Scarlet Imperial

by Dorothy B. Hughes

  Eliza whispered, “The police!” They’d follow Gavin here.

  His eyes scorned her ignorance. “They don’t know it yet. I don’t make a habit of calling the police. Particularly when I’m in a room where I don’t belong in company with a man like Pottsy. The little man will be found soon enough.” He lighted a cigarette.

  “What was his name?” Bry asked.

  “I don’t know. Pottsy called him Joe. Potts didn’t know his name either. The chap was strictly local.”

  Bry’s eyes were on the rug. His voice was husky. “The Imperial was gone?”

  “The box had been torn open. There was a cake of soap in it.” He flung his fury at Eliza. “What did you do with the Imp?”

  She had regained courage and with it, decision. She said, “I put it in that box. I tied it up and placed it on my shelf. I didn’t think it had been touched until I gave it to that man tonight—at the point of a gun.” She pressed the I and the implication behind it.

  Bry came out of his study. “Gavin. Of course—whoever killed that man took the Imperial.”

  “I’m thinking not. He had to get away fast, Bry. We were rattling the door.”

  “He had time to pick up what he killed for.”

  Gavin smiled. “I wouldn’t have been surprised to find an empty box. But not a cake of soap.” He laughed softly. “Why would he be carrying a cake of soap to put in that box, Bry? He was after the Imperial, not after fooling somebody.” He shook his head, still laughing, but his eyes weren’t laughing. They were on Eliza and they were blue stones.

  Bry attempted further defense. “It might have been Joe who made the exchange. It might have been a doublecross of the one who hired him.” She nodded agreement.

  Gavin said, “That’s what the man that hired him must have been thinking when he killed the squeaking mouse. He comes in when Joe is having a look at the box. He thinks it’s Joe putting a cake of soap in place of the egg. So he loses his temper. After he loses his temper and it’s too late, he starts looking around to see where Joe has hidden the loot. We interrupt. If that’s the story, he’ll think Pottsy and I found the egg.”

  He laughed loudly.

  “Here’s one just as good. The man who hired Joe was waiting for him in the room. Together they open the box. They find a cake of soap, the same kind of soap like in the bathroom here. The guy gets mad. This is the second time Joe’s been a dope. He grabs Joe; he doesn’t mean to kill him. He just doesn’t realize how mad he is. Until we knock on the door. If that’s the way it was, the guy who hired Joe knows the Imperial is still here. He’ll be back for it.”

  She felt the whiteness of her face.

  Gavin said to Eliza, “I rather favor that version. When did you put the soap in the box?”

  She gave no quarter. “I might remind you that I haven’t been alone in this apartment at any time while the box was here. What were you doing while I was at the office all day?” She sucked in her breath at Bry’s face. Too late now. She struck again at Gavin. “You had opportunity. And purpose too.”

  “What purpose?” His mouth dared her.

  “You have no intention of turning the egg over to the Iranians. You told me that. You thought you and Bry were going to share the prize. When you found out different—”

  He interrupted. “I didn’t find that out until tonight.”

  “Didn’t you? You’ve found out every other thing you’ve wanted to know about those who have threatened the Scarlet Imperial.”

  Bry’s words were muffled but they silenced the altercation. “Gavin has been staying here?”

  She answered evenly, defiantly, “Yes. He had lost blood. From the bullet wound. I had to take care of him.”

  Bry turned to Gavin.

  “She took care of me.” He too was defiant. “Sure. I thought she was just a woman, worrying about a fellow going out in the rain without his umbrella. I didn’t know she was keeping me here to hang on to the Scarlet Imperial.”

  Bry pulled in a breath. “I seem to be far behind on the business of the Imperial.” He was unbending. “Perhaps it’s merely that I’m out of it.” He looked from her to Gavin, as if he were certain now they were in league. He came slowly to his feet.

  “No!” She cried it. He meant to go. He couldn’t leave her here with Gavin, she stood in Gavin’s way.

  Gavin added, “No. I’ll catch you up, Bry, but first I want the Imperial.”

  Bry said, “I don’t have it. God knows I wish I did.”

  Gavin’s gun was out again, covering her. “Hand it over. If you don’t, I’ll take it the hard way.”

  She closed her eyes. There was only one way to save the Imperial. She pretended the weariness of defeat. “You win. I took it. You needn’t tear up the apartment looking for it. It isn’t here.”

  “Where is it?” The gun in his hand was blunt, ugly.

  She flung up her head. “It’s where you can’t lay hands on it, where no one can lay hands on it until I’m ready to turn it over to you. And I shan’t turn it over to anyone until I know where it’s going and how it’s going to get there. I don’t want any more death.”

  They believed her but they believed with open-mouthed wonder. Even Gavin until this moment hadn’t been sure. She held her defiance of them with lifted head.

  Bry began, “It’s easy to explain, Liza,” but the gun in Gavin’s hand gestured silence.

  Gavin walked over until he stood in front of her chair. She came to her feet unsteadily. “Gavin—” she faltered.

  His empty hand closed about her throat forcing her to look up into his face, into his terrible eyes. His voice was too quiet. “Don’t say anything more, Bry,” he said. His mouth curved but he wasn’t smiling. “It wasn’t Shanghai. It was Singapore.”

  She fell into the chair as he released her. He said to Bry, “I knew I’d seen her before. She’s Towner Clay’s woman.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  THIS WAS MORNING AGAIN. Somehow she had fallen asleep last night, despite her fears after they went away. Despite her heavy heart, her bewilderment. She must have slept because she was on the bed and morning was coming through the windows. She flung wide the casements overlooking the park. The moist clean after-smell of rain blew into the room. The sun was shining on the walks below, on the tree tops overnight gossamer green.

  She would wait no longer for Towner to come to her. She must find him. It was evident he had been unable to get in touch with her; there were too many hostile forces between them.

  She hurried bathing, dressing. She couldn’t know what the next move would be from Gavin and Bry. They had left abruptly after Gavin’s recognition, allowing her neither protestation nor explanation. They would return because she had the Imp, because she admitted it. She didn’t understand why they had gone empty-handed last night.

  She must reach Towner before their return. She needn’t be a secretary again; that job was done. The bright berry red dress, the brief flaunting cape of navy. Towner had chosen it for her in Paris. The French sailor cap was on the back of her head when the house phone sounded.

  A cold hand closed on her heart. It had been hovering there, only her false courage and the sun in the spring sky had kept it from handling her before. She could not ignore the summons of the insistent bell. Davis would know she hadn’t gone out; she’d have to ring for Clarence and the elevator to leave the apartment. She didn’t have to allow anyone up to the apartment; she was ready to depart.

  She said, “Hello.”

  Davis was a metronome. “Miss Eliza, it’s the police.”

  She didn’t say anything. She couldn’t question Davis as she could Richards. She asked, “Have they credentials?”

  He was mechanical, “Yes, Miss Williams.”

  “Send them up.” There was nothing else she could do. But she gathered her purse and gloves while she waited. They would see she was in a hurry; they wouldn’t detain her long. She had nothing to tell them.

  She took her time answering the door. It was Jones;
she’d expected Jones. Plain-faced, unsmiling, hat over his eyes. She hadn’t expected so many cohorts. Captain Dryden was Homicide, a medium man with grooved mouth and eyes like lead pellets. The others, three of them, were more eyes. Eyes that would miss nothing.

  She didn’t pretend to be casual. She led them into the living room, offered chairs. She herself took one near the window with her back to the light. She asked boldly, “What is it you want now?”

  Jones crossed one stiff leg over the other. “Gavin Keane.”

  She didn’t hesitate. “Who is Gavin Keane?”

  “An international crook.” Jones’ voice was without expression.

  When crooks fall out … it hammered on her heart. When crooks turn on each other, death scatters them.

  “He entered this country with stolen property, undeclared.”

  She broke in defiantly, “Why come to me?”

  “Unfortunately, I didn’t know soon enough just who Mr. Smith was. Did you know?”

  She answered slowly, trying to think ahead, “I knew his name wasn’t Smith.”

  “You knew he’d killed Renfro Hester,” Dryden said. His voice was rough as cobbles.

  “He didn’t!” She knew better than to defend him. Her safety was in helping Jones apprehend Gavin Keane. Yet she cried out defense.

  “What about Pincek?” Dryden demanded.

  She shook her head puzzled. Her eyes flicked to Jones for clue but his mouth was two tight lines.

  Dryden’s hands dug into his pockets. He began in monotone, as if he were reading from a report. The description of a sordid room in a cheap hotel. The description of a man who wasn’t a messenger or a police detective, whose fingers twitched on a gun. Where was the gun last night when he died the quiet way, hands about his throat? Pincek’s killer had been someone in whom he had trust.

  When thieves fell out…. Had Bryan Brewer come to her last night from a miserable room and a miserable man, dead? Need Bry have sent the messenger Thursday night for the Imp? It was being delivered to him. If he hadn’t wanted it delivered to him, if he had wanted the Imp without anyone knowing it was in his hands.

  Someone, not Hester, had shot Gavin. Gavin hadn’t been lying about that; he’d admitted his own shooting of Hester, his defense would be stronger if Hester had shot him. Bry had been at her apartment looking for Gavin Keane; he could have been outside the back door later or earlier. She didn’t know what had happened, she knew only that the Bryan Brewer she’d worked for these months wasn’t the entire Bry Brewer. The man of the last two days was one she didn’t know.

  Dryden finished his description. He flung the stones of his words at her again. “What about Joe Pincek?”

  She said, “I don’t know anything about Joe Pincek.”

  Sarcasm twitched Dryden’s lips. “I suppose he didn’t come up here last night.”

  They knew he did, these four men, four men with watching eyes. They’d checked with Richards and Franz.

  She repeated firmly, “I know nothing of anyone named Joe Pincek.” She was matter of fact. “A man who fits that description came to my apartment last night, yes. He said he was a police detective. He had a badge.”

  They knew that. From the attendants below.

  Dryden scowled, “Yeah. Impersonated an officer.”

  She said coolly, “I will testify to that if you wish. You have arrested him?”

  Jones’ lips didn’t move. “He’s in the morgue.”

  She turned her eyes slowly on him, as if she did not credit what he said. She turned them on each of the police in turn, accepting the answer in Dryden’s face.

  “You don’t think I killed him?”

  “Who said he was killed?” Dryden growled.

  She was scornful. “I don’t believe you came here to inform me that he died of natural causes.”

  Jones spoke without moving his lips. “We came here because two men have died in the last two days, each one after visiting your apartment.” Dryden cut in, “What did Pincek want here?”

  She took her time before answering. “He came here to steal something.”

  “To steal what?” A thin flicker of light came into Jones’ face. The three policemen had opened their mouths to gulp her words.

  She was quiet, easy. “I work for Bryan Brewer, the importer. Occasionally a valuable shipment arrives too late to be put into the vaults that day. This happened on Thursday afternoon. I brought it here.”

  “Why didn’t you return it yesterday?”

  She wasn’t groping; she knew exactly what she had to say. She said, “I was afraid to carry it yesterday morning. Because of that man called Hester.” She looked at Jones. “I didn’t know Hester was dead. I wanted Mr. Brewer to come here and take care of it himself. He came last night—too late.”

  Jones spoke without inflection but there was a hidden excitement back of his words. “Pincek stole from you the—” He’d been going to name the Scarlet Imperial. He broke off. “What did he take?”

  She said, “I told you. The box I brought here from the office.”

  He smiled frostily. “It contained—”

  “I don’t know what it contained.” She was cool. “I don’t know how he knew it was here.” She looked into his tight face. “He threatened me with a gun. I had to give it to him.”

  The phone rang as she spoke. She started from her chair but one of the policemen, the one nearest the foyer arch moved first. It was a part of routine; his rubber heels slapped on the polished floor. She sank back and she kept her hands from tightening. If it were Towner, he’d gracefully extract himself from any part of this. It wasn’t Towner she was anxious about, it was Gavin. Gavin, who killed, who thieved, who wanted none of her. She couldn’t protect Gavin; yet she was protecting him. She couldn’t care what happened to him, the enemy, yet she did.

  The cop said, “Yeah, she’s here. Who’s talking?” He put down the phone. He didn’t speak to her but to Dryden. “Says he’s her boss, Bryan Brewer.”

  Jones ordered, “Let her talk to him.”

  She crossed under the silence of their eyes. Her heels made no sound on the deep carpet, were too sharp in the foyer.

  Bry’s voice was anxious. “Who answered the phone?”

  She stated it as if it weren’t important. “The police. And that F.B.I. man, Jones.”

  “What do they want?” He wasn’t anxious now, he was harsh.

  “I really don’t know,” she lilted. In the mirror she could see the listening slant of Jones’ fedora. The policeman who’d answered the phone was leaning against the arch, watching her as if he expected her to dart to the door. “It’s something about the man who stole your box from me last night. He was killed.”

  He knew she couldn’t talk openly. He asked, “Can you get away? I want to see you. You’re coming in, aren’t you?”

  This was not the place to tell him she had no intention of coming in to the office. She said, “Yes, of course. I’ll be there as quickly as possible. Sorry I’m late, Mr. Brewer.” She was ready to hang up but his voice caught her hand.

  “Have they asked anything about Gavin Keane?”

  She said apologetically, “Yes, Mr. Brewer. But I don’t know anything about that.”

  When she returned to the living room, she didn’t sit down. She said, “Is there anything else you want? If not, I’d like to get to the office. I’m late now.”

  Jones said, “You were late before we came.”

  “I overslept.” She hated him.

  Dryden turned on her. “How come you didn’t report this guy who held you up?”

  She didn’t hide her scorn. “His credentials were good enough to pass your men in the lobby. After that I hadn’t much faith in the police. I preferred to leave it to Mr. Brewer. I called him. Is that all?”

  Jones came to his feet. “Mr. Brewer. And Gavin Keane.”

  “Mr. Brewer.” She threw it in his face. “Gavin Keane came without invitation.”

  He was moving towards her; she didn’t
flinch when he stood in front of her, the cold menace of his eyes visible under his hat shadow.

  “Where is Gavin Keane?”

  She bit the words out. “I told you once, I don’t know. If you want him, why didn’t you pick him up last night?”

  Jones said, “I didn’t know who he was until this morning. What did he want here?”

  “He wanted the box,” she said. She looked at her wrist watch deliberately.

  Jones turned away. “Would it surprise you to know there was nothing but a cake of soap in that box?”

  She said, “I had no idea what was in the box. I would be surprised if it were soap.”

  They were going. Jones had gathered them together as he crossed the room.

  “Nevertheless,” Jones said, “it was soap. I will see you at the office later, Miss Williams.”

  She watched them go. Watched with helpless anger because she must appear now at Brewer’s. And the buzzer stung her. The back door. They didn’t hear. They were entering the elevator as it sounded. She closed her door, quickly went to the kitchen. But she didn’t loose the bolt. She made her voice level. “Who is it?”

  “It’s Clemence, Miss Williams.”

  She’d forgotten it was Clemence day, cleaning day. Clemence, inherited from Hortensia Clay. She opened the door, rebolted it.

  Clemence was real; tall, neat, efficient. “Sorry to disturb you, Miss Williams. I picked up the key downstairs but the door was bolted.” Her voice sharpened. “Are you all right, Miss Williams?”

  Eliza saw the blur of white face in the kitchen mirror, the dark smudges of her eyes. She caught hold of the kitchen chair. “Yes. I was up too late last night. And I’m terribly late for work. Clemence—”

  “Yes, Miss Williams.” Only the brown eyes noted the urgency.

  “When you leave be sure the kitchen is bolted. Go the front way. And Clemence—” She tried to keep her voice from rising. “Don’t let anyone in the apartment while you’re cleaning. Not anyone. No matter who he says he is. Don’t even open the door. Say he must wait until I return.”

  Again only the eyes reacted.

  “Even if it’s the police. Even if it’s the F.B.I., don’t let anyone in.”