by Barbara Paul
But Peg McAllister was actually trembling when I talked to her. “It’s as if someone had attacked me, Earl,” she explained. “Amos Speer and I were a team for thirty-four years. Now I’ve got this big hole in my life.”
“I’m sorry, Peg. It must be harder for you than the rest of us.”
“Thirty-four years! I’ve never worked for anyone but Amos Speer. I feel cut adrift.”
I looked at her curiously. “You were actually fond of him, weren’t you, Peg?”
She shrugged her shoulders. “When you spend your entire adult life working with the same person, you reach a point where fondness doesn’t even enter into it anymore. I was used to him. He was part of my life.” She paused. “He was essential.”
Peg meant essential to her life, but I couldn’t help thinking we’d soon see just how essential Amos Speer was. I didn’t think he’d be all that hard to replace.
Speer’s office had been taken over by the police, who were evidently not buying the prowler theory. We were being called in one at a time, and when my turn came a subdued June Murray ushered me into the inner sanctum.
“Earl Sommers, Lieutenant. Lieutenant D’Elia.” Duh-LEEuh. June completely ignored another man in the room. He was leaning against the wall, arms crossed over his chest, hugging himself. When June left the Lieutenant introduced him as Sergeant Pollock. Pollock inclined his head a quarter of an inch by way of acknowledgment but said nothing.
If it hadn’t been for his name, I’d have thought D’Elia was Irish—stocky, sandy-haired, clear blue eyes. We shook hands over Amos Speer’s desk. D’Elia motioned me to a chair and asked for my home address.
Then he said, “Let’s get the nasty part out of the way first, Mr. Sommers. Where were you at two o’clock Saturday afternoon?”
“Here. Working.” Two o’clock—about the time my stomach had started growling while I was waiting for Wightman to leave. I’d seen Charlie get into a cab a little before eleven. What had he been doing that took three hours? “You don’t think it was a burglar Speer walked in on, then.”
“We don’t know what to think yet,” the Lieutenant said. “But we have to check everybody. Do you have a key to the gallery or do you check in with a guard?”
“Check in with the guard. Even Mr. Speer had to check in—the insurance company insisted on it.”
D’Elia nodded. “The guard keeps records of everyone coming in and going out?”
“Yes.”
“Save me a little time. When did you check in?”
“I actually checked in twice. The first time was, oh, around ten o’clock. Then I remembered I’d left a file at home that I needed and went back for it. I got back here about an hour later.”
“Anyone else working Saturday?”
“Leonard Wightman. He was already here when I checked in the first time, and we left together. About five o’clock.”
“Did either of you go out for lunch?”
“No. I brought a sandwich with me.” Might sound funny if I hadn’t.
“You’re sure Wightman didn’t go out?”
“I’d have heard his door. His office is near mine. But the security guard’s records will tell you whether he stayed in or not.”
D’Elia paused. Then: “Is there a way of getting out of this building without being spotted by a guard?”
“None. It’s tight as a drum.” Then his implication hit me. “What are you saying? That Wightman or I sneaked out—”
“Relax, Mr. Sommers. We’re still grasping at straws at this stage. You’re one straw. The last person I talked to is another straw. The person I talk to next will be still another. We have to check everything.”
The telephone saved me from having to think up a neutral reply. Lieutenant D’Elia picked up the receiver, said “Hello?”, punched a button, said “Hello?” again. Pause. “Of course, have her come in.”
The door opened and Nedda Speer walked in. This was the first time I’d seen her since last Thursday afternoon, when I’d stolen a few hours from cataloguing old Alice Ballard’s estate for a different kind of pleasure. Sergeant Pollock unfolded himself from the wall and wordlessly placed a chair for her before the desk. Nedda nodded to me impersonally as she sat down.
“I’m sorry to break in on you, Lieutenant,” she said, “but there’s something you should know about. I’ve just discovered something was taken from the house after all. A porcelain figurine is missing, a valuable one.”
“How valuable?”
“I can’t put a dollar figure on it—Mr. Wightman could probably tell you. But it was in a case with seven other figurines—all of them were valuable. But only one was taken.”
Lieutenant D’Elia was nodding thoughtfully. “That puts a different cast on it. Your husband could have surprised a burglar who shot him and then panicked and ran—I’m sorry, Mrs. Speer, I know this can’t be easy for you. Can we get you something?”
Nedda was looking distressed. Immediately I was on my feet, offering to play errand boy, beating out Sergeant Pollock.
She waved a hand in my direction. “I’m all right. I’d like you to stay, Mr. Sommers. I need to ask you something.”
I sat back down. I’d wanted to get out of the room because I was having a hell of a time keeping myself from grinning like an ape. I had no idea what Charlie’d thought he was doing when he took one piece of porcelain from the case. But it was the touch that was needed to make interrupted burglary seem a reasonable explanation. I didn’t for one minute credit Charlie with thinking that far ahead—he didn’t have the brains. But whatever his reasons, for once in his life Charlie Bates had managed to do something right.
“Bit unusual though,” Lieutenant D’Elia was saying. “Thieves who go after paintings and jewelry and art objects almost never carry weapons. Most of them are afraid of guns. But then that would explain why this guy panicked and ran—maybe he’d never fired a gun before. Maybe it didn’t belong to him—Mrs. Speer, did your husband keep a gun in the house?”
“No, Amos never owned a gun.”
So Nedda hadn’t known about the automatic the dear departed had kept in his office. Interesting.
Lieutenant D’Elia said, “I’d like Sergeant Pollock to take a look at the cabinet the porcelain was taken from. And then you could give him a description of the missing figurine.”
“Certainly,” Nedda said. Sergeant Pollock was standing at attention, ready to go. “But there’s something I have to take care of first.” She turned to me. “Mr. Sommers, I need someone to run the galleries until I can decide what I want to do. It’s an imposition, I know, but would you be willing to take over the directorship on a temporary basis? Just to help me out?”
“Why, of course,” I said magnanimously. “Don’t worry about the galleries, Mrs. Speer. We’ll take care of everything here.”
She actually managed to look relieved. “Thank you,” she said simply. “I’ll talk to you again later—after the funeral, I suppose.” Nedda stood up, catlike even in that movement. “Goodbye, Lieutenant. I’ll let you get back to your investigation.” Sergeant Pollock opened the door and followed her out; I still hadn’t heard the man’s voice.
“Attractive woman,” Lieutenant D’Elia mused. “I suppose you know she’s the sole heir.”
“I’d assumed she was.”
“Did she and Speer get along all right?”
“So far as I know.”
“No trouble in the marriage? Amos Speer was a great deal older than his wife.”
“I didn’t know them socially, Lieutenant,” I said, “but I don’t think there was any trouble. Why don’t you ask Peg McAllister? She knew Speer longer than any of us.”
“I already did,” D’Elia smiled, but offered no information. “I just realized I’m sitting at your desk—since you’ve just been promoted. Is there another room I can use?”
“No need. I have some work to finish up in my own office first. I won’t be ready to move in right away.”
“Fine. Mrs. Spee
r asked you to take over on a temporary basis. What’s she likely to do in the way of long-term arrangements? What are her options?”
“Appoint me or one of the other agents or one of the branch managers as permanent director. Hire somebody from outside. Sell the business.” I didn’t mention the one possibility I was worried about: that Nedda would decide to run the galleries herself.
“Would you take the job on a permanent basis?” Lieutenant D’Elia asked me.
“Like a shot,” I grinned. “Any of us would. It’s a good business, Lieutenant. Running Speer Galleries is a job a lot of people would like to have.”
“Well, you seem to have your foot in the door. Good luck. Was Speer on bad terms with anybody here at the gallery?”
My throat tightened. “I don’t think so.”
“Was he an easy man to work for?”
Aha, an out. “No, he wasn’t. He was exacting and demanding and at times autocratic.”
“And that didn’t cause bad feeling?”
“Fleetingly. One thing you should understand, Lieutenant. Speer may not have been a boy scout, but he was a damned good dealer. For an antiques agent, the most important thing in the world is having a head honcho who knows what he’s doing. Speer knew. He was a sharp old man. He was highhanded and impatient and sometimes he’d get mad at this agent or that one—hell, we all got a little of that at one time or another.” (That was my out: spread the guilt.)
“Hm,” D’Elia said noncommittally.
“But it didn’t mean anything. Whenever there was disagreement, it was always over professional matters, never personal ones. Speer just didn’t allow personal matters to interfere with the business of dealing.” Then I remembered something. “Peg McAllister was telling me just the other day there was a man here Speer couldn’t stand personally—but Speer had kept him on for ten years because he was so good at his work.”
“Who?”
“Don’t know. Peg didn’t tell me that.” And then could have bit my tongue: I just recalled the rest of that conversation. I’d been telling Peg that Speer was out to get me. And now D’Elia would ask Peg, and Peg would remember what we’d been talking about, and …
“What about other dealers, competitors?” D’Elia asked. “Any enemies there?”
But I decided it was my turn to ask a question. “Lieutenant, why are you asking about enemies? Are you saying it wasn’t a burglar who killed him?”
“I’m trying to say as little as possible. This is what police work is, Mr. Sommers. Checking details. We check everything we can think of and then we check some more.”
It went on like that another fifteen or twenty minutes—the Lieutenant asking for details of matters that had nothing at all to do with Charlie Bates and what had happened Saturday afternoon. I answered him willingly, supplying whatever information he thought he needed. At last he thanked me for my help and said he’d be in touch later.
June Murray stopped me on my way through the outer office. “Congratulations, Earl. Mrs. Speer told me you were the new acting director. I’m glad.” Big friendly smile.
Well, well. The percentages were back with me.
I picked up a cardboard carton from the packing room and headed for my office. When I’d put my personal belongings in the box, I sat down to wait.
All in all it hadn’t gone too badly—except for that one dumb slip I’d made. Even that might work out all right. Peg just might not remember what we’d been talking about when D’Elia asked her who the ten-year man was that Speer had disliked so much. Or she might be reminded but not say anything. Or maybe I could say something to her—no, better leave it alone. The one other time I’d tried to enlist her aid I hadn’t gotten anywhere. This was one of those times when silence was probably golden.
It was the middle of the afternoon before June Murray called and said the police had gone and I could move in. I shouldered the cardboard carton and tried not to grin all the way there.
June helped me put things away. I could tell she wanted to say something but she waited until I was settled before she brought it up. “Lieutenant D’Elia asked me if there was bad feeling between Mr. Speer and any of the agents. I said no.”
Ah so, the blackmailing began. But this was junior-grade manipulating, June’s specialty—like not letting me go in to see Speer until she’d first told him I was there. No problem. “Good girl, June, I appreciate it. I’ve got enough on my mind without the police finding out Speer and I were at each other’s throats over a piece of Meissen.” Bring it out in the open, Honest Earl Sommers, that’s me. “Get hold of Robin Coulter and tell her I want to see her, will you?”
June smiled her way out. I leaned back in Amos Speer’s chair and reminded myself to get the lock on the right-hand drawer of the desk fixed. It wasn’t properly a desk at all but a table Speer had used as a desk—American late Sheraton, cherrywood, the apron fitted with drawers. Good piece.
The phone buzzed. “Robin Coulter’s here,” said June.
Should I keep her waiting? Naw. “Send her in.”
Robin Coulter came in and closed the door behind her. She took two steps and stopped, keeping a distance between us. Her eyes were doing their bedroom trick, but her mouth was a straight line.
“Unpack,” I told her. “You ain’t going nowhere.”
CHAPTER 5
But she did. I had to send Robin to the Mercer auction after all, because my first week behind the cherrywood table taught me I was going to have to pass up some of life’s little goodies if I wanted to hold on to others. The sheer number of decisions that had to be made during the day left me exhausted and “virtually useless” at night, according to Nedda. The long drive back from Fox Chapel every night wasn’t helping. Nedda was joking, of course. I hoped.
By the second week I was beginning to get the hang of it, and my performance improved in both bed and office. The auction of the Alice Ballard estate went off with only a few minor hitches (and a greatly reduced catalogue); we made a good commission. In the office I found myself depending on June Murray more than I really cared to. June loved helping me through the transition—oh, how she loved it! Making herself indispensable. And she was indispensable, damn her; but I was going to have to wean myself before an unbreakable pattern was formed. June prided herself on being the perfect secretary, but I soon found myself wishing she were a little less than perfect. Just once, for instance, I’d like to see her come into the office with her hair mussed up.
About the first thing I’d done on my own was get rid of Amos Speer’s chair—a modern “executive” number specially built to provide additional support for his back. But my back didn’t need extra help; so I had a chair brought in from the showroom, one I’d long had my eye on—a Boston leather-upholstered armchair in the high-backed William and Mary style. The other chairs in the office were good but not rare pieces I decided to leave where they were.
I called the rare books woman in London and told her to start planning her own department. I wasn’t able to give her the go-ahead just yet, I said; but when the time came—a couple of months, probably—I wanted her to be ready to move.
Then I called in our art nouveau agent and told him it was quite likely that after a few months we’d no longer be handling his specialty. Amos Speer had hated art nouveau every bit as much as I did, but he’d kept dealing the stuff because it brought in the bucks. Our new rare books department in London would take up the slack. I watched the art nouveau agent pale to an unhealthy color and then told him solicitously that I’d hate to lose an agent as good as he was and did he think he could be happy working in some other area? He said he’d need some time to think and I gave it to him. If he could adjust, fine; if he couldn’t, tough.
Next I sent for Hal Downing, Amos Speer’s lackey, and informed him his services would no longer be required. Flush it out, flush it all out.
Just how much I could do all depended on Nedda, of course. Amos Speer had assembled a rubberstamp board of directors and I was assuming they�
��d follow the new owner’s orders just as obediently as they’d followed her husband’s. There’d be no attempting to wrest control from Nedda; she was the majority shareholder now and that was that.
Appointing me interim director had been a logical step, one a distraught widow would be expected to make. And she’d been smart enough to make the appointment in the presence of Lieutenant D’Elia. If she’d handed full and permanent control over to me right away, there’d have been a lot of unpleasant speculating going on. But until Nedda and the board made it official, I could take only preparatory steps. Like a royal consort needing the queen’s approval for everything he did. I began to understand Prince Albert a little better.
But in this best of all possible worlds the best of all possible things was that Charlie Bates remained the little man who wasn’t there. I checked his apartment, two shabby rooms in the East Liberty section of town, not far from the squalid neighborhood where I’d spent my childhood. His landlady hadn’t seen him for a couple of weeks and wanted to know when she’d get the back rent he owed her. Never, I hoped. I kept watching the papers for items about suicides leaping off the U. S. Steel Building or unidentified bodies being pulled out of the Monongahela River, but there was nothing that sounded like Charlie. Since I hadn’t heard from him, I had no way of knowing whether he was alive or dead. The police seemed to be accepting the interrupted burglary theory, though; so I told myself to stop worrying about Charlie Bates and just count my blessings.
Which were numerous and gratifying. One such: the Duprée chair, reigning in unrivaled splendor over the house in Fox Chapel. I told Nedda to arrange for round-the-clock security; one night-patrolman wasn’t enough with a Duprée in the house. Amos Speer hadn’t been able to bring himself to turn the Duprée over to the gallery’s restorers; he’d wanted to work on the chair himself. An impulse I fully understood. He’d taken the gratuitous ormolu off the one side and had made a start at cleaning the wood, but there was still a good deal to be done. I was looking forward to it.
What I did not look forward to was the almost daily visit of that horse-faced Englishman I intended to fire the minute I had full control. Wightman was the one thorn in my side; plucking him out was going to be a pleasure on the orgasmicdelights level. Porcelain experts were a dime a dozen; I’d have no trouble replacing him.