The Resurrection Man

by Charlotte MacLeod

  “Does it matter? She’ll find out sooner or later anyway. Won’t she come in here to see what’s holding up the show?”

  “Her? Never. The drawing room is Phyllis’s territory, Cook’s domain is the kitchen. I just hope Leila didn’t go barging in there when she went to the bathroom and blurt it all out. That woman has about as much tact as a power saw. Max, why am I so tired?”

  “You’re getting old, kid. Cracking up and falling in parts, as my Uncle Hymie would say. Like the rest of us.”

  “I suppose so. Anyway, Cook’s probably asleep in her easy chair and I’m stewing about nothing. Seems to me that’s all I’ve been doing lately. We still haven’t done anything much about Anne’s painting, either. It’s a wonder Percy isn’t yammering for his retainer back. Or did he pay one? I can’t even remember. Try to think of me as I used to be, dear, before I fell into parts.”

  21

  LEVITAN MUST HAVE BEEN working on the principle of age before beauty, it seemed at least one infinity later before Sarah found herself in the den that had also been George Protheroe’s bedroom. By now just about everybody else had been questioned, most of them had gone home. Brooks and Theonia had had business to attend to; Sarah had wanted Max to go with them because she could see that he was in pain, but he’d refused to leave her here without him. Rather than miss out on any of the action, wily young Jesse had elected himself a member of the cleanup squad. When last seen, he’d been washing dishes in the kitchen, with Phyllis at his elbow supervising every dip and wipe. Sarah herself had by no means been idle during the long wait. She’d broken the news to Cook and soothed her with reminiscences of Percival. At Dr. Harnett’s insistence she’d helped Anora upstairs, and got her undressed and into bed. She’d then persuaded Marcus Nie not to commit suicide so that he could join his godfather. It would, she’d explained, be rude of him to interrupt George’s reunion with Amadée Dubrec before they’d even had time to get caught up. Marcus’s turn would come sooner or later, in the meantime Anora still needed him. This had, Sarah realized in retrospect, been a singularly odd conversation. She wondered very much about Marcus Nie.

  She’d been under the impression that the artisan hadn’t budged from his place at Anora’s feet all during the postburial visit, but apparently this was not so. While she was putting Anora to bed, her old friend had mentioned how Marcus had gone alone into the den and knelt by George’s empty couch in an agony of tears; at least that was what he’d told Anora when he’d got back. Sarah had tried to pin Anora down as to when this had happened but she’d got nowhere, Anora had been too confused. The incident might not have occurred at all. However, Sarah was inclined to think it had, judging from the way the godson had carried on after Anora had gone upstairs.

  She could see why Marcus might have felt a strong attachment to George, the man didn’t seem the type to have many friends. She couldn’t think why Marcus would have brained Amadée Dubrec, unless out of jealousy for the older man having been George’s close associate before Marcus was ever born. She still didn’t know how Marcus had got to be George’s godchild; she’d tried to get him to explain their relationship but he’d gone silent again and she’d had to give up. Doubtless Anora knew; it was probably of no consequence in any event, but Sarah still wanted to find out.

  At the moment, though, this was Levitan’s turn to ask, and hers to answer.

  “Mrs. Bittersohn, I suppose you know everybody who’s been here today?”

  “I’ve met most of them at various times, in a casual way.”

  “What about this Mrs. Lackridge? She claims to be a great pal of yours.”

  “How kind of her.” Sarah couldn’t quite keep the ice out of her voice. “Actually Leila was more a friend of my late mother-in-law. They were involved together in a number of civic organizations and used to stick me with a good deal of the dog work. My first husband had been a college roommate of her former husband—she and Harry Lackridge were still married then—so we naturally saw a good deal of one another while Alexander and Aunt Caroline were both alive. Afterward, Leila and I had no interests in common and didn’t bother to keep in touch. But you know how it is with people one’s known for a long time. I suppose one does feel a certain tie.”

  “I get it. But you say you’ve worked with Mrs. Lackridge on various projects. What sort of witness do you think she’d make?”

  “Arrogant, abrasive, and biased, but not consciously untruthful, if that’s what you want to know.”

  “So she was right when she said she hadn’t been away from the party more than a few seconds before she found Mr. Dubrec’s body?”

  “Oh yes, I saw her leave the room myself. Leila hadn’t been gone any time at all before she was back with the gory news. She wasn’t particularly tactful about it.”

  “What did she say?”

  “She said the drunken old Frenchman was lying in front of the downstairs bathroom with his brains all over the floor. Those weren’t her exact words, but that’s the gist. So then my husband went out to check, brought in one of the policemen, had my cousin telephone you, and told everybody else to stay put. I assume you know all that.”

  “Right. Mrs. Lackridge told me she’d never met either of the Dubrecs before. Is that right?”

  “Probably. I don’t think most of the others had, either. I certainly hadn’t. I expect the son told you about his father’s former connection with the Protheroe family?”

  “Oh yes. Mrs. Lackridge claimed she hadn’t known anything about that.”

  “I don’t suppose she did, it was all so long ago. Leila got to know the Protheroes more or less by inheritance, as I did. Her father was in George’s class at Harvard. But then he went into his family’s publishing firm. I doubt whether he’d ever have shown much interest in the Protheroes’ importing business, and he certainly wouldn’t have cared to know any of their employees.”

  “That kind, eh?”

  “Very much that kind. Lieutenant, do you have anything else you want to ask me? Because I have something you ought to know.”

  “Terrific. Go ahead, Mrs. Bittersohn.”

  “As I mentioned, I’d never met either of the Dubrecs before and couldn’t think why they’d shown up at the funeral. I did know Anora must have invited them; otherwise they wouldn’t have been let in, as you know. So naturally I was curious. When I got the chance I went over and spoke to them, as one does at these affairs. The three of us chatted a bit, then the son wandered off and I was alone with the father.”

  “And so?” Levitan prompted.

  “I have a feeling Mr. Dubrec took me for some relative of Anora’s, or it may have been just that he’d had a little too much wine,” said Sarah. “Anyway, he became quite confiding. He explained to me that he was here on a secret mission. Years ago, while he and George Protheroe were together in the Orient on a buying trip, George became terribly ill and wasn’t expected to live. In the hospital, he’d written a letter to be opened by Anora after his death. He’d given Mr. Dubrec the letter to keep until the time came for Anora to have it. Of course, as you know, George actually lived for many years afterward, but all this time Mr. Dubrec had held on to the letter as a sacred trust. That’s why he’d come back for George’s funeral. A man in his nineties, imagine!”

  “Did Dubrec tell you what was in the letter?”

  “Oh no, it was no business of mine. I don’t suppose he knew himself, Mr. Dubrec hardly seemed the type to read somebody else’s mail. However, he and George had been the closest of friends and it’s quite possible that, without actually having seen the contents, he had a pretty good idea of what George might have written about. I should say that it’s also possible Anora already knows. George was in a high fever for quite some time after Dubrec brought him back from the Orient, and she was right with him night and day. He might very likely have babbled his secret, if there really was one, in a fit of delirium. Anyway, that’s my story.”

  “Uh-huh. Dubrec didn’t tell you where he was keeping the letter? It wasn
’t on him when we searched his clothes, do you think the killer could have taken it?”

  “Not from his body. Mr. Dubrec told me the envelope was too big to carry around, and quite bulky. Have you searched the room he was sleeping in?”

  “Not thoroughly, yet. When was Dubrec planning to hand over the letter to Mrs. Protheroe? Did he mention that to you?”

  “Yes. He asked my advice as to whether he should do it tonight or wait until after breakfast. He was planning to leave late tomorrow morning, I expect the son told you that.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “I suggested he do it as soon as the others left, and get it over with. So it looks as though somebody overheard me and decided they’d better kill him right away to keep Anora from getting the envelope. I wish to heaven I’d kept my mouth shut.”

  “No sense blaming yourself, Mrs. Bittersohn. Who was close enough to eavesdrop on you?”

  “I didn’t think anybody was, but you know how it is at these affairs, people wander around. I shouldn’t be surprised if there were a few lip-readers present, now that I think of it. So many of Anora’s friends are elderly, some of them may have hearing problems.”

  “Huh. And you don’t think the son knew about the letter? Why not? Didn’t he and the father get along?”

  “I don’t know whether the son knew anything about his father’s secret mission, I only know Jacques Dubrec wasn’t present when the father and I discussed it. As to their getting along, they seemed to be genuinely fond of each other. The son became terribly upset when he realized Leila Lackridge was talking about his father, he tried to rush out into the hall. I held him back.”

  Levitan found this amusing. “You held him back? Jacques Dubrec’s a big man, Mrs. Bittersohn.”

  “I know. It was only for a second, my husband and my cousin Dolph came to help me. Then Jacques sat down and talked quietly enough about how he’d taken his father to the bathroom and intended to walk him back, but the father had said not to wait, he’d rather come in here and be by himself alone with George for a while. This is where they’d used to talk over their business. It was,” Sarah lost her voice for a moment, “rather touching. Then the son broke down and started to cry and Dr. Harnett gave him something to quiet him down. You’ve heard all this, I suppose.”

  “That’s okay. Come on, let’s go look for the envelope.”

  “Just so we don’t waken Anora. Her bedroom’s directly at the top of the front stairs. We’d better slide up the back way.”

  “You know this house pretty well, do you, Mrs. Bittersohn?”

  “Oh yes. As a child I used to stay here overnight sometimes when my parents went away. Anora and George were always very kind to me.”

  “Treated you like a daughter, did they? Childless couple, maybe Protheroe left you something in his will?”

  Sarah was not amused. “That’s rather unsubtle of you, Lieutenant. The answer is no, I did not murder George in order to collect an inheritance. He and Anora did not treat me like a daughter, they treated me like a nice child who’d come to visit. When they got tired of me, they’d send me out to the kitchen to play with Cook’s pussycat. They’ve given me nice presents on appropriate occasions, as they have to the daughters and sons of their other friends. George Protheroe was quite aware that my parents could and would provide for me; also that I have a husband and many relatives, with few paupers among them.”

  “Okay, Mrs. Bittersohn, you can’t blame me for trying. What about his friends the Dubrecs?”

  “George made a very handsome settlement on Amadée Dubrec at the time the business was sold. Mr. Dubrec told me that he’d used the money to establish himself in business in Arizona and done very well. They kept in touch, so George must have known that his friend was prospering and didn’t need any more help from him. I hadn’t known about Marcus Nie until today, but Anora says Marcus and George were devoted to each other, so George may have made some provision for his godson. Unless Marcus already has money of his own, which is quite possible. He works for Bartolo Arbalest, did he tell you that? He and Jacques Dubrec both. But anyway, my guess is that George left most of whatever hasn’t been spent by now to Anora for her lifetime and then to his niece and her children.”

  None of whom was among those present. Levitan glanced down the list of people he’d been interrogating.

  “I don’t remember talking to any relatives except the godson, if you can call him a relative.”

  “He might actually be one, I wouldn’t know. George’s niece wasn’t able to come; she’s sick herself, Anora told me. Her son and daughter and the daughter’s fiancé attended the funeral and went to the grave, but didn’t come to the house. I believe they all had jobs to get back to.”

  Or something. At least they weren’t hypocrites. The niece and her husband, when he was alive, had been faithful enough in their visits, but their offspring had never overwhelmed George with attention. Sarah supposed one shouldn’t blame them too much, George in his later years had been the dullest man alive and Anora’s parties weren’t much livelier. She’d ducked a few herself. She didn’t want to stay in this room any longer, she stood up.

  “I thought we were going to hunt for that envelope.”

  “We are.” Levitan got up too, and waved her out the door. “Which way?”

  “Through here.”

  The back stairway was poky, closed in by oaken doors below and above. The walls above the golden-oak wainscot were plastered but had never been papered, sometime or other they’d been painted a less-than-heart-warming shade of tan. Sarah couldn’t remember them any way but this. The whole house needed redoing. Anora wouldn’t bother, Sarah didn’t think the widow would care to live much longer without George to fuss over. She was relieved when Levitan spoke again.

  “You said it’s a big envelope. How big?”

  “Mr. Dubrec didn’t say, exactly. I automatically visualized it as the standard nine-by-twelve file size. He said it was brown and quite bulky; I wondered if perhaps George had put in some kind of present for Anora, possibly a joke such as a portait of himself dressed up as a rajah. George had a rather childlike sense of humor. Oh dear, I’m going to miss him.”

  Levitan had no time for mulligrubs. He looked down the hall, all the doors were closed. “Which room?”

  “Good question. Let’s just keep trying till we come to a suitcase.”

  And perhaps an unmade bed; Phyllis might not have had time to straighten up the bedrooms before she’d left for the funeral. Sarah opened the door at the end of the back hallway. This was where she’d slept those few times when Anora and George had babysat her. Nothing here except a made-up bed and a film of dust on the dresser, poor Phyllis didn’t get around to things as briskly as she used to. The next room, the one directly opposite the back stairway, was occupied. Carnaby Goudge was sleeping it off. Fortunately whoever’d put him to bed had remembered to remove his shoes.

  “Who’s this guy?” Levitan asked.

  “His name is Carnaby Goudge, and he’s a professional bodyguard, currently working for Bartolo Arbalest. Or has been, until now,” Sarah amended. “I don’t know how well his getting smashed at a client’s funeral is going to set with Mr. Arbalest. But then I don’t know why Anora invited any of them to the funeral.”

  “Who’s them?”

  “Arbalest himself, Mr. Goudge, and Lydia Ouspenska. Counting Jacques Dubrec and Marcus Nie, that makes five members of Arbalest’s atelier present.”

  “Atelier? Means workshop, doesn’t it? Why shouldn’t Mrs. Protheroe have invited them?”

  “Well, naturally Anora was entitled to ask anybody she wanted. It’s just that there are a good many other people whom she’d known far longer, who’d expected to be asked but weren’t.”

  “What do you mean by longer, Mrs. Bittersohn? How long had Mrs. Protheroe known Arbalest?”

  “Do you know, Lieutenant, that’s a good question. To the best of my knowledge, they’d only met a couple of months ago. He calls himse
lf the Resurrection Man; he and his employees specialize in repairing works of art, including what I suppose you’d call high-class bric-a-brac. Anora and George had a pair of filigreed Indian silver candlesticks that they wanted to give George’s great-niece for a wedding present. The pieces needed to be cleaned and repaired first and a friend recommended Mr. Arbalest, so they called him in. Anora told Max and me that George and Mr. Arbalest had hit it off like old friends and had a long conversation about Asian art. She said George hadn’t been so animated in ages. Perhaps that’s the reason she asked Mr. Arbalest to the funeral, because he’d been nice to George.”

  “But why the bodyguard?”

  “Because for the past twenty years or so, Bartolo Arbalest has been plagued by a series of disasters. Not to himself, oddly enough, but to the artisans who’ve worked for him. Several of them have died in various unexpected ways and the word’s got around, with the result that he’s had a terrible time finding expert craftsmen who are willing to join his atelier. He tried to hire my Cousin Brooks once, that was in New York. But Brooks didn’t want the job and neither did anybody else, so Mr. Arbalest moved to Los Angeles until disaster struck again, then to Houston with the same result. Now he’s back on the East Coast. This time he has all his artisans living with him, in a house on Marlborough Street with grilles on all the doors and windows and Mr. Goudge as resident security officer.”

  “How did you find out about him?”

  “Through Lydia Ouspenska, indirectly. We’ve known Lydia for some time. My husband happened to run into her a few days ago and she told him she was working for Barto, as she called him. She was shopping for truffles; Barto’s quite a gourmet cook, she says, and prepares the artisans’ meals himself. I suppose that’s to keep them from being poisoned. One can hardly blame him for taking precautions, all things considered.”

  22

  LEVITAN NODDED. “I CAN see where Arbalest might be a little twitchy by now. What else did Ms. Ouspenska tell your husband?”