Time Off for Murder (5 page)

  Mary Carner essayed a questioning grimace. "When were they to be married? I knew Mister Van Arsdale was her friend, but she never spoke of him as her affianced."

  "Our family," Lyman Knight answered, "is not in the habit of confiding its personal affairs to casual acquaintances.

  "Got you that time, sister," the young detective grunted. "Right between the eyes."

  Miss Carner flushed. The old man was making his antagonism plain. Nevertheless she plunged on. "Then perhaps she has eloped with him. Have you been in touch with Mister Van Arsdale? Have you tried to find out whether he knows of her whereabouts?"

  "No, I have not been in touch with him." Lyman Knight dropped his answer casually. "I have been in touch with Mister Saxon Rorke instead." A flick of his silk handkerchief pointed up the offhandedness of his manner.

  "Saxon Rorke." The name rang a bell in the back rooms of Miss Carner's memory. Oh, of course, that was the person who had phoned Phyllis' office. Was he the new heart interest in her life, the interest that had quickened her voice the last time Mary Carner had talked to her? The name itself meant nothing to Mary, but evidently, to the reporters in the room it meant a good deal. The room buzzed with comment.

  The young detective asked: "This guy Rorke - is he the millionaire?"

  "Mister Rorke is, I believe, a very wealthy gentleman," Lyman Knight replied.

  "Sure," one of the reporters assisted. "Society. Polo. Golf. Newport. Palm Beach. What's he got to do with Phyllis Knight?"

  "He was under the impression," the girl's father answered with a trace of impatience, "that my daughter had accepted him in marriage. He has been to see me. He has spoken with me much more frankly than my daughter had and I admire him for it. It was he, as a matter of fact, who first made me aware that something was amiss. He telephoned this house at eleven P.M. on the evening of the nineteenth of October to inquire whether Miss Knight was at home. He informed my housekeeper, who, I may say, was most inconsiderately disturbed from her sleep, that my daughter had failed to keep an appointment to meet him at a hotel. Do not misunderstand, pray. A perfectly proper engagement, he assured us, to join him in the enjoyment of a little food and coffee. He has telephoned me several times and he has done me the honor to come by appointment to see me."

  "Where'd she meet him?" a reporter persisted.

  "Under thoroughly dignified auspices at a respectable inn in North Carolina." He answered their questions, pompously conscious of his importance. He seemed not only at his ease, but actually enjoying himself. "Mister Rorke spoke in the highest terms of my daughter. He had evidently admired her greatly, and was most regretful over her absence. He too deplored many of her activities…. He felt they were quite inappropriate to a lady." The old man licked his lips. " 'I would be easier in my mind today,' Mister Rorke said to me, 'if I hadn't known that Phyllis was messing around in so many unpleasant things.' That was exactly my own feeling in the matter."

  "What sort of things, Mister Knight?" Detective Reese demanded.

  "Eh? What sort? Crimes. The nastiness of people. I don't know exactly what." His thin voice turned querulous again. "She never told me. I had to learn even about Mister Rorke from him, not from her."

  "Then what about Van Arsdale? Where does he come into all this?" Miss Carner asked. "Has he been - you'd call it jilted, wouldn't you?"

  "I have not the slightest notion."

  "Say, Mister Knight," a photographer broke in. "Will you hold that pose?"

  Lyman Knight's chin shot up. He puffed his narrow chest out like a pouter pigeon. He twirled the ends of his mustache.

  "Just the way you are. That's fine." A flash bulb popped. "One more now." The photographer slid a fresh plate into his camera. "Hold it…. O.K." He scribbled on the back of an envelope, "Missing Portia's father reveals daughter's secret romance with society sportsman."

  "That over?" Detective Reese seemed miffed. "Let's get back to business. Do I understand Miss Knight left no notes of any kind? Have you searched her things?" He stood up, brushing Mary Carner from the arm of his chair. "I'd like to go upstairs. See the girl's room."

  Lyman Knight shook his head. "It is unnecessary. I have told you whatever you need to know. All and more."

  "Sure," the detective spoke gently. "You've been a big help. I know how you feel, all these guys coming into your house like this. But y'understand, Mister, we got to go through everything, every possible thing. To see if we can get any clues. You want us to find your daughter, don't you?"

  "Of course…of course…. I most certainly do. Of course. . .. Alive or dead…." His eyes glittered. "Alive or dead." Glee illumined his voice. "Dead. Gentlemen, do you think she's dead?" It was hope rather than question. There could be no doubt of that.

  Detective Reese answered quickly. "Naw. She's honeymooning with the collar man."

  But Mary Carner said: "I believe she's dead."

  "Do you think so? Do you really think so?" There was a hysterical exultation in the old man's voice.

  "But I most fervently hope she isn't," Mary added quickly.

  "Eh?…What's that? What's that man doing?"

  Lyman Knight was no longer listening to her. He had slewed around in his chair.

  A reporter, unnoticed by the rest, had been flipping the pages of the plush album with a questing thumb. He had made a little ripping noise, and Lyman Knight had not missed it. "Stop that. What are you doing there? Put that down. Stop him."

  The reporter, his hands behind his back, said blandly: "It's all right, Mister Knight. Don't mind me."

  Lyman Knight kicked the ottoman away. He flounced across the room. He plucked at the reporter's sleeves. "What have you taken? Show me."

  The reporter held him off with one hand. "Now, now, Mister Knight. Don't worry about it. Just an old picture. I'll bring it back safely."

  The old man hopped behind him. The reporter's arm shot into the air, holding a faded photograph high above his head. Lyman Knight, his face contorted with rage, leaped into the air after it, clawing at the man's arm. He sank his teeth into the coat sleeve.

  Detective Reese put a restraining hand upon him, but the frenzied old man shook him off. He was sobbing now, tears rolling down his face.

  "Give me that. Give it back to me. It's my property."

  Detective Reese caught his arms, pulled them down, pinned them behind the old man's back, held him against his chest.

  "Agnes, Agnes," Lyman Knight screeched. "Agnes. Save me…They're trying to kill me, Agnes."

  The doors at the back of the parlor rolled open. The tall housekeeper faced the room, white with anger. She strode over to the detective, gripped his wrist in a bone-cracking vise, wrenched the old man from his hands.

  "You ought to be ashamed of yourself," she hissed.

  She led Lyman Knight gently back to his chair; she straightened his coat; patted his shoulder maternally; she wiped the tears from his cheeks, held a handkerchief to his nose, urged him to blow.

  "Now, now. Nobody's going to hurt you. Agnes is here. Agnes'll take care of you."

  She turned on the roomful of people. "You ought to be ashamed of yourselves. Every one of you. Can't you leave him alone? Can't you see he's just a poor sick old man?"

  In the melee, Mary Carner slipped, unnoticed, upstairs.

  The upper hall was dark as pitch, doors and transoms tightly shut.

  Mary tried the nearest door. It opened into a tremendous, old-fashioned bathroom. Folding dark shutters covered the lower half of its window. The upper half was stained glass, through which the sunlight dappled the floor with blobs of blue and red and green and gold. There was a small tin tub, set into a wooden frame and a large square marble washbasin in the corner. Above the basin, two marble shelves right-angled one another. On one stood a pink shaving mug, gilt lettered "L.K.," a brush, a straight-edged razor, a collection of medicine bottles of various sizes and colors of contents. It took an instant to sweep quickly over the labels - harmless enough to casual glance: patent cathartics, patent cough mixtures, oil of wintergreen, peroxide, a mouth wash, an eye wash. The other shelf held cleansing tissues, cold cream, a pair of white tooth-brushes in a glass, toothpowder, a box of bath-powder, a bottle of
eau de cologne,
blue washcloths with crocheted edges and the initial P.

  Mary heard a footstep behind her. She turned. It was the young detective.

  "O.K., Sister," he said reassuringly. "Let's make it snappy. Hear what you missed?" He pointed over his shoulder, down the steps.

  At the foot of the staircase, the reporters howled. The housekeeper, braced against the newel post, barred their way upstairs with her outstretched arm. Lyman Knight, at her side, hopped up and down, snarling: "Get out of here. All of you. Get out."

  The detectives heard a reporter's plaintive plea. "Listen, lady, I just want to use the washroom."

  The housekeeper's harsh voice answered: "This is a private house. We got no accommodations for strangers. Nobody goes up."

  "Except us." Detective Reese grinned. "Which one's the girl's room?"

  The door on the left was unlocked. Detective Reese snapped up a shade. Morning light came gratefully into a pleasant bedroom. Its windows were hung with ruffled tie-back curtains. Gay numdah mats lay on the polished floor, between the mantelpiece and the golden maple four poster bed. There was a colorful candlewick spread upon the bed, a chintz-covered armchair near the fireplace, matching the chintz of lamps at the bed-head and on a broad maple low-boy. A framed mirror hung over the low-boy, and the faded sepia photograph of a lady in high-necked gown and bustle stood alone upon it.

  "Probably Marianna," Detective Reese said. "That ghoul downstairs would give his right arm for it." He opened the top dresser drawer. A comb and hair brush, amber backed, stiff bristled, lay there, and manicure scissors, orange sticks, chamois buffer, nail polish, golden bone hairpins, hairnets, handkerchiefs neatly stacked; in the drawer next to it, capacious handbags - black leather, brown leather, alligator, and a tissue wrapped evening bag of handsome brocade; a heap of scarves of silk and of wool, and a square leather jewel case.

  The detective poured the contents of the jewel case into his hand: a string of pearls, a cameo brooch, with seed pearls, a child's gold ring, opal set, a turquoise necklace and a silver brooch with turquoise stones, a pair of garnet earrings in an old-fashioned setting, a necklace of dark green jade. He sifted the baubles through his fingers, dropped them back into the box. "No wedding ring," he said. "No diamonds. Why didn't she lock this up?"

  "Not afraid of thieves. Not with that woman to guard the door. She's Cerberus, she is."

  Detective Reese scowled. "Cerbr'us? Who's that? Remind me to ask you later." He put the leather box back into place, closed the drawer. He pulled open another drawer, reddened. "Look sister, you go through these, will you? I never got used to the idea."

  Miss Knight's intimate apparel, neatly folded, produced no information save that her taste ran to conservative styles of excellent quality. "Nothing missing," Mary Carner said. "And no sign of a hope chest. None of the lacy pretties girls buy when they're going to be married."

  The lady's wardrobe closet was no greater help. Miss Knight's fall topcoat, her raincoat, her dark gray suit, her dresses, all hung discreetly on their hangers, her shoes on trees in a straight row below them, her hats, each in its individual transparent box on the shelf above. "Just one empty hanger," Mary said. "May belong to the clothes she wore on Wednesday. Certainly looks as though she didn't go on a trip that might need luggage."

  "Sure," Detective Reese agreed. "Even on a honeymoon, you gotta take a comb and brush."

  At the darker end of the room, a large alcove had been transformed into a study. It was lined from floor to ceiling with open bookshelves. It held a flat-top desk, a leather armchair. A portable typewriter, in its case, stood in one corner.

  Detective Reese glanced rapidly over the shelves. "Home-work," he said. "Didn't she never think of nothing but the law?"

  "She did." Mary pointed to the lower shelves of new books, some still in their bright paper jackets. But even here, the lady had not been flippant. Modern interpretations of history, biographies, a whole shelf devoted to psychology. No fiction, however, unless one counted the volume in faded red binding, tucked away on the lowest shelf:
Dora Deane,
out of Mary J. Holmes, dog-eared, worn.

  Mary took it from the shelf, opened it. "Phyllis Knight, 1912," was scrawled in square, childish back-hand on the fly-leaf, and under that: "My favorite book."

  "Now that's peculiar," said Detective Reese. "A thing like that in here."

  "Not at all. Her child's idea of romance. She's tucked it out of sight, you see. But couldn't bear to throw it away. She may have identified herself with it. Dora Deane was an abused, unhappy child who found Prince Charming in the end."

  But the young detective was no longer concerned with
Dora Deane.
In the middle of the clean desk blotter on Phyllis Knight's immaculate desk, he had found a book that interested him more.

  It was a book in appearance solely - a large writing portfolio, of gold-tooled, dark blue leather, stamped with gilt initials, closed with a tiny padlock.

  "We'll take it along," he said.

  Then he tried the desk drawers. They were locked. "Can't carry the desk away," he said regretfully. "S'a funny one. She locks up her letters and keeps her jewels open. Say, it's quiet downstairs. That's bad. Let's scoot."