Scarlet Imperial (2 page)

It wasn’t the man she’d been waiting for because he would have flung open the door and dashed in, not fumbled outside. The blue-eyed man was that kind. She held the lipstick tightly waiting. So tightly that her thumb and forefinger ached. Then the knob turned and the person outside was in the room. Her hand trembled with relief. It was a messenger boy, his black rain cape glistened; his cap, too big for him, pushed down damply over his ears. He said, “Package for Mr. Keane.” He had a worried voice and a worried face; he wasn’t a boy, he was a miserable man, rain wet, his broken shoes soggy with rain.

She said, “You have the wrong office. This is Bryan Brewer.” She was sorry for him, for the additional lines her dismissal grooved on his face.

He shook his head. “Bryan Brewer. That’s right.”

She said, “There’s no Mr. Keane here.” It was when she spoke the name that she knew. In his mouth she hadn’t recognized it. It had happened at last. She’d been slow-witted not to have realized it earlier.

Her job was over. The messenger didn’t know the exaltation hidden behind her words. “I’m sorry. You’d better ask the night man downstairs. You could probably leave the package with him and save yourself another trip.”

He didn’t move. He just stood there, the water sliding down the slick black rubber of his cape to the bronze rug, his shoes soaking into the rug. Again he shook his head. He said in the same mildly worried voice, “I don’t have no package. I’m to get a package. Mr. Keane left it here.”

If he’d spoken another name, she might have given it over. But there couldn’t be two men named Keane carrying a package to Brewer. And if she hadn’t been looking at his shoes, regretting their damage to Bryan Brewer’s fine rug, it wouldn’t have come to her that no messenger service would send out a boy without his rubbers on a night like this. There were messengers in and out all day, always in boots and rubbered. She’d never seen one with broken shoes, shoes that looked as if they tramped the streets looking for work, not working shoes. She raised her eyes slowly to the man’s colorless face. “Did you say you were sent for a package?” she asked. She asked the question briskly, the efficient secretary voice.

“Mr. Keane sent me for a package he left here.” He spoke the line as if he’d memorized it, as if he’d finally remembered what he was to say. He hadn’t come from Keane.

She shook her head. “There’s no package here. Perhaps Mr. Keane left one with Mr. Brewer but he isn’t here and his office is locked. You come back in the morning.”

She was afraid he wasn’t going to leave. He didn’t seem to know what to do. He stood there, looking more uncertain, more lost.

She suggested, “Can’t Mr. Keane call Mr. Brewer at home if he must have it tonight? He’s in the book. You tell him to do that.”

“I’ll tell him.” He didn’t want to go but he went then; uncertain, unhappy, he went.

She waited only until his shadow passed the door before crossing swiftly. She turned the bolt and she stood there trying to quiet her quick breath. The blue-eyed man was Gavin Keane. He hadn’t sent the false messenger. He might be returning himself any minute; she must get away from here quickly. With the box, the box that wasn’t candy or flowers. That wasn’t for Feather Prentiss.

She took her black coat from the closet quickly. And then she realized. Someone else was after the box. Someone who wanted it enough to hire a derelict to impersonate a messenger boy. A derelict who was expendable? She put on her coat, buttoned it to her throat. The wool didn’t warm her. She opened the lower drawer of her desk, lifted out the box. Her hands were iced with excitement. There was no time to look into it now. The box wasn’t one you could disguise easily, it was too square, too deep for that. A plain package wrapped in white paper. The best she could do was cover it in the folds of a newspaper. If the worried messenger was waiting outside in the corridor, he’d know what it was she carried. Or if those who sent him were watching.

She couldn’t go out alone into the corridor, wait for the long climb of the elevator. She didn’t dare risk it alone. Even now knowing the door was locked, her skin was crawling. She took the noon paper from the desk, folded it over the box. She laid her purse on top it. She lifted the phone, called the night watchman’s office. She could hear the long ringing. She waited; eventually he would answer. He must. She had to get out of the building, get to the safety of her apartment. It wasn’t a place now that she was loathe to reach; it was haven.

She grasped at Charlie’s voice. “This is Miss Williams—Bryan Brewer’s. Would you mind coming up, Charlie?”

He’d mind. He’d grumble but he’d come. He always grumbled. She had to have some excuse. She thought of it quickly; it wasn’t too good but it would do.

She went to the door of Bryan Brewer’s private office, opened it, fearful of what might be in the darkness beyond. She set the latch and closed it. Her upper lip was wet when she sat down again to wait, the newspaper package cradled in her arm. She waited in silence, broken only by the shuffling of the rain against the windows. When she heard the clop of Charlie’s shoes on the long tiled corridor, she didn’t move. Not until she saw his shadow against the door. She called out then, “Who is it?”

“It’s Charlie. Who you think?”

She knew his accent, his intonation. She unlocked the door.

“What you want?” he demanded.

She smiled at him, smiled as if he were a white winged angel, not an unlovely little man with a scowl between his black toothbrush brows. She closed the door behind him as she spoke. “I was afraid the windows in Mr. Brewer’s offices might have been left open, Charlie. He went home early—and I forgot my key this morning.”

“All right. I’ll see.” He stumped across the rug, shaking his master key from his key chain.

She walked on his heels. He flashed on the light, went to the windows in both rooms. He snuffed, “All closed.”

She said, “Thanks, Charlie. Wait a minute and I’ll ride down with you. I’m leaving now.”

She knew he would wait. He wouldn’t want to bring the elevator up again to twelfth for her. She turned out the light, held the newspaper close against her as she closed the door.

She followed him down the dim lit corridor, not looking into the cross corridors as they passed. She kept talking because their steps echoed too loudly without words to soften them. “I came out without an umbrella or raincoat this morning. It looked like such a lovely day. Is it still pouring?”

“Yes.” He waited for her to enter the elevator. “You shouldn’t ought to work so late.”

She was inside the cage with him and there was no messenger peering after them. She said, “I don’t have to work nights often. This was something special.” She wanted to inquire of the messenger but she didn’t know how to say it. It was better not to mention the package. The messenger must have gone or Charlie wouldn’t have come up alone for her. He wouldn’t leave a stranger unguarded at night in the building. Grumble as he might, Charlie had pride in the building, his building.

They had reached the ground floor. He stepped out first. She followed cautiously but she didn’t need caution. There was no stranger here. Charlie had clopped to the door, was unlocking it to let her out. She followed reluctantly.

“I wonder if I can get a cab.”

He growled, “I don’t think so.”

There was no risk in stepping out on the sidewalk. This wasn’t a lonely byway. This was Madison Avenue; busses, cars, cabs splashed along its lanes. Across were lighted shops, just below, past Forty-sixth, the Roosevelt. She need but take a few steps to reach either one. Charlie didn’t hurry her tonight; the rain had given patience even to him. He thought her reluctance to move was the sloshing waves blown by the rising wind.

She would be drenched when she moved but it wasn’t that which held her motionless here in the doorway. It was who might be waiting in other doorways; waiting to grab this bundle out of her arms. It was, of course, ridiculous. No one would chance raising a hue and cry by snatching it. They’d do it in slyer ways, a messenger who wasn’t a messenger… She said, “When the light changes, I’ll run for it.”

Charlie grumbled, “You’re going to get awful wet.”

“I can cut through the Roosevelt,” she called even as she darted out. She didn’t think until she was half-running through the downpour what a fool she was to advertise her way home. There were figures standing under the marquee of the stores, on this side of Madison there was a man walking rapidly towards her, another coming behind her. She didn’t hesitate, splashing across the street slantwise towards the Roosevelt. She pushed through the doors into the lower lobby.

She stood a moment, shaking off the water, pulling the newspaper tighter about the box. A large puppy-faced man came through the door after her. He glanced at her only in passing, turned and walked up the stairs to the main lobby. She started down the corridor that led past the shops and the Grill but she stopped and turned back. It was too nearly deserted at this hour. The uneasiness engendered by the messenger hadn’t left her as yet. It wouldn’t until she was safe in her own apartment. She ran lightly up the stairs to the luxury of the bright, crowded hotel lobby. There was no one who paid any particular attention to her; a few, including the puppy-face, glanced up as she crossed this level but with only the casual inspection those who waited gave to any new entrance.

The direct way home was by the Fifth Avenue bus. To walk over to Fifth and wait the bus in the rain, even if night had not fallen, even if she didn’t have the precious package, was out of the question. She didn’t have to go outside; she could, by way of the underground passage, enter Grand Central and the subway. However, there wouldn’t be much chance of flagging a taxi near her subway station downtown. Not on a night like this. She wouldn’t want to walk to the Square from the station on this night.

She hesitated at the top of the stairs. She might have to wait a bit but eventually she’d get a cab at the Forty-fifth street entrance. There were always some incoming at a hotel. She descended the stairs and went out under the awning. Several men were standing there. The doorman shook his umbrella. “Taxi?”

She called, “Yes, please,” and pressed back to the door away from the windblown spray.

There was one quickly, but two of the waiting men took precedence. She took quick glimpse of the two men who remained. They weren’t together. They were middle-aged, ordinary looking, protecting themselves as best they could from the storm.

The rain dripped from the marquee, it blew with the wind into this oasis. She clutched the damp, bulky newspaper closer to her coat. Two cabs were drawing up. The first dislodged its party, couples in evening dress, and the one man stepped forward. The other man motioned Eliza to the second. He called to the doorman, “Let the lady go first.”

She inclined her head, “Thank you.” She waited until the gray-haired woman was helped to the walk, then entered the tonneau: She put a tip into the doorman’s hand, directed, “Washington Square.”

It was vague enough if anyone questioned him later. As the car jerked forward she peered back through the narrow oblong pane of the rear window. Her heart stopped for one long moment. The man who’d given her his place was entering the hotel.

It didn’t mean anything. He was tired of braving the rain; he’d stepped inside until the doorman had another cab for him. He couldn’t have heard her direction. He couldn’t be taking a short cut to the Square. Even if he did come to the Square, he wouldn’t know where to find her.

The driver slashed across to Fifth, headed downtown. He wasn’t driving fast, his windshield in spite of the furious wipers was blurred with the rain. Eliza sat rigidly, bracing herself against the cold, damp leather of the seat. If he’d only hurry. If only she could quickly reach the safety of her apartment. Lock the doors, lock intruders and night and rain and shoddy imitations of messengers outside. She watched the driver’s rearview mirror. It sparked with lights. She should know if she was followed but how could you know in New York traffic?

The cab slid through the darker way of Lower Fifth Avenue. The arch was ahead; there were no lights on the mirror now. She relaxed. She slid aside the glass separating the tonneau from the driver’s seat.

“The east side of the Square,” she said. She gave the number. “It’s that tall apartment house over there.”

He said, “I know it, lady,” and circled to the canopy.

She paid him, adding a particular tip for his transporting her safely. Richards was already at the door stooping under uplifted umbrella.

She smiled gratefully into the doorman’s homely circle of a face. Richards wouldn’t let anything happen to her. He’d known Towner’s Aunt Hortensia when she was a belle of the nineties; he’d been coachman then to another famous Manhattan family.

He said, “Bad night, Miss Liza. You were lucky to get a cab.”

“I was,” she smiled again up at his tall gray height. “I didn’t expect rain today. Didn’t dress for it.”

He opened the door into the warm haven of the lobby, followed her inside. It was more like a comfortable living room than a lobby. Bright chintz-covered couches and easy chairs, daisies and cornflowers on a pale green field, the same pattern curtaining the long windows. There was no desk, there was no need for one. No one could go up to your apartment without first passing the judgement of Richards at the door and Franz at the elevator. Franz was old and fragile. He had the courtly manners of an old world servant; he’d been majordomo to a famous French family. Richards and Franz; you were safe with them. You were safe in this apartment house with its manners and modes of an earlier day, a day of gentility and gentle folk.

Franz came forward. “Good evening, Miss Eliza. A bad night.” He held out his hand for her parcel but she shook her head.

“Too wet, Franz. Though I picked up a cab at the Roosevelt.”

“You’re late,” Richards admonished.

“I had to stay late at the office.” They both walked with her to the elevator. She was their special pet, their protégée. Not because of Miss Hortensia Clay who was considered a little giddy for this house, Hortensia who had blonde hair at sixty because she always wanted blonde hair but had never dared until she was sixty; Hortensia with all her quirks, her rumba lessons, her painted toenails, her fun. She, Eliza, was their special because she brought youth to them, because she was their remembrance of the past when they waited upon their young ladies. It was nice to be considered a lady.