The Resurrection Man by Charlotte MacLeod Page A

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.”
    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?