The Longest Second (4 page)

I scribbled, “Doing what?”

She laughed. “Oh, I make jewelry; silver, handmade jewelry. That would make me a silversmith, wouldn’t it? At least partly a silversmith, because I work in copper too. I have my workroom here in the house—down in the basement I sell everything I make through just two or three shops uptown on Fifth Avenue. My big problem is that I can’t turn out many things because it takes so long.” She laughed. “Consequently, I don’t have much money.”

My note to her explained I knew nothing about silver-working.

“Don’t worry,” she reassured me, “you can take care of the silver furnace, do the firing, the smelting, the pouring. I need help.” She added, looking at her scars, “That’s how I keep burning my hands all the time.”

I nodded, but I couldn’t understand why a woman wanted to be a silversmith anyway.

THE
lights bounced off the canvas screen, painting it a delicate silver in the blue-black night But behind the screen, Gorman had tentatively completed his indelicate examination. He nodded, and two attendants walked leisurely away to the police ambulance to find the six-foot-long, covered, canvas box to remove the corpse. In the meantime, Jensen and Burrows joined the medical examiner. “What do you think?” asked Burrows.

“It’s damned near impossible to make out very much under these circumstances,” Gorman replied. “I’ll know a lot more after I get through in the lab.”

“Tell us what you can,” Jensen urged.

“Well,” said Gorman, slipping into his jacket, “he was in good physical condition. He might have been anywhere from thirty-five to forty-five years old. The features are so covered with blood, you can’t tell; but the post on a few organs can narrow that down. He’s six feet tall or slightly better, and probably weighs somewhere around a hundred and eighty pounds.”

“Did you notice anything in particular?” asked Jensen.

“What do you mean?”

“Distinguishing marks or characteristics.”

“Only the obvious under these conditions,” Gorman said a little testily. “He has an old scar on his back. Looks like it might have been from a shell splinter.”

“Anything else?” asked Burrows.

“Nothing now.”

“How long has he been dead?” Jensen looked at the body which had been covered with a blanket.

Gorman glanced at his wrist watch. “He was dead at two o’clock, that much we know. Working back is hard ... the body stripped, left outdoors, I can’t do anything but make a guess at this point.”

“Go ahead, Doc, make it,” said Jensen.

“And then have you guys swarm all over me if I change my mind later.” Gorman was bitter. He’d had to revise his opinions before, and he resented being pushed into making decisions before having a basis for them.

“We won’t hold you to it,” Burrows said, easily.

“You’re damned right you won’t,” replied Gorman, “because what I’m telling you now is only a guess. I’ll help you if I can now and change my mind later if I have to.” Both of the detectives nodded their agreement. “Okay,” said Gorman, “so my guess is he was chopped off about midnight. It might have been as early as eleven, and maybe as late as one. I’ll try to do better when I get back to the office.”

“WHAT do you think of this idea?” asked Bianca. “Upstairs there are only two bedrooms, and I have a friend living with me who pays rent, but downstairs in my workshop I have a big leather couch which used to belong to my father. And there’s a shower down there too. You could sleep there, and have your meals here. I couldn’t pay much in addition to that, but I’ll give you what I can. A percentage of what I make?” She looked at me inquiringly.

I didn’t know.

“You’re free to leave whenever you like, but at least it’ll give you a chance to look around and find something better.” The sound of the front door opening reached us. Then I heard the light tapping of a woman’s heels along the hallway past the living room. In the doorway of the kitchen appeared the figure of a tall, striking blonde. In her high heels she was nearly six feet tall, slender, with her hair combed back in a chignon—showing off the classical regularity of her features. When she saw me, she stopped. Stopped as suddenly as if frozen in her motion, and when she looked at me I realized her eyes were cold. She asked, “Where’d he come from?”

Bianca laughed. “Rosemary,” she said, “may I present my new partner, employee, house guest, and the man who owes me his life, Mr. Victor Pacific.”

Rosemary merely stared at me.

Bianca attempted to ease the situation. She said lightly, “You’ve heard of men who die for a woman? Well, Mr. Pacific didn’t die for me, but he nearly died on my front steps.” Quickly she placed another cup and saucer on the table. “Come on,” she said to Rosemary, “join us. You look as if you’ve had a hard day.”

The blonde slowly seated herself while regarding me hostilely. “Please tell me,” she said, “what this is all about?” Bianca gave her the details. When she had finished, Rosemary turned to me and asked, “You mean you’ve completely lost your memory, and you can’t speak a word?”

I nodded. I didn’t really care if I stayed or not. I had passively accepted Bianca Hill’s offer because it had seemed to make little difference where I stayed for a while. It was an easy solution as where to go and what to do, and I could leave at any time. But this new woman was one who worried me; I felt that she was probing, searching me for something. It might be curiosity, but it seemed to me stronger than that. She was beautiful enough, and undoubtedly could be quite charming if she cared to make the effort. It was obvious though, she neither liked nor trusted me.

Rosemary turned to Bianca. “You must be out of your mind or at least a little mad!”

Bianca smiled and said to me, “See. Remember, I told you everyone would think I’m crazy.”

“But, dear,” protested Rosemary, “this man, what has he done? If someone tried to kill him once, and didn’t succeed, he may try it again. And this time you’re in danger, and I am too.”

Her objection amused me. I wrote her a note, “Perhaps I did it myself. I promise I won’t do it again.”

“I don’t think it’s very funny,” Rosemary said. Her voice assumed an aggressive tone. “Bee, you know nothing about this man. You don’t know who he is or what he’s done! He may even be a criminal.”

“If Victor were a criminal, the police would never have permitted him to leave the hospital,” Bianca replied. It seemed to me a reasonable answer.

Rosemary continued her objections. “You just don’t know!” Angrily she reached across the table and picking up the brandy bottle poured a large amount into her coffee. “He might be a criminal and the police just haven’t caught up with him yet.” She took several long sips of the coffee, and turned her attention back to me. Her eyes were as cold as before—which was very cold. “I tell you, Mr. Pacific, I frankly don’t like the idea.”

“Rosemary works very hard,” Bianca explained apologetically, “and she’s one of the busiest high fashion models in New York. Tonight she’s tired. Don’t mind her, tomorrow she’ll be sorry.”

“No, I won’t!” Rosemary was obstinate.

“But I need help and he’ll work hard,” Bianca said. “Oh, Rosemary, where’s your sense of ... fun ... adventure?”

“I don’t have a sense of humor about some things.” Abruptly Rosemary’s tone softened. Affectionately she patted Bianca’s hand. “All right, Bee,” she said, “go ahead. Try it.” Rosemary’s cold blue eyes turned on me calculatingly, and she said very deliberately, “But no funny business, do you understand?”

Writing on my pad, I quoted, “ ‘If you inquire what the people are like here, I must answer—the same as anywhere.’ ” I handed it to Rosemary.

She read it, raised her brows, and asked, “Where’s this from?”

“Goethe” I wrote automatically. This surprised me, as I really had no idea where the quotation was from, and I had made no special effort to remember it. I crumpled the paper, put it in my pocket, and returned her stare, silently. She arose from the table and walked back into the hall. I could hear her footsteps ascending the stairs; somehow her steps sounded halting.

Bianca drew a deep breath. “Follow me, Vic,” she said pleasantly, “and I’ll show you around my factory.” She opened a door to the kitchen and disclosed a short, steep flight of stairs leading to the basement. Her hand flicked the light switch, and she led the way down.

The basement ran the full length of the house, forming a single large room. In one comer, neatly partitioned off, was an oil furnace and water heater. The rest of the room held a series of long wooden benches, about hip high, with tall stools behind them. On the benches were racks holding neat rows of hand tools. Anchored firmly against one wall was a heavier bench which held a number of small anvils, the largest the size of my hand. It also held an automatic metal saw, a buffing wheel with a variety of attachments, and a metal container of acetylene gas with a torch.

Bianca pointed to a small brick furnace, approximately two and a half feet square, standing in the center of the room. “That’s going to be your main job,” she said. “It’s the smelting furnace where I melt my silver and copper. See, that’s the bellows down there.” Her foot touched a flat, black board which projected from the furnace a few inches above the floor. “You operate that by foot, and it keeps the bellows going inside the furnace.” She touched her back, and smiled, “The weary hours I’ve pumped that thing!”

Beside the furnace were several large paper bags marked “coke.” I pointed to them questioningly.

“Yes, indeed,” she agreed, “it burns coke. Usually we need a very hot fire ... extremely high ... around 1300 degrees F.” Turning away, she walked to a comer of the room which contained an aged, black leather lounge. The piece of furniture was nearly flat, although one end was slightly elevated and curved under.

With my pad I asked her if I slept on it.

“Yes, and it’s very comfortable. I’ve slept on it lots of times when I work at night. I’ll get you some blankets and a pillow and you can keep them in that chest.” She indicated a tool chest, about the size of a footlocker. “It has only a few tools in it, and I’ll clean it out right away.”

I shook my head.

“All right,” she agreed, “you do it then.” I nodded, and she smiled back at me. “Just one more thing. Over there is a bath and shower stall. It’s all yours.” She approached the foot of the stairs. “Lie down and get a little rest,” she said. “I’ll call you in about an hour for dinner.”

She began to climb the stairs. About halfway up, she paused and looked down on me. “Who knows,” she asked, “perhaps today marks the return of the guild system to the world?”

After she had disappeared up the stairs, I sat down on the leather lounge. I was very tired, and for a long time I merely sat. Finally I aroused sufficiently to light a cigarette. It still had no effect on me. Although my mind returned to Bianca Hill, it soon skipped over her to Rosemary. I thought, Rosemary? Rosemary what? I realized that I didn’t know her last name. For some reason she distrusted or disliked me; and to a degree I was wary of her. I turned the thought of her aside, and stretched out on the couch. Bianca had not exaggerated. It was comfortable. My eyes stared at the ceiling; it had been painted a light green. Through the center of it ran a long fixture containing twin tubes of neon. There was plenty of evenly distributed light in the room which produced no glare. This was probably the most pleasant basement I’d ever lived in. Then I dropped off to sleep.

Bianca and I were sitting at the round dining-room table having dinner. With difficulty I managed to eat a little food and drank a glass of milk. Rosemary lounged leisurely into the room, drawing on a pair of white gloves. She was dressed in a smart black dress and wore a mink stole. “You look lovely,” Bianca complimented her. “You’re going out to dinner?”

“Yes,” Rosemary replied, almost indifferently, “I’m supposed to meet some people at the Acton-Plaza.” She looked at me and asked, “Do you know where that is?”

I’d heard the name but couldn’t remember where it was located. “It’s a hotel uptown on Fifth Avenue,” Bianca said.

I nodded.

Rosemary said, “This man certainly sparkles with the conversation.”

“That’s cruel!” exclaimed Bianca.

Rosemary doubted it. However, she replied, “I’m sorry. I’m running along now and I won’t be late.” She left, and I heard the front door slam shut.

I wrote to Bianca asking Rosemary’s last name. “Martin,” she told me, “Rosemary Martin. She’s beautiful, isn’t she? It’s a funny thing ... peculiar, I mean ... I’ve known Rosemary quite a while. We first met at a style show where she was modeling. I’d agreed to furnish some of my jewelry for the show, and when I delivered it, I met her. We liked each other immediately, and sort of kept in touch. Once in a while we’d meet for lunch. We were never close friends though.

“She had a lovely apartment uptown off of Fifth Avenue, although I never visited her there. I think she was doing very well. And then one day she called me and said she was moving, and wondered whether she could move in with me. I not only was delighted to have her but the rent money helped, too.”

“Why did she move?” I wrote out the question.

“She said she’d been spending too much money keeping up appearances living in the apartment, and so on. She just decided that for a while she’d like to try to save some money. Down here we live very inexpensively. Rosemary is very popular, and goes out nearly every night.” Bianca smiled, and added, ‘To dinner. Saves food money, you know.”

“Don’t you go out?” I queried.

“Not often. Many times I work at night, and even if I don’t by the end of the day I’m very tired. Usually I prefer to stay home ... read ... or just fool around.”

I was sleeping soundly when the basement lights flashed on. I didn’t know what time it was as I didn’t have a watch. It must have been very early in the morning, possibly two or three o’clock. I watched Rosemary’s legs appear on the cellar stairs, as she cautiously made her way down in her high heels. She stood at the foot of the steps, swaying slightly, and stared at me. She appeared to be drunk. I propped myself on one elbow and stared back. She was still dressed in her gown and stole.