“I’ll show you where I intended to hang it in a minute,” Julie said. “What will you have to drink?”
“Vermouth?”
“I’m not very good at this,” Julie said from the bar in the foyer. “Dry or sweet? Or both?”
“Both. You are good to know that. On ice if you don’t mind.” Ginni was running her hand around the frame. Boldly. Lovingly. “Poor Ralph,” she said. “He had such high hopes when we were putting his show together. He really deserved better, don’t you think?”
“I think so.”
“Of course you do. Otherwise…” She met Julie face on as she brought the vermouth and her own Perrier. “Why are you giving it up to Rubinoff, Mrs. Hayes?”
“You’ll see,” Julie said without batting an eye. She led the way into the living room and stood beneath the mantel wall. “This is where I had in mind for it—at first.”
Ginni sipped her vermouth and made a slow turn to survey the entire room. She had style, Julie thought, high style, something she greatly admired while not aspiring to it herself. “It is a perfect room,” Ginni said, “and you have decided rightly on the mirror.” Which still lay on the floor.
“I got carried away by Mr. Abel,” Julie said. “And I do like Scarlet Night. And we were considering a painting for this wall, but…”
“You don’t have to tell me,” Ginni said. “My father is a collector, but he thinks true art came to an end with the Impressionists, whom he abominates. I bring home things that I wind up hiding in the closet until I can sell them back—or find someone who wants them…You are coming tomorrow night?”
“Yes, though Jeff’s away…”
“Come anyway. I’ll bet you don’t like mob scenes.”
“I don’t much.”
“Then I’ll be especially flattered. And there’s bound to be somebody there you’ll like. I must go. I hope I haven’t interfered with your evening? I’d have come earlier, but Mother doesn’t want to let me out of her sight when I come to New York.”
“I don’t blame her,” Julie said.
Ginni smiled like a Botticelli madonna. Demure. Beatific. “Bless you.” She floated out of the room. She set her glass on the table beneath Scarlet Night. “I helped Ralph frame the show,” she said. “The framing ought to have been lighter, but I think he had in mind those solid Midwestern farmhouses with oak furniture and roast beef every Sunday and Saturday-night blues.” She picked up the glass again and toasted: “Arrivederci!”
Julie sat for a while after Ginni left before getting the cold chicken out of the refrigerator. She held her hand up in front of her: not a tremor. Romano had said that it would not be wise under the developing circumstances for Alberto to accompany her to the party at Maude Sloan’s. She didn’t want to go alone, but she didn’t want to drop out either, not at this point. Then she had an idea. She called the Alexanders.
“Hello.” It was Tony, growling.
“This is Julie Hayes, Tony. I got the interview with Sweets Romano.”
“I’ll be damned. Did he open up?”
“I’ve been with him every day for the past week.”
“His life story, is that it? Once these underworld characters get the right audience—when they trust you…I can get you a book contract on it, Julie. You can make some real money.”
“Tony, the reason I called tonight: Jeff’s in West Virginia and there’s a party I want to go to. I wondered if you and Fran are free for an hour or so tomorrow night, would you go with me?” She explained who Maude Sloan was and that the party was for her daughter by an Italian count.
“Has it anything to do with the Romano story?”
“I wouldn’t tell you if it did right now, Tony. But you really mustn’t mention his name, I mean at Maude Sloan’s.”
“I shall be delighted to escort you, darling, after which you and I will go on the town and give Gotham something new to talk about. Fran is visiting our daughter this weekend.”
Finally Julie ate a few bites of food and then called Jeff before returning to Romano’s. It felt very good to tell him what Tony had said. “Even if nothing comes of it,” she added.
“Something is bound to come of it,” Jeff said emphatically.
FORTY-THREE
JULIE ARRIVED AT ROMANO’S in time to take the call from Sean O’Grady. It went on the tape and Romano played it instantly. He sat chortling at the part about the Mafia courier, and O’Grady’s comment to Julie: “Amn’t I glad you got me out of the clutches of that!”
Romano said: “We must arrange to have all his calls come here now so that we’ll have the record. And we can use a bit of comic relief.”
“In a way he’s pathetic.”
“I hope so. Obviously you’ve not spoken of me in generic terms.”
“He doesn’t know your name even. Only that you’ve got lots of clout and money, and that you are not the F.B.I. or any police affiliate.”
“Did you mention the C.I.A.?”
She didn’t think an answer was required.
“Now for the maps. I’m sorry you didn’t have dinner with us. There was a touch of garlic in the veal. I hope you won’t find it offensive. I’ve decided we must keep our main forces in the rear to follow as close upon Rubinoff as can be done discreetly. On the chance there may be someone between him and Campbell or another place of rendezvous. I cannot believe it would be on the water, not with four suitcases of money. Too much has been made of that situation in the films. We have maps of the city and the parkways. Michael will refine them in terms of roadway and other hazards. He has driven under stressful circumstances. He will be our principal driver. And here is a walking map of the Palisades Park system. So far as I can judge, it is beautiful in its detail of Maiden’s End. I have several copies. By Sunday morning we must have a master copy that is perfect. There will be a list of information we must have—turnabouts, dead ends—of which there seem to be a number—and so forth. We must have information about police surveillance in the area. I suspect it is impressive. We also need to know Campbell’s security system. It must connect directly with police headquarters in the area. We shall also want to know conditions of light. If Rubinoff proposes to be back in New York as early as nine o’clock it means the whole tarantella will be taking place in twilight. Which can be both an advantage and a disadvantage. There is also the matter of Sunday traffic returning to the city.
“I can think of no better assignment for your O-Johnny-O than with the police themselves. I have in mind his going to the township headquarters in the morning and getting their advice. He can say that he’s about to apply for a job as guard on the Campbell estate. Do you think he can carry that off?”
“He’s a good talker,” Julie said.
“Yes, I rather thought he must be,” Romano said dryly. “Have him outside his building at ten minutes to five tomorrow morning. Or at a place arranged between the two of you. Michael will pick you up first, then him. I want everyone in this room at five.”
“Five A.M.”
“Do you remember what Campbell looks like, Miss Julie?”
“It’s crazy, but I don’t. I think he’s tall, but all I really remember is his ankles. You know, no socks.”
“No conversation with him, not even ‘It’s nice to have met you, Mrs. Hayes’?”
“No.”
“Then he wouldn’t remember you either?”
“I don’t think he’d even remember Jeff.”
“Good. And since your Irish protégé assures us that Rubinoff will be going off in a different direction tomorrow, I suggest that a little bigamy won’t hurt you for a day. Alberto will take his wife along and take for granted that she was invited.”
FORTY-FOUR
HOW WELL DID SHE know Jeff, when you came right down to it? And she’d been married to him for over four years. Julie glanced across the seat at Alberto, who seemed to be staring at the back of Michael’s head. Michael looked a lot different in the driver’s seat of a rented Oldsmobile. For one thing, you g
ot to see his face in the mirror now and then. Which wasn’t exactly a treat. Squinty eyes and a white scar on his cheek. He looked like a mug shot.
“Julie Scotti,” she said aloud. “It doesn’t sound bad.”
Alberto looked at her and smiled forlornly.
“Hey, didn’t you ever want to be an actor?” He really looked like one, playing a professor—dark suit, white shirt, striped tie. Actually, he looked like a priest.
“Doesn’t everyone at some time?”
“All right,” Julie said. “This is our big audition. We’ll let him do most of the talking. I’ve got a feeling he does talk a lot.”
“Hey, you two,” Michael said, looking at them through the mirror, “get together back there. You’re practically newly-weds. Although from my point of view, as far as the caper goes, it was better the way it was. This Bonnie-and-Clyde stuff, forget it. It don’t work that way. They couldn’t’ve pulled off half the jobs if they stopped to shmooze along the way like that.”
“Where did we get married?” Alberto wanted to know.
“Some place we’ve both been.”
“Take Atlantic City,” Michael said. “Nobody’s going to ask you about Atlantic City.” Then: “Remember, you got to get me in the house. Give me an hour outdoors, then get me in. I don’t want no forget-me-nots. Amateurs forget the little things. The big things they remember.”
“You’re not a little thing, Michael,” Julie said.
“Let him take you out on his yacht. Relax. Enjoy yourselves.” And a few minutes later: “Here we are, Exit Four. Right on time. Don’t give me directions, Mrs. Scotti. I got to know I can do it myself.”
He could have driven the labyrinth. At the intercom box he announced: “Mr. and Mrs. Scotti.”
Giving their host time to set another place at the breakfast table.
The wrought-iron gate opened at the middle. “Jeez,” Michael said. “Just like Sing Sing.”
They drove between two vast lawns sparsely populated by magnificent trees which nobody in the car could identify. Except Michael of the pines: “Them’s all different kinds of Christmas trees.” A huge, wide-spanned tree with coppery leaves and a massive trunk had sent some of its branches back into the ground as though for balance. The house ahead was picture-book Shakespeare, timbers and plaster.
“Or Burgundian,” Alberto said. “I’ve seen such houses in that part of France.”
“Eight entries on the first floor. Want to bet?” Michael said. “Maybe he’s got a nice fat lady cook in the kitchen, and when yous all go out, she’ll take me on a tour of the place.” Michael’s fantasy. “A house like this has got to have a female cook, know what I mean?”
“I agree,” Julie said.
“Ever notice? When the men in this country started doing the cooking, it’s been downhill ever since.”
Julie realized he was chattering now to keep them loose.
As they neared the house, he said, “Here comes the man with all the money.” Campbell was coming around the side of the house to meet them. “He’s walking barefoot. Wouldn’t you think he could afford shoes?”
“Please shut up, Michael,” Julie said.
She did remember Campbell, seeing him. It was over three years ago that they had met, and she was glad that in those days she’d been wearing her hair much shorter and had had a tendency in the kind of company she was with that night to fold up in the deepest chair in the room and let her eyes do the socializing.
Campbell opened the car door on Julie’s side and gave her his hand. “Well, now, it’s just damn nice of you folks to come out this early in the morning.” He gave her a good strong assist out of the car. “Best part of the day, of course.” He was tall and lean, with a small head, a lot of laugh wrinkles, and very keen blue eyes; his hair was cut short and sun-bleached. You could almost smell the obsession with health. Not in a million years could she imagine this man doing business with Rubinoff. The thought hit her: what if he didn’t?
“I’ve seen you before,” he said, smiling and poking a finger in Julie’s direction. “You a movie actress?”
“I used to be a model,” Julie said. One of the few things she had never tried. Lie Number One.
Alberto was coming around the car.
“I always read the ads,” their host said, “especially for department stores. Down home we got Neiman-Marcus. Ever hear of it?”
“Of course.”
Campbell offered his hand to Alberto. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Scotti. When I was a kid they called me Scotty, my ancestors being Scotch. My father made a great issue of that, his father coming over from Scotland and starting the business. Named my brother Andrew—after Andrew Carnegie.”
Michael had gotten out to open the door for Alberto.
Campbell said: “Driver, why don’t you go around through the courtyard and park by the garage? Then you go in the kitchen and introduce yourself to my Nellie. She’ll give you a real down-home breakfast.”
Oh, God, Julie thought. She liked him.
“I should’ve told you all to come informal,” he said, leading the way to the river side of the house. Julie was pretty informal, white slacks and a black-and-white-striped blouse. “You’re going on some place from here, right?”
“We have plenty of time, Mr. Campbell,” Alberto said and took off his tie, folded it, and put it in his pocket.
“Just call me G.T. Everybody does. I hardly know myself what it stands for. I’ll bet when you say L.B.J. these days, you got to stop and think. Let me have your coat, Mr. Scotti.”
“Al or Albert,” Alberto said.
Julie did have to stop and think. Campbell, grinning, turned and poked his finger at her. “Lyndon Baines. Say now, how would the two of you like to have a nice swim before breakfast? Can’t see the pool from here, not supposed to, not from anywhere. I don’t like swimsuits. Just run on down and I’ll be waiting for you when you come up. You’ll see the towels down there.”
“I’d love to,” Julie said, “but Alberto mustn’t. He’s got some infection the doctor says he mustn’t swim with.” She knew Alberto would blush at the thought of the skinny-dip.
“You never know what you’re going to pick up when you travel,” Campbell said. “I got myself the doggonedest set of scabs from a Frog barber a few years ago.”
Oh-oh. “You mean in France?” Julie said.
“Paris, France, yes, ma’am. The land of Louis Pasteur.”
Alberto said, “Why don’t we have a look at your Degas, G.T., while Julie swims? You don’t mind, my dear?”
Julie took off down the path through a garden of rose bushes, more kinds of roses than she knew existed. She had a lot of looking to do while they discussed that Frog painter Degas. A steep drop in the land did indeed shut the house from sight. The pool was Olympic size, the river view and the view from the river blocked out by a dense wall of shrubbery. Julie dropped her clothes at the edge of the pool and slipped into silken warm water. She swam several lengths and would have given a lot to stay in longer.
She dressed and walked down the steps from the pool to the dock. There were carriage lanterns on either side of the walk, which were the lights she and O’Grady had seen reflected in the water. On the opposite shore houses that looked like castles stood adjacent to industrial sprawl. Then in the quiet, a clear ringing of church bells came from across the water. There were small boats moving on the river, and a barge in tow to a tug a tenth its size.
Campbell’s dock went out perhaps a hundred feet. Two dinghies drifted on a pulley arrangement. A cabin cruiser lay at anchor to the south, an unrigged sailboat to the north, and beyond there was a vast spread of green marshes; above that, landside, rose the golden clearing which she and O’Grady had explored Thursday night. The fence came well out into the water. She noted these things because that was what she was there for. Romano wanted the entire picture. It would include a tide table for Sunday. To the south and not very distant the Palisades rose in majestic splendor.
As J
ulie was starting up the steps, a big Irish setter waddled down to meet her. He nuzzled her hand. She kept the fence in view all the way up. With its two strands of barbed wire tilted toward the park, the only thing likely to climb it was the roses. There were no breaks, no gates except the one she and O’Grady had come to by way of the park.
Approaching the house she saw Michael limping around the terrace from one door to the next, as though he were lost and trying to find his way in. The instant the dog saw him it charged, its ears out like a bat’s wings and the promise of fangs in its bark. Julie whistled and called, “Here, Champ. Here, boy.” The dog reversed itself and trotted back to her. “Champ” was the name of a dog in her childhood.
Michael moved off toward the service wing of the building.
The dog led Julie through the open French doors and trotted across the large sitting room. He disappeared into a room alongside which the stairs went up to the second landing. The Courbet was over the mantel, and across the room, under a light, was a life-size bullfight. The blood streaming down the beast’s neck looked warm. Along the paneled staircase wall were the unmistakable flashy athletes of Leonard Kliegman.
Julie stuck her head through the doorway of a small study. The scene shook her. The two men were examining a folio on the desk, but beyond them a walk-in vault stood wide open.
“Hello,” Julie said.
They straightened as though she had caught them at something obscene. Dirty pictures? Surely not.
“You’re back!” Alberto said.
Campbell made ready to close the folio if she came nearer.
Not for anything would she have taken another step forward. “I wonder if I could use a bathroom, Mr. Campbell?”
“They’re all over the place. Top of the stairs is the closest.” They didn’t even ask if she had enjoyed her swim.
When Julie returned they were waiting for her outside the study door. She glimpsed a floor-to-ceiling painting of a juggler which now camouflaged the vault door.
On the way out to the terrace where the table was set beneath a red-and-white-striped awning, Campbell said, “Your husband tells me you’d enjoy a little run upriver this morning. It’s the best time of day to see the cliffs. We’ll go to Bear Mountain and back. How’s that?”
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