Haunting Investigation

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “No idea,” she said. “I’ll have a look for that address. About what year would it have been built, do you know?” Shirley would not be rushed, and refused to be bullied.

  “No, I don’t know. About eighty, ninety years ago would be a good place to start, but it could be older,” he said, doing his best not to yell.

  “Is this for an investigation?” Shirley asked.

  “Yes,” said Loring at once. “It’s part of the Moncrief homicide.” Holding the ‘phone in his hands, he started to pace his unorthodox study. “It’s urgent, Shirley.”

  “It always is,” she rejoined. “I have your number. May I call you back in ten minutes?”

  “Yes; sooner if you can,” said Loring, and heard Shirley hang up.

  Hovering in the darkest corner of the room, Holte was hoping that Poppy would not have to spend the whole night in the locked room; he could see that Loring was still taking Holte’s message seriously enough to pursue his information. He was sorry now that he had not taken time to learn the address of the warehouse before coming to look for help; Loring would not have had to ask someone to find it for him, and in waiting for that information, lose precious time. Watching Loring twitch as he chafed in anticipation of Shirley’s return call, Holte was of two minds: should he remain here to help Loring, or should he go back to Poppy? His impulse was to return to the warehouse and offer what comfort he could to Poppy, but he also knew that Loring might falter or be side-tracked; right now, Loring was her best hope for release, and doing all he could to assist Loring seemed more urgent than trying to buck up Poppy’s state of mind, yet once Loring was committed to action, Holte would not be able to communicate with him; Loring’s willingness to pay attention to Holte’s Morse code kept him observing the inspector for now, since the library lamp was readily accessible, and that could be crucial in Poppy being freed. Yet, if there might be more he could do, he could not think of it. At present, he wanted to be certain that Loring could find the warehouse, and so he remained in the corner of the room, wrapped in darkness, and watching Loring fret at the delay in obtaining the address.

  Loring picked up his pipe and filled it with tobacco from a pouch. He tamped this down, took a match from a small box on his desk, and lit the pipe, drawing the rum-flavored smoke into his mouth as a distraction from his galling impatience. He moved around the room aimlessly. At his bookcase he stopped to take out a book on fingerprints, which he opened and did his best to read. He had read the same paragraph three times when the ‘phone shrilled; he shoved the book back into its slot, then went to answer.

  “Loring here,” he said, wanting the voice on the line to be Shirley.

  For once, his wish was answered, and he heard Shirley say, “I have an address. The building was registered in 1798. If you have a pencil to hand, write this down: Number nineteen, King Charles Lane. On the western edge of the old warehouse district.”

  “Anything more?” Loring asked.

  “According to the file, Mayes Brothers rents out space to a group of importers. The building is largely unimproved, but five years ago, they installed a few electric lights and some steel doors.”

  Loring was relieved to hear this. “Any kind of guard or watchman?” Perhaps, he thought, there was someone on the premises he could call.

  “There’s nothing in the file. Sorry, Inspector.” Shirley clicked her tongue. “There was a federal investigation of one of the renters back in 1916, but nothing came of it.”

  “Thank you, Shirley. You’re a treasure,” he said, and heard the ‘phone click as she put down her receiver.

  Holte listened to this with tremendous relief. He waited just long enough to see Loring put out his pipe and leave his study for the hallway, and the front door, and then he slipped away, bound for the old Mayes Brothers warehouse, trusting that Poppy would not be more distraught than she had been when he had found her. He went more slowly than he would have liked, for the energy he had expended in sending the coded messages had left him enervated. Coasting along the rooftops, Holte wondered if he had done enough, and told himself that Inspector Loring would be the one who would determine that.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  BETWEEN THE DARKNESS AND THE INCREASING COLD, POPPY WAS MISERABLE. IN spite of her best efforts, she was becoming mildly disoriented, and she feared it was getting worse. Now that she was freed from the chair, she had spent most of the time since Holte had left stumbling about in the room, touching all the crates and the chair where Stacy had tied her, doing her best to keep her bearings in the space. A while ago — she had lost track of time — she had gathered up all the packing material that had been strewn on the floor when Stacy, or whomever was working with him, removed the Egyptian chair in order to tie her up; she had been increasingly worried that she might trip on it as she made her regular turn around the space. Three circumnegotiations ago, she had stopped long enough to remove her shoes, for although the floor was cold, Poppy knew she was not as apt to fall if she were barefoot. “Don’t cry, and don’t despair,” she told herself forcefully. “Don’t give Stacy that satisfaction. Holte will be back.” She resumed her movement about the room, touching the crates and the walls, counting her steps as she went.

  The bleating of a tug-boat’s horn demanded her attention, and she took a little time to try to determine how near the wharves she was, but gave it up after a while, unable to sort out the original sound from the echoes, so she resumed her moving survey of her prison; if she was to get out before morning, that escape would be determined by her ability to locate herself in the room, no matter how confused she became.

  Some time later — she reckoned it to be twenty minutes to half an hour — as she sat down to rub her feet to restore feeling to them, she sensed a change in the room, and she rose from the chair, hoping she wasn’t imagining things. “Holte?” she asked tentatively, afraid there was a less welcome presence in the room. “If it’s you, speak up; I’m afraid of rats.” She was ashamed of herself for this admission.

  “I’m here,” he said from somewhere near the window that now was almost as dark as the room.

  She stood still, waiting for him to do something, all the while telling herself that she better not be hallucinating. When nothing happened, she sat back down, suppressing the urge to scream. “If you’re here,” she said, “let me know where you are.”

  The bellow of a truck’s engine invaded the room, but died away almost at once. Neither Poppy nor Holte gave more than cursory notice of it.

  “I’m here,” he said from another part of the room. “I wanted to have a look at the door again.”

  “You mean you can see? Ye gods.” She clutched the arms of the chair as if she were suddenly dizzy.

  “Noncorporeality has a few advantages,” he said, going to her side.

  “Such as being able to get out of this room.” The bitterness in her tone was unlike her, and Holte could tell that her captivity was weighing on her.

  “That is one,” he said, not wanting to wrangle with her. “But I’d trade it for being able to speak and be heard by other people than you alone.” For several seconds he remained silent. “I’m sorry I took so long.”

  “What time is it?” she demanded; she finally saw a wispy outline like a patch of thin fog about five feet away from her, and took tremendous solace in his presence.

  “About nine-thirty.” It was more of a guess than he wanted to admit, but it was near enough to be accurate that he was willing to stick to it. “It’s later than I said I’d be back, for which I ask your pardon. But it was hard to get anyone’s attention. I wanted to be sure that help was on its way before I returned.”

  “How did you manage to do it? Or did you manage at all?” She was cold enough to know that if she remained in it all night, it could harm her; the prospect was disheartening. She did her best to direct her thoughts to a more positive point-of-view. “You didn’t happen to bring a blanket with you, did you?”

  “I wish I could have,” he said sincerely.
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br />   She sighed and sagged in the chair. “Then I suppose I’ll have to make a nest in the packing material and hope for the best,” she said, drawing her knees up and hugging them to her chest, doing what she could to stay warm. “And I need a bathroom.”

  “I trust you won’t have to wait much longer.” Holte swooped around the room, wanting to find a place in it that would offer a bit more warmth until the police arrived; he could tell that Poppy needed warmth as much as she yearned for light.

  Poppy gazed into the darkness, striving to resign herself to her confinement. “You can stop letting me down easily. I need to be able to make a clear assessment of what I’m up against. Go ahead and tell me that you didn’t succeed in your mission. I won’t mind.” She did not let him speak yet. “I thought it was a long shot, in any case. I’m glad you did your best, but I didn’t really expect — ”

  He cut into her lamentation. “But I did succeed, in a way. Your Inspector Loring paid attention when I made his library lamp blink in Morse code.”

  This revelation held her attention. “What are you saying?” she asked softly, afraid she had misheard him.

  “You know I make electric lights flicker,” he said, coming nearer to her. “That, and I can listen in to an engaged ‘phone line.”

  “Yes. A sputtering light usually means you’re about; either that, or Maestro hissing and trying to grab at nothing.” She tried to discern his form, but in the darkness, the sketch-like outline she could usually see was indistinguishable from the blankness in the room, and the foggy smear was no longer easily seen. “I wish we had a light in here, and not just for you to work with; you might be able to speed up Loring’s finding this place. But that probably wouldn’t be enough. Maestro’s temper tantrums aren’t sufficient to make most people pay attention to your presence.”

  “Well, I told you that you gave me an idea of something I could do,” he said, observing her demeanor to determine how she was receiving this news; he decided to tread carefully. “I told you I was going to try it out, didn’t I?”

  “You did, but I thought you were just attempting to cheer me up, since you were going to leave me alone here.” There was no emotion in what she said, so she was astonished to feel tears welling in her eyes.

  “Hang on, Poppy. This is almost over,” he said as he watched her use the cuff of her sleeve to wipe at her face. “You did give me an idea.”

  “And what was that? Flickering lights aren’t much of a device for communication.” She made herself stop weeping, and wished she had a handkerchief so she could blow her nose. “What did you do?”

  “I sent a message in Morse code: I made a lamp blink in dots and dashes.” He emitted a sound that could be understood as a single laugh. “Quite exhausting — I wouldn’t like to have to do it again — but in this case, it was worth it.” He let this sink in, smiling a little as he saw her sit up in her Egyptian chair.

  There was the screech of the brakes of an auto going by a street or two away, but it did not wholly stop, instead accelerated, and in less than a minute it could no longer be heard.

  “That was very clever of you, using Morse code,” she said, having trouble believing him.

  “Spies learn to improvise,” he pointed out, making this sound entirely ordinary. “In a situation like this, improvisation is necessary.”

  She had managed to make herself stop trembling. “And who had the good sense to comprehend what you were up to? Loring?”

  Holte spoke quietly. “As I mentioned, I went to Inspector Loring’s flat and made his study lamp blink in such a way that it sent him a message about where you are. When I left him, he was preparing to come here.”

  Poppy held her breath, in case she had misunderstood what he had said, and summoned up the courage to ask, “Loring is coming here?”

  “He was planning to do so when I left his flat.” He paused, making an effort to help her wait for Loring’s arrival. “I don’t know if he’s coming on his own, or is going to bring more police with him.”

  “Ye gods!” She looked around as if this news might immediately transform this storage room in some way. “You’re sure?”

  “When I left his flat, he was on his way to his auto.” He saw her push herself to her feet. “He has an address which is this one, or somewhere nearby.”

  “Is he going to search the whole building?” she asked, her shivering returning. “That could take … hours.”

  “I told him that you are in the basement. That should make it sooner than later for him to arrive, assuming he begins in this warehouse.” He came to her side. “There’s little I can do but keep you company, but I’m glad to do that.”

  “And I’m glad you’re here to do it,” she said, and sat down again, huddling in the chair. “Is there any news about Stacy?” She did her best to sound only mildly interested, but Holte could tell that she was deeply disquieted about his whereabouts.

  “None that I know of,” he replied carefully. “Your friend Mildred told the police sergeant when she spoke to Stacy earlier this evening, he said that you had not met him at three.”

  “What?” she exclaimed, and at once added, “Mildred called the police? What on earth made her do that?”

  A loud clanging at least two blocks away, accompanied by the yelp of a siren, announced that help was on its way to a fire. This time both of them listened, and were relieved when the sound faded as the fire truck and the fire marshal’s car rushing behind it, on their way to a different destination.

  “She was upset because you did not come to her party as you said you would, and no one could tell her why you weren’t there,” said Holte, pointedly ignoring the sound from the nearby streets. “I was ridiculously fortunate to be in the precinct house when she called; I eavesdropped on her ‘phone call — another habit of spies. I think she wanted to talk to Inspector Loring, but she got the desk sergeant.”

  “How … intrepid of Mildred,” said Poppy, holding back the laughter that threatened to overcome her. “I may have underappreciated her.”

  “She was most indignant, and also very anxious on your behalf.” Holte moved nearer to her. “That kind of good luck happens rarely, and I know it was a break that was quite remarkable. But if Red Grange can have a miracle, so can I.”

  Poppy mulled this over, uncertain whether or not she believed him. “A true coincidence, in fact?”

  “I know it sounds unlikely, but things do sometimes happen at the same time,” he reminded her, seeing her breath as a white cloud in front of her mouth.

  “I’ll give you that,” she said, as much to keep her courage up as to agree with him, but she could not keep from sighing. “No crowbar, the window is too high to climb out. It seems Stacy thought of everything.”

  “I can look around for other tools,” Holte suggested.

  “You haven’t found one yet, and neither have I. For a while, I thought about breaking up this chair and using the legs to try to get into the other crates, but I kept thinking that if the chair is the real thing, and not a forgery, then I’d be ruining a priceless archeological treasure, and I couldn’t bear to do that.” She cleared her throat. “At least, I couldn’t do it, not yet.”

  He took the time to smile enough that she could see it. “There is a point where such perspectives can be dangerous, and you’re in one of them.”

  “I trust I don’t have to find out, at least not now.” She got up and began another circle of the room, touching the crates and the walls.

  “Loring is coming, Poppy. He might take a little while to get here, but he will come,” Holte said staunchly. “He likes you. He was willing to suspend his skepticism to take down my Morse code about you. He won’t leave you in a place like this. He’s not that kind of man.”

  “So you think. I’m gambling that you’re right.” Her bare feet were once again going numb; she stumbled, and steadied herself against the second-largest crate.

  “If he doesn’t arrive in the next hour, do you want me to go and look for him?�
�� Holte offered.

  “If he doesn’t arrive in the next hour, I’ll want you to find a way to open one of the larger crates. Crowbar or not, I need to find a way out. I don’t care if it means cutting up my hands doing it, I have to get out of here.” She flung up a hand for emphasis. “If I don’t, how am I going to attend Madison Moncrief’s funeral tomorrow? Don’t look at me like that,” she added. “I’m not crazy yet. After what I’ve been through, I don’t want the story handed over to anyone else.” There was an edge of dread in her voice, but her purpose was unshaken.

  “I’ll do it,” said Holte, although he had no concept as to how this was to be done; Poppy had not mentioned changing her mind about demolishing the chair.

  “Thank goodness for that,” she said, clinging to the necessity of having something on her mind beyond her desperation. “Can you slip into the second-largest crate and find out what’s inside?”

  “Certainly,” he said, and proceeded to do so. The large amount of packing material made for confusion, but taking heed of the various textures and densities around him, he was able to make out a seventeenth century highboy; it was about four-and-a-half feet tall, with three ranks of drawers above two-doored shelves just above the squat, bowed legs. He had to admit that if Poppy could get it out of the crate and over to the window, she had a good chance of getting out of the locked room through the window. He slid out of the crate and told Poppy what he had found. “I can search about for a loose slat on the crate, if you like. It might make a difference.”

  “If there is one, you’re right: it could make a difference.” She ducked her head. “I can’t just sit here waiting to be rescued, Holte. I have to do something, in case it doesn’t happen. And I don’t want to be unprepared if my cousin comes back.” Looking up toward the filmy smudge of a misty shape near the side of her chair. “I hope you understand.”

  “Oh, I do,” he said, an ironic tinge to his words. “Toward the end of the Great War, I was able to excuse almost anything on that basis.” He saw the shock in her eyes. “Not that I hold this against you; the only life you’re risking is your own — I risked others’ lives.” He drifted toward the window, becoming slightly more visible than he was out of the minimal light it provided. “Let me know when you want me to check the slats, and I’ll do it.”