Fallen Sparrow (12 page)

He repeated, “The Babylon goblets,” as if the taste were forgotten glory in his mouth. And then he fixed his beady bird stare on Kit. “You have heard of them, yes?”

Kit shook his head. He smiled, pleasant deference to an old one’s peculiarities. “I’m afraid not, Prince Felix. My stepfather goes in for those things but I’ve never been interested.”

If they didn’t know the cold facts, they would believe him. Det believed. It caused her to relax. She said, “I hadn’t either, Kit, until the Prince told me.”

Kit laughed. “Us sidewalk products never had much chance to learn the things the rarefied circles were born to, did we?” He was a polite young man again. “I’d like to hear about them, sir. I know their story must be an interesting one.” Damn right. What yarn could Andrassy spin to explain his possession of them? He asked idly, “Have they been in your family long?”

“You would call it long.” Prince Felix was scornful. “Five hundred years and more. That is long, yes?”

“Yes,” he agreed emphatically.

The Prince’s English was heavily French, his vocal cords were rusted with age, but his story was flawless. The cups of Babylon, the most precious treasure of the Kings of Babel. And when Babel fell, “The cups they were not destroyed. They were taken into bondage, into Egypt.” Biblical antiquity. Believe it or not. So far the story tallied with the Spanish version. From Egypt to Rome. Logical. Pat. Neater than the disappearing act out of Egypt, the long snake of unrecorded years before the Moors and Spain. The Prince said, “It was in Italy they came into my family.” He held out a withered claw. “In these veins there is blood of the Medici. The Babylon goblets—the Medici goblets.” He cackled.

José’s voice was femininely cruel. “They were the goblets for poison then, were they not, Your Highness?”

His laugh was indulgent. “Perhaps, José. Who knows? There are so many legends.” He shrugged.

At that, they could have been death goblets. If you wanted to poison someone with the real ones, it would be simple enough. You’d know if you were successful. They couldn’t be set down unquaffed.

The Prince sighed, “Always they have belonged to the days of glory.”

Kit said blithely, “So you’ve brought them to America, the new land of glory? That is prophetic of Your Highness.”

He despised Kit. It was froth on his very thin lips.

Kit ignored it. “Very interesting indeed. You ought to tell Geoffrey, my step-father, about them some time. He could probably sell them to the Metropolitan for you, make you a lot of money.”

He said with icy fury, “I will not sell them.”

“I can’t blame you,” Kit agreed happily. “They’re certainly a swell job, wherever they came from. Some time I’d like to hear how you got them out of France. That ought to be as good a yarn as the original.”

The Prince’s teeth were sly. “One has friends.”

Why had they gone to the labor and luxury of recreating the cups in so far as they were able? Not to set the Prince up in housekeeping. Not to spread the legend in the Western Hemisphere. Not to see if Kit or Louie would recognize them. Why?

José pushed himself from the table. “Now I go to work,” he announced with distaste. He offered no further amenities. He departed.

Kit was wary. If Det suggested leaving, he’d escort her. He wouldn’t be left here alone with the other three. Det didn’t suggest it. The Prince spoke as to a servitor, “You may clear this away, Toni. We will have the nuts and wine at a clean table.”

She rose without words. Kit seized plates. “I’ll help.” He ignored her demur, clattered until the table was cleared and the swinging door separated them from the front rooms. “I haven’t done dishes since I was a kid. Used to be pretty good at it.” She couldn’t deny him; he was decisive. “Besides, think what an impression I’ll make on my grandchildren. The man who dried the Babylon cups.” She looked like a toy, white apron over the crimson velvet. “While the last of the Medicis courted dishwater hands.”

She said quietly, almost sadly, “You are happy tonight, Kit? You are glad that you came to our poor dinner?”

“You’re damn right, Princessita.” He flourished the dish towel.

“Or is it you are always gay?” Her voice was wishful as if she remembered that youth could be light of heart.

He was sorry for her too quickly; suspicion returned, and then it faded. She wasn’t happy. That wasn’t pose. “Not always, Toni. But it’s better to be. ‘Golden lads and girls all must …’”

She shivered slightly.

He said, “I’ll tell you what. Soon as we finish the chores, we’ll take in some of the high spots. Celebrate. I haven’t had a real night of it for I don’t know how long. What do you say?”

Her eyes were eager, the eyes of a waif believing for one moment that the good saint would be able to remove that big golden-haired doll from behind the glittering glass window and place it in the worn stocking before the bells of Christmas rang. But the wind of reality stripped the belief from her. She said, “No, I couldn’t.”

“Why not? You don’t want to sit around all night talking with the old folks. Let’s go dance. We’ll drink champagne. We’ll ride the stars. We’ll find that hour wherein a man may be happy all his life.” He was terribly sorry for her defeatism. He coaxed, “Come on, Toni. Say yes. Come on. Just this once.”

She trembled with wanting it. He was determined. Returned to the dining-room he spoke to the Prince before she could. “We’re going dancing. You’ll excuse us?”

Toni’s hands flung out. “No.” There was uneasy silence, eyes on him, on her. Det shook her head so slightly.

Christian Skaas spoke with unctuous kindliness. “But why not, Toni? It will be good for you. You will tell her to go, Felix? Certainly.”

The Prince wore malicious refusal on his narrow lips. His bony fingers crunched the thin shell of a pecan, one long finger nail dug at the meat. He looked up at her in the silence, barely nodded.

Toni said, “I’ll go.” But she seemed more defeated than she had in wanting and not daring. Kit didn’t get it.

Her voluminous cape was of ermine; it must have belonged to some Medici grandmother in legendary times. The white stuff veiling her hair was crusted in tiny pearls. Kit tried not to make audible the catch in his breath. She was like something out of a fairy tale, a princess bewitched by an ogre grandfather. She had a champion now if she’d accept him. If she were mixed up in the Louie deal, it wasn’t from choice. And if his own heart weren’t turned over to Barby, he might fall in love with her. He might not be able to help falling in love with her. Except for Barby.

Det said, “You can drop me, Kit.” She spoke over protests from Dr. Skaas. “I’m not feeling so well, probably catching a cold.” Her eyes were reddened. The protests had been half-hearted. The Prince ignored her. He was engrossed with the nut meats, oblivious to all but the splinter of cracking shells, the picking away of the flesh, the crunching and smacking of insatiable appetite.

The cab rolled to The George. Det said again, “No, I won’t chaperon. I’m really not well.” Suddenly and surprisingly she kissed Toni’s cheek. She wasn’t given to affection. “Enjoy it.” There was faint suspicion over her lips as she turned to him, but she bit it away. “Bless you, Kit.”

He didn’t get that either, the sadness between the women, the sudden mist in Toni’s eyes. Plenty he didn’t get, wasn’t supposed to. But he’d make Toni forget her troubles tonight. He wouldn’t give her time to think.

She refused Number 50. He wasn’t insistent. He didn’t particularly care to see Content’s wise little smirk as he entered with Toni Donne. Moreover, Jake’s night club wasn’t good enough for Toni, only precious things were. He’d rather take her to
Tristan,
or to the Boston, than to the best dancing rooms with the best music and the best champagne. But these could come another time. Tonight at least she would dance, smile, even echo laughter.

It was after three when they entered a home-bound cab. He directed, “The Park, and go slow.” The driver winked. The slopes lay luminous white under the snow-misted sky.

Kit said, “I’ve always found it’s easier to sleep if you take the long way home.”

She didn’t answer and he looked at her. Suddenly the laughter had run out of her. She whispered, “What do you want of me?”

“Toni!” He was truly startled. She couldn’t mean it one way; if he’d ever been the gentleman, it was tonight. And she had no business knowing about the other stuff. He’d absolved her tonight from all guilty participation.

She said it quietly, “You stared at me Tuesday night at the Waldorf but you’d never seen me before. You came to Det’s Wednesday not for your mother’s hat but to see me. You didn’t ask me out tonight because your lady is out of town. What do you want?”

He didn’t look away. Her eyes didn’t waver; he couldn’t read them but they were at least one thing, unafraid.

He said, “I want to know about my friend’s death.”

The darkness of her eyes should have held him but he saw the twisting and trembling of her gloved fingers. She stated at last, “You mean Louie Lepetino.”

“Yes.”

She quivered a soundless sigh. “I told the police all that I knew. I saw him fall as I entered the room.”

“You were alone with him?”

“I wasn’t with him. I went in alone. And I saw him fall.”

He was bitter. “I knew Louie all of my life. He couldn’t have fallen from a window. Not even with the guard conveniently removed.” All his suspicion of her had redoubled. “How well did you know him?”

He had to strain to catch her syllables. “Not well. A few meetings.”

“Was he in love with you?”

Her lashes lifted in amazement. “I told you I knew him so short a time.”

He said, “That isn’t important. Louie fell in love easily.” His look was steady on her. “With someone like you he’d have been in love before he started. Louie liked beautiful things.”

Her face in the shadow was colored. She said, “I don’t know. He was kind to me.” It was as if few had ever been.

But Kit’s hurt and bitterness slashed. “So you pushed him out of a window.”

“I didn’t!” She cried it. “How can you think that?” The spirit rode away from her as quickly as it had come. “I’ve never hurt anyone in my life knowingly.” She spoke without inflection. “You thought I killed Louie. That’s why you’ve come to me.”

He broke in harshly. “Where were you Tuesday afternoon?”

She didn’t answer at once. Then she said, “I went up to Westchester to see a friend.”

“Where did you get Louie’s folder?”

“He gave it to me.” She insisted he believe. “It wasn’t that night. It was the day before. He showed me the picture of you, his best friend. He was proud of you. He forgot it when he left the apartment. I didn’t know what to do with it after—after—”

Kit said coldly, “Would you like to explain just how you knew me and knew I’d be on that particular train on that particular afternoon?”

Her voice was faint; her eyes pitied his stupidity. “Don’t you know that someone has been watching you from the time you first set foot in New York? I had seen many pictures of you, pictures you do not know exist. I had access to information that told when you left the ranch and on which train you would travel. I could be killed for what I have just said.” Her lashes were webbed. “Please take me home now. I am very tired.”

He pushed aside the glass, gave directions, closed it. He shook his head. “Toni—”

She put her hand in his. “Do not think of me. You must be careful. You know?”

“Yes, I know.”

Without warning, she bent her head, kissed his hand.

“Toni!”

She said, “I did not thank you for the roses before. They are very beautiful.” She added, “I did not say to anyone from whom they came.”

He dismissed the cab at her place. He could pick up another on Broadway, late as it was. He wanted air, to walk and to think.

At the outer door she hesitated. Her voice was a breath. “I will try to see you but it is better you do not see me.”

She was close to him. He didn’t think. He kissed her. She was as fragile, as evanescent as falling snow. And as cold.

She quieted his apologies. “Say nothing. And remember this: no matter what you may think again, this night has been to me a night I will never forget.”

Maybe he was a fool. Maybe he’d been taken in. Maybe that was how Louie was taken in, that song of helpless fragility. If he’d made a lucky guess tonight, if Toni were not the ancient Prince’s granddaughter, she hadn’t been included in this refugee party merely for decorative purposes. She was there to perform. He didn’t like it. He didn’t want her to be one mechanized unit in a macabre plan.

The snow crunched beneath his feet as he strode towards Broadway. One thing, he was alive. He hadn’t known how long he would be when she closed the door of her apartment, leaving him to negotiate the dim worn staircase to the street alone. His shirt was still damp from that descent; his hand still bore the imprint of the gun.

He took a cab on Broadway, sank back against the cold leather. “Och! but I’m weary of mist and dark …” He was sad. He realized he was tired, dog tired. He was never sad unless he was tired, and he was sad for Toni Donne. If she were the Prince’s granddaughter, forced to be part of this intrigue, he was sad. If she were a highly trained tool with misbegotten ideological loyalties, he was sad. Whatever she was, he could sorrow for her. She didn’t belong in this; she was too fine, too fair.

Wearily he waited for the elevator at the apartment. Pierre was at the control. Kit was suspicious. “You on day and night shift both?”

Pierre closed the cage. “I have just gone on the night shift, Mr. McKittrick. The other man was leaving. My wife works nights and it’s better this way.”

The fellow was trying to make his eyes look as if he’d been dozing but he wasn’t a good dissembler. The cage hadn’t come up to first. Pierre had not been catnapping below. Out of the unconscious and out of the past, Kit had surety. The cage had been at the Wilhite floor. He couldn’t be mistaken. That had been a matter of pride to kids waiting in the lobby, to listen for a faint digression of sound, to know from which floor the elevator was descending. It had nothing to do with mind; it was mechanical as instrument flying.