T.S. tried to look casual. Damn. He should have paid that extra fourteen dollars a month for an unlisted number. He recovered his composure as much as he could under the circumstances. "To what do I owe this honor?" he inquired politely. He sat on the edge of a chair and tried hard to pretend that he was not barefoot or that he had any reason to regret his actions of the night before. If only he knew what he had done…
"Did you have a good time at my party last night?" Worthington asked suddenly. He had lightly seized one of his tiny, chimpanzeelike ears and was squeezing it methodically as he spoke. He stared at the top tier of T.S.'s curio shelf and a miniature sailor carved out of whalebone caught his attention. He reached for it and hefted it casually in his free hand, still squeezing his tiny ear. T.S. kept a careful eye on the carved treasure; it would fit neatly into the producer's coat pocket. Then he remembered: he'd just been asked a question. Damn those chimp ears. They were positively mesmerizing.
"Well, yes. Of course," T.S. stalled before shifting into full-blown fabrication. "I had a simply marvelous time at your party, in fact." He doubted this was strictly true, but given that his clothes were in a heap in one corner of his bedroom, it was probably a safe bet to assume that he had whooped it up in some manner or other.
"You left so suddenly," Worthington remarked. He was staring out at T.S. from under furry black eyebrows. His eyebrows, T.S. noticed, met in the middle of his forehead like a caterpillar whenever the producer concentrated heavily. "I thought perhaps we had offended you somehow," Worthington added carefully.
"Oh, no. Not at all." T.S. attempted a smile. "When you've got to go, you've got to go," he joked feebly. Where the hell was Lilah? She'd be able to tell him the truth.
The producer's brow smoothed and he relaxed. "Quite so. I always say 'live and let live' myself."
The phrase snagged at his memory with a curious foreboding, but T.S. could not remember where or when he had heard it recently.
"Given any thought to the show?" Worthington asked. "Remember, there are only a couple of investing spots left."
"Well, I haven't had much time to discuss it with Lilah. I mean, Mrs. Cheswick."
"Oh, yes. Ms. Cheswick. Or Lilah, as I believe she asked me to call her." Worthington wandered over to the large sliding glass doors that led to the balcony and stood staring intently out over York Avenue. The day had turned cloudy and distinctly gray. It made T.S. sad to think that he had slept the sun away. He was seized with a sudden longing to crawl back into bed, pull the covers over his head and wait for Lilah to arrive.
"She's a very wealthy woman, as I understand it," Worthington added casually. He seemed quite fascinated with the flow of traffic thirty stories below them.
"I'll say," Sally piped up. She stubbed out her cigarette viciously in T.S.'s immaculate teak ashtray and he suppressed a wince. It was not an ashtray intended for actual use. Those were kept locked away in a drawer lined with cedar chips. "Did you see that rock she had on her right hand?" she asked, impressed. "And I bet those earrings were real diamonds, too."
"Sally." Worthington said her name so gently that T.S. nearly missed it, but the effect was not lost on the girl. Her mouth tightened and her shoulders rose defiantly. She shot a quick glance at her boyfriend, then leaned back petulantly against the couch. As she was crossing her legs and attempting to avoid impaling the footstool with a spike heel, a small furred paw whipped out from beneath the couch and snagged one of her metallic stockings. Her screech brought T.S. to his feet, but Worthington did not even flinch. "There's an animal under the couch!" she squeaked.
"Brenda! Eddie!" T.S. had no choice but to get down on his hands and knees and drag the offender out by the scruff. It was Brenda and she didn't look happy. Her yellow eyes were narrowed to tiny slits and her tail switched ominously back and forth as she regarded Sally St. Claire. "So sorry," T.S. apologized. "I'll just be a minute."
He marched his pet to the back bedroom. Eddie was fast asleep on the bed and T.S. plopped Brenda beside him. "Good work," he whispered to her as he searched beneath the bed for his bedroom slippers. He was stalling for time, hoping to fend off the faint pounding that had returned to his temples.
"Nice bedroom. Big." T.S. whirled around to find that Worthington had followed him down the hall.
"Please. Feel free to look around," T.S. told him sarcastically. But the note of indignation obviously went right by the producer, for he proceeded to do just that, picking up objects on T.S.'s dresser and idly examining the undersides to see who had made them.
"Live alone?" he inquired, his eyes sliding to the open closet door.
"Yes." T.S. sat on the edge of the bed and patted Brenda absently. At the moment, Brenda was his only ally and he'd take any friend he could get. Her tail still switched ominously and her eyes were narrowed. She did not like Worthington any more than his girlfriend.
"Ever married?" Worthington asked. He seemed bored.
"No. How about you?" It was a sore point with T.S.. He had never learned to tolerate the undertones that crept into people's voices when they inevitably asked the infernal question.
"Me? Once was enough. Got taken to the cleaners. I learned my lesson."
His lessons had done nothing for his taste in women, T.S. thought grimly. The producer was giving him the willies. He was too smooth, too calm, too bored. Like a rattlesnake pretending to be asleep. Get to the point, man, T.S. wanted to shout, so I can go back to bed. He wondered vaguely if this had been the plan, to separate him from Sally. Was she robbing his silverware drawer even as he sat there?
"About Lilah," Worthington began carefully, immediately grabbing T.S.'s attention. "She's a very nice woman. Cultured. Refined. But she seems to have a bit of a problem loosening up." He replaced a silver clothes brush on the dresser top and switched to fiddling with the blinds. "I see that a lot in older women. I like watching people. I'm a connoisseur, you might say, of human behavior." He turned suddenly and stared at T.S. "I saw that nothing caught your fancy at last night's party." He watched T.S. intently, searching for a reaction.
"Not my style," T.S. hedged, confident that whether he remembered the party or not, it was an entirely appropriate remark.
"That's what I thought. But I want you to be happy. I really do." Worthington's smile was reptilian: the lips slid back silently and T.S. half expected a small, forked tongue to dart out. "I like my investors to be happy," the producer added.
"If I invest," T.S. pointed out. It was clear that playing hard to get was the way to hook Lance Worthington.
"I feel confident that you'll come on board," the producer replied. "It's just too good an opportunity to pass up." T.S. shrugged and Worthington continued. "Tell you what, I've got a treat in mind for you. Something that I think you'll find very interesting. It was a bit hard to set up, but for you, I made the extra effort." He smiled again and handed T.S. a small envelope that was in his pocket. "Be at this address tonight at nine. If you've got other plans, cancel them. Because I think you'll be very, very pleasantly surprised. Then call me tomorrow morning and we'll talk."
T.S. took the envelope automatically and shook the outstretched hand offered to him by Worthington. He would play along for now, then call Auntie Lil and see what she thought he should do next. He was not in the mood to waste any more time with this sleazy pair. He had a feeling that if he didn't cut off contact with Lance Worthington soon, he'd end up on a suckers list for the rest of his life and spend his retirement years fending off endless schemers searching for a gullible investor.
"Don't worry about seeing us out," Worthington told him smoothly. "I've got another appointment and I'm a few minutes late."
But T.S. was not about to let them get out the door without a good look at what they held in their hands. He stuffed the envelope in his pocket and followed Worthington back into the living room, retrieving his cashmere coat for him. The silence was a curious one, as if words were being understood without being said. Worthington was smiling as if he had discovere
d a great secret, and Sally was a little too casually examining the small run that Brenda had left in her stocking.
"Sorry about that," T.S. managed, his innate good manners taking over. But he'd be damned if he'd offer to replace the tawdry things. Sally shrugged her shoulders prettily, he was to pay the matter no mind. T.S. understood then that some sort of a signal had been given and received; Worthington had trained her well.
"Like I say, I'm a connoisseur of human behavior. 'Live and let live,' I always say," Worthington repeated as he hurried out the door.
What was that supposed to mean? T.S. stood in the doorway as the pair made their way to the elevator. What in the world were they up to and what did it have to do with him?
He had plenty of time to think it through before nine that night, but first things first. T.S. returned to the kitchen and checked his silverware; it was all there as far as he could tell. He took a quick inventory of his most precious possessions, not doubting for an instant that it was a normal reaction to having those two in one's home.
Nothing was missing, yet he had a curious sensation that something had been taken. They had seemed so satisfied.
He turned the phone back on and dialed Auntie Lil's number. No answer. She was probably out minding the business of New York's other seven million inhabitants. All at one time. There was nothing to do but wait until Lilah returned from her errand. She, at least, could fill him in on the details of last night.
Restless, he fetched more aspirin and a cup of coffee, then dragged a chair in front of the sliding glass doors where he did his best thinking. The rest of the world was so tiny from this vantage point, and it made him seem more powerful. He sipped at the scalding liquid, then—remembering what Worthington had slipped him in the bedroom—he carefully opened the envelope stored in his pocket.
It held two keys taped to a small piece of paper. Emily's address was neatly printed beneath them.
It was not until she was a block away from Homefront that a sudden thought struck Auntie Lil. It emerged with frightening clarity: she could be walking into a trap. What if this was what had happened to Eva?
Auntie Lil hesitated, unsure of who she could turn to for help. Certainly not Detective Santos. He had threatened her with everything short of the electric chair if she continued to interfere. Herbert was probably back on the street by now. She'd just have to try Theodore again. She fumbled for a quarter in the depths of her enormous pocketbook and dialed her nephew. The answering machine picked up again. Where was he and what in the world was he up to? Her message reflected her annoyance.
She couldn't afford to speculate. She'd miss meeting Timmy. She hung up and pressed on toward Homefront. A block away, she slowed and began checking the windows of the nearby diners and delis. When she caught sight of Bob Fleming sitting all alone in one of them, staring into his coffee cup, she relaxed. If he was in there, that meant he wasn't waiting behind a door to knock her over the head and toss her into the Hudson to follow poor Eva down the river.
Of course, Annie O'Day was nobody's weakling. And who was to say that she had stayed behind at St. Barnabas? She could just as easily be waiting behind a door at Homefront. As could anyone else who was in on the scheme. And suppose Bob was nothing more than a ruse to relax her and lure her into the trap?
Suppose, suppose and suppose. She was sick of supposing. Auntie Lil shook her head resolutely and headed toward Homefront. At some point you just had to stop supposing and get on with life.
Homefront was empty: there was no one waiting behind the unlocked front door to hit her over the head, or anywhere else for that matter. Auntie Lil even checked behind Bob Fleming's desk, but the frustrating truth was all too clear—Timmy had fled. For whatever reason, he had changed his mind about retracting and taken to the streets again, leaving the director of Homefront to grapple with the charges against him as before.
"He's gone, isn't he?" The deep voice startled her and she jumped, knocking the receiver of a telephone off the wall. Bob Fleming was too distraught to care. He just brushed past her and sat down at the desk, head in hands. "I knew he wouldn't stick around. He was too scared. I'm surprised he even came here in the first place." The big man sighed. "I'm not surprised Annie could talk him into telling the truth, but I'm even less surprised that they got to him again."
"They?" Auntie Lil stared at Fleming. His despair was genuine and so, she thought, was his innocence. "Who's 'they'?"
He shook his head. "I don't know. It could be anyone. I step on a lot of toes if I do my job right. When I take kids off the street, I'm taking money out of someone's pocket. It could be a lot of people. But if I knew..." His voice trailed off and he stared out the window at the empty sidewalk. "He won't be back."
His hand flashed down with one swift, sudden slap and a small container of paper clips shattered into plastic shards. Bob Fleming took no notice.
Auntie Lil did. Whether Bob Fleming was innocent or not, she became acutely aware that she was alone with him in a small room with an exit that was easily blocked and a storefront that was too far west to attract much traffic this time of day. She edged toward the door, clucking sympathetically. Two more steps and she was only an arm's length away from the opening.
"Where are you going?" Fleming asked her suddenly. She took another step toward the door and he watched her with an absent, perplexed scrutiny as he played with the paper clips scattered across his desk.
"I've got to get back to St. Barnabas," she said as calmly as she could, confused by the sudden fright washing over her. "They are terribly shorthanded and need help serving."
Bob Fleming stared out the window. "Annie's there."
"Yes, she is. But I'm sure she needs help." Auntie Lil backed up carefully, feeling the doorjamb behind her. One more step and she'd be home free.
"Perhaps I should go with you. I might as well help out." Bob Fleming stood abruptly but she was already out the door, pretending not to have heard. Without looking back, she waved a cheerful goodbye over one shoulder and walked rapidly east. His brooding preoccupation disturbed her. He looked as if, beneath the surface, emotions were simmering at dangerous levels; when he finally cracked the explosion would be considerable.
She headed toward Emily's street, thinking of her next step. She had told Bob Fleming the truth; her final destination was St. Barnabas. But first she needed to talk to Herbert Wong.
When Auntie Lil walked past the Jamaican restaurant, Nellie was back on her table perch, surveying the streets. Their eyes locked briefly but Nellie's face showed no signs of recognition. Perhaps she had truly forgotten who Auntie Lil was. Or perhaps she was just a very good actress.
Herbert was once again ensconced in the parking lot across from Emily's house. This time no attendant was in sight and his only companion was a large, mangy-looking dog that slept quietly at his feet.
Herbert rose and bowed respectfully. "The attendant and I agreed that so long as I was here, I might as well help him out. Therefore, he is in a bar nearby enjoying his newfound freedom and I, being a scrupulously honest man, collect the tolls for him. It gives my pose much legitimacy."
"I thought disguises were superfluous and New Yorkers supplied their own blinders," she pointed out somewhat archly.
"Forgive me." Herbert bowed again. "I was in a distraught state when you found me. Tired and depressed from a night of fruitless work. Besides, if I help out the parking lot attendant, he will tell me what goes on in Miss Emily's building when I am not here."
"Where's Franklin?"
"He is seeking the man who first spotted The Eagle. He was seen near Madison Square Garden early this afternoon, so Franklin is down there now."
"At last." Auntie Lil stared at the facade of Emily's apartment building. "Anything unusual happen today?"
"No. Except that The Eagle has still not yet left the building and that the police claim he is not inside, everything here appears to be normal."
Auntie Lil sighed and her face sagged. It was time to break the
bad news to him.
"You have found out the whereabouts of Miss Eva," Herbert Wong said sadly as he searched her face. Herbert often communicated on a deeper, unsaid level.
"Yes. It was her."
Herbert's face fell in dignified sadness. "I do not believe that it could be thought of as your fault," he said quietly. "I hope you are not blaming yourself."
"Well, of course I am." Auntie Lil stared dejectedly at Emily's building. "If not for me, they wouldn't have been parading around the streets. In fact, it might be because of me specifically that she was killed."
"You must explain," he said gently, guiding her to his chair.
"The police, or at least Detective Santos, think it likely that the killer was after me. We are very alike in physical characteristics, except for our hair."
"Perhaps." Herbert allowed a tiny shrug, as if humoring the police. "However, perhaps not. She may have brought it upon herself through her own actions."
"Maybe." Auntie Lil felt silent.
"And you cannot bring yourself to inform the other ladies at St. Barnabas?"
"Correct. You may call me a coward, if you wish."
"You are a brave and honest woman, Lillian," he replied. "But this is not a task that you should handle. I shall tell the ladies the bad news myself. We are due to assemble in a few hours. Instead of the usual warning, I shall tell them of Eva's death." He paused briefly. "I will also tell them that they must not pretend anymore. That they must stay at home where it is safe and leave the rest of the investigation up to the police." He stared steadily at Auntie Lil and she did not respond. It was one of the few times he had ever tried to impose his will on her and she sensed that arguing with him would not be a wise course to choose. Besides, he was right.
It still hurt to admit it. "You're right," she finally said, rising with a sigh, telling him of the dire warnings she had received from Detective Santos and Lieutenant Abromowitz. "It is too dangerous. We must give up the game."
A Cast of Killers Page 31
