“No,” said Josephine. “I’ve had Hawkins put them in the hall closet.”
“Probably a good solution for now,” said Poppy, setting the lit match to the crumpled newspaper that served as kindling. “One of the things I heard about Mister Derrington is that his mother is related to either Hadley or Grimes. If this is true, it may have something to do with my current assignment,” she remarked, shading the truth. “Can you clear this up for me?”
Josephine thought this over, then said, “I seem to recall that she was a Grimes, either by birth or marriage; her mother was widowed young, as I recall.” She frowned with concentration. “I believe she was a Grimes by birth, now that I think about it.” After taking another sip of gin, she went on, “Her name was Samantha. She died of the ‘Flu.”
Poppy would have liked something a bit more certain, but she knew she could not count on Aunt Jo for more than she had volunteered. “Samantha Grimes. I should be able to check that out,” she said, and went back to the settee to have a little more of her cognac before Missus Flowers arrived with the crab puffs.
“How long do you anticipate being involved in this investigation of yours?” Aunt Jo asked as Poppy sat down.
“As long as there is a story to report, assuming my editor keeps me on it,” said Poppy, picking up the snifter and swirling the cognac within it.
“Does that mean more irregular hours?”
“I’m sorry, Aunt Jo, but it might. I can’t anticipate where the leads will take me.” She saw Josephine shake her head in disapproval. “But I’ll be spending the evening with the Fairchilds tomorrow. Mildred is going to have another child, and she wants to celebrate their good fortune. They’re having a small dinner party.”
“Very appropriate. Congratulate Mildred for me, will you? I know her family must be very proud,” said Josephine, with elaborate courtesy.
“I gather you have a better opinion of how Mildred is living than how I am,” said Poppy, challenging her aunt’s tone although she knew it was unwise.
“How could I not, Poppea? You should have married at least four years ago.” She drank again. “It may not be my place to say it, but I am convinced that your parents did you a disservice in sending you to college, as they did. A finishing school would have been more useful. You wouldn’t be wasting your youth struggling for that paper, caught up in matters no decent woman would want to pursue.” She fumbled with the gin bottle to remove the stopper.
Poppy knew it was useless to contradict Aunt Jo in her present state, but between the frustrations of her day and her general fatigue, she allowed herself to object. “I don’t think what I’m doing is wasting anything. I want to report the news, to inform the public. You’re disappointed: you’ve made that clear any number of times. But, Aunt Jo, I can’t live the life you want for me unless it coincides with the life that I want for me.”
“So you’ve said, but I can’t conceive of why that is.” Josephine splashed a generous amount of gin into her glass, spilling a little in the process. “Esther has a lot to answer for.”
Whatever Poppy might have responded to this was silenced by the arrival of Missus Flowers with the tray of crab puffs and a wedge of white cheddar. Poppy smiled gratefully up at her. “Oh, thank you, Missus Flowers. This looks delicious.”
“Good of you to say so, Miss Thornton. Dinner will be ready in thirty minutes,” she said, and glanced at Josephine. “I’ll brew up some tea for dinner, shall I?”
“It might be best,” said Poppy, and watched while her aunt did the unthinkable and snagged three crab puffs from the tray without so much as a nod to Missus Flowers. “We’ll go up in twenty minutes, then. How does that sound, Aunt Jo?”
Josephine had taken a bite of the first of her crab puffs, and so did not answer at once. “Whatever you think is wise, Poppea. I find I’m quite hungry.”
Missus Flowers ducked her head and left the room.
THIRTY-THREE
IT WAS TWELVE FORTY-EIGHT WHEN STACY FINALLY LET HIMSELF IN THE FRONT door; he was tiptoeing, and had almost made it to the stairs when Poppy spoke to him from the parlor. “Good morning, Stacy. I’m glad to see you found your way home at last.” She emerged from the gloom of the parlor into the low light in the entry hall.
Stacy froze two steps away from the stairs, then swung around and smiled. “Good morning to you, Coz,” he said at his most charming. “I didn’t think anyone would be up.”
“If you mean your mother, Aunt Jo went to bed at ten, when she ran out of gin; I don’t think I have seen her so under the weather before,” said Poppy with a sternness that she rarely used with him. “She was desolated when you didn’t arrive by nine, in spite of knowing that you had told her that you would be in before midnight.”
“Things took longer than I anticipated,” he said glibly.
“You could have ‘phoned when you realized that,” Poppy said, refusing to be beguiled by him.
“It’s well past that now, isn’t it? I would have had to call after ten, and, as you are well aware, mother does not like to answer the ‘phone after nine. Do you want to give me a piece of her mind, or shall I wait until breakfast, to experience it directly?” Stacy lifted one eyebrow; in the half-light, he had the look of a carved demon in a medieval church.
“I’m not even going to give you a piece of my mind. You really are a thoughtless rogue, aren’t you?” Poppy came a step nearer to Stacy, staring at him with a measuring look that unnerved him. “Do you have any idea how much you distress Aunt Jo?”
“I’m sorry if my mother was worried — all right?” He came a step nearer to her. “She thinks I’m still seventeen.”
“That’s because you often behave as if you were still seventeen,” said Poppy.
“She wants to keep me as young as possible,” he persisted.
“Whether she does or not, the least you can do is show her some regard. It would mean a lot to her.” Poppy folded her arms.
“Oh, please, Poppy, don’t start with the familial obligation speech. I’ve heard it ever since I was nine.” He took a quick look toward the stairs. “You have to get up early, don’t you? And yet you’ve stayed up to berate me, in spite of having to get up early. Because you have a job. If my mother wants an example of rectitude, it’s you, Coz, not me.”
“You, too, have a job, or so you claim,” she said, refusing to rise to the bait. “That’s something we have to talk about, you and I. Tomorrow morning.”
“My, my, my, aren’t you the stern one?” He chuckled, and wagged a finger at her. “Tisk, tisk, Coz. I’m afraid I’m busy tomorrow morning. Do you think you might be free in the afternoon for your inquisition?”
Because she had expected equivocation from him, she was nonplused by his frank question. “Do you have a specific time in mind?” she managed to inquire.
“You’re asking a lot of me, Coz. I may not be able to tell you until I talk to Louise in the morning.”
Poppy made an exasperated gesture. “You can try to dodge me all you like, Stacy. I have an assignment, and it involves you and whatever-it-is that you do. Starting with what you know about Warren Derrington’s present location.”
“Warren again?” Stacy glowered at her. “I wish I knew where he is. I have a few questions I’d like to ask him.”
“As would many others,” said Poppy.
“If I tell you as much as I know tomorrow afternoon, will you let it alone?” Stacy asked, for once sounding serious.
“Why wait until then?” Poppy inquired. “I’m glad to stay up now.”
“I have a meeting with a mutual business associate tomorrow at lunch, and I might find out more than I know now. Besides, I don’t know about you, but I’m tired.”
Poppy considered this, and decided it might be better to trust Stacy for the time being; if he failed to show up in the afternoon, she would have to reveal her vexations to Inspector Loring. “If that’s what it will take to locate Derrington, I’ll wait.”
Stacy grinned. “Thanks, Coz.
I’ll make it worth your while — you’ll see.”
“That depends on what you’ll have to say.” She glanced at the mantle clock in the parlor. “What time tomorrow afternoon, and where do you want to meet?”
“Not here,” said Stacy promptly. “Where are you going to be?”
“At the Clarion, doing some research in the morgue.” She was not looking forward to reading through back issues of the paper to see if she could find confirmation about Warren Derrington’s mother being connected to the Grimes, or explaining to Cornelius Lowenthal why she was not out chasing down leads. “In the morning, I have an appointment with Doctor Wyman, the coroner.”
“I know who he is,” said Stacy. “Why are you consulting him?”
“I’m following up a lead,” she said, making no excuse for being evasive.
“About Madison?” Stacy asked, for once appearing to be surprised.
“No,” she said, and volunteered nothing more.
Stacy shrugged. “All right, keep that to yourself.” He stared at her, then sniggered. “You win. I’ll play your game. What if I pick you up in front of the building at … shall we say three? Louise has loaned me Madison’s car; Eastley will drive her in his if she needs to go anywhere.” He offered her a boyish smile. “It’s a Duesenberg.”
The automobile was as much a temptation as was the promise of information. “Three o’clock. On the dot.”
“I’ll be there.” Stacy sounded unusually earnest, and went on to elaborate, which made him appear deceptive again. “I want to know what happened to Warren as much as you do, Coz.”
Poppy gave him the benefit of her doubts, and chalked his sudden cooperation up to his need to find Derrington. “Three o’clock,” she repeated. “Sleep well. And make sure you apologize to Aunt Jo in the morning.”
“If you insist,” said Stacy before he turned away and went up the stairs.
Poppy watched him go, wondering if she had made a mistake to let Stacy go without questioning him thoroughly, but his assurance that he would provide her with more the next afternoon reminded her that she wanted to find out about Derrington as much as Stacy did, and that single aspect of his bargain stuck with her, convincing her that it was better to wait than to insist on guesses and half-truths now. She went to the stairs, looking around to make sure that Maestro was not under-foot again; after she turned off the entry hall light, darkness engulfed her, and it took almost twenty seconds before her eyes adjusted enough to allow her to climb the stairs without feeling her way along the bannister. By the time she reached her room, she was drowsy, and when she had undressed, she almost stumbled into her bed. As she fell asleep, she briefly wondered where Chesterton Holte was, then gave herself over to her dreams.
While Poppy slept, Chesterton Holte was moving about in the dimension of ghosts, seeking out Moncrief and Poindexter, trying to locate them in the swirls and eddies of noncorporeality, hoping against hope that he would be able to find out what had become of Warren Derrington, and what he had been involved in.
“Is that you, Holte?” The presence that was less than a shadow approached, bringing the hint of another presence with it.
“Moncrief?” Holte ventured.
“Yes. Poindexter is here somewhere.” Moncrief seemed vaguer than before, and less focused. “What do you want now?”
Holte realized that he would have to be rigorous in sticking to his purpose. “What can you tell me about Warren Derrington?”
“Who?”
“Warren Derrington,” Holte said again. “He’s with International Business Associates. He was one of your clients. His work has something to do with international financing, apparently. He’s supposed to be a friend of Stacy Dritchner’s.”
“Supposed to be?” Moncrief echoed. “That’s a strange way to put it. They’ve been thick as thieves for years. Ask anyone.”
The other presence grew clearer, and it startled Holte to recognize Percy Knott.
“What do you have to add to this?” Holte asked.
“I’ve remembered a little more about the incidents surrounding my death; I thought you’d want to know.” Knott did something that seemed like a sigh. “I do want my murderer arrested.”
“Not unusual,” said Holte. “What’s on your mind?”
“I had a ‘phone call about twenty minutes before my killer arrived,” said Knott in a hurried non-voice. “I think it was from Stacy Dritchner, looking for Warren Derrington, but it may have been the other way around. It was one or the other of them — I’m certain of that. I may have been expecting one of them to come to talk with me. I don’t know if either of them came.”
“Do you happen to remember what the reason was for the call?” Holte asked, aware that Moncrief was listening closely to this silent exchange.
“It must have had something to do with the antiquities they’ve been bringing into the country,” Knott said slowly. “I can’t think what else I would have had to discuss with either of them. Derrington is the more knowledgeable on international finance, but Dritchner is better with the practicalities, at least that has been my experience.” He did something that suggested a hitch of his shoulder if he had had a body. “I’d had a visit from a customs agent the week before; he was checking on the provenance of the antiques I had in the shop — nothing older than sixteenth century, and all papers in order. He also wanted to know about the antiquities I kept in my warehouse; that was the rare stuff. I had museums waiting for half of them, and serious inquiries from some very wealthy collectors. My treasure was an Eighteenth Dynasty Egyptian chair, covered in gold leaf, with inlays in turquoise and fulminous glass; you know, the kind made from lightning striking sand. A man in Chicago had offered me over a million for it. We were still negotiating when I … was murdered.”
Chesterton Holte heard Knott out, and weighed up his response. “Do you think your Chicago buyer might have had something to do with the killing? A treasure like that would tempt a great many people.”
Knott simmered with emotion. “It’s possible, especially if it could be proven that what I had was a forgery. He was expecting the real thing, no questions about it, and had put a considerable amount into an escrow account while we worked things out. I was satisfied that the chair was genuine, but with the kind of rumors that were running rampant, my buyers had been more demanding on documentation.” He paused, then went on more slowly, “I thought the gossip came from one of my competitors trying to get a lead on me, but now I’m not so sure. I certainly paid authentic prices, and everything I’ve learned about that period was present in the nine pieces I bought. Getting them into the country took more … adaptability than I had originally expected.”
Now Holte was deeply interested. “What did you do?”
“I brought half the load in through Canada with bootleggers, the more valuable half. The rest I declared and paid the tariffs on at Boston. I didn’t want the Philadelphia authorities tracking my inventory too closely.” He was speeding up his flow of information, as if he wanted to rid himself of its burden. “I hadn’t done anything wrong, aside from dodging customs, but I was getting worried that someone would make the connection between me and Hadley and Grimes. They were the ones who came up with the way to avoid the heavy import tariffs, and I didn’t want to get caught in that mill.”
“That’s interesting,” said Holte, hoping that Poppy could find some way to use it, since she would have to find a secondary source in order to publish. “Who else knows about this?”
“Moncrief figured it out, after he got here. Same with Poindexter, unless it was his idea to begin with.” Knott stared around the vague space of the dimension of ghosts.
“It wasn’t,” Poindexter interjected from his location in the whorls and eddies. “I was warned off my examination of the records in the files. I told both Hadley and Grimes that I thought they were making a mistake, but Grimes told me the amount of money this meant to the firm, and I decided to keep silent, at least until I was completely retired and could ap
proach the Justice Department anonymously.”
Holte felt a spurt of alarm. “How much money are we talking about here?”
Poindexter hesitated, but answered, “At the time I died, I figured the income since the end of the Great War, for the firm, was at least six million dollars. More since I died.”
“That’s a huge amount of money,” Knott observed.
“They could build a new bridge for that amount.” Moncrief made an unnoise of agreement, and spoke to Holte. “The three of us have been talking since your last visit about what we suspected was going on at Hadley and Grimes.
Poindexter took up the topic. “I had largely forgotten my worries about the money — it was hidden in a number of accounts, including International Business Associates, Stacy’s and Derrington’s company, and I hadn’t realized how large the sum was that was involved.”
“Money doesn’t mean much here,” Moncrief said, not so much as an excuse, but an explanation. “It doesn’t seem that important any more, not when we’re all noncorporeal.”
There was a thickening of the atmosphere around Poindexter, Moncrief, Knott, and Holte as more of the ghosts in their area grew curious about the unusual degree of distress that was being generated by the exchange the four were sharing.
“How soon after you started examining the finances did you get killed?” Holte asked, taking care not to reveal his burgeoning fear.
“I’m not sure,” said Moncrief. “Several weeks, I think, but perhaps sooner.”
“I didn’t say anything about what I had found, not until I was certain of how extensive it was, and then, I double-checked my calculations before I brought it to the attention of my superiors, and I was dead in just under a month, if I’m remembering correctly.” Poindexter shimmered in the swirl. “Until we discussed this, I hadn’t made the connection.”
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