“No,” I said instantly. “The Havistocks are paying me to do a job, and I mean to do it.”
He stared at me. “You might get your ass shot off,” he said. “You know that, don’t you?”
“Not me,” I said. “Not enough ass to aim at.”
He laughed at that. “You’re always putting yourself down. You happen to have an elegant ass.”
“I think,” I said, “this would be a perfect time to have the cheesecake.”
I didn’t ask him if he’d like to stay the night, and he didn’t ask if he could. It was just generally understood.
He insisted he smelled like a goat and
had
to shower. So I gave him a fresh towel and let him go ahead while I cleaned up and washed the few dishes we had used. I took the wine jug and our glasses into the bedroom, turned down the lights, undressed, and slid between the cool sheets. It was delightful and frightening at the same time—if you know what I mean.
He wasn’t half as expert as Jack Smack, but twice as sincere. I didn’t have to wonder if he was putting on an act, or think of how many women he had been with to learn the things he knew. Al didn’t know all that much. But he was tender and solicitous, and there was a kind of brutal power there that Jack could never have. All I can say is that we had us a time. A good time.
Later, sitting up in bed, both of us sipping wine, he said, “We just sinned. I’m Catholic—did you know that?”
“Going to confess what we did?”
“Nah,” he said, laughing. “Why should I get a poor priest all stirred up? It’ll be our secret. I guess I’m not a very good Catholic.”
“I was raised a Methodist,” I told him, “but after I came to New York I got out of the habit. I haven’t been to church in I forget how long.”
He patted the mattress. “This is as good a church as any, Dunk.”
“I agree.”
“After I got divorced,” he said, “I played around some. Not a lot, but enough. Mostly one-night stands. Fun and games. Not very satisfying.”
“No,” I said, “it isn’t.”
“I like being with you, Dunk. I mean
really
like it. Not just the sex—though that was great. I mean talking and laughing. Being together. We can keep on doing it, can’t we?”
“I’m counting on it.”
“You have no special guy?”
“No,” I said, “no one special.”
“Well, I have no right to ask you to devote your entire life to me. That’s too heavy. But I just wanted you to know that while I’m seeing you, I’m not going to do any tomcatting around. I guess I really am a one-woman man. I’m not telling you that to get you to change your way of living. Nothing like that. I just wanted you to know how I feel.”
I turned to kiss his wine-sweet lips. “You’re a dear man, Al, and I love being with you. But I can’t make any promises I won’t keep.”
“I know that,” he said, “and I’m not asking for any promises—except that you’ll keep seeing me. For a while.”
“
That
I can promise,” I assured him. Then, because he was being so loving, I said, “Al, there’s something I have to tell you.”
“Hey, listen,” he said, “you don’t
have
to tell me anything.”
“It’s about the Demaretion. That case means a lot to you, doesn’t it?”
“Oh, hell yes. A big theft. Important people. Lots of publicity. It would look good in my jacket if I broke it. Maybe a promotion. Especially now that Vanwinkle’s murder is involved.”
I sighed. “Then I think I better tell you…”
I described my evening with Roberta and Ross Minchen, their party, guests, and the torrid video-cassettes. Then I told him about my lunch with Vanessa Havistock, and how she claimed an appointment with her dentist, but then had scurried to a brownstone on East 65th Street where there was an apartment in the name of L. Wolfgang.
“Maybe Lenore Wolfgang,” I said. “Archibald Havistock’s attorney. You met her at their place. Al, I don’t know what all this means—if it means anything.”
He had listened closely, never interrupting, and when I finished, he didn’t say something stupid, like, “Why didn’t you tell me this before?” Instead, he said, “You’re becoming one hell of a snoop, Dunk.”
Then he said the porn party at the Minchens was interesting, but not something he really wanted to get involved with.
“Pornography in the privacy of your own home is in a kind of gray area,” he said. “We’d never get a conviction unless they’re peddling the stuff, which I doubt. Still, it’s good to know. I might be able to use it as a club one of these days. About Vanessa and the brownstone—now that
is
interesting. You didn’t happen to get the number of the building, did you?”
“I’m afraid not,” I said, ashamed. “I’m not such a supersleuth after all.”
“That’s okay,” he said. “You’re super in other ways. More important ways. Maybe in the next day or so you’ll take a ride with me and point out the building. Okay? Then I’ll find out if L. Wolfgang really is Havistock’s attorney, and how long she’s lived there, and what her connection is with Vanessa, and so forth and so on. It’s a brand-new lead, and a good one. Thank you, Dunk.”
“You’ll let me work with you on this?” I asked anxiously.
“You better believe it,” he said, turning to take me into his arms. “I’m not going to let you go now.”
He was capable and I was eager, so we had an encore. Later we slept like babies. Well…maybe not
exactly
like babies. I heartily approve of twosies in one bed. I just hope I didn’t snore.
T
HE NEXT MORNING—AL
gone before I awoke—I looked in the mirror and decided that loving is good for the complexion. I don’t mean I was radiant or anything like that, but I really did think that some tiny lines and wrinkles that had been worrying me had disappeared. Do you think sex is a kind of vanishing cream?
I had my usual skimpy breakfast and read every word in the
Times
about the murder of Orson Vanwinkle. It was a small front-page story with runover, and it didn’t tell me any more than I already knew. Still, seeing it all in cold print was a shocker, and I remembered that poor idiot asking, “Was it as good for you as it was for me?”
Just as Al Georgio had warned, homicide detectives came knocking at my door. Two of them, one skinny, one fat—like Laurel and Hardy. I answered all their questions as honestly as I could, but to tell you the truth, they didn’t seem too interested. They were going through the routine, but I got the feeling I had already been eliminated as a possible suspect. For which I was thankful.
While they were in my apartment (I gave them coffee), Jack Smack phoned, but I told him I was busy and would call him back. After the detectives left, I called Jack, but
his
line was busy. I finally got through to him a little after noon.
“What do you think?” he asked. “About Vanwinkle getting chilled. It ties in with the Demaretion—right?”
“I don’t know for sure,” I said, “but I guess it does. You think so?”
“Absolutely,” he said. “No doubt about it. Why else would anyone knock off a nothing like that?”
I was determined to play no favorites, and whatever I had told Al Georgio I wanted Jack to know. I swear that at that point in time—where did I learn that phrase!—I had no preference.
“Jack,” I said, “I have some things to tell you. Shall I give it to you now, over the phone, or…?”
“No,” he said promptly, “not on the phone. Let me look at my pad … How’s about dinner late tonight?”
“No,” I said, just as promptly. I wasn’t about to become a shuttlecock—you should excuse the expression. “I’m busy tonight.”
“All right,” he said equably. “Then how’s about the Sacred Cow for cocktails? Around five o’clock. It’s on West Seventy-second, not too far from where you live.”
“Why there?”
“I like the place,” he said. “Meet you there at five.”
He hung up. I stared at the phone. He said and I did. I wasn’t certain I liked that.
But other things happened that afternoon. I got a call from Enoch Wottle—dear old Enoch—and he didn’t even reverse the charges.
“Dunk, love,” he said, “how
are
you?”
“Oh, Enoch, I don’t know how I am.”
“I can understand,” he said. “I read in the paper and heard on the TV. Orson Vanwinkle is murdered, who was personal secretary to Archibald Havistock, who owned the Demaretion that was stolen. I don’t like that.”
“I don’t like it either, Enoch.”
“Please, Dunk,” he said, “don’t get involved.”
“Enoch, I
am
involved. I can’t get out of it now.”
He blew out his breath. “What a mess,” he said. “Well, maybe what I have heard will help. This morning—it is still morning out here—no more than an hour ago—I got a phone call from an old friend in Rotterdam. We have done business together, and I trust him. He is one of the dealers I contacted when you asked me to see what I could find out about a Demaretion being offered for sale. This Rotterdam man said he had a call from a dealer in Beirut. I have heard of this Beirut goniff. Very, very shady. He buys from grave robbers. His coins have no provenance at all. But he does very well selling to private collectors. Anyway, according to my Rotterdam friend, this Beirut man asked if he’d be interested in a Demaretion in Extremely Fine condition.”
“Wow,” I said.
“Yes, that was my reaction. How often does a Demaretion come on the market? Of course it could always be a new discovery, a piece found in a hoard in that part of the world. But the coincidence is too much. A Demaretion disappears in New York, and a Demaretion shows up in Beirut. Fascinating—no?”
“Fascinating, yes,” I said. “Enoch, I hate to ask you for more favors—you’ve been so kind to me—but could you follow up on this? Try to find out if the Beirut dealer actually has the coin.”
“I will do my best,” he said. “Dunk, I must tell you I am enjoying this. It is very, uh, romantic. But please, I beg you, do not put yourself in danger. The people mixed up in this are not nice.”
“I know that, Enoch,” I said, “and I promise not to do anything foolish.”
“Good,” he said. “I love you, and I miss you.”
Another man who missed me! It made my day. After I got off the line with Enoch, I did something I should have done before: I looked up L. Wolfgang on East 65th Street in the Manhattan telephone directory. No such animal. But there were two listings for Lenore Wolfgang, a residence on East 91st Street, and a business address on lower Fifth Avenue.
Just to make sure, I called Information and asked for the number of L. Wolfgang on East 65th Street. The operator told me sorry, it was an unlisted number. So that was that. Maybe Al Georgio could find out.
I entered what Enoch Wottle had told me about the Beirut dealer and the business about L. Wolfgang’s unlisted number in my notebook. Then I sat back and stared at what I had written. Nothing. None of it came together. I didn’t even have a crazy idea.
I was only a few minutes late getting to the Sacred Cow on West 72nd Street, but Jack Smack was already at the bar, working on a double vodka. Handsomest man in the place, without a doubt. He gave me a big
abrazo
, a kiss on the cheek, and held my hand. So maybe it wasn’t just a one-night stand after all.
I ordered a white wine, despite Vanessa Havistock telling me it was unchic. Then I started babbling. I told Jack about Ruby Querita’s religious mania and about Vanessa’s visit to that East 65th Street brownstone with an apartment occupied by L. Wolfgang.
When I finished, Jack looked at me and shook his head in wonder. “You’re a dynamite lady,” he said. “Did you tell Al Georgio all this?”
I nodded.
“Fair enough,” he said. “I already knew about Ruby’s craziness, but what do you think the business about Vanessa means?”
“I have no idea. Absolutely none.”
“I guess Al is going to check into that Sixty-fifth Street building.”
“I imagine he will.”
“Oh, he will,” Smack assured me. “He’s very thorough. A real professional.”
“Jack,” I said, “did your company get another letter from the crook?”
“No,” he said, “and that’s what worries us. We should have had a reply by now to the notice we put in the paper. Maybe the guy who’s writing us really does have the coin, but isn’t satisfied with our offer and doesn’t want to haggle. Maybe he’s trying to peddle it somewhere else.”
“Beirut,” I said.
“What?”
“Beirut,” I repeated, and then told him about Enoch Wottle and his call to me that afternoon. Jack listened carefully, frowning.
“It just doesn’t
sound
right,” he said. “It’s like two different guys are trying to sell the same merchandise. I mean, we were dealing with a man in New York—right? We could have come to terms; he had to know that. But no, he suddenly offers the Demaretion to a back-alley dealer in Lebanon. It doesn’t make sense, Dunk.”
“I agree; it doesn’t.”
He looked at me with a queer expression, then suddenly snapped his fingers. “Unless,” he said, “unless…”
“Unless what?”
“When did your friend in Arizona hear from his pal in Rotterdam?”
“This morning. An hour before he phoned me.”
“And when did the Rotterdam man get the call from the Beirut dealer?”
“Enoch didn’t say; but I had the feeling it was very recently, and he called Enoch immediately.”
“Yeah,” Jack said, looking at me with a twisted grin, “I’ll bet it was recently. I’ll bet it was after Orson Vanwinkle got dusted.”
“What does that mean?”
“How does this scenario sound: Orson Vanwinkle cops the coin. He’s been the guy dealing with us, and he’s the guy who sent you the drop-dead letter. But then Orson gets killed. Now someone else has the coin. And he’s dealing with Beirut. Does that listen?”
“Button, button,” I recited, “who’s got the button?”
“Something like that. What do you think?”
“It could have happened like that,” I said, “except there’s no way Orson could have switched display case thirteen.”
“Sure there is,” Jack argued. “Archibald was out of the library for a few minutes when Vanwinkle brought in the armored car guards. Orson could have made the switch right then.”
“Maybe,” I acknowledged, “but how could Orson have known that Mr. Havistock would be absent? That’s where it falls apart, Jack.”