The Plain Old Man (22 page)

That was the voice of a different male, and Sarah recognized it. The kind taxi driver who’d picked up Gillian after her mauling from the alleged car thieves and brought her safe to haven was back. “Besides,” he went on, “I’ve been wanting to hang one on you for quite a while.”

“Thanks, lover. I’ll do the same for you one of these days.” Gillian sounded more sincere than usual, Sarah thought. “Come on, let’s move it.”

“What’s the big rush?” That was the skinny one, nasal and whiney. “You told us the whole goddamn neighborhood’s down at that show you were supposed to be in.”

“What if they find they can’t do it without me? I want that painting out of here pronto. Go ahead. One of you at each end.”

Now all Sarah could see of Gillian and her crew was one pair of dirty bare feet. The man had been wearing heavy boots or running shoes with distinctive treads in the soles, she deduced, which Gillian had made him take off before he came in. There’d be no tracks in the carpets, no noticeable fingerprints, nothing to be missed because Ernestina was supposed to be already gone from the house. There’d be no locks forced, no burglar alarm sounded downtown because Gillian had been inside to shut it off and let in her henchmen without fuss or bother. She’d let them out again, turn the burglar alarm back on, and go back to being the stricken innocent. One had to give her credit for a well-planned operation.

“How the Christ did you get this goddamn billboard under here all by yourself?” the taxi man was grunting.

“That’s my business,” Gillian told him sweetly. “Just take it easy on that stretcher. One scratch and you’re dead. We’ve got maybe a couple of million riding on this deal, remember.”

“Says you. Where’s it supposed to be coming from?”

“I have my connections.”

“Who, for instance?”

“Think I’m fool enough to tell you? Look, you made out all right on that last job, didn’t you? I don’t remember hearing any complaints when you collected twenty thousand apiece for a couple of hours’ work, and never a sniff from the cops, either. Isn’t that one hell of a lot better than hustling Cadillacs out of parking garages?”

Sarah didn’t wait to hear what the man had to say. She touched Murgatroyd’s arm, motioned for him to stay put, and mouthed that she was going to telephone for reinforcements. He nodded, and she left.

Up in Aunt Emma’s boudoir, with its heavy carpet and tight-fitting door, those downstairs couldn’t possibly hear her using the phone. Nevertheless, Sarah kept her voice down as she described a robbery in progress at Mrs. Beddoes Kelling’s house, and gave the officer at the desk the number and description of a van that was parked at the top of the drive.

“Officer Murgatroyd has them under surveillance right now. I should say your best plan would be to come along quietly and bottle up the driveway so the van can’t get out. I don’t believe they’re armed, unless they have weapons in the van. They think they have the neighborhood all to themselves, you see. But for goodness’ sake, if you do have to shoot, aim for the tires instead of the gas tank. What they’re stealing is a very large painting worth a great deal of money. And please hurry!”

“We’re on our way.”

“Good. I’ll go down and let Officer Murgatroyd know.”

It was as well she went. Gillian’s men already had Ernestina out from under the table and were wrapping her in two of the large, padded mats movers use. They must have brought the mats with them. A thoroughly professional operation.

Sarah could see both men’s faces now. The taxi driver was easy to recognize. The smaller, thinner man had an oddly shaped head that was narrower from side to side than from front to back, and a nose like a knife blade. She’d know him again.

So would Officer Murgatroyd. He was being patient, like a good cop, his notebook out and his pencil busy scribbling notes of what they were doing and saying. He wouldn’t try to arrest them alone, not now that he knew help was on the way. He’d let them take the painting from the house, making sure a robbery had been well and duly committed, leaving no legal loophole for them to escape through. The police of Pleasaunce must have had lots of experience with clever criminal lawyers.

Now they were passing strong cords around the mats and tying them. Gillian was testing the knots, leaving nothing to chance.

“Okay, they’ll hold. You know exactly what you’re to do. No speeding, no funny stuff, no stopping except for traffic lights. Just get out on the pike and keep going till you reach the exit I’ve marked on the map, then stay to the right. It’s a low wooden building with a big sign out front that says ‘Fried Clams,’ and a little one stuck on underneath that says ‘Closed for the Season.’ Watch your odometer; it’s exactly two miles from the exit, on the right. Drive around to the back. There’ll be no lights showing, but somebody will be expecting you. Here’s the fake bill of sale. You’re all set for gas and oil? You’ve checked the tires?”

“Yes, mother dear,” said the taxi driver.

“No guns in the van, in case you get stopped and searched for any reason?”

The thin fellow snorted. “What kind of jerks do you take us for? We’ve got brains enough not to set ourselves up for a murder rap. Unlike some people we know.”

“You keep your mouth shut.” There was something in Gillian’s voice that made Sarah and Officer Murgatroyd exchange startled glances. “I do nothing that’s not an essential part of the operation.”

“The hell you don’t. You didn’t say anything about wasting that old geezer when you roped us in to ferry the painting.”

“Roped you in? That’s a hot one. You’ve been pestering me for months to—look, we haven’t got time for this. Just get out of here.”

They didn’t go.

“Okay,” Gillian admitted. “Daventer wasn’t part of the plan because I didn’t know he was in it, for God’s sake. He’d got laid up with gout or some damned thing before I managed to wangle my way into the cast. He’d never been to a rehearsal till Wednesday night. So all of a sudden here he is, reminding me we’d met in Newport at that house party where poor dear Mrs. Poofenwidget had her Rembrandt etchings stolen. So the same night poor dear Mrs. Kelling’s going to lose her Romney, and where does that put me?”

“Couldn’t you have waited till the next night and set somebody up, just in case?” asked the taxi man.

“No, I couldn’t. It was then or never. Just like it’s tonight or never for you guys to get this damned thing out of here. Will you quit stalling and go?”

“I want to hear more about Daventer,” said the thin one. “What makes you think she’d have told him? I thought you had it all figured out she wasn’t going to say anything to anybody, between your fake ransom notes and her not wanting bad publicity for the show.”

“She’d have told him. He was her boyfriend. Anyway, it went off like a breeze. He cracked his skull on the bathtub, taking a leak in the night. Happens all the time. They cremated him this morning, for God’s sake, and Mrs. Kelling’s having some kind of memorial thing tomorrow. None of that would be happening if anybody suspected there was anything phony about his death, would it?”

“You ought to know.” He really was a mean little devil, Sarah decided. ‘You’ve been lucky before, haven’t you, Gillie?”

“I’ll be lucky again if you don’t get off my back, Sid. Go on, get moving.”

“Right,” said the taxi driver. “Come on, Sid, pick up the other end. So long, Gill. Get a good rest and don’t worry about a thing. See you in New York.”

He’d be seeing her again sooner than that, Sarah thought. She waited till Gillian had let the two men out the front door, gone back to the drawing room, and resumed her pose as resident invalid. Then she showed Officer Murgatroyd to a new post of surveillance from the library, left him to stand guard, and scooted through the hedge to her car. They must be almost to the intermission by now. She hadn’t much time.

Still she didn’t start her car. She’d better wait till the van got off. They might panic and try something foolish if they heard another motor turning over in a place they were supposed to have all to themselves. She didn’t want to do anything that would jeopardize the police trap. On the other hand, she couldn’t sit around here while Aunt Emma had that fit. Where were the police’ cars? She strained her eyes through the dark—not so very dark, since Pleasaunce was generous with its streetlights—but couldn’t see them. She could hear the van starting, moving down Emma’s drive, pausing at the bottom, turning—and driving away. The police weren’t there.

I
F SARAH HAD STOPPED
to think, she might not have done what she did. But there wasn’t time to think. She was due on stage in seventeen minutes, and Ernestine was on the way to New York. She gunned her engine and went after the van full tilt.

She wasn’t fool enough to try ramming the other vehicle, her idea was to force it off the road. But how did one manage that? She tried blinking her lights and pulling up alongside. They thought, of course, she merely wanted to pass. And what was there to stop her? The road was deserted except for themselves; everybody else in Pleasaunce must in fact be at the show. Including those miserable policemen who ought to be here doing this instead of her.

She simply wasn’t getting her point across. She stayed with them, edging closer. The taxi man, who was driving, turned for an instant to stare at her. She honked and edged closer. He slowed down for a second, then speeded up. She stayed with him, neck and neck.

This could get dangerous. She must do something, now, before they got going too fast. Deliberately, wondering, “My God, what’s Max going to say?” she pulled half a length ahead and angled sharply to cut him off.

There was an open lawn, or what looked like one, beside them. Thinking, no doubt, to swerve around and get in front of this maniac, the taxi man took the van up over the sidewalk, ripping the side of Sarah’s car with his bumper as he passed.

Little did he know Emma Kelling’s neighbor was a bird-lover, and that the field had been let go entirely to those multiflora roses that provide such wonderful food and cover for wild creatures, and such tenacious vines and thorns to trap the unwary. The van stalled. The men jumped out, got snared by the roses, and were hopping around saying horrible things when the police cars at last arrived.

Sarah paused only long enough to shout, “They’re unarmed and I’m late,” then stamped on the gas pedal. Her car couldn’t be too badly damaged, it was able to break every speed record the town fathers of Pleasaunce had ever hatched. She made it backstage just as the villagers were waking up. Aunt Emma was beside herself.

“Sarah! I was wondering if I’d have to fall in love with Frederick myself. Whatever kept you?”

“Gillian was—restless. I had to wait till things quieted down.”

“What a bore that girl turned out to be. Of all times to throw an attack of the vapors. Was she all right when you left?”

“In excellent spirits and resting comfortably. Everything’s under control now.” It had better be. “Frederick and I go on right after the country dance, right?”

“Right. Here, let me straighten out your curls. You’re all skewgee. Now, don’t worry about a thing, Sarah. Just keep calm and collected. You do know your lines?”

“I don’t have any spoken ones, do I? Only the song about the plain old man. And for the ensemble, I keep singing those bits and pieces about how my poor heart is blighted.”

“Yes, yes, that’s right. Now, be sure you sing loud and clear. It’s still your number, don’t forget. You mustn’t allow the others to drown you out. And don’t forget to be crying as you go on. Where on earth did Frederick get to?”

“I’m right behind you, Emma,” said the plain old man. “Stop dithering, for God’s sake. Everything’s going like clockwork. Isn’t it, Sarah?”

“Absolutely,” Sarah answered loud and clear. “Not a fly left in the ointment. How does it feel to be engaged, after dodging women all these years?”

Rather to her surprise, Frederick grinned like a catfish. “Not bad. Got your tonsils greased for the main event?”

“I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.”

“No you’re not. One of your cheeks is pinker than the other. You’d better give yourself a new paint job.”

Sarah ran back to the makeup table and made some fast repairs. The act reminded her of the car. She hadn’t even had time to assess the damage, and she shuddered to think what it might be. After having ached for Max all week, it was strange to find herself hoping he’d stay away long enough for her to get to the body shop.

Not that he wouldn’t have done the same as she under similar circumstances, but he’d probably have managed to be more adroit about it.

“I do confess an anxious care my troubled spirit vexes.” She’d be singing that soon, and meaning every word of it. Damn Gillian Bruges, or whatever her real name might turn out to be. Why couldn’t she have been a nice young woman who liked to sing minor roles with amateur operetta companies, instead of a professional crook who preferred to steal their paintings? Well, on with the show. Sarah gave her apron a final twitch, took a dainty handkerchief from its pocket—trust Aunt Emma to think of everything—and prepared to enter sobbing.

S
ARAH AND FREDERICK GOT
through their number with a creditable degree of panache, all things considered. They received their due meed of applause, but this was Emma Kelling’s night, no doubt about that.

Lady Sangazure couldn’t do anything wrong. When her voice at last broke down irrevocably, it happened during the number where her potion-induced adoration is spurned by the conscience-stricken Sorcerer and was admired by the audience as a magnificent piece of acting. When she finally gave her hand to Sir Marmaduke, she was applauded to the rafters. By the time she rode her high-wheeled bicycle onstage for her final curtain call, there couldn’t have been an unstrained vocal chord left in the house. This was no swan song. It was a paean of triumph or, in Cousin Frederick’s more picturesque phraseology, the neigh of ultimate victory from a great old war horse.

The stagehands finally had to ring down the curtain while the audience was still on its feet shouting, because Emma literally had not the strength to go out there again. She was collapsed into a chair backstage, swamped by a crush of Kellings and others who’d begun swarming to kiss her cheeks and wring her hands and tell her over and over again how totally, absolutely, devastatingly marvelous she’d been. Cousin Mabel had come prepared to air an alternate viewpoint but for once in her life couldn’t get a word in edgewise.