Grab Bag (8 page)

“No, I believe Mr. Jem was the only Comrade invited, except for the Tooters themselves, of course, and Mr. Wripp, who’s recently had a cataract operation. Mrs. Tooter felt the outing would do Mr. Wripp good.”

“No doubt,” said Bittersohn. “What office does Mr. Wripp hold?”

“Mr. Wripp is a Formerly Grand Exalted Chowderhead. Being by now ninety-two years of age, he appears content to rest on past laurels. Oh yes, and Mr. Obed Ogham will be among those present. So maybe it’s all for the best that Mr. Jem won’t.”

“Why? Don’t he and Ogham get along?”

“None of the Kellings get along with Obed Ogham, Mr. Max. He’s the bird who sued Mr. Percy Kelling for two dollars and forty-seven cents he claimed Mr. Percy overcharged him. That was after Mr. Percy’s accounting firm had helped Ogham recover the five and a half million dollars Ogham’s comptroller had been swindling him out of.”

“Oh yes, the King of the Crumbs. How come he and Jem both belong to the same club?”

“There have always been Kellings and Oghams among the Codfish,” Egbert explained. “Neither is willing to cede his ancestral right. Noblesse oblige, as you might say.”

“But don’t the Tooters know Jem and Ogham are feuding?”

“They’re not exactly feuding, Mr. Max. I believe it’s more a matter of maintaining a haughty silence in each other’s presence.”

Max found his mind boggling at the notion of Jem’s maintaining a haughty silence in anybody’s presence, but he was kind enough not to say so.

“Besides,” Egbert went on, “Mr. Ogham and Mr. Wouter Tooter are this year’s Highmost and Least-most Hod-carriers respectively. It’s not the done thing for one Hod-carrier to exclude a Comrade of the Hod from any of his routs and junkets, personal feelings notwithstanding. Comrade White, the Midmost Hod-carrier, would normally have been included, too, but he’s just left for Nairobi on a business trip. Mr. Jem was to have escorted Mrs. White.”

“Mrs. White’s a good-looking, well-dressed woman somewhat on the buxom side and fond of a good time in a nonthreatening sort of way, right?”

“You know the lady, Mr. Max?”

“No, but I know Jem. And the rest, I suppose would be friends of the Tooters?”

“I expect they’ll be mostly railroad buffs and members of Mr. Wouter Tooter’s model railroad club. It won’t be a large party, since the parlor car can’t accommodate more than thirty or forty people comfortably.”

“That sounds like a lot of money to spend on a relatively small affair, wouldn’t you say?”

“Between you and me, Mr. Max. I think it’s partly what they call public relations. Somebody’s been spreading a rumor that the Tooter enterprises are in financial difficulties. I shouldn’t be surprised if making a splash now is their way of squashing the rumor before their stock starts to drop.”

“Very interesting. Well, here’s the old homestead. Mind if I come up with you?”

“Thanks, Mr. Max, but you mustn’t feel obliged.”

“I want to see where it happened.”

“Just a second till I find my key. Ah, here we are. There’s the staircase, you see, and Mr. Jem was on the floor at the foot.”

“Marble floor, I see. Damn good thing he didn’t go down head first. Who uses the stairs as a rule?”

“Nobody, unless the elevator gets stuck. I used to, but I have to say I find them more of a climb than I like nowadays.”

“Did Jem say how he happened to use them today?”

“He said there was a power outage just as he received the phone call from the shop. The lights were out and the radio went off. That meant the elevator wouldn’t be working either, of course. A very unfortunate coincidence. My mother always claimed bad luck came in threes. First the Codfish, and now this. What next, is what I’m wondering. Do you think we can count Mr. Jem’s having to miss the party as the third piece of bad luck, Mr. Max?”

“I’m not sure we should count any of it as just luck. What happened to the clothes he was wearing when he fell?”

“I brought them home from the hospital and dropped them off before going on to your place.”

“Good. Let’s have a look.”

The tiny elevator was sitting in the lobby, its folding brass gates meticulously fastened. Word of Jem’s accident must have got around. Max and Egbert squeezed in together and rode to the second floor. Egbert fetched the clothes and Max pulled out a magnifying glass.

“Aha! See that, Egbert?”

“A grease spot on his pantleg? Mr. Max, you don’t think I’d have let Mr. Jem go around looking like that? He must have done it when he fell.”

“My thought exactly. There’s grease on his shoe sole, too. Got a good flashlight?”

“Oh yes, I always keep one handy.”

“Come on then, let’s see which stair got buttered.”

It was Egbert who first noticed the brownish glob under the fifth tread from the landing. “Would this be what you’re looking for, Mr. Max?”

Bittersohn rubbed a little on his finger and sniffed. “It sure as hell would. Bowling alley wax, I’d say. It’s been cleaned off the step with some kind of solvent, but whoever did it forgot to wipe underneath, probably because he was in a hurry to get away. I’ll bet he was hiding in the cellar while they were lugging Jem off. Let’s go call on the neighbors.”

The first-floor people were away. On the third floor lived an elderly lady, her cook and her maid. The lady was out playing bridge with her maid in attendance because Herself didn’t like going out alone at night, the cook explained. “Can I give you a cup of tea in the kitchen, now?”

Then two men were happy to accept. “I see your electric clock’s right on the dot,” Max remarked as they sat down.

“Has to be,” said the cook. “Herself likes her meals prompt to the second.”

“You haven’t had to reset it lately?”

“No, I haven’t touched it in ages, except to dust it now and then when the spirit moves me.”

Cook was plainly glad of company and ready to talk, but she didn’t have much to tell. The first-floor people were in Palm Beach, and had been for the past two months. Her own household hadn’t known about Jeremy Kelling’s fall until they heard him being taken away in the ambulance. Herself considered him to have been struck down by a Mighty Hand in retribution for his ungodly and riotous ways. Cook personally thought Mr. Kelling was a lovely man, always so kind-spoken when they happened to meet, which wasn’t often because Herself was of the old school and believed in servants using the back stairway. This very night, Mary the maid had been required to go down the back way, around the alley, and walk back up to the front door while Herself used the elevator in lone elegance. Mary might get to ride up after Herself when they got back, it being so late and good maids hard to come by.

“That’s nice,” said Max. “Thanks for the pleasure of your company. The cake was delicious.”

“Would you be wanting a piece to take to Mr. Kelling, now?”

Egbert expressed the opinion that Mr. Jem would prefer a cake that had a bottle of Old Grandad baked into it, and they parted on a merry note.

Going back to Jem’s flat, Max asked, “Egbert, would you have a recent picture of that Codfish crowd?”

“Scads of them, Mr. Max. Mr. Jem keeps an album of all the doings since he joined the club.”

“Great. Where is it?”

New Englanders love to look at photograph albums, for some reason. They spent quite a while over this one. Jem had each photograph neatly labeled. He himself appeared in most of them wearing various appurtenances of office. The latest showed the Great Chain of the Convivial Codfish adorning his well-padded front.

“I’ll take this,” said Max.

Egbert was alarmed. “Mr. Max, if anything should happen to that album, Mr. Jem would have a stroke.”

“I’ll guard it with my life. Where’s his invitation to that ungodly revel he was supposed to go on?”

“It’s a ticket. Mr. Tooter had them printed up special. Can’t ride the train without a ticket, you know.” Egbert produced the precious oblong. “Is it a clue, do you think?”

“Who knows? Anyway, Jem won’t be needing it now. Sleep tight, Egbert. Sarah will be over to the hospital at crack of dawn, I expect, so take your time in the morning.

Max took his leave, pondering deeply. The next day, leaving Sarah to comfort the afflicted, he first collected Jem’s whiskers from Fuzzly’s, dropped in on some pals at the Fraud Squad, lunched with a prominent member of the Securities and Exchange Commission who owed him a favor, had a chat with his Uncle Jake the lawyer, paid a call on a fair and buxom matron who was mystified, gratified, and eager to cooperate; and finally went home to placate his wife.

“Sorry I can’t have dinner with you tonight, sweetie-pumpkin.”

“And where are you off to, pray tell? What are you getting all dressed up for?”

“A train ride,” he replied from the depths of a starched shirt. “Seen my studs lately?”

“You might try your stud box. Uncle Jem wants to know when in blazes you’re going to catch his Codfish.”

“Anon, I hope. One kiss, my bonny sweetheart, I’m off for a prize tonight. With the voluptuous Mrs. White, in case some kind friend thinks you ought to know.”

“In that disgusting clawhammer coat? Where on earth did you get it?”

“Same place I got these.” He put on Jem’s Dundreary whiskers. “How do I look?”

“Don’t ask. I’m going next door and cry on Cousin Theonia’s shoulder. Mrs. White, indeed! I hope she singes your whiskers.”

Mrs. White was ready and waiting when he went to pick her up. They had some trouble stowing her into the taxi on account of her bustle, feather boa, and a hat freighted with a whole stuffed pheasant; but at last they were able to proceed.

On Track Four at North Station, business was booming. A conductor in a stiff cap and brass-buttoned uniform was joyfully clipping tickets. Max recognized him from Jem’s album as Tom Tooter, their host. Up ahead in the engine cab, a melancholy individual wearing a high-rise cap of striped ticking, greasy striped overalls, and a tremendous scrubbing-brush mustache leaned out to survey the throng flocking aboard. This could be none other than Wouter Tooter, throwing himself into his role.

Max himself received some puzzled glances as Mrs. White introduced him right and left as her dear, dear friend Mr. Jay Gould. People must either be putting him down as somebody they’d met before but couldn’t place, or else making mental notes to have a quiet chat with Mr. White when he got back from Nairobi.

Mrs. Tom Tooter was doing the honours inside the parlor car, wearing silver lace over a straight-front corset, with white gloves up to her armpits and strings of pearls down to her knees. She looked a trifle nonplussed when Max made his bow, but pleased to have such a good-looking man aboard even if his ginger side whiskers did clash rather ferociously with his wavy dark hair. Luckily, Mr. Wripp tottered in just behind him and had to be fussed over, so Max escaped without a grilling.

The lights were dim enough to make all the ladies look charming and all the men distinguished. There was no fountain splashing champagne, but they did have a swan carved out of ice to chill the caviar, and a bartender wearing red arm garters and a black toupee neatly parted down the middle. Max got Mrs. White a white lady, which seemed appropriate, then turned her over to her friends and went prospecting.

Tom Tooter was in his glory. He’d changed his conductor’s cap and coat for a Prince Albert. He bagged at the knees and bulged at the shoulders, but what did he care? Kings might be blest, but Tom was glorious, o’er all the ills of life victorious. He couldn’t possibly be the man Max was looking for.

Mrs. Tooter kept glancing at her husband with fond wifely indulgence and brushing imaginary specks off his lapels as women do in public places where decorum forbids more overt displays of affection. Max indulged himself for a moment in thinking that if Sarah were here, she might be brushing specks off his lapels, then got on with his job.

Obed Ogham was easy to spot and would no doubt be a pleasure to dislike. He was one of those loud, beefy men who trap people in corners and tell them a lot of stuff they don’t want to hear. Max stayed well clear of him. He’d be the sort to ask personal questions of strangers.

Wouter Tooter was not in the parlor car. Various guests were asking for him; no doubt cronies from his model railroad club as they wore trainmen’s caps with their false whiskers and old-fashioned clothes. Tom said he was around somewhere and why didn’t they come into the dining car?

This was an excellent suggestion, Max found. Rows of tables with snowy napery and genuine old railroad cutlery were set out around a long center buffet laden with hams, roasts of beef, whole turkeys, hot dishes under metal covers the size of igloos, cold platters of every description, and epergnes dripping with fruits, sweets, and exotic flowers. Edward VII would have found it adequate.

Waiters hovered ready to fetch and carry. A wine steward wearing a silver corkscrew on a heavy silver sommelier’s chain circulated among the tables murmuring recommendations through a well-trimmed but all-covering beard. He sounded as if he had a marble in his mouth. Max took one long, earnest look at the wine steward, then slipped out into the vestibule. When the man came through, Max tackled him.

“Mr. Wouter Tooter, I believe? Changed your overalls, I see.”

“Who the hell are you?” mumbled the man.

“You’d better take that marble out of your mouth, Mr. Tooter. You might swallow it. To respond to your question, my name’s Bittersohn and I’m a private detective sent by the Securities and Exchange Commission to guard Mr. Obed Ogham. They don’t want anything to happen to him before he’s indicted.”

“Indicted? What for?”

“You don’t really have to ask, do you? You know damn well Ogham’s trying by highly illegal methods to scuttle your brother’s firm so he can make a killing on the stock market. That’s why you’re playing wine steward tonight with the Great Chain of the Convivial Codfish.”

Wouter looked down at his chest as if he thought it might possibly belong to someone else, and said nothing.

“That’s why you deliberately disabled Jeremy Kelling, so that he couldn’t come tonight and catch you wearing the chain. Your brother’s too busy with the guests to notice, and old Mr. Wripp’s too bleary-eyed from his cataract operation. Ogham might catch on, but he’s not supposed to live long enough to rat on you, is he?”