“I’m sorry.” If he was embarrassed, it was covered by an impudent grin. “I thought it was your best dress. I’m not up on society.”
“I’ll be in the kitchen.” She turned. She had to play it innocent. It was her only hope of sending Gavin Keane away empty-handed. “I haven’t eaten dinner yet.” The buzzer sounded as she entered the kitchen. She didn’t leave the connecting door open. It didn’t matter if it was the pathetic messenger or the man who’d sent him. There was no reason for her to chill when Gavin Keane was present. Keane was big enough to take care of matters. She’d wanted time to think; she had it now.
She deliberately clattered the cooking utensils and dishes as she took them from the cupboards. There were lamb chops in the ice box. She lighted the broiler, set it. A chop. Coffee. Endive and tomato for a salad. Towner would be surprised how domestic she’d become. She could tell Keane she’d left the box in the office. He wouldn’t believe it; either he’d seen her carry it away or he’d returned to the office, searched. Because he knew. She couldn’t give it to him; she’d have to lie. Even if she said she’d left it in the taxi, even if he knew she lied. Even if she had to pretend that she liked him …
Think about food although the hunger had worn off long ago. Think about food and then she wouldn’t think about what was going on in Aunt Hortensia’s game room, of what would happen when that business was done. The only evidence of gaming was a dart board over the fireplace. Perhaps the small portable bar. The shelves were lively with books, the couches were deep as tossed hay. The room was a library but Hortensia refused the title as Victorian. Think of anything. Think of Aunt Hortensia bored by anything sporting from tiddledywinks to football; her snobbery of a game room. Anything but the silence of that room where two men conducted dangerous business.
Towner wouldn’t like it if anything went wrong. Towner liked everything neat, quiet. She didn’t know how she could get rid of Gavin Keane. She was rusty; six months confine in the respectability of a secretary had left her without too much confidence. Where was Towner? He must have known Gavin Keane was delivering the box today; he knew everything. He knew she didn’t plan campaigns; she followed orders.
The green leaves drifted slowly into the bowl. That sharp report. The heavy thud. She dropped the wooden spoon and fork without knowing where they fell. She pushed the door. There was no one in the game room, only his damp coat, his hat. Fearfully she rounded the shadowy living room.
Gavin Keane was standing in the foyer, standing over something crumpled and dark on the polished floor.
CHAPTER TWO
GAVIN HADN’T HEARD HER enter; he felt her because he turned at the pale shape of her in the shadow and his eyes were flat as two blue disks.
She whispered, “You killed him.”
She knew she should turn and run but she didn’t, she kept moving forward slowly, unwilling it, until she stood above the lump on the floor. It wasn’t the messenger. It could have been one of the ordinary men who waited for a cab at the Roosevelt. There was a gun fallen from his hand. She raised her eyes to Gavin Keane. He held no gun. He said, “He was going to kill me.” He looked down at the man with scorn.
She said to herself but aloud, “I ought to call the police.” She knew she should do something but she didn’t. It wasn’t because she was afraid Gavin Keane would stop her. It wasn’t because she didn’t dare call the police. It was that she had no feeling at all. She was immobile.
Gavin said, “He isn’t dead.” His mouth was still scornful. “I’ll get him out of here.” He bent down.
She stopped him quickly. “You shouldn’t move him. We’d better ring a doctor.” If he died, if the police came … Towner wouldn’t like it.
He turned on her as if she were very young. “And explain what he’s doing here? In this shape? You don’t want to be mixed up in this.” Again he bent over the man.
She cried, “You can’t take him down in the elevator. Richards—and Franz—”
“That’s right.” He didn’t touch the man. He only picked up the gun, by the barrel, put it in his pocket. “What about the service elevator?”
“It doesn’t run at night.”
“Good.” He smiled now. “Good enough.” He bent down, put the man’s arm about his own neck, supported him about the waist. “Hand me his hat.”
She obeyed as an automaton. There wasn’t any blood on the floor. Not any.
“You lead.”
She didn’t look at the way the man’s head lolled. She didn’t say anything. She held open the door of the kitchen. She thought only how lucky that she’d set the oven control, the chop would be cinders if she hadn’t. She’d turned that domestic. She pulled back the bolt of the kitchen door, then she remembered. “The service elevator is in the basement.”
“I know that.” He propped the man against the wall. The man who wasn’t dead but who was limp. “Just lock your door again and don’t fret.”
Again she obeyed in that curious mechanical way, as if she had to obey. She closed the door on Gavin Keane and the man. She shot the bolt and only after she shot the bolt did she come out of the dream.
This had happened. This was real. A man had been shot. The man who had shot him had taken him away. She began to shake as with a chill. She was afraid of violence. Towner knew she couldn’t face violence, death. He’d protected her from that. Her hand pushed the bolt tighter. She stumbled to the kitchen table, gathered up the leaves which had fallen outside the bowl, and the fork and spoon. She began mixing the salad again, not because she wanted to eat but to have something for her hands to do.
She stopped, turned the chop, reset the stove. The water for the coffee hadn’t yet boiled dry. The time had been that brief. She refilled the pan, set it again to boil. Her hands kept writhing the salad utensils until she realized, then she put them down with something like horror. She turned off the oven, poured the boiling water into the glass coffee bowl.
She set the food for herself at the kitchen table, turned from it and went slowly back to the game room. The damp tweed coat, the rain-spattered hat were still there. He’d have to come back for them. He’d have to come back to get the box. He wouldn’t leave without it.
She turned on the lights again in the white metallic living room before making her careful way to the foyer. She didn’t want to go back there but she was impelled. She must make sure.
There were no rugs to break the glossy dark wood square. She bent over where the man had fallen, she was certain of the place. She put down her forefinger, then the palm of her left hand, rubbed it over the high polish. She could feel no stickiness. She brought her hand up, turned it over fearfully. It wasn’t reddened. She’d been right. There was no blood.
She lifted her head, and at the sudden thought the vise clamping her heart unloosed. The man hadn’t been shot. Gavin Keane had knocked him out. He’d shot at Gavin Keane. She’d heard a shot; why had no one else heard it? That was answerable. City dwellers were accustomed to sound; one more or less made no difference. Moreover in this house the persons were too well bred to acknowledge a shot if they did recognize one. As a matter of fact they’d be too well bred to recognize one.
The blue-eyed man had used his fists. Because she’d heard a shot and seen the lump of a man she’d decided the two went together. They hadn’t. No one had been killed.
She could go, she could take the box and run quickly before Gavin Keane returned. Dress quickly and go. What excuse could she give to Richards and Franz, running out into the storm again, leaving two strange men in her apartment? She’d think of an excuse.
How could Towner find her if she ran away? He couldn’t unless she left an address. She couldn’t trust the two old servitors, the two innocents, not to give it to another. Towner had told her to stay here; he would expect her to stay. He didn’t like his plans changed. He might have known this was to happen. Except for the violence, he might have planned it.
If she ran, Gavin Keane would know she had the box. She had to brazen
it out. Find a better hiding place, and brazen it out. Towner would do it that way. He was like this house, too well bred. It was undignified to run, he wouldn’t run. She turned out the foyer lights and started swiftly to her bedroom. She was arrested before she’d crossed the living room. By the buzzer. The sharp rasp of the buzzer.
Gavin Keane had been quicker than she thought. She wondered why he was returning by the front door, what explanation he’d given Franz. She stood unmoving as the buzzer drilled into her ears. She didn’t have to answer. The doors were locked; he couldn’t get in. She was afraid not to let him in.
She’d play it as she’d planned. He was already convinced of her innocence; she had only to maintain it tonight. By tomorrow Towner would certainly be here. She went to the foyer as the impatient buzzer sounded again. She opened the door and for the second time that evening stepped back in astonishment. The last person in the world she expected was standing there. The last person she wanted to see at this moment. Her voice was weak. “Mr. Brewer.”
He looked tired and tumbled, and from the wetness of his coat and hat, the rain had increased its pace. He spoke wearily, “I’m looking for Gavin.”
“Gavin?” She might never have heard the name before.
“Gavin Keane.” He was a little disturbed. “He was at the office today. He talked to you. Didn’t he leave a package for me?”
She remembered Gavin’s coat and hat while he was speaking. She remained there in the foyer doorway, blocking further entrance. She didn’t want Bry to know. She clung to her little respectability. She wasn’t dressed; she didn’t want him to think she had a man here. It went deeper than that. She didn’t want Bryan Brewer involved in this. He didn’t belong in this kind of thing.
She looked up at him. She hadn’t realized before, tilted on her office high heels, how tall he was. She smiled sweetly, innocently, “I don’t know why you’d think he was here.”
He frowned slightly. “He called me for your address. He did leave the package today?”
She nodded. She spoke brightly. “Oh yes, he left the package. Are you looking for it or for Gavin Keane?”
Brewer turned his steady gray eyes down to hers. “I’m looking for Gavin Keane,” he said, as if she were a backward pupil who couldn’t understand the lesson. “Because I am looking for the box he was to leave for me. It isn’t in the office.”
“How do you know?”
She asked the question too quickly. The underline of fear was because he was saying he was mixed up in the affair of the box and he mustn’t be. He wasn’t fitted for that kind of danger. He was decent.
He said, “I know because I went there to get it and it wasn’t there.”
“You went there tonight? To the office?”
“Yes. Gavin said he’d left it with you.”
She acknowledged, “He did leave it with me. I put it in my desk, the lower left hand drawer.” Her eyes were wide; he couldn’t know their honesty was a lie. Because he didn’t know her; because even men who knew her couldn’t tell her truth from lies. Crafty men, wise in their generation, couldn’t tell. “I waited until after six but he didn’t return,” she said. “It was there when I left.”
There was alarm on him as she spoke. She didn’t want to worry him but it was better than having him involved in this. She couldn’t give him the box; she couldn’t tell him the truth. She said, “Maybe Mr. Keane went back for it.”
“He couldn’t have got in.”
He had no idea of the resources of a man like Gavin Keane.
He was puzzled. “If he didn’t think you’d taken it home with you, why did he want your address?”
She didn’t suggest: Maybe because he looked at me. She was going away and she wouldn’t see Bryan Brewer again; he’d never look at her that way. She said quietly, “I can’t imagine why. I didn’t even know his name.”
“He didn’t know yours either. He asked for the gorgeous creature in my office.” His eyes might have seen her then if they hadn’t been crowded with anxiety. “At the time I thought—” He broke off. For just a moment he seemed about to turn human. For a fleeting moment. “But when I went to the office and the box wasn’t there—”
She interrupted staunchly, honestly. “Mr. Brewer, you know I wouldn’t bring anything home that belonged to the firm.”
His expression apologized. “I know. I thought perhaps—for safekeeping—”
She didn’t want to ask, she didn’t want him to know. But her voice was casual. “Is the box important?”
He echoed, “Important!” He knew something; he knew too much. Even a little was too much. She was glad she’d learned in time to carry the box away. It couldn’t endanger him now. “It’s so important—” he began.
The purr of the ascending elevator sounded while he spoke. He broke off. She caught her hands tightly. It would be Gavin coatless, hatless; Bry would know she had evaded the truth. She was shamed; there was no glib explanation she could give him. She couldn’t even explain it was for his sake she had lied, to keep him out of this.
The elevator door slid noiselessly open. She took a breath. She waited for Gavin to step out. He didn’t. The man who appeared was a stranger. She knew he wasn’t a guest of the Hildebrands and their spaniel. A tall, motionless man in a belted gabardine coat, a hat pulled over his eyes, wouldn’t be calling on the Hildebrands at nine on a drenching evening. A man with his hands pushed deep into his pockets, a man who said nothing, who stood there waiting.
Bry saw him, and was blind. He thought the man was someone she was expecting. Franz was holding the elevator. Bry said, “Goodnight,” and again, “Sorry I bothered you, Eliza.” Without looking at her, he stepped into the elevator.
If Bry knew the cold that enveloped her, he wouldn’t leave her with this silent stranger. Franz couldn’t deposit a man like this on her doorstep, not Franz with his careful consideration of every visitor. She appealed to the closing door, “Franz—”
She heard his faint, troubled voice, “It is all right, Miss Eliza.” The door closed in her face leaving her there in the hallway with the man.
The man said, “Yes, it’s all right, Miss Williams.” He took his left hand from his pocket, opened it. On the palm was a small gold badge. The insignia of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.
He had a long face, without expression, the eyes hidden under, his hat brim. The badge didn’t have to be real. He could be another imitator. As if she had spoken he said, “My name is Jones. Franz and—what’s the big fellow’s name—Richards—made certain I was the real Jones before allowing me to come up unannounced, Miss Williams.” He didn’t smile. “You too may call headquarters if you doubt.”
She said, “Come in, Mr. Jones.” He couldn’t hear the irregular beat of her heart. Her steps muffled it.
She couldn’t ask him into the living room, he might see in the room beyond the man’s coat and hat. She stood there in the foyer and the cold was moving along her spine to encircle her throat, to numb her fingertips. He stood where the man had fallen, but there was no blood. Gavin Keane had struck the man down, but he hadn’t killed him. The man had shot at Gavin. Somewhere in this room there must be the scar of a bullet. She hadn’t seen it; she hadn’t thought about it.
If this man’s shaded eyes, trained eyes saw it, he would question. She couldn’t answer. Not without explaining why she hadn’t called the police.
Jones said, “I’ve been watching a man tonight. His name is Hester. Renfro Hester.”
Her relief was weakening. He wasn’t after Gavin Keane and the box. She didn’t know anything about Renfro Hester. Not even the name. She shook her head.
“He came to this apartment.”
“Oh no,” she denied. “I’ve never even heard of him.” But doubt leaped again. She hid it in wide eyes.
He was unhurried. “I watched him enter this house. After he passed inspection—” a faint grimace touched his inexpressive mouth—“he went up in the elevator. I watched a long time for him to come ou
t. Rather a bad night for watching.”
She said, “Yes.” Renfro Hester wasn’t dead; his head lolled but he wasn’t dead.
“He didn’t come out, Miss Williams. I watched almost an hour but he didn’t come out.” He twisted his cold lips. “By enquiry, I found Hester had come to your apartment.”
He wasn’t threatening her; he was stating facts. He stood there waiting, his hat over his eyes, his hands dug down in the pockets of his waterproof. Waiting for her to speak.
She was hesitant, feeling her way. “Yes, he came here.” She mustn’t mention Gavin Keane. “He didn’t tell me his name.”
“What did he want?”
It came to her complete; Jones might not believe, but he couldn’t change her story. It would carry feminine conviction. She said, “I don’t know what he wanted. He didn’t have an opportunity to tell me. You see—” She made a point of lashing her eyes, of fingering the pink froth of her chiffon. When she lifted her lashes, her eyes were wide, appealing. “You see, I was expecting a—” her hesitation was infinitesimal “—friend. He is—rather—jealous. I didn’t want him to find that man here. When my friend rang up, I asked that man to go out the back way. That’s probably why you didn’t see him leave the building.” It was childish but he couldn’t deny it. He couldn’t know how many men had come to her apartment tonight.
Under his hat shadow she could see his quick scowl. “You asked him to walk down fourteen flights?” He didn’t believe her.
She said arrogantly, “I don’t care how he got downstairs. He looked as if he should have used the tradesman’s entrance.” She smiled at Mr. Jones. “He could have rung for the service elevator if he didn’t want to walk down.”
“The service elevator doesn’t run after six o’clock.”
He’d questioned the guardians of the portal. He knew too much about this house. He’d questioned and he’d thought he had Hester trapped here. Why hadn’t he picked up Hester when he was following him? Why wait? In the back of her head, the answer beat like nervous pulse. Because he wanted to find out why Hester came here. Because Hester would lead him to Gavin Keane. But Jones didn’t know Gavin Keane had come; he had missed that.
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