The Charlatan Murders

by Jennifer Berg

  “Will you quit making light about this?” Paul grimaced. “It’s no joke.”

  “Who’s joking?” Camille smiled as she lifted her pearl necklace and placed a few of the pearls against her lip.

  Paul sat down beside her, pushing her legs aside so he could sit closer. He looked at her face. “Camille, tell me the truth. Did you tell him anything or let on in any way—”

  She reached out and stroked his dark hair. “Paul, dear, you can relax. I’m not a bad actress, after all. I won’t slip up. If I want something to sound convincing, it will sound convincing.” She shrugged. “It’s just hard to argue against bare facts.”

  Paul studied her for a moment before getting up again. His face was contorted with anxiety. “I thought it would make everything better,” he explained. “I’ll have the cash soon. I thought everything would be all right.”

  “Yes, but you never dreamed that you’d be pinned for your mommy’s murder, did you?”

  “Good God, can you please be serious?” Paul demanded. “The questions won’t stop, you know. This is only going to get worse. Do you know what you’re going to say? If that damn Inspector Riggs knows that you were in her office, or if they manage to get Walter to admit what was in the files—”

  “I don’t understand how they haven’t,” Camille interrupted. “Paul, why don’t you just talk to Walter? He’s your brother after all.”

  Paul ran his hands through his hair in frustration and collapsed into the chair. “You don’t understand. I can’t talk to Walter, not now, not with what’s happened.” He buried his face in his hands. “God, it’s too late. Why did I do it?”

  Camille slipped closer to Paul and stroked his hair tenderly. “Oh, poor darling,” she whispered. “It’s going to be alright, really it is. They can’t do anything without evidence, and whatever they may suspect, they don’t have any proof. Of course, you should take out some insurance.”

  Paul looked up at her, and Camille went on quietly, soothingly, “If I am forced to testify, I have to tell the truth and the whole truth, don’t I? But they can’t make a woman testify against her own husband.”

  Paul pushed her hand away. “You really are the most selfish woman I’ve ever known! I should tell you to go to hell. Now you want to get married? At a time like this? The police think I murdered my mother, and you’re behaving like a spoiled brat. You’re a devil, Camille.”

  He stood up and walked to the window, turning his back on her.

  Camille’s jaw clenched for a split second. And when she spoke, there was a menacing tone in her feminine voice that hadn’t been there before. “You’d better be nice to me, Paul,” she said quietly. “You need me on your side. Don’t forget that I’m your alibi, and I know what you did.”

  He turned around and glared at her. “Are you blackmailing me?”

  Camille met his gaze and laughed. “Oh, darling, you really are being such a bore lately. Besides, you hated the old woman. You wanted her dead as much as everyone else did. So now that you’ve got what you wanted, everything you wanted, all you have to do is play it cool and wait for things to settle down. Instead of huffing at me like a sick bull, you should be giving me whatever I want. Everything I want.”

  Chapter Thirty: Another Murder

  The next morning, Camille was found dead in her penthouse. Her body was lying on the plush carpet by the sofa. She was wearing a lime green summer dress and a pearl necklace. There was a glass of scotch and a glass of pink lemonade on the table nearby. The delicate white porcelain lamp, which normally stood on the end table, was lying on the floor beside her, and a play manuscript was sitting on the sofa.

  Riggs examined the scene and gave instructions to the boys who were measuring, photographing, and checking for fingerprints. Then he went to the dining room to interview the unfortunate cook.

  Mary Sutherland was a middle-aged woman with pleasantly-rounded proportions and an attractive face. She was wearing a blue floral dress with a full skirt, a small sapphire ring, and her hair was pulled up into a neat bun. She must not have been home for very long because her cardigan was still draped over her shoulders like a cape with only the top button fastened. Riggs was still summing her up when Miss Sutherland came to the point.

  “I don’t know what happened, Inspector,” she said plainly. “You see, I’ve been up in Bellingham since Wednesday, visiting my sister.”

  “What time did you get here?”

  “I got back this morning at ten o’clock. The milk bottles were still sitting outside the door when I came home. I let myself in from the foyer, and I came straight to the kitchen. It was a state, so I left it alone and put my carpet bag in my room. It’s behind the kitchen. Then I came back out through the dining room and into the living room. And that’s where I found Miss Camille, lying there, dead.”

  “Did you realize that she was dead right away?”

  “Of course, I did!” Miss Sutherland gaped. “You saw her. She looked worse than one of those awful horror movies. All slumped over like that, with no color in her face, and the lamp that someone hit her with was just there on the floor beside her.” Miss Sutherland shuddered.

  Riggs nodded. “I know it’s unpleasant to think about, but could you please tell me exactly what you did when you saw her?”

  “I think I actually screamed when I first saw her, but maybe I just held my breath. I’m not sure. Then I called out for Mr. Abbott, but when he didn’t answer, I realized that I was the only one here, so I pulled myself together, and I telephoned the police. Oh, my hands were shaking so badly I could hardly hold the telephone. I had to ask the operator to connect me.” She held her hands out in front of her. “Look, they’re still shaking.”

  “Did you expect Mr. Abbott to be home?”

  Miss Sutherland shook her head. “I never expect them home, and I always expect them home. Miss Sinclair and Mr. Abbott keep very odd hours, even for wealthy people. Sometimes they’re here half the morning, and sometimes they’re out half the night. It doesn’t matter to me, of course, I only check to see who’s around before mealtimes, so I know what to prepare.”

  Riggs considered the layout of the penthouse. The main foyer had double doors which led into the grand living room, but it also had a hallway on each side. One direction led to the bedrooms and Paul’s office, while the other side led to the dining room, kitchen, pantry, and servant’s room.

  “Are you entirely sure that no one else was here when you arrived? I mean, is it possible that someone left the apartment while you were in the kitchen or your room?”

  To Miss Sutherland’s credit, she considered the question before answering. “Yes, that’s possible. But it’s a horrible thought, isn’t it? To think that whoever did it may have still been here when I came home.” She shuddered again and put her hands in the pockets of her skirt.

  “Did you ring the bell when you came in, or did you announce yourself?” Riggs asked.

  Miss Sutherland shook her head in dismay. “I live here, and that means that it’s my home, Mr.… What is your name?”

  “I’m Sergeant Inspector Riggs.”

  She nodded approvingly. “Well, Sergeant Inspector. I’ve always been very clear with my employers about where things stand. I cook, and I tidy up, yes, but that doesn’t mean that I’m going to act like some Victorian servant who takes orders and pretends they don’t exist. No, sir. I live here. I have my own key, and I come and go as I please.”

  “I see,” Riggs said. “Can you tell me who all has a key to the apartment?”

  “As far as I know, just the three of us: Mr. Paul Abbott, and Miss Camille Sinclair, and me. Oh, and the woman who does the floors. She comes here three afternoons a week to do the heavy cleaning, especially the floors. Miss Sinclair is—was very particular about clean floors. In fact, I would say she was a bit obsessed. Of course, the sink could be overflowing with dirty dishes, but the floors always had to be perfect.”

  “Have you noticed anything that seems unusual or amiss?”
>
  “If by ‘amiss’ you mean out of place. Then, yes, these people were always leaving things amiss.”

  Riggs understood that by “these people” Miss Sutherland meant everyone who wasn’t capable of cooking and cleaning for themselves. She went on, “They always leave a few dirty glasses by the sink, and they forget to close the bread box. I told them if they don’t have the common decency to keep their own kitchen tidy while I’m away, then they can’t blame me if it takes me half a day to put everything back in order when I get back. I can tell you that they didn’t have any parties while I was gone. And judging by the dirty martini glasses, I’d say they only had a few people up for drinks. Anything grander than that, and I would have come home to a real disaster.”

  It was an unfortunate phrase, and Riggs glanced up at her.

  Miss Sutherland frowned. “I suppose I did come home to a disaster,” she said, “what with Miss Sinclair being dead and all, but you know what I mean.”

  The inspector nodded. “And everything else was basically in order?”

  “Except for the kitchen.” Miss Sutherland indicated that he should follow her as she walked over to the kitchen door and pushed it away to reveal a peppered floor. “I expected there to be dishes in the sink,” she said, “but someone knocked the pepper shaker over and didn’t have the decency to clean it up. This is just the sort of thing that would have sent Ms. Sinclair raging like a bull.”

  Riggs stepped carefully over the mess. A pair of tin salt and pepper shakers were sitting on a small wooden table behind the swinging door. Riggs opened the door and checked the swing. “If someone rushed through here from the dining room, they could have swung the door hard enough to knock the pepper onto the floor.”

  Miss Sutherland stared at Riggs like a nanny might stare at a child who had just said something unbelievably stupid. “Of course they did,” she explained. “But why didn’t they clean it up? The broom and dustpan are two feet away in the cupboard. It isn’t just laziness. And didn’t I just tell you how particular Ms. Sinclair was about her floors? In this household, even an oven fire would stop someone from cleaning up that mess.”

  “Maybe whoever knocked it over didn’t realize it,” Riggs suggested.

  It was a bad suggestion.

  Riggs knew it was a bad suggestion before the cook stared at him.

  “Inspector, are you a married man?” Miss Sutherland demanded as if only a severe case of bachelorhood could explain his stupidity. And then, without waiting for an answer, she indicated the salt and pepper shakers, and gave the door a firm swing. The door swung into the table, knocking both shakers onto the floor. The cap popped off the pepper shaker and the black and white contents spilled over the previous mess.

  “There!” the cook declared as though she had taught a dog to do algebra. “Someone may not hear that from the living room or the far end of the apartment, but from the kitchen and the dining room, that racket would be hard to miss.”

  “Yes, I see your point,” Riggs conceded.

  He checked to make sure that the boys had finished in the living room, then he brought Miss Sutherland through. Even though Miss Sinclair’s body had been removed, the cook still looked around the room uncomfortably.

  “When you came home, were the lights on or off?”

  “Everything was shut off,” Miss Sutherland said. “But with all these windows, we never need electric lamps during the day.”

  “And the lamp on the floor?” Riggs asked, pointing to the plush carpet where the porcelain lamp had been found.

  “That was off, too.”

  “What about the curtains? Were they open or closed?”

  “The curtains in this room are always open. Miss Sinclair said they were ‘just for show.’ I don’t know why people would hang curtains that aren’t intended to be used. It’s a silly notion, but that was Miss Camille to a T: glamorous and very impractical.”

  Riggs smiled. Then he took out a notepad and a pencil. “Miss Sutherland, can you please tell me your honest opinion of Miss Sinclair?”

  The cook didn’t have to consider the question for long. “Oh, she was talented, and I didn’t just read that in the newspaper. I’ve been to a few of her shows. Yes, she was as talented as she was beautiful. And she may not have been very young, but with her, age didn’t matter. If she had lived to be ninety, I think she would still have been a beautiful woman.”

  “So, you liked her?” Riggs asked.

  But Miss Sutherland shook her head.

  “I said she was beautiful and talented, but I didn’t say she was a wonderful woman,” the cook corrected him. “Now, I’m not complaining because she always treated me right, but Miss Sinclair was a very selfish and vain person. It’s not that she thought she was better than other people. No, it was really that she didn’t care about anyone, and she wanted the best of everything for herself, and that’s not decent, is it?”

  “But you and she got along?” the inspector ventured.

  The cook shrugged. “We weren’t personal friends, so it didn’t matter. She was a fine employer, and we had a good understanding. But I didn’t think she was a fine woman. I liked her independent spirit, but she wasn’t what my mother would have called a lady.”

  Riggs understood what the cook meant. “And Mr. Paul Abbott?”

  “His charm is very appealing,” she admitted readily enough, “and he might be a fine businessman, too, although I doubt it.”

  “Why do you say that, Miss Sutherland?”

  “There’s nothing I can’t put my finger on, so don’t make me try.” She thought for a moment and added, “But I have the impression that Paul Abbott is the sort of man who lets other people get things done, and he doesn’t bother to do too much work himself. He’s much more interested in sailing or playing golf. Of course, that’s just my impression.”

  “How is he as an employer?”

  She smiled. “He pays me a good salary, tells me when guests are coming, and he never criticizes me when they surprise me, and I have to improvise on the spur of the moment.”

  “I understand he is especially friendly with women,” Riggs said delicately.

  “I expect so, although I don’t know, and I don’t care. As my employer, I never would have tolerated that sort of thing from him, and beyond that, he respects my space and my privacy.”

  Happy with Miss Sutherland’s directness, Riggs ventured a little further. “And what can you tell me about the relationship between Mr. Abbott and Miss Sinclair?”

  “That’s not my business in the least.”

  “I understand, but any insight might help us to solve this crime. Please tell me, were they on good terms?”

  “Usually they were,” she explained. “Every now and then, they’d fight like cats and dogs. I had to remind them more than once that the neighbors would be telephoning the police if they didn’t keep it civil. Then, of course, they’d quiet right down.” She nodded approvingly. “I never could understand people who press their personal affairs onto the notice of others. But I suppose it was Miss Sinclair’s theatrical nature.”

  Rigg rubbed his mustache. “What sort of things did they argue about?”

  “Sometimes it was about which party they ought to go to or what kind of music was best. But they mostly argued about the best way to make a cocktail. Paul insisted on stirring the gin, but Camille was a shaker.”

  “Were either of them carrying on with anyone else?”

  Miss Sutherland considered the question. “Not as far as I know. And no one ever said anything, but I’ve been suspecting for some time that Miss Sinclair wanted to marry Mr. Abbott.”

  “There was a glass of scotch on the table this morning,” Riggs said. “Did Miss Sinclair drink scotch?”

  Miss Sutherland’s brow furrowed. “No. never. That’s Mr. Abbott’s drink. Everyone who knows him knows that he hardly drinks anything else.”

  “One last question, Miss Sutherland,” Riggs added. “Do you have any idea who could have killed Miss S
inclair?”

  She shook her head. “I’m sorry, but I have no idea. They had a great many friends, of course, and I can’t pretend to know even half of them, by face or by name. But I’m hard-pressed to think that any of them would have wanted to hurt her.” Miss Sutherland shuddered.

  “What about Mr. Abbott? Perhaps if he’d been drinking, and they quarreled?”

  “No, Inspector,” the cook objected. “Mr. Abbott has many flaws, far too many for anyone to think that he was a gentleman, if you know what I mean, but I don’t believe for one second that he would ever be violent to a woman.”

  Chapter Thirty-One: The Penthouse and its Owner

  Riggs was still examining the apartment when Fisher returned. Riggs looked at the junior officer and raised an eyebrow. “Well?”

  “Not much.” Fisher took off his hat. “The neighbor across the hall and the one downstairs both say they heard raised voices around four o’clock yesterday afternoon, but they couldn’t make out what was said or even whether the voices were male or female. But they’re absolutely ready to swear that a few minutes before four o’clock, they heard the front door slam and a man’s voice shouting from the hallway.”

  “It’s something,” Riggs said. “And unless Paul Abbott has skipped town, we’ll have him soon. Dr. Hara should be able to give us a time of death. In the meantime, I didn’t see any dishes that indicated last night’s dinner. I’ve got some guys checking his work and his club. Somebody might be willing to tell us where he spends the rest of his time. Now, what about fingerprints?”

  Fisher consulted his notepad. “The lemonade glass had Camille’s prints; the scotch glass had Paul’s. At least we think they’re Paul’s.” He pointed to the wet bar. “They’re the same prints that were all over the bottles, all over the whole apartment, really.”