He breakfasted slowly, reading the night’s reports and half listening to the radio news bulletin.
The Dow-Jones had gone up on a White House rumour that there would be a $6 billion public works programme. But in specific areas like aircraft and electronics share prices had fallen sharply in expectation of defence budget cuts. Some commentators were forecasting that the cuts would be more like wounds. A warehouse fire near Flatbush Avenue was not yet under control but it was reckoned that the American ski team on its way to Val d’Isère had never been stronger. The Vice-President-Elect was expected to make a trip to European capitals immediately after the inauguration.
When he had finished eating he called for the tapes of the tap on the girl’s telephone and laced them up on the Revox. There was very little traffic except for the appointments made with her from a series of spurious calls by Nolan’s men to ensure that there was no interruption in the operation.
At four o’clock he pressed the elevator button for the top floor of the apartment block on 38th, and a few seconds later he was outside the door of P4.
He pressed the bell and waited. The girl who opened the door was breathtakingly beautiful, even more beautiful than in the photographs taken by the surveillance team. She was wearing an emerald-green towelling bath-robe that clashed vibrantly with her startlingly blue eyes.
“Yes?”
“Miss Jennifer Larsen?”
“It’s appointments only.” And the door swung to. Nolan’s foot prevented it from closing.
“My name is Nolan, I’m from NYPD. I’d like to talk to you.”
He saw her hesitate, and he thrust forward an NYPD identity card and badge. She leaned forward to check the photograph and then looked up at his face.
“What do you want to talk about?”
“I think it would be better if you allowed me to come inside.”
Slowly she opened the door and stood aside as he walked in. He smiled.
“My apologies for the wet, but it’s still snowing.”
She shrugged. “Take your coat off. Hang it in the closet.”
When he walked back into the living-room the girl was sitting on a large settee, her legs curled under her, and a drink in her hand.
“Help yourself,” she said, and gestured with her glass to the whisky bottle and glasses.
“I’m hoping that you can help us, Miss Larsen.”
“Jenny. Just call me Jenny. What’s it all about?”
“Do you know a Mr. Dempsey? Andrew Dempsey?”
She reached for a pack of cigarettes, took one out and lit it with a match. When there was a cloud of smoke between them she spoke.
“No.”
“Do you know your rights, Jenny?”
“Jesus, am I supposed to know every guy who comes here?”
The blue eyes were angry and defiant.
“I’ll have to ask you to get dressed, Jenny, and come with me.”
She watched the smoke curling up from her cigarette.
“Are you charging me?”
“No. Not yet, anyway. I just want you to answer a few questions.”
“What about?”
“Mr. Dempsey.”
“What about him?”
“Why does he come here?”
She turned her head and closed one eye against the cigarette smoke as she looked at him reflectively.
“You know what I do, mister. That’s why he comes here.”
“Nothing more than that?”
“Like what?”
“Why does Kleppe come here?”
“Kleppe’s never … who’s Kleppe?”
“He phoned you this morning, Jenny. He said he was sending a man round here with something for Dempsey.”
The big blue eyes looked shocked. “Jesus. You’re tapping my phone.”
“Tell me about Dempsey, Jenny. It’s better for you if you do.”
She pushed a swatch of long blonde hair behind her shoulder and leaned forward to stub out her cigarette. The bath-robe slid from her shoulders so that she was naked to the waist. It was deliberate and effective, no man was going to be completely impervious to the two full mounds and their spiky pink tips. And when his eyes went back to her face she said softly, “Are you a tit man, mister?”
He half smiled. “I’ve never been sure, Jenny. I think I’m kind of an all-rounder. My name’s Nolan, by the way, Pete Nolan.”
She nodded as she must have nodded to hundreds of men, he thought, as they tried to establish their shrunken egos. She lit another cigarette and as she blew the smoke aside she turned to look at him.
“I’ve got two hours, Pete. You could do a lot in two hours.”
“Why have you got two hours?”
“My first date gets here at 6.30.”
“Jenny, all your dates today are policemen. We didn’t want to have problems in that area.”
She stood up and walked to the phone and then waited with the receiver to her ear, her fingers poised over the buttons. Then she put the receiver down slowly and turned to him, white-faced.
“The bastards. He said, ‘New York Police Department, can I help you.’ ”
“Why don’t you sit down, Jenny, and let’s talk.”
She sprawled on the big settee, and closed her eyes as she spoke.
“OK. Talk.”
“How long have you known Dempsey?”
“About ten years.”
“How did you meet him?”
“I was sixteen when I met him. It was at a party at Kleppe’s. Two guys got me smashed and took me in one of the bedrooms. They were taking turns to screw me, and Dempsey came in and chucked them out. I lived with him for about four months and he lent me five grand to set up in this place.”
“Why did he do that?”
She leaned up on one elbow to look at him.
“I wanted to make money, mister. He didn’t mind. He understood. We liked each other but it was like, not love. He was too unhappy then to love anyone, and I was too young; and I knew that because of the way I’m built I could earn a fortune.”
“Why was he unhappy?”
“I don’t really know.” When she saw his disbelief she went on. “It was something that happened in Paris when he was painting there. I think that’s where he met Kleppe. I
