“Not yet. But I may.” He sat back in his chair.
“Let me know if you do,” she said, closing her notebook and tucking it and her pencil back into her purse. “I won’t keep you any longer. Thanks for giving me this exclusive. Lowenthal will be glad.”
“I didn’t do it for Lowenthal,” came Loring’s answer in a self-effacing tone, as he rose. “I’ll walk you down.”
Perturbed, Poppy said, “Thank you, Inspector, but it isn’t necessary.” She could feel color mount in her face again, and she attempted to move well ahead of him.
Loring came around the desk. “I know it’s not, but I want to.” He motioned toward the door. “After you, Miss Thornton.”
NINE
AS SHE COMPLETED HER STORY IN ONE OF THE SIDE-OFFICES OF THE CITY ROOM of the Clarion, Poppy found herself wondering for the third time that afternoon about her time with Inspector J. B. Loring. Her call to him twenty minutes earlier to review his quoted remarks had been taken in the manner of an unwelcome obligation, but he had been cordial when he wished her a pleasant evening. What was his reason for his candor about the case — if it was candor and not something more strategic? Did he want to keep on her good side, in case the Moncrief case needed help from the press? There was another possibility, she told herself, and tried to stop the heat in her face without success: had he been flirting with her? Or was his quirky charm a device he used to disarm those from whom he was seeking information? Was he curious about her, and her possible role in this case? The chance that he might be attracted to her seemed ludicrous to her, so she discounted it, deciding instead that Loring wanted to keep as much goodwill with the press as he could. Reading her short account of the coroner’s conference, she spotted two typos and got out her inkwell and pen to correct them. Still mulling over Loring’s apparent interest, she got up and walked her story into Cornelius Lowenthal’s office.
Lowenthal regarded her skeptically as he took the typewritten sheets. “Are you milking this story?” he growled.
“I don’t think so,” Poppy answered. “There are some unanswered questions, and the coroner hasn’t established a cause of death yet. It’s our job to report the state of the investigation, and the state of it is undecided.” She was pleased at how confident she sounded.
“Think he might hold a formal inquest?” Lowenthal asked, an expression of eager anticipation on his cherubic features.
“He didn’t say so. As you see in paragraph three, samples have been sent to New York for analysis, and there should be results in a day or two. I suspect Wyman’ll make up his mind about an inquest when he has the results.” She folded her hands and waited while Lowenthal continued to read.
“Who is this unnamed source you mention?” Lowenthal inquired a bit too nicely. “Is this a cop, or what?”
“It’s someone … close to Madison Moncrief.” That wasn’t quite a lie, she told herself. Chesterton Holte had provided the information, and so far, nothing she had learned had flatly contradicted what he had told her.
Lowenthal pounced on this. “What kind of close?”
“Confidante close. That’s why he doesn’t want his name used. I haven’t found a second source yet, to confirm it; that’s why I phrased it the way I did.”
“Yes. Artfully done. Your father would be proud.”
Poppy swallowed hard. “The cops don’t know about him — the guy who told me about Moncrief — yet.” It was a facile explanation, but it made enough sense to be acceptable. Not that she was planning to tell anyone, least of all the cops, about Holte.
“You know this unnamed source? Can you vouch for him?”
Poppy knew she had to choose her words very carefully. “I do know him — not terribly well, but — ”
“But you move in the same circles, I suppose? You said your cousin was Moncrief’s pal? Your cousin might have put you on to him.” He nodded before she could say anything. “And this guy thinks it’s murder?”
“For the reasons mentioned, yes, he does. I made sure that what he said is identified as opinion.”
Lowenthal nodded approval. “Keeps us safe that way.”
Poppy wanted to remain calm, but she could feel her shoulders tighten. “As you see, I’m not endorsing anything he’s told me, only reporting his concerns.”
Lowenthal continued to read as if he were alone in the room. Finally he put the two sheets down. “All right, this is how it’ll go. I’m going to take out the unnamed source paragraph and hold it in reserve. If Wyman says murder, we’ll use it in your next report, if not, it’s spiked.” He coughed, a sure sign that he was up to something. “I don’t suppose you could attend the funeral? The coroner will have to release the body when he gets the tests back, and then the family will want to bury him.”
“My cousin is likely to attend. I could probably go with him.” As she said it, she wondered how much she should explain to Stacy.
“Do it. And keep on this until Wyman decides on the cause of death. I want to have another four inches on for Monday, minimum, and not just a reworking of what you’ve already said, and then something every day until the coroner’s finding is in. If it’s murder, you can stay with it. If it’s suicide, the least said the better.” He worked the fingers of his left hand through his hair. “You’re doing a good job, Thornton. Keep at it and you’ll be Harris’ back-up in a year.” Then he glowered at her. “It’s three-forty-five. Get out of here. Take the rest of the day off. Go see your cousin. Just remember that I’m going to need you to be prepared to follow the story any time for at least a week.”
“I thought you’d want me to stay later,” she said.
“You’ve done a good job and you needn’t linger.”
Poppy was instantly suspicious, wondering to whom he would assign the story now. “I can still get over to Hadley and Grimes this afternoon and see what I can find out.”
“Yes, you could. But you’ve been running full steam and you look tired. And with Moncrief dead, the office is probably in disarray, so it’ll be hard to get anyone to talk to you today. I’ll call over and try to set something up. I want you wide awake and full of vinegar tomorrow, and through the weekend: half days Saturday and Sunday, unless we learn it’s murder. There’s still a lot to do on this story, and I won’t have you dragging through it.” He slapped his hand on his desk blotter. “Go on, now. And get in tomorrow morning at six-thirty, and plan to be here until seven in the evening.”
“All right,” she said, feeling somewhat reassured. “Six-thirty tomorrow morning it is.”
“Oh, by the way: get yourself some comfortable shoes. You’re walking like an amputee.” He shook his head as if amazed that she had not done so before now.
“I’ll do that on the way home,” she said, for once not wanting to question his motives. “Something simple, with a lower heel.”
“That’s the ticket. And make sure you bring an umbrella. My lumbago says rain’s coming.” He pointed her in the direction of the door. “Make sure you ask your cousin about the funeral, and if you can, find out where it will be, and when. Get going.” He leaned back. “Miss Stotter! Bring your dictation pad! Chop-chop!” Then he glanced at Poppy. “I’ll expect a thirteen-hour day from you tomorrow, so don’t think you’ll have Friday evening to yourself. Make the most of this evening instead.”
“I’m on it,” she promised him while she thought about what Lowenthal had in mind for her. She returned to her desk, where she picked up her carbon copies and put them into her briefcase, removed her purse from the locked bottom drawer, and put the cover on the typewriter. She took the elevator down to the main floor rather than use the stairs.
“He likes you, you know,” Chesterton Holte observed as Poppy raised her hand to signal for a cab.
She glared at him. “Only so long as I get the story,” she said, hoping no one on the street noticed she appeared to be talking to herself. She realized that she was becoming used to his spontaneous arrivals.
“He doesn’t care about that at
all,” said Holte. “He’s smitten.”
“Don’t kid yourself, the story is the only thing he cares about,” said Poppy, waving her raised hand to show urgency.
“Hardly.”
“Oh, come on, he’s an editor. The paper comes first and last.”
Holte chuckled. “Not Lowenthal; Inspector J. B. Loring.”
Poppy was so startled, she almost stepped off the curb and into the cab that had pulled over to answer her summons. “You were there? You were listening? How could you? I thought you were following Wyman.” It was an effort to keep her voice low as she opened the door of the cab and gave the driver her instructions. “Turnbull Shoes and Accessories. Do you need the address?”
“I know where it is,” the cabbie said as he put the car in gear and headed off. “It’ll cost you about four bits to get there.”
“Fine,” she told him, and lapsed into a thoughtful silence while Holte floated a few inches above the seat next to her.
“I did follow the coroner, who went to the saloon behind his office for a plate of corned-beef-and-eggs. I went back to his office later, after you left the Inspector’s office.”
Poppy shook her head, astonished at his audacity.
“He’s extending himself because he likes you — not the way Loring does,” Holte said in her ear after the cab had gone four blocks. “There were no other reporters in his office, were there? Just you.”
“Ye gods, not here,” she said quietly, then added for the benefit of the cabbie, “Sorry. I thought I saw someone I know.”
“Not one of your favorites,” said the cabbie with satisfaction as he swung around the corner, dodging a woman with three children in tow crossing the street.
“And Loring does like you,” Holte insisted. “And you like him.”
Had they been alone, Poppy would have told him just how ludicrous a notion this was, but she kept her mouth shut and tried to fix her mind on the traffic outside, and the passers-by on the sidewalks. She was on the verge of opening Aunt Esther’s letter, which she had shoved into her briefcase before leaving the house, but was stopped by Holte’s next remark.
“You do like him. Why were you blushing if you don’t? There’s nothing wrong with liking someone, is there? Not all policemen are louts, don’t you know?” He asked this sensibly enough; her fulminating glance cast in his direction showed her disagreement.
“We’re both assigned to the Moncrief case. That could have something to do with it,” said Poppy in a half-voice.
“Oh, yes, he has an excellent excuse to talk with you: you’re being helpful to him on Moncrief’s murder, but just wait. When this is over, he’ll find one excuse or another to seek you out. Just wait,” he repeated. “You’ll see.”
“You’re certain of that, are you?” she asked, whispering.
“As certain as I can be.” He left it at that.
“An ambiguous answer,” she muttered. “Which way do you want me to take that?”
“As a statement of the obvious,” said Holte.
Poppy considered what to say next. “Pardon me if I don’t get my hopes up.”
“He’ll want to see you. You may call me a dunce if he doesn’t.” He was semi-reclining in the air, undisturbed by the driver’s negotiating skills. “I suspect his men will razz him about your visit. Police have strong sensitivities in such matters.”
She bit back her challenge to his statement, and counted the remaining five blocks to Turbull’s. Getting out of the cab at her destination, she tipped the driver ten cents and was thanked with a broad wink and grin.
Turnbull’s was a large, well-laid-out shop, with displays of shoes on two walls — men’s on one side, women’s on the other, or as Poppy liked to think of it, meeting-house style — and assortments of gloves, hats, handbags, satchels, wallets, and briefcases set out on tables among the fitting chairs. The light was bright enough to show off the stock, but not so bright as to be jarring. The clerk who helped her made several attempts to convince her that fashionable shoes with two-and-a-half-inch heels would be preferable to the simple, inch-and-a-quarter-heeled black pumps that she settled upon. After presenting her with a pair of bronze Chanel evening shoes with plain gold buckles and pointed toes, Poppy gave in and bought both pairs, telling herself that she could always use shoes that went with her new evening dress, which was in blonde satin. Besides, she added inwardly, she hadn’t bought shoes in over a year and was due new footgear, so the outrageous thirty-six dollars was well worth what she bought.
“Good choices, both of them,” Chesterton Holte told her as she flagged down another cab and gave Josephine’s address. “I like the Chanel pair very well.”
“I’m glad you’re pleased,” she mouthed to him.
“I’d think you are, too,” he said, as if unaware of the edge in her words.
She did her best not to look at him as the cab followed the streetcar tracks toward her aunt’s house, waiting at one intersection as an overturned delivery truck was pulled out of the road by a pair of Cleveland Bays, leaving a scattering of bread so fresh that the air was redolent with its new-baked aroma. The rest of the ride proved uneventful until they turned the corner for the last time; Poppy sat up straighter, seeing a new, black Lincoln with white sidewall tires parked in front of the short walkway to her front door.
“Very elegant,” Holte murmured. “Whose is it?”
“I’ve never seen it before,” said Poppy.
The driver whistled through his teeth and said something in Portuguese.
Poppy shook her head. “I wonder if we have guests,” she said quietly, and as she said it, decided it probably had something to do with Eustace’s arrival. “Unless it’s someone calling on the Norths, across the street.”
“I’ll pull in ahead of the Lincoln, Miss, if you don’t mind,” said the cabbie. “Handsome auto, that.”
“Yes, that will be fine; and it is a … splendid car,” said Poppy, gathering up her shopping bag, her purse, and her briefcase. “Thank you,” she said to the driver.
“Not too flashy,” Holte approved.
Poppy found herself sharing that opinion. “Costly to maintain, I’d guess. Large autos like that can be expensive to keep up.” She handed the driver a dollar-eighty, and got out, studying the Lincoln and concluding that one of Stacy’s friends might well have brought him from the train station, or that Stacy himself had bought the Lincoln to flaunt his success. She pushed the doorbell, and saw the overhead light flicker. “You’re here — I know. I suppose you’re coming in with me, whether the door’s open or closed.”
Before Holte could respond, Hawkins answered the summons of the doorbell, dressed in full butler’s regalia to receive guests, “Good afternoon, Miss Poppy. We didn’t think you’d be home until later.”
“The boss gave me time off for good behavior,” said Poppy with a faint smile. “I gather we’ve got company?”
Holte came into the entry-hall directly through the door as Hawkins was closing it; his arm went through Hawkins’ shoulder.
The butler rubbed his shoulder, giving Poppy an apologetic look. “Yes we do. Mister Eustace is here with Mister Warren Derrington, from International Business Associates in New York. They’re in the rear parlor with Missus Josephine. Would you like to join them?”
“If you’re willing to take my case and my shopping bag up to my room, I’ll go in now,” she said, handing him the items in question while doing her best to place Warren Derrington. She had a faint memory of a reserved and maladroit friend of her cousin. “Do I look presentable, Hawkins?” She slipped out of her coat and handed it to Hawkins. “I’ll want this in the coat closet.”
“Your hair is a bit mussed in the back, but nothing that can’t be fixed with a smoothing touch,” the butler assured her as he nodded in the direction of the rear parlor. “Go in and make yourself known. I’ll tell Missus Boudon you’re here, and Missus Flowers, who is setting the dining table. I should add another leaf to the table.”
�
�That’s good of you, Hawkins,” said Poppy, running her hand down the back of her head before starting toward the double pocket-doors. She knocked once, counted three, then pulled the doors apart, establishing her smile firmly on her face as she did.
Aunt Jo was sitting in the grandest chair in the room — a high-backed, wing-sided grandmother’s chair, upholstered in heavy damask of dark-gold and ochre. She was in a lace-and-silk afternoon ensemble ten years out of fashion, her best pearls looped twice around her neck, with pearl cluster earrings to compliment the necklace. “Ah, you’re home; I was hoping you’d be here before we sat down to dinner,” she said as Poppy came up to kiss her cheek.
The two young men with her had risen and now Stacy, turned out in the height of fashion, with a dark-blue blazer over a crisp white shirt with a stiffly starched collar, a silk tie, and dove-grey slacks, came over to kiss Poppy on the cheek. “Hello, Cousin Poppy,” he said with his most engaging smile.
“Hello, Stacy,” said Poppy, taking his hands in hers.
Aunt Jo, who often disapproved of nicknames other than her own, like Stacy, and Hank — by which her oldest son, Galahad, was known — sighed her opinion.
“Is that gorgeous vehicle in front yours?” she asked him, returning the kiss.
“Alas, no; it’s Warren’s. You remember Warren Derrington, don’t you, Poppy?” He indicated his companion.
“I believe we met two years ago, at the Moncriefs’ Christmas Eve banquet,” said Poppy, offering her hand to the good-looking fellow in the well-tailored dark-grey suit with the self-effacing manner and the cleft chin.
Derrington shook her hand diffidently, and held it for a bit too long, as if using it to help him decide what to say. “Kind of you to remember, Miss Thornton, among so many guests you must have met that night.” He let her hand go. “I’m sorry that such an occasion as this should provide a second introduction.”
He seemed distant to the point of Poppy’s remembered maladroitness, but she thought it might be grief rather than self-doubt that was the cause. “Very true. My condolences to you both.”
Haunting Investigation Page 8