“You said—” Finkel started to whisper.
“Forget it,” I said, determined to stay as far away from him as I could.
I handed the wine to Mrs. Hufnagel and told her the bottles were contributions from Shank and myself.
“Isn’t that nice!” she said. “Just look at this, Cleo. Look at what Mr. Bigg brought!”
“And the Captain,” I reminded her.
“’allo, ’allo, Joshy and Captain Shink!” Madame Zora Kadinsky caroled.
“Shank,” he said.
Cleo’s apartment, obviously furnished to her mother’s taste, was dull, overstuffed, suffocating. The great Hufnagel Plot was being forwarded.
The party was a punch-and-cookies affair. I was glad I’d had a ham sandwich late in the afternoon. The punch tasted like fruit juice.
“What the hell is this?” asked Captain Shank. “No kick. Dump about half the muscatel into it.”
I did so, and in a while I stole upstairs and got vodka and brandy to add to it. The guests had been stiffish, and forcing themselves to try to match the abundant party styles of Mrs. Hufnagel and Mme Kadinsky. But less than an hour after our arrival things were brightening up.
Mme Kadinsky sang “Ah, Sweet Mystery of Life” and other suboperatic selections. The Captain bellowed and pounded the arm of his wheelchair. Urged by Madame Kadinsky and her mother, Cleo and I sedately danced to “Stardust” rendered on an upright piano by Madame K. Finkel showed signs of cutting in, but Mrs. Hufnagel grappled him away to dance with her.
In time things progressed to a jig by Mrs. Hufnagel, skirts held high to reveal thick support hose, and a final maudlin rendering of “Auld Lang Syne.” A very morose Finkel and I had great trouble getting Bramwell Shank back upstairs.
I was too keyed up to attempt to sleep immediately, so I sat in the darkness of the living room, dressed for bed, staring into the cold fireplace. It was, perhaps, almost 1:30 A.M., and I was dozing happily, trying to summon the strength to rise and go to bed, when I heard a light knocking at my door, a timid tapping.
“Who is it?” I whispered hoarsely.
A moment of silence, then: “Cleo. Cleo Hufnagel.”
I unlocked and unchained the door. She was still wearing her party clothes.
“I was just going to bed,” I said in a voice that sounded to me unnecessarily shrill.
“I just wanted to talk to you for a minute,” she said.
“Uh, sure,” I said, and ushered her in. She sat in my favorite armchair. I sat opposite her. I sat primly upright, my pajamaed knees together, my robe drawn tightly.
“First of all,” she said in a low voice, “I want to thank you for what you did. The party was my mother’s idea. I thought it would be horrible. And it was, until you helped. Then it turned out to be fun.”
I made a gesture.
“Don’t thank me,” I said. “It was the punch.”
She smiled wanly. “Whatever,” she said, “I really enjoyed it.”
“I did, too,” I said. “It was fun. I’m glad you invited me.”
“It was Mother’s idea,” she repeated, then drew a deep breath. “You see, I’m almost thirty years old, and she’s afraid that I…”
Her voice faded away.
“Yes,” I said gently, “I understand.”
She looked up at me hopefully.
“Do you?” she said. Then: “Of course you do. You’re intelligent. You know what she’s doing. Trying to do. I wanted you to know that it was none of my doing. I’m sure it must be very embarrassing to you and I wanted to apologize. For my mother.”
“Oh, Cleo,” I said. “Listen, is it all right if I call you Cleo and you call me Josh?”
She nodded silently.
“Well, Cleo…sure, I know what your mother’s doing. Trying to do. But is it so awful? I don’t blame you and I don’t blame her.”
“It’s just so—so vulgar!” she burst out. “And I wanted you to know that it wasn’t my idea, that I’d never do anything like that.”
“I know,” I said consolingly. “It must be very distressing for you. But don’t condemn your mother, Cleo. She only wants what she thinks is best for you.”
“I know that.”
“She loves you and wants you to be happy.”
“I know that, too.”
“So, would it be so terrible if we just let her do her thing? I mean, now that you and I know, it wouldn’t be so awful to let her think she’s helping you—would it?”
“I guess not.”
We sat in silence awhile, not looking at each other.
“What about Adolph Finkel?” I asked finally.
“Oh no,” she said instantly. “No. Did you see that he was wearing one brown shoe and one black shoe tonight?”
“No,” I said, “I didn’t notice.”
“But it’s not only that,” she said. “It’s everything.”
“Is there anyone else you’re interested in?” I asked. “I don’t mean to pry, but we’re being so frank…”
“No,” she said. “No one else.”
This was said in tones so empty, so devoid of hope, that my breath caught. I looked at her. She really was a tall, slender beauty, almost Spanish in her reserve and mystery. It was criminal that she should be unwanted.
“Listen, Cleo,” I said desperately, “this doesn’t mean that we can’t be friends. Does it?”
She raised luminous eyes to look at me steadily. I couldn’t see any implication there. Just deep, deep eyes, unfathomable.
“I’d like that,” she said, smiling at last. “To be friends.”
The whole thing lightened.
“We can learn some new dance steps. The Peabody.”
“The Maxixe,” she said and laughed a little.
Just before she slipped out into the hallway, she bent down to kiss my cheek. A little peck.
“Thank you,” she said softly.
By the time I had rechained and relocked the door, I was wiped out, tottering. I didn’t want to think, or even feel. I just wanted sleep, to repair my punished body and dull a surfeit of impressions, memories, conjectures.
I fell into bed. I was halfway into a deep, dreamless slumber when my phone rang.
“Lo?”
“Josh?”
“Yes. Who is this?”
“Ardis. Ardis Peacock. Remember?”
I came suddenly awake.
“Of course I remember,” I said heartily. “How are you, Ardis?”
“Where have you been?” she demanded. “I been calling all night.”
“Uh, I had a late date.”
“You scamp, you!” she said. “Listen, I got what you wanted on Stonehouse.”
“Wonderful!” I said. “What was his illness?”
“Do I get the other fifty bucks?”
“Of course you do. What was it?”
“You’ll never guess,” she said.
“What was it?” I implored.
“Arsenic poisoning,” she said.
Part II
1
I WAS WAITING TO see Mr. Ignatz Teitelbaum on Monday morning, loitering outside his office and gossiping with Ada Mondora. She stared at me calculatingly.
“I don’t know what to do,” she said.
“About what?” I asked innocently.
“About you,” she said. “And Yetta Apatoff. And Hamish Hooter.”
“Oh,” I said. “That.” With a shamed, sinking feeling to learn that my intimate affairs were a matter of public knowledge.
“There’s an office pool,” she said. “Didn’t you know?”
I shook my head.
“You put up a dollar,” she explained, “on who marries Yetta—you or Hooter. Right now the betting is about evenly divided, so all you can win is another dollar.”
“Who are you betting on?” I asked her.
She looked at me narrowly.
“I don’t know,” she said. “I haven’t made up my mind. Are you serious about her, Josh?”
&
nbsp; “Sure,” I said.
“Uh-huh,” she said. “We shall see what we shall see.”
The door of Mr. Teitelbaum’s office opened and Hamish Hooter exited, carrying a heavy ledger.
He looked at me, then looked at Ada Mondora, then strode away. Wordless.
“Mr. Personality,” Ada said. “You can go in now, Josh.”
He looked smaller than ever. He looked like a deflated football, the leather grained and wrinkled. He sat motionless behind that big desk, sharp eyes following me as I entered and approached. He jerked his chin toward an armchair. I sat down.
“Report?” he said, half-question and half-command.
“Mr. Teitelbaum,” I started, “about this Stonehouse business…I hope you’ll approve an expenditure of a hundred dollars. For confidential information.”
“What information?”
“For a period of about six months, ending a month prior to his disappearance, Professor Stonehouse was suffering from arsenic poisoning.”
If I was expecting a reaction, I was disappointed; there was none.
“Sir, the information was obtained in such a manner that the firm’s name will not be connected with it. I believe it is valid. The Professor was a victim of arsenic poisoning beginning in late summer of last year. Finally the symptoms became so extreme that he consulted a physician. After a series of tests, the correct diagnosis was made.”
“You know all this?” he asked. “For a fact?”
“I’m extrapolating,” I admitted. “From information received from several sources. After the Professor became aware of what was going on, he apparently took steps to end the poisoning. In any event, he recovered. He was in reasonably good health at the time of his disappearance.”
He began to swing slowly back and forth in his swivel chair, turning his head slightly each time he swung to keep me in view.
“You think he was being deliberately poisoned, Mr. Bigg?”
“Yes, sir.”
“By a member of his family?”
“Or his household, sir. There are two servants. I don’t see how else it could have been done. It’s my impression that he rarely dined out. If he was ingesting arsenic, he had to get it in his own home.”
“No one else in the household became ill?”
“No, sir, not to my knowledge. It’s something I’ll have to check out.”
He thought about this a long time.
“Ugly,” he said finally. There was no disgust in his voice, no note of disappointment in the conduct of the human race. It was just a judicial opinion: “Ugly.”
“Yes, sir.”
“What would be the motive?” he asked. “Presuming what you believe is true, why would anyone in the Stonehouse family wish to poison him?”
“That I don’t know, sir. Perhaps it had something to with the will. The missing will. Mr. Teitelbaum, can a person draw up his own will?”
He stared at me.
“A holographic will?” he said. “In the handwriting of testator? Properly drawn and properly witnessed? Yes, it would be valid. With several caveats. A husband, for instance, could not totally disinherit his wife. A testator could not make bequests contrary to public policy. To finance the assassination of a president, for example. And so forth. There are other requirements best left to the expertise of an attorney. But a simple will composed by the testator could be legal.”
“With what you know about Professor Stonehouse, sir, do you think he was capable of drawing up such a document?”
He didn’t hesitate.
“Yes,” he said. “He would be capable. In fact, it would be likely, considering the kind of man he was. You think that’s what he did?”
“I just don’t know,” I admitted. “It’s certainly possible. Did you ask Mrs. Stonehouse if her husband had dealings with any other attorneys?”
“I asked,” he said, nodding. “She said she knew of none. That doesn’t necessarily mean he didn’t, of course. He was a very secretive man. Mr. Bigg, I find this whole matter increasingly disturbing. I told you I feared Professor Stonehouse was dead. I had nothing to base that belief on other than a feeling, instinct, a lifetime of dealing with the weaknesses of very fallible human beings. Your news that Professor Stone-house was the victim of poisoning only confirms that belief.” He paused. “We have both used the term ‘victim.’ You do not suppose, do you, that the poisoning could have been accidental?”
“I don’t think so, sir.” We sat awhile in silence. “Mr. Teitelbaum,” I said, “do you want me to continue the investigation?”
“Yes,” he said, in such a low voice that it came out a faint “Ssss.”
“You don’t feel the matter of the arsenic poisoning should be reported to the police?”
He roused, a little, and sat up straighter in his chair.
“No, not as yet. Continue with your inquiries.”
I walked down to the main floor, hoping to have a moment to chat with Yetta Apatoff. But Mr. Orsini was just coming through the main entrance, the door held ajar for him by a worshipful aide, and two more bobbing along in his wake.
“Josh,” he cried, grabbing my arm. “I’ve got a new one you’ll love!”
He pulled me close. His aides clustered around, twittering with eagerness.
“This very short man is sitting in a bar,” Orsini said, “and down at the other end he sees this great big gorgeous blonde by herself. Get the picture?”
When it was over I stumbled back to my office, called Ardis, and asked her to meet me on 74th and Amsterdam in twenty minutes, about 1:45. Next I rang up the Stonehouse residence and asked if I could come by at 2:00 P.M., to talk to the maid, Olga Eklund, and to pick up a photograph of Professor Stonehouse to be used on reward posters. This was a ruse to get into the house again. I spoke to Glynis Stonehouse; she told me that she and her mother would be happy to see me.
I grabbed a gyro and a Coke on my way to meet Ardis. She was on the northwest corner, waiting for me.
“Thank God! You’re on time! I had one of the nurses cover for me, but if Stolowitz calls in and I’m not at my desk, he’ll go crazy.”
“Thank you, Ardis,” I said in a low voice, handing her an envelope. “A big help.”
“Any time,” she said, whisking the envelope out of sight. “You’re in the neighborhood, give me a call. We’ll have lunch—or whatever.”
“I’ll do that,” I said.
I walked south on Central Park West to the Stonehouse apartment house and went through the business of identifying myself to the man behind the desk.
The door to 17-B was opened by a Valkyrie. She lacked only a horned helmet. This was undoubtedly Olga Eklund. She was almost a foot taller than I, broad in the shoulders and hips, with long, sinewy arms and legs. Her head seemed no wider than her strong neck, and beneath her black uniform I imagined a hard torso, muscle on muscle, and tight skin flushed with health.
I had fantasized flaxen tresses. They existed, but had been woven into a single braid, thick as a hawser, and this plait had been wound around and around atop her head, giving her a gleaming crown that added another six inches to her impressive height. The eyes, as I had fancied, were a deep-sea blue, the whites as chalky as milk. She wore no makeup, but the full lips were blooming, the complexion a porcelainized cream.
She gave such an impression of bursting good health, of strength and vitality, that it made me shrink just to look at her. She seemed of a different species, someone visiting from Planet 4X-5-6-Gb, to demonstrate to us earthlings our sad insufficiencies.
“Mr. Bigg,” she asked in the sultry, throbbing voice that had conjured up all those exciting images when I had heard it on the phone.
“Yes,” I said. “You must be Miss Eklund.”
“Yah,” she said. “Hat? Coat?”
She hung my things away in the hall closet. I followed her down the long corridor. She moved with a powerful, measured tramp. Beneath the skirt, rounded calves bunched and smoothed. She had the musculature of a trapeze
artist, marble under suede. I was happy she hadn’t offered to shake hands.
Mrs. Ula Stonehouse and Glynis were waiting for me in the living room. There was a tea service on one of the small cocktail tables, and at their urging I accepted a cup of tea from the efficient Olga Eklund.
“I’m sorry I have no news to report,” I told mother and daughter. “I have discovered nothing new bearing on the Professor’s disappearance.”
“Mother said you asked about Father’s health,” Glynis said. “His illness last year. Did you speak to his doctor?”
She was curled into one corner of the long couch, her splendid legs tucked up under her.
“Yes, I spoke to Dr. Stolowitz,” I said, addressing both of them. “He wouldn’t reveal the exact nature of the illness, but I gathered it was some kind of flu or virus. Tell me, was anyone else in the family ill at the same time the Professor was sick?”
“Let me think,” Mrs. Stonehouse said, cocking her head. “That was last year. Oh yes. I had a cold that lasted and lasted. And poor Effie was sniffling for a least a week. Glynis, were you sick?”
“Probably,” the daughter said in her husky voice. “I don’t really remember, but I usually get at least one cold when winter comes. Does this have anything to do with my father’s disappearance, Mr. Bigg?”
“Oh no,” I said hastily. “I just wanted to make certain he was in good health on January 10th. And from what you and Dr. Stolowitz have told me, he apparently was.”
Glynis Stonehouse looked at me a moment. I thought she was puzzled, but then her face cleared.
“You’re trying to determine if he might have had amnesia?” she asked. “Or be suffering some kind of temporary mental breakdown?”
“Yes,” I said, “something like that. But obviously we can rule that out. Mrs. Stonehouse, I wonder if you’d mind if I talked to your maid for a few moments. Just to see if she might recall something that could help.”
“Not at all,” Glynis Stonehouse said before her mother could answer. “She’s probably in the kitchen or dining room. You know the way; go right ahead. I’ve already instructed Olga to tell you whatever you want to know.”
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