‘Yeah, Jock MacVeagh.’
‘Will he give me a hand while I’m over there? I’m going in cold.’
‘If he can,’ Gilmartin said. ‘Jock’s a good cat.’
‘How do I get in touch with him when I get there?’
‘Just tell the main gate sentry you want MacVeagh, in the quartermaster’s office. He’ll get you there.’
‘It might be a good idea to send him a wire to let him know I’m coming,’ I said.
‘It probably would. If you’re leaving tomorrow, you won’t get into Germany until sometime Saturday. Could be Jock’s got a little piece lined up off Larson for the weekend.’
‘How would I address the wire?’
He told me and I went to the desk and wrote it down. He said, ‘It looks like you’ve got some work to do, so I guess I’ll shove off. Unless you could stand a belt or two.’
‘Some other time, maybe.’
‘Yeah, sure. Well, hang loose, baby.’
When he was gone, I sat down at the desk and composed a wire to Jock MacVeagh and called Western Union to have it sent off immediately. Then I put on my overcoat, locked the office, and went down to my bank-one that stays open till six on weekdays-to do something about the check Elaine Kavanaugh had given me…
CHAPTER NINE
When I got to my flat, there was no mail, no further evidence of illegal entry, and no beer in the icebox. The kitchen contained a faint odor, the origin of which turned out to be a bowl of stew I had cooked but not eaten four days previous. I had forgotten to refrigerate the damned stuff, and it had some kind of gray-green substance over the surface of it. I threw it into a garbage bag and took the bag down the stairs to the trash can, wedging the door shut again with the broom handle and the copper wire when I came back up.
You need a keeper, I thought, that’s what you need. To clean out this cage once in a while.
In the apartment, I called Cheryl’s number another time, and on this occasion I knew intuitively that she would be home. I sat on my unmade bed, listening to the circuit noises and looking at the soiled sheets and the piles of laundry strewn around the bedroom. A goddamn keeper, all right. I wanted a cigarette and gave in to the desire, and in my ear there was a click and her voice said, ‘Hello?’
‘Hi, Cheryl,’ I said. ‘How are you?’
I did not have to tell her who it was this time. She said, ‘Fine. And you?’ and her voice was soft and warm.
‘Fine. I got back into town earlier this afternoon and tried to call you then, but there was no answer.’
‘Doug and I were shopping at Stonestown,’ she said. ‘Did you find out anything about Roy?’
‘Nothing encouraging.’
‘It’s a terrible thing when someone you know just disappears like that, for no reason.’
‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘Listen, Cheryl, I’m leaving for Germany tomorrow. Sands’ fiancée seems to think there might be a clue to what happened to him over there. I don’t know when I’ll be back-just a few days, I think- and I was hoping you’d be free tonight.’
‘Oh,’ she said, ‘I have to work.’
I tried to keep disappointment out of my voice. ‘Tonight of all nights.’
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I work evenings three times a week, and this happens to be one of them. I wish it wasn’t.’
I liked the way she had said those last words. I asked, ‘Well, how’s the food out at Saxon’s?’
‘Fairly good, for a coffee shop.’
‘Maybe I’ll come out for a steak tonight.’
‘I’d like that, but… well, the owner doesn’t take kindly to employees having personal discussions while they’re working.’
‘I guess it wasn’t such a good idea.’
‘I hope you understand.’
‘Of course. Can I see you when I get back from Germany?’
‘Yes,’ she said.
‘It’s a date. Do you like Russian food?’
‘I’m not sure I’ve ever eaten any.’
‘I know a place. I think you’ll enjoy it.’
‘It sounds very nice.’
‘Cheryl-’
‘Yes?’
‘I’ve thought of you often since Tuesday night.’
‘Have you?’ Her voice was softer.
‘Yes. I just wanted you to know that.’
There was a moment of silence that was not in any way awkward. She said then, ‘I think I’d better go now. I have to be to work at six.’
‘I’ll call you as soon as I get home.’
‘Please do.’
I paused. ‘Is your brother there, by any chance?’
‘Yes, he is. He’s been wondering about Roy, and I know he wants to talk to you. Just a moment.’
Doug Rosmond came on immediately and asked me about Oregon. For the third time that day I recounted my trip to Eugene and explained about the theft of the sketch of Roy Sands, and for the third time the reaction was typically innocent: dismay at my discovery of Sands’ suitcase in the transient hotel, incredulity at the theft of the sketch, which Rosmond said Chuck Hendryx had mentioned on the phone as being ‘a pretty good likeness, probably done by one of those sidewalk artists.’ He had never heard of the Galerie der Expressionisten and wondered where I had gotten the name.
‘It was on a piece of paper among Sands’ effects,’ I said. ‘It’s an art gallery in Kitzingen.’
‘Why would Roy have the name of an art gallery?’
‘That’s a good question, especially after the theft of the portrait.’
‘Do you really think his portrait has something to do with his disappearance?’
‘It might,’ I said. ‘That’s one of the reasons I’m leaving for Germany tomorrow.’
‘Germany? You mean Elaine Kavanaugh is sending you all the way over there?’
‘That’s right.’
‘That seems like a hell of a shot in the dark.’
‘Maybe it is, but it’s about all we’ve got left.’
‘You think you can find out about the portrait over there?’
‘That’s what I’m hoping.’
‘I guess Elaine is getting desperate, and I don’t blame her. If I were in her place, I’d probably have you do the same thing. It’s better than just sitting around, waiting.’
‘That’s for certain.’
Rosmond wished me luck, and I told him I would be in touch-unnecessarily, because of Cheryl-and we said a parting. I went into the living room and stood at the bay window and looked out through the curtains at the approaching darkness, the subtle transformation of chill bright gray into ebon black. The sharp winter wind blew eddies of dust in a series of miniature tornadoes along the gutters, slapped at the glass with the thin, cold fingers of a crone.
But I was thinking of Cheryl, and that made it a very nice evening in all respects.
The telephone was ringing.
And ringing and ringing.
I pushed my way up through the folds of a deep, warm, comfortable sleep-the first good rest I had had in days. The bell was strident, demanding, in the darkness of the bedroom. I lay quietly for a moment, reluctant to let go of the warmth and the comfort, waiting for the bell to stop. It kept on ringing. I lifted my left arm and looked at my watch, and it was twenty past one. Some time of night for a telephone call; and it will be a wrong number, sure as Christ made fools and drunks, it will be a wrong number.
I swung my feet out of bed and stumbled over to the phone, on the dresser where I had put it earlier. I got the handset up to my ear, a little groggily, and muttered, ‘Yeah? Hello?’
A muffled, neuter voice whispered, ‘If you go to Germany tomorrow, you’re a dead man, mister. And Elaine Kavanaugh is a dead lady. I’m not kidding, mister-you think I’m kidding, you go ahead to Germany and see what happens.’
The line buzzed atonally, emptily.
I stood holding the receiver, fully awake now, and I had a ridiculous urge to burst out laughing. A threatening telephone call. For Christ’s sake! Pulp detectives got threatening telephone calls in six stories out of ten, they were always getting them. And then the irony left me and I felt a coldness that was born of anger rather than fear settle across my shoulder blades; anger crept up into my throat, too, and forced itself out in the form of several sharp, savage words. I slammed the receiver down and went to the nightstand for a cigarette.