MAX WAS STILL WAITING for the punch line, but Sarah had caught on immediately. “George did that? How unusual. What do you suppose impelled him to get up?”
“He told me a little brown man in a bright-red jogging suit had just run across the front lawn and back into the garden. George was curious to see what he was up to. George thought the man looked like a Tamil.”
“A Tamil? Aren’t they Sri Lankans or something?”
“If that’s what they’re calling themselves now. George thought perhaps the man might have come from Ceylon or down around Madras. He’d been in both places himself, back when he used to travel, he’d even picked up a smattering of the language. I think George was hoping the fellow would come back and talk to him.”
“Did you see the man yourself?” Max asked her.
“Oh no. I’d hardly expected to. I was quite willing to grant that George would know a Tamil when he saw one, but that red jogging suit was a bit too much to swallow. I expect George must have nodded off, the way he did, you know, and had a dream about the old days. That happened quite often. Sometimes the dreams were so vivid that he’d be absolutely convinced they’d really happened.”
“Do you suppose that’s where some of his stories came from?” Max asked.
“Very likely. That would explain why he could never remember the endings. You know how it is with dreams, you always wake up too soon. Anyway, Phyllis came out with the lemonade and I forgot about the little brown man. Or thought I did, but apparently I didn’t. Why, Max? Surely you don’t think he means anything?”
“It’s curious, that’s all. One last question, Anora; have you ever done any business with a man named Bartolo Arbalest? He calls himself the Resurrection Man.”
“Yes, certainly we have. As a matter of fact, Bartolo was here not long ago. George’s niece’s daughter, Jane, has finally decided to make an honest man of the chap she’s been living with for the past two years or so, and they’re having a formal wedding, of all things. So George and I decided we might as well give her the elephant candlesticks. You remember them, Sarah.”
“Yes, of course. They’re Indian, aren’t they? Silver gilt, with filigree howdahs on their backs and fancy gold and silver blankets with rows of miniature bells on the edges. You used to let me brush my fingers along the bells and make them tinkle. It was the tiniest, sweetest sound.”
“That’s right.” Anora was almost smiling. “Children always loved the elephants, Jane was crazy over them. Once when the family was visiting, she and her brother got into a tug-of-war over whose turn it was to ring the bells. In the melee, one of the howdahs got broken and the other elephant’s trunk got twisted out of shape. Jane cried and cried. But anyway, I put the elephants away, meaning to have them repaired sometime. You know what that means. That filigree is so delicate, I didn’t even know where to take them. So the upshot was that they just sat for years in the butler’s pantry. Then this wedding came up and I didn’t feel it was right just to go out and buy something, so I thought of the elephant candlesticks.”
“How did you get on to Arbalest?” asked Max.
“Serendipity. Ellie Pratch mentioned that a cousin of hers had had some gewgaw repaired—I forget what—by this new man who’d just come to Boston from the West Coast and started a shop doing restorations, and that he’d done a wonderful job. The best part of all was that you didn’t have to take the work to him, you just called up and he came to your house. So I called Bartolo and out he came. We had a lovely visit, he and George got to talking about Oriental antiques. It was one of the most interesting evenings we’d spent in a long time, I hadn’t seen George so animated since I don’t know when.”
“Have you got your elephants back yet?”
“Yes, Bartolo was quite prompt, and I must say he did a beautiful job, or somebody did. Of course we could have bought Jane a real elephant for what he charged, but he’d told us in advance how much it was going to cost and explained all about his atelier, as he called it. He has various other artisans working for him, all of them experts at one thing or another. Bartolo’s conversation gets a bit high-flown at times, and he’s certainly not overburdened with false modesty, but evidently he’s as good as he claims to be.”
“I’ve heard that Mr. Arbalest is quite the showman,” said Sarah.
“Oh, lordy me, yes. He swooshed up to the door in a Rolls with a chauffeur in livery. I haven’t seen such elegance since that time Mary Roberts Rinehart came to tea at my aunt’s house in Bar Harbor before it burned down. The chauffeur came in right behind Bartolo carrying what looked to be a suitcase, and stood next to his chair the whole time we talked, not moving a muscle. I didn’t know whether to offer the man a seat and a drink or send him out to the kitchen with Cook, so I kept my mouth shut for once and let George handle the conversation. George really enjoyed himself, it was quite like old times. When they got ready to leave, I did ask the man—Gould or something, his name was—no, Goudge—if he’d like a velvet pillow to carry the elephants out to the car on.”
“Didn’t that crack him up?”
“I thought his lips twitched a bit, but I couldn’t be sure.” Talking was doing Anora good, she had a little color in her face by now. “That suitcase thing he’d brought with him was all padded on the inside, as it turned out. Goudge spent about twenty minutes getting the elephants stowed inside, with Bartolo eagle-eyeing him every second. That did give one a feeling of reassurance, as I presume it was meant to do. And when the elephants came back, you couldn’t see any sign of where they’d been mended. They were all cleaned up too. Nothing so vulgar as being highly polished of course, but they looked absolutely magnificent. I rather hated to part with them, but seeing Jane so pleased was worth the sacrifice. She even wrote us a thank-you note, which was quite something for Jane. Now if only she doesn’t get robbed again!”
“When was she robbed, Anora?” Max asked rather sharply. “Was it since you gave her the elephants?”
“Yes, it was just last week. Fortunately all the wedding presents are over at her parents’ house, since she’s to be married from there. She and Carl have only a small apartment in the Fenway. There’s supposed to be a security system in the building and they have all sorts of locks and chains on their door, but you know there’s no way to keep out a really determined thief. Though why anyone would go to all that effort and then not even steal the television set is beyond me. Anyway, Jane’s going to look for another place so she can show off the elephants. But I mustn’t keep running on like this, no doubt you have things to do. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your coming.”
They were going through the usual parting rituals when Phyllis came looking for Anora. “Mrs. Harnett’s on the phone, Mrs. Protheroe. She wants to come over. Shall I tell her you’re resting?”
“No, say I’ll expect her for luncheon in about an hour. Ask if she’d mind inviting Mrs. Pratch to come with her. Otherwise I don’t want to see anybody except the undertaker’s man. And be sure you make him show you his card before you let him in. Turn down the telephone as soon as you’ve finished talking with Mrs. Harnett. I don’t want to take any more calls. Then draw me a bath and tell Cook to fix something light.”
“What would you like, Mrs. Protheroe?”
“I don’t care what, a soufflé or an omelet, perhaps. Set the table in the breakfast room. Get the Persian runner out of the upstairs back bedroom and spread it over that ghastly mess on the hall carpet. We’ll have to get someone to take it up but I can’t handle that today. Lay newspapers under the runner so you won’t get its back all stained.”
Anora was back in charge, Phyllis exuded relief as she held the door for the Bittersohns to go out. “She’ll be all right now that we’ve got company coming,” she whispered. “I’m just so thankful you called when you did.”
“Don’t hesitate to phone us if anything else happens,” Sarah urged. “And take care of yourself, Phyllis. Don’t get overtired. Let me know if things are too much for you, I’ll see that you get help.”
“Will you bring the little boy next time? Mrs. Protheroe loves children, just so they don’t start breaking things.”
They said a final good-bye, Sarah got back behind the wheel and waited for Max to get his leg comfortably stowed.
“Okay, kid, let ’er roll. Sarah, did you believe that story Anora told about George seeing a little brown man in a red jogging suit?”
“Well, I can’t imagine Anora making it up, and I never saw any sign of George’s having psychic powers. If it was a dream, as she seems to think, it must have been an awfully strange coincidence. Unless Mr. Arbalest got to telling them about the quaint little chap who does calisthenics in his alley during that chummy talk they must have had. Did you notice that Anora called him Bartolo?”
“I imagine getting on first-name terms with his richer clients is part of Arbalest’s sales technique.”
“Yes, I suppose it would be,” Sarah agreed. “Still, I do think brown men in red jogging suits would have been an odd subject to come up during a highbrow conversation on Oriental antiquities.”
“Maybe the jogger’s old enough to qualify as an Oriental antiquity himself.”
“Very clever, dear. If the man were that old, he’d hardly have been doing calisthenics. Besides, Charles said his hair was black.”
“He could have restored the natural color with that glop they advertise on television.”
“Bah, humbug,” said Sarah. “Charles also said there were gray hairs showing.”
“Then he only restored some of the color. Typical ruse of your ageing red-suited Tamil jogger. Setting said jogger aside for the nonce, have we any bibelot that needs restoring?”
“Something along the lines of an opening wedge, you mean? Max dear, can’t you think of a cheaper way to get in touch with Bartolo Arbalest? How about sending Brooks over to apply for a job?”
“I thought of that, but it wouldn’t work. Brooks is adamant about the velvet beret.”
“Then why don’t we just walk up and thump the knocker? You don’t actually suppose Mr. Arbalest emits an evil aura that causes little brown men to go around spearing people, do you? And if by any chance he does, wouldn’t it be a job for the police or a witch doctor instead of us? Darling, I just don’t want you to get hurt again.”
“I don’t want me to get hurt again either,” Max assured his wife with unequivocal sincerity. “I just want to find out what the hell kind of racket Arbalest’s running. Or who’s running one against him, as the case may be. You didn’t happen to notice anything missing from Anora’s house that would have been valuable enough to kill poor old George for?”
“No, but I didn’t look; I was too concerned about Anora. Maybe she and Phyllis will turn up something once they’ve pulled themselves together and begun checking around. There is an awful lot of stuff in that house, of course, and some of it must be good. The Protheroes are old money, and there’s all that Oriental art and whatnot.”
“Would an inventory have been made at any time?”
“I’d be inclined to doubt it. The insurance would have been far more than they’d have wanted to pay, and I can’t think why else they’d have bothered. George was too indolent and I don’t believe Anora cares all that much. She’s interested in people, not things. Still, I suppose she wouldn’t want not to find out what the killer’s motive was. One can’t just sit idle and let awful things happen. Are you going to tell Lieutenant Levitan what we know?”
“What do we know? That a man who suffered from narcolepsy might or might not have seen an Asian in a red jogging suit run through his yard? Let’s save it till we have something worth telling. I think the logical place for us to start is with your Cousin Percy’s parrot. Being assigned to track down a piece Arbalest has recently worked on should give us a legitimate reason to approach Arbalest.”
“So it should,” Sarah agreed. “Shall we go together, or draw straws?”
“I think I’d better tackle Arbalest alone, or else take Brooks with me, since he’s the one who knows the guy.”
“Then I’ll pop out to Percy’s house. He’ll be at the office by now, of course, but Anne will be home. Weeding, no doubt, she lives for her garden. I’ll ask for a photograph of the painting. If not, I can make an Identikit drawing from her description so we’ll know what we’re looking for. Anne has a pretty good eye for detail and color, I’ll take my paints with me.”
Sarah had done some book illustrating during her earlier life, these days her talent often came in handy for other purposes. She was also adept at extracting possibly useful facts that the victim might not have thought important enough to tell the policemen investigating the crime. Too bad she couldn’t take Davy along, but Anne would have a stroke if he did any of the things very young boys are all too prone to do. She mustn’t stick Theonia with him much longer, she’d have to work something out with Mariposa.
It was a great relief to have Max out and about, or would be, provided he didn’t try to take on too much too fast. Sarah toyed with the notion of getting Charles a chauffeur’s livery and letting him do for Max what Carnaby Goudge was doing for Bartolo Arbalest. She failed to persuade herself that Charles would be any good as a bodyguard, but at least he could drive the car and look impressive. Only then they’d be short a houseman. She really must do something about additional help. First things first.
“I’m sorry I shan’t be around to drive you to Arbalest’s. Charles could do it, couldn’t he?”
“Who needs him? If I don’t feel like walking, I can always take a cab.”
“How’s the leg now?”
“Still attached to the rest of me. I might lie down for a while with Davy before I tackle Arbalest.”
“That’s a good idea. He’ll be much happier about his nap if you’re taking one with him. I was just wondering how to cope. I couldn’t possibly take him to Anne’s, and Theonia’s patience must be stretched fairly thin by now. I’m going to drop you off at the house and take a chance on finding a place to park.”
Luck, for once, was with her. There was an open space on Tulip Street, Sarah tucked the car into it neat as a button with almost a foot of space to spare. In the dining room, they found Theonia, Mariposa, and Davy eating toasted-cheese and tomato sandwiches while Charles did a semi-hilarious singing-waiter routine. Nobody appeared to have missed them much, though everyone was glad to see them back.
“Davy and I made extra sandwiches in case you showed up,” said Mariposa. “I’ll go stick ’em under the broiler.”
“Sit still,” Sarah told her. “I’ll do it. Do you want iced tea, Max?”
Max said he did and inquired how many ducks Davy had fed while Theonia gave Sarah a progress report on the morning’s events. She and Davy had carried out their scheduled program with regard to walks, ducks, and swan boats. Brooks had left a telephone message for Max, to the effect that Bill Jones had dropped in with some interesting news. Brooks would be happy to pass it on if Max would come to the office sometime after two o’clock.
“Brooks also said that Cousin Percy had kept him on the phone for fifteen minutes demanding to know what progress has been made in getting his—or rather Anne’s—painting back,” Theonia went on. I gather Percy was less than satisfied by Brooks’s report. Just as a matter of curiosity, who does that man think we are?”
“I know, Percy can be an awful stuffed shirt when there’s money involved,” said Sarah. “Also when there isn’t, I must admit. I thought I’d take a run out there this afternoon and see what I can find out from Anne. She’s fairly sensible most of the time. Unfortunately young children make her nervous, which isn’t surprising considering what hellions her own grandchildren are. But it does mean someone will have to keep an eye on Davy for a couple of hours after he and his father have their nap. Do I have any volunteers?”
“Sure,” said Mariposa, “How about it, Chico? We get out the maracas an’ have us a fiesta, then maybe we go out in the yard an’ you play on the swing while I rest my feet. Olé!”
“Olé!” yelled Davy.
So that little problem was taken care of. Before Brooks and Theonia had moved in, the tiny back area between the basement door and the alley behind Tulip Street had been a depressing waste of rocks, weeds, and trash cans. Brooks had cleaned up the mess, built a functional bin to hide the trash cans and a new board fence for privacy, as well as a sturdy door to replace an old one that had been badly damaged and crudely mended. He’d bricked over the center to accommodate outdoor furniture and lugged in sacks of loam and peat moss to make flower beds. He’d planted cooking herbs and the more rugged sorts of low-growing shrubs and flowers. He was in the process of espaliering a dwarf pear tree. Now the garden held comfortable chairs for grown-ups to sit in, plus a custom-built, spill-proof swing for a little boy to play on. A safe, pleasant place for a child and his minder to spend a summer afternoon. That minor domestic problem solved, Sarah finished her sandwich, got her menfolk comfortably settled, and went to collect her sketching gear.