by Dinah McCall
Jack knew she was referring in part to Frank Walton’s murder. It was the opportune time to throw in a few questions.
“You’re talking about your uncle’s murder, aren’t you?”
She hesitated for a moment, then nodded. “I guess I am.”
“Was he on vacation?”
She frowned. “I think so. It was all so sudden. One day he just up and announced at the breakfast table that he was going on a trip. Uncle Rufus offered to go with him, but Uncle Frank turned him down. Said he had to go by himself.”
“Where did he go?” Jack asked, although he already knew where Frank Walton had been killed.
“We found out later. New York City…actually, a place called Brighton Beach. I suppose he had business there, but I can’t imagine what it would have been. He was a retired botanist, you know.”
“No, I didn’t know,” Jack said. So she didn’t know about his background—or, if she did, she isn’t telling. Í understand he wasn’t really related to you.”
Her shoulders slumped. “None of the uncles are. My only living relative was my father.”
“Interesting, though how they all consider you their family,” Jack said. “I guess they got to know you when they moved here.”
Isabella shook her head. “They’re part of my earliest memories,” she said. “In fact, they were here before me.”
“Really?” Jack said. “They must have been fairly young men then, at least in their forties. It’s odd that they would all wind up here, practicing their respective professions, isn’t it?”
Isabella frowned. It was odd, but these were things she had never really considered.
“I suppose,” she muttered, then undid her seat belt as Jack pulled to a stop and perked. “Now to face the music.”
“But not alone,” Jack said, and got out of the car to open the door for her.
Not alone. Isabella shivered as she watched Jack Dolan circle the car to help her out. When he slid a hand beneath her elbow, her heart gave a funny jerk and then settled.
They made it into the lobby and past the front desk; then David Schultz came into the lobby from the veranda and waved. It wasn’t until he got closer that he realized something was wrong.
“You’ve been crying,” he said, and gave Jack a hard look.
“It wasn’t his fault,” Isabella said. “So wipe that glare off your face.”
The old man cupped the side of her face, and when he saw her cut and swelling lip, he gasped.
“Isabella! Darling! What happened to you?”
“Oh…it wasn’t such a big deal. I just—“
Jack interrupted again, his nostrils flaring angrily. “Damn it, Isabella, quit making excuses for the son of a bitch. He cut the tire to make sure it went flat.”
The he turned to David making sure that they knew how close she’d come to a possible rape.
“He saw her in town and set her up for his own little party. It was just luck that I saw him messing with her car. I got suspicious and followed, but I wasn’t quite fast enough to keep her from getting hurt.”
The old man’s shoulders slumped. If Samuel had still been alive, it never would have happened. People had too much respect for him ever to do something like that to his daughter. But Samuel was gone, and it was now up to them to make sure Isabella was protected. He straightened slowly, thrusting his chin forward as he embraced Isabella.
“I’m terribly sorry this happened to you, dear, but rest assured that it won’t happen again.”
Isabella wanted to cry all over again, but not because of what had happened to her. As she rested her cheek against her Uncle David’s chest, the unsteady rhythm of his heart was an all too vivid reminder of his waning years. She shook her head and looked up at him.
“No, Uncle David. It’s over, and that’s that.” Then she glanced at Jack and smile. “Besides, Mr. Dolan has already exacted retribution.”
David looked at Jack, suddenly aware that there was more to the story than had yet been told.
“Like what?”
Jack shrugged. “I guess I broke his nose.”
David Schultz grinned and then thumped Jack on the back. “Well done, young man. On behalf of the uncles, I thank you.”
Jack nodded shortly. “Her car is still on the road. The spare is on, but she needs a new tire.”
“Jasper and I will tend to it immediately,” David said. “All I need is the keys.”
Isabella dug them out of her purse and handed them over.
“Just charge the tire, Uncle David, and tell them to send me the bill.”
“I’ll do no such thing,” David said. “I’m sending the bill to Lawton Cage. It’s his fault that boy is so wild and unruly. He can pay for this like he’s paid for everything else that boy has done wrong.”
Isabella sighed. There was no use arguing any further.
“fine,” she said. “But I’m serious when I tell you that I do not want this reported to the police. The less I have to deal with that man, the better off I’ll be.”
David nodded in agreement, then patted her on the head as if she were a child.
“You go to your room and lie down now, dear. We’ll take care of everything.”
Assuming that she would do as she’d been told, he left her standing in the lobby.
She looked at Jack. “I’ve just been sent to my room, haven’t I?”
Jack wanted an excuse to touch her again, but that had come and gone out on the road by her car.
“It’s not such a bad idea,” he said. “First maybe put some ice on your lip before it swells any more.”
“You’re probably right,” she said, and then glanced at her watch. “Although it’s almost noon, and I usually help out in the dining room during the—“
“They’ll manage. Besides, if you go in there with a fat lip, then you’re going to have to explain what happened at least a dozen times before you’re through.”
Isabella made a face. “Ugh. You’re right. I hadn’t thought of that. Well, that settles it. I’m off to the kitchen for some ice and then into bed. At least for a while.”
“I’d be happy to get the ice for you if you want to—“
Isabella laid her hand on his arm. “You’ve done enough for me for one day. I’ll get my own ice. You go have some lunch. You’ve earned it.”
Jack shifted from one foot to the other, unable to think of a single reason to delay her exit any further.
“Yes…all right, I guess I am a little hungry.”
“Enjoy,” Isabella said, and then squeezed his arm lightly before walking away.
Jack stood without moving, his gaze fixed on the confident set of her shoulders and the languid sway of her hips as she walked across the lobby. Only after he could no longer see her did he realize he’d been holding his breath. He exhaled slowly as his gaze moved from the doorway to the painting above the stairs.
The woman looked down at him, smiling slightly, as if she knew a secret she wouldn’t tell. But there was no secret to what Jack was feeling. He was getting too interested in someone who was part of his investigation.
He started to go into the dining room, and then changed his mind and headed for the stairs instead. He needed to wash up and change his shirt. He wasn’t about to eat a meal with Bobby Joe Cage’s blood on his sleeves.
Victor Ross was clipping the hedge at the front of the hotel when two of the old men came hurrying outside. Unwilling for them to see his face, he turned and ducked his head. But he caught just enough of their conversation to realize that Isabella Abbott had been involved in some upsetting incident. They were obviously off to right the wrong, and Isabella had taken to her bed.
His mind raced as he thought back over the morning. Earlier he’d seen on of the men, the one they called Thomas, leaving with a briefcase in his hand. And he still wasn’t back. David Schultz and Jasper Arnold had just left the ground, which meant that John Michaels and Rufus Toombs were the only two unaccounted for. He knew that the men occup
ied the entire upper floor of the hotel. It was the first time since his arrival that he’d been given an opportunity to search Frank Walton’s room. He gave the hedge a few more quick snips, then hurried around to the back of the building. The fire escape was old but sturdy, and would serve his purpose nicely. HE stored the tools he’d been using and washing quickly, anxious to slip into the kitchen for his noon meal. It wouldn’t take him long to see whether the other two men showed up to eat. If they did, he would have the upper story of Abbott House to himself for at least thirty minutes, and that was all he would need. If there was anything of interest to his government in Frank Walton’s room, it wouldn’t take him long to find it. If he came up empty-handed, he was going to contact his superiors, tell them that the old man was dead and buried, and call it quits. He missed his bed and his friends, and was willing to admit he was too old for this spy stuff after all. Besides, what could one old man possibly have known that would be of any interest to his country now?
It had been easier than Vasili Rostov expected. He’d seen the two remaining residents of the third floor enter the dining room and take their seat at a table with several other diners. After placing their orders, they quickly engaged in conversation, assuring him tat, for the time being, the top floor of Abbott House was unoccupied.
He’d stuffed down the last bite of his sandwich, then left through the back door of the kitchen, stating loudly that he had to get back to work. Then he’d gotten his clippers, circled the building and gone up the fire escape to the top floor, picked the lock to the access door and stepped inside, leaving the clippers behind to use as an excuse if he got caught walking around the grounds later. It wasn’t until he was staring down the long dark hallway that he realized he’d completely overlooked the possibility of an alarm. He held his breath, waiting for something to sound, and when it didn’t, he breathed a quiet sigh of relief.
There were six doors. Three on the left. Three on the right. With no way to ascertain which one had belonged to Frank Walton other than trial and error, he began by trying the first on his left. It was locked. As was the next, and the next and the next. It seemed strange to him that six men would claim the entire third floor of a building for more than thirty years and still lock their doors behind them when they left. But, he reminded himself, this was also a public hotel. He supposed they did it as a means of protecting their private property from nosey strangers.
With no time to waste, he picked the first lock and slipped inside. The aroma of coffee was still in the air, and there was a coffee cup on a side table with a few drops still in it. An open book, a pair of slippers by a chair, and he quickly ascertained that this wasn’t Frank Walton’s room.
Without touching a thing, he backed out the same way he’d come in, locking the door behind him and moving to the next. It wasn’t until he’d opened and closed three doors that he found the room he’d been looking for.
The moment he entered, he knew this was it. The air in the suite seemed stale, and there was a faint but obvious layer of dust on the coffee table near the window. The room was neat, the way it might be left when taking a trip. He remembered how his mother used to clean their small cottage before going to bed, as if by the simple act of neatness she would be able to face the next day of privation. But Walton had not been in this room for weeks, and it was inevitable that some dust would appear.
He peered back into the hallway, heard nothing, saw no one, and quietly locked himself inside. Unless someone got a wild urge to suddenly pack away a dead man’s things, he should have ample time to search.
He paused momentarily, looking around the place that had been Frank Walton’s home and remembering the old man he’d seen in the alley. There had been fear, but Rostov knew that he’d also seen recognition. If Walton was so afraid of being found that he would kill himself rather than be taken back to Russia, there had to be a reason other than mere deportation.
The living room was furnished in dark, somber tones, and there were places on the heavy velvet drapes that had faded from a dark cranberry to a watered-down cherry. The rug on the floor was imitation Persian, and the cushions on the wing-back chairs and sofa bore the indentations of years of use.
He moved first to an oversized highboy that had obviously been used as a desk and began opening drawers. He found nothing more incriminating than some old gas receipts and two unpaid bills. From there, he went to a small kitchenette. It took exactly five minutes to search it without any success. That left only two other rooms. A small private bath and the adjoining bedroom.
Rostov started across the floor, and as he did a board squeaked beneath his feet. Attributing it to the age of the house, he headed for the bathroom. A few minutes later, he came out, no wiser than when he’d come in, save for the fact that his first impressions of Frank Walton had been right. Rostov had found a bottle of EAP—etoposide/adriamycin/cisplatin—along with a paper listing side effects for the new compound being used in the treatment of some cancers. Knowing this, Walton’s actions now made a strange sort of sense. The decision to take his own life hadn’t been as drastic as Rostov had first believed. The old man must already have been dying. He’d just chosen his end then and there.
Frustrated, and more than a little worried as to what his superiors were going to say when he called to tell them he’d failed, he started toward a dresser. Once again, the floor squeaked beneath his feet. He looked down, realizing it was in the same place. He frowned at his carelessness. If someone was upstairs now, they might hear the sound. Even if he got caught, they would merely assume he was a common thief, but he would be arrested and fired. Rostov could not afford to have his true identity surface, so he circumvented the area and headed for the dresser. A quick search revealed nothing but clothing. From there he went to the bed, then the mattress, checking between it and the box springs for anything that might be concealed, taking care not to step on the squeaking boards in front of the bed.
To his frustration, he found nothing. He move to searching behind heat vents and photos, behind paintings hanging on the walls, then looking in vain for any kind of safe. Disgusted that his search had netted nothing of use, he stood in the doorway, giving the room one last sweep before calling it quits.
“Why, old man? What did you know that was worth dying for?”
But Frank Walton didn’t answer.
He stared at the room, and the longer he looked, the more he realized that something seemed out of sync. The furnishings were old—of the same period as the living room furniture had been. A high four-poster bed, dark cherry-wood dresser, drapes on the verge of shabbiness. His gaze slid to the braided rug at the foot of the bed, remembering the squeaky floor beneath.
Then he looked at both sides of the bed and back to the rug at the foot, and it hit him. One did not get out of bed by crawling out at the foot, so why would a throw rug be there, rather than on the side of the bed?
Rostov had stayed alive in his business for as long as he had by never ignoring instinct or curiosity, and he wasn’t about to start now. He walked back into the room and pulled the rug aside.
At first glance, he thought he’d been mistaken as to a sinister reason for the misplaced furnishings, but the longer he looked, the more he realized the pattern of the wood was not true. He moved closer, then ran his fingers along the seams in the planks. Within seconds, it became obvious that two of these boards had been cut away from the rest and were only lying in place.
He started to smile.
His heartbeat accelerated as he pulled out his knife, using the blade as a pry bar to displace the floor. Within seconds, he had achieved success.
At first glance he saw nothing but a dark empty space below the floor boards, and his hopes fell. But when he thrust his hand inside and began to feel around, something changed. Almost instantly he felt fabric, and then something hard wrapped within it. He grasped it firmly, and pulled it up and out into the light of day.
It was a pouch of some sort, and inside, a book. It didn’t ta
ke him long to decide that he’d found what appeared to be a diary, but before he could look through the book, he heard voices outside in the hall.
Muttering a brief curse because he’d waited too long, he replace the boards and slid the throw rug back in place. Then, shoving the book and pouch into his pocket, he hurried to the door, plotting the movements of the two old men who had obviously finished their meals. When he heard one of them announce he was taking a nap and the other one say he would finish a book, he smiled. All he had to do was wait.
Soon he heard their doors open and close, then listened to their footsteps as they moved around within their rooms. A short while later it got quiet. It was then that he decided to exit.
Quietly, he checked the hallway, satisfied to see it was deserted. He slipped out of Walton’s room, taking care to lock the door behind him, then headed for the fire escape. Only after he was outside, with the sun on his face and the door locked behind him did he breathe easy again. Without looking back, he grabbed the clippers and hurried down the stairs. Once on the ground he dared to look up. There was no one there, and the curtains at the windows were closed and unmoving. Patting the parcel in his pocket, he sauntered across the grounds toward the gardener’s shed.
One of the cooks stepped outside to toss some vegetable peelings into the compost heap. She saw him and waved. He nodded cordially and waved back, brandishing the clippers, making sure she would think he had just finished some job.
Inside the shed, he tossed the clippers aside and hurried to his room in the back. There was no lock on his door, so he shoved a chair under the knob. Using his bed as a chair, he removed the pouch and then opened the book
A slow smile of satisfaction spread across the angles of his face as he began to read. He’d been right. It was a diary, and it belonged to Vaclav Waller.
July 12, 1970
Today I died and Frank Walton was born. I am very sad about my demise and second-guessing the wisdom of what we are doing, but it’s too late now. What’s done is done.
