Death of an Old Sinner (The Mrs. Norris Mysteries Book 1)

by Dorothy Salisbury Davis

  The doorbell sounded at the front of the house. “That will be our young romantics,” Helene said, and went to admit Mrs. Norris and Tully.

  Jimmie was enjoying a mood of liquid gold, momentary and transient. And strictly out of Helene’s martini mixer. But, God help him, he thought, why had he ever sought to spoil a beautiful friendship by talk of a marriage neither of them really wanted? Helene at least was no hypocrite. He was mouthing the catechismal lines of Mrs. Norris. The little housekeeper came in wreathed in smiles, and he would have sworn she would be of disapproving mien. Tully was a good influence.

  Both she and Tully took their whiskey neat, while the detective summed up for Jimmie his work of the last two days. Jimmie would not take to the notion of hypnotism at all, and Helene sided with him.

  “Got a better explanation?” Tully said, somewhat irked. He had not come easily by the notion himself.

  “Who hypnotized him then?” said Jimmie. “The character who brought him in to the hotel? Father was not the type to submit himself to nonsense. He liked his whiskey straight, his women submissive, and his money in cash. Excuse my frankness, Mrs. Norris.”

  She merely nodded, intent on something at which she was gazing.

  Tully switched then to a discussion of Fowler, and while he was talking Jimmie became aware that the housekeeper’s attention was focused on the male nude he had commented on earlier. Now and then, she glanced from it to him, and back to it again. Jimmie realized what was going on in her mind. The piece was sculpted, hands behind the head, knees drawn slightly up, ankles crossed. It was a hell of a position, but Jimmie managed to take it. Tully was reading from notes. Helene saw the situation between Mrs. Norris and her employer, the man she had raised from rompers, and covered her mouth with a glass. Sixty seconds passed; Jimmie was aching. Then Mrs. Norris saw his position.

  She gave a little “oh” and began to fan herself vigorously.

  “You were saying, Jasper?” Jimmie said, springing loose his limbs. Helene turned her back.

  Tully looked up from his notes. “I was saying that if Fowler denied giving your father a thousand dollars, if I were you, I’d get that diary back from him and take a good look at it.”

  “I intend to,” Jimmie said. “I called him twice today, and no return call. I was going to ask you to take a hand.”

  “Mrs. Norris and I stopped there on our way. He wasn’t in.”

  “But the girl in the office thought he might be back at five o’clock, didn’t she?” said Mrs. Norris, having recovered herself.

  “She changed her tune later. Remember?”

  “Was that to us or was it to that Mr. Python on the phone?” said Mrs. Norris.

  Jimmie leaped to his feet. “Wait a minute, wait! Python did you say?” Tully and Mrs. Norris nodded. “Go over that part for me slowly.”

  Tully recounted the receptionist’s remarks. “My guess is, he was spittin’ mad, the Python, at our Mr. Fowler.”

  “Was he?” Jimmie said, grinding the fist of one hand into the palm of the other. “Where do you think that diary is, Jasp?”

  “If it was worth a thousand dollars cash to Fowler on Friday, and another thousand to hide under Saturday, I’d say it’s in a safe someplace.”

  “Let’s get a warrant.”

  “Well, I was thinking of that. But why not try it the easy way first—finding him and asking him for it? Could be, he’ll show up in his office in the morning. My guess right now is it’s Python he’s ducking, not us.”

  “Did you see Python’s column this morning, Jasp?”

  “Can’t really say I’ve ever read him.”

  Jimmie took the clipping of the column from his pocket and gave it to Tully. “Might as well read it aloud,” he said, and went to the window overlooking the garden.

  Tully read the item and whistled softly.

  “Do you think that in some way your father was responsible for that, Jimmie?” Helene asked.

  Jimmie raised his fists to heaven on the odd chance that the old gentleman had made it. “He’s one of two possibilities, and right now I’d nominate him, sure.”

  Mrs. Norris finished her drink and got to her feet. “I’d say one of three, Master James,” she said with stiff formality.

  “Three?”

  “Aye, yourself is one also.”

  There was no denying her Scots righteousness, Jimmie thought. And unlike Madeline Barker, she could not be converted by a kiss. Not by his at least. Jimmie let his eyes appeal to Tully.

  Tully merely looked at his pocket watch. “It’s time for us to go out to our dinner, Mrs. Norris.”

  Jimmie took them to the door. When they were gone, he returned, massaged his chin with his thumb. “I guess myself is one also,” he said, “for having got myself in so vulnerable a position.”

  “A lot of people were vulnerable during the war, Jimmie.”

  “While the generals died in bed,” Jimmie said, misquoting a poem of that sentiment.

  His eyes met Helene’s for a moment. “Sorry,” he said, “that was crass of me.”

  “Some people say martinis are depressants,” Helene said. “Shall I put on the steak?”

  34

  “DUTY FIRST. THEN WE can relax,” Mrs. Norris said, and then suddenly realized she was relaxing more with Mr. Tully than so short an acquaintance justified. Ah, but it was like the stress of wartime, and like war, it wasn’t the circumstance you welcomed, but the distraction you found from it.

  Mr. Tully, who might never have relaxed at all if he did the duties connected with his office first, consented at least to follow up Mrs. Norris’ clue to the General’s fair lady. He commenced their exchange with the florist by buying Mrs. Norris a single tea rose for her shoulder and a bit of green to cushion it. She was putting it on and Tully paying for it when she remembered Robbie and his quoting of Bobbie Burns… “My love is like a red, red rose.”

  “Oh there now,” she said, “you’ve put me in mind of my brother-in-law.”

  “Is that good or bad?” said Tully, waiting his change.

  “I don’t know that it’s bad, but it isn’t good,” she said. “I’ll tell you about it later if you like.”

  The man behind the counter returned, and counted Mr. Tully his change. “I wonder,” the detective said, “if you’d mind telling me about a floral piece you fixed yesterday morning early… You describe it, Mrs. Norris.”

  Mrs. Norris did, mostly with a great circular motion as though she were illustrating an angel’s wings.

  The man’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly. He shook his head, “I don’t think it came from here, madam.”

  Tully took the ribbon from his pocket and ran it through his fingers while he spoke. “Now nobody would fix more than one or two pieces like that in a lifetime, much less on a Monday morning.”

  The man lifted his head. “I’m sorry, sir, I don’t remember fixing it.”

  Tully went on easily. “I’d guess maybe a lady bought it, an old customer who lives in the neighborhood. A good-natured woman, likes birds, an ex-show girl.”

  Mrs. Norris looked up. It was quite a picture Mr. Tully was drawing. She had not reached the “show girl” part of it in her own mind, but it fit in very neatly, she realized now. It was pleasant to admire a man as she was now admiring Jasper Tully. And there again she cautioned herself. For longer than some men’s lifetimes, she had admired Mr. Robinson.

  The florist shook his head steadily, and this in spite of the fact that his eyes took in the ribbon in the detective’s hand.

  “Do you have an assistant?” Tully asked.

  “Only my wife. She relieves me at mealtime. And she would not have done up anything like you describe, believe me, sir.”

  “I’d like to,” Tully said, and tried another approach before throwing the authority of his office into the persuasion. “I’ll tell you who it was for. That might refresh your memory. It was for the funeral of General Ransom Jarvis. Does that help?”

  The man squeezed the c
olor out of his fingers. “I knew General Jarvis, if that’s what you mean, sir.”

  “That’ll do for now,” Tully said. “Tell us about it.”

  “Not much to tell. He was in the habit of coming in once a week or so, and picking out a bouquet to take with him.”

  “Never sent them?” Tully asked.

  “No sir. And just to show his authority, he was in the habit of plucking out a stem or two. ‘Can’t offend the lady,’ he’d say.”

  “When was he in last?”

  “Friday night—a little after five. He drove up in a cab and bought two dozen roses.”

  “You’re sure of the time?” said Tully.

  “I am. My wife was due at five o’clock and I was getting hungrier by the minute.”

  “Did he keep the cab waiting?”

  “No sir.”

  “How much were the flowers?”

  “Eight dollars.”

  “What did he pay them out of—what size bill?”

  “A five and three singles, but he did ask if I could change a hundred dollar bill.”

  “That’s what I figured,” Tully said.

  He could afford a cab but he walked from here, the detective thought. It must put his lady within—say—a block or two.

  Mrs. Norris cleared her throat. “Had he been your customer for a long time, sir?”

  “Off and on, a good many years. I remember him in uniform.”

  “Do you now?” she said, in a tone that took the pleasure out of the florist’s reminiscence.

  Tully edged around the matter for a moment to let the man’s hackle settle, and then asked: “Does the lady ever buy flowers herself from you?”

  “I tell you, sir,” the man said with exaggerated patience. “I don’t even know the lady. This might be her for all of me.” He indicated Mrs. Norris.

  “Well for all of me, it might not!” she cried.

  “Didn’t he ever make conversation with you? Did he never refer to the woman at all?” said Tully.

  “He had a saying,” the florist said. “I’m trying to think of it. Something like: ‘Blossoms for my Blossom.’ That’s not right, but something like that. Maybe her name was Rose!” Then he shook his head, turning down his own conjecture. “I’m sorry, officer.”

  “Don’t mention it.” Then Tully snapped: “That big funeral wreath—how much did the gangster pay you for it?”

  The shopkeeper went a little pale, and his hand trembled when he picked up the ribbon Tully threw on the counter, but he stuck to his story. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Tully saluted him, the tip of his hat with the tip of his fingers, and let the matter stand. Outdoors he said to Mrs. Norris: “I could have asked him to let me see his books. But it probably wouldn’t show anything we don’t know now. The wreath was bought there, all right, and by the big bag of cheese in the chauffeur’s uniform. I don’t really think the flower man knows anything except enough to be scared. And he is scared. That tells quite a lot, you see.”

  “Poor man,” said Mrs. Norris.

  “I told you we should’ve had our dinner first,” said Tully.

  “What will you do now?” Mrs. Norris said as they walked the few paces down Third Avenue and turned a corner, going in a door that said Family Entrance. She forgot her own question for a moment: “I haven’t been in a family entrance for years!”

  It was a fine old tavern-restaurant, with the smell of gravy and beer combined, white cloths on the table, pyramided napkins, thick plates and the best roast beef in New York, according to Mr. Tully. He excused himself for a moment, taking pen and notebook from pocket to make a few notations.

  “Why, what will I do now? Cherchez la femme, as they say in France. We know quite a bit about her now. We know for example she’ll be disposing of some poor faded roses soon, the last of a lovely crop. You might even call her ‘The last rose of summer left blooming alone’.” He sounded very mournful. “Except I don’t think she’s blooming alone. We also know she has the services of a chauffeured car, and one that might be intimately connected with the murder of a Brooklyn gangster.”

  The mention of Brooklyn again turned Mrs. Norris’ thoughts to her own family. She confided to the detective her sudden concern for her sister.

  “What does he do for a living, your brother-in-law?”

  “He’s a printer. And he’s always been a fine provider, Mr. Tully. And there’s times I really think it’s my own imagination. I’d put it all down to that right now if I’d only been able to talk to Mag herself. But first she was out for a walk at eight in the morning, then she was sick of the stomach, then she was…well.”

  Tully nodded sympathetically. “The thing you should do is go out there without advance notice.”

  “I’m doing just that in the morning.”

  “Fine. I’ll drive you over myself, for I’ve an errand there. Do you like your beef rare, Mrs. Norris?”

  “Just so it doesn’t kick me in the teeth,” she said.

  35

  IT WAS NINE O’CLOCK in the morning when the detective put her down at the corner a few doors from her sister’s. There was no use rousing Mr. Robinson’s curiosity about Mr. Tully by having him drive her up to the door. She climbed the front steps, noticing a half dozen cigarette stubs stamped out there, something Mag would not tolerate if she were herself. Mrs. Norris’ heart beat the drum of alarm. She thrust herself forward with determination and tweaked the doorbell.

  Mr. Robinson came through the hall from the kitchen in his shirt sleeves. He needed to open his mouth twice before he could say anything. Then he honeyed her with sweet talk.

  “I want to see my sister, Mr. Robinson. That’s all I ask.”

  “Dear Annie, ask anything you like.” He drew her in the door and steered her down the hall with him, very neatly keeping her from entering the living room.

  “Will you have a cup of tea with me first, and we’ll go up together and wake her?” Mr. Robinson took his handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his hands vigorously—a very nervous habit, Mrs. Norris thought.

  “I’ll wait if she’s sleeping,” she said, and in the kitchen sat down to the tea he had been brewing as she came to the door. If all was not well, it would give her the sense of the house to see more of it, she thought, for somehow it was changed from when last she had been there.

  “You look a bit peaked yourself, Annie. Have you not been sleeping?”

  “With my eyes open, Mr. Robinson,” she said.

  He threw back his head and laughed so that the roof of his denture showed. She cast her eyes down, and stirred her tea; the man was acting daft.

  “Excuse me a minute, Annie,” he said, and slipped out the door into the front hall again.

  She was of half a mind to follow him, but there was no sense in getting panicked. She drank the strong tea, and listened to the clock tick. The other morning Mag was out for a walk at eight, now she was still abed at nine. And the brief glimpse Mrs. Norris had got of the living room revealed the look of an all-night party, or at least occupancy by too many people. Aye, that was the whiff she got, stale smoke, cigars. She could remember it in the old days when the politicians would gather round Mr. James.

  She took her teacup to the sink. A yellowed saucer showed where Mr. Robinson had had his breakfast, for she had noticed a bit of egg on the back of his hand where he had wiped his mouth on his way to admit her. She looked about now for eggshells, and found them in the garbage bucket. One egg only. But of course, Mag was still asleep.

  The urge to know the truth became irresistible. She went out into the hall and up the stairs. He was in the living room, on the phone with someone. She could hear the rumble of his voice, but no words. He had shut the door. She could see the open bedroom door from the top step, the double bed gaping where someone had risen from sleep there.

  “Mag?” she said softly.

  No answer at all.

  She went to the guest room then, for if Mag were ill, it was best to sleep
alone. But the bed was as neat there as a walking stick. She hurried along then to Mag’s sewing room at the other end of the upstairs. A studio couch, she remembered there, and the morning sun. She opened the door after ever so light a tap. Mag’s sewing dummy stood fully dressed in a summer frock. It gave Mrs. Norris such a turn she let out a little moan and retreated into the hall. She had her hand on the railing to go downstairs, when Mr. Robinson spoke from the master bedroom.

  “Are you sure you conducted a thorough search, Annie?”

  She walked into the bedroom, her hands on her hips. “Where is my sister, Mr. Robinson?”

  He was sitting on the corner of the bed, a bitter smile on his face. Suddenly he leaped to his feet and to the closet door. “Did you look in here?” he cried, flinging open the door.

  Only a dress hung loose. After the start she had got from the dummy, Mr. Robinson’s intended bit of cruelty was not even a bad joke. It left her unaffected.

  “I’m warning you. I’ll go to the police when I go out of this house if I don’t see Mag.”

  “Where, where is the trusting friendship, Annie, that made us paragons among warring in-laws? Did I tell you Mag was up here? I did not. You leaped to your own conclusion. Come downstairs now. I’ll put on my coat and we’ll go up together. She spent the night with our next-door neighbor. The doctor has given her pills, you see, and I’d to entertain some customers here… Well, if she’s awake she’ll tell you, and if she’s sleeping, you’ll sit by her side and be her first waking vision.”

  Mrs. Norris went down the stairs with sodden humility. Either she was a great fool, or he took her for one—and she must be, not to know which was the case herself.

  She was introduced to Mrs. Anders, who then put her hand on Mr. Robinson’s arm. “She slept the night through like a baby.”

  Little she knew of babies, Mrs. Norris thought, if she was of the opinion they slept the night through. But there was Mag sitting up, a bed jacket about her shoulders, and a tray in her lap, and her eyes lighting up for a minute when she saw her sister.

  “Look who I brought with my morning kiss, love,” said Mr. Robinson, leaning over his wife, and whispering whatever else he had to say in her ear.