The Proud Shall Stumble

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The Proud Shall Stumble Page 39

by Gerald N. Lund


  Her hand shot up and she pressed two fingers to his lips. “No, Franz. Don’t say anything. You don’t have to.”

  Surprised, he said, “But I was just going to ask if we could stop here and talk for a bit before you have to go in.”

  “Oh.” That flustered her. “Of course.”

  Then, realizing that he didn’t have the foggiest idea what to talk about, Frank stammered out, “Uh . . . so what time is your train in the morning?”

  “Not until nine.”

  “Then you don’t have to go inside right away, do you?”

  “No, but. . . .” She looked away. When she turned back, her eyes were filled with tears. “Did you ever hear from Celeste?”

  Frank shook his head. “I don’t know what’s going on with her.”

  “It’s not enough, Franz.”

  He looked at her more closely. “What’s not enough?”

  “Your anger with Celeste.”

  That took him completely aback, so Margitte rushed on. “I am not a religious person, Franz. I find the restrictions that various churches put on the love between a man and a woman to be antiquated and prudish.” She took a quick breath. “So. . . .” She was blushing now, and then she laughed sadly. “Oh, Franz, there is such a sweet innocence about you. What I am saying is that I am strongly tempted to invite you to stay with me tonight, and. . . .” She reached up and laid a hand on his cheek. “And I think you would be strongly tempted to accept my invitation. Right?”

  Frank’s mind raced off in several directions, but he finally said, “More strongly than you know.”

  “But I also have very strong feelings about hurting innocent people,” Margitte continued. “Oh, I know you and Celeste are having your challenges—which is really very foolish on her part. But I can tell that she is a good person who loves you very much. So. . . .” She looked away. “So another part of me cannot bring myself to do this to her. I know what it would do to me if a person I loved deeply were to cheat on me. I would be absolutely devastated.” The tears were streaking her face now. “So I think it’s best if we say good night now, before my good intentions evaporate.”

  “Yes,” Frank said after a moment. “I do think that is best.”

  She stepped back. “Good-bye, Franz.” She turned away as her lower lip began to tremble. In two steps he was to her. He took her by the shoulders, turned her around, and kissed her on the lips. It was soft and tender and contained all of the pent-up longing and loneliness he was feeling. When he pulled away, his eyes were shining too. “Auf Wiedersehen, my darling.”

  Margitte tried to speak, but her voice caught in her throat. All she managed was, “Auf Wiedersehen, Schatzi.” Then she threw her arms around him and kissed him back—hard, long, passionately. She pulled back and then turned and walked swiftly away, her heels clicking loudly on the sidewalk.

  August 12, 1929, 5:37 p.m.— Rue de Écoles 59,

  the Latin Quarter, Paris, France

  The driver looked over his shoulder. “Monsieur, we are almost there.”

  “Good. Out of curiosity, how far is the Sorbonne from this address?”

  The driver lifted a hand and pointed out the windshield. “See the large buildings down near the end of the street? Those are part of the université. So this is just a few blocks away.”

  That would be Celeste, Frank thought. Why worry about the cost? Live close to the university so you never have too far to walk.

  The taxi slowed and made a left turn off of Saint-Michel Boulevard. A minute later the driver pulled over to the curb. As he pulled on the hand brake, he half turned, pointing to a red brick building across the street. “We are here, Monsieur. That will be six francs, s’il vous plaît.”

  Frank took out a ten-franc note and handed it to him. “Merci beaucoup.”

  “May I help you with your bags?”

  “No, thank you. It’s just the one. I can manage.”

  But as Frank reached for the door handle, a man came running out of the building. He was middle-aged, with a very round midriff, a bald head, a scruff of whiskers, and woolen pants held up by suspenders straining to cover the expanse of his belly. He was waving his arms wildly as he let loose a torrent of French at the driver. The driver glanced quickly back at Frank and held up one hand. “Un moment, Monsieur.” Then he turned back to face the man, who had run up to the taxi. A very animated conversation ensued as the driver started firing questions at the man. The driver kept glancing back at Frank with increasing consternation.

  Finally, the driver barked sharply at the man and waved him back. Reluctantly, the man checked for cars and then crossed back over and stood in front of the building.

  “What is it?” Frank asked with a touch of alarm.

  “He is the propriétaire. How do you say in English?”

  Frank had no idea what the French word meant, but based on the fact that the man had come running out of Celeste’s building, he took a guess. “The landlord?”

  “Oui, oui. The landlord. He says your wife is not here.”

  “What?” Frank jerked forward. “Where is she? At the uni­vers­ity?”

  “Non. Not here. She is gone.” He threw up both hands, flipping his fingers outward, like a magician performing a magic trick. “Poof!” he added.

  “Gone?” Frank felt his stomach lurch. “Gone where?”

  Across the street the landlord was wringing his hands, motioning for Frank to come and join him.

  “The landlord says you come with him. He has a letter for you.”

  Half in a daze, Frank opened the door and got slowly out. Seeing that, the landlord stepped to the door of the building, pulled it open, and motioned for Frank to come inside.

  Before he did so, Frank turned and called to the driver. “Can you wait here while I sort this out, Monsieur?”

  “Oui, oui! But of course,” he replied.

  Frank stepped through the door into a small vestibule. The landlord followed, shutting the door behind him. “Do you speak any English?” Frank asked.

  He shrugged. “Pas d’anglais.” Apparently not.

  The vestibule was small and narrow. To the right was a steep set of stairs. On the left was a single door with a brass number one nailed to it. The landlord opened the door and motioned for Frank to follow him inside.

  The rotund little man walked through a small living room and into a kitchen. Frank stopped at the door and waited. A moment later, the landlord came back carrying two envelopes—a white, letter-sized one and a much larger manila one with a flap on the top. Letting loose a stream of French, the landlord thrust both of them at Frank, who took only the smaller one and quickly ripped it open. There was a single sheet of paper, folded into thirds. Frank opened it and stared at it for several seconds, not comprehending. It had only four lines.

  F.,

  Have returned to Boston. For explanation, see brown envelope.

  C.

  P.S. Please cancel all London reservations.

  That didn’t make sense. Frank looked up at the landlord, who was hovering over him. His face was sad as his head wagged back and forth. “Votre femme . . . uh. . . .” And then came another stream of French.

  “My wife?” Frank asked.

  The man nodded vigorously as he lifted both hands out in front of him, all four fingers on each hand curled in to touch his thumbs so they formed a small ball. “Votre femme—” he said again, and then he did what the taxi driver had done. He flipped his finger and thumb as though there had been a small explosion in both hands. “Poof!” he said.

  Thoroughly baffled now, Frank took the manila envelope from the older man. As soon as he did so, the landlord discreetly backed away and went into the kitchen. The flap on the envelope was not sealed, and Frank suddenly realized that the man knew what was inside and didn’t want to be here when Frank opened it.

  Fran
k hesitated and then lifted the flap. Inside were two sheets of paper. Puzzled, he extracted them. They were blank. Nothing on them at all. Then, noticing that they were much thicker and stiffer than normal paper, he realized he was looking at the backs of two photographs. What in the world? He turned them over, holding the two photos apart, one in each hand.

  Suddenly the room lurched violently and his knees almost buckled. He clutched blindly for the door frame, as it felt as if he had just been kicked in the stomach. He was looking at two full-sized black and white photographs. Both had been taken at night, both in the same place. The images were clear, because the two people in the photograph were standing beneath a street lamp. In the first one, a woman’s back was partially to the camera because a man had bent her slightly backward as he leaned in to kiss her. In the second one, the man was standing up straight, but his head was bent down, mostly hidden by the woman’s head. In neither photo was the woman’s face visible. It didn’t need to be, because in the first photo, the man’s face was clearly illuminated by the lamplight. It was Frank’s face.

  August 17, 1929, 10:17 p.m.—

  Westland Residence, Newton, Massachusetts

  “Thank you,” Frank said as he handed the taxi driver a five-­dollar bill. “Keep the change.”

  “Thank ya, mate.” The driver put the car into gear and drove off, heading back toward Boston.

  With a sigh, Frank turned and looked at the house. All the windows were dark, but that didn’t surprise him much. Celeste was a night owl, often staying up past midnight, but their bedroom was in the back of the house and not visible from the street. Taking out his key, he moved to the door and set his bag down. He hesitated as a dark gloom settled in on him. He took a deep breath, then another, and inserted the key into the lock. Or tried. It didn’t fit. Turning so he could see better in the light of the street lamp, he peered closely at his key. It was the right one. He stood to one side so he could see the lock better and tried again. He wiggled the key back and forth, but there was no question about it. It didn’t fit.

  Frank leaned in closer to try it again and then swore as he saw that the lock was a new one of a different make. He was exhausted, hungry, and badly needed a shave and a bath. What he didn’t need was this. “You can’t be serious!” he exploded. He stepped back and looked up at the upstairs window. “Celeste!” He made a fist and banged on the door hard.

  He waited almost a minute, banging twice more. But he knew what was happening. He swore again, only this time it came out in a dark, bitter stream of profanity. He didn’t even try the back door. How had the taxi driver put it? “Poof!”

  10:49 p.m.—Dickerson Residence,

  16 Brimmer Street, Beacon Hill, Boston

  Frank had found a neighbor who was still awake and had him call a taxi, telling the cab company that he would be walking north on Highway 16 and to watch for him. From the embarrassed response of his neighbor, Frank guessed rumors were already going around.

  By the time the taxi pulled up in front of the Dickerson mansion, Frank had a full head of steam and was spoiling for a fight. Celeste was too busy to return his phone calls, but not too busy to hire a private detective to follow him and take pictures of him and Margitte? He had been shut out without a chance to defend himself. How did Celeste even know that he and Margitte had been spending time together? How long had this surveillance been going on? Had she spied on him during his years of graduate school? That was an unlikely stretch, but what other explanation was there? As the taxi pulled to a stop in front of the spacious lawn, Frank leaned forward. “Can you wait while I make sure . . . uh . . . someone’s up?” He slipped the man a ten-dollar bill.

  “Whatever you say, guv’nor.”

  Frank took his bag with him just in case and walked up the steps to the front door. He hesitated and then rapped with the brass knocker three times. The lights in the main vestibule were on, which meant that at least some of the servants were still up. A moment later he heard footsteps. The door was unlocked and then swung open. The butler was standing there, still fully attired in a tuxedo. “Oh,” he said, clearly surprised. “Master Frank. Good evening.”

  “Good evening, Holmes. Sorry to knock so late, but I’m fresh off the boat. Didn’t want to go all the way out to Newton tonight. Does Mrs. Westland happen to be here? I rang our home but there was no answer.” What was a little lie at this point?

  Holmes was British to the core, very formal and proper. He and Frank had always had a good relationship, though now Frank realized he didn’t know the man’s last name. Maybe Holmes was his last name.

  “She is, sir, but she is . . . uh . . . asleep now. It is quite late, sir.”

  “Oh. Sorry about that. I don’t want to wake her, Holmes. Perhaps I could just slip into one of the guest bedrooms and see her in the morning.”

  There was a long pause. Holmes glanced over his shoulder at the grand staircase, and then he moved a step closer and lowered his voice. “It pains me to have to say this, Master Frank, but Mr. and Mrs. Dickerson left specific instructions that if you were to come here, that . . . well, that you were. . . .” He couldn’t quite bring himself to say it.

  “That I was not to be welcomed,” Frank finished for him, not trying to hide the bitterness.

  “Yes, sir. I’m so sorry, sir.”

  “Not your problem, Holmes.” Then another thought came. “It’s very late. I’m not sure where I can get a hotel at this hour. Isn’t there a spare room above the garage? Could I just. . . . ”

  Holmes was shaking his head, his expression one of pained regret. “Mr. Dickerson’s instructions were quite explicit. You are not to be allowed on the premises.”

  Frank’s shoulders slumped in defeat. “I understand. Thank you, Holmes. It’s all right. I know that you need to follow your instructions.”

  Frank turned, looking down at the cabbie. “I’m coming!” he called. “Hold on.” Then he turned back to Holmes. “Holmes, I’m sorry to ask this, but I think Mrs. Westland has changed the locks on the doors to our home.”

  “Oh?” That clearly surprised him.

  “So, I’m afraid I have no other option. Could you go into Mrs. Westland’s room and—”

  The horror on the butler’s face was almost comical. “I could never do that, sir. It wouldn’t be proper.”

  “Ah, of course. Then could you send one of the women servants in and have her get me the keys to my home? Because it is my home too. If my wife objects, tell her that I am very tired and that if I don’t have the keys, I’m going to kick the door in or bust a window to get in the house. I am not going to try to find a hotel this late at night.”

  He thought he saw just a flicker of amusement in the butler’s eyes as he nodded. “Please wait here. It should only take a moment.”

  August 18, 1929, 7:10 a.m.—Westland Residence,

  Newton, Massachusetts

  Frank groaned and threw back the covers as the phone rang again and then again. Who would be calling him at this hour of the morning? Just as he was about to put the pillow over his head, the answer to his question came to him. He leaped out of bed and ran down the hall to where the phone hung on the wall. He snatched it up. “Hello? Celeste, is that you?”

  A deep, angry voice answered. “This is Reginald Dickerson, Mr. Westland.

  Anger flashed through Frank like a lightning strike. Reginald? Not Celeste? “The name is Frank, sir. And I would like to speak to my wife.”

  “You listen to me, Frank. If you think you can come to my home and threaten my butler and my daughter, then—”

  “Hold on! Threaten your butler? That’s bull and you know it.”

  “Spare me the crudity, Frank. Holmes told me what you said and—”

  “Holmes is an honest man, Mr. Dickerson. He did not tell you that I threatened him, because I did not. And as for your daughter, I never spoke to her in any way last night.”

>   “As for my daughter, you will not speak to her ever again. You will not see her. She has nothing but contempt for you. And you have until noon—”

  Frank cut in again. “Wait! Celeste’s not even awake yet, is she? You don’t think I know my own wife? Up and going at seven o’clock in the morning? No way! Does Celeste even know that you’re making this call?”

  Mr. Dickerson ignored the questions. “You have until noon today to be out of that house, including anything that is yours. If not, I’ll have a constable evict you.”

  “What? You can’t do that. I know you gave Celeste the money to buy it, but my name is on the deed along with Celeste’s. Not yours.”

  “It is as of two days ago,” Dickerson sneered. “Your wife signed the deed over to me, and I am now the sole owner.”

  “You can’t just write me off of a deed without my consent,” Frank countered.

  “I have four lawyers who say differently. If you don’t like it, you’d better start looking for a lawyer of your own. Oh, and by the way, those same lawyers are drafting divorce papers even as we speak.”

  Frank said nothing. Could he really do that? He was pretty sure there were laws in Massachusetts that protected the rights of both spouses when it came to property. On the other hand, he doubted that this was a bluff. Mr. Dickerson would have the best attorneys in the city, if not the state. And this was a man of tremendous influence, who was personal friends with the mayor. In addition to that, several of the city council members were investors with him in his current property company.

  “Well,” Reginald snapped, “have you nothing to say to that?”

  “Only this,” Frank said softly. “Out west we have a saying. If you’re going to a gunfight, be sure you bring the right cowboy.”

  “How quaint,” Reginald snorted. “And you’re that cowboy? I am trembling in my boots.”

 

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