The Palace Guard (2 page)

“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 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!”

I
T 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?”

“Lady, how do I know? I’m only telling you what must have happened.”

“Good of you,” granted 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 wormholed 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 the small hand carefully, as if he were afraid 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 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. I 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 what-not. I expect her influence is all that keeps Jimmy on the job.

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 of 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 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. I 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 I had the carbuncle, I 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?”