Reaching for the tailored white robe that matched my nightgown, I slipped it on and stepped into the hall just in time to see the girls going into their room. Keith bounded up the stairs, looking flushed and tousled and much younger than he had earlier, his solemnity gone. He grinned broadly and gave me an impulsive hug that almost dislocated three ribs.
“I say, Janie, he’s a terrific chap. I don’t know when I’ve taken to anyone so quickly.”
“That’s wonderful, pet.”
“He knows an awful lot about aeronautics—flew his own plane when he was in the service—and he’s promised to get me some books they don’t have at the library. Promised to give me some more judo lessons, too. Wasn’t he smashing? I’ll bet he has a black belt.”
“He probably does.”
“’Course, I didn’t let on I knew the real reason he was here. There isn’t really anything to worry about, is there?”
“Of course not, luv,” I said lightly. “His staying here is just a—a silly precaution. There’s nothing at all to worry about.”
“I thought not, else he wouldn’ta been so jolly.” Keith rubbed his eyes and gave a sleepy little yawn that ended in another grin. “Well, guess I’ll turn in now. ’Night, Janie.”
Keith went on into his room, and I stepped over to the linen closet to fetch bedclothes to take downstairs. I was amazed at the change Stephen had wrought in the boy. Keith was far too sober for a lad his age, and rousing male companionship was undoubtedly what he needed. Wrapped up in his own projects, constantly harried by the demands of his work, Ian had very little time to devote to his son, and that was a shame. I felt more generous toward Stephen after seeing the effect his presence had had on Keith. A man who could win over my nephew in such a short time couldn’t be all bad.
Arms heavily laden, I went down to the sitting room, dumping my load on the sofa. One dim lamp burned, throwing the rest of the room in shadow. Stephen stood at the window, holding the drape back with one hand, and he didn’t turn when I entered. I looked at him, observing the beautiful shape of his back and the way the soft blue sweater tapered down to his lean waist. After a moment he let the drape fall back in place and turned around, giving me a rather languorous look.
“Everything under control,” he said.
“Do you expect anything to happen tonight?”
“Can’t tell. Maybe, maybe not.”
His voice was light and noncommittal, yet though he seemed completely relaxed, there was a certain underlying tenseness that communicated itself to me. This wasn’t a lark for him. It was a job. His jovial banter with the children, his boisterous behavior had merely been a cover-up, entirely misleading. He sauntered across the room with long, lazy strides, pausing to peer out another window. He could be breezy and flippant, true, but I suddenly realized he could be dangerous as well. Beneath the nonchalance, the casual, rather indifferent manner, there was a steel-like quality, very apparent at the moment. I found myself wondering if he had ever killed a man.
“Why didn’t you tell me about Larson?” I asked quietly.
“Larson?”
“Don’t pretend you don’t know about the murder.”
Stephen turned away from the window, his face grim.
“So you found out about that? I was hoping you wouldn’t, at least for awhile.”
“When I mentioned him at the pub, when I told you about seeing him at the station—you knew he was dead.”
“I knew,” he replied.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I didn’t want you to be alarmed.”
“There’s more, isn’t there?”
“Larson’s dead. He’s not important now.”
There was something cold-blooded about the way he said those words. His voice was flat, matter of fact. The man was dead. Consequently, he no longer mattered.
“It was his briefcase,” I said, “I’m sure of it. The way he acted at the station, the look of panic in his eyes—the briefcase had been mislaid and he was frantic. I took it, thinking it belonged to me, and he must have taken mine. Someone tried to break into the house last night. I think it was Larson.”
“It was,” he said.
“How can you be certain?”
“The prints Becky took this morning—she showed them to me. Larson’s. I brought a copy of his prints with me tonight, compared the two sets.”
“And—and he was murdered this morning because he failed to get the briefcase back.”
He nodded, folding his arms across his chest.
“Larson was a small-time hood,” he said in that same chilly voice, “a petty thief, an errand boy for the big racketeers, and not a very bright one at that. Any fool with a grain of sense would have carried the briefcase with him on the train, but not Larson. He checked it with the rest of his baggage. We knew he was delivering the drugs to Abbotstown—that’s why I was on the train, following him—but we were after the head man, hoping Larson would lead us to him. I had to report to the university as soon as I arrived, play my part as erudite lecturer, and the local men were supposed to keep an eye on him. Somehow or other he managed to give them the slip, and the next time they saw him his throat was crushed.”
I stared down at the bedclothes on the sofa, trying not to picture how he must have looked when they found him. “Where does that leave you now?” I asked.
“With you,” he said simply. “You’re our only lead.”
“The—whoever killed Larson thinks I still have the briefcase.”
“Right. Constable Clark gave you a complete briefing.”
“You sound so cold-blooded about it,” I said irritably.
“You’re in no danger. That’s why I’m here. There’s a man out in those trees behind the house, too. You’re well guarded, will be until this thing is over. Try not to think about it.”
“It makes me nervous,” I said. That was probably the understatement of the century.
Stephen smiled, amused, and that irritated me even more. I glared at him angrily.
“It’s all very well for you to smile—you’re not staked out like a goat, waiting for the tiger to pounce.”
“You make very nice bait, luv.”
“That’s not funny!”
“Come on, relax. I told you you’re in no danger. I’m here to protect you. I’m very good at my job.”
He looked at me with amused blue eyes, the smile still playing on his lips. I picked up the pillow and fluffed it and started to make up the sofa for him. Then I thought better of it. Let him do it himself. I’d waited on him quite enough for one night. I told him so. He merely grinned.
“You’ve had a rough day. I suggest you go to bed.”
“You needn’t expect me to cook breakfast for you, either.”
“If you’re as bad a cook as Liz claims, that’s probably a blessing.”
“Good night, Mr. Brent.”
“’Night, luv.”
Naturally, I couldn’t sleep. I tossed and turned for what seemed like hours, staring at the flecks of moonlight that danced on the ceiling, listening for unusual noises, but despite my efforts to relax, sleep wouldn’t come. I thought about that silly horoscope I had read last Sunday, Sybil’s predictions that I would take a sudden journey, meet a dark stranger, find romance, experience danger, and although, I realized it was utter nonsense, every single prediction seemed to have come true. I thought about Stephen, about Ron, about the briefcase full of drugs, and no matter how much I tried not to, I thought about George Larson, too. Restless, exhausted, I prayed for sleep. Outside, the trees groaned as their boughs bent in the wind. An owl hooted mournfully. Windows rattled lightly in their frames. It was after midnight … would someone try to break into the house again tonight? What was tomorrow going to bring?
I wouldn’t give in to fear. I promised myself that. I had agreed to do my bit, play my part, and I was going to do it to the best of my ability. I would try to put it all out of my mind, go on about my business, act natural, just as Consta
ble Clark had suggested. The menace was there, yes, but the children and I were in no danger. Policemen would be keeping a constant watch over us, and when the man, whoever he was, made his move, they would close in, it would be over. They had been keeping a constant watch over George Larson, too, a perverse voice whispered … but he had deliberately eluded them. There was nothing to worry about. Arms wrapped around the pillow, I closed my eyes, wondering if I were going to stay awake all night long.
It was five o’clock in the morning. I could see the luminous hands on the bedside clock. Darkness had thinned to a misty gray, shadows gone, furniture visible but colorless, as though seen in an old black-and-white movie. I sat up, bewildered, rubbing my eyes. Something had awakened me, a loud noise, yet there had been nothing sinister about it. Through the window I could see part of the sky, gray white, with the faintest suggestion of orange. A bird warbled throatily in one of the trees. Still groggy, I yawned, sniffing the delicious smells drifting up the stairs. I heard the noise again, a metallic clatter, a loud rattle. Someone was in the kitchen. At this hour? Keith? Liz? Surely not Becky? Getting out of bed, I slipped into my robe and went downstairs, hair atumble, cheeks flushed with sleep, feet bare.
“Morning,” Stephen said as I stepped into the kitchen.
“It’s you,” I said, disgruntled.
“Were you expecting someone else? Very peaceful night last night, no alarms, no excursions. Hungry? I always have a voracious appetite in the morning, and since you were so emphatic about not cooking any breakfast for me, I decided to do it myself.”
“Is there anything you can’t do?”
“Very little. I’m going to make someone a wonderful husband one of these days.”
A scathing comment leaped to mind, but I refrained from saying it. It was much too early in the morning to fight with him, I was much too sleepy, and the sound of coffee perking and bacon sizzling was much too inviting. I sank down into a chair, rested my elbows on the table and propped my chin in the palm of my hand. Stephen grinned, checked on the bacon, put toast in the toaster and started sprinkling spices into a bowl of eggs. He wore black leather slippers, light-blue pajamas and a rather splendid robe of heavy navy-blue cashmere, the sash knotted loosely at his waist. His hair was almost as unruly as mine, spilling over his brow, springy curls turning up at the back of his head. He poured a cup of coffee and gave it to me, then continued to putter about happily, draining the bacon, putting the toast in the oven to keep warm, cooking the eggs, garnishing them with steamed mushrooms and, in the process, making a considerable mess. The drainboard was heaped with pots and pans, the sink full of dishes.
It was a delicious breakfast. The eggs were delectable, the mushrooms superb, the bacon crisp. Besides toast, there were flaky popovers, and he even produced a jar of special guava jelly which he’d brought along with him in his bag. The coffee was excellent, too, and he explained how he brewed it with eggshells in the pot. He was in an exceptionally expansive mood, chatting blithely as we ate and relating amusing anecdotes concerning his experiences in a French cooking school a number of years ago. A remarkable man, I thought, reaching for a final popover and spreading it with jelly.
Early morning sunlight was streaming in through the window now and the sky was a pale blue, streaked with pink and orange. I could hear Keith moving around in his room upstairs, getting ready for his workout with Ron and the boys. He came downstairs a few minutes later, bright-eyed and grinning, looking remarkably robust in a pair of faded jeans and a threadbare white sweat shirt.
“Hi, Stephen,” he said. “Mornin’, Janie. What’s that I smell? You didn’t cook all this—”
He leaned over the back of my chair, slung one arm around my neck and nuzzled his cheek against mine for half a moment, reaching for a piece of toast at the same time.
“Sit down and eat properly, pet.”
“No time to eat now. I’ve got to meet Ron. He’ll be waiting for me. I’ll have breakfast when I get back. See you—”
He dashed out of the kitchen, munching on the toast, and we heard the front door bang loudly. The girls wouldn’t be up for at least another hour, if then, and there was more than enough food left over for all three of them. Stephen suggested we put it in the oven to keep warm, and I nodded agreement, feeling lazy and replete. He dug noisily in the cabinets until he found just the right metal containers, then put the food in the oven and cleared the table while I had another cup of coffee. The pile of dishes in the sink was even higher now. I wondered idly who was going to wash them. Stephen leaned against the drainboard, gazing at me, mounds of pots and pans behind him.
“The children certainly took to you last night,” I remarked.
“Kids always take to me,” he replied nonchalantly. “Seems I have a way with them.”
“Keith is usually standoffish with strangers.”
“He’s a fine lad, frightfully intelligent. Mite too serious. Tell me about Ron,” he said abruptly.
“Ron Hunter? What do you want to know about him?”
“Liz says he’s fallen for you.”
“Liz has a very big mouth.”
“Has he? Fallen for you, I mean.”
“I wouldn’t know—”
“That’s nonsense. You can tell when a guy has a yen for you.”
“He might be interested in me,” I admitted. “I don’t see that it’s any of your—”
“You interested in him?”
“Really, Mr. Brent, I find that question quite out of order. It has nothing whatsoever to do with you.”.
“You think not? You’re mistaken.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Like I said, you can tell when a guy has a yen for you.”
“And you do?”
He nodded slowly, gazing at me with drooping lids.
“This is totally absurd,” I said irritably. “When I was in London I didn’t even have an escort for Sunday concerts, and now every man I meet wants to hop into bed with me.”
“You mean the blokes in London didn’t?”
“Of course not.” My voice was prim.
“You must have known a lot of mighty peculiar guys,” he said, “or else you kept yourself completely out of circulation. I never mix business with pleasure,” he added breezily, “but after this job’s completed you’re going to be seeing quite a lot of me, so you might as well forget about your football hero.”
“That’s the most—”
“I believe in being frank,” he said.
He leaned there against the drainboard, arms folded across his chest, pajamas rumpled, looking like some indolent gangster. He seemed to smoulder with magnetism, watching me with hooded eyes, and I was extremely uncomfortable. I was an intelligent adult, not a child, and I wasn’t about to respond to that charisma as the children had done. He was insufferably conceited, incredibly arrogant. If he thought all he had to do was snap his fingers, he was quite wrong.
“You say you never mix business with pleasure,” I said, “but I notice you’re still chummy with that woman—the archeologist. You’re still taking her to the dance tonight. That comes under the heading of business, too, I suppose?”
“The university is the main target for these drug people. It’s important I be around the students, keep my eyes open. Besides, Honora’s an old friend.”
“I don’t doubt that,” I said acidly.
“You jealous?” he inquired.
“Don’t flatter yourself!”
Stephen Brent chuckled. He delighted in baiting me, mocking me, and I found it infuriating. I flushed angrily, and he stood there with one brow arched wickedly, those vivid blue eyes dancing with amusement.
“I thought you were supposed to clear out at dawn,” I snapped.
“I’ll be leaving shortly. No one will see me. I intend to go out the back way and cut through the fields. Guess I had better be getting dressed, though. Uh, I hate to leave all these dishes, but I’m sure you won’t mind doing them. Women like that sort of thi
ng.”
Still grinning, highly pleased with himself, he sauntered toward the kitchen door. I stared at the heap of pots and pans, the sink full of dishes, outraged, but it was too late to protest. Stephen Brent was already out of sight. I heard him whistling to himself a few minutes later as he dressed. That didn’t help. Not one bit. Livid, I drew a sink full of sudsy water and began to wash, slamming things around with considerable violence. It was definitely going to be one of those days.
10
The girls spent most of the morning chattering about Stephen Brent, singing his praises, discussing his charm, his accomplishments, his strangely exciting looks. He wasn’t handsome, Liz declared, one really couldn’t say that, but he was far sexier than all the handsome men put together. Not particularly interested in the way he looked, Becky rambled on about his vast knowledge of crime and criminal tactics and said he would undoubtedly make a cracking good detective and was wasting his time giving lectures on musty old idols and broken pots that no one really cared about anyway. I thought they were going to drive me out of my mind, and finally, after lunch, I went upstairs to examine the clothes I had brought with me and see if there was anything suitable to wear to the dance. There wasn’t. It presented a problem.
I remembered the dress I had seen in the window at The Shambles, and although it was sheer folly even to consider such a thing, I knew I was going to buy it. Bank balance be damned, one had to splurge now and then. I went back downstairs to see if the girls wanted to go with me. Prowling in the library, Liz had discovered a book about famous courtesans stuck away on a shelf of nineteenth-century sermons and was elated to find that almost a fourth of the book was devoted to Lola Montez. Sprawled out on the sofa, she was reading avidly and said she couldn’t tear herself away. Becky was in the sitting room, busily putting new labels on her fingerprint collection, and she didn’t care to accompany me either. I was hesitant about leaving the children alone, but Constable Clark had promised his men would be watching the house and had encouraged me to go out, act natural. The book would obviously keep Liz occupied for hours, but I was dubious about Becky. Keith had promised to help me keep an eye on her. He was working out in the potting shed at the moment. I went out there to tell him I was leaving and give him instructions.
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