19 Purchase Street (37 page)

“Will there be any luggage, sir?” one of the housemen asked.

“No, nothing,” Gainer said, while across the roof of the car his look to Leslie told her to leave her carryall and its contents on the seat.

As they went up the steps one of the housemen cut across in front of Gainer, colliding with him. Their legs especially came into contact. It seemed inadvertent but Gainer realized immediately that it was a well-done frisk. To determine whether or not he had a weapon holstered to either of his lower legs. Otherwise it was obvious that Gainer was not armed. That was the reason he had chosen to wear a pair of natural linen trousers and a creamy pongee shirt, no jacket. As for Leslie, there was no need to frisk her. She only had on four things, two of which were her high-heeled sling sandals. Her dress was a next-to-something plain, loose shift in green
soie de chine
, so pale it was nearly not green. It was slit on the left up to within six inches of her hip, so that it was also bare on top and kept from falling by only the thinnest, most precarious-looking straps. The nature and cut of the fabric teetered the imagination. One moment it hung full, opaque. The next, responding to a stir of air or her body movement, it defined her like her skin.

Darrow was waiting for them in the reception hall, standing there like a confident host come to greet invited friends. Not what Gainer had anticipated. On first sight Darrow seemed posed, with one foot placed at an angle a few inches behind the other, front knee slightly bent to cause a perfect break in his gray flannel trousers that topped white antelope shoes, not new but without a smudge.

Hine stood off to the left on the bottom step of the main stairway, increasing by that many inches his natural height of six and one-half feet. His hands were joined behind his back. Gainer had met Hine twice before but never really met him. The same applied to Sweet, who stood deeper in the hallway, looking like a super-realistic acrylic sculpting of a heavyweight wrestler in street clothes.

“Nice to see you again, Andrew,” Darrow said.

His handshake had a calculated firmness and duration to it. Probably learned that in prep school, Gainer thought, and then told himself his background was showing.

When he introduced Leslie he was, as usual, reluctant to say her married last name, but then, he thought, no matter, the name would be unimportant to Darrow or Hine.

Leslie raised her chin and said consecutive how-do-you-dos to them.

Gainer put his hand out to Hine, who pretended not to notice it.

“I was extremely sorry to hear about Norma,” Darrow said. “As you know we were all personally fond of her. Weren't we Hine?”

“Indeed.”

“We still don't know exactly what happened to her. All we got were some vague bits and pieces. We wondered if there was some way we could help,” Darrow said, eyes-to-eyes with Gainer.

“That's why I'm here,” Gainer told him.

“Oh?”

“I need some help.”

“Of course, whatever, if it's within our power.”

It's within your power, Gainer thought.

“Come, let's take this outside,” Darrow said. “The weather is certainly warm enough to be used as an excuse for a midmorning tall one, wouldn't you say?” He led the way through the house and out onto the south terrace, where a summer bar was situated in sun, glasses gleaming, slices of lemons and limes contributing color, a white-jacketed houseman ready to tend.

They sat at the same umbrella-shaded table that Darrow had shared with Hunsicker little more than a week ago. In fact, the chair Gainer was now seated in was the very same that Hunsicker “the distributor” had occupied.

Leslie wanted a Kir, not too sweet.

Gainer ordered a beer, any kind.

Darrow took his usual Tattinger and fresh orange juice.

Hine was about to state his preference when Darrow told him: “Perhaps this doesn't concern you.”

“I doubt that it does,” Hine said, seemingly unfazed by Darrow's rudeness. Hine excused himself, got up and went inside.

Darrow looked to Gainer.

Gainer had thought he might lean forward, say it with a confidential importance. Instead he sat back rather casually and told him: “Someone is out to kill me.”

Three furrows of concern appeared between Darrow's brow. “What happened?”

Gainer told him.

“Perhaps it was some city nut taking a pot shot at just anyone,” Darrow said. “The city is full of them these days.”

“No.”

“How can you be sure?”

Gainer's silence spoke for him.

Darrow added more silence to it, took a punctuating sip and told Leslie he was surprised they hadn't met before. “Do you sail?”

“Where?”

“Penobscot, Hyannisport.”

“Not recently.”

“I believe I saw you once. As a matter of fact I'm certain. Not sailing, but at Parke-Bernet four or five years ago.”

“Possibly.”

“It was the night they sold a Turner for six million something, May of 1980, I believe. I bought a small Vuillard, nothing important. Actually my being there was more social than anything.”

Darrow was all charm for Leslie. So damn oily, Gainer thought.

“As I recall, you bid on a large Renoir.”

“Not me.”

Rodger, Gainer thought.

“And came within a hundred thousand of owning it,” Darrow went on. “Have you been to any of the recent sales?”

“Aren't they closed for the summer?”

“Of course, but there's important jewelry scheduled for sometime early in October. That should interest you.”

Leslie said it did.

“I have the advance catalogue if you'd care to look through it. On the condition, of course, that you promise not to bid against me for the things I've checked.”

“I break most of my promises,” Leslie said without a smile.

It seemed to Gainer that Darrow was trying to draw her out, open her up. Gainer was about to get back onto the subject of the reason they were there when Darrow beat him by saying to Leslie, “There's a sapphire ring in that sale I particularly want.”

“A Burmese sapphire?”

“A Ceylon but exceptionally deep and bright. Just over twelve carats. It's an older Tiffany stone.”

“How old?”

“Somewhere around 1920.”

“They're best.”

“Sapphires,” Darrow confided, “are rising in value, you know.”

“So I've heard.”

“As a result of the political situation in Southeast Asia. There used to be sapphire sales regularly in Rangoon but not anymore. The only sapphires getting out now are contraband.”

“Your advice, then, is to buy sapphires.”

“By all means, as many good ones as you can, and salt them … away. Rubies as well. But please, not that twelve carat stone I want.”

“You have my word.”

“Is there something wrong with your drink?” Darrow asked.

“A little heavy on the cassis for my taste,” Leslie told him.

Darrow apologized as though he had stepped on her toe. He signaled the barman for a replacement.

“Don't bother.”

“Perhaps you'd prefer something else. Have you ever tried a Savannah Sneak?”

“Only twice,” Leslie said with a straight face.

It seemed a cue. The barman immediately brought a tray with all the necessary ingredients.

The bastard obviously had a set routine, Gainer thought. And part of it this time was to leave Gainer out in the cold by fastening on Leslie.

Darrow made the mixture of the drink into a ritual that at least
he
found entertaining. What he proceeded to put together was basically a mint julep in a large sterling goblet using sprigs of fresh mint and what he claimed was pure Chacham County Georgia well water. He muddled mint along with some sugar and water in the bottom of the goblet and all over its inner sides, packed the goblet with ice shaved so fine it looked like snow, then poured in nearly equal jiggers of cognac and peach brandy that seeped down through. He stuck a slice of fresh ripe peach in along the side, garnished it with a sprig of mint, inserted a silver straw and placed it in front of Leslie. “Best to let it sit and frost for a while,” he told her.

Within seconds the silver goblet was beaded wet and hazed.

Leslie took a sip. She took two more before commenting, pleasantly surprised, “Delightful.”

Gainer shook some salt into his beer to renew its head. He was feeling more and more excluded despite Leslie's wink at him over the rim of the goblet. The whole thing had gotten off track from the start, was now way off. It wasn't intended to be a social visit with all this overbred chitchat. He had the impression that any moment they'd be going out the front door, thanking Darrow for everything and perhaps even with Leslie and Darrow pecking one another on the cheek, for Christ's sake.

Their topics now were people they knew and skiing places.

Gainer stopped trying to appear interested. He pushed his chair farther from the table, turned it at an angle and positioned another chair to put his feet up on. The largest cloud he saw was off to the south, shaped like an English sheep dog or a pig or a dead fat lady on her way to heaven, gradually wisping away. The swimming pool was unbelievable with its water that blue. The tennis court was deserted.

From where Gainer sat he could see the entire rear of the house, from its elaborate long terrace all the way to the brick wall that bordered the grounds. Between the two was entirely garden, not manicured and arranged in a pattern but an uncontrived-looking expanse of flowers like an English country garden. Different kinds were competing for space, foxglove and delphinium taller seeming to win out. The garden didn't ring true either, was not really as untended as it was made to appear, Gainer thought. The whole place was a sort of setup.

His view took in the rear side of the house, all the way to the north wing. It struck him that there was something not right about that wing. A section of the second floor had no windows. Only ivy and wall. It contradicted the house. There should have been two windows up there to balance the two on the first floor. If he was Darrow he'd complain to one of the bosses, he thought, and allowed himself an inner smile.

Gainer's mind was not really so far away. He fully heard the first sound of the first word when Darrow finally turned his way and asked: “What led you to believe we could help you Andrew?”

“It was the first thing that occurred to me, that's all.”

“You just assumed.”

“Norma once told me if I ever had any heavy trouble, I should come to you.”

“When was that?”

“Years ago.” Gainer added a lie to a lie.

“I'm sorry, but I find that strange. She knew we prefer not to get involved in matters beyond our control.”

Which leaves very damn little, Gainer thought.

“What would you like us to do, Andrew?”

Cut the Andrew shit.

“Whatever you can,” Gainer said.

“All right, how much do you need?”

“Money won't help.”

“It usually does.”

“This isn't usual.”

“What then?”

“Maybe you can help me get it straight, so at least I know what I'm up against.”

Darrow was tempted to tell him: you are up against termination. You are up against your young balls rotting off. He did not like this young man. Never had. The few times they had met through Norma he'd thought Gainer a good-looking smartass, a sort of social chameleon,
nouveau
nice. Once when Norma had brought him to Number 19 to show him off, Darrow had caught Gainer's eyes taking the measure of him, scouring him deep. Gainer had not taken his gaze away, and Darrow had thought that insolent. At the time, of course, such feelings had been momentary, insignificant. It was only recently that Darrow had brought them forward. Today Gainer had intensified them by coming here. All the worse, coming here with Mrs. Rodger Pickering.

Darrow put his hand on Gainer's forearm, patted it. “Rest easy, Andrew. You'll see now that we're not just fair weather sorts. Mind you, I'm not altogether sure we can actually protect you, but we can certainly do our best. That's what you want, isn't it? Protection?”

“You might call it that.”

“You'll have to cooperate.”

“He will,” Leslie put in, hoping Gainer understood why.

Darrow brought his hand to his chin, evidently deliberating. Actually he was wondering if Leslie had taken notice of his hands, gave her a long moment to do so. He fixed his eyes about two feet above Gainer's head and told him: “I think perhaps what you should do, Andrew, is make this your home base, so to speak. At least for the time being. Come and go as freely as you feel appropriate. Here, or wherever, I promise you will be … how shall I say? … watched over. How does that suit you?”

“Couldn't ask for more.”

“Then that's settled. We'll have accommodations made ready at once.”

“What about me?” Leslie asked.

The very words Darrow had expected. He registered mild surprise. “You'll be staying on as well, Mrs. Pickering?”

“Coming and going.”

“You're most welcome, of course. Would you prefer a room with early morning sun?”

“It doesn't matter, just as long as it's adjoining.”

Mrs. Pickering, Gainer thought. He hadn't introduced her as a Mrs.

She drew on her silver straw and caused the little popping sounds of bottom-empty. “I'd like another Savannah Sneak,” she said.

Darrow constructed another but this time lighter on the flourish. As he placed the drink in front of Leslie he glanced toward the house, saw Hine just inside the open french doors gesturing discreetly. Darrow got up and went in.

“What the hell was all that?” Gainer asked, keeping his teeth together.

“All what?”

“You and Darrow and all that social register chumsy crap.”

“It helped.”