The Resurrection Man Read Online Free PDF Page B

the door late in the evening at the Tulip Street house was always a chancy business. This could be anybody from Sarah’s Uncle Jem on his way back from a bibulous evening with some of his many cronies to a jewel thief just out of jail, craving revenge on the meddlers who’d put him there. They never locked the street door until bedtime, but the inner door was secure as a bank safe. Nor was it any idle whim that had caused Brooks Kelling to replace the purple windowpanes with bullet-proof glass.
    The visitor must have passed inspection, Brooks was showing him in: a tallish, middle-aged man with suede-leather patches on the elbows of his shabby but well-cut tweed jacket. For the rest, he was wearing well-aged but likewise well-cut flannels, a pale-blue cotton shirt, and an apologetic little bow tie of no particular color or pattern. He was the sort who tended to remind everyone of someone else, possibly the late Leverett Saltonstall, more likely somebody’s relative who taught something dull at one of Boston’s many schools or colleges and showed up at funerals talking about other dead relatives whom nobody else among those present had ever met and wouldn’t have cared to know. After a moment’s thought, Sarah remembered who he really was. His name was Carnaby Goudge, his appearance was his stock-in-trade.
    People who hire professional bodyguards often do not want them to look or act like bodyguards. A man who vaguely resembled a lot of other people, who spoke with the right accent when he spoke at all, who could pass as a valet, a brother-in-law, or some indispensable member of one’s clerical staff, and still be quick enough on the draw to prevent anything unpleasant from happening to his current employer, seldom had to worry about his next assignment.
    Carnaby Goudge was not an intimate of the Kelling-Bittersohn household, but they’d all run across him at various times in sundry places, usually posing as the most inconspicuous member of some tycoon’s entourage. The omniscient Bill Jones had mentioned not long ago that the bodyguard was in the Boston area, though Bill had not as yet been able to find out what he was doing here. Affable greetings were exchanged. Sarah offered coffee, Theonia suggested brandy. Goudge opted for the latter.
    “Just a spot, thank you. I suppose I ought to apologize for dropping in on you unannounced at so late an hour, but this is the first chance I’ve had and I thought you might like a piece of information. In view of this afternoon’s little contretemps,” he added with the slight twitch of the lips that was as close as he ever got to a smile. “I must say I was favorably impressed by your expeditious handling of the situation, even though the effort was quite unnecessary.”
    “You mean Lydia Ouspenska?” said Sarah. “You were tailing her? I never spotted you. But then I wouldn’t, would I?”
    “I should hope not, Mrs. Bittersohn. Madame Ouspenska’s meeting with Mr. Bittersohn was no doubt serendipitous, but having his wife show up just as madame came out of the grocery store did give me pause to wonder. Once that other pair picked up her trail, I knew for sure. Not a bad job, I must say, for a couple of amateurs. Have you used them before?”
    “Actually they’re our maid and butler, at least they like to pretend they are. They live here and help out in various ways. Charles is a professional actor when he gets the chance, he’s marvelous at disguises. Today’s wasn’t one of Charles’s better efforts, but he only had a couple of minutes to work himself into the role. Are we to understand that you’ve become Lydia’s official bodyguard?”
    “Hers, among others. Mr. Arbalest takes great care of his artisans. And of himself, needless to say. They do have to get out of the house now and then, much as he’d rather they didn’t. It’s a full-time job looking out for them. I’m sure you realize that all this is highly confidential.”
    “And that your real