Haunting Investigation

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “They’re coming along,” said Poppy. “And you? How’s everything at chez Kodaly?”

  “Busy. Geza’s out in the field again, and the kids are rapscallions. Not that I don’t adore them all.” She let that suffice for an answer. “You’re here to see Archie about the Moncrief murder, aren’t you? Of course you are.”

  “Murder? Are you certain?” Poppy felt her whole body come alert; so Holte had been right all along. “Did something come back from New York?”

  “Oh, yes. The messenger arrived with results over an hour ago. I’ll let Archie explain it to you. He’s itching to tell someone about it, and I don’t think he can wait until noon to make his finding official.” She took a cigarette from the silver case on her battered desk and reached for her box of matches. “I’ve got a day laborer to autopsy shortly. It shouldn’t take long. He’s got all kinds of obvious indications; all I have to do is confirm them.”

  “I’ll gird up my loins and look in on you when I’m through with Doctor Wyman, unless you’re busy,” Poppy told her.

  Doctor Em struck her match and touched its flame to her cigarette, squinting as the smoke wreathed around her head. “You know where his office is?”

  “I think so. Next to your cold storage room.” She had a sudden appalling rush of memory of the Influenza Epidemic, when bodies filled the morgue beyond capacity, and pallets stacked with corpses lined the corridor on both sides, so that the living had to turn sideways to make their way through the dead to identify loved ones. Poppy had come here then with Aunt Jo to identify Reginald’s remains and to make arrangements for his burial in the family plot instead of the mass grave that was becoming as overcrowded as the morgue. A few of the returning soldiers had said it was worse than the trenches. The smell now was nothing like the sweetish-metallic odor that had hung on the air then, a potent, invisible fog that clung to the clothes and hair and the roof of the mouth for days after the visit; rather now it was redolent of carbolic acid and bleach, with a suggestion of mold or decay beneath. Poppy gave herself a mental shake and a stern reminder that Reginald had died almost five years ago and that the past was over.

  “Try not to let the place bother you, Poppy,” Doctor Em recommended. “The dead can’t do anything to you.”

  “Are you sure of that,” said Poppy with a shaky laugh, looking about to see if any of the lights flickered.

  “Go on. We’ll talk later.” She waved Poppy out of the room.

  The corridor was lit by hanging, caged bulbs that provided more glare than illumination, but Poppy kept on along the corridor. How could anyone stand to work here, day after day, in this pervasive stench of death? she asked herself as she knocked on Archibald Wyman’s office door, trying not to hold her breath.

  “Come in, Miss Thornton. I’ve been expecting you.”

  Poppy went through the door into a chamber of stuffed shelves and file cabinets all clustered around an old-fashioned roll-top desk opened to reveal a Corona typewriter, a telephone, a stack of files, a library-style reading lamp, and an overflowing ashtray where a pipe lay across the heap of burned tobacco. Archibald Wyman sat at the desk at an angle, his feet up on a low stool, his hands folded across his waist, blissfully unaware of the extensive clutter surrounding him; his lab-coat was open, revealing a sweater over his white shirt and dark trousers beneath. He was smiling. “Thank you for seeing me, Doctor.”

  “Thank you for coming. I’d so much rather entertain an attractive young lady than most of your male colleagues. And I think I can reward you with a scoop.” He sat up and reached for the file at the top of the stack on his desk. “The results from the tests. The stomach contents are particularly interesting.”

  Poppy took the file, saying as she did, “I didn’t realize you’d sent stomach contents — I thought it was just blood.”

  “You know how we are in this work: we often hold things back until we have reason to reveal them.” He grinned at her, his face impish and self-satisfied. “And the time of revelation has arrived.”

  “I know the police do that occasionally. I didn’t know coroners did, as well.” She scanned the four sheets in the file, glad that she had paid attention in her college chemistry classes so that she didn’t feel entirely lost. “This residue they mention. What do you make of it?” she asked, holding onto the file.

  “I make it out as deliberate poisoning, administered in the evening meal, probably in the dessert, or the coffee” he said. “I haven’t run across it before, not in this context.”

  “Is the poison identified?” Poppy asked.

  “Page three, second graph, a poison rarely seen on this side of the Atlantic, a botanical compound, with deadly nightshade as a primary ingredient, along with raw opium and an herb I don’t recognize, all reduced to a tincture,” said Wyman. “So it is murder, and a deliberate, clever, planned one, and … um … executed so efficiently that it could easily have passed for suicide if the chandelier hadn’t broken and dropped the body on the floor.” He clapped his hands once and refolded them.

  “Are you planning to announce your findings today?” Poppy asked, trying to decide if she should return to the Clarion at once, in order to make sure the story got above the fold on page one.

  “In two hours or so. I’ve got to brief the cops first; I’ll call Commissioner Smiley as soon as you’ve left.” He leaned back in his chair again. “You don’t look surprised.”

  “I’m not, not really,” Poppy said, adding hurriedly, “It just seemed to me that there were a lot of loose ends in the case that didn’t allow for suicide, particularly the assumption that he had chosen the weakest part of the chandelier to hang from, something he would have known not to use, and not just because it couldn’t hold him, but because it is a valuable antique, and the old gas fittings were still in place. The break might have released gases that would have been dangerous. That didn’t seem like Madison Moncrief at all. If he were going to kill himself by hanging, I’d expect him to do something more … more private.” As she said this, Quentin Hadley’s evasions on the subject of Madison Moncrief’s death seemed more sinister than when she had heard them half an hour ago.

  Wyman nodded encouragingly, and launched into what Poppy suspected was trial run on what he would tell the police. “Even if he did hang himself, what killed him was the poison, or would have if he hadn’t been put in the noose, which must have been arranged to conceal the murder. Nothing else makes any sense at all. The hanging was a diversionary tactic, that’s clear now, intended to mislead and confuse, so that the finding of suicide would be unavoidable. Moncrief had no reason to both poison and hang himself, not that he could have done so; he was more than half-dead when he was hanged, and he couldn’t possibly have managed getting the rope around his neck, let alone rig the noose on the chandelier. He was probably semiconscious at best, unaware of the danger he was in. He might not have known what was happening to him until — ” He looked toward the door as if expecting an interruption. “Well, you get the picture, don’t you? The hanging was a ruse to conceal the poisoning, planned, by the same person or persons.” He cleared his throat, and changed his tone. “That’s all I can tell you for now. You may use everything I’ve told you: it’s a pleasure to talk with you, Miss Thornton.” He glanced at his watch. “You can run the information about the poison in tonight’s paper, but don’t mention that you had an early briefing.”

  “Did Doctor Em ask you to do me a favor?” Poppy asked.

  “It’s possible,” he said, and winked. “She wouldn’t have asked if she didn’t think you were worth it.”

  “Thanks,” said Poppy. “I think,” and left him to continue his review of the test results, organizing his thoughts for the police briefing.

  Doctor Em was in the second autopsy suite, a drape over all but the face of the body of the day laborer, a man who looked fifty and was probably thirty-five. She lit another cigarette. “Filthy things. Your Aunt Jo’s right not to allow them in the house.”

  “She doesn’t m
ind pipes, or the occasional cigar, provided it’s a good one,” Poppy reminded her. “Thanks for letting me in on this a little early. I’ll have to do a page for Lowenthal before I go to lunch.”

  “Duty calls?” She rubbed Vaseline into her hands. “Mine’s calling me. It’s likely to be messy.” She looked at the instrument tray waiting beside her. “I don’t think this will take too long. From the hospital report, it’s probably a stroke of some kind, or a sudden heart attack. He has significant joint damage and I don’t think he’s ever seen a dentist. He’s been dead about two days by the look of him. And the smell.”

  “Poor man.” It was an automatic response; Poppy realized she had no idea about the life of the corpse on the zinc-topped table.

  “Given the scars on his face and his hands, I’d also say he did more than his share of fighting. He’s missing five teeth, and his left hand shows signs of being broken some time ago, which is why I don’t think he’d ever consulted a dentist,” Doctor Em told her, then raised her voice. “Hey, Layton. Get in here.”

  A harried young man about Poppy’s age bustled through the inner door. “I’m here, Doctor Em.” He stopped as he caught sight of Poppy.

  “Are you ready?” Doctor Em asked him, as if she were unaware of his flustered state. “I don’t want to be all day about this. We have three more to do before six.”

  “Give me a minute or two,” he said, going to her tray of autopsy tools and setting it in order.

  Her assistant stared at Poppy. “Is it all right to have an observer?”

  “This isn’t a court case with this fellow, Ben,” said Doctor Em, pulling her smock over her head, adding briefly. “Benedict Layton, P. M. Thornton of the Clarion. Now hand me my scalpel.”

  Layton stared at Poppy. “A reporter? And you say this isn’t a court case? If it’s not, what’s she doing here?”

  Doctor Em sighed. “She came to thank me, and to talk to Doctor Wyman. She’s with the Clarion. She won’t be staying. But she could if I asked her to.” This was so pointed that Poppy blinked at such language.

  Layton reached for the scalpel and handed it to her; his face was stiff with outrage and he was struggling to keep from upbraiding his boss. “Have I laid out your tray to your liking? Do you want the tray moved closer, or is it satisfactory where it is?”

  “Oh, stop being such an officious toady, Ben. It’s unnecessary and irritating. I know the law, and I’m not going to abuse it.” She stubbed out her cigarette, and turned to Poppy. “If you don’t mind, you’d better go.”

  Glad for an excuse to leave, Poppy said, “Yes. Well, thanks, Doctor Em. I’ll give your regards to Aunt Jo.”

  “And your Aunt Esther, when you have the chance.” She was about to begin her incision, but stopped. “Where is she, by the way? Do you know?”

  “I just had a letter from her, from Vladivostok.” She realized with some surprise that she had yet to read the letter. I’ll read it at lunch, she thought.

  “Sounds like her,” said Doctor Em, and waved her away.

  The corridor seemed to have dimmed while Poppy had been in the autopsy suite. She looked up and discovered one of the lights had burned out. As she left the morgue, she caught sight of Gregory Swindon of the Pennsylvania Ledger coming her way at a good clip. She decided not to avoid him.

  “Still on the case, I see,” he said as he came up to her. His smile was not friendly.

  “You, too,” Poppy countered.

  “Yeah.” He studied the wall beyond her. “Anything worth my time? I’m guessing you were talking to the coroner.”

  “You’ll have to decide what’s worth your while,” she said.

  He smirked, knowing he had rattled her. “I got a call that the test results are back.” He raised a speculative brow.

  “Yes. They are.” She started to move past him, but stopped as he moved to block her. “Step aside, please.”

  “Tell me what you found out.”

  Now she looked directly at him. “You’d better ask the coroner. Anything I tell you is hearsay at best, and no use to you.”

  Swindon chuckled and stepped back. “Your daddy trained you well, kid.” He continued on the way she had come.

  When she reached the sidewalk, Poppy was upset enough to feel like crying, telling herself she could blame her wet face on the rain. Nursing her indignation, she signaled for a cab, and sternly ordered herself to gather her thoughts for Lowenthal. A ‘bus rolled by, sending a cascading bow-wave of water onto the sidewalk and all over her legs. “Ye gods!” she exclaimed. Her wet skirt was instantly dank on her skin. She stamped her foot in vexation while fighting back tears. This was her first important story, a real test of her skills, and those who were her colleagues were treating her like an amusing novice, a complete tyro. No, she told herself, worse than a novice — someone without any credibility at all, a laughing stock. She wanted to scream, but only allowed herself a miffed snort. Chagrin burned in her like new lava.

  It took almost ten minutes to flag down a taxi, and in that time her hair became wet and droopy in spite of her umbrella, and when she climbed into the taxi, she was thoroughly disheartened. As she pulled the door closed and told the cabby to take her to the Clarion, she almost hoped that Chesterton Holte would speak up next to her, but that did not happen. The taxi ride to the office was uneventful, but for a newspaper boy who darted out into traffic to hand the latest edition of the Tribune to a motorist, and almost getting run over by a Rambler. The resultant eruption of horns and shouts jarred Poppy out of her morose thoughts and directed her attention to the traffic around the cab. Once the confusion ended, she turned her attention back to what Wyman had told her. She would have to consult the encyclopedia about poisons, she told herself.

  Back at her desk at the Clarion, Poppy quickly wrote up the revelations of the coroner, then pulled out the note she had been given as she left Hadley and Grimes. The file-card on which it was written had nothing unusual about it except the message written on it:

  Stay away from Hadley and Grimes. You’re already in danger.

  FOURTEEN

  “YOU SAY SOMEONE JUST … JUST HANDED THIS TO YOU?” CORNELIUS LOWENTHAL asked as he held the card up to the light. “Did you recognize the man who gave it to you? Did he say anything?” Increasing rain spattered on the window in the north wall, and an impatient finger of cold wind probed the office.

  “No, to both. So far as I know, I’ve never seen him before. He went past me quickly, didn’t so much as look at me. I think he wore horn-rim glasses, but that’s about the only thing I noticed. Aside from passing me that, he ignored me.” Poppy felt a chill that had nothing to do with the weather or her damp clothes. Whoever had slipped her the note knew who she was, and why she was at the office of Hadley and Grimes.

  “It’d be a good idea to learn who’s warning you, and why,” Lowenthal said, waggling his eyebrows for accentuation.

  “I know it would,” said Poppy with a worried frown. Where was Holte, she wondered, when she had something she wanted him to do. She realized that Lowenthal was still speaking, and gave him her attention.

  “ — send Brandenburg over to Hadley and Grimes, to see if he gets the same treatment. They know him from his column, of course.” Micah Brandenburg covered financial matters for the Clarion, not with the depth that Jonathan Wheelwright or Thomas Payton did for the Constitution, but with knowledge and good sense, and most of the financial community respected him. “You can deal with Moncrief’s friends for now. Be sympathetic. The police don’t have any suspects yet, do they? So for now, keep your ideas about who killed him to yourself. If you can pick up any gossip about Hadley and Grimes, make a note of it, but don’t go searching for it. Once we know whether it’s just you or reporters in general that worries Hadley and Grimes, we can decide how to handle it.”

  Poppy could not conceal her dismay. “But this is my story.”

  “And it’s going to stay that way. Obviously you’re on to something, and you can move around in that l
evel of society without attracting attention. Maybe you should talk this over with your Inspector friend? He might make some recommendations.”

  Worse and worse, she thought, but managed to say, “I’ll think it over and let you know if I bring it up with Inspector Loring.” Just the idea of being hemmed in by protection made her slightly ill; such special treatment would surely put her back on the Society page for the next decade once this case was over. She got up from her chair, saying, “If you’ll give me the note?”

  “Take it down to the photo office and have one of the men take a picture of it, so we can have a record. This isn’t the kind of thing we ignore here at the Clarion.” He pulled at his hair. “This is the damnedest tangle; I don’t want you caught in it if it turns vicious.”

  “All right,” said Poppy, struck by how seriously Lowenthal seemed to be taking the threat. “Right now, or do you want me to do it before I leave?”

  “You’re leaving late, remember. Best to do it now. And I really would bring it up with Loring, little as you want to. He can tell you how to take precautions, and the first precaution is for you to stay away from Hadley and Grimes. You don’t know who gave it to you, or why, or who’s behind it, so let the experts find out.” He leaned forward, big arms on the desk like battlements. “That’s an order. Until we can discover why you’re being threatened, you’re not to go near that building. Keep clear of people from that office, too.”

  “Yes; I will. I understand.” She picked up her briefcase, hoping that Lowenthal could not see her frustration. “Where are you going to run my story about the coroner’s finding?”