Scarlet Imperial Read online

  She heard herself saying, “Doesn’t it? Maybe he did have to walk then. However, he probably stopped at the next floor. I don’t know what he was selling but I’m certain that’s why he was here.”

  The voice was dry. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to see your service entrance, Miss Williams.”

  She minded, she minded very much but it wasn’t a request, it was a demand. And she mustn’t do anything to excite his suspicions of her. She had passed muster with him as she had with Gavin. She said, “Certainly, Mr. Jones. This way.”

  He followed her into the living room, through the open archway to the game room. She went straight on to the door leading to the kitchen; she did not hesitate when she no longer heard his following footsteps, she didn’t stop until she’d pushed open the connecting door. She showed surprise when she turned back and saw him standing at the couch fingering Gavin’s damp coat and hat. “This way,” she repeated brightly.

  “Whose stuff is this?”

  The F.B.I, didn’t beat about the bush with diplomacy. She had her answer. “My friend went out for some seltzer.”

  “Without his coat?”

  She swallowed but her face didn’t change. “I don’t mean he went outside on a night like this. Just to another apartment in the building.”

  He took his fingers from the coat. “I presume he too used the service entrance.”

  She was blithe. “Oh yes. We don’t bother Franz for just a flight or so.”

  She preceded him into the kitchen. “But I’m certain he didn’t run into that man you’re looking for. That man had been gone a long time.”

  He noted her untouched dinner. She didn’t expect him not to. She was thinking ahead of him now. “You didn’t eat much,” he stated.

  She laughed, “I’ve had too many interruptions. This is the service door.”

  He said, “I’d like to have a look outside.”

  “Certainly.” She fumbled a little with the bolt. Gavin and the man must have been gone long ago. Nevertheless her fingers were wooden, fearing lest that figure was still slumped against the wall. She babbled, “These bolts. My aunt’s afraid of back entrances—this is my aunt’s apartment. She’s in Europe.” The bolt was out of its socket. Slowly, hoping her anxiety wasn’t noticeable, she opened the door. Jones passed her and stepped outside into the service corridor. She stood in the doorway, seeing that figure although it was no longer there, hoping Jones was not seeing it too. Her head turned towards the back stairs as his did. She didn’t move. She saw the man’s yellow curly head, she knew it before he lifted his face. He was holding the bannister, pulling himself up. When he sensed persons there, when his face lifted, she was shocked at the drawn, white look of it.

  She ran to him, pattering gayly, “Didn’t Beatrice have any seltzer, darling?” He could see her face, her warning eyes; her Back was to Jones. “We’ll have to call the delicatessen after all.” She slipped her arm through his when he reached the head of the stairs. She went on, “This is Mr. Jones, darling. He’s from the F.B.I. He’s looking for a man he thought came up here tonight. I told him no man came to my apartment.” Now she could warn Mr. Jones with her eyes, with a light shake of her head. “Mr. Jones, this is my friend, Mr.—Smith.” She didn’t hesitate giving him the name. Jones had to accept it or deny his own. Obviously if the F.B.I. man was looking for Gavin Keane, he didn’t know Keane by sight. Doubtless that was why he needed to follow Renfro Hester.

  Jones’ mouth was ironic. “How do you do, Mr. Smith.”

  Gavin played up. His hand closed over hers. He said, “We haven’t seen any man, Mr. Jones. Who is he? Sneak thief?”

  She laughed, “Darling, the F.B.I. wouldn’t be sent after a sneak thief!”

  Mr. Jones agreed with a lift of his lips that could be a smile. “There’s some questions we want to ask him.” He walked over to the stairs, looked down them. Gavin’s hand tightened over hers.

  She cried, “You’re not going to walk down fourteen flights, are you?”

  “No, Miss Williams.” He turned and this time his lips did smile slightly. “I’ll bother your elevator man.” He went back into the kitchen. She and Gavin followed. With her free hand she shot the bolt, Gavin still held the other hand tightly.

  It was Jones who led the way to the foyer. He wanted to say more than goodnight but with Gavin there, taking part in the pretense, he couldn’t. He had to agree to her story, a jealous lover, just because it might be the true one. He said, “If this man should call on you again, Miss Williams—” he was choosing his words with care—“I hope you’ll get in touch with us at once.” She couldn’t open the door for him, she couldn’t free her hand from Gavin’s.

  Mr. Jones left the door ajar while he rang for the elevator. She had to stand there in the doorway, Gavin leaning against her, during the long interlude between the push of the bell and the quiet sliding open of the cage. She had to stand there silently urging Mr. Jones to leave but knowing a far heavier ordeal lay ahead. She couldn’t keep small talk moving, not in the face of the silence of the two men. She too went into silence.

  Only when the elevator sound neared were there words again. Jones said, “I may want to ask you some further questions tomorrow, Miss Williams.” Franz had the door open as he spoke. Jones didn’t say goodnight, the door closed on him.

  Gavin’s hand slipped away. She closed her own front door and turned to face him. He tried to smile at her but his face wavered. He swayed; he fell.

  She pushed back the scream in her throat. Gavin fell where the man Hester had fallen. This time there was blood. It was a little red snake crawling from under his shoulder.

  She stood rooted there, helplessly. She tried to speak his name but her mouth was too dry for the utterance of words. And then the witchspell of horror was lifted. She could move, speak. She knelt beside him, tugging at him. She heard herself whispering, “What’s the matter, Gavin? Get up. What’s the matter with you?” She tugged until she had him turned over, until she could see the white mould of his face. Even then she kept on whispering crazily, frantically, “Gavin, what’s the matter? What’s the matter with you?” She knew it was crazy but her will couldn’t silence her tongue.

  Not until she realized: he wasn’t dead. His breath was whistling warm against her hand. He was breathing hard but he was breathing. Her hand moved away from his face. She saw then the blood welling from his shoulder, saw it smeared on her sleeve, looked down and saw the wet stain on the breast of her negligee where she’d leaned across him.

  He had been shot. That was why Jones hadn’t queried about a bullet scar in the foyer; there hadn’t been one. Gavin had been shot but he hadn’t stopped until he’d done what there was to do: get rid of Hester. As if he’d known Jones was coming.

  She couldn’t let him lie here. He must have attention. Who could help her? Not Richards or Franz. There was no possible explanation she could give them for this violence. She knew no one in New York but Bryan Brewer. She wouldn’t involve Bry. She would manage alone, at least until Gavin was conscious and could tell her what to do.

  The fall had evidently broken open the wound. She pushed aside his coat, unbuttoned his shirt. He’d wadded his handkerchief against the hole. It was drenched with blood. She lifted it away, it clung stickily to her hands. She ran through the living room into the bedroom corridor, to the bath. She dropped the handkerchief in the tub, took a small Turkish towel, soaked it in cold water, ran back to the man on the floor. He hadn’t moved. She crushed the wet towel against the blood; he must stop bleeding. And he must be returned to consciousness.

  She left him again, went to the game room closet. Aunt Hortensia’s wine cellar. Among the bottles was one of brandy almost full. Whether it was the right treatment or not she didn’t care. The first aid she’d once known was blacked out in this shock. She carried the bottle swiftly back to where he lay, sat on the floor and lifted his head into the curve of her arm. She pulled the cork with her teeth, forced the bottle into his mouth, tilted it
like an infant’s nursing bottle. She held it rigid until he stirred.

  His voice came faintly. “What … trying … float me?”

  She controlled hers. “You’re hurt,” she said. Stupid, he knew that. “You fainted.” He must know that. She must be calm. She must take care of this. She spoke slowly, carefully. “I will call a doctor. Do you have any preference?”

  He said, “No doctor.” He made his voice come stronger. “I don’t want a doctor. Not tonight.”

  “But you’ve been shot.”

  His hand caught hers. “That’s the reason I can’t have a doctor. You understand?” He was trying to push himself up.

  She cried, “Be careful.” He mustn’t faint again.

  “If you’ll help me to the bathroom where I can wash up.” He was half-propped and his eyes closed.

  She cried again, “Gavin. You mustn’t try it.”

  He opened his eyes and ghost-smiled at her. “I’ll make it. Give me another swig of that brandy. And I’ll make it.”

  She held the bottle, half empty now, to his mouth. He took a pull, handed it back to her.

  “Now if you can help a little. Push that chair to me.”

  She set the bottle down, rose obediently and pushed the square bleached chair to him. She held it, while resting his weight on it, he pushed to his feet. He steadied himself on it.

  “I can make it,” he assured her.

  She took his arm quickly as he started stiff-legged across the floor.

  “You’re forgetting the bottle.” There was a hint of the old humor.

  “I’ll come back for it,” she promised. “After I get you to bed.”

  “Bed?”

  She led him through the white living room to the bedroom corridor.

  “I can’t go to bed. Too much to do.”

  She said, “You’re insane if you go out again tonight. There’s a spare bedroom. You can have it.”

  “Have you no reputation?” He definitely smiled now.

  She pushed him into the bathroom. He sank down on the edge of the tub.

  “Slip your good arm out of the jacket,” she ordered. She helped him. “I’ve jeopardized my reputation completely tonight as it is. Now the shirt. Care of the sick can’t be reputation shattering. You’re too sick to be moved.”

  She let the jacket and shirt slide to the floor, turned on the cold tap. She took the towel away from the hole, soaked it under the cold water.

  He said, “I can’t see the damn place, too high. Is it bad?”

  She held the sopping towel to the bleeding. “It could have been worse. A little up and over and it would have severed the jugular. Lower—” She frowned. “The bullet’s in there.”

  “And it’s going to stay there tonight. I want a look.” He tottered to the long mirror, peered at the place. “Plenty of men still walking around with bullets in them. Got any iodine?”

  “I’m certain—yes.” She opened the medicine cabinet. “There’s three bottles of it here.” Aunt Hortensia evidently was one with Towner. Buying a bottle of the stuff whenever she scratched her finger in town. Thereby accumulating a shelf of little brown bottles.

  He looked on the shelf. “They’ll have to do. I’ll sit on the tub again. You can pour them on my shoulder.”

  “Pour them on that?” He had again bared the gaping hole.

  “Yeah. Pour ’em. But first the medicine.” His head jerked towards the other room.

  “Yes.” She eyed him. “Don’t faint while I’m gone.”

  “I’m all right now.” He wasn’t; he was lily-colored.

  She half ran to the foyer, and back again with the bottle.

  He held it up. “We’re hard on your brandy.”

  “It isn’t mine. It’s Aunt Hortensia’s.”

  “From the pervading odor, most of Aunt Hortensia’s best went down my neck. On the outside.” He took a long drink, set the bottle on the floor, and gripped the edge of the tub. “Now pour, baby.”

  He slanted back. He didn’t wince, his mouth was set in a smile. She poured into the hole, one bottle, another, the third. He said through clenched teeth, “I sure smell pretty. Brandy, blood and iodine.”

  She gathered the empty flacons. “We should have sulfa.”

  “Before sulfa, it was iodine. And now.” He came to his feet, swayed.

  She supported him again. “The spare bedroom is next door.” The lights were still burning. Aunt Hortensia might have planned it for a man, clean oiled wood, cinnamon and amber striped wools. Eliza put him in the chair.

  He said, “You don’t need to do this,” but his voice was unsteady.

  “I don’t need to.” She folded back the spread, turned down the bed. “I could put you out in the storm. If you didn’t fall on your face and get run over, you’d come down with pneumonia in a couple of days. I don’t want you on my conscience.”

  He tried for a smile. “What’s the good aunt going to say when she discovers a stray male in the spare bedroom?”

  “I think she’d be delighted. Especially one with a real bullet in him. Unfortunately she’s in Europe.” She steered him to the bed, eased him down on it. “You needn’t be embarrassed.” She was removing his shoes. “I’ve nursed sick men before.” She unfastened his trousers, pulled them off. His eyes were closed, his face set. “I’m sorry I’ve no pajamas to offer you. This is strictly a woman household. Small size women, unfortunately for you.”

  She covered him. She didn’t know if he heard anything she said but she went on talking. “Aunt Hortensia has a box of nembutal. Marked strictly for toothache. I’m sure she’d consider a bullet hole as great an emergency. I’m going to give you a couple now. If that doesn’t work, I’ll give you another.”

  She turned off all the lights but the one bed table lamp. He didn’t open his eyes as she left the room. The nembutal was in her bathroom, reached only through her own bedroom. She hurried for it; she wanted him to have the capsules before he slept. She wanted to make sure he would sleep.

  His eyes were closed when she returned. He opened them before she spoke. He said haltingly, “I haven’t said thanks. Thanks.”

  “Take this. We’ll talk in the morning.”

  He took the capsules from her, swallowed water from the glass she held. He smiled. His eyes were blurred but they made a valiant attempt to charm. “You’d better get rid of those bloody clothes.”

  She’d forgotten her own appearance. She looked now at the sticky drying blotches. She had better get them out of sight quickly. If Jones came in now he’d think Renfro Hester had been slaughtered. Jones wasn’t coming in again tonight. No one else was coming in here tonight. She’d had enough. The doors were locked; no one but a window washer could come through a fourteenth story window. And there were no window washers performing at this hour in this rain.

  She wouldn’t change until she’d cleaned up the mess. Gavin Keane seemed to be drifting to sleep. She turned off the lamp. She’d leave his door open, the corridor light on in case he woke in the night. She went back to the bathroom, gathered up the blood-soaked clothes and dropped them in the hamper. She rinsed the stains from the tub, wet a fresh towel and took care of the spots on the tile floor.

  She was afraid to enter the whiteness of the living room. It must be examined, now, tonight. Unbelievably it was unblemished. He’d held the towel to his shoulder as he passed across the rug. The worst was the foyer floor. She knelt and scrubbed at it with the towel. She didn’t know if the dark wood would show stain, if Jones would notice tomorrow. He would come tomorrow, of that she was certain. The warning had been in his farewell tonight.

  Let him come. Tomorrow the box wouldn’t be here. She wouldn’t be here. She and Towner would have moved on. She was certain Towner would appear tomorrow. If Gavin Keane were still here, it was too bad. He hadn’t any business coming in the first place, turning Aunt Hortensia’s shining apartment into a battleground. She wouldn’t be covering her departure by throwing him to the wolves. He’d got himself into this.
She was certain he could get out of it.

  She clenched the towel. It was again her buzzer sounding. She didn’t move. Whoever it was could go away, must go away. She wasn’t opening the door tonight. Whoever it was must be someone she knew, someone who had passed inspection. Jones. Hester? She was rigid while the finger held on the buzzer for a longer period. It couldn’t be Towner Clay. He wouldn’t come to her on a night like this; he’d send for her. Towner was fastidious as a cat.

  The person outside couldn’t know she was here on her knees. The apartments were too well sound-proofed for sounds to carry. Yet she feared her breath, the beat of her heart. Whoever it was would go away, believe she was asleep. Bry? She couldn’t open the door even to Bry Brewer. Not with blood staining her, not with Gavin Keane in the guest bedroom. She started as the buzzer sounded again, longer now, more insistent. She knelt there, her knees ached, and she began to tremble. But she didn’t move. Not until there was silence for a long time in the outer hall.

  She was joint stiff when she rose, turned out the foyer lights, and tiptoed soundlessly into the living room. His coat and hat were still in the game room. She hung them in the wine closet, not wanting to carry them to the coat closet so near the front door. She put out the lights in the kitchen first, next the game room, last the living room, only a step through the door into the lighted corridor.

  She closed the door against the darkness, hurried now to add this towel to the others. He was quiet in the bed when she passed his door. She stood there to make sure of his breathing, of his drugged sleep. In her own room at last, the door closed, she pulled off the hideously stained chiffon robe and gown. They were ruined. A good cleaner—but she wouldn’t dare do anything about it until this business was cleared up. By that time they’d probably be beyond hope.

  She showered to wash away the sticky touch of blood. Clean yellow satin pajamas. Brush her damp hair. Turn back the bed, bed light on, other lights off. And now—