by P. N. Elrod
Afterward, he politely accepted being patted down in lieu of a more material show of thanks. Next time around I’d remember to bring an apple or some sugar cubes. It seemed only fair.
When I crawled out of my trunk the next evening I found Escott at his ease on his bed, showing no ill effects from his sedate debauch, and up to his neck in the papers.
“Good evening,” he said cheerfully, hardly looking up.
“How’d it go today?” I asked, stretching,
“The London Times has finally dropped its pro-Hitler policy in favor of the Russians, who seem to be the lesser of two evils at the moment. It was that speech he made last Sunday at Nuremberg that did the trick.”
“I meant with the—”
“Oh, yes, sorry.” He folded the paper away. “Emily Francher, daughter to the late Roger and Violet Francher—”
“The shipping-line Franchers?” I interrupted.
“The same.”
“I’ll be damned.”
He continued. “Emily was one of the better-dowered debutantes in 1913, and was sole heiress to the estate when her mother died in 1931.”
The coincidence of the date wasn’t lost on me. “When, in 1931?” “I’ve a lot to tell you, but I’d rather tell it on the drive out.”
“Out to—”
“Yes, the Francher house on Long Island. I’ve a map and hired some transportation, having assumed you would want to interview Miss Francher personally about that phone call. The sooner you are ready . . .”
“Okay, okay, I’m moving!”
I did all the usual stuff, and shaved with my eyes closed so I wouldn’t have to look at the gaping emptiness in the mirror. It takes a little practice and a good memory so as not to miss any spots, but I was in a hurry and nicked myself this time. Vampires bleed red like anyone else, it just doesn’t last as long from a metal cut.
“If they made safety razors out of wood, you’d need stitches,” said Escott from the other room.
“How the hell did you know I’d cut myself?”
“By the timbre, volume, and quality of your language. Far be it from me to laugh at another’s pain, but you are most entertaining when you choose to express yourself.”
“Next time I’ll charge admission,” I grumbled.
Our rented Ford eventually got us free of the congestion of Manhattan and Queens, but it seemed to take forever. Escott had to concentrate on driving, while I kept us on course with the map, so we didn’t talk much. Once past the worst of it and safely rolling on State 25A, I was ready to hear more about our destination.
“You said this Emily Francher was quite the dish in 1913?”
“I said she was well dowered. I don’t know what she looks like. The money and her mother helped her to land a socially acceptable husband. In this case, he was an impoverished gentleman with a title from my own sceptered homeland.”
“So maybe his was the nearly English accent Edith Sedlock heard on the phone.”
“I think not. The marriage was at her mother’s forceful instigation and short-lived. The blissful couple parted company a month after the ceremony, the bride taking up residence in London and the groom in the north to be near the races.”
“Gambler?”
“Gentleman jockey. He broke his neck in a steeplechase later that same year and much to the disgust of his mother-in-law, the family title passed on to an obscure and fertile cousin with a surplus of sons. Daughter Emily was ordered back to New York and resumed the use of her maiden name.”
“Where’d you dig all that up?”
“It was in the papers. The society gossips had a fine time then, but it was only a foretaste of what was to come. Roger Francher died in 1915 and wife Violet took over the shipping business and proved herself most capable. She also set about looking for a suitable replacement for her inconveniently deceased son-in-law. By this time, young Emily had suffered what we would now call a nervous breakdown and was sent off to ‘rest’ with relatives in Newport, who reported her every utterance to the mother. Efforts to locate another titled gentleman were thwarted by the war, but in 1920 the lady managed to befriend a French marquis and whisked him across the Atlantic to meet Emily.”
“Did Emily have anything to say about this?”
“If she did, her mother was quite uninterested.”
“And the Newport relatives?”
“Dependent upon Violet’s generosity for their support. Another wedding date was set, but it all fell through when the groom was arrested. It seems he was not a marquis or even French, but an American with three other wives.”
“Three?”
“And a number of children. They tried to suppress the scandal, but were unsuccessful with some of the less discriminating papers. Officially, the wedding was postponed for an indefinite period while he returned to France to ‘settle his business interests.’ In reality, I’d say he was lucky to only have to face the French courts and his several families and not Mrs. Francher. He might have gotten away with having a fourth wife had the lady been less publicity minded and not issued his picture to every society editor in the Western Hemisphere.”
“His picture? What about Emily?”
He shrugged. “Perhaps her mother didn’t think her an important enough participant in the proceedings. From what I could glean between the lines, the bride was once again less than enthusiastic over things.”
“I guess it was just as well. What happened to her?”
“By then she had come into her own inheritance from her father’s will and bought a house on Long Island. I think it was an attempt to make a life for herself away from her mother.”
“Better late than never.”
“Violet still tried to interest her in another titled marriage—she was a very single-minded woman—but was distracted from any serious efforts by her own involvement with the shipping line. When the crash came, she lost most of the business, and rather than doing her daughter a favor and leaping from her office window, she turned things over to the board of directors, officially retired, and moved in with Emily.
“Nice lady.”
“Their past separation did seem to do the girl some good. Having her own money, she built a house for her mother on the same grounds as her own estate and invited her to take possession. The invitation was firmly declined, so Emily moved instead. It was just as well for her, because her former home burned to the ground in April of 1931 and Violet Francher along with it.”
I thought awhile on that one. “You think Emily might have killed her mother?”
“That is always a possibility. The most vicious and unforgiving crimes often occur as a result of frustrations building up within families. Emily might certainly have had sufficient cause over the years to resent the woman enough to do murder. The investigation ruled it to be an accidental death.”
“What do you think?”
“Not having had access to all the facts leading up to those results, I think nothing at all.”
“Why was there an investigation, then?”
“It was the standard thing to do in such a case. A sum of insurance money was involved, though the amount was trifling compared to Emily’s assets.”
“Rich people can be greedy, that’s how some of them get to be rich. How did Emily keep her assets through the crash?”
“She took to heart the maxim of Anita Loos’s heroine that ‘diamonds are a girl’s best friend’ and put her trust in safe-deposit boxes rather than her bank account.”
“Smart girl.”
“Since the fire, she’s taken up the life of a virtual hermit, albeit a hermit in extremely comfortable circumstances. She still supports some of her poorer Newport relations, but never visits them.”
“You learn anything about who answered the phone?”
He shook his head.
“What about that breakdown? Is she still loony?”
“I have no information on her current mental state. Her past experience might have been connected to the decease o
f her father. The story at the time consisted of a few bald statements about resting her nerves—”
“Which is the same as going nuts. I had an idea she might have been sent to Kingsburg instead of Newport for her rest cure. It’d give her a logical connection to Maureen.”
“That’s a good idea, but the dates involved are too disparate. There was also considerable documentation in the social columns pertaining to Emily’s presence in Newport.”
“Only if you believe everything you read.”
“How much truth is there?”
It was a straight inquiry, not a rhetorical question. “In general, or—”
“In the papers. I should be interested in hearing from one who has been on the inside of things.”
I didn’t have to think long or hard on that one. “It depends on the reporter, his editor, and the kind of rag they work for. If you want to boost circulation—and who doesn’t?—the truth can be victim of enough exaggeration to sell papers, but not so much that it courts a lawsuit. It also depends on the kind of information picked up. The best journalist in the world can make a goof if he’s given false or incomplete information, or if he misunderstands what he gets. Unless editorializing is the main angle, we try to give people the truth. When you’ve got a deadline breathing down your neck every few hours you don’t have time to make things up.”
Since he’d exhausted his information about Emily Francher, the conversation shifted to journalism, with me doing most of the talking and Escott soaking it up as he drove. We were now passing through a different world from Manhattan; less than ten miles from the Queensborough Bridge were working farms and their villages. Minute museums housed in buildings dating from the American Revolution advertised displays of relics from that period.
Off to the left side of the road we got an occasional glimpse of Long Island Sound, smooth and sullen in the moonrise. I wore my dark glasses against the glare.
I checked the name of the last village against our map and a fast five minutes later I told him to hang a left. We began a tour through the exclusive country of the very rich. We were closer to the sound than ever, but couldn’t see it for the trees that were packed so close to the road they formed a tunnel. Traffic was light, which meant nothing passed us coming or going unless you counted the rabbits.
“This is it,” I said.
On the left was a fifty-yard stretch of brick wall, broken by a fancy gate with the name FRANCHER arching over it in white painted ironwork. Inside stood a very solid brick gatehouse, showing some muted lights. A white gravel drive twisted out of sight into the trees beyond. Escott tapped the brake, parked the nose of the Ford next to the gate, and hit the horn a few times.
A light came on outside the gatehouse and eventually a short man emerged and squinted at us. He wore an old hickory shirt, hastily buttoned, and gray work pants, stained at the knees. The lower half of his face was sunburned.
“What do you want to bet he’s the gardener?” I asked, but Escott wasn’t taking.
The man came within a few feet of the gate, trying to peer past our headlights.
“Who’s there?” he called.
Escott introduced himself, said he was a private agent and that he needed to speak with Miss Francher about an investigation he was conducting.
“Huh?”
I gave him a sympathetic look. He cut the motor, got out, and went up to talk with the man. It took time and much waving of his Chicago credentials. The man dithered a lot and said “I don’t know” a lot, and Escott got nowhere fast.
Another figure appeared from the house; a thin, sinewy woman with her graying hair braided for sleep. She wore the standard black of a maid’s uniform, minus the white collar, cuffs and apron, and had shoved her bare feet into her thick-soled work shoes.
“What is this?” she demanded both of Escott and the man. By his behavior in her presence, it was likely he was her browbeaten husband.
Out of his depth, he made a partial start on an explanation, was shushed by the woman, then Escott had a turn. He repeated his introduction with his hat off and I noted he was emphasizing his English accent. This time it didn’t wash and she suggested he come back tomorrow afternoon. Miss Francher was not in the habit of receiving uninvited callers after dark.
Escott wasn’t put off. He mentioned again the vital importance of his case and asked that a message be relayed to Miss Francher. He would abide by her decision. He wrote something in his notebook and tore out the page. Frowning, the woman accepted it between thumb and forefinger as though it were especially dirty laundry. She snapped something at the man and stalked back to the gatehouse with him in tow.
Escott came over to my side of the car and leaned an arm on the roof and a foot on the running board.
“What’d you write?” I asked.
“A request to talk with her about Maureen Dumont. It tips our hand, but at this point it would seem to be unavoidable.”
“What if Emily tells us to get lost?”
“Then we apparently drive away. You can quietly return later.”
“And tiptoe up on her for a private interview?”
“You’ve acquired some experience at breaking and entering by now, and I know you have very little trouble persuading people to talk once you’ve gotten their attention.”
“Yeah, but I’d rather go through regular channels, if you don’t mind. I hate scaring people.”
“With that attitude, you could give vampirism a bad name.”
After a few minutes I caught the sound of a motor coming our way. The gardener was driving a rattle-trap old truck with shovels, rakes, and similar tools sticking out the back. They clattered and rolled around as the thing growled over the uneven gravel surface. He hopped out and opened the gate for us. The woman emerged from the house again to glare at Escott. She obviously wasn’t happy, having been denied official sanction to tell us to go to Halifax.
She pointed at the gardener. “Follow him, he’ll take you to the main house.”
Escott wasted no time starting the Ford up again and driving us through the fancy iron bars. The woman closed and locked them, and we followed the little truck up the drive at a breath-stealing seven miles an hour.
The grounds were semi-wild; the grass was uncut, but the trees were trimmed and no fallen branches or brush cluttered the spaces between them. The drive curved, slanted slightly uphill, crested, and sloped down again to a large, unnaturally flat section of ground. An almost perfect square was outlined by scarred trees and stunted shrubs.
Escott nodded at it. “I can safely say that that must be where the burned house once stood.”
Past the plateau marking the house, the land continued its long slope to the sound.
“Maybe Violet hadn’t wanted to move because of the view,” I said. “What caused the fire? Do you know?”
“They traced it to some worn-away insulation on a table lamp. It shorted out and set fire to a rug and then went on to the rest of the house. The mother was asleep upstairs and probably died of smoke inhalation without ever waking. The body was still in bed when they found it.”
“Except for the plants, you wouldn’t know anything had ever been there. That must have been some cleanup job.”
“I expect the present mistress of the estate may have found the ruins somewhat depressing.”
Another turn, more trees, and then a glimpse of buildings made of white stone with cream-colored trim. I made out a two-storied garage separated by the gravel drive from a much larger structure. The trees parted. Maybe it was modest when compared to some of the other houses in the neighborhood; it couldn’t have had more than fifteen or twenty bedrooms at the most. Lights were showing on both floors and at the porte cochère-style front entrance. The truck stopped beneath it and so did we. The gardener escorted us to the open double doors, handing us over to a younger woman uniformed as a maid. She smiled a neutral welcome and gestured us inside.
The entry hall was only a little smaller than Grand Central and furn
ished with slick Italian marble and Impressionist paintings, which caught Escott’s immediate attention. Beautifully framed, labeled and perfectly lit, I didn’t have to ask if they were genuine; they wouldn’t dare not be.
At the far end of the hall was a massive staircase, also of marble. The wall on the upper landing held a series of huge canvases that marched off out of sight on either side. They depicted fantasy scenes of people playing in gardens. I didn’t know enough about art to put a date on them, but the white powdered wigs and wide skirts made me think of Versailles before someone invented the guillotine.
The maid had thoughtfully given us a moment to stare and get used to things, then led us to the right and to a smaller room. The marble floor was replaced by an intricate pattern of oak broken up by Oriental rugs. The fireplace was in use, and soft shadows from the antique furnishings danced in the far corners and were lost against the dark background of the paneled walls.
Under a single lit lamp by the fire, a woman on the young side of middle age sat in a massive red leather chair. She had shiny black hair, cut short and dressed in perfect waves along her skull. Her skin was sallow and just starting to bag along the jaw and stretch at the neck. She wore a long red velvet dress that clashed with the chair leather and enough diamonds to set the country’s economy straight again. Hundreds of them hung from her neck and arms, catching the glow from the fire and throwing out glints and sparks like the Fourth of July. In full sunlight she’d have been blinding.
She watched our approach with a mixture of wariness and interest.
“Mr. Escott?” Her voice echoed her expression.
“Miss Francher?” Escott bowed very slightly and introduced me as his associate.
“Have you an affliction of the eyes, Mr. Fleming?”
“No, ma’am,” I said apologetically, and folded away my dark glasses.
“That’s better. You may sit down. Coffee or tea?” she asked without enthusiasm, and we declined the offer with thanks. Social necessity out of the way, she dismissed the maid and inquired about our business.
