I went over to get some heavy manila paper, and rolled it in that. And stood up, with the rug under my arm, and looked at my father.
He asked, “You haven’t heard from Selak?”
I shook my head.
“You’ll be coming back to the store?”
“If you want me to. At least until Selak gets back, or you can get some help.”
He nodded, and went to the window. He seemed beaten. “Bring her for dinner, Sunday, Levon. We’ll — do the best we can.”
A stubborn man, my father. “I’ll ask her if she wants to come,” I said, and went out.
Going back to the store would mean we’d be together, and I’d hear his arguments all day. There’d probably be another blow-up. He hadn’t quit, yet.
My love was up on her terrace, and she waved, as I got out of the Chev. I was warm, sweating, sour.
She met me at the elevator on her floor. “What did you bring me?”
“The prayer rug. Lieder can do what he wants with Bey, but I don’t want any part of it.”
“We’re unhappy.”
“Some. I’ve had a rough night.”
“Come in, and I’ll mix you a drink, and you can tell me about that.” She put a light hand on my arm. “Relax, angel.”
On the love seat I sat, without relaxing, and told her everything from my meeting the boys, last night, to my father’s shop.
When I’d finished, she was sitting forward tensely on the twin to the love seat I occupied. “Pastore,” she said quietly. “Bugsy Pastore. I don’t — ” She frowned.
“Don’t know him?”
“Oh — Oh, yes I do. Tony — I remember now. In Miami. The ‘Bugsy’ threw me off. I had a few dates with him, and then a friend told me he was a racketeer. That bothered you more than any of the rest, didn’t it, Lee?”
“Not at the time. Art bothered me the most, at the time. Maybe, I’m just looking for trouble now.”
“Maybe,” she said quietly. “And maybe you’ll always be looking for it. Until we’re eighty. What kind of life would that be?”
I didn’t answer.
“They’ve got the killer, and your family are friendly again, and it’s a beautiful spring day, but all you can think about is Pastore.”
“That’s not all.”
She was quiet, watching me.
I said, “I wonder if they’ve got the killer of Ducasse, too.”
“Does Waldorf think so?” Tight, her voice. Stiff her figure.
“He wants to. That wraps it up. He can’t spend the rest of his life on one case.”
“And you — ?”
“I’m waiting for a telegram.”
Her voice hoarse. “Lee, if you think I’m a — if you — ”
“I’ll wait for the telegram,” I said. “Is there anything to eat? I’m starved.”
“There’s something to eat. Aren’t you afraid I’ll poison it?”
I shook my head, and found a smile. “Not me, you wouldn’t poison. You love me. Say it, Claire.”
“I love you. Though I’ll probably regret it all my life.” She got up, and went to the kitchen. From there, she called, “Bacon and eggs all right?”
“Dandy.” I went out onto the terrace, and looked down at the traffic. And then to the other end, to look out over the lake. Restless, sour, unreasonable. Some appeal she must have to keep me here in this frame of mind.
But Egan hadn’t married for love. He’d married for money, and what kind of life did he have?
Chimes, and Claire called, “Would you go to the door, Lee?”
The man who stood in the hall was short and elegantly dressed. He had the waxed look of a luxury hotel assistant manager. “Is Miss Lynne available?”
“She’s frying me a couple of eggs,” I said. “You selling something?”
He gave me a glazed look as he stiffened. “I am the manager.”
“Come in,” I said.
Claire came out from the kitchen, then, looking domestic in the tiny apron protecting her skirt.
“Oh, Lanny,” she said. “Something’s wrong — ?”
My first name sweetheart, she knows them all.
Some of the glaze was gone and all of the stiffness. “We’ve discovered where that — that creature’s been living.”
She stared at him, and then at me. “He means Selak.” She looked back at him.
Lanny’s fine nose was twitching. “In the basement, near the boiler. He’d made a bed of rags and crumpled newspapers. There were bones, all around, and crusts of bread. It was like an — an animal had taken — ”
“Did you phone the police?” I interrupted.
“Not yet. I just this minute discovered — ” The glaze was back.
“You’d better phone them, right away,” I said. “From your office.”
Some shock in the poised face, some annoyance in the thin-lipped mouth. “I — uh — Of course. Certainly.”
He gave us his well-tailored back without another word. Just a hint of sharpness to his closing of the door.
Claire started to laugh. I started to laugh — and then thought of Selak. She sobered at almost the same instant.
“An animal,” she said softly. “Like an animal — ”
“That’s what Lanny said. Like an animal — or a poor man. Are the eggs ready?”
“They’re ready.” Her eyes covered me, appraising, resentful. “Why the coldness? Why the ridiculous calm?”
“I didn’t like Lanny’s sniff.” There was a soreness at the base of my skull. I rubbed it, and felt the bump. “I’m sorry. I was thinking of Selak. I’m trying to be calm. It’s work.”
I sat down at the table, and she brought in the eggs. She brought herself a cup of coffee, and sat down across from me.
“Lee, you keep saying he’s harmless, but how can you be sure? He never acted like this before, did he?”
“Not that I know of. But then, he’s never met anyone like you, before, either. Who has?”
“I’m frightened,” she said. “I’m scared green.”
“Why?”
“Why — ? What a stupid question.”
“You’ll date Bugsy Pastore, cross Ismet Bey. Selak’s an Eagle Scout, next to that pair.”
“They’re — rational. They’re logical.”
“So’s Selak, in his own way. Remember it’s spring.”
She sipped her coffee. I ate my eggs, and some toast. I lighted a cigarette to go with my coffee.
Her voice was a tense monotone. “There are some unsaid words hammering at me. What are they, Lee? I want to know.”
“Nothing fits,” I told her. “Everything’s lopsided. Waldorf’s sure an easy man to please.”
“But you aren’t. Go on.”
“Dykstra’s boys were down near Ducasse’s apartment the night he was killed, about the time he was killed.”
“Well — ”
“He wasn’t killed in his apartment, according to the police technicians. That should almost be an alibi for them.”
“If he wasn’t killed there, he was moved there. Maybe that’s when they moved him.”
“They wouldn’t be that dumb. They’d get rid of the body.”
She stared at me, saying nothing.
“There wasn’t enough blood in his apartment. He bled for some time before he died.” I took a deep breath. “I keep thinking of that blood on that Bokhara you had in this dining room.”
“Do you?” Her eyes met mine and there was no emotion there, at all, neither fear nor hate.
“I do. I sent a telegram, as I told you the other night. What I didn’t tell you was that the answer to it might help to complete the picture.”
Her voice flat and dull. “Let’s get something straight. You think I might be a murderer?”
“I haven’t said that.”
“That’s right. Not yet, you haven’t.” She leaned forward almost imperceptibly. “But you think I could be, I’m capable of it?”
“Claire, I don’t know what to think. I never
thought, until last night, that you could have known a man like Bugsy Pastore, that you could have — gone out with him. How much truth has there been between us?”
“I’ve lied. Plenty. But murder — ? Answer me, Lee. You think I could murder, don’t you?”
I said nothing.
“Damn you, answer me.” Hysteria, now, in her voice.
“I’ve no answer,” I said. “I’m waiting for the telegram.”
“Not here, you aren’t,” she said. “Go some place else and wait for it. Get out, Lee. GET OUT!”
For good, this time? I wasn’t going to argue with her; I was at a point where I was willing for her to make up my mind about us. Fight, fight, fight — what kind of life would that be? Men, men, men….
I stood up. “For good? Are you sure you’ll never want me back?”
“If you could believe in me, I’d want you. But you never will. Go, Lee.” Her control was back. Her voice was even.
I went over and picked up the prayer rug.
She said, “Carl can get it, here. You don’t need to take it.”
“I’ll deliver it to him, when he wants it.”
It wasn’t too hard, walking out. Maybe because I’d had so much practice at it and maybe because I was glad to go. Those are only maybes; the fact was I knew I’d be walking in, again, eventually. As long as she was alive, I was going to be somewhere near. I may not have known that consciously, but I knew it.
Lanny was talking to a uniformed patrolman as I went out. They stood in the lower hall, and Lanny’s voice was almost shrill.
Spring was here to stay. We might have some dull days, and some wet ones, but there’d be no more snow. At any rate, not much. And if much, it wouldn’t last long. Probably.
I’ll be back, Claire. We’ll make it up, again. Maybe I was wrong all the way, and the telegram will prove it. The fast buck, the slow smile, the tight squeeze — but murder? Not my Claire.
Somewhere this side of murder, I’ll settle for. To the left of the Girl Scouts, she undoubtedly was, but also to the right of murder. Not the most innocent girl in the world, but she had qualities and assets which compensated for that.
If you’re looking for a virgin, Kaprelian, Berjouhi is still waiting.
The Chev snickered at me. “Don’t get smart,” I said.
She was alone, now, and Selak was still loose. I’d left her, alone in the apartment. I’d never even thought of Selak. But the police were there; she’d be all right.
In the seat next to me, the prayer rug was folded. By Maksoud of Kashan — possibly. By someone of great skill and a true sense of beauty, one man’s work, undoubtedly. In Armenia, on the big looms, the family looms, they all worked, children and adults alike. Worked for enough to live on, and no more.
But this prayer rug was uniformly fine; the craftsmanship showed in every hand-tied knot. Who could set a price on that? In the crack-pot town, Ismet Bey had milked how many gullibles with this silken symbol?
In front of my new home, a young woman wheeled a baby carriage back and forth. She waved something at me as I got out of the Chev, and I waited for her on the walk. A tall girl, blonde and slim.
“Mr. Kaprelian?” she asked, and I nodded.
She had a yellow envelope in her hand. “This came for you about an hour ago. I accepted it for you.”
“Thank you,” I said, taking the telegram. “I’ve been expecting it. Do you live right above me?”
Chapter Twelve
SHE NODDED. “I’ll bet the baby’s been giving you a bad time. She’s teething.”
“She hasn’t bothered me a bit,” I said. “Isn’t it a beautiful day?”
“It certainly is. I couldn’t wait to get out in it. Tomorrow, it will probably snow again.”
“Not tomorrow,” I said. “That’s a guarantee. Thanks, again.”
I didn’t open the telegram until I had closed the door behind me in the apartment. Then I put the rug away, folding it under the mattress of the folding bed, and carefully putting the bed back into the closet.
Then I sat on the davenport. What was I waiting for? How long could I refuse to face a fact? I tore it open.
Sorry to have delayed, but been out of town. Bey’s stuff was auctioned off right from the temple and I tried to get that Maksoud item but wouldn’t bid up to
It was a long telegram and there’d been no attempt to combine words or drop articles. There were a lot of words I wasn’t interested in and a few words I wished I’d never read.
How many lies had she told me? And this revealed the big one.
Murder. The final, the ultimate degradation. My Claire, my baby, my woman of the world.
Physically sick, I was, knowing I couldn’t follow her this far, knowing there’d be no life without her. I’d finally asked too many questions.
After a while, the nausea went away, but the sickness remained. The big room was cool and smelled musty; I went out. Along the cliff in Lake Park, the people sat on benches and walked on the grass. I walked north from Bradford, thinking back on all of it from the day she’d come into the store.
Up near the deserted pavilion, I found a bench facing out toward the lake that was practically isolated. I sat there and smoked and thought of Claire.
And then I heard footsteps coming across the gravel of the drive behind me, and turned to see Ismet Bey. He was smiling.
“The girl with the baby buggy told me you headed this way,” he said. “Sergeant Waldorf tells me you’re a hero.” He sat down on the bench next to me, and looked out over the lake. “Beautiful day, isn’t it?”
“Mmm-hmmm. The Sergeant thinks he’s got both murders wrapped up. What did you want with me, Bey?”
“The same as always. I thought perhaps Mr. Lieder had become more intelligent since I last talked to you.”
“You’d better talk to him directly.”
“Oh? Trouble?”
“It’s his rug,” I said.
“I see. Well, you might tell him it’s a fraud.”
I looked over at the little Turk. “How?”
“It was woven to my specifications, in Persia.”
“Cut it out,” I said. “I can get fooled by an acid wash, maybe, but my dad and his cousin would know an antique when they saw one. You wouldn’t pay thirty thousand for a phoney.”
He smiled. “I was thinking you might tell Carl that. He doesn’t know an antique rug from a motorcycle.”
“He’s made a lot of money in the business.”
“He knows the widow trade. It doesn’t matter what he’s handling; what he’s selling is himself.” He paused. “Mr. Egan, there’s a man who knows rugs.” Another pause, longer. “I understand he and Miss Lynne are leaving town, soon.”
I said, “They’ve already left,” and saw the startled look on his face. “Surprised?” I asked him.
He considered me blankly.
“You are one of the most consistent liars,” I said. “I’ve ever met. What surprises me is that you haven’t got your prayer rug back weeks ago. And for nothing. You’ve got the weapon.”
His blankness remained. “Think,” I said. “Put together all that you know.”
“I’ve been thinking,” he said quietly. “I don’t know enough. Perhaps you could — ”
“All I ever got out of you was lies,” I answered. “I don’t owe you anything.”
He looked out at the quiet lake, again, and his voice was soft, “Perhaps there are some things I know that you don’t. Have you ever wondered how Ducasse’s body got back to his apartment?”
I could feel the quickened beat of my heart, and for a second a wave of dizziness possessed me. “Another lie?” I asked.
“It might sound like one. It was brought in wrapped up in a twelve-by-eighteen Kerman.”
“Oh, Gawd — ,” I said. “What kind of — ”
“Your competitor, the one who’s dead, he delivered it.”
“Sam? Sam Sabazian? Are you trying to tell me that Sam could carry a twelve-by-eighteen
Kerman with a hundred-and-twenty pound man wrapped up in it?”
“He had help.”
“And who helped him, and why?”
“That I don’t know. But those men of Dykstra’s saw the rug delivered, and they said it was bulky. You see, they’d been watching for Ducasse. They’d been in his apartment, and then they’d gone outside to wait. They’d been watching all day, for a couple days. Al Hagen told me that two days ago. And he told Sergeant Waldorf that about two hours ago. The sergeant, of course, thinks it’s a big joke. The sergeant has his killer.”
“It’s ridiculous,” I said.
“Of course. Have you ever wondered why Sabazian wanted you along when he went up there, when you discovered the body?”
“Some deal he had cooking.”
“You think he needed your help on any deals? You think he’d want it, loving a girl who loved you? He wanted a witness. He was nervous about the body not being found. He wanted it over with.”
“You don’t miss a damned thing, do you?” I said.
“Very little. And I think I’ve a hunch who killed Ducasse.”
“But you haven’t told the police.”
“I don’t get involved with killers, Mr. Kaprelian.”
“Not much. What’s Dykstra? You get people to act as stooges, don’t you? And I look like easy material to work.”
“You want the girl. I want my rug. Now, what did you have that I don’t know? What were you checking, besides Miss Lynne?”
“You haven’t given me anything,” I answered. “You’re telling me that Sam would help get rid of the body of his former partner. And why? What for?”
“For the only thing he understood, for money. I think he loved it more than you do. Would you cheat a man of Dykstra’s reputation on a rug?”
I didn’t answer.
He stood up. “You don’t want that girl. You don’t want to know the truth. You want to sit here and sulk. Did you two fight, again?”
I looked at him for seconds. He was a pathological liar, and a man without a trace of conscience or pity. But he’d come through the past week’s shenanigans without a lump. He was a very cool and tough little gent.
I took a breath and told him the important part of what had been in the telegram.
He sat down again.
His voice was thoughtful. “If you don’t believe Al Hagen’s story, you could check with the elder Sabazian. That Kerman was washed in the shop. You see, if a body is found in some — oh, isolated place, a more thorough check would be made for the place the man was killed. But if a body is found at home, the logical line of investigation is to discover when the man died, and who was visiting him at that time. The — killer overlooked that lack of blood.”
Bloody Bokhara Page 18
