by P. N. Elrod
“Exactly.”
“You’ve paid the original debt, though?”
“And then some.”
I had a deep and very sincere stab of sympathy for Sandra.
Adrian was simply exasperated but willing to take action, “Get your toothbrush, Evan. Sandra’s as well.”
“Huh?”
“I’m not leaving her alone in this house while people like that are after you.”
“But I’m here!”
“As I said, she’s not going to be left alone.”
Maybe I could have assured him the toughs wouldn’t be back, but someone like Dimmy Wallace would have others to take their place. “Okay, you guys pack the toothbrushes, Ell drive.”
About ten minutes later we were in the car, making a circle back toward Leighton Brett’s neighborhood, but not quite. The mirror was clean, no one had followed us.
Adrian directed me to a less pretentious area of quiet houses with demure picket fences and regular streetlights. His home was a long one- storied structure, with a closed garage on one side. On the paving in front of it was an oil stain marking the spot where his car usually stood. Somehow I wasn’t too surprised he no longer used the garage for its original purpose.
Evan was installed in a long-unused guest room and went thankfully back to sleep with a soft groan. Adrian threw a blanket on him and shut off the lights.
“He might be disoriented when he wakes up,” I cautioned.
“It won’t be a new experience for him.”
I followed him into the kitchen. Perhaps it had been a bright place once; cheery little feminine knickknacks decorated the walls and cupboards. Now they were dull with dust, and the once-fluffy white curtains hung limp and dejected. The usual litter of inexpert cooking and casual cleanup cluttered the counters, and a plate with its dried scraps rested on the table where Adrian had eaten the latest in a series of solitary meals.
He rummaged around in some half-opened parcels on the table and brought out a box of headache powders. He mixed a double dose in a glass of water and drank it straight down. “Need any?” he offered.
“No, thanks.”
He edged the glass in with a dozen others by the sink. The sad atmosphere of the house was uncomfortable. It seemed to ooze from the walls, or more likely from Adrian. Either from his wife’s death or by his natural temperament, he’d turned everything inward, and though too polite to obviously show it, he did not like having a stranger in his home, especially an observant ex-journalist.
When we got back to the party his posture relaxed slightly. He’d gone from being on guard to something else I couldn’t quite read, and was twisting his wedding ring around again.
“Thank you,” he murmured. “I’ll find Sandra and tell her what happened.”
“Anytime,” I said to his departing back as he disappeared into the crowd.
Bobbi was still in the big hall, but taking a break, or trying to. I could hardly see her for all the men grouped around, offering her enough drinks for a chorus line. One of them was Titus. He was close to Bobbi but facing outward, and doing a reasonable protection job by keeping the worst of the interlopers at bay. I squeezed my way to the center to relieve him. Without a word he took her hand and gave it to me, an exaggerated gesture, but necessary considering the tipsy state of most of the men. A few backed off to give us room, and we escaped into the garden again.
She drew a deep breath and laughed a little. “Thought I was going to smother. Titus tries his best, but he’s not as tall as you.”
“Things did look a little crowded.”
“Marza says they’re like a pack of dogs following a—” She suddenly blushed. “Never mind, I had one glass of champagne and it’s making me rude.”
“You get my note?”
“Yes, who’d you take home?”
“Some artist I met here. He had a little too much party so we took him to Alex Adrian’s house—”
“The Alex Adrian?”
“Absolutely. I met him tonight.”
“I had no idea he was here. What’s he like?”
“Distant. The sort of smoldering type women go crazy for, except in his case I think the fire’s gone out.”
“Must be because of his wife.”
“What do you know about it?”
“That she committed suicide, maybe, or was murdered, maybe. You met him. What do you think?”
“The jury’s still out for me. Are you on a break or is the party over yet?”
“I’m on a break. My contract expires at one A.M., and then you can take me home and put me to bed.”
“With great pleasure, but I thought—”
“You thought right. I am tired, so I’m very glad I decided to seduce you earlier. Do you mind just tucking me in?”
I pulled her close and let her know exactly how I felt on that subject.
Rather than let her out of my sight again, I sat in the hall, gritting my teeth through the string quartet pieces until I could take her home. It was twenty minutes to quitting time when Sandra Robley drifted in, spotted me, and came over.
“Thank you for helping Evan,” she said as I stood.
“You’re welcome.”
“Would you please tell me what happened?”
“Alex clam up on you?”
“It’s his specialty. He said there was some trouble, but won’t tell me what kind or why it means Evan and I have to stay at his house for the night.”
“He thought it might be safer.” I briefly outlined what had happened at her flat. “We didn’t break anything, hut he wasn’t about to leave you and Evan alone with those goons on the loose. You know about Dimmy Wallace?”
“Only that Evan owes him money.”
I had an idea or two on how to help them, but decided to wait before committing myself.
“It’s unbelievable that these people think they can just walk in—and neither of you thought to call the police?”
“Well, I—”
She made a dismissive gesture. “At least I know how Alex’s knuckles got scraped. Honestly, sometimes he can he so infuriating. You as well. I’m grateful about Evan, but should it happen again, just tell me the truth, no more stories on last-minute dates.”
I raised three fingers. “Scout’s honor, ma’am.”
She melted a little and flashed a muted version of her smile. “Thank you. Now I’m going to talk to Alex about his overprotective attitude.”
It must not have been a long lecture, for about ten minutes later they both turned up again. Sandra was on his arm and he almost looked relaxed as they listened to the music.
“That’s good to see.” Reva Stokes appeared next to me, watching them with contentment. “No, please don’t get up, I’m just passing by and wanted to check on things.”
“They’re special to you?”
“Very special friends. When Celia died we thought Alex might do the same thing, but tonight he seems to be coming out of it. I’m glad Sandra’s there for him.”
“Sandra seems pretty glad about it as well. I wish her luck.”
“With a brother like Evan, she’ll need it. I haven’t seen him for a while, I hope he’s—”
“Alex and I took him home earlier. He was tired.”
She made a wry face. “Is that what you call it?”
“When in polite society, yes. Thank you for having me along, it’s meant a lot to Bobbi.”
“You’re welcome. Are you in the entertainment business yourself?”
“In a way. I’m a writer.”
“What do you write?”
Good question. I gave her a song and dance about a novel I’d started in high school and she lost interest quickly enough. It’s probably the reason I never finished the thing and went into journalism instead.
One o’clock finally came and Bobbi launched into one last song, its theme concerned with saying good night and goodbye. A few of the more sober guests took the hint and drifted out, and Reva vanished to see them on their way. B
obbi finished and took her bows, and I felt free to intrude on the stage area before various young swains flooded her with offers of A ride home.
“Fleming.”
It was Adrian. Sandra was busy for the moment talking with a trio of gaunt-looking women dressed in black velvet.
“Everything okay? I had to tell Sandra about—”
“Yes, that’s all fine now. I wanted to clear some business up with you … about that portrait commission.”
He had my full attention. “Yeah, what’d you want to clear?”
Adrian didn’t quite meet my eye, but it seemed more from diffidence than anything shifty. He was like a man unsure of the thickness of ice under his feet. “Did you still want to engage me for the commission?”
“Yes, certainly, but—”
“Do you think you can afford it?”
I couldn’t fault him for his honesty—or at least bluntness. “How much?” He named a figure I could live with and I told him so. “Is it a deal?”
He didn’t answer right away, apparently still testing the ice within him. “Yes … I think so. The usual procedure is half down and half on delivery.”
“Fine. I can get it for you tomorrow, if that’s okay.”
“One thing, Fleming. I—I’m not sure I can do it. … If I find I cannot, I’ll return the money.”
I nodded. “Fair enough. And if you can?”
“Then you get your portrait and I get the balance, of course.”
“Deal.” I held out my hand. He didn’t seem to understand what it was there for at first, then hesitantly shook it. “What made you change your mind?”
From his wallet he gave me a business card with his name and number. “Call me sometime tomorrow and we’ll work out a schedule for the sittings. Good night.” He turned and went back to Sandra.
Bobbi broke off her chatting with Titus and came over. “What was that all about? Who was—”
I slipped an arm around her. “The Alex Adrian, and that was about my Christmas present to you.”
“I see what you mean about smoldering—what Christmas present?”
“Well, it might take that long for the paint to dry.”
“jack—”
“You said you didn’t want diamonds, but what about your portrait done by—”
She gave out a soft shriek of pure delight and threw her arms around me in a stranglehold.
4
IT was nearly two-thirty by the time I’d dropped off Marza and Madison, saw Bobbi safe into her hotel apartment, and said good-bye. I had hours yet before dawn and these were always the hardest to fill. Bobbi invited me to stay, but she was exhausted, so I left her to her well-earned sleep.
The streets were fairly empty: only the odd carload of party goers hooting past and an occasional lonely figure wrapped against the night and out on God knows what business. I was driving north again and for the second time that week parked close to the Nightcrawler Club and walked up the steps past the big doorman. He nodded once at me, perhaps because someone had clued him in on Gordy’s preferential treatment. It was his version of a polite greeting.
There was a new singer working with the band, a pretty brunette with a feisty manner. Whoever did Gordy’s booking knew talent. I passed by the club and went through to the casino without trouble. The games were still going strong and would continue until either the money or the night ran out. I recognized a slab-faced blackjack dealer and sat at his table for a hand or three.
His mug was immobile, but he couldn’t control his heartbeat, which I was able to hear well enough. It thumped just a little faster whenever he got a good hand. I didn’t consider my listening in on his reactions to be cheating. This was just using my unnatural abilities to help ease the odds in my favor. Not all the cards were good, but when I left the table I was a sweet two hundred ahead. It’d make a nice Christmas present for my folks when the time came.
The man in the money cage said Gordy was in his office, maybe. I didn’t bother to ask for an escort through the back door of the casino into the halls beyond, but one of the boys followed—just to make sure I didn’t get lost, he told me.
“You gotta ’pointment?” he asked, eyeing the lines of my suit for hidden weapons. He wasn’t sure if I required a frisk or not, my level of importance to his boss had yet to be established.
“Didn’t know I needed one just to visit.”
He looked vaguely familiar and I wondered if he’d been one of the boys who put a knife into Escott last month. I was about to ask, but the office door opened and Gordy told him to get lost. It was just as well.
“What’s up?” He motioned me in and I took my usual chair.
“Nothing much, had a question or two.”
“Maybe I’ll answer.” He sat behind his desk this time and I studied the rural landscape behind him. It certainly looked like Leighton Brett’s work to my uneducated eye.
“Know anyone named Dimmy Wallace?” I asked.
“Small-time bookie and loan shark.”
“Doesn’t sound like much.”
“He isn’t. Why you want to know?”
“He’s squeezing a friend of mine dry with interest on a debt he’s already paid.”
“It’s a tough world.”
“You know where I can find him?”
“I might. Who’s your friend?”
“Some artist, not much sense and less money, but likable.”
“Gambler?”
“Yeah. He’s losing money he doesn’t have.”
“Name?”
“Evan Robley.”
Gordy socked the name away into his memory, that much passed over his deadpan face. “You won’t have to find Dimmy, I’ll get the word out.”
“What’ll you do?”
“Tell Dimmy he’s screwing ’round with a friend of mine and to lay off. I’ll let some others know Robley’s a bad credit risk, make it harder for him to place a bet in this town. I don’t need my own bookies stretching themselves on a mark with no bucks. They got enough troubles as it is.”
“Thanks, Gordy, I didn’t expect you to—”
“ ‘S nothing. How’s Bobbi doin’?”
“Just beautiful, finished a job tonight at a swank home by the yacht basin. Marza did the piano and they had a string quartet for in between sets.”
“Marza, huh? That broad’s like sandpaper on a cut.”
“I know what you mean. The guest of honor was this big-time artist, I think he may have done the paintings you have here.”
Gordy’s gaze traveled the walls automatically. “That’d be something, wouldn’t it?”
“He doesn’t remember doing them, though. I sort of promised I’d see if he had or not.”
He lifted a hand. “Feel free.”
I did. None of them had Brett’s distinctive signature. I turned the woodscape over and just saw the name of the framers. “Did you get them from a gallery?”
“The decorator’s. They had a stack of these in a bin and I picked what I liked best.”
“An oil like this was in a bin?” Even I could see some work had gone into it.
“That’s what I wondered, but the lady there said people pick art to go with the color of their sofa. You figure it.”
“It’s too screwy to figure, I’ll pass.” But it did sound pathetic and I could visualize hundreds of would-be Rembrandts daubing away to pro duce acres of mediocre canvas for the public just to make their rent payment. The difference in Gordy’s case was the quality of the work. These were something I could live with, and I hadn’t liked the stuff in Leigh ton Brett’s home.
“What decorators?”
“Place downtown, they’re in the book.”
It was another swank outfit, but then between the club and casino Gordy could afford it. At this hour of the morning it was very firmly closed, not that that stopped me. I had nothing better to do. Going to an all-night movie or tiptoeing around the house so as not to wake Escott had no appeal at the moment. I slipped inside the stree
t door of the decorator’s and scented the air.
No watchman, but it wasn’t exactly a bank. The average thief isn’t interested in pieces of fabric or carpet patterns, and the chances of cash on the premises were slim. I prowled through pseudo-living rooms, looked at pictures on display, and found the bin of oil paintings Gordy mentioned. Several bins, in fact: unframed canvases of all sizes, with every kind of art style from every period, they were determined to please everyone. A few were signed, but most were anonymous, which bothered me. Either the artists were too modest or not proud enough. One or two were interesting, but I didn’t find any that resembled Brett’s style.
The office was locked, which was no problem; I just slipped inside. The desk drawers were also locked. Problem. Breaking the drawers open wouldn’t be very nice and I didn’t have Escort’s talent for undetectable burglary. One of these nights I’d have to ask him for a few basic lessons. My curiosity wasn’t that urgent, though, and neither was Brett’s, as far as I was concerned. He could have the name of the place and run his own investigation.
Escott wasn’t home when I woke up the next night, but he’d read my note and gotten the requested cash from his hidden safe. Because of the big crash, neither of us trusted banks, and because of his association with me, we’d both ended up with a parcel of money that needed a cache. His solution was to purchase an extremely solid safe and then carefully hide it.
He had a passion for secret panels, hidden doors, and similar camouflage, and the skill to indulge himself. The original basement steps were made of wood, hardly more than a scaffold running along the wall. He thought they were too rickety for regular use and had a crew come in and build something considerably more solid. He was careful to choose bricks that matched those on the outside of his house and then went to some effort to age them so that they would look like part of the original construction. He supervised the whole thing and even tried his hand at bricklaying, then paid off the workmen before they had finished the job.
He lugged the safe into the dead space under the stairs and started building up the courses. By the time he was finished, the safe was sealed in for the life of the house, but by pushing on a certain brick, four square feet of a solid-looking wall pivoted open, giving one complete access to the combination lock and door. He piled a few pieces of old furniture around the stairs to complete the effect of a derelict area. It was a neat job and he was proud of it.
