again.” He pulled the top open, spilled the sack upside down and watched the flood of rings, brooches and bracelets make a sparkling mound of brilliance on the table between us.
“Paste, pure paste, Mrs. Knapp, but I think they are yours.”
Her hand was shaking when she reached out to touch them. She picked up the pieces one by one, examining them, then shaking her head. “Yes—they’re mine! But where—”
“A pathetic old junkman was trying to peddle them in a pawn-shop. The broker called the cops and we grabbed the guy. He said he found them in a garbage can a long time ago and kept them until now to sell. He figured they were stolen, all right, but didn’t figure he’d get picked up like he did.”
“Make your connection, Pat. So far all you showed was that a smart crook recognized paste jewelry and dumped it.”
His eyes had a vicious cast to them this time. “I’m just wondering about the original gem robbery, the one your agency was hired to prevent. The name was Mr. and Mrs. Rudolph Civac. I’m wondering what kind of a deal was really pulled off there. You sent in Velda but wouldn’t go yourself. I’m thinking that maybe you turned sour way back there and tried for a big score and fouled yourself up in it somehow.”
His hands weren’t showing so I knew one was sitting on a gun butt. I could feel myself going around the edges but hung on anyway. “You’re nuts,” I said, “I never even saw Civac. He made the protection deal by phone. I never laid eyes on him.”
Pat felt inside his jacket and came out with a four-by-five glossy photo. “Well take a look at what your deceased customer looked like. I’ve been backtracking all over that case, even as cold as it is. Something’s going to come up on it, buddy boy, and I hope you’re square in the middle of it.” He forgot me for a moment and turned to Laura. “Do you positively identify these, Mrs. Knapp?”
“Oh, yes. There’s an accurate description of each piece on file and on the metal there’s—”
“I saw the hallmarks.”
“This ring was broken—see here where this prong is off—yes, these are mine.”
“Fine. You can pick them up at my office tomorrow if you want to. I’ll have to hold them until then though.”
“That’s all right.”
He snatched the picture out of my fingers and put it back in his pocket. “You I’ll be seeing soon,” he told me.
I didn’t answer him. I nodded, but that was all. He looked at me a moment, scowled, went to say something and changed his mind. He told Laura good-bye and walked to the door.
Fresh drinks came and I finished mine absently. Laura chuckled once and I glanced up. “You’ve been quiet a long time. Aren’t we going to do the town?”
“Do you mind if we don’t?”
She raised her eyebrows, surprised, but not at all unhappy. “No, do you want to do something else?”
“Yes. Think.”
“Your place?” she asked mischievously.
“I don’t have a place except my office.”
“We’ve been there before,” she teased.
But I had kissed Velda there too many times before too. “No,” I said.
Laura leaned forward, serious now. “It’s important, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“Then let’s get out of the city entirely. Let’s go back upstate to where it’s cool and quiet and you can think right. Would you like to do that?”
“All right.”
I paid the bill and we went outside to the night and the rain to flag down a cab to get us to the parking lot. She had to do it for me because the only thing I could think of was the face in that picture Pat had showed me.
CHAPTER 10
I couldn’t remember the trip at all. I was asleep before we reached the West Side Drive and awakened only when she shook me. Her voice kept calling to me out of a fog and for a few seconds I thought it was Velda, then I opened my eyes and Laura was smiling at me. “We’re home, Mike.”
The rain had stopped, but in the stillness of the night I could hear the soft dripping from the shadows of the blue spruces around the house. Beyond them a porch and inside light threw out a pale yellow glow. “Won’t your servants have something to say about me coming in?”
“No, I’m alone at night. The couple working for me come only during the day.”
“I haven’t seen them yet.”
“Each time you were here they had the day off.”
I made an annoyed grimace. “You’re nuts, kid. You should keep somebody around all the time after what happened.”
Her hand reached out and she traced a line around my mouth. “I’m trying to,” she said. Then she leaned over and brushed me with lips that were gently damp and sweetly warm, the tip of her tongue a swift dart of flame, doing it too quickly for me to grab her to make it last.
“Quit brainwashing me,” I said.
She laughed at me deep in her throat. “Never, Mister Man. I’ve been too long without you.”
Rather than hear me answer she opened the door and slid out of the car. I came around from the other side and we went up the steps into the house together. It was a funny feeling, this coming home sensation. There was the house and the woman and the mutual desire, an instinctive demanding passion we shared, one for the other, yet realizing that there were other things that came first and not caring because there was always later.
There was a huge couch in the living room of soft, aged leather, a hidden hi-fi that played Dvorak, Beethoven and Tchaikovsky and somewhere in between Laura had gotten into yards of flowing nylon that did nothing to hide the warmth of her body or restrain the luscious bloom of her thighs and breasts. She lay there in my arms quietly, giving me all of the moment to enjoy as I pleased, only her sometimes-quickened breathing indicating her pleasure as I touched her lightly, caressing her with my fingertips. Her eyes were closed, a small satisfied smile touched the corners of her mouth and she snuggled into me with a sigh of contentment.
How long I sat there and thought about it I couldn’t tell. I let it drift through my mind from beginning to end, the part I knew and the part I didn’t know. Like always, a pattern was there. You can’t have murder without a pattern. It weaves in and out, fabricating an artful tapestry, and while the background colors were apparent from the beginning it is only at the last that the picture itself emerges. But who was the weaver? Who sat invisibly behind the loom with shuttles of death in one hand and skeins of lives in the other? I fell asleep trying to peer behind the gigantic framework of that murder factory, a sleep so deep, after so long, that there was nothing I thought about or remembered afterward.
I was alone when the bright shaft of sunlight pouring in the room awakened me. I was stretched out comfortably, my shoes off, my tie loose and a light Indian blanket over me. I threw it off, put my shoes back on and stood up. It took me a while to figure out what was wrong, then I saw the .45 in the shoulder holster draped over the back of a chair with my coat over it and while I was reaching for it she came in with all the exuberance of a summer morning, a tray of coffee in her hands, and blew me a kiss.
“Well hello,” I said.
She put the tray down and poured the coffee. “You were hard to undress.”
“Why bother?”
Laura looked up laughing. “It’s not easy to sleep with a man wearing a gun.” She held out a cup. “Here, have some coffee. Sugar and milk?”
“Both. And I’m glad it’s milk and not cream.”
She fixed my cup, stirring it too. “You’re a snob, Mike. In your own way you’re a snob.” She made a face at me and grinned. “But I love snobs.”
“You should be used to them. You travel in classy company.”
