Brinke said thinly, “I’ve read a few…have to know the competition.” To Hector, Brinke said, “Estelle writes a lot of things involving exotic poisons…murder-in-the-vicarage kind of stuff. Locked room mysteries. Her books all feature the same detective — an Albanian-accountant-cum-amateur-sleuth.”
Hector blew some smoke through his nose and said, “Gee. Those sound…swell.”
He rose and shook the woman’s hand. Estelle wore her mouse-brown hair in an English approximation of a French bob. Her dress covered more of her than most women in Paris seemed to care to cover, despite the cold. Her eyes were dark and quick and her mouth full. She was moderately attractive, but she carried herself stiffly…too prim. Hector offered her his seat, then moved behind Brinke’s chair, resting his hands on the back of her chair.
Looking back and forth between them and clapping her hands, Gertrude said, “My mystery pantheon is complete!” Hector bridled at being lumped in as a “mystery” writer, but smiled as politely as he could manage. Gertrude said, “Brinke tells me she has read your novels, Estelle. And have you read Brinke’s books?”
Brinke’s charcoal eyes turned on Gertrude. Gertrude waved a big hand. “Don’t look at me in that way. We’re among friends here. Brinke is secretly Connor Templeton.”
Standing behind her, knowing her only a few hours, Hector could already sense that Brinke was seething. He placed a hand on her shoulder and squeezed. She reached up to hold his hand there.
The young British mystery writer smiled, closely examining Brinke now, and said, “I know them. They’re quite clever and funny. Good after-work books.”
Hector winced a little as Brinke’s nails dug into the back of his hand.
Estelle said, “I’ve read some of Hector’s stories, too.” Looking quickly around, as if she might be misunderstood, she said, “My husband reads those dime magazines. He picks up pulp magazines as we travel. On a liner, earlier this year, he found some Black Mask magazines. He’s held on to those copies to read and reread Hector’s stories.”
Hector nodded, realizing he was squeezing Brinke’s shoulder a little too tightly. He said, “What do you think of them, Mrs. Quartermain?”
Estelle licked her lips. She said, “You’re a real writer…your dialogue is very convincing and real. And there is an urgency and fear that comes through very strongly. With your abilities, you could…”
Estelle seemed to hesitate, not sure she should go ahead with that thought.
Brinke said, “With his abilities, Hector will eventually eclipse us both, I suspect. When he writes a crime novel, I wager he’ll raise the bar and change the terrain for all of us mere mystery writers. Locked room mysteries can get a little deadening after a while. The same with drunken bon vivant detectives like those in my books.”
Gertrude said, “I didn’t bring you three together to talk shop or to posture.”
Hector said, “Then why did you bring us together?”
Gertrude’s eyes shone. “We need you to help us catch a killer.”
7
Hector finally resorted to the scotch Hem had handed him. He drained it at a pull. Alice was soon beside him with a decanter. She refilled his glass and said, “Poor, poor Natalie.”
“So this is about the little magazine murders,” Hector said.
“They were all dear friends,” Gertrude said. So far as Hector knew, Gertrude didn’t maintain many “dear friends” and long-term associations were unheard of. Gertrude turned or was turned on all of them by Alice.
Or so Hector had heard.
When Gertrude called the murdered magazine publishers “dear friends,” Hector assumed she meant that they had published various of her pieces. Though Gertrude enjoyed a considerable reputation, surprisingly few of Gertrude’s works were actually in print.
“The police are quite stupid and uninspired,” Gertrude said, glowering. “I have no sense from the papers that the police have any inkling the murders have a literary connection. The police seem to be looking at these killings as random, isolated acts. But the police are always stupid, are they not?”
Hector figured Gertrude’s low opinion of the authorities to have been shaped by reading too many “frankly bad” mystery novels.
He said to Gertrude, “And you truly think that we can solve these crimes?”
“You three, yes, with all of your experience and knowledge, and with my counsel as a student of the genre. Yes, I know that we can do this. Do it we shall.”
Hector was struggling to maintain composure. He said, “It doesn’t work the way it does in our various books and stories. We give ourselves — give our detectives —certain advantages.” He looked at Estelle Quartermain. “Some of us give ourselves more advantages than some others. But we all do it — bend things toward the possibility of a solution. When you read a mystery novel, things glide along in their brisk and mandated way. Then you suddenly get an extra paragraph on some butler or chauffeur. The author is making you notice that servant or driver. Setting him up as the killer or as a red herring. It’s a so-called fair-play convention…a sorry, tired device. Unfortunately, there are no such fair-play conventions that apply to real-life crimes.”
Brinke said, “Hector is right. People kill for the reasons they do in his stories, not like in the novels that Estelle and I write. In life, arguments escalate and a too-hard blow falls. A man comes home from work early because he’s feeling ill and finds his wife in bed with his brother, or with the fellow down the hall. Sex fiends murder strangers as opportunity arises. Robberies go bad and somebody innocent dies. Killers simply don’t kill for the complex or arcane reasons that they do in mystery novels.”
Gertrude, clearly exasperated with Hector and Brinke, looked to Estelle Quartermain.
In her lightly accented British alto, Estelle said, “I’m reluctantly forced to agree with Miss Devlin and with Hector. Sadly, no crimes really get solved from armchairs, Miss Stein. In a perfect world, we might…”
Hector lost the thread then…tuning Estelle out. He was suddenly seized by this nasty image of himself with the British mystery writer. In his mind’s eye, he saw himself bending Estelle over some couch…pushing her skirt up over her waist and making her snarl.
Gertrude held up a hand, silencing Estelle.
Slack-jawed, Gertrude pointed across the room at one of her guests who seemed to be having some kind of episode or profound seizure.
The man was bald and fat and he was clutching at his head and neck. His arms began to tremble and then his legs began to shake. He fell to his knees and his back arched suddenly. Gertrude said, “Hemingway, see to Charles!”
Hector was making his way around the back of Brinke’s chair as the man clutched his belly a last time and then collapsed into Hem’s arms.
Hem, who was a doctor’s son, checked the man’s airway, then rolled him onto his side.
Hector grabbed the man’s fat hairy wrist and felt for a pulse.
Hem frowned and tore off the man’s false shirt collar. He thrust three fingers up under the folds of fat, pressing up under the man’s chin. Hem shook his head and said, “Nada. Luckless son of a bitch is dead enough.”
“Roses…tulips…and now lilies,” Hector said.
***
“He was a big boy. What do you think — a heart attack?”
Hem watched a doctor who lived across the courtyard working over the man. He sipped some wine and said, “My instincts are against it, Lasso. And he was clutching his head and neck first.” Hem drained his wine. “Then, he grabbed at his belly and back, best he could with his arms shaking like that. Just before he died, everything was convulsing and twitching. I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“Nor have I,” the doctor said.
The man, Charles Turner, lay on the floor with his dead eyes widely staring up in the direction of the high ceiling. The doctor pulled at the dead man’s arm and said, “Look at that. He’s dead, what, perhaps ten minutes? Yet already the rigor has set in. Very, very
unusual.”
Estelle Quartermain, standing alongside still seated Gertrude, said, “Some poisons produce that result.”
Hector tipped his head on side. “You actually think he was poisoned?”
Estelle pointed at the plate atop the piano and said, “I saw him eating several of the visitandines a bit ago.”
Hem said, “Alice was eating them, too, and Alice still looks…well, vertical.”
Hector covered his mouth to hide his smile at that.
Estelle, indomitable, said, “You should smell the cakes. If it is strychnine, they should smell very bitter.”
Hector leaned down and sniffed at the plate: “Smells sweet,” he said. “So much for the poison theory. And where does this strychnine business come from?”
“The convulsions Mr. Hemingway described, and the order in which they occurred, are common results of strychnine poisoning,” Estelle said, looking from Hector to Brinke. “So is immediate rigor.”
“That last I’ve heard of,” the doctor said. “And his eyes…wide open…the blood vessels all burst. It could well be poisoning.”
Gertrude shuddered and said to Estelle, “Would it have to be in something he ate, or drank?”
“It could even be inhaled in powder form,” the mystery writer said.
Estelle seemed to be enjoying the limelight, Hector thought. He said: “How long after exposure until he’d turn tits up?” Hector ignored the cross looks his crass phrasing drew from Gertrude and Alice.
Her voice taut, Estelle said, “Maybe twenty minutes. Probably no more than thirty minutes.”
Hector nodded. “And you know all this from your own books?”
Estelle tipped up her chin. “I was also a nurse during the war.”
That shut Hector down. Brinke leaned over the doctor’s shoulder. She said, “What’s that in his hand?”
Hector knelt down and pried the man’s right hand open. Everyone in the room shuddered at the crack from a couple of the corpse’s fingers broken by Hector’s exertions. He held up a small silver case. “Snuff,” Hector said. Then he narrowed his eyes. To Estelle, he said, “You said it could be inhaled?” He opened the case. “Bitter you said?”
Brinke said, “For God’s sake, Hector, don’t smell it! If she’s right, you’ll be the next to hit the floor.”
Hector sprinkled a little of the snuff on the piano top and then picked up a paper napkin and spread it over the light dusting of snuff. He leaned down and took a short sharp smell through the layers of napkin. He recoiled. “Christ, it’s bitter as hell.”
Hadley, standing on the other side of the piano where she wouldn’t have to see the body, said, “Someone should call the police now, don’t you think?”
8
“It’s been a hell of a first date, Mr. Lassiter.”
Hector pulled Brinke closer under the blanket. The horse’s hooves rung on the slick pavement. They had just dropped the Hemingways at their new apartment above the sawmill.
He said, “Is that what tonight has been? A date? Seven hours ago, I’d never even heard of a Brinke Devlin.”
“What else to call it?”
“A ‘date’ it is.” He kissed her. “We calling it a night?”
“Calling it a night on the town, sure.” Brinke stroked his cheek. “But calling it a night? Lord, no. But my landlady is a nun…or she was. Or she acts like one. Like a vengeful, dangerous bitter nun. I’m not sure we can get by her.”
“What about a hotel?”
“You’re a struggling crime writer and you’ve spent enough tonight on oysters and wine and taxis. Thank you so much for all that, by the way. It’s been a wonderful night. One of the best.”
“Despite the murder?”
She smiled. “Maybe partly because of it. It’s a night I surely won’t forget.”
Hector accepted another slow soft kiss and then said, “That leaves us with two prospects: the night is over, or we sneak past my surrogate mother of a femme de ménage”.
Brinke adjusted the brim of his hat she was still wearing. “So, loan me your coat when we get there. I’ll try and walk like a man. And I promise to be quiet when we get to your rooms. But do you have some wine at your place?”
“Red or white?”
“Red.”
Hector said, “We’ll need to make one more stop.” He called up to the cocher, “We need to make a stop at the Rue Auguste Comte.”
Brinke said, “Where do you live, by the way?”
“The Rue Vavin. Four floors up.”
She smiled. “We’re practically neighbors.”
***
Hector slid from under the covers to place another log on the fire. He looked out the dormer window: the snow was falling again. He freshened their glasses of wine and said, “I hope you don’t have to be up early.”
“Only to write,” she said, watching him. “But I think I might give myself the morning off.”
“Me too.”
“Good boy.”
He slid back under the covers with her. They tapped glasses and Brinke said, “I thought you might thrash Estelle.”
“That, among other things,” Hector said. “Suppose the afternoon papers should tell the story as to whether she called it right with the poison.”
“Suppose so,” Brinke said. “Did you know this Charles?”
“Didn’t know him from Adam. Did you know the fella?”
“Only in passing.”
“What did he do for a living?”
“You really have to ask? He ran Meridian. You know — another little magazine.”
***
An hour later, Hector rolled off her onto his back. Brinke scooted closer, holding him close, her thigh sliding across his belly. The muscles high up in her leg were still trembling.
From below and next door, Hector could hear a singer…“Winter Winds Blow.” In the song, a lonely man losing his grip addressed memories of former lovers.
Brinke’s black bangs tickled Hector’s cheek. He stroked her hair back across her forehead and said, “What do you think of the long-term prospects for a couple of fiction writers?”
Sleepily, Brinke said, “You mean, in terms of a life together?”
“Yeah.”
“Depends on the writers, I expect,” Brinke said. “And, of course, the respective size of the advances.”
9
Hector requested an extra-large breakfast from Germaine and tucked his mail between the tray and plate.
Brinke was sitting at his typewriter, pecking away.
He said, “Thought you gave yourself the day off?”
“Just making a few quick notes about last night. In case I ever decide to use it in a book.”
Hector placed the tray on the table with the newspapers and his mail and read over Brinke’s shoulder. He said, “Estelle Quartermain may beat you to that novel. In fact, I think she’s already written it a half-dozen times.”
Brinke turned, a dark eyebrow arched. She had her clothes back on from the night before. “You have read Estelle’s stuff, haven’t you? Despite what you told Gertrude.”
“Two or three books,” Hector said. “But I wouldn’t want Gertrude knowing that. She’d construe it as peer interest or envy, and I don’t want to be that British mystery writer’s peer.”
Brinke nodded slowly. “Right.” She stood and stretched and kissed Hector. “What’s for our breakfast?”
“That.” He gestured at the table.
“What’ll you be having?”
He smiled and shook his head. Brinke seemed to have an inexhaustible appetite. She also seemed to have an insane metabolism — otherwise, Hector thought Brinke might more resemble Gertrude Stein. “Honestly? I’m not really hungry. Maybe save me a croissant,” he said. “But I do need some coffee. Lots of that.” As Brinke poured his coffee from its metal flask, Hector sorted his mail.
“Something here from Gertrude,” he said. Brinke, munching on a piece of bacon, squinting, tried to read over his shoulder.
“So, an audience at four,” he said. “I suppose you have your own version of such a letter back at your place.”
“Better be a safe enough bet,” Brinke said. “Otherwise, my ego will be in a knot.”
Hector said, “Daffy old bitch really wants to play amateur detective. She could better invest her time in rewriting her own prose. Maybe then it would sell.”
Brinke paused, a forkful of scrambled eggs at her mouth. Without lipstick and makeup, she looked very young…almost fresh-faced. She said, “Gertrude sees all these magazine publishers going ‘tits up’ to borrow a phrase of yours, and she’s probably in a blind panic that she’ll have no outlets.”
“Hem’s trying to force Ford to serialize her Making of Americans,” Hector said. “I’ve seen a bit of that, thanks to Hem. All I can say is, Christ.”
Brinke rose and found her purse and slipped out a pair of reading glasses. Blushing, she put them on and opened one of the newspapers. “Please don’t tell anyone about these. I’m nearly blind without them.”
She continued eating and reading the paper while Hector sorted more mail. Another check…and an inquiry from an editor asking if Hector might not have some crime novel the magazine’s allied publishing house might take a look at.
Hector had been thinking more about what Brinke had said. He’d never contemplated writing something crime-directed in long form. But God knew he kept hitting walls when he tried to write “straight.” In the morning, he’d take a swing at that other sort of novel, he told himself. Then he looked at his table where Brinke sat eating and reading, fetching in her black sweater and tweed skirt and careless black hair. Well, maybe he’d start the big project the day after…or the day after that. There was always the next weekend.
“Not much here about last night,” Brinke said. “Nothing about cause of death, though poison is mentioned as a possibility. Gertrude will love that…could leave readers with the sense she or Alice spiked the snuff.”
“Yeah, about that,” Hector said. “If it was poison in that snuff box, then it probably happened off-site — the tampering, I mean. Nobody was going to be taking sniffs from that slob’s snuff box. Charles seemed to me, insofar as I even noticed him, to be off to himself for the most part last night.”
One True Sentence: A Hector Lassiter novel (Hector Lassiter series Book 1) Page 5