One True Sentence: A Hector Lassiter novel (Hector Lassiter series Book 1)

by Craig McDonald

  Hector was sweating; his heart was pounding. His palms were damp. Jesus, was it possible he was on to something with this crazy, dark epiphany?

  He realized Molly was staring at him, her forehead wrinkled. “What in God’s name are you thinking about, Hector? You look…haunted.”

  “I’m fine. And I mean to find out who is doing this to you, I swear, Molly. But until I do, you and I, we may need to stay close to one another.”

  She smiled. “I’m not arguing with that prospect. But I can’t deny I dearly wish the reasons were different.”

  Hector’s hand was there again. He squeezed gently, massaging between her legs. She sighed, spreading her legs a bit further apart; bedroom eyes. She leaned forward to kiss him again. Hector said, “In time they may become so.”

  “I’m really quite in love with you, Hector. Does that frighten you?”

  He kissed her again; smelled lilacs. He tasted wine on her lips. Hector tried to decide if he wasn’t falling in love with Molly. “I’m not afraid of that.” Then he said, “You’re going to need to stay at my place in the morning I think. I’m going to have to go out.”

  “I’ll come with you.”

  “No…no. I found the poet — the one who heads Nada. I’m going to confront him tomorrow. Perhaps with the police, perhaps not. That part I haven’t decided yet.”

  “Where? How did you find him?”

  “The how isn’t so important anymore,” he said. “The where? He’s living above a brothel on the Right Bank. I’ve confirmed that. With any luck, tomorrow morning, he will be neutralized. Arrested or otherwise. Hopefully, this Nada thing will collapse without him. It’s the old and trusty strategy, you know? Cut off the head and the body dies.”

  ***

  At a quarter after five, Brinke finally appeared. Hector helped Brinke off with her coat. She was wearing her man’s suit and overcoat again…her dark fedora. Brinke smiled thinly and sat down between them, taking Hector’s chair. Brinke looked at the nearly empty wine bottle and poured the dregs into her own glass.

  Molly excused herself to the restroom. Hector said to Brinke, “You’re late. Where have you been?”

  Brinke arched an eyebrow. “Actually, I was on time. Or very close to it. But as you had your hand up Molly’s skirt and her tongue down your throat…” Brinke sipped her wine. “Thought I’d give you two lovebirds some time alone. I went for a walk in the snow. Brooded.”

  Hector started to raise his hand to speak…but he didn’t quite know what to say.

  Brinke said, “Don’t even try. It’s not really your fault. It’s mine. That’s what some cocaine over lunch, too much wine, and Alice B. Toklas’s baked goods will buy a woman — an impossible situation…sharing her man with some arty, suicidal blonde.”

  Hector ground his teeth. “You regret this new thing we have going now?”

  Brinke shrugged. “In the drunken, dissolute moment, it seemed fun enough. And I’m always for fun, you know that. Over breakfast, I’d said a few things to Molly similar to what I told you. About not being a woman who handles commitment well. I suppose, looking back on it, I thought it would make me — you and me — seem less the threat to her future. Earlier, I’d told Molly about the funeral you and I attended. Molly started talking about her Irish background on her mother’s side. About how the Irish believe in making love after a funeral. In the cab back to your place, she kissed me. I liked that, quite a bit, I’ll confess. The cocaine didn’t hurt with any of that. I was taken aback, mind you, but I was tipsy, too. Flying on the drugs she shared with me. I responded. I told you yesterday, I find Molly attractive. I guess it all kind of started there in that coach. The three of us, I mean.”

  Going cold inside, assessing angles and weighing assertions, Hector thought about all that. He said, “Yesterday, after the three of us… Well, you still seemed rather enthusiastic about it all.”

  “I was still flying. Molly and I shared some more of her cocaine just before you awakened. She carries it in that snuffbox in her purse, and…” Brinke shrugged, weighing his expression. She said, “That’s right. You wouldn’t know any of that, because she reads you correctly. Molly’s known enough not to show you that side of herself. She smokes opium, too. That’s a recent development. Or so she claims. Me? Even I know enough not to chase the dragon. Nobody does that more than twice in a week and has it stay an indulgence.”

  Brinke drained her shallow glass of wine and helped herself to Hector’s wineglass, which was still three-quarters full. “And I’m being such a bitch, telling you all this about your new honey. In some ways, you two are so young. Maybe you two are the couple.”

  Hector shook his head. “Oh, for God’s sake. She’s not my ‘new honey.’”

  Brinke sipped more wine. Over the top of her glass, from under long black lashes, her dark eyes drilled into him. “Really, Hector? See, my younger man, I read you as the sort of old-school-style swain who probably has a real problem separating love from sex. I see you as the old-fashioned kind who has to fall in love with the women he takes to his bed. A last-century man. Frankly, I at first figured that’s what was happening between us. But I was just getting used to being your woman — your fausse fiancée — when the poetess crashed our pretty party.” Brinke hung her head and ran her fingers through her short black hair. “Oh Christ, I’ve so wrecked everything, allowing that girl into our bed.”

  Our bed.

  Hector suddenly felt sorry for Brinke. He put aside his suspicions long enough to reach across the table and take Brinke’s hand. He said, “Jesus, if it weren’t for those damned pills and my damned leg…Alice’s fucking tainted cakes…”

  Brinke smirked. “Sure, isn’t it comforting to think so? Sorry, but I stand by my earlier wager. What I remember of it, anyway.”

  “What was that wager?”

  “That stone-cold sober you wouldn’t have walked away from the opportunity to make love to two attractive and willing women. No man would.” Brinke looked up…over her shoulder. She looked very tired. “Maybe I should check on Molly. She’s been gone a while.”

  “No,” Hector said. “Here she comes.”

  “Goody.”

  “I’m afraid I have to go,” Molly said, smiling. She picked up her coat and hat.

  Hector said, “What? Why?”

  “Message just arrived. I left word where I could be found…left word with my femme de ménage. Something has come up. Something maybe wonderful.”

  That seemed to interest Brinke. “What?”

  “An opportunity. I have to have dinner with someone. She has a proposition for me.”

  Hector said, “She?”

  “I can’t say more. I promised.”

  Hector’s gaze shifted to Brinke. He watched her, seeing if she would encourage or discourage Molly going.

  “This doesn’t make me too comfortable,” Brinke said. “You know this person?”

  “Well enough,” Molly said. She looked to Hector. “I see. You think this might be some trick or trap, don’t you?”

  Hector said, “Don’t you?”

  “No. Not at all. Trust me, this is fine. It’s good news…maybe the best ever.”

  Hector said, “We’ll go with you. Or at least ride with you. We’ll drop you and pick you up later.”

  “No, it’s fine.” Molly leaned down and kissed Hector on the mouth. She hesitated, then kissed Brinke on the cheek. Hector noticed Brinke didn’t kiss Molly back.

  “Wish me luck,” Molly said.

  “Bonne chance,” Hector said.

  “Good luck, Molly,” Brinke said, winking. “Break a leg, sweetie.”

  Molly said, “I’m not sure how long this will take. Perhaps we can just plan now on meeting for drinks tomorrow. Say, the Deux Magots? Perhaps around noon?”

  “No, not there,” Brinke said. “The Rotonde.”

  Molly smiled, waved and was gone.

  Brinke said to Hector, “I just decided that girl is quite mad. And I couldn’t bear meeting Molly a
t Deux Magots — not where you and I spent our first night together. Can we leave here, Hector? I feel like you two necking and groping one another in here have made this joint yours and Molly’s place. I want to go somewhere I can think of as ours. Set about getting us back.”

  28

  They sat a few inches apart from one another on the seat of the enclosed coach under a shared blanket. Hector had his healing leg propped up on the opposite seat. For the moment, they were just aimlessly driving around the Right Bank, waiting for some place to strike Brinke’s fancy Hector supposed.

  Hector said, “That day in the graveyard — how’d you spot that woman behind you? That Kitty Pike?”

  Brinke looked at him. “What brought that up? And why now?”

  Hector looked around, looked for a lie. “Just being in a coach again, I guess.”

  Brinke shrugged. She pulled the blanket up closer around her. She said, “It was a girly thing, I suppose. First, there was the bad taste of wearing white to a funeral. Secondly, and maybe worse, there was the bad taste of wearing white in February. It was like that woman — that Kitty Pike — was deliberately trying to call attention to herself. I saw her as Hem and I were walking toward the grave. I couldn’t help thinking there was something not remotely right about her. I thought you should check it out.”

  After some thought, Hector said, “Well, your suspicions were right. She wasn’t what she appeared to be.”

  Brinke’s black eyebrows knitted. “I don’t understand.”

  “You abandoned your plan to attend funerals today.”

  “I was trying to keep up with Molly, to watch her. Thought I’d get an audience with her new friends. Molly hinted I might. But that didn’t happen. It was all gossip and talk of you and Molly wanting to window-shop. Ugh. And I’m still regretting taking her to my — your — barber. Swear to God, I’m growing my hair back out, Hector. Quite long, I think.”

  “It would suit you,” Hector said. “Hell, any look would. You have that kind of face. But I should warn you, Molly is talking about growing her hair, too.”

  “Having second thoughts, is she? Well, she’s not the only one.”

  “She said she sensed you’re trying to shape her.”

  “What? In my own image? Not my ambition.”

  “Really?”

  “Why, did Miss Molly claim something to the contrary?”

  “Not in so many words…”

  “But enough to give you that impression. Isn’t Molly the crafty one?” Brinke said, slowly and distracted, like something was dawning on her, “How’d you know I didn’t go to any funerals today?”

  “Because I went to them.”

  A bit cold: “See anything in the bone yards, Tex?”

  “Not you. Saw Simon. I chased off some Nadaists, I think. And I spoke with Lloyd Blake’s widow. Seems Kitty Pike is not Blake’s mistress. The real mistress is some raven-haired, other unknown woman. And it seems the real Kitty Pike is an overweight, one-legged wretch who is housebound. The Kitty Pike I met was a ringer.”

  Brinke said, “A ringer who tried to frame your new honey.”

  “Funny you should say.” Hector pulled out the photo of Jeremy Hunt’s corpse. He struck a match and handed it to Brinke so she could see better. He said, “Anything about this picture strike you as, well, mystery novel like?”

  Brinke examined the photo. She looked at him in disgust.

  “I think we’re done talking, Hector. We’re done period.” Brinke banged on the roof of her coach and called, “Rue Madame.”

  Brinke tossed the match out the window and slid further across the seat away from Hector. She flung the picture back at him. “You’re unbelievable. You might actually turn me off men.”

  Hector picked up the photo, folded it and stuck it in his pocket.

  “What the hell do you mean?”

  Brinke slapped him. “You think I’m the one killing all these people? You think I tried to frame your little girlfriend with something as ham-handed as that woman in white on the hill and those silly hand signals for initials? You’ve read my stuff — including sneaking looks at my new novel, which I’m not pleased about by the way, not at all. Do you think if I wanted to plant seeds of doubt or to frame that little drugged-up tramp I couldn’t do it with a good bit more finesse? Because, I could, Hector. Hell, I doubt that even Estelle Quartermain would stoop to the tactics you’re ascribing to me.”

  “I haven’t accused you of anything.”

  “Please. Suspect me if you will…hate me. But don’t insult my intelligence. Not more than you already have. You goddamn Judas.”

  “I asked you some questions, that’s all, Brinke. I’m at sea. Everything I thought I knew…everything I thought I could trust…”

  “I don’t care a damn about any of that. What matters to me is that your trust and faith in me wavered, Hector. That’s what just happened. I’m just going to say this once: I’m not guilty of anything you’re thinking, or that I think you might be thinking. That’s it. That simple. I’m through with that little bitch poet. And I’m through with you. We’ll end it with this: I’m no killer.”

  “I was followed by three men today.”

  Brinke’s eyes blazed. She looked at him a long time. She said, “A lie? A diversion? That admission some tactic to knock me off stride? Maybe make me feel scared for you?”

  “No.”

  “What happened?”

  “Last night, three men were watching my building.”

  “I saw them,” Brinke said. “I knew you had seen something looking out the window, so I looked for myself. Three men in black, smoking in the church’s alcove, right?”

  “Yes. They followed me this morning. But they didn’t follow you and Molly, and you two left my place long before I did.”

  “Thus bolstering your suspicion of me,” Brinke said. “You’re not as smart as I thought you were, Hector. What, Molly spreads her legs and you lose your brains? Two things. First, based on the last thing I heard, you were supposed to keep your sleuthing self in bed and off that leg until late this afternoon. If those three had been my stooges, I wouldn’t even have had them stationed outside your place because I believed, based on your own doctor’s prognosis, that you were housebound — you know, like the ‘real’ Kitty Pike. Secondly, I wasn’t the only one who left your place this morning. I had company, you know. And my company is known to run in those circles, Hector.” Brinke smiled. “Here’s something else. I was at that graveyard yesterday with you. I was far closer, physically, to Mrs. Blake than you were yesterday. Yet, with that long black veil she was wearing, I couldn’t tell you now what the Widow Blake looks like. I never saw her features.”

  “Your point?”

  “Have you met Mrs. Blake prior to today?”

  “No,” Hector said.

  “Then how do you know that today you met the real Widow Blake, sleuth? Maybe today’s widow was the ‘real’ impostor.” Brinke curled her lip. “Jesus, Hector, anyone can play these games, don’t you see that? You’re sliding into paranoia.”

  Brinke was right, of course. She had deftly poked holes in his circumstantial case against her…found all the flaws in his shared or implied scenarios.

  His suspicions about her collapsed, just like that. Once again, Hector was all for Brinke. “I’m sorry, Brinke. You have every right to hate me.”

  “That much you’ve got right.” She took out her cigarette case, said, “Light me.”

  Hector did that. She said, “You said three men followed you. What happened to them?”

  “Two I shook. The third? I drugged him. When he came to, I followed him.”

  “Clever. I might use that in a book. Where’d the third man go?” Brinke blew her smoke in Hector’s face.

  He decided to risk it. If he could contrive to stay in Brinke’s company until morning, and to perhaps go ahead and alert Simon to Leek’s location before then, well, there should be no possibility for Brinke to warn the poet if they were in league in some
way.

  “The man I followed went to a whorehouse,” Hector said. “I’ve confirmed Leek is inside that house of pleasure, hiding above it. He’s registered under Crowley’s name.”

  “A recurring motif in terms of the poet’s chosen abodes,” Brinke said, blowing more smoke at him. “And you must have tremendous stamina. I mean, you had to be subtle at that brothel, right? Couldn’t just start a room-to-room search or blurt out a lot of questions for fear of spooking or warning the poet. You would have engaged a whore of course, and, no pun intended, pumped her for information. It’s what I would have a character do in that situation.”

  “A character like Horace Lester?”

  “You weren’t supposed to see that yet. Not supposed to know about him.”

  Hector nodded. “Parenthetically, how’d you know I had seen it? How’d you know that I’d snuck a peek at your manuscript? Other than the fact you left it lying around?”

  “I left it out because I thought I could trust you.”

  “So, how do you know I looked?”

  She reached up to her head, took hold of a single black hair, and wincing, jerked it loose. She held it up between thumb and forefinger. “I put one of these on top of my manuscript before I left for the day with Molly.”

  Hector smiled. “You set a trap. So you really didn’t trust me.”

  “Not without reason, as you’ve proven.”

  “How’d you know the hair had been moved?”

  “I stopped back at your place before coming to the café this afternoon. Wanted some time alone to talk with you. Germaine let me in.”

  Hector said, “Well, on the topic of sharing, you kept your manuscript from me, but you talked about it to Molly.”

  “To my great regret,” Brinke said. She inhaled some smoke…held it for a while, looking at Hector. She blew the smoke over her shoulder. “And now what will you do about Leek, Hector? Will you kill Leek, or trust the cops to handle him?”

  “Killing him had crossed my mind.” Hector risked it — smiling he said, “It’s what your man Horace would do.”

  Brinke wagged a finger at him. “Stop. I was just starting to spend some of my anger toward you.” She shook her head. “Okay, here’s the plan. You’re going to let me read your manuscript, Hector.”