Postmark Murder (23 page)

There was no doubt about recognition this time, no doubt at all. Jonny gave one startled glance around her. Her eyes were brilliant, almost black. There were pink flames in her cheeks. She became aware of the strained observation of all those people. She gulped and ran to Matt, thumping across the rug. She clutched for his hand. He put his arm around her, pulling her close.

Charlie said, “Well—that seems to settle it.”

Doris sat down. Her bracelets glittered as she lifted one small hand and gestured toward a rather worn-looking heap of papers on the table. “Of course, all that will have to be confirmed,” she said sharply.

Stanislowski dabbed at his eyes. Laura tried to find in his face some traceable resemblance to Jonny. There was none, really. He had dark eyes, a rather prominent and square chin and jaw, a broad face so his eyes looked deep sunken. He had thick, vigorous dark hair and a ruddy complexion. Aside from that suggestion of the Slav about his features which showed in Jonny’s small face too, there was no resemblance at all to Jonny. But, then, Laura realized rather dismally, there had been no traceable resemblance between Jonny and the murdered man either. Except the first Conrad’s eyes were blue, even if rather bleak and faded, while Jonny’s were a vivid, clear and sparkling blue. However, there was not likely to exist a very marked resemblance between a little girl going on eight and a mature man.

Charlie followed Doris’ gesture. He rose precisely, took up the heap of papers and handed them to Matt. “There’s the letter you left at the orphanage, Matt. Various cards of identity, you’ll see those, and his passport.”

Doris said suddenly, “Do sit down, Laura. Matt, we’ve got to thresh this thing out.” She rose herself, however, and went to the door where she touched the little mother-of-pearl bell, set in the casing, with an imperious forefinger. Matt sat down and Jonny huddled in the curve of his arm, excited color still high on her cheeks. But she was perplexed, too; she shot a swift glance at Stanislowski, and then fixed her eyes on the round toe of one black slipper. Laura sank down in a big, red lounge chair. She was directly opposite the enormous fireplace, its mantel carved of dark oak, with Conrad Stanley’s portrait above it. The portrait had been painted shortly after his marriage to Doris, and it was excellent. Laura looked up at the broad face, the wise, wary yet humorous and tolerant eyes and for a moment it seemed to her that Conrad himself was in the room bidding them be cautious, ask questions, listen, weigh every answer and, Laura thought with a pang of remembered grief in her heart, asking them not to take their responsibility in the life of this little great-niece too lightly, too swiftly or carelessly. The door opened and the butler entered. Doris said, “Tea—something to drink.”

“Yes, madam.”

The door closed. Matt was glancing through the thin bundle of papers Charlie had given him. Conrad Stanislowski had apparently conquered his tears although he still had a large white handkerchief in his hand. He sat down in a composed way and watched Matt.

Matt said, “Here’s my letter, all right.”

Laura was seated so near him that she could see the letter as he unfolded it and a few words leaped out in clear black and white. Matt glanced rapidly at it, as if merely to identify it; then he returned it to an envelope which was addressed simply “Mr. Conrad Stanislowski.” There was no postmark on the letter, of course, and no stamp, but Laura thought suddenly, there was a postmark. Murder was the postmark.

It was as if it were stamped in invisible ink, with no trace, no clue to the lethal hand that had made that stamp for a letter which outlined the contents of Conrad Stanley’s will. A letter which had brought this second Conrad Stanislowski to Chicago— and almost certainly had brought the first Conrad to Chicago and to his death. He had known of the letter; he had known every one of the words in Matt’s handwriting.

Postmark murder, Laura thought again, and remembered, too, the tragic, huddled figure of Catherine Miller in the fatal brown coat and black beret.

Postmark murder. Laura stirred restively. It was very quiet in the room. When Doris reached impatiently for a cigarette, the sputter of the match was sharp and clear.

Matt said, “And here’s the passport.” He opened it and very deliberately examined it. When he reached the photograph he looked at it for a long time and looked at the man seated at the other end of the table, comparing the two with frank care. Conrad Stanislowski bore the scrutiny with composure, and there was no doubt about it, Laura could see the photograph, too. It was that of the man sitting there waiting, one sturdy leg crossed over the other. So he was Conrad Stanislowski.

Matt fumbled through the other papers.

Charlie said, “I’ve looked at them, Matt. They seem to be in order.”

“Oh, yes,” Matt said in an absent way. “I expect they are all in order.”

“There’s the letter you left at the orphanage. His passport is not visaed for the United States. We’ll have to do something about that but I don’t think there’s much doubt he’s Stanislowski. I for one.” Charlie said, “am convinced.”

Doris gave Charlie a long look, and lowered her eyelids. Matt put the heap of papers neatly together and returned them to Charlie who put them on the table. It was almost like a board meeting, somehow, with the long table before the fireplace, Stanislowski at one end of it and Charlie at the other, and the papers upon it, the immediate and urgent agenda. Stanislowski touched his eyes again with his handkerchief, then put it in his pocket.

Matt said to him directly, “How did you get into the United States?”

Stanislowski glanced at Charlie. “I take it that this is the man who left that letter for me.”

“Oh, I’m sorry! I didn’t introduce you. This is Matt Cosden, you know who he is. And of course. Miss March—”

Stanislowski bounced at once to his feet, bowed and sat down again.

Charlie said. “You know that Cosden is Mrs. Stanley’s lawyer. It was he who found Jonny. You know all about that.” He said to

Matt, “We’ve informed him of the situation—all of it—while we were waiting for you.” He turned to Stanislowski again. “I expect you’d better tell Cosden the whole story of your arrival, as you told Mrs. Stanley and me.”

“Certainly,” Stanislowski said politely, and paused a second or two as if to collect his words. His clothes, too, like the murdered man’s, had a kind of difference about them which Laura could only classify as foreign, except they did not have that ineffable air of shabbiness and wear that the first Conrad’s had had but instead looked new and spruce except for a rather worn, bright silk tie. His glistening oxfords were startlingly new and American-made. He leaned back in a composed way and addressed Matt. “It’s quite a short story really. I’m a language—they call it an expert. I studied English in London, indeed I intended to teach, but then of course—” He shrugged. “The war. After the war I was more or less obliged to go along with the party in control in the government. I had a child to support. There was nothing else to do. Don’t think too harshly of me for that. Nobody can say what a man would do until he finds himself in exactly identical circumstances. However, with me it was only a matter of survival until I could find a way to escape. I did find a way to send Jonny out about two years ago.”

Matt interrupted. “How did you do that?”

Stanislowski shrugged again. “Escapes are made, Mr. Cosden. More than you dream of, more than ever reach the newspapers. This, however, was quite simple. A friend of mine from student days shared my real sympathies. We had to keep our intentions a secret, naturally, but he found a way to get out to Vienna and he thought he could make his escape from Vienna, then, later. I was at that time, I thought, being watched rather closely. It seemed to me it would be easier for me to get away if I could send Jonny out first. And of course I wanted to be sure my child was safe. It happened that this man, his name was Schmidt, felt that he would have a better chance to get away if he had the child with him—a matter of some slight disguise, you understand. We knew of this orphanage in Vienna. He took Jonny with him. I took care to fasten her birth certificate inside her clothing so there would be no question of identification or my claim to her when I eventually made my own escape to Vienna. He sent me word, we had arranged a kind of code, that Jonny was safely in the institution. However, it was two years before I managed to get myself on a commission for the Polish government as a language expert and eventually thus to Vienna. Eventually I made my arrangements to leave Vienna. I went to the orphanage for Jonny. They told me that you, Mr. Cosden, had taken her to America and they gave me”—he nodded at the papers on the table—“your letter. My intention in the beginning had been to escape either to England or to the United States with Jonny. There I intended to seek asylum. When I learned that Jonny was in Chicago, naturally I decided to come here.”

The door opened and the butler came in with a tray of decanters and glasses and ice. He went to the end of the long oak table and set them down; a maid, trim in black and white, brought in a tea tray; the butler pulled up a small table in front of Doris. It was a perfectly executed little ritual.

The silver gleamed in the light. Doris poured tea for Laura and the butler brought it to her; the maid followed with a delicate porcelain plate full of tiny watercress sandwiches. It was all perfectly done. Doris’ rings sparkled, her little white hands seemed as delicate as the porcelain. Charlie poured drinks for Stanislowski and Matt. There was a glass of milk for Jonny, who took it politely from the tray the maid offered her but held it in both hands until Matt gently relieved her of it and put it on the table beside him. Jonny accepted a cookie, too, politely again, but did not so much as nibble on it. It’s been too much excitement for her, Laura thought, troubled.

Conrad Stanley’s portrait surveyed the little scene. The windows were darkening, and the butler went to close the curtains with a decorous swish which reminded Laura suddenly of the night when she had pulled the curtains in her own small living-room—and then known that someone was in the apartment.

Who?

Who had murdered the first Conrad?

Suddenly and strangely it struck her that there was now another person who was interested in the Stanley will. Logically, another person had entered that too small circle of people. That was the man who sat composedly at the long table, and called himself Conrad Stanislowski. And had a passport with his photograph.

And whom Jonny had recognized.

The maid had retired, quietly. The butler gave a glance around the room, murmured something to Doris and Doris dismissed him with a nod. The door closed. Matt said to Stanislowski, “How did you manage to get into the country?”

Stanislowski took rather a generous drink, then smiled at Matt, showing very white teeth. “I came as fast as I could. I thought my child was in safe hands, but as I indicated to you her arrival in Chicago gave me a focus, governed my decision to come to the United States. I got to Genoa and managed to get a berth on a little cargo boat. She was short-handed so they didn’t ask too many questions. We reached New Orleans and there I simply jumped ship. It was easy to do. I came to Chicago by train and arrived here today. I only stopped to buy some shoes”—he glanced at one new and shiny oxford and smiled in a rather deprecating way—“then I came straight to Mrs. Stanley.”

Doris glanced up at Matt over her teacup; there was a perceptible edge in her voice. “He simply rang the bell, the doorman announced him and my butler came to me and gave me his name. It was a great surprise. I thought I should see him. I telephoned to Charlie and tried to reach you at the office but by that time Mr.”—the edge in her voice sharpened but she said it— “Mr. Stanislowski had arrived at the door. He showed me his passport and your letter, and as we were talking Charlie came. I tried to telephone to you at your office again and you weren’t there. Then it struck me that you might have gone”—her brown eyes went to Laura in an odd look, then she lowered her eyelashes, surveyed the cup of tea in her hands and said—“to see Jonny.” She lifted the teacup and sipped from it.

Matt said mildly, “I can see how it would be a surprise. I might even say we are amazed, Stanislowski.”

Stanislowski eyed him calmly. Charlie said suddenly, “We must make some sort of arrangements for you, Stanislowski. I take it you’ve not had time to go to a hotel or anything of the kind.”

Stanislowski shrugged. “I checked my baggage at the railway station. As you know, Chicago is a strange city to me.”

“I’ll get a room for you at the club,” Charlie said politely. “That ought to suit you nicely until you can make some permanent arrangements.”

But Stanislowski shook his head. “No. Thank you very much. I think it better for me to take an apartment at some hotel. It may be some time before I decide just where I’ll live or what I’m going to do.”

Perhaps the same thought flashed across all their minds, through the room like a little chain linking them together. Doris put it in words, swiftly. “But you’ll have to live in America, Mr. Stanislowski. That is if you wish to inherit from my husband’s will.”

She didn’t like Stanislowski; or rather, Laura thought, she didn’t like his arrival, his claims, and the authenticity of those claims. The reason was clear; she could not, now, fight Jonny’s claim to the Stanislowski fund. It would go, all of it, to the man sitting there before them, composed and certain of himself, armed with proof of his identity. No; Doris didn’t like that. And at the moment she saw no way out of it, so her voice had a sharp edge; her eyes, her lovely face were cold and angry.

Charlie said dryly, “Well, yes. That is the provision, Stanislowski. You do understand it?”

Stanislowski nodded. “Oh, yes. And I’m quite prepared to abide by it. But you see all this is very new to me, America and all that. It is a dream I have held for so long a time that it doesn’t seem quite real. I’d like to look about me a little and decide just what to do, where exactly to live—in America of course, but where. I must tell you that the provision of my uncle’s will touches me deeply. It makes me feel very humble.”