Poppy realized that she would have to summon up some kind of explanation other than Holte to account for her slip of the tongue. “I was thinking of Overstreet,” she said. “He went down with the ship, didn’t he? Through no fault of his own.”
“If you think the rescue in Montreal was a trap instead, which I gather you do. But why bother to save him in the first place? They didn’t have to pull him out of the river. They could have let him drown without any discredit to themselves.” Loring was doing his best to sound sensible, but there was an uneasy note in his voice.
“The Mounties might have been able to save him, and that would have put him right back where he was,” Poppy remarked. “He didn’t want to be extradited, did he?”
“Exactly. Why take the risk of testifying? But that could have been prevented in other ways. What was the point of rescuing Overstreet?”
“On a whim, do you think? Or an out-burst of sympathy for him? That doesn’t sound like the reason the Hadleys would do anything. No, they had a purpose in saving him, and in arranging their elaborate efforts for doing it. Overstreet didn’t jump off that bridge impulsively. He must have known that the yacht was coming for him. I don’t think Overstreet would have gone into the river otherwise. He doesn’t seem the type to take such a chance, not without knowing he wouldn’t drown.” Poppy turned a page in her notebook and waited for what Loring would tell her now.
“No, he doesn’t,” Loring admitted.
“That’s not assuming that the Hadleys rescued him for no specific reason—a kind of altruism, in fact, which, you’re right, doesn’t seem in character.” She took a little time to ruminate. “What if Overstreet knew something the Hadleys needed to know, or thought that Overstreet had such knowledge? What if they wanted to get him where the law couldn’t reach him, and use that isolation to compel him to reveal something of importance to them?”
“What kind of thing would be that important? What would it mean to them, to take such a chance?” Loring asked, intrigued at this idea.
“Oh, I don’t know. Perhaps Knott’s records of his transactions with Hadley and Grimes. Or a register of those who provided Knott with his counterfeit antiques, or those who helped to smuggle some of Knott’s wares into the country.” She knew she would have to ask Holte to find out more from Overstreet, so she could provide Loring with more possibilities. “I’ve been thinking about this, you see? The rescue has bothered me, and I’ve been trying to work out why it happened. It had to have been planned; it was much too fortuitous to have been happenstance. This was what I came up with. The one thing that doesn’t fit is the hurricane, but that wasn’t a factor when they made their plans, was it?”
“No, it wasn’t,” Loring agreed, beginning to concentrate again. “I take your point, and I think there may be something to it. I don’t know if my superiors will agree, but I’ll see what I can do with it. Keep searching; however you came up with this, follow the clues.” He rubbed his chin, a sure sign of cogitation, and was about to speak when Poppy interrupted him.
“If you dare say anything about an invisible friend, I may leave.” It was an empty threat, and both of them knew it, but Loring backed off.
“I won’t. But you will admit that you come up with some uncanny guesses; I’m supposed to be skeptical of unverifiable information—it’s part of the job.” His attention was claimed by a group of six men at the reception desk, and he averted his face. “That’s Captain Bannerman in the brown suit. It wouldn’t be good for him to see me with you.”
“Do you think he’ll bother to look?” Poppy asked, dropping her voice to match his.
“He might. He started on patrol, and that means he takes stock of his surroundings even now. Very canny fellow is Bannerman.” He shifted his position on the bench and kept his head turned away from the middle of the dining room. “At least this booth is fairly dark, and being near the kitchen doors should help. Most people don’t like to sit here.”
“Did you know he would be coming here?” Poppy could see that Loring was rattled.
“No, I didn’t. He doesn’t tell me his plans. He and his cronies usually lunch at The Irish Harp. That’s out of the picture now.” That gathering place had fallen on hard times since Prohibition had begun, but there was a group of men in key positions in city government who had kept The Irish Harp afloat; a recent foray by Brigadier General Smedley Butler’s men had ended the tavern.
“Wasn’t it raided?” Poppy recalled a forty-point headline about the effort; there had been a fair amount of excitement about it.
“Two weeks ago, yes. A dozen barrels of beer were seized, and ten cases of whiskey. General Smedley Butler was crowing about it. The Inquirer gave it a lot of coverage.”
“That’s the Inquirer for you,” said Poppy, watching as the waitress led the group of men through the dining room and into the room reserved for private parties. “You’d think that none of their reporters ever touched a drop, the way they carry on.”
“Well, Markham must be the exception to the rule, then,” said Loring wryly; Damian Markham covered the municipal courts for the Inquirer and had been arrested for driving and drinking at the same time more than once.
“Of course,” said Poppy at her most demure. “And none of this group has a flask with them.” She nodded in the direction of the new arrivals.
“Oh, sure,” Loring agreed, with a roll of his eyes. “If the whole gang is going to be here, there’ll be a dozen more along shortly,” he went on more seriously. “I should have realized that they would be scouting out a new location for their bi-monthly gatherings. I’d like to be invisible about now.”
“That’s one way to deal with it, but then, there was no reason to think they would come here. There are a number of other places that would be glad of their patronage, and no doubt this is one of those trial runs.” She set her purse on the table and put her notebook and pencil away. “In case anyone bothers to notice, I don’t want any of them curious about why I should be taking notes.” She drank a little more cider. “How does that sound to you?”
“Reasonable,” said Loring.
“Then let’s wait for our lunches and talk about the weather, or something ordinary,” Poppy suggested. “Then neither of us will have to worry about who may be listening.”
He gave a slow smile. “I guess I can live with that.”
“So can I,” Poppy said, and settled back against the straight booth wall behind her. “Are you planning anything for the weekend?”
“Nothing much. I thought I might actually read a book, something light and amusing, to counter all that’s been going on.” He drank a bit of his cider, and did not bother to look in the direction of the next group of five men arriving.
The waitress escorted these new-comers to the private room—the one with the sailing prints on the wall—handing out more menus as she held the door open for them, then returned to the reception desk.
“Did you see anyone you know?” Loring asked.
“Commissioner Smiley. He didn’t even notice me, but then, why should he? He was talking to a tall man in an expensive suit who uses a cane and walks with a limp,” Poppy said. “I don’t think I know him, but I couldn’t be sure.” She frowned at this admission. “He has that sleek look—he might be in politics.”
“White hair and a long face?” Loring guessed.
“Yes,” Poppy answered. “Who is he?”
“He’s a lawyer, doing mostly business law, and slippery as they come. Lincoln McCullough, the top man at Templeton Ramsey Harrison and McCullough. He does a lot of work for the Republicans. Not that the Democrats don’t have their own sharks as well.” Loring sighed. “It’s amazing how much politics figure into everything, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it is; I used to think that there was a hard line between politics and business, but not anymore,” said Poppy, and changed the subject to Aunt Esther’s forthcoming article for the Clarion, and what Lowenthal was expecting from her, a discussion that filled the time until
their meals arrived and they could settle down to eating.
While Poppy and Loring were huddled over their food, Chesterton Holte was once again trying to locate Miles Overstreet in the dimension of ghosts. He drifted along through eddies and whirlpools of the dead, searching for the wavelength that would identify Miles Overstreet from the thousands and thousands and thousands of other noncorporeal presences. After what seemed to be a long time, he came upon Overstreet moving along with a number of hurricane victims, as if seeking the company of others who had died at sea.
“Overstreet,” Holte called voicelessly.
Overstreet did not respond for a while, but then turned away from the conglomeration of ghosts and came back toward Holte. “Do I know you? I think I know you.”
“Chesterton Holte. We did meet, shortly after you arrived here.” He said this as genially as he could, for it was obvious that Overstreet was not yet accustomed to his current state.
“Oh, yes,” Overstreet said vaguely. “You were asking about someone…”
“A couple of someones, as matter of fact,” Holte confirmed. “Quentin Hadley and Warren Derrington. I need to find them.”
“I was supposed to meet Derrington in Cuba; I was with Quentin on Nelson’s yacht.” Overstreet said with more certainty. “I think he’s here somewhere. I mean Quentin. So’s Nelson. Are you going to look for them?”
“Not just at present,” said Holte. “I was hoping you’ve remembered what you talked about while you were sailing with them.”
Overstreet moved in a way that would have been a shaking of his head, if he had had a body. “Nothing much. Just smatterings.”
“Can you tell me about those?” Holte persisted.
“Something about a bank in British Honduras, I believe. And something about the Gray Goose. It’s a steamer, and fairly small one, owned by a friend of the Hadleys, and of Percy. The captain of the Gray Goose is a friend of the Hadleys.” This repetition seemed to comfort Overstreet.
“You mean Percy Knott?” Holte asked, to be sure.
“He’s about the only Percy I know. Knew.” Overstreet said, a touch sadly.
“What was it about the Grey Goose? What was the connection?” Holte kept his questions unhurried, so as not to alarm Overstreet.
“Sorry,” Overstreet said. “Can’t remember. I think the friend who owns it has gray in his name somewhere. Or it might be goose.”
Holte could sense that Overstreet was starting to fade on him, so he made one last attempt to get an answer from Overstreet. “Did you ever talk about smuggling?”
“Smuggling,” Overstreet said as if trying to decide if he knew what that word meant. “I don’t think so. But so much of that seems…fuzzy.” He was about to float away, but then brightened. “Come to think of it, though, I believe Quentin did say something about the amount of smuggling that went on in that part of the ocean…more than booze was coming into the US along the East Coast. He thought that was funny…So did Nelson. I don’t know why.” He paused, then did the equivalent of a shrug. “That’s about it.”
“Thanks,” Holte told him, wanting Overstreet to remember him as well-intentioned, in case he should need to consult him again.
“It’s…nothing…” Overstreet responded as he drifted back among the ghosts of the hurricane-dead, swirling away with them into the mist that was the dimension of ghosts.
Holte hovered as the tide of ghosts swept on, and tried to locate Quentin or Nelson Hadley in the mass, but he could not discern them. After a while, he gave up and went in search of Madison Moncrief.
“You back again?” Moncrief asked as he became aware of Holte. “Have you found out what’s happened to my wife yet?”
“Not yet,” Holte said. “Poppy’s been trying to locate her step-brother, but—”
“Why does she want to talk to Rudy? He’s an invert. Louise didn’t get along with him after she found that out. She was ashamed of him. Who wouldn’t be?” Moncrief was agitated by this. “He doesn’t know anything you could use, I’d wager.”
“We don’t know that—not for sure,” said Holte. “Maybe Louise has used him as a way to keep in touch with some of her friends without being obvious about it, or revealing where she is.”
“You might be giving her more credit than she deserves,” Moncrief said. “She’s not a stupid girl, but she is impulsive, and what you’re describing would take more planning than she usually…” His words became distant. “Pay no attention to me. I’m beginning to see that I never really knew Louise, only my idea of her. For all I know, she could be the most calculating woman on the face of the earth.”
Holte could not help but feel sorry for Moncrief. “That’s unfortunate, Moncrief,” he said, recalling how little Sybil had responded to him when they encountered each other in the dimension of ghosts, and how much a stranger his wife had become to him. “I’m sorry it had to come to that—feeling that you and she were not as close as you thought.”
“Well, you know how it is. I’m starting to remember many things, and from this perspective, those things look much different than they did when I was alive. I can tell that Louise often put on a performance for me; she knew what I wanted to see, she provided it, and I was delighted.” He wilted. “Not that other wives don’t do that—and some husbands, too, but not so many—but I no longer believe that she was simply accommodating me as wives are expected to do.”
“I’m sorry,” Holte said.
“Don’t be. It’s part of what we do here, isn’t it? When we understand, then we can move on. Nowhere is it written that we have to like what we understand.” He became a bit smaller and a great deal tighter. “I’m starting to wonder if our marriage wasn’t a kind of scheme cooked up by Louise and Stacy. I asked Eastley about it, but it’s too soon to suggest that to him. He was vehement in his insistence that Louise was the ensoulment of virtue and rectitude, and wouldn’t consider anything else. He’s gone off; won’t speak to me. He thinks I should be penitent for even entertaining the possibility that Louise would do such a thing as dissemble about our marriage. He regards my doubts as heresy.”
“That’s unfortunate.” Holte was about to slip away, back to the world of the living, but halted when he heard Moncrief add, “I don’t know if it’s crazy, but I can’t help thinking that Louise was after me because I worked at Hadley and Grimes. It could have been because of the money I inherited, but Hadley and Grimes played a part in it, I’m almost convinced.”
“What makes you think that?” Holte asked sharply.
“Shortly after we met, she said that it must be exciting to work in a business where there were so many secrets about money. She laughed when she said it, and I thought it was a charming and playful remark, but now I’m not so sure. I think, perhaps, she was being more forthright than I gave her credit for.” He began a slow spiral, closing in on himself.
“Did you tell her much about your work?” Holte moved a bit nearer to Moncrief. “What did she ask about?”
“Oh, nothing very specific, and I told her mostly dribs and drabs, as you do. At the time, I didn’t think she was interested. Now, I have to wonder.”
“Have you remembered anything else?” It was a risky question, but Holte wanted to learn as much as he could from Moncrief.
“One thing. Shortly after he introduced us, I asked Stacy why—since he was obviously taken with her—that he didn’t pursue Louise. He told me that he wasn’t rich enough to be able to afford her. Not that he was poor at the time, but he wasn’t nearly as rich as I was. I took this as a go-ahead, and went after her, with, as I supposed, Stacy’s blessings. Stacy never acted jealous or forlorn, but that might have been because he had no reason to be either of those things.”
For the second time Holte said, “I’m sorry,” and slipped back into the city room of the Clarion in time to hear the bell sound for turning in the stories for the evening’s editions to the composition department.
THIRTY-ONE
“THAT WAS WHAT HE TOLD ME,” HOL
TE REPORTED TO POPPY AS SHE SAT AT HER typewriter in the study at Aunt Esther’s house; it was a few minutes past eight, and Poppy had just finished writing a piece on what had been confirmed in regard to GAD’s foreign travels; she would hand it in first thing in the morning. “Overstreet only remembers a few things about the time on the Belle Helene, and most of it is trivial. He did have some recollection about a discussion about smuggling, but I don’t know…I’ve done as much as I can to call it forth, but I haven’t figured out how to discover more.”
“Has what he told you been useful?” Poppy asked.
“I’d like to think so. He’s been helpful in some information about Hadley and Grimes. I’d like to learn more, but that’s going to take time.” Holte drifted around the end of the desk and moved into a sitting position six inches above the surface of the hutch. “I don’t know to what degree Moncrief figured out about Stacy’s and Derrington’s chicanery; he hasn’t dealt with that yet; he’s still trying to reassess his marriage, and Louise.”
“Do you think that Moncrief was in on it? On the smuggling and such?” Poppy asked, determined not to listen to the branch banging on the side of the house as the wind rose.
The lights in the room flickered. “Nothing to do with me,” Holte assured her.
Poppy got up and lit the candles in the Indian brass candelabra that stood on the Oriental chest on the far side of the room. “Just in case,” she explained as she came back to her chair. “About Moncrief, then: has he been dealing with his own role in discovering the smuggling and fraud, or is he concentrating on Louise?”
“Not really; Louise is more important to him, and he’s not prepared to think that she might have something to do with his murder.” He moved a little so that she could see him a bit more clearly. “I do think that Stacy and Derrington faked their argument as a way to engage Moncrief’s sympathy in some way, to disarm him, on the night he was killed. From all I can tell, Stacy and Derrington never actually had a falling out; it was just pretense, a way to draw out how much Moncrief suspected.”
Living Spectres: a Chesterton Holte, Gentleman Haunt Mystery Page 36