The Withdrawing Room (9 page)

Or did she fear he might be impervious to her own more mature charms? Why should she care, with Professor Ormsby panting into her aigrette and Mr. Hartler hurling himself into her silken net before she’d even had time to get it spread, as Cousin Dolph, Uncle Jem, and who knew how many other well-heeled bachelors of suitable age had already shown a disposition to do?

Perhaps Sarah was imagining things. At any rate, Mr. Bittersohn didn’t appear to notice any coolness in the atmosphere. They’d agreed in advance that she was to present him simply as a consultant on art objects and paintings, and let the others interpret the description any way they chose. Mr. Porter-Smith evidently took it to mean appraiser and began airing his own knowledge of finance in the art world, which he made to sound far too intricate for any but the keenest minds such as Eugene Porter-Smith’s.

Mr. Bittersohn listened with every appearance of respect. Mr. Hartler managed to tear himself away from Mrs. Sorpende long enough to interject a word about the Iolani Palace and was overjoyed to learn that Mr. Bittersohn had been there. The lady ought not to have been bothered by his defection, as Professor Ormsby at once closed in and began expounding some fascinating nugget of aerodynamical lore to the green chiffon scarf that only half screened her magnificent ramparts.

The dinner was excellent, the conversation much improved by the removal of Mr. Quiffen and the addition of jolly, voluble Mr. Hartler and quiet but impressive Mr. Bittersohn. Charles passed the sauceboat and refilled the wineglasses with even more lofty dignity than was his wont. This, his demeanor made clear, was a real jazzy turnout.

Sarah was in the habit of rotating her boarders at the table so that nobody could complain of feeling slighted. Tonight she’d put Mr. Hartler and Mr. Bittersohn beside her. After Charles had cleared away the main course and was having a gorgeous time setting fire to a chafing dish full of canned peaches that Sarah had found on sale and turned into a modified version of
pêches flambées,
Bittersohn surprised her by saying in a somewhat louder tone than he’d been using, “About those illustrations you promised to do for me, Mrs. Kelling. I hope it’s not uncouth to mention business at the table, but my publisher’s pressing me for a delivery date. Do you think we could discuss them sometime soon?”

“Why, of course.” Sarah was surprised. She’d thought his idea about a book on antique jewelry had been dropped. Did he really mean to go ahead with it, or was this an excuse to talk with her about something else, such as Mary Smith and Mr. Quiffen? Anyway, she’d better play along.

“I’m so sorry. I did promise to get back to you ages ago, didn’t I?”

As the rest of the boarders looked puzzled, she explained to the table at large, “My husband and I used to do a good deal of book illustrating. He was a marvelous photographer. That’s some of his work on the walls.”

She’d finally got to hang some of Alexander’s framed prints in the dining room where she’d always wanted to put them but had never been allowed to while her mother-in-law was alive. Everybody admired the exquisitely sensitive photography for a moment in respectful silence, then Miss LaValliere burbled, “Can’t we see some of yours?”

“If you like. There are several books in the library that we worked on. My contributions are mostly just little line sketches. That’s how Mr. Bittersohn and I happened to become acquainted. We were introduced by his publisher, who recommended me for a book he’s doing. But then I—well, you all know what happened so we shan’t go into that. I do still have those photographs I’m supposed to be working from upstairs in my studio, Mr. Bittersohn. Perhaps you and I might have our discussion there later this evening instead of boring everybody else with it now.”

“I don’t want to push you,” he protested quite convincingly.

“But I need to be pushed. I knew I should be getting back to the job and I simply couldn’t make myself get started.”

“Creative work must be terribly difficult,” said Mrs. Sorpende. She was looking politely unconvinced, Sarah thought. Either they weren’t acting as well as Sarah had thought, or else Mrs. Sorpende was a remarkably perspicacious woman.

“I’ll bring down some of the photographs to show you, if Mr. Bittersohn doesn’t mind.” Maybe that would wipe the skepticism off that Mona Lisa face. “They’re quite breathtaking. This book is about antique jewelry, a subject on which Mr. Bittersohn is quite expert, though he’s too modest to say so himself.”

“How can I be modest, since I’m writing a book about it?” the man replied.

“I thought you’d been dragooned into doing it by the Jewelers’ Guild or whatever they call it. Didn’t you say you’d been given a grant?”

“I didn’t, but apparently our mutual whatever-you-call-him did.”

“Oh, dear, wasn’t I supposed to tell?”

“It doesn’t matter. In any event, I expect all these people are mainly interested in the fact that I’ll be downstairs instead of up so they won’t have to listen to me pounding a typewriter over their heads.”

Or not pounding one, as the case might be. As for Mariposa and Charles, they were too racket prone themselves in their leisure time to hear or care, and too decent to snitch on the man in any case.

Sarah established her
bona fides
as an illustrator by displaying four books she and Alexander had worked on together and one she’d done alone. Then she went to get Bittersohn’s photographs from the studio she’d created by selling everything out of what Aunt Caroline had called her boudoir and moving in a banged-up chest, table, and chair. As the room was on the front, she’d added plain white curtains for respectability. It was a pleasant enough place now, she thought as she scrabbled in the drawers. And how very nice she hadn’t remembered to throw out these supposedly useless photographs when she changed rooms. At least they could serve to convince Mrs. Sorpende of what might possibly even be the truth.

The buxom beauty did show a polite interest in the jewelry. Mr. Hartler did a quick run-through to see if the Hawaiian diamonds were represented, found none, and went back to talking about King Kalakaua’s custom-gilded showcases. Miss LaValliere gushed without even bothering to look, and asked Mr. Bittersohn how one went about choosing the right engagement ring and had he happened to give anybody one recently? When the ritual half-hour was up, he sprang from her side like a startled chamois and leaped to follow Mrs. Kelling up the stairs.

“N
OW,” SAID SARAH WHEN
she’d brought an extra chair from her bedroom and got them seated in the studio, “what do you want to talk about? I’m sure it’s not necklace clasps.”

“No, but you may have to draw some,” said Bittersohn. “La Belle Dame Sans Merci wasn’t buying, did you notice?”

“Of course I noticed. Why do you think I made all that fuss about the photographs? You mustn’t call her merciless, though. At least she had the grace not to say what she thought.”

“It’s probably not the done thing to call your landlady a liar.”

“Never mind her. Have you found out something?”

“Sort of. Look, how well did you know this Quiffen before you took him on?”

“Not well enough, obviously, or I shouldn’t have done it. I’d seen him a few times at the Protheroes’ but never paid much attention to him, or he to me. There was always a crowd around because George can’t stay awake for more than ten minutes at a stretch and it does get dull for Anora. He was just one of those people you think you know and then find out you don’t.”

“Wouldn’t your Mr. Hartler fall into the same category?”

“Yes, I suppose so, but don’t you think he’s a dear?”

“I’d just like to get a look at some of those royal Hawaiian art treasures he’s collecting,” said Bittersohn cautiously.

“Why? Do you think he’s being swindled? What could that have to do with Mr. Quiffen?”

“I haven’t the remotest idea if he’s being swindled, nor do I see any connection with Quiffen. Put it down to professional curiosity. What I want to talk about is your cousin.”

“Which cousin? I have thousands.”

“Adolphus Kelling. Didn’t I hear you mention him in connection with your Great-uncle Frederick?”

“Cousin Dolph? Of course. His own parents died young and he was brought up by Great-uncle Fred and Great-aunt Matilda more or less as their own son. He’s going to inherit their estate. What about him?”

“Hasn’t he also been managing the funds or something?”

“Dolph was legally appointed conservator after Aunt Matilda died because by then Great-uncle Frederick had lost quite a few of his marbles and couldn’t be trusted two inches with a checkbook. He’d always fancied himself as a Great Public Benefactor, you know, and Dolph had been his aide-de-camp or something of the sort for years. Dolph’s still fighting the good fight in Uncle Fred’s name and I expect he always will. It keeps him occupied and makes him feel important, and I daresay they have accomplished a certain amount of good in a half-baked way. What’s Dolph up to now?”

“That’s a good question. To put it in a nutshell, this Barnwell Quiffen had hired a private investigator to look into the way your cousin has been administering his uncle’s estate.”

“Whatever for?” gasped Sarah. “Do you mean Mr. Quiffen thought Dolph has been—what do they call it—cooking the books?”

“Diverting funds to his own pocket was the expression Quiffen used to the detective.”

“But that’s absurd. Why should he? Dolph got all his parents’ money to begin with and I can assure you he’s not one to fling it about, though he does take me to a nice restaurant about once a year so I can’t exactly call him a cheapskate. But he always adds up the bill at least three times before he pays it. And Uncle Fred’s money was coming to him in any case, so he’d just be stealing from himself if that’s possible.”

“Did he know he was due to inherit?”

“Heavens, yes. Everybody did. Every time the family got together Uncle Fred used to stalk around like General Pershing declaiming, ‘To you from failing hands I throw the torch. Be yours to hold it high.’ And Dolph would swell up like a blowfish and bug out his eyes and say in that pompous way of his, ‘I shan’t let you down, Uncle Fred.’ And he wouldn’t. I know Dolph very well. He’s pigheaded and slow-thinking and has a low boiling point and can be the most awful bore, but he’s so honest it’s a downright pitiful, and he does have a sense of duty to the family. He used to get a bit testy with Uncle Frederick, as who didn’t, but he never balked at doing whatever Uncle Frederick wanted, even when he should have.”

“Such as when?”

“One sterling example was the frogs. You know how somebody’s always making noises about there being no frogs in the Frog Pond? Of course it’s impossible now that the pond’s all concreted and dry half the time, but Great-uncle Frederick decided Boston must have its frogs regardless. So he made Dolph bring a great, dripping sackful into town on the subway, all croaking like mad. Then Great-uncle Frederick made a speech and dumped them in. Needless to say, the frogs weren’t having any of this. They hopped straight over to the pond in the Public Gardens. Those that didn’t get squashed crossing Charles Street hung around making a ghastly racket till another public-spirited soul went over and collected himself a frogs legs dinner and that was the end of that.

“But none of Great-uncle Frederick’s money was squandered on that episode. Dolph wouldn’t go out and
buy
frogs. He spent a whole day wallowing around in a swamp with an old minnow net he’d had as a boy, catching wild ones. Furthermore, the swamp was on a piece of property his parents had left him so they were his frogs in the first place, if one can be said to own a frog. And that’s more or less typical of how Dolph operates. Mr. Quiffen must have been imagining things. Only—”

“Only Quiffen’s dead, isn’t he?” Bittersohn reminded her gently. “And we’ve both decided Miss Smith was telling the truth about having seen somebody push him under the subway train. And this cousin of yours must spend a fair amount of time down around Government Center and City Hall on his civic business, mustn’t he? Would he be apt to go over near Haymarket?”

“Oh yes, all the time. They have some excellent restaurants in the area and Dolph’s always having working luncheons, as he calls them, with somebody or other, which are apt to stretch on for hours. As I mentioned, Dolph doesn’t stint when it comes to food.”

“Does he ever ride the T?”

“Always. He lives not too far from Chestnut Hill Station, so he walks down and comes in on the Riverside line. Anybody’d be crazy to bring a car into the city. Anybody save thee and me, of course.” Sarah laughed nervously, remembering the elegant automobile Bittersohn kept parked in the Under-Common Garage.

He smiled too, perhaps glad of an excuse to get off this awkward subject for a moment. “Still got the old Studebaker?”

“Yes, but I’ll have to give it up by the end of the year. It costs so much to insure and garage, and I don’t have Alexander anymore to do the mechanics. It tears me to pieces to think of letting it go. Do you think there’s any hope of finding a buyer?”

“A 1950 Studebaker in mint condition? I’d say you may be able to ease the pain of parting by a considerable amount. Want me to ask my brother-in-law what the prospects are?”

“I’d love it. I could use a little easing of pain about now. Mr. Bittersohn, did that detective find out anything about Dolph?”

“All I know so far is that Quiffen had launched an investigation. What he planned to do with the information if he got any, I have no idea.”

“I have,” said Sarah. “He’d have written to the papers about it. That’s what he always did. And they’d have pounced on the story because of all the publicity Great-uncle Frederick’s funeral has already stirred up. Look at the to-do they made about me this past week, just because Mr. Quiffen happened to have been living in my house. I’ve already had two poison-pen letters accusing me of having been his mistress and driving him to suicide.”

“My God!” Bittersohn looked appalled.

“Oh, I don’t care. By now I’ve been slammed around so much that I’m used to that sort of thing, but it would kill Dolph to be plastered all over the front pages as a suspected embezzler. Will this never end?”