Xs, An Allie Armington Mystery (24 page)

Larry jumps up. “Then it’s over. I’m leaving.”

Their voices fade as the first inkling of what Hale
has in store for me insinuates itself and my stomach gives a queasy
heave. My age. Hale’s tests. That room below, covered in white
sheeting. Was the space to the side of the bed meant to accommodate
a surgical table?

It’s then I take time to carefully study Sigrid
Hale. Her foundation is applied with a trowel, the rouge—daubed and
smeared. Of course there are the ubiquitous false eyelashes that
seem to continuously flutter behind those infernal, tinted pixie
glasses.

But when I concentrate on the physique beneath the
Joan Crawford costume, I notice there are no enormous shoulder pads
like Crawford wore, only the muscular outline of Hale’s
physique.

Why didn’t I pick up on all the obvious signs
before? The whisper, the false eyelashes, the floor-length,
high-necked dresses, the long sleeves and the gloves.

Sigrid Hale is a man.

My thoughts are too scattered to make much sense of
anything else going on. All I know is this situation has ramped to
red alert.

Distracted by Larry’s unpleasant and abrupt
departure, Hale doesn’t seem to notice my confusion.

“If I know Larry, he won’t drop that bone any time
soon.” Hale turns my way. “He’ll be back and when he comes, things
may get a little rough. You’ll be better off on the ground
floor.”

Hale motions to Cliff. “Take her down.”

“But I got you what you wanted.”

Cliff grabs my arm and mutters, “You had your
chance.”

After Hale disappears up the stairs, I jerk out of
Cliff ’s grasp and hiss, “I don’t get it. You practically begged me
to leave this morning and even lied about how long I was in the
bank.”

“Things are different now. You know who Hale really
is.” “Do I?”

“Don’t play stupid. The look on your face was
priceless. Talk about the proverbial light bulb.”

Cliff pushes me through the kitchen, down to the
basement and shoves me into the room.

When he turns to go, I grab his arm. “How long have
you known?”

“For a long, long time.” He shakes my hand off. “So.
Now you have your answer. But, don’t try anything cute. There’s no
way out.”

He pulls the door behind him, and the lock snaps
shut.

I listen to his footsteps climb the stairs, cross
the kitchen floor above me and fade to nothing.

I don’t sense the creeping fingers of panic until
Larry’s words echo. “She knows too much. We should have taken care
of her when we had the chance.”

That was a threat, but what disturbs me even more
was his admonition. “You cannot go forward with what you have in
mind.”

And what did Hale say? “She’s young. My tests are
positive.” Now that I’m almost certain who Hale is, that throws a
different spin on those words—a very different spin.

I take a few steps to the armoire and throw open the
doors. It’s jammed with matching nightgowns and negligees.

I sag onto the bed, mind spiraling at the grim
realization that the plan is for me to spend a lot of time down
here—at least nine months. Worse still, I might not make it out of
here alive.

NOT GOING TO HAPPEN. No way. No how. I’m getting out
now.

I grab one of the ice-cream parlor chairs and head
for the bathroom.

Though there’s barely enough space to build any
momentum, I swing the chair into the small window as hard as I’m
able.

Just a dull thwack. No exploding shards. No broken
glass tinkling across the tile.

I try again.

The chair leg hits the window and bounces away.

From behind me a familiar voice says, “No point in
straining yourself, my dear. It’s a plastic composite, not only
durable but soundproof.”

It’s Jason Kingsley-Smythe—makeup removed—wearing a
Tattersall in blue under a navy sweater with gray slacks that
crease over the tops of black tassel loafers.

My first emotion is relief—relief that the man
wasn’t murdered. This lasts about a nanosecond as anger pushes past
whatever fear lurks at the bottom of my gut.

“You bastard! How dare you do this to me?”

He gives me this stupid grin. “I dared because I
wanted you from the first moment I laid eyes on you. That’s
why.”

I ignore him to take stock of the situation. His
hands are at his side.

He’s not holding a weapon.

Neither of his pockets seems to be sagging under the
weight of his Luger.

The man is in his mid-seventies. Not quite as quick
or as strong as he once was.

I can take him if I make the right moves.

I look down at the chair clutched in my hands. Metal
legs ending in lethally shaped spade-feet.

A swift jab in the groin will send him down. Then I
can go for the head.

Once he’s unconscious, I can get up the stairs and
out the front door.

Kingsley-Smythe breaks into my thoughts. “Put the
chair down.”

He motions me into the bedroom, but I stand firm,
knowing this may be my only chance to escape. I’ve identified
Sigrid Hale. Now, all I have to do is get to Greene and spill the
beans. He’ll handle the rest. Mission accomplished.

“I asked politely, but if you insist—”
Kingsley-Smythe reaches his right hand behind him and produces the
Luger.

No point in rattling the rattler. Game over—for
now.

I set the chair on the tile floor and slide past him
into the bedroom, searching my mind for some way to stall what
might be coming next. If I’m ever going to get out of here, I have
to distract him.

I choose the chair by the table instead of the
chaise. At least there will be some sort of barrier between us.

After Kingsley-Smythe retrieves the chair from the
bath and places it across the table from me, he sits. “I suppose
you want to know why I went to the trouble of faking my death?”

When I shrug, he continues. “I assure you it wasn’t
because of your startling resemblance to my mother—though that did
eventually figure into my grand plan.

“When the young Turks threatened me at that meeting,
I realized I was done for as Jason Kingsley-Smythe. I was too old
and sad to admit it—powerless. It was then I made the decision to
end that part of my life. I needed a witness. You filled the bill.
And, since you now know who I am, I suppose you deserve to hear
some of the details.”

Kingsley-Smythe, Luger still in hand, leans back in
his chair. For the next few minutes, he describes a life of a
privileged but motherless child at the mercy of a distant and
disapproving father who sent him to live with his maternal
grandmother.

“Though Grammy loved me, she was very old and a
little strange. She would take me up to the third floor, open her
wedding chest and let me try on her trousseau.”

His see-through eyes soften. “Such lovely
creations—so beautifully made. Over time, I came to enjoy wearing
women’s clothing. So much so that I took several outfits with me to
Andover.”

I can’t believe what he’s saying. To imagine a
seventh-grader dragging women’s clothing to an all-male boarding
school, even during the late nineteen-thirties, is a stretch.

“Larry and I were two lonely young boys struggling
into manhood. He was terribly gifted—had a photographic memory. He
could glance at strings of equations and never forget the
sequences.

“We had an affair of sorts—mostly kisses and the
like, since neither one of us knew too much about anything else.
Larry hated dressing up as much as I loved it, so I played the
woman.”

Kingsley-Smythe must see the shock on my face,
because he raises a cautionary hand. “I assure you I’m not gay. It
was just a passing phase that ended before the spring term was out.
When Larry and I returned to school the following fall, we laughed
about it. It seems that during the summer we had both discovered
women. Though Larry’s interests have always been somewhat
skewed.”

He pockets his Luger, walks to the Bosendorfer and
begins to play. After a few bars, he looks over his shoulder. “I
composed this piece. How do you like it?”

“Never been much into jazz.”

“Pity, I was quite good once upon a time.” He runs
through a few more riffs. “In fact I had my own jazz combo in high
school and studied under the great jazz pianist Helmut Reisend the
summer before college. He was a great master—almost lost his life
escaping from the Nazis.

“I was absolutely fascinated with Adolf Hitler and
how he gained such power. How the Germans looked the other way
while his army exterminated the Jews. How in the end, his closest
comrades turned on him.

“Still the man fascinated me so, I ultimately chose
the name Sigrid Hale when I began my rather nefarious business
ventures.” He turns to face me. “Surely, you must get the
connection?”

“But why masquerade as a woman?”

He laughs. “You’re a woman. That should be easy to
figure out.”

“Not a clue.”

“Men are basically afraid of women. After all, women
completely control their early existence. Think about it. A
powerful woman is much more potent than her male counterpart. Harks
back to Oedipus I suppose.”

Why is he telling me this? And now? A small chill
feathers down my spine, as the ultimate possibility flits across my
mind. Then I comfort myself with the fact that as long as he’s
talking I’m safe. Sort of like a reverse spin on Scheherazade, only
he’s the one who’s telling the tales.

Thank God, women have been blessed with the ability
to multi-task. While half-listening to his tale, I search my mind
for a plan. There has to be something plausible enough to seem
real. Something.

His drone breaks my thoughts. “I took up my double
identity when one of my cronies was killed doing loops in his
biplane. He had a very nice stable of high-class call girls, with
whom I had become acquainted through the years.

“My favorite approached me, explained the situation
and asked for help. I must say it came at a time in my life when I
needed diversion, so I was only too happy to take them on. I had
three houses in SoHo that ran around the clock.

“Thank heavens Larry came into the partnership. His
photographic memory has been extremely valuable in the light of our
loss earlier this year. It was Larry who stumbled onto the
Colombian Connection. So lucrative. So very easy.”

When I say nothing, he goes on. “In order to
accommodate the reception and distribution of the goods as well as
showcase the girls, we needed a larger space, water access and a
situation where the law generally looked in the other direction if
you paid them enough. Larry’s family home on the Jersey shore was
perfect.”

We sit in silence for what seems like an eternity
before I say, “Would you let me go if I told you I had access to
something valuable?”

“And what might that be?”

“The address book. After Caro was murdered the
police searched the townhouse and came up empty-handed. Several
days later another person came looking for it.”

“Yes. We knew about that. But, of course with
Larry’s photographic memory we didn’t need it. How in heaven did
you unearth it?”

“Seems the men weren’t as snoopy as I was. All I had
to do was figure out where Caro hid it. I have it in the
safe-deposit box at the Chase. I can get it for you, but once I do,
you’ll have to release me.”

He studies me for a few seconds. “Describe it.”

“The first several pages are filled with women’s
names. But toward the back of the book the names are different.”
“Keep talking.”

I struggle to pull the names from my panicky
memory.

“Horus? And then—Ishtar? The names seem to be in
alphabetical order. After each name is a long string of numbers
that don’t make any sense to me.”

Obviously satisfied, he starts to rise.

I put up my hand. “But there’s something else we
must talk about.”

He settles in the chair, eyebrows raised.

“I’ve been looking around and from what I’ve seen,
I’ve figured out what your experiment is.”

“Yes. By now I’m quite sure you have. I must confess
I was furious when Larry told me that you and Angela had switched
places. However, I found you to be a bright young woman. Much
brighter than your sister.”

I want to tell him he’s dead wrong on that score.
Angela’s in Houston wrapped in the safe embrace of her fiancé,
while smart-aleck Allie is trapped in the basement with an aging
loony-toon. “But why do you want a child? You’re near the end of
your life. You’ll never see it grow up.”

“So you think I’m crazy too?”

“It doesn’t matter what I think because the issue is
moot. What you’re asking of me is impossible.”

“Not at all.” He puffs a little. “My sperm are quite
vigorous for a man my age.”

“Congratulations. But you didn’t hear what I said.
What you are asking of me is impossible.”

Those icy, pale-blue eyes pierce mine for a second
or so before he says, “Explain.”

I take a deep breath to fight the roll in my gut.
Only one chance to sell this lie—only one chance.

“I’m barren.”

That gets him. “Explain barren.”

Only one chance. Don’t blow it. “Unable to conceive?
Sterile?” He stares at me for a few seconds and I lock my eyes with
his, hoping they’re loaded with honesty.

He breaks first and murmurs, “But, you’re so
young—how?”

“I had an abortion when I was in college.” At least
that part is true. Then, counting on the fact that the man won’t
exactly be a gynecological genius, I embroider a little.

“The abortion was a success, but it resulted in
extensive endometriosis.”

“Explain.”

“Only one chance” keeps echoing at the side of my
mind. I check him out to see if he’s buying. Looking good. He’s
leaning forward.

“Endometriosis is a disease of the lining of the
uterus. Over time cysts and adhesions form on the uterine lining.
These growths make it extremely difficult to conceive. Even if I
did, I wouldn’t carry a fetus to full term.”