“When the young Turks threatened me at that meeting, I realized I was done for as Jason Kingsley-Smythe. I was too old and sad to admit it—powerless. It was then I made the decision to end that part of my life. I needed a witness. You filled the bill. And, since you now know who I am, I suppose you deserve to hear some of the details.”
Kingsley-Smythe, Luger still in hand, leans back in his chair. For the next few minutes, he describes a life of a privileged but motherless child at the mercy of a distant and disapproving father who sent him to live with his maternal grandmother.
“Though Grammy loved me, she was very old and a little strange. She would take me up to the third floor, open her wedding chest and let me try on her trousseau.”
His see-through eyes soften. “Such lovely creations—so beautifully made. Over time, I came to enjoy wearing women’s clothing. So much so that I took several outfits with me to Andover.”
I can’t believe what he’s saying. To imagine a seventh-grader dragging women’s clothing to an all-male boarding school, even during the late nineteen-thirties, is a stretch.
“Larry and I were two lonely young boys struggling into manhood. He was terribly gifted—had a photographic memory. He could glance at strings of equations and never forget the sequences.
“We had an affair of sorts—mostly kisses and the like, since neither one of us knew too much about anything else. Larry hated dressing up as much as I loved it, so I played the woman.”
Kingsley-Smythe must see the shock on my face, because he raises a cautionary hand. “I assure you I’m not gay. It was just a passing phase that ended before the spring term was out. When Larry and I returned to school the following fall, we laughed about it. It seems that during the summer we had both discovered women. Though Larry’s interests have always been somewhat skewed.”
He pockets his Luger, walks to the Bosendorfer and begins to play. After a few bars, he looks over his shoulder. “I composed this piece. How do you like it?”
“Never been much into jazz.”
“Pity, I was quite good once upon a time.” He runs through a few more riffs. “In fact I had my own jazz combo in high school and studied under the great jazz pianist Helmut Reisend the summer before college. He was a great master—almost lost his life escaping from the Nazis.
“I was absolutely fascinated with Adolf Hitler and how he gained such power. How the Germans looked the other way while his army exterminated the Jews. How in the end, his closest comrades turned on him.
“Still the man fascinated me so, I ultimately chose the name Sigrid Hale when I began my rather nefarious business ventures.” He turns to face me. “Surely, you must get the connection?”
“But why masquerade as a woman?”
He laughs. “You’re a woman. That should be easy to figure out.”
“Not a clue.”
“Men are basically afraid of women. After all, women completely control their early existence. Think about it. A powerful woman is much more potent than her male counterpart. Harks back to Oedipus I suppose.”
Why is he telling me this? And now? A small chill feathers down my spine, as the ultimate possibility flits across my mind. Then I comfort myself with the fact that as long as he’s talking I’m safe. Sort of like a reverse spin on Scheherazade, only he’s the one who’s telling the tales.
Thank God, women have been blessed with the ability to multi-task. While half-listening to his tale, I search my mind for a plan. There has to be something plausible enough to seem real. Something.
His drone breaks my thoughts. “I took up my double identity when one of my cronies was killed doing loops in his biplane. He had a very nice stable of high-class call girls, with whom I had become acquainted through the years.
“My favorite approached me, explained the situation and asked for help. I must say it came at a time in my life when I needed diversion, so I was only too happy to take them on. I had three houses in SoHo that ran around the clock.
“Thank heavens Larry came into the partnership. His photographic memory has been extremely valuable in the light of our loss earlier this year. It was Larry who stumbled onto the Colombian Connection. So lucrative. So very easy.”
When I say nothing, he goes on. “In order to accommodate the reception and distribution of the goods as well as showcase the girls, we needed a larger space, water access and a situation where the law generally looked in the other direction if you paid them enough. Larry’s family home on the Jersey shore was perfect.”
We sit in silence for what seems like an eternity before I say, “Would you let me go if I told you I had access to something valuable?”
“And what might that be?”
“The address book. After Caro was murdered the police searched the townhouse and came up empty-handed. Several days later another person came looking for it.”
“Yes. We knew about that. But, of course with Larry’s photographic memory we didn’t need it. How in heaven did you unearth it?”
“Seems the men weren’t as snoopy as I was. All I had to do was figure out where Caro hid it. I have it in the safe-deposit box at the Chase. I can get it for you, but once I do, you’ll have to release me.”
He studies me for a few seconds. “Describe it.”
“The first several pages are filled with women’s names. But toward the back of the book the names are different.” “Keep talking.”
I struggle to pull the names from my panicky memory.
“Horus? And then—Ishtar? The names seem to be in alphabetical order. After each name is a long string of numbers that don’t make any sense to me.”
Obviously satisfied, he starts to rise.
I put up my hand. “But there’s something else we must talk about.”
He settles in the chair, eyebrows raised.
“I’ve been looking around and from what I’ve seen, I’ve figured out what your experiment is.”
“Yes. By now I’m quite sure you have. I must confess I was furious when Larry told me that you and Angela had switched places. However, I found you to be a bright young woman. Much brighter than your sister.”
I want to tell him he’s dead wrong on that score. Angela’s in Houston wrapped in the safe embrace of her fiancé, while smart-aleck Allie is trapped in the basement with an aging loony-toon. “But why do you want a child? You’re near the end of your life. You’ll never see it grow up.”
“So you think I’m crazy too?”
“It doesn’t matter what I think because the issue is moot. What you’re asking of me is impossible.”
“Not at all.” He puffs a little. “My sperm are quite vigorous for a man my age.”
“Congratulations. But you didn’t hear what I said. What you are asking of me is impossible.”
Those icy, pale-blue eyes pierce mine for a second or so before he says, “Explain.”
I take a deep breath to fight the roll in my gut. Only one chance to sell this lie—only one chance.
“I’m barren.”
That gets him. “Explain barren.”
Only one chance. Don’t blow it. “Unable to conceive? Sterile?” He stares at me for a few seconds and I lock my eyes with his, hoping they’re loaded with honesty.
He breaks first and murmurs, “But, you’re so young—how?”
“I had an abortion when I was in college.” At least that part is true. Then, counting on the fact that the man won’t exactly be a gynecological genius, I embroider a little.
“The abortion was a success, but it resulted in extensive endometriosis.”
“Explain.”
“Only one chance” keeps echoing at the side of my mind. I check him out to see if he’s buying. Looking good. He’s leaning forward.
“Endometriosis is a disease of the lining of the uterus. Over time cysts and adhesions form on the uterine lining. These growths make it extremely difficult to conceive. Even if I did, I wouldn’t carry a fetus to full term.”
Kingsley-Smythe’s reacti
on is totally unexpected. He reaches across the table and gently pats my arm. “I’m so sorry. How sad for you.”
He lowers his eyes and lets out a long breath. “I hadn’t counted on this.”
He rises, slowly walks toward the stairs and turns. “I’ll need time to consider the consequences of what occurred today. You now know who I am. Larry seems to have turned on me. And another trip to the bank could be dangerous.”
He gives me a halfhearted salute and disappears up the stairs.
After the bolt snaps, I look around the room. The bed with the wrought iron headboard beckons, but there’s no way I’m sleeping in the same bed where two women met their deaths.
I move the lamp off the table and begin a search of the general area where the door to the backyard might be.
I pat down the material. Nothing. Next, I lie back, press my feet against the wall and push with every ounce of strength I can muster.
Touchdown. I hear a muted rattle—glass on the other side of the paneling. I press again. Again, the rattle.
Kneeling next to the wall, I run my fingertips downward trying to visualize where the hardware would be. Then I remember. The door is covered with some sort of cheap paneling.
Frustrated and tired, and sadly aware that my last ace in the hole isn’t as important as I thought, I struggle to my feet and put the lamp back on the table.
I suppress a yawn and yank several pillows, the coverlet and blanket from the bed. After making a comfortable nest, I fall onto the beckoning chaise and turn off the light.
————
The sound of descending footsteps cuts into my dreams. I pull my arm from the warm cocoon and squint at my watch. It’s ten thirty-seven. Because there’s no daylight I’ve lost all track of time. Still, my stomach is growling.
The door opens. It’s Kingsley-Smythe still dressed in his sweater and slacks, which leads me to believe that only a few hours have passed since I turned out the light.
“What’s the matter?”
He points toward the bath. “We’ll have plenty of time for questions after you take care of your basic needs. I’ll wait.”
I slide into the bath. There’s no privacy lock, but I can’t worry about that. Something’s up. But what?
In minutes I’ve brushed, splashed and lipsticked. I reenter the room, grab my bag and start toward the stairs.
Kingsley-Smythe is about to open the door when a stampede of steps approaches, and Larry appears with Cliff behind him.
Kingsley-Smythe slides his hand into his right pocket. “What’s going on?”
“Cliff called. Yanked me out of a dead sleep. Said she knows who you are.” Larry points an accusing finger at me and glares at Kingsley-Smythe. “From the way you’re dressed, looks like Cliff was right.”
Kingsley-Smythe glances my way. “We can take care of Miss Armington after we get the address book.”
Larry’s mouth drops. “What in hell does she have to do with the address book?”
“Miss Armington discovered where Miss Montoya secreted it.” “But, Jason, we don’t need it. I have everything memorized.” “Ah, Larry, but we do.”
“But why jeopardize the situation? I can dictate the information.”
“Yes, I’m sure you can. But we’re both getting up in years now. You could forget a thing or two. Having that book in our hands would be insurance—in case something might happen to you.”
Kingsley-Smythe turns to Cliff. “It took me a while to realize you were the one who stole the address book and stashed it with Miss Montoya. Ah, the perfidy of women. She never told you where it was, did she?”
When Cliff lowers his eyes, Larry jumps up and points an accusing finger in his direction. “For God’s sake, Jason, this man is nothing more than a common thief, and a disloyal one at that. You’ve had others killed for less. What’s stopping you now?”
Chapter 48
IT’S CLOSE TO NOON by the time Cliff and I head back to the bank, leaving Larry and Kingsley-Smythe behind. After much discussion, the two finally reached a tenuous agreement on how to handle Cliff and his indiscretion.
Both Cliff and I sat there listening with mouths agape. As far as the two old friends were concerned, we might as well have been on another planet.
Though I’m shivering in Cliff ’s all-weather coat, my thoughts are on the news I have about Sigrid Hale and the dilemma I face. If I squeal, they’ll all come running. Then what will happen? Poor Kingsley-Smythe has had enough problems. What would a long term in prison serve? He’s been defanged. And it seems that Larry is the really bad actor.
When Cliff lets out a pained grunt, I look over to see he’s shuddering in his down-filled, knee-length parka. That sort of puts us in the same boat with one major exception: the Luger, safety off, is clutched in Cliff ’s hand jammed inside his right pocket.
We trot to keep our blood circulating. Not one word out of Cliff. Not that I expect casual chitchat. If he feels anything like I do, he’s so cold his mouth has stuck shut.
My message to Greene was for nothing. Even if they had a chance to “duplicate” the address book with changes, it won’t do any good. Larry will catch the discrepancies in seconds.
————
I make my way through the bank to the vault and hand over my key to the same woman as before.
She looks at my signature, then up at me. “Oh, yes.”
After she inserts both keys into box fifteen forty-two, she opens the door. The safe-deposit box has been removed. “Is this what you requested, Miss Armington?”
When I nod she points me toward the private rooms. “Room three, please.”
Mindy, bundled like she’s about to be off for one of the Poles, is waiting.
I’m so happy to see a friendly face I throw my arms around her. Then I feel her tense beneath all those layers and realize I’ve overstepped my bounds.
I drop my arms and take a step back. “Thank God, Greene came through.”
She hands me the red leather address book. “We got a court order and were in here an hour after you left. All done. Just like you asked.”
I open it. “Is this the copy?”
“This is the book with the changes. Your guess was a good one. We’re pretty sure these are the numbers of Swiss bank accounts where the laundered drug money is stashed.”
She points to one string of numbers. “Only two of the digits have been altered in each sequence. The numbers chosen are random so the untrained eye can’t pick up a pattern. One would have had to memorize the string to catch the inconsistency.”
I let out a frustrated sigh. “That’s the problem. I’ve just found out Larry Templeton has a photographic memory. That’s how the drug shipments were able to continue after Caro was killed. I sure hope you have the original here.”
Mindy raises the lid of the safe-deposit box. “Voilá.” She takes out the second book, but doesn’t hand it over. “Actually, they’re both copies. Though the original is in good shape, Greene wanted a little insurance. We purchased two address books. The lab ‘aged’ them with identical stress marks and tears. The only way you can tell the ‘real’ from the bogus is the small tear in the last page of the bogus.”
I turn to the back of the book. The tear is so small that unless you were comparing the two page by page you’d never notice the difference.
“Greene thought it best to remove the original to a safer place.”
She hands me the bogus original, and I put it in the right-hand pocket of Cliff ’s all-weather and shove the altered book into the left-hand pocket of my tweed jacket.
“Greene told me the woman impersonating you was picked up and interrogated. Not much there. She was an out-of-work actress who needed money. She was just carrying out orders.”
When I start for the door Mindy catches my arm. “Greene’s worried we can’t cover you as close as we’d like. My orders are to bring you with me.”
“But I’m right in the middle of this. If I don’t go back to the townhouse�
�look, Mindy, things are pretty dicey between Cliff, Larry and Hale. If Cliff comes back without me, I’m almost positive they’ll bolt. And then what?”
She studies me for a few seconds, then says, “He won’t like it. But—” Mindy pulls her .38 snub-nose revolver from her shoulder holster and hands it to me. “Greene told us they lifted your weapon.”
“Thanks. I’ll be sure to return it in good condition.”
I check the safety and shove it in the back of my waistband beneath my jacket.
When I emerge into the beginning snow, Cliff is jumping up and down slapping his gloved hands together. “God. I’m freezing. What took you so long?”
I reach in my pocket. “Do you want it now?”
He looks around. “Wait until we start north on Third.” We walk in silence to the corner, then he says, “Now.”
I pass him the address book. He riffs through the pages. “That’s it.”
Chapter 49
AGAIN SEATED around the dining room table, we watch Larry go through the address book and pronounce it authentic.
When he starts to pocket it, Kingsley-Smythe holds out his hand. “Your brain and this book are too important to be in such close proximity. Don’t you agree?”
Larry shrugs and hands the book over. “You’re the boss.” Then he points at me. “But we still have a problem.”
“I’ll handle her. Just so you know, I’ve covered all the bases. They think she’s in Texas.”
Larry rolls his eyes. “‘They’ think she’s in Texas? She’s working with ‘they.’ Don’t you get it, Jason? ‘They’ want to bring us down.” Kingsley-Smythe slowly shakes his head. “I’ve been patient with you, Larry—more than patient. Over the years I’ve tried to overlook your atrocities toward women. Yet, despite my loyal efforts on your behalf, you refuse to support the plan I’ve already put in motion.”
Larry shakes his head. “For some time now, Cliff and I have been trying to find a way to stop this wacky plan of yours. We both agree you should abandon this project immediately.”
He turns to Cliff. “Right?”
Cliff ’s face registers surprise followed by disbelief. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Larry. You and I have never discussed—”
Xs, An Allie Armington Mystery Page 19