“I know,” Gil said in unthinking agreement. “When he was talking to me this morning, he seemed more concerned about whether Austen was satisfied than he was about—”
He saw the lawyer’s face go suddenly cold, and hurriedly explained, “That isn’t a contradiction, sir. I said I hadn’t talked to him about Austen and I hadn’t—only that one point, whether or not he was satisfied with the settlement. There was nothing about any reason why Mr. McCall wanted to go out there himself this morning, except that he was in a hurry to get it over with.”
Winston Conway’s voice was frosty. “There’s no need to explain yourself to me, Mr. Clark. You’re under no obligation on that score.”
“But there’s no reason either why I shouldn’t tell you anything I can. You’ve been a lot of help to me this past week. I’ve learned a great deal and I’m extremely grateful to you.”
“I’ve enjoyed it, too,” Conway said, his tone still prompting Gil to make an attempt to restore the warmth that had been there earlier.
“There’s only one point, Mr. Conway—well, I don’t know whether this has any bearing or not, but do you suppose his having known Lory before might figure in this, one way or another?”
“Austen’s daughter?” Conway asked. “Known her? What do you mean?”
Gil hesitated before answering, feeling the necessity of caution, recognizing how easy it would be to fall into the trap of taking what was only the vaguest of suspicions and giving it the substance of fact. There was, too, the further block of not knowing how much he could reveal without the violation of a confidence. It seemed safe to say, “When I was up in Mr. McCall’s apartment last week there was one of Lory Austen’s drawings on the wall—she’s an artist, you know, an illustrator? It was the frontispiece for one of her books.”
Conway’s brow was furrowed by the effort of recollection. “Just inside the living room, to your left as you enter?”
Gil nodded. “I happen to know that drawing was made at least four years ago. I know that from the publication date of the book.”
“But might not Mr. McCall have obtained the drawing at some later date?” the lawyer asked with a courtroom intonation.
“That isn’t my point, sir. The drawing is a portrait of Cash McCall.”
“Oh!” The lawyer cleared his throat, absent-mindedly crumbled a bit of toast. “Yes, that does prove that she must have known him at least four years ago, doesn’t it. What else do you know?”
“Nothing, except that—” He was stopped by the difficulty of expressing the feeling that he’d had this morning when Cash McCall had asked him about Lory Austen’s age. A mere reiteration of what had actually been said seemed to argue that McCall was not well acquainted with Lory, yet there had been something intangible about the incident that gave it a countersignificance, a feeling supported by the memory of Cash McCall’s odd reaction to the mention of Lory’s name that first day he had met him. Confused, he felt it best to say no more than, “It just struck me that there might be something back of it. I only mentioned it because I thought it might have some significance to you.”
Conway pursed his lips and tapped them with his forefinger, a gesture that Gil had come to recognize as an accompaniment of his deepest thought. “Possibly, possibly,” he said, preoccupied. “I do know that his interest in Suffolk Moulding dates back at least several years.”
“Oh, I know that too. When I first went to work on the account, Harrison Glenn told me that if the company ever came up for sale—”
Two men, seating themselves at the next table, upset a chair and Gil, wondering if perhaps he hadn’t gone too far, anyway, took advantage of the interruption and left the sentence incompleted.
The lawyer sat tapping his lips, finally saying, “I still fail to see the significance of his having known the girl before. Where does it lead you?”
“As I said, I merely mentioned it because—”
“If it were anyone but Cash McCall, the cherchez la femme approach might be applicable. In his case—what’s the girl like?”
“Lory? Oh, I don’t know how to describe her.”
“Attractive?”
“Yes, I’d say so—but that’s a matter of taste, I guess. She’s—well, the strange thing is that I’ve always thought of her as being so much younger than she actually is. She’s small and rather reticent—and then the fact that she illustrates children’s books—well, it caught me up short this morning when I figured back and realized that she’s at least twenty-six, maybe twenty-seven.”
“Never married?”
“No.”
“You say she’s an artist. Where did she study?”
“Prather.”
“That’s in Philadelphia?”
“Yes.”
“And she was there when?”
“Well, let’s see—she must have finished five or six years ago this spring. A friend of Barbara’s met her up in Maine that summer—yes, it was five years ago.”
“In Maine?”
“Yes, she was there studying with—”
There was an interrupting commotion near the revolving door, a feminine squeal from the cashier’s cage and a burst of masculine laughter from a man who stood in front of it. Heads turned all over the Coffee Shop, people half rising from their chairs to get a better vantage point. The thin waitress, her face contorted with indignation, came up beside Winston Conway’s chair. “One of them wise guys with an April Fool mouse. Some joke, huh?”
The lawyer looked up as if startled. “Yes, that’s true, isn’t it—it is the first of April.”
“You boys going to have anything else?” the waitress asked, check pad poised. “More coffee, huh?”
Winston Conway shook his head and pushed back his chair. Gil matched the action, standing, and they went together to the cashier’s cage, paying their checks. They parted at the door and, except for the meaningless words of Winston Conway’s farewell, nothing more was said.
6
Maude Kennard stood near the door of the Fontainebleau Room alerted by the sound of shuffling chairs that signaled the end of the second Andscott breakfast conference. The surf roar came toward her and she took a backward step, watching through the cut-edged leaves of the giant philodendron as the released flood of men poured down the three-step spillway to the lobby level. Inhaling, squaring her shoulders, she prepared herself for the peaking of personality that would be demanded by the appearance of Park Cady, Vice-president for Merchandising of the Andscott Instrument Corporation. Mr. Cady was the man who signed the check.
The consciousness that an effort was required came to Maude Kennard as a disturbing realization. Over the years, her response to the best interest of the hotel had become so automatic that it was a rare and disconcerting experience to find herself tempted to allow the intrusion of a superior personal consideration. Unquestionably, the solid accomplishment of showing a breakfast-time profit on the operation of the Fontainebleau Room was more important than solving the mystery of Cash McCall’s disappearance … or was it? If he sold the hotel, what did anything else matter? The Luxor chain would put in their own management … there would be no place for her after …
Again, uncontrollably, her mind submitted to the masochistic torture of reviewing the evidence. Cash McCall had left the hotel a week ago tomorrow noon and had not since returned. At ten minutes after seven that morning, five men had gone up to his suite. Nathan knew two of them, both so well that mistaken identity was impossible. One man was Winston Conway of Jamison, Conway & Slythe, the law firm that handled the legal affairs of the Hotel Ivanhoe. The other was Vincent Thompson of Thompson & Slater, the certified public accountants who audited the hotel’s books. She had known that something was up and, before noon, had managed to confirm her suspicion. On Will Atherson’s desk at the bank, she had seen the letter—actually only the letterhead but, even read upside down, there was no doubt that it was the stationery of the Luxor Hotel Corporation. Luxor was buying hotels all over the country and the I
vanhoe was exactly the kind of house that Luxor would want.
“Well!” The sound was that of a bursting balloon and she knew before she turned that it was Park Cady. “Yes sir, did it again, didn’t you, Mrs. Kennard! Wonderful breakfast. Yes sir, just wonderful. Want you to meet our president.”
Cady stood on the top step, a rubbery caricature right out of the Mummers parade, turning back to watch the ramrod-straight figure of the man who was slowly making his way down the aisle, a general reviewing his troops, bestowing his set smile as if it were a beribboned decoration.
“Our president,” Cady trumpeted wheezily as the man approached, preceding him down the steps, back-reaching a guiding hand. “General Danvers, want you to meet Mrs. Kennard. Yes sir, our honored guest today, Mrs. Kennard—president of our company. Pardon me, sir, Dick’s over here on the telephone, I’ll tell him you’re available now.”
Cady started a fast duck-waddle toward the telephone booth under the staircase to the mezzanine and Danvers watched him, waiting until he was safely out of earshot, then facing her with the expression of a sensible man embarrassed by imbecility.
“He’s quite a personality,” Maude Kennard cut in quickly, speaking before Danvers could clear his throat, her instinct suggesting that he would appreciate being relieved of the necessity of first comment.
“Yes, apparently that’s what it takes. That and this sort of thing,” Danvers said, his iron-jawed visage slackening with weary forbearance. “I’ve always regarded breakfast as a rite to be privately performed—and mass singing at any time of day as the most horrible manifestation of our so-called American way of life. But please don’t misunderstand me, Mrs. Kennard—I meant no reflection on your part of it. The food was excellent.”
“Thank you, General, and I do hope it won’t be so long before we see you again. It’s been almost three months, that night you had dinner here with Mr. McCall?”
“You do have a memory,” he said, cautiously pleased. “By the way, speaking of Mr. McCall, do you happen to know—”
Cady’s return could not have been more inopportunely timed. He was accompanied by a man whose name she knew was Sweetzer because he had been paged out of the Fontainebleau Room twice during breakfast to take telephone calls. By the deference with which Cady treated him, she judged that Sweetzer was a higher ranking vice-president, a man with the look of congealed torment on his face, an expression that Cady was now trying to mimic with almost ludicrous results.
Sweetzer locked eyes with the president. “It’s Cash McCall, no doubt about it.”
Maude saw that her presence had been forgotten but she sidestepped to the philodendron screen and averted her eyes, pretending that she wasn’t listening.
“You’re sure?” Danvers’ voice demanded.
“Yes, I’m sure,” Sweetzer slapped back. “After Fred heard Winston Conway and this other guy talking at breakfast, he took a run out to the airport. That’s where he just called me from. McCall’s plane is there. It all checks. He’s out at Austen’s right now signing up the deal.”
“That bastard!” a strange voice snarled, but strange only until Maude Kennard stole a quick glance and saw that Danvers’ face had gone livid with rage, his lips moving as he confirmed the first epithet with a second.
“And I’m afraid that isn’t the worst of it, sir,” Sweetzer said reluctantly. “Joe Keening’s had word from Suffolk Moulding. They’ve turned down the proposition—told us to go fly our kite.”
“Damn it, damn it, damn it!” Danvers exploded, emphasis building with every repeated expletive. “Didn’t I tell you that you were playing with fire! Didn’t I? Yes, damn it, I did tell you! I told all of you. But no, you were so sure that Austen would knuckle under! Now you’ve gotten us into a hell of a mess! This is Padua Furniture all over again! Another half million dollars’ ransom. How the hell did McCall find out, that’s what I want to know? Somebody talked and, by God, I want to know who it was!”
Sweetzer attempted a delaying interjection, but Danvers brushed him aside and plunged toward the street door, Park Cady following in his wake like a balloon being towed into a headwind. Sweetzer stood immobilized by fury, his face drained, his eyes hard with the hatred of a man goaded beyond endurance.
But Maude Kennard had no interest in any anger other than her own, the icy contempt with which she now regarded herself for having been so stupidly deluded by that letterhead on Will Atherson’s desk. She had lost her objectivity, accepted fear as a fact, permitted her imagination to control her mind. That was the sin of sins.
It was clear now that Cash had not been out of town on an expedition to sell the Ivanhoe, but she was across the lobby and starting up the stairs to the mezzanine before she allowed herself the relief that came with recognition. She should have known before … and if it hadn’t been for that stupid guess about Luxor she would have known! Cash was in Suffolk, buying that man Austen’s company. How could she have been so wrong? She should have realized … Will Atherson bringing Austen to The Wharf that day … that young man from Corporation Associates, Clark or whatever his name was, whispering to Austen in the lobby … then having lunch with Cash … Austen going up to the suite afterwards. She should have known that it didn’t have anything to do with the hotel. Or that meeting the next morning either. Conway was the hotel’s attorney … of course he was … but only because Cash owned the hotel. Conway was Cash’s attorney … just as Thompson was his chief accountant … and Will Atherson his financial man …
She was stopped at the head of the staircase by the excitement of unfolding discovery, suddenly visualizing the enormousness of Cash McCall’s secret empire … Freeholders Bank & Trust Company … Jamison, Conway & Slythe … Thompson & Slater … Corporation Associates. The Ivanhoe must be only one of hundreds of properties that he owned. There was the company that he had just bought from Austen … the fear that she had seen in Danvers’ eyes … the Andscott Instrument Corporation …
She had glanced over the mezzanine rail and her spinning mind had flashed the recalled image of that little bitch waiting for Cash … Austen’s daughter … Suffolk … and that was where Cash had been all week!
A deep breath filled her lungs and she forced her mind to accept the flesh-bite of her tightened brassière as the iron-banded curbing of apprehension. She wouldn’t make the same mistake twice. No, it couldn’t be, not when you thought it through … Cash was no sex maniac like Wilfred, chasing every giggling piece of jailbait in Chicago. Cash was too clever to let himself be fooled by a little high school slut like that … much, much, much too clever!
Everett Pierce was watching her from the doorway of his office, the green-glowing MANAGER sign above his head giving a mildewed cast to the gray skin of his face, and she was sure that he would ask, as he asked twice a day all through the past week, “Anything on that report yet, Mrs. Kennard?”
But for once Everett Pierce proved unpredictable. He said nothing. Instead he gave her a rabbity smirk and handed her an envelope that she knew, even before she looked at the corner card, was from Judge Torrant. There was no stamp, only her hand-written name and an underscored Personal and Confidential.
“Messenger just brought it,” Pierce explained, his voice high pitched with anticipatory excitement. “I saw you down there with those Andscott people and didn’t think it would be smart to bother you.”
She took the envelope without acknowledgment and walked toward her office, knowing that Pierce would follow her. She had decided several days ago that she would find some way to keep him from seeing the report. Now that was impossible … oh, why had Torrant been such an addle-pated old fool as to send it to her here at the hotel!
A sudden inspiration saved her. “I’m afraid this may not be what you think it is. Judge Torrant is handling something else for me, too—a personal matter.”
Everett Pierce made no move to leave the doorway of her office. She stared at him, waiting. But he stood his ground. Did he think that she would betray Cash for him? Did th
e little idiot imagine that she would put a knife in his hands so he could get back that precious suite of his!
She rarely used a letter opener but the search of her top desk drawer allowed her to maneuver her body into a position where, as the envelope was finally opened, its contents would be safely guarded from Pierce’s eager eyes. There was only a single sheet, not a letterhead but plain paper, and there was neither salutation nor signature.
The following is from a letter received late yesterday afternoon. “We regret the delay in responding to your recent inquiry. It is quite true, as you suggest, that we did at one time supply background reports from our files on individuals. Unfortunately we are no longer in a position to do so. Since the cost involved in a special investigation would undoubtedly be substantially greater than your client would feel justified by the information produced, there is apparently no way in which we can be of service to you.”
Without hesitation, she handed the letter to Pierce, risking a bold smile as he started to read, watching his face collapse like a slowly squeezed sponge.
He looked up, folding the letter. “I don’t understand this, Mrs. Kennard. It sounds to me as if they’re just ducking.”
“I wouldn’t know,” she said, turning away from him and starting to examine the night auditor’s report on her desk.
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