Family Vault

by Charlotte MacLeod

  “He ran away. He left something, though, so he may have come back to get it by now.”

  “Come on. How do you get downstairs?”

  “I’ll show you.”

  Sarah switched on the hall lights and led Bittersohn down through Edith’s deserted lair. The alley door was sagging half off its hinges; she’d been none too quick with her bucket. Bittersohn pushed it open. Those whitish oblongs were still sitting outside, in a steamy puddle. He picked one up, and sniffed at the top.

  “The son-of-a-bitch! He was going to burn the place down. Smell that.”

  He thrust what turned out to be a plastic jug under Sarah’s nose.

  “It smells like paint thinner,” she said.

  “It is paint thinner. A gallon or so of this and a book of matches are all any competent arsonist needs.”

  “Then those phone calls—”

  “Probably to make sure you were in the house and keep you busy so you wouldn’t go roaming around.”

  “But I might have burned to death!”

  “I don’t want to upset you any more than you’ve been already, Mrs. Kelling, but I’d say that was the general idea, that and getting rid of whatever evidence might be in the house.”

  “Those draperies of Aunt Caroline’s! But why not just break in and take them down?”

  “Because whoever wants to get rid of anything incriminating doesn’t know what to look for. You haven’t told anybody but me about them, have you?”

  “No, not a soul. I see what you mean. Anybody who knew Aunt Caroline very well for a long time must have recognized that theatrical streak in her and guessed she wouldn’t be able to resist leaving some kind of diary about her great romance, but who could ever dream she’d choose the way she did?”

  “Did you get a good look at the torch?”

  “The what?”

  “The guy with the jugs. The arsonist.”

  “Oh. No, I’m sorry to say I didn’t. I thought it was a man, but I couldn’t be sure. Actually it was just a shape in the dark.”

  “Big or little?”

  “Big. Biggish, anyway. How tall are you?”

  “Five eleven and a whisker. Say six feet with my shoes on.”

  “Then I’d say this person was also about six feet and more heavy-set than you, though one can’t be sure in cold weather because people bundle up in extra clothes. I honestly didn’t believe it was you, I was just being overly careful because I’d made stupid mistakes about two other men this evening.”

  “That’s okay, I don’t blame you a bit. Do you think you scalded the guy?”

  “I hope so. It would serve him right.”

  “It’ll also provide a means of identification if we can get to him before he heals. Let’s leave these jugs here and I’ll watch for a while to see if he comes back for them, though I doubt if he’d be fool enough to do that. There’s no way they could be traced because you can buy the stuff at any hardware or paint store, and I’m sure he wore gloves. You go back to bed. I’ll stick around down here, just in case.”

  “Would you like some coffee? I was going to make some. That’s how I happened to be in the kitchen and heard him working at the hinges.”

  “I’m surprised he kept at it once you turned on the light.”

  “I didn’t. I’ve gotten into the habit of going about the house in the dark a lot, I suppose because everything was arranged for a blind person’s convenience. I can make a pot of coffee in the dark, fix it any way you like, and bring it down to you without spilling a drop. Want me to?”

  “Just don’t break your neck.”

  “I shan’t. Right now I’m mostly concerned to save it.”

  26

  EDITH HAD MADE SUCH a clean sweep of the basement that there wasn’t even a chair left for Bittersohn to sit on. Sarah unearthed a folding leather campaign chair that Alexander’s Great-uncle Nathan had nursed his gout in at San Juan while Teddy Roosevelt and the Rough Riders were storming the hill, and took it down to the cellar along with a pillow and an afghan.

  She saw no reason to stay with the man, and he didn’t want her to. Still, she couldn’t face the thought of going back to bed. She compromised by curling up on the library couch with the velvet comforter from Aunt Caroline’s room, and napped fitfully until the traffic outside and the lumpiness of her improvised bed drove her to rouse herself.

  Poor Mr. Bittersohn, what sort of night had he put in? Sarah took a shower to revive herself as far as possible, got into clean clothes, and went down to see if he’d survived his vigil. She found her guest sprawled in the campaign chair with his head bobbing backward over the top and his legs tangled strangely in the afghan. He was emitting an occasional choking snort, as well he might. When she touched him on the shoulder he jerked upright and said crossly, “I wasn’t asleep.”

  “I’m sure you weren’t, but you must have been wretchedly uncomfortable. Did anything happen?”

  “This damn chair folded up on me twice, and a mouse ran up inside my pantleg. Otherwise, it was a restful night. Are the jugs still there?”

  Sarah took away the stick of wood he’d used to prop up the half-dismantled door and peered out. “Yes, still here. Oh, look, he’s taken off the alley door, too. I wondered how he got over the wall.”

  Like so many of its Beacon Hill counterparts, the Kelling house had a tiny bricked courtyard behind it surrounded by a high brick wall with a wooden door that led to the alley behind. This door, which had been securely bolted the last time she saw it was also off its hinges and lying on the pavement. She walked over and kicked at it

  “I wonder why he bothered? This door is so rickety all he’d have to do would be to push in a panel and reach around to the bolt. Alexander was intending to put on a new one next spring.”

  Bittersohn came up beside her and studied the peeling wood thoughtfully. “That’s a good question. I’ve met only one crook in my life whose hobby is taking doors off hinges. That could be how the Milburn was got at. Tell me, Mrs. Kelling, you wouldn’t happen to know a middle-aged man who’s about my size but more heavy-set, with a sallow complexion and noticeable liver spots on his forehead? He’s bald, has an unusually thin nose, small greenish eyes set close together, and an odd way of lifting the left-hand corner of his mouth when he talks. I doubt if you’d meet him socially, but he may have come to the house as a repairman or something of the sort.”

  “We’ve hardly ever had repair men,” Sarah said. “Alexander did most of the odd jobs. Still, the description does ring a bell. Oh, I know! But he wasn’t bald, he had thick gray hair.”

  “Who?”

  “That man who called himself a doctor. I remember the thin nose and the blotches on the forehead.”

  “You’re positive?”

  “Yes, I am. The room was so small that I was standing practically nose-to-nose with him. I noticed the hair particularly because it was so handsome, and the rest of him wasn’t. It looked too good to be true.”

  “No doubt it was,” said Bittersohn. “Well, we’d better put these doors back up, though I’m afraid he’s wrecked them prying to get at the hinges. Got a hammer and nails and some scrap lumber?”

  Together, they propped up the doors and Sarah held boards across while Bittersohn whacked in the nails. He made a thorough job of it before he put down the hammer.

  “There, that’s not very fancy but it ought to hold till you can get a carpenter to do the job right. Now, I’m going to make a quick dash to my place for a shave and shower, then I’ll come back with the car and we’ll take a look at the area where you say you saw this guy. Think you can find the house again?”

  “How could I forget? If you like,” Sarah ventured shyly, “you could go up and use Alexander’s razor. There’s a bathroom on the third floor with his things still in it. I could be getting us a bite of breakfast while you’re freshening up, which would save some time. Unless you’d rather go home?”

  “No, that’s okay. You sure you wouldn’t mind?”

 
“I don’t think so. I’ve already had to put company in his room for the funeral. There’s no sense in being sentimental.” Sarah dabbed at her eyes. “It’s on the third floor. You’ll find everything you need, I think, except that I’m afraid I can’t offer you a change of linen.”

  That would be carrying common sense one step too far. She didn’t know what she was going to do with the clothes she’d mended so often for her lost darling, but no stranger was going to see those careful darns. She put another pot of coffee on to perk, started bacon frying, and began to section the grapefruit she’d bought yesterday. By the time Bittersohn came down, looking a good deal less shopworn in spite of his wilted shirt, she had a meal ready. They ate without paying much attention to the food and then walked down to the Underground Garage.

  “Over Arlington to Broadway, then straight across to Dorchester Avenue and take a right?” he said as he switched on the ignition.

  “I should think that’s the best way.”

  Sarah found she was perched on the extreme edge of the leather seat, her fists clenched as if she were going into battle. She forced herself to lean back and take deep breaths to relax the tightness in her solar plexus. The closer they got to where they were going, the harder she had to breathe. She was getting dizzy from hyperventilation when Bittersohn said, “We must be getting close to where we turn.”

  “Yes, just up the street, by that drugstore.”

  “Any place close to the house where we might be able to pull up and keep watch without being spotted?”

  “I’m afraid not. It’s a sort of cul-de-sac. Perhaps we could leave the car somewhere and—oh, look, here she comes! The woman in the green coat and the snakeskin boots. She’s going into the drugstore.”

  “To buy some burn ointment, maybe?” Incredibly, Max Bittersohn was smiling. “So that’s Mrs. Wandelowski.”

  “Do you know her?” Sarah gasped.

  “You might say we’ve met. She once tried to part my hair with a ceremonial sword from the Knights of Pythias.”

  “For goodness’ sake, why?”

  “Because, as Hillary said about Everest, it was there. She was a little upset with me at the time. She’s probably pretty annoyed with you right now for getting Abelard’s rug wet.”

  “Abelard is her husband, then?”

  “Or not, as the case may be. Abelard and Madeleine, two minds with but a single thought—and that one pretty nasty. So they’re both wearing wigs now. They always were a dressy pair.”

  “Who are they?”

  “Odd-jobbers. They do whatever the higher-ups don’t have the time or the inclination to tackle personally. I always thought they must have a home base somewhere. So Madeleine’s been running a boardinghouse in her spare time. That figures.”

  “What else does she do?”

  “Changes sheets in a motel, clerks in a supermarket, whatever suits the purpose of the moment. She never stays anywhere long, and she seldom gets caught. Madeleine has the advantage of being about the most nondescript woman you’d ever run across. Change the wig, leave off the makeup, put her into a waitress’s uniform instead of that flashy getup she’s wearing now, and you’d never believe she was the same person. Her part is usually to gather information, plant something on somebody, intercept a letter, some small job of that sort. Abelard, being a much more noticeable sort of person, lurks in the background until it’s time to do his specialty.”

  “Such as impersonating a doctor or burning down a house.”

  “Or being the telephone repairman with a bug in his box, or the mechanic who screwed up the brakes on your Milburn. Abelard’s clever with his hands.”

  “Then he was the one who killed Mr. O’Ghee, I suppose?”

  “I honestly don’t know, Mrs. Kelling. Until this business came up, I’d never have figured Abelard for a hit man, although I don’t doubt he was the one who got rid of the body. Well, I guess we’ve seen what we came for. Shall I take you back to the house?”

  “I’d be rather glad if you would,” Sarah replied. “I don’t know why, but I’m anxious to put my hand on that letter Mr. Verplanck wrote me. I can’t think why I didn’t see it because I worked for several hours yesterday trying to get the correspondence straightened out. Also, he claims he wrote to Aunt Caroline and Alexander any number of times, and I didn’t see those letters, either.”

  Bittersohn made a small noise in his throat.

  “I don’t mean that Alexander didn’t let me read his mail, I just mean picking up the envelopes the postman pushed through the slot. That was a little job I generally attended to because the mail’s apt to come at a time when Alexander would be out somewhere with his mother. I’d sort it out, so I knew who was writing to whom. Also, I handled Aunt Caroline’s correspondence for her, more or less. She’d write letters in Braille and get me to type them up. If she’d suddenly started getting a spate of letters from the bank and never sending any answers, I think I’d have noticed. Don’t you?”

  “It’s worth thinking about, anyway. All right, Mrs. Kelling, let’s go look for your letter.”

  Getting back to the hill was simple enough, but parking was another matter.

  “Oh, dear,” Sarah moaned, “I should have suggested we leave the car at the garage and walk up. It’s always impossible around here.”

  “I’ll find a place,” said Bittersohn. “Why don’t you go on in and start looking for your letter? Sure you won’t mind being alone in the house for a few minutes?”

  “Of course not. Why should I?”

  She hopped out fast because the driver behind them was using abusive language, and let herself in. Without bothering to take off her coat, she began shuffling through the piles of mail she’d left on the escritoire. She knew perfectly well there was no envelope from the High Street Trust among them, and there wasn’t.

  Had Edith been pinching the mail as well as the furniture? It was tempting to blame her, but not very sensible to jump to conclusions. There were other possibilities. Edgar Merton, who’d spent so much time here playing backgammon with Aunt Caroline; Edgar to whom she’d given this same collection of messages to sort out for her only yesterday. The more she thought about Edgar, the less she liked what came to her mind.

  In any event, she’d better call Mr. Verplanck and tell him she couldn’t find the letter. At least it might buy her a little more time to straighten things out. After being passed through a secretary or two, she got him on the line.

  “This is Sarah Kelling. I want to apologize for my ridiculous behavior yesterday and also to thank that extremely kind lady who took care of me. Perhaps you’d be kind enough to give me her name so I can drop her a note?”

  The bank manager made appropriate responses.

  “I also wanted to tell you that I can’t find that letter you say you wrote me. I’ve been through all my mail, and it’s simply not in the house.”

  “Why, naturally it wouldn’t be, Mrs. Kelling,” he replied in the tone one might use to a not very bright child. “It was directed to your post office box, as usual.”

  “What post office box? We don’t have one. Why should we?”

  “Oh, dear.” His sigh was audible over the phone. “Apparently this is another of your mother-in-law’s little mysteries. At the time she took out those first mortgages, she instructed me to address all communications regarding that and any other bank matters to Box 2443 at the Back Bay Postal Annex, and that’s precisely what we’ve always done. Obviously, since she never informed you of this fact, you have not checked the box. Perhaps it would help to clarify matters if you did.”

  “I certainly shall,” said Sarah. “I’ll do it right away. Mr. Verplanck, you must realize that I’m in a state of utter confusion. I’ll get things straightened out with you as soon as I know where I stand. Box 2443, you said?”

  “That’s correct, Mrs. Kelling. Then I’ll look forward to hearing from you or Mr. Redfern by the end of the week.”

  He hung up with a smart little click. Mr. Verplanck wasn
’t concerned with Sarah Kelling’s problems, only with the bank’s money. It looked as if she’d soon have a conclusive answer for all those relatives who kept pestering her about what she was going to do with the properties. She already had the answer to why Alexander had never told her about the mortgages. He had never known about the post office box, either.

  Then who had impersonated him at the interview with Mr. Verplanck? She dialed the bank’s number again.

  “Mr. Verplanck, I’m sorry to be a pest, but could you please tell me what Alexander Kelling looked like when you met him?”

  “Really, Mrs. Kelling, I—”

  “Please! I know it sounds crazy, but it’s terribly important.”

  “Well,” he evidently made up his mind that he might as well humor this madwoman and get her off his ear, “he was–er–tall.”

  Sarah’s heart sank a little. “Tall? Are you positive? How tall? As tall as his mother?”

  “To the best of my recollection, he was at least half a head taller.”

  “Oh, no!” How could that be? “What else do you remember about him?”

  “Mrs. Kelling, it’s been quite some time, and we had only the one meeting. You can hardly expect me to recall one face out of the many I see every day.”

  “But you ought to. Almost anybody who’d ever set eyes on Alexander would never forget him for a specific reason, and you should be able to tell me what it is.”

  “Are you referring to a birthmark or some such thing? I’m sorry, but I can’t recall anything outstanding about him except his height. He seemed an agreeable enough man, but he didn’t say much. Now that I think of it, I believe he had hay fever or something. He kept his handkerchief up to his face a good deal of the time. He also had dark glasses on because he found the allergy was affecting his eyes. To tell the truth, I don’t think I ever did get a good look at him.”

  “I’m sure you didn’t, Mr. Verplanck,” said Sarah with unutterable relief. “My husband didn’t have hay fever, and he’d never have been rude enough to keep his dark glasses on while he was talking to you. You’d have remembered him for the same reason everybody else always did. Alexander was the handsomest man you’d ever have seen in your life.”