Scarlet Imperial (3 page)

She said goodnight to Richards at the elevator door. He shook his head. “You’d better lie abed in the morning, Miss Liza.”

“And lose my job?”

“It’s only right when they make you work late at night,” he told her belligerently.

Franz lifted the quiet front elevator to the fourteenth floor. She had no fear of getting out of it. There were only two apartments to the wing; there were no hiding places in the small exquisite square, deep carpeted, a gold framed oval mirror suspended above a small cherrywood table. Aunt Hortensia had installed the mirror so she’d have something to look at awaiting the elevator.

Franz said, “Goodnight, Miss. You’d best change your wet clothes quickly and drink something warm. You don’t want to take cold.”

“I don’t,” she agreed. She smiled goodnight as he closed the door and the elevator drifted away. She wasn’t afraid, setting the package on the table while she took her key from her black handbag. No one could come out of Apartment B except Mr. and Mrs. Hildebrand or their asthmatic spaniel. The Hildebrands were always at home at night except for their once a week voyage to the opera in season, and to the Boston Symphony during its New York engagement.

She wasn’t afraid but she hesitated a moment, the newspaper-covered package under her arm, before turning the key. She swung the door into the darkness, switched the light quickly in the apartment foyer. Reason returned. No one could be in her apartment. No one knew she lived here except Bryan Brewer. And Towner Clay.

She closed the door and went through the rooms steadily, lighting the living room; the dining room, turned into a game room by Aunt Hortensia who considered dining rooms waste space; the electric kitchen. The bolt on the kitchen door was tight as she’d left it this morning.

She went through to the bedroom corridor, lighted the two bedrooms and baths. The apartment was safe, serene and never more beautiful. Always on returning to it in the evening after an office day of being diminished to a piece of furniture by Bryan Brewer’s sterile efficiency, the apartment had the curative effect of a new, silly, but intensely becoming hat. There was nothing like modern white, chrome and glass, to give you the illusion of being a rare flower in an exquisite bowl. Eliza was grateful that she’d missed Aunt Hortensia’s Islands period; it might have brought bad dreams. There’d been an English county period, abandoned by Towner’s aunt because “shabby comfort becomes apologetic if you haven’t the right accent.” The Early Colonial had likewise been long abandoned, quoting Aunt Hortensia: “The functional always seems indelicate to me.” The French chateau period had gone its way because Hortensia couldn’t endure dripping maribou on the rugs. Aunt Hortensia had tinkled the history of her apartment on the brief day of her arrival in London. She’d been delighted to loan it to Eliza Williams, Towner’s young friend. She had no idea that Towner had cabled nostalgia to his aunt for the Continent merely to have use of her apartment. Even Eliza didn’t know why he wanted her to be housed here. She appreciated it none the less. Tonight as never before she appreciated its safety and Aunt Hortensia. You couldn’t shy at shadows in an apartment where there were no shadows, only clean shining surfaces.

Eliza left the lights on as she returned to the foyer, hung her coat in the closet. She was hungry, she’d get comfortable then fix something to eat. She discarded the damp newspapers in the foyer basket, picked up the box, stood for a moment holding it. No one could enter here unbidden but she carried the box to her bedroom, the front bedroom, all gray and silver gaudied by splashes of cerise. She set it on the dressing table. While she undressed, it was there, square and white and carefully wrapped, tied with white string ribbon. It was there, an unopened question mark, while she put on her pale pink nightgown, the frothy bright pink hostess gown, the pink ballet slippers. Towner paid well; at least she could be exquisite in private. It wasn’t a very good substitute for being across a small table from attentive eyes but it kept you from entirely forgetting you were human. She sat down at the dressing table behind the white box, unloosed her dusky hair, brushed it to her shoulders. She looked at the same face that a boy with wings—it seemed so long ago—had called beautiful. She brushed savagely. He was dead. But the wrong could be righted, would be righted. She and Towner would right it. She had the box.

She put down the hairbrush, laid one finger on that whiteness. She wasn’t Pandora. She knew what was inside. Yet she was loathe to open it, almost fearful, as if it were an evil something. It was evil, it had brought death. She lifted her head quickly. The sound had been her front door buzzer. It was repeated. She stood there motionless for a moment and then she relaxed. It could only be Franz with a letter, a telegram. Word from Towner! The box was in New York; Towner too must be here. Again the buzzer sounded. She moved quickly, taking up the box and putting it on her closet shelf, pushing it behind the hatboxes there. Although it was only Franz. She turned off the bedroom light as she went out, turning off the top living room light as she passed through to the foyer. The place looked like a Christmas tree.

She opened the door. It wasn’t Franz. It was the blue-eyed man, Gavin Keane. She was so astounded to see him there that she had no reaction to seeing him there. Her steps backwards into the room were automatic. He followed. It was he who closed the door.

Under that spell of astonishment she cried, “What are you doing here?” Only then did she realize; there was only one reason for him to be here.

He didn’t answer right away. He wasn’t dressed for evening, he was wearing the brown tweeds he’d worn in the office and he was more rain-soaked than he had been earlier. He stood there looking at her, his eyes narrowed on her. He said, “I’ve come for my box.”

He was definite; he knew she had brought it here. She needed time to know what to do. She began, “How did you—ever—”

He said, “I called your boss. He gave me your address—”

If she could only delay him until she could reach Towner Clay. But she didn’t know where Towner was. She shook her head. “I didn’t mean that. Franz brought you up.” He’d passed the twin Cerberus.

He laughed. “They seemed to think you were expecting me.”

She could understand that. He was tall and fair and decidedly handsome; even in the rain-bedraggled state; they would approve of her having a young man like this. They regretted she didn’t have a young man. They wouldn’t notice his eyes. They were too good to know of bad.

“They let me use the house phone.”

And he’d feigned using it. Why hadn’t he really rung up? Because he wasn’t sure of her; because even in certainty of her harmlessness he retained skepticism.

“I’m sorry.” He was in good humor. “If you’ll give me the box, I’ll be away before you can say Jack Robinson. Your beau’ll never know.”

There wasn’t any beau. He needn’t know. He had no suspicion that she cared what was in the box; he accepted her as the secretary even as he had earlier. She must make a delay. She said, “I’m very sorry—”

She broke off as the house phone sounded.

A belated query from Richards; conscience intruding in his romantic old heart. “Excuse me a moment,” she said. “Won’t you sit down?”

“I’m too rainy.”

The house phone was in the game room. She answered. It was Richards. “There’s a man down here looking for Mr. Keane. Do you want him to come up?” Richards didn’t sound enthusiastic. He didn’t want her and her young man interrupted.

She said, “Just a moment.” Gavin Keane couldn’t have brought along an accomplice; there was no reason for it. He expected her to hand over the box. Even if he anticipated trouble he wouldn’t need a gunsel. He could handle her unaided. She didn’t know who could be below, who could know Gavin Keane was here. She was a little fearful. But this might mean the delay she needed. She called out, “Are you Mr. Keane?” The blue-eyed man came through the living room to stand at the entrance of the game room. For a moment his eyes were curious on her, then he said, “Yes, I’m Gavin Keane. What is it?”

“There’s a man downstairs looking for you.”

Good humor had gone. He spoke quickly, and as softly as if the man fourteen floors below might overhear, “Find out who it is. What it is.”

She spoke into the phone. “What’s his name, Richards?” She waited.

Richards said, “He’s got something to deliver to Mr. Keane.”

She relayed, “He has something for you, Mr. Keane.” The quiver that went over her wasn’t stilled by the look on Gavin Keane’s face. He ordered in undertone, “Find out what he looks like.”

Richards’ voice disapproved. “He says he’s got to deliver it personally, Miss Eliza. Do you want him to come up?”

There didn’t seem to be any tactful way to ask a description. If there were she couldn’t think of one this quickly. Her fingertips were cold. She spoke again into the mouthpiece. “Could you tell me what he looks like, Richards?” She elaborated, “Mr. Keane doesn’t want to be bothered unless it’s business.”

Richards hemmed, “He’s a middling man. Nobody you’d be likely to know, Miss Liza. Not even anybody Miss Clay would. He says he’s got some business with Mr. Keane.”

She said, “Hold on another minute, Richards.” She said to Gavin Keane, “You ought to speak to Richards yourself. It’s hard to relay. I gather he’s average, not very prosperous. Evidently won’t give his name. A middling man, Richards says.”

He smiled at that. With his mouth. “Good enough.” He rammed his hands into his pockets. “I’d like to see him. I know it’s an imposition, but unless I can get rid of him—”

To old Richards’ plaintive, “What about it, Miss Liza?” she said, “Send him up.”

Keane nodded. “Thanks. What I wanted to say is unless I can be rid of him, I wouldn’t want to walk out of here with the box tonight. And I must. There’s no reason for you to be involved. If you’ll stay in your room—” He pulled off his hat with a sudden gesture. “I forgot. Your date—”

“I don’t usually entertain dates in negligee.”

“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.

G
AVIN 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?”