there’s a reporter from the
“But yesterday, he couldn’t get enough of reporters.”
“All I know is, he doesn’t wish to be disturbed.”
“Please call him back.”
“I’m afraid I-”
“Really, it’s important. I have information about his missing wife.”
The clerk hesitated.
“He’ll be very unhappy if he finds out you didn’t give him the message.”
The clerk’s gaze darkened. “One moment.” He walked back to the desk, picked up the phone, pressed numbers, and this time spoke with his back turned so that Holly and Buchanan couldn’t hear what he said. When the clerk pivoted in their direction and set down the phone, he looked irritated. “Mr. Maltin will see you. Come with me.”
They followed the clerk toward a row of elevators, and after they got in, the clerk stared straight ahead, pressing the button for the thirtieth floor. Sure, Buchanan thought. This way, he guarantees that we get off where we’re supposed to be going.
At the thirtieth floor, the clerk waited until Holly rang the bell for Frederick Maltin’s apartment. Only when Maltin opened the door, glowered at Holly and Buchanan, and gestured grudgingly for them to enter did the clerk step back into the elevator.
Buchanan and Holly walked past Maltin, who shut the apartment door impatiently and strode toward the middle of a spacious room.
Spacious was an understatement. The high rectangular room was large enough to hold at least four standard rooms. The wall to the left and the long one directly ahead were a panorama of windows that began at thigh level and went all the way to the ceiling, continuing around the room, giving a spectacular view of Fifth Avenue to the south and Central Park directly across. The furniture, tastefully arranged, was antique. Buchanan had the impression of polished wood and crystal, of expensive fabrics and Oriental rugs, of authentic-looking Cubist paintings. A gleaming grand piano stood in a corner, next to a display of what appeared to be museum-quality ceramics. It wasn’t any wonder that Frederick Maltin had complained about the financial terms of his divorce from Maria Tomez. He was obviously used to luxury.
“I don’t know what information you think you have about my ex-wife, but it isn’t pertinent any longer because I just heard from her.”
Buchanan needed all his discipline not to start asking questions. The scenario made this Holly’s show. She had to carry it.
She did. “Then you must be relieved.”
“Of course. Very much.” Frederick Maltin was a man of medium height and weight, in his middle forties, with a moderate amount of hair and a moderate amount of gray in it. As for the rest of his characteristics, there was nothing medium or moderate about him. His dainty, thin-soled, polished black shoes and meticulously pressed, blended-wool, double-breasted blue suit were obviously foreign, custom-designed, and hand-sewn. His brilliant white shirt and subtle striped tie had contrasting textures of premium silk. It was impossible for Buchanan not to pay attention to Maltin’s diamond cuff links as the man made a show of impatience by checking the time on his diamond-studded Cartier watch. He had a sapphire ring on the small finger of his left hand. All told, it probably cost him twenty thousand dollars to get dressed in the morning.
“The hotel clerk said you needed ten minutes with me, but I can’t spare even that much time,” Maltin continued. His voice was reedy, imperious.
“But surely you’re eager to tell the press the good news,” Holly said. “Yesterday, there was so much commotion about your insistence that something had happened to her. You’ll want everyone to know it was a false alarm.”
“Well, yes,” Maltin said, “of course. I hadn’t. . You’re right. It’s important for you and other reporters to inform her fans that she hasn’t been harmed.”
Holly sounded puzzled. “The way you say that. . It’s as if you haven’t called the media yet.”
“I. . The news just reached me. I’m still adjusting. I’m so relieved, you see.” Maltin removed a burgundy silk handkerchief from the breast pocket of his suit and wiped his brow.
Yeah, you look relieved all to hell, Buchanan thought.
“I haven’t had time to compose myself. To make plans.”
“What did your ex-wife tell you?” Holly asked. “Where has she been for the past two weeks?”
Maltin looked blank. “Away. She told me where, but she doesn’t want me to reveal the precise location. She wants to stay away a while longer. To rest. After this misunderstanding, reporters will swarm all over her if they get the opportunity.”
“Well, can’t you give us a general idea of where she is?”
“France. But that’s all I intend to reveal.”
“Did she explain why she dropped out of sight?”
“She wanted to take a trip. In my impatience about these unfortunate legal matters, I made the mistake of assuming that because I couldn’t contact her, something disastrous must have happened to her.”
As Buchanan surveyed the room again, he smelled the faint odor of cigarette smoke, but there weren’t any ashtrays in this fastidiously maintained room. Nor was there any odor of cigarette smoke on Maltin’s clothes. Buchanan was always amazed that smokers didn’t realize how pervasive the odor of their habit was. In this case, cigarette smoke from a distant area of the spacious apartment drifted in this direction. And Buchanan had the strong conviction that Frederick Maltin not only didn’t smoke but also didn’t approve of anyone smoking in his presence, certainly not in his apartment.
“I’ll make a confession,” Maltin said. “I overreacted because Maria wouldn’t respond to my telephone calls. When she sold her apartment a few weeks ago and seemed to vanish, I was outraged that she had ignored me, that she hadn’t consulted with me. She used to consult with me about everything. I couldn’t imagine she’d be that independent, even though we were divorced. So my pride insisted she must have been the victim of foul play. Ridiculous of me.”
“Yes,” Buchanan said, the first time he’d spoken. “Do you mind if I use your bathroom?”
“Indeed I do. Very much.”
“But this is an emergency. I have to go.”
Buchanan walked across the room, heading toward a door at the far end.
“Wait. What do you think you’re doing?” Maltin exclaimed in outrage. “You can’t. . Stop right there. You stop where you are!”
“But I told you, I need a bathroom.” Buchanan opened the door, entering a tastefully, expensively decorated hallway.
Maltin charged after him. “If you don’t stop, I’ll call the police!”
Buchanan kept on. The cigarette smoke was stronger. It seemed to come from. .
He opened a door on his left, revealing an oak-furnished study from which cigarette smoke drifted. A surprised man straightened from where he’d been leaning his hips against a large polished desk. He was in his middle thirties, wore an average suit, had hair in slight need of a trim, needed a touchup on his shoes, held a cigarette, and generally looked like the sort of person whom Frederick Maltin would prefer to avoid.
“Sorry,” Buchanan said. “I thought this was the bathroom.”
“No problem,” the man said.
A handgun, its butt forward, bulged beneath the left side of the man’s suit. To draw the weapon, he would have to use his right hand, but his right hand held the cigarette. The man leaned forward as if to flick ashes into a wastebasket. What he did instead was drop the cigarette into the wastebasket and grab for his weapon.
Not soon enough. Buchanan didn’t want gunshots to alarm anyone in the building. Clutching the strap of the camera bag, he turned as if to leave. And kept turning. Gaining momentum, he swung the bag hard and fast. The bag collided with the side of the man’s jaw. It hit with a loud, sharp
