The Disappearance of Mr James Phillimore

by Dan Andriacco

  “How in the world did you happen to remember a four-year-old suicide of an individual of no particular fame?” Mac asked as he began reading the printout.

  “I have an insatiable appetite for violent death.”

  That shiver I felt down my back wasn’t a thrill, at least not any positive kind. I don’t care how nice you are to look at, Professor, I’m glad I didn’t take one of your history classes.

  “So what do you think is the connection between the two deaths,” Lynda said, “other than the fact that this Carstairs was a Phillimore employee?”

  “Isn’t it obvious?” Ralston ran a hand through her short white hair, giving the Minnie Mouse tattoo on her shoulder some exercise. Her fingernails were painted black. “He must have caught on to Phillimore’s scheme and either asked for blackmail money or told Phillimore he was going to the police. Phillimore had to do away with him.”

  “Then who killed Phillimore?” I protested.

  “He killed himself, using exactly the same technique he used to eliminate the threat from Carstairs. I know I said that he was murdered even before I knew that you and Scotland Yard thought that, but I see now that I was wrong. His conscience must have got the best of him. Even though it’s not good mystery form for a suicide to really be a suicide, in this case there’s also a murder that everyone thought was suicide. It’s brilliant!”

  “Well,” Mac muttered, “it is at least possible. On the other hand, it could be that a third party killed both Carstairs and Phillimore. There are two people mentioned in this news story that it might be worthwhile talking to - Carstairs’s widow and the investigating officer, Andrew Madigan.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Fresch Information

  “Why would an Assistant Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police Service be investigating a suicide?” I mused aloud as we left King’s College.

  “He was only an inspector then,” Mac explained.

  “How convenient that Ralston’s solution ties everything up so neatly with the only murderer dead and unavailable for a trial,” Lynda said. “Case closed. I wonder what her interest in this is.”

  “Just being a good citizen, no doubt,” I said, like an idiot.

  “Subject,” Mac corrected. “British nationals are subjects of the Crown, not citizens.” Thanks for the civics lesson, old bean.

  “It’s fascinating to see you sleuths at work,” Kate said. Sarcasm is a Cody family trait.

  Mac looked wounded. Et tu, Kate? “I was about to suggest that another discussion with Madigan would be in order. The death of this Peter Carstairs is certainly not something to be ignored.”

  “I’ll call him,” Lynda said. “We’re practically old friends.”

  Madigan’s phone number was under “Recents” on Lynda’s smartphone, but he wasn’t in his office. She left a message, telling him that she wanted to talk to him about the apparent suicide of Peter Carstairs four years ago.

  “I should also like to speak with Sir Stephen Fresch,” Mac said.

  That surprised me. “What for?”

  “Just a little notion I want to check with him. It should be interesting if it proves out.”

  “Not to me,” Kate said. “This is where I bail. I think I hear another gallery calling my name.”

  Mac called Sir Stephen, who said he was available for a chin-wag at his office at Stansted. So the rest of us left Kate - with hugs, kisses, and all of that - and headed for the airport.

  It was on the way in the Tube that Mac’s cell phone serenaded us with Ride of the Valkyries again.

  “Yes?” Mac boomed, oblivious to the curious looks of our fellow travelers. “Oh, hello, Oscar. It is good to hear your voice.”

  Apparently he wanted everybody else to hear it, too, because he put the chief on the speakerphone.

  “What kind of mess have you gotten yourself into now, Mac?”

  “A bloody awful one,” Mac said cheerfully. “It’s the only kind they have here.”

  “That I can believe. I got a call about six in the morning from a guy named Heath. Scotland Yard - I couldn’t believe it! He didn’t seem too sure about me, either. When we got through that, he asked me to go to your house and check out your Colt .32.”

  “And was it there?”

  “Yeah, your dad took me right to it, safely tucked away in a secret panel. Very cute. Now, you want to tell me what’s going on?”

  Mac looked around. “We are in a rather public place at the moment. I promise to call you back later.”

  “All right. Tell Jeff I said hi. I owe him an e-mail.”

  I didn’t even get a chance to ask him how Popcorn was before Mac disconnected. Only after the conversation was over did I realize that my overactive imagination had been subconsciously worried that it had been Mac’s gun that put a bullet in Arthur James Phillimore’s brain. I felt more relaxed the rest of the way to the airport.

  Poking into the Phillimore caper had taken us to offices at Scotland Yard and in Nettie Phillimore’s home. Each had its points, but none was as off-beat as Sir Stephen Fresch’s office. It was located in a private jet with the Fresch Air logo on the side.

  “Wow, this is something,” Lynda said. She snapped a photo of the outside of the plane and immediately posted it to her Facebook page.

  Sir Stephen must have been used to explaining his unusual business habitat, because that’s what he did as soon as we entered.

  “I’ve never been one to waste pennies on non-essentials,” he said, grinning beneath his thick mustache. And this was a guy who spent millions of pounds collecting books and manuscripts of Edgar Allan Poe. “But I needed this office so I can do business even while I’m in the air. Why have another one?”

  Why indeed? This one was spacious, wood-paneled, and equipped with all the computers and telephones any executive would need, including the Chief Executive. Somebody check and see if Air Force One is missing. There was even a well-stocked bar.

  Sir Stephen sat us all down on a comfy couch. After offering us drinks - we all declined, wanting to get down to business - he faced us in a chair with a cup of tea in his hand.

  “I hope you don’t have to sell this baby because of your Phillimore investments,” I said.

  If Sir Stephen realized that I was joking, he gave no indication. “The corporation is sound and unaffected by my personal investments. A damned good thing, too. From what my lawyer tells me, the recovery in the Madoff case was minuscule.” That faint hint of Eastern European accent got a little stronger. He sipped tea. “But my talk of ruin the other night was just the anger talking. Phillimore held a substantial portion of my wealth that I was willing to put at risk, but not all of it. And there’s always my Poe collection if I get down to my last ha-penny.”

  They don’t make the half-penny anymore, but it’s still good for a figure of speech.

  “It would be sad indeed if you had to part with Poe,” Mac said with real empathy. “Vincent Starrett, perpetually strapped for funds, was forced to sell his collection of Sherlockiana. He recreated it, and then had to sell it a second time.”

  All this Phillimore investment talk had me wondering. “Did you by any chance know a man named Peter Carstairs?” I asked Sir Stephen.

  He searched his memory banks and came up blank. “The name doesn’t sound familiar. Should it?”

  “Perhaps not,” Mac conceded. “He was a director of Phillimore Investments. There may have been many. He apparently killed himself four years ago.”

  “Good heavens! I don’t remember that at all. Maybe it happened right before I jumped in. Everybody was buzzing then about what a genius this Phillimore was. Was that what you wanted to talk to me about, McCabe?”

  Mac shook his hirsute head. “No, although it was a question worth asking. On Sunday night your reaction to being duped by Phillimore
was so strong and so emotional that I suspected your relationship with him was more than just business. So when I called you on the phone today, I asked whether you had known Phillimore well, and you said that you had thought so.”

  Sir Stephen nodded his bald noggin. “Yes, and you’re right, that’s what makes this so tough - the sense of betrayal by a friend. We moved in a lot of the same circles - clubs, charities, that sort of thing.”

  “But not the Binomial Theorists,” Lynda put it.

  “Oh, no. I’m not a Holmesian. You, of all people, know my preference in detectives, McCabe.” He allowed himself a grin of triumphant recollection as he referred to the great debate of Sunday night.

  “Indeed. And you know from being present at the debate that Phillimore won the pastiche contest sponsored by the Theorists. Did that surprise you?”

  “Very much so.”

  “He never hinted to you that he was trying his own hand at writing a Sherlock Holmes story?”

  “No, just the opposite, in fact. He told me less than a fortnight ago that he could never attempt any such thing. I remember that he was reading a pastiche, Sherlock Holmes and the Irish Rebels or something like that. He liked the book and he said he would never even try something like that.”

  “It seems scarcely credible that he would then go on to write an accomplished short story within a few days,” Mac observed. “As a mystery writer of some experience, I can assure you that Sir Arthur Conan Doyle was not far wrong when he said that a short story takes as much effort to write as a novel. The plotting is not as easy as it looks to a non-writer. Are you absolutely certain that you remember correctly the time frame when he made this comment?”

  “Easy enough to check.” Sir Stephen pulled out his smartphone and accessed his calendar. “The benefit dinner for the Homeless Aid Society was held on May 30. That’s the last time I saw him, and I’m sure that’s when we had the conversation I recall. What does that have to do with anything?”

  “That remains to be seen,” Mac rumbled, “other than the obvious fact that Phillimore did not write the pastiche submitted to the contest under his name. He lacked the time and inclination, as well as the talent. The deadline for submitting entries to the contest was Thursday, June 7, the day Phillimore disappeared - a very late deadline because the contest was announced late. I read the five entries the following day. ”

  Lynda stopped scribbling and looked up from her notebook. “You could have asked Faro about this. He probably knew Phillimore a lot better than Sir Stephen did. But you didn’t want him to know what you’re up to and print it, did you?”

  Mac beamed. “That is an excellent deduction, Lynda! The story is all yours, when the time is right. You will recall that, in his role with the Binomial Theorists, Faro collected the manuscripts for the contest and then forwarded them to me and the other judges. When I read ‘The Adventure of the Magic Umbrella’ with its Phillimore-centric plot after the disappearance of Arthur James Phillimore, I prevailed on Faro to tell me the name of the author. If he did not then see reason to suspect the authenticity of the story’s authorship, it is certainly not my responsibility to raise the issue with him.” So the McCabe-Faro hatchet hasn’t been buried after all! Not that Lynda minds.

  A detail bothered me. “How were the stories submitted?”

  “By e-mail,” Mac said.

  “That’s what I would have thought. Shouldn’t Faro have noticed that it didn’t come from Phillimore’s e-mail address?”

  Lynda snorted, the cutest little snort in the world. “Assuming he even paid attention to the address, how many of your friends have changed their e-mail addresses multiple times? For that matter, how many maintain more than one account with different providers?” Counting me?

  The question was rhetorical, so I didn’t answer.

  “This is all quite a puzzle, isn’t it?” Sir Stephen said. “Perhaps you should look to Poe for the answer. You might find it hiding in plain sight.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Faro

  “Okay,” Lynda said as we left the hangar, “what does it mean that Phillimore didn’t write that story?”

  “It means,” said Mac, “that I was right in this feeling that I have been manipulated. The murderer wrote that story, knew that I would read it, and wanted me to pick up the clue that led me to the priest hole. Even the reference to the ‘singular suicide’ in the story seems aimed at me, given my chapter title of that name.”

  “But why?” I said.

  “I can only surmise that the point was to draw me into the case, at first a disappearance but now a murder in which a certain amount of circumstantial evidence points back at me. In short, I do not think the murderer likes me very much.”

  Never overlook the obvious.

  “Okay, I can buy it,” Lynda said, “but I’m not so sure that my editors at Grier will.”

  “No, what we have garnered from Sir Stephen, although helpful to me, is rather thin gruel for responsible journalism,” Mac acknowledged. “That is by no means unfortunate from my point of view. I would rather the world, including the murderer, not know just yet that we are on to the true authorship of the pastiche and its purpose.”

  “Speaking of responsible journalism,” Lynda said, “here comes the opposite.”

  The portly, bearded figure of Welles Faro was heading our way, waving his hand to attract our attention.

  “He will certainly ask questions,” Mac said. “I suggest that we be circumspect with our answers.”

  “You don’t have to tell me,” Lynda said. “In fact, maybe if I ask him enough questions he won’t be able to get in any.” That’s a good plan, Lyn, except for the fact that it won’t work. I’m sure that Faro on the track of a story is about as easy to sidetrack as you are.

  “Hello, chaps,” Faro said when he got close enough. “What a surprise.”

  “It sure is,” Lynda said. “What are you doing here?”

  Faro’s hairy face split in a grin. “I’m always somewhere. What about you?”

  “Just getting a little fresh air,” I quipped.

  “Yes, I know the hangar,” Faro said dryly.

  “Tell me, Welles, do you plan to write about this nonsense regarding the murder weapon?” Mac asked.

  “I already have, my dear fellow. It will go up on the website shortly. Come now, I could scarcely ignore it for friendship’s sake! It was an interesting bit of news concerning a very high profile case.”

  “But Heath has already checked it out and confirmed that Mac’s gun is at his house!” Lynda blurted out.

  “Oh, really? Thanks for the tip. Still, the whole thing is interesting, don’t you think? I’m sure you’ll be writing about the gun as well, Ms. Teal.” No, she won’t. “I’ve been following your stories on the Grier wire from the beginning. They’ve been very well done indeed. I congratulate you.” That’s the most dismissive congratulations in history, Faro. Congratulations!

  “Of course the murder weapon wasn’t yours, Professor McCabe,” he went on. “I’m sure Heath realizes the fact that you own a gun of the same type as the murder weapon is just one of those odd occurrences that Holmes said happen when you have a few million people jostling around together. It’s silly to think that you would have anything whatever to do with Phillimore’s demise.”

  He looked from one to the other of us, maybe trying to see if anybody took his bait. When no one did, he continued. “I understand from my sources at the Yard that the missing Conan Doyle notebook hasn’t turned up yet. Did you know that?”

  “You might be surprised what we know,” Lynda said. “Were you one of Phillimore’s investors?”

  “Me? Of course not. I don’t have that kind of money. Why do you ask?”

  “Asking questions is just a habit I have, being a journalist and all. I thought maybe you forgot to includ
e yourself on the list of victims you published in The Daily Eye.”

  “Don’t be fooled by the wealthy company I sometimes keep, Lynda. I was taken in by James, just like everyone else, but I am not a man of means, and certainly not one with excess funds to invest. What did Nettie have to say? Does she have any ideas about the death of her ex?”

  “Why don’t you ask her?” Lynda said.

  “So you did talk to her! Maybe I’ll pop around and have a chat with her as well. She didn’t happen to confess to killing her husband, did she? Well, I understand if you prefer not to say. I’m sure I’ll read about it on the Grier wire. I can’t help noticing that your group is not complete. Where is the lovely Mrs. McCabe?”

  “Let us say she is engaging in researches of her own,” Mac said.

  Faro tutted. “That’s not good. You should be enjoying London together - take in a play or something like that.”

  “Would that I could, Welles! This working vacation has turned out to be more work than vacation, although little of it has had to do with St. Benignus College.”

  “Well, I won’t keep you,” Faro said, beginning to move away.

  “Give Sir Stephen our regards,” Lynda said.

  She was still fuming after Faro disappeared into the hangar. “I feel like he’s stalking us,” she said. “He knew from his phone conversation with Mac this morning that we were going to talk to Heath and Nettie Phillimore. I get that. But how did he find out that we would be calling on Fresch? I didn’t even know until right beforehand. It’s sure hard to get a leg up on Faro.”

  “But you did,” I said, “thanks to Althea Ralston. If Faro knows anything about the suicide of Peter Carstairs, he didn’t give a hint of it.”

  “That’s right!” Lynda bit a lip thoughtfully. “The question is, do I go with that angle now or wait and see if I can get a stronger story by talking to Carstairs’ widow?”