Odor of Violets, Baynard Kendrick [best short novels .txt] 📗

Maclain gave a curt direction to Schnucke, who followed the cleared-off sidewalk up toward the Ideal Drugstore, cautiously edging her master around a patch of snow-covered ground.

Rutgers’ close-cropped military mustache made a straight dark line over lips set in a musing smile as Schnucke skillfully checked the Captain at the pharmacy door.

Inside the store, several girls were lunching in booths ranged along the wall. At the entrance of the tall, handsome figure moving so surely under Schnucke’s direction, their chatter was suddenly stilled.

A white-coated boy came forward immediately and said, “Can I help you?”

Maclain smiled his slow likable smile and said, “I’d like to talk to the proprietor.”

“Mr. Kaufman’s in back,” said the boy. “I’ll get him for you.”

As the boy moved away, Schnucke followed and led Maclain to a prescription counter at the rear of the store. The Captain, in passing, touched comfortable leather seats at an elaborate soda fountain.

A moment later, an amiable voice said, “I’m Mr. Kaufman. What can I do for you, sir?”

“You can help me very much perhaps.” The Captain shook hands and introduced himself. “I’m a private investigator from New York.” He spoke in a very low tone. “My name is Duncan Maclain.”

The proprietor waited expectantly.

Maclain continued, “I judge from the voices that I heard when I came in that there are a number of people in this store. Perhaps it would be better if I went in back with you.”

“Certainly,” said Mr. Kaufman with an air of surprise. “You’ll have to come around the counter, I’m afraid. The opening is right in back of you.” He called, “Bill, will you show the Captain through?”

Maclain followed a directing touch on his arm, passed back of a counter with Schnucke pressed disapprovingly close to his leg, and entered a prescription room where the proprietor assisted him onto a long-legged stool. Outside, the chatter of the lunchers was resumed.

“I have a prescription here, Mr. Kaufman,” said Maclain. He took a bottle from his overcoat pocket. “I believe it was filled by you.”

The proprietor took the bottle from his hand and said rather nervously, “There was nothing wrong with it, I hope.”

“Nothing, I’m certain,” Maclain told him reassuringly. “This prescription was given by Dr. Trotter to a maid in the Tredwill home just west of Hartford. It occurred to me that she came quite a long way to have it filled. Her name was Bella Slater and I wondered if you happened to know the girl.”

“I know her by sight, if she’s the one who had that prescription filled. Is that any help to you?”

“Not much, I’m afraid,” said Maclain. “I hoped her family might live around here. She’s been killed, Mr. Kaufman, but apparently no one knows any more about her than you.”

“Killed?” the druggist asked, shocked. “An accident?”

“Far from it, Mr. Kaufman. She was murdered in a particularly brutal manner. That’s why I’d appreciate knowing any little thing you can tell me about her.”

The druggist was silent for some time. Maclain could hear him fiddling with bottles on a shelf by his side. At last he said ruminatively, “I don’t believe she lived anywhere around here. I’ve been in this spot for a good many years. It’s only within the last few months she started coming into the store. . . . Bill!” he called.

Maclain heard footsteps approach the prescription-room door.

“Bill,” said Mr. Kaufman, “do you know anything about a Bella Slater who’s been coming here for the last few months once a week or more?”

“It was usually on Thursdays,” said Bill, “and most of the time to register a letter, that was all.”

Maclain slid down from the stool. “You have a post office here?”

“A substation,” said the proprietor.

Maclain swung around in the direction of Bill’s voice. “You don’t by any chance remember the address on any of those letters?”

“We don’t give out such information,” said Bill.

The Captain took a wallet from his inside pocket and flipped it open in his hand. “I’m here on government business.”

For a few seconds there was only the sound of the proprietor clinking his bottles.

“Okay,” said Bill. “It’s all right by me. I know the address of all the letters she registered here. They all went to the same place—Box Q, Division Eight, New York City. Do you want me to write it down?”

“I couldn’t see it if you did,” said Maclain, “and I know what it is anyhow. Thank you, gentlemen. You have a fine store here and an efficient one, too.”

“There was a man with her once, if that’ll do you any good,” announced Bill.

“It might, if you can describe him.”

“He wore a camel-hair coat that was a honey.” Bill thought for a minute. “Pleasant sort of a guy with hard gray eyes that sort of looked through you.”

“You have a remarkable memory,” Maclain commended.

“It’s not so hot,” said Bill. “This was only two or three weeks ago. I can tell you more than that. The girl called him Arnold. I happen to know because customers stick in your mind when they do curious things. He bought her a bottle of violet perfume, and that’s not a popular perfume these days.”

“Some people like it,” said Maclain.

Back in the car, he told Al Rutgers, “You can take me to The Crags now, if you will.”

He relaxed moodily, thinking that he had uncovered another piece of information which amounted to exactly nothing. Box Q, Division Eight, New York City, had run him around in still another circle. It was the private mailing address of Colonel Gray, officer in charge of G-2.

2

Not until he returned to The Crags did Maclain remember that Christmas was only two days away. It was brought home to him forcibly when, coming into the house by way of a side porch after talking with Cappo in the garage, Schnucke signaled him to the right. He turned abruptly and reached out one hand to encounter the branches of a Christmas tree.

Ahead of him at the door, Pierce’s smooth voice said,