The room was silent for perhaps two seconds, and then erupted in a babble of queries, the reporters competing in volume in order to be heard.
“Do you think it’s murder?”
“Are there any suspects yet?”
“How soon will you know what killed him?”
“You said broken bones — which bones were broken?”
“What about the police investigation?”
Hearing that next-to-last question, Poppy smiled, for she had detailed the broken arm in her short piece that appeared in the metropolitan edition of the Clarion yesterday evening. With Wyman’s remarks to bolster her, she could now expand on the damage done to the body when she submitted her next story — which, she reminded herself — was due at three this afternoon. She tried to press toward the front, but the men were unwilling to make way for her, so she went to the wall in the hope that she could get around the others.
Waiting near the door, the only other woman in the room, Phyllis Ackersley, doyen of the Tribune, smoked while she wrote in one of her custom-made notebooks; everyone in the room was aware of her presence: her silver hair and her fox coat had been seen at all crime-related public announcements since the start of the Great War, and she knew the rhythm of these events better than anyone in the room, including Doctor Wyman. She tapped the ash off her cigarette, closed her notebook and put it in her unfashionably large purse, then turned and left the room, unofficially signaling that the meeting was at an end. She was followed by Jefferson Scott of the Tri-County Spectator and Pierce Cummings of the New York Register. The exit was on.
A few of the remaining reporters gathered in front of the podium, persisting in asking questions, none of which got much in the way of answers; on the platform, Dr. Wyman gathered up his accordion file of papers and ignored the burble.
“Would you like me to follow the coroner after he leaves here?” Chesterton Holte spoke in Poppy’s ear. “I could tell you what he says and does. If you like.”
Poppy put her hand up, more startled than annoyed. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?” A shimmer in the air next to her revealed where he was. “Not go with the coroner? Why not?”
“Just … just sneak up on me,” she said in an intense whisper. “Especially not in a place like this.”
“Oh. Then you do want me to follow the coroner?” He sounded enthusiastic. “I could find out if he held any information back.”
“Yes.” She shook her head. “No.”
“If you don’t like what I find out, you don’t have to use it, do you? Why not take advantage of me? I can get places you can’t.” He made a sound like the tisking of his tongue; Poppy wondered how he managed that — come to think of it, she thought, how does he make himself heard at all, being noncorporeal?
Roy Tarriser from the Pennsylvania Bulletin nearly backed into Poppy as he raised his hand in the hope of being recognized before the coroner left. “Have the police determined if Moncrief’s death was a crime?”
“You’ll have to ask them, thought it is a very real likelihood at this stage,” the coroner shot back. “And I remind you that suicide is a crime in this state, as well as murder. I don’t believe it was accidental, unless it was some kind of prank that went wrong. For the time being, the cause of death is undetermined.” Another chorus of shouts burst forth and the men did their best to move closer to Dr. Wyman, as if nearness could make him say something more final; the coroner retreated a step, holding his file tightly. “I’ll let you know when I have more information. I’m not going to indulge in speculation, so don’t bother to ask. Thank you for coming.” That said, he turned abruptly and left through the side door he had used to enter the room.
Poppy sighed, frustrated at having failed to make herself heard. “All right,” she said quietly. “Go after him; after we talk, I’ll make an appointment with him. I’ve got to talk to Inspector Loring before this gang gets to him. He’s expecting me in fifteen minutes.”
“You’ll see me before the end of the day, when you’re on your way home,” Holte assured her, his voice fading.
It was a brisk three-block walk to Police Headquarters, which was located not far from the Philadelphia Superior Courts Building. The day was pleasant enough to make the walk a pleasure. Poppy reached the steps of Police Headquarters in less than ten minutes. A half-dozen men in uniform flanked the door, some of them looking more like building guards than men at their shift change.
Poppy approached one of the more friendly looking of the policemen, an older man with sergeant’s stripes on his sleeve. “Pardon me, but can you tell me where I can find Inspector Loring? I have an appointment with him.”
The sergeant looked her over, gave her a wink. “Second floor, take the right corridor, and it’s the fourth door on your left.” He sketched a salute to her, and watched her make her way into the building.
Stepping into the rotating door, Poppy was at once struck by the noise of the place: there were a number of people in the marble-clad lobby, most of them in front of the reception desk, seeking attention from the two harassed men behind it. Near the broad stairs were a number of benches where more people waited, many of them dejected or fretful, whom Poppy assumed were the victims of crimes, or perhaps arrested criminals. She went up the stairs and turned right when she reached the next floor, where tall windows in need of a good cleaning provided a dusty kind of light. In a sudden attack of unaccountable self-consciousness, Poppy smoothed the front of her jacket and walked more briskly down the corridor, making note of the policemen who were in the corridor, some of them clearly on missions, a few leaving the shift-change a little late.
At the fourth door on her left, she paused, then opened it into a room about the size of the music room at Aunt Jo’s; five medium-sized blond-oak desks, each with a chair behind and a chair in front, were crammed into the space, jig-saw fashion, all of which had a telephone and a reading lamp with an outward-facing name-plate set out on them, with in-and-out baskets at the edge of the large blotters at the center of every desk; a dozen filing cabinets, three tall wastebaskets, and half a dozen straight-backed chairs ranged along the walls. An unused fan stood atop the tallest filing cabinet, its cord dangling. Two of the desks were occupied, one near the side-door, by a man in his fifties, the other, at the back of the room, by Inspector Loring. Today he was wearing a blue-and-brown tweed jacket over a newly ironed white shirt with a simple blue tie; his eyes were no longer eons old, but bright, and a surprising shade that was almost turquoise, Poppy noticed as he looked up while she threaded her way to his desk.
“Miss Thornton. Right on time.” He smiled, deep creases framing his eyes and cheeks, and he half-rose, indicating the chair across from him. “Do sit down,” he added as he did. “Thank you for coming.”
“Thank you for seeing me, Inspector.” She held out her hand, and after a slight hesitation, he took it. “I’m grateful for your invitation. I know you have a great deal to do, so I appreciate this opportunity to talk.” Hearing herself, she winced, thinking she sounded worse than Mildred Fairchild. To cover this awkwardness, she glanced at his name-plate as she sat. “J. B. Loring. What does the J. B. stand for?” To her astonishment, she blushed.
“Jeddidiah Beaufort. I was named for my father’s brothers; I never use it. My family calls me J. B. It’s easier.”
“Ah. Me, too.” She felt herself grinning at him, as if they shared a secret. “Grandmothers though, not uncles or aunts.”
His smile came and went again; if he noticed her reddened face, he made no sign of it. “My colleagues call me Loring, for the same reason.”
“I … I didn’t mean to … intrude.”
“As you told me,” he said, sounding amused. “Poppea Millicent. Must have been a problem in grade school.”
“It could have been worse; I had a classmate named Constance Payne,” she said. “You’ll have to forgive my asking about your name. I’m just curious. All reporters are.” She decided she had made a good recovery, and o
pened her purse to get her notebook and a pencil. “Are you willing to pass on some more information, as you said you would?”
Loring’s office-mate rose from behind his desk. “I’m taking an early lunch. I’ll be back in an hour or so.”
“Okay.” Loring said, and watched the older man trundle off. He turned back to Poppy. “Where were we?”
“We’re about to trade information,” Poppy told him, both relieved and unnerved to have the other policeman gone; his use of soldiers’ slang didn’t offend her.
“Right.” He took a dozen sheets of typed paper and made them into a stack on which he rested his folded hands. “Case reports. You shouldn’t see them.”
“I understand,” she said, feeling a sudden need to establish a more professional ambience to their discussion. “You, first.”
“You told me yesterday that the Moncrief marriage had gone through a rough patch a year ago, but you couldn’t remember any details. Have you been able to recall anything more about it? When did it end, if it ended.” He grabbed a pencil and shoved it into a small pocket sharpener, twisting it to restore the point.
“I’ve remembered some of what my cousin — ”
“Eugene?”
“Eustace. Stacy. He told me, oh, perhaps eighteen months ago, that because of Madison’s promotion at Hadley and Grimes, he had been working longer hours — and since he hadn’t been working there long, he wanted to do his best for them. He had a raft of clients to handle. Louise had taken to going to social events with other men — most of them were friends of theirs, and Eustace — Stacy — said that it had been Madison’s idea, so that Louise wouldn’t have to sit home all the time. Even he squired her to the symphony once, Stacy did.”
“Had she been sitting home?” Loring asked with just enough doubt in his question to make Poppy answer more sharply than she had intended.
“Yes. At least she was, compared to how things had been before Madison became a junior partner at Hadley and Grimes. Her sister came to stay with her a few times, but she has a family of her own, in Baltimore, and couldn’t spare many days for Louise.” She paused. “Her sister is Neva, she’s Missus Theodore Plowright.”
“And lives in Baltimore,” Loring said, writing quickly.
“Yes. I don’t have their address. Stacy probably does; we’re expecting him this evening.” When he said nothing, she added, “Would you like me to get it for you? I know Stacy would be glad to help you.”
“I’ll get it from Missus Moncrief, or the lady herself, when she comes to Philly. I’ll be going to see Missus Moncrief later today. The housekeeper — a Missus Haas — said Missus Plowright was expected at seven.” He stared at Poppy for a few seconds, which for her seemed to be ages. “What was the second thing?”
“Second thing?” she asked, then shook herself mentally.
“The second thing your cousin told you about the Moncrief’s marriage? You said there were two things,” he prompted.
“Oh. Yes. Stacy remarked when Louise announced that she was pregnant, that this should take care of the problem. He didn’t elaborate on what the problem was, but I suspected it had something to do with giving her some purpose to fill her time, and when I mentioned it, he didn’t disagree. Missus Moncrief couldn’t go to charity balls and horse shows forever, and both she and Madison were hoping a child would be more rewarding than another charity event.” She felt a little uneasy, telling Loring so much, but she excused herself with the realization that what she had said could help this policeman to identify the murderer.
“Hum,” said Loring, making more notes. “Okay. Your turn.” He tapped the base of his desk lamp as it flickered. “It’s the weather.”
There was that soldiers’ slang again. Poppy flipped her notebook open. “How is your investigation progressing? What line of inquiry are you planning to follow?”
“That’s two questions,” he said.
“I gave you two answers,” she countered.
“Yes, I guess you did at that.” He set his pencil down and stared across the room. “Since we still have no firm information from the coroner, we’re proceeding carefully. I don’t know if you realize how closed-mouth Wyman can be, and we don’t want to create more difficulties for the Moncrief family. Once we have Wyman’s official determination, we’ll have a better idea of what we need to do. For the time being, we’re trying to learn as much as we can about Madison Moncrief and what may have led up to his death, whatever the cause — even if it’s suicide after all, there’s a chance that there may be a crime connected to it. Which means I will want to speak to your cousin; he may know something one way or another.”
“I’ll tell him when I see him,” said Poppy.
“I appreciate your help.” He tapped his fingers again, not as a sign of impatience, but as if he had recalled something he wanted to mention. “One thing, though; don’t tell him what I’ve told you here, if you please, tell him only what you’ve put in the paper. He’s likely to be more candid if he hasn’t had to wrestle with a lot of theories, or feels we’re fishing.”
“It may be too late for that. Stacy has a very quick mind and prides himself on his ability to deduce. He’s fond of wrestling with theories; says it keeps him from getting intellectually flabby.” She studied his face for a second or two, then added, “But I’ll keep my conjecturing to a minimum.”
“Very good of you, Miss Thornton. I’d be grateful for that. If you’d let me know what time it would be convenient for me to call upon him? I doubt he wants to come here, the ambience being what it is.”
“Very neatly put,” said Poppy, checking her shorthand to be sure she had it all. “Do you mind if I quote you?”
“You mean to your cousin or in your articles? and do you mean to use my words alone, or use my name?”
“Both,” she responded promptly. “You are in charge of the investigation, aren’t you? I should use your name in the paper, and my cousin will ask for it.”
He frowned, then glanced at her. “I can’t see any harm in it. Go ahead. But check what you’re saying with me before you print it.”
“I will. You’ll hear from me before the end of the day; or call me if I don’t reach you,” she said, and waited. “And the second thing?” She couldn’t help but smile at this reiteration of his question.
“The second thing would be the one about how we’ll conduct our investigation: that will depend on whether Moncrief committed suicide or was murdered, doesn’t it?”
“You mean if suicide is connected to a crime,” Poppy added, knowing Loring expected it.
He didn’t quite smile, but there was a softening around his mouth that erased the harshness from his features. “That’s right.”
“I suppose that’s possible. Not probable, you understand, but possible.” She tapped her open notebook with her pencil. “What do you plan to do if it turns out to be murder?” And what would she do, she wondered, if the coroner brought back a cause of death as suicide? That would end the story with hardly a ripple, and she would be back at the Society page and more Garden Club and Book Club and Bridge Tournament coverage. She comforted herself with the thought that Holte had said it was murder; to her surprise, she was becoming convinced of it; Holte seemed to be on to something beyond illusion.
Loring took a long, slow breath. “We will talk to everyone who knew him, everyone associated with his work, with his household — ”
“That might be difficult. Louise won’t tell you anything out of turn, and neither will their servants. Gossip remains inside the household walls.”
“ — or who might have a stake in his survival and find out as much as we can about how things stood between him and these people. We’ll talk to his family members, if they’re local, to fill in any gaps we might have. We’ll go over his bank records and his travel records to see if there has been anything suspicious in his recent activities. If his firm will allow it, we’ll review his list of clients. We’ll check up on his business dealings and his personal habits
, to see if anyone could be putting pressure on him, or if he could be pressing others who might resent it. We’ll interview members of any clubs he belonged to, or any sporting organizations. If there’s no trail to someone likely, then we’ll look for someone not on the immediate list; we’ll try to find that person or persons and determine if there’s any reason for them to want him dead, or might know why he would want to kill himself.” He leaned forward. “Then we’ll hope someone confesses or we find a suicide note.”
Poppy almost laughed. “That’s how it’s done, is it?”
“That’s the way it works most of the time. The guilty party gets so rattled that he — or she — comes to us with their story. Or someone rats the killer out. That’s a little more problematic, since not all informers actually know what they’re talking about, or has a private agenda for providing the information. Think of all the shell-shocked dough boys in the Great War — it’s not just the guns that drove them ‘round the bend, as the Tommies say.”
“My father said much the same thing in his letters to me,” Poppy said.
Loring looked at the cover of the file top of the pile on the corner of his desk. “The trouble is that the evidence can tell us just so much, and the rest is shoe-leather, persistence, and luck.” He smiled once more. “I don’t expect you’ll want to put that in your story — in fact, I hope you won’t. But keep it in mind if we have to investigate this as a murder.”
“I’ll keep it to myself for the time being,” she said, returning his smile. For several seconds all they did was smile at each other, then Poppy, remembering her purpose, asked, “Do you have any more questions for me?”
Haunting Investigation Page 7