I looked at him. I said grimly, “You’re not kidding me. Who came and told you?”
“No one has been here.”
“Who telephoned?”
“No one.”
“I see. It’s just blah. For a minute I thought you really knew — wait, who did you get a letter from, or a telegram or a cable or in short a communication?”
“No one.”
“And you sent Saul for the red box?”
“I did.”
“When will he be back?”
“I couldn’t say. I would guess, tomorrow... possibly the day after...”
“Uh-huh. Okay, if it’s only flummery. I might have known. You get me every time. We don’t dare find the red box now anyway; if we did, Cramer would be sure we had it all the time and never speak to us again. He’s disgusted and suspicious. They had Gebert down there, slapping him around and squealing and yelling at him. If you’re so sure violence is inferior technique, you should have seen that exhibition; it was wonderful. They say it works sometimes, but even if it does, how could you depend on anything you got that way? Not to mention that after you had done it a few times any decent garbage can would be ashamed to have you found in it. But Cramer did give me one little slice of bacon, the Lord knows why: in the past five years Mrs. Edwin Frost has paid Perren Gebert sixty grand. One thousand smackers per month. He won’t tell them what for. I don’t know if they’ve asked her or not. Does that fit in with the phenomena you’ve been having a feeling for?”
Wolfe nodded. “Satisfactorily. Of course I had not known what the amount was.”
“Oh. You hadn’t. Are you telling me that you knew she is paying him?”
“Not at all. I merely surmised it. Naturally she is paying him; the man has to live or at least he thinks so. Was he bludgeoned into confessing it?”
“No. They screwed it out of his bank.”
“I see. Detective work. Mr. Cramer needs a mirror to make sure he has a nose on his face.”
“I give in.” I compressed my lips and shook my head. “You’re the pink of the pinks. You’re the without which nothing.” I stood up and shook down my pants legs. “I can think of only one improvement that might be made in this place; we could put an electric chair in the front room and do our own burning. I’m going to tell Fritz that I’ll dine in the kitchen, because I’ll have to be leaving around eight-thirty to represent you at the funeral services.”
“That’s a pity.” He meant it. “Need you actually go?”
“I will go. It’ll look better. Somebody around here ought to do something.”
Chapter 15
At that hour, 8:50 p.m., parking spaces were few and far between on 73rd Street. I finally found one about half a block east of the address of the Belford Memorial Chapel, and backed into it. I thought there was something familiar about the license number of the car just ahead, and sure enough, after I got out and took a look, I saw that it was Perren Gebert’s convertible. It was spic and span, having had a cleaning since its venture into the wilds of Putnam County. I handed it to Gebert for a strong rebound, since he had evidently recovered enough in three hours to put in an appearance at a social function.
I walked to the portal of the chapel and entered, and was in a square anteroom of paneled marble. A middle-aged man in black clothes approached and bowed to me. He appeared to be under the influence of a chronic but aristocratic melancholy. He indicated a door at his right by extending his forearm in that direction with his elbow fastened to his hip, and murmured at me:
“Good evening, sir. The chapel is that way. Or...”
“Or what?”
He coughed delicately. “Since the deceased had no family, a few of his intimate friends are gathering in the private parlor...”
“Oh. I represent the executor of the estate. I don’t know. What do you think?”
“I should think, sir, in that case, perhaps the parlor...”
“Okay. Where?”
“This way.” He turned to his left, opened a door, and bowed me through.
I stepped into thick soft carpet. The room was elegant, with subdued lights, upholstered divans and chairs, and a smell similar to a high-class barber shop. On a chair over in a corner was Helen Frost, looking pale and concentrated and beautiful in a dark gray dress and a little black hat. Standing protectively in front of her was Llewellyn. Perren Gebert was seated on a divan at the right. Two women, one of whom I recognized as having been at the candy-sampling session, were on chairs across the room. I nodded at the ortho-cousins and they nodded back, and aimed one at Gebert and got his, and picked a chair at the left. There was a murmur coming from where Llewellyn bent over Helen. Gebert’s clothes looked neater than his face, with its swollen eyes and its general air of having been exposed to a bad spell of weather.
I sat and considered Wolfe’s phrase: dreary and hushed obeisance to the grisly terror. The door opened and Dudley Frost came in. I was closest to the door. He looked around, passing me by without any pretense of recognition, saw the two women and called to them “How do you do?” so loud that they jumped, sent a curt nod in Gebert’s direction and crossed toward the corner where the cousins were:
“Ahead of time, by Gad I am! Almost never happens! Helen, my dear, where the deuce is your mother? I phoned three times — good God! I forgot the flowers after all! When I thought of it, it was too late to send them, so I decided to bring them with me—”
“All right, Dad. It’s all right. There’s plenty of flowers...”
Maybe still dreary, but no longer hushed. I wondered how they managed with him during the minute of memorial silence on Armistice Day. I had thought of three possible methods when the door opened again and Mrs. Frost entered. Her brother-in-law came to meet her with ejaculations. She looked pale too, but certainly not as much as Helen, and apparently had on a black evening gown under a black wrap, with a black satin piepan for a hat. There was no sag to her as she more or less disregarded Dudley, nodded at Gebert, greeted the two women, and went across to her daughter and nephew.
I sat and took it in.
Suddenly a newcomer appeared, so silently through some other door that I didn’t hear him do it. It was another aristocrat, fatter than the one in the anteroom but just as melancholy. He advanced a few steps and bowed:
“If you will come in now, please.”
We all moved. I stood back and let the others go ahead. Lew seemed to be thinking that Helen should have his arm, and she seemed to think not. I followed along behind with the throttle wide open on the decorum.
The chapel was dimly lighted too. Our escort whispered something to Mrs. Frost, and she shook her head and led the way to seats. There were forty or fifty people there on chairs. A glance showed me several faces I had seen before; among others, Collinger the lawyer, and a couple of dicks in the back row. I stepped around to the rear because I saw the door to the anteroom was there. The coffin, dead black with chromium handles, with flowers all around it and on top, was on a platform up front. In a couple of minutes a door at the far end opened and a guy came out and stood by the coffin and peered around at us. He was in the uniform of his profession and he had a wide mouth and a look of comfortable assurance by no means flippant. After a decent amount of peering he began to talk.
For a professional I suppose he was okay. I had had enough long before he was through, because with me a little unction goes a long way. If I had to be slid up to heaven on soft soap, I’d just as soon you’d forget it and let me find my natural level. But I’m speaking only for myself; if you like it I hope you get it.