Haunting Investigation

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “Of course,” said Poppy, and strove to keep from screaming in frustration, afraid that if she began, she might not be able to stop. “I don’t suppose there’s a light you could flicker that might draw some attention? Maybe an outside light, something a passing car or truck could see.” Before he could answer, she said, “No; I didn’t think so.”

  Holte blinked, and whipped quickly around the room. “Is this the Mayes Brothers old warehouse?”

  “I told you — I’m not sure. Possibly.” She shivered in the increasing chill. “It would be like Stacy to tell me we were one place when we’re at another; he probably thinks of this as some kind of joke,” she added with angry sarcasm. “I’ve tried not to think about it.”

  “Are there labels on the crates?”

  “How should I know? I didn’t see any when there was a little light in the room, but they could be turned away from me.” Even as she said it, she knew what he was hoping for. “Might there be an address? Or a name?”

  “I can look. The dark doesn’t bother me as much as it does you.” Holte swung around the room. “What’s in the crates?”

  “How should I know? From their size, I’d guess it’s furniture, or statuary. Any luck in finding labels?” She worked the last two knots, and made her numb fingers move. As soon as the rope was through the last knot, she cast it away from her as if it were tainted, then rubbed her hands together as much to rid them of any hint of rope as to restore full feeling to her fingers.

  “International Business Associates?” Holte said. “Isn’t that your cousin’s company?”

  “It is,” said Poppy, her curiosity increasing. “Where did you find that?”

  “On the largest crate, stenciled on the side. Any shipping information has been removed. No addresses.” He circled around the other crates but found no additional information except a large stenciled warning in red: FRAGILE. “Statuary you said?”

  “It could be,” she said, attempting to get to her feet, but not able to stop the trembling in her legs; she lowered herself back into the chair.

  “Could it be the kind of thing your cousin helped to import?” Holte asked, and knew he had gone too far.

  “How would I know?” she repeated. Hearing how bitter she sounded, she relented and continued in a more propitiatory tone. “He told me he wanted to have someone with him when he removed the contents from these crates. He said he wanted to report the antiques, or antiquities, to the Justice Department. That may or may not be true, but at the time I wanted to believe him.”

  “That’s not surprising,” said Holte. He took another swoop around the room, hoping to discover something he could use to help Poppy get out of the room without waiting for help to arrive.

  “I could pull this chair over to the window; the seat’s kind of low, so it’s not as much as I’d like, but it could get me up a way. If I break the glass, I might be able to get out. I wish we had a crowbar. Perhaps it could work the door loose.”

  “It wouldn’t be enough to open the door,” said Holte. “You’d have to break the steel beam that the lock is holding in place.”

  “I wasn’t thinking of that side of the door,” said Poppy, her dismay returning. “I was thinking we … I could open one of the larger crates and use whatever’s inside to boost me up high enough to wriggle out of the window. The crowbar could open the crate, and when I got up to the window, it could break the glass.”

  “So it could.” Holte was amazed at her pluck. “All right. I’ll see if there is anything you can reach that will serve as a crowbar.” He ricocheted around the room, trying to find a tool that would open one of the crates, but found nothing; disheartened, he returned to her side. “I’m sorry, Poppy; I can’t find anything.”

  Poppy was still trying to restore feeling to her legs and feet, and as part of her efforts, she gave the chair as much of an examination as she could in the darkness; her fingers ran over carving on the front of the arms; she felt a few familiar shapes, and for the first time, she was interested in the chair as something more than an object of captivity. “I think this is Egyptian.”

  “What kind of Egyptian?” Holte asked as he circled the clerestory window.

  “Pharaonic,” said Poppy. “Or a very good forgery.” This last observation troubled her, and she kept her other thoughts to herself.

  Holte went back to measuring the height of the window. “The lower sill is almost nine feet off the floor. Even with the chair pulled against the wall, you would still have to reach up about seven-and-a-half feet. You’re what? five-foot four?”

  “About; a smidge taller,” said Poppy.

  “So five-foot four and a half, plus eighteen inches or so, for the height of the chair, and then add say fifteen inches for your maximum reach. That’s eight feet one inch, meaning you have eight inches for grip, which gives you the length of your hand, more or less, that would require great stress on your hands and arms. With the shape your wrists are in, are you able to pull yourself up to the window?”

  “I may have to,” said Poppy.

  “Not while your wrists are still bleeding,” Holte warned her.

  Abruptly she rounded on him. “Do you mean I’m stuck here? That there’s nothing I can do but die?”

  Holte held up his insubstantial hands. “No, I don’t mean that. But you’re exhausted, and if you fall back, trying to get out the window, you’ll be in worse shape than you are now. It isn’t a good risk.” He moved up near to her. “I have a couple of ideas. Let me try them before you take such a chance.”

  For the first time since he found her, Poppy visibly sagged. “You mean you’re leaving.”

  “I mean I’m going to try to find someone to unlock the door, and you’ve given me an idea.” Holte moved up to the window again. “Do you happen to know if Inspector Loring was in the Great War?”

  She frowned with thought. “I assume he was. I think he mentioned it at some point.”

  Holte circled the ceiling. “I’ll do what I can,” he promised. “One way or another, I’ll be back in an hour.” Without waiting for Poppy to try to stop him, Holte passed through the window, circled the warehouse, and finally found a weathered sign that identified the building as belonging to Mayes Brothers. Satisfied, he flitted off toward the Addison Newspaper Corporation building and the Clarion offices.

  THIRTY-SIX

  CORNELIUS LOWENTHAL WAS NOT AT HIS DESK, AND MISS STOTTER WAS NO longer at her station; Holte swung through the city room of the Clarion, and found himself unable to gain the attention of any of the reporters at their desks. He made the large light fixture at the center of the city-room ceiling blink, but no one noticed. He considered going to Lowenthal’s home, but changed his mind; he was not at all sure he could command the editor’s concentration sufficiently to justify the time he would have to expend in doing what he had in mind. Vexed and worried, he went on to the local police station, hoping that Inspector Loring was still at his desk. But the night shift had arrived, and Loring had gone home, leaving Holte at a standstill. He considered returning to the Dritchner house, but he had no means of questioning anyone there, no matter what he might do to alert them to the situation. It was coming on to eight, and he was aware that the night would be chilly — he wanted to get Poppy out of that basement before she had to fight the cold as well as hunger and thirst. Holte was about to depart for the warehouse when he heard the telephone ring on the duty sergeant’s desk in the next room. Intrigued, Holte went in to listen to what was being said, in the off chance that the call had something to do with Stacy, or better yet, Poppy; she had been missing long enough for someone to have noticed, and might have decided to call the police; he could not imagine Josephine doing that, but Missus Flowers might. He floated over the duty sergeant’s desk, willing the ‘phone call to be helpful to Poppy.

  “Fordham here,” said the duty sergeant, and listened to what the operator had to say. “Yeah, I’ll talk to her. Put her through.”

  Holte drifted a little nearer to the duty
sergeant, paying close attention to what was said, trying to hear everything.

  “No, there’s been no report of a missing woman tonight. Who are you?” Fordham took out a pencil and a notebook. “How do you spell Fairchild?” He wrote what the caller had said. “Why are you calling?”

  Holte could not believe how lucky he was. Taking care not to make too much noise in the process, Holte slipped into the ‘phone line and was able to hear both sides of the conversation, although he also caused some static on the line, despite his precautions.

  “My good friend has dropped out of sight. Miss Poppea Thornton, who works at the Clarion was expected to attend my party tonight — she gave me her word that she’d be here, but she’s not. It’s not like her to just vanish; she’s not the flight sort. She always keeps her word.”

  Fordham rolled his eyes, but asked, “Maybe she’s late leaving home. Have you tried calling there?” He winced as the line crackled.

  “Yes, I have, and no, she’s not there,” said Mildred indignantly. “I called her house, and the paper where she works, and she isn’t in either place. No one has seen her. So I thought you — the police — might know where to find her. That’s your duty, isn’t it?”

  “Sorry, lady. We don’t keep tabs on everyone all the time.” The desk sergeant twirled his free hand around his ear. “She might be caught up in traffic.” He was ready to hang up. “If she isn’t around by this time tomorrow, call back and I’ll put you on the assignment list, or do it earlier, if you find out anything more substantial than that your friend is late for dinner.” Now short of patience, it was an effort for him to keep from cutting the call short. “Thank you for calling us, Missus Fairchild. Sorry your friend hasn’t shown up yet.”

  “There’s something wrong, I tell you.” Mildred began to cry. “She ought to be here, or she would have notified me. Her aunt’s butler told me that she had gotten off work early today in order to attend my dinner, but she didn’t go home to change. She hasn’t spoken to anyone. Her cousin said that when he went to pick her up at the paper, she never arrived. That isn’t like her. Isn’t there something you can do?”

  Fordham hesitated. “Call back in the morning, if she hasn’t turned up. You’d do better talking to the day watch in any case. They handle missing person reports. It sounds to me like your friend just took a day off.” He prepared to return the receiver to its cradle.

  “She’s investigating a case; she’s a reporter, I told you. She’s been covering a story. The one about the Moncrief murder,” Mildred almost screamed.

  This caught Fordham’s notice. “The Moncrief murder?”

  “Yes, you cretin! If you doubt me, call the inspector on the case. He’ll tell you that she’s helped him. Maybe he can convince you that she’s in danger.” Before Fordham could respond, Mildred slammed down her receiver.

  Desk Sergeant Fordham hung up, and was tempted to ignore the call entirely, but the habits of twenty years would not allow it. He knew, as every policeman in the precinct knew, that Inspector Loring was in charge of the case, and would likely want to know about the reporter. Fordham opened his personnel directory and looked up Inspector Loring’s home ‘phone number, wholly unaware that Chesterton Holte was watching over his shoulder. While Fordham rang the operator, Holte memorized Loring’s address, and hastened off toward William Street, moving as swiftly as he could among the vast network of electrical wires that festooned much of the city. He reached the fifty-year-old building where Loring had the second floor flat, and entered the building through the side wall, where he sensed there was a living person inside; he ended up in what had once been a child’s bedroom but had been partially transformed into a den, though the wall paper still was filled with cavorting bunnies and playing kittens. There was a wall of bookshelves filled with all manner of references ranging from medical texts, to catalogues of flowers, to atlases of all kinds, to a massive catalogue of fabrics, to descriptions of all manner of weapons. There was also an old, leather chair by the bookcase; a large, roll-top desk on the opposite wall was illuminated by a library lamp; otherwise the room was dark. Inspector Loring was seated at his desk, an open file in his hands, a worried scowl on his face. The receiver of the ‘phone on his desk was held to his ear, Loring listening intently.

  “Well, thank you, Mister Grimes. I’m sorry to have taken up so much of your time; I trust you understand my situation, sir,” said Loring, and replaced the receiver.

  Holte sidled nearer, and reached for the library lamp, making it flicker in an orderly fashion. Pleased at the result, he touched it again, establishing a rhythm, trusting that he would gain Loring’s attention: . . . - - - . . . Holte was hopeful as the light blinked clearly. He did it again, taking care to keep the code clear: . . . - - - . . . . . . - - - . . . . . . - - - . . .

  “What the hell?” Loring demanded, looking up from the file, and then setting it aside as Holte gripped out his message.

  . . . - - - . . . . . . - - - . . .

  Loring had been about to turn the light off when the pattern became clear to him, and with uncharacteristic bravado, he exclaimed, “Okay. I’ll take this for an S O S. You’ve got an emergency, and for some reason you can’t ‘phone me directly, or go to the precinct house. Either that, or it’s a prank. You better tell me which, and do it right now.” He waited, and Holte repeated the S O S three more times, wanting to make it clear that this was a cry for help. “Where are you? Up an electrical pole? Well? If this isn’t some kind of freak accident, tell me what this is about.” Now that Loring had acknowledged the apparent signal, he was bothered that such a thing could be happening. Still, he felt he had to pay attention. He picked up a pencil and a pad of paper.

  Relieved, Holte settled down to tell him. . - - . - - - . - - . . - - . - . - - . - . . - - - - . - . - . - . - . . . . - . - - . - - - . - - . - - - . . . . - . . . . - - - . - . . - . . . - - . - . - . . . . . .

  - - - . . - . . . . - . . - . . . . . - - . - . - At the end, he hoped that he had got it right; it had been seven years since he had had to communicate in Morse code, and he was afraid that he was rusty with his dots and dashes. He had watched Loring taking down the letters of his message with care, and saw that all the letters were correct.

  “Poppy,” Loring said as he worked out the first word. “Poppy Thornton?” he asked nervously; he had tried to reach her earlier that afternoon and had been unable to. While this was not unusual, it rankled at him most of the rest of the day, so this extraordinary communication — if that was what it was — only fed his foreboding.

  - . - - . . . .

  “Yes!” Loring sat up and studied what he had put on the page. “Poppy locked in Mayes Bros old warehouse basement.” He looked up at the open air. “Is that it? Poppy is locked in a warehouse basement?” As he asked, he told himself that he must be going nuts.

  - . - - . . . . Holte squeezed out on the lamp. - - - . - . . - . . . - - . - . - . . . . . .

  Loring cut him short. “ — warehouse. Okay. I got that. Do you know why she’s there?” As he asked, he was trying to figure out where his informant was hiding.

  - . - - - - . - . . . - . - . . . - . . - . - - - . - - - . . . - . . - - - - . . . . . . - . - .

  . - . - . - -

  “Hurry. Okay. I get it,” Loring interrupted. “Mayes Brothers old warehouse.” He stood up. “How do you know?” He was incredulous that he should continue to question the blank air, but he was too caught up in what was happening to abandon it now.

  . . . . . . . . . . . . . - . - . . - . - - . . - - . . - . . Holte was becoming tired, but he wished that he could do more and faster. He continued to squeeze the lamp base . . . . . . . . . . . . . - . - . - - - . - . . - . .

  “Trapped, and cold,” Loring said aloud, and in the next instant he made a decision. “I’ll call the precinct. They should be able to find where that warehouse is. Though the Devil alone knows how I’m going to explain this if it doesn’t work out.” His whole demeanor was abashed, but it was apparent that he was w
orried about Poppy, and that his worry was escalating. For a moment he stood still, as if trying to make up his mind if any of this was real, or just an illusion borne out of desperation. “This is nuts,” he announced. He looked around the room, saying as he did, “I don’t know who or what you are, or if you’re here, but if we find her, I’ll owe you one.” He saluted the room, and reached for the ‘phone, and gave the operator the number of the precinct secretary’s desk. “Hurry, please.” As the ‘phone began to ring, he tapped his fingers on his desk, not wanting to wait one minute longer than he had to, in case he should lose his nerve. Finally, when the secretary answered, he had to keep from upbraiding her for taking so long. “Shirley,” he said. “It’s Inspector Loring.”

  “I recognize your voice; Fordham was trying to reach you a little while ago,” said the elderly woman who had managed the night shift information desk for almost as long as Loring had been alive, and was reputed to know the voices of all the inspectors in the Philadelphia Police Department. “What do you need, Inspector?”

  “I need the address of the Mayes Brothers warehouse, the old one, not the new one. Maybe a way to get there, too.” He stopped himself from urging her, knowing it would not work. “It’s probably in the older part of the warehouse district, but beyond that, I don’t know for sure.” He would have liked to have had something more solid to give her than what he had been provided, but he was becoming convinced that something had to be done. He could always say that he had a tip from a snitch, and was told that time was of the essence if any of his superiors demanded an explanation for his actions. “Why was Fordham calling me: do you know?”