The Mammoth Book of Historical Crime Fiction

“I was pedalling carefully because the new snow was slippery and I didn’t want to skid. There was hardly any traffic, so I steered over near the curb. I noticed a car parked across the street with somebody sitting in it, and the motor running — I could see the exhaust.”

“Did you notice what kind of car?”

She started to shake her head but stopped and raised a hand to her temple. “Wow, that hurts!” She drew a couple of breaths, then went on. “It was a closed car, I think a coupé. A dark colour. I didn’t notice the brand.”

“A LaSalle?”

“I’m sorry. I really didn’t notice. But I saw inside a little bit. There were two men. They were talking to each other, but when I pedalled up they stopped, and one of them rolled down his window and talked to me.”

Winslow waited.

“He asked if it was cold enough for me. You know the old joke. ‘Cold enough for you?’ ‘Hot enough for you?’ ‘Wet enough for you?’ I’m from Indiana, Mr Winslow. I know all about cold and hot and wet. I said it was just fine, I love winter and snow. The man said, ‘How about a ride, we can put your bicycle in the trunk, you’ll be warm.’ I said I was nearly there, but thank you anyway. And I was nearly there. I was looking at the house numbers on West Adams and I turned up the footpath and leaned my bike against the railing and reached for the door knocker; that was the last I remember until I woke up in here.”

Andy Winslow started to ask another question but Martha Mayhew dropped the movie magazine and lay back in her bed. “I’m very tired.”

Winslow said, “That’s all right. You’re doing very well.” He started for the door, then turned back. “One more question, Miss Mayhew, and I’ll leave you. Could you identify either man? By his appearance or anything else?”

She closed her eyes and he thought she was going to sleep, but she opened her eyes again and said, “He was wearing glasses. Round glasses with metal rims — the one who talked to me. And his hair; his hair came down to a point, a … a … what they call a widow’s peak, you know? And he spoke with an accent. Some kind of European accent.”

* * *

Andy Winslow had picked up Rose Palmer early at her Sutton Place apartment. She wore a pale green chiffon dress that set off her white shoulders and flaming hair; darker green, elbow-length gloves, a silver fox jacket, and high-heel pumps completed her ensemble. They stopped at the Carlyle for cocktails and a medley of Cole Porter melodies, then proceeded to West Adams Place.

By the time they arrived there, a full moon shed ice-cold light on the frigid scene. They hurried up the steps to the front door. Earlier in the day Reuter had laid a fire. Jacob Maccabee and his companion were already present. The fire was crackling. Longhair music — the kind Winslow disliked — oozed from concealed loudspeakers in the corners of the room.

Jacob Maccabee and his companion were seated on the brocade sofa near the fire. Jacob wore a pinstripe suit, white-on-white shirt, maroon diamond-patterned tie. His dark complexion and saturnine features looked positively satanic in the light of dancing flames.

Foxx made introductions.

Maccabee’s companion was a broad-shouldered woman of middle years. She wore her blonde hair in long braids, wound around her head, and had on a brown dress that did little to hide her full figure. Rubies, or at least red, gem-cut stones, sparkled at her ears and throat and wrists. Her name was Lisalotte Schmidt.

Reuter’s wife, Helga, served hors d’oeuvres. Foxx himself rose from his favourite chair to offer beverages — a rare event, Winslow noted.

After a time Helga Reuter returned to announce the meal, and the party moved from the parlour to the dining salon.

The meal consisted of alternating hot and cold courses: a red-pepper soup of Reuter’s own devising, a cold asparagus salad, small portions of fillet of sole in lemon sauce, tiny portions of sherbet to clear the pallet, noisettes d’agneau with small roasted potatoes and legumes, and for dessert Reuter’s own apple pie served hot with home-churned vanilla-bean ice cream.

During the meal it had become obvious to Andy Winslow that Lisalotte’s English, while fluent, was not that of a native speaker. Her accent bore a distinct North German harshness.

When the meal had ended, Caligula Foxx offered a humidor stocked with dark red Cameroon Diademas. Jacob Maccabee accepted one — as did Lisalotte Schmidt, to Andy Winslow’s surprise. Rose Palmer declined the smoke, as did Andy. An ancient Bodegas Gutierrez Oloroso sherry was also served.

Foxx blew a stream of blue-grey smoke towards the room’s high ceiling. He turned to the investigator. “Jacob, you have prints of the photographs provided by our friend Barney Hopkins. Would you be so kind as to pass them around.”