Scarlet Imperial

by Dorothy B. Hughes

  Gavin’s hand went into his pocket. She didn’t move.

  Mr. Dekertian picked up his brief case. “Where can I see Mr. Brewer?”

  “I’ll take you to him,” Gavin smiled.

  She cried out louder, “This man stole your Imperial.”

  Mr. Dekertian was without emotion. “I understood you to say that. But I must see Mr. Brewer.”

  Gavin said, “He’s waiting for you at his apartment.”

  “You mustn’t go with him,” Eliza said. “He has a gun.”

  Mr. Dekertian’s eyes lidded for a moment. “I can see that he has a gun.”

  She beat against his fatality. “He’s the only one who could have taken the Imperial. He has a key.”

  Gavin’s face was in shadow. “You mean you’ve mislaid it?”

  “You stole it. You are the only one who could come in here and steal it. You’re the only person who’s been here.”

  Mr. Dekertian was moving towards the foyer. She cried again, “You can’t go with him. Don’t you understand—”

  He said, “You are forgetting the gun.”

  She saw Gavin’s hand jutted in his pocket. She quivered back against the wall.

  Gavin smiled. She didn’t like his smile. “You too, Eliza.”

  She said, “No.”

  His jaw was set. “If you think I’m going to let you upset the apple cart now, I’m not. You’re coming with us.”

  She set her teeth. “I’m not going.”

  He took a step towards her. Mr. Dekertian spoke softly. “Please let us have no violence.”

  Gavin ignored him. He was moving in on her and when she could see the look in his blue eyes, fear came into her. But she flung defiance in his face. “You can’t force me to go with you.”

  He said something under his breath. She didn’t know what.

  His left hand shot out, clutched her arm. She screamed once as he swung her about. She didn’t scream again. The sharp pain in her head stifled the sound in her throat. She knew he had struck her and that she was falling.

  Everything was black and silent. Black and silent as Feroun Dekertian’s lizard eyes. A void. Pain came through first, with it the rushing in her ears, the pinwheels before her eyes. Her hands had feeling, the feeling of rough softness. She slit her eyes slowly, fearfully. The lights from the night street illuminated the room, the same crystal and white room where she had fallen. The stuff she had felt was the white rug. She pushed herself up, turned on the table lamp. Her head swirled and she sat down quickly on the nearest chair. Her hand moved with care to the back of her head. There was no blood on her hand. Gavin hadn’t used the gun; he’d knocked her out.

  Why hadn’t he killed her? Because there was a witness, Mr. Dekertian. Why hadn’t he killed both of them? Even he realized the hue and cry that would upraise if a member of a legation were murdered in cold bipod. But he had taken Mr. Dekertian with him, at gun point. Was Mr. Dekertian to be found a suicide?

  Her watch blurred. Nearing eight o’clock. She had been out—how long? Long enough for Gavin to carry through what he had planned. Dekertian hadn’t protested; he had believed Gavin was working with Bry. He had refused to listen to her. It wasn’t only the gun in Gavin’s hand. Dekertian had been eager to go. It was as if he wanted to get away and seized Gavin as opportunity.

  Doubt of Dekertian’s identity again flooded her. Was there a real Dekertian while another of El Bey’s henchmen carried the diplomatic credentials? When would the true envoy be found?

  Her head was clearing. She mustn’t delay longer; she must reach Towner. She stumbled to her bedroom, searched the telephone directory. Towner Clay was not listed. She dialed information. Another blank wall. There was no Towner Clay. She doused her face with cold water until her brain was clear, changed rapidly to a black dress, black coat, close-fitting black hat. The elusive shadow of black against night. If anyone tried to follow her, she would leave no scent. Gavin might not have been satisfied that she would be unable to act tonight; he might have left someone to prevent it. No one was going to stop her from reaching Towner now.

  No one—but where were the police? Where was Jones? It couldn’t be that he and Towner were still locked in the office. Bry had had them released. Nor was it possible that Jones, released, would forgive and forget. She couldn’t remain here formulating questions to which she knew no answers. She must get to Towner. Before it was too late.

  Franz brought up the elevator. It might have been any evening, any quiet evening on Washington Square. She might have been on her way to a neighboring restaurant.

  “Good evening, Miss Eliza.”

  She said, “Good evening, Franz.” He didn’t see the ivory of her face; he didn’t know the ways of a world of violence. She had to shatter his belief in gentleness. She asked, “Are the police still guarding the house?”

  His sigh was small, pleased. “No, Miss Eliza. They finished their investigations this morning.”

  She wasn’t sure; they might not be watching openly. Secretly they must have the house under their eyes. Yet Gavin had come and gone this evening.

  Richards was smiling in the lobby. A broad smile because the comfortable daisy patterned lounge had no alien uniforms cluttering it. He said, “Lovely evening, Miss Liza.”

  She said, “Yes, isn’t it?” And she remembered. “Didn’t Clarence tell you I wanted you to ring me when you came on?”

  “That Clarence.” His red face solidified. “He never remembers nothing on a Saturday night. Was it important, Miss Liza?”

  “No,” she smiled. Not important. Only the call would have come while Gavin was there. What good would it have done?

  “I’m sorry, Miss Liza.”

  “It wasn’t anything,” she reassured him. “Do you think you can get me a cab?”

  “Yes, indeed.”

  She waited within the doorway while he whistled. No one loomed in the darkness. The night was mild, a lovely night, Miss Eliza. Not a night for dark deeds. A cab whirred to the curb. Richards held the door for her. She didn’t know the driver. It didn’t matter who the cabbie was, good or bad. She gave Towner’s address. There remained in her only the fatalism of Dekertian. Either Towner could wind things up tonight, make everything right, or this would go on, around and around the world. She and Towner, Gavin and Potts and Dekertian, and the hirelings of El Bey. Only Bry Brewer would be free of it, because he wasn’t of it, because his was a different world. Towner could make things right, everything except Gavin Keane. He couldn’t change Gavin to her dream of Gavin. Gavin was an adventurer and a thief, a man who would let nothing stand in his way. Even if it meant clubbing the girl he had kissed.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  THE DRIVER SWUNG TO the curb. Eliza paid him and the cab thrummed into the uptown quiet. She stood there for a moment, her eyes moving up the great white shaft to the lights on its gardened roof. Towner was somewhere here. Unless Feather had lied. Her fists tightened. Feather had not lied.

  She entered the marble palace with steady steps. The palace guard halted her.

  She looked at him as Feather looked at a secretary. “Towner Clay.”

  “Who is calling?”

  “Eliza Williams.” She resented the delay of his ringing up.

  She was permitted to enter the elevator. The cage shafted to the top of the skyscraper. She stepped out into a small private jewel box, pressed a black pearl button. The door was opened by the white-coated houseman. He took her coat. “This way, Miss Williams.”

  She stood on the threshold of the living room. An exquisite room, panelled in mirrors, a gold and silver room, scented with great silver bowls of massed white roses. Beyond the giant front window were the myriad golden lights of New York. She stood there silently for a moment.

  Feather Prentiss, a froth of silver, was curled on a pale brocade love seat. Towner lounged near her in a royal purple chair. A quiet Saturday night at the Clay penthouse.

  Towner tinkled his glass. “Er—Eliza.” He seemed vaguely surp
rised that she was here. He gestured, “You know Miss Prentiss?”

  Eliza’s lip curled as she gave brief acknowledgement. “How’d you do, Miss Prentiss.” She appealed to Towner. “I must talk with you.” Alone. He knew it must be alone.

  His pale eyes blinked with anticipation. “You have brought me the Scarlet Imperial?”

  “No.” His eyes went blank. She continued rapidly, “I don’t have the Imperial. Gavin Keane has it. He has the Imperial and Feroun Dekertian as well.”

  Liquid sloshed over his glass as he set it down. It wasn’t like Towner to be untidy. He came to his feet without sound, advanced to her until he could look down into her face. With sudden frenzy the back of his hand slashed across her mouth.

  He had never struck her before. She’d seen him strike his servants in sudden rage. He had never touched her. She swayed but she didn’t fall. The thin film of amusement on Feather’s mouth held her on her feet.

  He was mumbling monotonous obscenity of Eliza’s source, of her reversion to source because of a blue-eyed man. Eliza spat from her bruised mouth. “Send her away and I’ll tell you. Get rid of her if you want to know.”

  Towner quivered with fury. “Don’t you tell me what you will or won’t do!”

  Eliza ignored him. She moved on Feather. “Get out of here. Get out!” Feather twisted out of the love seat, backed away. She was afraid. She should have been afraid. Towner grated, “Don’t go, Feather.”

  Feather spoke out of utter boredom but her eyes were nervous jets. “Don’t fuss, Towner. Let her tell it. I’ll be on the terrace. If you’re ever free, look me up.” She floated away but her look didn’t leave Eliza until she was out of the door.

  Eliza sat down where Feather had been. She was trembling. “If you’d have come to me instead of to her, we’d have the Imperial.”

  He stalked back to his purple velvet chair, lifted his glass. After he drank, his voice alone wasn’t normal. “I wasn’t ready to come to you. With Gavin Keane living in your apartment, the police investigating Hester’s murder—” He choked. “Do you doubt my wisdom in spending my time with an old friend? One who could give me an honest report on these young men you are so interested in?”

  She didn’t answer his insinuation. She said, “I carried out my part. I had the Imperial for you on Thursday. You could have had it. I even kept it safe when that horrible Pincek tried to steal it.” She accused again. “But you didn’t come for it. You didn’t communicate with me. I thought it was safe. Bry was in touch with Dekertian. I didn’t know until today that Gavin wasn’t with Bry on this.” She faltered. “I got away from Gavin after—after the office. Bry didn’t come back. I took Dekertian to my apartment to give him the Imp—”

  “You have been with Feroun Dekertian?” Towner’s eyes protruded.

  She was impatient. “Yes, certainly. But the Imp was gone. Then Gavin came. He knocked me out and took Dekertian away.”

  “Are you certain it was Feroun Dekertian?”

  She admitted slowly, “I don’t know. He had identification but …” He’d gone with Gavin. She drew herself together. “We must find Bry. It may not be too late to stop Gavin.”

  His smile was pinched. “You have behaved with incredible stupidity in this whole affair. On only one count were you correct.” She didn’t ask.

  “Bryan Brewer and Gavin Keane are together in this.”

  It wouldn’t come clear. She puzzled it but it wouldn’t come clear. She had to beg. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  Pity and scorn were an acrid brew. “Did it never occur to you that when your friend Thaddeus Skowa reached Teheran, he was not alone?”

  She whispered, “What do you mean?”

  His calm was far worse than his fury. “There were three young men from the Flying Tigers who arrived during the Three Party conference. According to their story, they had cracked up in the jungle. The rescue plane which eventually found them was headed for Teheran. They were landed there.”

  His forefinger brushed his moustache. “Three young men. Two were Americans. Lieutenant Thaddeus Skowa and Lieutenant Bryan Brewer. One was—” he shrugged “—who knows? Perhaps a British subject. A renegade Irishman. Captain Gavin Keane.”

  She listened, sick.

  “The Scarlet Imperial was stolen during a large reception at the Palace. A guard testified that a young man, one of the flyers, had been seen handling it. It was found in Lieutenant Skowa’s possessions.” He drank again. “You are certain that Skowa was innocent.”

  She wouldn’t listen; she wouldn’t believe. Not of Bry Brewer. Not even of Gavin. Not treachery.

  “The three shared a hotel room. When the police suspected, a simple enough matter to hide the treasure in any kit in the room. In the kit of the innocent one.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me this before?”

  He disdained. “My dear Eliza, I am not one to make idle accusations. However, when I learned last year from Feather that Bryan Brewer had established himself as an Importer, I was willing to conduct an experiment.” She listened; there was nothing else she could do.

  “You may not know, but I had no luck in employing the Bey to find the Imperial for us. In fact, when the Bey queried Gavin Keane, on my suggestion although my name did not appear in the transaction, Keane vulgarly told him to peddle his papers elsewhere.” Towner’s vanity preened itself. “It occurred to me that if I asked Brewer to locate the treasure, I might not only recover the Imperial but also obtain the proof of guilt we desired. You see I was not wrong. Brewer and Keane had kept the Imperial hidden for these many years. Waiting their chance for a good sale.”

  He was not wrong. Towner was never wrong. Shock diminished. Anger blazed. Deep abiding anger against injustice. That these two could allow their friend to suffer indignity and death for their greed. She had no words. She had trusted Bry; she had defended Gavin. The murderers of Thad.

  Towner wore his righteous smirk. “You understand perhaps why I could not come running to you when I arrived in New York. I had more important matters to attend. The relaying of information to the F.B.I. The details to be attended—one small detail, a look through Brewer’s papers which Jones and I were attempting today when you—” he breathed disgust, “—assisted your renegade friend to lock us away.”

  “He had a gun.”

  He sniffed. “I trusted you to cleave to the Imperial while I was otherwise engaged.”

  “I thought I had it safe.” The defense was lame. She cried out, “What can we do now, Towner? Without the Imperial? Can’t you find Gavin?” She didn’t understand his smile. “Perhaps, yes. I believe he has been under surveillance of Mr. Jones’ men today. In fact only because of my insistence did Jones refrain from placing him under arrest when Keane left your place last night.” She was bitter. “It might have been better if you had.”

  “I do not believe so. When dealing with crafty fellows, one must employ wiles. Yes, Hubert?”

  She hadn’t heard the flat-chested houseman approach. “Mr. Jones.”

  “Show him in.” Towner’s pale eyes flecked Eliza. “You will oblige me by waiting in the library. I prefer to handle matters in my own way.”

  She met Jones in the doorway. He didn’t speak, his hostile glance touched her, let her go. She didn’t want to linger with Jones and his suspicion. Towner would handle it. Jones and his organization could find Gavin and the man who called himself Dekertian. It wasn’t too late.

  The library opened off the foyer. It was quiet, one study lamp flung patterns of shadow against the books. She went to the deep window seat, pushed aside the curtains. There were sky and stars from this window, far below lay the dark streets of the city. So many streets, so many people, like stars. How could one man be found if he didn’t want to be found? If Gavin had got away with the Scarlet Imperial, what would Towner do? She didn’t want to start all over again. They’d been so close to it, things couldn’t crumble in their hands now. Because of her carelessness. She rested her head against the cool o
f the pane.

  “Eliza!” Bry Brewer was standing on the threshold. He called her name softly again and he strode towards her. “Eliza.” Anxiety grooved his mouth. “Why did you come here?”

  He stopped abruptly as she lifted her eyes. She didn’t have to speak; they held her knowledge of the truth.

  He asked haltingly, “What is it? Eliza!”

  She didn’t move. She said, “I was Thad Skowa’s girl.”

  “You?” His face sagged. “You—”

  She could hear in the silence the faint catcalls of traffic twenty-two stories below. Far behind them the distortion of sounds in the honky tonk where she and Thad had met. “I wasn’t much like this when Thad knew me. But he loved me. He was going to marry me when he came back … He didn’t come back.”

  “No,” Bry said. “He didn’t come back.”

  One quiet word was a curse. “Murderer.”

  He took a step nearer. “What did you say?”

  She wasn’t afraid. She repeated, “Murderer.”

  “For God’s sake, Eliza, are you crazy?”

  She stated, “You were with Thad in Iran. You and Gavin. You let him die for your theft, you and Gavin.”

  Anger flushed his face. “Who’s been telling you such rot?”

  “Can you deny it?”

  He didn’t answer at once. When he did, he was contemptuous. “Do I need to deny anything that rotten?” He drew away from her as if she were diseased. “Yes, we were with Thad in Iran. We were with him in the jungles before that. If I told you all about it, you’d think I was having a nightmare. You wouldn’t believe me.” He corrected that. “Yes, you would. You’d believe anything.”

  He began to pace the room, remembering. “We didn’t know where we were for weeks. Maybe months. We lied, we stole. We killed.” There were two harsh lines fencing his mouth. “We were rescued. We landed in Teheran. Where we could eat and drink again, sleep in a bed, feel soap and water. None of us knew about the conference. None of us had ever heard of the Scarlet Imperial.”

  But one was a thief. Towner was mistaken; Bryan Brewer had nothing to do with it. His outrage was real. And even now Bry didn’t believe Gavin was the one.