Gubner had decided not to hit me. But my agency was in the way. He shook his head slowly.
I had to commit. “OK, you think someone at my place tipped Lasko. But there’s no way you could ever find out. I’m going to try.”
Gubner sat down as if someone had sucked the starch out of him. He sat, elbows on knees, with his head half-covered in his hands. Then he raised a blank, weary face. “I’ll call Valerie in the morning. Whatever she wants. If she’ll see you, OK. If she wants to fight you, I’ll fight you. Either way.”
“All right.”
Gubner looked back at the wall. “Now take off, Chris. I don’t want to see you again tonight.”
I knew what he meant. I left without a word.
I paced my room restlessly, unnerved by the stillness, the sense of being alone. I had lawyer’s nerves and instincts, for maneuvering and bluffing. But always within the rules. The rules made lawyers safe; they cut you off from the nasty parts of life. Such as murder. Lehman’s mangled body had made me feel worthless and frightened.
I tried thinking. The first thing I thought was that I was afraid of dying, afraid that if I kept up someone would kill me. That didn’t say much for me, but there it was. I tried thinking about someone else.
There was McGuire. He was in touch with Catlow. Feiner and Mary Carelli had known I was in Boston; only McGuire had known I was going to the Common. Perhaps he hadn’t counted on murder. If he wanted to be a commissioner, that might be reason to call Catlow. And then Lasko would know where to look for Lehman.
Then there were Woods and Mary. And Woods was close to the White House. Which was close to Lasko. I would have to move carefully. Robinson wouldn’t help me with that. No one would.
Finally, I thought about Lehman. I felt a belated, worthless sympathy for the man who had been. Perhaps he had been pathetic, but he had been alive, and trying. Then he had chosen to meet me. Not about a stock manipulation, but something else. And now he was dead.
It came down to that. Maybe if I hadn’t seen it, or hadn’t been using him, I could have walked away. But I had helped get him killed. So I would try to find the reason. I needed to.
The empty room around me was strange and hostile. I couldn’t sleep.
Eleven
The next morning it rained, a bleak grey drizzle. I called room service for coffee, but skipped the paper. I didn’t want to read about Lehman. The cold print would remind me of what I had seen without telling me what I didn’t know.
I finished the coffee, showered, shaved, and packed. Everything I did seemed banal-rote skills learned in another life. I caught myself. The notion that Lehman’s death had made me unique was inane, as indulgent as self- pity. I waited for Gubner.
He called about 12:30. Lehman’s wife would see me. I felt relieved and unhappy at once. Barging in on new widows to riffle their husbands’ papers wasn’t appetizing work. Just necessary. So I rented a car and met Gubner in front of the Ritz. It was 2:15.
Gubner was less than cheery. He exhausted his supply of chit-chat by giving me the address. I picked my way out of Boston toward Lehman’s home.
Lehman had lived in a white frame two-story in an oak-lined neighborhood full of them. The affluent conformity spoke of executive good sense and sound property values. It seemed safe and very polite, right down to the green lawns, as flawless as astro-turf. Murder seemed as alien as crab grass. It jarred me that this insipid Valhalla was the pay-off for Lehman’s little Faustian bargain. I wondered how his wife would find it now.
Gubner and I parked in the asphalt driveway and followed the walk which cut through Lehman’s perfect lawn to the front door. Gubner paused glumly, then jabbed the door-bell. Lehman’s wife answered. Gubner embraced her silently, then said a few soft words. I watched them. The hug was stiff, more reverential than personal, as if done in honor of Lehman. Gubner disengaged, his arms hanging awkwardly at his side. I sensed that his affection for Lehman did not extend to the wife. I stepped in.
“Mrs. Lehman,” I said softly, “I’m Christopher Paget.”
She turned. “Hello, Mr. Paget. I’m Valerie Lehman. Please come in.” She extended her hand. Her eyes were hollow, but her hand was cool and dry, like the rest of her. Her neatly coiffed hair had gone silver grey. She had a fox-pretty face, and her trim figure spoke through the silk blouse and tailored slacks of exercise and self-denial. She was so put together it was spooky. She could have been going to bridge club.
“Mrs. Lehman, I’m sorry to be here and sorrier about your husband. Very sorry.” I spoke slowly, hoping my words would sink in. I gave them time. “I appreciate your letting me come with Marty.”
Her face had a curious blankness. “Thank you.”
I forged on, feeling useless. “If I can do anything for you, I’ll be happy to. Otherwise, I’ll just stay out of your way.”
I was hoping to disappear to wherever Lehman had kept his files. But her mannequin calm had turned to tautness. “You want Alec’s papers, Mr. Paget. Why?”
I picked my words. “Your husband was helping me with an investigation. Apparently he was aware of some things that concerned him.”
Her brows knit at the word “concerned.” “Alec never liked this job. He never liked this house.” Her voice had an odd accusatory tone, as if their disputes had survived her husband.
I preferred not to pursue it. We stood in the hallway, looking into the living room at the fruits of installment credit. The Lehmans had decorated at some cost. In one corner was a roll-top desk, antique. The rugs were a quiet expensive beige. An off-white couch sat behind a rich mahogany coffee table. I peered past it into the dining room. Under the crystal chandelier stood an ornate carved dining table. Probably Italian, minimum three thousand dollars. Not my taste, but costly. Lehman’s death gave it all a curious museum quality.
His wife had followed my inspection. Her low ashy voice carried abstract fury, anger at Lehman for his desertion. “This job saved Alec from being a failure. But I had to push him to take it, as if it were bad to be successful. He acted so resentful sometimes.” There was a submerged question in her voice, as if she were vaguely aware that she had gone wrong somewhere. But she would never quite figure it out. And it wasn’t my place to assist her.
“Perhaps if Marty could show me where your husband kept his things.”
But she wasn’t through yet. Her distracted mind skipped along the surface of things from one point to the next. Her eyes locked on me as if I were the answer to her confusion. “Was Alec killed, Mr. Paget? The police were so vague.”
Real grief lit the bewilderment. Her moods were quicksilver; she hadn’t decided how she really felt. After they buried him, the reality would hit her hard. I didn’t want to make it worse.
I shook my head. “All I know is that he was hit by a car.”
Gubner moved close to her. “I’ll show Mr. Paget to Alec’s study.” He nodded to me.
“Thank you, Mrs. Lehman,” I said. She stood, looking confused, as if life had moved too quickly. We left her there.
Gubner steered me through the hallway toward the stairs. On the way, we passed the family room. Two boys, about twelve and ten, were sitting with a stout grey-haired woman. They were staring at a color television, looking lost. I followed Gubner up the stairs, feeling a little like a B-52 pilot brought down to view his work. It was easier when you looked from a distance. I told myself that I hadn’t asked Lasko to do whatever he’d done, or Lehman to be weak. It didn’t help.
Lehman’s study was a footnote to affluence, hidden at the end of a long hallway which ran past the bedrooms and bathrooms. Apparently it had not been part of the family house and garden tour; it was a compact cubicle, with a scratched maple desk, one dingy green chair, and an old Royal typewriter. It was probably the most honest room in the place. Gubner surveyed it silently, standing with his hands shoved in his pockets.
“Show me his papers and you can go back down,” I said finally.
He gave me a sharp, reproachful look, as if I were a grave robber. “Valerie says that they’re all in his desk drawers,” he said in a flat tone. “Enjoy yourself.” He turned and left.
