For The Death Of Me

by Jardine, Quintin

  ‘Who the fuck are the Moody Blues?’ he muttered. Back from the grave, but still a Philistine.

  West Fifty-fifth was as narrow as most of the trans-avenue streets are in Midtown Manhattan. The Shoreham Hotel wasn’t hard to find; its sign hung out over the street and a modern, fairly tasteless steel canopy hung over the entrance. I caught Prim frowning. ‘Hey,’ she exclaimed, ‘we were near here this morning. The Carnegie’s just round the corner.’

  ‘Too bad Maddy didn’t fancy chicken soup and matzoh balls for breakfast,’ I grunted back at her, ‘or you might have saved me a trip.’

  We went into the bar by mistake before we found the reception desk. When we did, it was staffed by a couple of young ladies who seemed to be doing their best to bristle with efficiency.

  ‘Hi there,’ I said, giving them my best smile, ‘we’re looking for a friend. I believe she may be staying here. The problem is, we’re not sure what name she’s travelling under. Her Christian name, though, is Madeleine, Maddy for short. You can’t miss her: she’s tall, looks mid-thirties, although it may say different on her passport, and she has sensational auburn hair, like in the L’Oréal ads.’

  The older of the two receptionists, a chubby black girl, nodded. ‘From the description, that would be Mrs Lee.’ She broke off for a few seconds to refer to a computer terminal. ‘Yeah, that’s Mrs Madeleine Lee, travelling on a Singapore passport. She was our guest.’

  ‘Was?’

  ‘Yes, sir, I’m afraid she checked out midday.’

  ‘Damn,’ I whispered, and then I saw her smile.

  ‘Would you be Mr Blackstone?’ she asked. ‘The movie star?’

  I gave her my Gary Cooper. ‘Yup.’

  ‘She left something for you.’

  ‘She did?’

  ‘Yes, sir. She said that if Oz Blackstone came looking for her, I should give you this.’ She took a hotel envelope from under the desk and held it out. ‘I thought she was maybe a little crazy,’ the receptionist confessed, as I took it from her.

  ‘This is New York,’ I reminded her. ‘It takes a lot to count as crazy here.’

  Mike and Prim watched me as I turned my back on the desk and opened Maddy’s gift. It was lightly sealed and peeled back at the touch of a finger. There was a single sheet of paper inside, folded twice. It was only rough, a file that most probably had been copied on to a computer, printed, then, I guessed, deleted. It had been done on ordinary paper, not high quality, but I knew what it was, almost before I glanced at it. When I did I saw red robes; that was enough. I refolded it quickly and slid it back into the envelope, then pocketed it.

  ‘What’s that about?’ Dylan asked.

  ‘It’s why I’m here. I think it’s a warning to leave her alone.’ I looked at the girl behind the counter. ‘The chambermaids didn’t find a body in her room, did they?’

  She stared at me as if I was the crazy one. ‘No, Mr Blackstone,’ she murmured uncertainly.

  ‘That makes a change,’ I told her.

  ‘Another cold trail,’ said Mike, grimly.

  ‘Not necessarily.’

  I walked through a door to the left of the desk, back out on to the street. What passed for a doorman was on duty there, a guy with a West Indian look, wearing a long jacket and a leather pork-pie hat. ‘Were you here at noon?’ I asked him.

  ‘Yes, mon,’ he drawled, confirming my guess about his origins.

  ‘A woman left here then; striking, tall, with long dark hair.’

  ‘I remember the lady. I got her a cab.’

  I gave him twenty bucks, up front: I didn’t want him making up a story just to get his hands on it. ‘Do you remember where she went?’

  ‘Sure, mon. She asked for Penn Station, that’s Thirty-third and Seventh.’

  I slipped him another twenty. ‘Thanks, mate.’ He’d told me where she was going.

  40

  Dylan ducked out of dinner: he said he was knackered, but I wasn’t sure. I reckon he’d been at enough tables with Prim and me.

  I told him that if he wanted to be part of the continuing adventure, he should meet me at the Algonquin at ten thirty next morning, with an overnight bag as we’d be going on a trip for a day or two.

  ‘In at the death, eh?’ He grinned. ‘You don’t think I’d miss that, do you? Make it eleven thirty, though. I’m not an early riser these days.’

  ‘Me too,’ Prim piped up. ‘I’m coming.’

  ‘I know you are,’ I told her. ‘You might have a part to play in this unfolding drama.’

  Dylan headed for the subway, while my good buddy on the door got Prim and me a cab. We went back to the hotel and to the Round Table restaurant. The Oak Room had been our favourite when we had been there before, but there’s no cabaret in July, and that’s why you go there.

  We both knew what we wanted without looking at the menu: lump crab cocktail and spring chicken pot pie, with a bottle of Ruffino Pinot Grigio. The waiter gave us a nod of approval, always a good sign. That was how it worked out.

  ‘Well, Tom’s mum,’ I said, as the last of the chicken disappeared from her plate; Prim could eat for Scotland. ‘How do you feel?’

  She looked at me. ‘Now I’m properly back in the world?’ I nodded. ‘Settled,’ she replied. ‘Oddly content. I don’t know what the rest of my life holds for me, but I don’t give a damn because I’ve got my son and I know he’s well loved and looked after even when he’s not with me. There’s more too.’ She laid her hand on mine. ‘The way things are, it keeps me involved in your life. I really hated it when I wasn’t; that’s how I got so bitter and twisted and vengeful. I’m sorry for that, but please, love, don’t shut me out again. You can’t deny it, we share something, you and I. We’ve got a bond. We’re joined in . . .’

  ‘Wickedness,’ I finished it for her. ‘You’re the bad cherub and I’m the devil.’

  ‘That’s a bit hard on both of us.’

  ‘If that were only true, baby. Remember that man in Geneva.’

  ‘That was different: he was trying to kill us.’

  ‘More fool him, then.’ Our eyes met and we both smiled . . . wickedly: we were talking about the death of another human, and grinning.

  ‘Hold on, though,’ she said, ‘we can’t be all that bad. We made Tom, after all.’

  ‘That’s true. We’re going to have to keep a close eye on that boy as he grows up.’ I finished the Pinot Grigio.

  ‘What about you and the girl in Singapore?’ Prim asked suddenly. ‘You were taking a chance, with Mike around.’

  ‘I didn’t take any chances. Nothing happened. It’s all in Dylan’s lurid imagination. I’m giving Marie a part in the movie of his book.’

  ‘He said you had her on the casting couch.’

  ‘He’s dreaming.’

  ‘You fancied her a bit, though; admit it.’

  ‘No. I fancied her a lot, but she’s a nice, proper girl and nothing happened.’

  ‘My God,’ she chuckled, ‘am I listening to Oz Blackstone?’

  ‘You are now.’

  She looked at me for a while. ‘You want to know what I think?’ she whispered, as if someone was eavesdropping, although there were no other occupied tables within earshot.

  ‘Would it matter if I said no?’

  ‘Not a bit. I know you love Susie; that’s beyond question. But one of the reasons you do is because she’s safe, sound, solid, loyal and reliable. Did I say safe? Well, I’ll say it again, because that’s what you crave the most these days, safety. But in truth, you’re going against your nature: you might not be the devil, but you’ve got some of him in you. You can act the wholesome home boy all you like, my love, and show the world your funny, user-friendly face, but you can’t hide the other one from me.’

  I said nothing as we walked to the lift to go up to our rooms. But I knew full well that she was right. And so I stopped trying.

  41

  Next morning, after a deli breakfast in the Stage, just along from the Carnegie on Seventh Av
enue, we went for a walk in the park; Central Park, that is. The place used to have a bad reputation, and maybe you still shouldn’t venture in too deep after dark, but on a sunny Saturday morning in summer, as Manhattan is rising into wakefulness, it’s an absolutely beautiful place to be.

  I looked around, and upwards: it’s important to look up as you walk at the spectacular skyline that surrounds it, a jagged line of buildings like the Essex House, the Plaza Hotel and, most recently, the towers at Columbus Circle.

  I was wearing jeans and my last T-shirt. Prim was in a halter top, her midriff bare, and in a pair of shorts so tight that she couldn’t have slid a postage stamp into the pockets. At some point I realised that we were holding hands, and in public too, but I wasn’t bothered. It didn’t mean anything in the greater scheme of things, and Primavera had hit the nail on the head about that bond between us. I’ve had three wives, and my relationship with each has been special and unique in its own way.

  I found myself telling her the truth that I’d discovered about Jan. I don’t know why I did that, for what I was doing was adding to the power that she had over me. Maybe I wanted that. Maybe I needed an excuse for giving in to her and her whims. She wasn’t shocked when I told her. All she did was shrug her shoulders and say, ‘Mac’s a very attractive man, even in his mid-sixties. Forty years ago he could probably have pulled half of Fife if he’d had a mind to. If he was anything like you, he probably did.’

  Prim wanted to take a ride in a buggy, but I vetoed that for two reasons. We didn’t have time, although we could have kept Dylan waiting, but most of all I had no desire to spend any part of my day staring at a horse’s arse, watching it fill the bucket, which, in New York, they tie to its tail. I wonder if that was an election pledge of Mayors Bloomberg or Giuliani: ‘Vote for me and I’ll keep the streets shit-free.’

  We’d both checked out of the hotel when Dylan arrived, and my wardrobe had been swelled by a few items I’d bought in a clothing store on Sixth. They were packed away in a new cabin bag: I may possess a world-record number of small suitcases on wheels, such is the unpredictable nature of my life, but my inherent Fife instinct never allows me to throw anything out while there’s another mile left in it.

  There were more than a few miles left in the car that the boys from Hertz delivered. It was a Cadillac De Ville, complete with satellite navigation, something I never go without in the US.

  ‘So, where are we heading?’ Mike asked, from the back seat.

  ‘Not all that far, actually: we’re off for a drive in the country. I’m told that it’s very pretty, although I’ve never been there.’

  ‘Try me with a clue.’

  ‘Have patience, my boy.’

  ‘Since it’s in the country, might there be lots of wild geese around?’ Prim put in.

  ‘No, but I’m betting that we’ll find a pretty bedraggled bird, who’s flown a hell of a long way to get there.’

  I kept them guessing as we set off, crossing Sixth, Seventh and Eighth, before taking a left turn and heading for the Lincoln Tunnel ramp that headed to New Jersey. I cruised on, letting the navigation system take charge and obeying its commands as it guided me on to I-95, heading for Newark.

  I drove slowly, below the speed limit, enjoying the comfort of the Caddy on the frenetic highway. We’d been on the road for around forty-five minutes when I took one exit then another and joined US-1 heading for New Brunswick and Princeton.

  ‘I spoke to Maddy’s mother,’ I told my companions, finally letting them in on our destination. ‘She has an older sister who’s a professor at the university down here.’

  ‘And you think that’s where she’s headed?’ Dylan said sceptically.

  ‘This is her last bolt-hole, the way I see it.’

  ‘What about back home to dear old Mum?’

  ‘She’s forgotten how to get there, going by what Mrs Raymond said. There’s no fatted calf grazing in the garden in Uxbridge, waiting for the chop. Besides, she wasn’t in London yesterday, she was in New York.’

  We had run out of the urban sprawl of northern New Jersey, and into leafy countryside, the way I had been told it would be. A few months before I’d been invited to take part in a debate organised by one of the university drama clubs. I’d almost accepted, but it fell into a period where a movie schedule might have overrun, and I didn’t want to have to withdraw: bad for the image.

  After a few miles the car told me to turn off the highway, then take a right on to Washington Road. We drove past the university football stadium on the right and on until I was directed left on to Nassau Street, and immediately left again. We stopped on command, right outside Nassau Hall, the university’s main office. Bloody marvellous, these systems, aren’t they? Sure, but there’s always a downside. We were International Rescue, on the trail of a damsel in distress, but if we’d been the forces of darkness, well, our sinister mission had just been made a lot easier. Nowadays even the Keystone Cops can get where they’re going without mishap.

  ‘So this is Ivy League?’ said Prim, as she slid out of the front passenger seat into the sunny morning.

  ‘I believe so.’ I looked around. It was the leafiest town I’d ever seen in America, all neat brick and clapboard buildings, much more rural than Oxford or Cambridge . . . or Cambridge, Massachusetts, where Harvard, Princeton’s greatest rival, is located.

  It was also very quiet.

  That’s when it dawned on my companions that the mastermind who was running the operation had failed to account for the fact that universities tend to be on vacation in July and even more so on any given Saturday. The bloody office was closed, wasn’t it?

  ‘So what do we do now, Clouseau?’ Dylan growled.

  ‘You’re the fucking author, Benny,’ I shot back. ‘Make something up.’

  ‘Let’s go for lunch,’ he proposed. ‘When we find a place, we’ll ask for a telephone directory. That may provide what we mystery writers sometimes call a clue.’

  We climbed back into the Cadillac. I didn’t bother with the clever system this time. Instead I headed along Nassau Street, until Prim spotted a seafood place called the Blue Point Grill. They were still serving and we were very lucky, the waiter told us, because they had two tables left. They also had a telephone directory, which contained no listings for either ‘Raymond, T.’ or ‘Raymond, Professor’; there was only one and his forename was Norman.

  ‘She may commute,’ Prim suggested. ‘She may not live anywhere near the campus.’

  ‘No. Her mother definitely said that she comes here for Thanksgiving every year.’

  ‘Why don’t you call her and ask for her address?’

  ‘That’s a last resort. I don’t want to have to explain what’s going on to the old lady. She’s got enough trouble with her son facing a stretch inside.’

  ‘You could ask him,’ Dylan volunteered. ‘You know where he is.’

  ‘The last thing Trevor said to me had the word “fuck” in it. I don’t imagine he’d react any differently. We’ll ask around here before we get to Plan C.’

  The food was good, but the information was lousy. They didn’t know Theresa Raymond, and if she was anyone important in Princeton, they were sure they would have. ‘Unless she’s allergic to seafood,’ I said to the waiter.

  ‘I’ve never met anyone who’s allergic to seafood,’ he replied.

  ‘Maybe that’s because you work in a fish restaurant.’

  We left no wiser than we had come in, but Prim had a bright idea. We should split up and go into as many shops as we could until we found someone who knew the Prof, and could point us at her. She volunteered to do the dress shops. Surprise?

  We agreed to meet in front of the Blue Point Grill in an hour for an update on progress. I crossed the street and started walking, feeling more than a little daft. I tried a pharmacist first: she was a woman, so she must need . . . things; makeup and stuff . . . and the campus was nearby. They had no clue; I could have asked the people in there for the time and they�
�d have had trouble. I tried a hardware store: as far as I knew Theresa Raymond lived alone, so she probably handled her own DIY. If she did, she didn’t shop there.

  I almost walked past the Cloak and Dagger bookstore. In fact, I would have, if I hadn’t spotted in the window Lethal Intent, the brand new Skinner novel I’d begun at Ellie’s. Alongside it a sign, ‘signed by the author’. I’d met the guy, when we did the movies of the first two books.

  I went inside; the place was neat, and full of well-displayed stock. ‘Have I just missed him?’ I asked the lady behind the counter, as I handed her the book. She wore a name-tag which identified her as ‘Aline Lenaz, proprietor’.

  ‘No,’ she admitted. ‘These were signed in London. He has been here, though; last year, in fact.’ She took a closer look at me. ‘Aren’t you . . .?’

  Instead of replying, I handed her a credit card. ‘What brings you to Princeton?’ she asked.

  I’d taken a punt once before in a bookstore and it had paid off. In my experience, such as it is, the independents stand or fall on the strength of their mailing list. The ones that make it keep in touch with their regulars at every opportunity. There’s a place I use in Westwood Village, Los Angeles, and I’m often invited to in-store events there.

  ‘I’m trying to find somebody,’ I told her. ‘She’s the sister of a lady I know, and I promised I’d look her up, but being basically disorganised I’ve lost the damn address.’

  ‘What’s her name?’

  ‘Raymond, Professor Raymond. She teaches philosophy at the university.’

  The woman’s friendly face lit up. ‘Ah, Trey. Theresa Raymond, she lives at seventeen Mimosa Avenue. She’s one of my best customers, reads a lot of Sarah Paretsky, Val McDermid, Patricia Cornwell.’ She tapped Lethal Intent as she bagged it. ‘And this guy, too.’