“And yes,” he added, “I would look twice, though it may not be quite brotherly to say so.”
They gazed at each other through the predawn murk. Neither flinched from the frankness of it. Then a spot of color appeared on his unshaven cheek, and Julia felt an answering heat on her own. He was right. It was time they said good night.
CHAPTER 26
For three long days Julia sputtered, uncertain of what to do next. She wandered Philip’s apartment, checked on her crated household and studio in Brooklyn, and listened with half an ear to an interminable Wagner recital all Sunday afternoon, yet nothing could distract her from her own uselessness. Since her graceless exit early Friday morning from Wallace’s home (and arms), she’d had no word from him. Someone had telephoned on Saturday to say he’d been called away to Albany and was not expected home until late next weekend. She’d felt a chill at the news. On Sunday Kessler’s grace period would end.
How could Wallace leave the city with just seven days remaining before a horde of police swept through Harlem for the fugitive Eva and Jerome? More troubling, why hadn’t he telephoned? She knew his affairs were many and widespread, some perhaps as pressing as Eva’s fate, but surely he understood the depth of Julia’s concern—not to mention the privileges of their new, if yet unconsummated, intimacy.
On Monday Julia accepted that she had no choice but to trust Wallace’s word that Eva was safe somewhere. All she could do now for her friend was distract Kessler with a better suspect. That pitched her back to the vexing mystery of who had killed Timson, which led to the missing manuscript. Her best guess—Jerome—had fizzled. She’d seen his desperation. He’d never write across old newsprint if he had a stack of blank verso pages to hand. But neither Eva nor Wallace had it either. Goldsmith? She had no way of knowing.
Julia’s best—her only—lead was to follow the thread of Duveen’s drunken boast that Harlem Angel had resurfaced. He’d denied it in the next breath—No, no, no, only a flutter of wings. Was it gibberish? Possibly, but beneath his antics Duveen was remarkably canny. She needed to poke around in his apartment for some clue to what he’d meant. Did he have the manuscript or know who did? Was he in touch with Eva? “A flutter of wings” was not much, but it did stir a faint breeze. In danger of screaming if she didn’t do something soon, Julia spent the afternoon walking to Central Park and back, formulating an idea.
The buzzing doorbell raised muffled sounds from deep inside Duveen’s apartment. Several moments passed before the door opened a crack. Duveen peered through.
“Jaunty Kippers,” he said. “Quelle surprise. But not a good time.” He began to close the door.
Someone else was there. A wild thought occurred: Eva?
Julia put out a hand to stop the door. “Wait.” A glissade of falsetto laughter—definitely not Eva’s—from at least two rooms away gave her a pretty good idea of what she’d interrupted, and her cheeks heated with embarrassment. Still, she had to get inside. In just six days Kessler would launch his angry search.
“I think I left something important here last week.” She slid her foot forward.
“Come back tomorrow,” Duveen said. “Toodle-oo!”
“It’s a copy of my first Capriole book. I brought it to show Logan Lanier and think I left it behind in your study. I’ve been frantic to find it. I can’t rest until I know it’s safe.”
“If I see it, I’ll give you a jingle.” He bobbed a fingertip at her as he eased the door shut.
She gasped when it pinched her shoe against the jamb. Duveen released her foot with an apology, but through the same four-inch gap as before.
“You’ll forget I’m even here. I’ll look quietly, and when I find it, I’ll let myself out. Please, Pablo.” She resorted to a face of hapless innocence, a look she carried off rather poorly but which could still wilt men over forty, even men like Duveen.
He chewed his lower lip, not persuaded. In fact, he looked on the verge of genuine irritation, in which case she’d never get across his threshold.
“I thought I might also take a look at that essay you asked me about,” she said. “The piece you thought might be right for Capriole?”
His eyes brightened. “Really?” Then they clouded as a distant voice whined for him to come back. “Lunch tomorrow?” Duveen suggested.
“I’m not free tomorrow,” she lied. “I’m meeting with another author, a poet I’m quite keen to publish. If she likes my work as much as I like hers, well, then I won’t need to see your essay. I just thought that since I was here anyway—” Her sentence had nowhere to go, but fortunately it was snatched up by Duveen’s vanity.
“Right,” he said, opening the door. “One’s art must come first.”
He swept the orange-lined skirt of his silver dressing gown to welcome her in with a matadorian flourish. Voluminous pyjama trousers flowed out from below his robe. “We have company, Sweet Pea,” he called out.
It was a conversation from a few weeks back that normally she’d make a point to forget. When he’d asked about her Capriole Press, she’d replied with ruthless modesty, saying only that she hoped to commence with a fitting new project once her studio was ready. She spoke obliquely because she feared how he might react.
As he did. Like most writers, his eyes bloomed with avarice. Would she consider something of his? A frightfully special piece. “It’s about my late cat, Leopold. A majestic fellow. Readers will adore him,” he cajoled. “A prince among pookins. That’s my title, you know.”
At that Julia had latched onto a passing conversation, hoping the flow of gin would rinse the notion from Duveen’s
