The Gladstone Bag (25 page)

“Could it be that he’s keeping her tranquilized himself so that he’ll have a patient to take care of?” Sarah suggested. “Didn’t you tell us last night, Emma, that Bubbles comes to Pocapuk because he has depressions?”

“What Bubbles said was that he gets depressed working at the hospice because all his patients are terminal cases,” Emma corrected. “That doesn’t mean he goes nutty, just that he has a compassionate nature. I hope. Anyway, I’m not about to challenge Bubbles on the subject because he cooks like a dream. Unless—good heavens, you don’t think he’s all of a sudden one day going to sling a handful of arsenic into the lobster bisque and wipe out the lot of us?”

“Aunt Emma, of course I don’t. It’s just that Bubbles is the most obvious person to be doctoring Mrs. Fath’s food because he’s the one who’s so insistent on not letting anyone else handle it. And of course being both a cook and a nurse, he’d know exactly what to do. If he’s keeping her tranquilized, he may be doing it in a spirit of benevolence. Perhaps he thinks she’s on the verge of a breakdown and needs a good long rest. Or else he’s fallen in love with her at first sight and wants to nurse her back to health so that she’ll be overwhelmed with gratitude and consent to become Mrs. Bubbles.”

“Makes sense to me,” said Max. “I’m planning to overwhelm my own nurse with gratitude if they ever let me out of this damned cast long enough to get at her. So Radunov’s on to something, is he?”

“Either on to something or up to something,” said Emma. “He told me he writes on all sorts of different subjects; maybe he’s doing a little private research on tranquilizers. But why pick on Mrs. Fath? If he wanted to anesthetize somebody, why couldn’t he have done us all a favor and chosen Everard Wont?”

“Cheer up, Emma. You may not have Dr. Wont around much longer,” Theonia reminded her.

“Oh yes, Max, that’s another thing. As soon as I told Wont and his crew that people were getting bludgeoned left and right and everybody was under suspicion, he threw one of his temperaments and demanded to be taken off the island at once. Naturally I told him he couldn’t, which in fact was the simple truth, since we don’t have a boat available.”

“Not to worry,” said Theonia. “Tweeters will be delighted to fly us out at the drop of a handkerchief if things get too sticky. Would you believe, Sarah, that Emma’s actually succeeded in taking Tweeters’s mind off the puffins?”

“Certainly I believe it,” Sarah replied. “Man cannot live by puffins alone. But you haven’t asked about the necklace. Tell them, Max.”

“Gladly. You made quite a haul there, Emma. What you fished out of your Gladstone bag was once the property of the Duchess of Cantilever, stolen from her by a young footman with whom her relationship was somewhat equivocal and sold by the ex-footman to a rich New Yorker who presented it to one of the Floradora Girls who in turn married the by then widowed Duke of Cantilever, thus bringing the necklace back into the family amid much rejoicing. In the fullness of time, the duke passed away and the duchess came back to New York, where she eventually sold the necklace back to the son of the rich New Yorker who’d given it to her in the first place.”

“That was the one who bought it from the footman?” Emma did like to keep her facts straight.

“The ex-footman,” Max corrected. “He’d been fired as soon as his perfidy was revealed. He never got caught, however. Instead, he changed his name, assumed U.S. citizenship, and eventually became a prominent member of the Harding administration. He got rich on the Teapot Dome scandal, bought back the necklace from the formerly rich New Yorker after the crash in 1929—that was the son of the original rich New Yorker, as you may recall, Emma—and gave it to a certain member of the Ziegfeld Follies, who should probably remain nameless since she later married a nephew of the late Duke of Cantilever and became a pillar of international society. Her granddaughter’s now engaged to a member of the present administration who happens also to be a scion of that same prominent New York family who went broke in the crash of 1929 but have since managed to recoup their fortunes.”

“Such as how?” asked Theonia.

“In a number of ingenious ways,” Max replied, “with a little help from their friends. The dowager Follies lady was actually attending a formal reception for the happy couple last week here in Boston when she was robbed of the necklace and considerably damaged in the process. The Cantilevers and the prominent New York family, all of whom naturally feel they have certain vested interests in the necklace, are each offering rewards for its recovery. Summing it up, Emma, you stand to make something in the vicinity of fifty thousand dollars after taxes on the deal. And Radunov’s going to be spitting tacks when he learns what he passed up by acting like a little gentleman.”

“Ladderman Bechley’s widow, on the other hand, will be quite delighted,” said Emma. “Naturally I shall turn the money over to the Firemen’s Relief Fund. If it hadn’t been for our both being at the benefit, I shouldn’t have talked to Adelaide Sabine and wound up here on Pocapuk. At least that’ll be some good coming out of this ghastly experience.”

“There is one catch,” Max was constrained to point out. “You don’t get the money until you’ve also provided evidence leading to the arrest and conviction of the person who stole the necklace and damaged Lady Cantilever.”

“But that was most likely Jimmy Sorpende,” Theonia protested. “They can’t convict him if he’s dead. Won’t it still count if we can prove Jimmy was the guilty party?”

“I expect so, if you can also come up with the evidence against whomever he was working with.”

“Surely we can manage that, though I’m not sure Ted Sharpless is going to be much help. Emma had another go at him tonight after dinner on the strength of our finding out that Jimmy was definitely assaulted before being thrown off the cliff into the mudflats. He didn’t budge an inch from his original story. He may have to, of course, once the police start working on him. I hope to goodness they get here soon. But what about my films? Has Tweeters developed them yet?”

Sarah replied. “Yes, he’s just brought them up to us from Brooks’s darkroom. You’ve done an excellent job, Theonia. I’m spreading out the prints so Max can see. Do you know any of the people so far, darling?”

“Radunov, of course,” said Max. “He never changes.”

“What about Count Radunov, Max?” Emma hoped she didn’t sound too personally perturbed. “He’s being awfully gallant; one would prefer to know one’s not being fawned over by a murderer.”

To her relief, Max chuckled. “I don’t know, Emma, but I’d say the chances of Radunov’s having chucked Jimmy Sorpende off the cliff are fairly remote. Radunov’s pretty versatile, but he’s never uncouth.”

“That’s not precisely the answer I’d have preferred, Max, but I suppose it will have to do. Getting back to the photographs, do you recognize anybody else?”

“I recognize Wont.”

While Max was still in the hospital, Jeremy Kelling had gone over to entertain him by reading some of the more outrageous lies from Wont’s book for which Jem had been personally responsible. The photograph of the author on the back flap had been far more flattering than the one among Theonia’s collection, but the sneer was there in both.

After having received the necklace from Tweeters, Max had got Sarah to invite Jem over for a drink, not that Jem wouldn’t have come anyway. When questioned as to his impression of Everard Wont as a possible co-conspirator, Jem Kelling had given it as his considered opinion that Wont had neither the brains nor the guts to swipe a lollipop from a sleeping infant.

He had added that Wont was far too busy tripping over his own ego to engage in any activity that needed to be done without public fanfare. In the unlikely event that Wont ever did pull off a successful jewel theft, he’d queer his own pitch by writing a book about it and trying to take the price of the getaway car off his income tax as a business expense.

Wont might, of course, be planning to do just that, one never knew. Thinking of the treasure hunt so conveniently disrupted by hostile pirate ghosts, Emma had to agree that one certainly didn’t.

Sarah was the only one who had something new to contribute, and it wasn’t much. She recognized Lisbet Quainley, though not by name.

“She was working in one of the Newbury Street art galleries a while back. I can’t recall which, but I could take the photo with me and ask around. What do you think, Theonia?”

“It wouldn’t do any harm, if you can spare the time. You might try to find out whether Miss Quainley is in fact an artist of any recognizable degree or whether she’s enrolled somewhere as an art student, though she strikes me as being a bit old for that. Thirty to thirty-five is my guess. I suppose being so thin might make her look older,” Theonia added a bit smugly.

Sarah was mildly amused. “I’ll let you know what I find out. While we’re at it, what about that other one, the illustrator? Groot, I think you said his name was, Emma. Is he the rather attractive young fellow in the sweatshirt?”

“No, Groot’s the fortyish one with the big feet who looks as if he’d been assembled by a committee. Joris is his first name. He told me he’s primarily a specialist in drawing children’s shoes. Is that possible?”

Sarah had done some illustrating herself. “Oh yes,” she replied, “that’s entirely possible. Lots of commercial artists specialize in one type of work, particularly where there’s a lot of call for it. The shoe industry used to be really big in Boston; I don’t know what sort of shape it’s in now. Have you any idea whom Groot’s been working for?”

“As a matter of fact, yes. He told me he’d just finished doing a whole catalog of children’s shoes. Itsy-Bitsy Footsy-Wootsies, he called them. I gather he wasn’t trying to be funny, so I assume it must be a brand name. These things do happen. I don’t know whether it’s a Boston company or not.”

“I’ll give the Kirstein Library a ring in the morning, they’ll be able to tell us. Anyone else you want checked out? What about Sendick? Have you any specifics on him?”

“Just that his grandfather used to read the Black John stories in the
Globe,
and his mother’s maiden name was Black. Mr. Sendick talks freely enough, but now that I think of it, he doesn’t actually say much. Not about his background, anyway.”

“Does he come from around here?”

“I assume he must. He wears a sweatshirt with a picture of Tycho Brahe on it.”

“Maybe Sendick’s a dropout from MIT,” said Max.

“But then he’d be writing science fiction instead of thrillers,” Sarah argued. “See if you can pin him down a little, Emma.”

“I’ll try, dear, though I’m afraid I’m no great shakes as a detective. I did think of one thing I wish you’d do, though. Could you phone Marcia Pence and find out very discreetly whether Adelaide brought a personal maid with her last year? If so, who was she? I meant to ask Vincent but somehow I didn’t like to.”

“Certainly I will, but why discreetly?”

“Because the Pences, and more importantly Adelaide, still don’t know there’s anything going on out here. Vincent and I thought it best not to tell them until the situation’s been taken care of. Adelaide’s so very tottery, poor darling, that Marcia and Peter are already under a dreadful strain. I don’t want to give them additional grief until I have to. It’s not as though they were in a position to do anything.”

Max made some kind of noise; Emma couldn’t tell what it was supposed to mean. Just that his cast was bothering him, perhaps. She offered sympathetic murmurs. He replied nobly that the cast wasn’t so bad as being dragged to death by maddened wildebeests.

“I’m glad you can look on the bright side, my dear,” said Emma. “I suppose I ought to go now, before somebody decides to come for a drink of water or whatever.”

“You’re out in that pantry all by yourself?”

“Yes, of course I am. This is the only way we could each get to a phone.”

“Then be damned careful when you leave. You too, Theonia. This head bopping could turn into an epidemic.”

“Don’t worry, Max. I haven’t turned on the light; they won’t be able to find me. Good night, then. Call tomorrow if you find anything.”

“It’s been tomorrow for quite some time now,” Sarah pointed out. “We’ll send our pet carrier pigeon, with a note tied to his leg. Tweeters is right here, itching to be let out of the coop.”

“I wish you hadn’t said ‘itching,’” Max fretted. “If they can put a man on the moon, why can’t they invent a body cast you can scratch through?”

They ran up another minute or so on Adelaide Sabine’s phone bill wishing each other fond farewells, then, somewhat reluctantly, Emma hung up. She closed the pantry door behind her, switched on her flashlight just long enough to orient herself, and started to feel her way out of the kitchen. She’d known this was a big room, but why did it feel so much bigger in the dark? Emma managed to steer herself past the table and the big iron stove without tripping over a chair or a log of wood. She’d got as far as the huge black-japanned flour bin when she stumbled and lost her slipper. That was when she got hit on the head.

“T
HIS HAS GONE QUITE
far enough!”

The voice was that of a woman who had chaired a great many meetings. Emma thought it sounded familiar; she realized after a while that the voice was her own. Lights were blazing in her face, Bubbles was waving the ammonia bottle under her nose. Theonia was doing something with a bag of ice cubes. Putting them on her forehead, Emma decided; she was having some trouble sorting things out. So was Theonia, apparently, since it was the back of Emma’s head that had sustained the blow.

She was quite clear on that point now, The blow had not been a hard one, more what might be called a disconcerting blow. The real damage had been done by banging her face on the edge of the metal flour bin as she fell. There was a dent in her forehead; she could feel it when she ran her fingers up under the icebag. It hurt, but there didn’t seem to be any blood. Contusions but no lacerations. What sort of contusions? A black eye would be most inappropriate for a woman of her years and position. Emma said so. Theonia patted her cheek.