Scarlet Imperial

by Dorothy B. Hughes

  “I brought it over the border. Mexico. Not so difficult that way. Hidden in coffee. I declared the coffee.” He laughed and the laugh died. “Someone informed,” he repeated.

  She was quick. “I don’t think there’ll be any trouble on it. Bry is in touch with Dekertian.”

  He broke in, “Feroun Dekertian?” His mouth was fierce.

  She was surprised but she didn’t show it to him. “Of the Iranian embassy. You brought the egg here to turn over to him, didn’t you?”

  He was silent, expressionless. Then he smiled through lidded eyes. “I don’t give a damn about the Iranians. Where did you get that idea?”

  She didn’t answer. She couldn’t know that much.

  He swung out of bed. “Who told you that?”

  She pushed out of the chair. “No one has told me anything,” she said pointedly. “I figured it out when Bryan Brewer wired Dekertian today.” She began to stack the dishes.

  “Wired him what?”

  She wasn’t afraid of him, of his belligerence. Even knowing she had figured it wrong, she wasn’t afraid. Perhaps slightly breathless at how close she had come to talking too much. Her hands were loaded. She walked to the door.

  “Wired him what?” Demand underlined the repetition.

  “To get in touch with him. Concerning Gavin Keane.”

  She walked out of the room and into the kitchen. The dishes would be done electrically. She didn’t want to return for the rest of them; she wanted as little possible to do with Gavin Keane until Towner arrived and took over. She took time placing these dishes in the rack. And he was behind her again, setting down a load.

  He demanded, “Is Bry turning the Imp over to Dekertian?”

  “He doesn’t have the Imp. You have it. Will you kindly go back to bed where you belong?”

  “No.” He stalked out of the kitchen. She stood motionless at the sink. He couldn’t intend to dress and go out, not in the nor’easter, not in his condition. If he intended, how could she stop him? She heard his steps returning. He carried the rest of the dishes, the tablecloth crumpled in his hand. The dishes clattered as he put them down. He hurled the wad of the cloth at the table.

  “Now let’s get at this Dekertian stuff straight. Talk.”

  She was studiedly cold. “Suppose you talk. You’re the one who brought the Imperial to New York, who left it with me as if it were nothing more than—than a box of flowers.” She was rousing her anger. “Do you think I was being followed before that happened? Do you think I had the police on my trail before you came here? I’d never heard of the Scarlet Imp until yesterday. You’re the one to talk.”

  His anger didn’t rise to meet hers. He rested against the table. He was almost amused, his brows tilted. “You’re almost right,” he admitted. “On the other hand if I hadn’t seen you carry off the Imp from the office, I wouldn’t have followed you here for it.”

  She raged, “I waited in the office until nearly seven for you to return.”

  “I had a time trying to throw off your admirers. Hester and Pottsy.”

  He had introduced an unfamiliar name. She asked warily, “Who is Pottsy?”

  “Potts is a very good friend of Hester. Of the late Mr. Hester. He followed you when you left the office last night. That’s why I wasted no time in calling Bry for your home address.”

  She made her voice even. “Is he a large portly man with a face like a young spaniel?”

  His eyebrows were curious. “An accurate description.”

  “He asked me to share his cab tonight.”

  Gavin scowled. “He’s smooth. Hester was the mug.”

  She was very casual. “Why do they want the egg?”

  “My dear, darling! Having looked upon the Scarlet Imperial, can you ask that?” His expression was incredulous. “It’s value has been set conservatively at fifty thousand guineas. In your money, that’s in the neighborhood of a quarter of a million, I’m thinking.”

  She thought about it. “He and Hester were trying to steal it simply for money?” Not to keep Dekertian from investigating an old theft?

  “I strongly suspect so,” he smiled.

  She continued to think about it. “I should imagine it might be hard to dispose of. It’s unique.”

  “It is that. There are, however, various ways in which it could be disposed of. Each jewel is perfect and exquisitely pedigreed.”

  “You mean break the piece?” She was surprisingly horrified.

  He shrugged. “Thieves aren’t sentimental. However, they wouldn’t have to do that. There are plenty of collectors who want to lay hands on the Imperial. I don’t doubt that Potts is on assignment. That Hester was.”

  She said out of six months’ Brewer experience, “No legitimate collector would hire thieves to add to his collection.”

  He pitied her innocence. “I could name you a half dozen who would be delighted. If they could make contact with the thieves. Evidently you’ve never met the collectors’ itch. No price is too great. Most deal with reputable fences. As El Bey, one of the most reputable of the Istanbul jewel dealers. Potts works for him frequently. And Hester followed me from Ankara. Off and on.” He scowled. “I thought I threw him off in Calcutta. Evidently I just sent him underground.”

  He didn’t know the cold that possessed her. El Bey. She said out of knowledge, “These men would kill to lay hands on the Imp.”

  She was startled at having spoken aloud. He hadn’t realized the memory behind her statement.

  “They haven’t learned your rules.” He yawned.

  She put her hand on his arm. “You must get back to bed. To sleep.” She didn’t wait for protest. She led the way to his room. She had the nembutal capsule in her hand.

  “I won’t need that tonight.”

  “Take it.” She urged it on him. “I’ll get you some water.”

  “You’re not serving me any more. I’m too much in your debt now.” He put the capsule in his mouth, swallowed it. He didn’t palm it tonight. She watched him swallow it. “I pay my debts. I’ll be paying you one of these days.”

  Ice touched the back of her neck. She said, “Don’t talk about that.”

  She began to straighten the chair, the table. She wanted to make sure he slept. And she asked, “Why did you think Bry wanted the Imperial?”

  His mouth was hard. “For a collector.”

  Where did you get it? She didn’t dare ask. “You didn’t know he wanted it to turn over to the Iranian embassy?”

  He twisted a smile. “No, I didn’t know that. Bry didn’t mention that. Funny, he didn’t mention that.” He smiled at her. “Maybe it’s a good thing you ran off with it. I didn’t risk my skin for Monsieur Dekertian.”

  She said, “But it belongs to Iran, doesn’t it?”

  Suspicion flickered in his eyes. “How do you know that?”

  “I looked it up today,” she flung back at him.

  Suspicion was quelled. “Perhaps it did once. But I’ve had a lot of trouble getting my hands on the Scarlet Imperial. I’m going to hang on to it until—” His eyes drooped. They opened on her face again.“—until I’m ready to give it up. Possession is nine points of your precious law.”

  It was. But he had forgotten one thing. The Scarlet Imp was in her possession.

  The rain had hushed. It wasn’t yet ten o’clock. Not early, not late. She didn’t know why Towner hadn’t communicated. There must be some safe way even if the house were under supervision of the police. He had seen her. He knew she was waiting.

  She stood at her window, parted a slice of the Venetian blind. The moon was trying to swim through the mist. Tomorrow might be clear. She tried to keep her eyes from turning down to that bench in the park. She couldn’t. They were magnetized.

  The man wasn’t there. She dropped the blind. It wasn’t Hester or Potts who had kept vigil on the bench. Someone other than they must be after the Scarlet Imperial. She and Towner, Gavin and Bry, El Bey and his hirelings, Feroun Dekertian, an unknown? Or the police.<
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  She remembered what was in the hamper then. Those clothes must be hidden before the police came here. Sending them to a laundry was out of the question, the same was true of throwing them away. The police could trace. There was no way to burn them here in the apartment. She acted on a sudden and simple solution. The Abercrombie box. She walked softly into Gavin’s room. He was breathing in heavy sleep. The clothes would fit in the box. She needed something to do, to pass the time while she waited for Towner.

  She gathered the clothes out of the bathroom hamper. The red was crusted to brown. Moth flakes on her closet shelf. She sandwiched newspapers between the clothes, added a wool suit of Aunt Hortensia’s, sprinkled the flakes liberally. She tied the box, pushed a chair into the closet and lifted down the other moth-packed suit boxes there. She put the Abercrombie one on the shelf, placed the others on top it. For a temporary solution, it would do.

  Ten o’clock. She was tired enough for sleep after the past twenty-four hours. She mustn’t sleep yet. She opened the window wider to the moist spring air, climbed in bed. Rest not sleep. And the phone rang.

  Her eyes opened. She fumbled for the phone. The dial tone alone sounded. Too late. She’d slept despite resolve. Her bed clock said eleven. Her eyes stung with sleep and anger. And the phone rang again. It wasn’t the outside phone; it was the house. Gavin wouldn’t wake, not this soon after taking the nembutal. But she ran softly, closing his door as she passed. She hurried on to the game room, lifted the receiver as it rang again. “Hello.”

  Richards’ voice was regretful. “There’s a police detective here to see you, Miss Eliza.”

  She had to force herself to speak. “Send him up.”

  She moved on slow feet back to her bedroom, wrapped her black robe about her. The police detective couldn’t search without a warrant. She would refuse to allow him to search tonight no matter what accusations he hinted. Her excuse was reasonable; she’d already retired for the night; she had to be up early in the morning.

  She turned out the corridor light as she passed, closed the corridor door. She lit one lamp in the crystal-white living room, one in the foyer. Her hand was on the doorknob when the buzzer sounded. She opened the door. The little man came in.

  His black raincape was too long, his hat dribbled rain. He said, “Miss Williams?”

  The foyer was shadowy but she could see the shape of his face. Her eyes moved so slowly down the black cape to his shoes. She said, “You’re not a detective.”

  His voice was a gentle whine. “I came for the box.”

  She started to move her eyes up to his face but they stopped at his hand. His hand was holding a gun, an old-fashioned ugly-looking gun. It was pointed at her.

  She said, “Wait a minute.” It might have sounded absurd but she had to have a moment to steady herself. “I told you yesterday to call Mr. Brewer.”

  “Get me the box.”

  If only clear thought would come through the jumble in her mind. “I haven’t—”

  His mouth twitched. The hand holding the gun wasn’t steady. “Get me the box.” His voice wasn’t unsteady.

  She said, “Very well.” He wouldn’t open it here; he’d be in too great a hurry to be gone. She started away, stopped when she heard his wet shoes mushing after her. “Stay here. I’ll bring it to you.”

  “I’ll stick with you.” His teeth were bad, his breath soiled.

  She stood motionless. “You’ll wake my husband.” He mustn’t wake Gavin. Gavin wouldn’t be prepared for a desperate little man with a nervous gun. If Gavin were awakened from sleep now, his senses, dulled by the sedative, wouldn’t be equal to the exigencies of the situation. He would try to balk the man. Gavin mustn’t face death tonight. This time he might not be lucky.

  The man’s voice crept softly. “I won’t wake anyone.”

  Frustration made her savage. She whispered, “If you track that white rug, I’ll kill you with my bare hands.”

  His feet shuffled on the threshold. “I got to stay with you. I got orders.”

  She shouldn’t be afraid of him; there was nothing to fear but the gun in his quavering hand. If she didn’t know the viciousness of a gun, how it could tear open a woman’s face, mute the laughter of a boy. If she could control her primitive terror in the face of this small piece of blued steel. She didn’t dare risk defying it. She accepted his decision. “I’ll lay newspapers.” The ones she’d wrapped about the box were still in the foyer basket. He feared a trick but she knew no tricks. Not with a gun in his dirty hand. She pulled the papers out, made stepping stones to the corridor door. “Stay on the paper,” she ordered. “And keep quiet.”

  She lit the corridor, moved without sound past Gavin’s door to her own room. The little man followed. She was burning with fury. Only the wieldy revolver gave him any strength. A man with one gesture could render the craven ineffective. If she dared, possibly she herself could. She didn’t dare.

  He followed her to the very door of the closet. She had a momentary quaver as she turned her back on him, lifted her arms to the shelf. Quickly she took down the florist’s box. The weight was right, yes. He wouldn’t open it, it wasn’t for him, he was only the messenger. She clutched it, waited while he backed away from the door. If when she handed it to him, she could smash it against his wrist. If for that long, she could conquer her fear.

  The man might have known the circle of her thoughts. He half-whispered, “Put it on that table.” His pale eyes were glistening.

  She set it on the table, watched helplessly while his left hand clutched out for it. His right hand didn’t forget the gun, his finger was too near the trigger.

  She spoke to divert him. “Take it and hurry. If my husband wakes—” She let the words carry their own implication.

  “I’m going.”

  She moved.

  “You stay here.” He showed his yellowed teeth.

  She remained quiet as he scuttled to the door. Then she spoke, spoke out of desperation. “I’ll see you out.” She must know for certain he had gone, that he wasn’t lurking. She couldn’t sleep unless she herself closed him out. She brooked no interference as she walked towards him. “I won’t have you tracking the white rugs.” She passed him before he could speak again. She could hear his wet footsteps soft after her. Down the corridor, past that closed door, into the living room. His steps crackling the paper. She didn’t go into the foyer. She stood on the threshold, let him pass her. “You’d better hurry. The police are watching the house.”

  He smiled slyly, “They let me come in.”

  Whatever credentials he had shown must have been accurate.

  She said, “Maybe they won’t let you go out.”

  His eyes were pinpricks in his shabby face. “You better hadn’t say anything about me.” He licked the corner of his mouth. “They might ask you how you come by what’s in this box.”

  She heard the door close. She didn’t move. She didn’t move until long after he must be gone.

  He didn’t have the Scarlet Imperial. How soon would he discover that fact? What would he do then? She shivered. He was a hireling; behind him was someone who would coldly hire a man to kill. She wouldn’t face another one of them tonight. She wouldn’t answer the phone or door. Not if Towner himself were pounding outside. She knew why the cold enveloped her, even to her inner heart. Towner. Something had happened to him. He’d never allow this margin of error, this near loss of what he wanted. She saw him again bowing over Feather’s beauty. Could Bry have sent Feather to take care of Towner?

  She knelt, gathered the papers from the living room floor. She was on her knees, crumpling them, when the shadow in the doorway fell across her. She looked up quickly. “You startled me,” she whispered.

  “What are you doing at this hour of night? Housecleaning?”

  She returned quietly, “Why are you awake?”

  He rubbed his arm. “This waked me. Maybe your sulfa will cure it but it hurts like hell trying.”

  She knew she shouldn
’t tell him. It was the last thing she should tell him at this hour and in his condition. But there was compulsion to speak. If she didn’t now, immediately, he would never believe.

  She said, “Your box is gone.”

  His mouth slacked open. “Gone? The Imp? It can’t be gone.”

  She was very quiet, as if by so being, it might quiet him. “When a man holds a gun at me, I’m not brave.”

  He looked down on her, incredulous.

  “I gave him the box.”

  Belief hardened the lines of his mouth. He turned on his heel. She stumbled to her feet, hurried after him. “Gavin! What are you going to do?”

  He was pulling off his pajama coat.

  She cried out, “Gavin, no! You can’t go after him. Not tonight. He’s too far ahead of you.”

  His voice was slate. “I know the sort of places to look for Pottsy.”

  “It wasn’t Pottsy.”

  He stopped buttoning his shirt. “Who was it?”

  “The messenger. That terrible little man who pretended he was a messenger yesterday.”

  “Why did you let him in?” he demanded.

  “Richards called from downstairs. I’d just gone to bed. He said there was a police detective to see me.”

  “Why didn’t you wake me?”

  She was quick. “I didn’t want you to face the police.”

  “When you knew he wasn’t the police?”

  She said flatly, “He held the gun on me. I told you I wasn’t brave. Not at the point of a gun.”

  He began buttoning the shirt again. “Describe him.”

  She took a breath. “He’s an undersized man, a dirty little scrawny man. His teeth are foul. I’ve never seen his hair. He whines. And his shoes, he has broken shoes. He’s nervous.” She shook her head. “Maybe I could have talked my way out of it but I don’t like a nervous gun.”

  He took his tie from the bureau.

  She cried again, “You can’t go out. You aren’t fit. Besides you’ll never be able to find him. New York isn’t a village.”

  “I’ll find Pottsy. Pottsy will know him.” His mouth wasn’t pleasant. “Pottsy’ll have his eyes on the ball. Where mine would be if I hadn’t let you coop me up here with this scratch.”