“That sounds like Stacy more than Derrington to me,” Poppy said darkly.
“You’re not giving Derrington enough credit. If Moncrief had happened on something that was clearly illegal, I think he’d be more likely to approach Derrington than Stacy.” Holte paused to summon up what he believed. “If Moncrief sought out one or the other of them, I’m assuming that whomever it was pleaded innocence in regard to the fraud and such, and then asked to see what Moncrief had discovered in private, which gained him access to Moncrief.”
“With Louise’s help, do you think?” Poppy asked.
“It’s not impossible, but that’s less certain; I’m of two minds about her role in Moncrief’s murder; I need more information before I make up my mind about that,” Holte allowed. “I know it was thought that she was greatly upset by the premature delivery—the loss of a baby distressed Moncrief as much as it did Louise, or perhaps more—and most of their friends believed that she was seeking some kind of diversion from that by planning a party, but I am not at all certain that she was as distraught as Moncrief supposed she was. I wouldn’t be surprised if that idea has crossed his mind by now.” He looked around the study, noticing for the first time that Poppy had brought in a small electric heater to warm the study. “It is getting chilly, isn’t it?”
“You don’t feel it, do you,” said Poppy.
“No. But I can see that you do,” he told her. “I gather Esther isn’t in this evening; there’s no fire in the sitting room, and the rest of the house is dark. Miss Roth is back in her apartment, I suppose.”
“Yes. She is. And Aunt Esther will be out tomorrow evening as well.” Poppy stifled a yawn, then took the papers out of the platen and reached for a manila envelope. “I should buy these by the gross,” she remarked.
“Or the fifties, at least,” Holte quipped. “How does it feel, just you and Miss Roth in the house?”
“You’re forgetting Maestro,” Poppy reminded him.
“Not likely,” Holte said. “Missus Sassoro and Galliard don’t live in, do they?”
“You know they don’t,” Poppy said, trying to figure out what was on Holte’s mind. “In a while Miss Roth will be away for a week or two. We’ll see how I manage then. Why are you asking?”
“Do you feel safe?” It was posed innocuously, but there was concern in his tone.
“So far,” Poppy said. “Is there some reason I shouldn’t?”
“Not that I’m aware of.” Holte moved nearer to the ceiling, as if preparing to depart.
Poppy was not ready to give up on his latest discussions in the dimension of ghosts. “So what else did you learn from Madison Moncrief? And Miles Overstreet, for that matter?”
Holte floated down a foot or so. “Moncrief is remembering more than he was a couple of weeks ago; you know that. It’s been long enough since his death that he’s beginning to recall more specific things surrounding the event itself. He did say that he was having second thoughts about Louise and Stacy, about their friendship, in case it might be something more.”
“In what way?” Poppy asked, leaning forward.
Holte hesitated. “He used to think that their friendship was platonic, but now he’s changing his mind.”
Poppy almost laughed. “I might have thought the same thing as Madison did, because I didn’t think that Stacy would do anything so…underhanded. But I no longer think that. I wouldn’t be amazed to find out that they were… involved.” She wrote Lowenthal’s name on the manila envelope and put the two bond sheets into it. “There. I’m done.”
“It’s a bit early for bed for you, isn’t it?” Holte remarked, looking at the carriage-clock in the top shelf of the bookcase. “It isn’t even eight-thirty.”
“I think I’ll make some chocolate milk and add a little brandy, then sit down to read a good book.” She went to turn off the heater and to pick up the candelabra. “Come with me, and tell me more of what you found out from Moncrief.” She shoved the door all the way open and started down the hall to the kitchen. As she walked, Maestro came running in order to amble in front of her, occasionally meowing until he noticed Holte, and hissed.
“One day I’m going to fall over on you,” Poppy warned the cat, struggling to hold the candelabra upright.
Holte rose to the ceiling, but remained almost overhead. “He can be a nuisance.”
“He probably thinks the same of you,” Poppy said, and pushed the hall door open, then turned on the overhead light in the kitchen. “Missus Sassoro always leaves this room so clean.”
“Didn’t Missus Bourdon do the same?” Holte asked. “I’d have thought your Aunt Jo would expect rigorous cleanliness from her cook.”
“Oh, yes. But Aunt Jo’s kitchen is more old-fashioned than Aunt Esther’s. This place can be spick and span in a way that Aunt Jo’s can’t.” She put the candelabra on the cook’s table in the center of the room before she went to the refrigerator to take out the open bottle of milk, removing the small paper cap as she did so. “I don’t suppose you want any,” she said to Holte.
“Even if I did, I wouldn’t be able to drink it,” Holte said, watching Maestro mince around the cook’s table. “You better give my share to him.”
“That’s what he’s expecting,” Poppy agreed, and went to get the smaller sauce pan, and then a shallow bowl as well as a wedge of thick, dark chocolate. She put these down on the cook’s table, then poured milk into the bowl and set it on the floor for Maestro. “Drink that and stay out from under my feet,” she told him, and then poured more milk into the sauce pan and carried it to the stove, where she took the box of matches, struck one, lit the smallest burner, and set the sauce pan on top of it.
“When did you learn to make hot chocolate?” Holte asked.
“When my mother was ill, so we wouldn’t have to wake the housekeeper. She—my—mother didn’t like people to fuss over her.”
“How old were you?” Holte was now slightly a foot off the floor and a step behind her.
“About fourteen, I think; maybe a little younger: thirteen.” She picked up the wedge of chocolate and lowered it into the warming milk. “Sometimes I’d put a little vanilla extract into it for her, when she was having trouble sleeping.”
“Did it help?”
Poppy shrugged and took a spoon from a jar of cooking utensils on the counter next to the stove. “She liked it. I guess it did.” She began to stir the milk slowly, watching the chocolate wedge move around in the pan. “What else about Moncrief? Anything?”
“Not very much. Overstreet is beginning to sort things out, but I don’t think he understands about being murdered, let alone why. That’s going to take more time.”
“Does he have any idea about where Stacy and Derrington, and Louise, for that matter, are?”
Holte moved and the overhead light flickered. “My fault,” he said, then resumed his observations. “Overstreet has said that he was supposed to meet Derrington in Cuba, I think at the Hadley’s vacation house, but I’m not sure about that; that’s where the Hadleys were bound. Santiago de Cuba is the nearest city of any size, but I would have thought that Havana was a likelier choice, if they were trying to do business. Wherever it was, Overstreet has been pretty consistent about the appointment, so I’m convinced that it was his intention to go there.”
“I understand about the Hadleys, but why would Derrington be at the Hadleys’ vacation house? I’d think that you’re right: if Derrington wanted to see Overstreet, he would plan to meet somewhere else, some place more convivial to schemes—wouldn’t you, in his situation?” Poppy inquired as she reached into the cupboard for a mug.
“That’s a bit more of a puzzle,” said Holte. “Overstreet hasn’t told me that. And I’m guessing that they were planning to meet at the Hadleys’ house, being that Overstreet was on the Belle Helene. Derrington is part of the Hadleys’ social set, isn’t he?”
“Yes, he is, but Overstreet isn’t,” Poppy said, resuming her stirring.
Holte mused on this.
“You’re right. They’d meet elsewhere.”
“Maybe that’s something to look into,” Poppy suggested. “The next time you leave the world of the living behind.”
“It’s a good suggestion,” Holte said. “If I can do that, along with keeping track of N.Cubed. Just now, that’s a priority.”
“You mean in his hunt for GAD?” There was a perceptible hesitation in her question.
“Yes. That’s my plan. I think the more you know, the more easily you will be able to deal with the Pearses. It’s pretty difficult to speak with them at all, now that they’ve had ransom demands.” He paused. “Blessing has told them that he will wire them on his progress at least twice a week; if you’re familiar with what Blessing has discovered, you can frame your approach to them with that in mind.”
“So long as I don’t know enough to make either Sherman or Isadora decide that I’m in on it in some way.” Poppy gave a half-yawn, half-sigh and dipped the end of one finger into the sauce pan. “Almost ready.”
“Are you going to tell the good inspector about any of this?” Holte asked. “Or would it be too difficult to explain how you came by the information?”
“I don’t know. You’re right—I’ll have to figure out a way to present it to him that won’t make it sound as if the source I got it from wasn’t you, and that might be dodgy,” she replied; the chocolate wedge was almost melted, and she stirred it in a figure-8 motion. “He’s curious enough as it is. I don’t want any more remarks about my invisible friend, thank you.”
“Is there someone who might have mentioned something to you, someone whom you could designate as a source?”
“I can’t think of anyone off-hand. Do you think Moncrief or Overstreet might be able to advise you on that?” Poppy turned the flame down under the sauce pan.
“Moncrief might be able to think of someone. I don’t think Overstreet knows anything about that kind of connection.” Holte thought a little longer. “I’ll see what Overstreet has to say the next time I see him. And Moncrief, as well.”
“What about Julian Eastley? Could you get him to talk to you?” Poppy asked.
“He might, if I can find him. He’s been absent from his usual places, and that makes it difficult to locate him. He’s upset with me. He’s also irritated with Moncrief.” He moved away from the stove. “He seems to be holding onto the idea that Louise is blameless and needs him to protect her reputation.”
“That’s a bit over the top, isn’t it? Or doesn’t he talk to Moncrief any more, if he’s angry? Are they on the outs with each other?”
“I don’t know. I might give Eastley a try, just to find out his opinion, assuming he’ll talk to me at all. I hope he will, but there’s no guarantee.” Holte slid around the kitchen, taking care not to get too close to the ceiling light. “Can you think of anyone in your group of friends who might receive mail from Louise, or Stacy?”
Poppy did not answer at once, and when she did, she said, “I could try Neva Plowright again; things may have changed since our last conversation. I don’t think Rudy Beech will talk to me; he did hang up on me when I reached him. By the sound of it, I’m not the only reporter who’s tried to get through to him.” For a second she remembered his acerbic reaction to her phone call, and the vitriolic tone in his voice; she had not given this more than a passing thought at the time, but he had sounded as if others—not necessarily reporters—had been in touch with him. She decided that she would make another attempt to find out about that, and returned to what she had been telling Holte. “It’s pretty obvious that Stacy isn’t likely to contact the men here in the US he was in business with, not with the Attorney General after him.”
“And I doubt that those who were would volunteer much on their own, with the federal government snooping around,” Holte said. “Their living associates may have decided that it is prudent to remain silent.”
“Why do you say that?” Poppy bent over the stove, sniffing critically.
“Because at least three of them have been murdered; if there were others in on the frauds and smuggling, I don’t think they’d want it known that they had any association with Stacy beyond the social one.”
Poppy was astonished. “You think Stacy would sneak back into the country to kill some of the others? That’s assuming there are others.”
“No, but I suspect he could hire it done,” Holte said.
“Oh.” She let herself mull this over for a short while. “Do you think he knows I’m still alive?”
“I have no idea,” Holte said with a hint of regret. “If he’s in contact with someone in your group, then he probably does. If he’s not, then I wouldn’t think so. He made a very good attempt to make sure you were not discovered until it was too late.”
“That’s a very appalling thought; he might want to finish what he started, mightn’t he,” she said, making it a bit of a reprimand. “Still, you’re probably right—there’s no way to be sure. I do hate all this uncertainty—half-answered questions, partial truths, inconclusive information.” She used a potholder that hung on a length of twine to take the sauce pan off the stove and pour its contents into the waiting mug. That done, she took it to the sink and filled it with water from the hot tap. “Should I be worried, do you think?”
“Not just at present, no; Stacy has other fish to fry, some of them more inconvenient to him than you are. You’ve already talked to the police and the Attorney General of the state and some of the men associated with the federal investigation, so it would be useless to silence you now that your damage has been done. If anything should happen to you now, there’s every chance that it would be seen as something ordered by Stacy.”
“Because I made a report?”
“Yes, Poppy. That gives you a certain kind of protection. At this point, if anything, no matter how accidental should happen to you, it would create more suspicions than it would end, and Stacy doesn’t seem to be the sort of man who would accept that kind of hazard for no good reason.”
“He might do it in a fit of pique.” Just saying the words made Poppy uncomfortable.
“Coming back to the US would be a major risk for pique,” Holte said. “If you like, I could be on the look-out for him.”
“Yes, please,” she said quietly. “If you don’t mind.”
“That’s why I’m here; to help,” he pointed out, rising another half-foot up in the air. “I hope you won’t mind if I expand my duties for the time being.”
“So long as they don’t raise too many eyebrows, I’d be foolish not to say yes.” She shook her head once. “I’m sorry, but I can’t help resenting the need for your help.”
“I gathered that a while ago,” said Holte.
“Your understanding doesn’t make it easier.” Saying this, she tested the side of the mug, then picked it up and carried it into the breakfast nook, turning on the lights as she did. “Make yourself comfortable.” She sat down just as Maestro came into the breakfast nook to join them.
“Oh, I will.” He wafted in and made as if to sit in the chair opposite hers.
Maestro yowled at him, arching his back for emphasis, and made a run at Holte, but did not try to take hold of him, preferring to stay near Poppy.
“Calm down, you noisy cat,” Poppy admonished him as he rubbed against her shins. “If you can’t behave, then go into the pantry and catch some mice.”
“Has he actually done that—catch mice?” Holte rose a short way above the chair, out of the cat’s easy reach. “It doesn’t seem his style, does it? I wouldn’t think his pride would allow him such…humble tasks.”
“Yes, he has caught mice. Missus Sassoro has found the leftover bits—paws and tails and such—in front of the pantry door. So far, he’s accounted for six of them that we know of; there may be more in other parts of the house. Aunt Esther says she’d rather have a cat attend to the mice inside than have to set out poison.”
“That’s a sensible precaution in a pantry, with all that food stored there,” Holte said
approvingly. “But what about mouse traps?”
“Missus Sassoro doesn’t approve. She says that the dead bodies and the bait attract ants.” Poppy stared at the larger window. “The wind’s rising.”
“Probably the last of the hurricane blowing itself out,” said Holte.
They sat in companionable silence for a few minutes, then Poppy tested the side of the mug, nodded, and drank her chocolate while Maestro prowled around her feet, muttering to himself, and Holte gradually rose toward the ceiling, becoming invisible as he went.
THIRTY-TWO
SATURDAY, POPPY’S HALF-DAY, WENT FROM WEEKEND-QUIET TO WILD EXCITEMENT shortly after nine in the morning with the breaking news that the Napier robbery gang had been arrested before dawn and were now in police custody; so far six men were in jail, but there were supposed to be two more who were still on the run, and speculation was running high among the reporters as to where the men could be, and what might become of them. Poppy watched the eruption of exhilaration and took a degree of satisfaction that the capture of the jewel thieves would knock her story on the hunt for GAD off the front page; the Pearses would approve.
“Tough luck,” Gafney said to her, chuckling around the cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth.
“I’ll weather it somehow,” said Poppy, thinking that Gafney had been hoping for some such event to get her by-line off the front page of the paper.
“You keep on telling yourself that, dearie,” he recommended as he resumed typing on his story that would surely be the lead for the day.
Poppy took a deep breath and looked at what she had managed so far:
Missing Pearse heir has not yet been located in Austria. The investigator working on the case in Eastern Europe has informed the family that he is moving on to Bratislava, in Czechoslovakia, based on new information he has obtained.
Living Spectres: a Chesterton Holte, Gentleman Haunt Mystery Page 37