“Yes, Miss Williams.” She was paler. “It’s the man who was killed downstairs?”
Eliza tried to be natural. “Yes. I’m afraid.”
“I’m not foolish, Miss Williams.”
Clemence wasn’t foolish. The Imp would be safe; Clemence would admit no one. She would be here until four o’clock. By that time Eliza would find Towner Clay.
She tried to smile. “I must hurry. Goodbye, Clemence.”
“Goodbye, Miss Williams. Don’t worry.”
She left the apartment quickly.
Clarence said, “Good morning, Miss Williams,” just as if nothing had happened to upset the genteel routine of the house. He took the elevator down quietly.
Davis said, “Good morning, Miss Williams.” He appeared unconscious of the alien presence, a square man, not in uniform, seated on the daisies and cornflowers of a wing chair.
Her answering good morning was as deliberately unconcerned. “Is your friend Tomasi about, Davis? I’m so terribly late, I’ll have to cab. I over slept.”
“I’ll see, Miss Williams.”
The cab that rolled up didn’t have the familiar mug face at the wheel. This nose was sharp. She was afraid to get in. But she couldn’t make an excuse, not after having Davis summon the cab, not with him holding the door, waiting for her to enter. It couldn’t be unsafe. It was simple enough to hire a messenger’s uniform, to duplicate a police badge, but those after the Imp couldn’t help themselves to a Yellow cab. They couldn’t duplicate the framed identification grotesque in the interior. It was a middling representation of the driver, the nose was there.
The cab swung over towards Fifth. She’d forgotten to look at the bench. The square was crowded with baby carriages, the play of children, the watchful elders. A mild Saturday in spring hid a watcher. The cab was followed; she was sure of that. Jones would keep her under surveillance, he believed she would lead him to Gavin. She must be certain not to lead him to Towner Clay.
There was Saturday feeling to the office building, movement in the corridors, voices and opening doors. Not at the portal of Bryan Brewer.
She hesitated outside the door, the closed repellant door. She had to force herself to enter, to face Bry. It was essential she see him before Jones and the police arrived. Even after last night’s brusque conclusion, she must warn him. Let him warn Gavin. She opened the door, stepped inside. She wouldn’t have been surprised to find that the police had preceded her here. But the outer office was empty. The door to Bry’s office was closed.
It was habit that took her behind the desk. Not until she was seated did she realize, she no longer worked here.
She was beginning to rise when his door opened. He didn’t look worn today; he was sure of himself. “I’m sorry. I was tied up on long distance.”
She didn’t give him a chance to question her. She opened. “Jones is after Gavin Keane.”
“Why?”
Her hands shrugged. “Hester’s death. Pincek last night.” Her eyes met his. “The Scarlet Imperial.”
“The Imperial?”
“It was smuggled into this country. He says that Gavin Keane is an international crook. As Hester was.” She cried out then, “What do you know of Gavin Keane?” She pleaded for her own sake, not his, but he couldn’t know.
He said, “I’ve known him for years.”
Gavin couldn’t be bad if Bry had known him for years. She was relieved but there wasn’t time to express it. She warned, “Jones is coming here. To question you. The police are with him. You must be ready to talk to them.”
His smile was warm. “I’ll be ready. I won’t change your story. A box was stolen.”
“I didn’t know what was in it.”
“Certainly not.” His smile went then. “You do have the Imp?”
“Yes.” She couldn’t deny it after her previous admission.
“Where is it?”
She still didn’t know his part in this; she had only fear and doubt to go on, and a rooted disbelief that Bry Brewer could consciously be guilty of wrong. She had the knowledge of his wire to Dekertian, and the knowledge of his files devoid of written transaction on the Imp. There were so many questions to ask, so little time in which to ask them. There was one of prior importance.
“Who is your client?”
His answer came from a smile. “Towner Clay.”
He’d shocked her; he’d meant to shock her. She hadn’t been prepared for the name; she wasn’t prepared to understand the implications. She repeated, unbelieving, “Towner Clay?”
“Yes.” His mouth was amused. “Now will you tell me where you’ve hidden the Imperial? My client is calling for it today.”
Towner was Bry Brewer’s client. Not Dekertian, Towner. Yet Bry must have known why Towner wanted the Imp for he was in touch with the Iranian envoy. But why had Towner put her here to intercept the Imperial? It was according to plan, and Towner planned well. Was it that he did not trust Bry to turn it over to him? Was it that he knew Bry and Gavin planned separately? Or was it Gavin he feared, Gavin who didn’t like Dekertian, who smeared Towner’s name when he spoke it…
Bry waited her answer, certain of what it would be. Because Gavin had said it last night, that she was Towner’s woman. She hated Gavin and his lie; instinct had warned her against Gavin from that first moment of meeting; a foolish heart had muddled instinct but it was sharp again. She wouldn’t let heart speak again. She was ready to answer when she heard the door open behind them. They turned to face who had entered. It was Towner.
An unchanged Towner, immaculate in his dark coat, his bowler, his gray spats and gloves, his furled British umbrella. His pale blue eyes looked out vaguely from his patrician, uninteresting face with its scraggie of sand-gray moustache. Towner cultivated vagueness as he cultivated an accent more British than that of a subject of the King. Vagueness was his weapon against suspicion, his bulwark against a crass, unimaginative world. No one knew Towner was clever. Not even those he hoodwinked knew that it was Towner who had been clever.
Her lips moved in delight as he stood there, accenting his vagueness until it appeared to be diffidence. She would have welcomed him but the words rustled into silence when his pale eyes rested on her. They touched on her as if she were an absolute stranger, as if he had never seen her before and had no interest in her. It was too late for him to pretend, Bry knew they had knowledge of each other. Yet she had no chance to speak.
Towner’s glance turned to Bry and a watery smile twitched his lips. “Er—hello, Bry,” he said.
And Bry strode forward to take Towner’s limp gray glove. “Hello, Towner.” There was relief in him. “I’ve been wondering where you were. When you were going to show up.”
Towner mumbled, “I was—er—detained. On other business, y’understand.” He fingered the threads of his moustache. “On other business, yes.”
Indignation burned her. Other business. Feather Prentiss. Feather hadn’t told Bry about her luncheon with Towner. Obviously not. Nor had anyone mentioned to Eliza that Bry and Towner were old friends, as evidently they were.
Towner half-glanced at her, again without recognition, without interest. Bry said, “You know Miss Williams, my secretary?”
Towner scanted the introduction. “How’ja do.” He tucked his glove through Bry’s arm. “Er—shall we go where we can speak—er—privately?”
Bry gave no indication that he had expected Towner to know his secretary. He was cordial. “Come on in my office.” He nodded to her. “If anyone calls, I’m in conference.”
He expected her to stay here and fend off Jones and the police. He didn’t appear to know that last night spelled end to their relationship. She had no intention of remaining. Yet she must, Towner would certainly find an opportunity to speak privately to her. She wouldn’t listen outside their damned keyhole; she had a right to know in dignified fashion what was going on. She must know exactly what each one planned for the Scarlet Imperial before she handed it over. Bry, Gavin, Towner. T
owner knew because Towner knew everything. Towner had a reason for everything; he had a reason for not recognizing her. He would explain it all.
She waited impatiently for their conference to be done. She knew that Jones was coming; he had stated it. Nor could she understand his delay.
She was on her feet as the inner door reopened. Neither of the men glanced at her as they crossed the bronze rug. Her wits were alert for reception of a message from Towner but there was none. She might not have been in the room.
At the door Bry turned. She saw then that he carried his hat. “If there are any calls—”
She interrupted him. “I don’t work on Saturday afternoon, Mr. Brewer.” She had no intention of being penned here. Perhaps that was Bry’s plan, to keep her out of the way this afternoon. While he watched over Towner and Gavin recovered the Imp. They reckoned without Clemence in Aunt Hortensia’s apartment.
Bry hesitated. He decided, “Lock up when you go.” Towner did not turn his eyes to her.
“Yes, Mr. Brewer,” she snapped. She waited only a decent length of time, until they must have entered the elevator to be dropped to the street. She knew exactly what she must do. Go to Feather and force from her the information of where Towner was staying. She must get to Towner, secretly. For some reason he could not get to her in private.
It was near enough noon to leave even if she were still a secretary. She went to the mirror to replace lipstick. If Bry had any sense of values, if he’d just once open his eyes, he’d realize she hadn’t dressed for the office, that she was through.
In the mirror she saw the shadow on the door. Her eyes darkened. She’d had too much of Jones. It was as if he’d timed things to allow the men to leave and corner her again. She turned, but it wasn’t Jones.
Gavin was there. Alone. Deliberately, he locked the door. She opened her mouth.
He said, “Keep quiet.”
“But—”
“Keep quiet.” She didn’t like the way he said it. “Just keep quiet, Eliza. If anyone comes, this office is locked for the day.”
She moved out of his way. But she protested, “Are you crazy? Jones—and the police, too, are looking for you. They’re coming here.”
He laughed softly. “And they aren’t going to find me, my pretty.” He was swift in blocking her way. “Come along and keep quiet.”
She followed him. Because his hand had cuffed on her wrist and there was nothing else she could do. He went to Bry’s office. He released her there. “Sit down,” he ordered. He advanced to the locked files. They opened by the key in his hand.
She asked fearfully “What are you doing?”
He didn’t look at her. He was sifting through the pages. His voice was edged. “What I’m doing is obvious. One peep out of you and I’ll let you have it. Now sit down and don’t ask any more questions.”
She sat down. She was quiet as long as she could endure it. Then she asked, “Does Bry know you’re here?”
He went on reading, removing pages as he read. “So it’s Bry you’re worried about. All the time I’ve been thinking it was me.” He had regained humor as he made a small neat pile of pages on top the file.
“Does he?” she insisted.
“I don’t know. Haven’t seen him all day.”
She said slowly, “Bry believes in you.”
“Good of him.”
He’d finished with the files. The same key was unlocking the desk. He went more carefully now.
She said bitterly, “He believes you came here to bring him the Imperial.”
“I brought it, didn’t I?” He didn’t look up. “You’re the one who swiped it from him.”
She ignored that. “If you had it, you wouldn’t give it to him now.”
“That depends.”
Her hands were wet and cold. “Where did you get the Imp?”
He frowned over a paper. His answer Was matter of fact. “I stole it.”
A monstrous thought cleaved her. It hadn’t struck before; it might have been because she’d refused to think it. She had to persist, but her throat was dusty. “From whom did you steal it?”
He slapped the words across her face. “I told you to keep quiet.”
The sharp knocking at the outer door broke his words. Their eyes met, his in warning. He was behind the desk. She had only to dart and run. The knocking was repeated, staccato. She didn’t telegraph her decision. She darted.
He started forward but the desk blocked him. “No, you don’t—”
“Yes,” she cried. She didn’t look back; she ran. She heard the bang and stumbled forward, her hand on the knob, shaking it open. She realized as she flung open the door; it hadn’t been a shot. He’d slammed Bry’s office shut.
She gasped for breath.
And in the doorway stood Feather, sleek, poised, and angry. Not feigning sweetness now. “Why was the door locked?”
Eliza managed to speak. “The office is always locked at noon on Saturday.” She tried to push her hair in place.
“Will you be so good as to tell Mr. Brewer I am waiting?” Feather swayed across to the chair, sank into it. She crossed her long, insolent legs, dropped her stone marten scarves from the spring green of her tailleur.
“He isn’t here,” Eliza said. “He’s gone for the day.” She moved herself nearer the door. Feather must not leave without her.
Feather lifted her calculating baby face. “Where is he?”
“I don’t know.” She flung a glance at the inner office. If she could find out before Gavin reappeared. She said hurriedly, “He’s with Towner Clay. Where is Towner Clay staying?”
“How should I know?” Feather gathered her furs. There were amber flecks in her eyes.
“You do know,” Eliza scowled. “You were with him yesterday. For lunch.”
Feather’s nostrils flared. “Were you spying on your own or was it Bry’s idea?”
She couldn’t be allowed to leave. Not alone. Not until she told. Eliza stood in her path. She spoke fiercely, “You’ve got to tell me where he’s staying. It’s important.”
“Really?” Feather drawled.
Eliza caught her breath. Too late. The door of Bry’s office was opening soundlessly. Feather turned her small triumphant head. Surprise widened her painted eyes. Surprise and on its heels interest. Interest in six feet of blond arrogance.
Gavin came forward. “I can’t wait any longer for Mr. Brewer, Miss Williams,—”
He broke off. He did it beautifully, seeing Feather, feigning surprise, then turned on all the wicked Irish enchantment. Eliza watched Feather create a greater loveliness about herself, watched her grow more exquisite under his eyes.
Eliza said, “Mr. Keane, Miss Prentiss.” They should know one another. Two of a breed, jungle cats.
“Not the beautiful Miss Prentiss? That I’ve been hearing so much about?”
He and Bry hadn’t talked only of the Imp last night.
Feather’s lashes were upraised. “And you’re the mysterious Gavin Keane I’ve been hearing about?”
He didn’t like the mysterious; Eliza watched the tightening of his mouth.
Feather didn’t see. She curled the husky sweet voice about him. “I don’t know why Bry has been keeping you hidden.”
“I know.” He gave Feather the blue-eyed look. “Would you like to know why?”
Eliza gathered her hat and gloves. This was the moment while they preened at each other. She heard Feather’s dare, “I think I should know, don’t you, Mr. Keane?”
“I do.”
Eliza put on her hat; no one stopped her. In the mirror she couldn’t avoid seeing their reflections. Gavin had his hand on the slender green arm. “Why don’t you have cocktails with me? I’d ask you to lunch but—”
Eliza started to the door. He twisted from Feather, caught Eliza’s arm. It looked friendly; Feather couldn’t know the steel encirclement.
“—I’ve a business appointment. Miss Williams has consented to help me out. Bry said I might borrow he
r.”
She tried to withdraw her arm. She couldn’t move it, not without a scene. She was held there under Feather’s faint malice, patronizing because Eliza was not a woman but a secretary to these men, yet faintly disturbed because in her complete femininity Feather knew the woman shape beneath the secretary’s mask.
Eliza offered, “I could meet you after lunch, Mr. Keane.” She didn’t expect it to do any good.
His look warned her, his voice was light. “Didn’t Bry explain, Miss Williams? It’s during lunch I need your help.” He explained gaily to Feather. “My memory is so poor, Miss Prentiss, I must keep a secretary by my side whenever I discuss business.” His other hand touched the green sleeve again. “What about cocktails? About five, say?”
“I’d a lunch date already, Mr. Keane.” Feather curved her mouth. “Perhaps I can make cocktails.”
“If you don’t there’ll be a black cat crossing your path from here on. The curse of the Keanes is an effective one.”
Feather lilted laughter. Eliza clenched her teeth. Each movement, each sound was so well practiced, a man should realize. Not paw the air for more.
Eliza said coldly, “I’d like to lock up now.”
“Yes, we’d better hurry.” He didn’t relinquish his hold, moving her and Feather to the door. He let Feather step out first, holding to Eliza as if she were a walking stick. She was helpless.
She couldn’t speak to the elevator man, the tobacconist. She couldn’t say, “This man won’t let me go.” She wouldn’t humiliate herself before Feather. The three stepped out onto Madison Avenue; crowded, lighthearted Madison on a Saturday afternoon in spring.
Gavin said, “At five, Miss Prentiss.”
“The ladies’ bar,” Feather smiled reminder.
Eliza hadn’t even heard where the meeting was to be. Feather started across the Avenue; Gavin turned Eliza uptown.
She said, “You’re hurting my arm.”
His fingers loosened, but the warning of their touch was there. “What’s the name of that little bitch?”
“The one you’ve heard so much about?”
He said, “I’ve never heard a word about her. What’s her name?”
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