"Beautiful," Tobias whispered when he saw my attention upon the doors. He fluttered hooded eyes. "Mr. Adrian is a collector of rare art. He had that made from the original." He gestured to the doors. "Morbid to the timid living, perhaps, but there is no shame in death; and, we are all aware of the denial that life is." He pushed lightly upon the doors and they swung silently open.
"Mr. Adrian's office." He bowed slightly sending a shock of black hair over his brow.
I left him and entered the room. Its corners were lost to me in black shadows. I followed a tender glow from ceiling lamps until I saw the shape of a man behind a huge desk. It grew out of the darkness like an oil tanker. It was so big he would have to walk to the ashtray. I stood for a moment in feigned awe and studied Mr. Adrian in the soft light.
His head gleamed slightly over a synthetic tan. Hair curled in golden ringlets from an exposed crown. He looked at me with sharp blue eyes that were set close to a large nose. His shoulders were square and as he smoked, thick arms flexed beneath his trim-cut jacket. He wore dark green-odd-because everyone else I had seen who worked in the place was in black from head to toe.
"Have a seat, please." He sketched a line in the air with cigar smoke. As I pressed my buttocks against the thick leather cushion, I noticed a familiar aroma. Adrian started talking.
"I don't know who you are, or the purpose behind that ridiculous makeup; but I've been in this business long enough to know a dead man when I see one. You're not dead and because you lied about that, I assume you're not really Mr. Gingold."
"And you're not Simon," I said, trying to figure out how to play the scene. "Mind if I smoke? I couldn't help but notice the scent of your cigar. Expensive?" I lit a cigarette and watched its smoke dance on my hand like a cobra. It swayed slowly.
"Not really, Dutch, Henry Winterman Cafe Cream Mild. I'm growing impatient." He seemed to have perfect control of his voice. He added just enough volume and emphasis to make it as much a threat as if he held a gun in his hand.
"Wildclown," I drawled, slowly puffing smoke in an effort to seem in control. "I'm a private detective."
"And the purpose behind that ludicrous outfit?"
"Detective disguise number 118. The dead mime costume, I'm surprised no one has used it on you yet."
"Don't be flippant, Mr. Wildclown. You'll find I'm not predisposed to humor. I have friends with certain authority." He smiled as he said "authority." I began to feel like a rat in a barbecue.
"I'm not trying to be flippant. I'm trying to avoid being rude." I could feel Tommy's indignation growing within.
"Certainly," Adrian breathed with a tangible change in tone before saying to himself. "Refinement before all else…" He looked at me evenly. "Would you like a drink?"
"I never met one I didn't."
"Scotch, isn't that the usual drink of detectives," he said scornfully as he ordered two gins neat from the intercom, and then leaned back in his enormous chair to study me. I met his gaze with as much fire as I could muster without letting Tommy out.
A few moments of study passed before the silence was broken by the whoosh of a door opening, followed by an annoying tick-tock of footsteps. A secretary clacked in on high stiletto heels she would need a ladder to get into. She had our drinks, gave one to Mr. Adrian, one to me. A twinkle of light, and I noticed a strange black and bronze charm hung from a red chain at her wrist. It looked like a swastika set in the oval part of an Egyptian ankh. I couldn't place it. Her eyes were dark. Her lips puckered and red. I smiled. She wrinkled her nose at me and left.
I looked at my drink, clinked the ice cubes a few times, and nonchalantly sniffed it. I couldn't smell any poison. It tasted like gin. I looked through the glass rim and saw Mr. Adrian looking back at me through his. I dropped ash on the floor, muttered an apology.
"What do you want, Mr. Wildclown?"
"Oh, you know, run of the mill kind of stuff. For instance, did you hear a baby cry last Thursday night at the Morocco Hotel?" His eyes flared white. I'm sure mine must have. I didn't ask the question. Tommy had slipped it through all my personal defenses and placed it on the tip of my tongue where it couldn't help but fall out. For a few moments I was aghast-afraid to speak. This had never happened before.
"No," Adrian said, his quick recovery almost hiding the trace of fear in his voice. "Of course not! That's ridiculous. Everyone knows there are no such things as babies. Not since the Change." He drew in a deep breath, set his glass down. "I believe this interview is over."
"That's okay," I said. I could feel Tommy clamoring for release. "That was just a test question. What I wanted to say was…ask you…" I paused for a second to recapture my hold on Tommy. Sweat burst out and slid through my greasepaint. My heart pounded. "I wanted to ask if you know a woman named Jan Van Reydner." My hand shook as I brought the glass to my lips. I saw the name register something in his eyes.
When he started speaking his manner was granite.
"Mr. Wildclown, I have already given you enough of my valuable time. I don't know who this person is, and if I did, I certainly wouldn't feel obliged to tell you."
"Get off it!" I snarled. "You've already admitted as much. Why else would you allow a fictitious, dead mime to see you? Am I a fool or did you get all this wealth from being sloppy? You knew I knew something about something you're involved in and you wanted to know what I knew-know." I paused to check my syntax. "You know what I mean. Grow up, Mr. Adrian, the only reason you let me in is because I mentioned those magic names. I know you're Simon and that you hired Jan Van Reydner to kill Mr. Conrad Billings. I understand he's a new client of yours." Adrian was motionless. "And where's Van Reydner? Getting more business, or did you decide she wasn't useful to you any more?"
"I don't know where Ms. Van Reydner is." Adrian dropped his gaze, picked up his drink and drank off the last of it. A childish slurp escaped him; he smirked, then leaned forward and ground his cigar flat. "She disappeared. Jan should have been in touch by now. I do hope she's well. We've been doing a booming business, she and I. She hasn't even been paid yet."
I suddenly got a cold chill. If someone starts to confess…
"I'm sorry, Mr. Wildclown, but I'm afraid I'm quite above any law, if in fact you represent anything resembling that. Mr. Billings is a new customer of ours, yes; and I assure you he is adjusting well to his situation," he said and paused. "Oh, have you had any luck finding Ms. Van Reydner?" He nodded and I was suckered. I actually disregarded his nod and started answering. I don't know how I could have missed it.
An elephant sat on the back of my head. Tremendous pressure-just as my skull was about to explode a wave of black covered me.
Chapter 16
We were in the Chrysler. Tommy's head lolled drunkenly; spittle hung in a slender strand from his lip. It swung and bobbed like a rookie surveyor's plumb. He was jammed in between two big thugs in cheap suits. They looked like poorly trained apes doing gangster impressions.
The Chrysler rocked and banged along an old road. The pavement was cracked and wrinkled like a bad tan-job. While the gangsters did their ugly best in the back seat, a round-gutted, pig-eyed dead man drove. He had a chest so deep it looked borrowed. A black leather cap with snap-up brim sat forward on his round head exposing a sweaty bald spot in back. Stubble, just short of a beard, colored his cheeks. He steered the Chrysler with skinny arms like stretched rubber bands.