Haunting Investigation

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “You want me to take taxis?” she asked in astonishment.

  “Time matters on this one, Thornton. Chop-chop, as they say in China.” He made shooing motions with his hands.

  Realizing she would learn nothing more here, Poppy said, “Yes, sir. And thanks.” The word sounded peculiar to her, under the circumstances.

  “Don’t thank me yet, Thornton. Wait until you find out what happened. I hope you have a strong stomach — you’ll need it for this one.” With that for dismissal, Lowenthal leaned back, slid open the partition between his office and that of his secretary, and all but bellowed her name. “Miss Stotter! Get in here!”

  Hurrying through the main room of the editorial division, Poppy heard the ubiquitous clatter of typewriters, punctuated by occasional rings from the half-dozen telephones that provided service to the twenty-two desks, seventeen of which were occupied by harried reporters. Stopping at the frosted-glass door of the Accounting Department, Poppy was issued a generous four dollars for cab-fare while she consulted her red-leather address book for her destination. Clutching her money in her hand, she went down to the street and flagged a passing cab: it was a two-year-old Dodge Brothers sedan, and the driver was so recently arrived from Scotland that his burr sounded almost like a foreign language.

  “One twenty-eight Hamilton Place,” said Poppy, settling into the rear seat.

  “Aye, ma’am,” said the driver — at least, that’s what Poppy decided he had said. She made allowances for his accent.

  They swung around into traffic, barely missing a large wagon pulled by two hefty draft horses the color of good custard — American Creams. From there, the driver barreled past three delivery vans — two motorized, one horse-drawn — and reached the main intersection without mishap, and only three times having recourse to use his horn. For the next fifteen minutes, the taxi cut and dodged his way out from the center of the city to the venerable neighborhood marked by streets named for signers of the Constitution and members of the first three Presidential administrations. Hamilton Place was a tree-lined cul-de-sac, usually quietly dignified, now bristling with vehicles. The cabbie braked energetically, pulling up behind a cluster of police cars, and put the cab in neutral. “Is this where you want to go, ma’am?” the cabbie inquired, pointing to the surrounded house, taking unusual care to make himself understood. He was uneasy about the place. “It’s a dollar thirty.”

  “Yes, thank you,” said Poppy, handing him a generous dollar fifty. Accepting his appreciative salute with a nod, she got out of the car, carrying her bag and her brief-case with her, along with her umbrella. She was glad that now that she hadn’t worn a hat, for it would be one more thing to get wet if it rained. She walked quickly but not so rapidly that she would seem rushed; it would not do to seem flustered.

  The taxi reversed, double-clutched, then turned around, and headed back toward busier streets.

  As she hastened up the driveway to the handsome house, Poppy prepared herself to deal with the investigating police. She knew most of them considered reporters a necessary evil, and women reporters as a calamity on a par with major felonies; she needed to be ready to counter any resistance she might encounter.

  Two uniformed officers stood in the open doorway; the younger of the two glanced at Poppy. “Sorry, ma’am. The Moncriefs aren’t receiving visitors today.”

  Poppy had pulled out her press credentials and held them up. “P. M. Thornton of the Philadelphia Clarion. I understand Mister Moncrief has been found dead.”

  The older officer frowned at her. “A reporter, are you?” His tone made it clear that he didn’t believe her.

  “That’s what this says,” she pointed out politely but firmly. “If you’ll be good enough to let me in, and tell me who’s in charge of the investigation?”

  “Ask for Inspector Loring,” said the older officer, grudgingly moving enough to allow her to pass.

  “Inspector Loring,” Poppy repeated, and stepped through into the entry-hall of the Moncrief house.

  The building was not quite fifty years old, a fine example of carpenter Gothic, with a front and back parlor to the left of the entry hall, and a small sitting room in front of the dining room on the right. Just at present the sitting room was filled with policemen and a pair of morgue workers, all speaking in lowered voices. Beyond them, the double pocket-doors stood half-open, revealing a corner of the long, highly polished mahogany dining table, the green-marble mantle of the fireplace, a bit of the brass-and-crystal chandelier canted on one side, and another group of men standing in a semi-circle, most of them looking down, as if embarrassed to stare up. There was something laid out on the carpet, the face covered. Shocked in spite of all her preparation for this sight, Poppy recognized Gregory Swindon of the Pennsylvania Ledger and Wilfred Bishop of the Philadelphia Informer, standing at the fringe of the police, and she steeled herself for what was to come.

  “Inspector Loring?” she said, approaching the group of men with as firm a step as she could muster. “P. M. Thornton, Philadelphia Clarion. What can you tell me about Madison Moncrief?” She held out her hand, curious to see who among the police would take it.

  FIVE

  A MAN IN HIS LATE TWENTIES OR EARLY THIRTIES WITH EXHAUSTED, ANCIENT eyes, looked around. He was wearing a dark-grey suit, white shirt, a red-and-black regimental tie, and tan overcoat. Unlike the other policemen, he was not in uniform; his suit — from what little Poppy could see of it — was rumpled and inexpertly tailored, his shirt-collar was wilted, and he needed a shave. In return, he took stock of Poppy, eyes narrowing. “The Clarion is it? What in the name of Beelz — Black Jack Pershing made Lowenthal send a woman on a story like this?” he asked of no one in particular.

  Swindon and Bishop exchanged glances that made Poppy want to crown them both with cast-iron skillets.

  “You’ll have to ask him why he chose me; I have no idea.” This was not quite the truth, but it served its purpose. “What matters is that I’m here,” she said, finally dropping her hand. Little as she wanted to admit it, she was feeling a bit queasy.

  “So I see,” Inspector Loring said, as if taking on a new and unwelcome burden. “I hope you aren’t the squeamish type, Miss Thornton,” he went on, deliberately stepping aside to reveal the upper half of Madison Moncrief’s body lying like a discarded marionette on the floor, a heavy rope around his neck, his tongue bruise-purple and protruding. From his nose up, his face was concealed by a linen handkerchief.

  Much as she wanted to steady herself, Poppy knew that if she touched anything she would be banned from the scene of the crime and Bishop and Swindon would find a way to spread the story among their colleagues, so she closed her eyes a moment until she was sure she could maintain her composure, then said, “Ye gods, poor Louise. This, on top of everything else — she must be beside herself. ”

  Loring stared hard at her for several seconds. “You sound as if you know these people. Do you?”

  “Slightly,” said Poppy. “They’re fairly good friends of my cousin Eustace.” Belatedly she realized that Lowenthal might have had some reason beyond her being female to hesitate sending her on this assignment — not that she wasn’t determined to handle herself well, but she could see it might be trickier to do than she had first thought.

  “Oh, great,” said Swindon.

  Loring considered her a few seconds more. “Perhaps you can help us. Since you know the Moncriefs.”

  “I told you; I don’t know them very well. I’ve been to this house perhaps four or five times in the last three years, always with my cousin,” said Poppy, becoming cautious. “They are more acquaintances than friends.”

  “That’s more than the rest of us put together — none of us know them at all,” Loring said. “At least, tell me what you notice.”

  “If it will help.” Poppy made herself look down at Madison again. “How horrid. He must have suffered terribly.”

  “Strangling is a hard way to go,” Loring said, then pointed up at the chandeli
er. “He wrecked that, in killing himself. It wasn’t designed to hold so much weight off-center, and, as you can tell from the rope, he used the outer rim with the gas-jets. A strange choice; if he had chosen the center of the chandelier, he would have hung there all night. He might still be there.”

  “You mean hanging from it?” Poppy asked, and felt questions rising within her.

  “You have a vivid imagination, Thornton,” Bishop muttered.

  “No, I don’t,” she replied calmly. “It just strikes me that since it was possible to hang from the strongest part of the chandelier, it’s strange that he didn’t. If I were about to hang myself, I’d do it from the sturdiest, not the weakest, support.”

  “He’d probably have had to move the table,” said one of the policemen.

  “That’s no big problem, not if you’re going to do away with yourself,” said Loring. “He had to get up high enough to do it, but a chair would have worked as well — maybe better.”

  “Also, it doesn’t seem like Madison, to ruin something as fine as the chandelier.” Poppy shook her head emphatically.

  “He was going to kill himself,” Loring said.

  “Even then, Madison Moncrief is … wasn’t the kind of man to make a mess, and certainly not with the chandelier. The chandelier is valuable, you see, and even if it weren’t … This is much too … untidy for him. Ye gods, the man’s an accountant at one of the most conservative firms in the state.” She hesitated, then plunged on. “I didn’t know him well, but I do know he was very meticulous, and I can’t believe he’d deliberately ruin a fine chandelier. There was no reason for him to cause so much damage. He could have hanged himself from the balustrade along the gallery in the entry hall. That’s much sturdier.” She wondered if she were saying too much, if she had failed to maintain the proper perspective on the case. She decided to be a bit more circumspect.

  “Maybe he didn’t realize the chandelier wouldn’t support him,” Loring suggested.

  “It was the most obvious way to do it,” said another of the policemen, not allowing Poppy the chance to respond. “People don’t think about other people, not at a time like this.”

  “But that’s what I’m trying to tell you: Madison Moncrief would think about such things, and he wouldn’t leave this kind of destruction behind. Not with his wife asleep upstairs. Not with the housekeeper coming first thing in the morning,” said Poppy, knowing she was being narrowly watched. “He was discreet, very discreet.”

  “Yeah. And he’d still have been up there when the housekeeper arrived, or his wife came looking for him, assuming he had decided to hang from the center of the fixture, and not the rim. If he’d hanged himself in the basement or slit his wrists in the bath or took poison in the library and just drifted away, it would be neater: but his wife would be shocked, no matter what.” Loring saw the other reporters making notes and he raised a quizzical eyebrow at Poppy. “No notes?”

  “Not so far,” she said, and forced herself to go on. “How soon after he suffocated do you think he fell?”

  “Hard to say,” Loring said, and was supported by nods from the other policemen. “The blood has pooled to the low points of where he’s lying, so he probably fell pretty soon after. You can see where his shoes and legs hit the edge of the table, and his arm. It’s broken, by the way, and one ankle snapped, but that most likely happened after he died.” He pointed to the scuffs, chips, and scratches on the glossy mahogany.

  Poppy nodded. “It could be much worse, I’d imagine.”

  “Oh?” Loring prompted her.

  “Well, yes: think about it,” Poppy said, and glanced up at the lop-sided chandelier. “The whole fixture could have come down, which would mean there would be gas in the house — a great deal of gas if it continued to leak for half the night. The gas could have exploded, having had several hours to build up, and that would really be unlike Madison, taking a chance of harming others, especially since his wife … ” She met Loring’s surprised gaze with a deliberately candid one of her own. “That’s assuming this isn’t a suicide, after all.”

  “Un-huh,” said Loring. “And do you have any reason to think it isn’t a suicide?”

  “Only that the method seems foreign to the man I knew,” said Poppy, finally taking out her notebook and opening it, and making a few scribbles in it.

  “Slightly,” Loring added for her.

  “Yes, slightly.”

  He stepped back from the body. “We got all the measurements?” he asked the men standing with him.

  “Distance from the walls, from the fireplace, from the table, from all three doors. Height of the chandelier. Dimensions of the room. Made a sketch of the positions of the furniture and distances from the body,” said the nearest man in uniform as he patted the well-worn notebook in his hand. “Approximate length and condition of the rope. We’ll get that exactly when we can start moving things about. The morgue workers will take a photograph before they move the body when they get in here.”

  “The morgue workers are here, waiting in the sitting room,” said another of the policemen. “And the hearse. They want the body so they can — ”

  Loring nodded. “I’ll see to it in a couple minutes. I want to make sure we have everything covered before we let them have him. Dillon, I’ll want you to go with the body and sign off on the transfer, and collect his clothes.”

  Dillon, a fairly young man in a well-pressed police uniform had just come in from the kitchen. “Aw, Inspector.”

  “Just do it, Dillon,” Loring told him wearily.

  Bishop spoke up, “Is there anything more, Inspector?”

  “I don’t think so. Not right now. Check with the precinct this afternoon.” Loring was paying them very little attention; he frowned at the body. “Poor sod.”

  “Come on, Inspector, give,” Swindon protested. “We have to file by one.”

  “Call the precinct. If we have anything more to release, we’ll make sure you have it. If we haven’t, then file what you have so far,” said Loring, and turned to Poppy. “Lowenthal can’t object to that, can he?” He regarded the other two reporters. “Nor will van Meder or Constantine.”

  Swindon snorted. “You think so, do you? When did you ever work for van Meder?” He nudged Bishop. “Come on. Let’s get out of here.”

  Poppy stepped back, ready to leave. “Thank you, Inspector Loring,” she said as a matter of good form. “I’ll call you at three.”

  “Not you,” Loring told her. “I want you to stick around for a while. I’ve got some questions for you. About Louise Moncrief.” He pointed toward the sitting room. “Don’t worry. I’ll give you a ride back to the Clarion myself if I have to.”

  “Oh!” Poppy was nonplused at this unexpected turn of events; she wondered what Lowenthal would expect her to do now.

  “I need to find out some things from you, before I ques — interview the widow,” Loring explained as he led the way into the sitting room, pointing back into the dining room where the men with the stretcher were waiting impatiently.

  “Does she know — ”

  Loring nodded. “She’s upstairs. Her maid has called her sister, who will be here as soon as she can. I wanted to give her some time to … collect her thoughts. I understand that she isn’t … quite well.”

  “We’re done here, Inspector,” one of the policemen called out.

  “Okay. Stick around until the hearse goes. Make sure the house is secured before you leave.” He signaled the morgue workers. “He’s all yours. Make sure you check his pockets and account for any money, jewelry, or other possessions he may have on him, and see to it that Constable Dillon has a copy of your inventory when you hand over his effects. I’ll find out who’s visited the house in the last three days, why they were here, how long they stayed, and anything about the visitors that was unusual.” He pointed to a wicker couch. “Miss Thornton. If you would?”

  Slowly and carefully, Poppy sat down.

  SIX

  “YOU WERE QUESTIONED
BY THE POLICE?” MILDRED FAIRCHILD SUPPRESSED A shriek as they closed the curtains on their booth at Wendover’s Continental Restaurant. “About Madison Moncrief? Who’s dead?” She was very elegant in a mauve cashmere coat with a beaver collar over a drop-waisted dress of printed fabric designed by Klimt. Her very modish hat was set on her sculpted auburn waves at a rakish angle and she smelled of lilac and violets.

  “Yes, Milly,” said Poppy, feeling a bit foolish discussing it with her old friend; only the thought that the story was in the evening papers rid her of the conviction that she shouldn’t discuss an assignment while she was working on it.

  “So tell me: what did they ask you?” She folded her arms on the table and looked straight into Poppy’s eyes. “Were they gruff and ill-mannered?”

  “More brusque and suspicious,” said Poppy with a slight smile. “Inspector Loring was as polite as he could be, given the circumstances.”

  “But wasn’t it exciting,” Mildred kept on. “I mean, if the police should question me, I think I’d just faint!”

  “It’s nothing like that,” Poppy said, becoming flustered, now that she was away from the scene. “Inspector Loring is trying to determine how Madison Moncrief died, and, since I have had a little social contact with the Moncriefs — ”

  “Isn’t that bullying?” Mildred asked. “The police are always bullying, aren’t they?”

  “They don’t bully reporters, particularly ones on the scene who might be able to help them,” said Poppy drily.

  “On the scene.” Mildred shook her head. “You mean you actually saw the body?” she shrieked.

  “I saw it, at least most of the upper half,” Poppy said soberly. “It was pretty awful.” Sufficiently upsetting, she thought, to make her forget about her lunchtime ‘phone call to Aunt Josephine.