'Perdita?'
'Yes. Who's this?'
'Joshua Bigg.'
'Josh!'
'I apologize for calling so late, Perdita. I hope I didn't wake you.'
'Don't be silly. I just came up. We had dinner for seven tonight. A lot of work.'
'Oh? Was Mr Knurr there?'
'No. Which was odd. First we were told there'd be eight.
But he didn't show up. Usually he's here all the time. Are you going to come by Mother Tucker's tomorrow night?'
'I'm certainly going to try,' I lied. 'Listen, Perdita, I have an unusual question to ask you. When Sol Kipper was alive, did he ever write notes to his wife? You know, little short notes he'd leave where she'd find them?'
'Oh sure,' she said promptly. 'He was always writing her notes. She was running around so much, and then he'd go out and leave a note for her. I read a few of them. Love notes, some, or just messages.'
'Did she keep them, do you think?'
'Tippi? I think she kept some of them. Yes, I know she did. I remember coming across a pile of them in a box of undies in her dressing room. Some of them were hilarious.
The poor old man was really in love with her. She had him hooked. And you know how.'
'Yes,' I said. 'Thank you very much, Perdita. Sorry to bother you.'
'And I'll see you tomorrow night?'
'I'm certainly going to try.' It was getting easier all the time.
5
Thursday morning: alive, bubbling, laughing aloud. Cleo hadn't wanted to upset her mother by staying the night, but I'd awakened steeped in her recent presence. I sang in the shower ('O Sole Mio'), looked out the window, and nodded approvingly at the pencil lines of rain slanting down steadily. Nothing could daunt my mood. I wore rain-344
coat and rubbers to work, and carried my umbrella. It was the type of bumbershoot that extends with the press of a button in the handle. Very efficient, except that when a stiff wind was blowing, it cracked open and seemed to lift me a few inches off my feet.
However, I arrived at the TORT building without misadventure and set to work planning my day's activities.
My first call was to Glynis Stonehouse. She came to the phone, finally, and didn't sound too delighted to hear from me. I acted the young, innocent, optimistic, bouncy investigator, and I told her I had uncovered new information about her father's disappearance that I'd like to share with her. Grudgingly, she said that she could spare me an hour if I came immediately.
I thanked her effusively, ran out of TORT and, miraculously, given the weather, hailed a cab right in front of the building.
In the Stonehouse hallway the formidable Olga Eklund relieved me of hat, coat, rubbers, and umbrella, and herded me into that beige living room where Glynis Stonehouse reclined in one corner of the velvet sofa, idly leafing through a magazine. Nothing about her posture or manner suggested worry.
If she made an error, it was in her greeting.
'Oh,' she said, 'Mr Bigg. Do sit down.'
Too casual.
I sat down, opened my briefcase, and began to rummage through it.
'Miss Stonehouse,' I said enthusiastically, 'I think I'm making real progress. You'll recall that I told you I had discovered your father had been suffering from arsenic poisoning prior to his disappearance? Well, I've definitely established how he was being poisoned. The arsenic was being added to his brandy!'
I handed her copies of the chemical analyses. She looked 345
at them. I don't believe she read them. I plucked them from her fingers and replaced them in my briefcase.
'Isn't that wonderful?' I burbled on. 'What a break!'
'I suppose so,' she said in her husky, low-pitched voice.
'But what does it mean?'
'Well, it means we now know how the poison was administered.'
'And what will you do next?'
'That's obvious, isn't it?' I said, laughing lightly. 'Find the source of the poison. You can't buy arsenic at your local drugstore, you know. So I must check out everyone involved to see who had access to arsenic trioxide.'
I stared at her. I thought there would be a reaction.
There wasn't.
She sighed deeply.
'Yes,' she said, 'I suppose you will have to keep digging and digging until you discover the. . what do the police call it?. . the perpetrator? You'll never give up, will you, Mr Bigg?'
'Oh no!' I said heartily. 'I'm going to stick to it. Miss Stonehouse, may I speak to Effie Dark for a few moments? I'd like to find out who had access to your father's brandy.'
She looked at me.
'Yes,' she said dully, 'talk to Mrs Dark. That's all right.'
I smiled my thanks, bent to reclasp my briefcase. Before I could stand, she said:
'Mr Bigg, why are you doing this?'
I shook my head, pretending puzzlement.
'Doing what, Miss Stonehouse?'
'All these questions. This — this investigation.'
'I'm trying to find your father.'
Her body went slack. She melted. That's the only way I can describe it. Suddenly there was no complete outline around her. Not only in her face, which sagged, but in her limbs, her flesh. All of her became loose and without 346
form. It was a frightening thing to see. A dissolution.
'He was a dreadful man,' she said in a low voice.
I think I was angered then. I tried to hide it, but I'm not certain I succeeded.
'Yes,' I said, 'I'm sure he was. Everyone says so. An awful person. But that's not important, is it?'
She made a gesture. A wave of the hand. A small, graceful flip of dismissal. Of defeat.
Effie Dark was seated at the white enamelled table, an emptied coffee cup before her. There was a redolence, and it took me a few seconds to identify it: the air smelled faintly of brandy.
She looked up listlessly as I entered, then smiled wanly.
'Mr Bigg,' she said, and pulled out a chair for me. 'It's nice to see a cheerful face.'
'What's wrong, Effie?' I asked, sitting down.
'Problems?'
' O h. . ' she said, sighing, 'there's no light in this house any more. The missus, she's taken to her bed and won't get out of it.'
'She's ill?'
'Sherry-itis. And Miss Glynis is as down as I've ever seen her. I even called Powell, thinking a visit from him might help things. But he says he must avoid negative vibrations.
That means he's scared misery might be catching. W e l l. . '
she said, sighing again, 'I was figuring on retiring in a year or two. Maybe I'll do it sooner.'
'What will you do, Effie?' I asked softly.
'Oh, I'll make do,' she said, drawing a deep breath. 'I have enough. It's not the money that worries me, it's
