Come Hell or Highball (19 page)

“Hold up, kid. This is all circumstantial so far.”

“If she
is
an actress, she'd have some kind of reason to want a film reel, right?”

“Sure. But didn't the cops write off all the household staff? Something about the butler providing an alibi for all of them?”

“Yes,” I said. “I mean,
no
. She doesn't have an alibi! All of the other help was sleeping in the servants' quarters that night and came down to the kitchen with Hibbers after they heard the gunshot. But Nanny Potter was sleeping in the nursery because the boys had stomachaches. How could I have been so stupid? It was
her
.”

“Maybe.”

“Probably!”

“Here's Mrs. Lundgren.”

I stood on tiptoe and peeked over the garment rack. Sure enough, Berta was headed in our direction. Cedric was slung over one arm, and her handbag was slung over the other.

Unfortunately, Jimmy the Ant was not far down the hallway in the opposite direction, fidgeting. I couldn't tell if he was adjusting his holster, or if he urgently needed better-fitting trousers.

When Berta drew near the garment rack, I burrowed a hole between a clown suit and a tulle gown.
“Berta,”
I whispered.

She stopped and looked around.

“Psst!” I whispered. “In here!”

Cedric yipped.

“Mrs. Woodby,” Berta said loudly. “Whatever are you doing hiding in those clothes?”

I squeezed my eyes shut.
“Oh dear Lord.”

Berta tunneled through the garment rack. She thrust Cedric into my arms.

“Hey!” Jimmy yelled. I heard his tiny shoes tapping in our direction. A moment later, he shoved the rack—it was on wheels—and it rolled away to expose me cowering against Ralph.

“Easy there, partner,” Ralph said.

Jimmy twirled his pistol around by the trigger guard, on one finger.

Everybody was getting into the Wild West spirit.

I swallowed. “Now, Mr. Ant, there's no need to get so feisty. I was only having a friendly chat with Miss Street back there, and…” My voice trailed off. Jimmy wasn't listening. His good eye was looking at Berta. His glass eye lolled in the other direction.

“Why, Mrs. Lundgren,” Jimmy said. “You little she-devil, you. Say, that telephone number you gave me last night didn't go through. You wasn't trying to give me the blow-off, was you?”

Berta drew herself up. “Certainly not. You must have told the operator the incorrect numbers. Perhaps you were liquored up when you attempted to call? Perhaps the operator could not distinguish your slurred words?”

“Berta—”

“It is Mrs. Lundgren to you.”

“Aw, Mrs. Lundgren. You lovely Swedish tomato, you.”

Ralph suppressed a snort of laughter.

“We danced all night last night,” Jimmy said. “I thought we was hitting it off real nice.”

“Hitting off?” Berta said. “Hitting
off
? Shall I suppose that you joked with your—how do you say?—
pals
about getting to whatever base it is that—that—”

“Naw, doll, nothing like that. It's just, well, you listened to my talk about the farm in Missouri. No dame's ever cared about the farm before.”

“There
was
the farm. Boys who grow up in the countryside are so much more
wholesome,
I have always believed.…”

Uh-oh. Berta was starting to thaw.

Jimmy sidled up to her. “So I thought we could talk some more, see? That's all. Maybe a nice little drink somewheres, and then we could…” At this juncture, Jimmy (quite inadvisably) reached around Berta and gave her backside a squeeze.

Berta's eyes flared. In one fluid motion, she unfastened the buckle of her handbag, drew out a small pistol, and aimed it at Jimmy.

I gasped.

“Whoa,” Ralph muttered.

“Back off,” Berta said. She pressed the pistol's barrel into Jimmy's lapel and pushed him away. “I am
not
that sort of lady.”

“Sure, sure, didn't mean to offend.” Jimmy held his hands up. “Hey, is that a .25-cal Colt you got there?”

Berta looked at Ralph and me. “Shall we scram?” she said.

Ralph and I snapped our mouths shut and hurried off down the hallway, Berta close behind.

“So
that's
what you keep in your handbag,” I said to Berta over my shoulder.

“Among other things.”

“Tomato!” Jimmy wailed after us. “C'mon! Just one drink!”

Berta
tsk
ed her tongue.

*   *   *

Back on the road in the Duesy, we talked things over. We'd failed once more to get any closer to Sadie Street's apartment. On the other hand, we may have stumbled upon the identity of Horace Arbuckle's murderer.

“Nanny Potter? An actress?” Berta shook her head. “She seemed such a plain, unassuming girl. Not a glamorous bone in her body.”

“I'm sure that was her in the photograph,” I said. I swerved into the fast lane over the bridge. Dusk was falling, blue gray and damp. “And she overheard me repeating aloud the combination of Horace's safe, so
she
could've stolen the reel.”

“But that does not explain the appearance of the reel in one of the calfskin weekend bags,” Berta said.

“Seems to me,” Ralph said, stuffed in the backseat with Cedric, “that the first order of business is to confirm that Nanny Potter didn't have an alibi on the night of Horace's murder.”

*   *   *

As soon as we got back to the love nest, I telephoned Dune House.

Hibbers answered on the third ring.

“Just the fellow I'd hoped to snag,” I said.

“Madam?”

“Billy and Theo's nurserymaid—what is her full name?”

“Miss Vera Potter, madam.”

“Vera Potter,” I repeated. Berta and Ralph both scribbled the name down in the their respective notebooks. Berta seemed to have replaced Thad Parker with Ralph as her gumshoe exemplar.

How annoying.

“How long has Miss Potter been with the Arbuckles?” I asked Hibbers.

“Since last autumn. October, I believe. As you know, I was still in your employ at that time, so I cannot give an unimpeachable summary of—”

“Okay, okay. Since October. Ever hear any word about Miss Potter being an actress?”

“An
actress,
madam? Heavens no. She is a rather morose and taciturn young lady. Most principled, too, regarding matters of finance. I recall that she refused to accept additional monies offered to her for looking after a friend of young Master Theo's. She said it was tantamount to a bribe. On the rare occasions that I have heard Miss Potter speak in the servants' quarters, she has made reference to her long career as a nurserymaid.”

“She could've been fibbing.”

“Certainly, madam.”

“Any funny business between her and Mr. Arbuckle that you're aware of?”

Hibbers coughed. “Indeed not.”

“Listen, about Miss Potter's alibi the night Mr. Arbuckle was shot: The kids were indisposed that night—overindulged in cookies. Miss Potter stayed at the kids' bedsides, swabbing their feverish brows and whatnot. But you told the police that all the household staff were accounted for.”

There was a heavy pause on the line.

“Hibbers?”

“Ah. Yes, madam. I was contemplating your suggestion.”

“And?”

“And yes, indeed, it appears that I may have made a small … error. Miss Potter was absent when I entered the kitchen after the murder.”

“I assume you haven't told this to the police?”

“No, madam. It is only now that my attention has been drawn to this oversight. Perhaps I should go to the police station and inform—”

“No!” I cried. If the police arrested Vera Potter before I got to her, then I might never have a chance to speak with her. I might never find out if she knew anything about the film reel's whereabouts.

“Madam, I really must. You see, Miss Potter will travel to Bar Harbor with the children early tomorrow morning.”

Phooey. Olive
had
mentioned that.

“Then I'm coming up to the country this evening,” I said. “Simply—simply wait, okay? And don't breathe a word of this to anyone.” I disconnected. “Pack your suitcase, Berta.”

“I never
un
packed it.”

“I'll meet you two at the Foghorn in Hare's Hollow at nine tonight,” Ralph said. He was already heading for the foyer. “I have a couple things to take care of here in the city. I've got my own motorcar.”

“Wait a minute,” I said. “Who said
you
were coming?”

He turned. “You really want to confront a possible murderer on your own?”

“Berta is armed.”

“Yeah—I was meaning to ask you, Mrs. Lundgren—”

“I have a permit,” Berta said.

“I was actually going to say, do you know how to use that thing?”

“It seemed to do the trick with Mr. Ant,” I said. “Mr. Oliver, it's starting to look an awful lot like you're trying to horn in on our turf. Who's to say you aren't going to snatch the reel out from under us?”

“Well now.” He scratched his eyebrow. “
There's
a thought.”

I narrowed my eyes.

“Mrs. Woodby,” Berta whispered, “there is no need to behave in such a prickly fashion to the young man. He is only trying to help.”

“You've been utterly taken in!” I whispered back. “Why do you keep forgetting that he's
investigating
me on someone else's dime?” I glanced over at Ralph.
I
kept forgetting that, too. He exuded such a strong air of masculine competence. Seductive, sure, but also exceedingly irritating. Then there were the thoughts that bubbled in my head whenever I looked his way. Thoughts about those big, warm hands.

He grinned at me.

My upper lip felt sweaty. I prayed he wasn't one of those mind-readers I'd heard about.

“I'm not going to steal the reel,” he said. “Just helping out, okay? Scout's honor.” He pulled open the door. “See you at the Foghorn.”

 

21

It was almost nine o'clock in the evening by the time Berta and I reached Hare's Hollow. I had to park the Duesy a block away from the Foghorn, since all the spaces in front of the inn were taken.

“Looks like the reporters are back in town,” I said.

“They probably wish to photograph poor Mr. Arbuckle's funeral in the morning.”

“If I know my reporters, they're more interested in angling for photographs of the people up here filming
Jane Eyre
.”

We mounted the Foghorn's wooden porch. A rattling motor made us turn our heads. An angular Ford Model T (which was maybe eight years old, but sounded like it was about eighty) double-parked in front of the inn. The engine wheezed off and the headlamps faded to black. Ralph hopped out and slammed the door with surprising violence. He kicked one of the spindly wheels.

“Hi,” I called down to him over the inn's porch railing.

He glowered up. “Evening, ladies.”

“Nice struggle-buggy,” I said.

“Hnh.” He stomped up the steps. “Hungry?”

“Famished,” Berta said. “From terror.”

“Mrs. Woodby's driving that bad?”

Berta shuddered. “Worse.”

“You were sleeping the whole way, Berta!” I said.

The three of us had booked the last two rooms. Berta and I would have to bunk together. We took our suitcases upstairs, and then went to get dinner in the Foghorn's restaurant.

“Might I bring my dog?” I said to the lady stationed at the front of the restaurant.

Cedric cocked his head. Who could say no to
that
?

“Long as he stays on the floor,” the lady said.

The restaurant was dim and old-fashioned. It catered to holidaymakers on motorcar tours along the coast, but at this late hour, only a sprinkling of shabby-suited men—reporters, I guessed—hunkered over tables. We chose a corner table.

“Any contact with the Arbuckle household yet?” Ralph asked. He draped his jacket over a chair back.

I'd never seen him in shirtsleeves. His shirt was worn but clean, and I noted the bulging muscles of his benders. Tonight, there was no gun in sight. Maybe he'd left it in his motorcar.

“No,” I said. “I thought I'd telephone again right after we had a bite to eat.”

“You probably shouldn't telephone,” he said. “Operators are always listening in.”

“This is Hare's Hollow,” I said. “Not Chicago.”

“Do you suggest that we should go in person to locate Miss Potter at Dune House?” Berta said.

“Maybe you should let me go,” Ralph said. “Alone.”

“This is my investigation!” I said.

“
Our
investigation,” Berta said.

“Right,” I said, “
our
investigation. What're you doing, Mr. Oliver, elbowing in like this? We're not going to split the reward with you, if that's what you're aiming for.”

Ralph's brow lifted. “Reward?”

Rats. He'd made me blurt things again. I buried my face in a food-stained bill of fare. “Where's the waitress, anyway?”

“I'll go find her.” Ralph stalked off around the corner, to the front of the restaurant.

As soon as he'd disappeared, I extracted the notebook from his jacket. “I can't believe he left this unguarded.”

“Mrs. Woodby!” Berta whispered. “Put that back this instant!”

“No.” I opened the notebook. Its pages brimmed with pencil scribbles.

“Mr. Oliver is our friend.”

“Friend? Really, Berta. Do you think Thad Parker would be so gullible?”

“It appeared to me that you had rather hit it off with Mr. Oliver. You must not judge persons by their line of work, anyway.”