He sipped again. For all his pain, he felt like thanking and blessing his attacker. It seemed so miraculous that he was in her apartment, that she had touched him, that she was worried about him.
A third sip of brandy began to invigorate him. He let memory bring back the moments when she was kneeling by him, the joyous agony of her touch. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. If he hadn’t quite fallen in love, he was sailing away.
Minutes passed, then more. Lexington was a little more than two blocks away. Had she taken a cab? How long could he reasonably expect her to be away?
Was his attacker her friend, or enemy? Was she safe? He got rockily to his feet, stretching his muscles. They all seemed to work, but with great complaint. He moved slowly about the room, studying her books and paintings.
The books were an eclectic collection. Many of the titles were in French. The paintings—mostly landscapes, one or two modernist—were all originals except for a large lithograph. There was only one photograph on the wall—a copy of a famous Man Ray nude portrait of the artist’s favorite model, the legendary Kiki de Montparnasse.
The silver-framed photographs standing on the tabletops seemed mostly to be of friends and relatives. Two on the mantel of the room’s small fireplace intrigued him. One seemed to be a family grouping. The other was of the face of a very old black woman. He limped over to it, taking his brandy glass.
The woman’s skin was very dark, making the whites of her eyes seem almost luminescent. There were trees in the background, and water, with a man poling a flat-bottomed boat. It was an excellent photograph, worthy of Nicholas Nixon or another modern master. A.C. supposed it had been taken in Africa, or some backwater of the American South.
The family grouping was even more interesting. It was of six people, posed on the side gallery of an old and peculiar-looking house. In the center, seated in a white wicker chair, was a still beautiful woman in middle age, wearing a wide hat. She much resembled Camilla. Behind her was a tall, heavy man with dark, scowling eyes and a large, grimly set mouth, dressed in a white suit. Seated at the feet of the middle-aged woman on the top of the gallery steps was Camilla, wearing a garden party dress but no hat. Just below her was a dark, strikingly handsome man a little older than Camilla and a dark-haired sad-eyed girl, somewhat younger. The man was wearing a blazer and white pants and the girl a summery dress. They both resembled Camilla, but more strongly each other, and there was something of the older man’s eyes in theirs.
Standing somewhat apart from the others, his hand on the banister, was Pierre Delasante. He, too, was wearing a white suit, but it was quite rumpled and his tie was loose at the collar.
A.C. picked up the picture, holding it toward the light. He studied Pierre Delasante’s fleshy face, then looked again at the younger man’s.
He shuddered. It was possible. If the detective had shown him this photograph, he might have identified the younger man as the one on the motorcycle. But he might also have picked the older man with the huge mouth. How would any of them look in a motorcycle crash helmet?
He could walk out now with this photograph. He could take it to the police. There was a lot he could tell the police now, and a lot he could tell his newspaper—Kitty’s newspaper. His lack of professionalism in both regards was close to appalling. For a reporter not married to the boss, conduct like this could be grounds for dismissal. A week before, he could not have imagined himself keeping back information this way.
But a week before, he had not met Camilla.
A.C. glanced at his watch. She had been gone a little more than fifteen minutes.
He wondered if there was anything written on the back of the family portrait. The frame had swing clamps on the back. Setting down his brandy glass, he opened them, and carefully slipped the velvet backing from the frame.
Nothing was written on the back of the photo, but a piece of letter paper fell out from the backing of the frame. Faint creases showed that it had once been folded in three. The writing that covered most of it was in a woman’s hand.
Some traits they had in common, traits springing from the creed of their race. They were brave, and truthful, and manly; to be otherwise would be disgrace. They were formal in address, but in society had the courteous ease of manner that comes from generations of assured position, and of living amongst one’s peers.
To women they were charmingly and carefully polite; it was always chapeau-bas in the presence of ladies. Mothers and wives were queens to sons and husbands; the slightest offence offered to them was cause of battle. The men were, it must be confessed, quick of temper, too prone to resent even a trifling wrong; both proud and passionate, but generous and liberal to a fault; faithful in friendship, but fierce in enmity.
The lodestar of their lives was “the point of honour.” A man’s word must be better than his bond, because unguaranteed. A woman’s name must never pass his lips except in respect; a promise, however foolish, must be kept. If he had wronged any man, he must offer his life in expiation. He must always be ready to fight for the State or for his lady. This was the unwritten law which made “the chivalry.”
At the bottom appeared the name “Mrs. St. Julien Ravenel.”
He puzzled over the passage, rereading it twice. If it related to the photograph, he could not imagine how. It rather seemed the code of some society, perhaps a secret one; from the sound of it, a very old society.
No one wore white suits anymore—certainly not in New York. The author Tom Wolfe did, but he was a TV talk show eccentric, carefully cultivating the image of a Richmond dandy set loose on the boulevards of Manhattan, though he’d grown up little better than a Virginia farm boy.
Virginia.
The South.
Pierre Delasante was from South Carolina.
A key was inserted in the door. A.C. hastily returned the paper to its place and, with some clumsiness, reassembled the frame. He had only just put it back on the mantel when the last of the dead-bolt locks was turned and the door swung open. He quickly leaned against the fireplace, almost as though striking a pompous pose.
Camilla’s eye caught the photograph, then fixed on A.C. He wondered if he had positioned it correctly.
“You seem better,” she said.
“The brandy helped.”
He pointed to the picture of the old black woman.
“That’s a wonderful photograph,” he said.
“It’s a wonderful face.”
“Is that Africa?”
“No. It was taken on one of the sea islands in South Carolina. She’s an old Gullah woman. Those people have been in America for three centuries, but they haven’t changed much. They’re very poor, but very proud. I’m afraid they’re in for a hard time, with all the resort building going on down there. It’s destroying everything. It makes me so sad.”
“Who took the picture?”
She hesitated. “I did. I used to spend a lot of time on those islands. Now sit down.” She raised a plastic drugstore bag. “I’m going to fix you up.”
There was a hard edge to her voice now. She seemed all business. He had ceased to be an object of concern and had become nothing more than some unpleasantness to be gotten through. Still, she helped him off with his suit jacket. Though it was torn, dirty, and bloodstained, she treated it with great care, as she doubtless did all clothing—as was perhaps to be expected of someone who could completely change clothes in less than a minute without damaging anything.
He seated himself, hunching his shoulders against the pain as he did so.
“Lean back,” she said. She shook the contents of the bag out on the side table and then tilted the lampshade, bathing the side of his face in light. “You’re a mess, Mr. James.”
“It wasn’t my idea.”
“I know. I’m so sorry.” She frowned. “I got the strongest antiseptic they had. You have a bad cut there. It’s stopped bleeding, so I don’t think you need stitches, but you need something.”
“Go ahead.”
“It’s going to hurt.” She first went over the injured skin with a cotton ball soaked in rubbing alcohol, and the pain from that reached all the way to his fingers. By the time she got around to the bandages, his flesh was so numb he felt only a slight burning, as though a cinder had fallen along his face.
He was brave about all this, but she seemed not to notice. She put one last adhesive patch on his cheek, then leaned back, sighing. She studied him wearily.
“Where else did he hit you?”
He grinned. It pulled at injured skin.
“It seems like most everywhere. He kicked me in the side. And my back.”
“Take off your shirt and tie.”
He hesitated, curious.
“I know what broken ribs are like. My brother’s had them. He gets kicked by horses. I’ll help you.”
She leaned close to do so, her hair swinging close, her perfume an enveloping vapor. Her lips were but inches away. He sensed no invitation, but could not ignore the urge or the opportunity. She was startled by his small, simple kiss, but did not resist; her lips, very gently, responded. She pulled back, but not far.
“Mr. James …” Her eyes were very wide, mirroring his. He wondered how he must look to her.
Stiffly, he put his hand to the back of her neck, her silken hair flowing over his fingers.
“You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever met,” he said softly.
She was studying him as closely as he was her. “You don’t know me,” she said.
“You’re in trouble. I want to help you.”
“I know you do. You were so nice to me in that bar. I was, I wish …”
He pulled her gently forward. Her eyes closed as she came near. Her lips were slightly open when they came to his again. There was pain when her head and shoulder came against him, but he held back all complaint, kissing her softly, over and over.
She moved, slipping even closer, her lips leaving his, her face pressed lightly against his neck and shoulder. He felt her muscles quiver, then relax, felt her breasts against his chest. But she did nothing further. A.C. stroked her hair, then moved his hand to her back, feeling the warm flesh beneath the thin cloth. He hurt like crazy everywhere, yet his head was swimming with pleasure and happiness.
He let his hand slide lower. She sat up abruptly, but carefully.
“This won’t help,” she said quietly, brushing back her hair. A long strand fell back over her eye.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to …”
“No, no,” she said, touching his face. “You’ve been a perfect gentleman, Mr. James. I—I needed to be held. I’m really quite alone. I’m awfully scared. I’ve been through this before. I’ve seen violent death. It terrified me. I never ever wanted to go through anything like that again, and now …”
She eased back and stood up, straightening her dress.
“There’s nothing you can do to help me,” she said.
“Don’t be so sure.”
“No. Absolutely. Please. I’m very grateful. I don’t know you at all, but you seem so nice. I must confess that, when we were all at the police station, you struck me as, well, you reminded me of the image I used to have of the man I’d hoped I’d meet when I first came here. I think you must be at least a little like that. Un vrai gentilhomme. Like your friend said.”
“She’s a nice lady. So are you.”
Her face clouded. “You’re married.” She glanced quickly at her own left hand. It bore no ring.
“Yes,” he said, with a sigh, as though he were admitting some wrongdoing, which it dimly occurred to him he was.
“Do you have children, Mr. James?”
“Yes. A boy and a girl.”
A small smile came briefly to her lips. “I’m glad for you. I should love to have children.” A frown quickly followed. “You should go home now. Go back to them. And for their sake, for your sake, please stay away from me.”
“I can’t go back. Not now. My wife and I are …” He paused to reach for his brandy and take a steadying sip. “Well, for the moment, we’re living apart.”
“I’m sorry. But you should leave. It’s dangerous for you to be with me, to be anywhere around me.”
“Why is it dangerous?”
“Look at you! He might have killed you!”
“Why?” He glanced at the photograph on the mantel. “Who is ‘he’?”
She stepped back into the middle of the room. “I don’t think you have any broken bones. You would have cried out when you held me.”
That he never would have done.
“Who attacked me, Camilla? Was it your cousin, Pierre?”
She shook her head, reaching for his shirt. “Get dressed now. Please.” She held the shirt for him.
He grunted as his arm went into the sleeve. Mustering his strength, he put his jacket on himself. His tie went into his pocket. He noticed that the knuckles on his right hand were scraped and swollen.
Despite some dizziness, he stood. Nodding toward the mantel photograph, he said, “That young man in the picture. Is he your brother?”
“I’m going to call that cab now.” She went to the phone.
“Is he the one who attacked me? Is your family mixed up in Molly Wickham’s murder?”
Ignoring him, she dialed an apparently familiar number, ordering a taxi. When she hung up, her hand was shaking slightly. She moved to the door, waiting as he finished his drink. He came toward her.
Her hand went to his arm. “When the cab comes, I’ll see you safely into it. I don’t want you going out onto the street alone. I want you to go straight home.”
He sighed again. “All right.”
Camilla held both of his arms now. He saw that tears were coming into her eyes.
“Do you really want to help me?” she said.
“Yes. Of course. Anything.”
“Then promise me that you won’t say anything to anyone about this. That you won’t write anything in your newspaper.”
“Of course I won’t write anything, but …”
“Promise me. Your word as a gentleman.”
It was a stern command. “I promise you.”
She moved to the door, unlocking the dead bolts and placing her hand on the knob, ready to pull it open the instant the cabbie arrived.
“Will I see you again?”
“Yes,” she said, weakly, sadly. “I hope so. Sometime. But not now.”
“The police will likely want to talk to both of us again. If there’s a trial, we’ll have to testify.”
“There can’t be a trial,” she said.
The door buzzer rang, and she pulled it open.
“May I call you?”
“No.”
“Will you call me?”
“Please, Mr. James. Just go home.”
At the curb, in farewell, he tried to kiss her again, but she turned her head, allowing him only her cheek. In the fashion business, people kissed cheeks when being introduced.
Once safely home, he poured himself a glass full of whiskey. He was sick of drinking, but thought he could tolerate one more, hoping it would bring on sleep and push away the pain a little. He was desperately weary. He had to get on with his life the next day, a life that, for better or worse, now included Camilla Santee.
Sleep came quickly, rolling over his jumbled thoughts like a thick sea fog. Sometime later—he couldn’t tell whether it was only a few minutes or several hours at first—he was jolted into wakefulness. The phone was ringing. It was after four A.M.
A growly voice on the other end muttered something about the Philadelphia Police Department. He was gone before A.C. could respond. In a moment, Bailey came on the phone. She sounded defiant, but very scared.
“A.C., they’ve got me in a jail!”
“Jail? What happened?”
“I’ve been busted. I was with my friend. His apartment was full of junk. Somebody tipped the cops. For God’s sake, A.C., I didn’t do anything. I was just there! But they busted me.
They dragged me out of there in fucking handcuffs!”
The growly voice could be heard again, admonishing her.
“All right!” she said, to the policeman. “A.C., I need money. To make bond.”
“Are you okay?”
“Okay? I’m in a goddamned jail! A detention room at some fucking night court. I need to make bond. It’s twenty-five thousand dollars. I need, I … What? I need ten percent. That’s—I need twenty-five hundred dollars.”
He gulped some of his drink, coughing.
“Twenty-five hundred dollars,” he repeated.
“I can’t call my mother. She’d just laugh. My brother’s traveling. My husband will kill me if he finds out. A.C., can you help me? Please? It’s just bail. I’ll get it back after I get all this straightened out. But I’ve got to get out of here!”
“I’ll get you the money,” he said. “Where should I send it?”
She asked the policeman, then relayed his instructions. Holding a pen stiffly, A.C. wrote them down.
“I’ll have to wait until the bank opens,” he said. “I’ll be there the minute it does. Just hang on until then. Are you sure you’re all right?”
“Yes. God, I love you, A.C. Why didn’t I marry you?”
The policeman terminated the conversation.
A.C. hung up and stood quietly, looking out the window at the city. Twenty-five hundred dollars was nearly all he had in the bank.
CHAPTER 7
It began to rain just after sunrise, the first pink light of day quickly obscured by a veil of low, gloomy clouds. A growl and snap of thunder left Lanham fully awake.
His few hours of slumber had already been interrupted once that night. There’d been a call from Taranto, who was apparently beyond sleep. He wanted to know how Mrs. Cassidy had taken the news that her husband’s torso had been jellified by four or five rounds of .357 Magnum heavy-load ammunition without doubt fired by his fellow police officers. Or so he said. The lieutenant had really just wanted to talk—to a friend. The conversation had wandered. Lanham wondered if Taranto was in trouble. Maybe they were all in trouble.
Lanham did not feel friendly. He needed sleep to the point of happily killing for it, and he had told the lieutenant so. Taranto had kept talking anyway. When Lanham had finally hung up the phone, Janice had risen abruptly from beneath the sheet like a mummy in a horror movie. She’d been listening, and seething. She’d exploded the instant the receiver had been cradled. Janice had been impossibly calm when Lanham had come home with his sorrowful news. She’d given him a beer and then had gone to bed.
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