The Palace Guard (11 page)

“Put it back where you found it. Has she a permit in her bag?”

“I can’t go prowling through her personal papers.”

“I can.”

“Then wait till we get her parked somewhere. Oh, good, I think I’ve found a key.”

“I’ve got news for you. The door was unlocked all the time.” Bittersohn turned the knob and pushed it open. Getting the countess down that short flight of stairs and through the clutter of furniture below was no small chore. When they stumbled across a divan, Sarah panted, “Can’t we leave her here?”

“Sure.” Bittersohn eased the inert form down on the lumpy plush.

“Poor old thing.” Sarah looked down at the gaunt figure so bravely decked out in tight black pants and a garish nylon jersey. “I’m going to take off some of this jewelry. She clanks every time she moves. See if you can find a blanket.”

She slipped off a pound or two of chains and bangles, removed the run-over gold sandals, then covered Lydia with the worn velvet throw Bittersohn brought from the inner room.

“Okay, let’s go,” he whispered.

“But I thought you wanted to snoop.”

“Not now.” He took Sarah’s hand and guided her back up the stairs. When they were out in the hall with the door shut, he explained. “Lydia has company. I found a man asleep in her bed.”

“Who was it?”

“I don’t know. It was too dark to see and I thought it might be rude to turn on the light.”

“Perhaps it was Mr. Palmerston.” Sarah giggled nervously. “I wonder if she knew he was there. One would think she’d have stayed at home if she was expecting company. That sort of company, at any rate.”

“One might also think she’d be a little more careful about locking her door if she’s packing that gun for protection. I wish some of this would make a grain of sense.”

“Oh, but it does,” said Sarah. “That’s what I was trying to tell you back at that pad place when you kept shushing me up. It’s Mr. Hayre, just as I thought.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“Bernie told me somebody warned him not to talk to you.”

“I see. That makes everything clear as crystal.”

“Don’t be so snippy. I told you I’d seen Bill Jones talking to Mr. Hayre in his shop this afternoon and that Bernie was there, too. Then tonight Lydia went to the shop and came out with Bernie, so he may have been there ever since I saw him, mayn’t he? So when Bernie said tonight that he’d been warned not to tell you something I knew it had to be either Bill Jones or Mr. Hayre who warned him. So that must mean—I suppose it doesn’t actually have to mean a great deal, does it?”

“Time will tell,” said Bittersohn. “I hope that cab’s still waiting.”

It was. As they walked toward it they could hear voices from the parking lot behind the building.

“Wait in the cab, will you?” Bittersohn darted around the corner. In less than a minute he was back. “It’s Palmerston and Jimmy Agnew, Dolores Tawne’s brother. They were getting into what I assume is Palmerston’s car.”

“So late? Mrs. Tawne must have been giving them a high old time. She’s besotted about that man, though I can’t imagine why.”

“Everybody looks good to somebody. Tulip Street, please, driver.”

“Speaking of looking good, I think I’m going to have to do something about clothes,” Sarah remarked, feeling a little uncomfortably that light conversation might be in order now that they weren’t a guy and his date on their way to a party. “All those people took me for your mother.”

“The hell they did!”

“Well, they kept calling me your old lady.”

“That’s not what they meant.”

“Then what did they mean?”

Bittersohn cleared his throat. “Old lady is a sort of general description for a woman of any age with whom a man happens to be living.”

“I see. I suppose the countess told them—” Sarah reflected on what the countess would have been most likely to tell them and decided she’d better let the subject drop. After that neither of them said much except, “Good night.”

S
ARAH WOKE EARLY FROM
force of habit but she still felt sleepy and confused. Had she or had she not been dreaming about finding a revolver in Countess Ouspenska’s handbag and being mistaken for Mr. Bittersohn’s old lady? And was this the night she’d invited Cousin Brooks to dinner? Recalled to domestic concerns, she bounded out of bed, took a quick shower, and did her baby-fine light brown hair up into a landladyish knot.

Now that she was fully awake, she had a vivid memory of how Mr. Bittersohn had kept rubbing his cheek against that same hair most of the way from Charles Street to Brookline Village and how she hadn’t tried to make him stop. Of course he’d only been doing it as part of the act they were putting on, so why did the mere memory get her so hot and bothered, and whatever was she going to say to him at breakfast?

As it happened, she didn’t get to say much of anything. Bittersohn was never among the early birds and they’d have been well chaperoned in any case. By the time she’d sent Mr. Porter-Smith off to his job at third cousin Percy Kelling’s accountancy firm, Miss LaValliere to her classes at Katy Gibbs, Professor Ormsby to his aerodynamics laboratory at MIT, and Mrs. Gates to a lecture on Chinese embroideries at the Art Museum, Mrs. Sorpende was down with a new hairdo and an air of happy expectancy.

“I believe it is this evening your cousin comes to dinner?” she remarked. “Do you think he will remember?”

“Oh, yes, Brooks is looking forward to it, I’m sure. He mentioned particularly that he’d like to discuss the nighthawks with you.”

“Nighthawks?”

“Yes, you know those birds with the bent-back wings that fly around in the evening going, ‘peent, peent.’”

“Dear me, is that what they are? I fear I have a great deal to learn about ornithology.”

“I’m sure Brooks will be happy to teach you.”

“He is so kind.”

Mrs. Sorpende touched her napkin daintily to her lips and permitted her cup to be refilled from the graceful silver coffee urn. She was still dawdling at the table when Mr. Bittersohn appeared, helped himself to eggs and toast at the buffet, said “Thanks” when Sarah handed him a cup of coffee, ate quickly, and left. Mrs. Sorpende smiled her Gioconda smile, nodded with what Sarah could have sworn was an air of satisfaction, and said she must be wending her way.

Sarah couldn’t understand what Mrs. Sorpende was looking so pleased about. She herself was in a bit of a state. What was ailing the man? Considering the way he’d behaved last night in the taxi, and all the dears and darlings he’d thrown around so freely out there in Brookline Village she’d have thought—well, she oughtn’t to be thinking such things so soon after her bereavement anyway. And perhaps Mr. Bittersohn had come to the conclusion that she was a flighty woman who needed to be put in her place.

Or perhaps he had a toothache or a hangover, although she’d thought his air of inebriety was camouflage for the benefit of those strange people who were going to sell him the Rembrandt as soon as Bengo got it painted. Or perhaps he hadn’t slept well. He looked as if he hadn’t. Did he go out again last night after he brought her home? She wished she dared ask Mariposa, who had come in to clear up and was wondering, no doubt, why Sarah was still sitting there alone over a cup of cold coffee when it was her turn to wash the dishes.

But she didn’t. It would seem too much like prying. It would also seem as if she were showing too much interest in Mr. Bittersohn and she might as well face it, she was. Sarah got up and went to do the dishes.

“By the way,” she remarked to Mariposa over the sink, “my Cousin Brooks will be here for dinner tonight.”

“Is that the little guy who came Sunday with the old battle-ax?”

“That’s right, you missed him, didn’t you? I suppose Charles told you.”

“Yeah.” Mariposa handed over more coffee cups. “He said your cousin was a fine gentleman but the old bat he had with him was for the birds.”

“Actually Brooks is the one for the birds. I mean he goes out bird-watching and does bird calls and that sort of thing.”

“Oh, yeah? I got an uncle can imitate a cockfight.”

“Perhaps you hadn’t better mention that to Brooks. He takes a dim view of cockfights. So do I, if it comes to that.”

“Well, there’s your old culture barrier for you. What we going to feed this bird cat?”

“I thought I’d make chicken paprika.”

“How about that? If he’s so hung up on birds, how come he eats chicken?”

“Perhaps he doesn’t. I never thought. Anyway we’ll have noodles and string beans amandine with it, and a carrot pudding. He can fill up on those.” By mere coincidence, Mr. Bittersohn happened to be particularly fond of chicken paprika, noodles, string beans amandine, and carrot pudding.

Sarah had been so busy with other things the past few days that she’d got behind on domesticity. She buckled down to her chores, taking a little extra time to freshen the plants in Mr. Bittersohn’s room and sew a button on his pajamas. This was not a service usually provided to the paying guests, but there was the button on the floor and there were the pajamas on the bed and it wasn’t as though she’d never mended a man’s pajamas before.

So why was she making such a production of it this time? She bit off the thread rather angrily, folded the garment and laid it at the foot of the bed, whacked up the fat red and blue print pillows that were supposed to make the room look more like a studio apartment than a mere bedroom, and went upstairs to grind carrots for the pudding.

At six o’clock Sarah was in the library wearing her gray satin dinner gown and Granny Kay’s bluebird pin. A minute or so later Brooks arrived, neat as a penguin in the dinner jacket he’d got when he entered Harvard, Class of ’46. He accepted a glass of the sherry Charles got somewhere at a cut rate with no questions asked and none answered, and told Miss LaValliere a good deal more about the lesser auk then she probably wanted to know. Then Mrs. Sorpende arrived in her new peach-colored lace gown with rust-colored satin ribbons and Miss LaValliere was ever so gently let off the hook.

By the time they sat down to dinner it was clear that Brooks by himself was an even greater success than when he’d been encumbered by Mrs. Tawne. Mrs. Gates, herself a life member of the Audubon Society, was glad to hear his views on the nesting habits of the least bittern. Mr. Porter-Smith found him a kindred spirit, ready for a waspish exchange of minutiae on any subject whatsoever. Mr. Bittersohn came in late and silent, but warmed up as he ate his chicken paprika. They had a fire in the library while they drank their coffee and all was merry until Charles came in and announced, “Mr. Palmerston is here, madam.”

“Here where?” Sarah asked him crossly.

“In the front hall at the moment, madam.”

“What on earth does he want? Did he ask for Mr. Bittersohn?”

“No, madam, he merely wished to be announced.”

“Then you might as well show him in and bring another cup.”

If he’d come for a progress report, Palmerston appeared in no hurry to get it. He barely acknowledged the presence of his two temporary employees, bowed slightly to Miss LaValliere and Mrs. Gates and not at all to Professor Ormsby or Mr. Porter-Smith, then settled himself on the sofa beside Mrs. Sorpende and engaged in what he must mean to be amiable pleasantries. Brooks Kelling, on the other side of the lady, edged closer and commenced a diversionary operation of considerable finesse.

The gracious lady behaved admirably as usual, parrying Mr. Palmerston’s heavy-handed compliments with genteel banalities and sympathizing with Mr. Kelling over the sad plight of the whooping crane, while Professor Ormsby sat and glared.

Mrs. Sorpende’s charms were ample enough for two, but with three admirers practically crawling into her lap at once she began to show the strain. Bittersohn roused himself from his private concerns and was gallantly trying to draw Palmerston’s fire with a reference to the Wilkins Museum when Charles entered the room again, looking as if someone had slipped him a page from the wrong script. His voice actually cracked a bit as he announced, “Countess Ouspenska.”

Bittersohn and Sarah exchanged startled glances. Palmerston reared back like a stricken wolverine. The rest, except for Professor Ormsby, who was still rapt in contemplation of those bits of Mrs. Sorpende that were visible through the interstices of the peach-colored lace, straightened up and looked expectant.

Mrs. Gates had traveled extensively in her younger days and met lots of countesses but not even she, no doubt, had ever encountered one like Lydia. Tonight the icon painter had on a long dress of eggplant-colored sailcloth painted with genuine Byzantine motifs. Makeup and dime-store jewelry were laid on with wild abandon. Still her regal bearing and haggard beauty, mercifully enhanced by the firelight, made an impact that brought most of the company to their feet.

Sarah of course went forward to greet her guest and present her boarders. Miss LaValliere, despite the skimpiness of her skirt, managed a creditable curtsey. Mrs. Sorpende, having so much more to work with, did even better. Mrs. Gates, being old enough, rich enough, and well-born enough not to bother, nevertheless honored Countess Ouspenska with a smile and an inclination of her lovely white head.

Mr. Porter-Smith bowed smartly from the hips and kissed the noble hand. So did Mr. Bittersohn, with an ever so slight wink in Sarah’s direction. Even Professor Ormsby managed a nod and a grunt. Brooks Kelling earned a glance of admiration from Mrs. Sorpende by shaking hands and saying, “Hello, Lydia, glad to see you.”

“And of course you know Mr. Palmerston,” Sarah finished mischievously.

“Ho ho, do I not? His remembrance is more fondly than mine but I forgive much for the sake of that caviar.”

Needless to say, Palmerston was nonplussed. “I’m afraid I don’t follow you,” he stammered.

Lydia shrugged. “Neither does anybody else any more. Is hell to get old and ugly.”

Miss LaValliere giggled. Sarah said quickly, “We’re having coffee, Countess. May Charles bring you a cup? And will you have something to eat with it?”

“Thank you, coffee only. Tonight I have dine on caviar and blini. I take raincheck for when things are not say aye-aye-aye, eh?”