The Dead Can Tell: A Detective McKee Mystery. Helen Reilly

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СКАЧАТЬ she saw Steven again. He was going into Margot’s bedroom. He was only there for a moment, came out with his hat in his hand. Had he left his hat in Margot’s room? Most of the men had put their things in the study. Cristie’s heart took a queer little sideways slip.

      When she reached the spot where she had last seen him, Steven was gone. The fear was there in her then, vague, formless, unacknowledged. It steadied into deadly close-pressing certainty when she paused beside the chair in the recess beyond the bed on the far side of Margot’s room and lifted Sara Hazard’s cape of summer ermine. Again and again she sent her fingers exploring. She shook out the snowy folds. She looked on the seat of the chair, under the chair, on the gray felting, all around.

      Steven had been in the room. He had no business there. Sara Hazard had dropped a gun into the pocket of her cape earlier that night. The gun was gone. And so was Steven.

       Chapter Four

      THROUGH THE RAILING

      IT WAS A LITTLE after one when Steven Hazard left the St. Vrain penthouse. It was almost a quarter of two before Cristie went to the telephone.

      She made herself face facts coldly. The square, black automatic that Sara Hazard had parked in her cape was no longer there. Steven was gone and Steven was in a dangerous frame of mind. His coolness, his detachment, his judgment had been scattered to the four winds by the events of the afternoon and evening. Anything might happen now. Anything. Cristie had to do something. The time for inaction was past. She had to locate Steven, get the pistol away from him and make him listen to reason.

      Violence wasn’t an answer to anything. The idea of it, and of what it would mean, was unthinkable. In spite of the dark shadow hanging over her, her clarity had returned. She saw things again in focus, objectively. She knew there was only one course to pursue.

      Give Steven time to get home, if he was going home, and try there first. Don’t think any further than that yet, one step at a time. It would take him anywhere from ten to twenty minutes to get to the apartment in Franklin Place. As long as Sara Hazard was in the penthouse there was no real cause for worry.

      When she reached her bedroom the telephone was in use. A large, dark, masterful woman was talking endlessly to someone named Mabel about a baby’s bottle and a two o’clock feeding. It was just before two when Cristie slipped into the place the large, dark woman had vacated after closing the door behind her. Cristie looked around, then took the receiver off the hook.

      She dialed the number of Steven’s Franklin Place apartment. A voice answered. It wasn’t Steven. It was the Hazard maid, Eva Prentice.

      Cristie said, “Is Mr. Hazard there? Has he arrived yet?”

      And the maid answered, “No, Mr. Hazard isn’t here. Who is this calling? Is there any message?”

      Cristie couldn’t see the emotion evoked by the sound of her round young voice, but a little stab of terror went through her when the maid continued smoothly, “Would this be Miss Lansing?” How did the woman know her name? She had never been at the Franklin Place apartment. But Steven might have called her from there after their first meeting. Cristie had an inkling then that the Hazard maid, Eva Prentice, knew about herself and Steven. She wasn’t to realize until later how much the maid knew about everything. She hung up without answering.

      If Steven wasn’t at the Franklin Place apartment, where was he? She pushed the inertia of helplessness from her. She couldn’t go searching all over New York for him; to intercept him was her only chance, to intercept him before he and Sara met again. The point of interception had to be the apartment on Franklin Place.

      It was getting late. Sara Hazard would be returning there in a short while. Steven would go back eventually. She had to get hold of him first. The crowd was beginning to thin, but there were still a lot of people milling around, laughing and talking and drinking and dancing.

      She went back into her bedroom. No time to change now. She slipped into a black velvet evening coat with wide velvet sleeves, tied a black silk scarf over her head. Not the front door, she didn’t want to attract attention. She left the penthouse by way of the side terrace and the service elevator.

      The service entrance debouched on the pavement thirty feet from the front door of the apartment house. Cristie mounted a small flight of steps. Madison lay to the west, Park to the east. The street was dark, deserted. There were no cabs in sight.

      She was about to step out and start toward Park Avenue when she stood still. The doors of the main entrance were opening. A girl laughed, a man answered her. The couple descending the steps strolled away together.

      Although the need for haste had become urgent, Cristie didn’t move. Sara Hazard was descending the steps. Cristie recognized her instantly, her golden head was uncovered, shimmered palely above the long folds of the white ermine cape. Sara Hazard was also looking for a cab and had evidently reached the same decision as Cristie because she turned left, started to walk away.

      She hadn’t gone more than a few yards when she came to an abrupt halt. Cristie stared through the gloom. A man had stepped out of the shadows, a big man in a dark suit with a soft dark hat pulled down over her eyes. He stood directly in Sara Hazard’s path so that she was automatically forced to a standstill.

      Light from a street lamp shone down on the man’s big shoulders, his rugged brow, on the outline of his jaw and chin. The man was Pat Somers, Assemblyman Clifford Somers’s brother. Cristie was startled and a little bewildered. Cliff Somers had said that his brother Pat was in Albany with the Governor. Why was Pat Somers lurking outside Margot’s penthouse? Because it was quite evident that he had been waiting there, and waiting for a purpose. He started to speak. Cristie couldn’t help hearing him.

      Pat Somers said, “Good evening, Mrs. Hazard. Don’t run away.” The words were even, unaccented. Their import wasn’t.

      Sara Hazard drew her cape tightly around her. Her voice had a nervous quality to it as she exclaimed, “Oh, Mr. Somers! But I thought you were out of town. At least—I don’t know who—I mean, someone said you were. I thought . . .” She stopped in the middle of a sentence.

      Pat Somers reached out. He took Sara Hazard’s shoulders in a huge tight grip. He said calmly, quietly, every word audible, “No. I’m not out of town. I’m right here. I was at home earlier this evening. I know what went on there. I saw you. Listen, Mrs. Hazard. This is a warning. Keep away from my brother Cliff. Stop your little game. I won’t have it, do you understand, I won’t have it. That’s all. And I don’t play ping-pong.”

      There was something singularly menacing in his trenchant tone. Sara Hazard jerked herself loose from the hands resting on her shoulders. She said vehemently, furiously, her silken ease torn to shreds, “You seem to think you own this town, Pat Somers. Well, you don’t. And you can’t bluff me. I can play tougher games than ping-pong myself.”

      Pat Somers reached out again. This time there was more than warning in his big, well-manicured fingers. His hands stopped in mid-air. They fell to his side. A man was running down the apartment house steps. His back was toward Cristie. He called, “Oh, there you are, Mrs. Hazard. Gonna take you home. Damn shame pretty woman has to go home alone. Won’t ‘low it.”

      Cristie recognized the voice. It was Euen Firth and Euen seemed to be pretty well plastered. Sara Hazard welcomed Euen’s arrival, tight or no tight. She took his proffered arm, said acidly, “Good night, Mr. Somers.”

      Euen’s long cream-colored roadster СКАЧАТЬ