MY CALLER, HOWEVER, was Quentin Quayle. “Albert, it's going wrong!”
“Sorry to hear that.”
“I may have to end it all!”
“It can't be a suicide matter, surely.”
In a voice that was calm and corrective, he said, “Don't be stupid. That's not what I meant.”
“Oh.”
“But I need to talk to you immediately.”
“You do?”
“Come now. Take whatever is necessary out of the money I gave you, but come.”
“Don't you think you're being a little bit—”
“Please!” he said.
A magic word, especially in conjunction with the fact that waiting for the Scummies was making me jumpy. I said, “O.K.”
Poet had the use of a third-floor apartment on a corner of 38th Street and North Meridian. It took me the best part of twenty minutes to get to his door and when he opened it, he said, “Oh, Albert!” with an over-the-top emotional exhalation that, on screen, would have made movies silent again.
I didn't get an immediate chance to ask him what his problem was. He turned and walked away from me. As he did so he pulled at his hair with a baby's anger.
I wasn't so sure that responding to my soulmate's summons had been a good idea after all, but I entered the apartment and closed the door.
The living room was chock-a-block with furniture and ornaments. Quayle couldn't have packed it that way in mere months so perhaps this was an apartment that Charlotte Vivien kept specially for poets.
I'd never been in the building before but it was where a local politician conducted a personal affirmative action program. According to Miller.
Quayle draped himself across a flowery settee behind a glass-topped coffee table with bronze legs.
I used a straight-backed chair and sat opposite him.
“I'm destroyed. We were going to have such a lovely life! Charlotte has another man.”
“Is that what this is about?”
“Of course.”
“Who is it?”
“Oh I have no idea.”
“Well, how do you know?”
“Charlotte is suddenly less open with me.”
I waited. There wasn't any more. “That's it?”
“Yes.”
“Poet, didn't you say she had her children home this weekend and that she was upset?”
“She is less open. I have been a confidant and suddenly I'm not. She's got a man, Albert. Sure as eggs is eggs, Charlotte Vivien is seeing somebody. I am never wrong about this kind of thing.”
“If you say so.”
“I say so.”
I said, “That's the ball game. Time to be a good sport, wish her luck and forget her.”
He sat up and leaned forward. He looked at the floor, and the hanging hair meant I couldn't see his face at all. “But I don't want to forget her,” he said.
“What choice have you got?”
He threw his head back and said, “I want you to follow her.”
“What?”
“I can't revise my strategy until I know who the opposition is.”
“Poet, following Charlotte Vivien is not what you hired me to do.”
“I hired your professional services. Isn't following unfaithful women the very essence of what private detectives do?”
“It takes a lot of time. I have other jobs.”
“Just follow her at night. That will do. Evenings. I'm sure she is not the sort of woman who would do it in daylight.”
I looked at him. “I suppose you're never wrong about that kind of thing either.”
“You must do it,” he said pathetically.
“Well, I can hire other people to follow her when I'm too busy.”
“Whatever it takes.”
“But your money won't last long.”
“I'll give you more.”
“Poet, are you sure about this?”
“Yes.”
“Aren't you panicking? Don't you want to give it some time to feel better?”
“No.”
I said nothing.
He said, “Albert, haven't you ever been in love?”
I considered things as I went down the stairs. A simple tail on Charlotte Vivien wouldn't be hard to arrange. Graham Parkis had “guys and gals” just waiting for the work. And I had a home number for him.
Well, all right.
There was a telephone booth across 38th Street and I went to it.
However, the number I called was Charlotte Vivien's.
I expected Loring to answer but the voice was a girl's. “Hello?”
“May I speak to Mrs. Vivien?”
“Who's calling, please?”
No matter what Mom said, it was not a time to be by myself.
“This is the Chief of Police.”
“Oh, hi. Chief.”
“Uh, hi.”
“This is Sheree. Mom's not here now, but can I take a message?”
“No thanks, Sheree,” I said. “No message.”
“Hey, I watched you this afternoon.”
“You did?”
“On the VCR. The tape of Mom's party.”
“Oh, yeah. I haven't had a chance to see it yet. Too much work.”
“You were great.”
“Good. Good.”
“And I thought that detective Mom hired was mega-fabulous. When he sneezed on that powder and it went in his face! Wow, that was so funny! He was just darling.”
“You think so?”
“I'd really like to meet him. Do you know him?”
“Slightly.”
“Is he an actor or something?”
“I do understand that he's got a little television coming up,” I said.