Fallen Sparrow (19 page)

She protested, “No,” but he kissed her. He might have held a cotton doll, kissed wax. He released her. He was chagrined. “I’m sorry. I’m always doing something to annoy you.”

She said, “You do not annoy me.” She touched his hand. “You are a fine man, Kit. Det says you are that. It is just—only this—I have no place for that.”

He said, “I’m still sorry.”

Duck stood on the frozen walk, the cab door open. He knew the end of an amorous evening declined. He followed to the apartment. “I’m gonna step in and warm up a bit.”

He had his orders. He sat on the lower step, a stolid orangutan, until Kit returned. There was something reassuring in not being alone on the dim staircase.

C
ONTENT’S YELLOW HEAD
wasn’t on the other pillow. Too early as yet but he missed it there. A letter from his mother. The innocent, urging him to join them in Palm Beach, no idea of the turmoil in which he was involved. The rooms held the whisper of loneness. He mixed a heavy drink. He deserved one after the wash he’d sloshed all evening. She should be coming in any time now. There was plenty to talk over with her. Content was a nice kid. He wouldn’t think about Toni Donne; she wasn’t for him. He wouldn’t be like old Chris, hankering for something he couldn’t have.

If he weren’t a sentimental boob Irishman, he wouldn’t think any more of Toni than of Elise. They were both working for the same guy, their human emotions were accountable to woman weakness. They weren’t worth a pennyworth of Content. Once he’d thought of her as only a giddy number. There was more to her than that. There was a hard little core of right in her, the same urge for justice that had sent him to Spain four years ago. It wasn’t merely her love for Ab that spurred her; she’d been as urgent about Louie. She’d become definitely comforting; a good thing with Barby selling herself cheap. Content hadn’t been bearing malice; she knew the fester under Barby’s beautiful skin. She hadn’t wanted to tell him Friday afternoon; he’d forced statement of fact and repudiated her for complying. Tonight corroborated it. Barby had come clambering off her virginal high horse fast enough with the glint of a bauble in the offing. The funny thing was it didn’t hurt a bit. Whereas—he wouldn’t think of the ache wrenching his heart over Toni Donne.

He didn’t like being here alone. His nerves were prickling. He didn’t like the ordeal that lay ahead, the knowledge of its immediacy. When the Prince saw Toni’s pendant, word would go swiftly to the Wobblefoot. The end would begin. They would believe what he had insinuated, that the goblets were at hand. They would strike before he could desecrate the cups further. They did not know that he was not responsible for the mutilation, that Gottlieb, cornered, had seized a priceless weapon. The desecration could account for Josh’s horrified despair tonight; a man who could create beauty in music would respect all beauty.

In what form the trap would be set, he didn’t know. That was why he was restless, straining for the click of Content’s key in the front lock. He believed the invitation for his destruction would come from Toni. That was why the sadness for her lay within him.

He didn’t fear. He checked the Luger again; the other gun was shipshape, it didn’t leave him. The Luger hadn’t been tampered with; Elise would have a hard time doing any mischief now when he was out. Lotte would keep the girl in constant view since the letter episode. But he didn’t like the feel of being alone. He poured another drink, held it. Elise could drug a decanter. She hadn’t tonight but it might come any time now. A drugged highball. Lotte working over him, Elise calling an ambulance that waited. He was a sweaty fool. Conjuring cinema plots. The trouble was that fictional plots weren’t fantastic any more. The details were in the evening newspaper long before a picture could be filmed.

Elise could drug Lotte, a bit of powder in her coffee cup. He wasn’t as safe as he thought. And Content ought to be here by now. He didn’t like her lateness. Something could have happened. Duck ought to be taking care of her instead of him. He could protect himself. He walked from his room to the living room, slitted the Venetian blinds. He looked far down into the dark empty street below. He should go to bed. When the ordeal came, he must be rested, his trigger finger steady.

He couldn’t sleep if he went to bed. His mind would continue to prowl. Not since he was a child had he invaded the maids’ wing. Maybe he could relax if he knew for certain that no one waited in that dark corridor. Maybe he wouldn’t keep thinking he heard sounds there. A torch was always on the coat closet shelf. It hadn’t been moved. He flashed it under his hand, crossed the kitchen without sound. He swung the door a faint, noiseless crack. There was light, the dimmest gray of light, where his eye peered. Whispers just inside the door leading to the back hall. Light must be from that source; none was in the corridor.

He didn’t breathe; he thrust the torch into his pocket, not daring the click that would extinguish it. His hand on his gun, he moved his ear to the crack. He could distinguish.

“Quiet. She will hear you.”

The other whisper came more loudly. “What have you been doing? I ask you. You have been told to search. Search well. You let this happen under your nose.”

“I tell you it was not here. I have searched his things with care. The jewel was not here. Unless he carried it in his mouth.”

“You are a fool. He is not pleased with you. There are too many mistakes.”

“You are hurting me.” A little suck of breath. “I have done all that is possible. I could not help this woman returning. He brought her here. Could I put her out? The letter—was a mistake.”

“You will make one mistake too many.”

A cry, if a cry could be whispered.

Kit swung the torch, called, “What’s going on here?” He synchronized his step into the corridor as he spoke but the light glare failed him. It caught only Elise’s terrified face. He swerved it but he saw nothing, barely heard the whish of something solid and enormous blacking out all light. As he crumpled he seemed to recognize the cheap smell of beer and perfume.

The lighted corridor glared on his eyeballs. He distinguished feet first, the frayed fringing on her bedroom slippers. His head felt as if it had been cleaved open. He touched the sticky lump under his hair, brought his hand close in front of his eyes. There was some red on the fingers but not much. It hadn’t been a sledge hammer then; there wasn’t much blood, none on the floor where he lay. Painfully, his head whirling, his stomach heaving, he pushed to his knees, straightened, leaned against the wall.

Elise held out his flashlight. There were violent streaks on her forearm. She parroted, “Are you all right now, sir? You slipped and fell.”

He stared at her without words.

She faltered, “I am sorry I disturbed you.”

He demanded, “Who was that?”

“My brother.”

“What did he want at this hour?”

“He wanted money. I didn’t have any to give him.” She rubbed her arm. “Shall I help you to your room?”

“No.” He lurched as he took the torch from her. “Get back to bed. You can’t work properly if you don’t get some sleep.”

“Yes, sir.”

He waited until she was closed in her room before advancing along the wall to try the back door. It was bolted. He weaved to the hallway, left the foyer lamp burning. The torch he carried to his room, flung it on the table. It might come in handy if he could learn how to use it. He’d have been better off without it tonight.

The bath mirror showed him a bloody fool. He washed away the traces of his idiocy, sloshed alcohol on the throbbing wound. He winced to the sting as he winced at his foolhardy, unplanned invasion of the corridor. Who had been there? Someone who’d previously been in José’s room. If he hadn’t gone out like the light, would he have heard the dreaded footfalls of the Wobblefoot? Whom had Elise been talking with? Whispering didn’t give a clue to voices, not even whether it was man or woman. If the Wobblefoot had him helpless in the corridor, would he have left him there? Yes. If he still hoped that Kit would lead him to the cups without risking the violation of American laws. Whoever had been there hadn’t wanted his identity known to Kit. Could it have been Pierre? Whoever had been there must have made quick exit by means of the freight elevator. If Pierre were one of them, he could bring anyone up, stand ready for the retreat. In the night quietness, the passenger elevator buzzer would sound from the basement. It wasn’t important who had come; what counted was that one had come. The offense was a success. The campaign had begun.

He wouldn’t lock his door tonight, not until Content came in. He slept fitfully, harried by scraps of dream. There was no bright hair on the pillow across, not even by daylight. Content hadn’t returned. The clock said nine; he hadn’t slept long enough but he couldn’t close his eyes again. His mouth tasted grim. Tramps didn’t change their habits. Personally he didn’t care but he had to take Ab’s place, watch out for her.

He might as well be on his way. Too early for Duck. He’d expected to sleep until noon. He walked to the Lexington Avenue subway, the downtown kiosk. He didn’t know where he was going or why but he couldn’t stick around the apartment. There wasn’t much he could do until they made the next move. He got off at 59th, walked across to the Savoy Plaza coffee shop. He didn’t want to disturb Jake at this hour again, what could Jake tell him; but something might have happened to her. He called the club. He didn’t ask for the boss. He said, “Do you know whom Miss Hamilton left with last night?”

The help was unhelpful. “Naw.”

Kit said, “Find out from someone. This is McKittrick.” At Number 50 that was almost as good a name as Lepetino now.

He didn’t know if the man waked Jake or the doorman or the taxi starter. It took long enough. His information was: she went home with that violinist. Well, she knew what she was doing. She wasn’t the kid cousin now even if she still looked it. He banged down the receiver.

He wanted to see Toni. He hungered to see Toni. He could look at her even if she were not for him. He didn’t have any better excuse to offer even himself. Maybe she’d like to join the Sunday parade on Riverside. The sun was trying to shine today.

She hadn’t expected anyone. Her hair was coiled on top her head, an old-fashioned apron covered her from chin to ankles. But she didn’t look like a char.

He stammered his invitation at her as if he were a yearning sophomore.

She hesitated. “Aren’t you going to the funeral?”

He hadn’t known when; he’d forgotten; he hadn’t looked at the newspapers. He said, “Yes.”

“If you take a cab you’ll be on time. At the home.”

“You’re not going?”

Her face was motionless. “No.” She put her hand to her throat. “I didn’t know him.”

The cab raced. The service had begun. José blenched by candles and the ebon box. The two Skaases, the lashless eyeholes in Christian’s sad face; Otto’s smug boredom with the dead. Barby, lips and talons of blood against her hard shiny mourning. Rows of Hamiltons, Tavitons, Justins, more perfumed than the massed flowers. Sidney Dantone. Content? Small enough to hide behind Jake’s impeccable dark shoulders. Even Tobin there. And Prince Felix Andrassy. A yellowed hand clawing a round gold knobbed cane. His health did not keep him in the apartment if he wanted to leave it. The black suit beside him had the impassivity of a male nurse. The old one leaned heavily on the man at the conclusion of the service.

Kit didn’t linger for the baked meats. He returned to Riverside. There was no other place he wanted to go. They would be alone. She was sitting by the window now, just sitting there. The opal hung heavy as the albatross about her throat.

She looked up. “It’s over?”

“It’s over.”

She asked, “What happened to your head?”

He felt it. “I fell.” He waited, said, “Elise said so.”

The recognition was so slight it might be imagined.

“Was she a good maid?”

“I don’t know.”

“She worked for your grandfather.”

She looked out the window. “She told you that?”

“That is her reference. She said so. Who is her brother?”

“I do not know her.”

He persisted. “She comes here. Who is her brother?”

“I do not know.” She wouldn’t meet his eyes. She cried, “Why don’t you ask the Prince?”

He turned away. He said deliberately, “I will. I am waiting to be summoned—by royal command.” He would be. When they were ready. They didn’t know that he was ready and waiting for them. Through the Prince, he would face the Wobblefoot. He didn’t believe the Prince was the Wobblefoot. But all threads wound to this shabby substitute palace.

He swung back to Toni. “You knew of Ab’s death Thursday, didn’t you? You needn’t bother to deny it, I know.”

She was leaden. “II you know, why ask?”

“Who told you?”

“José.”

He didn’t have to ask who told José. He knew. The murderer when he returned from Washington on Wednesday night. His heart spoke again. “Toni, you don’t like this, do you?” He sat on the table edge. He didn’t touch her.

“Like it?” The pent up grieving over it flooded her eyes.

“You don’t have to be in it, Toni. I’d like—I’d like to take you out of it.”

She just looked at him. He might have looked that way at a moth believing it could wing to the white moon.

He said, “I mean that, Toni. I mean it with all my heart.” He was rueful. “You might even learn to like me after a while.”

Her smile touched and fled. “That has nothing to do with it. I appreciate your wish but it cannot be.” She lifted the pendant. “You will take this now? Its work has been done.”

He refused it. “I really want you to have it. If ever I want it back, I’ll ask for it.” He didn’t wait for her grandfather to return. He didn’t want an accidental meeting; he preferred the summons.

He was still without purpose. The net hadn’t been cast yet. He might as well go back to the apartment. He might steal a little rest. He let Elise admit him. “Tell Lotte I’d like lunch.” The girl didn’t appear to have any recollection of the early morning disturbance. Her face was as stupid as on the day he’d arrived.