The Withdrawing Room (10 page)

“Hey, don’t look like that! Put your head down. I’ll get some brandy.”

“No, please.” Sarah fought to get herself together. “We’re supposed to be having a quiet little business conference, remember? You might just get me a glass of water from the bathroom if you don’t mind. I’m not going to faint, don’t worry. It’s only that—things keep coming.”

“I know. Believe me, I didn’t want to tell you this. I wouldn’t have, but I was afraid Quiffen might already have started dropping hints about the investigation around town, maybe even here in the house, I thought you’d be less shocked by hearing it privately from me, and perhaps be able to alert your cousin to squash any rumors before they get out of hand. I’m sorry, Mrs. Kelling.”

“You’re not half so sorry as I am.” Sarah took the glass he handed her, and drank from it. “That sounds nastier than I meant it to. I did ask for your help, didn’t I? If you find out my boarder was killed by the cousin who wangled me a boardinghouse license, that’s simply my tough luck, isn’t it?”

“Want some more water?”

“Oh, stop being kind! You’re making me ashamed of myself. Seriously, Mr. Bittersohn, I cannot picture Dolph sneaking up and shoving an old man in front of a train. I don’t say he wouldn’t be vindictive if he found out what was going on because he certainly would, but that’s just not the way he operates. His idea of revenge would be to arrange a public meeting in Faneuil Hall, drag Mr. Quiffen up to the podium, and denounce him in front of the audience as a cur and a rotter. He’d then demand a complete audit of his handling of Great-uncle Frederick’s funds from time immemorial.”

“Including the frogs?”

“I shouldn’t be surprised if someone brought that up, plus a few of their more spectacular lunacies, like the time Great-uncle Frederick overheard some boy teasing a girl about going down to the Esplanade that night to watch the submarine races. He at once got it into his head that the Russian Navy was doing subversive activities up and down the Charles River.’ He fumed around and got Dolph believing it, too. Finally the pair of them went storming into the National Guard Armory, demanding that troops be sent to guard the Hatch Memorial Shell so that Arthur Fiedler wouldn’t get bombed.”

“I’m surprised I missed that one.”

“Well, you can believe a lot of other people didn’t. Anyway, by the time the meeting was over, everybody would have come to the conclusion that Dolph wasn’t fit to handle cookie money for a Girl Scout, and the family would have to appoint a conservator for him, too. Actually Dolph is sound enough on the fiscal end. His lawyers handle all the complicated parts, and he has a firm of certified public accountants to check on the lawyers, so unless a great many reputable people are in cahoots together, I cannot believe there’s anything behind this investigation of Mr. Quiffen’s except his usual nastiness. But the fact remains that Mr. Quiffen’s been killed. If we go stirring up trouble for the murderer, he or she would be awfully stupid not to bring out this story about the detective trailing Dolph. It would make a perfect red herring, wouldn’t it?”

“I’m afraid it would,” Bittersohn agreed. “That’s another reason why I thought we might as well face the issue now instead of later.”

“And naturally you wanted to see how I reacted to the idea that Dolph might be guilty. I don’t blame you, Mr. Bittersohn. But I just can’t go along with it because it doesn’t fit in with all the things I know and feel about Dolph. One does have to reply on one’s instincts about people to some extent, doesn’t one? You did. And you were right, weren’t you?”

“For what that’s worth.”

“It was worth everything to me. All right, Mr. Bittersohn, suppose we do this: if you can get Miss Smith to be somewhere nearby, I’ll get Dolph to take a walk with me. I don’t know that you’ve ever met him but he’s a tall, rather stout man; large enough to be noticeable in a crowd. Knowing me, Miss Smith could identify him and perhaps recall if she’d seen him on the platform that night, or at least tell you whether his gloves and coat sleeves are the right color.”

“Would he be wearing the same ones, though?”

“Of course. Dolph is no fashion plate. He had to buy a new topcoat last year when he got so fat his old one wouldn’t button and he’s so afraid he won’t get his investment back that he practically wears it to bed. And Aunt Emma gave him a nice pair of gloves to go with the coat, so he wears them, too.”

“It’s a thought. How would you get him to go with you?”

“Easily enough, I should think. Dolph has been helping me with some of this legal rigmarole I’ve had to go through. I can ask him to go to the lawyer’s with me, then pretend I’ve mixed up the appointments or something.”

“Won’t he be furious?”

“Not really. Dolph loves to rant at people for wasting his precious time. It tickles his ego. Before we get there, I can casually ask him if he happened to be in Haymarket Station around the time Mr. Quiffen was killed. That would be natural enough. They’d known each other from the Protheroes’ and he had dinner with us one night while Mr. Quiffen was living here. I can say one of my other boarders was there and thought he caught a glimpse of Mr. Kelling standing head and shoulders above the hoi polloi.”

“And shoving Quiffen onto the track? What sort of answer do you expect to get?”

“Oh, Dolph would tell me the truth, one way or another. Subterfuge isn’t his strong suit. I’ve sometimes wondered if Dolph’s such a rotten liar because he’s so fanatically honest or if it’s the other way around. If you don’t think my idea would work, I can invite him to dinner again and let you pump him yourself.”

“No, it would be far better for Miss Smith to get a look at him. Could we arrange it for tomorrow, do you think?”

“I can try. Dolph should be home by now, unless he’s gone to a banquet at the Home for Retired Woolgatherers or some other of Great-uncle Frederick’s philanthropies. But how can we reach Miss Smith?”

“We shan’t have to. She has a regular daily route. Very organized lady. I got her schedule in case we needed her for any reason, such as this, and also because I thought we should keep an eye on her. She and I had lunch together this noon, as a matter of fact.”

“You didn’t!”

“We certainly did. She was down at Quincy Market and a guy came along with a hot dog wagon, so I stood treat. Diamond Jim Bittersohn they call me down among the pushcarts.”

“That sounds like fun,” Sarah said wistfully. “Miss Smith is a marvelous woman. I do wish I could get to know her better. Would it be safe, do you think, for me to at least smile and nod if we should chance to meet?”

“I don’t see why you mightn’t stop and give her a quarter or something.”

Sarah flushed. “You mean the lady of the manor condescending to notice the poor beggar woman? That’s not what I meant at all.”

“I know that,” said Bittersohn, “but it’s a way to make contact, isn’t it? Somebody sees you fishing in your purse and handing this down-and-outer a coin, they assume you’re performing an impulsive act of charity. If you stop to pass the time of day, you’re just being good-natured. Furthermore, the old sport could use the dough.”

“So could the young one. Miss Smith and I have a good deal more in common than meets the eye. But she did say people offer her money and she always takes it, so I daresay that would be the best plan. What’s her schedule for tomorrow?”

“Boston Common, which should be an easy one. Look for her somewhere near the information booth about eleven o’clock.”

“Perfect. I’ll phone Dolph right away. Thank you, Mr. Bittersohn.”

“What for?”

“I’m not quite sure at this point. But thank you anyway.”

D
OLPH WAS AT HOME
and not unwilling to be pressed into service on an errand Sarah had managed to think up, though he did make a long business of consulting his engagement book and holding a one-man debate as to whether he could postpone a vitally important meeting with somebody or other for half an hour. “How long is this going to take, Sarah?”

“Not more than a few minutes, I shouldn’t think.” That was the absolute truth, as all she had to do was hand over to the secretary a filled-out form she could perfectly well have dropped into the mail and didn’t have to deliver for another six weeks in any case.

“It’s just that I’d feel more confident if you were with me,” she added, “in case any questions come up.” Such as “Do you think we’ll have snow for Christmas?” or some other burning issue.

Punctual to the dot, Dolph arrived at the house on Tulip Street, wearing his dark brown overcoat as expected, along with the nice brown leather gloves Aunt Emma had picked out for him and a natty brown Homburg which Uncle Fred had regretfully set aside during the Hoover campaign of 1928 because it was too reminiscent of Al Smith’s brown derby, a Democratic symbol; but had prudently saved against a time when, as now, it might come in handy again. The hat alone should have been enough to catch Miss Smith’s eye.

As they crossed the plaza by the fountain, which had been turned off for the winter, Sarah spied Miss Mary Smith diligently combing through a trash container. As Dolph turned to howl fulminations after a child on a skateboard, Sarah managed to pass her a quarter and a brisk nod. Miss Smith said, “Thanks, miss. Much obliged, I’m sure,” and went on stuffing papers into her shopping bags.

She hadn’t betrayed by the slightest flicker of an eyelash whether or not either Sarah or Dolph was known to her. Mr. Bittersohn must have briefed her well, or else Miss Smith was a very clever lady. If only nothing awful happened to her!

Dolph continued his oration on the perfidy of skateboarders all the way to Mr. Redfern’s office, then engaged Miss Tremblay, the lawyer’s long-suffering secretary, in an unnecessary catechism about the innocuous form they’d brought in. It wasn’t until they were back outside the building and ready to go their separate ways that Sarah managed to ask the question she’d been working up to ever since her cousin’s arrival.

“By the way, Dolph, I meant to ask you. I wonder if you happened to be at Haymarket Station the night Mr. Quiffen was killed.”

“How the hell do you expect me to remember that?” he snorted. “I have important matters on my mind, Sarah, as you sometimes appear not to realize.”

“I do realize, Dolph, and I’m truly grateful to you for giving up so much of your valuable time to my personal affairs,” Sarah replied humbly as she was expected to do. “It’s just that one of my boarders happened to be strolling past the station on her way home to dinner that day, and she’d noticed a tall, distinguished-looking man in an awfully smart overcoat going in. She thought it might have been you, and was. concerned that you might have been unfortunate enough to get involved with the—the accident.”

“Oh. M’er, dammit, Sarah, I just can’t remember. Haven’t got my engagement book with me.”

“But surely you’d recall all that commotion, with policemen and ambulances and whatnot, and the trains being held up.”

“Damn trains are always getting held up. Fires, rowdyism, accidents, mismanagement, damned bureaucratic incompetence.” Dolph shot out his cuff and glared at his wristwatch. “Got to run. Best regards to the good lady. Kind of her to be concerned. Find your way back all right?”

“Of course. Have a good lunch.”

Sarah had no intention of going straight back to Tulip Street. After that frustrating excursion she felt the need of a little extra exercise. Besides, it wouldn’t hurt to pick up a fresh bottle of India ink and some drawing paper. Mrs. Sorpende was sure to ask before long how the artwork for Mr. Bittersohn’s book was coming along.

She wasn’t far from an art shop, though it lay all too near the bank that was holding so tenaciously to those either valid or fraudulent mortgages. It might be years before she learned whether she or they owned the properties; in the meantime she must keep on paying the interest and the taxes, and perhaps take a few lessons in recycling from Miss Mary Smith.

At the moment, what the court would decide was the least of her worries. Her biggest concern was, had Dolph been evading any straight answer about being in the subway on that fatal evening, or was he simply being Dolph? And what sort of verdict would Mr. Bittersohn be getting from Miss Mary Smith?

Were they sharing another pushcart lunch today, maybe eating some of those enormous hot pretzels Sarah had often longed for as a child and washing them down with bottles of poisonous-looking orange soda, the kind she’d never been allowed to buy because it had chemicals in it? What must it be like to do exactly as one pleased?

At least she’d bought roasted chestnuts from the chestnut man’s pushcart in the wintertime, she and Alexander, and popcorn in the summer to feed the ducks from the swanboats on the pond in the Garden where Uncle Fred’s frogs had gone, back when she was a child and Alexander a young man who hadn’t yet started to count the pennies. That was something, she supposed, though it didn’t seem to be much help to her now. Sarah forced herself, as she often had to do these days, to get her mind off her dead husband and on current subjects such as whether the skimpy leftovers from last night’s dinner could possibly be turned into something interesting for tomorrow’s breakfast.

By devious routes she wound her way back to the house, feeling a little better for the exercise, and was fishing in her purse for the door key when a man came out carrying a large package wrapped in brown paper. He paid her no attention whatever, a fact that took her somewhat aback. Sarah wasn’t used to being ignored on her own doorstep.

Once she got inside, however, all was explained. Mr. Hartler came bouncing out of his room, insisted on taking her coat, and hung it up for her.

“Did you meet that chap going out? Thought he had one of the palace treasures. I had to tell him it was nothing of the sort. We get them all the time, you know. They come rushing in all fired up and saddle me with something or other. I go through the fuss and bother of trying to get the piece authenticated, then finally have to write the poor chaps to come and take it away because some great-aunt has been dreaming up family fairy tales. They don’t mean to cheat, you know, it’s just the romantic notion of owning something they can associate with royalty.”