by Michelle Cox
“Merry Christmas,” she said encouragingly.
“Yes, Merry Christmas.” He smiled at her, but he still seemed sad, not merry at all.
“Are you . . . are you quite all right?” she asked tentatively.
He looked at her as if surprised by her question. “I am fine,” he said not unkindly. “Just little tired perhaps.” He reached for his mug and carried it to the counter where he pulled off the tea cozy and filled it with steaming tea. He set it on a tray, already prepared, next to a mug of milk and two plates holding a sandwich and a biscuit each.
“Oh, I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to keep you from your lunch,” Elsie said hastily.
“It is not mine,” he said, his back still to her.
“Oh,” Elsie said, puzzled. Who could they be for, then? she wondered. The sisters ate in their own private dining room served by the novitiates, so they couldn’t be for them. “Are you taking them to your mother?” she asked, finally coming to the only conclusion that seemed possible. “Would you like me to help?”
“No,” he said, turning back to her now, as he picked up the tray. “No, I am doing it. Maybe the door,” he said nodding toward the back door.
Elsie quickly moved to open it for him, standing aside as she did so. “Don’t you want your coat?” she asked.
“No, I am used to it. It is not far. Good day, Elsie. I will see you here soon, yes?” he asked and managed to give her a smile, despite his strained face.
She nodded and closed the door behind him. As she did so, however, it came to her that if the lunch was not for him and was supposedly for his mother, then why were there two plates? Why not just put two sandwiches on one? she thought as she climbed the back stairs to her new room.
Well, she needn’t worry about Gunther and his sandwiches, she told herself, as she opened the door of her room and stepped inside. It was lovely and small, just how she remembered it. She had never felt comfortable in her massive room in Palmer Square. She walked across the worn hook rug that covered most of the wood floor and bent to look out the tiny window carved into the wall between her bed and Melody’s. The sight of the lake beyond was wonderfully soothing. She stood up straight, then, turning to observe the room itself. Melody had left her side of the room neat and tidy, and on her side, she saw with gratitude, Gunther had indeed placed her trunks at the end of her bed. She still could not believe that she was really here, and she offered a silent prayer of thanksgiving.
Chapter 15
Clive pulled the car up to the Winnetka Police Station and roughly shoved the gear stick into park, irritated that it had come to this. He again questioned the wisdom of consulting the local nitwits, considering how his previous interview with them had gone, but he felt he had no choice.
His mother’s endless badgering the last couple of weeks had come to a head last night when the subject of the whereabouts of the stolen painting had been inconveniently broached by none other than Randolph. After being thrashed by Clive, that gentleman had rejoined the merry party in the drawing room, painfully slinking in a full half hour after Clive had left him doubled over in the dining room, and had made it a point—apparently the only recourse to revenge he had at that moment—to politely inquire of Antonia if they had found the painting, shooting a daggered look at Clive as he did so. That, of course, opened up a torrent from Antonia, who once again began to question Clive and to voice her displeasure at the ineptitude of the Winnetka police force. Did they not take stolen art seriously? she had asked stiffly. Surely, he hadn’t run his station in such a way, had he? she had asked Clive.
Clive had pinched the bridge of his nose and reminded her that he had never actually been in charge of a station. That that had been the chief’s role.
Antonia ignored this clarification, however, and plowed on. They hadn’t even sent anyone out to observe or even look for clues! she complained. Isn’t that what you call it? she asked. Looking for clues? Nor had they even bothered to telephone or interview her. Randolph then snidely suggested that perhaps Clive had forgotten to go to the police, that it had perhaps slipped his mind with all that he had to worry about now at the firm. Antonia looked at Clive sharply and asked him if that were true. Had he gone to the police as he said he would? she asked.
“You gave me your word, Clive!” she exclaimed. “Your father never broke his word, you know,” she added bitingly.
Clive felt the blow and was about to retort when Randolph spoke again, suggesting that perhaps “poor Clive” might be suffering from some sort of mental relapse, something similar perhaps to what he had experienced when he had returned from the war, despondent—nearly out of his mind, really—didn’t they all remember that? Perhaps he needed help, Randolph went on. Or a long rest?
Antonia’s previously narrowed eyes turned to a look of deep concern. Yes, she had been worried about him too, she acknowledged. Perhaps he should go see a doctor, she suggested.
Clive could almost feel Randolph’s smirk at this preposterous statement, but he refused to look at him and thereby give him the satisfaction. In fact, Clive had to use every ounce of self-possession he had, he later told Henrietta, to control himself from calling Randolph outside to finish what he had started. Though glad that the attention had been shifted away from the whereabouts of the painting, he did not appreciate the fact that it had been maliciously replaced by a discussion regarding what could only be called his sanity and therefore grudgingly brought it back to the painting. In the end, he had assured his mother that he indeed had the case in hand and that he had already planned, he said, to revisit the police in the morning, though he couldn’t promise who would be there the day after Christmas.
—
Clive sighed as he turned off the ignition and looked over at Henrietta, who had of course insisted on coming along, and he hadn’t had the energy this morning to resist. She was bright and chipper, showing no ill effects of all the vintage wine they had drunk last night, and was annoyingly dressed in a tweed suit with a matching lady’s fedora, reminiscent of some Sherlock Holmes novel. She smiled at him now, but all he could manage was to raise an eyebrow as he came around to her side and opened the door for her.
As she elegantly climbed out, her long, shapely legs preceding her, he said sternly, “Listen, I’m doing the talking, all right?” It was more a statement than a question, though to be honest, he wasn’t really sure what he was going to say. His father was being blackmailed? Someone had threatened his father’s colleague? Someone followed them two nights ago? He knew how it looked. He had seen it a hundred times before as a detective. It sounded vague and desperate. “Let’s just get this over with, shall we?” he said to Henrietta.
“Oh, Clive, don’t be such a wet blanket!” she said.
Wet blanket? Where had she learned to talk like that? he wondered and then remembered what her background really was. He forgot sometimes how poor and uneducated she had been. It surprised him, really. She was wonderfully adept at molding herself to whatever situation arose.
“I know you think this will come to nothing,” she went on, “but we have to start somewhere. Remember, we were followed two nights ago.”
Yes, he did remember, and it was actually the real reason he had made the decision to try again with the police. He could not ignore the potential danger that Henrietta, and perhaps even his mother, might consequently be in, and this time he was taking no chances. As they walked up the three cement steps to the station, he prayed that the chief might be off for the holidays and that perhaps Lieutenant Davis might be in instead, hoping that he wouldn’t have to seek him out at his local establishment. What was it called? The Trophy Room? On Elm?
There were not many officers around as Clive and Henrietta stepped through the main doors of the station, but that was to be expected. It was only the day after Christmas, after all—Boxing Day, as his father used to call it.
“Can I help you, sir?” asked a clean-shaven officer behind the counter as he looked up from some papers he was leafing thr
ough.
“Yes, I’m here to see Chief Callahan.”
“Not here I’m afraid, sir. Off for Christmas.”
“I see,” Clive said. So far, so good.
“I can take your name, sir. Or if it’s something urgent-like, you can tell me. Something happen?” he asked, glancing at Henrietta now.
“No, no. It’s not urgent,” Clive answered. “I’m Clive Howard. I just wanted a word.”
“Perhaps we might speak to someone else?” Henrietta put in smoothly, batting her lashes just a bit, Clive noticed. “Is there any chance Sergeant Davis would be in?” Henrietta asked sweetly. “I think that’s his name.”
The officer looked back and forth between the two of them as if trying to make up his mind before he reluctantly said, “I’ll check. You wait here,” he mumbled and then disappeared deeper into the station.
“I thought I told you that I’d do the talking,” Clive said in an irritated whisper to Henrietta.
“Asking for Sergeant Davis is hardly ‘doing the talking,’ Clive,” Henrietta retorted, just as the officer reappeared.
“Follow me,” he said blandly, without any other explanation.
They followed the officer back toward the heart of the station, where they could see Sergeant Davis at his little nightstand of a desk, speaking on the telephone. There were more officers back here, typing or attempting to look busy. As Davis hung up the receiver, his eyes assessing first Clive and then Henrietta, Clive again noticed that Davis was still in shirtsleeves and suspenders and had not shaved in several days, by the look of it.
“Oh, it’s you, Howard,” Davis said casually, propping his cheek up with his fist as his arm rested on the desk. “To what do I owe this pleasure? I’m sure it’s not to wish me a Merry Christmas.”
“Indeed no. I’m here about my father’s case,” Clive said curtly.
“Correct me if my memory is wrong, but there is no case,” Davis said, leaning back in his chair now and folding his arms.
“Oh, it really is a case, Sergeant. He really was murdered,” Henrietta said seriously, causing Davis to stare at her for what seemed a long time.
“And who would you be? Let me guess, Mrs. Howard, the younger,” he said, his eyes running her up and down.
“Yes, I’m Mrs. Clive Howard,” she said stiffly, in what sounded to Clive to be a very close imitation of his mother, and despite himself, he was amused. “And we have some information—”
“Look, old man, might we have a word?” Clive interrupted. “Somewhere private? Perhaps we could step into the chief’s office?”
“The chief doesn’t really like anyone in his office, but I suppose we can make an exception,” he said lazily. “Since you are Mr. Howard.” He stood up, gesturing them toward the darkened office behind him.
Quickly, Clive proceeded past him, deciding to ignore the insolence. Davis followed them in, switching on the light and shutting the door. He gestured for the Howards to sit on the two available chairs in front of the desk, while he walked around behind. Clive noticed with approval that he did not sit down, however, but leaned against the window, his arms crossed again in front of him. At least he showed respect for his commanding officer by not taking his seat, Clive thought.
“Okay, what is it?” Davis asked in a bored tone.
“Look, several things have surfaced that have led me—us,” he said, glancing over at Henrietta, “to believe that there was definitely foul play regarding my father’s death.”
Davis’s eyes flicked. “Such as?”
“Well, for one thing, I’ve discovered that he was being extorted from. I found a rather damning letter in his study. Someone by the name of Lawrence Susan. Ring a bell?”
Davis shook his head but looked intrigued despite his nonchalance. “Go on.”
“Apparently, my father’s been the victim of extortion for years. His colleague at work corroborated it.”
“Hmmm. Extortion, eh? Any idea why?”
“None.”
“What’s this colleague’s name?”
“Sidney Bennett.”
“Go on.”
Clive cleared his throat. “Mr. Bennett confessed to me that these extortionists have been demanding money from my father for years, apparently, but that just recently, these thugs, led by this Susan apparently, demanded an unusually exorbitant amount from my father. I’m not sure why. As a result, it seems my father sold a rather valuable painting to raise the money and then had some sort of cockedup plan to only give half the money to them on the train platform, where he was instructed to meet them, and then follow them.”
“On the train platform? Here in Winnetka?”
“Yes,” Clive said evenly, trying to keep the irritation from his voice. “Remember? The train platform he ‘slipped’ from?”
“All right, all right,” Davis said, rolling his eyes. “Assuming all of this is true, why only give them half the dough? And why follow them?”
“I don’t know,” Clive sighed. “It doesn’t make any sense to me either, but, then again, my father wasn’t really the detective type. I’m not sure he really thought it through.”
“I see,” Davis mused, “Any idea who they were? Can this Bennett identify them?”
“He says no, that he was too distraught when my father fell in front of the train.”
“Fell or pushed?”
Clive raised his eyebrows. “Pushed presumably. It seems the thugs opened the case and discovered that half the money wasn’t there. Bennett says there was a ‘scuffle,’ is how he put it, and the next thing he knew, he saw my father fall.”
“So not much to go on.”
“Not really.”
Davis rubbed his chin. “Seems I’ll have to question this Bennett,” he said, reaching for a notebook from his back trouser pocket.
“Yes, I thought you would. He’s had a couple of nasty instances since then, which you might question him about.”
“Like what?”
“Rock through his window. Slashed tires. Dead dog.”
“They must have seen him on the platform. That or he’s in deeper than we know.”
“He may very well be. Apparently, there’ve been many extortion letters delivered over the years, but upon my father’s death, Bennett went to his study and removed them all.”
“Why?”
Clive shrugged. “He says so that my mother wouldn’t find them and be upset.”
Davis looked skeptical. “That was considerate of him. But maybe he just wanted to remove the evidence. Maybe he’s a part of it, and the vandalism stories are just made up.”
“Maybe,” Clive sighed. “But his fear seems real.”
Davis scratched a few notes down and then looked up at the two of them, as if considering something. “But why now?” he asked. “Why would you two come in now?” he asked again, looking at them. “Something else must have happened. Something recent.”
Clive was very impressed with Davis. He was exceptionally sharp, and he liked the way he thought. Also his procedure was first-rate.
“I’m pretty sure we’re being followed now,” he explained to Davis. “Which Bennett warned me about, actually. I caught their scent Christmas Eve night. We were leaving my mother-in-law’s home in Logan Square. We lost them when we headed north, of course.”
“Hmmm. Getting more interesting by the minute,” Davis said, giving them a grin. “Anything else?”
Clive let out a deep breath. “Only that my mother is threatening to telephone here and report the painting my father sold as stolen. I’ve confirmed that the butler sold it, legally, in town, but I don’t want to tell her that. She has no idea about the extortion or the money or any of this really, and I’d like to keep it that way. At least for now. Meanwhile, she’s wondering why you haven’t done anything to discover the painting’s whereabouts. So currently she’s rather irate, hence her threats to telephone. Just thought I’d warn you,” he said with a small smile.
“I see,” Davis said, flipping th
e notebook shut as he considered the information before him. “I don’t know,” he said easily. “I’ve seen Mrs. Howard about. She doesn’t strike me as particularly delicate. She might be able to shed some light on all of this.”
Clive shifted uncomfortably. Davis had a point of course, but he couldn’t explain not wanting to involve his mother. He felt there was more to this case than even he knew at this point. He felt his father was hiding something along with the money; why else would he have been so cryptic and foolish? And until he knew all the facts, he didn’t want his mother’s involvement in case he found something particularly damning, like perhaps a mistress after all. “Listen, Sergeant, she’s been through a lot recently, and I’d rather spare her if I could. At least for the moment. This is hardly the topic of conversation for a lady,” he added, attempting to bluff.
“Hmm,” Davis said, sticking out his lower lip as he pondered. “And yet you’ve involved your lovely wife, here,” he said, turning his gaze on Henrietta again and making a point of staring at her legs. “And she’s very much a lady, from what I can see.”
Clive felt the heat rising in his face and was about to respond when Henrietta beat him to it. “Oh, you needn’t worry about me, Sergeant Davis,” Henrietta said, coolly crossing her legs. “As a detective’s wife—”
“Former,” Clive interrupted.
“I’m made of sterner stuff than that,” she said, flashing Davis a smile. “In fact, we’re opening a detective agency. If you hear of any cases, you might send them our way.”
Clive closed his eyes and let out a groan as a grin erupted on Davis’s face followed by a loud laugh.
“A detective agency, is it?” he asked, amused, looking from one to the other.
“Sergeant, listen—” Clive attempted to say.
“Well, that will come in very handy around here, I’m sure,” Davis continued, still grinning. “Since our current caseload is overflowing,” he said, gesturing aimlessly around the room. “Or do you mean to compete with us?”
His brow furrowed, Clive shot him a look and gave him a tiny shake of his head, hoping Davis would understand. Thankfully, Davis responded with a little wink of understanding, but he still had a grin spread across his face.