Crang Mysteries 6-Book Bundle. Jack Batten

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      He said, “What makes you think my cousin would be of any assistance in this deplorable affair?”

      “She works at Ace,” I said. “That gives her a head start in the information department. Whatever isn’t on the square at the office, she might provide me with leads. It’s a cinch nobody else is going to dish out secrets.”

      Wansborough took his first taste of Scotch and looked at Catalano. His expression wore a question mark.

      “I see no harm in Crang talking to your cousin, Matthew,” Catalano said. “He may not always seem it but he can be discreet.”

      Wansborough didn’t speak. I held my glass up to Catalano. It was almost empty. He pointed a finger in the direction of the liquor cabinet, and I made another vodka and soda. Catalano was drinking straight tonic water. The non-conversation stretched out in the room. Wansborough brooded. Catalano and I waited. Catalano decided to prime Wansborough’s pump.

      He said to me, “Have you got a guess about what’s going on at these dumps? Why the extra time in handling the Ace trucks? And the visits of this Nash character to the weigh people, what do they mean?”

      “Ace has something happening under the table with the weigh-masters,” I said. “That’s how it looks to me. But that is, in your word, a guess. I’d like to try out the guess on Alice Brackley.”

      “Very well.” Wansborough had done with the brooding. “Go ahead and have your discussion with Alice, Mr. Crang, but I wish confidentiality observed.”

      “You mean,” I said, “you don’t want me to tell Ms. Brackley I’m acting for you.”

      “Exactly,” Wansborough said. The take-charge tone was back in his voice. “There are good and sufficient reasons for secrecy.”

      “Such as?” I asked.

      “Very privately, gentlemen,” Wansborough said, taking in both Catalano and me, “I’ve had cause to question the nature of the relationship between my cousin and Charles Grimaldi.”

      “Oh-oh,” I said, “they playing footsy around the office?”

      “Don’t be vulgar, Mr. Crang,” Wansborough said. “It’s simply that they may be spending more time together socially than is strictly necessary in business. Or so I’m informed by my wife’s friends.”

      “What are we talking about here?” I said. “Something more than working lunches? That kind of thing?”

      My questions were making Wansborough uncomfortable.

      “I concede it’s hearsay, Mr. Crang,” he said. “But twice, different friends of my wife have reported seeing the two of them, Alice and Grimaldi, dining out around town.”

      “Twice isn’t much.”

      “Alice was observed holding his hand.”

      “Well, well, handsy can definitely lead to footsy.”

      “Whatever it is,” Wansborough said, “it wouldn’t do for you to create an upset within the family by revealing too much to Alice.”

      “There might be an upset down the line.”

      “Not if all of us handle our tasks with due precaution.”

      I swallowed the rest of my drink and ripped the doodle off the small white pad in front of me. As I left, Tom Catalano was talking soothing words to Wansborough. I walked down the hushed corridor and out of the building.

      An affair between Alice Brackley and Charles Grimaldi? This was more like it. Not just the suspicion of crime at Ace but the chance of romance, passion, seething emotions.

      14

      ALICE BRACKLEY was one of those women who have a tremor in their voices. She sounded like Loretta Young on the other end of the line. I called her at the Ace offices on Wednesday afternoon. After I’d introduced myself, and told her I was a lawyer and wanted to speak to her on a matter that concerned a client of mine, she added a note of defensiveness to the tremor.

      “What is it in relation to?” she asked.

      “I’d rather discuss that when we meet.”

      “I see,” she said. “I don’t know you.”

      It was a statement, not a question.

      “I’m as cute as the dickens and I promise to be charming, Ms. Brackley.”

      “I haven’t the time to waste on frivolous conversation.”

      “Meet with me and you won’t find it unrewarding.”

      There was a blank from her end of the line.

      “Crang?” she said. “Your name was Crang?”

      This time it was a question.

      “It’s still Crang,” I said.

      “Yes, all right.” She seemed to want me off her phone. “But it won’t be here at the offices. I’ll meet you in the bar on the first floor of the Four Seasons Hotel at six o’clock this evening. Do you know it?”

      “The bar’s called La Serre.” I wasn’t what you could call a regular.

      She put down the phone without saying goodbye.

      I dressed to match the tasteful opulence of the meeting place. Charcoal-grey trousers, a cream-coloured double-breasted summer jacket, a blue buttoned-down Brooks Brothers shirt that I bought the year I took Annie to the Kools Jazz Festival in New York City, navy blue tie with red polka dots, and shiny black unadorned loafers. I looked in the full-length mirror on the hall door outside my bathroom and whistled. Too much elegance to waste on Alice Brackley. I phoned Annie and got her answering machine. I told it that if its owner wanted to be swept off her feet she should show up in the Four Seasons bar at seven o’clock that evening.

      A pianist plays Rodgers and Hart after nine in La Serre. Until then, patrons make do with the decor. It runs to the kind of look that makes me feel comfortable in a bar—dark wood, exposed brick, dim lighting. A forest of ficus benjamina grows out of the planters scattered among the tables. Martinis cost five dollars.

      I arrived fifteen minutes early. The hostess perked up when I dropped Alice Brackley’s name and showed me to a table in a private corner beside the windows that overlook Yorkville Avenue and a posh antiques store. The hostess had auburn hair and carried herself like a runway model. I ordered one of the five-dollar vodka martinis. It came cold and very dry. The hostess put it down on a square paper coaster done in white and gold. She brought a dish of mixed nuts. I picked out the almonds.

      Alice Brackley came fifteen minutes late. She was wearing an avocado-green jacket and skirt and a lot of gold. She had a gold chain made of thick links around her neck, gold earrings shaped like tiny seashells, a clunky gold bracelet on her right wrist, and a small gold Rolex on her left wrist. She had no rings on her fingers, gold or otherwise. She knew where to draw the line.

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