“I’ve got to talk to you,” Nason said. “Are you all right?”
Linda sighed. She tried to keep her voice reasonable. She leaned close to the crack so she would not have to shout.
“Certainly I’m all right. Please go away.”
“No. I’ve got to talk to you.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“Then you’ll stand there,” said Linda.
She turned away.
She took one step, and the buzzer started again. Then, driven by an exasperation she could no longer control, she wheeled, reaching for the knob and turning it. She opened the door six inches and said, “Do you know what time it is?”
“Four-thirty.”
“Yes. And if you don’t leave me alone—”
“Let me in,” said Nason, his grin stubborn. “For five minutes. If you don’t I’ll start pounding on the door. I’ll wake everybody up. I’ll tell them—”
“Oh, stop it!” Linda yanked the door open, waited until Nason entered, then closed it and leaned against it.
Nason had a suitcase in his hand. He put it on the floor and took off his hat. His dark hair was rumpled, and, though his blue eyes looked tired, they were not too tired to light up when he saw how desirable she looked with the flush of sleep still in her cheeks and the red ribbon in her blond hair.
“You look cute,” he said.
“What do you want?” She folded her arms, one foot tapping as she waited. “Just what are you doing here?”
“I had to see you,” Nason said. “I got the eleven o’clock from Boston and came right here.” And then, because she looked young and yet so severe, he said, “Look, please sit down. I’ll go when I’ve told you what happened.”
She hesitated, and he could practically see her mind work, so revealing was the struggle that went on behind her eyes. In the end her better nature won out. She moved away from the door and perched on the edge of a chair.
“Thanks,” he said. “It’s about that story you told me.” He sat down opposite her, hat in hand. “Remember the fellow with the mustache in the gray coupé you thought was following you? Well, you were right. He was in Boston.”
She did not reply, but he had her attention now and quickly told her what he had seen from the lunchroom door. She nodded silently when he described the man and he said, “It scared me a little. I went back to the studio and developed my films and then I knew what I had to do. I found out what agency handled the Ames Jewelry account and got the advertising manager on the phone. He said he’d never heard of Nate Fallon or Irma Heath and he hadn’t ordered any pictures.” He glanced down at his hat and began to turn it in his fingers. “I’m sorry,” he said.
“About what?”
“About not believing you.”
She smiled absently and watched the color tinge the sky outside the windows. “I guess it wouldn’t have made any difference.”
Nason thought otherwise but did not say so. He knew that the costume pieces would have been stolen in any case but everything else would be changed. If he had believed her he would not have to be trying to make her like him all over again. She would have gone on thinking he was a good guy—an understanding, sympathetic guy. He put the idea from his mind because he did not like to think about it.
He said, “What about the fellow with the mustache? You didn’t see him on the train? Or after you arrived?”
“No. Paul Sanford was at the station—I think you’ve met him—and we had a drink and he brought me home. But someone had been here first. The place was ransacked—utterly.”
He looked about, not understanding, and she said, “Oh, I straightened things up. It’s all right now.”
Nason asked if she missed anything, and when she shook her head he did not know what to think. He rose and walked over to the window. For several seconds he stood there staring down at the side street, his mouth thin and a somberness in his gaze. When he turned Linda was standing. She wore a sand-colored robe, which had fallen slightly open to reveal a pale-yellow nightgown, but in that moment Jerry Nason did not notice how she looked, for what he saw was pictured only in his mind.
“Will you do something with me tomorrow?” he said. “Today, I mean. Will you go along with me and see if we can check up on Fallon and Heath?”
“How do you mean, check up?”
“I mean try to find them. Maybe Mr. Carson has some address, though if he has it’s probably a phony. And if it is, we can go back to those two studios they took you to and find out what we can.”
“No.”
He frowned at her, wondering if she had misunderstood him. “No, what?” he said.
“No, I’d rather not,” she said. “I’d rather forget the whole thing. The costume pieces are gone, and if the police in Boston find them, that’s fine. But Mother said they had little value, and I believe her. So, suppose we drop it.”
Nason looked her over, and the enthusiasm he had worked up at seeing her again and making plans for something they could do together went away.
“I see,” he said quietly. “I didn’t know that blondes held grudges. I thought it was mostly brunets, like me.”
A spot of color tinged each cheek, and the girl’s glance was as cool as his own. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You know,” said Nason. “I thought you’d stood me up and I was sore. I didn’t believe your story and said so. I was stupid and unreasonable about that and I hurt your feelings. Also, I admitted I was wrong. I said I was sorry. I would apologize again,” he added, “if I thought it would do any good. All right,” he said. “I can get Carson’s address from the phone book. Would you mind giving me the address of those two studios?”
She did not bat an eye. She said, “Why do you want them? You didn’t lose anything in the holdup.”
Nason started to speak, checked himself. He did not ant to fight any more and he had sense enough to know that anything he said now would only make things worse. This was no place for logic or argument. He would come back later—or tomorrow, or the day after—because the important thing with him was that he make her like him again and be the girl he remembered that first evening. He did not try to rationalize his reasons for wanting to find out what was behind Nate Fallon and Irma Heath’s plan, nor did it occur to him that he was no longer a newspaperman, with a curiosity that could not be satisfied without a story and pictures and a mind that was suspicious of all that was spurious.
Instead, he thought of something else and said, “The holdup is one thing—or maybe it’s the same thing for all I know—but Heath and Fallon are something else. I got forty-seven bucks and a half—after I paid you—for taking two hundred dollars’ worth of pictures. If I’m going to be a fall guy I’d like to know why.”
“I see,” said Linda in a tone that suggested her remark was an overstatement. She hesitated and then, as though tired of arguing, made a faint but expressive shrug and mentioned an address on Eighth Avenue and another on Lexington.
Nason wrote them down. He said thanks.
He put his pencil away and shifted his weight. In the moment of awkward silence that followed he noticed that her robe had parted still more, and now it was impossible longer to ignore the gown underneath and the white, sweet line of her throat. His eyes took all this in, not salaciously but with appreciation, and she saw this and quickly belted the robe.
She closed the front of it about her throat, and color came again to her cheeks. She marched over to the door and opened it. Nason put on his hat.
“I’d like to leave my bag,” he said. “I won’t be able to get a room now but I can probably get one later. I’ll be back.”
She stood holding the door, not saying anything, and he walked past her and put on his hat. As he started for the elevator he heard the door close behind him.
Jerry Nason returned shortly after twelve-thirty, and this time luck was with him. For as he entered the foyer of Linda’s apartment house the elevator door opened and she stepped out with Raoul Jul
ian.
“Oh, hello,” she said.
Julian looked at Nason as if he were a tradesman, who should have called at the service entrance, and would have gone on had not Linda stopped.
“This is Mr. Nason,” she said. “Mr. Julian.”
The two men eyed each other, nodding, neither offering a hand, and Nason did not like what he saw. Julian was three or four inches taller than he was, twenty pounds heavier, and built in proportion. He was better-looking. His brown hat had the proper lines, and his covert-cloth coat had been tailored by experts; his smile was amused and superior.
“We were going to lunch,” Linda said.
“Perhaps we could drop you somewhere,” Julian said carelessly.
Nason started to say no. He had his mouth open. Then, by some miracle of the mind, he thought of something and grinned.
“Thanks,” he said. “That would be a help.”
They went through the doorway and now on the sidewalk they saw it had begun to sprinkle, and Julian, still holding Linda’s arm, hurried her along to a black convertible, handing her in and then moving round to the driver’s side.
“Where would you like to go, Mr. Nason?” he said when the car was under way.
“Where are you going?”
Julian mentioned a place on East Fifty-Third Street, and Nason said that would be fine for him. Linda, sitting between them, said nothing at all.
It was raining harder when they turned off Madison, and there was no parking-place anywhere near the restaurant Julian had chosen, and which was called “Andrés.”
“I guess I’d better let you out here,” he said to Linda. “I’ll have to find a parking-place.”
Nason opened his door, got out, and waited to help Linda. He thanked Julian for the ride and was ignored for his trouble. He held the door of André’s for Linda. She gave him a puzzled glance, but entered without speaking.
There were several people waiting for tables, and, when the captain saw him, he came up, shaking his head, to say that it would be an hour before he could find room for them.
“You have a table for Mr. Julian?” Nason said.
The captain consulted his pad. “For two.”
“You can make it three, can’t you?” Nason said, handing his coat and hat to the attendant. “As a special favor?”
The captain appraised him carefully and inspected Linda, who looked hard at Nason, seemed about to speak, and tightened her lips without a sound.
The captain gave in. “All right,” he said. “This way, please.”
Linda continued her silence as she settled herself in her chair and made a point of not looking at him. Nason felt pretty good. He wasn’t sure how things would work out, but he knew he was going to be unpopular with Julian, and quite possibly with Linda. He was willing to take the risk.
“I had to talk to you,” he said finally.
“You mean you’re going to stay?” Linda said.
“Until I speak my piece, yes.” Nason felt his tie and pulled out cigarettes. “I’d like to know why you sent me out on a bum steer this morning.”
“A bum steer?” She was giving him her attention now and a definite show of annoyance.
“Those addresses.”
She puckered her eyes at him. “Couldn’t you find them?”
“I found them, all right,” Nason said dryly. “The trouble was that—” He saw Julian approaching, measured the dark scowl on the man’s face, and grinned back at it. “Oh-oh,” he said softly. “I guess I’ll have to stick around.”
“As if you hadn’t planned to,” Linda said.
Raoul Julian pulled out his chair as Nason rose, and, though the big man’s black eyes retained their angry glints, his voice was suave and unperturbed, and from then on he addressed his remarks exclusively to Linda.
“Well,” he said. “I see Mr. Nason decided to join us.”
“Yes,” Nason said craftily. “We thought I might as well. I’m seeing her later, anyway.”
“But—” Linda took a breath and, with remarkable self-control, closed her mouth and rearranged her features. “Mr. Nason is the photographer I worked with in Boston yesterday,” she said.
“How interesting!” Julian continued to look at her. He reached out and covered her hand with his own. “We were talking about you last night. Albert Wylie says he intends to use you very soon. He’s very much impressed with you, you know.”
Julian went on, and Nason settled back to listen and watch, aware that he might be in for a bad time but determined to stick it out. And it turned out to be quite a job as well as a monumental strain on his sense of humor. For it was not just that he was ignored from that moment on, it was the way Julian did it and the manner in which Linda so wholeheartedly co-operated.
She was quite shameless in her disregard of him. Not once did she look at him. When Julian ordered a cocktail for her and himself, she did not seem to notice that Nason had to call the waiter back to give his order. When she drank, she drank with Julian. She apparently saw nothing wrong in the way Julian ordered lunch for the two of them and put the menu down as if they were quite alone. Fortunately for Nason, however, the waiter understood that three people meant three orders, and, while it was evident that such behavior was beyond him, he handed Nason the menu shaking his head a little but stubbornly sticking by his guns until he had the third order before going away.
As for Nason, he realized early how it was going to be. It was, he knew, a crummy trick and he defended his, action on two counts: (1) he did not like Julian and (2) he really did have to see Linda alone, and the sooner the better. He knew, also, that there were two courses open to him. He could put in a word now and then and run the risk of not being answered, or he could remain mute and take his punishment without protest. It was this last that he decided on, and since the table was so small that it was unnecessary to ask that anything be passed to him, he sat there, eating, drinking, smoking, his grin fixed, his eyes observant.
But he had no monopoly on the strain. The veneer of Julian’s charm and easy manners wore thin as time dragged on and was evident in the cadence of his voice and his increased nervousness. Finally, as the coffee and dessert came, and unable, it seemed, to bear up any longer, he turned and looked Nason in the eye.
“If I got a table for you,” he said acidly, “and paid your check, would you be good enough to leave us alone with our coffee?”
Nason glanced at Linda who kept her eyes averted. “No,” he said, refusing to be insulted. “I like it here.”
Julian colored, and his mustache flattened out. He returned to Linda and his dessert and coffee. He struggled for another half hour, talking of this and that in a voice that was thick with frustration, and then, at a quarter of three, he pushed back his chair and said, “I’m afraid I’ll have to run.”
He signaled for the check and paid it. He helped Linda with her coat, and now his voice seemed more resigned and certain nuances of self-control began to manifest themselves. He went with her through the room and along the bar, Nason following. When they had claimed their coats, they went outside, and it was no longer raining. Julian bowed over Linda’s hand while she thanked him for lunch. He asked if he could take her anywhere.
“We’ll walk,” said Nason.
Julian bowed again and turned away, Linda watching him and Nason watching the girl. He did not feel so good now. He could see the tightness in her face and mouth, the belligerent slant of her chin. Then, abruptly, she swung on him furiously, her eyes snapping gray sparks.
“I hope you’re satisfied.”
“I had to talk to you,” Nason said, in no mood to apologize. “And anyway, the guy is too good-looking. He’s probably a wolf and—”
“Suppose you let me be the judge of that.”
“All right.”
She turned and walked away from him, and he caught up with her. He took her arm gently, slowing her down.
“About those addresses,” he said. “I checked them. Nobody at either of them ever he
ard of Heath or Fallon or you.”
“I don’t believe you,” she said tautly. “I simply do not believe you.”
“Can you think of any good reason why I should lie about that? I’m the guy who wanted to get at the truth and collect his money, remember?”
His logic sobered her. She worried her lower lip with her front teeth, and the exasperation that had ridden her words began to dissolve.
“Then you went to the wrong places.”
“I went where you told me to. If you had gone with me in the first place—”
“All right,” she said. “I’ll prove it to you. If I do, will you stop annoying me?”
“It’s a deal,” said Nason and stepped from the curb to signal a cab.
Chapter Six
THE BUILDING Linda Courtney directed the driver to was on the west side of Eighth Avenue in the Twenties, a six-story cement structure with metal-framed windows and an air of cheapness about it. A blackboard listed the occupants in gilt letters just inside the door, and Nason, glancing at it as he followed Linda inside, saw that the tenants were chiefly photographers, designers, and printers.
Linda walked directly to the single elevator, presided over by a grizzled oldster with a three-day growth of white whiskers sprouting from his leathery face.
“Six, please.”
“Is this the man you rode with before?” Nason asked.
Linda examined the fellow in profile. She said she didn’t know. She hadn’t noticed. “Do you remember my riding with you last week?” she asked. “Last Wednesday?”
“No, ma’am. Seems like I can’t even remember the regulars:”
Linda did not persist. She led the way down the sixth-floor corridor, stopping at the last door on the left, which bore the number 608. She tried the knob, found the door unlocked, and walked into a bare, high-ceilinged room. Then, with a look of bright triumph, she waved her hand and said, “There.”
Nason nodded, spoke patiently. “There’s no dressing-room.”
“It was only a curtain on a wire—over in that corner.” She started toward it, stopped. “The wire’s still there. Put a curtain on it and move in a table and chair and cot, and it will be exactly as it was.”
Fashioned for Murder Page 5