The Crossword Murder (8 page)

“Well, believe it or not, except for the
we
part, that's exactly what I have planned for this afternoon—a trip to the
Herald
.”

“I'll come with you.”

Rosco said, “I don't think so,” in a tone that illustrated he could be a force to be reckoned with. “Listen, from where I stand, this is a criminal investigation, it's not a word game. I'll handle this on my own.”

“I wish I could see your face right now. I'll bet you look incredibly hard-boiled.”

“You don't know.”

Belle resisted the temptation to laugh. “JaneAlice Miller,” she said quickly instead.

“What?”

“That's who you want to talk to at the
Herald
, JaneAlice Miller. She was Briephs' secretary. My guess is she knows more about Tommy than his own mother.”

Remembering his fumbling conversation with the re-doubtable Sara, Rosco laughed. “I don't imagine Mrs. Briephs would like to hear you say that … especially about a secretary.”

“JaneAlice Miller,” Belle insisted. “I met her a few times at Press Club luncheons. She trailed Briephs as if he were the Lord Almighty. Start with her.”

“If I have time.”

“Ask her who created today's puzzle. She'll know, if anyone does.”

“
If
I run into her.”

“I could phone her for you … Professional courtesy, that type of thing … sympathize about Thompson's untimely demise, and then worm the puzzle information out of her.”

“Belle, drop it, okay? I'll keep you posted.”

CHAPTER 10

R
OSCO'
S
JEEP DIDN'T
like the scorchingly hot weather better than anyone else. It was prone to overheat at speeds in excess of fifty miles per hour—or when stalled during Newcastle's afternoon logjam. He guessed it had something to do with the radiator, but a total disinterest in the finer points of vehicular maintenance was another of Rosco's private quirks.

As he worked his way toward the
Herald
building, the downtown traffic slowed to its habitual crawl, then eventually halted altogether. Rosco maneuvered the Jeep into a bus stop, flipped the windshield visor down and slipped an official police parking permit between two rubber bands. He'd walk the remaining five blocks to the newspaper offices.

Once inside, he scanned the building's registry. Thompson Briephs' name had not yet been removed—room 427. Before moving toward the elevator, Rosco made note of the editor in chief, Steven Housemann—room 401.

The
Herald'
s elevator was an art deco masterpiece, albeit one that had seen happier days. The doors were embellished with two sinuous women cast in bronze; they brandished copper lightning bolts behind their backs while gazing loftily at pewter-hued moons; their metallic clothing was draped to give an illusion of sensual transparency—a nudge and a wink to the hard-bitten newspapermen of an earlier era. The interior was crafted of teak and walnut; brass handrails in serious need of a dose of polish served as accents. It also had a peculiar, musky odor, like the home of an elderly person with fading eyesight and a diminished sense of cleanliness.

Rosco pushed number four and the elevator ascended with a groaning rattle. Exiting, he found room 427 toward the end of the hallway, and tapped three times on the glass-paneled door.

JaneAlice Miller was pretty much what he'd expected—except for the fuchsia lipstick. She was equine and lanky, and her hair resembled the frizzled mane of an overworked horse. Despite her height, she seemed weak and shaken, and her eyes were so red and puffy, she looked as though she'd been crying for a week.

“Miss Miller?” Rosco asked, assuming the likelihood of her being
Mrs
. Miller was slim to say the least.

“Yes?”

“My name is Rosco Polycrates. Mr. Briephs' mother has asked me to help with the funeral arrangements, and since she's fairly unfamiliar with his workplace, I was hoping you'd be able to give me an idea whom we should invite to the memorial service …? And of course anyone who should be discouraged from attending.”

JaneAlice's lips trembled, but no words came from her fiercely painted pink mouth. Rosco noticed the lipstick was decidedly crooked.

He pressed on: “You can call Mrs. Briephs if you'd like.” He reached for his wallet. “I have her number right here.”

“Oh, that's all right,” she sniffled. “I'm just upset.”

“Of course … May I come in?”

JaneAlice retreated into her outer work area, leading the way toward Briephs' inner office without another word. Rosco closed both doors as he passed through.

Alone with Rosco in her boss's sealed haven, JaneAlice was instantly aware of how good-looking this stranger was, and she struggled to be flirtatious through her swollen eyes. “You can examine his Rolodex if you wish.” She forced a pitiful smile. “I'm sure no one will mind … I was his
confidential
secretary, you know, just like—”

“Well, JaneAlice … You don't mind if I call you JaneAlice, do you?”

“Oh, please,” she fluttered.

“Well, I'm sure the people in Mr. Briephs' Rolodex must be aware of his death by now. What his mother is most concerned about are the folks who may have had a … shall we say … a strained relationship with your boss? Unless, of course, this is something you have no knowledge of.”

“Oh, I know a great deal … I was the only person who truly understood Mr. Briephs. I was the only person who knew how to care for him. The others were all after something for themselves. I thought only of him. Did you ever see Jean Simmons in—?”

“Were you romantically involved with Mr. Briephs?”

JaneAlice blushed until even her pallid hair glowed red, and her eyes welled up with a fresh batch of tears. “Please, Mr. Polycrates, I've never … I've never … Oh, I wouldn't even … Not in a million years.”

“I'm sorry. It's none of my business.”

“He was a great man. A genius! An exemplary journalist … I would never have been worthy to … Well, to do anything more than he asked me to.”

Rosco gave her a minute or two to regain her composure, then pressed forward with an adjusted line of questions. But JaneAlice's responses made little sense. Her scattered monologue produced such a confusion of names and telephone numbers, Rosco didn't bother taking notes.

“Why don't we slow down a little here, JaneAlice? Let's start off with this. Has the
Herald
hired a replacement for Mr. Briephs?”

“Oh, that woman … that … floozy … that charlatan … After all the trouble this newspaper had with her, I can't believe she's now been hired to take over for Mr. Briephs. It'll be the death of me. You wait.”

“Who might that be?”

“Shannon McArthur, that's who! She's a liar, a cheat, a fraud, and a potential vote for Communism, if you want my opinion … And it was Mr. Briephs who exposed her plagiarism. He had her name dragged through the mud and she deserved it. And now she's coming to the
Herald
to take his place. It's not right. It simply isn't! She's a vile person!”

“And that's who made up today's puzzle?”

“My goodness, no! She wouldn't have the brains for today's offering. That was one of Mr. Briephs' creations! And a most unusual one, too! Mr. Briephs prided himself on his progressive and interconnecting cryptics, you see. Something I'm sure Shannon McArthur will be incapable of. My boss was always five puzzles ahead. Thank heaven I removed them from his attaché case, or we wouldn't have any puzzles this week. Although he left none of the solutions. Mr. Housemann will kill me when he finds that out … Anyway, I won't have to see or talk to this
woman
until she takes over next Monday … I don't know how long I'll last. Why, she isn't even as intelligent as that blonde
thing
at the
Evening Crier
.”

This brought a slight smile to Rosco's lips. “I understand she's rather attractive,” he said almost unconsciously.

“Well, that's the opinion of some! Men may think she's lovely to look at, but external appearance is no test for the beauty of the soul … I'm sure she's happier than a clam at high tide with Mr. Briephs' passing—”

“So, aside from this unintelligent
blond
—”

“Annabella Graham.” JaneAlice fairly spat out the name.

“Miss Graham—”

“It would be
Mrs
., if she had any decency! She's a veritable
Jezebel
, just like in the movie—!”

“I see,” Rosco interrupted. “So, aside from this Graham woman and Miss McArthur, is there anyone else you feel Mrs. Briephs should dissuade from attending her son's memorial?”

“Betsey Housemann,” was the immediate response.

“She would be Steven Housemann's wife?”

“That's what he likes to believe!”

“I see … Now, a while ago you mentioned some names that confused me slightly. Were those co-workers by any chance?”

“I suppose … I'm not sure …”

“Let's go back to those folks, shall we? You mentioned a Bartholomew Kerr, I believe?”

“Oh, my goodness—” JaneAlice began, but a knock at the outside door interrupted what promised to become another lengthy soliloquy. The secretary nearly leapt out of her skin at the sound; when she heard her name called by a commanding male voice, her bony chest drew in three consecutive sighs that sounded like air being forced out of a plastic bag.

“Gracious! It's Mr. Housemann!”

Terror caused her to rush from the room, leaving Rosco to wonder if JaneAlice believed the editor in chief to be an ogre—or if something more sinister were gnawing at her brain.

“Oh, Mr. Housemann! I'm so sorry … I didn't hear you knock … and I always have the door on automatic lock. Women can't be too careful with all the crime around … even in an office building as well-maintained as yours.”

Rosco couldn't discern actual words in Housemann's reply, but the sound seemed soothing, even kind. Nonetheless, JaneAlice still seemed upset as she conducted the editor in chief to Briephs' inner sanctum.

“This man has been hired by Mrs. Briephs to help with funeral arrangements,” was all JaneAlice said before bolting from the room and leaving the two men in surprised silence.

Housemann turned his tall, spare frame toward the visitor. Only an abundance of ice-white hair betrayed his years. In musculature and bearing, he resembled a man half his age. Rosco extended his hand in what he intended as a somber gesture of sympathy.

“May I express my condolences, sir?” he said. “You must be greatly saddened at Mr. Briephs' passing.”

A hint of something like glee passed behind Housemann's eyes, but disappeared before Rosco had time to characterize the emotion. Instead, the editor in chief's expression turned thoughtful. “Indeed,” he said gravely, then tacked on a quick, faintly impatient, “And you are?”

“Rosco Polycrates, sir.”

Rosco felt the use of
sir
made him sound classier. Mrs. Briephs would never hire an average guy to organize her son's funeral.

“Greek, are you?”

“Greek descent, yes, sir.”

“I wouldn't have imagined Sara knew any Greeks.” The observation didn't sound like a slur, simply a newspaperman's attempt to get to the heart of the story. “Well … and what is it you need to know?”

Rosco repeated the lie about Thompson's mother requiring assistance with her son's memorial service, to which Housemann answered, “Still doesn't trust Bulldog Roth, does she?” then cannily added, “You wouldn't be connected to the Polycrates Detective Agency, would you?”

Rosco studied Housemann's face. It was calm, perceptive and clever, a masterful, even commanding face. There'd be no fooling Steven Housemann. “Yes, sir, I am. Although my capacity here is purely as an assistant to the lady. As you can imagine, she's in a state of shock, and, as you noted, there's no love lost between the Senator's chief of staff and Mrs. Briephs.”

“So you're not involved in a criminal investigation?”

“Should I be, sir? The cause of death was listed as heart failure.”

“Quite right,” Housemann answered, then smiled with a show of magnanimity. “Please extend my deepest sympathies and those of my wife to dear Sara. Although Betsey knew Thompson only marginally, she is as deeply saddened as I.”

After that short speech, Housemann called JaneAlice and instructed her to “aid Mr. Polycrates in every way possible,” then suddenly interrupted his own order with a brisk: “Tomorrow would be more convenient for conversation, Mr. Polycrates. As I'm sure you can appreciate, the staff is struggling to fill Thompson's shoes before his replacement arrives. You may not be a crossword-puzzle addict, but believe me, this town is filled with them, and Tom-Boy was their god.”

When JaneAlice produced another spate of sobbing at this homage to her dead lord, Rosco decided to take Housemann's advice and return the following day.

The elevator had scarcely begun its descent from the fourth floor when Steven Housemann slammed Briephs' inner office door with such force that the frosted glass panel appeared in danger of shattering. “What in heaven's name are you thinking of, JaneAlice! What makes you think you should give information to a private detective! This is a newspaper.”

JaneAlice's tears rose to a wail.

“Get hold of yourself, woman! Don't you have any brains! What do we want someone like Polycrates snooping around for? And a Greek, on top of it!” Housemann's rage was so great that his face had turned an ominous shade of purple; every vestige of serene authority had disappeared. His white hair now looked wild and his powerful physique tense and threatening. Rosco would have been astonished at the transformation.