by Michelle Cox
Unfortunately, however, Henrietta spied it too. “I saw that, Sergeant!” Henrietta said crisply. “You think we’re joking, but we’re very much in earnest, aren’t we, Clive?”
Annoyed in the extreme, Clive looked at her, a rebuke ready, but, seeing her innocent eagerness, he instead almost gave in to laughing along with Davis, so absurd was the situation. He bit his lip to hold it in. He would speak to her later about following his direction. If they were indeed to work together, he needed to trust that she would listen to him. Technically, he supposed that she had followed his direction in letting him do most of the talking here today, but she had still found a way to maddeningly interject her own opinion. And despite how charming he found it, it simply wouldn’t do.
“Listen, can we just get back to the case?” Clive said in a clipped tone, successfully burying his amusement.
“I suppose we should,” Davis said, also sobering and pulling his eyes from Henrietta. “Right. I’ll start looking into this. I’ll dig up this Bennett and go from there. In the meantime, do you want us to stake some guys outside the house? And I’d like to see this letter you found.”
Clive considered for a moment. Staking police outside the house would definitely rouse his mother’s notice; plus, he wasn’t sure it was completely necessary at this point. “I don’t think we need that kind of protection just yet,” Clive responded. “But maybe some extra patrol cars in the area. In the meantime, I’ll bring the letter by.”
“Don’t you think you should inform the chief?” Henrietta asked.
“He’s off these two weeks,” Davis said. “Which isn’t such a bad thing,” he muttered. “Though I didn’t say that,” he said looking at both of them and wagging his finger between them.
“Right,” said Clive, standing now. “We’ll be off. Thanks, Sergeant. I’ll let you know if anything else turns up.”
“Just one more question,” Davis put in, as he came from around the back of the desk. “Where’d the rest of the money go? From the painting?”
Again, Clive looked at him with respect. “I wish I knew. I can’t seem to find it or trace it in any of his accounts.”
“What about the servants? Didn’t you say the butler sold it? What’s his name?”
“Mr. Billings,” Henrietta answered.
“He wasn’t able to shed any light on it?” he asked of Clive.
“None, really. It’s damned frustrating. No one seems to know anything.”
“Except Bennett,” Davis said quietly.
“What about Carter?” Henrietta asked.
“Who’s Carter?” Davis asked keenly.
“My father’s valet, or, rather, my valet now,” Clive answered. “Yes, I’ve questioned him,” he said, flashing Henrietta a look. Why had she brought up Carter? “He didn’t have much to offer.”
“That’s odd,” Davis mused. “Isn’t the valet supposed to know all the intimate secrets of his master? He might be worth me questioning at some point.”
“You’re welcome to try, but he’s a bit of a dull dolt. You won’t get much out of him.”
“Well, you know what they say, ‘the butler did it’—or something like that anyway,” he said with a cocky smile.
“This is hardly the time for levity, Sergeant,” Clive said, annoyed.
“You’re right. My money, no pun intended, is on this Bennett. Just a feeling.”
They had reached the front doors, and Davis stood to the side as they passed through, his hands rudely in his trouser pockets. “I’ll be in touch,” he said, touching one hand to his forehead in a little salute. And though irritated by his sudden flippancy, Clive could not help credit Davis’s assessment. He wasn’t sure what Bennett’s role exactly was in his father’s death, but he knew he was holding something back, and he hoped he could get to the bottom of it before it was too late.
Chapter 16
Elsie looked up from the novel she was reading and glanced around her little room at Mundelein, perplexed, having forgotten for a moment where she was. Although she had vowed to give up reading novels after the failed affair with Harrison, she shamefully hadn’t had the willpower to do so just yet. Besides, she had told herself, surely she would have to give them up once she took her real vows, so she thought it expedient to read as many as possible now, while she still could.
The room was growing dim. It would be dark soon and nearly time for the vigil. She would have to hurry. As usual, she was in danger of being late; only this time, she couldn’t blame Ma for it. It was New Year’s Eve, and as she set her book to the side, she couldn’t help feel a little guilty about the double deception she was participating in. Surely God would forgive her fibs—or lies, she should have the courage to call them—in exchange for the whole night of prayer, wouldn’t He? Was lying for a good cause acceptable? she wondered. Hadn’t Henrietta once said as much to Ma?
The girls would be returning from Christmas break soon, and Elsie was eager to fit in. She wasn’t officially supposed to be here yet, but since Sr. Bernard had allowed her to bring her things after Christmas, she had gotten permission to spend a couple of nights here this week under the guise of wanting to study. It was so quiet and peaceful here in Philomena Hall, and Elsie tried to remind herself that it wouldn’t always be this way. Soon, she imagined, it would be loud and bustling and exciting, which she looked forward to in a certain way as well. In the meantime, she enjoyed walking the grounds and visiting the libraries and reading. She helped herself to some of the food in the kitchen, per Sr. Bernard’s instruction, as the dining hall was not open over the break, nor was she allowed in the convent to eat with the Sisters.
Once or twice, she had caught Gunther in the kitchen, and he had each time invited her to have a mug of tea with him. His previous good mood had returned, and she found him so easy to talk to. More than once, she marveled at his ability to speak English as well as he did. She asked him to teach her some German, but he had merely laughed, saying “No one wants to speak German now.” He had eventually acquiesced, however, and taught her a couple of words here and there, but mostly he told her stories about his past life in Germany, about his days as a teacher. He never asked her any more about her life, which was fine with her. She didn’t want to talk about herself.
She had never met a man who had read so much, and she couldn’t help but admire him for it, even though she had barely heard of half the authors he spoke about. His love for words and his little soliloquies regarding love and life were contagious and attractive, and she found herself even seeking him out at times. He always had a smile for her, but he couldn’t always linger, as he sometimes had to hurry off to do some job somewhere on the tiny campus.
She rose now and smoothed down her cotton dress, glad that she was not having to don a ball gown of some sort. It felt delicious to be doing something so counter to what everyone else would be participating in tonight. She felt special and, well, holy, at having been invited by Sr. Bernard to attend the Sisters’ all-night prayer vigil in their private chapel in the Skyscraper instead of being out celebrating and drinking like the rest of the world, though she did feel guilty about having to lie both to Aunt Agatha and to Henrietta.
She had managed to wriggle out of attending the Penningtons’ Ball with the Exleys by repeatedly explaining that she had to attend Henrietta’s birthday party. Aunt Agatha was positively fuming and actually at one point threatened to call Grandfather over the matter, but in the end, she had finally given up, perhaps having had second thoughts about the wisdom of admitting her defeat to her father-in-law. She supposed Elsie would have to go to Henrietta’s party, Aunt Agatha had said to her, but if it were such an important event, why had Elsie not told her about it sooner? She could have arranged things differently, she had huffed and then whined. Elsie did not say much in answer to her aunt’s questions but thanked her profusely and promised to be all the more attentive to her in the new year, though she guessed that that would be a difficult promise to keep.
It had been hard
er to lie to Henrietta, who was begging her to come out dancing with her and Clive at the Aragon, her especial birthday wish. She could meet her friends from the Marlowe, she had said, but this did not really appeal to Elsie, either. Though if it weren’t for the vigil, she might have been just a little bit tempted. Clive could be so charming at times, and he had always been kind to her . . .
But she was determined to attend the vigil, and, anyway, she didn’t like the sound of meeting up with Henrietta’s friends. What if Rose was there? And worse, Stanley? She shifted uncomfortably and felt her face grow warm. It’s not as if she still loved Stanley, it’s just that she didn’t particularly want to see him, either. She was happy for him, if he had found someone to love, she told herself. Perhaps they could be good friends, she mused, having allowed herself more than once to imagine attending Stan and Rose’s wedding, dressed in a full nun’s habit of course and giving them her blessing. But what if he read too much into it? What if he assumed she had run to the convent because of their shattered affair?
Oh, this was silly! she told herself as she went down the back stairs that led directly into the kitchen. She had gotten into the habit of using them instead of the front staircase, as the old servants’ stairs were nearer to her room. And, anyway, the front was kept dark while the term was not in session. What did it matter what Stanley thought?
As she entered the bright kitchen now, she saw Gunther, again sitting at the table, writing in his little notebook. He looked startled to see her.
“Oh. I did not know you were still here. You are quiet like mouse,” he said with a smile, as he closed his book and put it in his pocket.
“Sister said I could,” she explained. “I’m . . . I’m attending the vigil with them.”
“What vigil?”
“The prayer vigil?”
“Ah. Their night of prayer.”
“Yes, they’re praying all night for peace for the world.”
Gunther gave her a sad, disbelieving sort of smile.
Elsie didn’t know what to say next. “Are you . . . are you spending the evening with your mother? Or . . . or going out?” she asked, her eyes reactively darting to the counter where two sandwiches again sat. Did they ever eat any other food? she wondered. “I could make you something sometime,” she said tentatively, nodding toward the tray. “Until Sister Alphonse comes back. I’m actually a pretty good cook,” she said, blushing slightly. “Then you and your mother wouldn’t have to have sandwiches all the time.”
Gunther stood up. “No, there is no need. But thank you. I live over behind Piper. The stove is broken there, and I have not had time to be fixing it,” he said, running his hand through his hair. “It is easier to make something here and carry it over since I am so much being here.”
“Oh. Well, do you want any help?”
“No, but thank you for your kindness,” he offered.
Elsie didn’t know what else to say, and she was conscious that the vigil would probably be starting any minute. “Well, I have to go,” she said.
“I will walk with you,” he said. “It is icy, and I need to go there anyway for different matter.”
“But what about your dinner?” she asked.
“Oh, that can wait. It is still early,” he said with a smile as he reached for his heavy coat and tattered cap. “Go on. Get your coat.”
Elsie felt uneasy about taking him from his mother and her dinner, but she could sense he would not be swayed. Obediently, she went to the cloakroom for her coat and joined him at the door, wrapping a thick, woolen scarf around her neck.
“Here, take my arm,” he said, leading her down the back stone steps. “It is very icy. I am sorry. I need to scrape again.”
“You’re only one person,” Elsie said, taking his arm and noticing how threadbare was his coat. It looked dirty too. “It seems like too much work for just one person. Can’t they hire more people?” she asked.
“Ach! No, I can manage. I like to be busy.”
Elsie remained silent on their slow walk across the campus, bending slightly from the wind and watching the cars whip by on Sheridan on their way to some New Year’s Eve party or club, slowing as they rounded the curve and then speeding up once they passed. For a brief moment, she wished she was joining Henrietta at the Aragon. Maybe she had made a mistake. After all, how often would she get a chance like that?
“Do you think it’s all right to lie for a good cause?” she asked Gunther suddenly.
She felt him stiffen, but perhaps it was in response to a particularly strong gust of wind that almost pushed them backward. Gunther took so long in answering that she thought maybe he hadn’t heard her. She was about to repeat the question when he simply said, “Sometimes, yes. Sometimes is necessary. Why?” he asked, and she felt him look at her.
“Oh. No reason,” she said, not wanting to confess her sins at this point. Besides, they were nearly to the Skyscraper. Gunther let go of her once they were inside and followed her to the shiny, art deco elevators, removing his cap as they went. There was no one in the lobby at all; in fact, the whole building seemed deserted, and their footsteps sounded unusually distinct as they walked across the lobby. The main lights had been turned off, and only the chrome sconces along the walls were lit, giving off a yellowish glow.
Elsie removed her scarf as they waited awkwardly for one of the elevators to open, but there was no movement. The indicator bar in the half-moon glass above the doors stayed permanently on “L,” and in fact no internal machinery could be heard working at all.
Elsie finally turned to look at Gunther, conscious that she was holding him up. “Well, thank you, Gunther. You don’t have to wait with me,” she said politely.
“I do not mind,” he said, looking at the bar, which was still on “L.”
“Maybe no one’s on duty tonight,” Elsie said. “I’ll just take the stairs. It will do me good,” she said, turning away from the elevator toward the direction of the staircase in the center of the lobby.
“It is fourteen floors! No, I can get it,” Gunther offered.
“You don’t have to,” she said, feeling increasingly guilty at keeping him from his mother and his evening off. She wished he would just leave her.
“It will just take minute,” he said and reached to draw the grate open. He pulled, but it appeared to be stuck or locked and wouldn’t budge. “This is not how it should be,” he said, baffled, and put both hands on the grate now and yanked hard. The grate came free then, the culprit in lodging it stuck apparently being a ragged piece of metal that had somehow broken off and caught on the elevator’s frame. They later learned that one of the elevator girls had indeed reported this malfunction to Sr. Francis, the sister in charge of the building’s maintenance, but it had somehow not been brought to poor Gunther’s attention to fix until this moment, when the ragged piece of metal unfortunately caught him as he yanked the grate loose—and subsequently sliced through his wrist.
“Autsch!” Gunther cried loudly, gripping his hand and staring at his wrist, the cuff of his white shirt turning red. His knees buckled, then, and he sank slowly to the ground.
Elsie, not realizing exactly what had happened, hurried over to him and was stunned by the large amount of blood pouring from the wound.
“Oh, Gunther,” she panted, feeling terrified and faint, as she crouched beside him, watching his blood gurgling out at an alarming rate.
“Autsch! Elsie. Help me!” Gunther stuttered.
Panic filled Elsie, and she raised herself back up onto her feet. “Help!” she cried, looking around frantically. “Help!” she called again, her voice bouncing uselessly off the walls of the abandoned lobby. She looked back at Gunther, still on his knees on the ground and gripping his injured arm, the blood beginning to pool under it now.
“Help!” she called again and began to debate leaving him to go find someone, even if it meant running all the way up to the convent.
At that moment, however, the errant elevator girl appeared from a
round the corner, smelling distinctly of cigarette smoke. Once she caught sight of the two of them, the ground around them splattered with blood, she froze in place and let out a piercing scream.
“Go get help!” Elsie shouted at her and watched as the girl backed slowly away and then turned and ran, calling back as she went that she would get the guard. Elsie turned her attention back to Gunther, sliding down on her knees as well. Without thinking, she tore off her scarf and wrapped his arm as best she could. Gunther’s face was contorted in pain, and he looked ghostly white, as if he might pass out any moment. Even so, he tried after a moment to stand.
“Gunther, no!” she cried. “Just sit still. Help will be here soon.”
“I am fine, he said raggedly.
“No, you’re not,” she said, observing the pain in his face. “It’ll be okay, but you just have to wait. Help’s coming . . . I can hear them.”
And she did hear footsteps pounding down the hall, coming toward them. A moment later, the elevator girl reappeared with a portly security guard who looked as though he may have just recently been woken up, and who stood now, assessing the scene as he nervously pushed his cap toward the back of his head.
“Get that chair!” he shouted to the elevator girl, pointing down the hallway toward a lone chair that had somehow escaped its classroom. The elevator girl took several minutes to comprehend what was being asked of her, but when the guard shouted, “Go on!” she snapped to attention and hurried to get it and dragged it back. The guard gave Elsie a nod, then, and they both took hold of Gunther under his arms and got him up and gingerly placed him in the chair.
“All right, let’s see what you’ve got,” he said sternly and began to unwind Elsie’s now blood-soaked scarf. He dropped it on the ground and began to inspect the wound. Elsie winced when she saw the deep gash, blood still gurgling forth. How had he cut himself that badly? she wondered, her stomach roiling in panic. All he did was pull the grating back . . .