Pinkerton added, “No witnesses. No information. Just the dead woman and anything she can tell us.”
I stood, stretched, and looked away from the body, trying to clear my mind. The house was lovely. It was a good reminder that having lovely things doesn’t save a person from the world. And it might have been the money that brought misfortune to the Harringtons’ door.
The door, I thought.
“She didn’t do it herself, so someone was here. So how did they get in? And how did they leave?”
“The husband didn’t notice anything. Or if he did, he didn’t say.”
We checked the doors ourselves. No sign of forcing, either at the front door or the back. Thinking out loud, I said, “Well, the locks might have been picked, but they weren’t forced. What if the perpetrator had a key?”
“You think the husband let someone in?”
“Could be. But I was thinking something different. Maybe it was his key, but someone else got their hands on it.”
“How?”
“Where do you keep your spare house key?” I asked him, knowing the answer.
“In my office. In my desk.”
I was beginning to get the seedling of an idea. I turned back to the body of Mrs. Harrington. She looked like a doll now, a broken doll. I tried to look at her corpse only as a collection of details. Her hair was several shades darker than mine and her skin several shades more pale. Her eyes were closer together, and she was narrower at the shoulders. But these were all minor details and could be overcome. The key element was present. We looked to be about the same size.
“I have an idea,” I said. “The husband is our client?”
“Yes.”
“How is he?”
“What do you mean?”
I searched for the right words. “Mad with grief? Sobbing, screaming? Or can he keep himself together?”
“Stunned, I think, but coherent. What do we need him to do?”
“What time does he go to work?”
“I can ask.”
“Does his wife ever visit him at his office?”
He was only a heartbeat behind. “Let’s find out.”
? ? ?
Three hours later, at Jay Harrington’s downtown office building, I walked in through the front door with my head held high. Only I wasn’t myself. I was Sarah Harrington, in a square-necked, sprigged dress and graceful, feathered hat, risen from the dead.
I’d carefully chosen the dress from Mrs. Harrington’s wardrobe that was most like the one she wore when she died. I drew the line at removing the actual garment from her body, but the greater the resemblance I bore to her, the better my plan would work. We would only get one chance.
Bellamy had remained back at the house. Pinkerton had already arrived here before me, pretending to be a customer, speaking with Mr. Harrington himself. He’d originally asked to be paired with another man in the office, giving him a better vantage point, but a jolted, nervous Mr. Harrington admitted that he couldn’t think of a single man in his office who he fully trusted, who would be one hundred percent beyond suspicion. I couldn’t blame him. Poor man. He was admirable for even trying this gambit. We were all doing our best, but we’d never known the dead woman. Everything truly depended upon his successful charade.
I hoisted the lunch bucket. It was not empty, because we might need to play the scene all the way to the end if no suspect gave himself away at my first appearance. Cold chicken with rolls and butter awaited us if we needed to extend operations. I knew they would taste like dust; food eaten on a case always did. Readying myself for my performance, I neared Mr. Harrington’s desk.
“Oh, Jay!” I called in a voice we’d rehearsed together to be as little like mine and as much like hers as possible.
“Sarah, dear,” he called back and held his arms out toward me.
My knees nearly buckled under me at the naked longing on his face. No one had ever looked at me with such passion, but it wasn’t me he was really looking at. I was only his pretend wife coming toward him. The real one would never do so again.
I let my eyes scan the room lightly as I walked, though Pinkerton was the one in charge of watching the reactions of the other men in the office. When it came, the reaction was so obvious not even Jay Harrington, caught up in playacting a normal life, could miss it.
Two desks over from Mr. Harrington stood a short man, thick in the waist under his neat, pin-striped vest. The placard on his desk named him: Gordon Wilder, vice president.
We all heard his audible gasp and saw his head turn. On seeing me approaching and hearing Jay call out Sarah’s name, the round little man went white.
His desk was only a few steps away. I would need to pass him to get to Harrington. This gave me the opportunity to be sure, and I took it.
I stepped toward him, saying, “Surprised to see me?”
He staggered backward a full step. If we’d had any doubt of his involvement, it vanished.
As I closed the gap between us, still advancing, a second wave of recognition dawned on his face. There was relief—and much more.
“You’re not her,” he said.
I was considering my answer when he launched himself at me. I only had half a moment to react, and I got my hand halfway down my thigh toward my knife, but I didn’t have nearly enough time to draw it, let alone defend myself. He tackled me around the waist like a dummy, squeezing out my breath and propelling us both to the ground. If Pinkerton or Harrington tried to step in, they were too late; my head thumped hard against the wood of the desk. I felt his hands on my throat, the thumbs pressing down and down and down.
After that, I saw nothing but sparks in blackness, and then even the sparks winked out, one by one.
Only sound reached me then, a man’s sobs and hiccups, very close by. The soft weight of a body, breathing, was on me. The hands on my throat were hot and merciless.