Snow Shadow (8 page)

Nonsense—I needed shoes, not holly! I pushed by a bedroom-slipper display in the shop nearest the drugstore where I had dutifully left the prescription, and found a harried salesman. I came out of the shop a little later, rather exhausted.

There was a row of small specialty shops on a side street—the kind one always finds in a town of wealth, where the unusual and clever tempts a jaded shopper. Ladensville had been first a university town, and then subdivisions of one-of-a-kind suburban homes, of the class to tempt commuters from Washington, spread out over the old fields. The new subdivisions were still spreading, as I had seen when I came in on the bus from Washington on my arrival.

These shopwindows were showplaces for those luxuries which one of my training never has the courage to buy for herself. But when the holiday spirit strikes, one finds oneself making extravagant purchases for others.

A set of perfume bottles in the form of chessmen, a dragon pin with ruby eyes—those drew me from one window to the next. I began to feel the buying madness creeping on me. Something sobering was needed—perhaps a bookshop.

But before I reached the door above which a bookshop sign hung on a bracket, I had to pass an antique shop. There I paused before the fascinating display. A miniature eighteenth-century silver service was poised on a shelf, behind it a delicate fan of carved ivory and lace—

Winter street, the cloudy day, vanished as if a worn theater drop had been whisked upward out of sight. I stood now in sunlight, turning about in my fingers a small figure I had just picked up from a table of “white elephants” at a church bazaar, a figure which, to my certain knowledge, was now lying wrapped in an old handkerchief at the bottom of a drawer back in my Canton, New Hampshire, apartment. Yet here and now I saw its duplicate.

The sight of it jarred my new-found confidence, brought a stab of hurt. I would
not
think—

What had been the matter? That tiny spark I had never been wholly able to beat out flamed anew. Had I been so mistaken, in spite of my naivete? Had I indeed been as silly and stupid as I had named myself all these years? Or had I been just a little bit right—that there had been some depth below the surface? If I had only been able to ask that question and received an honest answer—it was not fair that one dared not throw away pride!

I forced myself to look beyond the figure which brought back memories. There was a snuffbox, a quaint old amethyst ring—its heart-shaped stone encircled by seed pearls. What did they say, in the old days, of the amethyst—that those wearing them could never become intoxicated? I should have had one on my finger five years ago. It was not fair! Though who said that anything in this world had to be fair? Only a child could cry out that when hurt.

Aunt Otilda had taken me young enough to shape me, make me eternally uncertain of emotion, mistrustful of it. By the time I was old enough to break loose I
could not. I was secure only in her pattern—so stunted, warped, I was not a real woman at all—how could I be?

The wind found its way beneath the collar of Theo-dosia's coat. I shivered. Food—I needed warmth and food, and maybe to get away from this hateful town and humiliating memories which haunted it—and me. As I turned away from the window I bumped into a tall figure a little behind me.

I looked up without any real surprise. All the hours, the days, behind me had been really leading to this. I had to face matters and face them squarely at long last

“Hello, Mark.” Somehow I was strong enough to say that, as if we were only very casual acquaintances who had met only a short time ago.

“Christmas shopping?” He was as casual, and that strengthened me.

I tucked my package more firmly under my arm. “No—just new shoes—”

“As a result of your adventure last night?”

This was like another of my haunting dreams. Our meeting had had no proper beginning and would have no ending. Only when his hand touched my elbow, urging me lightly towards the building at my left, I obeyed. Nor did I find it strange to be in a restaurant, the hostess ushering us to a table.

Still enmeshed in that dream, I unbuttoned my coat, and answered the question he had asked on the street:

“Yes, I ruined my shoes last night—”

“Tell me—” He leaned forward. He was just the same—except for finger-wide strips of gray above his ears. I bit my lip. No! Not again, never again!

“What did you see in the garden?” he continued. His eyes did not quite reach mine. I forced my mind back to the here and now.

But I was so caught in that sensation of this being a dream that I lost all caution and told him the truth. “Miss Austin reading the burial service over an open grave. Emma Horvath's body was in that, wasn't it?”

“Yes.” He picked up the menu and ordered swiftly as a waiter materialized at his elbow. He was remembering—no, it was simply chance, it had to be, that he picked out just those items.

I made a lengthy business of pulling off my gloves, tucking them into my purse. Anything seemed better than being silent and letting this unsteadiness build up inside me.

“But how did you come into the case?” I asked quickly.

“It's a long story.”

“One you can't tell me!” T was glad to find even so slim a point on which I could begin to erect a new barrier of hostility.

“One which I am going to tell you here and now” was his reply.

8

So that was the real reason for our meeting! I snapped my purse shut on the gloves with a strong, if illogical, feeling of resentment. This was what I thought I had wanted—yet it hurt. No “It's been a long time, how have things been for you?”

Suppose I asked my own preferred question—"And how is Mrs. Rohmer?” But that was not allowed—by my pride.

“I know very little about any of this,” I told him. “So I'd be grateful to hear what you have to say.”

He seemed in no hurry to do that—even after stating so firmly that that was what he wanted.

“How did you come to be living there?” He shot the question as if hoping to startle some damaging reply out of me.

Once more I retraced the actions of Saturday night.
Was it only
last
Saturday that I had made my fatal mistake?

“So you see, I never saw any of them before. Of course I had heard of Dr. Austin's collection. Who in the literary world has not?”

Mark's dark face was as unreadable as ever, eyes upon me held a kind of contemptuous measurement— or was I being too sensitive and wary? I felt I was being assessed and weighed, and my irritation kindled anew. Nothing would ever break his calm. He was as polished and hard as Leslie Lowndes appeared on first acquaintance. Portrait of a soldier with not a single human chink in his battle armor.

“How much do you know about the family now?”

I recited tersely what Theodosia and Preston Donner had told me. Then, piqued by his armor, I added the shocking scene between Anne and Irene at the opening of the coffin. I hesitated for a moment. Miss Elizabeth—should I—

His level gaze caught and held mine. “That isn't all, is it?”

I reached for my glass of water, took a sip. That shaky feeling crept over me again. I could not dissemble—he would know—he did know.

“What happened last night?” He bore down with that demand as if he could reach into my mind and dig loose the thoughts I found hard now to discipline.

“Mark—”

“It's Miss Elizabeth, isn't it? Did you follow her?”

“How did you—did you see her, too?” Something of the weight rolled from me at his words.

“Yes. She must have known about the substitution
near when it occurred, of course. The why she kept quiet is what is important.” He fell silent as our waiter produced salads and a basket of hot rolls.

I relaxed a little more. “I don't know why, honestly. What is at the bottom of it all, do you know, Mark?”

“We can guess—a little—enough to start working on. Your informants were right on one heading. Roderick was the Austin black sheep. From all accounts he was one of those egotists who slip easily onto the wrong side of the law because when they want a thing they see no reason why they shouldn't have it Money—women—and if anyone gets hurt in the process that's nothing to people like him.

“Sometimes they get away with it, staying just inside the law so that they can't be nailed for anything, no matter how many lives they wreck. But sooner or later most of them slide across that barrier they do not think exists—for them. Roderick skipped the bail Mrs. Hor-vath put up to save the family's face. He was reported killed. Instead he was making new contacts and much stronger ones. We had news of him from Interpol— that he was connected—slightly—with another case. He had a tail on him in New York—a week ago he slipped our man and disappeared. But we hoped he might show up here. And you are sure you saw him in the garden Saturday night?”

“I didn't have more than a quick glimpse, but that uniform coat—I couldn't be wrong about that. Where could he have gotten it?”

“Out of the wardrobe in the playhouse,” Mark replied absently. He poked at a sliding piece of lettuce. “The outer door had been forced and we found his
other clothing there. He must have arranged a meeting with someone—”

“Who?”

For the first time Mark smiled. I looked away hastily. I wanted him to keep to his question-and-answer game, and strictly away from any personalities.

“That's something we need answered. It's an odd company there in the house. There are the remaining Austin sisters—Miss Elizabeth—who seems to have made such an impression on you. You do like her, don't you? But then you are conditioned to respond to her type. How
is
Aunt Otilda, by the way?” I heard the mockery he did not try in any way to conceal.

“She died two years ago. Yes, I like Miss Elizabeth. If she has any secrets, I don't think they are for her own benefit.”

“I think I am inclined to agree with you there. But she does have a lot to account for. Then there's Mrs. Anne Frimsbee who, I gather, you do not care for—”

I moved uncomfortably. Had I pressed judgment where my opinions could do the most harm?

“Only my personal reaction,” I said quickly. “One does take dislikes, sometimes quite without reason. She was terribly shocked and upset in the parlor. I can understand why she did not want anyone to know Roderick's identity. She must have been very badly hurt by him in the past.”

“But—you don't like her. Mrs. Irene Frimsbee you seem to be uncertain about. Why? She didn't provoke that scene. And since then, according to you, she has effaced herself. Why are you equivocal about her?”

I flushed and hoped my discomfort was not too apparent.
He had read a good deal, perhaps from my tone of voice. Because of his insistence, I was forced to think more of my attitude towards Irene Frimsbee. It was my own hurt which might have awakened my distrust. I would not tell the truth—that I had seen Irene in close conversation at the Humbolt with a man certainly not her husband—and that had recalled too much of my own troubles in the past.

“I wasn't aware of any bias,” I said flatly. I would stand firm on that.

“And how does Miss Lowndes impress you?” Apparently he was willing to forego any more probing along the Frimsbee line.

“I think she is a very efficient person.”

“She is having an affair with Cantrell,” he returned impersonally. He might have been commenting on the toughness of the steak.

“I know nothing about that.”

Once more he did not comment, but continued his own appraisal of the household.

“Preston Donner has an excellent reputation in his field. He was associated with Dr. Austin—did book-hunting for him. There were rumors ten years back that he wanted to marry Miss Elizabeth—”

“But—” I interrupted, now a little shocked, “she must be years older—”

“Not so much as you would think. Donner is into his sixties, even if he is well preserved, as they used to say. He is an advisor now, for the purchase of any new items for the Austin collection. You know that the good doctor left most of his cash to be kept in trust for just that purpose. Mrs. Horvath was the final judge for
what would be bought. I don't know who will take over her duties now. Seems Dr. Edward thought Emma had a shrewd head on her shoulders when it came to money. She did have some control of the Horvath holdings and managed well.

“Then there's Hanno Horvath, Mrs. Emma's nephew by marriage. He got a small trust fund from his uncle's estate—but again Mrs. Emma had the final say-so over his expenditures.”

“I've seen very little of Mr. Horvath. I believe he teaches literature at the university.”

“He's an associate professor, yes. And it was he who introduced Miss Lowndes to the household. Their relationship is on another basis now, of course. Oddly enough, Horvath seems to have expressed no rancor over being replaced in that lady's affections. All in all—” Mark was being judicial now, a phase of his character which I had never cared much for. “There’ are some very interesting sources for friction within those walls.”

I thought it time to gain some information in return. “What was Roderick doing that he had to be tailed?” “It was rather what he might be going to do. We have reason to believe that he was involved in a case which has baffled us for some time—the laundry business—”

“What?” I was completely startled. Mark laughed.

“Nothing to do with soap and water. The laundering of money, hot money from robberies and illicit gambling, drugs—taken overseas, used to purchase anything worthwhile up for sale. Antiques, perhaps. Which could then be sold openly here. If Dr. Austin were still
alive we could be more certain. As it is we can only guess. Mrs. Horvath had a part in the set-up—not perhaps knowingly—but she kept a tight pocketbook, and she knew the value of a bargain. However, in these security-conscious days you have to dig for information, even from your supposed teammates. This situation.” He shook his head. “It looks as if it was getting out of hand. I need a contact inside—”

Inside.
I smiled wryly. Contact with the Abbey, a bargain-counter Mata Hari—for him. It was a part of what I had discovered about Mark Rohmer—the man who would play all the angles—

“The racket,” he continued, “is a big one. We know it has overseas ties. And it spreads into places we cannot probe without gold-plated evidence. So we've had to move slowly. Roderick was a lead, and we lost him just perhaps when he was about to pay off.

“There is a ring of what you might term ‘importers’ around the world. Old families ruined by war, or revolution, or confiscatory taxes, are willing to part with treasures for cash, pieces collectors could never hope to see appear normally on the market. And they aren't—on the open market, that is. Sales are private—income-tax collectors and official snoopers are left in the dark. The sellers get the cash which is so laundered,’ and the other sales are made here. Of course there is a profit, too. And the go-betweens get a cut. But no one has to answer embarrassing questions.

“The American who wants to sink some unreported income in a hedge against inflation makes his deal with the ring and acquires a bargain which is tax free. He may have to keep it in hiding—but he has it. So far the
scheme works. Unfortunately, some time ago the ring discovered that the supply of family treasures is beginning to dry up. And there are other problems—some of our none-too-good political friends have found this a promising way to get dollars dubiously. So now the ring—or a portion of it—has moved on from the dirty-money boys into another business. Their answer is fakes—fakes which are very close to perfect. Of course, there is some conflict in the ring itself now— the dirty-money dealers are not too pleased with a change which doesn't solve their problem.”

“What kind of fakes?”

“Very clever forgeries—done by masters in the business. The ring is protected in these cases because the buyer cannot display his recent acquisition. He has to salt it away. So the fake may not be discovered for years. And the friends of art behind the Iron and Bamboo Curtains have quite a few models for the fakers. Take the recent tomb discoveries in China—some fascinating articles can be offered with the suggestion that they were stolen on the sites by an enterprising opponent of Mao, who subsequently escaped to Hong Kong. So it can be set up almost anywhere there is the rare material for the fakers.

“The lid blew off for us about six months ago when Homer Blackwell died.”

“Blackwell—oh, he was that oil man the Treasury Department was trying to indict for tax evasion.” A memory of newspaper headlines came to me.

“Yes. He was killed in a plane crash on his way to Washington. He had a collection of ceramics which had to
be appraised for the estate. Among his ceramics
was a Ming horse—which wasn't appraised. So now we are hunting for a corporation milking this country for cash. And some of it is sent elsewhere to make up payrolls which we want to stop.”

“How do the Austins figure in this?”

“Through the doctor's trust. Most of what was left of his wife's fortune is in that. He wanted his library to be the best.”

“But I don't see—there are no Austin items worth forging—”

“What could exist in Austeniana which would be worth a lot of hard cash
if
they might be found to exist?”

I considered. “Several things. The letters that Jane's sister Cassandra is known to have burned, especially if they prove that Jane did have the much-speculated-upon romance in Devonshire which is thought to have inspired
Persuasion.
The first draft of
Pride and Prejudice
—the one she entitled
First Impressions
and later rewrote. Or the corresponding first version of
Sense and Sensibility,
which was called
Elinor and Marianna.
But all of those were known to have been destroyed— and anyway they would not be as great a treasure as to bring prices worth faking for—”

“Except,” Mark reminded me, “from someone like the doctor who was obsessed with the subject, and left a will directing such purchases. Also, can one be entirely certain that everything was destroyed? Remember how they discovered all the Boswell material in an Irish castle? Papers do come to light mysteriously sometimes. And we can be sure that when this firm
deals in anything it has a well-documented and plausible pedigree.”

“But Dr. Austin is dead. Rather late to attempt a sale now, no matter what the trust was intended for.”

“Not so. The dream of the Austin library did not die with him—he made it very clear that Mrs. Emma was to see it was carried out. Preston Donner was to vet anything bought.”

“Did Emma Horvath have a real interest in the library?”

“She had an interest in the prestige of the Austin family. Someone could play on that. Emma Horvath had money, but she was trying to gain the entry into the kind of society which does not think too much of money—more of personalities. She resented Miss Elizabeth's status here in Ladensville. A Horvath simply does not rate beside an Austin.

“Two months ago Mrs. Horvath arranged to liquidate some stocks—about a hundred thousand dollars’ worth. The liquidation was still in process when she had the fall and broke her hip.”

“What does Mr. Donner have to say?”

“He denies knowledge of anything having been offered to her. But suppose she was approached through Roderick.”

“Would she listen to him? He'd skipped bail and she lost the money she put up for that.”

Mark shrugged. “Who knows? She might have had a liking for him still. He had charm—and she wouldn't be the first lady of her age to be influenced by that. In fact she had something of a reputation that way. He
had a name for squiring the older generation while he was abroad.”