The butler said, ”Wait here, please,“ and left. He closed the door behind him.
There was a mahogany highboy on the wall opposite the windows with four cut-glass decanters and a collection of small crystal glasses. I took the stoppers out of the decanters and sniffed. Sherry, cognac, port, Calvados. I poured myself a glass of the Calvados. On the wall opposite the door was a black marble fireplace, and on either side floor-to-ceiling bookcases. I looked at the titles: The Complete Works of Charles Dickens, A History of the English-Speaking Peoples by Winston Churchill, Longfellow: Complete Poetical and Prose Works, H. G. Wells’s The Outline of History, Chaucer’s The Canterbury Tales, with illustrations by Rockwell Kent.
The door opened behind me, and a woman entered. The butler closed it softly behind her.
”Mr. Spenser,“ she said, ”I’m Patricia Utley,“ and put out her hand. I shook it. She looked as if she might have read all the books and understood them. She was fortyish, small and blond with good bones and big black-rimmed round glasses. Her hair was pulled back tight against her head with a bun in the back. She was wearing an off-white sleeveless linen dress with blue and green piping at the hem and along the neckline. Her legs were bare and tanned.
”Please sit down,“ she said. ”I see you have a drink.
Good. How may I help you?“ I sat on the sofa. She sat opposite me on an ottoman. Her knees together, ankles crossed, hands folded in her lap.
”I’m looking for information about a girl named Donna Burlington who you probably knew about eight years ago.“ I showed her the picture.
”And why would you think I know anything about her, Mr. Spenser?“
”One of your colleagues suggested that she had left his employ and joined your firm.“
”I’m sorry, I don’t understand.“ Her blue eyes were direct and steady as she looked at me. Her face without lines.
”Well, ma’am, I don’t mean to be coarse, but an East Village pimp named Violet told me she moved uptown and went to work for you in the late fall of nineteen sixty-six.“
”I’m afraid I don’t know anyone named Violet,“ she said.
”Tall, thin guy, aggressive dresser, but small-time. No reason for you to know him. The Pinkerton Agency has never heard of me either.“
”Oh, I’m sure you’re well known in your field, Mr.
Spenser.“ She smiled, and a dimple appeared in each cheek.
”But I really don’t see how I can help you. This Violet person has misled you, I suppose for money. New York is a very grasping city.“
The room was cool and silent, central air conditioning.
I sipped the Calvados, and it reminded me that I hadn’t eaten since about seven thirty. It was now almost four thirty. ”Ms.
Utley,“ I said, ”I don’t wish to rock your boat and I don’t want anything bad to happen to Donna Burlington, I just need to know about her.“
”Ms. Utley,“ she said. ”That’s charming, but it’s Mrs., thank you.“
”Okay, Mrs. Utley, but what I said stands. I need to know about Donna Burlington. Confidential. No harm to anyone, and I can’t tell you why. But I need to know.“ I finished the brandy. She stood, took my glass, filled it, and set it down on the marble-topped coffee table in front of me. Her movements were precise and graceful and stylish. So was she.
”I have no quarrel with that, Mr. Spenser, but I can’t help you. I don’t know the young lady, nor can I imagine how anyone could think that I might.“
”Mrs. Utley, I know we’ve only met, but would you join me for dinner?“
”Is that part of your technique, Mr. Spenser? Candlelight and wine and perhaps I’ll remember something about the young lady?“
”Well, there’s that,“ I said. ”But I hate to eat alone.
The only people I know in the city are you and Violet, and Violet already had a date.“
”Well, I don’t know about being second choice to—what was it you said—an East Village pimp?“
”I’ll tell you about my most exciting cases,“ I said.
”Why, I remember one I call the howling dog caper.
The dimple reappeared.
“And I’ll do a one-hand push-up for you, and sing a dozen popular songs, pronouncing the lyrics so clearly that you can hear every word.”
“And if I still refuse?”
“Then I go down to Foley Square and see if I can find someone in the DA’s office that knows you and might put in a word for me.”
“I do not like to be threatened, Mr. Spenser.”
“Desperation,” I said. “Loneliness and desire make a man crazy. Here, look at the kind of treat ahead of you.” I put my glass on the end table, got down on the rug, and did a onehand push-up. I looked up at her from the push-up position, my left hand behind my back. “Want to see another one?” I said.
She was laughing. Silently at first with her face serious but her stomach jiggling and giving her away, and then aloud, with her head back and the dimples big enough to hold a ripe olive.
“I’ll go,” she said. “Let me change, and we’ll go. Now, for God sakes, get off the floor, you damn fool.”
I got up. “The old one-hand push-up,” I said. “Gets them almost every time.”
She didn’t take long. I had time to sip one more brandy before she reappeared in a backless white dress that tied around the neck and had a royal blue sash around the middle.
Her shoes matched the sash, and so did her earrings.
I said, “Hubba, hubba.”
“Hub-ba, hub-ba? What on earth does that mean?”
“You look very nice,” I said. “Where would you like to go?”
“There’s a lovely restaurant uptown a little ways we could try, if you’d like.”
“I’m in your hands,” I said. “This is your city.”
“You are not, I would guess, ever in anyone’s hands, Spenser, but I think you’ll like this place.”
“Cab?” I said.
“No, Steven will drive us.”
When we went out the front door, there was the same well-built black man, sitting at the wheel of a Mercedes sedan. He’d swapped his mess jacket for a blue blazer.
We drove uptown.
The restaurant was at Sixty-fifth Street on the East Side and was called The Wings of the Dove.
I said.
“Do you suppose they serve the food in a golden bowl?”
“I don’t believe so. Why do you ask?”
“Henry James,” I said. “It’s a book joke.”
“I guess I haven’t read it.”
It was only five thirty when we went in. Too early for most people to go to dinner, but most people had probably eaten lunch. I hadn’t. It was a small restaurant, with a lavish dessert table in the foyer and two rooms separated by an archway. The ceiling was frosted glass that opened out, like a greenhouse, and the walls were used brick, some from the original building, some quite artfully integrated with the original. The tablecloths were pink, and there were flowers and green plants everywhere, many of them in hanging pots.
The maitre d‘ in a tuxedo said, “Good evening, Mrs.
Utley. We have your table.”
She smiled and followed him. I followed her. One wall of the restaurant was mirrored, and it gave the illusion of a good deal more space than there was. I checked myself as we filed in. The suit was holding up, I’d had a haircut just last week, if only a talent scout from Playgirl spotted me.
“Would you care for cocktails?”
Patricia Utley said, “Campari on the rocks with a twist, please, John.”
I said, “Do you have any draft beer?”
The maitre d’ said, “No.”
I said, “Do you have any Amstel in bottles?”
He said, “No.”
I said to Patricia Utley, “Is Nedick’s still open?”
She said to the maitre d‘, “Bring him a bottle of Heineken, John.”