He picked out one of the shirts and the brown tie and laid them out on the bed. Harlee Claiborne-“gentleman,” as he liked to think of himself-was about to go to work. He had already showered and applied a trace of cologne to his face, and then a drop or two on his wrists.
His military brushes were on the top of the bureau, neatly clipped in their leather traveling case, and he took them out to run through his hair. He was in his late fifties and wore his longish, white hair in the latest style. It was one of his few conceits, partly because his wife of many years ago had always been fond of it. Pragmatically, he realized, it was one of his more important assets, along with a naturally lean figure that had never seen either a handball or a tennis court but somehow suggested that he was a former expert at one or the other.
Another asset, he was frank to admit, was a faintly British mid-Atlantic accent. He had acquired it as a commercial agent in the Bahamas years ago and when he discovered how charming women considered it to be, he had cultivated it assiduously.
Along with his appearance-that of an aging, handsome gentleman in the pink of condition-his carefully modulated, accented voice had been of inestimable value in his business: that of meeting and subsequently conning middle-aged and lonely ladies of affluence. He didn’t consider himself as either a fake or a predator but more as an actor whose stint on stage might last several weeks or several months and who invariably gave value for value received. He had once even gone so far as to marry one of his ladies some ten years before, a delightful woman who had inherited a printing and engraving shop.
He had managed it for several years, even learning the intricacies of the technology . , before being forced into bankruptcy through no fault of his own.
Adele had died soon after, but the knowledge acquired at the shop had stood him in good stead when the memory of her had faded and he had gravitated back to the company of lonely but well-off matrons. It was the trade which God had apparently chosen him and he no longer debated the morality of it with himself. He prided himself on his charm-and on the interest he could drum up in an otherwise useless stock certificate. For years he had favored lumber stocks but more recently he had switched to those dealing in metals, especially uranium.
But whichever they were, all of his certificates were works of art.
He lit a cigarette from the stiff burning butt in the ashtray and pulled open the bureau drawer just below the one that held his shirts.
Its only contents were a thick kraft envelope containing the best examples of his work to date. He opened the envelope and gently pulled out the certificates, inspecting the engraving critically. The corporate seal impressed on gold foil in the left-hand corner was a masterpiece; he’d hand-cast the die for the seal himself. United Power Metals. It was impressive and if one were to go so far as to check, there even was such a corporation in California. The ambiguous title was what had attracted him, though the company in question dealt in purified alkali metals such as sodium and calcium, a far cry in the Table of Elements from uranium. He carefully slipped the certificates back into the envelope and walked to the closet. His good blue suit, much sponged and pressed, was there on a heavy wooden hanger he had taken from the Hyatt Regency in San Francisco several months before.
The suit had been tailored for him in St. Paul years ago and the lapels were somewhat narrow by current fashion standards but the tailor had made sure he could carry the large kraft envelope in the suit coat without ruining its lines. After all, you didn’t go to dinner lugging along a brief case. The tailor had been a genuine craftsman; it had been a pity to have to leave St. Paul so soon after the suit had been delivered, but it would have been a mere matter of hours before the tailor discovered that his credit card had lapsed the year before.
Computers had definitely made his life more difficult, even the primitive ones back then.
He would be leaving the Glass House soon, too, he thought; he was behind in his rent and the business office was getting a bit stiff in its demands. The long weekend would probably see it, unless he was exceptionally lucky or could persuade Lisolette to be of some help.
He put on the trousers, following it with the coat, slipped the envelope into place, then swore to himself when he realized he had dribbled ashes onto the lapel. He to)ok a clothes brush off its closet hook and began to scrub at the faint gray powder stains, in the process knocking off more of the hot ash from the cigarette dangling between his lips. A coal lit on some fluff on the closet floor and glowed brightly for a moment before he stomped it out. Coughing slightly, he returned to the bedroom and took another cigarette from the pack on the bureau. He would have to quit; at his age, he smoked entirely too much. Lisolette had chided him about that in her schoolmarmish way and for an instant she had sounded like an echo of his long dead wife who had constantly nagged him, saying, “Harlee, you’re rotting your lungs out with those things.” Later, he wondered if she had been present; she had been at it long before the Surgeon General’s warning.
In many respects, Lisolette reminded him of her.
Heavier, of course, but the same sparkling eyes, quick wit and broad, cultural interests. He had found her fascinating, from the start and there were times when he regretted his baser motives in seeking her out. But one had to live and the nile of the world was still eat or be eaten. He knew from the discreet inquiries he had made-granted his questioning of Jernigan tonight had not been discreet; indeed it had been a serious mistake-that she had a teacher’s pension and a small inheritance. The amount of money that Lisolette would be willing to “invest” would probably be small, but he had no intentions of pushing it, of leaving her destitute or even badly inconvenienced.
That was one of the rules of the game: You never sheared the sheep so close it hurt. They seldom went to the police then, but he liked to think there was a touch of altruism to it as well.
He carefully knotted the blue paisley tie and he inserted the tie tac, looking in the mirror as he centered the latter.
He carefully shot his cuffs so the proper fraction of an inch was exposed, then stopped. Smoke. For a, moment he thought it was the butt of his earlier cigarette which he had failed to scrub completely out, then realized the odor was of burning cloth. He carefully inspected the rug on the floor, locking the nap this way and that, then thought, panic-stricken, that it might be coming from his other suit, the brown one. He ran to the closet, pulling the suit off the hanger and spreading it out on the bed for a quick inspection. Nothing. He returned to the closet where he had stomped out the coal earlier, searching through the slight whorls of dust and hair on the floor.
Then he spotted the faint haze of smoke. A spark from his cigarette had lodged in the seat of one of his good pair of slacks and smoldered to the point where there was a charred spot the size of a dime in the top of the inseam.
He pinched the fire out, momentarily feeling both disgusted and depressed. They were his best trousers, expensive double knits that he had purchased only a year before. He might,be able to mend them but he doubted it. That was the trouble with knits; it cost a lot to have them rewoven and, in any event, he had little enough money remaining as it was.
Well, there was no helping it now. No matter how fond he was of Lisolette, the burn in the trousers had underscored the fact that he was broke and tonight he would have to score. Perhaps, if she didn’t go for stocks, he could manage a small personal loan. “My dear, I’m terribly embarrassed but my financial man hasn’t forwarded my monthly check and … Lisolette would undoubtedly be softhearted enough to sit still for a loan.
All of his ladies had been very generous.
CHAPTER 17
The fire races over the surface of the charring fabric and digs deeply into the cotton batting underneath. Burning lintels fall to the tiled floor. Flames burrow beneath the mats, charring the interiors. The air above the mats shimmers as smoke and heat rise from the flames.
The temperature of the metal shelving over the mats climbs -first a mere ten degrees, then another
ten, climbing until the battleship green of the underside of the shelf turns olive, then dark brown. Bubbles of gas form under the paint, pushing it out in glowing blisters that char even as they grow.
The paint is leprous now, bubbling outward, charring and flaking away to fall on the mats below.
On the shelf itself, a metal can suddenly pops its seams as its flat sides distend in the heat. The liquid squirts out from the vapor pressure inside. Nearby, the paper label of a gallon jug, half filled with a murky opalescent liquid, begins to brown. Glue flakes away from the underside of the label and falls in brittle fragments as the label curls off the side of the bottle. The curling label chars, blackens, and abruptly dissolves in sparks. The next instant the bottle cracks apart like a shattered egg and liquid gushes from its interior onto the shelf, running along the retaining edge that acts as a dam. Then the liquid reaches the end of the shelf and thin streams spatter down on the matting below, almost extinguishing part of the fire before the liquid itself vaporizes. There is a brief pause as the flammable vapors spill down over The matting, then a small whooshing sound as the liquid blazes up.
In the machinery room near the top of the Glass House, several panels light up with red strips and there is the siren of the smoke sensors. There is no one on duty to hear. In the basement, Griff Edwards curses his age and weakening kidneys and the blackness of his coffee and goes to the washroom down the hall. When he finishes, he hesitates a moment then climbs to the lobby in hopes that the bulldog edition of the morning paper is now out; the crossword puzzle helps pass away the long hours of the night watch.
The stream of diners to the Promenade Room has lessened for the moment and he stops to talk to Sue. She is a pretty girl with personal problems and Griff is a sympathetic listener; she has little to fear from him and he is flattered by her confidences. In the basement, the heat panels light up a brilliant red and the smoke sensors whine for attention. The direct connection to the Fire Department has buzzed briefly. Then a faulty solder connection has parted and the signal has died.
The trouble light on the panel has been inoperative for a week without detection. The man on monitoring duty who had glanced up at the first signal has gone back to jotting down figures from an endless row of meters, the momentary signal forgotten.
In the room, the beast grasps at the thin streams of liquid and climbs them like a boy going hand over hand up a rope. The pool of liquid on the shelf ignites with a small roar of triumph. Other metal cans make loud banging sounds as their contents overheat and the cans themselves explode. Two more bottles shatter and liquid cascades down over the flaming mats below.
The surface of the shelf is completely aflame now and metal cans are rupturing in a deadly sequence. The shattering of gallon and quart containers sounds like corn being popped for a birthday party. Which, of course, it is.
The beast is now three hours old.
CHAPTER 18
The trip in the scenic elevator had been spectacular and even frightening and Lisolette had not been shy in clinging to Harlee most of the way up. As they stepped into the foyer of the Promenade Room, she couldn’t resist saying, “As many times as I’ve had lunch here, I’ve never come up this way. It’s like my cousin in New York who’s never been to the top of the Empire State Building- ” Claiborne was flattered, as he suspected Lisolette meant him to be. He offered his arm and Lisolette took it firmly, allowing him to guide her toward the reservation desk. “My dear, you can’t imagine what a pleasure it is to have such a charming dinner companion to show off.”
“Many compliments like that and you’ll Turn my head, even at my age, Harlee.”
“I would consider myself lucky if I could.” He paused before the desk and waited for Quinn Reynolds, the hostess, to return. “Odd,” he said, “I’ve always wondered why they didn’t have a maitre d’ up here.”
“It’s the luncheon trade, Harlee-the clientele is mostly women who have come to do their shopping down below. I imagine they feel more at ease with a hostess and waitresses.” She looked through the windows of the dining room to the thick clouds outside. “Thank goodness, we don’t have to go out to dine on a night like tonight.”
Quinn Reynolds approached from the dining floor and Claiborne smiled at her somewhat warily. “Good evening, Miss Reynolds, reservations for two?”
For a moment Quinn seemed to hesitate and Claiborne felt his stomach start to knot. She knew, he thought.
Quinn glanced down at her reservation list and then up, at Lisolette, who was still holding tightly to Claiborne’s arm, glowing with pleasure at the prospects of the evening ahead. “Of course, Mr. Claiborne.” She broke into a smile. “It’s good to see you again, Miss Mueller. Won’t.”
you come this way?” She picked up two black-edged menus and led them down the steps to the dining floor and a far table near one of the windows. Claiborne helped Lisolette out of her coat, which Quinn-took, then held her chair while she seated herself and draped the huge, white bird of a napkin carefully on her lap.
Before Claiborne had a chance to sit down, Quinn said easily, “I wonder if I might see you a moment, Mr. Claiborne? We’ll have to make a substitution on the wine you asked to have chilled and my only available list at the moment is at the desk.”
Claiborne shrugged. “Of course.” He knew perfectly well what she wanted. He made apologies to Lisolette, and followed Quinn back to her desk.
“I’m terribly sorry, Mr. Claiborne,” Quinn said quietly, once out of range of Lisolette’s hearing. “I know this is embarrassing but your bill here is now almost two hundred dollars. Accounting has notified me not to accept your signature until that has been settled.” She was uncomfortable in telling him, Claiborne could ten, but determined.
“My dear,” he said, patting her hand, “you’re a charming girl and I have no desire to cause you embarrassment. I’ll take care of my account tomorrow. It’s just that I’ve encountered a temporary cash flow problem; all of that is cleared up now.”
The muscles jumped in Quinn’s cheeks and her voice chilled. “I’m sorry, Mr. Claiborne, but I have my orders.
Frankly, I wish I could accept your signature tonight I’m quite fond of Miss Mueller and I realize your embarrassment would be hers as well.
…”
“No matter, my dear,” Claiborne said lightly, “I’ll be very glad to take care of the bill by cash tonight.”
Quinn smiled. “That will be fine, Mr. Claiborne-I’m sorry these things happen. Do have a pleasant evening.”
“I’m sure we will, Miss Reynolds.” He retraced his steps to the table, thinking grimly: It has to be tonight.
Much as he liked Lisolette, there was no other way out -he might even be evicted from the building tomorrow.
He was sure, when the time came to pay the bill, that he could pretend he had left his wallet below. Miss Reynolds’wouldn’t cause a fuss, if for no other reason than out of deference to Lisolette. But she would report it to the manager. And, of course, there would be no chance that he would be seated in the future.
Lisolette looked up at him as he sat down. “Any trouble, Harlee?
You were gone so long…”
“Trouble? Of course not, my dear no,real problem at all. You’ll have a cocktail, of course?”’ “You’re trying to lead me astray,” Lisolette said, her eyes sparkling.
He laughed. “Perhaps.” She ordered a frozen daiquiri and he hesitated a moment, then asked for a double martini. “The chill,” he said, pointing out the window.
“I need the fortification.”
There was a doubt in her eyes which she quickly masked. “You seem distressed,” she said noncommittally.
“Not really,” he said, choosing his words carefully. “I suppose I’m basically a tragic man-in the midst of pleasure and the joys of good companionship, I remember how soon these things must end.” The drinks came and he sipped his while she tasted her own.
“The Germans have a word for it,” Lisolette said.
�
��They call it Weltschmerz-world weariness.”
He laughed. “That’s too grand a term for it.”
“Perhaps it’s something more on the order of what Sudermann once wrote about. Are you familiar with Sudermann?”
“I’m afraid I’m not,” he said, somewhat wary. This was a side of Lisolette that he hadn’t quite expected and wasn’t prepared for.
“Well, he was once a most popular writer. I was thinking of his Frau Sorge, which translates roughly as Dame Care. It’s about a boy cursed throughout his life with care o and sorrow. Sudermann was much like Thomas Hardy in his outlook-Frau Sorge is actually the Germanic counterpart of Jude the Obscure.”
She was beyond him, he thought. His ladies had been gentle and charming and generous but seldom intellectual.
He felt like somebody who was fond of white wine and had just been introduced to champagne. “Poor Jude,” he laughed.
“No, Lisolette, I’m afraid that even there I don’t stand up to such a grand comparison. I’m not a sorrowful man by nature-rather an optimistic one, in fact.”
“Very much like my father,” she said thoughtfully.
“You would have liked him. He was a master brewer in St. Louis, at the Schwartz Brau Brewery. He was a very fierce, and very loving, man.”
“He produced a lovely daughter.”
“No obvious flattery, Harlee.” She laughed, then was thoughtful again. “He was … formidable. He came over here from Frankfurt am Main-bud Deutsch and very proud of his cultural heritage, something he passed on to me.” The shadow of a more tragic memory passed over her face. “He was a very brave man, too; he almost died for it in the late thirties.”
“Oh?” Claiborne said gently. She obviously wanted to talk and he was perfectly willing to let her.
“Those were the days of the German-American Bund and they were very strong in South St. Louis. One could go to the Schwartzwald, the Black Forest, and see swastikas and oak leaves all over the walls and men marching around in brown shirts with armbands, belts, and SS caps -all of that dreadful type of costume.” She suddenly seemed depressed.
The Glass Inferno Page 13
