The Withdrawing Room Page 15

  “I am sure you can count on the tenant’s fullest co-operation,” said Mrs. Sorpende, her regal manner belied by the tears in her eyes.

  “Good. And the tenant can count on mine. I realize how annoying it could be for a professional person to be pestered by her housemates for free advice at odd hours.”

  “Speaking of professionals...” As the proprietress happened to be passing the table on her way to greet an elderly man who must be a favored regular customer, Mrs. Sorpende picked up the cup again and poked at the soggy residue. “Are you aware that you may have somebody in the house whose profession is quite different from what he says it is?”

  “Who, for instance?”

  “Offhand, I’d say your handsome author is a plainclothes policeman.”

  Sarah’s heart skipped a beat. “Why do you say that?”

  “Because I can smell them in the dark. My life has not been wholly blameless and my experience has been vast. Since you’re paying for advice, here’s mine: don’t waste too much of your time on illustrations that will probably never get printed or paid for.”

  “Thank you for telling me,” said Sarah with perhaps a shade less gratitude than Mrs. Sorpende might have felt entitled to expect. “I hope you’ll keep your suspicions to yourself, though, until I’ve had a chance to do some checking. If this man is putting on an act he may have a perfectly valid and possibly important reason for doing so. On the other hand he may be what he represents himself to be and I shall get paid for my work. And quite frankly, I could use any spare cash that’s coming just now.”

  “Who couldn’t?” The strain Mrs. Sorpende must have been under exploded into a nervous little giggle. “Please don’t think I’m hinting for a tip. I shouldn’t accept one if you offered.”

  “Good, because I don’t think I have any extra money left anyway.” Sarah laid her last three dollars on the table, pulled on her gloves, picked up her china, and walked out.

  As she left, the proprietress gave her a toothy smile and said; “Come again.” Sarah smiled back automatically but she wouldn’t be returning. She’d already got what she came for, and a little more besides.

  Chapter 18

  AS SARAH CAME OVER the hill, she found a station wagon blocking Tulip Street and somebody loading the last of several items into the back. None of them, she was relieved to see, had ever belonged to the Kellings. Miss Hartler must be getting rid of the stuff Wumps had amassed, and the sooner the better for both her and her unhappy landlady.

  It would be lovely if Miss Hartler decided of her own volition to go back to Rhode Island where her friends and her church work were. If she didn’t, Sarah was quite prepared to do the deciding for her. One couldn’t go on ladling cranberry juice over a wet blanket forever.

  At least Miss Hartler must be up and functioning, if she’d bestirred herself to make people come and get their spurious artifacts. In fact, when Sarah entered the front hall, the woman came popping out of the drawing room much as her late brother would have done.

  “Oh, Sarah, there you are. That maid of yours didn’t seem to know where you’d gone or when you’d be back. I don’t think she even understands what I’m saying half the time.”

  “I’m sure Mariposa understands perfectly well,” Sarah answered. “However, if you’ve read that list of house rules I put on your tray, you must have learned that the staff are responsible only to me.”

  “Yes, dear, and I was trying to obey. I knew I mustn’t go interfering in the kitchen, but I did think somebody ought to let your cook know as early as possible about putting dinner forward.”

  “Putting dinner forward? Whatever for?”

  “Why, my dear, you know we’re to have the—the viewing this evening. Only of course there can’t be one because dear Wumps—but naturally people will wish to pay their respects—and I naturally assumed—”

  “The visiting hours are to be at the funeral parlor, aren’t they? You don’t mean to tell me you’ve invited anybody here?”

  “Well, no, not tonight. But we’re supposed to be there from half-past seven until ten o’clock. That means we shall have to serve dinner an hour early in order to—”

  To her credit, Sarah managed to reply in a calm, level voice. “Miss Hartler, if you’d like a tray in your room at six, I’ll be glad to see that you get it. Afterward, Charles can call a taxi for you. The household will stick to its usual schedule. No doubt some of us will go to the undertaker’s this evening, but we’ll have plenty of time after dinner.”

  “But, Sarah, I was counting on your support!”

  This was a bit much. “Then you weren’t thinking very realistically, were you? I’m sure you have plenty of old friends who’ll be only too willing to help you get through the funeral. You also have the undertaker and his assistants whose job it is to manage everything for you. As for myself, I have this big house to run and six people paying me a good deal of money to stay in it. My boarders work hard all day, they come here afterward expecting a period of relaxation and a leisurely home-cooked meal. If I were to disappoint them, I’d be liable for a breach of contract. Anyway, I don’t intend to.”

  “Surely, in a house of mourning—”

  “I’m sorry, but this is not a house of mourning. It’s a boardinghouse, and your brother was one of the boarders. I know that sounds cruel, but it’s something you absolutely must understand. Mr. Hartler may have meant the world to you, but to me he was no more than a casual acquaintance and the others had never even met him until last, Monday. Of course we all feel dreadful about what happened to him, but you can’t expect us to heap ashes on our heads for a man we hardly knew.”

  The sister’s blue lips quivered. “Everybody loved Wumps.”

  “I’m sure his friends loved him,” said Sarah as gently as she could. “Would you like me to call any of them? I do understand how painful all this must be for you, and I’m quite willing to do anything I reasonably can. Have you eaten lunch? How about a grilled cheese sandwich and a glass of cranberry juice?”

  “Oh no, thank you. I shouldn’t dream of putting you to the trouble. As to the telephoning, I’ve already got in touch with dear Marguerite and one or two others. They’ve promised to spread the word around. By the way, Marguerite will be driving up later this afternoon with Iris Pendragon and she wasn’t sure who else. Perhaps you might care to call her back, and explain about dinner. She naturally assumed you’d be putting them up.”

  “Then she’d better change her mind in a hurry. I haven’t a spare bed in the house, and we don’t take extra guests at dinner without at least a day’s advance notice. They’re all rich as Croesus, they can go to the Copley Plaza or somewhere. And pay for it themselves.”

  “Sarah, your own aunt!”

  “She’s only my aunt by marriage and I’m no longer married, so that doesn’t count anymore. We’ll invite her and the rest of her crew back here for a glass of sherry or something after the funeral, if you want.”

  “Oh, as to that—well, dear, there was nothing else I could do, was there? One has to make a gesture, and this is the only home I have now.”

  “How many gestures did you make?” Sarah asked with a sinking feeling in her stomach.

  “My dear, how can I possibly know? I did explain, didn’t I, that I’d only spoken to a couple of the people personally. The matter is quite out of my hands by now. Friends will surely rally around. Dear Wumps was so very popular. Marguerite may have some idea of how many to expect.”

  By this time, Marguerite was no doubt chartering a plane to fly dear Wumps’s old buddies in from Honolulu. Sarah groaned.

  “I don’t know where you thought I was going to put them all. I don’t even have a drawing room anymore. We’ll have to stuff those vases and whatnot under the bed and open up the room you’re sleeping in.”

  “No, please! We can’t let anybody in there.”

  “Suit yourself. Then they’ll just have to stand out on the sidewalk and you can hand their refreshments through the library win
dow.”

  “Sarah, I must say I did expect a little co-operation from you, considering what I’m paying for this room.”

  “So far you’re not paying anything, Miss Hartler. You’re simply using up the week’s rent your brother had already paid.”

  “Well, naturally I intend—”

  “We’ll talk about that when the time comes, shall we?” Sarah had already made up her mind what she was going to say. “What you don’t appear to realize is that you’ve put me in an impossible position. If there were any way to get in touch with all those people who have no doubt by now been invited to come here after the funeral, I’d insist that you tell them you’ve arranged for a little reception at a hotel or somewhere, as you should have done in the first place. Perhaps you could have the vicar make an announcement after the service.”

  “Sarah! That would be unthinkable.”

  “And probably useless because there are sure to be a bunch who’ll dodge the ceremonies but show up for the free drinks. There always are. All right, you’ve stuck me with it and I’ll have to make the best of it. But we’ll have to use that room whether you like it or not, so you’d better start putting things away and at least give people a place to stand.”

  “I can’t. I’m simply not up to it.”

  “You were energetic enough yesterday. Thank goodness it’s clean, at least. Come on, I’ll help you.”

  “No!” Miss Hartler threw herself across the doorway in a dramatic gesture quite out of keeping with her usual mousiness. “If my brother’s last haven is to be invaded, then I will make it ready as best I can. This is a cruel, cruel imposition!”

  “It certainly is.” Sarah gave up trying to be considerate. “And you’ll have to give me the money for whatever you intend to serve.”

  “But can’t you simply give me the bills after this is,” Miss Hartler choked, “all over?”

  Jeremy Kelling had drawn up one inviolable rule that was not on the list. “When it comes to money, don’t trust ‘em one cent’s worth. Get everything in advance, cash on the button.” It was a good rule, and Sarah was not about to break it.

  “No, I’m sorry but I can’t. Surely Aunt Marguerite’s told you how desperately hard-up I am? What were you planning to offer them?”

  “Oh, dear, I hadn’t—you’re being so very—I suppose—I mustn’t—couldn’t your cook just make some little sandwiches, and perhaps petits fours? And a nonalcoholic fruit punch for those who don’t want sherry, though I suppose some will expect cocktails—and tea and coffee for those who insist on—”

  “Nobody’s going to want fruit punch but you,” said Sarah. “We’ll stick to sherry and biscuits and a few spreads or dips or something. Unless you want to hire a caterer, though I can’t imagine you’d be able to find one at the last minute willing to take on an unspecified number of people. Give me fifty dollars and I’ll do the best I can. If there’s any left over I’ll return it to you with an itemized statement of what I spent.”

  “But, Sarah, Wumps would have hated such a meager—”

  “We’re not going to argue about this, Miss Hartler. We can’t put on a big spread because we haven’t the room. Anyway, I don’t want them hanging around. You’ll have to get them all out of here by five o’clock so that we can scramble the place together and have things presentable for my boarders. By then you’ll be exhausted and glad to see them go, anyway. Believe me, I know. Now would you please give me the money?”

  Tight-lipped, Miss Hartler went and got fifty dollars out of her handbag, then shut herself in the drawing room and began banging things around. At last Sarah was free to get rid of her coat and her china and find herself a bite to eat.

  It was no doubt rotten of her to be treating an old woman this way, but it had been pretty scaly of Miss Hartler to pull such a trick on her, too. She and her brother had been peas in a pod, no doubt about that, both thinking they could do as they pleased in somebody else’s house.

  Sarah tried several time to reach Aunt Marguerite and straighten her out on the entertainment situation, but the line was always busy. When she at last did get through, she was informed that the mistress had already left for Boston in the limousine with several friends. The mistress and her coterie didn’t know it yet, but they were in for a cool reception if they came here with any great expectations.

  They did, of course. Marguerite swooped in dripping mink and gush, wanting to know where the chauffeur should put up the car.

  “Tell him to drive around the block and pick you up in half an hour,” Sarah told her before Miss Hartler could get a word in. “They’re holding a couple of rooms for you at the Copley.”

  “But I thought we’d be staying here!”

  “I could put you up at Ireson’s Landing if you want to rough it by yourselves. There’s no heat or light and the water isn’t turned on, but you could use oil lamps and camp around the fireplace. That’s absolutely the only scrap of extra room I have, Aunt Marguerite. I’ve even got tenants in the attic and the basement. I thought you understood.”

  “Well, apparently I didn’t. I must say, Sarah—”

  “Must you?” said her former niece-in-law wearily. “I did try to get you on the phone to make the position clear, but first your line was busy and then you’d already left. Bring your friends in for a cup of tea if you want. You can have a little visit with Miss Hartler, but you’ll have to sit in the library. She’s sleeping in what used to be the drawing room.’

  “Good heavens! Poor Caroline must be positively spinning in her grave.”

  Even Marguerite realized that was not a tactful remark. She went back to the front door and called in her friends. “This way for tea, girls. The loo’s down the hall, Iris, since you were about to ask. Show her, Sarah.”

  “It’s only reachable through the front bedroom now. I’ve had some remodeling done. You can use mine, Mrs. Pendragon. First door to your left at the head of the stairs. Miss Hartler, please make your guests comfortable while I get the tea.”

  It was jolly well going to be tea, too, although Sarah knew perfectly well that when Marguerite and her crowd said tea they meant something else. Not being served cocktails would get them out of here faster than hints, snubs, or even threats of bodily harm.

  No doubt, she mused as she warmed the pot and set out the tray, Miss Hartler was in there now telling them how unutterably horrid Sarah was being about Darling Wumps’s terrible, terrible tragedy. Granted, it was a terrible tragedy and granted Sarah was being horrid. However, she had every intention of being even horrider if Miss Hartler showed any sign of wishing to linger on here once darling Wumps was safely underground.

  She lugged in the tray, noted the expressions of shocked disappointment with sardonic satisfaction, left Aunt Marguerite to pour, and went back to the kitchen for more hot water. As she was refilling the kettle, Mr. Bittersohn came in through the back alley door. “Hi, Mrs. Kelling. What’s new?”

  “Don’t ask,” she snarled, “I’m in the midst of a full-scale snit”

  “Any special reason?”

  “Go open that back hall door for a moment.”

  He obeyed. The blast of gabble from the library hit like a sonic boom. “My God! Have you started a turkey farm?”

  “Oh, no, that’s just Aunt Marguerite and a few of her friends from Newport who breezed in here a few minutes ago expecting me to give them dinner and put them up for the night. And if you think that’s a racket, wait till tomorrow afternoon. Miss Hartler very sweetly invited all dear Wumps’s old friends back here after the funeral.”

  “What the hell did you let her do that for?”

  “I didn’t let her, she simply went ahead and did it. And we can’t call it off because everybody’s been calling everybody else and nobody has the remotest idea who’s been notified and who hasn’t. I’ve told that crowd in there they can either freeze to death in the dark at Ireson’s Landing or go to a hotel at their own expense. A moment ago I actually found myself wishing I had Mr. Quiffen back. H
e was the nastiest person I’ve ever come across, but you knew he was going to be awful, so you could plan your strategy accordingly. The Hartlers have both been angels by comparison, and they’ve driven me to screaming frenzy. Don’t bother trying to explain it, I have to go and pour some boiling water down Aunt Marguerite’s back.”

  “Sounds like a great idea to me.”

  Bittersohn held the door and she went on down the hall with her hot water. When she returned with a tray-load of used cups, he was still in the kitchen, munching on one of the Ireson’s Landing apples. “Did you?” he asked.

  “Did I what?” said Sarah abstractedly, fishing under the sink for the dishwashing liquid.

  “Pour boiling water down Aunt Marguerite’s back.”

  “Oh, that. No, I’m sorry to report that my loftier nature prevailed. I did give them lapsang souchong instead of martinis, though, and I quite pointedly refrained from inviting them all to dinner. I hope I was inhospitable enough so that they won’t show up tomorrow, either, but no doubt they’ll have forgotten by then. They haven’t an ounce of gray matter among them. Here, if you intend to hang around the kitchen, you might as well grab a dish towel. There’s no room for drones in this hive. Why aren’t you out detecting something, anyway?”

  “It’s my afternoon off.”

  “Oh, good heavens!” Sarah almost let a Spode saucer get away. “I quite forgot tomorrow is Mariposa’s afternoon off, and her niece is in a play at school and she’s promised faithfully to be there. And Charles can’t possibly take another day off from the factory because he’s already missed once this week and they’ll dock him if he takes another, and he can’t afford that because he’s saving up to buy a new tooth.”