The Resurrection Man

by Charlotte MacLeod

  “Look at this, Anne, the entire vent’s rising right up. They took the screws out. Piece of cake.”

  “But it’s such a small hole,” Anne objected.

  “Not all that small,” Sarah insisted. “I could wiggle my way through, not that I’m about to try in this dress.”

  “But you couldn’t have got the painting through.”

  “I wouldn’t have had to. Once the thief was inside, he or she could have unlocked any door or window, set the painting outside, then locked up again from the inside and crawled back out the ventilator hole, sticking the fan back in to plug up the hole and collecting the painting from wherever he’d stashed it. Nobody would have been the wiser as to how he came and went if he hadn’t forgotten to screw the fan down after him. I’d make sure that’s done as soon as possible, Anne, in case the person takes a notion to come back. So now we know the burglar was smallish, slim, agile, and a bit careless. That’s a step in the right direction, at least. I must say I’m surprised that the police overlooked this vent.”

  Anne shrugged. “Frankly, I don’t think they were all that much interested. Once they found out nothing else had been taken, no money or jewelry or even the silverware, they more or less shrugged off the painting. That’s why Percy decided to call your husband. How is Max’s leg progressing?”

  “Quite well, thank you. He still can’t drive the car, but he’s walking with just a cane instead of a crutch. Max would have liked to come with me today,” Sarah lied politely, “but he had to see another client in Boston.”

  Not that Bartolo Arbalest had been a client when she’d left Tulip Street, but Sarah wouldn’t be at all surprised to find he was one by the time she got back. Word-of-mouth advertising worked beautifully so long as it meant one satisfied customer telling another prospect. However, once those same customers started broadcasting the word that a connection with Bartolo Arbalest might also lead to an encounter with robbery, arson, or murder, he and his artisans would have to pick up and move again. If anyone ever needed help, it was Bartolo Arbalest.

  As Sarah stood looking up at the deceptive little vent, a mad thought seized her.

  “Anne, you haven’t by any chance seen a strange man around here during the last day or so? Someone small and either deeply tanned or else naturally brown-skinned, like an East Indian?”

  “Why, yes,” Anne replied quite matter-of-factly. “He was over behind the Russian olives. I keep them low and clipped, you know, to provide background for the azaleas.”

  Sarah felt she’d got more than she’d bargained for. “When was this?”

  “About half-past five this morning. I always get up early during the summer, that’s the nicest time for weeding.”

  “Was he running?”

  Anne shook her head. “I’d say he was more what you might call lurking.”

  “Really?” said Sarah. “And was he by any chance wearing a red jogging suit?”

  Mrs. Percy Kelling was not given to levity, Sarah was very much surprised when Anne burst out in a rush of giggles. “Hardly! He was wearing a rhubarb leaf.”

  “Anne!”

  “Well, perhaps I shouldn’t say wearing. Actually just—er—holding it. Where it would do the most good.”

  “Do you mean to tell me he was naked?”

  “Well, yes, though one hardly likes to come straight out and say so. It was quite a large rhubarb leaf.” Anne clearly didn’t want Sarah to think she’d been associated with any really gross impropriety. “They are, you know. I always let my rhubarb bolt once the hot weather sets in, the blossoms are rather striking and the leaves grow quite enormous. I mean, the poor man was doing the best he could in the circumstances, one has to give him credit for that.”

  Sarah was willing enough to do so, but she couldn’t help asking, “What did Percy think?”

  “Heavens, you don’t think I’d ever tell Percy?”

  “Why not? He is your husband.”

  “That’s precisely why. Percy would not understand. Percy is an admirable man in many ways, Sarah. On the whole our marriage is as happy as one can reasonably expect, but there are certain things that Percy does not accept and never will. He doesn’t ask me to help with his bookkeeping, and I—”

  Anne paused to consider just where this declaration might be taking her. Knowing Anne, Sarah decided she’d better help out. “And you don’t tell him about naked men in the garden. That’s quite understandable. But didn’t it occur to you that this might have been the person who’d stolen your painting?”

  “Of course not, why should I have thought anything of the sort? Remember, Sarah, I didn’t know then that the painting had been stolen.”

  “Right, I beg your pardon, Anne. So what did you do, just go in the house?”

  “Yes and no. You see, I was dressed in my weeding clothes, a pair of dungarees and an old T-shirt. Percy thinks they’re disgusting but one does have to be comfortable for weeding. I’d slipped down the back stairs and out the kitchen door, meaning to work for a couple of hours so I’d feel I’d really earned my breakfast.”

  “Noble of you.”

  “Oh no, that’s what I usually do. I keep an attractive housecoat hanging in the plant closet where I do my flower arrangements, so that when I go inside all I have to do is scrub up and change into the housecoat to be presentable when Percy comes down. He doesn’t mind a housecoat, he thinks they’re rather sweet and feminine. We have breakfast together, then he goes off to work and I either go back to the garden or get dressed and do errands or whatever. Anyway, there was that scrawny little fellow squatting behind his rhubarb leaf, thinking I didn’t see him.”

  “Awkward for you,” Sarah prompted. “Then what happened?”

  “Well, I didn’t think it quite the thing to walk over and ask what he was doing there. I assume the man was either a nudist who’d been for a stroll and lost his way or else he’d been mugged and robbed of his clothes and dumped out of a car. One hears such awful things on the news these days. Anyway, I finally decided the tactful thing would be to go in and change into my housecoat, bring the dungarees and T-shirt back out, and just drop them on the ground close to where he was hiding. Then I could stroll back to the house as if I didn’t realize he was there, and he could put them on and go away. I left my old sneakers, too, I couldn’t tell whether he was barefoot. I just didn’t want him darting out and grabbing me.”

  “Naturally you didn’t,” Sarah reassured her. “In the circumstances I think you acted very sensibly and humanely.”

  “Well, I don’t usually go strolling around the grounds in my housecoat, but at least I was decently covered. And the clothes were gone when I looked out the window, so the man must have understood. Anyway, that’s what I did. Then Percy came down and we had breakfast.”

  “And that was when you discovered the painting was gone?”

  “That’s right. As Percy was getting ready to leave for the office, he went into the drawing room to get a file he’d brought home, meaning to work on it after dinner, which of course he hadn’t done, as I’d known he wouldn’t. He saw at once that our little girl was missing, then we had this great hullabaloo with the police. Percy was dreadfully late getting to the office and I simply couldn’t settle down to weeding without my old dungarees, though of course I could have worn something else. Absurd, isn’t it?”

  “Not really. These things are always a dreadful shock, one does feel disoriented for a while. You’ll be all right tomorrow, Anne.”

  “I certainly hope so, I hate to let the garden get ahead of me. It was so good of you to come out, Sarah, at least one feels we’ve accomplished something constructive. Do you think I should call the police back and tell them about that loose vent in the greenhouse?”

  “It wouldn’t hurt, they might find some useful fingerprints. None of them will be mine, I didn’t touch the metal. And don’t you touch it, either, until after they’ve been and gone.”

  “Should I offer them tea? One doesn’t know the protocol,” Anne
half apologized. “In British mysteries, the bobbies are always being treated to beer, but I can’t see Percy standing for that.”

  “Oh no,” Sarah reassured her. “What you do is just thank them for coming. And now I must be going. I’ll have Brooks take some colored photographs of my sketch so that we can begin circulating them where they might do some good. Thanks, Anne, you’ve been extremely helpful. And you can tell Percy Kelling I said so.”

  9

  REFRESHED FROM HIS NAP, Max Bittersohn gave his son a good-bye hug and picked up the silver-headed cane. Setting up this appointment hadn’t been the easiest task he’d ever tackled; Bartolo Arbalest was a cagy man, as he had every reason to be.

  What had turned the trick were Brooks Kelling’s name, the news about Percy Kelling’s wife’s parrot, and the real clincher, George Protheroe’s appalling death. Brooks was going along to testify that Max was really who he claimed to be. Strategy called for the two to meet at the Washington statue near the Arlington Street entrance to the Public Gardens and walk the rest of the short way together. They were scheduled to arrive on the Resurrection Man’s doorstep at half-past two on the dot; Mr. Bittersohn must understand that Mr. Arbalest had to be extremely careful about who got let into his atelier.

  Mr. Bittersohn understood perfectly, he was rather surprised that Arbalest hadn’t put up more of a struggle. Maybe it was the way old George had been killed that tipped the scales, there was something awfully persuasive about a spear through the heart. It was also possible that Carnaby Goudge had put in a good word for Max. The bodyguard might be getting bored with the jodhpurs, the high thinking, and the confinement. He might also be getting a bit edgy, Goudge didn’t like violence. Anyway, he usually seemed to prefer working on a short-term basis. Bodyguarding seemed an odd life for a Yale man, but Max supposed Goudge could have done worse. At least he’d stayed out of politics.

  So Max made a beeline for the Washington statue. As he’d expected, Brooks was already at their rendezvous, sitting on a bench surrounded by a flock of hopeful pigeons and explaining patiently that he had nothing to give them. He was suggesting that they fly over toward the popcorn peddler but they weren’t listening, pigeons never did. When he saw Max coming, he stood up and brushed off his pant legs; Brooks was neat as a cat in all his ways.

  “Ah, there, old comrade in arms,” he called out. “How goes the battle?”

  “I have not yet begun to fight,” replied Max. “Shall we dance?”

  They crossed over to the Back Bay, meandered along to Marlborough Street timing their steps neatly, found the house, climbed the stairs, and examined the gargoyle on the knocker with professional interest.

  “Shows a certain resemblance to Cousin Dolph, don’t you think?” said Brooks. “Do you care to thump, or shall I?”

  “Go ahead,” said Max. “I’ll just stand here looking solid and dependable. Better wait for the countdown, we still have three seconds to go. Okay? One—two—three—knock!”

  Brooks barely had time to get in the first thump before the door opened just enough to reveal a wary eye, a wisp of beard, and a small slice of velvet beret. “Hello, Bartolo,” he chirped. “You can come out from behind the barricades. This is my Cousin Sarah’s husband Max, guaranteed genuine and in fairly good repair. May we come in?”

  “Oh yes, yes, please do. Just a moment while I unfasten these chains. They’re a beastly nuisance, but we do have to be so careful. Mind your step, Mr. Bittersohn, I’m afraid the tiles may be a trifle slippery.”

  “Very handsome,” said Max. “Moorish inspiration, made in Portugal, I expect, circa 1926.”

  “Er—probably.” Arbalest appeared a trifle chagrined. He would no doubt have preferred that Max assume they’d been painted and glazed by Saracens around the time of the Second Crusade.

  The house, at least the entrance hall, did have a general flavor of the Alhambra. The light fixtures were in the shape of flambeaux, a stagy-looking battle-axe with a scalloped blade hung on one wall, there was a fair amount of wrought iron and carved Spanish oak around. This could have been one of the richer monasteries or one of the glitzier Ramada Inns. In such a setting, Bartolo Arbalest’s green velveteen smock, sienna-brown velvet beret, and flowing burnt-umber silk tie were obviously the garb to wear.

  Max checked surreptitiously to see whether Arbalest was wearing corduroy or velveteen trousers. He was betting on corduroy, and corduroy they were. Arbalest was as tall as Max, maybe an inch taller, dark-eyed and ruddy-skinned. He carried himself well, though there could be no doubt that his loose smock had been adopted not only for its aesthetic appeal but also to conceal the embonpoint that self-styled gourmets who send their artisans out for truffles tend to collect. His dark beard was artistically flecked with gray, as was his abundant, wavy hair, at least the half that was visible, the beret being worn very much on one side of Arbalest’s majestic head. Maybe the other half was bald, Max speculated rather hopefully.

  Still, Max knew a work of art when he saw one. Bartolo Arbalest was all that and then some. He was ushering his callers past the elegant, now-empty drawing room into a smaller room, lined with books and furnished with a carved, leather-topped desk that held some leather-bound portfolios, a Tiffany lamp, and a French telephone in shiny brass and mother-of-pearl. There were an easy chair and a not-so-easy chair, both covered in dark brown leather. A brass orrery sat on a mahogany pedestal.

  Another mahogany pedestal bore a marble carving of a hand in the manner of Rodin, only the hand was making an obscene gesture. On the walls hung a Delacroix of two gazelles fighting over a dead lion, a decidedly overweight Correggio madonna with a glowering child clinging desperately to her knee, and a small Uccello profile of a noble lady with a towering headdress and no chin whatsoever. Max smiled. Arbalest smiled back.

  “All my own work, it’s a way of keeping sane. Assuming, of course, that I ever was. Do sit down, I thought we’d be cozier here. What can I offer you? Tea? Chilled wine? I’ve a rather pleasant blanc de blancs.”

  “Nothing, thanks,” said Max. “We don’t want to take up too much of your time. Bringers of ill tidings aren’t apt to be welcome visitors.”

  “My dear sir, don’t let that trouble you. I’ve become quite adept at receiving bad news, I suppose Brooks has told you something of my history. Though I have to admit I quite lost my aplomb when you told me about George Protheroe’s horrible death. You say he was actually murdered? And with a spear? How can such horrible things happen? And why him, of all people? Robbery, I suppose, but I can’t imagine a more inconvenient house to rob. The mere logistics of trying to sort out what’s worth stealing from what isn’t would daunt even Mercury, god of thieves and pickpockets. What did get taken, by the way? Not the elephant candlesticks, I hope?”

  “No,” said Max. “Fortunately Mrs. Protheroe had already sent them along to the bride. As of this morning, she wasn’t able to tell us anything helpful. Neither was her maid.”

  “What about Sarah?” asked Brooks. “She has a sharp eye, didn’t she notice any empty spaces on the whatnots?”

  “She was pretty well taken up with Anora. The poor woman was in a bad way, as God knows she had reason to be. Sarah’s my wife,” Max explained to Arbalest. “Her family have been friends of the Protheroes more or less forever. I understand you and old George hit it off pretty well. Did he strike you as the sort of man to make enemies?”

  “Au very much contraire. Not to speak with disrespect of the recently defunct, but one thought of him more as a dear old overgrown dormouse looking for a teapot to curl up in. George was quite the most restful person I’ve ever had dealings with. A likeable man, you know, but hardly one to scintillate. He did know a fair amount about Oriental silver; we had a couple of really pleasant discussions, for which I’m grateful. It’s a pity he didn’t stick with his importing business. Or rather his family’s. That’s the problem with being born to wealth, it saps the will to go on. Who holds the money bags, if I’m not being too inquisitive? Is it his wi
fe?”

  “It’s both,” said Brooks with some asperity. “Or was. George went into the family business directly from college and was doing quite well, I believe, until he caught some devastating fever that left him permanently impaired. Did you know that, Max?”

  “Anora told us just this morning. Sarah hadn’t known, either.”

  “That doesn’t surprise me, it happened so long ago. I was only a youngster myself at the time, but I can remember my parents wondering whether George Protheroe would ever leave the hospital. They’d never have believed he’d outlive them both by many years. Entirely thanks to Anora, of course. A good woman really is above rubies.”

  Only trained observers such as Max and Brooks would have noticed Arbalest’s wince. What good woman had he lost? Wife? Mother? Girl friend? That artisan in his Houston atelier who’d racked up her car on an abutment? Tough for him, no doubt, but surely not germane to the issue at hand. Max wasn’t much for small talk on the job, he decided it was time they got down to business.

  “Mr. Arbalest, you’ve set up quite a security system here. You keep your workers under your own roof, you provide them and yourself with a trained bodyguard, you have grilles on all your windows and enough locks on the doors to start your own jail. This leads me to deduce that the string of calamities that has hit your previous employees, and now seems to be spreading to your clients, adds up to a deliberate terrorist effort aimed at yourself. Do you know why this is so and who’s behind it?”

  This was a bit much for Arbalest to handle, he reacted with asperity. “Not to be rude, Mr. Bittersohn, but isn’t that rather a personal question for you to be asking on such short acquaintance?”

  “I can be even ruder, Mr. Arbalest. Have the police in New York, Los Angeles, or Houston ever investigated you as a possible murderer?”

  “What?” The Resurrection Man’s face had turned an even sicklier green than his smock. “See here, Mr. Bittersohn, when you telephoned me a while ago, you led me to understand that you wanted to discuss certain problems relating to clients we have had in common. Now you come barging into my house and—”