Verity, still reorienting herself, looked at Jonas for guidance. She didn’t want to kill a potential deal by making the wrong choice here.
Jonas took immediate command of the situation.
“No, thanks,” he said coldly. “Verity and I have to be on our way. We’ve got a lot to do today. Are you ready, Verity?”
“Yes, Jonas;” she said meekly, trying out the sweet smile again. She was curious to see if it had any direct effect on him the way it seemed to have had on Kincaid.
“Let’s go.” He closed the mahogany pistol case and started for the door. He appeared to be totally unaware of Verity’s fluff-brained smile.
“Just a moment,” Kincaid said as they reached the door. “You didn’t give me your final verdict on the dagger. Still think it’s a phony now that you’ve had a chance to handle it?”
“It’s not sixteenth century,” Jonas said from the doorway. “More like 1955. Excellent work, but definitely a reproduction.”
Kincaid’s mouth hardened. “You must be mistaken.”
Jonas shrugged. “Suit yourself.” He started to close the door and then paused one last time. “If I were you, though, I’d be careful about dealing with whoever sold that dagger to you.”
“Why do you say that?”
“For one thing, he sold you a reproduction. For another, I get the feeling his acquisition technique is a little crude.”
“What the devil are you talking about?” Kincaid looked furious.
“Forget it. Probably just some minor professional jealousy on my part. After all, he got a fortune out of you for a fake and I couldn’t even sell you a genuine set of pistols. Goodbye, Mr. Kincaid.”
Kincaid stared at the door as it closed. He was torn between rage and a deep sense of danger. He stabbed the intercom on his desk.
“Get Hatch in here.”
“Yes, Mr. Kincaid.”
Hatch appeared almost immediately, his colorless eyes blandly inquiring. “Yes, sir?”
“Get hold of Gelkirk. I want him here in one hour.”
“The appraiser? I’ll call him immediately.”
William Gelkirk scuttled nervously into Kincaid’s office forty-five minutes later. He was a rotund little man with a fringe of hair surrounding a bald head and small eyes that looked out at the world through thick lenses. Kincaid found him irritating, fussy, and boring, but there was no doubt that Gelkirk was one of the finest authorities on sixteenth-century armor on the West Coast. He had appraised a few items for Kincaid in the past, but Kincaid had not consulted him about the dagger.
Kincaid had been very certain of the dagger’s authenticity. After all, he had removed it himself from the vault the night he had calmly shot Henry Wilcox dead. The police had declared the incident a random act of violence since nothing seemed to be missing from Wilcox’s Beverly Hills mansion. No one had known about the dagger. Wilcox had only recently acquired it and not yet insured it.
Wilcox had been so proud of the dagger, Kincaid remembered. The first time he had displayed it was to a fellow collector whom he knew would appreciate it. Kincaid had taken one look at it, considered its untraceability, and decided he appreciated the weapon far more than Wilcox did. He made his decision and acted on it immediately. He used Wilcox’s personal gun, the one the older man kept in his desk drawer to protect himself in the event of a break-in.
The police were always warning people that weapons kept in the home were far more likely to be used against the owners than in self-defense. In this case, they were right, as usual.
Kincaid no longer did his own acquisition work. He now had the kind of contacts that enabled him to contract out that sort of thing. But back in his younger days he had been much more impetuous.
He forced a reassuring smile as he handed the dagger to Gelkirk. “It was very kind of you to come on such short notice. I’m extremely anxious for your opinion on this dagger. For years I assumed it was the genuine article, sixteenth century, Italian. But recently someone put some doubts in my head. If you would be so good as to give me your opinion? The usual rates, of course.”
Gelkirk nodded eagerly and took the dagger. He peered at the ornately fashioned grip and then carried it to the window to examine the steel blade in sunlight.
“I’d have to run some tests to be certain, but my first impression is that this is not sixteenth century. It just isn’t heavy enough. They had good steel in those days, legendary steel, but it wasn’t this light. My guess is that the blade, at least, is modern. Would you like me to take it back to my shop and check it more thoroughly?”
Kincaid contained his fury behind a facade of rueful gratitude. “No, I don’t think that will be necessary. I may follow up later to see just how badly I’ve been had, but in the meantime I’ll take your word for it. This experience will teach me always to get a second opinion before I buy. Thank you, Mr. Gelkirk. My secretary will issue you a check for your services and call you a cab.”
Gelkirk beamed. “Anytime, Mr. Kincaid. Anytime. I’m always pleased to be of service to a dedicated collector such as yourself. And don’t feel too bad about the dagger. It really is an excellent reproduction. A lot of experts wouldn’t have been suspicious.”
“I’ll take what comfort I can from that,” Kincaid said dryly, holding the door for Gelkirk. He waited impatiently for the little man to walk through and then closed it with a carefully controlled slam.
“Goddammit.”
He took three long strides across the marble floor and snatched up the brass-plated telephone. The number he dialed was unlisted. It was answered on the second ring by a man’s voice that confirmed the number but offered no greeting.
“This is Kincaid. I want to talk to Tresslar.”
The male receptionist did not respond verbally. He simply made the connection. A few minutes later a low-pitched voice with a thick southern accent answered.
“Yeah?”
“Tresslar?”
“You got it.”
Kincaid winced at the accent. “I have a job for your firm. Do you have someone available?”
“Sure. I always have a man available. Rates have gone up some since we last worked for you, though.”
“That’s not a problem as long as I get reliable service.”
“You got it.”
Kincaid described Jonas and the location of the restaurant in Sequence Springs. “His name is Quarrel. Jonas Quarrel. I want it to look like the work of a small-time thief who got scared and used his gun on his victim. That sort of thing happens all the time these days. The police can only investigate so far before they give up and wait for the thief to try his luck again.”
“You got it.”
Kincaid wondered how many more times he could deal with Tresslar before the accent got to him. “The money will be deposited to your account under the same arrangements as last time. Half up front. Half when the job is done.”
“How soon you want this done?”
“As soon as possible. This week, in fact.”
“You got it.” Tresslar hung up the phone.
Kincaid gritted his teeth and hung up his receiver. Then he stalked to the window.
There was no doubt about it. Quarrel had to be eliminated. He was turning into a major question mark. It appeared that he did indeed have the “touch.” And he was somehow involved with Caitlin Evanger. According to Hatch, he had been invited to the exclusive little get-together being held in two weeks at the house on the cliffs.
Quarrel could easily be representing a mysterious collector who wanted Bloodlust. But that wasn’t the reason Kincaid wanted him dead. Kincaid was confident he could compete financially against almost anyone. He had had Quarrel investigated only because he wanted to know in advance exactly what he would be up against. But now there was something more involved. Kincaid’s instincts were aroused at last.
Kin
caid wanted Quarrel dead because he had seen the look on Quarrel’s face when he held the dagger in his hand. For just a moment Quarrel’s cool, sardonic expression had been replaced with another. It was an expression of sudden, jarring recognition. It was as if Quarrel had somehow known the blade at once, not just as a fake but for what it was, the cause of a murder.
And then there had been that parting crack at the door about the ethics of the “dealer” who had sold Kincaid the dagger.
Kincaid watched the sailboats on the Bay and drummed his neatly manicured fingers on the glass.
Whoever Quarrel was, it was plain he knew too much. There was no question about it. Kincaid didn’t understand how or why, but he didn’t question his instincts. He had survived on those instincts for years and he trusted them implicitly. Better to be safe than sorry.
There were too many factors coming together lately, he reflected. Coincidence was acceptable up to a point, but one too many made a man nervous. The appearance of Quarrel, with his mysterious ability, was too much to swallow in addition to this business of having to go back to the house on the cliffs. Something dangerous was afoot. The more Kincaid thought about it, the more everything seemed to be slowly focusing around Jonas Quarrel.
It was very disquieting that Quarrel had picked out that single dagger from all the blades on the wall. It gave Kincaid a strange, hunted feeling.
Rumors stayed alive for years in the world of collecting. Eventually some of them became legends. Kincaid did not like the notion that his dagger might be the basis of some unfortunate rumors that led back to him.
It was definitely time to get rid of Jonas Quarrel.
And when he was finished with Quarrel, Kincaid decided, he just might make it a point to get to know the little redhead better. Something about her smile had revived the old thrilling lust, the kind he had once indulged in Sandquist’s house on the cliffs. He hadn’t been able to luxuriate in that side of his nature for a long while.
Chapter Fourteen
A deal for the dueling pistols was made with one Phillip J. Haggerty late Monday afternoon. Jonas presented the buyer’s check to Emerson Ames on Tuesday morning when he and Verity arrived back in Sequence Springs. Emerson kissed the check.
“I do believe you’ve saved my hind end, Jonas, old pal,” Emerson chortled. “Here, have a beer and tell me all about it.”
They were standing in Verity’s kitchen as she tried to set up for the luncheon crowd. Verity’s hands were full with a stack of stainless steel salad-mixing bowls. She glared at both men as she was forced to maneuver sideways to get around them. “Jonas can’t have a beer now. He has to help me with lunch.”
“Don’t pay any attention to her.” Jonas popped the top off the can and tipped back his head to take a long, thirsty swallow. “The Tuesday lunch crowd is the lightest of the week. She just needs something to complain about. You know how it is. Besides, I can wash dishes just as well drunk as sober.”
Her father chuckled richly, but Verity felt herself flushing as Jonas proceeded to give Emerson the tale of their visit to the city. She turned away to take a potato and pea salad out of the refrigerator. Normally she responded to Jonas’s cracks about her shrewishness with equanimity, but today, she discovered, his words hurt. Maybe she really was turning into a mean-spirited, fussy spinster.
Or maybe she was frequently sharp with Jonas because a part of her was trying to protect herself from the uncertain future she saw awaiting her. It was easier and far safer to yell at Jonas than to let herself fall in love with him.
But Verity was very much afraid her tactics weren’t working. She was scared to death that she had already fallen in love with Jonas. That knowledge seemed only to whet the edge of her tongue.
Jonas finished the tale of their trip to San Francisco, elaborating cheerfully on his brilliant handling of the negotiations.
“So that was that,” he concluded triumphantly. “After getting the price up another three thousand, I accepted Haggerty’s offer. After that, Verity and I went shopping for costumes for that damned Renaissance ball Evanger’s planning. Verity went crazy in the costume store, by the way. I had to forcibly restrain her at times. You should have seen the gown she wanted to rent. Scarlet and gold, and it was cut to her navel.”
“It was a beautiful gown. And very authentic. They wore lots of low-cut gowns during the Renaissance,” Verity defended herself as she added stone-ground mustard to her potato and pea salad.
“Who’s the authority on the Renaissance around here, anyway?” Jonas retorted. “That dress you wanted looked like it was designed for an expensive call girl.”
“I wanted to go as a Renaissance courtesan.”
Jonas smiled grimly. “Be grateful I didn’t rent the nun’s outfit for you.”
Verity raised her eyebrows as she looked at her father. “He was in a terrible mood when we went into the costume shop, even though he’d made that great deal for the pistols. He’d been annoyed with me ever since we left Kincaid’s office.”
“She kept smiling at the bastard,” Jonas muttered.
“I was only following orders. Your orders, Jonas,” Verity said pointedly. “You’re the one who told me to smile at the man, remember? I was supposed to play the part of a fluff-brained redhead.”
“You didn’t have to go overboard, dammit. He was looking at you the way a shark looks at a swimmer’s feet.”
Emerson held up a palm, seeking peace. “Children, children, that’s enough squabbling for now. This is too grand a day to ruin with bickering. Save your fighting for later.”
“Good idea,” Verity said. “I’m too busy to fight now anyway. But you haven’t heard the whole story of our little adventure, Dad. Jonas didn’t tell you that he tested himself again on a dagger that was hanging on the wall of Kincaid’s office.”
Emerson cocked a bushy brow. “Is that right? Same thing as when you handled the gun? A mental image in a long corridor?”
“The corridor seemed different this time,” Verity answered. “Vaguer, somehow. Less clear and defined. But there was a scene in it. A horrible one. It was an image of a man sprawled on a dinner table. Blood all over the linguini.”
Jonas studied the small print on his beer can. “I’ve been thinking about the lack of definition in the corridor itself,” he said slowly. “I wonder if it’s got something to do with the fact that the dagger and the scene we encountered were only a few years old. Maybe the psychic energy they generate is still coalescing and shaping itself. The thing is, I shouldn’t have been able to pick up on anything that recent.”
“Did you know the dagger was twentieth century when you asked Kincaid to let you handle it?” Verity asked.
Jonas nodded. “I was almost certain it was a reproduction. There was something about the look of the steel. The instant I touched it I knew it was contemporary, but at the same time it was giving off vibrations like crazy.” He shook his head. “I don’t understand it, unless…”
Verity bit her lip. “Unless what?”
He gave her a disturbingly direct look. “Unless being around you is having the same effect all that testing back at Vincent College did.”
“You mean your talent might be getting stronger?” Verity asked uneasily.
“Yeah.”
There was silence in the kitchen as they both considered the ramifications of that. Emerson looked curiously from one to the other. “Trouble?”
“Jonas considers his ability a mixed blessing,” Verity explained quietly. “But at least up until now it’s been limited to a certain era of the past. If he’s getting stronger in terms of range, he’s going to run into more and more objects that will trigger his trips into the corridor.”
“I get it,” Emerson drawled. “Could get to be a real nuisance, couldn’t it?”
“To put it mildly,” Jonas agreed. “Damn.” He crumpled the beer can in his hand
. “I could have done without this added complication.”
Verity felt a cold chill. She was the cause of this “added complication” in his life. Her fingers clenched tightly around the bowl in her hand. Jonas had been drawn to her originally because of her connection with his psychic ability. Maybe that was the very thing that would drive him away from her.
“The psychometry still seems to be limited to objects associated strongly with violence, though,” Jonas said thoughtfully. “I’m not picking up on just any old emotion, thank God.”
“What do you think that scene in the corridor was all about?” Emerson asked curiously.
“I don’t know,” Jonas said. “That’s the problem with these corridor scenes. I never get more than a few seconds of information. It’s like looking at a few frames on a reel of film. Probably the frames that show the single most violent moment associated with the object I’m holding. It’s the one image that’s most clearly captured, for some reason. Sometimes I feel like I’m part of the image. I know what’s going on around me for those few seconds. But other times, it’s like looking at a photograph of people I don’t know. That’s the way it was yesterday.”
“Don’t you have any theories about why that dagger elicited that particular image of a man bleeding into a plate of linguini?” Emerson persisted.
Jonas shrugged. “If I had to hazard a guess, I’d say we were probably looking at the former owner of the dagger at the moment when he lost possession of it to someone else. Or we could have been looking at someone who had just been stabbed with it.”
Verity was startled. “That’s funny. For some reason, I assumed the man had been shot.”
Jonas gave her a thoughtful glance. “Did you? It’s possible.”
Emerson shook his head. “This is incredible. I didn’t know what to think the night you tried that first test with the pistols and I still don’t. I tell myself I have an open mind, but Christ, this is stretching the limits of it, I’ll tell you. You do realize how bizarre this whole thing is, don’t you?”
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