“So I shall cooperate with Rosencrantz and Guildenstern …”
“Who?”
“Blast, I knew I was going to come out with that sooner or later! Oh well, better to you than to them.”
“To who?” Lambert asked blankly.
“Whom. Hamlet,” Daisy explained, further bewildering him. “Oh, never mind! I’ll cooperate fully with the police and the district attorney when they get around to asking for my help. In the meantime, I’m going to see the Misses Cabot. I’ll be perfectly safe with them, so there’s absolutely no need for you to try to barge in.”
Lambert shuddered. “You won’t catch me trying,” he affirmed.
9
During Daisy’s stay, she had never seen the Misses Cabot early in the morning. She had assumed they were among the late risers. However, Kevin, that inexhaustible fount of information, told her they retired early and rose early, but breakfasted in their apartment suite. When she knocked on their door, Miss Genevieve’s strong voice bade her enter.
“Good morning, I hope I’m not disturbing you.”
“Good morning,” Miss Cabot greeted her, “not at all, Mrs. Fletcher, always happy …”
Miss Genevieve dispensed with such superfluities. Dropping the newspaper she was reading on top of a pile of others on the table, she said, “Ah, Mrs. Fletcher, perhaps you can tell me what’s going on? I quite expected to have received a visit from the police by now.”
“I haven’t seen any about this morning,” said Daisy, “except the man posted outside Carmody’s room. I know they interviewed some of the staff last night. I gather they rather upset the chambermaid who attended Carmody.”
“Oh dear, poor girl! Won’t you sit down, Mrs. Fletcher?”
“I suppose they will question all the staff first,” said Miss Genevieve, discontented. “If they can bully sufficient information out of them, they won’t have to tackle the residents, who are better able to take care of themselves.”
“They’re bound to want to speak to you,” Daisy soothed her. “Someone is sure to tell them you are acquainted with most, if not all, of the hotel’s guests.”
“Tactfully put! You mean I’m a nosy old woman who makes a point of delving into everyone’s business.”
“That’s what a gossip columnist is supposed to do. I’ll mention it to them, if you like. I’ve been wondering what you know about Wilbur Pitt. You told me you saw him quarrelling with Carmody, and that he had written a novel. I’m inclined to believe he might have been Otis Carmody’s cousin.”
“Ha! Very likely. Their tiff had more the appearance of a family squabble than a fight between acquaintances. Mr. Pitt told me he comes from somewhere out west. Do you recall where he mentioned, sister?”
“Ohio, I think, sister,” said Miss Cabot, her forehead wrinkling in a doubtful frown. “Or was it Omaha? Or Oregon? I’m sure it began with anO. Oh dear, or was it Idaho? That ends with anO,you know.”
“Somewhere in the West,” Miss Genevieve said impatiently. “Pitt was the son of a farmer. He’d worked on the farm …”
“Colorado!” cried Miss Cabot. “Or was it?”
“ … and also as a logger and miner. He has written a novel based on his experiences, and he brought the manuscript to New York to find a publisher.”
“San Francisco?”
“He’ll be lucky to get an editor even to look at it,” MissGenevieve continued. “A person of small education, as one might expect from his background. He need only open his mouth to be rejected.”
“Poor chap.” Daisy sympathized. She wanted to write a novel some day, but it was a dauntingly mammoth undertaking. “I dare say he was trying to persuade his cousin to recommend him to an editor.”
“I suppose,” said Miss Cabot, “it could have been Oklahoma?”
“That’s it!” cried Miss Genevieve.
“I knew I should remember in the end, sister.”
“Oh, no, not Oklahoma, sister. Mrs. Fletcher’s surmise as to Pitt’s business with Carmody.”
“New Mexico?” Miss Cabot proposed sadly and unhopefully.
