THIS WAS MORNING AGAIN. Somehow she had fallen asleep last night, despite her fears after they went away. Despite her heavy heart, her bewilderment. She must have slept because she was on the bed and morning was coming through the windows. She flung wide the casements overlooking the park. The moist clean after-smell of rain blew into the room. The sun was shining on the walks below, on the tree tops overnight gossamer green.
She would wait no longer for Towner to come to her. She must find him. It was evident he had been unable to get in touch with her; there were too many hostile forces between them.
She hurried bathing, dressing. She couldn’t know what the next move would be from Gavin and Bry. They had left abruptly after Gavin’s recognition, allowing her neither protestation nor explanation. They would return because she had the Imp, because she admitted it. She didn’t understand why they had gone empty-handed last night.
She must reach Towner before their return. She needn’t be a secretary again; that job was done. The bright berry red dress, the brief flaunting cape of navy. Towner had chosen it for her in Paris. The French sailor cap was on the back of her head when the house phone sounded.
A cold hand closed on her heart. It had been hovering there, only her false courage and the sun in the spring sky had kept it from handling her before. She could not ignore the summons of the insistent bell. Davis would know she hadn’t gone out; she’d have to ring for Clarence and the elevator to leave the apartment. She didn’t have to allow anyone up to the apartment; she was ready to depart.
She said, “Hello.”
Davis was a metronome. “Miss Eliza, it’s the police.”
She didn’t say anything. She couldn’t question Davis as she could Richards. She asked, “Have they credentials?”
He was mechanical, “Yes, Miss Williams.”
“Send them up.” There was nothing else she could do. But she gathered her purse and gloves while she waited. They would see she was in a hurry; they wouldn’t detain her long. She had nothing to tell them.
She took her time answering the door. It was Jones; she’d expected Jones. Plain-faced, unsmiling, hat over his eyes. She hadn’t expected so many cohorts. Captain Dryden was Homicide, a medium man with grooved mouth and eyes like lead pellets. The others, three of them, were more eyes. Eyes that would miss nothing.
She didn’t pretend to be casual. She led them into the living room, offered chairs. She herself took one near the window with her back to the light. She asked boldly, “What is it you want now?”
Jones crossed one stiff leg over the other. “Gavin Keane.”
She didn’t hesitate. “Who is Gavin Keane?”
“An international crook.” Jones’ voice was without expression.
When crooks fall out … it hammered on her heart. When crooks turn on each other, death scatters them.
“He entered this country with stolen property, undeclared.”
She broke in defiantly, “Why come to me?”
“Unfortunately, I didn’t know soon enough just who Mr. Smith was. Did you know?”
She answered slowly, trying to think ahead, “I knew his name wasn’t Smith.”
“You knew he’d killed Renfro Hester,” Dryden said. His voice was rough as cobbles.
“He didn’t!” She knew better than to defend him. Her safety was in helping Jones apprehend Gavin Keane. Yet she cried out defense.
“What about Pincek?” Dryden demanded.
She shook her head puzzled. Her eyes flicked to Jones for clue but his mouth was two tight lines.
Dryden’s hands dug into his pockets. He began in monotone, as if he were reading from a report. The description of a sordid room in a cheap hotel. The description of a man who wasn’t a messenger or a police detective, whose fingers twitched on a gun. Where was the gun last night when he died the quiet way, hands about his throat? Pincek’s killer had been someone in whom he had trust.
When thieves fell out…. Had Bryan Brewer come to her last night from a miserable room and a miserable man, dead? Need Bry have sent the messenger Thursday night for the Imp? It was being delivered to him. If he hadn’t wanted it delivered to him, if he had wanted the Imp without anyone knowing it was in his hands.
Someone, not Hester, had shot Gavin. Gavin hadn’t been lying about that; he’d admitted his own shooting of Hester, his defense would be stronger if Hester had shot him. Bry had been at her apartment looking for Gavin Keane; he could have been outside the back door later or earlier. She didn’t know what had happened, she knew only that the Bryan Brewer she’d worked for these months wasn’t the entire Bry Brewer. The man of the last two days was one she didn’t know.
Dryden finished his description. He flung the stones of his words at her again. “What about Joe Pincek?”
She said, “I don’t know anything about Joe Pincek.”
Sarcasm twitched Dryden’s lips. “I suppose he didn’t come up here last night.”
They knew he did, these four men, four men with watching eyes. They’d checked with Richards and Franz.
She repeated firmly, “I know nothing of anyone named Joe Pincek.” She was matter of fact. “A man who fits that description came to my apartment last night, yes. He said he was a police detective. He had a badge.”
They knew that. From the attendants below.
Dryden scowled, “Yeah. Impersonated an officer.”
She said coolly, “I will testify to that if you wish. You have arrested him?”
Jones’ lips didn’t move. “He’s in the morgue.”
She turned her eyes slowly on him, as if she did not credit what he said. She turned them on each of the police in turn, accepting the answer in Dryden’s face.
“You don’t think I killed him?”
“Who said he was killed?” Dryden growled.
She was scornful. “I don’t believe you came here to inform me that he died of natural causes.”
Jones spoke without moving his lips. “We came here because two men have died in the last two days, each one after visiting your apartment.” Dryden cut in, “What did Pincek want here?”
She took her time before answering. “He came here to steal something.”
“To steal what?” A thin flicker of light came into Jones’ face. The three policemen had opened their mouths to gulp her words.
She was quiet, easy. “I work for Bryan Brewer, the importer. Occasionally a valuable shipment arrives too late to be put into the vaults that day. This happened on Thursday afternoon. I brought it here.”
“Why didn’t you return it yesterday?”
She wasn’t groping; she knew exactly what she had to say. She said, “I was afraid to carry it yesterday morning. Because of that man called Hester.” She looked at Jones. “I didn’t know Hester was dead. I wanted Mr. Brewer to come here and take care of it himself. He came last night—too late.”
Jones spoke without inflection but there was a hidden excitement back of his words. “Pincek stole from you the—” He’d been going to name the Scarlet Imperial. He broke off. “What did he take?”
She said, “I told you. The box I brought here from the office.”
He smiled frostily. “It contained—”
“I don’t know what it contained.” She was cool. “I don’t know how he knew it was here.” She looked into his tight face. “He threatened me with a gun. I had to give it to him.”
The phone rang as she spoke. She started from her chair but one of the policemen, the one nearest the foyer arch moved first. It was a part of routine; his rubber heels slapped on the polished floor. She sank back and she kept her hands from tightening. If it were Towner, he’d gracefully extract himself from any part of this. It wasn’t Towner she was anxious about, it was Gavin. Gavin, who killed, who thieved, who wanted none of her. She couldn’t protect Gavin; yet she was protecting him. She couldn’t care what happened to him, the enemy, yet she did.
The cop said, “Yeah, she’s here. Who’s talking?” He put down the phone. He didn’t speak to her but to Dryden. “Says he’s her boss, Bryan Brewer.”
Jones ordered, “Let her talk to him.”
She crossed under the silence of their eyes. Her heels made no sound on the deep carpet, were too sharp in the foyer.
Bry’s voice was anxious. “Who answered the phone?”
She stated it as if it weren’t important. “The police. And that F.B.I. man, Jones.”
“What do they want?” He wasn’t anxious now, he was harsh.
“I really don’t know,” she lilted. In the mirror she could see the listening slant of Jones’ fedora. The policeman who’d answered the phone was leaning against the arch, watching her as if he expected her to dart to the door. “It’s something about the man who stole your box from me last night. He was killed.”
He knew she couldn’t talk openly. He asked, “Can you get away? I want to see you. You’re coming in, aren’t you?”
This was not the place to tell him she had no intention of coming in to the office. She said, “Yes, of course. I’ll be there as quickly as possible. Sorry I’m late, Mr. Brewer.” She was ready to hang up but his voice caught her hand.
“Have they asked anything about Gavin Keane?”
She said apologetically, “Yes, Mr. Brewer. But I don’t know anything about that.”
When she returned to the living room, she didn’t sit down. She said, “Is there anything else you want? If not, I’d like to get to the office. I’m late now.”
Jones said, “You were late before we came.”
“I overslept.” She hated him.
Dryden turned on her. “How come you didn’t report this guy who held you up?”
She didn’t hide her scorn. “His credentials were good enough to pass your men in the lobby. After that I hadn’t much faith in the police. I preferred to leave it to Mr. Brewer. I called him. Is that all?”
Jones came to his feet. “Mr. Brewer. And Gavin Keane.”
“Mr. Brewer.” She threw it in his face. “Gavin Keane came without invitation.”
He was moving towards her; she didn’t flinch when he stood in front of her, the cold menace of his eyes visible under his hat shadow.
“Where is Gavin Keane?”
She bit the words out. “I told you once, I don’t know. If you want him, why didn’t you pick him up last night?”
Jones said, “I didn’t know who he was until this morning. What did he want here?”
“He wanted the box,” she said. She looked at her wrist watch deliberately.
Jones turned away. “Would it surprise you to know there was nothing but a cake of soap in that box?”
She said, “I had no idea what was in the box. I would be surprised if it were soap.”
They were going. Jones had gathered them together as he crossed the room.
“Nevertheless,” Jones said, “it was soap. I will see you at the office later, Miss Williams.”
She watched them go. Watched with helpless anger because she must appear now at Brewer’s. And the buzzer stung her. The back door. They didn’t hear. They were entering the elevator as it sounded. She closed her door, quickly went to the kitchen. But she didn’t loose the bolt. She made her voice level. “Who is it?”
“It’s Clemence, Miss Williams.”
She’d forgotten it was Clemence day, cleaning day. Clemence, inherited from Hortensia Clay. She opened the door, rebolted it.
Clemence was real; tall, neat, efficient. “Sorry to disturb you, Miss Williams. I picked up the key downstairs but the door was bolted.” Her voice sharpened. “Are you all right, Miss Williams?”
Eliza saw the blur of white face in the kitchen mirror, the dark smudges of her eyes. She caught hold of the kitchen chair. “Yes. I was up too late last night. And I’m terribly late for work. Clemence—”
“Yes, Miss Williams.” Only the brown eyes noted the urgency.
“When you leave be sure the kitchen is bolted. Go the front way. And Clemence—” She tried to keep her voice from rising. “Don’t let anyone in the apartment while you’re cleaning. Not anyone. No matter who he says he is. Don’t even open the door. Say he must wait until I return.”
Again only the eyes reacted.
“Even if it’s the police. Even if it’s the F.B.I., don’t let anyone in.”
“Yes, Miss Williams.” She was paler. “It’s the man who was killed downstairs?”
Eliza tried to be natural. “Yes. I’m afraid.”
“I’m not foolish, Miss Williams.”
Clemence wasn’t foolish. The Imp would be safe; Clemence would admit no one. She would be here until four o’clock. By that time Eliza would find Towner Clay.
She tried to smile. “I must hurry. Goodbye, Clemence.”
“Goodbye, Miss Williams. Don’t worry.”
She left the apartment quickly.
Clarence said, “Good morning, Miss Williams,” just as if nothing had happened to upset the genteel routine of the house. He took the elevator down quietly.
Davis said, “Good morning, Miss Williams.” He appeared unconscious of the alien presence, a square man, not in uniform, seated on the daisies and cornflowers of a wing chair.
Her answering good morning was as deliberately unconcerned. “Is your friend Tomasi about, Davis? I’m so terribly late, I’ll have to cab. I over slept.”
“I’ll see, Miss Williams.”
The cab that rolled up didn’t have the familiar mug face at the wheel. This nose was sharp. She was afraid to get in. But she couldn’t make an excuse, not after having Davis summon the cab, not with him holding the door, waiting for her to enter. It couldn’t be unsafe. It was simple enough to hire a messenger’s uniform, to duplicate a police badge, but those after the Imp couldn’t help themselves to a Yellow cab. They couldn’t duplicate the framed identification grotesque in the interior. It was a middling representation of the driver, the nose was there.
The cab swung over towards Fifth. She’d forgotten to look at the bench. The square was crowded with baby carriages, the play of children, the watchful elders. A mild Saturday in spring hid a watcher. The cab was followed; she was sure of that. Jones would keep her under surveillance, he believed she would lead him to Gavin. She must be certain not to lead him to Towner Clay.
There was Saturday feeling to the office building, movement in the corridors, voices and opening doors. Not at the portal of Bryan Brewer.
She hesitated outside the door, the closed repellant door. She had to force herself to enter, to face Bry. It was essential she see him before Jones and the police arrived. Even after last night’s brusque conclusion, she must warn him. Let him warn Gavin. She opened the door, stepped inside. She wouldn’t have been surprised to find that the police had preceded her here. But the outer office was empty. The door to Bry’s office was closed.
It was habit that took her behind the desk. Not until she was seated did she realize, she no longer worked here.
She was beginning to rise when his door opened. He didn’t look worn today; he was sure of himself. “I’m sorry. I was tied up on long distance.”
She didn’t give him a chance to question her. She opened. “Jones is after Gavin Keane.”
“Why?”
Her hands shrugged. “Hester’s death. Pincek last night.” Her eyes met his. “The Scarlet Imperial.”
“The Imperial?”
“It was smuggled into this country. He says that Gavin Keane is an international crook. As Hester was.” She cried out then, “What do you know of Gavin Keane?” She pleaded for her own sake, not his, but he couldn’t know.
He said, “I’ve known him for years.”
Gavin couldn’t be bad if Bry had known him for years. She was relieved but there wasn’t time to express it. She warned, “Jones is coming here. To question you. The police are with him. You must be ready to talk to them.”
His smile was warm. “I’ll be ready. I won’t change your story. A box was stolen.”
“I didn’t know what was in it.”
“Certainly not.” His smile went then. “You do have the Imp?”
“Yes.” She couldn’t deny it after her previous admission.
“Where is it?”
She still didn’t know his part in this; she had only fear and doubt to go on, and a rooted disbelief that Bry Brewer could consciously be guilty of wrong. She had the knowledge of his wire to Dekertian, and the knowledge of his files devoid of written transaction on the Imp. There were so many questions to ask, so little time in which to ask them. There was one of prior importance.
“Who is your client?”
His answer came from a smile. “Towner Clay.”
He’d shocked her; he’d meant to shock her. She hadn’t been prepared for the name; she wasn’t prepared to understand the implications. She repeated, unbelieving, “Towner Clay?”
“Yes.” His mouth was amused. “Now will you tell me where you’ve hidden the Imperial? My client is calling for it today.”
Towner was Bry Brewer’s client. Not Dekertian, Towner. Yet Bry must have known why Towner wanted the Imp for he was in touch with the Iranian envoy. But why had Towner put her here to intercept the Imperial? It was according to plan, and Towner planned well. Was it that he did not trust Bry to turn it over to him? Was it that he knew Bry and Gavin planned separately? Or was it Gavin he feared, Gavin who didn’t like Dekertian, who smeared Towner’s name when he spoke it…
Bry waited her answer, certain of what it would be. Because Gavin had said it last night, that she was Towner’s woman. She hated Gavin and his lie; instinct had warned her against Gavin from that first moment of meeting; a foolish heart had muddled instinct but it was sharp again. She wouldn’t let heart speak again. She was ready to answer when she heard the door open behind them. They turned to face who had entered. It was Towner.
An unchanged Towner, immaculate in his dark coat, his bowler, his gray spats and gloves, his furled British umbrella. His pale blue eyes looked out vaguely from his patrician, uninteresting face with its scraggie of sand-gray moustache. Towner cultivated vagueness as he cultivated an accent more British than that of a subject of the King. Vagueness was his weapon against suspicion, his bulwark against a crass, unimaginative world. No one knew Towner was clever. Not even those he hoodwinked knew that it was Towner who had been clever.
Her lips moved in delight as he stood there, accenting his vagueness until it appeared to be diffidence. She would have welcomed him but the words rustled into silence when his pale eyes rested on her. They touched on her as if she were an absolute stranger, as if he had never seen her before and had no interest in her. It was too late for him to pretend, Bry knew they had knowledge of each other. Yet she had no chance to speak.
Towner’s glance turned to Bry and a watery smile twitched his lips. “Er—hello, Bry,” he said.
And Bry strode forward to take Towner’s limp gray glove. “Hello, Towner.” There was relief in him. “I’ve been wondering where you were. When you were going to show up.”
Towner mumbled, “I was—er—detained. On other business, y’understand.” He fingered the threads of his moustache. “On other business, yes.”
Indignation burned her. Other business. Feather Prentiss. Feather hadn’t told Bry about her luncheon with Towner. Obviously not. Nor had anyone mentioned to Eliza that Bry and Towner were old friends, as evidently they were.
Towner half-glanced at her, again without recognition, without interest. Bry said, “You know Miss Williams, my secretary?”
Towner scanted the introduction. “How’ja do.” He tucked his glove through Bry’s arm. “Er—shall we go where we can speak—er—privately?”
Bry gave no indication that he had expected Towner to know his secretary. He was cordial. “Come on in my office.” He nodded to her. “If anyone calls, I’m in conference.”
He expected her to stay here and fend off Jones and the police. He didn’t appear to know that last night spelled end to their relationship. She had no intention of remaining. Yet she must, Towner would certainly find an opportunity to speak privately to her. She wouldn’t listen outside their damned keyhole; she had a right to know in dignified fashion what was going on. She must know exactly what each one planned for the Scarlet Imperial before she handed it over. Bry, Gavin, Towner. Towner knew because Towner knew everything. Towner had a reason for everything; he had a reason for not recognizing her. He would explain it all.
She waited impatiently for their conference to be done. She knew that Jones was coming; he had stated it. Nor could she understand his delay.
She was on her feet as the inner door reopened. Neither of the men glanced at her as they crossed the bronze rug. Her wits were alert for reception of a message from Towner but there was none. She might not have been in the room.
At the door Bry turned. She saw then that he carried his hat. “If there are any calls—”
She interrupted him. “I don’t work on Saturday afternoon, Mr. Brewer.” She had no intention of being penned here. Perhaps that was Bry’s plan, to keep her out of the way this afternoon. While he watched over Towner and Gavin recovered the Imp. They reckoned without Clemence in Aunt Hortensia’s apartment.
Bry hesitated. He decided, “Lock up when you go.” Towner did not turn his eyes to her.
“Yes, Mr. Brewer,” she snapped. She waited only a decent length of time, until they must have entered the elevator to be dropped to the street. She knew exactly what she must do. Go to Feather and force from her the information of where Towner was staying. She must get to Towner, secretly. For some reason he could not get to her in private.
It was near enough noon to leave even if she were still a secretary. She went to the mirror to replace lipstick. If Bry had any sense of values, if he’d just once open his eyes, he’d realize she hadn’t dressed for the office, that she was through.
In the mirror she saw the shadow on the door. Her eyes darkened. She’d had too much of Jones. It was as if he’d timed things to allow the men to leave and corner her again. She turned, but it wasn’t Jones.
Gavin was there. Alone. Deliberately, he locked the door. She opened her mouth.
He said, “Keep quiet.”
“But—”
“Keep quiet.” She didn’t like the way he said it. “Just keep quiet, Eliza. If anyone comes, this office is locked for the day.”
She moved out of his way. But she protested, “Are you crazy? Jones—and the police, too, are looking for you. They’re coming here.”
He laughed softly. “And they aren’t going to find me, my pretty.” He was swift in blocking her way. “Come along and keep quiet.”
She followed him. Because his hand had cuffed on her wrist and there was nothing else she could do. He went to Bry’s office. He released her there. “Sit down,” he ordered. He advanced to the locked files. They opened by the key in his hand.
She asked fearfully “What are you doing?”
He didn’t look at her. He was sifting through the pages. His voice was edged. “What I’m doing is obvious. One peep out of you and I’ll let you have it. Now sit down and don’t ask any more questions.”
She sat down. She was quiet as long as she could endure it. Then she asked, “Does Bry know you’re here?”
He went on reading, removing pages as he read. “So it’s Bry you’re worried about. All the time I’ve been thinking it was me.” He had regained humor as he made a small neat pile of pages on top the file.
“Does he?” she insisted.
“I don’t know. Haven’t seen him all day.”
She said slowly, “Bry believes in you.”
“Good of him.”
He’d finished with the files. The same key was unlocking the desk. He went more carefully now.
She said bitterly, “He believes you came here to bring him the Imperial.”
“I brought it, didn’t I?” He didn’t look up. “You’re the one who swiped it from him.”
She ignored that. “If you had it, you wouldn’t give it to him now.”
“That depends.”
Her hands were wet and cold. “Where did you get the Imp?”
He frowned over a paper. His answer Was matter of fact. “I stole it.”
A monstrous thought cleaved her. It hadn’t struck before; it might have been because she’d refused to think it. She had to persist, but her throat was dusty. “From whom did you steal it?”
He slapped the words across her face. “I told you to keep quiet.”
The sharp knocking at the outer door broke his words. Their eyes met, his in warning. He was behind the desk. She had only to dart and run. The knocking was repeated, staccato. She didn’t telegraph her decision. She darted.
He started forward but the desk blocked him. “No, you don’t—”
“Yes,” she cried. She didn’t look back; she ran. She heard the bang and stumbled forward, her hand on the knob, shaking it open. She realized as she flung open the door; it hadn’t been a shot. He’d slammed Bry’s office shut.
She gasped for breath.
And in the doorway stood Feather, sleek, poised, and angry. Not feigning sweetness now. “Why was the door locked?”
Eliza managed to speak. “The office is always locked at noon on Saturday.” She tried to push her hair in place.
“Will you be so good as to tell Mr. Brewer I am waiting?” Feather swayed across to the chair, sank into it. She crossed her long, insolent legs, dropped her stone marten scarves from the spring green of her tailleur.
“He isn’t here,” Eliza said. “He’s gone for the day.” She moved herself nearer the door. Feather must not leave without her.
Feather lifted her calculating baby face. “Where is he?”
“I don’t know.” She flung a glance at the inner office. If she could find out before Gavin reappeared. She said hurriedly, “He’s with Towner Clay. Where is Towner Clay staying?”
“How should I know?” Feather gathered her furs. There were amber flecks in her eyes.
“You do know,” Eliza scowled. “You were with him yesterday. For lunch.”
Feather’s nostrils flared. “Were you spying on your own or was it Bry’s idea?”
She couldn’t be allowed to leave. Not alone. Not until she told. Eliza stood in her path. She spoke fiercely, “You’ve got to tell me where he’s staying. It’s important.”
“Really?” Feather drawled.
Eliza caught her breath. Too late. The door of Bry’s office was opening soundlessly. Feather turned her small triumphant head. Surprise widened her painted eyes. Surprise and on its heels interest. Interest in six feet of blond arrogance.
Gavin came forward. “I can’t wait any longer for Mr. Brewer, Miss Williams,—”
He broke off. He did it beautifully, seeing Feather, feigning surprise, then turned on all the wicked Irish enchantment. Eliza watched Feather create a greater loveliness about herself, watched her grow more exquisite under his eyes.
Eliza said, “Mr. Keane, Miss Prentiss.” They should know one another. Two of a breed, jungle cats.
“Not the beautiful Miss Prentiss? That I’ve been hearing so much about?”
He and Bry hadn’t talked only of the Imp last night.
Feather’s lashes were upraised. “And you’re the mysterious Gavin Keane I’ve been hearing about?”
He didn’t like the mysterious; Eliza watched the tightening of his mouth.
Feather didn’t see. She curled the husky sweet voice about him. “I don’t know why Bry has been keeping you hidden.”
“I know.” He gave Feather the blue-eyed look. “Would you like to know why?”
Eliza gathered her hat and gloves. This was the moment while they preened at each other. She heard Feather’s dare, “I think I should know, don’t you, Mr. Keane?”
“I do.”
Eliza put on her hat; no one stopped her. In the mirror she couldn’t avoid seeing their reflections. Gavin had his hand on the slender green arm. “Why don’t you have cocktails with me? I’d ask you to lunch but—”
Eliza started to the door. He twisted from Feather, caught Eliza’s arm. It looked friendly; Feather couldn’t know the steel encirclement.
“—I’ve a business appointment. Miss Williams has consented to help me out. Bry said I might borrow her.”
She tried to withdraw her arm. She couldn’t move it, not without a scene. She was held there under Feather’s faint malice, patronizing because Eliza was not a woman but a secretary to these men, yet faintly disturbed because in her complete femininity Feather knew the woman shape beneath the secretary’s mask.
Eliza offered, “I could meet you after lunch, Mr. Keane.” She didn’t expect it to do any good.
His look warned her, his voice was light. “Didn’t Bry explain, Miss Williams? It’s during lunch I need your help.” He explained gaily to Feather. “My memory is so poor, Miss Prentiss, I must keep a secretary by my side whenever I discuss business.” His other hand touched the green sleeve again. “What about cocktails? About five, say?”
“I’d a lunch date already, Mr. Keane.” Feather curved her mouth. “Perhaps I can make cocktails.”
“If you don’t there’ll be a black cat crossing your path from here on. The curse of the Keanes is an effective one.”
Feather lilted laughter. Eliza clenched her teeth. Each movement, each sound was so well practiced, a man should realize. Not paw the air for more.
Eliza said coldly, “I’d like to lock up now.”
“Yes, we’d better hurry.” He didn’t relinquish his hold, moving her and Feather to the door. He let Feather step out first, holding to Eliza as if she were a walking stick. She was helpless.
She couldn’t speak to the elevator man, the tobacconist. She couldn’t say, “This man won’t let me go.” She wouldn’t humiliate herself before Feather. The three stepped out onto Madison Avenue; crowded, lighthearted Madison on a Saturday afternoon in spring.
Gavin said, “At five, Miss Prentiss.”
“The ladies’ bar,” Feather smiled reminder.
Eliza hadn’t even heard where the meeting was to be. Feather started across the Avenue; Gavin turned Eliza uptown.
She said, “You’re hurting my arm.”
His fingers loosened, but the warning of their touch was there. “What’s the name of that little bitch?”
“The one you’ve heard so much about?”
He said, “I’ve never heard a word about her. What’s her name?”
“Feather. Feather Prentiss.”
“Silly name.”
She’s silly too. Only Bry doesn’t know it. He lunches with her. Supposed to lunch with her. But he was with Towner.
“Who is she?”
“A friend of Bryan Brewer.”
Gavin whistled.
And a friend of Towner’s. She must see Towner. She must get away from Gavin and reach Towner. She was half-skipping to keep up with Gavin’s stride. He turned east at Fiftieth. “Where are you going?” She tried not to sound uneasy.
“Where do you think?” He was scornful.
“I haven’t any idea. I—”
He was turning south again on Park. “Why do you think I had to take you with me? I can’t get back into the office without your key.”
She stopped right there. “You mean you’re going back to the office?”
“We’re going back.” He urged her forward. “You don’t think I had a chance to finish? She’d have been barging in next thing.”
The building would be near deserted. Eliza was afraid to go back. Afraid of this tall, unpredictable man, of his quick humors, of the gun she knew he carried. More afraid not to bend to his will. Her feet tried to lag but his grasp tightened.
His profile was set. “You’re going back upstairs to finish some letters that you forgot this morning. I’m the fellow you’re walking out with this afternoon when you finish those letters. In case anyone asks.”
“And suppose I tell the truth?” she flared.
“I don’t think you’d be so foolish.” The warning was casual. But it was all the more frightening because of its casualness.
The twelfth corridor was quiet. The elevator man hadn’t been curious; it was too early in the day for ascending visitors to bring suspicion. Some offices worked overtime. It was only a little past one-thirty. They passed the closed doors on either side, stood alone together at Brewer’s. Gavin said, “Open up.”
She fumbled for the key. If she said she’d lost it, what would he do? He’d search her purse himself. She opened the door. He waited for her to step inside, locked the door behind them. His touch on her arm moved her to Bry’s closed office. He opened it.
She didn’t enter. Neither did he. They stood there on the threshold silently. Towner was seated at Bry’s desk. Drawn near was the client’s handsome chair and in that chair was Jones of the F.B.I.
Towner forefingered his moustache. “Er—Miss Williams—”
It was Jones, rising from the chair, who took command.
“Come in, Mr. Keane,” he said. “And your pretty accomplice too.”
Towner gave her the glance of a stranger. Indignation burned her throat. He turned his attention to Gavin. There was curious pleasure in his pale eyes. “You are Gavin Keane?”
Gavin said, “Your pleasure, sir. And you are Towner Clay, I presume?” He crossed the room, shook hands with Towner heartily, ignored Jones behind Towner’s chair.
Eliza sidled into the chair by the door. She was trying to understand but she couldn’t understand because it was a mad tea party. And she was no less mad than the others. Because what she wanted desperately was to warn Gavin again that Jones was dangerous to him, rather than put Towner on guard against Gavin.
Gavin took the chair Jones had vacated, as if it were his by right of heritage.
Towner made a preparatory examination of his nails, fiddled with the desk pen, finally cleared his throat before speech. It was a customary routine but in the silence it seemed endlessly long. He asked then, “You have the Scarlet Imperial?”
Gavin corrected, “I had the Scarlet Imperial.”
“Mr. Keane—” Towner’s face was fine drawn.
“I left it in this office Thursday.” Gavin shrugged. “Unfortunately—”
Jones asked tonelessly, “Why continue this farce, Keane?”
“Please, Mr. Jones.” Towner was gentle.
“Didn’t Bryan Brewer tell you? When he came to pick it up,” again Gavin shrugged, “it was gone.”
“Mr. Keane.” Towner’s finger wandered plaintively to his upper lip.
Gavin’s smile was assured. “Certainly I completed my part of the bargain. I delivered the Imperial to Brewer for you.”
Jones stated, “The girl took it with her when she left here Thursday. It’s as I told you, Mr. Clay. She’s in this with him. He’s been hiding out in her apartment. They may say it’s disappeared. But they know where it is.”
Gavin looked through Jones. “If you can prove any of those statements, I will personally see to it that you receive a citation, my good man.”
Jones glared.
Towner asked, “Do you—er—have it, Miss Williams?”
She had no intention of admitting it now. Not before Jones, waiting to make an arrest for smuggling, and murder. Not until she was alone with Towner would she give him the truth. Let him wait. He deserved to pay for his ignoring her.
She spoke with indignation. “Of course I don’t. I don’t even know what it is.”
Jones said, “She’s lying.”
“Prove that one too.” Gavin was enjoying himself. Just as if he didn’t know the danger he faced.
Towner was querulous. “Brewer said you had it, Mr. Keane. It’s important I find the Scarlet Imperial. I must take it to Washington.”
Gavin looked about the room casually. “Where is Bry? Isn’t it about time for him to turn up?” His mouth quirked. “Or doesn’t he know you broke in his office?”
Towner looked stricken. “Mr. Keane, I assure you—”
Jones broke in. “Hold it, Clay.” There was iron in his mouth. “I’m taking these two in. There’s some murders to explain as well as the missing Scarlet Imperial.”
Eliza shrank from the distaste on Towner’s thin lips.
“They’ll have more answers when we ask questions at headquarters.”
Gavin’s hand had dropped to his knee. He was arrogant. “What sort of questions?”
“Renfro Hester’s death.”
“I know nothing of it.”
“Josef Pincek.”
“Never heard of him. Any more?”
“Yes, Mr. Keane.” Jones wasn’t irritated. Not now that he’d reached his goal. “There are more. How you entered this country with the Scarlet Imperial. How you came into possession of it. When?”
Gavin moved too quickly; Jones was unprepared. His hand made an abortive motion but Gavin’s voice stopped it. His voice and the gun in his hand.
“Be careful. I might be a killer, Mr. Jones.” His voice was ironic but it was colder than the chill which froze Eliza to the chair. “You too, Clay. Don’t touch that phone. Both of you lift your hands above your head, high. I’m not a bad shot. And no one would hear a shot here on a Saturday afternoon.”
Gavin backed across the room. “Eliza, open that closet door.”
She saw Towner’s face, the quivering of his eyelashes, and she was paralyzed.
“Open it.” Gavin’s voice whipped. The gun covered her too. She obeyed in a dream. “Set the lock.”
Jones said, “Be careful, Keane.”
Gavin paid no heed. “Walk into that closet. Don’t lower your hands. This gun will be on you until Eliza closes the door.”
Towner cringed. “We might not be found until—”
Eliza clenched the doorknob against the determination on Jones’ face as he passed her. She didn’t look at Towner. He would never forgive this humiliation.
“Close the door, Eliza.” She flung it shut. She steadied herself against it, the floor was tilting.
Gavin spoke sharply. “None of that. Go sit down again.”
She weaved to the chair. Gavin sat at the desk, laid the gun in front of him. “Oh no,” she breathed. He couldn’t stay here now.
The closet door rattled. Gavin lifted his voice and the gun. “If you’re thinking of coming out, don’t. I can kill you as you come out as easily as when you went in.” The noise trickled away.
Gavin unlocked the desk, went efficiently through the remainder of the papers. Those he did not replace, went into his pocket. Again the door rattled.
Gavin said, “I warned you.”
Towner called faintly, “We won’t be found until Monday. I’ll pay you off, Keane. You can’t leave us here.”
“You’ll be found sooner than that,” Gavin was cheerful. “You forgot the chars.”
He crossed the room soft-footed, gun in hand. His silence and his gun warned Eliza. He motioned her to proceed him. She obeyed; she was without strength to refuse.
In the outer office he muttered, “Open that door.” The gun pointed.
She unlocked the corridor door; he closed it after them. His gun wasn’t in sight. She knew it was under his right hand in his pocket and she walked beside him. She could feel it there. She was silent in the elevator, stepping out into the street, the fantastic, unchanged street.
He hailed a cab, put her in, got in beside her. He said to the driver, “Go up Fifth.”
She spoke only once on the ride uptown. “Where are you taking me?”
“With me.”
He said to the driver at Sixty-fifth street, “The Echelon.”
It was the newest, the most exclusive and the most expensive of the Fifth Avenue hotels. It wasn’t a place where anything of violence could take place. She walked beside Gavin into the Black Starr and Frost simplicity of the lobby.
In the exact center of it, she held out her hand. “Awfully sorry I can’t remain for lunch.” Any one of a half dozen civilized men and women could hear her words. “It’s been amusing.” He couldn’t pull the gun here; he dare not use it. Not unless he wanted to pay the penalty,
It was that easy. She turned her back on his half-opened mouth and walked out of the hotel.