Living Spectres: a Chesterton Holte, Gentleman Haunt Mystery

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “I’ll get to that in a moment,” said Holte. “Can you tell me the last thing you remember, before you—”

  “I was on the deck of a yacht. The Belle Helene.” Now that he was talking, he could not seem to stop. “Nice boat. Nelson Hadley keeps it in Cuba, at his family’s vacation home, for the most part…It’s registered somewhere in Massachusetts…I think that’s what he told me…He told me that he likes to do the Bermuda run…when we were coming south from Canada…going along with the coast just over the horizon…We were making good time, they said…the boat was heeled over and the sails were humming…I was told it was a fast boat, and Nelson likes to push it…when he’s bringing in booze…and other things… Quentin arranges those…Nelson told me…He’s Quentin’s cousin…I think he told me…They work together…Nelson said…He and Quentin bring in…goods. They like sailing together… What was I saying?…Oh, yes. It was a lovely day, all brisk and warm…the seas were running a little high…enough of a swell to worry Quentin…But it was Nelson who was at the helm… There were dolphins swimming along beside us, and…Quentin Hadley was bringing me a drink…” He began to fade, turning in a tightening circle. “I think that’s…what it was…”

  “Do you remember a hurricane at all?” Holte said with urgency, wanting to keep Overstreet focused for a little while longer.

  “A hurricane?…No. Nothing like that. Clear skies and a steady breeze…I…fell down just after Hadley reached me…it was the damnedest thing…One moment I was standing up, the next…I was on the deck…I can remember watching the deck turn red…Then I was here.” He went quiet once more. “Where am I? What happened to the boat? Where is Quentin Hadley? Where am I? Where am I? WhereamI, whereamI, whereamI—”

  “You’re in the dimension of ghosts. You died, Overstreet.” And, Holte added to himself, not because of a storm; there was something else that happened, and it was not an accident, not with the deck running red.

  “Died?” he echoed, as if he did not understand the word.

  “I’m afraid so,” said Holte, sliding a little nearer to Overstreet. “I’d guess that Quentin shot or stabbed you.”

  “Can’t be…that’s ridiculous…Why would anyone kill me?” Overstreet muttered. “I’m supposed to meet Warren Derrington…in Havana…tomorrow. We have an…appointment. It’s arranged…Quentin wired him…in Cuba, or Jamaica…Somewhere in one of those places… He’s expecting me… I have to be there.”

  “You won’t be able to, not now,” Holte said by way of consolation.

  “Why not? Where am I?” He shuddered, twisted, and blew away on the force of the churning ghosts around him.

  Holte waited a short while to see if Overstreet would return, then slipped back into the world of the living, into the London, Museum Street office of N. N. N. Blessing. He kept to the far side of the inner room, marveling at the stacks of files piled on top of every surface; it reminded him of the stratigraphy of rocks. There was a light set atop the roll-top of the desk, now on to dispel the gloom of a foggy morning; Blessing himself was busy rummaging through a stack of loose papers spread out on his desk-blotter, muttering to himself. After waiting a few minutes, Holte manifested himself a bit more clearly and moved toward Blessing.

  “N.Cubed,” he said, and saw Blessing start; as he glanced up, Holte noticed that Blessing looked very much the way Holte remembered him: fairly average in height and build, his red- brown hair a bit greyer, his features a little more deeply hewn so that his aquiline nose seemed to stand out from his face more sharply than had been the case two years ago; his manner was still professorial and self-contained. He was wearing a tweed jacket over a navy-blue roll-top pullover, his slacks were a muted brown, and his Jodhpur boots were polished and buffed. Anywhere but this office, he might be mistaken for a country squire, but here he was plainly an investigator.

  “You!” Blessing exclaimed, and let the papers fall where they might. “What the devil are you doing here, Holte? When you left, I thought we’d settled things. Was I mistaken, or did you not tell me that we’d completed the balancing?” He put on his glasses and squinted at the filmy shape on the other side of his roll-top desk.

  Holte had risen about two feet into the air to be more easily seen over the desk, and said, “Yes, our business is settled, and I appreciate how handily you dealt with my help. But I have other books to balance, and it may be that you could help me with one of them. I’m afraid it’s a bit complicated.”

  Blessing very nearly laughed at that. “When isn’t it complicated with you?” He sat back in his chair. “All right. Tell me what this is about.”

  “A case: I’d like to think that this will interest you. It will be useful to many, if you do.” He did not wait for Blessing to respond, but went on, “You had a wire a few days ago from an American police inspector.”

  “Yes,” said Blessing, fully regaining his self-composure. “From Philadelphia. Lothian, Lawton, some name of that sort.”

  “That’s the one; it’s Loring, by the way,” Holte confirmed, his manifestation growing a bit more visible. “I wonder if you would do me the favor of accepting the case? It’s likely to mean a trip to Europe, around Vienna, from what limited information we have. If you don’t want to go there yourself, you surely have colleagues there who could do the footwork for you. The case may be connected to the Living Spectres group near Vienna.”

  “Armenians, aren’t they?” Blessing asked.

  “Refugees,” Holte confirmed.

  “I imagine that it’s connected to one of your book-balancing activities?” Blessing inquired, now that he had a chance to get a question in.

  “Yes. Not anyone directly part of the problem, but one for whom it would be an advantage if the case can be resolved, one way or another, and discreetly.” Holte paused, studying Blessing to try to assess how he was taking all this. “There is a good fee in this case, the family involved is wealthy.”

  “Nice of you to mention that, old boy,” said Blessing with a touch of irony. “Not that it matters to you.”

  “Tell me if you’re willing to do it, or if I shall have to look elsewhere. I’d much prefer you to an unknown.” Holte’s voice was steady and he made no attempt to press Blessing beyond what he had done already. “It concerns a missing young man, an American, last heard from over a month ago, from Vienna, who is—”

  “Don’t fret, Holte. I’ll wire Inspector Loring before I go home tonight; how’s that?” He gave a one-sided smile and made a note to himself on the back of an envelope lying beside his desk blotter. “And if there is traveling to be done, I’ll do it myself. I can accomplish more without having to deal with my usual agents—those who are still in the business—and I haven’t been into Eastern Europe in over a year. It’ll be good for me.”

  “I’m most appreciative,” said Holte.

  Blessing set his pencil aside, then asked, “Anything else I can do for you?”

  “As a matter of fact, there is,” said Holte, and almost vanished with chagrin. “Will you tell me what day and date it is?”

  This time Blessing actually laughed. “It’s Tuesday, September 16th, 1924. Not quite ten a.m. Why: did you lose track of time again?”

  “Fortunately, not as much as I thought I might have done,” said Holte, and moved nearer to the ceiling.

  “Is that it?” Blessing asked as Holte continued to fade.

  “Yes. Thanks.”

  “Will you be back?” Blessing raised his voice to be heard.

  “I don’t know; it’s possible; it depends on how this case turns out,” Holte answered, his voice hardly more than a whisper as he went through the ceiling and out through the floor above. He moved away, using the speed of ghosts to race ahead of the day into the garden at the back of Esther’s house. It was still raining, and dawn was still an hour or more away. He rose up the side of the house and slid into Poppy’s room, where he was greeted by Maestro’s hiss. “Hello, cat,” said Holte, and glanced at Poppy’s alarm clock: 5:48, a little less th
an an hour before she would be waking up. Holte floated up to the ceiling and gave himself over to thinking about all he had learned. Why had Quentin Hadley killed Miles Overstreet? For surely that was what had happened. Did Hadley rescue Overstreet only to kill him? Why go to the bother? Overstreet could have been left to drown in Montreal, so there must have been a reason why Hadley had saved him and then killed him? Had killing Overstreet been an alternate solution to whatever Hadley had in mind? Was Overstreet in possession of something, some information that Hadley needed, and if so, what was it? Had Derrington been in on the murder, or was he a potential victim? And was Derrington in Cuba now? Or Jamaica? If he wasn’t there, where had he gone? How long had he been there? Had anyone been with him, such as Stacy or Louise? Was Derrington still there—in Cuba or Jamaica—or was he somewhere else? If he had been in Cuba, was he there or was he gone? How badly had the hurricane damaged Cuba, or had it struck there at all? Was Stacy or Louise in on any of this? And if they were, to what extent? He continued to turn these questions over in his mind, waiting for Poppy to wake up.

  TWENTY-THREE

  WHEN THE ALARM CLOCK JANGLED ITS UNMUSICAL BELLS POPPY REACHED FOR the toggle and turned it off, then lay back, not wholly awake. After five minutes or so, she shoved herself into a sitting position and rubbed her eyes, peering about the half-lit room. She yawned, looked toward the foot of the bed where Maestro was curled, but awake. “Hello, Maestro,” she said, and stretched. “It’s awfully early for getting up.” As if to demonstrate this, she reached for her alarm clock and began to wind it.

  “But it’s part of the job,” said Holte from his place on the far side of the room. “Or so you tell me.”

  She put the clock back on her night-stand and stared in his direction. “How good to see you again. I thought you had gone for the week when I didn’t encounter you yesterday.”

  “I had some arrangements to attend to,” he told her. “I wanted to get them in progress as early as possible.”

  “How did they go?” she asked, as she slid her feet into her slippers and stood up, yawning again with the effort.

  Maestro yowled once and hissed in Holte’s direction.

  “Same to you, cat,” he rejoined as Maestro went under the bed, then Holte drifted across the room toward Poppy’s vanity table. “In general, it went well. Not that I found out everything I was hoping to, but I have some information to pass on to you that you might want to tell Loring about, assuming that you can find a way to explain how you came by it.”

  “Ye gods, that sounds sinister,” she said, not wholly in jest.

  “First, Miles Overstreet is dead. I’m fairly certain that Quentin Hadley killed him while he was on Hadley’s cousin’s yacht, the Belle Helene.”

  Poppy turned and stared at him. “What did you say?” She could not believe that she had heard him correctly.

  “I thought that might catch your attention,” Holte said. “Overstreet was taken aboard the Belle Helene after he had jumped—”

  “—from the bridge. Yes, I know. But you’re telling me that Quentin Hadley was on board the Belle Helene?”

  “Yes. Apparently it’s Quentin’s cousin Nelson’s boat. I haven’t got many details, but I gather the boat’s home is at the Hadley estate in Cuba, and it’s registered somewhere in Massachusetts. Another apparently: Nelson brings booze to the U. S. in it from time to time, and maybe some other smuggled items. That’s for starters. I’ll tell you more when you’re done dressing.” Holte stayed in the bedroom while Poppy went across the hall. He spent the waiting time looking out the window into the cloudy early morning.

  Maestro returned from under the bed and took up his usual place at its foot; he pointedly ignored Holte.

  Poppy returned, frowning. “You know this because of…?”

  “Because Overstreet told me. He’s still trying to work through the shock of being dead, so he was a bit scattered in his reporting, but he told me that he was on the boat with Nelson and Quentin somewhere out east of the Carolinas, by my calculations, when, I infer, Quentin killed him, and, I would guess, threw him to the sharks.”

  “Ye gods,” Poppy murmured, horrified. “And you believe him?”

  Maestro jumped down from the bed, turned his back on Holte, flipped his upright tail twice, and bolted from the room and down the stairs.

  “I do.” Holte became slightly more visible. “He can’t remember many of the details, which in ghosts is not unusual. It’s going to take some time for him to recall the final events, the same way that Eastley can’t yet remember driving off the road and into a ravine. From what I was able to ascertain from Overstreet—which wasn’t much—he had not anticipated any trouble with the Hadleys, and he accepted their offer to save him without any hint that there could be trouble. I’ve deduced that Overstreet assumed that they did it because it would be to their advantage, keeping him under their thumbs, as it were, and so he never had reason to doubt their motives; whatever was going on with them, they were in it together, which must have been why Overstreet was glad of the rescue. He’s a little scattered in his mind about the actual events, but logically there is no other way to account for Overstreet’s death. I gather Overstreet knew something that could be damaging to the Hadleys—I hope he can remember what it was—and that was reassuring to him. By the sound of it, Overstreet believed that he had no reason to suppose that he would be disposed of in that way. I very much doubt that he thought his rescue was a trap, even when it was closing on him.”

  “But what would Overstreet be doing with the Hadleys?”

  “Overstreet’s handled business for Knott, including his business with the Hadleys; they’d worked out some kind of Customs fiddle together, would be my guess, and I reckon that Knott was part of the arrangement. It probably has something to do with the counterfeit antiques business that your old neighbor Denton North is investigating,” said Holte. “Which would tie Overstreet to Stacy’s and Derrington’s business. Quite a cozy little club. They’ve been able to work invisibly for some time, though that may be ending. I’m beginning to think that we’ve underestimated the extent of their activities, and I’m convinced that Hadley and Grimes are in it up to their necks. Or some other part of their anatomy.”

  Poppy tossed her head. “Don’t be cheeky,” she admonished him.

  “I’m not. From what little I could glean from what Overstreet told me, he was expecting to join up with Derrington in Cuba, or Jamaica; what Overstreet thought would happen after that, I have no idea, but it does mean that we have a place we can begin looking.” Holte shifted toward the side-windows, and became a transparent outline against the increasing morning light. “Why would he think that his employer’s accountants would go to the trouble of spiriting him out of Canada only to…um…do him in en route to Cuba? All I’ve come up with is that there was something the Hadleys, or Derrington, wanted to get from Overstreet before they killed him, otherwise, why bother?”

  “It does sound unlikely.” Poppy sighed. “Just when I thought this was getting simpler, it’s getting more complicated. Are we ever going to be able to figure out for sure who killed Moncrief and Knott, and perhaps even Poindexter?” She looked at her alarm clock. “Ten to seven. Where does the time go?” With that, she stood up. “I’m going to take a short bath and then go down to breakfast. I want to be out of here by seven-thirty, and that means I’d like you to give me a little privacy.”

  “I understand. I’ll make a circuit of the house while you’re in the tub, and then I’ll ride with you in your auto as far as the paper. We can talk more then.” He moved up and out, into the soggy fingers of dawn.

  Poppy took a moment to gather her thoughts and her bathrobe, then went across the hall to the bathroom. She no longer fed Maestro there, although there was a bowl of water set out for him. She called Maestro softly and heard a sound of pots in the kitchen; apparently Maestro had gone to plead with Missus Sassoro for his breakfast. Leaving the door open, Poppy undressed and hung her nightgown under her ba
throbe on the hook on the back of the door. She shivered in the cold air, and thought about buying a heater for the bathroom.

  As she filled the tub with water, she took the time to take out her Lyons Dental Powder and brush her teeth, standing nude over the sink, goose-flesh rising on her exposed skin. The dentifrice container was getting low, and she thought she should stop by a drug store to pick up another on her way home. Then she made sure her Pears soap was in the soap-dish and got into the bathtub, her washcloth in her hand. She lay back in the steamy water and wished briefly that she could luxuriate in the warmth for an hour or so, but abandoned that hope, sat up and lathered her washcloth, reminding herself that this was going to be another busy day: Missus Pearse had postponed their interview one day, and she would have to be underway to their house no later than nine-thirty.

  Twenty minutes later she was dressed and in the breakfast-nook, devouring the waffles Missus Sassoro had made; this was a rare treat, and Poppy was glad to have such an unexpected delicacy on a day that threatened to be more demanding that usual: since the Pearses had granted Poppy an interview a day later than planned, Lowenthal was all but salivating at the prospect. Poppy was bothered by the feeling that Pearses might cancel again, and would continue such delaying tactics until they were in a better position to manage what was said in the paper. But since other papers had picked up on the story, something had to be done. Thus far, only Poppy had been invited to speak with them, a concession that might change at any moment; this anxiety stayed with her through her dressing and her venture into the kitchen. She had drunk her coffee and was just eating the last bit of waffle with maple syrup and whipped cream when Aunt Esther came into the breakfast-nook in a skirt and sweater and sat down.

  “You’re in a hurry, aren’t you?” she asked, noticing how quickly Poppy gulped down the last of her coffee.

  “Sorry, Aunt Esther. Lowenthal wants me in before eight. He’s not going to let the opportunity to get the Pearses’ story slip through his fingers.” Poppy did her best to smile. “I suppose you’ll still be seeing him at one. I should be back from the interview by then, and I hope we can have a little time to talk when you’re through.”