moments. My name is Archibald McNally. I hope Lady Horowitz warned you I might come puttering around asking questions about the missing Inverted Jennies.”
“Of course, my dear chap,” the man said, offering a halibut handshake. “I am Angus Wolfson, an old friend of Cynthia’s. And I do mean old —but please don’t ask me to be more precise about my age. Growing old is a dreadful thing—until you consider the alternative!” He paused and waited for my laugh.
I gave him a 25-watter. “Maurice Chevalier,” I said.
Something changed in his face. “Oh-ho,” he said, “an erudite detective.”
“Not very,” I said, and then tried to make amends for squelching his big boffola. “That’s a marvelous jacket you’re wearing, Mr. Wolfson.”
It was, too: burgundy velvet in the belted Norfolk style. He wore it over creamy flannel trousers. There was a flowered ascot looped casually around his chicken neck. Quite the aged peacock.
“Thank you,” he said, regaining his good humor. “And this lovely lady is Gina Stanescu, daughter of Cynthia and her—which was it, darling? Third or fourth husband?”
“Third,” Ms. Stanescu said with a faint smile and offered me a cool hand to shake. “So nice to meet you, Mr. McNally. Do join us.”
I pulled up a webbed patio chair and placed it so I was facing both of them.
“We’re having iced coffee,” Wolfson said. “Would you care for a glass?”
“Thank you, no,” I said. “I never drink on duty.” I meant it as a joke, of course—a feeble joke, I admit—but it didn’t earn so much as a snigger.
“Shocking thing about those stamps,” Wolfson said. “Absolutely shocking.”
“It is so unpleasant,” Stanescu said in a small voice. “It makes one look at other people with new eyes—wondering.”
“Could you tell me the last time you saw the stamps.”
They looked at each other. Then Wolfson replied:
“Let me see... It was at dinner the night Alan DuPey and his bride arrived. Felice had never seen the Inverted Jennies, so Cynthia brought them downstairs to show. Is that correct, Gina?”
She nodded.
“Did everyone see the stamps at dinner?”
“I believe so,” Wolfson said. “The book was passed around the table.”
“Yes,” Stanescu said. “I looked at them and passed the book along.”
“And then? After everyone had seen the stamps?”
“I couldn’t swear to it,” Wolfson said, “but I believe that after we all left the table, Cynthia took them back upstairs to her bedroom.”
“She did,” the Lady’s daughter said definitely. “I walked up the stairs with her. I was going to my room to get a light sweater because we had all decided to sit outside awhile and have a brandy. I saw mother take the little red book into her bedroom.”
“And neither of you saw the stamps after that?”
“No,” they said in unison.
“Have either of you noticed any strangers prowling about? Anyone who apparently doesn’t belong on the estate?”
Wolfson laughed. “You mean some chappie dressed in black and wearing a mask? No, I’ve seen no one who even remotely resembles a villain. Gina?”
“No,” she said, “no one. Everything has been quite normal.”
“Do either of you have any doubts about any member of the staff? I assure you, any accusation you may make will be held in strictest confidence.”
“I accuse the chef of putting too much saffron in the rice last night,” Wolfson said, “but that’s hardly criminal. No, to the best of my knowledge everyone on the staff is honest—and remarkably efficient, I might add.”
“I agree with Angus,” Stanescu said. “All of mother’s people seem to be trustworthy and very loyal to her.”
Wolfson gave me a derisive smile. “We’re not much help, are we?” he said.
“No,” I agreed, “not much.”
He took a sip of his iced coffee, started on another croissant, and I had a moment to eyeball him directly. He must have been a dandy fifty years ago, but now the
“Of course, my dear chap,” the man said, offering a halibut handshake. “I am Angus Wolfson, an old friend of Cynthia’s. And I do mean old —but please don’t ask me to be more precise about my age. Growing old is a dreadful thing—until you consider the alternative!” He paused and waited for my laugh.
I gave him a 25-watter. “Maurice Chevalier,” I said.
Something changed in his face. “Oh-ho,” he said, “an erudite detective.”
“Not very,” I said, and then tried to make amends for squelching his big boffola. “That’s a marvelous jacket you’re wearing, Mr. Wolfson.”
It was, too: burgundy velvet in the belted Norfolk style. He wore it over creamy flannel trousers. There was a flowered ascot looped casually around his chicken neck. Quite the aged peacock.
“Thank you,” he said, regaining his good humor. “And this lovely lady is Gina Stanescu, daughter of Cynthia and her—which was it, darling? Third or fourth husband?”
“Third,” Ms. Stanescu said with a faint smile and offered me a cool hand to shake. “So nice to meet you, Mr. McNally. Do join us.”
I pulled up a webbed patio chair and placed it so I was facing both of them.
“We’re having iced coffee,” Wolfson said. “Would you care for a glass?”
“Thank you, no,” I said. “I never drink on duty.” I meant it as a joke, of course—a feeble joke, I admit—but it didn’t earn so much as a snigger.
“Shocking thing about those stamps,” Wolfson said. “Absolutely shocking.”
“It is so unpleasant,” Stanescu said in a small voice. “It makes one look at other people with new eyes—wondering.”
“Could you tell me the last time you saw the stamps.”
They looked at each other. Then Wolfson replied:
“Let me see... It was at dinner the night Alan DuPey and his bride arrived. Felice had never seen the Inverted Jennies, so Cynthia brought them downstairs to show. Is that correct, Gina?”
She nodded.
“Did everyone see the stamps at dinner?”
“I believe so,” Wolfson said. “The book was passed around the table.”
“Yes,” Stanescu said. “I looked at them and passed the book along.”
“And then? After everyone had seen the stamps?”
“I couldn’t swear to it,” Wolfson said, “but I believe that after we all left the table, Cynthia took them back upstairs to her bedroom.”
“She did,” the Lady’s daughter said definitely. “I walked up the stairs with her. I was going to my room to get a light sweater because we had all decided to sit outside awhile and have a brandy. I saw mother take the little red book into her bedroom.”
“And neither of you saw the stamps after that?”
“No,” they said in unison.
“Have either of you noticed any strangers prowling about? Anyone who apparently doesn’t belong on the estate?”
Wolfson laughed. “You mean some chappie dressed in black and wearing a mask? No, I’ve seen no one who even remotely resembles a villain. Gina?”
“No,” she said, “no one. Everything has been quite normal.”
“Do either of you have any doubts about any member of the staff? I assure you, any accusation you may make will be held in strictest confidence.”
“I accuse the chef of putting too much saffron in the rice last night,” Wolfson said, “but that’s hardly criminal. No, to the best of my knowledge everyone on the staff is honest—and remarkably efficient, I might add.”
“I agree with Angus,” Stanescu said. “All of mother’s people seem to be trustworthy and very loyal to her.”
Wolfson gave me a derisive smile. “We’re not much help, are we?” he said.
“No,” I agreed, “not much.”
He took a sip of his iced coffee, started on another croissant, and I had a moment to eyeball him directly. He must have been a dandy fifty years ago, but now the
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