I asked, “Has anyone in this household, or any visitor, ever been in the library when you weren’t here? For any reason?”
“No, never. I don’t allow it.”
“And you have the only key?”
“Yes. Which I keep in my possession at all times.”
“Even while you sleep?”
“I put the key ring on my nightstand. And I’m a light sleeper. No one could have slipped in or out of the bedroom with it.”
“While you shower or bathe, then.”
“I’m never in the shower for more than five minutes.”
“It doesn’t take long to make a wax impression of a key.”
“A possibility, I suppose,” he conceded. “But that would leave a wax residue on the key, wouldn’t it? I would have noticed.”
“Not necessarily. The house alarm-who knows the code besides you?”
“My wife, her brother, Brenda, and the housekeeper.”
“Written down anywhere?”
“No. I have it changed periodically, and I never forget anything as important as an alarm code.”
“The alarm has never been breached?”
“Never.”
“Then with all of that security and your precautions with the key, it doesn’t seem possible anyone could have gotten in here, does it?”
Pollexfen’s smile flickered back on, then off again. “The Holmesian dictum. If you eliminate the impossible, then whatever is left, no matter how improbable, must be the truth.”
“So somebody must’ve found a way to use or duplicate your key.”
“Or some other devilishly clever method. And not somebody, Jeremy Cullrane.”
“There is one other explanation.”
The smile flickered on and off again. “That I must have done it myself? Is that what you’re thinking?”
“I’m not thinking anything yet, Mr. Pollexfen.”
“I did not steal my own books,” he said. “Why would I? What conceivable reason could I have?”
“There’s the half million dollars’ insurance.”
“I don’t need half a million dollars. I have more money than I can ever spend. Check into my finances, you’ll find the absolute truth of that statement. I don’t indulge in stocks or real estate or any other kind of speculation, I don’t gamble, I don’t have any of the usual vices. I collect vintage detective fiction. That’s the one and only passion in life I have left. I’m the last person on earth who would spirit away eight of my most prized possessions, the cornerstones of a collection it has taken me forty years and quite a lot of money to assemble.”
“So it would seem.”
“I don’t care about the insurance money,” Pollexfen said. “I want my first editions back on the shelves where they belong. I wouldn’t have filed the claim at all if the police had shown any real interest in finding them and my attorney hadn’t insisted.”
“What’s your attorney’s name?”
“Paul DiSantis. Wainright and Simmons.”
I’d heard of the firm. High-powered corporate lawyers and ultrarespectable. “I’ll want to talk to your wife, your brother-in-law, and your secretary.”
“Certainly, but I suggest again, strongly, that you focus on Jeremy.”
“Neither he nor your wife is here at the present, I take it.”
“No. Jeremy spends little time under this roof, I’m happy to say, and Angelina is out indulging in one or more of her favorite activities. She should be back soon. Shopping tires her out, poor baby, and she likes to rest before going out on her evening rounds.”
“Evening rounds?”
“Parties. She loves to party. I don’t.”
“Where can I find your brother-in-law?”
“Holding court at the Bayview Club downtown, or at his current lady friend’s apartment.” The emphasis he put on the word “lady” indicated he thought she was just the opposite. “A singer named Nicole Coyne. Brenda can give you her address.”
“I’ll talk to Brenda first, then. Alone, if you don’t mind.”
“Go right ahead.” His mouth bent again at one corner. “You may have the dubious pleasure of meeting Angelina by the time you’re done.”
Dubious pleasure. Shopping always tires her out, poor baby. Out on her evening rounds. And he’d put the same emphasis on her name as he had on “lady,” as if he considered it a misnomer and Angelina anything but angelic. He didn’t seem to care for her any more than he did Jeremy Cullrane, had already removed her as beneficiary of his life insurance policy, and yet he continued to tolerate the marriage. The “we feed on our dislike for each other” statement must have included her, too.
Some household.
6
Brenda Koehler didn’t have much to tell me. If she knew or suspected anything, she was keeping it to herself out of loyalty or fear of losing her job. Probably the latter; the whole time we talked in her office she kept glancing at the closed door, as if she thought her employer might be lurking and listening outside. Mostly she answered my questions with monosyllables.
The only real animation she showed was when I said, “Mr. Pollexfen seems to think his brother-in-law is responsible for the thefts.” She sat up straighter in her chair and a little color came into her pale cheeks. Her tongue flicked over her thin upper lip before she responded.
“That’s not possible,” she said.
“What makes you so sure?”
“Jeremy… Mr. Cullrane is not that kind of man, not a thief.”
“Your employer believes he is.”
“They don’t get along,” she said stiffly. “Mr. Pollexfen… well, he’s always ready to believe the worst about Jeremy.”
“Why is that? Why don’t they get along?”
“I don’t know. It’s none of my business.”
“Do they argue often?”
“I… can’t say. Mr. Cullrane isn’t here very much during my working hours.”
“Money seems to be an issue between them,” I said. “A leech, Mr. Pollexfen called him.”
“That’s not true. He doesn’t take money from Mr. Pollexfen.”
“How do you know he doesn’t?”
“Part of my job is to pay the household expenses.”
“And you’ve never written any checks to Mr. Cullrane?”
“No. Never. He has a very good job. He doesn’t need to be supported.”
“Some kind of promoter, isn’t he?”
“Music. He books performers for small clubs and charity events.”
“Sounds like you know him fairly well.”
“Why do you say that?” Defensive now.
“So you don’t know him well.”
“No. I… no.”
More color in her cheeks, almost a flush. Maybe she didn’t know him well, but she’d like to.
“I understand he’s quite a ladies’ man,” I said.
“… Did Mr. Pollexfen tell you that? It’s not true.”
“No?”
“He has a… steady relationship. He’s not interested in other women.”
Meaning she’d made her feelings known to him in one way or another and the attraction wasn’t mutual. I said, “Nicole Coyne.”
“What?”
“The woman he has the steady relationship with. Nicole Coyne.”
“Oh. Yes.”
“I understand you have her address. Why is that?”
“Mr. Cullrane gave it to me. In case someone calls for him.”
“Does he receive many calls?”
“Here? No.”
“The calls he does receive. From anyone in particular?”
“It’s not my place to give out that information. You’ll have to ask him.”
“I take it he spends a lot of his time with Ms. Coyne?”
“Yes.” Tight-lipped.
I asked for the address. She gave it to me, along with the singer’s phone number. I wasn’t going to get any more out of her about Jeremy Cullrane, so I moved on to a different subject.
“What can you tell me about Mrs. Pollexfen?”
She stiffened again. “Tell you? I don’t know what you mean.”
“Do you think it’s possible she had anything to do with the theft?”
“I… don’t know.”
“Eliminate Mr. Pollexfen and Mr. Cullrane, and yourself and the housekeeper, and Mrs. Pollexfen is the only one left.”
“Yes. That’s true.”
“So you do think she could be involved.”
“I didn’t say that. Please don’t put words in my mouth.”