by Alice Duncan
A Chinese waiter led us to a table in a corner, which was good, because I didn't want anyone else overhearing our conversation. I smiled at him, said, "Thank you," and sat in the chair he pulled out for me, hoping my stomach wouldn't make any more rude noises.
Sam sat, too, and the waiter handed us each a menu. Before I could impart my information to him, he spoke.
"Officer Petrie was murdered last night in the Castleton Hospital."
Chapter 19
My jaw dropped, and my thoughts scattered like so much chaff in the wind.
Sam nodded and said, "Somebody held a pillow over his head. The poor guy was pretty doped up, and his leg's in a cast, so he couldn't struggle very much. A nurse found him about an hour or so after he was killed. The doctor said he'd been asphyxiated, and the pillow pretty much bore him out."
Attempting to get my wits under my control, and having no luck at all, I stared at Sam.
With a pretty nasty sneer, he said, "Well? Happy now?"
That jerked me to full attention. "Happy? Why should I be happy about another man being murdered?"
"You and your librarian friend thought he was a bad guy."
"Well... yes. According to everything I've heard about him, he was a bad guy. I didn't necessarily want anyone to kill him, for pity's sake."
"Huh. Well, he's dead. And that means he can't tell us anything about anyone in the Klan who might have been harassing the Jackson family."
"Oh, dear. That's right." Darn it, anyhow! Petrie might well have given Sam all sorts of information about whoever had tried to run down Henry Jackson's children or who'd shot Joseph Jackson, but he was now out of Sam's—and everyone else's—reach. "Blast it. That's awful, Sam."
"Yeah. I thought so, too." He eyed me sternly, and it suddenly occurred to me what he might be thinking.
"Sam Rotondo! You're not thinking that anyone connected with the Jacksons did away with Petrie, are you?"
He shrugged. "Don't know. Jackson's in the same hospital Petrie was in, and he's got round-the-clock guards at his door who aren't any too fond of the Ku Klux Klan or the Pasadena Police Department."
"It wasn't them!" I started when I realized how loud my voice was and lowered it. "It wasn't them, Sam. They're just trying to stay alive themselves. But I know someone who might have done it."
Very well, I was reaching at straws and constructing theories out of whole cloth. But, darn it, I preferred to think of Mr. Enoch Billingsgate as a murderer than anyone connected with the Jacksons. Or maybe Charlie Smith! That was a good idea.
"Have you spoken with Charlie Smith? He lives directly across the street from a fellow who was murdered, and Mrs. Akers claimed there was no creeping car on the street when Mr. Merton was killed. Maybe Charlie Smith did them both in."
"Maybe. I'll definitely talk to him. But who's this other fellow you wanted to tell me about?"
The waiter appeared at our table at that moment, so we ordered and waited for him to depart before I said another word. Then I told Sam what both Mrs. Hastings and Mrs. Pinkerton had told me about Mr. Enoch Billingsgate. I also told him that Del Farrington was looking into the Florida real-estate scheme.
Sam pulled out a note pad from his inside jacket pocket. "Billingsgate, you say?"
"Yes."
"Enos?"
"Enoch."
"Got it. Now, what's he got to do with the Klan?"
I shrugged, feeling helpless and lost. "I don't know that he has anything to do with the Klan. I was just... well, kind of hoping. He's fat and he has red hair, so he might have been in the machine with Officer Petrie when they tried to run down the Jackson kids."
"You don't know Petrie was in the car at all."
Sam Rotondo was forever flinging facts in my face, darn him! "Well, I think he was. And Petrie was definitely a crook. I think this Billingsgate fellow is, too. He wants to bilk people out of their money."
"How do you know that?"
Darn him! "His scheme sounds phony to me. And it does to Harold, too. And Del Farrington. And Mrs. Pinkerton and Mrs. Hastings both say he's slimy and not to be trusted."
"And how do they know."
"Darn you, Sam Rotondo, can't you just look into the man's background and try to find out if he's legitimate or not? Del's working the financial angle. I think you should see if he has a criminal history. You can do that, can't you?"
"Not without knowing more about him than I know now."
"Nuts." Stumped, I sat there and glowered for a second or two.
Fortunately, the waiter returned to our table with our lunches, so I got to chew on fried shrimp and Chinese noodles as I thought things over. At last I looked up and saw Sam contentedly munching on a sparerib. "I'll see if I can find out something about his background. If I can determine where he came from, maybe that would give you a starting place."
"Sounds like a good idea to me. Offhand, I can't say I've ever heard of Enos—"
"Enoch."
"Whoever. I've never heard of the gent before. If he's got rich men like Stephen Hastings and Algernon Pinkerton believing he's got a legitimate financial scheme going... well, they probably know more about high finance than I do."
"Not necessarily. Both Harold and Mrs. Pinkerton told me that, while Mr. Pinkerton is great with banking matters, he isn't always too bright about the people he trusts, and that he's lost money before on crooked schemes. And Mr. Hastings' long-time law partner was the head of a drug ring, and Mr. Hastings didn't know beans about it until after his son was murdered."
Tilting his head, Sam acknowledged the truth of my speech. "Yeah. I guess that's so. Even rich folks can be fooled."
"You betcha." Heck, I earned my living fooling rich folks. "So you'll see what you can find out about Enoch Billingsgate? I'll try to find out more about him, too."
"Just be careful, will you? If this Billingsgate character is a criminal, you don't want to get close to him. You do tend to jump in where angels fear to tread, you know."
"I don't, either!" I said, stung. "It's not my fault that I have to deal with people who get themselves into trouble. Anyhow, both Mrs. Pinkerton and Mrs. Hastings are good women. They don't deserve to have to suffer because their husbands are idiots." That was a bit harsh, so I attempted to tone down my assessment. "Well, they might not be idiots, but if they're involved in a fake Florida real-estate deal, they're clearly not the geniuses they probably think they are." Nuts. That was just as harsh as my prior comment. I decided to leave it alone. Sam knew what I meant.
"I don't suppose your librarian friend disliked her cousin enough to do him in."
I almost dropped another shrimp. "Miss Petrie? Good heavens, no. She's as mild-mannered and nonviolent as a human being can be."
"As far as you know," said Sam, perennially determined to think the worst of people.
However, with a sigh, I acknowledged the truth of his statement. "Yes. As far as I know. But if Miss Petrie is guilty of anything worse than reading steamy novels, I'll be very much surprised. And I doubt she even does that."
To my utter astonishment, Sam chuckled. He wasn't generally good-humored when we were together. He was more apt to bark and rage at me than laugh at anything I said. I felt a little squishy inside.
"Are you going to visit the library any time soon?" he asked.
"I can go there this afternoon, although if her cousin died last night, Miss Petrie might not be there. Family feelings and all that."
"I thought she didn't like the guy."
"She didn't, but she's not the only member of her family. But I'll stop by the library on my way home and ask her if she knows anything. Shouldn't you be the one to question her?"
"I will. But I have a whole lot of other irons in the fire at the moment. For one thing, I have to return to the hospital and find out if any of Jackson's guards left his door last night."
Shaking my head, I said, "I'm sure nobody connected with the Jacksons had anything to do with Petrie's death."
"We'll see."
>
I had an idea. "Maybe Miss Petrie will recall the name Enoch Billingsgate in connection with the financial dealings Officer Petrie borrowed money from his parents for." What a screwy sentence that was.
Nevertheless, Sam understood it. "She told you Petrie was involved in the Florida thing?"
I looked up from my plate to find Sam frowning at me again. Oh, well. His good mood was nice while it lasted—a whole fifteen seconds or so. "Didn't I tell you that?"
"No, you didn't tell me that. You told me that Mr. Hastings and Mr. Pinkerton were involved in what you think is a phony real-estate scheme run by a fellow named Enos—"
"Enoch!"
"Enoch Billingsgate. Whatever the hell his name is. This is the first time you've bothered telling me Petrie was involved in it, too."
"Oh. I thought I had. Actually, I don't think Miss Petrie mentioned Florida specifically." I attempted to recall the conversation I'd had with her. "No. She only said the scheme involved Officer Petrie and some other fellows buying land and developing it in some southern state. Bet it was Florida. But I thought I'd mentioned it to you."
"No. You didn't."
"Oh. Well, I know I talked to somebody about it. Maybe it was Mrs. Jackson."
"She and I look so much alike," said Sam; sarcastically, I'm sure I need not say.
"Don't be ridiculous. Anyhow, I'll go to the library and see if Miss Petrie's there. And you're going to visit the hospital?"
"I've already been there this morning, but that visit had to do with the crime scene. I didn't have a chance to question anyone except a few nurses and a doctor or two." He heaved a sigh. "So now I get to tackle the Jacksons. They're going to be thrilled to be questioned about a murder, I'm sure."
"They're probably used to being considered guilty of any number of crimes because of the color of their skin."
Sam glared at me from across the table for about a second before he sighed again and said, "Yes. They probably are. But I pretty much have to talk to them. It's my duty."
"Better you than me," I muttered. I sure wouldn't want to question a Jackson about the murder of a Petrie, given the relationship status of the Jacksons and the Petries in Tulsa. And here, for that matter.
Sam paid for our lunch, which I thought was nice of him, and we walked back to the police station together. He opened my Chevrolet's door for me, and I thanked him. Then I said, "Want to come over tonight to compare notes? You can tell me about the Jacksons, and I can tell you about Miss Petrie."
"Does this offer include dinner?"
"Sure. Why not? Vi always cooks enough for an army."
"Well, please tell her I'm coming. I don't want to just barge in."
"I will. Thanks, Sam."
Sam walked into the station, and I pressed the starter button—it was so wonderful not to have to crank a car anymore—and tootled along to the library, which was only a block or so from the station. Miss Petrie or no Miss Petrie, I had to use the facilities.
But she was there! Sitting behind the reference desk, she appeared to be assisting a young woman with a research problem or something. I was glad, because I could make a dash to the restroom before she spotted me.
Much relieved after a few minutes, I strolled out into the main room of the library and was pleased to note that Miss Petrie was free once more. She smiled when she saw me, and I wondered if she knew about her murdered cousin.
"Good afternoon, Miss Petrie."
She gave me a huge smile. "Good afternoon, Mrs. Majesty. You'll never believe what happened to Roland!"
Mercy sakes, she looked downright jolly. I guess she truly had despised her awful cousin. "Actually, I will believe it, because I just spoke with Detective Rotondo from the police department. I'm sorry about your cousin."
"I'm not," she said roundly. "He was evil, he was a cheat, a bigot and a liar, and now he can't drain his parents' life savings to put into that ridiculous Florida land deal."
"Aha. So it was Florida."
"I thought I told you that."
"You mentioned a southern state. But now that I've done some more snooping, I discovered that several other men in Pasadena—some of them wildly rich and some not—are in a consortium headed by a man named Enoch Billingsgate—"
"That horrid man!" exclaimed Miss Petrie. Then she covered her mouth with her hand and glanced nervously around the library. So did I. Didn't look to me as if she'd disturbed anyone.
"You know him?"
"I've met him. He's fat and oily, and I wouldn't trust him to walk my cat, much less give him money. I told Roland that he aimed to take everyone's money and run. Roland, of course, thought he was superior to all other human beings and only scoffed at me. But I think I'm right. That man gave me the shivers." To prove it, she shivered.
"All the people I've spoken to have told me the same thing about him. Although," I added, "I've only spoken to women whose husbands or relations are in the consortium with Billingsgate."
"There you go," said Miss Petrie. "Women can tell a scoundrel when they see one. Well, most of the time. If they could do it all the time, I'm sure my cousin Marge would never have married her ghastly husband."
"Yes. I've known a couple of marriages like that, too."
"If you ask me, it's too bad divorce is considered so scandalous. And that women can't earn as much money as men. So poor Marge is stuck with her dreadful husband because she has no way out. She couldn't support herself and the children if she left the bounder. Oh, but Mrs. Majesty, he's so awful to her."
"That's a shame." Mind you, my own marriage hadn't been one of unmitigated bliss, but that wasn't Billy's or my fault. It had been the war that had ruined our chances of marital happiness. I was, however, a trifle surprised to hear Miss Petrie voice such firm feminist principles. Not that I didn't agree with her. I told her so. "I absolutely agree with you. Women are treated so unfairly."
She sniffed. "At least we don't have to wear those hideous black burkas and hide our faces from the world like those poor creatures in Arabia have to wear."
"That's true. I saw a lot of women dressed like that when I went to Egypt and Turkey. Although the Turkish costumes were more colorful than those the Egyptian women had to wear. Why, do you know Turkey gave women the vote in nineteen eighteen? That's two whole years before we females here in the United States were declared the equals of men."
"You don't honestly think men believe we're equal to them, do you?"
Goodness, I hadn't realized how... what's the word? Disaffected? Cynical? Disenchanted? I guess any of those would work... Miss Petrie was. "No. I don't suppose they do."
"How many female congresspersons do you know of?" she asked. She sounded belligerent, too.
"Um... none."
"Precisely. Well, there is one, but only one. It's going to take another hundred years or more before we achieve true equality."
"Oh, my, do you really think so?" That was a depressing thought.
"Yes, I do. And it's not fair."
"No, it's not."
Very well, so I now had Miss Petrie's opinion on the death of her cousin, and I'd learned that she was an ardent, if repressed, feminist, but I wasn't sure what to say next. Fortunately for me, Miss Petrie took the problem out of my hands.
"Oh, but Mrs. Majesty, I found a wonderful book I think you'll love."
"Great! Thanks!" I was so glad to get off the lowering subjects of murder and inequality, I didn't even care what book she'd found. Fortunately for me, it turned out to be The Girl on the Boat, by Mr. P.G. Wodehouse. He wrote very funny books, so I was pleased to take it from Miss Petrie's hands.
"It's quite entertaining," said she as she handed it over.
"I've enjoyed everything I've ever read of his."
"You're in for a treat. The catalogue department is preparing another Mary Roberts Rinehart book that should be available next week, and another book by Edgar Wallace. I know you like those."
"As long as Mrs. Rinehart didn't write about the war again," I said, leer
y of reading any of her books after Miss Petrie had given me The Amazing Interlude a couple of years prior.
"No. Neither of those books is about the war." Miss Petrie patted my hand.
"Thank you very much for this one," said I, lifting The Girl on the Boat to show her.
"You're more than welcome."
I tried to think of anything else of a pertinent nature I might ask her about the case Sam was investigating, but couldn't. So I checked out my book and headed back to Mrs. Pinkerton's house. I still had to warn Vi that Sam aimed to come to dinner that night, after all.
Because I didn't want Mrs. Pinkerton to know I was there—she might waylay me and make me read the cards or something—I pulled up to the back entrance and entered the kitchen that way. Vi had her hands in a bowl of bread dough, punching it savagely. She glanced up when I walked in.
"Daisy! What are you doing here? I thought you'd come and gone hours ago."
"I had. I looked for you before I left, but you weren't in the kitchen."
"Even I have to visit the ladies' room from time to time," she said drily.
After having practically raced through the library to visit their ladies' room, I could fully appreciate Vi's need. "Indeed. After I had lunch with Sam, I used the library's facilities."
Instantly, I knew I shouldn't have mentioned having lunch with Sam, because Vi beamed at me. "Oh! How nice that you had luncheon with your young man."
"Sam's not my young man," I said, knowing my words would do no good. "I was talking to him about the case."
"What case?"
"The Jackson case, Vi! For heaven's sake, somebody shot the man after almost killing his brother's children and wrecking the Pinkertons' gatehouse and bombing their mailbox." I decided not to tell her about the murdered Officer Petrie. He didn't deserve her consideration. Not that I'm the least little bit judgmental or anything.
"Nonsense, Daisy. Those are police matters, and they don't require you dining with Detective Rotondo."
"Well, I hadn't planned to dine with him. I actually went to the police department to tell him the name of man who, I believe, is mixed up in a phony financial deal."
