I took my seat in the chair, lay my .45 across my lap, and waved her to the chair where Louise Warrington Paul had given me some of the news of the day. Felicia Carr chuckled, more in memory of my curious personal idiosyncrasies than because she thought the situation was funny. She was too clear-eyed a young modern to ever think murder was amusing. So she sat down, crossed her long legs, and gingerly rested her broken arm as best she could. The cigarette poking from her curved red lips with tendrils of smoke lazily curling up past her exquisite face made her look like a two-page spread from Vogue. I tried not to think about her multiple charms and waited to hear her story. Funny, but she looked like she'd lost about five pounds since the last time we met.
She hadn't known about poor Blassingame until I slipped the information in during her story. The news came as a shock to her.
It took her only five minutes to tell me all she knew. In substance, she verified practically everything that my Robin Hood-hatted old lady had told me. Great Britain had put their ABM program and ours on microfilm, it had been stolen by the Reds and then been repossessed by the CIA in New York. As far as Felicia Carr knew, the CIA had asked for some kind of official White House help, and that's where I had come in. The President had suggested me as the pick-up man. Felicia didn't know whose idea was the ball as a receptacle for the secret and all the elaborate folderol at Shea Stadium with me winning it at a Diamond Club table. All she did know was that her superiors has asked her to coordinate her activities with Louise Warrington Paul—the Louise Warrington Paul, it developed—one of the most renowned names in espionage circles and a legend in the British undercover branches of service. So Felicia had contacted Dame Paul here at Sniffin Court, made their plans for the Stadium. It seemed the ball was in the possession of other CIA agents who were making the complicated arrangements.
Dame Paul planned to meet Felicia at Shea; when she positively identified me (because she knew me) as the recipient of the precious ball. So the spy ladies had split up, planning to rendezvous at Number Nine later that night. But, my lady Carr, foolishly taking the BMT to get to Flushing Meadow and the ball park, instead of taking a direct bus from Port Authority had been waylaid in the BMT station on West Forty-second Street. Dmitri and Aloyesha had nearly killed her and fled back to their rat holes. Felicia, rushed to Bellevue, given morphine to ease the pain of a broken arm, had never made it to the Diamond Club to meet me. Though man-girl Blassingame had delivered the message. It was obvious, if not a fact, that another Red agent had knifed him at the park. Nobody could know for certain what had happened to cause Blassingame's death. At any rate, I got the message, went up to the Diamond Club, won the ball from Seymour Joy (who it seems was another CIA man with a gift for impersonating officials of any kind, and had no connection with the Diamond Club whatsoever), and started back home after creating the smoking ruse to get out of Shea with a full hide. But the great manhuntress of Great Britain, knowing that Felicia had not showed up and something had gone wrong, had Mustanged me from Shea all the way to the office.
Felicia Carr had come off the effects of the morphine slowly. With a raging headache and no strength, she had lain in her hotel room at the Taft most of that afternoon, incommunicado and out of touch with anyone connected with the operation. She had finally put in an appearance, long after the fandango of Dmitri and Aloyesha and the startling attempt of Dame Paul's to plant me among the poppies of any cemetery you care to name.
It was one helluva story, all right, made absolutely no sense at all, and my skepticism must have been written all over my face. Felicia frowned, her black brows knitting marvelously.
"You don't look very happy with my story, Edward."
"I'm not. And don't call me Edward this week. Your nice old lady-spy shot me as she left this room. Right after killing those poor slobs on the floor with a handbag that was straight out of James Bond. She called me Edward all the time after I got her to stop calling me Johnny."
Felicia frowned even wider.
"Lady Warrington shot you? But that's ridiculous!"
"It is. Could you give me an explanation why, I wonder."
"Unless she thought—no, it doesn't make sense. Why should she turn on you?"
"Unless she thought what—come on, spill it all."
Felicia Carr puffed on her cigarette.
"I know it's hard to take, but this espionage game is rather rough at times. There are so many double dealings, false faces. Lady Warrington could have been doubtful about you, especially after these two showed up the way you said they did. And my not putting in an appearance—well——" She tried a smile. "This also will sound ridiculous. I think she doubted you, all right, but she left room for safety. You say she killed these two men with her loaded handbag and then shot you. Ed, that woman is the most miraculous shot with hand weapons you'd ever want to see. Her ID card is a wonder. Perfect scores on all the hand guns. I think she deliberately creased you the way she did."
"For crying out loud," I growled. "What kind of logic is that? And who the hell is she to take such a chance? A jerk either way, and she'd have blown the top of my head off!" I simmered down and stared across the room at the loveliest spy in the world. "All right. Let's say that's how it was or might have been. But is there any possibility that your Lady Warrington is a double agent? That she might be working for somebody else now?"
Felicia shuddered. "Good Lord, no. Never! That woman's as British as Churchill. She's got roast beef for a heart and Yorkshire pudding in her bones. It's out of the question."
"Maybe so," I admitted. "But you're the one that says double dealings and false faces come with the spy racket. And those dead goons on the floor were about to tell me something about what was in that baseball that completely contradicts what you and Dame Paul told me. They were making out that the U.S.S.R. was the injured party. And that was precisely when that nice old lady stopped being a frightened bunny and turned into a roaring wildcat and shot them both dead. Think about that, will you?"
She shook her dark hair violently. "I don't have to think about it, Ed. The idea is unthinkable."
"Okay. It's a dead end anyway, for now, so we'll let it go."
"I don't blame you for being suspicious—"
"I was born suspicious. Ever since they told me the stork delivered babies. Look, Felicia. That ball. If Dame Paul is on the up-and-up, then it's delivered, and this party is over, right? I mean, where do we go from here? The job is done—oh, the moles will still be looking around—but if the ball is where it belongs, what happens now?"
"I don't know, Ed. But she should get in touch with somebody to say it's All-Clear."
"Somebody like you?"
"Perhaps. Perhaps not. I'll report to my contact and see what gives. But I can't do that until tomorrow."
"I see. Everybody works in the dark. What a way to run a spy organization."
She bridled at that, and a brief glint of anger flashed in her eyes. She almost pointed her broken arm at me, defiantly.
"What about you, Eagle Scout?"
"Meaning?"
"What's your real connection with the Man? I've never been able to find that out no matter how much I've snooped around. You're either a high-class errand boy or a—I don't know what."
"That last is closest to the truth. Anyhow, I can't tell you. Not even you."
"Fine thing," she sniffed. "The woman you love."
"That's right. The woman I love."
She laughed, and I laughed. I took one more good look at her before beginning to think about what was next to do that would make sense for a pair of reunited lovers who also happened to be secret agents.
"What about Gotlieb? Blassingame's dying message. That name mean anything to you—if it is a name?"
"No but——" She frowned again. Frowning, she was twice as beautiful as most women are smiling. "I can't think of anyone connected in this mess by that name. And yet——"
"Don't stop now."
"Blassingame spoke German fluently. As most Engl
ish agents do. It's been that way since the beginning—thanks to the Channel and Germany and England being so close. Do you suppose——"
I saw her point and tried to pin it down before it got away. It jumped around in my mind like an elusive rabbit until I caught it by its tail. Then the light bulb went on.
"Yeah—a dying man, crazed, falling off the deep end into unconsciousness just might lapse into another language to say what he means in English. Gotlieb." I sounded the name. "Got lieb." I spaced the name in two syllables. My German is far from fluent and practically nil, as a matter of cold fact, but even I knew what I was saying. With or without two 't's.
"God and love," Felicia said, snapping her fingers.
"Check. Or Godlove."
She shook her head, sighing. "Even that name doesn't mean anything to me."
"All right. But Blassingame was trying to tell me something, and I'm sure it wasn't the name of his dentist."
"I'll ask the Navy," Felicia said. "You never can tell in these things. Remember, dying like that, he would be out of his head and could say just about anything—"
"Like Orson Welles and rosebud in Citizen Kane? No dice. Blassingame struck me as a pretty resourceful character. He was trying to tell me an important piece of information. When we find out what it is, I'll bet it's hotter'n hell."
"All right. If you say so. Now, I think we'd better get out of here. Take me back to my hotel?"
"Sure. If you'll stop at my place first. I've got the cutest pair of pajamas I want you to try on." Talk about unthinkable ideas. I wasn't about to lose sight of her now that we had been brought together again, even if it was by a governmental directive. Which reminded me. We'd had two stiffs long enough for company, and it looked like nobody was coming. I had to make a phone call first. Melissa Mercer's worried face had bobbed up beautifully and aggravatingly in my subconscious. I felt like ten kinds of a heel. I should have called her hours ago.
Felicia Carr laughed softly at my remark about the pajamas, and when I indicated I was going to use the phone, she blew me a kiss across her fingers and walked toward the bathroom. I dialed quickly, once she was gone. One thing I have never been very good at, for all my tricks and cunning, was talking to one woman I loved on the phone while I was with another one I loved. Nobody has ever pinned me down on the subject but there must be something wrong with me. I'm lousy at two-timing.
Melissa's voice was as worried, as I expected it to be.
"Stinker. You were going to call me right away—"
"Just wanted you to know I'm fine. I delivered the ball. It took too much time." It never even occurred to me I was talking in riddles.
"Where are you now?"
"Phone booth in Columbus Circle." I lied for no good reason. "Sorry I was so late. Tuck yourself in, and I'll see you in the morning at the office."
"Sure," she said, after a long, long pause. Her voice was almost wistful when she spoke again. 'Take care of yourself, Noon man."
"I will. And, Mel——"
"Yes?"
"I am sorry about calling so late—"
"Sure you are. You're sorry for everybody. That's your trouble. Bye, now." She hung up, and I couldn't stop staring at the phone. When Felicia came out of the bathroom, she looked down at me. The tenderness in her eyes was a travesty, it seemed to me right then and there.
"Melissa?"
"Yeah. She worries about me."
"She loves you, Ed."
"Yeah."
"And you love her."
"Cut it out," I growled, standing up and tugging my hat down over my eyes where she couldn't see them. "It's that kind of world. I don't belong to anybody. I grab what happiness I can—and you. What about you?" I almost glared at her. "Here today, gone tomorrow. What a reliable lover you are. I don't see you chucking all this intelligence crap just to spend your life with me."
She knew me as well as Melissa did. She didn't get mad, and she didn't fight back. She knew what I was doing to myself.
"You know you get green glints in your eyes every time you blow your top? You look beautiful in your wrath—"
"Cut it out," I mumbled. "And let's get the hell out of here."
We locked the front door behind us. Dmitri and Aloyesha slept on. The big sleep that never ends. Once more, I was on the stoop outside Number Nine. There were fewer lights in the surrounding apartments overhead. It had gotten very late. Almost a quarter to twelve. The courtyard was doubly bathed in moonlight now. It was a romantic spot all right. Not even the ghost of Nina walked the cobblestones anymore. Felicia Carr being with me somehow made the situation all right. Felicia knew all about Melissa. She had had to know. She understood, too. Maybe that was one of the things that made her such a very special girl. When you're in a profession that may end your life with a bullet any old day of the year, it probably calls for a special kind of intellect—a very unique sort of pragmatism that makes life bearable. I just don't know, though. Being between two beautiful women isn't the dream spot you'd think it was. I felt reasonably traitorous even though I could justify it a million ways from Sunday.
I shook the guilt off and escorted Felicia out to the sidewalk. The block was dark, poorly lighted. I looked for a cab. It was a cinch she hadn't come by car, either, with her arm the way it was. There was no time for regrets, really. I was still up to my armpits in a spy game that still didn't quite satisfy my fondness for a case with all the loose ends all tied up. This one had too many glaring holes in it. From top to bottom.
"Ed?"
No cab had come yet. I shivered in a mild nightly breeze and looked at her. She was standing close to me, hugging my arm, face turned up to me. There was no kind of expression on her face.
"Listening."
"I could still be dropped off at the Taft."
"You could be dropped off the top of the Empire State Building, too, if you don't shut up. You're coming home with me."
"Yes, sir."
"And let's shut up about it, huh?"
"Yes, sir." She squeezed my arm, and I felt fifty percent better. The other fifty would never be the same. Up the block, I saw the lights of a vacant cab, with the top light glowing, come cruising down the lane. I stepped out a little from Felicia and hailed it. The cab grated to a stop.
So I went home with one love clasped in my arms while another love slept off a bad night in her apartment on West End Avenue. Sometimes nothing comes out even. Ask any second-place ball club.
But all the way home something else stayed with me.
The nagging, refusing-to-go-away certainty that something was very much off-base in the entire operation of the autographed baseball. The one with all the Mets autographs scribbled around its leathery face.
Something wasn't kosher. Or Kiner or Murphy or Lindsey Nelson.
I didn't know what.
Felicia Carr obviously didn't know, either.
On that memorable night, the universe, as well as the moon, was up for grabs.
8
Three Strikes,
You're Dying!
We stood at the big windows facing Central Park West and stared down together at the vast mammoth darkness of the largest metropolitan shrub in the world. Beyond the forests, over on Central Park East, the numberless lights of distant tall buildings glowed steadily in the night. The lovely park, once a lovers' retreat in the long ago, was now nothing but a muggers' paradise. A place no longer safe to walk after sunset. But from my apartment, distance lent its enchantment, as usual. It was always quite a sight. With Felicia Carr's head nestling on my shoulder, the view was better than ever. A genuine peace filled me, despite the gnawing mysteries of this last fruitless caper. Maybe everything hadn't come out even, but at least we were together again. The ride home in the cab had been tranquil and unbroken by any talk. Even the cabbie had minded his own business, figuring he had a pair of hopeless lovers on his hands. I had tipped him handsomely when the ride was done. New York had been oddly quiet, too, on the way home. Pete, the friendly doorman in the lo
bby, had waved hello to me, smiled at Felicia, and seen us on in to the elevators. The whole last hour was a stunning reversal of the merry-go-round that had been going on since I left Shea. An oasis of tranquillity in a world of trouble. I didn't know quite how to handle the blessing. I so seldom get so much thinking time.
Felicia was no dope. She noticed it. She had to.
Not even a generous homemade Beefeater had loosened my tongue. I'd deliberately made it about three-to-one, but it was just one of those times when I couldn't have gotten tight if I had wanted to. The utter solemn stillness of the buildings and byways and cross-town traffic of Manhattan had been slightly unbelievable. It was as if the whole universe had slowed down to help me welcome Felicia Carr home.
"Ed?"
"Yeah."
"Tell me about it."
'Tell you what?"
"Why you're so quiet. You haven't even given me one hint what you've been doing all these months."
I laughed. "Too easy. Missing you."
She thanked me with a generous kiss on the mouth and then pushed away again.
"I hope I know that. But you know what I mean—any interesting cases?"
I shrugged. It all seemed so futile all of a sudden. A grown man still earning his coffee and cake being a snooper, a private investigator, a secret agent. It was almost laughable. I really didn't want to talk about it. Maybe it was my country, right or wrong, but I was just a mite fed up with the arrangement. Felicia's return and lying to Melissa had all of a sudden made me realize just how empty and solitary my life really was. Felicia could be gone again in the morning, just as she was last time, and I would go back to Mel, holding her off at arm's length, yet hitting her below the belt any time I felt like it. Black and white was fine, but I was missing an awful lot of gray in there somewhere. That's what was bugging me. I just didn't know.
"Ed——?" She was asking me again, and my brain had wandered off somewhere. I put my arms around her, laughed, and gently eased her broken arm to one side.
Little Miss Murder Page 8
