But He Was Already Dead When I Got There (3 page)

“Barney!” Mrs. Polk called. “He wants you!”

He wants you, he wants you
, Bjarne mimicked to himself. He replaced the bottle on the shelf and slipped a mint into his mouth, then stepped out of the closet and called back, “Thank you, Mrs. Polk,” trying to remember whether he'd paid the housekeeper her weekly compliment yet or not.

Mr. Vincent had wheeled himself into the library and was even then maneuvering into position behind his desk. In addition to the stroke that had cost him the use of his legs, Mr. Vincent suffered a variety of aches and pains that kept him in a perpetual state of crankiness. He'd be complaining about something or other before five minutes had passed. “Barney, I'll be wanting a massage after my guests leave,” the old man rasped. “Have everything ready, will you?”

“Yes, sir. And a hot bath?” Good for relieving tension.

Vincent Farwell grunted assent and then said, “Why, hello there, Godfrey!” Godfrey Daniel leaped lightly to the top of the desk, making Bjarne wince. It was a lovely Chippendale partner's desk; and while the cat's claws had never scratched the surface yet, it could still happen. Godfrey Daniel stepped onto the blotter, allowing Bjarne to breathe a little easier. The blotter itself was the replaceable kind, available at any stationer's; Mr. Vincent's niece Gretchen had once given him an expensive lizard desk pad for Christmas, but he never used it. He liked a plain paper blotter, and so did Godfrey Daniel.

Mr. Vincent didn't seem worried about scratches on the furniture, though; he allowed the black, orange, and white tortoise-shell cat the run of the house, indulging that animal the way he indulged no human being in his life. Godfrey went into a long post-snooze stretch and allowed himself to be petted.

“Mrs. Polk left the doors open,” Mr. Vincent complained. “And I'll want a fire, Barney.”

The old house tended to get stuffy easily; Mrs. Polk aired out the rooms every time the weather permitted. Bjarne closed the double doors leading to the walled terrace that separated the house on three sides from its neighbors. The mild spring night contained no hint of rain, but Mr. Vincent never risked exposing his old bones to the cool or the damp if he could avoid it.

Bjarne crossed the room and lit the fire he'd laid an hour earlier. Then he carefully put the fire screen in place; no sparks on the Sultanabad carpet, please! Sphinxlike, Godfrey Daniel watched his every move. Bjarne's hand shook.

His employer didn't notice. He was preoccupied with his newest toy, an alabaster statuette of the god Hermes. Mr. Vincent wasn't so much a collector as he was an indulger, buying a piece now and then that caught his eye, keeping it in the library until it no longer amused him and then banishing it to some other part of the house. The alabaster Hermes would eventually go the same way.

The library was the center of Mr. Vincent's life. Retired from active wheeling and dealing, Vincent Farwell still kept close track of his many investments; the lifetime habit of making money could never be abandoned completely. So the library had become half office, with desk and file cabinet and bookshelves and a typewriter no one used any more, and half sitting-room: sofa, comfortable chairs, fireplace, and several high-priced knick-knacks on the order of the new alabaster Hermes. The single painting on the wall was a Degas dancer—young, solid, and with both feet planted squarely on the ground.

“Blast,” said Mr. Vincent, “I forgot my pills. Run up and get them for me—the yellow ones. Oh, and Barney—I want you to answer the door tonight. Mrs. Polk is going to have her hands full.”

“Yes, sir.” Bjarne left him fussing with some papers on his desk and took the stairs to the second floor; Mr. Vincent liked the elevator to stay on the same floor where he was.

The vial of Valium tablets was on the table beside the bed Bjarne had been lifting Mr. Vincent into and out of for the past nine years. Valium, a hot bath, and a massage—to loosen the old man up enough that he could sleep. Bjarne considered taking one of the little yellow tablets himself. Mr. Vincent was going to be in one of his moods after the guests left. Mrs. Polk could just retreat to her room; Bjarne was the one who had to cope.

And he would. He swallowed a Valium dry and put another in his pocket for later. It might not be too bad tonight; maybe they wouldn't get the old man overexcited. The one thing that Bjarne Pedersen lived in fear of was the ever-present possibility that Vincent Farwell would suffer another stroke and die.

For what would happen to Bjarne then? Miss Gretchen would inherit this lovely old house and everything in it. Mrs. Polk's job was safe, but would Miss Gretchen have any need for the masseur/valet/chauffeur Bjarne had become? Mr. Vincent had told him that he'd taken care of him in his will. What did that mean—
taken care of
? Enough to pay the rent on one furnished room for the rest of his life?

Bjarne had been a master carpenter in Norway, but servant's work was all he could find when he first came to America. Then Vincent Farwell had discovered he'd entered the country illegally; and although the matter had never been mentioned again after that one time, that little bit of blackmail had been enough to keep Bjarne in his place. If Mr. Vincent ever became dissatisfied with his service, all he had to do was pick up the telephone and call the Immigration and Naturalization Service and Bjarne would be in deep trouble.

But Bjarne had adjusted to the situation. He'd been easily seduced by the furniture in Mr. Vincent's house, for one thing. As a former worker in wood, Bjarne loved the heavy, solid pieces everywhere in the house, even in his own room. It was amazing how quickly one could become accustomed to the life rhythms of the rich. And if the truth were told, Vincent Farwell's forcing him to stay had lifted a burden from Bjarne Pedersen's shoulders; he'd been relieved of responsibility for his own life. Now he had a good reason not to make the effort to better his position. He'd found a safe haven in this loud, abrasive country in which financial success was the only kind that mattered. Bjarne was content.

At the bottom of the stairs he came upon Mrs. Polk placing a vase of flowers on one of the hall tables. “Pretty,” he said. “The flowers look nice.”

“
He
doesn't even notice,” the housekeeper declared in her high-pitched, clear enunciation that always made Bjarne think of Elsa Lanchester.

“I think he does.”
Keep her happy
. “He just doesn't say anything.”

The corners of Mrs. Polk's mouth turned up a fraction. Bjarne fetched a glass of water from the kitchen and took Vincent Farwell his Valium.

Mr. Vincent dribbled water on his chin, which Bjarne dutifully patted dry with a handkerchief he carried for just that purpose. Then he noticed his employer's face was contorted with pain. “What is it? Shoulder?”

“Yes. Hurry.”

An Infralux was kept in every room of the house. Bjarne hurriedly opened a desk drawer—the wrong drawer, the one with the gun in it. He found the right drawer and took out the heat-penetrating instrument he was looking for. He eased Mr. Vincent's left arm out of his suit jacket and opened his shirt, then plugged the instrument in and held the head against the arthritis-troubled shoulder.

“A little lower—there.” In a few minutes the infrared heat reached the site of the inflammation and brought the old man some relief. “Ah, that's better,” Mr. Vincent sighed and worked his arm up and down.

“Don't move it so fast,” Bjarne scolded. “You'll start it hurting again.”

“I know, I know!” the old man snapped. “Stop treating me like a child! Put it away and help me into my jacket.” Bjarne quickly restored order. “Now go out in the hall and wait,” Mr. Vincent ordered, glancing at the clock on the mantlepiece. “My idiot niece and her grabby husband and their cohorts will be here any moment now. Go on!”

Bjarne could think of a few things he'd rather be doing instead of playing doorman. He was going to miss a Bela Lugosi movie on television tonight, one he'd never seen. He went out to wait by the front door, stopping in the hall closet for reinforcement first.

The Murdochs were the first to arrive. “Hallo, Barney,” Dorrie bubbled. “How are you this evening?”

“Just fine, thank you, Miss Dorrie.” Bjarne took the light jacket she was wearing and exchanged nods with Simon. “He's in the library.” Bjarne opened the library door for them just as the doorbell rang again.

Gretchen Knox didn't bother to say hello. “The library?” At Bjarne's nod she charged off in that direction, obviously out of sorts.

Lionel Knox dropped a friendly hand on Bjarne's shoulder. “What kind of mood's he in tonight, Barney?”

“A snarling mood. His arthritis is acting up.”

“Damn.” Lionel followed his wife into the library and reappeared a moment later, apologetically holding out the shawl Gretchen had been wearing. Bjarne took it and closed the door, just catching Mr. Vincent's voice saying, “No, no, don't sit there, Simon—I want Gretchen and Lionel in those chairs.”

Inside the library Gretchen Knox went behind the desk and gave her uncle a peck on the cheek. “You're looking well,” she told him.

“I look like hell,” Uncle Vincent said, “and I feel worse. Move over, Lionel—don't block the fire.”

“Isn't it a little warm for a fire?” Simon Murdoch murmured.

“Simon!” Gretchen exclaimed, moving over and taking his arm—neatly edging Dorrie Murdoch out. “I haven't seen you for ages!”

Simon arched an eyebrow at her. “Yes, it's been, oh, two days at least.”

“We never seem to have the time to talk,” she cooed, playing with the buttons on his jacket. “
Let's
do lunch.”

“A splendid idea. The four of us.” He gently disengaged himself and sat down on the sofa. Lionel smothered a laugh.

Dorrie discovered Godfrey Daniel sprawled out on Uncle Vincent's desk. “Oh, hello, kitty!” she purred, stretching out a caressing hand. Dorrie liked to think she had a way with animals, so she was both startled and hurt when the cat hissed at her. Godfrey jumped down from the desk and majestically staked out a new territory for himself by the fireplace.

“How's business?” Lionel asked Simon.

“Pretty good. Big increase in the demand for industrials.”

“Maybe you should handle industrials.”

“I've been thinking about it.” Simon was a diamond merchant; he and Dorrie had met while she was buying stones for Ellandy's.

Uncle Vincent was staring at Dorrie's new Maltese cross. “Yours or Nicole's?” he asked.

“Mine,” Dorrie beamed.

“Nice,” he admitted grudgingly, thinking that that frivolous woman did have a good eye.

“There, darling, I told you he'd like it,” Simon remarked, although he'd said nothing of the kind.

But Dorrie knew her cues. “And you were right, dear, as always.” Husband and wife exchanged a pantomime kiss.

Lionel started to snort but turned it into a cough.

“I suppose you all want drinks,” Uncle Vincent said and rang for Mrs. Polk. Vincent Farwell didn't believe in wet bars or even liquor cabinets, so everything alcoholic had to be brought in from the kitchen. Mrs. Polk thought she knew what everyone would want, and she turned out to be right. She brought in two bourbons, one scotch, gin and grapefruit juice for Miss Gretchen the way she liked it, and plain mineral water for Mr. Vincent. It took her two trips.

“Exactly two ice cubes,” Gretchen said, examining her drink. “You remembered, Polka Dot!”

“Of course I remembered, Miss Gretchen,” Mrs. Polk said affectionately. “Don't I always?”

The warmth of Mrs. Polk's welcome relaxed Gretchen a little. She'd lived in this house from the time she was fifteen, when both her parents had died, until her marriage to Lionel Knox a few years ago. She still thought of Uncle Vincent's house as “home” and the house she shared with Lionel as “our place”—a distinction she wasn't even aware she made. But “home” hadn't always been a happy place; Mrs. Polk was the only truly sensitive person there and it was to her that Gretchen had always run whenever Uncle Vincent made her cry. Which was frequently.

When Mrs. Polk had left the study, Gretchen said, “Uncle Vincent, what is this big surprise you've got for us? Ever'body's just
dyin'
to know!”

“Not now, Gretchen. We'll wait until the other two get here.”

“But cain't you give us just one li'l hint?” Gretchen persisted winningly.

“I said wait,” Uncle Vincent growled.

“Oh, my—aren't you a grouchy ole bear tonight!” Gretchen teased. “Is somethin' the mattuh, Uncle?”

Simon was puzzled. “Gretchen—is that a southern accent you've picked up?”

“Lou Ann Poovey,” Lionel explained, which only puzzled Simon more.

Dorrie said, “I agree with Gretchen. Give us a hint, Uncle Vincent.”

“Damn it, woman, I said wait!” the old man barked. “Stop badgering me!”

Dorrie's eyes grew saucer-sized, as Simon said soothingly, “Now, now, Uncle Vincent—nobody's badgering you It's just chitchat.”

“I'm in no mood for either chitting or chatting,” the old man rasped. “We'll wait for the other two.”

At that moment Godfrey Daniel decided, for reasons known only to himself, to leave his spot by the fireplace and launch himself into Simon's lap. Simon's composure deserted him momentarily. “Oof—shoo, kitty.” He pushed at the cat. “Nice kitty—get
down
, nice kitty.” Godfrey thumped to the floor and then reclaimed his place on Uncle Vincent's desk.

“Simon doesn't like cats,” Dorrie explained to the room at large.

Uncle Vincent cackled. “Isn't it funny the way cats invariably pick out the one person in the room who doesn't like them—and then go shed all over him?”

“Hilarious,” said Simon, brushing cat hairs from his trousers.