The Palace Guard
by
Charlotte MacLeod


The Palace Guard

CHARLOTTE MACLEOD

AVON BOOKS, NEW YORK


At the time of writing, the Fenway Studios still exists in its originally
intended form, as an ideal place for artists to work.
For the sake not only of those dedicated people who are trying to preserve
the building as it should be, but for all the artists who have toiled there
over the years to enrich Boston's cultural heritage, this writer fervently
hopes the Fenway Studios' unique aesthetic and architectural value will
be recognized and cherished.

The two tenants described in this story are, of course, imaginary. So is the
Madam's palazzo, as nobody in real life was ever foolhardy enough to try
to outshine the incomparable Mrs. Jack. There isn't even a Tulip Street on
the hill. Sarah Kelling, her boarders, her friends, and her foes have
nowhere to exist except in the author's imagination. No resemblance to
any actual person or event is intended, and any coincidence would be
inadvertent.


AVON BOOKS

Copyright 1981 by Charlotte MacLeod
Published by arrangement with Doubleday & Company, Inc.
ISBN: 0-380-59857-4


For Charlotte Hunnewell Lamson

Chapter 1


The burst of well-bred applause dwindled to a spattering of claps from
the young cellist's more dedicated relatives, then was drowned
altogether in the scraping of chairs. The tourists moved toward the exit
at the rear of the concert hall. The cognoscenti pressed forward into
the Tintoretto Room, to partake of white wine and cheese, say nice
things to the musicians, and dodge candle drippings from Madam Eugenia
Wilkins's famous cinquecento chandeliers.

Mr. Max Bittersohn, distinguished young art expert, seized the elbow of
his remarkably attractive young landlady, Mrs. Sarah Kelling of the
Beacon Hill Kellings. "Let's get the hell out of this," he hissed. "That
kid who's been slaughtering Boccherini has more sisters and cousins and
aunts than a chorus line from Pinafore."

Sarah, who had been brought up in a sterner school, demurred. "We
mustn't leave without at least speaking to your friend Mr. Fieringer.
You know he's always heartbroken if you don't say something about his
latest genius."

"What's to say? Okay, then, come out on the balcony till the crowd thins
a little."

"I did think the pianist managed beautifully, all things considered."

"Yes, old Bernie's a damn fine musician still, on the rare occasions
when he can find his way to the piano. I wonder how Nick managed to keep
him sober for the occasion."

"Heavens, what an impresario must go through," Sarah rested her dainty
forearms on the carved marble balustrade and looked down at the enclosed
courtyard, now massed with spring flowers for Eastertide or, as in Mr.
Bittersohn's case, Passover. "Look, isn't this fantastic?"

On January 1, 1903, Eugenia Callista Wilkins, widow of a railroad baron,
had attended the opening of Fenway Court, better known to Boston as Mrs.
Jack Gardner's Palace. Seething with what she told herself was scorn,
she vowed to show Mrs.

8	Charlotte MacLeod


Jack how it should have been done. She had then followed the other
woman's example by sailing for Europe with her own tame art expert in
tow, loaded a Cunarder's hold with an even bigger and more ill-assorted
collection of art treasures true and false, come home and built an even
more pretentious palazzo on the picturesque banks of the romantic Muddy
River, and there arranged her purchases in even wilder confusion.


Mrs. Wilkins had explained to the dumbfounded architect that her indoor
garden must have a waterfall full three stories high to plash down over
a series of marble basins into a lily pool stocked with exotic fishes.
She would have even more flower beds than Mrs. Jack, to be kept ever
blooming with stock from even more greenhouses. She would have mosaic
walks alleged to have been spirited away during the restoration of
Herculaneum and she would have real, live white peacocks fanning their
spectacular tails hither and yon as the spirit moved them.

In practice, the peacocks were more apt to be molting, committing
nuisances on the mosaics, pecking fretfully at the ankles of visitors,
or coming down with various avian ailments and having to be rushed to
the Angell Memorial Hospital for treatment. Despite their perverse
behavior, though, Mrs. Wilkins's palazzo was generally conceded to be
quite a place, even for Boston.

The Kellings, being among Old Boston's richest, most prolific, and
sometimes most respected families, had attended the 1911 opening in
droves. It was upon that historic occasion that a then Mrs. Alexander
Kelling had observed with that tact and courtesy for which the Kellings
were noted that the place looked less like an Italian palazzo than a
Babylonian bordello. Some other wit had immediately started calling Mrs.
Wilkins the Madam, and the name stuck. Making the best of a bad
business, Eugenia Callista had thenceforth ordered her visiting cards
engraved "Madam Wilkins" but she had never left one on a Kelling.

Even after she died and bequeathed her estate to the city as a museum,
therefore, the Kellings had stayed away from the Madam's. It was with an
agreeable feeling of tasting forbidden fruit that Sarah gazed down at a
molting peacock. For some reason the courtyard was quite empty at the
moment except for the birds, the fish in the lily pond, and a
bored-looking guard leaning against a pillar. The babble from the
Tintoretto Room

The Palace Guard	9


sounded pleasantly far away. The early April sun slanted down through
the vast skylights. Sarah blinked and yawned.


Bittersohn smiled down at her. "Sleepy, Mrs. Kelling?"

They were still on last-name terms as befitted a lady five months
widowed and a gentleman who had been lodging with her only since
January, but somehow Mr. Bittersohn had developed a way of saying "Mrs.
Kelling" that made Sarah feel her unmarried status. And he did seem to
get a great many free passes to concerts and plays that he thought
perhaps she'd like to attend with him if she had nothing better to do
and somehow she never did have. It was rather fun to go places after the
austere life she'd lived with a husband more than twice her age, and
Alexander himself would have been the last person in the world to think
she should let a free pass go to waste. So even though this hadn't been
a good concert, she smiled back.

"It's that warm sun, and the smell of the flowers. This really is a
delightful place. I do wonder, though, why the Madam thought it would be
more cultured to put such hard chairs in the music--look!"

Something large and dark hurtled past them, to crash among the pink and
purple hyacinths two stories below. A peacock and a guard screamed
together. Bittersohn was down the marble staircase before the echoes
died.

Sarah rushed after him as fast as her high heels and dinging skirt would
let her. She could see the crumpled thing in the garden now. It was one
of the palazzo's guards, his green uniform looking strangely harmonious
with the green foliage. The courtyard guard was sweating, frantic,
putting up a valiant single-handed battle to keep back the crowd that
had appeared where nobody had been a moment before.

"Stand back, please," he was shouting. "Sir, you can't--"

"I'm a doctor," said Bittersohn. Actually his doctorate was in fine
arts, but it did the trick. Spectators fell back. The guard breathed a
sigh of relief. Bittersohn bent over the body.

"Fractured skull and a broken neck," he pronounced. "Who is he, do you
know?"

"Sure." The live guard wet his lips. "I'd know him just from the shabby
uniform. That's Joe Witherspoon, oldest guy in the place. Been here
since Curley was mayor."

"Then how come he didn't know enough to stay away from the railings?"
cracked some bright soul in the crowd.

10	Charlotte MacLeod


The guard shook his head. "Beats me. Joe shouldn't have been out on the
balcony at all. His station's in the Titian Room, on the third floor.
Long way for an old man to climb, but Joe wouldn't change. I'm surprised
he'd leave his girl friend alone for a minute with so many visitors
around today."


"What do you mean, leave his girl friend?" asked Bittersohn.

The guard emitted a snort of embarrassed laughter. "That's what we call
the big Titian, the 'Rape of Lucrece.' We always kid Joe about being
soft on Lucrece, see? Used to, I mean."

By now several other guards had arrived and the first one eased himself
away from the body. "Between you and me, Doctor, I think Joe was kind of
soft in more ways than one. Ask the guys here."

The guys didn't seem inclined to answer, so the spokesman went on. "See,
we've got this locker room down in the basement, where we keep our stuff
and maybe grab a smoke during our coffee breaks. So 1 go down yesterday
afternoon and I see Joe sitting there with his head in his hands, not
saying anything. I think maybe he's taking a little nap sitting up like
people do, so I have my coffee and rest my feet awhile. Then my time's
up, so I go to leave, but Joe's still sitting. So I say, 'What's the
matter, Joe? How come you're not in a rush to get back to your girl
friend?' So he says, "That's not her any more. She ain't the same. She's
gone.' Now, does that make any sense to you?"

To an art expert whose specialty was thefts and forgeries it made all
the sense in the world. "Is the picture different in any way?"
Bittersohn inquired mildly.

"Of course it isn't. I went up and took a look for myself."

"You feel you know the Titian well enough to spot any alteration?"

"Well, sure, I've covered for Joe enough times. Besides, it's the kind
of picture a guy really looks at, if you get me."

"I get you. Why don't you go and find out whether the police have been
called? Tell the guard at the door not to let anybody in or out till
they get here. The police will want to ask a few questions, no doubt."
Bittersohn surveyed the crowd, now swelled by the influx from the
Tintoretto Room. "Good luck to them."

He stood up and looked around for Sarah, who managed to wriggle her way
to his side. "Do you think there's something fishy about this?" she
murmured.

The Palace Guard	11


"I don't know. It seems an odd sort of accident for a guard to have,
unless he leaned over to get a look at something down here and lost his
balance. He was old, he might have had dizzy spells."


"But there was nothing to see, particularly. Don't you recall how empty
the garden was just then? He fell from right over our heads, so he
wouldn't have seen anything we didn't."

"That's true. But he screamed or something, didn't he?"

"No, I think that was the peacock. And this other guard yelled at the
same time. I don't believe Witherspoon made any sound at all."

The courtyard guard corroborated Sarah's observation. He hadn't actually
seen Joe come over the balustrade, but he'd looked up when the peacock
screamed and seen the body hit the ground. He probably had yelled
something or other. He didn't remember hearing Joe make any sound. That
didn't surprise him. Joe had never been much of a talker.

"Come on, Mrs. Kelling." Bittersohn appeared by now to have acquired
quasi-official status. At any rate, while the guards were blocking
anybody else from going upstairs, they didn't try to stop him and Sarah.
There were still a few people straggling down from the Tintoretto Room,
but by the time the two approached the third floor, they had the broad
marble staircase to themselves. Even the second-floor guards had left
their stations to help control the melee in the courtyard.

"What a time to pull a snatch," Bittersohn remarked. "Not one damn thing
being watched. No, by George, I'm wrong. The boy's still on the burning
deck."

"Who?" Glad of a chance to pause and catch her breath. Sarah looked
around. "Oh, you mean that cute little guard over there under the fake
Romney. Why, it's Cousin Brooks!"

She darted across the vast foyer that Madam Wilkins had dubbed the Grand
Salon and filled with sedan chairs and suits of armor that couldn't
possibly have ever fit anyone. "Cousin Brooks, whatever are you doing
here?"

"Good afternoon, Sarah." The elderly man greeted her warmly without
relaxing his vigil a jot. "How nice you look in that blue outfit. I
always liked it on your mother. You're growing into a very pretty young
lady."

"About time, don't you think? I'll be twenty-seven next month."

"Good heavens. And Jem tells me you've turned your place

12	Charlotte MacLeod


into a boardinghouse. i was sorry about poor Alex. Can't remember if 1
ever got around to telling you so."


"Yes, you wrote a lovely letter. From South Dakota, I believe it was.
You were lecturing on your Indian relics."

"So I was. Now I'm doing programs of bird calls at children's parties.
In case--er--" He looked questioningly at Bittersohn.

Sarah blushed. "Oh, I beg your pardon. This is one of my boarders, Mr.
Max Bittersohn. Brooks is another Kelling, needless to say, and I can't
remember how we're related and I haven't the faintest idea what he's
doing here."

"We're fourth cousins twice removed and I'm obliging a lady friend. Did
you say Bittersohn, sir?"

"I didn't but she did, and I am."

"Not the Max Bittersohn who tracked down old Thaddeus's Corots for him?
I knew I'd met you somewhere. I was your prime suspect for a while,
wasn't I? Delighted to see you again, sir." Brooks pumped Bittersohn's
hand as enthusiastically as if they'd been old lodge buddies. "Dash it,
sir, this is the pleasantest surprise I've had since I spotted a
Hudsonian godwit flying over the Hatch Memorial Shell just two degrees
northeast of Harry Ellis Dickson. May I make so bold as to ask whether
you're on my trail again? Has there been hugger-mugger among the
Murillos?"

"Damned if I know." Bittersohn was enjoying the reunion, too. "All I can
tell you is that a guard named Joe Witherspoon took a header off the
balcony about three minutes ago and landed in the hyacinths. Know
anything about it?"

"So that's what all that commotion in the courtyard is about. I've been
wondering."

"Haven't you gone to look?"

"Certainly not. How would I know the diversion was not deliberately
staged to lure me from my appointed post? I knew Witherspoon, of course.
He ought to have been in the Titian Room, over there." Kelling pointed
across the Grand Salon. "What was he doing on the balcony?"

"I was hoping you could tell me."

"Believe me, sir, I should be proud and happy to assist you were it in
my power. I last saw Joe when I came on duty just before the museum
opened, which is at one o'clock on Sundays as you perhaps know. I stuck
my head in to explain that I was

The Palace Guard	13


taking the place of Jimmy Agnew, who would normally be here today. Joe
seemed his usual self then."


"You didn't see him come out of the Titian Room?"

"I did not. My view, as you can see for yourself, is obscured by the
presence of all those ratty old broken-down sedan chairs Mrs. Wilkins
saw fit to clutter the place up with."

"Did he look depressed when you spoke with him?"

"Joe always looked depressed."

"Did he happen to mention the big Titian? Did he tell you there was
something wrong with it?"

"Sir," said Brooks Kelling warmly, "there's nothing wrong with
'Lucrece.' My one poignant and burning regret is that I've never met one
built like her, else I should not be a lonely bachelor today. Had Joe
made any such remark I should have refuted it with some heat, but he
didn't. He didn't say much of anything to me. If he talked to anyone, it
would have been more apt to be Brown, who's supposed to prowl about the
corridors looking magisterial. Brown should have seen Joe fall if any of
us did." He raised his voice. "Brown? Brown?"

Nobody answered.

"Perhaps he's gone downstairs," Sarah suggested. "Or, wait, someone's
coming now."

"That's not Brown," said her cousin fretfully as another guard threaded
his way among the sedan chairs. "That's Vieuxchamp and he ought to be
back with the Uccellos. What are you doing away from your station,
Vieuxchamp?"

"Relax, Kelling. Nobody's left on this floor and the police aren't
letting anybody up. Who's this, and why are you yelling for Brownie?"

"This is Mr. Bittersohn and he wants to ask Brown who shoved Joe
Witherspoon over the balustrade."

"Shoved? Christ, I never thought of that." Vieuxchamp wheeled and headed
for one of the archways. "I'll search the corridors. You look in the
chapel. Brownie? Hey, Brownie!"

Chapter 2


It was Sarah who found the missing guard. He was flat out under a
twelfth-century choir stall with his eyes closed, moaning softly. Cousin
Brooks whipped out an ammonia ampul and crushed it under the man's nose.
Brown choked, spluttered, and tried to sit up, but he was a fat man and
too tightly wedged in. Brooks and Max Bittersohn had to move the massive
carved oaken bench to get him out. Vieuxchamp, who claimed to have a
double hernia, contributed to the effort only insofar as to demand, "How
the hell did you manage to get stuck under there?"


"I don't know," Brown replied woozily. "I was making my rounds like
always and somebody jumped me. Is anything missing?"

"Yeah, Joe Witherspoon. He went over the balcony and busted his skull
open. Brains all over the courtyard," Vieuxchamp added with what Sarah
thought was decidedly misplaced enthusiasm.

"You don't say! What'd Joe do, take a dizzy spell or--oh." Brown
clambered to his feet. "I get it."

The chapel was lighted only by a rack of votive candles. It took the
others a moment to spot the jumble of church silver lying beside the
altar.

"Look at that, will you? They were trying to steal the silver. I came
along and they slugged me and shoved me under the pew. Joe heard the
noise and came to see what was happening, so they pitched him over the
balustrade to shut him up. Then they realized what they'd done and
decided they'd better scram without the loot."

"That doesn't sound awfully reasonable to me," Sarah said. "Why would
anybody take all those bulky chalices and whatnot in broad daylight with
the place full of visitors? They might have known they'd never get away
with it."

"They melt it down."

"Where? Over those little votive candles?"

14


The Palace Guard	15


"Lady, how do I know? I'm only telling you what must have happened."


"Good of you," grunted Bittersohn. "Vieuxchamp, would you mind going
down to the courtyard and asking somebody from the police to come up
here? Brown, what makes you so sure Witherspoon would have heard a
disturbance in the chapel? The Titian Room's all the way over on the
opposite side of the Grand Salon, isn't it?"

"Yeah, but--"

"You didn't see him away from his post?"

"Not that I recall."

"Was he in the habit of wandering around?"

"Joe? Not usually, but there's always the off chance, isn't there? Or
maybe the crooks ran in there after they slugged me, and Joe saw their
faces and they panicked and killed him. How do I know? I was out like a
light."

"You keep saying they, Brown. How many of these silver thieves were
there?"

"Jeez, I don't know. Two or three maybe."

"What makes you so sure there was more than one if you never saw them?"

"I must have heard their footsteps behind me."

"Then why didn't you turn around?"

"Look, who the hell are you, anyway? Get off my back. I got a headache.
I'm not saying another word till the cops get here."

The injured guard planted himself on the wormhoied bench, set both large
feet firmly on the tessellated floor, and buttoned his flabby lips into
a surprisingly thin line. The others stood around watching him sit until
a harassed-looking man in a wrinkled raincoat toiled up the three long
flights of the Grand Staircase.

"Oh, Christ, Bittersohn, you here?" was his amiable greeting. "I knew I
should never have got up this morning. Hanging around the nudes again,
eh?" "May I call your attention to the fact that there's a lady
present?" said Bittersohn with great dignity. "Mrs. Kelling, may I
present Lieutenant Davies."

"How do you do?" Sarah held out her hand. "It seems odd we haven't met.
I thought I knew everyone on the force by now."

"Oh, you're that Mrs. Kelling?" Lieutenant Davies shook

16	Char/one MacLeod


the small hand carefully, as if he were afrcid it might come off. The
way things had been happening among the Kellings lately, one never knew.
"I've been wondering why the guys are all in love with you."


"Are they? How charming of them. I must explain that I'm merely an
innocent bystander this time. Mr. Bittersohn had passes to the concert
and he offered me one."

"Not bad. Bittersohn. considering the concerts are free and therefore no
passes are issued."

"Thanks, Davies. Remind me to do you a favor sometime. Speaking of
concerts, this gentleman on the bench has a song on his lips. He wants
to sing it to you. He doesn't like me." "Who does? Stick around, will
you?"

"Sure. Mind if I get Mrs. Kelling's cousin here to show us some of the
priceless art treasures? I'd like to get a look at the big Titian."

"Naturally you would," said Brooks. He led the way with alacrity.
Perhaps it had been Titian who painted this particular version of a
popular subject, perhaps it hadn't. In any event, Lucrece appeared to be
taking her ravishment like a trouper. Even through half an inch of dust
and old varnish, the lady was quite an eyeful.

"I suppose she's all right if you like fat women," Sarah sniffed. "Mr.
Bittersohn, would it be in order to ask why you were so hard on that
guard Brown?"

"Because Brown is a liar, and a damned poor one. He claims he was struck
from behind, but we found him lying on his back. He was wedged under
that bench so tight that we had to lift it to get him out. So the
alleged burglars who were in such a hurry to get away that they dumped
their loot took the time to turn him over, lift that heavy choir stall,
and plunk it down on top of him. Or else he sucked in his fat gut and
used his hands to shove himself in under the bench without help."

"But why would he do that?"

"Maybe he saw Witherspoon thrown over the railing, got scared, and hid.
Maybe he did the throwing himself and is trying to fake an alibi. Maybe
the killer happened to be a pal of his and told him to make himself
scarce so he wouldn't get involved." Brooks Kelling nodded his neat gray
head. "Exactly the sort of perspicacious observation I expected from
you, Bittersohn. Of course Brown's telling fairytales. Even Sarah
pointed out

The Palace Guard	17


the absurdity of anyone's trying to steal church silver on a busy Sunday
afternoon. Brown undoubtedly piled the stuff there himself. No doubt he
left fingerprints, but they won't count, because he can always say he
handled the silver in line of duty."


"How would you describe Brown, Kelling?"

"Fat. Fat in the body and fatter in the head. Stupid enough to let
somebody use him. Too stupid to make an effective accomplice. 1 would
guess that somebody instructed him to fake a robbery and pretend to have
been attacked, but forgot to remind him that people who get hit on the
backs of their heads are more apt than not to fall on their faces."

"Does anyone around here have brains?"

"Mr. Fitzroy. the superintendent, is a man of considerable acumen. He
happens to have been on a short holiday this week, a circumstance that
may not be without significance. Vieuxchamp shows occasional glimmerings
of intelligence. Jimmy Agnew, the man whose place I'm taking, does not.
Melanson wouldn't dare think without permission."

"Who's Melanson?"

"The spiritual heir of Caspar Milquetoast. He's stationed among the
Italian pottery at the rear on this floor. Nobody in his or her right
mind would ever steal those atrocities, but Melanson lives in constant
dread lest some militant aesthete rush in with a club and smash the
collection in the interest of a more beautiful Boston. I'm sure he's
still at his post. He won't leave until somebody tells him he may."

"Then let's go see him. What's wrong with Agnew?"

"Allegedly he has a bug. In fact he's no doubt suffering from an
overdose of Schenley's."

"How did you get elected to fill in?"

"Jimmy's sister Dolores volunteered me. Dolores and I are old friends."

"What does Dolores Agnew have to do with appointing the guards?"

"She's Dolores Agnew Tawne, widowed since God knows when. Dolores is the
oil on the squeaking hinge around here, as one might say. She cleans the
paintings, dusts the statues, polishes the silver, doctors the peacocks,
hectors the gardeners, arranges the flowers, lights the candles in the
chapel, and whatnot. I expect her influence is all that keeps Jimmy on
the job.

18	Charlotte MacLeod


He's an agreeable enough chap but not what one would describe as a
zealous worker. Dolores is the salt of the earth."


Sarah knew what that meant: a loud voice and plenty of beef to the heel.
Brooks had always been the natural prey ef bullying women.

They stopped to tell Davies where they were going, and he elected to
come, too. The wretched Melanson was found cowering among his
preposterous bibelots. When he saw them he jumped about a foot.

"Oh! Oh, thank goodness it's you, Mr. Kelling. Isn't this dreadful?
Vieuxchamp was just telling me--" He stammered "dreadful" another time
or two, then petered out.

"Can you tell us anything, Mr. Melanson?" Davies asked him.

"Heavens to goodness, no. Nothing at all. I didn't know a thing until
Vieuxchamp told me."

"Haven't you heard all the noise from the courtyard?"

"I couldn't very well help that, could I? I knew something dreadful must
have happened."

"But you didn't go to look?"

"How could I? We're not allowed to leave our stations. Mr. Fitzroy is
very strict on that point. Vieuxchamp shouldn't have come here. I hope
you don't think I lured him in?"

"That's all right, Mr. Melanson. The police have the floor sealed off.
Have you any idea why anybody might want to murder Joe Witherspoon?"

Davies's question threw the timid soul into an utter tizzy.
"B-burglars," he stammered. "Vieuxchamp said it was burglars. It must
have been burglars. Mustn't it?"

"Why? I don't recall any robberies being reported from here."

"Oh no, we've never had a robbery before. Not," Melanson amended
hastily, "that I know of."

"Do you suspect there may have been a theft that was never exposed?"

"Gracious, no, I wouldn't dream of suspecting any such thing. But if it
should ever turn out there had been and I'd said there wasn't, somebody
might think--"

"Mr. Melanson," Bittersohn interrupted, "do you recall ever having heard
Witherspoon complain that something had been changed?"

"About the two Uccellos, you mean? No, I believe that was

The Palace Guard	19


Mr. Fitzroy. I may be wrong, of course, but I'm quite sure it was Mr.
Fitzroy who spoke to Mrs. Tawne. Almost sure, that is. Well, fairly
sure."


"And what did Mr. Fitzroy say to Mrs. Tawne?"

"Please don't think I deliberately listened. But Mr. Fitzroy wasn't
mincing his words, I can tell you that. 1 suppose it's all right for me
to tell you. I mean, it's not as if he--that is, it was Mrs. Tawne
who--"

"Who what?"

"Who hung them the other way around because she thought they'd look
better that way. After Madam Wilkins left explicit instructions, too! It
was--was--" Words failed him.

"As you must know, Bittersohn, the Madam's will stipulated that
everything must be left exactly as she placed it," Brooks Kelling took
it upon himself to explain. "Madam Wilkins had phenomenally atrocious
taste."

"That's right," Melanson was happy to agree. "And there they were, if
you please, hanging face to face when they'd always hung back to back. I
saw them myself."

"When was this?"

"About--let me see--it was when 1 had the carbuncle, 1 do know that.
Perhaps three, no four--oh. dear, it's so difficult. I'd say it must
have been roughly four years ago last October but I couldn't tell you
for sure."

Bittersohn sighed. "You don't recall a more recent incident?"

"I should hope that sort of thing wouldn't happen often!"

Vieuxchamp's reappearance kept Sarah from disgracing herself by a fit of
the giggles. "I've been checking around," he explained. "As far as I can
tell offhand, nothing's been taken. We'd have to do it with the
inventory list to be sure."

"Who keeps the list?" asked Lieutenant Davies.

"Mr. Fitzroy. He'll be here tomorrow morning."

"Who's in charge when he's not around?"

"I guess you might say we all are. Each guard is responsible for his own
station."

"Mr. Fitzroy is an unusual man," Brooks interjected. "He believes in the
dignity of the individual."

"Besides," said Vieuxchamp, "we're all too scared of him to foul up.
Aren't we, Milky?"

"We all have the greatest respect for Mr. Fitzroy," said Melanson
primly.

20	Charlotte MacLeod


"God help Brown when Fitzy finds out he almost let somebody get away
with the communion plate," Vieuxchamp went on. "Brownie's lucky he got
that crack on the head. It just might be considered an extenuating
circumstance, that and poor old Joe's getting killed."


"Then you go along with Brown's theory that Witherspoon was murdered to
keep him from being able to identify the alleged thieves?" said
Bittersohn.

"Well, yeah, I guess so. It makes sense, doesn't it?"

Bittersohn didn't point out that it made sense only if one accepted
Brown's clumsy pretense of robbery. If, as Brooks Kelling claimed,
Vieuxchamp had occasional glimmerings of intelligence, why was he so
willing to swallow the story?

Chapter 3


"Then you don't believe Witherspoon could have either jumped or fallen?"


Bittersohn's question appeared to give Vieuxchamp some trouble. "Why
would he jump?"

"The guard down in the courtyard maintains Witherspoon was upset over
some change he either saw or fancied in the big Titian he was so fond
of."

"Oh. that? Hell, a man wouldn't kill himself over a painting. 1 suppose
he could have fallen, now that you mention it. See, there's that big
clock over the main exit. You can't see it from the third floor unless
you lean over the balustrade. Sometimes we do, to see if it's time for
our coffee break or something. Joe might have been doing that and taken
a dizzy spell and lost his balance."

"I didn't know Witherspoon had dizzy spells," Melanson said
interestedly.

"Oh, sure, had 'em all the time. Hardening of the arteries, I suppose.
Joe was no kid, you know."

"Speaking of getting along in years, Mrs. Kelling, we'd better go see if
we can find Nick Fieringer. He'll be wondering why we never showed up in
the Tintoretto Room after the concert." Bittersohn got behind Brooks
Kelling and went through a pantomime that Sarah at last managed to
interpret as "Ask him to supper."

She couldn't imagine why, but she obeyed. "Cousin Brooks, it's been such
ages since we've seen each other that I hate to say good-bye. Can't you
drop over to the house after you go off duty? It's always an informal
buffet on Sunday nights because I never know who's going to be around."

"Why, that's kind of you, Sarah, and I'd like to come. As it happens,
however, I'm bespoken. I've already invited Dolores Tawne to eat with
me. At that little cafe over on Huntington Avenue near the Art Museum,"
he added thriftily.


21



22	Charlotte MacLeod


"Then why don't you bring her along? I'm sure we'd enjoy meeting her."


Sarah wasn't at all sure but she thought she must have said the right
thing, because Mr. Bittersohn was looking pleased. Cousin Brooks, on the
other hand, demurred. He was afraid Dolores might interpret an
invitation to meet the family as a sign of serious intent. Sarah argued
that one fourth cousin twice removed and an assortment of paying guests
could hardly be interpreted as serious intent. Brooks, seeing both the
force of her argument and a chance to save a few dollars, for he was,
after all, a Kelling, finally agreed.

"I hope I did what you wanted," Sarah remarked to Bittersohn as they
left the group and started downstairs to the second floor, where it was
possible Nick Fieringer might still be waiting. "You did fine," he said
somewhat abstractedly, staring at the head of a petulant-looking
Heracles.

"What are you thinking?" he prodded.

"I'm thinking that, as Diamond Jim Brady said to the Floradora Girl,
there's deception behind that bust. How did you know the Romney's a
fake?"

"Because my Aunt Emma out in Longmeadow owns the original. She's an
ancestress of ours and I'm supposed to resemble her, though I can't see
it myself."

"Did Madam Wilkins know your family owned the original?" "I doubt it.
They were never on visiting terms, especially after the debacle at the
opening. If anything was said then, I'm sure she insisted hers was the
original and ours the copy, but it can't be unless Romney painted two
identical pictures of the same subject. I'm quite sure he didn't. That's
the sort of thing Aunt Emma would know about. I could take you out to
see Aunt Emma's by way of comparison if you like."

Bittersohn's lips twitched, and Sarah knew why. If Cousin Brooks was
nervous about finding himself romantically compromised on the strength
of a short subway ride and a supper of cold roast beef and tapioca
pudding in well-assorted company, what would Aunt Emma think of Sarah's
driving all the way to Longmeadow a deux with a remarkably attractive
man of suitable years and substantial income?

"I'd like very much to see the original sometime," he replied, "but I
don't need that to convince me. So far just about

The Palace Guard	23


everything I've seen in this place is a fake. Either Madam Wilkins was
the prize patsy of all time or there's a large rat i' the arras."


"The arras being bogus also, I presume? Is that why you asked me to
invite Cousin Brooks? Surely you don't think he's involved in some art
forgery racket? Did you really suspect him that time about Uncle
Thaddeus's Corots?"

"The answers are no, no, and no, in that order. Your cousin's a little
bit of a screwball in some ways if you don't mind my saying so--"

"Why should I? Show me a Kelling who isn't."

"But, as I was about to remark, he's nobody's fool, he's fun to be with,
and as far as I know he's so honest it's ridiculous. I simply want to
talk to him. I'll owe you a meal to make up for him and his lady
friend."

"You will not. Owe it, I mean. Of course if somebody happens to give you
a free pass to the Ritz." Sarah showed a dimple that was an agreeable
surprise in her squarish, clearskinned but pale face, and Bittersohn
laughed.

"So!" a bass voice unctuous as beef drippings exploded. "This is where I
find you, Bittersohn. Canoodling among the cupids with a beautiful lady
instead of in the Tintoretto Room telling my talented young protegee she
should maybe learn her scales before she thinks Carnegie Hall."

"Hi, Nick. Mrs. Kelling and I were on our way to find you."

"I believe you," said the fat impresario archly. "Maybe you can tell me
how come the cops in the courtyard? So my young genius takes her
cadenzas like a case of whooping cough, is she under arrest for
disturbing the peace?"

"Nick, the kid was fine. She needs a little more practice. Tell me, how
well do you know the guards in this place?"

"I know everybody." That was a simple statement of fact. Nicholas
Fieringer did, almost.

"What sort of man was Joe Witherspoon?"

"Was? Why was? Something has happened to Joe?"

"He landed on his head in the courtyard just about the time your young
genius must have been making her curtsey to Mrs. Forbot."

"Old Joe?"

The impresario was one of those large, squashy, bald men whose emotions
are close to the surface. His mouth puckered

24	Charlotte MacLeod


like a baby's. Sarah would not have been surprised if he'd burst into
loud wails. After a moment, though, tie went on calmly enough, "t can
think of nothing more unlikely. How could this happen?"


"The corridor guard on the third floor claims somebody tried to rob the
chapel. Brown, his name is. You know him, too, I expect. Anyway, Mrs.
Kelling here found him stuffed under a choir stall with a bunch of
silver cups and stuff in a heap by the altar. His story is that two or
three guys slugged him during an attempted robbery and pitched
Witherspoon over the balustrade to protect their identities."

"Brown is a fraud and a fake! In the concert hall we had eighty-seven
people. Always I count first thing before they start tiptoeing out. In
other rooms must have been maybe a hundred more. The chapel is on the
third floor. The Grand Staircase is the only way to go up and down
unless you lower a rope in broad daylight from a window in front of
everybody walking dogs and using pooper-scoopers on the sidewalk, quod
erat absurdem. Down the Grand Staircase to lug a sackful of silver in
front of so many people who could believe? Who could believe a liar like
Brown if he swore on a genuine Gutenberg Bible which, entre nous, you
will not find here. Brown sneaks a nap in the chapel during the concert,
is all. He piles the silver for an alibi in case somebody catches him
asleep. When you tell him about Joe he puts it for frosting on the cake
like the louse he is."

"You know, Nick," said Bittersohn, "that's one explanation that never
occurred to me."

"Because you do not know that slob like I do, Max. Anything, anything he
would do to get out of an hour's honest work. I"--Nick turned fiercely
to Sarah--"am fat but not a slob. And 1 work. My God, how I work. So Joe
Witherspoon dies and Brown is snoring like a pig in the chapel."

"Vieuxchamp says Witherspoon had dizzy spells. Can you corroborate
that?"

"Corroborate no. Believe yes. Joe was an old man, he took no care of
himself. Up and down, up and down that murderous staircase he had to
climb four, five times a day. Too far out he leans, a little vertigo,
maybe, and over he goes."

"But why would he be on the balcony? He belonged in the Titian Room."

"My friend, how should I know? During the concert would

The Palace Guard	25


maybe be not many people on the third floor. Maybe Joe goes to stretch
his legs and watch the pretty peacocks, maybe to take a leak in the
waterfall because in this crazy palazzo is only one bathroom and that in
the basement. You think the guards go all the way up and down every
time?"


Bittersohn glanced at Sarah and changed the subject. "Did you ever hear
Witherspoon talk about the big Titian?"

"As much as he ever talked about anything. Lucrece was his sweetheart.
Who could blame him? It is like Shelley, forever will he love and she be
fat. So he could only look, big deal. At his age to look was probably
all he could manage anyway and for this he got paid. Joe was a lucky
man."

"Quite a philosopher, aren't you, Nick? See that guard over by the
pillar in the courtyard?"

"Sonny they call him. So?"

"He claims Witherspoon had been complaining lately that Lucrece had
changed."

"Maxie, how could a painting change? Joe needed new glasses is all. Or
maybe glaucoma or cataract, maybe just old age getting soft in the head.
Maybe he was lucky he fell."

"Do you think Witherspoon could have become depressed enough to jump?"

"Who knows? What should it matter jumped or fell? Dead is dead. You like
to make mysteries, my friend, here is no mystery. Only a tired old man
getting at last a chance to rest his feet."

Cliapter 4


"I suppose you've got to rush home and cook," said Bittersohn as he
helped Sarah into the elegant car he'd left parked along the Fen way.


"Nope." Sarah smiled in rapture and leaned her head back against the
rich beige leather upholstery. "I'm off the hook tonight. Mrs.
Sorpende's doing supper."

"How come?"

"She offered and I jumped at it. One does get tired of slaving over a
hot stove."

"After three months?"

"Closer to eight years. 1 cooked for the family practically all the time
I was married to Alexander."

"You still think about him all the time, don't you?" Bittersohn seemed
to be having a little trouble fitting the key into the ignition.

"No, not really. One can't, you know. There's always too much happening.
Somebody else getting killed, for instance."

"Look, I'm sorry as hell about today."

"But why should you be?" said Sarah. "You couldn't know this was going
to happen. Anyway, according to the statistics, half the violent deaths
in Massachusetts occur right here in Boston, and I'm a Bostonian born
and bred, so what can I expect? Anyway, this one has nothing whatever to
do with me, thank goodness. Unless you think Brooks--"

He started the car a bit less smoothly than usual. "I told you my
reasons for wanting to see your cousin this evening. I've never lied to
you yet, have I? Maybe it would have been smarter of me to meet him
somewhere else, though, instead of dragging you into it."

"Why shouldn't you drag me into it? Can't I be treated like a human
being for once?"

"What do you mean? Haven't I been--?"

"Oh, it's not you. It's been everybody, all my life. To my parents I was
a child they weren't really very interested in,


26


The Palace Guard	27


something to be housed and fed and educated according to their ideas,
not mine. To Aunt Caroline I was a necessary nuisance. Alexander loved
me but he wouldn't have married me if he hadn't felt it his duty, and he
acted toward me"--she smiled wryly--"well, when a man's bought you your
first ice cream cone and your first swanboat ride I suppose he couldn't
help having a sort of daddy knows best attitude, could he? To my
relatives I'm just another Kelling, to my boarders I'm the landlady, to
you I've sometimes wondered if I was an object of pity. This afternoon
you treated me like--I suppose I could say a friend, someone you knew
well enough to ask a favor of without wondering whether I'm mature
enough to handle it. So please don't spoil things by apologizing."


He shrugged. "What can I say? 1 don't know where you got that object of
pity stuff. Nothing could ever have been farther from my mind. Now shall
we make polite remarks about the scenery or would you rather stop for a
drink somewhere'?"

"I'd love a drink. Why don't we park the car and stroll down to the
Hampshire House? If it's not too expensive," Sarah added from force of
habit.

"Oh, I guess we can swing a scotch or two. Heard from the newlyweds
lately?"

They chatted about Sarah's pontifical cousin Adolphus Kelling and his
unlikely but so far blissful marriage to a retired department store
saleslady who had been running a one-woman recycling program out of the
trash barrels on Boston Common. They left the car in the vast concrete
cavern under that same Common and walked down Beacon Street to the
rather luxurious restaurant where Bittersohn had bought Sarah lunch on a
day she would never forget. She wondered if he remembered, but wouldn't
have dreamed of asking after her unexpected burst of self-revelation.

It was late for the early diners and early for the late ones, so they
had the cocktail lounge more or less to themselves when they went in.
The waitress was content to let them dawdle over their drinks. Sarah was
enjoying herself until she happened to catch a glimpse of Bittersohn's
watch.

"I really ought to be getting back. Mrs. Sorpende would be dreadfully
hurt if I didn't show up on time."

"Okay, you be the landlady and I'll be the boarder." Bittersohn dealt
with the check and they walked up the hill to Tulip Street. They were in
the nick of time. Cousin Brooks

28	Charlotte MacLeod


and his lady friend entered the vestibule just as Sarah and her escort
were being formally admitted by Charles.


Cousin Brooks had clearly spared no effort to do Sarah proud in front of
the household he'd never met before. His sparse gray hair was slicked to
pussycat perfection. His aged gray and green tweed suit was pressed
until you could cut yourself on the creases. A tailfeather of the
crested grebe was stuck into the band of the straw boater he wore to
Harvard alumni gatherings.

Dolores Tawne looked exactly as Sarah had pictured her: middle-aged,
barrel-shaped, red-faced, red-haired, and belligerently good-humored,
pleased at her unexpected treat but ready to squawk if it didn't come up
to expectations. She had on a sensible beige tweed coat, a sensible
drip-dry beige shirtwaist dress, and sensible brown leather walking
shoes. Her gloves were beige nylon, her purse hand-tooled cowhide. A
good deal of hand-enameled copper jewelry clanked on wrists and bosom.
She was delighted to be there and said so even before Brooks could get
her introduced.

"And we're delighted to have you," Sarah replied as needs she must.
"Shall we go in and meet the others? Brooks?"

"What? Oh yes," he replied without taking his eyes from a spot above and
to the left of Sarah's head. The attraction was, of course, their
hostess of the evening, Mrs. Theonia Sorpende.

A while back, Sarah had given Mrs. Sorpende an armload of lingerie that
had been part of her mother-in-law's trouseau back when Georgette and
crepe de chine were all the rage and everything was trimmed with six
inches of expensive French lace. Out of the chemises, negligees, robes
de nuit, and even the step-ins, Mrs. Sorpende had since been creating
herself a wardrobe that would have made Mother Machree look like Theda
Bara. Tonight since they weren't supposed to be dressing she'd put on
what Sarah's grandmother would perhaps have called a tea gown.

Theonia Sorpende was built along the general lines of the Venus de Milo
except that she came equipped with soft white arms and exquisitely
tapered hands and was more abundantly endowed around the bustline. Her
age was a secret hidden behind a Gioconda smile. Her hair had once been
raven but was now developing deep auburn highlights where uncharitable
persons might assume silver threads would otherwise be starting

The Palace Guard	29


to show. What she knew about cosmetics was nobody's business. In
clinging mauve Georgette and deep flounces of ecru lace she bore a
subtle resemblance to Joe Witherspoon's Lucrece, in a fresher, warmer,
and even more opulently sexy way.


Luckily Dolores Tawne's skin must be as thick as her ankles. Quite
unaware that she'd just been jilted, she greeted the ageless beauty with
cheerful barks and failed to observe how long Mrs. Sorpende's
rose-tipped fingers remained clasped in those of Brooks Kelling. Sarah
noticed, though, and thought she'd better divert Mrs. Tawne's attention
just in case.

"Cousin Brooks tells me you're tremendously clever about taking care of
Madam Wilkins's paintings." That, oddly enough, struck a sore spot. "I'm
a painter myself," snapped Dolores. "Didn't Brooks tell you that?"

"Why, I do believe he--"

"I've done the portraits of many prominent people. All the presidents of
Amalgamated Enterprises from the founder right down to the present
chairman of the board. Six generations."

"My goodness! But surely you couldn't have known them all?"

"No, I'm not that old even if I do look it." Mrs. Tawne slapped a beefy
thigh at her own wit. "I work from photographs, of course."

"Oh, 1 see. It must be extremely difficult."

"Easier than live models. Photographs don't wiggle around." Mrs. Tawne
thought that was pretty funny, too. "I always work from photographs."

No doubt Mrs. Tawne had her failings like other mortals but it became
clear that excessive modesty was not among them. As they moved into the
library for the preprandial sherry that was an invariable part of
Sarah's household routine, Dolores held forth on the things she knew how
to do, the things she had in fact done, and the heights she might have
reached were it not for professional jealousy and backbiting.

During her recital boarders began drifting in: Mr. Eugene Porter-Smith
in a navy blue suit with pinstripes and a lemon yellow shirt and tie;
Jennifer LaValliere in nothing to speak of; Professor Ormsby in a new
green turtleneck jersey that looked much like his old green turtleneck
jersey; Mrs. Gates, the new inhabitant of the downstairs suite that was
once the drawing room. Mrs. Gates had on a beautifully styled sheer wool
dress

30	Charlotte MacLeod


of a delicate coral that brought out the pink in her cheeks and
contrasted charmingly with her silver-white hair.


As it happened, Mrs. Gates had once sat with Mrs. Tawne on a committee
for an art exhibition to benefit Children's Hospital. The two began
renewing old acquaintance. Sarah eased herself away from them, wondering
where Mr. Bittersohn had got to all of a sudden.

Mariposa, Sarah's confidante, general manager, and comrade, who also
posed as the upstairs maid, had the day off to spend with her
innumerable relatives. Charles, Mariposa's mentor, roommate, and various
other things, was passing around the sherry and hors d'oeuvres. As he
offered a silver tray to Sarah, she murmured, "Where did Mr. Bittersohn
go? He particularly asked me to invite Mr. Brooks and Mrs. Tawne."

"He is talking on the telephone to London, madam. Scotland Yard have
been attempting to reach him for the past several hours."

"Good heavens! I hope he thought to reverse the charges."

Charles gave her the merest flicker of a pitying smile and moved on with
his tray. Shortly afterward Mr. Bittersohn rejoined the company, looking
more like an advertisement out of Fortune magazine than someone who had
connections at Scotland Yard. Charles threw open the dining room doors
and the company flocked in. As was the custom on Sunday nights, supper
was set out in massive silver dishes on the buffet and the gentlemen
helped the ladies, all but ProfessorOrmsby, who was much too preoccupied
with helping himself.

Mrs. Sorpende had done them proud. Sarah hadn't the faintest idea what
she'd prepared, but it all looked delicious. Brooks was gallantly
shoveling food on Mrs. Sorpende's own plate. His eyes were level with
her magnificent lace-edged decolletage and he was obviously enjoying the
view. Fortunately Max Bittersohn had set himself to bowling over Mrs.
Tawne, so she was too beguiled to notice her escort's defection. Charles
was being attentive to Mrs. Gates, Mr. Porter-Smith to Miss LaValliere.
Sarah shrugged and helped herself.

Mrs. Sorpende was indeed a marvelous cook. They went through the buffet
like a horde of locusts, then Charles cleared away the plates and
brought in a many-layered torte flavored with chocolate, rum, and
goodness only knew what else. They had their coffee with the dessert. As
appetites grew sated,

The Palace Guard	31


conversation became more brisk and general. Mrs. Tawne started laying
down the law about what was wrong with modern art, which appeared to be
a great deal. Young Porter-Smith, a gentleman of unconfmed erudition and
waspish nature, took exception. Mr. Bittersohn egged them on. Cousin
Brooks ignored them and told Mrs. Sorpende all about the snowy egret.
She smiled her Mona Lisa smile and made appropriate responses in a voice
Sarah heard Brooks comparing favorably to that of the white winged dove,
or Zenaida asiatica.


Miss LaValliere, who was a well-brought-up child despite her clothes or
lack of them, listened politely to whichever of her elders happened to
be talking loudest at any given moment. Mrs. Gates sipped her tea since
she wasn't allowed coffee at night and poured oil on the troubled
waters. Professor Ormsby had another large helping of torte.

At last Mr. Bittersohn managed to work the conversation around to the
paintings at Madam Wilkins's palazzo. "Mrs. Tawne, what's your opinion
of that Romney hanging near the staircase in the Grand Salon?"

"Academic tripe," sneered Mr. Porter-Smith, who hadn't been asked.
"Terrible color, tasteless design, lifeless brushwork--"

"It was my opinion the gentleman requested," blazed Mrs. Tawne, "and for
your information"--she leaned heavily on every word--"I consider that
Romney one of the finest pieces in the entire collection. It represents
the art of portraiture raised to an ultimate peak of grace and
refinement. Romney's poetic imagery in representing the sitter as Venus
with roses and cupids--"

"Theatrical poppycock! The subject was fifty-seven years old when she
began posing."

"Fifty-six, and so what? Venus herself would have been a darn sight
older than that, wouldn't she?"

"Ah, but Venus was immortal," said Cousin Brooks with a languishing
glance at Mrs. Sorpende.

"Was immortal is a contradiction in terms." As a certified public
accountant, Mr. Porter-Smith did not like getting caught out in an
arithmetical error.

"My reason for asking the question, Mrs. Tawne," Bittersohn said loudly
enough to be heard above the dissension, "is that it's been suggested to
me by someone whose opinion I

32	Charlotte MacLeod


value highly that the Romney at the Wilkins may possibly be a copy. What
is your feeling about that?"


"I thought you were supposed to be the art expert," said Miss
LaValliere. who had expended a great deal of effort on Mr. Bittersohn,
got absolutely nowhere, and was inclined to nip at his heels as a
result.

"Oh, are you?" Mrs. Tawne elevated her sandy eyebrows into the
corrugations of her freckled forehead. "Then if an expert like you can't
tell, what difference does it make?"

Miss LaValliere giggled most unkindly. Mr. Porter-Smith decided to keep
mum and look superior. Sarah thought it was high time to get off Romney.

"Where is your studio, Mrs. Tawne?" she asked. "Do you work right in the
museum?"

"No, I've lived at the Fenway Studios for going on forty years now. Be
there until I die, 1 suppose, unless they tear it down."

"Do you know I'm a professional illustrator of sorts myself, but I've
never set foot inside a genuine fine artist's studio in my life," Sarah
gushed. "I'd adore to see yours sometime."

There wasn't much Mrs. Tawne could say to that but, "You'd be quite
welcome any time."

"Then could I possibly come tomorrow, or am 1 being too pushy? It's just
that I happen to have an errand over your way and it's always such a
project for me to get away from the house that I try to bunch things
together as much as I can. If you're not going to be tied up at the
museum, perhaps I could run in for a quick peek."

"When would you be corning?"

"I could manage any time to suit you between ten and four."

They settled on three o'clock for early tea. Mr. Bittersohn surprised
Sarah very much by giving her a surreptitious pat on her neat little
derriere behind their chairs before he asked, "Kelling, have you learned
anything more about the Witherspoon incident?"

"Only that they managed to get hold of Mr. Fitzroy to tell him and he
thinks it's very odd."

"Fitzroy is an old woman," snorted Dolores Tawne, dropping lumps of
sugar one after another into her third cup of coffee.

"Now, Dolores," said Brooks, "don't be unfair just because

The Palace Guard	33


you and he don't always see eye to eye. Mr. Fitzroy is an extremely able
administrator."


"Oh, is he?" She sipped her sirupy stimulant with sibylline
susurrations. "I could tell you a few things."

"Such as what, Mrs. Tawne?" Bittersohn asked.

"Just shop. It wouldn't interest an expert like you."

"Well." Cousin Brooks ruffled his feathers like a perky old Bewick's
wren. "I'll soon have a chance to pass on the inside information to you,
Bittersohn. Mr. Fitzroy has asked me to fill Joe's place until the
trustees can select a new guard."

Dolores turned a shade redder than she'd already been. "Is that so? He
might have had the common decency to consult with me first."

"But it's been you who've suggested ma as a substitute for your own
brother on any number of occasions," Brooks expostulated. "Otherwise Mr.
Fitzroy would never have thought of me, I'm sure."

"I'm not saying you won't do an adequate job. Brooks. It's just his
high-handed way of doing things that gets my goat."

"I hadn't realized you were on the board of trustees. Mrs. Tawne."
remarked Mrs. Gates.

"I'm not, exactly." Dolores admitted, "but I'm proud to say that for
over a quarter of a century 1 have enjoyed the complete confidence of
Mr. Palmerston."

"There was a Mr. Palmerston who used to come to the house sometimes when
Aunt Caroline and Leila Lackridge were involved in the Arts Festival,"
said Sarah. "Is this the same man, I wonder? C. Edwald Palmerston. I
never did know what the C was for."

"Cadwallader," said Mr. Porter-Smith, who always knew things like that.

"Exactly." Mrs. Tawne nodded as though she'd scored a point, although
Sarah couldn't imagine why. "Mr. Palmerston has been chairman of our
board of trustees for over thirty years. He relies on me to keep him
informed about the day-to-day affairs at the museum."

"Mr. Palmerston seems to be on a great many boards," Mrs. Gates
observed.

"He is. I've never known anyone with a deeper sense of civic
responsibility."

Interfering old coot was what Cousin Dolph called him, Sarah recalled.
At least that was the politest thing she could

34	Charlotte MacLeod


recall. To be fair, however, the same things had probably been said
about Dolph before the former Miss Mary Smith took him in hand.


"I wonder what Palmerston will have to say about the attempted robbery,"
said Bittersohn innocently.

Dolores Tawne pounced. "Robbery? What robbery? I didn't hear about any
robbery. Brooks, why didn't you tell me? What happened?"

"Nothing. Sarah here found Brown, the adipose sacristan of the chapel,
wedged under a pew. The silver had been taken from the altar and heaped
on the floor. Brown told a tale of being slugged by some would-be
thieves who, he claimed, must have shoved Witherspoon off the balcony to
keep him from identifying them. It's a lot of balderdash, of course."

"Well, of all the--I never heard--wait till I--"

Sarah quickly poured Mrs. Tawne another cup of coffee and watched with
anxiety while she gulped it down. The woman was an alarming color now.

"Mrs. Tawne, you mustn't let your work upset you so."

"Upset me? Why, that idiot!" The artist fought herself under control,
gradually fading to a less apoplectic shade of red. "Pulling a
ridiculous schoolboy trick like that while poor old Joe was lying dead
in the garden. Robbers my foot! Joe lost his balance and fell, that was
all. I'm not surprised. I've caught my own brother Jimmy more than once
hanging over that slippery balustrade to look at the clock, and bawled
him out for it good and proper I can tell you. Don't let me catch you
doing such a thing, Brooks."

"I'm no clock watcher," said Kelling stiffly, "and neither was
Witherspoon."

"I didn't say Joe was watching the clock," she huffed. "I said he was
looking at it. I only wish it had been that imbecile Brown."

Mrs. Sorpende, with her ineffable tact, channeled the talk into a more
refined vein. "You are both highly privileged to be entrusted with the
protection and preservation of priceless art treasures," she cooed.

"I feel the responsibility keenly," Brooks assured her.

Mrs. Sorpende arranged the fall of lace over a plump and comely wrist.
"One feels that Mr. Fitzroy must be a penetrating judge of character."

The Palace Guard	35


Cousin Brooks edged still closer to the billows of mauve Georgette.
Dolores Tawne finally realized what was happening.


"Well, I've got to be getting along," she snapped. "Early to bed for us
working gals. Thanks for the supper, Mrs. Kelling. You coming, Brooks?"

It was a struggle, but the Code of the Kellings prevailed. Sarah
rewarded Brooks for good behavior by expressing a cordial wish that he
wouldn't be such a stranger. Mrs. Sorpende added an intimation that she
was always at home in the evenings. Brooks gave his word of honor that
he would indeed not be such a stranger and nobody present doubted his
sincerity.

"It was so nice you could come, Mrs. Tawne," said Sarah. "Then I'll see
you tomorrow at three."

"What? Oh yes. Tomorrow at three."

Dolores and Brooks both looked rather downcast as they left, though no
doubt for different reasons.

Chapter 5


"Personally," said Sarah, "I found the salt of the earth a trifle on the
peppery side."


She was doing the dishes, having complimented Mrs. Sorpende fuisomely on
the truly delectable meal and shooed her off to be gracious to Professor
Ormsby in the library. Mariposa wasn't back from her relatives' yet.
Charles was down in the basement playing Bach on the stereo, for Charles
was a young man of highbrow tastes. Max Bittersohn was ostensibly in his
own basement quarters but had in fact lingered to dry the dishes for
Sarah.

"A highly combustible lady," he agreed. "I wonder why she went into fits
when I told her about Brown."

"Perhaps she felt any burglar should ask her permission before slugging
a guard, though 1 got the impression she didn't believe his yarn any
more than you did."

"No, she must know her Brown better than she does her Romneys. Unless
she's well aware the painting is a fake and won't admit it for fear of
undermining the museum's prestige. How come your family hasn't pointed
out that little discrepancy ages ago?"

"The Kellings and the Madam didn't get along." Sarah told him about the
fiasco at the opening. "So if anybody had said anything after that, it
would have been taken for another piece of cattiness. Anyway, none of us
ever went back. Except for Brooks I expect I'm the first Kelling to have
set foot in the place since that opening soiree. And Brooks wouldn't
know about the Romney because his mother had a fight with Aunt Emma
about Rudy Vallee back around 1928 and they never spoke after that, so
naturally he's never visited Aunt Emma. Anyway, she probably wouldn't
have asked him because Brooks is looked upon as a bit of a renegade."

"I wondered what a Kelling was doing giving bird calls at kids' birthday
parties." "Laying them in the aisles, I don't doubt. Brooks can be


36


The Palace Guard	37


great fun, especially with children. He's the original rolling stone,
though I expect he's fairly mossy as far as money goes. His father cut
him off without a penny when he refused to go into the family wool
business after college, but Brooks had a little trust fund from some
great-aunt or somewhere. Kellings are always inheriting odd bits from
here and there. Anyway, Brooks's father died of apoplexy the day
Roosevelt got nominated for a fourth term and his widow decided to
become a female tycoon. She ran the business into the ground in about
six months and skipped off to Zurich with whatever she could salvage
before the receivers moved in, so it was a stroke of luck for Brooks
that he'd been written off the books. Otherwise he'd have been stuck for
whatever he had, I suppose. As it is, Brooks has managed to live more or
less as he pleases. I've always been sorry not to see more of him, but
my own father held it against Brooks that he didn't step in and rescue
his father's firm and I think Dolph still does, though in fact Brooks
couldn't have done a thing. His mother must have been another Dolores
Tawne from what I've heard about her. Maybe that's why he keeps getting
himself involved with female bullies. Anyway, Brooks never liked Aunt
Caroline and I'm afraid he thought Alexander rather spineless, though he
used to show up once in a while collecting funds to build homes for
indigent bluebirds and so forth. I have a hunch Brooks didn't come to
see me after Alexander died because he was out of town at the time and
didn't see the papers, so he's been under the impression I was left a
rich widow. Now that he knows I'm flat broke, he'll no doubt be camping
on the doorstep offering to put on the screens and fix the dripping
faucets."


"So let him. Where's he living now?"

"I forgot to ask. Some rooming house, I expect. He moves a lot. His
landladies are always indigent widows like me and he gets to suspecting
they have designs on him, which I'm sure they do."

"I hope he doesn't move on till I get him to find out whether Joe
Witherspoon had his fly zipped when he feli."

"Why, Mr. Bittersohn, you do bring up the most thoughtprovoking subjects
of conversation."

"I thought you wanted to be one of the gang."

"I do, honestly, and I see exactly what you're getting at. So you intend
to pursue this affair at the Madam's even though

38	Charlotte MacLeod


you haven't been engaged or commissioned or whatever the term is?"


"Try hired. Sure, why not? The trustees can't put me on the case till
they know they've got troubles, can they? I'm like those lawyers who
chase ambulances. They never know if they're going to get a bloody nose
or a nice, juicy insurance settlement out of it, but they give it the
old school try just in case. Where do these cups go?"

"Leave them on the counter. We'll want them for breakfast. Oh, dear,
there's the doorbell. I'd better go."

But Charles was already leaping up the basement stairs, snapping on his
prefabricated tie and buttoning his coat en route. By the time he got to
the door he was Mr. Hudson personified. A moment later he was back in
the kitchen, stiff as a Celluloid collar. "A Mr. Fieringer to see Mr.
Bittersohn and--er--his beautiful lady friend."

"I expect he means me," said Sarah, blushing slightly. "Mr. Bittersohn
and I were at Mr. Fieringer's concert this afternoon. How did he know
where to find us, I wonder, if he couldn't even remember my name?"

"Asked somebody," said Bittersohn, "I told you Nick knows everybody."

"I wonder what he wants. Charles, are Mrs. Sorpende and the others still
in the library?"

"Yes, madam."

"Then you'd better show Mr. Fieringer up to the studio. Take him a
liqueur if he wants one and tell him we'll be right along."

Sarah had planned to use Aunt Caroline's former boudoir on the second
floor as a workroom. However, she'd soon found that she required a
private sitting room since Mrs. Gates was now sleeping in the drawing
room and the boarders were using the library as a common room, and she
couldn't very well hold tete-a-tetes in her own bedroom without giving
rise to comment.

Mary and Dolph had contributed two charming bergeres and a love seat out
of Great-uncle Frederick's overstuffed mansion in Chestnut Hill, where
they now lived. Anora Protheroe had given a Tiffany lamp and, rather
touchingly, Charlotte Hunnewell Lamson's charming conte crayon portrait
of Anora herself as a younger and far handsomer woman. A grateful client
had given Max Bittersohn one of Philip Hale's Beacon Hill tea parties
and he'd passed the painting on to Sarah, saying it was

The Palace Guard	39


more her type of thing than his, which was certainly true, so she
couldn't have refused if she'd cared to and needless to say she didn't.
Sarah's drawing table stood over under the window. Her supplies,
favorite books, and a few treasures were neatly housed in white-painted
cabinets and shelves Mariposa's cousin the carpenter had built and
Mariposa's cousin the painter had finished in white enamel. It was now
as dainty a sitting room as any lady could wish and the impresario
looked grossly out of place in it.


As the two entered he bounced to his feet. "I hope I'm not interrupting
something." He made it sound like a dirty joke.

"Not at all," said Sarah. "My butler gave me to understand that you
wished to see both Mr. Bittersohn and myself. Otherwise he would have
shown you to Mr. Bittersohn's own quarters. Downstairs," she added with
enough emphasis to make Bittersohn's lips twitch. "If you prefer to talk
privately with him, I'll excuse myself."

"Who would deprive himself of the company of so beautiful a lady? Eh,
Bittersohn?"

"What's on your mind, Nick?" Bittersohn replied testily. "I'm rather
tied up just now."

"Maxie, is this kind of you? I stop by to wish good health and long life
to my friend and his beautiful lady and I get the bum's rush."

"Sit down and shut up, Nick," sighed Bittersohn. "Mrs. Kelling is my
landlady and she'll charge me extra if I notice what she looks like.
Oddly enough, though, we were talking about you a while back. Weren't
we, Mrs. Kelling?"

Sarah couldn't recall that they had, but she nodded. "Yes, with Mrs.
Tawne."

"Mrs. Tawne? You know Dolores?" Fieringer was surprised, and not
pleasantly.

"She was here to supper. My cousin brought her."

"So? It's a small world. A wonderful woman, Dolores, the salt of the
earth. But thick in the ankles."

"How about the head?" asked Bittersohn.

The fat man blinked. "Not there, no. Dolores is a smart cookie. Very
capable woman."

"Why do you say that?"

"Why? How do I know why? The good Lord gave her brains maybe to make up
for that face. Is it permitted that I smoke, gracious landlady?"

40	Charlotte MacLeod


"The little china dish on the table beside you is an ashtray." Sarah
replied, wondering why the impresario was sweating so.


"What does Mrs. Tawne do around the Madam's?" Bittersohn persisted.

"She sticks her finger in the pies. She dusts the priceless you should
excuse the expression art objects. She makes little repairs when
everything falls apart in the dampness from that imbecile fountain. She
nags her poor halfwit brother into eternal vigilance over the moths in
the tapestries when he would rather go and be happy in his spiritual
home, Paddy O'Malley's Bar."

"I trust she won't try to make things difficult for Cousin Brooks," said
Sarah.

"Brooks'? Brooks Kelling? Could he be your cousin you speak of? Little
Kelling the framer?"

"Does Brooks do framing? 1 didn't know that."

"Sure. Tawne paints, Kelling frames. Two hearts that beat as one. Why
should Dolores give Kelling a hard time? He isn't around much anyway."

"He will be for a while. He's agreed to fill in for that guard who was
killed this afternoon falling from the third floor until the trustees
can hire a replacement. Mrs. Tawne acted rather miffed about it."

So, oddly enough, did Fieringer. "Dolores didn't tell me."

"She didn't know herself until Brooks happened to mention it while we
were at the table. She was furious because Mr. Fitzroy asked him without
consulting her first."

"She would be." Having taken only a couple of nervous puffs, Fieringer
stubbed out his cigarette with elaborate care. "Did she have anything to
say about Joe?"

"She thinks he fell over the balustrade while he was trying to see the
clock and Brown faked the robbery as a bid for attention," Bittersohn
answered for Sarah.

"And you, my friend?"

"Me?" Max Bittersohn's gray-blue eyes were wide with innocence. "You've
got it all figured out, Nick. You told us this afternoon what happened."

"Maxie, don't try to kid old Nick. I know your mind. Somebody dies,
Bittersohn says, Who done it?" Fieringer laughed but his eyes were
watchful slits in their nests of lard. "Is it not <-.o, gracious
landlady?"

"You've known him longer than 1 have," Sarah said in what

The Palace Guard	41


she hoped was a noncommittal tone. "Are you closely associated with the
Madam's also, Mr. Fieringer?"


"Call me Nick. Everybody calls me Nick. In a way, yes." The impresario
lit another cigarette and waved it around like a baton. "I organize all
the concerts at a stipend that pays for my bad habit of smoking but
lucky for me they give the matches free thrown in at time of purchase.
The concerts give me anyway opportunity to expose my fine young artists
before the discerning public. Tell me honest, Max, you think the cellist
has promise?"

"The kid's going to be okay, Nick. Give her another year." By which
time, his shrug implied, she might with luck have taken up the kazoo
instead of the cello. "How well do you know C. Edwald Palmerston?" "See,
1 told you." Nick Fieringer turned to Sarah, flinging his arms wide and
almost burning a hole with his cigarette in the new curtains she'd
scrimped for out of her housekeeping budget. "Already he's
investigating. Never mind is there anything to investigate, Bittersohn
investigates. Max, my friend, I confess all. It was Fitzroy pushed Joe
because Joe makes weewee in the fountain. How does Fitzy manage when on
Sunday he teaches Bible lessons to forty little angel boys? You tell me,
my friend. You're the detective."

"I asked you a question," said Bittersohn.

Nick threw up his pudgy hands. "All right, 1 did it! 1 killed Joe
because he had a tin ear. Or maybe Bernie did it because Joe drank up
his rubbing alcohol on him. Or maybe Dolores Tawne is right and Joe fell
and Max Bittersohn should investigate how beautiful is his landlady who
has known him so short a time and might like to know him better, eh? Lay
off, my friend. Here are only a few old guards and one fat impresario
trying to make a lousy living."

"Sure, Nick, sure. How about stepping down to Charles Street for a
drink?"

"I could have something sent up here," Sarah offered, but Fieringer
refused.

"Thank you no. I have to go tell my little cellist the great Max
Bittersohn says she's a genius she should maybe start looking for a rich
husband. I have to find Bernie and make him eat something so he won't
get DT's until after Wednesday's concert. And tomorrow at half-past
seven in the morning I audition a tuba player. My God, what a life!"

42	Charlotte MacLeod


He kissed Sarah's hand all the way up to the elbow, pounded Bittersohn
shatteringly between the shoulder blades, and waddled off.


"I wonder," mused Bittersohn, "why he never answered my question about
C. Edwald Palmerston?"

Chapter 6


Punctually at three o'clock Monday afternoon, Sarah Kelling tapped on
Dolores Tawne's door in that wonderful anachronism, the Fenway Studios.
Dolores greeted the guest effusively enough to make it clear she wasn't
really welcome and made a great fuss of getting her seated.


Sarah had found the outside of the building exciting architecturally and
well worth the efforts being made to preserve it for its original
purpose. Except for the little balcony and the flight of stairs that led
down to the floor, Dolores's studio was something of a letdown: merely a
large, squarish room unusual only in being about a story and a half high
with enormously long windows. A half-finished still life of vegetables
and a dead pheasant was set ostentatiously on a heavy easel. The place
reeked of turpentine.

Feeling a bit queasy from the smell, Sarah remarked that the painting
looked as if it would be quite lovely when it was finished. Mrs. Tawne
agreed, pointing out the more potentially delightful spots with a
mahlstick. Sarah asked if Mrs. Tawne had other works in progress at the
moment and Mrs. Tawne said no she hadn't. Sarah said she herself worked
mostly in pen and ink and it must be fun to handle color. Mrs. Tawne
gave Sarah a lecture on color theory that Sarah had learned when she was
twelve. Then she presented Sarah with a scrapbook to look at while she
made the tea.

None of the clippings was very recent. Most of them dealt at what Sarah
found to be unnecessary length with the centennial celebration of a
corporation for which Dolores Agnew Tawne, prominent Boston artist, had
painted a series of presidential portraits. There was a blurry
photograph of Dolores having her hand shaken by a prognathous executive
in front of a regrettably exact likeness of himself. There were
photographs of the other portraits. To Sarah, brought up among works of
art, they showed technical competence and no spark of genuine
creativity.


43


44	Charlotte MacLeod


She was conscientiously trying to interest herself in the history of
Amalgamated Enterprises when her hostess came back from the small inner
area that must serve as bedroom and kitchen staggering under the weight
of an overloaded tea tray.


"I can still enjoy my food, thank the Lord," Mrs. Tawne remarked as she
set down the tray. "Try a sandwich. That's egg salad and here's deviled
ham and"--her recital of the menu was interrupted by a loud knocking on
the door--"and there's my star boarder, no doubt. I swear she could
smell food all the way from Kenmore Square. Excuse me."

She bounded up the stairs and flung open the door. "Why, Mr.
Palmerston!"

C. Edwald Palmerston, for it was none other as Sarah noted to her
consternation, removed the pearl-gray fedora that had been set with
geometric precision across his balding head. "Good afternoon, Mrs.
Tawne. I happened to be in the neighborhood on a matter of business and
took the liberty of dropping by. There are some important matters on
which I should greatly appreciate the benefit of your opinion. Might you
have a moment to spare for me?"

Sarah ate a sardine sandwich and mentally cursed her luck. Mrs. Tawne
came as close to fluttering as her utilitarian contours permitted. "Mr.
Palmerston, you know I always have time for you. Let me take your hat.
Come right down and join us for tea. 1 believe you're acquainted with
Mrs. Kelling?"

"Kelling? Why, I--"

Sarah fought down an impulse to scream and said politely, "How do you
do, Mr. Palmerston? We met at Mrs. Lackridge's and you also came to our
house when you served on the festival committee with her and my
mother-in-law."

"Ah, yes. Yes indeed. This is an unexpected pleasure,
Mrs.--ah--Kelling."

Judging from C. Edwald's expression it was a pleasure he could have done
nicely without. The late Caroline Kelling, though both deaf and blind,
had been far from dumb in any sense of the word. She had called Mr.
Palmerston a harebrained old fool in open meeting and proven her case.
Sarah had been present on that occasion and Mr. Palmerston must have
remembered. The silence became strained.

Dolores, however, was not the girl to let a party die. She bustled back
and forth plying her guests with food and drink,

The Palace Guard	45


twitching the gauze curtains over the huge studio windows to shield Mr.
Palmerston's august eyeballs from the outside glare, chattering without
a break. Just as she'd got everything and everybody arranged to her own
satisfaction and plumped herself down with cup and plate, another
visitor knocked.


"There she is now," she sighed. "What a bother. Excuse me, folks, I'll
try to put her off."

Mrs. Tawne did not succeed. When she came back downstairs she was
closely followed by the much bedizened wreck of a woman who must once
have been quite breathtaking.

"This is my neighbor, Countess Ouspenska, Mrs. Kelling. Have you met the
countess, Mr. Palmerston?"

The countess gave Sarah an absentminded glance, then turned the full
glare of her eye shadow on Palmerston. "You do not see me."

"I--er--see you quite plainly. That is, I--er--in fact, it has been some
time since--er--would you care to sit down?"

Looking even more foolish than he had on that historic day when Aunt
Caroline put him through the wringer. Mr. Palmerston straightened his
lanky frame and went through the motions of offering Countess Ouspenska
his chair.

She spurned him and took Dolores's instead. "I sit here. Who is this
pretty little girl you make a fool of yourself over now?"

After a dazed moment, Sarah realized the countess was talking about her.
"I came by myself," she said firmly.

"This is Mrs. Alexander Kelling. Brooks Kelling's cousin," snapped their
hostess.

"Kelling? But that is the name of the woman who murders everybody and
lives with the beautiful Max! Can it be? Ah, yes, I see it can be! There
is excitement in your face. Adventure! Passion!" She bit hugely into an
egg salad sandwich. "Naturally a grande amoureu.se like you would not
bother with an old poop like this Palmerston. Tell me confidentially as
one adventuress to another, how do you get away with it?"

Sarah didn't know whether to laugh or flee. "First, 1 wish you'd
understand that I've never murdered anybody. Second, if you're referring
to Mr. Max Bittersohn, I don't live with him. He lives with me. That
is"--she felt her face getting hot--"I have a boarding house and he
happens to be one of my boarders. There's very little adventure involved
in being a landlady, I assure you."

46	Charlotte MacLeod


"Ho! Never mind, little one. If 1 could get the magnificent Max to live
with me 1 would keep my secrets also. It is so beautiful and so sad."


"Why is it sad?"

"Because he chooses you and not me. All joy is sadness. That is life. I
will have more of your good tea, Dolores, and many of these amusing
little cakes. Then I will take this so demure little seductress to my
studio and we will talk of love and Max Bittersohn."

"That's a splendid idea," said Mrs. Tawne briskly. "Will you have
another cup of tea before you go, Mrs. Kelling?"

Sarah thought she might as well because she couldn't resist the
countess's invitation and it didn't look as though they'd be leaving for
some time yet from the way the woman was tucking into the refreshments.
At last, however, the point of satiety appeared to have been reached.
Countess Ouspenska wiped her lips on the fancy paper napkin Dolores had
supplied, carefully wrapped the few remaining sandwiches in it, and
announced, "We go."

Sarah picked up her handbag, thanked Mrs. Tawne for a delightful
visit--it had been an unusual one, at any rate--and followed her exotic
new acquaintance down the hall. Countess Ouspenska's studio was similar
in architecture to the one they'd just left but totally different
otherwise. Dolores Tawne's had been antiseptically neat, this was an
exuberant welter. There was a great deal of furniture, none of it any
good, all of it in desperate need of dusting. There were tapestry
runners and vases of paper flowers. There must have been at least a
dozen icons sitting about and to Sarah's astonishment these looked like
the real thing.

The countess set the packet of sandwiches with care on the shelf of a
broken-down Chinese etagere. "Dolores is dull but kind of heart," she
observed. "This week for me is rent so not food."

Sarah blinked. She'd thought she herself was hard up, but so far she'd
never had to miss a meal. "Surely those icons," she stammered, "they
look as though they're valuable. Couldn't you--?"

"Sell? Not. Never. Without my icons I starve in the gutter," said the
countess cheerfully. "Look what 1 do."

She led her guest through the maze of furniture to a table on which sat
one of the icons. Beside it, in a litter of twisted

The Palace Guard	47


paint tubes, whiskered brushes, and wads of filthy cotton, lay an
absolute duplicate, complete except for the gold leaf on the Infant's
halo.


"I finish tomorrow. Is most careful work to make identical in every
detail. I sell, then 1 eat. If 1 could paint faster I could eat more. Is
always market for beautiful fake icons and nobody can fake as good as
me. 1 am unique."

"I'm sure you are," said Sarah, and hoped it was true. "Where do you
sell them?"

"Ah, that is my secret. Never with ten thousand tortures will I tell. Is
no good for business, see?"

"Of course, I should have known better than to ask. I beg your pardon."

"I am wonderful businesswoman," said the countess with a complacency
that her circumstances would not appear to justify. "Is necessary now
that I am old and ugly."

"Oh, you're not!"

"Pretty words from a pretty woman is nice but I say the hell with
women's lib give me every time a man to pay the bills. For you the
wonderful Max coughs up, eh?"

"He pays his rent like the rest of my boarders," Sarah replied primly.
"I was left badly off when my husband was killed. It was a case of
either losing my house or finding a way to make it produce some income,
so I started to rent rooms. As to the murders, Mr. Bittersohn was very
helpful with the investigation."

"And now he investigates you, eh? Ah, if I were twenty years younger
maybe I could have been investigated by the gorgeous Max instead of that
old turkey who sits and gobbles with Dolores."

"But surely you don't mean--he couldn't possibly--"

"Mr. Watch-and-Ward Palmerston? Not any more he couldn't I think but he
would no doubt still wish to. I knew him long ago, when he was somewhat
less unattractive than now. He was, I will say for him, a man who always
got his money's worth. So I have heard from a number of sources. I meet
ladies in all walks of life, some of whom are in fact not what you would
call ladies and do more walking than others, if you follow me as he does
not nowadays. He is a philosopher. He took them where he found them and
he paid them what they asked. About the price he never quibbled, only
about what a big financier calls the return on the dollar."

48	Charlotte MacLeod


"If my Great-aunt Matilda had ever known that! She was always holding
him up to my Cousin Dolph as a model."


"Palmerston was never that good," said Countess Ouspenska. "Now, if it
would be the handsome and agile Max, tell me--"

Anticipating what the countess was hoping to hear, Sarah jumped up. "I'm
afraid all I can tell you is that if I'm not home in time to prepare Mr.
Bittersohn's dinner he might employ his agility in moving elsewhere.
Thank you so much for showing me your studio."

"Come again after I sell my icon and I give you tea Russian style. Bring
your marvelous Max." The countess kissed her repeatedly on both cheeks.

"I'm sure he'd love to come." Sarah decided it was no use trying again
to explain that the marvelous Max wasn't hers to bring. She had periodic
fits of the giggles all the way back to Tulip Street. En route she
stopped at one of the more chichi grocery stores and ordered a basket of
exotic delicacies to be sent to the Countess Ouspenska at the Fenway
Studios, charging it to Mrs. Adolphus Kelling because she couldn't
possibly pay for the basket herself and she knew Cousin Mary would
understand.

"We'll send it around first thing in the morning, Mrs. Kelling," the
clerk promised. "Did you wish to enclose a card?"

"Why not?" Sarah picked up the pen he offered, thought a moment, then
printed, "In fond remembrance," on the little white square and sealed it
inside the envelope. At least the countess would eat this week.

Chapter 7


The magnificent Max did not appear for the dinner Sarah cooked. He
finally showed up about half-past nine while she was in the library
exchanging recipes with Mrs. Sorpende. She could see that he looked
frazzled around the edges.


"Mr. Bittersohn, did you have any dinner? Shall 1 fix you a snack?"

"That would be great. I'm starved." He followed Sarah out to the
kitchen. Mrs. Sorpende, being an oracle by trade and perhaps divining
that her persona might be non grata there, did not.

Mariposa and Charles were in their basement lair broadening their
cultural horizons by listening to some old Cab Galloway records. Sarah
shut the basement door on Minnie the Moocher and sat Bittersohn down at
the table with a cup of soup for starters. "Now tell me what's
happened."

"Brown, that guard who staged the robbery in the chapel --"

"I know. Drink your soup while it's hot."

"Brooks found him dead in the locker room this afternoon full of paint
remover. He had a note in his pocket saying. 'I'm sorry about Joe.'"

"Oh no!"

"Lieutenant Davies can't decide whether Brown killed Witherspoon and
then committed suicide in a fit of remorse or got thirsty while he was
trying to write somebody a sympathy letter."

"What do you think?"

"I think the note was a plant. I think Brown kept a bottle in his locker
and somebody loaded it. After he passed out they took away the liquor
bottle and substituted one half full of paint remover with the label
nice and prominent and his fingerprints artistically arranged on the
glass. Very efficient job. Also a very painful way to go, one might
think. It must have taken


49



50	Charlotte MacLeod


him a while to die, unless the paint remover was gingered up with a
pinch of strychnine or something."


"Are they going to do an autopsy?"

"Have to, I suppose. How did your visit with Mrs. Tawne go?"

Sarah could readily understand why he'd want to change the subject. "It
was interesting, in a way," she told him. "C. Edwald Palmerston dropped
in unexpectedly. Mrs. Tawne seemed ever so glad to see him. And I met an
admirer of yours."

"Do tell. Which one?"

"Countess Ouspenska, no less."

"Oupenska?" He took another spoonful of soup. "What does she look like?"

"In a word, hell. Slavic and suffering. I'd say, though, that she must
have been absolutely stunning when she was a good deal younger and in
better repair."

"Oh, I know who you mean now. Good old Lydia. She used to be Nick
Fieringer's girl."

"She was C. Edwald Palmerston's girl, too."

"Small world. Does Mrs. Tawne know that?"

"I couldn't say. The countess greeted him like an old acquaintance
against whom she held a grudge, but she didn't unburden her soul, as it
were, until she and I had gone to her studio. And then she talked mostly
about you."

"What's to unburden about me? My God, Mrs. Kelling. you don't imagine
Lydia and I were ever--"

"No, I don't. That was the burden of her plaint. That you hadn't, I
mean. She"--Sarah blushed--"appeared to be under some misapprehension as
to--"

Luckily Charles poked his head into the kitchen just then. "Oh, Mr.
Bittersohn. I heard movement overhead and thought that might be you
fixing yourself a snack since you weren't in to dinner. I was about to
offer my assistance but I see you are capably provided for. May I fetch
you a glass of sherry, perhaps? Or a cold beer? Mariposa and I keep a
six-pack or two on hand for our personal use."

"No, thanks, Charlie. I'm sort of off liquor tonight. Just tell me if
you happen to know a former actress named Lydia Ouspenska."

Charles carefully shut the basement door, cocked an ear to

The Palace Guard	51


make sure Mariposa wasn't on her way upstairs, then murmured, "I have
met Countess Ouspenska, sir."


"She's madly in love with Mr. Bittersohn," Sarah couldn't resist putting
in.

"I have always found her to be a person of unexceptionable taste and
discrimination, madam. She comes from a noble Russian family."

"She's a Polish sign painter's daughter from Chelsea," said Bittersohn.
"The way I heard it, the Countess Ouspenska act came from a play she was
in, back during World War II when all the real actresses were doing
their bit for the lads at the front. Lydia never got far in the theater.
Her real forte was seeing what the boys in the back room would have.
How's she doing these days, Mrs. Kelling?"

"Not too well. All her former sources of income have walked out on her.
Charles, how could you be such a cad?"

"Madam, I must beg leave to protest. My connection with Countess
Ouspenska has been confined to a short run at the Charles Street
Playhouse, where we both had walk-ons, and since then to an occasional
exchange of pleasantries over a libation or two at Irving's."

"I didn't know you hung out in Coolidge Corner, Charlie," said
Bittersohn.

"Officially, sir, I do not. However, all Mariposa's relatives live over
the other way in Jamaica Plain and environs, and there are times when we
theatricals require our freedom of expression. If I can render no
further service here, may I return to my quarters?"

"You have our gracious permission to retire. On your way downstairs, you
might try to recall whether Lydia's ever said anything to you about
Madam Wilkins's palazzo."

"I shall endeavor to do so. Hasta la vista, senor, setwra."

"Mariposa's teaching him Spanish though I don't know why she bothers. It
looks to me as if they conduct most of their conversations in sign
language." Sarah laughed and blushed. "I must have spent a little too
long with Countess Ouspenska. Getting back to her finances, Mr.
Bittersohn. did you know she supports herself these days by
manufacturing antique icons?"

"Are they any good?"

"As good as they can be, I should say. She showed me one

52	Charlotte MacLeod


that was almost finished and I'll bet even you would be hard put to tell
the difference between the copy and the original."


"Where did she get the icon she copies from?"

"She owns about a dozen different ones. I couldn't tell whether they
were all genuine, of course, but they looked awfully good to me. She
said, she'd never part with them because they're what keep her from
starving in the gutter. But what struck me most was that if she's such a
clever forger--"

"Yes, one might wonder, mightn't one? You're thinking about that Romney,
I expect, and maybe a few dozen other things. That wouldn't explain
Brown and Witherspoon, though, would it? 1 can't see Lydia ever bumping
off a man."

"She'd kill them with kindness, 1 suppose."

"Why. Mrs. Kelling! For a nice little girl from Beacon Hill you're
getting awfully free in your talk all of a sudden."

"It must be the dissolute company I'm keeping. Would you like me to
visit Countess Ouspenska again and pump her about the Madam's?"

"No, I want you to stay away from her and also from the palazzo. I'm
putting another of my secret agents on the case tomorrow."

"How impressive. Who is he?"

"He prefers to be called Bill Jones. Bill knows every hot painting
that's been peddled in and out of Boston for the past thirty years."

"Does he steal them himself, or what?"

"No, he just likes to keep track. One might call it a hobby. Bill's a
highly successful commercial artist, as a matter of fact. You'd probably
enjoy meeting him." "Then why don't you bring him to dinner?"

"Maybe I will. What's up now. Charlie? 1 thought you'd retired to your
quarters."

The butler, who had manifested himself in the doorway, stiffened to
attention. "Mr. Brooks Kelling has arrived. He wished to be announced."

"Did Mrs. Tawne come with him?" Sarah asked with a sinking feeling.

"No, madam. He is in the library with Mrs. Sorpende."

"Why, the little dickens! Give him another few minutes' billing and
cooing time while Mr. Bittersohn finishes his supThe Pa/ace Guard	53


per, then show him up to the studio. Was that what you wanted me to say,
Mr. Bittersohn?"


"Precisely that." He gobbled the last few bites of food. "Shall we
dance?"

As they went up the back stairs it occurred to Sarah to wonder if her
other boarders were aware how much time Mr. Bittersohn had been spending
in that upstairs sitting room lately, and how the soi-disant Countess
Ouspenska had got the notion she and he were carrying on what might
delicately be described as a close relationship.

Jennifer LaValliere and Eugene Porter-Smith went about together a good
deal. Had one of them happened to drop a remark down at one of the
coffee houses they frequented that somehow got passed on to her? Or was
Sarah getting herself gossiped about more than she realized by appearing
in public so often these days with Mr. Bittersohn?

But how could anybody who knew Sarah Kelling also know Lydia Ouspenska?
Mr. Palmerston did. for one, but he was barely on speaking terms with
Sarah and whatever liaison he'd had with the countess had obviously been
over long ago. Dolores Tawne would have had to jump to some awfully
swift conclusions since she'd met the pair for the first time Sunday
night in what could hardly be called a compromising situation.

Nick Fieringer did. And Nick had been sitting here with them both last
night making suggestive remarks about beautiful ladies, and there was no
denying the fact that it was a cozy, intimate sort of place and that
Sarah's own bedroom happened to be on the other side of a connecting
door and perhaps that door hadn't been quite shut. And Nick was supposed
to be an old boyfriend of Lydia's. But Nick was old in years, too, and
he'd said he had to audition a tuba player at the crack of dawn. Surely
he wouldn't have gone dashing over to Ipswich Street last night to
inform the countess that Max Bittersohn, with whom she was evidently
acquainted mainly by wishful thinking, might or might not be having a
little something on with the widow Kelling whom Lydia had met only that
same afternoon.

Of course Nick might have seen Lydia sometime today. And today Brown the
guard had died from drinking paint remover, as surely no sane man would
do of his own free will. And Lydia Ouspenska was an artist. And paint
remover was the sort of thing an artist might think of. And she was also
a

54	Charlotte MacLeod


superb copyist. And what had Brooks found out to bring him tearing over
here again tonight?


Maybe it wasn't anything so very urgent at that. Brooks was in no hurry
to leave Mrs. Sorpende. Sarah and the magnificent Max had plenty of time
to settle themselves in the two bergeres and sit until the silence
became awkward.

At last Bittersohn remarked, "I like this room."

"It's rather small."

"Maybe that's why it's so pleasant."

He did have a sensitive, curving mouth for a man whose other features
had at first looked so rugged in contrast to her late husband's. She
tried to picture Alexander's face and found to her secret horror that
she could remember him best as a pair of long legs in impeccable gray
flannel, taking a little girl to feed the ducks in the Public Gardens.
Yet she'd loved Alexander with all her heart. Well, of course not
entirely all. She'd loved her parents, she supposed, and she loved Aunt
Emma and dear old Anora Protheroe and Uncle Jem and maybe his faithful
henchman Egbert a little and she was getting extremely fond of Cousin
Mary and even, after all these years, of Cousin Dolph. There had to be
many different kinds of loving, and hearts couldn't very well be
amenable to quantitative analysis. And what on earth was keeping
Brooks'?

He came curvetting in at last, sleek and lithe as an elderly chipmunk.
"Good evening, children."

"Hi, Kelling," said Bittersohn. "Found any more bodies?"

"Not yet, but point me in the right direction and I'll be glad to go
hunting. I came for my instructions."

"Nice of you. I don't suppose there's any chance of finding the bottle
Brown really drank out of?"

"Naturally I conducted a thorough search of the premises and it's
nowhere to be found. That in itself is a telling point, don't you think?
I daresay it was tossed out somewhere in the Fens. Another broken
whiskey bottle over there would hardly be noticed. I've written to the
Christian Science Monitor about littering more than once."

"And scholarly epistles they were, no doubt. Why else do you think Brown
was murdered?"

"I knew the man, if one could dignify him by that name. Brown was a
slug. Slugs don't go around committing painful and melodramatic suicides
but they can easily be tricked into swallowing poisoned bait."

The Palace Guard	55


"Any idea who laid the bait?"


"If I had, I'd be with Lieutenant Davies instead of you. Ratting, I
believe it's called."

"On one of your colleagues at the museum?"

"I think a guard would be a viable hypothesis. The murderer must have
known, to begin with, that Brown kept a fifth in his locker. He'd have
to be able to gain access to the locker room without making himself
conspicuous. That in itself mightn't be difficult since our only
bathroom is next to the locker room and he could always pretend to be
visiting the facilities. However" --Cousin Brooks paused
impressively--"he'd also have to know which bottle belonged to Brown.

"Good point. He'd also have to know when it was safe to sneak back and
switch the whiskey for the paint remover, and plant the note in Brown's
pocket. Any idea where the paint remover came from, by the way?"

"Yes, it was mine. I repair some of the frames, as Dolores may have
mentioned, and do other small jobs of that sort. 1 prefer the liquid
paint remover to the viscous kind because the work is often delicate and
I find it easier to control. The bottle was simply taken off my
workbench, which is also in the basement, of course."

"Is that supposed to mean somebody's trying to frame the framer?"

"Oh, I hardly think so. That would be a bit too obvious, wouldn't it? 1
should be happy to know, though, that somebody isn't trying to kill me.
That's why I felt I'd be well advised to have this little chat with you,
sir. The police are showing an inclination to write Brown's death off as
suicide. 1 don't want to be written off along with Brown."

"Have you any special reason to think you might be?"

"Only that ignorance is always dangerous. Since I don't know why
Witherspoon and Brown were killed, f have no idea whether or not my
having been in the palazzo on both occasions may constitute a threat to
the murderer."

"Cousin Brooks," cried Sarah, "you must give up that job this instant."

"What for?"

"Because I'd feel perfectly awful if anything happened to you."

"Out of respect for your sensibilities, then. I shall try to keep from
being bumped off. Or is it rubbed out? As to the

56	Charlotte MacLeod


job, 1 don't think it's quite the done thing to walk out at a time like
this. I'm sure Bittersohn understands my feeling. Speaking of walking,
do you think it would be in order for me to ask Mrs. Sorpende out for a
little stroll some evening soon? I thought she might care to observe the
nighthawks."


"All right, Brooks, be a hero if you must. As to the nighthawks. Mrs.
Sorpende loves to walk and I'm sure she'd be enraptured."

"And as to the museum," said Bittersohn, "just hang in there till we see
what develops. I'm sending somebody over to have a look tomorrow. Keep
me posted, and don't leave anything eatable or drinkable in your
locker."

Chapter 8


The next night Mr. Bittersohn brought a guest back to dinner. The guest
was not dressed tor the occasion. In fact he was hardly dressed at all.
In addition to the filthy poplin raincoat he shed on arriving, he wore a
nondescript sports shirt, shrunken chino pants, and a pair of run-down
loafers. Tie, socks, and undershirt were blatantly absent. His face, on
the other hand, was modestly veiled in a three days' growth of
blue-black whiskers. He was short, thin, and swarthy. His manners were
polished as a duke's, and he talked volubly throughout the meal in a
confidential murmur, leaning far over the table and waving a fork or a
bit of bread in an exquisite little hand. Sarah's boarders, especially
Jennifer LaValliere, found him entrancing.


So this was Bill Jones, the hot painting expert. Sarah wondered how soon
Bill would approach her with a nice bargain in Vuillards. After the
ritual half hour for coffee in the library she went up to her sitting
room, rather expecting that Bittersohn and his secret agent would soon
follow. They did not. She'd just about decided that they'd gone
downstairs to Bittersohn's room or that Jones had eloped with Miss
LaValiere when they appeared, Bittersohn beckoning mysteriously as he
eased the door open, Jones sliding along the walls and slipping
noiselessly into the room. Sarah waited breathless for one of them to
produce the Maltese Falcon.

Bill Jones, however, merely selected the seat farthest from the light,
melted into the upholstery, and murmured almost inaudibly, "You called
it, pal."

Bittersohn nodded. "What's your count?"

"I make it fifty-seven. Most professional job I ever saw."

"I don't suppose you'd care to tell me who's involved."

Bill shook his head. "Nobody I know."

"Bill, old buddy, this is Max you're talking to, remember?"

"Pal, I'm leveling. I don't know." "But, Jesus, Bill, don't you even
have a clue?"

Jones shook his curly black locks. "I even"--he waggled his


57



58	Charlotte MacLeod


dainty hands and looked from under his lids as if he were about to utter
an impropriety--"like, you know, asked around. All I can tell you is
it's a beautiful job. Clams by the bucket, man!"


Sarah could bear it no longer. "Would you two please tell me precisely
what you're talking about?"

Both men looked at her as if she were somewhat feebleminded. "Bill was
explaining," said Bittersohn, "that he has personal knowledge of
fifty-seven originals from the Madam's that have been sold out of
Boston, that he hasn't the faintest idea who stole them, and that the
proceeds from the sales must have run into many millions of dollars
unless the thief is an idiot, which doesn't seem possible. Where did the
paintings go, Bill?"

"Around. You know."

"Any to New York?"

"No, too close. The guy's an artist," said Jones with due respect.

"Speaking of artists, who does the copies?"

Bill shrugged. "I don't know, but it's all one guy."

"You sure of that?"

Bill shrugged again.

"Sorry," Bittersohn apologized. "I didn't mean to offend you."

"But how could one person do so many?" cried Sarah. "I met someone who
does that sort of thing and she says it takes ages because one has to be
so careful about the details."

"Practically a life work," Bill agreed, "but it's been going on for a
long time. That little Giotto hanging to the right of the fireplace in
the music room was fenced on October first, 1959, through a sporting
goods dealer named Mickey Brannigan down in the old neighborhood."

"Sporting goods dealer means a person who buys and sells stolen goods,
Mrs. Kelling," Bittersohn explained before she could embarrass him by
asking. "Mickey's dead now, 1 suppose."

"Su-ure. Long ago."

Otherwise Bill wouldn't have ratted, Sarah thought. She wondered what
Brannigan had died of but thought she'd better not ask.

"How many of the Madam's paintings did Brannigan fence?" said
Bittersohn.

"Just the one. Mickey wasn't an art man. He handled like

The Palace Guard	59


general merchandise. I can't find anybody who's handled more than one or
two."

"Then who makes the contacts? That's a hell of a job. Bill."

"You're telling me, Maxie? I wish I knew. I'd like to shake his hand. Or
hers."

"You sure it's not theirs?"

"Look, pal, this little caper's been going on for a lot of years and
there hasn't been a leak yet. Like they say, two people can keep a
secret if one of them's dead, right?"

Bittersohn nodded. "Fifty-seven fakes, eh?"

"I'd say a lot more than fifty-seven, but that's your department. The
Madam probably got stuck with a bunch of old ones in the first place.
Fifty-seven originals fenced within the past thirty years and
fifty-seven copies all from the same hand hanging in the palazzo now.
That's all I can tell you for sure, Max. Well, I've got to blow. Thanks
for dinner, Mrs. Kelling. Nice to have met you." He managed to convey a
subtle impression that the meeting had been a great deal more than nice.
"If I find out any more, Maxie, I'll be in touch."

"Do that. See you, Bill."

"Su-ure." Their guest slunk off down the back stairs, keeping in the
shadows.

"I suppose he's on his way to some den of vice," Sarah observed rather
wistfully.

Bittersohn shook his head. "As a matter of fact, he's going to a poetry
reading at Wheelock College. How would you like to invite C. Edwald
Palmerston to tea and crumpets or something?"

"You can't be serious! You have no idea what he's like."

"That's why I think it might be nice to get acquainted."

"Nice is not the operative word. If you'd said helpful or productive--"

"Okay, helpful or productive, so how about it?"

"If I must, but I'm not having him here without someone to back me up.
Would Wednesday be good for you? That's Mrs. Sorpende's afternoon off."

Bittersohn raised an eyebrow. "Mrs. Sorpende's getting awfully
indispensable around here all of a sudden. You wouldn't have been
cutting her rent by any chance?"

"How clever of you! But she's such a darling and she's led such a rotten
life and she makes so little at that tea shop and

60	Charlotte MacLeod


she does love it here. And if I let her go. Professor Ormsby would
probably leave, too."


"Ormsby will be leaving in any case. He's a visiting professor, his year
at MIT will be up in May, and he's got a wife and five kids in
Michigan."

"Good heavens! Should 1 drop a hint to Mrs. Sorpende, do you think."

"If she doesn't already know, she'd better get out of the tea leaf
business. Don't worry, Mrs. Sorpende's been taking care of herself a lot
longer than you have. He hasn't been having an affair with her or
anything, has he?"

"Not around here he hasn't. As far as I know he just sits and stares."

"Can't hang a man for that, can you? So you'll fix it up with Palmerston
for Wednesday afternoon, right?"

"Will you promise faithfully to be here if he comes?"

"That's the object of the exercise. Not to put too fine a point on it, I
want to shock him into hiring me to find out who's been pinching all the
Madam's paintings. Then I'll also ha a good excuse to keep an eye on
your cousin Brooks."

"Oh, then of course I'll call him this minute."

Sarah had at last consented to Bittersohn's repeated urgings that she
have an extension phone in her own room. She called from there and
received such a fulsome response that she began to wonder if Lydia
Ouspenska had, after all, known whereof she spoke regarding Palmerston
and women. Bittersohn then went off on one of his mysterious bits of
business and Sarah went downstairs to see if Mrs. Sorpende was still in
the library and amenable to helping her entertain Brooks's new boss.

"I shall be delighted to do anything I can to further Mr. Brooks
Killing's career," the lady replied graciously. "He is a most
knowledgeable man and a delightful conversationalist. His observations
on the water ouzel and the ruby-crowned kinglet were highly educational,
didn't you think? Perhaps you might allow me to make the sandwiches for
tea? I do have professional experience in that line, you know, and I did
so enjoy my little adventure in the kitchen on Sunday."

"We all enjoyed the results, and you certainly may. You'd better make
plenty, though. Mr. Palmerston eats like a pig. And," Sarah added
reflectively, "perhaps it might be a good idea to add a little ground
glass to the fillings."

Chapter 9


Under different circumstances Sarah would have gone to considerable
lengths to avoid having tea with C. Edwald Palmerston. Even as it was,
she felt the need of some fresh air to brace herself for the ordeal.
Around four o'clock, while Mrs. Sorpende was puttering happily around
the kitchen and Mariposa was downstairs donning her jazzy orange uniform
with new yellow and orange checked ribbons on the cap, Sarah put on her
coat and strolled down to Charles Street.


Charles Street, the thoroughfare that runs through the bottom of Beacon
Hill on the river side before you get to Storrow Drive and the
Esplanade, is noted for its shops: florists' shops, food shops,
boutiques of many sorts, and especially for its antique shops. One of
these had a collection of china pug dogs in its window, all of whom
appeared to be snarling. Sarah paused to snarl back. As she did, a
movement inside the shop caught her eye.

What she'd seen were the exquisite little hands of Bill Jones, flying as
they'd done at her own dinner table. She peeked in furtively, as she
felt Bill would expect her to. His head was close to the antique
dealer's ear. His lips were barely moving. Sarah had seen plenty of sign
language while Aunt Caroline was still alive, though, and those eloquent
gestures weren't hard for her to interpret. Bill was talking about
paintings. Stolen paintings. Specifically, those paintings that had been
taken from Madam Wilkins's palazzo.

A third man was in the cluttered room, lounging in a Savonarola
armchair. Sarah recognized him, too. That was Bernie, the pianist who
had done so much on Sunday to save Nick Fieringer's concert from total
disaster. As far as she could see, he was reasonably sober.

Now what, if anything, did all this mean? Sarah knew the antique dealer
slightly. In the grim days after Alexander's death, when she'd
discovered she was flat broke and about to be foreclosed on for
non-payment of mortgages she didn't know


61


62	Charlotte MacLeod


she'd inherited, she had gone to this Mr. Hayre in desperation with some
of the family antiques. Would he have bought a stolen painting?
Recalling what Mr. Hayre had paid her for a Canton tea set and what he'd
subsequently sold it for, Sarah thought he probably would. She hurried
back to the house, hoping to catch a private word with Mr. Bittersohn,
but she got there too late. He was already in the library with Mrs.
Sorpende and Mariposa was hovering in the wings, ready to do her stuff
with the tea tray.


Punctually on the stroke of five, Mariposa showed C. Edwald Palmerston
into the house. At two minutes past, he was bowing over the fair hand of
Mrs. Sorpende. At three minutes past, Palmerston was still holding the
aforesaid hand. At four minutes past, Max Bittersohn coughed menacingly
and Mr. Palmerston released his clutch.

"So good of you to invite me, Mrs. Kelling. Ah me, the last time I
entered this house was to pay my respects at the time of your tragic
loss. You appear to have made a speedy recovery," he added, looking
askance at the flowered print dress Sarah had picked up for next to
nothing in Filene's Basement under Mariposa's expert guidance because
she was sick and tired of wearing her mother's old clothes.

"I'm trying to cope," Sarah replied. "Cream or lemon?"

"Milk please, and two lumps of sugar." Palmerston settled himself as
close as he could get to Mrs. Sorpende and inhaled his refreshment with
gusto.

"How are things going at the Madam's?" asked Bittersohn.

"The Madam's? I deplore that unfortunate nickname, Mr. Bittersohn. The
Wilkins Museum merits the respect of our citizenry as one of Boston's
most venerable institutions. I use the word venerable, of course, in the
sense of meriting veneration. As to its actual age, I must confess that
I myself can recall the opening, though dimly through the eyes of a mere
babe. Ah, dear lady"--Palmerston seized this excuse to pat his
neighbor's plump wrist--"tempusfitgir."

"How right you are," said Mrs. Sorpende, edging herself ever so deftly
out of reach and perhaps not being quite sure what tempus fugit meant
but knowing it was generally safe to tell a man he was right.

"Would you happen to remember what the contents of the palazzo were
appraised for at the time of the opening?" said Bittersohn. The Palace
Guard	63


"Madam Wilkins. to employ the title by which she chose to be known, was
said to have spent well over ten million dollars on her paintings and
other objets d'art. The value would be immeasurably higher now, needless
to say."


"Would you care to bet on that?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"According to a recent independent survey"--Bittersohn had just
retrieved a Matisse for the head of a local advertising agency--"there
isn't twenty thousand dollars' worth of genuine stuff in the whole
palazzo."

C. Edwald nearly bit a chunk out of a Spode teacup. "But-- but that's
preposterous! By what right do you--'?"

"You might say I've had the matter investigated because I'm a concerned
citizen interested in preserving Boston's cultural treasures. I thought
you, as chairman of the board of trustees, ought to be aware of the
actual situation."

"Sir, if this is a joke I find it in poor taste. Who made this alleged
survey?"

"Mrs. Kelling can testify that it's no joke, Mr. Palmerston. I happen to
have taken my doctorate in art history. As a result of some things I
noticed on a visit to the museum with Mrs. Kelling this past Sunday, I
got an acquaintance who specializes in stolen paintings to go have a
look. He drew up this list."

Bittersohn drew out a somewhat grubby sheet of expensive writing paper
covered with calligraphy that would have passed muster in any medieval
monastery. "As you can see, it shows which of your paintings have been
replaced by copies within the past thirty years, and when and where each
of the stolen originals passed out of the state. Quite an impressive
piece of research, wouldn't you say?"

"I don't believe a word," said Palmerston, who had turned the color of a
spoiled cauliflower.

"This morning," Bittersohn went on, "I gave a Xerox of this list to one
of the curators of paintings at the Metropolitan Museum in New York, who
happened to be in Boston on some other business. He spent sever! hours
at the Wilkins and is willing to testify that at least twenty-five of
the paintings listed here are modern copies. He didn't have time to go
through the whole list, but he said he'd be willing to come back and
have another crack at it."

"But--but, good heavens! Good heavens!"

64	Char/one MacLeod


"You'd better have another cup of tea, Mr. Palmerston," Sarah said.


"Tea? Good heavens, I--"

"Brandy, perhaps?" Mrs. Sorpende suggested.

"Yes, yes. Brandy by all means. Ordinarily 1 abstain but-- yes, brandy.
Please."

The man's color was ghastly. He leaned back against the sofa cushions as
though his spine had given way, and sipped the drink Sarah brought him.
After a minute or so, he made an effort to pull himself together.

"A curator from the Metropolitan, you say?"

"That's right," said Bittersohn. He mentioned a name. "Do you happen to
know him?"

"Not personally, but the position would seem to place him
as--ah--eminently reliable. 1 shall have to call a trustees' meeting
forthwith. Or dare 1? In so delicate a situation, perhaps the less said
the better. The public must be protected from this dreadful allegation.
We must lose not a moment. We must each pledge ourselves to secrecy here
and now. and we must refrain above all from calling in the police and
thus alerting the malefactors. A private detective, that's what we want!
Someone of unexceptionable tact and discretion. Who was that chap my old
friend Mrs. Forbot was telling me about, who performed so capably in the
case of the bogus Bellini at the Cotman Club? Let me think."

He snapped his long, bony fingers frantically. "It was some odd,
foreign-sounding name."

"Bittersohn?" Sarah prompted.

"That's it. Why, it must have been you. Dr. Bittersohn. Well-met at
Philippi, eh? Bravo! No wonder you interested yourself in the matter,
and how right you were to call it to my attention in this private and
discreet manner. 1 herewith place the situation in your hands. You will
proceed with dispatch and, need I say, secrecy."

Old Anora Protheroe had once remarked, "Our lot aren't much for looks,
by and large, but we're tough." With the resilience of one who has been
brought up on Emerson, oatmeal porridge, codfish cakes, and Boston baked
beans, C. Edwald Palmerston bounded to his feet, shook hands all around
with a special lingering pressure for Mrs. Sorpende, thanked Sarah for
her hospitality, urged Bittersohn to spare no effort, and left.

Mariposa took the teacups out to the kitchen. Mrs. Sorpende

The Palace Guard	65


went up to change from her elegant tea gown into an even more elegant
dinner gown. Sarah opened the library windows to air out C. Ed w aid
Palmerston.


"Well, Mr. Bittersohn, I hope you got what you wanted."

He came over to help her with the windows. "I did. Tell you what, since
you've been such a good kid I'll take you out to see the nighthawks
after dinner."

"I've seen nighthawks, thank you."

"Then come for the exercise. It will do you good."

"Perhaps you're right."

In any event. Sarah went. Mr. Bittersohn's idea of a quiet evening
stroll was not what she'd been used to. He led her through the byways
behind Park Square to a place she'd never been before. Dolph would have
called it a dive and for all Sarah knew about such things he might well
have been right. They were sitting in a booth listening to three elderlv
ladies perform with verve on the saxophone, the drums, and the double
bass when they were joined by an acquaintance.

"Ah, my God. the beautiful Max and his adorable sweetheart!"

"Hi. Lydia," said the beautiful Max. "Can we buy you a drink?"

"But of course." Countess Ouspenska squeezed herself in beside Sarah. "I
will sit with this little one so you can look at us both. In such a
rotten light as here I am still passable. Double vodka please, Giovanni,
from the bottle you didn't water yet."

Lydia got her drink, took a mighty swig, and gasped, "Peachy! Today I
finish my genuine antique masterpiece and get a beautiful present from
an old goat and now the magnificent Max buys me double vodka. Is life in
the old bat yet, not?"

"I think you're wonderful." Sarah replied with all sincerity.

"Little darling. I love you madly!" Countess Ouspenska embraced her
seatmate with Slavic fervor, transferring a good deal of pancake makeup
to Sarah's flawless cheek. "Listen, do you know what that old goat
Palmerston does? He sends a basket of goodies so big"--she flung out her
arms in a wild jangle of bracelets--"with a note in fond remembrance. Is
the first time that old foxy-loxy ever puts anything in writing. Too bad
he doesn't sign it." She took another gulp of her drink. "Anyway, this
week I eat."

"How nice for you."

"You said it, babushka. Now I negotiate for sale of my

66	Charlotte MacLeod


wonderful icon and for one month 1 have it made in the shade, is like
song be like I hold your head up high somewhere is a bluejay of
happiness."


"What's this about your icon, Lydia?" Bittersohn asked ever so casually.

The countess giggled. "Is my secret. Maybe you come to my studio without
this pretty little watchdog and ask me again nice, eh?"

"Sounds like a great idea to me. How about another?"

"Unfortunately no. 1 have to stay bright-eyed and bushytailed. Is
important business appointment." The countess stifled a hiccup with an
aristocratic gesture and sorted out her scarves and necklaces. "I go
now."

"Can we drop you somewhere?"

"No, is better for security 1 go alone. Please case the joint to see is
anybody follow."

Bittersohn pulled his coat collar up around his face and tiptoed to the
door. "Sst, Lydia!" His whisper carried easily over the saxophone, the
drums, and the double bass. "The coast is clear."

"Good. In my new business is necessary to take precautions. Was
necessary in my old business, too. An revoir. my little wood pigeon. You
come and see me, too. 1 paint you as madonna and child in authentic
Byzantine technique."

Countess Ouspenska pulled one of her scarves far down over her face, put
on a pair of dark glasses, and slithered out. Bittersohn came back to
the booth and helped Sarah into her coat.

"Come on, we'll follow her by stealth and cunning. She'd be heartbroken
if we didn't. Try to look furtive."

They had no trouble keeping the countess in sight. She must have made a
few more stops before she met them, for she was making almost as much
leeway as headway although her general bearing was more or less in the
direction of Charles and Beacon.

"I'll bet she's heading for that antique shop," Sarah murmured.

"What antique shop?"

"The one where I saw your friend Bill Jones this afternoon."

"Huh? Which shop was this?"

"The one with all the china dogs in the window. It's run

The Palace Guard	67


by Mr. Havre, who gypped me so unmercifully on the Canton tea set."


"What was Bill doing?"

"Whispering into Mr. Havre's ear about the paintings at the Madam's."

"How do you know?"

"I could tell by the way he was waving his hands around. That piano
player of Mr. Fieringer's was there, too."

"Bernie? What the hell? Did they see you?"

"I think not. 1 was outside peeking through the window."

"Why?"

"Masochism, I suppose. I always look in when I pass the store, to see if
he has any of my things on sale for about sixty times what he paid me
for them. Look, she is heading for Charles Street."

Countess Ouspenska must have been revived by the exercise. She had got
up steam and was progressing at a much faster rate. She managed to nip
across Beacon just as the light changed, while the two who were
following her had to wait till the traffic stopped. By the time they
could go again, she was nowhere in sight.

"Damn, we've lost her," muttered Bittersohn.

"No we haven't." Sarah took his hand and hustled him up a tiny alley and
around a corner.

"Where are we?" he whispered.

"Behind Mr. Havre's antique shop, of course."

"And what do we do now?"

"Lurk."

Chapter 10


Sarah's hunch was a good one. They'd been peering down the alley from
behind the ashcans for barely ten minutes when they saw the countess
emerge. She had a man with her. As the couple passed beneath one of the
imitation gas lamps that help to give Charles Street its Old Boston
atmosphere, the lurkers in the shadows could see he was Bernie the piano
player. Perhaps Lydia had got paid for her icon. Anyway, either she or
Bernie must be in funds for they hailed a taxi.


"Come on." Bittersohn practically carried Sarah across to a rank where,
luckily, another cab was idling. "Mind following that cabbie who just
pulled out?" he said to the driver. "We were supposed to meet that
couple who are riding with him but they must have got tired of waiting
just as we came along. We're all going to the same party and they forgot
to give us the address."

"Well, that's life," said the cabbie in a fine burst of philosophical
originality. "I could pull up alongside and ask."

"No, we'll follow along and surprise them. It shouldn't be too far.
Somewhere around Brookline Village, I think. Anyway, we wouldn't mind
having a little time to ourselves, if you get what 1 mean."

The driver must have got what he meant, for he turned up the volume on
his radio and shut the opening in the heavy plastic that separated the
front seat from the back. Bittersohn grinned and pulled Sarah close to
him.

"Mind if we act natural?" he murmured.

"Is this what you naturally do with woman in taxis?" she whispered back,
not making any real attempt to pull away.

"We're a guy and his date on our way to a party, remember?"

"Do you suppose we really are? On our way to a party, I mean? Where is
Bernie taking the countess, do you suppose?" Sarah found it necessary to
remind herself of the object of their mission. Being this close to Mr.
Bittersohn might otherwise


68


The Palace Guard	69


divert a young widow's attention to matters she had no business thinking
about.


"I guessed Brookline Village because that seems to be where it's at
these days, and that's more or less where we're heading, but don't ask
me why. Right now the only thing I like about this expedition is having
you along, and I'm not sure I was smart to bring you. There are only two
things Bernie can do by himself: play the piano and drink. Otherwise he
waits for Nick Fieringer to lay it out for him. His hanging around that
antique shop, which seems to be another place where it's at, could mean
that he's running errands for Nick."

"And what would that mean?"

"Mrs. Kelling, you were there when Nick tried to tout me off this
Wilkins business on Sunday evening. 1 don't know whether coming to me
was his own idea or if somebody sent him. 1 expect he'd take a buck to
do an errand. Nick has a million pals, but as far as making a living
goes, he must be just about scraping by."

"You don't think he'd murder two guards as a favor to a friend?"

"Not Nick. He's too fat and clumsy, for one thing."

"Could he have told Bernie to do it?"

"How could Bernie have been up on the third floor pushing Joe
Witherspoon over the balcony when he had to go directly to the
Tintoretto Room as soon as he finished playing and have his hand held by
somebody's great-aunt the music lover?" Bittersohn absentmindedly closed
his own hand more snugly around Sarah's. "Furthermore, I can't see Nick
trusting Bernie to load Brown's bottle. Bernie would have been too apt
to drink up the murder weapon himself." "Mr. Fieringer would have been
able to manage that business with the bottle easily enough, wouldn't he?
As for Witherspoon, well, he did like painted ladies."

"Not Lydia Ouspenska's kind, if that's what you're getting at. Anyway,
your Cousin Brooks would surely have seen and remembered her. Lydia's
not just another face in the crowd, you know."

"But what if she was already upstairs when Brooks came on duty and he
never saw her? Mr. Fieringer could have let her in, couldn't he? He
probably has access to the museum during off-hours because of having to
arrange things about the concerts, don't you think? Then she could have
dashed through

70	Charlotte MacLeod


the chapel and got out somehow while we were down among all that
confusion in the courtyard. Brown could have seen her and done his
robbery act to make it look as if he didn't suspect her, and been killed
because he actually did. Oh dear, 1 wish I hadn't thought of that."


Being in a strategic position to offer comfort, Bittersohn did. "Wait a
minute, you can't start playing favorites. I like old Lydia, too, but
what you just said makes a certain amount of sense. You told me she did
a perfect job on that icon. Being an artist yourself, you'd be a pretty
fair judge. If she's that good a copyist we can't eliminate her as the
person who faked the paintings. Bill says it's all the work of one
person and Lydia's been around a long time. She may have branched out
into icons because there's nothing left over there worth copying."

Sarah rubbed her cheek on the handsome gray worsted topcoat she was
being clasped against. She'd never before been embraced by an attractive
man in a taxicab. Alexander had always taken her on the subway and would
have shied away from a public demonstration of affection in any case. It
was too bad she couldn't relax and enjoy the experience, but of course
that wasn't what she was here for.

"I suppose the countess might have been able to wangle a key to the
museum out of Mr. Palmerston while they were having that love affair or
whatever it was."

"Would you run through that again slowly, please?"

"I told you she'd been on close terms with him at one time. Didn't you
understand what she was saying tonight about old foxy-loxy sending her
caviar and whatnot in fond remembrance? She told me practically in so
many words that day I went to her studio that they used to--you know."

"How would I know?" said Bittersohn virtuously. "You mean people do
those things with people they're not married to?"

"Not in taxis." Sarah straightened up and pulled her skirt down over her
knees. Not knowing the customary procedure in this sort of situation she
couldn't be sure, but it did seem to her that things were getting a bit
out of hand.

Bittersohn took the hint and loosened his grip, though only a little. "I
should send my ears out to be laundered. If that's the case, Lydia could
easily have dropped a question here and there about which pictures were
worth stealing, what times the

The Palace Guard	11


guards were off duty, and other useful bits of information while his
mind was, as one might say, otherwise occupied. And she could have
pinched his keys while he had his pants off and made impressions on a
cake of soap. She'd get a bang out of that."


"I daresay she would," Sarah had to agree.

"So now Palmerston's chasing her again?"

"Well, no. Actually 1 was the one who sent the caviar."

"What in hell for?"

"Because she had no money and not a bite to eat in the house except a
few sandwiches left over from Mrs. Tawne's tea party. Besides, I thought
it might be interesting to see what happened."

"Woman, you're not safe to have around."

However, Bittersohn showed no inclination to let her go until the taxi
lurched through a last horrendous pothole, crossed the line into
Brookline, where the roads immediately became faultless, and clanked to
a stop.

As he had predicted, they'd wound up in Brookline Village. A bearded man
who must have been a hippie, a yippie, or perhaps a flower child back in
the sixties and was still trying to keep the torch alight stood in front
of a dilapidated block of storefront flats yelling, "Lee-roy! Hey,
Lee-roy!"

From above came sounds of guitars and bongos and sonorous blats that
suggested somebody was either keeping beef cattle in his apartment or
practicing scales on a sousaphone. Somebody else was playing Handel's
Second Concerto Grosso on a stereo that was considerably more hi than
fi. Somebody was singing, somebody was fighting, somebody was chanting
in Tibetan. Nobody appeared to be just sitting around and letting it all
hang out.

Bittersohn paid off their cab while the pair they'd followed were doing
the same. Then he yelled, "Hey, Bernie!"

"Yay, Maxie," the pianist bellowed back. "Where you for. man?"

"I was looking for Leroy but he doesn't seem to be around."

The bearded one on the sidewalk stopped shouting. "Hey man, you see
Leroy you tell him I'm like in Joy's pad." He shuffled off.

"I wonder who Leroy is?" Sarah murmured.

"A friend of that fay cat's," said Bittersohn. "Who's the beard,
Bernie?"

72	Charlotte MacLeod


"Some friend of Leroy's, 1 guess. Maxie, you know Lydia. Lydia. this is
Maxie's old lady, the society broad."


"I am acquaint with Maxie's old lady," said Countess Ouspenska gaily.
"We amuse ourselves together among the proletariat, not? Come, little
one, I show the way. Please to en garde for broken steps."

As they groped their way up the unlighted stairway into a loft that had
been more or less partitioned off" with painters' tarpaulins hung on
wires, the beat of bongo drums was stilled. Fifteen pairs of oversized
sunglasses were turned on the unparalleled apparition of a man with a
shave and a haircut, a London tailored suit, a clean shirt, and a silk
foulard necktie of restrained pattern. The fact that he was also wearing
shoes disturbed them almost to frenzy. At last, however, somebody
shrugged and muttered, "Like everybody got to do his own thing, right?"
and the bongos started again.

Bernie and Lydia flopped on what appeared to be the remains of a sofa
and shoved someone else off to make room for Sarah. As she was wearing a
thirty-year-old coat of her mother's, she didn't appear to frighten them
as Bittersohn had. She herself was a bit dismayed, however, when her
escort disappeared behind one of the tarpaulins.

At first she didn't know what to do, so she just sat and tried not to
inhale too deeply. Then she became aware that a current of excitement
was swirling through the fetid atmosphere and she began to wonder if by
any chance Bittersohn could be the generator. Her suspicion was
confirmed when a character who happened to be sitting on her feet
remarked to the character who'd been kicked off the sofa, "Man, we got a
live one aboard."

"What you mean, man?"

"Like Santa Claus is coming to town, man. Like the rhomboid with the
rubles, man. He digs art, man. Like paintings, like that."

"So who paints, man?"

"Who don't, man? Like Leroy and Bengo and Cynthia."

"Cynthia don't paint. He sculps."

"So who can tell? Man, 1 got to show this cat my collages."

"Man, you got no collages."

"Time I get that cat over to my pad, man, I got collages. Empty a
wastebasket into a puddle of glue, man, you got a collage."

The Palace Guard	73


"Man, you got no wastebaskct."


"Man. you got no higher vision. Me, I dig them genuinesteel engravings
like Abraham Jackson and Ulysses S. G-note. Fare thee well, man. I got
to cut me a piece of the action."

He or she scrambled to his or her feet and went in quest of the rhomboid
with the rubles. Above the pandemonium Sarah could now pick out
Bittersohn's usually agreeable baritone, now sounding pompous,
moderately drunk, and a touch imbecilic. "Of course I also collect
recognized masters." he was saying as he crawled back under the
tarpaulin, trailed by at least half a dozen unrecognized geniuses.

"Man, how you like to collect a genuine Mondrian?" urged a short, wiry
type with a ferocious Fu Manchu mustache and chin whisker.

"Man, that Lupe is a gas." muttered the cynic who was now sprawled
across Sarah's left foot. "He copies them Mondrians off the linoleum at
Sears and Sawbuck. Man, 1 say a real creative artist ought to think up
his own Mondrians."

"Lupe ain't an artist, he's an operator," said the body now sprawled
across Sarah's right foot. "Man, he can smell a live one all the way to
Charlestown. Like he goes to one of them cut-rate supermarkets, dig, and
buys a case of oregano and bums the use of somebody's oven and like
dries it out till it gets good and brown. Then he peddles it for grass."

"Man, that ain't right." The left-foot spravvler took what was left of a
very homemade-looking cigarette from his or her lips and regarded the
roach sadly. "Man, like 1 was really beginning to elevate."

Nobody was paying any attention whatever to Sarah. Lydia had betaken
herself elsewhere. Bernie w:as dozing with a drink in his hand, the
glass tilted dangerously toward Sarah's lap. She reached over to take it
out of harm's reach and he opened one scarlet-rimmed eye. "Who've you?"

"I'm Maxie's old lady, the society broad," she replied. "Don't you
remember? You introduced me to Lydia downstairs."

"Oh, yeah. I'm not talkin'."

"I can see you're not."

"What are you, some kind of a wise society broad? I'm not sayin' a word,
see? Not one word." he bellowed.

"I'm not asking you to," Sarah replied, somewhat alarmed.

"He tot' me. He said don't tell Max."

74	Charlotte MacLeod


"But I'm not Max."


"Whadda you mean, you're not Max?" Bernie rubbed his eyes and took a
closer look. "Hey, you're not Max. You're Maxie's of' lady. I gotta look
out for Max."

"Who says so?"

"Who says what?"

"Look out for Max."

"Thass ri'. Look out for Max." Bernie dropped the glass and went back to
sleep.

Sarah moved as far as she could get from the wet spot made by the
spilled drink and puzzled over this interesting vignette. If Bernie
wasn't supposed to tell Max, then Bernie must know something Bittersohn
would want to hear. But who would be fool enough to entrust a secret to
a lush like Bernie? Lydia Ouspenska might, but whatever else she was or
could have been, the countess was definitely not a he. As for the rest
of this lot, they might be males, females, or androgynous for all Sarah
could tell. However, none of them appeared to have any previous
acquaintance with Bittersohn or any reason to have expected he'd show up
here, so why would they have warned the pianist against him?

Sarah had a sudden vivid picture of those flying, delicate hands in the
antique shop. Bernie had sat there watching while Bill Jones whispered
into Mr. Hayre's ear. Musicians were used to interpreting gestures made
by conductors; maybe Bernie had read Bill's gestures as Sarah herself
had. Maybe Bernie had let Bill know that he'd learned what was supposed
to have been kept from his ears and maybe it was Bill who'd told him not
to tell Max. Tell Max what? Jones had been most obliging about coming up
with the information Bittersohn wanted about the stolen paintings. Maybe
he'd been equally considerate in letting the other side know that
Bittersohn was on the trail.

Perhaps she was just bored with being ignored for so long, but it seemed
terribly important to let Bittersohn know at once what Bernie had said.
Sarah tried to wriggle over to him but he was now surrounded by a solid
phalanx of artists and their self-appointed agents, everyone bent on
cutting himself a slice of the action. Several were insisting that this
new fairy godfather go somewhere to look at something.

"But I don't want to break up the party," he was protesting.

"You won't, man. We'll like take it with us."

Somebody grabbed the bongo drums, somebody else

The Palace Guard	75


grabbed the wine jug. The throng surged out into the street, leaving
Bernie sleeping alone on the sofa.


During the confusion Sarah managed somehow to reach Bittersohn. He
grabbed her by the waist and held on. "Stay close to me," he muttered.
"God knows what we've got ourselves into."

"I have to talk to you," she panted. "I have to tell you something."

"Save it."

He guided her as best he could up a staircase even more depressing than
the first. They found themselves in what at least looked like an
artist's studio, of sorts. In one corner stood a neat stack of authentic
Sears Roebuck Mondrians. Lupe spread his wares and made his spiel.
Bittersohn admired but did not buy. A more or less female-looking person
who might have been Mrs. Lupe but probably wasn't displayed a number of
shirt cardboards with bits of old toothpaste tubes adhering to them.
Bittersohn asked mildly if anybody happened to be working in a more
traditionally representational manner.

"How about a Rembrandt?" offered the versatile Lupe.

"Ah, the very thing I was looking for. Where is it?"

"Hey, Bengo, what did you do with that painting of the fat old broad in
the rocking chair?"

"Me I done nothin', man. You unloaded it to that cowboy from Milwaukee
who wanted a real, live ToulouseLautrec."

"Oh yeah, 1 forgot. Look, man"--Lupe turned back to his prey--"you come
back in three days I have a jazzy Rembrandt for you. Any special subject
you got in mind'?"

"Well--er--what would you suggest?"

"How about a nice fat old broad in a rocking chair?"

"I thought Toulouse-Lautrec painted the broads in rocking chairs."

"Sure, he got the idea from Rembrandt. Only Rembrandt, see, he puts in a
cat."

"Hey, a broad and a cat takes more than three days, man." Bengo
protested.

"I don't mean a cat, man, I mean a pussycat. Like with the fur and
whiskers and the whole bit. Like Leroy's pussycat."

"I don't want Leroy's pussycat in my Rembrandt," Bittersohn objected
pettishly. "I want Rembrandt's pussycat."

"Man, you got to be reasonable, dig?" said Bengo. "Where we goin' to get
Rembrandt's pussycat?"

76	Charlotte MacLeod


"Where are you going to get Rembrandt's old lady?"


"Look, man." Lupe interjected, "like leave the technical details to us.
You want Rembrandt's pussycat you get Rembrandt's pussycat, dig?"

"But how am I to know it's an authentic Rembrandt pussycat?" Bittersohn
pouted.

Lupe turned on his customer a look of outraged virtue. "Man, you can
trust me!"

"Just don't buy any of his marijuana," Sarah could not retrain from
murmuring. "Er--dear"--she couldn't very well address him as Mr.
Bittersohn and she felt diffident about saying Max--"don't you think
we've trespassed on these nice people's hospitality long enough for one
evening?"

"Yes, my love. 1 must give Mr. Lupe and Mr. Bengo a small deposit on the
Rembrandt. If this lady has quite finished with my wallet--" Bittersohn
deftly tweaked his sharkskin billfold from the folds of a nearby poncho
and extracted two five-dollar bills. "Thank you, ladies and gentlemen,
for a pleasant and instructive evening. Come, dearest."

"Wait, I go with you," cried Countess Ouspenska.

"But," hissed Sarah, "I--"

"Yes, darling, as soon as we get home. We'd be delighted to have your
company. Countess."

"What about Bernie?" Sarah asked him, now greatly annoyed. "Shall I go
back and get him, too?"

"Is not necessary," said the countess. "Bernie will sleep as good in the
pad of these cats as in his own. They are equally moldy. Come, little
flower of the snow, we find a taxi. The magnificent Max will pay. He is
so rich for Rembrandts he has also money for taxi. I do not dig you this
evening, man ami."

"I guess I'm just not myself. How come you're hanging out with that
motley crew, Lydia?"

"Me, 1 am bohemian. Is no bohemia around Boston any more. The arsonists
bum it all down. Also those frowsy middleage hippies look so awful is
good for my ego. To be formerly beautiful woman on the skids is
depressing. I confess this to you because I am drunk. Even to get drunk
is not so easy these days. With this moldy pack of cats is at least free
liquor though not good unless stolen."

"Who steals it?"

"Anybody, no doubt. Is not hard to shoplift in baggy clothing."

The Palace Guard	77


"What do they steal besides liquor?"


Lydia shrugged. "What not? Lupe says is less bourgeois to steal than to
work. 1 have not the knack. Also is not becoming in titled aristocrat of
high-class family to sneak always from the fuzz."

"This Lupe man seems to be quite an enterprising character," Sarah
remarked.

"He has in the fire many irons, yes. Is expensive to be a bum."

"Are Bengo's Rembrandt's any good?" Bittcrsohn wanted to know.

"Good enough for the tourists off the sight-seeing buses."

"They don't come up to the ones at the Madam's, eh?"

"Why do you say Madam's? Is bad luck that place." Lydia made the sign of
the horns and spat three times over her left shoulder. "I say no more."

Incredibly, she didn't. They found a cab on Washington Street and got
her into it. By the time they pulled up in front of the Fenway Studios,
she was nodding heavily on Sarah's collarbone.

"She feels like the White Queen." Sarah shook her burden. "Countess
Ouspenska, wake up. You're home."

"Go away," moaned the sign painter's daughter from Chelsea. "I say no
more."

"Damn," said Bittersohn. "She's out like a light. Here, help me get her
arm around my shoulder and let's see how good she is at sleepwalking.
Come on, Lydia, old sport."

It was as well Countess Ouspenska didn't eat more regularly. Thin as she
was, they had a struggle to get her up to her studio. "Look in her
handbag," panted Bittersohn. "Get her door key."

Sarah rummaged with distaste in the mad jumble. "There's so much
junk--good God, look at this!"

Amid the welter of lipstick stubs, soiled tissues, and unpaid bills lay
a neat little snub-nosed revolver. Bittersohn picked it up and broke
open the chamber. The gun was fully loaded.

"Whatever shall we do?" Sarah wondered.

"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."

78	Charlotte MacLeod


"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." Sarat 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

The Palace Guard	79


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 1 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."

Chapter 11


Sarah woke early from force of habit but she stilJ 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-Srnith off to his job at third
cousin Percy Kelling's accountancy firm. Miss LaValliere to her classes
at Katy Gibbs, Professor Orrnsby 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."

The Palace Guard	81


"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 battleax?"

"That's right, you missed him, didn't you? 1 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. 1 mean he goes out
bird-watching and does bird calls and that sort of thing."

82	Charlotte MacLeod


"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 peachcolored 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

The Palace Guard	83


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

84	Charlotte MacLeod


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 skimptness 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 1 have dine on caviar and blini. I take
raincheck for when things are not say aye-aye-aye, eh?"

"Of course, we'd be delighted." Sarah had an uneasy feeling that her
dinner table had just gained a countess. "Countess Ouspenska is an
extremely talented artist," she remarked to the company at large, hoping
that would more or less explain things.

"How wonderful to be able to create a thing of beauty and a joy
forever," said Mrs. Sorpende promptly on cue.

"Also pays off in cash sometimes." replied the talented artist. "Eh,
Chuckle?"

The Palace Guard	85


Palmerston jumped. "What? Er, yes, I daresay it does. Yes," he went on
with more confidence, "I'm sure Bittersohn will agree with me that it
might pay off quite handsomely. Especially under certain circumstances."
He folded his arms and looked enigmatic.


The countess took no notice of the innuendo. "With me except sometimes,
circumstances are stinky. I am not like your good Dolores, who claims
she makes one penny do the work of two. Her pennies work not at all.
They sit in the piggy bank and rest themselves."

"Dolores Tawne is the salt of the earth," said Brooks with dogged
loyalty.

"She is not bad egg," the countess conceded, "only no good for a touch
except maybe to the crummy brother."

"I'm afraid she finds jimmy something of a trial sometimes," Brooks
conceded. "Still, he does his job at thepalazzo."

"Speaking of the palazzo," Mrs. Sorpende seized her chance to get the
conversation back on a decorously cultural level. "I find I am
unexpectedly free tomorrow afternoon and I have promised myself the
treat of a visit. Oddly enough, I have never been inside the Wilkins
Museum."

"Have you not, dear lady?" cried Palmerston. "Then you must grant me the
privilege of escorting you in person."

"My God, Chuckie, is life in the old goat yet!"

"Has it ever occurred to you, Countess Ouspenska," Palmerston remarked
stiffly, "that some people may find your witticisms a trifle offensive?"

"But of course, Chuckie."

Miss LaValliere giggled again.

Palmerston rose. "I fear I must be getting on. Thank you for a
delightful visit, Mrs. Kclling. Bittersohn, I shall expect a progress
report from you in my business office Friday morning at nine-fifteen
sharp. Mrs. Sorpende, 1 shall do myself the honor of calling for you in
my car at two o'clock tomorrow afternoon if that suits your
convenience?"

"Two o'clock will suit me perfectly, Mr. Palmerston."

"Countess Ouspenska," he concluded frostily, "perhaps you will allow me
to sec you safely back to your studio."

Lydia batted her freight of mascara in surprise, then beamed. "Okay,
Chuckie. Is like old times." She blew kisses all around, then swept out
on the arm of her fuming escort.

"A most refreshing personality," Mrs. Sorpende observed.

86	Charlotte MacLeod


"Who, Palmerston?" snarled Brooks.


"I was thinking of the Countess Ouspenska."

"Oh, Mrs. Kelling, do ask her to dinner soon," bubbled Jennifer
LaValliere. "She's a panic! I was devastated when Mr. Palmerston dragged
her away. Why was he so nice to her, I wonder, after she'd called him an
old goat?"

"Perhaps because he wanted to get her out of here before she called him
something else," said Mrs. Gates, who had been enjoying herself a good
deal.

"Well, I'm getting out of here, too," grunted Professor Ormsby, and
went.

At last Cousin Brooks had Mrs. Sorpende to himself. "Are you going to
call him Chuckie?" he demanded in a burst of jealous rage.

"I shouldn't dream of such a thing." Mrs. Sorpende raised one exquisite
hand to toy with the satin ribbons at her bodice. "Mr. Palmerston was
merely extending a gesture of formal courtesy to a member of this
distinguished household. I don't suppose he has any personal interest in
me whatever. Do tell me more about the hummingbirds, Mr. Kelling."

"Well," said Brooks, "there's one called the Adorable Coquette."

One by one the others tiptoed out of the library and left them alone
with the hummingbirds.

Chapter 12


It was well past ten o'clock and Sarah was starting to get ready for bed
when she remembered something she'd meant to do about tomorrow's
breakfast. She went back to the now deserted kitchen and was attending
to her chore when Bittersohn appeared in the doorway from the basement.


"I thought that must be you I heard up here," he said rather
diffidently. "I just wanted to thank you for sewing the button on my
pajamas."

Sarah flushed. "Oh. that was nothing. I was doing the room and happened
to find the button and I--1 wonder if we're out of shredded of wheat."

"I assumed it must have been Mariposa," he went on, trying to make
conversation, which was unlike him, and not showing a very good hand at
it, "but when I mentioned it to her she said she can't sew a stitch and
Charlie has to do all her mending for her and I knew it couldn't have
been Charlie, because he'd already left for work when 1 popped the
button. So I guessed it had to be you."

"Well, it was," Sarah replied inanely. Were they going to stand here
making stupid remarks about that button all night? "I must say," she
said in an effort to get off that silly subject, "I was surprised when
both Mr. Palmerston and your old friend Lydia showed up here tonight.
What do you suppose brought them?"

"Hard to say. It couldn't have been prearranged, I shouldn't think. They
didn't seem any too happy to see one another."

"I suppose we'll have to assume Mr. Palmerston's idea was to make a
little time with Mrs. Sorpende and Lydia thought she'd try her hand with
you."

"Why me?"

"She thinks you're magnificent. She keeps telling me so."

"But you don't go along with her."

"Mr. Bittersohn, if you're fishing for compliments, you'll have to
choose a time when my mind isn't running on Professor


87



88	Charlotte MacLeod


Ormsby's porridge. Have you ever in your life seen anybody eat the way
he does?"


"Yes, My Uncle Hymie on the night after Yom Kippur. 1 was wondering,
how'd you like to crash the party with me tomorrow?"

"What party? Do you mean invite ourselves to chaperone Mrs. Sorpende and
Mr. Palmerston? How could we?"

"We have our methods. Seriously, can you get away from here for a couple
of hours?"

"Yes, if I work like a beaver all morning. What should 1 do?"

"Meet me at the Little Building on the corner of Tremont and Boylston at
half-past one. I keep a sort of apology for an office there that 1 use
sometimes for odd jobs." He gave her the room number. "Take the elevator
and come straight on up. I'll be inside. Don't expect anything fancy."

"But why not meet somewhere closer to the palazzo?"

"Because we'll need a place to change our clothes."

"From what to what?"

"That depends on what 1 can scare up at the costume shop."

"Heavens to Betsy! You do know how to make life exciting, Mr.
Bittersohn. It's not going to be anything silly like Mickey Mouse ears,
is it?"

"Madam, we high-class detectives do not wear Mickey Mouse ears on secret
missions. Unless, of course, it happens to be a Mickey Mouse sort of
job. and I'm not at all sure this won't be. Do you have a pair of
sandals Mrs. Sorpende wouldn't be apt to recognize?"

"Yes, but they're in sad shape."

"That won't matter. Bring them in a bag. And if Mariposa or anybody asks
where you're going, He. Tell her you're going to see your lawyer about
the mortgage lawsuit again."

"I've already milked that man for all he's worth."

"Cheer up, he's probably milking you, too." Bittersohn hesitated a
moment, then said rather hastily, "See you tomorrow," and was gone.

He breakfasted early for a change, and was out of the house before Sarah
could exchange a word with him about their clandestine rendezvous.
Nevertheless she was ascending to the fifth floor of the Little Building
that afternoon at half-past one on the dot, sandals in hand. To her
surprise, she was met at the door of what proved indeed to be a poky
hole of an office by

The Palace Guard	89


an East Indian, the sort whom she had often seen around a city where
foreign students of all races and descriptions abound. His face was
bronzed, his short beard and mustache jet black, his hair completely
hidden by a turban made from yards and yards of some gauzy pale green
material. He wore a cream- colored suit and carried a plastic briefcase.


"I--I beg your pardon," she stammered. "I was expecting --"

"You were expecting maybe Menachem Begin?"

"Mr. Bittersohn! I'd never have known you."

"Such was the intention. Hurry and get into your sari."

"I don't have one."

"Yes, you do and tempus, as my new employer would say, fagit."

"But I don't know how they go."

"They threw in a diagram." He produced a costumer's box. "See, you put
on this blouse thing first, then wrap the curtain thing around you and
tuck it in and drag the free end up over your shoulder."

"What if it comes unwrapped?"

"Think positive. 1 suppose you'd prefer that } step out into the
corridor?"

"Considering what I'm going to have to take off to get this rig on,
yes."

Bittersohn went out, though he stayed close to the door. She could see
his shadow against the ground glass panel. After a minute or so he
called, "How are you doing?"

"This blouse is awfully tight," she gasped. "I think it's supposed to
button down the front and they haven't made an opening."

"Rise above it."

"That's what I'm doing."

"Want some help?"

"Don't you dare." She'd had to shed her brassiere as well as her slip.
At last she managed to cram her round little bosom into the skin-tight
bodice, then battled the seemingly endless folds of the sari until she
achieved something that bore a remote resemblance to the diagram. "All
right now, as long as I don't breathe. You may come in."

Bittersohn reappeared. "Not bad, for a beginner. Where's your lipstick?"

"On my lips, I thought."

90	Charlotte MacLeod


"I mean the rest of it. You need a caste mark."


"I need a safety pin."

"Cut the cracks and give me the watsis."

She handed him her lipstick out of her purse. He tilted up her chin so
he could see to make a dot on her forehead between the eyes. His hands
felt almost hot and Sarah was surprised to feel them tremble a little.
"There. 1 made a small one so you're only a half-caste."

"I think I'm totally miscast."

"Funny today, aren't you? Why didn't you put on the sandals?"

"Why didn't you remind me before i got into this cocoon? Now I'm afraid
to bend over."

"Where are they? In this bag?" Bittersohn snatched them out, knelt at
Sarah's feet, and changed her shoes while she perched on a banged-up
desk that was almost the room's only furnishing. "Now the makeup and the
wig."

"Makeup? What was the sense of painting that business on my forehead if
I have to put makeup over it? And how can I get my arms up to my head in
this straitjacket of a blouse?"

"I knew you'd turn out to be a nagger. Hurry it up, we've got to get
moving." He crammed the black wig down on her head and flipped its long,
thick braid over her shoulder. Then he took a long time trying to poke
the little tendrils of brown up off her cheeks. Sarah at last had to
finish the job herself.

"There, I'm as ready as I'll ever be. But what about our eyes? Yours are
bluish gray and mine are sort of greeny-hazel. Aren't Indian people's
always brown?"

"We'll have to keep these on." Bittersohn handed her a pair of cheap
sunglasses and put on another pair himself. "And remember, you don't
speak a word of English. If anybody speaks to you, just smile and shake
your head."

"What if the person is another Indian?"

"You speak a different dialect. Can't you quit grabbing at the sari as
if you were afraid it might fall off any second?"

"But I fully expect it to. May I wear my coat or shall I freeze to death
in the interests of artistic verisimilitude?"

"Would Mrs. Sorpende recognize the coat?"

"I don't see how she could. It's an old one of my mother's that I've
hardly ever worn and she never sees me dressed for the street anyway."

"Then sling it over your shoulders. Here, allow me." BitThe Palace
Guard	91


tersohn bundled Sarah and her assorted garments into the elevator, took
them down, and got them a cab. Using what he fondly believed to be a
British accent with weird sibilant overtones, he directed the driver to
the palace of Madarn Wilkins, Then he settled back to develop his role
while Sarah huddled in the opposite corner wondering whether to die of
embarrassment right away or wait until she was hooted into extinction at
the Madam's.


She needn't have fretted. Nobody noticed her at all. Mrs. Sorpende had
arrived immediately before them. Even the ticket taker at the door was
sighing. "Gripes, 1 didn't think they built 'em like that any more."

Sarah was hurried through the turnstile, then left to string along as
best she might. Perhaps Indian wives were expected to trail submissively
behind their spouses. Anyway, Bittersohn's efforts to get close to Mrs.
Sorpende were unlikely to attract remark either, since every other man
in the palazzo was trying to do the same. Hatless women in sensible
drip-drys threw angry glances as she sailed up the Grand Staircase with
her entourage.

Like Sarah, Mrs. Sorpende had left her coat in the cloakroom as the vast
skylights provided an effect of solar heating inside the palazzo. She
had on her one and only black daytime dress, a garment that would have
been sedate enough if it hadn't happened to fit so divinely. At throat
and cars were pearls so discreet as to seem genuine. On her intricately
dressed hair perched a whimsy of creamy satin and veiling that would
have driven Anatole of Paris to screaming frenzy. On her hands were
gloves of a dazzling whiteness. About her wafted a subtle hint of roses.
She was, in a word, sensational.

C. Edwald Palmerston was beaming. He kept patting Mrs. Sorpende's arm to
call her attention to one exhibit or another, and orating about the
paintings with as much gusto as though he hadn't been informed they were
copies. As they reached the Grand Salon and he started gushing about the
Romney, a remark of Dolores Tawne's flashed through Sarah's mind: "If
you can't tell, what difference does it make?"

So that was how he planned to handle the situation. If Max Bittersohn
should fail to recover the stolen paintings, and there were so many of
them gone for so long a time that how could he possibly get them
all?--then Palmerston would simply go on pretending no robbery had ever
happened. The copies would

92	Charlotte MacLeod


stay where the originals shouid have been, gathering more layers of dust
and varnish that would make it more difficult for even experts to spot
the fakery. For so long as Palmerston managed to hold on to his
trusteeship, he could see to it that no drastic cleaning or restoration
was done. His own face would be saved and another segment of Boston's
cultural heritage would be down the drain. Sarah made an involuntary
gesture of protest, and her sari came unwrapped.


Luckily all eyes in the vicinity were still on Mrs. Sorpende and there
was refuge at hand. It was fortunate that Madam Wilkins had gone in so
heavily for sedan chairs. Clutching the elusive silky folds as best she
could, Sarah streaked for the nearest, and shut herself inside.

The last occupant of this tiny box on poles might have been some wigged,
powdered, and unbathed beauty of Louis XV's reign. The chair smclled as
if it hadn't been aired since then. Its small oval windows were green
with age and veiled by dust. Sarah crouched gratefully on the narrow
seat, as far as she could get from the windows, and undertook repairs.

Desperately she searched the purse she'd remembered to bring with her
and produced, wonder of wonders, a small safety pin. After some
intricate contortions she managed to get her treacherous draperies
fairly smooth and secure. She could leave now. But she didn't. For one
thing, her feet were hurting because the nylons she couldn't have borne
to take off were making the floppy old sandals skid around. For another,
it was rather fun to peek from this secret vantage point at Mrs.
Sorpende and her admirers.

Bittersohn was ogling with the best of them and Sarah felt a twinge of
annoyance. Ah, now he'd missed his little Indian. He was looking all
over the Grand Salon and wasn't seeing her. Yet she herself had a clear
view of the entire area, while remaining hidden.

He was getting really puzzled, and beginning to look worried. While the
rest drifted on into the Titian Room he began to retrace his steps,
walking straight past the sedan chair. Sarah let herself out, noting
that the door moved readily without a squeak, and tiptoed up behind him.

"Looking for someone?"

He leaped. If he'd been closer to the balustrade and taken by surprise
like this, it might have been possible to shove him

The Palace Guard	93


over. Especially if he'd been an old man who wasn't too well. Joe
Witherspoon must have fallen from just about here.


"For God's sake, where were you?" he whispered fiercely.

All at once Sarah knew exactly where she'd been. She pointed at the
sedan chair. "In there. Where the murderer hid before he killed Joe
Witherspoon."

Bittersohn walked over, opened the door, stuck his head inside, then ran
his forefinger over one of the hinges and held it up filmed with fresh
oil. He nodded, wiped his hand on his handkerchief, then hurried Sarah
along to rejoin Palmerston's guided tour.

Now came the moment Sarah dreaded most. She stood face to face with her
fourth cousin twice removed. Brooks didn't so much as glance at her. He
manned his post like a soldier, though the fox of jealousy obviously
gnawed at his vitals. Every time Palmerston patted Mrs. Sorpende's white
glove, he winced. Every time Palmerston said, "Dear lady," his own lips
writhed in silent protest. And every time C. Edwald imparted a nugget of
information. Brooks contradicted him sotto voce. e.g.: "This, dear lady
[snarl], is a unique |commonplace] example of fourteenth- [seventeenth-]
century French [Flemish] embroidery [tapestry]. It depicts Cupid
languishing for Psyche [St. Gambrinus with a hangover)."

As snickers broke out among the group, Palmerston glared at the
temporary guard and steered Mrs. Sorpende across to the chapel. But by
escaping the knowledgeable Scylla he ran into a glowering Charybdis in
the uninspired shape of Dolores Tawne. For once Mrs. Tawne did not
appear overjoyed to see Mr. Palmerston. The gentleman himself turned red
as a withered beet, hastily dropped Mrs. Sorpende's arm, and performed
an awkward introduction.

"We've met," said Dolores, and went on polishing silver.

"Mrs. Tawne is a veritable bulwark of our museum," Palmerston stammered.

Mrs. Sorpende smiled inscrutably and said she'd been given to understand
so. Mrs. Tawne ignored them both. After an uncomfortable moment, the
sight-seeing party surged on. But the zest had gone out of the day for
Palmerston. His gallantries became furtive and far between. He would
have hurried his guest along had Mrs. Sorpende been the kind of lady who
allowed herself to be hurried. She continued to move with serene
deliberation from one fraudulent work of art to the next.

94	Charlotte MacLcod


Sarah was freezing. The sandals were raising blisters on the soles of
her feet. That too-tight blouse was a constant misery. Her sari felt
loose again and there were no more sedan chairs. She tugged at
Bittersohn's elbow from time to time but he sauntered on ogling the
imitation Donatellos and the star of the show with impartial admiration.
Only after he had watched the gracious lady's ceremonial departure in
Palmerston's limousine did he consent to leave.


"If that old letch stays to tea I'll die," Sarah groaned as they were
waving with faint hopes at taxis on the Fen way.

"He won't," Bittersohn assured her. "He'll rush straight back to make
his peace with Mrs. Tawne. He's scared to death of her, did you notice?"

"Perhaps she reminds him of his mother. Oh, dear, now we have to go back
to that office of yours and change again, don't we? And it's getting
awfully late. Mariposa will be wondering where I am. 1 hope to goodness
you've accomplished whatever you set out to do."

"I think we learned one or two things, though I'm not altogether sure
what. Anyway, I had a feeling it mightn't be too swift to let Mrs.
Sorpende go through the paiazzo without a bodyguard. And
furthermore"--he set his turban at a rakish angle as they at last
managed to flag a Checker taxi--"I've always had a hankering to wear one
of these things."

Chapter 13


Traffic was even worse than they'd expected. By the time they passed the
clock on the Arlington Street Church. Sarah was aghast to see that it
was almost a quarter to five.


"Mariposa will be having kitten fits!"

"There's a phone in the office. If we ever get there, call her and tell
her you've been unavoidably detained. Can't she start dinner without
you?" "Yes, 1 left everything ready, but what am 1 going to say? She
won't settle for unavoidably detained."

"Then tell her you got caught in a revolving door and have been going
around in circles ever since."

"That's exactly how I feel. 1 hope there's lots of cold cream in that
makeup kit you got with the costumes."

"What for?"

"To get this silly greasepaint off with, of course." "What's wrong with
soap and water?"

"Nothing except that it won't work."

"Oh, Jesus!"

Luckily they got to the Little Building soon afterward. It was in the
theatrical district, and a nearby drugstore had what they needed. Sarah
bought a box of tissues, too, and took a grim satisfaction in making
Bittersohn pay for them. Then they went up to the small, depressing
office, where their clothes lay sprawled across the desk and chair.

Sarah made her call, told Mariposa she'd been held up at the lawyer's
and please to start without her. "I'll be along as soon as I possibly
can," she added before Mariposa could express her feelings, and hung up.

Bittersohn was taking an experimental poke at the cold cream and not
liking it. "What are we supposed to do with this stuff?" "Smear it on
your face, then wipe it off with tissues. With any luck the makeup will
come, too."

"Show me."


95


96	Charlotte MacLeod


Sarah plastered her own cheeks with the white grease, then in
exasperation did his, too. They scrubbed and smeared until both were
more or less back to their normal hues.


"Now we must change. Will you go first, or shall I?"

"Why don't we just turn our backs and be ladies and gentlemen?"

"All right, it is getting awfully late." And Cousin Mabel was quite some
distance away. Sarah flipped the dirty Venetian blinds shut, retreated
behind the desk to give some semblance of privacy, and unwrapped her
sari. Then came the problem of getting out of that blouse, and there she
stuck, literally. She managed to get the bottom up just far enough to
immobilize her shoulder joints. Her arms were useless. She squirmed, she
struggled. Nothing would budge. At last she gasped. "You'll have to help
me."

"My God, how did you ever get into this thing in the first place?"
Bittersohn tugged with all his might. The blouse came off, and there was
Sarah.

That did it, of course. She'd known this was going to happen sooner or
later. She hadn't expected it to happen in a grimy office on the Windy
Corner with Bittersohn in his undershirt and herself in nothing but a
pair of panty hose and both their faces greasy with cheap cold cream.
And Mr. Porter-Smith, like as not, already on his way to the library in
his wine-colored tuxedo with the burgundy satin lapels expecting her to
be there to pour his sherry. It shouldn't be happening like this. It
shouldn't be happening at all with dear, darling Alexander only five
months dead. Yet she'd wanted it to happen. She wanted it to go on
happening until everything had happened that could happen, but she
mustn't let it. She pulled away and began putting on her clothes.

"I'm sorry," said Bittersohn huskily. "That was unpardonable of me."

"I know," she answered with her head turned away. "That's why I kept
slapping your face and telling you to stop. Oh, Max, I--" She had her
blouse and skirt on now. Maybe it would be all right to go back into his
arms, just for a moment. "Could you--bear with me a little while? Give
me a chance to get my feet under me?"

"Then what?" he murmured into the back of her neck.

"Then we'll have to see what develops, won't we?" She

The Palace Guard	97


could hear her voice shaking. So was her body. "You may decide you'd
rather not he bothered."


"Sarah, for God's sake! Do you know what it's like for me. lying alone
down there in the basement and knowing you're upstairs in that double
bed by yourself? It's getting so I have to chain myself to the
bedposts."

"Well, it's no picnic for me either, if you want to know. Furthermore,
you don't have any bedposts, so don't be melodramatic. Come on, get
dressed and let's go home before Charles evicts us both for lack of
couth."

"Jesus, you're a hard woman." Yet Bittersohn was smiling as they left
the office.

They walked back across the Common, it was silly to take a cab for so
short a distance, and pleasant for a weary young woman to hang on the
arm of a gallant gentleman who kept assisting her over the curbstones
and potholes even when there weren't any. They went in the back way
because it would have been silly to risk Mrs. Sorpende's seeing them
together and perhaps remembering something they didn't want her to know.
The little dark entry where the trash cans were kept happened to be a
safe though unromantic nook for a landlady to get kissed in by a boarder
without being caught. It would have been silly to pass up the chance.

What with avoiding all that silliness, it was perilously close to
dinnertime when Sarah rushed into the kitchen panting, "Mariposa, I'm so
sorry. Is everything all right?"

"Comin' along just fine, honey. Where you been all this time?"

"I told you, at the lawyer's office."

"Yeah, that's what you told me. El senor Max, he been at the lawyer's
office, too?"

"Of course not! We simply happened to run into one another."

"Must have been some collision!"

"I've got to change."

Sarah might have known Mariposa would see them coming in the back way
together and draw the obvious conclusion as to why it took her so long
to get upstairs. When she'd got to her room and caught a glimpse of her
smudged face and disordered garments in the mirror, she decided she
wouldn't have believed the story about the lawyer, either. Well,
Mariposa was a fine one to talk.

98	Charlotte MacLeod


She did a fast clean-up and threw on an indestructible dinner dress of
black crepe that had seen her mother through many a season before Sarah
fell heir to it. If she was subconsciously trying to remind herself that
she was still a widow mourning her beloved husband she couldn't be
succeeding any too well. She'd no sooner got down to the library than
Mrs. Gates commented, "Mrs. Kelling, you look positively radiant
tonight. May one hope that your meeting was successful?"


"We've made some progress, at any rate," said Sarah, trying not to look
at Mr. Bittersohn and sensing that he was trying not to look at her.
"Mrs. Sorpende, thank you so much for taking my place. You do it so much
better than I. Charles, have I time for a quick sherry before dinner?"

"You have five minutes, madam." Charles was clearly miffed at not having
been able to play to a full house during the past hour.

Sarah took the drink anyway. She felt the need. "How was your trip to
the Madam's, Mrs. Sorpende?"

"Highly educational." Mrs. Sorpende appeared radiant, too. Surely she
hadn't fallen for C. Edwald? How could she even tolerate the man, unless
she was taking into consideration his wealth, social position, and
availability? Mrs. Palmerston had died ages ago of sheer exasperation,
or so Anora Protheroe claimed. "To be sure," Mrs. Sorpende went on,
"there were many points on which I should require a great deal of
instruction. Do you think it would be in order for me to ask your cousin
Mr. Brooks Kelling to elucidate?"

"I think it would be quite in order. I'm sure Brooks knows lots more
than Mr. Palmerston." Sarah caught Charles's eye and nodded. "Shall we
go in?"

She didn't dare let Mr. Bittersohn sit beside her tonight, so she used
Mrs. Gates and Mr. Porter-Smith for buffers. He in retaliation turned
his attention to Miss LaValliere. Mrs. Sorpende got into a conversation
about Madam Wilkins with Mrs. Gates, who could well remember the
eccentric millionairess. Professor Ormsby, as usual, concentrated on
eating everything within sight. That left Sarah to Eugene Porter-Smith
and she was content that it should be so. One didn't have to converse
with Mr. Porter-Smith, one had only to nod at regular intervals and let
one's mind wander whither it listed. Sarah didn't dare let hers wander
to what had happened in Bittersohn's office, so she concentrated on the
sedan chair.

The Palace Guard	99


Why would Witherspoon's killer have had to hide in it? If he was one of
the other guards, he could have strolled over pretending to look at the
clock as Dolores Tawne suggested, commit a minor offense in the fountain
as Nick Fiennger claimed they did. or simply to stretch his legs and
chat a moment. Sarah didn't believe for a moment that every single one
of the guards, except probably the timid Melanson. was all that
punctilious about never leaving his station when there was a lull in the
flow of visitors.


If the killer was somebody Witherspoon didn't know, he or she could have
posed as a casual visitor, perhaps call the guard over to ask a question
or start to do a spot of damage so that Witherspoon would rush out from
the Titian Room to stop him. But if it was somebody who knew Joe
Witherspoon and wasn't supposed to be in the palazzo at that time, such
as Mr. Fitzroy, the superintendent, who was supposed to be taking the
day off--she realized she'd forgotten to nod at the right time and Mr.
Porter-Smith was looking put out.

"Do go on," she begged. "You have such a graphic way of explaining
things." Actually she hadn't the least notion what he'd been talking
about but Mr. Porter-Smith was quite ready to take her urging at face
value and let her get back to her ponderings.

Who else might have turned up when he shouldn't have? Dolores Tawne? No,
she appeared to have carte blanche to come and go as she pleased.
Dolores's brother Jimmy? He was said to have been sick, but was he?
Might he have pretended to stay away in order to give himself an alibi?
Then how would he have got up that all too open Grand Staircase without
being seen?

Unless he'd stayed inside the museum all the previous night. But he
couldn't have stayed the following night, too, because the museum was
searched. Had he gone back inside the chair and trusted to luck he'd be
overlooked in the confusion that was sure to follow Witherspoon's death?
Disguised himself as an Indian? Sarah thought she'd better not think too
much about disguises.

That act of Brown's with the chapel silver might well have been
prearranged to draw attention away from the Grand Salon so that somebody
who was in fact hidden in the sedan chair so conveniently near the
stairway would have a chance to get

100	Charlotte MacLeod


away while Brown was pretending to revive and drawing attention to the
imaginary assault.

Brown's being murdered afterward would make sense in that context. If
you'd played a part in somebody's murder plot, that somebody might
decide you weren't safe to be left alive, especially if you were lazy,
untrustworthy, and inclined to nip on the job. Unlikely as he sounded
from the little she'd heard of him, Sarah thought Jimmy Agnew couldn't
be counted out, if only because his station was so convenient to
Witherspoon's and because he was used to doing what he was told to do by
his sister, the ubiquitous handywoman.

And who else? Nick Fieringer? Sarah caught her breath. Theoretically
Nick should have been down on the second floor in the Tintoretto Room
during the concert, waiting there alone until the performers had
finished their playing and taken their bows and gone back there for the
modest reception that would follow. But had he? Nobody was apt to have
been checking on him, and even during the aftermath of the concert he
could have absented himself and not been greatly missed.

She'd noticed on the one or two other occasions when she'd been to
performances Fieringer arranged that he had a trick of self-effacement
he could turn on and off. It was part of his "good old Nick, always
ready to take a backseat and let his performers have all the credit"
routine. He could have nipped down that one flight of stairs even while
she and Max were talking to Brooks over under the Romney, where their
view of the stairs would have been obscured by those sedan chairs
scattered about the balcony. Then he'd simply have mingled with the
guests, pretending he'd been in the Tintoretto Room all the time.

If anybody had happened to see him coming from the third floor, he could
have used that obscene excuse of having gone up to the source of the
fountain to relieve himself. Since the top basin was on the far side of
the courtyard from the staircase, almost directly opposite where Joe
Witherspoon had gone over the balustrade, he could even have claimed
he'd seen the guard throw himself over, only he hadn't had to perjure
himself because he'd got away with it. Assuming of course that she
wasn't maligning an innocent man.

The performers themselves were assuredly innocent. They'd been on public
view all the time. But what about those tacky friends of Bernie the
pianist? According to Lydia Ouspenska

The Palace Guard	101


they were all petty thieves to begin with. Bengo painted genuine old
masterpieces. Lupe was an operator; there was no telling what the rest
might be up to, Sarah could believe almost anything of that lot but why
should they have hidden in the sedan chair? It was unlikely Witherspoon
would have known any of them, and they all looked much alike anyway.


Except Lydia Ouspenska. The countess would stand out anywhere. Since she
knew Dolores Tawne and had been Palmerston's mistress it was more than
likely she'd visited the pa4azzo on various occasions, and Witherspoon
had been there since the beginning of time. He'd surely have recognized
Lydia if she'd let him see her, and that sedan chair was precisely the
sort of exotic hiding place that would appeal to her sense of drama.

Sarah didn't want it to be Lydia. Enough of this. She gave Mr.
Porter-Smith a final nod, turned him over to Miss LaValliere, and
started talking to Mrs. Gates about Seiji Ozawa.

Chapter 14


This happened to be one of those evenings when everybody was going
somewhere. Mrs. Gates had a spare ticket to Symphony and asked Mrs.
Sorpende to go with her. Professor Ormsby had a faculty meeting. Miss
LaValliere's grandmother on Mount Vernon Street was giving a reception
and had commanded Jennifer to show up with a few presentable young men,
so Mr. Porter-Smith was obliging with his august self and a couple of
his underlings from the accounting office. Mariposa and Charles had
plans of their own, no doubt.


That left Sarah alone with Max Bittersohn. She was wondering if it would
be madness to invite him up to her private sitting room and he was no
doubt wondering whether she'd be mad enough to ask him, when the
doorbell rang. "I'll get it," Sarah said, rather glad of an excuse to
break the tension.

"No, 1 will. I don't want you answering doors after dark." The dominant
male strode to the hallway. A moment later Sarah heard him say, "Advance
and give the password."

"Wilkins, 1 expect," came Brooks Killing's voice. "Are you receiving
tonight?"

"Sure. My esteemed landlady and I were just wondering where we could
find a third for pinochle. What's up?"

"First, I thought you'd be interested to know that Palmerston called a
meeting of the guards this morning, myself included, and informed us
he's arranged with an outside expert to make an appraisal of the
paintings in the museum."

"I was wondering when he'd think of that. Who's he getting, do you
know?"

"A Spaniard connected with the Prado, 1 believe. His name is Dr.
Aguinaldo Ruy Lopez."

"Do tell. When's he supposed to be coming?"

"Tomorrow no less. Palmerston says he's flying Ruy Lopez in from
Barcelona at his own expense."

"I thought the Prado was in Madrid," said Sarah.

"It is. Please don't inject trivia. As I was about to say,


102


The Palace Guard	103


Palmerston told us that after the recent disturbing events, as he so
genteelly alluded to them, he'd decided on the appraisal as a routine
formality. He said it was a decision of the board of trustees, which is
a lot of rot. They haven't held a meeting in fifteen years."


"Was Mrs. Tawne at your meeting?"

"Of course."

"What did she think of Palmerston's idea?"

"She was all for it. Afterward she tried to make us believe she was the
one who'd suggested it in the first place."

"After the meeting?"

"No, later. After he'd flaunted his conquest."

"Brooks, do quit curling your lip like that," cried Sarah. "Surely you
can't think an intelligent woman like Mrs. Sorpende could have been
taken in by that old gasbag? She was only being civil to him because she
didn't want to embarrass me. Since he made the offer in my house, she
thought it her duty to be gracious and accept."

"Oh? Does she look upon me as a duty, too?"

"Don't be silly. She considers you a pleasure and a privilege. And for
your information she's gone to Symphony with Mrs. Gates tonight, so you
needn't flash those big green eyes. She'll be desolate when she finds
she's missed you. She was asking me at dinner if 1 thought she could get
you to explain some things about the Madam's because Palmerston's such
an idiot she couldn't understand what he was trying to say half the
time."

"Was she indeed?"

"Well, she's too much of a lady to come straight out and say so, but
that was the clear implication. Wasn't it, M-Mr. Bittersohn?"

"I never heard anything more clearly not said. Getting back to this Ruy
Lopez. Kelling, have you any idea when he's due to arrive?"

"Nine o'clock in the morning. Time and a half for the extra hour since
we don't usually open to the public till ten. We were all pathetically
grateful for this unexpected largesse."

"No doubt. How might one get a look at Ruy Lopez?"

"One might lurk in the shrubbery."

"One might get run in as a suspicious character. Any more bright ideas?"

"Would you be content with a photograph?"

104	Charlotte MacLeod


"Sure, but what makes you think he'd pose for you?"


"Naturally he wouldn't know the pictures were being taken."

"I see. You'd have a miniature camera concealed in your tiepin."

"No, my belt buckle. 1 got the idea from a Dick Tracy cartoon and worked
out the details myself. I use it mostly for photographing ospreys' nests
and so forth. !t leaves both hands free to hang on with when I'm in a
high tree or dangling on a rope over a precipice. After all, I'm not so
young as I used to be."

Bittersohn grinned. "You'll never get me to believe that. Are you sure
he won't spot the camera?"

"You didn't." Brooks produced two tiny but embarrassingly good prints.
One showed Bittersohn in his turban gazing at Mrs. Sorpende's rear
elevation with a disgusting leer on his temporarily swarthy face. The
second was of Sarah clutching her disintegrating sari with one hand and
rubbing a blistered foot with the other.

"My GodI Do you think Palmerston recognized us, too?"

"I'm sure he didn't. You have to remember, Bittersohn, that I'm a highly
trained observer. Once you've learned to identify thirty or forty
different warblers on the wing you're unlikely to be put off by a dot of
lipstick on the forehead of your own fourth cousin twice removed.
Actually your disguises were very good, although I think Sarah would
have been more comfortable in a looser bodice. As a matter of academic
curiosity, Sarah, how did you ever get in and out of that garment?"

"With great difficulty," she replied demurely. "What else did you have
to tell us, Brooks?"

"Well, for another thing, the natives are restless. None of the guards
believes Brown killed himself and they're beginning to wonder about
Witherspoon. There's a lot of talk. Not to Dolores, of course."

"Because she carries tales to Palmerston?"

"Mainly because they don't like her. I've always considered Dolores the
salt of the earth, but now that I'm in close daily contact with her I
find she tends to be something of a bully, if one can apply that epithet
to a woman, as I suppose one can nowadays. For instance, she laid
Melanson out this morning for being a rabbit, which was both unkind and
zoologically inaccurate."

The Palace Guard	105


"Has she expressed any theories about Brown and With- erspoon?" asked
Bittersohn.


"She's convinced that both deaths were accidental, or says she is. She
claims Brown tried to fake a suicide for the same reason he rigged that
stupid robbery scene in the chapel, as a childish bid for attention. She
claims a man who drank things like bay rum and vanilla extract probably
figured a little paint remover wouldn't hurt him. One has to admit
that's a credible hypothesis. She also claims Brown led Jimmy astray,
however, and that's arrant hogwash."

"What does Jimmy himself say?"

"Nothing worth repeating. Jimmy never has a thought in his head that
isn't directly concerned with getting a drink."

"Was he really sick last Sunday?" Sarah asked.

"I presume so because he had to pay me to substitute for him out of his
own pocket, or his sister's more likely. Jimmy had already used up his
annual sick leave nursing hangovers. What makes you think he wasn't?"

"I was just thinking." She explained what she'd been thinking. "Does
that make any sense to you? Would it be possible, for instance, for
Jimmy Agnew to have reached the third floor and got out again without
being spotted on a day when he was supposed to be absent?"

Brooks thought the matter over. "I can't say its impossible," he said at
last. "For one thing, one gets so used to seeing a guard in uniform that
even his ordinary outdoor clothing might constitute a sufficient
disguise. Then you have to consider the small number of guards on duty
in relation to the amount of clutter we're supposed to be able to see
around. It would not be hard for a person to get into that sedan chair
without being seen, just as you did this afternoon even though a
considerable number of people were standing not far away. As to what
might have drawn Joe Witherspoon away from the Titian Room, I'm afraid
the crass suggestion made by Mr. Fieringer is not wholly unreasonable.
Joe's kidneys were a source of vulgar ribaldry around the locker room.
The person in the sedan chair would only have to lie low and wait for
the opportune moment, dump Joe as he was going along the balcony, then
jump back in again and choose an opportune moment to escape. Brown's
trick in the chapel, as you suggest, might have been deliberately
planned to provide that moment. Alternatively, the murderer might have
stayed in the chair till everybody else had cleared

106	Charlotte MacLeod


out, then simply left at his leisure. There's only one watchman at
night. Anybody with even a vague knowledge of the layout would be able
to dodge him easily enough. 1 don't know about those other people you
mention, but surely anybody who has access to the palazzo during the off
hours, such as Dolores or Mr. Fitzroy, or Mr. Paimerston--"


"I'd root for Mr. Paimerston on general principles," said Sarah, "except
that he's far more interested in avoiding scandals at the Madam's than
causing them. Besides--"

"Besides what?"

"I'm afraid Mr. Bittersohn isn't going to like this idea."

Mr. Bittersohn didn't. When she mentioned Nick Fieringer, he shook his
handsome head. "I can't buy that. Nick was with the musicians. Ask
Bernie. Ask that kid who thinks she's a cellist. Both of whom would lie
their heads off for the great impresario, no doubt. Why did you have to
think of Nick?"

"I'm sorry. Maybe you can find witnesses who saw him during the whole
performance. Unbiased ones, 1 mean."

"Who's unbiased? Nick is everybody's pal. If they didn't see him for a
while, they'd think he was out packing up the music or something. How
did 1 get myself into this, anyway? I think I'll give up my sordid
profession and get Mrs. Sorpende to teach me Belgian lacework instead."

"Is Mrs. Sorpende a lacemaker?" Cousin Brooks perked up. "I designed an
improved butterfly net years ago, but could never find anybody able to
make a trial model for me."

"I'm sure she'd be thrilled to pieces if you asked her," said Sarah.
"Why don't you come to dinner again tomorrow night and bring your
plans?"

"Splendid suggestion. Thank you. Sarah." And off he bounded, happy as a
bunny in a clover field.

Sarah yawned. "What a day this has been! I'd better put the porridge to
soak and go to bed."

"Need any help?" Bittersohn asked hopefully as he followed her out to
the kitchen.

"At what?"

She laughed and blushed. He bent and kissed her gently on the mouth. It
was too much like that last night in the kitchen at Ireson's Landing,
the one night of her seven-year marriage when she and Alexander had been
truly happy together. She buried her face in Bittersohn's shirt front
and burst into tears.

The Palace Guard	107


"For God's sake, Sarah!" He was talking through clenched teeth. "Is this
what it's going to be like every time?"


She wiped her eyes and tilted her head back to look him full in the
face. "Now, you listen to me. Max Bittersohn. I'm going to be
twenty-seven years old next month and Alexander would have been
fifty-one in September. We never had a marriage at all, in the usual
sense of the word. But we did love each other and--and what sort of
woman would I be to you if I could just stick him off somewhere like a
book I'd finished reading and never think of him again? I'm not going to
pretend I don't want you, because I do. If you can't wait till I'm
ready, then that's my tough luck. But there's no sense in your trying to
force the issue because I'm doing the best I can and I can't do any
better."

Bittersohn kissed her again, even more gently than before. "I'll be
around, Sarah. Let me know when you're ready, okay?"

She managed to smile. "I'll more or less have to. shan't I? Good night.
Max. Keep your buttons on."

Chapter 15


Knowing where they stood with one another made the situation between
Sarah and Max Bittersohn easier in some ways, harder in others. For
instance, it was difficult to maintain a serene and decorous mien in
front of Mrs. Gates and Mrs. Sorpende when one was getting pinched in a
sensitive place and Mariposa was being ever so obvious about not
noticing what was going on behind one's chair. Life was never like this
in the old days, when Alexander would have been letting himself be
browbeaten by Aunt Caroline, and Edith would have been making a great
to-do about clearing away because she was so grievously overworked. One
could adjust to change. One simply gave one's lovesick swain a mild kick
on the ankle and went about one's daily tasks.


If one rushed to be downstairs early, dressed in one's best, to meet
one's boarder for sherry, one was only making up for one's dereliction
of the previous evening. If one's first arrival happened to be Cousin
Brooks, one merely tried not to look disappointed.

"Hi, Sarah, where is everybody?" was his greeting.

"Getting dressed for dinner, mostly. They should start trickling down
pretty soon. Were you looking for somebody special?"

"Yes, Bittersohn. I have his pictures."

"So soon? Mariposa, would you mind--"

But Mariposa didn't have to mind. Bittersohn, usually the last one to
arrive, came charging in. "I thought I heard the patter of little feet.
How did you make out, Kelling?"

"Rather successfully, I think." Brooks passed over the tiny squares of
paper.

Bittersohn took a look and went into convulsions. When he could speak,
he passed the snapshots over to Sarah. "Get a load of Palmerston's
expert!"

"It can't be!"

"Would your own fourth cousin's belt buckle lie to you?"


108



The Palace Guard	109


said Bittersohn. "it's Lupe all right. Look at those weaselly little
eyes, and the beard." In spite of the ambassadorial garb arid a strange
appearance of having bathed and visited a barber, the man in the
pictures was indubitably their recent acquaintance from Brookline
Village. "I don't know how he dealt this hand, but maybe I'll find out
later. I'm planning to see him, you know."


"Oh yes, this was the night he's to have Rembrandt's cat ready. Do you
think he will?"

"Sure. He's probably authenticating the cat right now. That, madam, is
an operator."

Charles, who had just got home from the plastics factory and made his
quick change into his buttling garb, came rushing through the hail to
answer the doorbell. A moment later he coughed sadly at the library
door. "Mr. Palmerston is here, madam. Will he be staying to dinner?"

"He will not," said Sarah. "You may as well show him in. Mr. Bittersohn,
shall Brooks and I leave?"

"No, stick around. This should be interesting."

Palmerston bustled in behind Charles. "Well, Bittersohn, I'm happy to
inform you that the situation is under control."

"Great," said Bittersohn.

"You may well say so. I had the inspired thought of getting
your--er--friend's findings verified by a genuine expert. I selected Dr.
Agumaldo Ruy Lopez who, as you must of course know, is one of Europe's
leading authorities on pre- and postRenaissance paintings."

"How about during?" said Bittersohn.

Palmerston pretended not to hear. "I had Dr. Ruy Lopez flown to Boston
at my own expense. He visited the Wilkins Museum first thing this
morning and spent much of the day examining the paintings you
questioned. He informs me on the basis of his own personal
knowledge"--Palmerston waggled a bony forefinger to emphasize every
word--"his--own-- personal--knowledge, mind you, that your appraisal was
wrong in almost every case."

"Was the curator from the Metropolitan wrong, too?"

"There is," said Palmerston with aristocratic hauteur, "such a thing as
professional jealousy. I make no such accusation. The charitable
assumption is that you and your--er--associates, whoever they may be,
were misled by the possibility that very old copies of the paintings may
exist, or even that modern


110	Charlotte MacLeod


copies may conceivably have been made and sold as originals. Dr. Ruy
Lopez informs me that this sort of thing is occasionally done
by--er--unscrupulous people."


"Dr. Ruy Lopez would certainly know. May 1 ask how you happened to think
of calling him in?"

"As a matter of fact, I did not think of him. My first inclination was
to approach someone known to me personally. Upon sober reflection,
however, I deemed it wiser to employ an expert who had no connection
with any local museum and might therefore be relied upon to give a
totally--er--nonparochial opinion. I then conferred with various persons
whose opinions I respect. Several names were put forth and it was
determined that Dr. Ruy Lopez would be the best man for the job. A
transatlantic telephone call and a bit of string-pulling with one of the
larger airlines, and the thing was done." He favored them with a smirk
of self-congratulation.

"I suppose it was Mrs. Tawne who suggested Dr. Ruy Lopez," Sarah
observed innocently.

"No, as a matter of fact it was our musical director, Mr. Nicholas
Fieringer."

Bittersohn looked a bit sick.

"Dr. Ruy Lopez has in fact given me the names of three paintings he
believes to be spurious." Palmerston dragged out a gold-tooled leather
notebook bristling with slips of paper. "Ah, yes, here it is. These, he
tells me. are post-Renaissance copies about which he believes Mrs.
Wilkins must have been duped at the time of purchase."

"And you're willing to take his word against the opinions of three
others?"

"I fail to see why 1 should not. The unbiased opinion of an eminent
scholar appears to bear sufficient weight to offset the casual
speculations of--er--possible sensation seekers. Therefore 1 have
decided to proceed no further. This wholi affair, sir, was a mare's
nest."

"The hell it was."

"Mr. Bittersohn, if you persist in your efforts to pursue an
investigation, 1 shall be forced to give credence to a suspicion that
has been voiced to me but that 1 have hitherto been reluctant to
entertain." Palmerston puffed out his cheeks and glared down his nose.
"It is that you have seized upon the chance to exploit our recent
tragedies with the object of mulcting the Wilkins Museum of a
substantial fee."

The Palace Guard	I 11


Bittersohn half rose from his chair.


"But of course," Palmerston went on quickly, "such behavior would be
unthinkable in a person of your--er--doubtless merited professional
standing. So 1 think the best plan at this juncture will be for us to
agree quietly among ourselves that a mistake has been made and part with
no hard feelings on either side. You must feel free, of course, to
submit a bill to me personally for whatever services you may have
rendered in good fasth, even though they turned out to
be--er--unnecessary."

"Good night, Mr. Palmerston," said Bittersohn quietly.

Sarah touched the bell. "Charles, show Mr. Palmerston out."

"I trust you understand my position, Mrs, Keliing." The head trustee
twisted his features into a placatory simper. "I should not wish to lose
your good opinion of me."

"My opinion of you has not changed, Mr. Palmerston. Good night."

"Perhaps you will convey my respects to Mrs. Sorpende?"

Sarah did not answer. Charles stood waiting. Palmerston left. "Charles,"
said Sarah after the door had closed, "if that man ever tries to set
foot in this house again, you're to pour boiling oil on his head."

"It will be my pleasure, madam. May I offer you sherry?"

"By all means."

Brooks raised his glass. "Confusion to our enemy!"

"I'll drink to that," said Sarah. "I hope he develops a carbuncle where
it hurts most."

"I hope he chokes," snarled Bittersohn, "when 1 make him eat his words."

They ate, drank, and were merry to show they didn't care. After dinner
Bittersohn went downstairs to equip himself for the expedition to
Brookline Village. Rather alarmed, Sarah made an excuse about something
in the laundry room and followed him.

"Max, you're not going to see that Lupe now, are you?"

"Sure, why not?"

"But suppose he's found out who you really are?"

"Big deal. I've been fired from the case, remember?"

"You don't intend to drop it, then?"

"How can I? Don't you think Palmerston is going to start


112	Charlotte MacLeod


dropping hints around town about Bittersohn the phony? You heard him
offer me a bribe. He'll be saying I can be bought. If my reputation for
honesty and reliability gets cut down, I'll be lucky to wind up teaching
art history at Miss Foofeldinker's finishing school for thirty bucks a
week. Damn it, Sarah"--he put his arms around her and rested his cheek
on her soft hair--

"you wouldn't want that to happen, would you?"


"Having you cooped up in a classroom with a lot of Miss LaVallieres
twitching their behinds at you? I should say not! All right, Max, give
me five minutes to change."

"You're not coming, fischele. Go be a nice landlady."

Sarah knew better than to insist. She rejoined her boarders and found
the library a scene of infant gaiety. Cousin Brooks was demonstrating
how he ran a birthday party. He was impersonating a barn owl. Mrs.
Sorpende was acting with verve the part of a field mouse about to be
caught. Professor Ormsby was the barn, Miss LaValliere the weather vane,
Mrs. Gates the cow in the stall, and Mr. Porter-Smith a badger for some
reason Sarah couldn't grasp.

There was a great deal of giggling and scuttling about, then Cousin
Brooks pounced on Mrs, Sorpende and announced that the owl had caught
the field mouse, the badger must return to its hole beside the barn and
usually about now they served the ice cream and birthday cake. He
whipped a handful of paper hats out of his pocket and passed them
around. They all put on the hats and sang, "Happy birthday to you."

Charles, caught up in the general merriment, entered with a tray of
liqueurs. Mrs. Sorpende insisted on lighting a candle for Brooks to blow
out before he was allowed to sip his creme de menthe. It was all so
charmingly silly that Sarah almost forgot to worry about Max until the
doorbell rang.

Charles parked his tray on the Chippendale lowboy and went to see who
was there. He came back and murmured to Sarah, "Mr. Fieringer would like
to sec you, madam."

"Heavens, don't let him in here." The entire group, wearing their paper
hats, were now playing ring-around-a-rosy with Mrs. Gates as the rosy
since she was too old and frail to go cavorting about like the rest.
"Take him up to the studio, i'll see him there." Forgetting to take off
her paper hat, she went to greet the impresario. Fieringer was looking
unhappy, and Sarah knew he expected her to be furious with him about
Bittersohn's getThe Palace Guard	113


ting fired. She was, now that she remembered. Too late, she also
remembered the paper hat. Snatching it off, she demanded. "Is this a
friendly visit, Mr. Fieringer. or did you come to be offensive like your
boss?"


"I came to see is my old friend Maxie mad at me," he replied frankly.

"I am not in a position to answer for Mr. Bittersohn."

"Beautiful lady, what could I do? Paimerston comes to me with a problem.
Everybody brings problems to old Nick. Paimerston says to me, 'Who can 1
get?' I say Bittersohn is best. He says, 'Bittersohn is Harvard, I am
Yale Class of '32, how can 1 trust Bittersohn?'"

"Are you sure that's what he said. Mr. Fieringer? In the first place,
Mr. Bittersohn went to Boston University."

"So all right it's Paimerston went to Harvard and BU he doesn't trust.
I'm an old man, 1 get confused. And Bill Jones--"

"Oh, you know Bill Jones?"

"I tell you. lady, 1 know everybody. 1 see Bill Jones at the Madam's
poking around, I know Maxie must have sent him. Bill Jones is from
stolen originals an expert, naturally he teils Maxie stolen originals,
not somebody passing fakes."

"Are you implying that Bill Jones lied?"

"Bill Jones lied?" Nick was horrified. "Bill couldn't lie about nothing.
Not to save his own mother Bill couldn't lie. That's why he gets along
so good with crooks. I don't say Bill lied, only he made a mistake."

"And Mr. Bittersohn and that curator from the Metropolitan made a
mistake, too? A mistake that must run into heaven knows how many million
dollars? That was some mistake, wasn't it?"

"Exactly." Fieringer smiled broadly and wiped his forehead. "Is too big
a problem to trust to one expert. Better we get somebody international
is what Paimerston says."

"I'd like to know who's more international than Mr. Bittersohn. We never
know whether he's going to call up from Brussels or Bangkok to say he'll
be late for dinner."

Fieringer perspired yet more freely. "Beautiful lady, all I know is
Paimerston is my boss. He asks me who in the world is best. I tell him
after Bittersohn, Ruy Lopez is best. 'So we get Ruy Lopez,' he says.
Believe me. I had nothing more to do with it than that."

114	Charlotte MacLeod


"How did you happen to know about Dr. Ruy Ix>pez?"


"I hear the name from somebody. Everybody tells old Nick everything, 1
tell Palmerston, he takes it from there."

"Oh, then you didn't make the contact yourself?"

"Me? If it's a bassoon player maybe Palmerston lets me make the contact.
In so important a matter you think he trusts only the word of old Nick
Fieringer? He checks with the Art Museum naturally, he checks maybe at
the Fogg. the BuschReisinger, how do I know where else? They say get Ruy
Lopez, he gets Ruy Lopez."

"Oh, then quite a number of people would have known what he was
intending to do?"

"But of course. With Palmerston is always the fanfare of trumpets, the
beating of drums."

And after all that trouble, he'd come up with a Lupe. "How remarkable,"
said Sarah.

Chapter 16


What was also remarkable was the way Fieringer was sweating. His
yellowish fat face shone like a full moon. A wet ball of handkerchief
was clenched in his fist. Immense dark crescents were spreading under
the armpits of his gray suit coat. In this prim little room with its
white paint and figured chintz he was monstrous. Sarah wished
desperately that he'd leave, yet she knew she would have to keep him
there until Max Bittersohn returned.


"Do let me offer you something to drink," she urged. "Would you care for
coffee? A liqueur? Cold beer?"

"Beer would be fine." He licked his lips. It was obvious that old Nick
wasn't enjoying this visit any more than Sarah was, but had no intention
of leaving without seeing Bittersohn. Why? Did he know who the alleged
Ruy Lopez who'd appeared at the Madam's really was, and did he want to
find out if Bittersohn knew, too? Had Palmerston sent him to make sure
the case would really be dropped? Was it simply that this fat old man
felt a need to make peace? Could he not bear to have anybody angry with
him?

As this musical Falstaff pulled noisily at the beer Charles brought,
Sarah thought what a remarkable unsavory person he was to be near. He
was clean enough as far as that went, but he was so appallingly gross!
And there was that overdone effusiveness, with the tension rasping
underneath enough to set one's teeth on edge. She began to wonder if all
those people really liked Nick all that much. Everyone's pal might be
nobody's friend. And he'd know. What a ghastly life it must be for a
sensitive man.

"Let me have Charles bring up some fresh beer for you."

Now she was doing what others must do. People would always be overly
affable with Nick Fieringer because they'd always be ashamed of what
they were feeling toward him. They'd know it was unfair to loathe a man
just because he was such a mess but how did one control an instinctive
revulsion?


115



116	Charlotte MacLeod


Didn't he ever want to hit back? Was that what he'd done at the Madam's?


If Nicholas Fieringer's revenge on Boston had taken the form of a
multimillion-dollar art robbery, what had he done with the proceeds? He
was perpetually, notoriously hard up. Was the poverty a bluff, like his
hearty good-fellowship? Had he got the money salted away somewhere ready
for him to go off and enjoy while he had his private laugh at the fools
who'd despised him and let him rob them blind? Or had he spent it on
buying a reputation for being a good guy? Sponges like Bernie, leeches
like that Lupe creature could get through fortunes in no time flat, as
Sarah knew to her sorrow. They'd throw it away on drugs or gambling or
whatever caught their fancies and come dancing back to good old Nick for
more. To her surprise, Sarah felt tears rolling down her cheeks.

Fieringer could hardly have helped noticing. "What's wrong, beautiful
lady? Tell old Nick. Everybody brings their troubles to Nick."

She brushed a hand over her face. "It's just that you reminded me for a
moment of my husband. I suppose you know what happened to him. It wasn't
very long ago, you know, and I still haven't quite--"

Whatever was possessing her to go on like that? How could any two people
on earth have been less alike than this fat, sweating, vulgar hulk and
the incredibly handsome, fastidious aristocrat she'd loved and lost? Yet
there had been the same tension under Alexander's eternal
self-possession, that same need to be the kind father figure on whom the
whole Kelling clan dumped their problems, and that same cruel
exploitation, although thank God he never found it out. She had often
resented him for being the way he was, and felt ashamed of herself and
tried to make up for it by being extra sweet just as she was doing now
with Nick Fieringer. And Nick was taking it in the way most dreadful to
her, as she ought to have known he would.

"Believe me, it is a great honor what you say. I will cherish always in
my heart the memory. Only when 1 die will be no beautiful woman to weep
for me." He was grimacing like somebody in an ad for denture cleaners.
It was obscene.

"I'm sure that isn't so," she replied lamely. How in God's name did one
talk to a man like this without vomiting? One

The Palace Guard	117


might at least try to get away from personalities. "I've often
wondered," she ventured, "exactly what an impresario does."


Fieringer told her. It took forever. In the midst of his monologue he
excused himself with a mixture of playfulness and embarrassment to go to
the bathroom. Was there nothing the man could do without giving it the
flavor of a dirty joke? She longed for him to go away, for Bittersohn to
come back, for the house to catch fire, for anything at all that would
get her out of this. She'd given Charles pointed orders to show Mr.
Bittersohn up here the second he set foot in the house. At last, at very
long last, he came.

"How are you, Nick? Sorry to keep you waiting so long. Did Mrs. Kelling
offer you anything to drink?" His heartiness was as false as Fieringer's
although he was managing it more gracefully.

Sarah was frantic to get him alone and find out what had happened at
Lupc's but no relief was in sight. First the impresario had to tell his
dear friend Maxie what a wonderful time he'd been having with the
beautiful landlady in a way that made Sarah want to go and take a long,
hot shower. Then he had to make his speech about Palmerston and Ruy
Lopez. The version he gave Max didn't jibe any too well with the story
he'd told her, Sarah noted. How could the man succeed at grand larceny
over a long span of years if he couldn't manage to keep his lies
straight for a single evening? Sarah heaved a silent sigh and rang for
more beer.

"By the way, Nick," said Bittersohn a bottle or so later, "have you run
into Lydia lately?"

Fieringer burped and excused himself too elaborately. "Lydia who?" He
was slightly owlish by now.

"Countess Ouspenska. Palmerston's old girl friend."

"Was she? 1 never knew that. I don't believe it." Nick's voice was
uninterested but he slopped a little of his beer on the nice old Chinese
oriental Anora Protheroe had given Sarah during her renovations.

"She says she was," Bittersohn insisted.

"She says she's a countess."

"She calls him Chuckie." Sarah interjected.

"When does she call him Chuckie?" All of a sudden Fieringer was cold
sober.

"Last night when they were both visiting here."

118	Charlotte MacLeod


The impresario slopped more beer. "What was Lydia doing here?"


"She didn't say. I assumed she merely happened to be in the neighborhood
and stopped by to say hello."

"But how could a woman like her know a woman like you?"

Sarah gave him a dose of his own medicine. "Oh, I know everybody. I
think the countess is delightful."

"I haven't seen her lately," he answered hollowly. "I haven't seen her
for a long time." A few minutes later, Fieringer got up and left.

"Now what the flaming hell," said Bittersohn, "is eating him?"

"He's afraid you don't love him any more."

"I don't think I do. I'm not sure 1 ever did."

"I've been wondering whether anybody does."

"Oh, sure, Nick has lots of--I see what you mean."

"It's tragic, isn't it? One shouldn't blame him for being what he is."

"I can blame him," Bittersohn replied grimly. "My great old pal, knifing
me in the back to keep on the right side of that bastard Palmerston."

"Has it occurred to you that it wasn't on account of Palmerston he
wanted the hunt called off?"

"If you really think he's the man behind the robberies, you should have
had sense enough not to stay up here alone with him."

"He wouldn't have dared try anything. He knew I'd only to touch the bell
and Charles would come rushing up, because I kept ringing for more beer.
I knew I had to keep him here till you got back. Believe me, it wasn't a
job I'd have taken on for the fun of it."

"Greater love hath no woman." Bittersohn put out a tentative hand toward
her, then decided he hadn't better. "Thanks, Sarah, but for God's sake
be careful."

"I am, don't worry. Tell me, how did you make out in Brookline?"

"I learned one thing: whoever's doing those copies for the Madam's, it
sure as hell isn't Lupe's friend Bengo."

"It wasn't Rembrandt's cat?"

"It wasn't Rembrandt's anything. That jerk must have been stoned to the
eyeballs. He got hold of the wrong postcard and copied a Botticelli."

The Palace Guard	\ 19


"Was it a good Botticelli?"


"There's no such thing as a good Botticelli." Bittersohn had violent
personal opinions about the field he worked in, though he seldom
expressed them to his clients.

"Don't be so superior. You know what 1 mean."

"I suppose with enough dirty varnish and a beat-up gold frame it might
fool a blind man in a bad light. At least he saved me from having to buy
the picture. I got sore and said it was Rembrandt's cat or nothing, and
flounced off in a huff."

"Didn't Lupe promise to have the cat ready for you in a few days?"

"No, he seemed fairly indifferent about the whole deal. I suppose he
didn't care because he'd already collected a wad from Palmerston. And an
extra commission from my old buddy Nick, no doubt. I wish I knew who
actually engineered the Ruy Lopez deal and whether or not Palmerston
knew he had a ringer slipped in. Does he have a secretary?"

"I shouldn't be surprised, though 1 can't say for sure. He does have his
odd-job lady Dolores Tawne, and he had Lydia Ouspenska last night."

"How do you know?"

"Don't be salacious. I've had all the bawdry I can take for one evening.
Anyway, you know as well as 1 do that they left here together. And he
was surprised and angry to sec her here and got her away as fast as he
could, and it might have been because he didn't want her to start
talking about transatlantic phone calls before he was ready to spring
Ruy Lopez on you."

"Why would he get Lydia to make the calls?"

"I don't know. Because he's the sort of person who always orders other
people to do things he could perfectly well do for himself. I suppose."

"He'd have to be an awful idiot to entrust any sort of responsibility to
Lydia."

"But he is an awful idiot. At least Aunt Caroline and Leila Lackridge
always said he was. And look what a fool he made of himself with Mrs.
Sorpende at the Madam's yesterday. Maybe he was used to relying on
Lydia's opinions about art back in their courting days. She is a really
good painter in her way, and perhaps she does know something about art
in general. He did say he'd discussed the choosing of an expert with
various people whose opinions he values, and she might have been one of
them. If he did, couldn't she and Mr. Fieringer have cooked

120	Charlotte MacLeod


up the Ruy Lopez thing between them? She wouldn't see the implications
for you, she'd just think it was a jolly bohemian joke to play on the
old goat who jilted her. Maybe that's why Mr. Fieringer denied that
she'd been Palmerston's girl friend when he claims to know all about
everybody, and why he left in such a hurry after the subject came up."


"You're full of ideas lately aren't you, madam?" "Why have you started
calling me madam all of a sudden?" "Hell, 1 can't say Sarah in front of
the troops, and surely you don't expect me to say Mrs. Kelling any more.
Sarah, did you honestly mean what you told me last night?" "Yes, Max.
All of it."

"Then I guess I'd better go take another cold shower. In case you don't
realize it, all this noble high-mindedness is doing one hell of a job on
your water bill."

Chapter 17


The late breakfasters were sitting around the table the following
morning when who should come along, chirpy as a chickadee, but Brooks
Kelling. "Thought I'd pay a morning call while I'm out for my
constitutional," he explained. "Where's Porter- Smith?"


"Gone to work." Sarah handed him a cup of coffee. "We don't all keep
bankers' hours, you know."

"I thought accountants might. Why, thank you, Theonia, those muffins
look delicious. I meant to show Porter-Smith a few of the pictures I've
taken with my miniature camera under varying conditions. We were
discussing photography last night."

"Perhaps you would show the pictures to us," Mrs. Sorpende suggested.
"Delighted." With a conjurer's flourish, he plucked them out of her hair
and passed them around.

"What's this?" asked Max Bittersohn, who was seldom at his best so early
in the day. "A sack of marbles?"

"You're holding it upside down. That's a nest of turtle eggs."

"But where is the mother turtle?" asked Mrs. Sorpende.

"Off doing her thing somewhere. Turtles are lousy mothers. She just lays
'em and leaves 'em."

"Sounds like Lydia Ouspenska," said Bittersohn.

"And she never gets to see her babies." Mrs. Sorpende was quite properly
ignoring such ribaldry. "How sad."

"Here's one baby a mother must have had a hard time loving," Sarah
remarked. "Who's this particularly repulsive man? One of our relatives?
I'm sure I've met him somewhere."

Cousin Brooks picked up the tiny print and held it farsightedly at arm's
length. "Yes, you have. That's Brown, the chapel guard. I particularly
wanted Porter-Smith to see this one because I took it with only one
overhead sixty-watt bulb for light, down in the locker room."


121


122	Charlotte MacLeod


"Where he drank the paint remover?"


"That's right. Before he drank it, of course. Drat! Sarah, give me those
snapshots for a second." Brooks riffled through the stack, pulled one
out. and laid it beside the picture of Brown. "Take a gander at this,
Bittersohn."

"Well, I'll be damned! Got a glass, Kelling?"

"Certainly." Cousin Brooks whipped a small magnifying glass out of his
vest pocket. Together the two men scanned the faces feature by feature.

Sarah craned her neck to see. "Why, that's the one you took of the
so-called Dr. Ruy Lopez. Except for his being so much thinner and having
that silly beard, you might take him for Brown. What a strange
coincidence."

"Coincidence my eyeball." said Bittersohn gallantly. "Kelling, may I
keep these?"

"Delighted, my boy. Can I be of further service?"

"Damn right you can. Find out all you can about Brown's background.
Check into Fitzroy's alibis. And be careful how you go about it. I don't
want anybody spiking your private jug with paint remover."

"Don't keep one. Don't need it. Meet me for lunch at the Burnt Bagel on
Longwood Avenue at one o'clock. I'll give you a progress report then.
Provided, of course, that I've made any progress. Theonia, don't forget
our date."

"How could I? I am looking forward to the lecture on 'The Life of the
Angleworm' with eager anticipation."

Brooks buzzed off full of beans. The fair Theonia departed for the tea
shop. Bittersohn disappeared who knew where and Sarah helped Mariposa
with the breakfast dishes. About halfpast two, while Sarah was polishing
silver and Mariposa had gone shopping for a new uniform because she was
tired of alternating between orange and magenta, Bittersohn came in with
a pot of white hyacinths in his hand and a pleased expression on his
face.

"For you, madam."

"To feed my soul? How lovely." She gave him the kiss he seemed to think
he deserved. "What did you learn about Brown?"

"He had a record. Two years for robbery with assault. It should have
been more but his family had influence."

"One wouldn't have thought he came from that sort of family."

The Palace Guard	123


"What a snobby little WASP you are. There's influence and influence.
Theirs is the other kind."


"You mean they're Godfathers or something? What's their name? Not Brown,
surely?"

"No, it's Lupezziz."

"Wasn't that the name of the judge who was indicted for taking bribes
some time back?"

"Yes, he's one of the clan. The case was dropped for lack of evidence.
It generally is. They're an enterprising family and they stick together,
by and large. 1 guess that's why they made Brown change his name. He
blotted the escutcheon by letting himself get busted, though no doubt
they kept him on as an odd-job man. 1 wish 1 knew whether he was on
family business at the Madam's, and why Nick just happened to choose
Brown's nephew to play the visiting expert."

"How can you find out?"

"Who knows? Maybe I'll go get myself seduced by Lydia Ouspenska."

"Bring her back to dinner if you're not too tired afterward."

"Funny, aren't you?"

He rumpled the hair Sarah had taken extra pains with that morning and
left, walking in his usual fashion, as if he were battling winds of gale
force. Sarah combed her hair, finished the silver, did the advance
preparation for dinner, then decided it wouldn't hurt her to get out for
a breath of air. Thinking she might cross over and walk along the
Esplanade for a while, she strolled down to Charles Street.

From force of habit, she looked in at Mr. Hayre's window. The
Staffordshire pugs were gone. The new center of interest was an icon,
very lovely and very old. Or was it? Sarah pressed her dainty nose
against the glass and examined the charming piece until she'd satisfied
herself. No doubt about it, here was Lydia Ouspenska's latest artistry.
On impulse she opened the door.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Hayre."

"Why, Mrs. Helling. Long time no see."

"No, I've been too solvent to self and too poor to buy. I couldn't
resist inquiring about that icon in the window, though."

"Now, there," cried Mr. Hayre, "is a find. Did you notice the perfect
state of preservation?"

124	Charlotte MacLeod


"Yes indeed. It looks as if it had been painted only yesterday," Sarah
replied sweetly.


"Doesn't it, though?" The dealer plucked the icon out from among the
other pieces and turned it reverently in his pudgy fingers. "It ought to
be in a museum, really."

"I'm surprised it isn't. I suppose you're asking a frightful price."

"Well now, to an old friend like you--"

"Hi, Jack." A slim, dark form glided in from the street. "Hi, Mrs.
Kelling."

Sarah and Hayre both started. White teeth flashed in Bill Jones's
swarthy, delicate face.

"How they going, Bill?" said Hayre with a tinge of uneasiness. "I didn't
know you were acquainted with Mrs. Kelling."

"Su-ure. She's got a little thing going with Max Bittersohn."

"Mr. Bittersohn is one of my boarders," Sarah explained primly. "Do you
know him, Mr. Hayre?"

"I've met him." The antique dealer laid the icon behind the cash
register and became ever so busy rearranging his stock.

Sarah took the hint. "Well, since I'm not in the market I mustn't take
up your time. Good-bye, Mr. Hayre, Mr. Jones."

But when she reached the door, Bill Jones was at her side. "Can I buy
you a drink?" he muttered out of the corner of his mouth.

Sarah had no particular reason to refuse and possibly one to accept.
"Why, thank you," she replied. "I'd love one. Though I haven't too much
time," she added to be on the safe side. "Could we just go into the
lounge here?"

"Su-ure."

A few minutes later they were seated in the darkest booth in the
farthest corner of the most obscure cocktail lounge on Charles Street.
Bill had got remarkably quick service. Sarah took a taste of her
daiquiri and smiled.

"This is a pleasant surprise. How nice of you to ask me, and why do you
suppose Mr. Hayre was in such a rush to get rid of me?"

Bill shrugged his shoulders up to his eyebrows, waved his diminutive
hands, and leaned over the table. "Jack's a funny guy," he confided.

"He's a businessman at any rate. I sold him some things a few months ago
when 1 was rather frantic for ready cash, and I'd swear he made a
thousand per cent profit on every piece."

The Palace Guard	125


"Su-ure," breathed the artist. He began drawing pictures in the air with
the tip of one exquisite but dirty finger. "It's hard to imagine you
being hard up."


"Why do you think I run a boarding house?"

"Why does anybody do anything?"

"Because we can't think of a less disagreeable alternative, 1 suppose."

"Ah"--Bill leaned even farther over the table, his immense black eyes
gleaming through the gloom--"but why can't we?"

"I suppose it depends on our circumstances, early conditioning,
personality, one thing and another."

"Yeah-h!"

"It is rather odd, I suppose, that I decided to stick it out in Boston
and do this boarding house thing. I could have let the bank have the
property, taken whatever cash I could raise, and gone off to Pago Pago
or Saskatchewan."

"Or Greece!"

Sarah laughed at his enthusiasm. "Or India."

"I don't think you'd like India. I was there once." He drew some more
pictures. "It's not your sort of place."

"What is my sort of place?"

"Oh-h, maybe Paris. I mean, you're"--he did some remarkably effective
graphics with both hands. "In a nice way, of course."

"Why, thank you, Bill. May I call you Bill?" Maybe it was the drink, but
she was finding this great fun.

"Su-ure," he murmured, "Sarah."

They smiled at each other furtively, as seemed fitting.

"Maxie's a lucky guy." Bill whispered.

"Bill, I've told you--" Sarah stopped. What was the sense in lying to a
thoroughly honest man? She changed the subject. "You know Countess
Ouspenska, don't you?"

"Doesn't everybody?"

"Max was going to see her this afternoon."

"Hey-y-y." Bill laid a hand over Sarah's. They were about the same size,
and Sarah always had trouble finding gloves small enough to fit her.
"You're not worried about Maxie and old Lydia?"

"Of course not." Sarah wondered whether she ought to snatch her hand
away, but decided Bill's was too small to count. "Unless she takes a
notion to seduce him at gunpoint.

126	Charlotte MacLeod


I do think that's awfully dangerous, don't you? Besides, isn't it
against the law now?"


"Seducing Max?"

"No, carrying a handgun."

"What handgun?"

"Her own. I assume. I hope she has a permit for it."

Bill squirmed. "What makes you think Lydia has a gun?"

"I saw it."

"When?"

For Bill Jones, the question was startlingly abrupt. Sarah's pleasant
feeling of relaxation vanished. Suppose she told Bill about having gone
to Lupe's with Max after they'd trailed Bernie and the countess from
Hayre's antique shop? Suppose Bill passed the word back to Hayre and
Hayre told Nick Fiertnger. Or somebody else. Suppose they change the
subject.

"Let's see, when was it? I first met the countess when we met at Dolores
Tawne's studio. Then she invited me to her own place. They're neighbors
at the Fenway Studios, as you may know. Then she dropped in at my house
a couple of nights ago. Perhaps I noticed the gun in her handbag when
she was fixing her lipstick or something. She carries a great satchel
affair. Anyway, I didn't say anything about the gun, of course, and I
don't recall that anyone else did, so perhaps it was when we were in the
studio. No, thanks, I mustn't have another. I should get home and see
how Max made out. Oh dear, that was a slip, wasn't it? I do like her
enormously and I'm not the least bit jealous, truly, but she does tend
to run on about the magnificent Max. Would you care to walk back with me
and join us for sherry?"

"Thanks, but I have a little errand to do," Bill muttered. "I don't
suppose you'd be interested in dropping around at my pad later?"

"I don't know what Max's plans are."

"Who said anything about Max?"

Sarah blushed and dimpled. "Oh, I couldn't possibly, but it's sweet of
you to ask. Thank you for the drink."

They parted at the door. Sarah turned up Mount Vernon Street. The last
she saw of Bill Jones he was headed for Cambridge Street Station,
hugging the sides of the buildings.

Chapter 18


She was late getting home again, though not so disastrously as she'd
been the day she got stuck in her blouse. She let herself in through the
alley door and got busy with dinner while Mariposa was doing the drinks
in the library. She was chopping and stirring like mad when Bittersohn
rushed in, furious with worry.


"Mind telling me where the hell you've been?"

"Having a drink with a charming gentleman."

"I thought something had happened to you."

"Sorry to disappoint you."

He fumed in silence for a moment, than remarked far too casually, "I
suppose it was your Uncle Jem."

"No, as a matter of fact it was Bill Jones."

"What were you doing with Bill Jones?"

"I told you, having a drink."

"Why?"

"He invited me."

"So?"

"We met in Mr. Hayre's antique shop."

"Sarah, for Christ's sake what were you doing there?"

"Admiring an authentic early Byzantine icon by Lydia Ouspenska. How did
you make out with her, by the way? Or did you?"

"Cut it out, will you? I brought her back to dinner as you told me to.
You're some hostess, I must say."

"I'm sure Mrs. Sorpende is coping."

"What did Bill have to say?" Bittersohn demanded after a short pause for
silent fuming.

Sarah smiled enigmatically. "A number of things."

"Did he tell you the icon was a fake?"

"Of course not."

"Did you tell him?"

"Why should I bother? I'm sure he knows. I did happen to mention that
the countess carries a gun."


127


128	Charlotte MacLeod


"Nice going. Now he knows we followed her to Brookline."


"Not from me he doesn't. 1 pretended I'd seen it the night she came
here."

Bittersohn grunted. "What did he say when you told him?"

"He was surprised and upset, 1 think. 1 have a sneaky hunch he may be on
his way to see her right now."

"How can he be? She's here."

"He doesn't know that."

"Why didn't you bring him back with you if you're so fond of his
company?"

"I invited him for sherry but he had to go to the countess's. Why are
you bothering me about this stuff when I'm running so late already? Did
Her Highness dress for dinner?"

"Did she ever!"

"Then go tell her how nice she looks. I'll be right in."

Sarah was used to quick changes by now. About three minutes later she
was sweeping into the library. "Countess Ouspenska, do forgive me for
not being here to welcome you. We're so glad you could come."

"Me, too," screamed Lydia, flashing a smile at Mr. PorterSmith. She
certainly had dressed. Her gown was of scarlet crepe circa 1935, cut low
in the front and lower in the back. A huge purple silk anemone rode on
her left hipbone. She had bracelets up to the elbows and earrings down
to her collarbones. In her raddled way she was gorgeous.

When Charles announced dinner she swept grandly in on the arm of
Porter-Smith, to whom she had taken an obvious fancy. That dapper young
blade had blossomed out in a new Madras dinner jacket of a lightsome
yellow and green plaid. Together he and the countess were resplendent to
the point of dazzlement. Even Professor Ormsby's eyes were seen to stray
for a moment from Mrs. Sorpende's impressive facade, but the countess
was too skinny for his taste so they soon strayed back.

Lydia Ouspenska was in the liveliest possible spirits. She laughed
uproariously at everybody's jokes, especially her own. She took lavish
helpings of everything Charles passed. Then suddenly she clapped a hand
to her mouth and staggered to her feet.

Charles had her out of the dining room almost before the others realized
what was happening. Sarah rose to follow but Porter-Smith beat her to
it. "Allow me, Mrs. Kelling. I have my Senior Lifesaving Badge."

The Palace Guard	129


"Thank you. Get her up to rny bedroom if you can. And please tell
Mariposa, if Charles hasn't already done so."


Knowing her efficient staff would cope, Sarah tried to carry on as a
good hostess should. Charles was back in time to serve dessert. He
reported that the countess appeared to be resting more comfortably and
Mariposa was with her. As the group moved back to the library for
coffee, though. Sarah thought she'd better scoot up for a peek herself.

Charles, Mariposa, and no doubt the unflappable Mr. PorterSmith had got
the poor countess to bed most efficiently. Somebody had even remembered
to turn back the counterpane and lay a clean sheet over the blanket
cover before bundling her up in the eiderdown. The flamboyant red gown
was folded neatly over the back of Sarah's low slipper chair, the
bangles stacked on the night stand, the gold sandals set side by side on
the rug. Lydia was not only asleep but snoring loudly.

Remembering the woman's hit-or-miss eating habits, Sarah decided a
gastric upset was most likely due to the shock of her system's trying to
ingest a square meal for a change. She closed the door and went
downstairs to drink her coffee with an easier mind.

Her boarders were all being terribly understanding about the incident.
Mrs. Sorpende was spinning a pathetic picture of the infant countess
fleeing the Winter Palace with wolves and Bolsheviki in rabid pursuit,
growing up as a fragile wait on the streets of Istanbul or some such
exotic place, peddling her jewel-encrusted Easter eggs to buy croissants
and brioches. It was a gripping story and Sarah thought it too bad the
countess couldn't be there to hear. Still she was relieved when it came
to an end and she could go back to check on the patient. She wasn't at
all surprised when Max Bittersohn came. too.

By now Lydia seemed even deeper in slumber, her breath coming in gasps
and gurgles. "Out like a light," said Max. "She must have loaded up on
that wine you sent her while I was waiting downstairs for her to get
dressed."

"What wine?" Sarah asked him. "I only sent food."

"That's funny. There was a bottle sitting on the table by her stairway.
I took it for granted--" He bent over the sleeping woman, beginning to
look anxious.

Sarah ducked under his elbow. "She's making awfully strange noises. 1
can't see her color under all that goop on her

130	Charlotte MacLeod


face. Bring me the jar of cold cream from the bathroom shelf, will you?
And a towel."


She was feeling for a pulse when Bittersohn dashed back with the cold
cream and her very best lace-trimmed guest towel. "Here"--Sarah handed
the limp wrist over to him--"you try. I never have any luck with
pulses." She smeared cold cream on the painted cheeks and began to wipe.
The bared skin was oddly bluish in color. "Max, this doesn't look
awfully good to me."

He scowled. "The pulse is so light 1 can hardly feel it. Ring for
Charlie. Tell him to get a cab quick."

"Do you think there may have been some kind of slowacting poison in that
wine?"

"I don't know, but after what happened to Brown we'd better not take any
chances."

They bundled the unconscious woman up in blankets and rushed her to the
emergency entrance of the hospital. The intern on duty looked at Lydia's
color, listened to her heart, scratched his head, and sent for a
resident. The resident probed, rolled up an eyelid, peered, and sent for
a laboratory technician. Sarah and Max were bombarded with questions.
Where had she been? What had she eaten? What was her medical history?
Who was her next of kin?

At the last question Sarah burst into tears. "Can't you tell us what's
the matter with her?" she sobbed.

"Maybe it's an allergic reaction," ventured the intern.

"Maybe we'd better get a stomach pump and an oxygen mask," said the
resident.

They wheeled Countess Ouspenska away, leaving Sarah and Max to answer as
best they could the questions of a weary admitting clerk. When they'd
managed that, Sarah said, "We'd better wait."

"It might be a while," he reminded her. "I don't care. 1 feel
responsible. What if it was something I cooked?" "Then you and 1 would
be sick, too, wouldn't we?"

"But an allergy--"

"Allergy hell!"

The seats in the waiting room became desperately uncomfortable.
Bittersohn prowled back and forth along the corridors, bringing back
things out of vending machines he found: coffee that tasted like nothing
in particular, stale crackers filled with

The Palace Guard	131


what was supposed to be peanut butter and tasted like shellac, candy
bars loaded with sugar and sickish artificial flavorings. Sarah didn't
even attempt to eat them. After a while she found a pay phone and called
the house.


"Charles, is everybody else all right? Then it can't possibly have been
food poisoning. No, they haven't told us a thing. Yes, as far as I know
she's still--I'm sure they're doing everything they can. Don't wait up.
I have my key and Mr. Bittersohn is staying with me."

She rang off and went back to join him. "Everything's fine back there.
What I can't understand is why it should have taken so long to work, if
it was poison. She was in the house for almost two hours before she got
so horribly sick all of a sudden. She didn't offer you any of that wine.
I hope?"

"No. She did say something about making a glass of tea but 1 told her
not to bother."

"How long were you in the studio?"

"Maybe an hour."

"What were you doing?"

"Talking. Listening, I should say. You know Lydia."

"What was she talking about?"

"Life, love, the problems of the creative artist, who knows? Lydia was
in a peculiar mood. I'd lead her up to a subject and she'd turn
kittenish on me. She says she hasn't seen Nick Fieringer in years, which
I suspect is a lie. She claims Palmerston's still crazy about her, which
I know damn well must be a lie. All I got out of her is that the man in
her bed that night was Bill Jones, and that doesn't mean a thing."

"Why doesn't it?"

"Because Bill sleeps there half the time, or so she claims. His buddies
are always wanting to use his pad for one reason or another. If he gets
sleepy and it's too late to bother any of his girl friends, he pops over
and crawls in with Lydia. 'Is purely Plutonic,' she says."

"I'll bet it is! Max, shouldn't we go over to her studio and collar that
bottle of wine before somebody else does?"

"If it's poisoned and traceable, somebody already has, no doubt. If it
isn't, why bother? Furthermore, my adorable little fuzzy head, that's
what's known as tamperina with evidence."

"Oh."

They sat awhile longer, then Sarah asked. "Did Brooks find out anything
about Mr. Fitzroy?"

132	Charlotte MacLeod


"Yes. On Sunday when Witherspoon was killed, Fitzroy was attending a
family reunion in Topsfield with about eighty- seven other Fitzroys. On
Monday when Brown was killed, Fitzroy was with one or the other of the
guards every damned minute of the time, mainly giving them all hell for
letting things get out of hand while he was away. Brooks is inclined to
think he's a washout and so am I. His bank balance and style of living
are consistent with his position, and his character is so irreproachable
it's pitiful."


"I'm so sorry, darling." Sarah patted Max's hand and went to find a
ladies' room. She spent quite a while doing things to her face and hair,
then got in a panic for fear she might have missed a report from the
doctor and ran out with one lock streaming loose.

"Why don't you go fix your hair?" said Bittersohn.

She went back and fixed it. They sat some more. Then Sarah asked, "Where
had she been before you got there?"

Bittersohn jerked upright. "Where what?"

"I'm sorry, I didn't realize you were asleep."

"I wasn't asleep," he said huffily, "I was thinking."

"About what?"

"Mmh?"

Sarah picked up a newspaper somebody had discarded and read about bodies
found in lonely lanes. Bittersohn's head fell heavily but agreeably
against her shoulder. She eased it to a more comfortable position,
rested her cheek against the luxuriant dark brown waves of his hair, and
did the crossword puzzle. She had turned to the sports section and was
wondering how one went about handicapping a horse when the intern came
out.

"It was a mixture of arsenic and Nembutal," he told her. "Dr. Fingerford
says you're to wait till the police get here."

Chapter 19


Between them, Sarah and Max knew just about every policeman on the
Boston force by now. When uniformed officers Moynahan and Maloney showed
up in the cruiser they merely remarked, "Oh, Jesus, you two again," and
sent for plainclothes detectives Fitzpatrick and Fitzgibbon. The latter
pair, when they arrived, said much the same thing.


"Okay, Mrs. Kelling," Fitzgibbon began, "mind telling us how you
happened to be entertaining this alleged Countess Ouspenska?"

"I met her just this past week through Mrs. Tawne, an artist who's a
friend of my cousin Brooks Kelling. The countess and Mrs. Tawne are
neighbors in the Fen way Studios on Ipswich Street. Mrs. Tawne had me
over to tea. While I was there, the countess dropped in and invited me
to see her studio. Then the other night she dropped by the house. My
boarders thought she was fun, so 1 asked Mr. Bittersohn to bring her
back to dinner this evening."

"Old friend of yours, Bittersohn?" asked Fitzpatrick.

"If you mean what I think you do, no. I have known her for some years on
a casual basis. I mentioned to Mrs. Kelling this afternoon that I was
going to see Lydia. and she asked me to pass on the invitation. It was a
spur-of-the-moment thing."

"That's right," Sarah confirmed. "I didn't know whether or not she'd
come until she arrived."

"What did you give her to eat?"

"Only what the rest of us had." Sarah recited the menu. "I didn't get
into the library, where we usually gather before dinner, until shortly
after she'd arrived but I'm told she was shown directly there. Some of
my other boarders were already present. She had sherry out of the same
decanter as everybody else and hors d'oeuvres from the same tray. When
we went in to dinner she helped herself from the same dishes that were
passed to us all. The countess seemed to be in excellent spirits and ate
a great deal. I knew she had very irregular eating habits,


133


134	Charlotte MacLeod


so when she got sick to her stc ^nach, 1 simply assumed she'd eaten too
much too fast."


"Um. Bittersohn, you were with this Ouspenska woman for how long before
the dinner party? Did you come back to Mrs. Killing's together, or
what?"

"We drove back together in my car. Before that, 1 was in her studio for
perhaps an hour."

"Doing what?"

"Talking. She happens to be an expert on Byzantine icons."

"Whatever they are. Did you have a drink with her or anything?"

"No. I saw a bottle of wine on the table, but she didn't offer me any.
She may have eaten or drunk something while she was in the back room
changing her clothes."

"Or taken a pill," Sarah put in.

"Why a pill?" said Fitzgibbon.

"Oh, I don't know. It just occurred to me, 1 suppose because she's not a
young woman. I have a lot of middle-aged aunts and they all take pills
for one thing or another. Don't yours?"

"Jeez, yes, come to think of it. My Aunt Theresa, every time she comes
over to the house she lines up about six different pill bottles in front
of her and pops 'em down one after the other like they were candy."

Max and his Aunt Fruma did the same thing, and Fitzpatrick was trying to
get in a word about his Aunt Mary Margaret when Fitzgibbon intervened.

"Who'd know about the pills? This neighbor of hers you mentioned,
they're pretty good friends, eh?"

"I don't know whether you'd call them friends or not. Mrs. Tawne told me
the countess had a habit of dropping in at mealtimes, so I daresay she
might have mentioned her health problems on some such occasion, if she
has any. The countess isn't what you'd call the reticent type."

"Maybe we'd better go and find out."

"At this hour?" Tears of exhaustion stung Sarah's eyelids. "Mrs. Tawne's
not a young woman either, and she must have been in bed ages ago."

"Too bad," said Fitzgibbon, "but it looks to me like we have a case of
attempted murder on our hands, and maybe Mrs. Tawne got tired of being
mooched on. If she was feeding the Ouspenska woman all the time, she'd
have a pretty good chance of slipping something into the food, wouldn't
she?"

The Palace Guard	135


"I suppose so." Sarah heaved a mighty sigh and followed the two
detectives out to their car, grateful for Max Bittersohn's arm to lean
on.


As she'd expected, Dolores Tawne was none too happy at being aroused.
She came up to her studio door in a pink plisse kimono and a headful of
metal curlers such as Sarah had thought nobody in the world except
Cousin Mabel still used.

"I'm so sorry," Sarah began in a faltering tone.

"Well, I should think you would be, rioting around with a gang of men at
this hour! Brooks gave me to understand you were a respectable woman."
She rattled her curlers fiercely at Max.

Fitzgibbon was tired, too. "Are you Mrs. Dolores Tawne?" he snapped.

"I certainly am, and would you kindly tell me what you mean by--?"

"We're police officers." He stuck his identification and badge under her
nose. "Would you mind telling us when you last saw your neighbor Mrs.
Ouspenska?"

"I assume you're referring to the woman who calls herself a countess and
as far as 1 know she's still a Miss. 1 doubt if she's ever bothered to
marry any of them. What do you want to know for?"

"For good and sufficient reason, Mrs. Tawne. Would you mind answering
the question?" "Humph! Then I suppose I--let me see, she usually barges
in when I'm having my cup of tea about four o'clock. Was it then? No, I
was at the museum this afternoon. Yesterday afternoon I suppose it would
be by now. Then we must have bumped into each other earlier in
the--er--facilities. Neither of us has a private bathroom, more's the
pity."

"How did she seem to you? Was she in her usual spirits?" asked
Fitzpatrick.

"She was feeling the effects of her usual spirits if that's what you
mean. Any woman her age who goes out every night till all hours and
drinks with riffraff has only herself to blame, as I've told her time
and again."

"In other words she had a hangover?"

"You could call it that."

"Would you say she was seriously depressed?"

"She's always depressed, always whining and wailing about getting old
and losing her looks. A decent woman shouldn't

136	Charlotte MacLeod


have to worry about anything except being clean and covered." Dolores
hitched the shapeless kimono more closely around her barrellike form.


"Has she ever mentioned suicide in your hearing?"

"Not more than once every five minutes. Downright wickedness 1 call it,
making jokes about a thing like that."

"What sort of jokes?"

"Oh, Russian roulette. She was claiming the other day she's invented a
new version. She's going to fill one of her stomach capsules with poison
and--look here, I have a right to know why you're asking me this stuff."

Fitzgibbon told her. "Because Countess Ouspenska is in the hospital with
arsenic poisoning and we'd like to know how she got it."

"Oh, my God! Then I'm responsible."

"Why?"

"Because"--Dolores rubbed her square, red palm across her square, red
face--"I didn't think she meant it. 1 thought it was just more of her
foolishness. 1 should have stopped it."

"How could you?"

"I don't know. Taken away the capsules, maybe." Dolores collapsed into a
chair. "I just don't know."

"Now, take it easy, Mrs. Tawne," said Fitzpatrick, who was a kind man.
"You can't blame yourself if somebody else decides to pull a half-wit
stunt like that. Do you remember exactly what she told you?" "As nearly
as 1 can recall, she said she was going to take the medicine out of one
of her digestive capsules--she has awful stomach trouble on account of
the way she eats, or doesn't eat. Well, anyway, she said she'd fill the
capsule with poison and mix it in with the rest. That way she'd never
know when she was taking the poison. It would be more fun to be
surprised. That's what she said, more fun. I told her to stop acting so
silly and she laughed at me." Dolores began to cry.

Sarah slipped an arm around the beefy shoulders. "Now, Mrs. Tawne,
please don't take it to heart so. She may still come out of it all
right. The doctors are doing all they can. Why don't you make yourself a
nice cup of tea and go back to bed?"

"Sure," said Fitzgibbon, "we'll clear out and let you sleep. Is there
any way we can get into Countess Ouspenska's studio, do you know?" The
Palace Guard	137


"Just open the door, most likely. She forgets to lock up more often than
not. It's the second door from this on the right."


As Dolores had predicted, the door was unlocked. They filed in.
Bittersohn found a light switch and achieved a feeble glow from a
twenty-watt amber bulb.

"Jeez," said Fitzgibbon, "this place looks like a rummage sale. She must
be some kind of a nut all right."

"She's an artist," said Sarah. For some reason she felt dutybound to
stick up for the countess.

"Yeah? Where would she keep the pills, I wonder?"

"They could be anywhere." Sarah looked around at the maze of furniture
and bric-a-brac. "I should think by her bed or over the sink. There's a
little back room and a sort of kitchenette through here at the back."

The group picked their way through the confusion and found the bed. In
calm repose on its grimy pillows lay the curly head of Bill Jones.

"Bill," shouted Fitzpatrick, "what are you doing here?"

The artist flung off the covers and sat up. He was attired only in a
pair of lavender satin shorts. "Oh, hi, Fitz. Hi. Sarah. Hi, Max. What
gives?"

"You a friend of this Ouspenska woman, Bill?" In view of the lavender
shorts, Fitzpatrick's question seemed redundant.

"Su-ure. Lydia's an old pal of mine. Some of the boys wanted to use the
pad tonight and I wasn't going to be needing it myself," he added with
the barest flicker of a glance at Sarah, "so I sacked out here. Hey, how
come the delegation? Is Lydia okay?"

"She's down at the Mass General with a bellyful of arsenic."

"No-oo!"

"Has she ever said anything to you about playing Russian roulette with
her stomach pills?"

"Su-ure, but hey, you mean she wasn't putting me on?"

"That remains to be seen. Can you think of any way she might have got
hold of some arsenic?"

"Pal, the cats she hangs out with could get hold of a hydrogen bomb."

"Yeah? Well, 1 guess that more or less ties it. Cover up. Bill, you'll
catch cold. Just for the record, you don't happen to know where she
keeps the pills, do you?"

138	Charlotte MacLeod


"Right over there."


A bottle of immense yellow and green capsules was sitting in plain sight
on the dresser. Fitzpatrick wrapped it carefully in a tissue and put it
in a little box he took from his pocket. "Easy enough to take one of
these things apart and reload it. The gelatin would take a little while
to dissolve, especially on a full stomach, so she wouldn't feel the
effects right away. Arsenic doesn't act all that fast anyway. That heavy
meal she ate probably saved her life. Chances are it did upset her
stomach so that she got rid of some of the poison before it had a chance
to work. I suppose her idea was that the Nembutal would knock her out so
she wouldn't feel the pain when the arsenic began to work. We'll have
the lab check the rest of these out, just to give them something to do."

"Say," said Fitzgibbon, "how about if this guy here loaded those
knockout drops himself? Maybe it's a crime of passion or something."

"Are you kidding? This is Pericles Jonubopoulos's baby brother."

"Oh. Hey, pal, no offense?"

"Forget it, pal," said Bill magnanimously. "Hey, no kidding, is Lydia
going to be okay? Should I go over to the hospital?"

"They wouldn't let you see her," Bittersohn told him. "Sarah and I
couldn't get into the room, either. She's pretty sick, because she was
in rough shape to start with, but the doctor thinks she has a fighting
chance."

"Then I might as well grab a little more sacktime. Night, Sarah. Night,
Max. Night, Fitz. Night, pal." The baby brother of Pericles Jonubopoulos
smiled sweetly at them all, pulled the once white sheet up over his slim
brown torso, and went back to sleep.

Sarah kept her lips buttoned until the two Fitzes had dropped her and
Bittersohn off at Tulip Street. Then she exploded.

"How damnably convenient!"

"Isn't it, though. I think I'll go back and have another little chat
with Bill."

"Max, it's so late."

"I only hope it's not too late. Damn it, Sarah, I'm scared."

"Then let's go and get it over with."

"Maybe you'd rather 1 sent you alone. You could use your

The Palace Guard	139


feminine wiles." He slipped his arms around her and leaned his head on
hers. "How come Bill calls you Sarah?"


"Think nothing of it. He knows 1 have a nice little thing going with Max
Bittersohn. He said so to Mr. Hayre. Anyway, I haven't a wile left in
me. You don't honestly believe Bill tried to murder Lydia Ouspenska?"

"How could 1? He's Pericles Jonubopoulos's baby brother. 1 think Bill
knows something. Bill likes knowing things. You'd better go in the house
and get some sleep."

"No. please, 1 want to stay with you. It's too awful, people popping off
all over the place and the police just saying tough luck and going
away."

"You can't blame the police too much. They don't know a possible
connection exists between Lydia and the two guards at the Wilkins."

"And you didn't tell them because you want to do it all yourself."

"I don't particularly want to, but I have to now that Palmerston's boxed
me in. You know that. Let's see if we can pick up a cab on Beacon, if
you can walk that far."

"I'm so tired now it doesn't matter any more. Come on." They walked a
moment in silence, then Sarah remarked, "You know, whoever is doing
these things must be awfully well informed. He'd have had to know about
Witherspoon's dizzy spells and Brown's hidden bottle and Lydia's new
joke about her stomach pills, which I suppose doesn't mean a thing,
because Brown was Lupe's uncle and Lupe is Bernie's pal and Bernie is
Lydia's and Lydia is Dolores's neighbor and everybody seems to be
connected with everybody one way or another. Bernie could have put that
stuff in Lydia's capsule while they were together, couldn't he?"

"Why not?"

"If he did, Mr. Fieringer put him up to it, right?"

"You might ask Nick," said Bittersohn. "There he goes now."

The hulking figure of the impresario was moving away from the studio
building as they approached. They could see his yellow face clearly
enough in the light over the steps. For once Nick wasn't smiling. He
paid no attention to them but turned the corner and walked up past the
Catholic church.

"Going home, I expect," said Bittersohn. "He has an apartment over on
Hemenway Street. Come on."

140	Charlotte MacLeod


They went up to the third floor, tiptoed along the creaky wooden
corridor that reeked pleasantly of linseed oi! and turpentine, and
pushed open the door of Lydia Ouspenska's studio. Through the dark came
Bill Jones's sleepy voice.


"What's the matter, Nick? Forget something?"

Chapter 20


"Nick went along," said Bittersohn. "It's Sarah and Max. Mind if we come
down for a second?"


"No-o." There was the barest shade of irritation in the soft voice as
Bill got up and switched on the lights so they wouldn't break their
necks on the stairs from the balcony. "I might as well have stayed for
the game. There's more action here tonight than in my own pad."

"Sorry, Bill. That'll teach you to sack in with Plutonic women. How long
did Nick stay?"

"Long enough to say good-bye. He was looking for Lydia."

"Did you tell him about the Russian roulette?"

"Su-ure. Why not?"

"What does he think?"

Bill began to draw pictures in the air. "Nick says it just goes to show.
Nobody ever knows anybody."

"In other words he doesn't believe it, either."

"What can I say, Maxie? Everybody figured she was putting us on. You
know Lydia. I mean as well as anybody can know anybody." "No, I don't
know her that well, but I know her. Damn it, Lydia was having a ball
tonight. Wasn't she, Sarah?"

"She certainly was and nobody can tell me for one moment that she ever
thought seriously of suicide. And if she ever did, she wouldn't pick
anything quiet and messy and painful like arsenic. She'd get out in the
middle of Boston Common and commit hara-kiri with the sword of Ivan the
Terrible or something. And she'd wait till she'd collected a good, big
audience around to stop her."

"Yeah-h," said Bill.

"Mind if we take a look around?" Bittersohn asked.

"Why should I? It's not my pad. Oh, hey, maybe I should put on some
pants or something?"

"Why don't you just go back to bed?" Sarah suggested.


141


142	Charlotte MacLeod


"No-o. I want to see Maxie detect something. How do you know when you
find a clue, pal?"


"I crack my shins on it." Bittersohn was holding up an unfinished canvas
and trying to rub paint off his Londontailored trousers with a beautiful
Irish linen handkerchief. "What do you think of this?"

Bill, in his lavender shorts and his tiny bare feet, picked his way
around, over, and through a welter of stools, taborets, and umbrella
stands to get a close look at the canvas. He scratched his jetty curls.
"Looks to me like about two thirds of a Murillo."

"That's what it is, pal. There's one just like it at the Madam's. About
the only original left, or was as of Sunday as far as I could see. And
apparently that one's also slated for removal."

"Yeah-h, but a Murillo? Who's going to buy a hot Murillo?"

"There's always a mark somewhere. Would you say this might be Lydia's
work?"

Bill squinted professionally at the canvas. "Lydia's good, you know.
Those icons of hers--you've rumbled the icons, of course?"

"Sarah did."

"How about that? Like I was saying, those icons are real works of an. I
mean, anybody buys one of those is getting something for his money even
if it doesn't happen to be what he thinks he's getting. But this--" Bill
snatched a tasseled silk shade off a dinky boudoir lamp and held the
light closer to the painting. "Maxie, can you dig this? I mean, like
this isn't a bad job." His free hand made darting motions at the canvas.
"Slick. But Lydia's an icon painter. You dig, Maxie?"

Even Sarah dug. Those rigidly stylized miniatures with their meticulous
detailing were too different from this voluptuous, swirling candy-box
prettiness. One would think some of the formality of the Byzantine
technique must be reflected in whatever Lydia did "You thought the
copies at the Wilkins were all done by the same hand," Bittersohn
prompted. "Would this be the one?"

Bill wiggled and squirmed and drew more pictures in the air, to the
peril of his slippery satin undergarment. "That's what bugs me. See,
Maxie, if Lydia painted all those copies, that means she's kept her
mouth shut about them for over thirty years. I mean, can you see Lydia
keeping a secret for over

The Palace Guard	143


thirty minutes? She makes this big cloak-and-dagger deal about Jack
Hayre, but how long did it take Sarah to find out?"


"I knew she was faking icons roughly half an hour after I'd met her for
the first time and I knew Mr. Hayre was fencing them, or whatever you
call it, as soon as I saw that one in his window yesterday," Sarah
replied. "I didn't pry, either. Lydia showed me. She was proud of what
she was doing. Well she might be, as far as workmanship is concerned. As
to the icon, there it was. I couldn't miss, could I?"

"No-oo."

"So this isn't a painting, it's a frame," said Bittersohn.

"Not bad. Maxie. That could be one answer."

"Care to give me another?"

Bill shrugged and cast a longing glance toward the frowzy bed.

"All right. Bill, go get some rest. We'll let ourselves out quietly when
we're through."

Less than a minute later the baby brother of Pericles Jonubopoulos was
fast asleep. Sarah and Max continued to rummage. "Max, look!" Sarah
hissed.

Nestled in Lydia's top dresser drawer amid a tangle of wrinkled scarves,
ruined panty hose, and odd gloves lay a small plastic phial with a
warning label on the side. It had been full of a white powder. Now a
quarter inch of the powder was gone.

Bittersohn picked the phial up gingerly inside a gaudy nylon kerchief
and stuck it in his pocket. "I'll give this to Fitz and Fitz. Ten to
nothing it's arsenic, and there won't be any fingerprints." "Sh-h. Don't
wake him again."

Bittersohn looked down at the peacefully slumbering Bill, rubbing his
own chin, on which stubble was beginning to appear. "You're like the
rest of them. Every woman who meets Bill wants to mother him, and the
next thing she knows--"

"I know, thank you. 1 shouldn't dream of wanting to mother him. He's
like one of those little cock sparrows you see around the streets, isn't
he? Cute and tough and no doubt an egg in every nest. Can you tell me
why we didn't spot that Murillo when we were here with the two
detectives?"

"Because it wasn't here, naturally."

"That's what Nick Fieringer had been doing when we saw

144	Charlotte MacLeod


him leaving the building, wasn't it? Do you suppose Mrs. Tawne phoned
and told him about the countess? Or could he have learned some other
way? Maybe Mr. Hayre had a spy outside the house and saw us take her
to--no, that's pretty silly, isn't it? Most likely he came here to plant
the arsenic and Bill told him she was already in the hospital and he
rushed off to wherever the copies are being done and got the painting,
thinking to make her the scapegoat because she was probably going to die
anyway."


"Possibly. Let's go ask him."

"You mean wake him up and say, 'Sorry to bother you, but do you happen
to be a murderer?'"

"Why not? It's just up around the corner."

Fieringer lived in one of those grim apartment houses whose unclean
foyers are floored with chipped tiles in fancy patterns and shut in by
heavily varnished doors that are supposed to be kept locked but often
are not. Inside was the usual scary little elevator that smelled of
urine. People had scrawled initials and indecent suggestions on its
walls with magic markers and the sharp ends of door keys. Bittersohn
pushed the button for the fourth floor. The cage wobbled upward.

"Shouldn't we have rung his doorbell at least?" Sarah whispered.

"I thought we might as well try shock tactics."

Nick's door, unlike Lydia's, was locked. Bittersohn pounded on the
panels. After a longish time they heard the shuffle of slippered feet
and a sleepy voice calling out. "Who is it?"

"It's me. Open up." Bittersohn's voice was a fair imitation of Bernie
the pianist's.

There was a rattling of chains and bolts, then the door opened. In his
pajamas Nick Fieringer was unspeakable. The rumpled pants sagged below
his great bare belly, the unbuttoned coat revealed a sparsely haired
chest with breasts that sagged like an old woman's. His longish hair
stuck up in greasy spikes around the bald spot on top. His yellow face
was sunken, his jowls dropped. For a moment he stared at them. Then he
pasted a tight-lipped grin on his face and ran a hand over his hair to
slick it down.

"Excuse please," he mumbled. He partially closed the door and returned a
couple of minutes later decently covered by a bathrobe, his hair
carefully combed over his bald spot and his toothy grin in full
radiance.

The Palace Guard	145


"He's put in his dentures," Sarah thought. She wished she didn't find
the man so pathetically disgusting.


The airless one-room apartment was neat enough except for the rumpled
studio couch on which Fieringer must have been sleeping. What made it
feel so unbearably cluttered were the pictures. Everywhere: thumbtacked
to the walls, crowded on the table, the bureau, the imitation marble
mantelpiece with no fireplace under it were photographs of the
well-known, the lesser-known, the unknown. Many of them were inscribed:
To Nick with love. To Nick with Best Wishes, To Nick. To My Good Friend
Nick, To Nick from some unfamiliar name scribbled too large. In a few
the impresario himself appeared smiling his jack-o'-lantern smile with
his arm around some cringing shoulder or his paw clutching some
reluctantly extended hand. It was true. He did know everybody.

Bittersohn wasted no time on amenities. "I suppose you know Lydia's been
poisoned."

"Lydia who?"

"Knock it off, Nick. Third from the left on the mantlepiece."

Sure enough, there was a photo of the two taken in some nightclub years
ago. "To my darling Nickie" was scrawled across the cardboard mount in
red crayon. Fieringer waddled over and took a long look at it. Then he
turned around.

"Yes, 1 know."

"Who did it?"

"She did, playing crazy games with her stomach pills."

"Do you believe that?"

The fat man swallowed twice and hitched the cord of his bathrobe tighter
around his pendulous abdomen. "I have to, don't I?"

"No."

"Maxie, you don't understand."

"I think I do."

"Then why do you come bothering me now? Why not let an old man get a
little sleep?"

"What were you doing at the Fenway Studios about half an hour ago?"

"Looking tor Bernie. He plays in concert tomorrow, I want him sober.
Sometimes he stays with Lydia. Tonight 1 find only Bill Jones. Ask
Bill."

"What did you take with you?"

"Take? What should I take with me? What's to take?"

146	Charlotte MacLeod


"Where did you go before you wound up at Lydia's?"


"Everywhere. Is no job for an old man."

Bittersohn didn't respond to Nick's nervous smile. "Did you see Lupe?"

"Lupe who?"

"Didn't he give you anything?"

"Lupe give? Believe me, my friend, Lupe only takes."

"What were you wearing this evening?"

"Wearing?" This one really puzzled Nick. "Naturally my suit. On the
chair." A pair of gray trousers lay neatly folded across the chair seat,
the matching coat hung over the back. "In the morning I press before
putting on," he apologized to Sarah.

Bittersohn picked up the clothes and went over them inch by inch. Sarah
tried not to watch. The immense trousers with their baggy seat and the
wrinkles radiating from the crotch, the cheap jacket with perspiration
stains under the armpits were too obscene. This was the same suit he'd
worn when he sat sweating and swilling beer in her private sitting room.
It was, come to think of it, the only one she'd ever seen on him and
likely the only one he owned. What on earth was he doing with all the
money he must be getting?

"Where's the shirt you had on?" asked Bittersohn.

"Hanging in the bathroom. I wash every night. Drip-dry, is very
convenient," he explained again to Sarah.

She was mortally ashamed to be there. This gross creature trying to keep
up appearances, trying to convince himself the whole world loved him,
trying to catch a few hours' sleep after a night no man his age should
be putting in for any reason good or evil was enough to tear one's heart
out. She suspected Max Bittersohn was feeling what she was, but he kept
doggedly on, inspecting the damp shirt, the crumpled underwear, finally
the man's fat hands. At last, thank God, he was satisfied.

"Okay, Nick."

"Thank you, my friend," said the impresario with about the same degree
of gaiety Rigoletto had to display before the jeering courtiers after
they had kidnapped his daughter. "Even if I don't know what's okay I'm
glad it's okay."

"When you were in Lydia's studio tonight, did you notice an unfinished
painting?"

"In a studio is always an unfinished painting. Should 1 notice?"

The Palace Guard	147


"This one was on the floor near the stairs, propped against a little
table."


"In Lydia's studio is wall-to-wall little tables. No, my friend, I did
not notice."

"Nick, you'd better tell me what you know."

"What should 1 know?"

"Shove it, Nick. Two guards from the Madam's have already been murdered.
Lydia will have been, too, if she doesn't pull through. You know damn
well she'd never feed herself anything more poisonous than cheap booze
and lousy food. Somebody's trying to frame her as the artist who faked
about ninety-seven per cent of the paintings at the Wilkins Museum and
sold the originals out of state. I think it could be you."

"Me?" Fieringer's yellow face turned to dirty ivory.

"You were in the right places at the right times. You know the museum
setup and routine. You knew Witherspoon and Brown. You're an old
boyfriend of Lydia's."

"Who isn't?" shouted the impresario. "Max, 1 swear to you on the sacred
memory of my mother I had nothing to do with stealing the paintings. 1
had nothing to do with the murders. With Lydia yes. I help her to sell
her pretty icons. Is it so terrible to keep an old friend from starving
to death?"

"Where do you help her sell them?"

"I fixed up a connection with Jack Hayre on Charles Street." The sweat
was pouring down over Nick's flabby jowls. "Only this and nothing more I
do. She is the only beautiful woman who would ever go to bed with me."

"Did C. Edwald Palmerston go to bed with you, too? You fixed up that Ruy
Lopez deal for him."

"Max, what could I do? Palmerston comes pussyfooting to me and starts
beating around the bushes. At last it comes out he wants the thefts
hushed up to save his face. He doesn't want Palmerston the great
philanthropist to become Palmerston the stupid jackass who lets a museum
be stolen from under his nose. It is not brave, it is not noble, it is
not gentlemanly, but"--he shrugged--"it is human. Palmerston wants a
phony expert to make Bittersohn look like the fool, not him. A Jew who
didn't even go to Harvard, to him you are expendable. So I think of Lupe
because"--he shrugged again--"for a crooked deal I think of Lupe."

"I see. I'm expendable to you as well as to Palmerston."

"Max, I am also expendable. I kid other people a little.

148	Charlotte MacLeod


maybe. Myself 1 don't kid. Am I Sol Hurok? Am 1 Boris Goldovsky? I am
old Nick the odd-job man who gets thrown a little something here, a
little something there. Who are my great artists? A lush like Bernie, a
mediocre student with parents who have money to start her off on a great
career you should live so long. I hold the job at the Wilkins all these
years because Palmerston is a cheapskate and old Nick is willing to work
cheap. I don't go along with what he wants. I lose the concerts. I have
nowhere to show off my performers. 1 am nothing."


He slumped down on top of the wrinkled trousers, his hands dangling
loose between his knees.

"Nick," said Bittersohn quietly, "I asked you to tell me what you know."

"Max, I make it my business not to know. For years I think maybe is
something funny going on and I shut my eyes. In school back in the old
country my teacher used to show three idiot monkeys. Hear no evil, see
no evil, speak no evil. Hah! What a thing to tell us then. Before we
know two and two we know to steal, to lie, to betray is to stay alive. 1
lie, sure. But about this I don't lie to you, my friend. 1 know nothing
because I choose to know nothing."

"Then what do you suspect?"

"Suspect?" Fieringer rolled the word around on his tongue as though it
were a new sound to him. "I suspect somebody has made from the Madam for
a long time a fat living. Do I look like it's me?"

"You could have given the money away," whispered Sarah. "To your
friends."

"I could. 1 have given much. In the end I am still ugly old fat Nick. I
stopped giving. If I could find a way 1 would take, but I never find a
way. Max, I cannot help you. 1 know nothing. 1 suspect nobody. I am an
old man. I have to sleep. Let me alone." His voice broke. "Please."

Bittersohn turned away. "Come on, Sarah," he sighed, "let's go home."

Chapter 21


Sarah checked with the hospital about six times the following day. At
five in the evening, while she was making biscuits for dinner, she
phoned from the kitchen. Lydia Ouspenska had not yet regained
consciousness but she was still alive. The floor nurse sounded
surprised.


She'd just got the phone hung up and her hands back in the biscuit dough
when Brooks called. "Sarah," he hissed, "tell your young man there's
dirty work afoot at the Madam's. I'm going to lurk here and see what's
up."

"Brooks," she gasped, "you can't do that!"

"Of course 1 can. I intend to disguise myself as a fifteenthcentury
gargoyle."

"You don't know what dreadful risks you may be taking "

"Sensible men don't take risks."

"Sensible men don't disguise themselves as fifteenth-century gargoyles."

"Sarah, 1 have no time to argue. Would you kindly explain to Theonia
that I shan't be able to take her to the Museum of Science tonight."

"You can't trifle with the affections of an honest woman like that."

"Theonia will understand."

"That's what you think. Just a minute, I see Mr. Bittersohn coming in
through the alley gate." She thumped on the window, beckoned him up, and
thrust the phone at him. "Here, for heaven's sake talk him out of it."

"Him whom?"

"Cousin Brooks. He says something's going on at the Madam's and he's
going to disguise himself as a fifteenthcentury gargoyle."

"Sounds like the only reasonable course of action to me." Grinning,
Bittersohn took the phone. "Hello, X-9? This is 007. How can I get in
there without being caught? Coal chute, right.


149


150	Charlotte MacLeod


Check. Sure, you bet. Nine o'clock on the dot. Roger, over and out."


He slammed down the receiver. "Madam, can you equip an expedition?
Brooks wants ham sandwiches and root beer. He didn't say anything about
hanging a lantern aloft in the belfry arch, but I don't suppose it would
hurt."

"One moment there, my fine Hairbreadth Harry. Why nine o'clock?"

"Because they're having some kind of shindig there that's supposed to be
over by eight and may drag on till half-past, and Brooks figures the fun
won't start until the coast is clear. So that gives me time enough to
eat my dinner like a mensch before 1 descend the coal chute."

"In those good clothes?"

"Nay, fair maiden. 1 shall wear my chute-shooting suit. How about, in
the immortal words of Bobbie Burns, ae fond kiss before we sever?" He
didn't wait for her answer.

She struggled free at last. "Unhand me, sir! That embrace was obtained
under false pretenses. What makes you think we're severing?"

"Sarah, you can't go. It might be dangerous."

"In the immortal words of Carrie Jacobs Bond, big deal! I was in danger
of arrest for indecent exposure the day you made me wear that sari, and
a fat lot you cared. I was in danger of being seduced by Bill Jones last
night--"

"Were you indeed?"

"Indeed I was, or might have been. He invited me to his pad while we
were having that drink. I only managed to save myself by declining with
thanks."

"Did you have to thank him?"

"It seemed the courteous thing to do. He was paying for the drinks. Just
think, if I'd accepted, he wouldn't have let the boys use his pad and he
wouldn't have had to seek solace with Lydia, poor thing. She's still
hanging on, by the way. I just spoke with the nurse. Now nip down to the
corner and get Brooks his root beer while I break the news to Mrs.
Sorpende that she's being stood up."

Mrs. Sorpende took the blow bravely, making reference to the fact that
when duty whispers low, 'Thou must,' the youth replies, 'I can,' and
expressing the opinion that Mr. Brooks Kelling showed a delightfully
youthful exuberance of spirit.

The Palace Guard	151


Sarah had to agree even as she wondered what further mess her cousin's
exuberance was about to get them into.


After dinner she retired to her bedroom promptly on the half-hour, put
on an old pair of pants and a jacket she usually wore for things like
cleaning out the gutters at Ireson's Landing. She sneaked down the back
stairs, collected Brooks's ham sandwiches, root beer, and a bottle
opener from the kitchen, and met Bittersohn by stealth in the back
alley. He had his car and they lost no time getting to the palazzo.
Precisely at nine, they were crouched in front of a small oblong window
set into the foundation of the palazzo and conveniently screened by a
high privet hedge.

"This is it, my love." Bittersohn poked at the sash and the window swung
noiselessly inward. "I'd better eo first to catch you in case there's a
big drop at the bottom. Are you sure you can manage'?"

"Don't be ridiculous," Sarah told him scornfully. "I'd go down
belly-bumper if it weren't for the root beer."

"The hell you would." He inserted his long legs in the small aperture,
lay flat, and vanished into blackness. Sarah heard a swish, a thud, then
a muffled "Next, please."

Sarah poked her feet through as he had, murmured hysterically, "If
Cousin Mabel could only see me now!" took a firmer grip on the sandwich
bag, and shoved off.

A second later Bittersohn had her in his arms, root beer and all. 'Are
you okay?" he whispered.

"Yes, fine. Where's Brooks?"

"Right here," hissed her cousin. "Did you bring the sandwiches?"

"Yes, and a rousing Godspeed from Mrs. Sorpende, though she's sorry to
miss the angleworms. Are you starved?"

"Ravenous, but I don't care to eat in the coalbin. Too gritty. Follow me
and don't make a sound."

Walking flat on the soles of his feet, Indian style, Brooks led his
cohorts up the basement stairs, through the Donatello Wing, and straight
toward the Grand Staircase. "We'll have to risk it," he breathed.
"There's no other way."

"Where are we going?" whispered Bittersohn.

"Third floor. Sh-h!"

He shoved them into the refuge of an alleged cathedral stall as
footsteps pounded toward them on the tiled floor. The watch152
Charlotte MacLeod


man passed within six feet of them and vanished through the door to the
basement they'd just left.


"Timed that just right." Brooks chuckled softly. "Now we make a dash for
it. Keep close to the balustrade."

He charged upward like Great-uncle Nathan Kelling at San Juan Hill, Max
and Sarah at his heels. They reached the Titian Room without incident.
"And now," said Brooks in hushed but firm tones, "let's have those
sandwiches. We're safe for exactly sixteen minutes and thirty-two
seconds. Ah, I see you remembered the bottle opener. Anyone for root
beer?"

"I'd rather have a clue as to what this is all about," said Bittersohn.

"So should I," Brooks replied through a mouthful of ham. "I can only
tell you that Dr. Aguinaldo Ruy Lopez was back again this afternoon in a
different guise. Casing the joint, I believe it's called. He had an
odd-looking chap with him and from an injudicious word this other fellow
let drop in my hearing 1 deduced they were plotting to break in tonight.
I don't know what they're up to, but whatever it is will apparently take
place here in the Titian Room."

He refreshed himself with a swig of root beer and deployed his forces.
"Sarah, you get back into that sedan chair out in the Grand Salon.
Maintain a vigilant lookout. As soon as you detect any sign of activity
on the stairs, put your hand up to the rear window and wave this
handkerchief of mine. It has a luminous monogram. Bittersohn, you lurk
behind that suit of spurious medieval armor in the corner by the door."

"Out, man capiiaine. Where will you be?"

"Up there." Brooks pointed to the massive overhanging hood of a
fifteenth-century Italian fireplace.

"You'll kill yourself," Sarah protested.

"No, I shan't. I did a test run this afternoon." He swarmed up the
carvings like a middle-aged rhesus monkey. "Can you see me?"

"You blend in with the decor."

"Good. Now, you both understand what you're to do?"

"No. What happens when they get here?"

"We rely on the inspiration of the moment. Would you mind handing me up
another sandwich?"

"I hope they don't track us down by the odor of delicatessen," Sarah
muttered.

"No fear of that with ham, I believe. Pastrami would have

The Palace Guard	153


presented a risk. Now, if I may just have what's left of the root beer?
Good girl. Take the bag with you into the sedan chair and mind you don't
rattle the paper. Places, everyone."


Sarah scuttled back to the sedan chair and settled herself in the same
place where she'd struggled to pin her sari back on, praying that the
dust in the cushions wouldn't make her sneeze at the wrong moment. As
the eternities ticked by, she realized she could have sneezed her head
off and it wouldn't have mattered. After an aeon or two, the watchman
trudged by on his rounds, not even bothering to glance at the chair.
Sarah reached stealthily into the bag, extracted the last ham sandwich,
and ate it.

At least it was fairly warm in the chair, and the seat wasn't too hard.
What with the stuffiness and her exhaustion from the previous night's
activities, she was having a hard time keeping her eyes open. She
relaxed against the musty cushions for just a moment, felt herself
slipping off the seat, and sat up with a jerk. Had she actually dropped
off to sleep? Poor Max must be having screaming fidgets by now.

Then she heard a clatter on the stairs and a voice from somewhere below
saying, "Like I told you, man, it's a breeze."

Chapter 22


Sarah held Cousin Brooks's luminous monogram to the dusty glass and
waved frantically, though surely the two lurkers in the Titian Room must
have heard the commotion on the stairs, too. The invaders were making no
effort to be quiet. They must know they had nothing to fear from the
watchman. Either they'd tied him up or--Sarah hoped to heaven they'd
only tied him up.


She saw a yellowish glow from some sort of light they were carrying. Now
she could tell who they both were. One was Lupe, as she'd expected. The
other was Bengo, the painter who'd fluffed Rembrandt's cat. Bengo was
staggering under the weight of what looked like a huge suitcase. Lupe
bristled with an assortment of long, slender, rodlike objects with blobs
on their ends. Were they planning to erect an abstract sculpture? Was
this merely some far-out joke?

No, they wouldn't be doing a thing like this just for fun. Lupe wasn't
that sort. And they were going into the Titian Room, as Brooks had
thought they would. Following the dim light, Sarah could make out a
shadow detaching itself from the suit of armor in the corner and
sneaking after the two. Her heart froze. All she could think was, "I
must love him terribly. I couldn't be this scared if I didn't."

What if they had guns? What if Cousin Brooks took a notion to leap
Tarzan-like from the medieval carvings and capture them, and failed?
Sarah remembered too well what Joe Witherspoon's body looked like
falling past her eyes to land among the hyacinths. But the gargoyles all
stayed put and she began to relax a bit.

Whatever were they up to in there? She could hear thuds, crashes,
altercations in an outdated gibberish that consisted mostly of the words
"like," "man," and "dig." She could see that yellowish light bobbing
around. It must be an ordinary flashlight with something tied over the
lens to make the gleam less noticeable from outside. Gradually curiosity
got the better


154


The Palace Guard	155


of caution. Sarah opened the well-oiled door inch by inch and eased
herself out of the sedan chair. Her foot struck the paper bag and she
pulled back in terror, but the rattle of paper must have been too faint
to be heard above the racket Lupe and Bengo were making.


She wasn't the only one who'd got tired of sitting still. Slowly,
noiselessly, one of the effigies was moving down off that towering
mantel. Cousin Brooks had once remarked that he could get within two
feet of a hermit thrush, shyest of birds, without causing it to twitch a
tailfeather. Now she believed him. Well, if he was getting into the
action, so was she.

Grateful for her dark clothes, old sneakers, and the obscuring veil of
coal dust she must have acquired on her way down the chute, she
slithered into the Titian Room. Brooks neither turned his head nor made
any start of surprise, but reached out for her elbow and steered her
into the shadow of the immense carved fireplace. Now she had a ringside
view of the action.

The Titian Room was being transformed into a photography studio. The
bulbous objects turned out to be floodlights on metal tripods. They had
been set up in a semicircle around the huge "Rape of Lucrece." A
professional box camera that must have been in the big case stood in
front of the painting. At the moment Lupe's head was under a black
viewing cloth and Bengo was holding the hooded flashlight to illuminate
the canvas.

Now Lupe's head emerged from under the cloth. "Okay, man, we're in
focus. Now you see why we boosted this stuff from the camera store?"

"Man, you got smarts like it's goin' out of style," Bengo replied in awe
and reverence. "How you get all them brains in one skull, like?"

"You an operator, you operate. Now, man, we get us some feelthy
peectures in like living color of this fat broad with the big boobs.
Then you paint us a copy on that big canvas we been antiquing out on
Leroy's roof."

"I dig, man. Then we sell the copy."

"No, man. Then we come back here with the copy, put it in the frame
like, and boost us a genuine Titian."

"Cat daddy," breathed Bengo, "you are ba-ad!"

"Man, I hear you talkin'. Now plug in them lights an' like watch the
birdie."

156	Charlotte MacLeod


"What if the fuzz spot the lights through the window?"


"Who cares? We be long gone while the fuzz still huntin' for the
doorknob. Like plug 'em in, man."

"Like where?"

"Like in the outlets. Ain't you got no smarts?"

"Man, I got no outlets."

"What you mean, no outlets? Even Leroy's pad got outlets."

Brooks pulled Sarah closer to the fireplace as the conspirators'
flashlight made a frantic circuit of the baseboards and walls. She could
feel his wiry little body shaking, and thought at first he was having an
attack of nerves. Then she realized her cousin was overcome with silent
hilarity, and she remembered why.

When the palazzo was erected, Madam Wilkins had reluctantly installed a
coal furnace as a necessary concession to the rigors of Boston winters.
In other respects, she'd been a stickler for authenticity. The Medici
didn't have electric lights and she wasn't having them either.

Brooks got himself under control at last, cleared his throat, and
stepped out into the light. "Bengo is quite right. Dr. Ruy Lopez. There
are no outlets. But don't worry. I came prepared."

The explosion of his miniature flash gun caught the pair open-mouthed.
Bittersohn leaped out of the gloom and grabbed them in a double armlock.
Lupe struggled in vain to get free. Bengo, however, had not bathed in
many moons. His skin was so greasy that he managed to slither away.

"Get that camera," yelled Lupe.

Sarah shrieked as Bengo made a dive for Brooks, but that resourceful
gentleman merely stuck out his toot. His attacker sprawled flat on the
authentic Venetian flagstone floor. She picked up the dropped
flashlight, stripped off the old sock that covered the lens, and gave
them a better light. Now she could see Max Bittersohn holding Lupe six
inches off the floor and shaking him into passivity. Brooks was seated
comfortably on Bengo's shoulder blades, holding out a little box of
safety matches.

"Be a good girl, Sarah, and light the candles in those sconces. We may
as well have some illumination as we chat over the events of the
evening."

"I ain't rattin'," Bengo gasped.

"I am," said Lupe. "Anything you gentlemen want to know,

The Palace Guard	157


I be happy to sing like the dinkey bird in the amfalula tree. Maybe we
could like work out a deal."


"You're in no position to deal." Bittersohn gave Lupe a final shake and
set him down with a thump.

At last the dealer was able to get a look at the man who'd caught him.
"You?" he gasped. "Fuzz? Man, that ain't cricket."

"Tough toenails, cat daddy. Now talk. Who put you up to this?"

"Nobody, man."

"Are you quite sure?"

"Man, if I had somebody to rat on, you think I wouldn't? It was like
inspiration. It just come over me, man."

"While you were playing Dr. Aguinaldo Ruy Lopez to make a sucker out of
Max Bittersohn, right?"

Lupe smiled and said nothing.

"Who hired you for the Ruy Lopez act?"

"What's in it for me if I tell?"

"There might be quite a lot if you don't."

"Man, you don't have to get nasty. I said I'd sing, didn't I? It was
Lunchless."

"Lunchless who?"

"Like Lunchless. Man, you know. The fat old cat with the notes. Bernie's
baby-sitter."

"Are yeu referring to Nicholas Fieringer, who arranges the concerts
Bernie plays in?"

"Man, what I just say? Lunchless comes up to me and says, how I like to
make half a yard? I say I like it fine. Like green is my favoritest
color, man."

"Did Fieringer tell you why you were to do this impersonation?"

"Man, who needs to know? Anybody offer me long bread to wash my neck and
speak Spanish for a while I don't ask no questions, man."

"Even though it meant coming to the place where your uncle had just been
murdered?"

Lupe shrugged. "Man, you got to pick it where it grows."

"What made you think of reversing your customary procedure and selling
an original instead of the copy?"

"I tell you, man, it just come to me."

"Didn't it occur to you that you might have problems fencing a hot
Titian?"

158	Charlotte MacLeod


"Man, we got sporting goods dealers in this town could fence Old
Ironsides."


"Like who?"

"I look around. I find somebody."

"Perhaps your uncle could have helped you if he hadn't been bumped off
down in that locker room, where I assume you killed the watchman."

"Man, I never hit nobody. That ain't my thing, man. We just tie him up
and lock him in the can, like."

"You'd better be telling the truth about that. Whom was your uncle
working for?"

"Like I tell you, man, who needs to know?"

"I do, for one. When did your uncle tell you what was going on around
here?"

"Man, he tell me nothin'."

"Too bad. You could have profited from the information."

"Like how?" said Lupe eagerly.

"Like for instance you might have learned this genuine Titian you were
planning to boost had already been boosted. Like this is a fake, man."

From under the seated Brooks, Bengo raised his head to gaze up at his
captive leader. "Man," he said, "you are ba-ad!"

Chapter 23


"Palmerston hasn't a prayer of hushing up the stolen painting story
now," said Bittersohn with justifiable satisfaction. He and Sarah were
on their way back to Tulip Street, having left Brooks and the watchman,
who had indeed been found irate but unharmed in the sanitary facility,
to turn over the prisoners and reap the glory.

"I know," Sarah replied drowsily. "Lupe will rat all over the place. He
seems to think that someone else's having stolen the Titian before he
could make him an innocent victim. What will they do to him, I wonder?"

"Charge him with breaking and entering with assault and intent to commit
grand larceny." Bittersohn's words were halfstifled by a jaw-cracking
yawn. "With his connections he'll probably beat the rap somehow."

"He'll claim Bengo forced him into it."

"No doubt. Well, here's the old homestead. Tired, sweetie pumpkin?"

"Absolutely beat, though not in Lupe's sense of the word. These
middle-aged hippie types give one a feeling of deja vu, don't they? I
can remember my mother fussing about their fornicating on the sidewalks
and getting furious with me when I asked her what fornicating meant. Oh,
dear, someone just turned on the light in the library. 1 told Charles
not to wait up."

But Charles was at the door before Sarah could get her key in the lock,
looking dashing as all get-out in a Noel Coward lounging robe.

"Hail to thee, blithe spirit," said Bittersohn. "What's up besides you?"
"The hospital informs me that Countess Ouspenska has regained
consciousness."

"Damn! I shouldn't have put the car away."

"We can't go at this hour," Sarah protested. "They won't let us in."

"Yes they will. 1 did the director a favor once."


159


160	Charlotte MacLeod


"You and your connections! All right. Charles, call us a cab."


"You do not intend to visit the Massachusetts General Hospital in those
clothes, madam?" the butler said frostily.

"Why not?"

"You and Mr. Bittersohn both look, if I may take the liberty of saying
so. as if you've been crawling around a coalbin."

"Come to think of it, we have. Five minutes, then."

A quick wash and change revived them both somewhat. A quarter of an hour
later, hollow-eyed but presentable, they were getting a cool reception
from a night nurse and being led into the private room Bittersohn had
wangled for Countess Ouspenska.

Lydia looked ghastly. Gray skin was stretched so tight over her high
cheekbones that it seemed about to split open from the strain. Her eyes
were deep black pits and her mouth a slate blue gash. Still she tried to
smile. "The beautiful ones," she whispered. "I am some party-pooper,
not?"

Sarah kissed the ashen cheeks and took the ice-cold hands in her own.
"We're so terribly grateful that you're--" She checked herself. If Lydia
didn't realize how close to death she'd been, this was hardly the time
to tell her. "We'll have another party as soon as you're well enough to
come."

"Is good. 1 be there with bells on."

"Sure you will, Lydia," said Bittersohn, self-conscious as men often are
in sickrooms. He pulled up a chair and pushed Sarah gently into it.
"Have they told you what happened?"

"They say. how come 1 do such crazy thing? What crazy thing I do. Max?"

"They think you fed yourself a mixture of arsenic and Nembutal playing
Russian roulette with your stomach capsules."

"But not! Never I do such a thing. That was for leg-pull to make sputter
the good Dolores. Does she say 1 take poison?"

"She said you told her you were going to."

"Is like Dolores to believe when I joke. No imagination. Must be hell to
be artist with no imagination." Lydia was obviously still very sick.
Showing no curiosity about her own dreadful experience, she rambled on.

"Ever since I know Dolores is many years now she works, always she
works. When not at Madam's dusting ugly china is painting in studio with
door locked nobody should breathe on masterpieces. 1 say, 'Show me what
great thing you create

The Palace Guard	161


always painting, painting. She show me still life with dead bird. Not
even live bird to whistle while she work. Is always still life never
finished. I tease about it only yesterday. Is yesterday? I forget when
I--" Her voice faded and the nurse made them leave the room.


"She's right about that painting." Sarah remarked. "Dolores had it on
the easel the day I went there for tea. Max, do you suppose--?"

"Let's go." Bittersohn overawed the nurse with some precise and
frightening instructions, then dragged Sarah to the elevators.

"How could I have been such an idiot?" Sarah wailed. "It's been sticking
out all over the place. Dolores is an expert copyist. She showed me
photographs of some portraits that she'd copied from other photographs
and you could hardly tell which was which. And she had every opportunity
to get the paintings in and out of the museum. She'd need only say she
was taking the original to her studio for revarnishing or whatever, then
return the copy instead."

"I thought of her first off the bat," said Bittersohn shamefacedly, "but
she was so damned obvious 1 couldn't believe it was that easy. Besides,
those thick ankles sort of throw you off."

"I know. She's the salt of the earth. Is this the lobby? Max, do you see
what I see?"

A trim little man with slicked-down gray hair was sitting near the main
entrance.

"Hello, brighteyes," said Max.

"Good morning, children," Cousin Brooks replied. "I called your private
number, Bittersohn, to tell you Lupe and Bengo had been safely jugged,
and Charles answered. He said you were over here, so I came along. I was
just down around the corner at the jail anyway. How's Lydia?"

"Groggy but recovering. So you got the lads tucked in for the night."

"Unless Lupe has managed to talk his way out by now, which wouldn't
surprise me. What's next on the agenda?"

"We were about to pay a call on Dolores Tawne. Incidentally, Kelling, I
hope you're not--er--"

"Emotionally involved with her1.' Not in the least. As a matter of
fact"--Cousin Brooks smirked tenderly into the night as they emerged in
quest of yet another cab--"I've come to

162	Charlotte MacLeod


the conclusion that my affections are engaged elsewhere. Like the Canada
goose I'm monogamous by nature. I've avoided entanglements until such
time as I felt ready to mate for life. But now I'm all set to be netted
and banded."


"Congratulations. When does the nesting season begin?"

"I don't know. I haven't broached the subject to Theonia yet."

"Don't you think she should be among the first to know?" said Sarah.

"Dash it, I'm going to pop the question as soon as 1 get a chance to do
it properly. I can't just pounce on her like a hawk on a chicken."

"Why not? She'd love being swept off her feet."

"Too bad there aren't more like her," said Bittersohn, sweeping Sarah
off her feet and into the taxi that stopped for them. "Has it ever
crossed your mind, Kelling, that Dolores Tawne may be responsible for
all those fakes at the Madam's?"

"Dolores? Are you serious? She couldn't--but she could, couldn't she?
That opens up a rather startling train of thought. If she is, I must be
an accessory either before or after the fact. I must have copied at
least thirty of the Wilkins's frames for her. She always claims she
wants them to put on portraits she's painted."

"Have you seen any of the portraits?"

"As a matter of fact, no. She never offers and I never ask. The only
work of hers I've ever seen was an unfinished still life she was working
on I don't know how many years ago. It has a stuffed pheasant in it that
was as ridiculously incompetent a job of taxidermy as it's ever been my
misfortune to encounter. I pointed out its defects and she got into a
snit. I've always assumed that's why she hasn't shown me any more."

"Would you testify in court to her having asked you to copy the frames?"

"I hope I know my civic duty, Bittersohn. Drat! This reminds me of the
first time 1 ever saw a scarlet tanager in molt. One would have sworn
that all of a sudden it belonged to a different subspecies." Brooks
shook his neat head sadly and didn't speak again until they'd reached
their now familiar destination at Ipswich Street.

For the second night in a row they were treated to the sight of Mrs.
Tawne in her plisse robe and metal curlers. She was even more annoyed
this time.

The Palace Guard	163


"Oh, it's you. Brooks," she sniffed. "I must say I thought you knew
enough to show consideration for others even if your fine young lady
cousin and her paramour don't. What is it this time?"


"We came to congratulate you," said the paramour, "on the magnificent
job you've done copying all those paintings at the Wilkins Museum."

Bittersohn expected a reaction but not the one he got. Dolores almost
kissed him.

"Why, thank you, Mr. Bittersohn! 1 must say that's sweet music to my
ears coming from a man of your professional reputation. I'm sorry 1 was
a bit short with you just now. 1 had no idea--but come in, come in. I'll
put the kettle on. It won't take a second."

And off she rushed, leaving the art expert agape on the doorstep. Sarah
gave him a poke. "Go on, you idiot!" She herself led the way down from
the balcony, making polite tea party noises. The men sat on the edges of
chairs and looked stunned while Dolores did things in the kitchen.

In a few minutes she was back loaded with food and apologizing for the
meagemess of the entertainment. "If I'd known you were coming I'd have
had something on hand. Do try the chocolate marshmallow coconut fluffs,
Mr. Bittersohn."

Max blenched and helped himself to a plain cracker. "Thanks, I'll start
with this," he muttered.

"We know we shouldn't have barged in on you so late," Sarah gushed, "but
we've been at the hospital with Countess Ouspenska. She's coming along
nicely and we thought you'd want to know."

Dolores merely inclined her curlers and smiled vaguely. "That's good.
Now, about my paintings, Mr. Bittersohn. You don't know what it means to
me to be complimented by a truly discerning person. If I say so myself,"
she did say so herself, pausing only to refill cups and press more
goodies on her stupefied audience. The amount of technical data she
reeled off was amazing. It became evident that Dolores was an authority
on the duplication of old masters, that she was immensely proud of her
ability, and that she saw nothing improper in what she'd done. All she
regretted was the need for anonymity.

"An artist does appreciate recognition," she sighed. "So many times I've
stood there listening to visitors rave over my

164	Charlotte MacLeod


work and fairly had to bite my tongue to keep from letting them know
they weren't looking at a Rubens or a Rembrandt but a Dolores Agnew
Tawne. Ah well, it isn't every painter who gets mistaken for Rembrandt."
She chuckled and helped herself to another chocolate marshmallow coconut
fluff.


"You needn't worry about the lack of recognition," said Bittersohn. "I
predict that before long this place will be full of television cameras
and your name will be in every newspaper in the country."

"Wouldn't that be something!" Their hostess gazed dreamily over the top
of her cookie. "But I'm afraid it won't happen till I'm long past
caring. Absolute secrecy is our watchword, as of course you know."

"Yes, we've had that forcibly impressed upon us."

"I must say I'm surprised he told you three, though of course I knew
he'd been in contact with you. I suppose he was more or less forced to
reveal all on account of Witherspoon and Brown. That was an odd
coincidence, 1 must admit. I'd never have thought Brown was so devoted
to poor old Joe, but who knows what secrets lurk in the hearts of men,
as the Shadow used to say. I've been on pins and needles ever since
Sunday. We've always been worried for fear something would happen that
might lead to somebody's questioning the authenticity of the copies, not
that there's much likelihood, if I do say so myself. Still, as he's
often said to me, if the wrong people got hold of the information our
motives could be most unpleasantly distorted. Some folks are always
ready to believe the worst, you know."

Chapter 24


Sarah took a shot in the dark. "Ah. but outsiders don't know you as we
do, Mrs. Tawne. Once you were given the opportunity to explain. I'm sure
there could be no misunderstanding. I've been sitting here wondering how
you yourself would sum up the overall program in simple laymen's terms."


"Why, I honestly hadn't thought. I never expected to be caJled upon to
make the announcement." Dolores was clearly flattered by the suggestion.

"But why shouldn't you? 1 personally don't think it's quite fair for you
to have been kept so entirely out of the limelight all this time. Do
you, Mr. Bittersohn?"

"I certainly don't," said Max. "Do you, Kelling?"

"I don't understand it at all," said Brooks with simple truth. "You've
never impressed me as any shrinking violet, Dolores."

"I hope I can put public duty before mere personal vanity, Brooks. No,
I'm not going to make any formal disclosure until I receive his
instructions to do so. I've done whatever he told me to without question
for thirty-two years. Far be it from me to step in and try to hog the
glory now that our great work is so near completion."

"What do you mean, our?" said Brooks. "You've just been telling us you
did them all yourself."

"Every single brushstroke on every one of those great masterpieces is
mine and mine alone," said the artist with fierce pride, "but he has
always emphasized that we work as a team. 'You do the work and 1 bear
the responsibility," he says. And I'm proud to reveal that in spite of
the countless demands on his time and energies, his interest has never
flagged. Never for one second." Dolores waxed oratorical. "I can
truthfully say that without his faith and trust, his continuing support
and inspiration, I could never have accomplished what I did. When I
faltered, he spurred me on. 'I know you will not let our great work


165



166	Charlotte MacLeod


down,' he has said time and again. Through him I have found the strength
to fulfill my mission."


"Bravo," cried Bittersohn. "By the way, Mrs. Tawne. I hope Mr. C. Edwald
Palmerston has expressed his appreciation --er--materially as well as
verbally."

"He has been as generous as the limitations of the museum's budget will
allow," said Dolores stiffly, "and more. In fact he pays for every
cent's worth of my art materials out of his own pocket. His own pocket.
I'll bet he didn't tell you that."

"No." Bittersohn replied, "he didn't."

"That's so like him. 'Do good by stealth,' that's his motto. 1 daresay
he didn't even mention that he also pays for maintaining the vault."

"I can't believe this."

"It's absolutely true. And it must be a pretty penny, what with the
temperature and humidity controls and the hermetic sealing and all that,
not to mention the initial cost of construction."

"Eh?" snapped Brooks, "what's that?"

"Why surely he explained about the vault. That's the whole cornerstone
of our work. That," Dolores was orating again, "is the overwhelming
responsibility Mr. Palmerston took upon himself when he first became
chairman of the board of trustees. Madam Wilkins's original purchase is
preserved against the ravages of time, climate, and environmental
pollution under scientifically controlled conditions in a dustproof,
bombproof, radiationproof, mothproof vault, while a perfect copy is
displayed to the public. It wouldn't do, of course," she explained in a
more matter-of-fact tone, "to come straight out and say the paintings
are copies, so we've quietly substituted them one by one as I've
finished the duplications, and nobody has been the wiser. Never once in
thirty-two years has anybody raised a question."

A shadow flickered across her functional countenance. "That is. nobody
ever did until that old fool Joe Witherspoon started moaning about his
sweetheart's having changed. It was right after we changed the
paintings, I'll grant you that, but there's no way Joe could have found
out. That Titian 1 consider my masterpiece. I'll bet I worked harder on
the copy than Titian himself did on the original, and if you can find
one single flaw anywhere, I'll eat my palette."

The Palace Guard	167


"The Titian is the museum's most valuable possession, right?" said
Bittersohn.


"Oh, yes. Far and away the gem of the collection. We left it till almost
the last because, to tell you the truth, we were almost afraid to tackle
it. It's so big, and it's a painting that really gets looked at, if you
know what I mean. Mr. Palmerston was nervous as a cat on hot bricks.
'You must positively outdo yourself this time,' he kept telling me."

"And you did, Mrs. Tawne. It's remarkable that Witherspoon managed to
spot the substitution."

"He did no such thing! Joe was getting soft in the head from old age,
that's all."

"Did Mr. Palmerston know Joe was telling the other guards that the
painting had been altered?"

"There's precious little goes on around the palazzo that Mr. Palmerston
doesn't know. Certainly he knew. I told him myself."

"Then it must have been something of a relief to you both, if I may say
so, when Witherspoon took that header off the balcony."

"I'm frank to say I didn't shed many tears when I heard the news, though
I didn't relish the adverse publicity for the museum. And when I found
out that darn fool Brown had made a bad matter worse with his clowning
around pretending to have been robbed, I almost had a fit. Of all the
times to pick! If I'd been there when it happened, I don't say but what
I might have been tempted to toss him after old Joe and be done with the
pair of them."

"But you weren't in the palazzo then?"

"No, I wasn't. If you must know, I was over at Jimmy's place putting ice
packs on his head so he'd be in some kind of shape to go to work Monday.
I'm afraid it's no great secret that my brother gets a bit above himself
now and then. He'd got hold of a few extra dollars Saturday night and
gone on a bender unbeknownst to me. If I'd found out in time he had the
money--"

"Where did it come from?"

"As a matter of fact, Mr. Palmerston gave it to him in a moment of
forgetfulness. Jimmy does odd jobs for him sometimes and he always
insists on paying, though I've told him over and over I wish he
wouldn't."

168	Charlotte MacLeod


"Doesn't he know your brother will drink up the money as soon as he gets
it?"


"I suppose he keeps hoping Jimmy will reform," sighed Mrs. Tawne. "Being
such a pillar of rectitude himself, he doesn't always take into
consideration the weaknesses of others. He's been very understanding
about Jimmy, by and large. Mr. Palmerston is one of the world's real
philanthropists."

Sarah thought of another experiment to try. "He more or less gave us to
understand that the vault had been your idea."

Dolores beamed. "Isn't that just like him! No, it was entirely his own
personal inspiration. Of course I advised him on the details," she added
quickly.

"You also picked out the location, I believe?"

"Not I. Strange as it may seem, I don't even know where the vault is
situated. He always has felt it best that I remain totally aloof from
that part of the project. 'You have enough on your shoulders as it is,'
he tells me. 'I must not burden you with any unnecessary
responsibility.' He understands the immense pressures the creative
artist is subjected to."

"Then you've never even visited the vault?"

"Never."

"You just bring a painting here and copy it, then he takes away the
original and that's the last you see of it."

"That's it in a nutshell, Mrs. Kelling. Of course I don't keep the
originals here all the time I'm working on them. What I do is take
pictures and make sketches and careful notes, then I work mostly from
those. Since I have my own keys to the palazzo, I can always run over
during off-hours and make a comparison if I have to. When the time comes
to make a substitution, sometimes I do that, sometimes he does. If it's
a really important one like the Titian, we do it together."

"And that's all there is to it?"

"Well, not quite." Dolores actually simpered. "After the job is done, we
meet back here and have a little private celebration. I fix us a nice
snack, Mr. Palmerston brings a bottle of champagne, and we drink a toast
to the success of our enterprise. Then he delivers a brief address about
how future generations will be grateful to us for preserving their
priceless heritage from the ravages of time and so on. Of course there's
nobody but me to hear the speeches, more's the pity. I've suggested
making tape recordings to put in the vault with the paintings,

The Palace Guard	169


but he won't hear of it. True greatness and true modesty go hand in
hand, as I've often told him."


That was too much for Brooks Kelling. "True horsefeathers," he snorted.
"That old goat's been pulling the woo! over your eyes for thirty-two
years and you're too damned infatuated to admit it." "I'll thank you to
explain that remark. Brooks Kelling," said Mrs. Tawne dangerously.

Bittersohn intervened. "Perhaps this will explain better than Kelling
can." He showed her Bill Jones's list, now tattered from much handling.
"If you'll check over this listing, Mrs. Tawne, you'll see where, when,
and for approximately how much money each one of the originals you
copied was sold."

Dolores stared at the paper. "But--but this is crazy! They're all in the
vault."

"The vault you've never seen and don't know where to look for? I'm
afraid that vault exists only in C. Edwald Palmerston's imagination,
Mrs. Tawne."

"In other words, Dolores," said Brooks cruelly, "you've been led up the
garden path."

"I don't believe you. He couldn't. He wouldn't! Mr. Palmerston is a
fine, noble, philanthropic gentleman."

"Like hell he is."

"And besides"--the woman's anguished bewilderment was pathetic--"why
would he do such a dreadful thing to me?"

"For money," Bittersohn told her.

"Mr. Palmerston doesn't need money. He's a rich man. He gives lavishly
to worthy causes."

"He certainly does, and it's never cost him a cent. One might add that
Mr. Palmerston has other expensive philanthropies."

"Such as?"

"Women, mostly."

"Women? Oh, no. Not Mr. Palmerston."

"I'm afraid you don't know the man as well as you think you do, Mrs.
Tawne. He's kept you slaving for thirty-two years in order to support a
series of expensive lady friends."

"Who for instance?" Dolores had fight in her still. "If you mean that
Ouspenska trollop--"

"She was one, yes. When she was young and beautiful, of course. That's
how he likes them. Doesn't he, Mrs. Kelling?"

170	Charlotte MacLeod


Bittersohn gave Sarah a surreptitious poke. With downcast eyes, she
followed his cue.


"You must remember, Mrs. Tawne, that I'd led a very sheltered life. I
simply didn't understand what he was leading up to until--well, how
could any silly young girl have resisted? Orchids every day, lavish
dinners, jewels, sables, weekend flights to Monte Carlo--"

"You're lying," said Dolores faintly. "This is all some insane joke."

"Mrs. Tawne, does a betrayed woman lie about such things?" Sarah covered
her face with her hands.

"How--how many others--?"

Sarah shrugged wearily. "I couldn't say. I doubt whether he could,
either."

"And all of them--orchids, jewels, sables, trips to Monte Carlo?"

"Lately I believe it's been Tahiti."

"Tahiti? And me painting my guts out for a bottle of cheap champagne
once or twice a year?"

Dolores Tawne turned brick red, then chalk white. She sank back in her
chair and stared blindly at the paint-stained floor of her studio.
"You're right, Brooks," she said. "I'm nothing but a damned old fool."

Chapter 25


Dolores would have confronted Palmerston in curlers and kimono if Brooks
hadn't told her to act her age and get some clothes on. She was still
fuming like a volcano about to erupt when she led the charge up C.
Edwald's elegant brownstone steps.


A pretty young maid in a sexy negligee answered the doorbell, and that
capped the climax. Aflame with righteous are, Mrs. Tawne steamed to the
attack with Max and Brooks at her heels and the maid trailing behind
wringing her hands and bleating questions to which none of them paid any
attention.

Sarah missed the first part of the confrontation because Bittersohn had
commanded her to find a telephone and get hold of Fitzpatrick and
Fitzgibbon. When she reached the scene of battle, easily located by the
stridencies in which Dolores Tawne's voice led all the rest, Palmerston
was sitting up in bed, prudishly clutching an eiderdown to his chin with
one hand and groping for his teeth and eyeglasses with the other,
gummily and ineffectually trying to defend himself.

"But, Mrs. Tawne," he mumbled, "my motives were wholly humanitarian."

"Humanitarian my backside!" shrieked his enraged dupe. "Buying sable
coats for that little tramp right there, I don't doubt."

The maid burst into loud sobs. "It's only m-muskrat."

"There, see!"

"Now, Dolores--"

"Don't you Dolores me! I've never been one of your fancy pieces and you
can't try to make out I have. Just because I don't paint my face and
wear dresses cut down to my b-bellybutton--" She, too, started to cry.

Bittersohn put her gently aside. "You might as well come clean,
Palmerston. The police are on their way here. Lydia Ouspenska has
survived the dose of arsenic and Nembutal you put in her stomach
capsule. She's awake and talking. Mrs.


171


172	Charlotte MacLeod


Tawne's going to spill all she knows about your faked painting racket,
and we already have Bill Jones's testimony about how and when and where
you got rid of the paintings, so 1 daresay one or two of the fences will
be willing to finger you in exchange for immunity from prosecution.
Perhaps Mrs. Tawne can also tell us about an unfinished Murillo that
turned up in Ouspenska's studio all of a sudden last night."


"Is that where it went?" gasped Dolores. "He sent Nick Fieringer to get
it last night. 1 couldn't imagine why. I warned Nick to be awfully
careful about the wet paint. I hope he was."

"He was," said Bittersohn. "Too bad you were so conscientious, Mrs.
Tawne, or we might have got along a little faster. As to why the
painting was moved, I expect it was an attempt to make the countess look
like the person who'd been painting the fakes. She was supposed to die,
you see. Palmerston thought, no doubt, that she was already dead by then
and wouldn't be able to correct the misapprehension. You told him her
Russian roulette joke, didn't you?"

"Yes. Yes, I told him. And he'd have robbed me of the credit for
thirty-two years' work to save his own rotten skin?"

"Why not? He'd robbed just about everything else there was to rob by
then, and things were getting a bit warm around the Madam's. He had to
get out from under somehow, didn't he? Otherwise the world might lose
one of its real philanthropists. By the way, Palmerston, Nick Fieringer
will be talking, too. He's already explained how you got him to hire Dr.
Aguinaldo Ruy Lopez, whom your man Kelling here had the pleasure of
seeing safely to jail about an hour ago. Fieringer can tell the police
about that Murillo and the phial of arsenic you got him to plant in
Ouspenska's bureau drawer."

Palmerston's lips twitched and Bittersohn noticed. "I see. You planted
the arsenic yourself that night you took Lydia home from Mrs. Kelling's.
That's a minor detail. We know you gave Jimmy Agnew money Saturday night
so that he'd get drunk and be absent from work on Sunday and you'd have
an easier chance to hide in that sedan chair on the balcony without
being noticed. You must have been rather upset with your faithful friend
and confidante Mrs. Tawne for being able to produce a substitute guard
at such short notice, but you went ahead and you were lucky. You'd
arranged with Brown to get Witherspoon on the balcony somehow so that
you could nip out and shove him over the railing. You anticipated a hue
and

The Palace Guard	173


cry, and you ordered Brown to fake an assault and attempted robbery in
the chapel so that attention would be drawn away from the Grand Salon
and you could make a getaway. The next day you killed Brown to shut him
up by putting paint remover and a pinch of rat poison in his whiskey
bottle."


"I deny everything," shouted Paimerston.

"And a fat lot of good that's going to do you," said Brooks Kelling.
"You remembered to wipe your fingerprints off the paint thinner bottle,
but you forgot about the rat poison and I found it under my workbench."

Paimerston at last managed to get his teeth in. and bared them
ferociously at the substitute guard. "Kelling." he snarled, "you're
fired."

Fitzpatrick and Fitzgibbon had now arrived. They took a bit of
convincing before they would consent to carry so august a personage as
C. Edwald Paimerston off to be booked for grand larceny, murder,
attempted murder, and betrayal of the public trust, but Bittersohn
convinced them.

What with one thing and another it was almost dawn by the time Sarah.
Max, and Brooks got back to Tulip Street. Since Brooks had reasonable
qualms about disturbing his own landlady at such an hour, Sarah offered
him the hospitality of the library couch. They were all three very late
getting up. Only Mrs. Sorpende was left at the breakfast table by the
time they appeared. She deserved an explanation and she got one.

"I can't get over it." Sarah mused when the outlines had been filled in.
"When I think of all the times Paimerston upstaged Great-uncle Frederick
with those huge donations to the Home for Delinquent Dowagers and so
forth!"

"Not to mention the sables and orchids he lavished on you." drawled
Brooks. He was basking like a happy tomcat in the worshipful glances of
Mrs. Sorpende, who had a penchant for swashbuckling heroes of high
romance.

"I did tell horrible lies, didn't I? But it seemed the quickest way to
make her face the truth, and he really is an awful old letch. Leila
Lackridge always said so, though 1 couldn't believe it at the time. Poor
Dolores, I suppose she was in love with him. The police won't do
anything awful to her, will they?"

"What's to do? We can testify that she was duped, and she's turning
state's evidence, of course. Anyway, she's sure as hell going to get all
the publicity her heart could desire out of the trial," Max answered.

174	Charlotte MacLeod


"I should think so! This must be one of the biggest art swindles ever
hatched. I wonder if the other trustees are going to do anything about
trying to get the originals back?"


"I'll tell you later. I've been asked to attend an emergency meeting at
the Madam's this afternoon."

"Oh." Sarah sounded deflated.

Bittersohn glanced at her curiously. "What's the matter?"

"Nothing, really. It's just that they must be planning to offer you the
job and--well, you know I have no car any more and I was planning to
spend quite a lot of time this summer out at Ireson's Landing. Knowing
you have family there, I was rather hoping to hitch a ride with you now
and then, but if you're going to be traveling all summer--"

"Oh, I doubt if I'll be going anywhere yet awhile. A thing like this
will take time to organize, you know. I'm sure we can work something
out."

He smiled and Sarah turned a becoming shade of rose. They would no doubt
be able to work something out.

"I wonder if they plan to close the museum?" said Mrs. Sorpende.

"They'd be smarter to keep it open and charge admission to finance the
recovery," Brooks replied. "The fakes will no doubt be a bigger drawing
card than the originals, at least until the publicity dies down. It's
strange to think none of this would have happened if Palmerston hadn't
got the wind up about Witherspoon's noticing his sweetheart had changed.
Nobody else was taking poor old Joe seriously."

"Thus conscience doth make cowards of us all," said Mrs. Sorpende, who
read Bartlett's Quotations a lot.

"That's it exactly," Bittersohn agreed. "Palmerston's curse was his
imagination. Odd, isn't it? To look at him you'd think he hadn't a
thought in his head beyond the Dow Jones averages, but dreaming up that
fantasy about the vault and keeping Mrs. Tawne convinced of its reality
all these years took downright genius, of a sort."

"Those champagne toasts and the speeches," sighed Sarah. "I do feel for
that woman. To me that was almost the worst thing he did, keeping poor
old Dolores's nose to the grindstone so that he could play the shining
philanthropist and at the same time throw away fortunes on a series of
women who didn't give two pins for him. He's no better than a--" Sarah
was still

The Palace Guard	175


too proper a Bostonian to say precisely what Palmerston was no better
than.


"Anyway, Brooks, now that you're out of a job you can move in here and
help Mrs. Sorpende run the boarding house while I'm out at Ireson's
farming. Mr. Lomax and I are going to plant a huge garden and grow
enough provisions to last us all next winter. Mrs. Sorpende, you will
quit that silly job in the tearoom and take over for me here, won't
you?"

"I think the job is about to quit me in any case. The venture has not
been a success. Yes, I should be delighted to assist you in any way I
can. You know that, dear Mrs. Kelling,"

"And what would I do?" said Brooks.

"You'd pay a thumping big rent, for one thing, which I'm sure you can
well afford. And you'd do all the odd jobs Alexander used to do: putting
new washers in the faucets, touching up the paint, doing something about
that leak around the skylight, fixing window blinds so they'll roll. I
hadn't realized how much tinkering it takes to hold an old house
together. Everything's falling apart and I can't afford to keep calling
in repairmen. We need you, Brooks."

"Yes, but how would Theonia feel about having me around? After all, I
did help catch Palmerston and"--he shot a piercing glance from under his
neat gray eyebrows--"he was mighty gallant to her."

Mrs. Sorpende caught a drip from the spigot of the coffee urn in a coin
silver spoon. "I find myself quite without sympathy for Mr. Palmerston,"
she replied in her queenliest manner, "not only because of his dastardly
wrongdoing but because of his offensive conduct toward me personally."

"Why? What did he do?"

"On the way back from the museum in his ill-gotten limousine, he made
what 1 shall only describe as an improper suggestion."

"The infernal rotter," cried Brooks. "Why didn't you tell me, Theonia?
I'd have dealt with him."

Mrs. Sorpende turned on her cavalier a gaze so tender that he almost
swallowed his coffee cup. While he was choking and stammering, Mariposa
came in with the morning paper.

"Hey, get a load of this." she shouted merrily.

They all crowded together to read. The lead story was on Palmerston's
arrest, but there was another front page headline,

MORE DRAMA AT THE MADAM'S. A group photo Showed

176	Charlotte MacLeod


two uniformed policemen, Lupe, Bengo, the watchman who'd been locked in
the washroom, and Brooks smack in the middle looking like the cat that
had virtuously refrained from swallowing the canary.


Sarah began to read aloud. '"Through the alertness and daring of museum
guard Alexanders. Rolling'--why. Brooks, I'd forgotten your first name
is Alexander."

"Of course it is. About every fourth male child born into the Kelling
family since Hector was a pup has had Alexander stuck on to him
somewhere. That's why 1 never use it. Why are you goggling at me like
that?"

"I was just thinking that if I--make a change--and you get married, then
there'll still be a Mrs. Alexander Kelling running this house."

"Well, yes, if 1 ever manage to land myself a wife."

"Cousin Theonia said she'd be glad to help out. Didn't you, Cousin
Theonia?"

A smile of ineffable sweetness crept over the stately countenance. For a
long moment Theonia Sorpende sat perfectly still, the silver teaspoon
poised in midair. Then in her most dulcet tone, she spoke. "As you know.
Cousin Sarah, my one great joy in life is to be of service to you and
your loved ones."

"Damn it, Theonia," sputtered Brooks, "she's not asking you to darn a
tablecloth. Don't I represent anything more to you than another odd
job?"

Like a carrier pigeon flying home to its loft, a dimpled white hand
fluttered into the eager grasp of Alexander Brooks Kelling. "Shall 1
tell you," cooed Theonia Sorpende, "what you mean to me?"

Sarah rose and beckoned Max and Mariposa out of the dining room. As they
departed, a joyous drumming as of wings beating on a hollow log came to
their ears. It was the mating ritual of the ruffed grouse. Cousin Brooks
was proposing.