"How strange? Slightly strange? Very strange?"
Lady Rilma glanced heavenward. "Gods! Yes, slightly strange, if you will."
"I beg your indulgence, my lady. He gave you this strange look, then he said that he had to leave?"
"Yes."
"At that point he got up and left?"
"Yes, he got up and left."
"He said nothing else?"
"Nothing."
Tyrene looked off for a moment, halting a motion to scratch himself again. "Yes, I see. I see. And nothing untoward happened up to that point."
"No, nothing."
"No one came up to your husband, no one approached?"
"Well, yes, someone did, but that was well before he left."
"Who talked with him?"
"Count Damik."
"And what did the count say?"
"I didn't listen. I was busy watching the hedge players."
"The count and your husband exchanged words. How long did they talk?"
"A very short time, as I recall."
"And you did not hear what was said."
"I think I said that."
"Sorry, milady, simply repeating for the sake of emphasis. Did anyone else talk to the viscount while you dined?"
"No. I don't recall anyone else."
"Are you quite sure, my lady?"
"I think so. Wait a moment. Yes. Someone did approach before Count Damik. Lord Arl."
"He spoke with the viscount?"
"No. He simply passed by and touched my husband's back, as if he wanted to get his attention. I thought it strange, since the viscount and his brother weren't on speaking terms. Perhaps his touching him was simply accidental."
Tyrene slumped a little. "Well, I shall trouble you no more, my lady. Thank you very much for your kind cooperation in this very difficult moment."
Lady Rilma sniffed again. "Only too happy to oblige."
Tyrene bowed and began to walk away.
"There was one other thing."
Tyrene halted. "Yes, my lady?"
"He grunted. Just before he left."
"He…?"
"Made a sound. I thought…" She gave a tiny giggle. "I thought he belched. But it was a funny sound."
"What… pardon, milady, but what sort of funny sound? You say it was a grunt?"
"Yes, he just made this funny grunting sound and sat up straight suddenly."
"Ah. Did you look at him when he made this sound?"
"No. As I said, I thought he belched. He does that. Did that. I've often complained." She shook her head sadly. "No matter."
"And you didn't look at him."
"No, not immediately. I continued watching the players, then I turned to look at him and he was sitting up straight. He usually slouches when he eats. And he was sitting up. He put down his fork, and that was when he gave me the strange look."
"Then he told you he was leaving?"
"Yes. And he left. Got up and walked away. That was the last time I saw him."
"When you heard this grunt, Lady Rilma ―" Tyrene said. "Please think carefully now. Could there have been someone near your husband at that time?"
"I was looking in the other direction."
"Yes, but did you hear someone?"
"No… wait."
Tyrene looked at Thaxton and Dalton with raised eyebrows.
"Yes," Lady Rilma went on. "I remember now. Someone was passing by at the moment. When I looked, he was walking between our table and the banquet table."
"How close would you say he was the moment you first saw him?"
"Oh, about as far away as these two gentlemen here," she said, pointing to the two beknickered golfers.
"And he was walking away from your husband?"
"Well, it's hard to say. I thought he was just passing by."
"Could he have been near your husband when you heard the viscount grunt?"
"Yes, I suppose he could have been."
Tyrene drew a long breath. "And who was this person?"
"The king's brother. Prince Trent."
Seven
The Pelican Club
In an office on the second floor of a big nightclub, a huge vanadium steel vault door opened and a man stepped out. He wore a black dinner jacket with black bow tie, boiled shirt with onyx studs, cummerbund, striped trousers, and black patent leather shoes. A white carnation boutonnière adorned the jacket's left lapel. His dark hair was slicked back, highlights glistening in the track lighting.
He looked sharp as a tack and twice as jaggy.
The office was lavishly furnished in blond wood and chrome, the floor a meadow of plush white carpeting. He sat at the expansive oval desk and reached for a silver box, from which he withdrew a cigarette. Lighting it with a silver lighter, he inhaled deeply. He shot smoke into the still air.
He lifted the receiver of a white desk phone and dialed three numbers. After waiting a moment he said, "I'm here. What's up?"
He listened.
"Where? At the bar? Uh-huh. Who is she?"
He nodded.
"Right. I'll be right down."
He got up and went to a bar that fronted a mirror. Selecting a bottle of whiskey, he poured himself two fingers, then hit the stuff with a shot or two of seltzer. He swished the mixture around, then drank it off.
He put the glass down and took a look at himself in the mirror, angling his head one way, then the other. Satisfied, he left the room, closing the door behind him.
The piano player was on between sets, doggedly plugging away at standard ballads. Nobody was listening. There was a big crowd, and they were noisy, awash with drink, giddy with laughter. Wreaths of smoke hung in the air. Smells of liquor and perfume and cigarette butts. Ice tinkled, silverware rattled. Busboys bused, and waiters waited.
He came down the curving staircase slowly, one hand in his pocket. He paused midway, took the cigarette from his mouth, and surveyed the floor.
A woman waved. He flashed a smile and raised the cigarette hand.
A man shot his arm up. "Johnnie!"
He waved back. There were several tablefuls of people he knew. He came down the stairs and wound his way over.
The woman who had waved met him halfway. She had short dark hair and a pale complexion.
"Dara, darling."
"You big lug. Where have you been sequestering yourself?"
"Don't ask personal sequestions."
"Ho-ho, you're fast tonight. Always the verbal quick-jabber, aren't you? I like the way you handle your litotes, kid. How'd you like to fight for me?"
"Would I have to take a dive?"
"One and a half gainer into a dry witticism."
"It seems to me I haven't seen you around here lately."
"Too fucking busy and vice versa," she said.
"Still writing for the magazine?"
"On and off. Book reviews, the occasional casual, or the casual occasional. Not much, really. Mostly I drink and stare out windows."
"How's that novel coming?"
"I did three whole pages two years ago. I'm a sprinter, John."
"Some of those shorts of yours are superb."
"I'm blushing. But what's this _some' stuff?"
He laughed.
She pecked him on the cheek. "Everybody's here tonight," she said. "Too many friends in one room is boring. There's no one to talk about behind his back."
"I'm glad I'm here."
"You I say only good things about. I'm going to apply some powder to this hooter of mine. See you later."
"It will be my pleasure, Mrs. Porter."
"Don't go sappy on me."
He walked over to a group of tables, recognizing many faces: Gerald and Izzy Goldfarb, Oliver Lebanon, Rafe Larimer, Geoffrey S. Katzman, Monk Calahan, Rupert Bartleby, Walston Alcott, and Ephraim Skye Fitzhugh and his wife, Selma, among others.
"Hi, everybody!"
"John Carney, as I live and breathe," the rotund Walston Alcott said.
"Don't hold your breath," Katzman said with acerbity.
"No winter tan," Alcott said, scrutinizing Carney through small round spectacles. "You weren't in jail, so far as I know. Did you join a monastery?"