by Andre Norton
“And how does Miss Lowndes impress you?” Apparently he was willing to forego any more probing along the Frimsbee line.
“I think she is a very efficient person.”
“She is having an affair with Cantrell,” he returned impersonally. He might have been commenting on the toughness of the steak.
“I know nothing about that.”
Once more he did not comment, but continued his own appraisal of the household.
“Preston Donner has an excellent reputation in his field. He was associated with Dr. Austin—did book-hunting for him. There were rumors ten years back that he wanted to marry Miss Elizabeth—”
“But—” I interrupted, now a little shocked, “she must be years older—”
“Not so much as you would think. Donner is into his sixties, even if he is well preserved, as they used to say. He is an advisor now, for the purchase of any new items for the Austin collection. You know that the good doctor left most of his cash to be kept in trust for just that purpose. Mrs. Horvath was the final judge for what would be bought. I don't know who will take over her duties now. Seems Dr. Edward thought Emma had a shrewd head on her shoulders when it came to money. She did have some control of the Horvath holdings and managed well.
“Then there's Hanno Horvath, Mrs. Emma's nephew by marriage. He got a small trust fund from his uncle's estate—but again Mrs. Emma had the final say-so over his expenditures.”
“I've seen very little of Mr. Horvath. I believe he teaches literature at the university.”
“He's an associate professor, yes. And it was he who introduced Miss Lowndes to the household. Their relationship is on another basis now, of course. Oddly enough, Horvath seems to have expressed no rancor over being replaced in that lady's affections. All in all—” Mark was being judicial now, a phase of his character which I had never cared much for. “There’ are some very interesting sources for friction within those walls.”
I thought it time to gain some information in return. “What was Roderick doing that he had to be tailed?” “It was rather what he might be going to do. We have reason to believe that he was involved in a case which has baffled us for some time—the laundry business—”
“What?” I was completely startled. Mark laughed.
“Nothing to do with soap and water. The laundering of money, hot money from robberies and illicit gambling, drugs—taken overseas, used to purchase anything worthwhile up for sale. Antiques, perhaps. Which could then be sold openly here. If Dr. Austin were still alive we could be more certain. As it is we can only guess. Mrs. Horvath had a part in the set-up—not perhaps knowingly—but she kept a tight pocketbook, and she knew the value of a bargain. However, in these security-conscious days you have to dig for information, even from your supposed teammates. This situation.” He shook his head. “It looks as if it was getting out of hand. I need a contact inside—”
Inside. I smiled wryly. Contact with the Abbey, a bargain-counter Mata Hari—for him. It was a part of what I had discovered about Mark Rohmer—the man who would play all the angles—
“The racket,” he continued, “is a big one. We know it has overseas ties. And it spreads into places we cannot probe without gold-plated evidence. So we've had to move slowly. Roderick was a lead, and we lost him just perhaps when he was about to pay off.
“There is a ring of what you might term ‘importers’ around the world. Old families ruined by war, or revolution, or confiscatory taxes, are willing to part with treasures for cash, pieces collectors could never hope to see appear normally on the market. And they aren't—on the open market, that is. Sales are private—income-tax collectors and official snoopers are left in the dark. The sellers get the cash which is so laundered,’ and the other sales are made here. Of course there is a profit, too. And the go-betweens get a cut. But no one has to answer embarrassing questions.
“The American who wants to sink some unreported income in a hedge against inflation makes his deal with the ring and acquires a bargain which is tax free. He may have to keep it in hiding—but he has it. So far the scheme works. Unfortunately, some time ago the ring discovered that the supply of family treasures is beginning to dry up. And there are other problems—some of our none-too-good political friends have found this a promising way to get dollars dubiously. So now the ring—or a portion of it—has moved on from the dirty-money boys into another business. Their answer is fakes—fakes which are very close to perfect. Of course, there is some conflict in the ring itself now— the dirty-money dealers are not too pleased with a change which doesn't solve their problem.”
“What kind of fakes?”
“Very clever forgeries—done by masters in the business. The ring is protected in these cases because the buyer cannot display his recent acquisition. He has to salt it away. So the fake may not be discovered for years. And the friends of art behind the Iron and Bamboo Curtains have quite a few models for the fakers. Take the recent tomb discoveries in China—some fascinating articles can be offered with the suggestion that they were stolen on the sites by an enterprising opponent of Mao, who subsequently escaped to Hong Kong. So it can be set up almost anywhere there is the rare material for the fakers.
“The lid blew off for us about six months ago when Homer Blackwell died.”
“Blackwell—oh, he was that oil man the Treasury Department was trying to indict for tax evasion.” A memory of newspaper headlines came to me.
“Yes. He was killed in a plane crash on his way to Washington. He had a collection of ceramics which had to be appraised for the estate. Among his ceramics was a Ming horse—which wasn't appraised. So now we are hunting for a corporation milking this country for cash. And some of it is sent elsewhere to make up payrolls which we want to stop.”
“How do the Austins figure in this?”
“Through the doctor's trust. Most of what was left of his wife's fortune is in that. He wanted his library to be the best.”
“But I don't see—there are no Austin items worth forging—”
“What could exist in Austeniana which would be worth a lot of hard cash if they might be found to exist?”
I considered. “Several things. The letters that Jane's sister Cassandra is known to have burned, especially if they prove that Jane did have the much-speculated-upon romance in Devonshire which is thought to have inspired Persuasion. The first draft of Pride and Prejudice—the one she entitled First Impressions and later rewrote. Or the corresponding first version of Sense and Sensibility, which was called Elinor and Marianna. But all of those were known to have been destroyed— and anyway they would not be as great a treasure as to bring prices worth faking for—”
“Except,” Mark reminded me, “from someone like the doctor who was obsessed with the subject, and left a will directing such purchases. Also, can one be entirely certain that everything was destroyed? Remember how they discovered all the Boswell material in an Irish castle? Papers do come to light mysteriously sometimes. And we can be sure that when this firm deals in anything it has a well-documented and plausible pedigree.”
“But Dr. Austin is dead. Rather late to attempt a sale now, no matter what the trust was intended for.”
“Not so. The dream of the Austin library did not die with him—he made it very clear that Mrs. Emma was to see it was carried out. Preston Donner was to vet anything bought.”
“Did Emma Horvath have a real interest in the library?”
“She had an interest in the prestige of the Austin family. Someone could play on that. Emma Horvath had money, but she was trying to gain the entry into the kind of society which does not think too much of money—more of personalities. She resented Miss Elizabeth's status here in Ladensville. A Horvath simply does not rate beside an Austin.
“Two months ago Mrs. Horvath arranged to liquidate some stocks—about a hundred thousand dollars’ worth. The liquidation was still in process when she had the fall and broke her hip.”
“What does Mr. Donner have to say?”
“Would she listen to him? He'd skipped bail and she lost the money she put up for that.”
Mark shrugged. “Who knows? She might have had a liking for him still. He had charm—and she wouldn't be the first lady of her age to be influenced by that. In fact she had something of a reputation that way. He had a name for squiring the older generation while he was abroad.”
“But now she is dead.” Suddenly a new thought struck me. “How did she die?”
“A guess?” He looked amused. “Yes, now we are concerned with that Her doctor, after official inquiry, was disturbed. He had tried to talk Miss Elizabeth into an autopsy. At that time she refused; since he had only vague suspicions he could not push it. Now it is a police matter.”
“But why—if she were going to buy—Oh!” Again I thought I could guess. “There might be those who would object to such a sum of money going out of the family—was it her money?”
“No. It was the last of the Austin estate, as far as we have been able to discover. And to pay that much for some sheets of paper, no matter what was written on them—yes, there could be objections to that. Especially when there was a chance that the trust will naturally otherwise come to an end in a year's time. It was only to hold for twenty years.
“Horvath's her heir. She had only life interest in her husband's estate. The rest, her personal holdings, will be divided between Miss Austin and her nephew Charles. That remainder might be sizable. Mrs. Emma was a good businesswoman. Her will was made years ago when she was left trustee. But there have been rumors that she was thinking of revising it.”
The matter seemed bleakly plain. Miss Austin struggling to keep up the house with limited funds, Charles Frimsbee, now an invalid, both needing money badly.
“What about Charles Frimsbee?”
Mark shook his head. “He's the only one with an absolutely airtight alibi for anything. The poor fellow had a third operation last week. He's been in the hospital since they released him as a POW from Vietnam. But there's his wife—”
“But you are not sure there was anything wrong with Mrs. Horvath's death. And Roderick might have been killed by someone with no connection with the family at all!”
“I am afraid that would be overly optimistic.”
I was back in the place where the past and present revolved dizzily together.
“So you want me to watch the suspects for you? How did you know where I was today?”
“You were followed.”
“I should have invited my tail’ to share a taxi, then,” I flared. “And I have no talent for spying! What right—”
“Have I to ask you to do so?” he finished.
“Yes, what indeed?”
“Someday—” His face was unreadable, and chilled me by its closed-in quality, its lack of expression. “We shall have some explanations. In the meantime—yes, I have no right to ask this of you. I'm on a job. I was called in because of Roderick. I will not meddle at all if this proves to be a routine crime investigation, but I have a hunch. Sometimes one develops a sixth sense.”
I nodded.
“I honestly believe, Erica, that the murderer of Roderick Frimsbee is now living in the Abbey. And I think that uncovering of what lies behind all this is important. You can refuse to help, however, if you wish.”
For a long moment I looked down at the tablecloth, seeing neither the fabric nor our dishes. He was deadly serious about this. If I had become another and wiser person, as I had hoped, this was a chance to prove it
“All right. What must I do?”
“Gordon Cantrell is the only one, other than the police and you, who knows that I was at the Abbey last night. It was pure bad luck running into him. He will have to be satisfied with a story—”
“I don't know how!” My protest was swift. I might be a writer of creative fiction, but this baffled me.
“Just back me up. You have only to go along with it.” He looked at his watch. “Do you have any more shopping?”
“No. The shoes are all I really needed. And I mostly wanted to get out of the Abbey.”
“Good enough. I'll drive you to the Cantrells’. You introduce me to Mrs. Cantrell—I met you—we discussed last night—enough for a social contact.”
I could not find any ready excuse. Obediently I arose from the table, slipped into the coat he held ready. A black car had pulled to the curb outside. The driver got out and Mark took his place.
“Back by six,” he told the other.
Our talk, as he drove, was not polite chatter. To my surprise, Mark spoke of my book as if he had read it—though I would hardly think it would be of interest to him. He asked about the research I was now doing, and I outlined the task before me. But both of us avoided the “do-you-remembers” which might have been normal.
As we came into the street of the Horvath house I saw that the gate leading to the theater was closed, the police cars gone. We pulled into the courtyard of the carriage house, I was out quickly, reaching for the knocker before Mark caught up. I wanted to get this over quickly.
Theodosia opened the door, and I introduced my companion with a steady voice. She welcomed us as if she had been hoping for such an interruption.
“I don't know whether you are aware of it or not, Colonel Rohmer, but writers live on coffee when in the throes of work, and I have a pot on the boil now. Sit down and share it, both of you.”
I was content to sip my coffee, leaving conversation to them. They got along well. Mark engaged in easy shop talk. I wondered how much homework he had put in learning the fields of interest of those he needed to contact. Now he was deep in the Kitteridge case with Theodosia.
My watch marked three-thirty, and I knew, without being told, Mark wanted to stay until Gordon arrived. But that might not be for hours! I heard him skillfully guiding the talk to the Abbey and Theodosia holding forth on the fantastic truth which would not be allowed in fiction.
Mark's charm was not surface-obvious as was Gordon's, nor had it become threadbare over the passing years. I felt the old pull and kept reminding myself that there were darker sides to his nature. He could be as cruel as his Blackfoot ancestors had once been said to be.
It had never bothered me that Mark was Indian. In fact, that had added to his attraction. Though education and wide travel had divorced him from what one might expect of his race, yet I was sure under that outer shell he must be governed by the mores of another people.
“Theo!” The front door opened and there sounded the bellow of a thoroughly exasperated man. “Who in the hell parked that car so I can't pull in?”
Mark arose with that feline grace of movement particularly his. Theodosia was clearly annoyed.
“Gordon, we have guests! Come in—”
Gordon appeared in the doorway. He did not even blink when he saw the guests, or at least one of them.
We were all very polite, exchanging neat platitudes for the next few minutes. But I knew Theodosia was irked. I wondered then if she knew what Mark had told me about Gordon and Leslie. Gordon's attitude might be termed wary.
I was reluctant to end the scene, though I refused to analyze why. Mark glanced at his watch, but he lingered—as if he were setting the stage for some future role.
When he finally left, Theodosia spoke first:
“Where did you meet him?”
Remembering my pretense of ignorance with Gordon, I had to be wary.
“Last night—he's the one who chased me. We ran into each other in town and he wanted to apologize today about that. Now—I must go. Bucking the shopping crowds was something. I'm going back and put my feet up. Thanks for the coffee and the loan of the coat.”
Theodosia smiled. Another time that knowing look would have made me squirm. But suddenly I was tired, as if I had been under a strain which had drained my energy. I put on Irene's coat and walked back across the garden.
; A car was pulling up under the portico. Its license plate bore the green seal of a doctor.
Miss Elizabeth—had she taken a turn for the worse? I hurried in—yet I wanted no more Austin burdens, only the peace and quiet to be found in my room.
9
As I climbed the stairs I heard voices and in the upper hall I came face to face with Irene and the doctor. Since our meeting in the morning, the younger Mrs. Frimsbee's appearance had deteriorated even more. Lacking makeup, her face had an unhealthy gray look and there were brown stains under her eyes. She pushed at loose ends of hair impatiently and about her mouth were brackets of mulish stubbornness.
“—not there,” she was saying. “He's too little, he wouldn't understand. They don't really care—with them it's all routine and efficiency. He'd be frightened to death. And surely he can't be that sick!”
“Under the circumstances,” the doctor cut in, “I would seriously consider it, Mrs. Frimsbee. It is very easy for such a condition to slip into pneumonia.”
Irene shook her head. “I have the vaporizer and you gave him the shots. Hell be all right, I know he will! Stuart is not going to any hospital!” She spat out the last word as if it were loathsome.
The doctor shrugged. “I haven't been able to locate a nurse to help you here—”
“I don't need one, I know how to take care of my own child! Goodness knows, Stuart's had enough colds in the past.”
“This may be more than a cold before we are through, Mrs. Frimsbee. If there is any change, if he starts the heavy coughing again, call me at once.”
Irene, one hand on the knob of her bedroom door, plainly begrudged the time spent in listening to such admonitions.
“He's calling me now. Stuart doesn't want anyone but me. A strange nurse would only frighten him. If I took him to the hospital, he would be scared to death. Ever since Aunt Emma yelled at him that time—” Her lips twisted. “Thank you for coming, Doctor. I'll be in touch.” She went in, closing the door firmly behind her.
The doctor uttered an annoyed exclamation and I asked: