Family Vault (26 page)

Sarah turned to Bittersohn. “Would your uncle agree with that?”

“I think Mr. Redfern is aware that Jacob Bittersohn would act in the best interest of his client,” he replied. “I question whether he’d compare her to a child in a tantrum. I believe he’d agree that you have the right to look at your own property. Furthermore, I don’t see what the hell you’re stalling about, Redfern. This is not a frivolous request. Mrs. Kelling, who happens to be my client as well as yours, has learned, in going through her late mother-in-law’s effects, that members of her family have been systematically victimized over an extended period of time. To make an effective investigation, we need to know exactly where she stands right now.”

“Can you substantiate that statement?”

“We can. We have documentary evidence. We don’t propose to show it to you until we’re convinced that you yourself haven’t been a party to fraud and maybe something worse. So far, your attitude leaves room for doubt”

“That is a libelous suggestion!”

“Sue me. In the meantime, could we get on with what we came for? Mrs. Kelling was told by her husband that she inherits whatever the estate consists of at the time of his death, and that this includes a collection of heirloom jewelry that was held by Caroline Kelling for her use during her lifetime but was, in fact, owned by her son. Is that correct?”

The lawyer squirmed. “In substance, I believe that is the–er–general thrust. Sarah will also inherit the two properties.”

“Who’s got the deeds?”

“Mrs. Caroline Kelling also held those in her personal charge during her lifetime. Since she was not the owner, it would have been appropriate for her to leave them with us, but she chose not to do so.”

“Would they be in the safe-deposit box with the jewelry?”

“I have no way of knowing.”

“Then isn’t that in itself a sufficient reason for opening the box? You’ve got to do it sooner or later anyway. Do you have the necessary documents at hand?”

“We do,” Redfern admitted.

“So what are we waiting for? Are you coming with us, or going to write us a letter?”

“My schedule is—” Redfern tried to look portentous, caught Bittersohn’s eye, and was abruptly deflated. “I’d better come with you.”

He took a felt hat and a beautiful black cashmere topcoat from a bent-wood rack and came out with them. “Miss Tremblay, I shall be out of the office for approximately forty-five minutes.”

“But, Mr. Redfern! Yes, Mr. Redfern.”

She was gazing after them in total stupefaction when they went out.

The bank wasn’t far from the lawyer’s office, and Mr. Redfern lost not a moment in stating their business. Almost immediately the branch manager himself came out to meet them.

“This is remarkably good of you, Mrs. Kelling. I didn’t expect such a prompt answer.”

“To what?” Sarah asked him.

He looked surprised. “Didn’t you get my letter? I wrote immediately on learning of Mrs. Caroline Kelling’s death. The situation has been precarious for some time now, and—perhaps we’d better go into my office and sit down.”

“What situation?”

Sarah was glad to take the chair he offered her. “You’ll have to forgive me for not having the faintest idea what you’re talking about. There’s a stack of mail at the house I haven’t got around to opening yet, and I presume your letter must be among the rest. We came because I need to see what’s in my mother-in-law’s safe-deposit box. Among other things, we have to find the deeds to the two properties.”

“Yes, of course, we shall certainly need those. Then you don’t have them, Redfern? I naturally assumed she’d return them to you after she took out the second mortgages.”

“Second mortgages?” barked the lawyer. “But the properties were owned free and clear, always had been. Verplanck, what are you talking about?”

The banker tilted back in his swivel chair. “In nineteen fifty-two, if my memory serves me correctly, Mrs. Kelling, as executrix of her husband’s estate, took out mortgages on both the Beacon Hill house and the Ireson’s Landing property. I’m surprised she never apprised you of that fact, Redfern. In any event, the interest was faithfully paid on both, but none of the principal. That in itself was surprising, but as the properties continued to increase in value, we weren’t worried. Some five years ago, Mrs. Kelling came in again and demanded that we issue second mortgages on the two properties. I may say that I took it upon myself to remonstrate.”

“How?” said Sarah.

“Why, I said—oh, you’re referring to the problem in communication. She had her son with her. He was able to reach her by some method of hand signaling.”

“Alexander brought her? Then he knew all this?”

“Certainly. He’d have to, wouldn’t he? He was no longer a minor, and the properties were legally his, as I understand it, even though his mother was still acting as executrix.”

“But that’s impossible! Just a few nights ago we were talking about selling off part of the Ireson’s Landing property, and he never breathed a word about mortgages.”

Mr. Verplanck and Mr. Redfern exchanged glances. Neither of them said, “Husbands don’t always tell their wives everything,” but it was plain they thought so. The banker went on in something of a rush.

“Be that as it may, we did, in fact, remortgage the properties since the dramatic rise in value appeared to warrant the extra risk, although I frankly was none too happy about the transaction and am considerably less so now.”

“Has anything been paid on the second mortgages?” asked the lawyer.

“Not one cent. The interest is now also in considerable arrears. We’ve been writing both to Mrs. Kelling and to Mr. Alexander Kelling, but have had no response. My letter to the-er-current Mrs. Kelling deals, I regret to say, with the imminent necessity of foreclosure unless a settlement can be reached.”

“How much must I pay?” stammered Sarah.

Mr. Verplanck named a sum that staggered her.

“Can I do it, Mr. Redfern?”

The lawyer shook his head. “Offhand, I don’t see how.”

“Then I suppose we’ll have to sell some of the jewelry. That must be what Alexander had in mind. He—oh, I just can’t believe this! Please, can’t we open that box now?”

“I think we’d better,” said Mr. Verplanck.

He led them down a remarkably beautiful marble staircase, pressed a buzzer that got them admitted to the vault room, and gave Sarah’s key to the young woman at the desk.

“Miss Mummerset, would you mind getting this box for us?”

“Sure thing, Mr. Verplanck.”

She checked her file for the box number, took another bunch of keys from her desk, unlocked the steel gates that barred access to the tiers of boxes, and went like a homing pigeon to the right place.

“I had a hunch some of the family would be along after the funeral,” she remarked. “I hadn’t realized till we got to talking about the accident at coffee break yesterday that Mrs. Kelling was a customer of ours. Miss Purlow was telling us how she used to come in wearing a mink coat and the most gorgeous hats you ever saw, to get out her jewels for the opera or whatever. Miss Purlow said everybody would just stop whatever they were doing and stare, as if she’d been a movie star.”

She giggled. “I guess I shouldn’t have said that. Anyway, I’m so sorry about the accident. I just wish I could have met Mrs. Kelling myself. She’s never been to the box since I’ve worked here. Gosh, it’s heavy. Careful, Mr. Verplanck, don’t drop the diamonds and rubies.”

“Thank you, Miss Mummerset,” said the bank manager repressively. “Now what’s the protocol, Redfern? Do you open it, or does your client?”

“Mrs. Kelling gets the honor, I should think.” The lawyer looked doubtfully at the tiny booth Miss Mummerset was trying to usher them into. “I don’t know how we’re all supposed to fit in that cubbyhole. Might as well do it right here on the desk, if the young lady doesn’t object.”

“I’m dying to see them. Isn’t this exciting!”

“Miss Mummerset leads rather a lonely life down here,” the manager said apologetically. “Over to you, Mrs. Kelling.”

Miss Mummerset was right, it was exciting. Sarah held her breath as she raised the painted metal lid and peered inside. The box was full. On top lay a sheaf of yellow, dog-eared foolscap, written over in faded clerkly copper-plate. Yes, the deeds were here. She lifted them out.

The rest of the box was packed solid with smallish orange-red bricks. She would have known their shape and texture anywhere.

“H
OW DID I GET HERE?”

“Now, Mrs. Kelling, you lie still and don’t excite yourself.”

A kind-looking woman of fifty-odd was bending over Sarah, fiddling with a blanket that had been wrapped around her. “I’m going to see if Mr. Verplanck has any whiskey in his office.”

“Strong tea or coffee with lots of sugar would be just as good.”

That was Max Bittersohn’s voice. Sarah stretched out a hand to him.

“I’ve made a fool of myself again, haven’t I?”

“You fainted, if that’s what you mean.” He took the hand in his comforting grasp. “Probably the most sensible thing you could have done.”

“I’m sure Mr. Redfern doesn’t think so. Where is he?”

“In a huddle with Mr. Verplanck.”

“The owl and the panther are sharing the pie. I suppose they think Alexander took the jewelry.”

He didn’t say anything.

“Do you?” she prodded.

“I’m trying not to think at all, till we get some more facts,” was his not very satisfactory answer.

The lady came in with a couple of Styrofoam cups on a tray. “I brought you some, too, Mr. Kelling.”

“Thanks.” Bittersohn took the cup without correcting her mistake. “Have you been working here long?”

“Oh, yes. I’m one of the old-timers.”

“Then maybe you can tell us who used to work downstairs in the vault, say between ten and twenty years ago?”

“Oh, that would be Alethia Browne. She was here for ages and ages. I remember her as a middle-aged woman when I first came here straight out of Boston Clerical.”

“You wouldn’t happen to know where she retired to?”

“She never retired anywhere. She didn’t get the chance.”

“Why not?”

The woman glanced uneasily at Sarah. “I don’t want to upset Mrs. Kelling any more than she is already.”

“I don’t think you could,” said Sarah. “Please tell us what happened to Alethia Browne.”

“The Boston Strangler got her.”

“Are you sure it was the Strangler?” asked Bittersohn.

“Well, of course none of that was ever proved, but it was him all right. Same kind of crime as the rest of them, no sign of breaking and entering or anything. He just walked in and took one of her own nylons that she’d washed and hung on the bathroom rack to dry. Looped it around her neck and that was that. Mr. Verplanck had to go over to the morgue and make the formal identification because she didn’t have any folks of her own left around here, and boy, was he green around the gills when he got back! At least the Strangler didn’t do anything to her, if you know what I mean. Not like some of those other poor women.”

“He didn’t, eh? I suppose she lived not too far from here?”

“Yes, over on Myrtle Street. Alethia had a little apartment of her own, just one room and a bath and kitchenette, but she’d fixed it up real cute. We all felt terrible about Alethia. The customers just loved her. She knew them all by name, and she’d ask about their families and all.”

“Then she must have known my mother-in-law,” cried Sarah, “and my husband, too. She’d have—”

“Take it easy,” said Bittersohn. “Finish your coffee and let’s get out of here.”

“But shouldn’t she rest awhile longer?” said the kind lady.

“I want to get her to a doctor.”

“Oh, yes, that’s much the best thing to do. Shall I call you a cab?”

“We’ll manage, thanks. It’s not far. Would you mind telling Mr. Redfern and Mr. Verplanck that Mrs. Kelling will contact them later?”

Sarah added her own thanks and got off the couch, grateful for Bittersohn’s steadying hand. She did feel both wobbly on her legs and fuzzy in the brain, but when they got outside she told him, “I’m not going to any doctor.”

“I didn’t think you were. I just didn’t want you telling that woman your life story. Feel like stopping for a bite of lunch?”

“No, really I couldn’t,” she said. “My insides are doing flip-flops. Mr. Bittersohn, what am I going to do?”

“About getting the jewelry back?”

“About everything. I’m sure it’s ridiculous even to think about the jewelry. That must have been all sold ages ago to pay the blackmailer.”

“I think you’re going to find it’s been sold quite a few times, always by the same person.”

“But how is that possible? Does he keep stealing the pieces back from the people he sells them to?”

“It’s a little more subtle than that. What he does is to approach a prospect and show him, or more often her, an absolutely first-class antique necklace, ring, or whatever. He invites the prospect to have an appraisal made by any reputable jeweler. The pair of them go together and get a perfectly valid opinion that the stones couldn’t possibly be any more genuine. The seller insists on knocking the appraiser’s fee off the purchase price as a gesture of goodwill. The transaction is completed, always for cash on the barrelhead, and he fades gracefully into the sunset

“Sooner or later, the mark finds out that what he bought wasn’t what he wound up with. He’s been stuck with a very good copy of the original, worth maybe a couple of hundred dollars. Maybe he, too, has a streak of larceny in his soul so, armed with that expert’s appraisal, he fakes a robbery and gets his money back by bilking his insurance company. That’s how I happen to be in on this business, too many people have been filing claims for the same pieces.

“Your ruby parure, for example, was stolen in Rome, Brussels, Hong Kong, Rio de Janeiro, Dallas, and Milwaukee before a very clever lady in Amsterdam managed to pull a double sneak and hang on to what she paid for. I’m afraid your chances of getting those rubies back at this point are just about nil, unless you can persuade a Dutch court to accept that Sargent portrait as evidence of ownership and are prepared to refund the purchase price, which was pretty high. I can’t promise to salvage anything at all, but I’ll do what I can. Right now, you’d better go home and get some rest. I’ll come, too, if you don’t mind.”