SHE WOKE AT EIGHT, not rested, but because she always woke at that time to go to work. Leaden light alone came through the half-opened blinds. She could hear the splash of rain against the casements. Richards had told her to lie abed this morning. That was what she wanted to do, close her eyes, sleep again, forget.
Her eyes opened wide. Forget. She had forgotten last night. It wasn’t a dream. It had happened. Gavin Keane was in the spare bedroom with a bullet hole in his shoulder. The Scarlet Imperial was on her closet shelf. She slipped out of bed, belted the black wool Guardsman’s robe about her, stepped into her black wool slippers and went quietly to his door. He seemed to be sleeping.
She went away on soft feet. Not back to bed, to the kitchen. Now that she was awake, awake and aware, she must not return to sleep. She started the coffee, plugged in the automatic toaster. The cream and milk, the orange juice were waiting outside the kitchen door. She had to open the door to bring the bottles in.
She was being utterly absurd. It was morning, gray as it was. Renfro Hester wasn’t in the service passage. He had been taken away last night. She walked over to the door, forced her fingers to unbolt it, brought in the bottles.
The door locked automatically but as soon as she’d put the milk on ice, she pushed the additional bolt. She wondered if Aunt Hortensia too had once had bad dreams, if that were the meaning of the extra precaution. She wondered if Towner had used this apartment before.
She cleared away the untasted meal of last night, saving the chop for warming. She drank the orange juice while the coffee brewed. She didn’t know what to do about going to the office. If she didn’t appear after last night, Bryan Brewer might return here. She could phone; later when he was there, invent an incipient cold. She had the Imp; she needn’t go to the office again, but until she heard from Towner she mustn’t be suspect.
“That coffee smells good.”
Gavin could move quietly. She hadn’t heard the door open into the kitchen. He was standing there, a towel draped around his shoulders. He’d put on his trousers.
She smiled. “If you’ll go back to bed, I’ll bring you some.”
“You’ve done enough waiting on me.” He sat down opposite her at the kitchen table. “I’m recovered. Haven’t had such a night’s sleep in months.” His smile was the impudent one he’d given in the office. “I’m thinking maybe I need a woman in my business. For luck.”
“It can’t be much luck to be shot at.” She poured coffee for each of them. “I’m afraid I drank all the orange juice. I forgot. I’ve some grapefruit.” She examined the ice box. “An apple—”
“Apple. For one purpose only. I don’t want any doctors prowling around. Just a scratch. Practically well.”
She put the apple and a paring knife on a plate. She sat down across from him. She was serious. “You mustn’t act that way. It’s important you see a doctor. The danger—”
“Danger.” He wasn’t smiling. He began uncoiling the red skin from the apple. “A doctor reports a bullet wound. A reputable doctor. I don’t go to quacks, nearly died once from infection. Suppose I give the gun cleaning routine. If it were my family physician he’d believe me. I’m a stranger here, any doctor is a stranger to me. Would he believe me? Would he start wondering why I hadn’t done something about it last night?”
She said, “You should have. Last night.”
“Even if he doesn’t report it, he wonders. He talks it over with his nurse or the fellows at the club.” His face darkened. “That F.B.I, man hanging around here. Those fellows have ferret ears. He hears it—” He broke off. “He was F.B.I.?”
“Yes,” she said. “He had a badge. He told me his identification had been checked by Richards.”
His laugh was abrupt. “Maybe you’re wondering why I don’t like the F.B.I.” She hadn’t been. She knew why. But she realized she must wonder; she mustn’t forget to be innocent.
He said shortly, “You can ask Bry.” He flung the apple paring over his good shoulder, turned to peer at it. “Your initial wouldn’t be a J?”
“It’s E. Eliza Williams.”
“We weren’t properly introduced. What was that darling act about?”
She felt warmth in her cheeks. “I let Jones think you were—” she should pretend embarrassment; surprisingly she was embarrassed “—my lover. There was no other way to explain why Hester would leave the back way.” She explained, “I said I’d sent him that way because you were unreasonably jealous.”
He ate a slice of apple. “And I was presumedly out borrowing seltzer from the neighbors.”
“But you went long after Hester did.” She said slowly, “I don’t think he believed a word of it. I was talking to Bryan Brewer when Jones arrived. I didn’t explain that. He didn’t ask.” She added, “He will today.”
He looked up.
She protested, “You heard him say he might want to ask more questions.”
He said, “I actually didn’t hear a word the bastard said. I was too busy trying to keep from falling on my face till after he was gone.” He pushed aside the fruit. “I’d better get out before he shows up.”
She couldn’t let him go. She had to keep him here until Towner had the Imp. She said, “He won’t come while I’m at work. If he does he won’t get upstairs. The doorman will tell him I’m not here.” She asked, “He’d have to have a warrant to search, wouldn’t he? And he couldn’t serve it on the elevator man. It would have to be served on me, wouldn’t it?”
“I daresay.” He was thoughtful.
She couldn’t go to the office and leave Gavin here with the Imp. But she could pretend to get ready to go. Delay it until word came from Towner. The rain was a good delay. She said, “You should stay in bed today. If you refuse to have a doctor.”
He smiled briefly. “I’ve a little job to be about myself.”
“You can’t.” She repeated more quietly, with satisfaction, “You can’t.” She had remembered. “Not until you get some clothes.”
His look was a question.
“Your shirt and suitcoat are soaked with blood.”
“That’s why I couldn’t find them.”
“They’re in the hamper with the towels. I don’t know what to do with them.”
“I’ll get rid of them.”
“You can’t phone for clothes. I don’t want men’s clothes delivered here. Besides—”
“Curiosity. Questions.”
She nodded. She was thinking. “I’ll have to bring what you need. When I return from work.” It was right that she should be curious. She didn’t glance at him as she asked, “What did you do with Hester?”
He said, “I put him in the park.”
“No!” The exclamation came so quickly from her that his eyebrows winged. The man on the bench. Sitting there, unmoving, in the heavy rain. Hours after he’d—he’d been got rid of. Within her cold stabbed suddenly. Gavin wasn’t telling the truth. He hadn’t taken the man into the park. He hadn’t been out in the rain when he came up the service stairs.
She looked at the crust of toast on her plate. She said, “I don’t see how you could move him—with your shoulder.”
He didn’t respond and she had to lift her eyes to him. He was turning his coffee cup in his hand. He said, “It wasn’t he who shot me.”
This time the fear crawled into her eyes.
He still watched his coffee. He was speaking to himself and his face wasn’t pleasant. “I’d like to know who it was.”
She pushed back her chair. It didn’t scratch; Aunt Hortensia’s chairs were rubber-tipped, her linoleum highly waxed. But it sounded in the silence. She said, “I’m going to dress now. You go back to bed and I’ll bring you some clothes tonight.” She carried dishes to the sink. “You won’t be disturbed, the maid doesn’t come on Fridays. You’d better write down your size.”
She went quickly to her own room, closed the door. She’d have to go to the office now or pretend to go. He couldn’t leave the house without clothes. He couldn’t take the Imperial away. If he did, he’d have only a cake of soap. She didn’t believe he’d investigate the package. He trusted her.
She heard the door open this time and she swung to face it. He stood there, a paper memorandum in his hand. He started to speak but he broke the words. His eyes had become the flat blue disks. He said, “I’ve seen you before.”
She was silent, she remained there unmoving as he came across the room and stood in front of her. The paper drifted to the floor as his hands pushed back her hair roughly, framing her face. She didn’t flinch; her own eyes were steady. He said, “In HongKong.”
She put on a mask of bewilderment. Her lie was quiet. “I’ve never been in HongKong.” He dropped his hands. She stooped and picked up the paper before he could. He’d written his sizes on it.
He shook his head. “Maybe I’d better stay on my back today. I’m getting nerves. I apologize.” He went away.
She let her breath out slowly. She’d better dress; hide herself behind secretarial disguise. She put on a plain black wool, added a small strand of pearls. Only Towner knew they were real. Part of a treasure she had helped him recover. She pulled back her hair, netted it in a snood. She even put on the amber-rimmed glasses. The perfect secretary. Her small black hat, the black silk belted raincoat, rubber boots over her plain pumps, umbrella, purse.
Gavin Keane wouldn’t risk answering the phone today. Not with nerves. If Towner couldn’t reach her here, he’d call the office. He’d expect her to be at the office. She couldn’t let Towner come here anyway unless Gavin was gone. She wouldn’t risk Towner’s safety with someone like Gavin Keane.
Gavin was in the living room, looking down at the park, standing where he couldn’t be seen if someone were looking up. He turned at her entrance. He said, “I don’t like staying here.”
She suggested again, “Will you let me call the doctor?”
He said, “No.” It was definitely no. He came to her, handed her a fold of bills. “Better get brown.”
She put them into her handbag. “There’s food in the icebox.”
He walked with her to the front door, but he barred her from opening it. The cold touched her spine. She held her umbrella tight, as if it could become a weapon.
But he said only, “I want to see Bry. Tell him.”
She asked quickly, “Is it safe?”
He considered it. “Tell him to come when it’s safe.” He added, “It had better be when you’re here. I’m not opening up today.”
She nodded. He stood hidden behind the door while she opened it. She picked up the morning paper, handed it in to him. She said, “Stay in bed.”
The door closed at once, closed tight. She rang for the elevator. The day operator was a small dark man, a paid performer not a friend. She wouldn’t have to explain to Richards and Franz. They’d believe Gavin left after they went off duty. Late as that had been. She said, “Good morning, Clarence.”
He returned, “Good morning.”
There were no questions. The day doorman was another uniform, correct, detached. He said, “Good morning, Miss Williams.”
“Good morning, Davis.” The rain poured down this second day, flat, leaden rain. And in the Park on a bench facing the house sat a man. She drew back from the door. “I believe I’ll take a cab, Davis. Do you think you could get me one?”
“Yes, Miss Williams.”
He stepped out under the canopy. She saw his mouth shaped in a whistle. It might take a few moments but there were always cabs near the Square. She didn’t want to pass that rain-drenched shape on the Park bench.
A yellow cab was brightness at the curb. She ran out, called, “You’re wonderful, Davis,” as she climbed in.
The driver remarked paternally, “Late again?”
She saw his name card, Tomasi. A square yegg-like face. She’d ridden with him before. Frequently, those first weeks of work when she overslept.
She settled back. “No one should have to go to work in such filthy weather.”
The cab turned at the northwest corner. She glimpsed the man on the bench. He hadn’t moved.
“It makes the trees to grow,” Tomasi informed her. “And all the green things we eat. And the flower carts. You hadn’t ought to gripe about rain.”
“If I were a cab driver I wouldn’t.” She lit a cigarette, relaxed. They were out of the Square, heading up Fifth. She could relax. For these few safe moments with Tomasi.
As he jockeyed past a lumbering bus, she pushed out the cigarette in the ashy container. That man on the bench wasn’t watching for her. She wasn’t known in this; she was accidental. It was Gavin he was waiting for. Gavin knew; he’d seen from the window. As long as the man was rooted on the bench, Gavin couldn’t come out. Not until he was able to protect himself.
The driver turned east on Forty-sixth street, north again on Madison and stopped in front of her office building. She paid him, said, “You’re a life saver, Tomasi. I’m not terribly late. And I’m dry as Sahara.” She didn’t put up her umbrella for the swift cross into the building. Waiting for the elevator, she had almost unbearable reluctance to go up to the office. It wasn’t fear. This wasn’t last night; it was today. The building was modern as antisepsis. Danger couldn’t be lurking in the upper corridor, in the office luxury of Bryan Brewer.
It wasn’t fear, it was an unwillingness to face Bry, to be questioned by him. To lie to him. Because she couldn’t answer his questions. Because she had no intention of allowing Gavin Keane to see him until she and the Imp were safely away.
She walked forward up the twelfth floor corridor to the chaste lettering on the opaque window. Bry was there before her, the door was unlocked.
He lunged up from where he was sitting in her chair at her desk. He said, “You’re late. I was afraid something had happened to you.”
He didn’t look as if he’d been to bed. His hair was in place but there was weariness under his eyes, his jaw was shadowed.
She said, “I’m always careful crossing streets,” as if that interpretation were the right one. “It was raining so hard I waited for a cab.” She hung her coat, hat and umbrella. The routine of a secretary. She closed the closet, came casually to her desk. She could maintain the pose but it wasn’t easy in the face of his penetration.
He asked, “Did Gavin Keane ever get in touch with you?” He moved around the desk and she took her place.
Her eyebrows lifted surprise. “Didn’t you find him?”
“No.” He was abrupt but not out of annoyance, out of anxiety. “I came back to your place last night hoping. You must have been asleep.”
“Did you find the package?” She’d been scrubwoman when he rang; he would never know.
Again he said, “No.”
She opened the desk drawer and looked into it as if she couldn’t believe the box wouldn’t be there. She said, “I wonder what could have happened to it.”
“Gavin must have it.” He had nothing to base it on but his hope. “I’ve been calling the hotels.” He flung himself into the chestnut leather chair, rested his head wearily back against it. “He isn’t registered. He was to be here yesterday.”
She interrupted gravely. “He was here, Mr. Brewer. He came in the afternoon. I didn’t know where to reach you.”
He shook his head. “I had to go to Washington. I thought I’d be back early but I was delayed. He didn’t say where he was stopping?”
She said, “He only said he’d be in later. For the box. I waited until past six—”
“If you’d only taken the box home with you.” His exhalation was a groan.
“But I wouldn’t think of doing that, Mr. Brewer.” She hated herself for her deception with him. He wasn’t like the others she’d deceived; he was decent and unaware. She had no choice. But he could be warned of the danger. She added, “Anyway I would have been afraid to after the messenger came for it.”
“Messenger?” He sat up and panic slanted across his face.
She told herself it was only his fear that something he’d ordered had disappeared; it was a business matter. He couldn’t have any other interest in the luckless Scarlet Imperial. But why had none of the correspondence passed through her hands?
She continued, “He wasn’t a real messenger. He was only posing as a messenger.”
“You didn’t—”
“I didn’t tell him it was here.”
He rubbed his temple. “Damn it, a man can’t just vanish into empty air.”
She was quiet. “Sometimes men do—only it isn’t empty air.”
He rejected the implication with a dark frown. “Why did you think the messenger wasn’t a messenger?”
She answered, “Because of his shoes. They were broken. As if they hadn’t had work in a long time.”
He came out of the chair and began to pace the room. She watched him in silence. He stopped abruptly at the desk. “Who was the man at your apartment last night?”
She didn’t want to answer him. She knew it would increase his disturbance. But he waited. He had a right to know. He should be put on his guard. He too might be questioned. Her voice was even. “He was from the F.B.I.”
“F.B.I.?” It didn’t increase his fear; he was puzzled. “What did he want?”
“He was looking for a man.”
“Gavin Keane!” It came too fast. He knew Gavin Keane hunted with the hounds of danger.
“No,” she denied. “The name was Hester. Renfro Hester.”
The name meant nothing to him. “Who is Renfro Hester?”
She said, “I don’t know.” She was blunt. “But Hester had come to my apartment looking for Gavin Keane.”
He was frightened again. “Someone knew Gavin Keane was going to your apartment.” He began to pace anew. “Look here,” he began. He came back to her at the desk. “I know you’re wondering what this is all about.”
She could answer, “Yes,” in all honesty. Even if she knew far more than he, she didn’t know it all.
He found it difficult to continue. He said, “Frankly the less you know the better.”
She lifted her eyes to him. “Is the box that dangerous?”
“Yes.” He’d retreated somewhere within himself, within memory. “Yes, it is. It has a bloody history.”
She spoke sharply. “I shouldn’t think you’d have anything to do with it then.” He shouldn’t have touched this affair. He wasn’t fitted for this kind of thing.
He told her, “A client wanted it, wanted it badly. He was willing to pay a collector’s price for it. I knew I could get it for him.”
Bryan Brewer bought and sold rare objects. He didn’t trace the history of the objects. He bought from responsible, reliable sources. There was no transaction in his files, and she’d finecombed through them during his frequent out of town trips, feeling low and dishonest. He wouldn’t deal with a thief. Not with a murderer and a thief. But there was nothing in his files about the Scarlet Imperial. Not one letter, not one line. Yet he had a client for it and he knew from whom he could obtain it. Why were there no records on it?
She said slowly, “You knew where you could get it.” He didn’t appear to notice her disturbance. He said, “Yes. From Gavin Keane.”
He knew the Imp was dangerous; did he know it was stolen? He couldn’t know that. He wouldn’t touch it if he knew. She couldn’t ask the questions she wanted to ask; she couldn’t give away her knowledge. How had Gavin Keane come by the Imp?
Bry strode into his own office but he didn’t close the door tightly. She could hear him at the phone, doggedly calling down the endless list of hotels. She could hear the hopeless replacing of the phone as the answer to his question was never the hoped-for one. He could ask her to make the dreary calls but it was as if he alone could handle anything this important. That, and because he must be active, not twiddle his mind and wait.
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.”
He asked, “What’s his first name?” He was going to check.
“George.” Let him check. She’d be gone with Towner before the day was over. Jones couldn’t do anything to her. As long as she kept Gavin out of it. She must keep Gavin out of it. Until the Imp was safe. All she needed was a little time, time for Towner to finish lunching with Feather.
Without inflection Jones asked, “How does it happen your friend Mr. Smith would have been jealous of a fat slob like Hester and not of that young fellow who was leaving the apartment when I arrived?”
Casualness covered apprehension. “That was Mr. Brewer, the man I work for. Bryan Brewer. Mr. Smith—George—knows Mr. Brewer.”
“Night work?”
She faced his insinuation. “Occasionally.”
He shot the question, “What did Hester want with you?” If he’d questioned Richards, he couldn’t help but know. And he had questioned Richards last night, that was how he knew that Hester had come to her apartment. Had he questioned again today? A secret smile touched her face. But of course. Richards wouldn’t tell the business or social affairs of anyone in the house, not even to an F.B.I. man. He would withdraw behind the dignity of, “I don’t know.”
She turned the smile into an innocent one. “I told you once there wasn’t time to find out. The buzzer rang. I didn’t want George to discover a man there—” Her look was honest. “The man was willing to go the back way and quickly. I didn’t realize until this morning, but of course he knew the F.B.I. was following him. That’s why he was as eager to get away as I was to have him go.” It sounded rational. She asked curiously, “Why were you after him? Who was he?”
She saw the shadow on the door as Jones formed his answer. Her hands clenched. It was Bry. She didn’t know what Bry would say. He wasn’t experienced; he’d never been outside the law.
He didn’t recognize Jones as the man who’d come to her apartment last night. He started to his office but she stopped him. She said, “Mr. Brewer, this is Mr. Jones. Perhaps you’ll tell him you brought me some work last night.” He had to know her story before Jones went in to question him.
Bry nodded. “How do you do, Mr. Jones.” And he accepted her information, as if he were experienced. “I’m certain you know I brought work to Miss Williams last night. You saw me leaving.”
Eliza said, “Mr. Jones is from the F.B.I., Mr. Brewer.”
Bry acted surprise well, surprise tempering to amusement. “You’re not investigating our Miss Williams, are you?”
Jones wasn’t smiling. “I’m investigating a man who was at Miss Williams’ apartment last night. A man who left there abruptly, she says, when her—friend—arrived.” He gave the word almost an obscene connotation. She wanted to hurl the desk at his smirk. She wanted to crawl under the desk away from Bry’s politely chilled eyes.
Jones continued, “He’s been found—murdered.”
Bry wasn’t prepared. The word struck him like a quirt.
She said loudly, “His name was Hester. Renfro Hester.” The color was draining from Bry’s face. She reminded, “Mr. Jones, you were just going to tell me who this Hester was. And why you were after him.” She had forced his attention from Bry back to her.
Jones wasn’t inexperienced; he knew what she had done. But there was no irritation in him at her maneuver. He could wait. She kept her hands together, tight together. He would wait; yes, he would wait.
He said, “I believe I told you and your friend last night why I was after Hester. For questioning.”
“But you didn’t tell me who he was.”
The eyes of the Federal man were distant. “He was—” he began. He returned them to her sharply. He said, “I want you to have a look at Renfro Hester.”
“No!” She breathed it quickly, her hands clenched. “I didn’t know him. I never saw him before last night.”
He said, “If you don’t mind, I want you to take another look at him.”
It was the request that was a demand.
But she shook her mute head.
Bry said, “See here—” He broke off at Jones’ expressionless decision. He said more calmly, “If you insist on Miss Williams viewing this man, I want to accompany her.”
“Very well.”
She repeated, “I didn’t know him.”
Jones said nothing. She went in silence for her hat and coat.
The morgue was green to smell, to breathe into her nostrils. She looked down at the death mask of the ordinary middle-aged man. She said firmly because she was holding herself firm, “I don’t know him. I never saw him before last night.”
Bry said, “I’ve never laid eyes on him.”
They emerged into the dreary afternoon. The rain had begun to slant again. The taxi was waiting. Jones said, “He came here from Singapore.”
Only Bry’s arm kept her from stumbling. Jones knew. In the way the law alone could find out.
“He traveled on an American passport. Renfro Hester isn’t his name.”
She asked as if bewildered, “He was a crook?”
“He was an international spy.”
She echoed faintly, curiously, “Spy?”
Bry spoke out. “There aren’t any spies now, are there?”
“There are always spies,” Jones said. “They are equally as active in the period between wars as during combat. But there aren’t as many jobs for them.” He passed a box of cigarettes. “Sometimes they are temporarily forced into side lines. A man who hires himself out for money doesn’t care in what way he gets that money.” He accepted a light from Bry. “It’s an easy step from international spy to international thief.”
It was Bry who queried now, “Thief?” His knuckles were white.
“Yes,” Jones said. “I knew him when he was a spy. That’s why I was put on the case when we learned of his impending arrival. Before he docked in San Francisco. He’s been under surveillance across the country.”
She was afraid for Bry to be curious. His hand was still knotted. She accused Jones. “You didn’t arrest him. Why didn’t you arrest him?”
“Because I first wanted to know why he was in this country. I followed him last night to see whom he was meeting. As far as I know he met you.” She shouldn’t have spoken. But she was defiant. “I don’t know why he came to me.”
The cab was held at Forty-second street. Mr. Jones said, “Nor do I—yet.” He continued as the cab moved again. “The police are looking for his effects. When they are found, maybe we’ll know more about what he wanted here. A man always carries some papers.”
Bry said, “Unless he doesn’t want to be identified.”
Jones’ glance was curious. “Or unless someone doesn’t want him identified. There was nothing in his pockets but a billfold, a handkerchief, a few loose cigarettes. Fatimas. Not a usual brand these days.”
The cab pulled up in front of the office building. Unless his killer didn’t want him identified. His killer. Gavin Keane. It had been defense. Jones would never believe it.
Bry opened the cab door. He said, “I hope you find out about the man, Jones.”
“We will.” It was the implacable, sure answer.
Eliza didn’t say anything, she almost ran across the walk into the building. She had to get away from Jones and his knowledge. He knew who she was but he hadn’t unmasked her before Bry. It wasn’t out of decency; that wouldn’t enter into his pursual of a job. He must believe that Bry knew. Or he was saving her. To lead him to Gavin.
Bry caught her at the elevators. He didn’t speak, not then, not in the echoing upstairs corridor. As he opened the door, he mentioned, “I forgot to lock the office.”
She proceeded him. There hadn’t been any visitors. No evidence of visitors. She hung her hat and coat. Bry continued to stand there in the center of the bronze rug. He waited silently until she was seated behind her desk, putting her glasses across her eyes.
He said then, “Hester went to your apartment to see Gavin Keane.”
She took a long, slow breath. She said, “Gavin Keane wasn’t there.”
He was harsh. “Who was your friend?”
“George Smith.” She lifted a defiant face. “He has nothing to do with this. Hester had gone before George arrived.” Keep repeating the lie; familiarity gave it the ring of truth. She smiled suddenly at him. “Gavin Keane must have the box.”
She’d diverted him.
“Don’t you see? This Hester was a thief. The reason he was after Keane was to steal the package.”
He accepted the idea. He turned it in his mind. Then he wondered, wondered too close to truth, “But Hester was killed.” He wondered was it Gavin, and his eyes were stones.
She was uneasy under them. Because Jones’ distrust of her had infected him. And she realized suddenly that she didn’t know Bry Brewer any better than he knew her; he too could have been playing a role.
The ring of the phone startled her. Bry thrust her hand out of the way to snatch it. His conversation was monosyllabic, she couldn’t even hear the crackling of voice in the receiver. He crashed it down.
“I’m going out. If Gavin Keane comes in today, sit on him until I get back.”
She took a breath. “Yes, Mr. Brewer.” He didn’t hear her response; he was out of the door. And she was again left alone with the whisper of rain against the windows.
He didn’t come back. The afternoon palled to five o’clock. She waited until five with the hope of Towner coming to her growing fainter with each graying moment.
At five she waited no longer. Something had happened to delay Towner Clay. She didn’t want to think about what might have happened. Even if she knew it couldn’t happen, that Towner must be warm and comfortable in the Roosevelt. Even if she refused to believe that Towner, learning of Hester’s murder, had abandoned her. He couldn’t do that; she had the Imp. But he could and would move circuitously. If he’d seen the newspapers he knew she was involved, however innocently, in Hester’s death. The apartment address was knowledge. With the known danger of the Imp.
There was no fear in leaving the building tonight. The other office workers filled the elevators, crowded around the doorway downstairs, girding themselves for rain. It was again a steady downpour.
She pushed out holding the large Abercrombie box by its cardboard handles, the awkward packages under her arm. She raised her umbrella, hurried to the corner, waited for the red to change to green.
“Miss Williams.”
She had to shift the umbrella to see the speaker.
“Forgive my speaking to you. I live in the same apartment you do on the Square. If you’d like to share my cab—”
She had the umbrella tilted. The man was portly, well-dressed. Her eyes reached his face, his puppy-like face.
She said, frozen, “You’ve made a mistake. My name isn’t Williams.” She darted into the street on the now waning green, dodged moving traffic to the opposite curb. He hadn’t followed. She dare not look back but he hadn’t followed. He couldn’t have moved as quickly as she, he wasn’t prepared. She walked rapidly the crowded street towards Fifth. She couldn’t risk waiting for a cab. If he came after her she’d speak to a policeman. There were always traffic police on Fifth. She’d report him. She crossed Fifth, now she could look down Forty-sixth. In the downpour were only umbrellas, moving legs. She stood taut, waiting the Washington Square bus. When it came it was crowded, seats on the upper deck only. She stepped on, climbed aloft. She sat near the front; the back seats were occupied. If he too got on this bus, he’d have to come upstairs, sit in front of her. He didn’t appear.
Darkness was falling fast beneath the murky sky. Before the bus reached Thirty-fourth street she regretted not having waited for a cab. The man couldn’t have done anything to her there in the heart of the city. To reach her, apartment she would have to cross the west side of the Square. It would be deserted, in this rain. The man could precede her by cab. He knew her address. He could be waiting when she left the bus. He had followed her into the Roosevelt last night but he hadn’t moved against her. She knew now; Hester had been the man under the marquee last night. One man at each entrance. And the box in her arms. But they couldn’t risk snatching it. They could risk holding a gun on her in the darkness of the Square. She wasn’t as important as the box. They were violent men, men who would kill. They could force her to take them to the box.
The bus was emptying. The man wasn’t upstairs. She moved below at Fourteenth street, took a seat near the back. There wasn’t anyone on board who resembled him. The bus rolled to a stop. End of the line. She wasn’t alone getting off. At least five others, young men and women. All turned opposite from her. Night students at New York University on the east boundary of the Square. The lighted bus rested there, the conductor and driver fraternizing, waiting for schedule before starting uptown again.
She had to cross the park; there was no other way to reach the apartment. The street lights didn’t penetrate the deep shade, they glimmered dimly beyond. She didn’t put up her umbrella; she didn’t care how soaked she would be, she could move faster with it furled. She couldn’t set out across that dark waste, couldn’t. She shoved herself forward. Every tree was a hiding place, every bench a threat.
Her throat froze. She’d forgotten the man on the bench. He’d be there, his vigil rewarded. She knew he was one of them, not of the law. The police didn’t have to sit in the rain hour by chilled hour. She couldn’t get safely past the man, he wouldn’t allow her to pass. They had moved against her tonight; the portly man was proof of that. She was afraid of their force; the Imp must not be taken from her. She could run back, ride uptown again, take a taxi. She turned quickly. The bus was gone, the blur of its lights were fading towards Fifth Avenue. There was a deeper darkness on the street where it had stood, there might be a shadow that wasn’t a tree. She swerved and started on again, half-running. Running away from danger, running towards it. The walks were waxed by the wetness; she mustn’t stumble and fall. She must reach the spill of light beyond which were Richards and protection.
Only a few rods more. She moved her head as she ran; the man was on the bench. He was rising from the bench. He had seen her. She stumbled, caught herself, her heart pounding. The man was walking forward to block her path. She looked wildly again at the nearing apartment. She looked and couldn’t believe. Richards was on the curb.
She screamed, “Richards! Richards!” She didn’t care if she was shattering the dignity of the Square. Richards had heard her; his head cocked, he was peering into the wet gloom. She kept calling out to him as she ran. She didn’t glance again at the man on the bench; she only knew he was not in her path. She flung herself across the street, against the tall, old doorman.
His face was unbelieving. “What’s the matter, Miss Liza?”
She tried to control her breath. “I was frightened crossing the park. It was so dark. I was frightened.”
He put his arm about her as if she were his daughter. “Now don’t you be frightened. You’re all right.” He took her packages from her limp fingers, pushed open the apartment door. “You must have read about the goings-on here today.” He disapproved. “Enough to make anyone see spooks.”
Franz’s face poked out of the elevator door. Richards said, “You see Miss Liza into her apartment, Franz. Wait and light up for her.”
She said quickly, “That isn’t necessary. No one can get in.” They mustn’t learn of Gavin’s presence. She smiled at them. She didn’t have to make the smile tremulous, it was that. “No one can get past you two.”
She stepped into the waiting elevator. She said, “Good night, Richards. I don’t know what I’d have done if I hadn’t seen you across the street.”
His eyes blinked. “Eleven B is still waiting for that taxi!” He marched back to the door.
Franz slid shut the cage. His dim voice asked, “You heard what happened?”
“Yes. I saw the paper.”
He was apologetic. “It was the man I brought up to—”
“Yes.” She spoke fast. “Mr. Jones, the F.B.I, man—you brought him up too, remember?—he came to the office today and told me.” They were at her floor but she didn’t get out. She had to make it right for Franz, Richards. She had to keep them on her side. “He doesn’t know why the man came to my apartment. You see, I misunderstood the name when Richards called.” Her lies were hurried. She didn’t know what Jones had asked them, their answers. She mustn’t remind them that the name was Keane. “I thought it was someone for George. Then when this man came upstairs he knew he had the wrong person.”
Franz had doubt. “He didn’t come down.”
“No. It was then Mr. Brewer arrived. I guess this man thought it was the F.B.I. He said he was on the wrong floor; he’d leave the back way. It was odd but—” she smiled at him. “Sometimes we do use the stairs for a flight or two, you know. And he was in such a hurry.” She said, “Mr. Jones says he was a thief.” She had said enough.
Franz was nodding understanding. “Thieves work that way. Find out a name of someone. Use it to get in a place.” He gave a little cough. “It was lucky you weren’t alone.” He coughed again. “Richards is angry that it happened here.”
Richards would be alive with anger. That the sacrosanct portals of his house should be soiled by murder. He wouldn’t favor Jones; Jones was a part of it. She said gravely, “It’s upsetting.”
She stepped into the hall. He waited in the cage until she found her key. She smiled goodnight as she pushed open the door, closed herself into darkness.