Poppy frowned, but gathered her thoughts. “The sooner the better,” she said, unhappily aware of her increasing fright. “Sorry, but it’s this or strong hysterics.”
“I know the feeling,” said Holte by way of consolation. “Give me a minute or two; it shouldn’t take me too long to find that kind of slat, if there is one.” With that, he started circling the chosen crate, looking for any sign of looseness or disruption that Poppy might be able to use to break into it. He was a bit more than halfway up the crate when he heard the cough of an engine shutting off; it was close at hand, and Poppy had taken an involuntary breath.
“There’s a car in the alley,” she said aloud, her voice shaking. “It’s Loring, or Stacy has come back to see if I’m still alive.”
THIRTY-EIGHT
HOLTE HOVERED IN THE AIR, CONCENTRATING ON WHAT HE HEARD; HE WAS hoping for the sound of one of the warehouse doors opening. “It’s just a single auto,” he told Poppy. “It could be either man, or someone else entirely.”
“That’s not likely,” said Poppy. Now that her release was at hand, the headache that had been gathering on her forehead was increasing in vividness. She touched her forehead and found a lump the size of a half-dollar.
“No, it’s not,” he agreed, drifting toward the steel door.
“I don’t think it’s Stacy,” Poppy said dubiously, shaking her head. “Stacy was in a Duesenberg this afternoon. That isn’t a Duesy’s motor, and so far as I know, that’s the only auto he has access to just now. I think it’s not in the side alley.”
“Is there a door on the front of the warehouse?” he asked, while he realized that the sound of a door being opened might not be loud enough to carry to this basement room, he thought he could go out into the warehouse to see who had arrived.
“I don’t know,” said Poppy. “We came in by a side entrance, near the loading dock. I think Stacy did that deliberately.”
“Shall I go out and look?” Holte offered, hoping to lessen her fright. “If it is Stacy, we can work out some way to surprise him if he enters this room.”
Poppy nodded again, more vigorously than before, courage warring with fear within her. “Yes, if you would, please,” she whispered.
“Certainly.” He floated down from where he had been lingering, and turned himself upright. “I’ll be back shortly.”
“I’m counting on it,” she said, and watched his brumous shape disappear into the heavy steel of the door. As soon as he was gone, she retreated to the chair, sat down in it, and pulled her knees up to her chest in an effort to ward off the cold. She forced herself not to think about why Stacy might be back, as well as not to hope too intently that Loring was actually here; if he had not arrived, her disappointment would be overpowering, and that would be hazardous for her. Pressing her lips together she turned her attention to reviewing the details of her reporting on the Moncrief case, looking for any errors she might have made, or significant detail she could have overlooked, an occupation that served to divert her attention.
Holte came back through the door. “It’s Loring. He’s got someone from Mayes Brothers with him. I gather that Loring took the time to pick him up on the way here, so he wouldn’t waste time once he reached this place, and that accounts for his delay. Your inspector thinks ahead. That’s a good thing in a policeman.” He made a quick circuit of the room, explaining as he did, “They’re just going to the stairs that lead into the basement. Their intention is to open each storage room until they find you.” He went to her side. “It’s almost over, Poppy.”
“Ye gods, I hope so,” she said fervently; she stared at the dim outline of his head. “You aren’t saying this just to shore me up?”
“No, Poppy, I’m not.” He would have laid his hand on her shoulder, but he knew it would only chill her further, and he did not want to do that. “They’ll get here in a little while. You’re going to get out before long.”
She reached out her hand to him. “Holte, I owe you a lot; no matter how this turns out, I owe you a lot.” The chair was hard, but she took solace from its sturdy presence.
“No, you don’t,” he said, suddenly very serious. “I owe you. And I still do.”
“What does that mean?” she asked him, her manner uneasy.
“It means that I still haven’t vacated my debt to your father; you’ll be stuck with me for a while longer.” He would have said more, but there was a grating sound on the other side of the steel door; the steel brace was being tested.
“How long would that be?” Poppy asked.
“I have no idea.” Holte swung around, sensing Loring outside the storeroom. “You’d better take up your position,” he warned Poppy.
Poppy hesitated, then got to her feet once more, squaring her shoulders. “I want to go to the door,” she said, a bit giddy with anticipation. “I want to meet them standing up, not huddled in a chair.”
“No cowering, right?” Holte asked. “Your father understood you: you’re as steadfast as a New England lighthouse.”
Poppy’s voice shook. “Did he say that?”
“In the dimension of ghosts, yes, he did.”
As much as Poppy wanted to know more about this encounter, she set her questions aside, and threw her dwindling energy into preparing for her release. “You said there is a padlock on the steel brace?” She put her shoes back on, and was shocked to feel cuts and bruises on her soles. As a precaution, she tucked the bloody cuffs of her sleeves so that her wrists would not seem as damaged as they were.
“Yes. It’s fairly new, so it should ope — ” The sharp click of the wards’ release seemed like a thunderclap; Holte moved toward the door, positioning himself to see the persons outside before they entered the room. There was a scrape of metal on metal as the bolt was drawn back, as loud as a bugle-call.
Poppy touched her hair, wishing she had a comb to properly restore order to it. But her silk stockings were ruined, and she was fairly certain that there was a bump forming on her brow; Stacy must have banged her head when he brought her into this storeroom, or possibly he struck her deliberately, to keep her groggy until he was gone.
“ — and bring up the flashlight,” Holte and Poppy heard Loring say as the hinges of the door whined.
“Just a couple of crates in here,” said the man accompanying him, preparing to depart.
“We haven’t checked it out yet,” said Loring with exaggerated patience. “I’m going to have a look around,” and with that, he swung his flashlight’s beam around, and caught Poppy’s exhausted face in it. “Be damned!” he exclaimed, and took four steps toward her. “Poppy!”
“Hello, Inspector Loring,” she said, her voice shaking. To her chagrin, she felt her knees tremble; she reached out to steady herself against the second-largest crate. “You can’t imagine how good it is to see you,” she was able to tell him before she burst into tears. “Ye gods!” she snuffled through her weeping. “Appalling.”
Loring went to put his arm around her to steady her. “In your position, I’d probably do the same thing,” he said as he played the light over her, taking stock of what he saw. “What in the name of Black Jack Pershing happened?”
Poppy gulped back her tears. “My cousin — Stacy? You know him — picked me up at the Clarion at three.” She made herself organize as much of the afternoon as she could remember, and when she was satisfied, she started to report. “He said he had to show me something, that what he would show me would prove his innocence, and would give him a witness to corroborate the report he would make to the Justice Department. I was hoping that he would have some way to show that the suspicions against him were unfounded, and I thought it would help me to flesh out my stories for Lowenthal.” She took hold of his arm. “Does he know I’m missing?”
“He must by now,” said Loring. “I made some ‘phone calls from the police-box before I picked up Mister Wimmering here. I’m grateful to him for interrupting his dinner to come with me.” There was an edge in his remark that implied that Mis
ter Wimmering needed some persuasion before he abandoned his meal.
“Good of you to say so,” Wimmering grumbled.
Loring was not finished. “I need to take Miss Thornton to the hospital. She’s injured. You will have to lock this storeroom as we leave; other officers will return first thing in the morning in order to catalogue the contents of these crates. Have one of your men keep watch here all night: if we’re right, and these crates contain contraband items, we’ll have to catalogue them before your company can have access to this room again. We apologize for any inconvenience this may be to Mayes Brothers, but we have to make sure that if there are criminal activities going on here, we can bring a case against the perpetrators.”
Poppy heard this out with a fair amount of curiosity. “Right,” she said as she daubed at her eyes with the end of his tie. “So I guess Stacy’s in trouble.” She was not surprised that she was relieved to hear this.
“Stacy is missing,” said Loring, “or at least we haven’t been able to locate him. He’s not the only one,” he added, helping her toward the door.
As she went, she heard Holte speak softly, “Go on; I’ll see you when you return home,” news that left her feeling unexpectedly forlorn. She knew what Loring wanted her to ask, so she said, “I know about Warren Derrington.”
“Oh, not Derrington,” Loring said, raising his voice as Wimmering pulled the protesting door closed behind them, lowered the brace, and secured the padlock to the large staple, “it’s Louise Moncrief who’s missing. Julian Eastley reported it an hour ago. He was distraught.” Loring guided her to the stairs, and leant her his support up them.
“Louise? Gone? But what about the funeral tomorrow morning?” She had expected to file the usual kind of story about the event, but if Louise did not return for it … She listened to Loring fill her in.
“According to Eastley, Missus Moncrief packed up her trunks and bags and took the train to New York at around four this afternoon: your cousin drove her to the station. The Duesenberg was found in the parking lot around six, and both Missus Moncrief and Stacy Dritchner were gone.”
“Gone?” Poppy echoed in astonishment. “You mean … eloped?”
“So it seems,” he said. “Her housekeeper, Missus Haas, said that Missus Moncrief was planning to take a ship to Rio de Janeiro.”
“Before her husband’s funeral?” Poppy marveled.
“It looks like it.” He stopped at the top of the stairs to have a closer look at her. “You’ve got awful bruises on your wrists, and some new scabs. What happened in that room?”
She had expected the question, but it still rattled her as she answered him. “I think Stacy carried me in, and tied me up in what may be an Egyptian antiquity — a gold-leafed chair. That’s where I woke up. I spent a considerable amount of time working loose the knots that bound me. I did it with my teeth.” She trembled again, and was reassured when he put his arm around her once more.
Loring started moving again; Poppy went with him perforce. “Do you have a regular doctor?”
Poppy blinked. “Yes. Gideon ter Horst.” She did not look forward to the examination that would be coming, but it was clear that her injuries needed care, and the sooner that was done, the better. “I can afford a house call.”
“Very likely,” he said as he stood aside to permit Wimmering to open the front door for them. “But I’d still prefer that you go to the hospital. We’ll need an official record of what was done to you.”
“To add to your case against Stacy? that’s in case you ever get your hands on him.” She paused as Wimmering prepared to close the door. “Is there a toilet I could use before we leave?” Color mounted in her face as she asked.
“The other side of the office, just to the left of this door. It’s pretty primitive.”
“I don’t mind,” she said, and stepped away from Loring’s supporting arm. She moved as quickly as she could without falling, and when she found what she was seeking, she was ridiculously grateful for it; leaving the room when she was done, she walked more confidently back to the front door, ready to undertake the next phase of her first crime story.
THIRTY-NINE
ON THE DRIVE BACK TO AUNT JO’S HOUSE, THE EXUBERANT EUPHORIA THAT had gripped Poppy when she was released from her intended tomb — as she was coming to think of it — gradually faded, transforming into anxious fatigue. Her answers to Loring’s questions grew more terse, and she found her thoughts as hard to contain as a school of fish. Images and insights flickered and vanished. “There’s something I ought to tell you,” she said as he turned the corner toward her aunt’s house.
“There are lots of things you ought to tell me, but after you’re rested,” he soothed her. “You’ve been through a lot today, and you’re rattled.”
She summoned up all her concentration. “No, I’m not. There’s just so much to deal with.”
“And you should sleep on it. After you see your doctor. Those are some nasty abrasions on your wrists and ankles, and they need to be taken care of. All we’ll do tonight is get a bare-bones preliminary report.” He could see the porch-light on over the Dritchner door. “Are you certain you wouldn’t rather I take you to an emergency room?”
“I am. I don’t want the news to get out.” She caught her lower lip in her teeth. “I almost had it …”
“What?” Loring asked as he pulled into a parking place one house down from the Dritchner house.
Poppy shook her head slowly. “Something about Louise Moncrief, I think.”
“If it’s important, you’ll remember it,” Loring said, repeating the old saw that he no longer believed as he curbed his front wheels and turned off the motor. “Stay where you are; I’ll come around and give you a hand.”
Galling as it was, Poppy nodded her consent, afraid that she would be shaky on her feet. She looked toward the front steps as Loring opened the passenger door. “There are lights on. Someone’s still up.” She took hold of Loring’s proffered arm and pulled herself up. “Thanks.”
He would not let her release her grip on his arm. “There are half-a-dozen steps coming up. Keep hold until we’re inside.”
They made their way slowly to the front porch, and Poppy was looking for her key when the door opened and Missus Flowers gave a little shriek that was compounded of relief, alarm, and confusion. “Gracious, Miss,” she exclaimed as she took stock of Poppy’s condition. “What’s happened to you?”
Before Poppy could speak, Loring said, “That’s a long story. We need to get Miss Thornton’s injuries cleaned up, her physician summoned, and I need to take a preliminary report from — ”
From the top of the stairs there came a cry from Josephine. “Stacy? Oh, Stacy, is that you?”
Missus Flowers provided the answer. “No, Ma’am. It’s Miss Poppy and the police.”
Aunt Jo let out a wail of dismay, and came hurtling down the stairs, Duchess trailing behind her, moaning in sympathy.
Missus Flowers had turned on the entry-hall light, and was doing her utmost to conceal her dismay at Poppy’s state; she summoned up her usual aplomb, and took charge. “I’ll get some bandages, and a basin of hot water, and some antiseptic. You take her into the parlor, Inspector.”
“Who is going to call her doctor?” Loring asked as he guided Poppy into the parlor.
“I wish I knew what it was I need to tell you,” Poppy said as he settled her into the most comfortable side-chair in the room.
“Later,” Loring began, and was interrupted by Josephine’s arrival.
“Oh, dear Lord!” she exclaimed as she erupted into the parlor, her hairnet pulling off her head, her peignoir in disarray. “What has happened? Poppea, you’re bleeding.”
“Stacy,” said Poppy, and tried to keep from leaving blood on the upholstery.
“No, dear, he hasn’t returned yet, and I’ve been thinking the worst for the last two hours. He drives so recklessly.” She moved the coffee-table aside and tried to approach Poppy without actually touching her. A
fter a brief examination of Poppy’s hands and arms, she got to her feet, tears welling in her eyes, and announced, “I will call Doctor ter Horst. He’ll know how best to attend to this.” And with that, she bustled out to the ‘phone in the entry-hall and started giving orders to the night operator. “This is an emergency,” she announced as she began to wail.
Missus Flowers came in from the kitchen, a basin of hot water in her arms, medicinally scented steam rising from it, a pair of clean white towels over her shoulder. “I suppose I should just try to clean her up?” she said to Loring.
“Yes, if you would,” said Loring, drawing up a footstool for Missus Flowers’ use. “I’ll try to get down some notes while you work, and until the doctor arrives.” He positioned himself on the settee and took out his notebook while Missus Flowers began her ministrations.
“I wish I could remember about … it had to do with something Stacy and Warren had planned to do with Louise. It had something to do with the party that the Moncrief’s were planning … something …” Her voice trailed off as the recollection faded.
“You’re worn out; we’ll get to it later.”
Poppy fought off the impulse to cry. “But I think it’s important,” she protested. “I need to remember what it was.”
“Not tonight,” he said, and reached out to take her hand.
“Stacy and Derrington and Louise,” she said insistently.
“We’ll get to that later,” said Loring, his pencil poised. “For now, tell me about yesterday afternoon.”
Twenty minutes later, Missus Flowers left them alone, bearing her implements back to the kitchen; she kept the lights burning so that Loring could continue taking notes.
Haunting Investigation Page 35