by Alex Connor
So had it been a clumsy ploy of hers to plant the name and the rubles on Marian Miller’s body? Victor doubted it. It seemed too crass for Mrs. Fleet, but then again, maybe that was what he was supposed to think. And then there were the dog hairs found on Marian’s body. What did they mean? Were they a clue, pointing to someone with a dog? Or someone who handled dogs? Victor sighed, wondering if he was missing the obvious. Marian Miller could have been killed by the Russians. After all, she had contacted Mrs. Fleet about the painting as soon as she had gotten off the jet. Maybe she had called someone else as well, set in motion a backup plan in case her employer wasn’t interested.
Another name on the list had caught Victor’s eye: Dr. Eli Fountain. The same Eli Fountain who was paid by Kit Wilkes to examine any potential lover. The same Eli Fountain who was at that very moment walking out of the back entrance of the Park Street premises. Leaving his car, Victor followed the dapper little figure to the corner of Curzon Street, where Dr. Fountain suddenly turned and addressed him.
“Can I help you?” His accent was Texan, slow in the vowels, peculiarly oily.
“I beg your pardon?”
“You’ve been following me. Why is that?” he asked, his head tilted slightly forward, his eyes challenging. At only five foot five, he was oddly aggressive. “I don’t like being followed. By anyone.”
“I wanted to ask you some questions.”
Fountain waved a manicured hand. “Phone my office.”
“I thought you might like to talk discreetly.”
“I only ever talk discreetly,” he replied, amused. “Why are you hanging around in the dark to talk to me?”
“You know Kit Wilkes.”
“Who are you?”
“Victor Ballam.”
“Oh … Mrs. Fleet talks highly of you. Or rather, she did. I gather you’ve really pissed her off. You should always return phone calls, Mr. Ballam.”
“About Kit Wilkes, Doctor Fountain.”
“Why should I talk to you?” the doctor said, his hands deep in the pockets of his cashmere overcoat. “Especially out here, in the cold. Now, if you were to offer me a drink, I might find myself a little more chatty.”
A few minutes later Victor was ordering two whiskeys in the lounge of a nearby hotel. It was very late, and the room was virtually empty other than one man with his luggage waiting to depart and a woman in the corner talking on her cell phone. Smiling as he raised his glass, Dr. Fountain took a long drink and then leaned back in his seat, studying Victor. His hands were smooth, his nails trimmed and buffed to a satin sheen.
“I believe you’re helping Mrs. Fleet find out who’s killing her girls. Murder is so off-putting for the clients.”
Victor didn’t miss a beat. “Is that what she told you?”
“Poor Marian and Annette; such talented girls.”
“Did you look after them?”
“Like I always say to Mrs. Fleet, you can’t be too careful. Any STD would be so bad for business. Of course, murder’s worse. I know all her girls. Liza Frith, who you spoke to, I believe, ran off. Did you know that, Mr. Ballam?”
Victor ignored the question and pressed on. “Have you known Mrs. Fleet for long?”
“Centuries.”
“But you’re not English.”
“I suppose the accent gave me away,” he said, smiling, oddly sinister. “You really shouldn’t mess with Mrs. Fleet, you know. She is a very powerful woman with many influential friends. I know for a fact she would look upon it kindly if you were to return Liza Frith.”
“I don’t own her.”
“Everyone owns everyone else, Mr. Ballam. We just pretend otherwise to get along.” He finished his drink, his eyes steady. “We owe people or they owe us, and we remind them of that when we need them.”
With a stab of discomfort, Victor thought of Tully. “I don’t know where Liza Frith is. I wanted to ask you about Kit Wilkes.”
“He’s not likely to recover, poor boy.”
“I believe his father, James Holden, arranged for him to be admitted to the Friary.”
Doctor Fountain’s eyes flickered. “He did.”
“That was unusual, seeing as how he usually avoids any connection with his illegitimate son.”
“Must have been paternal concern.”
“Or a cover-up?”
“I beg your pardon?”
Victor chose his words very carefully. “How much d’you know about what happened on Bernie Freeland’s plane?”
“Probably as much as you do,” he replied, coldly charming. “But please ask away, Mr. Ballam. I don’t sleep well and find the early hours tedious, hard to spend alone. Talking is a relief.”
A silence, and then Victor asked, “Why do you think the girls were killed?”
“I thought you were hired to find that out.”
“But if you’re so close to Mrs. Fleet, you must know.”
Leaning forward, Dr. Fountain stared into Victor’s face, his tone one of suppressed anger. “Don’t talk to me like some tight-assed Sunday school teacher. I know about the Hogarth.”
“Mrs. Fleet told you?”
“Maybe.” Fountain relaxed again. “Or then again, maybe someone else told me.”
“Kit Wilkes?”
“Now, how could I break doctor–patient confidence?”
Smiling faintly, Victor stared at the bottom of his glass. “You couldn’t. But speaking hypothetically, of course, if someone had news that was potentially dangerous and certainly profitable and confided this to their doctor, how easy would it be for this doctor—who would know the patient’s full medical history—to silence them? Make it look like a drug overdose, perhaps. Something which wouldn’t seem suspicious in a known drug user.”
Victor put down his glass and gazed at the odious little man in front of him. “Does any of this sound familiar?”
“I think I might have seen the movie.”
Victor smiled. “How did it end?”
“The hero got killed.”
Draining his glass, Victor stared at his companion. The atmosphere between them was thick with the odor of malice that was emanating from the little man.
“Did you know Lim Chang?” Victor asked.
“Only by reputation.”
“Which means?”
“He was an art dealer; I’m allied to that world. That’s all I meant.”
“So you knew Bernie Freeland?”
“Oh, yes; I knew him. I used to accompany him on some of his flights.”
“Giving the girls drugs?”
“You should be more careful what you say, Mr. Ballam. Running off at the mouth like that is so un-English, like a little baby bird fluttering its little wings as it tries to fly.” He flicked his hands weakly, mocking Victor. “But it doesn’t have the strength, you see, so the poor little mite crashes to earth. Sad, but that’s what happens when people overreach themselves.”
Unperturbed, Victor continued. “James Holden is one of Mrs. Fleet’s clients. Is that how you met him?”
“Your research is letting you down, Mr. Ballam, so let me help you out. James Holden is a client at Park Street, and yes, I do take care of his son, Kit Wilkes. I have also on a couple of occasions attended James Holden myself.”
“For a medical condition?”
“I’m not a plumber; it wasn’t for a burst faucet.”
“Would you say you two are friends?”
“Friendship is a pretty concept,” Fountain continued, “but James Holden and I are not close.”
“So he wouldn’t feel able to ask you for a favor?”
Suddenly Dr. Fountain’s cell phone rang. He took it from his pocket, looked at the caller ID, and answered.
“Hello there, Mrs. Fleet. I’m just having a nightcap with Mr. Ballam…. Oh, yes; he’s going to call you back anytime now…. What? … He’s been asking me all kinds of questions.” Unexpectedly, Fountain glanced over to Victor and winked. “About what? About James Holden and Kit Wilkes.” He paus
ed, listening. “No, Mr. Ballam says he doesn’t know where Liza Frith is, and I believe him, I really do.” He listened, then smiled smoothly. “Bye; call you tomorrow.”
Shutting off the cell phone, he slid it back into the inside pocket of his jacket, then looked hard at Victor.
“I’ve just lied to one of my oldest friends,” he said simply. “Now, why would you think I’d do that?”
“Because lying would serve you better than the truth, perhaps.”
Fountain smirked. “You see through me like a pane of glass, Mr. Ballam. I have nowhere to hide.” His expression changed to one of cold intent. “Where’s the painting?”
“You know something?” Victor asked, playing for time. “I wasn’t expecting you to say that.”
“Where is it?”
“I don’t know.”
“I think you do,” Fountain insisted. “Let’s put it this way: I want that Hogarth. I may well have a buyer for it.”
“A dealer?”
“I can’t say, Mr. Ballam. I mean, if I were to confide in you and you had the Hogarth in your possession, then what would stop you from going to my contact directly and making a deal without me? I just want to make this sale and retire. I’m tired of nursing whores and villains, and I want money. Lots of it.” He put his head on one side. “That, my friend, is the only reason I lied to Mrs. Fleet. I need to be on good terms with you more than with her, because I need you to find that picture. Mrs. Fleet can’t do that.”
“Who told you about the painting?”
“Kit Wilkes.”
Surprised, Victor kept his face expressionless. “Just before he fell into that convenient coma?”
“An injection isn’t that hard to give, Mr. Ballam. You’re a novice if you think you’d have to be a doctor. Anyone used to having or giving shots could use a needle.” He paused, steadied his tone. “Kit told me about the Hogarth.”
Victor shook his head dismissively. “No, I don’t think so. Kit Wilkes is an art dealer; he wouldn’t confide in someone who wasn’t in the business.”
“Usually I’d agree with your logic, but poor Kit was running scared. I was there, and he needed to talk, to have a witness.”
“To what?”
“Kit phoned me as soon as he got back to his flat from the flight. He told me about the Hogarth and how important—even dangerous—it was. He said that if anything happened to him—”
“Why did he think something might happen to him?”
“I don’t know. Maybe because he’d just been talking to Guy Manners.”
“Now there’s a name that keeps cropping up. The elusive Mr. Manners. D’you know him? Where he is now?”
“Like you say, he’s elusive, a will-o’-the-wisp.” Fountain paused. “But I wouldn’t read too much into it. Kit lies, makes up all kinds of stories. He’s also a very suspicious man, chary of everyone. Doubts everything he sees and even what he doesn’t. He’s very smart, loves plotting and setting people up against each other, but he’s got one big failing, Mr. Ballam: he doesn’t let his right hand know what his left hand’s doing, and that can be lethal. Sometimes I think Kit’s too clever for his own good.”
Victor stared into the man’s cold eyes. “Did he know where the Hogarth was?”
“He said it was hidden in New York, that Bernie Freeland had it.” He smiled slowly. “Oh, I see I have your attention now. Kit then went on to tell me that he’d arranged for someone to collect it.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know,” Fountain said, slumping back into his seat. “We were talking, and suddenly the line went dead. When I finally got an answer—about two hours later—I was told that Kit Wilkes was in a coma … unlikely to recover.” He paused. “Now, you tell me: would I silence him before I’d found out where the painting was? That would make nonsense of my plan. Surely you can see that.”
Victor thought of Annette Dvorski. She had gone over to New York, to Bernie Freeland’s apartment. She had had the Hogarth in her bag. Had she been sent by Kit Wilkes? Had she been the elected courier?
“Was it one of Mrs. Fleet’s girls?”
Dr. Fountain looked at Victor and then laughed softly, wiping his hand across the back of his mouth before he spoke again.
“A whore? Don’t be absurd. Kit Wilkes hates women; he’d never have used a woman. He thinks all females are stupid and doesn’t trust any of them. No; whoever it was, it wasn’t a woman, and certainly not a hooker. It was a man, Mr. Ballam. That’s all I know.” He stood up to leave, buttoning his cashmere coat. “Find that man and you’ve found the Hogarth.”
“Then what?”
“Call me. I’ll make it worth your while. I’ll do the deal and give you a piece of the proceeds.”
Fountain smiled, seeming genuinely amused. “Oh, Mr. Ballam, don’t you go worrying about my hurting you. I’m no killer; I don’t have the balls for that. I’m a charlatan and a coward, and above all I’m greedy. Greedy to get away from this city. From the dealers and their call girls, from the likes of Charlene Fleet and James Holden and Kit Wilkes. I’ve spent too long following the muck cart. Take me up on my offer, Mr. Ballam. After all, that painting’s unlucky. Dangerous even. If I were you, I’d want to get it off my hands as soon as I could.”
“You’re not worried that it might be dangerous for you?”
“I’m prepared to take the risk for the money. It’s the only thing that works for me. Money makes me tall and handsome. With enough money I can retire, stop pandering to whores and whoremongers. Start going in front doors instead of back entrances. Find the Hogarth, Mr. Ballam. I reckon you’re clever enough to pull that off.” He turned to go, then turned back. “But don’t be tempted to keep it. You’re not smart enough to get away with that.”
Forty-Seven
RETURNING TO HIS CAR, VICTOR WAS SURPRISED TO SEE MRS. FLEET watching him from the back entrance of her house. With a jerk of her head, she gestured for him to enter. Victor followed her up to the apartment at the top of the townhouse. Her makeup was immaculate, the lip liner even, not a trace of oiliness or imperfect finish to her skin. Her appearance was a triumph; only her voice betrayed her underlying anger.
“I’m paying you for information. What’s the latest?”
“Lim Chang is dead.”
She faced him, unmoved. “I know; I read the papers. What else?”
“I’ve been looking into everyone on that flight. The pilots, the cabin crew, trying to find any link between any of them. There’s nothing—apart from the Hogarth, that is.”
“What about Liza Frith?”
“I don’t know where she is.”
She laughed without humor. “Really? I don’t believe you. I think you know exactly where she is. The question is, Why would you be keeping her from me? Did she say something that worried you? Did she intimate that I might have threatened her in some way?”
“Did you?”
“Liza Frith works for me, Mr. Ballam. She is of interest to me only as an employee who is very good at her job and makes me a lot of money. Money I am not making at the moment because of her absence.” She shivered and turned up the thermostat on the radiator. “Liza is the nervous type, highly imaginative, but running off like that was ridiculous. Her life was hardly in danger at Park Street.”
“Maybe she thought it was,” Victor replied, noticing that the increase of heat was hardly touching the chill of the room. “She was very scared because of what she knew.”
“Maybe I should be afraid,” Mrs. Fleet responded. “I know about the Hogarth too, but you don’t see me panicking. Or is that because you think I’m somehow involved in all of this?”
“I really don’t know,” Victor replied, keeping his tone neutral while becoming aware of a subtle change in Mrs. Fleet’s frigid self-control. He didn’t know exactly why or how, but he sensed that she wasn’t as indomitable as usual. She seemed—could he believe it?—afraid.
“If anything happens to Liza Frith, I’ll hold you personally responsible.�
��
“Why should anything happen to her?”
“She should be back here, where I can keep an eye on her.”
“Like I said, why should anything happen to her?”
“The other two were killed!” Mrs. Fleet snapped. She quickly composed herself, but the effect wasn’t wholly convincing, and Victor saw her hand shake slightly as she gestured to him. “I don’t want you working for me on this case any longer.”
“What?”
“I’m firing you.”
“Forget it! Somebody wanted to frame me for Annette Dvorski’s murder, Mrs. Fleet. If the police find out I was in Bernie Freeland’s apartment, I’ll be their prime suspect, and—”
“Just let it go! I’m not going to tell them you were in New York, and your associate’s hardly likely to give you away. The only other person who knew was Liza Frith, and I doubt she’ll turn on you. What would be the point?” Mrs. Fleet leaned across the desk toward Victor. “Get Liza to come back here, will you? I can take care of her at Park Street.”
“She doesn’t trust you, and neither do I.”
The room had warmed up, but the heat was making no impact on Mrs. Fleet, who, shivering again, sat back in her chair with her arms folded and studied Victor. From the floor below Victor could hear noises: indistinguishable, disembodied, fainter than the street sounds beyond. He found the effect confusing. The noises outside were familiar, commonplace; the muffled sounds within were eerie, almost threatening. Anything could be happening in the rooms below his feet, he realized. A person could be suffocated, injected, killed, and no one would know. Suddenly the Park Street brothel seemed more like a charnel house.
Mrs. Fleet spoke. “I won’t pay you to continue with the investigation.”
Victor shrugged. “Suit yourself. You can stop paying me, but you can’t stop me investigating. I want to know what happened for my own reasons. I want to know about the Hogarth, and I certainly don’t want to see anyone else killed.”