'Look, I'm sorry if I've insulted you. You're right. It's none of my business if you don't like cake. Truce?'
Her suspicious gray eyes probed his. The mischief that had lurked there a few minutes ago was gone now and he seemed serious again.
'I think it might be better if you worked with someone else in the department,' she said doubtfully.
'I don't. Besides, your partner's still out and your captain mentioned you weres hort-handed. Why don't we head on up to the Maintenon,' he suggested craftily, 'and get Flythe's fingerprints?'
Sigrid glanced at her watch. Roman usually served Sunday's main meal in the middle of the day. If she stretched it out a little, she could probably miss his anised veal completely.
'First we'll drop in on Molly Baldwin,' she told him.
Behind them, the crimson dragon with the golden face stalked sea gulls far out over the water.
18
DURING the week, Manhattan lives up to the image set forth in a thousand books, movies, songs, and sermons. It is indeed a money-grubbing, smart-talking, elbow-shoving, glitzy, rude, sophisticated, dirty, elegant, international metropolis. But on Sunday mornings, it becomes an astonishingly small town. Except for the Times Square area which never completely shuts down, the rest of the island grows hushed and lazy. Wall Street is a ghost canyon, footsteps echo through Grand Central Station, families stroll leisurely to church along empty sidewalks, and best of all, if you happened to be a nervous young sailor who learned to drive on a dirt road in rural New Hampshire, the streets unclog on Sunday mornings and become wide boulevards.
He and Lieutenant Knight had dropped the skinny lady police officer off at a green door in a high brick wall, theng one searching through the food stores along Hudson Street.
'Water biscuits?' he'd asked.
'Big round crackers,' explained Lieutenant Knight, and gave him a brief history of what food used to be like on clipper ships.
By the time they returned with her crackers, the lady officer had changed from jeans into gray slacks and a navy blue jacket. Soon they were zipping along up Tenth Avenue, catching green lights all the way.
Now this was more like it, thought the yeoman.
Tenth Avenue became Amsterdam Avenue as they sped north paralleling the park. Upon approaching the West Nineties, he slowed down and eventually turned left to pull up before the address Lieutenant Harald gave him.
'We shouldn't be long,' said Lieutenant Knight as the two officers got out of the car.
In fact, they were back in less than three minutes, the time it took to lean on the intercom button in the lobby until they roused one of Molly Baldwin'sl ate-partying roommates and were told that Miss Baldwin herself had left for work at least two hours ago.
'Never mind,' said Alan Knight when Sigrid started to apologize for taking them out of the way. 'It was a good idea to try to catch her off guard. To the hotel?'
'To the hotel,' she agreed.
'To the hotel!' echoed their neophyte driver. With renewed confidence, he boldly cut across Central Park, cruised down Lexington Avenue, and swerved in at the hotel's curb with style and panache..
It was exactly three minutes past eleven.
They found the Bontemps Room much as they had left it yesterday, although some of the older players beneath the glittering chandeliers were beginning to look a bit weary around the edges. They had been split into two groups after the mid-morning break at ten thirty. The smaller section competed for the mainp rize, now reduced to seven thousand dollars; the others were playing for small but numerous consolation pots.
Sigrid saw that Jill Gill was still in the running for the main prize. The entomologist gave her a distracted wave, but her attention was all on the cards.
'They have to keep at it if we're going to finish by five,' Ted Flythe told them. 'The breaks are supposed to last fifteen minutes, but it takes almost a half hour to get them settled down again.'
As they spoke, Sigrid tried to visualize him without a beard, as he might have looked fifteen years ago without bags under his hooded eyes, his dark hair longer and without the beginning traces of gray. One thing about his habit of smoothing his beard into a sharp point: his fingers would leave nice clear prints.
If he were Fred Hamilton, the main thing was not to alert him of her suspicions. Let him continue in this role of laid-back aging roue.
After a few desultory remarks, she took out a fresh white index card and, casually holding it by the edges, said, 'Would you mind jotting down your address andt elephone number, Mr. Flythe, in case we should need to contact you after the tournament's over?'
'Sure, Lieutenant, but let me give you my card.'
He pulled a thin leather case from an inner pocket of his jacket and extracted a card with a Graphic Games logo and his business address on the front. He turned it over and scribbled down a number in the East nineties.
'I'm on the go a lot, all up and down the East Coast,' he warned, handing Sigrid the card, 'but the office usually knows how to reach me.'
Sigrid thanked him and carefully stowed his card between the pages of her note pad. Before leaving the house earlier, she had called headquarters and set in motion a rush request for Fred Hamilton's fingerprints. With even minimal efficiency, they should be able to do a rough comparison by tomorrow morning.
The ranks of cardplayers semed to have thinned slightly. Flythe told them that several of the losers had opted to drop out after elimination rather than playf or the consolation prizes. Sigrid spotted Vassily Ivanovich among the also-rans, as well as several others she had helped to interview the day before.
'We were looking for Miss Baldwin,' said Alan Knight. 'Is she here?'
'Yeah, she's been in and out all morning.' Flythe looked around vaguely. 'Talking to the busboys and things. I haven't seen her since the break, though.'
'Did you remember to bring those copies of the first pairings?' asked Sigrid.
Flythe nodded. 'As a matter of fact, I gave them to Miss Baldwin. I didn't realize you people were going to be back today, so I thought she could pass them along to you.'
There was no sign of Molly Baldwin in the room and when they inquired among the green-jacketed busboys standing around the hospitality table, they met with shrugs and blank expressions.
In the large serving pantry beyond the service door, they found the room steward somewhat testy because a fresh tray of coffee cups had not arrived from below. A cribbage tournament might not drawt he Maintenon's usual class of patrons, but Mr. George scrupulously preserved the standards. Not even for cribbage players would he allow Styrofoam cups to sully the Bontemps Room. Coffee at the Maintenon was dispensed from silverplated urns into china cups.
'So where are the clean cups?' shrilled Mr. George. 'And where are Johnson and LeMays?'
His question was partially answered as the rumble of a service cart and the tinkling of china heralded the arrival of cups through the doors of the serving pantry. The cart was pushed by a single busboy.
Mr. George's patience was frayed. 'Where's Johnson?'
'He wasn't with me,' the youth shrugged. 'I ain't seen him since break.'
'I'm sorry, Lieutenant,' said the distracted steward when Sigrid persisted with her questions about Molly Baldwin. 'I've got my hands full here and I really can't say where Ms. Baldwin is right now.
He looked around sharply. 'LeMays, I need two dozen of those cups lined upb eside the urn. Ruiz, you and Pacabelli can start with the ashtrays again. You know Madame Ronay's rules: no more than three butts before you give them a clean one. What if she comes back and sees that mess out there? Hop to it!'
Threatened with La Reine's displeasure, the busboys hopped.
Sigrid and Alan Knight followed them back into the Bontemps Room. Sigrid was struck again by the disparity between the room's eighteenth-century regality and its decidedly twentieth-century proletarian clientele.
As they entered from the rear, one of the tall, gold-tipped doors at the front opened and revealed their
