well. “All right! But you stay right here, don't try to come into the apartment, or I swear to God I'll scream for the police!”
“Lord, you're the same silly, melodramatic bitch you always were,” I said sweetly.
Amy left to return seconds later with her purse and a pen. She gave me four tens and a five. Signing the check, I handed it to her casually. “Goodbye, hon.”
“Don't ever come back, Clay!”
“But darling, what was there ever worth coming back for?”
“You dirty unwashed louse!”
“Frigid bit...!” Clark and a tiny naked girl of about fifteen months suddenly stuck their cute heads around the corner. They made a startling pair: the boy looking like me, the girl a copy of Amy. “Thank you for your time, madame. I'm sorry you're not interested in ordering rugs. Perhaps next season. Good day.” I cocked my thumb in a pistol motion at the boy, as I walked toward the elevator, heard him giggle. Then my son shouted, “Bang! Bang! I kill you...!” as Amy slammed the door.
Downstairs I walked several blocks before phoning Nice from a drugstore booth, practically taking all the man's silver. The druggist was open-mouth impressed and I wondered if I was stupidly leaving a trail for the police—I actually didn't wish to involve Amy in anything.
About fourteen dollars and some ten minutes later the call went through: Hank's gallery didn't answer. I couldn't remember his home address—he slept around so damn much—but while I still had an open wire, I had the call switched to Syd's pension, person-to-person. I'd tell her to see Hank, have him call me back at this number at a certain hour tomorrow.
Syd's voice sounded so thin and unreal—long, long distance—as she asked, “Clay, on your way back here? Oh darling, did things work out for us?”
“I haven't been here long enough to see... anybody, yet. Listen to me Syd: you remember that art gallery across from the park, the
“Darling,” she cut in, “the police have been here asking some blasted questions about you. The silly blokes simply must have known you boarded a plane last night, yet they kept asking as if you were responsible for Monsieur Dupre's death. That's the same art gallery, I mean his...?”
“Hank... Henri Dupre is dead?”
“Brutally beaten to death during the night—found him in Mont-Boron, outside Nice. Big item in the bloody papers here.”
“But—what did the police want me for?”
“Exactly what I kept telling the ruddy bureaucrats—you had to be half across the Atlantic when the killing took place. Clay, forget that, what did you phone to tell me?”
“What could the French police possibly...? Syd, honey, I only phoned to say this may take more time than I first thought, and... eh... I didn't want you to worry.”
“Sweet, sweet, Clay darling! Now I know you love me!” Over the phone her voice sounded like a mechanical doll's.
“Yeah. In case I am delayed, why you go on to London, and I'll write you there. Goodnight, Syd.”
“Good, good night, my lover!” Syd made a kissing noise—a kind of animal squeal—as I hung up.
In a sweaty daze, I squared away the overtime charges with the operator, the coins dropping like a slot machine jackpot—in reverse. How could the French cops have connected me with Hank? Or had the
The hell with the
One thing was now clear, when the tall man with the silencer had been looking around the hotel room, the closet, he'd been hunting for
Leaving thedrugstore I moved about aimlessly, my head aching. I hadn't the slightest idea where to go, what to do. I had less than thirty bucks on me. True, I was carrying three millions around...
I swung the little blue duffel bag over my shoulder. I ought to have Robert Parks recite
CHAPTER 8
Riding the subway again gave me a slight sense of security. It wasn't only the protection of the crowd—being on the go always was my tonic. There wasn't any Robert Parks in the phone books, but I found a listing for his lawyer, Maxwell Wyckoff. On the off-chance he hadn't been hospitalized yet, I wanted to see Robert: I needed money—eating and room rent dough. I'd given up on the idea of moving to Europe: soon as the police learned I was Stanley Collins, all ships and planes would be checked. Hell, now I couldn't ever return to my hotel room, cash in my open boat ticket.
Later for Europe—and poor Syd.
There was another reason for seeing Parks: only one way I could contact the syndicate—or even Mr. Ping, if he'd stand still long enough to listen to a proposition before silently blasting away— was via a junkie. A user could put me in touch with his pusher, who could do the take-me-to-your-leader routine until I reached somebody big enough to buy what I had in my duffel bag. Robert was the sole hophead I knew and there was a strong possibility he'd been snowing me over in Villefranche, had been on the junk
Sitting in the reception room of his Wall Street office, I glanced at a fascinating copy of the Law Journal. Wyckoff didn't even ask me into his office —he came out to the reception foyer. “Yes, Mr. Biner?” he asked, a look of distaste on his round face. He shaved too often—the area under his double chin was blotchy.
“I've misplaced Robert's address and he isn't fisted in any phone book or...”
“Young Parks entered a private hospital yesterday. He can't be visited for several weeks.”
“What hospital? Lexington?”
“I'm not at liberty to divulge that. What is it you want, Biner?”
“Can you give me his mother's address?”
“I'll have to know exactly what you wish to see her about, first.”
“Well... when Robert asked me to be his nurse on the trip home, he agreed to pay me. In the excitement of my sudden leaving, I didn't bother to ask for my... pay, and then, at Idlewild, you took him away abruptly. It happens that the sale of one of my pictures, which I was counting on, hasn't come through and I
