Face to Face (9 page)

21

“You certainly know how to feed a man,” said Burke, lying back on the well-worn French provincial sofa.

“You certainly know how to pick out the music that goes with it,” said Roberta West, sitting straight up on it.

They were spending the evening in Roberta's apartment on East 73rd Street. It was in an old elaborate building whose gentility was a bit scabbed at the edges, and its rooms had high ceilings with elaborate plasterwork, the kind of curlicued decorations that should have framed mural cupids and dryads with ash-green architectural trees and pale flat brown French horizons for background. But there was nothing in the panels except a few unframed and not very good Dufy and Utrillo reproductions. The tall windows were swoopingly draped in burlap dyed maroon, and there was an ancient Italian fireplace that had been stopped up for a generation. And since Roberta possessed very little furniture, the allover effect was gigantic, dwarfing her petite dimensions further, so that she rather resembled a redheaded Alice caught in the Shrink-Me stage.

Burke thought she looked adorable. He did not, of course, dare to say so.

She had fed him a roast beef and Yorkshire pudding dinner, “to make you feel at home.” and the beef was too rare and the pudding too doughy for his taste (or anyone's, he caught himself guiltily thinking); but then a man needn't expect everything in a woman with so many exemplary points (although points wasn't quite the word); therefore the manful lie about her culinary wisdom.

As for the music, that was his contribution (aside from a bottle of undistinguished California burgundy) to the festivities. Roberta had said that she owned a modest hifi, and he had stopped into Liberty's on Madison Avenue on his way uptown and bought an
Elijah
, with the Huddersfield soloists and chorus, not knowing that Roberta's small collection of records consisted mainly of Mancinis, old Glenn Millers and such, her prizes being two or three vintage Whitemans; but Burke was taking such obvious pleasure in the oratorio that Roberta had the extra wisdom to express pleasure in it, too, although most of it either mystified or bored her.

So they both lied gallantly, and it turned out a smashing evening.

Afterward, as they sat side by side on the sofa, he lolling with sternly repressed longings and she properly straightbacked, Burke murmured, “This is so comfortable. It makes a man feel like—well, like taking his shoes off.”

“Don't,” said Roberta, “give in to the feeling.”

“Oh? Why not, Miss—I mean, Roberta?”

“Taking your shoes off could start a trend.”

He blushed. This time, in the full light, she was positively bathed in it. “I didn't mean—”

“Of course you didn't, cookie,” Roberta crooned. “That was bitchy of me. Take your shoes off, by all means.”

“I believe,” the Scot said huffily, “I'll leave them on, thank you.”

Roberta laughed. “Oh, you're so—so Scotch!”

“Scottish is the preferred term.”

“I'm sorry. I've never known a Scotchman—I mean a Scotsman—before.”

“I've never known a young American girl before.”

“Not so young, Harry. But thanks for the compliment.”

“Rot. You can't be more than twenty-one or two.”

“Why, thank you! I'll be twenty-seven my next birthday.” Considering that she was going to be twenty-eight, Roberta did not think the fib too enormous for her conscience to bear.

“Oh! And when will that be?”

At the conclusion of the evening, as Burke stood in the doorway hat in hand, he suddenly found himself seizing her like a rapist and catching her lips before they could go into their rubber-gasket act. He was astounded by both his lust and their softness.

So it was a smashing evening to the very end.

22

Into the penthouse apartment moved Lorette Spanier, out of it went Carlos Armando—the suffering but understanding “uncle” to the end—and less than two weeks later Lorette took a companion to share the apartment with her.

Harry Burke was the catalyst.

Ellery had expected him to return to England, but the Scot lingered. It was certainly not the Guild-Armando case that was keeping him in New York; the Inspector had no further need of him, and in any event he would be a mere jet's flight away if he went home. Yet the only move Burke made was from the Queen apartment—“I can't take advantage of your hospitality indefinitely,” he said, “like
The Man Who Came to Dinner”
—to a modest midtown hotel.

“It's none of my business, Harry,” Ellery said to him, “but my nose is itching. Don't you have to earn a living? Or is something keeping you here that you've been holding out on me?”

“I have an associate in my office in London,” Burke retorted, “who can jolly well carry on while I take my first sabbatical in years. That's one thing, chappie. For another, I feel a certain responsibility toward that girl.”

“Lorette? Why?”

“A, she's a British subject. B, this is a murder case. C, I was instrumental in bringing her into the case when I located her for Glory Guild. On top of that, she's grown on me. Reminds me of a favorite sister of mine who trapped an Aussie into wedlock fourteen years ago and whom I haven't seen since. But the principal reason—I'm uneasy about her.”

“Because of Armando? You needn't be. There's a man on his tail day and night.”

“It's not so much Armando, although I don't like the way the mucker looks at her. I don't know, Ellery. Lorette's rattling around alone in that museum of an apartment, she's a very inexperienced twenty-two, and she's suddenly an heiress to millions. She could become the target of all sorts of nastiness.”

“Well, congratulations,” said Ellery with every appearance of heartiness. “It's mighty decent of you, Harry.”

Burke reddened to the roots of his sandy hair. “Oh, I'm a mighty decent bloke.”

Ellery did not doubt the verity of Burke's professed reasons for hanging about New York, but he suspected that Burke had another reason he was not professing. The great man's suspicion was soon confirmed. Burke was seeing Roberta West regularly. Remembering how instantly smitten the Scot had been on that New Year's morning, when the West girl had come to the Queen apartment to tell her appalling story about Armando's proposal to her, Ellery was not surprised. He ragged Burke about dissembling.

“Are you checking on me, too?” Burke asked in a hard voice—a very hard voice. It was the first time Ellery had seen him angry.

“Of course not, Harry. But with so many detectives running around in the case, you could hardly keep your meetings with Roberta West a secret.”

“It's no secret, old chap! I just don't like making a display of my personal life.”

“Are you in love with her?”

“Nothing is sacred to you, is it?” Burke unexpectedly chuckled. Then he said soberly, “I think so. No, I'm pretty damned sure. I've never felt like this about a woman before.”

“Does Roberta feel the same way about you?”

“How the hell should I know? We haven't discussed her feelings—or mine, for that matter. It hasn't reached that stage. Do you know, Ellery, you've the cheek of an overgrown Mod?”

“That opinion of me,” Ellery said cheerfully, “is now transatlantic.”

It was Harry Burke who got Lorette and Roberta together. He took the two girls to dinner one night, and they liked each other immediately. Afterward, they went back to the penthouse, where the girls spent the rest of the evening in intense exploration. It turned out that they had a great deal in common—their views on men, morality, Viet Nam, the Beatles,
Playboy
Magazine, Martin Luther King, bikinis, Frank Sinatra, Joan Baez, pop art, and the theater generally were in delightful agreement. Best of all, to Lorette at least, Roberta had already achieved a success—in Lorette's eyes—as an actress. The blond girl's windfall fortune, it seemed, had not affected her ambition to follow in her late aunt's footsteps.

“You two were made for each other,” Harry Burke said, beaming. “In fact, it gives me an idea.”

The blond head and the sorrel top turned to him. In their discovery of each other, they had almost forgotten he was there.

“Lorette, you simply can't live in this huge place alone. Why doesn't Roberta move in with you?”

“Of all the gall!” Roberta gasped. “What a thing to say, Harry. I thought Englishmen were the soul of reserve.”

“They are. I'm a Scot.”

He beamed again.

“Why, Roberta, it's a lovely idea!” Lorette cried. “Oh, would you?”

“Lorette, we've only just met—”

“What has that to do with anything? We like each other, we have the same interests, we're both unattached—oh, Harry, that's an inspiration! Please, Roberta!”

“Golly, I don't know,” the little actress said. “How does that cornball line go? This is so sudden.” She giggled before she said, “Are you sure, Lorette? I'd have to sublet my apartment—my lease isn't up till next October—and if we didn't get along or something, I'd have an awful time finding another place to live. A place I could afford.”

“Don't worry about
that.
We'll get along, Roberta, I know we will. And another thing. It wouldn't cost you tuppence to live here. Imagine all the rent you'd be saving.”

“Oh, I wouldn't dream of such an arrangement!”

“You two battle it out,” murmured Harry Burke, “while I wash my hands.” He had made the suggestion not hopefully, remembering Lorette's independence, her living alone on the West Side, her shyness with strangers. But apparently the grandeur of the Guild apartment had overawed her. It was an immense place for a lone girl to rattle around in, and his suggestion of a compatible companion had come at the psychological moment. Burke congratulated himself.

When he came back, they were clinging to each other. So that was that.

Burke felt top hole about it.

As for the murder case, it limped. In spite of intensive investigation, Inspector Queen's detectives were unable to turn up a clue to the mysterious woman in the violet veil; as far as they were able to determine, she had not appeared in public again, certainly not in Armando's company. He was cultivating a fresh crop of women these days, pretty young ones for pleasure, aging ones with fat estates behind them for potential investment—all of whom were investigated with reference to Violet Veil, and all of them fruitlessly.

There was nothing to indicate that any of these newcomers to Armando's
liste d'amour
might be women he had previously wooed.

It was exasperating.

Not that the count was neglecting his past. He was also paying court to a few of his ex-wives—notably Gertie Huppenkleimer—and making an occasional phone call to the penthouse “to ask how my little niece is coming along.” At such times Roberta found an excuse for leaving the room.

“I can't stand the sound of his voice. It makes me sick,” Roberta said when Lorette once asked her why. “Look, darling, I know it's really not my business, but Carlos was behind your aunt's death—how can you bear to talk to him?”

Lorette was distressed. “I don't encourage him to call, Roberta, really I don't …”

“You do, too. By answering the phone.”

“If I didn't, Carlos would come up here, possibly make a scene. I abhor scenes. Besides, I can't bring myself to believe it.”

“Believe what?”

“That he planned Aunt Glory's death. I don't care what Harry Burke, Ellery Queen, and the police say. They'll have to prove it to my satisfaction first.”

“Lorette, he proposed it to
me
!
”

“Maybe you misunderstood him—”

“The heck I did,” Roberta said. “Don't you believe me?”

“Of course I believe you. I mean, I believe you think he did. Oh, I know Carlos is no rose—that he's done a lot of things that aren't very nice—especially where women are concerned—but … murder?” The blond head shook in disbelief.

Roberta looked appalled. “Lorette, you're not
falling
for him?”

“What an absurd idea.” But the English girl had turned quite pink.

“You
are.”

“I'm
not
, Roberta. I wish you wouldn't even suggest it.”

Roberta kissed her. “Don't you ever let that animal mess around.” she said fiercely. “I know.”

“Of course not,” said Lorette. But she drew away from the other girl, and a little coolness settled between them. It soon lifted, but each made an excuse to go to bed early that night.

It was the first far cloud of the thunderstorm.

23

One Sunday in mid-February the girls invited Burke and Ellery to brunch. The Scot arrived at the penthouse early, with Ellery only a few minutes behind. The new maid admitted them (Glory Guild's staff had resigned in a body, on various excuses, all of them adding up to the undelivered wish to get as far away as possible from the scene of murder). Lorette and Roberta were still dressing.

When Roberta was finished she wandered into the master bedroom. “You about ready?”

“In ‘arf a mo',” Lorette said; she was applying her lipstick. “Roberta, what a stunning cross. Where did you pick it up?”

“I didn't,” Roberta said, fingering it. It was a heavy silver Maltese cross on a silver chain, and it glittered like a star. “It was a birthday gift from Harry.”

“And you didn't tell me.”

Roberta laughed. “At your age, darlin', you can afford to advertise. Me, I'm up in the late twenties.”

“Not so late. Twenty-seven.”

“Lorette! How did you know?”

“Harry told me.”

“I'll never tell that man another secret as long as I live! Actually, I fibbed a bit. I'm twenty-eight.”

“Oh, don't be a ninny. He didn't tell me till yesterday, and I picked something up for you at Saks.”

“That wasn't necessary …”

“Oh, shut up.” Lorette rose from the vanity and went to one of the closets. She opened the door and reached up to a high shelf piled with hatboxes; a Saks box tied with gilt cord was perched on one of them. “I'm sorry I'm late with a gift.” she said, rising on tiptoe to reach the Saks box, “but it's your own fault—damn!” In pulling at the gift box she tipped over one of the hat boxes, and both boxes fell off the shelf. The lid of the hatbox came off and something distinctly not a hat came bouncing out and stopped at Lorette's feet.

“What,” exclaimed Roberta, pointing, “is
that?”

The English girl stared down at it.

It was a revolver.

“It's a revolver,” Lorette said childishly. Then she began to stoop.

“I don't think you ought to touch it,” Roberta said, and Lorette stopped. “Whose in heaven's name is it?”

“It doesn't belong to
me.
I've never even seen a gun so close.”

“Unless … Is that your Aunt Glory's hatbox?”

“It's mine. A hat I bought only a fortnight ago. But there certainly wasn't any revolver in the box when I set it on the shelf.”

They stared at each other. A disagreeable something settled over the bedroom.

“I think,” Roberta said, “I think we'd best let Harry and Ellery handle this.”

“Oh, yes …”

They went to the door together and called down together. The men came bounding upstairs.

“A gun?” Harry Burke ran into the master bedroom, Ellery at his heels. Neither man touched the weapon. They listened in silence to the girls' story of how it had been found, then simultaneously they made for the closet and examined the tumbled hatbox and the floor around it.

“No ammo.” muttered Ellery.

“I wonder,” began Burke, and stopped. He looked at Ellery. Ellery did not look back. He was on all fours, rump in air, examining the weapon as best he could without handling it. “What make and caliber is it, Ellery?”

“Colt Detective. A .38 Special, two-inch barrel, six-shot. Looks pretty aged to me—the plastic stock is nicked and cracked, the nickel finish looks worn.” Ellery took a ballpoint pen from his pocket, inserted it in the trigger guard, and rose, balancing the revolver on the pen. Burke squinted at the gun.

“Loaded with .38 Special cartridges. Four. That makes two shots fired. Glory Guild stopped two bullets.” The Scot's burry voice sounded like a damp firecracker.

“You mean this could be the weapon that killed Mrs. Armando?” Roberta West asked in a smallish voice.

“Yes.”

“But how could that be?” cried Lorette. “And even if it is, I don't understand what it's doing in the apartment. Did my aunt own such a weapon?”

“Not legally,” said Ellery. “There's no record of a gun permit issued to her.”

“Then it undoubtedly belongs to her murderer,” the British girl said reasonably. “That follows, doesn't it? But it makes matters more puzzling than ever. He certainly—whoever he was—didn't leave the gun behind. Or … is it possible the police didn't search the apartment thoroughly enough?”

“The apartment was gone over like a bloody dog looking for fleas,” Harry Burke said. “There was no gun here. That is, directly after the shooting.”

Lorette's eyes burned a brighter shade of blue. “What you mean, Harry, is—before I took possession of the apartment. After all, the gun was found in my hatbox. Isn't that what you mean?”

Burke did not reply.

The silence became embarrassing.

Lorette broke it with a toss of her blond locks. “Well, the whole notion is the most silly nonsense. Surely no one would believe—?” But then she stopped. It had evidently occurred to her that there were potential believers within sound of her voice.

Ellery slid the revolver carefully down on Lorette's bed. “I'd better call in,” he said.

“Why do you have to?” Roberta burst out. “It
is
nonsense! There's undoubtedly the most innocent explanation—”

“Then nobody will be hurt.” He went to the extension. “May I?”

“Be my guest.” Lorette said in her bitterest Americanese. She sank onto the other side of the bed from the gun and clasped her hands between her knees, the picture of little-girl helplessness. Roberta ran out of the room. They heard her crying while Ellery waited for his father to answer the phone.