The Woman Who Knew Too Much

by Thomas Gifford

  “This guy’s in a panic.” Greco didn’t seem to be hurrying. “Ring any bells?”

  Celia was out of breath. “Absolutely.” She wasn’t going to let him go two up on her after the Mr. Mystery/M.M. blunder. “He’s realized he’s lost it and he’s figured out what might have happened to it. He’s going to the Strand.”

  “Well done,” Greco said. “Am I going too fast for you?”

  ‘Never,” she said grimly.

  He laughed.

  They followed him along Twelfth Street and watched him rush into the bookstore before they crossed. “Wait,” Greco said. “We can’t go in there after him—”

  “Why not?”

  Greco sighed. “We don’t want to run the risk of you two being brought together. They know you in there… Don’t you understand? Jeez, you’re just not trying! You’re very dangerous to this guy, and he’s scared out of his wits. Just stay here and try to get a look through the window.”

  She could just see Cunningham as he disappeared down the aisle beside the counter. He’d given the tables in front a quick once-over, been unable to find Littlechild Takes Aim, and gone off to find someone to talk to. Celia realized she was holding her breath. Suddenly he was storming back up the aisle.

  Greco pushed her over to the outdoor racks. “Look at the books, head down. Pay no attention to him.”

  Cunningham came out of the door, so close she could smell his cologne, looked around until he saw the telephone at the corner. He dashed across on a red light, narrowly beating the oncoming traffic, and made a call at the corner booth. It didn’t take him long, and at one point they could see him gesturing frustratedly, as if the person at the other end could see him, would be persuaded. Then he slammed the phone back in place, checked his watch, reached for the telephone again, stopped, fished a card out of his wallet, took the phone again, made another call which was considerably calmer, hung up, looked at his watch again, and headed down Twelfth. He stopped at the Gotham Bar and Grill and went inside.

  “You want a drink?” Greco said.

  “What if he sees us, wise guy?”

  “In there it doesn’t make any difference. The clerks at the Strand were the problem. Come on, I’m hot and thirsty.”

  The luncheon crowd had thinned out. They sat at the bar and spotted Cunningham at a banquette below them, across the room. Greco ordered a gin and tonic, Celia an iced tea.

  “Most stakeouts take days and days,” he said. “You don’t know how lucky we are. Cheers.” He took a long cold drink and closed his eye, savoring it. Then the eye clicked open. “Our man’s about to eat the tablecloth. Who did he call?”

  “Is this a test?”

  “You bet.”

  “I’d say he called his accomplice. Mr. Z.”

  “Maybe. Who else?”

  “What?”

  “He made two calls. He used his credit card for one. Who was that?”

  She shrugged. “I’ll bite. Who?”

  “How the hell should I know?”

  Celia noticed the woman when she came in simply because she was so striking. She stood at the steps to the dining level, beside a huge pot of flowers. She wore a gray silk dress with a beige sash riding low on her hips. Her shoulder bag was soft natural leather, her hair black and tousled, her features strong, decisive, handsome. She scanned the room, motioned the hostess away, went quickly to Cunningham’s table and sat down before he could say a word.

  “Wow. Now who the hell is that?” Greco said.

  “She’s not your type.”

  “Woman like that, she’s anybody’s type, kid.”

  “She’d never be seen dead with a guy in a warm-up jacket. But she’s not Mr. Z.”

  “I’d change tailors. Maybe she’s Miss Z. Drink your tea and watch.”

  The woman was clearly imperious, impatient with the situation. Her hands flicked hair away from her face; she folded her arms across her heavy bosom; she assumed a fixed posture while listening, then exploded into another when she spoke, as if her power lines were overloading. Cunningham made matters worse by knocking his water glass over when he reached across to light her cigarette. She looked pointedly away, disassociating herself from the scene when the waiter came to sponge away the mess. Cunningham was flushed, trying to smile nervously. As soon as they were alone again she bore in on him once more, pointing a finger at him, her lips so tight it seemed miraculous she could speak at all.

  “Maybe she’s the Director,” Greco said. “I’d help him kill her if it turned out that way. Still, look at her …”

  Celia shook her head. “She’s not the Director. They’re lovers. No woman would dare give that kind of hell to anyone she wasn’t sleeping with. Believe me, I know these things. She’s probably married to someone else and their affair is causing her some problems. Maybe it hasn’t anything to do with killing the Director—”

  “It has to connect. Believe me, everything old Charlie does now has something to do with killing the Director. The meter’s running. He can’t think of anything else. I know these things.”

  The woman suddenly pushed her chair back, stood up with a shake of her black mane. Cunningham wasn’t allowed to finish his drink, and she’d never ordered one. She shook her head again, this time at the approaching waiter, and stalked up the abbreviated stairs, down past the checkroom and back out to the street, leaving Cunningham just far enough behind to miss getting the doors for her.

  She stood with her feet wide apart, listening to him. She nodded, went across the street to a white Rolls-Royce Corniche convertible with a tan top that looked fat with expensive padding.

  “Woman looks like that, now I think about it,” Greco said, watching her through the large window at the end of the bar, “she’s gotta drive the perfect car. Survival of the fittest, right?”

  “Give us all a break. And anyway, what about the way she behaves?”

  “Guy’ll put up with a lot from a woman who looks like that.”

  Celia made a face that Greco missed.

  The woman went around past the familiar chrome slab of grillwork, got into the car, slammed the door. Cunningham bent down to speak to her at the window but she started the engine and pulled away from the curb, accelerated down Twelfth.

  Cunningham stood at the curb staring after her. He was swearing and his fists were clenched. He looked around to see if there had been any witnesses to his humiliation, then slowly let his face relax into its normal blandness. He shook his head philosophically and trudged away.

  “Not a very frightening-looking murderer,” she said.

  Greco was following his own train of thought. “Real man would treat her rough. She’d love it.”

  “Greco,” she sighed, “you hold no surprises for me.

  “You never know,” he said. “Come on, we might as well make one more stop.”

  “Where?” She chewed the last ice cube from her glass.

  “Miles Warriner. We’ll take him by surprise.”

  Chapter Ten

  THE CAB TOOK THEM up First Avenue, darting among the potholes, past the United Nations, and dropped them in the Fifties. They walked over to Sutton Place and began checking numbers. A doorman who looked like he was wearing an admiral’s uniform from Gilbert and Sullivan clearly didn’t approve of Greco’s jacket and jeans, so Greco was happy.

  Miles Warriner’s home had window boxes full of very self-satisfied flowers fighting for attention, lots of red and yellow and pink. The brick and trim looked old and classy but freshly scrubbed, as beautiful and perfectly anonymous as a London club in St. James’s. There was a cast-iron security door swirled with flowers that could stop a tank. It covered a heavy, paneled oaken door, which was shiny and lovingly oiled. Even the small bronzed numbers discreetly screwed in place, virtually invisible to the passerby, looked slightly embarrassed, as if they might be causing too much of a stir.

  Celia lifted a gorgon’s head, let it fall on the brass plate a couple of times. A dog began yapping somewhere within, a small
but fierce creature by the sound of it. She looked around, back down the empty street, insulated from the rattle and bang of the city. She felt as if she were being watched.

  Greco said: “Hello up there.”

  He seemed to be speaking to a hanging plant. He didn’t appear the type who communed with greenery, and sure enough he wasn’t. Behind the drapery of vines, set into the faded brick, was a tiny electronic barrel pointing at them. A television camera.

  The vine spoke. It was a lady vine. The dog had stopped barking. “May I help you?”

  “Yes,” Celia said. “We’re here to see Miles Warriner. Charlie Cunningham sent us.”

  Greco winced and closed his eyes.

  “One moment, please,” the vine said.

  “Nothing like showing our hand,” he muttered.

  “We had to give him a reason to see us, didn’t we? Stop picking on me. And anyway, you think a famous mystery writer like Miles Warriner’s in on Cunningham’s lousy murder? Come on, Greco, use your head—”

  “He called Cunningham M.M. in the inscription—”

  “Of course. That’s probably how Warriner came to meet him in the first place, as Mr. Mystery. Think, Greco, think—”

  “Why?” he asked tolerantly. “When I’ve got a heavy hitter like you to do my thinking for me?”

  He patted her fanny and she jumped.

  “Surprised you, toots,” he said.

  The door began making unlocking sounds and swung open. A Japanese woman of indeterminate age, wearing a black maid’s dress, stood back and ushered them in. She gave them a distant, haughty once-over. “A Yankee fan,” she murmured, as if chatting with her most honorable ancestors.

  “Yeah,” Greco replied. He fixed her with the glittering eye. “You don’t approve?”

  Celia almost gasped, but pretended she hadn’t heard.

  “Oh, but I do approve. I go back to the days of the mighty DiMaggio, young man. The most awesome Gehrig, the nimble Rolfe, the fleet Crosetti, Ruth who truly blotted out the sun—”

  “So you’ve got seniority. Let’s get down to cases.

  I’m the dauntless Greco, this stringbean here is Slats Blandings, good hands, goes to her right in the hole like Rizzuto in his prime …”

  The maid giggled girlishly, won over.

  “Now where is the deft and facile Miles Warriner?”

  “Follow, please,” she said, giggling again, covering her mouth with her tiny hand. “Slats Blandings,” she murmured, casting a glance at Celia. “Charming, charming …”

  She led them through rooms crammed with opulent objets d’art, futuristic Italian furniture, Aubusson carpets, full bookcases, TV sets masquerading as eighteenth century escritoires, past a dining table of burled wood six inches thick resting on a boulder of peach marble. Before opening French doors she said: “Mrs. Bassinetti is on the porch.”

  “Mrs. Who?” Celia asked.

  “Bassinetti,” Greco said.

  The first thing Celia saw were six Italian deck chairs she’d admired the previous summer at Jensen and Lewis. Eleven hundred bucks apiece to sit out in the rain. There was a forest of lofty palm trees, a glass table the size of any one of a number of small European principalities. And an extraordinarily beautiful woman she’d seen before. She stood at the railing looking out at the cruise ships on the East River, glinting brightly in the late afternoon sunshine. The porch, as well as the woman and the scowling, determined little dog at her feet, was in the cool shade, serene.

  Celia saw that she was more than beautiful. The woman was possessed of an uncommon, radiant sensuality. Fires smouldered in her eyes, her lips were full and furled. She was wearing the same dress, only now Celia saw the tinge of lilac in the gray. The beige sash was draped across the faint swell of her belly as provocatively as before. It was the same woman, and the Corniche sat on a ramp far below them, cantilevered above the FDR Drive. Celia felt as if she’d been caught in the middle of act one without a line in her head. A violent shiver cascaded down the back of her neck, worse than any stage fright she’d ever experienced. This woman was Charlie’s girlfriend.

  “Mrs. Bassinetti,” the maid said, “Miss Blandings and Mr. Greco.”

  She retired soundlessly and Mrs. Bassinetti turned to face them. A smile of curiosity played across her full, deep purple mouth.

  “How do you do?” Her voice was deep and soft, with a sandpapered edge. “What can I do for you? Charlie Cunningham sent you to see me?”

  Celia looked at Greco. Greco said: “Take it, Slats.”

  Her mind was racing back and forth like a maddened actress in search of a speech. Everything was different, as if she’d started out in Charley’s Aunt and suddenly found herself doing Lady Macbeth. What would Linda Thurston do? A swoon seemed to be the most reasonable option. They’d come to see Miles Warriner, to ask him what he might tell them about his pal Charlie, like did he know if maybe Charlie was planning to kill anyone. But as usual, unlike life on stage, nothing had been rehearsed, nothing was what it was supposed to be. Miles Warriner was nowhere in sight, and she was confronted with an earthy predator called Bassinetti who was Charlie’s girlfriend, and one of the Furies to boot. And the heroic cop says, Take it, Slats, whatever that was supposed to mean. Linda? Oh, Linda. She couldn’t seem to stop the gooseflesh rippling up and down her arms. She was certain Mrs. Bassinetti had seen it.

  “I’m terribly afraid we’re wasting your time, Mrs. Bassinetti. There’s been some mistake. We were told … well, that is to say, we came here looking for Miles Warriner. The mystery writer? Inspector Littlechild?” Her voice was shaking and she felt as if she were caught in a spotlight, naked, vulnerable. At a loss.

  Nobody was saying anything. Greco had dipped into a silver bowl of mixed nuts on a rolling drinks cart and was crunching, blandly watching the ships like toys on the water while the dog licked his fingers. Celia watched him. The man had no nerves. She pressed on.

  “And, well, we don’t actually know Charlie Cunningham—I mean, look, I feel like a fool barging into your home. …” Remember, Celia, she cautioned herself: she doesn’t know you know about her and Charlie Cunningham. But the whole situation was impossible; she couldn’t keep it all straight. She looked at Greco, wondering if she had enough psychic energy to will him over the railing to a horrible death.

  “Excuse me, Miss Blandings, but there’s been no mistake.” She smiled like the Dragon Lady. For the moment she seemed to be enjoying herself. Either that or her self-control, following her performance at the Gotham, was spooky. “Oh, dear Charlie didn’t make all this clear, did he? But then you don’t actually know Charlie, do you? Well, in real life I am a simple housewife, as you see.” Her eyes lingered on Greco for a moment. He wiped salty fingers in the dog’s beard.

  “But your publisher,” he said, “thought a man’s name was more salable?”

  She shook her head. “Not entirely. It’s more a matter of my husband, and you know how stubborn husbands can be. Bassinetti didn’t like the idea of being the unknown husband of the Mystery Writer, do you see? Very old-fashioned but,” she shrugged, “Bassinetti is not a great devotee of women’s liberation. He doesn’t mind my doing it, he just wants me to do my thing as quietly as possible. Anyway, enough about me. I am curious as to how you found out who I am—”

  “Just a friend in publishing who happened to know—”

  “Well, isn’t that the way? You think you have a secret, and of course you don’t.” She glanced at a small but very serviceable gold-and-diamond Rolex. “I mustn’t keep you while I chatter away. You did want to see me, I take it?”

  Celia said: “Oh, I was really trying to reach this Cunningham. I found something of his and wanted to return it. It’s not all that important—” Her mind raced ahead: Should she be giving anything away to this woman? Where did she fit in? She heard herself talking, tried to stop.

  “What is it?”

  “Just a book—”

  “A book? You’ve gone to a great deal of trouble
just to return a book. But why come to me?”

  “It’s one of your books.”

  “Inscribed to him from the author,” Greco said. “We couldn’t find him, we figured you might know him.”

  “How terribly clever of you! But, alas, I can only give you a general idea of where to reach him. I think he lives on Bank or Perry or Jane, one of those picturesque, funny little streets in the Village. Or he could call you, perhaps? Are you in the phone book, Miss Blandings?”

  “Oh, I must be,” Celia said with an idiotic laugh. She cringed inwardly.

  “We’ll be on our way, then,” Greco said. “We’re running late and have imposed on you enough already. We gotta catch the train up to the Stadium. Twi-nighter tonight. The Pale Hose, as they say.”

  Mrs. Bassinetti looked at him quizzically, as if he’d just broken into an Urdu dialect. “I’ll have Nancy show you out.” She pressed a buzzer on a cord and the maid appeared in the doorway.

  “Thank you for your help,” Celia said.

  “The pleasure was mine,” Mrs. Bassinetti replied.

  Back on the street Greco breathed a boisterous sigh. “Now that was right off the wall! Today’s been just full of surprises. I’m losing track of all the angles, Slats, but that lady’s in the big leagues, murder or not.”

  “You are such a bastard! You left me hanging there—”

  “You hung in, what are you complaining about? By the way, are you in the telephone book?”

  “No,” she said. They turned the corner and headed back toward First Avenue.

  “That’s a relief. We can’t let ’em find you.”

  “I hardly think Mrs. Bassinetti is plotting a real murder—”

  “Doesn’t matter once she tells Mr. Mystery how to get hold of you. But if you’re not in the book …” He shrugged. “Then you’re okay.”

  “Greco, you sound sort of funny.”

  “I feel funny, Slats. I feel like maybe we should give all this one helluva hard second look. I’m feeling like you’d better butt out—”