Fallen Sparrow (18 page)

That much had come out of the interview; the application would go through with Dantone’s endorsement. One thing more had come from it.

He had explained, “I can’t go into service until I’ve cleaned up a private matter. Ab’s murder is part of it. I expect to be able to cancel it soon, very soon. And then I want a seat on the Yankee Clipper.”

He’d bullied; he’d coaxed. He knew Sidney Dantone, Department of Justice, could arrange it. Dantone, officially, wouldn’t care about Kit’s one small life. Dantone, officially, at a time like this couldn’t be interested in obtaining any number of fabulous treasures for the Wilhite wing. But one argument could count. If the successful termination of a Lisbon trip by Kit would likewise mean the termination of the careers of certain dangerous foreign agents, it could be arranged. The seat could be held in another name for last minute exchange, a diplomatic passport issued under a new name. It would be. It would be arranged for Wednesday’s flight, for later ones if he were not ready by then. It would be a miracle if he were able to leave that soon.

But no path had opened towards the solution of two violent deaths, no clue that could interest the New York police or the Federal Bureau of Investigation. A blank. Kirk waited at the bar for Shannon. No elevator man, no clerk had memory of a man who wobbled when he walked.

He saw the pilot approaching. The green shirt under the dirty leathern jacket hadn’t any idea it clashed with the interior design. The bridge of Shannon’s nose was high. Kit said, “You’ll have one?”

“Jake don’t care if I do. Just so it’s one. Shot of Irish and a beer chaser.” He said, “Looks like you got the runaround.”

“I did.”

A page boy was muttering with disinterest, “Mr. McKittrick. Mr. McKittrick.”

He beckoned. A telephone call. He frowned. Sidney could be calling the bars; he doubted it. No one else knew he was here. He put one hand on Shannon’s shoulder, one thumb in his pocket. “I’ll be right back. And don’t take any other answers.”

“Sure, Mike. Want I should go with you?”

Kit made a slight shake of his head. He wouldn’t be killed. He might be trapped, but not in a Wardman Park phone booth.

He didn’t know the voice. It was young, quiet, unaccented. “My name is Southey. You don’t know me, Mr. McKittrick. I’m in Mr. Dantone’s department.”

Were they attempting to repeat the same plan? But they didn’t know he had knowledge of the plan; they didn’t know of Ab’s letter, or if they did, they had no knowledge of its contents. Perhaps it was that; they were attempting to find out those contents, to ascertain if Ab had spilled those plans. If Kit was wary, he had knowledge. Or it could be mere unimaginative repetition.

He asked with the right interest, “Yes?”

“I understand you were making inquiries today about Abner Hamilton. I think I have some information that would interest you. Mr. Hamilton and I had a long conference Wednesday afternoon.”

There would be a Mr. Southey in the Department of Justice and he would have been closeted at the White House from five to midnight.

“Could I drop around to see you after dinner?”

Kit said, “I’m awfully sorry. I’ve planned to spend the evening at Senator Truesdale’s in conference with him and Mr. Dantone. Why don’t you phone me here in the morning? We might make lunch.”

He didn’t think the fellow suspected. Even if Kit had been spotted at the airport with the canary and re-identified at the hotel now by Shannon’s entrance, his excuse reeked his sincere regrets. He returned to the bar. Shannon was observing a blue-haired, blue-white-diamonded dowager as if she were an auk. Kit said, “Let’s find Joe. Better to get going.” He had no time to waste on the Wobblefoot’s stooges; it was the man himself he must smoke out.

A cab slid to the awning with harrowing swiftness. He didn’t like the rat teeth on the fellow. He said, “We have a cab.” He liked Joe’s ordinary dirty face turning the corner. Kit sprinted towards him, Shannon at his shoulder.

The pilot asked, “Wrong number?”

“Maybe so.”

He followed Shannon’s heels to the hangar. And he asked, “Any danger of tampering with your plane?”

The cherub scowled. “It’s Jake’s plane. He don’t take tampers.”

The mechanics who helped wheel it out had the rubber stamp of Jake’s men. Decidedly illiterate and decidedly reassuring.

The phone carried his ingratiation, not his set jaw. “I know it’s late to be calling.” They’d landed after eight, but he’d spent more than an hour getting to Jake’s, saying thank you. “You couldn’t join me, could you?”

Toni was hesitant. Waiting for sideline coaching.

“I’m at Number Fifty. Haven’t eaten yet. Would you be an angel?” He chortled. “You know I hate to eat alone.”

She said, “Hold the wire one moment.”

A real consultation now. The Prince would make her come. She wouldn’t want to but she’d follow orders.

She returned. “There are guests here. Barby Taviton and Otto.”

“Swell.” He put a punch in it. “Barby likes lights and music. See if they won’t bring you along. Let me talk to Otto. I’ll fix it.”

She didn’t. She said, “We’ll come.”

That made it good. He’d drink too much, present the moonstone publicly with gestures, watch. He said, “Jake, I want a ringside table for four. Dinner for me. Supper for the others. And tell Cerberus I haven’t time to change to dinner clothes.”

He washed up, waited at the door. They could smell the one drink on his breath, conjure a dozen. He’d been right. Toni didn’t like this. Her ivory face and crimson velvet were sombre. Barby, lacquered in lipstick and flaming silk; Otto, in arrogance, were too sure of themselves. The gift for Toni for separate reasons would shatter that surety.

Kit was noisy. “Sure glad to catch you, Otto. You were just the fellow I wanted to see. I ran down to Washington today.” He scowled with portent as if spying ears protruded from the walls. “On that business we talked of.” Shrugged. “Drew a blank. Abs’lute blank. There’s nothing to find out.”

Barby began, “But Kit—” She was anxious; she knew it for murder.

“You must be wrong, beautiful.” He fondled her hand, her useless hand. “It was suicide.”

Toni was sad. For his stupidity? For Ab? Her eyes recalled another meeting; grimly he faced it. Toni had known of Ab’s death before it came into print. She had rushed to Det with the news on Thursday afternoon. Sometime before his arrival on Riverside that night, she had passed the information on. That sadness lay on both women that night. Where did Toni belong in this?

The answer to that couldn’t change his plans. Whatever she might be doing on the side, she was following orders in meeting him. Quite obviously his company wasn’t choice to her. He let the drinks visibly affect him; he might have been in an alcoholic fog. He pretended not to catch Content’s gimlet underglance, José’s stiletto outglance, even while he applauded vociferously their turn. He waited until Barby and Otto were dancing before struggling with the box in his pocket. He shoved it to Toni. “This is for you.”

She touched it with one tentative finger. “For me?”

“Yeah.” His words slurred. “Just a little thing I picked up. Reminded me of you.”

Slowly, uncertainly, she raised the lid. Even the ivory faded from her cheeks. “No—no—” She covered it again with tremulous fingers, urged it back to him. Her eyes were quick on the dancers, the waiters, the stage. The pupils throbbed with danger.

He protested, “Aw, Toni. You’ve got to take it.” He kept forcing it upon her. “I’ve never met anyone like you. You’re the most beautiful girl I’ve ever known. I want you to have it. Put it on. I want you to wear it for me, Toni. I—”

There was nearness to hysteria in her sharp. “No!”

He’d timed it neatly. Otto held Barby’s chair. They were avidly curious.

Kit said sadly, “Toni doesn’t want to take the present I brought her. See?” She tried to retain the box now but he seized it, opened it with a sweep, raised the slender golden chain. “Beauty to the beauty. Most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. Most beautiful moonstone for most beautiful woman.”

Barby didn’t like that. The fullness of her painted mouth grew perceptibly smaller. She doubted her wisdom now of exchanging Kit for a refugee. But Otto had absolutely no reaction to the stone. He might have echoed Duck’s, “Jeeze, that’s purty.” No other expression crossed his face.

Barby laughed a little. “Well, if she doesn’t want it, Kit, I’m willing. It’s gorgeous.”

Kit said, “It’s not for you.” The game of alcoholism could let you get away with abruptness impossible in sobriety. “Not for you, Barby. For my beautiful Toni.”

Otto asked, “Why do you refuse it, Toni? It’s a beautiful thing. If Kit wants you to have it—”

“Had it set specially today.”

“You mustn’t refuse it.” Was there note of warning under Otto’s amiability. “Why do you refuse?”

Toni touched her lips. “In my country—”

Otto stated, “Customs are not the same in this country, Toni. The Prince will not object to your accepting it.”

“I wanted to give something beautiful to beautiful Toni.” Kit was pleased with the scene. Presenting it before Otto, she couldn’t hide it out; they’d see it on Riverside, know from whom it came. “If you won’t take it—” He swung it gently, let it fall into his palm.

Toni tried to smile. “If it means much to you, Kit—”

“Put it on.”

Her hands trembled; she put it on. The fire in the opal lay against the cold crimson of her bodice.

Barby’s eyes were narrow with covetousness. She drank, said, “Let’s dance this, Kit.” Her body was hot as nakedness against him; her voice languored. “You didn’t ever give me anything like that, Kit. Wasn’t I beautiful to you?”

He didn’t like her. He held her more closely. “You used to be the most beautiful woman I ever saw,” he blurred.

“No more?”

“Toni’s beautiful.” The more seeds of discord he could sow, the faster would he reap the whirlwind. If there were evidence against Toni, Barby would now ferret it out. He was magnanimous, “I’ll give you something some day.” A kick in the hot pants. “Soon?”

“Soon’s you’re beautifulest.” He stumbled over his own feet, stepped on hers, backed into strangers. She would terminate the dance. She did. They returned to the table.

Content was in his chair. She grimaced, “Where have you been keeping yourself, Mr. McKittrick? Lotte was mad as pepper to have that good dinner go to waste. So I kept José to eat your share. He came up to rehearse at five.”

Kit said what sounded like, “I wenna Washnnon.” He didn’t want Content in his way tonight.

“You evidently had a wonderful time.” She was frigid.

He pushed her down in the chair; his voice was thick as sorghum. “Don’t go way.” He hollered for more chairs. “We’re all gonna drinka most beautiful woman.” He glared. “Where’s José? He’s gonna drinka Toni too. Whether he likes it or not.”

Toni was sick. She sat like a statue, the moonstone brand between her breasts. Kit let his head loll until José stood there. José reacted. He pointed. His voice quivered. “Where did you get that?”

Kit made an ugly face. “I gave it to her. That’s where.” He dared him to make something out of it.

The violinist’s face was pale as Toni’s. Unsteadily he asked, “Where did you get it?”

Kit guffawed. “Little something I picked up in Spain. Toast to Toni. Most beautiful—”

She did not drink. She stood. She said, “I am going home. Kit, you will see me home?”

He brushed past the four motionless faces. He understood the frozen scorn in Content’s, the predatory scheming of Barby’s. He didn’t understand Otto’s indifference nor José’s distillation of incredulity and despair. He weaved after the red dress, said, “Taxi.” He was satisfied to see Duck at the wheel. It was Toni who gave the address, added, “Go through the Park.” The cab nosed forward.

She said from her corner, “You can stop the act now,” and her voice anguished, “Why did you do it?”

He took a breath of fresh air. “Did the others spot me?”

“I don’t think so. Content and José weren’t there to note how pale your drinks were. Barby and Otto were not interested.” Her voice broke again. “Why did you do this, Kit?”

He knew to what she referred. “I wanted to.”

“Why?”

He didn’t answer.

She asked in pain, “What do you want? Do you want to die?”

He spoke slowly. “I don’t want to die. I don’t intend to die. I want to find a man I’m looking for. I call him—Wobblefoot. Do you know him?”

She said, “No,” but she did. She was lying and she was uneasy, not in the lie, in the mention of the deformity? She was afraid as he had been afraid. Which one did she fear? If the Prince left the apartment would the cane keep his withered old legs from a quiver and lurch? If Dr. Skaas could leave the wheel chair would he walk as a man unused to walking? Otto had the breath of a killer but he preferred women; did he brace himself before he went on duty? Would a hypo that put a sadistic lust into his loins also cause him to stumble drunkenly? Or was the Wobblefoot an unknown, someone whose paid underlings attended to the preliminaries, who appeared only for the kill? He had been that in Spain; he had not soiled his hands in torture; he had merely given the orders.

Toni had lifted her fingers to the clasp, spoke definitely, “This will not help you find him.”

His laughter was soft, mocking. “I know better than that, Toni.” She dropped her hands as he continued, “You saw José recognize it. There will be others.”

She asked, not looking at him, “Where did you get it?”

“In Spain. From a fellow named Gottlieb. You ever hear of a fellow named Gottlieb?”

She answered without inflection, “It is not an unusual name in some countries.”

The cab stopped at the apartment house but she didn’t stir. Duck was watching in the mirror; he had orders. But he couldn’t listen.

Suddenly she stretched out her hands, pleaded, “Kit, believe me, it is not wise I wear this. If you please, take it back.”

“It won’t mean danger to you, will it?”

“No, not that, but—”

“No.” That was the finality. He moved nearer to her. “Believe me, Toni, I do want you to have it. I want you to wear it. I wasn’t acting when I said you were the most beautiful woman. I meant that. I might have said more. I might have said—”