Strong Spirits (1)

by Alice Duncan

  He had an office all to himself? Shoot, I was impressed in spite of myself. “Thank you.”

  I followed the man’s instructions. As soon as I knocked at the second door on the right down the corridor, I rescinded my impressedness. A chorus of voices, some sounding cranky, shouted, “Come in!”

  Pushing the door open, I saw that this office contained several occupants. Rotondo’s desk was the largest, and it sat against the far wall, beneath a window. That looked to me like the best place to be if you had to share an office, from which I deduced that Rotondo was in charge of this particular mob. A shiny wooden plaque on his desk said in gilt letters “Detective Samuel Rotondo.” So. He was a Sam. I supposed he looked as much like a Sam as anything else.

  When he looked up from whatever he’d been reading at his desk and saw me, he frowned. Not a particularly auspicious greeting and one that irked me. It hadn’t been my idea to spy on the Kincaids.

  The other three men in the room rose from their chairs politely. Rotondo did, too, eventually. “Mrs. Majesty.” He didn’t move.

  I didn’t, either. “You told me to tell you if I heard anything.” I said it loudly, from the open doorway. Detective Sam Rotondo wasn’t the only one present who could be rude.

  His dark eyebrows lifted. “You mean, you did hear something?”

  “Yes. And I came here to tell you about it.” I’d have liked to try to make him feel guilty about making me trek all the way to the police station to do him a favor, but since I lived only a few blocks away I didn’t think I could carry that one off with anything akin to aplomb.

  “Please,” he said, at last sounding courteous if not friendly, “come over here and take a seat. I appreciate you coming.”

  I swished over to the chair he pulled out. It was old and shabby, I couldn’t help but notice, from which I deduced the police department didn’t spend money on inessentials. I guess I approved of that. I sat with a deliberate flounce, for which I was clad appropriately (my dark blue skirt had a small, tasteful ruffle around the bottom), laid my tiny handbag in my lap, and folded my gloved hands upon it. I felt quite dignified. “I was right.”

  One of Rotondo’s dark eyebrows twitched. He was a darned good-looking man. I tried not to notice. “About what?”

  “It’s not Mr. Farrington. It’s Mr. Kincaid.”

  Silence. Rotondo scratched his nose. “Ah, I think you’d better explain that one to me, Mrs. Majesty.”

  Probably. I cleared my throat. “There are bonds missing.”

  “Bonds?”

  “Bearer bonds. From the bank.” Was the man being deliberately obtuse? “And Mr. Farrington thinks Mr. Kincaid is the culprit.”

  “The culprit?”

  I nodded, wondering if he was going to question every other noun I uttered.

  “Cute word.” He didn’t sound as if he meant it. “Did Mr. Farrington tell you this?”

  “No.” Bother. I was going to have to confess to eavesdropping. “I overheard a conversation between him and Mr. Harold Kincaid.”

  “Where? I mean, where did this conversation take place?”

  “What does it matter?”

  He rubbed a hand over his face. You’d have thought he thought I was trying to be difficult, and I wasn’t, darn it all.

  “I need to know the circumstances. Often circumstances mean a lot when it comes to conversations. Believe it or not, sometimes people tell us what they think we want to hear instead of the truth.”

  “You can’t say that about this conversation, because I wasn’t a participant in it and they didn’t know I was listening.” That didn’t sound very good, but it was true.

  “I see. And when did this conversation take place?” he asked, trying again for an answer.

  “Last night.”

  “And where did it take place?”

  I was beginning to feel stupid, baiting him this way. But he was such an aggravating man. “Mr. Harold Kincaid’s house in San Marino.”

  Rotondo’s eyebrows lifted. “You were at Mr. Kincaid’s home? And why was that, Mrs. Majesty?”

  I braced myself for his sarcasm. “I was conducting a séance for Harold and some of his friends.”

  “Oh.” Not a sneer in sight. I took heart. “You say he owns his own house in San Marino?”

  “Yes. He has a beautiful home there.”

  “I can imagine.” His tone was dry. I couldn’t fault him for that. When I talked about rich people, I was apt to be a little dry, too. “Who was there?”

  “What does that matter?”

  He sighed heavily. “This matter is one of great importance, Mrs. Majesty. I’m not asking these questions for my own amusement. We’re trying to get to the bottom of a potentially ruinous financial situation; one that will affect hundreds of people, if the rumors are true. In order to determine the value of your information, or of any information, I need to get all the facts. Surely you can understand that?”

  I could, although I didn’t want to. I just hated having to capitulate to common sense when it came from someone who didn’t like me. “I don’t remember all their names. They were Harold’s friends.”

  “I see. Ladies and gentlemen?”

  I eyed him suspiciously. He didn’t look at me, but concentrated on taking notes on a lined pad with a pencil. “They were all men.”

  That caught his attention. His head jerked up and he squinted at me. “I’m surprised your husband allows you to work for men, Mrs. Majesty.”

  I shrugged. I’d be darned if I’d tell him how much Billy disapproved of my conducting a séance for Harold. “These men are not any sort of threat, Detective Rotondo. They’re all perfect gentlemen.”

  He grunted. “They’re faggots, is what you’re telling me. I’d suspected as much.”

  “Were you in the army?” I asked, genuinely curious—because of that word, you know.

  “No.” He seemed a little uncomfortable, probably because there’d been a lot of abuse heaped upon men who hadn’t volunteered when the Great War began.

  I have to admit that I shared some of the general contempt. It was probably unfair of me, but you have to remember what had happened to Billy. If more men had volunteered, maybe it would have happened to one of them and spared my husband. The phrase “chocolate cream soldier” flitted through my brain. Rotondo seemed to read my mind.

  Roughly, he said, “I was unable to enlist because my wife was too ill at the time to be left alone. I had to take care of her.”

  His wife? For some reason, I’d never, ever, not once considered the possibility that Sam Rotondo might be married, although I don’t know why. I suppose he was in his early thirties at the time, certainly old enough to be married and have a dozen kids, and I felt a vague and entirely inappropriate stab of disappointment.

  But his wife was sick. Since I knew what that was like, some of my hostility toward the man softened, albeit not a whole lot. “I’m sorry about your wife. I hope she’s better now.”

  His expression hardened. I went stiff, anticipating the worst. “She passed away shortly after we moved to California.”

  I swallowed, sorry to have had my anticipation confirmed. “I’m very sorry. What was the trouble?”

  “Tuberculosis.” Short and sweet. And almost always deadly.

  And not unusual, unfortunately. The white plague was rampant. What with wars, influenza, and consumption, a body didn’t stand a chance in those days. You had to be tough to grow up and live to a ripe old age. I shook my head. “I’m really sorry, Detective Rotondo. It’s so hard to see someone waste away like that.” I knew it for a fact.

  He peered at me suspiciously. I tried not to resent it. “Yeah. Thanks. But you’re not here to talk about my wife.”

  True, if rude. “Of course not.”

  He cleared his throat. “So, you overheard Farrington and Kincaid talking about the bank. What exactly did you hear?”

  “Mr. Farrington said he’d conducted an internal audit and discovered some bearer bonds missing. I don
’t know how many, but he said they amounted to thousands of dollars and could be cashed in by anybody.” I wish I could find a couple of those bonds in the street one day. Finding something and rescuing it from being run over couldn’t be considered stealing, could it?

  “Hmmm.”

  I waited, but that was it. He was scribbling madly in his notebook. Impatient, I said, “Well? Is that what your own information has turned up?”

  He didn’t look up. “Did you overhear anything else?”

  I was offended, both because he didn’t answer my question and because he wouldn’t look at me. “I’ll tell you more when you answer my question.”

  At last he lifted his head. He was frowning again. No surprise there. “Mrs. Majesty, surely you can understand that I can’t discuss the case with you.”

  “You what?” I jumped up from the chair, which precipitated a reaction from the rest of the men in the room, which disconcerted me. But . . . Gee whiz, this wasn’t fair. I sat down again and decided I’d better whisper. “Darn it, you expect me to be your little spy, but you won’t tell me anything!”

  He heaved another one of those irritating sighs that tell a person how annoying she’s being for no reason at all, even though there was a very good reason, and I wasn’t trying to be annoying. I was trying to help. And I really hoped my assistance would lead to Mr. Eustace Kincaid being locked up for a hundred years or so. Then I could have Rolly advise Mrs. Kincaid to divorce the miserable man and marry somebody nice.

  Okay, so I know divorce is scandalous and bad and evil and all that, I still think it’s better than being tied to a criminal—and an unpleasant one at that—for decades without recourse. I also knew Mrs. Kincaid was an Episcopalian, because of the Father Frederick connection, and they were pretty stuffy about most things. But I didn’t think they’d excommunicate a person like the Catholics do if she got divorced. Maybe I was wrong.

  “Listen, Mrs. Majesty. I do appreciate your help. But I still can’t divulge particulars of the case with you. The information we have is confidential. We can’t chat with every Tom, Dick, and Harry about it.”

  “I’m not any Tom, Dick, or Harry, blast you! I just spied for you! Against my better judgment, too, darn it, and I’ll bet I gave you valuable information. And you won’t tell me anything! I don’t blab, if that’s what’s worrying you.” I felt like calling him names, but didn’t think that would suit my dignified demeanor.

  I could tell he’d started gritting his teeth because his jaw protrude. “I should think,” he said in a disagreeable, measured voice, “that any right-thinking citizen would be happy to assist the police in their work and in the apprehension of criminals. This case is important, Mrs. Majesty. It involves a lot of money and may well affect a lot of people if we can’t stop whatever’s happening in the bank.”

  “I know that! That’s the only reason I agreed to spy for you!”

  “Will you stop calling it spying?” His voice had risen.

  “No!” So had mine. “That’s what it is! And you’re expecting me to spill my guts to you when you won’t tell me a thing.”

  “Pipe down, will you?”

  Now that was unfair. He’d shouted first. I didn’t point it out, because it had occurred to me that if I riled him too much, he’d stop asking for my help, and I’d be out of the picture entirely, and never learn all the best dirt about this situation. I was still incensed, though.

  He spoke first, so I didn’t have to think up another good reason for him to tell me what was going on. “All right. I’ll tell you as much as I can.”

  Success! Boy, that didn’t happen often.

  He leaned over his desk. I leaned over from the other side until our heads almost touched. I knew how to be confidential. Shoot, my entire livelihood was based on confidences and keeping them.

  “The information you’ve supplied today confirms what we’d expected. A teller at the bank came in to the station last week, almost shaking with worry and fear, claiming he’d been unable to find some bearer bonds.” His dark eyes narrowed into a squint that he directed at me. I tried not to react, although his eyes were really beautiful, which I considered (and still consider) unfair. His eyelashes were dark and long. Stacy Kincaid would kill for lashes like that. “The teller seems to think your Mr. Farrington might be to blame.”

  “He’s not my Mr. Farrington, and the teller is wrong.”

  I knew it. It burned me up that Rotondo didn’t. I suspected, too, that his doubt about Mr. Farrington was based not on anything real or tangible, but because poor Mr. Farrington was a “faggot.” Nuts. I guess being a spiritualist broadens your mind, because I didn’t think it was fair to judge people just because they were different from you. Heck, Mr. Kincaid wasn’t one of “those” people, and he rotten to the core. Mr. Farrington was one of them, and he was a sweetheart. Just went to show that you never could tell.

  “We’ll see,” said the detective unconvincingly.

  I wouldn’t let him get away with that. We were still hunched together, so I whispered as harshly as I could without being overheard, “Mr. Farrington is not guilty. You’d better not try to railroad him, either!”

  That got to him with a vengeance. His voice actually shook when he growled, “We are servants of the public, and we do not railroad people, Mrs. Majesty. I’m trying to get to the bottom of the bank mess.”

  Glad I’d riled him, I settled back in my chair and sniffed. “We’ll just have to wait see about that, won’t we?”

  I’ll bet he’d have run his hands through his hair or jumped up and stamped his feet if we’d been in a private place. His fellow policemen were in the room (and surreptitiously watching us, if I’m any judge of these things—and I am) so he couldn’t.

  His jaw bunched some more. “Did you hear anything else that might be of use to us, Mrs. Majesty?”

  I thought hard. “I don’t think so. Only that Mr. Farrington is sure Mr. Harold Kincaid’s father is behind the disappearance of the bonds, and Harold agrees with him.”

  Rotondo’s eyebrows arched like little fuzzy caterpillars over his pretty brown eyes. “Why would the younger Mr. Kincaid say something like that?”

  “Probably because he knows his father.” I sniffed again.

  He cocked his head at me. “You don’t seem to care much for Mr. Kincaid, Mrs. Majesty.”

  “Perceptive of you.”

  “May I ask why?”

  “Sure, you can ask.”

  It pleased me to see his jaw bulge again. “Would you mind answering?”

  Well, now, that presented a problem. I’d promised Edie that I wouldn’t say anything about Mr. Kincaid’s pursuit of her. It galled me that I never broke my promises. Every now and then honor and ethics can be a pain in the neck. “He’s rude, mean, insensitive, and he treats his wife badly.” There. That took care of it all, although not as specifically as I’d have liked.

  “In what way does he treat his wife badly?”

  Trust this man to pry. “I’m not at liberty to say.” I thought for a second and added, “Although the word ‘liberty’ might offer a clue.”

  After a minute, it did, and I saw the light dawn in Rotondo’s eyes. I might not have liked him much, but I couldn’t say he was a stupid man.

  I left the police station feeling as though I’d done my civic duty. Now I only hoped the Pasadena Police Department in general, and Detective Samuel Rotondo in particular, would use my information, cast aside their prejudices, and arrest the right man.

  Chapter Ten

  They didn’t. I might have expected as much. I also had a sinking feeling that at least part of the disaster ensuing from this failure had its roots in my spilling the beans to Quincy.

  The telephone rang about 8:30 the next morning. Ma and Aunt Vi had already gone off to work, Billy was on the sun porch enjoying the late spring weather, and Pa was God knew where. Probably having breakfast at a café with some of his cronies or walking Brownie around the neighborhood. Pa loved to ride horses. Even th
ough he’d always made his living with automobiles, he rued the day the horse had become passé as a means of transportation in the city. Needless to say, Brownie didn’t share his opinion.

  I’d been in the living room dusting the furniture and sweeping the carpet with the old carpet sweeper Aunt Vi had brought home from Mrs. Kincaid’s house a couple of years earlier. As soon as I heard the telephone, I raced from the living room to the kitchen, knowing that everybody else on the party line would already be there even though it had been our ring. I harbored a faint hope that I could forestall the calling party from hanging up from sheer bewilderment.

  Sure enough, when I picked up the receiver, I heard Harold Kincaid’s voice communing with Mrs. Barrow and Mrs. Lynch and Mrs. Pollard and Mrs. Mayweather, all of whom were on our line and all of whom were probably already busily plotting gossip about Daisy Majesty getting a telephone call from a man.

  I sighed and butted in. “Hi, everyone. It’s for me, Daisy Majesty.” The clicks of three receivers being hung up sounded like a telegraph message in my ear. I waited for Mrs. Barrow’s click in vain. “Mrs. Barrow? This call is for me.” Mrs. Barrow’s click was perniciously loud. But she was off the wire.

  “Harold? Is that you?”

  “Oh, God, Daisy, you’ve got to come over to Mother’s right away!”

  I did? “What’s the matter? Is your mother sick? Oh, Harold, she hasn’t had a stroke or anything, has she?”

  “A stroke? No. Why would you think that?”

  Thank God. I’d hate it if Mrs. Kincaid got sick. “Well, you sound so upset. I just wondered.”

  “You can rest assured about her health. It isn’t that bad. At least I don’t think it is. The fact is, my father has disappeared.”

  I was so astonished, my mouth fell open and I couldn’t think of a single thing to say. It’s about time didn’t seem appropriate, even if neither Harold nor I liked his father much.

  “Daisy? Are you there? Don’t you disappear on me, too.”

  I swallowed hard. “Er, yes, I’m here. I’m sorry, Harold. I was just so—so shocked. What do you mean he’s disappeared?”