Worst Fears Realized

“I haven’t decided,” she said. “Why haven’t you asked me any questions about my family?”

“I told you, I’m psychic; I already know what I need to.”

“You mustn’t joke about such things with an Italian girl; we take them seriously.”

“I will always know more about you than you will want me to know,” Stone said, and he hoped she would believe it, even if it weren’t true. He thought he saw a tiny flicker of fear in her eyes.

“Please,” she said.

They finished their first course, and Stone took their entree, a crown roast of lamb, from the hot box under the table. Stone tasted the red wine and poured it.

“It’s not Italian,” she said, sniffing her glass.

“It’s a California wine, perhaps made by Italians; it’s called Far Niente.”

“Dolce far niente,” she said. “Sweet nothings.” She sipped it. “It’s delicious, and it’s not even Italian.”

“Does everything have to be Italian?”

“Not everything, but Papa believes that Italy is the most important country in the world, even though we have been here for four generations. He tends to think of anything not Italian as slight, of little weight.”

“Do you feel the same way?”

“I am more American, but I understand his feelings.”

“There is nothing Italian about me; what does your father think about that?”

“You are not wine or food or art or architecture.”

“I’m not Catholic, either.”

“He is not so concerned about that. In a strange way, he feels the family is protected by my divorce.”

“Widowhood would free you, would it not?”

She smiled a little. “You are clever. The only reason my former husband is still alive is that my father does not want me to be free to marry again.”

“I see.”

“Why did you telephone today?”

“Your father gave me the number, in case I needed his help.”

“And now you do?”

“Yes.”

“Does Dino know?”

“Dino doesn’t want to know.”

“Your call was precipitated by the incident of last evening?”

“Yes.”

“And where is the beautiful painter?”

“She has returned to her native England. She will not be back.”

“Are you sad?”

“Less so than I was this morning.”

“What help do you want from my father?”

“You know that this Mitteldorfer has disappeared?”

She nodded. “Papa has told me what he knows.”

“Dino had a little flap with the captain of the guard at Sing Sing; because of that, I am unable to get any information from the prison that might help me find him. That, and the fact that Mitteldorfer managed the financial assets of the captain and the warden, and they are, shall we say, kindly disposed toward him.”

“You want information from the prison?”

“Yes. There must have been prisoners who were close to Mitteldorfer; he was there for twelve years. Perhaps one or more of them might know something about his plans after he left prison.”

“This can be done,” she said. “It will take a few days, perhaps a week. Do you think you can stay alive that long?”

“I’ll do my best.”

“We seem to have finished our business and our dinner,” she said. “Can we go back to bed, now?”

“We haven’t had dessert.”

“I’ll give you dessert,” she said.

38

STONE WOKE AROUND SEVEN, HAVING NOT had much sleep, and found Dolce gone. There was a note on the dresser: “Thank you for an interesting evening. Let me know when you need more information, or another interesting evening. Dolce.” Her phone numbers, office and home, were below.

Stone ordered some breakfast and read the Times. Again, he saw the theatrical advertisement by Judson Palmer. He cut it out and put it in his money clip. He checked out of the hotel at nine and ordered his car from the garage, checking the glove compartment to be sure the pistol was there, before relocking it. He consulted the theatrical ad; Palmer’s theater was on West Forty-fourth Street, west of Sixth Avenue. He parked in the Hippodrome Garage at Forty-fourth and Sixth and walked to the theater. A janitor was sweeping out the lobby.

“Good morning,” Stone said.” Can you tell me where to find Judson Palmer? Where his offices are?”

“They’re right up there,” the janitor said, pointing upward. He indicated a door. “Through there and up the stairs one flight.”

Stone walked upstairs and emerged into a shabby waiting room, where a young woman was sitting at a desk, eating a Danish and drinking coffee. “Good morning,” he said.

She had to swallow before she could speak. “Hi. What can I do for you?”

“I’d like to see Mr. Palmer.”

“Are you an actor? We’re already cast; we open this weekend.”

“No, it’s a matter of personal business.”

“Does he owe you money?”

“No, nothing like that.”

Stone heard footsteps coming up the stairs, and he turned to see a man in his fifties wearing a bush jacket walk into the room, carrying a brown bag. He was overweight and looked hungover. “Mr. Palmer?” he said.

“We’re already cast,” Palmer said, opening the door to his office. “Leave your picture and r/esume with the girl; I’ll consider you for the next show.”

“I’m not an actor,” Stone said. “My name is Stone Barrington.”

“Sounds like an actor,” Palmer said, pausing in the doorway. “What do you want?”

“It’s in connection with a man named Mitteldorfer.”

Palmer winced. “Are you a reporter?”

“No, and I think you should hear what I have to tell you.”

“All right, come on in,” Palmer said.

Stone followed him into the room, which was decorated with posters from Palmer’s previous shows. The place had a temporary look; Stone thought that Palmer must move his office from theater to theater, with his shows.

Palmer indicated a chair, then he took coffee and a bagel from his brown bag. “That’s a name I haven’t heard for a long time,” he said. “What’s that guy got to do with me?”

Stone sat down. “I’m aware that you had an affair with his wife some years back, and that, as a result, Mitteldorfer murdered her.”

“I won’t confirm or deny that,” Palmer said. “Are you a lawyer?”

“Yes, but I’m not here in a legal capacity. I used to be a police officer; I arrested Herbert Mitteldorfer for his wife’s murder. At the time, we didn’t know with whom she’d been having an affair, so we didn’t talk to you.”

“Why now? Mitteldorfer’s in prison, isn’t he?”

“No.”