Read Online Love for Sale by Jill Churchill - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jill Churchill
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documents except an address book in Pottinger’s suit jacket with the list of employees at the Institute, many of them crossed out.
Walker found this interesting as he flipped through the pages. Pottinger seemed to have a lot of turnover, especially among the few women who worked as secretaries. He wondered how many of them were still at the addresses he had for them. Probably not many. Some of the entries had been crossed out so thoroughly that the paper was dented.
Why, he wondered, did so many of them leave? How would he find any of them?
He didn’t even know if Pottinger had ever married. He knew very little about the man except that he appeared to make a great deal of money on his preaching. Walker had only accidentally heard some of his talks when someone else was listening to them on the radio in the living room at his boarding house, and he had deliberately tuned them out. He didn’t enjoy programs that had so much yelling, bigotry, and pontificating. Fibber McGee was more fun to listen to.
Had all these women left their jobs voluntarily? Was Pottinger a womanizer? It wouldn’t surprise him. At this point, nothing about the man would surprise him. Maybe the opposite was true: that he disliked having women on the staff, but occasionally had to put up with them, then discarded them as soon as he could.
Walker and Officer Lawrence carefully searched the rest of the room, looking under furniture, turning out the seemingly unused bed, picking up the few ornaments set over the fireplace to see if there was anything pertinent under them, turning over pictures on the walls.
“It’s odd, isn’t it,“ Walker said to Officer Lawrence, “that nobody appears to have made notes about the meeting.“
“Maybe they did and that other fellow who stayed in the back room flushed or burned them.“ Then they went to the room where Edward Price had stayed, at the end of the narrow hall past the bathroom. Edward was the secretary, so he must have taken notes. They found his pad of papers under the unmade bed.
It was mainly a list of meal times, arrival times, and prayer times, which explained the mysterious chanting that Lily told him Phoebe Twinkle had reported. The rest of the notes were in shorthand. Walker knew Lily had been studying shorthand, but not for long enough to know it well. He showed it to Officer Lawrence. “Do you know shorthand?“
“Yes, sir.“
“Take a look at this and tell me what it says.”
Lawrence glanced through and said, “I can’t make sense of it, I’m afraid. Everybody’s shorthand becomes personal to them after they’ve done it for a long time. You’ll probably have to send the notebook to Albany as well and let them find someone who knows more about the variations.”
Walker ran his hands through his hair. By the time this was done, all his suspects would have flown away to the four winds. This was a case he feared would never be solved and would become a huge blot on his good reputation.
They moved on next to Nobby Hazard’s room. It stank of his hair oil, and a huge bottle of it was on the windowsill. There was no label on it; apparently it was a noxious recipe he mixed himself. Other than his suitcase and his shaving materials, this was the only item in the room. Nobby apparently had no use for tooth care. Walker opened the small, battered case. Nobby had two changes of underwear, one extra shirt. The clothes were all old and stained and looked as if they’d been with him for decades, being fruitlessly washed and ironed and darned. The extra shirt had been meticulously patched at the elbows, collar, and cuffs. Did he do this sewing himself, or did he have some downtrodden wife or spinster daughter in the background?
There were two books in the suitcase. One was an old Bible. The fake leather cover had crumbled to bits. The spine was a wreck. Almost every page had a smudge on the lower outer corner. Nobby must have gone through it hundreds of times, wetting his finger to
Walker found this interesting as he flipped through the pages. Pottinger seemed to have a lot of turnover, especially among the few women who worked as secretaries. He wondered how many of them were still at the addresses he had for them. Probably not many. Some of the entries had been crossed out so thoroughly that the paper was dented.
Why, he wondered, did so many of them leave? How would he find any of them?
He didn’t even know if Pottinger had ever married. He knew very little about the man except that he appeared to make a great deal of money on his preaching. Walker had only accidentally heard some of his talks when someone else was listening to them on the radio in the living room at his boarding house, and he had deliberately tuned them out. He didn’t enjoy programs that had so much yelling, bigotry, and pontificating. Fibber McGee was more fun to listen to.
Had all these women left their jobs voluntarily? Was Pottinger a womanizer? It wouldn’t surprise him. At this point, nothing about the man would surprise him. Maybe the opposite was true: that he disliked having women on the staff, but occasionally had to put up with them, then discarded them as soon as he could.
Walker and Officer Lawrence carefully searched the rest of the room, looking under furniture, turning out the seemingly unused bed, picking up the few ornaments set over the fireplace to see if there was anything pertinent under them, turning over pictures on the walls.
“It’s odd, isn’t it,“ Walker said to Officer Lawrence, “that nobody appears to have made notes about the meeting.“
“Maybe they did and that other fellow who stayed in the back room flushed or burned them.“ Then they went to the room where Edward Price had stayed, at the end of the narrow hall past the bathroom. Edward was the secretary, so he must have taken notes. They found his pad of papers under the unmade bed.
It was mainly a list of meal times, arrival times, and prayer times, which explained the mysterious chanting that Lily told him Phoebe Twinkle had reported. The rest of the notes were in shorthand. Walker knew Lily had been studying shorthand, but not for long enough to know it well. He showed it to Officer Lawrence. “Do you know shorthand?“
“Yes, sir.“
“Take a look at this and tell me what it says.”
Lawrence glanced through and said, “I can’t make sense of it, I’m afraid. Everybody’s shorthand becomes personal to them after they’ve done it for a long time. You’ll probably have to send the notebook to Albany as well and let them find someone who knows more about the variations.”
Walker ran his hands through his hair. By the time this was done, all his suspects would have flown away to the four winds. This was a case he feared would never be solved and would become a huge blot on his good reputation.
They moved on next to Nobby Hazard’s room. It stank of his hair oil, and a huge bottle of it was on the windowsill. There was no label on it; apparently it was a noxious recipe he mixed himself. Other than his suitcase and his shaving materials, this was the only item in the room. Nobby apparently had no use for tooth care. Walker opened the small, battered case. Nobby had two changes of underwear, one extra shirt. The clothes were all old and stained and looked as if they’d been with him for decades, being fruitlessly washed and ironed and darned. The extra shirt had been meticulously patched at the elbows, collar, and cuffs. Did he do this sewing himself, or did he have some downtrodden wife or spinster daughter in the background?
There were two books in the suitcase. One was an old Bible. The fake leather cover had crumbled to bits. The spine was a wreck. Almost every page had a smudge on the lower outer corner. Nobby must have gone through it hundreds of times, wetting his finger to
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