she’d got there, and shouted, “Shut up, all of you!”
They were so astonished that they did.
“Charles, give that stuff to Sergeant McNaughton. He needs a drink more than I do. Mariposa, go make some coffee. And put some more clothes on before you freeze to death. And straighten your cap!”
Mariposa must have become suddenly aware that a sheer black nylon peignoir set and her ruffled cap worn backward with the orange ribbons dangling down over her nose did not constitute an adequate uniform, for she bolted toward the kitchen. Charles, with a low bow, presented the liqueur to the policeman. Sergeant McNaughton, having given it a suspicious sniff, drained the tiny glass.
At that point Mrs. Sorpende joined the party wearing a sumptuous ecru satin negligee that Sarah thought looked vaguely familiar although she couldn’t recall ever having seen the lady en déshabillé before. The other lodgers must still be asleep. With any luck, they’d stay that way.
“Now,” said Sarah, “would you all please quit dithering and sit down? You’re making me dizzy. Mr. Bittersohn, what are you doing with that whatever-it-is?”
“Covering you up,” he said, suiting the deed to the word. “You’ve got to be kept warm. You’re in shock.”
“I daresay I am and I’m sure I have every right to be, but isn’t that your good overcoat?”
“It’s the first thing I could find. Lean back.” Sarah did, and found a nest of pillows had been prepared for her. They felt extremely comfortable. She was tempted to close her eyes and drift back to wherever she’d been a moment ago. Perhaps she did, because after a while she heard whispering and rustling and scraping of chairs to which she did not deem it necessary to pay attention. Then she smelled coffee and somebody said, “Do you think we should wake her?” and somebody else said, “No, let her sleep,” and she sat up again.
“Set the tray here, Mariposa. Mrs. Sorpende, will you take sugar?”
“I’ll take the pot. You lie still and let me pour. Here, drink this. Mr. Bittersohn, would you be good enough to steady the cup for her?”
Mr. Bittersohn would be good enough. Sarah sipped, made a face though she knew landladies weren’t supposed to make faces, and said she didn’t care for sugar, thank you. Mr. Bittersohn and Mrs. Sorpende both told her to drink it anyway because sugar was good for shock.
Perhaps it was. At any rate, the room came slowly back into focus. Sarah made sure everybody else had coffee, too, especially Mariposa, who might have taken a chill, although Mariposa was now engulfed in a large and lurid robe that must date from Charles’s pre-Hudsonian period. Then she called the meeting to order.
“Now, Sergeant McNaughton, if you’re quite sure you feel up to talking, would you kindly tell us what this is all about? Where did you find Mr. Hartler?”
Sergeant McNaughton uncrooked his little finger, set down his empty cup, cleared his throat, and became official again. “I must remind you, Mrs. Kelling, that no formal identification has as yet been made. However, considering that the victim answers your description, has his name on identification papers, stamped inside a hat that was found nearby, embroidered inside his overcoat and suit coat, and printed in indelible ink on his underwear—”
“And he’s not here and his bed hasn’t been slept in,” Charles prompted sotto voce. “We looked, remember?”
“Oh yeah, thanks. Anyway, we can assume for purposes of investigation that he’s the guy. The body was found in the Public Garden right beside that fancy bird-house down by the pond on the Arlington side before you get to the bridge. The foot patrolman who discovered the body deduced from the evidence that the victim had been mugged and robbed. Acting on approved police procedure, he then—do you want the whole report?”
“No,” said Sarah. “Just give us the gist Was Mr. Hartler—had he already—”
“We don’t get ‘em much deader, Mrs. Kelling. He’d been dealt a number of blows on both the front and the back of the skull with a heavy instrument. There’s no way we can see that it might have been anything other than deliberate homicide. The medical examiner’s report isn’t in yet, but we think he was knocked out from behind and then—well, you said to skip the details.”
“When did it happen?” asked Bittersohn. “Sometime close to midnight, probably. Not long before he was found, anyway.”
“Then I expect he’d have been on his way back here,” said Sarah.
“Walking? But you say he had a bad heart Why didn’t he call another cab?”
“Sergeant, how do I know? Maybe there wasn’t a phone where he was. Maybe he just decided to walk. Mr. Hartler was—unpredictable. Wouldn’t you say so, Mrs. Sorpende?”
‘Totally, I should say, although I’d only known him a few days,” the older woman agreed in her deliberate, well-bred voice. “Mr. Hartler appeared absorbed in this project of his almost to the point of monomania. If those chairs did in fact prove to be what he was looking for, I’d think he’d have been so excited he wouldn’t know whether he was walking or flying. I must admit I amused myself this evening wondering what he’d be like when he came back. I pictured him rushing through the house waking us all up to spread the good tidings, and I was thinking what various people’s reactions would be if he did. Then of course I realized our excellent Charles would hardly permit such a disruption to occur.”
The excellent Charles allowed the merest ghost of a gratified expression to flit across his handsomely composed features. Mariposa said, “Damn right he wouldn’t.” Mrs. Sorpende kindly pretended she hadn’t heard.
McNaughton nodded to Mrs. Sorpende, then turned to Sarah. “This lady says she hadn’t known him long. What about you, Mrs. Kelling?”
“I’d met him a few times over the years at my Aunt Marguerite’s. Actually she’s only an aunt-in-law, but I’m sure you don’t care about that.’ Anyway, Mr. Hartler had heard, I suppose from her, that I was opening my house to lodgers and got in touch with me. At that time I’d already rented the room he wanted to Mr. Quiffen. Then when Mr. Quiffen was killed—would you all mind if I were to faint again?”
“Don’t be funny,” snarled Bittersohn. “Charlie, can’t you find something to give her besides that goddamn benedictine? McNaughton, do you think there’s any chance you can keep this away from the papers?”
“Jeez, I don’t know, Max. You mean this old Mr. Hartler had the same room Quiffen did, the guy that got hit by the train? Boy, that ought to be good for a few more headlines.”
“Remind me to recommend you for the tact medal, Mac. Why don’t you get out of here and go see if you can lose yourself somewhere?”
“Okay, Max, if that’s how you feel. Mrs. Kelling, I hate to keep pestering you like this, but do you know of any relatives we could notify?”
“Mr. Hartler had a sister, but he told us she’d gone to stay with a friend in Rome. No doubt he’d have her address in his room. Charles, did you lock his door after you looked in to see if he was there? If you did, go get the key.”
“Stay where you are, Mrs. Kelling,” said Bittersohn. “You’re not up to this.”
“I know, but it’s my responsibility, isn’t it?” Sarah untangled herself from the overcoat and stood up, Mrs. Sorpende assisting her on one side and Mr. Bittersohn on the other. “You m
ight as well join the party, Sergeant McNaughton. It’s just across the hall.”
Sarah herself had been making a point of staying out of the lodgers’ rooms herself and leaving the cleaning to Mariposa, in order to avoid being tagged a snoopy landlady. She hadn’t set foot in the erstwhile drawing room since they’d got rid of Mr. Quiffen’s things and spruced it up for Mr. Hartler. It was going to need resprucing. During his so-short stay, the old man had contrived to make an unholy mess of the place.
Uncle Gilbert’s beautiful desk was heaped with papers. The file drawers that had been installed to hold Mr. Quiffen’s vituperative but neatly organized correspondence hung half open, revealing a welter of newspaper clippings, travel folders, plastic leis, and, for some reason, a tattered felt pennant bearing the slogan, “Let’s Hear It for “Hawaii!”
Vases, cardboard cartons, trinkets, jardinieres, bits and pieces of antique or semi-antique furniture were crammed everywhere. The somewhat threadbare but still precious oriental carpet that Sarah had paid to get professionally cleaned before she started renting her rooms now looked as though it would have to be sand-blasted.
“He wouldn’t let me clean,” said Mariposa defensively. “I told you so yesterday.”
“I know you did,” Sarah answered. “That’s another thing I meant to scold him about. Ridiculous, isn’t it? I suppose we might as well tackle that beastly desk first”
The task that had looked impossible turned out to be a cinch. Almost on top of the heap lay a letter on flimsy air-mail stationery from an Italian hotel.
“Dear Wumps,” it began. “You were right as usual!!! I was a fool to have come and, as you see from this heading, I’ve had to move out. It wasn’t so much Dorothea’s DRINKING that I found impossible to cope with, though you know my views on EXCESS, but there were OTHER problems I cannot bring myself to put on paper, EVEN TO YOU!!! I refuse to remain in such an ATMOSPHERE and have already started haunting the airline offices. I can’t tell you what flight I’ll be on because I intend to take the FIRST CANCELLATION THAT COMES UP!!
The Withdrawing Room Page 11
