Hannity smiled again. “Nice speech, miss. Sure, there’s johnnies who’d plug their mamas as soon as sneeze, if the price was right or their heels hot enough. But we know how they work, and this just don’t have that feel.”
“If the safe was empty,” Julia said, scrambling for alternatives, “then her jewelry case is missing too.”
Philip spoke thoughtfully, as if puzzling out a riddle. Julia turned to see he’d risen from his corner, apparently risking Hannity’s ire to enter the fray. He’d heard her speak of Eva; he would know the extent of Julia’s alarm. “From what I understand, the lady is a true star in the nightclub firmament. She no doubt had some expensive pieces, much more valuable than any novel. A thief could have been after them.”
“Maybe so, sir,” Hannity conceded, in a new respectful tone. “We’re checking on it.”
“But Sergeant,” Austen said, “you can’t seriously think people murder for novels. They’re not like bootleg rum or crooked numbers. Nobody kills for them. And besides, Eva’s book might not even sell. Publishers are incurable optimists—we always think our next titles will sell up a storm, but they almost never do. Most likely Eva’s book will get a few good reviews, probably written by Goldsmith’s friends, and a respectable but hardly spectacular sale. It’s her second or third book Arthur’s really investing in. That’s the way it works. There’s little money or power in the business, believe me. Definitely not worth killing for.”
“Why on earth,” Julia added, “would you go after writers when the man’s world was crawling with criminals?”
“Who said anything about going after writers?” Hannity said. “Though now you mention it, we wouldn’t mind talking to Miss Pruitt. But it’s a funny thing. She’s done a bunk. No one’s seen her since about four this morning.”
CHAPTER 12
“She’s missing?” Julia stumbled as she caught her toe on the leg of the coffee table. “She could be hurt, or in danger. And you’re wasting time with this twaddle? Why aren’t you trying to find her?”
“Oh, the boys are doing their best,” Hannity said. “But it looks like she’s hopped it. Her boyfriend too. Timson’s got a hole in his head, and the Queen of Sheba and her manuscript are nowhere to be seen. We figure she’s holed up somewhere working like mad on the last chapter, the one where she dreams up how she didn’t pop the guy.”
“No. Eva Pruitt is not a killer, no matter what it may look like.”
He snorted. “They never are. Just tell me, you know where she might be?”
If she did, she’d be on her way to dress and go find her herself. But she could only shrug.
Scraping his thumb along the corner of his mouth, Hannity sized up her poker skills. He handed her a small card. “Well, if you hear from her, telephone this number in the next tick.”
Julia covered her mouth as Philip showed the policemen out. “Good God.”
Austen let out a low whistle. “Poor Eva.”
“You don’t think she killed him, do you? No. I don’t believe it for a minute.”
Philip returned and fetched the empty cup from beside his corner chair. “So much for Sunday ennui. You’ve rattled the day something fierce, my dear. Who could read Herodotus after that?”
Julia scoffed. Eight months ago she would have seethed at such a cavalier remark. Now she understood the teasing in fact revealed how clearly he perceived the trouble. She introduced Austen, and the men nodded to one another.
Philip poured himself coffee. “What now, young ones?”
“Actually,” Austen said, wincing at the mantel clock, “I need to find a taxi. Though I’ll look a sad rummy heading home like this.” He smoothed a hand over his rumpled sleeve.
“Hardly the first gent to do so,” Philip murmured.
“You don’t have to leave yet?” Julia’s thoughts were still whirling. After leaving Duveen and the Clarks, they’d steadied their nerves over passable gin fizzes and talked over the stormy scene they’d witnessed. Now, in the sober light of day, she hoped Austen could help her make some sense of this new thunderclap. Timson’s death was a shock, but Eva’s disappearance was more disturbing. Hannity had stirred up a hundred questions and provided precious few answers.
“Afraid so,” he said. “I’m boarding the Aquitania tomorrow. I’ll be gone for eighteen days, and I have loads to do before then. Lousy timing!”
Julia had forgotten about his imminent trip. But he was already palming smooth his tousled hair, and there was nothing to do but wish him a good journey, escort him to the front door, and send him off with a distracted farewell.
When she returned to the library, Philip sat slouched in his usual chair. “I leave you unattended for one evening,” he said, “and you land yourself in another murder. What a menace you are, my dear.”
Eerily enough, he was right. Just last fall they’d sat in this very room discussing another sudden death. Timson’s demise, however, was a very different kettle of fish from Naomi Rankin’s.
She dropped onto the sofa. “It may be amusing to you, but Eva Pruitt is a friend. Timson’s a brute who’s probably dispatched a few men himself, but I’m sick for Eva. She may be hurt, or—” She tried to pick up her coffee cup. It rattled in her hand, and she returned it to the saucer.
Her mind raced with thoughts of her enigmatic new friend. How their arms had brushed in conspiratorial closeness the night they’d met—a scant week ago. The easy intimacy of their conversation as Julia had attempted to clean Eva’s dress, and their
