His first call on the Manhattan side of the river was at the Tombs, where he had an acrimonious conversation with the man who’d tried to drown him less than twelve hours ago.
Pedley made an offer — of a leniency recommendation to the trial judge. A sentence of from ninety-nine years to life held some slight hope; the chair was a bad alternate. The marshal couldn’t promise anything. But his word sometimes carried weight—
Staro went through successive stages of flat denial, blunt suspicion, wary hedging. In the end, he exercised his memory sufficiently to recall that his ex-employer had occasionally made trips to the Columbus Circle branch of the Merchants & Importers National.
Pedley’s second visit was to the bank at the Circle. It took a little longer than the first, on account of the difficulty of reaching the bank’s executives by telephone and verifying the fact that the Fire Marshal can issue what amounts to a summary court-order, on the spot, when and where needed.
Even then, the results weren’t what Pedley had expected. After the night man in the vault had been properly convinced, he checked his visitors’ sheet.
“You’re the second person who’s had access to this drawer today, Mister Pedley.”
The marshal cursed.
“Who was here before me?”
“Here’s her signature, sir. She had the key and written authority — everything in order.”
After Pedley read the signature, he didn’t bother to look in the locked drawer.
Leila Lownes wouldn’t have left anything worth finding.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Confessions of a Bride
Shaner emerged from behind the tapestry screen shielding the PBX operator in the Riveredge lobby. He made an umpire’s sweeping gesture of the flat palm. “She’s safe at home, coach.”
“She better be.” Pedley thumbed the UP button. “If you haven’t tended your sheep this time, you’re a dead Bo Peep.”
“This afternoon was one of those mishaps which’d never occur again in a thousand. No harm done, was there?”
“Oh, no. The babe merely went to a safe deposit during that half-hour she was out of your sight. I wouldn’t be surprised if she got away with the prize hunk of evidence I’ve been running myself ragged about.”
“It’s positively the last time I ever trust a mouse! The word of a Shaner.”
“Ah — you’ll get hoodwinked every hour on the hour the rest of your life. Has she had callers?”
“Terence the Ross was up for maybe an hour, just after you called. He’s biting his fingernails when he goes up, an’ purring with pleasure when he comes down. Figure that out on your horoscope!”
“She has a way with males. Feeds ’em catnip. Rubs their ears.”
“Not bad, either.” Shaner grinned.
Leila answered the buzzer herself. She had done a complete switch from the oomph getup; this was the sweet, home-girl type.
The tight-fitting blue-and-white checkered dress was becoming, he admitted; it showed as much of her figure and more of her legs than the boudoir outfit. The only incongruous touch was the emerald-studded wrist watch on her wrist; it didn’t quite give the domestic flavor.
“We’re all alone,” she began. “I let Netta have the night with her friends in Harlem — But I can mix you a drink, if you’d care for one.”
No mention of Bill Conover, though she must be aware of the alarm out for him! No inquiry about Kim Wasson, who was supposed to be dying at Saint Vincent’s! No comment about Hal Kelsey; certainly Ross must have told her about the band leader’s death! Only a suggestion about a drink!
“Not right now.” He saw it lying under the bisque-shaded lamp on the center table, as if that were where it belonged and had merely been returned to its proper place! It was rich mahogany in color; the ornate clasp and lock were dull gold.
He went to it, picked it up, hefted it. A marvelous example of Florentine craftsmanship; the design on the top was of Leda and the Swan, done in deep tooling. The thing was probably a museum piece, but Pedley didn’t appreciate it. It was empty.
“So you got this little beauty back!” He undid the clasp; the interior was lined with rose brocade.
“Terry brought it back. Just a little while ago.”
“Just like that?”
“He happened to be looking through Ned’s things at the club — my brother was a member of the Olympiad, too, he used the handball courts once in a blue moon — and there in his locker, under a dirty old sweat shirt, was my case!”
“That’s luck for you.” Pedley looked at the bottom of the case. There was nothing beyond the maker’s mark: Tomaso Garloli, Firenze. “Where are the contents?”
“You wouldn’t be interested in them, really.”
“I certainly would, if they’re photos of the Body Beautiful.” She’d have had time to hide whatever had been in it. But she hadn’t been out of the apartment since she brought the case back here; unless she’d ditched the contents en route from the bank to the Riveredge, they’d still be here somewhere. “Do I have to dig ’em up, myself?”
“You can’t!”
“I’ll have a slight go at it.” He started across the sunken living-room, sizing up possible hiding places. She was undisturbed.
Well, there were the other rooms. He didn’t relish the idea of searching her bedroom, but if there weren’t any alternative—
He crossed in front of the fireplace, paused with his head cocked on one side, like a terrier listening. Only, Pedley was smelling.
Queer odor, somewhere. Couldn’t be incense, could it? Maybe she’d been putting some of those metallic salts on the logs to make colored flames. If she’d been doing that, after what happened at Horatio Street last night, she must be made of glacier ice.
No — it was burning paper! The unmistakable acridity of sulphur and sizing! He went back to the fireplace, saw the pages burning.
“A book, hah?” The leaves had been torn out in bunches, tossed in the fire. Four-fifths of the paper had been consumed; on the remaining fifth he could sec handwriting, broad, back-slanting letters.
If he should douse the fire with water, trying to save the part that hadn’t yet been consumed, the pages would contract and the charred cellulose would crumble to ashes. “What’s so important about it?”
“It was my diary. The things I wrote in it weren’t meant for other people to read. You understand.”
“Hell I do.” He went to the phone. “Charming? This is the marshal. Let me talk to that Shaner… Shaner?”
“You need protection, coach?”
“Grab that three-gallon from the wall rack in the stair well, bring it up here. Shake the lead out of your seat.”
Leila ran toward the fireplace. He caught her on the hearth, held her by the wrists.
She glanced over her shoulder at greedy tongues of flame eating their way slowly across the pages; the top page of each handful burning faster than those underneath, curling up tighter like crumpled carbon paper until the page beneath it got going.
“You’re a cad, sir!” She smiled, quite unconcerned.
“And you’re mistaken—” he pulled her toward the hall door — “if you think I’m not going to read what’s on those pages. Just because they’ve burned won’t mean they’re illegible.”
“Why must you frighten an innocent maid?” She was still playing at melodrama.
“Put those charred pages under the ultraviolet — we’ll read ’em easy as you read your fan mail.” He opened the door.