Scarlet Imperial

by Dorothy B. Hughes

  She was impatient for his coming. Impatient and resentful of Feather Prentiss. It couldn’t be that Feather too was working for him. Feather was what she was, a New York debutante, a few years removed. Feather wasn’t an alley cat he’d picked up, made sleek and helpful. Feather was family and money, like Towner Clay.

  Why should he waste his time with her now? Why didn’t he finish the Scarlet Imperial job first? Time enough then for dalliance in the Ritz. She hated Feather Prentiss. It wasn’t enough she could twist Bry like a strand of her own golden hair about her wrist; she could blunt the sharp wits of Towner Clay. Towner should know timing was more important than a silly blonde. Eliza sat down at her desk, facing the door, watching the opaque square of the door pane. If Towner would only come before Bry. No hope of that. Not with Feather. She’d want special sauces to flatter her specialness.

  The silhouette that flickered on the door wasn’t Bry, too tall for Bry. Tall enough for Towner. She’d been wrong about Towner dallying. And then she was looking into the face of Jones.

  She was mute. She couldn’t even say hello.

  He took one hand out of his pocket, handed her the tabloid from under his arm. “Have you seen the noon edition?”

  She didn’t want to take it. Her fingers faltered. The paper lay on her desk. She didn’t look at it, she looked under the shadow of his hat into the secret of his eyes.

  He said, “Hester’s dead.”

  She breathed again. It wasn’t Gavin; he hadn’t caught up with Gavin and the Imp.

  “Pix on Page One. Story, Page Two.”

  The pictures blurred. The page wavered as she turned it. Hester was dead. His murderer was hidden in her apartment. She’d known Hester was dead, known and been afraid to face her knowledge. Everything had been too cluttered last night. She’d known and she hadn’t called the police; she was guilty of guilty knowledge. Her eyes focussed again on the page. The body of an unidentified man … found in the basement … her apartment house. Gavin Keane had taken Hester down in the service elevator. Had got rid of him. Hester wouldn’t have been found so soon only this was the day for the furnace checkup … a far corner of the furnace room … shot once … She held her eyes on the page. One shot. The medical examiner … man had been killed the night before … before midnight. The description of an average man. No identification on him.

  She looked up at Jones. “You could identify him.”

  “I don’t want to—yet.”

  She said, “I guess he wasn’t just a salesman.”

  “No.” He sat down in the chair, pushed back his hat. She could see his eyes, pale, steady eyes. “I’d like to talk to your friend. What was the name?”

  He knew. He didn’t know if she’d remember. Her lips were narrow. “Smith. Mr. Smith.”

  “Where can I find him?”

  She said the first thing that came into her head. “He’s gone to Washington.”

  “Washington?” It wasn’t doubt; it was surprise lifting his voice. “Where is he there?”

  “He was going to stay at the Mayflower—if he could get reservations.” Bry stopped at the Mayflower.

  “Where does he live in New York?”

  She said, “He doesn’t live in New York. He’s from the west.” She was getting in deeper; Towner shouldn’t have deserted her. She needed him. But she hoped he wouldn’t come now. He wouldn’t like the loose ends she was untwining.

  Jones said, “Where’s he putting up here?”

  She tried to sound young, naive. “I don’t know.” She managed a little laugh. “I didn’t think to ask him.”

  “Where does he usually put up?”

  She reached for a hotel, any hotel. “The St. Regis, I believe. Or the Pierce.”

  He asked, “What’s his first name?” He was going to check.

  “George.” Let him check. She’d be gone with Towner before the day was over. Jones couldn’t do anything to her. As long as she kept Gavin out of it. She must keep Gavin out of it. Until the Imp was safe. All she needed was a little time, time for Towner to finish lunching with Feather.

  Without inflection Jones asked, “How does it happen your friend Mr. Smith would have been jealous of a fat slob like Hester and not of that young fellow who was leaving the apartment when I arrived?”

  Casualness covered apprehension. “That was Mr. Brewer, the man I work for. Bryan Brewer. Mr. Smith—George—knows Mr. Brewer.”

  “Night work?”

  She faced his insinuation. “Occasionally.”

  He shot the question, “What did Hester want with you?” If he’d questioned Richards, he couldn’t help but know. And he had questioned Richards last night, that was how he knew that Hester had come to her apartment. Had he questioned again today? A secret smile touched her face. But of course. Richards wouldn’t tell the business or social affairs of anyone in the house, not even to an F.B.I. man. He would withdraw behind the dignity of, “I don’t know.”

  She turned the smile into an innocent one. “I told you once there wasn’t time to find out. The buzzer rang. I didn’t want George to discover a man there—” Her look was honest. “The man was willing to go the back way and quickly. I didn’t realize until this morning, but of course he knew the F.B.I. was following him. That’s why he was as eager to get away as I was to have him go.” It sounded rational. She asked curiously, “Why were you after him? Who was he?”

  She saw the shadow on the door as Jones formed his answer. Her hands clenched. It was Bry. She didn’t know what Bry would say. He wasn’t experienced; he’d never been outside the law.

  He didn’t recognize Jones as the man who’d come to her apartment last night. He started to his office but she stopped him. She said, “Mr. Brewer, this is Mr. Jones. Perhaps you’ll tell him you brought me some work last night.” He had to know her story before Jones went in to question him.

  Bry nodded. “How do you do, Mr. Jones.” And he accepted her information, as if he were experienced. “I’m certain you know I brought work to Miss Williams last night. You saw me leaving.”

  Eliza said, “Mr. Jones is from the F.B.I., Mr. Brewer.”

  Bry acted surprise well, surprise tempering to amusement. “You’re not investigating our Miss Williams, are you?”

  Jones wasn’t smiling. “I’m investigating a man who was at Miss Williams’ apartment last night. A man who left there abruptly, she says, when her—friend—arrived.” He gave the word almost an obscene connotation. She wanted to hurl the desk at his smirk. She wanted to crawl under the desk away from Bry’s politely chilled eyes.

  Jones continued, “He’s been found—murdered.”

  Bry wasn’t prepared. The word struck him like a quirt.

  She said loudly, “His name was Hester. Renfro Hester.” The color was draining from Bry’s face. She reminded, “Mr. Jones, you were just going to tell me who this Hester was. And why you were after him.” She had forced his attention from Bry back to her.

  Jones wasn’t inexperienced; he knew what she had done. But there was no irritation in him at her maneuver. He could wait. She kept her hands together, tight together. He would wait; yes, he would wait.

  He said, “I believe I told you and your friend last night why I was after Hester. For questioning.”

  “But you didn’t tell me who he was.”

  The eyes of the Federal man were distant. “He was—” he began. He returned them to her sharply. He said, “I want you to have a look at Renfro Hester.”

  “No!” She breathed it quickly, her hands clenched. “I didn’t know him. I never saw him before last night.”

  He said, “If you don’t mind, I want you to take another look at him.”

  It was the request that was a demand.

  But she shook her mute head.

  Bry said, “See here—” He broke off at Jones’ expressionless decision. He said more calmly, “If you insist on Miss Williams viewing this man, I want to accompany her.”

  “Very well.”

  She repeate
d, “I didn’t know him.”

  Jones said nothing. She went in silence for her hat and coat.

  The morgue was green to smell, to breathe into her nostrils. She looked down at the death mask of the ordinary middle-aged man. She said firmly because she was holding herself firm, “I don’t know him. I never saw him before last night.”

  Bry said, “I’ve never laid eyes on him.”

  They emerged into the dreary afternoon. The rain had begun to slant again. The taxi was waiting. Jones said, “He came here from Singapore.”

  Only Bry’s arm kept her from stumbling. Jones knew. In the way the law alone could find out.

  “He traveled on an American passport. Renfro Hester isn’t his name.”

  She asked as if bewildered, “He was a crook?”

  “He was an international spy.”

  She echoed faintly, curiously, “Spy?”

  Bry spoke out. “There aren’t any spies now, are there?”

  “There are always spies,” Jones said. “They are equally as active in the period between wars as during combat. But there aren’t as many jobs for them.” He passed a box of cigarettes. “Sometimes they are temporarily forced into side lines. A man who hires himself out for money doesn’t care in what way he gets that money.” He accepted a light from Bry. “It’s an easy step from international spy to international thief.”

  It was Bry who queried now, “Thief?” His knuckles were white.

  “Yes,” Jones said. “I knew him when he was a spy. That’s why I was put on the case when we learned of his impending arrival. Before he docked in San Francisco. He’s been under surveillance across the country.”

  She was afraid for Bry to be curious. His hand was still knotted. She accused Jones. “You didn’t arrest him. Why didn’t you arrest him?”

  “Because I first wanted to know why he was in this country. I followed him last night to see whom he was meeting. As far as I know he met you.” She shouldn’t have spoken. But she was defiant. “I don’t know why he came to me.”

  The cab was held at Forty-second street. Mr. Jones said, “Nor do I—yet.” He continued as the cab moved again. “The police are looking for his effects. When they are found, maybe we’ll know more about what he wanted here. A man always carries some papers.”

  Bry said, “Unless he doesn’t want to be identified.”

  Jones’ glance was curious. “Or unless someone doesn’t want him identified. There was nothing in his pockets but a billfold, a handkerchief, a few loose cigarettes. Fatimas. Not a usual brand these days.”

  The cab pulled up in front of the office building. Unless his killer didn’t want him identified. His killer. Gavin Keane. It had been defense. Jones would never believe it.

  Bry opened the cab door. He said, “I hope you find out about the man, Jones.”

  “We will.” It was the implacable, sure answer.

  Eliza didn’t say anything, she almost ran across the walk into the building. She had to get away from Jones and his knowledge. He knew who she was but he hadn’t unmasked her before Bry. It wasn’t out of decency; that wouldn’t enter into his pursual of a job. He must believe that Bry knew. Or he was saving her. To lead him to Gavin.

  Bry caught her at the elevators. He didn’t speak, not then, not in the echoing upstairs corridor. As he opened the door, he mentioned, “I forgot to lock the office.”

  She proceeded him. There hadn’t been any visitors. No evidence of visitors. She hung her hat and coat. Bry continued to stand there in the center of the bronze rug. He waited silently until she was seated behind her desk, putting her glasses across her eyes.

  He said then, “Hester went to your apartment to see Gavin Keane.”

  She took a long, slow breath. She said, “Gavin Keane wasn’t there.”

  He was harsh. “Who was your friend?”

  “George Smith.” She lifted a defiant face. “He has nothing to do with this. Hester had gone before George arrived.” Keep repeating the lie; familiarity gave it the ring of truth. She smiled suddenly at him. “Gavin Keane must have the box.”

  She’d diverted him.

  “Don’t you see? This Hester was a thief. The reason he was after Keane was to steal the package.”

  He accepted the idea. He turned it in his mind. Then he wondered, wondered too close to truth, “But Hester was killed.” He wondered was it Gavin, and his eyes were stones.

  She was uneasy under them. Because Jones’ distrust of her had infected him. And she realized suddenly that she didn’t know Bry Brewer any better than he knew her; he too could have been playing a role.

  The ring of the phone startled her. Bry thrust her hand out of the way to snatch it. His conversation was monosyllabic, she couldn’t even hear the crackling of voice in the receiver. He crashed it down.

  “I’m going out. If Gavin Keane comes in today, sit on him until I get back.”

  She took a breath. “Yes, Mr. Brewer.” He didn’t hear her response; he was out of the door. And she was again left alone with the whisper of rain against the windows.

  He didn’t come back. The afternoon palled to five o’clock. She waited until five with the hope of Towner coming to her growing fainter with each graying moment.

  At five she waited no longer. Something had happened to delay Towner Clay. She didn’t want to think about what might have happened. Even if she knew it couldn’t happen, that Towner must be warm and comfortable in the Roosevelt. Even if she refused to believe that Towner, learning of Hester’s murder, had abandoned her. He couldn’t do that; she had the Imp. But he could and would move circuitously. If he’d seen the newspapers he knew she was involved, however innocently, in Hester’s death. The apartment address was knowledge. With the known danger of the Imp.

  There was no fear in leaving the building tonight. The other office workers filled the elevators, crowded around the doorway downstairs, girding themselves for rain. It was again a steady downpour.

  She pushed out holding the large Abercrombie box by its cardboard handles, the awkward packages under her arm. She raised her umbrella, hurried to the corner, waited for the red to change to green.

  “Miss Williams.”

  She had to shift the umbrella to see the speaker.

  “Forgive my speaking to you. I live in the same apartment you do on the Square. If you’d like to share my cab—”

  She had the umbrella tilted. The man was portly, well-dressed. Her eyes reached his face, his puppy-like face.

  She said, frozen, “You’ve made a mistake. My name isn’t Williams.” She darted into the street on the now waning green, dodged moving traffic to the opposite curb. He hadn’t followed. She dare not look back but he hadn’t followed. He couldn’t have moved as quickly as she, he wasn’t prepared. She walked rapidly the crowded street towards Fifth. She couldn’t risk waiting for a cab. If he came after her she’d speak to a policeman. There were always traffic police on Fifth. She’d report him. She crossed Fifth, now she could look down Forty-sixth. In the downpour were only umbrellas, moving legs. She stood taut, waiting the Washington Square bus. When it came it was crowded, seats on the upper deck only. She stepped on, climbed aloft. She sat near the front; the back seats were occupied. If he too got on this bus, he’d have to come upstairs, sit in front of her. He didn’t appear.

  Darkness was falling fast beneath the murky sky. Before the bus reached Thirty-fourth street she regretted not having waited for a cab. The man couldn’t have done anything to her there in the heart of the city. To reach her, apartment she would have to cross the west side of the Square. It would be deserted, in this rain. The man could precede her by cab. He knew her address. He could be waiting when she left the bus. He had followed her into the Roosevelt last night but he hadn’t moved against her. She knew now; Hester had been the man under the marquee last night. One man at each entrance. And the box in her arms. But they couldn’t risk snatching it. They could risk holding a gun on her in the darkness of the Square. She wasn’t as important as the
box. They were violent men, men who would kill. They could force her to take them to the box.

  The bus was emptying. The man wasn’t upstairs. She moved below at Fourteenth street, took a seat near the back. There wasn’t anyone on board who resembled him. The bus rolled to a stop. End of the line. She wasn’t alone getting off. At least five others, young men and women. All turned opposite from her. Night students at New York University on the east boundary of the Square. The lighted bus rested there, the conductor and driver fraternizing, waiting for schedule before starting uptown again.

  She had to cross the park; there was no other way to reach the apartment. The street lights didn’t penetrate the deep shade, they glimmered dimly beyond. She didn’t put up her umbrella; she didn’t care how soaked she would be, she could move faster with it furled. She couldn’t set out across that dark waste, couldn’t. She shoved herself forward. Every tree was a hiding place, every bench a threat.

  Her throat froze. She’d forgotten the man on the bench. He’d be there, his vigil rewarded. She knew he was one of them, not of the law. The police didn’t have to sit in the rain hour by chilled hour. She couldn’t get safely past the man, he wouldn’t allow her to pass. They had moved against her tonight; the portly man was proof of that. She was afraid of their force; the Imp must not be taken from her. She could run back, ride uptown again, take a taxi. She turned quickly. The bus was gone, the blur of its lights were fading towards Fifth Avenue. There was a deeper darkness on the street where it had stood, there might be a shadow that wasn’t a tree. She swerved and started on again, half-running. Running away from danger, running towards it. The walks were waxed by the wetness; she mustn’t stumble and fall. She must reach the spill of light beyond which were Richards and protection.