I was staring at it when Claire came in from the living room.
“Lunch is ready,” she said, “prepared by my own dainty hands.”
I grinned at her.
She made a face. “Don’t say the obvious, please.”
“All right. I’ll just say you’re a good, all-around gal, and I love you.”
Her face was suddenly wistful. “Lee — you do, don’t you? It’s — we’re — for us. God, that’s corny, but — ”
“All the true things are corny,” I said. “We’re for us, baby. Against all comers.”
She came over to take my hand, and we went into lunch like high school sweethearts. There’s a lot of little girl in all of them, even my beloved Claire, that much traveled lass.
And she could cook. Peanut ham in sherry, and popovers light enough to blow away and coffee right up to that split second before you lose the oils.
“Some day,” I said, “when things are — better at home, I’m going to have you in for chicken and pilaff. And to meet the folks.”
“Some day,” she said, “but not now. Why not now, Lee?”
“I told you. I’ve left home. And the store.”
“Because of me?”
“Only partly. But mostly because they won’t let me grow up. Let’s not talk about it.”
“Grow up?” she asked. “I’ve met a lot older who were younger. What shall we talk about if we don’t talk about you?”
“You,” I said. “And Palm Springs.”
She didn’t look at me; she looked at her cup of coffee. “Questions, again? You still don’t believe in me.”
“I want to. Whether I do or not, I’m all yours, so why not tell me about Claire Lynne? You’ll never find a more receptive ear.”
She looked up, and her words came out like a rivet-gun chatter. “I met Bey in Palm Springs. He sent me to Los Angeles. I got there too late to buy the rug. I heard Carl had bought it at the auction, and I went to see him. He told me about these St. Louis rugs he could pick up if he had the money and about the customers he had in this state and in Illinois. I gave him some money, and he went to St. Louis. I met him here, two weeks ago, and we got these others from Mr. Egan. That’s it.”
“You never knew Mr. Egan before you came here?”
“I’d met him — when I was here before, in ‘48. Anything else?”
“Yes,” I said. “That French Chinese-that big one. I think I’ve a customer for that. Is it one of Mr. Egan’s?”
She shook her head. “We got it for six hundred. Even at the going price, we could make a lot of money on that one. What did you figure it would bring?”
“Ten thousand.”
“For a Chinese — ? Lee, you’re joking.”
“No. That’s a collector’s item. Was this St. Louis man a collector?”
She nodded. “And stone broke. And how many people would know what the rugs were worth — if properly sold?”
“We would. Claire, after all those are sold, then what?”
She regarded me gravely. “What do you mean?”
“I mean — us. Do we break up, then?”
A half smile brightened her face. “Not unless you say so.”
“And I go back to the store, and we live on — on that?”
She looked down at the table. “We’ll talk about that when the time comes. There are all kinds of ways to make a living, Lee, better than that little store of your dad’s.”
“Honest ways?”
“As honest as selling a six-hundred-dollar rug for ten thousand. Is that honest?”
“I’m selling it to a man who knows rugs, and I can get that price for it. That’s honest, in my book.”
“All right.” A shade of impatience in her voice. “We’ll talk about it when the time comes.”
The phone rang, then, and she rose and went to it. She said, “Oh, good morning — Heard from him? Yes, he’s here now. — All right, we’ll be here.” She hung up, and turned to face me. “Carl. He’s coming over. Lee — what do you think of him?”
I shrugged. “He’s pretty sharp and smooth. And old.”
“He scares me, sometimes,” she said. “He’s too smooth.”
I grinned at her. “You mean you’re scared because he might walk out with the money well be making?”
“Don’t be nasty. I’ll be handling the money. No, he — just frightens me.”
I didn’t believe her, completely. I loved her, but couldn’t believe her completely — yet.
We were in the living room when Carl came. I told him about Ismet Bey’s offer.
He sat down in an armless chair and stretched his long legs out. “I’m not ready to dicker with Bey. I may want to start a cult of my own, some day. How about some Scotch, Claire, dear?”
“It’s your rug,” I said, “but this Bey might be the wrong man to monkey with. I think he’s the one who caused Ducasse’s death.”
He frowned at me. “What makes you think that?”
I told him about my conversation with Bey, and added, “Dykstra has the reputation of being a quick-tempered man.”
Lieder shook his head. “I can’t see it. What would he gain by killing Henri?”
“Revenge — for a twenty grand sticking.”
Claire came over to hand Carl his drink. He took it and blew her a kiss, and looked back at me. “Revenge — ? Oh, Lee — a man with his money. No, I can’t see it.”
Claire said, “Lee thinks he has a customer for the Chinese, Carl. The big one.”
“Fine. Do I know him?” He sipped his drink.
I smiled at him. “I don’t think so. And don’t look so expectant. Some day we might be competitors, again. You won’t get the name from me.”
Carl smiled, but it was one of those kraut smiles with no heart in it. “All right. What do you think you can get for it?”
“Ten thousand.”
“Sold,” he said. He finished his drink. “After we unload these, I know where I can get some more. But, Lee — you shouldn’t have left the store.”
“Why not?”
“That’s a good name your father has built up through the years in this town. And everybody associates you with the firm name. They know the Kaprelians are no — peddlers.”
“Claire doesn’t,” I said, and looked at her.
She made a face at me.
Carl looked at each of us in turn, and shook his head. “Love birds,” he said. “That’s no good in business.”
“Don’t worry about it, Carl,” Claire said. “Lee will keep it strictly business. That’s always first, with him.”
I said nothing. Carl set his empty glass on a near-by table and stood up. “Well, now that you two are buddy-buddy again, we can get back to work. I’ll keep in touch with you, Lee.”
I nodded. Claire went to the door with him. When she came back, she sat in my lap and ran an index finger down the bridge of my nose. “Mine?”
“Yours.”
She leaned forward to bite the lobe of my ear. She whispered, “And I’m yours. And we’re ours. Oh, Lee, there’ll be some fine days.”
“And nights. I wish Carl wouldn’t play it coy with Bey. Bey could be dangerous. I know the type. And I know Carl’s type — all front. All words and surface, a talking shell. These square-heads overestimate themselves.”
“You sound anti-Teutonic,” she said.
“I’ve spent my life in this town, grubbing for nickels,” I told her. “I’m not as anti-German as I sound, but I do know their limits. And Carl’s is considerably short of Bey’s. On that I’d give odds.”
“You underestimate dear Carl,” she said. She got off my lap and went to the record player. She certainly loved music.
This was a piano. Or was it? Was it a waterfall of strings? What it was I didn’t know, but I liked it.
“What is it?” I asked.
“Ravel,” she said. “Jeux d’eau.”
There was a thump, a thump that sounded like the flat of a big hand on the front door. Ther
e was another, and another.
Claire started for the door, but I was in front of her, and I motioned for her to stand back. I’m no hero nor a prophet, but I had a strange sense of prescience as I turned the knob. I knew I wouldn’t like what I saw.
The man standing there was wide and had a broad face. One big hand was on the door frame, holding him up. There was blood running down over his closed left eye, and the bone of his nose showed through at the bridge. His mouth was torn; the two upper front teeth were broken.
I heard Claire gasp, and I reached out as the apparition in front of me began to totter.
The torn mouth began to work. “… threw me out, here. It was two of — it — ” He fell forward into my arms.
He was too much for me to carry to the couch. I managed to lay him on his back on the floor near the door. I said to Claire. “Phone the police, quickly. Ask for an ambulance, too.”
She went to the phone, and I knelt next to him. I didn’t know of anything else to do. I didn’t think there was anything I could do.
His arms were stretched out, the hands clenched. His good eye opened; his mouth opened and his whole body seemed to lift with his effort to speak.
Then he went limp, limp as a wet paper towel, and his clenched hands opened, and I saw the button, there, and the tiny bit of fabric attached.
And I heard his hoarse croak, and saw the final convulsive shudder, and I knew he was dead.
Claire was back from the phone. “Lee — Lee — He’s — Lee — ”
I stood up, and nodded. “He’s dead.”
She started to topple, and I went over to take her in my arms. She was trembling uncontrollably, and there was some hysteria in her voice.
“Lee — it’s — You know …”
“I know,” I said. “It’s Sam Sabazian, my cousin. And he’s dead.”
Chapter Seven
THE PROWL car came first, and the police ambulance. Waldorf didn’t come for almost an hour. I was still numb when he got there; I was walking in my sleep.
Claire had control of herself by that time. Pale, she was, and tight around the mouth, but handling everything, including two photographers and the reporters. She didn’t tell them she knew who the corpse was. She really didn’t tell them much of anything.
Sam, Sam, Sam…. The last time I’d seen him, there’d been that hostility in his eyes. Sam, Sam … We’d outgrown each other. There’d been a war which had come between us.
The place seemed suddenly deserted. Claire and I sat on the davenport; Waldorf was looking at a notebook. He sat in the armless chair.
He closed the notebook and looked at me. “Same deal, huh?”
“I don’t follow you, Sergeant.” I reached out and found Claire’s hand.
He said irritably, “You will, probably, right down to the clink. I mean — Sabazian and Ducasse — same deal.”
“I don’t know, Sergeant. How would I know?”
He opened the notebook again. “You claim he only said something about ‘it was two’ and ‘threw me out.’ And then collapsed?”
I nodded.
“And the button in his hand?”
I shrugged.
“But you noticed it.”
“I noticed it. His hands were clenched — and then just before he — before he must have died, the hands opened, and I saw the button. Is it possible — Could it — will it help?”
His eyes were as barren as stone. “Do you want it to?”
I stared at him, trying to determine how much was bluff, was standard police procedure. I said nothing.
“You and Sabazian find Ducasse. And now Sabazian dies here. What do you expect me to think? What do you expect me to do, take your name and address and leave?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “He was a relative of mine, Sergeant. He was — a close friend.”
“How close? Close enough so you know what he was up to?”
“A part of it. A man named Dykstra was out to get him, I feel sure. He and Ducasse sold Dykstra a rug, you’ll remember. I told you that next to the store, that day.”
He shook his head slowly. “You told me Ducasse had sold Dykstra a rug. And when I asked if Sabazian was in on the deal, you said you didn’t know. But now, you know. You forgot what you told me, huh? What else did you forget?”
“Nothing.” I still held Claire’s hand, and she squeezed it, now.
His pugnacious face was ugly in frustrated animosity. He leaned forward in the chair, his whole attitude threatening.
Then, from the doorway to our left a uniformed patrolman came over toward the sergeant. He said, “Lady on the first floor saw the car, Sergeant.”
Waldorf’s face grew faintly brighter. “I’ll be right down. Wait for me.” He stood up, gazing down at us thoughtfully a second. “You two stay right here. I’ll be back.”
We didn’t move nor say a word until the door closed. Then Claire’s head came over to rest on my shoulder. “Oh, Lee — ”
“Steady,” I said. “Why don’t you make some coffee? Or is there some left from lunch?”
“I’ll make some,” she said. “In a second, a minute. I’m unwound.”
“You bore up very well,” I said. “I still can’t get used to the idea of Sam being dead.”
Her voice was only slightly higher than a whisper. “That officer in uniform said something about a car. What could that mean?”
“Sam said something about ‘threw me out here’ and ‘it was two.’ He could have been thrown from a car. And it would take two men to handle Sam — to handle him the way he was handled.” I stood up. “I’ll make the coffee. Stretch out. Try and relax.”
I was thinking of Berjouhi as I went to the kitchenette. And I was thinking of Sarkis and my father and all my people. Sam had died at my feet, and I wondered what construction they’d put on that. With Sam dead less than two hours, I was already worrying about me.
The coffee was ready, and I was pouring it, when Waldorf came back. He came out to the kitchenette.
“I’ll take a cup of that,” he said. “Black.”
I poured him one.
We went into the living room, and I handed Claire her cup. Sergeant Waldorf sat on one of the love seats. He sipped his coffee and stared at the carpet and said nothing for seconds.
Then he looked up. “I think you two are fairly clean.”
“Thanks,” I said.
“Of murder, that is.” The flaring nostrils of his flat nose seemed to quiver. “But there’s things you’re not telling me.”
Claire said, “Nothing connected with murder, Sergeant.”
“Let me decide if it’s connected with murder or not,” he said. “Murder’s got all kinds of the damnedest connections. All I’m looking for is a killer. Rug sharpers aren’t my department.”
Claire closed her eyes and took a deep breath. I looked at the sergeant, saying nothing.
“You’re both pretty young,” he said. “Maybe you think you’re pretty smart, too. And maybe you are. But if you want to be real smart, this would be the bright time to tell me all you know about both these men that were killed.”
Claire looked at me, and I said, “Start in Palm Springs, and tell him about Bey.”
She stared at me, and her face stiffened. “What would that have to do with it?”
“Tell him,” I said. “We’re clean, Claire. We’ve nothing to hide. Tell him everything.”
For seconds, her gaze held mine and there was some resentment there. And suspicion. Then she turned toward the sergeant and began the story of Palm Springs.
I heard nothing new. She took it right up to the point where she’d walked into the store of N. Kaprelian and Son.
I went on from there, and I told him everything but the business about the bloody Bokhara.
When I’d finished, he said, “I could use some more coffee.”
I started to rise, but Claire said, “I’ll get it.”
When she’d left the room, Waldorf said, “What do you know about
her, Kaprelian?”
“Very little.”
“Gone, aren’t you? Sold.”
I nodded.
He shook his head. “I keep thinking of you as a kid, but you’re not that, are you?”
“I’m twenty-six,” I said.
“She could take you anywhere,” he said, “anywhere there’s a fast buck, anywhere there’s trouble. I’ve been checking you. You check out pretty good; some pretty solid people think a lot of you. Where are you heading now?”
“Wherever she is, Sergeant.”
Again, he shook his head. “Well — I’ve seen guys go farther for worse, I guess.”
“Thank you, Sergeant,” Claire said.
She’d come in quietly from the kitchenette, his cup of coffee in her hand. Her voice had been dry as the desert sand and she stood there, now, as though measuring him.
He looked at her — and yawned.
“I suppose you’ve been checking me, too?” She asked quietly.
“Mmmm-hmmm. Does that worry you?”
I chuckled. I said, “Sergeant, take it easy. I know the girl, and that coffee’s hot.”
“I know her, too,” he said. “The files are full of the type.” He stood up. “I guess I won’t want the coffee, Miss Lynne. I’ll be seeing both of you again.”
His coat was on the davenport; he came over to get it. Claire still held the cup of coffee and she hadn’t moved. I expected it to come sailing our way any moment.
He put his coat on with what seemed like almost contemptuous deliberation. “Stay in town,” he said, and went out without another word.
I turned to see Claire still standing there.
“I’ll drink the coffee,” I said.
She came over stiffly and sat next to me. I took the cup of coffee from her.
“What is it that makes them like that?” she asked. “What takes all the decency out of them, all the compassion?”
“Cops, you mean?”
“Cops I mean.”
“They see most people at their worst,” I said, “probably. They don’t come in contact with the better element enough.”
Bloody Bokhara Page 10
