A coal fire burned in the grate. Ellen motioned to a large chair beside it. “Sit down.” She took off her coat. “Would you like a drink?"
“No," said Tony rudely. “All right, I'm here. What do you want with me?”
He lay back in the chair like a sulky child, frowning up at her. She stood in front of him, tall, her legs apart, her hands clasped behind her back. She had dark lashes and dark, arching brows, and her gaze pierced him, made him squirm inwardly as though he were trying to cover up the hollows and the blank spaces so she couldn’t see them, and that only made him more angry.
"How did this import-export business start?” she asked him. “Hassani-Wales and Company. I know you put up the money, but whose idea was it?”
"Karim's, of course. Who else? I don’t know a Baluchi from a Royal Kashan, and I couldn’t care less. Karim does, and there’s all the other things, too—silks and metalwork and antiques, all kinds of stuff. He had a lot of contacts, and he thought he could make a go of it. So I took a chance. Okay? And what’s this all about anyway?”
“Mm," she said. “It did pay off well, didn't it? Thirty thou a year for doing nothing.”
“Call it return on an investment.”
"It’s possible. Or it might be that you’re worth the money just because you exist.”
He scowled at her.
“A front, Tony. A nice respectable front. Iran’s a progressive country. They want foreign investments and trade. Harvey said Teheran was swarming with businessmen from all over the world. Your record is clean, and what could be more natural than two old school chums going into business together? And what could be more above suspicion than a rich American”—she fumbled for a word and then used his own—“skater?"
“You sound as though you’ve been thinking,” Tony said. “I don’t like women who think. They make a lot of trouble. And anyway, you’re out of your skull. Do you know anything about trusts? They don’t hand out big chunks of money to just anybody, and they don’t take my word for anything. My family lawyer went over Karim and the whole deal like the fate of the world depended on it, and the trust officers did their bit. Karim was clean right back to the day he was born, and so was the deal.”
“Of course,” she said. “They had to be. But that was almost five years ago. How did Karim feel about taking Harvey in? Was he keen on it?" Tony did not answer immediately, and she caught the hesitation. “He wasn’t, was he?”
“He gave me some static at first. So what?” This was a sore point with him, and he was angry with her for bringing it up.
“He didn’t want Harvey, but you forced him in. Is that right?”
“That’s a pretty actressy way of putting it. Who's writing your dialogue?” He stood up in order to regain the superior position. “And what the hell are you trying to get me to say?”
She turned from him and went to a desk in the corner by the tall front window. She opened a drawer and took out a packet of letters, touching them tenderly with her fingers.
“Harvey wrote to me often. Told me what he was doing, how much he liked the country and the people. He wanted me to come out. I wish now I had.”
“Yeah, blame yourself a little, why not? You're busy blaming everybody else.” He took a step toward her. “I hope I don’t know exactly what’s in your mind, doll, but I can clear up one thing for you. Karim was used to running the show all by himself. He wasn’t happy about changing that, and it was going to make him a lot of trouble breaking Harvey in, especially when he didn’t know the language.”
“He was learning it.”
Tony ignored her. “I’d have felt the same way. Sure Karim growled a little. But then he realized that Harvey could do as much for us as he did for his old man, and he got used to the idea.”
Ellen had extracted the top letter from the bundle. She kept that one and fired the others at him.
“Read them.”
“Christ,” said Tony, “I don’t want to read them.”
“Neither did I. Not again. But I did—and I got something out of them, something I hadn’t noticed until Harvey was dead. Perhaps I am actressy, or losing my mind just a little, I’m not sure. Please read them, Tony.”
For the first time he heard the shrill edge of strain in her voice and realized with a shook that all her cool was on the surface and that underneath it she was about ready to crack open. The idea was so horrifying that it took his mind off being furious with her, at least for the moment. He sat down again.
“All right,” he said. "Okay, I’ll read them. Get me that drink now, huh? And you look as though you could use one yourself.”
She nodded and went into the small kitchen. Tony untied the bundle of letters and began to read. After a while Ellen came back and handed him a glass. She sat down with one of her own, just beyond the fire where she could watch his face. She lighted a cigarette and drank her drink and waited quietly until he was through.
Puzzled, he looked at her. "All I get out of it is that Harvey was working his head off and having a ball.”
“But without Karim. He went away right after Harvey got there.”
"Sure,” said Tony. "I know that. He often goes on scouting trips. Wouldn’t be any use taking Harvey with him until he learned the language.”
"Still, it did leave Harvey alone in Teheran with no one to talk to but the bookkeeper, Saad. And Saad doesn’t speak any English.”
"What’s that suppose to prove?”
"It kept Harvey from asking any questions, didn’t it? And he was very keen to learn. He said so often how frustrating it was not to be able to find out things.” She picked up the final letter. "He wrote this one just the day before. It didn't reach me until after—” She shook her head savagely. "Take it.”
He took it and read:
DEAREST ELLEN:
Karim has returned at last, thank heaven, and things are looking much cheerier. We will fly down to Isfahan tomorrow, where Karim will introduce me to the people he—we!—deal with there, and after that we go to Shiraz. Magic names! It’s good to have someone to talk to again. I'm making progress with my Persian and getting quite handy at writing backward, even though the squiggles don’t always mean what they’re supposed to when I’m finished. But I’m hardly fluent as yet, and I must say that Saad hasn’t been one bit helpful. I had a real run-in with him just recently, when I unwisely made a stab at trying to puzzle out the company records—a lot prematurely, as I found out. Saad was terribly surly about it. Practically threw me out of the office. Karim says it’s all a misunderstanding —Tony never bothered with the books and all that, and Saad doesn’t see why I want to unless I don’t trust him. Which is ridiculous, of course. I only want to understand. Ah, well. It will sort itself out in due time. Karim says I’m too impatient, and I suppose he’s right. I’m impatient about you as well. Do come soon. Must close now and get to my packing. With all my love.
Tony put the letter down. “Again I have to ask—so what?”
“It doesn’t strike you as the least bit odd?”
“You’ll have to spell it out. I’m not reading you at all.”
She sighed and leaned her head back. “Harvey became a partner in your business—over Karim’s objections. Karim left him, as it were, in a vacuum, so that he learned absolutely nothing about it. But he was making progress with the language, and he began trying to study the records. Saad was angry, Karim came back, and almost immediately Harvey was dead—an accident. If there was something Karim couldn’t afford to let him find out, isn’t that what he would have had to do? Arrange an accident?”
Tony stood up. The dull flush was back, and he was shaking with outrage.
“Don’t say a thing like that again, not where I can hear you.” He picked up his coat and started ramming it on. “You never liked me, you never liked Karim, and you didn’t like Harvey leaving England because it made you a lot of problems. Now you’re dreaming all this up out of nothing because you’re hurt and you want someone to blame.”
"Perhaps,” she said. "If so, I’ll apologize. But aren’t you curious? Not at all? Harvey was your friend. Karim is your friend. There’s not much to you, Tony, but you are loyal to your friends. I thought you might want to help me, if only to prove that I’m wrong.”
“Help you,” said Tony, “do what?”
“Find out if it really was an accident.”
He stared at her, speechless with astonishment, anger boiling up in him so that when he did try to speak, he came close to choking on it.
“Just how do you think you’re going to do that?”
“I’m going to Isfahan. I want to see where it happened. I want to talk to the authorities. And after that . . . I have a partnership in the business now, a full one-third share, whether I keep it or sell it back when the red tape is cleared away. That gives me some leverage. I can have the company investigated, the records checked—”
“Oh, Jesus,” said Tony. “Why don’t you just stick to your acting?”
She shook her head. “I’m giving you the chance to go along. Think it over.”
Tony said, “Oh, Jesus Jumping Christ!” He went out, slamming the door so hard he could hear the windows rattle.
5
But he thought it over, just as she had told him to. He could not help thinking it over. He thought in the train going back to his hotel, and after he got there, he stamped up and down the room, thinking.
It wasn’t bad enough that your friend had to die. You had to have a hysterical female coming up with idiotic ideas.
And she was going to Isfahan.
Well, let her go. She’d have a long trip for nothing.
Arrange an accident, for Christ's sake!
Karim?
He was sweating with fury.
He stripped and started for the bath, and the phone stopped him. He picked it up, thinking that it was Ellen, ready to admit how ridiculous she had been. But it was not Ellen. It was a masculine voice, deep and hearty.
“Tony Wales? Bronson here."
“Oh," said Tony. “Hello, Bronson."
“Are you terribly busy at the moment?"
“No."
“Then why not pop round here to the shop and have a drink? Karim said you'd be leaving London shortly, and I'd very much like to see you before you go."
Tony hesitated. Bronson was something of a bore, but he was their biggest English customer.
Bronson settled it. “I can guarantee you a really cold martini."
Tony said, “Be there in fifteen minutes.”
He hung up and immediately regretted his decision. He was in no good mood to talk to anybody. Then he thought perhaps that was what he needed to get his mind off Ellen —martinis and chatter. At least he would not have to do any business. Karim had taken care of that.
Bronson's shop was only a few squares away, just off Albemarle Street. Washed and freshly clad, Tony walked to it in the gathering dusk, thinking that the exercise and fresh air would cool him down. The shop had a narrow front, with a modest sign and a window display of Oriental objets d’art in impeccable taste. Tony entered, his feet sinking into a splendid carpet. It came from a mud-walled village forty miles from Isfahan, where a family of women and girls had spent a whole year making it, squatting before a huge loom, skillfully knotting and cutting each separate thread by hand. Karim had sold it to Bronson, and it was as good as anything Zacharian had. Tony closed the door behind him, and the little bell that was mounted on it tinkled pleasantly.
Bronson came out to greet him.
“Good to see you, Wales. You’re looking fit.” He was a little more than comfortably well fleshed himself, his face broad and pink and aggressively British, his eyes mild and innocent, his thick gray hair cut with just the proper hint of carelessness. “Come along to the office. I’m just doing the martinis.”
He led the way to the rear of the shop, through a doorway into a narrow hall. They passed a small cubby where a girl sat at a desk busily typing. She looked up and smiled, and Bronson paused.
“Mr. Wales, Miss Thompson. I believe Miss Thompson is new since you were last here.”
Miss Thompson said hello. She was a Sandra type, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. Even sitting as she was at the desk, she managed to show him an astonishing amount of leg, in net stockings and bared almost to the buttocks in a disappearing skirt. “She's new,” said Tony, giving her a certain appreciative look. “And she’s an improvement. The last one looked like Queen Victoria’s horse.”
Bronson coughed slightly and they went on into the office. It was comfortable but old-fashioned and rather shabby, not at all like Zacharian's expensive sanctum in Beverly Hills. One fine Persian miniature, a hunting scene, hung over the desk. On the opposite wall was an antique prayer rug in faded reds and blues. A door led into an inner room, and there was a mirror on the wall beside it. Tony glanced at himself while Bronson carried on with the martinis. He adjusted his tie and thought about Miss Thompson. He felt better already.
Bronson handed him a glass and said, “Cheers.” The martini was as promised, cold and strong.
“I had a very useful visit with Karim this morning.” Bronson settled himself in the worn swivel chair behind his desk. “Delightful chap. Seemed rather badly cut up about the accident, poor fellow. Well, and I suppose you'll be off to Southern California and all that sunlight?”
Tony said, “I haven’t made up my mind.” If Ellen had her way, he thought, I’d go to Iran, ask a lot of questions, shake out the business, make a lot of trouble.
His face got red and ugly again, and he gulped the rest of his martini.
“Something wrong?’’ asked Bronson.
“No."
Bronson waved at the shaker. “Please, help yourself." He watched Tony mildly as he rose from the chair he had taken and poured himself another drink. “I expect this visit has been a strain." He shook his head. “Shocking business, that. You brought young Martin around here to meet me, I recall."
“Yes," said Tony, feeling worse.
“Karim said Martin's fiancée was taking it quite hard, and small wonder. I understand she now has Martin's share of the firm—"
“She won’t keep it long," said Tony.
Bronson's brows went up. “Oh? Surely not friction already?"
“She's got some funny ideas. Damn funny." The second martini went splashing after the first. He knew that he was not drinking like a gentleman, but at this point he didn’t care.
“Well, well," said Bronson gently, “the young lady has had a blow. Give her time to sort things out."
“She can have," said Tony, “from now till—" Then he shut his jaw tight, remembering that this was not Muscle Beach and that the code of acceptable behavior was somewhat stiffer. “Look, Mr. Bronson, I'm sorry. I'm just not in a very good mood tonight. Thanks for the martinis."
He was starting to retrieve his coat. Bronson rose and, very fatherly and understanding, took his arm and sat him down again.
“Can't let the rest of them go to waste, you know." He filled both glasses again, gave Tony his, and went back to his desk. “We’ve all had our bad times, Wales. Doesn't do to brood. Doesn't do at all."
Tony sipped more restrainedly at his drink. There was a good strong fire burning in his middle now, coming on like an explosion. "I know that,” he said. "I was sort of planning on turning loose a little tonight.”
“Excellent,” said Bronson. "Do you a world of good. You like dancing, I suppose? Or what passes for it these days. Dear me, when I think how painfully I learned to waltz! You mark my words, though. One day the waltz will come back, and it will be so new and strange that the young ones will think it terribly daring and naughty. Oh, Miss Thompson—”
He must have pressed a button on his desk because all of a sudden Miss Thompson was in the doorway, looking expectant.
"Yes, Mr. Bronron?”
"I seem to have heard rumors, Miss Thompson, that there is a new pleasure palace on the borders of Soho, reputed by the young to be the farthest out
yet?”
Miss Thompson grinned. Her body quivered involuntarily, and her eyes were impish.
"Yes, sir.”
"Do you think a visiting American might be impressed by it?
She glanced at Tony. “I'd bet a week’s wages.”
"Then you might give Mr. Wales the address.”
"I’ll write it down, sir.”
"Whoa,” said Tony, feeling much improved. "Can’t we do better than that?”
She looked at him over her shoulder, questioning.
"I mean, how about taking me there in person?”
"Well!” she said. "I’ve always heard you Yanks were impulsive.”
"Of course, if you already have a date—”
"As a matter of fact, I don’t, really.” Her tone said that he was lucky to catch her on an off night, and he thought probably he was. "But,” she said, and turned to Bronson, "the inventory—”
"This is an emergency, Miss Thompson. Good Samaritan and all that. The inventory will keep until tomorrow.”
“Well," she said, “in that case, I can’t very well refuse, can I?" She smiled at Tony and then made the inevitable statement: “I will have to change.”
He took her home in a taxi, which delighted her because she always took the tube, and he waited for her in a kind of parlor strewn with cushions and overflowing ashtrays and stray bits of feminine apparel. Miss Thompson, whose other name was Robin, shared the apartment with several girls, and apparently they had not decided on who was to do the housekeeping. He could hear voices and gigglings in the background. At first he sat, and then he prowled. The inner fire was dying, leaving a sour aftertaste. He began to get angry again, because of the waiting, the empty time inexorably filled itself with brooding about Ellen.
She is going to make all kinds of trouble, he thought. Suppose it gets around that she's gone chasing halfway across the world to see if Karim didn't murder Harvey because there's something wrong with the business. What would that stuffy old ass Bronson think if he heard it? Christ, she could kill us with that kind of talk.
Silent Partner Page 3