"COME ON, JACK, this isn't funny."
Something energetically tugged and shook my arm, hard enough to wake the dead.
"Wake up."
"Mmm?"
The shaking stopped. "Are you in there? Wake up and answer or I'll get a bucket of water and-"
"Mmm!" I was more affirmative this time and waved her off." 'M 'wake already."
My voice was slurred and it was an uphill battle just to open my eyes.
"So convince me," she insisted.
After a bit of concentration I managed to keep the lids up long enough for a glimpse at her face. Her expression was an interesting combination of anger and worry. "Whas the 'mergency?"
"You are. You haven't moved for hours. I thought I'd killed you."
I considered the heavy feeling of pleasure that still dragged at my edges. "What a great way to go."
"Are you all right? What happened?"
"Just having a little rest. I should have warned you that I might conk out afterwards. Is it very late?"
"A little after ten. You mean that's normal for you when we do it this way?"
"Yeah, but don't worry, it feels just great." I reached for her and pulled her close, craving her softness again. "I think it happens because of my blood loss."
"But you'd just eaten, sort of. I couldn't have taken that much from you."
" I think this had less to do with amount and more to do with sensation."
"Does it hurt you?"
" Anything but. How do you feel?"
"Fine, I guess. You just scared me with that stunt-I mean, you were so still."
"Maybe you wore me out."
"Is that how you sleep during the day?"
I nuzzled her hair again. "That's right. Having second thoughts?"
"It's a little late for that, this is just healthy curiosity."
"I'm all in favor of any kind of healthy activity."
"No kidding." She burrowed a little closer and a low laugh bubbled from her.
"You know, one of my friends says sometimes it's so good for her she passes out. Is that what happened to you?"
"Yes, my sweet love. That's what happened to me. Accept it as a tribute to your talent and its effect on me."
"Wow."
And that said it all for some time and we held lazily on to each other until she stirred and stated she was starving-for solid food.
"Take you out?" I offered.
She stretched. "Maybe tomorrow; all I want are a couple of scrambled eggs and then I have to sleep. I've got to get up to rehearse at the radio station and then work out what I'm going to wear at this broadcast."
"How come you get dressed to the nines for a radio show? Your audience can't see you."
"The ones in the studio can, and so do all the people I work with. Another thing is that I sing better when I know I look good."
"Oh."
"Besides, the other women dress up and I'm not about to have any of them see me at less than my best."
"You dress for other women?"
"Oh, Jack, it's only showing a little competitiveness."
"And I thought I'd put you out of the running."
"You have, but I don't want people thinking I don't care how I look anymore."
"Bobbi, you'd look like a queen even in a gunnysack."
"I'm glad you think so, but I still wouldn't be caught dead wearing one. Now give me a kiss and let me go fix some food."
A short while later she was slipping some butter yellow scrambled eggs onto a plate along with a slice of dry toast. "If I do change, I think I'm going to miss this stuff a lot. You said you missed the socializing but not the food?"
"That's right." I gulped queasily at the cooking odors and watched in fascinated horror as she dropped a dollop of ketchup on the plate. Even before I'd changed, I'd never liked eggs with ketchup; mustard, maybe, but never ketchup.
"If we do this exchange again, are you going to pass out the same way?"
I must have had a sappy look on my face. It wouldn't be the first time. "I certainly hope so."
"What, do it again or pass out?"
"Well, they both felt terrific..."
She laughed and attacked her eggs while they were still hot, but she sobered again after a few bites. "One more question?"
"As many as you like."
"Was it this way for you with Gaylen, I mean when she..." she faltered. "Maybe I shouldn't have asked."
Something in my manner must have stiffened up and she'd noticed right away.
"No, it's okay. I still have some scar tissue left, is all, it just isn't where you can see it."
"And with Gaylen?" she prompted, her brow puckered.
I closed my hand gently over hers and told the utter truth. "What you and I did together was make love. What she did to me was a kind of rape. There are a hundred hells of difference between the two."
Escott was still up when I got back home, which I half expected, as he often kept late hours himself. What I did not expect was the presence of a visitor as evidenced by a car standing in my usual spot in front of his house. I recognized it, parked farther down the block, and walked back, wondering if I should just barge in on them or not. Barb Steler had left him with quite a favorable impression of herself; if she in turn found him even a little attractive, my unexpected arrival might not be too welcome. My own ecstatic experience with Bobbi had left me mellow and wishing the same joy upon others, but on the other hand I wanted to know why Barb had come calling.
Curiosity won out and I used my key this time to go inside. If Escott found her irresistible, he was enough of a gentleman to take her upstairs rather than risk a fall from his narrow sofa. In that case I was prepared to become diplomatically deaf and leave the house for an hour or so.
But they were talking about the European situation in his front room and the thought crossed my mind that at times Escott could be an idiot.
"... Spain is merely the testing ground in a larger game. It's certainly no secret now about Hitler supplying Franco with pilots as well as planes."
"And from this you believe that he has larger ambitions?" she asked, her voice all soft and throaty.
"Larger than any man in history has dared to imagine."
"Today Germany, tomorrow the world'.'" I could almost see her depreciatory smile. "It is an awfully large world."
"Filled with many who would only too cheerfully give up their right to think if they believed it would buy them a little peace and prosperity. It's what he's counting on."
"But think of the good that he's done-"
"Like hiding all the anti-Semitic propaganda for the duration of the Olympic games? Such extreme attitudes directed at a specific population have absolutely no place in an enlightened twentieth-century state, and yet this is the spoken policy of that state's leader. It is hardly a position appropriate for a reasonable and responsible society to take, and yet he has many followers on both sides of the Atlantic."
"Surely you don't intimate that I-"
"Ah, but you equate my general views as a personal attack on yourself and you needn't. Playing the devil's advocate has its appeal and makes for a better debate. I rather enjoy a good debate."
"And politics are a favorite subject?"
"Not in particular, but one may extrapolate from the larger overview politics provide and distill it down to simple motivations. Hitler's outstanding hatred for Jews most certainly has its root in some personal experience. The man is in sad and desperate need of some sort of mental counseling. He certainly has no business running a country."
"One might say the same for many other world leaders, mightn't one? But then who would be left in charge to run things?"
"The civil service, of course. They may be as slow to change as a bone into a fossil, but are generally more stable than fanatical, slogan-spouting dictators."
She laughed, low and musically, and I made some noise shutting the door. Escott called out from the front room.
"Jack? Come in and join us, my dear fellow, we've been having a most interesting talk on world affairs."
I stuck my hat on the coat tree and sauntered in. Escott was at his ease in his leather chair and Barbara was comfortably ensconced on the couch. Cigarette smoke swirled in the air above the brass lamp by the window and each of them had had at least one mixed drink. For a man of Escort's quiet personal habits, this was practically a New Year's blowout on Times Square.
Barbara patted an empty spot on the couch, smiling fondly at me. "Yes, do come in and help us solve everything."
"Well, uhh..."
Escott gave me a very slight high sign, indicating he wanted more company. Not only could he be an idiot, but he wanted a chaperon, too. To each his own, I thought, and dragged my mind away from carnality and myself into the room. I sat on the other end of the couch from Barbara and smiled easily at her. She returned it just as easily and still managed to inject it with a potent shot of her own special electricity.
Some people are like that, and her more than most. I wondered why she buried herself working for a cheap tabloid instead of a larger paper.
"You're looking tired, Jack," she observed. "Are you all right?"
"I've been busy."
Escott was very interested, but said nothing because of Barbara's presence.
"Is this a social call?" I asked her.
"I like to think of all my visits as social calls, but not everyone is of the same mind on that."
"Miss Steler came by with some news concerning Dimmy Wallace," Escott prompted.
"What news?"
She shifted forward a little and lost some of her affectations. "He's still being held on other charges, but the police have dropped him as a suspect for Sandra Robley's murder."
I wasn't too surprised at that and said so.
"Then you don't think he did it anyway?"
"No, not really. Why did they drop the charges and what about Roller?"
"Both of them have an alibi for the time."
"What kind of alibi?"
"Wallace's car broke down on the other side of the city and a Father Philip Glover of St. Mary's and two other priests stopped to play good Samaritan. They gave him a lift to a garage and back again, then stayed with him to make sure his car was in working order. He's covered for the whole time of Sandra's murder and then some.
Koller stayed behind, but went across the street to wait in a bar. There are several witnesses to confirm that."
"It's too good to be true. Are you sure about these priests?"
"Father Glover is a well-known figure and has served the parish for the last twenty years or so."
"What about the bar?"
"It's one of those little neighborhood taverns where everyone knows everyone else.
That's why they noticed Koller; he didn't seem to fit in."
"What were they doing on the other side of town?"
"Minding their own business, they claim. Perhaps they were on a collection trip, but all that really matters is that their alibi is solid and now Alex is back as suspect number one."
"But he nearly got killed himself because he thought Wallace and Koller did it."
"Which doesn't matter to the police. All they know is that he was closely involved with Sandra and can't account for his time that night."
"And that he's under a cloud from another woman's death."
Her look lanced through me with the same kind of force and intent as Wallace's gunshot. Escott had been quiet before, now he turned to stone waiting to see what happened. She drew a deep breath as though to call me a few names, but changed her mind and let it out very slowly.
"I hope you will believe that I am trying to help him now. Or perhaps you're testing me again?" There was enough ice in her voice to start a new glacier, a suitable contrast to the fire in her eyes.
"We all need to be aware of what he's up against, that's why I mentioned it. I know you're trying to help, or you wouldn't be here."
The fires banked, at least for the moment, but she was anything but happy at being reminded of her past smear campaign.
"Are the cops planning to arrest him?" I asked.
"I think so, but word is they're waiting until they've finished talking with all of the Robleys' friends and business contacts. Unless they turn up something from that end..." She shrugged.
"He will want a decent lawyer," said Escott.
She turned on him. "And do you think he's guilty?"
He was looking at me. I shook my head. "No, but he is in deep enough trouble to require one all the same. Perhaps you know of someone who might be useful."
"I do, but what else can be done?"
"Little enough at the moment. We and the police require more information than is presently available."
"I suppose a signed confession from the murderer would be nice." She'd put an acid bite to her tone.
"It would be decidedly convenient. Who knows what the future may hold?"
Barbara did not share his optimism one bit. "Nothing more than a jail cell for the rest of Alex's life unless we do something for him." The sarcasm had no effect on Escort, which annoyed her. She got her gloves from her purse and started pulling them on. "Well, gentlemen, it is getting late. Jack, would you see me out to my car?
The street might not be very safe at this time of night."
I remembered the derringer she carried and figured she wanted talk, not protection, but walked her out anyway.
"How do you put up with him?" she asked, turning and leaning back against the closed door of her car.
"It's mutual respect. Besides, he has to put up with me as well."
"That must be amusing."
"We're doing what we can about this, Barbara."
She smiled, just a little, and touched my cheek with one finger. "I know, and I'm being terribly ungrateful, especially after the way your friend charged in there to save Alex."
Last night's editing of her memory was still holding, so not everything was going down the drain. "Yeah, he's good at that kind of thing."
"What else has he done?"
"In general or about this case?"
"Both. I'm thinking of writing a feature article on him. 'The Lonely Life of a Detective' or something like that."
"First off, he calls himself a private agent, not a detective, and second, you need to talk to him about what he does."
"You think he might object to his name appearing in my paper?" My hesitation in answering did not insult her. "Don't worry, I have no illusions concerning the kind of rag I work for."
"Why work for them, then?"
"Why not?"
"Because you're too good for them."
"I'm glad you think so. The truth is that I like what I do and will continue to do it until something I like better comes along."
" Is there anything you like better?"
Her smile broadened and she traced a finger down the side of my face. "I think you know the answer to that, darling Jack. The problem with my little pleasures is that I don't want to earn my living by them, then they would cease to be so pleasurable."
I didn't know what to say to that and she thoroughly enjoyed my discomfiture.
"You are such a sweet man. Would you like to come by later for a drink?"
If she only knew what that invitation really meant to me. "Not tonight-"
"Yes, you do still look tired. What have you been doing?"
"Visiting friends." I started to laugh. "It can be draining."
She picked up on the humor, even if she didn't get the joke. "Another time, then"-she pecked my cheek, got into the car, and slid over to the driver's side-
"when you're fully rested." It wasn't what she said, but the way she said it. As she drove off, I stood in the cloud of her exhaust and gulped a few times.
Maybe Escott wasn't such an idiot, after all; it probably had to do with his instinct for self-preservation. I quickly retreated into the house, locking the door for good measure.
He was still in his chair, only now he'd drawn his legs up so his knees bumped his sharp chin, and he'd lit a pipe. He broke off staring into space when I returned and flopped wearily on the sofa.
"A tiring night?" he inquired.
"More than you'll ever know."
"I have observed that when you employ your special talents it often leaves you in a depleted state. May I conclude that you had occasion to use them this evening?"
"Oh, yes."
"Miss Steler prevented you from speaking out, I'm sure, but if you are not too fatigued I should like to hear an account of what happened."
I gave him his earful on my hospital visit, but left out Bobbi and the new phase in our relationship, though he was unabashedly fascinated by my condition and anything to do with it. Hearing about our exchange of blood would no doubt interest him on a certain cold, academic level, but at this point the current state of my emotional life wasn't relevant to the Robley case, nor was it really his business.
By the time I'd wound down, he'd finished his first pipe and was busy reloading another. The air was getting too thick for talk so I got up, opened the front windows, and flushed out my clogged lungs.
"Do you plan to do anything about him?" he asked, successfully lighting up on the first try. Alex Adrian?"
"Insofar as he knows about you."
"I don't think he'll be any problem."
He accepted my judgment with a curt nod and closed his eyes against the curling smoke. "Tomorrow I shall make a nuisance of myself to Lieutenant Blair and see what his plans are concerning Adrian. He will have collected a number of reports on Sandra Robley's other friends by then, perhaps he will also have a better suspect upon which to focus his attention."
"I hope so."
"Indeed. I have serious doubts that the present judicial system would accept your unorthodox method of arriving at the truth as viable evidence."
"Especially since I'm not available during day sessions."
"I foresee another possible problem: You were with Adrian when he found the body. It is entirely possible you'll have to give evidence to that effect."
"Oh, shit."
"Or be held in contempt if you fail to show up."
"Couldn't I give a written statement or some kind of proxy?"
"I'm not sure, I'll talk to my lawyer about options. This was an occurrence I had not foreseen when I asked if you would like to work with me."
"Same here, but I was the one who asked you for help this time."
"I appreciate your confidence in me but fear it is misplaced this time. In essence, this is a tragic business, but of the sort that the police are best suited for dealing with."
"Even if they arrest the wrong man?"
He drew and puffed smoke, thinking carefully. "I doubt they will be able to scrape up a strong enough case against him to bring it to court. He has no alibi, to be sure, but he has that in common with a lot of people, including myself."
"Yeah, but you didn't know Sandra and you have no motive."
"True. Then who did? Who would want to kill such a woman? The violence preceding her death and the violent manner in which she was dispatched indicate that she aroused a great deal of emotion in her murderer. Who among her circle possesses such a temper?"
"Alex."
"Of course, always back to him, and you are absolutely certain of his innocence?
Yes, then we must look elsewhere." He tapped the pipe against his teeth a few times and opened his eyes to look at me. "Do you fancy another outing tonight?"
"Where?"
"To the Robleys' flat."
"Any reason why?"
"Because I wish to have a better look at it. Circumstances were such that I had no chance for a good look 'round on the night of her murder."
Oh Lord, it looked like he was going into one of his energetic moods again. All I wanted to do was lie around the rest of the night and think about Bobbi. "Won't the cops have cleared away everything important by now?"
"I'm certain of it, but I wish to see what they deem unimportant." He put his pipe aside and stretched out of the chair, looking like a stork unfolding from its nest.
"Charming as it was to entertain Miss Steler, I feel I've been vegetating here all evening. A drive in the cool air will do me a world of good."
"It's kind of late to be waking up the super in their building."
"I've no intention of disturbing that worthy man's rest."
"You need me along to go through the door and let you inside?"
"Not as long as I have my burgling kit. I would like your company because you had been there only a scant hour or so prior to the crime and can so inform me of any differences that might impress themselves upon your memory."
"After all this time?"
"You underestimate yourself, though I do see the point that for you, the period between has been amply filled with activity. Are you really that tired?"
An answer to that question might lead to a dozen other questions, none of which I wanted to go into at the moment. "I think I can last till morning."
"Excellent! I'll just fetch my keys-" stopped him before he got too far along.
"Let's take mine, it's already warmed up, and I wanted to move it closer to the house anyway."
Quite so. I daresay it will be less conspicuous in that neighborhood than my Nash." He tossed me my hat and settled his own at a rakish angle over his brow. Now that he had something to do he was impatient to be off, so I speeded up a little, but my heart wasn't in it. The next time Bobbi and I exchanged, I was going to make damn sure I had nothing else to do for the rest of the night but recover from the celebration.
Escott opened the front door and practically bounded down the steps. I moaned inwardly and did what I could to keep up.
We walked into the building normally. Escott was of the opinion that in this case stealth would draw more attention than if we acted like we belonged. No one bothered to poke their heads out as we climbed the stairs, and after a short moment of listening, I was satisfied no one would.
The police had sealed off the flat, which was hardly a barrier to me. I saved Escott the trouble of working with his skeleton keys and picks and went on through the door to open it for him from inside. He slipped in, shut the door quietly, and flipped on the light.
Sadness hung in the air like a fog. Things had been moved and shifted but not cleaned up. Fingerprint dust was still everywhere and the chalk outline still lay on the floor, a pathetic marker of her presence. Escott frowned furiously at it, shook his head sharply as if to clear his mind, and moved on to search the kitchen.
He did not take long and moved through the two small bedrooms and the bath just as quickly before coining back to the front again. "Does anything draw itself to your attention?" he asked.
"Evan's painting has been moved."
Apparently some fastidious soul had seen the big self-portrait at just the right distance and had turned it to face the wall. I reached for it.
"A moment." Escort had come prepared and gave me a thin pair of rubber gloves, the kind surgeons use. He was already wearing some himself, I just hadn't noticed when he'd put them on. I shook myself inwardly and tried to pull on an attitude of professional detachment along with the gloves. In this depressed state I was no good to anyone.
I tipped the painting out enough to see that it was undamaged and checked the other vertical racks and their contents. As far as I could tell, nothing was missing or marred, though as elsewhere, many of the paintings had fingerprint dust on them.
Escort found that of interest and peered at the bright colors of an abstract through his pocket magnifier.
"It appears Mr. Robley used his fingers as well as his brushes to achieve certain effects."
"Sandra, too. Both of them had paint stains on their hands."
"Are these Sandra's?" He indicated another stack of stored paintings against the opposite wall.
"I guess so, we only looked at Evan's that night."
He sorted through them. "She would seem to be less prolific than her brother, as there is more than adequate storage space available-or perhaps she sold more?"
I nodded. "She said she was on some kind of WPA art grant. That was how they were able to live."
"Producing art for federal buildings?"
"Yeah. I think she also did stuff for interior decorators. There's apparently a market for genuine oil paintings."
"I've heard of it, assembly-line oils, pretty pictures for the masses at the cost of artistic integrity."
"Integrity is hard to afford when you don't have food in the cupboard," I pointed out.
Yes, there are strong arguments in both directions, and who's to say where one may safely draw the line?"
That called for a second look on my part, but I didn't think he meant it as a pun. I flipped through Sandra's work with Escott looking over my shoulder.
"She would appear to have a wide range of styles," he said. "This one is after one school and this after another. I wonder if she ever had time to develop a style of her own..."
"What do you mean?"
He set four different paintings out for view. "These for example: all are landscapes and all depict the same basic forms of hills, trees, and water, but they could have been painted by four different people. I'd be inclined to think so, too, but they are all out of the same palette." He darted to the other side of the room, where some painting supplies were kept, and drew out a thin flat of paint-stained wood, then held it up to the landscapes. The dominating colors of brown, green, and blue matched.
"You're sure about that?"
"I've had a smattering of art in my time. A painter's palette is often as identifiable as his fingerprints."
"Okay, so we know Sandra painted them all. Her work had to appeal to a lot of different people so she could sell. Is it important?"
"All information is important until proven otherwise." He returned the palette to its place and focused his attention on one of the big easels. "Is this one hers?"
"I think so."
He flipped off the dust cloth protecting the surface of the canvas beneath. The painting was an angular townscape in autumn, with wet streets and blowing leaves.
Escott peered at it closely with his lens, then with his beaky nose practically touching the surface, sniffed. He backed off, puzzled, sniffed again, covering a wider area this time.
"What are you doing?"
"Checking the state of the linseed oil." Is it stale?" I asked, amused.
"Indeed." He swept the flat of one hand across the painting and held his clean palm up for inspection. "It's quite dry."
"Why would she have a dry painting on the easel?"
He didn't answer but went back to her store of paintings and flipped through them, rapidly pulling out three, all the same size. They showed the same angular street, with variations of color and light.
"Winter, spring, summer and the one on the easel is autumn, obviously a series on the theme of the four seasons. I suppose it is just possible she was doing a little touch-up work, but it hardly seems likely."
"Why's that?"
"Please note the top clamp of the easel: it stops a good five inches above the painting."
"Meaning that it was originally adjusted for a different-size canvas?"
"Exactly. Now I wonder what became of that particular work?"
"She could have taken it out herself."
"Then where is it? There are no wet paintings in this flat and she could not have sold them in that state."
"The cops took them."
He shook his head. "No, I stayed here and watched the forensic men. They did not remove any paintings. So unless Alex Adrian broke in and took them to his home for safekeeping or out of sentiment-"
"You figure the killer is some kind of art lover?"
"I'm not sure what to think. They were taken for a reason and unless he's mad enough to want to retain a most dangerous souvenir of his crime, the only reason I can think of to justify his theft is-"
"That what he took incriminates him in some way. Then what was it, a quick portrait or something?"
He had no answer for me and flipped the dust sheet back onto the canvas, then turned and brooded over the chalk scrawl on the floor.
It blocked my sight for only a moment, but I saw Evan again, standing in the same spot and swaying at the waist; Blair watching in shock, and Brett reaching to help him. That inhuman keening went through me once more and I shivered as though someone had walked over my empty grave.
Oh God.
Sometimes it happens that way, your mind hits on an answer with a sudden bright burst of insight, but won't tell how it got there, and you're left fumbling for an explanation. It eventually came tumbling out of my memory: words, looks, gestures...
all fell together, linked up, and formed into a solid composition.
"Oh God." This time it slipped out aloud.
Escott sensed something in my tone. His eyes snapped up, silently demanding to know what it was.
I told him.
He soaked it up without comment, having heard some of it before, but only presented as idle conversation, and mixed in with other events. In the end he could only shake his head.
"You have the answer, and if we find the paintings, we'd have enough circumstantial evidence for the DA to bring it to trial-"
"But I sure as hell can't come to court to tell it. The one thing I can do, though, is get the written confession you wanted."
"Before only a single witness?" he questioned, meaning himself.
But I had a second witness in mind even as he raised the point.