I added.
“Air,” Jamie said.
I waited patiently.
“Girlfriend’s name is Sylvia,” he said finally. “Sylvia Montcliff or Montgrift or Montgrief. Something like that. Lives in Delray Beach.”
“Sure she does,” I said. “So does he. Thanks, Jamie.”
I took what remained of my sandwich up to my lair and scribbled in my journal awhile. I figured I might not have the energy after what I hoped would be an enjoyable engagement with Jennifer Towley that evening.
By two-thirty I was back at the Horowitz estate, and this time I entered the main house by the back door and went directly to the kitchen. Jean Cuvier, the chef, was seated at a stainless steel table, the usual Gitane dangling from his lower lip. He was poring over a handicap sheet for the races at Calder. Instead of the white toque of his calling, he wore a New York Yankee baseball cap, the beak turned to the rear.
If girth was any indication of culinary talent he should have been a Cordon Pourpre instead of a Cordon Bleu. I mean he was a humongous man with three chins, two bellies and, I presumed, jowls on his kneecaps. He was also living refutation of the popular belief that all fat men are jolly, being peevish and cranky. But his genius with a saucepan excused all.
“Bonjour, maître,” I said.
He squinted up at me through a swirl of blue smoke. “Bonjour, Ar-chay,” he said.
The following conversation was entirely in French. My years at Yale weren’t a total loss.
I asked him when was the last time he had seen the Inverted Jenny stamps. He shrugged and said years and years ago. I asked if he had seen a small red book being passed around the dinner table on the night Alan DuPey and his wife arrived. He shrugged and said no.
I asked if he thought anyone on the staff might have taken the stamps. He shrugged. I asked if he had seen any nogoodnik-types skulking about. He shrugged and said no. Then I asked if he thought any of the houseguests might be capable of such a nefarious deed. This time he didn’t shrug, but slowly stubbed out the minuscule butt of the Gitane in a white china saucer.
“Perhaps,” he said.
“Who?”
“The English son,” he said. “Harry Smythe and his wife.”
“Why them?”
Then he shrugged. “They are very cold people. And the last time they were here, they left me no tip. A month of meals, and no tip. I thought they were tight people. Cold and tight. But perhaps they are in need of money. They see the stamps and think the madam is rich and will not miss them. So they collar the stamps. Simple, no?”
I was about to shrug when a young woman in a maid’s uniform entered the kitchen. I recognized her from those dinners my family had enjoyed at the Chez Horowitz. I knew she was addressed as Clara but didn’t know her last name. I introduced myself and learned she was Clara Bodkin—and you didn’t have to be a Shakespearean scholar for the phrase “bare bodkin” to leap to mind, for she was a toothsome creature, a bit plumpish but excellently proportioned. Her flawless, sun-blushed complexion was especially attractive.
I ran through my list of questions, in English, with meager results. Yes, she had seen the stamps being passed around the table at the DuPey dinner. That was the last time she had seen them. No, she did not believe anyone on the staff or any of the houseguests was capable of the theft. And while she had seen no strangers hanging about, it was her theory that some fiend had sneaked into the house while everyone slept, and took the Inverted Jennies from madam’s wall safe. It gave her, Clara, chills to think about it.
I listened to all this somewhat absently. My attention was elsewhere. For as Clara spoke so volubly, she stood alongside Jean Cuvier’s chair, and he was steadily stroking her rump in a thoughtful fashion. She did not move away.
He must have seen astonishment in my face, for after Clara finished talking, he lighted another Gitane and said to me, in French, “It is all
“Air,” Jamie said.
I waited patiently.
“Girlfriend’s name is Sylvia,” he said finally. “Sylvia Montcliff or Montgrift or Montgrief. Something like that. Lives in Delray Beach.”
“Sure she does,” I said. “So does he. Thanks, Jamie.”
I took what remained of my sandwich up to my lair and scribbled in my journal awhile. I figured I might not have the energy after what I hoped would be an enjoyable engagement with Jennifer Towley that evening.
By two-thirty I was back at the Horowitz estate, and this time I entered the main house by the back door and went directly to the kitchen. Jean Cuvier, the chef, was seated at a stainless steel table, the usual Gitane dangling from his lower lip. He was poring over a handicap sheet for the races at Calder. Instead of the white toque of his calling, he wore a New York Yankee baseball cap, the beak turned to the rear.
If girth was any indication of culinary talent he should have been a Cordon Pourpre instead of a Cordon Bleu. I mean he was a humongous man with three chins, two bellies and, I presumed, jowls on his kneecaps. He was also living refutation of the popular belief that all fat men are jolly, being peevish and cranky. But his genius with a saucepan excused all.
“Bonjour, maître,” I said.
He squinted up at me through a swirl of blue smoke. “Bonjour, Ar-chay,” he said.
The following conversation was entirely in French. My years at Yale weren’t a total loss.
I asked him when was the last time he had seen the Inverted Jenny stamps. He shrugged and said years and years ago. I asked if he had seen a small red book being passed around the dinner table on the night Alan DuPey and his wife arrived. He shrugged and said no.
I asked if he thought anyone on the staff might have taken the stamps. He shrugged. I asked if he had seen any nogoodnik-types skulking about. He shrugged and said no. Then I asked if he thought any of the houseguests might be capable of such a nefarious deed. This time he didn’t shrug, but slowly stubbed out the minuscule butt of the Gitane in a white china saucer.
“Perhaps,” he said.
“Who?”
“The English son,” he said. “Harry Smythe and his wife.”
“Why them?”
Then he shrugged. “They are very cold people. And the last time they were here, they left me no tip. A month of meals, and no tip. I thought they were tight people. Cold and tight. But perhaps they are in need of money. They see the stamps and think the madam is rich and will not miss them. So they collar the stamps. Simple, no?”
I was about to shrug when a young woman in a maid’s uniform entered the kitchen. I recognized her from those dinners my family had enjoyed at the Chez Horowitz. I knew she was addressed as Clara but didn’t know her last name. I introduced myself and learned she was Clara Bodkin—and you didn’t have to be a Shakespearean scholar for the phrase “bare bodkin” to leap to mind, for she was a toothsome creature, a bit plumpish but excellently proportioned. Her flawless, sun-blushed complexion was especially attractive.
I ran through my list of questions, in English, with meager results. Yes, she had seen the stamps being passed around the table at the DuPey dinner. That was the last time she had seen them. No, she did not believe anyone on the staff or any of the houseguests was capable of the theft. And while she had seen no strangers hanging about, it was her theory that some fiend had sneaked into the house while everyone slept, and took the Inverted Jennies from madam’s wall safe. It gave her, Clara, chills to think about it.
I listened to all this somewhat absently. My attention was elsewhere. For as Clara spoke so volubly, she stood alongside Jean Cuvier’s chair, and he was steadily stroking her rump in a thoughtful fashion. She did not move away.
He must have seen astonishment in my face, for after Clara finished talking, he lighted another Gitane and said to me, in French, “It is all
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