Girl Watcher's Funeral (20 page)

Monica stared at him, her expression blank. “But I couldn't count on a heart attack,” she said.

“That was a hope,” he said. “If it didn't work, you'd have tried something else—something I once called Plan B.” He reached for the house phone on his desk and asked for Mrs. Kiley. He switched on the conference box on his desk so we could all hear. “Please find a number for Bernard Dreyfus—home, at this hour. Call him for me.”

“Yes, Mr. Chambrun.”

“After that, Mrs. Kiley, any phone calls that come in for Timothy Gallivan, Miss Monica Strong, or Morris Stein are to be conferenced in on this line.”

“Yes, sir.”

Chambrun put down his phone. “Dreyfus will try to get in touch with his pigeon as soon as I'm through talking to him. Save us guessing,” he said.

We sat in silence for a moment or two and then the phone rang.

“I have Mr. Dreyfus for you,” Mrs. Kiley said.

Chambrun's voice was oil smooth as he said: “Hello, Mr. Dreyfus.”

Dreyfus's voice was angry. “You know what time it is, Chambrun? One o'clock in the morning. You out of your cotton-picking mind?”

“I haven't seen you since your company held its sales dinner here last fall,” Chambrun said.

“You trying to sell me another banquet at one o'clock in the morning? You must be stewed!” Dreyfus said.

“I thought you'd be interested to know that the Max Lazar showing has been called off,” Chambrun said.

We could hear a sharp intake of breath and then a kind of forced chuckle. “Why should that interest me?”

“Because of the new line you're about to launch,” Chambrun said.

“What new line?” Dreyfus asked.

“The Lazar copies,” Chambrun said. “If the originals are never shown, I thought you'd be in a little trouble. Worth waking you at one
A.M.,
I thought.”

“Somebody's given you a bum steer,” Dreyfus said. “But thanks anyway. Ask me a favor sometime. I owe you.”

His phone clicked off and Chambrun put down his receiver. He leaned back in his chair and lit one of his flat, Egyptian cigarettes. His bright eyes were fixed on Monica, who seemed to be in a kind of trance.

I don't suppose it was thirty seconds before the phone rang. Chambrun answered.

“There's a call for Miss Strong, Mr. Chambrun,” Mrs. Kiley said. “Her room phone doesn't answer.”

“She's here,” Chambrun said. He held out the receiver to Monica. She moved like an automaton to take it. I felt the inside of my mouth go dry.

“Hello,” Monica said.

“Hi, baby,” Dreyfus's voice said. “Bernie Dreyfus here. Sorry to wake you this time of night.”

“I wasn't asleep.”

“Someone just called me to tell me Lazar's called off his Friday showing.”

“That's true.”

“Why?”

“He feels the sensationalism that will grow up because of Nikos's murder would be too damaging.”

“Murder!” Dreyfus's voice rose. “I thought it was a heart attack.”

“It was murder.”

“God Almighty.” There was a pause and then Dreyfus said, “That crazy bastard!”

“Rosey Lewis, too,” Monica said. “Why did you call me, Mr. Dreyfus?”

“Oh, that,” Dreyfus said. “I thought maybe you could use your influence to get Lazar to change his mind. And if you couldn't—”

“Yes?”

“Well, I guess it's no secret we've got hold of the line ahead of time. You got a show ready to stage. If you aren't going to do it for Lazar, I thought you might move the whole package over and do it for Dreyfus Brothers. Make it worth your while.”

“I'm sorry, Mr. Dreyfus. I don't think I could do that.”

“Well, nothing lost by asking,” Dreyfus said. “Look, baby, save me a dime by having the operator there transfer me to Tim Gallivan, will you?”

Monica glanced at Chambrun, who nodded. Monica jiggled the receiver and Mrs. Kiley's voice came through. “Yes, please?”

“Will you transfer this to Mr. Gallivan in nineteen hundred one?”

We could hear the phone ringing, and then Gallivan's voice, hoarse and tired, came through the conference box.

“Gallivan here.”

“Okay, wise guy, so what's cooking?” Bernie Dreyfus asked.

“Oh, it's you, Bernie.”

“It's me, dad. What's this about Lazar calling off his show?”

“Where did you hear that?”

“Never mind where I heard it. It better not be so, dad.”

“It's nothing to worry about,” Gallivan said. “Monica's talking him out of it now.”

“Like hell she is,” Dreyfus said. “I just talked to her and she isn't talking him out of anything.”

“Then I will,” Gallivan said. “You can count on it, Bernie.”

“I better count on it, dad,” Dreyfus said. “I hear rumors that tell me I could make you pretty bad trouble if I can't count on you.”

“Count on it,” Gallivan said angrily, “and for God's sake stop blabbing over this switchboard telephone. I'll go talk to Max now.”

“You better persuade him nice,” Dreyfus said. “I got too much at stake here, dad. Call me when you know for sure—no matter what time it is.”

“I will, Bernie. Keep your shirt on.”

Chambrun shut off the phone.

“So it
is
Tim,” Monica said in a whisper.

“It's always been Tim,” Chambrun said. “Evidence we can hold him on? Not one shred. Dreyfus may have the answer for us. I'm going to see him now. I may be able to scare him into talking. I'd be scared if two people were already dead because of what I knew. I'll have Jerry cover Lazar to be sure nothing happens to him.” He stood up. “Thank you for your help, Miss Strong.” His smile was faint. “You had me going for a minute when Dreyfus asked for you.”

“About Jan,” I said.

“You've tried the
Merina?
” Chambrun asked.

“Ship-to-shore phone is on the blink,” I said. “Monica's sure that's where she'd go.”

“Why don't you take a run over to the West Side,” Chambrun said. “It's safe enough. Gallivan's here and he'll be busy with Lazar.”

“You can count on Captain Pappas,” Monica said.

“It's my experience, Miss Strong, that the only person I can really count on is myself,” Chambrun said.

“Thanks,” I said.

He smiled at me. “You are part of me, Mark—you, and Ruysdale, and Jerry, and one or two others. Without you I wouldn't be me.” His face darkened. “As things stand now, Gallivan can pack his bags and walk out of here. We've got nothing to hold him on. Dreyfus is our best bet.”

A pale moon was fading slowly over the Palisades. My taxi took me within about fifty yards of the river's edge. Dozens of small boats bobbed on the water's choppy surface. Out in the center of the river I could see the long, graceful bulk of the
Merina,
lights in several cabin windows. The problem was to get out to her.

There was a little white-painted shed near the shoreline, and I saw that there was a light in the window. It turned out to be the office of a night watchman who wasn't inclined to be helpful. He was an old gent, with a couple of days' growth of grizzled beard on his face.

“I can't take you out to the yacht without orders from Captain Pappas,” he said. “How do I know you got any business out there?”

I showed him the slip of paper I had with the telephone number on it. “Does this check out with the number you've got?”

He scowled at it. “Maybe,” he said.

“The yacht's phone is out of order,” I said. “Try for yourself. If it's been fixed since I tried, tell Captain Pappas it's Mark Haskell. He'll send in a small boat for me.”

Grudgingly the old man tried the phone on the table beside his coffeepot. I could hear the operator's voice telling him “temporarily out of order.”

“I've got ten bucks that says you're too old to row me out to the yacht,” I said.

The old man gave me a sour smile. “I'll take the bet,” he said.

I got in the back of his dinghy and he started to row me out to the
Merina.
The Jersey shore was a dark mass, with almost no lights visible. The old man rowed slowly, methodically.

“We're going to miss Mr. Karados,” he said. “Nice guy. Generous spender. One time when I was sick, before I came under Medicare, he paid all my hospital bills. They don't come like him often. Most of the guys who own the big boats are too snotty to know you're alive.”

There was a gangway down the side of the yacht, and the old man eased us skillfully alongside. I gave him his ten-dollar bill. Someone with a thick accent hailed us from the deck.

“Someone to see Captain Pappas,” the old man called up.

Then I heard a voice that gave me the biggest boost of the evening.

“Mark! I thought you'd never come,” Jan called down to me from the deck.

I scrambled up the gangway and met her on the deck. She was still wearing the raspberry dress.

I saw the dark figure of the sailor who'd hailed us, evidently on his way to call Pappas.

“You're all right?” I asked Jan. She was standing close to me, and I put my hands on her arms. She smelled like flowers.

“Of course I'm all right,” she said. “But you didn't come, and the phone was out of order, and George thought I should stay here until we had word from you.”

“George?”

“Captain Pappas.” She came even closer. “What happened when you faced Tim with it?”

“Faced him with what?”

“The message I sent you.”

“What message? Let's start over from the beginning.”

“The message I sent you by Captain Pappas,” she said, her eyes widening. “What I knew about Tim.”

“Pappas didn't deliver any message from you,” I said. “I saw him at the Beaumont. He didn't bring any message.”

Her fingernails bit into the flesh of my arms. “Oh, my God!” she said. She drew me along the deck toward a canvas-covered lounging area at the stern of the boat.

“Who did George see at the Beaumont?” she asked.

“Gallivan. I set them up with an office where they could talk. He never said anything about a message from you. He said he hadn't seen you. He called the yacht while I was with him and asked if you were here. They told him you weren't.”

“He couldn't have called the
Merina,
” she said. “The phone is out of order. It went out just after I called to ask how you and Miss Ruysdale were. Did you know I'd called?”

“Yes.”

“Right after that the phone went out,” Jan said. “I told George what I knew and he agreed to go ashore and tell you and Mr. Chambrun. You mean, like he never did?”

“He never did.” I was holding her close to me and we spoke in whispers. “What do you know, Jan?”

“About Tim,” she said. “Oh, it goes back some six months. I did the wrong thing then, I guess. But sometimes Nikos seemed so—so sort of square, if you see what I mean.”

“What was he square about?”

“Oh, like his ideas about sex. And he would never forgive anyone for anything, no matter how good an excuse you might have for displeasing him. ‘An old elephant,' Tim called him. ‘Never forgets and never forgives.'”

“So?”

“There was a party like I said, six months ago. It was given by one of the big buyers for a West Coast store. There were designers, and fashion writers, and models—everyone who was anybody in the fashion world. I went with Rosey Lewis and Tim. It was kind of wild and gay. Among the people there was Bernard Dreyfus, one of the Dreyfus brothers. They are big manufacturers of copies of the top designers' stuff.”

“I know about him,” I said.

“Nikos hated him,” Jan said. “It seems that back in World War Two the Dreyfus Brothers were collaborators with the Nazis. I guess you know from Mr. Chambrun that Nikos was on the other side. I remember thinking if Nikos knew I'd even said hello to Bernard Dreyfus, he might kick me out, bag and baggage. Well, at that party there was a man named Conrad Schwartzkopf. He was a big West German banker and a former Nazi who somehow got forgiven, Tim told me. This Schwartzkopf was with Bernie Dreyfus, and I saw Tim was very chummy with him. Rosey and I both remarked that Nikos would blow his stack if he knew Tim was playing footsie with this Schwartzkopf, or even Bernie Dreyfus. We mentioned it to Tim as we were driving home from the party in a taxi. Tim looked kind of sick when we brought it up.

“‘Be a couple of good kids and forget it,' he said. ‘Nikos has his peculiarities. We're living in a new world, not back in the days of occupied France. Schwartzkopf is one of the biggest financial powers in Europe. Between us I've been dealing with him—for Nikos. He's made Nikos more money than you could dream. But if Nikos knew, he'd have me drawn and quartered, even though I've been doing something very much to his advantage.'

“It sounded reasonable. I knew Nikos and so did Rosey. Tim was his financial adviser in a way, and he'd always made sound decisions. Nikos always said that. After Tim left us, Rosey made a kind of bitter remark to me. ‘Tim isn't waiting for Nikos to die,' she said. ‘He's setting up his own power complex for when it's all his.'

“‘Should we tell Nikos?' I asked her.

“‘It's Tim's party,' she said. ‘He's making money for Nikos—as if he needed it! Nikos is a little old-hat.'

“So neither of us ever said anything about it. Then, this afternoon, when I realized what had happened to Nikos's pills, I began to wonder if Nikos was about to find out about Schwartzkopf and Tim's dealings with him somehow. Tim couldn't let that happen, you see. Nikos would have cut him off; it would have cost Tim millions of dollars. Then, when Rosey was found, I realized she might have thought along the same lines I was thinking and faced Tim with it. I was scared to death, Mark. I'd taken Mike Faraday away from you, but I was scared to go back to the hotel. So I came out here. I called you and they told me you and Mr. Chambrun had left the hotel. When I tried again the phone was out of order. So—so I told George Pappas everything, and he went ashore to find you and tell you. Only—”