The voice was thin and gravelly with age.
“Do I have the pleasure of speaking to Whit Conner?”
“You do,” said Conner, “but terming it a pleasure may be premature.”
“I’ve been reading your columns for years. I like the way you think.”
“Very nice of you to call and tell me,” said Conner cautiously. Compliments were always welcome, so long as they weren’t stretched out or a prelude to a request for money.
“My name is Hapford. I’d like to discuss something with you. A mystery that occurred many years ago.”
Conner suppressed a groan. He didn’t need this now.
“Mr. Hapford, as a reader of my column, you know I write about what I see before me today. The puzzles and bittersweet memories of yesterday I leave to others.”
“Indulge me for a moment, Mr. Conner. I have always understood that every writer injects something of himself into his work, and if you read enough of it, you can form a conclusion as to his character. If the theory is wrong, I have misinterpreted yours and I am wasting time when I have none to waste. However, if it is even partially correct, you will be at 610 Baysmore Road this afternoon at two. Good day, Mr. Conner. It has been nice talking to you.”
The phone went dead.
Conner leaned back. He often thought many of the strange calls and letters were inspired by the photo at the head of his column as much as by what he wrote. The camera had turned his rather ordinary face with a slightly too-big nose into one so thin and bony it was almost fierce, the eyes glowing and holding a challenge.
The owner of that elderly voice hadn’t been lying about reading him for years. Anyone who had would know damned well he’d never resist an invitation like that, even if he suspected it was from an irate reader who wanted nothing more than to break his fingers. Almost every column spawned a few of those.
He flipped through the street directory on his desk. Baysmore Road was well out in the affluent suburbs. A pleasant ride, and the way he’d been writing lately, a few broken fingers might be considered a blessing by some of the paper’s subscribers. Not to mention Grainger. The editor had been looking at him out of the corner of his eye lately.
BAYSMORE ROAD had been there a great deal longer than many of the small scale palaces along it that could only be glimpsed through the trees. The people who had built these homes originally couldn’t have been concerned about the size of the monthly mortgage payments, because they probably owned the banks.
Six ten had a pair of stone columns flanking the driveway entrance, the number and the name “Hapford” showing through the patina of the bronze plaque on one.
Conner turned in and followed winding macadam he thought would never end, a black strip that didn’t carry enough traffic to discourage weeds from sprouting through the cracks and edged by an untended forest laced with underbrush and fallen trees.
The driveway climbed. And climbed. And after a sharp turn burst forth onto a carefully trimmed lawn surrounding a peaked and turreted mass of brownstone and brick.
He stepped from the car and looked up. Queen Victoria would have felt right at home. He’d always admired the style, and this was one of the finest he’d ever seen, a little weathered now and showing its age, but still saying exactly what the man who had built it wanted said—he had taste and money.
Weeds might grow in the driveway, but the sweeping lawn and blossoming flower beds were well tended, as though it were a private enclave deliberately hidden.
A waist-high stone wall flanked the driveway, broken by a tier of flagstone steps that led to a wide terrace of grass, another tier of steps beyond it leading up to a columned and arched portico framing double doors of oak.
Conner started climbing. It would take one helluva throw by the paperboy to reach that portico.
Fronted by a bed of flowers, another wall at the rear of the grass terrace sheltered a kneeling man working at the soil with a trowel.
“Afternoon,” said Conner when the man looked up. “Are you responsible for all of this?” He waved at the lawn and the flowers.
The man unfolded a gaunt frame until he was upright, boot-camp-short gray hair emphasizing prominent ears. “I am.”
“Very beautiful,” said Conner. “Would you be Mr. Hapford?”
The man grinned. “You’ll find Mr. Hapford inside, but it’s always nice to be mistaken for a wealthy man. I’m Ross, the gardener. Are you interested in gardening?”
“Lord no. I wouldn’t know a peony from a weed, but I know beauty and tender loving care by someone who knows his business.”
Ross placed the backs of his hands on his hips and looked out over the grounds.
Conner hadn’t realized how high the driveway had taken him. The house was on top of the highest hill in the vicinity, and he could see for miles over the tops of the trees. Below them, the tended lawn and strategically placed flower beds were confined to a short radius from the house; the balance of the hill was turned over to nature to do with as she pleased. Conner wondered if Hapford was running out of money.
Ross sighed. “You should have seen it when I was a boy. We had ten gardeners then. It was like this to the bottom. I’m alone now and I can only do so much, and J. A. wants it that way. He says to take care of only what he can see and let the rest go, and his eyes get a little worse each year. Which isn’t too bad, I suppose, since I’m losing a little range myself.”
Conner smiled. “Mr. Ross, when you get down to four roses before the front door, I’m sure they’ll be the finest four roses in the county.”
Ross grinned and lifted a hand. “I’ll drink to that. And listen, when you go inside, don’t let Madame Defarge scare you.”
Conner chuckled. The trip was worth it already. He’d found a great gardener with a sense of humor who read Dickens.
AN INTRICATE, flowery, etched border in the glass left enough clear to see the large, white-uniformed woman approach out of the shadows inside.
The aged voice on the phone evidently required the services of a nurse. This one was heavy-set, broad-beamed, and middle-aged; the type no one argues with, especially the patient.
“Mr. Hapford is expecting me,” said Conner.
She peered over a pair of half spectacles. “You’re that writer?”
The tone said she was no fan of his, but then she might have greeted Shakespeare the same way. Some people regard a writer as only a step or two above a used car salesman or a politician.
Conner smiled. “I seldom use dirty words. Does that help?”
She sniffed and beckoned.
In the large center hall, paintings hung side by side on gleaming mahogany paneling and marched up the angled staircase. A crystal chandelier gleamed with light captured and reflected by hundreds of facets, and the parquet floor edged with contrasting oak was as smooth and unworn as the day it was installed. It had seen less traffic than the driveway.
Waiting in the doorway of a large room, the nurse eyed him as though she expected him to walk off with the massive grandfather clock in the corner.
“People pay money for tours through homes like this,” he said.
“You’re not on tour,” she snapped. “Step this way.”
The room fulfilled the promise of the hall. One paneled wall held more paintings, hung from eye level to the ceiling. The furniture was dark and massive and art in itself, the fabric coverings rich.
The rug was so soft and deep Conner felt he was floating as he approached the little old man, robe across his lap, seated in an ancient oak wheelchair with a high wicker back.
Almost bald, face deeply lined, shriveled and thin, he had to be at least eighty, but he sat erect, slightly hazed blue eyes peering at Conner. Lap robe and wheelchair notwithstanding, he was clean shaven and wore a starched shirt, tie, and brown tweed jacket. All dressed up and nowhere to go, but a gentleman never received a guest without wearing a coat and tie.
Behind him was a huge fireplace, a grand piano in the corner to his left, and a ma
ssive mahogany desk, pedestals curved and inlaid with contrasting burl, placed to take advantage of the light from the french doors to his right. Beyond the doors were a red brick terrace, a wrought-iron railing, and a bulky sculpture that Conner took to be that of a woman, backed by a grove of pines.
The giant-size Florence Nightingale said, “Mr. Conner,” as though hoping the man would tell her to throw him out.
He smiled and flicked a set of bony fingers at her in dismissal.
“You are eight minutes late, Mr. Conner.”
“Not really. I didn’t anticipate such a long driveway, and I spent the rest of the time admiring your home.”
“I had an idea you’d appreciate it. After my imminent departure, it will become a museum for others to enjoy.” Hapford indicated a chair. “We receive so few visitors I forget my manners. Can we get you some refreshment?”
Conner shook his head. “No, thank you, sir. What I would like is the reason you invited me here. You mentioned a mystery. Since you call it that, I assume it is an incident that has never been explained, and if you tell me it is of an occult nature, I’m leaving.”
“You misjudge me. I called you because you write about people, not the spirit world.”
“Every newsman does.”
“Most prefer only those who make news. You, on the other hand, are interested in people whose lives would otherwise never be noticed.”
“You place yourself in that category?”
“Good heavens, no. You may indeed write something about this, but that is a very minor consideration.” Hapford waved. “You’ll find a book on the desk. While I’d like to sit and discuss it with you, I no longer have the strength to converse for any length of time. I’d like you to take it with you. Go through its contents. Check the material against other sources if you wish. Then return tomorrow at the same time. With the preliminaries disposed of, no long discussion will be necessary. Is that agreeable?”
The tone said take it or leave it.
“Let me examine the book,” said Conner.
The polished desktop was bare except for a lamp and a large, flat volume bound in red leather.
He leafed through. Newspaper clippings, notes, typewritten pages, photographs. The clippings were laminated with clear plastic to preserve the newsprint, and the pages were case bound. It certainly wasn’t a typical family album. It was more like a collection of memorabilia on which the collector had lavished a great deal of time and money and perhaps, like other projects important only to their creators, of no interest or value to anyone else once they were gone.
The first clipping was dated October 12, 1935, multi-headlined: Sculptor’s Wife Vanishes While Husband Works. Below that: House in Disarray; Intruders Suspected. And below that: Foul Play Feared; Police Seek Information.
Hapford was right. He was holding two hours or more of reading.
“The woman was never found?”
Hapford nodded.
“You need a detective, not a writer.”
“You’ll find the reports of several.”
“I’m sure you know there are writers who would jump at the chance to go through this material and discuss it with you. Instead you call someone like me and indicate that telling the story is not your purpose. You’ve lost me before the dance has begun, Mr. Hapford. Why me?”
Hapford smiled. “All will be clear in time. You have nothing to lose by reading what is in the book. However, the choice is yours. You can leave without it, taking with you only the memory of an enigmatic old man in a beautiful home.”
The challenge was in his voice again.
Conner weighed the book in his hand. Even if he didn’t know why, going through it would please Hapford and he had no real reason to refuse.
He tucked it under his arm. “I’ll be happy to read your book. Now, I suggest you get some rest. I’ll see myself out, and tell your large health-care person not to worry. I haven’t stolen anything in some time.”
Hapford chuckled. “Don’t mind Mrs. Smallcross. Her only interest is my welfare. She thinks visitors tire me out. She’s correct.”
Outside, Conner placed the book on the seat and looked up at the house. Ross had disappeared. Mrs. Smallcross was staring at him through the glass of the door, probably making certain the clock or one of the paintings wasn’t projecting from the trunk.
He drove absently, his mind on the small figure in the wheelchair. Assuming that an eighty-year-old man would be up to anything at all, what was Hapford up to?
While his eyes were failing, his brain certainly wasn’t. He might forget where he’d placed his false teeth now and then, but Conner wouldn’t want to get into a knock-down, drag-out argument with him.
The three columns he wrote each week were about people he met as he walked around the city; human interest with the slight twist and sardonic humor that made him what he was. No one was more aware that what he wrote would probably end up lining the bottom of a bird cage or a kitty litter box the next day, so he tried not to take himself too seriously. Let the reporters looking for the big story, or the political pundits who always knew how the country should be run, scramble for the Pulitzers. He was content to take his paycheck and go home after doing exactly what Hapford had said, spotlighting a few lives that would otherwise never be noticed. Perhaps Hapford would be one of them, but if he were, he could see the old man deliberately tearing the column to shreds. That wasn’t what he wanted at all.
The question was—what did he want?
He dropped the car off in the parking garage across from the white-towered newspaper building and, Hapford’s book under his arm, took the elevator to the editorial offices.
The cubicle with SOCIETY EDITOR lettered on the door had a card jammed into the slit between the frame and the glass with the name SUSAN FRAMLING inked in as though her occupancy was temporary.
The blonde young woman typing at the computer terminal alongside the desk glanced up, eyebrows arching above blue eyes. She looked like a society page editor. The short hair, glasses, and silk blouse were timeless styles—and expensive.
“Hi, Susan,” said Conner.
She frowned. “What happened to your usual, I’m-free-Saturday-afternoon-Susan-let’s-get-married routine?”
“After your twenty-fifth refusal, I sensed you might be trying to tell me something. From now on, I’ll simply worship your intelligence and beauty silently and from afar, locking deep within me the flames of passion and desire.”
“Good Lord,” she said thoughtfully, “he’s taken to reading romance novels. They’re for women, Conner.”
“Be cruel. Condemn me simply because I seek solace from this heartless world, my nights wells of torturous darkness where I spend agonizing hours longing for someone like you to make my blood course fiercely through my entire being as we love madly and without restraint and drive each other to heights of soul-throbbing ecstasy never before experienced. Your callousness is enough to make me weep, but before I break into uncontrollable sobbing, does the name Hapford conjure up images of blue blood?”
“So blue, it’s almost purple. Why?”
“I just had an interview with the man and am looking for a little background.”
“You’re lucky. Up until three months ago, I had never heard the name until I attended a party where I learned a great deal. What’s the information worth?”
“A sticky bun, a cup of coffee, and my admiring glances.”
“No wonder your nights are wells of torturous darkness. Hasn’t anyone ever told you that diamonds are a girl’s best friend?”
“Next to sticky buns. Admit it.”
She smiled. “With those words, she realized he had found the key to her heart, had solved the age-old mystery of unlocking a woman’s deepest desires. I’ll take a raincheck, Conner. At the party the conversation centered on the days when the society page meant something. With no television, commercial aviation still a novelty, long train rides a complete bore, and every motor trip an expedition, the wealthy
and well-to-do stayed home and entertained one another, all duly reported in the paper. Hapford’s name was brought up by one of the elderly women there, who was in her teens at the time. Julius Antonius—”
“Julius Antonius?”
“His father was a Latin scholar, but Julius Antonius was majoring in living it up. He was well on his way to graduating with honors when he ran into a beauty named Olga Bateau.”
Conner thought of the clipping in the book.
“Who was married to a sculptor and who disappeared.”
She frowned. “You know the story?”
“No. I just happened to know that.”
“Anyway, Hapford supposedly was having an affair with Olga Bateau, and the night she disappeared, the two lovers told Bateau that she intended to leave the next day and file for divorce. On the way home, Hapford, undoubtedly filled with champagne and jubilance, ran his car into a tree in his own driveway and was in the hospital for weeks. His father died of a heart attack, which was attributed to his accident, and if that weren’t enough, Olga Bateau was kidnapped that same night and never seen again. When he recovered, Hapford accused Bateau of faking the abduction and killing her. Bateau, in turn, accused Hapford of being whacko from the head injury he’d received in the accident, or of lying because he felt the sculpture he’d commissioned wasn’t worth the money he’d paid for it, or both. Furthermore, a man testified he’d seen a woman answering Mrs. Bateau’s description in a car with two men only a few miles away from the house at approximately the time she disappeared, and that the woman had been very pale and appeared frightened.”
“Which reinforced the abduction theory.”
“And left Hapford standing in the cold after having bared his soul to the delight of the tabloids. He never could prove anything against Bateau. Bateau even denied the two of them had come to him that night and told him his wife intended to divorce him. Hapford couldn’t prove that either. After the fuss and accusations died down, Hapford withdrew from society, filling what I understand is a magnificent mansion with priceless art, discouraging all visitors, and labeled as a nut by the people who know he exists.”
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