Scarlet Imperial

by Dorothy B. Hughes

  Remembered fury devastated her. “I tried to kill the man who told me that. I knew it was a lie. I tried to kill him and to kill myself.” She wrought control in herself. “Towner Clay saved me.”

  Bry said, “I see.”

  He thought he did; he couldn’t because he’d never known the dregs of living, the escape blocked. He’d never known the miracle of a vague, disinterested man who appeared as saviour.

  “I was sick for months. He took care of me. He got me out of the East before it was too late. When I was well again, I helped him.”

  “Towner was in the diplomatic service,” Bry said.

  “Not after the war was over.” The inner excitement lighted her again. “He was seeking treasures that had been stolen by war thieves, by looters. I helped him find them. To return to their owners when we could locate those persons. We couldn’t always. When I knew what he was doing, I told him about the Scarlet Imperial. Thad had died but the Imperial had never been found.” She breathed deeply. “Towner promised to help me find it. To return it to Iran. It was one of their state treasures.” Her voice quieted. “It couldn’t bring Thad back. But it would clear his name. And if we could find who had actually stolen it, Feroun Dekertian promised to bring the thief to justice.”

  “Dekertian promised you that?”

  “He promised Towner,” she said. She put her hand on Bry’s arm, to lift his attention from the gravel on the path. “I didn’t know Towner was your client. I don’t know why he sent me to get the Imp from you. Unless he was afraid it would be stolen from you by someone else.” She was matter of fact. “He knew I could cope better with that sort of thing.” Because she was used to trickery. She rubbed her forehead. “I don’t know why Towner didn’t speak to me today.”

  Bry said, “I know why.”

  Her eyes questioned him.

  “Because Jones of the F.B.I. told him you were in league with Gavin, to steal the Imperial.”

  She should have realized the reason after Jones’ accusation in the office. She admitted aloud, “I should have known.” And because he believed Jones, Towner thought her to be involved in the murders. She was bitter. “They’re convinced of it now. Gavin took me with him. He held a gun on me. I got away from him at his hotel. He couldn’t kill me there.”

  “Kill you?” Bry’s eyes opened wide.

  “You don’t know him very well, do you? He killed Hester. Maybe Pincek.” Anyone in his way.

  Bry took her hand again. “Liza, Dekertian is on his way here from Washington. Will you give him the Imperial? When he arrives?”

  She nodded.

  His hand tightened on hers. “You still have it?”

  “Yes.” She said, “If I can stay safe that long, I will give it to M’sieur Dekertian.”

  He considered it soberly. “You can’t go to your place. Or Towner’s. They’re obvious.” He suggested, “I could give you the key to my apartment. No one would think of looking for you there.”

  He was right. There had been nothing but office between Bry and her.

  She hesitated. “Gavin—”

  His face set. “Gavin won’t be coming there. I’ll see that he doesn’t. You go to my apartment. I’ll bring Dekertian and we’ll go for the Imp.”

  She hesitated further. “I want Towner there when I turn over the Imp.”

  “I’ll get in touch with him. You lay low. You don’t want Jones turning up.”

  She didn’t. She decided. “Very well. Give me the key.” It should be safe. She had lost all doubt of Brewer now. He wanted only to return the Imperial. “We won’t leave the Park together. I’ll go the south entrance.”

  He removed the key from his ring, put it in her hand, repeated his address. On Fifty-ninth street, East. “Be careful. Don’t open the door to anyone. I have a spare key. I’ll be there as quickly as possible.”

  She turned to go but she couldn’t yet. Not until she asked the question. “Did Gavin Keane steal the Scarlet Imperial from Iran?”

  He didn’t hesitate. “No, Gavin did not steal the Imperial from Iran.”

  The apartment on Fifty-ninth was small and peaceful. The asthmatic elevator man hadn’t questioned her statement: she was Mr. Brewer’s secretary. She liked Bry’s taste, books and records and a well-stocked bachelor ice box. She hadn’t eaten since, breakfast; she helped herself.

  There was no sophistication, no luxury, only comfort here. Except for Feather’s photographed beauty disdaining sweetly from the studio piano. Eliza dumped her on her sticky-sweet face before settling herself in the chair with her sandwich and milk. And the morning paper. A conservative paper that gave Joseph Pincek’s death as little attention as it warranted. Renfro Hester was on an inside page; the address where he had been found, rather than his identity, made him that newsworthy.

  Her respite was interrupted by the tinkling of a bell. Bry had said to let no one in; she didn’t move. The bell repeated; it was telephone but not the one in this room. She located the house phone in the kitchen. She hesitated before answering but she answered, muffling her voice with the palm of her hand over the mouthpiece.

  The voice was mild, the cadence inflected. “Feroun Dekertian, speaking. May I speak with Bryan Brewer, if you please.”

  She dropped her hand, spoke hurriedly. “Come right up, Mr. Dekertian.”

  She waited by the front door, her hand clenched over the knob. When the knock sounded, she opened it a split, not enough that it couldn’t be shoved tight if the wrong man stood outside.

  “Mr. Brewer?”

  She accepted him in her first quick glimpse. He was a fragile man, neat, with black lozenge eyes in his brown face. His black hair was untouched by gray but he wasn’t young.

  She said, “Come in, Mr. Dekertian. I am Miss Williams, Mr. Brewer’s secretary.”

  He entered but he was as wary as she. She closed the door quickly after him and his eyes skittled to the sound.

  “Won’t you sit down?”

  “Mr. Brewer is here?” His speech was precise as the small stripe in his dark suit. As the dark hat and case he carried.

  “He was to meet you.” She gestured to a chair.

  He didn’t move. “He was not at the airport.”

  She explained, “He must have been delayed.” She had held him too long in the Park. Saturday afternoon in traffic. “He’ll come here if he doesn’t find you. He promised to return as quickly as possible.”

  He sat down then neatly on the edge of the chair, propped his pinseal brief case between his polished black shoes. His feet were small as a woman’s. His eyes were on her, unblinking. Her own were unblinking on him. Two lizards watching each other. Waiting for the other to communicate.

  Her curiosity of him was less controlled than his of her. She spoke, “You have come for the Scarlet Imperial.”

  He inclined his head solemnly. “Yes. I have been waiting for word from Bryan Brewer that it is here. Today I have that word.”

  The rush of questions blocked her throat. This was Dekertian, the man who had arrested Thad, who had condemned him to prison. Where he had died. Feroun Dekertian, envoy from Iran. Dekertian who had been chief of the police in Teheran before he became a diplomat.

  This was the man she had once vowed to kill with her own hands. Until Towner had forced her to know that Dekertian was hot to blame. Dekertian had only been obeying the dictates of his office. The evidence of guilt had all pointed to Thad. Pointed by a crafty hand. Towner had been attached to the American legation in Teheran at that time; he spoke out of first hand knowledge.

  There were so many things she wanted to say to this quiet, dark man. She was trying to sort them when the telephone rang. She smiled, “That must be Bry—Mr. Brewer. I’ll tell him you’re waiting.” She lilted, “Hello,” and her face froze in that ludicrous happiness.

  “Where’s Bry?” It was Gavin’s voice.

  She said nothing.

  He crackled, “Hello, hello. Liza? Where’s Bry?”

  He knew her voice, even
in that one word.

  She had to speak. Her words tumbled as if she’d planned, as if she were not speaking out of panic. “He’s waiting for you at the Ritz.” She replaced the phone, cutting him off, whatever he was going to say. Her knuckles were white on the phone. The taste of urgency was in her mouth. “You must come with me, Mr. Dekertian. Now. At once.”

  He didn’t move. He wasn’t even curious.

  “Please,” she insisted. “Before it’s too late.” Before Gavin came here. He would come when he didn’t find Bry at the Ritz. Perhaps before then. Dekertian must not fall into his hands or into the hands of the other desperate men who were after the Imp. The death of Dekertian would be only another unsolved death. One that would find space on the front page of the morning Times.

  She flung her cape about her, gathered her purse and gloves. She had to force Dekertian to accompany her. She demanded, “Do you want the Scarlet Imperial?”

  “It is for this I am here.”

  “Then come along. I’ll give it to you.”

  He lifted his brief case, rose to his small feet. “You have the Imperial?”

  “Yes, I have it.” She forced herself to walk, not run, to the door.

  “I do not understand this.”

  “I haven’t time to explain now. We must get away from here.”

  He followed her from the apartment, to the elevator. “You will explain?”

  “Yes.” She couldn’t now; she could only stand there holding tightly to her purse. If Gavin stepped out of the elevator, she’d scream, scream at the top of her voice. She wouldn’t be party to another of his murders. The elevator wait was endless. She pressed the button again, held her finger on it. She must get Dekertian away in time.

  The cage opened. Only the asthmatic elevator man was inside it. There was no one in the small lobby downstairs. She hurried across it, followed by the silent Mr. Dekertian. A cab idled on the corner of Madison. She half-ran up the street to catch it. Mr. Dekertian’s small, staccato steps pattered behind her. She leaned breathless against the seat. “Go over to Fifth and downtown.” She would give the address when they were safely away. Even the lamp post wore ears.

  Mr. Dekertian offered, “Cigarette?” He passed the small bright box. “You need one, I think.”

  “Yes.” She took one. Fatima. In the pocket of the man who had been killed by Gavin. Not a usual brand. She spoke with difficulty. “This is not a usual brand.”

  “Turkish.” He held a small gold lighter to her cigarette. “There was once an American brand of the same name.”

  She didn’t look at him. “You are Turkish?”

  “I am Persian. Iranian. These cigarettes are the gift of a Turk with whom I sometimes do business.”

  She identified him. “The Bey.”

  “You know El Bey?” There was no surprise in his voice. The cab weaved through the bright spring thoroughfare of Fifth Avenue. All those flowered hats didn’t know what could happen in New York. They didn’t dream that fantasy rode down Fifth Avenue in a yellow cab.

  “I have heard of him.”

  “He is a dealer in precious stones.”

  She hadn’t asked credentials of Mr. Dekertian; he was so entirely the Iranian diplomat. She’d been off guard; she’d forgotten the many playing parts in this grab for the Scarlet Imperial. She said, “You know Towner Clay.” It was half-question.

  “A long time ago, yes.” He lighted his cigarette. She was only half-reassured. He questioned, “We are going to the Ritz?”

  “No.”

  A sharpness pricked his voice. “Who is waiting for whom at the Ritz?”

  She said, “No one.” He had heard Gavin through the receiver. “The man who called is after the Imp. He’s dangerous. That’s why I had to get you away.”

  “Where do we go? To meet Mr. Brewer?”

  She said slowly, “I don’t know where Bry Brewer is.” Nothing could have happened to him, not in daylight in New York. “We’re going to my apartment. We’ll get in touch with Bry from there.”

  She leaned forward, gave the apartment address to the driver. It was too late to change her mind now if Dekertian were an imposter. She’d talked too much. But she could demand credentials. She could try to reach Towner before turning over the Imp.

  The cab stopped. Mr. Dekertian said, “Allow me.” He paid the driver. Davis opened the house door, Clarence held the elevator. If only Richards and Franz were on duty. In case Dekertian were not Dekertian. They wouldn’t be until five o’clock, forty minutes more. She could delay that long. Leaving the elevator, she turned back to Clarence. “Ask Richards to ring me, please, when he comes on duty.”

  She opened the door of the apartment. She’d forgotten Clemence. The woman came to the foyer as Eliza entered. “It’s you, Miss Williams.”

  “Yes.” She made her smile bright. “No company today?”

  Clemence’s glance rested on Mr. Dekertian while she spoke. “No, Miss Williams. No company. Nothing unusual.”

  The two women exchanged silent message.

  Eliza said, “Let me take your hat, Mr. Dekertian.” She opened the coat closet. “If you’ll be seated in the living room and excuse me for a moment.” She went into the kitchen with Clemence, closed the door.

  Clemence was too polite for spoken curiosity but her eyes moved in the direction of the living room. “Do you want me to stay?”

  Eliza couldn’t ask it. Clemence had the long trip to St. Nicholas Avenue; it was Saturday. She said, “No. You’ve stayed late now.”

  “I thought you’d feel better if I waited for you.”

  “Thank you.” She paid the tall dark girl. “Go quietly this way. He’ll think you’re still here.”

  “I could call the police.”

  “Oh, no!” Not if he really were the envoy. “He’s from the Iranian embassy. Just wait until I’m back in with him, then slip away.” She returned to the living room.

  Mr. Dekertian was at the window, looking out. Looking down at that bench in the park? He turned on her entrance. “I am surprised that you should know the Bey.” Suspicion was a gloss over his eyes.

  She said, “I don’t know him. Only his name.”

  “He has been seeking the Scarlet Imperial for many years. He has had agents in this country to steal it.”

  “You know whom?”

  He sat down on the glossy white chair. The pinseal case leaned against the crease of his left trouser leg. “Potts, of course. Renfro Hester.”

  “And—?”

  “There are others? These I do not know.”

  “There are others. Perhaps not from the Bey.” She added, “Two men are dead.”

  He lighted one of his Turkish cigarettes. Only the eyes moved in his brown face. “One is not surprised. Other men have died for the Scarlet Imperial.”

  Yes, other men. And the Scarlet Imperial must be returned to Iran before others met death.

  “You will now give me the Scarlet Imperial.”

  She came out of her dream with startled eyes. If he had been holding a gun pointed at her, she wouldn’t have been surprised. He wasn’t. He was the same small man, smoking the same thin, aromatic cigarette. If she could only be sure. If it were safe to be rid of the cursed treasure.

  “You think perhaps I am not myself?” He had looked into her mind. He seemed almost amused at her disbelief. His eyes turned down to his brief case. “But I am. I assure you.” He took up the case, opened it. “You may see.” He didn’t search through it. He took out a handful of papers, passed them across to her.

  They couldn’t have been arranged. There were letters from the State Department, from oil companies, from the Iranian Premier, from Bryan Brewer. He took from his pocket, his wallet. “There is also my passport, my driver’s license—do you require more?”

  She returned the papers. “No, Mr. Dekertian.” He must be authentic. There was no necessity of reaching Towner. She rose from the couch. “I will give it to you.” Again her glance rested on him. “I don’t know t
hat you can carry it safely away from here.”

  He said, “I will taxi to the Waldorf Astoria. The hotel will keep it safely for me tonight. Tomorrow I will take it to Washington.”

  “You’d best ship it to Washington. The mails are safe. If you carry it, you might not reach Washington.” He said gravely, “I will take care.”

  She left him in the chair with his cigarette. She was almost light-headed in her relief as she went to her bedroom. To be rid of the burden. To be safe. She didn’t want adventure ever again. Intrigue wasn’t a dashing affair; it was sordid. She lifted down the hat box, opened it on her bed. The giddy feathered hat was a bright swirl in the tissue paper nest. Beneath it there was no jeweled Easter egg. The purple fascinator was there but the Scarlet Imperial was no longer there.

  She returned with her cold empty hands. Mr. Dekertian saw them and his face did not alter. He measured ash into the exact center of the water lily that served as tray. “It is gone.”

  “Yes.”

  The silence was long. “I hid it. No one knew it was here.” Someone had come, had searched and found.

  He wasn’t surprised. He wasn’t blaming her. He was resigned to the inevitable. “I did not expect to find it.”

  She said, “We will find it. There’s only one person who could have taken it. We’ll go to Towner—”

  She heard the faint click. She was afraid to turn her head. She knew it was a man because Mr. Dekertian had come punctiliously to his feet. She turned slowly. Gavin was in the foyer. She should have remembered. He still had the key to her apartment, the key he had stolen.

  She said hopelessly to Dekertian, “This is Gavin Keane.”

  Gavin’s quick smile was brazen impudence. His stride across the floor, his handshake was effrontery. “Delighted, sir. We’ve been worried about you, Brewer and I.” He turned his eyes on Eliza. They were dark in the twilight. “Why did you kidnap Monsieur Dekertian?”

  Her voice was husky. “Gavin Keane is the man who stole your Imperial.”