“The winning numbers in tomorrow’s lottery.”
“If I knew that, señor, I would have my own gate and maybe even a house to go with it.”
“What made you think I wanted to ask you anything, Hector?”
“El Patrón say we are to answer all of Mr. McNally’s questions. You are Mr. McNally?”
“I am.”
Fairhurst was certainly cooperating with this investigation. Keeping Granddad’s secret was top priority around here—which put the pressure on me, since I didn’t have a clue to the blackmailer’s identity. Hector was an unlikely suspect, but I had to start someplace. Besides, I think he would be disappointed if I left him with nothing to report to El Patrón and the rest of the staff.
“Did you ever hear of the Titanic, Hector?”
“Sí, señor. The big boat that sank a long time ago.”
“That’s the one. Do you know the name of anybody who was a passenger on the Titanic when it went down?”
“Sí, señor. I know the name of one person.”
“Who’s that, Hector?”
“Leonardo DiCaprio.”
“Thank you, Hector, I have no more questions.”
Grinning happily, Hector mounted his motorbike and preceded me up the curving driveway to the Fairhursts’ pink palazzo.
Peterson—I presumed—opened the door to me and announced that Mr. Fairhurst was on the telephone and would join me as soon as he was free. “Would you like to wait in the library, sir?”
Did I have a choice? I followed Peterson, whose undertaker’s togs—black suit with tie to match—were about as cheerful as his countenance.
Fairhurst’s library was only slightly smaller than the reading room of the Palm Beach Public Library, but I imagined it contained as many, if not more, books. These were beautifully bound and, I guessed, seldom read. One wall panel of tomes was encased in glass and kept under lock and key. This, of course, immediately drew my attention. More Fairhurst secrets?
“You may smoke, sir,” Peterson informed me. “And may I bring you a beverage?”
“No, thank you, Peterson. You are Peterson?”
“Yes, sir. I am. May I be of service, sir.”
I pointed to a very impressive oil portrait in an ornate frame that hung over a marble fireplace, flanked by two similar portraits. “Is that the first Mr. Fairhurst, Peterson?”
“It is, sir. By John Singer Sargent.” Peterson spoke with pride of ownership, but then butlers often identified, to an alarming degree, with those for whom they buttled. “John the Second is on the left, also by Sargent, and the current Mr. Fairhurst is on the right.”
I assumed the current Mr. Fairhurst was not painted by Sargent because the artist would have been dead when John III sat for his portrait. I also assumed the current John’s portraitist was not a household name, because Peterson was silent on the subject. I walked to the fireplace and looked up at John I. “The founding father who went down with the Titanic,” I stated.
“Yes, sir.”
Knowing that Fairhurst had prepared the staff for my appearance as the emcee of Twenty Questions, I made no excuse when I asked Peterson, “Do you get to Miami often, Peterson?”
“I beg your pardon, sir.”
“Miami. Do you go down to Miami often?”
“Never, sir.”
“Never? You’ve never been to Miami, Peterson?”
“No, sir. Nor do I have any desire to go to Miami.”
“Do you take vacations, Peterson. You and Mrs. Peterson?”
“We do, sir.”
“And where do you go on vacation?”
“Mr. Fairhurst is good enough to put the château in Antibes or the villa at Lake Como at our disposal, if they or the children are not in residence at the time.”
I had just put my foot in my mouth while on a fishing expedition. And what did I expect him to say, that he only went to Miami to post blackmail letters? I was batting zero and Peterson looked as if he knew it. I gave it one more try. “Has anyone, domestics or guests, ever questioned you about the first Mr. Fairhurst’s voyage on the Titanic?” This was getting dangerously near the purpose of my call but I couldn’t go on shadowboxing with the guy.
For the first time Peterson didn’t have the answer ready to fire at me like a sheriff with a hair-trigger six-shooter. Was he mulling over the answer or my question? Had I said too much? Did he suspect? Was I out of a job?
“Over the years, sir, surely it has been mentioned,” was his carefully considered reply.
“And more recently, Peterson?”
“Not that I recall, sir.”
“What do you think of Seth Walker?” I injected like a quick jab to the jaw.
“Not much, sir.”
“Really? Why, Peterson?”
“He wears his cap at a rakish angle.”
“Is that all?”
“He drives the Rolls as if he’d rather be in the backseat.”
Very much Mrs. Marsden’s opinion of the lad, I recalled, but this was getting interesting. I wondered if Mrs. Peterson shared her husband’s sentiments regarding the new chauffeur. Time would tell. Next I asked, “Mr. Fairhurst’s secretary is called Arnold, I believe.”
“Yes, sir. Arnold Turnbolt.”
“And what does Arnold think of Seth Walker?”
Peterson didn’t have to mull this one over. “Arnold rather likes young men who wear their caps on the back of their heads.”
Bingo! I had found a chink in the Fairhurst household armor. There was dissension in the ranks, and where there was dissension there was a malcontent. The butler and the secretary were not kissing cousins—and the secretary wished he and the chauffeur were. This wasn’t, as John Fairhurst III would have the world believe, one big happy family.
“Meaning what, Peterson?” I probed.
“Meaning Arnold rather likes young men who wear their caps on the back of their heads. I was not editorializing, sir, but stating a fact.”
Now where did he learn that? In Antibes or Como? “Did you know that Seth Walker was recommended to Mr. Fairhurst by Geoff Williams? The late Geoff Williams, that is.”
Peterson started, his head jerking back almost imperceptibly before he rallied with an exaggerated shrug of his narrow shoulders. “No, I did not, nor is it my business to know such things.” Peterson seemed to enjoy adding this aspect of his job description to his answer.
I would have sworn that there wasn’t much that went on in this house that escaped Peterson’s notice, but didn’t press the point. It seemed I had gotten as much out of the butler as I had gotten from Hector. Perhaps Peterson could enlighten me on the mystery of the books behind the locked glass doors.
“I know nothing about them. They are kept locked to protect them from prying eyes. My eyes do not pry, sir.”
It’s not easy to get two feet into one mouth, but, be that as it may, I had done the trick. For the price of a beer, I would gladly have given this fellow a swift kick in the kimono.
“Will that be all, sir?”
“Yes, for now. But I reserve the right to recall you, Peterson.”
“As you wish, sir.”
He retreated silently, closing the door with nary a backward glance at his inquisitor. When I spoke to Arnold, I would mention Peterson’s comment regarding the secretary’s preference in chapeaux and see where that led. Fearing that Peterson was looking through the keyhole, I avoided snooping around the tempting glass-enclosed shelves and turned my attention to the portrait of the first John. A brass plate told me he was born February 1, 1862, and died April 15, 1912—surely a night to remember.
Moving to John II, I learned that he was born April 1, 1913, and died March 15, 1988. Seventy-five good years for John II. Born on April Fool’s Day and died on the Ides of March. And, I calculated, Grandma Fairhurst was pregnant while crossing on the Titanic. Now there was something never reported in the famous Fairhurst fairy tale. On my way to check the current John’s visage by a lesser artist, I stopped abruptl
y and returned for a second look at the second John.
Born April 1, 1913. The Titanic went down April 15, 1912, supposedly taking John I with it. Grandma was either impregnated by her husband’s ghost or she had carried the second John for twelve months. Could the family have made such a glaring error? Obviously they had. They doctored Grandpa’s death date to coincide with the sinking of the Titanic, but forgot to adjust his son’s birth date accordingly.
Now all I had to find out was who else had read the handwriting on the library wall.
“Sorry to keep you,” John Fairhurst said as he came into the room.
“No problem at all, sir,” I assured him. “It gave me a chance to talk to Peterson and have a look around.”
“Did you come up with anything, Archy?”
“As a matter of fact, Mr. Fairhurst, I have.”
“From Peterson?” He looked astonished, but not as astonished as he was going to look when I filed my first report.
“No, not from Peterson, sir, but from using my eyes.” I hoped Peterson was listening. “I know how the blackmailer learned what he knows.”
“Remarkable,” Fairhurst said. “How?”
“When was the last time you had a look at the brass plates on the portraits that record the birth and death dates of your father and grandfather?”
He shrugged and said, “I have no idea. Maybe never. What is all this about?”
It was show-and-tell time, and because he was a quick study, John Fairhurst did not need a pencil and paper to figure the whole thing out. By the time I finished my discourse on higher mathematics, John Fairhurst’s healthy tan had taken on a yellowish pall. I led him to a chair, where he sat quietly, staring into space. “But it’s not possible,” he moaned.
“As you can see, sir, it is indeed possible.”
“But how could such a thing happen?”
“As you said, you never bothered looking at those dates, and I doubt if any casual observer ever did. The second brass plate was added to the portrait over seventy years after the first went up. By then, the Titanic story was an accepted fact. It would not have occurred to you or Mrs. Fairhurst to fabricate your father’s birth date.”
“All these years,” he said, “and no one ever noticed.”
“Oh, but someone did notice, Mr. Fairhurst. Hence, the letter you received and my presence in your home.”
Still bewildered, he looked at his grandfather’s portrait and asked, “But who?”
Not expecting John I to answer, I jumped right in. “Who has been in this room recently, Mr. Fairhurst?”
“Me. My wife, of course. The children and grandchildren. The servants. Friends. But no one who hasn’t been in this room many, many times over as many years, Archy.”
“Except for Seth Walker, sir,” I reminded him.
“Seth?” Fairhurst shook his head. “Why, I doubt very much if he has ever been in here. He would have no reason to be. We have a cottage on the property which the servants use as a recreation room, or rec room, as my grandchildren call it. It has all the amenities, so why on earth should the boy come in here? Or anyplace in the house, for that matter, except the kitchen, which used to be a gathering place for the help when we employed more staff than we now do.”
“You told me Geoff Williams recommended the boy, Mr. Fairhurst.”
“Yes, he did. Pity what happened. Feel sorry for poor Melva.” Then, as if suddenly remembering, he said, “We saw you on television. A bit of a fuss, I would say, Archy. I’d have driven right past those newsmen and run them over if they got in the way.”
This I could believe.
“Nice yacht, don’t-you-know,” he continued, “but I don’t approve of that Meecham person.”
I doubted if the pronouncement would break Phil’s heart.
“Lolly Spindrift was rather overdramatic, I thought. Mystery Woman, indeed. It’s a family matter and should be kept in the family, is how I see it.”
Given what I now knew about his family, I could appreciate his sentiments. “How did Geoff come to recommend Seth Walker?”
Fairhurst shook his head as if he didn’t know, while at the same time answering my question.
“We met at the bar of the club one night—the Bath and Tennis, that is—and I guess I mentioned what with the season approaching, Mrs. Fairhurst and I would need a driver. Part-time, to be sure. We don’t get about much, don’t-you-know. Town is full of phonies and oddballs. Williams mentioned this Seth boy and a few days later the boy contacted me and I took him on.”
“When was this meeting with Geoff Williams, sir?”
“A month ago. Maybe six weeks. I’ve no idea, and what does it matter?”
Geoff was in Palm Beach a month ago? Why? Melva never said anything about this. But why should she? Or, why shouldn’t she? Every time I scratched a surface labeled Seth Walker, I came up with Geoff Williams. Come to think of it, was Geoff Williams ever in the Fairhurst library?
“I don’t know that it’s important, sir. Before I leave I’d like to speak to Arnold, if I may.”
He got up, a little shaky on his pins, and said he’d send Arnold to me. “He’s probably with my wife. We received a dinner invitation from that Horowitz woman, the one who calls herself a Lady, and Arnold is helping my wife compose a credible refusal. Do you know the woman, Archy?”
“We’ve met, sir.”
“I’ll get Arnold.”
“Before you go, sir, would you mind relating what you told your staff about my visit? I mean, how did you explain my coming here for the sole purpose of asking questions?”
“I told them you were coming and to answer any questions you might put to them. That was all. No reason to explain.”
And I bet you never have to say you’re sorry, either.
“It’s been a help, sir. Thank you.”
Arnold was a refreshing change from Peterson. He was all designer jeans, cord jacket, sneakers, and a great big smile. “Rumor has it that you’re from the FBI, but I think you’re Archy McNally of Discreet Inquiries.”
He offered his hand and I shook it.
“You think correctly, Mr. Turnbolt.”
“Make that Arnie. So what’s up? Has the silver gone missing, or is it Mrs. F.’s tiara? It’s an heirloom you know. She bought it at auction from the estate of the late Wallis Simpson, and you know where Wally’s hubby got it from.”
I saw that I was not going to have any trouble getting Arnie to talk but shutting him up might prove difficult. “Nothing as exciting as diamonds or silver, Arnie.”
Arnie nodded toward the glass-enclosed shelves. “Don’t tell me someone nicked a first edition of The Memoirs of a Woman of Pleasure?”
“Is that what’s kept under glass? Rare first editions?”
“Rare first editions of what is called erotica in genteel circles and all with the artists’ original sketches,” Arnie gushed. If Peterson took pride in the Sargents, Arnie associated with the esoteric. “Did you know there was a companion to the Memoirs called The Memoirs of a Man of Pleasure? Well, it’s in there, not to mention Adventures of a King’s Page, published by Charles White in London in 1829. Mr. F.’s collection is the envy of the Vatican, Archy.”
The old geezer. All don’t-you-know proper on the outside with Fanny and some king’s page literally smoldering under lock and key. John Fairhurst III had better things to read than the brass plates beneath his ancestors’ portraits. I wondered if he tucked the blackmailer’s letter between the His and Her memoirs.
To prime the pump I offered a casual remark vis-à-vis the butler: “Peterson said he didn’t know what books were kept locked up because he wasn’t a snoop.”
“And I say a pox on Peterson. What else did Miss Manners report? That I’m Madam’s pet? It’s his usual song and dance routine. He can’t stand the fact that Mrs. F. and I are on a first-name basis.”
“As a matter of fact, it was your chumminess with the new chauffeur that seemed to annoy Peterson.”
Dear Arnie let
go with what is known in genteel circles as an expletive. “Did he also tell you Mrs. P. dotes on Seth? In fact Mrs. P. has a weakness for the masculine gender on the good side of twenty-five. I’d tell you the story of Mrs. P. and the houseboy at the villa in Como but you have to be accompanied by a parent or guardian to hear it.”
Good grief! The three live-in servants were as compatible as a stick of dynamite and a match. While I could see them blackmailing one another, I couldn’t see them sticking it to the boss. Not for a paltry twenty-five grand. The Petersons were getting near pension time, and Arnie was probably too attached to that tiara as well as his lady boss to take the money and run. The blackmail letter was a weirdo get-rich-quick scheme by someone who thought twenty-five thousand bucks was a million—which brought me back to the guy who didn’t like his seat in the family Rolls.
“Between us, Arnie, what do you think of Seth Walker?”
“Between us, Archy, tell me why you want to know.”
“I can’t do that. Discreet Inquiries is the name of the firm, remember? And I think Mr. Fairhurst told you to cooperate.”
Arnie sighed. “What’s a working boy to do?” Then he talked and appeared to revel in every word. “Seth has been around, Archy, if you know what I mean. He’s young, handsome, not too bright, but top-heavy in the street-smarts department. He wants to get ahead and doesn’t care who he steps on while climbing the ladder. He told me he took this job as a way of getting his foot in the door.”
“What door?”
“Ask Seth.”
“I will. Do you know what his connection is to Geoff Williams?”
“You mean the late Geoff Williams. Quel mess, Archy! I assume Mrs. Williams’s religion precludes divorce.”
The guy was a stand-up comic with an audience of one. “Do you know Seth’s connection to the late Geoff Williams?”
Arnie shook his head. “I didn’t even know they knew each other.”
“Do you do much reading, Arnie? Here, in the library?”
“If you mean the closed shelves, a little goes a long way. I prefer my own room with its ocean view and cuddling up with a current best-seller, unless something better comes along.”
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