Pursued by Shadows (16 page)

“Southfield,” he said, nodding graciously. “Ezra Southfield.” In fact, there was no Mr. Pitt, except for those times when the resourceful Mr. Southfield found it expedient to resurrect his long-dead partner temporarily from his grave.

“Mr. Southfield, I have with me a map which I have been told is very valuable. It's old and in good condition. I am interested in selling it, if the price offered is a reasonable one.”

Southfield looked at her carefully. “What sort of map, my dear?” he asked, with condescension that made her clench her teeth. “And where does this map come from?”

She smiled, unflustered. “If you're interested in buying, I'm prepared to furnish you with its provenance. I am negotiating for a friend, who for various reasons is unable to conduct the business for”—she paused to clear her throat—“for himself. He assures me that the provenance will satisfy any collector interested in this sort of material. He also told me you would understand what that meant.”

“Well, well, well,” said Southfield, looking at her with undisguised interest. “I think I've heard rumours about this map. I'd like to look at it. In fact, if I could take it to the back and show it to my partner—Pitt knows more about maps than I do, actually—”

“I'm afraid it doesn't leave my possession,” said Lesley, her calm smile unruffled. “Not until it's paid for.”

“Ah. Perfectly understandable. Then let us have a quick look at it out here to see what we are dealing with.” He smiled encouragingly. “Just a minute. I'll bring out a better light,” he said.

As the laws of physics dictate, the beautiful Art Deco mirror that enlivened the wall of the right-hand side of the shop also afforded the curious a look through the glass in the door of the office of Southfield and Pitt. At this particular moment, it showed Lesley the silhouette of Mr. Southfield raising a telephone receiver to his ear. He was clearly a man of very few words, because thirty seconds later he was back in the front of the shop carrying a largish desk lamp to supplement the entirely adequate lamp on the shop counter. But the only moving thing in the shop in addition to himself was a breeze that darted in through the closing door.

In spite of her essential calm, the sweat was beginning to pool again between Lesley's shoulder blades and on her hairline. Who had Southfield been calling? The immediate answer that leaped to her mind was the police. But perhaps it was just his partner. Or more likely, it was the people who were looking for her, searching for the map, hunting down Jane. She paused at the next telephone kiosk and set the attaché case down on the shelf, protecting it with her body. Then she opened her shoulder bag and extracted from it the hunting knife that she bought yesterday, sharpened, and dropped it into the pocket of her linen blazer. She slipped her left arm out of the blazer, and slung her bag across her chest. She wanted to have at least one hand free. She slipped back into her blazer, checked the position of the knife, and picked up her attaché case again.

She turned to face the world, serene and prepared now to meet the scurrying footsteps out here in the open, in the sunshine.

The attack came quickly when it came. The woman sweeping the steps in front of the dress shop across the street swore that the man had been carrying the attaché case all along, and had been attacked “out of nowhere” by the woman with a knife. She saw her lunge, she saw them grapple with each other, and she saw the poor man drop his case to protect himself. A truck came by, cutting off her view, and by the time she could see again, the man was staggering away in fear of his life and the woman had snatched his briefcase.

The man jogging a block up the street had seen an attractive woman carrying an attaché case heading in his direction. She was grabbed suddenly by a man walking in the opposite direction. The jogger put on a burst of speed to come to the woman's assistance and by the time he could see what was going on again, blood was pouring down the woman's arm and the man had dropped the case—“because he saw me ready to tackle him, I think,” the jogger had said modestly. The woman picked the case up and clutched it to her body. The man ran away, turned the corner, and disappeared.

What both observers agreed on, though, was the uncanny silence in which the whole incident had taken place.

And what the police had was a young woman in the hospital with shallow cuts and stab wounds in her left arm and chest, weak from loss of blood and apparently so deep in shock that she could not speak. They had the attaché case, and the fact that her clothing, including her shoulder bag, had been slashed with a very sharp knife. It was their opinion that her cautious habit of carrying her bag slung across her chest had saved her life. Not surprisingly, they found no knife, and no evidence concerning the identity of her attacker.

Ed Dubinsky paused outside the Smithson Gallery to read the discreet plaque regarding hours of business. He noted that Nina opened the doors at eleven, just in time to catch lunch-hour shoppers frantic to pick up a few thousand dollars' worth of art before rushing back to the office. Nice life, he thought, and pushed his way in through the impressive doors. The room was empty; no one was guarding all those expensive chunks of metal and picture frames. He drifted toward the back, assessing the exhibits along the east wall, and trying to decide if any of the exorbitant prices posted below each work represented value for money. And was Mrs. Smithson merely gouging the ignorant or did she maximize profits by selling stolen and copied works? Under his deliberately philistine exterior, Ed Dubinsky had picked up some fairly accurate notions of value in the art and antique business over the years. He had been looking forward to coming out here.

A soft voice was speaking rapidly somewhere in the back of the shop and Dubinsky politely turned his attention to a polished lump of metal standing on a pale green pillar. Just as he was deciding that he rather liked it, a door rattled and a tall, skinny young man hurried into the room. “Terribly sorry,” the man murmured. “I was caught on the phone. Is there anything I can help you with?”

“Possibly,” said Dubinsky, reaching into his pocket for his ID. “I'd like to talk to Mrs. Smithson.”

“Sorry,” he repeated, staring with fascination at Dubinsky's identification. “I'm Christopher, by the way. Her son. I'm just holding the fort here until she—they—someone gets back. They're off looking at stuff—they're always doing that—and they promised to be back before two. And it's now,” he said, glancing nervously at his wrist, “three-thirty. That's par for them. They'll be staggering in any minute now, arms laden with expensive trinkets to sell to the natives.” He set a delicately shaped, gilded chair beside an ornate desk and waved Dubinsky into it. “Sorry for the decor,” he said. “That desk was mother's idea and it clashes, rather, doesn't it? You'll have some coffee, won't you?” he asked and disappeared through the rear door, returning at once with a pot, two china mugs, a bowl of brown sugar lumps, a jug of cream, and a plate of mixed biscuits. “There is one good thing about being stuck here,” he said, “and that is that you'll never starve. Mother doesn't eat, you know. Not actually. She nibbles all the time, like a gerbil, and that means that every place where she spends more than fifteen minutes a day has to have a constant supply of food in it. There's probably something desperately wrong with her metabolism, but it's nice for us.”

Dubinsky looked cautiously at the chair and then settled himself very delicately on the edge of it. “Where are—”

“Haven't the faintest idea. They're always doing this. I'm in the middle of my final exams, you know. Finishing high school. Life and death stuff. Do they care? Not on your life. They hear that someone in Montreal or St. Louis or Seattle has something they might want and off they go. Usually there and back in a day, if they can manage it. So last thing at night, Mother will suddenly say, ‘Oh, by the way, Christopher darling'—I'm always Christopher darling when they need me to look after things—‘you will look after the gallery tomorrow, won't you? We're off.' And they are. Before I even stagger out of bed in the morning. You won't believe how many flights take off at dawn.” He poured himself another cup of coffee.

Dubinsky's reply was cut off by the swoosh of the front door and a voice calling out, rather repetitively, “My God, Christopher, you won't believe—”

Before Ed could discover what it was that he would not be able to believe this time, Christopher Smithson had leaped, all politeness, to his feet and said—in golden tones that filled the room—“Mother, what a joy to see you back at last. And that nice policeman has come to visit. He's been waiting ever so patiently. Where have you been? And what have you done with Dean?”

“I came straight from the airport,” said Nina. “And look at me. The idiot flight attendant spilled a drink on my skirt and I look like a bag lady. I don't know why I pay to travel first class. Christopher darling, would you run over to the cleaner's and pick up my beige skirt? The ticket's on the bulletin board. And what did you want to know? Oh—Dean. We were deep in negotiations when I had to leave for the airport,” she said, “and so I left him there. They were being difficult, but I was worried about your exams and studying and so I came back.”

“That's nice of you,” said Christopher, dropping a kiss on her cheek. “Even if you came home empty-handed. Let me get you some fresh coffee and you can tell the sergeant everything he needs to know.”

“I am sorry you had to wait,” said Nina, settling herself gracefully on the other side of the desk. “I travel a lot. You should have called and saved yourself the trip.”

“No problem,” said Dubinsky, looking imperturbable. “I'm used to waiting. Where were you, by the way? Long trip?”

Nina shook her head and smiled, painfully.

“Just a few things have come up,” said Dubinsky. “First of all, do you know someone named Malcolm Whiteside? He's British and an artist.”

There was a pause during which Nina Smithson went very still. At last she shook her head with great deliberation. “An artist. I can't place him,” she said. “Sorry. I've never met him, and as far as I know, we've never represented him either. I'll check my files if you like. Why do you ask?”

“Apparently he was a friend of Guy Beaumont. That's all. Someone slipped a knife between his ribs. I'm just doing a favour for the Brits.”

Nina Smithson shook her head again.

“You didn't advance a substantial sum of money to Malcolm Whiteside for a piece of work? Like a map you wanted to buy? Through Guy Beaumont, perhaps?”

This time she broke her silence in a shocked voice: “Certainly not. I would have remembered that.”

“Amnesia?” asked the impatient voice on the telephone down at headquarters. It was past time for her shift to end, rush hour traffic was building up, and the daycare center had been getting very unpleasant lately about keeping the kids past six o'clock. It was all right for Brian to say she should find daycare closer to work. He didn't have to go from one end of Toronto to the other looking for places they could afford. And if this was a complicated one . . . “Badly injured?” She began keying in the information as she listened. “Got that. Next of kin? Telephone number? Address? Anything?” Her fingers paused on the keyboard. “Oh, shit,” she muttered. “We'll do what we can.” She looked up at her relief. “New York City wants us to dig up some responsible relatives for an amnesia victim in an expensive hospital bed whose last known address and telephone are at least a year and a half out of date. Why don't people stay in their own goddamn houses if they're going to get amnesia?” she complained, somewhat unfairly, considering the number of miles she drove to work every day, and headed out toward her car and the clogged highways, late again. Her replacement nodded amicably and dropped the sheet onto the appropriate pile.

Jane prowled restlessly up and down the long room, stopping from time to time to stare at the water. Even this amusement palled quickly and she threw herself down on the chesterfield. She picked up the paperback she had dropped on the floor ten minutes ago and opened it to page six. After staring at the page for a minute or more she dropped it again, and turned her attention to the telephone. It was mute. It had, in fact, been mute all day, except for the call she had put through to her sister in New York. Lesley had been out—not surprising—and she had left a message at the hotel desk. What had been surprising was that Lesley hadn't picked up her message. Or she had picked it up and ignored it. The sound of an engine in the distance interrupted her train of thought.

Using the heavy draperies as a shield, Jane planted herself at the back of the room and tried to peer through the window without being visible from outside. From that position, she could see nothing but a slice of lawn and a line of cedars. She retreated to the chesterfield.

The engine noise grew louder and stopped. It was Amos, of course, and she knew that, but her heart raced in apprehension. What if this time it weren't? The rattle of the key in the lock, stealthy footsteps coming up the staircase, and finally the furtive knock all took on an ominous significance.

“Who is it?” she called, still firmly planted in her safe corner.

“It's Amos, Jane. Who do you think it is? Unbolt the door.” His voice was normal, unsignificant, not at all ominous, and slightly annoyed.

She jumped up and ran over to the door, wrestled with the two heavy bolts that he had just installed, and opened the door. “Where have you been?” she cried out, as soon as he stepped inside. “I've been going crazy.”

“Working,” he said, briefly, as he collected her in his arms. “Remember? I told you I'd be gone all day. What's wrong?”

Jane shook her head against the comforting warmth of his shirt. “Nothing really. It's just that I've been sitting in here waiting for Lesley to call me. And every time I heard a car or boat, I was sure it was someone coming for me.”

He pushed her back a few inches and grinned at her with a sudden cockiness that was new to her. “I wouldn't worry about that. Nobody messes with me. Not around here anyway. I have a certain reputation for being quick-tempered and mean in a fight. I don't think it's really deserved,” he added modestly, “but it's handy at times. And I have enough friends around who'll tell me if strangers come into town looking for either one of us. Everyone in the bar remembers you picking me up and dragging me off. Even if they did get it the wrong way 'round.” He rubbed her shoulder reassuringly. “And your sister will call soon enough.” He turned back toward the door. “I brought some food back—real food. I thought you might be getting tired of pizza and fried chicken. Just a second. It's down in the truck.”

“What did you get?” asked Jane curiously as Amos set two large paper bags down on the counter.

“More chicken,” he said. “I hope that's all right. Vegetables for salad. And new potatoes, rice, and noodles.” He took out a packet of chicken pieces, some green peppers, mushrooms, carrots, celery, onions, lettuce, parsley, and two pale tomatoes. From the other bag he extracted French bread, whole wheat bread, eggs, bacon, a container of orange juice, and two bottles of wine, one white and one red. “I guess there's enough here for a couple of days,” he muttered. “But I'd better get started on the potatoes if we're going to eat tonight. Unless you'd rather have rice.” He took a small paring knife from a drawer and began, slowly and carefully, to carve the skin off one of the potatoes.

“Hold it,” said Jane, shaking her head. She walked over and took the knife from him. “Give me that.” She scraped it lightly across her finger. “Do you have something to sharpen this pathetic thing with? A butcher's steel or a whetstone?”

“Of course I do.”

“Then get it.”

And as Amos looked on with mingled amusement and awe, Jane sharpened the three knives she found in the drawer and began to peel and chop a pile of vegetables. Her hands worked so quickly he could hardly see the knife move, but within a minute or two she had a pile of bacon, onion, parsley, celery, and carrot chopped fine, each piece no larger than a grain of rice. While that mixture was cooking gently in one frying pan, she floured the chicken pieces and browned them in another. She scrubbed the potatoes, dropped them into a pot of boiling water, moved the chicken to the vegetable pan, poured a generous dollop of wine into the chicken pan, and scraped up the browned bits from its surface. She poured that over the chicken, found a lid that more or less covered the frying pan and turned to Amos with a grin. “Braised chicken in twenty-five minutes or so. Do you have any pepper?”

“I'm impressed,” he said.

“It's not that amazing,” said Jane, as she reduced another pile of raw vegetables into salad pieces. “I grew up in my parents' restaurant, practically. I was helping in the kitchen by the time I was twelve. And what I'm doing here is all incredibly simple stuff.”

“It's not that, it's—”

“That I can handle a knife, you mean. It was the first thing we all learned. It's basic and pretty easy if the knife is sharp enough. I can do much more impressive things.” At that she dumped the rest of the vegetables into a bowl and washed off her knife.

Amos placed his hands on her shoulders and kissed the back of her neck. “Well, I'm still impressed. I never expected you to be able to cook. Anyway, I'm off to take a shower—if I have time.”

“Plenty of time.”

“Then come with me,” he murmured.

“Whatever is that?” asked Jane, running her hand along his leg over a rough, jagged scar that started halfway down his thigh and ended at his knee.

“That?” he said, looking down. “That was my ticket out of the military. It would be pretty useful if they were still drafting people. I always was just a little out of synch with the rest of the world. Of course, it kept me out of the desert last year.”

“You might as well be speaking Martian,” said Jane, baffled. “Remember me? I'm just a poor foreigner who doesn't understand anything. How did it happen?”

“I was in Lebanon, sitting on a piece of rock. It must have been eight or nine years ago. I couldn't sleep—I used to have a lot of trouble sleeping in those days—and so I was up early, before dawn. And along comes some poor bastard who thought he loved God more than he loved life. He blew himself up, and took a lot of other poor bastards with him. That particular release from duty,” he said, touching the scarred skin as if belonged to someone else, “came from a chunk of metal that was flying through the air. When it landed on me, I took it as a signal. A signal that basically I wasn't really wanted. Not in the Middle East, anyway. So I got the hell out as soon as possible.”