"What'd the guy who went through the window look like? Did he have a patch on his left eye?" Jack held his breath as he waited for the answer.
"I haven't the faintest, Jack. Did you know the guy? I could find out his name for you."
"Thanks, Marta, but that won't help. Never mind."
After saying good-bye, he cradled the receiver and sat staring at the floor. In his mind's eye he was watching Kusum steal into a hospital room, grab a young man with a gauze patch over his left eye and casts on both arms, and hurl him through a window. But Jack couldn't buy it. He knew Kusum would have liked to do just that, but he couldn't see a one-armed man being capable of it. Especially not while he was busy spiriting his grandmother out of the hospital.
Irritably, he shook off the images and concentrated on his other problem: the disappearance of Grace Westphalen. He had nothing to go on but the unlabeled bottle of herbal fluid, and had only a vague gut suspicion that it was somehow involved. He didn't trust hunches, but he decided to follow this one for lack of anything better.
He picked up the bottle from where he’d left it on the oak hutch last night and unscrewed the cap. The odor was unfamiliar, but definitely herbal. He placed a drop on a fingertip and tasted it. Not bad. Only thing to do was to have it analyzed and see where it came from. Maybe by some far out chance it was connected to whatever had happened to Grace.
He picked up the phone again, intending to call Gia, then put it down. He couldn't bear to hear the ice in her voice. Not yet. Needed to do something else first: Call that crazy one-armed Indian and find out what he’d done with the old lady. He dialed the number Kusum had left on the office answerphone yesterday.
A woman answered, her voice was soft, unaccented, almost liquid. She told him Kusum was out.
"When will he be back?"
"This evening. Is...is this Jack?"
"Uh, yes." He was startled and puzzled. "How did you know?”
Her laugh was musical. "Kusum said you'd probably be calling. I'm Kolabati, his sister. I was just going to call your office. I want to meet you, Repairman Jack."
"And I want to know where your grandmother is!"
"On her way to India," she said lightly, "where she will be cared for by our own doctors."
Jack was relieved but still annoyed. "That could have been arranged without sneaking her out the back door or whatever you did."
"Of course. But you do not know my brother. He always does things his way. Just like you, from what he tells me. I like that in a man. When can we meet?"
Something in her voice caused his concern for the grandmother to fade into the background. He old lady was, after all, under medical care...
"Are you staying in the States long?" he asked, temporizing.
He had a rule that once he was through with a job, he was through. But he had an urge to see what sort of face went with that seductive voice. And come to think of it, this woman wasn't a customer—her brother was.
Jack, you should have been a lawyer.
"I live in Washington, DC I rushed up as soon as I heard about grandmother. Do you know where the Waldorf is?"
"Heard of it."
"Why don't we meet in Peacock Alley at six?"
I do believe I'm being asked out for a date. Well, why not.
"Sure. How'll I know you?"
"I'll be wearing white."
"See you at six."
He hung up, wondering at his reckless mood. Blind dates were not his style.
But now for the hard part: a call to Gia.
He dialed Nellie's number. After precisely two rings, Eunice answered with "Paton residence," and called Gia to the phone at Jack's request. He waited with a curious mixture of dread and anticipation.
"Hello?" Her voice was cool, businesslike.
"How'd things go last night?"
"That's none of your business, Jack!" she said, her voice rising in anger. "What right have you got to pry into—"
"Hey!" he said. "I just want to know if there's been any ransom note or phone calls or any word from Grace! What the hell's the matter with you?"
"Oh...sorry. Nothing. No word at all. Nellie's really down. Got any good news I can tell her?"
"Afraid not."
"Are you doing anything?"
"Yeah."
"What?"
"Detective stuff. You know, tracing clues, following up leads. That kind of thing."
Gia made no reply. Her silence was eloquent enough. And she was right; wisecracks were out of place.
"I don't have much to go on, Gia, but I'll be doing what ever can be done."
"I don't suppose we can ask for more than that," she said finally, her voice as cool as ever.
"How about lunch today?"
"No, Jack."
"A late dinner, then?"
"Jack..." The pause here was long; it ended with a sigh. "Let's just keep this businesslike, okay? Just business. Nothing has changed. Any lunches you want to have, you have them with Nellie. Maybe I'll come along, but don't count on it. Capisce?"
"Yeah."
He fought an urge to rip the phone out of the wall and hurl it out the nearest window. But he made himself sit there, say a polite good-bye, hang up, and place the phone gently on the table, right where it belonged.
He forcefully removed Gia from his thoughts. He had things to do.
2
Gia put down the phone and leaned against the wall. She’d almost made a fool out of herself a moment ago when Jack had asked her how things had gone last night. She'd suddenly had a vision of him tailing her and Carl to the restaurant and from the restaurant to Carl's place.
They’d made love for the first time last night. She hadn't wanted their relationship to get that far this soon. She’d promised herself to take this one slow, to refuse to rush or to be rushed. After all, look what had happened with Jack. But last night she’d changed her mind. Tension had been building in her all day since seeing Jack, building until she’d felt it was going to strangle her. She’d needed someone. And Carl was there. And he wanted her very much.
In the past she’d gently refused his invitations back to his place. But last night she’d agreed. Everything had been right. The view of the city from his windows had been breathtaking, the brandy smooth and burning in her throat, the lighting in his bedroom so soft it had made her bare skin glow when he’d undressed her, making her feel beautiful.
Carl was a good lover, a patient, skilled, gentle, considerate lover.
But nothing happened last night. She’d faked an orgasm in time with his. She didn't like herself for that, but it had seemed like the right thing to do at the time. Carl had done everything right. It wasn't his fault she hadn't even come close to the release she needed.
All Jack's fault.
Seeing him again had got her so uptight she couldn't have enjoyed Carl last night if he’d been the greatest lover in all the world. And he was certainly a better lover than Jack.
No...that wasn't true. Jack had been good. Very good. There had been times when they’d spent the whole night—
Nellie's front doorbell rang. Since Gia was passing by, she answered it.
A messenger from Carl to pick up the artwork she’d told him about last night. And something for her: a bouquet of mums and roses. She handed the messenger the artwork and opened the enclosed card as soon as the door was closed. I'll call you tonight. A nice touch. Carl didn't miss a trick. Too bad—
"What lovely flowers!"
Gia snapped alert at the sound of Nellie's voice.
"Yes, aren't they. From Carl. That was Jack on the phone, by the way. He wanted to know if there'd been any word."
"Has he learned anything?"
Gia shook her head, pitying the almost childish eagerness in the old woman's face. "He'll let us know as soon as he does."
"Something awful has happened, I just know it."
"You know nothing of the kind," Gia said, putting her arm around Nellie's shoulders. "This is probably all a big mi
sunderstanding.
"I hope so. I really do." She looked up at Gia. "Would you do me a favor, dear? Call the Mission and send them my regrets. I won't be attending the reception tomorrow night. "
"You should go."
"No. It would be unseemly."
"Don't be silly. Grace would want you to go. And besides, you need a change of scenery. You haven't left this house all week."
"What if she calls?"
"Eunice is here to relay any messages."
"But to go out and have a good time—"
"I thought you told me you never had a good time at these affairs."
Nellie smiled, and that was good to see.
"True...quite true. Well, I rather suppose you're right then. Perhaps I should go. But only on one condition."
"What's that?"
"You go with me."
Gia was startled at the request. The last thing in the world she wanted to do on a Saturday night was stand around in a room full of UN diplomats.
"No. Really. I couldn't—"
"Of course you can!"
"But Vicky is—"
"Eunice will be here."
Gia racked her brain for excuses. There had to be a way out of this.
"I've nothing to wear."
"We'll go out and buy something."
"Out of the question!"
Nellie pulled a handkerchief out of a pocket and dabbed her lips. "Then I shan't be going either."
Gia did her best to glare angrily at Nellie, but only managed to hold the expression for a few seconds before breaking into a smile.
"All right, you old blackmailer—"
"I resent being called old."
"—I'll go with you, but I'll find something of my own to wear."
"You'll come with me tomorrow afternoon and put a dress on my account. If you're to accompany me, you must have the proper clothes. And that's all I shall say on the matter. We shall leave after lunch."
With that, she turned and bustled away toward the library. Gia watched her with a mixture of affection and annoyance. Once again she’d been outflanked by the old lady from London.
3
Jack walked in the main entrance of the Waldorf at six precisely and trotted up the steps to the bustling lobby. Despite a hectic day he’d managed to get here on time.
He’d arranged for analysis of the contents of the bottle he’d found in Grace's room, then had gone down to the streets and looked up every shady character he knew—and he knew more than he cared to count. No talk anywhere about anybody snatching a rich old lady.
By late afternoon he’d been drenched with sweat and feeling gritty all over. He’d showered, shaved, dressed, and cabbed over to Park Avenue.
Jack had never had a reason to go to the Waldorf before so he didn't know what to expect from this Peacock Alley where Kolabati wanted to meet him. To be safe, he’d invested in a lightweight cream-colored suit and a pinkish shirt and paisley tie to go with it—at least the salesman said they went with it. He thought at first he might be overdoing it, then figured it would be hard to overdress for the Waldorf. From his brief conversation with Kolabati he sensed she’d be dressed to the nines.
Jack absorbed the sights and sounds of the lobby as he walked through it. All races, all nationalities, all ages, shapes, and sizes milled or sat about. To his left, behind a low railing and an arch, people sat drinking at small tables. He walked over and saw a little oval sign that read “Peacock Alley.”
He glanced around. If the Waldorf lobby were a sidewalk, Peacock Alley would be a sidewalk café, an air-conditioned model sans flies and fumes. He didn't see anyone at the outer tables who fit his image of Kolabati. He studied the clientele. Everyone looked well heeled and at ease. Jack felt very much out of his element here. This was not his scene. He felt exposed standing here. Maybe this was a mistake—
“A table, sir?"
A middle-aged maître d'hôtel was at his shoulder, looking at him expectantly. His accent was French with perhaps a soupçon of Brooklyn.
"I think so. I'm not sure. I'm supposed to meet someone. She's in a white dress and—"
The man's eyes lit up. "She is here! Come!"
Jack followed him into the rear section, wondering how this man could be so sure he had the right party. They passed a series of alcoves, each with a sofa and stuffed chairs around a cocktail table, like tiny living rooms all in a row. The paintings on the wall added to the warm, comfortable atmosphere. They turned into a wing and were approaching its end when Jack saw her.
He knew then why there had been no hesitation on the part of the maître d'hôtel, why there could be no mistake. This was The-Woman-in-the-White-Dress. She might as well have been the only woman in the room.
She sat alone on a divan against the rear wall, her shoes off, her legs drawn up sideways under her as if she were sitting at home listening to music—classical music, or maybe a raga. A wine glass half full of faintly amber liquid swirled gently in her hand. She bore a strong family resemblance to Kusum but was younger, late twenties, perhaps. She had bright, dark, wide-set, almond-shaped eyes, wide cheekbones, a fine nose dimpled over the flare of the left nostril where perhaps it had been pierced to set a jewel, and smooth, flawless, mocha-colored skin. Her hair too was dark, almost black, parted in the middle and curled at the side around her ears and the nape of her neck. Old-fashioned but curiously just right for her. She had a full lower lip colored a deep glossy red. And all that was dark about her was made darker by the whiteness of her dress.
The necklace was the clincher, though. Had Jack the slightest doubt about her identity, the silvery iron necklace with the two yellow stones laid it immediately to rest.
She extended her hand from where she was seated on the couch. "It's good to see you, Jack."
Her voice was rich and dark, like her; and her smile, so white and even, was breath taking. She leaned forward, her breasts swelling against the thin fabric of her dress as it shaped itself around the minute nipple-bulge centered on each. She did not seem to have the slightest doubt as to who he was.
"Ms. Bahkti," he said, taking her hand. Her nails, like her lips, were a deep red, her dusky skin soft and smooth as polished ivory. His mind seemed to go blank. He really should say something more. "I see you haven't lost your necklace."
That sounded good, didn't it?
"Oh, no. Mine stays right where it is!" She released his hand and patted the cushion next to her. "Come. Sit. We've much to talk about."
Close up, her eyes were wise and knowing, as if she’d absorbed all the wonders of her race and its timeless culture.
The maître d’hôtel did not call a waiter but stood by quietly as Jack took his place beside Kolabati. It was possible that he was a very patient man, but Jack noticed that his eyes never left Kolabati.
"May I get m'sieur something to drink?" he said when Jack was settled.
Jack looked at Kolabati's glass. "What's that?"
“Kir.”
He wanted a beer, but this was the Waldorf. "I'll have one of those."
She laughed. "Don't be silly! I’ll bet you prefer beer."
“Well, yes. But only two kinds.”
“Which are?”
“Foreign and domestic.”
She laughed again. “Do foreign.”
"Okay. Corona—no lime.”
What he really wanted was a Rolling Rock.
"Very good." The maître d’hôtel finally went away.
"How'd you know I like beer?" The confidence with which she’d said it made him uneasy.
"A lucky guess. I was sure you wouldn't like kir." She studied him. "So...you're the man who retrieved the necklace. It was a seemingly impossible task, yet you did it. I owe you a debt of undying gratitude."
"It was only a necklace."
"A very important necklace."
"Maybe, but it's not as if I saved her life or anything."
"Perhaps you did. Perhaps return of the necklace gave her the strength and the hope to go on livi
ng. It was very important to her. Our whole family wears them—every one of us. We're never without it."
"Never?"
"Never."
Full of eccentricities, these Bahktis.
The Corona arrived, delivered by the maître d’hôtel himself, who poured the first glassful, lingered a moment, then wandered off with obvious reluctance.
"You realize, don't you," Kolabati said as Jack quaffed a few ounces, "that you have made two lifelong friends in the past 24 hours: my brother and myself."
"What about your grandmother?"
"Her, too, of course. Do not take our gratitude lightly, Jack. Not mine. And especially not my brother's—Kusum never forgets a favor or a slight."
"Just what does your brother do at the UN?"
Jack hated small talk. He really wanted to know all about Kolabati, but didn't want to appear too interested.
"I'm not sure. A minor post." She must have noticed Jack's puzzled frown. "Yes, I know—he doesn't seem to be a man who'd be satisfied with any sort of minor post. Believe me, he isn't. Back home his name is known in every province. "
"Why?"
"He is the leader of a new Hindu fundamentalist movement. He and many others believe that India and Hinduism have become too westernized. He wants to return to the old ways. He's been picking up a surprising number of followers over the years and developing considerable political clout.”
"Sounds like the Christian Right over here. What is he—the Oral Roberts of India?"
Kolabati's expression became grim. "Perhaps more. His singleness of purpose can be frightening at times. Some feared his rapid rise to power, which was why everyone was shocked last year when he suddenly requested diplomatic assignment at the London Embassy. It was granted immediately—no doubt the government was delighted to have him out of the country. Recently he was transferred her to the UN—again at his request. I'm sure his followers and adversaries back home are mystified, but I know my brother. I'll bet he's getting enough international experience under his belt so he can go home and become a credible candidate for a major political office. But enough of Kusum..."
Jack felt Kolabati's hand against his chest, pushing him back against the cushions.
"Get comfortable now," she said, her dark eyes boring into him, "and tell me all about yourself. I want to know everything, especially how you came to be Repairman Jack."
The Tomb (Repairman Jack) Page 10
