The Resurrection Man Read online

  Whether Percy was more Sarah’s cousin or Brooks’s was irrelevant to the matter at hand. Percy was the son of Theodore Kelling. Long before Sarah had come into Max Bittersohn’s life, her Uncle Theodore, who was probably not an uncle at all but was surely some kind of complicated connection, Kelling relationships being what they were, had hired Max to get him back his Corots.

  It is alleged that there are a great many more Corots extant than Corot ever got around to painting; it has never been said of a Kelling that he didn’t make perfectly sure of what he was buying before he forked over his money. Theodore’s gentle maidens and tranquil birch groves were the real McCoy, the guaranteed A-l, simon-pure article, bought in Paris by Theodore’s own grandfather back when Corots were still going fairly cheap. Theodore would have treasured the paintings out of filial piety even if they hadn’t turned out to have been sound investments. Furthermore, he liked them, and there weren’t a great many things that Theodore did like. He’d been almost pathetically grateful to Max for getting them back, even going so far as to pay the bill without taking his usual two percent discount for cash on the barrelhead. It was not surprising, then, that Percy had followed his sire’s example and turned to Max when confronted by a similar emergency.

  His emergency wasn’t all that similar, actually; this time it wasn’t the value of the object, it was the principle. Nobody enjoys being robbed, but certified public accountants, especially high-class ones with large staffs and many fat-cat clients, are particularly sensitive to the clandestine removal of portable assets; even more particularly when the assets are their own and the removal has taken place from their own house while they were asleep upstairs. To say that Percy was wroth would have been to understate his condition by a considerable margin. Percy was mad as hell.

  He was not blaming his wife. Percy made that point more than once, leading Sarah, who’d come to see whether Max wanted more coffee and remained to eavesdrop, to suspect that Mrs. Percy was at her husband’s elbow hissing in his ear.

  And why shouldn’t she hiss? It was Anne, not Percy, who’d inherited from an aged aunt an ancestral portrait supposedly dating from the late eighteenth century. The portrait had presumably been done by an itinerant painter, it depicted a rosy-cheeked tot of perhaps five or six years, holding a battledore and shuttlecock in her left hand and balancing a green parrot about half her own size on the extended right forefinger. Precisely how so small a child could have sustained the weight of so large a bird on one diminutive digit was something Percy left Max to explain, Max was supposed to know about this sort of nonsense.

  Anyway, the painting was assuredly a true American primitive. At least Percy’s wife, Anne, was sure, and it was her painting and her money behind it. All Kelling wives had money in greater or lesser amounts. Percy would not have been attracted to a lesser, not that he was consciously mercenary but because that was the way his hormones worked. Even Max understood that it was just as easy to fall in love with a rich girl, although he himself had not done so.

  This did not come out in his conversation with Percy, of course. What did come out was that the painting, when handed over to Mrs. Percy Alexander Kelling by the executors, had been in sad shape. Confident that it was worth restoring, Mrs. Percy had asked advice from a friend who’d recently had her own great-grandfather cleaned and revarnished. The friend had recommended Bartolo Arbalest, and given Mrs. Percy his telephone number.

  Bartolo had come, seen, and conquered even Percy’s skepticism. He’d shaken his head sadly over the condition Mrs. Percy’s aunt had let such a fine painting get into. He’d confirmed its age within a few years of Mrs. Percy’s own estimate, he’d explained what needed to be done and how the work should be gone about. He’d named a fairly staggering fee that would include a hand-carved frame created expressly for the painting. This would put Mrs. Percy one-up on her friend, who’d settled for having the old one regilded. Mrs. Percy had signed his contract without a wince.

  The work had been done, not in haste but within a reasonable period. The child and the parrot had come through the operation far better than might have been hoped. The frame was not too fancy, not too blatantly gilded, it was exactly right for the painting. The entire effect had been so harmonious, so gracious, so well worth the expense that Percy himself had suggested demoting a competent but unexciting portrait of his father-in-law to the dining room and giving Anne’s ancestress the place of honor over the drawing-room mantel.

  But last night, regardless of locks, bolts, and bars, the house had been entered; the painting had been stolen. Nothing else had been taken, only the child and her parrot. Not the silver, not Mrs. Percy’s pearls, not even the Corot that had been Theodore’s wedding present to his son and the bride. This was very strange. It was almost insulting. It was downright infuriating, and what was Max Bittersohn going to do about it?

  “Get paid, for one thing.”

  That was Sarah hissing. Max had already been dragged into doing far too many thank-you jobs for his wife’s relatives. If Mrs. Percy had been willing to invest that kind of money in having her parrot resurrected, she could also pay for getting the picture back. Surely Percy could find some reasonably legal way to take the expense off his income tax. That was no skin off the Bittersohns’ noses one way or the other.

  “I suppose there’s no use in my asking how long this business might take.” Percy sounded as if he’d been eating sour grapes.

  “None whatever,” Max told him cheerily. “We’ll get on the job right away. May we have the name and address of the woman who steered you to Arbalest?”

  Mrs. Percy came on the line. She couldn’t see why Max wanted Topsy Hughes’s number, but she supposed he had to start somewhere. Max wrote down what she told him. When he’d got off the phone, he showed his notes to Sarah.

  “You may be interested to know that Bill Jones mentioned the Hugheses to Brooks and me yesterday. He thought they might be going to call on us. It seems great-grandpop disappeared one night last week. They’re rather antsy about whether the police will be able to get him back, not so much on account of the old man himself as because of the amount they’d paid Arbalest to fix him up. It was the same story: the house entered without apparent difficulty in spite of an expensive alarm system, other and more valuable things sitting around, but only the portrait taken.”

  “This must be one drop of comfort for Percy,” Sarah remarked. “At least he didn’t waste money putting in an alarm system that didn’t work when it was needed. Did Bill have any ideas about what may have happened to the Hugheses’ painting?”

  “I don’t think so. He just thought we might be interested.”

  “So we are, aren’t we? Nothing taken in either case except the piece that had just come back from Mr. Arbalest. I wonder if the old man was the only painting of the Hugheses’ that his people worked on. Should I call up Topsy Hughes and ask her?”

  Max raised an eyebrow. “Do you know her?”

  “Well enough. I’ve met the Hugheses once or twice at Anora Protheroe’s, back when she used to have big parties.”

  Back when Alexander was alive, Sarah meant, but she still tended to avoid mentioning her first husband’s name to Max.

  The Protheroes must both be in their eighties by now. Sarah had known them all her life, as had her parents and grandparents and most of the other Kellings. George was the dullest man alive, but Anora liked company and gossip. Maybe it would be wiser to call Anora instead. She’d either know everything that mattered and a lot that didn’t about Topsy’s robbery or else she’d be delighted to find out.

  Sarah didn’t have to look up the number, she’d dialed it often enough. Phyllis, the ancient maid, answered: “Protheroe residence.” Her voice sounded oddly stuffed-up.

  “Hello, Phyllis, this is Sarah Bittersohn. I hope you don’t have a cold?”

  “Oh, Sarah! Sarah, thank God you’ve called. I don’t know what to do, she’s just sitting there. She won’t even speak to me. She just sits.”

&n
bsp; The elderly maid’s voice had risen to hysteria pitch. Sarah had to be sharp with her. “Phyllis, stop that. Who’s sitting? Mrs. Protheroe?”

  “Y-yes.” At least Phyllis was down to sobbing now instead of screaming. “Just sitting. I don’t know what to do.”

  “Where is she sitting?”

  “On the floor.”

  “Which floor.”

  “At the foot of the stairs.”

  “Good God! Did she fall? Is she hurt?”

  “I don’t know. She won’t tell me.”

  “Where’s Cook?”

  “In the kitchen. Having palpitations. I had to get her a pill. Sarah, can you come? Please! I don’t know what to do. She won’t tell me. Please, Sarah!”

  “All right, Phyllis, I’ll come as fast as I can. Wrap a blanket around Mrs. Protheroe and try to get her to drink some hot tea. Can’t Mr. Protheroe do something?”

  “He’s gone.”

  “Gone where?”

  No answer came, the line was dead. Sarah put down the handset, none too steadily. “Max, something’s terribly wrong at the Protheroes’. It sounds as if Anora may have had a stroke and George is either dead or disappeared. I can’t not go.”

  “Hasn’t the maid called the police?”

  “Phyllis could never do that on her own. She only does what Anora tells her.”

  “Want me to call them?”

  “It’s no use. Phyllis wouldn’t let them in. She’s scared of her own shadow. And Cook’s having palpitations.”

  “Damn! All right, then, let’s go.”

  “You don’t have to, I can manage.” Sarah sniffed hard and reached for her crumpled breakfast napkin. Max put his arms around her and kept them there until she’d had her weep and wiped her eyes.

  “Better now, Kätzele? I know you don’t need me, I just want to come. Okay?”

  Sarah gave him a kiss. “I always need you. You’d better phone Brooks while I fix my face. Tell him about Cousin Anne’s parrot, he may have some ideas.”

  “No doubt he will, he always does. Where’s Davy?”

  “With Theonia. They’ve gone over to the Public Gardens to ride the swan boats and feed the ducks, they’ll be out half the morning. I’ll tell Mariposa where we’re going, she can see to his lunch and his nap if we’re not back in time. Shall I bring the car around?”

  “No, I’ll walk with you.” Max pushed the button that connected the office phone; Sarah went to alert Mariposa and change into a more suitable outfit. They were out of the house in seven minutes.

  Parking was impossible on Beacon Hill. The Bittersohns’ two cars had their own reserved parking spaces close to the corner of Beacon and Charles in the vast underground garage beneath historic Boston Common, only a hop, skip, and jump from Tulip Street, not that Max was up to any one of the three. He made it in excellent time, though; they were soon in the car, past Kenmore Square, headed for Chestnut Hill.

  Once they’d got more or less clear of traffic, Max asked, “Phyllis didn’t say anything about George except that he’s gone?”

  “That’s all.” Sarah was holding tight to the steering wheel, keeping her eyes fixed on the road. “George hasn’t left the house once in the past five years, as far as I know. I think Phyllis must have been trying to tell me that he’s had a heart attack or something and Anora’s gone into shock. George is well into his eighties, you know. He eats too much and drinks too much, and the only exercise he ever gets is walking back and forth from the table to his easy chair.”

  Sarah fell silent for a minute, Max left her alone till she felt like going on. “I know he’s a dreadful bore, but he’s sweet in his way. They’ve both been kind to me over the years. They never had any children of their own, and, as you know, my parents weren’t all that deeply interested in parenting, so the Protheroes rather took up the slack sometimes. It was mostly Anora, of course; George always reminded me more of a fubsy old teddy bear. He’d never do much but he’d be there, you know, telling long, silly stories and getting them all mixed up and dozing off in the midst. Nobody’s ever heard the end of one of George’s stories. Perhaps they never had any endings.”

  Max gave his wife a wry little smile. “There’s an end to every story sooner or later, kid. If something’s happened to George, I just hope for both their sakes it was quick and easy. It’s worse when things drag on too long. How do you suppose Anora would manage without him?”

  “Who knows? Phyllis and Cook are neither of them in any great shape, I suppose she might pension them off. George did that with Dennis a few years ago, after their Pierce-Arrow finally disintegrated into a little heap of fine gray powder. Dennis used to drive the car and do odd jobs: mow the lawn, weed the flower beds, wash the windows, that sort of thing. Since he retired they’ve been hiring people to come in by the hour and using the local taxi service when they’ve wanted to go anywhere, which they mostly don’t.”

  “It’s a big place to keep up. She might consider going into one of those new retirement complexes.”

  “I don’t know, Max. I can’t picture Anora’s ever leaving that house until she’s carried out feet first. If something’s happened to George, I expect she’ll wind up playing nursemaid to Cook and Phyllis. If she’s able. Oh, I do hope she hasn’t had a stroke! What she really ought to do is find a nice couple to live in, though I can’t imagine who’d be willing to take on a job that size.”

  “She’d find somebody.”

  Max couldn’t think who’d want the job either, but he was of a sanguine disposition. He deliberately switched the talk to his mother’s latest clash of wills with the gas company, Sarah was laughing by the time they pulled up in front of the Protheroe house.

  This was a neighborhood of big old wooden houses with good-sized yards around them. Their architecture varied from the sublime to the near-ridiculous; the Protheroes’ was in the beporched and beturreted style of the late Gothic revival, with a dash of Anglo-Indian bungalow and just a touch of the Taj Mahal. Unity had been attempted by painting all its ins, outs, ups, and downs in the same rich chocolate brown, and all the trimmings in white. To some, the house suggested a giant devil’s-food cake iced by a mad condittore; it had always made Sarah think of a Bailey’s hot-fudge sundae with whipped cream, marshmallow, and walnuts. But no cherry on top. Even today she felt a momentary twinge of regret at not being able to spy something shiny, round, and red perched atop the front gable.

  Everybody who came to the house, or even walked past, got the feeling that it had been set a little too close to the road. In fact, the road had been brought a little too close to the house after the horse had been totally eclipsed by the small, high-riding horseless carriage; and these in turn by the Packard, the Peerless, the Marmon—great boxes on wheels that needed more room to pass each other going and coming. As a result, the graveled turnaround was not quite so spacious as it ought to be. Sarah decided she’d better leave the driveway free for a possible ambulance, and parked at the curb.

  Phyllis must have been waiting with her nose pressed to the window, she’d got the front door open before Sarah and Max were halfway up the front steps. Sarah was about to give the tearful servitor a comforting hug when she caught sight of Anora, huddled on the parquet floor next to the newel post, swathed in a shocking-pink down comforter, immobile as Plymouth Rock. She couldn’t see Anora’s face, it was turned toward a dark-red mound a little bit farther into the hallway.

  The mound was George. He was lying face up in a welter of clotted blood, his maroon bathrobe decently pulled down over his fat legs. A pole about the size and length of a garden rake was sticking straight up out of his chest. Max yelped “Police!” and glared around for a telephone.

  “Right over there,” said Sarah. “In the corner behind the stairs. Be careful, don’t—”

  Step in the blood. She couldn’t say it. She knelt beside Anora, trying not to look at what was beside her, and unwrapped enough of the comforter so that she could get her fingers on the dazed woman’s wrist. Sarah wasn
’t much good at pulses, but she could at least tell that Anora’s was beating, not racing, not lagging too far behind where it probably ought to be. The beats were strong enough to count, for whatever good that might have done. Sarah didn’t try, it was enough to know the heart was still on the job. If only her old friend wouldn’t just keep sitting there, staring at that appalling shaft going straight down into her dead husband’s chest.

  “Anora,” she pleaded. “Anora, it’s Sarah. Can you hear me? Are you all right? Please say something. Anything.”

  “What?”

  She had spoken. Thank God.

  “Anora, do you know who I am?”

  “Sarah. You said Sarah. Sarah, what’s happened to George? I can’t get him up.”

  “I know, Anora, you mustn’t try. Max is calling an ambulance. They’ll be along very soon.”

  “Call Jim.”

  “Jim who?”

  “Harnett, of course. Call him. Quick.”

  “Oh, Dr. Harnett. Yes, of course. Max, look for Dr. James Harnett. He’s local. The number’s probably in that little book beside the telephone. Ask him to come as fast as he can.”

  Max was already dialing the number, Sarah went on talking to keep Anora from drifting off again. “How long have you been sitting here, Anora?”

  “I don’t know. I can’t remember. Phyllis, quit that disgusting snuffling. Get me some tea. What did you put this stupid blanket around me for? I’m stifling. Don’t just stand there, take it away.”

  “Get the tea, Phyllis,” said Sarah. “I’ll tend to her. There you are, Anora, you must be stiff from sitting so long. Can you stand up, do you think?”

  “I don’t know. Stop flustering me. You can’t help, I’d fall on you and squash you flat. Max, come here. Help me up. When’s Jim coming?”

  “Sure, Anora. The ambulance is on its way.”

  “I don’t want the ambulance, I want Jim Harnett.”

  “You’ll get him. His wife’s calling the hospital now, he’s on his rounds.”