Postmark Murder (22 page)

Her first recollections of Charlie were dim; he had gradually entered her small world because he was a friend of Conrad’s; occasionally, when she was with Conrad, Charlie was there, too— lunch or dinner or a baseball game; once she remembered an ice show, when Conrad had had to leave unexpectedly and rather than disappoint Laura he had asked Charlie to take her: she was then in her early teens; Charlie had been kind in his remote and impersonal way. Later, of course, she had seen more of Charlie; after Conrad’s marriage, Charlie was as frequent a guest in the lavish Stanley apartment as Laura and Matt.

But what really did she know of Charlie?

Well, then, he was a bachelor, younger than Conrad but it was difficult to say how much younger; Charlie was one of those men who perhaps grow a little thinner, a little more exact and precise, acquire merely a more perceptible sprinkling of gray hair, as years go on, but never seem to age. He owned and operated a factory for tools; he manufactured jigs, dies: Conrad had taught her the vocabulary; for years Conrad had done business with Charlie. He was, next to Laura’s father, Conrad’s closest friend. He had a quick and astute mind; he was innately conventional, he was not a man of a warm or impulsive nature; still he must have friends and associates of whom she knew nothing. After Conrad’s death, she and Charlie had worked closely together, in their position of co-trustees. He had not liked the Stanislowski fund and had said so frankly, but he had nevertheless been conscientious, cautious and conservative in his ideas and very helpful to Laura. There was no detail that Charlie overlooked; he was of inestimable value in the tedious legal minutiae connected with Conrad’s will, and with the no less onerous chore of the accounts involved. There was a yearly audit by a firm of accountants; Charlie insisted that Laura and Matt and Doris check the audits, as he did himself.

So, Laura thought suddenly, there was no question of any juggling of money. No question of Charlie—or Doris or anyone— having contrived illegally to tamper with the Stanislowski fund. She hadn’t thought of that before but probably Peabody had. And besides—even if any one
had
attempted any chicanery about the money (as no one could have done, for it would have been spotted at once)—the estate was to be settled in January. That meant a final, thorough accounting of every penny; any theft, embezzlement would have come to light then, whether or not Conrad Stanislowski were in America or in Poland, alive or dead.

And Charlie did not need money. He was successful; he had always been successful in a very solid way; his contracts with Conrad alone, Laura knew, netted him a very substantial income; he must be, indeed a wealthy man, not in the spectacular way that Conrad was rich, for millions had poured into Conrad’s pockets, but Charlie was rich just the same. He lived quietly and unostentatiously, but Charlie would have lived like that in any circumstances; yet he did not stint himself certainly; he had every comfort and every luxury that there was to have. No, Charlie had no need for money.

Unless, of course, he was in fact and secretly consumed with a money greed! It didn’t seem likely. Yet that happened sometimes, didn’t it? A third of the Stanislowski fund would have been considerable, and very attractive to a man who loved money.

Charlie?

Or Doris.

She was thinking that when the telephone rang. It seemed strangely apropos, almost as if some telepathic influence had reached out across the dark day and the towering apartment houses between to touch Doris, for she said when Laura answered, “I’ve been thinking about Maria Brown, Laura. I—I suppose she must have some evidence about Stanislowski’s murder. Did she tell you anything yesterday?”

“No. She only asked about Jonny and what the police were doing. That’s all.”

“And you didn’t ask her to come back to see you last night?” Doris asked.

“No!”

“Well—I only thought. Laura, if you
do
think of anything about her that you have forgotten or anything about the Stanislowski—or—or—well, tell me, will you, Laura?”

“There is nothing to tell.”

“I—”  Doris said, “I—” There was a long pause. Then she said flatly, “Good-bye,” and hung up.

She’s frightened, Laura thought, her flare of anger dying out; and I’m frightened, too.

It roused her from her long and futile train of thought. She looked at the door to make sure that she had locked it and went back to Jonny’s room.

Jonny was napping quietly, a round hump under the eiderdown, one brown braid dangling down from the pillow. The kitten lifted his head, jumped down and followed Laura into her room; he leaped up to the window sill to observe the world at large, and gave a hoarse mutter of interest and surprise. It was beginning to snow. Huge white flakes were drifting lazily past the window. Suki crouched and made a dab at them and his dark paw struck the windowpane softly, so he gave an exasperated mutter and lashed his black tail in frustration.

Laura saw herself in the mirror, white and tired, still wearing the skirt and sweater she had snatched up in the darkness of early morning. There were blue shadows under her eyes; she’d forgotten lipstick; her short hair was in loose, disheveled curls; in the sweater and skirt she looked like a forlorn and uncertain child.

But she was not a child; and she had a heavy responsibility toward Jonny.

Suki made another dab and uttered so furious a Siamese curse that Laura laughed, and gathered him up under her chin where he instantly stopped being a jungle animal and snuggled down, purring with abandon.

There were too many questions. She was suddenly, desperately tired. She took a long, hot bath. She wrapped herself in a warm woolen dressing gown. And with Suki a warm, purring bundle on her shoulder, suddenly, as though she had been drugged with weariness, she fell asleep.

It was dusk when she woke. There were no lights in the room.

Gradually she became aware of a distant murmur of voices somewhere. Suki was gone, and her blue eiderdown had mysteriously got itself pulled up over her sleeping figure. She roused, drowsy and confused, and fumbled for the bedside lamp. As she did so Matt came to the door.

“Matt—”

“You were so sound asleep I didn’t want to wake you.”

Jonny came to stand beside Matt; her round face looked rather pale in the light from the bedside lamp; her blue eyes were sober.

“Matt, how long have you been here?”

“About an hour or so.”

She was still not fully awake, but the full significance of Matt’s presence struck her with sudden fright.
“I never thought that Jonny would open the door!”

“That’s all right,” he said. “I never thought of it either. Don’t say anything more.” He pulled Jonny closer to him and twisted her braid around his finger. “I’ve explained it to her. She understands now.”

Jonny might have opened the door for anyone. Anyone could have come in.
“She’s never done that before, Matt!”

“That’s all right,” he said. “Oh, a boy came with groceries. I put them away. Now then, Jonny, how about making some hot chocolate, while Laura gets dressed?”

“Matt, wait. Is there any news?”

“So far as I know, things are just the way they were this morning. There is an awful lot of investigation, cut and dried routine, they have to get through. It takes time. And of course they have to investigate the possibility that Catherine Miller was murdered for some reason which has nothing to do with the Stanislowski affair.”

She pushed the blue eiderdown away and then looked at it. “Matt, did you put that over me?”

He nodded. “You were curled up tight as the kitten. I tiptoed in. It was cold and I pulled it over you.”

On some fringe of awareness Laura was conscious of the stillness in Jonny’s figure, pressing against Matt, her blue eyes very sober. It was a fleeting impression. “You looked about as old as Jonny,” Matt said, and the telephone rang.

“I’ll get it,” Matt said promptly and disappeared. Jonny gave Laura a grave look and edged into the room.

In the hall Matt said sharply, into the telephone,
“What’s that?”

There was something in his voice that brought her hurriedly on her feet, pushing away the blue eiderdown, wrapping her dressing gown around her, running into the hall.

“Doris!” Matt said in almost an awestruck way. “For God’s sake—
when?
” Laura came so close to him that her white dressing gown touched his elbow. Jonny stood beside her. There was a long, jerky murmur from the telephone; Laura could not understand the words. Matt said suddenly, “We’ll be there right away. Sure, we’ll bring Jonny. Keep your shirt on, Doris. All right, all right. I know it’s not funny. It was in the cards. We’ll be there.”

He put down the telephone and turned to Laura, his eyes inexplicably blue and dancing. “The sky is raining Stanislowskis. Believe it or not, another one has turned up. Says he’s Jonny’s father. Has credentials galore. Tells the same story the first one told about his background and all that, I mean. He wants us to bring Jonny.”

“There can’t be another one—”

“Get some clothes on. Hurry—”

She dressed quickly; she put on red lipstick; she combed her hair. Matt was helping Jonny into her coat and hat and overshoes. She could hear his voice. “It’s snowing, Jonny. You can’t get your feet wet. Snow. That’s that white stuff out the window. See it? Coming from the sky? That’s snow.”

Jonny said, “Snow—”

But when Laura came out into the hall again and Jonny in her red coat, red hat and white mittens was standing beside Matt, ready to go, Matt was soberly loading a revolver. It glittered dully and coldly in the light.

“Matt!”

“I brought this for you. I’ll put it in the drawer of the table, here. It’s only because you and Jonny are alone. I just want you to have it.” He dropped the revolver in the drawer of the hall table. “All right, let’s go.”

The lobby was almost deserted but the switchboard girl paused in her work to turn and watch them out the door. The doorman sprang to get a taxi but he, too, gave them a brightly curious look. Somebody entering the apartment house paused, and as they got into the taxi, Laura saw him speak to the doorman, apparently asking him a question. The doorman nodded yes, and the tenant turned to stare at the taxi with unconcealed curiosity. Obviously they had read the papers; as obviously everyone in the busy hive of the great apartment house knew that Laura had been questioned by the police when the woman Catherine Miller had been found murdered.

Snow swirled in from the lake, white in the taxi’s headlights. It was a short ride. In a few moments the taxi turned into the curving entrance of one of Chicago’s most luxurious and beautiful apartment buildings.

“I always think of a church when I come here,” Matt said suddenly as they went through the enormous, hushed lobby with its dark wood paneling and the neatly uniformed attendants. The elevator man greeted him. “Good evening, Mr. Cosden. It’s a bad day out, but then we have to expect snow this time of the year— in time for Christmas.” His eyes were curious, too.

Matt said “Yes.” Jonny clung to Matt’s hand. Usually when she visited Doris’ home the magnificence fascinated her; she stared with wide blue eyes. This time she looked at the floor, shrinking a little against Matt. She’s tired, Laura thought, with compunction.

Would she recognize this second Conrad?

Her heart quickened. She glanced at Matt and he had noted her questioning glance at Jonny. “That’s what I’m thinking, too,” he said. “Well—we’ll soon find out.”

The elevator came to a dignified halt; they entered a hall and Doris came with a rapid swirl of skirts and high heels. She seized Matt’s hand.

“Come along. He’s in here.”

Matt paused, however, to help Jonny out of her galoshes. The butler took Laura’s coat. Doris tapped her little foot. It seemed to Laura that Matt took a little longer time than necessary in removing Jonny’s galoshes. When that was done, Doris led the way quickly along the enormous hall and into the library.

It was a huge apartment, a duplex, with lofty ceilings and an air of permanence which perhaps had been one of the factors which helped Doris persuade Conrad to buy the apartment, for Conrad always liked permanence and quality. The library door was open.

Charlie sat at one end of the long table in the middle of the room. At the other end, a man sat, a stranger, his dark, bright gaze fixed upon them. He was sturdily built, with a broad mobile face and very white teeth. He jumped up as they entered. He gave Jonny one swift look. Then he came to her quickly, caught her in his arms, drew her up, high against his shoulder—and unexpectedly began to sing.

The words were Polish. Laura knew that without understanding their sense. His voice was gay. And Jonny, instantly, as if released by a spring, joined in the song.

It was an extraordinary scene, the vigorous, thickly built man, Jonny with her brown braids swinging, and her sturdy little legs, with their white socks and black strapped slippers, dangling below her short blue pleated skirt—set against the lofty room, the heavy crimson curtains, the rows of bookshelves filled with books which Conrad had ordered and which looked as if they had never been opened..

All four of them, Charlie and Doris, and Matt and Laura, watched spellbound while the man before them swung the little figure in his arms and they sang together, Jonny’s high treble, gay and light, over the man’s deeper bass. And Conrad Stanley’s face, in the portrait above the mantel, watched, too.

They sang together only a few bars. They stopped in the same fractional note as if by prearrangement. And then Jonny laughed on a strained, high-pitched note and swiftly, to Laura’s thunderstruck amazement, seized the man’s ears and swung his dark head lightly from one side to the other in a gay make-believe wrestle.

It was exactly as if he had given her the signal for an established ritual between them, and she had responded. So this had to be the real Conrad Stanislowski.

But then who was the murdered man? Who was Maria Brown?

C
ONRAD STANISLOWSKI HUGGED THE
child, kissed her cheek and put her down. He took a handkerchief out and touched his eyes.