Davidian Report (6 page)

Steve poured a good one of bourbon, the best bourbon. He added enough soda, gave place to Reuben, and made himself comfortable on the couch. Reuben and Haig carried their drinks over to the bookshelves as if they were interested in literature. His eyes followed them briefly, returned to the girl. He punched a cushion, his fist sinking into the down and leaving no imprint. “Sit down, lady,” he directed her. As if he didn’t know, he said, “And what do you do for a living?”

She curled in the corner. “Nothing yet. I want to be a dancer.”

“Why not?”

“I mean a really good one. It takes so long, and then you’re too old.”

He tested the drink. Potent. “I used to know a dancer. She was a good one, too. In great demand, every night.” You weren’t permitted to mix business and liquor. It wasn’t orthodox. He got away with it because he could do a dangerous piece of work better than anyone in the outfit. And unless he could do it his way, it wasn’t done. They were afraid a guy would start talking if he drank, and on that, they were right. But it wasn’t necessary to talk. He never talked unless it came in handy.

Reuben and Haig were still among the books. Steve moved a little closer to Feather, she in turn pushed herself further into the corner cushion. “What do you want to dance for? With this setup?”

“It isn’t mine,” she said defensively. “My aunt married it.” Her fingers were white and rigid against the cushion, as if she would spring if he edged nearer. He wanted to try it just to see how far she could jump. Her question halted him. “Where did she dance?”

“In Berlin.” He looked unseeing into the amber of his glass. His voice was hard. “You didn’t ask me what she danced for. I’ll tell you. She danced for nylons and a good lipstick—and a bed.”

Feather sucked in her breath. He turned his head slowly, looked her over from the smooth crown of her petal head, down her thin body to her velvet toes. “You wouldn’t, would you? You’d go without. But when you got hungry enough—”

She jumped then. Not because he had moved but because she had an excuse. “Elsabeth,” she shrilled. “Come meet my friends.” She almost ran the long length of the room to greet this Elsabeth, a slender woman with exquisite golden hair, an exquisite French-cut dress, discreet jewels, and a face that showed her years.

Haig and Reuben returned to the party. Feather said, “This is my aunt, Elsabeth Moritz.” She made the introduction before tucking herself again into the couch corner. Steve was surprised that she returned to it.

Elsabeth was polite to Steve and Reuben. But she put herself beside Haig Armour, asked him for a drink. “What a day! I thought the committee would never come to a decision.” She didn’t identify the committee. She took the tall glass from Haig, the properly made drink, only half filled. “Thanks, so much.” Her voice was nicely modulated; her smile had a friendly warmth, yet somehow both were artificial. If you washed away the top layer, you’d find something else; ten to one a hard-boiled kid in the line, bitching her way up the ladder to position and money. From Prospect Park to Benedict Canyon in twelve tough steps. Steve rather liked her.

“Eldon not here yet?” she asked Feather. “Poor dear. The shooting schedule on this new epic is simply gruesome. You know how Danton is.” She was confidential about Danton in the rueful lift of eyebrows.

Haig said, “I’m a great admirer of your husband’s work, Mrs. Moritz. I’ve wanted to meet him for a long time.”

She accepted the compliment with a gracious inclination of her head. Haig carried on, mentioning details of one picture and another. Either he was an honest fan or he’d done a lot of research today. Steve didn’t think Haig had that much time for movie-going.

Steve said to Feather, “Last movie I saw was
Casablanca.
It was good too.”

She waited to see if it were a joke. When he didn’t laugh, she asked, “Really?”

“Sure.”

She’d evidently been briefed to take care of him because she kept her cat eyes on his face, just as if he were revealing something important. If she were expected to make friends with him, he’d make it easy for her. He’d get more from this awkward kid than from Haig Armour. The man’s polish was the real stuff but it didn’t affect the steel beneath.

“How about you and me and Rube having a bit of dinner later on?”

For a moment she didn’t answer. Then she breathed, “I’m sorry. Haig’s already asked me.”

He wasn’t surprised. “He’s too old for you, baby. And I’d say Rube’s a bit too young.” He winked at her, let her think the bourbon was responsible. “Now I’m just about right.” He reached out his hand to pat her velvet knee and watched her shrink back into the corner. He didn’t know whether it was he who scared her or any man with ideas. “How about it?”

She said, “I can’t.” She wasn’t sorry. “I’ve already accepted his invitation.”

“In that case,” Steve announced, “I’ll have another drink.” He went first to Reuben’s chair. The soldier was an odd man; he was sitting there quietly as if he were at home in the rich room. Steve put his hand on the khaki shoulder. “How you doing, fella?”

The grin was ready. “Looks kind of like you’re taking on the drinks and the girl both.”

Steve nodded portentously. “Just softening her up for you, kid.” He was at the setups when Eldon Moritz appeared at the far archway.

Elsabeth lifted her voice, you had to lift your voice for it to carry that far. “You’re frightfully late, dear. You’ll have time for just one drink before we dress.”

He said, “Oh God, what tonight?” He approached with quick, nervous steps.

“Come meet Feather’s friends. Dinner with Marty before we go to the
première
of his latest.”

Moritz was a neat man, almost dapper in his pinstriped suit and discreetly handsome Charvet cravat. He had no resemblance to an artist, rather he was the tired businessman, his dark hair receding to baldness on his long head, his mustache two pencil strokes, dark crayon under his eyes.

His wife introduced Haig and didn’t remember the other names. Steve presented himself and gestured, “Reuben St. Clair.” Eldon mixed himself a double rye as he acknowledged the introductions. He drank before asking Reuben, “Any relation to Stryker St. Clair?”

Rube wriggled. “My father, sir.”

“Thought so. Family resemblance. We were at Princeton together.” He joined his wife and Haig.

Steve re-estimated the kid fast. Not Sinclair, St. Clair; his old lady and her new boy friend would be stashed up on Park Avenue, not in some cold-water flat; Stryker St. Clair was a Dun and Bradstreet name, an old Blue Book name, a new café society name. It hadn’t been orders to stick with Steve. Just a poor rich boy, a lonesome kid, looking for a friend, not a free ride. You could get too suspicious.

Steve swerved back to Feather. “Want to change your mind about tonight, baby?”

She’d been looking long at Haig but she jumped her attention to Steve as he spoke. She tried to turn on a little charm but she wasn’t much good at it. “Why not tomorrow night?”

“I may not be around tomorrow night.”

Her pale eyes studied him, looking for the joker in this.

He expanded, “I’m on a quick job.”

Her lashes flickered. It could have been admiration; it could have been relief that he wouldn’t be bothering her any longer. Reuben was taking it easy, maybe dreaming he was back home with the folks. Haig and Eldon were being technical about movies, Elsabeth was timing them. Steve leaned to Feather. He was confidential. “You ought to latch onto Rube while you’ve got a chance. Get yourself a dump like Auntie, swimming pools and all the fixings. You heard who your uncle said he was.”

She was softly indignant. “What makes you think I want these things? Do you consider it fair that Eldon Moritz can spend a hundred thousand dollars on this house while whole families are living in one room?”

“He works for it, doesn’t he?”

“It isn’t Eldon,” she returned quickly. “He has a conscience. It’s just the whole capitalist system where such things can happen.” She bit her lip as if she’d spoken out of turn.

Steve didn’t swallow bait. He undertoned, “I think I’ll have another capitalistic bourbon while it’s free to the peasants. How about you?”

“I don’t drink.” She was prim.

“Then you aren’t a hundred-per-cent, red-blooded peasant. We take when the taking’s good from these rich bastards.”

No one saw how weak he poured it. Elsabeth was demanding, “We must run, Eldon. Marty won’t forgive us if we make him late for his own
première.
” Eldon didn’t like leaving when the party was centered about his abilities, but he finished his glass. Elsabeth performed a gracious good-by all around, Eldon nodded distractedly to the unknowns and suggested to Haig, “Let’s have lunch. I want to explain my message in that one.” He followed his wife.

Feather smiled timidly at Haig. “I’d better change too.” She skipped after the others, to report to them too?

Steve waited only until she was out of sight. “I don’t get her. What’s she scared of?”

“You.” Haig had an amused eyebrow.

“Me?”

“She was quiet as a pond until you arrived.” He was again at the bookshelves. “A real artist, Moritz.” He pulled a book, riffled through it. “Did you read about the excitement at the airport last night?”

Reuben asked, “You mean the guy found dead of a heart attack?”

Heart attack, hell. Haig Armour knew better; he wouldn’t be mentioning it if he didn’t know more than what the news vendors were putting out.

“If either of you had wandered outside when you were looking for your friends, you’d have discovered him.”

“Yeah.” Steve elongated the word as in admiration of Armour’s imagination. “Too bad we didn’t.” Despite precautions, had the law someway tied Steve up with Albion? Or was Haig fishing? Because Steve Wintress’s name and its implications weren’t unknown to him?

Haig replaced the book. It made a slight click returning to the shelf. Like a gun cocking. “The man was waiting for our plane.” He said it pleasantly. But he was watching Steve.

Steve handed him one. “Was he waiting for you?”

Haig shook his head.

“Then how do you know about it?” He couldn’t play it innocent like Rube, he wasn’t the type. He had to settle for the wise-guy attitude of the half drunk.

“One of the attendants at the airport remembered his questions regarding our flight.” Haig was extraordinarily careful with his cigarette ash. It made a soft gray capsule in a translucent jade tray. “The odd thing is that no one from the flight turned up to identify him.”

This time Steve didn’t hesitate, “You must have had a special interest in this guy the way you’ve been looking into him.”

Haig didn’t have to respond. Feather’s appearance in the arch was sufficient diversion. She’d changed to a slender black dress and pulled up her hair in an effort for sophistication. It didn’t amount to enough.

But Haig chose to answer. “I’m always interested in oddities.” He dropped the subject there. “Why don’t you fellows come along to dinner with us?”

“Now, we wouldn’t want to move in,” Reuben began.

“Why not?” Steve decided. The way a guy with too many quick ones could be expected to perform. “Why not? Why let Mr. Armour have all the fun?” He gulped the rest of his drink.

Haig asked, “You don’t mind, Feather?”

She said, “Oh no,” but she wasn’t quite sure. She did it pretty well. Just as if she and Haig hadn’t planned the whole layout before Wilton delivered Steve and Reuben into their hands. As to what they wanted, Steve still wasn’t too sure.

As host, Haig Armour took over even as he had the night before. There was no choice of café; the party arrived at Haig’s hotel. He swept them to a reserved table in the glossy dining room, allowed them to inspect the mammoth menu and exquisite wine list while he ordered. No one opposed. You didn’t oppose a torrent.

He timed his grenade until they were lulled by luxury. “I understand you boys are from Berlin.” He didn’t bother to explain where he’d picked up the information. “Did you happen to run across a fellow there called Davidian?”

No one stopped eating.

Reuben shook his head. “Uh-uh.” He dug into his oyster cocktail.

Steve made a play at trying to place the name. “Davidian? Don’t think I did. What his racket?”

Haig smiled. “You might say he’s an artist.”

You might say that. An engraver could be called an artist, that is, if he were as artistic an engraver as Davidian. He could make money you’d have a hard time telling from the real thing. The Germans had known it; that explained why he didn’t end up a handful of bones or ash. The Russians had found out about him; they’d cleared him with dispatch of any Nazi stain. The Americans had a file on his talents. And another one of his activities.

“Friend of yours?”

“No,” Haig answered with the same offhand smile. “But a friend of mine went to Berlin to meet him.”

Steve asked, “Was he worth it?”

“He wasn’t there. He’d disappeared.”

Somehow the word, simple enough in itself, assumed a sinister quality, something foreign to the elegance of dinner in Beverly Hills. Feather’s hands were nervous at the celery dish. Reuben put away his oyster fork. It was he who asked, “Disappeared?”

Haig studied the boy briefly. He nodded.

Steve wondered. Could it be Haig didn’t know which one of the two was looking for Davidian?

“From the American zone?” Rube probed.

“From the Eastern sector.”

Steve narrowed his eyes on Haig. “How did your friend expect to find him if he was in the Russian sector? The Reds don’t like Americans poking around in their business.”

Reuben said, “That’s a fact,” and launched a couple of anecdotes about guys he’d known who had tried to wander over the boundary. He even brought up the old familiar friend of a friend who had vanished on a harmless foray. Haig listened courteously.

The girl turned her head to Steve with pallid indignation. “We wouldn’t want them poking into our business either.” It was evident that she’d been primed to get him popping off. Her earlier guff about capitalism was part of the same. He let Reuben answer her.

“But their guys don’t disappear over on our side. We just bounce them back fast.”