by Frances
“You’ve got blue teeth,” she said. “I suppose I have too.”
“Very becoming,” he said. “I’ve always felt blue teeth add a certain note—a je ne sais quoi. An accent. Lois—”
“No,” she said. “Please, Bob.”
The grin came back, then, to his angular face.
“There you go,” he said. “Jumping to conclusions. I was about to say that Mrs. Montfort’s body is, in the curious phrase, ‘resting’ in the local undertaking establishment. So that those—”
“Oh,” Lois said, and heard a diminished note in her own voice and was furious at him for having caused it.
“You’re an impossible person,” she said, with animus. But that was a mistake, because he got up from his chair and took two steps across the terrace and took her hands—(I’m not really holding them out to him. Of course I’m not) and pulled her up from the chaise and when she turned her face away (which is certainly the least I can do) turned it back again. The impossible man. The—oaf. The— I should have set the timer….
“Now,” Bob Oliver said; and then, “you taste slightly of blueberry pie. Very pleasant. Now—what I was about to say before being so pleasantly interrupted, do you think we might pay our respects to the dead? I as an executor, and a well-established resident of Glenville, mourning a distinguished citizen and—not that I don’t. Not to be flippant—and you as—an interested bystander? For—purposes of comparison?”
“Oh,” she said. “I’d—rather not. I’d hate to. To—stare at her.”
“I know,” he said. “On the other hand, it might—clear things up. If you could say, ‘That’s the same Mrs. Montfort, all right’ or—”
“I doubt it,” she said. “I’ve told you over and over her face wasn’t much more than a blur. Still—”
“It might,” he said, “leave us free to—consider more important subjects.”
“I can’t go like this,” Lois said—rather more quickly than she wished she had; give this man an inch—and got up and went to change. Black? That would exaggerate, be self-conscious. The white piqué, on the other hand— She compromised on a soft gray dress which had a tendency to swirl about her as she moved. Which was—admit it to yourself, girl—a very becoming dress.
The curtains in the room—the dim room—at the Newberry Funeral Church were grayer than the swirling dress, hung darkly down narrow windows, doubly shielded by half-closed Venetian blinds. It was all most decorous, most hushed and gloomy.
The coffin was black; it rested at one end of the room on a draped trestle. There were upholstered chairs about the room, so that, ironically, it simulated a living room. Asked to direct, a man, also in darkest gray, had nodded his head sadly and pointed.
The room was empty. Lois shivered slightly and Bob touched her arm, gently, this time, through the thin fabric of the swirling dress. They went down the long room to the black coffin. The coffin was closed; it was blank, black wood, with dim light reflected in its polished surface. It shut what remained of Abigail Montfort from still living eyes. Which was not, of course, unprecedented; which was, nevertheless, unusual.
Glenville, and particularly the long established of Glenville, hold by the old ways. Put bluntly, friends and relatives who visit their dead expect to see their dead; to note how natural they look, how readily one might think them still alive. It is their due.
Clearly, they were here to be deprived of it. Unless—
Lois and Bob Oliver walked back the long length of the room where Abigail Montfort “rested” and into the hall beyond. The man in gray, dark gray, looked at them dolefully.
“Mrs. Montfort’s casket is not open?” Bob said. “Not to be opened?”
“It was her wish,” the attendant said, in tones appropriate to the surroundings, to the topic. “Many have been disappointed.”
“Rather unusual, isn’t it, Sammy?” Bob Oliver said. “One of the old-timers, and everything.”
“You’re da—” Samuel Newberry, Jr., said, and caught himself, and said, “It was her wish, Bob. Can’t get around that.”
“No,” Bob Oliver said. “The wish having been passed along by—”
“Mrs. Harbrook’s nephew,” Newberry said. “Mr. Keating. He told us she had been quite determined about it. So, of course—”
“Quite,” Oliver said, and they went out into brightness.
“Of course,” Lois said, “it doesn’t mean anything. I’d feel— I’d feel the same way.”
“Yes,” Bob Oliver said, and spoke slowly. “But then, you aren’t a Mrs. Montfort. Set in the old ways. With the—old obligations.”
“Probably,” Lois said, “I couldn’t have told anyway. Not been sure. It was so dark in the old house.”
X
“Nose around. See if you can connect it up. Invisibly as you can.” Those were the instructions. The last sentence asked the impossible as, of course, Captain William Weigand had known. Impossible for anybody, Nathan Shapiro thought, in such a town as this. “Who’s that man going around asking questions?” People were, without doubt, saying that already. And, Shapiro added dolefully to himself, doubly impossible for me. Even a man really good at this sort of thing, he thought, couldn’t get away with it. And as for me—looking the way I do, sticking out the way I must. And not really much good at any of this.
It always mildly puzzled Detective Nathan Shapiro that his inadequacy to almost all aspects of police work—he was a reasonably good shot with a .38; he granted himself that—was not instantly apparent to the entire Police Department, City of New York. Grant that he was now and then lucky beyond his deserts. That could happen to anybody, and happened more frequently to those whose deserts were higher. In a well-organized police department, Shapiro thought—going in to the coolness of the Inn—I would be pounding a beat. Preferably in Brooklyn. As a detective, first grade, assigned to Homicide West—
And a long, a sadly long, way from Homicide West, to say nothing of Brooklyn. Under ordinary circumstances, he would by now be near the end of his tour, almost ready to go home to Brooklyn, to Rose. In two or three hours, it would be time to walk the dog.
“Yes sir?” the room clerk said, in the coolness of the Inn’s small lobby. “Something we can do for you, sir?”
“A room for a day or so?” Shapiro asked. “If one is available? My name is Shapiro.”
You made it clear at the start. You gave people an out if they wanted an out. Saved trouble that way. Enough trouble without carrying a lance.
“Certainly, sir,” the room clerk said. “Very pleasant room with bath on the second floor?”
“I haven’t got any luggage,” Shapiro said. “Hadn’t expected to stay over.” Give the man another chance, if wanted.
“Perfectly all right, sir,” the room clerk said. “Very good men’s store up the street. Find pretty much anything you need there.”
Nathan Shapiro registered.
The room clerk said, “Room eight, just up the stairs and to the right, Mr. Shapiro. Or would you like to have a boy show—”
“I’ll find it,” Shapiro said. “Later. I’ll drop in at this men’s store and—”
He started out. He stopped and slightly snapped his fingers. (The result was disappointing; he was not good at fingersnapping. )
“By the way,” he said. “Wife of a friend of mine. Looking for a house they are and she’s doing the looking. Said something about trying Glenville. Pretty sure it was Glenville.” The room clerk paid attention with a waiting smile. “Name of Banks,” Shapiro said. “Mrs. Hugh Banks.”
“Banks,” the clerk said. “Banks. Let me—oh, Mrs. Banks.”
Shapiro turned back to the desk. He pulled over his face, insofar as his face permitted, an expression of pleasure. Even, he hoped, of anticipation.
“I’m afraid,” the clerk said, “that Mrs. Banks checked out last evening. Mr. Teller showed her a house—several houses probably—but I guess she didn’t find what she wanted. So—”
Shapiro looked disappoi
nted.
“Not very tall,” he said. “Slender. Brown hair. That would be this Mrs. Banks?” It was not especially convincing, he thought. It was the best, at the moment, that he could do, while remaining obscure, if not invisible. “It’s a fairly common name, you know,” Nathan Shapiro added.
“Sounds like the same one,” the clerk said. “I only saw her for a minute. Mrs. Fellows saw her when she checked out and if you like I’ll—”
“No,” Shapiro said. “Not worth bothering about. Just thought I’d say hello.”
He went out; he went to the men’s store and bought a shirt and underwear shorts and socks. He needed them anyway; he always needed them. Rose was always after him to get things when he needed them. The shirt was plain white and so were the shorts. The socks, on the other hand, were black.
“By the way,” he said, as the salesman put shirt and socks and shorts into a square bag, “fellow I used to know practicing law around here somewhere. Could be right here in Glenville. Howard Graham?”
“He certainly is,” the salesman said. “Good old Howdy. Office right across the street. Over the electric shop. Can’t miss it.” Shapiro paid. “Straight across the street,” the salesman said. “Can’t miss it.”
Shapiro couldn’t miss it. He went up wooden stairs to the second floor. There was a central corridor. Edwin Teller: Real Estate and Insurance, was on one side. Howard B. Graham, Attorney, was on the other.
There was a small anteroom, with a typewriter, shrouded; an empty room. Beyond it there was an open door and, through the door, a man of medium height, with closely cut brown hair, sat at a desk. He did not appear to be, at the moment, engaged in anything except a cigar. He got up at once and came out of the inner office and smiled cordially. The smile was, Shapiro realized, for a client and Shapiro thought it was too bad he wasn’t one.
“My name’s Shapiro,” he said. “A detective, actually, from town.”
Graham looked surprised. He said, “A detective? From New York?”
“Long way off the beat,” Shapiro said, and modified the sadness of his face. “They get the damnedest notions, sometimes.” He stopped. “Shouldn’t say that, of course,” he said. “Wish you’d forget it, Mr. Graham.”
Graham blinked slightly. Trying to figure out what I did say, Shapiro thought. Can’t say I blame him.
“A young woman was killed last night,” Shapiro said. “In town. Run-of-the-mill mugging, looks like. Trying to check back on her, all the same. Seems she was up here yesterday for some reason or another. The idea—what’s she been doing in the last few days? But I don’t need to tell you that, counselor. Officer of the court yourself, of course.”
Graham still looked slightly puzzled.
“Complete the record,” Shapiro said. “But you know how that is. Name of Banks, Mrs. Hugh Banks. But she and her husband had split up and she was using the name Grace Farthing. Maiden name, apparently. Or—stage name. Seems she was on the stage a few times.”
“Banks,” Graham said. “Wait a minute. Ned Teller. Wasn’t that the name of the prospect he had on the hook yesterday? Looking for a house.”
Shapiro showed interest.
“Sure it was,” Graham said. “Met her myself for a couple of minutes. You mean she’s dead?”
“I’m afraid she is,” Shapiro said. “Looking for a place to live one minute. Dead the next. In a manner of speaking, that is.”
“Here today and gone tomorrow,” Howard Graham said, and drew an expression of solemnity over his face. He appeared to consider further. “The way the cooky crumbles,” he added, in a voice of doom. He looked at Shapiro studiously, “What I don’t see,” he said, “is what her being here had to do with it. You said, a mugging?”
“Nor do I,” Shapiro said. “But, mine not to reason why. Yes, it looks like a run-of-the-mill mugging. You’d think they’d let it go at that, wouldn’t you? There I go again. You’ll forget I said that, won’t you?”
“Sure,” Graham said. “Sure thing. Another thing I don’t see, though. Why come to me? Ned Teller—sure. He showed her around. Me, I just saw her a couple of minutes. If it was the same woman.”
“Here,” Shapiro said, and took a glossy print out of his pocket and handed it to Graham, and was told to come into the office where the light was better, and went, and sat on the wrong side of the desk while Graham sat on the right and studied a photograph of Mrs. Hugh Banks, née Farthing. She did not look especially dead in the picture, although she had been dead enough when it was taken. Graham handed the photograph back, and nodded. He said he guessed it was the same woman. He said, also, that he still didn’t see how he could help, how he came in.
“For one thing,” Shapiro said, “a man like you—leading lawyer in town, that sort of thing—is in a position to pick things up. Know what I mean? Doctor, minister, lawyer—people you go to first in a vague thing like this. Also, a man like you, counselor, knows how to keep things under his hat.”
Graham saw what Shapiro meant, and nodded his head to prove it.
“However,” Graham said, “it’s still the way I said. Met her for a couple of minutes at the Inn. So there’s nothing I can do to help, I’m afraid.”
“Well—” Shapiro said, in the tone of one who has, however halfheartedly, made his try. He moved, as if about to get up. Then he stopped moving, as might a man who had suddenly remembered, or almost remembered, something else. He even snapped his fingers again, achieving only a small rustling sound.
“Abigail Something,” he said. “That was it. A Mrs. Abigail Something. Gone right out of my mind.”
“Montfort?” Graham said. “I don’t—”
“That’s it,” Shapiro said. “Abigail Montfort.” He looked at Graham with pleased admiration, as if Graham had miraculously removed a rabbit from a hat. “See what I mean about coming to a man like you?”
“Anybody in town could have told you that,” Graham said. “The poor old—” He paused; he looked very puzzled. “I don’t see—
“I don’t put things well,” Shapiro said. “Never do, I’m afraid. Seems they found Mrs. Montfort’s name in the girl’s apartment. Written down on a piece of paper. Let’s see—‘Abigail Montfort, Glenville’—that was it. So, they thought—ask this Mrs. Montfort. See if by any chance she knows anything about this telephone call the girl got just before—” He broke off. “There I go again,” he said. “Not supposed to say anything about that.”
Graham looked at him blankly—pleasantly, but blankly.
“However,” Shapiro said, “there’s no use bothering you with that, counselor. Thing to do, go see this Mrs. Montfort. Ask her if she knows the late Mrs. Banks. If—”
He stopped, because Graham was shaking his head; shaking it sadly.
“Afraid you can’t do that,” Graham said. “Mrs. Montfort—she’s dead too. Funeral tomorrow.”
“Now,” Shapiro said, “that’s too bad. Really too bad. Young woman? Mrs. Montfort, I mean?”
“Old as the hills,” Howard Graham said. “Somewhere in the eighties.” He regarded Shapiro dubiously, and ended by shaking his head. “Pretty hard to think of any connection she might have had with this—you said she was an actress?”
“Bit parts,” Shapiro said. “Played old women, mostly. You don’t suppose—but there’d be no sense to that.”
Graham waited.
“Nothing,” Shapiro said. “It just occurred to me. I suppose—not anything I know about—but wouldn’t an actress who had a role that’s pretty foreign to her—not what they call type casting—I mean—”
He was, evidently, floundering. He looked to Graham for help.
“Want to study up,” Graham said, providing help. “Old women’s parts, you did say? Talk to an old woman, and Mrs. Montfort sure was that, listen to how she spoke, watch how she acted?”
“That’s what I was trying to say,” Shapiro told him. He spoke admiringly. He said, “Suppose there could be anything in it?”
Graham considered, his pleasa
nt face thoughtful. But, finally, he shook his head.
“I doubt it,” he said. “Far as I know, Mrs. Montfort hadn’t seen anybody except her companion, the companion’s nephew—I suppose maybe the boy who mowed the lawn—that sort of thing—for a long time. What I mean is, no strangers. She was pretty frail.”
Shapiro took it that Graham had known Mrs. Montfort.
“Well,” Graham said, “yes and no. I drew up her will and—”
“Wait a minute,” Shapiro said. “Anything about Mrs. Banks in the will? Or—a Grace Farthing?”
There was unusual animation in his voice.
“Sorry,” Graham said. “Nothing.”
“Of course,” Shapiro said, “we don’t know Farthing wasn’t just a stage name. Real name might have been anything. Bodgkin.”
“Bodgkin?”
“Manner of speaking. Something that wouldn’t look good in lights was all I meant. Not that the poor thing ever got her name in lights, from what I’ve heard. Bodgkin. Piggott.”
Graham saw. But he shook his head again.
“I’m afraid not,” he said. “A few charities. A token bequest to a grandson. Seems she didn’t approve of him. The rest to her companion, a Mrs. Harbrook.”
“A good deal of money?”
“I’d call it that. Won’t know until it’s appraised, of course. But at a guess—upwards of a million.”
Nathan Shapiro looked impressed, which he found easy.
“I suppose,” he said, “that she never mentioned anyone who might have been our girl? Just in passing, if you know what I
mean. Since you were her lawyer, and people confide in their lawyers. But maybe it wouldn’t be ethical for you—”
“No,” Graham said. “She didn’t. But—actually I only saw her three times. You see—”
He explained about the death of one Snodgrass; about his own unexpected summoning.
“Saturday, that was,” Graham said. “She died Monday. I guess—well, she may have figured it was pretty close, although I can’t say it showed. Chipper as all get out. Very alert and determined old lady. Anyway—”
Anyway, he had been called—by Ella Harbrook—Saturday morning and asked to come around, and had gone around. He had been told how Mrs. Montfort wanted to dispose of her estate, and instructed to draw the will up and return with it the next day. Sunday, that was—
