“Just let me go,” she pleaded.
“Go.” He stepped aside.
But as she tried to pass him, he caught her, pulled her around and kissed her, forcing her back to the closed door.
Jan yielded, as though that might gain her time, or some position of advantage, but with the thrust of his tongue between her lips, its probe of her clenched teeth, she broke away.
A few feet apart, they stood and stared at each other. He took his cigarette case from his pocket, opened it, and closed it again. He put it away without taking a cigarette. “Do you mind telling me what you were doing in my room?”
“I was looking for a book.”
He began to laugh, as though at the ridiculousness of the excuse. He stopped. “Nancy’s book? Why? Am I not allowed to have it?” Slowly his whole expression changed; he understood. “Salomé, you’re jealous! You weren’t flirting with me. It was an act. And me thinking all the time I was the object of your affections…Eddie, my boy, you’re slipping. You should have caught that—no vibes, no sparks…”
Jan went to the door with as good grace as she could manage. Her main feeling was relief, and at the heart’s core, something almost pleasurable. At the sound of the suitcase zipper she glanced back.
“Look here, Salomé. I’m left-handed. You’ve put the book back in the wrong corner.” He plunged his hand into the case and brought out the chamois bag. “Ha! I’ve found the surprise.” He weighed the bag in his hand, opened a compartment, and closed it again after a quick, pretended glimpse at what was in it. “Nancy’s jewelry? Surely not.” Slowly then in mock wonderment: “By God, I’d never have believed such mischief in a grown woman. You are a Salomé. You wanted my head.”
Jan felt faint. Her whole body was perspiring. She pulled at the bolt and skinned her knuckles when it gave.
“Wait,” he said as she stepped out of the room. “Listen to me for a minute.”
Jan paused.
“Why don’t you put these back—wherever they came from—and neither of us needs ever say a word.” He brought her the bag.
Jan took it from him and went into the master bedroom where she put the jewelry, piece by piece, back in the ivory box on Nancy’s dressing table. She tucked the chamois bag into the side drawer where Nancy kept it.
He was waiting at the stairs, smiling. He offered her his left hand, as to a child, the suitcase in his right. “No hard feelings. Come on now, give me your hand and no hard feelings.”
Jan gave it to him as though it were a bribe.
“I’ll bet Nancy doesn’t even know,” he said. “What fun.”
A bribe for what?
With a crack-of-the-whip wrench she whirled him from his feet. He let go of her hand, trying to save himself, but while she fell backward, he hurtled down the stairs, the suitcase clattering after him. She listened for a few seconds and then picked herself up. All she could hear was the pounding of her own heart. The suitcase was lodged between his sprawled legs at the turn in the stairs, the rest of him out of sight from where she stood.
Jan went down carefully. When she stooped and looked into his face Dorfman’s lashes fluttered like a wounded butterfly, but the baby blue eyes only stared. His cigarette case had flown out of his pocket, and a lighter. Jan was stepping round them when she blacked out.
Her first awareness was of rock music, the shattering beat of it breaking through what had seemed a silvery stillness. She was walking across the bridge on the ravine path, the moonlight more vivid than seemed natural. Her mind was crystal clear except that she could not understand why she was going in that direction when she had intended to go home. Then everything came back up to the moment of the blackout. She sat down on the bridge and said what she knew to be a futile prayer, that it was all a dream.
She got up after a few minutes and returned to the party going in the way she had come out, through the French doors onto the garden. Fred was standing just indoors, his pipe in hand, watching the disco dancing.
“No,” Fred said when she approached.
“No, what?”
“I won’t dance.”
“Who asked you?” He had not even missed her.
Nancy and Dick were dancing together, very athletic, the best-looking couple among a lot of very chic and handsome people. The Big Band crowd had all gone home.
“Come on,” Fred said. “You’re pouting. Let’s get into the action.” He knocked out his pipe and put it in his pocket.
“I don’t think so,” Jan said after a tremendous effort inside herself. “Why don’t you ask Liz Toomey?”
“Why do you always try to make me dance with somebody else?”
“I don’t always,” Jan said.
“I don’t suppose you want to go home yet?”
“Soon,” she said.
It was after three when Dick and Nancy Adams drove home. They were surprised to see Dorfman’s rented car still in the driveway. He had told them at the party he’d been able to get on a delayed flight taking off from Kennedy at two.
By the time the police came, Dick was fairly sure of what had happened, that Eddie had banged his suitcase into the railing and then lost his balance when it caromed into his legs at the top of the stairs. He did not touch anything, of course. When the police arrived he went into the study with Nancy.
“Poor, poor man,” Nancy kept saying. “Poor restless man. Why couldn’t he have waited until morning the way he’d planned?”
Dick sat with his head in his hands.
The police officer in charge came in presently and closed the door behind him. He asked more questions than seemed necessary to Nancy. He did not seem satisfied that Dorfman had left the party alone. She assured him that she had walked to the end of the Winthrop driveway with him.
He turned to Dick and asked him if he could identify the little silver-framed picture which, to all appearances, like the cigarette case and the lighter, had been jarred out of Dorfman’s pocket in the fall.
“Yes, I can,” Dick said heavily. “It’s trick pornography and it belongs to Tom Winthrop.”
“Are you saying the deceased stole it, Mr. Adams?”
“I’m not, but I think it’s possible.”
“Is it valuable? Was it valuable?” the police officer corrected himself.
“Yes.”
“And did you notice it when you discovered the body?”
“Yes, sir, I noticed it.”
“It looks like somebody ground a heel into it, doesn’t it?”
“I only noticed that it was smashed,” Dick said.
“A woman’s heel, I’d say, but we can’t be sure until we get some measurements and pictures.” He turned back to Nancy. “I’d like to have the shoes you’re wearing, Mrs. Adams, if you don’t mind.”
“Mine?” Nancy said.
“Well, ma’am, we’ve got to start somewhere.”
1980
The Devil and His Due
THOMAS MACINTOSH GORDON III was learning a great deal about the devil, especially for someone about to turn fifteen. He had chosen as his subject for a Religious Studies term paper, “The Devil and All His Works.” The reason he chose the devil—as opposed to such possibilities as St. Francis of Assisi (at least four of his classmates chose St. Francis), the Augustinian Hermits, the Spanish Inquisition, Savonarola, or John Knox, was the premonition of boredom as he pondered them. His religious instructor sanctioned his choice for the same reason: there was no more disruptive influence at St. Christopher’s Preparatory School in east Manhattan than Thomas Macintosh Gordon III when he was bored.
Thomas had to have special letters from both the school and his parents in order to gain access to the rare books he wished to see at the New York Public Library and the Morgan Library. The permissions having been granted at the top, the staffs extended him the privileges of a scholar. He accepted gravely and concentrated with all his might. But sometimes, to ease the feeling of gravity, he would stop off at one or another of the Fifth Avenue bookstores to sear
ch out more modern literature giving the devil his due. Most of it couldn’t hold a candle to the ancients, but one day, at Glasgow’s, he discovered something that quite enchanted him—an exquisitely illustrated new edition of Flaubert’s The Temptation of St. Anthony.
There remained until this time, which was not so very long ago, a cozy, old-world atmosphere to Glasgow’s. Customers and non-customers alike browsed undisturbed by the sales personnel. A few were disconcerted now and then by the cold eye of Frank O’Reilly, the store detective. He retired last year and uniformed security guards took over, putting an end to an era as well as to a man’s career.
Frank was not popular on the floor. To him every browser was a potential thief, and according to Miss Murray, whose seniority equaled Frank’s, he had scared off more buyers over the years than thieves. His eyes glowing, his breath a mixture of whiskey and cloves, he pushed among the customers like a pouter pigeon, bumping them out of his way rather than lose sight of a subject under surveillance. Many an order was abandoned on the way to the cash register because of Frank, and the story is told of the time Miss Murray turned on him after one such abortion and flung every book in the order at his head. Frank stood his ground stoutly, merely removing his bowler hat to protect it under his arm.
There were not many customers in the store when Frank first noticed Thomas. The boy caught his attention by glancing slyly around to see if anyone was watching him. Frank dropped his eyes before Thomas’ reached them. When Thomas went back to the book, Frank sized him up: a well-dressed, sassy-looking lad, small for his age, no doubt, given to reading in corners when he should have been on the football field; cunning too, Frank decided; he wore a private-school blazer and a cap. He’d have money in his pocket which would only reinforce his larcenous impulses. He put Frank in mind of the youngsters old Mr. Glasgow had used to hire when he was running the store; he required only that they came of good family and had passed their sixteenth birthday, and he wouldn’t have cared about that except for the law. The union shop put an end to the practice.
Frank sidled down the aisle and surreptitiously glimpsed the book the youngster was into—drawings of nude women and the horny heads of animals among them. For a respectable bookstore Glasgow’s had some of the damnedest things right out where any school child could feast his greedy little eyes on them. There’d be a hot time in the locker room if he popped something like that out of his duffelbag, and if he could boast of having snitched it—what an example that to his chums! It would be far better for the boy in the long run to be caught in the theft of it. And not bad for Frank O’Reilly to whom a little thief was better than none. He retreated to the Sports and Wildlife section and took up his vigil, rather like a hunter in the blind.
Bradford Pope observed the scene from the balcony where he was waiting for old Mr. Glasgow to come with the key. Pope had the look of the diplomatic service about him—a European cut to his clothes, a school tie you felt you ought to recognize, and shoes polished to a gloss. He wore his graying hair in a crest to camouflage a barren stretch of scalp. His hand dangled languorously over the railing, and his dark eyes, while quick, were limpid.
When the boy looked up at him he smiled, meaning to convey a knowing sympathy. What he wanted was the boy to stay where he was and to continue to hold the security man’s attention, something the boy seemed quite unaware of. The youngster blushed guiltily and averted his eyes. Pope was delighted; he had been about the boy’s age himself when he stole his first book.
Mr. Glasgow came along in that brisk, gingerly step of the aging wherein they resemble tightrope walkers which, indeed, they are. He no longer owned any part of Glasgow’s, but he had been allowed to stay on and write his memoirs while presiding over what was left of the once-famous Old and Rare Department. He knew very well that he and Old and Rare would go out of Glasgow’s together.
“I knew you’d be back, Mr. Bishop,” he said. “Matter of fact, I had my secretary make out the authentication when you left me Friday.”
“Pope, Bradford Pope, Mr. Glasgow.”
“Yes, of course, as in Alexander.” Mr. Glasgow selected his key from a ring chained to his belt. “I don’t suppose you’d be interested in an 1866 copy of Satires and Epistles?”
Pope shook his head regretfully.
“Pity.” The old man proceeded to one of the finely crafted glass-doored cases with which the balcony was lined at the turn of the century when Glasgow’s moved uptown from lower Broadway.
Pope hung back until the case was opened. “Mr. Glasgow?” He beckoned him to the balcony rail and pointed out Thomas Macintosh Gordon. “I may be wrong, but I suspect that lad is about to steal a book.”
Mr. Glasgow leaned over the rail and scouted the floor until he spotted Frank O’Reilly. “Hadn’t better,” he said. Then, with an appraising look at Thomas: “Bright-looking chap, isn’t he? In my day we put this sort to work. Didn’t stop their thieving, but we got something in return.”
Pope had thought he’d have more time. He regretted the banality of the next ploy and delayed it by a second or two, saying, “But isn’t it reassuring in these times that someone his age cares enough about a book to want to steal it?”
Mr. Glasgow gave a dry grunt of assent.
“Excuse me, sir, but your shoelace is untied.” Pope dropped to one knee at the old man’s feet and pulled the lace loose before Mr. Glasgow realized what he was about. “Get up from there! I’m not so feeble that I can’t tie my own laces.”
Pope retreated toward the open case. “No offense, Mr. Glasgow,” he said almost obsequiously.
“None taken.” But the old face, still handsome despite the sagging, quivering jowls, was flushed. He lifted his foot, straining to conceal the effort, and planted it on the rail. He tied a double knot while he was about it.
Pope, knowing exactly where the book he wanted was, deftly plucked it from the shelf and slipped it into a pouch at his waist. It was a slender volume containing Richard Hooker’s life of Izaak Walton, an extraordinary find, published within fifty years of Hooker’s own lifetime. It would bring him thousands if he waited a bit. Or took sufficient care in making up a provenance. He leaped forward and caught the old gentleman’s elbow when he teetered, off balance. Mr. Glasgow shrugged off his assistance, returned to the bookcase, and got out the Leyden edition of an Eighteenth Century medical handbook; it was the item they had discussed and bargained over on Pope’s last visit.
“I’ve often wondered,” Pope said the while, “why the pilgrims pulled out of Leyden when they did. It’s a mystery that’s never been satisfactorily solved, you know.”
“Won’t find out here.” The old man chortled and waved the medical handbook.
The moment Pope had smiled at him, Thomas knew the man was up to no good. He half expected to be sneakily beckoned up the stairs and hustled into some secret passage behind the bookshelves. Which was why he had looked away so quickly. He had been thoroughly instructed in how to repulse such an overture. But when the old man also came to the railing and Thomas felt himself the object of both their attentions, he wondered if Pope might not be a truant officer. People were always asking Thomas why he wasn’t in school. He had composed several answers: “Don’t you know it’s St. Crispin’s Day?” Or “Madam, I’ve been expelled for promiscuity.” None of which he had ever used.
He returned to paging The Temptation of St. Anthony. The fact was, he was having trouble with his project: the devil had too many works. It occurred to Thomas he might more easily contain his subject if he approached the devil from the viewpoint of St. Anthony.
Miss Murray wandered down the aisle and rearranged a stack of books across the table from Thomas. She had in mind to discourage this youngster if he intended mischief which, plainly, Frank O’Reilly anticipated. Frank shook his fist at her when she threw him a hypocritical smile. A customer, waiting at the cash register, asked if someone in the store wouldn’t mind taking his money. Miss Murray hastened back to her station.
T
homas opened the briefcase at his feet and took out pen and notebook. He carefully wrote down the title and the author of the book that he might add it to his references. He also noted dates of publication and copyright, the text dated 1910. That set him to wondering just how Flaubert came to know what happened to St. Anthony, who had lived in the fourth century. Flaubert had made it up, of course, which set Thomas to further thought on whether it might not be a sin to make up such things about a saint. He’d thought before about the viewpoint of St. Anthony. Flaubert, he decided, was a hypocrite, pretending to write about St. Anthony, when what he really wanted to write about was the devil. Thomas jumped when the phone rang on the post behind him.
The woman clerk came and identified herself as Miss Murray. “Yes, Mr. Glasgow,” she said. “I’ll be waiting for him.”
Thomas followed her eyes to the top of the balcony stairs. There stood the man he had suspected of flirting with him. Very shortly he was joined by the old gentleman.
Mr. Glasgow had brought the Leyden book and its authentication along with the bill of sale which Miss Murray would process when Pope got downstairs. The two men shook hands. Pope had with him a certified check for $1512; it had all but cleaned him out. He ran down the steps, paused there and saluted the old gentleman watching at the top. As soon as Miss Murray took over, Mr. Glasgow retreated to his nook among the executive offices.
Pope, to expand his air of casualness, pretended, in passing, an interest in the book which so absorbed Thomas. Thomas looked up at him icily. “Why aren’t you in school?” Pope asked.
“Because I have the mumps,” Thomas said.
Pope pulled in his neck, as it were.
Miss Murray, seeing the figure of Pope’s purchase which, no matter how Bookkeeping dealt with it eventually, would appear with her initials on that day’s register tape, began to hum to conceal her excitement. She made a mistake in punching the first digit and had to correct it.
“Miss Murray,” Pope said, “hold on a moment, will you?”
Miss Murray remained crouched over the electronic keys, her fingers poised.
Tales for a Stormy Night: Fifteen Crime Stories Page 23
