Haunting Investigation

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “Do as much as you can, so long as we don’t have to chase the paper.” He waggled an admonitory finger at her.

  “All right.” She studied him, trying to discern what it was that he was hoping she would find out.

  “Yes. Then you can start on Moncrief’s friends, their view of him, and any reminiscences that might make good copy. You said you can get to the widow?” He saw her nod. “Good. Heavy on the sorrow and how good a man Moncrief was, unless you find out something juicy that says he had a double life or a shocking secret. You know most of them, and they should open up to you.” He considered her, once again tugging at his thinning hair. “You can work from your desk, if you think that would be better, but I want some face-to-face interviews, not just ‘phone calls.”

  “You want that for the weekend or before?” Poppy asked. “It may take a day or two to set up interviews with the Moncriefs’ friends.”

  “I want the opportunity to keep the story alive for now. If Houghton wants to use some of your work for the Saturday edition, well and good, but keep in mind that you will have a couple inches waiting for you in Monday’s early edition, and you work for me, not Houghton. You’ll turn in your work this evening, to Pike. He’ll handle it from there. And I’ll want you in at seven-thirty on Monday, unless Wyman or the cops announce that it’s a case of suicide after all, in which case, I’ll need a short summary on the resolution of Moncrief’s death.” He clapped his hands. “Chop-chop.”

  “I’ll get right on it, sir,” said Poppy, preparing to leave.

  “Oh. Westerman is going over to the Informer as of Monday, and Harris will need a new backup. Just keep that in mind.” He waved her toward the door. “On to Hadley and Grimes, then the coroner.” As she was about to step into the city room again, he nodded. “I like the shoes.”“Thank you, Mister Lowenthal.” She went back to her cubbyhole and gathered up her purse, briefcase, and umbrella. As she stepped out of the building, she discovered that the drizzle had increased to a steady, sullen rain. So much for spring, she thought. She brought her umbrella up and decided to take a cab to the offices of Hadley and Grimes, though they were only six blocks away, and ordinarily it would have been a pleasant walk, but not in the weepy rain that washed over the city. She stepped to the edge of the curb and lifted her arm, feeling a rivulet of chilly water slide down her hand and into the sleeve of her coat and blouse. The spreading wet seemed to her to be the theme for the whole day ahead. As a cab pulled up in answer to her raised arm, her shoes and silk stockings got splashed. “Damn,” she muttered as she opened the door and furled her umbrella as she climbed inside.

  The ride was uneventful but for the congestion near the newly completed Benjamin Franklin Parkway, which was still clogged with the automobiles full of the curious and proud. The cabbie swung through the confusion with expert skill, pausing only once to allow a heavily laden delivery wagon, drawn by two straining Belgian Drafts, to pass. Poppy kept waiting for Holte to speak up, but eventually concluded that he was not in the cab with her, and stopped listening for him.

  Hadley and Grimes was located in a twenty-eight-year-old four-storey building that was a stunning example of Art Nouveau; stylized acanthus twined around the four pillars in the front, and provided a handsome fanlight over the double glass doors. More acanthus in low-relief carving and mosaics covered one wall of the lobby, and formed the design of the bannisters on the main staircase, the stairs being of polished rosy-veined marble. The bronze elevator doors were fronted with etched water lilies. According to the lobby directory, Hadley and Grimes had the whole of the second floor. Poppy went up the stairs and into the lobby, which had a black wreath over the receptionist’s desk. There was no one else in the lobby but the receptionist, and the place felt unnaturally quiet.

  “May I help you?” asked the woman behind the desk, a well-turned-out red-head in a very dark green suit.

  “I’m P. M. Thornton of the Clarion; I have an appointment with Mister Hadley.” She looked up at the wreath. “Sorry about the loss of your Mister Moncrief.”

  “That’s why you’re here?” the receptionist challenged her. “For your appointment?”

  “Yes.”

  The receptionist depressed the call button on her desk. “Miss Thornton to see Mister Hadley.”

  “Send her in.” The voice was male, which surprised Poppy; she had assumed all the secretaries in the company were women, for this firm was known to have a policy of hiring female secretaries.

  The receptionist used her pencil to indicate the way to Hadley’s office. “Turn left here, take the first right you can, go past the two cross-corridors around this side of the atrium, then take the left to the suite at the end of the hallway.” She made no effort to smile. “We’re on half-staff today, out of respect for Mister Moncrief, so if you get lost, it’ll take a while for someone to find you.”

  “Thank you; I’ll be careful,” said Poppy, and found her way through the maze to the oaken door with the elegant low-relief carving of stylized water lilies following the arch of the lintel. Quentin Hadley was etched on a small plaque of dark marble in the frame of the sinuous flowers located at about eye level. Poppy knocked, not too forcefully, but enough to draw the attention of Hadley’s secretary.

  “Enter,” called the same voice she had heard at the receptionist’s desk.

  Poppy let herself in and found a desk on her immediate right, with a typewriter, a ‘phone, and a lamp on it. Behind the desk sat a tall, lissome young man with slicked-back dark hair, dark eyes, in a suit that was not quite black. His shirt was pristinely white, his tie a subtle black-and-grey stripe, and he wore glasses with the thinnest of wire rims; a narrow black band circled his right arm above the elbow. He rose from his chair. “If you’ll take a seat, Miss Thornton, I’ll ask Mister Hadley if he’ll see you now.”

  Before she sat down, she looked at the name-stand on his desk: Clifford Tinsdale. She made a mental note of it as she took her seat on the upholstered window-seat where she watched the rain bead and slide down the glass. She found herself thinking that she might have come on a fool’s errand, for she felt no hint of helpfulness, or even interest, at Hadley and Grimes.

  A few minutes later, Tinsdale reappeared. “He’s ready for you. But I’ll have to interrupt you in twenty minutes. Mister Hadley has a client arriving.” He gave a kind of automatic smile with nothing to it but a flash of teeth.

  “Thank you, Mister Tinsdale,” she said, and went into Hadley’s office.

  It was a splendid room, one of elegance and dignity, with Art Nouveau valences over the four tall windows, which were partially covered by amber-colored velvet draperies. A fireplace with more Art Nouveau tiles supporting the mantle dominated the western wall. A large rosewood desk in the same Art Nouveau style of the room faced the door from the embrasure of the largest window. Quentin Hadley sat behind it, a black armband barely visible against his dark-Prussian-blue suit; his face was so neutral in expression that it was difficult to see what a handsome man he was, with a profile a Barrymore would envy, a wide brow, and remarkably sensual lips. His folded hands lay on the clean blotter on his desk, almost as if in prayer; only by the merest flicker of his eyes did he reveal that he realized Poppy was actually in the room with him. Between the door and the desk was what appeared to be a pond of water lilies, an expansive carpet in the same design style as the rest of the chamber, which, given Hadley’s demeanor, seemed as impassible as the pool it represented.

  Taking her courage in her hands, Poppy looked directly at the forbidding figure behind the desk and stepped onto the carpet, half-expecting to find her new shoes dampened again. “Mister Hadley, I’m P. M. Thornton of the Clarion. Thank you for seeing me on this difficult day.” She walked up to the desk and extended her hand to him, which he studied as if it was an unfamiliar object, which he did not deign to touch. “My condolences to you and your colleagues.”

  “Thank you, Miss Thornton,” he answered, sounding either aloof or bored; his voice was higher than
she expected, and nasal, at odds with his elegant appearance.

  When he ventured nothing more, nor offered her a place to sit, Poppy waited for almost half a minute, then said, “I know Madison Moncrief hadn’t worked here for very long, but I would imagine that you will find it hard to find someone of his caliber to replace him.”

  “Sadly, yes,” said Hadley, and went silent again.

  “His death must have been a great shock to you.”

  “It was.” He turned to look out the windows on his right, as if mesmerized by the rain on the glass.

  “Do you share the opinion that he … he may have been responsible for his own death?” It was the most delicate way she could think of to ask the question about suicide.

  “I’m in no position to say.”

  “Do you approve of the way the police are handling their investigation?” This was a stronger question than she had planned to ask, but Hadley’s refusal to offer her more than minimal responses was becoming nettling.

  “This company has had little contact with the police. We aren’t that kind of firm.”

  “But you will participate in their investigation?” It took an effort not to raise her voice.

  “That remains to be seen.”

  “Why is that?” She asked, in as unchallenging a manner as she could.

  “I’m afraid that I cannot say anything about a matter that might impinge upon our clients’ confidentiality.”

  “Do you believe speaking about Mister Moncrief in any way would do that?”

  Hadley looked at her, then turned his gaze back toward the window. “I have to consider that possibility.”

  She decided to come at the matter from a slightly different angle. “Well, have you been contacted by the police for an interview? That’s standard procedure, isn’t it.”

  “I have no idea.”

  Poppy knew this was hedging the truth at the least, for there were few attorneys in the country that did not know how police conducted their investigations, but she hesitated to confront him on that point for fear he would throw her out; she went on cautiously. “Then would you accept that the death was something other than suicide?”

  “We must wait for the coroner to answer that; it’s useless to speculate.” He directed his gaze in her direction but seemed to focus his eyes three feet beyond her head. “I’m sorry that I made this appointment: under the circumstances, I should not have agreed to see you.”

  Poppy was growing more exasperated. “I realize confidentiality is an important part of your work, but can you tell me a little about what sort of duties Moncrief had here? He was a fairly new employee; he’d worked here what? eighteen months or so? What sort of accounts did he handle for you? Nothing specific, if you feel it’s inappropriate.”

  “I don’t believe I should answer that,” he said.

  Poppy had expected that kind of an answer and was ready with a follow-up. “Perhaps you could give me some idea of his duties, then? The police already have that information, so it isn’t a confidential matter.”

  “I can tell you that he kept the books for three corporations, and handled appropriate negotiations for them,” Hadley answered, a suggestion of a frown marring his impassive features. “I doubt you need to know more about that.”

  “It’s probably not necessary, no, though it might be of interest to our readers, if this turns out to be a more complicated … misadventure than it seems at present,” she said, and knew she had made a mistake; Hadley glowered at her. She attempted to frame another question. “Were you aware of Mister Moncrief being … unlike himself in the last few months? Were there any indications of anxiety? Did he seem disturbed or worried?”

  “He hadn’t worked here long enough to have impressed me sufficiently with his personality that I would have been able to detect such changes, as I have already told the police. His clients were satisfied with his performance, and that was sufficient to me. I don’t make a habit of becoming friendly with employees, no matter how well-connected they may be.” If he was aware of his slip, he gave no indication of it as he went on smoothly. “They — the police — accepted my assurance that there was little I could do to aid them, and have turned their attention to other persons.”

  “But if you hired Moncrief — ” She stopped and began again. So he has talked to the police, she thought. He confirmed it, apparently by accident, but perhaps it had been a clever ruse. Rapidly she reviewed what she had asked that he had avoided, and realized he seemed to want to side-step any question of what he had said to the police. “I know it must be difficult to discuss anything about one of your firm’s personnel, given, as you say, the circumstances,” Poppy began, and was interrupted by Hadley.

  “That is very true, Miss Thornton, and for the sake of his widow, and the rest of his family, I don’t think I should say anything more.”

  “Is there anything you think the police should look into regarding his death?” It was a bold tactic, one she hoped would jar him from his mask of impassivity.

  “That would be between the police and me, wouldn’t it.” He stared past her at the door. “I’m sure you understand my position: my first responsibility is to our clients.”

  Determined to get something more from Hadley, Poppy pressed on. “Don’t you find Moncrief’s death puzzling? Doesn’t it strike you as odd that two of your accountants have … died in the last year?”

  “That is not a matter for the public, Miss Thornton.”

  “Why not?” She was baffled and nettled by his intransigence, and was about to question him about this when Hadley unfolded his hands.

  “I’m sorry, but I have a meeting to attend shortly.” He pressed a button on the base of his ‘phone; a buzz sounded in the outer office. “If you will excuse me.” He rose and nodded toward the door, which opened, as if on cue, revealing Clifford Tinsdale, not quite bristling with annoyance. “Good day, Miss Thornton.”

  Nonplused, Poppy uttered a disjointed thank you as she retreated from Hadley’s inner sanctum through the door Tinsdale had opened for her.

  “Do you remember how to find the reception desk, or shall I describe it to you?” asked Tinsdale as he took his seat again, watching Poppy as if he expected her to purloin the fixtures; his smile was as artificial as the carved wooden flowers over the window.

  “No, thank you. I’m sure I can find my way out,” she said, all the while wondering how she would explain to Lowenthal the reason for her failure to cajole information from this senior partner of the firm. Retracing her steps to the front of the offices, she was surprised when a man about forty, wearing thick glasses and carrying an equally thick ledger, emerged from one of the offices and, without speaking to her, handed her a note on a file card as he passed her. Since he gave no sign of having done it, or even of being aware of her, Poppy took the file card without comment and slipped it into the hip pocket of her raincoat, planning to read it as soon as she was safely out of the building. As she reached the ground floor, Poppy realized she hadn’t had any opportunity to ask about James Poindexter.

  THIRTEEN

  RAIN SLOWED THE TRAFFIC AND FRAYED THE TEMPERS OF THOSE CAUGHT IN IT; Poppy spent most of her cab ride in deep and restless thought; she put off reading the note she had been handed, almost afraid of what it might say. Little as she liked to admit it, she found herself entertaining suspicions about Quentin Hadley, for it was hard to believe that his truculent treatment stemmed from bad manners alone. When Hadley had told her that he shouldn’t have set up the appointment with her, she had been shocked: if he hadn’t wanted to see her, why had Hadley agreed to the appointment in the first place? she wondered. She decided to spend some time in the Hall of Records to see if she could turn up anything about the corporations Hadley hadn’t wanted to name, but that would be after she called upon the coroner.

  Handing a dollar forty to the cab driver, she reminded herself that she needed to stop by the bank. It being Friday, she would need cash for the weekend, especially with Eustace in town, for
he would want to spend time out on the town, one way or another. She opened her umbrella and trudged off toward the morgue. Once inside the door, she closed her umbrella and went to the first of three ‘phone booths, slipped in her nickel and gave the operator the number at Aunt Jo’s. “I’ll speak to anyone there.”

  Missus Flowers answered the ‘phone, and upon hearing Poppy’s voice, said, “We’re quite busy here, Miss Poppy. Eustace has managed to arrange a dinner here this evening. Your aunt is out with Mister Eustace selecting some lilies for the centerpiece, so that it won’t appear too festive, but will be more than a black wreath on the table. They’re also going to the butcher for a dressed baron of beef; it will be a task to have it properly roasted in time for the dinner.”

  “Oh, dear,” said Poppy. “And I’m afraid I’m going to be late. That’s why I’m calling.”

  “I’ll tell Missus Dritchner and Mister Eustace that. Given that this is such short notice, we should be able to accommodate your tardiness. It’s good of you to call.”

  “Thank you, Missus Flowers,” she said, and hung up. She extricated herself and her umbrella, briefcase, and purse from the ‘phone booth and went along to the double doors that were the official entrance to the morgue.

  Doctor Emily Kodaly admitted Poppy to the chilly, evil-smelling basement beneath Philadelphia’s Central Hospital where Doctor Wyman held sway. Doctor Em, as she was called by everyone who knew her, was forty-three, the wife of a geologist — that crazy Hungarian rock-hound I married she often called him — working in the burgeoning oil business, and mother of two teen-age children; she was a good friend of Poppy’s Aunt Esther, and had known Poppy since she was in high school. She greeted Poppy with a serviceable smile that revealed teeth yellowed by coffee and tobacco; her white lab coat had a frayed cuff, but otherwise was the neatest thing in the office. “Good to see you, Miss Thornton. Poppy. How’s everything at the Clarion these days? How’re your reports on the Moncrief case coming?”