Content was alone in the foyer. She was just standing there; she looked small as a doll in her gray squirrel coat, gray squirrel blobs on her little girl’s beaver hat. She’d worn a hat like that when they took her to dancing school; it had ribbon not fur on it then.
He was truly surprised. It wasn’t Content’s hour of day. She lifted her face out of hat shadow and he was more surprised. Weeping had swollen her eyes to shapelessness. He started to her, shocked words in his mouth.
Her lips were not steady. “Ab’s dead.” She tried to say more but she couldn’t; she began to sob wildly, painfully. He held her against him. Her hat fell to the floor, her yellow head was far below his chin. He held her, not able to think, not understanding.
Ab was dead. He waited long until the spasm passed. She quivered, “I’ll tell you now.” She took the clean handkerchief he proffered, pressed it against her face.
He led her to the living-room couch. “Want a drink?”
She shook her head, blew her nose. “No. I won’t cry any more. I’ll tell you.” Her voice was husky as if her throat hurt. She said, “I tried to call you last night when Merrill phoned me. After the club. They called him and he called me. I tried to reach you.”
He let her tell it her own way. She’d tried to reach him, at two-thirty or three o’clock; he hadn’t been home. She’d wept all night alone. Little Content. He hadn’t known she’d loved Ab that way; he had known; she’d idolized her cousin always, he had been her big brother. Maybe when she grew up he’d been more than that but he didn’t know it. Ab would never have realized it.
Kit restrained the cry, “What happened?” Let her tell it.
“I thought you wouldn’t mind if I came to you. I didn’t want to be alone. The family’s in Florida.”
He put his arm around the narrow shoulders of her black dress.
“It’s in the papers.”
He saw where she’d left them on a chair in the foyer. Let the papers tell him. He walked to the black and white blur. The Times and Herald Tribune. It was on the front page, Ab’s young serious face. Abner Hamilton committed suicide in a Washington hotel room. The Hamilton pedigree. No explanation offered. Abner Hamilton shot and killed himself in a Washington hotel room. Clear case of suicide, fingerprints on the gun, correct angle of the bullet. No reason for it. The hotel story. Possibly happened Wednesday night. He hadn’t been seen since Wednesday night. He put in two telephone calls to New York early that evening. Between them he went out. His return not noted. A Do Not Disturb sign on the door all the next day. The night chambermaid, learning the room had not been done all day, opened the door on a passkey at eight-thirty P.M. Thursday. She found the body. An artist’s sketch of a figure sprawled on the floor.
Kit returned slowly to the living-room.
Content said, “He didn’t do it, Kit.”
“No, he didn’t do it.” He dropped the first section to the rug. If it had been any other way. They hadn’t known how Ab felt about a gun. Even if he’d been drinking heavily, he wouldn’t handle a gun. They’d made a small mistake. Would it be possible to convince the police of that, to employ their research and highly trained facilities to trap the man who murdered Ab? Or was it another job for Kit alone?
“He was in danger, Kit. He was more in danger than any of us knew.”
“Yes, Content.” He was trying to think, what to do first. Why had Ab been killed? What had he found out that made him an imminent menace? Trace it back. Why had he gone to Washington? That was the first question to be answered. The department in which he worked should know that.
She was sitting there staring at the small white hands in her black lap.
“Did you get any sleep, Content?”
“I don’t know. I must have slept a little. I’d been asleep when I decided to come to you.”
He put his hand over hers. “You can sleep now. I’m starting out. You’re going to bed.”
Without protest she went with him to his room. He opened a drawer, flung blue silk pyjamas across at her. “Undress and go to bed.” He pointed to the twin. “That one’s not been used. I’m leaving to find out some things.” He took his clothes into the bathroom.
Get Lotte first. He’d been with his mother to the sister’s cottage in Jersey. A suburb of West Orange. He could find the street. It meant time but it was necessary. If he intended to move Content in here—and he did—he’d need Lotte more than ever. He’d lost Ab; he didn’t intend to risk Content. She might know as much, more than Ab. She herself had said that everyone talked in front of her, didn’t think she caught on. But suppose they decided she was catching on? Suppose it was something she had repeated that had sent Ab to Washington?
He knocked on the bathroom door.
She said, “Come on out.” She was perched on the bed, a waif in the oversized pyjamas.
He said, “Can you sleep or shall I get something for you?”
“I believe I can sleep.” Her eyes were enormous. “Kit, why do you carry a revolver in your bathrobe pocket?”
She’d seen it after he’d removed the handkerchief. He said, “Good a place as any.” He transferred it to his jacket. He could leave the Luger here with Content in the room. He crossed to her, bent and kissed her head. “When I leave, lock yourself in.”
She began, “Is that why you—”
He interrupted. “Don’t worry about angles, love. I’ll take care of things now. Be back soon as I can.” He waited outside until he heard her turn the key, proceeded to the foyer closet for his overcoat and hat.
The letters were gone. He’d thought they would be. They’d turn up again. They weren’t very important. He wasn’t trying to play safe now; he was moving into the open. He rang for Elise.
He didn’t like her weasel face. He spoke flatly. “A friend of mine is using my room.” Content’s hat was a moon on the rug. “Do not disturb her for any reason whatever. Take all calls. Don’t let anyone in. I don’t know just what time I’ll be back—”
She began complaint. “I always have Friday afternoon off—”
His voice was harsh as cinders. “Stay here until I return. Then you can go.” For good.
She stammered. She had caught the assumption and she was a little afraid. “Of course I’ll stay, Mr. Kit. I didn’t mean I minded—”
He opened the door, repeated, “No matter who it is, you are not to disturb the lady under any circumstances.” He stressed the words.
“Oh, no, sir.” Her stupid eyes were great, enormous with not understanding him or anything.
The day man on the elevator was Nacks. He had been here before Kit’s return last year. He wasn’t a hireling.
Kit said, “If anyone calls while I’m out, get the name, will you? And tell them I’m not here.”
He took a cab to the Pennsylvania Station. So much to do but he must attend to this personally, waste precious time on the train. There was a half hour before the next run. He entered a phone booth, called the seventeenth precinct. Tobin wasn’t there. He obtained the number of his apartment. Tobin wasn’t there. He left his name. “I’ll call again.”
At Newark he took a cab to the bus terminal. Lotte’s name, description, meant something at her suburban drug store. And he was on the stoop of a tiny white clapboard cottage; under her cotton white hair, Lotte’s cookie face peered at him. Her strong arms reached up to his shoulders. “Mr. Kit. You are well again. You have arrived from the ranch, yes?”
“And you will come back and take care of me?”
“But yes, I come.” Her face was scornful. “That girl tell me she can attend to things while I rest. She could do nothing. She could not boil an egg.”
It was smooth; it worked. He waited, carried her old-world straw suitcase to bus, to train. He told her what he must of Ab, of Content.
“The poor little one.” She understood. You didn’t need many words with Lotte; she had understanding. Even if Elise were uninvolved in evil, you could never make her understand.
He asked, �
��Has Mother had Elise long, Lotte?”
“That girl.” Her face was red. “Your mother hire her only just before she leave. She do not even tell me. She send a letter from Florida she hire her and I may take a vacation. I do not need a vacation. But I go.” She was shaking. “I leave that girl to care for our things.”
Hurt, not consulted, not dreaming the letter might be forgery. Those after Kit were determined not to fail; forgery would be as simple as a suicide in their machinations. He wouldn’t wire his mother and Geoffrey about Elise; he’d let her stay, work under Lotte’s eagle eye. Better to know the enemy than to have a new and unknown watcher substituted. Elise could stay; she’d get away with nothing now.
It was only past noon when they reached New York; better time than he’d expected. He’d take Lotte up himself; he wouldn’t miss the new maid’s face.
She opened the door to his ring. It was worth seeing, the slack mouth, the amazed blankness.
He said, simply, hiding the grin, “Lotte’s come back.”
“Ja wohl, I come back.” She shoved the girl to pass to her own quarters.
Elise stood there. She hated him but she didn’t know what to do. She only obeyed directions; Kit had spoiled the pattern.
He looked straight at her. “Lotte will be in charge until Mrs. Wilhite returns. She has been here a great many years and knows how I wish things. You will take your orders from her.”
She could scarcely make words. “Yes, sir.”
He said, “You will not entertain your friends in the living-room again.” She could report that to her bosses, not that he suspected her true purpose here. He didn’t let her speak. “Has Miss Content rung?”
She said sullenly, “No.” The “sir” was faint.
“Any calls?”
“No, sir.”
“You will take any calls while I am out. Please tell Lotte I will not expect any dinner here tonight. I know that no food has been ordered. I looked last night.”
He let her go then and she sped. He scribbled a note on the phone pad, “It’s safe to come out. Lotte is here. Ring if you want anything.” He tore it away, went softly down the corridor and forced it under the door of his room.
He still couldn’t reach Tobin. But there was something else he must find out today. He thought Carlo Lepetino would know the answer. Louie’s uncle had some reason for pleading with Kit to return to the restaurant. He knew something. The sea shell souvenirs that Kit had shipped from Lisbon to Louie were not at Poppa’s apartment and Jake knew nothing of them. Carlo knew something.
He didn’t take a cab this time. Now that he realized how complete their preparations were, he’d be careful when and where he rode from the apartment. He walked over to Lexington, used the subway to 59th.
He walked again; he needed the cold air, needed to think. He didn’t realize his hunger until the food scents of Carlo’s made him light-headed. He sat at a table, ordered a meal. Only when he had wolfed and gulped did he speak the name.
“He is in the kitchen. I will call him.”
“I’ll go out there.”
The dark-haired boy hesitated. He had to be a cousin; he had the shape of Louie’s face. Kit gave his name. It was admission to where Carlo stirred a long spoon in a bubbling cauldron.
Kit said softly, “Louie gave you something to keep, something I sent to him.”
The soft brown eyes weren’t sad; they were eager. “I was to keep this until you asked, saying nothing.”
Kit had penciled to Louie, “Some day I may be an Indian giver.” Louie understood. He asked now, “You have them? You didn’t throw them out?”
Carlo’s face was proud. “They are here. See?”
On the wall shelf above their heads, the shells were scattered. They did not intrude. There were other shells, tankards, pottery, souvenirs.
“Louie himself he put them here, see?”
Kit knew the one, the large one. He reached up, thrust it deep into his overcoat pocket. “I don’t want the others. You can throw them out.” They’d gather dust; Louie had put them there.
The uncle asked with hope, “You know who killed our Louie?”
“I know.” He grinned. “I will find him.” He was sure of himself now. He had the bait to dangle before their greed.
2.
The housemaid’s eyes were red. He handed her his hat, removed the large sea shell from his pocket with a gesture, gave her the coat.
“Any calls?”
She was frightened. Her hands fumbled with the hat. “Yes, sir.” She had her tongue. “Inspector Tobin telephoned.”
He wrote the two numbers. “See if you can get him on the wire for me.”
His whistle was jaunty. “The minstrel boy to the wars …” He thumped his door. “Awake, Content?”
Her little voice said, “Yes.” She opened to him. Her eyes weren’t so swollen. She said, “I slept.” The blue pyjama sleeves fell over her hands.
He directed, “Climb back in and rest.” He pushed the bell.
Elise came quickly. “Ask Lotte to fix some food for Miss Content before you make those calls. And bring me a hammer.”
Content said, “I’m not hungry.”
“You need something.” Lotte could fix something out of nothing. He waited until the maid departed. “You’ll have to eat to help me. You want to help, don’t you?”
“You know that.”
“I want you to move from your apartment later on today when you feel up to it.”
Her eyes rounded. He turned the shell in his hands. He could see the break, where he had cemented it carefully together.
“I don’t want you to stay there alone any longer.”
She said, “I can’t go home, Kit. They disapprove. Father said if I insisted on being a night club singer it would not be from his home.”
“I want you to move in here.” He watched her to see if she’d take it. She did, surprised but with no rejection. “I don’t know that you’re not safe. But I don’t want to take any chances. The one I’m after knows someone on your floor; I think it’s José.”
“Yes. It’s José.”
His face lit. “You know the man?”
“No, Kit.” She shook her head. “But José did have company. Wednesday night. I asked him yesterday. He said it was a frightful annoyance having the police come—it made the place look bad to visitors.”
“You didn’t ask who?”
“No. I’ve been careful not to be curious. José is very curious. He asks me many things.”
“About—” The name had to be spoken. “Ab?”
She wet her lips. “Yes. And about you—”
“Did you tell him Ab was going to Washington?”
“No, Kit.” She was sad. “I have been very careful what I have told José.”
Elise was standing there. “You asked for a hammer, sir?” She spoke as if he’d asked for a boa constrictor.
“Thank you.” He took it. “Get those calls through right away.” He locked the door behind her. Content was curious. He tapped at the crack on the shell, tapped until the two halves fell apart. The dirty brown lozenge was where he had placed it almost four years ago in a Lisbon hotel room.
Content’s eyebrows were arcs.
He told her, “Wait until I remove the mud.” He’d caked it over and over with the clayed earth. The hot running water washed the covering away. Content was peering around his arm. For the moment, her grief was forgotten. She sucked in her breath when the gem appeared, the moonstone, the fire opal. More blazing than any known in fact or fiction. An opal of antiquity burning blue and flame and pearl. She held it in her fingers with awe.
Elise was tapping again. He warned, “Keep it out of sight,” went into the bedroom and opened the door.
The girl wasn’t poking her eyes about now. She said, “Inspector Tobin is on the phone, sir.”
He closed the door in her face. Let her think he was going to turn her over to the police.
Tobin said, “I tried to rea
ch you earlier, McKittrick.”
Kit said. “I’d like to see you.”
“I’d like to see you.”
He made it the Crillon, eight o’clock. It wasn’t yet five. The constant Elise was back again with the tray. He handed her the hammer without explanation, again locked the door. Maybe she’d bolt after this disconnected day. He didn’t care.
Content emerged fondling the stone. “Where did you get it? What are you going to do with it?” She handed it to him and went to the table.
“I got it in Spain.” He turned it, watching the colors change. He spoke slowly, “I’m going to give it to a woman. To Toni Donne.”
She was astonished; she’d expected Barby’s name.
“Don’t eat too much. We’re dining with Tobin.” He didn’t look at her. He said harshly, “I’m going to fall madly in love with Toni Donne.” His heart wrenched with bitterness. He hardened himself to all feeling. “In fact I fell madly in love with her last night. She doesn’t know it yet. Tomorrow I shall tell her and give her this.”
Content shook her head.
He poured a drink from the decanter. “When I get it back, I’ll give it to you.”
She pushed away the food. He’d spoiled her taste. But he’d see she ate a good dinner. She said simply, “I don’t believe I’d ever want it, Kit.”
He wrapped a handkerchief around the glow, buried it in his pocket.
“I’ll clear out while you dress. We’ve time to move you before dinner. You won’t work at the club tonight?”
She held her lips firm. “I must.”
She wasn’t long. They were silent returning to her apartment.
He told her, “Don’t try to pack much. We’ll send Elise down tomorrow to finish the job.” He looked with curiosity into the hallway. “You think your fiddler might be in?”
Fallen Sparrow Page 11
