Charlie gave me directions. When he said “the
Darcy
residence
,” it sounded like he was struggling with a
second language.
I spotted a lead pencil in the grass near his
feet.
“
You really should check into that
and find out who the guy was who was holding that pencil,” I said,
pointing to it. “At the very least, you should let the police know.
That’s got to be the worst case of human spontaneous combustion
I’ve ever seen.”
I drove off. In my mirror I saw Charlie bend
over to pick up the pencil. I liked to think that small discovery
would lead him to start a solipsist splinter group with him as its
leader.
The Highlands is still situated above a massive
bluff, with spectacular views of Puget Sound. My route was mostly
shaded and flanked by shrubbery, oaks, maples, and tall evergreen
trees. I left my window down to take in the smells of fir and pine
and to better catch the breeze coming up off the water. At points
where the sun peeked through, I got glimpses of the bay, and beyond
it the majestic mountain range of the Olympics.
Addison Darcy’s neighbors had long driveways.
Their homes reflected the taste of the owner or the fad of the
decade in which it was built. Tudor-style, early American colonial,
opulent gingerbread cottages, and even a few Spanish haciendas
dotted the remote acreage.
I saw a modest little sign that said “Darcy.” I
pulled into the driveway and took a right past three outbuildings.
I reached a sweeping space where I whirled the Chevy around and
parked. Nearby sat four automobiles in or around a huge
garage.
The main building on the Darcy estate was a
three-story brick and stucco Tudor that made Blanche Arnot’s place
look Lilliputian. Each floor of this manor home looked to have four
times the square footage of Mrs. Berger’s entire house.
The door opened and there stood a lean woman in
a dress the color of a coal miner’s face. She was on the far side
of middle age and was long immune to the very best in disarming
smiles.
Our chins would have been level without the
threshold. But as it was, I had to stare up at the close-set peas
that passed for her eyes. Her hair was pulled straight back into a
bun the size of a man’s fist. Each strand of hair was stretched so
tight it left her face strained and juiceless. It went well with
the tightly drawn horizontal line that did duty as both a frown and
a smile. She was the kind of female house servant you’d absolutely
insist on if your husband had roving eyes. One word summed her
up.
Scary.
“
You are?” she said, in a voice that
sounded like it was piped in.
“
Gunnar Nilson. I’m here to see Mr.
Darcy.”
“
Come.”
I obeyed. As I stepped inside, my eyes were
immediately drawn to the foyer’s vaulted ceiling. It made me feel
tiny and prepared me for what came next. She quick-marched me into
a first-floor parlor large enough to hold congress. A wizened
finger pointed to a glazed, calico-covered armchair.
“
Sit,” said the piped-in
voice.
I sat.
“
Wait.”
I did.
She gave me an abrupt nod. When she was out of
sight I put a clove under my tongue. I looked around. The room had
modern furniture and felt comfortable enough. The décor had the
feminine touch—though definitely not by the talons of the she-goon
who’d just greeted me. The place was festooned with foreign and
exotic curios, highly valued little knickknacks, and rare and
strange art, the sheer volume of which only the moneyed could
afford and wish for. All was arranged with the care and devotion of
a person not fettered by the workaday world.
On the table next to me were several framed
photographs. I picked up one of them. It was of a nice-looking man
in his mid to late twenties and dressed in a naval officer’s
uniform. The inscription read,
To Mother and Dad, with all my
love, Addie
.
“
That
was
my son.”
I put the picture down and stood up to face the
voice. It came from a man wearing an ink-black velvet jacket and
beige trousers. He walked over to me. He was a rugged old
war-horse, the kind who told tall tales of the Crimean War—at least
by Hollywood standards. Time had not been kind to him. From what
Rikard Lundeen had said, Addison Darcy had to be somewhere in his
late-sixties. He looked far older. His thinning top hair was more
than offset by hirsute eyebrows and a bristly mustache no wax could
conquer. Walter was right. He
did
look like C. Aubrey
Smith.
He clamped my hand in his. It was more of a
hand-wrench than a shake. He was baronial. He might have become
more withdrawn in his old age, but he still projected a manly
carriage, a residual sureness from past achievements. After
introductions we sat down, and Addison Darcy pointed to the photo
of his son.
“
He was killed in the Pacific.
Damnable kamikaze plowed right into his ship. Not very sporting of
those Japs. Not very sporting at all.”
I agreed, but chose not to mention the two atom
bombs we finally dropped on Japan. The timing wasn’t right. Talking
about his son, Addison Darcy had a familiar look about him. He had
that injured-spirit glaze to the eyes. I’d seen it in many a
dogface, including the one in my shaving mirror.
“
Addie would have gone far. Groomed
him myself. He had a rare business savvy. He’d have gone far and
done exceedingly well.”
He was quiet for a moment.
“
Can I offer you anything, son?
Coffee? I know it’s early, but I can trouble Hildy to get you
something stronger.”
I told him no thanks. I guessed that Hildy was
his scary receptionist, and I didn’t care to trouble her
whatsoever.
Addison Darcy went on, “I’ve given up alcohol,
myself. Doctor said my liver would explode if I didn’t. But I sneak
a drink now and again. Hell, what’s life without a few guilty
pleasures?”
I gave a commiserating smirk.
“
As it happens, I received a
telephone call not half an hour ago that summons me away before
noon. So I’m glad you came early. I was just about to take a quick
steam bath. Would you care to join me, son? We could talk while we
sweat.”
Hot and murky had no appeal. I preferred to
sweat where we were, so I declined and told him I wouldn’t keep him
long.
“
I’m not really clear as to why you
want to talk with me. I’ve told the police what little there is to
tell.”
“
Maybe you’ve given things more
thought, and you’ll tell me something you didn’t tell the police. I
just have a few questions,” I said.
“
Well, old Rik speaks highly of you,
son. If it weren’t for him we wouldn’t even be having this little
parley, of that you can be certain. I’d just as soon keep my nose
and name out of anything connected to that salesgirl’s
murder.”
I told him I understood. “You saw Christine
Johanson squabbling with Dirk Engstrom the day of the
homicide.”
“
Yes, that’s true. Only the girl
didn’t say much. The Engstrom lad did all the shouting. He’s
hot-tempered like his mother. But I suppose you could call it a
quarrel. The girl was none too happy to see him, of that you can be
certain.”
“
The police said that one of you
bystanders heard Dirk Engstrom threaten to kill
Christine.”
“
No. That wasn’t me, son. Although
he might have done so at that. His conduct was
abominable.”
“
Tell me what you saw and
heard.”
Mr. Darcy told me he was buying perfume for his
wife and Christine was letting him smell samples when Dirk Engstrom
grabbed her by the elbow and jerked her aside.
“
He told her to take a good look at
how she was behaving—something like that. She tried to speak but he
kept at her. I started backing away. I’ve never been one to borrow
trouble. I haven’t lived as long as I have for nothing. I did hear
the Engstrom lad say he didn’t want a floozie for a wife. I do
remember that.”
“
Dirk told me that when he walked in
the place you were smelling the nape of Christine’s neck. He said
that’s what set him off.”
He glared at me. “And what’s that supposed to
mean?” he asked coldly, leading to a hot question, “Is
my
behavior on trial now?”
I didn’t want Hildy getting me my hat just
yet.
“
Frankly, I’m finding Dirk is the
overly jealous type. He’s got a temper that goes with rash and wild
remarks. He probably misinterpreted or exaggerated what he saw.
What’s your version?”
Mr. Darcy was straining with his anger, driving
it off, packing it away. A small frown remained a moment then
disappeared.
“
Well, perhaps the young woman gave
the lad just cause.”
“
Do you think Christine Johanson was
a floozie?” I asked.
He gave me a crafty grin. “It was she who
controlled the atomizer. She chose where to spray the perfume.
She
invited me to take a whiff. You know how some girls of
the common variety can be, son.”
I smiled and raised an eyebrow that said I knew
the ways of common variety girls.
“
When I was a young buck,” he
continued, “it was mainly actresses and showgirls who were looking
for a good time. The age of bobbed-hair, flappers, and bootleg
changed all that. Now a man can find willing girls most everywhere
he turns. The kind you have fun with but don’t take seriously, of
course. I think that’s a big part of the Engstrom lad’s problem. Of
that you can be certain.”
“
What do you mean, sir?”
“
Dirk was getting serious with the
wrong type of girl. Anyone could see that she had round heels. What
did he expect from a salesgirl?”
“
The common variety,” I
said.
“
Exactly.” He pointed to his son’s
photo. “My Addie was heading down the same path. He was going to
make the same foolish mistake.”
“
Foolish mistake?”
“
Addie was getting serious about
some trollop. A dancer. He carried on with her to the point where
he was talking marriage. Fortunately, the boy listened to reason
and I was able to put a stop to it. You sow your oats with that
kind. You don’t marry them. A man would have to be insane to do
so.”
He insisted that he had nothing more to add and
steered the conversation briefly to politics and then to business.
He did a little of that boasting Rikard Lundeen had warned me
about. He talked of real estate holdings, the structure of
companies, trusts, securities portfolios, and corporate investment
entities. But he spoke more in terms of past battles fought and
won. I sensed detachment behind what passed for eager prattle.
Rikard Lundeen was right. Addison Darcy made a remark here and
there that told me he’d personally taken a fairly static position
toward the management of his holdings ever since his son was
killed.
The talk grew tedious. I went along for the
ride awhile before telling him it was time for me to go and for him
to take his quick steam bath.
As he escorted me to the door I asked him if
he’d ever been to the New Amsterdam Theatre in New York.
He laughed and gave his thigh a slap. “Many
times, son. The New Amsterdam, the Manhattan, the Palace, the
Majestic—you name it. When I was a younger man I made regular
business trips to New York. At one point, I practically lived in
that city six months out of the year. I always made a point of
taking in a show or two.”
And a showgirl or two as well, I thought. Of
that I could be certain.
My visit with Addison Darcy was a dead end as
far as I was concerned. But I had to be onto something or someone
wouldn’t have tried to grind me into roadbed. It was a perverse
form of encouragement.
I’d purposely given myself a little time to
kill before meeting Guy de Carter. I headed over to the Atherton
Building. I planned to pick up that list of customers from Britt
Anderson and question Meredith one more time.
It was 11:00 when I sauntered in the Maison le
Swank sitting room of Fasciné Expressions. Another gorgeous female
of the fashion plate persuasion pranced up to me.
She was a little taller than the other girls,
had a broad face, skin like porcelain, and hair the color of
charcoal briquettes. She was wearing an imperial purple suit and
told me her name was Peggy in a sultry speech that made the name
sound original and its bearer as enchanting as she looked. Her
engaging scent was distinctly overstated. Before she could ask me
how she might be of help, I gave my name and purpose in
calling.
“
Oh, yes. You’re the private eye,”
she said, giving me a top-to-bottom reappraisal. “Miss Anderson
said if you were to stop by we were to tell you to go on back.” Her
voice went from sultry to soothing nasal. “She said you’d know how
to find her.”
Peggy was turning to leave when I said, “I
understand Guy de Carter comes in the store quite a bit. Do you
know him?”
She frowned, tried to smile, but the frown
stuck. “I know him a little. More than I care to.”