Ask Me No Questions

by Shelley Noble

  “Amateurs?” Phil turned, rustling her formidable eggplant gown. And then she stopped dead. “Crime scene?”

  He tilted his head. “Crime scene. Now if you will…” This time he gestured at the door and stepped toward her. She stood her ground.

  “A thief, then. Who … broke in through the window? And then had a heart attack? I suppose it’s possible.” She slipped around the opposite side of the desk. The windows were nearly floor to ceiling in the French style and opened inward. “I suppose he could have broken the latch and climbed right through.” She pulled back the drapes.

  “Don’t.”

  One glance had been enough to tell her the window was shut and the lock was still intact. But not so the glass. One rectangular pane was missing, and cool air wafted into the room. “Aha!”

  “What? Leave that alone.”

  “See for yourself, Detective Sergeant.”

  “Don’t touch anything.”

  She was getting a little irritated at these Americans with their fast cars, blatant love affairs, crime every time she turned around, and who felt they had the right to give her orders.

  He reached over her head and, using the back of his hand, he pushed the drapes farther aside.

  “Ah, yes, fingerprints. So you subscribe to that theory?”

  He glared at her. “Fingerprinting is not a theory but a scientific method of identification.”

  She lifted her chin. “True, and there may be fingerprints,” she explained. “Though I doubt you would find any on the drapes. The windowsill perhaps, or the desk but—”

  Atkins beetled his eyes at her. A scowl became him. “What do you know about fingerprints?”

  “I had the pleasure of meeting Sir Edward Henry at the Grosvenor ball several seasons ago. He invited me to a lecture he was giving at the Royal Society the following day, about whorls and loops and some such as I recall. Charming man.”

  Now she wished she’d paid more attention to the talk than to Sir Edward’s equally charming secretary, who was devastatingly handsome and a bit of a flirt, the consequences of which she missed a good portion of the lecture.

  “Why does that not surprise me?”

  “I haven’t the faintest—but why do you need fingerprints? You have the culprit and his fingers right here.”

  He cocked his finger toward the door. “Out.”

  Good God, things were rapidly deteriorating. She didn’t know what Bev had gotten herself into, but she needed to find out before things became even more complicated, as from the looks of things, they promised to do.

  She should have grilled Bev about the situation, except all those people descending on them the night before had made it impossible. As soon as she could get a moment alone with her friend, she would do just that. If there was something Bev wasn’t telling, she needed to know it now. Before John Atkins did.

  Since she was still standing at the window, with the dead man and desk between her and the door, she took a moment to peer at the victim’s back and the jeweled dagger on the desk by his head.

  “Of course, the dagger. There were two of them. A falling-out among thieves. But the window is locked. Why would they break in the window and then lock it behind them? And how did the other man get out?”

  “Good question, which I will try to answer if you will just please vacate the room.”

  “There’s no need to raise your voice, Inspector.”

  “Detective Sergeant.”

  “Oh, forgive me, I forgot. It’s just like a stage play,” she extemporized, while she made a quick search of the body and the desktop, stopped at the tiny hole in the man’s jacket.

  She peered closer and saw the dark corona around the hole, and noticed the faint odor of singed fabric for the first time. She’d seen the same type of burn when Bernie Oglethorpe dropped his loaded target pistol and shot a hole through his trouser cuff.

  The man was shot, not stabbed, and Bev’s pistol was found at his feet. Oh, yes, the detective sergeant was way ahead of her. And she knew right where they were both headed.

  “So now you must look for a second thief?” she said, her mouth so dry she could hardly form the words.

  Atkins didn’t bother to answer, merely took her elbow and propelled her across the floor and out the door.

  “My lady,” Preswick exclaimed. He must have been waiting for her just outside the door, the dear.

  “It’s quite all right, Preswick. The detective sergeant was just accompanying me to the parlor.”

  Still holding her elbow, he trundled her down the hall. Tuttle was standing by the parlor door and, after a brief glance at Phil, opened the door.

  Atkins stopped her on the threshold. “I don’t trust you, Lady Dunbridge.”

  She looked up at him, tilting her head, attempting a gesture of question mixed with innocence and mild flirtation. “Why on earth not?”

  “Humph.” He dropped her elbow, waited for Tuttle to see her into the parlor, and strode away.

  Phil stood with her back to the door, wondering how on earth she’d gotten into such a situation and why she didn’t have Lily pack her bags. They’d be perfectly happy at the newly opened Plaza Hotel. Then she saw Bev lying on the sofa, her eyes closed, the dark lids making her complexion appear even paler than usual, and she relented. Loyalty, friendship—and, she had to admit, curiosity—won out over self-preservation every time. The more fool she.

  Elmira knelt beside the couch chafing Bev’s hands. A tray holding smelling salts and other preparations was set on the floor beside her. A few yards away, Lily looked ready to pounce. She held a small vial cradled in both hands. Phil didn’t own smelling salts; she hadn’t needed them once she realized that slightly easing her stays did wonders for breathing and the circulation.

  “What have you there?” Phil asked her thunderous-looking lady’s maid under her breath.

  Lily opened her hand briefly, then covered the vial again. Phil’s Radiant parfum.

  Lily gave her a slight one-shoulder shrug. “I couldn’t find a r-r-r-r-estor-r-rative.”

  “But didn’t want to miss out on the action?”

  Lily made a perfunctory curtsey.

  Bev opened one eye, saw Phil. “What the devil is going on?” she whimpered. “Reggie murdered. A stranger dead in his library. And on an empty stomach. How am I expected to cope with this without my breakfast?”

  “An excellent question.” Phil rang for Tuttle and directed him to have breakfast served. She nixed his idea of serving Bev from a tray brought to her room, though she had no doubt they’d be plagued with the detective sergeant before their final cup of coffee. Bev needed to take command of the situation. And she couldn’t do that from her sickbed.

  “The morning room, my lady?”

  “No, Tuttle, I believe the dining room.” Morning rooms with their comfortable, gardenlike intimacy tended to invite confidence, something she wanted to avoid at all costs, at least until she could figure out what on earth was happening and to counsel her dear, outspoken friend to be discreet.

  “Yes, my lady.” He cut his eyes toward the door.

  Oh, dear, what now? Phil thought and followed him into the hallway, only to find Preswick standing at the ready. The two butlers glared at each other.

  Phil sighed. This would have to be dealt with. But not now.

  “What is it, Tuttle?”

  “The police sergeant has called for additional support and several officers have arrived and are in the library.”

  “I see. Nonetheless, Mrs. Reynolds needs fortification.”

  “Yes, my lady. However, Cook was forced to return most of the dishes to the kitchen. She will need time to prepare a fresh repast.”

  “That’s to be expected, Tuttle. Tell her we much appreciate her forbearance.”

  Tuttle bowed.

  “Oh, Tuttle. The newspapers?”

  “The morning edition of the Post has arrived, and several of the others that Mr. Reynolds had delivered to keep track of the racing news,
but I took the liberty of keeping them in my parlor. Away from sensitive eyes.”

  “Excellent. Please make sure that Mrs. Reynolds doesn’t see them. At least not until the…” She nodded in the direction of the library.

  “Yes, my lady.”

  He bowed and walked away, only slightly raising his nose at Preswick as he passed.

  Phil hurried over to her ruffled butler.

  “My dear Preswick. Patience. Have you been apprised of the situation?”

  “Yes, my lady, and if I may say, my lady, you have no business consorting with murderers and Florodora girls if you plan on entering New York society.”

  “How true, but unfortunately, it seems to be out of my hands. Are they making you comfortable here?”

  “Yes, my lady. Mr. Tuttle has given me the use of his parlor, though—”

  “Excellent. I’m sure you and Tuttle will get on famously.”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  “Good. Later you and Lily and I must have a private few minutes.”

  Preswick bowed and creaked off after Tuttle. Now to get Lily off her high horse and into the other servants’ confidences. Phil might not have any intentions of leaving Bev in the lurch, but it was best to know your enemy—and your friends—and make contingency plans.

  She returned to the parlor, where Elmira was still chafing Bev’s hands. Lily looked on with an air of bored derision. No doubt she would have plenty to say later, but mercifully she held her tongue.

  By the time Tuttle returned to announce that breakfast was ready, Bev was sitting up and Phil had apprised her of “the Dead Man in the Library,” a title arch enough to appear in one of the serial dime novels that were sold on every London street corner.

  She dismissed Elmira and Lily, handed Bev over to Tuttle, and excused herself. “I thought I’d invite the detective sergeant to join us after his investigation is complete.”

  Bev groaned. “Must we?”

  “We must. So prepare yourself.”

  As soon as they were gone, Phil hurried down the hall to the library, only to find the door shut.

  Phil quickly looked down the hall, then leaned into the door and pressed her ear to the wood. The voices were muffled and she was about to move away when one of the voices, not Detective Sergeant Atkins’s, became louder.

  “I told you.”

  “And I’m telling you.”

  Phil instinctively moved back. That was the detective sergeant’s voice. And he was angry. So who was he talking to? Not a constable.

  She knelt down and tried to look through the keyhole, but it was blocked by the key. She could have stamped her foot in frustration.

  Without warning, the key was turned in the lock. Phil barely had time to stand up before the door opened. She grabbed her skirts and practically threw herself behind a conveniently placed potted palm.

  Made a note to always place potted palms in strategic places in her new domicile.

  She held her breath and peeked out.

  A policeman stood with his hand on the knob. He was enormous, his back straining at his uniform. One arm flexed as he raised a massive fist toward the open doorway.

  “Don’t cross me or you’ll be sorry.”

  “This is my jurisdiction.”

  “Reynolds was offed in mine. And I’ve been given the go-ahead.”

  A disgusted snort from Atkins. “I just bet you have. Stay away from this brownstone and its residents.”

  “Stay out of my way.” The man didn’t bother to close the door but strode angrily toward the foyer.

  The footman jumped from his chair and rushed to open the front door.

  Phil stepped out from behind the palm—which she noticed was in dire need of watering—and marched on only slightly shaking knees to the library door.

  It closed in her face.

  “Well, in for a penny…” She needed to know who that man was and how much of a threat to their well-being he actually was. She knocked.

  After a few moments, Atkins opened the door.

  The were two slashes of ruddy color across his cheekbones. Fire in his eyes. It made a shiver run up her spine.

  “I believe I told you—” He broke off. “I beg your pardon. I will try to end this inconvenience as quickly as possible. If you will please return to the parlor, I will be with you shortly.”

  Definitely upset, Phil thought.

  “Who was that man?” she asked.

  “No one you need to worry about.”

  “It sounded like he was threatening you.”

  His eyes narrowed. “A person in my occupation is used to threats.”

  “But not by other policemen.” It was a guess. They had been talking about jurisdictions, and if the other man had been given the “go-ahead,” what else could she surmise?

  Interesting. Bev’s family were Knickerbockers. Her father was the head of one of the largest New York publishing houses. But Reggie’s family, as far as anyone knew, had neither clout nor lineage. Reggie lived by his charm and his wife’s money. Neither were royalty, not even in the American way of mimicking the peerage, and they certainly didn’t warrant special treatment on that count.

  He glared at her—definitely off his game—and started to close the door.

  She slipped in front of it. “I came to invite you to join us in the dining room when you’re finished,” Phil said, trying to catch a glimpse of the room, which was virtually impossible with the broad-shouldered Atkins in the way.

  He merely inclined his head, stood his ground, and waited until Phil was forced to retreat. She’d barely stepped into the hallway before the door was slammed behind her.

  The situation was escalating and she couldn’t get any answers from the angry, tight-lipped detective.

  This time she did stamp her foot. And wishing she hadn’t bothered wearing the hideous eggplant dress, she walked demurely down the hall to breakfast.

  * * *

  Bev was sitting at the far end of the long dining table, looking lovely but forlorn and staring at a plate of eggs, ham, and tomatoes. Tuttle stood statuelike at the sideboard ready to pour. When he saw Phil, he pulled out a chair at a place setting next to Bev. He poured coffee, and when Phil said she would serve herself, he started to withdraw from the room.

  “And bring me the morning papers,” Bev ordered.

  Tuttle cut a look toward Phil.

  “Do you really want to put yourself through that this morning?” Phil snapped, still unsettled from the overheard altercation.

  “Can you think of a better time?” Bev asked petulantly. “Before the vultures descend in person to gloat?” Bev laughed rather hysterically. “I can just see them now, lined up to make their conscience calls. Only the very decent and the horridly upper crust will be satisfied with leaving a card. And I might as well prepare myself, because you can bet they’re all devouring the news over their morning marmalade and toast.” She shuddered. “Damn him,” she added as she speared a piece of tomato and carried it to her mouth.

  Phil sat down and kept one ear out for John Atkins. She didn’t intend for him to leave without explaining a few things.

  The news was not kind. It ran the gamut from bare facts to outrageous speculations.

  “Mr. Reginald Reynolds was found dead in his touring automobile at the Chelsea Street pier at nine thirty Wednesday morning. The cause of death was a bullet wound to the heart. There was one other passenger—” Phil lowered the paper and peered over it to Bev, who was hidden by the Sun.

  “Why those no-good … Listen to this.” Bev’s voice rose from the other side of the newspaper. “‘Horse breeder and suspected racketeer Reginald “Reggie” Reynolds was found dead Wednesday as he waited for his wife, Beverly Reynolds, née Sloane, who was at the pier for the arrival of her friend, the Dowager Countess of Dunbridge, off the SS Oceana.

  “‘He was discovered by Mrs. Reynolds, in the back of his new Packard touring motorcar, sprawled across the lap of Florodora girl and purported mistress, Mimi LaPonte.
An investigation is under way.’”

  “Disgusting,” agreed Philomena. And why must they always call her dowager? “What’s this about racketeering?”

  “Piddle. He was no such thing. He often put side bets on the horses. Everyone does. And he never bet against any of his own. The idea is preposterous. Reggie’s purpose on earth was the win; to be bigger, richer, splashier than everyone else.” She slapped down the paper, rattling her cup and saucer. “I’ll have Freddy sue them.”

  “I think,” Phil said, “you and I should have a heart-to-heart before this goes any farther.”

  Bev looked up. “Well, of course. But I don’t quite understand. You’re not thinking of leaving me?”

  Phil folded her paper and put it down. “Of course not, but Bev, your husband just died in a most inglorious way.”

  “You don’t have to remind me.”

  Phil glanced toward the closed dining room door. “An unknown man has just been found dead, murdered, in your library with the pistol Reggie gave you for Christmas. This is not looking good.”

  “Murdered? That man in the library? With my pistol? No. It can’t be. He must be a friend of Reggie’s and had a heart attack.”

  “That’s what I was hoping, but he has a bullet hole in his back. Detective Sergeant Atkins is still in there looking for clues.”

  “Of how the man broke in?”

  “That, too, but for more than that. I don’t suppose you recognized him?”

  “The dead man?” Bev shook her head. “I don’t know half of Reggie’s friends. Besides, I couldn’t see his face even if I had wanted to. Which I didn’t.” She picked up her crumpled newspaper and rattled it at Phil. “Why is this happening? I don’t think I can take it … I know—We’ll motor up to Saratoga, take the waters and stay for the races. Get away from this nonsense.”

  “Bev, pull yourself together. You’re in no position to flee the scene, so to speak. You’re under investigation.”

  “I am not.”

  “Well, you’re a part of the situation, and I don’t think the police would appreciate your leaving. Besides, your automobile has been impounded.”

  “That’s right. They still have our Packard.” She grabbed the delicate dinner bell and rang it until Phil was afraid the clapper might fly off. Tuttle appeared before the last clamor had died away.