Scarlet Imperial (8 page)

She sat leaden in the outer office. She could stop this. Tell him where Gavin Keane was. Gavin had asked her to inform Bry. If they were allowed to get together, Gavin would give the Imp to Bry. She’d been sent to New York for one purpose, to intercept what Keane was sending to Brewer’s before it got into Bry’s hands. To keep it from reaching the collector who had ordered it. She wasn’t doing just another job for Towner. It was for this, to lay hold of the Imp, that she’d worked with Towner for years. She couldn’t, with the job this near done, cause the years of work and plan to be undone. Not if Bry Brewer was anxious to the point of despair. Bry Brewer didn’t mean anything to her. He couldn’t. No man could, not ever, no one but Towner who had cared for her, who had taken a miserable alley cat and given it kindness. When this was all over, the wrong made right, then if a man like Bry Brewer came along, she could begin again. She could dare warm her hands at happiness. Only it wouldn’t be Bry; she’d be gone. Someone like Bry, someone that made your heart stir just a little when you saw him come into the room. Someone whose rare smile quickened the beat of your stirring heart.

He’d pushed the bell. She took her pencil and stenographer’s notebook, hid errant thought behind secretarial calm. She went in to him. He said, “Take a wire, Eliza.”

She sat down on the straight chair near his desk, opened the tablet.

“Feroun Dekertian.”

It was well she was seated, well that her pencil was tight between her fingers. Her eyes had darted up at the name. She covered with an apologetic smile. “Will you spell that please, Mr. Brewer?”

He spelled, “F-e-r-o-u-n D-e-k-e-r-t-i-a-n.”

She was prepared now. He wouldn’t hear the thumping of her curiosity, he was too engrossed in his trouble.

“The Iranian Embassy. Washington.” He pushed his fist against his forehead. “Has Gavin Keane—no—” He broke off abruptly. “No use worrying him too. Here it is.” He thought it out loud. “‘Have you heard from Keane? Wire collect.’ Sign Bryan Brewer.” He looked at her with some relief, small relief but even that was good. “Get that off right away, Liza. That doesn’t sound as if Keane has vanished into thin air. He might have heard from Gavin. Maybe Gavin went to him when he couldn’t find me. If someone was trying to take the Imp from Gavin, he might have played it that way.”

She sat there, upright in the chair, listening to him as a secretary would.

Even making the right unobtrusive sounds of affirmation and negation.

Her conscience not thorning her now because hope had come back to him.

But the hope was brief. It fled leaving the hopelessness darker than before.

“Maybe I should call the police.”

She said, “No,” quickly, too quickly. He eyed her. But not with suspicion, with determination.

“I know I should,” he said. “Or the hospitals. He could have been struck down. I don’t want to face it.”

“He’d have some identification on him,” she argued. “Your card or a letter—”

He explained as if she were a sheltered young girl, “Sometimes men who strike don’t leave any identification on a victim.” He shook his head. “I don’t know what to do. If he’s lying low on purpose—He wouldn’t want the police brought into it.”

He spoke with knowledge of Gavin Keane. This wasn’t just a casual business relationship. But he didn’t continue and she left the office. She typed the wire mechanically, called a messenger. If Feroun Dekertian were the client, Towner had made a terrible mistake. There had been no reason for these months of pretense. There was no purpose in withholding the Imp, in keeping Gavin and Bry apart. The reason she and Towner wanted the Imp was to turn it over to Feroun Dekertian.

She echoed Bry’s own admission: I don’t know what to do. She had never changed Towner’s plans, those plans as carefully, as beautifully made as mosaic. She wouldn’t change them now. Not yet. She was certain Towner would get in touch with her today. For the space of a heartbeat she wondered if anything could have happened to him. No. She could say that with certainty. Towner never figured personally in any of his deals. He never risked himself. He appeared, suave, urbane, only when the preliminaries were over. Whoever had been after the egg last night would have no knowledge of the interest in it of Towner Clay.

He would come today. He would explain all the things she couldn’t understand; they would be simple, amusing. All but Renfro Hester. Towner wouldn’t like what had happened in the apartment. She took a breath. He needn’t ever know. She set her chin. She would never let him know that Gavin Keane had stayed there.

She turned quickly at the opening of the corridor door. It should have been Towner but it wasn’t. It was a sweet, breathless voice saying, “Good afternoon.”

It was Feather Prentiss, the exquisite one. She had a Dresden doll face, a doll’s wide, heavy-lashed eyes. Her black wasn’t secretarial; it was richness. Furred at the throat, the slim taper of her legs completed by the tracing of slim-heeled sandals. Her shining amber hair was brushed high, the tiny black tricorne atop it frothed with veiling. She didn’t look rainy day; she might have been carried to the very door in a sedan chair. In another age she would have been. In this she drove the maddest car, flew the fastest plane. Nervous energy had been substituted for languor in time the present. She asked, “Is Mr. Brewer in?”

Eliza didn’t have to answer. Bry was in the doorway of his room at once, almost with guilt. His pleasure was nervous. “Feather, what brings you here?”

Her mouth was too small, a rosebud, redder than any rose. “Darling, had you forgotten lunch today?”

He had forgotten. He had completely forgotten. But he said, “Lunch time already?” His eyes alone touched her, you didn’t ruffle Feather Prentiss with sudden affection.

“No, dear.” She did it well, Eliza admitted, the half-sorrowful glance under her curled lashes.

“I can’t lunch. Dentist. Frightful bore.” The lift of her lashes was provocative. “But I could come in and say—hello.” The hello was in that breathless lilt.

Eliza’s nails pressed into her palms. He was falling for it. He always fell for it. “Come on in.” He only then remembered the audience. “You know Miss Williams, Feather?”

“Of course, darling.” Feather noted her briefly; Eliza had been part of the office equipment before. The smile that Feather gave was precisely tuned to the meeting with a secretary or a lower order of peasantry. Eliza inclined her head unsmiling. Someday when Bry raised the question of Feather knowing Miss Williams, she’d say she had never heard of Miss Prentiss.

Bry closed the door this time, closed it tightly. She didn’t have to sit here and imagine what was going on in that inner office. Bry wouldn’t worry about Gavin Keane while Feather was fluttering her lashes at him.

The rain was a fine mist filtering from the sky to the slapping wet of the street below. Eliza put on her raincoat and rubber boots, looped the umbrella over her arm. She didn’t care how she looked. Careening taxis wouldn’t splash Feather; they would commoner clay. She pulled off her glasses as she left the office.

She needed extra time; without Bry realizing she was taking it. There was the shopping to do for Gavin Keane. She bolted a drug store lunch, sandwich and coffee, and cut across to Abercrombie’s. Before stepping inside, she stood facing the windows long enough to make certain that no one was in sight. Not Jones of the F.B.I., not Bry, not Renfro Hester and his associates. The street was empty of all but unknown persons.

A brother. She selected shirts, a brown jacket, underwear and sox, pajamas, a bathrobe. If Gavin were laid up longer than he expected, he’d need these. Even if he weren’t, would he dare return to wherever he was stopping? He wouldn’t if he were being trailed. She took the large box, went back to the drug store. She bought a razor and blades, a toothbrush, a comb. She was afraid to ask here for Sulfa powder; the clerk might well add it to her purchases, obvious purchases for a man in hiding. She walked further up Madison to another pharmacy.

She said, “My aunt cut her hand badly. It’s an open gash. Sulfa.”

The pharmacist sold her powder and salve, explained application.

She could go back to the office now. It was past one o’clock. Bry would be out. It was habitual. Go to lunch twelve forty-five; return one thirty. Lunch at the Roosevelt coffee shop. Unless he were taking Feather. He wasn’t today. Feather had invented a dentist. But Bry hadn’t been sorry. Until she’d wiggled her eyelashes, he’d almost been relieved.

Eliza hurried, because of the rain, because she must have her purchases out of sight before he returned. The rain was fine; she couldn’t manage the umbrella with the awkward packages. She put her head down to keep the mist free from her glasses. It was because her head was down that she almost bumped into him. Just a man, a face and an overcoat who sidestepped her and strode on. But beyond him, crossing the strip of pavement to the entrance of the Roosevelt, she saw Towner Clay.

She called out his name, joyously, thankfully. “Towner!”

His head turned. He looked directly at her, into her eyes. Then deliberately he turned away and continued into the hotel.

She stood there, rooted there on the damp pavement. It was Towner. She couldn’t be mistaken. His Chesterfield slightly dotted with confetti of rain, his bowler similarly dotted, but his black stitched gray suede gloves unspoiled and his gray spats, his gray ascot folded as precisely as if he had not braved a storm from taxi to curb. It was Towner. Even to the pale wooden handle of his English umbrella hooked over his arm.

He had given no recognition to her, none at all. It suddenly occurred to her, he had not recognized her! The defect of the amber-rimmed glasses, the anonymity of her black uniform. He’d suggested she become a secretary pattern; he didn’t know just what the pattern was or how completely it protected her.

She didn’t hesitate. She swerved and hurried up to the door of the hotel. Again she stopped, rooted. Through the door she saw Towner but he wasn’t alone. He was bowing over furs and imported scent and waving eyelashes. Towner Clay was Feather’s dentist.

Eliza retraced her steps, crossed to her building, blankly. The office was empty. She stowed her packages into the coat closet, hung her damp coat and hat. Towner Clay and Feather Prentiss. She didn’t understand it. She’d been afraid to go into the hotel, speak to him. If he’d wanted her identity known to Feather he would have spoken. He had known her; he had deliberately cut her because he didn’t want Feather to know her. That meant he didn’t want Bry to know her. But he didn’t know that Bry was on their side.

She was impatient for his coming. Impatient and resentful of Feather Prentiss. It couldn’t be that Feather too was working for him. Feather was what she was, a New York debutante, a few years removed. Feather wasn’t an alley cat he’d picked up, made sleek and helpful. Feather was family and money, like Towner Clay.

Why should he waste his time with her now? Why didn’t he finish the Scarlet Imperial job first? Time enough then for dalliance in the Ritz. She hated Feather Prentiss. It wasn’t enough she could twist Bry like a strand of her own golden hair about her wrist; she could blunt the sharp wits of Towner Clay. Towner should know timing was more important than a silly blonde. Eliza sat down at her desk, facing the door, watching the opaque square of the door pane. If Towner would only come before Bry. No hope of that. Not with Feather. She’d want special sauces to flatter her specialness.

The silhouette that flickered on the door wasn’t Bry, too tall for Bry. Tall enough for Towner. She’d been wrong about Towner dallying. And then she was looking into the face of Jones.

She was mute. She couldn’t even say hello.

He took one hand out of his pocket, handed her the tabloid from under his arm. “Have you seen the noon edition?”

She didn’t want to take it. Her fingers faltered. The paper lay on her desk. She didn’t look at it, she looked under the shadow of his hat into the secret of his eyes.

He said, “Hester’s dead.”

She breathed again. It wasn’t Gavin; he hadn’t caught up with Gavin and the Imp.

“Pix on Page One. Story, Page Two.”

The pictures blurred. The page wavered as she turned it. Hester was dead. His murderer was hidden in her apartment. She’d known Hester was dead, known and been afraid to face her knowledge. Everything had been too cluttered last night. She’d known and she hadn’t called the police; she was guilty of guilty knowledge. Her eyes focussed again on the page. The body of an unidentified man … found in the basement … her apartment house. Gavin Keane had taken Hester down in the service elevator. Had got rid of him. Hester wouldn’t have been found so soon only this was the day for the furnace checkup … a far corner of the furnace room … shot once … She held her eyes on the page. One shot. The medical examiner … man had been killed the night before … before midnight. The description of an average man. No identification on him.

She looked up at Jones. “You could identify him.”

“I don’t want to—yet.”

She said, “I guess he wasn’t just a salesman.”

“No.” He sat down in the chair, pushed back his hat. She could see his eyes, pale, steady eyes. “I’d like to talk to your friend. What was the name?”

He knew. He didn’t know if she’d remember. Her lips were narrow. “Smith. Mr. Smith.”

“Where can I find him?”

She said the first thing that came into her head. “He’s gone to Washington.”

“Washington?” It wasn’t doubt; it was surprise lifting his voice. “Where is he there?”

“He was going to stay at the Mayflower—if he could get reservations.” Bry stopped at the Mayflower.

“Where does he live in New York?”

She said, “He doesn’t live in New York. He’s from the west.” She was getting in deeper; Towner shouldn’t have deserted her. She needed him. But she hoped he wouldn’t come now. He wouldn’t like the loose ends she was untwining.

Jones said, “Where’s he putting up here?”

She tried to sound young, naive. “I don’t know.” She managed a little laugh. “I didn’t think to ask him.”

“Where does he usually put up?”

She reached for a hotel, any hotel. “The St. Regis, I believe. Or the Pierce.”