Scarlet Imperial (6 page)

She wouldn’t change until she’d cleaned up the mess. Gavin Keane seemed to be drifting to sleep. She turned off the lamp. She’d leave his door open, the corridor light on in case he woke in the night. She went back to the bathroom, gathered up the blood-soaked clothes and dropped them in the hamper. She rinsed the stains from the tub, wet a fresh towel and took care of the spots on the tile floor.

She was afraid to enter the whiteness of the living room. It must be examined, now, tonight. Unbelievably it was unblemished. He’d held the towel to his shoulder as he passed across the rug. The worst was the foyer floor. She knelt and scrubbed at it with the towel. She didn’t know if the dark wood would show stain, if Jones would notice tomorrow. He would come tomorrow, of that she was certain. The warning had been in his farewell tonight.

Let him come. Tomorrow the box wouldn’t be here. She wouldn’t be here. She and Towner would have moved on. She was certain Towner would appear tomorrow. If Gavin Keane were still here, it was too bad. He hadn’t any business coming in the first place, turning Aunt Hortensia’s shining apartment into a battleground. She wouldn’t be covering her departure by throwing him to the wolves. He’d got himself into this. She was certain he could get out of it.

She clenched the towel. It was again her buzzer sounding. She didn’t move. Whoever it was could go away, must go away. She wasn’t opening the door tonight. Whoever it was must be someone she knew, someone who had passed inspection. Jones. Hester? She was rigid while the finger held on the buzzer for a longer period. It couldn’t be Towner Clay. He wouldn’t come to her on a night like this; he’d send for her. Towner was fastidious as a cat.

The person outside couldn’t know she was here on her knees. The apartments were too well sound-proofed for sounds to carry. Yet she feared her breath, the beat of her heart. Whoever it was would go away, believe she was asleep. Bry? She couldn’t open the door even to Bry Brewer. Not with blood staining her, not with Gavin Keane in the guest bedroom. She started as the buzzer sounded again, longer now, more insistent. She knelt there, her knees ached, and she began to tremble. But she didn’t move. Not until there was silence for a long time in the outer hall.

She was joint stiff when she rose, turned out the foyer lights, and tiptoed soundlessly into the living room. His coat and hat were still in the game room. She hung them in the wine closet, not wanting to carry them to the coat closet so near the front door. She put out the lights in the kitchen first, next the game room, last the living room, only a step through the door into the lighted corridor.

She closed the door against the darkness, hurried now to add this towel to the others. He was quiet in the bed when she passed his door. She stood there to make sure of his breathing, of his drugged sleep. In her own room at last, the door closed, she pulled off the hideously stained chiffon robe and gown. They were ruined. A good cleaner—but she wouldn’t dare do anything about it until this business was cleared up. By that time they’d probably be beyond hope.

She showered to wash away the sticky touch of blood. Clean yellow satin pajamas. Brush her damp hair. Turn back the bed, bed light on, other lights off. And now—

She took the box carefully from the closet shelf. A white square box, fairly heavy, neatly wrapped. A box she should have recognized at once today but she had never dreamed it would be carried casually into the office. She’d been expecting it under the guerdon of heavily insured post. She sat cross-legged on the bed, untied the string, folded back the paper. She had never looked on it.

She set away the lid. Tissue paper wrapped the contents. She lifted the whole out, removed the tissue, held the object in her hands. Her trembling hands.

It was a large egg. A Russian Easter egg. A garishly beautiful thing, heavily encrusted with gems. It glittered red and white, rubies and diamonds, golden lacework of filigree meshing the whole.

“The Scarlet Imp.”

She started, lifting her eyes fearfully to the voice in the doorway. It was Gavin.

She whispered, “I thought you were asleep.”

He moved to the bed, sank on the foot of it. He took the egg from her hands. She couldn’t clutch it; she couldn’t let him know it meant anything to her. He shimmered it. “Pretty, isn’t it?”

She said anxiously, “You must go back to bed.”

“I was afraid maybe they got it away from you.”

He still believed her an innocent bystander. She took her black wool robe from the chair, put it around his shoulders. “They didn’t. And they won’t. Not tonight. I’ll hide it again. Tomorrow—”

“Tomorrow I’ll try to deliver it.” He slitted his eyes at her. “You wanted to see it. Don’t you want to know what it’s all about?”

“I do,” she said. She tried to look wide-eyed, curious. “Terribly. But if you don’t go to bed now you won’t be able to tell me tomorrow. Please.”

He said to himself, “I’ve carried it half around the world. The Scarlet Imp. The fabulous Persian treasure.” His laugh startled her. It was short, harsh. “They haven’t got me or the Imp yet.”

She pleaded, “Please go back to bed. You’ve lost a lot of blood. You can’t deliver—that—if you’re ill.”

He ignored her as if she weren’t in the room. “It’s a race. If I don’t win—I die.” Pain suddenly spasmed his face. She caught the Imp; he let her take it. “Put it away. Somewhere safe.”

She held it. “I’ll put it away if you’ll go back to bed.” She frowned at him over the jeweled egg. “You didn’t take the sedative?”

His eyes mocked. “No, I didn’t take the sedative.” The humor went out of him. “Never knock yourself out when you’re playing a dangerous game, sweetheart.”

Her lashes dropped quickly. Although she knew he didn’t connect her with the danger. She made her hands busy, stuffing the egg back into the box, gathering the tissue around it. She said, “Don’t worry about this. It’s perfectly safe for tonight. No one can get in here.” She carried the box to the closet, placed it on the shelf. When she turned he was standing, gripping the foot of the bed. She started to him but he shook his head. “I’ll make it.” He felt a path out of the room. She followed him. He dropped on his bed, didn’t move when she covered him again. His face was colorless as water. Whoever he was, he shouldn’t have to endure such pain. It hurt to look on him.

She said, “Please. If I bring you some capsules now, won’t you take them?”

He grimaced. “I still have the first two I palmed.” His hand went under the pillow, brought them out.

She begged, “To stop the pain so you can sleep.” She repeated, “No one can come in. I won’t let anyone in.”

His blue eyes looked up at her, measuring her honesty again. Again he believed. He could believe; she was honest at this moment. “I’ll get you some water.”

“Never mind that.” He put them in his mouth, swallowed them. There was an echo of his cocksure smile. “Satisfied? I’m not used to being fussed over. I’ve never mixed a girl with business.” The echo faded. He was eyeing her and he was remembering something, trying to remember. He scowled. “Did someone come? Or was I dreaming?”

In her reprieve she was gentle. “You heard the door. I didn’t answer it.”

“That’s good. Don’t. I couldn’t help you much tonight.” His voice began to drowse. “Does anyone know you brought the egg here?”

“I’m not sure. That man—Jones called him Hester—he might have seen me get into the cab. I had a newspaper around the box.”

“Don’t worry about Hester.” His mouth twisted.

“Jones didn’t mention the box, he was only looking for Hester. Bry—Mr. Brewer—”

His eyes opened, widened. “Was Bry Brewer here?”

“Before Jones.”

The eyelids fell again. He fought them open. “What did he want?”

“He was looking for you. I didn’t tell him you’d been here. I didn’t know—” She was hesitant. “I didn’t want to explain where you were.”

“Where was I?” The words were drugged.

“You were—getting rid of Hester.”

He was under now, his breathing regular. She smoothed the covers over his shoulder. She returned to her room. She took down the box again, lifted out the egg. It was so daringly beautiful, only the days of fairy-tale monarchs could create anything so magnificent. Peter the Great’s gift to the Persian Shah. It was too beautiful to risk. Even in an apartment where no one could enter. She found in her drawer a purple wool fascinator, carefully wrapped the egg in it. The safest place. For tonight at least. She took down a hatbox, pushed the purple into the crown of one of Aunt Hortensia’s creations of cerise and ochre plumes, nested it again in tissue and replaced the box. A large oval of bath soap, not the scented, the white scentless. The weight was almost the same, and the shape. She carefully wrapped the cake in tissue, closed the box. She tied the white paper about it neatly. The package didn’t look as if it had been opened. She put it back on the shelf. If anyone broke in, he could have the soap.

She snapped off the light, slit the Venetian blinds. The wind moaned into the room as she opened the front windows. The rain was still slashing down, whipped by the wind. And in the park a man sat on a bench, one man huddled in his coat, facing the apartment house. She turned away, and quickly covered herself in bed. Even if Gavin was helpless she was glad she wasn’t alone tonight. Even if he was her enemy.

S
HE WOKE AT EIGHT,
not rested, but because she always woke at that time to go to work. Leaden light alone came through the half-opened blinds. She could hear the splash of rain against the casements. Richards had told her to lie abed this morning. That was what she wanted to do, close her eyes, sleep again, forget.

Her eyes opened wide. Forget. She had forgotten last night. It wasn’t a dream. It had happened. Gavin Keane was in the spare bedroom with a bullet hole in his shoulder. The Scarlet Imperial was on her closet shelf. She slipped out of bed, belted the black wool Guardsman’s robe about her, stepped into her black wool slippers and went quietly to his door. He seemed to be sleeping.

She went away on soft feet. Not back to bed, to the kitchen. Now that she was awake, awake and aware, she must not return to sleep. She started the coffee, plugged in the automatic toaster. The cream and milk, the orange juice were waiting outside the kitchen door. She had to open the door to bring the bottles in.

She was being utterly absurd. It was morning, gray as it was. Renfro Hester wasn’t in the service passage. He had been taken away last night. She walked over to the door, forced her fingers to unbolt it, brought in the bottles.

The door locked automatically but as soon as she’d put the milk on ice, she pushed the additional bolt. She wondered if Aunt Hortensia too had once had bad dreams, if that were the meaning of the extra precaution. She wondered if Towner had used this apartment before.

She cleared away the untasted meal of last night, saving the chop for warming. She drank the orange juice while the coffee brewed. She didn’t know what to do about going to the office. If she didn’t appear after last night, Bryan Brewer might return here. She could phone; later when he was there, invent an incipient cold. She had the Imp; she needn’t go to the office again, but until she heard from Towner she mustn’t be suspect.

“That coffee smells good.”

Gavin could move quietly. She hadn’t heard the door open into the kitchen. He was standing there, a towel draped around his shoulders. He’d put on his trousers.

She smiled. “If you’ll go back to bed, I’ll bring you some.”

“You’ve done enough waiting on me.” He sat down opposite her at the kitchen table. “I’m recovered. Haven’t had such a night’s sleep in months.” His smile was the impudent one he’d given in the office. “I’m thinking maybe I need a woman in my business. For luck.”

“It can’t be much luck to be shot at.” She poured coffee for each of them. “I’m afraid I drank all the orange juice. I forgot. I’ve some grapefruit.” She examined the ice box. “An apple—”

“Apple. For one purpose only. I don’t want any doctors prowling around. Just a scratch. Practically well.”

She put the apple and a paring knife on a plate. She sat down across from him. She was serious. “You mustn’t act that way. It’s important you see a doctor. The danger—”

“Danger.” He wasn’t smiling. He began uncoiling the red skin from the apple. “A doctor reports a bullet wound. A reputable doctor. I don’t go to quacks, nearly died once from infection. Suppose I give the gun cleaning routine. If it were my family physician he’d believe me. I’m a stranger here, any doctor is a stranger to me. Would he believe me? Would he start wondering why I hadn’t done something about it last night?”

She said, “You should have. Last night.”

“Even if he doesn’t report it, he wonders. He talks it over with his nurse or the fellows at the club.” His face darkened. “That F.B.I, man hanging around here. Those fellows have ferret ears. He hears it—” He broke off. “He was F.B.I.?”

“Yes,” she said. “He had a badge. He told me his identification had been checked by Richards.”

His laugh was abrupt. “Maybe you’re wondering why I don’t like the F.B.I.” She hadn’t been. She knew why. But she realized she must wonder; she mustn’t forget to be innocent.

He said shortly, “You can ask Bry.” He flung the apple paring over his good shoulder, turned to peer at it. “Your initial wouldn’t be a J?”

“It’s E. Eliza Williams.”

“We weren’t properly introduced. What was that darling act about?”

She felt warmth in her cheeks. “I let Jones think you were—” she should pretend embarrassment; surprisingly she was embarrassed “—my lover. There was no other way to explain why Hester would leave the back way.” She explained, “I said I’d sent him that way because you were unreasonably jealous.”

He ate a slice of apple. “And I was presumedly out borrowing seltzer from the neighbors.”

“But you went long after Hester did.” She said slowly, “I don’t think he believed a word of it. I was talking to Bryan Brewer when Jones arrived. I didn’t explain that. He didn’t ask.” She added, “He will today.”

He looked up.

She protested, “You heard him say he might want to ask more questions.”