Dumbly, Ruth pointed, and they watched him wend his way through tables until he disappeared. Vonda slumped across the counter, clasping Ruth’s hands.
“I’ve got sweat running down my back like a waterfall,” she said, breaking into a breathless giggle.
Ruth shook her head. “I think I’m going to be sick.”
The clink of glasses caught their attention. Cookie had gathered the empties and placed them carefully on the back counter. Vonda drew an audible breath through her nose.
“Cookie, what’re you doing?” she asked gently.
Cookie looked smug. “Setting them over here so nothing happens to them.”
Vonda nodded. “And I suppose you know which one was Raymond’s?”
There was a short silence while they all looked at the four glasses. Then, “Omigod,” Cookie said.
Ruth knew Vonda might kill if she didn’t do something fast. “Wait. It’s okay,” she said. “Just put each one in a separate plastic bag. They’ll all have to be tested.”
Apparently, Vonda was unable to speak, and Raymond was coming towards them again. Ruth let him see her friendly smile settle on Cookie. “And, Cookie, if I were you I’d get out of here before Vonda comes to.”
The wait was agonizing. Five days passed and still no word from the lab.
“Not much we can do,” Vonda kept repeating. “They’re doing us a favor, after all.”
They were all on edge. The time Ruth spent with Raymond was almost unbearable. He still had no job. The last time he’d asked Ruth for money, she told him she couldn’t spare it. Something had to happen soon.
She didn’t notice Vonda take a phone call early that evening, wasn’t aware of the electricity in the air until she saw her tall friend striding towards her, holding Cookie’s arm firmly in tow.
“To the back booth,” Vonda whispered as she passed. “The customers can wait. This is it.”
They crunched together as close as they could get. Vonda was breathing hard. “The lab called. They’ve got a make.”
Ruth’s heart lurched. “If I could turn pale, I’d look like a ghost,” Vonda went on. “Thanks to Cookie, we got us a crook. But you won’t believe it. None of the prints matched a wanted except one.” She reached for Ruth’s hand. “And it’s not Raymond. The match came from prints that showed up on all four glasses. And they weren’t ours, either.”
Ruth flashed on a clear image of clean, shining glasses being stacked on a rear counter. A blinding light went off in her head, revealing another instant picture. The wrong tape on Cookie’s VCR, the face of an insignificant little man with a struggling beard and shiny dome.
Three shocked voices sounded as one. “Artie!”
They heard that Arthur Woolsey, real name William Arthur, surrendered without argument when the police knocked at his door. Artie wasn’t violent, he was just a thief.
After a day’s closing, Ruth and Vonda returned to work to find the shop under temporary administrative management. Cookie was nowhere in sight.
“Poor Artie,” Vonda said. “It’ll break his heart if he finds out Cookie turned him in.”
They had also learned that one of the blue-chip companies from whom Artie had lifted a bundle had posted a reward. Cookie’s dream come true. They called to tell her it was all hers.
“But you both helped,” Cookie had protested.
Vonda was insistent. “This was all your idea. Take it. Put Little Bud through college.”
Cookie sounded on the verge of tears. “I’m so lucky to have you for friends,” she’d said.
Now Ruth glanced back at the closed door to Artie’s office. “I’ll bet they’re going through our books, too.”
“I’m sure.” Vonda grinned. “Can you believe us? We all saw Artie on TV and didn’t even recognize him. Pretty sharp. I feel bad about trying to stick it to Raymond, though.”
Ruth drew a deep breath. “Well, it worked out for the best. Made me get off my behind and back Raymond against the wall. Made him talk. That man hasn’t had a regular job in years. Just doesn’t like to work, he says. Moves in with women like me and mooches. You want to hear something? That’s why he wears those dumb glasses. He admitted it — thinks they appeal to older women.”
Vonda winced. “He said that?”
“Yup. Wasn’t even mad when I showed him the door. Just said he was sorry it didn’t work out. Like he’d been doing me a favor. I tell you, Raymond may not have been on Cookie’s TV show, but he is one slick deadbeat.”
“Aw, Ruth,” Vonda said. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. Maybe I’ll meet a good guy someday, but right now I’m doing okay on my own. And I always knew Raymond was just too good to be true.”
Vonda glanced through the shop’s glass front. “Here comes the roadrunner.”
Cookie was forging through the terminal, hair flying, waving vigorously when she saw them. Both women waved back.
She was out of breath when she arrived. “You won’t believe what I just saw,” she gasped out. “There’s a new guy at the newsstand back there. I took one look at him and I—”
In concert, Ruth and Vonda swiveled on their heels.
“You got a customer, Ruth,” Vonda said. “Better get to him, don’t you think?”
“I do think.” Ruth peeled left. “Will you go out to the storeroom and bring up some straws for the fountain?”
“Girl, I’d be glad to.” Peeling right, Vonda shot away.
“Ruth? Vonda? Hey!” Cookie said.
A Statesman’s Touch
by Robert Barnard
With seven Edgar nominations to his credit, Robert Barnard must be placed with the leading crime writers of our day. Publishers Weekly called his recent novel Fatal Attachment “another gem.”
“Mais c’est incroyable!”
The hotel manager looked down towards his beautifully shod feet with an expression more of distaste than of disbelief. The head porter, who had summoned him, thought to himself that if you find a trickle of blood seeping under the door of one of the bedrooms into the corridor, it is not altogether surprising to discover a corpse behind the door, or to find that the corpse was murdered. But, as an intelligent man, he held his peace.
“It’s that man Radovan Radič,” said the manager, his mouth twisting as he looked down at the body with the gaping wound between its shoulders.
“A Bulgarian, wasn’t he?” the porter asked.
“Serbian, I believe. But Serbian, Bulgarian, Hungarian — they’re all the same. Brutes!” He looked around the spare, ill-furnished room, one of their cheapest. “I only know of this creature because the police were around asking about him last week.”
“Illegal resident?”
“Worse, much worse. Apparently he was a thoroughly unsavoury character. All sorts of activities, including blackmail. He had been touting letters from Marie of Romania.”
“Ah — to Prince Stirbey?”
“No, not that old story. Something more recent. They thought it possible he was an agent of the King of Serbia, but on balance they thought he was acting for his own ends. I was all for throwing him out onto the street at once, but the Sûreté begged me not to. Here they could keep an eye on him, they said. I wish now that I had insisted, but when the Sûreté begs...”
“Of course. In our position one obeys. Who have we in the hotel tonight?”
“Ah, that is the question.”
It was indeed. The Hotel George IV, formerly the Imperial, situated on the Avenue Decazes, had carved for itself a minor but vital role in the diplomatic comings and goings of that year 1919, the year of the Peace Conference. Paris was awash with kings, statesmen, and mere politicians, not to mention the attendant diplomats, secretaries, and the inevitable newspapermen. Behind the ceremonial and the open negotiations there mushroomed encounters of a more personal nature. The George IV catered, discreetly, for any assignation, whether political, romantic, or frankly sexual, that the participants wished to keep from the gaze of the public or of rival statesmen. The hotel’s system of backstairs access and private corridors was unrivalled in the French capital, and the manager was formidably discreet. He already regretted the renaming of the hotel, which had been done in the hope of profiting by a confusion with the new and magnificent George V. The hotel had found a quite different and much more lucrative identity, and would have benefited from a more anonymous name. That very morning an English visitor had commented cheerily that the only connection George IV had had with France had been his delusion that he led the allied troops at the Battle of Waterloo. The manager’s demeanour had been glacial. It was the height of bad taste to mention the Battle of Waterloo in Paris.