Imperfect Strangers

by Stuart Woods

  "Sir?"

  "I hear that…" he shuffled papers on his desk until he found the name, "Thomas Wills, aka Morris Wilkes, didn't do it. Or, at least, you don't think he did it."

  Duvivier closed his mouth.

  "I hear you think the victim's husband offed her, or rather, had her offed. I hear you arrested Wills just to put pressure on the husband. Is this just an idle rumor, Al? Talk to me."

  "I had enough evidence for an arrest," Duvivier said quietly.

  "Speak up, Al, I can't hear you," Morrello said.

  "I had evidence," Duvivier repeated.

  "Good, good; always nice to have evidence. Tell me, do you think Wills offed the woman?"

  Duvivier shrugged. "I have some doubts."

  "How serious are those doubts?" Morrello asked.

  Duvivier squared his shoulders. "All right, captain, you're right; I think the husband did it, and I arrested Wills to put pressure on him. I think Kinsolving is, mostly, a decent man, and I thought that if he thought an innocent man might go to prison for his crime, he might talk to me."

  "So now an innocent man is dead," Morello said.

  "Yes, sir," Duvivier replied, tired of being quiet.

  "Only he's not innocent; he left a note, confessing; is that right?"

  "That's right, sir."

  "So now we're marking this one down as cleared, is that right?"

  "Yes, sir, I suppose so."

  "Well, I'm not supposing," Morello said. "I'm marking it down as cleared. Do you know what that means?"

  "It doesn't mean that I still can't go after Kinsolving," Duvivier said.

  "Of course it does. It means just that very thing." Morello stood up and started pacing. "Just look at the position you've put the department in, Al. You've arrested a man you believe to be innocent in order to put pressure on the guilty party. Only, the innocent man surprises you and confesses, then offs himself. Do you see the position?"

  "I'm not sure I do, sir."

  "Well, let me explain it to you. Now, in the unlikely event that you're ever able to make a case against the husband, and you arrest him and send him to trial, his lawyer is going to say to the jury, 'My client didn't do this murder, another man has already confessed to it, felt so guilty about it that he offed himself.' You getting my drift, Al?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "I don't think you are; not fully, anyway. Let's take it a step further. You do your job, you get the goods on the husband, what are the papers saying about the department? They're saying we drove an innocent man to suicide, and what's more, if the last guy was innocent, maybe the husband is innocent, too. You see what an impossible position that is for the department? What you've done is, you've made it a practical impossibility to ever arrest the husband or anybody else for this murder."

  "Captain-"

  "You listen to me," Morello said. "From now on, until further notice, you don't arrest anybody for any murder until you come in this office and lay out your evidence for me. Do you understand?"

  "Yes, sir; I understand."

  "Good, now get out of here."

  Duvivier trudged up the stairs to Kinsolving's office over the wine store. He didn't want to be here, but this was his last attempt at some sort of absolution.

  Kinsolving looked up from his desk. "Yes? What do you want, Detective?" His tone was cold, angry.

  "I take it, sir, you've heard the news about Thomas Wills."

  "I have."

  "I wanted to tell you personally how sorry I am," Duvivier said. He shifted his weight to the other foot; Kinsolving had not asked him to sit down.

  "Why are you sorry?" Kinsolving demanded. "You got a confession, didn't you?"

  "Well, yes, in a way."

  "Then what are you sorry about?" Kinsolving seemed to be getting angrier.

  "Well, it was just the circumstances-"

  "Tell me, Detective, did you really believe that man was guilty of murdering my wife?"

  "I… I wasn't sure," Duvivier replied. "I did have evidence."

  "You didn't believe it for a moment, did you? How could anybody talk to that man for even five minutes and believe that he did it?"

  "Mr. Kinsolving, I realize you're upset."

  "I'm extremely upset. And I want you to get out of my office, Detective; I want you to leave and not contact me again, unless you've found my wife's murderer. Is that clear?"

  "I understand, sir."

  "Good. Now get out."

  Duvivier hit the sidewalk more depressed than he had ever been in his life. He walked aimlessly east, toward the park. Maybe he should just find a nice quiet place and hang himself, like Thomas Wills. Central Park had trees. He walked toward the park, sick in his heart.

  CHAPTER 33

  The 747 landed at Heathrow just after 9:00 p.m.; Sandy and Cara were met by the Connaught's representative as they left customs, and in a moment they were ensconced in the back seat of a very large limousine.

  "I feel very regal," she said, laughing. She peered out the windows at the passing landscape, still lighted by the waning sun. "I can't believe it's still light," she said.

  "London is a lot farther north than New York," Sandy explained. "New York is actually on about the same latitude as Lisbon; being closer to the north pole, London has much longer days in summer, and, unfortunately, much shorter ones in winter. Is this the first time you've been to England?"

  "It is," she replied. "I've been to Rome and Paris, but never here. When Peter went to London on buying trips, I had to stay behind and run the gallery."

  "I'll make sure you see everything," Sandy said.

  It was after ten when the car pulled up in front of the hotel. The night porter was there to help them with their bags and, shortly, they were unpacking in a corner suite.

  "It's not like a hotel, somehow," Cara said, looking around.

  "No, it's more like being a guest at a friend's country house," Sandy replied. "That's one of the things I love about it."

  "But you usually stay in the flat over your shop," she said.

  "That's right, but only since I bought the shop. This used to be my resting place, and I still use the bar and the restaurants frequently."

  "They did seem to know you," she said.

  "Are you sleepy?" he asked.

  "Nope."

  "That's normal with travel to the east. It's only about five-thirty in the afternoon in New York, after all, and we're still running on New York time. The thing to do when traveling east is to stay up as late as possible, get as tired as possible, then get a good night's sleep. That defeats at least half of jet lag."

  "What do you suggest?" she asked.

  "Anabel's," he replied.

  They left the hotel and walked down the street toward Berkeley Square, Cara pausing to look into every shop window along the way. In the square they walked slowly past the tall plane trees in the little park and came to a stop before an awning leading to a basement.

  "What's this?" she asked.

  "This is Anabel's," he said.

  "A restaurant?"

  "A club and a restaurant." He led her down the stairs.

  "Good evening, Mr. Kinsolving," the doorman said as they entered.

  "Good evening," Sandy replied. He didn't come here all that often, and it always amazed him that they remembered his name. He signed the register, and they went down a hallway into a kind of sitting room, with a fireplace and a small bar.

  "It's lovely," Cara said. "I especially like the pictures."

  "The man who owns the place, Mark Birley, is the son of a well-known English painter, so I guess good pictures are in his genes. Let's keep going."

  They moved through a pair of swinging doors, and a short, gray-haired man in a tuxedo approached them.

  "Good evening, Louis," Sandy said.

  "Good evening, sir. Two?"

  "Yes." Louis never remembered his name, Sandy reflected.

  The restaurant was dark and intimately lit; at the far end was a small dance floor. Music
wafted softly through the room. They were shown to a table along the wall and given menus.

  "What would you like for dinner?" he asked.

  "What are you going to have?"

  "Scrambled eggs and smoked salmon," he replied.

  "I'll have the same," she said. "It's the first meal you ever gave me."

  "Seems like a long time ago," Sandy mused.

  "So much has happened."

  More than you know, he thought. He ordered their eggs and a bottle of Krug, just to keep this meal the same as their first together.

  They walked up the hill toward the Connaught, and Sandy steered Cara past the hotel and into Mount Street.

  "Where are we going?" she asked. "I'm getting sleepy."

  "Just a few steps. I want you to see it at night." He stopped before the shop. "This is it," he said. "What do you think?"

  She peered through the darkened windows. "This is what? Oh! The shop!"

  "That's right."

  "It's lovely; I can see why you'd want the New York shop to look the same. I'll give you your first design tip; let me design some lighting for inside that you can leave on until past midnight."

  "That will use a lot of electricity," he said.

  "It'll be cheap advertising, though. Every time some stranger walks past the place at night, he'll look inside, and you'll win a new customer."

  "Good advice," Sandy said. "I'm anxious for you to see the inside."

  "How about right now," she said. "Do you have a key?"

  "I do." He unlocked the door and let them inside, then went to disarm the security system and switch on the lights. When he returned she was standing in the middle of the shop, turning slowly.

  "It's absolutely wonderful," she said. "Who made it look this way?"

  "I don't think anybody remembers," Sandy said. "The shop has been here since the late eighteenth century, and it somehow just came to look this way."

  "With no designer?" she asked. "Sort of diminishes my trade, doesn't it?"

  "There's an old story," Sandy said, "about an American tourist in Oxford who wanders into the courtyard of one of the colleges, I forget which one, and he is confronted by the most beautiful lawn he has ever seen, smooth, perfect, and weed free. Having spent years trying to get his own lawn in shape, he approaches an elderly gardener and asks, Tell me, how do you get your grass to look like this?'

  "Well,' the old fellow says, 'First you prepare the ground, then you plant the seed, and then you roll it and cut it and roll it and cut it… for about three hundred years.'"

  She burst out laughing. "So time is the best designer."

  He took her in his arms and kissed her. "I'm sure you run a close second," he said.

  They walked back to the hotel, collected their key from the night porter, and took the lift upstairs.

  "Mmmm, linen sheets," she said, snuggling into bed. "My grandmother used to have linen sheets on all the beds in her house. That was when people could afford to hire someone to iron them, I suppose."

  "I'm afraid you're right," Sandy said, climbing into bed beside her. "In the case of the Connaught, all the laundry is sent to the Savoy Laundry, which is a kind of Victorian institution, in a London suburb, with a great deal of equipment that has been there for decades. When you send out some laundry you'll see what a wonderful job they do."

  She wriggled across the bed and put her head on his shoulder. "This is nice," she said. "I'm going to sleep well here."

  Soon she was breathing deeply, but Sandy continued to stare at the ceiling. Whenever he closed his eyes he saw Thomas Wills, swinging by the neck in his jail cell.

  CHAPTER 34

  Sandy left while Cara was still dressing and walked to the shop, so that she could present herself at a later hour. It was a little soon after Joan's death, he thought, for the staff of the London operation to conclude that he was seeing another woman.

  As he was about to open the shop's door, a man across the street caught his eye, for no other reason than that he was wearing a bowler hat. The English had given up the bowler reluctantly, Sandy reflected, but still, he hadn't seen one for at least ten years. He entered the shop, greeting staff as he went, then headed upstairs to his office.

  Maeve O'Brien, the office manager and secretary, greeted him warmly. "Did you have a good flight, Mr. Kinsolving?"

  "Yes, thank you, Maeve."

  "All of us here are so sorry about your double tragedy. We hope you're feeling better now."

  "Yes, I am, and thank everyone for me, will you? By the way, a Miss Cara Mason from New York will be calling at the shop this morning. She's an interior designer here to see how she can make the New York shop look more like this one. Will you send her up as soon as she arrives?"

  "Yes, of course, Mr. Kinsolving. I've put the monthly figures on your desk; I expect you'll want to have a look at them."

  "Thank you, Maeve, I think I'll do that right now." Sandy sat down at his desk and began going over the computer printouts.

  A minute later, Maeve was back. "Mr. Kinsolving, I'm sorry to disturb you, but there's a gentleman here to see you, a Mr. Jeremy Morris."

  "Do I know him?"

  "I don't think so, sir, but he's been here a number of times during your absence." She lowered her voice. "He's a little peculiar, sir."

  "Oh, all right, send him in." Sandy sat back and waited for the man, then rose and extended his hand as he entered.

  "Jeremy Morris, sir," the man said, shaking hands, "and it's very pleased I am to make your acquaintance."

  It was the man in the bowler hat Sandy had seen across the street a moment before, and his accent was all over the place-a little cockney, a little south London, even an occasional attempt at upper-class pronunciation. He was wearing a worn Macintosh and a small, waxed moustache. Along with his slicked-down hair, Sandy thought he looked like something out of an Agatha Christie novel.

  "Please sit down, Mr. Morris," Sandy said. Where the hell had he heard that name? "Are you a lover of wine?"

  "Well, mostly I take a little beer with my supper, if you know what I mean, sir; I've never acquired an especial fondness for the grape."

  "That's too bad," Sandy said. "Now what can I do for you?"

  "I've been eagerly awaiting your return from America," Morris said. "Having spoken with, but not actually made the acquaintance of your late wife."

  "Oh?" Where the hell did he know that name from? "My wife?"

  "Yes, yes," Morris said.

  "In what connection?"

  "Well, the late Mrs. Kinsolving had the occasion to employ my services a short while ago, you see." He looked around at the office door, then pushed it shut. "I hope you don't mind; I wish to be discreet."

  Sandy suddenly remembered where he'd heard the name; it had been on a compliments slip. "Go on, Mr. Morris."

  Morris fished in an inside pocket and came up with an envelope; he handed it to Sandy. "For your perusal, sir," he said.

  Sandy didn't need to look at the pictures, but he made a show of doing so, nonchalantly. When he had done so, he tossed them onto the desk. "Well?"

  "Well, sir, I thought perhaps you'd wish to have the opportunity to purchase these snaps before-"

  "I was under the distinct impression that my wife had already purchased them-and the negatives," Sandy said.

  Morris managed an obsequious smile. "Well, sir, you know how these things go; you and I are both men of the world, are we not?"

  "Not the same world," Sandy said.

  "Be that as it may, sir, I thought that, from what I've read in the New York newspapers, you might like to keep these snaps away from the eyes of the New York police department, and I'm here to be of service."

  "Why should I wish to keep these from the New York police?" Sandy asked.

  "Well, sir, given the circumstances of your late wife's demise, I thought perhaps it might be in your interests to keep these rather on the quiet side, if you know what I mean."

  "I'm afraid I don't have the slightest idea
what you mean," Sandy said.

  "Must I be blunt, sir?"

  "Please do."

  "Well, to be quite candid, sir, I've read that you stood to inherit quite a large amount in the event of your wife's untimely death."

  "So?"

  "I don't wish to give offense, sir, but surely you can see that these photographs might very well plant in the mind of the New York police that you might have had some motive…"

  Sandy took a pad from his desk drawer and began writing on it. "Mr. Morris, if you feel you have some relevant information in the matter of my wife's death, then you should immediately contact a Detective Duvivier of the Nineteenth Precinct. I'll give you his number." He held the slip of paper out for Morris to take.

  "Sir?"

  "Mr. Morris, when did you last read the New York newspapers?"

  "Well, I-"

  "Perhaps you should read yesterday's New York Times. There you will learn that my wife's murderer confessed to the crime over the weekend."

  Morris looked momentarily flummoxed, but then he recovered himself. "Well, I'm so very pleased to hear that, sir; I'm sure it's a great load off your mind. However, there's the matter of the newspapers on this side of the water, you see."

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "I'm very much afraid that our newspapers, especially those of the tabloid size, take a very much greater interest in one's personal habits than do your American ones."

  Uh oh, Sandy thought.

  "Not in your personal habits, sir, but they do take a very deep interest in the, shall we say, extracurricular activities of the nobility."

  "The nobility?" Sandy was playing for time now.

  "Peers of the realm," Morris said. "As in the Earl of Kensington and his wife, the countess." He indicated the photographs on Sandy's desk. "I'm not quite sure as yet who the other lady in question might be, but if the photos were published, then I'm sure we'd hear her name in no time at all." He smiled. "If you see my point, sir."

  There was a rap on the door, and Maeve stuck her head in. "Excuse me, Mr. Kinsolving, but your next appointment is here."

  "I'll be another minute, Maeve," Sandy replied. "Would you please introduce Miss Mason to the downstairs staff? I'll be down in a moment."