Postmark Murder (24 page)

Inexplicably and suddenly Matt’s eyes were dancing. He said soberly, however, “I expect Stedman or Mrs. Stanley told you, Stanislowski, about this other man who claimed your name and was—murdered.”

Stanislowski’s ruddy face assumed lines of grave concern. “Yes. It is dreadful, shocking. I cannot imagine who he was nor how he knew of my child, or about the Stanley will or, in fact, any of the circumstances. You will see at once that it was necessary, indeed it was vital to me, to tell no one anything of my intentions. As a matter of fact, I did not know anything about the will until I reached Vienna and the orphanage. Certainly I told no one there what I intended to do, and on the boat I made no confidential acquaintances. You must believe me when I tell you that anyone escaping from behind the Iron Curtain finds it advisable to keep his own counsel. I have talked of this to no one.”

Charlie tapped his fingers on the table. “We quite understand that, Stanislowski. At the same time this first man did know all these things. And he told very much the same story that you have told us.”

Laura said shortly, “It was precisely the same story.”

Charlie nodded. “So he must have learned it from somewhere. We’d like to know how he knew it. The police would like to know.”

Stanislowski shook his head. “I cannot answer that.”

“There’s a woman in the affair,” Matt said. “They told you that, too?”

Stanislowski nodded. “Maria Brown. It seems extraordinary that your police have not found her.”

Matt said mildly, “Oh, I think they’ll probably find her sometime.”

Doris put down her teacup with a sharp clatter. Perhaps again the same thought had flashed between them. Doris said, “That woman who was murdered this morning—if somebody thought she was Maria Brown—”

Stanislowski lifted his thick shoulders. “Very tragic.”

The dancing gleam had left Matt’s eyes; they were as cold and gray as steel. He said softly, “It was tragic. Do you know of any woman who might have taken the name of Maria Brown? Have you been in communication with anybody at all in this country?”

Stanislowski leaned his sturdy body forward in his chair. “You mean, I take it, was there some woman in Poland in whom I might have confided and who might have gone to America at some time ahead of me? You mean, did I stop when I reached Chicago, or in fact at any time since I entered your country and communicate with this woman, telling her all these details? That’s what you mean, isn’t it?”

“That’s exactly what I mean. You’re quite sure there’s nobody like that who could have taken the name of Maria Brown?”

Doris interrupted. “Do you mean, Matt, that she could have put this first man up to it? I mean a—a conspiracy! Trying to get Jonny’s money!”

“It’s a possibility,” Matt said shortly, watching Stanislowski.

But Stanislowski leaned back in his chair and smiled. “You’re quite wrong, Cosden. There’s nobody like that, I assure you. You’ll have to believe me when I tell you that I have told no one anything at all of my plans, of Jonny, of this Stanley will or of what I intended to do.”

There was a silence. Matt took the cookie from Jonny’s hand and put it on the table. Charlie eyed the papers on the dark oak table. Doris’ bracelets clattered as she put out one cigarette and lighted another.

Conrad Stanley looked down at them from the portrait— warning them, Laura thought; saying, be careful.

Conrad Stanislowski said at last, coolly, “Have you any question of my bona fide, my identity?”

Matt did not reply. Charlie waited a moment, considering it deliberately. Doris started to speak, and stopped with a quick, angry yet frustrated gesture. Charlie said precisely, “There is no question of your identification, Stanislowski, none that I can see. You have the right papers and, of course, Jonny recognized you. There are certain requirements which concern us—Miss March and me as trustees, and Mrs. Stanley and of course Cosden. You understand why we will have to check certain points of your story. Now let me see, you said the cargo boat you took was a—”  He ruffled through the papers and Stanislowski said, with a curious, half-amused gleam in his dark eyes, “It was the
Mirador.
Portuguese registry.”

Matt said, “Where is the ship now?”

“She was to leave at dawn the day after I jumped ship. I suppose she left according to plan. I don’t know her next port. The port authorities at New Orleans can probably tell you. I do realize that this makes it difficult for you to check my story, or for me to satisfy you in this regard, but that’s the way it is.”

There was another little silence. Then Matt said very quietly, “Is your wife still in Poland, Stanislowski?”

L
AURA LOOKED AT HIM
quickly. There was nothing at all but polite inquiry in his face—but was Matt, too, thinking, who then is Maria Brown?

Stanislowski’s reply was prompt. “I believe that she is. I don’t know. I’m sorry to say that my wife and I were separated when Jonny was a baby. We have different views of politics and also”— he shrugged—“we were what is called out of sympathy with each other. I believe the word is incompatible. I have no idea what happened to her. I think she left Cracow but that’s all I know. Her name was Marya—Marya Gradzicka.” He looked thoughtfully at Jonny. “I doubt very much whether Jonny would remember her.”

Marya, Laura thought; Maria.

Matt’s face had no expression at all. Doris looked up with a quick, angry impatience. “Charlie! Matt! What should we do?”

Stanislowski rose and stood before them, short and thick and stocky, and dominating the room all at once, much as an actor dominates the middle of the stage in a well-rehearsed role. “That is simple, Mrs. Stanley. I intend to take my child. That is why I want a hotel apartment. I intend to take her with me now, immediately. Mr. Stedman, will you be so kind as to recommend a hotel?”

“Why—why, certainly. There’s the Ambassador, very fine, not far from here. And the Drake; that’s nearby, too. Laura—”  He hesitated, tapping his fingers on the table; then he said pleasantly, “It would seem sensible for Laura and the child to be near each other—at least for a few days. I realize that the child recognizes you but you have been separated for a time. It might, let us say, ease the change for the child if Laura may spend considerable time with her.”

Stanislowski’s white teeth flashed; he made another bow in Laura’s direction. “If you will be so kind, Miss March. And of course she’ll need her clothes—that kind of thing. Thank you, Mr. Stedman. Now I think Jonny and I will go at once to the hotel. I’ll send a porter for my baggage.” He fumbled in one pocket. “I have some claim checks for it.”

Charlie said, “Well—well, it seems rather sudden. Still I’m sure we understand the way you feel.”

Doris looked at Jonny and at Stanislowski and said nothing. Matt did not move, except his arm must have tightened around Jonny; the little girl’s head lifted and she gave him a questioning look. Stanislowski took a step forward, his hand out to Jonny. And something inside Laura pushed her to her feet.
“No,”
she said.

She said it too loudly, too firmly; it sounded like a challenge. She knew that heads jerked, startled, toward her. Stanislowski’s flashing white teeth took on a thin line. For a second or two he seemed to measure this unexpected resistance. Then he said, politely enough, “What do you mean?”

What did she mean, Laura thought rather wildly; she didn’t know what she meant. But she said firmly, “I’m one of the trustees. You can’t take the child until I give my consent.”

There was a startled silence. Matt’s expression was unreadable; he held Jonny close. Charlie rose, sat down again, adjusted the crease in one trouser leg and finally said, reasonably, “But look here, Laura. There are his papers. Everything is in order.”

An odd defiance spurred Laura. “You haven’t checked anything yet.”

“Well, that’s true, that’s true, of course,” Charlie said, and sighed. “But Jonny recognized him.”

There was no answer to that. Laura took a long steadying breath. She went to Jonny and detached the child’s hand from Matt’s. Matt gave her an odd glance as he rose; a kind of encouraging gleam which Laura scarcely noted. Her heart was thudding. She turned to face Stanislowski. “Nothing has been checked yet. Nothing is proved. I am going to keep Jonny until then. Come with me, Jonny.”

Stanislowski hesitated; for the first time he seemed indecisive and surprised; he shot a baffled glance at Charlie who had supported him. Then he straightened himself belligerently; he started for the door as if to stop her by force. “She’s my child. You have no right to take her from me. She’s my child—”

But Laura and Jonny had reached the door. Laura opened it. Stanislowski, again with a baffled, odd air of uncertainty, stopped and stared at her. Charlie was watching, frowning, uncertain and surprised, too. Doris’ brown eyes were curiously intent. There was a faint smile on Matt’s lips. Laura said, “It will be easy to prove, then. But until it’s been proved I’m going to keep Jonny.”

She led Johnny into the hall, leaving a kind of thunderstruck silence behind them. From the back of the enormous foyer, the butler appeared, his pale face and the V of his white shirt looking rather ghostly above his dark coat. She snatched up Jonny’s coat and galoshes and hat with trembling hands, hurrying, sure that one of them would come to the door and stop her.

In fact, it was Doris who came into the hall. “It’s all right, Hopkins,” she said to the butler, “I’ll ring for the elevator.” She leaned over in the first gesture of motherliness which Laura had ever seen her show toward Jonny and fastened one of Jonny’s galoshes, and said in a whisper to Laura, “Why don’t you believe him?”

Laura fastened the top button on Jonny’s coat. “I don’t know. But I’m going to take Jonny home.”

Matt came from the library. He picked up Laura’s coat and held it for her. “Be sure the doorman gets you a taxi. Don’t hang around outside. I’ll talk to you later.”

Doris’ pretty mouth set rather firmly as Matt went to the elevator. It came at once. Doris moved to link her arm in Matt’s. They made a picture standing there together, Doris’ pretty head almost touching Matt’s shoulder as the elevator door closed and Jonny and Laura were swooped steadily downward.

But she remembered Matt’s words; she had the doorman get her a taxi.

Jonny nestled against her during the short ride, with the lights of the great apartment houses on their right looming up into the black sky far above them, and the shining street lamps outlining the Drive, and the swish of tires constantly passing them.

Why, Laura thought, had she done just that? This new man had credentials; he told a story that squared with the facts as they knew them; he knew that they would check every detail of his story.

And Jonny had instantly recognized him. Obviously, the gay little song, the formula for a romp which he had initiated and in which Jonny had joined, was one of the innumerable, tender little games between a father and his child. Jonny had recognized him.

She had made no move to go to him after that; she had made no resistance when Laura took her away. But she was accustomed to the mysterious and arbitrary acts of the adults who had made up her world. She was, lately, accustomed to Laura, and Matt, as authority. Besides, two years in the life of a little girl is a long time.

He was her father. So why could not Laura accept him as Conrad Stanislowski? What had there been in the first man, the murdered man, when he appealed to her, that there was not in this second man, and which made her accept the first Conrad’s claim without question?

The second Conrad had convinced the others—at least, he had convinced Charlie, who was not easy to convince, who examined every fact with scrupulous and cautious care; he had convinced Doris, who didn’t want to be convinced, didn’t want to accept a claimant to the Stanislowski fund, frankly did not intend to give up her share of the fund unless she was forced by law—and this new claimant’s arrival—to do so. Laura was not sure that he had convinced Matt. But what was the stubborn block deep within her which stood against her own conviction? She had no reason for not believing him, or if she had one, it was intangible, it could not be analyzed or pinned down; yet it was rooted somewhere, somehow in her short interview with the first man, who had died then so soon. She could summon no sound argument to support her action in taking Jonny home, or her defiance.

When they reached her apartment, the phone was already ringing. Charlie, she thought, or Doris. And then she thought suddenly, is it another of those curiously frightening telephone calls when nobody answers?

But those had ceased, it struck her suddenly. Hadn’t they?

Why?

She didn’t want to answer the telephone. She helped Jonny off with her galoshes. She removed her own coat. The telephone still rang with long, demanding jabs. She finally took up the receiver. Matt said, “Laura? You got there all right. I only wanted to be sure.” He lowered his voice. “I am still at Doris’. I’m using the pantry phone. Looks as if I may be here awhile. I suggested talking to Peabody. I don’t think Stanislowski liked it; he got a little indignant and agitated. But Charlie calmed him down. Anyway—Peabody’s coming here; says he wants to talk to Stanislowski.”

“Matt, I don’t believe him. I don’t know why. But I simply don’t believe he’s Stanislowski.”

There was the faintest, smallest suggestion of a laugh. “Stick to your guns,” he said and hung up.

At nine o’clock, with Jonny and the kitten asleep, and Laura roaming uneasily through an apartment which was locked and bolted as if it were besieged, Lieutenant Peabody himself arrived. He settled himself in a chair, sighed, rubbed his eyes, then eyed her thoughtfully. “I’ve just seen Stanislowski. You want to keep the child, don’t you?”

Laura braced herself for opposition. “I intend to keep her until this man’s identity is established.”

“I’ve seen him. I’ve talked to him. I’ve looked at his papers of identification. I understand the child recognized him.”

There was no answer to that. Laura said slowly, “I realize that. But I—I don’t believe him.”